mental health on standup comedy

 Just watched Taylor Tomlinson on Netflix. She makes mental health accessible by talking openly about her psychological issues. She is a delight to watch. I will be recommending her to my clients for sure. 

Taylor Tomlinson's PSA on Arm Floaties | Taylor Tomlinson: Look At You - YouTube

a cousin visits

a cousin visits and so many memories get rekindled. the oft repeated tales, the family lore - playing hide and seek in the old maternal homestead with its sprawling rooms and dark hidden corners. the large wooden chest on which were stocked all the mattresses and linen. the space behind the large wooden cupboard with a the long mirror on its front, where it was scary to go to, but it was such an excellent spot for hiding that you had to win over your own fear and weigh it against being found early and having to be the den for the next round.
the room at the back with an oil lamp in front of all the Gods' pictures with its many shadows and recesses. and the scariest place of all the nook where the coal was stored, because it was likely that you might run into a mouse there.
so much fun, so many squeals of delight and peals of laughter. 
so much excitement.

then all the cousins going to sleep in the living room on the mattresses that were set out in a line, where we could roll around for hours and tell ghost tales and scare the heebee-geebeeies out of one another. all the giggling.

grandma was never particularly nice to me. it was just an archetype that i hankered after. she told me once to get some dry Bhel from the grocery store at the corner. i went readily, pleased to be trusted with an errand. i envisaged being rewarded with at least a handful of the Bhel upon my return, but she just took the packet from me without a thought. she must have registered the look of amazement and hurt on my face and gave me some of the change that i had brought back. but that was not what i had wanted. however i did not have the courage to ask her for any of the Bhel and in my hurt was also an element of pride. i was not going to beg for something she did not willingly want to give me herself.
so i walked away rather miffed and decided that the grandmothers' in story books were just that, the stuff of fantasy and fiction. 


The famous tale of the three of us Me, Medha and Swati sitting on the rocking chair and rocking away faster and faster and faster. I had my face to the back of the chair, Medha was sandwiched between Swati and me and Swati was the last one holding on to her sister for dear life. When the rocking chair toppled as it had to for all the abuse we were meting out to it, Swati hit her head on the floor. My leg got entangled in the chair and Medha escaped unscathed, except for the shelling, the shouting we got from our respective mothers. 

A visit from Bhai mama our oldest maternal uncle, who had an impressive personality looking ever so dapper and handsome in his police uniform. He would lift us up turn by turn and throw us high in the air and catch us with such self-assurance that we felt ashamed to feel scared. The exhilaration of the ride and the joy of being held in his arms were mingled with the sense of pride in his achievements and the warmth of his presence.

 Another cousin is getting married and the larder is stocked with the hard laadoos (sweet round balls an Indian confectionary). So every now and then one or the other of us would sneak into the store-room behind the dining room and steal one or more the delightful laadoo. We would keep a tally for ourselves and at the end of the day compare who had consumed the most!
 

Blackie, the black dog could not have been much bigger than an average mongrel, but memory mixed with fear had made him into a large dog the size of an Alsatian. The first welcome he gave my mom would be to jump up and down on her and it terrified me as it was accompanied by a lot of barking and a lot of yelling by other members of the family to get him to shut up. He stayed tied to the bench in the central courtyard which was large enough to enable me to navigate my way around him well out of his reach to get to the various other rooms like to kitchen and the dining room as well as the toilets from the main living room.

The renters who lived downstairs were a Gujarati family and they had a big swing in their front porch, a coveted experience was to swing in the big swing and sing any ol’ song. Swinging had to be accompanied by singing otherwise it did not feel complete.

 

layers of self

The first layer is the anandmaya kosha, the layer of bliss. perhaps a better word is sheath because layer seems to have a two-dimensional feel to it. Anyhow, the layer of bliss is the subtlest of all and speaks to the inherent quality of the soul viz. bliss.

The second layer is the vigyanmaya kosha, the ideational level also considered to be the causal sphere, the layer of intuition, knowledge, ideas and concepts. We were first ideas in the universal consciousness and only later became condensed to matter. Plato's realm of ideas seems to be a description of this. This is not as subtle as the layer of bliss but still very subtle.

The third layer is the manomaya kosha, the astral level of feelings, emotions and thoughts. This is denser than the layer of intuition but much subtler than matter. many adepts can see this layer as colors surrounding the physical body and it extends about 2 to 3 feet around the physical body while permeating it as well. It is subtler than the following layers but denser that ideas and bliss.

The fourth layer is the pranamaya kosha, the layer of energy and vitality. It is subtler than the previous three layers and can be perceived as a silvery glow surrounding the physical body, an inch and a half around the dense matter.

The fifth layer is the annamaya kosha, the layer of physicality, of matter. Here is where the adage we are what eat applies, as literally anna means food. We identify with the body as being us and therefore believe that we die when the body dies.

for more information see http://www.layersofself.com

Chapter One continued

I remember a concept we learned in psychology called ‘functional fixedness’. The function of an object can vary but we get fixated on the one that is commonly denoted. For example, a book can be used for multiple functions other than its assigned function of reading material, it could be a paper-weight, a hand-fan, a fly swatter, a door jammer, a floor mat, a weapon, etc etc. In fact there was a TV show called “whose line is it anyway” that featured a number of improvisers, who did funny things on the spur of the moment and the show had one section on imagining different uses for common objects. And one of them put an umbrella to some very uncommon uses like a boat, a dress, a weapon, a pogo stick, a signaling device, an oar, an ear-piece, a tail, a measuring instrument, a hat, a walking stick, a bat, a hockey stick and I don’t know what else.

It is such fun to free associate that I might get carried away and lose sight of the goal of the writing completely, but if the goal is to write freely then I am on track. Yet I am writing an autobiography of sorts so let me inform you that the aforementioned Tv show was my favorite when I had not had any experience in theater. After my theater experience I appreciated their spontaneity even more, though I could imagine myself doing some of what they did. If you have seen the show you will know what I am talking about. Of the generally four actors I liked the tall lanky one the best. Unfortunately, the women on the show were rarely impressive. Or I tend to prefer women; no that is not my sexual preference, but as a feminist I tend to give women’s issues a fair bit of importance. And feminism is not all men are bastards and all women are angels, as one friend has posted on Facebook.

