My Brother Anand

Today is my younger brother’s birthday. He would have turned 48. Born after much fasting and litany, on behalf of my mother, whose womb was jinxed to produce one girl child after another, he was rightly named `Anand’, meaning `joy’. For, much joy did he bring to the five sisters who needed a brother, and to the parents, who wanted a son. 

I remember how during her long months of pregnancy, my mother would urge me to pray to dear God to send us a little `babua’, a boy doll, to play with. Just round the corner of the road where we lived, was a beautiful temple. I would often totter down there, and looking deep into the bright faces of myriad gods, stationed under its canopy, plead with them to send us a brother. My solemn request was followed by the gesture of touching my forehead to the marble steps which lead to the inner sanctum.  It was a ritual I had invented, and followed it rigorously with an uncanny fanatical zeal. So, when my brother was born, I had no doubt that the god almighty was indeed kind and had listened to my ardent prayers. My ecstatic mother too was more than happy to pass on all the credit to me for his arrival, making my four-year-heart swell with sisterly pride.

So, in Nov. 2015, when he passed away because of an acute kidney and heart complication, somewhere I felt as though it was I who had failed him. But, on the other hand, inwardly he was too strong to rely on anyone, let alone me, to help him sail through life. As a Master Navigator, he did not believe in sails, nor a compass. The wide, wild sea was his to tame and befriend. And befriend, he did, with a mischievous smile on his face, and twinkle in his eyes. He loved this Ocean with all its billowing fury, and its beguiling calm. Just as much as he loved to dance, sing, do gardening, heal, indulge his muscular body into every kind of martial art, from Indian wrestling, boxing, to lathi, Judo  and Kalaripayattu. I remember the last time we met; I was visiting him from New York. He was already very sick. His body was swollen with water retention.  I avoided looking at him, for the memory of his once healthy, alive, and glorious self was too difficult to erase.

One morning when I was up eary, he asked me if i wanted to go to the terrace to watch the sunrise with him. I didn’t know how he was going to make it all the way up to the fourth floor, yet, sensing his aversion to be reminded of his illness, I consented. Silently, we climbed, step after step...right to the terrace, to find a brand new day slowly lifting itself up from the Bay of Bengal.

As we stood watching, woven into the magic of that moment,  Anand suddenly began to stretch himself in a slow focused manner, encompassing the sky, the earth, the waves crashing in a distance,  the jungle crow poised on the TV antenna.  And as he stretched, he moved, covering the large terrace in the blink of an eye.  Unhindered by his physical condition, he had become boundless, weightless... and unfettered. Each posture effortlessly flowed into the next without pause, ensuring continual motion. His feet hardly touched the ground, as he leaped, and flitted...golden rays of the rising sun lit up his face, his whole body, until he became engulfed in light, and turned into a ball of pure energy, into chi.

Much later did I learn that my brother Anand, amongst many other things, was also a Tai chi master. 

Being Vocal about Local...

When I walked into The Ornamentry, carrying a cardboard carton full of christmassy stuff I had created during my first winter in Alaska, the place resembled a household, poised for a big move. Crates of all sizes lay haphazardly: some leaning against the wall, some sprawled on an empty table, and some jutting out of the semi-opened cabinets. Judy Grahek, the 70-year-old owner of the shop, examined the few things I had brought in: painted tiles with stands, birch bark cards, paperweight pebbles depicting Alaskan scenes, candle votives, with motifs of ravens and wolves, she nodded, "nice work", and handed me a form to fill. No questions asked. A form, an inventory...and a hug. That's all was needed to join a fleet of 80 some artists, artisans, and crafters who showcased their work at The Ornamentry, Fairbanks, Alaska.

Once  the shop opened for the season, it was hard to imagine that this was  the same chaotic place I had walked in a week earlier with my stuff, and filled up a form. Soft music in the background, meandered from room to room, through its maze-like structure. It was as though, everything, by a sudden touch of the magic wand, had found its rightful place.  Gift items of all shapes and sizes looked snug in their new surroundings. From the ornaments hanging from the chandeliers, to the beautiful, handwoven tapestries on the wall,  to handmade gift baskets, to musk-ox wool knitted into mitts and scarves, to pottery, jewlery, peanut brittles, dill pickles, and preserves: everything  looked exquisitely jubilant and unique.

However, tucked away  in a quiet alley in downtown Fairbanks,  it was easy  for a newcomer or a tourist, to miss The Ornamentry while strolling past. But, if your horse sense pulled you in to its festive interiors, you would want to come back to this one-of-a-kind gift shop again and again. But, you couldn't. For, The Ornamentry used to open only twice a year: once before the thaw from mid-March to mid-April, and once in the dead of winter from November to the third week of December. Even though seasonal, Judy had over the years, built up a strong following of 1500 some customers, and that too without ever advertising. She did nevertheless send out a notification to everyone on her mailing list, reminding them of the dates and timings The Ornamentry would remain open. 

