Finding the Heaven

Who has not found the Heaven — below —
Will fail of it above.
- Emily Dickinson

I saw those waves splashing against stones with force that could not have been imagined. Driblets were distributed in space. I tried to find a face in those bantam drops. A face that lives amidst the silence of pleaching waves. It is a game of hide-and-seek.

Hide! Hide! I stood for a long time.

Seek! Seek! I stood for a long time until a sparge of dribs caressed my skin. When they diffused and dried up, I heard the sea chuckled.

It is a game of glide-and-eek.
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When Light Enhances Darkness ...

A dark room always invoke an inexplicable state of feeling that something is going to happen. I might call it curiosity. But is it that? The objects in the dark room are invisible. A death lurking in that darkness is certainly invisible. Invisibility gives invincibility. Death is anyway invisible even during the day. Death would be invisible for years. The moment it shows its face, it no longer evokes fear. Fear becomes fact.

I met a cheerful girl nearly two decades ago. She came to the bus-stand to receive me in the city of Ananda. Before my friend introduced me to her, she started talking about many things that included physics, food, books, and films. During the next five days, we, three of us, had many occasions to discuss whatever we like. That was a luxury. I cannot do that now. People are so busy in their lives, it is difficult for them to listen to something outside their interests. Time just flew then without leaving any scar but making every moment magical. When I had to return back, it was quite tough for me to let go of those moments. Those are magical moments. They could fly away without actually leaving you.

I got a letter from that cheerful and innocent girl after a few days. I replied immediately. I got her reply after a couple of days. Those days were days of post-cards. I think I still have some of those post-cards she had then written, somewhere in my dark room. As it always happens, our correspondence became less frequent. Almost stopped after six months.

I met her again few years back. Thanks to my friend (yes, the same friend who came before) who tried hard to find me again - yes, we too had lost the thread. How we got lost and found each other in contact again is a story in itself which I have to record it sometime. Loss never stays. Loss never stays forever. I met him again in the city of Malgudi. When I went to meet him, I met her there again. The same cheerful, innocent, and divine face after all those storms life bestowed on her. Being cheerful is not necessarily being in cheerfulness. She welcomed me with her kids. I met her mother, father, and met everyone I had met two decades ago. Magical moments again.

Life had to go on. It goes on. When I went to my friend's house, in the city of Ice House, a few months after those Malgudi days, I spoke to her over the phone. She was then in United States. The voice sounded a bit tired but the cheer in the spirits was there.

Death is invisible. Invisibility invokes invincibility. It struck her from behind. She had back-ache. It went into her blood. The cruel hands of death silently reached the source. They created beautiful patterns at micro-levels without bothering about its brutal effects at macro-levels. She is no more. Our hearts blame the higher powers. Our hearts are now full of doubts befriended by questions that have no answers.

When death makes itself visible, it becomes more invincible than before. Our minds and hearts are left alone to search for something that gives meaning for this seemingly meaningless life that flows forever and more.

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After a long gap ...

I am posting this after a long gap. Hope no one missed my posts. I did not post the things I had written due to connectivity problems, unwillingness, and various other reasons. Those problems still exist. I could see the grin on my well-wishers' expressive faces which would form a crescent only if all those countenances are placed next to each other. Ugh... Guh... Uhg... Hug... I will slowly initiate my postings again; will nudge my posts here and there to enter the world of web.

Hug. Hug. Hug the post. There comes Capra with Jiddu Krishnamurti.

Seaside Riffles - 1

Those buildings seem to be quite close. You cannot walk directly. There is sea between you and the concrete. You can reach there only through a necklace-curvature that turns away and then turns in, thus increasing the span. Those buildings are not close. They are quite far. The sea between us hides the depth of chasm. The curvature hides the drift. No, those buildings are too far. Some hearts and minds are also like these in creating the effects of far-yet-close and close-but-far. The tragedy of the reality is the danger of not being able to see the abyss and the curved relationship. But the breeze, that touches those buildings, now flows through me. The breeze, which comes from the other part of sea, brings me freshness and joy that transcends the deep sea and the curvature. The cool and divine morning air is just good enough to create a feel that forms a bridge with me as a bead.

