Different Strokes for Different Folks

SUNDAY IS FUN DAY (Special)

He was a tall, thin 18-year-old.  He wore shabby clothes and even shabbier sandals when he arrived to paint my desk: a small desk that needed sprucing up.  I felt pleased to be able to help him out by giving him honest work.

He was recommended by a colleague.  “He is such a polite boy,” was what was said.

And, indeed he was.  One of the most polite persons I have ever met.  I explained the job—sanding , priming, using wood putty to smooth out the gaps, then applying two coats of very costly—and beautiful “petal” pink glossy paint and the trim, “cherry.”

First he went off to the shop for the supplies.  He returned and handed me the change.  I didn’t check the receipt or the bag of supplies—my first mistake.

It was 9:45 when he began.  By noon the putty was drying.  At 3 pm he returned and applied the first coat.  He said he would come back and “finish the job.”  But when he did return, the first coat was still tacky.  It was then I noticed the lumps and gorges.  The putty had not been smoothed out.  “No problem, Madam,” he assured.  “I will fix it in the morning.

Then I noticed that the half litre “cherry” gloss was not in the supply bag.  He said he must have left it at the shop.  He went off to the shop to retrieve it.  In minutes he returned.  The shop was closed, he said.  He was now riding a brand new bicycle with a well-dressed, approximately 14-year-old at the back.

“My helper,” he explained. This is a one-member job, I announced.

“No problem, Madam.  “You pay for one worker; you get two.”

At any rate, my office was in a shambles, paint all over the floor, (in spite of the newspapers) and a bucket full of hardening putty—which he said was also not a problem because it was “only Rs 10 chalk powder…”

What?  Chalk powder!  Let me see the receipt!  I was only an octave below my thunderous scream level which sends the neighbours to their windows.  I was trying to control myself.  I always try.

It seems the polite painter had suddenly misplaced the receipt.  He said it happened between the closed shop and the brand-new bicycle ad the well-dressed friend.

Okay, I said, silently reciting my mantra ad letting the well-dressed kid inside.   I accepted that with two workers my office would get cleaned up faster ad I could finally get back to work.  Well, this was my second mistake.

Next morning at 8 am the painter, the brand-new bicycle and the well-dressed friend did not return to smooth out the lumps and gorges. Meanwhile, the “cherry” gloss has never arrived, the sticky surfaces of the desk are still sticky and right after the duo left, I noticed that some of my cosmetics in the dressing room next to my office had gone missing.

I called my colleague who recommended the polite painter.  He admitted that he did not know where the fellow lived, but had hired him off the street!  As for missing cosmetics, he couldn’t imagine why boys would steal make-up.

It’s four days later and I still don’t have a desk to work from, or any clues of what to do.  None of the local paint shop owners claim to have sold anyone a Rs 110 half litre of “cherry” gloss.  In fact, they didn’t sell anyone any “petal” gloss either.

I am stymied. My plan is to wait.  Maybe Mr Polite will show up again.  Maybe he will explain why he did what he did (or did not do).  Maybe waiting is my third mistake.

Meantime, I really, really wonder what a tall, thin 18-year-old young man is going to do with my cosmetics.  Or, what his friend is going to do with them.  Perhaps at this very moment the two of them are riding the Karnataka Express dressed in saris, jasmine bouncing in their hair, my apricot blush on their fuzz-less cheeks.  Oh yes, I can see them now, clapping at the passengers to pay up for the songs being sung to them.

Who knows what is going on?  This is Sacred Bharat, after all.  Nothing is as it appears to be.  Maya, thick and glossy, covers the ‘Absolute Reality’ where there are no desks, no petty thieves, no fuming victims, and certainly, “no problems.” Ha!

SATHYA SAI BABA LEAVES HIS BODY

The Eternal dissolves into Eternity

It was April 24, 2011, about 10:30 a.m. on an overcast but hot day when I heard the news that my beloved guru, Bhagawan Sri Sathya Sai Baba had left his body. For me, it marked the beginning of the Golden Age. He had always said that his mission was to transform people so that they would love and serve each other and violence would become obsolete.  I felt he had instilled his teachings in the hearts of his devotees and as a result his mission would continue through them.  

He had been in the hospital for many days and devotees waited around the clock for reports on his condition. I was standing in his Andhra Pradesh ashram, Prasanthi Nilayam, when it was announced that Swami had left his body and entered Maha Samadhi (the conscious departure from the physical body of a realized soul, and the shrine where the physical body is buried). Like millions of his devotees, I accepted the will of the God I believe him to be.  I watched as some people dropped quiet tears and many expressed disbelief. My heart swelled with gratitude that I had been graced to live in his physical presence for 21 years. He had not only saved my life; he had given me a life.  He is locked deep in my heart, alive and well.

