He loves me, he loves me not

Zafar is sulking.

...

In all the years that he has been a part of our lives, I have seen him:

...

- happy (when people, any people, are in sight);

- dazed (in the early morning or after durians);

- bored (when the cats/ squirrels/ other dogs/ any neighbourhood creatures come by to eat his food);

- stubborn (when you say don’t run out of the gate, and he runs faster);

- in panic (when there is a thunderstorm, or fireworks during the festive season)

- apprehensive (when he sees bags lying around and boots being opened, because he knows someone is going away); and

- skinny as a bean (when someone does go away and the poor fella stops eating because he misses them).

...

I am ignored.

...

But he has never sulked. In fact the word I would really like to use is merajuk. Sulking doesn’t seem to translate well enough.

...

Yet here he is, at the ripe old age of 11-going-on-12, and he is merajuk-ing. Even more worryingly, he seems to be only behaving that way towards me. With everyone else, it is business as usual. But he won’t even raise an eyebrow in my direction. My comings and goings are unmonitored. When I call his name, I am ignored.

...

Me, of all people! Me, who has spoilt him rotten and still talks to him in baby sounds to this day (he is 80 years old in human years). Me, who sneaks bits of food off the dining table for him to snack on while we’re having dinner (papaya is a favourite). Me, who threatened to go on a hunger strike when initially Pitaji wouldn’t allow him to come sit with us on the deck (but he eventually relented). Yes, that me.

...

He came close enough to sniff my trousers one day, and then turned away, disinterested. That was a happy day indeed. Other than that, complete blank. Mega merajuk.

...

The good days of lazing on the grass.

...

I look back to more joyful memories. There was a time when he absolutely adored me. Like absolutely. All I had to do was walk past, and he would run forward in search of a cuddle. I was Numero Uno for feeding him fruit. The sound of my car up the hill and he would be waiting at the gate. Tail-wagging at record-breaking velocities should I call his name.

...

It has taken me a few days to realise that something is off.

...

First reaction: Errr what am I missing? Where is Zafar and why have I not seen him in 4 days?

...

Second reaction: Come here little puppy! Here little puppy… hello? ZAFAR, WHERE ARE YOU!

...

Third reaction: Aww man… why does he not love me anymore?

...

Fourth reaction: Gawd what an ungrateful little thing! All I’ve done is love him and be good to him and now he is completely blanking me out.

...

Fifth reaction: Zafar, this is not funny anymore. You come over here and I’m going to sort you out!

...

Sixth reaction: Depressed. Even our own dog won’t look at me. AND I don’t have enough shoes to make me happy. Hit rock bottom.

...

And now, there is light. Maybe he is not the problem, but I am?

...

It dawns on me that everything about Zafar is constant. His love for us (and ALL other living things) is pure and unsuspecting. He really does love wholly and without judgement.

...

But just like every other relationship, even this one needs two to hold the balance. And I have neglected him for days – rushing off in the mornings, returning home late, disappearing to do other things in my free time. My Zafar-time has been reduced to nothingness. But I didn’t dwell on it because you know… he’s Zafar! He has always been there; surely he would always continue to be there regardless of whether I spent any time with him or not.

...

But Zafar had decided to take a stand. When you were moving between London and KL, fine, you were forgiven. So much to do, so little time at home. But now that you’re fully here? What is your excuse now? You can’t just take me for granted and expect me to follow you around like a lost puppy (pun intended :p).

...

Our home works around Zafar's preferences. Carpets are moved to make way for nap time.

...

And there it is. My lesson in taking things for granted. The things that fall into that list are obviously many, but this time I’m really just focussing on the amazing people (and dog!) in my life.

...

Funnily enough I thought I was getting better at this. At one time I even made a list of people without which my life would turn grey, and made a point of letting them know that my rainbow exists because of the wonder they bring to it. Of course the words used/ approach varied depending on the relationship (e.g. my lovely grandparents vs. the big tree in Phuaji’s neighbour’s garden) but essentially I grew conscious of the fact that we all need some form of recognition in our lives, and it is simply wonderful to know, really know, because someone has told you, how valuable you are to them. Not even a handful of words, but said rightly, and they are enough to plaster a big silly droopy smile on someone’s face.

...

But words don’t always work. Believe me, I tried them with Zafar. When I first realised that we had a problem, I tried the shortcuts to cheat him into loving me again.

...

Sweet talk:

Ooo Zafar, how is my little bubbloo this morning?? Little schweetums you’re cho beautful!

Failed.

...

Bribery:

Look Zafar, I have some papaya here! You want some? Come here then!

Failed.

...

Force:

Ajaa (come here)! Bayth (sit)! Chall (let’s go)!

Failed.

...

Guilt:

Ziffy… all these years I've fed you and lookd after you and this is what I get in return?

Failed.

...

Which goes to show that sometimes, in some relationships, it’s not enough to just say it. There is no end to heart-warming expressions we have access to these days (as demonstrated above). The ultimate clinch, however, comes from backing them up with the act of making time. Maybe with some relationships there is this unwritten and undeclared expectation that words need to be backed up by being accessible to each other, both when we plan to make time, and more so we don’t. When I know that you will put aside your drama to make time for mine, then we’re home.

...

No doubt, in this respect, I have failed miserably. As highlighted to me by our perfect-in-every-way Zafar.

...

Bliss after a ball game.

...

So. In conclusion. I have some damage control to think about with regards to my relationship with Zafar. I could have just about survived knowing that I was Number Four on his list, but right now I think I’ve been bumped off completely.

...

How do I fix this? He gives me so much love, and I think the two pats on the head he is getting from me these days just aren’t cutting it.

...

I need to find a way to take him for walks on some mornings. When I have dinner at home, we will sit together again, as we used to (I still have faith in his love for papayas!). And I think it’s time to bring back the ball games and Jacob’s crackers.

...

Thank you, Zafar, for being my chum, my great love, and my teacher. Big kiss and I looooovve you!!! xx

...

