Surrender

The train that has reached, 

its destination. 
Tracks end here.
Remains of many journeys
rattle under the seats;
are being swept away.
Mains switched off now.
surely the morrow brings possibilities,
of new journeys? 

The house that has been,

emptied.

Hollow sounds echo. 

whitewashing,

can remove stains on walls.

what of hearts,

haunted by memories? 

Not real anymore. 

cannot hearts make homes? 

The box of paints that has

dried up.

Brushes scratch the bottom,

in vain,

As the canvas waits. 

cannot the sound of the scratch-

and the smell of canvas-

and the taste of blood-

and the touch of death-

paint

-what is waiting to come alive? 

This summer,

the village again sees the river bed.

cracked and calloused. 

its the first summer,

she's noticing it,

on the other side of childhood. 

The villagers

point to the signs.

saying, the rains will come. 

he panics. chokes. 

Lugs buckets of water,

from their summer stores,

and pours it in! 

from time to time

the futility hits her,

leaving her emptier than the river bed,

if that's possible. 

he sits on the river bank,

looking at the circling birds,

picking up a wet smell in the air,

and listens to the crick-crick of insects. 

Drawing up her knees,

she settles down to wait.

Perhaps the rains will come.

For now, she takes a breath

allowing it to seep in

through the emptiness. 

Ordinary Lives, Extraordinary Living

 Ordinary Lives, Extraordinary Living –
Also a review of the book, This Too Shall Pass, by Elango Thambiah.

A story is alive, throbbing, when it is straight from the heart and can reach deep into the hearts of its listeners and pluck strings there. This is such a story.  In first person, from the real-life incidents that took place in the life of its protagonists, it is narrated in such a simple manner, that reading it felt like drinking a large mug of hot chocolate as a young something, snuggled into the warmth of a grandmother’s love listening to her wisdom stories.

It tells the profound story of a family living through the trauma and subsequent recovery of one of its members suffering from brain hemorrhage, and how they find their way back to the land of the living.

 I read the book last week over 4 evenings and nights, of days filled with intense, meditative study of Vibhuti Pada, chapter 3 of the yoga sutra, with a group of co-sadhakas that also included the author-protagonists of the book!  

And because of this concurrence of the yoga study and life story perhaps, this book seems forever intertwined with the learning and insights from the Vibhuti Pada of the yoga sutra:

How it is possible to connect with the ecstatic joy and beauty of simply being Alive.

How just by the virtue of being this ordinary human being, he and she have the potential and possibilities of channelizing and straddling an extraordinary state of being, the extraordariness of Life, with an ordinary self simply by surrendering to that life. To the very act of being fully alive to this present moment.

Pic by Vincent on Unsplash

This book epitomizes the above for me. And brought alive an inner story for me, completing the healing process of one big part of me, and closing a very old wound. A wound that said, “Any change means loss; loss of love, loss of warmth, loss of safety, belonging… so, fear change and shun change.” A wound that did not believe that there is anything permanent and holding a terror of everything that is not.  And yet, a deeper part of me had always searched for the permanent. Is there anything that is unchanging?

This Too Shall Pass is about that which is unchanging that rests in all the dance and drama of change. And brought home to me in a primal way, that Change also means new, fresh prANA, new forms of love, new explorations, possibilities and ways of being. How fun.

It is then possible to live life with this changing, ordinary moment, every moment, being held in the lap of the extraordinary permanence within it. And as Thomas Merton says, live and celebrate the “present festival”. Like a new, tender shoot. 

Do consider buying the book, much of the proceeds from its sale will go to The GangaFoundation, an organisation for enhancing the quality of life of persons with Spinal cord injury in India, co-founded by the author, Elango Thambiah, . , 

Boundaries and beyond

 Sometimes,

Beyond childhood memories made together,
Beyond tags of cousin, brother, sister,
Beyond different routes of ideology and opinion,
Beyond ideas,
We meet some.
Labels, ages, times, words....
Distances, drop.
And there is just a spontaneous connection.
And the 'you' and 'I' pick up threads,
Seamlessly.

