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The Song from Behind the Wall: On My Grandmother, Kathakali, and Kalamandalam Hyderali

The Song from Behind the Wall: On My Grandmother, Kathakali, and Kalamandalam Hyderali

by | Dec 22, 2025 | Compassion, Harmony, Life, Meaning, Peace, RElationship, Zen

I have mixed feeling about Kathakali.. I have also mixed feeling about my paternal Grandma. … Mixed with likes and dislikes. No idea about the ratio of that proportion though. The artform of Kathakali was introduced to me by my Grandma.. So we got to start from her.

By any yardstick, my grandma was a very strong lady . She went to school only till 3rd standard.. But could remember the poems . especially the song praising the Queen of British Empire, she leant in her school. And she remembered all the slokas from Malayalam version of Ramayana.. Though she was not a great believer of God per se.. Guess her faith was very much rooted in practicality of day to day living. May be she followed Aristotle’s golden mean on that aspect. She liked temples and festivities as such. Especially those temple artforms such as Kathakali.

She was born into a very wealthy family, lost her mother when she was 21 days old. And sooner her father lost all his wealth. Her upbringing was taken care by a relative. She used to tell us that, as in infant she was fed goat milk. May be that explains her health till the very last moment of her life. I don’t remember she was ever hospitalised for any major illness. Though she was as smart or more smart than her cousin brothers, her education was stopped as was the norm during those days. Girl.

And as the daughter of a poor father, she got married to another not so wealthy person in that small Kannadiga community. Her husband, my paternal grandfather had almost a similar story being born into a wealthy family, but his parents squandering all their wealth and become quite poor by the time he finished his FA . ( During those days, intermediate was known as FA.). In our old family home, there was a photo of him in Football jersey . And my father Sankara, used to tell us that he was quite a good centre forward, that got him a job with Spencer’s. Then suppliers of British Army. But when their unit moved to Singapore , he had to leave that job and stay back to take care of his parents at their insistence. Guess not to his choice or liking. As he used to love Football too. And he took a govt. job.. and due to his over honest and over idealistic nature, remained quite poor throughout his life times.

During those times, there were around 10 Kannadiga families in Mannarkkad, 2 temples and a big graveyad just for the Kannadiga community.   Rest of them were quite wealthy and due to that my grandparents were kind of socially ignored. Also was at the end of ridicule by them.

May be that environment made her seek cultural wealth. I guess Kathakali was her connection to the lost grandeur , an equalizer and display of cultivated taste.

Another story she used to tell us was on how she and other relatives planning to grow vegetables. During those days, they used to grow most of their needs. And most vegetables were seasonal. And she always used to plant a few a few week before others did and used to harvest and share with her relatives. May be some competitive streak.

In a life where so much was decided for her—her halted education, her marriage, her social standing—controlling the calendar of a seed was a powerful act of sovereignty. Planting earlier was a way to command time itself. And Harvesting and sharing first wasn't just kindness; it was a subtle restructuring of social dynamics. The relatives who may have "socially ignored" them became, briefly, recipients. She transformed from being overlooked to being the source, the one who provides. It turned perceived lack of enough into plenty.

All her life experiences had made her a formidable person. And sometimes ruthless too (most of the times she was quite self-centred too.) When a small infant grows up against all odds, it might have ingrained in her that she got to take care of herself. And she is there to take care of herself. And that reflected the way she treated her others in general and her daughter in laws in particular. May be the dislike part in me for her comes from that.

And the like part comes from all the great stories of our ancestors, she shared with us , and especially the stories of Kathakali. ( Kuchelavritham and Karna Sapatham etc were here favourite) and great insights.

For example, when Rajiv Gandhi was PM of India, there was some commotion about his wife, Sonia Gandhi being an Italian. ( Bofors times). And. I remember , her cousin brother, who was a national award winning school teachers talking to her about it. She said, anyone who can ties a saree so well got to be an Indian. Now when I look back, that was great cultural exams, no one can dispute.

Coming back to Kathakali. During those days, 2 or 3 days Kathakali performance was part of the annual festival at MuMoorthi temple in Mannarkkad. And that was something she never wanted to miss. Every single time, she will tell us, next year no one knows whether she is going to be alive so that this may be her last Kathaakali viewing.

I did not like Kathakali is an understatement. For those who wonder what Kathakali is ! It is an 4 or 5 century old temple art form in Kerala. Now almost dying. That is more to do with its form than its content. Kathakali programs used to be like 3 -4 full days. ( Nights in fact... from after the dinner, till just before the sun rises !). Most of the audience used to be Old people.. and often the younger ones with them were there to go with them. As our attention span, ability to really learn nuances and enjoy the slow pace of life declined , Kathakali too moved to reel size appearances in movie songs or on the welcome program of foreign tourists in those fancy resorts.