Ok gtg. The weather is just right for a ball game. Zafar, aaja!

Just cardboard?

My boxes have arrived from London.

Zafar has to share his territory for a few days

...

I thought that this moment would bring me Sadness; now that the last pieces of my life in London have left and come to join me here. Everything of mine would be at this end of the world, and London would become a stranger’s land (although the weekly ‘Planned Engineering Works’ emails from TfL do keep me updated on disruptions to the Central Line – no service between Newbury Park and Grange Hill this weekend!).

Luckily for me, a love-connection is not so easily lost, or broken. You do not love a place because your belongings are there; you love it because it holds people and experiences that are dear to you (and maybe because you miss the walking and the food – Malaysia is neither walker- nor vegetarian-friendly).

Thankfully, memories and moments I have plenty of. Of course there is also my other reality: that I am happy, grateful and oh-so blessed to be in my family’s home too (my favourite part of the day is when we all crowd around the breakfast table in the evening, Zafar included!) – therefore the emotion of sadness would be misplaced.

Maybe I should feel Relief? That my boxes survived their 2-month journey across seas, canals, oceans and straits, left the Suez unscathed, were ignored by pirates, and passed customs officers without hassle (or pilferage). I am of course highly envious of their expedition – I’ve only made the trip by air, but a voyage by sea, how thrilling (let’s add it to the list)! I have yet to check for damage, but the boxes were taped at every angle and I have a feeling that when I open them I will be greeted by the scent of my old flat.

Or Disappointment, that it took only 4 boxes to pack up a life and move it. How could everything I own have fit into them and why-oh-why did I not shop more before I left (thinking especially of the amber Portsmouth shoes, new edition of The Prophet, and ILoveLondon kitsch that was left to tease me from shop windows)? God knows when I will be reunited with Amazon or Daunt’s or Monsoon or Paperchase (although Accessorize has been spotted, all cheer!). This thought is short-lived, though – my room is already filled to the brim with KL-junk, and many an evening has been spent by Pitaji and me standing at the doorway to my room, thinking: where are we going to put the rest of it?!?! We are forced to embark on a mission of installing new shelves.

Restlessness. I have had 12 homes in my short life (now moving back to #9) and have come to love my nomadic existence. In my childhood the moves were further apart, but lately I seem to be living out of a suitcase, what with the trips to KL (3 in 2010 alone!), sleepovers at a friend’s in the Far East (Stratford), and a life in audit (there is no place like Burton-on-Trent, really). Moving can be frustrating (what, another box!), but in exchange it is detoxifying. Another opportunity to clear out things I don’t need (usually very few), get things I do (usually very many), reconsider my perspective on which items are important and where they should be placed (feng shui of the soul), rearrange my possessions just for the kick of it (yay!), and practice detachment (although admittedly this one is progressing rather slowly given that I now have more stuff than I ever did). Given all this, having everything back in one place is too (physically) grounding. (I think I have root-phobia).

(I have suddenly realised that my love for exclamation marks is surpassed only by my love for parentheses!). I make joke, I am tickled pink.

I love that phrase: tickled pink.

And there is no denying it: the feeling of Resignation looms as well. I have been home for a month now and have been living in sin (read: (1) my table is a frightful mess of files, cables, bags, and whatever-else-is-under-that-pink-scarf; (2) the lounge chair is covered in clothes to be mended/ sorted/ ironed; and (3) the suitcase is still on the floor, unemptied). This is shocking because (1) I like things in order and am an obsessive scrubaholic; (2) Mataji likes things in order and is an obsessive tidyupaholic; and (3) at one (tiny) point in time my brother’s room looked neater than mine. The excuse so far has been that let everything get here, it will be easier to sort it all in one go once I (1) have an estimate of how much in each category I have; (2) figure out what belongs where; and (3) catalogue all my books (Hargobind, it has been noted that Three Cups of Tea and the God Delusion are not on my shelves). And now that the boxes are here, the amnesty period is over.

But for now, let me rest with Wonder. I turn to the far reaches of my memory to look for what could be in the boxes, but because I packed everything away so quickly it’s all a blur. Bar a few well-used things, a large part of me cannot remember what is in there. I keep trying to picture my old room to recall what would have been packed away, but nothing stands out, except for my bright yellow Argentinean sun (that stayed with me through all my London years), The Lacuna (which apart from the customary open-the-book-and-give-it-a-sniff routine is yet to be read), the 3 beads from Portobello (why 3?), the red carnation worn at Manmeet’s wedding (ironically flown in from Malaysia), the Amalfi teardrop ring(purchased solely for reminding me of boats and the sea), and (how could I possibly forget!) my IFRS bible, complete with multi-coloured tabs for quick access to all my favourite standards (I am currently torn between IAS 16 and IAS 18).

These boxes may just be piles of cardboard to you. But to me, they are a reminder of a wonderful life lived in the past, an opportunity to ramble about them in the present, and exciting days of colour-coding and alphabetising (and maybe some root-growing?) in the future.

Right, better get unpacking then. Chop, chop, all hands on deck, look lively now, etc etc.

By Thy Grace

Harimandir.

...

That I may be the bird, flying against the wind, my tussled feathers guiding me towards you, for one more glimpse.

...

That I may be the sikka, exchanged for dust-covered shoes, travelling in the pockets of pilgrims, or tied to their chunnis, and carried into your vibration.

...

That I may be the pool of water, soaking the feet that come towards you, before embarking on the journey within.

That I may be the marble, melted by the tears of those who seek you, as their heads bow in reverence, placing their fears at your door.

That I may be the bucket, lowered into the sarovar, bringing forth the nectar that cleanses your marble floors, and drenches your children with joy.

That I may be the milk, poured from above, cascading down each step, purifying the spirits of your servants.

That I may be the jute mat, worn by the feet that graze my weaves, as they walk around you, around you, around you, towards you.

That I may be the fish, in your sarovar, living within the infinity of your four corners, my body soaked in your nectar.

