Some like me like poetry.
I’m in the mood for poetry, so here is one by Wislawa Szymborska, one of the greatest poets ever. Her new and peculiar ways of seeing and thinking, precise truths and unflinching opinions, curious daydreaming and rhythmic orchestra of words and pauses, and her wonderful sense of humour. I admire her deeply.
Some Like Poetry — Wislawa Szymborska
Some—
thus not all. Not even the majority of all but the minority.
Not counting schools, where one has to,
and the poets themselves,
there might be two people per thousand.
Like—
but one also likes chicken soup with noodles,
one likes compliments and the color blue,
one likes an old scarf,
one likes having the upper hand,
one likes stroking a dog.
Poetry—
but what is poetry.
Many shaky answers
have been given to this question.
But I don’t know and don’t know and hold on to it
like to a sustaining railing.
Translated from the Polish by Regina Grol
Black dogs of a blue city.
Street dogs enjoying the winter sun in Jodhpur, Rajasthan, India. December 2020.
The sun lives in my left eye, and makes it twitch whenever the solar flares come shooting from its corona to mine.
What goes around comes around.
Earlier today. I was sitting in a chair next to flower plants shaken up by recent snow. Superb afternoon sun and cold breezes of the mountains.
A fluffy black insect climbed up on my chair and began loitering on my right arm. I usually don’t bother them but I did something this time and to this insect.
With my left index finger, I transported the insect that was on the plants — and had accidentally reached my arm through the chair, because I was sitting there — to a wall away from the plants.
And now the world has changed slightly. With a few more consequences to bear.
For the love of kite-flying.
Kite-flying on the festival of Uttarayan/Makar Sankranti: my favourite festival and sport.
Last year today, I was flying kites in Pushkar.
Kite-flying in Pushkar, Rajasthan, India. January 2021.
Right now I’m in the Himalaya, dearly missing my kites and people and music on the rooftops back home in Surat (Gujarat), where life is ever so more extraordinary and fun on this day out of the entire year — even if the wind happens to be dead or sleeping on this day.
Two kites in the Pushkar sky, Rajasthan, India. January 2021.
Picking up laundry in the Himalaya.
Even a chore as mundane as picking up dried laundry from the rooftop is not mundane — if your rooftop is surrounded by snowy mountains of the Himalaya.
I thought of this today while picking up a jacket when I suddenly turned my head around to look at these mountains that (still) leave me struggling for words. I felt as if the mountains were watching me pick up the jacket. I smiled and picked up the jacket.
Flowers for a friend.
My friend, a wonderful person of pure heart and incredible mind who is very close to my heart, talked to me today after a long time — after what felt like two lifetimes. So here are the divine Burans of Uttarakhand for my friend.
These flowers are for you, dear Anjali.
Burans flowers near Uttarkashi, Uttarakhand, India. February 2021.
As much as Vermeer.
I love the colour ultramarine blue as much as Johannes Vermeer did. I love it more than any other blue, more than all other colours, more than many other things that I love. I love it as much as I love not doing anything.
Those who cut down trees to make money should be forced to live, without electricity, in the hottest, most barren place on earth that has water issues.
Those who uproot trees to make money should be given a more harsh punishment. (I have yet to think of one.)
This is punishment #2 from the series Reasonable Punishments.