The fact that it was Easter Sunday made me smile.  Swami always had a sense of the comic, no matter how serious the occasion.  And now, as the world was celebrating the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, Swami’s form was exiting.

Sai Baba’s teachings are simple and esoteric all at once.  He taught that we are all one, in fact, that we are all God.  He insisted that there was only one caste, the caste of humanity, and that there was only one religion, the religion of love.  He began most discourses with the words, “Embodiments of Love.” 

Born Sathyanarayana Raju on November 23, 1926 in the village of Puttaparthi, at 14, he announced that he was an avatar, God in human form, and the reincarnation of Shirdi Sai Baba.  In that year he began his mission: To restore righteousness in a world gone astray.  He taught, “This Sai has come in order to achieve the supreme task of uniting the entire mankind as one family through the bond of brotherhood, of affirming and illuminating the Atmic Reality (The Divine Self) of each being, to reveal the Divine which is the basis on which the entire cosmos rests, and of instructing all to recognize the common Divine Heritage that binds man to man, so that man can rid himself of the animal and rise up to the Divine, which is the goal.”

According to reports, he performed many miracles—from the unimaginable to the seemingly trivial — such as healing the sick and manifesting trinkets to make his devotees happy, he said. He predicted that “No one will fully understand my powers.” However, not only his devotees but skeptics and scientists have tried.

Many people have attempted to convince others that he is, in fact, evil. All this talk about him, negative and positive, did not seem to interest him. He simply carried on his mission.

Even his detractors often recognize his humanitarian contributions. Meantime, Radio Sai Global Harmony reports: “His numerous service projects, be it free hospitals, free schools and colleges, free drinking water supply projects, or free housing projects, all stand testimony to His selfless love and compassion for the needy and less privileged. True to His declaration, “My Life is My Message,” He has inspired and continues in his subtle form to inspire millions of His devotees worldwide by His personal example to live the ideal that “Service to man is service to God.” 

So what will happen now that our Beloved Baba is no longer with us in human form?  I believe his mission will continue; his devotees will carry on as he instructed.  For instance, the worldwide Sri Sathya Sai Seva Organization will undertake service activities that will benefit their communities.  Individual devotees will carry on their own service projects.  I, for one, will continue the work Baba wanted me to do: Communicating his love to those who are unloved, bringing hope to those who are hopeless, and leading the afflicted out of their pain.

Thousands of books have been written about his many miracles by people from every religion and walk of life.  Of his miracles he said, “I give you what you want, so that you will want what I have to give—mainly liberation itself.”

According to some of his devotees, the best way to experience Sai Baba is to privately ask him, from your heart, to reveal to you who he is.  Then you can come to your own conclusions.

But it is declared by his followers that Sai Baba walked among us to teach us that we too can become a Jesus, a Buddha, or a Mohammed.  We are, he consistently pointed out, God too—only we have not yet become aware of this fact.

My editor at Deccan Herald, Bangalore, India office, requested this article from me on April 24, 2011 the day Sai Baba discarded his body.  With a few modifications, it appeared early the next morning just as you have read it here. 

Behind The Masks

SUNDAY IS FUN DAY (Special)

I’m in Bodh Gaya, India to attend His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama’s Kalachakra (Wheel of Time) teachings and to take the Bodhisattwa vows.  It’s January and it’s so cold my face is stinging. I wonder why I’m here.  In the guise pilgrim, I am actually a seeker of Truth. I have little interest in obligatory rituals and less in organized religions. But I do believe in simple faith—most of all faith in oneself. 

What’s more, I love people and oppressed peoples always catch me by the heartstrings.  It makes me so very sad that the Tibetans have lost their exotic Snow-land Nation to the mundane Chinese administration.  Like countless others, I too long for a Free Tibet.

In the pre-dawn morning I walk from my tent  over to the Stupa, a dome shaped sacred monument originally designed to hold relics and remains of  the sixth century Shakyamuni Buddha, the historic Prince Siddhartha of India whose teachings have traveled the world.

The Stupa is not far from the Bodhi Tree, a fig tree, where he sat meditating and eventually attained Enlightenment.  This is holy, I think, walking in the footsteps of a Buddha who left the wealth of his kingdom, turned his back on fame and glory and found his way to this relatively barren place to discover who he really was—not a prince at all, but a servant of mankind.  I feel at one with this paradox of Emptiness.  Alone, I belong to everything.

I meet Tzu Tzen, tall and rugged and 21 years old. I can’t make out his features, though, because he is wearing a mask.  His dark eyes flash when I ask if he speaks English.  “I do now,” he begins. “I was born in Tibet, but I speak three languages.  Mostly I talk in Hindi to everyone.”

