Beswitched

The following is a retelling of a dream I had. I often have such vivid dreams, which I remember in a very visceral, deep level connection upon waking. I always tell myself, "I should write this down," and of course I don't. 

This time I forced myself, upon awakening from this reverie, to stay in bed and recall the sequence of events of the dream. I reviewed it a couple of times, and then began my day - telling myself I would write it down. 

24 hours later, the writing flowed like a lustrous stream of consciousness from deep within me. Here's to more writing in 2023! 

p.s. the switch of POV was subconscious as I wrote, and it felt fraudulent to change the perspective when it didn't feel right. The POV switch is both in terms of she v. I and the fact that I seem to bounce around timelines of how old I am. 

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"You have to go. There's no choice." 

She grunted and moaned, as her mother set aside a mint green lace sari, encrusted with fine work. She put a heavy, but tasteful, kundan diamond and emerald set next to the sari. It was gorgeous. She didn't mind the dressing up, most of the time. When she felt like it. But when she really didn't want to be somewhere, the shringar felt even more laborious. 

It was a gala. Some random thing that she had been committed to by her mother, and she was expected to show up, play the role of who she was expected to be. Yet every fiber of her being was dreading the whole experience so much. Even the delicate lace on the sari felt like 100 lbs of weight on her shoulders. 

"Go, take a shower, get ready," her mother instructed. 

Sometimes there were gaps in her memories. Where she would find herself in a place, with no recollection of how exactly she got to be there. Like how in Inception, that would tell you you're in a dream. But this was no dream. This was the frightening reality of her daily life. 

And so she found herself, hiking up Bancroft Avenue to the open public showers. It was a beautiful warm afternoon. Bathing naked out in the open seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do. As she stood there, naked, under the streaming water, she suddenly noticed the audience she had, gathered in park benches around the showering area. Not just nature's creatures, but people - and people she knew. She was overcome with shame - feeling the heat arise in her cheeks, and tears form in her eyes. She gazed down at her hips, curvier than when they used to be. Her ass, large and "voluptuous," as some might euphemism it - but to her - fat. She drooped with the heavy weight of her breasts - once small and perky, but after breastfeeding a child, they had morphed into ... well, whatever normal breasts were supposed to look like after birthing a child. 

She looked back at her "audience." They comprised of some unknowns, and some guys she knew back when she went to University here. But they didn't even turn once to look at her; carrying on, engaged in their conversation. But she knew they saw her. She was right there, point blank in front of them, in her full, wet nakedness. Why hadn't she realized one is supposed to wear a bathing suit when bathing in outdoor public showers? 

Lost in her reverie of shame & self admonition, she didn't notice when her friend of yesteryear snuck up behind her, and covered her eyes with his hands, "Guess who?" she was relieved to know she was covered in a towel by now. Another lost moment - when did she put it on? 

She knew exactly who it was. He had been a dear friend in her college years, a few years younger, and therefore, friend zoned by default. But he was undeniably hot. The majority of the Muslim guys she met were hot. It was unfair. "Born on the wrong side of the border," she and her sister would sigh and longingly lament. 

One time a friend had suggested, "He's like a younger brother to you." She didn't know how to respond to that, and gave a forced smile and nod. 20+ years later, she wishes she had responded, "I don't think so. If someone put a gun to my head and said I had to fuck him, I would. If he was my brother, I would choose to die." The truth is, I didn't need a gun pointed to my head to fuck him. But I think that should be a fair metric to use before labeling someone "like a brother to me." 

She made polite conversation with the now mature man version of the man cub she once knew. Though his "guess who" antic made her question if his maturity was limited just to his physical appearance. She excused herself, almost thankful for the pending gala, if only as the perfect excuse to walk away. 

"That was the first time we met. You were telling me about that perfume... it was by that Italian guy..." I suddenly realized the blonde girl was speaking to me, as she matched me stride for stride across the bridge. 

"Gianfranco Ferrere?" I asked. The name of the maker of my favorite perfume from 20+ years ago popped in my head, as if it was still my daily wear scent of choice. It made her wonder if the perfume "Gieffeffe" still existed, or if Gianfranco was still alive. 

"Yes! That was the one. That's how we first met," she announced to the others walking slightly ahead of us on the narrow bridge. Somehow this light-hearted memory of my youth brought lightness within me. I wanted to stay in this moment, in this feeling. When they mentioned they were going to the shops to look for a randomly obscure item, I joined them. Anything to delay the dreaded event that lay ahead. 

We perused the shops, and I was disappointed to discover that they quickly found what they were looking for - a patch. Yeah - one of those she on patches that you see on Girl Scouts vests. With their quest over, I resigned to my fate of getting ready for ... the gala. Even thinking of the word made my head hurt. 

She got in her car and began driving. And that's when it became painfully obvious to her - all the ether she had been inhaling had left her like a drunk driver - unable to navigate the streets - constantly paranoid & consumed with fear that she would hit someone or worse. She found herself jammed into what could only be described as a divider of sorts. A small triangular formation of road blocks, with her car lodged perfectly in between. Sure, it was in the middle of the road, but it was safe and out of harm's way. It was better off left there than with her behind the wheel. And so, the logical decision seemed to be to abandon the car and go by foot. 

