Poornima Manco

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Poornima Manco

A day in Waiheke

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We amble towards the ferry station. I’m too caught up in my conversation with my friend to notice what a glorious day it is turning into. Not so my children, who practically gambol on, excited at the prospect of visiting an island, and enjoying the sunshine they are so deprived of in England. Excitedly we board, rushing up to grab seats on the open upper deck.

Auckland is a world away from home, and it has taken us several years of girding our proverbial loins to make the journey. The last time was sixteen years ago, pre children. It was the start of the Millennium, and all I can recall of that trip was the pregnancy nausea that dogged me through out, allowing me to enjoy very little of Down Under. This time it’s proving to be a different trip.

Melbourne was cold and blustery. Their Autumn had just started, and ill prepared in our denim jackets, we shivered our way determinedly visiting all the landmarks, hopping on and off the free tram that circles the heart of the city.

Auckland is warmer, not just in temperature, but also in the love and hospitality our hosts and our friends have extended to us. Arousing us from our jet lagged stupor is no easy task, but they are enthusiastic, and soon we are too. Up until now we have been to see the Auckland museum where we got an insight into the Maori culture amongst other interesting historical and cultural information. We’ve walked up to Mount Eden, a dormant volcano and the highest natural point on the Auckland isthmus. We’ve strolled on the beach at Mission Bay, loving the water lapping at our feet.

Today we are setting out on our little adventure to Waiheke. Even as we board the ferry, there is a palpable sense of excitement. Not just because we are in such beautiful surroundings, but also because it is a shared experience with our friends. We are all too used to it being just the four of us, and having company adds that extra bit of enjoyment that we rarely get to savour.

A 35 minute ferry ride away, this incredibly beautiful island is a treasure trove of exotic flora and fauna. This is fiercely safeguarded by various conservation societies. However, on a day like today, we have little on our minds but some wine and food and a lazy day watching the waves beat upon the many unspoilt beaches we intend to explore. To that end we board a local bus that chugs along at the same somnambulic pace as the islanders. There is no frenetic rushing around that we are accustomed to in our daily living. Slowly our worries and our tensions drop away, as we gaze upon vista upon verdant vista.

Famous for its many wineries, our friends tell us that some of the wines we have been imbibing are made upon this very island. All at once, we are keen to sample the wares, and alight at a supermarket. A trolley dash ensues, with each member of our party choosing an item for the picnic we are planning on the beach. The result is a somewhat chaotic mix of food and drinks. No matter. We are just too chilled to care.

Another bus drive with a friendly Maori driver ends up in a photo call, with him as the somewhat bemused celebrity in our midst. He cannot imagine why this motley bunch of Indians want a picture of him and his bus, but is kind enough to oblige.

Laden with our packages, we make our way down to the picnic spot on Onetangi beach. There is a public barbecue that is already in use by another family, and the man nods congenially in our direction. With the smell of sizzling sausages, our tummies rumble, signalling that it maybe time for some refreshments. Out come the wine, the pizza, the crisps, the salad and the assorted sundries we’ve brought along. The children dig in with relish, while we laugh and chat and bask in the rare luxury of al fresco dining in such fine surroundings.

After lunch, the children run off to play in the water. We sit and soak in the sunshine, reminiscing about our own childhoods. Our memories are tinged with nostalgia, and a sense of just how fleeting time is. From college to marriage to children turning into teens, to parents we have lost, and an impending sense that someday not that far away, it will be us. We clutch on to the joy we are feeling in the here and now. Moments like these that will carry us through the troughs that inevitably mar every life. Moments like these that will remind us that life gives just as much as it takes away.

Afternoon turns to dusk, and we drag our reluctant children back to the bus stop that will take us to the ferry station. We have time for one last drink. I order a Mai Tai at the bar, and whimsically place the flower garnish in my hair. The sun is setting in the horizon, and the myriad hues it lends to the sky are a painter’s delight. The water has borrowed the colour orange, and like molten lava the waves roll forward and backward, fierce and magnificent, speaking a language all of their own.

On the ferry ride back we are quiet and reflective. A glut of beauty is sometimes too overwhelming to process all at once. Added to that is a sense of sorrow as we are to depart the next day for Sydney. Our short trip has been so full of love and laughter and beauty and wine (always some wine) that it is a wrench to return to civilisation.

No matter. As long as there is a will, there is a way. And our will will find us a way back to this Paradise.

Who are you today?

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Ever wondered at the multiple people we are in one day? The personas that we don- a parent, an employee, a spouse, a friend- slipping from one role to another, effortlessly, seamlessly. Some days.

Other days, the transition is perhaps not that effortless. When waking up and being just the one you is hard enough. When every step is a struggle, and those multiple personas seem more like a psychotherapist’s nightmare than the everyday juggling of roles that is commonplace enough to be barely noticeable.

In all of this, how often do we connect with who we really are? Are we happy, are we satisfied with our lot? Are the people around us adding to our lives, or leaching from it? Are we adding to theirs?

Do we take stock often enough?

