Musings & Reflections

The Mango Tree and Bodisattva

7/22/2021

The Jataka tales are an important part of Buddhist art and literature. They describe the previous births of the Buddha in both human and non-human forms. The tales were often delicately sculpted in stupas. One such depiction of the Mahakapi Jataka appears on the western gateway of the Great Stupa at Sanchi.

The king is shown with a parasol over his head travelling with an entourage. To the right of the king an archer appears with bow and arrow aiming at the monkeys. Realizing that their lives are in peril, they appeal to the Great Monkey (Bodhisattva) who climbs onto the mango tree, grabbing the branch firmly, stretching himself across the river. The relief show the Bodhisattva as the bridge by which monkeys escape to join the rest of the troop in the forest. Notice the depiction of the river with crocodile and fishes!

In the tale, when the king asked the Great Monkey as to why he risked his life to protect the monkeys he replies, "Great king, I guard the herd. I am their lord and chief. When they were filled with fear of your archers, I leapt a great distance to save them. I managed to hold the branch of the mango tree so that my monkeys could pass over my back and reach safety. Because I could save them, I have no fear of death. Like a righteous king, I could guarantee the happiness of those over whom I reign. Sir, understand this truth! If you wish to be a righteous ruler, the happiness of your kingdom, your cities, and your people must be dear to you. It must be dearer than your life."

A timely reminder these days.
Incidentally today is the World Mango Day!!

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Bewitching Murals Of Bodinayakanur

7/8/2021

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I had read some time ago about the murals in a zamin palace at Bodinayakanur. The brief respite between the first and second wave of Covid provided a window of opportunity for Ahalya and myself to consider visiting the place. Fortuitously in March, there was the book release function at Madurai of Nandini Murali’s profoundly reflective narrative, ‘Left Behind’. My dear friend Dr C Ramasubramaniam was of immense help in facilitating and organizing our visit to the palace.

Bodinayakanur is picturesquely situated at the foot hills of Western Ghats in the Theni district, of Tamil Nadu. It is often referred to as India’s cardamom capital and is a thriving market town. Ubiquitous lush green stretches of cultivated lands and mesmerizing blue mountains with rocky peaks kept us company as we drove into the town. The town was abuzz with activity as the then deputy chief minister of Tamil Nadu, O Panneerselvam was filing his nomination papers for the Assembly elections (which he eventually lost!). There were hordes of people milling around with party flags and the crowd came alive when he rode into the town on an open vehicle. We managed to deftly make our way through throngs of people and reached the palace.

The zamindars of Bodinayakanur claim to be the descendants of Rishyashringa maharishi and belong to the Rajakambalam Nayakas, a Telugu speaking group who fled from Bellary in Karnataka when the troops of Alauddin Khilji invaded that region. The palace in the heart of the town was reportedly built by Bangaru Tirumalai Bodi Nayaka.

The first look of the palace which is in a sorry state of disrepair, made me immensely sad. It was a crumbling edifice, though remnants of its glorious past were visible in some intricate tiles in the balustrade. We climbed the stairs and went up to meet the current residents of the palace, who were delighted to receive us. Over tea and biscuits they briefed us about the history of the place and its troubled legal legacy. Beset with many claimants to the property, the entire property has been divided into many small pockets over time. The ageing couple who were currently living in the main building were hopeful of retaining their hold on it in spite of many legal tangles.

The main section of murals was in the basement of the main building and we gingerly made our way down guided by torchlight. I was totally unprepared for the sight unfolding in front of me. Much like Alice I found myself in a wonderland ablaze with murals of vibrant hues the likes of which I had never seen before. Understandably I was getting “curiouser and curiouser” as more and more murals unfolded before my eyes. With the help of a torch light, I started following the narration in the murals which depicted various scenes from the Ramayana. Fortunately since the murals have been painted above the lintel level they were in relatively good shape. Each of them had an explanatory caption in colloquial Tamil. From balakandam to the coronation of Sri Rama, entire episodes have been carefully portrayed using primarily herbal colours. These two hundred year old murals are a glowing testimony to the skills and creativity of the artisans of the period.

After savoring these priceless treasures for a long time, we reluctantly made our way up. I was aware that there was another section of murals in the palace. When I enquired about it, I was told that it was in another part of the property which had been partitioned and belongs to a different member of the family. I could sense a bit of hesitation, but having noticed my interest, the couple said that they would try and secure the key to open it.

The key was obtained and we made our way to the place. Once we were there, we understood why the couple was reluctant to show it to us. The dark and grimy place was being used as a godown. Stacks of paddy and fertilizer bags were heaped all over and the entire place was dirty. The murals were decomposed and in various stages of decay, probably due to the fumes emanating from the fertilizers in that closed space. The majesty of the fading murals was still visible in spite of swathes of cobwebs and dust covering them. I was greatly perturbed and dismayed at this savage neglect of priceless murals.

We thanked the couple for their generous hospitality and made our way back to Madurai, wondering as to how long these murals would survive the vagaries of time and human neglect. The prospects seem bleak unless the government or other agencies wake up from their slumber to preserve these invaluable, precious remnants of our artistic heritage.

In the decrepit mansion
Priceless edifices
Once grand
Recede in dark corners
Whispering stories of yore
Holding onto their memories
Like resilient leaves
On withered branches…

It was an arduous task to photograph the murals in darkness as I was keen not to use the flash. Moreover the paintings were above lintel level, closer to the ceiling and required climbing on a ladder (which wasn’t available) to photograph them. Hence it was a challenge to focus on them and the clarity may not be as perfect as I would have desiredL
This time around I have made a video from the pictures which makes it easier to have quick glimpse of them, rather than scrolling through scores of photos!

The link is: youtu.be/k0tDaN5kSm0
Looking forward to your reflections here!

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Multihued Murals of Bijapur

6/8/2021

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Mural painting is perhaps one of the oldest of art forms. From the cave paintings in Bhimbetka to the paintings one sees in the streets today, people have been leaving their imprints through this art form. The word ‘mural’ is derived from the Latin word ‘murus’ which means wall. As the name suggests, it refers to any piece of artwork painted or applied directly onto a wall, ceiling or other larger permanent surfaces. By encapsulating moments in time through paintings, it offers rich insight into the cultural ethos of particular periods in history.

As I have written in these blogs before, I am personally besotted with murals and have been visiting various locales in India to see and document them.

On a visit to Bijapur (nee Vijayapura!), I was keen to find out whether there were places where I could have a glimpse of the famed Deccani school of painting. After much enquiry, I found out that a water pavilion built during the reign of the Adil Shahi rulers might have some old murals. I was also cautioned that they were not in good shape.

