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!

For a friend...

About ten years ago I met and made a wonderful friend. She worked at the Children’s Aid Society and we were about to bid on a contract with them. I met her for lunch just to understand the inner workings of the organisation making full disclosure of my reason for our meeting. She impressed me with her professionalism and shared with me insights about her work, so I could write a well-rounded proposal. She was scrupulous about not compromising the bid process in any way and yet was flexible enough to meet me so we could give them the best possible solution. We talked about many things including her work as a volunteer Crisis Counsellor with an organisation that supports victims of crime.

When I met her she was fifty and had decided to hang up her shingle and pursue her calling, mental health counselling. She was well qualified. She was a registered social worker and had obtained the credentials to work as a Psychotherapist. But above all she had an abiding curiosity in the human condition. She was widely read and had a profound understanding of various spiritual texts, which in turn had led her to an experiential understanding of mindfulness as an important solution to resolving our existential crises. Her approach to therapy therefore came from a place of deep insight. But what made her unique was her very practical approach to addressing mental health issues. She met her clients were they were in the continuum, did an extensive assessment, developed with them a plan for their treatment and then gave them homework exercises so they could practice the coping strategies that she had helped them develop. On the day we met, she sketched out her approach with a hypothetical example on a napkin. I took it home with me to study the exquisite framework her brilliant mind had developed right there over lunch.

She got very busy after that and signed up with Warren Sheppell an EAP provider which took her on as an Independent Consultant. We met for coffee occasionally and discussed meditation and philosophy. I listened more than talked always mesmerised by her ability to narrate so eloquently, while quoting from various sources. She has a prodigious memory for memorable quotes and an ability to be utterly precise and accurate with details. I find it a rare quality and have encountered few people who possess it. For me it is a testament to her competence and her rigorous discipline doing everything she did.

She chose to be single, looking after her mother, who died three years ago of breast cancer well into her eighties. She exercised, ate well, meditated, went for a massage every month and traveled to a different country every year. She read a lot, always keeping up with advances in her profession and also spiritual texts and biographies. She kept a beautitful house with a perfectly tended lawn, indulged all her nephews and nieces and enjoyed the occassional Scotch! All in all - a well balanced life.

A few months ago, I spoke to her when I was desperate to find help for a friend. She immediately obliged and was her usual gracious self. My friend was thrilled with after just two sessions, telling me she now had techniques to deal with her anxiety and depression. In late April, she wrote to my friend telling her she was taking a leave of absence. I called her up to ask if everything was ok, but I did not hear back. I assumed she was just slowing down. I did not suspect that she was fighting stage 4 cancer. This week on Tuesday I heard she was in hospital and palliative. I rushed to see her. She had told no one other than her sisters. She had not wanted to dampen anyone's spirit. There she lay a shadow of herself, her breath noisy, her mouth open in a comatose state. This was not my friend, but an apparition and I would never have her back. After her mother died we had promised each other to meet over lunch or dinner and had cancelled and rescheduled a few times. I blame myself for not making it happen. I went to look for remnants of her in her website, Linkedin and FB and found nothing there. She had so meticulously planned her exit. A common friend told me she had even told her to fix the deck in her home for the post funeral greeting of people. She had gone through all her stuff and shredded anything that would have been a burden for anyone else. So much clarity and detachment even in those last days, almost as she used to plan her trips to far off lands by herself.

As she lays in hospital with just hours to live, I share what she sent us a few years ago. I believe she did not suffer because of her complete understanding of what it says here:
“I am reading the book “I Am That,” a modern spiritual classic…talks with Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj who is enlightened. On page 5 of the book, Sri Maharaj responds to a questioner who asked, “What do you see?” Maharaj responds:
“I see what you too could see, here and now, but for the wrong focus of your attention. You give no attention to your self. Your mind is all with things, people and ideas, never with your self. Bring your self into focus, become aware of your existence. See how you function, with the motives and the results of your actions. Study the prison you have built around yourself, by inadvertence. By knowing what you are not, you come to know your self.

The way back to your self is through refusal and rejection. One thing is certain: the real is not imaginary; it is not a product of the mind. Even the sense “I am” is not continuous, though it is a useful pointer; it shows where to seek, but not what to seek. Just have a good look at it. Once you are convinced that you cannot say truthfully about your self anything except, “I am”, and that nothing that can be pointed at, can be your real self, the need for “I am” is over—you are no longer intent in verbalizing what you are.

All definitions apply to your body only and to its expressions. Once this obsession with the body goes, you will revert to your natural state, spontaneously and effortlessly. The only difference between us is that I am aware of my natural state, while you are bemused. Just like gold made into ornaments has no advantage over gold dust, except when the mind makes it so, so are we one in being—we differ only in appearance. We discover it by being earnest, by searching, enquiring, questioning daily and hourly, by giving one’s life to this discovery.
Note: “I am” was the mantra given to Maharaj by his guru.”

I leave you with one of her favourite songs influenced by Sufi music, which she loved:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CI1L2PeICjQ&feature=fvw

She is a private person and so I have withheld her name, but I think she will appreciate the fact that her life has meant something to me.

Boy did I deserve that!