I was listening to an interview on the radio the other day. The interviewee mentioned something that immediately struck a chord. He talked about allowing oneself to live multiple lives in one lifetime.

Let me elaborate:

One dream is not enough. Just as we can, and do, juggle those multiple personality changes, it is equally important to check in with your personal aspirations, and juggle those around as well. Take that road trip, do that drunken dance on the table, run that marathon in your bra, bungee jump off that bridge….what’s stopping you?

Let’s expand this further. Yes, you are a parent. Sometimes, allow yourself to be the child. Listen to the wisdom of babes. Take on board their uncomplicated views of life. Yes, you are an employee. Learn to switch off for a bit. Just that little bit of time out could recharge you enough to come back with a renewed sense of purpose. As a friend or as a spouse, stop taking those significant people for granted. Don’t allow others to take you for granted either.

So many to-do’s seems to add to that long list that already exists in your mind. This is not meant to be a stress list. This is meant to be a ‘let go and live a little’ list. Sure there will be missteps. Sure you’ll make mistakes. Blunders even. But won’t it be worth it?

If one day is not enough to contain the many people we can be, is one life time enough to contain all our dreams? Perhaps not. But how will we ever find out until we try?

So, who are you today? What is your dream? Wake up! Find out! It may be too late tomorrow.

Love and Loss

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I trace the network of lines on my stomach. A grid of loss. The lives this womb has held and squandered. Each time, unable to fulfil its biological vocation. Layers upon layers of hope and despair that show up on my face, in my hair, in my eyes… The first one came unbidden, unwanted, and was rid off just as quickly. Youth and drugs and unprotected mating. Then, years of trying and failing, and trying again. Too old to try now. Yet. An instinct to love, to cherish, to protect and to nourish finds no outlet. I swim in a morass of anguish and melancholy.

Till, like a sliver of sunshine, you enter my life.You are not of my womb. You are not of my culture. You are not of my colour. Yet. My life is coloured with the joy of your dimples and my heart overflows with the milk of love that my bosom could not offer.

You are you. And you are mine.

 

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20160418_181601

Description of the work:

Untitled
Oil on canvas
30″ x 40″
2015
Copyright – Preeti Varma.

This painting is an original work of art by Preeti Varma who is a New York based visual artist. Preeti explores inter-disciplinary genres like painting, mixed-media, photography and installations in her art practice. To see more of her works, please visit her website at
www.Preetivarma.com

 

 

In search of Satay

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The red lanterns above us sway in the slight breeze. Sweat trickles down our backs, and our faces are flushed in the heat. The air is redolent with the smell of barbecued meats. There are a variety of food stalls jostling for space on either side of the narrow street. Chinatown, Kuala Lumpur, is no different from Chinatowns all over the world.

The stall in front of us displays a variety of uncooked chunks on skewers ready to be picked and barbecued as per preference. “2.50 Ringgit”, the stall owner informs my husband, who is eyeing the satays with enthusiasm. My daughters shrink back, and I steer him away towards a poster of a restaurant claiming to serve the best Malay food in Chinatown.

Jalan Petaling, the adjacent street, is even more crowded. Stalls of fake scarves, bags, shoes and assorted sundries spill over into the streets. Louis Vuitton competes with Chanel, while Burberry muscles in on Mulberry. I am exhorted to buy with cries of “Lady…lady….pretty bag….” We weave our way through, side stepping other tourists who display more interest in the wares.My eyes are searching for the restaurant that will hopefully deliver on its promise. Espying it, we enter its cool environs and sit ourselves down in front of the fan, that swings lazily from side to side.

Alas! There is no satay on offer. Instead we choose Nasi Lemak for ourselves, and Nasi Goreng for the girls. The coconut flavoured rice arrives with its side of anchovies, cucumber and boiled egg, deep fried chicken and a hot chilli paste known as sambal. The girls make short work of their fried rice, while we savour the the exotic favours of the meal popularly referred to as Malaysia’s national dish.

The next day we once again set out on our search. The small shopping mall across from the LRT station has many local eateries, but no satay on its menus. This is proving to be Mission Impossible.

Later, we examine the menus of all the Malay sounding restaurants in Suria KLCC,the mall beneath the Petronas Towers, fruitlessly searching for the satay that has now elevated itself from a craving to an obsession. At one, we beckon a waiter over, and ask him where this elusive satay can be found. Something of our frustration conveys itself to him, and kindly, he signals to the centre. What I take to mean, ‘Middle One’, actually turns out to be ‘Madam Kwan’.

Impatiently we wait for our order to arrive. When it does, it more than ticks all the boxes. Six skewers of beef and chicken satay are accompanied by chopped cucumbers, onions and rice cake . There is a large bowl of peanut sauce, that we generously apply onto our satays. Each piece is steaming hot and succulent. We tuck into our satays with relish, and my husband declares them to be the best he’s ever tasted. Similarly replete, we nod in fervent complicity.

Appetite satiated, we wander out.

Mission accomplished.

