It was not Sridevi’s fault! Or was it?

On an overcast afternoon, I settled down to read my book with Sufi music playing in the background, soothing and elevating my spirit. Suddenly I saw this news item pop up on my whatsapp. I took a look “Is this true?” was the query from a friend who had attached a “breaking news” clip from Filmfare.com. I had an uncanny visceral reaction from the shock of the news, probably because death reminds us of our own mortality and particularly because she was close in age to me. Sridevi dead? Was it true? What was it from? My voyeuristic instincts peaked. Was it suicide? Some insidious disease eating away her innards that she hid well? Was it an overdose from painkillers? All these were reasonable causes of death in the celebrity world. But as I trolled for pictures of a woman whose life I knew little about, I saw a glamorously dressed bollywood diva who appeared happily married with two daughters she doted on, and a husband who was eating out of her hand. They had been at a big fat Indian wedding in Dubai living it up with designer outfits and parties galore when it had happened! Well then, was this a freak accident? Not that either. I scoured the internet and every site said it had been “from a massive heart attack” That seemed implausible. She appeared skinny, fit and committed to taking care of herself to not succumb to such a preventable health calamity as a heart attack. This then meant women my age were all vulnerable. Of course the mind did not like that, so I decided to dig deeper for other possible reasons. At this point, I was also simultaneously decrying our attachment as humans’ to phenomenal existence identifying with the body, mind and intellect, all of which are passing. That philosophical detour lasted just a few seconds and I was soon feverishly lapping up real and fake news as it poured in.

The gist. She had brought this upon herself! She had been desperate to look and stay young? She had had 23 cosmetic surgeries to correct her physical appearance, to look youthful and skinny. There appeared some truth to these admonishments from society’s moral guard who had found an easy target in a deceased woman who could not defend herself. However, I could not help but see that she, not unlike other celebrities, had been living a photoshopped life for social media. When I saw a “like” from designer extraordinaire Manish Malhotra, every time she or her daughters were attired in his clothes, on Instagram, I wondered about his blatant exploitation of her vulnerability, for his personal gain. And of course, he just symbolized the capitalist world out there that sells us all a bill of goods everyday! She, like all of us, was crying out for validation but on the world stage, and to an extreme degree as if her life depended on it. The self anointed psychoanalyst in me was pumping up theories that saw her as obsessed with her looks to the point of mental instability.

But that was just too easy. And did not tell the full story. I glanced down at the book that had held me in its thrall for the past hour before this news rudely broke my attention. Serendipitously, I had just been reading about a macro phenomenon that is taking root in our world, according to Yuval Noah Harari. In his ground breaking prophetic Homo Deus, in the same genre as Alvin Toffler’s Future Shock or Third Wave, he has spun ideas about our current state of being into a beautiful tapestry. He presents a compelling perspective about our collective consciousness. His premise, based on his background as a historian, there is intentionality behind the course our universe is taking, determined by those with the power to influence outcomes, the wealthiest among us.

Till the middle of the 20th Century, the human race had been preoccupied with eliminating famine, disease and war, all of which had previously decimated civilizations. That done, humans were on to their next great quest. The pursuit of immortality, bliss and divinity, at least for those who have the means. The next frontier for science and technology is to create super humans who will continually reengineer their bodies and perpetually renew them with a refresh every ten years or so to live as long as they can, maybe hundreds of years. Several key influencers shun the idea that death is inevitable. Google’s venture Calico is looking at beating death and engendering perpetual youth. While scientists are already hard at work tinkering with our DNA to not only cure disease but to preempt illness and counter the negative effects of aging, the world of merchandising is selling “the perfect look” and doctors are already superficially “fixing” bodies to embody the spirit of this aspiration, but without the science. The end result, we are all hurtling towards a future where an obsessive preoccupation with staying young will continue to vilify the aging process and create a society of second class citizens among those who cannot afford to stay “young” at all costs. And it will be expensive and only available to a chosen few!

It’s not all bad news. There is also a rising consciousness that allows us to uncover the root of all our suffering (aka discontent with our lot) and to see it as being our attachment to everything that is passing. So we need to hang on to that raft and stay present or be swept away into this maelstrom!

Disclaimer- the above is based on assumptions about what happened. I don’t have the facts!

