Walk Slowly

A very long time since I wrote on this blog… I’ve outgrown it perhaps.
But the beautiful Mary Oliver resonated once again with me and where would I record this but here?
 

When I Am Among the Trees, she says…
When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It's simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

The Losing Game

In darshan today, my Guru said that all we ever have is time. And that, we are losing, all of us. Can't be transferred, can't be shortened or lengthened, twisted or turned. Use it or not, savour it or not, trickling away at a constant steady rate for all of us. The only thing we have, we are losing. 

Good to remember on this day, this ritual we use to mark time. 

Created by me with Dall-E

A hope and a plea for the new year.

forest path
with each step
a little less of me
—Victor Ortiz

Boondon ke baan

Sitting in a house that has been wisely built on a high foundation, on a part of the street where the ground swells rather than troughs, I say it’s been a wonderful monsoon in Telangana. The people down our street would come after me with their hawaii chappals, because they’ve been inundated once too many, but there it is.

(One wall is leaking with the incessant dampness and the newly laid paint is bulging along a crack. I’m suffering too, just saying.)

But *backs away cautiously* yeah, sorry, your troubles are bigger.

+++

One week we didn’t see the sun at all. But at least there was the reliability factor. It was raining, that was it and we wrung everything out to the max, hung clothes on the indoor clothes-rod and pressed the fans into service.

This week, it’s been hide and seek. A drizzle will come, everyone shouts and warns the neighbours, the whole family rushes out to pull the clothes off the wires (added to which is the complication of clothes pegs). I go for the drier things first, my father aims for the nearest garments. We get in each other’s way, some more shouting ensues. A rueful word and shake of the head to the neighbours who are in a similar flurry. Then soon after we’ve managed to get the hangers and hoist everything up on the perch inside, the sun comes out. C’est la vie.

To honour those grey skies, these benevolent, fierce and moody rain gods, the sudden downpours, the raging gutters, this gorgeous haiku by Susan Constable:

cloudburst
the sound of raindrops
changing size 

 

Handover

Twelve years since these anguished posts [1] [2] [3].
 
Twelve years since my mother passed. A full solar cycle comes to a close in a few months. It seems just like the other day, and yet it feels like a lifetime or two have passed.

I think I've said before that my mother dealt with the news of imminent death with a rare fortitude and pragmatism. She called for the ‘bank bag’, signed a few blank cheques, made sure the papers were in good order. She roughly planned the menu for the 13th day death rites. She said her goodbyes with love, and kindness almost – she left behind a legion of bereaved people, each of whom had experienced her friendship in their own unique way.

As she lay very fatigued from the aggressive cancer, I remember bringing her a dozen dabbas from the kitchen, ascertaining the precise nature of the myriad unlabelled powders on the shelves. “That is vangi bhaath powder, that is Nagamani aunty’s recipe for curries… that pickle mix is old, throw it away…” A handing over of the kitchen in a manner of speaking.

And I took down a few recipes and ratios the way she made them – the staple idli and dosa, a couple of powders. “For adai,” she told my sister, “just leave it to your father. Only, he tends to make the batter a little too thick, so just add a little water when you make them.” She was so right – my father’s adai hittu ranks among the best in the world.

To mark that sharply-etched time, I have Johana West’s (bitter)sweet haiku.

old family recipe
hoping our hands
are the same size

From a time when recipes weren’t written in cup measures but were an intuitive affair involving a pinch of this, a dollop of that and as my mother said back then, indicating less than a quarter of her hand, ‘ondu ishtu uppu’ (this much salt).

Home Patch - 2

The fresh haiku on the header reminds me that I have been meaning forever to write another post on the exciting events in the neighbourhood.

