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The Measure of the Experience

A particular quote from the show The West Wing has been playing in my head recently. A priest is talking to the President about Christian faith and he says: “In my religion, the entire religious experience ended on a cross, but that was not the measure of the experience; that was just how it ended.” This made me think of Kedar and the full, rich life we led. It ended abruptly and much too soon. In my head there arose a clean correlation between that quote about Christianity and Kedar’s death, and this essay was meant to expand on the theme that Kedar’s death was not the measure of the experience, it was just how the experience ended.

As it turns out, life and literature aren’t often so neat. The crucifixion of Christ was central to Christianity, not the end of it. Jesus being crucified is the point; he died for our sins and in doing so “saved” mankind. His dying and then being resurrected cemented his claim of being the Son of God. Had he not ended up on a cross, the entire religion might not have been established. So, in fact, the measure of that particular religious experience was ending up on the cross and his subsequent resurrection.

Much as I might want to venerate Kedar, resurrection, alas, appears to be beyond his abiliites. My lovely essay pontificating about life, not death, being the measure of the experience rings hollow without that lovely connection to Christ. Perhaps though, something might still be salvaged from the wreck, there might still be a way for my bloviating to continue.

A person is born, lives an ordinary life, dies suddenly at a young age. Fades into the dustbin of history, like so many millions upon millions of souls. Only the outstandingly good and the horrifyingly bad ones are remembered. Everyone else barely merits a blip. The world continues as before, little altered. The world of the immediate family though, implodes absolutely. From one moment to the next, their world is completely, inexorably, immeasurably devastated. We are coming up on the one year mark of Kedar’s death. A heavy day of remembrance perhaps for many of his family and friends, a day to pay tribute in some form, to laugh about old times, to mourn his loss. To me, though I am grateful for the remembrance, the shared laughter, the love, it is just a day like any other of this year. If one has never forgotten at all, then there is no remembering. Remembering requires forgetting.

When a person is woven into every aspect of life right from the first cup of tea I don’t make anymore in the morning, forgetting him is a luxury not afforded to me. What if we were to frame this anniversary not as a day of remembrance but as a day to mark survival? Survival of the family unit, survival of us as individuals, survival of love? Going from a we to a me flips everything on its head, from the single letter to the whole alphabet.

Life isn’t neat or pretty or poetic even. It just is. It exists. Kedar isn’t here anymore, but he was, and in many ways he still is, woven into the very fabric of our life. Let this day be a celebration then of the power of love that endures, an unmade cup of tea, a remembrance that does not require forgetting.

Life is suffering…tee hee ha ha

The universe could certainly use some fine tuning, maybe this is the beta version we are currently experiencing. When your loved one dies suddenly, you don’t get the courtesy of a warning. No memo, no flashing lights, no smoke signals. Kedar’s death brought about a mountain of sorrow and a strange silence. My life and future completely imploded, all plans evaporated. I don’t know who I am anymore, I’m forced to build an entire new personality out of sticks and twigs.

At the moment sorrow and grief dominate. These two are not the same, impossible to explain the difference, it must be experienced. One cannot adequately explain the difference between the taste of an alphonso mango and a payari, it just has to be experienced and once lived, is etched in the mind forever.

Leaving aside mangoes for a minute (clearly I’m food driven) and getting back to the topic of death, one finds only awful things in its wake. Surely, surely there must be some humor hidden somewhere. Our family motto (as has been instilled in Gia) is “Life is suffering..tee hee ha ha”. Yes, it’s from a song, not a lofty philosophical treatise, I’m embarrassed to admit. But it encapsulates what we have tried to teach Gia – life is hard but live it with spirit. Find the joyful moments, find the humour. I’ve been woefully remiss in living this motto the past few months. Here’s a thought exercise: If Kedar could see me now, what would make him roll his eyes and just flat out laugh at me? Here are a few of the many ways my genius brings comic relief:

