On The Secret

I shared earlier that I loved the book and felt empowered by it. A friend led me to a critique that was well-written and effected a balance. I now feel better equipped to write my review. The truth is that the 'secret' has been no secret, really. Few people have made good use of it, true. And now too, few people will make good use of it - it's just the way the world is. But folks like Thich Nhat Hanh or Swami Vivekananda said no different.

There is a 'sensationalized' component to the book, which could go both ways. On the one hand, I feel that it packages the message of positivity, gratitude, careful application of energy, importance of visualization, etc. in a really effective manner. On the other, though, hullo! Do I really want myself to achieve all the things that I could if I put my mind to it? That sounds conflicting, but if what the book says about being able to achieve all that our heart desires is true, such that people dedicate all of their energy thus to acquisition of material wealth, would not the world go berserk?

One could argue that if one practices as per The Secret by being grateful and positive all the time, that one couldn't possibly be a potential hoarder of material wealth, but that's in the gray. The book clearly states that the universe has enough and more of everything for everyone. So we can all be in abundance. Yay. Is it true? What about people, for instance? If a man wants to be dating many women non-committally, he finds three to alternate among. When he decides he wants to settle down, he gets rid of (at least) two of them. Just like that. It sounds a little out of control to me.

Yet. I do really believe that what a man chooses to achieve, he can and he will. There must also be the tiny component of discernment thrown in, that is all. He must be able to think for himself whether his demands, his 'visualizations', are in the best interest of him and his surroundings.

And if you have that ability to discern, but would like an effective action plan for helping you inch towards your goals, then the book is for you. It is true that I say this because I really, truly feel that the book is for me. In my next post, I'd like to outline precisely why this is so.

On Gratitude

I've been chanting the "be grateful" mantra for several years now. Of course, the second the going gets tough, the mantra gets going too! I'm hoping these two moving accounts (my recent discoveries from The Secret) will do a better job of holding me to it. I've been practicing already, and while I cannot say "it has brought about wondrous changes in my life already!" I can say that it feels good. And feeling good feels good indeed :).

Gratitude has been such a powerful exercise for me. Every morning I get up and say "Thank you." Every morning, when my feet hit the floor, "Thank you." And then I start running through what I'm grateful for, as I'm brushing my teeth and doing the things I do in the morning. And I'm not just thinking about them and doing some rote routine. I'm putting it out there and I'm feeling the feelings of gratitude.

- James Ray

I think everybody goes through times when they say, "Things aren't working right," or, "Things are going bad." Once, when there were some things going on in my family, I found a rock, and I just sat holding it. I took this rock, I stuck it in my pocket, and I said "Every time I touch this rock I'm going to think of something that I'm grateful for." So every morning when I get up, I pick it up off the dresser, I put it in my pocket, and I go through the things I'm grateful for. At night, what do I do? I empty my pocket, and there it is again.

I've had some amazing experiences with this idea. A guy from South Africa saw me drop it. He asked, "What is that?" I explained it to him, and he started calling it a gratitude rock. Two weeks later I got an email from him, in South Africa. And he said, "My son is dying from a rare disease. It's a type of hepatitis. Would you send me three gratitude rocks?" They were just ordinary rocks I found off the street, so I said "Sure." I had to make sure that the rocks were very special, so i went out to the stream, picked out the right rocks, and sent them off to him.

Four or five months later I get an email from him. He said, "My son's better, he's doing terrific." And he said, "But you need to know something. We've sold over a thousand rocks at ten dollars apiece as gratitude rocks, and we've raised all this money for charity. Thank you very much."

So it's very important to have an "attitude of gratitude."

- Lee Brower

Goals!

Alright, world! The Secret has empowered me. I shall now visualize the following and make them happen in my life :) -

• Become an expert at Photoshop such that I can effect all the changes I visualize within, especially with my photos. No more whining 'I wish I knew how to Photoshop'.
  
• Become an expert at Illustrator such that I can create posters, images, etc. No more looking at Kabir artwork and thinking 'I wish...'.
  
• Be regular at singing, keep the process of learning going (ideally, find a guru). No more 'I need to', 'I will', 'if only's.
  
• Write down the bones, i.e. write write write.
  
• Photograph a lot, and often. State clear goals for evidence of improvement.
• Learn Bangla, so as to read Tagore in his original works.
  
• Embark upon solid research questions to explore.
  
• Be the most positive and enthusiastic person I know.
• Love indiscriminately, and all the time.
  
• Grow!
  

Inspired

I was at Time Out yesterday, and although there wasn't a plan to buy anything (I've purchased quite a library for myself this summer, honestly), I picked up The Secret, read 30 pages, and couldn't resist. It's a quick read, and I finished all of it yesterday. True that most of the ideas had been encountered elsewhere, yet - I'm in love. It's an amazing package of positive thought, and intensely motivational.

There are many things in it that I'm struck by, and will take some time to write about these. For now, however, I'd like to leave you with this mantra - don't let a negative thought enter your head. As soon as it comes, find a positive thought to counter it. In fact, maintain a bank of positive thoughts. Think positive. Think love.

More soon :).

What makes a good picture?

Honestly, I don't know. But it's a good thing to think about I realize, for there is certainly something in it that comes from a very deep location - the something that decides the what and how to click and the what and how to pick.

One Art

This poem by Elizabeth Bishop blew my mind. How easy she makes it sound... but still, perhaps there's some merit in the idea of doing it step by step.

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

On Stopping the Train

I stole this from a blog post I just read. Still reeling from the impact of it:

X : Her internet connection should be taken off!
Y : Why?
X: She seems to have time only for checking her mails during office hours resulting in total negligence at work.
Y: Well, if she looks out through her window watching a train passing by, will you go and stop the train?

