My Personal Sun: Part 1

Heavy fog. Headache.  Laboured breathing. The world rushing past. Voices. Shouted orders. Two steel doors parting. A steel cubicle. White halos of light shining down. Distant pings. Where am I? Who are these people? Where is my voice? Mom? Why can’t I feel my body? Where are my hands? Panic. And then, realization. I’m in the hospital. I’m on a gurney, inside the elevator. They’re taking me back to my private ward. I can’t keep my eyes open. It’s like my eyelids are made of lead. Is it over already? But…how long was I out? I remember choking as the dark, thick mask of rubber descended over my mouth and nose, blocking the air and suffocating me, and then within seconds everything went dark. The two huge, blinding lamps adjusted above my heavily sedated body were gone. No voices, no thoughts. No pain. Until now. I feel myself let out a shriek of panic as a stabbing pain cuts through my lower abdomen, but no sound comes out. It hurts. It hurts bad. “It’s okay, sweetie. Hold on.” Who is that? Is that you, Mom? No sound. What have they done to me? What’s wrong with my belly? “Hold her hands! She’s trying to rip the covers open!” Steely grip on my wrists pinning them down on my sides. Darkness.

White walls. Faces peering down at me. My throat hurts. I can’t swallow. My mouth is dry. Something is beeping very fast and loud right beside my bed. My head is clearer. I think I can find my voice now. “Where’s--"  I see my words fading into a cloud of fog as my lips move. An oxygen mask. “Don’t speak, dear.” It’s Mom. She has stepped forward from the circle of people around me all of whom I fail to recognize as my vision is blurred. This feels like the worst hangover ever. “Where’s grandpa?”, I manage to whisper with every speck of energy I can muster. Mom leans towards me to hear me better, “He’ll come and see you tomorrow.”

“What time is it?”

“A little past nine.” Nine? I was in the operation theatre for three hours? They said it would take only half an hour tops.

“Water”, I croak. Mom looks troubled.

“Not now. Wait for a while.” I know that voice. It rings a bell. That’s the Doctor. I sigh and close my eyes.  I can hear people talking, feet shuffling and then the room falls silent except for the high-pitched beeping that’s starting to annoy me now. I open my eyes. They adjust slowly to the surroundings and the room comes into a better view. There are some nurses, the Doctor’s gone. Mom is standing closest to me on the left side of the bed, her expression pained. My Uncle’s standing a little farther, his expression unreadable- tired, maybe. My sister’s on the right side of the bed, standing a bit far, her face contorted in shock, her mouth hanging open, and a hand hovering inches from the open mouth. Her eyes are watery. I try to see myself through their eyes now and what I see explains their reactions. My hair is disheveled, I am wrapped in a dark, woolen blanket, a tube has been forced in through my nose which is apparently the reason for the terrible pain in my throat, I am wearing an oxygen mask, a pulse sensor is clipped on to my finger and plugged in to a monitor which is the source of the annoying beeping, my mouth is dry, my lips are chapped and my eyes are bloodshot. I try to smile at my sister and she staggers a step backward. My smile fades. I groan in pain. Somebody who has been standing near my bed hurries forward and stops right at the edge of the bed. I hadn’t noticed him before. I lift my eyes to look at him and take the view in. He looms tall beside the heap that is me, his eyes staring down at me. I can see the pain in his eyes even through his glasses. His hair is messed up and a stubble is darkening his chin. He stands there with his jaw clenched, clearly at a loss as to what to do.

So you came. You kept your promise. In sickness, in health...

How couldn’t I?

You look worried.

I am. Just look at you. Does it hurt bad?

Uhm…

It does. I know. Don’t worry. I’m here now. 

Thanks. Did you meet everyone?

Don’t remind me.

Haha. Poor you.

Yeah, alright. Don’t stress yourself out just yet. Try to sleep.

You’ll stay, right?

Duh.

Chuckles. 

The monitor beeps faster and faster until someone yells for the nurse. He kneels down beside the bed, his eyes on the monitor. Slow down, please. I have never seen him so shaken. The nurse arrives. She picks up a syringe from the side-tray and loads it with a transparent liquid. He takes my hand and our eyes lock for a brief second, yet the entire night seems to pass in that one moment. And then, darkness.

