Why Matthiessen’s Snow Leopard is a mountain of a book

…and why you must scale it, at least once in your life.

The Snow Leopard was lying on my bookshelf for more than five years before I picked it up. In those five years, it beckoned me often. But somehow, the silent pull wasn’t strong enough for me to make a physical move.

Until now. Beset by a strong desire to go visit the mountains, especially the Himalayas, but unable to do so for multiple reasons, I possibly did the next best thing: Picked up the book and traveled with its author, Peter Matthiessen, on a mystical journey of self-discovery to the Crystal Mountain on the Tibetan Plateau, near the border with Nepal.

When I was almost finished reading, a combined sense of fulfillment, dread, sadness, and joy took hold of me. Sadness at the knowledge that a wondrous journey was coming to an end; joy at the treasure chest of beauty and wisdom Matthiessen opened up, scattering its pearls all along the way, for countless readers like me.

The author undertook this journey along with the field biologist George Schaller in the 1970s, walking hundreds of mountainous miles for a little over two months. They wanted to study bharal, the wild blue sheep-goat of the region, with a faint chance at being among the lucky few to spot the amazing, revered cat, the snow leopard.

The book, The Snow Leopard, at first appears to be a diary-like account of that journey (date-wise entries of varying lengths double as chapters within sections). It is that but, thankfully, much more.

I’m in agreement with this blurb taken from a review by Jim Harrison for The Nation: “A magical book: a kind of lunar paradigm and map of the sacred…The book has transcended the usual limits of language.”

The Snow Leopard is indeed transcendental, and not just on account of language. It is a timeless travel classic that can very well serve as a spiritual refuge in times of distress and doubt.

Besides Schaller, Matthiessen is accompanied by a curious mix of porters (Sherpas and Tamangs) to help with their load, cooking, and other routine tasks. Throughout the journey, he portrays these characters in witty detail and draws your attention to the rich variety of life ever-present in nature in a way that makes you feel as if you are right there, witnessing all this firsthand. His writing is not grandiose or lavish but simple, natural, endearing.

The most important bits, if you ask me, are his inner detours in which he talks about the workings of Buddhism’s various streams, the revered figures like Milarepa and Avalokiteshwara, what it means to seek one’s place in the universe, and what truly gives us peace and happiness. Profound as these things are supposed to be, Matthiessen makes them come alive and within easy reach as he melds his noble thoughts effortlessly with the daily ‘step and stave’ of walking on snowy, alpine paths, and surviving with barebone necessities in the company of strangers that seem to be living in another century yet whose simple acceptance of life and its harsh ways are so disarming, so uplifting at times.

Among the most charming, intriguing parts I found are the ones where Matthiessen describes Tukten, the enigmatic sherpa, and his equally enigmatic relationship with him throughout the journey (and possibly beyond it in another life).

Take this early passage, for instance: “Tukten has elf's ears and a thin neck, a yellow face, and the wild wise eyes of a naljorpa, or Tibetan yogi. He radiates that inner quiet which is often associated with spiritual attainment, but perhaps his attainment is a dark one. The other Sherpas are uneasy with him; they mutter that he drinks too much, uses foul language, is not to be trusted…This disreputable fellow is somehow known to me, like a dim figure from another life.”

Despite his “reputation,” Tukten exerts an extraordinary influence on Matthiessen—without actually doing any exertion. For he is an effortless, easygoing being who seems unperturbed in the most trying of circumstances.

Toward the end, when Matthiessen is parting ways with Tukten, shaking his hand and watching him go in the cab, he draws parallels between the sherpa and himself: “Without ever attempting to speak about it, we perceive life in the same way, or rather, I perceive it in the way that Tukten lives it. In his life in the moment, in his freedom from attachments, in the simplicity of his everyday example, Tukten has taught me over and over, he is the teacher that I hoped to find…”

There appears to be a fine, mystic example at one place in the book of how some Tibetans “live” what most ordinary folk merely “perceive.” It occurs when the traveling party needs to pass a narrow stretch of cliff about a hundred feet above rocks at the edge of a lake. Matthiessen, who has been walking ahead, pauses at this point, leaning into the cliff to let the nine porters in his entourage pass by. What he witnesses next is nothing short of surreal:

“At that dangerous point of cliff, an extraordinary thing happens. Not yet in view, the nine fall silent [the porters were chattering before that] in the sudden way that birds are stilled by the shadow of a hawk, or tree frogs cease their shrilling, leaving a ringing silence in the silence. Then, one by one, the nine figures round the point of rock in silhouette, unreal beneath big bulky loads that threaten each second to bump the cliff and nudge them over the precipice. On they come, staring straight ahead, as steadily and certainly as ants, yet seeming to glide with an easy, ethereal lightness, as if some sort of inner concentration was lifting them just off the surface of the ground. Bent far forward against the tump lines around their foreheads, fingers wide spread by way of balance, they touch the cliff face lightly to the left side, stroke the north wind to the right. Light finger-tips touch my upper leg, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine hands, but the intensity is such that they seem not to distinguish between cold rock face and warm blue jeans. Mute unknowing, dull eyes glazed, the figures brush past one by one in their wool boots and sashed tunics, leaving behind in the clear air the smell of grease and fires. When the bad stretch is past, the hooting instantly resumes, perhaps at the point where they left off, as if all had awakened from a trance.”

I read the above passage a couple of times, as if in a trance myself.

Later on, Matthiessen wonders about the incredible incident, thinking it to be a form of lung-gom, a Tantric discipline that permits the adept to glide along with uncanny swiftness and certainty, even at night. He also compares it to the yogic concept of prana: lung-gom literally means wind-concentration and prana is the vital energy or breath that permeates everything.

There are several passages in the book where Matthiessen shines a light on meditation—both by dwelling on Tibetan-Buddhist teachings and by his own sincere attempts at its practice.

