Hear me Rant!

Ranting is very satisfying. Personally, I could rant for pages. Whenever I write, I stop myself when the piece takes a turn towards that area and track back. For as much as I would love to indulge, I know how difficult it is to read/listen to a rant. Sometimes, I log into Facebook and look longingly at the small rectangle that says, "What's on your mind?" Oh, if you only knew...

Ranting and righteousness go hand in hand. It's a symbiosis with the tag line "I'm SO right, the world MUST know!" It's a childlike instinct that is quite amusing. When Indians indulge, it's downright hilarious, but in an endearing way. With our emphatic head nods, exaggerated expressions, large sweeping hand gestures and faulty volume control, witnessing one of our own justifying their side of the story is nothing short of dramatic entertainment. I've often played the part of the sympathetic listener, so I know.

My mom is usually the person I rant to. But even she lets her eyes glaze over midway. It's a huge blow to the concept of unconditional love, I tell you.  As to what I rant about, aah, now we get to the meaty bit.

This is the part where, if you have any sense, you'll stop reading and make a run for it. But then, drama beats sense any day. I hope.

Of late, I've been meeting people who seem to have one goal- inducting me into their faith. Since I deal with these people officially, and because I like to think I'm a nice person, I don't tell them to shut the heck up, for the love of God! I don't understand faith that needs propagating. Seriously. To me, faith is the silent smile of a true saint, the steadiness of gravity beneath my feet, the strength that comes from help given and received, the perfect contentment of knowledge gained by experience. It is never heard, only felt. It cannot be spoken, only radiated. And please! Just because I don't speak about faith, doesn't mean I don't have one. Which brings me to my second rant.

When I ask many people their opinion about a topic, they seem to think I'm an ignoramus seeking enlightenment. It's SO infuriating to be lectured to like a child when I've been reading voraciously since the age of 4 and hello, living life since I was born! I think that's one of the reasons I really love talking to my brother. He's the only person I've ever met who always, ALWAYS, tells me what he thinks and then turns around to ask me what I think. What is intelligence without open-mindedness, confidence without humility? Infuriating. He taught me that.

And this is how a rant usually ends if you're lucky. You realize you have something or someone who lifts you out of it. My mom, who never insists I follow her religion, siblings who give my thoughts weight, friends who share without shame...

You know, sometimes, silver linings come in the form of golden people.

Question everything.

Me: I think I may have been deceived today...
Ego: I know! The outrage! It is unacceptable, humiliating, unbearable.
Me: It is?
Ego: Yes, it is. We feel bad.
Me: My chest feels tight. There's a sinking feeling in my stomach now. You're right, I feel bad.
Ego: See! See what they did to us? They made us feel bad! We must heap curses on them. We must make our outrage be known. Think about what they did!
Me: I am.
Ego: Replay it, over and over.
Me: That just makes me feel worse.
Ego: Further proof of how much they've hurt us!
Me: Their deception doesn't really harm me though, does it?
Ego: Yes it does! We feel bad! Bad!
Me: Um... I know there are people of questionable character out there. So why...?
Ego: So? It's US! They deceived US! We're humiliated.
Me: I'm not. You seem to be.
Ego: Us! US!
Me: No. You're making me feel bad. Not them.
Ego: It's them. All them! Humiliation. Bad. Feel shame. Us. They did.
Me: Stop ranting. Tell me this- what purpose does humiliation serve?
Ego: What?...
Me: In fact, what purpose do you serve? I feel my heart and it does not hurt. I touch my mind and it is at peace. You are making all the noise here. So tell me- what purpose do you serve?
Ego:
Me: Silence suits you. Step back, and stay there.

Cure

Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. But then there comes a time when life demands that you arm yourself with knowledge. I never thought that cancer was a word that would become a part of my family's vocabulary, but it did. We armed ourselves, but we ran out of time. We lost.
In retrospect, I wish I'd had some basic knowledge so that that period of time hadn't caught me so unawares and afraid. But we Indians are a superstitious lot sometimes. We imagine not knowing means being safe :) I did too.smile emotico I did too. 

This is just a short write-up of what I found. Putting it out there just so its there, for someone.

Cancer is a mutation of normal tissue cells. It is not a virus that shuts one down. It's not a monster. That's the message that pharmas have propagated, just as they've suppressed knowledge of all the natural cures that are available. If ever the need arises, then these are the cures that one must research. Of these, the first has excellent reviews. The next three, I've heard of successful cases. The last three may help; I do not know much except what I read online.

