Often I have chased a black phoebe or osprey for a photo or pursued a line for a poem. When I continue along the path, the poem will show itself, or the bird will lead me to another discovery.
Today the sea's the energy
races to build its heights.
THE COLOUR BLUE
What if
midmorning sky
sneaks into café tableware
tricked by the colour blue.
Clouds dance on plates
grazing the toast and jelly
until breezes vacuum
the crumbs
sending clouds back
to where
they are supposed
to belong.
MASQUERADE IN WHITE
A goblet of milk mantled in twilight.
In an instant a leg shifts to bent elbow post.
The other stretches without a riffle of water
as the egret bows to its reflection.
Immersed in the river’s scent of leather,
the white’s neck eases into a question mark,
or surges like a sprinter at the tape.
Alert to movements of cricket, frog or fin.
Once eyes capture a whisker of fish,
egret searches within a sunlight filament.
Beak arrows, dips beneath the river glitter,
tosses a nibble to the air and catches it.
Twirling from a cottonwood, a leaf engages
the river rustler who turns to statue.
A shift and wings rise in silk banners over rock pates
while feathers ruffle reflections into sequins.
The egret alights on a branch, shivers in spiral,
stretches to preen and fluff each plume.
On legs of silk, it wings toward
a turret of branches to design the sky.
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Penny Wilkes, served as a science editor, travel and nature writer and columnist. An award-winning writer and poet, she has published a collection of short stories, Seven Smooth Stones. Her published poetry collections include: Whispers from the Land, In Spite of War, and Flying Lessons. Her Blog on The Write Life features life skills, creativity, and writing: http://penjaminswriteway.blogspot.com/ . Her photoblog is @: http://feathersandfigments.blogspot.com/
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THE WASP IN THE PRACTICE ROOM
It’s taken three days
to discover
how the wasp came
into this room.
The vents.
I watch the wasp walking
upside-down on the ceiling.
I rather admire him.
I keep a respectful distance.
I’ve spent hours before,
snaring insects into cups --
feeling that a noble course
in a day of dying seconds.
I have a conscience.
Acute by depression of force,
I have no urge to hurt tiny living
beings.
But my brother, a child,
comes to this room, mornings.
He plays a special drum
I gave to him.
In fact, I made it for him.
I must kill the wasp.
I can’t catch him.
He has his arguments in his stinger.
No one likes to feel that
in his tired flesh.
I revel in the phenomenon
of the soul.
My thoughts are resolute;
I must kill the wasp and
I do so.
My soul, however, hates nature.
It is dissatisfied with
situations, events.
The soul is skeptical
of lesser evils.
The soul doubts.
David Francis has produced seven music albums, Always/Far: a chapbook of lyrics and drawings, and Poems from Argentina (Kelsay Books). He has written and directed the films, Village Folksinger (2013) and Memory Journey (2018). He lives in New York City.
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Just the other day a news item reported that more than Rs 1 lakh was recovered from a beggar who died in Bengal. And some years ago the national media had widely circulated the story about a beggar who died in Mumbai leaving more than Rs 1 crore.
In the silent movie Pushpak (1987), Kamal Haasan, an unemployed graduate living in a ramshackle lodge, tries to show off in front of a roadside beggar and is humbled to discover the beggar has accumulated more money than him. In Dosti (Friendship,1964), blind Ramu and crippled Mohan sing and play the harmonica — one, to collect the fees for his friend’s school education; the other for his friend’s medical treatment in hospital when his nurse sister is ashamed to recognise a beggar as her kin.
*
Tear jerkers? Well, Charles Dickens did not romanticise child labour, domestic violence, and – most significantly — recruitment of innocent children in pickpocketing and begging. In Oliver Twist (1837-39), he depicted the cruel treatment of orphans and exposed their exploitation in London of the 19th century.