Store overheads were low since Judy, the brainchild behind The Ornamentry owned the property, and was thus saved the cost of leasing/renting a place. "So, three months of sales a year is enough to go for a vacation somewhere, and be able to spend the rest of my time with family and friends," was  Judy's simple rationale. Fair enough. 

So, for those who wanted to avoid "made in China" souvenirs, sold in Walmart, The Ornamentry was the perfect place to shop. Moreover, it was the only outlet in the city which gave the local artists and artisans from around the state an opportunity to display and sell their  work. Dedicated to promoting 'buy local', Judy took a meager 20 percent cut from the sales. "I believe, it doesn't matter what the economy is, people come here  not only to buy something exclusive, and 'made in Alaska',  but also because they know that the money is circulating locally", Judy told the Daily Miner in an interview. And the success of The Ornamentry was proof enough to uphold her belief. 

Great lesson here for all of us. When you are shopping for gifts this holiday season, or just wanting to buy something special for yourself or your home, buy local, and support the local economy. A product made by people who bring their personal experiences, skills, and imagination to  give it that rare edge is bound to have more character than the one which catapults out of an assembly line into a  big box-store.  Right? And, as I  like to say, going off the beaten track, looking for that small-time vendor, sitting in the corner shop, and rummaging through his/her trove of treasure, is always more fun!

"Blood Group: Tea Positive.."

Tea is much like poetry. And, I think, from all poetic forms, it is the humble seventeen-syllabled haiku which comes closest to capturing the essence of a cuppa tea. Both, simple in form, yet complex in content, impart unto us a hint of immortality, caught in the net of time.

Who would have thought that one inadvertent act of letting a handful of leaves steep in water, could pave way, not only for some quiet contemplation and meditation, but also for explorative voyages, and revolutions? Different teas, according to the colour, aroma, oxidation, and the mouthfeel, give rise to a multitude of  moods. They take us places within us we did not know existed. "Each cup of tea represents an imaginary voyage", Catherine Douzel once wrote.

Having a perfect cup of tea is pure happiness: it satisfies all the senses: visual, taste, olfactory, even auditory. Is it a wonder then that since the beginning of civilization, tea, much like spices, has been instrumental in bringing people together? Friendships are formed over a cup of tea, people fall in love over a cup of tea...secrets are shared through a cup of tea, fortunes are revealed by reading the dregs at the bottom of a cup of tea.

Following are a few of my own tea haikus, to commemorate the international tea day, which was actually yesterday...

1. smudged skies, blotted views,

     my hands wrapped around a cup

     of tea: ah, perfect!

2. give me a cup of tea,

     a birdsong, a shard of sky

      to call my own.

3. the sky dances, the

    river sings, the kettle on 

    the stove hums along.

4. drowning in a cup of tea,

    a thousand memories:

     i fish them out.

5. at the lotus feet of Buddha

     I sit and enjoy

      a cup of tea.

7. a kettle whistles,

         scattering the huddled silence

          of the morning.

8. with such zeal she brews

     a cup of tea,

     so much love in her eyes

      when she serves.

9. each cup of tea

     refreshes the memory

     of an absent moment.

10.  a cricket singing,

        one last sip of tea,

        then, i shall watch the sunset.

11. temple bells from yonder hills:

       time for my evening tea

       and daifuku.*

*rice buns stuffed with bean paste.

Steeped in the memory of many a cup of tea we have indulged in, and companionship we have brewed together,  I wish all my family and friends a stirring international tea day. 

Celebrating Thanksgiving?

Thanksgiving came and went. The thought of making a special pancake, home-fries and scrambled egg breakfast, with some French Press coffee, did briefly grace my mindscreen, which is otherwise set on an auto-change mode. But, I decided against it, realising the futility of tabling the  spirit of Thanksgiving in the tropics, especially when it has been pouring non-stop for three days!

