Love. Marriage. Pain. From The Prophet by Khalil Gibran

When I ponder over life’s questions it stirs the heart, soul and off course the tear ducts. Everything comes together – ironically when things fall apart. When the pains of attachment intermingle in the water colors of memory, coincidences that often are misplaced as mystical miracles and vice-versa, narratives of the mind, and the eternal yearning of passing on a legacy of love, tenderness, kindness, generosity and nurturing yourself, the other and the world that you make up and the world that makes you, I go back to Khalil Gibran.

Am I looking for answers to the pain and numbness of ‘letting go’, or am I trying to delve in silence of a numbness of fatal life that has gripped you, to become a mute spectator to the events of your life, where you are acting as a main lead; or perhaps you have just been thrown out of the frame...It's White Noise.

I pick up The Prophet, by Khalil Gibran. I read the lines on Love, Marriage and Pain. It is but Life. Some lines stand out. Reading it many times soothes you to numb acceptance that all things change.

Love

Then said Almitra, “Speak to us of Love.”
And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:
When love beckons to you follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.

And when his wings enfold you yield to him, though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him, though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;

And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.
All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure, Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;

For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love you should not say, “God is in my heart,” but rather, “I am in the heart of God.”
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.

But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;

And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;

And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

Marriage

Then Almitra spoke again and said, “And what of Marriage, master?”
And he answered saying:
You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when white wings of death scatter your days.
Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.

But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.

Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.

Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together, yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,

And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

Pain

And a woman spoke, saying, “Tell us of Pain.”

And he said:

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.

Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun,

so must you know pain.

And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life,
your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;

And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.

And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.

It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.

Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,

And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.

May 20, 2011

May 20, 2011. Another day in the calendar. Another year of no great landmark to leave behind – except for knowing ‘life’ a little more intimately. Today turned un-ordinary. A day was filled with joy, sporadic giggles of unanticipated phone calls, messages, emails on what could have been a dull, mundane May 20, 2011.

Birthdays are no ceremonies of grandeur, once you have come of “age”. It just shows that you have come to a point where you can look back and see how much of turf you have covered, and how much more you need to as you inch older and older.

Age is merely chronology. It is a number. And 16 is a number too. At least that is what I feel in my heart, soul and spirit. The joy of a free spirit that sours the sky to sing the song of the wonder of the earth, sky, life and people is number 16! I am 16. I feel fulfilled by the wonderful people around me, who on what could have been a tedious day of schedules and tasks to accomplish, offered a day of sheer beauty.

Shilpa sent me a beautiful note in a couple of hours after she took her seat in office (she called to wished me early morning, sent me a text making a special wish to the universe and that not being enough, sent me an ecard!) It read: “May you have a gr8 day!! the number of calls u get and wishes u get are the number of blessings u are getting today. And that so many people love u and care for u!! Enjoy your day in whatever way it makes u feel good from inside!!”

Towards 5 in the evening, she continued to be shocked. My phone had not stopped ringing for even 5 seconds. She wondered aloud how on earth an otherwise silent day at work had suddenly tumbled on May 20!

She told me, “I like the way u laugh! I know it’s a cheesy line, but it feels good to hear someone laugh all the time”. How was I to tell her that here were friends who were calling and singing “happy birthday to you!” often in the most astonishing of tunes!

A song sung with love is a song of love, no matter the pitch, the tone, or the rhythm. The jarring of the tone is love too. That is another miracle of love!

Shireen as always waits for the day to break. She calls the moment the suns rays touch the earth on May 20th. Today she called me at 6.15 and made the most beautiful wish. It completes with a blessing I receive from her mom, as the phone is passed to her mom who is merely waking up! Sheroo has followed this tradition for the many years of friendship we have shared. May be for a few decades now! I know this is something she will do until I die. Every May 20th when the phone rings first in the morning, I will know it is she.

Sandy said “wish you a very happy birthday fellow taurean......amazing.....may this day bring you tons of good luck and millions of best wishes from all corners of the world....” Sandy and I go beyond the college playgrounds to the large stacks of University library books, to several ups and ups of life!

And then there was Ani who often teases me that I am a star! (I take that with loads of salt sack). She left a note knowing that I had already kick-started to a busy day of receiving greetings. “What did I tell you about having STAR status in this part of the Cosmos :-) !! Happy Birthday again Pal...”

By 21st when I started re-reading all the messages that were sent on Facebook – it nearly had crossed well over a hundred! I know that my phone has not stopped ringing through the day and it was wonderful to hear friends call me from everywhere. I had clearly received over 30 to 40 phone calls! Emails - countless!

The conversations I had with my brothers were special. It was a long time since we had such beautiful, heartfelt conversations. I could hear the love, affection and care in their voice when they made that special wish for their only sister. It made me dewy eyed!

Apple wrote, “May each day of this new year of your life be filled with peace, joy, fun, and happiness. Happy Birthday, dear Lavs”, and another friend wrote “ Hey Lavanya, have a mind-blowing b'day...have fun!!! May God always keep u happy n smiling!!! :)"

I realized most of the wishes said that my smile and laughter should stay intact despite the years that add to the chronology. I hope I can allow that to remain. My mom would always tell me that I should laugh softly, such that the laughter should not touch the selling. But mine would crash through the loft and out of the red tiles of a traditional house!

