SoulScape

Deepavali major

2005-11-01T00:03:00.000-08:00

Galaxies of light

throng the crystal atmosphere

in brilliant shades

incense, prayer, crackers and kids

a teeming vortex of life.

Deepavali minor

2005-10-31T22:45:00.000-08:00

Gradual, sombre

a single diya explodes

in the dark stillness

an effulgent precursor

to the festival of lights.

Night flight

2005-10-30T23:50:00.000-08:00

Plovers harangue the

night sky, dense constellations

expand the mind’s eye

plaintive echoes receding

on a thousand ganglions.

Dhan Teras

2005-10-30T20:07:00.000-08:00

Visions of childhood

incense, prayer, vermillion

shimmering jewels

an annual offering

for Laxmi’s benediction.

Bamboo child

2005-10-24T11:34:00.000-07:00

Slender and yellow

a bamboo shoot emerges

from the thicket

drenched, a hundred peridots

glisten in the morning sun.

Karva chauth

2005-10-20T13:12:00.000-07:00

An annual fast

for my husband dearest

prayers for a good life

unbroken, parched till moon rise

each breath etched in memory.

Shelle & pearl

2005-10-18T19:34:00.000-07:00

Two decades and five

desolate, a broken shell

solitary in the sand

a little pearl floated by

nestling in her ever since.

Autumn moon

2005-10-17T19:26:00.000-07:00

The moon a gold coin

a pearl in an oyster shell

throbs in the night sky

expectant and quivering

awakened by her lover.

Wing song

2005-10-16T13:02:00.000-07:00

Cheeky and orange

a tree pie, voice sonorous

escapes the neem tree

as the coolness condenses

a string of canto cadences.

Phantom tandav

2005-10-15T20:30:00.000-07:00

A darkness descends

demons spring alive to haunt

the serene stillness

macabre landscapes taunting

the dewy freshness of peace.

In that holocaust

coruscate consciousness streams

from the fountain source

singed and burnt the phantoms flee

the mind-field serene and free.

Winged euphony

2005-10-14T19:34:00.000-07:00

A symphonia

plaintive bird songs throng the glade

in multiple shades

the coolness of evening pales

as the winged crescendo fades.

Temple on foot

2005-10-07T19:40:00.000-07:00

Rhythmic bell song

rangoli, psychedelic

on a vast forehead

a silent temple banter

sombre reticent canter.

Kawabata revisited

2005-10-07T19:11:00.000-07:00

Having been deeply influenced by such greats as Yasunari Kawabata and Yukio Mishima, there was a strong urge to return to the pristine mosaic of their prose after a decade and a half.

I picked up Kawabata’s ‘Palm–of–the–hand’ short stories which has some extremely moving pieces but the one that plucked a deep chord lies in a piece called ‘Canaries’ where the narrator writes to his mistress for the last time about a pair of canaries (gifted by her when they parted finally) he wishes to now bury with his dead wife since she was their caretaker and through them kept alive the moving mind picture of their memories together. The poignancy peaks when he ends by saying that in addition to doing many other things for him besides being a loving and devoted wife, she saved him from great pain by never reminding him of his duplicitous life and in doing so allowed him the freedom to enjoy, sustain and revel in those frozen memories.

Written in 1924, this along with many other stories is a mirror of Japan and it’s social fabric – especially treatment of women at that time. Unfortunately, far from chivalrous ! But am not getting into that.

What punctures the soul is the infinitely delicate detail of emotion that Kawabata bares and presents with such deceptive simplicity and ease. His ability to penetrate the very core of his characters is evidence of his fine sense of intuition, caring, sensitivity and craft.

Rightly said, Kawabata ‘has the soul of a miniaturist’, especially apt for his short stories which are reminiscent of Haiku, known for its lingering and timeless quality.

Am sure to be back with more once I’ve coursed through the anthology.

Here’s my interpretation of its essence in Waka

Pale and sombre the

canaries waiting to die

water marks of love

red lantern, she kept alive

memories of her for him.

Ocean Eyes

2005-10-06T19:34:00.000-07:00

Frisky white and brown

rummaging, a basset hound

stubbornly canters

long ears and muzzle searching

for spoils in the flower bed.

Liquid echo

2005-10-06T10:02:00.000-07:00

Incandescent pond

molten gold, silver, copper

the hues of fire

viridescent, a mirage

frozen for posterity.

The power of Deep Play

2005-10-06T00:20:00.000-07:00

With my increasing interest in Zen, Dad passed on ‘Deep Play’ by Diane Ackerman, a sagaciously engaging book that leads one through the experience of ‘stillness’ in the present by going deep into oneself – an altered mental state unfettered by conditioning and pre-conceived notions, where most often one acquires clarity, revelation, acceptance of self and other life affirming feelings.

The book leads us through a fascinating panorama of nature’s bounty and the author’s multiple experiences. The universe and its hundreds of microcosms clinch her attention as she draws the reader to a world of marvel and rapture. Ackerman illuminates an exalted state of transcendence through emotionally and physically vigorous activities. According to her, one must continue to get enchanted by the world around us, only then can we experience deep play at its best.

For those who breathe and live nature, who feel one with it, who are revived by being in it, this is a must read.

Diamond dust

2005-10-05T21:45:00.000-07:00

Kaliedoscopic

an iridescent sunbird

hovers in the glade

a diamond spray on yellow

drawing ambrosial dew.

Navratri

2005-10-04T22:53:00.000-07:00

Navratri - nine nights

of restraint and abstinence

an ode to being

bright, the stream of consciousness

unites with Buddha nature.

Aria Aurora

2005-10-04T22:08:00.000-07:00

The brain fever bird

energetic yet plaintive

autumn canticles

the pipal tree is fertile

with nesting chick melodies.

Metamorphosis

2005-10-03T22:41:00.000-07:00

Perseverance

and patience, your time has come

revived, a phoenix

rising from the cool ashes

nadir - zenith confluence.

Soul inferno

2005-10-02T22:27:00.000-07:00

The hours have stoked your soul

melancholic restless, peace

in absentia

there is a higher purpose

let serenity prevail.

Dusk spray

2005-10-01T21:51:00.000-07:00

As sundown settles

a caravan of colours

on the horizon

explode in full strength

a night rainbow in full bloom.

Autumn Sonata

2005-09-30T12:51:00.000-07:00

The tree pie is back

fiery plumage in tow

and vibrant bell song

as it flits from tree to tree

resonant, the sound expands.

Moonbeam

2005-09-29T19:04:00.000-07:00

The frangipani

looks at the moon, pale with scent

a warm yellow glow

bow tailed a drongo hovers

an evanescent shadow.

For my little goldfish

2005-09-28T21:30:00.000-07:00

My Japanese friend Yuka gifted me three miniature goldfish a couple of days ago. I’ve always admired these silent and peaceful creatures and to get a sense of them have a beautiful aquarium screensaver that keeps me company most of the day.

Ever since they came home, there is an intense desire to nurture these delicate little lives. So beautiful and full of life, one could not resist writing a couple of lines for them.

1.Saffron, willowy

three gold flecks, sisters perhaps

frolic in the sphere

bright brocade shimmering cool

delicate ripples of light.

2.Diaphonous fins

gossamer sheaths over gold

a song in orange

trusting agile sensitive

three pairs of black circles rise.

3.Serene and placid

a crystal water palace

orange resonance

lips, perpetual quivers

eyes, trusting circles of light.

4.Saffron fireflies

echoes in a crystal frieze

gold slivers quiver

bubbles burst at the surface

little mouths quench their thirst.

Jumbo

2005-09-22T10:00:00.000-07:00

Have a penchant for furry friends ? Meet my pet Jumbo

Cotton muse

2005-09-17T13:39:00.000-07:00

The silk cotton tree

heavy with rain, creaks and strains

labouriously

her green tresses undulate

ripples on an onyx pond.

Cloudburst

2005-09-16T17:21:00.000-07:00

1.The scents rise, assail

the earth effulgent and pure

is pregnant with rain

a green blanket envelops

opalescent dewy sky.

2. Strong breeze and wind chime

a tintinnabulation

jocular exchange

as the crescendo tempers

silvery lilts vaporise.

3. Black birds on wires

electric and descant notes

a canto perhaps

wind in a gust approaches

the melody disperses.

4. Rain falls, bubbles spring

the essence of life teeming

the wet earth explodes

resplendent and redolent

she is a sea green echo.

5.Torrents and showers

a temple stands deserted

of incense and light

bell songs, people throngs, flowers

incandescent empty shell.

Soliloquies

2005-09-15T23:08:00.000-07:00

1.Peaches and cream her

complexion, translucent and clear

glowing resonance

an aura intense and strong

each atom a love temple.

2.Tranquility peeps

at the fish in the pond

live-wire fires

scintillate in crystal calm

an ocean breeze gently sweeps.

3.The emma quivers

plaintive on a blood red chord

her wish echoing

life lost, deserted within

a prayer for rebirth again.

4.The Sarkeel Cuckoo

puffed lungs explode with rain song

a wet earth looks on

palpable and sonorous

an earth – air confluence.

5.Orange, then yellow

the chameleon slithers

in the grassy glade

a live jewel, reticent

fluorescent evanescent.

