On Friendship-Experience

Over the last month I have been having these conversations about friendship with several people. In my mind, I suppose, I am refining my understanding of the concept. So here are my thoughts on friendship-experience in its different forms. In 2016, I had written a piece on the same subject, but from a slightly different perspective. In the ensuing years, my understanding has developed a bit further, and I am sure there is more insight to come in the future.

Hazards Beach, Tasmania

I feel there are three kinds of friendship-experiences:

The first kind is when friends find themselves in a "situation", I call these experiences the "Situation" kind. It might be a health issue, or a breakup, or job issue, or a family issue, etc. Friends have a problem, and they call us. We usually have energy, and they want it or need it. We actually love sharing our energy, so when they want us by their side, we enjoy the process. It gives us joy sharing our energy, it does not diminish us. The best metaphor I can think of is as if our friends were running in the woods and fell into a pit and sprained their leg. They cannot get out and ask for help. In the past I used to get into the pit with them and push them up. These days when I get the call, I check myself to see if I have the wherewithal to get into the pit, help them, and come out safely myself. If I cannot, I stay by the pit (not go in), and give them company. I inspire them, I hold their hand, I bring them food, I care for them, and for as long as it takes. And then over time they heal, they then climb out of the hole. They are happy. I feel good. This is the mentality I use with my hospice patients too. It gives me great joy to watch them feel good, and their caregivers feel a bit of respite with me being there.

In this first kind of friendship-experience, the passage of energy and love is often one sided. I think they love me back in some way, but it does not to fill my cup. My cup in these instances is already full, and by helping them I get great satisfaction. Now, if I am myself in a depressive state when called in for such an interaction, I have this uncanny way of being there for them, not go down in the pit with them, and still do my "job". That is how I was when my mum was passing. I have this way of being able to steel my heart against any pain. I do not absorb the pain, and I pour out from the inbuilt energy store I have, but there is a limit to how much I can do. This is still good, I still feel a bit of satisfaction. However, this activity does not fill my cup. I need to put effort on my own, away from the storms, to fill my cup. And with such friendship-experiences, I cannot expect the distressed friends to help me with my depression. They are themselves in poor condition, so I cannot even disclose to them my issues. Their issues appear  huge in front of them, they don't have time or patience to listen to mine, and are of no help either. When I look back at my life, all my family relationships, including the one with my spouse for over two decades, have been of this quality. I am called upon to serve, and I do, but it has never filled my cup. That is just the way things are. I just find out other ways to fill my cup.

This does not mean that we should shun these relationships, they have a purpose in our lives. These friendship-experiences allow opportunities for us to serve without any expectations of return. It provides a way for us to develop the precious skill of being calm in the face of a storm, learn how to manage life and its travails through adversity. It is very essential skill to master, and these friendship-experiences offer us that opportunity.

The second kind is what I call the "Resonance" type of friendship-experience. These friends love me, but they are not very wise or strong themselves. I know, "wise" is not a good word here, but I cannot think of any other. So I have to explain. With these friends, if I share my thoughts, they become affected. They resonate with me. So, if I am elated, they are instantly on Mt. Everest. And if, by chance, I am depressed, they then dive into the deep Marianas Trench. And often times, as they watch themselves going into the spiral, they try to latch onto any idea that pops up in their head. They often offer useless advice. For example, they'd point out that I need a boyfriend and that will solve all my problems (real and perceived) in life, and then start a conversation about matchmaking. Their repertoire of solutions are  usually limited, and they get on one track too often. Also, they are usually attached to their solutions and if I choose not accept the solutions they offer, they feel hurt and get sentimental. They love me, yes, but they are not strong to support me or offer me wise solutions. Out of their love, they get in the pit with me without seeing that they don't have the strength or ability to get out. Then I am left with figuring out how to get out myself, and I feel responsible for having them in the pit. Such friendship-experiences often leave me tired. 

Having said all that, it is still very nice to have these kind of friends along on my life journey. They are good chums, and we have a good time hanging out together. They love me, I never question their intention. I know that they always mean well, even though their solutions are wayward at times. It really does not matter, because they come from a place of affection and caring. When I am in need stability, I just don't approach them, as I know that there will be resonance and it will not be helpful. At all other times, we have a fabulous time together, so it is well worth putting the effort in maintaining such friendships.

Which brings me to the third kind of friendship-experience, and in my life it is extremely rare. I think I have only one such person in my life who fits this bill.  With this person it is different because they are, what I would call, a "Reflective" kind of friend. When I open up with this individual, I find that person very objectively looking at the situation, and then holding up the mirror at me. I often don't see the reflection or sometimes do not like what I see, but I greatly value the exercise. Sometimes the dust in my eyes is so much that I cannot "get it" right away, and they patiently keep holding the mirror at me. Also, because of the love and affection I have for them, I seriously consider all I see and truly reflect on it. There is no judgment, no fear, no "loss of face", no sentimental wrangling. This person is clear and calm all the time. So, as I bring anxiety or elation, this person's equanimity and calm affection is like a soothing balm to my heart. My anxiety cools down to acceptance. My elation also settles down into clarity. And while this process happens, there is no fear of loss of any kind. There is trust that no matter what, this relationship will withstand the storms of life and time. That is why this kind of relationship is very special. 

I have seen and heard other friends talk about having this kind of relationship with their parent, or sibling, or partner. A friend of mine had that kind of friendship with her dad. She has been very lucky. She had this kind of calming force in her life for solid 47 years, and it has made her a very stable and wise person. She learned from the best on how to make decisions, how to see clearly, when to stay the course, and when to change directions. She could open up anything that troubled her to her father, and he has always been extremely clear, objective, and gave her  productive suggestions. He did not take anything personally, and though he had her best interests in his heart, he let her come to her own decisions by herself. He just pointed out a few paths from his vantage point, as she was usually too close to the ground and could not see them. In their relationship, there is a sense of mutual respect and caring, but not the overbearing kind. It is, what I call, a wise friendship, a patient friendship, and a true-love kind of friendship.

As I walk this journey of life, I now constantly evaluate my friendship-experiences. Note that I call them friendship-experiences and not label friends instead. I have found that some friends display different characteristics at different times based on their mental equanimity, and so my experience with them change with time, place, and situation. All three kinds of friendship-expereinces are essential for a healthy happy life. It is not only about what the friends in my life can do or provide for me, it is also about how I can be the right kind of friend when they need me. It gives me great joy when I can see clearly through my friendship-experiences, and maybe this note will help you with that as well.

Shades of Blue

"Sapnon ke aise jahan mein, jahan pyaar hi pyaar khila ho

Hum jaa ke wahan kho jaaye, shikwa na koyi gila ho

Kahin bhair na ho, koi ghair na ho

Sab milke yoon chalte chale

Jahan gham bhi na ho, aansoo bhi na ho

Bas pyaar hi pyaar pale"

Children have the wildest imagination I think. At least I had, when I was a child. I could stare at a whitewashed brick wall for hours and in the peeling layers of slaked lime, I could dream up a whole different world of scenes and stories, different from what was really around me in flesh and blood and stone. This flight of imagination used to be my prime refuge when the times were hard. Instead of the salt of hot tears, I would conjure up cool expansive oceans of salty water; instead of the hard painful beatings I would imagine the blue waves breaking on hard granite rocks pounding them to soft round edges. I used to paint many such scenes, complete with the sounds, tastes, smells, and vivid colors, and I would then be lost in them for hours on end, happy as can be. In real life, I would be eating, drinking, washing, cleaning, doing chores, studying, memorizing geography or history lessons or the like, but in that world of dreams everything had a softer glow and a blue reality that no one else could touch or even sense but me. In that dreamy world, I could fly from one end to the other, have time stop as I straightened or changed a slight detail here and there, and not have to bother or worry about anything interrupting my concentration. No physical pain could touch me there, I was free, completely detached from the bounds of life, floating softly in the air like a feather, up and down the currents, I was indeed unconnected.