Photophilia

I said in my post last evening that I discovered photography anew. More detached now, I realize that this happens often... and feels no different from discovering a new side to someone we know well. Yet, our love grows in leaps and bounds as we discover these new sides, and so it is with me and the camera. Taking a picture becomes much like taking in a sip of water then, and yesterday, I had been in the desert for days, it seemed. As N gave me the liberty to click indiscriminately, I found my energy levels rise slowly, and a fullness prevailed within. It is lovely to be able to capture sights, and the potential potency of a visual capture is really something else. [Yesterday, we talked about how I am forever at a loss for descriptors these days, such that everything is "really something" or "really something else". I can't remember to whom or when though!]

I am helped by the existence of a dear friend from Bangalore (well, at least one, at any rate). While I walk the streets of the city, I do my best to step out and into her shoes - wondering what would make her nostalgic, what would move her as a 'gift' from home, what is the closest I could bring her to home and how? Thank you camera, thank you smugmug, for allowing me to reach her thus :). (And thank you P, for helping me exercise this ability!)

On the way back to Yelahanka, I reflected on a thought process I'd had on M.G. Road. I heard a girl say on the phone, "I'll hang up now, it's really crowded here and my cellphone could get stolen." And here I had an expensive camera generously on display. For a second I wondered if I ought to be more careful. But I had considered that option, packed in my camera, then taken it out again, dismissing the concern. In just a few minutes of walking empty-handed, my fingers had itched, and my eyes had longed for the viewfinder - to capture the richness of the street scenes.

There'd been a time (a very long time) when I was terribly possessive about the camera, and would be extra-alert when it was handled by someone else. I'd also carry the bag with me everywhere, so as to ensure that it was never stolen. Even the thought of it being stolen was uber-painful then. Now, there is no anxiety on that count. I frequently offer it to others to click with (including my four-year old niece and photographer-in-training, though the strap goes around her twice to adjust to her size :). I also embrace the possibility of it getting stolen one of these days, as I click in crowded rural/urban streets indiscriminately. It seems not to bother me at all (and this when I earn a fifth of what I did then!).

A comparison of these two attitudes led me to wonder if one was decidedly better than the other. The latter brings more peace, but does it also make me less attentive, more lax? And even if I was possessive before, I was devoted to the care of the camera, I tended to it as a mother to a child (well, almost). For any two choices, if one involves peace, that's where my pull is, yet it is instructive to realize that it is not all black and white, ever. No shortage of the grey. In fact, ye to "thoos thoos ke bhara hai" (as Qawwal Farid Ayaz would say).

Laagi, laagi...

S shared this with me last evening:

Laagi laagi sab koi kahe, laagi buri balaa
Laagi hoye jab janiyo, aar paar hoi jaaye

I offer a rough and literal translation:

"I'm struck", "I'm struck", everyone says - they have caught this bad habit
When you're struck, you'll know, for all will be a-scatter

MG Road on a Saturday

Inspired by Kabira Khada Bazaar Mein, I headed out to M.G. Road (oh dear, that was a terrible attempt, but so very close...). My belief in the spontaneous making of plans served me well, and N and I overcame various hurdles to finally meet. After 21 years. It is amazing to see the ways in which people change, and just as amazing to see the ways in which they don't. I saw the same eyes, the same smile, similar height difference perhaps, but a very different spirited friend. It was, in all, a lovely sight to behold, and I was happy just to look and listen. Of course, a camera was involved as well.

Rewind. After an inexplicably tearful afternoon, I headed out to town with only an objective of indulging in city sights, and in solitude. Although I'd carried my camera out of habit, I had no desire then to click. Another one of those things I mechanically forced myself to do (carry, that is). There is something to be said for energy-inducing inspiration though... as we crossed M.G. Road and I saw the construction workers at the Metro site, I felt a sudden surge to take a picture of them. And so the photography began, as though for a first time. [Photos to be posted on Smugmug in no time.]

Blossom was the only plan I'd had, but it must now wait until next time. As I waited at Barista for N, I saw a gentleman give me a kindly look and smile. I wondered if I knew him from elsewhere, but couldn't quite place him. As I returned a half-confused smile and walked on further, I saw the reason for his smile - his digital SLR. Interesting, is it not - this understanding so tacitly shared between photographers? Or the lovers of any art, for that matter. We are polyglots without even knowing it.

Kabir on a Saturday

I came in to the office today, and see it on a Saturday for a change. A big presentation awaits on Monday, and it could do with more work, hence. No one else is around, and although I could now go home, I decided to stay back and immerse in Kabir for a change, on my own. I had seen the four films last in the U.S., and have since kept a small distance, knowing that the right time would reveal itself when revisiting would become a meaningful experience.

The last few days have been strangely contemplative. Perhaps the effects of the eclipse :). I found myself disinclined to sing at S's place this morning - a first. This would not do, I thought. And to overcome the inertia, I finally made myself pick up a DVD and push it into the disk drive. (This took some labor.) Found myself on Had-Anhad, and re-experienced an introduction to Malwa, to Prahaladji, to Pugal, Mukhtiyar, to dohas that are now an element of daily life. I feel shaken. Not sad, not moved even, nor nostalgic, but shaken. To no small degree, I found tears streaming down my face, and I could not explain. Something is transformed within, yet I cannot put my finger on it. Instead of rambling on in riddles that I'm myself unable to solve, I leave you with (surprisingly) the first doha that has made it to this blog. Fittingly, too. Straight out of Had-Anhad, straight out of Mukhtiyar's crystal clear voice, and straight out of the essence of Kabir:

pothi padh-padh jag muha to pundit bhaya na koye
dhai akshar prem ke padhe so pundit hoye

Reading book after book, no one became a pundit,
But he who reads the 2.5 (or 4) letters of 'love' - he is fit to be a pundit.

