Parade of the Dead Outside Hospital Window

While Suja recuperated beautifully from her surgery at Aysha Hospital, we heard the growing sound of drums. A parade? A festival?

No, outside the window, a procession honoring the dead. A body was being wheeled through the streets of Chennai, someone had died and the family had hired musicians and revelers to accompany their loved one on one last earthly journey.

Five Days at Aysha Hospital, in 11 Verses

A short story of my stay with Sujata at Aysha Hospital in Chennai. Photos to be posted tomorrow. Note: the first poem is set OUTSIDE the building!

One
I saw a rat today.
Running with such purpose.
A businessman with a lunch date?
An investor about to take stock of his accounts?
Or maybe a party official, heading to convene a meeting on
food supplies and shortages in the city of Chennai.
Clearly, a fellow on the move.

Two
She thuds to a stop in the late afternoon.
Initially, it seemed she hit the window.
But as the afternoons pass by,
her take offs and landings become
a familiar comfort.
Welcome back, Miss Pigeon!
Our air conditioner is yours for the perching.

Three
Little black bugs appear after dark
scuttling madly across the bathroom tiles.
Destination, a mystery, zigzagging crazy random paths.
Only they know their rhyme and reason.

Four
Across the hall, a new baby meows.
She is the size of a loaf of bread.
Big Brother, heavy with diaper,
increases the volume, crying loudly for
Mother and the sudden loss of center stage.

Five
The canteen behind the hospital
dispenses well being to visitors and staff.
Fresh milk tea, steaming Horlick's and foamy coffee beckon.
Stainless steel flasks, china cups, thermoses, plastic pots and jugs
are plonked down on the high counter.
Jars of one rupee biscuits line the walls, display cases of hard candies
and hanging baskets of juice oranges beguile.
We are the healthy ones,
blessed to be made happy and whole
by a hot drink in the early morning light.

Six
Our young nurses appear in worn, well washed uniforms.
White plastic slip-ons silence their quick steps along the granite halls.

With shy smiles and confident hands, they check blood pressure,
adjust and make beds, administer injections, wash and dress
the convalescing.

We ring the bell and they appear in an instant,
calm and concerned, prepared to serve.

In the still of the night, I find them resting
on a single sheet upon the floor,
lined up like shoes
ready to step into action.

Seven
Aysha, one of Mohammed's wives
is the name of our hospital.
Dedicated, "in the name of Allah, most beneficent and merciful,"
the modest structure resembles a three shelf bookcase,
holding dozens of ageless stories of life and death.

Intensive care tales, especially affairs of the heart,
are written on the first floor.
Second floor houses the giant wards,
bed after bed blanketed by hope and hardship.
Third floor reality shows begin in the Operation Theatre,
tumors removed, babies appear, bones reset.

Most captivating are the daily dramas
scripted by family and friends. Grannies and toddlers,
awkward teenage boys and pig tailed daughters
spill out of stuffy patient rooms.
Slouched in waiting area chairs, leaning against railings,
exercising with walks on the three story ramp,
all waiting for a happy ending.

Eight
Part apothecary, part bakery and general convenience store,
the ground floor pharmacy is the
most trafficked stop at Aysha Hospital.

Daughters, mothers and helpful friends parade down the stairwells,
prescriptions flapping like flags,
looking for one more bottle, vial or tube
designed to restore and revitalize our loved ones.

Young pharmacists climb the unmarked shelves
accurately plucking packets and boxes of pills, pads,
syrups, syringes and solutions.

Among the miracle drugs are tucked the most
common of household goods.
We purchase a bar of soap or chocolate, batteries or lotion,
Relieved we can bring back a bit of normal in our bag.

Nine
Morning was so long ago, I quietly glance at the newspaper,
learning it is still Monday, March 23.
How can a day seem so empty yet full?
We make endless trips in and out of bed,
to the toilet and hallway, snapping the fan and air conditioner and lights
on and off, on and off.

Orange and apple peels fill the dust bin,
cups and spoons washed in the bathroom sink.
I remind myself of old Uncle Suren, able to read the newspaper all day long, gratefully discovering one more entertaining, unread article.