On that temple grounds, on the grass mat we used to carry as our seating ( in our case sleeping pad), we kids used to sleep .. While elders used to enjoy every moment of it.

I should say that , I was quite happy when that annual sojourn ended.

Much later , it came back. Through the voice of Kalamandalam Hyderali. He came as an arts festival guest at Govt Vicotria college. As the most famous Kathakali singer , as a Muslim , his invite seems to be more of a political statement. But when as an humble man, he said he is no orator and he would sing a kathakali padam for us. And he sang “Ajita hare” without any accompaniments it hit the heart note of all the audience. That song from KuchelaVirttam might have entered into my brain, during my sleeping stint as an audience on that temple ground. Hyderali's rendering of that, just woke me up from my slumber.

Even then I did not make any attempt to learn about him. Again during 2006, he reappeared in the obituary column of the Hindu. And that was a great story. When Mohanlal and Kalamandalam Gopi’s epic movie based on Kathakali “Vanaprastham” was realised, Hyderali was again in news and the legendary Kathakali Artist Gopiasan told in a TV interview, the most iconic kathakali singer was Hyderali.

Kerala is known as God’s own country.. I would hasten to add that it is also Devil’s own country too… In This small Gaul like state , both profound and profane coexist…. Secularism and fanaticism .. kindness and meanness… Openness and narrowmindedness…

Kerala is also home to K J Yesudas, an Xian who is more known for his Hindu devotional songs, K Raghavan an Hindu whose Mappila songs are evergreen. And Kalamandalam Hyderali a Muslim who went to become a legendary Kathakali singer. Kathakali is a Hindu temple art form and was in the hands of conservative echelons of Kerala society.

One of the Best KATHAKALI singers of his generation, Hyder Ali is the first non-Hindu artiste to make a mark in the four-century-old Classical Dance-Drama KATHAKALI.

It was when he was 11 years old that Hyderali joined Kerala Kalamandalam. Hailing from a poor family, his parents had struggled to pay the admission fee -— incidentally "a Hindu and a Christian" helped him secure admission in the premier performing arts institute, as Hyderali later recalls in his autobiography.

Hyderali was blessed with a light, pliant and sonorous voice that tuned well to softer and melodramatic scenes on Kathakali stage. His emotive singing used to earn him praise from masters like Kalamandalam Gopi.

Hyderali, suave and soft-spoken, nurtured the wish to see Lord Krishna in real life, but had to occasionally suffer professional humiliation on religious grounds, as entry to temples, where a chunk of Kathakali shows finds stage, in Kerala is barred for non-Hindus. Kathakali aficionados recall how those in control of an ancient temple near Haripad actually pulled down a part of the compound wall and extended the platform there for Hyderali to sing for the Kathakali performers inside the compound.

And that was a great story.. And Hyderali in one interview says as he was forced to stand on the stage part which was behind the wall outside the border of the temple, “ My body was outside the temple, but my voice was within.. Had I extended my hand, I would have touched the God.”

After a few years in wandering through the Zen way, I would have told him, that God was within him and may be all the Gods go wherever he used to sing to listen to him.

Coming back to my grandma, maybe she too would have felt , she is standing outside the wall of this world, even from a 21 days old infant till she passed away…

It took the story of a Muslim man singing of Hindu gods from outside a temple wall to make me finally hear my grandmother. Her life, too, was a voice singing from behind a series of walls—of poverty, of gender, of social slight. I had resented the formidable structure of her person, as I had resented the endless nights of Kathakali she loved. But Hyderali taught me to listen for the song within the fortress. The 'Ajita Hare' that seeped into my childhood sleep was that song. Her sharp wisdom about a sari was that song. In the end, the walls—of the temple, of the art form, of her difficult strength—dissolve. What remains is the voice, reaching for the divine. And finally, I am listening.

Yudhishthira’s Dog at the Gate: Dogs, Dharma, and the Paradox of Compassion

Yudhishthira’s Dog at the Gate: Dogs, Dharma, and the Paradox of Compassion

by | Nov 8, 2025 | Compassion, Friendship, Gratitude, Grief, Joy, Life, Zen

 

On the Kodai Ghat road, as you turn from the plains of the marketplace toward the winding hills, one notice stands out. The Forest Department urges travellers: Do not feed the wild animals. It is a reminder written in bureaucratic script, but it carries a deeper teaching. Feeding them changes their nature. They lose the instinct to forage, they grow dependent, they become aggressive. What begins as kindness can end as harm.

This question of compassion follows me into Kanzeon Zendo. Here too, there are three kinds of visitors:

  • Dog lovers, who see every wagging tail as a chance to practice kindness.
  • Those who are scared of dogs, whose compassion is mixed with fear and hesitation.
  • Those who don’t mind either way, who pass by without much thought.