What I really liked is the author’s openness in not restricting his writing to any one particular sect but embracing multiple streams and cultures. So, even as he is talking about Tibetan yogi Milarepa’s teachings, he doesn’t shy away from dwelling on meditative experiences as varied as those of bushmen and dervishes. Consider the following excerpts:

“Meditation has nothing to do with contemplation of eternal questions, or of one's own folly, or even of one's navel, although a clearer view on all of these enigmas may result. It has nothing to do with thought of any kind—with anything at all, in fact, but intuiting the true nature of existence, which is why it has appeared, in one form or another, in almost every   culture known to man. The entranced Bushman staring into fire, Eskimo using a sharp rock to draw an ever-deepening circle into the flat surface of a stone achieves the same obliteration of the ego (and the same power) as the dervish or the Pueblo sacred dancer. Among Hindus and Buddhists, realization is attained through inner stillness, usually achieved through the samadhi state of sitting yoga. In Tantric practice, the student may displace the ego by filling his whole being with the real or imagined object of his concentration; in Zen, one seeks to empty out the mind, to return it to the clear, pure stillness of a seashell or a flower petal…

“Like the round-bottomed Bodhidharma doll, returning to its centre, meditation represents the foundation of the universe to which all returns, as in the stillness of the dead of night, the stillness between tides and winds, the stillness of the instant before Creation. In this "void", this dynamic state of rest, without impediments, lies ultimate reality, and here one's own true nature is reborn, in a return from what Buddhists speak of as "great death". This is the Truth of which Milarepa speaks.”

In November 1971, before Matthiessen started his Crystal Mountain journey, he and his wife (her name is Deborah but he affectionately refers to her as D), who was suffering from cancer, attended a Zen meditation retreat in New York. In one of the meditative sessions, they both happened to sit opposite each other. Just the night before, Matthiessen had quietly perceived his wife to be dying and on that morning when they both meditated, his heart was full of compassion. He chanted the Kannon Sutra, which is dedicated to the Bodhisattva of Compassion who is known by several names, including Kanzeon, Guanyin, Avalokiteshwara and, of course, Kannon (an aside: the popular Japanese company Cannon derives its name from it.)

Matthiessen recalls, with incredible grace, what happened in that deeply-moving session during his Himalayan journey:

“Before dawn on Sunday, during morning service, D chanced upon to sit directly opposite my own place in the two long facing lines of Buddha figures—an unlikely event that I now see as no coincidence. Upset by what I had perceived the night before, by pity and concern that this day might be too much for her, I chanted the Kannon Sutra with such fury that I “lost” myself, forgot the self—a purpose of the sutra, which is chanted in Japanese, over and over, with mounting intensity. At the end, the Sangha gives a mighty shout that corresponds to OM!—this followed instantly by sudden silence, as if the universe had stopped to listen. And on that morning, in the near darkness—the altar candle was the only light in the long room—in the dead hush, like the hush in these snow mountains, the silence swelled with the intake of my breath into a Presence of vast benevolence of which I was a part: in my journal for that day, seeking in vain to find words for what had happened, I called it the “Smile”. The Smile seemed to grow out of me, filling all space above and behind like a huge shadow of my own Buddha form, which was minuscule now without weight, borne up on the upraised palm of this Buddha-Being, this eternal amplification of myself. For it was I who had smiled; the Smile was Me. I did not breathe, I did not need to look; for It was Everywhere. Nor was there terror in my awe: I felt “good”, like a “good child”, entirely safe. Wounds, ragged edges, hollow places were all gone, all had been healed; my heart lay at the heart of Creation. Then I let my breath go, and gave myself up to delighted immersion in this Presence, to a peaceful belonging so overwhelming that tears of relief poured from my eyes, so overwhelming that even now, struggling to find a better term than “Smile” or “Presence”, the memory affects me as I write. For the first time since unremembered childhood, I was not alone; there was no separate “I”.”

Peter Matthiessen died in November 2014, a little over a year after I started my own meditation practice. My only “interaction with him” has been through reading The Snow Leopard—and yet, I can see some of my own experiences reflected in the crystalline waters of many of its passages. How gladly I would have treated him “as my own Tukten” were we to meet somehow!

When Matthiessen describes nature and the birds and the streams and his own presence in their midst, he does so with an effortless mastery over words, stringing them together in a beautiful, fragrant garland:

“The ground whirls with its own energy, not in an alarming way but in slow spiral, and at these altitudes, in this vast space and silence, that energy pours through me, joining my body with the sun until small silver breaths of cold, clear air, no longer mine, are lost in the mineral breathing of the mountain. A white down feather, sun-filled, dances before me on the wind: alighting nowhere, it balances on a shining thorn, goes spinning on. Between this white feather, sheep dung, light, and the fleeting aggregate of atoms that is "I," there is no particle of difference. There is a mountain opposite, but this "I" is opposite nothing, opposed to nothing.

I grow into these mountains like a moss. I am bewitched. The blinding snow peaks and the clarion air, the sound of earth and heaven in the silence, the requiem birds, the mythic beasts, the flags, great horns, and old carved stones, the rough-hewn Tartars in their braids and homespun boots, the silver ice in the black river, the Kang, the Crystal Mountain. Also, I love the common miracles—the murmur of my friends at evening, the clay fires of smudgy juniper, the coarse dull food, the hardship and simplicity, the contentment of doing one thing at a time: when I take my blue tin cup into my hand, that is all I do. We have had no news of modern times since late September and will have none until December, and gradually my mind has cleared itself, and wind and sun pour through my head, as through a bell. Though we talk little here, I am never lonely: I am returned into myself.”