Sitting out in the back yard enjoying the breeze, watching the pretty flowers in bloom, feeling Spring in the air, hanging out with Kalicrow, the cat and Keno, the dog….this is the life. A long session of meditation in the morning, where I felt the base of my spine get on board. My posture right now is not the best, so correcting that, it is a little harder to write with the laptop sitting on the lap while I sit in shahajasana or ardhapadmasana. Distant traffic noises fall on the ears as do the lovely tones of the bamboo wind chimes. 

There is a gentle quiver in my spine, I notice that often when I go deep in meditation, a clearing and cleansing that happens that reminds me of the “waking the tiger, healing the trauma” book by Paul Levine. Releasing old patterns and allowing the present to come alive and thrive. 'I am healed for Thou art within me'. 

I shared with my supervisor this afternoon about the letter I have written to my father, recently on his eighty-third birthday. Did you as kids play the game of  “I sent a letter to my father and on the way I dropped it and someone came and picked it up and put it in his pocket.” All the kids are sitting around in a circle and the den is going around with a handkerchief in his hand behind them while everyone sings the ditty and the den drops it as unobtrusively as possible behind someone. If the one who has the handkerchief behind her discovers the hanky she chases the den with the hanky waving and gives it back to him if she catches him before he completes the circle and sits in the place that she vacated. If she does not discover the hanky and the den completes the circle empty handed, she still has to be the den. So while you are sitting in the circle singing, you are also keeping a watch on the den to see If he drops the hanky behind anyone. If he does that behind someone else you can relax and watch the fun unfold. Since you are not allowed to turn back and look you try to ascertain with groping hands if the hanky is behind you after he passes you by. Hours of fun can be had in this way. We certainly did.

So anyhow this letter that I wrote to my father and sent it off by post without dropping it, was essentially a call to him to take responsibility for what he did when I was a kid. So far I have been excuses for him in a sense, never ever saying that it was okay what he did, but that he must have been under the influence of his elder brother, that he was coerced or compelled, that he was himself treated in the same way, whatever any or all of which might be true but he still needs to take responsibility for what he did to me, before we can have a genuine relationship. Those are my terms for relating to him.

As I write this I notice that my solar plexus is dense and charged. It is still a heavy topic and intense but I am much healed and lighter as I can write this without weeping or getting super angry. How to stay connected to the light, to joy and peace, while allowing the trauma to heal. By not raking it up, more than necessary, and what is necessary amount? Forgetting about it feels like denial, which I did for years and years and if it came up in my consciousness surely it was because I could finally work through it and heal. Not repress, not suppress, just face it and be done with it for once and for all.

Let it go, let it go, let it go.

What do you hold

In the folds

Around your waist

dear mother?

What is stored

in the tiny, little hump

on you back

dear sister?

What sits heavy

On your chest

Dear friend?

What pulls

Your right shoulder

Higher than your left

Gentle one?

What drags

Your left foot

Sweet sister?

What maims you?

What ails you?

What makes you dis-eased?

Look into your

Heart-soul

Feel into the body-mind

And see the answer

Divine.

Chapter one

I have currently been on this planet in this body for the past fifty years. I probably came before in various bodies at varied times. But for now we shall concern ourselves only with this incarnation. Why? Because it is current and therefore contemporary. Currently I am occupied with various themes.

 Although, I am a psychotherapist I often wonder what my highest purpose is. I do know I am here to serve people, but not quite clear in what capacity. Psychotherapy is very fulfilling quite often, yet it seems to be limited in many ways. Most therapists deal with the mental-emotional layers of their clients, but there is so much more. A few therapists broach on the intellectual/intuitive/wisdom layers of the clients, but the layer of bliss, of essence, of spirit or soul is almost never brought into the therapy room.

I wish I were writing this on a keyboard that goes clickety-click like the old typewriters of yore. There is a romance in that sound that is hard to beat. A music that thrills even as words are getting poured out on to the page. The reader does not hear it of course yet I believe the sense of rhythm and notation carries through.

So one of the themes that I am currently pre-occupied with is to practice my true vocation. And to make good money doing it. Another is about the relationship I am in, technically a marriage, factually more of a close kinship; brother and sister perhaps. It is not just that the sex has gone out of the marriage, but that there is an almost constant competition, a one-upmanship of sorts. It leaves the both of us tired, drained. A healthier relationship would be mutually nourishing, nurturing and supportive of each other’s goals, which we are for the most part, when there is trust, which is not always the case.

Yet another theme is around a conundrum. Spiritually all that is considered ideal and desirable for example love, peace, joy and communion with Spirit, high morals leaves little room for all that is considered fun. In contemporary culture at least in the social class that I belong to, fun is defined for the most part as socializing often with booze, occasionally party drugs, food, entertainment, television, movies, concerts, adventure sports, and so on. So how is one supposed to enjoy life when not sitting on the meditation cushion? If one shuns all pleasures how to connect with joy in the day to day life?

Perhaps the reader is more concerned with maximizing pleasure rather than minimizing it, in which case this would be a moot point. However it is one that occupies me currently. So who am I? This body was born in India of the female gender. This narrative will follow the trials and tribulations of this sojourn but may not do so in a linear fashion. Experiences have been had by this body in different countries so not only might the story jump in time but it certainly will unfold in various locations. However the reader will not have to work too hard at following the narrative as suitable hints will be given, unlike some movies where the action jumps back and forth in time and the audience has to figure out the time line by themselves. I shall inform the reader i.e. you about the age of the body at the time of the event. Also for the sake of simplicity I will refer to the body as I unless strictly necessary although please be aware that I firmly hold the notion that I am much more than the body.