+++

I may have mentioned, once or twice, the street dogs that have established base around my home. A few years ago, the garage opposite was rented by a lady who ran a smallish boutique with dresses, bags, tailoring and the like. Now, she was fond of their company and took to feeding the dogs – a full family of two adults and a litter of four puppies. She let them run tame in her shop, and they indeed felt and behaved like pets. Until she shifted her shop and, in a spot of callous irresponsibility, simply abandoned the lot to their devices. The family disbanded over weeks but two of the siblings hung around here, latching on to Ramulu, the istri man who took over the shop. They continued to make themselves more familiar than anyone else was happy with. Now, we’ve conceded our terraces and our yards, and the dogs have signed the pact to not enter our houses.

These siblings – Kim and Mowgli, as the neighbourhood’s children have christened them – are interesting characters. Kim, the male is a thin, lithe fellow with a somewhat sly nature. Having received one or two thwacks many months ago for nosing into the house and ensconcing himself on the settee, he tends to side-eye me, giving me a wide-ish berth. That is not to say, however, that he’s afraid, and he certainly is not shy. Mowgli, on the other hand, is far more confiding and relies a lot on charm. She’s stouter than Kim, and not a good enough jumper of walls as her brother. Many times, if she’s unable or, I suspect, unwilling to clamber up to get across, she will just lie near the gate, whining till we come out and open it for her. 

To this mix was added a new puppy – who, thanks to her agile defence of the territory from other canine intruders, was named Sheeghrati Sheegram. Their interactions were most interesting. The siblings, being older and first on the territory outrank Sheegrati. And although they tolerate her and include her in pack activities, she is somewhat outside of their inner circle. The littermates lie close together almost always, their body language similar, while Sheegrati will take the opposite side of the road, or a different level. 

Sheegrati - the gentle, good girl

 

 

Winter mornings are made of these: Mowgli (top) and Kim (bottom) on the terrace.

Mowgli and Kim bask in the sun

Last fortnight, Sheegrati stunned us all by suddenly producing a litter of ten puppies. Most of us hadn’t even realised she was pregnant. The puppies have not yet been introduced to the public, but Ramulu, who has been keeping a close eye, reports that the siblings have been assiduous in protecting mother and pups from outside dogs. 

Sheegrati with her puppies. She's carved out a nice little hole for herself and the litter.

++++++++

The dogs had made matters a bit difficult for our colony cats, who were not to be seen as frequently as before. I rued this – I liked the cats around, lying on the walls, spooking the babblers and of course, keeping the rodent population under check.

But without meaning to, I did something that altered the status quo. We have a nice lemon tree to one side of the house – and it is a wonderful variety that yields large green lemons. The lemonade takes on an interesting pink hue and is fragrant and refreshing. Alas, the tree suffers from too much shade from a couple of mango trees (bullies!). For a couple of seasons, I noticed flowers that would not convert into fruit, falling off at the slightest breeze. I learnt that the plant probably needed some nutrition, and since then, the spare milk, cream and curd goes there to increase bio activity.

It was borne on me too late that a stray cat was taking these compliments personally. I caught her lapping the cream and she sat on the wall outside the kitchen window one afternoon, making eye contact and telling me volubly that she was hungry. 

 

My friend, the Brown Cat

 

The following week, something curious happened. I stepped out of the back door and found a dead rodent on the stoop. I was shaken, till I realised that the stray had left me a gift. And it happened again a week later – the gory offering unmistakably splayed out. I was grossed out, amused and flattered.

Jill Lange’s haiku captures the mood.

basking
in our trust...
feral cat and I

Tu ka Tu

A change in header was long overdue. The winter chill has given way to a rainy, moody summer.

But, of course, there are big things on our minds. The pandemic is going viral and we’ll be remembering this year for a very long time. What will change, how, which industries will stay, which will fall, who will win, who will lose, will humankind recover its conscience, or will this be a blip that only momentarily eclipsed our collective daily grind?


Time will tell, but in the meantime, a haiku by Paul Pfleuger, Jr.

Smiling
behind the death mask,
this is God, too

My Guru, ever compassionate, held our hands for 43 days, giving us darshans – a glimpse of him and room at his feet every single day. That makes a full mandala – a length of time approximately 40 days in which the human system completes one physiological cycle. When we take up something for one mandala, it gets written into our system like software and functions on a completely different level. Across these days, he spoke about a range of matters including this crisis facing us. How his constant presence has transformed us, I cannot even begin to guess.