The shower in one of the bathrooms was acting up, I called the plumber. He checked things there, while I stood around solemnly twiddling my thumbs. Then he asked to see the water heater. I know we have one, I say helpfully, it must be in the garage. I march over to the garage and point triumphantly at this large cylindrical structure that surely had to be a device to heat water. The plumber looks at me as one would at a slightly demented toddler and says: “that’s the water softener; you most likely have a tankless water heater.” Aah, I say, silly me. That’s the guy, pointing at a device on the wall with wires running in and out of it and mysterious lights all over its impressive body. This time he avoided my gaze, and said in a soft voice, slowly and deliberately intoning the words – “Um it is a rain sensor for the sprinkler system.” Then he leads me outside and we walk around the house till we find said water heater. Had he been here, Kedar would have been standing by watching this interaction gleefully, not saying a single word, enjoying the spectacle.
Going on trails was a weekly activity Kedar, Mowgli, and I enjoyed. I had been unable to go since he died. A couple of weekends ago I decided its time to venture forth. Armed with water for doggo and myself, I drive away. Somewhere along the way I realize I’ve left my phone at home. No matter, I’ve been to this particular trail dozens of times, surely I can find my way. If there was a prize for the world’s worst navigator and direction sense person, I would win it hands down. Said trail is off of the road that I’m on currently, I still couldn’t find it. We returned home, tail tucked between our legs – me from sheer shame, Mowgli from extreme disappointment. This would actually have barely elicited a smile from Kedar. I once navigated us 150 miles in the opposite direction, back when we used paper maps. Compared to that, this incident wouldn’t register at all. I did go back the following weekend, armed with Google maps, and conquered the trail!
Took Mowgli out on our usual evening walk. 3 miles this time, through various neighbourhoods. Met a few friends and neighbours, exchanged pleasantries, all was well. A little more than halfway through, I realize that my left leg is feeling a lot heavier than the right. At first, I think I must be imagining it. Careful observation says this isn’t a fevered brain, it really does feel heavier. A mini panic sets in – varicose veins? Deep vein thrombosis? Cardiomyopathy? Liver cirrhosis? Pulmonary edema? No the last 3 should have caused both legs to swell. Elephantiasis somehow? Some sort of lymphedema? I almost run home, ok run is a very fancy word for the shuffling my obese self was able to accomplish. At any rate, I ambulated as fast as the flesh would allow. Panic reigned supreme now. I stumble inside, bend down to unlace my shoes, and there it is – the left foot is encased in a thick hiking boot, the right in my regular sneakers. I would blame this on brain fog caused by grief, but honesty compels me to admit that this wasn’t the first time. Kedar would have diagnosed the problem right away, said absolutely nothing, discussed all possible dire diseases that could have caused this…all the way till we reached home.

There are many more stories to tell, but I intend to hold on to some small shred of dignity. Grief is here to stay, but tee hee ha ha continues lightening the way. Maybe this is the beta version of life, full of bugs and glitches. Mercifully, laughter still breaks through.

Atmanirbhar Bhava

India is a land where life is celebrated. Hindu culture has festivals for everything and practically everyone. It seems to me that Hindu festivals fall largely into one of three categories – societal victory (whether in war or harvest), familial bonds, and celebrating our pantheon of gods and goddesses.

It makes sense that humans evolved to venerate and celebrate things that brought people together and created a harmonious society. Festivals that honour the bonds between siblings, parents and children, husbands and wives nurture goodwill that extends to the rest of society. Good harvests are shared by all, victories in war mean safety for the whole community, the gods protect everyone in the village. It’s all about unity. That’s how we thrive and prosper – interpersonal bonds.

Karva Chauth is one such celebration, where the wife fasts all day and prays for her husband’s long and happy life. The fast ends under the light of the moon, with her husband feeding her the first morsel of food. It celebrates love, sacrifice, and togetherness. Of course, it’s the wives who do the sacrificing and the husbands who eat the fruit, quite literally in this case! This wasn’t one I ever celebrated, rebelling against the unfairness of the deal. If both partners had fasted that would have been different – equal pay for equal work. Perhaps I missed a trick there, as a recent event in my life seems to suggest!

