Walking into a dream

It came on  many nights like a scene from a Kafka novel. There was the vision of a cement grill above a doorway. It seemed to hold back a dark spirit. wanting to be liberated . IWas there a talisman there?  I dare not look there for who knows what lurked in the kitchen and beyond The dreamer always froze with fear and awoke. It was the ancestral home of my father in Edayar street, Coimbatore. 

The other desire was  latent but deeply embedded in the sub consciousness and made its presence felt during my waking moments I wanted to walk the street of the East Lokamanya Street in RS Puram , the home of my mother. The old walls,painted yellow the green windows with four doors were clearly visible. The musty smelling attic where coconuts were stored and a large hall with a valve radio, of the 1960s, playing Tamil film songs from  Radio Ceylon. The pink bougainvillea in the front compound and the Kolam drawn by my grandmother just outside the green gate called me home.

The Ideal Store at the entrance to the street was still remembered. So was the old man with a hunch back who walked the street every morning selling idllis. He could be heard a mile down the street. I would wait till he came around and grandma would be ready with the vessels and the money to collect the idllis and chutney. Also was remembered the evil mendicant who would spit into the house if unhappy with the donations. The street would  be empty and everyone would duck indoors, windows shut till she went away. And who can forget the State ice-cream man on his cycle, bells ringing? This was my home-away-from -home  during the summer vacations from my school and the Mumbai home . After a two night journey by steam engines, mom, brother and I would be collected by my uncle from the station, at around 3 or 4 in the morning, loaded up into a horse cart with the black trunk box and taken down the streets smelling of horse dung and night flowers to where our grandmother waited. I would wait for daybreak to run up to the attic where my mama would keep  his collection of story books just for me.  I needed to relive those moments if it was possible, And the impetus was the scene from the movie Lion where the Indian boy who was adopted by Australian parents returns to his roots after 30 years and finds his way home and to his biological mother. So I went to Coimbatore.

Kolams

The old landmarks were missing on  East Lokamanya street. But the fragrance and ambiance was unmistakable. The faint smell of the Parijat flowers were still lingering in the air after 50 years. We stopped  before a swanky new bungalow that stood where our old home was. The old bougainvillea was missing. There were new trees. A huge wall with a metal gate blocked our view but that did not matter. I felt healed and welcomed. I walked the street many times and spotted a few homes of that era still standing.

Another day we went to Edayar street. Dad led the way. He was looking for an old “Pullayar Kovil” that stood in the middle of the road. That was his place marker. He stopped a young boy to ask about the temple and the little lane called “Kurumbar Sandhu” . The boy directed us forward. Soon we stood outside the house of a goldsmith where our home once existed. He took us inside.


There it was- the cement grill over the door. It looked so docile and powerless. The subterranean water tank of those days was the only other thing that had survived. The land now housed multiple homes. The residents spilled out of their small homes to hear the story of an 87 year old recalling his childhood and narrating the story of his life.  It was a profound moment. No words can describe the emotional high we felt during our brief time in the precincts of the place that once belonged to our family.

Now it feels as if a life’s goal was reached. The coming of a full circle perhaps brings  the peace that we long for all our life.

End Scene

I taught these kids for two years: They were in the 7th grade when I began work at the Municipal School in Kanjur Marg, Mumbai. .It was the month of July, 2013. I was the Teach For India Fellow come to teach them.  Thus far they had seen only twenty-something Bhaiyyas and Didis. This one was a grey haired bozo of fifty five.

I did a grand corporate style presentation on Malala  on my first day in class. They lapped it up. I was proud of what I did. that day. The days that followed brought home the challenges. It was no easy task getting 42 kids to work with me . Many missteps and heart burns followed. And then I regained my foothold. I taught Social Studies and English Language Arts. I learnt too.

I remember that I was asked to take charge of a dark dungeon that was a "changing room " for the housekeeping staff. A clothesline was strung diagonally across with an assortment of trousers , shirts and towels hanging on it.  There were no benches. So the kids  squatted on the floor and I stood in front of the class all day doing my act. Sympathetic teachers from neighboring classrooms began donating spare benches and desks and soon we had a seat for everyone.  The one daily challenge remained: finding a chalk!

In 2014 a co-teacher, Vibhor,  joined me. He was allergic to chalk dust and we switched to white board and markers. Vibhor and I worked in tandem,  drew inspiration and energy from each other.
They were the two most glorious years  of my life. I raised funds for a career seminar on "Milaap", a crowd funding portal. My second project was awarding "after school coaching " to the top  11 kids at a local tuition classes. Milaap got me over three lakh rupees. The  kids got tutorial support  for  grades 9th and 10th.

I passed out of the Fellowship in 2015  but  continued to keep in touch with the kids, making visits  every few months to watch them learn and grow.

On  4 March I joined the grand party TFI teachers and the kids   had organised to  mark their last day in school. The room was festooned, a strobe light played on the colorful saris of the girls. They were dancing to frenzied beats  from a playlist of Bhojpuri remixes. Then followed a simple but delicious lunch of veg Manchrian , fried rice , veg kababd  and Gulab Jamuns.

It occurred to me that these kids will never know how much they will miss this day for the rest of their lives. I wanted to tell them to take a hard look at the benches and the desks and the walls and the faces of the teachers . I wanted to tell them that life will be a dizzy roller coaster ride from then on and when they pause to catch their breath it would be some thirty years gone. Then,  they will want to touch these benches and meet their old friends and teachers , just as I  did when I was 45.