Visitors who come for short stays often feed the stray dogs. Perumalmalai has no shortage of them—thin, hungry, territorial creatures, starved of food, care, and warmth. For a moment, the dogs are happy. They have found a good Samaritan. But when the visitors leave, the dogs remain. They linger at the Zendo gates, waiting for the next act of kindness. Compassion, offered in passing, leaves behind ripples that are not always gentle.

This paradox is not new. The Mahabharata begins with the curse of a dog and ends with the loyalty of another. As a child, I read Mali Bharatham, the Malayalam retelling of the epic sweetened for children. What struck me then, and now, is how dogs frame the epic.

The first story is about the curse of a dog on a king. Janamejaya, son of Parikshit, was conducting a yaga. A dog named Sarameya entered the arena and was beaten by the king’s brothers. Sarama, the mother, confronted the king. Not satisfied with his response, she cursed him.

The epic ends with Yudhishthira, who refuses to climb the celestial chariot to Heaven without the dog that had accompanied him on his final journey. He had lost his brothers and Panchali along the way, but he would not abandon the dog.

Between these two stories lie pages of valour and cowardice, justice and injustice, joy and sorrow, sacrifice and self‑centeredness. And yet, the dog remains—at the beginning and at the end—as a mirror of compassion and responsibility.

Much later, rereading these epics through the hermeneutical eye my Zen Master encouraged, I saw how curse is the last weapon of the helpless. When powerless, the curse becomes the cry of frustration. Wuji, too, came into our Zendo life as a living koan of compassion—sometimes blessing, sometimes burden, sometimes curse.

And then there was Jackie Mu.

The first dog in my imagination was Buck, Jack London’s hero in The Call of the Wild. Later, in childhood, Jackie the mongrel stood guard at our Thenkara gate. But Jackie Mu was different. She arrived at Kanzeon Zendo, half‑tamed, majestic, part Indie, part hound. Adopted by Tithi, cared for like Elsa in Born Free, she became part of our practice. She had her blanket, her medicine kit, her morning walks. She even had her koan: Mu.

Mu is the first case in The Gateless Gate. A monk asked Jōshū, “Does a dog have Buddha nature?” Jōshū replied, “Mu.” Nothingness. Yet Jackie Mu, without doubt, had Buddha nature. She knew which doors to knock at, which people to trust, which paths to guide me along. She led me from Kanzeon Zendo to Bodhi Zendo, waiting at every turn, stopping at Surya tea stall for biscuits while I had chai.

But Jackie Mu was not only a guide. She was also a hunter. She never liked monkeys or cats, and chased them away whenever she could. She killed more than a few. One morning, during our walk toward St. Joseph farm, she spotted a kitten in the hands of a child waiting for her school bus. The kitten leapt from the child’s arms, tried to run, and Jackie Mu caught it in an instant. My screams did nothing. The child wailed, the mother tried to console her, and I sat on the kerb in anger and sorrow. And then, beside me, Jackie Mu appeared—obedient, present, as if nothing had happened. For a moment I did not know how to respond.

That weekend, when I was in Bangalore, came the news of her death. It seemed someone had poisoned her. The paradox closed: the dog who carried Mu, who embodied both loyalty and violence, was gone.

Whatsapp  message drenched in grief said: Jackie Mu had passed away. She lay down outside the meditation hall, her favourite place, and breathed her last. A pang struck deep, as if some part within me had died. Mahayana does not speak of soul, but I am sure Jackie Mu left her Buddha nature behind at the Zendo.

That night, I wrote to Fr. AMA:

Dear Fr. Ama, Tithy messaged me at 9:37 pm saying, “Laddo / Jackie Mu passed away.” Suddenly I felt a pang in my heart. As something within me had died down. I never had a pet before in my life, leave alone a dog. And I just happened to remember the koan Mu. As you used to teach us, all beings are connected in a way. Regardfully, Vishy Sankara

His reply was simple, tender, and true:

I too was saddened by the death of Laadu. It was fond of you, followed you often. I am in tears. Peace to Laadu and to you and to me. — AMA Samy

But compassion is not the same in everyone. In our Sangha, there are members like Robert, who genuinely care for dogs. He takes them along on his hikes, brings them to the vet, ensures vaccinations, medicine, and good food. His care is steady, embodied, and responsible.

And then there are those who are more superficial. They pet the dogs, feed them Zendo biscuits, and enjoy their company for a while. But when their time at the Zendo is over, they move on. They forget the true nature and requirement of being compassionate when a fine being reveals its great Mu nature to them.

This difference is itself a teaching. Compassion is not measured by the warmth of a single gesture, but by the continuity of care. To see the Buddha nature in a dog is to recognize both its joy and its vulnerability, and to respond with responsibility as well as affection.