A Suspension of Belief?

As I meditated this morning, many images flashed past the mind (clearly the goal was not being met). One that came particularly unexpected was that of me on the Lakshman Jhula. I have a vivid recollection of my visit to Roorkee when I was perhaps 6 or 7, from where we headed up to Rishikesh and Hardwar to pay homage to the Ganga.

The Lakshman Jhula is a suspension bridge, built across the river. I distinctly remember my feeling of deep fear as I walked on it, desiring nothing more than to get off it, even as I held on to someone (I cannot remember if it was a parent or a cousin now) for dear life. The view was spectacular, but how was I to tell? My eyes were tightly shut and opening them for a second came with intense fright. How was anyone to assure that there was no need to fear?

The analogy seemed particularly potent this morning, as I realized how I have oft done that in life as well - held on to someone or something for 'dear life', stubbornly shut my eyes, and wished myself off 'the bridge'. Acceptance and surrender are immense lessons to internalize (it is possible my struggle is greater than others'... I can barely imagine others being as petrified as I was that morning!).

How then, may we open our eyes to the truth that the walk may be shaky, but we are held in life's great hands, and thus protected by powers we are too small to comprehend? How then, may we open our eyes to the view so spectacular, the Beauty that lies before us in its supreme vastness? All that is needed is to let go. And yet, how very hard that is... despite the rewards that await us - not just at the other end, but along the journey as well.

Reaching Out

To offer a world hug...
and to get one :).

The 'Religion of Man'

I try to ensure that I get at least a half hour with Tagore every day. That half hour is enough, and in fact, more may overload me with ideas too beautiful to have to share mind space with one another, I feel. Today, however, just five minutes were more than I could take. I read this portion of My Life in My Words repeatedly, it touched me so. I share it with you before I commence a new, blessed day:

Marching with the waves of Life Eternal
we must go forward with Truth as our Polar Star
and no thought of death.
Inclement evil days will pour upon our heads,
but we must struggle on
to keep our Tryst with Him
at whose feet we poured the riches of our heart
from age to age.

The day which had its special significance for me came with all its drifting trivialities of the commonplace life. The ordinary work of my morning had come to its close, and before going to take my bath I stood for a moment at my window, overlooking a marketplace on the bank of a dry river bed, welcoming the first flood of rain along its channel. Suddenly I became conscious of a stirring of soul within me. My world of experience seemed to become lighted, and facts that were detached and dim found a great unity of meaning. The feeling which I had was like that which a man, groping through the fog without knowing his destination, might feel when he suddenly discovers that he stands before his house ...

In a similar manner, on that morning in the village, the facts of my life suddenly appeared to me in a luminous unity of truth. All things that had seemed like vagrant waves were revealed to my mind in relation to a boundless sea. I felt sure that some Being was comprehending me and my world was seeking his best expression in all my experiences, uniting them into an ever-widening individuality which is a spiritual work of art. To this Being I was responsible; for the creation in me is his as well as mine ...

I felt that I had found my religion at least, the Religion of Man, in which the infinite became defined in humanity and came close to me so as to need my love and cooperation.

The gift: to give

In response to my post a few days ago (on aiming to perfect), a friend and kindred spirit sent me the lovely excerpt below. I identified with it so, and found so much beauty in it, that true to it's own core, I could not resist the urge to share it with you all. There is a special elixir of life that is captured right here, in these words by L. M. Montgomery. I leave it here, for you to find.

Emily always looked back to that night spent under the stars as a sort of milestone. Everything in it and of it ministered to her. It filled her with its beauty, which she must later give to the world. She wished that she could coin some magic word that might express it.

The round moon rose. Did an old witch in a high-crowned hat ride past it on a broomstick? No, it was only a bat and the little tip of a hemlock-tree by the fence. She made a poem on it at once, the lines singing themselves through her consciousness without effort. With one side of her nature she liked writing prose best--with the other she liked writing poetry. This side was uppermost to-night and her very thoughts ran into rhyme. A great, pulsating star hung low in the sky over Indian Head. Emily gazed on it and recalled Teddy's old fancy of his previous existence in a star. The idea seized on her imagination and she spun a dream-life, lived in some happy planet circling round that mighty, far-off sun. Then came the northern lights--drifts of pale fire over the sky--spears of light, as of empyrean armies--pale, elusive hosts retreating and advancing. Emily lay and watched them in rapture. Her soul was washed pure in that great bath of splendour. She was a high priestess of loveliness assisting at the divine rites of her worship--and she knew her goddess smiled.

She was glad Ilse was asleep. Any human companionship, even the dearest and most perfect, would have been alien to her then. She was sufficient unto herself, needing not love nor comradeship nor any human emotion to round out her felicity. Such moments come rarely in any life, but when they do come they are inexpressibly wonderful--as if the finite were for a second infinity--as if humanity were for a space uplifted into divinity--as if all ugliness had vanished, leaving only flawless beauty. Oh--beauty-- Emily shivered with the pure ecstasy of it. She loved it--it filled her being to-night as never before. She was afraid to move or breathe lest she break the current of beauty that was flowing through her. Life seemed like a wonderful instrument on which to play supernal harmonies.

"Oh, God, make me worthy of it--oh, make me worthy of it," she prayed. Could she ever be worthy of such a message--could she dare try to carry some of the loveliness of that "dialogue divine" back to the everyday world of sordid market-place and clamorous street? She MUST give it--she could not keep it to herself. Would the world listen--understand--feel? Only if she were faithful to the trust and gave out that which was committed to her, careless of blame or praise. High priestess of beauty--yes, she would serve at no other shrine!

She fell asleep in this rapt mood--dreamed that she was Sappho springing from the Leucadian rock--woke to find herself at the bottom of the haystack with Ilse's startled face peering down at her. Fortunately so much of the stack had slipped down with her that she was able to say cautiously,

"I think I'm all in one piece still."