Women praying for the well-being of their husbands and brothers is the root of many festivals. Interestingly, there doesn’t seem to be any, not one single solitary festival where it is the men who fast and pray for the long lives of their wives or sisters. This omission is apparent in the blessings received from our elders too. Men are blessed with success, happiness, and long lives. Women too are blessed with all these, but married women receive one additional blessing – “Saubhagyavati bhava”, which means “May you always be blessed with the good fortune of having a good husband”. Excellent blessing, I thoroughly concur. There doesn’t, however, appear to be a male equivalent of this blessing. Long lives for their wives doesn’t feature on the list of priorities for men.

This speaks, no doubt, to the patriarchy of the time. Men could re-marry, indeed were encouraged to do so, should their wives pass away. Men carried the responsibility of providing for their families, supporting them financially, ensuring their well-being. This didn’t necessarily require the same wife to continue holding the fort at home, a substitute could work just as well. Women were meant to be homemakers. If their husbands died, it left them without a financial umbrella, re-marriage wasn’t at all on the cards. Long lives of their husbands was of paramount importance.

I’m all about different perspectives these days. Looking at this scenario in a different light, one might perhaps be able to make the argument that this speaks to the strength of women, not their subservient position. Women nurtured the children, brought joy and laughter into homes, carried forward culture and tradition, knit communities together, created the very lives we deem worth living. Maybe it was women then, not men, who held the power of being able to sway the gods and influence divine will.

In all of these celebrations, what stands out starkly to me is the emphasis on community. Relationships are celebrated not the individual. What happens then when a primary relationship ends? Are single people not worthy of being celebrated? Perhaps in bygone days that was true. People lived in multi-generational families, whole villages celebrating and mourning together. The emphasis had to be on your place in society and not on you as an individual.

Today’s world looks very different. People live in nuclear families, often continents away from their larger family structure. Individual strength and resourcefulness are now just as important as interpersonal relationships.

As a widow today, I have no place in traditional Hindu celebrations. It’s time to change that.

When your primary relationship is stripped away for any reason, or if one never had it to begin with, one is forced to build a relationship with oneself, find a way to face the flaws, recognize the faults, and yet like oneself. A person is forced to rise above and continue caring for your family and fulfilling your responsibilities.

Let’s create a new festival, one that celebrates personal strength. Maybe call it Shakti Pornima. A day to celebrate the quiet force of resilience. A day to honor one’s relationship with your own self. A day to celebrate the power that comes from within, recognize how self-reliance enhances society. Perhaps the new blessing for all can be “Atmanirbhar bhava”, “May you be self-reliant”.

Perception is Reality

“What is this life, if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?” So begins a poem by William Henry Davies, extolling us to take time out from our busy lives, slow down, stay in the moment, immerse ourselves in all the beauty this world has to offer. I’ve always loved those lines, used them frequently in defense of my laziness, both to myself and to the disapproving parental unit. Life was busy but happy and carefree.

I find myself sitting here now on a lonely Sunday afternoon repeating those lines with a small, yet monumental difference. “What is this life, if full of care, I have nothing but time to stand and stare?”

Time hangs heavy nowadays, the silence is deafening. There are certainly many tasks clamouring for attention, plenty of activities to cram into the unforgiving minute, distractions galore in this age of continuous streaming content. I fill the space with an almost constant something nowadays – music, inane shows, serious documentaries, audiobooks. Something, anything. Yet through it all, the silence is deafening. The beauty of this world continues. I still spend time sitting on the patio watching birds take an actual bath in the bird bath outside, with all the fascination I’ve always had, but with none of the joy that sight used to bring.

It’s a strange emotion, joy. It holds excitement and happiness, certainly, but also some indescribable quality of inner, deeper fulfilment. Kedar’s death has created an unfillable void, a deep hollow where once there was wholeness. Or perhaps, where once there was Kedar, without my ever realizing it.

Nature abhors a vacuum. By that principle this void will be filled, but with what is the question.

I’ve found that activities don’t fill that void, nor does spending time with people. It just continues to exist and makes its presence felt, rather like a wet dog in a small car with the windows up and the air conditioning broken. You may go about your busy day as happy as can be – acing it at work, running errands, laughing over a funny show, even yakking away with friends at dinner – but that aroma of wet dog lingers, pervades your every pore, an undercurrent of odor quietly whispering “there isn’t enough sandalwood in the world to make me go away”.