And the Citizens' Ombudsman awaits citizens' support...

It’s been in the print and electronic media headlines for months now. People have gone on hunger strikes and support rallies all over the country. Groups are being formed, events are being organized to bring about awareness on the issue and these events are being notified of on social networking websites. The Government’s resistance is rigid and yet the supporters of the cause are marching on. It is one of the most massive mobilizations of our time. The fight against corruption. The drafting and enforcing of the Jan Lokpal Bill (Citizens’ Ombudsman Bill). I need not go into the specifics of the Bill because the purpose of this quick post is not awareness but reflection.

As a condition for passing the Jan Lokpal Bill, Dr. Manmohan Singh’s Government has demanded that the supporters and advocates of the Bill show the support of at least 25 Crore citizens towards it. 250 million people. A smart move. The people who are trying to thwart the passing of the Bill know the Democracy called India in and out. They are aware that the Bill has many supporters but they also know that the figure of 250 million is too far-fetched to achieve. One might wonder, why is it difficult to pull together 250 million people to support a cause in a country with a total population of 1.21 billion? Well, 1.21 billion is indeed the total population of the country but the number of people who really care about what’s going on in the country is relatively miniscule. A large chunk of our population is too busy following Cricket World Cup, or dreaming about going to the US and earning in dollars, or struggling to earn two decent meals a day that it doesn’t really want to get involved in matters like bringing public offices under the careful watch of an anti-corruption authority, and for that matter, even electing a ruling party. My Dad used to hate people who didn’t go to the polling booth on the Election Day for casting their vote. In his frustration, he used to say that our democracy has fallen into wrong hands. Today I believe him. There are some of us who care about our country and do whatever we can to participate in the political and social goings-on. Some of us travel to natural calamity-hit areas and participate in helping the affected masses. Some of us who cannot go and physically help the victims, send medical kits, preserved food and money to them even if it means sharply budgeting the month’s expenses. I had donated all of my year’s savings to the Tsunami Relief Fund when in school. That meant no party for me on my 16^th birthday, but I cared more about the people who really needed that money. Caring means a lot. If by declaring my support for the Bill I can change the way the system of our country works, then I shall. If my little gesture can prevent a corrupt public servant from squeezing out whatever little dough a pensioner is left with to release his month’s pension, or forcing a primary school teacher to borrow money for tipping him off for signing the transfer order, or not leaving a student of limited means a choice but to sell off the last plate of brass left in his house for giving “Kharcha-Paani” so the authorities would issue him a domicile certificate, then I hereby officially declare my support for the Jan Lokpal Bill.

                                           (Image Courtesy: mychoicedelhi.blogspot.com)

Some people say, “I am not against this movement, but I don’t care either. It would be interesting to see if this Bill can make any difference after it’s passed, but I really don’t care enough to register my support.” And these are the people who are the greatest strength of those people in public offices and the Cabinet who don’t want this Bill passed. They can count on this chunk of our population that doesn’t care enough to never let the number of supporters reach the figure of 250 million. I can’t say that I don’t care about these people who have taken our democracy for granted, because I do care. I pity them for they do not understand the power they have in their hands. They have the power to change the face and fate of the country and in turn their own fate. All they need to do is act. A little act would do, too. Like, picking up their phone and dialing tollfree 02261550789 to register their support for the Bill or logging on to www.indiaagainstcorruption.org . 

We need to learn how to care. Caring is what makes a difference.

Timelessness

It’s 2 a.m. and I’m still awake. Wide awake. It’s been like this for a while. Nearly two years now. Time is my enemy. All night I read, I write, I watch movies and keep glancing at my watch at regular intervals watching the time tick past ever so slowly. I wait for the hour hand to strike four.  When it does, I shut down my laptop, close all books on my desk neatly bookmarking them, draw the drapes, flick off the lights and slide under covers. Then I set the alarm. 7.30 a.m. The first lecture commences at 8 a.m. every weekday. I say a bed-time prayer and promise myself that from the next night on I would sleep early, knowing fully well that that’s almost impossible for me now. I have lost weight, have dark shadows under my eyes and have started smoking to keep away the headaches. Waking up in the morning is an arduous task with my sleepy self arguing with my Voice of Reason to let go of the lectures and sleep some more. Just a little more. Just a few hours. Please. Every morning is a battle. Sometimes the sleepy self wins, sometimes the battle is won by the Voice of Reason. But no matter which of them wins, I always lose. I pull the covers off and stagger across the room locating my clothes, sometimes unwashed and crumpled and sometimes completely mismatched. Like I care. Despite sleep-deprivation, my brain stays alert throughout the day, attending lectures, researching and taking notes. I have adapted well.