So the Forest Department’s sign, the stray dogs of Perumalmalai, the curse of Sarama, the loyalty of Yudhishthira, the koan of Wuji, the life and death of Jackie Mu, the Sangha’s varied responses, and the tears of my teacher all converge. Compassion is not sentiment. It is awareness. It is foresight. It is the willingness to see the whole field, even when it complicates our desire to help. Sometimes compassion is feeding. Sometimes compassion is not feeding. Sometimes compassion is simply sitting on the kerb, seeing the dog, seeing our own heart, and bowing to the paradox.

The Mahābhārata ends with Yudhishthira, who refuses to climb the celestial chariot to Heaven without the dog that had accompanied him on his final journey. He had lost his brothers and Panchali along the way, but he would not abandon the dog. Perhaps our visitors too will take the cue, and be truly compassionate—not only in passing gestures, but in the continuity of care, in the willingness to walk alongside, even when the path is steep, even when Heaven itself beckons.

Bhim, the Zendog ...
Living tributes to remarkable lives : Lighting the incense now

Living tributes to remarkable lives : Lighting the incense now

by | Oct 26, 2025 | Compassion, Gratitude, Life, RElationship, Zen

In 1986, when Doordarshan first arrived in Mannarkkad, the television was not a possession but a commons. A single set in a neighbour’s house became the village square. We gathered for the Mexico World Cup, for Sunday morning serials, for Chitrahaar. The glow of the screen was less about technology than about togetherness.

Some songs and images from those days remain etched like stone inscriptions. Mile Sur Mera Tumhara—a melody of national integration, sung in many tongues—was not just a broadcast, but a vision of belonging. Later, Piyush Pandey’s creations—the Hutch pug, the Fevicol bus—entered our folklore in the same way. They were not merely advertisements; they were shared jokes, shared tenderness, shared recognition.

When Pandey passed away, the tributes poured in. Ogilvy’s full-page homage in The Times of India was unlike anything we had seen before. And yet, a question lingers: why do we wait until death to say what we truly feel? Would not the living heart have been gladdened by those words while it still beat?

I remember in 1998, when Wipro became the first company in the world to achieve SEI CMM Level 5, they printed the names of all employees in the Economic Times. For me, it was the first time my name appeared in print. Recognition in life, not as epitaph, but as celebration. How much it mattered.

Of course, there are a few who are fortunate in this regard. Some lives are bathed in recognition while still unfolding. Sports stars like Pele, Maradona, and Sócrates were not only admired but serenaded in their lifetimes—Pele hailed as “The King”, Maradona as “El Pibe de Oro”, Sócrates as the footballer-philosopher who stood for democracy as much as for the game. Writers like O.V. Vijayan and Kamala Das received living recognition through reviews and cultural debates. Scientists like Einstein and Richard Feynman became beloved public figures, their wit and humanity as cherished as their discoveries—Feynman even laughed at reading his own obituary while alive. And sages too: George Bernard Shaw once called Krishnamurti “the most beautiful human being he had ever seen”; Kahlil Gibran, upon meeting him, whispered, “Surely the Lord of Love has come”; Aldous Huxley introduced him to the world with reverence in The First and Last Freedom. These were tributes spoken in life, not carved in stone after.

But alongside these celebrated ones are the countless unheralded—the teachers who shaped generations without ever being quoted, the neighbors who quietly held communities together, the elders whose wisdom never reached print, the Sangha members who sit in silence and sustain the field of practice. Their names may never appear in newspapers, their faces never on television, yet their impact is no less real. They are the hidden roots of the tree, nourishing unseen.

On 12 July 2009, when a dear one passed away untimely, I wrote in my blog Sunday Sambar under the title Lasting Impressions of Some Remarkable Lives:  https://sundaysambar.blogspot.com/2009/07/lasting-impressions-of-some-remarkable.html

“Having crossed so many tragic moments lately, it just seemed odd that this one would make any difference. But still I couldn’t quite put my finger on why it felt different. Maybe only, when someone known to you goes back to Mother Earth as basic elements, we steal some precious moments to step back and think what life means to us and more importantly what matters to us. Then it struck me that it was the people, who live still in my mind long after they are gone from here. It had nothing to do with the environment. They weren’t many. I could count within my hands… They weren’t famous people in that sense of the word. When some of them died, only near and dear knew, wept and prayed for their souls… Nevertheless they were really remarkable people, who led remarkable lives. At least for you.”

But when I look back, I wish I had sent those notes while they were still in flesh and bones, alive and kicking.

It is a socially accepted practice never to badmouth the departed. We are careful not to speak ill of the dead, yet we hesitate to speak well of the living. But there is no written or unwritten practice that says we should not share with the remarkable people in our lives our living tribute — while they are still here to hear it.