One such dream was made of the color blue. There were other colors too, but blue was the predominant one. There was this soft grey blue line in the distance that separated the sky from the ocean. Above that line was where the sun lived and sparkled. I never saw the sun, but could feel the warmth on my skin and in the soft white sand that squeaked as I walked. The white whips of cotton-ball like clouds were scattered in that blue sky. They had shades of white and grey, the edges gleaming like the crackling blaze of a new neon sign. Then the softer grayish clouds were just there, as unwanted guests. Below that line was this simmering blue ocean as far as my imagination could spread. It was deep bright blue at the far end but lightened up as it came closer to a greenish blue. Patches of brown-black dotted the blue-green waters to mark some sea vegetation, and that further added depth to the hues of green and blue. The sun reflected a million trillion times in the moving ripples and they shined like a million trillion little diamonds studded on a shawl draped on the water. Sometimes it was so bright that you had to squint to see it. I stood on the shore or at times was a bird zooming about, it really did not matter, the view was just the same. As I came closer to the shore, the blue waters gave way to white sands and white waves. The waves broke on large granite rocks, broken rocks covered with bright orange lichens. And the waves broke on the sandy beach too. On the beach, the waves were soft and gentle, as I imagined the kind caress of a mother's loving hand would be, as she puts her baby to sleep. The softer waves on the white sand spoke to me, they almost sang a mesmerizing lullaby that soothed my tired and pained heart. On the rocks, the waves were loud and ferocious, they were hard and relentless, like the metal on flesh that left deep bruises on body. The waves wore down the rocks over time, but it took a long long time, as I hoped my spirit would endure through the reality of my little life.

As you turned around, you could see rolling dunes covered by beach grass, some tall, some short and stubby. And beyond that were few lonesome trees but mostly paddocks for sheep. There was undulating land as far as the eye can see, leading into the thick forest of the mountains. Mist rose from the mountains and formed the clouds, it looked as if the mountains had tiny fires that yielded the smokey clouds. On the beach there were some small bushes of strong sea tolerant shrubs which housed these little sparrows, white crested black ones, with brown lines on their wings. Little sparrows, only about the size of the palm of a hand, and very busy ones, noisy ones, always scurrying about their little nests in the shrubs. In the paddock, right where the white dunes started there was a tiny log cabin. It was two stories; upstairs was the small loft bedroom with a tiny balcony. From the window of the room, and from its tiny bed you could see the horizon beyond; and as you stepped onto the balcony, you could see the edges of all my imagined world. The patio below had a swing, somewhere one could cuddle up in a blanket and watch the moon traverse the Milky Way at night. Inside, downstairs was a warm iron furnace, a desk for writing with a white lace tablecloth, a wall lined with a bookcase with books stacked from floor to ceiling, some and cushions on the floor. There was no sofa, but a low coffee table. Papers scattered on the floor and cushions, for I used like to lie down and study. The cabin was made of solid brown shiny wood, it smelled of lacquer and lavender. There were plenty sun streaming through the windows, with lace curtains. From every window I could see the ocean, the orange rocks, and the white sand.

Imagine my surprise when I saw this exact scene of that childhood dream in real at the end of a windy road. It was Christmas of 2007, we did not have much time, we just wanted to drive to The Gardens and tick it off the list. He waited in the car while I ran up the sandy path, and I was stunned. I was speechless, I could not even take pictures, it made no sense at all: How could what I had dreamed while staring at a limeslaked wall some 30 years back be real?? All I did was hobble back to the car and drive on, the feeling in my heart was too strong to explain, and too personal for him or anyone else to understand. I felt I had broken through some kind of mind-body barrier, it was that kind of intense sensation. For a whole decade I asked myself this question, was it real? Often I wondered if I had imagined it all as I was so attached to that childhood dream for that used to be my refuge. So I went back there this year and found it again, standing right there, just as true to my dream as it ever was. No, I was not imagining anymore, I was actually standing there, in the midst of my vivid childhood painting.  This was Real. It gave me the chills, yet it also filled me with a deep sense of calm. The longing had evaporated. The sound of the waves, the breeze, the birds, and everything in that place assured me that This was Home, my HOME. I can stop searching now, I have arrived. The soft waves can now caress me to sleep, I will be nurtured here. Here is the mother I have been looking for, here is her loving embrace, here is indeed her lap where I can rest my head in peace, without fear, and in comfort.

What a change!

I was reflecting this morning - if a decade back someone told me about meditation and urged me to practice, I'd have pooh-poohed them. It was totally out of my realm of daily existence or desire. I had no time! I was busy, managing mega projects, experimenting with world cuisines, entertaining friends and family, traveling to beautiful places, really "living the life with zeal and zest" with not a moment to rest or spare. A part of me did long for some quietness, but I quickly suppressed those urges with sensory overload. Whenever there was a moment to spare, which was rare, I used to make lists of everything that needs to get done, new dreams. I was so busy running the show.

I was working on a ground breaking project, there were 50 to 60 hour work weeks for six months at a stretch with no respite, and I thrived in the busyness. We were building the fastest ever built Pure Water plant, design build. I was so engrossed in work that I used to sleep-talk about work problems to solve. Every day started with three meetings with three disciplines (civil, mechanical, electrical/instrumentation/control) of construction crews, I used to give them instructions for the day ahead and also update the plans for the upcoming weeks. The speed of projects was so intense and the room for error so low that we needed to plan schedules in 4-hour intervals. It was exhilarating! At any given time, I had at least five teams, if not more, in four continents, working round the clock, churning out designs. If a portion was designed  Kansas City, while we were sleeping in Brisbane, I checked and issued it for construction the next morning and construction started right away. There was no strict definition of my job, it was "do whatever it takes to keep the machine going!" Everyday presented a new challenge, and new kink or hurdle that needed to be resolved. It did not matter what. I was the best fault-investigator there was and I fixed it. Be it the receiving and sorting/storage and issue of materials and equipment from contractor's on-site storage, or pickling schedule of some field modified steel pipes, or designing and building analyzer panels on site, or making sure that Mumbai did the auto-cad mark-ups correctly. No job was off limits and no task above or beneath me. One morning I was inside manholes testing the vacuum seals, and in the same afternoon I was giving tours of the plants to the CEOs of the big companies we were working for. I loved that we all wore the same uniform, had fantastic gourmet coffee machines on site, and there was a sense of camaraderie among teams that I nurtured. I felt I owned the plant, I could tell you about each bolt that went in that place, who designed it, where it was bought, who purchased it, who installed it, who inspected it, who commissioned it. I was having the time of my life. I was 31 years old, and I was loving my job. Everyday I woke up, though physically tired from lack of sleep for weeks on end, I had a spring in my step, I wanted to go to work, and thrived on the energy. I was getting things built and there was great satisfaction in watching the plant grow in front of my eyes.

View of the Brisbane River from our apartment by Story Bridge

Gabba (Cricket stadium) alight, night-time view from our apartment

Personal side was very interesting too. I lived on the 35th floor of a beautiful high-rise overlooking the Brisbane river. Just sipping coffee from the balcony would put my mind to peace, to watch the river flowing, the people, like Lilliputs, walking about, ferries plying the river, cars rushing about. I used to throw parties for my hubby's friends and my work colleagues, cooking/experimenting with different cuisines. China Town was just a short walk away and I could get really nice ingredients. Fresh vegetables and meat at grocery stores in Australia was way more flavorful than what we got in the farmers' markets in the US. If we sliced a simple green bell pepper in the kitchen, the aroma of capsicum would float around the entire apartment. It was a delight to cook and entertain. We went of vacations when we could, all around Australia. I used to have a big fat diary where I had accumulated a list of all the places I wanted to travel to, it was my bucket list and it was LONG. In the preceding decade I had collected all the National Geographic magazines published since the day I was born, and I had meticulously read all of them and jotted out detailed itineraries of every place in the world I wanted to visit - from Vladivostok to Moscow, from Banff to Panama Canal, every country in Africa, a month in Antarctica, and so on. Sitting in the balcony of my exquisite Brizzy apartment, I would read my diary, dream and then add some more. The year before, in 2006, I had already run the Chicago marathon, way before any of my friends had even thought of it. Today it is a fad and almost everyone seems to be running or cycling, but back then, a decade ago, it was not as common. At least not this common among my friends circle. So, my challenge health-wise was what could I do next? I decided to work on reducing my body-fat percentage to as low as I can do while having fitness and stamina. So, I used to wake up at 4am, be at the University of Queensland gym by 5am, workout exclusively on strength training for an hour, then head to work for my 6:30am phone call with Kansas City. When I got home in the evening, I would run a three mile loop over Story Bridge and South Bank, and then get home and drink only a smoothie to bed. My sister-in-law's wedding was to be in 2008, and I wanted to look perfect, my definition of perfect. I watched everything I ate, I felt proud of how I looked, how everything I wore looked beautiful on my curves. I often spent Sundays shopping on Queen Street, finding the best and smartest fit.

