Category Archives: Stories

John Anderson, my jo

John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent;
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a cantie day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

Robert Burns
1759-1796

© 2019 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.

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A Kind of Magic

On the bus from Krakow, on the way to Prague, I’m just outside Katowice. Poland has been kind to me. Like all of Central Europe. Rough edges, soft edges, friends, strangers. Hands extended, hands withdrawn, faces of openness, faces forlorn. Showing up in all the right places. And at all the right times.

On the radio, two Polish DJs engage in animated conversation every few minutes, like radio hosts do most everywhere. I don’t understand what they say but I understand what they play. It’s Freddy Mercury singing A Kind of Magic. The first time I heard the song, I was in love. For the very first time in my life. It was more than a thousand years ago. At the time, the lyrics confirmed the youthful state of ecstasy I felt every time I thought of the girl who was equally enamored by me. She introduced me to A Kind of Magic. I still know the song, a thousand years later, but I don’t know what happened to her or where she is. I’ve been in love a few times since. And mostly, I don’t know anymore what happened to them or where they are. It’s all good.

Today, the words of the song reaffirm the feeling I have of being in love again. In love with the road, along an unknown journey that unfolds, one that has been unfolding for a long, long time. Like a lover waiting for me to see that it has always been there. To give me whatever I need when I need it. If I stay open to seeing. Meeting new people and feeling out new places while sometimes feeling out of place. And trying to set aside the blinkers all of us are trained to wear in order to feel “safe” and “happy”. Safe, happy…funny words.

 

On a journey of exploring Central Europe, discovering the modern and historical joys and horrors active in the architecture, languages and cultures that have evolved here. And continue to evolve. On a journey of exploring inner geographies, recent and older “right” and “wrong” turns in the landscape we create and re-shape in every moment, with every step.

Through it all, the road is supreme. There is no greater love for me than seeing things as they are and how they have been, without judgement, instead of through the lens of my own comfort or through the lens of the latest moral fads of the day and how they try to spin what is.

The state of things will always present itself no matter what. Our masks are no match for it, not in the moment and not after tens, hundreds and thousands of years of history being told by the victors.

To be able to see this, it makes life worth living. I have a fortunate life. It’s a good one. It’s A Kind of Magic, it really is.

© 2019 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.

O traveler, whither goest thou? What is the nature of your journey?

O traveler, whither goest thou? What is the nature of your journey? What is the journey of your nature?Most days, all that life needs from us, and all we need from life is to observe and appreciate the perfection surrounding us, without trying to improve it.

It is our responsibility to not meddle with that which is already perfect.

And it is our birthright to appreciate the quiet, profoundly healing and empowering gift of that responsibility.

© 2019 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.

Into the backwaters of Kerala…

Kochi to Alleppey

I leave Fort Kochi in Kerala with memories of birds waking me up to witness early monsoon showers. Coconut palms bathing in the rain against the backdrop of a vast sky. And my last night in Fort Kochi, crows on the beach, Chinese fishing nets and fresh fish on the harbor, delicious, and cooked and served without pretense. The kind of goodbye that makes me smile. Hello Fort Kochi, Goodbye. It was nice to meet you.

I use public transportation to get to my backwater hotel in Alleppey, south of Kochi – a ferry, a train, another ferry. A short, crowded ferry from Fort Kochi takes me to the train station in Ernakulam, the big industrial city on the mainland from where I’ll catch the train to Alleppey. In between the ferry landing and the Ernakulam train station, a bit of early morning comedy. A rickshaw ride where the guy tries to charge me double the standard fare because he thinks he can. Um, no, I tell him, the fare is fifty rupees, and that’s what I’m giving you. He takes it, without argument. Always worth the try though, I suppose.

The train to Alleppey is inexpensive, quick and comfortable enough – fifteen rupees (around twenty cents) for a one and a half hour journey.