Undeterred, myself and Ahalya made our way to the quaint village of Kumatagi on the outskirts of the city. The place was deserted with just a few cattle grazing in the lawn. Though small in size the main structures had a distinct charm. We crossed the imposing watch tower which also served as a storage tank for water to reach the royal bath house. There were pipelines running through the entire complex to distribute water from an adjoining sprawling lake. A complex system of storage tanks, cisterns and fountains seemed to be in place to keep the buildings cool at all times. I was reminded of the Deeg palace in Rajasthan which had a similar elaborate and intricate water distribution system. It is interesting to note that across geographic locales and time periods, structures were built near water bodies which enabled the rulers, elites and their families to escape the heat and relax in their salubrious environs. This summer resort built by Mohammad Adil Shah between 1627 and 1656 stands as a testament to the sophisticated water system that existed during the reign of the Adil Shahi Empire.

The searing heat of Bijapur seemed to dissipate away once we entered the water pavilion. It was cool and airy inside. At the center was a small pit on the floor with a decorated rim. Exactly above it, in the ceiling was an outlet for water. Even thought the plaster was peeling off from the walls, I could spot a few paintings near the ceiling. Many of them were in various stages of decay due travails of time and senseless acts of vandals who had inscribed their names with sheer abandon on these priceless treasures. The beauty and splendor of the paintings shone through despite the criminal neglect and vagaries of time.

One could discern elegantly conceived panels featuring nobles depicted against foliate backgrounds replete with blossoms, creepers and birds which enhanced the visual appeal. The palettes were subtle, subdued with deep earth tones. There was a vibrant depiction of a polo match. The energetic portrayal of the horse was particularly stunning. There was also another one of probably the emperor riding a horse with all its finery. Among the rest, two paintings were relatively well preserved. One beneath an arch portrayed the sultan seeking blessings from a sufi saint. The other one portrayed a couple, the man languorously reclining on the shoulder of the woman. The elegant, bejeweled coiffure of the woman was quite stunning. There was also a picture of a hand holding a bowl of fruits which looked like pomegranates. These paintings had an ephemeral quality though in various stages of decay.

These fading murals are among the few remaining ones of the Deccani style which were largely influenced by Persian and Turk art. It reached its zenith during the rule of Ibrahim Adil Shah II. He was a great patron of art and passionately fond of painting, music and poetry. He is often compared to Akbar. Like Akbar, he was fascinated by Hinduism and many of his portraits show him wearing Rudraksha beads. Ibrahim’s syncretic views and love of poetry are reflected in the Kitāb-i Nauras, the book of songs attributed to him which begins with an invocation to the Hindu goddess of learning, Sarasvati.

As I was leaving its precincts, I was visualizing the emperor composing verses in its cool ambiance replete with paintings which though faded and dilapidated now, would have been lusciously gorgeous at one time.

Visiting Kumatagi was like time travel through the pages of history. It was a truly fascinating experience offering insight into the rich architecture and the glorious tradition of mural paintings of the era. It was also an eye opener to the efficient water system that existed in the past and they hold lessons for modern architects to build structures in harmony with nature!

These dulcet murals
Whisper secrets
Of a dreamy past . . .

Glimpses of these murals at: photos.app.goo.gl/z8FvLnj1ABt5oCr48
Kindly post your comments and reflections here and not in FB or WhatsApp!!

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Forays Into The Landscape Of Books . . .

1/21/2021

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We all perceive our lives to be a straight line…we start at the beginning and hope to reach somewhere where we aspire to reach. Things changed in the past year, the line started curving, enclosing us in our small spaces, at home and between others. We tried to locate ourselves within that circle, carrying on with our lives, hoping for a day when the circle would expand and become an arc to set us free.

One of the ways I coped being within the circle was by reading books and this year particularly, I lost myself in many of them. Each one of them was different in its own way and a discovery by itself.
In the beautiful stillness that enveloped me on many a day, these books kept me engrossed like a sliver of light in dark days.

I must admit that I am a traveler on two roads: the one I greatly relish exploring is in the realm of nonfiction. Occasionally I heed Frost’s advice and take the road that leads me into the land of fiction and poetry. Hence, not surprisingly, the “list” of top ten books is a healthy blend of the two!

Like a spider I was weaving a web and many a book landed there…these are some that attracted my attention!

EAT THE BUDDHA
The Chinese have been trying to quash Tibetan independence for decades. There have been very few books that offer insights about the travails of Tibetans trying to preserve their culture, faith and language against the depredations of a seemingly unstoppable superpower. In this engaging book, Demick profiles a town in China's sprawling Sichuan Province. Travelling in disguise to evade the Chinese authorities, Demick interviewed residents of the town Ngaba over three years. In the 1930’s Mao’s Red Army fled to the Tibetan plateau to escape their adversaries in the Chinese Civil War. By the time the soldiers reached remote Ngaba, they were so hungry that they looted monasteries and ate religious statues made of flour and butter. To Tibetans, it was as if they were eating the Buddha. Over the years the town became a hotbed of Tibetan resistance, culminating in shocking acts of self-immolation. To make sure that there was no chance of rescue, some wrapped themselves in quilts and wire, while others drank gasoline so they burned from the inside. Over the course of centuries, hundreds of monks took their own lives. Having steeped themselves in Dalai Lama’s message of peace, the protesters turned the violence inward. One monk left a recording, “I am giving away my body as an offering of light to chase away the darkness to free all beings from suffering.” The book is a vivid portrait of the lives of a people locked in a struggle for identity and independence. It was curious to read that “In 2007, the State Administration for Religious Affairs issued an order that said in essence that one needed advance permission from the Chinese government in order to be reincarnated!”

VESPER FLIGHTS
I am mesmerized by birds of prey and find them to be majestic. Helen Macdonald wrote a book “H for Hawk” a few years ago. It is a powerful narrative of the author’s battle with depression after the loss of her father and how she coped with it by acquiring a pet Goshawk called Mabel. Her new essay collection, “Vesper Flights”, is a stunning book that urges us to reconsider our relationship with the natural world, and the need to preserve it. As she writes in the introduction, "I choose to think that my subject is love, and most specifically love for the glittering world of non-human life around us." And that love is palpable in every page of the book.