My life was so outwardly focused, interested in achieving. The achievements gave me my value, they gave me a sense of place in the world. I was coveting and working on being the best. I looked at myself through the eyes of others, I accepted the script completely, made it mine and lived it to near perfection. It gave me joy to achieve, I laughed, and then I strived even more. The craving was insatiable. As soon as I had achieved one goal, I was sitting down to write the next. Climb a mountain? Become the CEO of a multinational company? Open a restaurant? Have 8% body-fat? Run a marathon in every country of the world? Eat exotic dishes prepared by the locals in every country I visit? Make one new friend a month? Fly a plane? On and on it went. Every high I got from an achievement, I was not content for long. I soon got bored and craved for the next high. Money? Health? Vacations? Accolades? There was always something I could do more and better than what was already done. It was Desire that fueled me. Did not matter what the desire hooked on to, what the goal was, it was Desire coursing through my veins. I wanted Freedom Of Desire, that is, the ability to strive and get anything I could desire and I tried to prove to myself all the time by setting higher and higher goals. It was addictive! It felt great! I was "high"!

And today, a decade later, all I am very happy to just sit for 20  to 30 days a year, in solitary confinement of a four by six closet, for twelve hours a day, and watch nothing but my breath as it goes in and goes out. And I often wish I could do this for three months straight. There is a quality of bliss and contentment in sitting that I never knew existed before! I have grown to appreciate solitude deeply, this freedom is incomparable to all the joys from a decade back. I feel so fortunate to be experiencing moment by moment the pure unadulterated joy of Freedom From Desire. Just to sit and watch the sensations arise and pass away, the emotions and thoughts doing the same. It is like watching a stream or river, sometimes it is fast and furious and sometimes it is calm and serene. I don't need to go watch a real river, it is in my mind. I sit in awe of the power of this mind, and I now strive, very kindly and gently, to train it, to harness it. In the past I used to unleash my intellect and thinking prowess at problems with great results, but I could not make it stop at will, and so it would run haywire all over the place. I used to think that it was smart for it to do so. But now, I take great fun in training it. It is amazing, like my pups, Freo and Ozzie, I walk the mind on a leash. When it needs to go for a walk I take it, I let it pee and poop and sniff around the walking path, but I control the direction of the path. If my mind gets excited by seeing what's on the other side of the road wants to cross the road onto oncoming traffic, I say no and hold the leash firmly. It sits and waits till the time is right and we cross the road together. This is an amazing thing. I feel such joy to be able to control my mind. Well, I am not 100% there yet, but most of the time I can at least watch it, if not control it. My mind still gets excited and jumps up and down like F&O does when there is a happy guest in the house, I do that when there is a good music, or good food, or good friend to talk to, or some other sensory stimulation. What has changed is that when that stimulation is not there, I don't go looking for it. I am just as peaceful playing with my own toys at home, or just resting. The restlessness is going down. And somehow I feel I get more things done. Every morning after my meditation, with a yellow pad in hand, I make a to-do list and then put it away. Somehow in the course of the day, without having to look at the list, it gets done, with time to spare, for drawing, or music, or painting, or other things. I still run my business with sincerity and efficiency, I have a home that is pretty well kept most of the time, and I go on long walks on the beach when I please. I am less flustered, less anxious, less angry, less guilty, less worried. My body fat is not at 8%, neither is my bank balance in the millions, but there is this contentment that what is done is done, what is left to be done is not done and it is okay, no worries! At every out breath, if it were to be my last, there is no regret or nothing left undone. If death is to claim me right next moment, I am as ready as I can be. I think this is so wonderful!

In Free Fall

I have written a lot about my journey in the last decade. Some friends who have seen me go through it know how harrowing it has been for me. It occurred to me earlier this week that since 2011, this has probably been the most sane and calm year! I am so very grateful for this. Not sure if I have turned a corner and that this is a new reality, or if it is just another lull before the next big storm. Who knows? But at this moment, I feel a sense of relief that I hadn't felt in a long time. There is a slight rise in my self-esteem and the faith in my abilities have been renewed. Doubt does not feel like the predominant fetter.

This realization came after a friend recently asked me to write down how far I have come. She insisted that I jot down the worst years of my life and the bright spots. So here it is. When I reflect back, the two worst years of my life till date has been 1993 and 2013. Those two years are exactly 20 years apart, and I am not sure if it is a coincidence. There have been really trying situations in other years too, but somehow I managed to work with them. These two years were exceptionally dark and dank, when I felt extremely helpless and friendless and lonely, with severe dark clouds. It felt that there was no light anywhere and I was exhausted. Of course there were many reasons for such a feelings, most of those were reactions to external conditions of my life, and we can go analyzing those to fine shreds. But to what end?

I managed to walk up the hill!!

Yes, I managed to walk up the hill, Somehow. Only I know how much I panted, how many times I felt I could not take another step up the steep curve, how many times I was going to give up and die, how my muscles ached and it felt unbearable. I kept moving, because that was all I could do. Standing made the situation worse, as if I had mange, so I had to keep moving, often for the sake of it. And all of the climb was uphill, for I had really fallen into a deep funk of a canyon.

Today I feel a sense of exhilaration. There is a sense of discovery. As if I am finally growing up. Learning to see myself. It is a delightful pursuit. There is something under every rock, and I lift each up one by one and feel the child-like thrill of discovery. It is very scary too. For I have lived a very scripted life thus far, and did not even know it to be so. For the first 20 years I was a caged bird, yearning for freedom and only knew of it from poems, songs, and dreams, but there was no way to realize the truth of the word, I was shackled with heavy iron chains and did not have strength to break them. After 1993, I escaped that jail and forced myself into a new form. I was determined to create a new and beautiful life, write my own story. Then for the next 20 years, I now find, I lived a caged life too; the difference was that I had built the gilded cage myself complete with shiny gold shackles, for that was the past conditioning. I did not know any better. I built a great life in the conventional sense, using the ingredients that I had, but it was still scripted by the vocabulary of the past experiences and framework. I lived in delusion of perfection. There was a small voice which sometimes asked deep questions, but I quickly shut her down, because I didn't have the answers and the unknown scared me. Script was good, cage was also okay, it was safer than the unknown. Until it shattered too, in 2013. Again I found myself in desperation. I couldn't work out why all the effort I put in, and vocabulary I acquired over the years, did not make any sense anymore. How can it be thus? How did this world turn upside down again? The castle I so meticulously built out of sand got completely washed away in one large wave! It was another rock-bottom experience, an extremely excruciating and ugly one. Nothing made sense anymore and I was yearning to find some meaning, a reason, an explanation, and none was available.

And today, four years later, I feel I have finally climbed out of that deep canyon. There is a sense of fear with this. The future is unknown. I cannot script it, and I choose not to script it anymore. I have thrown away the dictionary. Now starting from a clean slate is very thrilling. It is also very scary for the unknown is wide and open. The best simile I can give is this: I feel I have jumped off an airplane without a parachute. And as I jumped off (it took great courage to do that), I realized that there is no ground underneath that I am hurtling towards. And as there is no ground to fall to, the idea of going splat on the ground without a parachute is not a reality. I will not go splat or splash (in water). There is nothing down there. And I am in free fall. I have not reached terminal velocity yet. So I am still tumbling about in the free fall. There is the weird feeling in my tummy, the feeling of zero gravity, of being weightless. I don't mind the tumbling, there is a strange security in knowing that there is nothing to fall to anymore! It is a weird kind of happiness. I cannot explain.

An extra fish has been salted.

This past Friday evening, I went to a "Dharma Talk: Discover What Death Teaches About Living Fully" by Frank Ostaseski, organized by Insight San Diego. Though I have been volunteering with Elizabeth Hospice for almost two years now, I did not know much about Mr. Ostaseski or his work in the Bay Area. The subject of death was what attracted me to this event.

