No-Mind's Land

Kuruntokai, Verse 42

2011-02-14T22:34:00.000-08:00

The verses of the Kuruntokai are beautiful, I couldn't resist posting them
especially on Valentines day :-)

Verse 42 :

What her friend said to him -
"Even if passion should pass,
Like the great midnight rain which beats down
with thunder and lightning
and makes a waterfall resound through a cave,
would our love also pass
with passion ? "
Poet: Kapilar

Translation, courtesy AK Ramanujam

Perfection

2011-01-31T00:20:00.000-08:00

My favourite book, without a doubt is Siddhartha, that is an answer I will give without blinking.
Here are some of my favourite passages from Siddhartha -

The world, Govinda, is not imperfect or slowly evolving along a long path to perfection. No, it is perfect at every moment; very sin already carries grace within it, all small children are potential old men, all sucklings have death within them, all dying people – eternal life. During deep meditation it is possible to dispel time, to see simultaneously all the past, present and future, and then everything is good, everything is perfect, everything is Brahman. Therefore, it seems to me that every that exists is good – death as well as life, sin as well as holiness, wisdom as well as folly. Everything is necessary, every thing needs only my agreement, my assent, my loving understanding; then all is well with me and nothing can harm me.
He saw the face of a newly born child, red and full of wrinkles,
ready to cry. He saw the face of a murderer, saw him plunge a knife into
the body of a man; at the same moment he saw this criminal kneeling
down, bound, and his head cut off by an executioner. He saw the naked
bodies of men and women in postures and transports of passionate love. He saw corpses stretched out, still, cold, empty.-Chapter 12, pg. 121
He saw all these forms and faces in a thousand relationships
to each other, all helping each other, loving, hating, destroying each other
and become newly born. Each one of them was mortal, a passionate,
painful example of all that was transitory. Yet none of them died, they
only changed, were always reborn, continually had a new face: only time
stood between one face and another. - Chapter 12, pg. 121

Of tongue-twisters and baby-speak

2010-10-27T22:35:00.000-07:00

Recently , at a lazy Sunday lunch with friends, when the sky was overcast and we had an endless day ahead created just for idle conversation, the topic turned to kurals.
To me, the Thirukkural brings back memories of hearing my classmates reel off tongue twisters, verses which we imagined were created just to torture our tender six year old vocal cords.
Those of you who, like my friends, have mastered the art of saying "vazhapazham" imagining that they were repeating "waterplum" with mouths full of water, take note. This is an Olympic-scale version of that battle.
Maybe it is the nostalgia induced by living faraway, changed literary sensibilities, or a renewed love for the mother tongue, but the Kural verses have begun interesting me. Many of them fall in the gray areas between poetry and scripture, reflection and teaching, how-it-is and what-should-you-do. Although it is very different from current day Tamil,the words of the Kural exist as time capsules of the language that was spoken two thousand years ago.

One of the offbeat Kural's that I love is this one :

"Kuzhal inidhu yaazh, inidhu enbatham makkaL,
Mazhalai sol keLaadhavar. "

(English Translation)

"Those who speak of the sweetness of the flute and lute
Have never heard the lisping speech of a child."

The translation is close but it fails to capture the (fittingly)
musical syllables in the verse, nor is there a good
English equivalent which conveys the poetry of the word "Mazhalai".

However, for the phonetically-challenged folks who simply cannot forgive the sadistic Stone Age linguist who created the "zh" sound , the translation would do just fine.

Rest in Peace, Dr. Slatton

2010-03-31T19:19:00.000-07:00

I just heard the tragic news that my professor and Master's research advisor passed away.It is tough to imagine how his family- including five very young children, must be feeling right now. I still can't believe that this brilliant person and amazing human being who was standing before our class and teaching us the intricacies of machine learning just one year ago is now no more.
I can never forget my most unusual Master's Thesis Defense - Dr.Slatton was so sick with advanced chemotherapy that I had to present the defense at his house. His children, 4 active boys and a sweet girl were very curious about my presentation,and his little girl was my main audience.What remains in my mind is his enthusiasm about my research and interest in my further education even when he was in such intense pain. It must have been a tremendous effort to forget how the vision blurred in your right eye or how painful it was to even move your hands to focus on a graduate students first fumbling attempt at doing research.
Dr. Slatton, you were really a brilliant professor with many of the highest awards and feathers in your cap at a young age.But what also set you apart were the human qualities that you retained even when death was so close.The patience and attention you gave to all your research scholars.The kindness, humour and firm-gentleness with which you dealt with your class even at trying moments.The humility and lightness with which you carried your gifts even after achieving so much, so early.
You will be missed, may you rest in peace.