The Story of an Evening Walk

Fields stretch endlessly,

Meeting horizon

Bringing it closer.

Egrets and pond herons

At dusk.

Doing whatever they do,

On the fields.

The harvest is over.

Ground getting ready

For the next season,

Standing immersed in water.

Sky blue glistening on the ground,

A world turned upside-down.

Shades and layers of green,

Rising in varied textures,

To meet sky again.

An evening walk,

Encounters this world,

From the road;

From the other side-

Of a barbed wire fence.

Wondering,

Will an evening walk do,

To cross over?

What does it take

To pull down the fence?

What is some blood

On the arms and palms?

There was one who bled;

Who bore the pain of humanity

And was crucified.

Cannot an evening walk,

Take some of that pain?

And yet,

The mind is a strange machine.

It wants more roads,

With just the right mix,

Of concrete and rustic

Lest it becomes too urban-

But still needing,

The comfort of a laid out path

For the elevating evening walk.

Which never crosses over,

To the upside-down world

Of pond herons and egrets.

That justs sits there

Seemingly doing nothing;

Except of course inspire

Philosophy & poetry.

What does it take

For these worlds to merge?

A merging seems the 'answer',

When both call

In the same voice.

But the road no longer

Holds a song.

It's a flat note,

That the road wheezes out.

Sweeter seem the raucous cries

Of the egrets

And the staccato hoots

Of the pond herons.

The evening walk

Swells in indignation and anger

At the upside-down world.

Is it just going to sit there--

Looking pretty

And calling sweetly?

Shouldn't it show the way,

To reach it?

Seems the least it can do!

The black comedy

Of wanting a path again

For the evening to walk on....

To the world of egrets and herons.

So near, yet so far.

And it will be so.

For all paths

Are but habits of memory.

And all habits

Are but self-deception.

The evening walk,

Can wear itself out,

And plonk on the roadside.

Watching the upside-down world,

So near yet so far.

Sitting there, watching.

The evening walk

Is no longer the evening walk.

Because..... It's not walking any more.

Well, duh!

Empty now.

Not knowing what to make

Of this world or that,

Or itself;

Sitting there watching.

And getting angrier by the moment.

Until suddenly,

The wind catches something--

The faint strains of a melody.

Is that acceptance

Wrapping itself around the heart?

Is that acceptance

Whispering in the ear?

Is that acceptance-

Like the smell of fresh earth

rising after the rains?

Who knows

What the morning brings?

But for now,

There is acceptance.

The evening is content to burn,

With the sun.

Dog Next Door

Its been 30 days now.....

I see him every day;

Pic by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

Its just not that I see him,
I SEE him
as he barks,
when someone comes to the kitchen window -
asking for attention.
I see him,
as he barks,
going round and round -
he wants to be let out to pee.
I see him,
as he barks and makes a racket with his bowl -
he is hungry.

More than anything,
I see him
as he barks for acknowledgement,
and the people in his household
go about their chores,
emotionless, ignoring,
as he stands outside
waiting to be let in.
To be freed.  

I call to him-
a pause in the hoarse barking.
he cocks his head as he looks at me,
Unseeing-
He goes back to his barking.
I wonder,
does he recognise a friend,
and her acknowledgement?
He is trapped in man-made hell.
By a leash not more than a metre long;
In an enclosure of about 8 X 6 ft;
And "shut up" voices from the windows.
Voices with much clout,
that no neighbourly actions for help,
have helped.
It's the German Shepherd now.
It had been a Great Dane earlier.

I see me in him.
I see him in me.
How I can trap myself
in demons of my making.
High walls rising on all sides,
that I cannot see beyond-
Even a voice or a face,
from the next door balcony

Pic from spirit-animals.com

calling helplessly -
saying "You can help yourself"
"You are free"
falls on dead skin and deaf ears.
I wonder,
whether he knows his strength.
He just has to be his ferocious best.
He may get his freedom yet,
Alive, or dead.
I wonder,
whether like me,
he keeps his keepers too.
Comfortable with hoarse barking,
from an 8X6 enclosure,
tied to a short string.
What's beyond? 

pathless

Sometimes, there comes a time
When nothing answers;

The books are done and dusted,
They have no wisdom.
Well-meaning friends
Have had their say-
There are a dozen paths to take.
None offering light.
What is left to consider,
Is one's own emptiness.
Sitting on a park bench
One can look up-
Into the patterns made by life
On the limitless blue beyond,
and breathe...
While waiting for inspiration.