I was moved by DJ who said, “ Hey Laze, May your birthday be filled with smiles, sunshine, love, and laughter and Remember that today many people are glad you were born." Happy Birthday Wishes to you...have fun".

Anne, wrote to me “My dear Lavanya, I wish you a very very Happy Birthday and for the next year sunshine, laughter and only beautiful moments!!"

There are countless messages that I could bring here. I have captured the essence of the day, so that I can come back to it many years later to read about the wonder of a day that was no less than a miracle of love.

Yes, Shruthi Alva, you said that we often have a diffrence of opinon on this one - you insist that all my friends call me because they see me as special. I feel worthy for all the generosity that friends have for me. She made is clear that I should not go on to defend that “I am quite ordinary, simple and just a stray person on the block!”. Shru, I feel special because I have special people all around me – like you! Each one unique. Each a wonder. Each a treasure. Each a beautiful person. Each a reflection of the beauty of the world around me.

And thus the day ended with candle light dinner hosted by dear friends of mine. Arati told me, “ We want to celebrate YOU!”

They stood by me when I moved out of the cozy IT industry to the Non-profit development sector. I missed Ali, Manju and Meg. But calls on speaker phones did the trick of a girls-union party! I let down my hair, glowed in the candle lights on the dinner table, laughed, talked, listened away to all the conversation that accompanied the rich food on the platter. Yes, the tele did not stop beeping with messages trickling in before May 20th could end.

To sum it all: I had one of the most beautiful fairy tale days of my life! It was a celebration. A celebration of friendship. A day filled with lots of love, sparkles of laughter, and pure joy of togetherness.

I am humbled by the friendship I have seen, known and found from diverse people from here n there and from the different corners of the world. I do not need May 20 to show me that. It is merely a day of manifestation!

I feel profoundly humble. The incredible wonder of life continues to fascinate me. The miracle of bonding, friendship is here to stay. I need to live up to this. Friends are my manifestation of life. I feel fulfilled by each of this wonder.

