Day 97: I looked at him and it was love at first sight 

Sunday, lazy Sunday. Spent lunch time watching this documentary on Netflix about Bhagwan Osho Rajneesh. I saw it pop up in the suggestions and immediately thought of the hilarious dinner time conversations at Bhor, with SPD recommending trips to the ashram in Pune, especially the sessions behind the white flowy curtains.

Turns out they were real sex therapy sessions, where Rajneesh proposed his sanyasins (he preferred the common female gender to all his followers) let their bodies free in order to free their souls. The documentary had revelations from the long-time bodyguard and the long-time secretary for the human-god, and was insightful on the movement in the 70s and 80s, what is often referred to as the pop culture.

I’ve never had any real respect for self-proclaimed gods, and this gentleman was no different. He was guilty of everything, from sex with minors, to sex with too many partners, to visa fraud, voter fraud, and indulging in narcotics. When his secretary and bodyguard left him, he even accused them with the intent of maligning their almost non-existent reputation.

The documentary was well shot, including many real video snippets from the ashram archives. Hippy followers, smoking weed, walking around with beads and rudrakshas were abundant, and it was almost hilarious watching them react in unconscious submission as ‘the bhagwan’  touched them at their various chakras as a part of his therapy sessions.

Belief, especially blind belief, makes us do weird things. The ex-bodyguard speaks of how he lost almost 30 years of his life, and most of his family and friends, in following the guru around India and the USA. A question he often asks himself is when did it stop being about spirituality and start getting weird. And he says, he realized too late that it had always been weird. He had just not seen it soon enough.

The secretary, who left her guru after his demands became unmanageable, speaks fondly of her first meeting with the Saint. A young girl of 20, her father took her along to meet him, and it was love at first sight. She saw the Saint and knew that he was her lover.

Oh God!

Can you keep the volume down, please? Human demi-gods come and go. But a Sunday for napping comes only once a week.” Scotch 

Advertisements

Day 27: Of new beginnings and gardens 

Hurried post. Sorry! 

Met folks at the station today and they got me thinking. There’s a beautiful opportunity for them now to spend time raising a garden in the backyard. They could even build a terrace garden and grow their own veggies. How exciting is that? 

I think I dreamt of that garden while asleep tonight. Love! 

So, you met dad and mum? When are they coming back to pick me up?” Scotch 

Sahana, Santana and beyond.

It all came back in rushes, that one doomed day.

It was either the fact that I was up since 4AM (somehow reminded my brain of the old Diwali days, I guess) or a recent conversation that I had with pEePeE, that got me hooked on to a totally different wavelength of music. Definitely not a genre new to me, since it is customary for every Iyer household to make sure their daughters learnt carnatic music or Bharatnatyam and their sons knew how to play the mridangam. But I surprised myself by listening to M S Subbulakshmi, K J Yesudas, and the likes, all day, reeling in the memories attached to each of those songs.

The earliest memories are brought to life by Yesudas’ rendition of Harivarasanam and SPB’s Aayar Paadi Maaligaiyil. They some how remind me of early days in the Rock City, when I was too young to comprehend good from bad. These “had to be” the tunes the Gods sang to put us to sleep each night, tired from vandalising the neighborhood. It is the same tranquilizing calm I feel every time I listen to these songs. I close my eyes and see myself running through tiny rooms, the walls distinctively highlighted by our crayon artwork. There is a baby-swing hanging bang in the center of the bedroom with the life size mirror in one corner. Bang Center? Wait! Where would that place the fan? Interesting! Heck that’s how I remember it, so it stays. I run out into the make-shift portico and stare out of the grilled partition. God’s Yezdi stands under the neem tree, three, or was it four, floors down. Or was it peepul? Was there a tree at all?

Pancharatna Kritis, unquestionably, remind me of days in the Garden City. Summers in the at-home summer camp, with mid noon walks up to the temple, only to practise for the umteenth time. I remember all the coloring books, action figures and the ingenious games waiting for us, with dimple studded faces, while we sat there singing the same lines over, till we got the perfect twist and got it in unison, as a group. Those gruelling sessions definitely helped the ones who eventually took their art to the stage. But for poor disinterested me, they were but distractions, the bridges between me and my interests; surprisingly similar to work in today’s mindset.

Entharo gets specific mention among the others in the set. Not as much for being the sweet kriti, marking the end of the long and tiresome lineup, as for being the one that reminds me of God, every single time. I can still picture him in every other place that he would tune it up and sing along, head rocking in every direction, hands zestfully tapping along.  We could see him get the same degree of pleasure listening to it, as H would out of Santana. Or is it Metallica now?

Snap! and I was back to triage calls and post deploy validation. The wheel keeps on turning doesn’t it! This is where the day stands clear in my mind. As I listened to each song, humming along and redoing some of those almost forgotten tricks with the tunes, I realized that deep down inside I missed it. All of this felt like an integral part of who I was, what my upbringing was and I was worried that with each passing generation, this rich tradition was going to slowly fade away. Would that leave me with grand children in thrash bands?

Had I listened to God’s Ma’s wishes and given up studies to take up her passion, would I have made it big? Would I have had records to my credit and a fan following to live for? We would never know. Would I have had the pleasure of turning to something apart from the lame work I go to everyday? Would this have kept me going through some dark, gloomy days? Would this have earned me a new boy friend? We would never know that, either.

Would all these questions stop me from listening to them again? No. That much I was sure; for at the end of the day, I had enjoyed myself thoroughly, not once missing the Maidens and Metallicas of the other world.

So I live a king’s life indeed; Vishnu sahasranamam to wake me up and Dire Straits to lull me to sleep. Rich in all the music around me after all. And who is not!