She started the climb back up Bancroft. In retrospect, I have no idea why I chose to go up Bancroft when my apartment was just three blocks to the right (don't ask me if it was east or west. If it was to the right, it must've been west, bc the map in real life always ends up being reverse of what you see on a compass. In actuality, Bancroft runs east to west, thus making my apartment north of Bancroft. But 20 years ago, I didn't have that acumen. I barely have it now). 

I watched a woman with a stroller, struggling up the hill. Her infant in the stroller, and her toddler pulling her low tricycle behind her. As we approached a gap in the road, a strange tourist attraction of sorts. It was a slightly inclined wooden ramp, followed by a small gap revealing a basement of assorted goods one might find in a pawn shop, and then a small hop over the gap to the other side of the ramp, now descending back onto the sidewalk. 

The woman managed to get herself, the stroller, and her two children safely across the gap, but I watch as her daughter lost grip of her tricycle, and as if in slow motion, it rolled into the museum of odd knick knacks. Perhaps that was how the museum had formed in the first place. 

The girl looked up at her mother, tears swelling in her eyes. 

"Do you need help getting the tricycle?" I asked. Here was another chance for me to delay my impending doom. The woman looked warily at the situation, biting her lip, assessing the practicality of it. "Honestly, I had just accepted the tricycle as gone." 

But I volunteered to crawl into the basement. Another lapse of moments lost, and I found myself trying to make my way back out, my body barely fitting through the high enclosure, tricycle hanging below me in my left hand. Turns out there was a wooden flap door in the gap, and it had been slammed shut. No handles, no clasp, no light. I was trapped inside. But that family was still there, right? They wouldn't leave me abandoned in this dark basement .... How long had I been here? I tried to calculate how long the oxygen would last me, quickly realizing I had no basis on which to make that assessment. 

And before I could really panic, I saw the bright sunshine and even brighter smile of the toddler, holding open the wooden flap, ready for her tricycle. 

They carried on, and I was left with my doom - the ever present gala. I sighed and continued my trudge up Bancroft. 

I was looking for a taxi, and there was a taxi stand up the road. My mind was too hazy from ether - I couldn't figure out how to make it home on my own. 

And then I found myself in the car of a trusted friend. We chatted - I felt safe. She was on her way to the other side of the Bay, but a detour of a few blocks wasn't going to hurt.

"Make sure we don't miss the turn," I reminded her, knowing all too well how one gets on autopilot when chatting with friends. 

And, of course, that is exactly what happened. In normal circumstances, that would not have been a big deal, but we had reached the point of no return. The only way forward was onto the Bay Bridge - a 7 mile bridge with no U-turn point until Treasure Island, 5 miles down. Plus you had to pay toll this side, and sit in the traffic to just do that. 

"Say, why don't you come to this gala with me?" The thought of having her by my side made it so much more bearable. 

She contemplated, pausing before replying "I don't have anything to wear. Besides, I really should be getting to..." I didn't even hear the rest of her sentence because my body had slumped into dejection. 

The rest is gone from my memory. My guess is that I made it back to my apartment, dressed in my green lace and silver filigree sari, and drowned myself in my sorrow, all whilst bearing a smile on my glossy red lips, and eloquent banter with aunties and uncles whose names and who their spouses were, I had meticulously catalogued in my mental Rolodex. 

Why we all need to watch Miss Marvel

The following article was published in American Kahani. 

A Desi Multiverse: Why Every South Asian American Must Watch Kamala Khan, aka ‘Ms. Marvel’

JULY 16, 2022

• Thank you Marvel Studios for this seemingly bold, yet obvious step of hiring South Asians to make a series about South Asians.

ANTARA BHARDWAJ

I say this irrespective of the fact that I am a huge Marvel Studios fan. The studios, not the comics — the comics are beyond my realm. Thanks to my 10-year-old son, who is in the middle of his Ph.D. on the Marvel Universe, I have learned to savor and revel in the multiverses brought to life by Marvel Studios. 

Regardless, all South Asians must watch “Ms. Marvel,” and let me tell you why. 

First, it is the first time an American production has authentically and accurately depicted South Asian culture. 

From conversations arguing whether DDLJ is truly SRK’s best work, to stealing the groom’s shoes at his wedding, the show is brimming with subtly nuanced references to routine facets in a South Asian American’s life. 

And not just for the immigrant/first-generation community — the series even takes us back home to the motherland, bringing us to the throbbing-with-life streets of Pakistan’s largest, most populous city — Karachi. 

It was simply a pleasure to watch something where I didn’t feel like it was white people’s interpretation of us. And that’s because it isn’t. Look at the credits and you’ll see that the majority of the major players are of South Asian descent, including women directors. It’s about freakin’ time — thank you Marvel Studios for this seemingly bold, yet obvious step of hiring South Asians to make a series about South Asians. 

Second, you will learn, or get the opportunity to share with whoever is watching with you, about India and Pakistan’s very real, and not-so-far in the past history. 

You and I may know about the Partition, but the rest of the world doesn’t. They’ve heard of Mahatma Gandhi, and may vaguely remember that the British ruled India — but that’s about as far as it goes. 

“Ms. Marvel” takes you into a quick, deep dive into the rich history of India’s fight for freedom from British rule, without being overly pedantic.

“Ms. Marvel” takes you into a quick, deep dive into the rich history of India’s fight for freedom from British rule, without being overly pedantic. As my husband and I watched with our son, we found ourselves pausing the TV to share our own stories. 

