Majnu and the Mat

Thursday

When I reached the podium in the garden a little after 5 am, a pack of stray dogs were loitering around seemingly having some kind of argument. 

With the swagger of members of a local mafia, they approached me one by one, sniffed at my yoga mat and hands, and resignedly went back to doing what they were doing.  
Nowadays I try to reach there a little earlier to do dhyana and sun salutations before the others arrive. 
Sometimes the garden lights do not work, the moon is shining above, the commotion of the world has been hushed by the majesty of the glorious ebony sky, and the silky coolness of approaching winter soothes the skin. 

If I keep my eyes closed, it helps with the body and mind conversation that is so essential to yogasadhana. I intentionally block out the sounds of the canine argument.

It is not easy.

I try harder till I achieve some sort of focus on the breath and this technique helps in not being distracted too much. 

I give commands to myself:

Just breathe.

Feel the coolness of the air as it touches your nostrils.

Feel the air as it passes through your chest all the way to your belly.

Feel it as it gently leaves your nostrils.

Think of your breathing as a cyclical pattern that goes on and on. 

Just breathe.


Friday 

It was Kazi Ma'am who mentioned it first. 

“Yesterday, the dogs ran away with Singh Saab’s yoga mat” she told the early walkers in the garden as she sat under the gazebo clapping her hands for exercise. To those who waited to listen, she provided a detailed report on how it happened. 

“They had taken Pal ji’s mat too and they readily returned it. But they struggled to return Singh Saab’s mat.”

At the start of our group practice, Singh Saab mentioned it too. He is one of the senior-most and deeply respected members of our group.

“It was your Majnu who stole my mat” he said to Rita didi. 

Rita didi calls a certain dog in the garden ‘Majnu’ because he has earned the reputation of being a roadside Romeo who follows a group of walking chattering giggling girls who return his affections by petting and making cooing sounds.

Singh Saab is fond of poetry and this romantic comparison of a dog to a Romeo might have appealed to him. Although the stealing of his mat might have not.  


Monday

Today Singh Saab mentioned it again.

He said he didn’t know if I was or wasn’t there on the podium when Majnu ran away with his yoga mat on Thursday. 

Hmmm.

I remembered how hard I was trying to stay away from distraction. On a clear morning, even without the local canine mafia around, it is difficult to focus the mind on the breath. 

On Thursday, when the incident happened, perhaps I might have achieved some sort of concentration on the breath, and the mind-body connection really did happen.

So, it may be true that Majnu ran away with Singh Saab’s yoga mat when I was there on the podium.

But not quite. 

Another Weird Birthday Story

Monday, October 23rd, 2017

It is Noor's 13th birthday. Her name means 'morning light'.

Noor is A's friend. We talk about her and the tiny blue betta fish in a bowl that she had given us on her last birthday as a 'return gift'. We called him 'Smurf' which later became 'Moofi'. 

A year later, Moofi was still swimming merrily in his little bowl world as we added a few shells and plants, changed his water once a week, and fed him twice daily. When on holiday, we left him at friend's houses who looked after him with much care. 

But I digress! 

This story is neither about Noor nor about Moofi. 
It is perhaps the incongruity of it all that causes me to digress. 

After dropping A at school, I was driving back home. At the traffic signals, I remembered Dr Kothari. There was nothing in my view as I waited at the signals that could have triggered a memory about him. 

Dr Kothari is the ex-principal of the college where I once taught. He is one of the most soft-spoken person I have ever met.  As I waited for the signal to turn green, I remembered an incident where Dr Kothari had patiently explained to me the meaning of a word I didn't know existed. I wondered how he was doing and whether he had good health in his advanced years. 

Finally the green signal came on and broke my stream of thought. I zipped back home and texted him:

"Dear Sir, Hope you are well. While driving home from school today, I remembered you with so much respect. May you be blessed with good health and happiness. Amen."

Then I looked up group messages on my phone. 
There it was... 
A message from my ex-colleague and friend, Pranali. She had remembered that it was Dr Kothari's 80th birthday the same day. Immediately I texted him again to wish him on his special day. 

Not only that, I also told him:

"Sir, I have to tell you this because it is so amazing... This morning I didn't know it was your birthday but I remembered you so much. So I sent you a text when I reached home. And now Pranali informed us that it was your birthday so I sent you birthday wishes. I am still wondering at the coincidence. God's ways are amazing indeed."