The need for a twist

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The one common refrain I hear from the people that regularly read my stories is that they didn’t see the end coming. That little sting in the tail that I consciously or sub consciously seem to conclude my tales with. This has never been a planned thing. Not at the beginning anyway. Yet, from way back when, I always seemed to enjoy those stories more where I could not predict the outcome. Perhaps at some point I decided that this would be the way my stories would operate too.

Recently I watched ‘Gosford Park’ the much feted 2001 film. Even as I enjoyed the excellent ensemble cast and the central mystery, my overriding feeling was one of disappointment. I guessed who’d done it in the whodunit well before the final reveal. More crushingly, I’d guessed the why as well. Maybe that was not the point of the film, yet I couldn’t help but feel a tad cheated.

Conversely, when I finally got to sit down and marathon watch series 1 of ‘Broadchurch’ , the superlative British drama broadcast on ITV, I had no idea who had committed the crime. The series was littered with red herrings. With a growing cloud of suspicion over nearly every central character, the sting in the tail turned out to be even more venomous along with a complete jaw dropper. Now that was satisfying.

If there are, as claimed, only 7 plot lines to work with, then it gets very challenging for a writer to create an unpredictable denouement. This is even tougher in a short story, as the length of the tale as well as the number of characters are limited. A master of the twist was O. Henry. Within that limited scope he created stories like ‘The Gift of the Magi’ (of a penurious couple that each sell something of great value to themselves, to buy something of value to the other with an ironic but happy end) or ‘The last leaf’ (in which a painting saves a life but also loses another). For many of us, these are school days fodder. Yet the skill that it takes to create an end that no one saw coming is often undervalued.

These days I frequently find myself labouring to create that twist. Why? Because along with everyone else, I seem to have fallen into the trap of believing that this is my USP (unique selling point). Yet, that goes against the very grain of what I started my writing trajectory with. I wanted, more than anything else, to enjoy the process. Success, praise, applause would be very welcome. Yet I refuse to let it become the fountain of my inspiration. Equally, to believe that each of my stories should deliver a shocker at the end is subscribing to someone else’s idea of what my work should be.

So, I have taken a step back, and allowed myself the luxury of letting the story grow organically. I am not trying to strait jacket my characters into behaving to a prescribed formula. If that means they still surprise you at the end, then happy days. If not, I still hope the story stands by itself and for itself.

As always, I remain open to criticism, ridicule and censure…..with a bit of a sting. 🙂

The White Temple

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The temple attendant tut tuts his disapproval at my shorts and gives me a sarong to cover my immodesty. I am too awed by the ornate white structure in front of me to be embarrassed. I am standing in the presence of Wat Rong Khun (the White Temple) on the outskirts of Chiang Rai, Thailand.

Blindingly white in the afternoon sun, it reflects majestically in the lake that surrounds it. Yet upon closer inspection, there is something almost sinister in its aspect. Hundreds of sculptured hands that rise out of the ground beseechingly, some holding up skulls or pots, others curved in agony or torment, it is bafflingly malevolent. A path in the middle leads up towards the bridge, a large set of horns on either side, scimitar like, threatening to decapitate one at a moment’s notice. This strange and frightening welcome is further enhanced by the presence of two large gargoyle like creatures, frowning and pointing, swords at the ready.

With shaky hands I take a few photos, and pause for a moment to compose myself. A contingent of saffron clothed monks passes me by, and something of their calm reaches out to soothe me. I put the camera in my pocket cognisant of the no photography rule inside the temple, and follow them.

In the cool, hushed interior, all hubbub subsides, as locals and tourists examine the single, small room that comprises the ubosot, or the main temple. On the facing wall is a huge mural of the Buddha, serene in meditation. My jangled nerves are only momentarily calmed by this vision, as more perplexing murals adorning the other three walls swim into view. In particular the wall behind me. From Michael Jackson to Elvis Presley, from Hello Kitty to the Minions,from the airplane hit Twin Towers in New York to Neo from the Matrix, there is an assortment of Western characters, largely American, that seem to symbolise some kind of prevailing wickedness. On the side walls are murals of boats filled with people heading towards the Buddha. I can only surmise that this is a depiction of man’s journey from ignorance and greed towards enlightenment.

In a shadowy corner, a man sits quietly, paintbrush in hand, touching up a mural. Could this be Chalermchai Kositpipat, the famous Thai visual artist, and architect of this mystifying structure? I am too afraid to ask, and quietly make my exit.

As I walk around the grounds, still processing all that I have seen, I wander into the golden enclave of the museum. Here I chance upon a large statue of the Hindu deity Ganesh being carved. I watch fascinated as they labour over his trunk, carving intricate details into what will one day reside in the environs of this incredible structure.

Like the Sagrada Familia, this is a work in progress. Yet, it is Kositpipat’s vision, funds and determination that propels it forward. His own life, as much as this temple, is an extraordinary entreaty to mankind to shed their earthly ties, and move towards something that is far larger than themselves.

That is a lesson well worth imbibing.