Celebrating guruhood

This Vijayadasami post is to celebrate the tradition of "guruhood", and all the gurus I have had and those I continue to have, and acquire.

Gurus are people who actually seek you out. And then proceed to take over your life in ways as never before and never after. They give you all of themselves, their time, heart, thought, opportunities, challenges, provocations, work, more work, laughter, tears, food... they might even grow and cook it for you. They might throw in free massages as well. And of course, knowledge. Mind you, you didnt ask for all of this, no sir! You will resist in overt and covert ways, you only wanted to learn sanskrit, or music, or maths and in fact not even now, sometime in the near future... So sometimes you will hem and haw, other times you will fight and struggle upfront, or even try and use strategic ways to only just take what you want and quit the place. But you underestimate your opponent. In true martial artist alias guru style, they will ignore you, swat away your tantrums like pesky mosquitoes and with great love give you what you need. Or what you think they think you need! I havent figured that one out yet.

The thing is these people are life teachers. They show you how they take on life, how to live. But the best part is, they don't look at it this way. When they see you, they dont see you the way you perceive yourself, they are equipped with long sight as far as you are concerned. They see you as your potential actualised, and are constantly pushing you towards that vision. The details of that vision might change, but that doesnt matter. Their work is to push, provoke, challenge, raise, support and season you. Sometimes they will drag you kicking and screaming too. No newfangled notions of individuality and choice here, my child!

I have heard it being said that for true learning to happen, both the seed (teaching / ideas) and soil (student/ taught) should be okay. (As an aside, it is interesting that the teacher as an entity is not mentioned) And so, if the student is the soil, I have come to believe that the fertility of the soil is FAITH. And this faith lends reverence to the process of learning, and facilitating learning. It is my experience that my gurus never really taught me, they have always been facilitating my learning and this is my greatest blessing till date. If faith is at the heart of this process, then the gurus become wish fulfilling trees. Their energy and engagement with you is at the level of a spontaneous perception and insight, a no-mind plane where they facilitate not just your learning, but your well-being and happiness in life. Then you will find them giving you all sorts of stuff that you need, right at the time that you need them, without ever really talking of any of it. There is a communication that happens without the minds participating at all. This can happen at various levels of intensity and understanding, and gurus can be for a season or a lifetime. But come to you they surely do, and if you are armed with faith and you hand over that weapon as well to them, they will make something out of you, or help you make something of yourself. Go figure that one.

One last thought: even if the faith is there, the fight is there too. The seasoning and the molding happens in and through this process of resistance and struggle. And my gurus might call it my arrogance, when I say that the fight seasons them too. They are learning in the process too, and a true guru is more aware of it than the student. So, fight with faith!

Working with the soil

Working with the soil and tending plants, especially saplings - I have always theorised about how important it is for each one of us to be connected to the earth this way, especially children. Today I will say it emphatically. Fresh after my gardening session. Yes, I have harvested dals and done some weeding a while back in a farm. However, the joy and meditation of preparing a soil bed and planting tender saplings is unbeatable and a fundamental experience of life, I think.

Weeding first to clear an area and removing roots, stones etc.,

then loosening the soil with the help of a hand shovel,

"one has to be careful about the smaller creatures (millipedes for example) and not kill them as much as possible" (as my teacher and companion for this gardening session told me),

setting up a fence simultaneously so that the pups don't dig up the saplings,

adding cow dung manure to the area and further mixing and loosening the soil,

making alternate rows of ridges and troughs taking care not to harden the soil,

then at last planting the saplings.

"Planting the saplings" cannot adequately express the gentleness, delicate handling and complete attention that the little lives require to be put (roots first!&#!) into the soil. The roots shouldn't go too deep in otherwise they would just muck and die. The soil should be closed around the roots just so. Quoting my gardening teacher, "closing the soil around the roots is like hugging someone - it can't be too tight that you squeeze the life out or frighten them off and it can't be too loose that they don't feel it at all." It has to be from the heart! Just handling the soil with just the right pressure is, simply life. Children would do this best I think. In fact, children must do this and then, tend to them and watch their saplings grow, and grow right along.

Just as I will. After planting my saplings, I poured water into the troughs and sprinkled some on the plants. Tomorrow, it will be time to add dry leaves for mulching, so that the soil or the sapling does not get dry. Then watch the saplings take in sunshine and grow, as the roots catch, spread and drink up water. I am a child again.