He wrote back to say, "This shows that you are a fellow with pure affections." 

That was such a humbling experience. 





 

Just the Way I Am

If you live as long as me, there comes a time when you do not feel the need to explain yourself to anybody.


Since August 5th, I have had to answer many questions about my hair.


The first one was from Ashok who held his shiny scissors against the length of my hair and hesitated.


“Ma’am, are you sure?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Do you want to take it step-by-step so that you may not regret later?”

“No, I’m ok. Just cut it.”

“You know some women have second thoughts and change their minds.”

“I know.”

“So?”

“Cut it.”

“Alright, but let me take pictures of your hair before I cut it.”

I select the camera icon on my phone and hand it to him.


After a couple of pictures, he hesitated again.

“Ma’am, do you really want to …?”

“Yes, my mind is made up.”

He looked at my shoulder-length hair from different angles, and said,

“You know, actually short hair will suit you. It will look fantastic with those silver highlights.”

“I know.”

Ashok's scissors deftly snip my henna-tinted curls which descend to the floor in a lifeless heap. 


Fifteen minutes later, I look like this – 

My cheerleader, the one who convinced me to embrace my silver hair, gets up from her seat and says, “Mama, it looks nice.”


Khalas! I love the elegant new look. 


In my excitement, I sent the above picture to my husband, close family, and friends. They are supportive. I am confident that they love me unconditionally. I sleep well with this confidence.


The next day, I wake up and absent-mindedly run my fingers through my hair to untangle it. Hmm, there’s not much of it left to untangle, is there?

Time saved, I say to myself, and look in the mirror and get a shock. 


My hair looks nothing like the way it looked the day before in the salon. It is bushy, and curling out in all directions.


“I look like a boy” I complain to A.

“Relax, Mama, it will grow out soon if you want it long again.”

“But it refuses to stay put like it did in the salon yesterday. Perhaps it needs some time to settle down.”

I attempt to bring some discipline to my mop with gels and oils. 


In a few days, there was a parent-teacher-student conference at A’s school. I doubt whether I looked presentable. All other mothers of my age had neatly dyed and styled long hair. I hoped I would not stand out like a sore thumb. 


A gave me a pep talk. She said that the other moms and teachers would be in awe about my decision to embrace my grey hair, and the students would respect me for the way I looked.

That is exactly what happened.

I returned home proudly feeling like a queen wearing a silver crown.  


It's more than three months now since my haircut. My hair still refuses to stay put and grows upwards and outwards instead of downwards. I bring some order to it every morning with a wash and a hair cream.


Then I am ready to face myself and the world with the truth of who I really am. 

Gratefully yours, Greta!

समुद्रवसने देवि पर्वतस्तनमण्डले ।

विष्णुपत्नि नमस्तुभ्यं पादस्पर्शं क्षमस्वमे ॥

O Goddess, one who is clothed in the waters of the oceans,

and have the mountains as your bosom,

O wife of Lord Vishnu, I salute you,

Please forgive me as I touch your holy body with my feet.

This is the mantra our Hindu ancestors chanted before they stepped out of bed every morning. They held a reverence for Mother Earth who blessed them bountifully.

*

In India, girls are considered as the reincarnation of Goddess Lakshmi.

Recently a teenaged girl named Greta Thunberg from Sweden rang alarm bells in the corridors of power about the harm caused to the planet by humans, and brought to light how climate change would affect the future of young people like her.

With her stern face and the audacity to rebuke world leaders, she reminded me of Hermione from the Harry Potter series. Unlike Hermione, Greta was real and had the courage to take on those who made world decisions. As usual, there was applause and felicitations. However, Greta refused the awards showered on her and that provided a fulcrum to the cause she championed.

Regretfully, there were also people who thought Greta was being unreasonable and that her ‘handlers’ had political motives.

Anyways, Greta lumbers on unhindered and is presently sharing a boat on the Atlantic to return home.

The world will be grateful for you, Greta.

*

Today I am staring at an odd assortment of objects – a used ball point pen, a sticker removed from an apple peel, an egg carton, an empty bottle of shampoo, an expired light bulb, and grocery receipts.

