A bird makes me thoughtful

It is the dusk hour, and a bird twitters outside my window. I can’t tell what kind of a bird it is. Its voice is big and confident and yet, the high pitch conjures up the image of a sparrow or similar small-sized creature. Soft, nurturing bosom, shy to humans, and still, fully possessed of its uniqueness in the great canvas.

To hear birds freely warbling throughout the day has become a blessing I explicitly count now. As the Amazon fires burn Earth’s lungs, water tables dry up and species go extinct, I am not sure if the Nature I grew up with will be there when I die.

This little bird outside my window has put me into a despondent mood. Even as it sings its heart out, it makes me painfully conscious of the possibility that its friendliness to me may be shortlived.

To be sure, revivals are happening as well. The tiger population in India is rebounding. Rhinos were bred successfully in Africa recently. The Maharashtra government, like many other state governments and other countries, is on a mission to plant trees. I recently saw a post on Instagram of a tribal man in Northeast India who has been planting trees for the last 40-odd years, and he has created a living forest, with animals and birds inhabiting, today.

Like all things in life, every yin has its yang. The flip side of despair is hope. Every villain has his hero. The only choice to be made, it seems, is which side I want to be on.

Aloneness

A person out on her own must be lonely and is, therefore, to be pitied.

“Table for one? This way, ma’am.” The poor thing has no one to eat lunch with.

“One ticket? Oh, ok.” So sad, doesn’t she have a boyfriend to take her out to a movie?

As someone who is often out and about by myself, I find this reaction more so in India than in individualistic societies like the US, where the changing demographics and geographic mobility have long since made it normal to be single, not know anyone and be doing things on one’s own.

In India, however, society is still more stable and so, you are expected to be ensconced within a dense social circle that weaves tightly around you. School and college friends mill around, ready to gang up to do things together. Joint families are still common, so the options (responsibilities?) to go out with family members are many. People still believe in marriage and get married in their 20s with the expectation that all things henceforth are to be done together as a couple.

In all of this, there is, it seems, very little space left to express one’s aloneness. By aloneness, I mean the healthy state of being by oneself to do the things that nurture one’s own self, soul, spirit. Like taking solitary walks by the beach to pause and gain perspective on where your life is heading. Or, slow sipping a cappuccino while you momentarily step out of your own life and engage in lazy people watching from out the cafe’s window. Or, meandering through ancient ruins, without someone else’s chatter to interfere with what history wants to whisper to only you.

Setting aside some time alone regularly is a good thing. it reconnects you to yourself in a way that nothing else can. It lets you catch a breath from the existential treadmill. In today’s over-packed world, a momentary pause is a gift. More than a gift, it is an urgent respite that allows you to check in with yourself. It’s a way to remind you of who you truly are and ask if you’re making the choices that stand up for that person.

There is a growing trend among young Indians to set out on their own and wander off the beaten path in solo mode. It’s leading to all kinds of changes. Like restaurant seating, where tables for one or two are becoming more common where earlier, they were filled with tables for four or more. Eyebrows don’t get raised as much nowadays when a solo traveller checks into a hotel; in fact, online sites allow you to filter searches for single-friendly facilities. Relatives don’t comment as much anymore if you say you’re going out by yourself for a while.

Maybe there’s a realization that letting people be has become a need of the times. We are so overwhelmed with our lives – thanks to the hyperconnectedness of social media, a growing economic prosperity that is feeding a frenzied consumerism, and an intense universal competitiveness that is stoking insecurity and dissatisfaction – that the need to take a break from everything and everyone has become but obvious.

In a changing India, there is a growing acceptance that, sometimes, alone does not mean lonely. The younger generation seems to get it. As someone who takes “alone time” regularly, I recommend it.

Munnar’s Magical River

Across from my hotel, a small river flows by. It is a river, insists the hotel manager, although it looks more like a stream to me. I believe him and feel saddened by the visibly depleting ravages of climate change.

The river is beautiful, nestled amidst rolling waves of lush green tea plantations. Clear water gurgles happily, undaunted by the big brown boulders that squat in its way. These ancient rocks are misshapen, awkwardly elongated here, abruptly cracked there. No matter. They stand firm, formidable in their form and with no signs of relenting.

It is the river that adjusts. With each encounter, it changes from a clear, calm surface to a spirited white froth, energetically tumbling through as if its life depended on it. It dances around the block as it lands, much in the same way as puppies play around an unmoved mother. It doesn’t linger; it moves forward and settles into a calmer flow until it meets another rock, this time a smaller one. It washes over it, giving it a makeshift pair of floppy ears. Water sprays everywhere.