He tells me he has come to Bodh Gaya from a place in India he prefers not to name.  “I might get my parents in trouble,” he admits.  “There are Chinese spies at most of His Holiness’s events.  If they find out where my family is, something bad could happen.  My father is an activist in the Free Tibet movement.

Tzu Tzen says he has come here for blessings from His Holiness. But his unique mask makes me wonder if his primary purpose might be more political than spiritual.

Many people here wear a mask for protection from pollution and the freezing air.  But his is different.  The majority of thermal white cotton masks which loop over the ears and cover the mouth and the nose are sold for 20 rupees in the streets.  On the other hand, Tzu Tzen’s mask is self-designed.  Made of thin green cotton—like those worn by hospital staff—his mask ties behind the head and neck.  In bright, blood-red letters it announces, “China, go to hell.”  

I stifle my laughter, because to me it’s such a wild idea he has, that he can alert all of China with just four words.  What is this message about?  I ask seriously.

Tzu Tzen says he is angry at what happened to his country.  “The Chinese just stole it right out from under us. Mao Zedong had more than a million of our people slaughtered. They are still killing us, shoving us in prisons, not letting us practice our religion.  They are even dressing up their military as monks—spies in robes—who pretend they are part of the monastery life that tourists get to see.  The Chinese only let the tourists see what they want them to see.  It’s not Tibet anymore.  It’s a fake, for show, tourist trap.”

He is shouting at me as if I’m Mao Zedong himself. “I just want to go home.  That’s all.  Can you understand?  I want to go home to my country.

 “I’m fed up with India too because the people here take advantage of Tibetans. They can’t even pronounce the word Tibetan.  They call us Tibetians, as if we are half alike.  I am not an Indian!

“The tent city I’m staying in is like a refugee camp.  My sector has no proper floor.  It’s just dirt with some straw thrown about.  It’s not even made of real tent material. It could go up in flames with the drop of an incense stick.  And it costs 2,500 rupees per month for a space in the tent.”

My tent area is exactly as he describes his, two broken toilets for several hundred people, limited water, and no heat.  Nevertheless, I ask: Are you sure Indians are running these places?

“Of course I’m sure. They are taking the money. His Holiness gives the teachings free, but we have to pay too much for our lousy accommodations.  They charge us outrageous rates because they know how much we love His Holiness. They pretend they know about Buddha.  But right here in Bodh Gaya, they don’t ever remember him. Money, money, money, that’s what Indians want nowadays.  Tibetans want freedom.

But wouldn’t life in Tibet—even if the Chinese welcomed you—be worse?  What would you do to survive?  Do you know how to be a nomad? How would you earn a living?  You might not even find a tent waiting for you there.

“I have saved money doing kitchen work, doing modeling.  I could find something—anything.  I will figure it out when I get there.”

As the sun begins to brighten the sky, Tzu Tzen makes the rounds of the Stupa with the thousands of other pilgrims who have now arrived.  I walk with the crowd. He holds his mala in his right hand chanting, “Om Mani Padme Hum.”  He walks the approximately one eighth of a kilometer distance about 25 times.  He trudges determinedly, the white puffs of his breath escaping from his mask.

Isn’t it weird to be a follower of His Holiness who stresses compassion, forgiveness, and non-violence and be wearing a mask you painted with bright red letters that are definitely anti-Chinese?

“To you it might be weird. Have you ever had your culture killed?  Have you ever lost your freedom? To me it’s necessary.  Somebody has to do something.  I’m doing something! Fifty years of peaceful negotiations haven’t produced anything,” he rages.

So the mask is your way of speaking out against tyranny?

“Yeah.”

What would your parents say if they knew you were wearing it?

Unexpectedly, Tzu Tzen bursts out laughing.  He removes the mask revealing his handsome, young face. He holds onto his stomach as his laughter increases.  Then he stops. “They’d say, Tzu Tzen, go to hell!”

Attending the teachings of the Dalai Lama, walking around the Stupa, squeezing the beads of the mala, empathizing with the classic angry young man…it doesn’t have to be that serious, I realize.  It can be a lot of fun.

On the way back to my tent I stop at Mohammed’s Restaurant.  It is also a tent.  I splurge and have a slice of apple pie with my chai.  What a funny world, I muse.  On the menu there are Tibetan momos right beside Chinese noodles.  I wonder what the spies eat.

“Mostly they like vegetarian, California fruit plate,” Mohammed says.

