Devasthanam, Kochi

"Have you met Amma?" he asked.

Suddenly an anxiety gripped me. I tried to keep my face calm. He was a keen observer and he might catch the emotions that flit through.

Why was I anxious? I am in touch with dead people like Ramakrishna, Ramana, Krishnamurthi. Is it because she is alive that I fear the touch?

Or is it because she is a woman? While I so very comfortable with Aurobindo, I am not, as much, with the Mother - though she speaks with such clarity and simplicity.

A kind of macho attitude?

I meditated on my ambivalence while I was returning to the guest house.

* * *

"Sir, I live in the past", said my sarathi. "I don't know whether it is a strength or a weakness. But I like old songs, old films. I live in the past."

Is that my strength and weakness too? I wondered.

"I have met many people," my sarathi continued. "Older they get, the more stuck to the past they become. But I have seen one old man who lives in future. Kalam. He always seemed to me to be concerned with future."

Time present. Time past. Women may come and go, Michelangelo remains.

****

I reached the hospital guest house where we were staying

So very different from the hospital that I visited in Pune. I am comforted as if I were in Ramanashram or Aurobindo Ashram. I don't see suffering, though all around, there are patients, relatives...

People from different parts of the world come, find relief and go. Perhaps all hospitals should provide prayer halls and places for worship?

I wonder.

Chennai to Pune: without reservation

1

Can you wake me up at 5:30? I asked at the reception of World University Centre at Chennai. The guys at the reception promptly promised that it will be done.

I spent one more night in a room full of mosquitoes.

I was woken up by them once to find that it is 6:00 am!

Shi-…  I am late. Washed my face, grabbed my bag and ran down two flights of stairs. The young man, who was quite vocal in his promise to wake me up at 5:30, smiled at me.

“OK, I am off. I am late.”

“Sir, your receipt”

“You keep it”.

I ran out. Caught the first auto, got to the railway station, ran up and down the over-bridge and got into the train in a bogy reserved for people who did not have a reservation. It was already full. No seats. Many were already standing, leaning against whatever is nearby.

Never trust others to wake you up in time…

2.

I stood near the door. A man was giving some money to another and there was some whisper about a seat. My ears perked up. They disappeared into a compartment and the man who had received the money came back with a towel which he did not have when he went off. I blocked his way and said: “seat?”

Once money was exchanged, he led me to the next compartment and removed another towel from the seat and asked me to sit. I was comfortable with the reservation system in the unreserved compartments of Indian railways.

When I looked up after pushing the bag under the seat, I caught the anxious eyes of a burkha clad woman opposite me. I smiled and did an adab arz. Her body relaxed. My attire was designed for rough travel, but then I could be mistaken for a Hindu fanatic. My days in Jamia and acculturation to Islamic traditions came in handy.

There were policemen outside, trying to get the porters to carry something. The reluctance of the porters was understandable: it was a dead body, covered by a sari cloth. The power of the police prevailed. The last journey from a railway station on a stretcher.

Suicide, somebody said, as our train started moving.

A mobile rang. The burkha clad woman snatched her mobile from her bag and stared at it. She allowed it to ring till it stopped. She smiled and declared that she had saved two rupees. If she answers the phone while roaming, she would be charged extra. There was triumph in her voice.

She asked me how much I paid for the seat. I held up two fingers. She turned to her husband who was sitting next to me and scolded him for giving 60 rupees for two seats. And then went on to eat his ears. Their daughter sitting next to him leaned on him to show support.

When the train started picking up speed, the Burkha asked her husband to get the kids. The husband  went off with the person sitting next to him and came back with two more children, a boy and another girl, from another compartment. A case of exchanging reserved seats in unreserved compartments. There was some pushing and squashing before things settled down.

When she interacted with the kids, she was dripping honey. When she talked to other passengers, she was smiling and happy. As soon as she turned to her husband, her face clouded over.

Then at a station, the husband got up and stepped out. After some time the train started moving and the husband had not come back. Burkha’s face went through concern, anxiety, fear… She tore at her oldest daughter’s chappal, wore it and stood up to search for her husband.

Just then he came back. The relief on her face was mingled with her love for him.

But then, soon Burkha went on to eat her husband’s brain.  About how he did not earn enough, how she saved money while he squandered it… The boy sitting next to her was beaming. The girl next to the husband was almost cuddling him to comfort him. Soon the woman started eating his balls. The boy started squirming.

