D is for Dewdrops on daisies in forests of deodar #AtoZChallenge

Every once in a while you come across someone who says something to you which makes you stop and ponder.

Last year in May, I met Alex in Dehradun.

Aparna and I had been on a trek to Chainsheel Lake in October 2018 and Maunda, a village nestled in the Himalayas on the border of Uttarakhand and Himachal Pradesh, was our base camp. We stayed in the village for two nights; once on the way up and then again on our return from Chainsheel. Something about the village and its people enchanted us so much that we decided to visit again. 

Alex joined us and in May of 2019 the three of us climbed into a comfortable white Innova in Dehradun: destination--Muanda, estimated travel time--nine to ten hours. 

Where the tarmacked road ends, Maunda begins. It is the last village reachable by motorable roads in Uttarakhand.

May turned out to be even more magical than October. Spring was still lingering on in late apple blossoms while summer had started fattening lingda fronds (wild fiddlehead fern).

This tiny village of deodars and chestnuts, a cow called Laali and a matriarch named Julie left a deep impression on me. My pahadi (of the mountains) soul felt at home among its roadside sea of stinging nettles and tricky to reach truffles. Often, during our stay, a bird or a fragrance or just the way dew drops glinted in the morning sun would unravel a longing within and I'd break into a reverie of fond childhood memories about Papaji and his garden.

Alex and Aparna would listen and watch me revel in the details of my own narrative .

"You should write about it. You are a daughter of the mountains, you should." said Alex one day as we sat sipping our drinks of choice, chai for us and coffee for him, looking over a field of daisies carpeting every inch of visible land under the shade of the ancient deodars. 

Alex's dark eyes shone a little more brightly as I looked at him and nodded. 

His words sowed a seed.

I have fantasised about writing a book for as long as I can remember. But, other than jerky starts and fanciful wishing, I have not given this dream any solid ground to take root.

Papaji used to spend hours tilling his kyarian (flowerbeds) and vegetable patch: raking the soil, mulching the ground, adding cow dung and tea leaves and composted heaps to nourish the plot -- to make it fertile and ready before dropping the seeds.

How will the seed flourish if the soil is not turned? How will ideas germinate if the learning hasn't churned into unlearning? How will words spout without practice? How will the pen write if the journey within hasn't begun in earnest? 

No matter the weather, no matter the time, if his garden jobs had to be done, Papaji did them without excuses. His garden was scared to him. The love with which he looked after it demanded a discipline that he was always willing to give. Did he ever feel lazy, I wonder. Did resistance ever make him doubt his skills as a grower of beautiful things?

"Let resistance do his work. You do yours." a quote by B.K.S. Iyengar helps me when I falter in my practice of yoga or writing.

Alex's words have been planted carefully into my days. I find the time to nurture them with regular writing. A sentence, a para or a page: it doesn't matter. I'm doing my work. 

Resistance is the shadow that follows me everywhere. She turns on the latest Netflix series and slips down rabbit holes of pretending-to-be-research-based google searches every now and then. I let her. I do my work. I toil the soil of what's sacred to me everyday so that when the sun of inspiration shines, I'll be ready.

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Have you hugged a tree recently? What did you see when you looked up?

I've cobbled together a few photos I shot in May 2019, in Chakrata, Uttarakhand to create this video:

And have used Ustad Vilayat Khan's music to accompany the daisies and the deodars.

A lone, late apple blossom will make his debut too:)
Enjoy.

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Have any words uttered by a friend, acquaintance or a stranger made you take stock of your dreams ?
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If, by chance, you have lingda growing around where you live, try this Pahadi recipe:
Pahadi lingda with garlic and herb pasta
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Wishing you all a safe and healthy weekend.

Solo in a Pack

"When you practise on your own, you meet yourself." Giselle, my yoga teacher said softly. She smiled her usual warm smile, her eyes disappearing in the rise of her cheeks, only the shining sparkle of her wisdom shone through. 

I was sitting on my mat feeling at peace with my body. The class had come to an end. Mats were being rolled up, blankets were being stacked neatly and placed in a blue Ikea bag. All the students were in different stages of getting ready to leave. 

It was the last class before a long summer break. To me, it felt like a weaning off session, an attempt by our soft spoken guru to nudge us towards our mats without the scaffolding of her words guiding our limbs, our breath and our thoughts. 

She may have said something after that last sentence. But I didn't hear her. Something about 'meeting myself' made me stop in my tracks. Like a camera lens, my thoughts zoomed in on those two words. The rest of what was being said and done around me faded into a blur.

How easy is it to meet yourself? 

Are we ever ready to make our own acquaintance? Truly and honestly? 

Why do I find it easier to drive to a class to practice than to roll out my mat at home? 

Keeping the raging dialogue hidden inside my head, I  paid up, said goodbye and left. 

When I resist the mat, am I in some way refusing to meet myself? I wondered as I drove out.

I had put my reluctance down to lack of discipline and general laziness. I never thought of it as being unprepared or unwilling to meet myself. 

And what does meeting oneself really mean? 