Matthiessen’s is one of the few books I’m sure to return to more than once—one of the few, too, I cannot recommend highly enough. There’s so much more I wanted to excerpt from the book, but I must pause now and content myself with what follows (and no, there’s no conclusion to this; only continuity):

“Near my lookout, I find a place to meditate, out of the wind, a hollow on the ridge where snow has melted. My brain soon clears in the cold mountain air, and I feel better. Wind, blowing grasses, sun: the dying grass, the notes of southbound birds in the mountain sky are no more fleeting than the rock itself, no more so and no less—all is the same. The mountain withdraws into its stillness, my body dissolves into the sunlight, tears fall that have nothing to do with “I”. What it is that brings them on, I do not know.

In other days, I understood mountains differently, seeing in them something that abides. Even when approached respectfully (to challenge peaks as mountaineers do is another matter) they appalled me with their "permanence", with that awful and irrefutable rock-ness that seemed to intensify my sense of my own transience. Perhaps this dread of transience explains our greed for the few gobbets of raw experience in modern life, why violence is libidinous, why lust devours us, why soldiers choose not to forget their days of horror: we cling to such extreme moments, in which we seem to die, yet are reborn. In sexual abandon as in danger we are impelled, however briefly, into that vital present in which we do not stand apart from life, we are life, our being fills us; in ecstasy with another being, loneliness falls away into eternity. But in other days, such union was attainable through simple awe.

My foot slips on a narrow ledge: in that split second, as needles of fear pierce heart and temples, eternity intersects with present time. Thought and action are not different, and stone, air, ice, sun, fear, and self are one. What is exhilarating is to extend this acute awareness into ordinary moments, in the moment-by-moment experiencing of the lammergeier and the wolf, which, finding themselves at the centre of things, have no need for any secret of true being. In this very breath that we take now lies the secret that all great teachers try to tell us, what one lama refers to as "the precision and openness and intelligence of the present.'' The purpose of meditation practice is not enlightenment; it is to pay attention even at unextraordinary times, to be of the present, nothing-but-the-present, to bear this mindfulness of now into each event of ordinary life. To be anywhere else is "to paint eyeballs on chaos". When I watch blue sheep, I must watch blue sheep, not be thinking about sex, danger, or the present, for this present—even while I think of it—is gone.”

Before I bid adieu, just one more thing, which rings like a divine chant throughout the book: Om Mani Padme Hum (Hail to the Jewel in the Lotus.)

Namaskar! Thank you for reading :)

The many joys of doing ‘walking meditation’

 

The image of Buddha sitting in meditation is etched in our hearts. But there’s another way the Enlightened One practiced meditation, and he enjoyed it greatly: Walking meditation.

After tens of thousands of mindful steps, I realize why it’s such a lovely thing. You are doing two of the best things a human being can possibly do: walking as well as meditating.

How can it be? Aren’t you supposed to sit still while doing meditation?

True, that’s the usual way meditation is practiced. But walking meditation is a bit different. Let me share a few observations from my own experience.

There are different ways and purposes of walking. You could be walking because your car broke down and you didn’t get a ride. You might be walking to school, which is not far away. Or maybe you are just hurrying to the market to pick up groceries.

In such routine acts of walking, our focus is mainly on the task at hand: to reach our destination, to get something from a place, to fulfill an objective.

There are some other reasons to walk as well, like when you are hiking. That’s like a sporting or outdoor activity you enjoy.

So, what does it mean to walk and meditate?

It means infusing your walk with the ease, simplicity, and bliss of meditation. It means to practice mindfulness while walking.

How you do that is by taking quiet, slow steps and observing your breath.

By not being in a hurry to reach anywhere but enjoying the very act of walking.

By looking around you in peace, even if you happen to be in an otherwise chaotic city.

By keeping this in your mind even as you take the next step: we are all connected to each other and to objects and phenomena in the universe. By seeing some of these connections happen or transform into another connection.

By being full of gratitude for the life you have been given, for your ability to walk, for the wonder of observing things that are nothing short of miracles: a bird singing, a flower in bloom, a tree swaying in the wind, a star-spangled sky, a horizon full of possibilities.

By simply walking at a pace that’s in harmony with your soul’s yearning.

By observing the joy rising inside you as you keep walking, not keeping track of time.

By smiling at the thought of having the better sense to have left your smartwatch back at home.

By wishing all sentient beings the same peace and happiness you are feeling right now.

That, my dear, is how you do walking meditation, IMHO.

Happy walking.

Happy meditating.

Happy doing walking meditation.

Why There's Still Nothing Like Great Mornings

In India the early morning hours, called Brahma Muhurta, are considered auspicious for new initiatives and great beginnings. Even otherwise, there’s something in the morning air that takes you to another level of exalted existence—provided you can shake off the sleep and be up and about this side of 6 a.m.

I used to be an early bird but, somewhere along my worklife, I metamorphosed into a night owl. Even so, every once in a while I chirp up at a respectable morning hour.

Recently I got up around dawn, took one final yawn and, freshening up quickly, made for the nearby park that’s my usual walking heaven.

The moment I found myself in the middle of a grassy patch with peepul, margosa, and ashoka trees, I paused to take it all in. The beautiful, green landscape. The cool breeze. The sound of koels, barbets, mynas.

Sitting down on a bench, I listened. Above the sweet din of birdsong, my ear caught the curious cry of a black kite. I have often wondered at the onomatopoeic symphony that so closely resembles the Hindi name of the raptor. It goes like this: “Chee-eel, chee-eel, chee-eel.” The kite was making slow circles up in the air, probably looking for its first catch of the day down below on the ground. Or maybe it was eyeing me, reciprocating my curiosity!

My attention was diverted by a unique buzzing chorus that was growing in loudness and intensity. I wondered whether it was a swarm of crickets, grasshoppers, or some other insects making those shrill noises. In all probability, they were a bunch of male cicadas out on their annual short sojourn out of the mud, attracting females through what’s called “stridulation.” Later on, when I searched the web, I came across this beautiful article  by Ramya Coushik on the whole shebang. The Britannica entry throws in some amazing tidbits, too (like, each of the 3,000 species of cicadas has a distinct sound; or that they can contract their tymbal muscle, responsible for those screeches, 120 to 480 times a second!).