YOU ARE NOT LISTENING
How often do we really listen to someone properly? This is a book that urges us to close our mouths and open our ears! While it is not necessary to actively listen to everyone, many a time in our everyday lives often we assume what the other person might be saying and don’t actively pay attention to the conversation. This is especially true when we are listening to views that we are not in tune with, especially when they are of a political nature. But active listening is the essence of all relationships and is an important part of therapeutic engagements. Information overload with its attendant distraction make us bad listeners. Simon and Garfunkel wrote about it presciently in Sounds of Silence, “people hearing without listening”. Though it’s hard to listen in a world so full of noise, this book underscores why being a good listener is important and it also shows us the way to be one.

BREASTS AND EGGS
What does it mean to exist as a woman? In this first novel published in English, Japanese author Mieko Kawakami follows three women and their relationships with their changing bodies, single motherhood, beauty and gender norms. There’s Makiko obsessed with her breasts and trying to make them more aesthetic through implants. This outrages her daughter Midoriko and she is filled with disgust about the ideal of feminine beauty and how women pursue it. Then, the story shifts ten years forward, focusing on Natsu, Makiko’s sister who is single, confused by her fears about aging but keen to have a child. As Japanese government policy prevents donor identification, leaving thousands of adults without knowledge of their biological father, she feels uneasy about the consequences of this policy and the possible fate of any child she chooses to have by herself.. In narrating these anxieties, the author offers us multiple stances, opinions and ideas about the expectations put on women by the world and by themselves. As the author observes perceptively, “While it’s true that this is a story about the life of three women … it’s ultimately a story of people, living life through tears.”

SHUGGIE BAIN
It is one of the most moving books I have read last year. It is the story of a young boy growing up in a dysfunctional family amid politically fueled economic turmoil. Shuggie’s mother, Agnes, is an unrepentant alcoholic, and his father, Shug, is a taxi driver who despises his wife’s addiction, cheats on her and ultimately abandons them in a low-income housing development called Pithead, a depressing colliery where residents survive on government handouts. Agnes’s older children find their own ways to get a safe distance from their mother, abandoning Shuggie to care for her as she swings between alcoholic binges and sobriety. Shuggie tries to negotiate his life caught between his mother’s alcoholism, catholic-protestant resentment, his own nascent sexuality, its social repercussions and loneliness. His unwavering love for his mother is the flicker of hope in this bleak scenario which sustains their lives. There is tenderness and resilience in the bond between Shuggie and his mother. It is a beautifully written, poignant story of the strength of human attachment and affection which is heartbreaking yet magically uplifting.
Fiction offers us a tantalizing glimpse into the lives of others, yet at the same time gently urging us to examine our own unlived lives.

WILD GEESE RETURNING
Chinese Reversible Poems
This was the most unusual book I have ever read! It is a collection of a form of poetry that can be read in different directions. Thanks to the way Chinese written characters take meaning from their position in a text, it is possible to write poetry that reads both forwards and backwards, whilst still retaining the rhymes and syllable counts. The reversible poetry's greatest practitioner was Su Hui, a woman who in the fourth century, embroidered a poem woven in five colors in silk for her distant husband with a 29 x 29 character grid consisting of 840 characters. No one has ever fully explored all of its possibilities, but it is estimated that the poem and the poems within the poem may be read in as many as twelve thousand ways!
Among the collections in this book, I particularly liked the one by Wang Anshi (1021-86) titled 'Thoughts of a Traveler', which begins with geese on a secluded island and flows with the twists and turns of a river; then, twisting back on itself, returns across the landscape to the wild geese at rest.
Thoughts of a Traveler
Wild geese at rest squawk on a secluded island Receiving
the pink clouds of the falling evening, a river.
The clapping of the night watch carried by the wind, the
shower passes.
The pavilion reflects the moon, its quarter tilts.
On the silent bank a sail beats
On the distant shore a fire flares.
Great peril in taking the narrow path. The twists and turns
of the channel unwind all around the leveled fields.
--
Flat fields skirt around the winding ravine The narrow path
surmounts the danger.
A fire crackles on the distant shore
A sail floats on the silent bank.
The low quarter moon is reflected in the pavilion The
shower checks the wind, one night watch follows
another.
On the river, evening, red clouds that gather there fall On
the secluded island squawk wild geese at rest.

BREAD, CEMENT CACTUS
A Memoir Of Belonging And Dislocation
When the Covid pandemic swept across the country, we sought security at home while thousands walked their way back to their “native” abodes. As the old adage says there is no place like home. More than a physical space, home conveys a sense of belonging. For Zaidi, one of the first memories of home is cactus, conceivably associated with resilience. Twenty years later, when she returned to the place she wonders as to where she belongs. She tells the stories of migrants who end up in cities where they live on the margins and of minorities, including Muslims who face bias in everyday life, including the herculean task of finding a house to live in. She reflects poignantly, “Was Partition concluded in 1947, or was it initiated?” It is a haunting narrative of identity, belonging and dislocation in contemporary India. Zaidi thinks of home as morning mist, wispy and beyond her grasp. The book is embellished with wonderful illustrations by her mother.

OUT OF MY SKULL
The Psychology Of Boredom
When one my patient called me sometime back, I wondered whether she would talk to me about her anxieties during the lockdown. Instead, she simply remarked “I feel terribly bored doctor. I keep surfing the net, watch Netflix for long but there’s nothing of interest. Kindly help me!” Boredom seems to be a post modern malady as evidenced by the slew of books on it in the past year. This book is exceptional in exploring the larger landscape of boredom with interesting insights. The authors describes boredom as a combination of being mentally unengaged, and wanting to engage with something, yet being unable to, which they call as a “a failure to launch”. It is basically a feeling of lack of agency and dissatisfaction in life. Paradoxically boredom can be the result of too much information and stimulation or too less. They question whether evolution has built into us a desire to use our cognitive capacities well, and boredom is the adaptive signal that we aren’t doing so. Expanding the canvas further they reflect on the political ramification of boredom and postulate that boredom could be one of the driving forces behind the advent of tribalism and xenophobia of late. Did voters who are profoundly bored, elect leaders like Trump whom they believe to be stimulating?! It is also true that the consumerist world deliberately orchestrates boredom to profit from it!

SILENCE
The Power Of Quiet In A World Full Of Noise
“If I were a physician,” wrote Søren Kierkegaard, “and if I were allowed to prescribe just one remedy for all the ills of the modern world, I would prescribe silence.” In silence, we find ourselves. Most of us are enmeshed in the web of diverse thought processes that either drag us into the past or pull us into future, stopping us from living in the present and enjoying the moment. In this beautiful book Thich Nhat Hanh urges us to turn inwards and shut out not just the external noise but also the flurry of information that occupies our mind. Mindfulness facilitates such a process. In the words of the author, “you use mindfulness to become aware of everything, of every feeling, every perception in yourself and as well as what’s happening around you. You are always with yourself, you don’t lose yourself. That’s a deeper way of living.” Like other sages, most importantly Ramana Maharishi, Thich Nhat Hanh urges us to seek silence within us and does so eloquently. Read it aloud..better still when you are alone!

