My Good Neighbors

I took an evening stroll to buy food at this shabby, run down street-side food shop. Today was the minor Eid, the day of the animal slaughter as part of Abrahamic ritual. I am not fond of this day at all. Anyways, I walked in to the shop. There are three cooks that work there in shifts: the head cook, the one that looks younger than the head but older than the other one (I call him the middle cook), and then the chubby young cook.
This time it was the chubby cook on duty. He was standing behind the high table that display their warm food to the customers, and he greeted me. I had not stayed here for that long, but the three cooks have warmed up to me and we often exchange some witty banter. I grinned wide and asked him if he was selling lamb curries today as part of Eid. He shook his head and said, "Just chicken and eggs today!" So I ordered two take away packs, and walked to a small home-grocery store next to the shop.

This grocery store is just a 3 x 3 space filled with everything you need for daily life, from shampoo, water, snacks, rice, anything. The owner is this couple who has two small daughters. When I went there to buy water, the lady was carrying the youngest girl, perhaps two year old, on her arms. The names of the daughters always skip me, to my embarrassment! She was having fever, the mom said. I put my hand over her forehead, and wiped traces of tears from the corner of her right eye. Poor little girl, she had been crying so profusely, mom said. But that was what I have noticed from this lady. She has a very calm and happy vibe whenever I came there and talked to her. Small talks nonetheless, but I could feel her demeanor was just pleasant. The husband too. Once he asked me if the price of a can of soda I bought was too expensive. Strange, I thought. As if he was worried I would suffer from his pricing and wanted to cut the price out of sympathy. I laughed and told him I didn't usually buy canned soda so I wouldn't know. I gave the toddler a small peck on the cheek, wished her a speedy recovery and went back to the food shop to pick up my take away.

The chubby cook counted how much I bought, and I paid. He was occupied with frying some fritters and waved good bye hastily. As I turned on my motorbike, I saw a man at the back of the shop, smiling at a mother hen playing with her small chicks. I thought that was so beautiful. People who treat and receive life with contentment and generosity.

These are the things I won't be able to find had I gone shopping for food and water at a brightly lit supermarket with uniformed workers. But ah, the price we'd pay for convenience!

The Path of the Now

Failing and Flying

by Jack Gilbert

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It's the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.

Dear Alma - Inside the Puppet Box

My wonderful Alma,

since you had asked to tell you more about the puppets inside the box, I enclose to this letter a few pictures of my leather immortals and knights. I had also reopened Felicia Katz's book, Inside the Puppet Box and learned more details of the puppets which I will share with you.

I only now began to understand why the puppets collection Prof. S has in the house is very valuable, and I mean not just the artistic, philosophical, and historical value, but also of material value. Some of the puppets are older than a century, and the way these older puppets were made, is quite different to the ones made in the past fifty years.

For a start Alma, I shall tell you that these puppets are very intricate. They are made through long and arduous process. The main material for making them is water buffalo hide. The most desired hides come from Celebes island, as the local people there often perform ceremonies and rituals that involve sacrificing buffaloes. These large hides will be washed, and then stretched apart in a square wooden frame, to be sundried for many weeks. Afterwards, they will again be soaked overnight in water, traditionally in ponds or rivers, to soften and clean it. The next day, they will be stretched again, and rubbed off of dirt, hair, and hopefully also any unpleasant odor. This process is repeated several times until the artist feels convinced that it is smooth and ready for the next phase.

You can see two pictures where the hide is cut and shaped as characters. The puppets are typically heavily decorated. Each character has details that show their status, their gender, even their moods. And all these are manifested through tiny holes on the hide. The artists have pencil-size steel sticks and a hammer half the size of a normal hammer, and they patiently, skillfully punching holes through the hide to make patterns of the puppet's eyes, nose, mouth, hairstyle, fangs, crowns, dresses, and jewelry. Imagine the amount of dedication put into puncturing thin lines and tiny dots to these puppets. Such fine details.

The next step in the making after the character's shape and details are ready, is painting them. Herein where I began to understand the value of Prof. S' puppets. The puppet artisans from the past, they would use as much organic material as they could with their paint. This goes well with the hide as it absorbs better, although the color would be a little more vague. So the artists had to paint in layers. They also used a special kind of glue into the paint mix, which was made from crushed fish bones. Another element that makes the puppets prized, is that some of the puppets were brushed off with golden or bronze leaves. Rumor has it, they used to be real gold and bronze. Compare it to today's puppet making, most makers now use acrylic paint and carpenter's glue, at the risk of cutting the age of the puppets short!

One, often overlooked, part of the puppet, is the puppet sticks that make the limbs articulate. The secret of it is, they are made out of water buffalo horns. And the lighter the color of the sticks, the more valuable they are (as they are very difficult to find). The making process of the sticks is also quite appealing. The horns are first split into half, length wise, and each half would be sliced right down to the middle, but not entirely severed. And then they would be filed with metal, and heated above oil lamps until they can be shaped into round sticks. Unsurprisingly, for economic reasons most sticks are made from wood or bamboo. But if you were to grip the ones made from horns, Alma, it is as if touching a pillar made of marble, instead of a pillar made of slabs of brick and cement!

 And they all come together in one all-night long performance that can propel you to a world of celestial thrones and intriguing plots!

So Alma, why, you might ask, do people put so much work and money into a shadow puppet theater? I think, ages ago when consciousness was still richly embedded into entertainment, the shadow puppet was what the music industry is today. The more ornate the puppets and their attributes such as the box, the gold and bronze leafing, the horn and leather quality, show how high of social status the owner is. And apart from the materialistic worth, these puppets also signify the depth of character and moral virtue the owner supposedly has. These are the virtues that would make a man transcends in life, so the Javanese saying mandates.

Perhaps, if you are not quite dismayed yet, I could interest you in the characters of Arjuna and Krishna? I am such a disoriented storyteller, my letters may have repelled you.

Longing to hear more about your father and Sir Banks.

Yours truly,

GR

Dear Alma - Hopes for Seram

My dearest Alma,

It was an exceptionally hot day today. The blistering sun shone with such fervor, which would be good for my neighbors drying their laundry outside, but my feet suffered. My poor feet had only been partially covered by shoes, so the bridge is now much darker than the rest of my feet. My poor hydrangeas also suffered, one mophead was severely wilting and turning brown. I hope the tropical night would be more forgiving so both the hydrangeas and I could redeem the heat.

I spent more hours today with Prof. S, my employer. Yesterday we had talked briefly, in which he expressed concerns about my recent problems in getting a legal separation from FH. Prof. S said, "You should have never married that man!" to which, my quick mouth took over my head and I replied, "Oh, but Professor, why didn't you say something before I did it?" That was rather crass and impolite of me to have said so, but thankfully Prof. S caught my playful drift and he smiled and said, "Oh didn't I say so? I thought I had urged you not to!" and I chuckled and said that I would probably have not listened to him anyway since I was unbearably thickheaded.

Alma, Prof. S is nearing the end of his academic tenure, and I suspect he would want to leave a strong mark in the world of thoughts. I have been working for him for five years, and I have learned to appreciate him not only as an employer, but also an academic patron and teacher of the arts. Prof. S was the one who took me into the enchantment of shadow puppets and opened the door to hundreds of lores and tales from the two Indian epics. He has been teaching and conducting research in this archipelago for more than thirty years, and over the decades has built a stellar reputation and remarkable network.

Much like your father, Alma, Prof. S is the kind of man who has the power to make the world come to him, to the hidden old heritage house we use as our office. Had you been here in the house, you would see me being zealously protective over the 325 leather Gods and Heroes, each a character from the epics. Whenever Prof. S is not in the country, they would be safely kept in a wooden chest from the 1900s and no one but him knows where the key to the chest is. I imagine my bond to these delicate puppets is alike to yours with the mosses in your greenhouse.

