I have recently read three books set in the turbulent world of Afghanistan. Two were moving fictional stories – Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns and the third an awe-inspiring true account of one man’s humanitarian work in Pakistan and Afghanistan.

I read A Thousand Splendid Suns first and it had a profound effect on me. Not only did the novel educate me on Afghanistan’s recent history, it plunged me into the daily reality of war and oppression. It left me feeling incredulous, humbled and deeply saddened as I began to fully comprehend what the Afghani people have experienced over the last few decades.

Three Cups of Tea, the story of Greg Mortenson’s adventures in establishing over fifty schools in rural Pakistan and Afghanistan, therefore came as a relieving reminder that, despite the stranglehold that hypocrisy and exploitation has on many parts of the world, it is still possible to breathe in lungfuls of fresh air.

Mortenson’s tale begins with a failed attempt to reach the summit of Himalayan legend K2. From there he goes on to make connections with the simple people of the remote mountain villages of Pakistan and takes a vow to improve the new generations’ opportunities by helping to build schools for those children left uneducated by the inefficiencies of local government. He particularly focusses on educating girls – a controversial matter in Islamic countries.

The book, written by Mortenson and journalist David Oliver Relin, weaves the story in threads of rich prose but keeps its feet firmly planted in the reality that created it. It follows his numerous journeys to and from Pakistan and Afghanistan where he inspires both deep respect and some fearful opposition from the local people.

Having been shocked by the injustices of the Taliban regime that I witnessed through the eyes of Hosseini’s characters, I was now left in awe at the sacrifice, determination and bravery that was demonstrated by Greg Mortenson’s story.

I thoroughly recommend all three books. They are all eye-openers. I thank Khaled Hosseini for helping me to understand something of what people of Afghanistan have experienced and I thank Greg Mortenson for reminding me of the power of human compassion and determination.

Hold me. Hold me closer, until our bodies merge and our imaginations share their dreams like one mind. Dancing, swaying in the moonlight, we are lost together on the inky sands of the night-swept shore. Our fingers interlacing, skin to skin.

A river, carrying all water drops to the ocean, breathes a sigh of relief as she opens into the wide expanse of water, where all memories of her journey are lost. A vastness that envelops all fears and soothes them like a mother murmuring to her child.
Please hold me. I can’t lose You. You are too precious to me. You are me. Your love binds me to this reality – this world of shapes and colours; this dreamscape of signs and walkways.

In the leafy, shaded garden, seated on a grassy mound, a wise saint sits in stillness contemplating the elusive depths within. With such fearless determination he sits, as wind and rain beat his body. Only his chest moving as he breathes the life force into his cells.

I’m listening. Listening for stories in the whisper of the leaves in the breeze. What words can be woven from this web that surrounds me?
Ivy, watering can. Cobwebbed greek figure of grey plaster, flecked with green lichen and dry litter of autumn leaves. Yellow flowers for which I can’t find words to describe. Their petals like thin shavings of butter soaked in sunlight.

In the immense, swarming hive of London, it is easy to avoid human connection. Much easier to avert one’s eyes or block out the city’s voices with the headphones of one’s iPod.

So, it came as a pleasant surprise when I stepped into the crowded bus on Tuesday morning and was greeted by an older man with a trim beard, sparkly eyes and a jaunty hat. Our eyes met and we smiled at each other for a few moments. During the short bus journey, I turned to look at him a couple of times and he returned my gaze. As the bus approached its third stop, I felt a hand touch my own. I turned and the gentleman said ‘Goodbye’, before he alighted.

The other passengers around me were oblivious to this exchange, but it touched me deeply. There was something mystical about the encounter.

The following day, on the underground, I noticed a young man examining his finger, which appeared to be quite badly cut and bleeding. He began to search in his bag for something. In my pocket I had some tissue, which I offered to him, He accepted it. He did not look at me, or speak to me further. Yet, I was left with a sweet glow inside for having been able to offer some help to a fellow human being, albeit in a small way.

Later, I was on an overground train from London to East Sussex. Two West Indian gentlemen said, ‘Good Morning’ and sat down opposite me. Throughout the hour-long journey we did not really speak, although they offered me some sweets and I said goodbye when I left the train. However, it felt like we had acknowledged one another in a simple, human way, often lacking in the London buzz.

My final encounter came on Friday. As Premasagar and I headed towards home from an evening stroll, we came across an elderly woman standing in the street. She appeared to be confused, so I asked her is she was OK.

Mistaking me for someone she once knew, she began talking to us. Her speech was a mixture of English and another language she explained was Greek.

It soon became clear that she was lost and could not tell us where she was staying. Her speech was repetitive and confused. While Prem called for help, I walked up and down the street with Pishpa clutching my arm. She was a charming lady with a warm smile and a quick sense of humour.

Eventually, an ambulance arrived. We took her inside the van and wrapped her in a blanket. The paramedics tried to find out more about her. Finally, she agreed to go to the hospital for some food and rest.

Shortly before leaving, I said to her, ‘Go to the hospital and get something warm to eat and drink and have a rest.’ She looked at me with a cheeky grin and said, ‘Yes, Mummy!’

Prem and I walked home as the ambulance drove away.

