Showing posts with label Sunil Kaushal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sunil Kaushal. Show all posts

FACING BAPU (Gandhian Philosophy)

Sunil Kaushal
If I were to meet Bapu today, would I be able to face him, look him in the eye?
Tongue-tied, my downcast eyes guilt-ridden, bleary, having watched in shame the spectacle of my motherland desecrated, divided, torn limb by limb from body, flailing and struggling for survival, drowning and swallowed by the quagmire of hate.
The India our children live in is not the country my generation grew up in. I shudder to envisage that moment in history had Gandhi been alive today, a dismembered Mahatma watching brother butcher brother. How would he have handled this, he who had put a stop to the violence and bloodshed during the Calcutta riots in 1948 by going on fast?
Today protectors turned predators authorize, execute, and celebrate ethnic cleansing, feast and distribute sweets. Genocide, lynching, and ghettos have become unquestionable, acceptable forms of life in a so-called democratic country. We have become a land of marionettes performing to the jerks of strings manipulated by criminals, rapists, and goons in seats of power.
Who will follow his tenets when they are incapable of even reading his thoughts and writings, let alone emulate him or write like him? How is Bapu’s legacy of non-violence relevant today?
His lesson of Satyagraha, walking the path of Ahimsa, his experiments with Truth, were the spindle around which his life revolved. The charkha, a symbol of the wheel of life, and the spinning of khadi was symbolic of the humility and simplistic life of the Mahatma.
He gave us back our national self-respect creating tremendous cultural upsurge with no room for prejudice as he blessed all with a benevolent smile of tolerance. Today the prejudices are back with the motive of complete extermination. In the name of Ram, unholy ‘holy gurus’ conniving with criminals has made us the laughingstock of the world, the splendor of the crown that Bharat once wore, trammeled under the heels of anarchy and mayhem.
Can there ever be another Mahatma? Did Gandhi ji pay with his life needlessly?  Godse did not snuff out a reverent life just that once, he set a precedent. They kill him daily again and again or incarcerate in the name of Ram.
I bow to his picture, a frail old man, yet so dynamic and determined, mighty as the Himalayas, fighting the great British Empire unarmed. Does that picture speak to the millions today as it did when multitudes followed him wherever he went and hung on every word that he spoke? Or, has it become just a face on Indian currency and 2nd October is just another holiday?
The contemporary relevance of Gandhi and his teachings of brotherhood, compassion, and forgiveness are of far more importance today.
Ask me why!
During his lifetime we were fighting the British. There was a huge number of patriots, educated leaders with the welfare of the common man at heart, reasoning and debating over the correct decisions, trying to balance the welfare of each community, irrespective of religion. An outsider can be ousted from our midst by the sheer power of moral right over our homeland. But, how does one pluck out a part of our own body, disown our own brethren out of a home, where their fathers and forefathers have lived and died, having shed their blood, courted persecution fighting for India’s freedom?
While another Gandhi is certainly what India needs, what about the lessons he left behind for us, of what value was the sacrifice of his life, and the loss of the lives of millions who responded to his call for Satyagraha, non-violence, non-cooperation, and participated in the walks he took for just causes?
What we need is a revival of those values and methods to return India to sanity, and a return of power into capable and caring hands. We are passing through times that should jolt us to a higher level of consciousness, an awakening that if we do not join hands as one nation we will be ripped into shreds that will never be a whole again.
The recent coronavirus pandemic brought out so much strength in humanity and forced us to change inwardly and outwardly, just as a deadly diagnosis ringing the death knell, the parting from or the loss of a dear one would. The human spirit will change the world after a tipping point is reached.
However, much needs to be changed by us Indians to rise to the challenge. Our lifestyle, our food habits, addiction to media, fake identities, degraded mindsets, corruption at every level, hunger for power, and many more such maladies have crept into our veins, corroded our bones, and gripped our minds with impotency that has frozen our reactions as defeatists to barbarism, violence, and injustice.
What is needed is a reversal to old values when virtue was honored and vices condemned. We have to ensure that the coming generations read and learn about leaders like Gandhi ji and other leaders of those times, who carried the public along with them, caring for the welfare of the common man, and not just filling their own coffers to overflowing and more.
If we could snatch back our freedom from the mighty British Empire, so can we now. History proves time and again the fall of the false, the corrupt, and the aggressor. All fascists have met terrible ends – history has repeatedly documented it. To answer all our doubts regarding a change in India’s future, read the past. Our strength lies in moral power and ultimate truth! From amongst us will rise another Gandhi once more.

