Living Life Dangerously...

That night the skies rented and deluged the land. I lay awake to the rains pounding, drumming to heartbeats, quickened, elated, pumped up with adrenaline, to the percussion of thunder claps, flashes of lightening. In the blind black of my room sounded the running, pacy changing beats of teen-taal in this megh-night.

Next day, I started late for the farm. The underpass on my route was unpassable, thigh deep in water. Backtracking to catch a bus, I found that the morning rush hour had already started. The buses rushed by periliously tilted towards road with people hanging out in swarms. One such bus was stopped at the traffic signal, going in my direction. Running between wavy lines of halted cars, vehicles, I reached the bus and yelled at the people to 'make space' - a woman standing on the last step turned smiling and said "there is no more room inside" - I hesitated, undecided, weighed by a big clumsy bag that I carried in one hand, when the traffic signal turned green. The bus inched forward, and suddenly, without thought, I was squeezed between people, hanging out the last step, on this tilted bus, hanging on to my bag with one hand, and my hold on life with another....the bus sped on shiny, wet tar within reaching inches of other cars, scooters.

The wind blew against my face pushing my hair back - I was the last person on the bus - excited, elated, happy to be living life dangerously.

Impartial Immorality

An absurd conversation with my fourteen year old took a turn when she declared, “ I want to be Immortal” –

I said “that’s not possible”

She said “then I rather be reborn again and again and again – I hate the thought of my body rotting with the soil”

I said “that it will anyway”

She said “then I prefer my brain not to rot”

I said “that too will”

She said with an irritated look “ you know what I mean – I don’t want my mind to disappear!”

I said “Since I do not believe in any particular religious model, it is probably true that we all just disappear into nothing – this could serve a purpose; if people were conscious of their mortality then they would lead better lives”

And then she said “ If there is no afterlife, or promise of a better after life, why should people prefer to be good. There needs to be a reward – that is why religion is good. People are bad for the expected reward like wealth, power – whereas there is no reward to being good except the satisfaction of being good – the only thing is if they are not caught then they can enjoy being bad!”

That stumped me!

I asked “ Do you think if a person is dying they would not want to be good”

A cheeky smile and “why should they??”

I am Lucky...

When life gets too much...and yes, it gets too much for the most sane of us, then I retreat to my farm. I am lucky I have a farm outside Bangalore, a farm that yields little - not much grain, little fruit, sometimes vegetables.

Bangalore has been lashed by heavy rains - late this year, too late to save my crop of lentils and millets - the well has been dry all summer long, the earth crumbly and brown.

However, when I approached my farm this time, I saw that the earth was green and blue! The land wore a surreal sheen and clouds floated across the once barren land. Giving a whoopee I ran down the path and plunged into moving, shaky, splashy earth - my slippers got caught in the grime under - had to plunge elbow deep to tear them out - ouch, ouch, ouch, the vile touch me nots were jabbing my feet under water - but no matter! what did I care! Muniamma, my farm help, laughed at my enthusiasm for water and followed me at a more modest step.

The earth at the upper levels was also soggy wet and the water tank that collected rainwater was full to its lip...the barren well was two thirds filled with reddish-brown water - not fit to drink yet - but a happy enough sight..roses bloomed in a hundred shades of pink and the vines were dotted with periwinkle blue flowers. It was time for some serious work - soft earth would make the clearing easy, digging a delight.

While the sun blazed down scorching our backs, we worked, Muniamma and I, clearing, chopping and replanting - adding to sections of the green fencing, mulching with tall grasses, burying seeds, bulbs. I harvested one single tiny brinjal for sambhar, and a few star fruits. We worked till it seemed that layers of skin would peel off in chocolate wafers and sweat trickled down our backs.

And then - sudden dark - clouds rolling in fast - at a touchable height, greay, dark and inviting threatening...we stretched up to gaze even as huge polka dots splashed our faces - no point seeking shelter - we grinned and stuck our tongues out to catch pristine drops straight in our mouths.

I am lucky to have my farm...

Story of a Lilly

A few years back I acquired a Lilly bulb and buried it in soil in my front yard. It took a couple of years for it to grow, mature, and flower..clumps of white flowers, fragrant, burst forth at ends of light green proud stalks.

A few years later the plant had multiplied and transformed into a gigantic clump of many joint Lillies, holding each other tight - like a family. They took over my tiny space, blocked sunlight for plants growing under, and squeezed out root space for other plants - they proliferated, profusely, mindlessly, uncaring of the others that I was also trying to raise. So, one fine day, this monsoon, I decided it was time for change, and deliberately pulled the giant Lilly clump out...then I chucked it hard and far to the end of the yard. It lay there on its side, a sad, sorry family of a once proud Lilly family. I would encounter it every day as I walked out with my bucket of washed clothes to dry them on the clothesline. Initially, I was very sorry, and decided that I would gather up the bulbs and replant them, so they could again live and make their own, new families. But somehow, the leisure for this act, that I sincerely wished, never came. I was callous, careless, and forgot in every moment of free time. Soon, I even stopped noticing this clump, lying pitifully on its side.

Then one day, I noticed that the clump was no longer lying on the side. It had, with great energy, pushed itself, upright, and towards light. I thought " Good - but maybe I should move it to a better spot.." - that also never happened. Yesterday, I discovered, it had shot forth a light green fleshy stalk and there was a bud at the end of it. I rejoiced and blogged about it.

Subordinated Subconscious

A few days back, we had very interesting friends for dinner. After the kids got to bed, the conversation turned to the subconscious...mind that is. I claimed no experience/knowledge of possessing a subconscious - my husband, on the other hand, claimed he was unsure of the mind itself! Our friends, all four of them, on the other hand, strongly believed in the existence of a subconscious both via cumulations of personal experiences and supported by readings, works of neuro-scientists, psychoanalysts. I turned to wikipedia and found this, greatly supporting my skepticism towards the necessity of a subconscious mind. Despite that, I felt I should ponder a bit, reflect somewhat, whether I perceive within me layers of the consciousness - super, and sub- to un-conscious. Have I subordinated a subconscious to favor either the conscious or the utterly unconscious? Have I gone perceptively binary, into a B&W mode, without giving myself a chance to experience the richness of colors, shades, rainbows of perceptiveness and intermingles in between? Or, have I just never looked into the nature of my own perception?

What further intrigued me about the conversation was an unanimous agreement that an 'enlightened' mind, or a mind capable of living completely and constantly in the present, this moment, would be the only, exempt from possessing the subconscious - immediately stopping my claim of a 'no subconscious'. So, if unconscious mind, or actions led by it represent habits with clear separation between mind and actions - i.e. automatic responses, and conscious actions imply a complete awareness with which the action is carried out, then subconscious probably implies a whole gamut of experiences guided by an in-between mind - a partly there mind - a part of mind that is guided by a fuzzy-logic of personal history, uncatalogued influences, memories of peripheral experiences, which, without clear conscious directives, guide action.

Defined in this manner, I can immediately list an enormous sensory bank of transitory, non useful experiences associated with clearly delineated conscious memory. My mom wore a red and black saree in checks that day, when I was little, and we went on a family picnic - she looked like a filmstar! I remember the feel of hot rocks as I ran up the hill of Pakshiteertham, I can recall the smell of the cheap fragrance that I bought when young - my first one, without a name, or what the bottle looked like; and I can still see the setting of that sweet shop where I saw, in a tiny, dark, black room, finest silky threads of mouth watering Sonpapadi being wrought...are all these parts of my conscious, or subconscious memory?

And...now that I am getting more 'aware' of my subconscious, will I subsume it??get enlightened?!! Help! Is there a way to avoid this??