Peace my heart...

Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet.
Let it not be a death but completeness.
Let love melt into memory and pain into songs.
Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest.
Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night.
Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last words in silence.
I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.

~Rabindranath Tagore

Haiku #4 : Fireflies

2010-02-17T21:14:00.001-08:00

The dim verandah lamp
Fireflies move in circles
Seeking larger suns.

Haiku #3

2010-01-24T16:45:00.001-08:00

Home,just a notion
Even stars move their places
In the night sky.

Winter Thoughts : Haiku Resumes :)

2010-01-18T10:24:00.001-08:00

Winter Thoughts

Silence (powdery/granular/white)
settles;Burying everything
These conversations with the sky.

The poetry of fall

2009-10-25T10:54:00.000-07:00

~And there is a time for everything, and a season for every activity
under the heavens.- The Ecclesiastes

The poetry of fall is the barenaked truth of trees; heartfelt
talk stripped of green pleasantries; the poetry of frank confessions and no attempt at concealing warts.
It is the alchemy of sudden change which surprises you even when you
know you should expect it. The warm toasty colours of nostalgia - golden brown honey,
schoolchildren huddled in yellow raincoats, sepia tinted photographs and the burnt amber of intricate mehendi patterns.
A total disregard for boundaries and names - leaves which now look
like earth coloured petals or translucent coin sized slices of the
sun.
You see an orange ribbed leaf against cloudless blue -
the beggars outstretched open palm holding nothing and the whole sky all at once.
And in that moment you become aware - of the passage of time, and the
soundless ,matter of fact, sweeping away of all that appeared
constant.

The Poetry of Non Control

2009-06-20T21:14:00.001-07:00

The poetry of non-control

Is the poetry of sitting on a train in a strange city believing
that you are moving in the right direction.
It is the understanding that you can hardly hasten
anything - including the arrival of a much-awaited-for package, the
ripening of mangoes, or your own enlightenment.
The poetry of waking up one day to find in surprise that wild orchids
have bloomed outside the window without your effort.
It is the quiet calm that settles in your chest like a bluebird that,
after hours of restless flapping of wings, sits on the branch of a gulmohar tree when
the rain pours.
When a friend is sharing troubles, it is the poise of your open
mouth.Words rush to tell of how-to’s and fix-it’s but you have instead decided to remain silent and listen.
It is the knowledge that the world, with all its wounds, does not need you to
run out and give it another band-aid as much as it needs your loving
presence.

Healthcare or Health-I-dont-Care ?

2009-06-18T00:04:00.000-07:00

Since this has generated some interest on the internet I will tell my story:
I was feeling pretty crummy and had a bad cold , and some of my lab members had it too - so my boss was really nice and insisted I go and see a doc, especially with the Flu-That-Should-Not-Be-Named circulating.
I don't have a car and don't know any doctors in Gainesville so I went to the University Infirmary. Isn't that supposed to be for the greater good for the student community? Instead, they insist on charging me $76 for what turned out to be a 5 minute appointment.
An annoyed lady grudgingly wakes up from her afternoon siesta and asks what I want. She makes me stand and fill out a ton of forms and I am just feeling way too sick by now, I really need to sit down. I try to get to a chair but she stops me and says no, please stand here and fill this up (I really couldn't figure this out!).
The air is filled with hostility, as much as the forms are filled with legalese.
I wait for a while and finally a nurse sees me.
I finally go into a room when she literally turns her back on me and throws questions at me - as cold , harsh and impersonal as it can get. I'm shocked at some of her questions relating to family history- So did your grandfather have cancer? Did he die from it?
I'm sure my pulse races as she measures it, as I try to retain a calm frame of mind with this cross questioning.I actually begin to feel like a felon on trial as this progresses.It all ends with a doc coming in for a couple of nanoseconds who tells me I don't have swine flu.
I decide to not give an eye for an eye and thank everyone on the way out but I take some time to recover from this experience.
What ails the American health care system is not a lack of infrastructure, intelligence, or planning. ...
The system has become so complicated and steeped in legal issues that it is so completely devoid of 'compassion'. In fact, it should be renamed health-i-dont-care.
PS: I wish I did not have to complain, but I hope my med school friends will take a look at this and pause to reflect! Finally, the good news is that I dont have swine flu and thats what matters :)