My memory however, did bring back flashes of those myriad Thanksgivings, which mainly revolved around binging on mouthwatering ensemble of beans and mushroom casseroles, apple pies, pumpkin soup, corn breads with cranberry sauce, roasted potatoes with Rosemary, sweet potatoes topped with maple syrup, pecans, and cinnamon, and last but not the least, turkey stuffing (being a vegetarian, I didn't care for the centrepiece of the dining table).  Despite the fact that it was a much sought after holiday, and we all partook in the feast, and decked the walls of the house up with drawings of Pilgrims and Mayflower our son had drawn as a kid, I couldn't help but be reminded of the lost faces of the native Americans, the  Cherokees, Sioux, Dakotas, Mohawks, and 560 some federally recognised brave tribes of original inhabitants of the continent, made homeless in their own country, strangers in their own homeland. Many a news items flashed through my mind,  highlighting the alienation syndrome, several youngsters in the reservations faced,  shedding light on discrimination meted out to those few who tried to mingle with the mainstream America. In fact, the growing number of suicides in reservations across America and Canada, has, in recent years, reached an alarming rate.  Disenfranchised by a system, they are reduced to mere statistics vis-à-vis poverty, homelessness, substance abuse, and unemployment, caused by their geographical and cultural isolation. Straddled between two worlds, theirs, which is grounded in deep respect for the rhythms of Nature, and our own consumerist one,  based on the constantly changing tides of capitalism, they find it hard to strike a balance.

So, if the first Thanksgiving represented the symbiotic relationship between the natives and the pilgrims, where people of two cultures had come together to celebrate the bountiful harvest, the present one is a sad reminder of  the parasitic  nature of the colonists who rid the land of its indigenous people, and all but eradicated their culture. Is it a wonder then that across many reservations, this holiday is observed as the National Day of Mourning? Chief Joseph's tragic last words, who after being pursued by the American army in a 2,000 kms fighting retreat, and after months of fugitive resistance,  was coerced into surrendering, hang heavy  in the humid monsoon air:

"Hear me my chiefs. I am tired; my heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more."

Chief Joseph and his band of 700 men, women, and children were just 60 kms from the Canadian border, just 60 kms from freedom...

Mindful of the struggles that the native communities have endured, and are still grappling with, we could take a humble attitude towards this holiday, and pay hommage to those millions of native people, who lost their lives fighting for their own freedom, in 'The Land of the Free and  Home of the Brave'.

A Bhakt's Dilemma...

The bhakt is in a dilemma. Which is the most lucrative/auspicious venue to invest in, in order to reap benefits in this life, and gain mileage in the next. The options are growing by leaps and bounds, as the planetary alignment is just right and the magnitude of interplay between the cosmic forces  and  us earthlings is at its fairest. 

Should one make a donation to the forthcoming Ram temple, which according to Mr Shah, the home minister, "is going to touch the sky", facilitating the communication between man and God?  Or to the "winter jackets for cows in Ayodhya"  drive, for haven't the Shastras stated that all the gods reside inside the generic cow, Kamdhenu? So, swathing a jacket (no leather, please!) around a cow, would imply saving all those thousands of gods from the cold winters of Ayodhya. Or, should the donations be directed to promote Swami Nithyananda's scientific research on how lions, cows, and monkeys, the three holiest creatures from the Indian Pantheon, can be taught Sanskrit and Tamil? Or, perhaps one can offer some much-needed dough in the coffers of Archeological Survey of India, which, nearly two years on, is still trying to crack the mystery behind the disappearance of thousands of gallons of milk poured over the giant statue of Lord Bahubali Gommateshwsra during the Mahamastakabhisheka in Vindhyagiri. Or, some die-hard devotees might like to make an offering to the Modi temple in Rajkot, or towards the construction of another one in U.P., also dedicated  to the prime minister. And, for the never-say-die followers of the Congress, there is always the famous Sonia Gandhi temple in Telangana, to contribute to. 

With such an array of exciting 'investment' choices at the bhakt's disposal, whereby, one may not only pave the way for a smoother ride, but also   receive tax reductions, a dip in the Ganga may no longer be the only means to find salvation. And, in case, the ride in this lifetime proves to be a little bumpy and uncomfortable because of pot-holed, puddle-infested roads, the promise  of cruising down the highway at full-throttle  in the next, seems more and more feasible. 

Once upon a time in Alaska...

I have always been fond of reading newspapers, a habit, I alone, from a brood of seven, inherited from my father. Yet, curiously, it was after leafing through my mother-in-law's collection of clippings of news items, neatly cut and glued onto scrapbooks, and chronologically marked as Vol-1, Vol-2 etc., that I too began to create my own potpourri of news stories which caught my interest. Since carrying tomes of journals was not conducive to our gypsy-like lifestyle, I used to cut the interesting bits and insert them inside a simple folder. Yet, everytime we moved, I culled out those I had outgrown, in order to feel just a bit lighter, and yes, uncluttered.

Over the years, and across many travels, only a few clippings have survived the tides of time, and upheavals of moving.

