Just A Little Red.

I remember being at an Annual Samelan in Malaysia, when during the Heart-to-Heart session, a girl sitting next to me asked me in a whisper if she was allowed to do chaur seva while she was on her period.

I was young(er), and dumbfounded that she had even asked me that. I had been brought up to not even consider that as a valid question... it sounded so ridiculous to me that such a natural process would stand in the way of me and my Guru. Still, thinking myself as immature and unqualified to answer her, I urged her to ask the panel, feeling certain that they would knock some sense into this little thing.

Imagine my distress when a lady from the panel answered quite the opposite: she advised the girl to avoid seva in the Darbar Sahib during her cycle. For the sake of cleanliness or hygiene or something equally preposterous.

That was just a little too much BS for my ‘immature’ spirit to handle, and I recall being possessed into springing up and saying quite forcefully that I completely disagreed with that statement.

Artist unknown

I was certainly not as eloquent as Rupi Kaur when she said: “i bleed each month to help make humankind a possibility. my womb is home to the divine. a source of life for our species. whether i choose to create or not”. Wow.

Instead I ranted along the lines of equality (So Kyo Manda Aakhiay… “how can you call Her unclean, She who gives birth to Kings”) and empowerment (I may not have been able to spell that then but I knew what it meant). Frankly, if hygiene was the real concern, then no one in the Samelan would have been allowed anywhere near the Guru given the state of the toilets on the grounds.

I’m certain I must have sounded like a loudmouth on her way to becoming a rebellious teenager (oh how they must have pitied my mother!). But I hadn't spoken up because she was giving birth to any doubt in my mind. I was just determined to not let the other little girls in the room have any confused notions about their beauty and divinity, and certainly not from another woman (it seems a whole lot worse when it comes from our mothers, aunts and sisters, whom we look to for strength and validation).

If you think this was an issue of the past... how I wish it was. This question continues to be asked and answered at our camps to this very day. My measure of the issue has evolved from how it is answered to why have we made our girls so insecure that they feel the need to ask it at all?   

Artist unknown

I am at a loss… I feel so silly even having to justify these arguments in today’s day and age, and in this way of life where I seriously thought that we had dealt with these issues like some 500 years ago. I would like to think that this misguidance is an opinion of the few rather than the norm, but it is alarming how many of these ‘few’ have access to a microphone and a stage.

The Guru that they are trying to keep us away from, that Guru Nanak, is the same one who taught my parents to give me the same opportunities they would give my brother. In fact, I believe they've spent more time building my self-worth and confidence than they did his, knowing the battles I’d have to face in society on the days that lay ahead.

The loudmouthed (opinionated), rebellious (spirited) teenager is a little older today. If a little girl asks me that question now, I hope I will rant less and enlighten more :). In addition to equality and empowerment, I would also say that from a health perspective, hygiene is important and women should take care of themselves (every day of the month, not just a precious few), and approach anything (not just a prayer room) with a clean mind and body. Just as one would after rock-climbing, or making those (dreaded) round rotis, or climbing a tree, or playing in the mud with a pet dog.

I end my gloomy musing with one hopeful experience. Very recently, my young cousin led a gup-chup style session at a camp where she debunked period myths with a group of young girls. A few of us oldies were invited to share our wisdom (ahem!), but she was the conductor and I was so proud of her big-sista-tell-me-your-secrets style, and for breaking the boundaries for the girls to speak openly about their fears and experiences. It was chummy, funny, and most importantly, taboo-breaking. The message was that it was a big deal that wasn't really a big deal.  

   

There is something special about this Red. It brings forth life.

And yet there is nothing special about this Red. It’s just another biological process. Like breathing.

Can’t stop a woman from bringing forth life or breathing, now, can we?

(Just in case you were hesitating, the answer is no, you cannot).

  

 ~ thanking dear Meerat for leading me to Rupi Kaur's resonant words, and my cousin for giving me hope!

Black and Blue.

When the fuss with The Dress (you know the one) kicked off last week, some people said to me: who cares? It's just a dress!

It WAS just a dress. But now the Salvation Army is using just that dress to make a statement. You may love the Salvation Army or you may hate it... But today I too ask: why don't we see the 'black and blue' when we are the cause of it?