But let’s not lose our wings in entomology—back to the park and the morning.

Having noticed all that natural drama around me, I did some stretches and settled down to meditate. Most often, I meditate in my room but exercising or meditating out in the open, green surroundings is remarkably different. Your lungs are fuller, your mood lighter, and your spirits higher. Gratitude and love flow more easily from the bottom of your heart.

On this particular occasion, I didn’t have to wait long before I eased deeper into a state of peace and equanimity. I felt healthier and more agile, even though I was barely moving.

When I opened my eyes, the benign sun was just appearing on the horizon. It was the middle of summer but there was still an hour or so before the day would lose its cool to the ferocious glare of the sun.

I surveyed the park before getting up to leave. The crowd of people to make good on their jogging and exercising self-promises had grown. Dog-walkers were jostling for track space with slow-moving uncles and impatient athletes. Not far from where I sat, a group of yoga enthusiasts were folding up their mats. It was apparent from their echoing banter that they had had a good session.

On my way back home, I saw the city wake up in an outburst of laziness and bustle. Reluctant folks bringing milk and groceries; long-distance commuters hurrying up to the nearest metro station, trying to avoid the dust from the mighty sweeps the street cleaners made with their witch-brooms; cows munching on leftovers they shouldn't be eating for producing healthy milk; the neighborhood elder shouting North India's most common salutation as he passed the next house or shop: “Ram-Ram ji!”—each one playing their usual part in the forward march of the day.

Just another great morning in the ongoing drumbeat of time.

Falling in love with amaltas in the mad heat of Delhi

Amaltas on a road divider in Delhi: Photo by Sanjay Gupta

 

When people say, “May heaven's choicest blessings be showered upon you”—a  popular wish, spoken frequently at weddings—they could be visualizing amaltas, also known as “the golden shower tree.” 

This yellow beauty wears multiple monikers. Indian laburnum and Cassia fistula (the botanical name) are fairly well known. Somewhat less common, but more significant from historical and health points of view, are Aragvadha (meaning disease killer) and Rajavriksha (the royal tree)—both of which find mention in Charaka Samhita, the oldest Indian treatise on Ayurveda.

There are several other names, too. But I'm particularly fond of amaltas and how easily it rolls off your tongue with a lyrical feel: amal-taas.

Different parts of this tree provide different medicinal benefits. It is said to have anti-inflammatory and laxative properties, and is useful in arthritis and skin diseases, among other ailments. Killer of diseases indeed!

For me, amaltas represents soothing drops of nectar sent from above for the benefit of parched souls. Especially for Delhiites sweating it out in the scorching days of May and June.

The signs of delicate yellow on slender, otherwise-nondescript branches of the medium-sized tree begin to appear in April. Come May and the golden shower works its magic everywhere. On trees planted along traffic dividers. In clusters across city parks. In fortunate folks’ backyards. Just about anywhere.

Take one look at the pleasant flowers twinkling invitingly and the heat that has been oppressing you relents a bit. Pause a little longer to drink their blessings and a cool reassurance percolates in your being.

In the sweltering afternoons of harsh city life, the relief that sightings of amaltas bring to me—and countless others I'm sure—is immense. The yellow petals, swaying in the wind, make your spirit soar and put the bounce back in your step.

Trees remain Nature’s most benevolent, most visible marks on a rapidly deteriorating Earth. Let’s give a shout-out to one of their most lovable manifestations.

“Love you, amaltas!”

So, Have You Decided to be Happy Today?

 

Today is the day you can be technically happy, regardless of where you live in the world. Yes, it’s the International Day of Happiness.

We just got off celebrating International Women’s Day. And before we could relax, there’s this Happiness day!

It seems the modern world can’t do something unless there’s a day assigned to it: You, here, take this day, do this or that!

Shall we return to the same old sadness that has pervaded our lives all through the year—minus the one day we are talking about?

IMHO, we should celebrate these days on ALL days: Women’s Day, Men’s Day, Choose-Who-You-Want-to-be-Day, Earth Day, Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, Parents’ Day, Children’s Day, Environment Day, Health Day, Joy Day, Forgiveness Day, Friendship Day, No-Enemies-Day, No-War-Day! And oh, by the way, No-Day-Day!!

Plus, of course, any other day that makes you really, really happy 🙂

Tell ya what: forget the date. Celebrate the day. Today. Then every single day.

For the Love of Walking

 

Aldous Huxley’s father considered a walk among the mountains as the equivalent of churchgoing. Walt Whitman spoke of his longing to “walk undisturbed” in a garden of beautiful flowers in one of his poems. And Dolly Parton had once said, “I walk tall; I got a tall attitude.”

Me? I walk because I just love walking.

There is so much joy, so much learning, so much fun in the simple, simple act of walking that I thought it worth my while to write this ode. 

Whether I am walking among the mountains, on the road less traveled, or even in a concrete jungle, there’s something about walking that lifts not just my step but my spirit as well. 

Nature trails are the best for walking, yes. Didn’t the great naturalist John Muir once remark, “In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks”?

Fortunately for me, I’m blessed to receive a lot not only in the midst of nature but also wherever I happen to be walking.

Here I’m sharing a few of my experiences and thoughts on walking in different places and situations. 

Let me begin with nature.

Nature, in my view, works its magic best while you are ambling about, quietly admiring its sights, sounds, and smells.

Years ago, I was going back to our camping base with a bunch of teachers and students. We were staying in a forest in the Himalayas for 10 days as part of a study-cum-adventure camp. It was the best time of the day: morning. The trail we were walking on was flanked by mighty, benevolent trees. The rays of the sun were just beginning to penetrate the leaves and kiss our footsteps. Birds were singing as if for the first time. We were hardly speaking but a lot was conveyed in that long, blissful walk.

