A revolution

( Bloodstream is loaded  with caffeine adequately 

You have just asked a question , politely 

So I am not going to ignore ,  less likely 

Would you please repeat it ? Blimey 

Memory has nothing to do with stimulation , 

Automobile on a parallel highway , a simulation 

We watch ourselves speeding , a collision 

Possibly sparks , inspiration , an explosion )

Who'd have thought of quiet neighbourhoods 

Harbouring intense destruction under fleece hoods 

Sweep them in , don't speak , on guard they stood 

Don't think , don't write , don't sigh , don't brood 

Contained violence . What does that even mean 

So twisted , so dark , we talk in oxymorons 

Someone paints the sidewalk , blood red crayons

Someone else clings to half truths , crimson curtains 

Do not open your window , else the poison 

In the air , enters and blackens the moon 

the walls soak up prejudice and depravity 

It smells like a war , without the gravity 

All words float in the jet  black air 

Invisible , unreal , here and there 

the screams silenced in a cannon glare 

 they said it wont harm , just water 

See , it has swept us all , plywood ferries 

adrift in the blackening sea of queries 

The sky rains smoke , red hot rocks , ashes 

A volcano has just erupted , Vesuvius 

History fond of repeating itself , has bayonetted 

 Pompei , and you , and you don't even know it yet .

Not a cat person

My neighbour has a new cat . People tell me it is a male , so I have to believe them . Not being quite a cat person myself , I have found myself locked into staring competitions with the feline .

We are both wary of each other . He , of my shriek , and the hand that quickly flings a slipper in his direction . I , of lurking , unwanted feline company , that rummages ( and ruins ) dustbins , tears garbage bags , even if they do not contain edible material ; noiselessly  enters your home (their famous pussy footing ) without you being aware , and scares the bejesus out of you . 

Once , I walked into the kid's room , to find him perched onto their bed . Purring , possibly , with the intent of taking their place , in my home, heart  and hearth . 

Sorry . I told the cat so much . Not in his feline tongue , but in three distinct human speak  . He stared back , defiantly , with his hypnotising green slits , then blinked in the sunshine . He blinked twice , I swear . Once for the" f "word , and twice for the "off ". 

If something is cooking in the kitchen , he will leap onto the window ledge , with nary a sound , and stare , demandingly , into the depths of the kitchen . If you look at him , he will meow in anticipation . It is not as if he is pleading for food , he is demanding it , as if it is his birthright . No wonder the ancient Egyptians worshipped cats , and mummified hundreds of them , along with the corpses of the nobility . There was a cat  Goddess too , by the name of Bastet . 

Most of the time , when you meet him, it seems to be , uncannily , reading your mind . 

Claustrophobia  , and  fear of possible death has stopped it from entering the lift .  One wintry morning , the door to the lift opened , the cat ran towards me , took one look at the open metal box , and unthinkingly , leapt into it . The metal doors swiftly shut on him , and he wailed all the way down , all through the four floors of slow , unimaginable agony . He learnt a valuable , and luckily , an indelible lesson that day . (Or else , imagine enclosed in an airless tin box with the cat . I remember a similar torture device in existence , in Europe , during the middle ages .)

He always takes the stairs for his excursion , thereafter . Lurking at various corners , like a bundled up blanket , which unfolds itself , gives you a long languid stare ( mera kya bigaad loge tum ) and then yawns in a true cat fashion . Slow , and unbothered , revealing , in the same innocuous breath , all his sharp teeth , and the possible damage that can be inflicted by the same . This is tantamount to a road side mobster  casually showing you his gun , holstered and safe , but menacing all the same . 

If you happen to excite the cat , producing some unfortunate shooing sounds , it will stretch its limber body and scratch the door mat furiously with its claws . Occasionally , stopping to see , if you are still lingering around or have taken flight . This is equivalent to the mobster unholstering his gun , and brandishing it in the air  . 

Now , if it  leaps at you , with all her weaponry , in full functional mode , the mobster has fired . If it misses and lands behind you , it was a gunshot in the air , a dire warning . One would be dumb not to take the hint . 