And don't you dare hide behind the defence that you've never raised a hand against a woman. Every time you think a woman is less than a man, every time you take away her right to be an equal in your home, every time you gender stereotype her role, every time you make a derogatory comment about her appearance, every time you deny her an opportunity to grow, and every time you sexualise her as an object, you give her the 'black and blue'.

See your colours for what they really are.

Happy Women's Day, all.

One Pail at a Time

~ for my Manji ~

A few days ago, Mataji remarked to me that I should write about Port Klang.

“Port Klang?” I looked at her, blank and confused.

“You know… what happens when they go to Port Klang after the phull chugna. The pails and all.”

My heart clenched, and as I had many times in the past, I felt shame. Shame and guilt, at the thought that once, I had been right there, on the boat, in the thick of things, and unable to prevent it from happening.

But I’m getting ahead of myself; let me start at the beginning. (Or the end, as it were).

Our faith teaches us that there is no finality in what we call death. The physical body may perish, but the soul just moves on to its next phase of being. Which is all very nice on a spiritual and intellectual level, but these words offer little comfort when such loss actually happens. We are beings of attachment, and we experience grief at the physical separation that ensues when a beloved departs. It is a painful time, and also a confusing one. 

 Will people come to pay their respects at the house? How many do you think? How do we send the message out? Have we arranged for a hearse? Do we cook? Can we cater the food at such short notice? What clothes do we set out for our loved one? Who will lead the Paath, do the Ardaas? Do we have Kirtan? When is the Bhog? Which Gurdwara? Loke Yew or crematorium? Today or tomorrow? White or black? Akhand Paath or Sehaj Paath?

And on, and on, and on. So many decisions, so unexpected, and so little time. Everything around this process is so delicate, and we tread the minutes that follow with such sensitivity and emotion. Some things we get right, and some things we don’t. In a disorienting mixture of Giani Ji’s guidance, common practice, and superstition, we somehow pull through, and things fall into place. 

But I digress. The point of this post actually begins several days later, once the fire has cooled down, and close family members make their way to the cremation ground yet again for a ceremony beautifully termed as “phull chugna”, which literally translates to picking flowers. During these poignant moments, as we collect what is left, we reflect on how ridiculously absurd our inflated egos are. This ceremony is very close to my heart; it is quiet as only a few people participate, there is no noise and rush, and our hearts have had a few days to begin the healing journey of acceptance.

And here the calm is interrupted, because now come the Pail, the Gunny Sack, and the Towel, and everything changes.

Now, two things. First, I'm aware that customs differ from place to place, and from community to community. I hope you will read with the intent of seeing the point of what I'm writing, and not brush it off if it isn't widespread enough to make the headlines. Second, I feel that I owe it to you to declare here that the rest of this piece will not be bringing you a sense of peace, but will instead be putting you at dis-ease. Tighten your stomachs, and read on. 

The Pail is used for the milk bath; to clean the larger fragments from the body that survive the flame. These are then transferred into a potli, or cloth pouch, and since everything is wet, the Pail serves its second function: as a practical means to transport the potli. Of course you know that the pail is made of plastic, and with good reason: it lasts a long time. Look at your backyards and you'll probably see pails and tubs that have been thriving for many years.

The Gunny Sack is used to hold everything else that is left, mainly ashes. In the old days, they were made of natural fibres such as jute, but these days, we more commonly use those made of Polypropylene. Which isn't bad in itself: Polypropylene is easily recycled and from what I've read, does not release harmful elements into the environment when disposed of. However, being extremely durable, it is a problem in that it takes an age to deteriorate. Heck, even Jute does not dissolve overnight. So, unless reused and recycled, regardless of the material, both types can cause environmental damage.

The Towel is used for drying hands after the phull chugna. We can talk about what material it is made of and how bio-degradable it is, but I reiterate what I said above: that unless it is reused or recycled, it ends up as waste, and we already have a landfill problem on our hands. Go on; Google "landfill" and be horrified at the disturbing images that the search returns.

In our tradition, we surrender all that is left of the physical body back to the elements, and so we make our way to a source of water. In the Kuala Lumpur/ Selangor community, the most common option is to head to Port Klang, charter a boat, and release the last traces of physical existence into the sea.

Here I pause, and proceed consciously, knowingly, and determinedly. I am certain that many will not like what I have to say, and fewer may accept it.