A smile with every step

This summer has been thought-provoking, illuminating, rewarding, and all things good and great thus far. Of the many things it has taught me, this is prime - to smile, always, and no matter what. This lesson made itself known rather gradually. At first, the smile would come most instinctively, because everything was new and exciting, and therefore incredibly appealing. Soon, the novelty had worn off. But by then the habit had formed itself, and been assimilated by others as well. I got myself to effect a smile because I couldn't allow this new-found image to suffer :). This may sound forced and unnatural, but in no time, the magic of it made itself known. I realized that in that tiny physical action lay many a liberation. When I smiled, really smiled, the pain of everything would pass. There was no longer irritation when an unruly customer tried to cut the line before me, no longer discomfort at the lack of availability of half-clean toilet facilities, no longer impatience when my train was delayed by three hours, and no longer distress due to unpleasant addresses on the streets of small towns. There is greater peace, an overall sense of serenity, and a nothing-could-go-wrong-ness about life.

Am reminded of a line I read in Eat, Pray, Love many months ago. I attest now to its truth value.

"Why they always look so serious in Yoga? You make serious face like this, you scare away good energy. To meditate, only you must smile. Smile with face, smile with mind, and good energy will come to you and clean away dirty energy. Even smile in your liver."

You get it when you need it.

I'm sitting in the Srishti office right now, feeling rather full after my morning cuppa, plateful of papaya, dosas for breakfast, and yet another cup of chai. The thought of lunch struck me all of a sudden, and rather frightened me in that moment! Yet, instantly the realization dawned that although the thought of food was unwelcome right now, in a few hours I'd be back to relishing the orange flavors of lunch at Srishti. A happy coincidence that when I need the food, I will have it. At the right place and the right time. Perhaps that is how all things in life work. We get what we need, when we need it. Just that we may not always know it.

On creating ideals

More Tagore, from more reading of My Life in My Words:

It is an insult to his humanity if man fails to invoke in his mind a definite image of his own ideal self, of his ideal environment which it is his mission externally to reproduce. It is the highest privilege of man to be able to live in his own creation. His country is not his by the mere accident of birth, he must richly and intimately transform it into his own, make it a personal reality. And what is more, man is not truly himself if his personality has not been fashioned by him according to some mental picture of perfection which he has within. His piled up wealth, his puffed up power can never save him from innate insignificance if he has not been able to blend all his elements into a dynamic unity of presentation. It is for him inwardly to see himself as an idea and outwardly to show himself as a person according to that idea. The individual who is able to do this strongly and clearly is considered to be a character. He is an artist, whose medium of expression is his own psychology. Like all other artists, he often has to struggle hard with his materials to overcome obstructions, inner and outer, in order to make definite his manifestation.

I do love how Tagore makes artists of all of us in this excerpt.

Oh, when the ants come marching in!

Yesterday in the flight from Delhi to Bangalore, I'd bought myself some breakfast - the (very pricey) vegetarian combo, which came with a pack of cookies among other things. I don't eat cookies really, and there was enough food in the box, so I wasn't going to eat them, but then thought of S, and decided I'd take them for her... somehow thinking she was bound to enjoy chocolate chip cookies :). I put them in my bag, but couldn't give them to her yesterday, since she only comes to the office on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

This morning, I was supposed to be at (other) S's at 8.15, and I was ready to leave at 7.45 (had decided to walk to her place, which takes that long). When I came to pick up my backpack, I suddenly felt a prick on my foot. As my hand instinctively reached the spot, I realized I'd been stung by an ant - a red ant. I didn't think anything of it at first, but when I tried to lift the backpack off the ground, I realized it was absolutely teeming with ants! On further inspection, I noted a gigantic trail of ants leading to the main door. Indeed, the pack of cookies was the culprit. And the ants had penetrated down to the depths of my backpack - big, stinging, red ants were marching all over :). It was so astonishing, it was hilarious!

Finally, I decided I wanted help, so I called one of the guest house caretakers on the phone. He came with a broom, got the ants out for the most part, brushed them off the innards of my bag, ate the cookies :) (I asked him aap ye kyon kha rahe hain? - "why are you eating these?" - and he merrily replied Bhagwan ko uthana hoga to utha lega - "if the Lord wants me to die, I will die", adding a daane daane pe likha hai khaanewale ka naam... ispar zaroor mera naam likha tha - "On every grain is written the name of the person who will eat it, my name was definitely on these cookies" :)), and told me not to keep chocolate around any more. There was an open pack of Good-Day biscuits lying on the table, which I eat from daily with my tea, and I said to him isko bhi le jaiye nahi to ispar bhi cheentiyan aa jayengi - "take this too, else this too will get attacked by ants" but he replied with a nahi, woh sirf chocolate pasand karti hain - "no, they only like chocolates" :). I submitted to his (seeming) better judgment.

By this time I was quite delayed, since I couldn't have left without my backpack. Once it was cleaned out, it was already 8.20. In a flash I remembered that this caretaker had a motorbike, and asked if he could take me to S's (new found bike-confidence after Bikaner). He conceded, and took me. The Bangalore breeze for those few minutes on the motorbike was to die for. It was as if the wind was carrying me forth...

Of course, today was the day that the security at S's had to give me a rather long and hard time (they wrote down my life history, well, almost - phone number, address, purpose of visit, host's name, apartment number, building number, yada yada) (surprisingly they asked (still other) S none of this!). (I just realized that most of my coworkers have names that start with an S - strange!) Finally got to her place only at 8.40, but we sat and sang for a good pleasurable hour.

