Vipassana

It was early 2019, I was learning an iconic classical song by Eric Satie called Gymnopedie on a regular acoustic guitar with modern day posture like firing a machine gun sideways. Not the classical style, the one where you put your left foot on a stool to elevate the neck of the guitar launching as if a Canon. 

I too had tried that good old classical posture way back in my early 20s when I made an attempt to learn to play the Moonlight Sonata by Bethoven. I struggle to cross the finish line of that number till this day. There is just too many finger changes for hell less of a time.

The weather was cold outside my warm windless room. All the windows were closed letting not a hint of breeze inside. A black old laptop in front of me with the YouTube lesson of Gymnopedie No.1. A blue Sony portable speaker connected to the laptop and the regular acoustic guitar buzzing on a haunting tune.

I prefer to use the metronome and timer on my cell phone while practicing, which helps me repeat each phrase, perfecting the accent.

After a delightful music session feeling relaxed and inspired by an uplifted mood I packed the guitar in its bag. I felt like a debater after a good speech in front of an impressed audience banging on the table. An unaware grim smile on my face, an evening of solitude, last few months of cold weather in New Delhi, a populous capital of a populous country.

I lounged on the single bed and reached for the side table on the right to open the top drawer. Between the two drawers one over the other, only the top one is functional. The bottom drawer can be used but it's handle is broken so opening it is a jam. All I know is that there lay a soap bar, a gray synthetic skipping rope and a shaving trimmer, so I seldom pull its bar only in need of trim. The top drawer has all the good stuff. I keep all my harmonicas in there. A collection of Hohners in about 8 wretched keys and it doesn't matter if all of them work well, I'll keep them with me anyway. Not because I like to hoard the good stuff but it has its own advantages. Also this top drawer is where the weed stash is kept. Top drawer, open to the world.. that's my motto.

I very habitually rolled one and kept the infant joint in my coat pocket. Then put on my shoes, a woolen winter cap, an another layer of jacket and stepped outside onto my terrace to climb down the stairs. The nightly fog started to cover the air, "no ones gonna see me Tonight" I whispered to myself and lit that translucent green joint.

A friend of mine Gentoo, a few years younger to me who also prescribes to smoke was found walking his dog in the park where I was headed. We both walked unto a bench as I handed over him the joint and started petting his growing and over hyper Labrador puppy. Gentoo took a long drag of the hot smoke from the joint, squinting his eyes and expressions of pain on his face. "Kuffu" the hyper Labrador jumped to and fro my lap to feet, making asthmatic sounds worse than my old mute harmonicas. Gentoo took many a drags before he passed the half smoked joint blackening from the base. He perfectly synchronized the question with the handing over of the de-coloring joint, an occurrence we all were used to. I mean, among st the bunch of pals who met at this park Gentoo was known to be an aware fellow. His father being a retired army personnel he had that troubled military kid persona balancing between civilian and fauji narratives. Not very long ago he used to carry hair as long as mine and beard that hid his face like a Hindu monk. He read the newspaper daily and it seemed as if he memorized all the facts and statistics ranging from politics to international news. This time his question which he synchronized while handing over the joint was about a terror attack which happened that very day about which I deemed clueless . He began with an "oye bro". That's what people of Delhi and other parts of India say to catch someone's attention, "oye". It's like a "hey, listen" of the spoken language here.

"Oye bro, Did you hear about Pulwama?", With a slight roughness in his voice. It seemed as if his heart was beating a little faster than usual.
I took the joint without answering, probably thinking about Gymnopedie no 1 chord changes because that was the only thing on my mind.

"What about it?" I took a little time and finally asked with my lungs full of hot smoke from the joint, squinted eyes and disgust on my face.
"I thought you'd heard, a man named
Adil bombed himself killing a convoy of 40 CRPF personnel." He replied, to which I reacted "What the fuck?"

In the midst of that foggy evening my mood froze down as where ever I stumbled on social media online, the people were mourning. Sad about the death of Indian military officials in such numbers. Devastated that yet once again we have been victims of terrorism. Fearing that something might fall shining from the sky cold and beautiful and fry my bones to dust. A worry that hatred, ill-will and animosity will strengthen amongst people. All the blame from the Indian point of view went to our neighboring nation Pakistan. A nation who hadn't even completely exhaled its first sigh of relief from the radical change in its politics scenario, that fingers were being pointed at the entire nation. Atleast that is what we heard in the news. Hint of war between two neighbors was in the atmosphere. I can't deny that I was seriously worried. I sincerely wished to go out and speak in front of a giant screen to the entire Indian population and tell them not to let this hatred be transferred into us. Revenge may make us feel in control for a few fleeting moments but we may end up regretting our actions for a lifetime.