Nature, in my view, works its magic best while you are ambling about, quietly admiring its sights, sounds, and smells. Before you know, you hear the birdsong’s echo in your heart. A smile appears on your lips out of nowhere. Happiness rules. And gratitude. And love.

I was once on a work trip and staying in a hotel in a city I hardly knew. As is my wont, I slipped out of the hotel at the first opportunity in order to explore the area around it in the best way I could think of: on foot. It was evening and getting dark and people were hurrying home in the daily orchestra of routines familiar to cities all around the world. Honk-honk, screech-screech, rush-rush. Pedestrians crossing the roads with quick steps, before the traffic light turns green again. The wheelbarrow fruit vendors agreeing to sell their perishables at lower and lower prices to hard-nosed shoppers in the hope of clearing out their stock for the day. Mosquitoes swarming in the dusk, ready to attack some more than others for reasons best known to them.

For a moment I paused and stood still at a crossroads, watching the drama of urban life all around me. The sun just disappeared with double-quick speed behind a building but its reflection was still visible on another glass giant across the road. The warmth and the light of the yellow star, which looked like an orange ball before bouncing off for the day, would remain for another half hour or so.

In that exploratory walk (I was being a ‘flaneur’ I found out later), I got to know more about that particular area of the city than if I had been running or driving past in a car (though running and driving have their own charms).

When you put your whole and soul into the act of walking, you are rewarded with an indescribable feeling of joy and achievement.

Of late, I have begun to observe how I walk and what happens in the body when we walk. Especially when I go for morning walks. I’ve noticed, for example, that when I keep walking even when I’m feeling a bit tired or “not up to it”, my senses perk up gradually. After about three or four thousand steps, the blood circulation improves and sends my attitude scurrying toward positivity again. What earlier seemed like a burden becomes easy and light as a feather. 

Another observation: when you put your whole and soul into the act of walking, you are rewarded with an indescribable feeling of joy and achievement (something similar happens in running and other sporting activities, I’m sure). If the mind gets pulled into worrisome thoughts about what the day ahead holds, I chide it gently and bring my awareness and focus back to where I’m going; how I’m lifting and putting forth each foot; whether the body in motion is carrying the mind along; whether the breathing is deep and rhythmic enough to be as effortless as possible, giving me more ‘bang for the breath’, so to say. 

I visualize my own reflection in an imaginary, life-size mirror placed ahead of me. When all the elements of walking—the limbs, the thoughts, the breathing—are well-aligned, when the act of walking becomes an integral part of my present being, the reflected image naturally assumes an effortless, innate grace.

You can indeed realize your true self through the simple, serene act of walking.

I tend to think of such graceful, wholesome walking instances akin to the ‘walking meditation’ that the Buddha is often said to have practiced.

I walk some more.

Walking gives us not only the space we so constantly seek but also offers multiple opportunities, in a variety of paces, to slow down for, pause and observe, and touch and experience the beautiful things that otherwise get missed in the hustle of modern, gadget-obsessed life.

At least for me, walking is a way of connecting with our pristine, humane nature. Allowing us to exercise not just the muscles, but our common, inner faculty of joy and wonder too.

Let me end this note with these lovely, thought-provoking words by American singer-songwriter Roger Miller: “Some people walk in the rain, others just get wet.”

Thank you for walking with me.

The Girl Who Ran with Amazing Grace

 

I saw her about three years back, a few months before the pandemic became a thing. It was on two occasions, spaced within a week, at my neighborhood park. After that, I never got to catch even a fleeting glimpse of her supple, graceful persona.

She is no Flo-Jo or PT Usha, but to me she remains one of the most inspiring ‘track-and-field’ athletes ever.

And come to think of it: I was reminded of her most recently while working on my third book, which is about meditation. 

“What has achieving excellence in running got to do with attaining stillness in meditation,” you ask?

Contrary to that flawed first impression, a lot. Let me describe her and what makes the memory of her movement an abiding instance of inspiration, and you’ll probably know.

It happened when I was struggling with my own awkward attempt to run a few hundred feet after many, many years. While I had been keeping a healthy regimen of walking and meditation for quite some time, somehow I stayed away from running. And the reason I was attempting to run again was to further strengthen my knees that had become weaker ever since diabetes discovered me.

So, just as I was kind of giving up on the run (for the time being, I told myself), this girl in her late teens flows past me—prompting me to turn my head and take a second look.

Flow, mind you, not run, is the appropriate word here even though she was obviously running. And the same word—flow—comes up whenever my mind tries to retrieve the moving image of her smooth nimbleness from the Hippocampus.

The human brain is such an astonishing piece of equipment and works in (often) pleasantly surprising ways, isn’t it? The very mention of “flow” brings up Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi’s book of the same name. Do you know how Mihaly has described flow? 

“A state of concentration so focused that it amounts to complete absorption in an activity and results in the achievement of a perfect state of happiness.”

Serendipity, we love you.

I know I don’t need to write another word of explanation after this, but I will—just a few :)

When I took the second, and third, and fourth look at the girl running along the boundary of the park, I was stopped in my tracks by what I saw and felt.

She was running with such graceful movements, her hands and legs swaying in perfect rhythm, that Mihaly could’ve been looking at her when describing flow.

The girl was probably preparing for some running competition but her serene face was completely absorbed in the here-and-now moment. The expression on her face was beyond happiness.

I could barely run for one side of the boundary and here she was, doing five full rounds of the park with an ease and joy that instantly made her an icon of motivation for me.

If I may dare say, she was in some sort of divine flow.

Not much different from the flow you feel when absorbed in meditation.

I am grateful for having had the opportunity to feel inspired by her amazing grace. And happy that the inspiration is a continuing, ongoing phenomenon.