A lady standing near the burkha was intently listening to the monologue of Burkha. I could see that she empathized with Burkha and sympathized with the husband. She met my eyes and there was a smile that showed that she was also enjoying the drama. TV serials can never be this realistic.

I looked around at the people sitting on the seats, lying on the upper berth, sitting on the floor. I was comfortable. I was at home.  

Vasudhaiva kudumbakam.

3

I closed my eyes.

Albert Camus was not helpful. His Sisyphus was resigned to fate whereas Naranath Bhranthan was actively involved in the folly of life, symbolized by pushing a big stone up a hill and then pushing it down. Culturally, I was closer to Naranath Bhranthan. I would rather jump up and down with glee when the stone went tumbling down, unlike Sisyphus who was resigned to his curse.

And Camus’ understanding of suicide was not satisfactory either. Even Durkheim was not satisfactory. The unwilled vision of one’s own violent end, coming repeatedly uninvited into the mind, is a mental health problem that is not completely explained by Freud’s notion of death wish either. The obsession with one’s death on the one hand, and denial of death on the other, living as if death is not something that happens to the self, squandering time waiting for Godot or the Imperial Messenger. Humans are most funny creatures.

People who saw the body some time ago does not relate it to the newspaper report of the farmer who committed suicide in public at AAP rally. Clustering of such events during certain times – is it natural? Are humans like the proverbial Lemmings? Or is it an artifact of skewed media reporting?

4

Aurobindo also had explored in his Savithri, the realm in which life seems not worth living. In his Life Divine, he describes the deeper meanings of human life. I used to use the book as a soporific, reading it in bed. It was so tedius that I would easily I fall asleep. During the day, I would read Castaneda where fear and humour mingled. Aurobindo and Castaneda mingled in my mind.

Death is one’s greatest advisor, standing behind you at your left shoulder. What should I do with my life?

I opened my eyes, took my notepad and wrote down my bucket list of things to do before I die.

5

In Guntur, a lady who spoke Tamil, Telugu, Kannada and Hindi joined the crowd at my feet. I noticed that her Tamil was peppered with Hindi and Marathi terms. I had a similar problem: when I open my mouth to speak Tamil, Hindi comes out.

Burkha, her husband and kids got down after Kadappa. The polyglot thanked Siva loudly for the seat and glanced at me, as if for approval. I smiled. Here is another sister who won’t bite me – just because of  the colour of the two pieces of cloth around me.

It was getting hot outside. The fans in the unreserved bogy suddenly stopped.

I was happy. Contented. So I couldn’t complain.

I shall be fit enough to execute my last dance when I face my death.

Pondicherry - the game starts: love all

1.

Reached Pondy - or, to be more politically more correct, Puducherry – early in the morning. Did not take an auto rickshaw immediately: closer to the bus station, you are normally charged more. 

Walked till the stiffness of sitting in the bus all night wore off. Stopped a young autorikshaw driver and told him to take me to a lodge – not too costly, please.

He took me to Bliss inn, walking distance from Nehru Road. The receptionist, a young person touching 30, gave two keys to a lean, hungry looking guy and asked him to show me two rooms. 

We went to the first floor and stopped in front of a door. He was about to open it but stopped short and told me that I would prefer the other room and promptly walked up to the second floor. I dragged my body after him. He threw open the door and declared that it was nice and breezy. 

Yes, it was, and there was a terrace to dry my clothes. I thanked him and got into the act of washing my clothes. 

Bathing and one more savasan refreshed me. I was hungry.

Got dressed and went down. The lean dark guy was there, as if waiting for me to come down. 

“Food?” he asked. I noticed that he had the eyes of a drunkard. Vitamin 12 deficiency.

Yes, where should I go for breakfast?

He directed me to the street past Nehru road. And ordered me to get four idlis for himself. I laughed. He looked surprised. I nodded that I'd get him his idlis. 

Ate two idlis and got four idlis packed. He was waiting for me and took the packet eagerly, went running up to the receptionist. While I was going up the stairs I noticed that they were sharing the idlis. I smiled.

By the time I reached the room, I couldn’t contain my laughter anymore. Three people sitting in the corridor looked at me surprised. 

Laugh with the lord. 

I could not imagine Aurobindo laughing. Never seen a photograph with even a smile. Compared to Ramana who always had a sweet smile, Aurobindo looks very dour, I thought. 

Is it because he was laughing with the lord? Laughter unfit for human ears?

2.

Smoked a cigarette, rested my back. Rearranged my wet clothes drying on the terrace.