Yesterday I got a strange call from a woman. "Are you Tara's mom?", she asked and launched into a monologue without allowing me to get a word in edgewise. I had brought this upon myself. A few years ago, rather overzealously I had posted Uttara's profile on an Indian matrimonial site. It was a social experiment of sorts which was not amusing to her. I did not think much of it. Soon my mailbox began to fill up with emails from folks expressing interest or with suggestions of suitable matches. Initially, I actually looked upon these as a source of entertainment. I was taken aback and somewhat at a loss when these folks began corresponding with me. Soon I found myself giving relationship advice to one! Why not my daughter he would insist and I had to coyly admit she was not party to this shtick, so I could not broach it with her. I knew this was all "wrong" on so many levels. But harmless?! Well a few years passed. I forgot all about the profile. I did not look at the emails, the expressions of interest or matches. My daughter did her own thing. And all was well. Then suddenly, out of the blue, this call!

The lady spoke with the air and sophistication of someone who was well educated and moved in elite company. I was curious. She told me she was a lawyer and her husband a judge and she was calling about her son, a paediatric heart surgeon in the UK, for my daughter. They were visiting London to attend a milestone cricket match at the Oval for which they had booked tickets months in advance and thought they should look up Tara! She did not stop to ask me if I was interested, let alone Tara. She just assumed we were. I let her go on, willing myself not to hang up on her polished accent. Who knows, she may know someone who knows me and word gets around fast. I had to come up with a polite way to do this. Then suddenly, she asked me if I was from a certain caste and I said "yes but we are not interested in going this route". She chose not to believe the second half of what I said and without giving me a chance to speak went on to tell me about her extraordinary progeny. Then without warning came her next question? "Does your daughter know Tamil?", I could not resist a " Oh yes she can speak as well as read since she learnt Carnatic music." That just sent her into raptures waxing prolific over her son's musical accomplishments and extolling her own past glory, as a classical dancer. In the process she named several Sabhas in Chennai of which she was a patron, adding, "my son wants someone who is cultured and knows her roots." She wanted to know nothing more about my daughter it seemed and, in her mind, appeared to have decided she was the one. She had all she needed to know. I had to cut this short - but how? Short of being rude? And then she gave me an out. I asked her how old her son was? She said xx and I said "he is 6 years older. That won't work. ". That got her hot under the collar "do you know Jackie was 12 years younger than Kennedy and Saira Banu 22 years younger than Dilip Kumar and they were happily married? Do you know why? Because both women looked much younger than their husbands? Before I could question the veracity of that assumption, she continued in the same reactive vein, "Whereas if your daughter marries someone her age she will look like his mother soon?" This was just too much. "My daughter is not interested in going this route?" I insisted, willing her to process this important piece of information. She exploded "Are you saying you posted her profile without her consent? You should be ashamed of yourself?" And with that, she had the last word and hung up! I was stunned.

Buying a place in London - July 2017

April 2017

I am in London, UK during the first week to help Uttara buy a place. Here, buying a home in the coveted zones 1 and 2, is a high art and science. Also you can be blindsided by many curveballs that come at you. Some of them knock you out senseless. So the whole process, which leaves you emotionally drained and shell shocked, starts on Rightmove.co.uk. All properties for sale are eventually listed there. I say, eventually, because many get sold as soon as they are listed and even before they get on Rightmove. So much the demand, and so scarce the supply of good properties.

This was an educational week involving some high drama. The back story is two deals had fallen through prior to this and we were cautioned - until the deed is transferred and money exchanged anything can happen. Until then, the only thing that holds the buyer and seller together is a tenuous sale deed and good intentions. No deposit. Nothing. If the buyer or seller changes their mind or has cold feet they can withdraw. As simple as that! So it calls for the equanimity of a Buddha, the strategic wits of a grand master in chess and an acute sixth sense to identify the stench of foul play mixed in with other intangibles such as if the agent and seller trust you and want to do a deal with you. Unlike in North America, in this place bullshit walks in the form of very polite talk. So what did it take for this deal to go through?! Well, you will find out soon.

So back to the search! The Rightmove site is quite good in that you can identify the postal codes to search by and outline the area. You can then search within that area based on several other criteria - freehold/leasehold, number of bedrooms and bathrooms, flat or house etc. Once you narrow your search down, you start the painstaking process of going through the link for each one. On the site, every house looks like the inside of Lakshmi Mittal's mansion near Kensington High Street. The size, the light, the works. But when you actually see the place you know the photographs were a magician's illusion.

We saw three properties the day I landed. They were pretty poky by North American standards, had bad odour, the layout was off and there was a rattle every time a train passed by one of them. Some were damp needing a lot of work. Pretty depressing. If the area was nicer, by postal code, the properties were awful for the price. That initial orientation to the property scene had the desired effect of considerably lowering my expectations.

We soldiered on knowing we were in the quest for a unicorn. I crammed in as many viewings as I could during my week long sojourn. Things got even worse as I ventured out on my own. One property was up eight flights of stairs. The flat was immaculate but I was not training for a marathon and my lungs were quite nice - thank you very much. I thanked the agent for the workout and beat a hasty retreat as soon as I had a vision of me hauling suitcases up those flights of stairs, every-time I visited. Another place was behind a busy alley in front of warehouses where at prescribed times there was pandemonium as wares were uploaded and offloaded. And mind you this shock to the nerves, at least twice a day for a couple of hours each time, did not come at a cheap price tag. And neither did the three story dungeon, which passed off as a house, justify its cost. The agent suggested that the property would appreciate when the warehouses were redeveloped into residential properties. When? In 20 years?!