Through the blink of an eye, they say, you can easily miss a miracle that is played before you. May 20th whoosh passed in a blink of an eye. The miracle was captured. As I closed my eyelids, I embraced the little moments of miracle a little longer, to hold it in time.
~~~*~~~
PS: Dimple sends me a message just now:  " Oh Shuks, Friday was ur birthday!!!!! Kick me on my ass. Wish you a great year nd loads of happiness..."

Sylvester sent me this text on 22nd:  " Dear Lavany, wishing you a Very Happy Belated Birthday. A Very Happy 16th Birthday! May God continue to bless you with that perpatually bubbling positiveness towards everything in and around you. May God also bless us all with this wonderful attitude of yours. C-ya. Sylve*"

Through the death of an unknown, I renew my promise

I have read this article (For the poor, death is as miserable as living by Dr Asha Benakappa) at least three times now. When I read it the first time, I could not finish it...I walked into the little garden of my office – only to see little children play in front of their shacks. The line of shacks are staked on an abandoned apartment construction site. Reality intrudes into tiny gardens confined around walls.I know there are a million stories of hopelessness in this world.

Every time I read this article, a tear fills my eyes...

I take solace from one thing alone, that here is a doctor who is visibly moved by this “mere-everyday-event”. Perhaps she is the lifeline of hope that everything in this world is not so cruel, cold-blooded, hard-hearted, insensitive and cynical for the poor patients who come from nothing and go to nothing. This is hope.

I take solace from the fact that when everything is ripped off – these little acts of care and love continue to prevail. I promise myself that I will never let these two things go off my life, body and consciousness – no matter what the scale of suffering is! This is a promise to myself.

Perhaps Hanumanthappa does not realise that his death is not wasted – for I have renewed my promise, to wake up every morning and tell the universe “Thank You” for a life that I live to touch even one person in my lifetime will be worth the salt of my existence. Perhaps, Muniyappa does not know that his story of loss, poverty, death and love, has helped me cement my conviction that suffering is what we cannot escape. It is gruesome for those who have known nothing but suffering. Whoever said that death was a leveller? Perhaps, Muniyappa does not know that his death is not wasted, for his has moved me in ways beyond a mere-tale read in the newspaper. That when all is said and done, love alone can help you carry the your loved one in a trunk. Through this I renew a promise made to myself.

 ***

When I am low, beaten, dejected and wallowing in "self-pity" of how unfair life is to I...When I dramatise my histrionics and say “why god why?!!? Why me!!!” I’ll remember to read this article. It will serve a surreal point of reference. It will help me meet myself, to a promise I made myself. To renew my vows, again.

I hope friends who read my blog will share in this journey of renewing a promise we made to ourselves that we so often forget.

****~~~~~****

For the poor, death is as miserable as living

By Dr Asha Benakappa

Hanumanthappa, a 14-year-old boy and only son of Muniyappa, a poor farmer from Koppal, was brought to Vani Vilas Hospital, Bangalore, a few weeks ago for treatment.

He was suffering from rheumatic heart disease for the past five years. It took his father as many years to organise the money for his son’s treatment in Bangalore. He sold his few guntas of land for a paltry sum to raise the funds. When Hanumanthappa was finally taken to Jayadeva institute of Cardiology, Muniyappa was told that his son was suffering from terminal heart disease and had only a few days to live. It was then that the young boy was shifted to my unit of the Vani Vilas hospital, where the father and son stayed with us for three weeks.

Muniyappa had lost his wife and had not married again. He had brought some ragi, a kerosene stove and some miscellaneous items in a gunny bag. He would cook for himself in the courtyard of the hospital and the son would get food from the hospital kitchen. He would run around for the investigations.He himself was very much run down. He had a small pouch hanging around his waist carrying that precious money. Slowly, the pouch became smaller and so also the gunny bag as days passed by, with no hope of his son ever recovering.

Every morning, before the doctors visited his son in the intensive care unit, Muniyappa would go about with his routine of giving the bedridden Hanumanthappa a bath, brush his teeth and put fresh set of tattered cloths, washed and dried in the courtyard of the hospital.

The love and affection father and son had for each other is something which I can never forget as long as I live. The picture is permanently etched in my mind. The implicit dedication the father had and the belief that his only child would recover, draws tears to my eyes even today. He would spend the money only for the medical expenses and not for food or anything else. All these pennies were saved to ‘save’ his only child.

The child’s illness would have ups and downs. Whenever he was critical, the father would lean to his bedside and reassure. Amidst all that pain and agony Hanumanthappa would laugh and tell the father to be brave, while he fought with death. It was very touching to see this frail father carry the boy to the toilet when he was not too sick, give him the bed pan when very sick. I never saw him grumbling any time. Always by the son’s side he would stoically face the situation all alone.

It was unfortunate that I happened to be there when Hanumanthappa breathed his last. The father was called in to the intensive care ward and told about the son’s death. He did not cry. Wish he had done. He quietly collected all those precious belongings which had now reduced to half a gunny bag and that dangling pouch had a few hundreds.

Beyond his reach

Muniyappa disappeared for a good hour or two. We were all wondering where he could have gone because for the three weeks he was in and around us 24/7. While we were thinking of organising to shift the body to mortuary and label it abandoned, as hospital policies does not permit us to keep the body in the ward for more than three hours, Muniyappa appeared panting and puffing carrying a fairly big ‘trunk.’ He quietly went about doing his work with a little assistance from all of us. That is folding up his son’s body and fitting it into that trunk. Curiosity overtook my emotions and I asked him why he was doing this. He said, he had gone out to enquire about a taxi to carry his dead son to Koppal. He wanted his son’s body to be laid to rest in their soil, but the cost of carrying the dead body was three and half to four thousand rupees (which was more than the money he had brought for his son’s treatment, after selling the land).

He told me, in a matter of fact tone, that the trunk had cost him four hundred, which he would put as a luggage in the bus and ticket for himself. The frail man asked us to raise the trunk on to his head and mustered himself to walk out of the hospital on to a bus to far off Koppal to lay the body to rest. Somehow, Hanumanthappa and Muniyappa are two wonderful people whom I cannot forget. For the poor, death is costlier than life.

Poverty has no grief. Hardship is an everyday affair. Despite the tragedy, the man had the determination to carry the body and rest it in the soil of his land and perform those last rites.

For many days, these thought of the father and son kept creeping in my mind and went about asking the KSRTC about transporting the dead bodies. They said there was no provision at all. I wasn’t interested in giving them the information that the ‘trunk’ in their luggage could contain a dead body. I only hope that Muniyappa had somehow managed.

It is 62 years since independence and we still do not have helpful policies and laws in place. The poverty stricken common man has no voice after the vote. He bears death also in the same way as of life’s miseries.

http://www.deccanherald.com/content/157714/for-poor-death-miserable-living.html

Love lights the whole sky

Love lights the whole sky*

Even after all this time,

The sun never says to the earth,

"You owe me."

Look what happens with

A love like that.

It lights the whole sky.
~~~*~~~

*The sun danced with the clouds, rubbing a little color and light onto it. I caught the brilliance of this play from my balcony! 

Driving Through the Clouds

Shifting the gear, delicately placing your feet on the accelerator, speeding the car steadily into a long quiet drive, with your favourite music quivering the speakers into endless roads makes a perfect getaway. To be all by yourself. You sing so out of tune imitating the song that is by now rewound for the nth time. With every place that passes by, every tree that is left behind, stray people who have walked past look tiny from the rear-view mirror, your thoughts pass in a string. Left behind. New ones taking on. Leaving behind each that comes and goes. The steady drive on clear roads lead you into the clouds. You leave the large patches of cloud behind and drive into a cloudless sky, trying to catch up to the point where the tar road meets the sky. It’s as mirage.

Life is a long drive.

You try to leave the dark clouds behind. The dark ones come after you. Then they swell open to a downpour. The smell of the earth is nectar. The earth breathes softly the earthy fragrance. You stop for a while. To listen to the earth breathe. To smell the earth.  The dark clouds don’t matter. The rain does not matter too. You put your head outside the rolled-down window. You park the car to the side, with the hazard light peeping.