I learned that my mother-in-law’s family had moved from Dhaka to Kolkata during Partition — something that my husband never mentioned in our 15 years of marriage, probably because it just never came up. I could see the wheels in my son’s head turning when the story on TV was no longer just a story, but something that his own grandmother had gone through.

Three, the music. 

I haven’t seen a TV series where the end credits sequence has a unique soundtrack for each episode. Has this been done before? Please correct me if I’m wrong, but what a brilliant move. 

Indian cinema is synonymous with its vibrant musicality. Even now, the majority of our music industry is enmeshed within the film industry; the “independent music” scene (music that is not affiliated with movies or television) is a burgeoning market. 

So, like our movies, why just stick to one song? Why not have 6 original soundtracks for the 6 episodes? The music compliments the episodes incredibly well — from hip hop Punjabi rap, and soulful Sufi, to harmonium rocking, ankle bells ringing melodies reminiscent of the 1950s. 

Four, because it’s the first South-Asian Muslim woman superhero. ‘Nuff said. 

In conclusion, I implore all my fellow South Asians to watch this series, and by doing so, we support our stories to come out in highly visible productions like “Ms. Marvel.” I, for one, am greatly looking forward to the next season. And when you make it to the post-credits sequence (because you would obviously wait until the credits are done to watch this vital glimpse into what awaits you in the Marvel Universe — duh!), you’ll be happy to know that this isn’t the last you’ll be seeing of Kamala Khan, aka Ms. Marvel. 

---

Antara Bhardwaj is a Kathak artist and filmmaker based in Mountain View, California, where she lives with her husband and son. She runs a dance company and school by the name of Antara Asthaayi Dance. You can follow her on Facebook and Instagram.

Opera 200%

 This weekend I went to watch not one, but two operas, at the SF War Memorial Opera House. Why? Because I'm going to be working on my first opera next month, and I have seen a total of ONE opera in my whole life. At least by the end of this weekend, I will be able to say I've seen three - a slightly more respectable number. And it takes up my opera count by 200%. 

If you haven't been to an opera before, it's a whole ordeal. The opera itself is three+ hours long, with one, if not two intermissions. In an effort to accommodate to modern times, they've shortened the total running length to less than three hours, plus the 25 minute intermission. 

I ended up calling the box office for tickets was because online ticket sales ended two hours before showtime. Being Pride weekend in SF, I was forewarned by the gentleman on the phone that I should allow for plenty of time for parking, as the Civic Center garages were closed, as were many of the roads in the area. I was reminded of the value of a human connection: none of that information was given to me on the website. 

And so, I allowed myself one hour and forty five minutes to drive into SF, and find parking in the most impacted area of the city. It's amazing how when you set your mind with a certain expectation, how much it lowers your stress. I expected it to take 1 hour and 45 mins, and when it only took 1 hour and 30 minutes, I felt like I had gotten lucky. I acquiesced to parking in a flat $60 parking garage, aptly named Opera Plaza Garage. "Any chance you can charge my car?" I asked, pointing to the Tesla charger sign to the valet. "Not today miss, we're totally full." I nodded, and headed out on my short two block walk to the opera house.

The Opera House is located in perhaps the most nostalgic area of San Francisco. The magnificent building stands just yards away from the glorious City Hall building, which looks like something you would see in Washington D.C., in terms of its stature. I always call it "Rashtrapati Bhavan," and my mom corrects me how calling it that (the President's house) makes no sense. 

The lobby at the SF War Memorial Opera House

I have been to the Opera House before. Once, to watch the first opera I had ever seen (Carmen), and another time when I performed there with my dance company as a part of the San Francisco Ethnic Dance Festival. As I approached the building, showing them my vaccination records, getting stamped, showing my e-ticket, I looked around the grand lobby, and moved around with a certain comfort in that space that surprised me. I headed down to the basement where the bathrooms were located. The basement is also the only place with a full bar and restaurant, and where you get stuck if you show up late to the show. Then you must watch the whole first half of the opera from a television screen downstairs. I know this because when I came to see Carmen, I arrived 15 minutes late and had to watch my first opera on a simulcast TV screen. So I guess I'd really only seen half an opera before this weekend .... 

I noticed a sign on the bar that said "Reserve your food/drink for intermission now." How brilliant - why did other events not do the same thing? I headed back to the bar at the orchestra level, and bought myself a glass of wine, and reserved myself a vegetarian sandwich for intermission. I was so proud of my forward thinking and planning. 

This particular opera was an ancient Chinese classic tale, recreated in English, featuring an all Asian cast. The thing about opera is - and this is from my limited experience of three - there isn't a very complicated plot line. You can often summarize the whole story in a couple of sentences. But you aren't there for complex, surprise-twist plot lines - there is so much more, in the whole experience. 

I didn't like the music in this particular opera. I wondered if it was maybe because I don't like opera? But at intermission, when I overheard a man saying, "Every third note keeps going to that operatic high," I thought that perhaps I wasn't wrong in my feeling. When I watched the second half, I observed that not only where those high, shrill notes constantly coming up in the music ... but that I could not understand the melody of a single line of music! I mean, I get it ... I'm not versed in classical operatic music ... at all ... but I can hear the patterns of a song or a melody. But not in this opera. Not a single moment did the singing connect, or leaven an impact on me (besides irritation). But the opera was redeemed by the beautiful staging, lighting, costumes, a few orchestral overtures, and overall production value. My take-away was that I can differentiate between good and bad. Hurrah for me! 