During one session, someone asked him what Shiva thought of the virus.



His response reminded me of these verses by Kabir:

Inka bhed bata mere avadhu, acchi karni kar le tu
Dali phool jagat ke mahi, jahan dekhun va tu ka tu
 

Tell me the secret, Avadhoo, shower your compassion
In all of nature in this whole world, wherever I look, I see you

Hathi mein hathi ban baitho, chinti mein hai chhoto tu
Hoye mahavat upar baithe, hankan vala tu ka tu


Massive you are as an elephant, tiny when as an ant
Also as the mahout you sit, the one riding the elephant is also you

Choro ke sang chori karta, badmashon mein bhedo tu
Chori kar ke tu bhag jaave, pakdan vala tu ka tu
 
Among thieves you are a thief, you sit among scoundrels too
You are the robber who robs and runs, the one who catches him, also you

Jal thal jeev mein tu hi biraje, jahan dekhoon va tu ka tu
Kahe Kabir suno bhai sadho, guru milaye jyun ka tyun

In water, earth and all life you are present, wherever I look, only you!
Says Kabir, listen Seeker, the Guru shows you the unsullied You!


A version of the song by the awesome Prahlad Singh Tipaniya:

Yin-nish

I have been home for a while.
My last travel was in October and that was quite a road trip – a trail from Gwalior to Satna through Chanderi, Orchha, Khajuraho, Panna and Rewa. An immersive, intensive experience of northern Madhya Pradesh. Simply fabulous.

Since then, I've just been home, writing up the stories and... simply being home. Domesticity is a never ending job and I find that the concerns of the domestic life are what you might call choranaptyxic in nature – able to grow or shrink in order to fit available (mind)space. They diminish when I have 'bigger' things on my mind, but grow fairly demanding otherwise. I have taken care of a pile of leaves in the corner of the garden, hosed down a termite mound that was predating on the jasmine climber and I have made plans for the beetroot that are a week old and sitting heavily on my conscience. I am ahead of the curve.

Just the time for this quotidian observation from the Lucknow poet Sushma A. Singh.

winter chill
  I press harder
on the rolling pin

A feminine slice of life. 

About the little things. 

A small detail, a small blip in the pattern with an activity that is repeated perhaps every single day.

It is colder. Even if you have mixed the atta with a little tepid water, the dough is hard. Rolling out the rotis calls for a little extra.

Megha chhaaye

Cusp of a fresh new season and it is time for that almost obligatory change-of-season post.
So we take down this reference to vague, internal worries and wonder all over again at the clouds of life that drift, drift, drift as we stay constant.

The new haiku on the header goes:
cloud animals—
the summer slowly
drifts away

How the Oregon-based poet Clayton Beach knows the ways of our Indian monsoons, I don't know. But he does seem to sense the mood of the monsoon's approach this year. Not thunderous, not dramatic but gentle, almost. Already, the advance guard of clouds is nudging the summer away.

A few more days for Hyderabad, it is almost time.

Blast from the Past

Every now and then, a disconcerting thing happens to you on the spiritual path.

For those who are not consciously on the road to liberation, I should perhaps explain that the idea is to become empty – of your likes and dislikes, of your identities, of your opinions, of your personality... a complex bundle of impressions received and kept, unquestioned and unexamined, which is collectively called karma. Dropping one’s karma is the attempt at this stage – and a range of tools, methodologies, approaches and schools are available to a spiritual seeker to help one do it. All forms of yoga serve to cleanse you, and each person picks whatever method or methods suit them best.

With the Master’s Grace, you become perceptibly lighter and paler, so to speak. The ultimate goal of this is to become so pale as to become utterly transparent. 'Vairagya' is the word used, and means ‘without colour’. Without any quality of your own.

Now we are progressing happily, complacent under the delusion that quite a lot has been dropped. Mukti and crystal-clear perception are a matter of time... if not tomorrow, then surely the day after that, enlightenment will happen.