I love the rain. I love the smell of earth. I step out holding my hands to cup the little blobs of water that lazily sets into a downpour. My hair is ruffled by the wind. I lean on my red car. I call her Dhanu Rani . She is my companion through the solitary drives I have become so used to. I lean delicately, as the rain now steadily pours the darkness of the clouds. I look up to the sky, and allow the rain to fall on my closed eyes. I giggle out of sheer joy. Getting wet in the rain was a childhood routine. I want to live that moment again. Who cares if I catch a cold. I want to make paper boats and send it into the little streams of water.

It rains. I stretch out my hands – as if I am taking wings to fly free. I am lost in my own union with the cosmos. The pure joy of innocence fills me with a rapture, that is intermingled with solitude, quiet and silence. Tears pour down my eyes. Intermingled with raindrops from the sky. Stretching my hands out, head tilted towards the sky, hair in sheer disarray, I allow the tears to gush forth. They say, a person drenched in the rain, needn’t fear the downpour.

April showers are short.

You drive through the dark clouds that have passed. The clear cloud opens up. Soon. The wait is not too long. It can be. But it turned out fine. You realize you have driven far too long. You can go on forever. Driving. The roads do not end. Perhaps they just don’t – for there may be a huge rush where it all ends.

I have driven long. Alone. The genre of music has changed many times. The sun has set long before. I love driving into the cold, windy night. It has a quite eerie feeling. You see the same places that you left behind take on a new distinction. Of darkness that is sometimes lit in patches of fluorescent lamps. You drive past dogs that chase you for a glee that they only know.

Driving through wet roads is romantic. The puddle of water shines through the different colours of light, moon and darkness. The swoosh sound of the wiper adds to the lull of quiet.

I drive through all of that and more. Knowing I set out on a long drive sums up my life in a nutshell.

I am in no hurry.

~~~~*~~~~~

I want to lay down

I want to lay down
On my bed, with sheets crumpled
Pillows on the floor
Books flutter catching the breeze in dog ears

I want to lay down
And breathe my last breath
Of agony
To flood myself with the tears that slip from my eyelids

I want to lay down
Silent
Deep into the forest of nowhere
Where the trees block the sky to bury me with scattered autumn leaves

I want to lay down
On the river bed
Where sand rubs through my body
With every wave that gushes through me, I feel my skin

I want to lay down
Under the cloudless sky
Close my eyes, spread out my hands like the wings of the eagle
And dream of a flight from the cliffs into the wide expanse

I want to lay down
And drift into sleep
To smile like a baby lost in its dream of horses catching wings
In the green pastures where angels sing in silent whisper

I want to lay down
Breathe a calm
Not being shaken to the convulsion of a haunting nightmare
But see myself disappear into the cloud,  far far away 
~~~*~~~

This Cricket World Cup Belongs to My Father Too

India has once again won the Cricket World Cup for the second time after a long deserted gap of 28 years. India celebrates in unison, making this victory their own. In the days to come, much will be written and said about the euphoria that surrounds the celebrations. The team in all their generosity dedicate the cup to THE ONE who epitomizes perseverance, strength, resilience, kindness and love for the game – Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar.

I take the liberty to dedicate this cup to my father. Like the million Indians all over the world who think of this victory as theirs and theirs lone, for doing their bit for India to win. Some praying, others keeping a fast, and even some wearing the same lucky shirt every time India played, and the rest making the wish to the universe for the men in blue. All superstitions have followed, sitting in the lotus position for hours when India seemed to lose and surprisingly recovering a win to show that God had listened to these little requests. My father did his bit too. He sat patiently in his rocking chair, diligently watching on television every ball bowled, every stoke of the bat that kissed the ball, every run made, every wicket risen and fallen, all despite sometimes troubled by his seven-year-old grandson who wanted to watch Pogo every time his attention span on cricket dipped. This was sacrifice.

This World Cup Belongs To My Father, Too.

My father played cricket when he was five years old. At least that is how far his memory goes. That would be around the year 1944. His memory is a little blur. This merges with the only memory he has of his father – a busy civil servant working in the British Raj. His father, Bantwal Ganapathy was a District Collector in the British Raj. B.G Ganapathy was born in 1889. Having secured a BA, learning seven Indian languages, including horse riding a must to clear the Indian Civil Service exam, Ganapathy was a busy man. That meant he often had to travel to Madras Presidency in his carriage that carried piles of files back and forth. When his father was around, the memory of the light burning in his father’s study room, way into the night sticks on. He has no recollection of his mother, as he had lost his mother a couple of years earlier. It is said that Ganapathy could not take the heartbreak of losing his wife. He would often wander to her resting place. His heart sunk with each passing day. He followed her soon after.

One memory that has lived through is of the little boy, merely five, waiting at the threshold for his father to return home. The little Devdas throws a tantrum on seeing the carriage pull over in front of the house. He insists on having a new ball now (which perhaps his father has forgotten to get). This is all he remembers of his father -of his father picking  him up, promising to buy a new ball tomorrow.

