Of Gods, Curries, and Que sera sera...

"The news out of India is beyond scary - I keep sending prayers out for you and your family," a friend from Michigan wrote, while another from New York had this to say, "I want to make sure you are healthy.  The news here is all about how dire it is in India!" From Omaha, "Hope your family is safe and sound.  We are praying India has a quick recovery."

I have been deeply touched by the concern that has poured in from friends across the globe, who have watched the tragedy unfold in metropolitan India, in the wake of the second wave of Coronavirus.  People queuing up for oxygen tanks, queuing up outside hospitals without beds, begging to be helped, queuing up at the cremation ground to have the last rites performed for the departed beloved...it is a heart-rending situation and reflects on how unprepared we were for something of this magnitude. Even though kudos should go to our scientific community for the speed with which it developed a functional vaccine, the central and state governments however remained complacent in ensuring that we were not caught off guard when the second wave hit. 

Therefore it was no wonder that when the second wave did arrive, it turned into a full-fledged tsunami, reflecting the failure of the administration to secure a better way to manage the virus, by equipping the hospitals with  more beds, PPEs, ventilators, Remdesivir, and adequate staff. 

During the first lockdown, while much of the nation's energy was directed towards tracking the super-spreaders and communalising the virus, China had already been in the news for having erected a 1600-bed hospital in Wuhan within ten days, to deal exclusively with Covid-19 patients. Our government, however, chose to boost the morale of an under-equipped health system by having the fighter jets fly past showering flowers on the hospital staff, an exercise which cost the nation's taxpayers millions of dollars. 

Our government got busy congratulating itself, having dispensed its duties by creating a few makeshift skeletal clinics during the first lockdown, which were speedily dismantled as soon as it thought it had conquered the virus, and lead the country to a triumphant milestone. It got busy exporting oxygen, PPEs, and  Remdesivir to neighbouring countries, eternising India's image of the perpetual big brother with the helping hand. Even while the country was reeling under  the second wave, and people gasping for breath, we continued to export oxygen. And according to government sources, 11 lakh Remdesivir injections were exported to five countries since its demand had considerably tapered in India following a dip in Covid-19 cases from December to February. We were proudly patting our backs for having become one of the biggest manufacturers and exporters of PPEs, as in a recent speech, PM Modi gloated over the victory India had achieved in its fight against the deadly virus:

"Friends, it would not be advisable to judge India’s success with that of another country. In a country which is home to 18% of the world population, that country has saved humanity from a big disaster by containing corona effectively.”

While a message eulogising Surdas, one of the blind saints of the fifteenth century India, who, it is being said, through his inner vision had foreseen the devastation caused by Covid-19, was doing the Whatsapp circles, why did our government, lead by a supposed visionary world leader, fail to get the cue from the havoc it was causing in other nations, and prepare the system to meet it head on?  Or did by chance the Prime Minister think that our powerful gods and robust curried diet had chased the virus away from our holier than thou country?

With less than two percent of the population inoculated, and thousands dying every day, India has been brought to its knees. Now, all we can do is pray for respite...and a miracle.

Learning to 'Serve'

"For the Seva (service) hour, you are assigned to the kitchen department to chop vegetables," Sasikumar, the chief co-ordinator at Bodhi Zendo smilingly informed me. I nodded my head in  polite acceptance, even though my being shirked at the idea. "What? Chop veggies?" Reluctantly, my steps moved towards the kitchen, towards the clattering of pots and pans interspersed with the rhythmic sounds of  knives hitting the cutting boards. 

But, before I could even pick up a knife to join a team of some twenty odd hands already busy executing the task, Sasikumar was at my side. "Sorry, I think there are far too many volunteers here. How would you like to work in the garden?"

I beamed with apparent relief.

Equipped with a semi-functional rake, a bucket and a coconut-stick broom, my job involved cleaning up the yard, meaning mainly sweeping off the fallen blossoms of jakaranda, hibiscus, and dry leaves and nuts of silver oaks. But, as I stepped outside, my heart sank...the purple jakaranda flowers were strewn every which way, by the door, on the steps, over the path, and in between the plants on the freshly dug-up beds all along the garden. Not only did the sight translate into an action-packed hour, but it looked so beautiful that I had to wonder why it needed to be swept at all. I presented my dilemma to the lady in charge of the gardens. But, she only laughed and urged me to get on with the work. 