That I may be the blossom, cut from my stalk, separated from my root, threaded through my petals, drying at your feet.

That I may be the ray of light, shining on your golden surface, causing your reflection to dance on the surface of the water.

That I may be the breeze, coming through your gates, caressing the pages of the gutka that carries your holy name.

That I may be the grain of sugar, liquefied over the flame, molded into a blessing, that your devotees might carry home a sweet reminder of their darshan.

That I may stand in your shadow, once more. Bathe in your light, once more. My palms together, once more. My forehead on your marble, once more.

That I may come home, Guru Ram Das. To your City of Nectar, once more.

Tva Prasaad.

For Oorra, for Sa, and for Ek Oangkaar

A few months ago, I learnt that one of my teachers left her physical body.

...

Guru Raam Das, Rakho Sharanaee.

...

Her actual name I did not know then, and I do not know now. We, her students, called her Phenji, and she was known to everyone as Aunty Nikki. To me her actual name does not matter. I have always thought of her as Phenji, and that is enough for me.

...

It will be a rare family in Setapak or Gombak that does not know Phenji; most of us and our neighbours studied under Phenji’s guidance. If in search of a Punjabi, Kirtan or Paath teacher, you needed look no further.

...

As a teacher, she was firm, gave tonnes of homework which she checked with a stern red pen, loved giving surprise spelling bees, obsessed about neat handwriting, insisted on clear pronunciation, made us practice to perfection, and expected nothing less than best behaviour in class.

...

I learnt under her continuously from when I was around 6-9 years old, and then intermittently between 10-12.

...

As a child, I remember looking forward to class; not because I was excited about learning, but more because of the other kids I would get to meet and hopefully play with after class (if only Mataji would come a little later to pick me up!).

...

As a child, I remember being slightly intimidated by Phenji; I liked her no-nonsense approach, but I also feared her slightly, and I knew she meant business. I guess she reminded me a lot of my Mataji, and even at that age, I knew that she was good. So I listened, I practiced, and I learnt. As did many others under her care. We didn’t have much of a choice. You see, Phenji insisted that we learnt.

...

As a child, I remember first the car journeys to class when we lived further away, and later on the bicycle rides my brother and I made through the old Malay settlement to get to her home using the quickest possible route. I remember standing outside her gate to make sure the dog was tied up before we went in. I remember eating pakoriya in her kitchen while we waited for class to start.

...

As a child, I remember that she held my hand when I wrote my first ‘Oorra’, and then I went on to write my name. She held my hand as she placed my forefinger on ‘Sa’, and then ‘Re’, and then I went on to sing a shabad. She held my hand as we moved our fingers across the first page of the Panjh Granthi, and then I went on to read the last.

...

I remember being told off as often as being praised, I remember patience, and above all I remember that she never gave up on any of us; no matter how slowly we caught on. ...

...

And then our family moved. We lived further away, and by this time I had learnt the basics so Mataji took over the Paath classes at home. Our contact with Phenji more or less ended, aside from the occasional meets at Gurdwara. ...

...

Now that I look back, I don’t think I met her more than a handful of times between my last class and when I heard the news. This is not to say that our paths did not cross, just that I did not make the effort to go up to her. She became just another person I saw now and then.

...

As an adult, it pains me to think that I never appreciated her while she was still with us. My only real contact with her was during class, which started with Vaheguru Ji Ka Khalsa, Vaheguru Ji Ki Fateh, and ended the same way. And she didn’t expect more. All she asked was for us to be on time, pay attention, and learn. ...

...

As an adult, it pains me to think that after all my years of learning with her, I never went up to her, as an adult, and said Thank You. For my first lesson, right to my last. I owe so much to this wonderful lady, and I never said it. I don’t have any pictures of her in our photo albums. I never visited her in her last days; mainly because I didn’t know that she was unwell, but I cannot help thinking, also because I never took the trouble to find out about how my teacher would be doing, all those years after. ...

...

As an adult, it pains me to think how much of what I am and I know today, I owe to that ‘Oorra’, that ‘Sa’, and that ‘Ek Oangkaar’. In so many ways, she is my Mian Mir; she laid the foundation that I am built on. ...

...

We have many teachers throughout our lives; but it is only a few that leave us with jewels so precious that we cannot repay them; only hold their teachings in gratitude, our heads bowed.

...

As I sit here now, trying to say everything I wish I had said many moons ago, I hope she knows that she is loved, and revered, and missed. I pray that my young cousins have teachers like her, that my nephews and nieces have teachers like her, that my own children one day will have teachers like her. ...

...

You know what the beauty of it is? Phenji is not alone. There are so many more like her out there, we call them our ‘Punjabi school teachers’, teaching our children how to read, write, speak, sing. Unsung Heroes. Gentle women and gentle men, to whom we have entrusted the task of giving our Sikh children the tools that may help them on their way to discovering their identity. ...

...

I hope, that you do not wait as long as I have waited to show your thanks. How I wish I could give her one last hug, and just say it. ...

...

Instead here I am, attempting to now sing to my Unsung Hero. She is no longer here to correct me as I go off-key, but I hope she has been listening nonetheless. ...

...

From all your children, Phenji, thank you. For Oorra, for Sa, and for Ek Oangkaar.

Walk On By

Ok so that was one loooong intermission :)

...

Before I jump into Part II, please let me add that I will, to the end, defend your right to eat and enjoy candy. My decision to keep away from it is not the start of a crusade I’ve embarked on to preach the evils of such deliciousness, and steer people away from them! What I was trying to say was how even when I knew that there was something I wanted to give up; I continued to indulge in it because I found ways to justify it to myself. Maybe Marshmallows were a poor example, but hopefully further down I will make more sense.

...

So, to continue where I left off:

...

When I said Things More Serious, maybe you thought I meant Cigarettes, or Drugs, or Alcohol. Yes, those are serious and dangerous addictions indeed. However on that subject my knowledge is extremely limited and I will not pretend to know anything about the challenges of quitting – that is a world I do not comprehend, and I cannot imagine the strength a person must have to make and act on that decision.