In a bid to seek answers, I joined an online group of young widows/widowers. Yes, in this world of widowhood I am considered young, a mere fledgling in fact. I didn’t find answers, perhaps because none exist, but did find something far more valuable – solidarity. A group of people from all over the world, different religions, different cultures, different classes of society, varied life experiences, different grief journeys too; yet with very similar emotions, similar reactions, similar voids. At an emotional level, human experience transcends differences. Artificially created human constructs such as race, gender, nationality, socio-economic class, education – all fall away in the commonality of grief.

While the emotions might be seemingly identical and identifiable, the responses are certainly not. They are as varied as there are people. Some people are drowning in their sorrow, some carrying on with gritted teeth. A small minority of people have found ways to build lives of joy, peace, and purpose again.

How did they do it? Did the void disappear over time? Perhaps the void is still a powerful presence, but they have found a way to build happy lives around it.

The faint glimmers of an answer came to me from the person whose absence caused this void. I read the many messages and outpouring of love from his friends and colleagues. Kedar came to life again, the person he was at his core, the spirit with which he lived his life, his resilience and good humor, and his spirited playing of the game of life.

Words like “eternal optimist”, “gentle calmness”, “empathy”, “curiosity and zest for life”, “infectious laughter and humour”, “thoughtfulness”, “humility” “human-centric leader” were expressed by the many people who wrote about him.

Maybe Nature won’t rush to fill this void, nature works at the physical level. Maybe there is in fact no void. Kedar’s presence, his energy, his memories, his life are all still here, occupying the void. If ever I feel myself falling into the abyss, maybe reading what people wrote about him will resurrect him, if only in my mind.

Perception is reality. A concept agonized over by philosophers over the centuries. The same picture shows an old woman or a young woman depending on how one perceives it. The same void can be either empty or full depending on how one understands it.

Perception is reality. “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven” says Milton in Paradise Lost. I know what Kedar would do and what I must now strive for.

Meri awaaz hi pahechaan hai

Naam gum jayega
Chehera ye badal jayega
Meri awaaz hi pahechaan hai
Gar yaad rahe

My name may get lost
My face might change
My voice is my only identifier
If you should remember it

This song has been playing in my head for the past few months. Always loved it but it rings true in a whole different light after Kedar’s passing away, and brings up a myriad of emotions, all different with each listen. Kedar died. That’s a sentence I didn’t think I would have to say for at least a couple of decades longer. In fact, I hoped never to have to say it, that kind providence would somehow decree that he and I go together in our 70s, that neither of us would have to face life without the other. Our daughter would be an adult, a kind and happy person, our responsibilities would be fulfilled and fulfilled well.

On the face of it, Kedar’s voice has gone into the ether along with the rest of him. From my macabre readings since Kedar’s death, I’ve learnt that the voice of a person is the first thing we forget. We remember their face, certainly their name, but the voice disappears from our memory. Kedar had a beautiful voice, deep and rich, melodious and vibrant. He sang all the time, in tune and with great gusto. I loved listening to him sing, telling him often he should get singing lessons to further enhance his talent. Perhaps, in time, we will not remember that physical voice, the actual tones, depth, timbre of it. The memory of that voice, the memory of him singing, the memory of his belly laughs will never be forgotten.

A person’s voice is, of course, so much more than just the sound. It is their identity. Kedar’s voice lives on in all his typical turns of phrase, his jokes, his ideas, his convictions, his energy, and his love.

Waqt ke sitam kam haseen nahi
Aaj hai yahaan kal kahi nahi
Waqt se pare agar milgaye kahin
Meri awaaz hi pahechaan hai
Gar yaad rahe

The trials caused by time aren’t any less beautiful,
We are here today, and nowhere tomorrow,
If we should meet beyond the reach of time, My voice is my only identifier,
If you should remember it

I always thought I was so easy going, go with the flow, not take life too seriously type of a person. Truth be told, I prided myself on this. I’m above all this stressing and obsessing over things, I take life as it comes, I’d think to myself. I was in fact, a world-class preener. Life has a way of knocking the stuffing out of us and keeping us humble. Taking the loss of Kedar in my stride is proving nearly impossible to do.