Such was the impact of the classic that my generation did not entertain beggars, especially if they were children seeking money. This, of course, had degenerated into employing ‘Chhotu’s’ or small children to sell sundry items — pens, tissue boxes, dusters — at busy traffic lights of the Indian Capital, such as ITO and Moolchand Crossings. And such was the disdain towards begging that my son Devottam, then only ten, once burst into tears because I refused to buy their stuff. “At least they are working and not begging, Mom!” he had pleaded in favour of the child.
Nabendu Ghosh, who had scripted Chanda Aur Bijli (1967), the Hindi version of Oliver Twist, did not romanticise such lives either. In story after story he portrayed the underbelly of urban life: the beggar Judhistir in ‘Down the Stairs’; pickpockets in ‘Khumuchis’; a man who smuggles opium in the belly of his dead child in ‘Jibika’ (Living); a man who strangled his child when he could not provide for him in ‘Kanna’ (Howl); pimps and prostituted women in ‘Dregs’, ‘It Happened One Night’, ‘Anchor’; a rioter who reforms in ‘Gandhiji’; a whole bunch of thugees in ‘Shei Sab Kritantera’ (Those Gods of Death).
He encapsulated the story of their descent in society without glorifying their actions or condemning their lives. Small wonder that 15 years ago, when Nabendu Ghosh had turned 90, celluloid legend Mrinal Sen had said, “As a writer and a creative individual, Nabendu Ghosh has never believed evil is man’s natural state. Along with his characters, he has been confronting, fighting and surviving on tension and hope.” This observation made me look anew at the protagonists of Baba’s stories and novels. And I realised that continually the writer was “exploring the greyer areas of ethical dilemmas,” as it was recently underscored. Few of his ‘heroes’ were ‘Rama’ and fewer still were ‘Ravana’ . If anything, there’s a constant overlap of the good and the evil in every single human, I now believe with him.
*
I am aware that West Bengal, the state I now live in, has had the highest number of beggars in the last census. As a journalist, I am also aware that people who exhibit their debilitating diseases — blindness, amputated limbs, leprosy or even gender discrimination — especially near tourist attractions, can be ‘revolting’ for some. I was once told point blank by a European friend living in America, “I know they do it because they have few other options but, while on a holiday, I don’t want to be burdened by their woes.” The Tourism wing of the Indian government had, therefore, made an attempt to clear out beggars from tourist attractions such as Taj Mahal. Indeed, a new law was also considered to make it a crime for beggars — and touts — to touch tourists in Agra. This is perfectly understandable, especially in a post-COVID world. But sympathy of the entire world has always been with the men and women who sit with the names of their country of origin to silently beg as they are refugees from war-torn zones. Ukraine today; Afghanistan yesterday; Syria the day before; Turkey Bosnia Romania Cambodia Vietnam… And where have I not seen them? In New York and in London, I’ve seen them just as I have in Paris and Berlin, Moscow and Prague, in Myanmar and Bangkok, Beijing and Tokyo too!
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You might say, in the East, it is a religious practice. And the practice of giving alms cuts through barriers of religion. This act of giving to destitutes, compulsarily or from generosity of spirit, was meant to enable the receiver to become self-content. But more importantly, it was enjoined that the giver should feel humbled that he has got a chance to be of service to humanity. And through this giving, he was also earning merit — it would get him respect, reputation, and in the long run, secure him a place in another world.
Centuries ago Buddha’s bhikshus were ordained to live off only what they earned by way of charity — food or any other object of necessity donated by a grihast, an ordinary householder. This is why, even during the pandemic, Thailand saw its Buddhist monks go on the daily rounds to collect alms. Monks, having sacrificed their all and severed connection with their families, are not to engage in farming nor save anything — they are to live off only the barest.
What’s more, they were not to collect more than what they would consume in a day, and they were not to keep anything for the next day. Because? Attachment was a hindrance to nirvana, detachment paved the path to salvation. Life without belongings is life without attachment – and total willingness to give was the sharpest weapon to saw through attachment.
Monks and mendicants are not contained by any religious order. Jains, Jews, Christians, Mohammedans — all have rules for giving written into the practice of the faith. Zakat, the compulsary act of giving in Islam, is said to purify the soul. Lent is a period of giving for Catholics. In churches money was placed at the altar to signify it belonged to God — and was to be used for the welfare of all. Thus many educational and medical institutions came to be established through such offerings.
