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