...

I will instead stick to a more familiar realm.

...

The concept of giving something up is prevalent in many spiritual paths. The Act of Surrendering is seen as a test of faith, a step to build discipline and an anchor to help focus on the Soul’s Journey.

...

Food, for example. Which can be a Deeply Spiritual Experience if we do not trivialise a fast. I have always liked the concept of Lent – where you give up something you love to eat as an act of gratitude. Or maybe I just like it because it starts with Pancake Day :)

...

Sleep is another one. The idea of surrendering sleep to Meditate On The Beloved is Divinely Beautiful.

...

Money for Charity. Time for Service. Although I like to think of these as ‘giving’, rather than ‘giving up’. That which we are duty bound to do as human beings, regardless of our spiritual paths, and even if we follow none.

...

But beyond the physical, another part of us exists. And for a Truly Spiritual Surrender, that non-physical part of us must also Let Things Go.

...

You know where I’m going with this, don’t you? :)

...

Kaam. Krodh. Lobh. Moh. Hankaar. The Big Five.

...

This is not a sermon, delivered in a preacher-like tone from the Holier-Than-Thou to You-Vice-Ridden-Masses.

...

Dear God, no. Guru knows I have my own Daily Battles with them. Occasionally won, but too frequently lost. It’s a bit of a Catch-22, really. Just when I think I’ve got one under control, it just means my Pride has kicked in, and I’m back at square one! Rather I share these that we may all expand collectively, and guide each other along.

...

They are crafty little things, these Five. Even though we know that they cause us to stray, somehow we’ve handed them the reigns to Rule Our Lives as they see fit.

...

Even when we think we know what they are, how they arise, and where they will come from; even when we lock all the doors, close the windows and seal off the chimney; even when we station a full-time guard, leave all the lights on, and install a motion detector; even then they find a way in.

...

Unfortunately a lot of the time we are in a Sleep So Deep, that even if the burglar alarm does go off (which is rare), we do not hear it, or will convince ourselves that it must be the Neighbour’s Cat, and drift back into sleep.

...

And for the rare moments we do Awaken, once we have seen the Trespassers, we start to relax and shake off our anxiety. You see, The Five are Familiar Faces. We have had them around for so long that we do not know how now to ask them to leave. Not letting a stranger in is one thing; kicking someone you know out is a Whole Different Matter.

...

We being humans after all, what can we do?

...

Many years ago, when I was a much Smaller Speck, I remember a Devotee in the Sanggat asking a Blessed Soul this: How can we prevent The Five from arising at all?

...

He smiled the wise smile that Holy Men have, and said, that you cannot. It is not possible, because they are what make us human. We view each of The Five as evils, but they also play their part in our self-preservation. But we must be aware of them, and behave consciously. They will surface, whether we allow them to or not. So let them come. But do not let them linger. That is our battle. Do not let them linger. Ask them to leave, pray for Guru’s Grace, and Make Them Walk Away.

...

When The Five visit and we let them stay, we make them feel welcome to visit again. Which they will, repeatedly. The more frequently we let them through our door, the more frequently they will knock on it. Before long, we are Leaving the Door Open and Handing Them The Keys. Reign over me, please. It is just so much easier having you around than asking you to leave. Because that will just be uncomfortable, and we don’t like unpleasantness. Why ruffle a relationship that has gone on for Such a Long Time?

...

Every temptation is the same, whether it be to eat a Marshmallow (in my case), to smoke a cigarette, or to react in anger. Even after we’ve given it up, no matter how long we’ve stayed away from it for, the temptation does not go away.

...

So we have to choose. Resist or Give In?

...

Peel the layers of our own Onions, to learn what temptations target our core. Define our own Kauravs, and fight our Mahabharat. Unravel The Five, lay them at Guru’s feet, and pray for Grace.

...

May Guru guide us, and shine our path with Light, that we may see with clean eyes those that come to conquer us.

...

They will keep coming, like unwelcome guests, hoping to be let in, this time, or the next, or maybe the next next?

...

And may we peek through our door, look upon them, smile, and wave them to Walk On By.

...

Let them be on their way, and we on ours.

Bye, Bye, Gummy Bear :(

...

Marshmallows, Gummy Bears, Sour Tape, Liquorice, Starburst, Rocky Road.

...

Oh My God, Marshmallows.

...

Having always been a vegetarian, I have, however, Never Said No to candy. I know it contains gelatine, but I practiced the Art of Selective Mental Processing, and Refused To Act on that bit of information. I mean, Marshmallows were at stake. And Gummy Bears! And M&S Rocky Road treats! (I really Need To Focus).

...

And we know that the only Purpose Of Their Existence is to be consumed. How could I, in my Hearts of Hearts, deny them the opportunity to Serve Humankind? It would have been Cruel of me to refuse. Evil, and Heartless, and Cruel.

...

Right, enough deception. I like candy, ok? I like it a lot.

...

Oh My God, Marshmallows. Sigh.

...

http://www.oswegotea.com/2005/09/marshmallows-revisited.html

So I guess the cat is out of the bag – I have been cheating all this while :)

...

But the weight of all this cheating bore down on me. After all these years of presenting myself as a vegetarian, the Nagging Voice that said ‘yeah, right!’ grew louder and louder In My Head, until sometime in 2009, when I finally decided to own up, stop pretending, and quit gelatine altogether (it still hurts to Say It Out Loud).

...

I know exactly what you’re thinking. Oh My God, Marshmallows.

...

How could I convince myself that Something So Innocent was Something So Naughty? It was Tough. And I didn’t let it go gently. I went Cold Turkey. One day loads, next day None.

...

Yeah, they weren’t too happy about it either, what with me interfering with their Sole Purpose Of Existence and all that. There were some Harsh Words exchanged, Heart-Breaking speeches delivered, and A Lot Of Tears shed.

...

