The year of deaths and reminders of mortality

Every year is another beautiful opportunity given to us in terms of improving ourselves and actively chasing our desired goals and dreams. But along with that is also the realisation that our life is slowly heading towards death. The feeling is humbling as well as scary for it drives hard the fact that we do not have time at our behest. The passing away of diverse personalities this year has insinuated many thoughts of mortality and life within me. As I hear news of people who names have been part of my growing up years and adult life pushes me to think of my own life and its fragility. The hardest blow was when the news of our honourable Chief Minister, J. Jayalalalitha's passing away flashed across the many internet websites. The knowledge that someone who was a formidable presence, inspite of the autocracy, drove hard the nail of mortality. The feeling, for quite some time, has been in the air, when Cohen, Bowie, Balamurali Krishna and others left this earth. Well, as one grows older than the previous year, thoughts as these prevail like the dark clouds which cast a spell for a while either passing away or bringing rainfall.

Growing older means that loved ones are becoming fragile and losing the former agility and taut. The body also plays truant especially while getting up in the morning or that stubborn fat which refuses to budge from a you-know-where spot. Enough! I am not here to whine or complain about facts that are irrevocable but thoughts as these cannot be dismissed without the thought running its entire course.

I know many whose lives started by mid-50s or early 60s. I love the energy they display. Yesterday, I was at the venue of the Goa River Marathon. My oh my! The energy in that place was all-consuming - people of varied age groups feeling smug after completing the 21 kms. I wonder how it might seem to them while running and after completing the long run. The myriad emotions visible on their face was radiant, to say the least. Perhaps, this is one way to push fears of mortality and delay the same. Perhaps, it is a way of cheating death. Perhaps, it is the knowledge that death might come any way so let us try adventure and push our limits, raising the adrenaline meanwhile. Whatever it was, the vibes of the place was so invigorating that I felt stimulated to run at least 5 kms next year. In fact, running a marathon has always been a wish/dream/desire but then as always, I was pushing the dream behind everything else instead of pushing myself to run. Ah! I should read Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running and of course there's is Milind Soman who is successfully pushing away Lord Death from approaching him in any direction!

Let me close with a loved and oft read sonnet by John Donne:

Death, be not proud

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BY JOHN DONNE

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; 

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow 

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. 

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, 

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, 

And soonest our best men with thee do go, 

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. 

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, 

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, 

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well 

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? 

One short sleep past, we wake eternally 

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. 

I wish I had known - A tribute to Steveroni (1933-2015)

One reason why I haven't shut my blog is that I have my treasure trove of memories in the posts, comments and pictures. That I have not been frequenting here is another story by itself but today, I wish to record the absence of one such peep whose sad demise was unknown to me until two days ago.

My beloved Steveroni.

From the time, I began blogging, he has been a regular peep who popped lovely, funny, insightful and genuine comments every now and then. We then connected beyond blogs and started communicating through emails and then Facebook. He used to blog in The Fourth Dimension and now and then I visited his blog as well. But those memories belonged to my active years of blogging, which were between 2008 and 2012. The posts were intermittent but we always managed to keep in touch. He last commented on my blog on 07/02/2015. How I wish I had blogged regularly so that I would have somehow known that the silence from Steve meant that he had transitioned.

This irks me about the online world, that some things are never known. Perhaps people might miss the posts and wonder but some would never know. How strange it is to realise that the happy and vibrant Steve would never ever comment on my Facebook posts or my blog posts!

Perusing his Facebook profile and comments, I got to know that Steve has passed on to the other world in September 2015 and a year later, I start wondering and get the news. I also think what I would have done if I had known earlier?

I would've not awaited his comments on my posts on Facebook.
I would've not checked my mailbox for a reply for the mail that I had written to him.
I would've not awaited his posts on my posts.

This is the second peep that I have lost from my blogging circle. And, to think that I have not even met him makes me melancholic. I wonder how many friends are still in the dark about Steve awaiting his comments and words of wisdom.

I will miss you dear Fiddleman - Hope we meet somewhere there. Until then, be well and spread cheer - which you have taught us to do.

