4:16 Pm. Chandigarh
‘ A river runs through it’.
Starkly happy afternoon Sun. A sense of wellness that Chandigarh provides. This old-world charmed capital city of the State of Punjab, in North India. Beautiful homes, chirpy kids, laidback pace.People seem fairly relaxed here. There is joy in everyday actions. Meeting friends, walking the dog, chats between relatives and friends. A cozyness, which I haven’t found in many of the cities, and perhaps even small towns that I have travelled to.
Am sitting in the verandah/porch of this very homely home. Staying with two dear friends, a mother-daughter duo. One of my closest friends used to date the daughter, and he introduced this most amazing family to me. Very glad to be here. So much love is there in this home, even with a father missing from their lives. A father, a husband. Yet this house carries a quality of playfulness, warmth, invitingness. Even the helper is a happy one( Servants usually seem a little dreary in Indian homes it appears to me)Something that I really admire. For sure, they have got something right.
I am writing somewhat from the encouragement of Elizabeth Gilbert, the celebrated author of ‘Eat, Pray, Love’.Surely it isn’t a private encouragement on her part, calling me from New Jersey, to mantle on as a writer, thinker, but her rather personable website invites me to do so. It almost seems that the now Mrs. Gilbert is earnestly urging the ruminators to pen down their prose. I also think that she is a rare example of the rare species of sane writers. Apparently, she gets up at5 am in the mornings to get her writing done in a disciplined fashion. Definitely enjoyed some of her India chapters in ‘Eat, Pray, Love’. I used to visit a certain café in New York’s Soho district where a devotee of her guru, Gurumayi would play a very hypnotic version of ‘Om Namah Shivaya’. It was a swanky and well-known little place, famous for Dosas, Chai and Avocado sandwiches. The walls were besotted with pictures of Gurumayi, and her Guru, Swami Muktananda. There was a Ganesha statue in marble I think. This entwinement of the spiritual and upper-class slick of Soho, left me with a very wholesome impression of the place.I always walked out very spacious I would think. Liz Gilberts candid ease, fun storytelling, and eager heart, have paved the way for many of the rather swankier seekers, to gather courage and step out in the world of adventure, spiritual immersion and curiosity.It makes me happy, to see New Yorkers and their like come and connect with India, Hanoi, Tibet, Compostela/
I feel like snazzing up this blog with great pictures, thoughts, quotations, poetry. Vibrant windows into some of the things that are important to me. God; being a devotee of my Guru, some of the science and technology of the inner world, which many of us are inspired to understand, perhaps even flirt with its promise. I wish to share some of the Amma that I have seen, some of the Neem Karoli Baba that I know. Dharamshala, Chandigarh, New Delhi, New York, my pind in Rajasthan, my hometown of Malout, my grief, my joy, my beloved ex. Flame, who I still yearn to sit with, and look at simply. I wish to share all that is even remotely worthy of leading my river unto yours. All that might lead to a pleasant collision of our inner reservoirs, hearts, Flights& fancies into the other world.
I feel like I am writing to find catharsis, shooting my star unto the sky, in the hope of dancing with the colors of other fellow stars.A communion with life, with you , with God.If I am honest enough, I shall find myself capable enough of expressing my happiness. If I am honest and courageous enough, I shall find myself unclothing my sadness unto you too. Both are one after all, is it not. Different seasons of the same sky.
There was a nice Hollywood movie in the 90’s called ‘A river runs through it’. I feel drawn, yearning for a feeling equivalent to that of the title. Desiring an ability to flow with life. To be a lazy log, floating in wild acceptance of the current of its maker. Let the Maker decide, unto which brook shall the log digress to, unto which rock shall the log find itself hurting, hurtling to make its way past that blessed rock, a testament of time itself. Age old is the tree. Age old is the rock. I want also this log to be hurled fatherless unto giant waterfalls, whose passion is for all of the forest to hear.I want this log to be an intense log. Fully intense, fully surrendered. I want