Cat Heaven

Key West’s hospitality was not hard to spot. We came across it many times, including the time when we stood at the ticket counter to the Hemingway House, and inquired if our visit to the lighthouse made us eligible for a discount. A young chap at the counter told us that even though the next door lighthouse was not part of the discount deal, he would give us a discount- free entrance for the three kids of ours. We found the same man, lets call him Mike, at the door of the house, and with a wink, he looked at Y and wished him aloud saying “Happy Birthday! Since its your birthday, we gave your family free tickets.” I was confused for a while before I understood that he was doing it in jest, to pretend that there was a reason, even though they needed none to give us a waiver.

Hemingway house was situated about 50 ft away from the gate to the property. It had wrap around balconies with series of french windows in the two floors, which made it look very light and almost as if it was floating. The tropical vegetation around it made the setting a very familiar one for the Mallu in me, very heavy because of the dark greens, and quite in contrast with the building’s lightness. Mike informed us of the guided tour to begin shortly. The living room, to the right side of the entrance hall, was full of people. Among the pictures on the wall was one of Hemingway’s friend, Fuentes, on whom his story “The Old Man and the Sea ” was based. Also hung, a picture of William Taft, the original owner of the house, who made a fortune salvaging goods from ship wrecks, abundant in those days, and then, using slaves and stone quarried from the site, built a very strong house that could outlive hurricanes and flooding. Taft himself outlived his wife and children, who died early due to yellow fever and other disease. Hemingway had lived past a war, a romance with a nurse and a marriage by the time he arrived in Key West, with his second wife, Pauline, a fashionable lady, also an editor to a magazine. Pauline had a rich uncle who gifted her the house and a fancy car. The house was bought for a meager 8000 dollars, and in poor shape, and then, worked upon diligently by Pauline and Hemingway after they became its owners. As Mike narrated these to us, he wished for himself a rich uncle like uncle Gus.

Hemingway House

The house is a museum with Hemingway’s life displayed in pictures, personal articles and even typed letters, and original furniture that Pauline collected including many pieces shipped from Europe. Mike’s guided tour brought Hemingway alive before us with all his peculiarities, his passion for adventure, his heroism, the people in his life, and his whims. Of the whims, belong the cats. There were six toed cats in those times, favored by sailors for their reputation as good rat catchers. Hemingway got one as a pet for his children, Patrick and Gregory. And today, the progeny of that cat number in the forties. They were to be seen all around the house, stretching on the sofa, curling in bed, hiding in nooks on the roof, tree tops, and sunning themselves here and there. They are fed well, and visited by personal health care workers including a vet and a dentist, who volunteer their time for free. True, these are things that many humans cannot even dream about, but that hasn’t stopped human beings from lavishing it on pets. Hemingway house is like a cat heaven. The house would strike as heavenly for people like me too, if not for the realities of human life, the imperfections of living, that were narrated to us in the form of Hemingway’s life.

Hemingway wrote many of his works in the house, sitting in his little second floor writing studio, connected then to the main house by a walkway. Now it is a separate building, with a small gift shop in the first floor. Pauline, his wife, edited his works for him, and Hemingway had high praise for Pauline’s skills. Pauline was a very independent, humorous woman, who was well known in the literary and artistic circle, as well as in the social life of Key West. She lived in the house even after she divorced Hemingway, and ran a business in the island and continued to entertain their old friends in her house. Hemingway married two more women after Pauline, and suffered depression later on, that led to his suicide one fine morning, at his home in Idaho when he was 62. It is interesting, and quite sad, to note that suicides ran in his family, his father, a brother as well as a sister ended their lives at their own hands.

I have only read one work by Hemingway, a short story called “Hills like White Elephant”, in which, an American and his girlfriend realize that their relationship is drawing to a close, as they sit sipping drinks in a small train station, somewhere in a foreign land, and their conversation struggles to find lightness in a heavy moment in their life- an abortion that he wants and she doesn’t. I could see the minimalist language that Hemingway is well known for (and my blog isn’t!). Hemingway’s own life was a conflict of similar sorts, the attraction for adventure, and the need for depth in living. Hemingway was neither the American , nor the girlfriend, I would say, after having glimpsed his life. Without the empathy that he felt for the girl, “Hills like White Elephant” would have been a different story. Still, the American may well have been Hemingway too!