Espousing an attitude of equanimity, I raked, swept, picked and shoved it all in the big bucket...buckets after buckets were filled up and hauled to the other side, down a flight of steps, to be dumped on a huge pile of garden waste. It was the most beautiful pile... colorful, rotting, yet mildly intoxicating.  I had to wonder why can't we just dry the flowers and use them to make floral teas. On googling jakaranda tea, I was surprised to find out that while both the bark and the leaves of this tree primarily native to South America, are used to make medicinal infusions, the plethora of blossoms are generally considered a nuisance. On reading that, I developed a special affinity for these rich-colored purple flowers which offer themselves to us earthlings with such abundance...so lush and ethereal against the stark blue of the sky  and so light and innocent, when strewn across the grass. Some I picked to be pressed in my book and be made into greeting cards at a later date, and some I brought into my room and scattered them on the desk, overlooking the cloud-topped peaks. 

However, the next day, it was with a slight remorse did it dawn on me that  there would be a thousand more fallen jacarandas, waiting to be picked, and wondering where they would land up...in the garden waste, on a greeting card, or on the mountainside desk? Who was I to call the shots? Not wanting to be perceived as a string-puller, I collected the wilted flowers from the desk and the pressed ones from my book, to take them where they belonged: in the organic waste pile, which would soon be mixed in the soil and returned to the garden...so that it can continue to bloom and thrive.

I would like to believe that when the fallen flowers saw me approach that day, this is what they whispered to each other:

"lo the girl with

the broom:

let's fly back to

the tree,

free her from 

duality"

For as I swept the yard, butterflies flitted all around me.

The Power of 'Now'

This morning I went up to the terrace to offer my salutations to the rising sun... Aum, I chanted under my breath, smudging the vision of the big orange circular ball of fire, so beguilingly calm in its delivery of a new day, to the quasi asleep humanity. As  my eyes closed in reverence, a loud flapping of a big bird's wings urged them open. And lo and behold, sharing the space with me, witnessing the birth,  was a young peacock. The peacock, sun and I, forming a perfect triangle of silent energy, were woven together in a moment of reciprocative camaraderie. A divine geometry held us captive so we could be liberated from the notions of time and space. "This is it," I told myself. "This moment of infinite joy for me to cherish...what was, was...what will be, will be...but this I can live now, and seize".

A kingfisher atop a bamboo, trailing my thoughts, let out a long trilling whistle.

Zen and Matters of Love

 Doksan in Zen Buddhism is an integral part of  training, encouraging  an abstract dialogue about the various aspects of life between the disciple and the teacher.  Sometimes, the discussions might be directly related to a lesson, while at others they might revolve around issues troubling the disciple. Such conversations are meant to bring clarity vis-a-vis a particular topic or serve as a guiding light for the seeker. Sometimes, the aim of Doksan is to help the individual to objectively see the inconsequentiality of prolonging the past, and help him/her to move from the is-ness of what has already happened, to the is-ness of now. 

"How do you mend a broken heart?" I asked the Zen master during one of the early morning doksan sessions.

The master's face was the kindest face I had ever seen, and his voice the gentlest voice I had ever heard, as he said quietly, "Just accept...accept that your heart is broken...Yes". 

But, isn't it  because I had already accepted that my heart was broken and needed mending, had I sought him out? 

A bit lost by his answer, I felt my heart grow heavy, with tears beginning to brim my eyes. I bowed gratefully and took his leave. 

"Had the master ever fallen in love?" I would have liked to ask.  "Had he felt the turbulent ocean heaving inside him, for reasons inexplicable?" I had later wondered. Why had the tears welled my eyes, was something I didn't understand...Maybe it was the gentleness in his voice, or the innocence of his simple answer. Or, maybe it was the ridiculousness of the situation wherein I was expecting solutions from someone who might not  really understand the matters of a human heart, having himself chosen a different path.

It is said that while Zen has elaborated on ways to deal with most human emotions, love is something which is not really taken into account. For, the relationship between a man and a woman, along with the aim to procreate and ensure the continuity of the clan, was in most ancient civilizations, perceived as serving a practical purpose in the society. And Love, per se, was seldom  part of the equation. And therefore, it is hardly surprising that there is nothing specific ever written by Zen exponents on the practical matters of the heart. In fact, Zen monks practised celibacy until the Meiji government of the nineteenth century Japan issued an edict, declaring that the monks could eat meat, get married and enjoy a family life. The law however took  effect only in Japan, as the monks in China continued to remain celibate, and do so, to date. 