A couple of years later, my dad lost his father. He was merely seven years old.  Those days’ births and deaths were not registered the way they are today. B.G Ganapathy died in 1946, at the age of 56 (the year he retired from civil service). He served the British Empire for 36 years. Dad by the school records was born when the Second World War had just begun. It was the year 1939. The Second World War was fought from 1939-45.

That is not the tale here. The tale here is of cricket.

The little boy's love for cricket shone very early in life. He was selected for the Sub Junior level when he was merely 7 years old. He was playing with his seniors who were around 10 -11 years of age belonging to 5th and 6th standard class. Being the youngest in the team, he was sent to open the innings. Ever since then he opened the innings through the Sub Junior, Junior and Senior Level in school, representing St. Aloysius College, Mangalore, through this BA, and through his tutorship, where he taught literature. He continued to play for local clubs in Tripur, Tamil Nadu (between 1972- 1977) where he worked in Corporation Bank. His greatest “fame” came when he played for the South Canara Cricket club in Hubli, Karnataka between 1978 -1981. He was recognized as a key batsman, often when they would play against the Railways and other teams of Industrial houses.

The Game That Taught Him Truth

Cricket taught him one of the finest lessons of life – Be true to yourself and to the game. When he was 12 years old (studying in the 8th standard) a cricket team from Madras was touring Mangalore. Kripal Sing was playing in the team. The young cricket enthusiast wanted to watch the match and spoke of his desire to his eldest brother. The brother took him to watch the match. Next day a leave application needed to be submitted to the school principal for being absent from class. Dad’s brother signs the leave application stating the reason for non-attendance as “went to watch the cricket match”. The principal on reading this is furious, and asks the brother to come and meet him with the wad the next day. In the meeting the next day, the principal rebukes the brother of being careless in his responsibilities and taking the boy for a match when he should be in school. Dad’s eldest brother, Keshav, had since the death of their father taken on the role of a guardian to his seven siblings. He himself was 19 when his father had died. Keshav patiently listens to the arguments of the principle and merely states:” I did not want to teach my brother to lie, and therefore stated the true reason of absence. If you want me to teach him to lie, I can furnish a new application.”

If Sachin Tendulkar quietly walks away into the pavilion, unwilling to look at the umpire, knowing he is out, it merely affirms the tale of truth that cricket taught my dad.

The Historical Day of 2nd April 2011

Just as the entire country waited for the sun to rise early on 2nd April 2011, the day for me began with nervousness of how the day might end. Being glued to the television an hour and half before the match started, listening to pre-match analysis that prophesied fatal contradictions of the heart and mind, I thought it would be best to call my father to sooth my nerves. He tells me the game of cricket is unpredictable, until the last ball is bowled. His understanding of the game, the analysis of the complex and yet ‘simply-turned-simple’ imperial game is a treat to hear. His match predictions and insights can sometimes put a Harsha Bogle on the back foot. When I call dad, he too was sitting in his rocking chair, listening to the ranting speculations. He knows his cricket best. He knows India will win, again. He wants to see India winning its second world cup trophy in his lifetime. He did not get to watch the 1983 world cup on television, but followed the All India Radio broadcast commentary carefully with a transistor placed close to his ears. He followed the entire match with his eldest son (who is today a doctor living in the UK) who was 12 at that time. He has waited long and hard, for 28 years.

Cricket is our connect through him. Growing up with two brothers who glued themselves to our dad, discussing cricket all the time, much to the irritation of my mother, who wanted to be part of the conversations, but had to be in the kitchen cooking a meal, left me also to become a cricket buff!

Cricket is today passed on to his little grandson, Himanshu. Himanshu is today the same age as when my dad first wore borrowed pad and gloves, walked with his bat in his hand, without shoes into the middle of dusty grounds. Dad is 72. He takes his grandson to cricket camps during his summer holidays in the hope that the child will have a sport to anchor him. The techniques that dad learnt in rugged conditions are quietly taught to this little kid. They have a bond of cricket in them. They follow the match and the highlights over and over again. Himanshu talks of cricket like an adult. There was a time, Dad tells me sometimes, after his father's death, poverty took on a new challenge, and having a pair of shoes was luxury. There were times when he would mend and wear the torn shoes that rich boys had left behind in college dressing room.

This is perhaps the tale of countless Indians who have grown through the game of cricket. Generations connected in one family by the bond of a game that runs a narrative through historical times.

This trophy belongs to my father: for all that he accomplished and for all the dreams he nurtured to play for the state, and could not, because of compelling poverty and limited resources, and above all for passing on the spirit of sportsmanship of LIFE to his children. Today he plays the game of cricket from his drawing room, watching Sachin open the innings like he did, appreciating the techniques of Bradman, Sachin and himself, as he quietly passes on that knowledge to his grandson.

This world cup belongs to my dad too, just as it belongs to every Indian who follows the game. It is each ones trophy.  

If A Relationship Is To Evolve...

If a relationship is to evolve, it must go through a series of endings!!

This applies to the relationship we share with ourselves too. The process of self-discovery is such. One grows. Out grows. Grows back-in. This is the cycle of living. Consciousness of the heart, mind, body and soul takes on several different languages every time. There is an end to one argument. The next one begins. Like the cycle of life and death.