In the next one, the layout was decent. It was quirky with the inside space flowing into a 3 feet by 3 feet solarium. However, the kitchen was pretty informal, almost an afterthought- with room enough just for a toy fridge. When I pointed this to the agent, he countered, without missing a beat, that there is room for a little freezer beside it. And he actually appeared serious. Years of practice dealing with people who cannot suspend their disbelief.

And then as though to prove there was a God, we were pointed in the direction of The House. It was a bit over her budget but by now, after all the excuses that passed off as viable properties, this seemed like a steal. We liked it. We made an offer. We held our breath for a whole day and a half, waiting for the other shoe to drop! Aha you have been pranked! But no, our offer was accepted. We could not believe it, actually. It was just too good to be true. Someone up there was mocking us with this cruel trick. And that thought almost came to pass with what happened the next day. Early in the morning, we went in to see the house once again, this time with another agent. She saw how much we wanted it. That piece of information is significant for what was to come next! That afternoon, not knowing what lay in store, quite smug and secure, we boarded a train for a weekend getaway in the beautiful English countryside where our friend's gorgeous country home beckoned. It was Friday afternoon. As soon we were comfortably seated, we got a call from the agent we had met that day. The network was shitty. We pieced together the dreaded words, "another offer is coming through and we are legally obligated to consider it." No!! Also, she would not tell us anything other than the amount was above our offer. This could not be happening! We felt like the bottom had dropped out and we were about to be swallowed into a sink hole, namely the dark abyss of a new search. I knew my nerves could not take that. So we upped our offer by a fair bit- after all it was just words, we could walk away. She said she would call us back with the final verdict in an hour. We rode the train in suspense, missing the beautiful views the magnificent English countryside had on offer, just staring at our phones, waiting for that ring. We reached in a couple of hours and and still no call. I then made the dreaded call. The other offer had come in at the same price she said, but the seller preferred to go with us. Which part of all this was true we will never know. But we had to now decide if we really wanted it at the new price. After a cost benefit analysis that took 30 seconds we decided to stick with it. After all we needed to do our part to act in good faith, even if others did not? How would commercial transactions ever take place otherwise?!

After April

Next came the protracted delays with the legal work. Everyone marched to their own drummer and timeline. There was no deposit and there were no requisition or closing dates as in Canada. We had to stay very Zen putting out intentions for the deal to go through smoothly and quickly. We truly had no control over outcomes only to our reactions to them. When we asked our lawyer if she could commit the seller to timelines she said it all depended on the seller’s purchase of his property and whether the people selling to him were buying and so on in an endless chain. With all these evasive responses, we were not convinced our purchase would be completed this year! Not only did everything move at the pace of molasses it all appeared very disjointed. For instance, the agents did not bother removing the "for sale" sign for over 2 weeks and only after we repeatedly questioned its dubious presence. Then the seller’s lawyer took off on vacation, soon to be followed by the seller. The Borough did not help matters taking its own sweet time with searches. Added to this was the complexity of the due diligence delays of the sellers' purchase of his property. Not just stars but whole universes had to align, it seemed. With no money exchanged between parties the only two parties interested in hastening the deal were our unencumbered daughter who was hard pressed to give notice to her landlord on her rental, and the mortgagor. Weeks went by excruciatingly slowly and major world events made London the cynosure of all eyes. Terrorist attacks and national elections to name just a couple. Such significant events had not occurred so close to each other in that city since the world wars! It felt to my selfish mind like the deal was being pressure tested every which way. Soon we gave each other high fives if one piece moved in one week. In the meantime we did not want any delays from our end and she hastily transferred money to the lawyers trust account, where it languished, earning interest for some unknown entity when it should have been building equity for us. I even resumed by meditation practice to maintain my composure!

During this time my husband and I travelled across continents always staying close to our computers to review documents and offer input. And then just like that one day, without too much notice, the contracts were exchanged on a Friday. Ironically our daughter was on a business trip that week and could not be reached by her lawyer precisely when her consent was needed! Then on the Monday, the deal was completed and she had the keys. In the end it all felt a little anticlimactic. All that anxiety through the three month long wait was for nothing? Was the drama all imagined? Truth is, the system did not inspire trust. Anyway, soon this much coveted house will be so taken for granted and become the new normal for our daughter who will go on to tackle and scale the next frontier.

Sharing some Canadiana

Canada’s 150th birthday evokes some fond memories of the land I have called home for exactly 30 years.

Some of my fondest memories of life in Canada are from the early days. This was when I divided my time between Toronto and Blind River, a little town of 3000 on the North Shore of Lake Huron. My husband moved there first to pursue a job at the Uranium Refinery, Cameco, while I completed my Masters in Toronto. Our daughter was with her grandparents in India.