Anyway, so coming back to the point then. I walk back into my room this evening, and see my old friends - the ants again :). Amused, I look for the cause of the flurry, and find that the pack of Good-Day biscuits had been blown onto the floor by the wind (thanks to the window that had been left open), and the ants had attacked it. So much for them liking only chocolate :).

Aiming to Perfect

Life's beauty comes to us often and in varied forms: in words, images, music, all of nature. Whenever we're willing to listen, life gives - it is up to us to put ourselves forth as receptacles. I've been thinking more and more about what we do with these gifts of life. How do we tend to them suitably so as to preserve them in fullness and pass them on? Like a book that we buy first-hand, read, and sell again. We could be careful and attentive while we read, so as to preserve the pristine condition in which we made the purchase, or we could be careless and leave it dogeared. It is a decision we make, at some layer of consciousness.

As I try to apply this analogy to my life, I realize that I am constantly being touched by life's beauty in these times. As I travel more and more, I find myself repeatedly enraptured by the beauty of the place, the people, the history, the culture... the list has no end. My camera and I are thus made inseparable, for I am continuously inspired. And inspiration is so valuable - so much comes out of it. I am happier, more at peace, and no doubt I transmit some of that peace, if unknowingly, to the outer world as well. But inspiration is energy, and it could be preserved in fullness, packaged, and passed on in convincing chunks, or it could be allowed to dissipate such that it is too diffuse to carry the impact much further.

Perhaps all of this sounds a little 'out there', but it filled me with a feeling of responsibility, an onus to give back (this inspiration) as fully as possible, as close to the form in which I have been recipient of it. This means one thing alone - that I have to give myself to my expressions in entirety. When I write, I must write with the dedication of an activist who puts mind, body and spirit into her cause. When I photograph, I must photograph in full presence, in ways that I may best inspire the person who views this photograph. It isn't easy, but isn't it the only way? The only worthwhile objective to pursue? Do we even have a choice? It is an onus indeed, and not one we can do justice to in the matter of days and weeks, but as a life goal perhaps?

And this is not to say that we attach ourselves to the receipt of our art, in whatever form. It is futile to imagine that we could dictate ways in which our expressions may be received or appreciated, but in that the intent is purity itself, the goal - I believe - is met.

Jaisalmer

Sigh. Gone are the days when I would find myself in free-flow mode on the blog. Now, much thought goes into what I'd like to write, whether it is fit to be written about or not, am I really in the mood, will I do it justice, etc. For the better, I suppose. Anyway, this little coincidence, I found, was worth documenting.

I just got back from Bikaner. It was a lovely trip, but it left me longing for more of Rajasthan. As I wrote to a friend about it last evening, I revisited my desire to visit Jaisalmer:

"... I do have to find myself there sometime soon. I can't believe that with all the time I've spent in Rajasthan, I keep missing out on Jaisalmer. I'm sure it will turn out to be quite amazing when I do see it ..."

And then early this morning, completely out of the blue, I received the following email from S:

"I'm just about to book for a trip to Mahesha Ram in Jaisalmer... Aug 18 till 23rd or so. Going to-from Delhi. Need to know if you'd like to join us."

An uncanny coincidence, is it not? Anyway, so you know where I'll be from August 18th to 23rd.

The old Tagore magic

I am now reading Tagore's biography: My Life in My Words. His words are potent as always, and my joy knows no bounds as I find my way through the words he weaves together as though it were to make music. Until yesterday, I was mesmerized by Tagore, but still considered him a new discovery. Today, he brings to heart the elation of a meeting with an old friend.

But does one write poetry to explain something? Something felt within the heart tries to find outside shape as a poem. So when, after listening to a poem, anyone says he has not understood, I am nonplussed. If someone smells a flower and says he does not understand, the reply to him is: there is nothing to understand, it is only a scent. If he persists, saying: 'that I know, but what does it all mean?' Then one either has to change the subject, or make it more abstruse by telling him that the scent is the shape which the universal joy takes in the flower ...

That words have meanings is just the difficulty. That is why the poet has to turn and twist them in metre and verse, so that the meaning may be held somewhat in check, and the feeling allowed a chance to express itself.

This utterance of feeling is not the statement of a fundamental truth, or a scientific fact, or a useful moral precept. Like a tear or a smile a poem is but a picture of what is taking place within. If Science or Philosophy may gain anything from it they are welcome, but that is not the reason of its being.

More on Malwa

Touched is what I am... by nature, the outdoors, by greenery, by rustic innocence, by devotional music, a love of people and of relationships, an appreciation for the little things in life that are not so little, by the moonlit skies, sleeping under the stars, by the unnoticeable passage of time, the pace of life, the water - for drinking, for washing, the food - simple, always shared, the spirit of the village life that I tried to imbibe (but there is more ground to cover), the people and their yearning for goodness, love, purity, even the flies that leave no ground uncovered, the lack of electricity but working around it, and the human spirit that is ever willing to adjust and to view life with a positive outlook, the truth that everything passes - all highs and lows, all comforts and discomforts, and that whenever there is a need for help, help appears.

Travel Update

After my return from Malwa last Saturday morning, I spent the last five days at home, recovering from a stomach infection (still in process) and getting ready to visit Bikaner (Rajasthan). A pity that I always seem to be recovering from illnesses at home; a blessing that mom tends to me while I'm sick - being out in the field would be a lot less fun.

After a complex, organized, and last-minute packing process, I boarded the Awadh-Assam Express from the Old Delhi Railway Station at 4.30 last evening. The station is not a pleasant place to be during the daytime, and one must be careful about where one's vision leads. Mom and I got there rather early, and had a long discussion (that led nowhere, as it is wont to) about why people are so accepting of filth, why they must treat all of land as a trash can, etc. before I boarded.