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Waves whisper

Waves are today more active. I could hear them speaking with rocks. There are high-rise buildings on the other side which can only see those waves from a distance – just like me. When I sat here for the first time, I was moved by the misty air that had encompassed the buildings, sea, people, cars, buses, etc. Water had been still then. No conversation was there between the rocks and waves. But today is a different day. They are talking. I could hear their whispers. Imagine you have a big sack of rice. You open it and turn upside down on a floor. You hear some sound, right? Waves and rocks are whispering similarly. Once in two minutes. I had to first concentrate to hear their whispers amidst the sound of honks and chats. No. I need not concentrate. Whispers come from this side just like how the noise comes from the other side. The pleasant of those two touch my heart. Whispers. A pair of lovers sits on this side – immersed in their world. An old man in rags is lying. A girl talks loudly to her mother. Few dogs bark at other roaming dogs. Few dogs bark at a small girl with no clothes. Waves still talk to the rocks – wetting them with their words. I have to leave now. When I am about to get up, it suddenly dawns on me - waves are trying to talk to me. Ah! How could I have missed this! Observation too often leads to distraction and inattention. I sit again. Waves tell me the stories of abyss where human existence, survival and extinction become the sound produced by a single rice grain in the turned sack full of rice. They now ask me to get up and leave. I just follow their words.

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This is Lakshman ...

Here is the photograph of Lakshman.

I have been trying to get a photo with his trademark smile but could not obtain. You can still see a smile in his eyes. Please read these posts, to find out a bit more about Lakshman and his tragic end, written by Guru, Abi, and Shencottah.

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Serve with a Smile from Heart

Sincere smile in itself is heart-transforming. When people serve food with hearty smile, there are only few other things that can match it in its strength, intensity, and power to transform.

Lakshman is one of them. He works in A-Mess at Indian Institute of Science. His smile is not a customary smile you get to see in some restaurants. He really smiles. If you are not in a hurry, you can feel that his smile is not on his face. It is from his heart.

When he serves from the buffet place, I am sure everyone eats more happily. If you tell him, "enough". He says, "Crispy Dosa, Sir. Take two more." You cannot refuse. You take at least one.

When your turn comes, you see only two idlies on the plate. Two cold idlies. You have to tell some people to bring the new batch of hot idlies. But with Lakshman, even if you are about to take those two idlies because you have to keep up your appointment with someone, he does not allow you to take those. He rather tells, "Just a minute, Sir. Hot idlies are coming." He goes inside to serve us with hot idlies.

Thanks Lakshman for those smiling servings. Lakshman is no more. Mogadalai's tribute is here. He died in a van accident. His wife and daughter died too.

Why did not I write about his smile-and-serve when he was alive? Why did the loss of that initiate this blog-post? Is it because we will know the value of some only when we lose them?

Death is a powerful heart-transformer just like the smile of Lakshman.

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Chessy Masala Dosa and Stretchy Mangalooru Bajji

I am following the World Chess Championship 2007 in spite of confusing rules of FIDE to determine the next world champion. Anand and others say the format is biased and designed to suit Russian (Kramnik) and Bulgarian (Topalov) lobbies. Anand also says that he does not want to dip inside the muddled waters of FIDE politics. He rather concentrates on chess matches. So far so good. When you follow a chess match, you have to participate in the process. Imagine watching a live chess match without any thoughts. It is not possible. You have to think about it. But if you think it is as good as you are playing. Not like other sports where you can watch live without doing anything that is connected with those sports. I watched Yuvraj's six sixers. But I did not feel the physical effort involved in that power hitting - meaning there is no pain or strain on my shoulders. Leave the mental efforts alone.

Now what am I writing...

I am supposed to write about masala dosa and mangalooru bajji.

Where is the link?

The link is the Janatha Hotel, 8th cross, Malleswaram, Bangalore.

I am sitting here in the hotel and thinking about what are the differences between watching chess live and watching other sports like cricket, hockey, football, etc live.

I am waiting for my masala dosa. It is surprising. Surprising to see people wait outside the hotel. You think there is no surprise about that as far Janatha Hotel is concerned? Surprising to see people wait outside when the hotel is closed. Ah! that's something, isn't it?

The hotel opens at 4pm. People wait from 3:30pm.

People?

A husband, A wife, and their small girl who asks sambar for Masala dosa which is not given at the hotel. Pay extra for extra sambar.

Two ladies with newly bought something.

Two girls who swallow mangalooru bajjis as fast as they send SMS.

An old man who sips coffee and thinks about good old days.

A girl who is carrying and is thinking possibly about the kid that is shaping up.