THE SNOW QUEEN

Even as a prisoner in a house of strangers, there were always grandmother’s quiet, soul-enlivening rooms, with no television or radio to disturb my reveries.   But the secretary, my personal holy place, was where I most enjoyed being. On any given day of the week, at any time of that day, I might be found scribbling away on pieces of paper— composing stories that fluttered in my mind like the wings of birds.  I wanted to let the birds out, so that they could fly, and most of all so that they could sing.

  As an adult, when I lived in the Mojave Desert in California for a time and kept an aviary, I learned that canaries sing so beautifully in cages because they are males and they are trying to attract a mate.  I got so disturbed by this and the ferocity of the male love birds who attacked and killed other birds in the aviary then cannibalized them, I couldn’t stand it.  I brought most of the birds back to the farm where I had purchased them.  I only kept the doves.  But before long a seven-year old boy with a BB gun shot and killed them.

Fortunately, in the beginning of my days I could not have known why birds sing, or why love birds tear apart their potential rivals, or that there would ever be a small boy so full of hate that he would have to kill a helpless bird in a cage, just to get some relief from the pain of his life.  I would have to wait a long, long time to find out the dual nature of reality.  But I was getting off to a good start. My stories were helping me examine myself very closely.  I was not like a young Leonardo Da Vinci collecting specimens and taking them apart to see how they worked.   I was the specimen, and I wanted to understand who it was that was picking me apart.  

Attached to the desk’s writing surface were overhead, glass-door-front book shelves. My mother used these shelves to store her fancy drinking goblets, those that were taken out for very special occasions. And the three drawers under the pull-down writing surface contained table linens—again, used only for holidays or events so rare that they marked life changes. 

Bronislawa Leowkadia Szyzko, my American-born mother, daughter of Victoria Konezko and Sigismund Szysko, never minded when I sat at the desk writing my stories, nor did she even ask what I was doing.  She was far too busy.  She worked two jobs—as a hotel maid and a sewing machine operator at a garment factory— to pay off my convalescing father’s hospital bills.  Mothers are supposed to be our first gurus.  That’s what the saints and sages say.  But at 7 Church Place, in the shadow of Fall Mountain, this was not the case.

 At home my mother appeared to carry out her many chores with great attention, but I could see her mind was in another place.  On some level, she must have noticed that I was at the desk regularly, using up plenty of scraps of paper.  In fact, she must have been the supplier of the pages of my first manuscripts.  But she never spoke to me about my magical writing.  And I never told her.  That’s the way things were between Blanche—her USA name—and me.  They never changed.

I was three years old when I first climbed up onto the desk stool and knelt there to do my writing.  The stories that I transcribed were illegible because, though I could already read children’s books and knew the alphabet, I had not yet learned how to form the Big Words pouring out of my head, through the pencil, and onto the paper.  I simply heard the stories coming from within myself and I scribbled them down as fast as I could to keep up with the flow.  But had anyone asked me to, I could have recited them. I was eager to share them.  No one, except my cat Midnight, was interested.

I also remember the ecstasy of sitting in Blanche’s lap as she read to me from the many children’s books that she took out of the Rockingham Free Public Library at 65 Westminster Street.  I memorized the words as she read them and followed her beautiful finger as she pointed out the syllables.  Sitting in her lap to be read to was the only time Blanche allowed me to be close to her.  I didn’t move a bit, for fear that she might remember I was near her and then suddenly put me down to go back to doing her chores or to get ready for one of her jobs.  I sometimes got the feeling that she was reading all those children’s books to herself— as if I wasn’t really there. 

 When I was almost four she bought me a little upholstered chair of my very own, and that was the end of our physical intimacy.  Of course, there had been breast feeding.  But I don’t remember that. Blanche did read to me sometimes after she gave me my own chair, but it was not the same.  She was in her chair.  I was in mine.  And when she discovered that I could read the words on my own, she gave up reading to me entirely. But one of the last childhood things we did together—before I was put in school—was go to the library where she got me my own card and she introduced me to the children’s librarian. From that time onwards I loved books and writing almost as much as I loved Blanche.

Maybe all the stories I was writing from three onwards were for her.  Perhaps they still are. Nearly all the stories I wrote between the ages of three and five were about a Snow Queen who lived in a snow-covered forest, far, far away from civilization and on top of a huge mountain.  The Snow Queen in my stories was gorgeous—with gold-flecked, light-brown hair and sad brown eyes.  She was a woman always waiting to be saved, taken out of the ice world and delivered to the warmth of love, no doubt.  I, the witness to the Snow Queen’s life, was the only one who knew her whereabouts.  And story after story I, the Invisible One, was trying to get to where she was so that I could rescue her. But I could never do it.  Just when I got close to her, she disappeared.   Not surprisingly, perhaps, my Snow Queen looked just like my mother.

To be continued…..