Sukhakarta Dukhaharta

(Ganpati above by Aarti. One of my favorites)

I'm in the elevator. My eyes fixed on the box in my mothers hand. My mother cant help but notice the gleeful glint in my eye. 'puje nantar modak milnar' (you'll get the modaks after the puja) she says. I smile. But my anticipation surpasses those of my tastebuds. I can already feel the warmth and the calming presence of my grandmother. She would've been up since 3 in the morning putting everything together. She's been doing so as long as i can remember. Finally, the 9th floor. My sister runs and then on her toes, stretches the best she can to reach for the bell. My father gives her the extra lift as she giggles and goes at the bell twice in quick succession. Our signature ring. My grandfather greets us. Regulation peck, hug and asshirwad. He looks at me. 'Im older than but you're still fatter' he says. We both laugh. And then we make us ourselves into the bedroom. On the right, in what was once the balcony, now fully enclosed, sits Lord Ganesha in what is a meticulously but wonderfully arranged miniature temple. A bloom of light purs from the rippled glass leaving a jewelled texture on the platform. The incense fills my head with ever lasting memories. But it's not the bigness of the arrangement or even the idol that fills my heart. It is the bigness of my grandmothers heart who has given all of us so much. She in herself is the only person (now besides my own mother) who i saw what true faith felt like. I may have been an agnost all my life, but in her presence i was a mere follower....but a follower of someone beautiful and wise. She wraps her hands over my eyes. 'Maaaa!!' Such tenderness can only be hers. We start the puja and then its my favorite part. the aarti.

It's five below and the snow billows outside. But my memories seem to have retained the warmth. The sound from my room mates laptop has stopped. Its been so long. About four years ago even his holiness coudn't have found a better devotee. But jealous as he was of the love she drew instead of him, his move was obvious. It's ironic. The same aarti that invokes such sentiment in me sings praise of him. Nonetheless, what a beautiful song... especially when she sung it. She truly was my 'sukhakarta dukhaharta'!!

sukhakarta dukhaharta warta wighnachee
(Lord Ganesh, creator happiness; destroyer of sorrow)
nurawee purawee prem kripa jayachee
(who makes news of calamity disappear, whose blessing gives enough love)
sarwangee sundara uti shendurachee
(who has beutiful orange in his body)
kantee zhalakee mal mukatphalanchee
(a pearl necklace shining around his neck)
jayadev jayadev jay mangal murtee
(pray to this auspicious ido, praise the god)
darshanamatre manakamana puratee
(by his mere sight, your wishes come true)
jayadev jayadev


ratnakhachita phara tudza gaureekumara
(The jewel crown is for you, son of parvati)
chandanachee utee kumakumakeshara
(sandalwood ointment on his body, saffron red tilak on his forehead)
hiredzadita mukuta shobhato bara
(the jewelled crown looks so beautiful)
runadzhunatee nupure charanee ghagariya
(the tinkling bell anklet make a sweet sound)
jayadev jayadev jay mangal murtee
(pray to this auspicious ido, praise the god)
darshanamatre manakamana puratee
(by his mere sight, your wishes come true)
jayadev jayadev

lambodar peetambar phaniwara-bandhana
(a big belly, with a yellow silk garment, and serpent around the waist)
saral sond wakratunda trinayana
(a straight trunk bent at the end, and with three eyes)
das ramatsa wat pahe sadana
(Ramdas (author) awaits you, praying at home)
sankate pawawe nirwanee rakshawee surawara wandana
(Bless us when there is trouble, and protect us from disaster)
jayadev jayadev jay mangal murtee
(pray to this auspicious ido, praise the god)
darshanamatre manakamana puratee
(by his mere sight, your wishes come true)
jayadev jayadev

To a friend...

'Endless are your ideas. And Endless is your dream. They echo through the darkness, shining light in between...
and neither fate nor the hand of God can interfere...
whilst in given time, you'll spin a yarn of what we saw in the ocean.'

- To Arty. Happy Birthday.

Artwork by Aarti Kandhari
http://aartikandhari.blogspot.com/

Next Day...

The dying night gives way to the teasing rays of dawn and a further insight into an unsettling truth that looms unavoidably before him. The type that seems inspired by an unwarranted lie that can only be seen when you're half awake.
He would much rather raise his uncomprehending gaze towards the blurry heavens but he sees instead the cold stark floor. Unaccustomed to this miserable unending brown he realises that even though his lurching journey through darkness had ended, the light was no less forgiving.

So relentless and misleading is the healing time that one can only hope that it somehow evolves his urge to grieve into an impulse to forget. He wishes to be free from fear and lust and the need to want and crave that eat through cherished memories and leave a staggering hatred and such hopelessness that is falsely perceived as true hope. He lies still on his back staring into the oblivion, pondering upon the biting cold and the distant God in whose hands we relinquish our fate. It all seemed as if vengence were upon him with an unnerving whim. He just doesn't know where he faltered even though the truth of the situation is that it probably could not be helped. But blaming himself makes for a quick respite. For within the problem lies the solution and the hope of alteration and a chance to influence, rather than abject hopelessness as you stand witness to your conceived nightmares that a well meaning plan quickly distorts into.

Sometimes he looks at the truthful obvious in such minute detail that it tends to become invisible. Sometimes he looks at it with such dejection and monotonocity that he loses sight of its poetry. The truth has but a single measure of fact which effortlessly he refuses to accept and instead lies vanquished in reality but victorius in a fools hope. He is scarred with the memory of the piercing wind and the permeating drops of cold rain that freezes not just his body, but also his soul. But even such scars cannot compare to a broken heart and a distant loneliness that leaves him lost and in ponderance and an ever increasing desire towards a purpose long lost. Was it ever wrong to be so human. Or is it human to be so wrong...