Lap Swimming as Meditation

Central to meditation, and the Eastern philosophy of Yoga, is control of the breath or prana or life force. The essence of swimming laps is control of the breath.

As a young adult, I frequently swam across the several lakes that bordered my home in India’s Himalayan foothills. It was an indescribable experience – just the green water, the blue sky and a body in tune with its environment and the rhythm of its breathing.

Today, I try to reconstruct the experience (somewhat) with lap swimming – a sensation that can only be understood by those that experience it. This exercise lifts me above myself to a mind-body experience that undeniably releases a flood of endorphins. The feeling is not dissimilar to the uplifting experience that follows a yoga session or meditation practice.

If meditation means guiding the mind inward and is marked by concentration, controlled breathing and withdrawal of the senses from the external world - then swimming laps can be viewed as meditation. Who says meditation insists on us sitting down cross-legged, or being still, or closing our eyes?

http://www.5oclockreflections.com/lap-swimming-as-meditation/

Human Connections in Old-fashioned Ways

Through much of my life in India, local ground transport has meant being in the back of a chauffeur-driven car, cocooned and insular. In recent years, since access to modern communications technologies, weekday mornings were spent immersed in reading the news and evenings in email or on the phone. Not only have I mostly missed the ever-changing microcosm of city life playing out outside my vehicle window, but I have largely missed viewing the daily grind of Mumbai (it really is like no other city and home to a population equal to all of Australia!) passing on the opportunity of a daily ringside view.

I am doing it differently now, in historic Alexandria and the vibrant DC area. For one thing, I’ve decided not to have a car and find there is nothing quite like public transport, to teach you about a new place and its people. I have also decided to refrain from reading or listening to music on my bus or train, opting instead to be conscious and mindful and, yes, curious.

Each day is an adventure on the Metro – It could be a quiet ride into town in a near empty train, or a standing-room-only experience at rush hour. I can freely indulge my interest in people watching: viewing the passengers around me, using little clues to gauge their states of mind and spinning imagined stories about their context and who they might be. I think  most fellow travelers are regular folk, but am conscious of how each must be unique in his or her own way and special to the people in their own unique lives. Above all, I love the eccentricities - be they in attire or footwear or hairstyles - and never tire of these! While there are established rules that govern behavior toward strangers, I will often smile at someone or comment on something extraordinary. I find that even strangers welcome the human overture and it’s as if they were waiting for someone else to start the conversation, for someone else to first step outside the comfort zone…

http://www.5oclockreflections.com/human-connections-in-old-fashioned-ways/

Transitions

The unknown – it is scary, exciting, adrenaline-inducing, all at once. Still, I would not advise you to embrace the familiar, the safe, or the comfortable just because it is also the known. No, I urge you to make the leap!

I have just made a migration on so many levels: from Mumbai in distant India to the capital of America; from a long career of full-time employment to consulting where I choose my own level of discipline; from a regulated and planned schedule to the flexibility that allows me to be where I want. Above all, I have migrated away from my life of predictable security to become an explorer in a new world. Of course there are moments of doubt and uncertainty, but these are followed by moments of pride and the satisfaction of knowing that I am following my mind as I advance in this next phase of my journey. This path is not easy, but constantly wondering ‘what if…’ would be infinitely harder!

http://www.5oclockreflections.com/transitions/

Mahakumbh 2013 – 3

Waking up on our last morning at the Kumbh, we already feel a sense of familiarity with our surroundings. The sun is shining brightly as if the rain had never been and the entire camp has been converted into a huge drying ground. Everywhere we see clothing, linen, towels strung out to dry and chairs, mats, shoes laid out under the blue sky to catch the sun’s welcome rays.

It is the perfect day for boating along the river and we are lucky to find our old boatman, who immediately stakes his claim to us and readily agrees to our terms. As we jump in, we learn that his mother needs a ride to the other shore and we are more than willing to accommodate her and her little boy – receiving a lesson along the way on the tribulations of being a widowed mother and the blessings of having dutiful children! We are almost family now and wave a cheerful goodbye as they alight with their bags on the crowded shore, where she will mind her bangle shop and pedal her wares to mela shoppers. We glide below an ancient fort, where the boatman shares its legend, and on past the crowded steps along the water’s edge. We can clearly see the line where the Ganga’s browner water meets the clearer Yamuna. We buy small plastic bottles from a boat-borne vendor and fill them with the holy water to take back - a Hindu home always has Ganga Jal, to use at births and deaths and weddings, indeed at every ritual. It is a quiet day as we wind down, return to camp for lunch, walk along the river bank, enjoy the pleasant sunshine...