I have grown up seeing bhikshus, sanyasis, pirs — all mendicants — outside temples in Kolkata’s Kalighat and Dakhshineswar, in Banaras and Puri, outside cosmopolitan Mumbai’s Haji Ali and Mount Mary too just as I have always encountered them at railway stations and heard them singing in the local trains of India’s financial capital: “Tum ek paisa dogey, Woh dus lakh degaa / You give me a penny, and God in heaven will grant you a fortune…”
*
That brings me to a couple of other practices, like street performances, and passing the hat around. What should I make of street performers who have been around — and still are — in ancient civilisations? Even today, and in major cities of the world, I see people perform rope tricks, acrobatics, music, dance — in public places, for gratuities. In many tribal belts dating back to antiquity, the rewards came in the form of food or other gifts. In so many corners of my country a bandar (monkey) or a bhalu (bear), is taken around to dance to the music of dafli (tambourine). And at the end of the performance the madari (juggler) collects whatever is offered or donated by the bystanders. Should I also include the snake charmer in this lot?
This form of ‘public performance’ rejuvenated itself in subsequent years into Street Theatre and even at the turn of the last century it continued to thrive in outdoor public places if only as agitprop. Dressed in eye catching costumes and with no props they would show up outside shopping centres, car parks, in Delhi’s Mandi House area or near the busy ITO Crossing, drawing attention with their physical action, perhaps mime, and vocal delivery with no voice amplification. Be it in university campuses or street corners performers — commissioned, or fired by ideology — would show up unannounced, and gather coins and notes dropped in the hat by audiences.
Yes, they too were drawing upon the attention, care, sympathy of their viewers to eke out a living. And yes, they too passed the hat although the expression — as perhaps the act itself — came into existence when a group of friends tried to collect money for a gift. So where do we draw the line to separate them from beggars?
*
As far as my limited knowledge goes, only four countries have legislated to impose an explicit ban on begging: Greece, Hungary, Italy and Romania. On the other hand, in Germany and Italy, such bans are unconstitutional.
Interestingly, I recently learnt that beggars in China have moved with the times and become tech savvy. “They park themselves near tourist attractions and subways with QR codes in their begging bowls to accept donations via Alibaba Group’s Alipay or Tencent’s WeChat Wallet,” the report said.
And why not? Internationally it has become a modern world practice to seek money via the Internet. Request help for medical care or for animal shelter, on birthdays gift for a cause, to pay for disaster management, or for school trips. Aren’t these all within the purview of Bhiksha – the Sanskrit word to denote begging for a grant of a boon, that is, something desired?
That’s why Ravana of Ramayan, dressed as a beggar, stood outside Rama’s kutir in Panchavati and hailed to Sita: “Bhiksham dehi!*”
*In Ramayana, Ravana came to Rama’s kutir or hut during his fourteen years of exile and said: ‘Bhiksham Dehi – please offer me alms.’
Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award. Ratnottama Sengupta has the rights to translate her father, Nabendu Ghosh.
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Pokhara, Nepal is one of the few places in the world where towering snow-clad mountains are easily seen from a subtropical setting. The town is at a height of around 900 meters and within a span of around 40 kilometres, the land rises to the summit of Annapurna at over 8000 meters. The view of colourful poinsettias and bougainvillea against the blue sky and the white peaks creates a picture postcard setting. The soft limestone rocks are easily eroded by powerful glacial-fed rivers creating deep gorges. The hills surrounding Pokhara have many charming villages and one can also follow the river valleys to the Annapurna Sanctuary (a pasture situated between the Annapurna peaks) and to the land of Mustang.
RhodedendronsMustang
I was at Kalopani in Mustang. The morning was bright and sunny, but the air was still chilly. The dining room was heated, and many tourists were having their breakfast before continuing their treks. The Nilgiri Himals (snow-covered mountains in Nepali) were clear in the bright morning sunshine. We were waiting for our pooris to arrive.