And then, your karma bites you in the butt. Something crude, something very basic, something deep-seated will rear out of your accumulated personality and snarl. Leaving you shaken. And very much doubtful if you have advanced at all. What have you been doing? Is your sadhana achieving anything? Have you lost your way? How could this creep up on you unseen? How, in spite of your efforts to be conscious, did this old rubbish manifest? Shame, worry and disappointment.

Apparently, this is par for the course. Stuff will churn up – stuff you didn’t expect, stuff you thought was gone, stuff you’ll sneer at. There’s nothing to do. Be aware. Observe. Let go. Stuff comes and goes. Seek that which is permanent.

Meanwhile, a delicious haiku by George Dorsty:

am I holding
them correctly?
worry beads

Wave after wave

My last header was a haiku that needed no elaboration. One of my own: 

Again

I hanker
for the simple life

And I replace it with a wonderfully multilayered one by Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy:

one more wave...
my toes curl tighter
around nothing

That’s how I experience it – that my Master comes at me in waves. As strong a wave as I can take at that moment. And each wave takes away the deposit of lifetimes, leaving me with less, clinging, curling my toes around nothing.

Full throttle

एक लम्हे में सिमट आया है सदियों का सफर
ज़िन्दगी तेज़ बोहत तेज़ चली हो जैसे

That is how it feels. Life is whizzing past - a new thing every day, every week, every fortnight... a month seems like an age for all the stuff that has happened through it. The themes change. Colours, drapes, scenery... entire concepts. The complexion of each phase is different, the focus varies... and I am trying through it all to stay on an even keel... not rising and dipping with the ebb and flow of events.

It becomes somewhat easy to discern in such a state that things happen, that they come and go as I stay constant.

बाज़ीचा-ए-अत्फाल है दुनिया मेरे आगे
होता है शब-ओ-रोज़ तमाशा मेरे आगे

I never appreciated that sher so well before.

Sahore Bāhubali!

Haha, just had to, you know! I’ve been fangirling Bāhubali all of April. I watched the first part again last week for purposes of revision and I’m off to see it at last! (So late, but my pre-booking hopes for ‘first day, first show’ fell through).

I absolutely loved the first part, and I have such admiration for this entire team for their commitment and attention to detail. Every frame storyboarded, every character thought through, the world marvellously detailed and then, there is SS Rajamouli’s sense of human drama. That kind of involvement shows through, and it gets communicated... no wonder it’s one of our biggest films.

This haiku by James Chessing is just perfect.

it begins...
a galaxy of dust motes
in the projector's beam

Zindagi Gulzar Hai

I have been afflicted, these past two-three days, with Seeker's Gravitas - a typical seriousness that overtakes sadhakas when there are earnest and weighted down by the lack of instant, perceivable, quantifiable and claimable success. The whole thing is a contradiction in terms. If you can really see, there is no one left to claim the credit. And if there is indeed someone clamouring to breast the ribbon, then you're playing some other game altogether. I get it.

But as the the Wise Man promptly asks: Who is it that Gets It?

There is only one word in response to that: BAH!

So let us put that aside for just a bit and strive for another tack. A simpler one - to be like this dog here in this haiku. A Labrador, no less. The darlingest breed to my eyes... innocent, life-loving... temperament completely lacking in malice or ill-will. Brown heart-melting eyes and large hearts.
Today, I will follow this dog's lead... bound along the streets of life and stop only to smell the roses.

sunset stroll...
the Labrador’s nose streaked
with pollen
~Maria Steyn

Running Wild

prairie grass
a mustang runs
with the wind
~William Cullen Jr.

That's how I've been feeling this year - like a wild thing let loose, rippling across the surface of life with the wind spurring me on. Speed, such speed. Exhilaration too. And galloping in any direction of the wind's choosing.

I wanted to say a little of the many many things I did - the travel, the singing, the genuflecting, the flying... but really, who cares! I might still, but what matter what I did, when it's all about what is. And then, about what isn't.