Soon it is time for us to leave the river's bank and the faithful Pandey-ji will transport us out. We ask to be taken past the Allahabad University, alma mater to my older brother (also my companion’s father!). At first Pandey-ji resists, saying it will be too crowded and there are traffic restrictions, but when he learns it is a personal mission to find the past, he melts! I love this simple sentimentality of the small-town Indian, still untouched by the too modern and over-practical and I hope it never changes. The short visit is perfect and we are quickly surrounded by helpful hostel inmates, who are as excited to hear our story as we to tell it. We actually find and visit the very room my brother lived in. Forms are filled with his present coordinates, promises are made to stay connected and someone dashes upstairs to find a college magazine and Annual Day memento for us to carry back!

Then Pandey-ji drives us to a busy street for a quick dinner, before delivering us safely to the station. We tell him he’s the best and reward him and promise to attend his son’s wedding!  We are on the platform well in time to board our train and it is absolutely the topping on the cake to find we have been allotted berths in the only two-berth coupe! So, we travel in a tiny little private bedroom, complete with a closet to hang our jackets. The end to our journey is as perfect as its start and we are both conscious that the Mahakumbh will never come again for us. In some way, we are changed forever.

Mahakumbh 2013 – 2

We sleep around the clock and wake, refreshed, to daylight in the unfamiliar tent. It is a clear day and, soon after breakfast, we are impatient to set forth for our prayer ritual and the purpose for which we are here – to bathe at the confluence of the holy rivers, the Sangam. We walk down to the river’s edge and into a crowd of jostling devotees, all looking for a ride. After some negotiation, we pick an able pair of boatmen and a sturdy boat that we will have to ourselves. Minutes later, we push off into the shallow waters and row towards  the Sangam, among the debris of floating flowers and fresh coconuts that have been dropped as religious offerings into the river. We climb aboard a ‘prayer boat’ tied to the wooden jetty, it is complete with priest and lamp and fresh flowers! We sit cross-legged for the puja as instructed and close our eyes. I am conscious of being in a time and place revered as most sacred by my parents and their parents and, indeed, millions of Hindus around the world who believe that just being here will lead to Moksha. As the priest intones his prayers, we look inward, name our loved ones and wish for their wellbeing.

The ritual done, we climb down the steps from the jetty into cold, waist-high water. All around us, men, women and children of all shapes and hues, bathe in the  sacred river, pray for their loved ones and seek salvation for themselves. It no longer matters if one is a believer, the setting insists one join the faith. I use my hands to cover my eyes and ears and nose, as my father taught me all those many years ago, and find myself mumbling, ‘one for Bianca, one for Kartik...’ and so on, as I take a dip for each precious person. I cheat a little at the end, making the last one for ‘all my family and friends’! With each dip in the frigid water we gasp with the cold, but it is so exhilarating. In cynical times, I have read of damage to the ecosystem of the Ganges and even thought of it as polluted. Today it is an ancient hallowed river, to be worshipped as a mother goddess who lives up to the belief of millions - cleansing, purifying, forgiving.

 

The morning sets the tone for the rest of our day. We hire a car to take us to the festival ground (Mela Kshetra) and our intrepid driver, Raju, is fearless in negotiating both crowds and obstacles. He frequently resorts to the ‘road less travelled’ even if it was never meant to be travelled! We park far outside the fair ground and Raju takes it upon himself to escort us to the edge on foot, explaining landmarks and imparting instructions as to how we must return. And then we are among the crowds: walking past vendors selling puja paraphernalia and ayurvedic herbs; turning into narrow lanes inhabited by holy men from various sects (Akhadas) including the naked, ash-covered Naga sadhus with long dreadlocks; navigating around camera-wielding tourists on package tours. We are struck by just how many white people are present at the Kumbh,  many with their gurus. We learn that a group of 300 Brazilian believers is staying at our camp - they are doctors and lawyers and professionals. They are led by a South American guru, who met his Indian guru 30 years ago in the Himalayas! All around us, at the dinner table or in formal groups, we hear philosophical discourses about the meaning of Life or the state of Moksha or the next stage of ascendancy that follows Nirvana. It is as if everyone is elevated to a different state of being and removed from the daily tribulations that occupy us in our lesser lives...

 

The riverside Arti forms the perfect end to our second day. It is truly beautiful to see the numerous lamps reflected on the river’s rippling waters. Melodious chanting fills the air as the sweet smell of incense wafts gently in the breeze. All of us receive the blessings, make our offerings and cast flower petals into the water, before we leave. It is a balmy evening as we walk slowly back to our now-familiar camp. We are at peace with the world and as connected with our spiritual selves as we will ever be...

 

Mahakumbh 2013 - 1

The Maha Kumbh comes every 144 years to the Prayag at Allahabad, in North India. This place is revered by all Hindus as the confluence (Sangam) of the holy rivers: Ganga, Yamuna and the mythical Saraswati. This mela is the largest religious gathering in the world and over 100,000,000 visitors will travel from around the globe to bathe at the Sangam during the 55 auspicious days of this year’s festival - in the belief that they will be cleansed of their sins and closer to salvation (Nirvana) from the cycle of birth and death.