An encounter with a great soul

Yesterday I had to visit a young patient in the hospital. A beautiful young boy, with a halo like glow, sharp intelligence and an almost ethereal quality. His beautiful mother lay beside him as he examined the Spider-Man toy I had brought him. He was held captive by it. It may have crossed his mind that he was being treated really special for a reason. Or maybe he was too young for that at six. Beside his bed on the floor was a bag of goodies. Gifts that doctors and nurses had showered on him for going through the MRI and a myriad other tests like a trooper, for following all instructions while being fitted with the mask that he would wear while undergoing radiation. It all seemed surreal. This was an amazing place, SickKids, I thought, so cheerful in its decor, with friendly, kind staff who normalized the experience - no panic, pain or pity in anyone’s face or demeanour. But it would have also been the last place I wanted to be with my kid, with the words “terminal” buzzing around in my brain.

But there she was this mother so graceful and poised. When we had a moment alone, she asked me in a calm voice, not laden with self pity or “why me” sentiment, if she had been bestowed this as punishment for not being the best she could be in her treatment of others. She then said she was blessed that she had had six good years of amazing memories, no matter what the future held. I held her tightly to my chest, tears streaming down my eyes and said in response the following, though in not so many words. I believe in karma and since I have known you to be a deeply spiritual and poised human, over the 20 years I have known you, I can only say that you are exhausting any negative karma you have accumulated over lifetimes. I have no doubt you will experience the highest truth and the fullness of your true being right here. Your child was born in a sacred womb to exhaust his. I know of no other way to explain this. I realized later that her poise is testament to her being present and accepting everything in the most open way without the clutter of emotional reactions. Yes, miraculously, this is giving her the clarity to do everything right by everyone in the here and now. This is evident in her manner which is infused with boundless compassion and respect for all even at a time when she could get away with being her most self indulgent and self absorbed self. She is and always will be my role model. I know she will scale this challenge in a most exemplary way! My heart is with her and her little boy!

Ashram visit and New Year greetings!

As I walked towards the Ashram for the last time today I heard this American beside me say “something brought me to Tiruvannamalai several years ago and I have been coming ever since.” Sarah the Canadian who lives in Boston and who I met on a trek this afternoon can relate. She spends 6 months of the year here and is easing herself to spending all her time deepening her sadhana (spiritual practice) here. We are all drawn to the deeply peaceful and calm abode of Ramana Maharishi the great sage of South India who lived on these premises from 1879 to 1950 and who now has a worldwide following of serious seekers.

The Ashram is a peaceful abode with many structures in pristine form dating back to Ramana’s days on earth. The lunch hall in particular has Madras tile ceilings, a vestige of colonial architecture, and wooden columns holding them up. The floors are cool and smooth from years of human contact. The customs also date back to times past. Food is free and breakfast, lunch and dinner are served piping hot on banana leaves lined on the floor. Everyone sits cross legged and eats off these leaves with their fingers. Most of the vegetarian meal is prepared from food that is grown on premises and from dairy provided by the 200 cows that are lovingly reared here. Peacocks freely roam the grounds as they did during Ramana’s time, as do monkeys which provide ample entertainment leaping from one rooftop to another. Carrying on another tradition from years past, there is a gurukulam ( residential school) where 23 Brahmin boys in residence learn the Vedas and ancient texts, and chant in mellifluous union every morning and evening in the large prayer hall. Also as it has stood for several thousand years before Ramana and will for the next several thousand years is the Arunachala mountain extending up above the Ashram. There is a path leading up to the Virupaksha Cave on this mountain, where Ramana lived following his awakening, mostly in a meditative trance, from 1899 to 1916.

We stayed for three days at the Ashram residence which was immaculate but sparse. There was lots of warm water from the solar powered heaters. The nights were cool and a hot bath was just what the body needed after exhausting days of walking and hiking. We circumambulated the Arunachala mountain, a 14 km path, one day, and trekked 1.4 km up the mountain to the
Virupaksha Cave on another day. The rest of the time, we meditated, ate and relaxed mind and body while also interacting with a few people from India and abroad.

Tiruvannamalai is one of the holiest places on earth where several holy men and women have converged over the past several centuries. There is a majestic Shiva Temple, one of 5 in South India, each representing an element where the Arunachalam Temple represents “fire” and was built in the 14th Century A.D. It has been a destination for destitute people who have relied on the largesse of several ashrams that have sprouted here.