This idea of releasing what remains into the sea is unfortunately adhered to with such obstinate doggedness, that the belief is that everything that touches those final traces should also be discarded in the same way. True to this line of thought, the (plastic) Pail, the (jute/ Polypropylene) Gunny Sack, and the (easily reused) towel are carelessly tossed in as well. Actually no, carelessly is not the right word. Deliberately.

Shocked? Oh yes.

On my first time on that boat, everything was a new experience. My brother and I sat back, and let those who ‘knew’ take charge and lead the way. I was so unprepared, and time moved faster my ability to react, to say something, to do anything, to get in between the Pail and the water.

I spent the journey home with my mind so troubled at the thought of all those Pails sitting at the bottom of the sea, and all that sea life dead from choking on bits of jute and Polypropylene. All those corals and reefs destroyed, and all those birds killed from eating strangled fish. I can go on and on, but I suspect you already know a little about the circle of life and how this is all going to come fully round and stab us (or worse, our children) in the face soon enough.

But here, just in case you missed it, is how what we do on one end of the planet affects birds on one of the remotest islands on earth.

http://www.midwayjourney.com/film-trailer/ 

Ever heard of the Great Pacific Garbage Patch? Google at your service, once again. 

And WE do this. Day in, day out, we do this.

We, the children of gentle Har Rai, the one who passionately preserved every flower and every leaf he saw. We call him our Guru, and we celebrate Sikh Environment Day with our children by drawing pictures of trees and talking about recycling, and then we get on those boats and throw pails in the sea.

We, the students of Bhagat Puran Singh, whose eyes were sharp enough to look out for the ants in his path. We watch the movie on his life and drop money in donation boxes, and then we feed the fish plastic.

The wretchedness of it all, that even after Man has taken his final breath, he still leaves behind a sea of pollution in his name. Literally. I have days when I want to shake myself out of fury, just for being human. How dreadful we are; we loot and poison and destroy this Earth without a moment’s thought that She too is a living being, a Mother, a part of the Ek that we chant so religiously at the start of Jap Ji.

But at the same time, look how beautiful we are, and how capable of change.

Once off the boat, my brother and I shared that episode with our family, and together we are now more prepared for what will come, and what to do in defence of our Mata Dharatt Mahatt. As much as we would like the world to change overnight, given the fragility around final rites, the solution can only come through conversation and patience. 

To explain to an elderly person on that boat, that no, we don’t need to do this, is not easy. There will be lots of unwelcome free advice at that time, and he is a simple man in an immensely emotional final moment; so we must prepare him for it in advance.

To talk to our families, now. To share with them what happens, why it shouldn't, and what we must do when confronted by it. 

To take charge when the situation is unfolding, and negotiate on behalf of our Mother. To do that with determined compassion, and compassionate determination.

To educate those we know, on how our seemingly little and unconscious actions affect the land we walk on, the water we drink, the air we breathe, and the creatures we share this space with. And to not just talk about it, but to live it.

After that first time, we've since walked off the boat with rescued Pails, Gunny Sacks, and Towels. I cannot tell you how much comfort, relief, and victory I have felt, knowing that the final act in the physical lives of our loved ones was not to leave behind a more tainted Earth for their next of kin.

And that MUST be their legacy. To return to the elements as purely, as cleanly, and as simply as possible. To leave with nothing, to carry nothing, to stain nothing.  

I’m one little person, and I’m just doing my little bit to protect my only Home, one Pail at a time.

Please... do it with me.

Note: Thank you to Veerji Harbhajan for giving this post a voice through Asia Samachar. Blessings!

No more, please.

As a daughter and sister of pilots, this has been a heavy, heavy year.

Never did I imagine that I'd be thinking of fallen wings and broken petals three times in the same year.

I know that many disasters, calamities, accidents, and deaths take place every minute, and in every corner of the globe. But these three took place in mine; within my four walls, and in my safe and protected space where all planes take off and land, safely.

No more, please.

In memory of QZ8501.

*************************************************

"A large wheat field dotted with purple flowers and Queen Anne’s lace."

Could have been any of us.

MH17 in my (heavy) heart.

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RefreshRefreshRefreshRefreshRefreshRefreshRefreshRefreshRefreshRefresh.

Waiting with my countrymen for some news, any news. This is too close to home.