Although traveling in AC isn't as fun, because it creates an artificial barrier between you and the India outside, it was lovely to behold the rural sights of Haryana and Punjab en route, nonetheless. I found it fascinating that the train was coming all the way from Guwahati, and that it went via Bhatinda (that was featured in Jab We Met not too long ago).

My berth neighbors (for lack of a better term) were rather friendly. I found that they were traveling 40 hours from Siliguri to Bhatinda, on their way to Pathankot, where they'd just been transferred (within the army). I also managed to learn a little about Siliguri, and about how the army works, in the process. They carried a six-year old in tow, who I enjoyed playing 'Statue' with :).

The train ride was fairly uneventful, but for my finally getting done with The Celestine Prophecy which was rather curiously and coincidentally woven around several of my thought processes of late. I don't recommend reading the plot, but the nine insights the book revolves around, were certainly worth the read.

The train got to Lalgarh (near Bikaner) at 5.30am, and the little I've seen of the city since has been quaint indeed. Perhaps I have a natural soft spot for the cities of Rajasthan, so perhaps you should wait for second and third impressions then.

It for now. Be back soon.

All charged up!

As I get ready to leave for Bikaner this afternoon, I decided to make a packing list (finally!) to expedite the process I'm having to revisit every handful of days. So far, I'm done with the 'gadgets' bullet - inspired by the great need that arose in Luniyakhedi, where I went with blissfully uncharged or half-charged devices. Power was available only for a few hours a day, also the hours we were typically out of the house. And when I thought I'd finally found a time to beat everyone else to the switch plate (only because most of us had left or headed out to Ujjain), I was told by SB - "Aaj Budhvar hai" (today is Wednesday). I said (with a tremendous and unsuccessful effort to hide my incomprehension and ignorance) "Aaj Budhvar hai... to?" (today is Wednesday - long pause - so?). She responded, "To aaj bijli nahi aati" (so there is no power today). The conversation ended with an "Ah...."

Anyway, in my effort to assimilate all the lessons that life is bombarding me with these days, I decided to make a list of my treasury of gadgets, and ensure that they have charge and memory before I pack them in. Check it out:

• Voice Recorder + Duracell Batteries + SD Card
• Flip Video Recorder + Duracell Batteries + Space
• DSLR + Charged Canon Batteries + Canon Charger + Flash Card + Card Reader
  
• Point-and-Shoot + Charged Canon Battery + (Said) Canon Charger + SD Card
• Tata Indicom USB Modem (no battery, no space, phew!)
• iPod Shuffle + Headphones + Charge + Songs
• Cellphone + Charge + Charger
  
• Laptop + Charge + Charger
• External Hard Disk

If only I had one more, that would make it a perfect ten. Anyway, are you suitably impressed? Awesome. Now let's pray no one in my train compartment is reading this :).

Barkha bahaar aayi...

The monsoon rains have taken the country by storm, rather literally. They also seem to be following me around in my travels, filling me up to the brim with love for the here and now. Both urban and rural landscapes appear rather blessed by the onslaught. I only wish that cities such as Mumbai were better equipped to handle the downpour.

Although I managed to steal a few days in Delhi between travels, I also fell sick as soon as I reached home. Good health is tautologically a good thing, but if one has to fall sick, there is no better place to do it than home. After the varied bouts of illness in recent weeks, my mind is convinced that my body will embrace all experiences brought forth by the next couple of months, no problem. Of course, if I end up having to eat my words, then eat I willingly shall :).

I now have a treasure trove of experiences to associate with this year's monsoons - first, the phenomenal moments spent on A's window sill, then the more intimate encounters in Malwa, and finally, the much-needed relief in Delhi. No doubt I speak prematurely, for the next few weeks will find me amidst the Bikaner and Bangalore avatars as well. The world has acquired a greener, cleaner, happier hue. But like everything, this too, I know, shall pass...

[I had wanted to write about the clouds in Luniyakhedi and how they attacked us with great gusto, how we found ourselves completely soaked to the skin. Also, I would've loved to share the many songs we sang to pay homage to the rains - o sajana, rimjhim gire saawan, bheegi bheegi raaton mein, ghanan ghanan, zara zara, the list is endless. Another time, perhaps. The muse is still recovering from being so generously overfed last week.]

Spellbound

I've been meaning to write about my travels across Malwa for a few days now, but words continue to escape me. The mere thought of transferring to writing overwhelms. And at best, I am only able to pick out isolated fragments of the journey and put them forth. What I would dearly love to do is find the entire richness of this experience flow from within into writing, without a conscious attempt. It isn't impossible, but it certainly feels that way. I'll give it a first shot here, nevertheless.

Many, many seeds were planted last week, and watered duly by the monsoons, both literally and figuratively. From the moment I landed in Indore and until my departure from Bhopal, life bombarded me with lessons left, right and center. I could try doing a chronology of events, but there was nothing at all linear about last week. It is the rays of the sun I need to document. Perhaps a chapter for each one? In my second shot, perhaps. We'll start with the basics, here:

I was enthralled by the elements of this universe - the sun, the moon, the stars, the wind, and the rain. Also the earth - agricultural or not, wet or dry. And the trees, the leaves, the many animals we found ourselves in the company of.

The people. I've never found myself in the company of so many people, all so genuine, loving, thoughtful and wise. I can say that over and over again. I felt I understood. I felt understood.

The music was as moving as I'd imagined it to be, and as inspirational. No surprises there, just truckloads of fulfillment.

The 'physical rigor', as S put it - living life on very basic terms. It is an interesting inversely proportionate relationship. The more basic it gets, the more happiness it affords. And it got pretty basic.

As I've said to many, this journey felt like a dive into the depths of my soul. I may have been in alien surroundings, and yet I felt that there was a homecoming within. It is indeed in the villages that the heart of India lies... that's where I was, yes.