Making Hay

Whatever you do, do it in style. But not necessarily in one particular style.
–Sadhguru

It’s been a happening kind of a summer. My sister came home and, in a first since she left to live in an ashram at the foothills of the Velliangiri, she stayed two whole months. So many things we did... some more of the same, some new, some necessary, some just for the heck of it – and all of it was fun.

We went to the Simhastha Kumbh. We met friends, welcomed back old neighbours. We bought a TV. We watched a few movies, ate a lot of mangoes. Stock-taking of many kinds. A learning and an unlearning experience. A conscious sampling of life... so that we can let go.

She’s gone off now and the house seems a bit too quiet. It’s time for this evocative haiku by Carolyn Coit Dancy that describes the fun and purpose of this summer that went by:

creek-side rope swing
learning the art
of letting go

Himalaya Yatra 4: White Mountain, Green Mountain

White Mountain, Green Mountain

You ask me why I dwell in the green mountain;
I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care.
As the peach-blossom flows down stream and is gone into the unknown,
I have a world apart that is not among men.
–Li Bai, ‘Green Mountain’

A header change that needs no explanation at all: my mind is still in the mountain clouds.

But even here there is cause for dismay. We see a lot of breast-beating about dwindling habitats of wildlife species, but whoever gives any thought to the fact that the territory of the sadhaka is imperilled? My Sadhguru rues that with the building of motorable roads, there are no more impenetrable, remote retreats for spiritual men.

Time was these yogis could find themselves bolt-holes high up in the caves, secure from prying eyes or thirsty but encroaching masses who would gather at their feet. The waters of these Himalayan rivers are so prized, I understand, for this very reason. The yogis who stayed at these higher altitudes poured their knowledge and energies into the Bagirathi and other streams, a way of sending downstream what they had earned and what they could share with others. The whole concept of ‘Ganga nahaana’ or bathing in sacred waters comes from this.

But now, abutting the sacred Vyasa Gufa in remote Mana – a place that must have, over time, harboured countless sages and adepts – is a teashop claiming to be the last tea-stall in India. As we trekked to the point where Saraswati emerges from the cliffs, I crossed a small cave. An aghori sat in it, smeared with ash, a ‘dhuni’ duly lit for his meditations – and a small crowd around him, taking pictures. I don’t know if he minded, but I did.

Thanks to our coffee table books and the documentaries that we have seen, we have objectified our holy men. An aghori is not just a picture, is he? He is a life, an entire way of life... a purposeful life with life-choices wildly different from most of us. I was made sharply aware of that this trip. People like you and me, who drop everything they know and walk away into the hills, in search of a truth they only dimly perceive. Brave men.

I hope they find their retreats – high on those slopes, living on so little! Possessing just that much, my Guru says, as would make a difference between life and death.

I so loved the Chinese poet Li Bai for his utter gorgeosity and poetic empathy. And, I cannot resist another poem by him:

Lines For A Taoist Adept

My friend lives high on East Mountain.
His nature is to love the hills and gorges.
In green spring he sleeps in empty woodland,
Still there when the noon sun brightens.
Pine-tree winds to dust his hair.
Rock-filled streams to cleanse his senses.
Free of all sound and stress,
Resting on a wedge of cloud and mist.

When the cuckoo sings

It’s been a Japan kind of month. Months after I travelled there, I was called upon to file the story, and the days of August went in remembering, reading, dwelling... and it seemed fitting to have a haiku by the master himself on my header. Matsuo Basho was the man who created the three-lined haiku as we know it today. With the country so much on my mind, I picked up to read Jane Hirshfield’s The Heart of Haiku, and then a long piece on Basho in the National Geographic... it was poignant.

Even in Kyoto,
how I long for Kyoto
when the cuckoo sings
–Matsuo Basho (trans. Sam Hamill)

This haiku, however, has haunted me for a while. What is to be done with this nameless angst? Even in Kyoto the poet longs for Kyoto... what then is Kyoto? Is it an amalgam of every single sight, smell, taste experienced here? Is it an idea, a memory? How does one merge with Kyoto, how to slake this longing? How to hug all of Kyoto?