“The answer my friends, is blowin’ in the wind”- Bob Dylan.
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BIO: Dr. Sunil Kaushal, gynecologist, poet, author, translator, and editor, has been translated into French, German, Greek, Punjabi, and Chinese.She is a winner of multiple awards-Nissim Award for her memoirs Gypsy Wanderings & Random Reflections. Women Achiever’s Award 2019.Enchanting Muse & Fellow of the Regal World of Scribes .Her love for life is reflected in her writings and lifestyle.


Memoir / Book Excerpt: The Ocean and I

Sunil Kaushal

[Chapter 2 from Gypsy wanderings Part 2: Memoir]



Sunil Kaushal

The pandemic has bestowed the word corona with a deathly notoriety. The dictionary gives its synonyms as aureole, crown, circle, light, wreath, rosary, tiara; a part of the human skull between the two parietal bones is also called corona as is a long cigar and also a circular chandelier hanging from a church ceiling.

As a rule, I do not listen to the news, for I can do nothing to stop calamities or check a pandemic in its march of reaping lives. All I can do is be responsible in taking as many precautions and safety measures as possible, to protect myself and those around me. The news imprints my brain with images of calamities and disaster, violence and crime, injustice and suffering, hunger and deprivation besides a million other images of humanity wallowing in wretched misery. I derive no vicarious pleasure of suffering by proxy. But since the word keeps popping up more frequently than one blinks in a day, my mind also ruminates around it at times. For me it has a special significance, connected to an adventure in the past.

In 2006, August 1st, I was living in Chennai, India. There was to be a total solar eclipse that morning, over which scientists globally were agog with excitement for its great scientific import. It was of great astrological significance also. People were acquiring black glass plates or x-ray sheets through which to look at the eclipse.

My niece lived in Thiruvanmiyur, less than half a kilometer from the Breezy Beach, as it was called. I decided to spend the night at her place and go early in the morning to the beach where I could see the eclipse fully, having equipped myself with an old x-ray film.

On the way we met a family of three generations taking turns gazing at the eclipse through a black glass plate mounted on a stand. As we looked at them with curiosity, the older gentleman invited us to take a peek too.

It was a spectacular marvel not to be missed. There was a corona of wonderful oranges and reds all around, the clouds lit up, some dark in silhouette, some golden, glowing yellowy-orange in the distance. You could see the shadow approaching against the clouds and then rushing away.

Wanting to view nature’s wonders unhindered by buildings or other manmade distractions, we walked on towards the beach which lay ahead spread in all its glory.

Chennai is extremely warm and humid in August, but gusts of refreshing sea breezes kept cooling the sweat that rolled in droplets from our bodies. Normally, the beach is flat with the waves almost dying out at the waterline.  However, during the monsoon months, roughly August to October, the tides rise higher eroding the sand on the beach, forming a sand pit. That day the sea was almost seven or eight feet lower than the sand bank on top, almost like cliffs, but gradually sloping downwards. The water rose in small waves, reaching the edge of the sand below, where it became flat.

Because of the beliefs of harmful radiations from a solar eclipse, the beach was deserted, except for three pundits in white dhotis and topknots with a long white cotton scarf flung over their glistening, naked chests, except for the sacred thread. They sat on the sand bank getting some paraphernalia ready for a puja, perhaps for some astrological or spiritual benefits or to appease the elements.

Two other men stood at a distance of about a hundred metres, studying the eclipse through a telescope like thing. There were no boats visible up to the horizon. The darkness at eight in the morning reflected on the huge expanse of the ocean, gave it a surreal effect. I was mesmerized. My niece had her morning chores to attend to, so I told her to go home.

A few drops of water occasionally sprayed me when a wave rose a little higher as I sat down to meditate. It was a welcome respite from the humidity. Usually my chakra cleansing meditation takes about twenty minutes. I opened my eyes to find the sea appear a little sinister and mightier in that impregnable, secretive darkness which had grown denser.

The three pundits and two men had left. I could see the back of a man, probably a fisherman, walking below at the waterline, at some distance. Seeing him, it occurred to me that I had not dipped my feet in the ocean that day.