My children were captivated by the cats. Z asked Mike if he knew the names of all cats. Mike replied that he did and that if he didn’t, they would take away his job. We left Hemingway house pleased, each in his own way. I bought a small refrigerator magnet as usual, this one with a sketch of the house, and two cats and a few palms jutting out from the background. I chose it for the whimsical feeling the house evokes now.

Ma’aruf

Ma’aruf is a quranic term for “good deeds” and it means “that which is known”. When the Quran exhorts one to “good deeds”, it is as if one would naturally understand what it means, as if it is something already known. But,living in this world where language has become so complex, we are left wondering if such a simple phrase is enough to guide such a complicated creation.

Sohaib Sultan, in his explanation of a Quranic chapter, in the book “Quran in Conversation” (by Michael Birkel), writes:

“Sometimes we can make religion so much more complicated than it needs to be. Moral philosophy and related fields have their place, but we need to have a good heart, good intentions, and do some good to those in need. Don’t be morally paralyzed. People know by their nature what good is.”

“There are some things that need more reasoning, or more scriptural guidance, but there are many things in the moral universe that people know. In the Quranic language, that is known as fitra.”

It is to this good nature that Pope Francis appeals to. He has an ability to reach out to people regardless of their identity. I saw this again in his statement about the Charlie Hebdo incident. In very simple terms, he explained that one cannot justify such horrific acts in the name of God and that it can only be considered an aberration. But, he stressed that it is wrong to provoke in the name of free speech. He gave a quick example to illustrate his point:

“If my good friend Doctor Gasparri [who organises the Pope’s trips] speaks badly of my mother, he can expect to get punched,” he said, throwing a pretend punch at the doctor, who was standing beside him.

http://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-30835625

Yes, the incident has to be seen in the light of the systemic oppression and injustice that muslims have to face in the present world as a continuation of colonialism and the racism that existed as an undercurrent then as well as now. When looked at with our simple good nature, we see that there are many aberrations in what we call “civilization”. We have to find a way not to get so caught up in its politics of identity that our good nature becomes alien to us.

Riddles Unsolved, But A Story Well Told

Gail Tredwell. I had never heard about her before the news reached me about her shocking allegations against the world renown “hugging saint”, also known simply as “Amma”, whom Tredwell served as a close aide and devotee for 20 years of her life, through her book “Holy Hell: A Memoir of Faith, Devotion and Pure Madness”.  This was soon after I had met a follower of Amma, who responded to my motherly insights on forgiveness by saying that mothers should rule the world, because they have wisdom that surpasses others. I should have been flattered, instead, I merely told her that I didn’t agree. Power tends to corrupt anybody, I added; mothers are in no way immune to the risks. I have to clarify that this conversation was before I learned that her guru was “Amma”.

I heard about the interview with Tredwell, by John Brittas, the managing director of Kairali TV, a news channel from Kerala and went on to watch it. Even though the interview itself came with the air of a sensation hovering over it, drum roll in the background included, and the interviewer seemed to drag it on and on, Tredwell came across as a genuine person, and her answers seemed forthright, and her courage appeared to be of the extraordinary kind. She has created a gigantic problem for a very large spiritual empire, to say the least. Not a very comfortable position to be in. Or the safest. I ended up buying the book.

Tredwell writes a wonderfully engaging book, I should say. From the very beginning, there is a simple style that captures the internal realm of a very thoughtful, spiritually inclined personality, even though a bit immature and a bit naive, understandably so, since the events in her memoir are the consequences of that mix of characteristics. In memoirs we see the curious interplay of circumstances, including psychological conditions, and the choices that are made based on either thoughtful decision making or pure impulses. Together, these make the story of all individual lives. For the spiritually inclined, in the mix we also find a guiding light: a light that reflects from all the events and makes us understand its meaning.  In the self discovery of the author, the readers also benefit with various insights. Yes, Tredwell’s memoir is worth reading, and enjoyable too.