I would take the Greyhound to visit him. While on the bus, I would sit by the window and stare out into the cold vastness of our new home and wonder about our decision to move here, abandoning the bustle of India and the East. I was still grappling with a new vocabulary that included snow squalls, black ice and freezing rain. Often, I would make conversation with fellow travelers and learn a little more about this land and it's polite and gentle folk. I met old women who lived by themselves and survived on frozen dinners and young folks who had not graduated school and were in dead-end construction jobs that did not get them a ticket outside of the Province let alone the country. On occasion, I would meet young folks who were grateful they had left their small towns but who travelled back for a dose of nostalgia. They would speak fondly about childhood experiences riding on a truck over the frozen lake and family trips into the bush when they snowshoed, hunted, trapped and ate wild game. I was always impressed by the sheer physicality of their life experiences in the great outdoors through long winters, and building barns, decks or even homes, laying tiles and hanging up drywall through the short summers. It appeared there was very little even those with no formal education could not do. I always enjoyed these conversations as it gave me insight into that part of Canadiana that I knew nothing about.
It was during these bus rides that I discovered cloyingly sweet butter tarts, licorice candy and corn puffs which I picked up at the pit stops and washed down with cold Sprite or luke warm bitter coffee, depending on the time of year. To this day these foods evoke fond memories of those early days getting to know a new country and it's people. Oddly, I allowed myself these indulgences only on those bus rides.

I was always excited to see my husband at the end of that 6 hour journey, which ended in Blind River around midnight. However the destination itself, being a sleepy small town with very little happening, was terribly anti-climactic. I would perk myself up with my plans to play house, cooking, cleaning and shopping at the local IGA while I was there. I would also forget about school and life outside this cocoon for the duration of my stay and just revel in the experience of being there with no purposeful action, just enjoyment of the isolation and the freedom to spend our time any way we chose. Given there was nowhere to go to in Blind River, we would drive for two hours to eat at a restaurant in a nearby town or to catch the train to go on the Algoma Trail. We would try our hand at cross country skiing in the backroad trails, swim in the waters of Lake Huron on warm summer days or try our hand at bowling. The key to our enjoyment was the absence of any agenda! Occasionally, Canadian friends would invite us over and go to great lengths to prepare us a vegetarian meal. Our friends Hal and Lise introduced us to scalloped potatoes, delicious homemade cheese pizzas with pineapple and interesting berry salads. On cold Saturday evenings we would pick up wedge fries at Wongs and watch videos, curled up under large comforters. We would watch Saturday night live and late night comedy and sleep in on Sundays. After washing down egg burji and toast with coffee on Sunday mornings, and if the cold did not freeze our tear drops, we would dress in layers and walk around town, making a trip to our cozy local library with its old books. We never found any book we were looking for but enjoyed the time browsing and hanging out as young kids of all ages cheerily researched and completed homework assignments. On these walks we would discover new side roads, admire the waterfront properties, discover tiny brooks or creeks and even parks with teeter totters and swings. We always marvelled at how house proud Canadians were, constantly working on projects to improve their homes and gardens, even in this remote corner of the country. In the winter, we would walk down to our local ice hockey arena and watch the kids skate as we drank hot chocolate, our warm breath forming shapes in the cold air. We had one movie theatre in town and would catch a late movie after.
My husband lived in a little apartment that first year and most of our neighbours were simple folks with working class roots - young single mothers barely in their teens, French Canadian construction workers who chain smoked outside showing off fit bodies in jeans and t-shirts no matter the outside temperature, and lonely old folks who appeared to have no visitors and who took a cab to go anywhere in that small town. I did not feel great envy for any of their lives and therefore no guilt over my own indulgences during these sojourns. It was only the fact that I had no timetable out of Blind River that caused me mild anxiety then.

Briefly after my Masters I lived in a basement apartment in Bloor West in Toronto. Oh how I enjoyed walking all over downtown, discovering its ethnic diversity. Then on to law school and the York University campus, where I met and mingled with some brilliant minds and learned a whole new way to approach life and learning. I became interested in grassroots work and for the past twenty years have worked building a social enterprise. I have sat at many tables alongside decision makers challenging the status quo and arguing for change. During this time I have met an incredible array of accomplished and courageous people from all over the world, each one with a unique story.
We have raised our daughter to love this country. She has learnt to play ice hockey, skate, ski, swim in the lakes and oceans, sail, kayak, hike, bike, camp and generally embrace our beautiful outdoors. She is also passionate about social justice.

What I love most about Canada is the fact that it has allowed me to maintain my cultural identity as an Indian. Fortuitously, in Toronto, where I live, there is such a proliferation of South Asian culture now that it is home away from home.
Every once in a while I think back to those early days when every experience was so unique and wonderful, when the four seasons held me spellbound and I feel immense gratitude over my accidental choice to make Canada my home!

Today's musings - June 28, 2017

Thought for today

We often wait for the perfect moment for everything, even though we know perfection is a mental projection. I remember when I was newly married I was so unaccomplished in the home making department that I was reluctant to invite people over. I could not get the house as immaculate as my neighbours and certainly had no culinary skills to speak of. I struggled trying to keep up with those who practised housekeeping and cooking as a fine art. So when a cousin of mine said they were in Singapore and planning to visit me in my little village in Malaysia I had some trepidation. But I was lonely, and so looked forward to seeing her and her husband. I rustled up a quick meal of pongal (rice cooked with lentils and spices) and a tamarind based stew (vettakozhambu) to go with it. I had yoghurt and pickles as well. We had a wonderful time together. They were famished and so ate well, chatted for a while and left. When I met them again on my previous visit to India, some 33 years later, she reminded me of that incident and told me it was a memorable meal and time for her.

