I am contemplating the whole missing aspect again.  Perhaps I need to immerse myself in this feeling completely, instead of trying to find things to fill this so called seeming void.  But I am complete with or without you…yet why do I still cling to those surreal times, those moments of staring at each other in the eyes for minutes, of playing the blinking game, of just feeling that special and overwhelming transference of energies? I miss you.  I know you miss me too.  I’m sorry but I couldn’t deal with what I felt anymore.  I had to let you go.  I don’t know if this makes sense.  I don’t understand why you keep popping up in my thoughts, in my dreams, in my very essence.  Are you transferring your thoughts to me?  Am I just nuts?  You said my words were sans compassion but I know you know otherwise.  I was and have always been brutally honest with you.  I wanted you to be the best person you could be, but I soon realized that I was getting invested in this, and this conditionality was building up, expectations, and lack of trust just created a tenuous imbalance. You’re strong and you don’t need me.  Sometimes love is proved in letting go yaar. I let go for both of us to heal properly.  I believe in you, and I know that I will feel you rise…soon. Love ya always punk.

My thoughts, prayers and deep wishes for strength, ekta, and compassion go out to Sameer’s friends and family.  I never knew him, but his story touched me, and it’s such a tremendous loss…I prayed for you man…I am happy that you are in peace now, and were able to bring such a pure love into this world.   Thank you for your positive presence and energy, you will always be missed, remembered, and loved. I’m also having a hard time reconciling this love I hold.  Sometimes this love is overbearing, all consuming, and at other times it is indifferent, callous, and selfish.  I just want to achieve a state of love that just IS.  I received this quotation in the mail today, and it sums it up beautifully:The most important aspect of love is not in giving or the receiving: it’s in the being. When I need love from others, or need to give love to others, I’m caught in an unstable situation.

Being in love, rather than giving or taking love, is the only thing that provides stability. — Ram Dass Meditation, fasting this past week, and Kathak have helped, but I think this is going to take some time to fully understand and process to achieve that state of stability. It’s of course an ongoing process that requires a lot of honing.  I’ve realized that no matter how sad that I get, I can’t help but be happy and thankful for living such a wonderful life!

I went to Kathak class today at 9am and was just in a focused flowing state of mind.  A new floor is going to be placed in the studio, so there was a lot of shit strewn all over the place.  We moved it all and started with pranaam.  I was a little nervous because I hadn’t practiced for a few days, but the class went well.  Rachna didi called me (only one!) to get tested on the solagun (sixteen beat) tihais (rhythmic cycle that repeats itself three times) next week, so I will be on the spot next week, which means I must practice.  Second class with Charlotte didi was also great, with some more testing and emphasis on tatkar, and again getting tested on the spot with a recitation of the theka (the tabla bols, beats) to aatgun (eight beat tatkar, which is basically eight steps in every beat), which went fine and dandy.  But the biggest surprise was Dada ji (Chitresh Das, our Guru ji) coming in unexpectedly near the end of the class!  I haven’t seen Dada in a while (the classes are now taught by assistant teachers) but what an awesome surprise and entrance. When I first started taking Kathak 20 years ago, I remember Dada teaching all the classes, and even being bribed to master a particular composition or recitation with Hershey’s bars or even $1 bills!  Haha…I look back and think to myself…”Damn, Dada is truly the real shabang because who else would pay his students to learn Jamunaaki (a composition of Krishna dancing on the banks of the River Jamuna).”  His passion, presence and life long mentorship has been something so precious that I am so very grateful to have.  I can’t even express it in words.

Anyway, Dada walks into the room, all mad and making these hilariously sarcastic (I seriously had to stifle my laughter by biting my tongue) remarks about the teachers not acknowledging his presence earlier, how we’re not real Indians, just ABCDs, and I was like damn, it’s been so long, but I feel some things just don’t change.   Anyway we moved on to do our chakkars (turns) for a certain composition (so basically 9 turns per cycle for three cycles = 27 turns all together).  I am dancing in the front of the class and a lil bit nervous because this is the first time I am dancing in front of Dada ji in 10 years!  But he senses that all 25 students are getting nervous and tells us not to look at him, to spot (for balance) in the mirror, and go at a slower pace to complete the 27 turns.  I am still pretty much in my zone, focused and do the first 9 turns.  He says to stop and comes over to me, makes eye contact and says “Good! You look so much better with your shoulders down.  See how beautiful you look when you open your arms?” and that just made my day.  I know it sounds stupid, but he just picked me up, and made me feel good again.  It’s odd, but growing up going to dance class every Saturday, he would yell and be really rude to all my other classmates sans me.  There was this unspoken compassion and gentleness that he would always show me, and showed me again today. His love is so amazingly acute and aware…

“Why don’t you try to remember a time that you felt violated before you read it? That might put you in the right frame of mind and soul for a good reading,” she suggested on the other end of the phone.

