Glimpses from the road- India

Cows.

            Colour.

                                                                                    Noise.

                                    Smells.

                              Beggars.

                                                               Dirt.

                                                                                                                Eagles.

                 Touts.

                                                                                                                          Temples.  

    Monks.

                                            Flies.

                                                                                 Noise.

                                                                                         Noise.

INDIA?

INDIA.

INDIA!

The bus waves along central Tamil Nadu towards Kerala. Calling this metal box a bus is of course a grand promotion for the poor old thing. I can hardly see out of the murky muddy windows, enormous dust clouds escape the hard cushions of the seats as we take giant leaps at every pothole. It must hang on the god of perseverance, Vishnu, to hold this thing together. Yet here in India I am one with the grime and the germs, one with Life in all its forms.

How I love to watch the landscapes and peoplescapes of India! Nowhere in the world have I seen such beauty of variety. In a single glimpse of the eye one can catch the whole world it seems, there is beauty and ugliness, sadness and laughter, colour. So much colour exploding from the rice-paddies, the jungles of palm-trees, the multi-hued shoe-box houses, the stalls selling flowers, fruits, spices, but above all it is the women who paint this country a rainbow. Is there a sight more magical than the gentle flowing of the bright silk saris, they come in all possible patterns and colours and some in seemingly impossible ones. With their thick black shiny hair adorned with petals of aromatic flowers, their golden nose and earrings, Indian women represent the earth and the beauty of this land, there is no doubt about that.

At every moment I am trying to devour all that I can with my sight, there is so much life going on at such great speed. India is like a mini Universe to itself it seems. I dare not close my eyes though I haven't slept for four days, I don't want to miss anything.

The bus comes to a halt now in a little station. Before I can get out, I have to make way for all the salesmen rushing against me. They sell everything imaginable- from food and drinks to juice presses, irons, maps, head massagers. Out of the bus I am instantly approached by another sort of salespeople. They sell pity, compassion and a hope of improving ones karma. Some beggars also sell the beauty of their children, with a baby on their arm they smile at you with utmost charm. The older beggar ladies have lost all that sort of arsenal and grab you or poke you with a demanding rudeness. I give all of them my compassion. But there are a few, usually older gentlemen, who come at you with humility, with peaceful eyes and a genuine smile. They give you a gift of their presence and the gifts from the heart have to be returned. This hunched man here stands in a respectful distance from me. He is silent. He looks full of prayer. I approach him myself and give him all my change. I see from the look of surprise in his eyes that he cannot believe his luck, yet he changes nothing in his demeanor. He bows to me and smiles again, I smile back. It was a beautiful exchange of humanity, based on respect, nothing was demanded, and the gift was mutual. I have felt many times here that sometimes giving can be much trickier than receiving, and wrongful, selfish giving as harmful as stealing.

I return to the bus and sit back to my seat. Next to me is a new passenger- a middle aged man. He is wearing gray suit trousers, a khaki shirt, glasses and he is reading a newspaper. I give him a casual friendly smile even though I am very much aware of the dangers of such an innocent gesture. Plenty of times I too have fallen victim to a syndrome in India I call the Roaming Hands Syndrome. The Hands can come from anywhere, mostly in public transport which has to bare about double their intended passenger load, they can peek out unexpectedly from between seats or little cracks of windows, god bless you when you're standing. The Hands are not connected to the Brain, that I know for sure. Every time when I have caught the Hands and reproached them, the Face has looked dumbfounded, in complete shock, as though they had suddenly awoken from a dream. Sexual repression- in no other place in the world are the repercussions of that crime felt more than in the spiritual India. I turn my glance back to the Osho book I am reading at the moment and agree with him when he says that it is easy to be either a sinner or a saint, but both of these negate and try to escape the real challenge and the real gift of being a human being. Both of these are extremes, half-lives. A human being is meant to be in that conflict, in a pulling between the lower animal nature and the higher spiritual part. This condition cannot be run away from, because it is not a curse- it is an opportunity for transcendence.

In any other circumstance, in any other country, I would have a strong reaction to the all-too-tactile men. Yet here in India it seems I have more peace and composure, it is ironic that when the hassles are truly many, they cease to be so full of hassle. So I will give this gentleman and all the owners of the roaming hands the gift of faith in humanity and the compassion for the challenges they all have in the way to behave.

The older gentleman asks, "Country?" "Estonia", I reply, "It's a small country in Europe." To this I get the usual reply of wobbling the head from side to side. All Indian heads wobble, it is magical and very funny to watch people converse. To this day I haven't deciphered the meaning of this, it can be yes, no, maybe, I don't know. Usually it just seems an affirmation of having heard what the other has said.

"Married?" "No", I smile. Of course this would be the time to lie to be safe, yet I am an advocate of truth, almost an addict to it in fact.