The Joy of Less

2009-06-13T11:14:00.001-07:00

Image : Courtesy stefanoforenza.com

http://happydays.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/06/07/the-joy-of-less/
OK I TOTALLY LOVED this post!!
It says a lot about the lack of mental clutter in the author - the fact that he is able to wield his pen like a violinist and use words sparsely to create feeling in the reader.
Okay, those were a whole lot of unnecessary words, right?
:-) When will I learn! LOL!
:-)
Avan

Spring cleaning my mind

2009-06-11T12:39:00.000-07:00

Photo: Courtesy ImageBank

~ "Changing the world is good for those who want their names in books. But being happy, that is for those who write their names in the lives of others, and hold the hearts of others as the treasure most dear."
- Children of the Mind, by Orson Scott Card

Will the recession actually make you happier?

2009-02-08T11:05:00.000-08:00

Economic pundits,please forgive me if I what I have said seems blasphemous. Halt production and consumption and create a further cycle of economic downfall?
But please remember that the earth doesn't have endless resources. Like Gandhi ji once said, 'The world has enough for man's need but it does not have enough to satisfy his greed.'
I recently read the top 50 ways in which to save the planet, by TIME magazine.
I liked the 51st way the best, it went like this : "The chance to buy a carbon offset—in essence, an emissions indulgence—appeals to the environmental sinner in all of us. But there is an older path to reducing our impact on the planet that will feel familar to Evangelical Christians and Buddhists alike. Live simply. Meditate. Consume less. Think more. Get to know your neighbors. Borrow when you need to and lend when asked. E.F. Schumacher praised that philosophy this way in Small Is Beautiful: 'Amazingly small means leading to extraordinarily satisfying results.'"

Can we escape judgment?

2009-01-27T11:07:00.000-08:00

Walking down the aisles of the grocery store, I looked for fruits and vegetables at the right stage of ripening.My mind automatically began scanning for the ones without spots or blemishes.
As I was going home it struck me that is impossible to pass through life without some form of judgment or the other.
I remember reading a book -'The Happiness Hypothesis' by the noted psychologist Jonathon Haidt. It actually had an entire chapter devoted to the role of gossip in society as a self-regulatory mechanism.
My broadening experience in the United States over the past two years has been primarily shaped by shedding the judgmental tendencies which is a part of the fiber of Indian society.
Within the middle class lot it is frowned upon to study anything outside the narrow disciplines of science,medicine or engineering. If you are 'unfortunate' enough not to enter these streams, you can redeem yourself with an MBA or Law degree.At the 'right' time you need to get married,to the 'right' person of course, from the same community,chosen by society for you.
I don't want to digress and make this an angry rant- after all this is a place for reflection and not rambling. My question is - can we escape judgment and the habit of judging, or is it actually necessary?
In the States we are a part of a wonderfully egalitarian society which is still unthinkable for people back home.But judgment still lurks in every corner.In the laid back lifestyle of college students, you may not be judged by who your father is but you will still be judged if you refuse to have more than two beers on a Friday night.There are other parameters too - your hairstyle, your labels on your clothes, your nocturnal activities,the number of friends in your Facebook account,the people you spend your time with.
Is judgment an evolutionary instinct, a way of protecting ourselves and the people we love? A child who is left alone for a few minutes is usually instructed not to speak to people who look strange. 'If you need something',I remember my parents saying,' ask a 'nice lady' for help'.
And how about at work, when we need to make decisions all the time?In every day of our life, we need to know which way to move forward when the road forks.
But when judgment creeps in, our shared humanity is slowly edged out.
Reminds me of this verse by Rumi,an answer in itself.

Out beyond ideas of wrong-doing and right-doing,
there is a field.
I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase
each other
doesn't make any sense.

Rumi

Things Large and Small

2009-01-24T09:33:00.000-08:00

I wrote a haiku inspired by dichotomy.

Fiery sunset
On the grass
A daisy ,not overlooked.