My extraordinary husband really did take life as it came and played the cards he was dealt with grace and courage. He did also take life seriously, planned and worked for a better future for his family. I used to think he needs to relax all the planning and strategizing, never realizing that his hard work allowed me to be the free spirit I thought he should be. Waqt ke sitam haseen kam haseen nahi is certainly a philosophy I’m having to work at now.

Kedar never once complained about his circumstances, or ask why me, or wish that circumstances had been different from what they were. He didn’t win the genetic lottery in terms of health. He just got on with things, made the best of the situation, and laughed and joked along the way. I’m learning from him now, in a way I refused to do when he was alive – Accept things as they are, enjoy life and find the funny in everything, and also do everything you can to play the hand you’re dealt.

Jo guzar gayi, kal ki baat thi
Umrah to nahi, ek raat thi
Raat ka sirah agar phil mile kahin
Meri awaaz hi pahechaan hai
Gar yaad rahe

What has passed, belongs to yesterday
It wasn’t a lifetime, it was just one night
If a slice of that night should be found again My voice will be my identifier
If you should remember it

Kedar and I were in each other’s lives for pretty much our entire adult life. 28 years sounds like ages and yet feels like it was just a few moments. A lifetime and yet momentary. A dear friend once said to me that life is absurd, it’s a collection of memories, and all we can do is create happy memories as best we can for ourselves and each other. We only had him for a short while but what a quietly glorious time it was. We did create memories, more good than bad. In the immediate aftermath of his death, in the chaos of emotions and the merciful numbness of shock, I began to unravel a bit. I couldn’t see where Kedar ended and I began. We are so completely intertwined with one another, I couldn’t fathom how to do life without him. I realise now what a blessing that integration is. I am a part of all that I have met says Ulysses. In the same way, Kedar is a part, a massive part, a completely unremovable intertwined part of me. I don’t need to search for a slice of that night again, it’s ever present.

Din dhele jahaan, raat paas ho
Zindagi ki lau, unchin kar chalo
Yaad aaye gar kabhi, ji udaas ho
Meri awaaz hi pahechaan hai
Gar yaad rahe

The day nears the end, the night is close by Go through life with the flame of life raised high
If you should remember me and your heart is heavy with sorrow
My voice will be my identifier
If you should remember it

And finally, the song encourages us to go through life with our spirits high, fully embracing all that awaits. Kedar embodied this philosophy, rejoicing in whatever he met. He was keenly interested in a myriad of activities – data science, cooking, music, gardening, sailing, traveling, and just learning about as much of the world as he could. To all his interests he brought his full focus and attention, the flame of life held high. He connected with people from all walks of life, all ages and personalities, really listened to their stories and helped ease their way wherever he could. A friend referred to him as the Renaissance man and I cannot think of a more apt description, one minute passionately discussing complex AI technology, the other seeking to understand why his bread didn’t rise. In the 28 years I’ve known him, Kedar grew and evolved into the person he was, learning from his mistakes, facing his faults, analysing himself, the flame of life certainly blazing bright. He loved deeply and completely. Gia, Mowgli, and I were the tremendously lucky recipients of that all-encompassing love. It’s our turn now to carry that flame forward, heavy heart notwithstanding. Kedar will live on through his words, his ideas, his passions, his deep love and laughter. His voice rings out, never forgotten.

Say not in grief that he is no more but live in thankfulness that he was.

An unfinished life

“An unfinished painting can sometimes be more beautiful than a finished one”. These words were said by a friend in response to another friend’s lamentations that the painting she loved and bought when it was only half done feels very mediocre as a finished product. We recently lost a close family friend to suicide, a young child, only 15 years of age. As the shock and grief continue, it made me think, could an unfinished life ever be considered more beautiful than a finished one?

