Waking

Everyday, everytime a woman grits her teeth and gets into her daily business of living a thinking-less world. If She thinks, then she cannot be, who she has to be. she will awaken from her dream and know who she truly is, then she realizes endless possibilities. That doesn't suit this world....


 I awoke in darkness, every fibre of my body screaming. A repeat dream that has haunted me often. Locked behind closed doors, petrol fumes filled my lungs as my whole body burnt away. as I grasped my burning clothes, my skin peeled away like a glove. Petrol- heat and smoke. Air.. Help, I grasped at a semblance of some prayer. Gasping, I awake safe on my own lifetime, my partner's gentle snores assuring me all is well.


I have never shared this dream with anyone till today. It was a private nightmare, one I sought meaning for in theories of past lives and in the conclusion that it was the the activity of an over imaginative mind.


Dramatic and very newsmaking my dream may be but the real life is not that melodramatic. But it is no less a nightmare for the everyday woman. She is born into a world that she must negotiate by the art of not thinking. Thinking awakens desires not known to her kind.  Violated in body, mind and every space she has she retreats into those corners of an unthinking darkness. Washing, cleaning shopping watching mindless soaps.
 Every bit of her identity is seen as threatening, every joy she derives alone  has to balanced with giving and temperance. Even the so- called free fun that she has is presumed to be an object of pleasure for someone else.


Some of dear friends will brush this aside. But sisters, it takes some thinking to wake up. Don't wake up now, for then you will then have my nightmare to share for all women. I think and then I cannot be at peace. I am a woman born and trapped in a man's world. No home to fly away to.




Dedicated to the everyday woman's world....

Work

Thinking out of my walls they said was easy,

the walls are your thoughts.

I found solace in scrub-pad's confused layers,

as I cleaned away thoughts along with the soiled vessels,

 I spun-dry my tears after soaking them in salt.

I swept away all the taunts and teasing,

gathered them up into the empty vacuum of my mind.

I finally remote hammered my thoughts shut in 

endless pouring of the soaps on tv.

Yet one tiny thought escaped

crawled up searing my throat,

squeezed its way with a silent whistle 

 dripped down on my cheeks.

 The bell rings and I banish that traitor and

mindless, go on to receive the dhobi. 

Just a little karma feedback loop

Rajesh flexed his fingers on the motorbike handle and ignored the itch on his back. He waited for the traffic signal that he couldn’t even see, to turn green. He was standing behind a lumbering bus that hid all of the long trailing traffic from his view. He knew it would be another twenty minutes before he would even reach the signal.

He consciously tried to relax on his bike and counted the cars around him to while away his time. His mind wandered back to the memories of his little son at home. Varun would be looking forward to papa’s gift on his birthday. The party for all the tiny tots was at 6pm. Arunima, his wife had taken the day off and got everything ready. He just had to show up on time. He had started from his cubicle hoping to reach home on time, when that important call came through from the European client. That delayed him by an hour and here he was now, battling peak hour traffic on the Bannergatta road.

The bus revved its engine aimlessly, spurting a sudden burst of black smoke into his face. As he clenched his teeth in irritation, miraculously, the traffic in front of him began to move forward. Everyone in his lane inched forward, not letting other cars or bikes beside them change lanes on either side. As the bus moved slightly to one side, he noticed the reason for the slow traffic. An autorickshaw had toppled over and an ambulance which was now loaded, sirens blaring, was pulling out ahead into the wrong side of the road that was now empty of all vehicles. The signals were shut down and three traffic constables whistled away the confusion. He took in the name of the hospital in a glance. That was next door to his apartment. In a smooth move, he revved his bike, overtook the bus and was directly behind the ambulance as it moved out through the now clear road. Silencing his twinge of guilt Rajesh tailed the ambulance closely. The cops screeched with their whistles but he ignored them. He gambled on the fact that they would be too harassed to note his number plate behind the dusty screen of Bangalore’s famous red mud. After a few minutes, no one tried to stop him. It looked like he was going along with the ambulance. Cops waved him on through red lights and assumed he was in a hurry to keep up.

Just as the ambulance turned into the hospital gate Rajesh moved in to his apartment complex and smoothly drove into his parking area in the basement. There were six missed calls from his wife. “Oh no!” He thought. “What is it now? Must be cakes or some balloons or some stupid take home gift shortage,” Might as well get over with it now, he thought pausing at the lift.

 “Thank God, you called,” she said. “I was worried. Your parents left at three to get Varun a present from the City Mall and they haven’t returned yet. The driver is on chutti today so they took the auto.” Her voice was at a higher pitch than usual. He could picture her, frowning with both irritation and worry, her nostrils flaring with impatience. He lost what she was saying next few seconds and caught just the last bit. “… and moreover their mobile is switched off.”