Sunlight told me that it was office time. So off to my parallel work in this world.

Pondicherry University. The trip back and forth showed off the dark blue sea, bound by off-white sand and light blue sky split into vertical pieces by coconut trees.  

It was nearly six in the evening when I reached back. Wandered in the streets, slowly making my way to the beach.

They have extended the beach a bit. Now people can walk on the beach, instead of on the road. Though the beach was about 15 feet higher than the sea. To touch the sea, you would have to be a good mountaineer.

I went to the park. The trees looked just the same as when I saw them in ‘90s.

Slowly wandered to Dr Surya’s last residence. It was locked. The footpath near the house was cordoned off by a metal fence.

The door had a sign which declared that it belonged to the golden chain. I am not a part of the chain, just a pendant hanging on it.

I smiled: Express what you want to experience.

3.

Looked around for a place where I could have a beer and a cigarette. It would be a shame to leave Pondi without having a drink.

A building painted rose colour. Lazy Jazz caressed the green surroundings. I sat sipping cold beer.

The last lines of the Savitri resounded in my head.

I was getting ready. Now the game should begin.

Love all.

Thiruvannamalai: Living with death

1.

Seeing one of my earlier postings, a close friend and relative remarked on Sankara's notion of nirguna brahman - which he thought was another logical flaw.

I felt that the notion had some relevance in the light of science. Our senses, and, therefore, perception, imagination, memory and thought, are limited. Beyond human senses, science uncovers a universe so micro and macro, that has no gunas.

The reality out there is constructed by us. In fact, we are that.

In death, all our senses (beyond the traditional five - if you look at the cell types in the Dorsal root of the spinal chord, there are eleven) cease functioning. Ramana did an interesting experiment and came out looking like he does in his photographs: absolute openness to the universe.

2.

I reached the gates of Ramanashram at about two in the morning.

I would like to have a bath and lie down somewhere till the morning breaks.

You can't - the guardian for the Bhagavan said.

So I sat around in front of the shops opposite (and got my dhoti wet), on a culvert (too close to the road), on a wooden platform... and thought about death, listening to the mosquitoes.

Two policemen kept stopping all vehicles, except buses.

Seven or eight saffron clad old men came out from darkness to receive something from a passerby. And dissolved into darkness. One of the coughed.

Buses came and went, some dropping people, including some firangis; some others picked up locals.

Many people were walking. With purposeful strides. All passing left of frame, towards the policemen and beyond.

A lady of about 30 came when everything was quiet, at about 3:30 or so. She did a namaste to "bhagavan", turned around doing namaste to the world at large, prostrated in front of the gate, got up and left, again to the left, striding purposefully.

Not bad, I thought. A young lady at night, at this time. Must be a very safe town for women.

That one insight that Ramana had... I sat considering death for a while.

I play dead on the wooden platform, my legs sticking out, while my little sisters sing and feast on me.

Not just senses, but breathing which attracts my sisters and the flow of blood through my veins!

Savasan.

3.

Got up refreshed. Started walking.

Scorpio and Sagittarius in the sky above. My wife, son and I had walked this street three decades ago. It has changed.

Tibetan food, Kashmiri handicrafts,... I understand the economic need for a Bhagavan.

But for me, Ramana is human, my long lost friend and guide who taught me how to live - by dying everyday.

Then I had a doubt.

Bhagtha, Bharta, Bhogtha, Maheswara...

Perhaps. I have no way of knowing till I experiment and experience it myself.

I reached the bus stand, had tea, cigarette, relieved myself, bathed and left to see another grand master.

Train journeys: reservations about reserved compartments

There is somebody sitting there - they tried to stop me. Two obviously Malayalee boys. I said we can adjust and sat anyway. Adjust. This is a word that you will hear a lot during train journeys without reservation.
The guy who came back to sit next to me, occupying the seat not reserved by him was a Rajasthani, from Pilani. But I had one bum firmly planted on the seat. But smiled and nodded at him. He was from Navy and was going to Karwad.
The flow of people into the compartment did not stop. A tall, well built Malayalee with his shingadi came in with huge amounts of luggage. He could have got into a flight except for this large amount of luggage, he complained. He had to reach home deposit his belongings and join duty in some Gulf country. His second job there. The respite in Mumbai had accumulated too much weight. In luggage and in his body. I looked at him standing bearing his own weight. After a few hours, I told him that I am willing to give him my seat to rest his legs a bit. He was overwhelmed by the offer. So we tiptoed over people sitting on the floor and exchanged our positions. A lady with lots of jewelry and an oldish husband came in into the compartment. I could see the distaste on her face when she looked at the tribals sitting on the floor. But within a few hours she was sitting shoulder to shoulder with the tribal woman next to her. The Malayalee was aghast at the way the tribal women handled their children. Leaving them lying sleeping on the floor while they went to the toilet. The crowd will reduce when the train reached Ratnagiri, he said. Some other voice agreed. The camaraderie in such situations are amazing. People offer water bottles to each other. Food is exchanged. People become comfortable with each other. An equality descends within an hour or two after the train starts.
The place that one sits is regarded as reserved. But when you go to the toilet somebody who is standing will sit there till you come back.
Compare this against a journey in a reserved compartment. The people are reserved. They keep to themselves. It takes about a full day for people to even acknowledge each other's presence.