Cover Image: Pixabay

3 Simple Ways of Practicing Empathy

 

Empathy exists in all human beings, and possibly all sentient beings, as a core emotional trait. But more importantly, empathy can be enhanced and put into improved practice for the betterment of employees, customers and, generally speaking, the society at large.

While the breadth and depth of human experience surely hold multiple ways to express empathy, here are three simple ones.

👟 First, remember the shoe analogy: only the wearer knows where the shoe pinches. This is arguably the gold standard when it comes to empathy. After all, we do repeat it so often in our conversations: “Just try and put yourself in my shoes!” But sometimes the most obvious things become all too easy to miss. Make sure to keep this habit of switching shoes, especially with those showing signs of discomfort.

🦻 Secondly, we can practice empathy just by listening. By being there. By turning an attentive ear to the pain, the grief, the sorrow of others without being judgmental, regardless of how trivial it may seem to us at first. Thankfully, we all can get better at listening: for starters, this article offers some great tips on active-empathetic listening. 

🎁Give more than you earlier thought you would—that’s another great way of showing empathy toward those in need. For example, suppose you had agreed to donate a certain amount to a volunteer group helping out with pandemic relief. So, as one of them comes to you to collect the donation, surprise them by filling out the check with a higher amount than what you had promised.

The delight that we can generate by practicing empathy is priceless.

[The above post first appeared in a Freshworks newsletter.]

Remembering the Buddha via three simple numbers—3, 4, 8

 

Around five centuries before the birth of Christ, a Hindu prince of the Sakya clan began questioning everything and set out to explore a path to end human suffering. Yes, it was the Buddha, the Enlightened One, indisputably among the greatest teachers who ever walked on Earth.

The Buddha’s message was incredibly simple yet powerful. However, as his words got passed down the generations and as the followers of different streams of Buddhism (Mahayana, Hinayana, Theravada come to mind) multiplied in numbers and their own interpretations of his teachings, things became, well, a wee bit complicated.

So, in the tradition of going back to the source, first-principle thinking, or sticking to the fundamentals, here’s remembering Buddha through three simple numbers.

Three. Becoming a Buddhist is literally as simple as one-two-three—or taking the three ‘refuges’ (devotional pledges). “Buddham sharanam gachhami. Dharmam sharnam gachhami. Sangham sharanam gachhami.”  (I take refuge in the Buddha. I take refuge in Dharma. I take refuge in Sangha.)

Four. That’s right, the Four Noble Truths that the Buddha espoused. There is suffering in the world. The cause of suffering is craving. The suffering can be ended. The way to end it is the Eightfold Path.

Which brings us to the number Eight. The Eightfold Path suggested by the Buddha as a way to end suffering is, again, simple and intuitive: right view, right resolve, right speech, right conduct, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, and right samadhi. 

Of course, the crux of being a Buddhist lies in truly practicing the above path. It’s heartening to note that hundreds of millions across the world have been inspired by Buddha’s words of wisdom and compassion, and a great many have been trying to follow in his footsteps. Countless souls have benefited from adopting and adapting at least some of the precepts into their everyday lives.

So let’s try and keep the Buddha in our hearts and memories as much as we can. The world needs him today more than ever.

Meet Contemplation, Meditation’s Cool Companion

 

Image: Frank Winkler / Pixabay

I began this piece by contemplating on why I want to write about contemplation and also thinking about what to write. My Twitter handle is Wordant (for the love of words, of course) but of late, I have realized that while words are useful tools when writing or conveying something, it is the underlying meaning that is far more important. After all, you can convey a lot with a smile, a spark in the eye, a touch...without using a single word.

Nevertheless, given that here I’m not allowed to touch you and must use my linguistic repertoire, let’s look at a few words or combinations of words and then we’ll move on.

A quiet life of prayer and contemplation. Sitting idle. Doing nothing. Thinking. Thinking about thinking. Meditating. She considered the proposal. He was trying to concentrate hard on the problem. Focus, focus, focus. Be here now.

All these words about the mind and what it does—think, consider, concentrate, focus, etc.—often get mixed up in terms of what we exactly mean when we use them. But sometimes, when we give proper context and arrangement to words—and pronounce or write them with an inner urge—we are better able to communicate. At least that’s my hope and belief.

So I wouldn’t give you any academic, hair-splitting definition of contemplation but perhaps share glimpses of my own experience—as I have often done for meditation. 

In the noisy, chaotic modern life of cities, I’m fortunate to have had some moments of quiet reflection. And, often, when those moments passed, I was like, “Whoa, that felt great!” (I’m sure a lot of folks are similarly blessed but may either not have noticed such moments or just smiled them away.)

For instance, before all this work-from-home thingy happened, I would sometimes take a short evening break from the office and go to the nearby park, sit down on a bench and just watch the sun go down. It amazed me how quickly the yellow bright disk became a soothing orange ball plunging ever so steadily behind the clouds, the concrete buildings or the nondescript horizon of cities within cities. The background would change depending on where I chose to sit or sometimes stand, but the sun behaved in the same spellbinding fashion.

During those times, a few breezes of thoughts swept gently over my mind.

And when I came back to my desk, a warm cup of tea in my hand before I resumed the day’s work, I could feel the powerful touch of contemplation all over me. Those quiet moments spent in the company of my own wondrous mind seemed to have filled my erstwhile-tired body with added vitality and peace.

The thought that led me to writing this post was this: if only more and more human beings spared some time for quiet, reflective thinking or even calm, ‘not-doing time’ (I don’t want to call it idle time), if only peace prevailed for a while in our daily sea of turmoil—perhaps we would have fewer suicides and much fewer mental health issues reported so widely nowadays. 