'Listen to your body', Anusha, my first yoga guru, used to say. 'Don't worry about others, be present on your mat.' 

'How you are on your mat is how you are in your life.' was another one of  Anusha's favourite things to say during a class. 

For me, the words I hear in class are as important as the techniques I'm shown. My teachers' wise utterances keep playing in the recesses of my self, especially the bits that I need to pay attention to. 

Summer is unique in Doha. As the school year comes to its natural end in June, many families move out of the city for good to either head back home, or move to a new place with better job opportunities or to be close to where their children are (at universities etc.) Doha's working population is predominantly ex-pat, so it's natural for the city to be a transient stop for many.

A friend recently remarked how her corner of the yoga class she's been part of has emptied out as many of her yoga buddies have left.

Getting attached to a group of people, a class time-table, your favourite place in the shala to unroll your mat, a sequence of asanas, or even a yoga teacher are all shades of that which yoga is showing us to distance ourselves from: attachment. 

And going back to Giselle's words, only in finding the discipline and courage to make a date with myself to meet me can I hope to distance myself from all the above attachments. Otherwise, any one of the above has the capacity to interfere with my practice.

Being solo in a pack is a beautiful place to be in. 

Often on treks, despite being part of a group and despite respecting the safety codes of trekking (not lagging too far behind or running too far ahead), I often detach from others and walk with myself. It's a beautiful and liberating feeling.

Watching the daisies dance with the breeze, the play of the morning sun on leaves, the dusty clouds that keep puffing out of soles of the one walking ahead of you and rustling leaves are all present like my teachers' words: telling me to listen to the voice inside, to meet the soul that has been given a body that I use to live, to walk, to practise yoga, to write, to cook, to love, to laugh, to sing off tune, to dance with abandon, to dress up in a saree or to spend an entire day in old pajamas, to bathe in waterfalls, to slip on big rocks, to hold a friend's hand, to give her long and tight hugs and to sip hot tea.

"We are not becoming experts.

  We are just finally becoming good students."

Says William Martin in The Sage's Tao Te Ching

As a student, I hope I can use the steps my teachers have shown me to practise the discipline of detachment so that I may meet myself more often on my mat. And in doing so, I can be a better version of my solo self, one day at a time.

Whatever your daily practise, be it a walk in the park, mediation, preparing food for family, writing, singing, dancing, listening, earning money or just being, I wish you all the best. 

I'm writing a blog post after a long time. Bear with me while I flex my writing muscles. The thoughts I've poured out today have been knocking my insides for a few days.

The photos I've shared on this post were clicked in the Himalayas (Maunda and Chakrata) a couple of weeks ago.

Eid Mubarak to all who are celebrating .

I'll sign off with these lines from The Sage's Tao Te Ching by William Martin

"Work with passion and energy

at the tasks you cherish,

but connect often with that part of you

that is watching it all happen

with eternal joy and love."

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I'd love to know what you make of Giselle's words. What do you do to meet yourself? Do you do that often? 

U is for Unfurling

Unfurl

dear heart.
Let the light in.

You've concealed enough over time.
Memories and regrets
Anger and threats
that lurk inside the chambers
have played their part:
let them out.

Unfurl
dear heart;
one petal at a time

He shouts.
She whines.
They splinter and join.
You shed tears
of despair,
or
is it joy?
Round and round
the cycle goes.
Let it flow.
This is life
you know
like the blood
that throbs
and makes you, you.

Unfurl
and
unfold
dear heart.
Let your flower shine.

Step out of your cocoon:
the one you wove
to protect you.
It's your prison, you know.
Listen to me
dear heart.

I dance to your beat
And when you
unfurl
I will too.

I invite you to unfurl with these beauties today...
'Open your heart to the Universe', says my yoga teacher.
Maybe, I'm beginning to see what she means. 

Filmed by Neil Bromhall for www.rightplants4me.co.uk

Editing By Chokchai

Dhyan se - pay attention, be mindful.

'Kadam sambhal ke rakhna (step carefully). You've not done this before. Dhyan se chalna (be mindful of your steps.).'  My father-in-law's words when I called him to say that the bus I was in was ready to leave ISBT (Inter State Bus Terminal) were like any other words one would expect from him.

He worries. He cares. He's a father.

At that time, I had smiled and put my phone on silent. I had struggled with the lever to push the seat back to recline and given up. By the time I reached Mcllo, I had already forgotten his words.

A couple of days later, 'dhyan se chalna' became our mantra as we traversed the rocky cut outs of the last leg of our trek- from Kareri village to Kareri Lake, for the following reasons:

1. Dried pine needles can be slippery to step on.

2. Climbing rocks is a killer cardio work out, so to feign fitness, I HAD to take one step at a time!

3. The impact on 'auntyji' knees when I was climbing down could only be mitigated if I took ONE step down at a time-  dhyan se (mindfully)- placing the receiving foot at a forty five degree angle each time.

I am glad to report that yoga helped and despite the arduous climb up and back, the joints didn't protest a painful revolt.