Kochi - Allepey train

A view of the backwaters from my train to Alleppey

Even the coffee on the train cannot compete in value – it’s ten rupees (fifteen cents). I thought it would be good to have a real train coffee experience in Kerala. Now I know – it’s horrible. Horrible. But it’s quite the experience…I’m sitting by the window, looking at the lush backwaters and coconut palms outside, while inside, horrible coffee in my palms and across from me, stretched out on the facing seat, a man is fast asleep and snoring loudly. In a minute, a slight rain adds to the experience.

The rain starts off slow, then stronger and then begins to come inside. I pull down the glass window but it doesn’t close all the way. A couple of fellow passengers sitting near the aisle begin a debate on whether the outer, opaque shutter should also be pulled down. The sleeping man has now woken up, glaring at the debaters. One helpful Johnny, seated furthest from the window, steps up to take charge of the mildly intruding rain. With all his might, he secures both the glass window and the outer shutter. Now, instead of the backwaters, all I see are the slats of a dull, grey, unevenly painted, old metal window. Really? I think, the rain and the backwaters and the coconut palms are outside and you’ve blocked them with this stupid shutter? But I keep my annoyance to myself…I’m traveling…all experiences are part of the adventure. 

Pleased with himself, Johnny returns to his seat, looking around for appreciation from his fellow passengers. None is forthcoming from them or from the window shutter, which slams itself back up – it’s a loose latch, not an act of god. A few seconds later, the rain stops. The formerly sleeping passenger returns to his slumber, but not before slowly warning the aisle seaters with a wagging index finger that they should leave the window alone from here on.

We are now at the Alleppey train station. I take a rickshaw to the public ferry which will take me to my backwater hotel. For a real Kerala backwater experience, the public ferry in Alleppey is simply the best deal around. Most rides cost between ten to a hundred rupees – around fifteen cents to a little more than a dollar. It’s safe, and like most public transport, not luxurious, but comfortable enough for anywhere from a twenty minute to a two and half hour journey. I’m now traveling like a local, alongside real locals from the backwaters who use the public ferry to commute to and from work in Alleppey.

From inside the ferry, I see the houseboats I’ve been told are a “can’t miss” item. Everyone I know has said, You have to do it, once in a lifetime, etc. Looking at them right now though, the houseboats…they seem pretty boring. They look like smaller, bamboo-tented versions of cruise ships. Exotic looking but frankly, quite…boring. It feels like a contrived, “exotic” experience with no real, unfiltered interaction with local people.

On the backwaters. All the way at the back is a houseboat. In the middle, moving to the right, a shikara, a modified fishing boat. In the foreground, moving to the left, a motorized, commuting canoe.

My backwater hotel in Alleppey is better than I expected. A two-story, elegant and comfortable place on one of the little islands, about ten minutes from Alleppey. The owner of the near-empty hotel – it’s off season – offers to upgrade me, for a charge, to his best room. I pass, the room I have is good, and good enough. In case you change your mind, let me know, etc. He offers a shikara ride, a four-hour excursion in the backwaters on a comfortable, modified fishing boat. Or a kayak trip for four hours. Or, he could arrange a houseboat ride through a friend. For four hours. Four hours is the magic number for all his value-added offerings. I decline my host’s generous, customized offers. I’ve been on the public ferry already. I know what’s going to work for me.

After lunch, I walk down to the public ferry pier, wherever it will take me. The first boat comes by. The signs are in Malayalam, the language of Kerala. A villager standing on the pier translates for me. Both Malayalam and English are spoken in most places in Kerala. It makes it easier to get directions. The villager tells me this boat is going to Kottayam, on the other side of the backwaters, a two to three hour long journey. Oh, that would be fun, I think. From Kottayam, I could take the bus to Kumarakom, another backwater destination where there’s a bird sanctuary. But the boat leaves while I’m lost in translation. My translator tells me the next boat will arrive in a couple of minutes.

Once we get onto the next boat, my helpful translator suggests I go to Ayiravelly bridge, a small island hamlet in the backwaters of Kainakary district. The boat conductor tells me in English that this ferry will go right to Ayiravelly after a stop in Alleppey. It’ll be about 2 1/2 hours. But, he adds, take the ferry to Kottayam if you can – the view is really good.