This is the way of the river. It keeps changing direction, shifting form, slowing down or racing forward, one barrier after another. It never stops . From this, the combination of the water, the boulders, everything, emerges an unexpected beauty. The unity, in all its imperfections, is what becomes the magnificent river.

It’s no surprise that the river has been a source of inspiration for many across the ages. Herman Hesse’s Sidhartha relied on it to convey the ultimate truth about life and happiness. I can see why. There are many profound lessons hidden in the river if only one stops to experience them.

This particular river, flowing through Munnar, made me think, how often do we look at obstacles as supportive rather than hindering to our performance? The typical reaction is to groan and complain about how much harder it now is to achieve our goal. Rarely do we consider that the new development can allow a hidden facet to emerge, and that these new facets add a lustre that was not possible before.

What’s more, the river takes many forms. At times, it is quiet, slow, flat. At others, it is a raging bull, surging forward with a forceful, passionate energy. Is one better than the other? They both have a reason.

In Nature, as in life, things are messy. People don’t behave the way we expect them to, events don’t occur according to the timeline we have designed, and accidents take place at an ironic regularity. Instead of chafing against the messiness, it seems the idea is to flow with it.

 

 

 

The New Vacation: Exile

Lately, I’ve been thinking about vacations. It’s about that time of the year when I need a respite from the usual grind, when my batteries go into the amber zone and send out a plaintive signal to be recharged.

As I’ve mulled over where to go for a holiday, I’ve found myself craving something that will give me solitude. I’m not just talking about leaving behind the cacophany of the city with its blaring horns and foggy skies that blot out the stars. That’s certainly in order. No, I’m talking about solitude to the point of exile, where I find myself banished to an unfamiliar experience, without the comforts of connectivity or connections. I’m seeking a space where I am not swapping one set of distractions for another – from the tedious daily grind to an exciting set of new activities that, nevertheless, still act to seduce my senses. I think my senses need a break too.

New York recently experienced a blackout, which is highly unusual for the place. Folks, I’ve heard, thoroughly enjoyed the silencing of technology for those precious few hours. Exactly a year ago, I went on a meditation retreat that gave me the same opportunity for 10 days. Tough as it was, I find myself reminiscing fondly for the way I was isolated from everyone and everything. This included myself, or the self that I defaulted to, the one that liked to read before falling asleep, that wrote her thoughts when overwhelmed by the world, that talked at length about upsets and excitements with friends until the topic was exhausted.

At that retreat, I shed all of that and was forced to look squarely at what was in front of me, unvarnished, with no crutches. There was something deeply rejuvenating about this, to become, in a way, reacquainted with what is.

A year later, I find myself wanting this in the vacation I’m planning. I’m looking for spots that don’t have a lot to do. Instead, they’re just there, being. I can join their fold, quietly, inobtrusively. I’d like to be where the only expectation is to take a deep breath, followed by a few more, and that’s it. Where I can look around me, not seeing anything spectacular, which will force me to remain gazing at the ordinary view. Where I can sit down and write, because there is nothing else to do.

This kind of vacation has only one word to describe it, self-imposed exile. More and more, I think it is the kind of break we all need. Where, once upon a time, vacation was to break the humming doldrums of everyday existence, now, it has come to represent the relief of low-key ordinariness in lives that are increasingly overstimulated.

Life From A Thousand Strokes

I’m sure you’ve heard of the expression death by a thousand cuts. It’s a way to convey the persistent, unrelenting pressure that ultimately break us down, bearing down on us from all sorts of angles and in all sorts of forms. A caustic comment slices here, an unkind laugh pierces there and soon, the culmination of these tiny, mean fissures leads to a degrading erosion of the spirit, a petering out of the soul, drip by drip till nothing is left.

Have you heard of the opposite? I am not aware of anything that captures the opposite phenomenon, though it seems apt to have one. It’s certainly in order to have an uplifting, reinforcing counter-version, like life from a thousand strokes.

Life from a thousand strokes. The wellspring of life is love, and love comes alive when expressed in its multifarious forms. Contrary to the prevailing narrative that popular culture feeds us, love is not about monumental, grand gestures.

Rather, love is the countless acts that look small and insignificant and yet, unbeknownst to us, these mini pockets are the true carriers of its essence. In their ordinariness lies their power. It is the everyday actions that we do innumerable times every day that convey our love for others.

What do these acts look like? Well, here’s a few that I like:

When a friend calls up after several days have passed, simply to hear your voice and check that you’re doing okay.

When a loved one makes a separate version of a curry because you like it with a slightly sweeter tinge while the rest of the family doesn’t.