But my mind was made up – I knew it was time to quit. So all the Somethings So Innocent and I parted ways. They continued to Serve Humankind in their own yummy way, while I tread in alleys in search of every Gummy Bears Anonymous support group out there, hoping that The Next One would help me get over Marshmallows.

...

http://images.fanpop.com/images/image_uploads/Gummy-bear-kiss-candy-535414_1280_1024.jpg

...

Still looking, by the way.

...

Do I miss them? Y-E-S. Do I regret it? Y-E-.... NO, of course not.

...

Giving up Something You Love isn’t painless. And I had it easy. You see, I still have Chocolate and Hazelnuts :)

...

But still, candy wasn’t an addiction, it was Pure Love. Completely different category.

...

Did I think I would make it? Not really. Have I been tempted? Too many times.

...

But the most important question is this: Will I eat it again? And here, in spite of all my melodrama above (meant to tease my ex-Love For Candy more than anything else); I will comfortably and contentedly say: NO. Because ultimately it was my choice to give it up and to stop lying to myself :)

...

And this is the perfect place for an Intermission. For after this, we turn to Things More Serious. So here goes.

...

INTERMISSION

Guru Ladho Rey

I cannot count the number of times I have been told that sakhi about Makhan Syah Lubhana and his ship in troubled waters. The One Where He Finds The Guru.

...

When I was younger, that sakhi was just another one of those feel good stories I heard, about how our beloved Makhan Syah the merchant was losing hope in stormy waters, and turned to the Guru with a prayer and a promise of 500 gold coins, the Guru saved him, and then Makhan Syah went round Baba Bekala dropping gold coins at the feet of holy men until he was caught out by the real Guru, and the story ends with him running to the rooftops, jumping with joy, and singing “I’ve found the Guru! I’ve found the Guru!”

...

And the Sikhs were overjoyed, and we joined him, and we threw a big party. It may not say that in the history books, but I bet you we did – this was as good a cause for celebration as any. If in doubt, keep reading.

...

Back to the point. It used to just be another feel good story. Another one of Guru’s wonderful miracles. We don’t think of it as much more than that.

...

Historical accounts don’t press the point either. When Chapter 8 on Guru Har Krishan ends, with Him being overwhelmed by the disease He took upon Himself to save a city from the clutches of Yama, we just turn the page, and there is Makhan Syah, waiting for us in Chapter 9, so that he can get going on his merchant ship.

...

Just like that. Turn the page, and the story continues.

...

Not for me, not anymore. I heard the story again today, just as I wrote it above. The page turned quickly when he told it too. But today, for some reason today, my heart stopped. I couldn’t bring myself to listen to the next chapter, because my ears were drowned out by the silence my spirit felt.

...

There was a time, one excruciating time, when we didn’t know who our Guru was.

...

Suddenly the strings were cut, and there was nothing to hold on to. Who did we turn to with our hopes and prayers? Who blessed and held us? Whose home did we flock to at all hours of day and night, just to sit in His aura?

...

We were lost, fatherless, guideless, lost, lost.

...

I thought I knew the meaning of loneliness. But then in that one instant I was so alone that the earth vanished and I was alone in an empty galaxy, floating, drifting, unanchored.

...

Where was my Guru? I could not see Him, and I was lost.

...

So rewind. Before the dancing on the rooftops, before the storm settled, before Makhan Syah even set sail. Rewind, rewind.

...

Go back to that place, kneeling by Har Krishan’s side, clutching his tiny robes, helplessly lost as His last breath leaves His lips. Feel that despair. Who do you turn to now? Which way to look? Where to seek solace?

...

Remember. This was a time before our Holy Guru Granth, Light of the Universe. It was a time when the only Guru we knew was in physical form. Today I would have gone to a Gurdwara and crumbled at the feet on my Guru, hands raised, pleading for my Perfect Jyot to carry me home. But on that day, all I could do was to let a wave of loneliness flood into my being.

...

Gu-Ru. My Light in darkness. But I cannot see it anywhere, and no one can guide me to it. I feel the burden of a thousand empty souls, wandering, aimless, directionless, wandering, wandering.

...

And I ask this: Why are there no pages in between Chapters 8 and 9? If I were the author I would leave 5, no 10, no 1 lakh empty pages in between. Blank, without a single word in them. For there is nothing to say when all that exists around you is emptiness.

...

How many days lay in between? How silent was the wind? Did the trees know that on the earth wandered a homeless people? Did the rivers echo the sorrowful murmurs of our hearts? Where was my North Star on those nights?

...

My soul roams, helpless, unanchored. In agony, in anguish, searching for that Light. Where is it? How do I keep my faith without You there to guide me?

...

How many days must I walk, like a lost boy in a children’s fairy tale?

...

A flower does not comfort, a child’s laugh does not comfort, a full harvest does not comfort. Emptiness.

...

Spare me this separation, for it tears at me so unforgivingly.

...

My 1 lakh pages do not seem to end. They stretch on into oblivion. When there is no Light, I cannot see the end of the tunnel. Darkness envelopes me and pulls me into a black hole.

...

Oh, but what is that sweet, sweet sound? Who is that I hear?

...

Guru Ladho Rey, Guru Ladho Rey.

...

I have found Him, I have found our Guru.

...

http://www.flickr.com/photos/papalars/691515009/

...

A hundred glowing moons. A thousand splendid suns. Blinding Light, North Star, Rainbow.

...

And there is the sound of us chaining ourselves to our Guru, never to be unbound again.

...

And there is the sound of our anchor sinking in the Guru’s vast ocean of Light, never to drift again.

...

May that knot never fray. May that anchor never be unmoored.

...

Are you still wondering if we threw a party on that fateful day?

...

I only wish I had been there.

Stratford-upon-Avon

A friend and I have been planning for a bunch of us randoms to go away for a weekend at a cottage in Stratford-upon-Avon. Even though the idea is to just to relax and not do much, there is still lots of groundwork - like finding the right cottage at the right location, possibly renting a car, sorting out the food and finding ways to keep ourselves occupied (contrary to public belief, girls don't just sit around painting each others nails when they go away)... Over the last few days, we've had tonnes of emails flying back and forth to get all the details sorted.