To begin with, we must ask ourselves, what is a finished life? What does that look like? Is it age related? You get to the age of say 70+ and you can be considered to have lived a full life regardless of how you have lived? What if you are a person who couldn’t have common human experiences such as marriage, children, grandchildren? Is your life still considered complete? What if you chose not to have any of these experiences, and instead chose to spend your life as a monk perhaps, living in isolation, focused on inner growth? When would this person’s life be considered complete?

What if you were career focused to the exclusion of everything else? Would your life be considered finished when you reached the zenith of your chosen profession? What if you were lucky enough to be independently wealthy, and drifted through life, not contributing much to society? Would that be a finished life if such a person lived to be 90? 40? 25?

What if you committed a heinous crime and spent most of your life behind bars? Such a person surely cannot be considered to have a finished life, no matter how long they lived! So age alone cannot be a barometer of a full life.

Is it the way you lived then? This brings to mind an oft repeated saying, it’s not the years in our lives but the life in our years that matter. What does that really mean though? To someone it might mean world travel, experiencing the variety of humans and landscapes this planet has to offer. To others it might mean taking on every kind of adventure they can. Some consider service to society as living life fully. None of these have number of years spent as a criterion of fulfilment.

The child we lost lived vibrantly in their short life. If his life had to be summed up in one word, that word would be kindness. We heard so many stories at his memorial service about the small acts of kindness he showed to people around him. Small acts for him such as greeting a shy child, sitting with someone who looked lonely, sharing a few laughs were actually gigantic acts of kindness for the recipients. Kids came up and talked about how they looked forward to that one interaction during their day, how it made the difficult transition to a new school a little easier, how it helped a child with social anxiety reach out and make friends with a few people. One teacher gratefully recalled the few moments that our friend spent with her special needs child every afternoon in the library. These moments made all the difference in their lives. Her child went from not wanting to be at school to looking forward to waiting for his mom in the library only because of our dear friend.

One young girl recalled the day they met at a debate contest. There was no room to sit and our friend walked up to her and asked to sit on her lap. She was so taken aback at the sheer audacity and yet innocence of this request that she said yes, and they became great friends. She will carry this memory throughout her life – an edict to be spontaneous, kind, and joyful.

All the joy this soul spread and yet there was a dark place within him that could not be reached. The weight of his troubled life perhaps became too much for him to bear. How could a person who saw so clearly how to help and heal people be unable to reach out for that same healing for himself? Or could it be that perhaps this soul felt fulfilled in their short life? It’s certainly more comforting to think that the life he lived felt complete to him, the soul’s agenda satisfied.

And yet, our minds rebel at that thought. No, a life cannot be considered finished at age 15, with so much still left to be experienced. We comfort ourselves with the thought that the soul is now at peace. Continuing this existence would have been painful. Consider this a cancer of the mind, just as real, just as painful, just as fatal as terminal cancer can be. Could this short life then be a finished one?

As with all philosophical questions, there isn’t any one right answer. To most of us life at 15 could never be considered finished, no matter the circumstance. To some, a life at 80 isn’t complete, they still have more they would like to live for.

At the end of the day, a finished life, like most things, is a matter of perspective, which are as varied as there are people. The lives this child impacted will carry that light, joy, and kindness with them wherever they go. This one small child with his giant heart has made the world a happier place and his light will shine on. In the words of Dr. Seuss “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened”.

Nishkaam Karma

Israel is decimating Gaza in retaliation for a brutal attack by Hamas. Hundreds of people dead, many more injured, the death toll will only rise in the coming days and weeks. Children, forced to face unimaginable terror, deal with horrific trauma, both mental and physical, and the cycle of violence continues. I also feel terrible for the poor animals caught in this senseless violence that humans inflict on one another. My intrepid dog, Mowgli, is a quivering mess every time he hears fireworks; I hate the thought of innumerable Mowglis going through this terrible torture. Ukraine war continues, each day bringing fresh violence, death, and destruction. An earthquake in Afghanistan barely merits a mention in the various newspapers – the world seems to have given up on helping that troubled nation and oppressed people. Meanwhile, the dysfunctionality in the US government has reached an unimagined level, a failure of democracy here does not seem to be outside the realm of possibility anymore. Division between people here has reached such epic proportions, that it sometimes feel like we occupy two entirely different worlds; this gap appears unbridgeable, with breakup of the states being the only logical solution.