As I walked out of the classroom and made my way down the tree -lined lanes of the Naval Colony  I  realized that this day was also the end scene of the movie in which I had played a supporting role. There will be no more visits to the school now. But wait. They will come to the school to collect their mark-sheets in June when the results of the exams are out. I plan to be there. I can meet those kids on last time.

At Kabir's home

The Avantika Express took us to Ujjain where we met up with a couple of other Kabir Smittens Another hour on a passenger train brought us to Maksi , a small quaint station that is nearest to the little village of Lunyakhedi.

Prahalad Tipanya, the Padmashree awardee and popular Malwa folk singer lives with his large family in this village. He lives and breathes Kabir songs and poetry. Prahaladji is one of the many forms through which Kabir connects and communicates with the world of today.

During the five day workshop, we immersed ourselves in the vibrant and elevating music created by these humble folk singers who keep the kabir 'raas -dhara' flowing. We drank of it with both hands. The sounds of the tambura, the manjira, the dholak , the harmonium and the violin accompanied the singers. Prahaladji and Kaluram Bamaniya sang for us. It was like having Kabir all to oneself when you sat immersed in the music that overflowed and engulfed everyone around...

Linda Hess was there too. She brought to us her deep understanding of Kabir's poetry and the oral traditions of the Malwa region that has carried his words to this day.

On the second day the body and spirit had adjusted to the toilet with a rusty corrugated metal sheet for a door and a cold water bath inside a make-shift bathroom (a slab for flooring, four poles on the sides holding up jute cloth coverings and the sky for the roof! )

Rain drenched green fields as far as eye can see, lakes and brooks, grazing cattle and chirping birds made for  a perfect setting. Hot poha and sabhudana kichdi for breakfast, homely lunch and dinners served with dollops of ghee kept the energy buzzing  The love and affection showered on us by Prahaladji ( "Aap ne mere bichde hue parivar se mila diya") and his family gave me an emotional high. The divine music and the mesmerizing poety of Kabir held us in thrall.

The poetry and the oral traditions of singing both need to survive the spread of urbanization and western influences. Only time can tell if any of the participants, from mostly urban locations within India, would serve the cause and help retain these works of beauty for future generations.

Travel to CST

When in the US, I dreamt of riding on a Mumbai Local Train. When I did it last week it was not such a romantic event.

Sitting half- ass on the fourth seat, jostled by fellow commuters , I was amazed at the daily travails of travelling these people were putting up with. Two mustached Mallus were speaking in their glib lingo. One of them pulled out an ID card from his pocket -'My life membership card', he said. The bhaiya on the adjacent seat bent forward to have a look!

I went back to reading Leo Hartong's book 'Awakening to the dream'. The mind was quiet and there was a sense that It was here , as always: in the sunlight that came in though the windows, in the Mallu's clean ironed shirt, in the pen in his shirt pocket an in the rows of slums outside...

What have you found?

During the satsang, broadcast live over the internet from Thiruvannamalai, Mooji asked the audience," What have you to show? What have you found in your search?" . Assuming for a moment, that the Guru finally deems me worthy and reveals my true identity and places this shimmering thing that is God on my trembling palms, I would have to exist to see it. That is, if I can find IT, it is not IT.

IT has to be inseparable from me. I'm IT.

I thought I can attain God and then the realization happened that I is just a thought.

Who is searching? For What?

On the canvas of the universe, if humans can be represented by small circles with a dot in the center, the dots represent the sense of an individual controller or sense of personal doer ship. This center provided the impetus to negotiate the world and collect things with an intent to own or possess. This also drives ambition and the need for bigger and greater achievements. At some point , when most of the needs are met, the center begins to look for the ultimate achievement- happiness and absolute bliss , and so one turns to religion , scripture or spiritual pursuits.

The seeking intensifies as the effort is not easily rewarded. The search presupposes that something is lost and that the individual knows what it is that needs to be found. This invariably leads to frustration and a revaluation of ones efforts and introspection happens. It may be then realized that neither the seeking of spiritual achievements nor all the other life-time successes and failures were the direct result of ones efforts. So, will my effort at meditation and 'sadhana' yield in personal enlightenment?

These thoughts may then lead to further examine the premise of who is searching, for what?
It may be time to verify the validity of the datum , the dot inside the circle.

Life Flows

It is a sad day. My uncle passed away in a remote village in Tamil Nadu. Only a week ago I had talked to him since I heard that he was diagnosed with cancer. We talked for over 20 minutes and I promised to call him back after the biopsy results were available. He returned home from Madurai- the doctors had given him only a few months but he did not last more than a couple of days. Minutes before he breathed his last he exclaimed to his wife that ‘Yogam Mani’ ( my late mother) was present in the room. My mother loved him a lot and she was there to escort him away from the pain and suffering of a bodily existence.

He leaves behind a shattered and devastated family- wife , 2 boys and a girl. The girl and the eldest son are blind from birth. My uncle was the sole breadwinner for so many years and suffered the agony of watching the two visually challenged children grow into adults. They needed him for everything- to be led to the bathroom, to be fed and dressed and groomed, to go out to bring the groceries.. They won’t even know that he is gone. Who knows what destiny has in store for these unfortunate children

Life presents itself in many wonderful ways. As Wayne says “Death is not the end of life, rather, birth and death are a part of life” . The beautiful red hibiscus bloom at my home that I marveled at today morning and the pictures of his new born that a colleague sent me by email are as much a display of Life’s unembellished presentation as a death of a loved uncle