THE LOST SPELL
The last book in this list is one I treasure the most. It was a gift from a close friend who is also a talented artist. Robert Macfarlane’s Lost Words illustrated by Jackie Morris was an exceptionally beautiful book. They have followed it up with this pocket-sized wonder. Each "spell" poem conjures an animal, bird, tree or flower with which we share our lives and is embellished by Morris’s iridescent water colours. These painted verses shimmer with a magical exuberance in every page. To read The Lost Spell is to see the natural world anew…in every moment.

I would be delighted to hear from you about these books and also the ones that left an impression on you in the past year.
Feel free to pen your thoughts here!

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Living Is Easy With Eyes Closed.... Reflections On The Year Gone By . . .

12/24/2020

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The sky has been my constant companion in the past ten months. Sitting in my study, I keep looking at it as it changes its hues over time. Often the sky is caressed by dark clouds which seem to perspire and then there are welcome showers. At other times, saturated with dense colours, they amble across the sky like a child scattering paint in varying hues. As they shift and disperse, my state of mind and emotions also keep pace with them. William Wordsworth’s words, “I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er vales and hills”, resonate deeply within, in such moments.

The clouds are like islands amidst the vast expanse of the sky and with the onslaught of the covid-19 infection, we have been marooned in our own private islets for the past several months.

As the clouds meander to ensnare the light of the sun like pages in a book, I was also reaching out to books, finding solace and company in the web of words. In the process I often travelled back in time re-reading and re-discovering books without stepping out of my room during the enforced confinement due to covid-19. While words cannot always do justice to the extent of suffering from pandemics, fiction can sometimes offer us insights and this is particularly true of Portuguese writer José Saramago's book ‘Blindness’.

The novel chronicles an unprecedented pandemic of blindness that sweeps across an unnamed country. In the opening paragraph we find a man at a traffic stop. He is unable to move as he suddenly becomes blind and abruptly his world is enveloped in milky whiteness. He rushes to an ophthalmologist who examines him but cannot find any cause for it. He tells his patient to go home, assuring him that he will be contacted as soon as he finds a remedy for it. As the man leaves the clinic he infects everyone in it, including the doctor. Miraculously only the doctor’s wife retains her sight. Soon the blindness goes viral, spreads widely infecting everyone in the city. Since there never has been such a pandemic of this kind, people soon realize that there is no effective treatment for it. It becomes a national catastrophe and people are isolated and put in quarantine in a large asylum. There they face tremendous odds and immense suffering. The origin and inexplicable nature of this blindness causes intense panic and the social order rapidly crumbles, while the government attempts in vain to suppress the contagion with much ineptness.

And in the end, as mysteriously as it came, the blindness pandemic disappears. When they emerge from quarantine, people find that the city has changed forever. Soon their world buzzes with inexplicable optimism. But the doctor's wife who was witness to the suffering during the pandemic wonders how people could forget it all. She reflects: “I don't think we did go blind, I think we are blind, blind but seeing, blind people who can see, but do not see.” The people of the fictional city erased the memory of the pandemic and mysterious factors that caused it.

Isn’t the same true of the covid-19 pandemic, which has exposed many inequalities in health care systems, fragile social safety nets and structural issues with regard to the environment? Yet we seem to be refusing to look at them or are already forgetting about them. One day, covid-19, too, shall pass. What will remain? Will we remember the solitude of the quarantine, suffering from financial hardships and the loss of loved ones?
How are we going to emerge from all this? Will we learn anything from it? Will we begin to change our habits, be more respectful of the environment and of each other? Likewise, we who elect those in power will also have to reflect on the epidemic of collective blindness to fundamentalism and intolerance that is steadily eroding moral fabric across nations.

In his poetic masterwork Aniara, the great Swedish writer and Nobel laureate Harry Martinson narrated the journey of thousands of people fleeing in a space ship from an earth devastated and made uninhabitable by man’s technological arrogance. A malfunction knocks the craft off course, taking them on an irreversible journey into deep space. There is no going back home as there is no hope for a rescue. They continue to live within the spacecraft with the dawning awareness that they will be condemned to drift around the endless void of space forever and they are gripped by fear about their future. In this haunting allegorical tale, Martinson warns of humanity hurtling in the wrong direction and realizing too late that there is no turning back.

As we isolate ourselves in our quarantine bubbles, hardly do we realize we are already on board Aniara and our plight is much akin to the people confined within it. In Aeschylus’s play Prometheus Bound, the chorus asks Prometheus, “What cure did you discover for their misery?” And Prometheus responds, “I planted firmly in their hearts blind hopefulness.” But blind hope is a fickle companion when we are in throes of climate change and devastating environmental vandalism. Catastrophic loss in biodiversity coupled with reckless deforestation and aggressive conversion of forests for economic development has pushed people closer to wilderness opening the gates for the spread of zoonotic diseases like covid-19.

The German philosopher Walter Benjamin, having survived the devastating flu pandemic in 1918, observed poignantly “A generation that had gone to school on a horse-drawn streetcar now stood under the open sky in a countryside in which nothing remained unchanged but the clouds, and beneath these clouds, in a field of destruction, was the tiny, fragile human body,”

Our lives are as brief in the face of historical time as those of fireflies at night and it is imperative that we part the screen of willful blindness that obscures our eyes to an exhausted, ravaged world and start healing it.

As I look through the window, the sun is peeking through the clouds, streaming across the trees creating mysterious shadows. The early morning dew is glistening on the grass, but there is a frailty in the bed of grass that no one notices…

We won’t know
How fragile our lives are
Until we part the black veil
That blinds us
And cast our eyes
On the earth beneath our feet
Scarred by our hubris . . .

Looking forward to your reflections on this post and the year it has been for all of you…
KINDLY POST THEM HERE!

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Searching For The Light....Within

11/28/2020

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Today is the festival of lights, Karthigai Deepam. People light rows of lamps especially the earthen ones, in their houses. In spite of the advent of other form of lighting, lamps made of clay exude their special charm. Serial bulbs look pale when juxtaposed with the glow of clay lamps! The flames of these lamps fluttering in the wind is a sight to cherish.