 Perhaps it was because he was already a bit tense and worried; perhaps he had a sixth sense that was working despite his inattention, whatever the reason, a chill ran down his spine as his mind added up some key words together quickly. Auto. Old parents. City mall. Ambulance.

 “What if?”  What if his parents were in that ambulance? What if they were actually the injured people he followed?

“No!” He thought to himself loudly, trying to calm himself down. His mouth dry, his heart pounding he croaked a reply into the phone. “Wait Nima, I need to check something, give me ten minutes, I will call back. And Oh…. Wait, what sari was mother wearing?”

“Her green Kancheevaram, of course. She never wears anything else. Why? Did you see in her coming in an auto? Tell me so I won’t worry,” said Arunima.

 “I can’t say for sure. Just, please, wait for a while. I will call you back.” He promised as he automatically began to stride out of the apartment gate into the next compound of the large hospital. He almost ran up the driveway and his eyes reached out and grasped the ambulance almost immediately. It was backing up from a side entrance. He ran towards the vehicle, his fear overpowering his senses. Waves of panic were sweeping over him. He took a deep breath to calm himself down and repeated to himself, muttering over and over “Not my parents. They can’t be. Not my parents. I have done no harm. Please God!! I am a good person. Not my parents.” He chanted it over and over like a mantra, as if it would ward away the fate that seemed to be inevitably pushing him, in all likelihood, towards a dark future.

 He caught up with the ambulance driver who was now out of the parking lot. “Yaara accident?” He asked in Kannada (whose accident?). And the driver said, “Very bad saar. Auto hit the divider. Driver spot death!! Two old passengers saar. Husband-wife. Very much injured.” “Paapa!” He added, (poor people!) watching Rajesh’s face.

 The shock must have shown clearly on his face, so the driver clicked his tongue with sympathy and then asked in a gentler tone, “Relative- aa saar?”

 Rajesh who had gone back to blindly repeating his English mantra, managed to form a sane question and blurt it out.” What colour sari the old lady was wearing?”

“Green, saar. Nice green silk sari! Now all full of blood, spoilt.” Realising that he might have said something inappropriate, the driver gave a sorry grin.” All are now buying green saris only saar. You should not be sure so soon” He said in his own version of English. “It is ladies fashion.”

 He felt dizzy. His mantra was failing him. His mind already feared the worst. What would he do? Should he call his brother in Chicago? What would he tell Arunima? Was there enough money in the account for the hospital bills? As he neared the reception in the casualty ward he saw a board that said “information” and the counter was empty. A three piece suit was at the next terminal that said “Insurance” and looked up smartly. “How may I help you sir?” He was asked in slightly American accent.

“Please let me know the names of the people who just came in by the ambulance a few minutes ago. The auto accident, you know, with the old couple.”

“Wait a minute sir, the constable who came in with the ambulance is here may be you can talk to him directly. No relatives have been called yet.” He replied politely and strode purposely down the large hall across to a nervous traffic constable who was standing near a pillar embellished with pearl grey patterns, shifting his feet and very clearly feeling out of place.

 In a minute the traffic constable, his authority restored, was standing next to Rajesh. “Who you are sir, the son?” he asked.

“No… I mean maybe… What I mean is I don’t know if they are my parents. Actually…” He fumbled to find a way out of explaining his ambulance tailing episode and gave up. It was better to lie. “Well, my parents have not come back from the city mall and someone said the lady was wearing the same colour of sari as my mother. I came to check. My parents were also in an auto. they haven’t reached home and are not answering the mobile.” And to prove he was not on any bike, he almost lied to himself now. “I live in the next compound. And so I just walked in quickly. Do have the names of the old couple?”

“Ayyo sir, the lady had no handbag. Only one gift box with a toy in plastic cover. The mobile of the old man is broken; we are trying to get the SIM-card out. Then only we can find out.” “Come sir,” he pointed to the ICU which was a flurry of white-coat activity, “come and see by face, if you can identify.”

 Rajesh dragged himself towards the ICU with a heavy heart. His phone in his pocket was buzzing again. He didn’t take the call and rejected it. It was Arunima. Before he called her, he had to know. But his phone buzzed gain. And a message flashed. “What now? He thought irritated. The message from Nima said “Call now!”

 They had reached the ICU window. He couldn’t see the face clearly. The lady in the bed with all the bandages was wearing a hospital gown and so swathed in bandages so it was very difficult to make out her face clearly. He was going try and get in when the buzz in his phone interrupted his thoughts again.” “What was it now?” He thought, with panic, frustration anger and helplessness. He just decided to tell his wife to wait.

 He dialled her back, walking a bit further away from the wards, closer to the reception area.