I thought back to the countless times that I had been groped, touched by unfamiliar and familiar men (and women, a few times), alike during the past few years. One incident in particular seemed to stick out – two and a half years ago, I was walking down Durant towards downtown Berkeley during my lunch time, talking to my mom on the phone, when a random guy clad in a white T, leisurely riding his bicycle, neared my occupied self and grabbed my right butt cheek!  My first reaction was to jump and just say a “WHAT THE FUCK?!” out loud, but then I was quickly silenced because I remembered who was on the line.  I was silent and just watched homie bike down the street.  My mom, asking me random particulars of my day, and reminding me to go to the grocery store when I got home later that day, noticed my silence, and asked “Meghu, tu kahaan ghum ho gayi, phir se?”  I replied “I’m here Mom.” And I just stared at the guy going down, not doing anything or saying anything because I was scared and moreso revolted at his nerve to do such a thing. I knew if I told my mom about what happened, she’d unnecessarily worry, and jet out to Berkeley and be the first one to say, “Kya bathameezi oos ne kiya.   Main abhi aathi hoon, dandaa ke saath.  Police ko call kar.”  She never fails to crack me up.  But I didn’t do any of that, I just stared, and came back to work and told my co-worker and good friend Mike, about what had just happened. 

Anyway, I digress. I told Reena that putting myself in that frame of mind was a good idea, but the experience of rape is still foreign to me, so I don’t know if I could do it correctly.

“Do you want to try reading it to me?” she asked.  

I didn’t hesitate for a second and said “OK!”

 I tried reading your poem, A-rod, and I remember how passionately you had delivered it, because it was so personal to you, but I couldn’t do it.  I started reading it to Reena over the phone, line flowing into lines, but I choked and then let out a little nervous laugh.  It’s funny how laughter is a natural response to dealing, confronting something so immense, so incomprehensible, so deep.  I read through the rest of it, the juxtaposition of hate, love, fuck, usurption of something so precious to you…but it wasn’t the same. 

I wanted to read it for you, because you’re a close, special friend.  But I think only you can convey it as forcefully as you advised it to be conveyed.  I’m so happy that you’ve emerged so strong from this experience, and that you are really following your dreams.  You inspire and I admire and am so happy that you’re doing the work you’re doing during your six month stint in India. 

That evening, two days ago, after that reading to Reena, I thought about it some more and didn’t feel I could do it because, honestly, after the Vipassana meditation course, I don’t think I can be as forceful as the poem requires, as forceful as the experience was for you.  Vipassana has made me so soft A-Rod.   So so so soo-ft, even moreso than before.  I tried to get angry but it wasn’t working.  The anger has subsided considerably (not entirely, though), and I just couldn’t work that emotion.  C. called right after I was done speaking with Reena, and the conversation again veered to…

“Hey kid, what you up to?” he asks, while in his cab ride back home to SOMA. 

“Not much, was just reciting a poem to my friend when you first called, but I don’t think I can do it.”

“Really? What’s it about?” he asks.

“It’s about a friend’s experience with rape. I think I’m in too light of a mood to even think about it right now.”  I attempted to deflect.

“Do you want to read it to me?”  he asks.

“No not really.” I say.

“You sure? I could give you some constructive criticism.” 

“Yea, it’s all good but thanks for offering.”

So I tried to change the subject, asking him how his case was going after all these late nights, how the trial went in Chitown, and even asked if his cabbie let him sit in the front, but he somehow knew it was still on my mind.

The next morning on Gchat, he messages, “Kiddo, how’s the poem coming along?”

“It’s aite.” End of story.  But before the real end, a poem I wrote today:

Blurred Lines