Garden glimpse

2005-09-12T16:48:00.000-07:00

1.She is a brown blur

eyes, fire topaz searching

snuggled in a bush

a furious suckling tears

the air as her pups awake.

2. Black coat, white breasted

freshly coiffured, manicured

his canter says it

a beast, just like a man, he

condescendingly asserts.

3. The rain has fallen

dewdrops settle placidly

she is rich with scent

petals and leaves of all shades

commune as she draws each breath.

4.The frangipani

pregnant with flowers and scent

looks on plaintively

as the fragrance wafts across

tresses are adorned with her.

5. The maple and lake

fire - ice, a bowl of sky

serene confluence

ripple and rustle, lake leaves

interweave harmoniously.

Reflections

2005-09-05T23:40:00.000-07:00

1.The cuckoo’s timbre

expectant heavens quiver

silence quelled by rain

a wetness overpowers

mellifluous resonance.

2. Eight rods to a chime

silver streaks evanescent

a morning wind song

pellucid, incandescent

the sound continues to hound.

3.Solitary pale

melancholic white lilies

lie shorn from their stems

a cuckoo cries mournfully

a soft dirge for their coffin.

4. A sunset yellow

the lentil pool deep gurgling

rich in nourishment

slender beans effulgent green

float contentedly in wait.

Memoirs

2005-09-02T21:02:00.000-07:00

1. Blushing evening sky

dusk arrives on purple horse

trailing the heavens

casting her indigo wand

drenched in a spangle of stars.

2. Sun kissed morning peaks

rose pink bright orange dust blue

in reticent hues

thin and cool, the atmosphere

casts a special glow within.

3. Pine trees, scented cones

luscious green needles shimmer

a blue sky reflects

the breeze heaves with ocean sound

gently wafts through each needle.

4. The voice of a bell

when plucked as it leaves the bell

a fleeting moment

catch the sound, palm of the hand

as it dissolves into one.

5. The woodpecker haunts

the banyan tree with its peck

a hole emerges

dark and deep it scrambles in

to check the home it has made.

6. Evanescent dawn

clothed in diaphanous gown

rings the morning bell

the horizon comes alive

a refulgent explosion.

7. Those eyes once bright sparks

now dimmed as life ebbs away

somnolent peepers

the dying fire glimmers

as darkness descends within.

8. An endless summer

yellow days and balmy nights

strength withers away

the coolness missing each day

each breath an effort to take.

Flashback

2005-09-01T18:00:00.000-07:00

1. The cormorant sits

patiently on a wood log

as silvery fish

glide past unaware, it dives

emerging shortly with life.

2. The temple bell gongs

incense throngs the placid air

it is time for prayers

cherry blossoms, young women

together at the alter.

3.Orange carps frolick

dense ripples in still waters

touching the surface

except the shimmering stream

serenity closes in.

Reminiscences in Waka

2005-08-31T12:12:00.000-07:00

My love for poetry is back especially Japanese Waka and Haiku which i find interesting to experiment with because of its brevity, ambiguity and open endedness. What’s refreshing is that there's a lot of space left to the imagination for interpretation in Waka verse so the reader has to read between the lines to understand the poet's meaning.

What endeared me to Waka apart from purely aesthetic reasons is the fact that in Japanese poetry there is an expectation that everyone has the ability to create poetry themselves, since it is viewed as a natural response to the world around us. This innate belief of accepting that there is a poet in each of us, i found most appealing.

Waka is a short, 31 syllable, five-line poem that dates to 8th century Japan comprising 5-7-5-7-7 syllables also called a ‘Tanka’(short poem).‘Tanka’ later assumed a major form of Waka and became synonymous with ‘Waka’ There are many variations to Waka from the long ‘Choka’ poems to the very short ‘Haiku’. But am not getting into all that.

Interestingly, Waka lets the reader participate in the interpretation of the text, allowing to construct his or her own meaning of the poem. It makes use of juxtaposed images, leaving the reader to establish connections between images and what links the poet might have experienced and seen.

Waka is flexible in that it also offers collaborative association between two or more poets. This is referred to as Renga where one person makes the top 5-7-5 syllables and the other follows with the bottom 7-7.Interesting isn’t it ?

What i like about Waka is it’s absence of the heavy interpretive tradition found in western poetry. The flexibility of Japanese poetry is itself reflected in the development of haiku which began as the first half of the Waka form - three lines of unrhymed verse with five, seven and five syllables.

So here i am dabbling with Waka and Haiku, using the mind pictures and experiences gathered over the years, tucked in the deep recesses of my subconscious. Reflecting on the ease of writing Waka has unleashed a torrent of reminiscences over the past days. Here are a few to chew on.

1.Rain thrashes the earth

in torrents while birds and beasts

drenched to the skin, hide

as lightening tears the sky

she glows like a green lantern.

2. A dragon fly skims

the air and smells the flowers

then alights on one

a bright yellow patch of sun

pregnant with honey and dew.

3. The silk cotton tree

is on fire, red blossoms

large and inviting

birds and matching red beetles

throng it’s petaled silk secrets.

4. White and orange stemmed

the solitary night queen

ambrosial scent

serenely wafts from those blooms

communion with the moon.

5. Lotuses gather

in a circle on the pond

round leaves gentle wraps

nurturing the unborn buds

reflections on the water.

6. The hibiscus weeps

for it is in full glory

an ode to nature

then in that celebration

those blooms are plucked forever.

7.Golden orioles

chatter animatedly

in the vast neem tree

looking for fruit and a nest

to build and nurture their young.

8.Discrete and subtle

the weaver bird weaves her nest

assiduously

a tapestry of gold threads

for her precious speckled eggs.

9.Two owls stare at me

snuggled in the soft pink blooms

of the old peach tree

their eyes – black saucers, gold trims

expand like the universe.

10.The rustle of leaves

a family of nine quails

surreptitiously

negotiate the crackle

to avoid making a sound.

11.Plum blooms have burst forth

fair cascades on dark branches

an illustration

black and white, dense, stark and light

paradise for the senses.

12. A little glow worm

rests on the acacia

giving light all night

solitary and awake

i watch it glint in the dark.

For you

2005-08-30T15:06:00.000-07:00

Here are a few thoughts that sprang to light as dusk melted into night.

1.Two decades and a half –

an enduring bond,

soul and whole confluence.

2.Those eyes, deep caverns –

of compassion and passion,

the light of my life.

3.Tender so tender –

that gaze pierces the heart,

tremulous with love.

4. Flower spirit –

earthy and refulgent,

you are my fire cherub.

5.’You will always rest –

on my eyelids’ he had said,

true to word till date.

6. Child spirit –

clear as a running brook,

strong like steel, soft as butter.

7.You are the earth –
fire, water and ether,
in my body and soul.

8.Blessed are those who –

receive and return the gift of love,

peace with you.

9.Your hands pink as lotus blooms –

tender and soft reflections,

of your heart.

10. Kaleidoscopic –

your eyes change hues,

cabochon amber, copper lamps.

11. The light of my life –

you, whose friendship I cherish,

will always be one.

12. Reflecting onyx –

your pupils enchanting,

a black ocean of love.

13. From that bond sprang –

a love child like you,

pure, scintillating and wise.

14. She was one with the night –

my little moonflower,

dazzling and grey eyed.

15. Cattle at night bridled –

their eyes phosphorescent,

footprints in the dark.

16.Fireflies and glow worms –

green gifts of light, fluorescent,

starry spangles.

Alter ego

2005-08-29T19:42:00.000-07:00

Twenty five years as friends.

When i look back at you, there is a deep well of satisfaction within. Of being possessed and possessing and of not possessing. An openness that is pervasive and transcends all boundaries. A feeling of fullness, pregnant with emotion.

The tenderness and empathy in those deep hazel eyes, windows to a soul – open, clean and unblemished, still swim in my mind’s eye. Having stood the test of time, they continue to glow like copper lanterns. The spark of life is refulgent as ever and your idealism shines through, pure as crystal.

We have grown together across two and half decades and the connection remains strong as ever, rock solid my beloved and soul mate.

Along the way when we were younger and fragile, you wove beautiful poems one of which invoked a very special fondness and continues to nest in my heart.

‘Breaking pregnant cocoons

at the alter

of your opal intensities

inhaling tear-dew elixir

of divine munificence

of thine eyes

anointing amid canticles

your vast forehead

your deep parting

with vermillion-tilak

quintessence

moment after moment

year after year

i enliven my tinted consciousness

with rubric blush

praying to the shrine of love

that you are’.

Hiatus

2005-08-29T17:07:00.000-07:00

I have always enjoyed being left alone to myself for a couple of hours each day to reflect and soak in the solitude around me. What has come back to me after years like a long lost friend is my passion for reading and wanting to take in as much as I can, besides being able to savour the gift of life which one realizes is ephemeral in the physical sense.

Zen has been a preoccupation for the past year and with my self imposed hiatus from the rigours of a corporate routine, my self has come back to me. What a luxury to be able to breathe in the scent of the earth and savour it at leisure each morn, no unrealistic deadlines, no mindless running from pillar to post ! Work is fun no doubt, but after a point having been in the rat race for close to two decades am asking myself, what is it I want of life. Is this what life’s all about ? No time to sink into oneself and reflect, no time for friends and very little time for loved ones...