On my way home, I was pleasantly surprised when the valet told me he had fully charged my Tesla. I got home at 11:30, having left my home at 5:30pm. Basically, the opera is the only thing you are going to do in that day. 

Opera #2 - matinee show of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's "Don Giovanni." 

I was really looking forward to this, after the warm-up of the previous evening. Not only because Mozart is a legend, but because the opera I'm working on is also a Mozart classic, "Le Nozze de Figaro," or "The Wedding of Figaro." 

Perhaps arrogantly riding high from yesterday's success of all things going smoothly, I only left 1 hour and 15 minutes for the journey up to SF. I knew where to park this time around, that should shave off 20 minutes easily? I didn't take into account that this afternoon was the actual PRIDE parade. And so, I watched the Tesla GPS tell me my arrival times, 1:38, 1:45, 1:50, 1:48, 1:57 ... my mental calculator constantly assessing if I would be able to run into the theater by 2pm, or if I would be doomed to the basement TV screen. I even called the Opera House, and asked the lady if there was any chance they would start 5 minutes late, seeing as how the whole city is so crazy with Pride. "They started on time yesterday, so I don't think so." Yeah, I know they started on time yesterday, I thought to myself - I was there. I was crazy impressed when the otherwise tuning, haphazard sounds of numerous instruments, suddenly aligned in a magnanimous "sa" (or a 'C'?) on the dot of 7:30pm. That was just one of the many magical moments of opera. 

I used my breathing app on my watch to calm myself down, reiterating positive rhetoric for myself - "Stressing out isn't going to change the outcome, so stop counting the minutes, hoping against hope." When the GPS showed 2:05 as my arrival time, I resigned to watching the opera from the tv screen downstairs. I parked in the same flat fee $60 garage, and walked through the crowds of LGBQT+, admiring the flamboyant apparel, and choosing to put on my mask in an outdoor space, to avert the strong smell of weed (and Covid, of course). 

I have good parking karma. I always find great parking. And I hold on to that belief, because I think it's self-propagating. It might not make sense, but I believe in the power of positive thinking. And today, my good karma manifested itself in the opera staff allowing us to sit in the absolute last row to watch the first half - after intermission I could move to my actual seat. I was delighted. I felt like I had won the lottery. Had I never experienced the basement TV version, I would have never been so grateful to be in the nosebleeds - an expression I never understood, until today, when I experienced what a high altitude I was seated at. The faces were nothing but a blur, but no matter, I was getting to watch it. 

I thoroughly enjoyed this opera. To the point where I think I may have started falling in love with the opera experience. And I say experience, because it is so much more than just the show itself. First and foremost, it is a rich man's pastime. Between my $124 ticket, $12 service charge, $60 parking, $27 sandwich and wine ... we were looking at $223, without gas (add another $30 RT for gas if you're not driving electric). And then setting aside 6 hours in your schedule - I mean, who does that anymore for anything besides airline travel? The whole thing is one big indulgence - in time, money, effort. You can dress as ostentatiously or as casually as you want. You can see the difference in class of those who have their tables "reserved" in the restaurant; a physical barrier separating them from the rest of us, who scope out small coffee tables on a first-come-first-serve basis. But for this matinee, I packed my own sandwich, and decided to eat it outside. I took the steps down, not realizing how high up I was until I found myself going down flight after flight after flight. The way back up, I took the elevator. They even have an elevator operator running the thing for you. "We're heading up to two ... now we've passed three ... we'll be stopping at four -- that's for balcony and balcony circle." 

My seats were much better - though the faces were still mostly blurred, but that might be my vision. I contemplated buying a pair of opera glasses for my next opera. 

Don Giovanni is a story of a "rake," or a womanizer to the max, whose egocentric choices finally catch up to him. Why any of those characters put up with such an obviously cheating, lying, throw-you-under-the-bus kind of scoundrel is far beyond me, but hey- suspension of disbelief. The melodies were beautiful, and while I didn't think I would be able to identify any of them, there was a moment in the story when one character says, "Oh we know this tune..." and I realized that yes, I could identify this tune from this opera.  

I left the theater, feeling enchanted by the last three hours. I walked downstairs, and discovered a small gift shop, just above the lobby. I perused through the eclectic items, and contemplated something to buy, as a reminder of this time I spent at the opera. A pair of burgundy wool gloves caught my eye - they matched a burgundy hat I had bought at the Christmas fair in Portland last year. They even had opera glasses! The store worker tried to convince me that the actual binoculars were better, and I'm sure he was right, but you should have seen how gorgeous those opera glasses were. I had just put them away, deciding against the frivolous purchase, when my eyes fell upon the most beautiful hat I have seen. 

Now, you must know this about me. I LOVE hats. And I look good in all hats. You read that correctly - I look good in ALL OF THEM. I wear my heart on my sleeve when it comes to hats. But this one - it was screaming my name. No, not my name, it was a physical manifestation of the depths of my flamboyant self. It brought to life a dance, a song, a dress, a desire, an aura ... I know you are probably thinking I am exaggerating, but this hat saved my life. 

I sauntered down to the lobby, full of joy and reverie, celebrating my passion and new overpriced purchase (50% of the price went to the Opera as a donation, so it was actually half the price if you think about it...). As I approached the main exits, I heard the security guards from across the great lobby shout "Move away from the windows!" They gesticulated in exaggeration. I was confused. Had I taken so long that the main exits were closed? I found an elderly security guard closer to me and asked politely which way I could exit. "There is no exiting at this time."