It was war and which side you're on had already been decided.

~~~~~

Vipashyna

Over the period of years since I joined my first job as a special educator for people with Autism, I made my mind to learn meditation. Having scrolled and memorized reliable resources on the internet I made weekly goals and gave it all to practice one method. "Oh! So everyone has a voice in their head". Practice one skill at a time and then learn the next step, applying whatever you had learnt before, "Oh! So practicing relaxation actually softens the voice in our heads".

It was as if learning to swim on a private pool outside my bedroom. First getting comfortable being inside water, learning to breathe and holding the breath, being only the beginning. I had to train my breath with every step beginning from floating on the water, getting the flaps of my feet moving and then the arms. In a few months I learnt the mere twenty foundational skills to swim in a public pool with confidence.

Ofcourse my technique wasn't special, strokes weak, splashes of water showed signs of immaturity.

At first it was difficult to meditate for even five minutes yet the driving need to transform my old habits of negative thinking like painful jealousy and anger helped resist aversion. There were behaviors, unconscious actions unwholesome for me engraved in the habit patterns like a turmeric stain on a white cloth.

This unwanted behavior that I had learnt throughout my life effected how I mirrored myself. Awful when I thought of people as superior to me and amazing when I thought of people inferior to me. I kept harsh words in my dictionary to gain attention and encountered sudden outburst of anger whenever a burning sensation seeped in my guts. It used to feel as if harsh acid flowed in my body and you can't help but react to it.

My practice of meditation was answering all these question and those search engine resources were acting as a worthwhile teacher. Two years it took to swim in the Ocean. Kinder to other, compassionate to myself, focused, creative, optimistic, grateful, accepting, forgiving and perseverant. Though I had learnt to swim yet there were many strokes I knew I'd like to master.

My boss and I were in a cab when she told me she had cancelled her vipshyana retreat because of her apprehensions. I asked her what was that and she explained to me the "ten day" plan.
She said with worry and guilt on her face that she felt claustrophobic and how the small residential quarters at the center frightened her. That she was scared of spiders. That food was simple, watery and bland. And how it would be impossible for her to stay quiet for 10 days.
Hearing this an important seed got bowed in my mind.

I tried to register myself to a course nearby but disappointingly none were available. Finding a slot near New Delhi, 'a city of bitter Neem and yellow Amaltas trees' was hard. I suppose there must be atleast a hundred thousand Vipassana meditators in the city who'd like to attend the ten day seminar. I had read from peoples experience that anybody who completes a course and continues regular practice is bound to go back.

I was leaving the country in the cusp of an ongoing standoff between Indo-pak. The Indian military had responded with an air strike at Pakistan. Captain Varthaman captured by the Pakistani army. A week long mishap shut the entire two nations.

Weeks passed. As things were settling down, my anxiety also quietened. I resigned the special educator job and arranged for a new one in such a manner that there lay a buffer month specially planned to go through Vipassana. I enrolled myself as a beginner for a ten day course in Lumbini, Nepal distancing 900kms from Delhi.

The only knowledge that brewed over my mind was the ten hours of meditation a day which certainly excited me.

This journey felt very natural as if I had walked this path before. I was following a scent to my home where my pedigree of canines toiled.

A luxurious over night bus and three local buses later I stood at the gate of the wilderness park. My heavy rucksack with ten days of clothing, a water bottle in my hands and an awestruck countenance on my face. Behind me were alcohol and cigarette shops but I was certain my destination was in front of me.

I kicked off my steps down a straight road with jungle on both sides. A stream flowed where exotic birds nested. Smell of lush green trees woke my nostrils. Road signs of wild deer signaled to slow down any fast vehicles. A right turn would take me to my center though I stood to catch a glimpse of the library where a busy path of visitors flowed like the stream of river I gazed behind me.

The entrance of the gates was filled with persons from different ethnicity. These faces who were going to be very familiar in the coming week were of strangers. I could make out some being Europeans, Koreans and even South Americans. Before making acquaintance with fellow students I made way to the registration chair where a mature french lady sat. Her namaste seemed like a huge hug even though she just folded her palms with a genuinely compassionate smile. The kind of smile that would remind you of your mother from your infancy. She was tall with attractive wrinkles and wore a maroon top through which her perky breast would show. She asked me if I was from India, gave me the registration form and a ball point pen. We didn't talk much and that was actually the last time I saw her. There were people high in spirits all around, most of them seemed to be traveling South Asia and have stumbled here for a vipassana experience which I presume they read in travel itineraries. There were quite a few local Nepalis and it seemed I was the only Indian there.

While filling up a form I happened to see a tall man entering the gates with a huge rucksack like myself. My first impression was that he belonged to India as he walked to the tall french lady with maroon top at the registration desk. She hugged a huge namaste to him and must have smiled the way she did. I faced the other side minding my own business. She asked him of his nationality to which he responded 'Pakistani'.

That was the moment I realized the impact of repetitive media consumption has on your mental dialogue. I mean the obsession with which mass media creates hype between the nations. Its like asking a teenager to repress their sexual desire while all they can think about is sex. This was the first time I met a neighboring fellow that comes outside the umbrella of my pre-independent relatives from Pakistan.

I settled into my room and met my Nepali roommate. He was a friendly man, married with two children. He always wore clean white fitting kurta and wrapped a scarf around his waist which I assume is a Nepali tradition. I befriended a group of men sitting in the sun talking about their travels in India and their favorite cities so far. Gentlemen from Brazil, Ukraine, England and I India joked and laughed till the sundown and mosquito came buzzing around. It led to our first group sitting in collective silence introducing the course and important guidelines.

Male female segregation began at that point and couples exchanged their last conversations. The girls stayed in a vicinity which was a replica of our side of the complex. Just like two sides of body which appears to be made in perfect synchronization. The left side perfectly replicates the right, similar was the case of our residence. It wasn't left/ right or east/ west but male and female. Although we all sat together in the hall majority of the day, demarcated by a cloth border.

We all began the noble silence, the first promise made when the students arrived. We were asked by the french lady, by the manager with glasses, by the cook and three different men altogether.  "are you sure you can stay silent for 10 days?"
The next question after reading my profile, "are you carrying any tobacco or weed with you?". I certainly wasn't carrying intoxicants and was certainly excited to experience vocal silence.

Soon, an old companion of yours appear. The voice in our head which we're sometimes aware of and sometimes or many a times sways us into scenarios untrue and speculative. Here, I cannot distract the voice by talking to a friend, or by getting lost scrolling my facebook feed. I could not open a porn site and masturbate to it. No books to read nor pen and paper to write with. However, a serene environment with flowering plants, shrubs, the grass, the trees, the insects and birds and a pond in the middle. Along with a busy schedule of ten hours of sitting on the floor cross-legged. Training the mind infamous for self destruction, denial, regression, suppression, depression and what not.