One has realized what ultimately satisfies and endures is connecting with life around and within us.

With the passing years a strange and knowing sort of realization has taken over where questions about the real purpose of existence repeatedly emerge and expect addressing. One is reminded of one’s purpose in life and the greater meaning of being able to let go and follow a path that is closely linked to the realization of the self in context with the universe that is in and around us.

So in wanting to understand this better, I ploughed through a history of Zen and a collection of Zen Letters consisting of discourses passed on from teacher to pupil. Although one was aware of the influence that Hinduism and to a greater extent Buddhism has on Zen, what emerges is a distilled and very pure philosophy that is aesthetically compelling because of its deceptive simplicity.

Having been drawn to the Upanishads in my teens, I decided to start all over again. I remember the immense sustenance they gave at the time and am now revisiting them in the hope of rediscovering myself again. The sheer beauty of the imagery and depth in the prose is profoundly elevating.

Often, one feels drawn so intensely to the majesty of nature and the enrichment it gives to the soul, that withdrawal from a routine life seems like the next best option.

And yet, there is the underlying awareness of the tangible purpose one is here for as well.

How best we marry the material with the metaphysical is up to us.

Inertia

2005-08-22T16:02:00.000-07:00

1.Lassitude --

robs the mind of its senses,

making it dreary and black.

2.A dark shroud --

hangs purposefully, watchful,

while a glimmer of light strains.

Peace drops

2005-08-21T12:46:00.000-07:00

1.Compassion –

dissolution of anger and hate,

is the art of peace.

2.Calm the spirit –

cleanse the body, thank the universe,

the art of peace.

3.Embody the spirit –

with heaven, earth and mankind,

divinity.

4.Breathe in the universe –

fecund, vibrant earth,

the breath of life itself.

5.Take in the breath –

of the sun, moon, earth & heavens,

the essence of life.

Simian Tales

2005-08-20T00:00:00.000-07:00

Chalu

Ever heard a monkey chasing its brethen for money ? This is a fact and a hilarious one at that.

Here is a story about a monkey who like you and me works nine to five, five days a week, takes an afternoon siesta on the sly and makes a good sum of money each month.

I’m driving to work as usual one morning and stop at the traffic light. Within a couple of minutes, a bicycle pulls up with a wiry looking man in his mid thirties with a bored expression of ‘been there done that’. He’s coming closer now, squeezing between my car and the road divider in order to rest one leg on his right side for balance. The bicycle seems rather heavy so I strain my neck over the high seat to get a better look. To my delight, sitting on the carrier is the stately visage of a langur with an air of self preservation and composure, as if in deep contemplation.

‘What is a langur doing on the back of a bicycle?’ I muse, and with this thought roll the window cautiously to get a better look. The two are oblivious of my curiosity. The red light turns green and it is time to go. But I can’t get this question out of mind and decide to signal the cyclist to stop.

I park my car on the kerb, step out and wave again. The cyclist is coming towards me, bicycle wobbling as he strains hard on the pedals to keep balance. ‘What is it madam ?’ he asks almost accusingly assuming am about to admonish him for brushing so close to the car at the red light. Without wasting time I ask him about his simian companion. ‘Oh him’, he smiles ‘his name is Chalu (cunning )’. ‘Why are you carrying him on your bicycle like that’ I ask. ‘We’re going to work’, is the matter of fact response. ‘What kind of work?’ , I try to say this gently trying not to offend. He seems a little exasperated now.‘You don’t know Chalu. He’s famous in this city. He chases monkeys and frightens them away. He works Mondays to Fridays from nine to five in North block and South block depending on where he’s needed and is a government employee. And you know he also earns rupees five thousand a month’.

My mouth drops, and the giggles begin to escape. ‘A monkey making money ! ‘ the very thought makes me laugh louder. A mind picture emerges and the tears are flowing and am unable to stop. As am busy trying to suppress another outburst, Chalu looks squarely in my face as if to say ‘what’s so funny‘. He’s visibly offended and shows his displeasure by expanding his chest and sitting tall looking down at me from the top of his nose as if I just crawled from under a brick.

Chalu’s expression is enough to make me serious again and I ask the man to describe a typical day in his life. ’Come and see for yourself’ is the trite reply. ‘Ok ‘ I say and decide this is worth my time. I call the office and tell them am taking the day off. Chalu and his companion accept my offer to drive them to South block. The bicycle is loaded in the boot only partially and both man and beast choose to sit on the back seat.

The drive is swift and we are at South block in no time. Chalu has been left loose. It is only now one has a chance to get a good look at him. Tall and well built, his grey white coat glistens in the morning sun contrasting sharply with the black circle for a face, as he stretches to full length. Matching hands and feet complete the picture perfect illustration against the red sand stone backdrop.

Life has begun to creep back into those brown soulful eyes and a sense of importance is taking over. Chalu is king here and everyone knows it.

He is on his own now surveying the scene looking for trouble when a bunch of rhesus monkeys climb the wall and enter one of the buildings. Action starts almost immediately and in a jiffy, long strides and tail are a silver blur as he hurtles towards the parapet. His country cousins are a pedestrian and scruffy lot with matted, tawny coats and magenta bottoms in comparison to Chalu who conducts himself with majesty and is immaculately groomed as if fresh out of a salon.

‘These rascals are at it again’, he seems to say. Tearing files,stealing lunchboxes,pinching people’s morning tea and even resorting to slapping if not relented to. Chalu is going for the window and drawing closer. There are squeals and loud bangs as he negotiates furniture while punching and driving them away. He makes sure they’re out of boundary before catching his breath and returning to us.

Chalu is offered tea and biscuits as a reward. Although feared, he has many admirers who’ve been rescued from the simian scourge. He slurps while drinking the tea, dipping the cookies every so often. Whilst he sits there, I watch this beautiful creature and feel a tinge of sadness and wonder is he better off in the wild or with us humans. Am not sure. But I can see that he and his companion share a great rapport and the empathy is apparent.

The day slides into evening punctuated with lunch and high tea. Chalu has been on his rounds and ensured his country cousins do not venture inside the hallowed precincts of our bloated bureaucracy.

As the day draws to a close, I thank Chalu and his companion for a thoroughly engaging experience which had pure mirth, oceans of empathy and gave me a glimpse of another world.

Toe Tickler

We have a dear friend in Aditya who lives in a palatial house deep in the walled city. He’s a portly gentleman with a wide girth and an infectious beetle leaf stained smile.

Whenever we visit, he always manages to regale us with monkey tales of experiences he undergoes with the simian clan who are frequent visitors and marauders of his home. When no one’s looking, they are either in the kitchen ravaging the fridge of goodies or pinching papads and badis which are home prepared and laid out on the terrace to dry. It is not uncommon for them to use brute force when they want something real bad like a radio which they tried to snatch from the servant the other day while he was enjoying an afternoon snooze. When he resisted, he was slapped repeatedly on the face, punched in the stomach, hair yanked and scratched. There were shouts and shrieks as he came tearing down the stairs in a state of visible trauma.

One of the funniest though is about a dream Aditya had repeatedly for months and was trying to understand it’s significance. As he narrated this to us hoping for an interpretation, we sat transfixed waiting for the worst.

‘I sleep on the terrace under the stars these days because it is pleasant and have this recurring dream about someone tickling my toes‘ he went on sipping at his drink’. ‘When I wake up though, there is no one there ! What do you think it could be? Why does this particular dream keep resurfacing ?’

We all fell into a deep stupor trying to interpret and reason about the dream, when one of us suggested that he stay awake that night for a while and watch. Perhaps it was someone playing a prank, one of the kids in the family. Oh ! they were a bunch of little horrors and were quite capable of such a thing. He nodded violently and said ‘l think you’re right, it is one of those rascals for sure. Am gonna catch them and then we’ll see’. Then all of a sudden he went pale and said ‘ But if it’s not them then?’ ‘Don’t worry we all assured in chorus, watch tonight and we’ll manage the rest later’. After a sumptuous dinner and lots of laughter we went home, hoping that the truth would finally emerge for Aditya.

Meanwhile, it was late and our friend prepared his bedding on the terrace determined to catch whosoever the little scoundrel was. He lay down and closed the lights, staring at the moonless midnight blue expanse spangled with stars trying hard to keep awake. A couple of hours past. He looked at his watch. It was about one in the morning and there was no sign of anything. He heaved a sigh of relief.’ Thank God, it’s not for real, I must have been dreaming’ he mused, when there was a slight thud. He turned his head in the direction of the sound and caught a shadow scurry behind one of the many pillars. Instead of getting up, he froze. Eyes wide open pretending to sleep.

There was silence for several minutes and no movement. ‘I must be imagining again’ he thought and was slowly drifting into a deep slumber when he felt a presence. His sleepy eyes flung open to see lo and behold a fairly large silhouette of a somewhat human form sitting close to his feet.

‘On no, I hope it’s not Yam – the God of death he prayed. It is too early for me to leave yet, I have so many things to do. My business, children to marry off, grandchildren to enjoy. Please go away, whoever you are‘. His prayers were humming in his head with great speed now as the anxiety began to build, when he felt a strange sensation in his toes. He pinched himself to check he was awake. Indeed he was ! The tickling began to increase and when it became unbearably itchy, he jerked violently. There was a loud shriek and the silhouette stood and began to run. It was then that our friend realized it was a monkey.