Other commuters on the ferry chime in, in Malayalam. Some are eager to help with travel suggestions, others are just plain curious at this local-looking fellow who doesn’t speak the language. What village in Kerala are you from? someone asks in Malayalam. Someone else translates the question for me. I respond in English that I’m from Bombay. It reminds me of Sheila Menon, a Keralite colleague in Bombay, from a lifetime ago, who’d asked me where in Kerala I was from. When I told her I was from Bombay, she didn’t quite believe me, she thought I was lying. Really, you are not from Kerala? But you have a very Mallu cut. 

I wish I could speak Malayalam right now. It sounds fascinatingly tongue-twisting and aurally exotic, even more so because I don’t understand any of  the words – it’s pure sound to me.

At the Alleppey ferry hub, it turns out the next boat to Kottayam is three hours away. It’s decided, Ayiravelly is where I’m going. It’s a long ride. Along the way, we pass a man in a canoe, ferrying milk to his village on one of the islands in the backwaters.

Milk delivery in Allepey

A man in his canoe, ferrying milk to his village on one of the islands in the backwaters

We pass extensive paddy fields alongside the backwater canals, and people washing pots, pans and clothing along the water’s edge.

Backwater paddy

Paddy fields on land alongside the backwater canals

Paddy bw

More paddy fields

Finally, after around two and a half hours on the boat, we get to Ayiravelly. There’s just enough time to go for a quick walk around the island before the boat heads back to Alleppey. A local shop is just yards away from the pier. I’m hungry but all they’re selling is packaged goods from a factory far away. I was hoping for something more local. Oh, well. Instead, I go for a walk down the island.

Not far from the pier, on the banks of one of the inland canals, a man is sitting on the ground, trimming the leaves of a coconut tree to make brooms. We nod and smile. Neither of us speaks the other’s language but we communicate through hand gestures, head tilts and tone of voice. He’s Govindnathan. He’s been doing this a long time. He’s from here, Ayiravelly. He points to me…And you, where in Kerala are you from? I laugh – by now, I sort of recognize the phrase in Malayalam, even if I’m not able to repeat it back to myself. Bombay, I say. Ah, he nods. Okay, I have to get back to work now, Govindnathan says, and waves me off.

Govindnathan - Ayiravelly bridge

Near the Ayiravelly bridge, Govindnathan makes brooms from the leaves of a coconut tree

Past where I’ve met Govindnathan is a long canal, with canoes on either side, personal canoes belonging to local families, often a preferred mode of transport from village to village in the backwaters instead of waiting for the ferry.

Ayiravelly narrow

A narrow section of the backwaters, behind where I met Govindnathan

IMG_9340

Local canoes in Ayiravelly

Behind dense foliage are houses, and villagers going about their business. I don’t stay long, I don’t want to pry, and the ferry will be leaving for Alleppey soon.

It’s a long ride back to Alleppey. Returning along the same canals and waterways, the sights are lovely. But after already seeing them on the trip down here, my eyes are slightly glazed over. Reminds me of this thing I have about famous palaces. Once you’ve seen one of a certain style, you’ve kind of seen them all. Pretty much. The trip back to Alleppey feels somewhat similar, though sitting at the very front of the ferry, the open waters are relaxing.

Back in Alleppey, I take a rickshaw to the nearby beach for a taste of toddy – palm wine derived from the sap of palm trees. Can’t find an open toddy shop at 6 in the evening. Some public holiday or a local rule or something. And then, the rickshaw driver gets indignant and hostile when I refuse his demands of more than double the agreed fare. After he repeatedly threatens to call the cops on me and I keep saying, rather comically, I think, Please do, he accepts just a little more than what we’d agreed to and takes off, muttering loudly in Malayalam. Don’t burst my bubble, dude, I think.