1) Cannibas oil
2) Black strap molasses
3) Sodium Bicarbonate
4) Aloe vera, with honey and brandy.
5) Carrot juice
6) Shimoga ayurvedic cure
7) Soursop fruit

Preventive measures:

I was told that some of these cures can themselves be used for prevention, especially the natural ones like aloe vera or even the molasses. Of course, purity of diet is important. That's physical. At the emotional level, if that is part of your belief system, the best prevention for any dis-ease is healing internal hurt. If you would like more specific details of what causes what dis-ease in the body, you might be interested in this- Causes of Dis-ease: Alchemy of healing .For cancer, it arises from "Deep hurt. Longstanding resentment. Deep secret or grief eating away at the self. Carrying hatred."

Sadhguru

I've never read something so true for me coming from another person before, except that I am still entangled. Beautiful and simple words.

"If you are looking for justice, you will die of anger, believe me. There is no other way because there is no such thing in human societies, unless you believe what other people tell you. If you are able to see how people function, what they do within the family, in the social structure, in the nation, in the world, you will only die of anger. So, [as a youth] I was raging within myself. Fortunately, my involvement with finding expression limited itself to attending revolutionary meetings and sticking posters at the university. I did not go to the extent of picking up the gun. A few of my friends did and they went all the way, one of them became a prominent leader and was killed about two years ago. I was so angry with the way the world functions – how much deception, how much injustice, how many uncaring ways of functioning, how human beings treat each other, how human beings treat every other creature on this planet. All this made me suffocated and angry.

"If the coolness of enlightenment did not happen, I would have died of anger. There was so much rage in me. I did not display it in my daily life but I think my blood was not at normal temperature. Inside every vein in my body, every artery in my body was burning because I saw discrimination, injustice, deception, just in everything. It took a certain dimension of perception to look at the other aspect of life – not just of human beings – but of the creation and the source of creation. How beautiful it is, how compassionate it is, how absolutely incredible it is. If that dimension had not opened up for me, whatever expression my anger found, I can assure you one thing – I would have been efficient and that would not be good. That is why the spiritual process is so vital for our existence. Either you have to be insensitive or spiritual, otherwise you will only be angry.

"If you become sensitive, conscious and not enlightened, it is a horrible place to live. If you are absolutely ignorant, it is quite fine. If you are enlightened, it is fantastic. In between – I have been there – it is not a good place to be. So, what does it take? The spiritual process has always been associated with renunciation. Again, one badly misunderstood word. People think to renounce means, ‘I have to give up everything.’ No, it is like you renounced your mother’s womb to become an infant, you renounced your infancy to become a child, you renounced your childhood to become a youth, you renounced your youth to become middle-aged, you renounced your middle-age to become old age, you renounced old age to become the grave; unless you are already a very grave person. You will anyway do it. If you do it consciously, gracefully, then we say that is renunciation. Otherwise, we say it is entanglement. If you are constantly renouncing – that is, something smaller is falling away and something larger is becoming apparent to you – this is renunciation. Renunciation means you gave up petty things and moved on to bigger things and you continue to do it. This is renunciation; that you are not an entanglement."

- Sadhguru JV

Bull Fight

This is the way I see the jallikattu* issue.

You have a child that you rear with care. One day every year, it is the tradition of your ancestors to dress the child in rags and make her beg on the streets, whether she wants to or not. She might get hurt all alone on the streets- someone could slap her, or push her around. Suddenly, an organization appears opposing this practice. You are furious. How dare they! They're not doing this out of concern for the little girl, they hope to profit eventually by getting all these girls to contribute to the sex trade they're secretly building up. So they're wrong. They shouldn't stop your tradition.

All I have to ask is- what does the child want? What does she consent to? Does she enjoy this tradition that puts her in danger? Obviously not. So stop it. If the organization that is lobbying for it to stop has dark motives, then stopping them is step 2.

Of course, this analogy makes sense only for those to whom a bull and a girl child are equal souls. Otherwise, everything I said is crap. I think that's where the problem lies.

As to 'tradition', I cannot stop myself from making a rude noise. Sati was tradition. Child marriage was tradition. Polygamy was tradition.

If a man in India wants to display his courage, I suggest he file a corruption case against an official who asks him for a bribe. That would be so much more respectable.

H and Me.

H: Hello

Me: Hey

H:  So...?