I usually spent some time walking, feeling one with nature, collecting some interesting looking shells while I jumped around, trying to escape stepping on small red baby crabs burrowing up from the sand, with the waves lapping at my feet. Climbing down was almost like tumbling down, for the slope was steep.

I strolled around a little bit and turned to climb up, calling it a day. The waves seemed to be coming a little faster. I was halfway up the slope when a large wave came from behind lashing at my body, throwing me face down on the sloping sand bank. I tried straightening, but the wet sand kept slipping under my feet and my body sinking in the wet sand.

As the wave receded, I struggled upright, discovering I had lost one slipper and started groping in the sand to find it. After a while I gave up, realizing the futility of it. Struggling and clawing, slipping and sinking into the wet sand, I somehow reached the top. As soon as I tried to straighten up with my upper body and thighs on top of the sand bank, my lower legs and feet still hanging down, another wave, much more ferocious and higher flung me down again.

Stunned but not beaten by the unexpected second onslaught, I stood up, dusting the sand off my clothes. My bottle of water lay where I had left it. Washing my face, I started for home. Then I realized I was still holding the single slipper in my hand. Not wanting to litter the ocean or the beach I had clung on to it, so inbuilt are certain habits. Seeing a dustbin, I chuckled to myself as I threw the slipper into it, telling myself that being meticulous beyond a point is no great virtue.

Walking back barefoot on the freshly laid melted tar in the torrid heat was a grueling punishment in itself and the dirt and stones on the side of the road made it difficult to walk there too. On reaching home, when I narrated the whole incidence, my niece was horrified and said, “Since nobody was around when this happened, we would never have even known what happened to you, had the waves swept you away. Expert swimmers and fishermen have been swept away.”

That night a few thoughts about what had happened started nibbling at my brain, but I slept deeply after taking a pain killer. My body felt thrashed by the beating it had taken. Next morning my niece said, “Auntie, do you know there were mini-tsunamis rising in the ocean yesterday because of the increased electro-magnetic pull, because the sun, moon and earth were in one straight line?”

It was then that the fear of being swept away and swallowed by the ocean started raising its head. A puny sixty-year-old woman pitted against the monstrous ocean which held the collective power of all the oceans in this world, as its might. I felt like an unarmed soldier come out victorious after a combat with a heavily armed enemy!   


Bio: Dr. Sunil Kaushal, gynaecologist, trilingual writer from India, published globally has won many awards. Her poems have been translated into French, German and Greek also. She has been conferred with multiple awards for literature, writing and her other accomplishments, including The Enchanting Muse Award (International), The Women Achiever’s Award 2019 (hosted by Literoma), Best Lioness President, Asia, among others. Her poems have been featured in the Limca Book of Records as part of the Amravati Poetic Prism2018. Recently the Gujarat Sahitya Akademi recognised her as one of the 150 outstanding poets of India.

Her book of memoirs ‘Gypsy Wanderings & Random Reflections’ has recently been awarded The Nissim Award by The Significant League (International) for its ‘Exquisite prose’. Besides writing she is fond of Sufi music, fine embroidery, sketching, baking and globetrotting.


Dr. Sunil Kaushal, INDIA

PHOENIX FLIGHT

Has the time come when she must kill her,
choking all that reeks of her weak, obsessed mind,
infested with crawling maggots of longing
that sap her of all strength?
Should she disown her mangled corpse,
rotting in the wilderness called ‘womanhood’?
Having suffered it all, fulfilling needs of the flesh
now turn towards her bruised soul;
re-mould the decaying remains,
carving a new woman of substance
who yearns not to hear, from other lips,
words of love and caring.
Instead within herself be so fulfilled,
as to sublimate her very existence.

Crucified a million times,
burnt at the stake as many times,
from ashes grows new wings.
Glorified, liberated, empowered at long last
free of fetters, severed shackles, broken bonds.
Woman, giver of life, love, abundance and prosperity;
the goddess showering her infinite wealth
free to soar, soar, soar on her phoenix flight.


OH! SACRED CITY OF KASHI

That day a glorious sun rose, as I entered this home.
Stars in ‘kohled’ eyes, hands henna dyed,
radiant in red, glowing in gold, demure and shy,
to protect me, into his arms I was led
on a rose strewn bridal bed,
Alas today, when the death dirge knocks
winds of fate have blown
ostracized, cursed by those waiting to disown
out of the same, so easily I am thrown.

