Kaash Phool

River Ghat (c) Kaliprasad Chatterjee

It was a full moon and the Ganga was a simmering like a stream little floating diamonds, millions of them, calm and serene, moving in peace, as if softly and gently holding hands so they would never get lost. A light cool breeze was blowing from the east as if it wanted to salve the burn of the hot summer afternoon. It was a bit after seven, the sun had just gone beyond the horizon, and the western sky was getting darker by the minute; it was time for Sandhya Aarti. There was an occasional whiff of incense and clang of the khartaal brought by the wind from the temples along the holy river. Women were blowing conch shells to welcome the night in their respective homes. The other bank was mostly dark with little specks of light at the ghats. It was one of those clear full-moon nights, when the Milky Way above seemed a perfect reflection of the river. The earthen lane leading to the river was marked by many a faded footsteps of generations gone by. This was an old ghat with verbal history dating back to over a thousand years. Much business once happened via this ghat, fortunes made and lost. New brides left for their husband’s homes through this ghat, sometimes never to return, their innocence left standing at the edge of the water. People took their morning bath here to start the day blessed by Maa Ganga. Before exams, students would come to this ghat and sprinkle holy water on their head, say a silent prayer asking the river goddess to help them pass their test. Laundry got done here, all the filth washed away by the river. Yes, this was once a very popular ghat. About a decade ago, the ferry moved to a modern ghat about half a kilometer away, and the crowd diminished gradually over the years leaving it in slow disrepair. The steps leading to the water have been broken. The fields around the ghat are overgrown, the brick walls and bedis have little trees growing out of them. The ticket room had no roof anymore, and now home to young families of pigeons and crows. But the water splashing on the steps remained the same. Not many people came here these days, and certainly not at night.

Shikha sat by the river on the small brick bedi of the broken old ghat and realized that it has been over thirty years since she last sat there. She was barely four years old then. Sumana, her little sister, was just born. That week Maa had returned from the hospital with the little one and everyone was doting over the new baby. Maa had been in the hospital for almost a week. It was a difficult pregnancy, and everyone was relieved that it all turned out well. All these years Shikha was the favorite of everyone, being the first spirited grandchild in the family. They lived in Bhopal where her father used to work at a construction company, but they made it a point to visit her mother’s family at least twice a year. When they would visit, Dida would make so many delicious misthi for her, she especially liked Dida’s poolipithe, oozing with sweet coconut and milk. Mama and Maashi would take her to the neighborhood shops and get her anything she desired, small knick-knack toys, crayons, and the like. She felt pampered as a princess, and always looked forward to these visits to Dida’s place. All the neighbors used to adore her, at evening teatime they would sit around her charmed by her rattling off the nursery rhymes and kobita, and she used to bask in the attention.

During this trip, Baba was not to arrive till another three days. He could not afford to take leave, the project he was working on was very important as the Governor was visiting. He was anxious about Sumana’s birth, but he could not be at the hospital. Maa was a bit upset with him. During the last leg of the pregnancy, Shikha stayed with him for a month, all alone in Bhopal, while Maa was at Dida’s taking rest and preparing for the baby. Shikha used to miss her very much, and clutch a picture of Maa to her chest to go to sleep every night. Being a single dad was not easy for Baba either, and so after a month, he dropped Shikha off with Maa and went back to Bhopal. Shikha found Maa very distant and rude. She longed for a little cuddle from Maa, for it had been over a month since she snuggled with Maa. But here she found Maa was usually busy reading a book or napping on the easy chair in the back verandah, or wobbling around the house from one room to the other. The neighbors would visit, Maa’s old school friends, and Maa would chit chat with them for hours, laughing and joking. Shikha would stand quietly by the door and watch them, but no one paid any attention to her, no one wanted to hear her kobita anymore. This made her feel very sad. If Maa ever glanced at her, she would rebuke – “Go to the upstairs room and study. Why are you standing here gaping at us? Don’t you have anything better to do?” Shikha would run away, flush with hot tears, ears and face red, and heart aching. There was no one to talk to, no one to play with, and no school to go to. Now she wished she was back home in Bhopal, it was better to be alone in her own room with her drawing book and crayons, than here in the middle of all these people who did not love her anymore. She was now missing Baba very much and could not wait to see him again.

All of a sudden with Sumana in the mix, it seemed that no one saw her anymore. Shikha felt like a ghost. No one recognized her, talked to her, or even looked at her. She showed up at meal times and got to eat. There were no special sweets for her anymore, no trips to the shops, in all the busy-ness of everything, no one cared to look for her. This made her feel very lonely, it was the first time in her life that she felt so unwanted and extra. She did not know what to do, so she used to wander off to the ghat and sit at the bedi for hours at a time, watching people get on the ferry and get off the ferry. There was so much happening, so many different kinds of people, dressed up in different colorful clothes, some quiet, some loudly talking; Shikha would sit there and observe the goings-on. At times she little heart would leap and want to join a boat and go out and away on an adventure, but she would not dare to do that. It was just a dream, an urge that she learned to restrain and stay.