A poem for Jan 1st 2021

 What does it all mean really? 
One day, same as the next. 
Day fading into night
Night breaking into day. 

I've sat here every day- 
In front of You.
And the months have passed... 
And we are in Dec 31st already! 
You and I. 
Day fading into night 
 Night breaking into day. 

I dont have to see
this moment turning the clock
To smell the changing air. 
Embers and ash still burn-
Even as the womb opens.
I can taste blood and sweat,
And feel the pain of change.
Or is it you calling? 

This year Nature has had her say-
She's decided to whack her children. 
What does it really mean then? 
You calling out to me. 
How can I feel this peace-
When so much of the world is in pain?
At war with itself.
Blind, foolish, pitiable....

Who are you then? 
Who am I then? 
Who can feel this peace? 
Can there be a joy for one,
Which is not for all? 

Yet another shot at pinning down Love

Doesn't Love come

In all shapes;

All sizes;

All colours.

Multiple times.

Simultaneously. 

In all ways;

In any way,

Anyways. 

Reflection

Of oneself,

In other eyes. 

Perception of

A piece of divinity. 

The sunshine.

Timelessness.

Limitlessness.

Spontaneous connection-

A oneness. 

Synchronicity in the air. 

If all that be Love,

Don't we then go all ways? 

Woman, Man, Fluid, Trans...

Lame, Sightless, Deaf, One-armed...

Socialist, Communist, Capitalist, Humanist... 

Hindu, Buddhist, Jew, Christian, Muslim, Jain... 

Married.

Single.

Divorced.

Separated.

Complicated... 

What else cannot be transcended? 

Beyond. 

In Love. 

Every One,

A potential soulmate. 

You would see your reflection,

In the nasty worm 

that eve-teased you,

or adam-teased,

In the bus yesterday. 

But if you meet your teaser

In the dark alley

And see your reflection,

as (s)he overpowers you,

And don't whack your reflection

In the balls, 

Genitals, 

If that is what it takes; 

Then I will call you 

Completely cuckoo! 

If I am in limitedness,

Can I perceive limitlessness? 

If I am incomplete,

How can anybody ever complete me? 

If I am not in love with myself,

Do I really, truly, love anyone else? 

Love knows no sacrifice. 

Clarified, rare, moments

Of pure perception,

Oneness of being

That needs no more doing. 

Isn’t it its own doing?

Doesn't Love fulfil itself? 

We do more: 

Plan 
Expect 
Talk 
Demand 
Court 
Marry 
Protect      
Help... 

For ourselves. 

Heart on Fire – Rukmini Paatti’s Obituary

The first feeling that I had yesterday, as I went to the ice-box and saw paatti lying still in it, was of a sinking and heavy heart. One more life from that precious generation gone; paatti is, was, around 93 years - this generation I mean. I hold it precious because elders I know from this age seem to live with a sense of fullness of life… complete, whole, seasoned lives. The following sloka comes to mind as I think of this phenomenon:

ॐ पूर्णमदः पूर्णमिदं पूर्णात्पूर्णमुदच्यते ।
पूर्णस्य पूर्णमादाय पूर्णमेवावशिष्यते ॥
ॐ शान्तिः शान्तिः शान्तिः ॥

Om Puurnnam-Adah Puurnnam-Idam Puurnnaat-Puurnnam-Udacyate |
Puurnnasya Puurnnam-Aadaaya Puurnnam-Eva-Avashissyate ||
Om Shaantih Shaantih Shaantih ||

Roughly translated, “That is complete. This is complete. From completeness, arises completeness. Removing completeness from completeness, only completeness remains. Peace. Peace. Peace.”