Cauliflower manchurian and Red Cherry Blossoms

We were out on the bike at 9:45 p.m. for a family chore. K, my husband, usually tries one strategy or another to keep my mind occupied elsewhere away from the road so that I don't ride the bike by proxy sitting pillion. As a result of one of these strategies, in this particular instance I was narrating the Zen story, Red Blossom Cherry. In the story, a man is being chased by a vicious snake and running from it he reaches the edge of a cliff. He jumps from the fear of the snake, and clings to a tree. There's a landing ground below, but before he can land, he hears a lion's roar from below. The branch he's clinging to starts dangling. In the midst of all this, he spots a Cherry. He plucks it and eats it. The snake is the past, the lion future and the present, the red blossom cherry! I was narrating this story because we were discussing the movie, Right Here Right Now (by the way, a must-watch, which tells a brilliant story of possibilities of living this moment and not living this moment, all in half hour and with no unnecessary dialogues).

After finishing the chore, we spotted a favourite restaurant on our way back home and impulsively stopped for a post-dinner snack (dinner had been an era back at 7:30 p.m.)! Both of us ordered the unhealthiest possible junk on the menu, deep fried, heavy stuff. I asked for the dry cauliflower manchurian. After inhaling almost all of it and ensuring deep satisfaction of the palate, I commented on the nature of my snack. That "yogically" speaking (I am a serious student of yoga), I have violated all rules given by my guru. And also that "ayurvedically" speaking (we follow the ayurveda system of medicine for health and wellbeing), I am probably going to suffer from an increase of vata the next day.

Pat came the answer: Your learning of yoga is the snake of the past; and the effect of the food on you is the lion of the future. The cauliflower manchurian is your red blossom cherry! (with a wicked smile, no less!)

An "uncivilised" bath, almost.

I got the opportunity to have an almost-"uncivilised" bath after nearly 8 years, i.e., a bath out in the open, under the blue sky, birds flying overhead and the vibrant smell of nature - the fresh, tangy and minty fragrance of air where there are trees around, and of course the most pleasurable significant of all, this God's own breeze vying with sunshine to hit my skin in hitherto completely unexposed regions. In other words, a bath in the lap of Mother Nature. I call it 'almost' because it was not wholly in the wild. I was on the terrace of a house with the facility for such a bath. The house is located in a green surrounding and having a garden as well, away from pollution. Hence, I was not in the sterilised environment of a modern bathroom, closeted away from the healing touch of nature. Imagine the pores of all my skin soaking in sun and air as Nature wanted us to soak them in. I felt as complete and uncivilised as an animal would. Of course, I have never been able to find out from an animal how it feels as a creature of Nature. But I wish we could understand from them what it is to give to Nature and take from her multifold, and live as one of Her family; and so stop becoming more and more civilised and move farther and farther away from Nature, her nature, and her gifts - like taking an uncivilised bath, but oh so gloriously healthy.

I think it is these havens of uncivilisation that are keeping mankind still happy and going, in all the flurry refinement and ostentation of civilisation. Wherever we are uncivilised, we dont need to be developed, civil, polite, urban, pragmatic, rational and sane; We are free to be pagan, wild, content, insane and undiscovered. Discovery and development seem to be the yardsticks of a civilisation. And we discover different civilisations to have them clash with each other as well.

We humans need to continue giving ourselves enough uncivilised baths to wash away the dirt of civilisation.

Stay this moment

Stay! Stay a moment,
Stay here with me.
Don't go so fast,
Or you will miss this moment
And miss me.

I will no longer be able
To speak to you clearly -
and tell you of wondrous things
show you the joy of love
or its bitter-sweet pain.
or the learning of achievement
or even the pleasure of failure...
Hurry along in this way -
Your lover I cannot be.
I cannot feel your breath
nor your hand, nor heart.
How can I guide you
to the gentle warmth of sunshine,
Or to the biting cold
of another jealous poet?
You are so far ahead,
and my voice gets weaker.
How can I make love?
My whispers you cannot hear.
You talk to me no longer,
and you are in a race.
You may perhaps win accolades,
But not me.
Don't go so fast
Or you will miss me.


Come Along!
Come along with me.
or I will leave you behind.
I cannot describe the preciseness
and the blurriness of now,
and their strange play
if you lag behind.
I cannot become your violin,
and sing the song of melancholy
neither can I dance,
taking you with me in ecstacy.
the smell of flowers blooming on the roadside
mixed with smells of dust and urine,
You will not know,
You are not here with me.
I am desolate
I am losing you,
but you dont know it,
as you search for me
hanging back.
You need to come along
to be here with me,
this moment.