I have been fortunate enough in this life to have received an education and been made aware of responsible disposal of waste. So, I segregate our household waste into wet and dry. The dry waste is further categorized into paper, glass, hardboard, and metal. There was a facility at my daughter’s school in Muscat to dispose these in different sections in a disposal unit placed near the school.

However, here in India, it seems like we need more awareness among citizens and leaders about this. We need someone like Greta who can grab us by our collars and make us feel responsible for climate change. If there is a change in a greatly populated country like ours, it does make a big difference in the overall world statistics.

*

In the news there was a report on a meeting of Catholic leaders where questions were  raised about how humans are responsible for climate change and whether harming the environment should be considered sinful. There were calls for including such sins in confessions. 

Yes, it is about time we felt the guilt and restored the health of Mother Earth to pacify her so that she continues to bless us.

Marianne

Today is Marianne’s birthday.

I wished her as I do every year.

However, I can only hope for a reply to my email. For the past six years there has been none.

Expat life prepares one for things such as these.

The first time I saw Marianne was in the PDO Arts Centre in Muscat. Her light shone bright as she walked into the room and greeted everybody. I was new to the class and she made a special effort to get to know me and make me feel at home.

Marianne and I became close friends although we had a big age difference between us – she had grandchildren while my daughter was just starting school.

Marianne revealed to me a way of living that I had only read about in books. A strong swimmer, she swam from cliff to cliff in the azure waters of the sea. Then, soaking wet, she would drop by at my house on the way for a chat and tell me about the sights she saw underwater – a giant turtle lumbering by to lay eggs, a startled sea snake, schools of tiny fish in translucent colours, flimsy jellyfish…

I worried about her swimming just like that in the open sea by herself without a buddy. But she was a wild child and brushed away my fears.

We had so much to say to each other that time was never enough. We marveled at the different ways of doing things and people’s patterns of thinking in our native countries. Our conversations were always a cultural blend of East and West. She taught me to bake Norwegian pancakes and told me secret jam recipes with handpicked wild berries. We cooked Indian food together and experimented with saree draping.

“Beste Mama” her grandchildren called her in Norwegian. Yes, she was the best. The year they left Oman, Marianne and her husband had placed a huge desert rose potted plant on our doorstep on my birthday with a note. I still have the pot in my Mumbai home.

We kept in touch regularly by email. She wrote about taking up a new job and on her children’s progress in life. I wrote about developments in Oman and our life there.  

Soon after, Marianne lost her beloved husband. Her email came after a gap of four months. She was heart-broken and had to make an effort to write. I felt for her and wrote back a letter of consolation. She thanked me.

That was the last time I heard from Marianne.

Like every year, I wait for her response to my email.

In the pictures, her light is still bright. 

P. S. After posting this piece and giving it a title, a lullaby I sang to my baby daughter came to mind with its calm lilting rhythm...

All day all night Marianne

Down by the seaside sifting sands

Even little children love Marianne

Down by the seaside sifting sands

A Morning at the Feet of Yogi Hills

A weekday morning. A garden at the feet of Yogi Hills, Mumbai

Tum agar saath dene ka vaada karo, mein yunhien mast nagme sunata rahoon sang the octogenarian, telling about how he would continue to sing these soulful songs if his soulmate would only promise to be by his side always.

The morning walkers in the garden making their rounds are amused and entertained as senior citizens gather under the gazebos lining the path.

Squirrels, crows, pigeons, hens, cocks who have made the garden their home, await feeding time.

A little ahead there is another group singing Karvate badalte rahein saari raat hum, aapki kasam – I kept turning from one side to another all night long…

Some of the elders smile meaningfully.

Sure enough, the lyrics stay the same but the context changes as we age. Lovesickness causes sleeplessness in youth whereas insomnia makes us change sides as the advanced years clock in.

With patriotic fervor, a group on a shaded platform, roar slogans and the national anthem. Their neighbouring group just claps.

An energetic group of mostly Sikhs in turbans play throwball. Their occasional yells overpower all the other sounds.

Lonesome souls sit on isolated benches for meditation and pranayama in perfect lotus positions, completely oblivious of the world going by.

Slightly uphill, a group of yoga enthusiasts move in unison to pay their respects to the sun in rhythmic sets of surya namaskar.

Monkeys climb down from the tallness of trees and hang around the Hanuman temple. One of them sneaks up behind unsuspecting young lovers and shocks them out of their wits.   