There was a sudden rush of anger. This monkey had been tickling his toes all along for months and led him to believe he was dreaming ! He felt such a fool and with all emotions in a whirl, picked up a stick which he kept beside him and ran after the monkey. The truth is that monkeys are swifter than humans and our friend had little hope in catching him red handed. So even though he ran with all his might, the monkey scaled the wall and was gone in a flash.

The next day we decided to meet and hear about what happened. When he related the previous night’s incident, there was a giggle followed by bursts of unleashed laughter. Our friend had also started laughing and decided that the terrace would either have to have a barbed wire fence or else he’d have to sleep indoors.

The mystery was solved only partially. The monkey was the toe tickler. But the rest remains unsolved. Why did he tickle Aditya’s toes every night religiously for months. Was it his karma ? Was he cursed ? or did it give him some sort of vicarious pleasure ?One will never know.

The image of that incident however, continues to remain fresh and entertain in quiet moments.

Essentia

2005-08-19T14:53:00.000-07:00

1.Watch the light in those eyes –

resonant, her soul,

expands like a mirage.

2.The universe –

extends on both sides,

a mirror reflecting the soul.

3.From the well within –

springs light, compassion and love,

the essence of soul.

4.Contentment, a state of bliss –

body and soul,

are one with the universe.

Katherine

2005-08-19T14:51:00.000-07:00

Ensconced securely in the enigma of her womb decades ago, my heart and soul beat as one with my mother’s – my kindred spirit. It still does.

This is a poem she wrote on the eve of my birth, which has been my strength ever since I can remember.

‘Tiny bright being

ascent of morning hovers about you

the mystery of stars

what rare gifts do you bring ?

Katherine…

your name is like a sigh

a whisper on the wind

the tremulousness of love is in your name’.

Linga sharira

2005-08-18T15:42:00.000-07:00

I have always felt one with the mountains, cool and serene climes to rest the soul, where one can drink in the pristine beauty of nature’s bounty and be one with the universe.

The Himalayas for their vastness and the Nilgiris for their midnight blue depths have always enchanted. These mountains teem with a life of their own. The flowers, trees and people – gentle, soothing and soft. There are many moving memories of times spent in the mountains – doing things, little things that gave such a release for the soul. Plucking apples in the orchard, collecting bird eggs, picking pine cones and lichens of all shapes and sizes, gathering peridot drenched green moss, pressing fruit to make jams and sitting around a campfire sinking in the woody essence as chestnuts crackled and spluttered while being roasted.
Just being able to hold time and make it wait was a relish, whilst one savoured all these experiences.

Mountains are like mothers with large souls. You can climb their peaks and exalt or recline in their deep to rest and rejuvenate. As they stand colossal and tall, one is reminded of their beginning, their origin from Gondwanaland and how they came to be. Over sixty million years old and resting like a crown, these ranges continue to provide umbrage to this vast and beautiful country.

I am now travelling back in time, rummaging through archives in my mind of my sojourn with the mountains. There are hundreds of stories and pictures that I’ve picked along the way during my travels over the years. One that stands out as striking continues to sustain even now.

I am driving to Baichnath, a poem of a hamlet drenched in hydrangeas, crocuses and fuchsia, to see a bunch of temples known for their beauty. The drive is steep and serpentine and replete with oaks and teak trees. The odd pilgrim in saffron robes, walks barefooted on the gravely side paths and the deep stillness is broken by the car engine groaning hard as it climbs with a heavily loaded car stuffed with camping equipment and provisions. This is my annual trip to the mountains and am excited about visiting an ancient temple with beautiful statues of Parvati and Siva, centuries old.

As I get closer to my destination, life begins to appear on the mountain sides. There are quaint houses with colourful red roofs, flower gardens, orchards and children playing with discarded tyres on the roadside. The temple is on the other side of the mountain and one can hear the faint chant of hymns and plucking of bells in the distance.

Dusk is beginning to settle and there is more darkness than light. Given that the electricity supply is erratic, most of the village folks rely on oil lamps for the night. The air is thick and shadowy. On reaching the temple gates, I see a lone priest deep in prayer in the sanctum sanctorum. He is lean – almost emaciated, with sunken eyes and shaven head except for a tuft of hair that has been neatly plaited and tied, at the top of his skull. A bright red tilak marks his forehead. Silent and deep in meditation, he is an orange blur in front of the black green granite statue of Parvati. A large oil lamp glows in the corner casting long willowy shadows on the wall. There is a deathly silence. One can almost touch one’s breath.

Without making a noise, I walk up silently to have a good look at the statue and pay my obeisance. He hears me and gently stirs for a second, before falling once again into an orphic repose. There is an aura of serenity and compassion and am compelled to sit further back, smell the incense and drown in the inebriated silence.

As I drift into contemplation, unaware of the world except the shadows of light caressing my closed lids, a strange sense of density takes over. There is a feeling of centeredness and in my mind’s eye I see a fountain drawing from a dazzling core of light. A sense of peace begins to pervade through every inch of my being and there is a feeling of levitation in my state of consciousness. I have gone deeper now and am floating towards the core. During this odyssey, I pass through many layers, diaphanous rings with my life script. I am reminded of my past and can see what awaits me in the future. As one draws closer, the realization of being an atom in primordial dust intensifies. And it is then one becomes mildly aware of one’s purpose in life and of life itself.

I am moving towards the core when suddenly the connection snaps and am back to ground state with my eyes wide open. What happened ? The light inside has disappeared and there is a feeling of desperation as reality descends. I close my eyes once again trying to go back, but it is dark on both sides and one cannot seem to consociate.

Suddenly, the priest turns back, still in lotus pose. He has a gentle smile and his large amber eyes are glowing like lanterns. ‘ Did you enjoy your experience?' I looked quizzically at him, not sure of what he was saying .‘Did you see the light ?', his now penetrating gaze prodding for a response. ‘Yes’ I said, ‘I did experience a strange feeling of elevation, but how do you know?’ ‘Because I took you there‘ he said. I felt a shiver run down my spine. Here was somebody I had no association with, who without my permission had connected and taken me on a cosmic journey which was halted midway. ‘How did you do that and why?' I asked intrigued. ‘Because you were open and willing to be led. This is the power of the mind. One can achieve anything through concentration‘. As his words sunk in I blurted ‘But why did you stop midway, just when I was close to the light ?’ He looked kindly into my eyes, took a deep sigh and said. ‘I have shown you the way, my child because I felt you understood. It is up to you now to take that path and find your true meaning’. I was perplexed with this exchange and tried to soak in all he had said. Many things were still not clear. ‘Please don’t go just now’ I said with some urgency. ‘I have a couple of questions to ask of you. Can you give me a few minutes?’.

He talked about dharma, karma, brahman and atman and how to weave these into the fabric of reality in our everyday life. What meditation really means and how one can practice without it being tedious and mundane. How life itself is meditation, and the role we could play in it for ourselves and those around us.

Then he was gone. An orange speck in the onyx night. Was he human, celestial or a mix of both ? I will never know.

That night I felt as if a force greater than life had wafted through me and taken over.

For R

2005-08-17T14:00:00.000-07:00

1.Wells of torment dark and deep –

heal those wounds, let seasons meet,

you shall rise.

2. Let go of the past –

and heed the future,

this is the life we must live.

3. Tunnels of despair shroud your days –

fight, be strong,

you will prevail through this.

4. The vortex draws her in –

she sinks without a sound,

you must fight ! don’t drown.

Reverie

2005-08-17T13:00:00.000-07:00

1.The lake is on fire –

as it mirrors the sky,

golden ripples, scattered light.

2.The banyan tree –

is ablaze with bulbuls,

poems in a dew green haze.

3.The frangipani –

redolent flowers with yellowed centres,

stands tall.

4.Astral wanderings –

the soul takes its nightly jaunt,

a fallow body haunts.

5. There is a hollow in my soul –

with body empty,

and mind unwhole.

6. Soven, your name is like a bell –

wistful, smiling,

tiny bright being.

7. In the stream of consciousness –

an empyrean star glows,

contentment.

8. In the window of my mind –

peeps a little spell,

angelic Soven.

9. Your eyes, dense copper coins –

with ebony centres,

reflect your soul–light.

10. In the elysian valley –

of your soul,

lie flowers and dewdrops.

11. Macabre visions and pesky demons –

haunt your fragile,

eggshell mind.

Bella and her bell orchestra

2005-08-16T17:00:00.000-07:00

Bella lived with her mother in a tiny village tucked away in mist drenched blue mountains. She had been there seventeen long years. Born to a young mother who had been deserted almost immediately after she was conceived.

As she grew up, Bella often wondered about the father she never saw and what she had of him. She would spend time in front of the mirror after school studying her reflection and matching what she had from mother and imagining the rest from her father. She would try to raise the subject at the dinner table, but a stony silence would follow and Bella knew her mother was reluctant to discuss the subject. Over time, like her mother she let her go of the chance to go back into the past.

