In India, like anywhere else, nothing is...

Ever exactly as it seems. Once the downpour abated, I decided to take a walk around the neighborhood, and while at it, get a much appreciated 10Rs coffee to alleviate the effects of high humidity indexes and jet lag. I, once again, walked past the same homeless group - a large sort of family blessed with many little ones. These were the people I had noticed the night before at the same spot. At the time they’d been asleep, the night sky their roof, and the sidewalk their mattress.

This time the adults, mostly women, were seated cross-legged surrounded by a half-dozen playful naked children. They were laughing, seemingly happy, comfortable in their skin. Catching me observing them, one of them smiled, a broad smile, a beautiful smile, generous and real, free from any hint of unease or embarrassment.

I suddenly realized that since my arrival to Chennai, and despite the looks of things, what with Poverty and Squalor having claimed the streets, I’d only been accosted by a couple of beggars, which is pretty incredible if I were to compare this experience with let‘s say Puthaparti, where Sai Sathya Baba, Great living Avatar, god in the flesh, dwells physically, a divine being in a wheel chair, completely helpless when it comes to fighting poverty. Thus, whenever one steps out of the heavily guarded ashram -a city of its own, the whole main street seems to turn to a begging affair, with teary eyed children masterful of the art of grabbing your hand, with a tender firmness that is just impossible to shake off, unless one does the right thing and gives in -of course. Then, comes permanently bent from the waist elders, followed by a few wandering lepers, and if that is not enough, then there are also the random healthy looking middle aged adults with nothing better to do…

Here in Chennai, things are different. The homeless don’t necessarily raise an open palm to receive charity. No, they’re just doing their thing which is mainly sitting on the sidewalk, overseeing their little ones, waiting for something. As for what that something might be, I finally found out, after much observation, or field work as some might call it. What’s obvious, after one starts paying attention, is that the homeless have, besides a cell-phone, which I have to admit isn’t an anomaly in this part of the world- some sort of work to do. And the work as for this very specific group of gypsies is the servicing of all those little shops that are butted one against the other from one corner of a block or two to the other side. Mainly, they do washing, cleaning, and whatever out-sourceble job there is to do. Voila.

Of course, this isn’t an isolated case. No. Along the same stretch of busy road, women, mostly women, sitting cross-legged, are busy at work, making baskets of straw, cutting bamboo into even strips of wood, for who knows what purpose, before gathering the strips into a heavy bundle they will carry with confidence, to who knows where, on their heads, as if it were a bag of feathers -Meanwhile, I continue to complain about the weight of the ’stuff’ I carry in my backpacks because I couldn’t do without, what with having a long way to go to just to learn to be comfortable without material stuff.

Comfort and happiness are a state of mind. The poor in India, as lacking in bare necessities as defined by more fortunate cultures, might just be a great deal happier and more in peace with themselves, then many citizens of our so-called developed, or as some used to refer to them, first world, countries. The more I look and pay attention, the more I can see how grounded in reality the poor of Chennai are. Comfortable with less than what I might call the basics, they are completely at peace with their lot. Moment by moment, borrowing from the jargon of those who read books with tittles such as ‘Rich Dad, Poor Dad‘, they industriously choose to ‘turn lemons into lemonade.’ Nothing is wasted. Everything is used, and reused. Everything can be, and will be, turned into a Rupee or ten.

Meanwhile, I am wandering about, sort of procrastinating, sort of bidding my time, sort of dejected by the way this world is turning, weighed down by global issues I feel pretty helpless about, shackled by that lack of direction that is affecting my stride. Some might say, I suffer from having been spoiled by too much useless knowledge. Others might go with my having been spoiled rotten, period. Whichever the case, there is a choice to be made, at each and every moment of our lives. The past doesn’t necessarily dictate our future. The present is always an opportunity to start anew, and fully participate in life rather than just react. And while wallowing in oh-poor-me episodes is a pretty valid, and let us just be honest here, popular choice of reaction, I say how about, trying something more original and daring, like you know, grabbing life from the waist and aiming for the most incredible tango performance of one’s lifetime. Day after day. Moment after moment. Wouldn’t that be something worth the try?

Be well and if you’re as confused as this writer here, consider choosing a different frame of reference -surely, he’s looking into it.

In the now, ready to find my way

Inadvertently misbehaving at the temple…

Walked into one of the Kapaleeshawarar temple‘s secondary entrances, barefoot, holding an offering of white flowers. People around me are moving assertively. I follow circumambulators around one of the central square buildings. I’m taking pictures, later I’ll notice a sign that clearly prohibits picture taking, at least of the deities

This is a Shiva temple, where a confluence of deities await their worshipers with stoic composure, for after all they are as still as the most inanimate of objects, while priests busy themselves with sacred verses, performing pujas, bestowing blessings on every devout visitor available to receive.

