The Sound of Silence

For the past week, I have been more or less living like a hermit. I wanted to take the opportunity to live in silence except for the daily services and keep any kind of conversation to the absolute minimum. 

It would be easier if one were not permanently aware of the presence of the large group from France, or if they only understood the value of silence, but groups on vacations don't like to be told what they can and cannot do. There are one or two individuals in particular who seem incapable of eliminating hushed conversations, and whispers are a deafening soundtrack to someone who is trying to observe silence. 

When I relax into my old friend, to quote Simon & Garfunkel, the aural background soon ceases to distract me. If I focus my ears, I rapidly become aware of just how much is going on beyond the tap-tapping of my laptop keyboard.There is a distant rumble of traffic on the main road that runs a few hundred yards away. Closer to hand is the chop of a gardener's mattock breaking up the soil and the garble of his occasional exchange, in the Tamil language, with a colleague working nearby. More voices float over in the wind from residents of the nearby village and I hear the cowherd ushering his sacred charges along the track.

The birds are noisy, and there are calls that range from familiar to exotic. There are half a dozen peacocks, who strut around and let out a screeching catcall, competing with the familiar caws of scruffy black crows. 

My hut is surrounded by banana trees, with huge leaves that are up to five or six feet in length, and I am occasionally distracted by a flash of purple or emerald, as a multi-coloured butterfly floats silently by.

But silence is not always an inviting space to visit, as anyone who suffers from bouts of depression will be quick to remind you. I am not generally moody, but this retreat has given me a reminder of issues that I have tried to shelve or ignore through the past months. The gift of silence is that the mind invites you to revisit and explore, but our culture does not encourage such enforced pauses in the routine of modern life. 

There are pluses and minuses in taking excursions through experiences that have left scars on memories of 2017, but I wanted to wipe the slate clean before the end of the year. 

War-babies, all of us

My generation were war-babies and baby-boomers, and we are all now into our fourth quartile and want these remaining years to build happy memories, not let bad experiences fester and create a lingering sadness.

With these thoughts in mind, my silence here at the ashram has led me to a couple of New Year Resolutions. 

• The past has happened: Regrets and resentment only hurt the one who holds them.
• Healing is all about Forgiveness, - and forgiveness is all about Love.

It's all so darned obvious, and all so darned difficult. But time and the sound of silence are great healers.

- and don't take everything too seriously.

My Last Christmas at the Ashram

You will probably have surmised from my last blog-post that this stay at the Ashram is proving to be an opportunity for soul-searching. Which is fine, because the big benefit of any kind of retreat is just that: a chance to take a step back and re-evaluate one's life and plot the way forward.

My initial reaction on arriving was to give a huge sigh of relief at escaping the material consumerism of December back in the U.K. - or anywhere else around the globe, for that matter. My hut in the banana grove is simple and adequate; the food is South Indian vegetarian, which suits me perfectly, and the monastic programme is optional, but gives me a chance to enjoy meditation and liturgy. There were just four or five of us guests when I arrived; enough for conversation if I wanted to chat, and not too many for solitude if I chose to withdraw.

- and then there were 40 of us at mealtimes

Then others arrived for the Christmas season, two large French parties,  and several new faces from elsewhere in Europe. Some I recognised from previous visits, and it was heart-warming to meet up with people who had been here a couple of years ago when I became an oblate of Shantivanam. 

But such an influx has a dramatic effect on the rhythm and balance of the establishment, and I found that I had to work harder to maintain the sense of peace and isolation which I wanted. 

I did not enjoy the tour-group holiday spirit, and have become a bit of a recluse. 

Every afternoon during the week, Brother Martin gives a talk on almost any aspect of theology, and the other day his theme was the meaning of Christmas. Ever since I went to work cooking for refugees and migrants in Athens 18 months ago, I have followed various related organisations on Facebook, together with local organisations operating in my home-town. As Christmas approached, the stories of hunger, deprivation and homelessness have proliferated, in harsh contrast to the promotion of luxury gifts and extravagant celebrations in all the media. People back in Lincoln were lonely, cold and hungry, and some were sleeping in the open.  According to the most recent Government statistics in Birmingham alone, more than 9,000 will wake up on Christmas Day in tents, cars, trains and buses and on the streets.