Granted that I didn’t see that much of Rukmini paatti in recent times. It had been in the 90s that I met her a lot, going to school with her granddaughter Sathya, one of my best friends from school.  And then for about a year or so between 1995 and 1997 I saw her for a few hours every day. Particular life circumstances made it such that I spent almost all my time besides school and sleeping hours, at their house for that time period. Then as we grew up, and supposed adulthood, its daily life and responsibilities took over, my visits got lesser and lesser.  

However, I never could forget her altogether. She made it so. I went over to visit them (paatti and thatha) in their lovely Mandaiveli house from time to time, selfishly just to get her sweet blessings. And she, peace be with her soul, never forgot to call and wish me every year for my wedding anniversary, a month earlier on the same date! Every year.  We would laugh about it, she’d say, ok I have it marked right this time, and then like clockwork call me a month earlier for my anniversary the next year.

This I will remember of her the foremost – her sweetness of speech.  In all the years that I have known her, I have never heard her utter one word that was harsh, or with ill-will.  The two instances that I do remember her starting to say something that was approaching negative, she stopped herself to say “but we don’t know what it is for them” and “we don’t know their circumstances”. 

A heart, so pure and innocent, was sending out the sweetest blessings for me and for others. Wholesome blessings with utter absence of any agenda, guile or self.  It was all between Perumaal (Lord Vishnu) and the receiver of the blessings. That she was simply the almost-invisible instrument, was the implicit feeling in the way she gave her blessings. I realise that my fervent prayer as I write this is for me to imbibe this quality of hers, while also laughing wryly at the irony that the prayer itself has so much self. Whenever I gave my obeisance in the traditional way, by doing namaskaaram and touching her feet (which was every visit, to hear her blessings of course!), she would just direct me to the altar as well every time. And say, “it all comes from there”.  

I will always remember her as so active, taking care of her household and everyone in such a lively manner. Not a stray moment around her, until the last couple of years when age took over Will I think.  She knew that I loved coffee, and the first thing she would do is to give me a cup whenever I visited. I always saw her taking care that all of us, Satya’s friends, or anyone else in her vicinity had eaten properly, and insist on this. Like many elders from that generation, she would remember the significant to the smallest life details that we tell her, and ask about them. The job offer. Daughter’s school. Shift to new city, are you settled. Cold and cough a month back, how are you now.  Didn’t you say painting was happening, is it over ... Such keen interest in the sense of well-being of people around that she would glean from all this apparently “just information”.   

It is this aspect of being able to serve the well-being of others that she seems to have held above all. Way back in 1992 I think, when I first started going over to their place, there'd been a time of water shortage in Chennai.  The water lorry came when I'd been there chatting with Satya. I helped with the activity of filling up many drums and pots and stocking up water and saw it through until the lorry left, and the work was over.  She never failed to mention this as her first introduction of me to anyone, for more than a decade.  I am pretty sure that it was this one instance that warmed her to me so much. 

It has been a couple of months now since I visited. When I mentioned regret that I hadn’t been able to see her one last time and get her aashirvaadam (blessings), Sathya sent me this message: “She really wasn’t talking the last 10 days. I would hold the memory of her as the active, loving person you know, with the natural simplicity of being that many of us aspire towards.” 

By the time the rituals were completed at home, and she was taken to the crematorium, her body had started shrinking rapidly, and face had started looking bird-like. As part of the ritual, coal was placed on her heart, ghee (clarified butter) was poured on it, and it was then lit. My heart was on fire. Her body was pushed into the incinerator.  The impermanence of this physical body and the permanence of some higher energy that it houses – Paatti and others of her generation seemed to be so much in touch with this, and so effortlessly.  Maybe it is this sensing that gave Rukmini paatti her pure and good heart and her simplicity of being. What more is this body for, if not this religion.

Sathya’s words are paatti’s truest essence - her religion of the heart. It is this picture of her I will carry in my heart forever, and this slokam as her life’s blessing:

ॐ पूर्णमदः पूर्णमिदं पूर्णात्पूर्णमुदच्यते ।
पूर्णस्य पूर्णमादाय पूर्णमेवावशिष्यते ॥
ॐ शान्तिः शान्तिः शान्तिः ॥