The body is only my grossest form or layer or sheath. The energy layer or sheath or form envelops and permeates the physical body and is much subtler than it. It is usually an inch to two inches wider than the body in most humans as also in animals and all things animate and inanimate.

The mental-emotional layer or form or sheath extends further outwards while permeating the first two layers and is subtler than both of those. Those people that can see auras see this layer as consisting of different colors, for emotions have hues just as they have smells and possibly sounds. I can smell the scents of different feelings but as yet cannot see the colors.

The intuitive or wisdom layer extends even more outwards while permeating all of the other three layers and being even more subtle. We are not bodies that have ideas but we are ideas or minds that have bodies. The concept came first and then the manifestation of it not the other way around. One might think of this layer as being the blueprint of the body.

The subtlest of all the layers is the bliss layer and it permeates all the other layers, so at the core we are bliss. No matter what silly/seemingly sensible notion we might be identified with at the moment we are intrinsically blissful. Even though this layer is extremely subtle it is still matter at some level. I am more than that as well. I am soul having an embodied experience for a while. I am a tiny drop of Spirit that which is in all and sustains all.

All of these have fancy names as well, I know the ones from my country of origin well. The physical body is annamaya kosha as it is the body that comprise food, anna being food, soft n’s. the energy body is called pranamaya kosha, prana being life force, like chi. The mental emotional layer is called the manomaya kosha, where mana is mind. Interestingly there is not western division of mind vs. heart. Manas is the heart-mind of a human being consisting of thoughts, feelings, emotions, attitudes.

The intuitive layer is called gyanamaya kosha where gyan is knowledge, not just information but more like wisdom. This layer consists of ideas, intuitions, beliefs, concepts. The final layer of bliss is known as anandmaya kosha where anand is joy or bliss. And I am an atma or soul, in western literature it is often spelt with a ‘n’ at the end as atman but that follows the Sanskrit pronunciation not the spoken hindi one, which gets pronounced as aatmaa. My atma is one reflection of the universal Spirit which is called Bramhan. And here I will keep the western and Sanskrit pronunciation because there is also a God called Bramha, who is the creator of all.

Hinduism proclaims the trinity as the creator-maintainer-destroyer of all that is, Bramha-Vishnu-Mahesh. Mahesh is more popularly known as Shiva or Shankar. Vishnu has had many incarnations and he is more famous as Ram or Krishna. I do not mean this to be a pedantic lecture on Hindu iconography, but I was brought up with tales of various gods and a few goddesses and so my consciousness is seeped in that mythology. I am not aware of your culture so I do not know what parallels to offer, but most children grow up listening to (at least in my generation) folk tales and/or fairy tales.  Well I grew up on tales of Ram. Krishna, Hanuman, Shiva, Ganesh, Radha and Sita.

I heard these stories from my father who I addressed as Baba and my mother I refered to as Aai. I guess if I were writing this in India I would not be offering so many explanations as I am doing now. Since I currently reside in the United States of America I am sort of assuming a largely western audience. Although western is such an arbitrary delineation based on where the map gets cut off. The earth is a globe not a flat piece of land with Japan at the far East and the Americas at the far west. Had we cut the map through the Atlantic ocean rather than the Pacific the Americas would have been at the far east and Europe at the far west. So many random demarcations become the writ of law as it were, we forget that the other versions are as true but we are not as accustomed to them as to the one in current use. 

(to be continued)

masked women of Pune - a photo essay

the masked girls/women of Pune

they are not terrorists

they are not bank robbers

they are not followers of a particular religion

they are not under a specific political diktat

they are just trying to protect their skin

from the ill effects of pollution and dust

here is to their ingenuity and perseverance!

coming or going - US to India or India to US

am i going or am i coming back to india - after six years and a month away. so much has changed. i certainly have and so has my relationship with the people i left behind.
when one travels from point A to point B one is going from A to B. do i still regard India as point A or after six years the US is point A, especially considering i shall be returning to US and living her for another 10 to 15 years.
does the use of the verb necessarily define my sense of belonging?
India will always be home so i am going back to a home coming. how is that?

A narrative

 It was a dark and rainy night. The whole village was gathered together for the funeral. The whole village was grieving and lamenting the loss with loud wails and cries of agony. The little girl sat in the huge room, women on one side men on the other watching the wailing and loud crying with astonished eyes.

She almost giggled but knew that would be inappropriate. She curbed her smile and felt the gust of the overpowering emotion. It rose in one section and abated in another, this wave of open grief. The women sat on their haunches draped in nine yard saris, beating their chest moaning and groaning loudly. She had never witnessed such an open show of emotion before. They duck-walked to each other and wept on each other’s shoulders. This expression was so loud that it seemed insincere. Even she did not cry that loudly not even when her favorite toy fell into the valley and disappeared forever.

She sneaked a glance at her mother. Could her mother do this open wailing show? No, her mother was sitting on the ground (not squatting) and she was weeping, but no loud sounds came from her. The little girl was relieved. There was a measure of sanity in her world. She continued to watch the exaggerated display of emotion utterly bemused.

It had taken them a long time to get to this place. She remembered the flight, the first in her yet short life. They were over the clouds or alongside of them. She had pointed to the clouds in the window with such joyful wonder that her mother had laughed joining in her delight. And the lovely airhostess had offered her candy, which she had refused out of politeness of course as trained, but was glad when the lady insisted and her mother encouraged her to take some: even then carefully picking a few not to seem too greedy.

A few years later travelling alone to an African country to meet her parents there, she had been taken to the cockpit by the co-pilot and had gazed in wonder at all the little blinking lights and the switches and the knobs. What a ride that had been.

And then there had been a bullock-cart ride, another first, on the third and final leg of their journey to the village of her father’s father. It had been extremely novel in the beginning. She had been rather wary of the large animals with their long horns and angry swishing tails and she kept well out of their reach holding on to her mother’s hand for additional safety. There was a romance to the motion of the cart, the slow rhythmic sway, the clatter of the wheels, the gentle breeze. But it died soon enough as the road got bumpier, the air dustier and the sun became scorching hot. The thirst in their throats was mildly mitigated by the rationed water. They were tired and desirous of reaching their destination.