Well, it doesn't add up, and as our new ashram guests started rehearsing for a jolly Christmas Eve celebration, I realised I was in the wrong place, and I won't come back here again for Christmas. 

I know that I can make a difference to the Christmas of people less fortunate, and that gives me great pleasure. I don't need the church on December 25th to make it my Christmas Day. I am in the happy position of having 30-odd services being celebrated each week at Lincoln Cathedral, across the road from my apartment. I can enjoy those that attract a smaller congregation if I want a more monastic atmosphere, or I can relish the magnificent choral worship on High Days and holy-days.

I shall still come to Shantivanam every year, for as long as I am able. What draws me to the Benedictine community is precisely the reason why I will have a different kind of Christmas in the future. It's all about other people.

A friend who works with refugees in Greece wrote a simple poem to the meter of Away in a Manger. It's an uncomplicated message, and it's painfully relevant on December 24th.

Away in a kids’ tent

No chance of a bed,

Ten thousand cold people

With fear in their head.

 

The scars from the journey

Show words they can't say,

The grown-ups and war childs

Forced in hell to stay.

 

I see you, new neighbours,

And retch in despair

That though there’s warm places

The suits keep you there.

 

The snow is now falling

Clothes, food, - they are scarce,

The stars say go westward

But the law is a farce.

 

Please now, friends and neighbours,

Do something to act,

There’s people who need you

To keep life intact.

Lincoln Cathedral

December at the Ashram

The path between the huts

The ashram is quiet and peaceful, with both familiar faces and new guests. All are looking for the serene calm they have experienced on a previous visit, or have read about, and are searching for.

On my verandah

I've been here a week, and it’s not been quite what I expected. It’s not that the ashram has changed; it’s because this past year has had a big effect on me, and I am now in a space where I can reflect on the events of the year. 

I arrived at high speed because life has been like that for months. There had been no let-up of pressure of work in Bangalore: quite the reverse, in fact, as James Ambat had tossed over proposals that needed editing, and pitches that needed drafting, together with copy-writing that needed creating – and even a short autobiography that needed ghosting. 

Some days, my total exercise had been to come out of my room and descend a single flight of stairs to the dining area for the daily ritual of chicken curry, which is the mainstay of the Ambat residence. (I am mainly carnivorous at home, but I shall never understand the addiction to meat, here in India, - a country where the range of vegetable dishes is so extensive, varied, and delicious.)

I put myself under continuing pressure after arriving at the ashram in the wee, small hours of Sunday morning, by immediately writing the previous blog-post and then catching up with friends and family. 

Ongoing education for these children from the slums of Bangalore,
 - all funded through my charity "Escape from Poverty."

Then I started cataloguing my photos of the previous month and working on redesigned paperwork to cope with the nine pupils whose scholarships Escape from Poverty has so far raised. With a target of another dozen scholarships to be sourced within the next 4-6 months, I must have good paperwork in place, and it sends me into mild panics just thinking about it. I am now wondering whether Jeanette, my volunteer helper back in Lincoln, has had any luck sourcing a volunteer who can control and administer a system of documentation.  

And then my body caught up with me sometime on Saturday, with all the certainty of a sand-dune bringing a runaway car to a decisive stand-still. There was no crash, no physical breakdown, and no metaphorical air-bags ballooning out to save my life. The physical symptoms were neither dramatic nor violent; no raging temperature or nausea, and no shivering or dizziness. There was just a painfully clear, still, small voice in the tone of nanny being sensible with an over-excited little boy. “Why don’t you have a lie down? You’ll feel so much better.    