But back to Prof. S - just the first morning he was in the house, he had already met with the Deans of the University. And in a few days, the Ambassador himself will fly in from the capital to pay Prof. S a visit. I had met this Ambassador a little more than two years ago. As with most meetings Prof. S had with prominent guests, I was only a fly on the wall; being introduced by him as the "assistant who has been with me longer than I could remember".

However, that time I had a chance to talk with him over a lunch at the house. The Ambassador intently asked me questions on religious radicalism, a topic I wrote on as a thesis. I had argued that we should not tunnel-view religious radicalism as being rooted solely in the tenets of the faith. "What then?" he asked. So we discussed some of the probabilities enthusiastically; me as a novice scholar and him as a freshly arriving Ambassador trying to better understand the country. Most people were charmed by the Ambassador's warmth and youthfulness, although I have a feeling Prof. S would appreciate a much older figure in that position. It was rather unfortunate that I had to miss a meeting with the Prince when he came to visit our place. I was sent to the outer island for a task by Prof. S. We shall see if I would get to meet the Ambassador the second time around.

Alma, Prof. S today mentioned he is thinking about doing follow up research both in Flores and Seram island. I was beyond thrilled to hear the plan! Very much hoping I can somehow be involved in the project. Although to be very frank with you, the more I go into my readings on this topic, the more I feel like such a Conservation illiterate! My prior knowledge of the rainforest would be equivalent to a gardener's knowledge -- which is not totally garbage, but not the most relevant either. Before I left my work desk this afternoon, I bowed down to the spirits of intelligence, the genius, asking them to lend me some miraculous intellect. Who knows, maybe I'll be lucky enough to hear what Wallace called "mysterious knockings" from the universe. Although I would like to note that I meant metaphorically (in case the spirits stealthily see what I write to you); it would be horrid if I were to hear them literally.

A small note, I found out Moringa flowers are bisexual. How far along are you in your mosses? How do they breed? I hope to start my reading on sexual selection soon.


Always delighted to hear from you,


Yours sincerely,

GR.

Honeysuckle, Kemuning, and Moringa.

I passed again this morning the beautiful tiny shrub of white and ivory colored flowers, slightly tucked away behind the front gate of my apartment building. They reminded me to honeysuckle flowers I once saw at the backyard of C.S. in Texas. I had thought they were a variety of Murayya Paniculata, or in local language it is called kemuning.

I have always loved their lingering fragrance; one can smell it from a few feet away. Although, the ones climbing up the front gate's wall was slightly more tubular in petals with stamens jutting out like tusks. So I had to answer my curiosity, and after checking later on, I found I was wrong. To my surprise, it was indeed, a honeysuckle shrub! I had thought honeysuckles could only grow in the Americas. This certainly brings back a fond memory. I had seen C.S. made organic soap from the extracts of honeysuckle flowers, and how the beautiful scent of the bushes at their backyard dangerously lured me in and almost gotten me in trouble not knowing it was side by side with vines of poison ivy. That was the first time I got to know honeysuckle.

Honeysuckle plant. Beautiful slender, elongated petals.

A peek of some honeysuckle soaps sold on Etsy. These bars must be heavenly.

I learned today that kemuning is of different genus from honeysuckle, despite their similar appearance. And another lookalike flower, moringa, is also of different genus family. Moringa is now on the rise of popularity after a famous skincare brand uses (in my eyes, it is exploitation) it as the main ingredient of one of their product lines. Kemuning is actually closely related to citrus, and they bear tiny oval fruits that are red or orange in color. It is of the murayya genus, while honeysuckle is of lonicera genus; and Moringa is of moringa genus. Have a look of how similar they are in appearance:

Kemuning or Murayya Paniculata, with its fruits featured in the inset. The petals bloom like a crown to the stalk.

Moringa flowers, aside from its fragrance, the seeds, pods, and even roots are consumed. This plant mainly grows in India.

The interesting part of these three plants, even though they are of different genus, they share the same characteristics: they are evergreen, very easily grow, intensely fragrant, drought-resistant, and they love sunlight. Don't they sound like the traits you wish to have? 

Dear Alma - Wallace Makes Me Want to Go to Seram.

My Dearest Alma,

I spent the last few days reading letters between Alfred Russel Wallace and Charles Darwin. Their letters both as scientists and friends are compelling. Unfortunately though, the friendship later on faltered greatly that Wallace was thoroughly undermined in the science world and almost forgotten; thanks to Darwin-led effort in making him be so. They started off as being very good scientist friends, with warm admiration and adoration from both sides. Darwin even referred Wallace in his letter to be “the man to turn to in difficulty”, and Wallace was always credited as the one who stimulated Darwin’s work in evolution and the book “On the Origin of Species”. Some even speculated that Darwin stole the idea from Wallace (I do not think that was the case, however, there are four books written on this conspiracy theory alone).

Alma, did you know that Wallace was knee-deep in research for eight years in the Malay archipelago? I was steeped in curiosity as I read how Wallace passionately described the metallic and soft orange tints of the moths in Amboyna and Macassar. Yet how at ease Wallace wrote about this honeycomb he had sent to Darwin,

“I beg you to accept a wild honeycomb from the island of Timor, not quite perfect but the best I could get. It is of a small size but of characteristic form & I think will be interesting to you. I was quite unable to get the honey out of it, so fear you will find it somewhat in a mess but no doubt you will know how to clean it.”

Can you imagine how difficult it must have been two centuries ago, Alma? To send something as delicate as raw, wild, honeycomb from the jungles of Timor, through the oceans and lands, to the residence of Darwin in Kent? Oh the storms and docks that honeycomb must have witnessed! I wonder if the honey tasted sweeter to Darwin, or perhaps even aromatic and exotic, from having gone through such voyage!

Timor Men, drawing by Thomas Baines

Alma, Wallace did quite a lot of work in insects and birds in these Malay islads. I know you are mostly now immersed in the study of mosses, but just have a look at the excitement Wallace had in his writings about them:

    "In a few days I commence work in Ceram, where I hope to make a very fine collection, especially of Psittacidæ, the Lories of Ceram surpassing even those of New Guinea in variety and beauty. I live in hopes too of a new Semioptera, or some equally interesting form.”

  "The species of Ceram birds mentioned in Bonaparte's 'Conspectus' are very few: how is it, then, that it has such a name for fine birds? I know nothing fine from it, but the Lories, which are superb. However, I hope and believe it will produce some very fine things--new Pigeons, perhaps. The Cassowary is said to be abundant in Ceram.”

That reminded me to the work J did in Seram, and the hundreds of beautiful pictures he once showed me. Of sunrises and sunsets viewed from his wooden house that was on stilts and floating, a small dock at the front with a rickety boat tied to it for when he needed to go places. J said, “How can a person feel like working when your office is this beautiful?”

Seram island

I wonder if Wallace also thought the same. How mad I was to turn down a field work offer in Seram two years ago! All this has made me want to explore all the places Wallace been in this archipelago. Call it, the Great Wallace Pilgrimage. Let's see if this would manifest in the immediate future.

But Alas! For now I am home-bound in my city, doing remote literature studies on the indigenous people. I had not slept as much as I needed, doing all the reading and writing the last two nights. My professor is in town, but not for long. He seemed to not be as disappointed in my desultory work; kindly understanding the whirlwind of madness I had been in, as well as workload from other professors.

I dared myself in mentioning to him today about the indigenous tribe of the Ibans, living along the Utik river. I, of course, silently hoped we would do some work in Seram which I could join, but he had done that last year. So maybe if I were lucky enough to still keep the job at least for the next few months, I might stand a chance to see this tribe that was still headhunting as recent as eight decades ago.

More on Wallace, the evolution of intelligence, and Rumi's thoughts on that – yes, Rumi! – in my next letter. I have to get back to my readings and produce three writings tonight. At least, that is the intention.