An excerpt from one of his mails to me:

Do you know? I had a strong feeling that your life was changing for a month or two. You 'writings' had changed. Finally, that "JOY" you wish us all seemed to have found its place in YOUR soul. You can see I wish you the best--even writing TWO replies. (I always over-do emails and posts--grin!)
PEACE
S

Virtual friendship and broken promises - A tribute to a dear blogger-friend

The last time I met you, you promised to spend more time with me in December. You also promised that in the December trip you will stay with me. You cruel soul - you broke your promises. Why do you make them when you were to break them!

*****

We meet in the world of blogs and bloggers. We both were relatively new to the whole game of blogging. I saw her blog in one of the blogs I frequented. I casually stopped by. I liked what I saw and read. I started stopping by more often. Then she started noticing me and returned the favour. This was in 2009! From then on, we stopped by each other's blogs and gradually started emailing one another. The mails were usually two or three liners in which we mutually complemented one another's words and thoughts. We were never obliged to visit each other's blogs. I only commented when I had something to say and vice-versa. A bond had been formed.

Then I got married. I sent her an invite. She didn't come but sent me her wishes. Then, she got married. I sent my wishes. Our blog entries became infrequent but we kept in touch. She drifted towards fiction and photography. My visits to her blog were intermittent. She still came over to my blog and logged in her insights. We started chatting through Facebook.

She then gave me the wonderful news of her visit to the city where I lived. We met briefly over some snacks. Her mom and her sister were there with her. We were quite excited and thrilled to finally meet one another. She promised to spend more time with me in December when she planned to visit my place again on a road-trip with her better half. I thought December was quite afar off.

Unexpectedly, I had a chance to stop in her city for a break of journey and she played host along with her parents-in-law, husband and her non-human companion, a Golden Retriever named Rocky. They were lovely people and stumped me with their hospitality. She drove me to the train station. I was glad to have met her the second time and we refreshed our December promise and plan.

But she would never see another December! She broke her promise and along with her husband passed on to another world leaving me with memories of her blog and two meetings. 

I am glad that we did meet each other and exchanged meaningful conversation, if only once. Her sudden passing, though left me shocked and devastated, enabled me to understand the transience of existence. She was a quiet and unassuming person who thought deeply and tenderly. On some mornings, I wake up with thoughts of her and feel quite sad but as I mentioned earlier, I am truly happy that I met her and spent some time with her.

RIP my dear Sameera Kesiraju (1987-2013)

A poem by Sam:

Every evening is a conversation,

Sun’s retiring talk with a dear tree

“I’ll come in the morn looking for you!

I’ll knock on the doors of darkness with a request  

To let my rays caress with love, your gentle leaves

As they swing with joy, with hope, to see another dawn

Waiting for me to bring that dawn to you

I’ll come, but promise, that you will not let...

The black dusk swallow it all up - every time I am gone.”

                                                                          ~Sam

This and that AND that and this

Existential questions strike you at in-consequent times like when you are in an auto-rickshaw and when the auto stops at a signal, a procession carrying a dead body passes by and all of a sudden you think, "What is the purpose of my life on this earth? Why am I here?" One wonders about Buddha and his similar experience of passing by a dead body. The signal changes colour and the auto moves on but the question still lingers on in your mind.

Then suddenly like a flash of lightening, a smart guy passes by the auto, peers into the auto, gives a brilliant smile and rides away. The smile is returned. Where the existential question goes, you wonder. All that remains is the smile and the twinkle of the smart guy's eyes.

The auto reaches the destination and the friends wave at you. The question as well as the smile is forgotten. When friends meet, memories are always kindled. A different set of thoughts replace the former ones. I realise that life is made up of such cycles -- thought replacing thought, emotions replacing emotions . . . everything is in a state of flux which combines the lived, the living and the going to be lived.

Even as I write this post, the actions that have been written down have become the past but the past that has been passed has been resurrected in the present and saved for the future.

Life goes on . . .

Image: Internet

The last farewell - Meanderings on the Japanese film "Departures"

Staying at home, I am quite privileged to watch many wonderful movies of different cultures in World Movies channel. Two days ago, as I was accidentally changing channels, my hand paused when I saw a very solemn scene on World Movies. It was a scene from a Japanese film titled Departures. I must say that I enjoy watching movies from China, Japan and Korea. They are slow, calming and the music is something that long remains after the film is over. The films are always subtle and gentle. Well, that is for another post. Now coming back to Departures.