Me: I think I'll clear the air a bit. I'm agnostic.

H:  Straddling the fence eh?

Me: Yeah, well, I think it's wise.

H:  I think it's wimpy.

Me: Hey, you're not supposed to judge!

H:  Yeah, well...so how come you're talking to me then?

Me: I think this is a conversation I'm having with myself.

H:  Aah, one of those. Go ahead then.

Me: I'm sorry to be the one to break this to you, but I think you're becoming more of a prude with every passing day.

H:  Really? How do you reckon?

Me: They've banned women from wearing leggings and jeans to temples.

H:  Ouch... really?

Me: Yeah.

H:  They do know I created y'all naked, right?

Me: I think that's a suppressed memory. Also, I'm wondering if you're to blame a bit.

H:  How's that now?

Me: Well, all the visions of you throughout history, in your many forms or one true form or whatever, depending on the religion- you're over-dressed in all of them. I'm talking layers and layers. It's like you're running a weaving unit up there.

H:  Hmm... I didn't realize...

Me: And what's with all the representatives anyway?

H:  Hey! That wasn't my idea!

Me: Really?

H:  No way. Why would I put some of you above others or set some of you apart? It's like that joke where the white guy tells the Chinese guy "I can't tell you guys apart!" You're all the same to me!

Me: Um, that joke is really racist.

H:  Oh...ok. But you know what I mean!

Me: So why not just smite the guys who step up and give themselves names?

H:  I don't smite!

Me:  You sure?

H:  Yes.

Me: What do you do then?

H:  Well,...you must have heard of creation?

Me: No offence, but that was like billions of years ago, and I heard it didn't take too long. Are you still on vacation or something?

H:  I'm not!

Me: Just lazy then?

H:  Oy! Listen. Those guys making rules about clothes and stuff- that's nothing compared to the crazy rules from your past. You ever heard about Lupercalia?

Me: No, but now I finally have a word to rhyme with Malaria and complete my poem.

H: What horror of a poem contains the word ‘Malaria’?

Me: Big talk from the guy who allowed mosquitoes to evolve. What’s Lupercalia anyway?

H: Ancient Roman festival. Picture this- Roman dudes running through the streets naked, with whips. Women thronging the streets, waiting to be whipped!

Me: Really?

H:  Uh-huh.

Me: So all this doesn't bother you then?

H:  Why would it bother me? I can wear jeans whenever I want.

Me: That's so unfair.

H:  Well, what can you do...

Me: What can I do? Seriously?! What can YOU do, is what I want to know.

H:  That's not how it works. I don't interfere.

Me: Convenient. Which multiverse are you vacationing in now?

H:  I'm not...alright. See, you guys all chose this. To be on this planet, in your shoes,

experiencing what you're going through now.

Me: And why did we choose this exactly?

H:  To put it simply- to become one with me.

Me: I see. I decline.

H:  You what?

Me: I don't want to become one with you.

H:  Yes, you do!

Me: No, I don't!

H:  Yes, you....I'm not doing this.

Me: That's what I'm saying.

H:  But you chose to.

Me: So how do I un-choose it?

H:  You can't!

Me: Again, convenient.

H:  You're very combative, you know.

Me: There you go judging me again.

...

H:  What's wrong?

Me:...It's been a tough stretch. Sometimes, I want to give up.

H:  You can't do that either. It isn't possible...because you cannot give up on something that

is true and eternal.

Me: Are you talking about yourself?

H:  I'm talking about you.

Me: Oh...I don't feel true and eternal. I feel like crap.

H:  Crap is true.

Me: Is that a joke?

H:  Um, yes.

Me: Please don't ever do stand-up.

H:  Moving on, I mean that you feel the way you are because you're struggling against the pain, fighting it.

Me: So what, embrace it?

H:  Even pain has its purpose.

Me: Easy to say for someone who is omnipotent.

H:  You're right.

Me: I am?

H:  Yes. You heard of Teddy Roosevelt?

Me: That U.S. President?...What is it with the U.S.A?! Everything happens there! Even aliens supposedly pick a spot to crash-land there every few years. And now you!

H:  Done?

Me: Yes. Wanted to get that off my chest. I suspect they won't give me a visa.

H:  Ok, so there was a time when Roosevelt gave a speech known as 'The Man in the Arena.' And he said this...“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.” 

Me: Wow.

H:  That's they key.