To share another contemplative experience, I’m reminded of walking. While I love to walk and wouldn’t mind walking almost anywhere, two particular walks come running to me. One was in high school when I attended a 10-day jungle camp in the Garhwal region of the Himalayas, and the other was early in my working life somewhere in the hills of Maharashtra. On both occasions, it was a wide mud trail on which we were walking in random groups. Few words were exchanged between the walkers but I think we all enjoyed being in the midst of idyllic surroundings, having ample time on our hands, and not much to do besides joyously moving from point A to point B.

Peace-giving images from those long-lost trips still surface in my memory from time to time.

Where have I been, really? Contemplation-land, I think.

Closer to our current, pandemic-confined lives, my fifth-floor rooftop has on occasions served as the place where the cosmic rays of contemplation have enveloped my being. Kites, crows and pigeons often seemed to signal their concurrence. For as little as five or ten minutes, feeling elemental even in the midst of a dense urban settlement has been truly rewarding.

Other times, when I meditate, I usually allow some brief periods of contemplation prior to meditation or after it. For example, instead of hurrying off to the daily chores immediately after opening my eyes, I keep sitting still and relaxed for a while. Contemplation, I believe, can be a useful aid to and a great companion of your meditation practice.

Now, let me tell you that there’s no method or technique to practicing contemplation. The only tips I can perhaps offer you is to be yourself (you can be you when alone, right?) and not to try too hard to relax your mind.

Let the smoothness of the universe rub off on you like a balm. Let the intricate web of consciousness work its magic. Rejoice and rest in the becalming ocean of gentle thought-waves.

So that’s my simple idea of some quality me-time. Say hello to Contemplation!

The Five People I Meet in (My Walking) Heaven

I must have been walking since I was a toddler. Of late, however, I rediscovered the joy of putting my feet forward one step at a time.

It has been almost two years since I revived the good old habit that most elders in India still swear by: the morning walk. Each day, at slightly varying times as the sun rises, I pull myself out of bed, freshen up, and head out to the nearby public park. There, in the company of fellow walkers, birds and squirrels, I walk—first in a rambling, easy manner, and then at the brisk pace advised by doctors to diabetics like me.

There is a certain heavenly freshness and vitality during the morning. The quality of the breeze amidst all those plants and trees is indeed something else. 

My walks have once again brought me closer to nature and allowed me to take a bite of this divinity—before the devils of everyday living claim the remains of the day.

In these morning walks, as I move along the footpath that goes across the park as well as encircles it (‘enrectangles’ it, rather), I notice scores of people walking, jogging or just wondering what brought them here. Some of them do make me curious. 

After months into my routine, I began filtering out the “regulars” from the “occasionals” and the “not-seen-befores”—even as I made no conscious effort for this mental segregation. These things happen on their own, no?

And then, gradually, among the regulars, there emerged five souls that particularly caught my attention.

Initially, for a few days, I just ignored their presence. But as time went on, I couldn’t help but notice their peculiarities. Now, they have become as much of a habit as my two-speed walking ritual.

Let me introduce you to each of these five people I keep meeting in my walking heaven. 

The speechless soul

At first I thought there was no one behind me and it was an illusion. But there he was, when I stopped for a moment and allowed him to pass me by: a thin middle-aged hint of a man walking quietly and slowly. When I again encountered him in one of my rounds, I saw his face. I think I noticed a quivering movement of his lips but no words came out. He had a slight grayish stubble and a patch of cloth was sewn on his shirt, around the chest. It had a mobile number and an address. 

It is possible that this speechless soul has dementia or something and is prone to forgetting where he has to go after he finishes his long, quiet tours of the park. I often thought of asking him about the patch but couldn’t bring myself to do it. I just let him be.

And as if in a quiet token of return appreciation, he allows me to pass by so that I can pick up pace if I so wish.

Lady first, lady second 

There are two ladies that do their “conversational rounds” in the direction opposite mine. I often catch phrases such as, “Aaj main gobhi banaoongi” (Today I’ll cook cabbage), “bahut zyada kha liya” (ate too much) and “Meri kahan koi sunta hai?” (But who listens to me?) 

It took me a while to figure out that most such phrases escaped from the jaws of only one of the dames. The other lady would mostly nod or speak in monosyllables. And the more she would listen, the more our chatterbox would let loose—primarily complaints and recipes of a bewildering variety. The lady who claimed that nobody listened to her indeed had an ear tuned toward her at an optimal frequency each morning.

The always-on talker

Then there was this boy—must be in his early twenties—who would pace a particular portion of the path while talking on his mobile. He had so much to talk and so little to walk (on). Each day, I noticed, he would choose a particular spot, pace back and forth for about 20-30 feet, and go yakking into his beloved device. 

Sometimes, as is the habit of a lot of folks in India, he would put that part of the phone where the speakers are, close to his ears and listen for a few minutes—then he would put it to his lips and speak for another few minutes. And he would go on doing this alternately for countless number of times. 

Once in a while, he would stop pacing and find a place to sit down. But his phone talk would go on uninterrupted.

I think he is a morning talker.

The bucket buddy

Among the five, he is my favorite. Each morning I see this guy wearing pajamas and carrying a bucketful of water to fill up the small earthen pots kept underneath certain trees. These are meant for the birds of the park but usually get depleted by the end of each day. Our man would repeatedly fill his bucket at one of the taps in the park and walk around, looking for empty pots. One by one, he would refill them until each had sufficient water for the chirping thirsty.

I often thank him silently on behalf of our winged friends and admire his commitment to do this simple act of goodness, day after day.

I haven’t really “met met” these five people. But I do greet them in my mind when I see them in our shared space—and continue to be amazed and amused with what I end up observing.

Now, did I just see a red-vented bulbul flit past, mocking me with a curious song as it landed on a twig?

I guess so :)

How to be One with Nature—Really

Each day as I drive to work or roam around the streets of Delhi I come across tens of thousands of enlightened beings. Humans have given them a simple, elegant name: trees.