There is however a slightly different vibe to this town since I was last here 2 decades ago. It is more gentrified and there are visible signs of the commodification of spirituality. The “girivalam” path (holy mountain circumambulation) is prime real estate with ashrams from across India vying for space to set up centres. While on the one hand this has resulted in good restaurants and decent places to stay for the Westerner who wants to savour the ashram experience with minimal hardship, it is no longer a safe haven for the poor who are much less visible now. Ramanashram, however, remains untouched for now and I wish it stays that way.

We all had our re-introduction recently to Ramana through Paul Brunton’s “A search in secret India” and this gave added depth to our experience here. It was wonderful for Suku and me to spend this time with Uttara and for her to have both her grandmothers and my aunt and uncle, second parents to me, with us.

As we begin the New Year I wish you all peace, joy and much introspection on your true nature!

A “#me too” moment

I was in the Master’s program at York University. This was the late 1980s. I was young, new to Canada and very naïve. I was finding my own voice. I still remember the remarks that I got on my first paper in which I only managed a B. My professor called me in and said to me “this is a course in women’s studies where the personal is the political, so you should speak in the active voice.” I felt unshackled, liberated and then and there, abandoned writing in the passive voice. When I went to law school I had to unlearn the “personal is the political part” since everything there had to be based on objective facts but that’s a story for another day. After this initial stumble I truly began to enjoy grad school. I found Focault, and the post modernists who talked about relativism and I began to locate the basis of political and economic power in ideology. It was an exciting time of intellectual curiosity, reading and discourse. I hung out for long hours in the graduate student lounge with peers who were bright, bold and articulate. I absorbed all of my experiences like a sponge, occasionally contributing with clever remarks to their pseudo-intellectual banter. I had an eclectic mix of courses and so my classmates from the various courses spanned the spectrum. There were radical feminists, Marxists, philosophers, historians and literature buffs in our mix. I felt honoured to be part of this motley crew and quite invincible, until the incident that followed marred my experience and dis-empowered me somewhat.

Like all graduate students I had been assigned a Faculty Advisor. I was flattered that a professor would actually take the time to help me navigate the program. An avuncular South Asian man, he was a full Professor and the Head of the Sociology Department. I was in a course with him as well. He had studied in Europe and had several academic publications to his name. I went to his office when I had questions about courses to pick and also sought advice on the research I should undertake towards my Masters’ thesis. He was helpful but appeared more interested in my personal life than my academic one. I did not think much of it and sought more counsel from female faculty members who were younger and much more “in with the program”.

Anyway, one evening, well into the semester, he invited me to dinner and I accepted because I was told it was the done thing for Advisors to take their mentees out, once. I dressed professionally in uncomfortable shoes, a skirt suit and a light jacket. All this is relevant for what was to come. He asked me to meet him at a pub on campus. He had a drink and urged me to join him. I did not feel comfortable drinking and so settled for a soft drink. I was hoping we could order food but he had other plans. He downed a couple of beers and then said “let’s go”. He led the way to another pub on campus and then another one. He was getting more drunk by the minute. He kept rambling on about his achievements and his plans for future research projects. I was hungry, scared and uncomfortable. I tried to politely tell him that it was getting late and I had to be home. I could not get through to him since he kept insisting he would drop me at home. Finally it seemed like we were going to eat. We drove to a seedy strip mall close to the University where there was a Chinese restaurant. I was not hungry any more. I asked to be dropped off at the bus stop. But no, he insisted we eat. We ordered and then he began to tell me about his personal life. His Dutch wife and his two kids. He said his wife gave him all the freedom in the world. Then he looked me in the eye, through his drunken haze and said “my life with my wife is private as is yours with your husband. You get my drift? If you enter the PhD program, I can set you up for life. I have this huge grant to work on the aftermath of the Chernobyl disaster. You can make a name for yourself.” The PhD program had no allure for me and even less after this encounter. I was shaking. I wanted to beat a hasty retreat but my shoes were uncomfortable, my clothes not warm enough and above all he was my professor who could fail me in his course. I stayed calm and nodded my understanding of what he had said but offered no comment. We got back in the car and I was now afraid we would be hailed down by the cops and I would face the humiliation of being in the car with him while his rights were being read to him. I took a deep breath and in a calm, cold voice asked him to stop the car so I could get off when we got to the main road. Something in my voice got through to him and he let me off. I limped to the bus stop and got home scared and confused. I was full of self blame. I had gotten myself into a terrible mess. I would fail my Masters! That would be end of all the sacrifices I had made to get to this point in my education. I told my husband, who was extremely supportive but also quite helpless. After all,we were new to Canada and did not want to burn any bridges. I dreaded going to his class and avoided any one–on-one contact with him. I stayed close to my professors in Women's Studies and made sure he saw me interacting with them.