MH370 in my heart.

The 'Happy" in New Year

All around me are messages of holidays and celebrations.

As I stand on the LRT platform, I see construction workers toiling away at a site. They are most probably foreigners, far away from home. 

And what of their year, I wonder? Was it full of good cheer too? Given the poor living conditions they endure, and their limited rights as migrant workers, I'm not too sure. 

Gloomy thoughts on a rainy afternoon. Must be kinder to them, Harkiren. They too are in search of a better life.

So, where are you from?

To date, I’ve been asked if I’m Indian, Punjabi, Malaysian, British, Gujerati, Spanish, Bengali, and just yesterday, South African.

I love this question, because I believe in roots, and mine are pretty strong. But I've learnt along the way that not everyone shares my enthusiasm for it.

As a Malaysian, growing up in a country where race is at the forefront of everything, while the answer may be obvious, the question of nationality, race and origin is sometimes a delicate one.

While I was studying in the UK, I received mixed responses. Most fellow students were earnest about exchanging stories on their origins… diversity was part of the attraction of being there, after all. But to my great surprise, a large number of ethnic Indians had an issue with it. Where-are-you-from was met with ”the UK”; where-are-you-originally-from was met with “the UK” and rolled eyes, and oh-my-god-what-is-your-ethnicity-for-heaven’s-sake was met with “well my grandparents are xxx but I’m British, obviously”.

Yes, obviously.

I was at a loss as to why they found it so difficult to acknowledge the culture from which they came. Why such a strong need to disassociate? To me it was heart-warming that non-ethnically Indian friends were curious enough about the Indian subcontinent to recognise that within it exist dozens of unique cultures across the different states. Not to mention that a lot of them had roots not in India, but in East Africa. What a heritage to come from!

So after a few years of this, my questions evolved into greater sophistication: so you’re probably from here but where is your extended family originally from? Geez.. what a waste of breath. Over time, I grew more hesitant and resorted to Google-ing to discover the origins of surnames (clearly I am obsessed with this question!).

These days, this question is coming back to find me again. Joining the UNDP family has been delightful, because I feel so keenly the celebration of origin and ethnicity in the way we work, dress and speak. It is often the second question asked of anyone, right after “what is your name/ how should I call you”. It’s a badge that my colleagues carry ever so proudly; we decorate our offices and tables and desktops with reminders of who we are, and how in spite of all that, we are working towards a common goal of empowering lives. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would be able to touch so many corners of the world just by going to the office! So rich is this environment that yesterday, when I heard a colleague speaking in an American accent, my thought was “that’s interesting.. how did an American end up in this office?”. And then realising that I was in America, and really it wasn’t that surprising after all! :)

From where I am today, my courage is back, and I feel like I have been given the licence to shamelessly ask this of anyone, because it matters to me and the work that I do.

My response to the question from yesterday:

“South African? No, I’m not (smiling). I’m Malaysian, but my family is from India. We are Punjabi.

And you? Which part of India are you from?”

“Actually, I grew up in Zambia.”

Welcome to my world! 

Thanksgiving

I've always loved photos like this one. Life looks so perfect, so idyllic. Blue sky, boats, open fields, and the time to sit with another soul.

But all this talk of Thanksgiving, and today I see this through a different lens. My camera cannot capture the hardship that comes with the life of a farmer or a fisherman. They are at the mercy of weather patterns, crop diseases, and probably the worst of all, their middle men and end customers (that's you and me, by the way). 

Today I am seeing the food on my plate in a completely different way. My mind is travelling all the way to the hand that sowed the seed, nurtured it with absolute tenderness, and reaped it with such hope that this season would be a good one. 

The idea that a family's entire week might be affected by the few grains on my plate - this brings immense perspective.

It is your beads of sweat, and your worry, that lines my stomach. My thanks seems like such a poor exchange for this gift.

The First Step a.k.a. The Loss of Starry-Eyed Notions

For many months I had visualised that moment. 

Standing on the final steps of the bus. Looking at the red earth beyond the last step. There may be a stone or two, some clumped earth, or even a footprint. Perhaps my knees would wobble after stepping down, due to the unevenness of the ground. I think I would inhale, a deep inhale. There would be the scent of mixed everythings, including the dust of the land and smoke from the bus. I may be tired from the many hours of sitting, and yet restless to begin. I imagined I would see fellow pilgrims gathering their gear, an upwards path visible in the distance, and what would seem like little ants creeping up slowly. I figured I would be approached by an enthusiastic chaiwala, and of course I would gratefully accept. His name would be Chotu, obviously. 