“Bham Bham Bhole!” bellows a devotee somewhere uphill. His cry stuns the stillness and then merges into other subdued sounds.

“Hari Om” people greet each other, dispelling darkness and giving way to light.

Every half an hour or so, the faces of the walkers change as people enter and exit continuously.

An elderly man patiently takes small steps with his swollen arthritic legs in neat socks and shoes. It takes him an hour to complete one walking round.

His dog faithfully waits for him.

A Naughty Plan in Hanumanpada

Nowadays I practice yoga in the early mornings with a group of people from the neighbourhood who meet in a garden on the hill that is frequented by monkeys. The place is called Hanumanpada and it has a temple dedicated to the monkey-god, Hanuman. 

The uphill path to the pyramidal structure where we practice is  green velvety monsoony mossy. I almost slipped the first time I went there. The others warned me to walk only in the centre where the moss is worn out with footfalls. 

One day, as we walked downhill after our practice, I noticed a banana skin strategically lying in the centre of the path waiting for an accident to happen. 

Who could have done such a thing? Most people who gather there are soft-spoken and well-mannered with adequate schooling which probably taught them about not laying banana peels on walking paths.

We looked around and then looked up to spy this ape patiently waiting for his naughty plan to come to fruition.

His Way of Doing Things

The girl at the neighbourhood grocery counter was printing my receipt when an elderly gentleman rushed into the store. 

"Please can you give me change for Rs. 500? I am going to the temple and I need it for the offering."

We smiled at each other as I bagged my vegetables. 

The girl started counting out his money. 

"You know" he explained "all this money belongs to God already. He is the one who gives and He is the one who takes. And it is He who decides how much to take from whom. My asking for this change is just His way of doing things."

"The Only Thing I Can Do Very Well"

A lady got into the shared autorickshaw at Holi bazaar today. She heaved her bag in and then lifted each foot one by one to sit beside me.


A broad big-toothy smile.


“My knees ache” she said. 


“I see.”


“I wake up at 3 a.m. every day.”


“Really?”


“Yes, and then I pray the rosary ten times. Being illiterate, I cannot read. But I know how to pray.”


I nodded.


“After prayers, I go to the Holi bazaar to sell vegetables. It’s good to be active, no? If I sit at home, I will lose my confidence. So, I drag these painful legs around and keep doing stuff.”


“That’s brave.”


A flash of a smile. 


“My family is big with eight grandchildren. The eldest works in a hotel now. I am from the village of K and after marriage, I moved to the village of N. All is well in my family. I say a total of about twenty rosaries daily. That is the only thing I can do very well.”


I had to get off the autorickshaw at the post office. 


“Ok, bye, I wish you well.”


“I will pray for you” she said and the autorickshaw whizzed past before her smile faded.  

The Monkey Man from LBS Road

We had just missed the bus to Vasai. 

A and I are sitting on the minimalist steel rod bench at a bus stop on LBS Road waiting for the next bus from Mulund to Vasai which would arrive after an hour. The day is overcast with dark clouds and there’s nothing much to do except wait. The world around us is busy – barefoot devotees on their way to the temple, drilling machines at the metro construction site in the middle of the road, a loose sewage hole cover, a tall building opposite the road with windows dressed with plants and clothes hung out to dry, a shattered showroom window…

A thinks of a game.

Pick a person or object and make up a story about that.

Simple.

Rich scope for creativity.

Some of our stories were solo and some we built up together.

Here is one that we took turns imagining…

The Monkey Man from LBS Road

If you stood at a certain bus stop on LBS Road in Mumbai, you will surely notice an apartment window filled with green bushy trees. My husband lives there.

I refuse to live with him anymore and have taken up residence a couple of floors above his where you might notice clothes put out to dry gaily fluttering in the breeze.

I am always OCDing about clean clothes and my husband could not stand it anymore. Similarly, he has recently developed an obsession for illegally housing monkeys in his apartment and it makes me mad. Those monkeys once draped themselves in my sarees and preened all over the living room. That was the day I moved out.

Can you imagine how flustered I was to put out all those yards of colourful sarees to dry from a tiny apartment window? It greatly amused people waiting at the bus stop to see such long buntings and they pointed it out to others. I’m surprised how they could never notice my husband’s monkeys. The foliage perhaps cleverly concealed them.