Two cell phones keep us talking,
retelling the tiny victories of the past 12 hours---
tubes inserted or removed, pain fading, appetite and strength returning.

Young parents valiantly amuse squealing children,
marching and playing on the other side of our door.
An errant rubber ball smacks the wall, a hushed reprimand follows.
Everyone is doing the best possible, containing and controlling
energy and expectations,
confining large hopes and fears to small spaces.

Outside, traffic swells and ebbs like the nearby Bay of Bengal.
We know the sounds of evening commuters, a certain tired insistence
in the honk, horn and sweet bell,
heralding the close of another day of healing in Room 306.

Ten
Listening to Sujata breathe, I lie on a low bench beside her bed,
gladdened by her sleep, the sacred time of healing.

Sometimes, she is awake but far away, accompanying her thoughts
on solo journeys, traveling where I cannot attend to her.

Like a mother with a newborn, I note the shift in her soft snoring to near silent exhales. Leaning close, I watch for a reassuring rise or fall.
Satisfied, I doze.

Rustling sheets stir me; will she want a cover added or removed? A cough drop, help to the toilet or to relate a curious dream?

Easy meditation fills the hours.
I am surprised by how quickly I slip into the deep
spaceless, timeless, formlessness.
Peace, passing all understanding.

Eleven
A slowing stream of visitors comes and go.
Soon, we will, too.
Already unused medicines are returned, a bit of packing has begun.

Sweets are purchased for the staff,
to be distributed with gratitude, as we leave.
I'll tip the bellboy more generously than Suja likes,
we'll wrangle on an in-between figure.
Rides are arranged, final prescriptions and directions
given by the doctor.

At last, the hour arrives. We switch off the lights, fan and A/C, finally
obeying the sign above the toilet, "Save water and electricity."

The door is pulled shut.
An elevator ride to the first floor and outdoor light. More goodbyes.
We tenderly, gingerly enter the car and head off.

Thank you, Dr. Suri, all members of Team Sujata and Aysha Hospital.
Your care was most "Beneficent and Merciful."
We go in peace. All is well.

Healing in Chennai

To all readers, especially those who live and work at Union House Nursing Home in Glover, Vermont, I send love!

My friend Sujata has successfully had surgery at Aysha Hosptial, a small hospital in Chennai. We traveled by train here from Bangalore on March 18, and she was admitted two days later. Owned and operated by one family, the hospital only can house about 75 patients.

Many of the staff have been here since it opened in 1985, which is a testimony to the employers and their mission. We have been amazed by the attentiveness and cheerfulness and talent of all workers...nurses, doctors, orderlies, sweepers and more. Every two hours, Sujata has her blood pressure monitored, without fail. The bathroom and floor are cleaned twice a day!

It is my privilege and honor to be staying in the room on a small cot as her nursing assistant. This arrangement allows me to be present for any of her needs. At this moment, I am using an internet cafe next to the hospital, while the nurses give her a sponge bath. She will change her gown, putting on one of the beautiful cotton nighties she has made for this occasion. Today, after three days of no food, she will have her first idli, like a spongy small pancake, made of ground rice and legume flour. It is steamed and very easy to digest.

One of my biggest jobs is to take prescriptions to the pharmacy on the first floor to be filled. Rather than supply any of her medicines or medical supplies, the hospital requires the patient buy them throughout their stay, as needed. Conveniently, Sujata's husband Ramana set up an account at the pharmacy, where I can charge items. Some days we have three or four prescriptions to be filled, including IV tubing, pain killers and drips.

Sujata and her family have many many good friends here in Chennai, who have been bringing us food, washing our clothes, providing hot water in the flask for tea, and offering to give me rides wherever I want to go. I keep telling them that I don't want to go anywhere, as my place is with her. When they persist, suggesting I need a break or a meal out, I have been saying, "You can't separate a mother from her newborn, and that is the way I feel." This analogy seems to work!

We will most probably be here through the end of the week, as her recovery takes time after major surgery. As I am able, I will post here. Please remember us and the loving, competent staff of Aysha.

p.s. the computer art here was created by my Vermont friend (who is also a poet and blogmaster!) Morgan Brown. It is entitled "New World," which seems so fitting. Why? Because, following this time in the hospital, Suja will be pain free and full of vitality again, ready to enter her New World of health and wellbeing.