A mid-day mandala of moments

2009-01-20T23:09:00.000-08:00

' If not here, then where?
If not now, then when?'
- The Talmud
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Florida has been terribly cold this winter, with temperatures dropping to the twenties everyday. My friend and I are tired of staying cooped up in our apartment.
We walk to a nearby outdoor cafe to grab lunch and get some fresh air.
Breathe in.
Criss crossed jet streaks make Chinese alphabets in the frosty blue sky.
A college student has her legs up on a stool and is engrossed in a book.An old lady indulges her grandson with cake. Giggles erupt when I discover I have exchanged burritos with my friend.The colors and textures on my plate- crisp green lettuce,succulent yellow corn,slices of red bell peppers -it looks like an impressionists palette.
Breathe out.
The man at the cafe smiles when I ask for my coffee in a cup instead of Styrofoam - you would be able to smell and enjoy it that way, he says with a grin. Ah, the little connections need to be cherished.A single vapor rises and curls from my coffee to dance in the frigid air.A little brown bird flies in and out of holes in the wrought iron table.
Breathe in.
The economy is in the doldrums, and I don't know if I'll get a job after graduating.I have a ton of work to finish for my PhD applications to get done.
Breathe out.
Right now, all that seems far away. I am just going with the flow - yes, that is the right term. 'Meditating'sounds too serious and structured ; 'enjoying myself' seems to lack depth.These are just those moments when you are fully present ,completely aware.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The moments,slipping from my consciousness,seamlessly form a mandala-collage in my mind.Quietness which my noisy mind wants to embellish and share in a blog.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I will go home now and get to work.

The rivers of his hands

2008-11-20T08:19:00.000-08:00

A space for vanishing memories.It was a phrase I saw in a book. I lingered over it for a long time, deciding there was plenty of empty room in my heart now, so that my vanishing memories could slide in unobtrusively and sit quietly until they needed to be pulled out. They would appear, rainbow coloured bubbles of thought - on one of those rainy evenings spent with just myself and a cup of warm coffee, or during a phone call with a friend who wants to share some nostalgia or on a lazy Sunday spent sifting through old yellowed photographs, looking for dates and names.
Except the vanishing memories seem to pop up quite frequently these days.
They appear without warning when I come home and think of my grandmother waiting by the door when I got back from school, ladle in hand, although her arthritis made it hard for her to stand and walk. I would be greeted by the aroma of hot dosais on the heavy iron pan and a steaming bowl of sambar. Despite my protests (show me a child who readily eats a meal without a fuss) my grandfather, or 'thatha' as I called him would sit beside me as I ate and then hand me a bowl with a carefully prepared assortment of snacks and fruits as an after meal treat .I would end up sitting on the old easy chair, chewing my food without thought, engrossed in a book in my hand while I distractedly answered questions he asked me about school.
Or rewinding to an even younger age, I think of the times when I would walk home swinging my arms in the air, literally and metaphorically, while my grandfather insisted on carrying my school bag and lunch basket from the bus stop.He would walk by my side, quite a comical sight - an old man walking with the weight of a brightly coloured school bag on his shoulders.But my neighbours still remember his face - animated, attentive, sometimes disapproving, always eager to listen to his granddaughter and her 7 year old thoughts.
On days when I was home sick I can remember thatha's thin and slightly trembling hands at work making me bread toast with jam in the sandwich maker and hot Bournvita. He would then bring out our favourite board games to pass the time, or watch me with the Hindu newspaper's crossword puzzle in hand as I dabbled with paints and made a mess of the living room floor.
With walking stick in hand thatha would set out and make trips around the neighbourhood, sometimes stopping by a gate or wall to catch up with distant relatives or friends, sometimes pausing to hook a hibuscus blossom with his stick for the morning prayers.An older relative still recalls how he used to stop and inquire everyday with genuine concern about her health when she was recuperating from a major surgery. Most people found it hard to believe that this humble and increasingly frail man used to hold the highest office in the Border Security Force, once had a chartered plane at his disposal and met with top-level politicians quite often.
As dusk approached thatha led the bhajans in a nearby temple with his strong musical voice, sometimes driving his old broken down car to and from my evening classes - playing the unlikely soccer mom for a short time till my mother came home from work. Taking me and the other neighbourhood children on frequent trips to the beach, or occasional visits to a grand army parade or cricket match which he would be invited to, he would try to find new ways to amuse and educate all of us. Alternately strict and indulgent , thatha would teach me maths every day and being an old school person insisted on hard work and rigour while learning. Tears and tantrums would fly as the sums got progressively harder, with my harassed grandmother trying to intervene on my behalf and my mother looking on amused and simply relieved that someone could teach me the one subject she never quite understood.The fairness with which thatha would divide the firecrackers we bought for Diwali amongst all the children of the neighbourhood or the twinkle with which his eyes would greet our hare-brained pre schooler schemes,the tricycle he bought me when my parents went away for a few months, these regular acts of kindness are things that surprise me now that I have adulthood to thank for what people call 'adding perspective'.
In the afternoons I would glimpse his thick black rimmed glasses and the Bhagavad Gita by his bedside, and I would peer at him sleeping and try to count his breaths, wondering if I should wake him up for the detective series he liked to watch.
I recall those hands, blue veined and slightly wrinkled , prone to tremors that didn't betray a solidity of prescence . The hands which were, even at an age past retirement, busy helping their way around the house,folding gleaming white clothes at the exact same time everyday, preparing an arrangement of flowers for his morning prayers or boiling the milk and making the afternoon cups of coffee for the entire family. Hands busy making things comfortable for others, moving with the discipline that comes with following a strict and monastic routine and more than anything hands that were a continual source of affection to everyone.
A poem I once read now comes to my mind, bringing closure to my attempt at putting down on paper those things that cannot be said easily without being mistaken for an attempt to eulogize someone long gone or escape into the rosiness of the past.