My friend and I were hiking up toward the Thakali (the major ethnic group in this area) settlements of Tukuche and Marpha. The dining room was big, and the glass windows had spectacular views of the pine forests. We were at the Pine Forest Lodge in the twin settlements of Lete and Kalopani. The settlement continues for over thirty minutes on both sides of the trail. The lodge is big by trekking lodge standards and has sixteen rooms. Run by the Dhawlagiri Technical school, this facility is often used to train tourism students. The manager informed us that the number of tourists they can accept every day is limited due to an agreement with similar businesses in the area. Now, it also offers free wi-fi services. When we visited in the early 2000s, cellular and internet services were still in the future.
Our pooris finally arrived. They were fluffy and brownish red. A potato and peas gravy accompanied the pooris. The dish was thick and spicy. The small hill potatoes were tasty.
The lodge constructed of stone can be cold during the nights, but comforters are provided to guests. I always had pleasant stays at this lodge. I never had the opportunity to meet trainee students as usually they started their sessions only after nine in the morning. By that hour, we were already out on the trail.
The Village of Kagbeni with the Kali Gandaki River
The Tibetan shrine with the five foot statue of Buddha in the background
The Red House Lodge in Kagbeni is a bewildering warren of rooms and passages. Kagbeni is on the way to the holy shrine of Muktinath and hikers without the expensive permit to Upper Mustang can watch the trail meandering through the Kali Gandaki River and the barren brown hills. The Red House Lodge is an iconic establishment and several stories and blogs have been written about it. The lodge is a traditional, red-coloured Tibetan house and was started by Pema Doma in 1997 when the region was opened to tourists. She developed a beautiful friendship with an Australian lady, Sydney Schuler. The small house that served as the lodge did not have a name and she then decided to install a signboard inscribed with ‘Red House Lodge’. There are Tibetan religious texts and a Tibetan shrine with a five feet statue of the Buddha at the centre. Firewood and provisions dry in the harsh sun on the flat roof and there is a large pole with prayer flags flapping in the wind.
From the roof, you can gaze at the dreamy landscapes of upper Mustang and watch the constantly changing play of light on the barren hills. By mid-morning strong winds roar from the Tibetan plateau. Tibetans use both the wind and water to carry their prayers far and wide. The lodge was used to store rations by the Khampa resistance fighters, who struggled against cultural hegemony in the mid-twentieth century. Kham in eastern Tibet was one of the three traditional provinces and the Khampas (the inhabitants) have a reputation as tough fighters. They eventually migrated to Nepal along with other refugees and waged armed resistance to free Tibet till they were eventually disarmed by the Nepalese army in the 1970s. Kesang in the Mustang region was one of the main centres of the Khampa resistance. The food at the lodge in Kesang is excellent and it is a good place to rest either on your way up to or down from Muktinath. The sense of history is strong in this lodge as a comfortable familiarity with the past blends into the present.
Ghandruk is a large Gurung village near Pokhara and the headquarters of the Annapurna Conservation Area Project (ACAP). Gurungs are an ethnic group dominant in the hills around Pokhara. Along with other ethnicities they constitute the famous Gurkhas known for their courage and valour. Gurungs are believed to have originated in Tibet and practice a mixture of animistic, Hindu, and Buddhist religious practices. They live on the southern slopes of the Himalayas in central Nepal and call themselves Tamu. Many serve in the Nepalese, Indian, British and other armies and police forces and have seen action in several conflicts.
Due to the civil war, many Gurungs migrated from their villages to settle in Pokhara. Ghandruk (also called Ghandrung) is the second largest Gurung village in Nepal after Siklis. The village sprawls over a hillside with terraced fields. From the road head at Nayapul (new bridge), Ghandruk is a four-to-five-hour trek initially along the riverbank and then through well-maintained stone staircases. The Himalaya Lodge (a Kerr and Downey resort) is located right at the top of the village. This lodge lets out rooms to independent trekkers if not occupied by those who have reserved their rooms through Kerr and Downey.
