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.