View from the trek

I would then stand back, taking it all in, my hand covering my little tea glass to contain the heat of the precious little. I would tense my shoulders, pick up my kit, and take the first step. It would all be a bit like that last scene in the Sound of Music, when the Von Trapp family trekked over the mountains to escape Austria. With a Sikh twist. We might replace "Climb Every Mountain" with Beynti Chaupayi, and maybe the long flowing grass with dry earth, but really, that would be the only difference.

This is how my journey to Hemkunt would begin, once we got off the busses at Gobind Ghaat.

Entrance to Gobind Ghaat, the base of the trek

Clearly, clearly, it had been a while since I was last in India. 

I had forgotten that you cannot lock India in a woven basket and hypothesise on what lies inside; for like a snake charmer who bears the risk of snakebite, you have to lift the lid and allow yourself to be hypnotised by Her dance.

You cannot chart the turn that your journey will take, you cannot follow a map; for like the milk She blesses into Ghee, She churns every possible route and outcome in Her consciousness, and delights in picking the most impetuous one. 

You cannot hope to keep your feet on the ground; for like the pilgim mass that will sweep you in its embrace, separate you from those you know, and unexpectedly release you in unfamiliar places, She will deliver blows to your stomach, compassion to your heart, tears to your eyes, sickness to your body, and bliss to your soul.

Her weapon of choice is shock, and She uses it unflinchingly. Her soul is unruly; She will not be tamed. 

Enter the den, and survive, O Man.

The lure of marigolds

The romantic myth of my first step was quickly dispelled. Let's revisit my earlier reverie.

Standing on the final steps of the bus. Looking at the red earth beyond the last step.

CHECK. There was also a frayed plastic bag, mixed in the earth, to add to the view.

There may be a stone or two, some clumped earth, or even a footprint. 

CHECK. Small stones, many footprints.

Perhaps my knees would wobble after stepping down, due to the unevenness of the ground.

CHECK. I did lose my balance.

But not because of the stones, oh no. I was ambushed, ambushed, I tell you, by an army of pithus (porters).

Each face earnest, and hungry to be selected. Each mouth promised to be able to carry anything in the baskets on their backs: luggage, food, even children. Each frame small; most of them are Nepali farmers who come to the region in the summer for this type of work. 

Bahadur bhaiya, one of our pithus. This was bhaiya's first summer working at Hemkunt. 

Ma liked him instantly for his sweetness :)

In all our bewilderment, we attempted to formulate a strategy to circumvent the mob and make it at least 2 steps away from the bus. Forget it! By now, our newly arrived bus had drawn significant interest, and the siege was joined by porters and their mules, guides, dhaba-owners (breakfast! lunch! dinner! NUDELS!!), walking stick sellers, and every other human in that square who believed he had God's own solution to making our trek a smooth one.

Anything you need, HA!

At this rate, getting to Hemkunt seemed like the least of my worries… I first needed to get to my travel gear, a mere 6 feet away! :)

And so there it was, the Loss of Starry-Eyed Notions. There was no submissive step down, no liberating deep breath. No sea of pilgrims, no intoxicating scent of cha. And no opportunity to pause and take it all in. 

Elbowed by humans and bags on one side, and badgered by pithus and mule owners on the other, I made a quick adjustment to all other naive fancies I had earlier formed on the days to come.

  

Designated parking area at Gobind Ghaat. All modes of transport welcome!

And then, a corner smile. A knowing shake of the head. You did it again, Mother India. Aimed Your stun gun and unsaddled me. 

As mischievous as Your methods may be, here, I am reminded that the only thing that exists right now, is right now.

Throw out the guidebook, and surrender to the vortex of Your whirlpool.

  

Sign along the trek. SO appropriate :)

I turned to look at my mother, and we both laughed. Here it goes!

And we took the first step.

North Star, leading the way, as always :)

~ notes from my road, Hemkunt 2012 ~

When the Saints Go Marching In

I have to say. This thing they call meditation? Pretty freaking cool.

