when the ash rains down

05/03/2011

The other day I was strolling along the riverside, here in Varanasi, when I came across a dead man. He was lounging on the steps of a bathing ghat, for all the world as if just taking an afternoon nap. But his skin had a deathly pallor and there was something missing: that strangest of elements which one cannot quite put a finger on, namely life.

The man was old and I had the feeling that his death had been timely, so there was no sadness in me. Instead though, there was a hint of that haunting feeling that it was my body sitting there. More rationally, I could say that one day it will be me. But that does not quite capture the immediacy of the feeling that comes when one is totally present with a being who has recently died. The timeless words of John Donne come back to me: “never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee...”

Here in Varanasi, death is a round-the-clock business, with the burning ghats ablaze at any time of day or night. Just after dark is the most popular time though, with the pyres stacked high one beside the next. People who did not know each other in life become close neighbours for their fiery finale. By the light of this inferno, the forms of those yet living can be made out, standing around, looking on, as the departed go up in smoke.

And with that smoke, a fine ash is carried aloft, to rain down on all and sundry, reminding us once again of our mortality.

everything breaks

21/02/2011

The blue bowl was found broken in two. Had the cheeky little mouse, who shared the hut with me, pushed it off the shelf? Who knows? It was broken. There was a strange beauty in its demise. The sharpness of the fracture contrasted with the curves of its form.

The sight of the broken bowl brought back a teaching I had heard long ago. Like all the best teachings, it was succinct, very succinct:

Everything breaks!

I pondered this simple statement, all those years ago, and it has often returned to my mind. Every time it seems to reach deeper into my consciousness. It is so simple. Nothing is permanent. Nothing lasts forever. Yet how our mind seems to resist this simple fact of life! How we crave for permanence, for things to be enduring so that we may attach ourself to them and become enduring in ourself. We, too, are impermanent though and the sooner we can face this fact, the sooner we can go about enjoying life as it is.

As for me, it seems I still have one attachment at least. I glued the blue bowl back together again. My wise companion commented, “Now the bowl is unique!”

echoes of Gautam Buddha

17/02/2011

The settlement of Bodh Gaya, here in the north of India, has grown up around the spot where Siddhartha Gautama became enlightened, some 2,600 years ago. Arriving here after the bustle of Calcutta (Kolkata) and the good-tempered chaos of an Indian train journey, I feel every cell of my being relaxing into a deep, timeless peace.

How much of this peaceful feeling is directly due to the energy of Gautam Buddha and his enlightenment? For sure the after effects of such an event can ripple out in time and space, touching us in ways that we can never know. But probably the tranquility that I feel here has more to do with others, with the thousands of pilgrims who come here in search of their own truth, or to express a reverence for Gautama.

Gautama was not the first to become enlightened and certainly not the last: Countless people have become enlightened, over the centuries. Somehow, though, Gautama’s liberation has come to symbolise this transformation for all of us. My feeling is that this is due to his teachings emphasising that each and every one of us, through our own sincere search, can come to this beautiful space of peace and freedom.

Thank you Gautama, for showing us so clearly what we are capable of!

a little push

29/01/2011

Sometimes a little push is no bad thing. I have been here on Neil Island, in the Andamans, for a couple of weeks. It is a quiet little island where days invariably pass in pleasant idleness. I had been making some audio recordings for the website but, over the last couple of days, I noticed that my creative energy was beginning to wane. Nevertheless, I probably would have sat here for another week if it were not for the little push I received this morning.

The push came in the form of a quiet word from the owner of the resort where I have been staying in a bamboo hut the while. It had come to his attention that I haven’t been eating any meals in his restaurant. He was not happy about it. There is a simple reason why I don’t eat in his restaurant: the food is better elsewhere. This fact didn’t make the owner any happier, so I volunteered to leave in the morning. With that, he was satisfied.

I am recounting all this because the moment I said I would leave, I felt joyful at the prospect of moving on. So once more I am thankful to existence for giving me a little prod at just the right time.

half the picture

28/01/2011

Here in the Andaman Islands the coral has died. There are many rumours about it but the simple fact is that where, a year ago, there was a reasonable amount of colourful, living coral, now there is a barren underwater moonscape, devoid of colour. Amazingly, the reef fish are still in abundance. It is as if they have lost their home though. Snorkelling over this scene, I feel as if I am seeing half a picture, leaving me with the haunted feeling of missing something crucial.

Not only has the coral died but the sponges and anemones appear to be missing. The lack of anemones has made life difficult for the clownfish. These brightly coloured, whimsical little fish live amongst the tentacles of sea anemones, being magically immune to the sting. They emerge out of curiosity and playfulness, only to dart back into the midst of their anemone when their courage fails.

This year, for many days, I did not see a single clownfish. And then, finally, I saw a pair. My heart sank. They were trying to hide underneath some dead coral, not an anemone in sight. They had lost their joie de vivre. They seemed nervous, anxious, unsure of themselves. The most terrible part of it, though, was that they had lost their colour. Where before they would have proclaimed their existence boldly, probably with a bright orange body and crazily improbably white stripes, now they had become as drab as the dead coral: a lustreless brown with the merest hint of their former striations.

It is a sad day indeed, when the clownfish have lost their vitality.

I need to get laid

26/01/2011

I still have this feeling, from time to time. It is rather like feeling hungry or thirsty. If I don’t have any sexual intercourse for a while, usually a month or so, then this feeling of needing to get laid starts to build in me. It is not born of the mind, you understand; this is a much more primitive urge, an energetic build up in the sex centre. For the last three or four days, I have felt it coming, growing stronger in me. What to do?

At times like these, I rather wish that we human beings would behave more like dogs. When passing each other in the street, we could just have a sniff of the pheromones and, if the chemistry is right, mate there and then, with no regard for the passing traffic.

Alas it is not the way for us. We have to make everything as complicated as possible, especially sexual interaction. Actually, all the games we play in the lead up to mating can add a certain frisson, so perhaps they are harmless enough. The trouble is, in the mode of being I find myself in these days, playing such games seems to be more-or-less impossible for me. To put it bluntly, I seem to have lost the art of seduction...

Nowadays, my idea of a chat up line is something like “I would like to make love with you.” In fact, those very words came from my lips just a couple of days ago. The response from the woman was “I appreciate your honesty and openness but I can’t help feeling that we’ve only just met!” Well, I guess that was less painful than a slap in the face.

Once more, I find that existence is playing with me as a cat plays with a mouse. Whoever said that enlightenment is the solution to all our problems? I might have to resort to the ultimate retort to existence: singing along to the Meatloaf song “Life is a lemon and I want my money back!”