The Soul Yoga

 The Soul Yoga is the unassuming name given to a quiet health revolution , taking place in a tiny corner of Jalandhar , Punjab. 

We , i.e., me , my husband and my two daughters have all benefited from The Soul Yoga at different points of time in our lives . Throughout the years 2018 to 2021 , we grappled with unprecedented stress in our lives . The kids  were dealing with academic pressures . 

We googled Yoga and got lucky . A class was being held at 58 , The Mall . The cheerful voice of Suraj Sharma Sir answered the phone , and we were won over . 

Then came the torrid days  of COVID . Both of us , my husband and I were hospitalised . I required supplemental oxygen , and he underwent intensive steroid therapy . We also suffered grievous personal loss of loved ones . Riddled  with sleeplessness  and grief , we again turned to Suraj Sir , and his unique brand of ebullient yoga . 

Though there are various class timings , two sessions in the mornings and one in the evening ; we have traditionally stuck to the early morning sessions . 

I have been attending classes for quite some time now , and the pattern doesn't waver . Neither does it disappoint . 

There are stretches , followed by asanas ,  culminating in cooling down  breathing exercises . Sometimes , some childish game play is incorporated to bring distracted minds , back to the present . Or to break the tedium . 

Suraj Sharma Sir has laid down a profound example . he is never late or absent , come what may . Not only does he do the counting , he also demonstrates what needs to be done , thereby performing alongside us . His infectious enthusiasm attracts a myriad cross section of people . There are businessmen , professionals , health service providers , wives of influential people and students . I personally  know  a certain vigilance officer . They may be from the services or maybe civilians . 

Everyone gets equal attention , and special cases are given special attention . 

However , encouragement and praises are heaped on all . Regardless of one's actual abilities . Potentials are spotted and praised . Particularly amongst the youngsters . 

Finally , on benefits of yoga . 

The most obvious effect is the gradual and inevitable increase in energy levels , aka , stamina .

 You can work for longer , consequently , have greater patience . 

One's   hasty , irregular , jagged breath slows down , and regulates  . It is as if a turbulent flow of air has streamlined , and your inhaled breath marches in a straight line,  into your lungs , and a quiet disciplined breath is exhaled out . No rush , no break in rhythm , just disciplined slow stream of air , regularly flowing in and out of your lungs . No need to emphasise the magic that is wrought to the process of oxygenation . 

Exercise tolerance is built slowly , like everything else in life . It takes time , and persistence . You will find you fingertips touching your toes , in "Surya Namaskara ", the tip of your nose touching your knee in "Pawan Muktasana ", your back bending over , in the "Camel pose " . 

However, Yoga , unlike the popular western belief, is not just contorting one's body into impossible  configurations . It is much more than that .

 It is about finding yourself , back , in the bustle of life . It is about discovering your own breath . 

It is the tiny changes to your health that you , sometimes , even fail to notice . Your nagging sinusitis disappears . You feel calmer . A tiny pulsating headache , which one almost took for granted , loses its edge and slowly disappears . Your joints feel freer . The early morning stiffness of the fingers is no longer there . Consequently , positive changes are noticed in Hypertensive patients (as myself )  . In other words , the health effects , creep up on you , almost unawares . 

It is about doing "Thoda kum zyada "  (Do less or more ) , as Suraj sir says . It may sound like an  oxymoron , but what it really means is to push yourself to do a bit more than what you think you are capable of . It is a wonderful everyday encouragement . Another is to regulate motion with breaths , pairing them , in tandem with your bodily movements . 

A big shout out to The Soul Yoga  for one hour of sweating every morning , to leave one refreshed throughout the day . To be cheerful , to sleep soundly and to feel a bit younger , everyday . 

The cough

(Last month , my  81 year old mother developed a cough . A cough that mutated from "cold and cough" to "chronic bronchitis " , to COPD ( Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease ) . The last one being a honorific given to the familiar (garden variety ) asthma. Another possibility was cardiac failure , as she wears a pacemaker, aiding her old ticker , for the last two years . There are other , unspeakable possibilities too , but let's not go there . A hasty decision was made to bring her to the idyllic countryside ( where I currently reside ) from the hustle -bustle of a megacity (where she lives ) . The thought was that the change  would do her good . )

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Early morning was a tad bit schizophrenic . The weather I mean . Last evening , there was a duststorm followed by a brief drizzle . At the fag end of the five minutes' drizzle , few tiny hailstones tumbled out of the clouds , as if by mistake . The clouds weren't in the mood to give us those gems , as if . Some aberrant hole in the proverbial bag of goodies . 