The festival is observed with special fervor at the Arunachaleshwara temple at Thiruvannamalai. On this occasion five deepams signifying the five elements; air, fire, water, earth, and ether are lit in the temple premises after elaborate rituals. A single lamp called the Bharani Deepam is lit from these five pots and is kept burning in the temple all through, signifying the merging of all five elements into the divine. Around the same time a Maha Deepam is lit on top of the hill which forms the backdrop of the huge temple. An enormous receptacle is filled with more than 3,500 kg of ghee and a giant wick made of a special cloth coated with 2Kgs of camphor is lit. The deepam can be seen from miles around for many days.

Karthigai Deepam is among the oldest festivals celebrated in Tamil Nadu and finds mention in many ancient Tamil literary tomes like ‘Ahananuru’ (200 B.C. to 300 A.D.), ‘Tolkappiyam’ that dates back to 2,000 or 2,500 BC, and ‘Jeevakachintamani’. The famous poetess Avaiyyar, also mentions about the festival in her works.

Festivals play an indelible part in the cultural history of the country and each one of them is interwoven with mythology and folklore: Karthigai Deepam is no exception. Prominent among the legends associated with this festival is that of Lingodbhava.

Once a very mortal dispute arose between Brahma and Vishnu as to who is the greater of the two. To settle the dispute they approached Siva who then took the form of an enormous pillar of fire in the form of a linga which stretched from depths to heights which no one could see. Curious to find out where it had arisen, and where it ended, Brahma, in the form of a swan flew upwards, whereas Vishnu took the form of a boar and went boring down. Many eons passed and neither found an end or a beginning. Vishnu realized the greatness of Siva and accepted defeat but Brahma tried to trick Siva by asking a Ketaki flower to falsely testify that it had indeed seen the top end of the linga. As they were recounting their experiences, Siva emerged from the flaming pillar. Brahma and Vishnu realized their mistake and offered their obeisance to Siva.

The iconography of Lingodbhava finds representation in most of the temples in South India. It is usually carved and placed in the niche of the western wall of the garbhagriha of the central shrine. The reason behind the choice of the western wall is that the energy of the main deity in the garbhagriha radiates outwards to the western façade bestowing blessings upon the devotees. According to the agama tradition, only one-fifth of Siva Linga in Lingodbhav Murtis must be visible on top and one-fifth at the bottom. The rest of it, in the center, must depict Siva carved as Chandrashekhara and the lingam itself should be left uncarved.

The picture above is one such representation of Lingodbhava from Airavateswara Temple at Dharasuram. It depicts Siva with four hands: one hand in Abhaya-mudra, another in Varada pose, the third hand carrying an axe and the fourth a deer. Adorned with Jatamukuta, Siva exudes a sense of serenity. The legs below the knee are left unsculpted and appear as if they are invisible. Brahma is depicted as a swan on the right upper side of Siva and Vishnu is carved as a boar digging the earth at the foot of the Sivalinga. The size of swan and the boar is usually the same as that of the face of Siva. On either side of the sculpture are Brahma and Vishnu facing the Lingam with folded hands in an act of submission. Adjoining the sculptures are paintings on the wall which have faded with time.

The growing and expanding Sivalinga in Lingodbhava signifies the infinite light and boundless knowledge that prevails in the cosmos; there is nothing static, but only the flow of relentless flourishing, rejuvenating energy.

In Tamil bhakti poetry, Manikkavasagar’s ‘Thiruvasagam’ has a special special place and in a singularly beautiful verse he describes Lingodbhava thus;

அன்பருக்கு அன்பனே யாவையுமாய் அல்லையுமாய்
சோதியனே துன்னிருளே தோன்றாப் பெருமையனே
ஆதியனே அந்தம் நடுவாகி அல்லானே
ஈர்த்து என்னை ஆட்கொண்ட எந்தை பெருமானே
கூர்த்த மெய் ஞானத்தால் கொண்டு உணர்வார் தம்கருத்தில்

Dear lord who is near to those who are dear to you
You are the light emerging from darkness
You are invisible
The beginning, the end and the in between
You drew me into your fold
To seek you not by knowledge
But by the true spiritual striving within

(My translation of this verse is no match to that of G U Pope who translated Thiruvasagam in 1858!)

Fire as a concept, an element, an informing principle, a deity and a metaphor has existed all through history. The worship of fire and the worship with fire have been a part of ancient religions across the world. If the Adityas and then Agni were primary deities in the Vedas, the Zoroastrians saw fire as the light of Ahura Mazda. The Vestal Virgins of ancient Rome worshipped the Sacred Fire of Vesta, the Greeks bowed to Hestas and Hephaestus, the Aztecs had Chantico, to name just a few. The Chinese worshipped Zhu Rong as a solar deity. The Buddhists have Goma/ Homa fire rituals for purification and warding off sickness and difficulties.

All of them have proclaimed the nature of the divine in identical terms emphasizing that there is no fundamental difference between religions. The differences in understanding and articulation are man-made to comprehend the incomprehensible. As the Vedas point out “Ekam sat Vipra bahudha vadanti” “There is only one truth and learned persons call it by many names.”

The festival of Karthigai underscores how all the five elements - earth, water, air, space and fire come together to form light that symbolizes the eternal, ineffable, divine spirit who has to be experienced and realized.

In the ‘Republic’, Plato described the human condition perceptively as the Allegory of the Cave. We are like slaves chained in a cave. All that we see are the shadows thrown by the flames behind us, offering an illusion of knowledge. He urges us to step outside and experience the dazzling, all pervading luminous light outside and emerge from the shadows to true awareness.

Let us strive to search for the light within, however small and hidden it might be!

As Goethe remarked, “someday perhaps the inner light will shine forth from us, and then we'll need no other light.”

Look forward to your comments…responses…

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At The Threshold Of Farther Shores . . .

9/18/2020

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In the late 80’s I was on a Commonwealth Fellowship, attached to the University College, London. UCL was ideally located to suit my perambulations. It was adjacent to the theatre district and all the major galleries were just a brisk walk away. Almost all of them were free to visit, which suited my paltry remuneration as a fellow.

On one such visit to the National Gallery, I walked into Room No 30 and I was transfixed by a large painting, St Francis in meditation by Francisco de Zurburan. St Francis was kneeling life size before me, oblivious to the people walking past him. Against a plain, unadorned, dark background, the figure was illuminated by a bright light from the side. The contrast between the light and shadow was quite striking. He was wearing a plain, tattered brown robe. His head was raised upwards with parted lips in awe as if he was caught in a moment of redemption and release. From a distance, I was unable to make out his eyes, but when I approached the canvas all I could see was a void. A skull was clasped in his hands with the empty sockets of the skull staring directly into the eyes of the saint. The entire image conveyed an intense psychological experience of confrontation with the unknown, with death, and what must lie beyond.