Collapse of society all over the world seems inevitable and imminent. With such extreme polarization, is it any wonder that a thinking person feels overwhelmed with despair? Some of us are overcome by extreme sadness, or a maddening rage at these situations and the people responsible. One longs to do something, while fully aware of the futility of such action. Is it any wonder then, that the safest way forward is to emulate the proverbial ostrich and block the world out?

For some of us, numbness only lasts so long. The intense desire to do something, to help in some way, to be the change takes over. But the knowledge that any action is unlikely to have the desired outcome is often a huge stumbling block for me. What point is there in marching and protesting against laws and people, when I have absolutely zero ability to change anything?

I’m quite dense and it takes me a while to process things, so it was only very recently that I realized that the action itself was the point. Expressing my opinion, even if no one heard, was the point. Taking a stand, even with no response, was the point. The point was doing what felt right, the point was resisting, even though that resistance did not stop the flow of events or even slow them down. The point was not allowing society and circumstances to change who I am.

Nishkaam karma, literally means desireless action – this is one of the principal teachings of the Bhagvad Geeta. Action done for the action alone, with no desire or attachment to the fruits of that action. Do what you think is right irrespective of the outcome.

One of my favourite books is “What is Man” by Mark Twain. While I don’t agree with all the points he makes, one piece that really resonates with me is his assertion that there is no such thing as an unselfish act. Humans are entirely incapable of it, everything we do, we do to please the inner master. Altruism does not exist, we do it so the inner tyrant will let us sleep in peace.

I know I am entirely unable to stop any of the atrocities that surround us today, unable to impact anything or bring about a measurable change in events. So why act? Why talk about things? Why protest and march when the spirit moves me? Because I also know that I am unable to play the ostrich for too long, the inner tyrant just won’t let me. So, I’ve decided the best course of action for me is to do whatever I can with no expectation of impacting anything. No ROI, other than the peace that comes from saying my piece.

Follow your inner master, stand up for your beliefs, let go of any illusions that you will taste the fruits of your labour. Feel the tranquility that comes from giving it your all. And in the end, isn’t that peace what everything’s about?

These United States

United States of America. There isn’t anything remotely united about these states today. No, I stand corrected. There is unity. We are all united by the reality of gun violence in our communities. Every day, every single day, there are mass shootings that take place in some part of the country, in dangerous, seedy places such as schools, grocery stores, places of worship. This country isn’t divided at all, we are all united, all ethnicities, nationalities, genders, religions, sexual orientation – all joined by the common thread of gun violence. Guns come for us all, a mass murderer does not ask about your religion or political affiliation before gunning you down.

I woke up to the news of another mass murder at an elementary school, 19 children and 2 teachers had been massacred in Texas. What does one do when you feel numb, hopeless, helpless, and full of rage all at the same time? How do you process the senseless murder of little children at school, especially when this brutality recurs with alarming regularity? Will this ever end in the big, beautiful United States of America?

We’ve done everything we can think of to combat this scourge. We’ve donated money and time, we’ve marched, we’ve held vigils, we’ve written letters to our political leaders, and we’ve made countless phone calls. We’ve sought out candidates that support gun safety laws, we’ve gone to bat for them, we’ve battled our family and friends, we’ve knocked on doors, we’ve gathered signatures, and we’ve begged for help. The net result? Absolutely nothing. Violence continues to rage on, the gun fanatics buy more weapons of mass destruction, and countless lives continue to be shattered.

So what do you do when you’ve done it all and have nothing left in you but boiling rage and terrified tears? You let the emotions take over, completely take over, for a while. You hug your loved ones, you weep, and you rage. Then you pick yourself up and remember that no one was born wanting to do this. You remember that before we are Republican or Democrat, conservative or liberal, we are humans. We are parents, we are siblings, we are nieces and nephews, aunts and uncles, grandparents and babies. We are connected. We may detest everyone else, but we love our own, we care for our own, we cherish our own.

We are connected to each other by the bonds of family. That’s how we win this war. That’s how we turn the tide. Human connections is the key.