But the morning promised sunshine . Brilliant , white , dazzling , drying up all traces of last nights' mistaken largesse by the sky . The sun shone into the eyes with frowns permanently sitting atop them . Air heated up , slowly braising the inhabitants , just like Yudhishtira described it , so many aeons ago . 

So , a trip to the garden , for a walk , was thwarted . 

Shaky resolutions further fractured by elderly parent declaring , seated atop lofty towers of concrete opinions , "How can you walk in this weather , pshaw ?" 

This final salvo , followed by guilt inducing bout of undiagnosed cough . A cough , that travels thousands of miles across states ( national and emotional ) , a cough that has not responded to a government hospital's indifferent but efficient -sounding treatment , a cough that stops ambitions of acquiring a "shilpa shetty -like figure , mid -pranayam , a cough that flushes out sleepy and irate youngsters from their permanent dens , a cough that skips  down four floors ( via the stairs ) and makes an elderly retired colonel unentangle from his cow pose , and raise his head heavenward and scream "hot water with saunf" into the thin morning air . 

By now , everyone I know in the colony ( not too many , thank God ) has heard of my mother's cough , or has heard her coughing . Some have had the (mis)fortune of having witnessed it first hand . 

Red in the face , short of breath , my mother coughs her heart away ( literally ) . All the flab , acquired gradually , over years of affluence , shake like jelly , turning slowly, and alarmingly , purple . My daughter runs to get some water , I run to grab her inhaler ,and cough syrup , both in one hand , while trying desperately to look for saunf ka dabba , in my chaotic spice rack with my other hand . 

"Saunf water " yells the colonel , for the fourth time in a row . 

"Yes yes , Uncle " My quick thinking daughter yells back , pacifying him , while my mother roars into our ear drums , hammering away at our rib cages holding already racing hearts . 

Finally , all the ministrations take hold , and the cough , miraculously , like an unbidden hailstorm , stops . The sun smiles benignly at the dishevelled inhabitants of our home . 

Everyone seems to have an idea , what her cough is about . All , except the cough itself . Like a rogue vehicle on a busy highway , it upsets patterns , defies diagnosis , and is notoriously recalcitrant . There are a few , lucky , cough free days , followed by vengefully profuse hacking . 

"Dry , not a drop of phlegm ." It is her cough my mom describes fondly , on phone , to relatives , distant and amused . 

"She might , as well, be describing  a shot of martini. " is one of the many "dry " humorous comments that abound . 

The cough has persisted . Through a vast gamut of injectable / oral antibiotics , anti tussive agents , anti histamines , steroids .opiods , and mostly everything allopathy has to offer . 

It is a survivor . And not a benign one at that . In the 1990s , this undiagnosed  hacking precipitated two hernias ( on either side of the classical caesarean scar ) in my mom's corpulent tummy . 

One can only picture , what havoc these bouts must be wreaking on her insides , protected thinly by a polyester mesh , that too , government hospital provided . 

As we battle this unbeatable opponent , we have an increasing arsenal of home remedies . Patanjali made honey-lemon-ginger syrup , my neighbour's trusted kadha comprising of fifteen spices ( practically all spice ever known to mankind ) , myriad jars of "churans " , sniffable , swallowable , drinkable , and applicable remedies . Various tablets , capsules , and inhalants , in their colourful and white avatars .  We have enough medicine to start a pharma shop of our own . I, by default , am a miniature expert on cough and its various manifestations . Cough drops of all hues and brands , even a tiny square of camphor ("Put it on her upper lip when she coughs " said a concerned friend . As if upper lips were kitchen shelves . Anyway , the intent was good ) 

Allergens abound . Even in the countryside where we live . The crops are being harvested , flowers are blooming . So it could be the chaff , the pollen , the cold air , the dewdrops , the hot air , the newsprint , the lint , the cloth she is wearing , the food she is eating . 

That is the thing with allergies . They manifest out of thin air . Like misfortune . They are also infamously difficult to pinpoint . Like the perpetrator in most of the crime shows . There are twists and turns . It could be perfume that I use , to the cooking oil I bought last week . The fish she ate yesterday , to the new dress , fondly sent by a daughter . Anyone , and everyone , is a suspect , until proven guilty . Is it the detergent , or the dettol , the new brand of hair oil , or the tomato puree that was a day old ( but used anyway , economising !!) . The peanut brittle or the tea leaves , the ginger cookies , or the atta bread !! 

Perhaps , she is missing the pollutant -laden , densely populated city air she has been deprived of . Who knows ? Perhaps , her mind is allergic to the bucolic peace and quiet we have foisted upon her , in a misplaced desire for a "break " .