The protagonist is a cellist and after losing his job becomes a professional in assisting departures (death). The customs and rituals associated with death in the Japanese culture were so very solemn and graceful that death did not seem morbid at all. The protagonist's work was to clean, dress and make the body presentable. He does his work very well and as he goes about the process, he learns to love his job.

Death in various cultures has never ceased to interest me. This was the first time I was seeing the Japanese rituals of the dead. The respect given to the lifeless body is something quite touching. Perhaps the belief that death is not an end but only a passage to another life is demonstrated through the solemn rituals and ceremonies. 

I don't know whether there really exist professionals who assist death in Japan. But if there are, I would like to talk to them and ask many questions.

What are your thoughts on movies of different cultures and professionals in assisting departures?

Are there any special rituals for death in your part of the world?

Image: Internet

Looking at the other side of life

Knowingly or unknowingly we all think of death and how it might come to claim us. Quite natural. But there are some of us who anticipate it every time thus losing out on the present scenario called 'living.' This post was gradually born when I was in the midst of a lecture on British Literature. The resource person is a retired professor of Literature and a charming old man. But I noticed that many times in the course of his lecture, he invariably spoke of death. He told us about a man who travelled with him the day before in train but died due to cardiac arrest this morning. And after that, he remarked: "What if I die the same way today?" While adjusting the microphone's volume, he would say: "What if there is a shock and I die?"

I quite agree that for a man of his age, death is something that constantly niggles the mind but to anticipate it all the time is a bit unnerving. It is a fact that everyone who comes into this world must go, but why waste the precious moments thinking of something that will anyway come.

At this juncture, I would also like to cite another example. There is a man who serves as a gate-keeper in our University. He happened to chat with us a few days ago. He is a man who has retired from the Army. What he told us never left my mind: "The life in Army was wonderful. Even though death was always lurking, it was a great life. Now there is nothing left. Life has become boring." His words stuck me. Imagine always living in the shadow of death! There might be a bomb-blast or a bullet-rain anytime. But that man was very happy. In fact, he even has a bullet wound on his shoulder and left thigh but it has not deterred him. He finds civilian life boring! What a contrast between the old professor and the retired army gate-keeper.

I often think of death and the various things associated with it. In fact I have even imagined my own death with people saying things like: "Even yesterday, she was having coffee with me and talking about D. H Lawrence!" Well, so much so for death.

Let me pause with a lovely poem on death by John Donne:

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.


So, do you ever think of death? Does it scare you or does it seem like an extension of life in another form? Would love to hear your thoughts.

Poem courtesy: Internet

At home with those asleep

The day before yesterday saw me and Barbara (an exchange student from the Queens University, Belfast) going and visiting two graveyards and I must say that I immensely enjoyed the experience. I have visited graveyards before but on Friday I spent a lot of time examining tombstones, crosses, names, dates and other aspects. Since Barbara had studied protestant and catholic memorials in Ireland, she had a mine of information on tombs and inscriptions on the tombs.

The atmosphere there was cool and peaceful. We found many dogs lying down quietly on the tombstones. Who were the most serene - the person inside or the dog outside, I could not come to a conclusion. In the midst of the hustle and bustle of the city, there was this graveyard which seemed to possess a distinct personality of its own. The first graveyard was the Garrison Church graveyard near St. Thomas Mount and it has existed right from the 18th century. I could locate the graveyards of many people whom I used to know. Years ago I visited the same graveyard with my then flame and thus Barbara had some interesting tales to listen from me. In a way, my personal history had a remote connection to that graveyard.

There were old tombstones which looked quite lovely and ancient. The more recent tombstones had pictures of the deceased on them. Some tombstones were very fancy and colourful while some were the usual black, gray and white. One could also differentiate the class of the dead people by looking at their tombstones. Some were quite simple while some were grandiose and shiny.

We took a couple of pictures. Barbara also told me that in Ireland one could not step on the graves as they were taboo. It was quite emotional for people and thus the graveyards were taken very good care of but in Chennai we stepped on the grave to take closer pictures and read the inscriptions. It was interesting to listen to Barbara as she identified Catholic and Protestant tombstones by seeing the way the cross was made. There were some graves which was joint together with a tree. These were the old ones.

We were quite moved when we saw the graves of babies who were just a few months old when they passed away; families who died on the same day; young people in the age of 20-24.