Me: To be in the arena?              `

H:  Yes. To be in the arena, to be who you are or want to be, unashamed, defenseless. And also, If I could tweak the end a bit, I'd clarify that you cannot fail.

Me: No?

H:  No. You are not on a quest.

Me: That's actually a bit of a relief. I've always felt this great need to be 'better'.

H:  And what will being better do for you?

Me: Well, it'll make me feel better.

H:  Better or more special?

Me: Better...and special.

H:  And that's where all the conflict comes in. You ever heard of Moji?

Me: The guru? Yeah.

H:  He said something wise that I think you'll like.

Me: You know, for an all-knowing being, you sure do quote other people a lot.

H:  You can't blame me for that. I get misquoted so grossly, and so often, I've come to prefer pilfering.

Me: That's a bit sad.

H:  I know. So Mooji. He said, "Leave everything aside for a moment, this self-obsession with being someone special. Leave aside all these shallow concerns, projections, expectations that keep your mind floating like a bubble on the surface of the ocean of being.

Just try to be this formless presence in which this entire play is watched. Be neutral. Empty. Try to observe that which observes. Keep quiet. Your mind seems so afraid of this meeting which is with your true Beloved!Now is as good a time as any. Once your heart accepts this invitation the whole universe is with you."

Me: Wow. This stuff always sounds wow.

H: But...?

Me: But it’s for when  I’m sitting on a beach with the wind in my hair. The everyday grind. It gets to me.

H: Like?

Me: Like when someone I love dies. Like when someone I want to love leaves. Like when it seems I am not enough.

H: Isn’t it at these times when you are hurting, when the pain intrudes, that you must step away and observe?

Me: I can. I do it. I know when someone is emotionally distancing themselves. I know there are underlying fears that cause them to do so. I get it, I sympathize.

H: But this awareness, this knowledge does not help?

Me: No.

H: Then you must observe- what are you doing with the knowledge?

Me: What am I.... what do you mean?

H: When there is knowledge and there is also pain, then there must be a bridge between the two? What are you doing when you walk that bridge?

Me: I... protest. I know the whys, but... I do not accept. I-

H: Yes?

Me: I judge.

H: Have you ever known an instance when judgement does not bring pain?

Me: No, I guess not... Never.

H: When you judge, you put yourself in the equation. It becomes about you, and you take it personally, it reflects on you, it hurts. When you remove yourself from the equation, when you observe, it is completely about the other person. It allows you to understand their basic emotions without commenting upon their right to exist. Now apply this to some situation in your life that you have a problem with.

Me: Ok...

H: Does it still hurt?

Me: It wasn’t easy to remove myself from the situation. The part of me that wants to jump in and justify my hurt kept coming up. But yes, when I put myself aside, I feel nothing.

H: Good.

Me: But does that mean I stay and let myself get hurt? Just because I understand?

H: No, it doesn’t. It means you are able to step away in peace rather than step away in pain. When you truly get that it is not about you, then you don’t have to participate, either actively or passively.

Me: You know. I didn't expect to, but I feel better. Thank you.

H:  Anytime...so you still don't think I should do stand up?

Me: No.

H:  That Chinese joke is quite good. I created all the races, you know.

Me: It's still racist.

H:  What about that nun one that you read online yesterday?

Me: I think that if you repeated it, it might cause mass conversions to atheism overnight.

H:  Oh.

Me: Stick to your strength, big guy.

H:  Voluminous clothing?

Me: Vacationing.

H:  Oh.

Me: Yeah. We'll tough it out, do what we can, find our way.

H:  I like the sound of that.

Me: One more thing. If you see my father, tell him...

H:  He knows.

Me: Right. Off you go then.

H:  You're dismissing ME?!

Me: Yup. Straddling that fence whilst talking to you goes against the laws of... um, the Heisenberg Principle.

H:  No, it doesn't! The principle merely states that-

Me: B'bye, big guy.

H:  See you...child.

Walking Away

When I look into the mirror, there is a stillness in my face, in my eyes. I feel like my house- silent and empty. It is as if sounds would echo inside me if I spoke loudly. I don't speak loudly. No one does. My father's was the voice that was often raised, and hated. It's gone now.

When he left, he took a few things with him. I cannot name them. I am not even sure what they are. But the void is felt. It is not strength that is carrying me through. It is my body. I eat and I sleep. My body demands both, insistently. Every other desire has faded into a grey background. But even in the silence, words have been forming, slowly collecting. I knew I would write this. I dreaded it, but I knew.