Two grandmothers with their grand-daughters eating some sweets which are possibly banned at home.

All these people are united. United to taste the time-tested Janata servings.

And what am I doing now? I am supposed to think about differences between watching a chess match and a cricket game. But here I am. Sitting and watching Janata's Janata.

Masala Dosa emerges just in front of me. Crispy and slightly sticky too. Pudina leaves are floating on the chutney. The chutney seems to be watery but it is not. You just dip your finger to feel the solid sediments of chutney.

I unroll the dosa to see the beauty of potato masala and grey chutney talking to each other on the crispy grass of masala dosa. I envy them. What is better than discussing chess with potato masala?

Small piece of dosa along with solid sediments of white chutney rolled together and meet their destiny in my mouth. I am watching ...

Chess is such a beautiful game that you do not mind losing yourself. Not just losing yourself but getting lost. I still remember a chess game I played with my friend in Tambaram bus stand. Without a board. How?

e4
e5
Nf3
Nf6

We played and pushed the game to its middle. We then found it quite difficult to analyse the position without board. Board is the substratum. Just like our experiences with relationships are to understand ourselves.

Where am I?

Who has eaten my Masala Dosa?

I must have achieved that in no time - much faster than how Anand plays a double knight Ruy Lopez variation.

Some say - Do not play Catalan against Kramnik. Sicilian against Kasparov, etc. But I play Mangalooru Bajji next.

Four small balls come. Elastic balls. Quite hot. Quite crispy. When I went to Mangalooru I asked Mangalooru bajji. They brought something quite different. I thought this is similar to how Hosur road, somewhere in its path, transforms itself to Bengalooru Road.

The small girl sitting opposite does not want to come out. The mother insists. But the girl moves between the table and the bench. The girl is quite happy with the masala dosa.

I am also happy with my dosa and bajjis. What next?

What will happen to this blog? How do I want to continue this? Chess statistics? Personal rants? Why I have to continue this? What is the big deal in saying I maintain a blog?

Hahahahhaa.....Hahahahhh.....

Two old men are laughing loudly.

Where are we?

Did I write "why I have to continue this blog"? No. It can't be true. Did I write that?

Masala Dosa is nice. Bajji is good. Something is still incomplete. Feeling of incompletion and feeling of something more might have created those words. Not me.

This is the right time to drink Janata Coffee.

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Expression of Beauty

It was a classroom. The sixth standard classroom. The mathematics teacher was strolling. From left to right. After few cycles, from front to back. He had given an exercise to the students. Two, in fact. One was an algebra problem and the other was a geometrical construction. The eyes of the students were showing the signs of fear, excitement, joy, tension, wonder, etc. depending upon the mind to which they belonged. But the teacher was ruthless.

If he saw something silly, he would stop and give a special treatment of impulse-strike, aided by his strong knuckles, on the head. He was sincere in trying to explain things. You had to tell him that you did not understand. He would explain. Again tell him that you did not understand. He would explain. Again tell him that you did not understand. He was quite patient. He would explain again. Explain again and again. Tell him you had understood and do a simple and silly mistake. You would then know what others were always saying - that he was a good volley-ball player. The only thing was the hit would leave a mark on your head.

He was interested in answers as well as how it was written (algebra) and drawn (geometry construction). The line that comes between numerator and denominator would often become a line that brings you either good pat or hit. The circles and lines should be circles and lines of same thickness. If you were going to draw a line second time to get good impression, you better do it for that line completely. If some portion of the line had more strokes than the other, the stroke you left would emerge on your head or palm.

Once a parent came and asked him in front of us, why did he reduce some marks though their son had correctly constructed the geometrical object. He said,

"Mathematics is a beautiful subject. When you write about such a beautiful subject, there is no place for any ugliness there. Whether you write or talk or communicate or learn, you have to do justice to the beauty of the content. You have to discipline yourself to appreciate the subject. Just knowing how to construct will not do. It is not enough for me."

That was Chandran Sir.

I did not understand completely then. That was the age where you would associate beauty to visuals and sounds; not to few symbols and their meanings. Those words and their contents have grown along various directions over a period of time destroying the artificial markings of human exploration. They go beyond subjects and ideas. Stressing the importance of how you could express something beautiful in a beautiful manner is such a wonderful feeling to pass it on to the next generation.

I liked him then. I like him now.

Happy Teachers' day.

