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.

Beautiful, Ugly, Illusive, Certain, Magical, Mundane....

.... ENTER POETRYDOM! 

My 13-years-old niece wrote possibly one of her first poems and sent it across to my utter delight. I wrote back with one of my own. Not to be left behind in spontaneity, she responded soon enough with another, and yet another! Here they are in chronology: 

When the tangy aroma filled the room,,

I slapped my book down with a loud "BOOM"!

I got up, dropping my pencil stand,

and ran out of the room, whacking my hand!

I stopped at the kitchen and looked around,

and there it was! Making a sizzling sound.

I picked up a spoon and tasted what was so attracting,

Oh, yum, yum, yum, it was most amazing!

Next to it, in a pan was potato fry,

finally, I can eat it with Puliyotharai!!!!!!!!!'

The response: 

Welcome to the world of magic and miracles -  

Chambers of secrets ;-) and flying bicycles, 

Rainbows at night, 

The philosopher's sight; 

Oh, the pink talking pumpkin -  

And most preciously, the Beauty within.  

For, Poetry can take you to this world, 

And leave you bewitched and bedazzled. 

A world of priceless value, 

The one right within You. 

Imagine my Ecstasy at encountering 

Humour, a necessary component to be able to pierce through the depth of life and its nuances; 

A Romance with words and their meanings (the dancing and playing with words that adds the spice); and 

Willingness to give Time & Attention to the Soul's flight, in the following piece: 

Thanks a lot for the awesome reply,

about the yummy puliyotharai

and the delicious potato fry!

I will continue to write poems like this,

remembering it, I will not miss!

I will learn more new words,

and write about animals and birds;

about frogs and lizards,

witches and wizards;

plants and trees,

Rome and Greece;

bows and arrows,

joys and sorrows;

libraries and books,

anchors and hooks...

I will stop here...

if I write much more,

it would become a terrible bore!!!

And one more,

I asked amma and appa about the blog,

They said they have no problem at all!

Though I don't know much about blogs,

I'm thinking about writing a poem on dogs!

Please do send a link to it,

I am waiting... I will not quit!

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

I remember what one of my all-time favourite poets, Mary Oliver says about this Willingness, the meeting of "poetry and soul":

"If Romeo and Juliet had made their appointments to meet, in the moonlight-swept orchard, in all the peril and sweetness of conspiracy, and then more often than not failed to meet — one or the other lagging, or afraid, or busy elsewhere — there would have been no romance, no passion, none of the drama for which we remember and celebrate them. Writing a poem is not so different—it is a kind of possible love affair between something like the heart (that courageous but also shy factory of emotion) and the learned skills of the conscious mind. They make appointments with each other, and keep them, and something begins to happen. Or, they make appointments with each other but are casual and often fail to keep them: count on it, nothing happens. 

The part of the psyche that works in concert with consciousness and supplies a necessary part of the poem — the heart of the star as opposed to the shape of a star, let us say — exists in a mysterious, unmapped zone: not unconscious, not subconscious, but cautious. It learns quickly what sort of courtship it is going to be. Say you promise to be at your desk in the evenings, from seven to nine. It waits, it watches. If you are reliably there, it begins to show itself — soon it begins to arrive when you do. But if you are only there sometimes and are frequently late or inattentive, it will appear fleetingly, or it will not appear at all. 

Why should it? It can wait. It can stay silent a lifetime. Who knows anyway what it is, that wild, silky part of ourselves without which no poem can live? But we do know this: if it is going to enter into a passionate relationship and speak what is in its own portion of your mind, the other responsible and purposeful part of you had better be a Romeo. It doesn’t matter if risk is somewhere close by — risk is always hovering somewhere. But it won’t involve itself with anything less than a perfect seriousness. 

For the would-be writer of poems, this is the first and most essential thing to understand. It comes before everything, even technique."

Satsangam

Satsang is usually the word used when people gather to hear a talk by a Swami / Swamin (what do we call a woman swami, besides 'mother'?), or a regular meeting of people reading / discussing religious / spiritual texts and matters. The word 'satsangam' means 'associating / union with good / truth' (sat + sangam). 

- There are some people with whom each moment spent or thought about is a satsangam. 