I must have looked at the painting for a long while, unmindful of people milling around me. It was an immersive experience. Over the course of the next few weeks I returned to the gallery many times just to have a look at the painting. The image of St Francis never vanished from my thoughts.

Why did this painting have such a hold on me?

It is the story of an unwelcome alien and its devastating effect on me! In the early 80’s the place where we were living was right in the middle of a sea of Parthenium plants. Considered as one of the most invasive species in the world, it perhaps found its way as a contaminant of PL480 wheat which was being imported from USA. It is said to produce at least 3000 million pollen grains per square meter during the flowering season, which cause a range of intense allergic reactions. Some of these pollens sneaked their way through my nasal cavity causing a persistent running nose. Over a course of time I also started experiencing retching cough, which was worse during night. I managed to keep everyone awake at night by this unrelenting, hacking cough. Cough medicines were of little help. One night I woke up with severe cough which wouldn’t settle down and I became breathless. Ahalya woke up and the last thing I remembered was lying in her arms. What happened in the next few seconds is something that would remain etched in my memory for ever.

I was in a beautiful, otherworldly realm, feeling a sense of connectedness, suffused with overwhelming tranquility. It was an exceedingly radiant, serene, rapturous moment, the like of which I had never experienced before. I was immobile but didn’t experience any pain. When I opened my eyes, Ahalya was vigorously rubbing my chest, trying to bring me back to life. Strangely cough and breathlessness stopped. I was back in my body, thoroughly exhausted and drained of energy. I felt I was being pulled away reluctantly from a magical realm.

Over the course of next few weeks there were similar occurrences, each one much like the previous ones. Though these brief episodes were personally blissful for me, it was a continuing source of anxiety and concern to others in the family. As the cough continued unabated as also the breathlessness, I consulted a senior ENT surgeon. He took a careful history and said, “Doctor, what you are experiencing is post nasal drip, which is trickling down the respiratory track, resulting in cough and breathlessness.” He advised an ayurvedic medication which proved to be very effective and thankfully, I have never had a similar problem since then.

But that transcendental experience was an eye opener for me. It was the strangest, most beautiful world I had ever seen. Whether I was in the presence of the divine or my brain was merely pumping out chemicals like never before, the entire experience was so intense that it stays with me even now.

To me it was akin to watching a total solar eclipse. In 1980 a few of us traveled to Karwar to have a view of the phenomenon as it was touted to afford the best view. We positioned ourselves on a small hillock overlooking the sea. There was lots of activity on the beach below with children and adults enjoying a stroll in the evening. The sea gulls were squawking noisily and merrily. As the eclipse advanced, the activity on the beach faded away and the gulls were suddenly quiet. Without a prologue, the sun disappeared totally, a black disc covering it like a lens cap. There was an eerie silence and the entire landscape was bathed in surreal colors. Slowly light peeped through like a thin golden ring around the sun. Thought it lasted for just a few minutes, it was an enthralling experience during which I felt an intense sense of connectivity to another realm, a vast uncharted universe. In that brief moment when the all life-giving giving sun disappeared in a behind a black veil and re-emerged, it was a reminder that all things have an end and a new beginning.

There is no shortage of scientific theories about what causes near-death experiences. It’s well established, for instance, that an oxygen shortage, a glitch at the temporoparietal junction, too much of carbon dioxide and a range of neurochemicals might play a part.

No matter how you explain them, near-death experiences are pivotal events in people’s lives. They are a lens through which to gaze at the workings of consciousness—one of the great mysteries of human existence, even for the most resolute materialist. For a person who has gone through such an experience and resurface again, it can be a profound transformative spiritual experience as in the life of Sri Ramana Maharishi.

The literature is replete with narratives that attempt to capture these moments..

For instance, Hemingway in his famous short story “The Snows of Kilimanjaro,” wrote about an African safari that went disastrously wrong. Harry is stricken by gangrene, knows he is dying and Compie, a bush pilot, arrives to rescue him. The two take off and fly together through a storm with rain so thick “it seemed like flying through a waterfall” until the plane emerges into the light before them; “unbelievably white in the sun, was the square top of Kilimanjaro. And then he knew that there was where he was going.” The description embraces elements of a classic near-death experience; the darkness, the cessation of pain, the emerging into the light and then a feeling of peacefulness.

Vladimir Nabokov’s autobiography, Speak, Memory, begins with these lines: “The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness. Although the two are identical twins, man, as a rule, views the prenatal abyss with more calm than the one he is heading for.”

The quality of our life is determined by how we interpret our experiences, not by the experiences themselves.

For me, these experiences were catalysts for growth on many different levels—psychologically, emotionally, maybe even a tad spiritually. It stripped away uncomfortable thoughts of existential oblivion, ushering in a more compassionate stance about the fragility and precariousness of life. As St. Augustine wrote, “it is only in the face of death that a man’s self is born.” It helped me to cope with fears of death with a greater appreciation of the gift of life both in personal life as I attended to my elders (all of whom who passed away peacefully at home) and professionally in caring for those who are facing the end of their lives.

I am often reminded of the Buddhist meditative practice of Anicca (in Pali) or Anitya (in Sanskrit), in which one focuses on the desiccation and disappearance of leaves from a tree and then on the future impermanence of the tree itself and, indeed, of one’s own body. The transitory nature of our life need not be a source of discomfort. Like dewdrops at sunrise, though lasting for just a few minutes shine with light within, it can be an ennobling experience.

Exploring ways of overcoming our fears of death and adopting a creative approach to the impermanence of life provides us valuable insights to negotiate our lives in a richer and more compassionate manner.

We are not the beginning
We are not the end
We are a link in a chain
At the edge of mystery

Look forward to your reflections here . . .

85 Comments

Soaring High On Graceful Wings . . .

8/6/2020

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When the five Rafale jets streamed into the country, they held the nation in awe. The frenzied attention of the media as it covered the occasion in minute detail was infectious. One of the facts mentioned was about the long and arduous journey the pilots had to make across continents to reach India.

In the process, we turned our gaze away from a flock of birds that have been flying above those nimbus clouds, every year without fail, for eons!