It would have been so easy to pass her by, to smile and walk on, but we didn’t. We stopped and connected with her, and she was safer and our lives richer for it.

I want to write and write and write.
Unfurl words,
curled like new ferns
inside me.

It is almost painful.
A joyful, beautiful pain
that breathes in
in-formation
through my senses.

Finally.
To pick up a pencil and
release, release.
Into this compact notebook
that promises to carry my dreams
on a sailboat into the night.

Oh, I just want to let them flow out
like rainwaters along the edges
of paved streets.
Flow out and trickle
into ears and eyes
and open like flowers
in moist mouths.

Moist mouths that kiss and whisper,
and relish shapes
of poetry.

Black morning.
Clouds, muggy and moody,
Smother the mouth
of the city.

Thousands of bodies
Slide to the grind,
Underground.
Faces straight and indifferent.
Lost
in folds of paper
and fatigue.

Walls plastered with
Where to go
What to wear
What to buy

Thousands of bodies,
Thousands of faces.

Each a different form
of an endless You.

A few days ago, while browsing the shelves of a closing-down sale at a second-hand bookshop, I stumbled across a copy of Geraldine Brooks’ novel, Year of Wonders: A Novel of the Plague (2001). On a whim I decided to buy it, not knowing quite what to expect.

Very quickly, the engaging narrative brought me under its spell. It weaves a fiction based on the real experiences of the Peak District ‘plague village’ of Eyam, which, in an act of self-sacrifice, voluntarily quarantined itself when it became infected with the Great Plague in 1666.

The story is told from the point of view of a seemingly common young woman, Anna Frith, who works as a housemaid to the visionary rector and his wife. However, as the tale unfolds, this young woman, amidst the great loss and suffering brought by the disease, undergoes a startling transformation.

Anna becomes an embodiment of selfless service and her intellect and intuition are awakened as she helps her friends and neighbours through the seemingly unrelenting hardships. With her employers, Elinor and Michael Mompellion, she works day and night to comfort and attempt to heal the physical and mental suffering of the sick, the dying and the grieving.

There are many other responses to the onset of the plague, which, day by day, carries more innocent lives away in its clutches. Some turn to self-flagellation and isolation, others seek scapegoats in a bloodthirsty witch-hunt and certain individuals ruthlessly take advantage of their desperate neighbours in an hour when collective strength is so vital.

In the chaos of the rising insanity, Anna struggles to keep her balance as her small familiar world is slowly rotted away by the infestation. With a mind that grows fiercely strong, she begins to question the dogmatic religious justifications for the epidemic. Her final self-empowerment sets her free from the social and intellectual confines that she has always lived with.

This well-researched novel not only gives great insight into a fascinating period of history, but also into the dynamics of a community struggling to come to terms with an horrific trauma that leaves in its wake hundreds of deaths, fear, misery and superstition. Brooks’ gleaming tapestry of description brings the story to life. The intricate attention to the small details suggests that beauty remains alive even when the bigger picture is bleak and tragic.

Year of Wonders is a capturing exploration of the human condition, I was both touched and inspired by the actions of the courageous protagonist, a convincing heroine. However, I feel her internal transformation would have reached its true culmination had it concluded in a deep spiritual realisation which unfortunately, by the end of the novel, still eludes her.

Thank You,
You have shown me
The way to the well.
Where I can drink
When my mouth is dry.
Where I can bathe
When my skin is sullied.
Where I can be refreshed
When my eyes are weary.

The way to the well
Is strewn with stones.

The way to the well
Is the way home.

Funny how in simple moments like sitting on the Victoria Line, hurtling through London’s network of tube tunnels, listening to the notes of Tracy Chapman’s voice, surrounded by sound, slipping through the seemingly mundane world, I feel so alive.

Beautiful how in such moments one can feel a deep sense of one’s own consciousness and some delicate intricacy of life’s weavings.

I just came across this shocking article about the cost of Cherie Blair’s hair maintenance.

The article claims that during the month leading up to the 2005 general election, the wife of the British Prime Minister spent £275 per day on personal hairstyling, mounting up to a total bill of £7,700.

I find it utterly sickening and irresponsible that the wife of the Labour party leader should squander wads of cash on hairspray and grooming while half of the world’s population lives below the poverty line.

I am writing this blog entry from India where a rural family of five will feed and clothe itself with the equivalent of £13 a month. Not to mention the fact that hundreds of thousands of people are sleeping in shacks, hovels and bare pavements on city streets while buses, trucks, cars and motorcycles spew toxic fumes just metres away.

The world is crying out for leaders who are firmly established in morality, universal spirituality and who look upon our peoples and planet with compassion and empathy.

The political world is ridden with this disease of hypocrisy. Empty notions of justice are worn like glittery badges at election time. But, when it comes to making real steps towards social progress, setting an example by one’s own conduct or, dare I say it, making some kind of personal sacrifice for the greater good, these so called leaders and their spouses would rather be splashing out on super-protein shampoo and ceramic hair straighteners than helping the development of the third-world.

Swastika, take me into your world,
Within your centre, all mysteries unfold.
Arms spin through eternal time,
With tails that trail in the winds behind.