Your life is more than this moment

It’s been one year since my mother passed away. Seems scarcely believable, it was just yesterday that she was here with us. I have learnt so much this year about life, people, emotions, and faith. None of these lessons were sought after or desired, yet perhaps, for that very reason, were sorely needed.

Perhaps the biggest eye-opener for me was that grief, a negative emotion, is actually very much like love. When you love someone, that feeling doesn’t stay the same always. It changes in intensity, character, and energy, but it always stays with you, in one form or another. Grief, it appears, is very similar. It isn’t something you deal with for a period of time and then gladly see it gone. Grief stays with you, gets absorbed in your very being, and completely changes you. There is no other side to grief, no end to it. But, mercifully, there is a change in the quality of grief. If you allow it to just be, a feeling of acceptance and peace emerges. You are forever changed, grief has become an integral part of you.

Sometimes overwhelming, other times an undercurrent, the ever present grief helps you appreciate and be truly present in your life. All those clichés are clichés for a reason. They seem tired and trite until you live them, and then the words resonate with purpose and clarity.

There are so many rituals and ceremonies that people do to honor the ones they lost. Something as simple as cooking the food they liked can bring great joy and calm the waters for a minute. Some people find solace and strength in meditating, reaching out to the departed soul. Faith in something beyond ourselves provides an immeasurable strength.

To me, the best way we can honor our loved ones and keep them ever-present in our lives is to be the things we loved the most about them. That’s not an easy ask, but oh, how rich the rewards if we can actually do this! Your life is more than the grief, more than this moment. Make it count.

Everything I do, I do it for…ME

One of my favourite essays is “What is Man” by Mark Twain. He wrote this over a long period of time, and finally published it anonymously in 1906, so afraid was he of the reception it would receive. The primary tenent of the essay is that Man is a machine, with no original thought, no real free will, and that all his actions are driven solely to please himself. I don’t agree with all his conclusions, but the assertion that everything people do is for their own self interest and that there is no such thing as altruism rings absolutely true.

There is no selfless act, such a thing does not exist. Everything we do is to please ourselves. Let someone else eat that last piece of decadent cake? If I hadn’t, my mind wouldn’t have let me rest easy. Giving up the cake was excrutiating for a glutton like me, but the alternative was worse. We always pick the option that will cause us the least amount of pain and greatest amount of mental comfort. No such thing as a selfless act, no such thing as charity.

The word charity is rather repugnant to me, with all the implications it carries of an holier than thou spirit. My mother used to say that one should never talk about the helping hand you provide to someone else, your left hand musn’t know what the right does. Otherwise what you do isn’t to help someone else, it is to garner praise. So ingrained is this sentiment in me, that I cringe when I see public displays of charity, and find myself sitting in judgement of such people.

But is this judgement justified in any way? Forget about the “one should not judge others” piece of it, of course we judge our fellow man and usually find them wanting. That’s human nature and very few are able to rise above. Is judgement in this case justified? After all, there is no such thing as a selfless act. Everything we do is to please ourselves. So how then am I or my mother with our “don’t let the left hand know what the right does” philisophy any different from the “call the press and hold a major event to show the world how much I help” people? We are all pleasing ourselves. We are all seeking approval, either our own or someone else’s. We all crave that approval. So is my feeling superior in any way justified? I don’t think it is at all.

We all seek approval for every single thing we do. Does that reduce the outcome of deed in any way? In my mid-40s, I’ve finally realised it doesn’t in the slightest. Gia was wrapping gifts for the little kids across the street. I asked her whether she wanted to be Secret Santa, or take credit for the gifts and write her name on them. She opted to be Secret Santa, thought it would be more thrilling for the kids. For her friends though, she wanted to take all the credit for choosing gifts they would love. My first instinct was to praise her for not wanting credit and choosing to play Secret Santa, but was it really a selfless act? Not at all. Their approval of her gifting abilities didn’t really matter to her, her friends’ approval mattered a great deal. Either way, the end result was the same – the children got the gifts. Was either way better than the other? Mark Twain would agree that it wasn’t.