Since then I have tried to approach each day with renewed optimism, telling myself I felt much better and that it was probably the change of water affecting my gut, and sending me hurrying to the en-suite, but each day the symptoms reappeared, and the invisible nanny tucked me up mid-morning or afternoon, with soothing words of nothing to worry about and assuring me that all I needed was a good rest, because I had been overdoing things. I tried to argue that I have always been overdoing things, only to receive the unwelcome rebuff, that I am not as young as I used to be.

I have never believed in coincidences, and have always believed that everything happens for a reason. I think I was being strongly encouraged to look at the issues that have been worrying me, especially the arguments that have caused so much pain. It was time to take a critical look at my role in all of this, and accept some responsibility for the events, and accept that to a significant extent, I had brought all of this upon myself. I doubt if I would ever have thought about this if I had not come away to the peace and solitude of my hut in the banana grove, and I shall always be grateful that I discovered the Saccinananda ashram at Shantivanam, three years ago.

There is no compulsion to be involved in any of the services here, but I find it worthwhile to attend at least midday prayer and evening prayer. Sometimes I go to the early morning prayers and Eucharist, but I have never been a great enthusiast of daily Mass, as I think that such a practice detracts from the underlying message of that liturgy, - but that could be a whole book, and I am not going to go there today!

Brother John Martin

Breakfast follows the morning service, then guests are expected to help prepare vegetables as a practical contribution to the life of the ashram. It's just like old times in the kitchens of my restaurants, but I do wish I had remembered to pack my sharp chef's knife and a flat, level chopping board. 

Some people gather for a gossip over morning coffee later, and in the afternoon Brother John Martin, the theologian president of the community, hosts a talk and discussion, which is always interesting, and often controversial.

A corner of my "garden."

As I while away my time, I am reminded of a quip that my father used to love to tell, about the elderly Yorkshireman, who was asked how he passed his time. 

His answer is perfect:

“Well, sometimes I sits and thinks, and then sometimes, I just sits.”

Me too. Here, at the ashram, 

...sometimes I just sits.

For more information on my charity, go to:  

http://escapefrompoverty.org.uk

Home for the next month

Even the dust smells clean

I wasn't looking forward to Bangalore Railway Station. The big stations are crowded and confusing, with high bridges to climb up to move from one platform to another. 

Indian Railways 2AC

Then, almost by accident, I showed James my itinerary and he noticed that my train would be stopping in the suburbs, less than half an hour from his house. 

His driver, Jeevan, loaded me up in plenty of time and we crawled through the traffic but still arrived in plenty of time for the scheduled departure, and in even better for the anticipated delayed departure - 35 minutes late. 

Indian railway platforms are l-o-o-o-ng, and since the timetable allowed only 60 seconds for the stop in this suburban village, I made sure to ascertain roughly where my carriage would be stopping and settled down for the second most frequent activity of life in India, - which is WAITING.  

I was travelling in 2AC - 2-tier air-conditioned sleeper and the ticket for my 6-7 hour journey had cost me £10.80. My Senior age status assigned me a lower bunk, which I appreciated rather than trying to climb the metal ladder and then fall off the shelf.

Not visible night-times

I slept intermittently, worrying about where the train was, since there were no announcements, and few signs station platforms to give any indication of how far the train had travelled. Fortunately, a railway attendant stirred from his bunk to tell me I had one more stop to travel - so perhaps I should have trusted all along that 35 minutes late out of Bangalore would actually mean 35 minutes late into my destination.

What it lacks in amenities, Kulitalai makes up for with the length of the platform. Not that I needed to worry about the long walk as a smiling face of the ashram's driver was hurrying towards me to seize my bags and lead me off to the car. 

By 3.30 I was in bed and fast asleep - and I slept for more than 7 hours.

Still no signs -  to tell me where I was - and a distinct lack of Costa Coffee

When I awoke, the first thing that struck me was the clean, fresh air after the pollution of Bangalore (and -worse still - Mumbai.) My lungs had forgotten the taste of the country air, and I swallowed and savoured it like a parched desert traveller gulping water. When we pulled into the familiar driveway to the ashram and I could easily have rolled out of the car and curled up on the dust - because even the dust smelled clean and fragrant. 