When Daddy is Home in the Morning

Walking Simba this morning, I came upon this beautiful scene.

Daddy didn't rush to work. Instead, he took his coffee and sat on the sunny front step with daughter Tvisha.

Why the oven mitt?

Tvisha's idea. She needed a big paw so they could play tiger!

Living Life by Heart

Note: I've written this piece for you. You know who you are.

Racing to a business meeting crucial to her current career, Babette’s mind was racing. Could her powers of persuasion crush her client’s doubt? Would she succeed in convincing them of her superiority and strength?

Bang, a tire blew out! Babette gripped the steering wheel as the car pulled wildly. Safely stopped on the desolate country road, she panicked seeing her cell phone had no reception. Forest everywhere, a small lake in the distance. Standing in the afternoon sun, Babette was furious.
Just how was she gonna salvage this day?
-o-o-o-o-o-
The reporter sat politely in the headmaster’s office, eager to begin an interview about campus life. Through the doorway, he saw a young student arrive with a stack of mail. The boy was obviously living with Down’s syndrome, his appearance and gate revealing some retardation.

“Good master, Sir! How are you?” the boy smiled broadly, placing the newspaper and envelops on the desk. “The snow is so beautiful this morning!”

As the boy left the room, the reporter shook his head and whispered quietly to the principal, “How sad. How terribly sad.”
-o-o-o-o-o-
Margie hopped off the back step and headed toward the car. From the garage, she picked up her pink leather golf bag, the heads of the clubs covered in hand knit, multi colored bags. Another day as the professional instructor at the Sand Creek Golf Club. Wow! She couldn’t believe she had landed her dream job at age 26…a golf pro, paid to play golf.

A few blocks away, Margie’s mother and dad sat sadly over their morning coffee. “All that education, and she makes so little money,” her mother worried.

“I know I could have gotten her a job at the bank, but she wouldn’t listen,” nodded her father, “I fear for Margie’s future.”

Babette’s mad.
The reporter is sad.
Margie’s parents are afraid and worried.

Because they can see none of life’s mystery, none of the natural beauty and joy of creation, they have mistakenly concluded that without an opportunity to strive and succeed, life has no meaning.

When we prize the working of the rational mind more than anything else, we lock ourselves into a fast paced race. Achievements logged yesterday don’t count. What counts is the amazing feats of today only, the grand purchases, the latest acquisitions.

So caught up in feeding the mind another challenge, we can't see or appreciate or celebrate

***the unexpected opportunity to stand on the edge of a forest and smell the balsam, listen to the running water

***the heartfelt joy of a happy child seeing new fallen snow

***the blessing of having a job one loves.

Instead, we strive and strain from one goal to another, wondering why contentment and satisfaction elude us. We can't figure out why we continue to feel a sense of separateness between ourselves and all other living things. We move from high to low and back again, mood swinging through each other's dramas.

However, if we confine the activities of the rational mind to the limited domain it has value, (rather like a toolkit needed when the toilet seat needs tightening or a door hinge squeaks) we create space for our heart to guide and direct our day. Highs and lows disappear, replaced by an evenness, a peacefulness, a serenity that is grounded in the constancy of the heart, not the tempermental mind.

In yoga, we do an asana, or posture, that requires a very open and forward thrusting chest. As a teacher, I remind the students to, “Lead with your heart.”

This reminder is not only worth following in the yoga class, but in life itself.
When we are feeling mad, sad or worried, chances are we are being bullied by our rational mind. Telling us that we aren’t good enough, that life is unfair, that others are out to get us.

When such negative energy takes over, it is time to lead with the heart, listen with the heart, and celebrate this great world we call home.

This weekend, I enjoyed some time at the School of Ancient Wisdom outside Bangalore. I watched Priyappa, above, milk his herd of four. Throught the process, a slim gray cat meowed insistently, crying out for breakfast. I was so happy when Priyappa finished milking. When he poured some milk into the lid of an old bucket for the hungry kitten, my joy was so great, I felt I was the cat! I experienced the Oneness of all life.