Now, there’s no toddy to be found but the beach is just there. And then the skies open. Thunder, lightning and I’m laughing out loud in the rain, wondering what the hell I’m doing out here in the first place. Go home, get some rest. I’m lucky to find another rickshaw in the pouring rain. A nicer man, and chatty. He lets me off at a good restaurant about five minutes away from the ferry terminal for the ride back to my hotel. A local meal of fried beef, local bread and plantains. A pretty full day so far, and now, a pretty full stomach.

Back at my hotel, the owner is still gently trying to sell me his customized trips. He’s also somewhat surprised that I’m skipping the next day’s included breakfast in favor of an early morning outing to Kottayam and Kumarakom.

In the next room from me is a traveler from the French island of Réunion in the Indian Ocean, near Madagascar. She’s on her way to northern Kerala for a panchakarma treatment – an Ayurvedic course of healing that lasts several days.

I find out that Réunion has been a French territory for about four hundred years, and from the 1960s to the early 80s, hundreds of Creole children were taken from their families in Réunion to rural France to boost falling populations. Their families were promised good education for their children but most of the children were provided as free labor to the bourgeois class in rural France and kept deliberately disconnected from their biological families in Réunion for most of their lives. The missing children. Stolen and disappeared.

My fellow traveler tells me that at the beginning of this century, lawsuits were filed against the French state but they failed because the statute of limitations had expired. Colonialism, classism and blindness of the law in the service of evil never fail to surprise me. But we all know it’s not just colonialism, or capitalism, or socialism, yes, and that forced labor goes on in all cultures and has been going on since the beginning of time. Ah, fortunate are we who have had the accident of being born in the right place at the right time…

Good night, Alleppey. See you tomorrow morning.

© 2019 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.

Bring yourself and all your stories!

The Institute of Storytelling For Hope, Endurance and Growth will host a Storytelling Circle & Writing Workshop led by Marlon de Souza at Yogacara Healing Arts, Bandra West, Mumbai.

Building community, one gathering, one story at a time.

Ages 10 and up.

Sunday, July 28. 11 am – 1 pm

Tickets: INR 750.

Get your tickets here: https://insider.in/a-storytelling-circle-and-writing-workshop-jul28-2019/event

Stories

At the heart of all our stories is where we are in this moment, this very moment, right now.

When we write our stories, we get in touch with what is sacred, tender and joyful in us.

When we hear each other’s stories, we connect with what is sacred, tender and joyful in others.

FAQs

Q: What can I expect to learn from this workshop?
A: Exercises and activities in the workshop are focused on helping participants gain awareness of the truth of their own writing and storytelling experience. This workshop is intended to assist participants in beginning to build comfort and confidence in their own writing and storytelling ability.

Q: What is the age limit for the workshops?
A: Today’s workshop is for participants ages 10 and up.

Q: What writing material do I need to bring?
A: A notebook and pen will be provided. You may also write on your mobile device.

…and all she puts her attention to

She sits there in the middle of street, apparently oblivious of who’s ahead of her, who’s behind, and who’s waiting to pass. Tiny in size, enormous in pluck, the kitten sits there, waiting, watching. Watching something on the far left side of the street. So completely focused on the object of her attention, ignoring the traffic around her that you think she’s going to run out of luck on this busy Bazaar Road in Bandra’s main market. A rickshaw attempts to maneuver around her, but there’s no way to do it without driving into her – she’s sitting right in the middle of the narrow street. The rickshaw stops, waiting a few seconds for her to get with it.

A cyclist from the other side, a delivery man whose bike is overloaded with grocery supplies, barrels through, seeing the kitten almost too late. She does not move, does not flinch, she does not even turn her head. Her attention is elsewhere. The cyclist swerves to his left to avoid her and crashes into a bhajiwala (vegetable vendor) and his baskets of produce outside D’Costa Bakery.

Abhey, laudu, tujhe cycle chalaane aate hai kya?! – Eh, dickhead, can you even ride a bicycle?” shouts a pedestrian who’s jumped out the way just in time. 

The delivery man’s bicycle is now entangled between baskets of beets, cucumbers, eggplants and other vegetables. The groceries from his cycle are now littered on the dirty, mucky road, bags of dates, dried apricots, figs, cashews and almonds distributed among the fallen veggies.