It is in the twentieth year of her life that Gail Tredwell arrives in India, a traveler who feels disconnected with the life she lived in Australia, with parents who were on the brink of divorce and friendships that didn’t live up to her idealistic notions about it. The hardships of travel are many, including hepatitis and a boyfriend who parted ways with her. But India captivates her, and Tredwell’s vivid descriptions of the sights in India, and her various experiences amidst it, in turn captivates the reader. She says, “India is not a country with which you can ever have a mediocre relationship. You must love it or run for your life.” And she does end up falling in love with it. She doesn’t escape from its unique blend of spiritual practices either. Tredwell ends up spending a year in Thiruvannamalai, and is introduced to meditation and to the idea of a guru. She is particularly moved by the picture of Anandamayi Ma and her devoted assistant, who is seen with arms wrapped around her guru’s knees in loving embrace. A year later, she ends up with a guru of her own, Sudhamani, the poor fisherman’s daughter still living in her family home (in a coastal village in Southern Kerala) and known to her small following as “Amma”, or mother. Gail Tredwell takes on a new name, Gayatri, and it is this Gayathri that lives as a close aide and devotee of Amma for the next 20 years. It is a bizarre story, but one that has been written in a very simple, conversational manner. The setting gets Tredwell’s careful attention, and so, the story progresses pictorially in the reader’s mind. The tone in the story is neither a regretful one nor is it a spiteful one, and the relationship of the voice to the events is one of self introspection, as if the author is trying to understand her own puzzling story.

After taking us through the incredible world of ashram life, her own trauma through it and the story of her escape, she refrains from giving us any conclusions about her erstwhile guru: “Do I have all the answers? No, and I probably never will. I have come to accept the fact that Amma is a complex fusion of character and color- just like every single human being on earth. She is a person who, in her humanity, has been influenced by her upbringing, her social and economical environment, and her culture. She is a riddle I do not need to solve.”

Gail Tredwell is alone in her allegations. There is no coalition of erstwhile ashram inhabitants or followers corroborating her story, (even though there are allegations of improper handling of finances, tax evasions and mysterious deaths from other quarters) which makes Gail Tredwell either a reckless fool to take on a behemoth in this manner, or a person who has found the courage that originates from a firm belief in one’s cause. Somehow, I feel its the latter. I do not suffer from an antipathy towards Amma. The wisdom she shares seems to be of the down to earth kind. She speaks about values and love, and lets the followers interpret much according to their own intellect and needs. The fact that she inspires people to throw money and energy behind her is amazing. But, unlike the devotees, who see a divinity in her nature, I see the desperation of the masses for meaning and spirituality. It is the same desperation that Gail Tredwell showed in seeking a guru. But what if it is a disconnect of the spirit from the intellect that is feeding into the hopeless social and political mayhem that breeds so much suffering, the very same suffering that the spiritual seekers are out to ease with their time,money and efforts? Isn’t it better to bring at least the tangible aspects of spirituality under the umbrella of the intellect?

The evidence against the idea of spiritual gurus as extra-human creatures, immune from error, is mounting and is already of a monumental proportion. Can Hinduism exist without it? I was inspired by Houston Smith’s rendering of Hinduism in his book “The World’s Religions”. In Hinduism , I see an attempt to understand human nature and to understand  transcendence as the inevitable goal of our nature. The way I understand, there are four paths to transcendence: raja yoga (the path of mediatation), knjana yoga (the path of knowledge), bhakthi yoga ( the path of love and service) and karma yoga (the path of work). Together, they make us whole. Each one of us have a right to the whole, not just one of its parts. Similarly, we have the right to ask of our spiritual leaders for their commitment to all of it. Can the path of knowledge be complete without the proper understanding of human nature? When an interviewer asked Amma for a message to benefit the American people, she replied that they need to find a balance between their body and their spirit; between worldly life and spirituality. It was amusing to hear Swami Amritaswarupananda (Balu in Tredwell’s memoir) translate this reply from Malayalam to English, all in the middle of the never ending hugging program going on, and I wondered in what respect were swamis eligible to preach that. Isn’t it because they have not found that balance that they have chosen monastic lives?

What we require is an honest inquiry into our own selves, an effort to understand the dualism that exists in our lives; the dualism of body and spirit; the dualism of being individuals as well as social groups; the dualism of living individual as well as collective destinies. It becomes mandatory to accommodate disparate philosophies in one’s  worldview, and to seek common grounds to create healthy societies. But in the interest of a progression towards truth, there is the need to communicate opinions, of course, without wanton disregard for the feelings of others. There is the need to grow out of our childishness, and be open to criticism, to free ourselves from traps of all kinds.