Ryokan, a famous 19th century hermit poet, was thrown into limelight, precisely because at the  age of 69, he fell in love with Teishin, a 29-year-old beautiful learned nun, and vice versa. Their relationship resulted in seams of poetry, written to each other over the next six years, until Ryokan's death. 

It is said that had it not been for Teishin, Ryokan and his life as a poet would have remained unknown to the world. For, it was she who set about creating an anthology of his work.

Following is an example of the poetry which blossomed out of their platonic association.

After their first meeting, Teishin wrote to Ryokan:

"Was it really you I saw

Or this joy

I still feel

Only a dream?"

And Ryokan wrote to Teishin:

 "here with you i could remain
 for countless days and years
 silent as the bright moon
 we watched together"

I took out my journal and wrote:

My splintered heart

Reminds me

Of the broken moon:

A fragment entangled amongst 

the branches of the plum tree

Another floating

In my backyard pond. 

Broken, yet whole in its own way... and beautiful in its brokenness too. 

Breathe in, breathe out...watch the breath...watch the abdomen rise and fall...like the moon, and like the ripples it caused when it fell into the pond.

Accept.

Meditations on Buddha

The following is the first in a series of articles I plan to pen on a recent one-week visit to Bodhi Zendo, a Zen monastery, nestled in Palani Hills, Kodaikanal, South India. Through these short write ups I hope to share the deep impression the place left on my son Dhani and myself.

Dong! The beater strikes the bowl... setting the chakra in the centre of the forehead in motion. A wave of ultramarine blue washes over the being...

The body, huddled in the pre-dawn chill of this mountainside monastery, relaxes and the breath slowly finds its own rhythm. The candle on the altar sputters as a moth transits into the other world. The mind registers the departure in a detached way, and the eyes remain shut, the breath steady. 

A sudden wind picks up. Darkness gives way to light, and shapes of the mountains foregrounded by trees and half-hidden structures hinting at human habitat, make themselves palpable. The microcosm of  birds, lost within the foliage of tall silver oaks and densely-leafed Sholas, grows louder, and more animated  in its verbal expression.

There is a slight shuffling as the body grows weary of the cross-legged position and demands a change. Eyes open, taking in the soft blue patch of sky tinged with pink and gold of a new day... It's a trance-like state, when the physical eye and the inner eye are in sync: they see, and see not, they focus, yet remain out-of-focus. The sounds, sights, smells merge into one other forming a weightless amorphous mass of Nothingness...

But, then it starts... frankly, I don't know when. Slowly they sneak in: one after another in the beginning, then in a large procession. I can't control them any more, these endless thoughts,  with the whole kit and caboodle  trailing behind them. I let them come and go, throwing them a cursory glance as they so supinely make themselves at home. 

Some snippets from my daily meditations:

1.

a dragonfly

over the lily pond

hovering over its reflection:

oh no! a mating ritual

2.

a stretch of sand,

a few rocks

seated atop:

the emptiness 

of the Zen garden

fills me up

3.

sitting down

to contemplate on

the attainability of

bodhisattva

i am distracted

by a house-fly.

4.

as a fluttering butterfly

is quickly gobbled up

by a wayward bulbul,

the afternoon calm returns.

5.

temple bells ring

across the hills.

silence prostrates itself

prayerfully.

6.

water dripping

clock ticking:

morning bells ringing

monk singing

and lo! even the koi swishes 

around its tail 

in the fish pond

waking up the lazy

reflections.

7.

even the furious mountain rains

could not drown the gentle sound

of the morning bells

from yonder monastery.

8.

Awaken and bow 

to the music

of a new day.

9.

while some bits of your memory

i fed to the koi

in the fish pond,

the others lay scattered

on the raked sands

of the zen garden

others still, i tossed them 

to the wind

tumbling downhill...

and some i hid

in the swirls of the morning mist.

one big shard was hurriedly 

buried under the fragrance of 

fallen Jakaranda blossoms...

A few morsels  

dispersed for the birds

to make sweeter their songs...

the rest i offered to Buddha,

setting myself free, i mused

from the honeyed 

thoughts of you.