My maid chucks water at him. Apparently felines abhor water . He makes a run. As if  a river of scalding lava has been directed against him . When it rains , the cat is miserable . As he is not allowed inside his master's house too . They believe in "once a stray , forever a stray " adage . He takes refuge in the driest part of the parking lot , safe under a large SUV , confident in his belief that water won't find him there . In the rare case that the rain floods the parking lot , he climbs up a window ledge , and licks his paws clean , nonchalantly.

In fact , I can now safely blame the lack of rains in this part of the country to this particular cat .He must have really prayed for a dry season . 

Sorcerers . No wonder the Egyptians worshipped them . 

My religious relatives warn me , don't throw slippers at the cat . Or what ? Or , if he dies ( by lucky perchance ) , you will have to offer a cat made of gold at a  Hindu temple , and feed a hundred brahmins . What ? Why ? I know lot of hit and run cases , in which humans have done little , even after having killed other humans . 

They say a lot of one's life and existence depends on how one markets oneself . The cat walks , tail in the air , with the complete haughtiness of a general inspecting his troops .  There is no trace of any fear or subservience in those eyes , that stare into the depths of your murky soul . I know your deepest fears , you coward !! say those green and gold eyes . 

Even my plants are not safe . There is a bushy , pretty ,palm , whose soil happened to be bit sandy . The cat used to pretend that it was its litter , put there for her . Abandoning her master's pretty and roomy  plastic bin , it had resorted to clambering up the uncomfortable confines atop a terracotta pot , underneath substantial foliage to relieve herself. This unfortunate accident , became a daily event , till my maid discovered that wet soil deters the clean freak cat . OCD stricken , it won't do anything, knowingly , to muddy its paws . 

Secondly , my neighbour's potted plants have been elevated one foot above the ground , in an attempt to keep it out of reach of inquisitive / mischievous paws . I had no such qualms , hence my lush caladium and Chinese evergreen leaves are discovered shredded every morning . An old Hindi saying goes "khammat billaya khambha noche " , meaning , a disgruntled cat is likely to vent its frustrations on a wooden pole . On another occasion , my newly transplanted ten o'clock was found sprawled and withered on the ground , uprooted from its new home, and the soft ( unwatered ) mud , sprinkled in decorative spirals around the pot , which was itself lying on its side . 

My neighbour , I forgot to add , also has bulky , ceramic pots , incapable of being overturned by cats , who have nothing better to do . 

Here , my maid pointed out that , the cat in question , being a male , might have been blinded into a fit of inexplicable, plant -directed , rage , because of an excess of testosterone . 

I have begin deluging my plants , and have bought , bigger , non -pushover pots . Now I just need to elevate them . I also intend to barricade my balcony .

My neighbour is deeply offended by my plans to wall-in  my plants and balcony , from the unwanted  feline intrusion . 

"You are not a cat person , I believe . " She says curtly. 

"No , I am not , ma'am ." 

Meditation class

 The day started off with a mild drizzle. That cooled down the air and set the ambience, so to speak. 

Today's meditation goals were achieved via a series of breathing exercises and relaxation techniques. Once the breath had slowed down and become regular, the entire demeanor of the body and mind followed. 

After the overall calming, came the relaxation technique, in which each part of the body is named and focussed upon. That brings the mind to present, leaving no room for the constant chaos of thoughts that clamour inside the skull, non stop.

For once, you are here and in your own body. For once, you have allowed waves of tranquility to wash upon yourself. For once, you can hear the universe around you, and the peace in the morning, rain drenched breeze. 

Back home

 So, i am back at my home after a long-ish hiatus . A month and a half , to be precise . There are lots of changes that have occurred in my absence . And a lot hasn't . 