When you send someone a classic comic strip that you know will make them laugh, for no reason other than that you want them to have a good laugh in their day.

The acts are tiny; in and of themselves, they don’t feel meaningful or significant. This is why, perhaps, we tend to overlook them and not do them. It won’t matter, we say to ourselves. They won’t notice if I don’t do it, we rationalize. It’s possible they will go unnoticed. And yet, it’s also likely they will be noticed.

Not just noticed, they will likely make an impact on the heart, a beneficent caress. To feel thought of, to be the recipient of an act for whom we are the sole target, these are powerful gestures that heal. They bathe us in empathy, bonding, and care. They are like salubrious balms when we are having a bad day or even a bad phase. They are soul-enhancing nudges that flush us with confidence and infuse our step with spring and bounce.

If you’re doing them, showing kindness and love through the means available to you, you should know these acts matter. They have an echoing effect, long after you have made the gesture because the recipient thinks back on them, over and over, with gratefulness, satisfaction and happiness. I don’t know the number of times a heartfelt “how are you?” made my day better just from feeling cared for at that moment.

Life flows from a sense of well-being. Each of us has the capacity to enhance others’ well-being through our little, thoughtful gestures if only we recognize their real power and care to do them. Making someone’s life better, through a thousand gentle strokes is much more preferable to giving them death by a thousand tiny cuts. The choice is ours to make.

Cling To Your Routine During Times Of Change

Ever have a period when non-stop change is getting thrown at you? Nothing will hold still, it seems, everything is in a tearing hurry to take a new and unfamiliar shape, like runny custard mix that wants to mould to any corner into which it can reach, regardless of the final aesthetic.

At such times, I find myself relying on the mundane elements of my routine to hold my steadiness.

Boring, tedious activities become lifesavers. Waking up at the same time in the morning and going to bed at the same time gives a clear, structured beginning and end to a day that otherwise is slipshod. Brewing coffee from the same broken machine with no handle, I feel a comfort in wrapping a kitchen towel around the hot base and gingerly pouring out the brown gold into the cup. As I revisit the fear of scalding myself, it weirdly brings back a sense of normalcy.

The routine is not always pleasant, but the repetitive act is comforting. For instance, the daily, internal tussle when sitting is far from easy: my adamant mind regularly plays a skittish game of hide and seek until it finally, eventually, does settle into calm. There is something reassuring about this dance and that it will be there when I come to sit. Similarly, there is relief in the feeling of strength and tautness that comes after a series of high intensity workouts over many consecutive days, as challenging as they are at the time of going through them. Likewise the satisfaction of eking out a sentence to add to the unfinished book after long, tortuous sessions of seeming unproductivity. These habits have become ingrained in me so that skipping them feels utterly wrong.

It is the familiarity of the experience that brings balance, like side rails that one holds on to when a boat is keeling. During times of change, I don’t need a new, more powerful antidote that can restore balance and steadiness. Rather, I need to hold on to my familiar, banal routine to steer me through the strange, choppy waters.

Dealing With Life’s Ups and Downs

How well do you deal with life’s ups and downs? If you’re anything like me (and you’re honest about it), the probable answer is, not very well. When unexpected and undesired things happen, the inevitable first reaction is, “No! I don’t like it. I don’t want to and I won’t!” We never really outgrow our tantrum-throwing 5-year old self, it seems.

And yet, change is the only reliable truth about life. In Buddhism, they say you are dying every moment and being born anew every moment. Nothing stays still.

Since it’s unavoidable, it’s worth figuring out how to ride the ups and downs. Otherwise, we’re doomed to being miserable most of the time, and that’s no way to live.

There is a famous Zen parable that inspires me in my more challenged moments.

Many centuries ago, there was a Zen monk who lived in a small village in Japan. He was well-regarded by the community and he exemplified good Zen Buddhist conduct. He was what people expected from a Zen monk and they revered him for it.

One day, the family of a young woman came angrily to his home, the young woman in tow. As people gathered, the parents loudly berated him for having illicit relations with their daughter, as a result of which she had gotten pregnant and delivered a baby. The villagers were furious to hear this, and quickly joined the parents in hurling insults at him. They maligned him, passed sarcastic and scornful comments, and overall threw him off the pedestal and into the mud. All the goodwill and respect they used to show towards him disappeared. The parents roughly thrust the baby in his arms and told him it was his responsibility to take care of.

Throughout all this, the monk listened and then said, “Is that so?”