My expectations were different, so I was not very impressed by the talk. I thought there will be some Dharma insights, it turned out to be a book sale pitch for The Five Invitations: Discovering What Death Can Teach Us About Living Fully. My bad, I should have researched before I went. I sat in front on the cushions, expecting an enlightening discourse, and all I saw was a lot of black and white pictures of deceased hospice patients, and a very well practiced presentation on why we should buy the book. But I listened intently to every word that was spoken. Two things struck me as good, and I will share them with you here along with my own hospice/ end-of-life thoughts.

"Someone knows You're coming. An extra fish has been salted."

I think of death often, as a reflection of everything that is arising and passing away. For the common man, it might seem that I have a morbid obsession with death and some have said that to me, but I don't think so. I find that the modern man is trying to run away from it as much as he can, but like a shadow, it is always there, attached to its being. Some mouth the words - "Yes, I know it is there, I accept it." But I find they really don't deeply accept it. Have you ever seen little kids, who when they don't want to hear something, put hands on their ears and loudly go "La La La La La....", in an attempt to drown and negate the other voices around. I find most people who say they "accept death" doing just that. The rest are very fearful, and therefore do not want to imagine such a situation ever, they try to drown the voice by indulging excessively in activities and pleasures. I don't know why? I do not understand this behavior at all. I have been thinking of death from the age of ten or so, when for the first time I saw my maternal grandmother lying on the floor in a filthy hospital in the outskirts of Kolkata, her tummy swollen with liquid, and all my aunts and uncles, including my mum and dad, looking very solemn and worried. They tried to shield me from the view of impending death, but it was really okay. It did not scare me at all. In fact, I found it fascinating. That a human will pass away like that, exit without any cognition of the world after they leave, they will not know the people they left behind anymore. It was amazing to me. I had probably seen other dead things before, like mouse, or birds, and fish, and meat from goats and chicken, but they did not make me think this way.

Fast forward many years and many deaths of friends and family members, today I find myself visiting the patients at their end of life. I make house calls to chat with hospice patients, sometimes I watch TV with them, or play games, or talk about their history, just plain and simple chit chat. I feel they find it very refreshing that I do not see them as dead people. One patient said to me - "You know, the doctors and nurses look at me as a machine and keep tweaking this and that, and my family look at me with sorrow and confusion. They don't know when I am going to die, so they cannot prepare for it. Sometimes I feel they want it over with so that they can go to the next thing that is bothering them. They really don't look at me, they look at death. You are different! You don't seem to see death, it is so cool!" I laughed and we high-fived. I see death, I see it in every passing moment, in my body, in my sensations, as they change. Maybe because I see it so much, he felt I don't see it, or resonated with the acceptance I have.

I also sit in vigil as death is imminent. I did that for a 99-year old lady few months back. As I sat there beside her in the nursing home, I breathed with her in sync. She was attached to several monitors and heavily sedated, with no cognition. But for six long hours I sat by her side. At times I wondered how her life has been, born in the early 1900s, having been through so many intense political and economic cycles, including the recent dramatic change brought about by hand-held electronics and the internet. I wondered how her personal life might have been. Today she lay, a mere breathing skeleton with sunken eyes and few strands of hair, but there must have been a time when she was desired by many a youth, some courted her, wrote poems on her dazzling beauty and looks. Then she led on to have a long family life with husband, kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids, was witness to so many marriages, so many births and deaths, so many moments of sheer joy and also depressing disappointments. The world serves us so many rounds on the rollercoaster of exhilaration and let downs. And here I was, sitting there by her, a total stranger, breathing her last breaths with her, and about to share one of her most intimate moments on this planet. I felt deeply honored by this gift.

What happens when we die? There have been many intellectual books written on this subject including Frank's. I have stopped reading them, because they seem to say the same thing, and after you have read a few, they begin to sound boring. At the beginning of the talk, Frank said something very well about three steps. While I have often thought it, I never articulated it the way he did. I am reiterating his theme, with my added commentary.

Death is a three step process, or takes three things to happen. First, the medical angle has to be worked out. It is making sure that the machines are working properly, that the morphine, if needed, is being applied appropriately, etc. All that is structural, and essential for physical comfort. I remember "project-managing" this aspect during my mother's death in 2012. It takes quite an effort to get it right, and the patient's condition is changing so rapidly that constant vigilance is required. Some people, including doctors and nurses and attending family members, however, obsess about this aspect so much that they don't consider the other two. Which is a shame. Some wise family members understand this, and some patients themselves too, so they add on the second aspect - that is spiritual support. People tend to play religious music or chants in the flavor of the patient's inclination, and at times they have chaplains or priests attending. Whatever the belief or fear that is present leading to death, it is assumed that the presence of a person of the cloth may assuage that fear a bit and help the person to be brave. But the last step one has to take all alone, they have to walk through that door all alone by themselves. And that last bit is unknown, shrouded in mystery. Whether one believes in rebirth, or in heaven and hell, or the presence of a God or not, or whatever, it really does not matter. They are still beliefs, held on in this worldly mind, the frontier to be crossed is still unknown and un-experienced. One can be drugged up for this moment, and to an observer it may seem that this person died in their sleep as their body shut down. But you know what, when the mind disengages from the body, all the senses fall off one by one, there is no pain anymore, the moment is inexplicable. If there is fear in that moment, it is really hard for the patient, for the feeling of loneliness is intense and irreversible and they know it.

It is this passing away that we can train for in meditation, to be equanimous and at ease with the last profound change of this life. The practice is to train the mind so well, while living and going through the senseless vicissitudes of daily life, that at this moment of radical change, we are at peace. It is a very fruitful  training - to watch everything material and emotional arise and pass away every moment, to watch the frenzy of thoughts and opinions as they form and grow and then disintegrate, to be present there as a mere observer totally disengaged from the happenings, just enjoying the show as it unfolds. If one can practice this when living, and become an expert at this, then during the dying process, there will be no fear. The disengagement and the release will happen with ease.

Last, but not the least, below is a poem that Frank narrated. It is written by one of his patients.  He said that in the Zen tradition, they write death poems. This one is from Sono, who was a feisty woman in her time, full of zest and panache. I found it very inspiring. It lays out the essence of living more than that of death. I thank her for this lovely poem, and trust she is happy in her next life. I am grateful to Frank as well, for having shared this with me.

Sono's Death Poem
Don't just stand there with your hair turning gray,
soon enough the seas will sink your little island.
So while there is still the illusion of time,
set out for another shore.
No sense packing a bag.
You won't be able to lift it into your boat.
Give away all you collections.
Take only new seeds and an old stick.
Send out some prayers on the wind before you sail.
Don't be afraid.
Someone knows you're coming.
An extra fish has been salted.

I made him a breakfast platter for dinner!

I went to see my hospice patient last night, we had a bit of a chat and shared some jokes. Then I learned that his sister, his caregiver, will be late from work, and she asked him to make himself a sandwich for dinner. He was a bit bummed. So, I offered to make him dinner. We went to the kitchen, it was very chaotic, for they had just moved into this new apartment and everything was in boxes all around. He wanted eggs, so I made him a breakfast plate for dinner. He was thrilled!! Before I left, he said - "I live alone most of the time, watching TV and having occasional visitors. Today I smiled and laughed this wholeheartedly after a long time. This is fun! We should do this more often!"

Breakfast for Dinner. I used the cutting board as tray. He LOVED it!

So we have a date every Wednesday night from now on. We have planned to go on short walks, put together puzzles, go over old family albums, and talk about everything that does and does not matter in this crazy world of ours. I am looking forward to it very much. I have a new friend!

I write a lot about my meditation practice. Sometimes I feel that I have become a tad bit too vocal about it than is comfortable for many. You see, when one gets a jewel, one wants to share it with everyone, that's how I feel about meditation. But today I will not talk about meditation, I will write about my hospice volunteering work. It has been almost a year and half since I started on this path, and I feel blessed to have met some very beautiful people who brought immense joy to my life.

Last night as I was walking back home from my visit, it was dark, after 7PM. It was cold, some wind and light drizzle, and I did not have an umbrella. But I was as warm and happy as I could be. It was a very intense feeling of joy, as if there was this golden river in me that was overflowing its banks onto the pavement and sidewalk, then onto the world, seeping and spreading outwards. Every passerby I met, I smiled, and they beamed back at me. I took a long detour to Trader Joe's to do some grocery, and the same happened with the clerk there. I was "in the flow". It was as if I fell into the EAC and was just swimming along in the overwhelming joy and peace, effortless. This is very difficult to explain, there was no pain, no tiredness, no anxiety, no worry, no insecurity, no fear, no negativity anywhere within. My whole body and mind seemed to be transported into a field of joy, I was walking the same cold, dark, rainy sidewalk, but there was just light inside. I had seen glimpses of this in my life before, but this time I was there for hours. And today, as I write this, I still feel its essence resonating in me.