Hoping the weather is favourable in Philadelphia,

Yours very sincerely,

GR.

Pilgrimage

It was a hot, sweltering afternoon today. I got drenched in sweat by the time I reached home, hurriedly coming in to take off my jacket and jeans, into a maroon sundress to take that call from him. I sat in the coolest part of the house during our call, the inner veranda. Mr. Penguin once had asked where I lived, and I described to him my humble abode; how it is increasingly getting exhausted of space from books laying every where.

I meditated for a brief while, and got up and danced to the Poem of the Atoms by Salar Aghili. Then back to reading excerpts of the Gita. I was realizing, I am surrounded by all the things I dearly love. The row of books, four stacks of tea (some have the pleasure of calling themselves cat-people, I myself am a tea hoarder), my yellow chrysanthemums on a glass jar, my space to write, my sketchbook, and the music to move my body.

If I didn't have to go meet someone, or go to work, I might be able to stay inside for a long time. Which reminds me, he once called me that, "You're a home girl!" he said. I'd like to think that is not absolutely true, in the sense that I don't like to go out and explore. I do, and even when my physical body can not take me to places, my mind is in constant wander. But I'll admit, I do fear that the comfort of staying home will cover me with rusty dust.

The whole conversation brought back the idea of pilgrimage to me. It's not a new thing, people have become pilgrims from eons ago. Maybe it is this idea of cleansing, that somehow by distancing themselves from things or places or people that have made them become the persona they dislike, they hope to change that by going to faraway destinations. Or also the idea of discovery, to bring newness to your life. Something more passionate, exotic, something strange and complex to learn and experience, perhaps even a redemption. Usually with a hope in the back of our minds that they will make us be better.

Taking the meaning of pilgrimage loosely as a journey in search of a significant something, my experience with past great journeys in life has always that they gift you things you did not quite expect before. I lived in America and found Rumi (not the Statue of Liberty!), I went to Flores and met a Viking (we both tried to be Americans); I stayed in Norway and found Buddha (or rather Buddha found me?). I frequented India and saw a chameleon (instead of the ubiquitous enlightenment). Last one I went to Bali and rediscovered Tuscany (this was gladly welcomed and thoroughly enjoyed).

I do not know yet where I want to have my next pilgrimage. Perhaps I should go to places that bring out the worldly part of me. I have been too wired in spiritual quests and philosophical filtering. But I am that girl that can make Ibiza feel like a Jain shrine, and make a Kerala out of Kuta. So we'll see. Else, the true pilgrimage is always the journey to within. (<--- See what I mean with making Ibiza be a shrine?! Bleahh)

Hic et Ubique means Here and Everywhere. Google found this for me, completely nothing to do with my writing of Pilgrimage, this is a logo of some high end Anglo-American organization ;)

Scribbles

"Ideas are the brides waiting to be married by actions." - Me

Tea with Three - Mr. Penguin, and the Gita in Nuclear Bombs.

I sat there in my rosewood red dress, two bracelets around my wrist, my waist-length hair down, and I stirred my tea ferociously. September has just begun, I could see the leaves turning amber. I was not quite sure whether the aches in my body were from my accident, or if it was the talk that turned prickly.

For the half hour I was sitting there, my heart pounded so harshly I was surprised it had not torn out off my chest. I heard light footsteps, the sound of a chair being moved, and there he was, Penguin.

"Hello my little sweet darling! Now I find you!"

"Hi. Good. How are you?" I answered, my eyes to the tea.

"Oh my. Something is terribly wrong, isn't it? What happened?" he gently asked, taking his woolen jacket off. I admired the amount of dedication he put in into looking so dapper every day.

I shook my head, and looked down.

"It's that bad, hmm?" Penguin went silent, yet I could hear the thoughts pacing in his head, words he was considering to say. "Well, some have said I have pretty good ears. So, we can do a little experiment to see if that is true," he smiled. I looked at his pale face, wrinkles around his chin whenever he smiled.

"Did you know, one of the scientists who helped give birth to nuclear bomb was so infatuated by Bhagavad Gita, that he quoted lines from it over and over during the initial launches of the bomb?" I swiftly answered, forcefully smiling away the anxiety within.

"Oh, really? Tell me more!"

"Mmhm, Oppenheimer famously quoted the line that Vishnu said to Arjuna in order to persuade Arjuna to perform his knightly duty in the war; this was during the launch of a nuclear bomb test in the Trinity project. He said that while watching the glaring orange clouds of the explosion, it entered his head, 'I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.' Oppenheimer also quoted other lines in other times, but it's just all so fascinating to me."

"Hmm, enlighten me more on why it's fascinating to you?"

I took a deep breath, finally we were talking about something else, "Well, firstly, the philosophies contained in the Mahabharat epic that is part of the Gita, they do not truly set for you what is good and what is evil. What there is is dharma, your duty, your role in the world; and then karma, the results of your action. I find that in the Mahabharat, the cycle of Karma, the good and bad things that happen over the lives of the characters, do not depend o whether the character is a good one or a bad one. Sometimes an action that is perceived to be a good thing, carries an altitude of insufferable motives and consequences," I paused.

"Go on..."

"For example, Draupadi, the wife of the five Pandavas, was greatly humiliated in front of the whole clan of Kuru when she was disrobed by Durshasana. And she carried the shame of that event so deeply in her heart that she profusely blamed each of her husbands for her humiliation, and endlessly questioned if they could ever avenge her pain. This would eventually bring about the great war that is Mahabharat. And I could argue that Draupadi's great pride and her clinging on to the disrobing event, brought her her own immense pain of having to watch all of her children die in the war. Was it wrong to defend her honor and avenge her humiliation? Was it right to cause so many deaths of the warriors over it? Bhisma meditated and wept for every soul lost in the middle of the battlefield and had a terribly long, agonizing dying process because he felt insatiably guilty for letting Draupadi getting disrobed. Well that, among other things he felt guilty over."

"When he fell, both sides stopped fighting. Everyone standing on the battlefield bowed their head and paid tribute to Bhisma. As he slipped into death, surgeons rushed to give him medical help, but Bhisma refused medical care. He called Duryodhana and made another appeal to stop the war, enter into peace negotiations. Duryodhana refused."

"Okay, and how is that related to Oppenheimer and nuclear bombs?"

"Isn't it fascinating that supposedly good people, the protagonists, are also flawed, sometimes in great depths, that they are able to create a harmful act even much greater than the villains? Oppenheimer had said on the stage, the evening of Hiroshima bombing; that he wished the nuclear bomb was already invented during World War II to be used against Nazi Germany. I mean, I sympathize with the pain, but to switch sides from the oppressed to the oppressor, even in the name of defense or common good, I have a hard time moralizing that."

"Hmm, I can somewhat agree to your points there, but what did you mean that Oppenheimer liked to quote the Gita? How was that relevant?"

"Because I think Oppenheimer found comfort in the subtleties of dharma in the Gita. There is no fixation in what is deemed to be righteous and what is deemed to be pure evil. There is only a long chain of perpetual karma. Even the venerated Khrisna, was always so equanimous in his guidance. Mahabharat is a story of a great war, so great and so long, that in the middle of it all, the characters often venture in and out of their conscious awareness and dance between the right and the wrong. The Gita gives you an open space of conversation where you decide for yourself, what is good and what is evil; to define your own morality. That, was perhaps why Oppenheimer was greatly drawn to it." I leaned back, and caught my breath. I hadn't realized I was talking with such fervor that I forgot breathing.

"You, young lady, ought to have been a hundred and fifty years old for telling me all you just did." Penguin said with a grin that went from one side of his cheek to the other. "But you have not told me why it is you are silent, and what festive occasion we are attending for showing up like an Audrey Hepburn in red?"