Kerr & Downy ResortAl Fresco dining
The lodge has spectacular views of the Annapurna Himals. The dining room is decorated in the Gurung style. The food at the lodge served in traditional copper utensils is excellent. The freshly plucked green leafy vegetables and the radish pickle are tasty. The rooms are well-appointed with attached bathrooms. You sleep between freshly laundered white sheets. The lodge provides guests with slippers and down jackets for their use during their stay. There are tables and comfortable chairs placed in the stone-paved courtyard for al fresco dining and you can watch the clouds gather and eventually cloak the Himals. Butterflies and birds flit among the flowers. The lodge also has different handicrafts for sale. I was first introduced to the singing bowl or the Himalayan bowl here. The traditional bowls were originally made of a variety of metals including mercury, lead, silver, iron, gold, and copper. I found it fascinating that by moving a wooden stick around the bowl a rich harmonious note could be produced.
Ghorepani at around 2800 m is famous for the views of the Annapurna and Dhaulagiri Himals. The viewing of sunrise at Poon Hill is a highlight of the trek. I usually stay at the Snow View lodge located close to Poon Hill. The lodge is made of wood and has an excellent solar hot shower. They have a single room with a window providing excellent views. The cast-iron stove in the dining room is warm and the food is excellent. Ghorepani is a long day’s climb on steep stone staircases from Nayapul and Birethanti. Climbing to Poon hill from the lodges using flashlights in the predawn darkness is a unique experience. Ghorepani was a watering hole for horses till it was discovered by tourists. The settlement has several lodges both down in the main village and higher up at Deurali (the pass). The rhododendrons during spring bloom in various shades of red and pink. The cornbread baked at Snow View lodge is excellent and is my breakfast of choice.
Poon HillDhaulagiri from Poon Hill
The last few years have been hard on the trekking lodges. First, there was the devastating earthquake of 2015 which damaged the infrastructure, and then the global shutdown due to the coronavirus pandemic. The lodge owners are resilient and resourceful. The lodges offer comfortable alternatives to staying in cold tents and also contribute to the local economy. Now, as the world is beginning to open its doors again to tourism and travel, I look forward to returning to the magic of the Himalayas and revisiting these wonderful lodges.
Sunset on Annapurna
Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.
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O, the company of a grandchild!
A joy unparalleled --
There is nothing like this
In the entire world…
To see the little angel
Sleep in the cradle with a doll,
Crawl excitedly,
Scribble cute lines on the wall,
Move with nimble steps around the table,
While you hold the soft little hand,
Fearing the little lamb may fall.
To have the sweet soul
Ride on your shoulders,
Play in your lap,
Hold you back with all her might
When you try to go out,
And rush on all fours towards you
When you come back.
Play hide and seek,
Guide and teach,
Take the little one
To school, park and beach.
Weave each night new stories
Of kings and queens, angels and fairies,
Till your darling goes to sleep.
O, it’s a delight!
Pure bliss!
Even angels come down on earth
To relish this!
It was Saraswati Puja that day when he went to my parents and asked, without any hesitation, if he could marry their daughter. Me. We had been dating for four years at that point of time. It was unusual for the India of our times in the 80s. We didn’t have gadgets like there are today. When he was studying in IIT(Indian Institute of Technology) Bombay, and I was in Kolkata, we used to write letters. Sometimes, they would arrive in a week or two, but sometimes, they took about a month. It was tough not seeing each other for years. But, finally it was happening. He didn’t leave me for someone better. He kept his promise.
We got married in October and were soon blessed with a daughter. She replaced me in his heart. She was now the person who used to live in most parts of his heart. I used to joke to him saying he has rented my house to our daughter. He was everything good that happened to me.
Decades later as I write this, my hands are trembling. I don’t know why but I am scared. Something is not right. Something terrible is on the way. I shouldn’t think that way but I am not able to stop myself from going into these routes. Today is Saraswati Puja and he is lying pale in the surgery. Our friend, Dr Ghosh, is inside with him. The operation is going on.