(Milk lover stalking her milk)
Learning Tai Chi from master Nicholas Packard was another moment of weekend contentment. How beautiful, to look around the plaza at such earnest students, flowing slowly and gracefully in the morning air.

One more image of the weekend opens this posting, the thriving tomato plant supported by young banana tree. Why not? Such lovely simple harmony in the garden. I seek such moments of total balance, where I can be effortlessly supportive, like the banana tree.

Today's secret? Use the Mind only as a tool kit, and live life by Heart.

Friends, the Moon, and a Dog: the World's Great Comforters

My simple second floor quarters at Taralaya, the Naidu farm, affords me a happy view of fig trees, coconut palms, hot pink bougainvillea and other natural wonders.

I've been hearing this quiet crunching noise outside the window next to my bed. Sometimes, the soft footsteps are after dark, other days, in the morning. The adjoining land is so wooded, I have never been able to figure out who or what is walking around on the dry leaves. Yesterday, I spotted my light-footed neighbors: two big water buffaloes! Hardly known as tiptoeing beasts, that is just what they are. (If you want to know what a water buffalo looks like, check out the banner, above. This family of three was walking the beach one February the morning in Pondicherry. Water buffalo milk is rich and creamy, and makes the best yogurt.)

Though I have no blood relations on this continent, I have no shortage of love and comfort around me. My friends are kind and welcoming, what a blessing. Just two nights ago, in celebration of the full moon, three women invited me to meditate in the garden.

We thought about all the women we have ever been related to, and ever will be related to...who live under the same moon, their cycles governed by its magic. Bathed in moonlight, we loved participating in such a timeless ritual, gazing at this captivating white light of night. The same full moon of my great great great great great great grandmothers and granddaughters.

Beyond the companionship of friends, I am blessed by my buddy Simba, the big ole dog who belongs to the Naidu family. Simba and I have become pals this year! I get to walk him a couple mornings a week, and play games like "catch the fig" or "chase the chicoo," using fruit I take from our trees.

Simba also likes to sit on my bed while I write. He sometimes backs his bottom into mine and then falls asleep, in about one second! I also find his head pressed up against my knee, giving comfort.

Simba's head, my knee! Bliss, for us both.

Shopping with Sujata, the Sniffer

My friend and landlady Sujata Naidu and I went shopping for a weekend of parties. Given the importance of the occasions (her son's first wedding anniversary, her husband's birthday) no ordinary market would do. We couldn't even be content with a Super Market.

We went to Total here in Bangalore, known as a HYPER MARKET.

Hyper and high tech or not, Suja relied on her old fashioned sense of smell to buy our fruit. This little montage begins with her getting close to a Melody Melon (isn't that a wonderful name?) and then becoming very serious, even intimate, with pineapples...spelled Pine Apple on the Total Hypermarket sign.

When I posted last week, with photos of the stunning flowering tree, I wished the Internet was able to communicate scent. Today, in honor of the marvelous fruits Sujata selected, I again wish for smell. Wouldn't it be nice if you could just Scratch and Sniff your screen?

Trust me, the fruits were deliciously ripe!

Our parties were a great success. With the help of two friends, we made five big apple pies. Yes, I did smell a few apples, but not all three kilos.

I also had fun decorating the fig tree with cut out letters. When the outdoor party began Sunday morning, we had 25 balloons (yellow, orange, blue and purple) hanging in lush bunches among the figs. But as the heat of the sun wore on, they combusted loudly! Each time, I revealed I have Very Fine Reflexes for my age...and a surprisingly stubborn bladder. Whew!

Just a few brave balloons remained 24 hours later. Curiously, the orange were the first to go.

In his book, Sense and Nonsense of Sickness and Pain, author and healer Peter Mandel writes of the healing characteristics and power of colors. Without this knowledge, we unknowingly (subconsciously?) selected great balloon colors, according to Mandel:

Orange, for joy and happiness

Blue, for peace and infinity

Yellow, for a cheering effect

Purple, brings spiritual strength.

The Need I Say More Tree