I bit my lip hard, and mustered the courage to say the words I wished I did not have to, "I was sent to the edge of a broken heart, by his words. And I have a habit of dressing up in my nicest when I don't quite feel the same inside."

"Ah, yes. I see then. I read your last note. You mentioned traveling is what you think he is most good at. I wonder what you are best at. I have my guesses, but please tell me first." Penguin leaned in and put a hand under his chin.

"I am not sure. I have a penchant for moving furniture around when I feel stuck, and I think I am in that phase where I do that, only not with furniture, but with people, thoughts, feelings, even realities. It's like, I'm in a bardo between chapters of my life! Hmm, but, I think... maybe, if I dare to admit this, I am best at loving, at being someone's companion." I listened attentively to my own words. "That is not so appealing, is it? I do not want that to be what I am best at!"

"Oh, and why not? Loving is a gift. Not everyone comes with the talent of nurturing and taking care of others!"

I chuckled, and instinctively held Mr. Penguin's hand and whispered across the table, "Because in that, I have always forgotten to breathe..."

Penguin nodded, the same way a doctor would when his patient explained the symptoms of their undiagnosed illness. "Well, if so, I will suggest you to start loving in a more inclusive practice. One that actually includes you; and better off, one that generously revolves around you," he gently squeezed my hand.

"I am, trying hard to love. Myself, that is. No one had shown me quite yet how to do that before. You know, for years I lived on survival mode. Now that I have total freedom to 'move the furniture around' in my life, I get so anxious of what I want to be. I feel like I do not feel appealed to commit to my old desires. Doing charity work, feels like a shambling dilapidated house. I do not want to be buried with it. Even something as exotic as living with the headhunter tribe as part of a research, feels just a tad too foreign for me!" I glanced at my reflection on the tea pot to my right hand. Blurry image, how fitting. "Mr. Penguin, what would you have me do, if you were the director of this film called My Life? What kind of meaning would you put into me?"

Penguin folded his hands on the table before him, looked down and said, "My child, life is it's own answer. Accept it and enjoy it day by day. Live as well as possible; expect no more, humble nothing, destroy nothing, leave that which is beautiful unsullied and untouched. Hold all which lives with all reverence, for life is a gift given by the sovereign of our universe, a gift to be savored, to be luxuriated in, to be...respected"

I could feel my eyes welling up hearing his words, "Hmm, that is very beautiful Mr. Penguin. I could never come up with something as beautiful as that... Thank you."

"Oh, sweetheart, that's not me. That's Ray Bradburry, The Gift of Pure Being," he took off his flat cap and opened the menu.

"Thank you, for this. For our talks," I smiled. "How is your divorcing friend doing?"

"She remarked that now every time she gets home from an outing, the house just feels impossibly bigger and more vacant. So much space." he muttered from behind the flaps of menu.

"Hmm..." I did not quite know what to say to that, except that I, too, was familiar with the new space. "Can I present to you a line of which I feel you are to me?"

"I am in the mood for a ginger tea, I think," he mentioned as he put down the leather covered paper and looked at me, "Sure!"

"Marcel Proust said, 'Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.' So I am grateful for you."

"Ah, such a compliment. Likewise, my dear. Likewise," his eyes twinkled and wore the smile that radiated warmth. "And I hope that you can always blossom in red without having to be dipped in pain first. Perhaps a change in the dharma would yield a different karma," he winked.

"Aye, aye, Khrisna!" I winked back.

Tea with Three - Hass and the Incident of the Neck

"What the hell! What happened to your neck?!" I shouted when I saw Hass with the brace-support around his neck. Images of police brutality immediately rushed to my mind. My poor, poor Hass. He dragged the chair by its back, and sat down with a long moan.

"Ugh. You won't believe what happened."

"What? Who did that to you? I've been trying to reach you for days! I kept checking the news and the photos I saw did not look very comforting to me! I've been so worried about you!"

"Ugh, slow down. Don't talk so much. No one did this to me. I did this to me. I was working on Saturday morning, and a colleague tapped my shoulder to ask for something. I turned my head around, and for some reason a nerve on my neck was pinched. It swell right away and pushed my muscles."

"What! Good God! I thought a cop beat you up!"

"I wish that was the case. I would have made headlines," he grinned. "Sunday was hell. So painful. I couldn't do anything."

"Uff, I am so sorry... What did you do then the whole weekend and Monday?"

"Laying still on my bed. Staring at the ceiling. I feel much better now though. Just have to be stuck with this thing wrapped around my neck for a few days."

I giggled. "You actually look good in it. Looking closer to a llama now."

Hass opened the menu with great effort, "Hmmh, thanks. How about you kiddo, how are you?"

"Well speaking of swellings, look at this," I flashed him my sprained ankle.

"Can't look down so much now, what happened?"

"Fell from the webbing when I practiced slackline. And I wasn't getting any better too that day!" Somehow I just could not help laughing so loudly as I was saying all that.

"Keep at it kiddo. Some things need a lot of practice."

"Yeah, I probably was never a circus troupe member in any of my past lives. Like, at all." I whispered.

"I think I'm just going to get a strong coffee right now." Hass reflectively turned his head around to call on Lily, and he screamed with anguish as he did so.

Poor Hass.

Tea with Three - Notes with Mr. Penguin 2

Tuesday came rather eventful. Even though work flow was sluggish and blunt, there still was a sense of strengthened determination as Monday left and Wednesday is coming. As Mr. Penguin always says, there is a certain kind of mood in each day. Tuesday is always quite eventful; it is the day of my newly found slackline group-practice day. And at the end of a good two-hour practice, I made a false landing and sprained my ankle. No complaints, let it swell, it will get better soon enough. 

I had not heard from Hass and I was starting to worry. My messages were unanswered. I wonder if something happened at the protest.

I dragged my sprained left foot along to the cafe, comfortably sat and looked at the menu. The pulsating pain around my ankle is telling me to find soothe in a strong warm tea.
Lily approached, slid a bigger size note onto my desk, "Got another one for ya today! Ready to order?"

"Hey thanks! Yeah, one hot Darjeeling, and a slice of Triple Mousse Chocolate cake?"

"Gotcha." She scribbled down on her square black pad, and turned around.

I opened the note,

I can't come and hang at the cafe as much this week. A dear friend of mine just got served with divorce paper from her husband at a ripe 61 years age. Silver divorce, they say, is on the rise. I wondered if it was better if the husband had died, because not only now she is faced with grief, but also a harsh humiliation. Us elders don't do well with major changes, you know. We got comfortable with our routines and then suddenly something like this hits without warning, and we feel like a massive pile of failure. I always wonder, in a relationship arrangement where there are two people, either one or both of the parties involved is always left very vulnerable when it ends. We can talk more about alternatives the Lunar people do in the book I'm reading. But for now, a lot of careful nursing time with her.  

To be a tumbling weed is fine, be your own lokapala, child. Tell me how you are holding up, how is your crush doing, work etc. Always a pleasure to hear from you.
- Penguin

My eyes traced the lines over and then stared blankly at the page.  My mind was racing with a thousand thoughts and then none. So still, I could not even hear myself breathing.

And then I started to write,

Dearest Mr. Penguin,
I am very sorry about your friend. Please shower her with any comfort and friendly love you can give, and I am here shall you need anything. Delicate times. 

I am doing fairly well, no more night time anxiety. Hydrangeas are in full bloom. And he is doing what he does best, traveling. He is going back home in a few days, and I am nervous. 

I do not know what it is. Today Ali from my Tuesday group offered to tend to my injured foot and asked if I was single; and Johnny asked if he should fly down here to see me. Flattering, of course. But as of now the heart opens for one and closes for others. What do I say? Can't we resist a fate the moth that flies to the flame has with amor? Tell me what the Lunars do next time? 

Here is that Vietnamese poem I mentioned some time ago:

Can anyone on Earth ever know
how many stalks are in a rice field?
How many bends are in a river?
How many layers are in a cloud?