- One could feel, think and act in ways such that, as much as possible, it is satsangam for others to be with one. 

- This means that one needs to practice, practice and practice some more! 

- Sage Patanjali spoke about how such a practice should be in his Yoga Sutra (स तु दीर्घकाल नैरन्तर्य सत्कारादरासेवितो द्रुढभूमि: ।  - Practice, (which is the constant and repeated effort to remain with the object of focus) sustained for a long uninterrupted duration with the right mental focus and with conviction and devotion carried out in a proper manner becomes firmly established. (Verse 1.14)

- When such a constant and unyielding practice towards an ideal of satsangam is carried out, then it could be called satyagraha(!) which means 'holding onto truth'

The above were some of the thoughts that have taken some space since yesterday because we had a sudden satsang, and what a satsang it was. Swami Tyagananda is someone who is near to the truth of matters and even a short duration spent in terms of physical time space with him becomes timeless. I still remember an earlier satsang several years back when something he had said just stuck to me, and I had written about it in the introduction to this blog. 

He spoke a few powerful words yesterday, despite being jet-lagged and tired. They just have to be recorded somewhere and so here they are: 

1) Since he met my 10-month old daughter, the conversation naturally turned to children and growing up. So he shared this anecdote: A child is asked how old he was and he said that he was 5 years old. He was then asked how old his parents were, and he said "5!" much to the questioner's chagrin. Well, "they weren't parents before I was born, so they are 5-year old parents". As much as the child is new, the parents are new too!! This was such a new way of looking at the world from a child's perspective. 

2) He spoke of a book called Zen mind, the beginner's mind while talking about what it is to look at everything freshly, like a child. How many of us can look at that road, or the car on it, and look at it as if we are looking at it for the first time? How many of us can look at the same thing every time for the first time? Imagine, for that child, that car is altogether a new thing, she is looking at it freshly. Can we do that? 

3) Looking deeply into things led him to pointing at the table and asking, "what is this?" So we look at him dumbly, perplexed, and thinking, "Table, but of course! What about it?" Then, "isnt table a name and a form given to God? Isnt anything in the world a name and a form to identify it? What if we remove the name and form, dont we get God? This is knowledge blinding us. When we first see the table, God stands before us, however after that nanosecond, our knowledge puts the name and form on it and blinds us." This was a double whammy. 

So, what if we were to imagine all our categories as names and forms, and lump them all into one category called God, or Eternal bliss, or Light, or Self or Highest Source or whatever it is that one wants to call it. And teach students based on this category. What would we get? 

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?

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.

A Date to Keep

I went on a nature walk this morning,
And discovered that I am on a date with You.
They gave you all these exotic names
Paradise flycatcher, warbler, purple heron, dab chick…
That I cant remember much of–
But oh! You beauty!

You are all around me,
In blue, white, black, yellow, brown, violet, green…
You are calling out to me,
Through myriad bird calls-
Sweet, raucous, musical, whispery, screeching…
I am drowning, filled.

Then I look around,
To see You shimmer, evaporate from the lake’s surface,
And I am in a classic romantic duet.

Even as I rush to catch that elusive glimpse of colour,
You pull at me with your prosopis hands.
I laugh at my whimsical self,
And fight with it to brush You off my clothes;
But oh! You beauty!

They are talking of a civet –
How it helps in dispersing seeds.
I see only Your design.
I turn to my companion to ask about-
Oh! You are grinning down at me!
They are lamenting about the disappearing landscape,
I watch You jump across the wall,
To chop trees for firewood.
I look up – the length of You,
Standing tall, fluttering your leaves for the wind.
Vulnerable and euphoric is the moment.

And then its time to leave you behind,
You bursting with riotous colours,
And You devoid of colours.
You of the rich and scaling sounds,
You of the invariable electric-saw drone.
I leave You,
Whooshing in my ear, ruffling my hair, kissing my cheeks –
Calm, still and nourishing, not a ripple to be seen.
You beauty!

We head to a hotel for breakfast,
And what’s this?!
You are serving me my cup of nirva-
Oh, what’s that You said?
That I have time yet to conquer You?
You of my laughter!
No hurry at all,
As long as I am on this date with You.