Our journey begins at the New Delhi railway station on an overcast winter evening. The mood is somewhat sober - less than a week ago, 36 pilgrims died in a stampede at Allahabad junction as surging crowds tried to make their way home at the end of the most auspicious bathing date - yet we are elated at the prospect of this once-in-a-lifetime experience. We are not sure what to expect, but resolve to put aside our rational, everyday selves and keep our expectations low. We hope it will be a religious journey to connect with the core of our spiritual beings as well as an opportunity to witness and be part of a unique spectacle...

The train is punctual, our compartment easily-found and our berths perfectly made up for the night, with spotless white linen - so far so good!  We hug each other gleefully like breathless schoolgirls on the brink of an exciting adventure, before tucking into our picnic dinner! The train ride is reassuringly uneventful. Before we know it, dawn is breaking over the familiar North Indian countryside and we are alighting at our destination. The railway platform is peopled with just a few sleepy travellers and a strong police presence is evident all about us as we make our way over the fateful over-bridge, site of last week’s tragedy. Soon we are past the barricade outside the station and in the rickety cab that has been sent to fetch us. Our driver, Pandey-ji has severely betel-stained teeth and is a fount of information on the Kumbh, Allahabad and the world in general! He drives expertly through the chaotic morning traffic and describes how heavy rain the night before has wreaked havoc on the river banks and camping grounds. In fact, we barely check into our ‘Swiss luxury’ tent before the sky darkens ominously, is rent by a huge bolt of lightning and then a deafening roll of thunder heralds more rain. Great timing Pandey-ji!

Thankfully our tent holds up and the connected toilet is a blessing (of a kind!) though from time to time we must tip out the water that pools in its sagging roof! The huge dining tent is mercifully close by and we dash through the rain for our meals. In the makeshift kitchen, a small efficient crew prepares simple meals for 400 people, four times a day, even as giant food containers float in the pooling rainwater. We love the piping hot ‘ginger water’ that accompanies every meal! The entire camp ground is a vast field of muddy slush and while we tread gingerly and lament our mud-stained shoes, we are shamed by so many others who walk barefoot and unmindful.   

All through that first day and night, the rain comes down in unending sheets out of a dark sky, lit up by streaks of lightning and marked with deafening claps of thunder. We have no electricity that evening and turn in soon after dinner, talking in the darkness, laughing at this or that, sharing our impressions -- how large the camp is, how many foreigners there seem to be, how we will head to the Sangam tomorrow! It is the perfect day just to distance ourselves from our day-to-day realities and enter this other consciousness. On this day, we have no duties to discharge, no deadlines to meet, no worries at all. We sleep the deep and dreamless sleep of the truly trouble-free, with the storm as background music...

Peace at Last: 4.7.1951 to 14.2.2010

This Valentine’s Day marks three years since Fredy’s passing. That day is as clear as crystal in my mind - in one way it is hard to believe three years have gone already, in another it seems so long ago I wonder that it is just three short years.

All’s well in my world as I board my flight in Ho Chi Minh city. It is the Chinese New Year too and I superstitiously touch the lucky coin from last night’s party. I know Jill will be at Changi and am impatient to alight in Singapore. I am past immigration when I switch on my phone and see the numerous messages - that is when I know. I see Jill behind the glass door, hug her a minute later and tell her something terrible has happened. We don’t say much, head for the small cafe and she orders tea - we both know that tea is the panacea for all things and nothing is so bad that a cup of tea won’t make it better. Now, my cup grows cold as I make the dreaded calls. I’m grateful for Jill’s presence and blessed that our friendship lets us be our real selves. It crosses my mind that we have so often been together in life’s defining moments...
 

I learn that Fredy died that morning, while I was in the sky. Kartik is on his way from Mumbai and will drive to the hills directly, Shweta will come tonight, I must go tomorrow,  two brothers will go with us and so on. I call Bianca and forbid her to make the long journey back. It is an unreal flight to Delhi. My neighbour makes pleasant chitchat till I tell him matter-of-factly why I can’t engage in conversation, ‘there is a lot going on with me, I heard an hour ago that my husband passed away’.  He is shocked into silence, as if I’ve uttered an obscenity and the quiet drone of the engines forms the backdrop for my myriad thoughts. I feel resentment and anger at his wasted life. I feel sadness at the loss of what might have been. I feel anguish for my children who have lost their dad. Above all, my heart aches for all of us in this time of sorrow.
 

Those days live in my mind as a collage of images. I remember the grey dawn after a sleepless night, as we start the journey along an oft-traveled road. I will never forget the sight of Fredy in the wooden coffin,  lying still and peaceful in his favourite blue blazer with the brass buttons. I am grateful for Kartik and his strong arm about my shoulder, we are blessed to have these perfect children. As the lid is gently closed, we are painfully conscious that we’ll never see this face again. My mind now keeps just the happy memories, through the years I knew him and of all we shared – Fredy and I and Bianca and Kartik.