I stop to get my share, thinking of those I love, of those I miss. I receive flowers with my right hand, ashes on my forehead. I enter grounds I will later find out I was not supposed to enter -being non-Hindu. Inside, I follow those who seem to know the way, from dark room to dark room, from hallway to hallway, from line of deities to line of deities, from altar to altar.

Along the way, I bow for Darkshinamurthy, hands held together, fingers extended, feeling that it is the right thing to do. A few steps ahead, there is another puja. I linger on. A younger priest, carrying something mushy I cannot make. By hand, I am given some sort of paste to eat, gestures the man in charge of washing SelvaGamapathy. The priests don’t seem to mind. Rain is a pouring, flooding the square, washing everything.

I leave in the rain, feeling blessed, for this downpour that has inundated the streets that will lead me back to the bus stop. The smell of urine is strong. The murkiness is ankle high. I’ve been splashed a few times. I feel soiled. I feel blessed. These two, seem to go hand-in-hand in these parts. I’m eager to get back to the guesthouse, where the shower awaits. But, before I can get there, there is Krishnamurty’s temple, where a different sort of puja is scheduled to begin… If I time it right, if I can find my way back, what with the bus system being a complex affair run as if in accordance with chaos theory’s core principles, I’ll get to hit the internet shop just in time to check my emails and make a few indispensable Skype phone calls.

Be well, and if you feel like it, keep in touch.

Under a rain that won't stop

P.S: the statue is that of Vivekananda -the wondering monk

What one sees in Chennai...

9:30pm Chennai. I just walked out of the internet shop. 15Rs per hour. The connection was poor, but I’d gotten my hour’s worth. A few steps from the building’s entrance, I reach an intersection. A child, no older than 15 months is lying on the sidewalk, actually on the cement lid of a gutter hole, poorly wrapped in a torn into shreds sort of blanket. For a second, I stand above her, unable to move, unable to help, unable to take a picture. The girl’s eyes are closed. Her face is covered with soot and boogers. Her head is turned to the side. I can see a tiny foot and a tiny arm. This I know shouldn’t be, but it is. It is in more places than we’d like to acknowledge.

I reach for the camera, but feel rather uneasy about a direct shot. So, I take a few steps away from the street corner, pass a small group of homeless folks, an old woman seated cross-legged, a few children, ages between three and five, and two more shapes, one covered by a blanket, all clearly asleep on the sidewalk. I steal a picture to share this moment. You can see them, poor and homeless, the adults and the little girl, who couldn’t be older than 15 months.

I steal a picture because somehow the whole experience puts life into a different perspective from my ego-self-centered-usual-vintage point. Suddenly, I wonder what it was I was complaining about. Suddenly, I wonder what it is I am after. I wonder what it is I am sacrificing, what it is have been complaining about…

Mind you, this isn’t pity. We all have our trials to go through. And a roof above one’s head doesn’t equal peace of mind. There is sadness in me. There is disappointment in me. Sooner or later they will have to be faced, again. Sooner, reality has to be accepted, -again, and life has to be lived -again, as it is, truthfully, and with unwavering integrity -otherwise, why even bother?

Be well, count your blessings, and make sure to follow your heart.

Skipping a few stops...

I move right past New York, Frankfurt, Dubai, Delhi, and jump right in the crux of Tamil Nadu's big one, Chennai. Big and dirty, dirty but warm, warm but humid, a place where my lungs are feeling pretty challenged, after a nice little stroll by the big Wahajah Mosque and the beach, for it is, somewhere in between these two landmarks, that my guest-house of choice for this evening has its weirdly complicated elevator running its vertical course.

Otherwise, there are too many schoolkids around, way too many, and they're very excited to see a long-haired fellow with a backpack wandering through their turf -nice kids though, so what can I possibly complain about. No, life is rather complex, and I am trying to make some sense out of it, by following a most ingenious program of getting lost and uber-stimulated and even-more-so challenged by India and its abundance of complexities and effervescence of testing experiences. Yes, such is my plan, fighting fire with fire, figuratively speaking of course, or if I were to be more accurate, confusion with uber-confusion.

Does it work? Well, that's for time to decide. As for us, what else can we do but try and participate in these uncertain processes that form the fabric of this very life we are attempting to reclaim, or at least, reconnect with. Meanwhile, time is fleeting, and love is the only antidote to the madness that is intrinsically part of the 'We' that is us.

Be well, and if you can really feel something, from your heart, then you're really ahead of the masses that have forgotten how to create and appreciate.

From Chennai, hallucinating, confusion my traveling companion -for now.

Catching up with traveling...