The other day, I chanced upon an  article from the Daily miner, the newspaper with the highest circulation in Fairbanks, Alaska. Dated Nov. 18, 2009 (exactly a decade ago, to date!), the headlines read, "Death of a raven".The article, with a boxed-in coloured photograph of  ravens, poised on  a cluster of black spruce, shed light on the curious mourning ceremony these legendary birds observe on the death of a fellow brethren. Not surprisingly, the crows in Pondicherry too, have been seen to mourn the death of their kins and kith, similar to the one described in the write-up. However, I must hasten to add that crows are crows, smart and efficient, while ravens are fabled creatures,  surrounded by myths and mystery... And the twain shall never meet. 

On flipping over, I found the weather report: sunrise: 9:36 a.m., sunset: 3:34p.m., maximum temperature: -20 F, minimum: -30 F. For my mom, who is always dwelling on the health and spiritual benefits of waking up  with the sun, and going to bed at sunset, that would translate into nearly six hours of waking hours. As for the bears on the north slope, it literally  means retiring to bed in late September, and crawling out of their den, sometimes between March and May! Ha, ha, ha! 

Now, ten years hence, living so close to the tropics, with endless sunlight and warmth, it is natural that I should want to ponder over the twilight period of  those six hours, when the lazy sun hovered just a few degrees above the horizon. And, mind you, this is dated Nov.18, implying we still had just over a month remaining for  December 21st, the shortest day of the year. Therefore, with a consistent decrease in the crepuscular interval, and dawn and dusk entertwined in a lovers' embrace, the winter solstice presented itself to us, wrapped in a tiny package of  three twilight hours!!! Yet, celebrate, we did. For, it also implied that from the following day, the sun would start climbing a few degrees higher every day! It would be the second week of February by the time the first dappled, amorphous patch of slithering sunshine would adorn the panelled walls of our cabin, and our hopeful heart would flutter,  knowing  that the end was in sight. "Not so soon," my friend Sharon, born and brought up in Alaska warned me during my first winter at the last frontier, squashing the beam of hope almost as soon as it had flashed upon my face. "Those things are deceiving. We still have three and a half months to go before the thaw, and the temperatures can still plummet to dangerous lows in the month of February and March". Of course, Sharon, an optimist to the core, said this with her usual laugh, and with the best of intentions. She wanted to protect my family and I, from sowing illusory seeds of hope in the first place, and then falling into the trap of disappointment, and maybe, depression. 

"Wait without hope"...It was a valuable piece of advice from my dear friend. Thence, we took each day as it came, not pausing to wonder how and when the warmth of a summer sun would light up the cabin, and rejuvenate our hearts. Instead, in the hallowed cavern of unending  winters, we set out to build our own sacred space to inspire creative incubation. We painted, played music, wrote long letters home, made extensive collages, using up boxful of old photographs, played board games...the kettle whistled softly, and the aroma of brewed tea mingled effortlessly with the earthy mellowness of crackling wood in the stove. And, it was thus that the temporal walls dissolved to make way for the immutable artistry of long winters and reveal unto us, the secrets of the stars woven within the streaming ribbons of aurora borealis.

An Escape from Politics

On the  political front, India has been busy making waves the world over, with its array of controversial decisions, which are dropped on the civilians like bombshells. Before one can recover from the aftermath of the explosion, another  gets dropped...and then, yet another... dividing the country at an alarming rate, while seeming to unite. For, there is one huge  chunk of the population, which revels in this tremorous atmosphere. To them, every move as connived by the centre, is bold and  a sheer stroke of genius, impelling the country forward to a new stratum of global recognition. To them, it is as though India has found its present-day Chandragupta-Chanakya duo, in the inimitable Modi-Shah team.

Then, there is the other side: the dwindling socialists, who have resigned themselves to the situation, calling it 'the inevitable downside of the spiral'. Their voices are too faint against the sloganeering roar of nationalism, rising from every nook and cranny of the country, beleaguered by crony capitalism. For them, it is an exercise in futility to try to mull over a thousand issues, heaped upon one another. 

Since I tend to lean towards the latter, I too have, at least temporarily, decided to go on sabbatical vis-à-vis talking/ writing/discussing politics, in order to restore my senses and above all, peace of mind. Moreover, the genre of politics, as practised today, lies beyond my cerebral grasp, and, as age advances, I find it harder and harder to wrap my brains around it. 

Anyway, it is after all mid-October, and having called myself an upstate New Yorker for several years, I naturally think of fall,  the cool change,  long solitary walks... 'the daily shrinkage in the stream of comradeship' as the cackling geese head south. I remember myself bending down, overwhelmed by the pageantry of scattered leaves, wanting to pick each one of them...Those were innocent days, when I was happy to be part of this extraordinary vicissitude of Nature... when the silouhette of a red-winged blackbird swinging on  cattails  could give rise to a haiku, and the sight of a hawk perched high on the steeple of a faraway church, could bespeak 'redemption'...