In between was the train ride, which she hardly recollected. Probably because she was used to train rides. Every summer vacation they took the train to visit her mother’s mother’s homestead in Bombay. She would sing the ditty in time with the clackety-clack of the train wheels.

“jhuk jhuk jhuk jhuk agin gaadi,

dhuranchya resha havet kadhi

palti jhade pahuya

mamachya gavala jaooya

mamachya gavala jaooya”

{jhuk jhuk jhuk jhuk fire engine train

drawing smoke lines through the air

let’s watch the trees run

as we make our way to uncle’s town }

she did not get the irony of the stanza that went

“mami mothi sugran, roj roj poli shikran”

{Aunty is a great cook as she makes banana-pudding every single day} as that was her favorite dish anyways.

There was none of her favorite food at the meal they had upon reaching their destination at her father’s father’s village. It was good to be on firm ground at last, on a surface that was not in some kind of motion. They were fed bhakri (rough bread) and something very spicy. She wanted to ask for some jam something sweet to make the food palatable, but her mother shushed her and she vaguely realized she was a child of the cities, familiar with urban ways. This village in the back of beyond was alien in more ways than one.

At the mourning she grew bored with the tides of public lamentations. It went on and on crescendoing in one place and then in another, her chest fluttered occasionally with the reverberations of the emotion. The drama was not theatrical enough to sustain her attention. She was tired she wanted to sleep. She asked her mother to pat her back as she lay down to help her fall asleep. Her mother stiffened, already too aware of being different, dressed in a five yard sari, not a nine yard one, unable to join in the loud wailing; she ignored her little girl. The child was not deterred. She closed her eyes and patted herself to sleep, self soothing in that strange if not bizarre situation. Occasionally she opened her eyes as the loud noises got to her and she observed a few of the women sniggering as they pointed to her surreptitiously. She could sense her mother’s embarrassment but by now she was angry, angry at being dragged so far away from her regular ways, not being able to comfortably eat or sleep. She ignored the women and her mother and kept on patting herself till at some point she fell asleep amidst the din.

They must have come back late from the cremation; the two brothers, her father and her uncle, along with other males of the village. It was probably strange and bizarre for them too, to have the entire village mourn for their father. A man in a powerful position, who was respected and feared for his authority. A man who had belittled them and put them down countless times. They could not hold the emotional dissonance it created to grieve for one who inwardly they rejoiced was dead simply because it set them free. They were also drunk, drunk with the power of their father’s might. The loud lamentation created such a discord between their internal state and the public persona that they had to find an outlet, to vent their conflicting emotions and the suppressed memories.

And they came upon her laying there innocently in the dark. They entered the room stealthily. She slept unaware until she realized that she was not safe. Then she escaped, she fled her body. A thin long subtle yet strong chord kept her connected to her physical form but she was gone. Out through the ceiling on to the roof and up into the stars.  The rain had subsided, the clouds had cleared the stars were shining bright. She looked at them and she knew she belonged there that she was made of the substance of the stars. Whatever they did with her physical form she was far gone. No wonder she did not remember what happened, because she was not there. She floated in her true home and returned only when others were awake and about, probably the next morning.

And whenever it happened that is where she went. It could not have been too frequently, simply because of the logistics. India is so densely populated that you cannot be alone for very long anywhere. She was saved by the multitudes in a sense. And the stars, the millions and millions of stars that glittered and twinkled and held her in their embrace.

the basket ball player

She was a basket ball player, she is a basket ball player and she will always be a basket ball player, even when the rigor mortis sets in. That is her identity that is her choice that is her definition of herself. That is who she is.

She loves being on the field, loves tackling the ball, letting it slide, letting it slip into her partner’s hands, then catching it again and dancing with it, flying with it over and over again into the basket. No matter where she is, no matter which direction she faces, no matter who blocks her path or how many, she has the uncanny knack of shooting straight into the hoop. She never misses.

She runs, not much faster than most of her team mates. She jumps not much higher than any of the others. She moves with the ball, twirls, swings, careens, she strums the ball like a guitar string.

She is one with it, with the ball, with the hoop, with the field, with the players - her team mates and her opponents. She feels them in her body. She has a sense of who is where and it is mapped in her body. A map that is constantly in flux. She does not plan, she doesn’t have to analyze, she doesn’t deconstruct or strategize. She knows. A knowing beyond words. She may be able to describe it she may not. She has never tried. All she cares about is the beautiful call of the ball - to shoot right into the ring. 

There is no she, there is no ball, there is only the swirling motion that dances all around her and the joy blazing through her thighs and her arms, her back and her head, her front and her feet.

Her team mates envy her grace and fluidity and are all too glad that she is on their side and not the opposite. Her opponents admire her even as they seek to meet the challenge she poses. They try to outflank her, putting half the team around her. But then the others have a field day and score away.

One time she gets the ball in her hands and they crowd around her making it seemingly impossible to shoot. She feels their presence all around and she smiles. She dissolves the obstacles as she sends shattering love through them all and her joy explodes their defenses as they gasp, when she shoots, who knows how, yet again straight into the rim.