Airports are life-teaming hubs, filled with the hustle and bustle of people on the move, people with a destination, a kaleidoscopic mix of looks and attitudes, sexy high-heels, trendy black coats, jet black silky hair, blonds, brunettes, and redheads strutting with style, followed by the ogling eyes of waiting-to-be-boarded unleashed let us call them, for the sake of generalization, pseudo-bachelors, who tend to completely ignore every flower pattern clad limping lady.

Airports are transitory passages, where chaos theory is the name of the game, with blueberries buzzing and flashing, illuminated gizmos of the most efficient kind, with the fingers of high-tech junkies sliding and tap-tapping with resolute determination, or just out of habit, and so as not to feel left out. Life is a busy place, especially for those who are busy avoiding it.

Airports are totally unchecked fashion runways, where anything and everything is bound to happen, as chic meets sharp, as shooting-for-fabulous gives way to could-care-less, business pushing past leisure, the ancient dragging-its-reptilian-bottom past the slick and modern, assertive strides side-stepping the self-conscious, and a whole AliBaba’s cave’s worth of accessories, I-phones, earphones, laptops and who-knows-what-I-might-just-have-missed.

Airport are a world of sounds, and voices, interspersed conversations, the sound of no-non-sense shoes on marble floors, flight announcements, Priority passengers, Elite/Platinum members, first class, group 1, 2, 3... Etc. The system is feudal, socially stratified, and money buys a better experience, and if not, well at least, a finer affiliation. Meanwhile, the tap-tapping of shoes continues, accompanied by momentary visions of black leather, gray slacks, cool hair-dos, cool shades, their opposite, tired folks, lost folks, security, staff members pushing wheel-chaired travelers, Rabbis, Hijabs, more blackberries, frappucinos, Cappucinos, Starbucks to-go cups…

The airport is flooded with life, with transient experiences, snapshots of hundreds of unrelated lives, and sitting watching, taking it all in, wishing for something more, whishing for someone to meet someone, for Cupid’s intervention, and I’d settle of the role of the pleased, agreeable, supportive witness. I’d bless the moment. I’d savor it and thank the gods for allowing passion to flow through that world of hustling and bustling drifters. Yes, I’d thank the gods and while I’m at it, I’d definitely throw in a little something for myself, what with having a rock and two birds to strike, I’d ask that my turn may not take too long to come.

Be well, and as long as you're at it, always allow love to find you

P.S: Forgive any typo you might notice, for I do not have enough battery life to fix them all

Amidst the chaos...

I had to stop and double-check the news as they reached my ears. Forgetting about my own instability, being still lost in a state of transmutation, bracketed by the old that is to pass, and the new that is to come; the present, is after all nothing but a perceived link between what was and what is bound to be. Life goes on, unwilling to allow any sort of stillness in the style of its unfolding. The universe is in a state of continuous flux. Nothing remains the same, and everything that is, shall cease to be, for being is and will always be an attempt at going against the grain of life itself -fruitless and moot, unless what is valued is the experience itself, and not, absolutely not, the outcome. Where was I again...

Oh, yes, and as I had started explaining, even in this world where anything and everything is possible, and therefore nothing should be viewed as surprising, and definitely not, shocking, I found myself surprised and somewhat amused, despite the fact that, at the time of my finding out about what I was about to find out, I was pretty lost in my own teacup-size storm of poor-little-highly-important-me. And what were these news might you be demanding by now, rolling your eyes unable to hear anymore of my existential angst-related extrapolations. Well, my dear friends, begging you to pardon my cautious approach, for it is only for your benefit and safety that I am slowing the delivery to a frustrating trickle,I will go ahead and present you with the facts, as I received them, and leave it to exactly that -I promise.

Earlier today, I heard while listening to an online streaming of NPR's best, that Italy's numero Uno, Prime minister Berlusconi, a good man, surely, a man of the people, for the people, a moderate man, who doesn't control the main national media sources, a leader with open-minded views when it comes to ethnic groups unrelated to the type of ethnic groups that usually insist on being labeled 'pure', is, it appears, being dragged, obviously by evil enemies of the good life, in yet another sex scandal, this one having to do with a Moroccan underaged pole dancer, who's been arrested and who's been spilling the beans on the happenings at some exclusive parties where Mr. Berlusconi seemed to have been having a good time. But, to make the story short, for this isn't what shocked me, no, no, no... The best has yet to come.

Responding to the accusations, Mr. Berlusconi explained coolly that, "I work hard, all day, and at the end of the day, I enjoy beautiful passionate women. Surely, enjoying a passionate woman is better than being gay."

What else can I possibly add? Way to go Mr. Prime Minister B. Surely, these are precisely the words the good people of Italy, a country where homosexuality never ever set foot, what with its peoples' dedication to the true and unadulterated spirit of machisimo, have been waiting to hear. Bravo! I guess is all I can come up with. Or as a belligerent, bellicose paisan might respond, "Ma, vaffan----!"

