River of Love

Like Spanish punctuation, Aparna kissed me before and after every sentence. We were going to pick up her saint from the saint repair shop. I didn’t know anything like that existed, but it does.

It was the first cold day. She liked to hold my hand in her coat pocket. No matter how hot it got in there, she insisted on holding it, occasionally squeezing my hand when someone particularly ugly or funny looking walked by. My grandmother had done this too when she was alive. What a coincidence that they both liked to squeeze my hand in silent Morse code. They also had the same name. Guadalupe. My grandmother was Guadalupe from birth; Aparna was christened Guadalupe at age12. They were both named after the apparition of the Virgin Mary that occurred in Mexico in 1531 to an Aztec cow herder. The apparition spoke to this cow herder in his native Nahuatl and it is a common belief that she called herself coatlaxopeuh (pronounced quatlasupe which sounds, of course, like Guadalupe). Coatlaxopeuh means serpent-crusher, thus Guadalupe is often depicted crushing snakes under her feet.

What I find most interesting though, is that the first sanctuary to a dark skinned saint called Guadalupe, affectionately dubbed “La Morenita” (the Moorish or dark-skinned) is found on the banks of a river in Spain. This river, used by the Moors during their reign over half of the earth was named by them “Wad-i –al -Hub” (The River of Love), if you say it fast and with a good Arabic accent it sounds like Guadi –al –ube ---Guadalupe.

Treasures of the World Lost and Found

Treasures of the World Lost and Found

In case you are wondering, this is a map of shipwrecks and excavations across the globe. My eyes are resting now on the Sadana Island wreck.
The ship carried fragrant resins, incense, Chinese porcelain, raw coffee beans, cardamom, coriander, nutmeg and black pepper. An unusual amount of coconuts were also found in large storage jars.
Think now upon such a ship, her wooden deck warm with sun or wet with rain, sounds of bare feet or sandals or boots I don’t know I wasn’t actually there. I only have bits and pieces of the truth. And isn’t this how it always is? Maybe it was at night and the stars shifted. Or maybe the coral reef grew at a phenomenal rate since the last time the captain sailed these waters. Maybe, after a particularly fine meal laden with said spices, a storm blew in and the crew was just too full to do anything about it. Or maybe there was no storm at all, maybe everyone had fallen asleep at the same time, lulled by the incense in the air, the rocking of the ship, the rhythmic creaking of wood on wood and sonorous lapping that echoed in the last hollow nooks of an otherwise overstuffed hull. Maybe none of these things happened.
I do know, for sure, that she ran aground on a coral reef in the Red Sea somewhere between Egypt and Saudi Arabia. Are you curious what happened? I was, but now that I know, I just can’t believe it.

There are many things we may never know fully because we only have bits and pieces of all out lies and half-truths. That’s what I found. That the surface is one thing but don’t make the same mistake I made. There is always something or someone that lies beneath. The truth is. I ran aground before I set eyes on the island. And I felt it before it actually happened. It’s hard for me to admit but something was off. I suddenly felt my weight. The water lost its depth until gravity drowned my weightlessness. So beautiful from above the reefy bitch scratched my underbelly like a thousand razors and ripped out my heart of coconuts and coriander. The water that rushed in was my blood pouring out. My bow pointing towards land, my body parallel to the reef, I slid into the sand and leaned on my left side for eternity.

Waiting On Lines

I looked up at this very sun and thought about winter. Do you know where I was? I don’t remember where I was. I only remember the line for milksweets, and looking at this sun, and remembering a line from a poem I wrote some time ago.
I don’t know if anyone saw my lips move as I said to myself:

“A circle of setting sun slowly bleeding saffron”.

I repeated it and stared until a blue cirlce appeared every time I blinked. My eyes hurt. This sun was the poem come to life. It reminded me of that love. I whispered the line again to myself. So, our love was like a setting sun. Now I got it. I wished I had seen it then.

Just then, and this is God’s truth in my memory which is often cloudy, or maybe not cloudy but more like the mist that hangs about rooftops on Sherlock Holmes’ nights.
Someone walking behind me shouted :

“They’re liars, those who say I lost the moon!”