To make oneself a “round” character visa vie a “flat” character in life, these ends are necessary. You grow through these ends. You see yourself anew. You peel the old skin. Tare it out sometimes, in the restlessness to wear a new garb.

You die several deaths. Your evolution is through these deaths. Through death comes realization. Through realization comes pain. Through pain comes letting go. Through letting go comes peeling. Through peeling comes a new skin.

Alive. Anew. You breathe. New beginning that ended the old. New narratives take new directions. Ideas germinate.

Memory sticks on. Memory makes who you are. Memory indicates how far you have walked. How your feet have cracked. How much blood it has spilled walking on every terrain of the earth. And in all the walking, you have taken the crooked paths that appear to lead nowhere.

The earth resides under your feet. The earth is in your heart. The earth pulsates in the mind. The earth girdles the soul from within.

The walking is merely metaphorical. Sometimes into the think jungles. Sometimes into the midst of desert dunes. Sometimes under cloudless skies. Sometimes to grounds where children play.

Crooked the journey, crooked your life. Crooked your life, un-plain your existence. Un-plain your existence, greater your memory. Your memory is your relationship.

And thus, if a relationship is to evolve, it must go through a series of endings!!

You can then have an epitaph on your tombstone that reads:
“Holy Shit! She lived her life!”
~~~*~~~

To Love Again

I must learn to love again
If I am to heal my heart
A heart pierced through the dagger of love
I thought was true

I must learn to love again
After the blood bath of betrayal
Splattered on the wall of pristine union
Body, mind, and soul

I must learn to love again
If I have to heal the hole in my heart
To close it with a risk of seeking love anew
To utter the reminiscence of what was pure

How can I help you love again?
How can I help you heal?
How can I assure you betrayal will not come your way?
How can I trust in myself, that you will be unwavering?

I must learn to love again
At the end of a long winter
Snow carpet of nothingness everywhere
Sunshine beams through the lose hem of curtains

I must learn to love again
At the end of the summer
Listening to the wind chimes
Lilt and play to sing along the delicate kiss of ocean wind

The pain could not be in my heart
Anymore
The mourning of pain is past its expiry date
The birth of love anew is gushed forth in ecstasy

At the end of spring
Daises and periwinkle have blossomed forth

Pain cannot reside anymore in my heart

I love, hold and smile to myself again

Pain cannot live in my body

Anymore

There is no evidence of canker festered

To love and be loved is my newfound world

I love again

To hold, cherish, dream, build and grow

To listen to the wind chime whisper on a starry night

Holding you tenderly is my new found religion

Ephemeral World

In the ephemeral world of constant change
Despite the insecurities
Despite the uncertainty
Despite the knowing and unknowing
Despite the movement of one against each other
Despite the difficulties of change
Despite the fear of longing
Despite the dread of giving and taking away
Despite the pangs of letting go
Despite the agony of uncontrolled tears
Despite the change of seconds, minutes, hours, months and years
Despite the crying for myself and the earth that bore me
Despite the fear of losing a fantasy of fantastic tales woven that could be
Despite the stillness
Despite the change
Despite the possibilities
I stand in this ephemeral world

I stand
Tilting
Rocking
Lilting
I begin and end
Begin again and then begin again
Changing, raising, moving, stopping
Despite knowing that the world’s answers are not mine
I’ll walk despite each step anew
I'll walk despite the newness in each moment
I'll walk to meet myself
I'll walk the cycle of life. Birth. Death.
I’ll walk, placing my steps tenderly on the earth
I’ll walk finding my answers ephemeral
I’ll walk re-posing my questions ephemeral
I’ll walk to begin and end, raise and fall and rise again
I'll walk the joy, the calm, the knowing, the un-knowing
I'll walk the making
I’ll walk the ephemeral journey
Of meeting
I me myself you thy and then

I’ll walk with the certainty of one reality
Of ephemeral time, moments, space
People, place, acts, stillness
Through nothingness and then everything
I'll be the ephemeral

~~~*~~~

Touching MY Father’s Soul

In the Footsteps of Tenzing Nrogay: Touching MY Father’s Soul is a story of courage and passion to conquer the fear of limitations that lies in the core of each of us. These limitations are human constructs that the mind wants to constantly challenge. It is human nature to challenge ourselves in a physical world. One wants to constantly push the human flesh to reach the ultimate pinnacle where no man or woman has dared to go. The goal that one sets is often risky- that you cannot do without. You will not know what lies at your core until you have tried, even if you well know that this could befall death. Climbing Mount Everest is for most that journey to find ones core.

The climb is an adventure. It puts to tests the limits of human endurance, courage, fortitude, preparedness, failed attempts, valour, meeting death and understanding the futility of human desire. You must have an unshakable faith in your abilities – enough to defy the gods and nature – to rewrite your destiny. The little streak of fear can be your worst premonition that can be your doom. Despite this, people crowd to climb mountains. Today the Mount Everest is one of the most crowded real-life adventure sports.

In the Footsteps of Tenzing Nrogay is a pulsating journey of mountaineers who desire only one thing – to climb the Everest. They are made of every metal-varied, each displaying unique physiological dispositions. It is the journey of Jamling Norgay, the son of Tenzing Norgey wanting to touch his father’s soul at the highest peak in the world.