We are often inhibited by our need to make a good impression and postpone writing that piece, making that speech, inviting people over or doing anything spontaneous. And yet that's our most beloved and authentic self. Those are the moments that people, whose lives we touch, cherish the most.

On the flip side, we want everything to happen when we believe the timing is right - for the perfect job, mate, deal, what have you. We order our lives with a checklist of "to dos" and when things don't go the way we want them to and we have no control over how we should make them happen, we falter and bemoan our unlucky lot. But when we think about it, we have pitted ourselves against - get this - our own selves in the form of our expectations or our image of a perfect life. Our life has become all about creating that perfect picture or image to the exclusion of all else. We know we are participating in an elaborate deception and our lives are not that image, but we helplessly persist. Maybe we should break free of these shackles and venture on that unknown path and make great discoveries. Few of us do.

And finally, no matter how well we manage our existence, life throws a kicker at us. I was reminded of this on my morning walk today. We have this adorable cocker spaniel that is brought for a walk by our neighbour. We stop to pet it always but do no more than exchange pleasantries with the owner. A man in his early seventies, ramrod straight and lean he has a gravelly voice and a Greek accent. He is the only person I have seen smoking on his walk up our hill! Anyway, we asked after his dog and found out that Dacker, the dog, is the only person his wife recognizes. I have seen her walking with him on previous occasions and remember her as being quite friendly and cheerful when we greeted her. Little did I know, she has Alzheimer's and does not even recognize her kids and their families - only that dog. The two of them had built a perfect life together, raised great kids who were successful, and then, out of nowhere, this kicker! Just when they thought they could retire, relax and travel. He is her caregiver and they don’t do much since she is not interested in and has no passion for, anything.

It was a reminder to me that life is lived through our perceptions and experiences and if there is no memory, there is nothing. On the other hand we can make those experiences rich and fulfilling by not wandering into regrets about the past or expectations about our future but being here, now, letting life unfold and by responding to each moment with joy and good cheer.

International Yoga Day 2017

The idea of international Day of Yoga was first proposed by the current Prime Minister of India, Mr. Narendra Modi during his speech at the United Nations General Assembly. When proposing 21 June, Mr. Modi said that the date was the longest day of the year in the northern hemisphere (shortest in the southern hemisphere) and had special significance in many parts of the world. The summer solstice marks the transition to Dakshinayana which is also considered a time when there is natural support for those pursuing spiritual practices. The resolution was sponsored by over 177 countries and we are in our third year of marking this day.

(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Yoga_Day)


Why do yoga? Why engage in spiritual pursuits?

We spend most of lives pursuing material wealth and sensual pleasures and soon find that the happiness they bring us is temporary. As soon as we get something we want, we seek out something else. However, our discontent continues. Soon we realize that we must take our mind away from objects and sense pleasures which we perceive as being outside us, and redirect our focus to our reactions to these perceived stimuli. Become a witness to our thoughts. Observe our habit patterns. Yoga in the form of asanas, pranayama and dhyana or meditation helps us focus inward and quietens our mind to bring it into a meditative state. We crave external stimuli less and less. We enjoy an elevation of our consciousness which we experience as contentment, peace, joy, well-being and a sense of unity. This unity comes from not being in a state of conflict with ourselves, between who we are and who we want to be, but from acceptance of everything exactly as it is.

But here, I am talking about yoga as it should be done – the traditional way as handed to us by our Gurus. Without effort or purpose. Not the yoga on steroids that we see practised by many commercial establishments. Yoga is not a fad. It is not about plush studios and lulu lemon tights. Although those are nice, they may bind us with thought associations of peaceful states and attachments to the material world. Success in the true yogic sense is to become egoless, to identify less with thoughts about the material aspects of the world, or with our individual identities and to experience our boundless nature. Yoga is about letting go and not holding on.

Yoga must be accessible to all and is possessed by none. Everyone can and should do yoga. It is universal, like prayer or chanting. In the truest sense yoga is not an end in itself. It may be the means to an end in a journey that is very personal.

Days, 2,3,4 - more Chennai experiences

Day 2

Had the obligatory pedicure at the nearby salon. I was tempted to have a facial but the steamer would not work. I realized this was the Universe's comment on the absurdity of my impulse given how much I was sweating! I love chatting up the girls who work hard on middle aged women's bodies, cajoling them with creams, potions, wax and sheer physical effort, to make us more presentable. I am always tickled when they pull out their range of skin lightening products and speak glowingly of the bright skin tone which will be our lot. I politely refuse, petrified of the harmful chemicals that would mutate my skin cells to make them lighter. India's fascination with light skin has spawned a multibillion dollar industry. The young girl who worked hard on my feet was from Bhutan. I searched in the deep recesses of my brain to come up with its capital city and asked if she was from Timpu? She was suitably impressed and answered in the affirmative. I was fascinated by it's status as the country with the highest levels of happiness. I had watched a movie taken by a Rinpoche called "Waiting for Heaven" set in its lush mountainous terrain. in the "magic realism" genre. There was a gentle strength and sincerity to this girl who had travelled far for her livelihood. She liked Chennai she said - heat and all. I tipped her handsomely and said I would be back before I left. Later in the evening, bearing sweets I visited 4 uncles and aunts. Their average age 85 years - 4 out of 5 live by themselves, and 2 do not even have outside help. I was happy to see them all healthy, sharp, mobile and more or less ailment free. It has to do, I am sure, with the weather, their diet and disciplined lives without any excesses.