Diversity: bio social cultural linguistic and technological

When we landed in Delhi, back after more than five years, we were impressed by the diversity in India. It is not only that we see dogs, cows, camels, sheep, dromedary, elephants, buffaloes, and on. The streets have a wide variety of automobiles of all shapes, sizes and sounds. Neither in the East nor in the West have I seen such diversity of vehicular forms. Recently, the technologies used in  buses running in Bangalore caught my attention. Of course, there are buses which are 30 years old, running side by side with those acquired last month. But this one kept announcing the next stop, the name of the stop again as it slows down - just like the Metro/LRT/MRT/Skytrain.
In Kolkata I had seen handpulled rickshaws which are still operational in some parts. But in Pondicherry, the cycle rickshaws have disappeared. Even the endless row of cycles parked on the roadside have suddenly turned into scooters and motorcycles of various brands and capacities.
Listening to the sounds of languages - Marathi, Konkani, Telugu, Kannada, Hindi, Malayalam, Tamil, Mizo - all in two days travel.
The dresses of people also have no sembalnce of similarities with each other. Walking on one of the lanes in Manipal I saw a tailor specialising in Baju Kurung, Kebaya and juba.
The funny thing is that this is a country where you can get along without wearing anything on the one hand and on the other, most people are too overdressed for their climate and weather.

Biodiversity in Manipal

It was late in the afternoon that I reached Manipal. I quickly scouted the school of communication, met the Director and told her that I am looking for the syllabus and curriculum of the courses. She was busy. So got an appointment for the next day and came out, just before the offices started closing down. A sigh of relief.

But rain clouds were gathering. I had to wash my clothes. And I needed a bath myself. Looked around for the cheapest place nearby. A lady running a shop gave me precise directions.

Annapoorna. The roomrates displayed behind the counter was inviting for my pocket: 200 rupees for a room with attached bath for 24 hour occupancy. The man behind the beaten down counter handed me the key and gestured that I should go up – 2^nd floor, room 55, he said.

What? No signing and stuff? No advance?

He said that I should go and check out the room first.

No wonder. The place was in shambles. The walls of balconies and exposed areas were mostly dark green with dried up moss and fungus of many years.

But there was a narrow bed, fan, light and attached bathroom with running water. I took it.

Nice view. A nice peepal tree outside the window next to bed, offering home to vanda and other epiphytes on its extensive trunks. Nice pleasant breeze blowing from the window on the other side. Not a single occupant on the second floor. Skyline hidden by trees with dark green leaves and yellow flowers. Rusty shield bearer? I couldn’t guess at that distance.

Washed clothes, stretched to relieve the tense muscles, smoked a cigarette and offered gratitude to the universe for giving me this delight. I wasn’t this comfortable and relaxed when I stayed for a week in a 7 star hotel in Brunei, I thought, before I sat down to write.

Writing with a pen is different from writing with a keyboard.

While writing different kinds of  insects tried to distract me. One had lost a wing and landed on the table. It was going round and round in more or less the same spot. I am all for biodiversity and ignored the side-reels of life.

Had “meals”in a restaurant nearby, meditated, offered prayers and my list of boons to the universe, switched off the light and went to bed.

My feet were itching. So were my hands. Previous night I had spent in a roomful of mosquitoes. I strained to hear their familiar songs. No mosquitoes.

Something was crawling up my chest and something else on my neck. 

Bugs! It hit me. I shot up and hit the light switch. Some thirty or forty spots on the bed disappeared in a flash. I flicked off one from my neck. It fell on the ground. Pretended to be dead. I used my thumb nail to squish it. Smelt it.. Only after I did this confirmatory test did I see similar marks on the floor, on the wall – human blood sucked by bedbugs.