...

If you thought this post was going to be about how we planned the trip, you are very much mistaken :) Instead, I'm out to prove that this blog is not only a place for me to ponder about life's serious questions, but also to celebrate a jug full of silliness when it presents itself!

...

Some text has been ammended to protect the identity of the other individual (it does get quite silly!), but it's largely all there!

...

This is how it all started:

...

saya guna imaginasi dan saya jumpa ini:

http://www.luxurylifestylelodges.co.uk/index.htm

...

Ade music lagi doh!!!! LOL

Eh cun la... ade sungai, ade itik.. kau nak ape lagi? :D

...

lol saya take dengar music, saya punya pc saya suruh diam jadi kalau ade orang hantar alamat untuk laman yr doji-doji dan bising-bising tak-de la bunyi!

asalkan ade sungai, ade itik, tak payah apa-apa lagi!!

...

siape la kawan u yang hantar alamat ke laman yang doji-doji (seriously woman, doji-doji?? :p)

pc saya pun biasanya diam-diam je.. tapi boleh pasang headphone le... :)

tapi takde monyet la.. u tau la I kalau cuti takde monyet tak sedap tau!

...

eh monyet yang macam mana? 6 kaki, pakai turban dengan skirt orang skot?

kalau nak sembunyi-sembunyi dan seronok-seronok, jangan bising ya!

...

eleh eleh.. cakap aku pulak.. siape yg pegi laman doji tu? bukan i......

Hmm tapi kalau ade orang skot 6 kaki, takkan nak cakap no pulak :) eh die ade kuda dgn crossbow tak? kalau ade, set la aku ni!

...

siapa yang hantar laman doji tu, huh? huh?

eh awak ni, orang bagi enam kaki awak ambik enam kaki tambah kuda tambah anak panah tambah busur panah tambah kuda tambah itik tambah ayam......untuk apa? awak-kan vegetarian?

...

I gelak terkekek-kekek sampai terhikup-hikup!! pakcik sebelah aku pandang semacam pulak haha

Eh keje aku kan suka tambah-tambah - lagi banyak lagi bagus la. U kan tau aku punye retirement plan nak buka satu kebun kat kampung... memang sesuai tau.. nanti pak skot aku (name dia mcdonald la, ape lagi) dgn i nyanyi lagu old mcdonald ade sebuah kebun, iya-iya-yo

u ingat ape.. i merepek je ke? ni semua dah ade dalam aku punye plan tau! kalau tak caya i hantar lagi satu kain-sebar excel bagi kau tengok

glosari: kain sebar = spreadsheet

...

eh ronald takde masa nak nyanyi lagu "iya-iya-yo" di kebun, dia kena pergi jaga kedai gerbang emas

ehhh tak payah hantar kain sebar, saya sudah cukup takut nak bawa awak ke rumah yang ada sungai dan itik nanti itik dan sungai pun dia kodkan dengan warna dan tanda semak!

...

u jgn melebih-lebih ah.... saja je nak tuduh ronald aku buat bukan-bukan kat kedai dia tu... nanti aku cari ibu panah dia, ade spesial baru dalam menu dia nanti: ex-kawan-kawan ronald.

eh by the way i nak tanye.. u guna kamus yg mane ah... jgn nak tipu... i tau bm kau takde la canggih sangat... i guna http://pgoh13.free.fr/english_malay_dictionary.php... takde la bes sangat.. tapi cukupla kalau nak berborak dgn u... kalau cari kamus yg dahsyat nanti kau tak paham pulak!

...

...

And so on….. But I think I'll cap it here while you still think we have some sense... or have we lost you already? :p

...

As you can imagine, we've have been so busy trying to outdo each others Malay skills that we got a little sidetracked and the details of the trip still need some ironing out!

...

Now if only the actual trip will be as much fun.... :)

The Pi of Life

A few years ago, a Canadian writer by the name of Yann Martel wrote a book called the Life of Pi. It is a fascinating book that starts off in the former French colony of Pondicherry in India, where a little boy named after a swimming pool has his life thrown out of balance as the Pondicherry Zoo is closed down, and within a few pages he finds himself on a little boat in the Pacific with a hyena, zebra and of course, Richard Parker, the Bengal tiger that accompanies him all the way to... hmm maybe I won't give everything away and let you discover that for yourself. I'm not even sure why I brought it up. After all, this post has nothing to do with that young boy named Pi. Nothing to do with him at all.

...

That Pi might be a stranger to some of us. But the Pi that I'm referring to is one that we all know.

...

Pi

A mathematical constant, the value of which is the ratio of a circle's circumference to its diameter.

...

Or the definition I prefer.

...

The ratio of a circle's area to the square of its Radius.

...

In the few years of my human experience, there is one thing that I learnt very quickly: there are very few constants in life.

...

Things change. People come and go. Joy does not party for long, and sorrow doesn't linger either. Cookies disappear from jars. Chocolate melts even faster. Fluffy pet rabbits leave for heavens of green meadows and crunchy carrots. Maids who become family get on a plane and fly away. Snowflakes melt. Coal black hair becomes salt and pepper. Friends forget. The great big ball of fire burns out a little more every day. At first there are no teeth, and then there are so many that you need a thin wire to restrain them, and then even they fall out. A hand held by a hospital bed one day becomes ash and rejoins the earth.

...

In contrast, the list of constants is very short. In fact, the official list begins and ends with only One item, which ironically (or perhaps not) is also referred to as Ek. God, Guru, Yahweh, Khuda, Bhagwan.

...

But this post has nothing to do with that either.

...

It is about my list of constants, to which I add an item of my own. One that may not be as All Encompassing as Ek, but is no less Divine.

...

My mother.

...

My very own Pi.

...

Pi and Radius

...

Pi is the ratio of a circle's area to the square of its Radius.

...