The second graveyard was the British war memorial which was immaculately kept and maintained very well. The tombs were in rows and looked almost wrinkle-free unlike the previous grave. I liked the previous unruly one where the dead, nature and culture existed side-by-side in perfect harmony.

I did not once think about death when I was in the graveyards, which is quite surprising as I always start meandering when I come across such places. I felt calm, peace and a sense of joy being there in the graveyard. I felt at home among those asleep.

Waking up to the news of Jackon's death

Today morning was about to be just another 'normal' day but when my sister rushed to wake me up, I realised that there was something to this day. She was aghast when she said, "Susan, Michael Jackson is dead." Did I hear right? Half sleepy and half awake, the news rendered me totally wide awake. I WAS SHOCKED! I WAS SAD! Growing up with his songs, dancing to his tunes on MTV, I could not believe that he was no more. Certain things are strange with me: I feel very sad - at the demise of any literary person I have read and loved, any artist whose works I have admired, any political leader with whom many images are stored. It seems that a dear part of me has sunk in and fallen apart. It was the same hearing of Jackson's death. To be honest, I did not enjoy Jackson's genre of music nor liked him after his various operations but something snapped within me.

As children, if it was break dance, it had to be Michael Jackson; If anyone danced wildly, we would exclaim, "Do you think you are Michael Jackson?" If there was any programme in school, it had to be MJ's songs. Unconsconsciously he had become part of our growing up vocabulary. During those days, we would talk about his plastic surgery and be astounded that someone could actually change their jawbone. His various fiascos during his life have always been read with interest and concern. While watching the BBC this evening, a close friend of MJ remarked: He was a very lonely man. I wondered. The man who almost had everything - fame, talent, money, and the stuff everyone dreams of having. Why was he lonely? Could not he handle the things that he had? Didn't he have someone to love and care? Was there not a single person who could pat him on the back and say, "Hey, I'm there for you. Don't worry." I can only wonder without knowing the answers.

Close relatives and lawyers believe that the doctors were giving him over doses of steroids to boost his immunity for the forthcoming comeback concerts in London. But then they are speculations.

Death unites mankind. Be it rich, poor, wise, foolish - all face death but then the manner of death matters. MJ started off well, atleast that was what was projected, but his end was disastrous. His body's autopsy will take six to eight weeks, say the doctors. "Artists are mad people" is the common saying. Its true but then at what cost. Decisions and choices we make destine our existence. One wrong choice and the consequences are unalterable. I cannot make a value judgement on Michael Jackson but then it got me thinking: What kind of choices are we making? Do we think of the consequences of our choices? We better be aware of whatever we think, say and do.

Something that made sense to me!