Quietly, he took the baby in and started taking care of it. He fed it, washed it, clothed it. He sang to it to soothe it when it started crying, played with it during the day, and murmured lullabies at night to put it to sleep. He rearranged his life to make room for this new person that had come unwittingly into it.

Months passed by. One day, the family of the baby came back to his door, the young mother sheepishly following them. She had confessed that the real father was another young man from the village, and she had panicked when discovered by her parents to be with child. In her flustered state, she had taken the monk’s name falsely. The parents were ashamed and came to ask for his forgiveness. Fully repentant, they now wanted to take the baby back to raise it themselves.

The monk listened to them patiently and at the end, asked, “Is that so?” He turned and brought the infant to hand over to its grandparents and mother. As they walked away, he turned back into his courtyard to pick up his morning chores.

I love this parable for the way it makes mindful living real and relatable. Noble, esoteric concepts are all fine and good, but their true power lies in translating them into ordinary living.

The monk was falsely accused of bad conduct, his reputation was ripped into tatters, and he was given a massive, unexpected responsibility when he had nothing to do with it. Then, when he was taking care of the baby, it was unexpectedly taken from him. His life was disrupted not just once but twice, and in big ways.

Through it all, he is undisturbed. He does what he needs to do. He goes through all the actions that are so banal and boring – burping the baby, sweeping the house, cooking the meal. He does not get caught up in the way his reputation is smeared. He does not obsess about his loss of standing and regard in society. He does not get angry about the way he was treated so badly and unfairly. He simply goes about the day, responding to what it has presented to him. Nothing more and nothing less. This all there is to do. This is the aspiration.

Would I be able to do it? Would you? Every day throws upheavals our way. They’re usually nowhere near what it must feel like to be given a baby to take care of. And yet, we easily and quickly lose our balance. We get frustrated, we fume, we fret. We cling to what should be, feel affronted by what is, long for what used to be. By the end of it, we are drained by our anger and anxiety and left restless and unhappy.

This is not mindful living. This is resisting the flow of ups and downs. We would all be better off if we could conduct ourselves like the monk. Missed your train? Okay, wait for the next one. Got given a new project with short deadlines? Okay, do what you can to your best abilities. Got a project taken away? Okay, shift your focus to the project you still have and make it shine. Fought with your partner? Okay, listen to their anger, accept their emotions, respond with love, calmly.

Mindful living is nothing more than being aware and responding to the present moment. No attachment to thoughts, no clinging to the past memories or future hopes. To respond appropriately, and not in a reactive manner, it requires a calm, unstirred, unconfused mind.

Difficult to achieve, bountiful in imparting true joy and happiness.

Receiving is as important as giving

Giving is a good thing. These days, the world feels like it is getting more and more mean-spirited and selfish, so in such a hostile setting it is a soothing balm to find people who are thinking about others and giving generously.

Every day, people like you and me show thoughtfulness and consideration in the gifts we bestow our loved ones. Birthday gifts, anniversary flowers, Diwali presents. Home-made food for single friends missing their families back home. Fresh soup and khichdi for sick neighbours. The gifts don’t even have to be things. We make phone calls that let others know we are thinking of them. We take care of their young kids so that they can have an evening of fun with adults for a change. There is a lot of giving that happens across the world.

Lately, though, I have been wondering about giving to the giver. How well does a giver receive? We usually think about ourselves in the giving mode, but how often do we stop and think about how good we are at being on the receiving end?

Not so well, in my experience. Recently, I tried to give a gift to a friend who had given me many presents in the past, including spontaneous ones and others that had no occasion to them except that the friend felt like giving me something. I was a well-loved friend. When I showed up with a gift that I had put a lot of thought and care into, it was flatly rejected. “It’s not necessary” and “I don’t need anything” were the refrains that hit my ears even as my hands bearing the box were pushed back. Despite what soon became pleas, the friend refused to accept my gift. Crestfallen, I returned home, stillborn gift in tow.

This friend is not alone. I have had many other encounters where my offering has not been accepted. The reasons are the same – there is no need for it, I should use it instead, they don’t need anything. The manner of refusal is firm and stubborn, an unwillingness to accept.

Why is it so hard for some givers to receive? The very same joy that they feel in giving a present to someone and seeing their face light up is what is, after all, sought by their receiver. Research shows that the act of giving releases happiness hormones within us. It is, in fact, a superior experience to receiving a gift. And yet, when givers don’t accept gifts, this joy is denied to the very people that mean so much to them. It is strangely ironic.

I’m not sure how many of us are aware of this phenomenon. How do you react when someone tries to give you a present? Do you push it away or do you accept with grace? I have been guilty of not accepting gifts on occasion, out of a concern for inadvertently creating a sense of obligation in the other person or simply because I did not think it was needed.