When the Radius expands, the rule of Pi makes the area of the circle increase because the ratio between the two, Pi, is constant. On days that life seems expansive and infinite, She spreads Her wings and takes me on Her back and we soar as we fly amongst the stars. We visit all my hopes and dreams and get close enough for me to reach out to hold them in my palm. And when I open my hand to show Her what I have, She beams at me with a light so bright that the stars around us pale in comparison.

...

And when the Radius contracts, the rule of Pi makes the circle smaller, because again, Pi is constant. On days that I just want to curl up and disappear, She pulls the boundaries in, plants a garden of blossoms around me, wraps me in a blanket, blesses me with a prayer, and keeps me warm like only the love of a Mother can. In that little piece of heaven, I don't even remember the contraction, because all I see is an endless ocean of lilies.

...

Being Pi means that She has to keep the ratio constant same unchanged. She has to stop drop halt give up everything anything all the time anytime always when the Radius changes moves shifts. Because the ratio cannot must not will not change.

...

The Radius knows that Pi is at its mercy. It expects constant attention as it shifts, pushing the circle in and out, sometimes too rapidly, sometimes intentionally, sometimes continuously, without giving a moments thought to Pi, and the fact that She has so many other Radii to watch over as well.

...

Pi and some of her Radii

...

Pi is just expected to keep up.

...

And Pi does.

...

At times it seems as if Pi does not even exist for Herself. Her entire existence is defined by the length of the Radius.

...

And what has the Radius ever done to deserve its Pi?

...

I do not know. I cannot think of my Pi as anything else but a blessing so magnificent, so unwavering, so constant, that every inch of my existence is defined, blessed, celebrated, just because I have my Pi.

...

My Pi that brought me to the feet of my Guru. Sat with me every night until I finished my homework. Held the umbrella when it rained. Smiled through tears, because sometimes a child does not understand. Held out a hug anytime it was needed. Prays for me, for my happiness, for my peace, for my soul’s journey, without me knowing when or why. Holds me when I cry, and cries with me. Makes our home a temple and a sanctuary. Loves me as if I am the greatest gift and blessing God could bestow.

...

Radius can be quite a challenge for Pi

...

And all I have to offer in return is a humble prayer, that Pi is as blessed to be a part of this equation as Radius is.

...

Because without Pi, there would be no circle.

...

And the Radius would mean nothing.

Only human, after all

Sometimes I feel as though I live in a state of permanent tug-of-war between Mind and Heart. They both want different things; they tease me and cajole me and pull me in different directions, they try to convince me that I should think with one, rather than feel with the other. I do not think one is good and the other not, I am only lamenting at this perpetual struggle that I sometimes find distressing.

..

How does one decide what is right? Sometimes I am able to summon Soul into the debate to settle the matter. Soul is neutral and guided by a greater wisdom which serves a higher purpose; hence She presides over them both. But She takes her time, and meanwhile I have to think of ways to amuse them until the intervention arrives :)

..

All this would not really be of any concern, except that sometimes I find myself caught in the middle of a spiritual tussle, such as the one detailed below.

..

To my Mind, the most appealing argument for Sikhi is the concept of Shabad as Guru.

..

..

I will not deny that the reason for this is perhaps rather egoistic: I do not think I have it in me to surrender to another human. I believe myself to be capable of devotion, of love, of compassion. But for me to surrender to a Teacher, it needs to be pure and unwaveringly constant, I need to be able to place it on a pedestal, and make it a standard to live up to. I need to know that it will always, always, always command my high opinion and respect, I need to have faith that it will never disappoint my conscience. I need to believe that I will never need to question it, as every message I receive will be completely in sync with my Inner Voice, which naturally will be none other than that very same Teacher. These are high expectations indeed, but I think perfectly justified in view that I am planning a full and unquestionable surrender.

..

And if there is anything I know to be true, it is that all things physical are ephemeral. I may love them, learn from them, and have an experience, but all at a detached distance. I may welcome them into my space, but release them just as easily. My understanding of Sikhi tells me that I will be blessed by the presence of many great souls in my lifetime. I may call them Saints, Rishis, Yogis, and even Gurus. I may bow to them, seek their guidance, revere them, be healed by their energy. But I must remember that they too are transient, their time too will come.

..

There is only one constant: Shabad. The wisdom of the Great Soul. The true Gu-Ru. My Light in Darkness.

..

But that is a sophisticated ideology for a simple being, and this vexes my Heart. While it recognises Shabad as the ultimate teacher, it struggles to let go of the 10 physical Gurus that provided the space for Shabad to come to be. The attachment I refer to is not only attachment to their messages, but also an attachment to them as beings of the 5 elements just like you and me, as real as the presence of any mortal being.

..

It is an attachment to the stories of their lives and those around them, to the places they were born in and fields they slept in, to the rivers they crossed and forts they built, to their names and that of their children, to their swords and locks of hair.

There is no defence here; I confess that the attachment is physical. And it is difficult to imagine it otherwise, because if I truly believe them to be my father, mother, brother, sister and friend, which I do, then as a human being I should also be allowed to long for the physical space that I would expect to share with those people.

There are times when I want nothing more then to be a grandchild sleeping in Nanak's lap, or a daughter resting my head against Ram Das's knee, or a servant with my arms curled around Gobind's feet. I want to be blessed by a hand on my head. To be humbled by touching my forehead on the Marble Floor. To be warmed by the glow of joyful Harkrishan.

Is it a justification to say that although these are physical attachments, they exist to pursue a spiritual experience?

I am only human, after all.

Miss Lulu pays a visit

Life is a great teacher.

...

Once it sets it's mind on a Lesson, it does not get distracted, and more importantly, it does not give up. No matter how slow, stubborn or resistant it's student may be, life has mastered the art of driving a Needle through a Tank.

...

Just as well, really. For some of us usually miss the Lesson, time and time again. We walk through life arrogantly, wearing our impenetrable armour, blissfully ignoring life's trusted assistant, The Pink Flying Elephant, who comes our way with an envelope secured to Her tusks. The note reads: Wake up you Fuddle-Duddle, here is your latest Life-Lesson!