If you stay a moment,
If you still a moment,
You will know,
I cannot be in the past,
it is an illusion.
I cannot live in the future,
I have not created it yet.
I breathe only this moment,
I dance only this moment
I love only this moment,
I can give you only this moment.
And fool that you are,
you do not recognise
that being your Muse,
I can only be in the here
I can only be in the now
I am goddess only of this moment.
Live this moment, live me.

Where is the power?

I got up this morning to an alien stillness in the air. I wondered idly what it was while brushing my teeth, then going to my customary chair with some reading and writing material (I am on recuperating holiday and cannot and don't have to rush with work). But what is this silence? It stupefied me since I can hear birds chirping, a dog barking somewhere, the noise of the pressure cooker from the neighbour's house... It is not that my husband has already left for work; he is a rather silent and softspoken man anyway and so it could not have been the absence of his voice.

I sat on my chair and tried to apply all my powers of heuristics to the problem. I slowly realised that I could hear a sound that I had never heard before, it must have been a bird calling but I had never heard it before. I went to the window and started looking out for the birds. I could hear crows cawing of course. But gradually to my utter delight I distinguished at least six different bird calls and NOT squirrels, which were also squeaking by the way. (Some mistake the squirrel's repeated squeaking for a bird call). I also spotted a couple of them - the sun bird, the woodpecker, and seven sisters.

After the treat, I came back to my chair a few feet away from the window still listening carefully to identify newer bird calls. I gradually started hearing occasional vehicle sounds from the road. I live in a green campus, and slightly away from the road. The sound of bikes zooming or the horn of a bus is common, but now I could hear noises that were further down on parallel roads. Since I was into investigation anyway this morning, I started listening to those sounds as well. I could make out when a car was nearing, and on which side of the road it was, ie in which direction it was going. In a while I realised that I could make out whether a bus was slow or fast even as the sound came nearer, became louder and then slowly went farther away, and faded into silence. I fancied I could hear angry horns as people rushed to work, and a stray leisurely one.

Time went by and I still hadnt figured out this silence, a silence despite all the sounds around me. I realised I could feel and hear my breath.
And felt it s-l-o-w-i-n-g.
I...n and o.....u....t.
I....n a.n.d o.....u.......t.
The air in me seemed to be still. I wondered whether I was going to stop breathing any moment now, my time had come.

I was distracted by the curtain at the window flapping and after less than a minute felt a gentle breeze on my face and shoulder. I was fascinated with this and waited for the next flap. The curtain flapped and I counted the seconds till the breeze reached me. While I waited for the next flap, the curtain blurred, and the sight of the trees out in the backyard sharpened. The branches and leaves on the tree top waved at me madly and sure enough in a short while, the curtain flapped and I counted the seconds till it hit my face. So I knew that this morning this was the direction in which the breeze came. I made a mental note to ask my husband about these directions of the breezes here (He is rather closely connected with them and knows them well). Meanwhile I went back to playing with the breeze. The tree top moved, and when I whispered "Now!" it hit me - I stopped short of jumping in glee; thankfully, because my poor injured knee would have waged permanent war against me if I had tried that kind of stunt. I now started timing whether with every instance, the time that the breeze took to reach me from the tree top was the same. Then I also realised that the speed also seemed to reduce as it reached me inside.

I felt a movement near my right ankle and acting on instinct I slapped on it. A mosquito. Me?!! I caught a mosquito?! How is that possible? I have made history - I could never get them, I didnt even manage to get the one that gave me chikun guniya. As I was ruminating on this, I felt the air next to my left cheek change and slapped - a mosquito again?!!! I was flabberghasted. What was happening to the world today? And I swear that I felt it coming even before it sat on my cheek. How did I feel this air next to my skin move? Did I really? I have never felt this before, unless I am anticipating a movement. And as tiny as a mosquito? But it was unmistakeable, and twice. It was something to do with the silence. I was certain by now.

The shaft of sunlight coming from the hall window through the curtains, a good 15 feet or so away was now at a sharp angle to the floor. More perplexity. I hadn't even realised being aware of it, but I had been. I knew that it had been at a gentle angle to the floor a while back. When had I noticed it? I was by now ready to bang my head in frustration, it was to do with this confounding silence and stillness....

when all of a sudden, clacking, whirring, buzzing, humming, jangling.... the power came back. And the stillness shattered. I am still wondering, why do we call electricity 'power'? It feels like an oxymoron to call electricity, 'power'.