At the end of the semester after the grades had come in (he gave me a B+, all my other grades were higher), I reported the matter to the head of the Women’s Studies department. A couple of years later I went back to law school at the same University and heard that he was no longer the Head of the Department. I did not bother to find out if I had anything to do with this.

Witnessing grace

Recently, I encountered unparalleled grace and humour from a very young person under tragic circumstances. This young man works with me and had just returned from parental leave. As his day to return to work neared he came in to see me to go over some housekeeping matters relating to his transition back in. On that day he gave me startling news that his mother who was palliative as a result of her cancer, had made the decision to end her pain and suffering. She was not yet 60 and had endured several treatments following her diagnosis two years ago. However, she had stopped responding to the treatment a few months ago and was in excruciating pain. The cancer had spread to her bones and she could not even lie down. Her pain was not being adequately managed at home. But, she did not want to go in to the hospital since the closest one was an hour from her home in the country, and she feared she may die alone since it would be a while before anyone could get to her if the end was nearing. She had decided to exercise her right to end her life and to do it at home surrounded by her family. My co-worker relayed to me that they were finalising the paperwork because she was in a hurry to exit her pain wracked body. He thought it may happen that same week since she was getting impatient.

We got an email from him after that saying his mother had exercised her right to die and passed away peacefully in her home as planned.

This week he returned to work. When we met I hugged him close and asked him how he was. He said he was calm and the aftermath of making arrangements for visiting family members was more stressful that the death itself. Seeing her inanimate body lying there he had had a sense of closure from knowing, that was no longer his mother. He then said the following with a crooked smile. "My stepfather asked her in her dying moments to accept Christ as her saviour and she nodded her consent. However, I don’t know if she meant it, because she also agreed that she would come back in her next birth as a mother to me and a grandmother to my son! The two concepts don’t really go together do they?" I was just astonished by his maturity, humour and grace dealing with this immense loss of the only parent he has ever known.

Whats's in a hug?

In 2004 I received bone chilling news. That my dad had terminal cancer. He had been a healthy 78 and I had thought till then that he was immortal. Only 5 months prior I had taken home a tennis racket because he had expressed a desire to resume playing. Till the day before his diagnosis he had walked 6 km. But they say there is just no logic to cancer and it is true. I remember rushing back home to Chennai from Toronto my bag full of books on alternative treatments and my heart filled with the hope that I would bring him back from his precarious perch in front of death's precipitous abyss. Alas that did not happen. He passed just over 2 months later. His condition deteriorated rapidly. However, what remains etched in my memory is the power of the hug. My dad loved his children like few others would. We were his cherished treasures. We always had his unconditional, love, affection and support. We hugged easily and into my adulthood I spent many hours, during trips to India, nestled in between mom and dad on their bed cocooned by their warmth and held together by the sense of security they gave us. However, when I arrived in India this time I found my dad somewhat withdrawn. He was delighted to have me back but with each day he sensed he was losing his grip on life and consciously began to go within himself. I still remember the night he chose to make his bed on the floor of his study. I found him lying there on his stomach, just his shorts on, a light sheen of sweat on his body, notwithstanding the fan that whirled above us. He still looked young and athletic at his age, no apparent visible sign of his terminal condition. Lying there, he appeared so vulnerable and alone in his physical suffering, amplified by the emotional pain of being parted from his beloved wife and children. Even though death mercifully ends misery we do not welcome the suffering that precedes it. Somewhat paradoxical and absurd, when you think about it. Truth is, unless we are sages, the mind suffers emotional pain. I had to ease his. I lay down beside him and put my hand over his body in a safe cocoon. I then sensed the rhythm of his breathing change to take him into a deep sleep. I made a silent pact to hug him through his suffering and stayed by his side for the next 40 days till he breathed his last at the hospital. I hugged him as much as I could. I believe he passed on, comforted and eased.