Red raiment rent to shreds, lights the funeral pyre
smeared vermilion lends color, fanning flames of fire,
broken bangles tinkle one last time, fall
for me evermore only the temple’s prayer call?

Obedient to dictates, blind as can be
deserted me, to die in ‘Holy Kashi’.
Most wounding was being deserted
on these (un)‘holy ghats’ by daughters and sons.
O! self styled guardians of my life,
how you’ve fenced me in,
widowhood, oppressive and cruel in its sway
 no lesser than ‘sati’, will burn me.
sinking in oblivion, this puppet fades away

No festival religious, no neighbor nor friend
no human company, into which I can blend.
The steep climb begins, eking livelihood,
in dirt stained streets, lost, heartbroken, alone I stood.
If I’m a ‘child woman’ the least said the better
either they rape me or turn into a beggar.
Acid tongues lash out orders.
For a handful of rice, I prostrate
before their Gods and many an ungodly other.
Endless hours of chanting, my stomach empty still
lull me to sleep, with prayers having had my fill.

Desolate ghats or just bare ground
these pavements I now call home
any shelter, any cover to be found,
cowering under newspapers or plastic sheets,
shivering and bone chilled, I live through rain and sleet.
My head freezes so, oh my head freezes so, with half a torn sheet
for my shaven head is bare, when I cover frozen feet.
If I manage to find a roof, if ever I manage to find a roof
there’ll be tens of us living in one decrepit room.

I stop resisting, yet I know not forgiving
they cripple and hound me, I still carry on living.
Even waiting for death, seems such cruelty
for it promises to stretch into decades of inhumanity.
But l keep waiting and hoping, waiting and hoping,
hoping, one day my son will come to light the fire.
Should I then leave him with guilt or forgiveness
as he encircles my funeral pyre?
Oh! Sacred city of Kashi!

(The Indian city of Kashi, also known as Varanasi is an ancient city with a rich cultural heritage, where the holy river Ganga flows. It is famous for Manikarnika Ghat and the Harishchandra Ghat, where Hindus cremate their dead that are believed to attain salvation upon being cremated here)


THE PERSON THAT SHE IS

Perhaps not, the woman you want -
stereotyped, boxed, suffocated,
demeaned, battered, humiliated.

Her bearers burdened, give ads in papers
that almost read
“Dowry in millions, girl free
in *donation (*kanya daan)
Two enhancing assets
salary, education”,
best investment in relations.
She hardly matters
the woman that she is!

Your adventurous youth sows wild oats,
Sita’s a trial by fire
for only your orders,
should awaken her sexuality.
Salving your ego’s wounds,
forgets her own
the woman that she is!

The wing clipped bird, caged
peers through bars, dazed
blinding dust of time, servility;
wiped from her eyes,
her palms read, tries
creating new destiny
propitiated stars perhaps, may change
the woman that she is!

A kindly star descends,
a seed sprouts in the warmth
of the primal holy crypt of womanhood.
Sadistic barbarism forced to relent its clutch on captive freedom,
As she decides to bear her child
by choice, not compulsion
in the mirage called marriage.
The woman that she has become!

The sun’s embrace thaws the ice maiden,
as cool breezes caress heavy limbs,
 lilting bird songs, buzzing bees hum a lullaby
wafting with spring’s fragrance
as she croons and red music courses
 through veins of life within,
snapping self imposed shackles of solitude
 gazing skywards, starry eyed now,
becomes the woman that she is!

Dr. Sunil Kaushal, gynaecologist, trilingual writer also writes haiku, micro-poetry and limericks. Published in a number of National, International anthologies and magazines, has won many awards and competitions. Her poems have been translated into French, German and Greek. Read her in Crumpled Voices 2, Feathers, Nature Poems, Forever a Lie, Bloodshot Eyes, Learning and Creativity, Love – A Divine Madness Vol.1&2, Episteme, Kafiyaa, On Fire Cultural Movement, Muffled Moans, her blog sunilkaushal44.blogspot.in In October 2017 she was honoured at the Indian World Poetree Festival with The Enchanting Muse Award(International) and Fellow of the Regal World of Scribes(FRWS), by The Pentasi B Poetree Group. Currently her memoirs “Gypsy Wanderings”, her book of poems and translation of her brother P.S.Gill’s book, “Where is The Second World?”, German to English, keep her busy.  Sketching, Yoga, meditation, Classical and Sufi music charge this 74-year old with vitality, staying in love with life!