Raavanan / Raavan - A Love Story

It is a brilliant and moving love story. As simple or as complex as a love story can get. A story of people who are not caricatures of the Good or the Evil, but real characters who have shades of both, who have both violence and love in them.

His story: True love always transforms and brings out the best. And this is the story of a man who discovers true love in himself and transforms, and ultimately dies for the love. Or we could also understand it to be that Veera / Beera had anyway the capacity for generous and unconditional love as is indicated by his relationship with his own people. And that his true love for a woman gives him empathy and softness. It is as much his love (later) as her purity (initially) that stops him from touching her even while she is completely at his mercy. And so we see the other characters as they relate to his love story.

Her story: The woman, who is the epitome of purity and conviction of heart. But that does not mean that she is blind to the compliment of being loved by such a man. Yet she is so free of guile or doubt in her heart that she could go back to him in all trust to find out the truth. And a character who shows that purity and fidelity does not necessarily mean a hardened heart but one that can be full of compassion and justice. The movie also reveals her husband through her eyes. She (and the audience) are shown gradually that even the good man can be blinded by authority and self-importance and become mindlessly violent for his perceived good intentions. That he could also be driven to dishonourable politics, as is seen by how he contrives to use her to kill the 'villain'. If someone says that this is not dishonourable politics but simply strategy, then they have already bought into it. A true master of martial arts would tell you so. However, her ties with him are non-negotiable as she shows straightaway and repeatedly.

And this purity of Sita of the original Ramayana is one of the few aspects that have been retained in the movie. Yes, the plot of the love story is embedded in that of the original Ramayana and so there are obvious resemblances in situations and characters. However, there it ends.

For me, the above is the central theme of the movie, keep aside all the usual critical reviews and the flaws that one sees. There are obvious flaws, however they are being given too much importance that we are unable to see the true worth of the story being told. That there are good and evil acts, but no good and evil men. All of us have seeds of both in each one of us.... and that true love has the power to burrow itself so deep and so manifest generosity, compassion, selfless anger, and forgiveness.

The inexorable storyteller leaves his audience to decide whether this Sita swallows her pride in her purity, (which she shows when questioned by her husband and says death is better than to be doubted on grounds of chastity) and goes back to her husband, or goes to her death. Now that would be a very poignant climax, the 'villain' who by now is no longer appearing to be a villain, dies in true love for the heroine, who dies in true love for her 'hero', who by now is no longer appearing to be the neatly slotted and labelled hero at all.

"Smut" or Female Pornography

Did you know that romance novels (Mills and Boon, Harlequin, other single title romances...) are slangly called "smut" or female pornography? Well, this post is a rambling about the romance novel because it has been the subject of intense and casual conversations (both face-to-face and online) more than a few times in different contexts in the last ten days or so.

Most modern urban women would agree with the statement that the romance novel is probably their second best friend, or at the very least a comfortable cushion. It is probably the most widely read genre (it is being called a genre by the literature people?! as well as the Romance Novelists Association who first called it that, and so let us also go by that name) by women and also churned out every year at a very high speed. Today there are more and more romance novels that are in sync with the changing times - modern career women, enterprising, independent, spunky and struggling against odds in a male-dominated workplace, balanced relationships between the hero and heroine and so on. Right?

This may be true but this is only a part of the picture. Looking again and thinking without the worship holding the kidnapped, a victim of the kidnapper (!@I?!!! - a devoted reader would only defend her novel), one may perceive that there is more than meets the eye. There is more than meets the eye in these times especially, because everything is played out so subtly. Earlier where there were skimpily dressed women on the front cover, today we probably have landscapes, the bare-chested man perhaps or even profiles of both the hero and heroine kissing maybe. Earlier where there was no delusion in the language of the novel and so perhaps the reader's interpretation too of the portrayal, of the conventional positions of men and women as protector and protected respectively, today the language is outwardly that of modern feminism. However there is a subliminal dissemination of the same stereotypical roles, labels and patterns that feels even dangerous sometimes just because it is veiled and cloaked in language appropriate to the current trends. There is a whole system of metalanguage at insidious work here. Perhaps 'insidious' is a strong word, and perhaps individual authors are not to blame for this.