Now I was even more confused. Why would we not be allowed to leave the building? I looked around at the scattered crowd around me. Somewhere I heard someone say, "There's been a shooting." 

The elderly gentleman came back, huffing and puffing through his mask, "This is for your safety. We're not doing this to make your life difficult." "Of course, thank you." I was not trying to be an asshole. I just happened to be one anyway. 

I sat down on the same steps I had just sauntered down from ... taking in those words. I saw some young folks on their phones - the first time I had seen anyone on their phones in the 6 hours I had spent in the Opera House (seriously, I didn't see a single selfie taken in this amazing architectural space). I chose not to go down the rabbit hole of looking for information on what had happened on my phone, and chose to just sit and wait. 

"When you hear gun shots, you just run. You don't think about anything girl, you just run." I overheard the young girl's voice behind me. I didn't have to look at her to know she was Black American. You can hear it in the voice, a twang if you will. I looked to see a young teen telling the other girl with her, who looked like she was no more than 12, the reality of what one does when you encounter gun shots. The little girls' eyes were welling up with tears. With her mask on, all I could see was the fear in her eyes. I thought about  how the lessons of running away from gun shots was more of a reality in her life than my own. "See? I told you sneakers was the right shoes to wear today." I wondered why three young black teenagers had come to watch the opera. I still hadn't caught on. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have an update. SFPD is going to be getting back to us in ten minutes to let us know what the situation is." I texted my family to let them know I was locked in the building, but safe. So incredibly lucky to be safe. 

The young black girls left - I'm not entirely sure where they went, maybe to the basement. I noticed two other young women sitting near me. I asked them when this happened. "Not even ten minutes ago. We were in the parade, we heard shouting, fighting, then the shots ... we thought it was fireworks, and then everyone was screaming and running ... so we ran in here..." 

"I was watching the opera." I told them. I was actually buying a hat. Had I not bought the hat, I would have been out there with them. 

"Oh, this is the Opera House!" she grabbed her friend's phone and informed them they were in the opera house. 

And so, this iconic landmark of San Francisco's War Memorial became the temporary safe haven for those seeking asylum from the panic, fear, pandemonium outside in what was meant to be .

Within a few minutes, we got another update, that the "situation has been contained," and we were free to go. I cautiously stepped out, and chose to take the the parallel street of Franklin, instead of the main Van Ness, where I had admiringly strolled three hours earlier, my biggest issue having been the smell of weed.

I made it to my parking garage, and waited in a long line with other PRIDE paraders for my vehicle. As I inched forward, the young man standing slightly in front of me, but to the side of the line, asked, "Were you standing in line?" "Yes," I responded. 

I need to paint a better picture for you here. When I say the young "man," who was standing there, I am most likely offending his non-binary sensibility of gender. And I don't say that facetiously. But, until someone tells me that they are not a "he," but prefer to be identified as "they/them"- to my old-school-binary thinking, he is a guy who chooses to wear eye makeup and a cape. The others in "his" group were a person wearing a "they/them" button, who I would have just described as a "girl," had it not been for the clarity they provided in their pronoun. There was another woman that I can only best describe as butch. She was big, queer, wearing rainbow eyeliner with a shaved head, and oh-so-angry at the world. 

"I've been standing in line way before any of them got here," she asserted, spewing venom at me, as she moved in ahead of me. "Sure, no problem," I responded. She seemed almost more upset that I didn't take the bait - that I didn't get mad at her, or show attitude. In Hindi we have a saying - "Aa bail mujhe maar," which translates to "Come bull, attack me." She was ready for a fight, and I was as calm as a Buddhist monk. "None of this is going to matter if we can't find the parking ticket," she turned to her caped crusader, who was fervently rummaging through a knapsack. "Dump it all out," she commanded, and he was on his knees in an instant, contents spilled at our feet. 

There was a murmuring din around me. I wondered how many of them knew about the shooting. I saw the woman behind me hugging another friend, sobbing. The butch woman says in my direction, to no one in particular "So there might have been a shooting." I nod. Her eyes finally released some of her anger. "There was?" she asked me quietly. I told her what had happened, and how the situation had been contained by SFPD. I was wearing my mask, and I wonder how much I was feeling was communicated through only my eyes. Thinking back, I wish I had taken off my mask when I shared with her at that moment. She turned and flamboyantly proclaimed to the rest of her group about how it all had gone down, and that they caught the assailant (an assumption she made, as I never thought about what a situation being "contained" really meant). The others in the group chimed in, eyes glued to their phones, "Oh my gosh, I think it was that guy who was part of the security who was being such a dick," and they all jumped on the bandwagon of "fuck the police." For the remainder of their time in the line, the butch woman's eyes met me repeatedly with a feeling of shame and sadness. 

I went to see my mother in her SF apartment before coming home. She gave me a big hug, as she had furiously worried about me in the interim between my initial text and my "on my way" text. I showed her "The Hat That Saved My Life." Ok, maybe not my life, but "The Hat That Saved Me From a Traumatic Experience" just doesn't have the same ring to it.  

Epilogue: I have since looked up online to see what happened, and it seems there was no shooting, but someone macing another person, the cops running in, and everyone panicking and running, causing a near stampede. 

This poem is (not) about ...