Jemling Norgay was invited by David Breashears to join the 1996 IMAX expedition to Mount Everest. The expedition saw the death of 11 people at various stages of the climb. 1996 was the deadliest year for climber’s trying to reach the world’s highest peak at 29,029 feet. It saw the death of 15 mountaineers’ that year. It is a mountain that shows no mercy. There may be several fatalistic reasons for the tragedy. However, what strikes one the most is the fragility of human life. One life is insignificant and miniscule when it comes to the evolution of nature. The clear-sighted desire to conquer the overpowering mountain can come to nothing. Sometimes the fate that befalls us is in direct relation of how we treat our earth.

The Earth OUR Mother

Jamling Tenzing Norgay follows the footsteps of Tenzing Norgay, a sherpa who climbed the Mount Everest along with Edmund Hillary. Tenzing Norgay had made a couple of failed attempts prior to the one where he succeeded in climbing to the summit with Edmund Hillary.

Jamling grew up under the grandeur of a name – that often distanced him from his father. The desire of a young boy to love his father simply and to grow under normal circumstances was impossible. Tenzing Norgay was a larger than life embodiment of human strength and courage. Growing up under the shadow of a celebrity father made the distance terse. The young Jamling pined for the affirmation of his father for many years, knowing that he could only meet his father on top of the mountain. The only redemption that Jamling had was to discover the steps of trepidation, spiritual awakening, discovering his father, awakening his deep consciousness in the belief of the hundreds of years of Tibetian spiritual insights and truth, walking slowly on the snow paths of internal struggles that his father did to climb Chomolungma* on May 29, 1953.

“I felt that only by following my father up the mountain, by standing where he had stood, by climbing where he had climbed, could I truly learn about him. I wanted to know what it was that drove him and what it was he had learned. Only then would I be able to assemble all the missing parts of a father’s life that a young man envisions and longs for but never formally inherits.”

The book takes you through the different cultural attitudes we have towards nature. One can often call it “pagan practises”. Buddhism (like much of all the eastern religions) rests its belief in nature. Disrespect to nature is disrespect to god. Climbing Mount Everest is often a “western” drive for adventure and thrill. The mountain is a manifestation of the divine that requires one to have an insight into the mystical understanding that nature is life giver, preserver and bestower of kindness, prosperity and life. You need to take the goddesses blessings and hold the mountain sacred with reverence. This is often an alien concept. The divide between spirituality and scientific pragmatism are often two languages that do not connect- and yet the power of the divine being omniscient is brought out beautifully in this book. This is a book on Zen and the art of Mountaineering.

Jamling who grew in a western world, takes to spiritualism the way as skeptic does: “I imagined that my propitiations were little more than superstitious gestures…. Buddhism hadn’t fully captured my heart. It wasn’t a subject taught at St. Paul’s, and my father was off climbing and traveling too much to teach me.”

Yet, at the end of his journey, he is still alive, unlike that of his fellow-climbers. He knows it is Goddess Miyolangsangma has been by his side all along. The ancient Buddhist traditions, the blessings of all his ancestors and the heritage of compassion, kindness and awe towards nature are his strength. Climbing Chomolungma (the Tibetian name for Mount Everest) is a metaphor to a spiritual journey. The storm enveloped the peak on May 10. It saw the death of nine climbers. Nature was angry. Jamling experiences the greatest religious transformation.

“Once I arrived in the lap of the mountain,…surrounded by Sherpas who believed, and confronted by a rich history of death - and death itself -I could no longer remain cynical.”

He adds, “the more I witnessed the garish displays of ego and individualism in some of the foreign teams,...the more I felt they were inviting misfortune.”

It is believed that Miyolangsangma assisted Tenzing Norgay in his successful climb to Chomolungma. The spiritual lamas believed that Tenzing Norgay's first wife was the incarnation of the goddess herself. If not for her, Tenzing would not have made it to the summit.

“What I learnt most-from both my father and the mountain – was humility. They both demanded it. At the end of six previous attempts to climb Chomolungma my father retreated, he said, not in defeat but in reverence...he was finally able to reach her summit in 1953 – as a visitor on pilgrimage – only by virtue of respect for Miyolangsangma.”

The Sherpa- the Unsung Hero

All expeditions ever carried out since the first few attempts to climb the Northern Ridge around 1951, have often been assisted by Sherpas. They are the carriers of mountaineering equipments. They take to the mountains out of necessity. The book describes the plight of the Sherpas’, who risk their lives under stress and exhaustion of climbing. The strength of the Sherpa is the ability to adapt to the changing conditions in the mountains. They are the lifeline in a place where dead bodies are scattered all over the mountain. Most fall victims to the effects of altitude, bad weather or bad judgement. There is no luxury for error. The Sherpas’ love the mountains and take pride in what they do. The risks they endure is driven by financial needs that can become exploitative: “wealthy 'white eyes', or “mikaru (as the Sherpas called us), who hired them to risk their lives on our behalf...”