One of the important aspects of the romance novel that reveals itself to someone who wants to examine it, is that it is the heroine's perspective. The romance novel is mostly for women and mostly by women. It is by now quite intensively studied and surveyed (in the UK and USA), that the romance novel is the comfort and escapism from daily humdrum for scores of women. A casual perusal of the situation here (urban India largely) indicates a similar situation. All the scholars seem to agree on this. The matter of concern is that it is also an invisible guide to 'how to be a perfect woman and a heroine' and 'how to get the perfect hero to become your boyfriend / husband' or even 'what is true love?'. We have to understand the origin of this genre for understanding this aspect - England. The first romance novels are a delight, whether it is Samuel Richardson or Jane Austen or even Georgette Heyer. But they provide an insight into English society at that time, which had an enormous list of Do's and Dont's, how to behave in polite society, elaborate grooming rituals and etiquette and whatnot, for ladies and once a lady is out, her sole aim is to find and tie to herself in holy matrimony, a Man. A Hero. Of course, so we also have the books which tell the stories of rebel women, stories of women who are not 'gentle', not born in elite families but in traders' families and so on... However, the ultimate aim of finding the man and preparing oneself for this has not fundamentally changed over the years and until date. Well, duffer! this is a romance novel, obviously - man meets woman, they fall in love, they struggle, then they unite, has to be the central plot. But of course! So why is it a matter of concern? Because these invisible guidelines condition our minds surreptitiously and tell women one way of leading their lives, one way of being and becoming a heroine, one-answer solutions for all problems of womanhood. Fortunately or unfortunately or propitiously or happily or unhappily (I am not sure I want to specify a particular qualifying adjective I should use here so I leave it to the reader to decide this, but there must be one!), it is primarily the woman's job to hook the man. That may sound crude, but it boils down to that when one removes the glossy packaging. She has to look, dress, speak, behave, eat, breathe... in a particular way to get this man. If she is not so, then the story is also about her transformation (in its crudest form, makeover) so that she is deserving of her Hero.

Believe it, THE code for being a female is very much present in the most rebellious stories of the earlier years as well as in the most 'progressive' and 'modern' stories of contemporary authors. I have read several of both kinds. Another matter of serious concern is that this code is today dazzling women who are barely into their teens. Should we even get into the details of this code? It is obvious and it is all around us, conditioning us and our children, especially the teenagers, in the form of advertisements, soaps, movies, the works. A friend pointed out a very interesting observation a couple of months back: the supplement paper of a leading national daily that is popular here (chennai) has almost on every alternate page if not every page, some mention of 'slimming' and having a perfect body - either in the form of food articles, or ads for gyms and cosmetics, or an interview with a beautician. You name it, it is there. And the marketing language is very clear - it is directed at women, the objective of all these pursuits for women is one, peer acceptance, and two, either getting into a relationship or maintaining one or even getting back an estranged boyfriend. An article in Tehelka Magazine, speaks about how teenagers today function on "American Remote control", describing the soaps that are being watched on television. Women, young and old are being groomed, polished and manicured with this code.

Let us now take a look at our Hero for whom all the above must be done. According to the romance novel, He is the Man in the men, the perfect being and epitome of manhood. He is always, either covertly or overtly in the position of the giver (of security, riches, status, recognition, validity in the eyes of society...) and the heroine in the position of the taker. It is simply that while this was explicit in the earlier novels, it is not so in the modern romance novels that are largely single title romances in paperback. If we deconstruct the language, we arrive at the same conclusions that the man has to be a "Hero" and neither can he be a physical weakling nor a "wimp". According to several studies and discussions on this issue, we have a perfectly manufactured and orchestrated hero, just as the perfectly groomed and conditioned woman.

Did you know that, "the 'Alphaman' was based on what Alan Boon referred to as a 'law of nature': that the female of any species will be most intensely attracted to the strongest male of the species, or the Alpha. In other words, the Hero must be absolutely top-notch and unique. The wimp type doesn't work. Women don't want an honest Joe,' Alan Boon seems to have said." For the uninitiated, Alan Boon was the son of Charles Boon who started the Mills and Boon company in the early 1930s in the UK, and one of the rules given to the authors was the "Alphaman" one. Although by now there have been many developments (for instance, Harlequin bought over M&B in the 70s and we have a large number of single title romance novels today), the alpha male seems to be a standard unwritten code among all romance authors.

So what have we here? A perfect hero, a perfect heroine, and the perfectly true love story. Herein is the third lesson: True Love. One of the most important rules is that for true love, it is a must to feel physical attraction of the kind described in these novels. And one must of course discover suddenly or over a period of time that one has fallen in love madly. So today we have a true love that can only be true one way. The result of this is that we have more and more women out there waiting for that chemistry, and waiting for that zip in their "heart" and zing in their "core" before they can commit. I know a couple of such women and have heard of many more. There will be many more waiting if the trend goes on because the truth is that neither are they such perfect women nor are there such perfect heroes. God forbid!