The real meaning of security
Our obsession with protecting ourselves makes us less safe. That's the message from Eve Ensler, who travels the globe to end violence against women.Eve Ensler October 2005 issue
I am worried about our single-minded focus on security. I see this word, hear this word, feel this word everywhere. Real security. Security check. Security watch. Security clearance. Why has all this focus on security made me feel so much more insecure? What does anyone mean when they speak of security? Why are we suddenly a nation and a people who strive for security above all else? In fact, security is essentially elusive, impossible. We all die. We all get sick. We all get old. People leave us. People surprise us. People change us. Nothing is secure. And this is the good news. But only if you are not seeking security as the point of your life.
Here’s what happens when security becomes the centre of your life. You can’t travel very far or venture too far outside a certain circle. You can’t allow too many conflicting ideas into your mind at one time as they might confuse you or challenge you. You can’t open yourself to new experiences, new people, and new ways of doing things. They might take you off course. You cling desperately to your identity—you become a strict Christian or a Muslim or a Jew. You are an Indian, an Egyptian, an Italian or an American. You are heterosexual or homosexual or you never have sex. At least that’s what you say when you identify yourself. You become part of an us and, in order to be secure, you must defend against them.
You become your nation, you become your religion, you become whatever it is that will freeze you, numb you and protect you from change or doubt. But all this shuts down your mind. In reality, you are not one drop safer. A meteor could fall from the sky, a tsunami could rise up from the sea, someone could fly a plane through your building. All this striving for security has in fact made you much more insecure. Because you must watch out all the time. There are people who are not like you, people you now call enemies. There are places you cannot go, thoughts you cannot think, worlds you can no longer inhabit. So you spend your days fighting things off, defending your territory and becoming more entrenched in your fundamental thinking. Your days become devoted to protecting yourself. This becomes your mission. This is all you do. You find ways to get as much money as you can and food and oil and everything else you need to be safe. You take these things from other people if you have to and devise new ways to do that. You invent security systems to check pockets and IDs and bags. Every object becomes a potential weapon. I travel a lot and every time I am in an airport there is a new security threat—one week it’s tweezers, the next week it’s rubber bands.
Of course now you can no longer feel what another person feels because that might shatter your heart, confuse your basic thinking, destroy the whole structure. Ideas get shorter—they become sound bites. There are evildoers and saviours. Criminals and victims. Those who are not with us are against us. It gets easier to hurt people because you do not feel what’s inside them. It gets easier to lock them up, humiliate them, occupy them, invade them, kill them. They are merely obstacles to your security.
But all of this offers only a false sense of security. Real security means contemplating death, not pretending it doesn’t exist. It means not running from loss, but feeling it, surrendering to sorrow, entering grief.
Real security is not knowing something when you don’t know it.
Real security cannot be bought or arranged or accomplished with bombs. It is deeper. It is a process. It is the acute awareness that we are all utterly interdependent and that one action by one being in one town has consequences everywhere.
Real security is the ability to tolerate mystery, complexity, ambiguity—indeed hungering for these things.
In my life I have defined myself at one time or another as a Feminist, a Buddhist, a Jew, a Vegetarian, an Anti-Nuclear Activist, a Bisexual, a Playwright. I wanted to be included, to be a part of something, to be approved of. I wanted to locate myself, not be lost, avoid messiness, avoid death. All of these identities have protected me from my shadow, my darkness, my sexist/racist impulses, my meat eater, my violence.
As a part of V-Day, an international movement to end violence against women, I have travelled to more than 40 countries and met women and men who through various circumstances—war, poverty, racism, multiple forms of violence—have never known security or have had the illusion of security forever devastated. I have met women who, under the rule of the Taliban in Afghanistan, lost the right to work or be educated or even see the sky. I have met women with their faces melted off from acid. I have met college girls drugged and raped in fancy U.S. colleges. These particular people, rather than turning violent themselves, have gone into the heart of the pain, the loss. They have grieved and died into it and allowed and encouraged this poison to become medicine. These warriors now devote their lives to making sure that whatever terrible thing happened to them does not happen to anyone else. Because the transformation of suffering rather than their own security is the goal, they are in fact creating real safety for others.
Something happened when I began to travel. I got lost. I became uprooted in time and space. I became a permanently displaced person. At first it was terrifying, not knowing who I was or where I was. Then I realized that we are all essentially displaced people, all of us are refugees, we came from somewhere—and we are hopefully travelling all the time (even if we never leave our rooms), moving toward a new place. Freedom means I may not be identified as part of any one group, but that I can visit and find myself in every group. Freedom does not mean I don’t have values or beliefs. But it does mean I am not hardened around them. I do not use them as weapons.
Freedom means not being owned, not occupied, not bought.
Freedom means finding the place in me that connects with every person I meet rather than thinking of myself as different, better or on top.
It means opening my heart to my granddaughter’s little perfect fingers, taking in the fragility, the tenderness there, the potential loss.
It means feeling what the suicide bombers must have been feeling at the same moment I am grieving those who died in the bombing.
Believing there is a power determining everything at the same moment I know there is absolutely no one in charge.
Feeling angry at my teenage son for doing the opposite of what I suggested at the same moment I marvel at his independence.
Freedom is not knowing where you are but being deeply there.
Not waiting for someone to save or rescue you or heal your terrible past but doing that for yourself.
Not putting your flag in the ground.
Being willing to get lost.
Living without borders and passports.
Evolving.
Becoming.
Freedom is about being vulnerable to one another, realizing that our ability to connect is more important than feeling secure, in control and alone.
Eve Ensler is an American writer, most well-known for her performance work The Vagina Monologues, V-Day, the global movement to end violence against women and girls, and her upcoming national tour of “The Good Body (www.thegoodbody.org). This text is adapted from a talk she gave at the TED: Technology, Entertainment, Design conference in Oxford, England last July.