No matter how crazy the traffic or hopeless the mess in the city, trees bring not only a breath of fresh air but a sense of calm and serenity.

Wasn’t it the poet Joyce Kilmer who wrote “But only God can make a tree”?

Well, this post is not about God but about nature—though for many, perhaps for me as well, the two ideas are inseparable. And the most immediate, intimate symbol I think of, whenever I think of nature, is the tree.

Recently I came across the phrase “to be one with nature” for the umpteenth time. And lo and behold, the image of a magnificent, lush, life-giving tree sprang to my mind.

But what does it really mean to be one with nature? And how do you do it, especially in a world where, increasingly, people live in concrete rather than green jungles?

First off, I thought I would say something about the origin of the phrase “to be one with nature” and sought Google’s help. Several combinations of keywords later, however, I realized that the search giant was as clueless as I—although I must thank it for the rich harvest of articles mentioning the phrase my search turned up.

Never mind the origin. Let's talk about its prevalence and effect.

I suspect most of us intuitively know what we mean when we want to be one with nature or hear someone express this wish. But have we tried describing it? And do we all experience it in the same way? What happens in that moment, really?

The most obvious, and perhaps most awesome, way to be one with nature is to go on a nature trail in a pristine forest. Where the greenery is thick and the scent of dew permeates the atmosphere. Where the sun's rays play hide and seek with the leaves. And where the sound of water gurgling in the brook next to you lulls you into a peace you never knew existed.

In such a serene backdrop, being one with nature possibly means the feeling of freshness and quiet and connectedness to everything alive around us.

Yes, I've felt it, this right-in-the-lap-of-nature kind of being one with nature.

But there have been other occasions as well, when I think I have been touched by that oneness without the luxury of being wrapped in nature’s majesty. 

I recently spent a year in Mumbai, working for a media company. There was a nice terrace, overlooking the railway lines, on the ninth floor of the office building. In my tea breaks, I would often stand there and watch black kites circling nearby. Once in a while, they would spot some prey on the ground and swoop down to catch it in their talons. But mostly, they would just swim around in the air, making spirals from high up to down below and then up again. Their motion was graceful and their outspread wings magnificent. I sometimes stood motionless, admiring their skill and poise.

A similar feeling of oneness fills me when I watch children play. Children are at their natural best when they laugh—and nothing brings me more joy than a bubbling bunch of kids laughing together. When I was in school, I often got punished for making other students sitting around me laugh. Needless to say, I never minded the scoldings.

I remember there was rain and hailstorm a few years back in Delhi when I, along with a few other office goers, caught myself scampering for cover. I took refuge in the colonnade of Connaught Place’s inner circle. There, I saw four or five boys in their preteens making merry in the downpour—completely in the buff. But they had no awareness of their naked bodies, drenched as they were in their natural tendency to extract happiness from whatever life brought them. Impulsively, the most adventurous of them slid down the ramp around a lift built for Metro passengers. The others soon followed suit, sliding down the smooth, granite-paved surface with an abandon only children know. My heart skipped a beat and a smile appeared on my previously somber face.

Sometime in high school, when I took to the more serious pastime of reading, being one with nature had an echo in me through the beauty of the written word. It still does—when the words of an author resonate in my mind long after I’ve finished a passage or a book. Sometimes, I wonder who wouldn’t be moved to ‘oneness’ reading or hearing such beautiful prose or poetry. Sample below some of my favorites:

In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.

- Albert Camus

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

 - John Keats

Siddhartha listened. He was now listening intently, completely absorbed, quite empty, taking in everything. He felt that he had now completely learned the art of listening. He'd often heard all this before, all these numerous voices in the river, but today they sounded different. He could no longer distinguish the different voices—the merry voice from the weeping voice, the childish voice from the manly voice. They all belonged to each other: the lament of those who yearn, the laughter of the wise, the cry of indignation and the groan of the dying. They're all interwoven and interlocked, entwined in a thousand ways. And all the voices, all the goals, all the yearnings, all the sorrows, all the pleasures, all the good and evil, all of them together was the world. All of them together was the stream of events, the music of life.

- Hermann Hesse

To say “I love you” one must know first how to say the “I.”

- Ayn Rand

Everything about him was old except his eyes and they were the same color as the sea and were cheerful and undefeated.

- Ernest Hemingway

And then, there are several tiny little things that can lift my spirits into that wholeness, that unity. 

Listening to a piece of soulful music is one such. When I listened to Blue Story by Deep Forest for the first time for instance, and I mean really listened and not just play it casually on my playlist, I felt a tributary of calm flow inside me that went meandering alongside its soothing notes. I felt fulfilled. Rejuvenated. Eased. The song has stayed with me ever since as a constant companion of quiet happiness.

Another is sipping tea or coffee, either in the quietude of your personal space or even amidst the white noise in a cafeteria. You sit down in comfort, holding the warm cup snugly. Then you put your face to it, smelling the aroma and letting the little clouds engulf you and mingle with your mood. And then you take the first slow, deliberate, lasting sip. The sweet warmth fills you with sheer joy. What more can one want in life?

A lot, apparently :)

That’s why most of us spend the major part of our life running after and acquiring things we may want but not necessarily need.

And sometimes, smack-dab in the middle of all that stuff, we overhear ourselves say, “What would I not give to be one with nature?”

As for me, I sit down every single day and explore what I think is possibly the best way to be one with nature—and oneself. It’s a ritual that’s been done and refined over thousands of years as practiced by novices, experts, Buddhist monks, and (true) spiritual gurus: meditation. Not only does it allow me to enter a unique realm of peace and quiet, it often uplifts my spirits high enough to feel drunk on the nectar of life.

Meditation, I feel, is a walk in the garden of spiritual delights. Call it my daily dose of being one with nature if you will. 

May the force of nature be with you.