that little girl

that little girl
hides in the corner
hoping nobody notices
her plight and her shame

that little girl
turns invisible
to protect herself
and erase her pain

that little girl
cannot say what she feels
or what she thinks
for no one cares to hear her tale

that little girl
cannot complain or confide
for no one believes her
or takes her side

that little girl
has been a stranger to her past
disowning a part of herself
that disgusted her so
though she was not to blame
she was not to know
the fear nay her terror
held her hostage
and made her an accomplice
to the keeping of the sordid secret

exactly what happened and how
is blocked from her mind
though she is certain it was
her dad and his older brother
who subjugated her will to theirs
by the use of force and might
to satiate their salacious lust
they laughed derisively
at her trust and innocence
their perversion had won
trampled over a little bud

that little girl
felt betrayed
on so many levels

that little girl
knows it was wrong
to be victimized for
their inappropriate desire

that little girl
ccould not sing her song
for they threatened her with death
though not her own

that little girl
felt powerless to defend herself

that little girl
felt helpless and hopeless
for her oppressors
were the very ones, who ought to have
been her protectors

that little girl
felt scared
that somehow it was all her fault

that little girl
felt guilty
that if someone found out
she would be blamed

that little girl
felt lost and confused
in that unsafe world
where nothing was at it seemed
or ought to have been

that little girl
was mad
she was fucking raging mad
at her mom and at her dad
at her whole family and clan
for at some level they all knew
yet no one rescued her
no one saved her
no one stood up for her

that little girl
was furious
her fury a rolled up ball
sitting in her belly

that little girl
could explode
any minute now
spill out her guts
and spill out all the dirty little dark secrets
she was made to carry
but wait

that little girl
does not do that
instead she implodes
she swallows it whole
turning it into a black hole
a place of nothing
of no feeling, no sensing, no memory
nothing happened, no one died,
no one had to be buried
no one cried

mom and dad are safe now
uncle and aunt at a distance
everything is as it should be
(on the surface at least)
except she can no longer love them
unconditionally

the implosion
causes a crack in her body
ever so slight and subtle
that sits by the sacral curve
and holds her unconscious distrust of the world

that little girl
has grown up now
and she can write a poem
sing her song
tell her tale

that little girl
has matured enough
to work through her pain
and her myriad feelings
to come to a place of forgiveness

that little girl
is fearless
is free of guilt, shame and/or blame
is a pure, clean, clear, innocent girl

that little girl
opens her heart with love
voices her truth with compassion
and sees others as mirrors of her Self

happy birthday cake

every year on my birthday my mother baked me a cake. it was a simple pound cake with a hole in the middle, like an extra large ring or a big doughnut. i loved it. i preferred it to the cakes with icing and still do. occasionally she would also bake it at some random times during the year.

i remember some lady was visiting us, an auntie as we called all women visitors. my mom showed her our oven and the baking pan. it so happened that the pan still had the crust of the cake stuck to it. when i noticed that i took the opportunity to scrape it off and relish it. i really enjoyed the brown crust of the cake and did not understand how i could have left it.

later when the aunty had left, my mother reprimanded me for polishing off the left-over crust in front of our visitor. i could not have cared less, but it was a lesson in social etiquette. possibly my mother was embarrassed by my behavior, which to her indicated that i was just ravenous as it would seem that i was not fed enough. this of course was not true. i had enough and more to eat. most often more as i did not want to eat what was served. i hated vegetables those days. my preferred meal was rotis/chappatis with mango pickle. that is what i took in my lunch box most days and at home i added lentils to that fare. but that is another story.

regarding the cake incident i was a little perplexed as i had not realized i had anything wrong by eating the cake crust. also my mother had not said anything to me while i was eating but much later and the complexities of appropriate social behavior escaped me. i think she might have taken care of her embarrassment by making a joke about the situation, but i guess she did not have the social ease to do that!

inner child work:
my mother shows the aunty her bake pan. i realize there is some left-over crust and i proceed to devour it. my mom makes a joke about how much i love the cake she bakes and how i cannot let go of the last tit-bits. as she says that she also gently caresses my head with her hand showing her understanding of my socially inept behavior. she and aunty laugh in a good-hearted way, as grown-ups do when they find childlike behavior amusing and endearing. i feel seen, valued and learn a social lesson, without any shame or guilt.

coca cola aunty

Her name was Mrs. Jain. she was our landlord's wife and she lived right above us. we were on the ground floor and she on the first. she was a rolly-poly jolly woman and she liked having me over. those days i was rather cute, a tiny-tot with curly hair, large brown eyes...

She would pamper me, whenever i went over. the treat i looked forward to the most was coca cola. this is the late sixties in India. coca cola was a big deal then. we never had it at home. only if we went out on special occasions, we might be allowed to share a coke.

So sitting there in her living room and being served coca cola was like being treated like royalty. in the afternoons when she was getting bored, i guess (those days tv had not become ubiquitous) she would ask me to come up and entertain her in her parlour. her kids would be around her as well. but they were more grown-up, compared to me - they went to school.

she would ask me questions about this and that and they would rejoice and giggle over my replies. then came the highlight. she would signal to one of the children to fetch me something. at times she would ask me "what would you like?" i would say shyly "coca-cola", for i was taught not to ask for things in others' homes. they would laugh and call me the coca-cola girl. but my name for her was 'coca cola aunty'.

the gift of a rose

i am in love. i am in nursery school and i am in love with my nursery teacher. i think she is the most beautiful woman in the world. every day she comes dressed in impeccable saris, smiling her warm smile, alas not at me.

there is a girl who sits in the front row. every day she brings the teacher a rose and gifts it to her at the start of the class and the teacher smiles her thanks. i want to be the recipient of that smile. i want to be the one handing the teacher a rose, at least one morning, if not every morning.

i cannot conceive where the girl gets a rose each morning. i imagine she must be very rich, she must live in a huge house with a wonderful garden. a garden that yields a beautiful rose that she can pluck and bring for the teacher. more likely there is a gardener, who plucks the rose for her and hands it to her so she can bring it to school to hand to my love.

i have no such garden. i have no such rose. i only have a heart that yearns and longs. unfortunately it turns to jealousy as it can see no way of meeting its goal or fulfilling its desires.

inner child work

i get to school. the teacher is standing at the door of the class. she is greeting each student as s/he enters the classroom. as i come to the door she gives me a special smile and caresses my cheek as she welcomes me saying my name. my heart blossoms and i smile at her in return, a smile that expresses all of my love. she sees my smile and gets it. she hands me the rose that has been gifted to her. i am joyfully surprised. "for me?" my wide eyes say, she nods and goes back to her seat. i feel fulfilled. everything is right with the world!