This last week has been exhausting at work. Almost all of January I have been fighting this weird fatigue, which had led my work deadlines to slip. I have been feeling bad about it and since last week, I have been working almost 12-16 hour days. I still have four more days to go. The night before last was especially trying, I stayed up all night to finish a proposal. I missed few social and work engagements this week too, but last night I decided that I will not miss this patient visit. Even though I was exhausted to the core, I went. And look at the reward I got!!

As I have said before, I do not do these visits to "help" my patients. I don't think anything I can do will change the inevitable. I look at these visits as the perfect exchange, I sit there and give them company, and they delight my heart. There is no expectations flowing in either direction, and maybe that it why both parties get so much from it. I feel that in any other relationship, be it with family or friends, there is an implied expectation of "gain". Here, there is none, and so it is a pure wholesome beautiful experience.

We are all going to die. Some soon, some will take a long time to wither away. Everyone has his/her own truckload of stories, all the good and the bad that has happened over the years. When one enters hospice care, only the big stones in the glass matter. Those get picked up and looked at. Each of my patients, in their own way, have told me about their lives and what matter to them. Yes, some are regrets, like those Bronnie Ware shared with the world which everyone likes to talk about these days, but there are and have been joys too, we talk about them too. We have talked at length about the dying process, about how to let go and accept that there is no control. One thing we have particularly reflected on is how this exit is so similar to the entry into the world. None of us remember our entry, we were locked in a small cramped watery cage for nine months with no space for movement, and then suddenly released into the air. Like a fish out of water we writhed in shock and fear, and then got used to being taken care of. People cleaned us up when we pooped and peed, they fed us every few hours, they put us to sleep and played with us, they laughed at our gargles and the pointless noises we made, they got irritated when we threw up, and were mesmerized when we said "Dada" for the first time. We do not remember all that. We remember how we became independent of other people, developed pride in doing everything ourselves, and led a very busy and productive life. Now, at the end of that life, we are again going through that entry process, but in reverse. We will have to start depending on other people for our basic needs, recognize that we cannot do everything on our own anymore, and later to have someone feed us, clothe us, clean us up, and so on. There is no shame in it, we have done it before. We have just forgotten. And there is nothing to be scared of either, for there is truly no control over our lives, we were just in an illusion that there is/was. So, the exit process can be easier if we learn to gently let go. And that is what we hospice volunteers are there for, to be that other person who visits, the one who doesn't look at the patient as a person in need of pity or with sadness of lost time. We look at him/her as a person, in transition, like everyone else.

I consider myself VERY lucky to have found a practice which allows me to find new friends, expect nothing, and as a result experience the purest form of joy there is. Whether it is these weekly patient visits or sitting in vigil during the last hours, I am at peace, true and deep soulful happiness. When it flows in my veins, I am having that experience when time stops and everything around me is bathed in love and kindness. My wish is that I get more opportunities to serve like this. I am selfish that way, I want more of this high. It is beautiful beyond these mere words can describe.

Don't Hope, Work!

This is a personal note. It is on my blog and reflects my very personal opinion. I am writing this upfront because while reading this some may get upset and jump to judgement. That's the reader's choice. I am not writing this to win hearts.

On November 8th, 2016, as I sat watching the results roll in, I was very disappointed, at times distraught. I had my head in my hands, on my friends' couch, feeling that the floor under me was giving way. I could not believe this was happening to America. In a strange way I could compare the feeling to 9/11 when I watched on live TV the second tower got hit. It felt like a personal blow, and took the wind out of me. I was in shock for a long time. And on the early hours of Wednesday this week, I somehow felt the same; a deep feeling of loss and shock and disbelief and surprise that humans can be so self destructive. For a while, I found deep aversion arising from me, wanting to not accept the results, trying to find ways to run away, wishing that some calamity strikes and all this goes away. I did not want this outcome. I came home, hugged my two dogs and cuddled with them all night, sleeping very badly, tossing and turning all night, restless. Next morning I had two very important client meetings and I had to be "on" for those. My livelihood was at stake, I had to get up and do my job.

Few days have passed since. And I have seen the surge of emotions on social media and I can resonate with the anguish being felt by the millions of people who gave Hillary the popular vote win, but not the presidency. There is also a surge of hate speech, of accusations, anger, cries of betrayal, of trying to blame someone or something, of trying to find reasons and answers as to why this happened. And there is fear that is like a tornado sweeping through the nation right now, almost a paranoia - will this become a repeat of fascism, rise of dictatorship, collapse of the economy, what about the environment, Clean Air Act, Clean Water Act, funding for infrastructure, trade relations with the world, hard-fought LGBTQ rights, abortion rights, race marginalization, religious persecution, apartheid, internment camps, funding for science and technology, education decline, legitimization of sexual assault and rape, women's rights and women's safety... The list is long, people are scared.

Am I scared? Yes, a little. I profess to be scared because I am not so developed yet to have been able to discard all fear and become fearless. I am still human and fear is a basic response. But I also see this other response to fear - HOPE. And I have a fundamental problem with Hope. I think that is the wrong response. Hope actually prevents us from accepting the reality as it is. And it puts a sheen of golden future on our minds and tries to numb us. That is not right. I don't believe in hope. I think it is a useless social construct and because we have been listening to this message of hope all our lives, ever since we were a little child in our mother's arms, we find ourselves going for that bandaid everytime we feel a crisis is upon us. I think we need to abandon hope and learn to accept reality, as it is.

The electorate has spoken. We live in a democracy and it is what we have chosen to be our government style. The candidate has been elected fair and square by the system we have put together. It is not right to whine and cry when I did not get the result I wanted. If we feel the system is flawed then we have to put things in motion to change it. Going on a rampage through the cities and destroying other people's property and businesses is not the adult response, this is akin to throwing tantrums like a two year old. Accept the results as is, America. Don't Hope, Work!

The bottomline is that Hillary won the popular vote by 0.2% (47.7% Hillary vs. 47.5% Trump), that is not a big margin. Accept this truth, even if it hurts, it is true. Also, 44.4% of the electorate sat out this election, they did not care to cast their vote! If you go rampaging the streets and crying foul about the system, I say you are not being in your senses. Be an adult, get to work. You have an energy that has arisen in you, preserve that. Do not waste it on messages on social media, or looting other peoples' properties, or burning the flag or effigies or such things. Don't hope that everything will get better. Control yourself, observe the fire in you, channel it wisely into effective work. How you behave yourself, how you pull yourself together and work moving forward will be what will bring the 44.4% that sat out to the polls. So, control yourself, don't fly off the handle with every incendiary spark from the media! Don't be so paranoid either, after eight years in office, Obama was not able to close Guantanamo, and that was in his 100-day agenda too. So, be smart, be wise, calm down, don't forget, don't get complacent, get to work.

The best analogy I can give is from my business life. We work hard for every contract we win. No one really hands it to us. For every RFP that hits the street, we try to know about it months and years in advance, we work with the client and sometimes help them through the process, we also position ourselves with the client at several levels of the client organization over and over again. Once the RFP hits the street, we put our best effort in it and spend a lot of time and money to create the best proposal we can. Then after waiting for what seems like ages, we find out we lost; sometimes to a vague little firm in Texas who doesn't even have a local presence! We are stunned! How did this happen? Where did we go wrong? We did exactly the right things, and most of all we cared deeply for the client and their vision and had put together the most effective and efficient approach to get their job done. And more than betrayal, we feel extremely sorry for the client to have made such a senseless decision. But we respect their decision, it was theirs to make. If they do not see and understand what is beneficial to them, there is nothing else we can do. Protesting, or crying, or saying terrible things, or deciding not to work with that client anymore do not get us anywhere. We just need to accept the decision as is and move forward. But you know what, we will never again take any little thing for granted. We will be overly cautious with every step forward. We will protect ourselves, we will keep our expectations at check, we will channel the grief and sadness and energy that has arisen in us towards carefully crafting the strategy for the next task at hand, with wisdom, with insight.