 

It all started one nothing-out-of-the-ordinary night. I was watching a movie wherein the Attorney who’s handling a complicated murder case is awoken every morning at precisely 3 a.m. by things going wrong in the house, like lights switching themselves on or the fire alarm going off without any smoke. This was later explained in the movie to be based on the premise that 3 a.m. is the anti-Christ hour. Some believe that Christ was crucified at 3 p.m., and so the Old Nick mocks at Him by coming to full-blown power at 3 a.m. What crass! I thought. I never thought about the movie after that night and everything was normal. Until one morning I started from sleep at a dark hour. I checked my watch out of habit and 3 a.m. it was. I found it eery but went back to sleep. Next night, the same routine followed. And the night after that. And every night after that until I gave up on going to bed early because I was completely creeped out.

It is highly psychological, and it only happens because somehow the events of that movie registered themselves in my subconscious brain which is active while I sleep. We know that our bodies are so tuned in to the practice of scheduling even our little tasks by the hours on the clock that they know what time it is at any given hour, though not consciously. It happens a lot of times that we wake up by ourselves just a minute before our alarm beeps. Ever thought how that works? Because our subconscious brain knows it all! He is one smart chap and outsmarts all our efforts to control it. My point is, the fact that I can’t sleep until 4 a.m. is because no matter how hard I try to pull it off, I have an even harder time trying to keep my subconscious brain from waking me up at that odd hour by its own in-built alarm. And so, my own brain and time are my biggest enemies.

Sometimes I wonder, what if there were no clocks? No clearly demarcated and numbered hours? What if my subconscious brain could never tell what exact hour it was except daybreak and nightfall? I want to live in a state of complete and total timelessness, as I like to call it. No clocks. No buzzers. I want to get up when the first ray of the dawn wards off the darkness and go to bed when the moon is higher up in the sky. In the meantime, I want to read. Books, computer print-outs and old diaries and newspaper clippings. Books on history, religion, philosophy, art, literature, music, science, math, fiction…You name it! I want to put on my running shoes and go running across the farms, past the lake, along the trails in the woods, then sit down on a boulder, wipe the sweat off my brow and listen to myself breathe along the steady hum of the crickets and an occasional call of a bird in its flight. I want to quit smoking and start eating right. Build up my appetite. If only I could devote some months of my life to a state of timelessness until my dear subconscious brain feels so full of little everyday pleasures and works of Michelangelo, Bob Marley, Arundhati Roy, Khaled Hussaini, Rumi, Richard Bach and Dostoevsky, that it could no longer remember 3 a.m. 

It’ll have to wait though. I cannot afford the luxury of timelessness just yet. Final year at college has some price to pay. But someday, why not? 

A piece of advice to my perceptive reader- chose wisely what you read or see on screen. Have a good night!!

Sunshine Through a Peephole

What do you miss, heart?

That, which was left behind?

Or that, which would never be?

The trappings of a mournful dawn,

Or the tugging of the strings beneath?

The grotesque similarities of thine lost worlds,

or the inward distortions of the spiraling seas?

What is it that you crave?

The brittle air that crumbled in your fists,

Or the stardust that turned to ash?

The crossroads at the darkest hour,

Or the flames that poured down,

sooting the white statues on the lush grass?

The ticking of the veins bidding the hour gone?

The purple bruises on the streets?

The hollow calls of the creaking swings?

They are gone, long past. 

Out the window, out of the doors,

where it rains eternally,

slithering down the walls,

winding across courtyards,

into the sea, over and over, by and by.

The never-ending dance of light and grey

beckons us backward,

to our hollowed soul.

We stand thus naked, 

not naked still, for we are

warped in our long lost grief.