Underestimating Small Acts of Goodness

The book ends leaving you humbled. This is a classic in mountaineering literature. But for me, it is a book of self-discovery.
“What is the meaning of the few brief instants in human history when people have stood atop Everest? The answer depends on the motivation of the person standing there. Those prepared to truly see and listen will find something different, and greater, than that they are seeking. They will find that the spirit and blessings of the mountains can be found, ultimately, within all of us...”

“Life in the mountains draws out the character of those who journey there...maybe this is one of the reasons we climb- to see ourselves at the core, not packaged and contained as we are when living within the constraints of technology and consumerism.”

We are all climbers. The desire to climb the summit is constant– it could be the mighty Himalayan range or our own mighty trepidations of life. Every day of living is pushing the flesh to stretch. Despite the often-painful stretch of life, the last lines in the book speak evocatively.

I take the words of Jemling’s grandfather Gaga, as the real essence in the journey to climb the summit called LIFE :
“We shouldn’t believe that small wrong doing can do no harm, because even a small spark can ignite a giant pile of hay. Similarly, the value of the smallest good deeds should not be underestimated, for even tiny flakes of snow, falling one atop another, can blanket the tallest mountains in pure whiteness.”
~~~*~~~

PS: Chomolungma or Goddess Mother of the World is the Tibetan name for Mt Everest. Chomolungma was given the “official” English name after Sir George Everest in 1865 who was the then British Surveyor General of India.

In the Palm of My Hand

I hold my offerings of love to you
Of wild hibiscus plucked with tender gratitude
In the wilderness, where flows the steam
Afar the rugged Ghats of thick forest

I hold in the palm of my hands
The joy of being who I am
Stretching my hands of trust and comfort
As the wild flower is scattered into the winding stream

The giver of life flows
Unconditional. Streams down narrow crevices
Through parched land
Softening the earth baked by the sun

My offerings are to you
Of wild cactus flowers plucked with reverence
That grows through the path of the sacred stream
For the earth that breathes in shallow breaths

The stream has no strength to move on
The thirsty mother has drunk the nectar, consumed
There cannot be more water to flow to places parched
Dams built to hold water. No longer for the earth, the wild and the open

I hold oblations in the palm of my empty hands
To offer my longing, in the hope of finding scattered grains of life
Near baked fields that merge with empty clouds
Where the farmer has nipped his life with the hand that tilled the earth

I pick up grains, a few. My hands red like the earth that grieves
Half palm, half empty. Searching
I stretch out my palms to you. My only prayer, oh little Sparrow
Come back to peck the seed that nests inside the chaff

You flew away beyond the skies
Like the stream that seeped into the fissure dry
As the earth breathes softly in the hope it will rejuvenate
For in the palm of my hand, I offer the love of care, tenderness of touch, eagerness of compassion

I have my last dry tear to splatter on you
Of worship in my heart, that resonates through the earth
Like the blowing of a conch at the end of a war
The woodpecker cries, squall of hope reverberates far away to the depths of the universe
 ~~~*~~~

There Is a Place

There is a place to hold yourself still

In the tranquillity of emptiness a little longer

Yet to be aware of the little gush of foamy water that surrounds your knee

As the sand beneath your feet nudges you firm on the salt laden banks

There is a place to allow yourself to drift

Into the curling waves. Joining, entering, blending

Drifting slowly to meet the mighty oceans

Into a wave of cosmic energy that connects the horizon

There is a place to look out into the night

As you walk quite, on the terrace

An owl flies past with its catch of darkness in its claws

You look mesmerized at the flapping of three lives

There is a place for intimacy

To know your pain

Of mingled pigmentation of time, events, silence and stillness

To stumble each into each without any harmless intentions

There is a place to smile and not know the smile

As you look out into the still of midnight blue

Drifting into a dream of fleeting sacred clouds

Of childhood memories, flying kites on clear windy skies

There is a place to undress

To take off layers of accumulated memory

Looking at the impressions of grotesque folds of flab on the mirror

The act of undressing the robes of time that falls in folds on the floor

There is a place to make love

Through the pain that stumbles

The fallible heart of grief that tugs in the wind

Tempestuously on the staff that tells you, others have treaded this path before

There is a place to drop down your bags

Enough of backpacking with the soaps and toothbrush and floss

Sinking into the fluffy pillow

Bringing the carless laziness of nothingness to timid acknowledgment

There is a place to breath. Slowly. In and out

Of life other than that it is

To stop to be open to this moment of harmless intentions

Of love that lifts your heart to intimately dissolve the grief that has been

There is a place to be still

To silently watch the orange sun

Sink inch by inch into the large ocean waves that connect the world

As you go back to your heart that is home to the whispered joy of emptiness

~~~**~~~

2011- A wish for YOU and ME

“You can search throughout the entire universe for someone who is more deserving of your love and affection than you are yourself, and that person is not to be found anywhere. You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe deserve your love and affection” says the Buddha.


It is important to first love oneself, nurture the soul and spirit. For through the nurturing of one’s own mind, body and soul can we tender the soul of the world.

May each one of you discover how precious YOU are to YOU and thus to the world this New Year.

May the NEW YEAR be a harbinger of love, joy, tranquility, caring with compassion for all sentient beings within you and me and everywhere.

~~~*~~~