 This poem is about that time when life came to a halt. When suddenly all that we knew was good & safe was stripped away from us, and instead we were left with uncertainty, forced to live one day at a time, and deal with low level trauma. 

This poem is about the time when roti, kapda, makaan (bread, clothes, house) became the most important parts of daily life. What will I cook for the next meal? 

This poem is about the time when the dishes seemed to be growing out of the sink - always dirty, always demanding to be washed. 

This poem is about the time when our family unit of three became one. When we spent every waking hour together, under the same roof - and learned that this felt really comfortable. 

This poem is about the time when having daily lunches together became the norm, and when I bought a ba of atta (flour) for the first time in my life. 

The poem is about that first aloo ka parantha I made in my life, watching YouTubers, feeling a pang of shame thinking I could have learned how to do this from my mother all those years earlier. 

This poem is about the time when life slowed down, and I finally felt what I wanted in my life - slowness. Is that a word? I have always tried, no, struggled to slow down. But when everyone around you seems to be sprinting marathons, even your slowest will be a jog at best, with little sprints in between. 

This poem is about finding the pace of life that best suits you. A pace that allows for lie-ins on mornings your body is just not ready to be, to do. This poem is about finding what matters most each day - a nutritious, home-cooked meal for my family. 

This poem is about writing, documenting, keeping records of the mundane happenings - through morning pages, bullet journaling, gratitude logs ... so that someday, when you are long gone - your life is a beautiful, fascinating work of art, to piece together. And when I say 'you are long gone,' I wonder if that will be my own mind that is gone. If I were to lose all my memories - I would have my pages and pages, books filled with my memories - and I could piece together what my life used to be like. 

This poem is about living in this moment - however that moment is. Good or bad - it is just a moment - and it can hold however much weight & importance you choose to give it. This poem is about not weeping over what the past used to be - slower, languishing days - but about creating that in your here & now. 

This poem is about being present in your here and now. 

This poem is about weekends with no agenda, except maybe a frisbee game @ the park. 

This poem is about the life you build for yourself each and every day. This is about the choices you make - to celebrate, to be happy, to be present, to remember that you are enough - you do enough - you are happy - you are safe, you are loved. 

Written during 'Wild Surfwriters' weekly group. Please refer to my previous post about Wild Writing for further context.  

Wild Writing

 Put the thought/idea out there, and the universe transpires to make it happen. 

I wanted to write more this year. But I knew I couldn't take on the commitment of any sort of creative writing course. I remember trying to do an online writing creative writing course in my mid-20's. This was before Zoom, so it was purely online documents ... actually, I don't remember what the format was at all, because I didn't do any of it. I paid for it, but I didn't do anything beyond the first writing assignment. I had started dating my now husband around that time ... I remember being madly, gushingly in love, and creative writing was great in theory, and that's about all. 

Anyway, I digress. Two years ago around this time I had felt the need to make more time for the artist within, and two things happened that started a snowball of momentum ... I read the book "The Artist's Way," by Julia Cameron, and joined a 12 week "Creative Mastermind" workshop. I had no idea what it was, but liked the idea of spending one hour a week on the idea of being creative, if nothing else. "The Artist's Way" led to writing "Morning Pages" - a morning routine where you hand write three pages of stream of consciousness, non-stop. The caveat is that you cannot go back and re-read any of it until at least six months have passed. There is something so liberating about that. Two years into this wonderful habit, and I have developed forearm muscles that I had long lost, and I don't feel the desire to go back and read previous pages. They are there for me someday when I care to read them. I've gone back and looked at where I was a year ago, and it's mildly fascinating to see the day-to-day worries of your life, as often a year later you have long forgotten them, as they may have hardly left an impact. The "Creative Mastermind" led to a whole lifestyle change - from keeping a bullet journal, to quitting social media, which in turn led to me remembering my love for the "lost art of written correspondence..." Most of us don't think of something snowballing in a positive sense, but this absolutely was that. 

So as this year was approaching, I put it out there in the universe, that I wanted to write more. And so, I happened to read a newsletter I was subscribed to (which I didn't even know I was subscribed to, which is the case of most of the things in our inboxes), written by an old colleague of mine. She used to dance with the same dance company I was a part of. I didn't have any personal connection with her beyond exchanging the usual pleasantries. Although now that I think back at it, I went through a year where my Guru "kicked me out." This was something that commonly happened in my cult guru's teaching methodology. If you didn't acquiesce to what he wanted, carrot and the stick, you got the stick. I "wasn't committing," and was therefore forbidden to attend his advanced level classes. I guess she had also been "kicked out" at this time ... or I don't really know, because I was so bothered by my own situation, I didn't have the bandwidth to worry about others. But I remember us having a short conversation around the time I was nearing 8 months of having been "kicked out." She asked what my thoughts were around it - I told her I was going to commit and go back. She nodded, and shared that she decided she wasn't. And that was pretty my only conversation with her. 

Since then I've followed her on social media, as we often do with people we once had a human connection with. She had chosen a rather unordinary life path, and I am always fascinated with someone who doesn't lead life as one big checklist, as I was taught to do. Her newsletter made it in front of me, and I read about a weekly writing group for women-of-color that would meet for eight weeks, (timing and pricing worked for me) and I didn't need to read beyond that, I was sold. 