Be well, and keep your eyes opened and your ears clearly uncluttered, there is so much madness to be enjoyed.

Ponderously yours

What we let go of...

We learn to appreciate, always too late though. Perhaps, someday soon, the grass will cease to look greener elsewhere. Until then, I continue to evade my own failure at finding fulfillment. Perhaps, I am fearful of giving in. Perhaps, I am simply too selfish to face responsibility without a hint of regard to what price I'll have to pay? Selfish, I feel, although I am not. Not really, at least not beneath the surface. Yet, I choose to label myself negatively, see the muck before the light, even when I know too well that judgment and critique of one's character should be left to those who know one best.

Every encounter, every interaction is a window through which light can be shed on what's hidden beneath the surface of our masquerading personalities -forgive the redundancy, for every personality is inherently a product of what is true but concealed and what is censored to please and appease before it is put in display.

At this juncture, you might be wondering what I am rambling about; and I am with you, for in all honesty, I, too, am unsure about the destination of this little composition, which seems to be much affected by a rather serious case of withdrawal from the Beloved.
For only with the Beloved can I be totally true, and only by being totally, unwaveringly true can I really be with the Beloved.

Alas, and much like my people before me, whomever they might be, and I ain't going there, the subject being too murky and complex to be tackled in a single post, let alone a single paragraph... Thus, and as I was hinting, conforming to the norms of my folks from the time of wise and real-good-at-borrowing-said-wisdom Maimonides, I am my worst enemy. This it seems is our blood curse, and if it is proof you require, well, what more proof could I offer you than what I am about to confide in you...

You see, I was there. I was right where I should be, where I'd been destined to be. Oh, please, do not be deterred by a word as innocent, and yet, as potently obscure as destined. Destiny, didn't you ever believe such an outlandish concept could actually have its due place in the lexicon that makes our whole universe make complete sense, while goes around and around... No? Well, I have hopes, or at least, I've always prided myself on being rather a naive fellow with quite the romantic inclination... So, please bear with me, and let that destiny stuff slide.

So, and as I was saying, I was there. In my own personal Nirvana, and if not, well it may have just been called that. The beloved was holding me not too long ago. The beloved was breathing love into my life, embracing me despite my shortcomings, despite the sum total of every imperfection that makes the dreamy child I once was into the fool I've managed the become. And its embrace was rapturous, its company blissful.

Yet, I departed, unsure of the how, unsure of the why. Thing is... the wind had been howling for too long, and I foolishly, and out of habit, surrendered to its call. And here I am now, lost beneath the stars from millions of years ago, and even before that.

Beloved, how I long for your closeness. Beloved, how I yearn for you.
Be well, and continue to meet life whole-heartedly and without a smidgen of hesitation or doubt.

Lost, a storm within, ditto without

Dissatisfaction rules my world, and meanwhile...

Pro-life zealots harassing 'baby-killing doctors', cholera and flooding in Haiti, the middle-east is still a center of madness, and as the saying goes, 'as without as within,' for inside, I am chaos, restlessness, imperfection seeking that impossible opposite, like a snake swallowing its own tail. And although I have my suspicions, I cannot say with certainty that everyone is as messed up as I am. Then again, if the state of our little planet were to be used as an indicator, I might just be willing to bet that we're all in it together.

Dissatisfaction rules my world, but it doesn't have to be so. I have hope, which I guess is just the other side of the proverbial coin -dissatisfaction being the other, in case you're wondering. Nothing special about this. From the first chapters of our collective history, the myths of mankind have been pointing to this dogged inability of ours to settle for what is. From the biblical fall of Adam and Eve to almost every Greek melodrama. We always want more. We want perfection, but we are unable to recognize it, even it it smacked us right on the nose, let alone grasp it.

Happiness is so simple, so easy. Unfortunately, we, no I'll just speak for myself, I, seem to be faultily complex -code word for broken. We, no let's stick with I, might be a big time schizophrenic.

A door opened, I encountered the divine. The body, the heart, the soul and spirit, were all ecstatically basking in bliss. But, somewhere, somehow, in the shadows, in the depths of my darkest-self, guilt whispered, 'This cannot be.' It scuffed, 'You are nobody.' It rose, like a tidal wave that could neither be stopped nor denied and pointed a rigidly judgmental finger, 'You are nobody. Let go. Let go. Let go...'

But, I'd been here before. I'd danced this dance before. And while I seemed to be doing what was expected of me, Hope was rising like Apollo's sun disk, beckoning change, a wind that awakens, a barely noticeable breeze that carries the seed of transformation, the scent of the beloved...

Be well and if you feel lost and confused, know that you're not alone -there's a bunch of us, in fact, I think we might just be the majority.

Doing my best, I fell

P.S: It is okay to fall, because you can rise again, dust yourself up, and give life nothing less than your best once more.