the fall

we are in the city of A, most probably, no definitely. so i am anywhere between 4 and 6. we are walking back home in the dark, my father, mother and i. they do find words to talk. but there is some tension between them and after a while they are silent. so yes now they couldn't find words to talk (a la an old song).

as we walk i stumble over a rock or something. i start crying as i am in pain and i want to be picked up. as they are having a conflict they expect the other to pick me up. i become the pawn in their power struggle. neither of them picks me up as the one to do so will be the loser. so i get dragged home, weeping.

when we reach home they realize that i am, in fact, hurt, rather a lot. my right knee is bleeding profusely. my mother takes me to the bathroom and washes and dresses my knee. my father brings the medicine, the kind that smarts in the beginning but is very effective. they feel ashamed at having neglected me so in their struggle for victory, or at least that is how i imagine it since they were decent people, after all.

i feel a strange sense of vindication. i had been right to cry, i was genuinely hurt. i was not just clamoring for attention, without reason. the wound justifies my crying. i take a little pleasure that my mom feels bad now for not having picked me up when i was asking her to.

inner child work

i am walking beside my inner child. i am holding her hand and chatting with her as we walk in the dark together. i tell her to watch her step, since it is dark and the road is uneven. i ask her if she would like to be picked up. she says no.

after a while she trips and she falls. i am instantly near her and console her. i hold her and reassure her that it is okay to cry, as she might be feeling scared and/or hurt. i hold her close to me, soothing her and quieting her.

when she seems a little calmer i check her for bruises and discover the wound at the knee. i find a piece of cloth to tie as a bandage, then i pick her up and carry her home. all the way back i talk to her and ask her to tell me how she is feeling. she feels cared for and comforted. she apologizes for not letting me pick her up earlier that way she might have avoided the fall altogether. i tell her she could not have known that she would fall so there is nothing to apologize for. it is not shameful to fall down or get hurt, it is a part of growing up and we just need to feel the feeling, let it pass and then to get up and move on, as she has done. she smiles at that.

i know then that even though she got hurt physically she felt nurtured emotionally and so did not suffer more psychologically. she thanks me for carrying her back. i am grateful to her for letting me do that and i hold her close and tell her how precious she is to me.

MY Drawing

I once again remembered the time when I had made a drawing. I think it was a picture of a woman and I was very proud of it. I showed it to my mom and then to my dad. Then I went off to play or some such thing. A while later when I came back I went to look  at my picture again, expecting to find it as I had left it and was horrified to see that it had been altered. Not beyond recognition because I could still make out my lines in it, but the face I had drawn was no longer there. I was very upset and asked my mom what had happened and she told me that my dad had reworked it. I was so mad, so bloody angry, but I could not vent my anger of course, otherwise I would have gotten beaten on top of everything else. So my fury turned into tears and I sobbed my vexation and frustration. 

I remember we were all three of us lying on the cot, mom in the middle, dad on one side and me on the other. I was crying, sobbing and sniffling, as I tried to come to terms with the fact that my darling picture had been changed such that it was no longer mine. Mom tried to make things between us better by saying that dad had just tried to improve it, she thought that would appease me, but it just made me feel more frustrated.

I wanted so much for dad and mom to see it and appreciate it, but dad went and changed it, corrected it thinking he was making it prettier. So that meant that what I had drawn was not good enough. It had to be modified to meet his standard of acceptance; underlying message 'I was not good enough and had to be modified to be acceptable'.

I remember how my parents told me to rub the sides of my nose so that it would not be so broad. Fucking shits! My nose was and is good enough. I was and am good enough. My drawings and paintings were and are good enough! I am an artist and I do not need their and/or anybody else’s appreciation or approbation for it.

Inner child work

already began that with the expression and allowing of anger that i felt at them especially at him.

the little girl says "why the hell did you alter my picture? i want the image i drew. that was the better picture coz i had made that and i was and am proud of it. there was no need for you to improve it. if you wanted you could have made another drawing. i want the picture i made. you had better erase the changes you made and give me back my drawing"

and from a slightly older place, but still somewhat angry "If you are a good parent you will appreciate my drawing as it is and put it up some place in the house."

In fact I will do that for my inner kid. I will make a drawing with her now and I will put it up on the fridge and give her all the love and appreciation she needs. 

and i do just that. my little girl feels appreciated now and loved. she is an artist. she loves her picture. and it hangs on the fridge. if she feels like it she might color it some time. for now she likes it just as it is - MY drawing.

the house on mango street

just read "the house on mango street" and it has inspired me to blog my memories. currently working on a painting all in blue, a continuation of my mandala series, this one will deal with the inner child and healing.

an ice-cream cone.

sitting in the movie theater with my parents watching a movie, some typical Indian Bollywood masala film. post intermission i have an ice-cream cone in my hand filled with softie ice-cream. this is a rare treat, i have never had an ice-cream cone before. i have had ice-cream of course, on sticks, my favorite being choco-bar.
i enjoy my ice-cream cone even while watching the movie in a mesmerized state. i dig in to the cone with my little tongue, deeper and deeper as far as i can go. finally i cannot reach any deeper and in frustration i throw the cone away. a few minutes later my mom asks me what happened to my ice-cream. i tell her i finished it and i point to the cone on the ground a few seats away. she shakes her head and tells me the cone is edible too. 'now she tells me' i think 'well too late'. but for the rest of the film i watch the cone from the corner of my eye half wishing i could pick it up again. but i don't, more because if mom notices me eating the cone from off the ground she would definitely scold me.
now as i recount the tale i feel more ashamed about the unabashed littering i did back then. not my fault that is what everyone around me did, back then. yet there is a wistfulness for the uneaten cone and the little girl's ignorance.

a piece of inner child work
little girl i see you now. it is not your fault that you wasted the cone. you did not know that it was edible. you had no previous experience with it. i understand that you are sad that you got a rare treat but could not enjoy it fully. your parents ought to have told you before you threw the cone away that you could eat that as well. i understand too that you feel you cannot be mad at them because they gave you the cone in the first place. i understand your conflict in wanting to pick up the cone and eat it to find out what that hard cover shell might taste like. you were intrigued, how can cardboard be edible? sweet little girl, enjoy your movie. you will have plenty of chances to eat all kinds of ice-cream cones and there will even come a time when you will prefer to eat green vegetables like broccoli rather than ice-cream!