Before the Siri Singh Sahib’s teachings and I found each other, I’d been fed all sorts of hogwash by all sorts of well-meaning people. 

“When you meditate, you will be at peace”. “You will see a light moving towards you”. “Time will fly by.” “You will feel still and calm… completely relaxed.”

Oh what will it take?!

Photo credit to Surabhi Nambiar

But but but...I am not at peace; rather my mind rakes up some serious filth from dark, scary corners that I didn’t even know existed. 

Nope, no light moving towards me; only me running after random specks and swivels forming and vanishing under my eyelids. 

Time most certainly NOT flying by; I mean, there is the Hare and the Tortoise, and then there is the Snail, you know? Every second.. every blistering second..!!

Still and calm? It’s like a bag of ferrets let loose in my body with all the itching and twitching. ANY excuse to take a break. Oh! Need to use the bathroom. Oh! Throat is dry. Oh! Hair on my forehead just moved. Oh! Ran out of excuses so going to go and look for another one. 

Yeah, like that wan.

So either all those well-meaning people didn’t tell me the full story, or I’m just so damn cursed that nothing will save me. 

Optimist that I am, I’m going with the first possibility :p. 

I now know, thanks to the Siri Singh Sahib/ Yogi Bhajan/ Yogi Ji, that my experience is perfectly normal. The thought that I’m normal is as alien to me as it probably is to many of you, but I’m (obviously) inclined to agree with him. Not that it isn’t possible to have a beautiful and blissful meditation, which many do, and even I have been blessed to have had on some occasions. But on the whole, it’s a lot of work. The mind is like a pit with all sorts of creepy crawlies multiplying in there... cleaning it takes time, persistence, and perhaps most of all, constance. 

You can ask a thousand people about their meditative experience, and probably hear just as many versions of it. Everyone has their own creepy crawlies, and every moment presents different ones. For me, in the midst of all the Filth and Specks and Snails and Ferrets, I’ve come to realise that meditation ignites the tiny (and suppressed) creative side of my (accountant) brain. Thoughts and sentences and projects take shape in my head, and By God I am a Genius for thinking up most of these. We’re talking some serious smarts here, people.

(Note to self: Ego getting out of hand... attention required! :p)

What I love most about these ignitions are the Lightbulb Moments that often follow. Epiphanies, revelations, perspective. They rush in; racing and stumbling over each other, in an absolute hurry to make themselves be heard and known. A reminder to this host body, wallowing in self-pity, consumed by negativity and engrossed in the “why me” complex, that you are so completely blessed it is almost ridiculous. Outrageous that one little person, in the context of this ever-expanding universe, can be so wholly bathed/ drenched (almost drowning!) in blessings.

And so it was Lightbulbed to me on this morning of Yogi Ji’s birthday, while (attempting; got to be honest) to meditate at Chayo. During the Guru Ram Das chant, I thought to myself, you blessed, blessed, blessed girl, everywhere you turn, you are surrounded by divine sanggat. 

O my mind, meditate forever on the Lord.

Photo credit to Angad Singh

My own little Saints, EVERYwhere. Our home has always had a Darbar; I have known no loneliness amongst the pillars that are my family. I have the Ulu Yam clan; the laps in which I have grown. My Samelan community; from which has emerged a lifelong supply of friends and inspiration. My London soul sisters and brothers; whom I have no words to describe, but cherish with a London-shaped hole in my heart. My sisterhood from Women’s Camp; who make being beautiful, bountiful, and blissful seem so easy. The Setapak sangees; who I sing and seek with during rainbows and stormclouds. The Chayo family; that I cling on to for doses of sanity in the eye of the city-life hurricane. My husband and newly-gained NM family; which I’m so so so grateful for, knowing that I have the BEST company on the roads that lie ahead. EVERYwhere. 

My markers, my checkpoints, my lift-uppers, my guiding forces, my rocks. There is no escape from these stalkers, I tell you. At every step of the way, every bend in the road, every climb uphill and every bumble down below, they stand there, glowing so bright that it hurts my eyes and brings me to my knees in gratitude.

My Beloved Guru, thank you, thank you, thank you, for marching in all these Saints to keep an eye on this little person. 

I see you, each of you. I thank you, love you, bless you, pray for you, bow to you, and hold you in the lightest and brightest corners of my heart. 

All my love.