Memories of the father she dreamt about, began to fade and she spent more and more time alone. She would lock herself in her room for hours and sing herself to sleep. Bella had a gifted voice and sang like a bell. Her music teacher in school had great faith in her and coerced her to join the church choir for practice, which she did. Within months of joining, her voice developed a vast range and she won a scholarship to study music in the city.

She was sad to leave her mother, but knew that she had to find her true calling. So without much emotion, she packed her bags, kissed her mother briefly and was off on the tiny toy train to music school to become a professional soprano.

Bella toiled for years, won accolades and gradually inched herself into the galaxy of established musicians. She began to earn well from her concerts and would send money home regularly. She also made it a point to visit the village every couple of months to spend time with her mother and herself besides helping with the church choir that had launched her.

As her love of music deepened, so did her fascination for specific sounds – especially bells. Her performances took her overseas to different countries and she used these trips religiously to visit many a church, monastery and temple, where she would then proceed to buy bells if they caught her fancy. Slowly but steadily, her range grew and in a matter of months she had collected some unusual pieces in different shapes and sizes. She would then take her collection every few months to her home in the village where she would proceed to hang them in her now empty bedroom on neatly arranged hooks fixed on the ceiling. This room she called her ‘bell sanctuary’ and would spend many a solitary hour tinkering with her pupils, listening to their tonal qualities, making notes and assigning special positions to each of them.

Bella’s avid penchant for bells made her famous and she had visitors from far and wide. These included curious tourists on a jaunt to the village for the day, serious musicians and bell smiths – who were interested in the craft of their counterparts across the world. The numbers of bells continued to swell over the months and Bella decided to find a new home where her bells could move freely, touch the wind when they desired, besides continuing to grow unhindered.

One morning she got up rather early having suffered from insomnia most of the night. Her bells had begun to haunt her. She decided that she had to find a place very soon for them to rest. Still in her negligee, she made herself a cup of hot cardamom and ginger tea in the kitchen, tiptoed in order to prevent her mother from waking, and stepped barefoot onto the dewy turf in her garden. The sun was still down under, the mist just lifting from slumber, when she chanced to see the silhouette of the statuesque oak tree against the dove grey sky. The air was still and moist with the freshness of acorns and dew. Bella moved to the patio and pulling an arm chair, sank into it with a sigh. She closed her eyes, hoping her mind would clear after drinking the tea and she could find a residence for her bells.

A waft of thin air brushed her face as if it were a human hand. She opened her eyes, broken from her reverie to see the tall stately oak tree looking down at her, as if to say. ‘ You can use my branches for your bells’. Bella reflected on the thought and realized she had found her answer. Without wasting a moment, she ran up to the tree and hugged its vast trunk with all her might. A rush of relief overpowered her and she drifted into sweet memories of her time as a young girl under that giant oak tree and all the years it had kept her company. Her eyes filled up and she felt it was time to repay. Yes, her bell orchestra would move to the oak tree which would become her bell sanctuary.

Chuckling like a little girl, Bella ran back to the house to tell her mother about her discovery. At first, there was consternation, but as Bella energetically rambled on, it seemed to make sense and her mother’s wide half toothed smile said it all. ‘I am happy that you have found a home for those bells dear’ she said straining her head out of the window to catch a glimpse of the oak tree at full length, in all its grandeur.

Over the next several weeks Bella worked hard with her bells. First she proceeded to label them with a number. Next, she drew a picture of the oak tree and plotted which bells would go where. Then, she called in for some sturdy men from the village to come and help with measurements which were required in order to purchase brass chains of varying lengths.

Armed with all that information she drove to the market place in her dilapidated jalopy to buy chains. The range was huge at the wholesalers – thick, thin ,ornate and plain chains. The variety was confusing. She finally settled for the plain thick and thin chains which were cut with a pliers according to the measurements she had meticulously done. Loaded with tonnes of metal, Bella returned home late that evening. The chains clanked as she laid them on the floor in her living room and looked like an entwined heap of golden snakes.

Bella woke up the following dawn excited about her days ahead. She called her friends mid morning and when they arrived proceeded to run them through the drawing she had prepared.

The bells already labelled were then neatly arranged in rows mirroring the sequence on each branch, so that it would be easy to select, lift and then mount on the oak tree. Over coffee and scones, Bella displayed the chains, rings and hooks and demonstrated how to prepare a bell for mounting, to each pair of intent eyes’ and ears’.

The hours passed quickly. Securing the chains and hooks was a tedious task. Then the much awaited day of hanging the bells on the tree arrived and Bella was glowing again. The garden was a surfeit of people and step ladders of varying lengths. Young, lithe lads from the village had volunteered to help Bella and were slowly mounting the tree carrying large pouches full of bells. The top of the tree was clad first with tiny tinkle bells as the branches are soft and tender. Slowly and steadily the middle was arranged. The oak tree began to look different. The bells appeared as fruit on its branches and it seemed richer and fuller, fertile to say the least.

It was afternoon and everyone was hungry. Bella’s mother had arranged for sandwiches and hot soup with lemon meringue pie, for dessert. The green garden came alive with laughter and the sound of cutlery, as soup spoons dived voraciously into the steaming broth. Bella moved away closer to the oak to survey her new piece of art. She was pleased with the results so far. The most difficult part however, was yet to come. Mounting the larger bells some of which weighed a couple of tonnes, each having to be lifted with pulleys and then suspended on chains, was a huge challenge.

The day passed into night and Bella was exhausted. She had a quick dinner and was out like a light until the first rays of sunshine kissed her cheek at dawn. Brisk activity followed the next couple of days and finally a week later all the bells were hung. Each bell tongue had a coloured chord that descended to the earth like a rainbow. The sequence was carefully selected and arranged according to tone and pitch so that when pulled would produce a symphony of rich layered textures and tones. There were baritone bells, mezzo and sopranos – all in one tree.

The oak tree was now laden with ripe fruit that could sing. At different times of the day, the oak changed hues as the sunlight played on the metal of each bell – sometimes burnished at other times, bright as a star.

Bella could now enjoy her bells in all their splendour. There were different symphonies to listen to depending on the weather - a dense chorus of bell songs rising like a crescendo when the wind was strong and furious, and gentle partitas and fugues on placid days.

Bella would sit mesmerized in her garden listening to all those voices, rich textures of sound woven in a sumptuous tapestry. She was finally at peace for she could see and listen to each of her bells – spots of light in her heart.

Yesterday

2005-08-15T18:00:00.000-07:00

1.The tomb, pink sandstone –

an ember at sunset,

jewelled peacocks rejoice.

2.A butterfly, iridescent,shy –

flits on flowers,

and flutters by.

3.The fountain spurts –

a leap of diamond squirts,

into the morning sunshine.

Thank Goodness

2005-08-15T15:00:00.000-07:00

We often take our senses for granted. Prismatic colours, pleasing sounds, scents and smells, touch and intuition, all of which are gifts of our ability to draw from the universe around us. The question is how many of us are truly aware of the magnitude of these gifts. Do we explore their undulating dimensions and go beyond the obvious? Do we let them become an intrinsic part of us in order that they may enrich and become a path to our salvation ?

In a placid reverie, my thoughts often wander around the magic of our senses and their gifts.

On the sensations of tone …

As a child I grew up in a sleepy little town replete with the sounds of nature. No honking traffic or loud voices. Dawn would descend with the haunting wail of the muezzin calling for morning prayers and the odd cockerel blowing his lungs out. The soft morning breeze and rustle of leaves, and bird song in different scales were a delight and my first lessons in the meaning of sound.

There would be crests and troughs as the sound and its tones would move end to end like a wave some smooth, dense and rhythmic, others swift, light and deft. And sometimes these waves would be punctuated with an abrupt pause when silence would descend like a full stop in the middle and one would strain to hear a murmur or flutter, one’s own breath, a piece of noise.

It was on occasions like these, for an infinitesimal second, one would imagine being deaf. Strange thoughts would rush to possess me in that frozen confusion. Then just as suddenly, the vibrations in the air would return and I could hear again. What a relief ! What if ? And, the very thought of the opposite would send shivers down my spine.

Over time, such instances made me acutely aware of what being able to hear meant and what a different world it would be if it were bereft of sound. Thank goodness I can hear the birds and the bees, the voices of loved ones and the wonderful music that the world has produced.

Sound and its multiple avatars have enriched the human soul for thousands of years and we have our hearing sense to thank for that …

The Power of light…

The play of words can often paint beautiful mind pictures. Some words have the stature to stand alone and evoke beautiful imageries in our mind. Take for instance shimmer, glimmer, glisten , glean & diaphanous, words that light up because we can visualize what they mean. Imagine if these were disconnected from sight, would we know their true meaning? I think not.

The power of light expands our ability to connect with the world around us. Our sense of sight synchronises with the other four senses to savour the true essence of life and its multiple facets.

Imagine trying to visualize an evening sunset, without the gift to see. Having to construct mind pictures for everything in order to feel. Imagine being blind forever, not being able to enjoy a dancing peacock and its iridescent plumage or being unable to submerge in the intense pools of one’s beloved eyes.

For those of us with the sense of sight, let us make the most of it.

On the sensations of touch...