Can anyone sweep the leaves of a forest?
Tell the wind to shake the trees no more?
How many leaves must a silk worm eat
to weave a dress of colors from our past?

How much rain must fall from clouds
before ocean overflows with tears?
How many years must the silver moon
age before it grows older than time?

In the middle of a still quiet night
the moon appears and waits nearby.
He who can steal my heart for him
I will forever sing joyful songs.

Stay well Mr. Penguin.
- Gaya

I took a deep breath. I had written on one additional page. This is becoming a full fledged letter now. I folded the pages and looked up. Hass was standing in front of me, with a big white brace around his neck. I gasped.

-to be continued- 

Tea With Three: Notes with Mr. Penguin

A long Monday with ambiguous weather. It started with a bright strong sun, and now clouds are hanging low. The air feels sticky, thick as a soup. I struggle to walk to my table, already feeling burdened by the pile of reading on legal technicalities of carbon trades. My backpack hits the floor as I come to sit on the chair, sounds like a big rock just fell off. The waitress approaches me and slides a folded paper onto my table, "Someone left this note for you." And she waltzes back to behind the bar after a quick smile.

It is a note, a handwritten note. And it reads:

"Came in here earlier, you weren't around. Here's a question from the book I'm reading to ponder: 'How can you have meaning if you don't have self awareness?' 

Also, look up 'palmate' for your botanical glossary. Write me a reply and leave it to Lily, I have a feeling we might keep missing each other this week." 

- Penguin 

By the book he is reading, he must mean The Moon is a Harsh Mistress. And by Lily he must mean the waitress who just gave me the note. I turn the paper over and write on the back of it,

"Right now my brain is too fried to ponder over meaning. Current mood: Like a tumbleweed skittering across the dusty road to nowhere. Shall I summon one of the lokapalas? What's up with your schedule?" 

- Gaya

I look up palmate. 

Palmate
adjective
1. BOTANY
(of a leaf) having several lobes (typically 5–7) whose midribs all radiate from one point.
2. ZOOLOGY
(of an antler) in which the angles between the tines are partly filled in to form a broad flat surface, as in fallow deer and moose.

That reminded me to maple trees, they have palmate leaves.

I can't wait for Tuesday.

Kālá

Have you found that jagged little rock
That makes your tenderness brittle,
Sets your heart ablaze with the flames
Which once created Draupadi?

The safe nooks you hunkered too long in,
unexacting, unbridled, facile.
The romantic filter you put on to see life.
Weaving layers of work to equanimity,
While secretly wishing exemptions from pain.
All now so unbecoming.

Is it time to open the Devi Mahatmya chapter,
Doing the dance to summon the Dark Mother?

the benevolent merciless force
slaying all the weak parts of ourselves
to allow the indestructible authenticity to emerge

Om Kring Kalikaye Namah

Om Kring Kalikaye Namah

Om Kring Kalikaye Namah

To The Girl Who Just Got Her Feeding Tube Off

Last night I spent one hour for my voluntary service at this center, somewhat like The Good Samaritan, where people come in to seek comfort from their troubles. People come in with problems from all walks of life: anxiety, depression, identity crisis, relationship and marital problems, abuse, addiction, the list goes on. I had signed up as a volunteer since last month, but I had not really clocked in much hours.

A volunteer was looking for a replacement because they had been on duty for five hours and desperately needing some sleep. The said volunteer was handling an on going conversation with a guest who still needed someone to talk to. In some ways, the volunteers are like counselors, except the fact that we are not allowed to give advice (loosely termed) since we are only laymen with no professional background. The available volunteers were notified of this need via our Communication Line. Volunteer-Guest conversations are confidential, so we are only allowed to make notification in ten words or less. The words came in as: need female volunteer; depression from bereavement, sexual abuse, and divorce. I took up the beeping sound, and the guest was referred to me.

I sat there and listened to this terribly brokenhearted young woman. With a story that is all too familiar to me, the same anguish and void I had until not too long ago, and a sweeping wave of grief. It is the same story that also hit my closest friend Fay, six years ago, and I wish I could do to this young woman what I did to her when I found her trying to cut her wrist open. I held her. I held her so hard and as we sobbed together I could not stop saying, "I'm sorry. I am so sorry this has to happen to you."
Instead, I did as I was trained to do: validate their emotions, reflect back, and ask open ended questions.

Before I closed our session, I decided to say something to her. Something I told myself when I was feeling completely worthless and undeserving of life. "I want to say something to you, and I understand you are in complete shock and pain right now, so what I will say may feel untrue and perhaps even offensive; but I hope you will take time in considering this thought. So, you know how you loved the people who have now left you, and the care you gave in the work for those unfortunate children? If you could give all that to them, you most certainly can give that much love, patience, and kindness to yourself. Because you are the one most deserving, most needing, and most capable of giving and receiving it."

There was silence.

And it made me think.

I did not learn all that until I was left with no choice to be that. Going through a long period of abuse that left dark crevices in my mind, which, can sometimes feel like a funeral home, and catapulted me to endless series of toxic relationships. Culminated in me marrying (and leaving, thankfully) a man who felt it was completely normal to hold me with love in one second, and then hurling me with curses and threats in another.

I did not know how capable I was of loving myself, until I learned to set up boundaries and feel okay to not go home to my parents during holiday because I needed, I wanted to be with myself. That pain is not a punishment, and pleasure is not a reward, as Ani Pema says. To learn to enjoy whatever is in the present time, and not cling on to pleasure out of fear that it will change, or resisting the unpleasant out of fear that it will always stay; because they will, change and go away.

And I did not learn enough about impermanence, until I made my own garden and tended to it. Every morning when I wake up, I go over to the flower bushes and I water them. I spotted the buds forming and watched them bloomed, changed colors, and eventually wilt. New buds come again the next term, and the same cycle repeats. I even had a chance seeing a grasshopper molt its skin (had a near heart attack thinking it had died and turned white).

A lot of my problems came from the fear of being alone. That my aloneness would be evidence of my unworthiness of making people stay. That it is proof that I am unlovable. Oh the lies we tell ourselves! So I learned to love myself a lot. And that is not only enough to keep loneliness at bay, but I actually now find joy and blossom in my solitude.

Having said that, I am still trying (hard) to be okay with my stretchmarks. Still learning to cope with anxiety attacks when memories of the past make a sudden visit and shrivel me to a tiny wrinkled paper ball. Still fear that if the person I hope to like me read this story, that they will look down at my fragility. But I am learning to just be. Gently. Kindly.

And I wanted to write more on this post (as much as I wanted to tell her), of how just when I was not looking for love, it came in a dashing six feet tall--wrapped in blue shirt and khaki pants, with glasses. I wanted to write that I am experiencing the type of romance I had no vocabulary of. Uncharted adventure where I find mutual enjoyment in shared solitude.

But that story will just have to wait.

And she finally said, with a trembling voice that had waited years to be allowed to surface, "I know I have to do that."

Because Today I Remember You

And the first time we met,
You in a green laughing Buddha t-shirt, blowing bubble gum,
Me wrapped in heavy brown cotton veil down to my knees.

How different we were.

I remember sitting down at dinner table for the first time with you.
Discussing work, God, and rain forest. Mainly God.

I remember you picking me up from the floor at night,
Sobbing.
I couldn't hear God back in my prayers now,
That was what I said to you.
And you just let me cry in your arms,
Until I found peace in sleep.

I remember you falling sick.
All the hospital visits,
The singing doctor, the Healer,
Even the spiritual cleansing we did out of desperation.

I remember meticulously planning that surprise,
Talking to your Dad and to Ingrid,
All the rush of adrenaline
As I got one airport closer, and closer.