I write to you, and wish,

Oh wish! How you would open up

to me.

Look, it's sunrise, in it's golden glory.

Look, it bathes us, embraces us.

Let it flow, let it go.

Close the drawers, once and for all.

The yellowing pages,

the fading memories of what was never yours,

is that what you miss?

Or the crutches, the binding ropes,

the clipped wings?

The knot in the throat,

the sigh of defeat?

What do you miss, heart?

What do you miss?

And why?

Renaissance

Faith is a concept I’ve been toying around with for a while now. I’ve been trying to find peace and God in temples and Churches, in the stone archways and ancient caves. But I have to admit, a temple once meant a museum of sorts to me, with ancient and modern carvings that adorned the walls and the high ceilings, the heavy brass bells I had to stand on the tips of my toes to touch, and the rather eerily jeweled idols of a few among a thousand Hindu deities resting in the inner chambers. Running a hand on the dusty railings of the staircases that led to the main hallway and tuning my ears to the knell of the temple bells drawing ever closer, I would feel the concrete burning hot beneath my feet in the scorching sun of the summer. While my grandma knelt down and prayed, her lips moving soundlessly offering a muted prayer or a silenced chant, I would sit on the cool tiled floor, the frills of my dress sprawled about me, watching the water fall in lazy drops on the flower-laden Shivalingam. I would try to imagine Lord Shiva, meditating somewhere on the far-away mountain of Kailasa, listening to grandma’s prayers and would quickly say a short prayer myself just in case He was actually listening. Faith and spirituality came to be entwined as one.

For years faith or spirituality was to me a string of Hindu festivals and ‘customized’ rituals to suit every occasion right from the birth of a child into the family to the funeral of ‘those who were called away by God.’ Faith was never a matter of choice. It was something I was born with. But here’s the catch: faith was never even a matter of personal perception. It was, and remains to be, a grave sin to experiment with it, to examine its constituents. To fall out of faith is seen as sin of gravest proportions, so grave that faithless equals Godless. During the early years of my teenage, when I started resisting participating in the customary rituals of idol worship, my resistance was met with sharp whiplashes, though thankfully not in the literal sense of the word. My schooling in a Catholic Convent School was frowned upon as the reason for ‘polluting my sense of faith and spirituality.’ It is true that going to that school made me believe there’s only one God and we are His children, as opposed to the concept of a thousand different Gods- One for each purpose! Suit yourselves, dear devotees! 

As the Newtonian theory goes, every action is met by an equal and opposite reaction. The more they tried to teach me their version of spirituality, the more my desire to experiment with the notion of spirituality grew until I decided to go ahead and read up on religion and science and spirituality, and base my faith on my own first-hand experiences. Hence ensued my journey of reading about the aforesaid and examining the religious and spiritual beliefs of people I met and places I visited. I have read Hindu texts, documents validating or refuting Biblical entries, research materials on new sects of Buddhism, and a few things from the Holy Quran. Frankly, I have no clue if reading would ever help lift the fog of ignorance, but one thing is certain- that the more I read, the more my will to know more grows and pushes me to read more, reason more and criticize more. 

Spirituality is here. It is now. It cannot be understood or defined or shaped based on some ancient texts or mythical tales. But what we feed into our cerebrum helps shape the way we look at things. As euphemism is a cynic’s red bull, so are facts and knowledge a believer’s. Belief is a child of reason. To me it is. And reason is one faculty that keeps me going in the quest to rediscover my spirituality. Faith and spirituality are two different concepts. I have yet to find my spirituality, untangled and reasoned. But I have already rediscovered my faith. I had lost it somewhere on my way to ‘Here’ but I found it again deep inside me, waiting to wake from a brittle slumber. The fact that I can question my conceptions and give myself a chance to correct myself, that I can stumble and catch myself, that I can feel hurt and treated unjustly and yet love,  affirms that I have faith. Faith in myself. Faith in justness. Faith that someday I will find my spirituality in some new dimensions of belief. Faith that I can go on and paint the world red. ‘Til then, the next stop on my scavenger hunt is Lama Yeshe Wisdom Archives in the little town of Dharamsala perched atop the northern hills of India!