Connectedness, cohesion, touch, are some of the words that came into being when the universe was born 13.4 billion years ago. As atoms came together to form lattices and matrices they created personalities we now call the elements. A cross fertilization of different atoms and molecules resulted in compounds. Although different personalities, what remains as a constant is their ability to connect, touch and form bonds.

With the advent of the first molecules of life - the amino acids, the same happened. They reached out, connected and created the blueprint of life – DNA the double helix, because of which we stand tall on this planet today. If there had been no touch or connexion, life may not have existed if at all.

Touch continues to be the cement that connects the animate and inanimate. However, its nuances are possibly best felt among the mammals and moreover us primates, who have a higher intelligence, emotional and spiritual quotient.

The touch spectrum is vast containing both tangible and intangible prisms along its length.Touch manifests on the one hand as a raw physical transfer of energy from one energy source to another through the most sensory organ - the skin, to intangible transcendence when other sensory organs take over, on the other. When we are touched by an exquisite scent, love in the eyes of our beloved, beauty in nature and our sixth sense, it is like an invisible hand that moves through us causing a tumult of emotions akin to physical touch. In essence, touch is a language that we as humans have been able to decipher, understand and continue to explore. There is no such thing as a type of touch. Each experience is unique and therefore each one of us will interpret being touched differently depending on the levels of transcendence we scale.

Touch has the power to heal, unite and provide unlimited pleasure for those who believe in its deliverance. Touching the world, one’s loved ones, a soft piece of velvet, stroking the coat of an affectionate animal to being able to drown in the senses that afford pleasure, are just a few examples of the therapeutic benefits touch provides.

So expand your mind and explore. Continue to touch the thousands of universes within and around and let them in turn touch you.

The Power of Intuition…

Instinct and intuition typically characterise the living from the non living. Instinct is reactive. Intuition proactive. Ever since primordial life forms came into being, instinct was born. Instinct is defined as a behavioural response to an external stimuli. Over time species developed their own blue print of instinct to exist in a specific environment.

Intuition on the other hand is a more complex faculty of knowing or sensing without the use of rational processes, in other words - immediate cognition. Fortunately, most animals and us are blessed with both faculties that we use effectively to our advantage.

Intuition or our sixth sense portends danger, forecasts situations arising ahead of time by acting as our inner guardian. Some of us trust in this voice and reinforce its agility by focussing on the ability to touch the environment, feel its various energy levels and decode the language of external stimuli. Sometimes, it is disconcerting how accurately one can predict things in advance as if a road map of one’s life already existed waiting to be unravelled. Just imagine the predictability of it all !

Over the years, my belief in the sixth sense has deepened. With greater reliance one is able to get a flavour of what to expect of situations as if i were steering the course of my life and nothing was ordained, that one’s mind energy was solely responsible for creating the path we take.

Conflicting and deeply enchanting, our sixth sense is a mystery wrapped inside an enigma. It is an intangible part of our being that goes with us everywhere, warns us for our self preservation and is unique to each of us.

Trust in your sixth sense as it can be a great companion and comforter.

Night Flash

2005-08-14T23:30:00.000-07:00

1.The swallow is waiting for sunset –

to swallow the fish,

it has caught.

2.Your eyes are deep and dark –

dulcet tones spring from their well,

i am in love.

Passage

2005-08-13T18:00:00.000-07:00

It is dusk and the atmosphere sombre and obsidian. Rani is preparing to die. She can see death waiting patiently at her bedside while she goes down her to-do list before her passage into another realm, which she’s hoping will be gentler, more serene and free of pain. Despite her limitations in health in the past month, she has planned well. There are flowers, incense, lots of oil lamps and soothing strains of vedic chants that she has chosen and arranged, to help with her release.

She is now solitary with no one beside her and is completely at peace. She’s made sure that her friend Parvati will visit the following morning, find her gone and call in the priest to perform the last rites. In the months leading to this day, Rani has gently let her friend know of her wish, were she to go. She closes her eyes with a sense of satisfaction knowing that matters will be taken care of.

The chants continue like a soothing drone, the incense is reducing in aroma and the oil lamps diminishing in strength, as she counts the hours. She is expectant and looking forward to being relieved by the hands of death. Death however, with eyes closed and thoughts far away, is sitting motionless on the chair opposite her bed with no signs of moving. A bit perplexed and waiting to get it over with, Rani moves restlessly hoping to elicit a reaction. There is a flutter, but ‘not yet’ is the signal she receives, with a swift wave of the hand. Death reclines in the arm chair once again to take a siesta.

Rani lies back and begins to dream about herself on the pyre, burning with the sandalwood and being eaten by the flames. A few hours later this body will cease to exist she muses, be one with the dust of the earth and holy river, be atomised for ever. The thought leaves her with a feeling of peace. How nice to be omnipresent, free from the trappings of a body-cage that one cannot always control..

As the evening morphs into ebon night, death makes a slight movement and proceeds to get up. He rearranges his clothes, creased from sitting for long, walks up to Rani and motions ‘Come, it is time to go’ . Rani gets up with difficulty and extends her hand. As it falls into death’s, she can feel him gently pull her out of her body, like peeling bark off a tree - smooth, flowing and effortless. She is amazed at the simplicity of it all. The pain has gone and is now replaced with an envelope of freedom and peace. Death is standing beside her smiling as they both watch the body she just gave up.

The oil lamps have turned to embers and Rani is disappointed. She wants her now deserted body to be bathed in light until the sunshine streams through her window the next morning. But how does she refill the oil lamps and light them again. She cannot do this by herself, now that she is a free spirit. Death senses her despair, and against all tradition, proceeds to light the lamps with one breath. The room is aglow once again with shadows of the flames and their stories. The incense is burning brightly and Rani’s body is taking in the fragrance and luminescence on that nigrescent moonless night. Death turns to her. She knows he has done more than one could have asked for, and looking back one last time at herself, glides through the door ready to vaporize with the universe. Her essence though continues to linger in the air and will do so until she is consigned to fire the following evening.

Parvati visits the next morning. She’s had a premonition the night before, that Rani may have gone and quickens her step hoping it’s untrue. When she arrives at the door, it is slightly ajar and a strong surge of fragrance assails her. She knows that instant that her dear friend is no more. Wiping a tear, she pushes the door gently and moves into the bedroom. The chants are still playing and the oil lamps some alive, have reduced to dying embers. Rani lies in peaceful repose and Parvati knows she’s had a painless passage. Before getting down to business, she has an intense sob for several seconds, holds Rani’s face in her hands and gently massages her feet. ‘I will miss you very much’ she whisper’s as she wipes a tears with the end of her sari.

The rest of the day passes very quickly as she busies herself with rituals for Rani’s cremation. There is sandalwood and oil, flowers, frankincense and myrrh to be arranged and the priest has to be called in to decide an auspicious time. That done, Parvati returns back to wash and dress Rani in preparation for her special journey for the last time. She takes out a beautiful yellow sari with gold embroidery that Rani had chosen and begins to drape it around the now shrivelled form. The pleats and pallu are gracefully arranged to make a pretty picture. She then bends over Rani’s now serene face and gently outlines her closed eyes with black kohl. The pursed lips are brushed with a faint pink lipstick and cheeks touched up with blush.
The body has lain on ice all day and is stiff and cold, but continues to glow like a firefly.

It is late evening and the time has come. Rani’s shell is placed on a meticulously arranged pyre. There are flowers and lamps, coloured dots of light puncturing the onyx sky. On the river’s edge Parvati stands with the priest waiting for instructions on the rituals she is about to perform. It has been a long and emotionally tiring day for her. As the chants get louder, he motions for to pick up the flamed torch and light the pyre. The hungry flames leap into the charcoal expanse as the sandalwood begins to feed the inferno.

Slowly, the chants come to an end and the priest is getting ready to leave. He will return a couple of hours later at dawn to complete the submersion of ashes. Parvati decides to stay on. She has known Rani for so long and does not feel right leaving her like this to burn alone. She spends the next several hours beside the pyre watching the flames change hues and character, reminiscing about times spent with a dear friend. She will continue to be there until the dying embers are cool and dry, before gently scattering the ashes in the river.

Little does Parvati know, that Rani has been there all along watching…

The bangle seller

2005-08-12T15:00:00.000-07:00

It is dusk and the little hamlet on the banks of the river is winding up for the day. The temple bells harmonize with the drone of invocation and chants to the deity. Incense throngs the atmosphere. Brisk activity is rife on the river banks with many coming to offer prayers, others to take their holy dip. It is prayer time and a time to make money. Peddlers line the narrow path leading up to a row of temples with their wares, for devotees to purchase as offerings to the Gods. Within minutes, there is a riot of colour - bright orange and yellow marigolds, vermillion heaps in the shape of cones, sugar nuggets, coconuts, coloured threads to make a wish, and incense sticks.

As people stream in and out of the main temple – which is large and airy, I notice a beautiful isolated spot overlooking the banks. Without wasting time, I decide to perch myself there to get a panoramic view of the mountains, inhale the fresh air, listen to the sound of the river thrashing the banks, and watch life teeming in its myriad hues at sunset.