It happened to me once in Sikkim. We were winding down the hill with the river Teesta flowing by. We wanted pictures and the driver was obliged to drive on for a few kilometres before we came to a suitable vantage point. One spot that gave us a decent glimpse of the hills, the forests and the winding river. I was suddenly so impatient with it. I wanted to soar over the landscape, merge with every blade and drop... I wanted to become the valley and here I was, frustrated, limited to one little fenced off spot, straining to absorb it all.

This, I imagine, is the limitation of our sense perceptions. We can see the tree, but only one side of it, not what’s behind it. We cannot know it, we cannot become it – with this apparatus. We cannot know the tree, even if we have every cell of it under a microscope; we cannot know it in this way.

And so, although content with our little pockets of life, once in a while, when the cuckoo sings, we long for Kyoto.

Watching the wind

Did I say this place was windy? Yes, I did. Let me say it again. W.I.N.D.Y.
Doors are opened with great circumspection. Some wind corridors are so gusty, I sometimes can't advance till the currents let up. I tried to hang a few clothes today on the clothesline and had to stand IN the bucket to keep it from flying away; and what a struggle it was to keep the sleeves from lashing at my face!

I was sitting on a stone bench a couple of days ago, at dusk. The gales dropped for a bit and then, as I watched, I could see the breeze approach. It reminded me of this pretty, very appropriate haiku by Brad Bennett.

watching
the wind arrive
tree by tree

That's more or less what I've been doing this month.

The Heart of Summer

I worried this morning at the torpor that had overcome me. What did I do wrong? Was it the food that I ate? Was I unwell? It was a stupor that should send off warning alarms to any sadhaka – subject though we are to the three gunas, it is best that we keep our states hovering at Sattva. I accept that Rajas is sometimes inevitable but Tamas is deadly, and unacceptable.

I did have rice last night but very little… about a quarter of the quantity I happily consumed every night in my former life without any ill effects whatsoever. But now the system has become so sensitive; it responds so promptly, so unequivocally, it calls for tight discipline.

But that can't account for it fully, and I’ve now decided that this stupid lethargy must be the heat wave. I happened to go out walking twice yesterday and it has been torrid across India this fortnight. Everyone has been miserable.

Less from tradition and more from a need to exclaim over it, I find I make an annual ‘agni nakshatram’ post. Counting the days, counting down to the rains… in spite of wanting to be stoic about it, the last days of May defeat me.

But there is a haiku to go up. Poet Brent Partridge puts down an inscrutable little gem:

as much forever
as we've got—
the heart of summer

Does he mean what I think? Is he talking of the interminable way in which summer stretches out? Or that this intense season so forcefully pins you to the moment that you glimpse eternity? I can’t say. But I like poems no less because I can’t understand them.

===
A few hot blasts from the past:
http://sheetalvyas.blogspot.in/2013/02/daunted.html 
http://sheetalvyas.blogspot.in/2010/05/dog-days.html 
http://sheetalvyas.blogspot.in/2008/06/i-wait.html
And, a re-up of a Senryu I'd written.

The Sounds of Water

I’m not the first person, surely, to wish we could package seasons – little packets of pickled season – to be opened later, when we could really use it. A bagful of sun-warmth and sun-scents for chilly winters, a purple-dark cloud of rain for when it’s blazing down in the second fortnight of May, a few icicles of cold when you’re so parched you could swoon.

But Hyderabad, I am certain, is a spot most cherished by the gods. Almost nine months of splendid weather! The rains treat us well, winters are mild and are sufficient only to let us enjoy our woollens, and the summers, hot and torrid though they are, are kind and bountiful. And even those three months of heat are alleviated by nicely placed April showers, lest we become too overcome.

It has been months since I changed the header on this blog, and I was looking to see if I could find something appropriate. I read this haiku yesterday and put it aside. But it has been raining here all morning, and as I puttered around the house, I found it true.

Joyce Clement says:
a different pitch
from room to room
summer rain