~~~~

The tenth day is over

My reactions were mixed to have a person from Pakistan near my six sense doors. I got excited more for the Pakistani than for a Brazilian or the French. Is that creepy? No doubt. My eye sense door captured his presence with association that he is Pakistani, with all the bias filter surrounding the layers of my mind. First, in physical sensations, tight jaws, squint eyes, heavy breathing, squeezed stomach and confused thoughts. Maybe the war had stirred too much salt in boiling waters.

As soon as a thought arose, I snapped back by moving my face sideways like a suspicious feline cat as if saying "no". Ofcourse I said no. It became a fight between thoughts and what I wished to think. Cognitive dissonance surfaced my psyche however, being in a retreat where you can't interact with anyone suddenly makes way more sense. Man, you need to deal with your shit. Maybe you can call it garbage, politely. Have my life been so crappy that I have this prejudice for a human being simply because he is from a nation that is supposedly a rival to mine?

From what I see the two nations were a single cell organism which divided into two.  Geographically much hasn't changed. Simply the distorted political minds of people from the subcontinent got limited to boundaries, religion and cricket.

I thought to myself sitting at the edge of the pond underneath the stars. Pink Lilies hide in their shells. The water reflects the moon. The french troubadour with almost monk like merits walk with his both hands at the back, a serious look on the face as if in deep introspection.

Everyone were fired up as well as relaxed in the muscles and nerves. Even I felt an emotional light headedness. It felt as if I had been carrying a weight on my head for years and years. This weight stayed with me even after a good bath, a game of football or a meal with my friends. This weight had been evaporated from the hardness of my nails, my liquid body, my unkempt dreadlock hair.

I did not know this persons name whom whenever I saw a mental dialogue began. Amongst the 20 multi nationals I shared the meditation discourse with, his presence kept my thoughts fired up. I do not feel proud about it. He kept short hair, stubble beard, wore black rectangular glasses over his large round nose. He only wore green top and a black pajama. I doubt the choice of color of his jacket had any religious significance. He was actually my next door neighbor. He used to park his shoes outside his room just as I used to. A pair of yellow bordered sports shoe sparked thoughts. In the meditation hall he used to sit two rows ahead of me. Between us, a German craftsman I later learnt. Whenever I peeped out of tiredness during a long meditation sitting, my mind would go to his woolen capped head surpassing attention of the spiral pattern on the German's bald. Although, I noticed every person in that hall in detail and their habits as that was the only bonding you can make with a group of people you share a quarter of month with.