So I wonder:

What would it mean if we practiced “living tributes”?
What if we wrote letters of gratitude not after funerals, but on ordinary Tuesdays?

No one really knows where we go after our lives here. People write of heavens where the departed crack jokes, or of philosophers teaching God himself. But what happens after we die is still hypothesis, no matter how finely written in holy books. What is real is this: this very land is lotus land, this very body is Buddha.

Perhaps this is the Dharma of enoughness: to speak the word of thanks now, to bow while the other can still meet our eyes, to let affection and recognition breathe in the present. Impermanence is not only loss; it is also the urgency to love without delay.

The unspoken word is like incense unlit. Let us light it while we can.

Whom do you want to write a living tribute today? Maybe they are not as famous as the names above, but remarkable all the same — at the very least, for you.

Willing the Will: From Material Assets to Essence

Willing the Will: From Material Assets to Essence

by | Oct 5, 2025 | Compassion, Gratitude, Grief, Joy, Peace, value

A few days ago, in our Coaching WhatsApp group, there was a conversation about writing a will. Many wise and practical suggestions were shared, mostly focused on financial assets—how to ensure they are passed on smoothly to loved ones. In a way, our will reflects what we owned while alive, even after we have stopped living.

Soon after, Thara and I were visiting my sister in Bangalore. During the course of conversation, she shared the sad fate of a distant relative. On the eve of his housewarming, he met with a freak bike accident and has since remained in a coma, tube-fed in a hospital bed. It was heartbreaking to hear.

Seventeen years ago, my father passed away without writing a will. He was a generous man and did not have much to leave behind. The small house he built, he ensured was registered in my mother’s name, along with his family pension. That was his quiet foresight. Last year, my Zen master shared the draft of his will with me, and I was touched to see my name in it.

When I moved to the Zendo last year, I had already given away what little I had of financial worth. Today, I live on a modest four-digit pension. For a while, I felt there was nothing left worth writing a will for. But the question lingered: other than money, what do I truly own that is worthy? This was on my mind as I took the night bus back from Bangalore to the Zendo.

What is rightfully, legally, and morally mine—and more importantly, what am I, legally and spiritually? These are deep questions. In the natural world, animals do exhibit an instinct of “myness”—my prey, my food, my territory. Yet once their life is done, there are no personal claims. They cannot leave behind a will. Nature has no concern for their mortal remains, their cave, or the trees they nested in.

Much later, Marx observed that many human problems began when we started dividing the Earth and creating ownership: of land, water, air, trees, food. In The Communist Manifesto, he wrote:

“The theory of Communism may be summed up in one sentence: Abolish all private property.”

His point was not about denying people shelter or livelihood, but about how the very act of carving up the Earth into mine and yours created alienation and conflict. Even today, our ownership is often nominal. If gold, diamonds, or petroleum are found beneath the land we “own,” the government claims it.

If this is true of material assets, what about the products of the mind? Many of us claim ownership of those too, and make them part of our will. Yet there are exceptions. U. G. Krishnamurti, for instance, refused to claim ownership of his words. On the front page of his books, he wrote:

“You are free to reproduce, distribute, interpret, misinterpret, distort, garble, do what you like, even claim authorship without my consent or the permission of anybody.”

When I added a similar note to my first published book, The Fallen Flower, Fragrant Grass, the publisher told me they would not allow it. I may have to go to a printer directly and get it printed. In contrast, Jiddu Krishnamurti fought a long, drawn-out court battle with Rajagopal over the rights to his teachings and writings.

And then there are inventions like the three-point seat belt, the internet, and the polio vaccine—gifts to humanity, not possessions to be hoarded.

 

This reminds me also of Kahlil Gibran. In The Prophet, he wrote of eating fruit with reverence:

“When you crush an apple with your teeth, say to it in your heart, Your seeds shall live in my body, And the buds of your tomorrow shall blossom in my heart."

And echoing this spirit, an old proverb says: “We enjoy the shade of trees we did not plant; we eat the fruit of trees we did not sow.” Both remind us that what we inherit and what we pass on are rarely ours alone.

Hearing about my distant relative’s tragedy—much like Michael Schumacher’s accident—brought another thought to the surface. I do not want a medically prolonged life. For two reasons: first, because the most important hope is for a dignified death. And second, because I once read that 95% of one’s lifetime medical expenditure is spent in the last four or five days of life. That struck me as both sobering and unnecessary.

This reflection deepened as I skimmed Paul Kalanithi’s When Breath Becomes Air.

He writes:

“At those critical junctures, the question is not simply whether to live or die but what kind of life is worth living… Because the brain mediates our experience of the world, any neurosurgical problem forces a patient and family… to answer this question: What makes life meaningful enough to go on living?”