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Polyphase

It is dark. Darkness. Am I sleeping? I do not think so. My eyes are wide open. I try to close my eyes to check if they are open. Palpebras squeeze darkness into my eyes. I again open my eyes. Darkness spreads loneliness. I move my hand to see what is around. I cannot stretch hands to full. Confinement of the mind is sin. It arrests growth. But it sustains strength. Till death, that is.

Again I move my hands to touch the roof. Slowly. Slowly. Touch. I withdraw my hands immediately. A messy substance sticks to my nail. What is it? It is dark. Darkness everywhere. I can hear some sounds as if a river flows. As if there is a waterfall. As if someone walks. As if someone dances. As if someone cries. I sharply listen to my surroundings. Where am I? The sound of darkness is the greatest of all burdens. Listen. Sound of darkness travels fast in the medium of loneliness. Faster if fear is present. The presence can be felt. The presence of fear can be smelt. It smells like the sole of a new born baby. It also smells like the petals of fresh flowers that are just bloomed. What is the smell of darkness? Is it… It is.

I am struggling in the dark. I never knew that darkness has a face. I know now. Darkness has a face that smells. Someone pushes me down. Oh! I have been caught. Caught in the stream of existence. Caught. Caught. Naught. My face is facing down. Trying to lift my head. I cannot. I want to get up. I cannot. I can only move my tongue. Tongue licks the ground. Tongue tastes the taste of darkness. How to go out? Wait. Waiting is over. How to go out? Wait. Waiting is over. How to go out? Out of darkness. Out of pain. Out of pain that comes after pleasure. Out of pleasure that comes behind pain. Someone shouts at me. Someone pushes me.

The face of darkness is everywhere. There is light. But it fades now. How about going there? There is light. But it fades now. There is light. It hurts. Am I waiting for something that will hurt me eventually? I am not sure if this is called waiting. Living cannot be put inside the box of waiting. Living is life. Waiting is death. But dying is to face the darkness through darkness. I move my hands. I move my legs. It is dark everywhere. I feel for the first time that there is something with me. Something that cannot go away. Confinement is sin. I open my heart. A cool breeze that soothes.

It is still dark. I taste the sands of time. I taste the heat of fire. I hear the sound of cries. And I have to sleep now. Eternity blows the conch. The vibration that shakes my heart is the first step. I have to sleep now. Eternity blows the conch to make a seed out of me. To create flowers is to live like flowers. It starts drizzling. To create is to live. It starts raining. I lift my head. It is pouring. It is pouring in the dark. Pouring out.

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ગમતાનો કરીએ ગુલાલ - गमतानो करीए गुलाल

ગમતું ગુંજે ન બાંધીએ, ગમતાનો કરીએ ગુલાલ

गमतुं गुंजे न बांधीए, गमतानो करीए गुलाल

gamtuM guMje na baaMdhIe, gamtaano karIe gulaal

ગમતું, गमतुं, gamtuM : What we like, What we care, What we are fond of, What we cherish, What we are pleased with, etc.

ગુંજે, गुंजे, guMje : a sort of pocket, a small pouch, any small and enclosed space, etc.

ન બાંધીએ, न बांधीए, na baaMdhIe : do not keep it secret, do not bind it to a small space, do not hide it, do not keep it a closed space, do not put it in a suffocating binding, etc.

ગમતાનો, गमतानो, gamtaano : That which we like, That which we care, That which we are fond of, That which we cherish, That which we are pleased with, etc.

કરીએ ગુલાલ, करीए गुलाल, karIe gulaal : Let us spread them like we spread and share fragrant colours during Holi, Let us spread and share them happily like we do during Holi, Let us share them with affection as we share joy during Holi, etc.

Let us not be the reason for slavery of goodness. Let us free them from our petty confinement and color the world in red-goodness, blue-goodness, green-goodness, etc. Let us bring the rainbow to our hearts.