...

As we all surely know, a visit from The Pink Flying Elephant is a rare occasion, for She is only summoned at the most pivotal moments, to deliver the weightiest Lessons. Given the graveness of her position and responsibility, I've decided to call her Miss Lulu. (For understanding of obsession with naming things, please refer to earlier post).

...

Miss Lulu's friend. Not as pink, but then Miss Lulu doesn't judge by skin colour.

...

Lately, I've found myself in frequent company of Miss Lulu.

...

I can see you, at the edge of your seat, about to slide off onto your knees, hands clasped, gazing at me in veneration, asking: How, how O Great One, have you managed that?

...

It's no great secret - in fact it has happened quite by accident. All I did was move away from things familiar to me, and now, out of my comfort zone, I am forced to tune in to my environment. For reasons as selfish as self-preservation, I have to be more aware and sensitive to what goes on around me. And now I see Miss Lulu more clearly than I ever did before.

...

However, mere mortal that I am (shocking, I know :p), I probably still miss quite of a few Lessons, and misinterpret the rest. Yet, I am unperturbed, for I trust life (or Miss Lulu) to be stubborn enough to keep coming at me with that well-used Needle, until I get it right.

...

My recent Lesson was delivered in a most round-a-bout, round-the-bush, round-the-world fashion. It started with an absolute failure with books - since the start of 2009, I have remained sufficiently unimpressed with each one that has crossed my path. One was so unbearable that for the first time, I broke my own rule of never leaving a book unfinished. This desperation to read something worthy drove me to spend a hopeful afternoon in a bookstore, where Voila! Miss Lulu came to me in the form of Richard Dawkins.

...

I should like to write much more about Richard Dawkins. But I also don't want to digress. For now, it suffices to say that he is an evolutionary biologist, a keen believer of Darwinism, the author of The God Delusion, and, perhaps most relevant to my Lesson, an atheist.

...

And what was I doing with a book like The God Delusion, you might ask. Besides the fact that it seems to have broken my Midas curse of turning books to dust (i.e. I actually enjoyed it), I will boldly declare it to be one of the books that has helped me affirm my faith even further. Quite the opposite effect that dear Richard intended, I think, but oh well, we all have our little disappointments!

...

The reason I brought it up is this: one of the arguments laid forth in his book is that humanity and compassion should surely surpass belief in God as desired virtues. If we spent less time in religious practice and more time serving the universe, would that not be a better use of our time and energy?

...

To the average reader, I suspect this suggestion might be considered sacrilegious.

...

The enlightened would instead respond: but that is exactly what my faith is all about. For the act of caring for creation is in itself a salute to the Creator.

...

It is easy to love a flower.

If life was to put a name to this Lesson, I think it would be called: A Lesson in Love. Bringing me towards this book reminded me that perhaps the greatest form of worship is the service of the world we live in. Sikhs of course understand this concept as Seva. But this is not Seva as we understand, or rather misunderstand it. This is Seva as in Manas Ki Jaat Sabhe Eykay Pehchaanbo, recognising the human race as one (Guru Gobind Singh).

As much as it sounds like a happy-daisy, care bear, slightly-on-a-high philosophy, I think it's also the toughest one there is. To utterly and totally love one person is challenging enough. But to take that concept and extend it to every living, breathing organism we know and will know of? That is near-impossible. Almost as impossible as believing in the existence of Miss Lulu.

Logically, though, if we think about it, this should be the easiest thing there is! If I can accept that we are all made of the same elements and by the same creator, and that He/She lives in all of us, then you are really just an extension of me. How hard can it be to love an extension of myself? Even if that extension was large enough to stretch my imagination?

Don't we all know the answer to this one - EGO :) It's all about me, honey. Me, and MY love, and MY God, and MY faith. By the time I've filled in the 'me's, there is no room for anything else, not even for Miss Lulu's Needle of Life-Lessons. By filling all the space out with Me, we paradoxically create a vacuum where there is nothing.

Miss Lulu had one more point to make. Just in case I got the message wrong, and only remembered to love humanity, She caused me to witness a fascinating incident.

It was lunchtime at work, and we were enjoying the sunny day by eating outside.

Enter: Pigeon. Sad, scruffy looking pigeon.

Enter: Nice Lady, on the phone.

Enter: RSPCA, on the line with Nice Lady.

If you've lived in London (perhaps this is also true in other parts of the world), you learn to dismiss pigeons very quickly. Much to the public's distaste, they are everywhere, they are a nuisance (so much so that people console each other by saying that it's lucky if they poop on you), thus leading to the unaffectionate label of 'pest'. Besides an obsession with the weather and a love for curry, nothing unites Londoners more than an utter loathing of pigeons.

But how does one love a mushroom? Asks she, who does not love mushrooms.

... ...

Which is what made this incident so much more meaningful. Nice Lady had seen Scruffy Pigeon, noticed that it was injured and could not fly, and had called the RSPCA to rescue it.

...

I know. I could barely believe it myself.

...

I'm not sure if you want to sit down for this, but the more heart-warming thing is that someone from the RSPCA actually came. And rescued the pigeon. She took it away to nurse it back to health.

...

In case you missed a paragraph earlier:

London Pigeon = people no like = pest.

...

Sometimes it's easier to love a haystack.

... ...

I don't think there is much more to say. If this isn't a Lesson in Love, I don't know what is. This was Miss Lulu at her finest; Needle through Tank.

...

I know that this Lesson is not over. Love is the Mother of All Lessons; it will need frequent reminding, all the more because it is so easily forgotten. Or perhaps we choose to forget it, as we push difficult things under the carpet to worry about later, when we're older, better, wiser.

...

I know Miss Lulu will be back again. Perhaps with a different Lesson, perhaps with the same one. Either way, I will keep my window open for her arrival, beautifully bubbly and Pink, flying towards me with yet another priceless Life-Lesson.

...

You should too.