The crone

I am a wannabe crone
I wanna be a crone
I wanna be a crone
I wanna wanna wanna wanna wanna be a crone.
The crone is so cool
The crone is so old.
She can turn a fool into a pot of gold.
The crone is so wise
Wiser than her years (yes even hers)
The crone is also wiser than all of her peers.
Chorus
The crone is so juicy
And whacky to boot
Her laugh is a cackle
Oh she is such a hoot!
(if you met her you’d love her too)
She enjoys telling stories
And cures many an ache and ail
She knits up tales with her yarn
She can cook up remedies
With her herbs and plants
She’s a Wise old woman
She’s been there done that
She’s done there been that
She has witnessed LIFE and lived it too
There’s nothing she can’t do.
Chorus
Her home is a house
At the end of the town
(or the city or the village)
She lives by the sea
Or the tree, as the case may be
Her wit is her whip
Or, is it that her whip is her wit?
Anyhow, she doesn’t like intruders
So don’t you go bother her
For she will lash you with her sash
And drink you in her goulash
But should you need her truly
She’ll be with you surely and gladly
No problem is too big or small
She can handle them all
She will listen to your troubles
In such a compassionate way
They’ll be gone …Poof!
And you will feel like you are on a holiday.
Her counsel is clear, though often contrary
If you follow her advice
You will free yourself from vice and avarice
She can teach you a lesson
In such an emphatic fashion
That it will stay with you and serve you
Your whole life through
At the very least.
Chorus
The town’s lore is in her store
She knows who married who and exactly when
She knows who birthed who and exactly where
'Coz of course she was there
Right beside the mother,
Helping her, calming her, coaxing her, soothing her etc.
But back to the town’s lore
She’ll tell it to you
If you ask her nicely, politely
She even knows who copulated with who
and exactly how (Gasp)
But she won’t tell you that
Not for a 100 guineas or sous.
She knows a million recipes
Although she be no gourmet chef
The soup she can cook is so tasty and yummy
It’ll fill your belly, tickle your tummy,
And leave you feeling hale, hearty and rummy
Chorus
The crone is so awesome
She can train a possum
Although common sense is her tool
She can be uncommon to save a soul
The crone is a witch, a shaman, a sorceress
Of much cunning
Yet her heart is loving and nurturing
She can do a lot of good and some bad
But mostly she is beyond all of that
The crone has no morals
(though she does have values and sound ones at that)
No norms, no social codes to follow
She is free to be uncouth
Free to speak her truth
To sing out loud and Holler
Chorus
(the Jungian stanza)
The crone has read many a book
Or maybe none at all
What she knows she has gathered
From life’s experiences and observations
And intelleginces far and beyond
(who she met in her Active Imagination)
She can straddle her Shadow
And rise into the Netherland
She can wear this Persona or that
And float inot any social circle or swap
She can use her Ego to fulfill a goal or so
She married her Animus quite a while ago
and they are one not two
She rocks the Divine Child on her knee
and they can have such a ball
the Wise Old Man pays her a social call
every now and then, and seeks her advice secretly
The Joker, the Jester, the Clown
are just aces up her sleeve
Eros is an old pal and Death is a friend
she hasn’t met yet, but who is waiting to call
And she is ready. Oh, yes she is ready to go.
But while Death tarries
The Crone is in no hurry
She has no qualms, nor worries
For she is your mama’s mama’s mama
And she can do no wrong
Chorus
The crone is so wild
Wilder that the wolves of all of Yellowstone
The crone is so wise
Wiser than the wisdom of a hundred thousand tomes
She may be frail
She may be strong
But believe you me
She can wrap up her world into a song.

mystic indian healer in the bay area

and here is my new website for my vocation www.mystic-indian-healer.com

On offer are active listening, empathic space, compassionate presence, spiritual connection, intuitive healing, creative expression, rebirthing breathwork, systematic relaxation and regression, guided imagery, yoga nidra and resolve.

If you are looking for increased awareness and conscious living or are seeking help with emotional problems or psychological distress Meenal offers to be there for you and travel the road with you as you start/continue your journey of healing and awareness.

growing up hindu: a personal perspective

For me, Hinduism is strongly associated with the Indian subcontinent. So growing up as a Hindu is strongly linked with growing up in India and sometimes it is difficult for me to distinguish between the two. Yet it is also true that India houses many religions including Sikhism, Buddhism, Jainism, Islam, Christianity, Judaism, Zoroastrianism, Bahai faith etc. Quite a few of these faiths are regarded as subsets of Hinduism and that is because of the accepting and inclusive nature of Hinduism. It pretty much assimilates any new influences into itself and it is so broad in scope that it can do that fairly easily. As I appreciate the richness, intricacy and complexity of Hinduism I also appreciate more and more my exposure to it as I was growing up.



My father had a little shrine with idols and pictures of his favorite deities and gods. He spent and still spends around an hour each morning after his bath saying mantras in prayer and then doing his Surya-Namaskaras and Yogasanas. The man in the pciture below is not my father but the image does provide a feel of the prayer altar.



My mother would spend about five to ten minutes after bathing in front of the gods, murmuring her prayers. Her devotion was to her family. She always wore a sari and cooked all our meals and all our meals were cooked meals. If you are familiar with Deepak Chopra and his description of a balanced meal that is what we ate every day. My mother also wore the Mangalasutra a necklace with black beads and gold cups as a sign that she was a married woman. All her life she worked as a home maker. Again the woman below is not my mother, but the image recreates a feel of her and our kitchen.