Mrs Sangha

 With unfathomable love and  immaculate care 

she prepared feasts fit for kings , regal fare 

Her scramble for the flimsy dupattas , hair 

in mild disarray ,  a bit grayer ,every year 

She got up to greet and talk to you , listen 

Your own woes , when she had million(s) 

Of her own . A cup of tea , sweeten(ed) 

 for all , with indefatigable affection 

Bottomless pit , nature's  beauteous wonders 

Of unending giving , to strangers , stragglers 

Friends , neighbours , servants , beggars 

the benevolence never ceased , do ponder 

How destiny turns against the very source 

How fragrance in a cupboard full of succours 

Maddens , saddens , inexplicably lingers 

there are no more fidgety fingers 

No more sunspot ridden fair crinkly skin 

No more complaints of a heart flailing 

No more hysterical, hypoglycemic sweating 

Scary portends in the dark midnight

A breath that was taken by sheer power 

Of will , a heart that beat just in order 

to see kids , faraway , on distant shore(s) 

A metabolism so messed up , in disorder , 

Whenever the bell rings , even now 

What does your eye seek ? Blow ! 

That  radiant face framed in springy white 

A smile ,in pain , yet  so much of spright 

A motherly face , her wings transparent 

invisible , so wide , sheltering beneath it 

You , me , us and them .

Missing you , forever , maam . 

In the dead of the night

 Tis the middle of the night

 many  needless fright(s)

Time grows a couple of feet 

Marches endless around your bed 

Tick tock tick tock precision beat 

A footfall ,  a scrape,  a thud 

It's all in your head

You saw a fleeing shadow

Right outside your window

If  you are alone , you might 

Make a mountain out of a bite 

A relentless bite of a  wood termite 

Only audible at the dead of the night

A sparrow makes its nest , why I wonder 

Of all places,Beneath the airconditioner 

It is safe and secure of that I am sure

What about me subjected

To tiny flutterings 

Comings and goings 

Enlarged, magnified

Multifold, 

Oh god 

In the dead of the night

Silence kills . That's right 

But tiny noises too just might 

If it scares you out of your wit 

My sister's kitchen

 My sister's kitchen is her fiefdom. It is her kingdom and fiercely guarded territory . 

With age , her defences have proliferated and become rigid as hell. Earlier you could sneak a peek, lend a hand , cook something ( for which you might be grudgingly thanked) , or even fetch a glass of water without the threat of being chided. No longer. Now , you might as well levitate on entering the hallowed premises . 

You are not permitted to leave footprints on the shiny floor, no handprints on the glass door partition,  no splotches of water in and around the sink , and heaven forbid, no soap residues in hastily washed pots .

Like a hardened criminal, you learn to wipe surfaces down , mop the floor , dry the dishes , then dry the kitchen duster , and pray that you have not left a single evidence of a sneaky omelette , which you had the audacity to make .

Like a sniffing bloodhound, she knows, just by looking at nano particles of crumbs , which snacks box has been raided in her absence . Then ,it is " off with her / his head " time .

An incriminating trail of these nanoparticles also reveal , magically , to her astute senses , where the purported crime of consuming the stolen goods took place . On the balcony ( hastily) , on the sofa , in the sitting room ( God save you) or in the kitchen itself ( no imagination) . 

Her hawk eye and extraordinary nasal glands reveal to her all the information which should have , by all means,remained concealed.

Not only is her kitchen off limits , to hungry humans prone to snacking , it is a formidable citadel for the maid too . This, allegedly, is her workplace . She has all my sympathies , as my sister corners her everyday and points out her innumerable flaws in yesterday's washing .

The  negligent soap spots , the faulty piling of the dishes , the inadequate washing of the scrubber , the criminal scuffing of the floor , the wasteful running of water , the aberrant water scales left unscrubbed in some hard to reach corner of the sink ,the glaring omission of spoons stacked erringly , so on and so forth . 

Everyday , when she enters her fortress , I pretend to bury myself in the day's wordle and spellathon, keeping one eye and ear cocked for a yell and a reprimand .

 For courageous and suicidal souls like me , who keep trying to breach the outer walls and slay the dragon everyday , so to speak.

A few jabs of the javelin and a few tongues of searing flames are only too expected . 

Playing peekaboo with goodbye

 Recently , I was in ICU for some strange reasons . An acquaintance , who may also be called a distant relative , had had a cerebral stroke , after having undergone a hip replacement surgery a couple of years ago , and being wheelchair bound as it is .