Biology is a bitch. It makes you love people you have no business loving. It makes you fight and struggle to save their lives. And when you fail, it strips you of joy. He was not an easy man to love, my father. In his eyes, my gender was inferior to his, and that always stood between us. I learnt to care very little for his world view, but I could never let my mother be a victim. I was her guardian, he was her owner. Our roles pitted us against each other and the battle was a constant one. Our fights were bitter; contempt and anger flying between us even as we struggled to find some peace. I wished him dead, because his stubbornness ruined our happiness, and his refusal to change ensured it would stay ruined as long as he lived. We were always one of those families that rarely laughed. The quietest one at picnics, the most well-behaved, the most boring. At home, each of us stayed in our rooms, determined to stay away, tired and saddened by the fact that we could not get along. We blamed him; he knew it. There were moments when he tried to be different. He always failed. He carried his hell with him, and in time, we learnt to distance ourselves from it as much as we could.

This past year, he stayed in his room more than ever. I, who once managed every aspect of his health down to the tablets he took, stayed away. His health had become a vague blot in my mind- I did not understand his fanciful skipping from one form of medicine to another. It was baffling and best left to him. From time to time, I'd hear my mother berate him for mismanaging his health, but his ego shut her up as effectively as it'd done their entire lives together. He filled his little boxes with pills and powders, and he lay on his bed, always a bit tired. His tongue was still as sharp as ever, his words to me as cruel. I left him lying there, in the comfort of his words, in the mercy of the cancer that we did not know was eating away at his liver.

I do not look back at him or at our relationship with regret. Every fight was an opportunity for him to look at us differently, to love us unconditionally, but he never took it. He was a tragic product of his past, a prisoner of his own memories and the skewered lessons they'd taught him. But then he died. Pitifully. And that is where I move past our past and grieve for my father.

There are moments of overwhelming un-acceptance, when the mind repeats over and over that he is gone but cannot believe it, because it is so colossally unfair. Because I've always been able to save my parents. I've always dropped everything, rushed to them and made sure that however their bodies protested, they pulled through and bounced back. This time, I was powerless, helpless, standing by frantically pressing his legs and back as he asked for death. People tell me he was lucky, that 15 days from start to finish is a short time to suffer. In another life, I would have agreed. But I stood by him day and night as his body betrayed him. I learnt how long a minute is. I learnt how much pain is enough to break a mind. That last day, he told me to flee, to save my life from the bomb that was going to explode. My heart kept freezing and burning as I stood next to the bed of this brilliant engineer, a man who almost single-handedly kept a petrochemical factory running, the man who taught me math, as his eyes widened crazily and he shouted at me to run away, again and again. I dreaded each time I heard him shout my name, each time I was called in, each frantic warning to run away before the bomb exploded. And then the bomb did explode.

My sister was chasing a miracle, a drug that gave her hope enough to rush to Bangalore. My mother, exhausted, was asleep in a room on another floor. I stood at the door of the ICU, alone, the medicine bags slipping from my hand and crashing to the floor as I saw people rushing to him. A male nurse was on his bed, compressing his chest with a force that was frightening. People were running around him, desperately inserting tubes, there was blood on every surface. The machines were beeping, screaming alarms. When they all quietened down and the doctor walked out, I thought they'd managed to bring him back. They hadn't. All I could think was- the last thing he'd seen was me walking away from him, to get him more medicines. He'd lain on his side, his eyes popping, his gown askew, one hand clutching the frame of his bed, watching me walk away from him. And then the bomb burst. He knew it would. He'd told me to save myself. I couldn't.

For days afterward, the image of him watching me walk away haunted me. I could not close my eyes because it was burned into my brain. It took time, and a lot of grief to be able to move past it. Or rather, to attempt to do so.

Now, he is reduced to a photograph that sits in the hall, adorned with flowers. I struggle to accept that. But I cannot accept the dignity that was denied to him in death. Here was a man who never even left his own bedroom without combing his hair. I'd seen him naked, unaware of the fact, unable to do anything about it even if he'd wanted to. I think perhaps that is the hardest part of all this- that death stripped him of everything before it took him. It worked slowly, starting with his hope, ending with his sanity. And now he is gone. A life is gone. Perhaps he has moved on to another life, another bout of learning. The slate wiped clean, ready for a fresh start. If so, then he is the lucky one, and I wish him well there. For us, for me, life has to go on.