That question lingers with me.

And here, again, Gibran’s words return with force (On Giving, The Prophet):

“You give but little when you give of your possessions.

It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.

For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow?

And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the over prudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city?

And what is fear of need but need itself? Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, the thirst that is unquenchable?

There are those who give little of the much which they have—and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome.

And there are those who have little and give it all. These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty.

There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward. And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism.

And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;

They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.

Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.

It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding; And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving.

And is there aught you would withhold?

All you have shall some day be given; Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors’. You often say, ‘I would give, but only to the deserving.’

The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture. They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish. Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights, is worthy of all else from you.

And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream. And what desert greater shall there be, than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving?

And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed?

See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving.

For in truth it is life that gives unto life—while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.

And you receivers—and you are all receivers—assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives.

Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings; For to be over mindful of your debt, is to doubt his generosity who has the freehearted earth for mother, and God for father.”

Perhaps, then, the real will we leave behind is not a document of assets, but a testament of choices—how we wish to live, how we wish to die, and what we wish to pass on that cannot be measured in currency.

For me, it is the dignity of a simple life, the freedom of a simple death, and the hope that my words, my friendships, and my small acts of belonging may outlive me.

My late father was an ordinary man who lived an ordinary life of extraordinariness. Even after seventeen years, when my siblings and I speak of him, and when those who once knew him remember him, I realise this truth: in the end, a will is not measured in possessions, but in the meaning we leave behind. 

Truly, it is not our assets that matter, but the essence we bequeath.

The Crane That Could Not Lift and the Compassion Shift

The Crane That Could Not Lift and the Compassion Shift

by | Sep 29, 2025 | Change, Compassion, Grief, Joy, Meditation, Peace, RElationship, STRESS, Transformation, Zen

Yesterday night, was on my way to Bangalore from Kanzeon Zendo, Perumalmalai. The KSRTC Volvo semi sleeper  bus stopped in the middle of nowhere. At first I thought , it was a momentary halt. But then as it lingered on  A, most of the passengers stepped down from the bus to look for the cause of block on the ghat road. I continued to read Mother Mary comes to me. Then Driver Krishnappa , came back and asked me to go and see. There was a mini truck off the road, almost landed perfectly on all four.

 Krishnappa, the ace KSRTC driver is one of my new found friends from my sojourn to  Perumalmalai over the last three years.  For the first two years, I had made a monthly trip of. Blr- Kodai- Blr  and since last December. It is. Kodai-Blr- Kodai.  Mostly on Sunday to Friday  or Friday to Sunday.  And most of these days, drivers were  Krishnappa, Girisha and  Sunmadhappa ….  I used to get down at Perumalmalai some 13 km away from Kodaikanal , the bus stand.  Though my initial interactions with them was just friendly courteous smiles and a thank you as I stepped off from the bus.  It was Krishnappa who broke the ice.  Once while having early morning coffee at that way side coffee shop during a pitstop, he asked me what I am doing at that place , making so may visits.  And when I shared about Zendo and Zen, he  told me with a hearty laugh, that they thought I am a drug carrier from Blr.  Especially since I used to travel lightly and used to get down before the check post and town limits.

From then onwards, those coffee became on the house for me. If Krishnappa was the driver,  he used to announce to them,  Nammavaru to the coffee “barrista”  which roughly translates. “ He is one of us”.

He was a very interesting character. One who took immense pride in being one of the really early Volvo bus drivers in Karnataka.  He told me that. It was Karnataka RTC which bought Volvo buses first in India and they  had put their best drivers for that fleet.  And I have heard that story from him quite a number of times.

So when a Pilot of an aero plane, a Captain of a ship and driver of your bus, tell you something, you think twice, or at times thrice before saying a  reason to say know. So I got down from the bus and made my way to that  accident spot. Just  10 – 20 meters ahead. 