I remember the thick heavy bell on your red front door.
How I fell in love with that door.
Did I ever tell you that?
I fell in love with that door, the Tibetan prayer flags you had on the porch,
The berries we harvested at the side garden,
The rose bushes, and the cherry tree.
The cherry tree.
The cherry tree.
The cherry tree.

I fell in love with that tree the same way I fell for you when I saw you dancing in the subway.
Doing pirouettes for strangers.

Have I told you I am sorry for how I was sometimes?
How immature and fearful I was.
And you had to break the hard shell while walking on thin ice.



I remember seeing your pain when you fell out of love,
And how agonizing it was for me to accept it.
You knew it would wipe me out.
Yet I am grateful we did not put on our cruel masks
The way I had to with my current separation.

Today I remember you
Even though I live with constant reminders of you
For working at the same place we met,
All five years after we separated.

 Today I saw a bird perched on a lamp pole.
Alone,
And I remember you.

Tea with Three - True Names

Late night Friday, I rushed in from the cold weather outside before my bones start quivering. Once in, I threw my midnight blue jacket over the crest railing back of the chair, and I slouched. Hass came in ten minutes after, with a pile of work.

First thing he said was, "Look what I got for weekend, more work!"

"Mmm, that can be good. It makes you feel like you're extra productive, you know, to accomplish something over the weekend instead of just day dreaming it away like me." I smiled.

"Hah, thanks but no thanks. I'm productive enough already." Hass replied, laptop opened. "What did you order?"

"My usual. The ever elegant bergamot flavored Earl Grey." And as I was saying that, my cup came.

"I see, not changing much with your tea of choice, huh?" he glanced from the corner of his eyes, proceeded with unloading a pile of papers onto the table.

"If you haven't noticed Hass, I am one quite faithful to my choices. Unless in several things where I am still ambivalent and undecided."

"Right."

"You're a man of a few words tonight."

"That, I am."

Hass put on his glasses and started typing away. I sank my face to the book I brought, The Essential Rumi, Coleman Barks. Ten minutes passed.

"Hass..." "Haaaasssssssssss...." "Haassss, Haaaaasssss, Haaaasssss"

"Oh my freaking God, stop hissing!"

"I wasn't. I was Hassing. Aha!"

"You and your weird humor, what is it kiddo?"

"Hass, I don't like my name."

"Yeah? I won't even bother to ask you why. Got anything new in mind?"

"I'm so into red. I did not even know this before today. I've been into red for a long time. I was so infatuated with those red Amaranth flowers, they are so alive, a feisty type of grass plants that thrive even in the most adverse lands. I want to be the red that makes Kitri swirl in her dance, irresistible yet she wears it with fragility. I wish I have the intoxicating mystery the red in wine leaves in your palate. But I also want the old age wisdom that Rumi's maroon cloak keeps. Red has shades and depths that can go from vibrancy to sanctity. I want to be named Red, or any other words that mean Red."

Hassan gave me that look over his laptop; one, two, three seconds. "But you are already all that. Names are just an additional attachment."

"So Hass, tell me again why I am not your girlfriend?"

"Because I have already got one. Still the same like the last five years."

We laughed.

"Besides, you're in love with someone else. You know. The one that gives you funny faces when you get texts from?"

"Oh hush!"

I bit my lips in a faint try to keep my cheeks from blushing. I continued,

"But I don't buy Shakespeare's 'what's in a name' shit. There is obviously a lot in a name, just as much as a title is to a book. It gives you the entrance, the plot, the prediction, and sometimes the essence of the whole story. It serves the creator's intention for presenting the story. Their wishes, their vision. That's the reason why a kid named Thatcher would be bullied to death in this day and age."

"Well, if you are talking about superficial realities of names, sure. But you are not anyone's story, you are not a story in that sense, period. You don't have to be anyone's entrance, reminder, or meaning. And you shouldn't be held prisoner by anyone's intentions, wishes, or vision. You could be called Fury, Bleak, Lost, Rage, yet you are not that, those names are more what the callers of the names are and they attach that part of themselves onto you. Those are not your true names. Or, maybe you are all those. Like when I was late for an hour here and you almost sent me to the ER." Hass stuck his tongue out.

Those are not my true names, yet they can be mine for a while. The 'I' keeps changing yet the changes make the constant 'I'.

I stared out the window, mindlessly stroking my chin.
I could hear the soft clanking of rose gold-colored tea spoons when people stir their drinks, subtle chatters in the cafe.

"Where has your mind traveled to this time, kiddo?" Hass said as he closed down his crisp silver screen.

"To the night he first kissed me."

And I turned red.

Tea with Three - Hass and Belhati Protest

I spoke to Hass today, we didn't have our usual tea. We just met in front of the cafe and took a walk. He said he was planning to join the biggest protest downtown Belhati where he is from, scheduled to happen this Saturday.

"I once was part of this massive protest to topple our nation's regime. Have your folks figured out what to do next after the protest?"

"No. Everyone's got a different idea of what could be the cure to this illness in our city. So far, the idea of protesting is what unites us. Thinking of the solution will divide us."

"Yeah, but someone's gotta come up with something logical and likable enough. Your movement needs a face. Once you've got a face, it's easier to find a momentum and make that jump to the next phase."

Hass rubbed his hands from cold and blew onto them, "We'll see..." he said.

We were quiet most of the walk. I asked if he was going to make use of his photography skill during the protest, and Hass answered with a fatigue that he's considering it. And there was silence. A long silence.

At the end of our walk, we stood by the junction, just randomly to break the discomfort I blurted, "I saw a photograph today with a beautiful caption. It was a picture of a very old canoe rower, maybe somewhere in India. He was relaxing on his canoe, floating on a river the color of mud. The old rower has in his hand, a striking yellow flower. I think it's called marigold. And he was gently attending it. The caption says, 'People. Struggling when they can just give up. People. Finding joy in tiniest of things when there's an ocean full of reasons for sadness. People. Believing in colour so vibrant in the darkest of days. People. Strange and hopeful.' "

Hass listened to my monologue while looking down his shoes. He looked up when I finished, gave me an awry smile. We hugged and I whispered, "I'll see you again soon. Stay safe."

And we said good bye.

A Short Note on the Truth

Last night I watched an old movie, Dead Poets Society, and there was a particular scene in which Todd Anderson recites an impromptu poem about Truth:

"Truth - like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold,
 You push it, stretch it, it'll never be enough.
 You kick at it, beat it, it'll never cover any of us.
  From the moment we enter crying, to the moment we leave dying,
  It'll just cover your face, as you wail, and cry, and scream"

and this morning I opened my World Mythology book randomly, coincidentally it showed me the page where it talks about Bard,

Bards: In certain mythologies bards, or possessors of the divine ability to reveal the essence of truth through words, play significant roles in leading their people. Bards could be poet-prophets like the Celtic Amairgen and Taliesen, literally singing reality or history into life, or Hindu Brahmins who do something of the same thing. Or bards can be lesser figures who simply reveal the myths -- the "true stories of the given cultures. These are the filidh of Ireland and the skalds of the north. Bards, are sometimes blind, like the legendary Homer, which suggests the importance of their insight.

Interestingly, when Todd Anderson was reciting that poem, his eyes were closed by his teacher, Mr. Keating, in order to help him shut down the noise and laughter from his classmate and evoked what's within him.

So, as Russell Brand often says, the sight of what we are, of what things are, is just a temporal illusion. It is what is within, the insight, that is the truth.

Tea with Three

"How are you doing?" said the voice on the other side of the phone.
"I'm doing good, great, wonderful most of the time. And the rest, I am anxious and sad and worried."

"Still?"

My heart sank a little hearing his question. I wish that grief is a type of malady that passes soon enough. What I find instead, is that it gives you a myriad of darkness that sucks things in and sometimes kicks you in the gut. There is something obsessive and incoherent about it. The more I try to run away, the more it grips and tangles over.