Wild writing is totally up my sleeve. It's like the morning pages I've been doing for the last two years, except with a prompt. I'm usually not into poetry, but I have enjoyed the selection for this group. And while I'm usually still half asleep when I sit down at 8am on Wednesday's (definitely in my pajamas), I know I will feel revitalized by the experience of listening, flowing, and sharing in the next ninety minutes ... my nap can wait for later. 

We just did the third week, and this time, one particular piece of writing really felt great to me. I felt the flow, how the message just came naturally in its own way, and I felt centered by the end. I didn't need to go back and share it to feel proud of it - the experience of writing it was the reward itself. 

I will share the wild writing on this blog. And I will not go back to make spelling or grammar corrections, or reword what I'm trying to say - as tempted I may be to do all those things! 

An era passed

This week, the world lost one of the finest Indian classical artists of our time - Pandit Birju Maharaj. I have had the opportunity to witness some of this man's genius - not on the stages of the filled auditoriums to which he regularly performed - but in an intimate 'mehfil,' or gathering. Kathak, a story-telling classical dance from northern India dating back to 400 BCE, was originally performed by traveling bards, or Kathaka's, who traveled from village to village, sharing current events, political news, or stories from the ancient epics. The dance form moved into the temples as a devotional dance, had a renaissance in the Mughal courts when instrumentation and musicality from Persia was incorporated, and prior to its ascension to the proscenium stage, it was performed in small gatherings, or 'mehfil.' It was here that the dancer, musicians, and audience created a triangle of energy. There were no mics, fancy lights, sound checks, or rehearsals. The artists arrived on stage, and let their fierce mastery over the last decades take over. Together, the synergy of hundreds of years of collective experience would create a magic - an experience that could never be repeated, nor captured for later consumption. 

Such was that one magical evening twenty years ago, when I saw Maharaj ji at his finest. Already in his 60's, he sat on the stage with his harmonium (a keyboard instrument with metal reeds). He did not wear ghungroo (ankle bells), and he did not get up from his seat for the next three hours. Yet he enthralled us until the sun went down and the moon rose, with his mellifluous voice singing bhajan (devotional song), thumri (sensual love songs), ghazal (love ballads of loss & separation), scatting complex rhythms, reciting clever kavita (Hindi poetry), and enacting stories. Oh, the stories! I remember laughing, being nearly in tears as he narrated his experiences of trying to understand how to operate water faucets in various sinks throughout the world; particularly his misadventures in a Russian airport when he could not figure out how to turn off the water. His bhaithaki bhao (expressive dance while seated) showed a range of subtle, evocative, and nuanced expressions as he transformed into a beautiful maiden, or a mischievous young Krishna. He melded effortlessly from one character to the next to the next joke to the next song. It was as though he was not 'performing' at all - he was merely 'being.' He had us mesmerized the entire evening. When it ended, we were all left yearning for so much more. Maharaj ji's magic in the room that night far exceeded anything he displayed on the proscenium stage at that point in his career. 

Maharaj ji's passing is particularly of significance not only because of the phenomenal artist that he was, but because he comes from an unbroken lineage of kathak dancers in the Kalka-Bindadin gharana, colloquially referred to as the "Lucknow gharana," dating back to the mid-19th century. (Gharana comes from the word 'ghar,' or home, and Lucknow is the city where the family lived). The Kalka-Bindadin  gharana is the oldest documented record we have of our present-day kathak. Maharaj ji marks the last of a generation where this lineage of kathak was passed on from father to son (or to nephew) in an oral tradition through the guru-shishya (teacher-disciple) tradition. A disciple would traditionally live with a Guru, and learn the art form or craft in a lifelong apprenticeship, like a member of the family. Gurus taught hundreds of students, but the gharana was always carried forward by the immediate male blood line.  

Despite the fact that kathak is practiced and preserved predominantly by women, there are no women acknowledged in this legacy. Even dating back to the origin of the Bindadin gharana, where the gharana was born, in the court of Nawab Wajid Ali Shah (late 1800's), there is barely any mention of any of the over 100 courtesans (women highly trained in music, dance, poetry) that lived and practiced the arts in his harem. One would have to dig around deep into the tattered archives to find the names and histories of the women of kathak.  

Without getting into too much details of the socio-political reasons behind this - British suppression of the highly educated, influential, wealthy courtesans into common 'nautch girls,' post-Colonial confiscation of the courtesans' land, the negative association equating dance with prostitution, leading to the birth of a generation that would never let dance be taught to their daughters ... this simplified list could go on and on. The reality is that the system of the 'gharana' has always been mysogynistic, prejudiced, furtively (or openly) requiring submission to authority, and has led to the inevitable abuse of authority. You would not have to dig deep into any archives to hear the countless stories of aspiring artists, scarred by the 'system.' 

And so, we mourn the loss of a treasured artist - the last of a generation that lived, breathed, walked, slept and emanated Indian classical music, dance, rhythm, poetry from the core of their being. For most of us, we never got to experience the era where arts were given as much, if not more importance than the education one acquired in schools. We missed the era where the title "Maharaj" (great king) was bestowed upon an artist because they truly were like kings - the modern day equivalent of a lifelong-trending celebrity with a touch of royalty. 

And we bid adieu to an era where only men were given the privilege of carrying an artistic legacy. We bid adieu to the artistic monarchy, where bloodline was the foremost consideration as to whether you were worthy of the the most precious teachings of the guru. We bid adieu to a system where "winner takes all," and the word of the doyen is unquestioned, while hundreds of other voices go uncelebrated, unheard. 

