Kaathu - An Obituary

Kaathu is a Thamizh word meaning wind / air. For us, the word 'Kaathu' is short for Kaathavaraayan, and synonymous with Love. Pure, unadulterated, unconditional Love. 

"Kaathavaraayan" is the name of a village deity in Tamil Nadu, meaning "the one who protects".  Our dog, Kaathu, short for Kaathavaraayan, enveloped and protected us in his cocoon of love. 

He died this morning, and what an auspicious death. In the early brahmamuhurtham time, just after Amavasya started, on Deepawali day. He leaves behind such a treasure of memories - adventure stories, fullnesses, lessons of life and love, togetherness and warmth during struggles and joys, silences and spaces, comedies and tragedies, a paw reaching out and calling for attention, a jaw gently placing itself on one's lap in quiet acknowledgement of emotion, melting eyes looking into mine with endless trust and love, lots and lots of comic play, sulks and making up, running with the wind in abandon, combats and resistances, always flowing, and holding us with such communication and sensitivity.  I will miss the space he gave me and how a deep part of me felt listened to by him. 

He had the biggest heart. There was so much space inside it that he put up with any kind of space outside. He adjusted and accommodated with all our meanderings and detours and whatnots of life with such cheer and sport. I remember, right during the 2015 floods, we were shifting bag and baggage to Tiruvannamalai. I was in this tiny Acer van, the driver on one side, me by his side, my 3something-yr-old daughter on my lap, and Kaathu at my feet. Thats all was the space for each of us for about 3-4 hours, as we took the highway through lashing rains, (lots of thunder and lightening), intimidating play of light and shadow all around as we crawled past dusk and into the night. All this frightens him, but he sat through it all, curled up and quite content, ensuring that his body was fully in contact, giving me a lick once in a while asking for attention (and/or giving it!). 

This was the way he loved - with his full loving presence and demanding the same from us. No loving quietly from the sidelines for this guy. He filled our lives with the light of his eyes and the love of his heart -
"sitting right in the middle of my carpentry tools as I chiseled and sawed that I had to encounter him constantly", says senior K;
"looking at me as I eat all the time wondering when he is going to get his tidbits, and competing with me for attention", says junior K;
"he would sit right there at the kitchen entrance as I cooked, or stretch out beside me, his entire body touching the side of my thigh and leg as I sat at my computer", says me. 
The grandmothers received his love in the way they wanted initially - without touch and from a slight distance (He knew this without being told). But over time, he won them over enough with all his beseeching looks, that they completely gave in and started patting his forehead or touching his torso carefully.  

He was just so completely there, fully present with us. And so much in silence. Except when he barked at something from outside. His bark belied his size and never failed to startle, stun or freeze anyone - human, animal or bird. It was like the roar of a lion. I took pleasure in his sound and his silence. And in the touch and feel of him. That's how he showed up.

He loved his food, and ate just about everything that we did. He wanted sambhar rice and tomato rice just as much as he lapped up pasta and pizza. He completely went for taste and refused to touch his food if it just had bland rice. Senior K has become so used to keeping aside whatever is cooked to mix in his food that this is going to be a difficult habit to lose, he said. The loss of an animal family member, that too one who had mixed himself with our days and moments so thoroughly, like sugar in milk, is difficult. He made life sweeter.  

We buried his body in a beautiful place under a neem tree, a brook gurgling nearby, surrounded by fields and trees, and in the gaze of Arunachala. As I smelt the fresh, tangy, unpolluted air, I was remembering Kaathu's doggy smell that I loved to bury my face and nose into. 

Climate Change

Pic by Guillermo Ferla on Unsplash

Girivalam Diary, 10th August 2021

Many legs walking along,
In this cool and pleasant morning.
Leisurely paces, firm gaits,
Trailing fire.
Hot and cold all at once.
Every eye encountered;
_a reflection of restfulness
Holding tiredness, and watchfulness.
As if a battle has been fought,
And crossed over.
Not of defeat or victory though.
We can only speak of relationships.
And intimacy.
With the self and the other.
With viruses.
Even the warrior
On a closer look-
though holding shield and sword
Is doing so with a smile,
Held by his backdrop
Of sky and mountain.
Soreness and tiredness,
Held in a gentle perception
of the centre
that seems to hold it all.

It's safe here
to encounter rage,
It is seen and held,
And subsides.
It's safe here
to encounter fear,
It is seen and held,
And subsides.
It's safe here
to encounter pleasure and aversion,
Joy and sorrow.
All seen and held,
Subsiding.
It's safe here
to glory in love and freedom.
There is a courage
that can arise out of such restfulness.
The perception of the largest
And deepest context
That one can hold,
And be held in.
There is no way ahead,
nor a map.
But this path
Shines around the centre.
Earth moves around the sun,
Twirling around her axis,
In joyous abandon.
How to dance the dance,
Will be revealed
As she dances
in cosmic rhythm.
This moment too will pass.
And the sea tides will rise
With the moon.
And subside again.
And life will go on.
Outer climate faithfully reflecting,
The inner. 