The Bar Headed Goose is a pale grey goose, easily distinguished from other species of geese by the characteristic black bars on its head that gives the species its name. They hardly look like super-athletes although they are one of the most amazing birds on earth. They come down to India all the way from Central Asia, 6000 km away. They are the only birds known to fly at an altitude of 35,000 feet. That’s the cruising altitude of a Rafale jet! On the way to India, these geese fly right over the Himalayas, and have been sighted flying over Mount Everest. Covering 1000 km per day, bar-headed geese spend their winters in North India and visit us down South, before flying back 6000 km to breed in Central Asia. Bar-headed Geese tagged with GPS transmitters had completed migration journeys of up to 8000 kilometers in approximately two months, which involved crossing the world’s tallest mountain ranges, the Himalayas, twice! Although the birds made frequent stops during their journey, they seemed to be crossing the Himalayas in one continuous stretch of approximately eight hours of flight. A similar physical exertion with no time for acclimatization would simply kill a human!

At those altitudes, the oxygen in the atmosphere is about a third of what is available at sea level, and temperatures are well below freezing. Most mammals would have trouble breathing, while these birds manage to fly for several hours nonstop. They have been reported to climb from sea level to 4,500 m in under eight hours, achieving speeds of up to 150 kmph.

How do they do it? We now know that bar-headed geese have several physiological adaptations, which enable them to survive these extreme conditions. Some of them include a very large heart with a high density of capillaries which deliver oxygen to the muscles, and haemoglobin that has a high affinity to oxygen. This enables them to meet the oxygen demands of the flight, which is ten to fifteen times more than the oxygen needed at rest. This enables them to function at high altitudes without the need to acclimatize. They also fly at night, when the air is colder and denser as it allows the geese to generate greater lift. Cooler air also helps to regulate body heat and contains more oxygen, enabling geese to fly even as the air thins at higher levels. Flying in such oxygen-limited conditions, the geese slow their metabolism and the temperature of their blood also comes down. As the temperature in the veins near their lungs drops, they can circulate more oxygen to the chest muscles to enable them to endure the arduous flight. Improving the understanding of how tissues in bar-headed geese are so adept at handling oxygen might elucidate human respiration as well, especially in these Covid times!

These birds are truly amazing. They are capable of achievements that we humans can only dream about. They crossed continents and explored the higher reaches of the sky even before us!

The bar headed goose has caught the attention and inspired artists and poets alike!

The earliest art in India does not depict swans, but rather birds that resemble the bar-headed goose. For example, the birds painted at the Ajanta Caves are much like the bar-headed geese rather than the swans. Among the many animals portrayed in the majestic Arjuna’s Penance or the Descent of Ganga at Mahabalipuram are a couple of geese by the side of Bhageeratha. Perhaps the most stunning depiction of the bar headed geese is in the door frame of the Da Parbatia Temple near Tezpur, built in the 6th century. On either side of the door frame are beautifully sculpted images of Ganga and Yamuna and there are a couple of geese depicted in rich detail besides them.

Dūtakāvya or sandeśakāvya, messenger-poetry, constitutes one of the finest literary genre in Indian literature, especially in poetry. These poems usually posit a pair of separated lovers, one of whom sends a messenger in the form of a cloud, the wind or a bird, with a message to beloved who is far away. Barheaded goose was quite popular in dūtakāvya was because it is said to fly the highest of all the birds making it an ideal choice of messenger since it was sure to reach any destination with no trouble at all. This also benefitted the poet since it offered scope for a detailed bird’s-eye-view description of the lands it soared over.
Perhaps the most beautiful description is in Kalidasa’s Meghaduta..
Regal birds longing for Manasa-lake,
Gathering tender lotus shoots for the way
Will be your companions in the sky
Even up to Mount Kailasa’s peak

Vedanta Deśika, born in 1268 at Tūppul near the great city of Kāncī, was not only an outstanding philosopher-theologian but also a talented poet. In the short Sanskrit kāvya, Hamsasandeśa or ‘The Mission of the Goose’, Vedanta Deśika draws inspiration from this long-established genre of Dutakavyato to describe Rama’s feelings for Sita, held captive by Ravana. Rāmā despatches a goose with this message for Sita.
Our bodies touch
in the southern wind.
Our eyes meet
in the moon.
We live together in a single home –
the world, and the earth
is the one bed we share.
The sky scattered with stars
is a canopy stretched above us.
Think of this, my lean beauty:
however far away
fate has taken you from me,
I still find my way
into you.

One of the most beautiful legends in the Buddhist tradition comes from the 12th chapter of the Abhiniùkramaõa Såtra and concerns the goose. Once, while walking through the palace garden Prince Siddhartha saw a goose fall from the sky with an arrow lodged in its wing. He nestled the bird in his lap, gently extracted the arrow and anointed the wound with oil and honey. Soon afterwards, Devadatta sent a message to the palace saying that he had shot the bird and demanding that it be returned to him. Siddhartha replied to the message saying: `If the goose was dead I would return it forthwith but as it is still alive you have no right to it.' Devadatta sent a second message arguing that it was his skill that had downed the goose and as such it belonged to him. Again Siddhartha refused to give his cousin the bird and asked that an assembly of wise men be called to settle the dispute. This was done and after discussing the matter for some time the most senior of the wise men gave his opinion, saying: `The living belongs to he who cherishes and preserves life, not to he who tries to destroy life.'

Flying through a swirling mixture of wind, temperature and precipitation is not an easy task. Much like aircrafts that have to negotiate adverse weather conditions with unforeseen consequences (like the recent crash at Kozhikode) the bar headed gees are also in mortal danger especially when they land on the shorelines. It is not the hunter’s arrow that proves a threat to them anymore but shrinking wetlands and indiscriminate use of pesticides in their natural habitats.

So, the next time you spot an unassuming grey and white goose with distinctive black bars on its head, just pause for a while, admire and reflect on their wondrous journey through years…

Flying high
On borderless skies
Among dispersed clouds
Through mountainous slopes
Between rocky peaks
They descend
On still waters
In distant plains…

Would be delighted to have your comments here . . .

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In Pursuit Of Kairos . . .

7/16/2020

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The sky is grey and I catch a glimpse of a solitary bird flying high among the darkening clouds. As I watch it, I am reminded of the remarks of Robert Lynd, “In order to see birds it is necessary to become a part of the silence.”

The house is still and silent. Ahalya and myself have been part of that silence for the past five months, rarely venturing out.

It brings to mind Emily Dickenson who confined herself to her bedroom, shutting herself from the outside world. Later in her life, she would only speak to visitors from behind the half opened door of her room. Hers was the greatest literary engagement with isolation: “I have appetite for silence,” she wrote, for “silence is infinity.”

The appetite for silence has increased exponentially ever since the virus took hold of us.