Yeh kya kiya tune?! What have you done?!” the incredulous bhajiwala asks the delivery man. “Tune mere poore din ke dhande ki maa-behen ek kar di. Kaun lega abhi yeh kharaab bhaji?! – You’ve screwed my entire day’s business. Now who the fuck is going to buy these dirty vegetables?!”

Baba, sorry, yaar, woh billi thi udhar aur main baas…brother, I’m so sorry, that kitten was there and I just …” the cyclist’s voice trails off as he gathers himself and points to the kitten sitting in the middle of the street.

Arre, billi, filli! Yeh billi toh yahaan ki hai. Tu kahan ka hai!? Aankhen hain ya button?! – Kitten, fitten! This kitten is from here, where the fuck did you come from?!” the bhajiwala shouts, eyes popping out of their sockets, his voice strained. “You have eyes or buttons?!”

Saala, bina dekhke, cycle chalata hai – idiot, without looking, he’s riding a bicycle,” the bhajiwala continues with disgust, as he returns his damaged produce to the now rearranged baskets on upturned milk cartons. People gather around the bhajiwala, some others help the cyclist with the fallen groceries, among them a helpful passerby who samples the figs, asking disingenuously of the delivery man, “Wow, are these figs? Delicious. How much are they?” The hapless delivery man shakes his head and indicates to the passerby to leave it alone, he’ll take care of it.

Through all the commotion, the kitten is unmoved, its gaze locked onto something on the left side of the road. Finally, the rickshaw honks, tentatively at first, then a little more assertively. The kitten ignores the first horn, then gets up and without looking at the rickshaw, calmly walks to the side of the road in its own time.

The Queen of her life...

The Queen of her life…

At the side of the road is a scooter, and a footrest onto which the kitten lifts itself. It’s going somewhere with a purpose, its body crouching forward in hunting mode, still focused on the far side of the road, away from the fabric stands.

...and all she surveys

…and all she puts her attention to

There are no chicken shops here and the fish market is quite a distance away. But something on the left side of the road is of utmost importance to the kitten, enough for all of its energy to become one with it. It doesn’t matter in the least that neither you nor I know what that something is. It is enough right now that the kitten knows exactly what it wants. And, as it is wont to do whenever you call its name, the universe has rearranged everything else in response.

© 2019 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.

The sounds we make, the stories we share…

The sound carries from the street below in this suburb of Mumbai, all the way to the top of the sports club, to the second-floor men’s locker room where I am. The rhythm of a one-sided conversation traveling upward – something about a car – reveals an aural pattern rich in its display of class and status. Little boys in the locker room, intrigued by the events unfolding outside, head to the window to watch. A woman of high social standing is loudly berating a lower-class man – a parking attendant with the club. His voice can barely be heard , the woman will not let him get a word in. He’s subservient, patient and accommodating. Patience with the rich is the key to his future.

In the locker room above, an older man tells a little boy, “See there? See what’s happening? Women always create tamasha (drama). Always.” His voice gets throttled when he says the word always, as though another part of his anatomy is being throttled. A couple of other men in the locker room laugh and nod in agreement.

The woman’s arms are gesticulating, her right index finger accusing the man. She’s furious that the valet wasn’t able to retrieve her car in less than five minutes. She yells at him in Hindi, “I almost missed my appointment because of you. You know how long I had to wait for this appointment?! I’m telling you for the last time, you keep this up, we’ll see if you have a job tomorrow. Understood?!”

Fifteen minutes later, the public scolding continues. The often hostile, sometimes matter of fact condescension of the upper classes in India does not shock me anymore. Growing up in India, I’d seen it close at hand – in family, extended family and in the well-to-do middle-class society I once believed was the entire world. But the condescension of the upper classes is universal – it’s the same no matter what country I’m in, no matter the races involved, no matter the ethnicities, no matter the religion.