One corollary to this is also that we completely miss the hard work, the commitment, patience and time it takes in actuality to make an imperfectly perfect marriage or relationship. There are more and more young people out there who are not ready to give time to a relationship, they want it perfect, and now! And the responsibility of bringing perfection always belongs to the other in the relationship. What seemed like a natural phenomenon in the first bloom of "true love" becomes very difficult to accept or understand as time goes by - that it takes two to tango.

It is very easy to dismiss all this by saying that it is after all a story. Why make such a fuss over a story? This is exactly what I said half a dozen years ago. But I have come to understand what a foolish and simplistic belief that is. Stories have the power to transform people. And stories make you believe. They have done so now for all of the history of mankind. And we are just being naive if we say these are just stories and they do not have it in them to condition and direct minds. Just as naive as saying that advertisements have no impact on children. When we believe that this is 'just a story' we forget that many many times the stuff that we consume, we are made to consume because there are big stakes in the consumption, including the romance novel. As a matter of information, the Romance Writers of America and the Romance Novelists Association are two entities that are not simply a bunch of home makers alias authors who are able to put words on paper and put together a romance plot in a thrilling fashion. These are two significant groups which fund research and scholarship on romance and romance novels.

What makes it all even more worrying for me is the "American remote control" and that teenagers and young adults of urban India have a near-death grip on it and it wont take very long for the rest to follow. We now have the romance genre for the teenager. There is this new book called "Twilight" and it truly horrifies me, and not because the teen hero of the book is a werewolf. You can read one review here to see how all the stereotypes of the 'adult' romance novel are repeated here and quite in an empty fashion. Clearly, teenagers now are not credited with much intelligence. I have not read the book, but have read several excerpts, synopses and descriptions given by various people, both critics and devotees and a few reviews. These do not inspire me to pursue the book further, except faintly perhaps to understand what makes teenagers go gaga over it.

Having said all that, I have to add that there are some really good romance novels too. But unfortunate that in the tsunami of romance novels hitting shelves each year, these perhaps make for a few drops.

Claimer: The above are views of a lay reader who has read several hundreds of these romance novels including the master of the romance genre, Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, and still likes it best.

Death

Couple of days ago, an elderly friend of ours, an allopathic doctor was sharing his chagrin and concern about the direction which modern medicine and the beneficiaries of it are taking. He said that there are many things that are going not quite okay, but more than all that what affects him deeply is the changing attitude of the patients who come to him as well as his colleagues, since this is something he comes across personally.

He spoke about how everyone wants the doctors to work miracles, nothing short. No matter what the disease, what the conditions and circumstances, and no matter the age of the patient, they all want the miracle of life. No matter how it is done, they should be saved. Even if the patient is 85-years old, with a weak heart and some other irreversible condition. He added that his colleagues thought him heartless and sometimes even brand him unethical if he says so-and-so must be left in peace to die since he / she is 76 or 85 years old and the body cannot take the trauma of surgery and complicated procedures. Even those patients themselves ask him to save them somehow.

He exclaimed, "Am I a magician or God or something? Is medicine invincible? After all we are human beings and live according to the rules of creation. Why cannot we accept death as a part of life any longer? This never used to be the case before. A patient who has a wise attitide about death is a rarity. I remember that in the last so many years, there was one old man from a village who had this wisdom. He was 75+ years old and came to me with a block in his intestine that was in a really advanced stage. To top it, he also had a weak heart."

After examining him, my friend tells him (he believes in stating it as it is to the patient which also is not acceptable to many) that because of his age, his weak heart and his advanced age there is a greater possibility that he may die during the required complicated surgery or even in its immediate aftermath. It seems that the man told him, "So what? I have lived my life and it has been alright. It is just that in this age I am unable to endure the pain, if you say that after the surgery the pain will go away then by all means please do the operation and if I die in the process, all the better. I am happy". The man came through the operation successfully and started walking within the week and was discharged soon after. My friend lamented that if only people had this sort of an attitude actually there is more chance that they will pull through rather than a beggar's appeal.