Every virus tells us a story.

The narrative of Covid 19 is one of uncertainty and unpredictability.
In outlining the uncertainty principle Heinsenberg pointed out the limits of our knowledge by stating that the more precisely we know the position of a given particle, the less precise our measurement of its momentum. What if that particle were to be a virus? More disturbingly, we know very little about it and what we know is often uncomfortably contradictory.

We knew it was coming and we were not prepared, medically, scientifically, and socially, despite all the dystopian pandemic movies and literature that have been circulating for ages! Covid 19 was not a black swan but a grey rhino. Michele Wucker described grey rhinos as “highly obvious, highly probable, but still neglected dangers,” as opposed to “unforeseeable or highly improbable risks, as envisioned in the black swan metaphor.” The hunt is on to trap that greys rhino which keeps eluding our grasp.

Talking of uncertainty, two kinds have been described: epistemic uncertainty (due to lack of knowledge) and aleatory uncertainty (due to randomness). Covid seems to be a heady combination of both.

Infective agents, whether it is bacteria or viruses have always been lurking around, waiting for a time and space to surface. They don’t just attack weaknesses in the human body. They also exploit changes in the world we live in. As wilderness dwindles with large scale environmental degradation, zoonotic infections jump easily to infect humans.

Health is not a static condition. Mechanisms are continually at work to maintain a constant internal environment termed as milieu interieur by the French scientist Claude Bernard (whose painting used to hang outside our lecture theatre in JIPMER). It is a crucial component in maintaining homeostasis which is essential for health. As physicians our focus and commitment is to sustain that. Yet at the same, the internal environment cannot be viewed in isolation of the environment in which we spend every day of our lives.

What we fail to perceive is that we are all part of a large ecosystem and any disruption in it has implications for our health. The emergence of COVID-19 has challenged the human-centered relationship between us and nature. As much as Covid 19 infection is a medical emergency, it is also an ecological calamity.

Isolation is not just about endurance, but of our survival and of our environment as well.

With the forced slowing of life granted by the coronavirus, we can re-think our involvement with and management of time. The ancient Greeks had thought along this line long back. They had two words for time: Chronos and Kairos. Both the words stand for time in the English language, but with different connotations. While Chronos refers to numeric, chronological time, Kairos refers to a proper and appropriate time of action. Chronos measures time in such terms as seconds, minutes, and hours, but Kairos views time terms of periods for rest and reflection. Unfortunately in the midst of our preoccupations in everyday life we don’t have space for Kairos. The virus has impacted the Chronos time, but we can still explore the Kairos! It provides an opportunity for us to slow down to restore our inner self.

We need that unstructured, beckoning time to imagine, to discover the meaning of our lives afresh which disease has taken away,

True, the journey in the valley of uncertainty can be a daunting task.

Sometimes when we amble along the seashore, the waves advance and erase our footsteps. Undeterred and hardly noticing it, we walk ahead. In the journey of our unfathomable lives, darkness will engulf us occasionally. All that we can do is to strike our matches of meaning to dispel it.

There are many differing narratives about Covid 19. The ones we choose to believe and tell will reflect and affirm what we value personally as an empowering one.

As I write this, I hear the splatter of rain on the leaves outside. The sky has turned tar black with large rain bearing clouds. Unmindful of the growing intensity of the drizzle, the black kite is still soaring in the sky. It is confident of negotiating the dense, menacing clouds and the downpour with faith in its feathers.

I keep wondering as to when I can grow wings and venture out of our nest . . .

Feel Free To Post Your Comments Here!

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Finding The Extraordinary In The Ordinary...

6/30/2020

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Yesterday was the World Camera Day and I travelled back in time to reflect on my tryst with cameras.

My first camera was a borrowed one which was lent to me by my cousin who went on to become one of the celebrated cinematographers in the country. That was during my undergraduate medical school years, when prudence in all matters was the overwhelming mantra. More so with photography since one had to save money to buy a 35mm roll and also spend more to print the images later. Each frame was thus precious.

I cycled on weekends hugging the camera close, exploring the landscape around JIPMER. Auroville was just being built and the place had a vibrant feel to it. Many unusual structures were coming up including a school with a flowing water body inside, which was aptly called the Last School. All of this provided fodder for my roving eyes. When I was not cycling around, I persuaded my classmates to pose for me in some unusual frames. A few of those photographs received awards in Inte-rmedical Photography Competitions.

Life after medical school was a very demanding period as the quest was to enroll in a post graduate course in a good college. I was passionate about psychiatry right from my college days and fortunately got admission in the prestigious National Institute of Mental Health & Neurosciences. Photography receded to the background as I became totally immersed in studies and honing my skills as a psychiatrist. It was only thereafter when I joined the faculty, I could afford a point and shoot camera. This came in handy during my treks with the students. But the lure of photography was kept in check with growing demands of the academic life.

I began saving money and bought my first digital camera. No more money spent on film rolls and printing! When the camera arrived, I opened the box like a child eagerly unwrapping a longed for gift! And there it was…a petite camera with a shiny, silvery tinge. I wanted to test it immediately, but the sky was overcast and chances of going outdoors were minimal.

I was casually looking around the room and a fork lying on the dining table caught my attention. I was struck by its reflection on the Formica covered table. As I looked closely at the fork and its reflection, it turned into something extraordinary. It wasn’t a simple fork anymore! In its reflection on the shiny, unexceptional surface, it had transformed itself to an object of beauty! I was enthralled to see the extraordinary in a mundane object of everyday life.

In that moment there was harmony between the object and its reflection. Henri Cartier-Bresson called it the “decisive moment”: pressing down the shutter button at the right time.

Images surround us every moment. We have to see them as if we have never seen them before. The world is full of such moments, if only we open ourselves to them and observe mindfully. There is always a difference between what we look at and what we see. Photography is often about embracing that moment…however fleeting it may be. All too often people spend far too much time preoccupying themselves with the equipment and its technicalities and not enough on just ‘seeing’.

If we use our cameras as poetic tools for seeing, and really notice the beauty all around us every day, we will find ourselves astonished by the seemingly ordinary things we might otherwise pass by in our busy, activity-filled lives.

The real camera is not in our hands but in the eyes behind the lens of the camera.

As I was looking at the fork on the table from a different angle, an entirely new perspective emerged. The fork and its reflection merged together to form a folded hand! It was a visual photo haiku!

Photography is a meditative practice for me, providing me with a lens to view life around me. It inspires me to search for beauty in the moment, often right in front of me. At that moment, time slows down and the mind expands in a magical way…