 I was told, the driver had passed away on the spot. May be yesterday afternoon. Truck went down and the driver's soul up. Since the truck load was fruits, the owner had send a crane to lift the truck. Looking at the crane, Krishnappa told me that , that crane wont be able to life the truck with the fruit load. And after more than 1 1/2 hour of effort , those workers to agreed and gave up. On our walk back to bus, Krishnappa told me that many a times, driver die due to heart attacks. ANd accoding to him, that is a better way than live on with pain and severe injiruies. ! Neither i agreed nor disagreed with him. Our journey to Bangalore continued. MAy be that scene was playing up in my mind. When i landed in Bangalore home , very early morning, there in Linkedin popped up a advt brochure on Compassion Shift. An org i had worked ( ?) earlier is part of that program. and i had to type in the below comment. During the last part of my tenure over there, i was in deep depression. My otherwise friendly Tinnitus had turned into a monster in my brain and ate away, my sleep, my wakefulness, peace of mind, joy and hunger and tears. Dont know which crane was able to pull me out of that abyss. But i too landed on all four in Zendo on the Way. On reaching home, went with Thara for our breakfast at The Rameshwaram Cafe... Thara was talking about their new joint named Thirtha in Cunnigham road. May be there was too much butter on that crispy rava dosa. I slept again and woke up for lunch.. 🙂 Pls find below my comment without further comments. Shift / transformation is not a one time act . One constantly and consciously need to be aware and keep working on it. Often reflecting on the past does help. reflecting on the past is crucial. This is wise reflection (yoniso manasikara). We look back not with guilt or pride, but as a scientist studies data: · "In that moment of irritation, where was my compassion?" · "When I acted kindly, what was the true motive? Was it free from the 'passion' for gratitude or recognition?" · "How did that word or mindless act of mine land on the other person?" This reflection isn't dwelling; it's learning to do better next time. It's how we polish the lens of our understanding and make the "compassion shift" more accessible, more instantaneous, in the next moment of interaction. And what is a butcher’s compassion . Is it towards the animal or the knife as in Daoist parable of Cook Ding . And who are we in the parable! The animal, knife or Cook Ding ??? From someone who was on the receiving end of compassion…😀

On second thoughts,  I feel  compassion is not about choosing between the animal, the knife, or Cook Ding. it is about seeing that in each moment, we are all three—cutting, being cut, and learning to move with the grain of life. And in that realisation , the shift happens quietly without needing an external prompt, like a bus resuming its journey after a long halt on the ghat road. In the end, the truck stayed where it was, the crane gave up, and the bus rolled on. Life too moves like that—sometimes stuck, sometimes lifted, sometimes simply continuing. What matters is whether compassion travels with us. I don’t know which crane lifted me from my own abyss, or which hand steadied me when I landed on all four.

But I know this: each time I pause to reflect, compassion becomes a little more available, a little more natural. And that, perhaps, is the real shift.

Also the true crane is not outside us at all, but that  quiet strength, boot strap program written in us by that great intelligence  lifts us, again and again, into the next step of the Way.

The True Price of Enoughness and the Cost of Contentment : Lessons from Mitr, Zen, and a stone basin in Kyoto

The True Price of Enoughness and the Cost of Contentment : Lessons from Mitr, Zen, and a stone basin in Kyoto

by | Sep 14, 2025 | Career, Compassion, Empathy, Joy, Peace, Zen

My journey into the helping space began with Mitr, Wipro’s internal counselling initiative. Mitr was the brainchild of Kayo Shroff, then General Manager at CHRD and a counsellor at Vishwas, with Ranjan Acharya, then Head of CHRD, as its enthusiastic sponsor. They called for nominations, and I joined half self‑motivated, half nudged by my then boss, SMR. He knew I had completed a month‑long NLP course with Dr. Richard McHugh and had enrolled for an MA in Psychology with IGNOU, so he suggested I apply. The application itself was unusual — I still have a copy.

One of the questions read: “Describe yourself in 5 words. No qualifications, titles, skills etc. to be included.” My answer, characteristically, spilled beyond the limit: “I am what I (am + can be + will be). What I am = committed, sincere, open‑minded and witty.” There were a few more questions, including two essay‑style prompts: one asking me to describe a time in my life when I was absolutely broken inside and was helped by another, and another asking how I, in turn, had helped someone in a similar situation. Even before I was formally trained, those questions made me pause and look inward — a reminder that the heart of helping work is not in the techniques we wield, but in the humanity we share.

I ended up in the first cohort of Mitr counsellors. Ranjan and Kayo would jokingly call us the “co‑founders” of Mitr. It was, in every sense, a selfless service. We offered our time after hours, guarded the anonymity of those who came to us with fierce loyalty, and never discussed their cases. This work existed outside our professional duties — it could never be an excuse for unmet targets. The spirit was simple: you gave your presence freely, without any expectation of reward.

Our training was led by Dr. Uttara, a week that has stayed with me all these years. It was there she suggested a book to the group, though I felt the suggestion was meant particularly for me: On Becoming a Person by Carl Rogers. I had just finished my NLP course, and those were heady days; in that world, it was easy to feel that after a single training you could stride into the world as the next Anthony Robbins. Dr. Uttara, I think, sensed that intoxication — the seductive belief that with the right technique, you could “fix” anyone. Her recommendation of Rogers was a quiet counterweight. His humanistic approach isn’t about clever reframes or rapid interventions; it’s about presence, congruence, unconditional positive regard. It’s about being with, rather than doing to.