The things that had seemed little before suddenly grew a lot bigger. The reverse also happened. Time came to a standstill, and life slowed itself down almost to a halt. Thoughts ceased for a bit, and I was left without a frame of context. And peace found its place, in every step.

And as I close my eyes now, I see the smarak in the heavy monsoon downpour - as I soak in the rain, and the icy winds that bring news of the downpour, the morning walks with the rising sun, and across the wondrous landscape, the faces of those who know only to love and to serve, the limitless joy drawn from water alone, the moon and the stars we slept under every day, the strangers who became friends in no time at all, and the wisdom they shared so generously, the music that transcended all boundaries between hearts - then to my great surprise, the endless offerings of chai, the raindrops as they fell on the car windows, uncountable inspiring and instructive conversations, singing with gay abandon in the train to Bhopal, the 'cold drinks' that quenched many a thirst... and the smile that I carried all through the week, in my heart.

The Life of Art

Earlier today, A wrote to me saying she and (other) A had painted a photo I'd taken sometime back (part of which forms the header of this blog, at present). Of course, my first reaction was to be flattered and humbled that a photo I took could inspire further artistic expression, using alternative media. But as I continued to ponder, I found myself increasingly fascinated by the ways in which one artistic expression inspires another. And then my mind wandered to a beautiful book I'd recently read, one that drew out the longevity of art, holding it against the ephemeral nature of all else. It is true... these leaves may no longer exist, or if they do, they shall soon cease to, but once captured thus - in photo or painting, they will remain alive for a long, long time. I quote now Narcissus and Goldmund, at the risk of making this post unduly sombre:

He thought that fear of death was perhaps the root of all art, perhaps also of all things of the mind. We fear death, we shudder at life’s instability, we grieve to see the flowers wilt again and again, and the leaves fall, and in our hearts we know that we, too, are transitory and will soon disappear. When artists create pictures and thinkers search for laws and formulate thoughts, it is in order to salvage something from the great dance of death, to make something that lasts longer than we do. Perhaps the woman after whom the master shaped his beautiful madonna is already wilted or dead, and soon he, too, will be dead; others will live in his house and eat at his table - but his work will still be standing a hundred years from now, and longer. It will go on shimmering in the quiet cloister church, unchangingly beautiful, forever smiling with the same sad, flowering mouth.

I leave you then with the lovely paintings as well. And may they live forever.

If you like Indian ads...

be sure to check these out, especially the "Happy to Help - Soap" and "Happy to Help - Baking" ones. Vodafone is really topping the charts... well, mine anyway.

Go not to the temple...

The following was published in the Sacred Space of today's TOI:

Go not to the temple to put flowers upon the feet of God,
First fill your own house with the Fragrance of love.

Go not to the temple to light candles before the altar of God,
First remove the darkness of sin from your heart.

Go not to the temple to bow down your head in prayer,
First learn to bow in humility before your fellowmen.

Go not to the temple to pray on bended knees,
First bend down to lift someone who is down-trodden.

Go not to the temple to ask for forgiveness for your sins,
First forgive from your heart those who have sinned against you.

- Rabindranath Tagore

In the words of...

Sheila Dhar:

Hindustani musicians undergo rigorous training and possess incredible skill and control. However, the central object of their labours is not the cultivation of a 'beautiful' tone but the development of an almost limitless capacity in articulation. The physical sound of the music is, in ideal circumstances, only a medium and not the end product. To the connoisseur, a voice is only as beautiful as what it conveys.

The physical body of the music is to the musician what a writing tool is to the poet. The listener is trained to tune in to the lightly charged state of consciousness of the performer rather than to the physical condition of the sound that carries the music. Consequently, Indian ears are somewhat indifferent to the outer perfection of musical sound. Some of the most revered musicians have been and are people in their seventies. Their glory is in the truth of their experience and though their voices might have lost superficial lustre, the purity of their intention still shines through and is always the focus of attention for the initiated listener.

I read these lines minutes after I met Ustad Fahimuddin Dagar, and the words resonated in entirety. If you ever get a chance to read Sheila Dhar's writings on music, do. You won't regret it.

Struck by Virtuosity

It was time again to meet Ustad Fahimuddin Dagar ji today. I knew there would be a second time, and I am glad that it took its time. When I suggested I go this Thursday, it was done.

Meeting Dagar ji was like a breath of fresh air. He is 80+ and a child at heart if I've seen one. Words can hardly do justice to the aura I felt in his presence today, the aura that spread the perfume of purity all around. A man of small built, hair all grey, he is soft-spoken and gentle. And with one look at him, the word 'guru' attains definition. The notes that flow out of his lips are perfect indeed, but even the words have a glow to them one must experience to understand. Need I add I was swept away?!

When I walked in, he was teaching two young shishyas, and I sat behind them. I took the empty spot next to I, and immediately found my home in the meditative atmosphere that had been set. The teaching and the learning continued, and as in meditation, my only effort was to remove every other thought from mind and become one with the sound. Every now and then, Dagar ji would correct their posture, explain how the position of the spine was important for it was like an antenna that had to be in place. Or he would break into bouts of philosophizing, as any dedicated guru is wont to, while I breathed in every word. Har lavz sar aankhon par...

A half hour later, he realized he hadn't acknowledged my presence yet. I explained to him who I was and why I was there. After a few tries with my name (he thought I was Nirma!), he finally registered it, and swiftly reverted to his teaching. Students trickled in, as time went by, but the class continued - with him exercising an acute ear and tremendous patience.

For me, this meeting amounted to more than just two hours of my life. It was a listening and a realizing. Perhaps the realization that hit me the hardest was that I had thus far been interested in music, certainly, but with the sole interest of singing rather than learning. As a brand new yearning found its way in today - to learn rather than to sing, to start with the sa and meditate upon it for years if necessary, a strayness found its way home.