However, my biases were immature for other nationals but for the tall man from Pakistan it had overgrown and ripened. We were also in the small group together when the assistant teacher called us to ask questions. Questions like " are you able to bring awareness to breath?" And, " can you feel sensations on your body"? During those moments I used to hear his voice along with the Brazilian traveler, German craftsman and the British cook. Even in those moments I paid extra attention to the green topped gentleman. Those moments again taught me that its not only the sight but the sound that triggers thoughts, beliefs and biases.

On the tenth day after learning and practicing the loving kindness meditation our vow of silence ended. All the students prepared for this moment, some seemed eager to finally interact with their peers or brothers or the people they had made acquaintance on the first day. I was not one of them. Neither I was amongst the serious old students for whom this milestone didn't possess gravity. They were the ones who went straight to the lunch room and continued with the meditation with the no bullshit tag on their faces. I knew I had to face people and make calls home tomorrow, so better get the tongue moving. My first words were thank you to the staff, the teachers and the helpers. What started with a few words, turned into slight buzz. A few laughs were shared and slowly turned into chattering. For the next one hour men shook hands, told about their ups and downs. I told a few people about my over whelming psychedelic experience on the fourth day, sitting on one of the benches near the pond. We all got fond of each other during the course without uttering a word. It was later that I met my roommate, still in his white kurta and scarf around his waist. We shared laughs and quickly apologized if we had unknowingly troubled each other. In retrospect, this was the first time I had a roommate with whom I hadn't gotten frustrated with.

The 11am bell rang and every one made a move towards the dining hall. The aura of the hall had upturned as the silence turned into unstoppable chattering. It seemed I had entered an office retirement party where the mood is soft but without any music. I stood in line with a steel plate and glass to collect lunch.

I was feeling relatively overwhelmed and was not really in the talking mood. In the line is where I spoke with the green topped Pakistani gentleman. We introduced each other, made small talk and carried large smiles on our faces all the while. I don't know about him but the war was on the back of my mind which I was was eager to express. But what business did we have? Everyone at the centre was there to learn and practice an exercise of the mind.

I told him about my relatives in Quetta, Pakistan and he told me his grandparents were originally from Amritsar, Punjab in India. The ice was broken and we both resorted to our allotted tables to eat lunch on the opposite corners of the hall.

The sun went down as we spent our final evening summing up the course. A final discourse by Mr Goenka and the day was over. Men started grouping up and I too sneakingly stood amongst a smiling bunch of fellow meditators. The Europeans were discussing France. A Nepali householder had been questioning a young German boy about famous German personalities, whom he had never heard. I slid away for a walk as 'Milad', the gentleman from Pakistan was walking ahead of me. I asked him, " So, what will be your plan from here?".
"Ill be heading to the Korean monastery tomorrow where I'll be residing for few more days before leaving for Chitwan for my workshop." he said with calmness in his voice. He had a sort of a slurry Punjabi accent, kind of laid back, not a very sharp accent.
We began a conversation which I felt we both wanted to have. Maybe try to sneak in what was going on the other side of the border and the horrors. But we both were well detached from the drama and the strong emotions we are supposed to react with in war like situations.

"So, what kind of workshop is this?" I asked curiously hoping something interesting may boil up.
"I conduct theater and impromptu workshops. I've been traveling Nepal for a month exhausted with them. Some time off drew me here." he shared about himself.

We kept walking on the rectangular track passing other groups, completely invested in each other. We discussed everything in relation with the course, from evolution of our meat eating canines to Aligarh alumni meetings in Karachi. He told me how the film industry there is starting to show promise but Pakistani theater had lost its earlier charm. We discussed about the communist regime and the book animal farm. However, the maximum time we spent on discussing was about a Bob Dylan song, 'ballad of a thin man' and what the lyrics could mean.

It was then when the crowd was thinning and only one large group of foreigners remain near the dining hall, I expressed if I'd ever be able to visit the neighborhood country of Pakistan. To be able to feel an absence of mental restrictions to ones travels.

I asked him if he ever comes to New Delhi then see the theater programs at Mandi house. He demanded, "will I ever be able to come to New Delhi? ". He had the very obvious tone that right now things are so bad that it doesn't seem a possibility in atleast our lifetime. He told me once his flight emergency landed at Lucknow, India unplanned to refuel while traveling abroad. Till the time his flight relaxed on Indian land, he faced grave anxiety and schizophrenic thoughts. He thought that a man in coat is a special agent and would pick and shoot the Pakistanis in the aircraft cabin. I could relate to him just like two students standing outside the principals office waiting for their parents to be called. These thoughts of fear are not natural but have been put into our heads since childhood.

In the final moments we talked about Vipasana, that he felt the essence of the practice lost the moment the vow of silence concluded. I kept a more optimistic view about it and saw it as part of the process. But he was right to a certain degree. I retired for the night. The next morning I left for Delhi. 

19 may 2019