Two years later, my close friend and I were returning from Thailand via Frankfurt. There in front of us was a small entourage. In the middle of it was the familiar face of a woman in a white saree. I exclaimed with recognition, "Amma!". As we neared her she held out her hands and gripped us to her in a tight embrace for a few seconds each. She whispered loving words in our ear. In that cold no frills airport that firm hug from a stranger should have felt out of place, but it did not. We felt reassured of our boundlessness, somehow. She looked deep into our eyes and it felt quite natural. There was a spontaneity to it that had broken down our self consciousness. It felt like the hug from a child. It was a beautiful moment. We had not waited for hours in a long line to be held by this famous "hugging saint".

I am convinced of the power of the hug. In that act we make ourselves completely vulnerable and egoless because there are no guarantees of reciprocity and yet it's power is such that even the most prickly person with no self love will respond to it's unconditional quality. It's a non ego state where the separateness between us is temporarily abandoned and we focus on our oneness and commonality.

I heard an aging senior speak on the radio about how she took up dancing because she liked to be held. That's what prompted this post.

Do you have FOMO?

We go to a restaurant and the waiter hands us a menu with 50 different choices. We read it cover to cover to ensure we are making an optimal choice. We urge our companion to pick something that we have not, just so we can double our chances of not missing out. And then after we have picked what we want, lo and behold, the waiter brings the neighbouring table a dish which looks so much better than the choices we have made and we are motivated to change our order.
We do this with every decision in our lives and go through the day in restless uncertainty. Our entire life is about creating what our mind imagines to be that perfect life that we could achieve by manipulating the external world. One where we get what someone else is having which we imagine to be better than ours. We do this without even being conscious of our actions.

Very much guilty of the above, I have been motivated to give this matter a great deal of thought and have come to believe the crux of all our problems is what the millennials refer to as FOMO or the Fear of Missing Out. Our overactive and agitated minds are always settled in a past that lingers on as thoughts and memories, or in a future where we imagine a life better than our past. There is nothing wrong with hope, optimism and aspiring to better things. However, what that invariably means is a repudiation of the present. So there is a constant conflict between where we are and where we want to be and here we are always comparing our lives to someone else’s? And yet, it all has nothing to do with anyone else. No. It is our own mind fighting against itself. Our mind telling itself that the present is not good enough, that there is something better out there and by accepting what is in front of us we are forgoing that elusive imagined reality. In other words we have FOMO.

So how do we know we have FOMO? What is its impact on our lives?

1. Our decisions lack clarity because we always have this cloud of doubt about whether we are doing the right thing and whether we have all the facts. We then try to meddle, interfere and control how things turn out. We are never fully satisfied with the result.
2. We are miserable because we want a version of reality that our mind has conjured up, no matter how limiting, and we just cannot manifest it.
3. We have a fear of commitment. We believe when we commit to something we forgo something else. This is a problem not only for those who do not commit but also for those who second guess something they have committed to.

So how do we address FOMO?

We constantly look to the external world for perfect order, symmetry and fulfilment. In other words, a cure for our FOMO. The fact is we can never satisfy our mind with objects from the external world. There is no remedy to cure us of our FOMO out there. We need to quieten the mind and notice our thoughts so we are not controlled by them. By noticing, we question a blind acceptance of our mental projections as reality, our impulses to engage in self- indulgent action or inaction as we strive for that elusive image and our rejection of presence. This noticing of our minds which are embroiled in thoughts and dreams which are limiting and stale helps liberate us from our routine reactions and habit patterns. We then begin to break free, to accept and observe life as it unfolds in all its glory. Our consciousness which is not sucked into day dreaming and emotionally responding to our reactions, now has space to expand. With the silence that we experience between our thoughts, we walk lightly having lessened the burdens of our conditioning and without anxiety about an imagined future. We alter the course of our lives, as a result. So we do have a choice to live without FOMO where we are not plagued by our past, dragged down by our conditioning and anxious about the future! What a novel idea!