The house still holds ground , thankfully . But looks old . Inside as well as outside . The plaster is peeling at places , and there is an inexplicable sewage like odour emanating from one of the rooms . The house is , as if , like an old retainer , tired of waiting for the inmates to return . You can almost hear it breathe a a sigh of relief , as a whoosh of fresh air enters the house through one end and exits , from some where near your right ear . Hah . Don't worry old chap , we are back . 

Parents stare down at you sternly , still , from their assigned places on your walls . You really are home . 

Some of your plants have grown , some withered , and some have finally given up the charade of living and are just waiting to be chucked into the dustbin . 

So much like life itself . 

The trees on the outer periphery have burgeoned into giants , and you can no longer see over their tops .

 One of the  dried up plants , has been quickly colonised by an unknown bird , whose tiny , spotted , oval eggs , three of them , rest comfortably in the nest made out of , the dead plant , still rooted in the dried up soil . One life lost and other gained . Or not . The pigeon mother , having made the mistake of laying eggs in my  pot , made a couple of rounds , found us humans milling around in a place , which until recently , was entirely her own space. Finally , decided that her kids could not be saved , and abandoned them to their doom . 

The gas cylinder still hisses faintly , with dark portends , as it is unlocked . Thankfully , there is no odour , and that hissing is dismissed , like many other noises for a figment of my overripe imagination . 

Talking of overripe , an orange , tired of sitting out on the dining table , turned green with rage first , and then the blackness of disappointment took over . That a  hard rotting ball of black fur , could have been a luscious orange at one point of time , is unbelievable . There are residual verdigris , on the brass fruit bowl , very much green . Stubborn at that , it required lot of elbow grease , and cussing power from the maid , to actually scrub out of existence . 

The bedsheets have a resentful layer of fine dust on them . Loyally preserving the creases we left on them in haste . The dripping wet  clothes , thrown upon the stand in haste , have dried like so much unfulfilled promises , to a crisp . 

The furniture is still welcoming and so is the garbage man . He has , however , lost his front two teeth , which make him look very old ,  all of a sudden . 

Then I crossed a very tired and wrinkled visage in the passageway , I stopped , and turned and saw myself in the mirror, staring back at me , almost crossly , unsmiling . 

Art of living

To begin from the beginning , my first encounter with yoga, yogic asanas and meditation was at the behest of a friend at Gorakhpur . 

We , being in the services, were posted to that part of the country , then . This was probably , 2010 or 2011 . 

My friend was "into" Art of Living and she insisted that I try doing the  "Happiness Course " . She had a car , complete with a driver, at her disposal . So , I , tagged along . It was autumn , a few random showers , interspersed with days of stifling humid heat . However, the classes were held , in the cooler evenings , in a large hall , in the backyard of an IPS officer's bungalow . It was dimly lit and sheltered with leafy trees.

We were taught various yogic postures , breathing exercises and certain mind  cleansing  practices. 

All these years later, I still remember the stark effect of "disha pranayam " , which exhorts you to forgive people and instances . Incidents and memories which one has carried inside one's own self , which unresolved , leads to several mental unrests and undesirable physical manifestations . I remember copiously , and ( in my opinion) needlessly crying while doing this . I wonder if it made me a better person , but it certainly lightened the burden on my shoulders . For this , I am eternally grateful to AOL . 

Another , remarkable Yogic practice was Sudarshan kriya . A breathing exercise that is known to have amazing health benefits , including lowering of blood pressure, regulation of breath rate and  slowing down of  heart beat . It has been scientifically proven to have precipitated these positive effects on regular practitioners . 

There are lot of flip side reports in the media about art of living . I guess it is like everything else in life . It depends on what is your take away lesson . 

My personal take away lesson  from the happiness course was to control one's own breath . That is a tiny  action with profound impact on one's life. It takes the edge off anger and other negative emotions . It nullifies stress and promotes harmony .

In the end, I am grateful for the happiness course for having opened my eyes to several basic truths about forgiveness, letting go of one's own ego, and  cultivation of compassion for fellow beings. 

Personally I would recommend happiness course(s) , to growing up kids as well as grown up adults. 

 

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 . )

                           $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

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 " .