 “Where are you?” She began. “Everyone is waiting for the cake cutting. Varun is throwing a tantrum for you. Your father saw your bike parked downstairs. They came with Sajitha and her husband and their son. They too had gone to pick up a present for Varun and offered your parents a lift back. It seems there was a traffic jam because of an accident. As usual, your father forgot to charge his mobile last night.” For once, the waterfall like flow of his wife’s words did not bother him. He felt dizzy, light hearted and finally felt he was in his whole body completely. It was as if someone had fixed up a missing SIM-card into his memory. He relaxed and said. “I am coming. I just had to check something that’s all.”  Weakly he watched as the constable rushed past him to the counter.  The information guy was signally desperately for him to come over. The constable waved a mobile at him. He understood that they had got the SIM card working a while ago and called the family. A family of three adults, two women and a young man, all their faces crushed with worry was hurrying into the lobby.

He waved to the information guy and pointed to the ward and made a sign to him to say “Not mine” The Information guy nodded and Rajesh picked his way to the next door party.

 “My parents are safe!” He thought. “Thank God they are safe! I know my karma is good.”

******                                                       ********                                                                       *********

In a large timeless-space filled realm, a large machine-like apparatus made of many threads of light was forming patterns of light sheets. A small beacon lit up some words that were flashing on a screen of pure airstream.

A folder opened itself as a pattern sheet appeared on the screen. “Rajesh” the word flashed. Under a systems process called karma feedback loop, there was a five line entry added to a two hour duration of the light sheet.

Earth realm>//minor Imbalance// karma.

Cause: followed an ambulance across traffic signal.

Retribution: immediate category// minor// mental.

27 minutes and 3 seconds duration of mental worry prescribed and executed at most probable opportunity.

 Balance restored, main karma stream again operational.

The divine karma calculator, the latest CTRGPT model, would have smiled smugly if it could.

Cleverer people than me are telling me that all the hype about Anna Hazare is silly. / More people are pointing out to me that Irom's fast has been going around for 10 years yet " people" don't support her. Others make very pertinent remarks about the " disturbing" Jan Lokpal bill.
http://kafila.org/2011/04/09/at-the-risk-of-heresy-why-i-am-not-celebrating-with-anna-hazare/

I have stood for trees, lakes and rocks. By tigers and narmada valley people. The anti- kaiga and the anti-road widening. I have always added to the mass of protesters doing what I think is right and carrying on a crusade in which 9 times out of ten I lose.
 My voice is small but often unheard in the greater concerns of skepticism. Yet I voice myself. Not out a great motive to make a world shattering difference but in the hope that my voice will add to the strength of all the clamor. A clamor that peaks and wanes in time. Each peak is linked by a handful of committed people like me who continue to hold on to lost causes. And sometimes, we make a commitment to join a particular protest, not because other causes are less important. But becoz sometimes it is important to support things whose time has come.
 The lokpal bill's time has come.
 I understand I have to speak for Irom too. And the tigers and the mountains of odisha and the dalit students and the poorly paid garment workers. But right now as I raise my voice for the lokpal bill. Silence Skeptics.  I am at least not dead, resigned and bitter as you are, I will fight.

The watery place 1

An ancient text declares ' he who knows the home of the waters will never lack a home." The mind is the home of the waters. In the upanishad, the mind is likened to the moon because of its transient, changing nature. On the other hand it also influenced the rise and fall of the tides, the watery places on our earth. The water though singularly known, is not one, it is flavoured, diverse and it differs in the presence of the moon.  Called Rasa, the flavours add to the water.These ancient narratives about the waters, refers to the experiences of an individual, a collective and the whole cosmic self. Waters are experiences that flow from being to being. Capturing the essences, fueling the life force, and finding a home in the mind as phenomenon, memory and tastes. Pure water is like the Ganga, pure experiencing without the taste, uninfluenced by the mind or the tastes. Every time the water is poured over the stone like divine image in abhisheka, we are to remember to be untouched by the waters that fall on us, staying still, untasting.  When very young, I took the sacred thirtha from a temple in my chubby fingers and slurped it myself and then put my tongue out in distaste. My grandpa who stood by me said one should not taste ( like or dislike) the holy water. This very popular injunction is an upanishadic secret. The waters are flavoured in the mind. experiences by themselves have no meaning, its the mind that adds to them.  Today I reflavour some of the mountain waters and savour them as a witness and hand them over.