Day 3

Went by in a blur. I decided to skip lunch as part of my observance of a fast. Not a great idea since I was hungry and tired from the 43 C temperature sapping me of what little energy I had. There was a sale of sarees at the temple and a mad rush to buy them. These had adorned the goddess just once and were now available at throwaway prices. Not to be outdone, my mom and I picked up three. Later that evening Suku and I had dinner with friends we have known all our lives. Our generous hosts tickled our palates with pickles from mangoes and limes grown in their lush garden, besides cooking up a variety of delicious mostly vegan eats- rice noodles with coconut, peas and coriander, steamed savoury rice cakes, veggies in coconut sauce and another in tomato sauce, pomegranate and peanut salad and rice with yoghurt, seasoned with mustard seeds and green chillies. For dessert we had frozen kulfi seasoned delicately with rose petals from their garden. Yum, especially following my day of fasting. I was now feasting. Nothing in moderation for me. Our conversation meandered until we ended up talking about what some amazing young folks are doing in India. One of our friends' kids has returned to Chennai after completing her PhD in Math from Columbia University in New York. She has since completed her post doc from the Math Science Institute here, has learnt to weave from local artisans, is learning to chant ancient Vedic mantras, all while working as a Math lecturer and teaching poor kids in the villages Math so they develop a love for it. Chennai is the heartland of all forms of art and culture and she has found her life's passion, to teach Math, in this place that she loves. How cool is that?! Another runs a popular online newspaper wholly financed through fundraising, on local issues that matter, simultaneously educating the public on electoral politics and encouraging civic engagement and activism. And on and on.

Day 4

I had my sister check out my teeth and took my niece out clothes shopping. We had coffee at a Starbucks. Yes there is one here!! It's odd how people, me included, will go for a brand in a city which prides itself on the quality of its world famous filter coffee. We were definitely not there for the coffee but for the Starbucks experience in our ancient city. The ambience is particularly unique since the city is still deliciously disconnected from the rest of all industrial advancement. So, sitting in a Starbucks cafe in Chennai is like stepping into the 21st Century while living in the 20th. Of course, a lot has changed with smart phones and Chennai's launch into the digital age. However, if you don't work here it still remains a throwback to a time long ago, where the thousand year old temples have throngs of ardent devotees, the street vendors and storefronts still ply their wares and time stretches at an infinity slow pace, punctuated by mealtimes when everything served is cooked from scratch! In the evening I checked out the local yoga studio, a testament to Chennai's growing modernity, to start classes soon. In the evening I helped prep veggies for an elaborate meal at home tomorrow! Bitter gourds, broad beans, cluster beans, banana tree bark, yams, sweet potatoes and cucumber for dishes which comprise 6 tastes (arusuvai) - sweet, sour, bitter, salty, astringent and pungent. Each has a function such as bringing joy (sweet), hydrating (salty), purifying blood (bitter), aiding digestion (astringent), purifying digestive tract (pungent) and stimulating hunger (sour). Our ancestors who brought Ayurveda to the world, had cracked the code on food as medicine, while not compromising taste and while actively engaging all our senses in the culinary experience. I will post the menu tomorrow!

My first day in Chennai

My first day in Chennai. I must have sweated a gallon of water. After each of my two showers I was soaked in sweat within seconds. This is not a bad thing if I stay hydrated. The brightness of the sun lifts up one's mood and everyone seems so optimistic, despite the discomfort. The traffic is heavy with everyone out in the streets enjoying their day off. Where do they all go? To the temples, the beach, amusement parks (nothing fancy), tourist stops and restaurants. The city has tourists who come here to see the ocean. There is so much on offer at temples that seniors congregate there in the evenings. Yesterday I was at the neighbourhood temple where a religious discourse on one of our ancient literary Tamil texts was in progress. The average age of audience members was 80. Which brings me to a little titbit, a lot of folks are chugging along in their 80s and 90s - a few even touching a 100. Talk about optimism - I was also stupefied by the accounts of my mother's companion, a woman who works outside, but stays with mom board free in a mutually beneficial arrangement, and her pursuit of her second year of a bachelor's degree in Tamil, through distance learning. She must be in her forties and yesterday she had travelled 2 hours each way via public transport to check out the test centre for her exam in 2 weeks. She said there were 55 of them who went out, several of them working class women pursuing a higher education with kids, full time jobs and mothers in law. Impressive!

There is a lot sickness, poverty and misery that is not immediately apparent, but there definitely is some truth to the maxim promoted by many doctors today "make life a little harder", given how well folks thrive, despite all the odds.

I ate mangoes from the in law's yard and wore a string of jasmine in my hair, from our own jasmine creeper, strung together by the help. I watched coconuts being plucked, peeled grated and added to spinach and enjoyed the pleasures of wonderful home cooking.

I spent the afternoon chatting with my sister who came over to mom's for lunch and we got caught up. I fed the brood of crows by my mom's kitchen / all of whom she spontaneously feeds and hydrates to help them cope with the heat. I went to the temple with her and at the altar a woman, another temple goer, approached me out of nowhere handed me flowers, fruits, betel leaf and nuts and said "may your auspicious wishes be granted. May you live long and happily married". (What can I say - patriarchy!) She had singled me out for this benevolence - I was touched. It was a good start to my stay here.