These are terrible reasons to reject a gift. It is deflating to the giver. Worse, it sows the seeds of inequality and imbalance: you are capable of giving a worthy gift, but mine does not meet the standard? To be cast into permanent roles of donor and recipient is unhealthy for a relationship that is meant to be of equals.

There is so much written about giving and generosity. We know very well how to give. It seems to me, though, that we may not know how to receive.

Receiving begins with an openness to being given gifts. While it may be easy to joke this off, saying who doesn’t like getting free, expensive stuff, it is quite possible that we don’t see ourselves in this guise. We have cast ourselves in the role of giver without thinking about donning the role of receiver. Is it arrogance? Is it self-protectiveness? Receiving requires humility and vulnerability, an acceptance that we are worthy of being thought about and receiving the thoughtfulness of others. We are not only born to give to others; we are also entitled to be a recipient on occasion.

What’s more, in the very act of receiving, we achieve what no gift given can achieve – we enable our loved ones to experience the joy of giving, which is the ultimate gift.

So, next time someone tries to give you something – whether an actual physical present or an offer to listen and be a supportive friend or whatever – be mindful and let them. In that act of receiving is a magic that lets the giver feel gifted too.

 

Life is not a straight line

Life is not a straight line.

It’s a meandering stream,

Spilling down a mountain with no regard for direction or destiny,

Gurgling its way this way and

that way and back to

this way only to go that way.

Life is an unpredictable arrow

Surging forward with an enviable precision,

One that fills me with hubris

That promptly breaks to pieces

As I’m then yanked off track so hard

I get whiplash.

And in that hard jerk is a gentle tug

To release everything I am holding on to:

The image that does not match the face in the mirror,

The vocation that awkwardly fits the talents unfurling inside.

I unclench my fists and exhale,

Feeling my warm, wet breath dissolve into the space in front of me.

In the surrender is my release.

 

 

The shape of pain

Common Zen wisdom says to observe everything and stay in the present moment. This is where joy is. Observing everything means even the nasty parts, like pain.

Have you ever explored what pain feels like?

For me, I’ll readily admit that I have a superficial sense of it. It hurts. That’s the extent of my familiarity with it. As soon as the pain registers, my instinct is to run away from it because, well, it’s unpleasant. I don’t enjoy it and I don’t want to experience it any longer than necessary.

Lately, though, I’ve been trying not to run away from pain. I’m intrigued by the Zen buddhist guidance to stay with it. Can pain really contain joy within it? Aren’t pain and joy two opposite ends of the spectrum? It sounds paradoxical at best, illogical at worst.

Luckily for me, I have developed a chronic condition that keeps the pain with me, involuntarily. Even if I wanted to run away, I can’t really.

So, I’ve seized the opportunity to study it. In the process, I’ve noticed that pain has a shape to it. It’s a revelation that pain even has a shape, and beyond that, sounds and taste to it as well.

My pain right now feels like rounded hills across a vast landscape with gophers pushing hard from within against some parts of the hills, as if to burst out from the underground. They dart here and there. A dull thud resounds and fades. Another one erupts in another part of me. From time to time, a little rivulet of heat drizzles across, spreading its ooze. Air whizzes past. A sharp, metallic taste sends sparks periodically.

As I observe the contours of my pain, the sharpness melts away. There is no suffering and it feels like a misnomer to call the sensation “pain”. It is, quite simply, one type of sensation, neither good nor bad. In the act of becoming acquainted with it, I discover new things about myself, like layers of dimensions that have the covers thrown off them. I am more open than I understood about myself. I have a greater patience, a higher threshold for staying put. I have a generosity of spirit hitherto unknown, as reflected in my ability to hold this pain even when my instincts tell me to scoot. I have a curiosity that allows for unexpected angles to reveal themselves and be accepted.

Inevitably, however, the mind plays mischief and is ever eager to add on a layer of judgment. “This is not fun!” it declares. “We’re not enjoying this, make it stop!” It’s these thoughts that make experiences unpleasant, not the experience per se.

Realizing this, I try to stay focused on understanding the experience, watching it for the way it throbs here, dissolves there, reappears. When I’m using my attention for this, I am fine. When the thoughts push their way to the forefront, that’s when I feel miserable. It reaffirms that we are solely responsible for our suffering. The moment we allow judgment to add its hue to something that is happening, unhappiness is born.

Therefore, the trick is to stop judging. Feel, they say. Occupy the entire space to experience a sensation fully. This is where joy resides. Stay put here and embrace the limitless bounty of joy.