What do you think he did after I moved out?

He went to Baroda.

He had seen monkeys at Sayaji Park once on a trip there and wanted to bring them home. Using his research skills, he knew of an underground sewage channel which opened at the above-mentioned bus stop. One by one he dragged ten monkeys into this tunnel and brought them all the way to Mumbai, a laborious operation which might remind you of the rescue of the Thai boys from the narrow cave last year.

Now, those new monkeys who were habituated to the freedom of an expansive park found his apartment claustrophobic and longed to go back. They looked like a bright bunch with great ideas.

In the meanwhile, the authorities in Baroda had got wind of this theft of wildlife and sent a spy all the way to Mumbai to keep an eye out for the culprit. He sat at the bus stop reading the same newspaper everyday, much to the chagrin of other waiting passengers who would have preferred to sit in the prime space he occupied.

I knew he was a spy from the very beginning. It was my habit to observe people at the bus stop while I put out my laundry. I knew who boarded which bus at what time. There was no reason for a person to be sitting there all day just watching our building for abnormal activity. I tried to tell my husband about this development but he ignored my fears.

When the authorities came knocking at my husband’s door, he was still asleep. He opened the door and found them holding an arrest warrant for smuggling wildlife. Sadly he looked around for his monkeys but not a single one was around. He looked so sleepily confused that they could not arrest him without proof. They searched the apartment and then left, disappointed.

That morning passengers waiting at the bus stop noticed a huge shattered glass window in a showroom in our building. Perhaps there has been a break-in, they thought.

Only I knew it was a break-out and not a break-in.

If you look through the uneven large hole in the window, you will find the green jungles atop Yogi Hills beckon those born with a free spirit. 

Method in the Madness

Living independently in a big city has its challenges, adventures, and observations.

Its not regularly that I have to change a light bulb. For all you know, if a bulb conked off, I would just use the other lights in the room till S replaced it. But this time it was Cassie’s bulb that conked out and I just had to replace it. It was a matter of Cassie’s very existence.

For those who don’t know, Cassie is a cockroach-shaped black paper cutting stuck on the inside of a lampshade. She comes to life only when the light is switched on and appears like a real cockroach. It’s a curiosity for our family to watch every visitor’s response to the presence of Cassie in the house. Reactions range from amusement to disgust. Yes, its a crazy thing.

So I gently removed the spiral bulb from its socket and walked down to the street where there are a row of shops which sell everything from school textbooks and organic eggs to electrical equipment.

The first shop I saw had no name and seemed to sell sockets and bulbs but it was so messy with boxes, ropes, and whatnot, that it seemed like it was probably about to shut down.

I walked ahead till I came to a fairly decent shop which had neatly organised shelves stocked with bulbs etc. of different brands and designs. I showed Cassie’s bulb to the young man at the counter.

Peering close at the bulb he said,

“This one has threads. We don’t have those anymore.”

I had been too sure of finding the right bulb in this shop.

“Where can I find one like this?”

“Try in that shop,” he said pointing to the shop with no name.

Retracing my footsteps, I arrived there again. A man with irregular facial features was pottering around looking for something. His chin was too weak and his forehead too large. Fine wispy hair fell onto the sides of his head. He was dressed in a formal full-sleeved shirt and trousers.

None of the shopkeepers in this street smile at customers. Neither did he.

“Do you have a bulb like this?” I asked.

He twirled the bulb that I handed out in his hands and nodded. Then he turned to the haphazard pile of about a hundred unmarked brown cardboard boxes containing bulbs and started searching for the type of bulb I wanted. I feared whether the whole pile would come crashing down while he fumbled with the boxes.

Finally he found a bulb which had threads but it was smaller and whiter than the one I had shown.

He asked,

“Do you want one that is bigger with a golden light?”

“Yes, please, do you have one like that?”

Again he turned to his shaky pile of boxes.

What he did next was amazing.

He located a box somewhere in the lower left corner of the pile and poked it with his long finger till it slid out of the pile from the other side without disturbing the balance of the shaky arrangement.

Some odd logic of arrangement or a strong memory helped him to find the correct box.

This box had the very bulb that would suit our Cassie.

On the walk back I wondered whether there was a ‘method in the madness’ of that shop.