Antara Bhardwaj is a kathak artist based in Mountain View, California, where she runs a dance school and company Antara Asthaayi Dance. She sees herself as a kathaka (storyteller), and her mediums of storytelling are dance, film, and writing. 

Childhood Home

My first childhood home has retained a magical quality for me. We lived there from when I was nearly 6, to when I was 10 years old. Only five years, but somehow, that home has remained with me my whole life. In fact, just last week, it was in my dreams yet again. There is an innocence and fascination in that home, which is not in the homes that followed. The only thing I can speculate differentiates that home from the rest is the fact that I was always a child in that home - not a teenager or young adult, like I was in our subsequent homes. 

As often is the case with childhood memories, they are larger-than-life. We had a lovely 'playborhood' culture, a term that didn't exist at that time, because that's how all neighborhoods were - you stepped outside your home after school, found other kids outside, and voila, there was your 'play date.' My school best friend lived three houses down the street - we walked back the 0.4 miles from school home together with her Lolo ('grandfather' in Tagalog) every day from 1st through 4th grade. I don't remember my mother ever coordinating or confirming with their family that Lolo would walk with us after school. I'm sure there were days when we did the walk back ourselves without thinking too much about it. We had other friends in the neighborhood as well - our next door neighbor had three daughters, two of which were close enough to me and my sister's age. And my mother's best friend lived 4 houses down, around the corner. It was the home I would walk to if I came home from school and my mother wasn't home. If that aunty wasn't home, there was another aunty up the street and at the end of the court, a short five minute walk away that I could go to. In the era of landlines, this was the back-up plan. 

One memory that has fragments in my head is of this one particular evening: I think it was close to summer, because it was still bright outside and the kids had already gone in from our after school play. I don't know if my mother heard the sound of the accident itself, or the commotion that ensued afterwards - but we found ourselves outside on our sidewalk, along with all our neighbors as spectators. A car had come crashing into the house two doors down. One can only guess how that happened - taking a turn too fast and skidding out of control? It slammed into the pillar of the garage, and bricks lay piled on the crushed front of the car. I remember nothing further about this scenario, and wonder if my mother remembers this particular evening, as we observed this scene together. Was the driver ok? Were the members of the house ok? Now I can't help but wonder about whose insurance paid for what... 

Cutting to present day - we live in a ranch-style single family home that reminds me a lot of that first home. Size wise, this home is larger than our original home - but I was a kid, so that 1100 sq. foot house felt pretty big to me. We have the closest thing to a 'playborhood' one can hope for in a (sub)urban community these days - my son has friends in the house across the street, around the corner, and an aunty who lives a little further down the street. School is 0.4 miles away, and sometimes I chaperone the walk home with my son's school buddy. 'Sometimes' being the operative word - because aside from the fact that we aren't afforded the regularity of the same schedule every day - we are now in that unique circumstance that all children have been schooling from home for the last year. Our son finally went back last week, in time to experience the remaining nine weeks of third grade in an actual classroom setting.  

There are many parallels I often draw to my childhood in that first home and my son's childhood here, but that's a story for another day. Lately, I have been sleeping in the guest room of the house, because that mattress is best suited for my healing back. The guest room is the front most room, and the window looks out the front yard of the house. I can't tell you how many times I have thought of that car, crashing into the front of the home, and wondered - what if a freak accident like that happened one night when I'm sleeping in the guest room? It's a terrible, morbid thought, fueled by irrational fear and anxiety. And, of course, it stems from the image of the car wreck I witnessed 30+ years ago outside my home. 

It makes me think, just how powerful images, and feelings experienced in early childhood are. Of course, this is a whole huge topic, and the basis of all our human psychology. They shouldn't even call it 'child psychology.' Just psychology. Because EVERYTHING in your life comes back to your childhood. And I truly mean everything. 

And so I bring us to this weekend. Five young children, from the ages of 6-11, and a dog, experienced the magic of childhood in a way that has long been forgotten. They went on a hike in a (backyard) forest with their elder didi (15 years old), went off-path, and got lost. No cell phones, no adults, and they didn't know where they were. 

But they figured it out. They looked around, used land marks as clues, made rational choices, and found their way home. In the meantime, the parents had started wondering if they should be concerned that the hike had gone on for over 45 minutes, and started a search-party. Two of us walked to the exit point of the hike, shouted for them, and heard their excited voices in response (a relief, no doubt). In what I can only describe as exhilarated, I heard a young voice shout, "We just had a REAL adventure!!!" I smiled, my heart full, and took in this extraordinary, precious moment: a happy-ending after the brief uncertainty of which way this story would go. The remainder of the walk home, we heard the various accounts of the kids' adventure, each sharing in their age-specific way. The teenager, empowered by her leadership; the children, amazed by their resilience and deductive reasoning; and the group bonded together by an experience they all shared together. 

And so, the memory of this hike will grow with time. It will leave an indelible mark in their hearts, in the core of their beings, in the fabric of who they are, and who they will become. May we be able to give our children many more such adventures - where they find themselves in amidst the unknown, yet come out triumphant ... or at least come out the other end. 

Heading off into their adventure. The time stamp of this image told us how long the kids had been gone.

L to R: Nishad (9), Aarav (8), Rika (6), Risha (10), Simba, and Ria (11). Not in picture - Simran (15)