Sharing is one of the fundamental attributes of inner compassion. To share something is to state that the partaker is as important as partaking. It is nothing to do with the thought of getting something in future. Nothing to do with it being an outcome of the past benefits accrued. To share is to live. It does not go into the future. Things that go to the future await death at the end. Sharing that comes at the end of series of convenient actions culminates in the deep pit of death. Inner compassion does not differentiate between sorrow and joy. It does not want to hold on. It does not want to give it away. It does want to share. To share is like standing beneath the falls. It washes away both sorrow and joy. When sorrow is shared, sorrow ceases to raise its head. When joy is shared, joy ceases to dance with crippled legs. Sharing puts sorrow and joy in their place; in their native state which is non-existent. When sorrow is removed, it brings happiness. When joy is erased, it brings fear. But.. But.. Sharing is an alchemist. A transformer. When sharing happens, though it removes sorrow and joy, it opens up path for the river to flow. The river of life. It opens up the flower. To prepare for the bloom. It brings dark clouds. To cool the dry earth. It mixes the color. To spread all over the Life. Not to share is to prepare ourselves for a destructive brisance. Not to share is stopping the flow of life. Not to share is dying with the mask of living. Making everything black so that eyes cannot see. No light for the soul to saunter. To share is the natural state of life. It is the only state of life. To share is to invoke the inner compassion outside.

Let us ...

ગમતાનો કરીએ ગુલાલ

गमतानो करीए गुलाल

gamtaano kariye gulaal

PS: Thanks Chetan - for bringing this Gujarati proverb to my attention; and for explaining patiently.

A stirring in the heart

I was walking slowly under the hot sun. Not many people were around. Leaves were too bright in the light. My feet could feel the heat of the earth on the footwear. My footwear could feel the heat below and the weight above. I saw a playground. There was a school next to it. The school was small. It was not a convent. Though boys and girls were in school uniform, one could immediately sense their financial background. Small boys and girls were sitting in different groups under the shadow of the trees that were lined up by the side. Some were talking aloud. Some were silently having lunch. Some were playing. Very noisy but not a disturbing one. The sky was very clear. There was only one group of thin clouds, very far, moving slowly like me. They were looking for cool shades to rest. A single crow moved very swiftly from one tree to the next one. Some leaves fluttered because of this. Someone might have disturbed its rest there.

It was a hot lazy afternoon.

I was just walking. Suddenly I noticed that I was not thinking anything. My thoughts were also taking rest. Heart was also, like a calm river, flowing from inside to outside spreading itself all over. I was walking effortlessly. I saw two school girls walking in front of me. Our walking pace was almost uniform that the distance was same. It was close enough that I could overhear them. They were walking without speaking to each other. Looked like it would be like that forever. One of them turned back to see something or someone. Her face was round and she had very expressive eyes. I thought her eyes were more mature than her face. But why did those eyes have few drops of tears? There was a slight disturbance in that calm river. Small ripples were formed by the fall of those small drops of tears. Tears borne out of pain were getting dissolved in that river. Heart was taking everything in its flow. Suddenly, the girl said to her friend,"My father beat my mother yesterday."

There was a silence. A meaningful silence.

The girl now asked,"Have you seen your father beating your mother?"

The other girl with a heavy heart said,"mm..I have seen."

"I feel like crying when I think of my mother."

"me too."

"must be painful for her?"

"mm.."

Ripples grew into huge waves. Nothing was calm anymore. Why these small innocent girls had to discuss such things? What a hurt these young hearts were burdened with!

At a distance, one flower was falling. All of us noticed that.

One girl said to the other,"I will catch that."

But the other said,"No, I will catch. It's for me."

I saw them running ahead. The flower was moving down spiralling its way. Both of them tried to catch it. But the flower did not yield to their efforts and fell on the ground majestically. Did it smile at us? The girls laughed heartily for their failure. My heart, like a calm river, rejoiced in their laughter.

Fondness

We have different reasons for our likes and dislikes. Who cares whether those reasons are right or wrong? The fact 'we feel so' is the beginning of so many 'reasons' with which we act. A friend of mine once told me,"The corner grocery shop is the best one."
I said,"Things are expensive there."
"But things are of good quality."
"The same quality stuff costs much lesser in the other shop."
"No.No. Whatever it is, the corner shop is the best."
"...."
My friend added,"We have been buying there for decades. I still remember those days - The days when I go with my father with a small bag in my hand and carry things back with joy. Holding a bag, full of groceries, itself is a joy. A joy of growing older! Going with my father has continued for a long time. The corner grocery shop brings those memories often.."
His father is no more. I know he is not just talking about the grocery shop and its quality. He has now a daughter. I have seen them going to that corner shop together. And I have also seen the cute little girl carrying a small bag with few brinjals and carrots. With a pride on her face, she has a smile for me whenever we meet near the corner shop.