Shikha’s one and only friend in this place was Roshni, the maid, Rajni’s, daughter and almost as old as Shikha. Rajni’s husband, Ram Sharma, used to work at the brick kilns on the river while Rajni used to work at several local homes in that area doing household chores – washing clothes, cleaning the dishes, dusting, sweeping, mopping the house, grinding the spices, and much more. They lived in a small hut by the river, near the ghat. They were from one of Bihar’s very poor slums around the steel city of Jamshedpur, and had immigrated to this area during the riots of 1978. Roshni had two brothers, one older, and another younger. Rajni used to tie her little son with a long piece of cloth to her back and take him to work like a backpack. Roshni’s elder brother, who was couple years older than Roshni, used to go to school. Young Roshni was left to wander about the neighborhood play with the stray dogs or just hang about ghat. People traveling along the ghat knew her very well for she used to run up and down the river banks waving at them as each ferry departed or arrived. She was always out in the sun and her skin was tanned to a golden brown. With her dirty and torn clothes, runny nose, and sprightly spirit, she was like a mascot for the ghat. That is where Shikha and Roshni met and became friends.

That day, right after breakfast, Shikha went to play with Roshni. The girls ran about the fields by the river chasing butterflies, dragonflies, and crickets. When they got tired, they sat on that very bedi, swinging their little feet, and waving at each departing ferry. Both went home for lunch and had a tummy full of rice, dal, vegetables, and fish. It was a good day for Roshni, she usually went hungry over lunch or got some donations from the ferry passengers. With Shikha, she was treated to a great lunch today at Shikha’s house. After lunch, Dida asked Shikha to take a nap, but she begged, cried, and made her pleading face and somehow got the permission to go back to the ghat and play. Dida did not have time to put Shikha to sleep. She thought – Oh! The world would not end if Shikha did not take a nap one afternoon. In fact, Shikha might just tire herself out and go to bed early in the evening. Before she let Shikha out, Dida made her promise to stay in the shade for the afternoon was very scorching.

It was the end of the monsoons, and the field was blooming with Kaash phool. In autumn, when they are in full bloom, the flowers are magical soft and white and gorgeous. One could gently tug the flower by the stem and it would slip out quite easily, perfect for little four year olds to play with. For Shikha and Roshni, it was a game to pick as many flowers as they could get, the one who picks most flowers wins. So for quite a bit of the afternoon, they picked the flowers in the fields. Then, they sat at the brick bedi, to count their stash, neatly separating ‘the load’ according to size. They wanted to compare who got the most and who will be the “winner.” Suddenly Roshni pulled a few flowers off Shikha’s pile. Anger welled up inside Shikha. Her heart started racing, and hot blood pumping down her little hands, she felt a strange force explode within her little chest. She picked up her stash and she hit Roshni with the bunch of flowers. A tiny little spikelet hit Roshni in her right eye. Roshni immediately ran howling towards her hut. Shikha sat there on the bedi, anger gave way to regret and then fear. She sat frozen. What will happen now? I did not mean to hurt her. My hand just went up, I could not stop it. Did she get hurt? Can I say sorry like the Sisters in school taught me to? Will it be OK then? What will Maa say? Oh my God! What will Dida say? They will be very angry with me. What have I done? But, I did not mean to hurt Roshni, I like her very much! She is my only friend here. She should not have taken my flowers! They were mine! I picked them. She had her own bunch! Oh! I am so sorry! What will I do now?

Rajni came out of the hut, she was very angry. She scolded Shikha with a barrage of Hindi words that Shikha could not fully comprehend. Roshni was standing behind her mother, peeping from her the safe spot, her face had two glistening streams of tears. Shikha felt extremely sorry. She hung her head down and said Sorry with as loud a voice she could muster. She was at the verge of tears herself, but no one was listening. Rajni kept yelling and scolding in Hindi. When Shikha lifted her head to look at Roshni, it seemed that Roshni was fine. In fact, Roshni looked at Shikha and gave a cheeky smile through her tears. That felt even worse to Shikha. So, Roshni was just making up a problem when there was none. Rajni yanked her daughter and marched off to report to the elders. Dida, in spite of her very loving nature was a very strict lady. Shikha was very scared, she definitely did not keep her promise to Dida and was playing in the sun. Maa will tell Baba when he comes back and he will not be happy either. Shikha was going to get into a lot of trouble now. Her heart sank. The feeling of dread spread all over, head to toe. Oh no! Everyone will be mad at me even though Roshni is perfectly all right! They will scold me. Who knows what will happen now. I have to go home and face it. I have no choice.