"Job?" "No" I reply once again. Although sometimes I write a traveler on immigration cards and under pay scratched feet and tend to get into trouble for my little jokes with the bureaucrats at times. The biggest trouble you can get to comes through honesty though. In one airport I was just straight to the core. Basically I presented the lady behind the counter a blank sheet. Student- no. Working- no. Address in India- none. Phone number- none. This shocked her beyond belief and finally I had to give her a random business card from a place we were staying two months back, because to her a person like me, who did not fill any boxes at all, well that was just preposterous. A lie, a lie was much better than that.

"How old?" "29." A wobbling head.

Meeting an Indian person always makes me feel like I am having an exam or a job interview. A head-wobble and a smile lets me know that I have passed.

Of course twenty minutes later he fails my own little exam of him, which the universe has presented, his hands get disconnected and I stare at him with a piercing look that makes him leave seats, bowing, apologising, bowing, apologising. Oh well- it is still better to see the best in people I feel.

I used to say that I travelled because I was on the search to find myself. I cannot say this anymore. I am on the road, because I am the road. In India at least, I am not running. India dissolves time. In India all roads are one road and one road is all, India melts down feet. India is for flying. Precisely the fact that India gets you so close to the ground, and this also literally- expect black soles that you will scrub for months- it lifts you above it all. To surrender is to over-come. To over-come is to hold in endless fascination.

India is so fascinating precisely because of its extremes. Extremes must always meet and when the outer world is strung to the limit with noise, the inner world has the opportunity to be quiet. India gives any traveler a clear choice it seems- be frustrated and annoyed by it or find the acceptance and love that all of us do possess, thus seeing the beauty and incredible richness and power of this country one would otherwise miss. 

Here the experiences from one end to another are always mixed together to a sparkling large cocktail. Nobody can tell you what the ingredients are but you know you are hooked to the taste. It is intoxicating and depressing yet it also gives you health and energy, joy and vitality. It is an elixir of the youth of spirit and of peace of the old. India is like a battery, it carries the highest charge I’ve ever felt in a country to fulfilling a human beings potential of being conscious. Landing on its soil is like a hand of a mother that shakes the sleeping child who is late for school. The energy of India is a powerful chanting- wake up, wake up, wake up!

Finally, the bus stops at a little crumbling bus-station on a dusty old square. I gently wake up the small boy who has been sleeping with his head on my shoulder. I give one more look, forgiving, to my fellow male passenger, still looking back at me as he exits the bus. 

Another Indian city is ahead. I smile, take a breath and melt into the flow of the exiting crowd.

Tribute to Rabindranath Tagore

Gift of love 2

 

I was not aware of the moment when I first crossed the threshold of this life. 

What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery like a bud in the forest at midnight? 

When in the morning I looked upon the light I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world, 

that the inscrutable without name and form had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother. 

Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me. 

And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well. 

The child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it away 

to find in the very next moment its consolation in the left one.

***

Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well. 

Oh, thou beautiful, there in the nest it is thy love that encloses the soul with colors and sounds and odors. 

There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth. 

And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows deserted by herds, through trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden pitcher from the western ocean of rest.

But there, where spreads the infinite sky for the soul to take her flight in, reigns the stainless white radiance. 

There is no day nor night, nor form nor color, and never never a word.

***

Keep me fully glad with nothing. 

Only take my hand in your hand.

In the gloom of the deepening night take up my heart and play with it as you list. 

Bind me close to you with nothing.

I will spread myself out at your feet and lie still. 

Under this clouded sky I will meet silence with silence. 

I will become one with the night clasping the earth in my breast.

Make my life glad with nothing.        

The rains sweep the sky from end to end. 

Jasmines in the wet untamable wind revel in their own perfume. 

The cloud-hidden stars thrill in secret. 

Let me fill to the full of my heart with nothing but my own depth of joy.

***

The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.

It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.

It is Your same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow.

I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life. 

And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment.

***

Senses

Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. 

I feel the embrace of freedom in a thousand bonds of delight.

You ever pour for me the fresh draught of Your wine of various colors and fragrance, filling this earthen vessel to the brim.

My world will light its hundred different lamps with Your flame and place them before the altar of Your temple.

No, I will never shut the doors of my senses. 

The delights of sight and hearing and touch will bear Your delight.

Yes, all my illusions will burn into illumination of joy, and all my desires ripen into fruits of love.

***

The Journey

The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs; 

and the flowers were all merry by the roadside; 

and the wealth of gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds 

while we busily went on our way and paid no heed. 

We sang no glad songs nor played; 

we went not to the village for barter; 

we spoke not a word nor smiled; 

we lingered not on the way. 

We quickened our pace more and more as the time sped by. 

The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade. 

Withered leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon. 

The shepherd boy drowsed and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan tree, 

and I laid myself down by the water 

and stretched my tired limbs on the grass. 

My companions laughed at me in scorn; 

they held their heads high and hurried on; 

they never looked back nor rested; 

they vanished in the distant blue haze. 

They crossed many meadows and hills, 

and passed through strange, far-away countries. 

All honor to you, heroic host of the interminable path! 

Mockery and reproach pricked me to rise, 

but found no response in me. 

I gave myself up for lost 

in the depth of a glad humiliation 

---in the shadow of a dim delight. 

The repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom 

slowly spread over my heart. 

I forgot for what I had traveled, 

and I surrendered my mind without struggle 

to the maze of shadows and songs. 

At last, when I woke from my slumber and opened my eyes, 

I saw thee standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile. 

How I had feared that the path was long and wearisome, 

and the struggle to reach thee was hard!

***

Let all the strains of joy 

mingle in my last song -- 

the joy that makes the earth flow over 

in the riotous excess of the grass, 

the joy that sets the twin brothers, 

life and death, dancing over the wide world, 

the joy that sweeps in with the tempest, 

shaking and waking all life with laughter, 

the joy that sits still with its tears 

on the open red lotus of pain, 

and the joy that throws everything it has 

upon the dust, and knows not a word.

***

Yes, I know, this is nothing but thy love,

O beloved of my heart --

this golden light that dances upon the leaves, 

these idle clouds sailing across the sky, 

this passing breeze leaving 

its coolness upon my forehead.

The morning light has flooded my eyes --

this is thy message to my heart.

Thy face is bent from above, 

thy eyes look down on my eyes, 

and my heart has touched thy feet.

***

Is it beyond thee to be glad with the gladness of this rhythm? 

to be tossed and lost and broken in the whirl of this fearful joy?

All things rush on, they stop not, they look not behind, no power can hold them back, they rush on.

Keeping steps with that restless, rapid music, seasons come dancing and pass away—colours, tunes, and perfumes pour in endless cascades in the abounding joy that scatters and gives up and dies every moment.

***

Maya  

That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides,

thus casting colored shadows on thy radiance

---such is thy Maya. 

Thou settest a barrier in thine own being

and then callest thy severed self in myriad notes.

This thy self-separation has taken body in me. 

The poignant song is echoed through all the sky in many-coloued tears

and smiles, alarms and hopes; waves rise up and sink again,

dreams break and form.

In me is thy own defeat of self. 

This screen that thou hast raised is painted with innumerable figures

with the brush of the night and the day.

Behind it thy seat is woven in wondrous mysteries of curves,

casting away all barren lines of straightness. 

The great pageant of thee and me has overspread the sky.

With the tune of thee and me all the air is vibrant,

and all ages pass with the hiding and seeking of thee and me. 

***

Innermost One 

He it is, the innermost one,

who awakens my being with his deep hidden touches. 

He it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes

and joyfully plays on the chords of my heart

in varied cadence of pleasure and pain. 

He it is who weaves the web of this maya

in evanescent hues of gold and silver, blue and green,

and lets peep out through the folds his feet,

at whose touch I forget myself. 

Days come and ages pass,

and it is ever he who moves my heart in many a name,

in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of sorrow. 

***

Ocean of Forms 

I dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms,

hoping to gain the perfect pearl of the formless. 

No more sailing from harbor to harbor with this my weather-beaten boat.

The days are long passed when my sport was to be tossed on waves. 

And now I am eager to die into the deathless. 

Into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss

where swells up the music of toneless strings

I shall take this harp of my life. 

I shall tune it to the notes of forever,

and when it has sobbed out its last utterance,

lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent. 

***

Sit Smiling 

I boasted among men that I had known you.

They see your pictures in all works of mine.

They come and ask me, `Who is he?'

I know not how to answer them. I say, `Indeed, I cannot tell.'

They blame me and they go away in scorn.

And you sit there smiling. 

I put my tales of you into lasting songs.

The secret gushes out from my heart.

They come and ask me, `Tell me all your meanings.'

I know not how to answer them.

I say, `Ah, who knows what they mean!'

They smile and go away in utter scorn.

And you sit there smiling. 

***

Mind Without Fear 

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; 

Where knowledge is free; 

Where the world has not been broken up

into fragments by narrow domestic walls; 

Where words come out from the depth of truth; 

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection; 

Where the clear stream of reason

has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; 

Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action--- 

Into that

 heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake. 

***

Journey Home 

The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long. 

I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my

voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star and planet. 

It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself,

and that training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune. 

The traveler has to knock at every alien door to come to his own,

and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end. 

My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said `Here art thou!' 

The question and the cry `Oh, where?' melt into tears of a thousand

streams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance `I am!' 

***

Who is This? 

I came out alone on my way to my tryst.

But who is this that follows me in the silent dark? 

I move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not. 

He makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger;

he adds his loud voice to every word that I utter. 

He is my own little self, my lord, he knows no shame;

but I am ashamed to come to thy door in his company. 

"The broken people"

Reporter Ramita Navai and producer Siobhan Sinnerton travel through India exposing the horrific plight of the country's 170 million Dalits: literally "the broken people", and previously called "the untouchables"; who are at the bottom of India's caste system and are some of the most oppressed people on Earth. Economic growth has done little to improve the Dalits' lot; despite legislation, they still form 60 per cent of all those below the poverty line. Now, as Unreported World reports, Dalits are starting to fight for political power in an Indian civil rights movement.

India