A-Wake

Our drive from the house till the beach in Victoria was filled with tropical memories –butterflies on bluebells, hibiscus, rose and lilies flitting by as I looked out of the car window. Rainfall was yearlong in Cameroon, and its pitter patter on the roof and the stoned roadways was a part of our routine drive. Come rain, hail or sunshine, we made it to Mile Six beach every fortnight. A caravan of 6 cars, loaded with two each of Punjabi and Maharashtrian families, one south Indian family and a Gujarati newly married couple. Tasks allocated, food lists distributed, roles and responsibilities clearly appointed, we would head out early in the morning. Excitement brewing amongst kids, coolers loaded with cheese, butter and drinks, electric stoves shoved into car boots, inflatable tubes and boats loaded up, foldable chairs and tables settled on carriers, coins for the game of rummy stashed on the seat, we would make our way for a day of bliss at the beach. Invariably, the caravan would halt somewhere on the road for the occasional person who needed a desperate bathroom break, or the urgent nauseous burp needing fresh air. Finally, after a 90-minute road trip which felt like eternity, we would arrive, identify parking spots, some tree shades, and set up camp. The stoves would be pulled out first for desi chai to be brewed, followed by chairs and tables, the first round of cheese sandwiches and cold drinks, and then the card tables. Somewhere in between all of this, lunch would be warmed – potatoes and rice. Post lunch would be nap time, reading breaks, long walk breaks, swim breaks, or just plain chat breaks. Nadkarni Uncle, who lived with us in Victoria, took an inflatable boat and announced that he was going for a swim.

Packing at 5 pm, our deadline was critical to enable us to make it home before darkness, avoiding any harm or probable mishap on the road. The re-loading of our equipment always took longer than the unpacking because of the lethargy setting in, and the disappointment felt by the kids and parents over leaving such a beautiful place. Cars ready, kids loaded, engines revving, we almost began the return cavalcade when someone realised that Nadkarni Uncle was not with us. A frantic search party in place, the length and breadth of the beach witnessed frenzied and animated Indians calling out to Nadkarni! With a few curious locals in tow and some kind Frenchmen who were quite amused that we could manage to lose an adult at the beach, heartbeats began racing. The conversations turned towards a random kidnapping probability, to one of “made a new friend who has misguided our Nadkarni”, to a more morbid imagination of him having drowned. As children, we could only keep our faces plastered to the car windows twiddling our thumbs, complaining about the homework we had to complete. The silence would often be interspersed with the occasional update coming in from one of the Uncles about his disappearance which was no new addition to the status quo. Finally, it dawned on someone to look for the inflatable boat Nadkarni Uncle had taken with him and then suddenly all eyes were at sea, peering to find a boat bobbling above the waters with our dear Nadkarni Uncle. A resourceful Uncle from our caravan ran to look for binoculars from one of the other tourists. A small dot on the horizon was eventually identified as Nadkarni uncle with the help of those binoculars. That was the beginning of pandemonium.

A hapless bunch of Indians made their way back home in solitude relegating the rescue of Nadkarni to the local police and middlemen. He did arrive three days later, escorted by Italian sailors from an Italian ship which had spotted him and sent a rescue boat to bring him onboard. Nadkarni Uncle had fallen asleep in the boat, floating out to sea, too far away from the shore for the naked eye to spot. He said he had woken up with a jolt when the ripples from a whirlpool had suddenly rocked his boat. I could not see anything around except water, he would narrate animatedly to all the kids, and I thought I would probably just get eaten by the sharks, he would tell us.