There are places I go to sit and heal. One of them is a tea house rimmed with blue linings at the glass window, the corner of Seven and Luck avenues. I have three good friends I frequently meet there.

Hassan, is the first one I met. I call him Hass. One of our first talks was absurd, which is always a good sign of wonderful friendship ahead. We talked about llamas. Hass likes llamas, and amused, I asked with a snort of giggles I couldn't help, "Why?" He said, "Look at their faces. They're just so relaxed, not happy and not sad. They are the zen of the animalia. I'd like to be one of them." "You? You want to be one of them? You're trained in bio-molecular engineering and you want to be a llama?" "Why not?" And we burst in laughter together.

There were nights we just sat at table 23, me turning my tea cup round and round, him with his work. And I'd say things like, "Hass, I can't breathe again," he'd stop his work, looked at my face, and put both his palms in front of his chest the shape like a lotus bud. "Now concentrate on my hands, and as I open my palms, you breathe in; and when I close them, you breathe out."
The lotus-hands bloomed slowly and closed again. That was how I learned to breathe. Hassan taught me.

The second one was Jordan. Now he is the jolly one. We joked and teased each other about having grown up in religious household and ending up a total deserter. Last I met him, he told me he finally bought those casual business shirt he needed for a meeting. The irony. Jordan and I did not get to see each other much, but he's my black belt in emotional taekwondo. Mash that up with a figure of a human teddy bear. How can you top that?

The last one, I accidentally met when I was alone with my old copy of Azar Nafisi. This man was sitting aloof in the corner seat, almost hidden under his flannel grey flat cap. He had on a brown woolen tweed suit and a ginger colored tie. His thin face was framed with graying stubble. One book titled, "The Moon is a Harsh Mistress" was in his hands and he was attending it attentively. Another book I could not quite see was on the table.

I played with the thought of interrupting his reading to start a conversation, the way I intrusively do from time to time with strangers. When he finally put down the book, rubbed his eyes, and saw me across, he smiled. So I got up and approached him. "Excuse me, but that book seems exasperatingly interesting. Can I have a look?"
We ended up talking for hours about authors and terrible movies and trying to define the conundrum of "what is your favorite color?"
He seemed so wise and well put together that all the while we were talking I kept having this word in the back of my head - connoisseur. A savant in life matters that knows the secrets of all secrets, the knower of knowledge.

After two hours perusing memories of titles, I jolted at the realization that I did not know his name. I extended my hand and said, "Call me Gaya. And you?" He glanced over to the book next to his elbow, a Penguin edition of  Les Misérables. He grinned and said, "Call me Penguin."

to be continued-

Almost Home

I lied awake last night,
Remembering the rims of your lips.
Feeling pained that I am not with you.

Sometimes I wonder
If you could ever do me harm.
If,
Ever,
Your temper turns your words
Like a razor-sharp blade
A thousand cuts against my skin,
Or if your tunes are always as sweet as a mandolin.

Sometimes I know,
These questions are echoes from the past.
And that I may never know
How your seasons change.
Sometimes I wonder,
If you carry me within
Even when I'm gone.

Today, like many other days
I walked. Long, languid steps.
And thoughts of you came by.
A wise man once said,
"Tenderly,  I now touch all things,
knowing one day we will part."

I realized,
I never promised you a rose garden.
We never promised each other anything.

But I want you to know,
The thought of being with you
Is as close as I could feel
Of coming home.

Love Gone Wrong in Mythology

As myths and folklore narrate the long and unwinding path towards life's great lessons, a reoccurring theme is love. Now the subject of painful experiences is often found in the great tales that teach us about loyalty, perseverance, or the other side of the coin: greed, jealousy, betrayal, and lust.
Here are some of the famous "love gone wrong" theme in mythology:


1. Ophelia in Hamlet

The love-struck, naive, and young Danish noblewoman got her heart crushed by less-than-earnest prince of Denmark, Hamlet. When she told her family about her love for Hamlet and that she was strongly convinced Hamlet to be mutually in love, they expressed their doubt. So Polonius, Ophelia's father, together with Claudius, the uncle of Hamlet, decided that they would hide behind a big tapestry to listen to the conversation between Hamlet and Ophelia. Meanwhile, the conversation did not go as Ophelia had thought it would. Hamlet was surrounded by ambivalence and self-doubt, and he even scolded her by saying "Get thee to a nunnery" and finally breaking Ophelia's heart with "I say we will have no more marriages", and left her.

Before she could cope with the heartbreak over Hamlet's harsh exit, Hamlet killed her father during a meeting between him and his mother, Queen Gertrude. Madly bewildered and over-grieved, Ophelia went into delirium. She chanted some "mad" songs and talked in riddles. Ophelia sang her way into the woods and picked some flowers while saying, "...there's rue for you, and here's some for me; we may call it herb of grace o' Sundays; O, you must wear your rue with a difference." It is speculated that rue as a herb is a symbol of regret, but the herb itself can have strong abortive effect. So meanings to the chanting can take on that she was pregnant at the time.

Moments later, Ophelia was found dead by the stream, apparently by drowning. Queen Gertrude in her monologue utters that Ophelia had climbed into a willow tree, and then a branch broke and dropped Ophelia into the brook, where she drowned. The Queen suggested that Ophelia was too overwhelmed by her distress and heartbreak that she could not look after herself. But a sexton would insist that she actually killed herself by drowning. Poor, poor Ophelia.

At Ophelia's funeral, Queen Gertrude sprinkles flowers on Ophelia's grave ("Sweets to the sweet"), and says she wished Ophelia could have been Hamlet's wife (contradicting Laertes' warnings to Ophelia in the first act). Laertes then jumps into Ophelia's grave excavation, asking for the burial to wait until he has held her in his arms one last time and proclaims how much he loved her. Hamlet, nearby, then challenges Laertes and claims that he loved Ophelia more than "forty thousand" brothers could. After her funeral scene, Ophelia is no longer mentioned.

Ophelia is a frequent subject of artistic portrayal, not surprising knowing she might be the epitome of tragic pure love gone wrong (other than Juliet of course). This one painting by Millais is by far my favorite of Ophelia.

2. Circe and Glaucus

The Greek mythological character, Circe, a goddess of strong potions and magical wand, was said to once receive a guest, a fisherman by the name of Glaucus at her abode. Now, Circe is a magnificently beautiful sorceress whom men of Odysseus often fall for, and out of disgust of what Circe considers to be bestial behavior, she turns them into animals with her herbs. However, this time, Glaucus comes not as a potential lover. He wants the sorceress to help him get his love to this girl, Scylla to be returned. My little online digging of the story came up with this excerpt:

Ovid tells of a fisherman named Glaucus who comes to Circe with a problem. He loves a girl named Scylla. She lives on the island of Sicily and although he has courted her in every manner, she has rejected him. Circe looks Glaucus up and down and says 'Forget love potions. Become my lover. Spurn the one who spurns you and reward she who admires you, and in that one act be twice revenged.'

'Seaweed will grow on the hills,' says Glaucus, 'before I love anybody but her.'

The sorceress is furious and decides to take revenge, not on Glaucus, whom she decides she loves, but on the innocent Scylla. Circe Invidiosa (jealous Circe) prepares a terrible potion and pours it in the grotto where Scylla goes to bathe. As soon as Scylla steps into the pool, the 'water around her groin erupts with yelping monsters'. Seven dogs' heads rise snarling out of the sea. Scylla screams and tries to slap them away. But every blow causes her pain because they are part of her. Her lower limbs have become horrible man-eating dogs.

Revolted and traumatized by this metamorphosis, the once-beautiful Scylla takes shelter in a grotto near the straits of Messina, the place where Sicily almost touches the toe of Italy. And when sailors pass by, her monstrous dog-heads dart out and gulp them down still living.