It’s the same in America and the rest of the West, once the much-touted facade of dignity of labor, diversity and inclusiveness are discarded – when no one who really matters is looking. It’s there in New York, that liberal bastion where corporate America and start ups have monetized newly discovered pretend equality. In London, in Paris, in Germany, and also in the foothills of the Himalayas – in the tourist lodges owned by rich Indians and foreigners. And in the villages of India where village elders hold the power. Power and money talk, bullshit and lower standing walks, or so the saying goes.

It’s also quite likely the same in the numerous parts of the world I’ve never been – the rich and the well-to-do talk down to the poor, the poor keep quiet in their silent, resentful contempt of the upper classes, the poor aspire to become rich, the newly rich repeat what they learned when they were poor. While everyone cannot stop talking about inclusiveness and diversity.

As I step out of the building, I see the woman, unrelenting. A doorman looks at me, smiles and says, “Yeh roz ka story hai, saab. Mian hai, aur kya bolega – This is the daily story, sir. She’s a Muslim, what else is there to say?” He grins at the wisdom he’s sharing with me. I’ve seen this kind of grin before.

I calmly correct him in my not-very-proper Hindi, “Yeh mussalman ka baat nahin. Hindu log aisa bhi hai, Christian log aisa bhi hai, Sikh aur Parsi log bhi aisa hai – this has nothing to do with being Muslim. Hindus are also like this, Christians are also like this, Sikhs and Parsis, too.”

It’s not the commiserating response he was expecting. He looks away sheepishly but doesn’t really care for my perspective – there will be someone else who’ll agree with him. This is not new for me, either – I saw this growing up in India, as a little boy and also as a teenager, when the grown ups around me, grown ups of all religions, disparaged other religions with completely malicious lies. All who belonged were special, all others were the cause of the world’s problems.

Today, India, like much of the world, has moved extremely rightward. Over the past fifteen to twenty years, the politics of religion and unwanted people – the other – has become a powerful driver for big corporations that align themselves with the forces of ignorance and hate. And people are poisoned and made to look away from the active role that class plays in controlling it all from behind the scenes, with just a little bit of a nod and a wink.

In America, too, where big corporations and politicians across the political spectrum manipulate people in the name of religion, race and victimhood. And Europe. And Asia. And Africa. And South America. And on, and on. Can’t eliminate it totally, I don’t think, or at all.

I could, however, endeavor to continue to calmly decline to partake in the madness. Just as calmly as the Hindu doorman at the club slandered all the followers of Islam. Just as calmly as a Muslim or Christian or Buddhist or Jewish person in some other situation, some other part of the world might slander the followers of another religion. As calmly as a deeply racist person might make bigoted statements about other races just because he or she can. As calmly as an older man indoctrinates a young, impressionable boy with the belief that women create problems. And as calmly as the parking attendant observes the situation in silence and declines to add fuel to the self-righteous anger of the outraged person talking down to him.

© 2019 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.

Everyone wants

There’s a pigeon outside my kitchen window this rainy July morning in the monsoon. It’s soaked completely, its feathers striated and streaked by the rainwater that’s still dripping off its body as it sits under the ledge, sitting out there waiting to dry. Sitting and looking out at the darkened sky, wondering perhaps when the rain will stop so it can get on with gathering food – it’s still early in the morning. From inside the comfort of my kitchen, all I see is the pigeon’s back, its pinkish-red claws clutching the top grill of the plant nursery outside the window. There’s no movement from the pigeon, no bobbing this way or that, no sounds, no coo-cooing. Its head is pulled into its body as though it’s defending itself from the elements as it sits there on the grill, waiting to dry. Maybe it’s cold, maybe it’s conserving energy. I really have no idea. So little we know from within the comfort of our homes. On the right, below an air-conditioner casing is another pigeon, relatively drier, curious about its temporary surroundings. Is it inspecting the casing for a potential habitat for when things settle, a place to raise baby pigeons? Are these two a couple? How did they come to be on this parapet together, outside my window? Accidental? Two souls seeking shelter? I have not a clue. So little we know from behind the all knowingness of our human eyes. 