Being a political leader is very difficult. I have several friends in local government, and many others who are leaders in public agencies, public servants/bureaucrats. On a daily basis I see them struggle to get the job done, they climb the mountains everyday. It is very hard. Are there immoral and self-serving people who got elected? Yes, there are some. Are they using the system to get their pockets filled, some try and even succeed for a while, yes! Then they mess up, there is a scandal, and they are elected out of office. Are there lazy public agency workers who take their retirement and job as secure and for granted, and do not function, yes there are some. But rarely do those people get to stay for long at the top of the system, they are usually moved over to a position where they are irritating, but cannot cause too much of trouble or be in the way of things getting done. Does the government system work? I say, yes. Is it slow? Most of the time, yes. Is it efficient? Not all the time. Does it work for the benefit of the many? Most of the time. But you know what, the very system that is slow and hard to move and very difficult is what is good at times like this. It can prevent the bad stuff from happening as much as block the good stuff. It is the safety valve. Like it or not, that is what it is! The reality. Do you want to change it? Be very careful for what you want. If you want to punch holes in the fabric of the system to make sure more things pass through, remember the good and the bad will pass through. Make sure you modulate the pore sizes of the punch such that the bad stuff gets held off, make sure you do not punch too many holes too. Work with the system, slowly and surely, and more importantly, wisely.

Focus at least half of your energy to protect yourself. If you are afraid of your safety and of your freedoms being taken away, protect yourself the best way you can. Use the system to your advantage. For every issue, raise a flag. Make complaints, write to officials, stand up an walk, Be extremely aware of your surroundings, don't take anything for granted. There is no space for being stunned anymore, to be surprised as to how someone had the audacity to do/propose whatever they are doing. Have your radar on, and at the first smell or inkling of something that may go amiss, take note, take action. Wise action. Do not let anyone dent your freedoms. That is what America stands for. Do whatever it takes, without resorting to violence, to counter that force. If they are going to chip away your rights, those you have bled to secure, you can't just let them take it away! Like all the great leaders before us, channel the energy and work tirelessly. When they imprisoned Mandela for 27 years, do you think it was a casual walk in the park everyday? He gathered his energy and made his resolution even stronger, and very wisely, one person at a time worked his way through the process. He did not take anything or anyone for granted. He worked every day, breaking rocks and firming his resolution. That's what we have to do. And you know what, the 44.4% that sat out the election is actually looking for a leadership that is wise.

On election night, I was having dinner with a very wise lady. She told me - "People tell you who they are all the time. You have to learn to listen and believe them." It is so true. When I look back at many of my disappointments with people in life, I can clearly see that I did not listen and believe them when they clearly told me who they were, sometimes on the first meeting. It was me who did not want to accept, because I wanted an alternate reality to be true, I had a dream world where I wanted these people to change and fit in. That is the Hope-world, completely unreal. Same thing here. President-elect has clearly told us who he is. We need to accept him, exactly for who he is. Once we can accept that, we know what we are in for. We can then figure our strategies to make sure we are safe, and everything we care for is safe. And do not get complacent, be on guard all the time. At times it may feel that everything is okay, and that may incite you to lay your guard down. Don't do that. Keep on a lookout, be aware of everything going on around you, stay vigilant, defend your freedoms. Make no compromises. What is rightfully yours, it is yours. Don't let anyone take it from you. Some people have pointed out, it took Hitler just two years to turn the country around and mess up everything. That's right. It did. Not only Hitler, every overthrow of every government throughout history has the same pattern. The leaders or the public was living in an alternate reality. When the British slowly broke down the monarchies in India and created the Empire, almost every king in each of India's little kingdoms were thinking that it happens to others, not to me. They were not vigilant, or aware when the first signs arose; and by the time they wanted to protect themselves, it was too late. This is exactly what the US need to be aware of. Be vigilant, every moment, protect your freedoms, and without resorting to mass hysteria and panic, compose yourself. Don't hope, work!

The Pied Piper of Hamelin has taken the rats to the mountain, do not let him take your children too!!

Tiger, my Djinn

I must have been about two or three years old, for it was before my sister was born, I had a djinn. He was a gorgeous tiger. A Royal Bengal Tiger. He was long and strong. His coat was bright golden orange with beautiful thick white and black stripes. His belly and inner side was very soft and pure white like down. He had small perky ears, left one a bit bent at the bottom. His best thing was grand white whiskers that would tickle me to fits. His eyes were small and translucent yellow, always aware. And most of all, I loved his tail, soft and long, orange with black rings. I used to hold it, pull it, play with it, hang by it, and he never seemed to mind. He was my best friend, the only one I had at that age, and he was always with me whenever I needed him.

Photo Credit: San Diego Zoo

Did it have a name? No, I just called him Tiger, just like the neighbor's German Shepard was called. But mine was a real tiger, not a dog! I used to notice from the back window how miserably the neighbor used to treat his dog, but my Tiger was my favorite plaything, we shared everything we had - sunshine on cold floors, the musical plop of water drops in the bucket, the unending expanse of the terrace, the crack on the side of the stair, the long line of tiny black ants going somewhere in a hurry, the smell of Maa's fresh warm rotis, the call of the vendors from the street, and much more. This was long before I had read The Jungle Book, or known about Hobbes, or been to a zoo, or had any exposure to any books about tigers. I suspect he had just popped out of a calendar that hung in our shabby little dining room one fine day and made my world alive and beautiful. No one else could see him, he was my djinn; invisible to all, and visible to me alone. We used to talk in secret language and he used to follow me everywhere I went, especially when I went to the bathroom, as it used to be at the other end of the house across the stairs, and I used to be very scared going there alone. He used to stand outside and keep telling me that everything is fine and that he is guarding the door, that I need not be scared. He was my best friend.

He was by my side almost all the time we lived in our Nibaranpur home, till my sister was born. I was four when my sister was born. Our home was on the second floor. We had to get to the stairs through a small garage where Baba used to keep his white scooter. As we went up the stairs, it would open into the dining room. Baba liked the dining table against the window, so there was only seating for four people. This was the table where my dad's friends would sit when they visited us in the evenings, and there used to be songs of Manna Dey sung by Kamal Kaku into the night over unending cups of tea and snacks. While they all sat on the chairs around the table, I used to sit on the table, with Tiger by my side, and observe and listen to all the things the adults talked about - politics, music, movies, football, cricket, price of daily items, problems at work, weather, the whole lot. I didn't understand it all, but what I did I would explain patiently to Tiger, and he would nod his head and sometimes roll his eyes. The kitchen was on the other side of the staircase, and also was the bathroom. Maa used to spend most of her time in the kitchen, while Tiger and I played on the dining room floor. Leading away from the dining room, there was a small room, it was my room. There was a large tall bed by the window. The window overlooked the street and beyond that to the Mess (a boarding house for working menfolk) opposite our house where my dad's friends used to live. The window had vertical rods, and I used to stand holding the bars and talk to everyone walking the streets below. I had many friends. Maa used to tie me with a piece of string to the bars so that I did not fall of the bed, while she was cooking in the kitchen. Tiger and I could spend all day looking outside, watch the sparrows and pigeons, the stray dogs and cats in the street. We used to talk a lot, I don't remember all the conversations, but it used to be mostly about the people and animals we saw. We used to snuggle together and play. I loved blowing bubbles in his pure white soft belly, and he howled with laughter. We used to tumble about the bed together playing with each other, giggling and wrestling with each other. It was pure joy.

We were poor then. Baba used to make five hundred rupees a month and had to send three hundred or so back to my grandfather for his brothers' education and family rations. Maa had to manage with meager resources. So, we used to have my favorite egg curry only once a week, and meat or fish once every two to three weeks. Dinners used to be roti and a sabzi (vegetable). Now a days I love bhindi/okra, but at that age, I used to hate it. Actually, I did not like any vegetables then, except maybe fried eggplant/brinjal steaks. Baba's strict rules were that you had to finish every morsel on your plate. So on the night that the dinner was roti and okra sabji, it was torture for me. I used to sit on the dining table, for what seemed like hours, with one roti and fried okra on my plate. To teach me discipline, Maa and Baba, after having finished their dinner, used to leave me alone in the dining room, with a tiny ceiling light burning, and retire to the bedroom. I was supposed to call out when I was done, then they would get me down from the table. Tiger was so nice then, my best buddy. He used to walk up and down the dining room, assuring me that there was nothing to fear. Sometimes he would jump up on the table and rub his head in my tummy urging me to eat. And when he did that I would squeal with laughter, and that would often bring Maa over to inquire as to what was happening. Finding me just sitting there and laughing away, she would chide me and go back to the bedroom. Sometimes Tiger and I would plot and throw pieces of roti and okra through the window, or under the table. Under the table was not always a great idea, since next day the remnants would show up when Maa swept the floor, and that meant scolding when Baba got home from work.