I pulled my wet clothes from the line, closed the door and ran down. I was itching all over by this time.

Bedbugs! I croaked to the receptionist.

You are checking out? He asked.

Yes! I can’t stay here. The bed is full of bugs. You should use some Flit or something, I said.

He nodded and smiled and handed me the balance.

I ran, scratching myself. Mosquitoes are alright. I had been going off to sleep to their lullabies in my childhood. And in my adulthood offered my share of donation of blood for the sake of my little winged sisters’ survival. But bugs? Eeeks.

I remembered a night when we were woken up by a swarm of cockroaches. Spewing out of the bathroom drain, they invaded our sleeping area on the floor - in hoards, waking us up in the middle of night. I spent about half an hour massacring the periplanata with my chappal. My son thought I was brave.

Brave? I was frightened by bugs. A firm believer in biodiversity? I would vote for extermination of the species from the planet.

I checked into another cleaner but costlier place. But could not go off to sleep. My body was hot with all that histamine under the skin. And had a headache out the next day.

With Kasturba Medical college, Pharmacy college and a Nursing college nearby and the thousands of learned people all around, sucking the blood and sweat of poorer, less educated people, bed bugs should not really bug me. If I can donate blood to mosquitoes, why not to bugs?

Thathasthu. I am at peace. 

Making peace with old questions in Kollur

Part 1

After reading Sankara’s Vivekachoodamani, I was confused by the three propositions or axioms:

1.       You are that

2.       All these are illusions and only Brahman is real

3.       I am Brahman

Taken together, they become a philosophical position difficult to beat. I felt rather uneasy, wary of a logical whirlpool, a trap.

I approached my father with my perplexity during a 15 minute bus ride. He was on his way to Delhi. And I was to follow him after a few days. . Come to Delhi and we will discuss this, he said.

He fell down on the morning that I reached Delhi. Cracked his skull and died. End of discussion.

Part 2

I didn’t really dig Sankara’s Soundaryalahari.  It didn't make any sense – going on and on praises in verse, more like a hymn than a philosophical treatise. I couldn't complete reading it.

That was not the only book that I had not completed: Hegel’s Aesthetics. Didn’t make sense to me.

Two books on Aesthetics, so totally different! Is it because of the East and the West or the left and the right?

I tried to apply Aurobindo’s take on Vedas to Sankara’s work. Perhaps he is merely using poetic devices to communicate a deeper truth? Should I read it again? I picked up a copy that I saw in a shop. It was as unreadable as ever. I put it back and noticed Bhajagovindam. 

I smiled. The times have not changed. Crowds of well dressed women men and children throng to look at stone and metal constructs, standing in queues braving the heat and the sweat.

Part 3

I walked away from the temple. And walked towards Souparnika river. It was beautiful. Herons, snakebird a woman washing her hair.

I washed my clothes. Waiting for them to dry, I had time to observe a monkey tribe. Quite social beings.

I had a conversation with a construction worker. He was from UP. My age, above 60. Relaxing a few minutes after lunch.

His story confirmed that the sense of beauty is overpowering. He sang me a song. He was happy and grateful to the mother, he kept repeating.

I suddenly understood Sankara. Why can’t he be enchanted with beauty too? Even if this is all a myth, non-real? If a construction worker is drunk on beauty and Aurobindo is also allowed to go on and on with words, why can’t Sankara?

At least till neuro-aesthetics comes of age and aesthetics is accepted as a part of rigorous, quantitative science, why not accept poetry to explore phenomena?

Practicing Bhagavatgita in Mumbai

A few years ago, while driving around in Delhi, I suddenly understood the meaning of a verse that starts “Sarvathah pani padam” in Gita. 

When I read those line forty, and then again thirty, years ago, I did not really grasp the significance of those lines. As soon as I reached home asked Gita, my partner for life, for Gita, the book - the torn down volume that we have been carrying with us in spite of our rather gypsy like lifestyle, moving from rented house to rented house.


It is only now that I had a chance to practice what I understood from those lines. Moving among teeming millions in Mumbai city. No sense of loneliness. No alienation. Just because I was the “sirasoakshisiromukham”. Quite enjoyable. I used to hate the crowd. Now the city was transformed by my posture. You guys should try it too.

I must confess that I also tried to practice some lines from Little Prince. The Emperor. I ordered the seven billion plus to just go ahead and do what they felt like at each moment, while I go and do my thing.