Shikha walked home, slow fearful steps. Maybe no one will know, after all they are all busy with the baby, and Roshni is not really hurt. If Shikha could just slip in the house, and find something to do in the backyard, it will all be fine. On her way home, she heard Dida chatting with Manju Maashi on their porch. They were talking about Maa’s difficult pregnancy and about how beautiful the baby was, all fair with thick dark hair, just like an angel. Shikha quickened her steps and went inside the house. She found Maa with Sumana in the balcony. Maa was sitting on her easy chair feeding Sumana, holding her close to her bosom. She was humming Shikha’s favorite lullaby to put Sumana to sleep. As Shikha watched this, standing at the edge of the door, a pang of jealousy hit her. That is My favorite song, why is Maa singing it to the baby? Then, quickly reality struck her back to her senses, she remembered Roshni, and jealousy melted into hot dread again.

Maa looked up at Shikha at the door and smiled. She looked so beautiful, her long braid hanging on her back, her face so sweet and lovely, almost shining with happiness. She got up, the baby was asleep, so she gently laid the baby in the small rocking swing, tucked her in with lot of love and care. The afternoon light was filtering through the coconut and papaya trees and there were beautiful shapes playing out on the red balcony floor. Shikha kept watching her mother, a part of her screaming to run to Maa for a hug. She desperately wanted to feel safe and loved and as tears came up in her throat and eyes, she tried her very best to push them away. She put her head down, so that Maa could not see her tears.

“Why are you so quiet? That’s not so normal for you. Did you have a good time playing with Roshni? I am sure you had fun. No school for the entire month, you must be very happy”, Maa said. Shikha nodded and sat down on the balcony stairs with her favorite stones. She loved juggling those stones, she had handpicked them from the riverbanks and they were all smooth and shiny. They looked like little stars. Maa was singing softly, on her easy chair, Sumana asleep and swinging in her little bassinet swing, it all seemed peaceful and all right. Slowly Shikha relaxed, and started concentrating on the little shiny stones, and watching the light from the leaves move around the floor and over Maa’s bright face. She felt her heart get a bit quiet, and it started to feel safe.

Suddenly there were heavy footsteps. It was Dida coming up the lane. Shikha figured that Rajni had gone to Manju Maashi’s house, found Dida and complained. Shikha’s heart sank and her worst fear came true when she saw Dida, all flushed and breathless, running into the house straight to Maa.

‘Oh my god, Manu, you have no idea what Shikha did today! Rajni’s daughter has gone blind! Shikha hit her with a stick and blinded her! I don’t know what to do! Hey Bhagwaan! This is terrible! Rajni’s family is so poor, they live on almost nothing. What will happen to the poor girl? No one marries blind girls! Sarvanaash! Oh Shiva! O Maa Durga! Please have mercy on us! Please help us, please help poor little Roshni!’

There was no peace anymore. Maa flew into a rage – “Oh, no wonder you are being such goody-two-shoes! You blinded Roshni! What were you thinking?! What will I tell your Baba when he comes back?! How could you do such a thing?!”

Smack! Smack! There went many slaps on Shikha - on her back, on her cheeks, on her butt. Maa was angry. Sumana started crying. That made Maa angrier. No matter how much Shikha cried and said that Roshni was all right, that she was actually not hurt; Maa would not listen. Maa kept beating. After a while, Shikha stopped protesting. She just stood there taking the barrage of beatings, no matter where it came from and how much it hurt, she just stopped moving.

Finally, Maashi came from the kitchen to stop Maa, and separate the two. Then all the elders gathered around discussing the next steps. They were talking about which doctor to call, which hospital to take Roshni to, arranging transportation, and all such planning. Around that very moment, Mama came home from work, and was getting off his bicycle, when they filled him on this problem, he also joined in on the discussion and planning. They thought he should take the poor girl to the hospital to get her eyes looked at.

They forgot all about Shikha. Sad, hurt, and angry, Shihka had no one to turn to. If only Baba was here, he would have definitely checked the facts before beating her! She was crying and missing Baba very much. She retreated to the steps leading to the terrace, took her few river stones with her, and cried in silence. There was nowhere to go. No one loved her anymore; they were all worried about Roshni, who was not even hurt. She sat there, crying thick hot tears, hiccupping, but very silently, watching all the elders talking. Maa had taken Sumana in her arms again, and was cooing to the baby. Shikha’s heart hurt very much, it was as if there was a thick thorn stuck in there and it would not get out. She felt hot and cold at the same time. She wanted to hide, but there was no place she could go. The beatings from Maa were still live on her body, which by now had turned red and was hurting. She wished she could run to one of those ferries now and never come back. What if she went away, will they miss her? Shikha slowly crept inside the house, unnoticed. The hiccups were getting louder, she was crying very hard. She crawled under Dida’s bed in the middle room and hid as far under the bed she to go. If the elders cared about her, they could find her. It will be nice if no one found her, ever! She did not want to be with them anymore. She lay under the bed crying. And in her grief, she did not know when, Shikha fell asleep.