Kamma, my father's mother, had come to visit us one time. She was a small lady with a very strong personality. She was not particularly fond of children, nor of my mother. Baba used to be at office all day, so she had no choice but to hang out with us. Tiger and I used to follow her around everywhere, even to the terrace, even if she disapproved of it. I was very curious about her, and found it fascinating to have another woman about the house who was so very different from Maa. I used to observe everything she did, and she did things so very differently from Maa. In the afternoons, when the sun was high, she would take a bath and sit on the stairs leading up to the terrace. I used to sit by her and Tiger would laze on the stairs above us. I remember Kamma smelling of neem from the Margo soap she had just used. She sometimes wore a light lemony yellow colored cotton saree with orange border and tiny black dots. She looked so beautiful in that sari. But Tiger used to get jealous that I liked looking at her, and he would try to flaunt his orange black and white at me on the stairs, sometimes precarious balancing on only one paw, just to get my attention. I would then scold him to keep quiet. She had curly hair that she would oil and comb while sitting on the stairs. I used to just sit and watch her, for she did not like talking much, nor pay much attention to me. She looked very beautiful, with a bright red bindi and sindoor. She'd break into a song or hum a tune sometimes. Tiger used to get bored and sometimes bound up and down the stairs urging me to follow him. Though I knew that Kamma couldn't hear him, I used to scold Tiger and ask him to sit quietly beside me. Instead Tiger used to make faces at me, and threaten to snuggle and make me laugh. A few times he would come very close to me and shout loud in my ears "tickle, tickle" that would unleash my squeals. Kamma would get upset, call my mother and make a big scene. So you know, he was really naughty and troublesome sometimes, managing him was quite a bit of work for a three year old!

One time I developed a stye on my left eyelid, it was a big one. So big that the eye was almost closed shut. Maa and Baba were worried. The stye was very painful, and I used to cry a lot. Tiger thought that if he licked the boil it would go away, I let him, but his magic did not work. One evening, Baba had the idea to burst the stye and let the pus out. So, he set me up on my bed, Maa lighted a candle and handed him a few large sewing needles. The plan was to heat the end of the needle to sanitize it and then poke the stye with it. It was dangerous, if he missed the stye or jabbed too hard, I could go blind. So Maa and Baba explained the procedure carefully to me and asked me to sit still and patiently. Maa was to hold me while Baba did the job. The stage was set on the bed in my room, right beside the window towards the street. In fact, the candle was precariously kept on the windowsill.

Tiger was not happy. Not happy at all. He furiously paced up and down the room while the preparation was going on and kept telling me loudly that he did not approve of it. He kept threatening to eat my Baba if he dared to hurt me, and may be Maa too for helping in this process. I was crying, but I kept urging Tiger to trust Maa-Baba and not eat them. Who'll look after me then? I was just a little girl! So, here we were, Maa behind me, holding me still. Baba sanitizing the needles and then bringing it close to my eye. I was very scared. All of a sudden I saw Tiger grow huge and tall, almost three times Baba's size, and stood on his hind legs ready to pounce on Baba from the back. His eyes were glowing, he was breathing hard, and saliva was falling off his open mouth. His mouth was wide open and as big as Baba's head, he could chomp off Baba's head at one go, I was sure of it. I yelled out with all my might - "No! No! Don't eat him! Don't eat him!!"

Baba was stopped in his tracks - "What? I'm not going to eat you? This will be just a little prick." But I kept crying and yelling. So much so that Baba's friends from the Mess came to their respective windows and also yelled out to us - "Hey Dada! What are you doing to that little girl? Why is she crying so hard?" Baba had to appease them and explain that he's trying to burst the stye on my eyelid. But while all this was happening, Tiger just stood there in that pouncing style as a statue, no movement, fixated on chomping Baba's head off, brimming with silent undivided intention. I was not scared for the stye on my eye anymore, I was scared that Maa-Baba will soon become tiger food!  Anyway, Baba did manage to successfully prick the stye a few times, in spite of my crying and wriggling, he also managed not to pierce my eye. After seeing that I was safe, Tiger got down and looked straight at me, said in his cold deep penetrating serious voice, "I am telling you, I would have really eaten him had he dared to hurt you!!"

Tiger, my djinn, is no longer with me. Only the many memories of him remain. He used to make me laugh, the real laugh with no care, and that mirth came from somewhere very deep inside. As you grow up, you learn to live in a world made of rules, reality, and sharp edges, and there is no place for djinns, soft white cuddles, and secret languages. You learn to be brave the world on your own, venture out in the darkness and stay there all alone through the cold nights. I don't remember exactly when he left me, he probably faded from my life gradually as I got busy with reality of growing up. These days, as an adult, I want him back, sometimes very intensely. I miss him. There have been dark days, and quite a few of them in the last few years. I could have used his company, his softness, his assurance, his love and care, I yearned for him. When I go for long walks on the beach at the break of dawn on Sundays, I sometimes smell him in the mist of the morning as it envelopes me, arising from the sea with the roar of the waves. Maybe he is there, maybe he is gone, he is a mirage. But I want to laugh with him again, for Laughter, the real one, I realize now, had gone away with him when he had left......

Coffee and Chocolate, in bed

At this time I will admit that I have two fetishes. As you might guess from the title of this post, it is coffee and chocolate, in bed.

Morning coffee in bed is the best thing that can happen to me. My ex-husband never got the hang of it, maybe he didn't care, but if he did, we would have still been married. His loss! It is truly a divine feeling for me to wake up to the aroma of a steaming cup of coffee on the night stand. Mornings are very special for me, I typically wake up very early, and if I don't have anything to do or a major meeting to rush to, I lie in bed enjoying the quietness and the softness of dawn, experiencing the night melting into the embrace of the first rays of the sun. A new day is to start, new promise. With the slight chill in the air, the touch of the covers on my skin feels comforting. I usually lie in a trance of half-dreamy-half-awake state for a while, just soaking in the pleasure. And with that, if there is the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, I am in heaven. 

Being single in this regard is difficult, it takes the fun out of lazing in bed. To make a good cup, you have to actually get up and go fix yourself one, which is quite an effort and beats the purpose of the whole experience. Few years back an old friend was visiting me from Australia, and during our many conversations I happened to mention in the offing this peculiar craving of mine, and on her last day with me, she did just that - got me a cup of coffee in bed. I cried. I was so touched. She was amazed how little it took to make me so emotional and happy. Now I have most of my friends "trained", when they stay with me or when I am visiting them, they usually get me a cup in bed. For example, couple months back, I was visiting a new friend in Los Angeles, I slept in a makeshift bed on the floor in her converted garage, it was a very different setting than my own bed. And she surprised me a cup of hot coffee as I was stretching and just waking up; I was tearful again. Later she told me, she was checking on me every few minutes as to when I would start to stir, and as soon as I did, she made me a cup. She does not drink coffee as such, but had gone all the way to buy coffee because I was visiting and made it for me. I feel so blessed to be loved this way!