Home until the New Year

I staggered to my hut and lay down under the mosquito net. I then slept solidly for seven hours.

When I woke, I sorted the room out to the way I liked it and after an hour or so, feeling showered, clean and refreshed, I wandered down the path to the monastery chapel or ashram temple -  whichever you prefer to call it.

The birds were chirping, and there was a faint breeze rustling the banana leaves. I kicked off my sandals outside the doorway and went barefoot to my seat in the empty space. It would be an hour until the midday Prayers, and I enjoyed the silence, the peace and the opportunity to reflect on the past month and on the challenges ahead. The deep contentment is blissful.

Bollywood and Poverty in Mumbai

The stark contrast of life in Mumbai.

Poverty

Having lived in Africa for four years in the 60's, I thought I had seen poverty, but what I knew in the bush was life in simple villages: round thatched huts and women chatting in a group as they pounded grain or chopped vegetables. These people were poor; the children ran around barefoot, and played in the dust with toys made of tin cans and twisted wire. There are probably millions still living that same life today as there were when I was there 50 years ago. The urban poverty was far, far less in Nairobi in the 60's than it became later, as people flooded into the towns looking for streets paved with gold.  Yes, people were poor, and they lived a very basic existence in the rural areas, but for the most part, they were not miserable. 

A small wedding celebration

I was overwhelmed by visible affluence of life in Mumbai.  

There are marble-clad shopping malls, luxury hotels, and smart boutiques displaying all the glitz of Bollywood, fuelled by the lust for a glamorous lifestyle. 

The Master Bedroom

The levels of disposable income are the perfect dream for interior designers, whose wealthy clients have deep pockets.
The reality is that India is home to over 200,000 millionaires - defined as people "..having investible assets in excess of $1million."

Bath-night in the slums

And while the baubles and trinkets are expensive, life itself is cheap.

Alongside the search for the ultimate luxury, there is a different lifestyle for the population living in the crowded, tin-roofed shacks that cluster into slums. 
Sometimes the slums are hidden behind advertising billboards, or grubby workshops and shop-fronts.

There are homes huddled together in the shadow of a Technology Park of software companies. Its employees leave their cars in an adjacent multi-storey car-park whose architects have hidden the harsh concrete of its modern structure with lush foliage that tumbles over the walls of each parking level.

Slumming it

My taxi driver grumbled and didn't hide his annoyance at having to drive to a rough slum district, but I am not in India to wonder at the history left behind by the succession of conquests and occupations, from Darius King of the Persians in 520 BC, to the British in the 18th century with the Greeks, the Turks, the Mughals, and the Portugese all adding their influences over the centuries. 

One of the impoverished slums in West Mulund was my destination, to look at a girls' education project that had achieved recognition locally, nationally and from international bodies like UNESCO. 
India has a tradition of producing strong women, and I had come to Mumbai with the sole purpose of meeting a young woman who had found me on Facebook and read about my activities in Bangalore.

As I researched the stranger on the internet, I had realised that I should put Mumbai on my itinerary and see to what extent Aarti's work in Mumbai mirrored what we were doing in Bangalore.

I found Arti Naik in a community hall, sitting on the floor surrounded by young girls who were studiously engrossed in writing in their exercise books.

Like James Ambat in Bangalore, she is totally dedicated to the education of the underprivileged and was recognised for her achievements earlier this year, in the Annual Women Awards organised by Femina Magazine, when she won the award in the education sector for her work in the slums of Mumbai.

I am going to try and link her girls' education project with a girls' school in Lincolnshire. They might raise some financial support, and some of the senior girls might go and see what the rest of the world looks like.

You never know how fortunate you are until you meet people who struggle to get by. Both James Ambat and Aarti Naik are pure inspiration. It's the same sensation as I felt in Athens last year when I met some amazing volunteers who had simply put their life on hold and gone to try and help refugees fleeing violence in their own country.

I think my role in my twilight years is to try to get people to understand that the greatest pleasures in life come from helping others and making them happy.