At dusk, people started realizing that Shikha was missing. They have been busy taking care of Roshni and had indeed forgotten about the other little girl. Mama had taken Roshni to the nearby doctor. The doctor had checked Roshni’s eye and passed the verdict that it was hemorrhage caused by a broken blood vessel, the redness would go away in couple days. It was harmless, no medicines required, eyesight was all right. Roshni was not blinded, and all was well in the world. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief. But, where was Shikha?

Dida’s house had five large rooms and was somewhat L-shaped. The room at the end used to be Dadu’s study and had been left as such after Dadu passed away. Occasionally uncle used it as his study or to entertain guests. The other end of the house had Maashi’s room, kitchen, and the dining room. The middle room was the center of all activity. It was Dida’s room, with her large queen sized bed at one corner. One wall had wardrobes and almirahs. The other wall was the prayer wall. Dida was a very religious lady, and she probably had all the Hindu gods covered. Every morning she woke up at four in the morning, took a shower and prayed for a good couple hours.

The middle room was now buzzing with people, this time they were worrying about Shikha. Dida sat down in front of her gods asking for forgiveness and making deals with the gods – ‘If you return Shikha, we will go to the big temple and perform a major puja there.’ Dida had lost her first born to the river, the little boy had drowned while playing with his nanny near the river, he was caught in a rip current and sucked into the water. He was four years old then. That memory still haunted Dida, and she used to get hysterical if ever heard a kid had gone missing. The room was filled with elders again. They were all talking about how inappropriate it was to beat Shikha for such a trivial thing. Did Shikha run away? Did she go back to the river? Maa started crying – “Oh God! What will I say when her dad comes home!”

All this commotion had woken Shikha from her sleep, and she was listening. She was still sad, hurt, and angry. She was still under the bed in the middle room. She was full of abhimaan, and decided not to come out. Let them search, why not? After all they had beat me up without checking the facts. It serves them right. While she was asleep, the maid had put some empty buckets under the bed and had hid Shikha very well. The room had low power light bulb. She lay there under the bed, indignant. She did not move a muscle, lest she was found. Someone even tried moving the buckets to look for Shikha under the bed, but she was crouched up in the dark corner and too small to see in the dim light.

It must have been a couple hours, the room was tense, and it was mission control. Maa was on the bed with Sumana, crying softly and very worried. Mama had summoned a group of friends and neighbors and a search party had been formed. Some went to the ghat to look near the river edge. Few of his friends were patrolling the streets on bicycles looking for Shikha. One of Maashi’s friends came over and was talking to Maa. She suddenly got up and asked – “Did someone look within the house? Like every nook and corner? The little girl can be hiding in the house and we are all searching everywhere outside.” Even though the family members assured her that the house was searched, she was not convinced. She got Dadu’s big silver Eveready torch and started checking one room at a time. It was a large house, she started from one end and went room after room, moving everything that could hide a four-year old, including opening every almirah and wardrobe. After searching the entire house, she came back to mission control almost defeated. Then standing at the doorway, she said – “One last try, I am going to check under this bed.” Maa said weakly that they already searched under the bed, but maashi insisted that she look one more time. How can a four-year old just disappear in thin air? She got on her knees and started taking the buckets out one by one. And there was Shikha, crunched up into a ball at the very end, covered with cobwebs and dust. They pulled her out.

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

Sitting at the bedi, and thinking of that day made Shikha smile. So many things have happened in these thirty years. Maa has left us, so has Dida. Sumana has a little bundle of joy of her own now. Mama had married and moved away, living in the city. Maashi was married and gone too. Shikha did not know where Roshni was, probably married and with kids of her own now. Their hut was not there anymore, only a clearing was left. Everyone from that day of her childhood had dispersed. Nevertheless, the old house still stood there, though a bit unkempt and unloved, only two rooms were in use and the rest were closed off and locked. Dida’s prayer wall didn’t have the pictures of gods anymore but the faded markings of the frames remained. The light in the middle room was still as dim. There was a bed too, but it was now a box bed to store the winter blankets, with no room for buckets under it. Shikha would sleep on that bed tonight, and not under it.

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!!