An hour and a half later, the doctor walked out of the surgery. His eyes were moist. I knew what I feared had happened. But, I won’t cry. He won’t like me teared up.
I am stronger than he thinks I am.
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Sutputra Radheye is a young poet/writer from India. He has published two poetry collections —Worshipping Bodies(Notion Press) and Inqalaab on the Walls (Delhi Poetry Slam). His worksare reflective of the society he lives in and tries to capture the marginalised side of the story.
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BLACK CLOUDS DRIFTED
I floated heavily across the moonlit field.
Above on the cliff, the light graced the wind-dancing grass
For a moment I was still.
Listening … nothing but the sighing.
Black clouds claimed the light
Drifting, secretly drifting.
Wind grasped my hair,
tugged it across my eyes.
Shutters came down.
The light captured behind lids and hair curtain.
Silence but for the wheezing of the wind
and the roar of the sea.
Sound surrounding thoughts:
Thoughts drifting like the black clouds.
Solutions? None.
A violent gust and I fall to my knees
A whistling through my heart,
A small prayer ventures out in the blackness.
And then
black clouds drift once more.
The moon captures my sadness
and lifts my soul to breathe again.
Sybil Pretious writes mainly memoir pieces, paints and composes an occasional poem to reflect her varied life in many countries. Lessons in life are woven into her writing encouraging risk-taking and an appreciation of different cultures.
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You might be wondering how on earth Dusty, the cat, played such a huge role in my downfall. I suppose I should use the defence that the title of this piece is nothing more than literary license because for one thing, I have never had a downfall. Oh, I’ve had many falls and stumbles, but no major catastrophic tragedy that cast me into the pits of despair. I suppose rather than the pits of despair, I have just visited the suburbs of despair. And having lived in the suburbs, I don’t mind equating these two. That is one of the many wonderful things about life, that we can fall, but invariably we rise again, as it is said in a part of the Bible I can never remember, though I fall I shall rise. Confucius said it as well: that our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall. The title of this book is misleading, to an extent. I never fell, absolutely, and Dusty had nothing to do with my stumbles. In fact, she was a factor in helping me to get up again and again. A cat? Yes, one might be amazed at the soothing companionship that pets offer generally. I don’t mean all pets. I can’t imagine a turtle, for example, offering solace at the end of a rotten day at work or after your partner has just told you that you are now a lone wolf and good luck with your future. But let me get back to when I finally decided to get a cat.
I was on my own and had rented a bachelor apartment. I was determined to have a pet, particularly a cat, as cats had been a big part of my life since I found the stray Dickens twenty years ago. It was the first of the month, moving day, and as I had not a lot to move for reasons to long to go into, I thought I wouldn’t go a day without company, so I asked my daughters to come with me to the Humane Society to pick one out. My eldest daughter was a little hesitant as she and her boyfriend had adopted a dog few months earlier and had to return it, for reasons once again too long to go into. As a result, she felt that she was blacklisted and that her picture was up on screens and walls and would somehow be subject to abuse at the hands of the workers there. I tried to explain that these people were very well intentioned and likely not wanting to seek revenge for the return of an animal. I mean, I asked her, what could they possibly do? Shame her in front of the other caged animals? Sick a wild pack of rabid pooches on her? But she was nervous enough that she left the choosing of my cat to me and Josie.
My other daughter and I went cruising through the rooms looking at the imprisoned beasts. Any visit to one of these places can be sad. They really do look like prisoners as they pace their small spaces and when you pass by a cage, they seem to do their best to be alluring, realizing on some level, that this stranger might just be their ticket out of Sing-Sing. They rub up against the bars and look at you with these pleading eyes that seem to say, “Please like me, take me home.” It’s every meathead’s dream of what a single’s bar should be like but isn’t for meatheads. My daughter finally found one that she connected with and told me to come over and have a look. It was an American Shorthair, grey and with lovely kind, green eyes. The assistant opened the cage for me and let me put my hand in to have a pet. It was a lovely meeting until the blood was drawn. Mine, I mean, not hers. She lashed out not too fiercely at my hand and I pulled back too late. Josie looked up at me and said,
“Dad, you moved too quickly!”