My father worked as a civil engineer with the govt. and every three years we moved to a different city/town in India. We did not go to the temple on a regular basis. But Krishna was my pal and I reveled in the stories of his stealing butter and yoghurt because then I could steal Bournvita from the kitchen shelf with impunity. Temple visits were more about appreciating the architecture and the workmanship than about devotion.



I connected more with the religion through the stories I heard on my father’s lap and off it after a certain age. The Stories were about all the various gods and their doings, tales of valor about the Hindu kings of yore, moral tales from the Panchatantra that most often had animals as characters and of course little vignettes from the epics. There are two epics the Ramayana traces the life of Rama.

I can tell you a little story form there. I was very surprised after coming to the U.S. when I saw the squirrels here. They are larger than the ones in India and they do not have any marking on their back. The Indian squirrels have a tri-mark of light-dark-light on their backs. The story goes that King Rama was busy trying to build the bridge to Lanka to attack the king Ravana there who had captured his wife Sita and was holding her captive there. All of the God’s creatures were doing their best to help Rama. The little squirrel saw all the activity and picked up a stone on her back and did her bit to help. When Rama saw the squirrel struggling with a stone twice her size on her back, he was very touched and he picked up the squirrel and caressed her back. The lines of his fingers made a permanent mark on the squirrels back and all her kind as a token of Rama’s appreciation. And since Rama never came to the US the squirrels here do not have those marks!




Mahabharata is set in the time of Krishna the next avatar of Vishnu. Vishnu is part of the holy trinity Bramhaa-Vishnu-Shiva. Creator-maintainor-destoyer. Bramhaa is the creator and Vishnu is the maintainer. So as the administrator whenever things get out of balance Vishnu manifests himself on earth to set things right. The various avatars he has taken are that of fish, tortoise, boar, lion, dwarf, etc and according to some Buddha was his last avatar. The avatars seem to follow the story of evolution. Rama was a goody goody king, Krishna incorporates the dark side as well and Buddha is of course compassion personified.



Despite the diversity of gods there is one universal reality Bramhan, which can be realized by the individual soul Atman since they are essentially one. This is the vedic truth. The multiplicity of gods exist also to aid in bhakti and the realization of smaller goals. Since there are four aims dharma - duty, artha - money and worldly success, kama - worldly desires and moksha - liberation. Although I was exposed to these concepts off and on I only made coherent sense of them after taking a course in Indian philosophy at college.

But to come back to the stories I heard as a child.
Another story that I enjoyed although it exemplifies respect for one’s parents goes like this. Shiva and parvati have two sons. Kartik and ganesh. Kartik was a little jealous of ganesh since he thought the younger one was a favourite of his parents. In an effort at one-upmanship Kartik challenged his sibling to a race. Let us go around the world three times and see who comes first said kartik. Ganapati agreed. Kartik has the peacock as his vehicle and ganapati has a mouse. Kartik thought it was a sure bet that he would out-speed ganesh as he flew around the world three times. He returned to find ganapati sitting at his parents feet waiting patiently for kartik. How could you get here so fast spluttered kartik. Shiva-parvati laughed and explained to kartik that ganapati had circum-ambulated around them thrice and as ganesh explained my parents are my world and shiva-shakti being the primordial forces of the world kartik could not argue against the logic and had to concede defeat.



I connected with my religion also through the various festivals that we had. Diwali, is the festival of lights, and we light lamps or diyas and place them all around the house. We decorate the home entrance. We always got new clothes. We made and ate specific sweets and delicacies. We got fire-crackers and burst them every evening (not unlike the fourth of July celebrations here). Each of the days is marked by a different kind of puja. One is to Lakshmi the goddess of wealth, another to Saraswati, goddess of learning, another for appreciating and giving thanks to the tools of your trade and another day for honoring your spouse. But basically Diwali celebrates Rama’s return to his kingdom after many years of exile.



Dussera celebrates his victory over Ravana and more generally the triumph of good over evil. Ravana is the ten headed evil king of Lanka. At the community level huge effigies of Ravana and his brothers are put up and set on fire.



often a skit is put up and scenes from the epic are enacted over ten days, not unlike the passion plays of Jesus’s life. However traditionally all characters were played by men, even the role of Rama’s wife Sita, since girls/women from respectable families could not perform in public. But definitely things are a-changing.



Then there is Holi, the festival of color when every one splashes color and/or throws water on every one else. This is the great equalizer festival, when gender, age, caste, class norms get a break. The origin is to celebrate the killing of the demoness Holi by Krishna but more generally the Rasa leela of Krishna and his gopis.



Rakhee is a festival where a sister ties a little thread on her brother’s wrist to remind him to protect her. Ganapati puja and Durga puja are big in different parts of the country.





So the values and moral codes or dharma that are a large part of Hinduism were transmitted in very many ways. The belief in karma and reincarnation too I learned through osmosis by being in that culture. My attitude to reincarnation has certainly come full circle. I have heard enough accounts of children recalling their past life that I am a firm believer now. Past life regression may or may not yield accurate recall, but when the past life information comes up as a knowing one can feel the difference and be sure. I think if you believe in the soul or Atma you almost certainly have to believe in reincarnation and life as a school. Samsara is the cycle of birth-death-rebirth because of action and re-action and the way out is to stay non-reactive but responsive. As long as you are caught in the action reaction cycle you are trapped in the veil of Maya.



As therapists we need to stay non-reactive yet responsive. We respond to the client’s cry for help when necessary and stay non-reactive when they are acting out. We need to be accepting towards our clients and we need to hold them in our space which often might mean expanding our boundaries. This is what Hinduism is about. We allow them to change us as we allow them to be changed by us. Thus, it is a process of assimilation. We can see each little break-through taking place in the client as a death of an earlier habit and a new life beginning with the new learning. As long as the client is caught in the chain of action and reaction, change does not occur. It is when old habits are destroyed that therapy yields results. We might have to come in different avatars to counter different problems that the client has. Yalom says a different therapy for each client I say a different avatar of the therapist for each of the client’s problems.