Everyone wants shelter
Everyone wants love
Every one wants peace and happiness
From a lion to a rain soaked dove

Monsoon dove

Everyone wants love

Everyone wants nurturing
Everyone wants love
Every one wants to be cared for
From the worms to the birds above

Everyone wants healing
Everyone wants love
Even the people who say they don’t
No one wants to starve

Everyone has little time
Little time on earth
Every one wants acceptance
Before they turn to dirt

Everyone you see will go
Every one, it’s true
Every one needs acceptance, for
Every one is you.

©2019 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.

Happy are the sailors

IMG_7755.JPGI walk down to Juhu Beach, Mumbai, down the back road to the entrance that leads to fewer cricket and football games on the beach, the area where there are more fishing boats offshore, where the shore is less beach and more rock. I walk past the usual traffic, dodging a vehicle coming from behind me and over here, a motorcyclist coming straight at me until he turns away at the very last moment. It’s fairly busy for an evening, this back road. Someone behind me taps me lightly but just as I guessed, he doesn’t need anything from me, he’s just trying to quickly walk past. By now, after a few months in India and after having lived in New York for half my life, I’ve realized that it’s not that a sense of personal space doesn’t exist in India. It’s simply that the sense of personal space, or distance, is different in India compared to the United States. Neither ones trumps the other, it just depends on one’s accustomed level of cultural and spatial comfort.

The back road has a couple of vegetable carts, a general store with numerous cats snoozing on the porch, crows cawing loudly above, and a man on a bicycle with about fifteen empty, commercial-sized water bottles strapped to the bicycle’s carrier. On the left, by a vegetable stand, I see a man raising his hand, a stone in it, toward a medium-sized, black dog not far from him. The dog is cowering. It backs away from the man – a sixty-something year old man, big forehead, beady eyes, a black, dyed mustache and dyed black hair combed back with enough oil to make his forehead shine. The man raises the stone again, the dog backs away again, continuing to cower. It appears to be a game for the man, an amused look on his face. I’m bothered by it but I keep walking. I’m concerned he’s going to strike the dog, not sure if he’ll do it or what the story is over here. It makes me want to stay and see what he’s going to do.

As the man moves close to the dog, his hand raised and the stone in it, I realize I have to say or do something if he strikes the dog. The dog backs away from the man again. The man notices I’ve stopped to look and smiles at me with amusement. A bizarre spectacle. I decide I’m not going to wait and see if he’s going to strike the dog. I go up to him and ask him, politely,

“You’re not going to throw that stone on the dog, are you?”

“No, it’s my dog. I’m going to church and he follows me to church until I give him a biscuit. This is our daily game, man,” he says to me in English, in a Koli Catholic accent punctuated with a lisp. Kolis, both Hindu and Christian, are a fishing community and the original inhabitants of Mumbai. “Holy Cross Church I’m going to. Same story every day with him.”

“How old is he? What’s his name?” I ask.

“He’s five, six years old. Shadow, because he follows me everywhere. You see? He always follows me.”

As we talk, the dog comes closer. I pet him, he’s enjoying the love. Five, six-year old Shadow. Nuzzling up against my leg. White paws, whitened from age. I introduce myself to the man. Clement Fernandes, he responds.

“Don’t pet him,” he cautions me. I continue petting Shadow, who’s now turning this way and that so I can get that spot. 

The street traffic continues unabated, most of it navigating away from us, except one red car that comes dangerously close. As I take hold of Shadow’s collar to guide him away from the street, he lightly mouths my hand, with perfectly managed bite control, not enough to tear skin or leave an imprint but just enough pressure to say Don’t touch my collar. Instinctively, I know that this dog has been hit or yanked before. I let go of Shadow, he moves to the side of the street to sniff a potted plant in front of a shop.

Clement Fernandes asks me if I’m going to church as well. I say no, I’m going to the beach. He apologizes for Shadow nipping me. Not a problem, I say. And, I’m on my way. And that’s that. Shadow and Clement.