Conflicts are unavoidable, said Amma at the speech she gave at a French Film Festival. But, there are rules even in conflict, she reminded. Let us hope that the rules will find a place in this conflict of hers with her critics. Yes, the riddles and the questions remain, only accentuated now, by Gail Tredwell’s book.

 

Tredwell’s Interview with John Brittas, Part 1 & 2: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2a0MIZ7XNI  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k_FStKXdTD0

I was intrigued by the story of Anandamayi Ma and her devotee, Gurudidi Priya, as mentioned in Tredwell’s memoir and so looked it up:  http://www.anandamayi.org/devotees/f3.htm

So did I look up on Ramanamaharshi, of Thiruvannamalai: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rcvuctV0FJo

Amma’s speech at Cinema Verite on Conflicts: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kf5RehhaK7c

Amma answering Allen Steinfeld through Swami Amrithaswaroopananda: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTh4MXQ8H2I

 

 

snow

My earliest memory of snow is from a calander with japanese landscapes. There was a page with a beautiful picture that showed a brook running through snowy banks . If anything, snow reminded me of clouds, certainly nothing from the real world I was used to then, whiter and softer than anything I knew.
And it looked so pure. Unlike rain, which carries dirt from the surfaces that it touches , and sort of cleans everything, but becomes dirty itself, snow remains untouched by dirt. It covers and clads everything with its own purity.(Paraphrased from the book)

And then I did see snow with my eyes. When I set foot in America, I had many things I had never seen before on my mind, including snow. There was a deep desire within me to see land covered with snow the way I saw in that calender. But Raleigh , North Carolina, hadn’t seen that kind of snow in a 100 years. Yet, a few months after I set foot there, there was a snow storm and 21 inches of snow fell down in 24 hrs. I remember waking up in disbelief. When everything dazzled in whiteness. When it looked as if the clouds had descended, there was nothing hard left on earth. It took more than a week for the snow to melt and disappear. I like to think it snowed for me that year!

9 years later , I read snow by Orhan Pamuk. And how I wish I had remained awake on the night of the storm to see snow falling down! Snow means so much more today because of a book!

“Snow” is the story of a poet named Ka(short for Karim) who is brought to the mountaneous town called Kars during a snow storm primarily by fate, secondly by a jounalistic work related to local elections and suicide epidemic there. Kars is a forgotten world, poor and dilapidated. Right at one end of Turkey, almost like the end of the world. The poet seeks happiness and does find it in Kars, but he also sees in the falling snow the spiritual course of his life and knows in his heart that a fall and unhappiness is inevitable. Yet he tries his best to preserve his happiness and gets entangled in the theatrical coup, that began on the day the roads to Kars closed due to the snowstorm. Life and theatre get mixed up with the poets pursuit of happiness. Radical and reactionary Islam lays a claim on God and spirituality, artists are left duelling with their conscience to concur with the rest of the people on religion and to understand and love God the way everybody else does. Ka is caught between western ideas he grew up with and the resurgence of islam taking over his country of birth. He realises that the only thing that matters is love. He begins to write poems that come from beyond. Like the beautiful snowflakes drifting to the earth.

“And so it was that Ka heard the call from deep inside him,the call he heard at moments of inspiration,the only sound that could ever make him happy:the sound of his muse. For the first time in 4 years, a poem was coming to him. Although he had yet to hear the words, he knew that it was already written. Even as it lurked in its hiding place, it radiated the power and beauty of destiny. Ka’s heart rejoiced.”

This passage is one of the most beautiful ones I have read in fiction. Its speaks about the very essence of being a poet.

Pamuk says that happiness and poetry can coexist only for a brief period of time. After that , either the poet becomes too coarse to write poems or the poem is so true that it destroys the poets happiness for ever!

Why is “Snow” a story I understand so well? Am I a poet unable to find the courage for poetry? Or is it because, like Ka , I live between 2 distinct worlds – West and Islam, unable to make any sense of my belonging? Or is it simply because, Orhan Pamuk wrote it so beautifully? And I wonder how much of his happiness he gave away, writing it?!