Ardhanarishvara - Reflections from Pavazhakundru

He is all Sky
She is all of Earth.
Wind in their wings--
Dancing with each other.
Lighting the lamp of love
Immersed in the river of life,
Sometimes swimming along the waves
Sometimes navigating the currents
Watching each other play.
He teachers her courage, and holds her;
As she flies, into his Infinity.
She teaches him patience, and anchors him;
Allowing him to rest, in her Creativity.
She sinks her teeth into his neck.
He returns the favour and crushes her lips.
They smile wickedly.

Innocently.
with joyous sorrow,
with painful pleasure,
As they both draw blood.
And kill each other every day,
Every moment.
So as to be born anew the next.
And meet again, and again. 
--------------------------------------------------------------
We are today in urgent need of finding and allowing the feminine and masculine within us to meet in ecstatic union. Both, the masculine and feminine of human society as a whole today are at war with each other and are only meeting on the battleground, swords drawn, guns exploding, and fighting each other from the shadows. They are seldom meeting in parks and gardens, or playing on the beach, or watching the sunrise together or dancing in the moonlight. This is largely the situation within individuals as well. For humanity to take this step, individuals need to allow this to happen in their beings, bodies. Each of us needs to allow the Ardhanarishvara within to take form, with the feminine and masculine coming together in perfect and dynamic rhythm. And this love is a continuing death-life process, happening every moment, so that each moment's action is born anew, out of that love. The future of the planet rests on this. 

- 21st July, Reflections and view from Pavazhamkundru, Tiruvannamalai where Ardhanarishvara is supposed to have taken form and given darshan. 

Re-cognising

Pure home-made ghee
Fragrant with timeless love.

A unique family stew,
with particular vegetables, lentils
spices and herbs...
made especially for me.

Colourfully aglow flowers of Rangoli
that bloom just outside the doorway,
every dawn.

The Beauty of Nature,
drenching pages & pages with ink,
and webpages with blogposts-

A gentle and composed smile,
Or the quiet tears of hurt,
Righteous anger that corrected,
Followed by immediate embrace.

Ever-expanding activity-
A proliferating message of Love,
and a passion for all-
Compassion, encompassing...

All the earthiness of Earth
As only a mother can hold.
Do we have it in us
To really look at her-
And hold her just a little bit-
As she does us.

Lest it becomes too late
For humanity to say,
Mother, I love you too.
At least as much as you do me.
Lest it becomes too late
For humanity
to act from Love.

And recognise that we,
are the missing parts;
Of the puzzle that is She.

- 26th June 2021, reflections from the previous season of Purnam Cafe (theme of contemplation and conversation: "the pattern that connects us")

Returning

 

21st June 2021

All paths, yoga and otherwise, lead to you. 
All practice is of you.
All gifts are given by you.
All offerings are also yours. 
All breaths come from you,
And each OM exhaled returns home,
To You. 

16th Jan 2021 

The west sun welcomed me,

Settling into her own alchemy.
A friend recently spoke of homecoming-
And that's what I was humming.
A memory of what I'd left behind,
Taking form in my mind.
The sounds and sight;
Smells of dipping hands into twilight...
The taste of a sweetness,
Ageless. Timeless.
Home sweet home,
Resting quietly in chrome.
Returning to this epicentre,
Is not governed by my calendar.
I can only try to listen.
And answer again and again...
Until the epicentre,
Dissolves into its heart-centre. 

Behind

Antness of  the ant

elephantness of the elephant

natureness of Nature 

humanness of the Human

deathness of death

lifeness of life.

Plunging deep,

into the heart of form,

into the core of Earth;

into the core of me --

burning there. 

Would that dissolve form? 

Can something be created 

out of nothing? 

Clay and potter --

Her creative energy

her hands

skin and breath,

the smell of wet earth,

and its texture-

mingle on the wheel-

round and round and round... 

and breathe life as one. 

what gives life? 

the mud? 

the potter? 

the wheel? 

all of them swirling together? 

They all seem to matter,

And yet, they all are but matter;

material of life,

that move around a centre.

(What is it that breathes?) 

Who are You? 

What are You? 

Behind. 

the mind cannot but help,

take recourse to what it 'knows'

what it believes--

brilliant as that recourse is.

swirling and churning,

the material of life -- 

Words in a book,

still not what they denote.

And yet... 

Krishna tells Draupadi

in a letter-

on a thousand-petalled golden lotus: 

I am Infinity. 

I am your unbreakable bond,

with everything else.

I am your Arjuna too.

The universe is,

but a reflection of me.

I AM. 

Who is this I then? 

And what can the I create? 

I am an infant

searching for the new 

to come out of me,

while all that there is,

It already is. 

- April 2021

-------------------------------------------------------

A poem evoked by the essay, "Why Exhibit Works of Art?" by Ananda Coomaraswamy, which had been in discussion at Purnam Cafe. 

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?