The beach is not too busy, the sand is wet, suitable more for bare feet, not for the flip-flops I’m wearing. Planes taking off overhead, departing from the nearby Santacruz airport. Below me, tiny holes in the sand from where little crabs and other marine life emerge early morning and late at night, when humans aren’t around. Some garbage on the rocks, broken beer bottles. A small crab darts below a rock, into a pool of water, at the sound of approaching footsteps.

In the distance, the sun is setting. The sky is a mix of light blue and orange and purple, and the approach of dark. On the left, a fishing boat is moored not too far offshore. A white and red striped fishing boat with a couple of flags. Further away, another fishing boat, also moored, also with flags, painted in saffron, white and green – the colors of the Indian flag. And a blue and white striped fishing boat. Far off on the left, the most beautiful boat this evening – a solitary, tiny red boat rocking gently in the Arabian Sea, anchored to a bigger boat. Forward, way off on the horizon, the sun moves down, moving into someone else’s daylight.

On the right is a long, curved pier – families taking an evening stroll, a little girl showing off a cut paper flower to her big sister, a cyclist trying to navigate through the walking families and getting cursed out a couple of times. Designer puppies being walked by their working class handlers. Fawned over by the walking families, not getting cursed out. And people taking photos of each other against the departing sun.

By the edge of the water, where it’s craggy and there’s no sand, a young man is taking selfies with the sun. A couple of minutes here. The sun leaves. The young man leaves. Day ends here, a new day somewhere else. The sun is gone, all that’s left behind is the most beautiful force, the most beautiful thing. Waves of sea water, operating with an energy of their own, moving on a force of their own, touching the shore and going back to where they came from.

Touching the shore and going back to where they came from.

Touching the shore and going back to where they came from.

Bigger than everything. Bigger than the rocks they touch, bigger than stones in men’s hands, bigger than people and dogs and animals on land and animals that live in the sea. Bigger than the experiences on the shore and far away from the shore, in cities and villages where people and other beings live. Bigger than all of human experience.

Waves of sea water, touching the shore and going back to where they came from.

Uncontrolled. Beyond power, beyond free, beyond you and beyond me.

Beyond everything we feel, beyond everything we see.

Beyond everything we seek to be.

Waves of sea water, touching the shore and going back to where they came from. Back and forth and back again. Beyond you, and beyond me.

Happy are the sailors, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

© 2019 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.

Refuge

It’s 32 degrees Celsius (90 degrees Fahrenheit) on a sweltering Friday afternoon. Mumbai in May is more intense and humid than any other time of year. The monsoon next month will bring much needed relief. Even the birds in the trees seem to be saying so.

I’m early for my physiotherapy appointment – after years of sitting behind a desk for a living, I’ve recently exuberantly embraced a rather intense level of physical activity. My body is not fond of the enthusiastic embrace. “No thanks, buddy. What’s the hurry?” my body’s been telling me. “After being sedentary for so long, how about we ramp things up a little bit slowly, yes? Then we can get intense, okay?” But I didn’t pay much attention.

After a couple of months of sending fairly clear and polite signals, my body says, “That’s it! Enough.” And with all the clarity in the world, it pulls the slow the f*** down lever. It usually wins this exchange. I’d like to continue to be in a healthy relationship with my body for a long, long time. Rest of my life is what I’m thinking. So, here I am at the front door of the physiotherapy department at Holy Family Hospital in Bandra, Mumbai.

Just outside the front door, a dog is taking shelter in the shade provided by an overhanging construction canopy. I’ve seen this dog before on the hospital grounds – in the evenings, I’ve seen it hanging out in the parking lot. During the day, it takes refuge from the heat under a canopy like this, or below the trees near the main gate. It’s calmly asleep amidst the noise and bustle from the hospital grounds. Feet kicking slowly in a dream, peacefully asleep.

Unlike me, this dog will not be going through those doors for a physiotherapy session – it has already learned to listen to its body when it speaks. But I don’t feel hopeless. I’m actually feeling quite fortunate – here’s this dog showing me how to be long after I’ll be done with physiotherapy. It’s a very good day.

© 2019 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.