I decided I would be a thief, made it my line and remembered another...this sunset was full of remembered poetry. Thats what happens when your heart is broken.

“Noone saw the moon that bled in my mouth”

Just then, and this is God’s truth in my memory which is often cloudy, or maybe not cloudy but more like the mist that hangs about rooftops on Sherlock Holmes’ nights.
someone walking behind me sang :

kabhii kabhii mere dil me khayaal aata hai
Sometimes the thought crosses my mind
ki jaise tujhko banaaya gaya hai mere li'e
that you've been made just for me.
tuu ab se pehale sitaaro me bas rahii thii kahii    
Before this, you were dwelling somewhere in the stars; 
tujhe zamiin pe bulaaya gaya hai mere li'e...
you were summoned to earth just for me...
kabhii kabhii mere dil me khayaal aata hai...
Sometimes the thought crosses my mind

I decided I would be a thief, made it my line and remembered another...this sunset was full of remembered poetry. Thats what happens when you live in a poem.

Sometimes the thought crosses my mind:
our love was like a setting sun
a circle of setting sun
slowly bleeding saffron
Sometimes the thought crosses my mind:
our love was like a full moon
they’re liars those who say I lost the moon
noone saw the moon that bled in my mouth.

Incalculable Distance

“The mind is like Times Square at noon.”

I thought about that as I captured the picture. I caught it just in time. Just before the wedding photographer leaned too hard against the white and red bear that adorned the hood of the stretch limo. Just before the groom, realizing his bride was fixed upon a far away place, turned his head to face the camera instead.

“The heart is like a cave in the Himalayas.”

That was my next thought. Then I tried some calculations. Even though math had never proved anything for me, I tried it: If the mind is Times Square and the heart is somewhere, in a cave, in the Himalayas....approximate latutudes and longitudes..... ... God, I could really be concrete sometimes....

Finally, I announced to myself: “The distance between the mind and the heart is around 6284.721820 nautical miles. This accounts for the poor communication between the two.”
Times Square’s lights briefly increased in luminence and the number echoed in the cave into silence.

My Guru, who was training me to concetrate on the cave, had dubbed me Lakshmi. I preferred to spell it with an X. Laxmi. I felt this spelling described me better because I had always felt like a pirate’s map. There I was behind the X bursting over with lotus and coins, for a long time, waiting to be found.

Aparna, calling out to me by my catholic name (she preferred it), tossed a bottle of water and picnic blanket into the back of the car and blew me a kiss.
“That's exactly how I want our wedding...” she said sarcastically. “...white gloves and all!”
I smiled. “You know what they say baby, no glove no love.”
“Yes, and you can’t have manslaughter, without laughter”.
That one took me a minute. But as I laughed, I realized my cave was warm.
The heart is like a cave in the Himalayas and every once in a while someone comes and lights a bonfire in the middle of it. Today, there was no distance to measure.

I didn’t try to calculate the speed with which someone could pull everything away and disappear, as it involves the height and age of about 30 gypsies,the girth of tree stumps and the weight of wet canvas. Plus, I didn’t need to calculate anymore.

But still, I could remember what it felt like to be laying two inches from someone approximately 6284.721820 nautical miles somewhere else. The picture proves it.

Diwali

I remember how I waited for her under the long empty passageway that led to the church. For awhile it was just me and the balloon man. All at once, the parishioners arrived and the dirt floor was up around our heads in light puffs of sepia, turning the rays of afternoon sun into visible beams that children tried to grasp with their hands. She had wanted to celebrate her saint’s day. I hated catholic mass. So we compromised. This is why today, she helps me wash the windows, make sweets and light candles in preparation for Diwali. Days later she will vacuum what is left of the Rangoli I am so fond of creating outside our door.

I remember when she finally appeared from the end of the sunlit promenade in a light green silk sari trimmed in golden thread that caused the rays of light to gather around her head in a crown of stars. Her name was Aparna but she had been baptised at the age of 12, as Guadalupe.
She looked amazing and I felt pitifully under-dressed.
“Why are you wearing a sari?” I asked her in hindi.
“So you can take it off later.” she replied in spanish.
We loved our native tongues in each others mouths.