King Janaka was the King of Mithila, and a kind and just King at that. Once, Mithila was attacked by an enemy. The enemy was ruthless, powerful and brutal. The King got onto his horse, beckoned his army and went onto the battlefield. Though he fought with all his might and valour, his army was no match to the enemy king’s troupes. Finally, an arrow struck the King’s horse and the weary exhausted King was thrown to the ground, landing on his knees. Seeing his soldiers all dead, his troupes razed to the ground, his army destroyed, King Janaka was in despair- pain and trauma. Nothing but agony and destruction, fatigue, blood, everywhere he looked! The grief and sorrow gripped his heart. At that moment, the enemy king held a sword to King Janaka’s head and announced that he was granting him his life, instead of killing him, as that would be greater humiliation and insult. Living the life of a loser king, he said, would be his greatest curse. He was banished from Mithila, his own home. Making his way through the once familiar streets of his kingdom, King Janaka begged for water and food from his people, but seeing him approach they shut their doors, each one of them, lest the enemy king bring on his wrath. The King wearily made his way to the neighboring village, spotting a community kitchen set up under a banyan tree. With the hope of some food and water to pacify his brutalised body, he made his way to the end of the line. Unfortunately, by the time his turn arrived, the pots were empty. The server placed a bowl of rice water in his hands, apologizing profusely for the lack of food. Relieved at the sight of some salvation, the thirsty King dragged his aching feet to a silent corner under a tree with the desire to bring the bowl to his parched lips. Just as he lifted the bowl, an eagle swooned down and knocked the water out of his hands. Unable to bear the agony, he cried with pain “Why Lord, why? What have you kept me alive for? Please take me out of this torment and suffering. Take me away, I can bear no more pain.” He writhed and thrashed his arms and legs as he winced in dejection and pain. Suddenly, he heard a voice “Rajaji, King, please wake up, wake up”. Eyes wide open, he looked around. He was lying on his bed in his palace surrounded by the Queen and the ministers, dressed in his royal finery. It was a dream. But then, he felt his warm forehead, his hair was dishevelled, his eyes felt strained, his throat was dry, lips parched, clothes ruffled, arms and legs hurting, and heartbeat racing. He was astonished! “Is this the Truth or is that the Truth” became the only repetitive words he would utter daylong. “Kya yeh sach, ya who sach?” He forgot his duties, his responsibilities and his commitments, overwhelmed by this question. The ministers and his officials thought the King had become mad.

One sage was passing by Mithila, Ashtavakra Muni. He was at the marketplace when the small talk he overheard was about this question. Smiling, he approached a tea seller and requested him to take him to the King’s palace. Curious about this new sage in town and his claim of wanting to answer the King’s ridiculous question, the villagers escorted him to the King’s palace. As soon as he was granted an audience, Ashtavakra muni walked in and looked King Janaka in the eye, “Oh King, were you there when all that happened? The war and the pain and the sorrow and the destruction and the suffering? Did you see it and feel it?” The King answered yes. “Can you now at this point in time hear me and see me? Can you see the Queen and the ministers and the palace and the beautiful curtains and can you hear the sounds as we speak?” The King answered yes. Well, Ashtavakra Muni continued, neither is this the Truth nor is that the Truth. You are the only Truth. Everyone passes through different states daily. The sleeping state, the dreaming state and the waking state. And then there is the fourth state of Turiya, which is you, passing through each one of these. It is you who passes through these states, and you who experiences the different states. You are the only constant; the states are constantly changing. 

Nadkarni uncle went to sleep at an inopportune time, ended up risking his life, and returned as a different person, a man with a permanent fear of the sea, for boats, and for afternoon naps. His waking moments he often disclosed, were filled with nightmares of his distress at sea. He had filled his waking state with his sleeping state reality. King Janaka experienced the reality of a sleeping and dreaming state, but emerged into a waking state, comprehending the illusion of all three. He understood that he could traverse the three states, but what would matter and remain, was his action in his waking state, which established virtue and righteousness. He kept that intact, using the power from the realities of the three states he travelled in daily, to enhance his sense of awareness and his purpose.

As I reflect on the Covid-19 quarantine and our time in domesticity, I speculate about our ability to create a new reality through this deep time of hibernation. Our pre-Covid life often may have revolved around waking up, performing myriad roles of our existence, frequently sleep deprived, yearning for the dreaming and sleeping states. Our sleeping and dreaming states perhaps brought out visions and aspirations of a new reality, a new dawn every morning but our waking state was far from supportive towards the actualization of that dream. The dreams of a billion people. The dreams of a nation of people helping the less privileged first, a nation which idolized its warriors - doctors and nurses, a nation which taught its children the importance of family and a nation kept clean by its people, a nation of citizens obeying the law voluntarily and appreciating our law enforcers, a nation of people respecting the sanitation workers and welcoming those who watched over our homes. A beautiful nation. I cannot but help ponder whether we could take the reality we are witnessing in our waking today - the same one our forefathers had dreamt of earlier - wherein we put the needs of others above our own, we live the life of honesty and simplicity, we demonstrate the core values of respect and compassion – into the waking states post Covid? An ideal nation. An awakened nation.

Where the mind is without fear and the head held high; Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by Thee into ever-widening thought and action;

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.  

-       Rabindranath Tagore. 1910.