He had been sick for quite some time . The family gathered in the foyer . Grieving siblings , silver haired , and anxious . Other relatives , distant and cold during better days , flew in from really "distant and cold " climes to see how he's faring, now that a troublesome mouth had been silenced , and a bitter mind laid to rest . Well , almost  . 

 The person departing was not very popular . However , his spouse had powerful and rich siblings , who kept a hawk eye on her . Ensuring her well being . In good times and in bad . 

Solidarity with a capital S , was quite visible . 

It wasn't clear how many had gathered to bid goodbye . Or just come to watch Tamasha . 

Some conferenced with the treating physician . Others , impatiently clear , just wanted to know , " how much time was left " . Still others , stoically , kept vigil . 

Modern science , if anything , has muddled up the "going away " process . Quite terribly . There are hits , and then there are misses . Near misses . Close shaves . And "I don't know whens " . "Can't say how long ?" "Please take him home now ." 

A hefty  guard /ayah closely monitored visiting hours , down to the last minute , and last teary eyed sullen faced relative. She had taken it upon herself to shove in visitors , one by one , whether willing or not , and to extricate visitors from the bedside of the patient , whether willing or not . 

Needless to say , like life , and strange things in it , she was the conscience keeper , of the entire family ,and ensured the balance of life . Like nature .

Doctors , with their limited abilities , despite the burden of degrees professed , hummed and hawed over sticky questions with unpredictable outcomes . 

The patient himself , his reputation notwithstanding , didn't help matters . He waxed and waned , and how . One day , he , suddenly opened his long shut eyes , took a long and enquiring look at all the sullen faces around his bed , and proclaimed his  teary -eyed love for long estranged people . Next day , with his parameters WNL ( within normal limits ) , he obstinately shut his eyes and refused to communicate . 

Third day , he waved his arms around , trying desperately , to articulate sentences , through the endotracheal tube lodged into his throat . His parameters went askew again . 

Within a week , however , he had "stabilised " enough to be discharged home , when all the relatives , disappointed , did the vanishing act . Enter "professionals " who fed him evil looking nasogastric feeds . changed diapers and positions , emptied urobags , and adjusted the volume of oxygen flow , all in a home setting . 

Charging a kidney almost , these professionals , raised alarm , when in the wee hours of a weekday , the oxygen levels plummeted. However , life , playing peekaboo , didn't depart till late that night , giving enough time to absentee sons to mark their presence. 

The body was kept waiting , while the rest readied themselves for the final departure . 

One last look , a sigh , and one final "so long , old man . " 

Keeping everyone guessing , on their toes , in life as in death , a maverick character , whether "to be or not to be " . Whether he loved someone , or didn't , whether he was going to go or stay , leaving the living counterparts in a quandary . Whether to celebrate the departure or to mourn the loss . Whether be  relieved or anguished . Dark glasses come in handy , in such situations , and breathable cotton masks , disguise and deceive . 

spring

 A solitary peanut , ashamed of its nudity 

new found freedom , springs sprightly 

from the shelling fingers,

rolls ,scampers swiftly 

and hides behind the microwave .

A thick carpet of dried peepul leaves 

in midday slumber , suddenly heaves 

feet scupper , the crisp dry  rustle

the babblers , browse in group , hustle 

Lifting leaves with their beaks , bustle 

Noisily feeding on invisible insects , 

seeking refuge 

in nature's refuse 

Sun will blaze shortly like a flame thrower 

every living thing will pant and perspire 

Then they gather around terracotta pots 

with warm saline water 

Left over 

from the days yester 

a whoosh of the myna 

rebuking from the tree top 

A whooping jackal , a mocking hyena 

A barbet sets up a racket 

talking to the spring air , perfect 

"I Love yous " from the apex 

a beetle dashes in futile masochism against 

the wire mesh door , humming hurtfully 

And a black and white great tit 

busy building a home , a nest 

in all earnest , sharing notes 

with a purple sunbird 

its beak buried in the hibiscus 

A red banner , protestation 

against the yellow abomination 

Both the sun and the tree , at war 

of colours , against each other 

 a drongo flies past , sashaying its glossy tail 

like a movie star at met gala , masked and caped 

A woodpecker is busy , hammering out termites 

from the trunks where hide they might 

Ha ha . we rhyme , finally , 

and the rose finch specifically 

chooses my window 

to throw down glass blades 

 challenging me to a duel 

of who builds   a nest in the blinking of an eye 

so what  if you can , from inside your glass see ? 

The bulbul , content mostly , 

is now complaining , for daily 

the pot is bereft of water 

the babblers , drink and scatter 

tree bullies . No manner!!

Sparrows hold urgent meetings 

inside flower bushes , and beetles 

in psychedelic colours fly 

 blink and miss .