A cosmic connection

About 15 years ago I met a young man who had newly arrived in Canada. He was looking for a lawyer and someone introduced him to me. He was buying a house and asked if I could handle his real estate purchase. He was single and brought his parents, who were visiting, when he came over to sign documents at my home. In those days I straddled two careers, my job at MCIS and a sole practice out of my home. Very soft spoken and pleasant he was an emotionally balanced and low maintenance client. I still remember two things about him - he answered the phone with the short form of his name, which was the name of a feminine Hindu goddess. I was struck by the ease with which he identified himself with a woman's name! He also bought a house on a street which was named after the cosmos. He often called me for little things after that. But a year or so after that first encounter I did not hear from him again. His parents were in search of a suitable girl for him and even mentioned this to me. He had just one sister in the States and if he was married off, their life's work would be done, they said. The deal went through smoothly and his file like others languished among my archived files. I forgot about him until about 4 months ago. I often think about all the people who have passed through and continue to wonder what has become of them. I concluded he must have married and settled somewhere. In an exercise 6 months ago, deciding which files to keep, I had set his aside among the scan and discards. 15 years is a long time.

Then 4 months ago, a phone call from a man who identified himself as his dad. "Oh" I said, "I remember you well". In a flash, it all came back. He said "I am calling from California. My son died 2 weeks ago and I am helping his wife get his affairs in order." I was stunned. I had to sit down. So many thoughts went through my head. How is this dad able to think and act practically after such a great loss. A parallel thought was, he had been "persona non grata" till a minute ago and now the flood of memories brought out so many emotions pointing to the relative and contextual nature of all experience, in a purely Vedantic sense. Responding to my stunned silence, he continued "he had a flu and cough and called in sick on Monday because the cough had kept him awake Sunday night. We talked Monday morning, when he called me in India. A few minutes after the call he just fainted. My daughter in law called the ambulance but within half an hour in the hospital, he was gone. My daughter is a doctor, he had been in touch with her and there had been no cause for alarm. We really don't know what happened. You remember how we were looking for a girl to marry him off to? Well he got married soon after and has three children."

Fast forward to now. His wife has since been in touch as I help her navigate the system here. I have never met this girl but feel such deep compassion for her not only because of her circumstances but because of the nice person he was. Who knew the cosmos would connect us in this very strange way!

On the Red Light District in Amsterdam

I am in Amsterdam to attend a conference and my curiosity about the red light district is stoked by colleagues who have taken the tour. The city has been hailed as a success story for why weed and sex work should be legal. I joke to my husband " well in this society where sex work and weed are legal and people are still not happy they can choose assisted suicide and die, because that is legal too."

I consider myself a liberal and inclusive person. I probably should not have taken the tour given my views that follow - so I apologize in advance for my hypocrisy.

Anyway, more about the tour. The red light district as a historic relic came to be at its present location to serve sailors returning from months at sea, located as it is next to the then port. The port has now been replaced by the Centraal Station. However, the red light district continues at that location presumably to serve tourists.

We start our tour in front of a church in a cobblestone pathway. Hardly the setting for a red light district! There, on proud display, is a miniature Belle, the statue which represents the hard fought rights for sex workers to get the profession regulated and legalized in the year 2000. These rights cover web-camming and porn as well. Peep shows and live sex shows are on the decline given the abundant availability of porn on the internet. However, regulated does not mean decriminalized, as it is in New Zealand. What a novel idea! I will elaborate on why I think so.

In the heart of the district, Mariska Majoor the leader who spearheaded the fight for sex worker rights runs the Prostitution Information Centre (PIC) which also doubles as a coffee and cake shop. It is feminine a la out of a women's catalogue, just a tad seedier, and filled with books and pictures tracing the early history of sex work and offering information on rates for sexual services. It also serves as the location for the meetings of the sex workers' rights organization PROUD. Now that the profession can be operated with licenses and permits, sex workers have health checks and panic buttons to ensure their safety.

After our introduction to this heroic movement we walk the narrow alleys in this ancient neighbourhood, beside the famed canals. I am startled when we suddenly come upon a brothel display window with a woman posing behind it, and even more taken aback when we are led through the entry way of a residence which suddenly morphs into a brothel with rows of rooms that have curtains drawn open or shut, depending on whether or not a customer is visiting. We actually see a man come out of one of them. I find myself in this very personal space peering in like a voyeur. Try as I might, I cannot look away from the women, immaculately groomed in high stilettos and scanty clothes, though sufficiently covered. Their professional, "I mean business and I am bored" expressions are not seductive or alluring and at odds with their beckoning gestures with their hands, or with the jiggling of their ample bosoms and buttocks. They are definitely proud and picture perfect to the point of being robotic. They come in all sizes and colours, are all in great shape and well augmented. We are told the cabins with the blue lights are for transgendered women.

I am not quick to judge or moralize. Each to their own is my maxim. I am passionate about individual freedom and respect for the choices people make. But these brothel display windows do exploit and objectify women. I am not alone since I hear this is a polarizing issue.