My reverie is gently interrupted by the silvery cadence of anklets drawing closer. The sound is soft and musical and somewhat enchanting. As I turn to take a look, a waif thin woman with strong features in colourful gypsy garb emerges through the silence. A twirling black skirt drenched with mirrors hangs gracefully on her narrow hips as she gently sways with each step. Her head is covered with a chunni which has delicate silver embroidery and her eyes – the most noticeable, are lined with thick black kohl. She is carrying a wicker basket full of something, balanced precariously on the curve of her slim waist. Looking for a suitable position to alight, she turns around to survey the scene. Her skirt has assumed a character of its own now and has stretched itself to its farthest – taut as a peacock’s plume in rain-dance. The black fabric expands like the night sky, with each mirror reflecting the sun like a spangle of stars. I watch mesmerized. My senses are drowned in the beauty of this moment. Then all of a sudden, the lyrics fade, the air stills and the swirl comes to a dying close as she gracefully descends to the earth to take her place. I wonder what’s in that basket covered mysteriously with a red wrap, and crane my head curiously to take a look. She senses my interest, flashes a smile and beckons me with her delicate fingers.

Initially, am hesitant. The next moment I find myself opposite her. The wrap over the basket has been unveiled to reveal a lavish assortment of glass bangles in unimaginable hues – twinkling like gems in the amber sundown. ‘These are so beautiful’ I gasp, while still drawing in all the colour. I feel her gently take my arm and extend it. ‘Let me see your hand’ she says. At first a little reluctant, but a reassuring smile from her and gradually my arm is extended to full length. She caresses it as if it were a piece of marble and wistfully blurts ‘You have such fair skin ‘. Her gaze seems to drift into her dreams which I imagine are closely linked to the subject. I manage to break the impregnable silence and respond ‘ but you have beautiful skin too – so rich and strong ‘. Her eyes are dancing now and she echoes ‘ this is the first time someone’s ever said that to me you know’ and falls silent. I can almost sense a degree of ease come over her as she is suddenly radiant and more beautiful. Somewhere deep within, a lamp has been lit and the glow of each atom in her being is apparent on her dusky skin and in her big black enigmatic eyes.

Her hands are now working on my wrist. ‘You are supple, let me see what size will fit you’ and proceeds to choose a beautiful set of scarlet bangles. ‘You must wear red as it suits you. Are you married ?’ By now, I can feel her curiosity growing in me. I nod. She continues ‘ All married women wear red. Why are your hands bare ?’ Her eyes almost angry meet mine and lock and then in the same breath melt gently as if to say sorry. I shrug weakly. She senses my discomfort. ‘Don’t worry, you can wear these from now on. My gift to you’. I am overwhelmed by the generosity of this young girl who is probably working very hard to make both ends meet. She won’t accept the money, and am wondering how to return the favour. It then strikes me, she is barefooted and I do have a pretty pair of slip-ons which will fit her nicely. I dig into the chaos of my tote and manage to find them. ’Here’ I say, ’something for you. I think these will match your outfit very well’. Her instant delight wells into tears and those dark suns are now swimming in a red sea. She is moved and happy at the same time. I can see those slip-ons mean so much to her. She will now be able to walk in the sun without burning her feet anymore.

The bangles glow like blood rings on my wrist. They mean much more than glass. It is a confluence of spirits I feel for a fleeting moment. Somewhere, this young girl with her dark and infinitely deep eyes and me, have shared a special kinship.

As am admiring the other bangles in her collection, she digs into the pocket of her skirt to pull out a cone of henna. ‘ Do you like mehndi ?. I can make any design you want’. I am hesitant again. But she insists. ‘ You have already given me those beautiful bangles’ I say. ‘I can’t take anymore’.She is quiet and then in a humble tone murmers ‘ The bangles are made by someone else. But the mehndi I will design will be mine, especially for you. Would you like to take a memory of me for a while? Will you remember me when we part ?’ I am taken aback by her urgency and honesty and am parched for words. So without losing another minute, I open my palm for her to create her original piece of art. There is little said while she is busy developing her little masterpiece. The concentration is intense and I can feel every inch of her being chime as one as she expends her creativity on me. With tremendous dexterity, she develops an intricate paisley with a holy inscription at one corner. ‘ This is a mantra to seek blessings from God‘ she says knowingly, while proceeding to finish. The black green design is exquisite and am excited about the real colour underneath it once it dries. As am lost in thought at the intricacy of her art, there is a pop sound followed by a rich fragrance. I look up and see that she is mixing henna oil with finely ground sugar which she churns vigorously into a rich paste and deftly applies across my palms. ‘This is done to deepen the colour’ she says triumphantly. Now you need to let this dry before washing your hands‘.

I sit there handicapped, unable to do a thing as the mehndi must dry. Thoughts of the evening ahead begin to grow, when there is a gentle tap on my shoulder. She is standing now and smiling. ‘Would you like to float a lamp on the river ? It will please the gods’ . I raise my hands weakly. She understands. ‘Come with me. I will float yours with mine’. We descend the temple steps towards the river which is flooded with a constellation of floating lamps – some bright, others spent and dying in the breeze. The scent of rose petal offerings is strong. She buys two lamps and helps me hold mine as we descend to the river’s edge. Gently and with great feeling and devotion she releases mine first and then hers.’ Make your wish’ she says animatedly. We stand there for a while watching our lamps drift further along with the current till out of sight.

I have spent a long time at the temple and dusk is settling. The horizon is turning to a purple haze and it is time to leave. I wash my hands with cool water from an urn to remove the mehndi, and am enthralled by the red pattern that emerges on my skin. Radiant and throbbing, it jumps at me as if it were alive. She bends closer to take a look and with a sigh asks if I like it.’ Of course I do’, I assure her. ‘I will always remember you’. I help her wrap the wicker basket and later realize she has made no sale this evening. Which means she may go hungry tonight. For her it seems, connecting with someone and spending a few moments to commune mean more than a full belly. A deep melancholy surges from within and my throat is full. I can hardly speak. She senses my feelings and squeezes my hand gently and strong. ‘I must be going, it is getting dark, and I have to prepare for tomorrow morning’, she whispers. I press some money into her hand which she accepts reluctantly. We say our farewells and she is gone. A bright spark in a cosmic twirl gradually receding in the distance taking along with it the lilt of anklets and freshly clad twinkle toes.

Later that evening, I felt a little poem dance in my head which she must have blown to me in her dreams…

Yellow, red, pink and blue –
bangles in fluorescent hues,
only for you.

I may never see her again. But that image, presence and sound of her I know will continue to haunt forever.

The quintessence of essence

2005-08-11T15:00:00.000-07:00

Given the way most of us run our lives from dawn to dusk chasing deadlines, dealing with the mundane packed in with an occasional dash of brilliance, one tends to inadvertently overlook the simple joys and allure of life.

I often reflect how as a child, one found great pleasure in the powers of reflection – catching a rainbow in an oil slick, playing with a dewdrop on a large monstera leaf and watching it wobble like a cabochon diamond from end to end. The sheer delight of feeling the breeze tug at my locks, watching platinum streaks electrify the atmosphere during a thunderstorm, the fresh smell of earth, seeing the welkin change hues from moody blues to fiery reds. Oh the colours, one would sigh, were so beautiful. Nature has such a way with genius.

I grew up in a beautiful garden with many a scented flower, colourful and tasteful fruit, herbs galore and lots of trees. Each season had a present to explore. There were gardenias, roses in all hues, magnolias and geraniums in winter and jasmine, night queen and frangipani in the warm balmy summer. When it rained during the monsoon, the trees would come alive especially the eucalyptus – with its strong aromatic scent and the earth effulgent and pregnant with incessant rain, would glow like a green lantern.

There were numerous smells, scents and flavours that one learned to differentiate and tag in one’s memory. I remember, sitting many a time on the front porch at dawn and dusk inhaling the wealth of scent from that garden.

Now, much older and away from the majesty of that faerie land, I often try to recollect those innumerable scents all coming together and resting on my tongue. Am amazed at the capacity of our olfactories to differentiate hundreds and hundreds of different essence, label them and pop back with an answer sometimes years later, if the scent revisits. Inhaling those everyday scents for years became an intrinsic part of my life. Even today, a thought of them is sufficient to evoke a gentle waft for a split second, but strong and distinct enough for me to sense it. Yes, the redolence of those white gardenia and magnolia blossoms especially, make it a point to revisit often. Perhaps, because they shared a kinship with me for so long outside my bedroom window. That intangible and yet strangely tangible spectrum of essence and their auras has left its indelible mark deep within.

Besides a lovely garden that enveloped the house, my mother managed a lovely herb patch with an array of interesting aromatic spices. I remember her spending hours at the nursery and quaint seed shops when abroad, hunting for seeds of exotic spices she wanted to grow in that little green patch of paradise. The herb patch was an extension of my mother’s penchant for essence. So, in addition to all those flowers and fruits, there were also these curious looking seeds, some pretty others ordinary. My mother would let us pick a pile and run them on our palm to feel the texture and scent they gave out and elicit our reactions and feelings about each seed. After a lively exchange she’d go to great lengths to explain about the gift of life locked up in that one compact little kernel, before proceeding to put them in the soil. She’d then make it a point to gently give us the botanical name and an entire history on the seed and what it would become as a plant and then another seed. All this was done so unobtrusively that one grew up enjoying the experience of knowing. The learning was gentle and yet so complete. There was always a panoramic offering in the quaint little patch outside our kitchen window. I would often sneak out to get a whiff of those scents which ranged from delicate and airy, to heady, musty, tangy and smooth.