Coffee and Chocolate

In 2008, we were touring Tasmania. One day driving up the east coast we found ourselves taking a windy road up the hill at Swansea and visiting Kate's Berry farm. As luck would have it, Kate was there. We enjoyed the delicious offerings she had and, true to my inquisitive nature, I struck a conversation with Kate. Her story was fascinating, how she fell in love with Tassie the moment she had landed in Lonnie decades back, that she felt like kissing the tarmac after landing, and  how it took her a while to wrap up her flourishing business and life on the mainland and move to Tassie for good. Little did I know then that Tassie would have the same effect on me, and now, years later, all I dream of is retiring in Tassie. Whether I can afford to do so, who knows? At that time Kate was doing berries very well and she was putting Tassie on the world map for top quality berries, she was often invited as key-note speaker at conferences. And she how also encouraged local housewives and farmers to grow the top quality berries with love and care. I was amazed by her effort and success, and very inspired. I asked her, what's next? She exclaimed, Chocolates! She said that she's been doing active market research. She has been sitting at high end chocolate shops for months on end and profiling the clientele. She noticed that the people who regularly buy chocolates, the high end decadent ones, are single women in their late thirties to early forties. That is the ideal demographic, one with the money to spare and the taste for good chocolates. At that time, I listened in awed silence and filed away the information. I was in my early thirties then, and chocolates were a nice-to-have but definitely not a priority nor special pleasure. I couldn't imagine buying a box of chocolates for regular self-use, I typically bought them as gifts. (By the way, Kate does offer handmade decadent chocolates in her shop now.) So last night, as I selected my little piece of heaven from the box of twenty, I suddenly realized I have become Kate's ideal clientele, I fit the profile!

I keep a box of special chocolates at home. And when I go to bed each night, I carefully select one special piece, like a ritual, and savor it in bed while reading my latest book to sleep. These days my friends are also aware of this special ceremony of mine, and I get boxes of chocolates as gifts. One friend/brother of mine travels to foreign lands often, and without fail he gets me a box of dark delights every time. Yes, I am blessed!

As I grow older I am starting to realize the importance of these small pleasures and how to be mindful and make space for them in my life. Coffee can be had on the go and by the gallon from the drive-thru, and sometimes schedule demands that; but to make it a small mindful ritual heightens the pleasure multiple times. To pause and savor a sip of coffee, experiencing the warmth flowing down the throat, the aroma almost makes you heady, the soft light of dawn with its cool quietness makes it magical. It is like I am unwrapping the day, a carefully packed gift with a pretty ribbon bow. The morning coffee is like gently tugging the ribbon as it unravels the beautiful gift. Same way, as I get into bed to rest, after a day tired from running pillar to post, full of anxiety and busy-ness, having a little piece of chocolate, and you don't know what you will get, is not only a special treat to self for a day well labored and finished, it is also a reminder of the unknowns in life and a sweet way to make peace with them. Life is good, just as it is!

Float Away, Float Away....

"The art of losing isn’t hard to master; 
so many things seem filled with the intent 
to be lost that their loss is no disaster. 

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster 
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. 
The art of losing isn’t hard to master. 

Then practice losing farther, losing faster: 
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster. 

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or 
next-to-last, of three loved houses went. 
The art of losing isn’t hard to master. 

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, 
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. 
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster. 

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture 
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident 
the art of losing’s not too hard to master 
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster."
 (Elizabeth Bishop, One Art)

This morning, at dawn, on my favorite beach, I sent four boats afloat and away. Each boat signifying the bondage of a relationship I have labored for all my life.

This was a big step for me. I am not into rituals, in fact I abhor them, I find them repulsive even. Growing up in a culture steeped with rituals I found myself very much at odds with society when it came to rituals, but today I made up one of my own, for this period signifies a very important turning point in my personal life. It is the real full stop in a long sentence of my life. A new paragraph starts.

Boats floating away

Some of you know my story intimately, some only know it at the periphery, and some of you are reading this note for the first time. This note is very hard for me to write, as it is extremely personal and I especially do not want to hurt anyone. But it is also very important for me to write, for this note may serve, if it is at all possible, as a sign to others in a similar situations, and maybe give them assurance that they too, one day, can be free from bondage. This freedom is from the bondage of anger, pain, expectations, hurt, desire, betrayal, and the incessant measurement of what is right and wrong, what could be or could have been; and all these emotions are now replaced with only one ardent compassionate wish for the people on those boats - May They Be Happy.

To write a tell-all might make a thick book of tears, and it will not serve the purpose. It is not about the people from whom I separated, nor is it about the incidents that led me here, it is about my emotions and of truly letting go of the past. It has been a long arduous journey - my learning to recognize the intimate truth about the cause my pain and suffering, then of my learning that there is a way out of it, and then of my release. I alone am the architect of this freedom and that is the only thing that matters at this time. Specifics of the relationships or incidents have no meaning in this context. Instead I talk about all the mistakes I made over the years, cues that I misunderstood in life, and the responsibility I take for being so ignorant and misinformed. I put out in the open my naivety, my innocence, and from it the path to freedom that I have discovered, better late than never.

I feel that my mind is like a dishwashing sponge, one that has been used everyday for all these years and has accumulated dirt water deep in its pores. Even when this sponge was placed in clean water, there was no space to soak up the clean. The sponge needed a strong wring. And the last five years served that purpose very well. These years have been really hectic for me, every year brought with it a new seemingly insurmountable challenge. I took the storms straight on and somehow managed to survive, I know not how. I was wrung to the core, trashed many times and wrung again. Then, progressively I have been placed in clean water, and finally I have been able to soak up the wisdom, true life wisdom that has led me to this shore of freedom.

Much of my pain arose from social conditioning and my naivety. As I look back, I can see three distinct flows that intertwined like braids: a stupor/daze of unworthiness, a pervasive feeling of loneliness and hence a deep rooted desire to belong, and a fear of physical and emotional pain. Over the four decades, quite frankly, there has been scarcely a moment when I have treated myself with mercy and kindness. I had an inner judge who was merciless, relentless, nit-picking, driving, invisible but always on the job. This served me well in few walks of life, I am highly functional and successful in my professional and worldly achievements; but it has also left me anxious, driven and often depressed. There has been a pervasive feeling of being not okay and personal deficiency, and it went hand in hand with deep loneliness. As unworthiness and insecurity permeated every space of my being, I have felt alone in my suffering, and that it was a personal problem and somehow my fault. The curtains of ignorance were so thick that I did not see all this. I did not see how I was affecting and hurting myself all these years. Today I see all this. I have lost much time, but there is some time left still.

These four relationships are sanctioned by society to be near and dear to every person, that no matter where the world goes these relationships are supposed to stay true and protect you; and I believed it. My extreme wanting for attention, affection, love, compassion, and kindness led me to keep investing in these relationships, no matter the cost to self. These people took me for granted, I spent the entire time wondering why my investments were not paying any dividends. I was naive enough to not question the norm and my desire was the thick curtain of ignorance which prevented me from seeing the extreme personal loss I was incurring. There have been years when I have cried all night, and then in the morning taken the tear soaked pillow to the terrace to dry it in the sun so that no one will notice. There have been long nights when I felt ripples of anger crawl in my veins, which made me so hot and suffocated, that I had to drive to the ocean in the middle of the night to let the mist and wind cool me down. There have been days spent in daze of restlessness when I felt I was sitting on a bed of scorpions, feeling the painful venom throbbing within and no respite. There have been times when I lay on the kitchen floor writhing in physical pain and then pitying myself for not having a single person around to hand me a glass of water or help me get up, berating myself on how much I have failed in life. I have suffered, very much. As I kept giving, more was asked of me. My delusion of hope let me believe that it was my duty to give, that being selfless, especially for these relationships, is what everyone does, and is my greatest asset. I took the definition of serving to the extreme and became an indentured slave. My inner judge drove me to be good, and defined new standards of goodness every moment, and the little girl in me kept hoping to please and receive a glance of acknowledgement. These people didn't see me as a human capable of sensations, both emotional and physical. For them I was a robot - they fed their needs and desires and I performed like a wound up toy, beating the drum at their command. My attachment was to hope, and every unfulfilled hope further reinforced my unworthiness and led me to try harder, almost always to exhaustion. I was afraid to let go, for I let these relationships define my identity. Letting go meant that I would become a nobody! That was scary. It was all an intertwined jumbled mess of suffering.

Loss that redeems

Today, as I sent away these boats, I set myself free.
Free of the bondage of these relationships.
I abandon all hope, and with it, all the fear of loss.
That is freedom.
I own no one, and no one owns me.
There is a lot of love in my heart, and it is free now.
I am open and willing to share with the world,
        to give myself freely, kindly, and with all my effort.
I do not have to look back anymore, for there are no more strings attached.
I set myself free. Free of all the pain, the wanting, the misery, the suffering.
Today I wish for myself a new dawn -
        may I have patience,
        may I find peace,
        may I be free of desire,
        may I be able to direct all my energies towards wholesome actions,
        may I be able to help others without expectations,
        may I be able to get my volition become purer as time passes on,
        may I be happy.