 The juice of the blackberries growing wild in the Himalayas is very very sweet. It must have something to do with the soil because even the local karela are sweet. When we went to gather leaves for the cow bedding or gather firewood in berry season it was normal to try and stuff as much of it as possible into your mouth , foraging and foraging more, without losing sense of time. Naren  and even Vivek, the stronger than me at that time would have to gather the loads of leaves, I would in typical big-sister style boss over them.  When autumn hits the mountains, the leaves are plentiful. So are the wild akrots or walnuts. While we waited to peel off the dried green covering and then crack the nut and pull out the bits with a pin or sticks or suction power of the lips. The natural walnut was very hard-shelled and yield the most delicious kernels stingily. The mountain folk used to collect the green fruit, shell them and store them in piles outside their homes. These green walnut 'fruits' were a natural dye for wool, giving the raw and rough fiber a deep brown-red colour.
 After blackberries, taste-wise it was the chullus, or the local Indian apricots. The trees were the easiest to grow, a seed flung in the right place would grow into a tree fast. In less than four to five years, the branches would be filled with the prettiest pink blossoms and soon in autumn, luscious chullus filled the tree. There was always enough for fulfilling anybody's Enid- Blyton dreams.

We set up a small veggie farm ( non-winter farm). Rather it set itself up from any seed we discarded. The best were the cucumber seeds.  Mimru, our little friend got us few of the local seeds and told us to plant them upright in the soil like little flat soldiers in the holes. They grew like Jack's proverbial bean stalks, their tendrils reaching and grasping every hold in reach like the mind grasps the objects through its senses.   We made enormous bamboo huts  and fences and structures to hold up the creepers and finally let it grow wild. There was too much of growing to catch up with. And as the rains drew close,  they flowered.

The flowers yellow and profuse on every twiggy green stem were visited by many tiny sun birds ( we thought they were humming birds then). A bird would hover in front of the large yellow flower, its wings humming, and then duck into the flower and fly out. First we thought they were some sort of large bees. One sunny day, a pool of water lay glistening in the sun on our uneven stone court yard and one of these flight experts was taking dips in it. then we noticed it was the tiniest bird we had ever seen. I think it was something like this: http://www.arthurgrosset.com/asiabirds/mrsgould'ssunbird.html. The yellow was very visible and some were very green-grey ( females?). Well the pollination done the first cucumbers began to grow. They grew and grew. We had cucumber salad, raw cucumber, cucumber raitha and plain cucumber juice. And because in our enthusiasm for home grown veggies we had many creepers, we even gave them away to every passer by. The abundance might have had something to do with an adorable and dangerous looking Bruno, our GS, who had the run of the fields and the garden. We were seldom raided by kids or goats. Well the ones we didn't pluck at regular size grew and grew and grew in the rains. They looked like elongated pumpkins and must have weighed a few Kilos. It was great fun to find these fellows hidden in the profusion of thick green foliage and dark and twiney stems.Filled with the waters of the mountain rain, they were reminiscent of life. It says so in the maha mriyunjay mantra. "Urvaarukamiva Bandhanaath" it says, - like a cucumber release me from bondage. And we got that. In real experience. One autumn frosty morning, we found all creepers dried and drying while here and there, now revealed amidst the dying plant lay these huge cucumbers glowing yellow green, their stalks gone dry. These enlightened waters whose attachment to the world had gone. For enlightenment we don't need to get " out of the world," we need to get the " world out of us."
 The next blog is about the milk. Of human kindness, of the cows, of gujar buffaloes, milk gone bad, of curd and butter and the perpetual quests for jericans of milk in winter .

Death of a terrorist

The murderer died that day. In the forest, in front of the wise one, the wickedness shrivelled and died. He had plundered,  murdered and mercilessly hunted down every unwary traveller that crossed his road. He wore their fingers around his neck as a trophy and the compassionate one killed him with no weapons at all.  As the wicked one chased the Buddha on that fateful day, he found even at the fastest speed he could not catch up.

" Stop." he said to the wise one!"

 I am still." said the buddha." You stop."

"What ?"

 "Stop your killing and violence."

And then the wickedness in the being of Angulimala died. The wickedness that was left over from his lifetimes as a demon or a cruel animal. A gentle soul was left behind. Ahimsaka, the disciple of Buddha.

 In the east we believe that dispositions cannot be erased with the death of a body, they have to be transformed and sublimated. In fact in Hinduism, it is explained beautifully about why why God has to come down personally to kill these people. When god is your enemy, you will think of him as much as if you were her devotee. This sublimates the evil. As god kills you even as you die you are in her presense, thinking of her. So when you die you are absolved of all the evil. You may be reborn  but your evil has died, never to resurface.

 Today morning as the news trickled in, I thought. Has justice been done? What is justice? Revenge?

One body for three thousand? In fact didn't Jesus give up his one body for millions?

 How can we pretend to celebrate the end of evil ? It was never dissipated, sublimated. The core disposition is let free, to be reborn, to join others and spread. 

I am foolish if I say Osama  Bin Laden should not have been killed. I am saying his death is not justice, his death is not the answer we should celebrate. It should make us thoughtful for that which was evil in Osama did not die. It may just be floating free around you and me.

 The Buddha way is better. Way better!