Traditionally in India, death has never been something to be pushed away, or shied from. Death is in a cycle with life, or is a completion of it. Our understanding has never been that we have to live on, no matter how, and be kept alive even artificially on life support systems. As my friend said, the medicine system and its stakeholders are going in a direction where they feel that they have to overcome death otherwise they would fail. Somehow in an earlier generation, the value was not for going on endlessly. Personally in my life, my great grandmother was an example for this. I lived with her the last few years of her life, and in the last one year, she said she was near death and welcomed it and said her work in this life was over.

This would be the understanding in theory as well. For instance, in Ayurveda while diagnosing a disease there are three ways of looking at it: sadhya, pracharasadhya and asadhya, meaning, controllable and curable; curable but with difficulty; and no cure, respectively. I think this is a very significant category that places limits on what humanity can do. This treats death as a natural phenomenon that occurs as a continuation of life, and not something that needs to be battled against and won over. I also feel that this approach to life, and death places human arrogance in its place and puts us right there as part of the nature map, interdependent with all of creation, and not out of and on top of it lording over nature. Which is the reality. The reality is that humans dont control and manipulate nature. We try to understand it, and now also tamper with it and think that we are controlling it, but we have no way of knowing it to be so. But there is ample evidence in human history that nature is not subservient to man. There is no possibility of such a comparison, we are part of it. Hence nature and man are not enemies, we dont have to conquer nature, dont need to feel this compulsion to fight death. We could take it gracefully as a part of life, as we have been doing.

But as the doctor mentioned, this value seems to be changing in ordinary life now. The more that people are in touch with wonder drugs, hospitals and the greater and greater struggle against death in the form of modern medicine, the more they are taken in by the seeming invincibility of it all. Why?

"Singam" - A short Review

The film is as any other Tamil masala formula for Tamizhnattu makkal, with dramatic dialogues and declarations meant for the Tamizh masses. True time-pass if one wants to spend time doing nothing much else.

However, there is one aspect in the movie which redeemed it for me. It dissented from the usual formula in modern tamil masalas, in showcasing the rural vs urban character. Usually in most movies (Take Gilli for instance), the hero is the guy from the metro (chennai of course!) who is intelligent, also knows all his martial arts and has the law on his side, ultimately. The villain is the goonda from the village, a country bumpkin who is all brawn and no brain.

Happily, in 'Singam' the hero is from the village; he is intelligent, smart, also knows to fight but tries always to avoid conflict, and of course has mass support. (You should watch the movie to see how this mass support is presented in the movie. Classic! and real). The villain is from chennai city with all the arrogance of coming from the capital. The juxtaposition was delightful for me.

A true-to-form scene is the dialogue between the police inspector hero and his corrupt superior, where the latter asks him, "do you think this (chennai) is a village for people to be illicitly brewing liquor?" And our hero lets loose a harangue that goes on and on about how we can think the village is inferior and chennai superior, and instances of all that is happening in chennai and so on. When the other guy can edge in to make his presence felt, he uses words like "remote tuticorin district potti kaadu", "small fry from dokku police station".

Response: I come from Potti Kaadu of Tuticorin district, from a dokku police station, bathing every day in Tamairaiparani river, and you come from this big city bathing in the stinking rotting smell of the coovum river. This is the difference between us.

Classic. No other word.

'the curious incident of the dog in the night-time'

A novel by Mark Haddon

An insightful and moving piece of work, it is written as a narration of a child who is autistic. Not only draws a beautiful picture of the world and thinking of such a person, but draws out the sense and simplicity in the understanding of a child. I found the book a profound reflection on life itself. It is a must-read for parents, teachers and educationists.

An Ode

This is a poem I wrote for someone:

Just as water flows,
Untiringly, relentlessly, to it's end
Ceasing not for celebration or sorrow.
Sometimes a comfortable gurgle,
Gently drenching souls in its path-
Sometimes an unstoppable force,
Sweeping empires into it's tiny drops.
Neither seeking favours nor giving aught;
Filling all emptiness.
Clear, transparent, beyond shape,
Assuming colour and dimension-
Taking, or giving Beauty?
Life-giving,
Almost unnoticeable in it's simplicity.
My song to the idea of <>

I lost my spectacles!

This was written when I was in class 9:

The next few lines that you are to hear,
Are the funniest, do not fear.
That suny afternoon, at school-
It was destined that I play the part of a fool.
There I was, - studiously typing -
And my friend was showing off her new ring.
All of a sudden, my spectacles! they were missing!
And then started a great deal of fussing
I searched and searched and searched everywhere -
By now the typewriters had begun to stare.
I searched every place I could find,
Telling myself that God is kind.
Then the lavatory found me in there,
For my skirt had developed a tear.
Back to class, I then came -
To find that I'd gained a lot of fame.
My friend suddenly pointed at my pocket,
There lay the culprit, right beside my locket!
My teacher exclaimed, "You are Great!"
While I sat down cursing my fate.
------------------------------

Well, I have used poetic license here. My friend was not showing off her ring but something else I dont remember what and there was no locket in my pocket, only the missing spectacles!