The ever-adored Circe felt her pride was hurt by the one man who was not interested in her, and was completely smitten over the not-so-good looking (at least according to Circe) Scylla. This is what jealousy does to people. What a drama.

Here is one painting by John William Waterhouse, my favorite painter, titled Circe Invidiosa or translated it means Jealous Circe. Circe is shown to be draped in peacock feather-dress, so enticing yet with a deep aura of menace and toxic jealousy. She is pouring her poisonous potion into the water where Scylla goes to bathe.

3. The legend of Roro Jonggrang

Going off a bit from the Greek mythology path, an Asian mythology, more specifically an Indonesian one, tells of the story of a maiden Princess named Jonggrang. The tale says that once upon a time, there were two neighboring kingdoms on the island of Java. The kingdom of Pengging and Baka. Pengging was ruled by a wise old king Prabu Damar Moyo, and it was a prosperous kingdom. Baka, on the other hand, was ruled by a man-eating ogre king named King Boko. 

King Boko felt jealous over his wealthy neighbor and dedicated a full year to build up an army to siege and attack Pengging. He assumed that he would conquer the kingdom easy, and he appointed a Chief Commander, the giant Patih Gupolo. Unknown to King Boko, Prabu Damar Moyo has a son, Bandung Bondowoso, who is highly trained in magical skills and physically powerful with a body that is as hard as a rock and a gaze that pierces through his enemies. 

Long story short, the battle broke. King Boko launched his greatest ogre soldiers, and seemed to be advancing quite rapidly into Pengging. The war was causing so much devastation and famine, not only in Pengging, but also in Baka. Prabu Damar Moyo did not want to prolong the war, so he sent out his son to the battlefield. Bandung Bondowoso mightily fought off the soldiers and he even killed King Boko. Baka kingdom lost. King Boko's assistant, Patih Gupolo, survived and ran back to his kingdom to report to the King's family about the defeat. 

King Boko's sole daughter, Roro Jonggrang, was devastated upon receiving the news. However, before she could even grief over her father's death, the soldiers from Pengging had come in a surprise attack and captured the palace. Bandung Bondowoso marched in and when he saw the princess, he was instantly captivated by the princess' unrivaled beauty. Bondowoso then offered to the princess, that if she would be his wife, he would pardon her family and not slaughter the rest of Boko. Jonggrang, although horrified to the person standing before her whom nonetheless was the one who killed her father, tried to outsmart the prince. She answered that she would agree to be his wife, only if he could fulfill her two wishes. Her first wish was for him to build the deepest well he could build named Jalatunda, and for the second she would announce later. 

The prince agreed and he built the well. While Bondowoso was at the bottom of the well, the princess along with Patih Gupolo then piled big stones into the well, burying Bandung Bondowoso alive. However, using his mere physical strength, Bondowoso came out of the well, not only alive, but also outraged. He was so dumbfounded to know the princess tried to trick him. Yet, being so blinded by love, the prince forgave her and asked her what the last wish be.

Jonggrang said that she wants a thousand temples to be built overnight. She had asked this, thinking it would be impossible for Bondowoso to fulfill. Suprise, surprise. Bondowoso summoned his supernatural powers and invited thousands of spirits to help him build the temples. In a short time, around 999 temples were completed. Jonggrang panicked. As her last attempt to thwart Bondowoso's work, she called on her royal servants and the ladies in the palace, and ask them to start pounding rice, something the women of their nation do upon dawn. This activity woke up the roosters and they start crowing. The demon spirits were fooled into thinking dawn was breaking and they fled the last temple unfinished. Bondowoso soon realized the princess had done another deception and he was unforgivingly furious. He went into a state of meditation and cursed the princess into a stone statue that would eventually become the 1000th temple.

It can't be more dramatic than that!

The statue of Durga, thought to be Princess Roro Jonggrang

So from delirium, to monster making jealous goddess, to princess cursed into stone... that's it for now with love gone wrong in mythology. I hope you enjoy this one as much as I do!

A Quick Note on Pramodhawardhani, Sailendra, and Borobudur: the origins of my name

The famous temple of Indonesia, the Borobudur, which is in the list of 7 Wonders of the World, has an original name that is far from its modern calling.
The Karangtengah inscription mentions a jinalaya (the realm of those who have conquered worldly desire and reached enlightenment) that was inaugurated by Pramodhawardhani, the daughter of King Samaratungga in 9th century. Another inscription, the Tri Tepusan inscription, mentions a sacred building honoring the ancestors named Bhumishambara or in some other source, Bhumishambara Budhara, which according to a historian de Casparis, means "the mountain of combined virtues of the ten stages of Boddhisattvahood". So this suggests that Borobudur was originally known as Bhumishambara.

The many stupas in Borobudur temple, each with a Buddha statue inside.

More on Pramodhawardhani:

Pramodhawardhani (also known as Çrī Kahulunnan or Çrī Sanjiwana. In Indonesian known as Pramodyawardhani) was the queen consort of king Rakai Pikatan of Medang Kingdom in 9th century Central Java. She was the daughter of Sailendran king Samaratungga. Her royal marriage to Pikatan, the prince of Sanjaya dynasty, was believed to be a political reconciliation between Buddhist Sailendra with Hindu Sanjaya dynasties. This would consolidate the Sailendra dynasty's expansive territory that spanned across Indonesia all the way to Cambodia.
Pramodhawardhani - Pikatan's notable achievements were: defeating and expelling Balaputradewa to Srivijaya (Sumatra), as well as constructing Prambanan and Plaosan temples.

Pramodhawardhani is often thought to be portrayed in avatar form as prajnaparamita, which in Mahayana Buddhism, is the perfection of transcendental wisdom.

Pramodhawardhani/Prajnaparamita

  

Sailendra Dynasty

Śailēndra (Sanskrit: शैलेन्द्र Lord of the Mountain) or Śailēndravaṃśa ("Śailēndra dynasty") was the name of an influential Indonesian dynasty that emerged in 8th century Java.

The Śailēndras were active promoters of Mahayana Buddhism and covered the Kedu Plain of Central Java with Buddhist monuments.

The Śailēndras are considered to be a thalassocracy and ruled maritime Southeast Asia, however they also relied on agriculture pursuits through intensive rice cultivation on Central Java. The dynasty appeared to be the ruling family of both the Medang Kingdom of Central Java for some period and Srivijaya in Sumatra.

Some of the reliefs in Borobudur, depicting Sailendran king and queen, in a Maharajalilasana (King's posture or royal ease [ha, they even have a thing like this, fascinating!]) pose among their servants and/or subjects.

There is also "The Prajnaparamita of Java", referring to a famous depiction of Boddhisattvadevi Prajñāpāramitā, originated from 13th century Singhasari, East Java, Indonesia. The statue is of great aesthetical and historical value, and is considered as the masterpiece of classical Hindu-Buddhist art of ancient Java.

The statue of Prajnaparamita of East Java is probably the most famous depiction of the goddess of transcendental wisdom. The serene expression and meditative pose and gesture suggest peace and wisdom, in contrast with rich and intricate jewelry and decorations. The goddess is in a perfect lotus meditative position called vajrasana posture, sitting on a double lotus cushion called padmasana (lotus pedestal) on top of a square base. The statue sits before a carved stela.


The goddess performs dharmachakra-mudra (the mudra symbolizing turning the wheel of dharma).


Her left arm is placed around an utpala (blue lotus), on top of which sits her attribute; the lontar palmleaf book Prajnaparamita Sutra. The head and face is perfectly chiseled, with downcast eyes and forehead urna (a spiral or circular dot placed on the forehead of Buddhist images as an auspicious mark). The goddess wears her hair high arranged in Jatamakuta crown, and behind her head radiates prabhamandala (a halo or aura of light to suggest a divinity that has reached the highest wisdom).

Beautiful history 💓

Me at Plaosan temple

Thanks to the all-knowing wiki and the great world wide web for this note!