The pearls of wisdom that Dagar ji shared were precious. He equated music with pavitrata, or purity, stressing the need for exercising caution - so as to find the right swara and laya. He also spoke of shraddha and prem, and their power to transform into beauty. While mentioning prem, he went on to talk of that emotion that we feel for our parents when we are born, so that we may feel it also for the people around us, and in turn feel it for God. And God himself had no religion with him, as he directed his students - in one breath - to sing Om and meditate upon Allah. A young student repeated Ni-Sa 108 times, as Dagar ji counted on his japa mala.

The singing became so intoxicating, no doubt he too wished for it to be endless, as he continued to 'tune' his speech to 'sa', while he told one of his students to give up on adding sugar-free to his tea because he didn't know how to. It is these little things that made him so endearing, that made him so perfect. Before me, there was not a highly acclaimed maestro, a carrier of the famed name of Dagar, an artist of stature. Before me, there was music, and no one else. The ego seemed to have vacated its place eons ago. Music had left little place for any other existence.

As I yearned to stay there, a strange thing happened. I realized that the encounter was beautiful because that yearning was so deep. And there it ended. There was no desire to linger on to keep that yearning fulfilled for the little time possible. It was a gift, it had been taken and imbibed. Time it was to let it out again. Here it is, then.

[NB: This meeting took place on the 18th of June, 2009.]

Monsoon Heaven

Like other moments that have been cherished forever, today offered one identifiable such as well. As A&A slept in the afternoon, the torrential monsoon downpour (the first real of the season that left most of the city flooded) afforded indispensable quality time at the sill of the living room window... letting the wind blow through me, and allowing thought of any kind to depart silently. The music on the radio helped tremendously in carrying me away. I knew the moment could not last, but I am grateful indeed to have added one more monsoon treasure to my life's gatherings. The others can be written about on another day.

There was something precious in this afternoon that words will not capture. C'est la vie.

The Cocktail Party

Unidentified Guest:
Ah, but we die to each other daily.
What we know of other people
Is only our memory of the moments
During which we knew them. And they have changed since then.
To pretend that they and we are the same
Is a useful and convenient social convention
Which must sometimes be broken. We must also remember
That at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.

Edward:
So you want me to greet my wife as a stranger?
That will not be easy.

Unidentified Guest:
It is very difficult.
But it is perhaps still more difficult
To keep up the pretence that you are not strangers.
The affectionate ghosts: the grandmother,
The lively bachelor uncle at the Christmas party,
Your childhood years in comfort, mirth, security -
If they returned, would it not be embarrassing?
What would you say to them, or they to you
After the first ten minutes? You would find it difficult
To treat them as strangers, but still more difficult
To pretend that you were not strange to each other.

As I browsed through the book store at Bangalore airport, Eliot's The Cocktail Party caught my eye. I'd never seen this before, and a love for Eliot's writing brought me to purchase it. A masterfully crafted play, that provides a little of everything - poetry, drama, and a tad of philosophy, as you can perhaps tell in the excerpt above. I definitely recommend the read.

Bombay Dreams

The city of dreams for some, to me it is an immense breath of fresh air... taking me back to who I have been (narcissistic pleasures never quite end). The sultriness may not share the crispness of the Bangalore's air, but it only adds to the city's overall charm.

At the (newly built and rather impressive) airport, I was received by the very same person all these years of traveling to Mumbai. While little else has been constant, he has been. As we spoke in the car, I was moved by his expression of his work, and how dedicated he was to it. He said something that will stay with me (not only for the words, also the sentiments that lay beneath them) - "I only try my best to help... so that I can get blessings from everyone."

As I traveled to A's place, I was struck by a desire to capture everything along the way - the sights, but also the sounds, and the smells - those pleasant and not so pleasant - to capture and lock them into a treasure trove. And G's words came back to me then, from when I'd said that there was so much I'd read last month that I'd have liked to share on my blog, but found entirely infeasible to do. He'd given me a fitting analogy - of how there is so much I see that I'm unable to photograph. I'd like to think that none of it is lost, but finds its way out in indirect ways. I share by being a changed me as a result.

I wondered why I kept my window down, as we passed through some of the overwhelming stenches of town, and realized that the window-down reality for me was the unqualified reality for many. In trying to scale the distance between that and this, maybe the effort itself counted some?

The monsoons have indeed hit Mumbai, and rain-talk fills the radio stations. On my part, I soak in the 14th floor view from A's place, of Andheri in its fullness, despite the immense clouds that hang above. The star attraction has been, of course, A's little baby Krishna, who fulfills his 24x7 job of charming everyone around him with great devotion :). If the rains will allow, I'd love to step out and experience Mumbai in its monsoon glory. If not, I'll experience it in the clouded view of the city from up here. There is certainly nothing lacking in the precious spending of time at home with an old, cherished friend, listening to the radio play my favorite songs, and watching the city wash itself out. Over and out.

travelogging

I had written that it would be a traveling summer. Almost two months into the summer, and with two more to go, I can confirm that it has been, and will continue to be so.

The month of June was spent in going from Delhi to Bangalore and back, Delhi to Nainital and back, and finally back to Bangalore. That took three flights, two train rides, and much driving. The month of July will see several unexplored lands, including Malwa in Madhya Pradesh, Bikaner (Rajasthan) and Kutchh in Gujarat.

The mind has its own travels to experience, as it constantly meets some phenomenally inspiring people who leave their imprints upon it in small ways and big. In that every soul has his/her goodness to share, every encounter is fruitful and inspiring. Sometimes a lot is gained, and sometimes less, but there is always a net gain. And when it seems not to be the case, one merely has to dig harder to get to the treasure. 

All in all, life is being kind. And I never forget to be grateful.