A smile rains

it is a typical tropical summer noon.
the heat is stifling in the jam-packed bus,
I am praying for mercy and at least a light shower.
a girl sits down beside me; asks me the time.
I answer her, and we continue our journey -
a brief unnoticed, orphan togetherness.
until she gets off the bus,
then turns and gives me a beautiful smile –
big lit-up eyes and a perfect row of teeth, on dusk.
for me, it rained.

Night Sky

Wrote this after I spent almost half the night up on the terrace once, not thinking but just being:

I met Night Sky today,
And what stories he had, to tell me.

He has been right above me all this while -
What a surprise, I met him only today.
Came everyday, and waited for me,
Or so he says!
But fool that I am,
Caught up with Good Fellow Life;
And what he has, to offer me -
That I missed Night Sky.
He just smiled at me, ordered me to shut up,
And started his tales.

He stopped the Birds,
In a hurry to return to their nests,
To stay a moment for me.
He beckoned to Gentle Breeze-
Who blew in and ruffled my hair.
He asked me to meet his little friends,
And they twinkled their greetings merrily.
Pointing out the solitary plane,
He told me about the little girl in there -
Returning from boarding school,
Her face one big smile.
He promised to introduce his other friends,
Who were just then on their roofs, chatting with him;
Some, about crazy traffic, weddings, and the coming vacation-
Others demanding that he command his absconding friend Rain to come.

He began telling me about Morning Sky,
When, "oh!" I said, "it's time for me to go -
"Good Fellow Life will be waiting for me"
Came the answer - "But, who's that sitting next to you then?!"
We're old friends now, Good Fellow Life, Night Sky and me.

Rain

Written in 2007 madras monsoon time:

Today, the skies opened up.
One moment, there was nothing,
And the next, storming us unawares -
A thick curtain of movement.

Torrents and torrents of water,
Beating upon my world
And washing it new.
Washing away all longing, all fear, all want.
My spirit, the spirit of the water, all one.
Now glistening on the leaves,
Now gushing by the side of the tar road,
Now crashing on the roof,
Now streaming down the stairway.

I am the wind howling,
I am the thunder rumbling,
I am the lightening -

For a breathless while, boundaries were hazy:
where did God stop? where water began -
where did water stop? where I began.

Wedding

Wrote this while sitting in a wedding a few years back:

So many worlds,
so many explosions---
one togetherness beginning,
so many others in the making.

Loud music,
so that the bride and groom
can hardly hear
their own thoughts;
lest they flee the altar!

Tiny steps...
laying the foundation,
for bigger strategies and stories-
"see, I've got a Big bangle, it makes this clink sound"
"see my new dress, mm... ammaaaa, I want new bangles"

Pitter patter, little feet tapping in rhythm to the noise, ahem, music.
One solitary soul sitting in deep contemplation of his surroundings...
next door gossip on one side,
"my great-aunt's daughter's husband got her the gold chain she's wearing"
"so, your daughter has become a big girl now, I remember her in her chaddis"
"by the way, I heard that he is a software engineer. How much does he get?"
one little finger picking a little nose and enjoying the spiritual experience...

Twinkling eyes, glittering sarees, reminiscences, laughter, mouths
involved in frenzied activity - no time like now to talk, no time like
now to eat, no time like now to smile, laugh...golden necks and hands,
an occasional golden nose, pearled hair, be-jewelled bodies.

The eye of the hurricane,
the centre of all the hullaballoo -
their wedding will begin
when the audience is gone,
and the glitter & gold locked away.

Romance

One of my earlier poems, written I think during a trek in the kodai hills way back in 2001!!

Romance in the air I breathe now,
romance in my soul....

is it this place?

But, we can find romance, can't we
in that elusive dream...
in tomorrow's hope?

My feet feels the morning dew on the grass,
I feel romance in my nerves...

Racing by, through the fields,
a battered tape player playing my favourite classics,
smell of pine and eucalyptus,
village sounds and smells
a backdrop of hills,
the picture of romance.

But then again,
is the romance in the picture
or in me?