Paying attention to each step opened up opportunities to pay attention to my surroundings almost at a meditative pace. The camera clicked happily. We absorbed it all- the camera and I- dhyan se...

'What's this?'

'What's it called?'

my monkey mind would ask
every time 
I spotted 
a pretty flower
or
an insect
or
a tree.

'This is here. This is now.'
replied the soul.

Come with me on this trek- one step at a time. 

and 

experience

the
moments...

Of
sunrises
and
sunsets.

Of
Shiva,
his lingam
and
Nandi.

Of
hazel eyed shepherds
and
their sheep.

Of
snow covered peaks
and 
dried up leaves.

Of
filling up water bottles
at
springs
and 
puffing
on
a bidi.

this is...

Is she sick?
'Hmmm..', he nodded.

This is Sanjay.
He brings his sheep up here every day.
Then sits and waits for them to finish before he heads back home to his wife and two children,
a boy and a girl.

'You have beautiful eyes.' I complimented.

He blushed.

This was a first for me- complimenting a grown man 

other than my husband who has stunningly magnetic eyes.

This auntyji was in form:)

It's only when I was back in my kitchen in Doha that the words of May, hanging on the calendar beside the water dispenser distilled into clarity.

Breathing in,

I see myself as a flower.

Breathing out, I feel fresh.

Breathing in,

I see myself as a mountain.

Breathing out, I feel solid.

Breathing in, I see myself as space

Breathing out, I feel free.

Thich Nhat Hanh

But that was May, it is June now.

June has conspired to present me with the unenviable task of dragging my teen aged children towards a normal routine, i.e. get up before midday, shower, tidy up their rooms and get some sort of exercise. Exercising their eyes while they're glued to their computer screens and thumbs while they're busy drumming out texts and snap chatting does not count.

'But, it's our summer holidays!' they cry out in unison.

Only if all my days were as simple as this...

That was Kareri. This is Doha, boiling and dusty.

So, why is it that I can be mindful and carefree on a trek, but so full of irritability when my children let their dried out cereal bowls pile up in the sink? Why can't I practise mindfulness when they sleep on a bed minus the sheets because I abstained from making their bed in the hope that this would make them more responsible?

My daughter and I have been catching up after her intense IB year and before she goes to university. We've chatted, watched Melissa McCarthy in the Spy, shopped and argued. We've had our share of cuddles and tears.

'You're the only one who can make me cry.' words uttered by my daughter last week broke my heart.

No, she wasn't getting emotional about leaving home or anything. I had hurt her. I had hurt her with my words and made her cry.

No, it wasn't about the unmade bed. It was about what I thought was the right thing for her to wear for a dinner party. She likes practical and I wanted to show her off.

Instead of being mindful of her, I was being mindful of how things 'should' be- just a bit better, just a bit different- her choices should be just a little like mine.

Arti, Dhyan se chalna- mind your steps as a mother, as a human, as a traveller.

Don't overstep.

Don't leave footsteps. She doesn't need them. She'll forge her own path- just like you did- one step at a time.

Yes, it's so easy to mind my steps, breathe deeply, inhale the good and exhale the bad when I'm in the lap of the Himalayas or lying in shavasana; not so easy when I'm coming to terms with the fact that my children are souls on a journey of their own.

The weight of her words sits heavily. I try to lighten it with Gibran and Rumi. It helps a little.

Like yoga and writing, I have to practise being a mother who's learning to let go everyday, a mother who is learning to .

"Welcome and accept

things as they are

Welcome and accept

children as they are."

( The Parent's Tao Te Ching by William Martin)

There are days when we hurtle word-weapons at each other under the guise of sarcasm and days when my almost adult children dive into my bed, shaking it with their collective weight to sleep with me while their father is out of town. There are days when they accuse me of playing the guilt card and days when the son whistles while he mops floors and the daughter cooks a delicious meal just because she feels like it.  It's all part of the deal. But, practise I must.

All these years, I had thought that I was bringing up my children. Today, I realise that they have brought me up.

Words wound when we use them to impose our expectations on our loved ones. Silence soothes. Reading rescues me. It reminds me that I haven't done this before- this living, this parenting, this letting go. So, I need to take one step at a time- dhyan se. 

"Know that each action,

each word

has its effect.

Be alert and mindful,

living fully in each present moment.

Treat your children with courtesy

as you would treat a guest."

( The Parent's Tao Te Ching by William Martin)

The Parent's Tao Te Ching by William Martin is my go to book when I feel unsettled. The summer holidays have only just begun and I plan to treat my children with courtesy as long as they behave like reasonable guests and wash their bowls:) 

---------------------------------------------

The evening call to prayer rings out as I type. My Muslim friends will be breaking their fast within the next half hour. The day comes to a close after celebrating fathers and yogis and saluting the summer solstice sun. The 21st of June will melt into the 22nd...one tick at a time. I will cook daal and rice for my family- dhyan se, with love and jeere ka tadka (tempered with cumin) in my kitchen in Doha. I am here and this is now. 

Breathe in...

Breathe out...