My argument was that the quick move was the result of having been assaulted and not the cause, but she was intent that this was the one for me and so, naturally, I agreed, as I held my hand up to prevent my life’s blood from escaping.
“There not used to being touched, poor things.” said the worker.
I looked at my gash and wondered if there would be any pity for me, or only another condemnation at having been doing jazz hands in a cat’s cage, but there was none. Nevertheless, I agreed to take this one home and started the paperwork. The woman across the desk took my particulars and my cheque and told me, quite casually.
“And we won’t charge you for the cream.”
“Cream?” I asked, “What cream?”
For a moment I thought that they were going to offer an antibacterial tube for my hand given that one of their inmates had attempted murder on me. But not even close.
“The cream for her backside” came the “as if you didn’t know” response.
“Why would I need cream for her backside?” I asked bracing myself for an answer I knew wouldn’t be pleasant. I mean, any conversation around creams and cat’s backsides is not going to work out well, and this one didn’t.
“As you probably noticed, the kitty is a little bit bigger than she should be.”
A little bit? This was one fat cat. Cats as a rule are about as sedentary a creature as you’ll find so being a little bit chunky is par for the course, but this one was two pars for the course. I didn’t mind as I thought I’ll get her slimmed down with a gym membership and controlled diet.
“And the cream on her anus will help her lose weight?” I asked hopefully.
“Oh no, it’s just that she is so big she can’t really reach her anus to clean it, so she has a wee bit of an infection. The cream will help clear it up. Twice a day, but I suggest you wear a glove as you do it.”
If there was one thing I didn’t need a suggestion about as to when to wear a glove it was that. I didn’t relish the idea with a glove anyway. We took her back to my sparsely furnished new apartment and put her down on the floor while I set up the all-important pooh box and, more important to her, the food and water bowl. She was still a nameless cat, so I asked the girls as I was busying myself rushing about, as much as one can in a bachelor apartment, setting up for my new roommate,
“Well girls, what should we name her?”
“Dusty.” Came the immediate response from Josie. And it made sense as she was a gray furred kitty with lovely white bits as well.
“Because she’s gray?” I called out from the bathroom as I scooped kitty litter into the target box.
“No.” said Josie. “Because she’s eating a fluff of dust.”
And that is my cat, Dusty. As if being so obese that you can’t clean your own backside wasn’t evidence enough, she has an eating compulsion that will not stop, even at dust. But we forged strong bonds and became good friends. As a matter of fact, there is a gay theatre in Toronto called Buddies in Bad Times Theatre Company, and they are quite good. So, from day one I would refer to Dusty and I as just that, buddies in bad times. Of course, the times weren’t bad exactly, but they were certainly getting better.
Erwin Coombs is a retired teacher of philosophy, history and literature who has rejected all forms of retirement. He is an avid writer, reader, and observer of life. When not observing and reading and living, he is writing. Erwin has lived in Egypt, Jamaica, England and travelled a great deal but, in his mind, not enough. His writing is a celebration of people and opportunity, both of which life gives in abundance. These stories are from his, as yet unpublished book, Dusty the Cat: Her Part in My Downfall.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
POEMS ARE USELESS
Poems are useless
at stopping wars that have started
but wars are more useless
at poetry than poets.
Missiles dipped in the ink of blood
write nothing worthwhile.
PROPAGANDA
The
invaders
are claiming
that we are shelling
ourselves.
That's nuts.
THE INVADERS
The invaders came across the land
but tripped on the steppes
and fell down
to death.
DICTATORS
Dictators strut
up and down like clowns
wearing big egos
like oversized shoes.
GENERALLY
Generally
generals bend the knee
to politicians
while privates have no
leg to stand on
after they leave the trenches.
At least that
is the way it used to be.
Now civilians
are legless too, a footnote
to official history.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
Disclaimer: The opinions expressed are solely that of the author and not of Borderless Journal.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
When we were kids we weren’t allowed in the house. We were told that kids didn’t belong inside. The philosophy back then was that kids were meant to be outdoors playing. A kids place was outside. No kids inside.