Many say these girls choose to, so what? I draw the line where an individual's choice is self destructive. So just as I sway on the side of addiction treatment rather than harm reduction, I cannot condone and support women displaying their bodies as wares through windows. Especially where there is still stigma associated with sex work. I don't think it is healthy for them given we don't live in societies which normalize sex work - but which still choose to fetishize it. Does having a day care or residences beside these display windows normalize this behaviour ? Sadly - no. And while 50 Euros for 10 minutes is good income, they would need to see three customers in a 6 hour shift to break even with rental and other payments!!

At the moment these brothel windows are still an attraction - evidence the large number of tourists, and the vast array of restaurants, souvenir shops and stores selling sex paraphernalia all around the district. They serve to bring in customers. However, the bureaucratic red tape and pressure to gentrify the red light district are making sex work, and these brothels in general, less and less viable. When viability is an issue there is definite risk of trafficking, irrespective of whether sex work is legal or not.

Criminalization is not an option, given this is one of the oldest professions and will thrive underground if it remains unregulated, placing women at considerable risk of being trafficked and making criminals of them, even more than the johns they serve. I could even accept this whole enterprise of standing behind windows as objects on display, under the jarring red lights, and actively soliciting customers as an elaborate form of performance art. But I just cannot shake how disturbed I am that this red light district amplifies women's objectification in a profession still billed exclusively as women at the service of men. The liberal Dutch are quick to dissociate themselves from the district, swearing that it's not their women who work the district or their men who are johns. However, there is no disputing the tourism revenue that it brings in to Dutch society. And I definitely do not feel better about it when I am told the women in the red light district come from desperate lives in poorer neighbouring countries.

For all these reasons decriminalization a la New Zealand appears to be a better option. I don't think it will increase our collective depravity in any significant way and would simply mean money being exchanged for sex by consenting adults and no bureaucratic red tape. This may also mean less trafficking?!

Of course, where consent is absent or where children are not old enough to consent such behaviours would come under the purview of the criminal laws of the land?!

Don't think, do

On the radio this week, a young man recounted a gruelling experience from the Friday before. He was clearing snow and ice to make a roadway on one of Canada's large northern lakes which freeze over in the winter. Somewhere near Kenora, Ontario. The conditions were so harsh and tough that the plough attached to his truck broke off. So he abandoned the truck on the ice and came back the next day on a 9000 pound bobcat. The ice, he assumed, was 12 to 14 inches thick and therefore, safe. However, with global warming and the melting of the polar ice caps this is no longer a given. Alas in one spot it was just 7 inches and seeing through his window, the water rise, he knew he had broken through the ice. He could not open his door so he used his elbow to break open a glass and somehow got out only to hit the bottom of the lake through the hole on the frozen lake. At the bottom it was eerily quiet and pitch black. He did not panic. He remembered his grandfather telling him once that if he fell through he should look for colour which could represent a hole through the menacing ice. Unrelenting he powerfully swam vertically through the darkness and halfway up saw something yellow and moved towards it. Fortunately it was an opening and he made his way out. Meanwhile he had no jacket, just a sweatshirt, ski pants and boots on and it was -30C. Fortuitously, he had taken off his jacket when he fell through. He made his way to the road and no cars stopped. He understood, he says, because he is 6 feet three and must have looked menacing without cap or coat under those conditions. But some of the drivers of those cars had called out to the authorities for help for him.

When he finally made it home, he had a hot shower and did paperwork. Next day, his father checked the depth of the lake through the hole he had fallen and just shrugged his disbelief. 105 feet - 10 floors! He would not have made it, he says, if it had been 120 feet. He had been 30 seconds away from death. He was asked “How did you get through the ordeal? Did you not panic?” His response, “There was no time to think or to panic.” And when asked if he was afraid this could happen again? He said, he had a job to do and this came with the territory! Meanwhile, he has lost part of one ear due to frostbite and also blown one ear drum. But he only saw a doctor a few days later, and was back on the ice doing his job the following Monday - business as usual!

Life lesson: Don’t think, do!

The isolation of seniors

Over the weekend we had a physician friend over for lunch. He had worked on call and was coming straight from the hospital, I thought. Wrong. He had made a couple of stops. To look in on patients who were just too ill to get out in this cold winter weather. One patient was in chronic pain. Both were seniors. I marvelled at his compassion, since this is not something he was expected to do. When I asked him how or what he could do to possibly help them, he casually said “TLC”. We could all use some but they needed it more than most. I thanked him for his compassion. Most are not so lucky. A recent study done in the UK has found that over 1 million seniors have no contact with anyone at all during an average week. I am sure the statistics are similar for Canada. We all know how isolation and mental health are closely linked and how increased ill health and mortality are related to depression. There are a number of programs available that people are not aware of or do not have the means to get to. A close friend’s dad who is over 90 uses his scooter to get to the Senior’s Club most days, unless the weather is really bad. Yes, this country will provide a senior with a scooter to help them with mobility. Some Community/Seniors’ Centres run weekly programs and will pick up folks at their homes. There is always WheelTrans. Even a weekly phone call to check in on a senior helps. All of us know someone who is getting on in years and may be living alone. Let us make the effort to reach out and check in, if not anything else. A little goes a long way.
The problem is particularly acute among immigrant seniors who have further barriers to access due to language. If you know of senior folks who need assistance with interpretation, please let them know about MCIS. We have some funds to offer free services in such situations.

http://www.campaigntoendloneliness.org/loneliness-research/