The memory of my father is wrapped up in
white paper, like sandwiches taken for a day at work.

Just as a magician takes towers and rabbits
out of his hat, he drew love from his small body,

and the rivers of his hands
overflowed with good deeds.
-Yehudi Amichai

Cloud Gazing

2008-09-11T07:07:00.000-07:00

Cloud Gazing
This moment
Clouds drift across the sky
A neighbour walks out with the trash,looks up,waves
A dry twig creaks
A man hops onto a bicycle and whizzes past
The smell of pine tickles my nose
An ant-couple mates on the iron railing
A housemate pours herself sizzling coffee
A gray bird disappears into the snowy folds of the sky
The phone in my palm: heavy with the bittersweetness of waiting
The clicks of doorknobs : people leave to work
The cold cement floor fill my bare feet
Snakes of last night's rain drip across the window
Stillness,the rustle of leaves in the wind,then stillness.

This moment
Uncelebrated, like a quiet birthday spent in a nursing home.
Evanescent, like wisps of smoke that escape from fingers holding a cigarette.

You need something nameless
To spot the talents of the quiet child in the corner of the classroom,
or know that a note written in an unknown language is a love letter,
or see that cloud-gazing is a worthy occupation.

Un-Distinction

2007-06-10T23:26:00.000-07:00

I read this in Seth Godin's interesting blog about ideas,information and stuff like that:

The Master in the art of living
makes little distinction between
work and play,
labor and leisure,
mind and body,
education and recreation,
love and religion.
You hardly know which is which.
You simply pursue your vision of
excellence in whatever you do,
leaving others to decide whether
you are working or playing.
To you, it is always both.

Postcard from Sikkim

2007-05-20T19:23:00.000-07:00

I just came back from a holiday to Sikkim, near the lower reaches of the Himalayas and very close to the Indo-china border near Tibet.
The first thing you notice about the place is that its way cleaner than any other Indian state I have ever seen- with a lot of strict laws about littering, and a total ban on plastic bags.
The people seem to have faces that are naturally smiling and are really kind and cheerful.Just like in the marketplace I've pictured here, it's not a typical tourist destination with sellers thrusting their goods on you,waiting for a chance to cheat outsiders who don't know better.The Sikkimese are very unselfconscious and simply go about their everyday life- and by not trying hard to make the place likeable,you feel its quiet charm.
And the children are just delightful - baby monks with naughty grins,open and curious children who stop to giggle at you,little boys playing soccer on every piece of flat land,the list is endless.And they love posing for photographs, which made me extra trigger happy!

Who creates?

2007-04-26T00:19:00.000-07:00

When we repeat "I create, I create, I create,"
We soon forget who is actually creating.
This is the danger of human culture.
-Shunryu Suzuki

Catcher in the Rye

2007-03-02T18:04:00.000-08:00

This was a funny picture I took of a little cousin who I'm crazy about. He had seen 'replays' in cricket matches on TV, and was trying to fall down again and again to look like a replay. =)
It reminds me of a favourite book of mine,"The Catcher in the Rye",and this extract from it:
You know that song 'If a body catch a body comin' through the rye'? I'd like -"
"It's 'If a body meet a body coming through the rye'!" old Phoebe said. "It's a poem. By Robert Burns."

"I know it's a poem by Robert Burns."...

Anyway, I keep picturing these little kids playing some game in this big field or rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean, except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy."

Stillness Speaks

2007-03-01T19:18:00.000-08:00

A leaf holds a drop of water.
A-ha.
Sometimes Stillness Speaks for itself.

Star-Flower

2007-02-26T08:45:00.000-08:00

I wrote this Haiku sometime back:

Jasmine flowers;white night stars;within my hands reach.