My mother gave me the gift of life besides showing the way to delight in the gift of life around us.

In recent years, I’ve made a special effort to return to the pristine freshness of essence and herbs and revel in their microcosm. I wanted to get back to the core, twirl the essence on my tongue, savour the richness of its flavour and seek a suitable way to use it in my simplified and very basic food habits. Since I’ve chosen to align with as much fresh and raw essence as possible I started with herbs that interested me. Saffron, was top of my list for its mystic quality – a burnt orange coloured stamen from a beautiful flower that grows in the cooler climes of Kashmir. When I think of saffron – smooth and aesthetic, am reminded of its origin, the majestic environment it grows in, the hands of those that pluck and sort it and its true essence. There is an intense rush of emotion in the realization that all life has a soul and stories to tell and should we choose to go deep into its core, we will find the true meaning of its persona, its quintessence. This awareness enhances ones appreciation and position to sink in its richness. The same axiom applies to fiery ginger, heady cinnamon, soothing Holy basil and of course my favourite tangy garlic. Each flavour is distinctive and lends a special quality in its absolute self. Moreover, one can enjoy the benefits best when eaten raw or made as an infusion.

To be able to roll and spread an essence on one’s palate, savour its richness and let it move through the nostrils is an aesthetic experience. I have greatly enjoyed being alone in the presence of an essence – sharing its inherent personality, understanding its texture and history and where it fits in my mood matrix. What it does to and for me. Does it elevate, make me reflective, move me to different dimensions.

Over the years enjoying a spectrum of essences has become a pastime I indulge in for sheer gratification of the senses. I source and experiment with a host of different kinds from musk, opium and amber to the richer tones of lotus, night queen, jasmine and cinnamon. The list is endless. Incense from essence, aids in meditation and can transport streams of consciousness to different levels, besides being a wonderful mood elevator. In understanding the true nature and spirit of an essence, one can seek its true benefits.

An essence is an extension of one’s aura, personality and aspirations at a given point in time. Given our quicksilver temperaments – there are essences to suit each mood and disposition.

Enjoy this special gift of nature…

Wind song

2005-08-11T14:08:00.000-07:00

1.A zephyr –

gently caresses the wind chime,

pregnant with emotion.

2.The chime bursts into song –

with resonant lilts,

as the wind watches on.

3.Supreme consciousness –

for Buddha lies within,

the true essence of Zen.

Haiku odes...

2005-08-10T11:00:00.000-07:00

1.The Laburnum is in full bloom –
yellow echoes,
a hundred sunsets.

2.Your eyes –
amber pools of light, incandescent
you take my breath away.

3.Opal intensities, drenched in dew –
take me in
i am your dewdrop.

4.Gulmohar blooms, sanguine specks –
in an azure sky,
the twitter of birds.

5. Fireflies alight on a Peepul tree –
Fluorescent,
the abode of God.

6. Saffron, spices and incense –
a thousand ganglions,
thrill the senses.

7.Jasmine, lotus, night queen et al –
a myriad scented chants,
exalt.

8.The Golden Pavilion –
sits on still waters,
i am one with Zen.

9. Fifteen black rocks –
on a gravel expanse,
a ring of tranquillity.

Dream catcher

2005-08-10T00:53:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago my sister visited Austria and on her return brought home a rather quaint gift – a dream catcher ! A simple contraption consisting of a small circular ring with net stretched across its centre up to the periphery with two brown beaded pheasant feathers, for danglers. ‘Hang it above your bed‘ she said, as it will help ’catch your dreams‘. How uncanny I thought, I’ve been doing this ever since I can remember – catching dreams, a frequent and most satisfying pastime.

I vividly remember my first dream when I was four. I woke up to a pitch dark moonless night terrified, my dream palate shaken, and my mother rocking me to sleep. It was a black and white dream, replete with masks. White masks but with different macabre expressions. Some laughing, others crying. Expressions that curdled the blood, something out of a horror movie.
Inspite of being a long time ago, this one in particular still lies in the deep recesses of my memory.

Dreams manifest as a result of experience, impressions and the inference we draw of situations in our conscious as well as subconscious streams. Over the years I have experienced manifold visitations – some bizarre, others sempiternal - which I call classics.

Since dreams and the workings of the human mind continue to hold immense fascination, I make a conscious effort to record the classics as they happen and through repeated viewing and reflection improve their strength, texture and tonal quality in my minds’ eye. These gossamer thin frames when revived, resonate and vibrate on a thousand nerve ganglions to create exquisite pictures of lasting value.The timing is in slow motion, often kaleidoscopic and devoid of sound. However, one has a sense of scent, light and touch which are intrinsic to these sequences.
Archive your dreams and one has a treasure trove of inner resources to rely on.

I also learnt very quickly that dreams have a palliative effect and give great strength in terms of enhancing and prolonging tranquillity on the one hand and attenuating stress and pain on the other.Dreams provoke imagination and act as an astral release for the subconscious. Some dream sequences depicted in films have left deep impressions - ’Gladiator’ has an especially beautiful one towards the end and ‘The Cell” is replete with outré imagery that challenges the sane.

Dreams are truly worth catching. They have the ability to draw to one’s inner core and expand to the outer galactic firmament of the mind – so distinctive and yet intensely private, most of which evaporate if one ceases to be a dream catcher !

Nostalgia

2005-08-09T18:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I was profoundly nostalgic about my visit to Japan last year and picked up ' Zen and Oriental art ' an interesting book which gives insight into Zen Buddhism and its evolution in the last several centuries and the profound impact it still has today in the Japanese way of life….

I have been drawn to Japan since I was a child in more ways than one. Perhaps, it was my father’s influence to a great extent. Being a seismologist, he frequently travelled to this fascinating land only to return with tales of an enchanting and exquisitely beautiful country, loads of literature by Yasunari Kawabata, Yukio Mishima and timeless classics like the Tale of Genji and the pillow book. He would paint fascinating pictures in my minds’ eye of Noh theatre and its essence, the music of the Koto and Shamisen and I remember sitting there as if, in a trance taking it all in as fast as I could. There was an intense desire to learn and given the erudite parents I had, they kept fuelling this urge on the arts, the Japanese way of life and Zen…

When I visited Japan with Dad last year, it turned out to be a catharsis of sorts. Firstly, because a yearning for so long to coalesce with the Japanese spirit had been granted, and secondly my deepening interest in Zen.

Spirituality and meditation have always profoundly interested me and in my growing years reading the Bhagvad Gita and Upanishads was a vastly satisfying experience. Then I moved on to the Teachings of Siva, a book that changed my outlook for a long time to come and there I was wedded to a life force, I truly felt and believed in – My Siva….

Then strangely, a couple of years ago, I began drifting inwards. There was a strong sense of desolation and a feeling of spiritual fallowness that left me parched for a long time.. as if my karmic soul had taken a walk and left me to wander aimlessly for good. This lasted for over a year …The well had gone dry from within and one felt empty all the time….Till one day, there was some sort of an awakening.. A feeling of fullness having returned and I could sense the well filling up again….

That year changed my outlook to spirituality. I was looking for a deeper and yet much simpler explanation to the meaning of life, a state of centeredness and contentment , which I then found in the deceptively simple teachings of Zen.

Whilst in Japan, I was determined to visit various Zen temples besides savouring the natural beauty of the land and its people. I managed to visit the Enkaku-ji and Kencho-ji in Kamakura and Kennin-ji, Tofuku-ji temples in Kyoto besides the Ryoan-ji Temple – famous for its solitary black stones on an austere, meticulously raked gravel expanse. The natural beauty and aesthetic simplicity of these shrines resonates in each atom and I spent many a solitary hour soaking in the ambrosial richness of these great centres of Zen learning.

The amazing thing about Japan and all its shrines whether Buddhist, Jodo or Zen is the immaculate way they are managed and preserved. The Zen temples particularly, are austere and minimal which is intrinsic to their philosophy that believes that only by looking into the depth of one’s essential self, after stilling the desires and cares of the outside world, can one find peace and contentment.

Sounds so easy! No lengthy scriptures to wade through, no long arduous sermons to listen to ….

So with this sutra, I spent several hours in solitude at the Ryoan-ji temple. It was one of the most amazing and fulfilling experiences I have ever had in my life…Just as Zen says you can achieve Satori ( as Nirvana in Buddhism & Moksha in Hinduism) - an immediate experience of the ultimate truth, a state of consciousness, where duality has ceased to exist, I truly felt that way for several hours.. The well had filled up and was flowing freely and I could see the truth glisten as it glided past. This exhalted experience lasted several hours and there was a tremendous sense of contentment and peace thereafter.

However, one realises that the true test is to be able to increase and sustain the frequency of such experiences by simplifying one’s life as much as one can and by letting go…

The shelle unfurls....

2005-08-08T15:15:00.000-07:00

Long ago the pen spoke for my soul and then I put it away...
The ferment of years from keeping within, has tempered and is ready to flow forth..
There is a strange sort of liberation in letting go and am enjoying it...