It was a steadfast rule, because if we did manage to sneak into the house for some reason we’d be chased out again by our mamas yelling all sorts of stuff broom in hand.
Looking back, I am incredibly grateful that was the philosophy and the rule. Because it was strictly enforced, me, my sister and all my friends spent endless hours roaming free in the neighborhood in search of adventure, entertainment and distraction.
Boredom was an integral part of being a kid back then. We didn’t have fancy toys or video games. At most we might have a skate board, a bicycle, a football or related outdoor gear like a knife or fishing pole. This led to all sorts of games and time filling activities being invented. Often on the spot.
We’d find some scraps of tape or paper somewhere and roll it up into a ball. A stick became a bat. And a fierce game of stickball might erupt.
We’d yell out rules and make them up as we go.
“Three fouls count as one strike!” yelled just after one kid hit two fouls and we were weary of all the fouls being hit.
“If you hit more than two out of bounds it counts as a strike!” screamed after we got tired of somebody always hitting the ball out of bounds.
“If you can’t tag the person, you can throw the ball at ‘em to get ‘em out!” negotiated when the fastest player screamed around the bases. No one could catch them!
If we couldn’t catch them, maybe we might have a chance to get them out by flinging the ball at them as they scooted by. Or so it was reasoned.
“Wait, it only counts if you hit ‘em below the waistline.” a correction to the previous rule invented after someone got smacked in the skull. We couldn’t deliberately try to knock them out or aim at the head.
And so, it went. No adults in sight. No adults allowed.
All rules invented and implemented on the spot. Everything created on the fly.
We were learning negotiation skills. We were learning how to communicate. We were learning how to argue our case for the new rules we’d invented and wanted to implement. We were learning strategy and empathy (when someone got a bloody lip from being plonked with the paper tape ball!).
Of course, we didn’t call it that. We didn’t even realise it at the time. No one was implicitly teaching us.
We just called it playing outside.
All of it. Every single bit of it was student centered, student driven, discovery and peer teaching at its best. (To use modern educational jargon).
So much learning was taking place through play!
The best days would be when we would pretend to be Steve Austin from The Six Million Dollar Man and run through the woods in slow motion pretending to have bionic legs. Or even better, when we imagined we were Evel Knievel and set up ramps across the creek to simulate his jump across the Grand Canyon.
Steve Austin, a bionic construct from the TV show Six Million Dollar Maan (1974-78)Stuntman Evel Knievel (1938-2007)Courtesy: Creative Commons
And some of the best times were when we built forts in the woods and pretended to be conquering knights or when we tried to build tree huts and figure out how to engineer slabs of 2” X 4” pieces of wood to stay in place and then figure out how to make a ladder using vines without accidentally weaving in poison ivy!
Boredom was the key. It gave time, space and freedom to make up our own games. Time to create. Time to invent.
If boredom is the mother of invention, then the lack of pre-made and readymade resources is the father. Back then we weren’t infected with Affluenza, the disease of affluence and excess, so we had to be inventive and creative with what little we had if we wanted to play and have fun.
I am afraid that is what is lacking today. A lack of lacking. We have too much. Too many things and too many distractions.
As a result, boredom has retreated into the forest waiting for explorers and adventurers to venture into the woods and come to discover their Muses for creativity and invention.
Things have changed since we were kids being chased out of the house.
Adults are always present. Rules are imposed. Games come pre-assembled. There are 1000+ tiny pieces or a screen. Batteries or a charger are always required.
Play dates are made. Play is scheduled and not spontaneous. The places where the play dates happen are sterile and manicured as ‘proper’ playgrounds tend to be these days.
Wildness and spontaneity have been chased out the window by fear, efficiency and convenience.
We even have terms for what we used to simply call playing outside. Now it’s referred to unsupervised, unstructured free time. Research is done on this topic. Papers are written. Data is analysed.
When all we simply need to do is get outside and play in Nature.
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