Years later, I became a certified leadership coach. By then, I had sat on both sides of the helping relationship — as the one offering support, and as the one seeking it. During my own struggle with depression, I was referred to a counsellor. They were helpful, and they charged for their time. And that was appropriate. Counselling is a service that offers value, and value has a price. It was a sobering but vital realization: the helping professions are not immune to economic realities. Skill, ethics, and livelihood must find a way to coexist — sometimes in harmony, sometimes in tension.

For two years, I lived a dual life: a Zen student and a full‑time breadwinner for my family, alongside my better half. Then, last December, I moved into the Zendo. Before I arrived, Fr. AMA wrote me a welcome email. He called it shokku tuddedo and reminded me that the most critical relationship we must resolve is the one with money. The world, he said, will wonderfully provide for our needs, but our wants — and sometimes our greed — are a bottomless gulf. His words stayed with me. I distributed all my wealth and possessions before I left home. I stepped into the Zendo with empty hands and a lighter heart. I still work enough to provide for Manu and Rishi’s education for the next few years, but beyond that, I am largely self‑sufficient.

And yet, I was quite at sea for a while. After living for fifty‑four years in one fashion, it is not easy to be that detached. In our minds, the lines between genuine need, want, and greed are often too thin — or not there at all.

At the temple of Ryōan‑ji in Kyoto, Japan, there is a hand‑washing basin along the rear of the building, engraved with four kanji. Alone, they have no meaning, but a fifth kanji, formed by the central water basin, completes the phrase: ware tada taru shiru. When I googled, the English brochure translated it as, “I learn only to be contented.”

Fr. AMA had asked us to have this framed and placed above his dokusan room.Last June 2025, for the first time since I began working in March 1995, no salary was credited to my account — only an automated bank message came reminding me to maintain a minimum balance. Perhaps just another serendipitous moment: the right message at the right time. There is a Zen saying, “The master arrives when the student is ready.” Paraphrased, “The teaching comes when one needs it most.” — My initiation was exactly that..

Naturally, my way of being in the marketplace has shifted. I let go of fixed prices and moved to a contributory scale — pro bono, low bono, or “pay as per your ability.” It is a natural fit for a Zen student and soon‑to‑be monk. And it works, beautifully. Often, the amount people choose to give is more than I would have asked for. There is a quiet dignity in this exchange; it trusts the other person’s inherent sense of fairness and frees me from the subtle grasping that can creep into fixed‑fee work. It feels less like a transaction and more like a shared act of respect.

This tension between making a living and staying true to one’s calling is an ancient one. History is filled with those without inheritance who navigated the same crossroads. Socrates taught without payment, relying on the support of friends. Buddhist monks lived on alms, yet debated in lean times whether they could farm or teach for a fee. Artists without patrons chose between poverty and adapting to the market. Galileo balanced his research with paid court appointments. Jane Addams built her social reform on donations from sources she sometimes questioned. The question has always been the same: how does one remain true to purpose within the economic systems available? The answer often lies in adaptation — relying on patronage, creating hybrid models, or embracing radical simplicity to reduce dependence on the market.

In Zen, there is a classic teaching illustrated in the Ten Ox‑Herding Pictures. It traces the stages of a seeker’s journey: searching for the ox, glimpsing its footprints, catching it, taming it, riding it home, then forgetting the ox and the self, returning to the source. The final picture, the tenth, is “Entering the Marketplace with Helping Hands.” The awakened one doesn’t remain in solitude on the mountaintop. They walk back into the town — selling wine, buying vegetables, laughing with the crowd — but their presence is different. They serve without clinging, they earn their keep without exploitation, they meet people exactly where they are. This is why there is nothing inherently wrong with being in the marketplace and offering a service. The question is not whether you charge, but how you show up: with fairness, justice, and integrity. In that spirit, livelihood and service are not opposites; they are two hands of the same body.

Looking back, my own journey has moved through its own stages: the initial intoxication of technique, the grounding of professional coaching, a clear‑eyed view of the helping ecosystem, the deepening of Zen practice, and now the freedom of a livelihood rooted in trust. Seen through the Ox‑Herding lens, these stages are not linear but a spiral. Each time I return to the marketplace, I do so with a little more humility, a little more clarity, and a little less need to be the hero.

In the end, perhaps the most enduring lesson is this: helping is not about saving the world. It is about meeting one person, in one moment, with presence and humility — and letting that be enough.

And sometimes, the person you meet in need of help is yourself. The one you’re called to serve is the one in the mirror. That work is beyond price — pro bono publico becomes pro bono self. And if we can make a fair living while doing so — like the avocado tree in the Zendo garden, quietly offering its fruit, the birds , the monkeys and that giant Malabar squirrel that visit without asking, or even the Bhim Zendog basking in the sun without bothering them— then we are simply walking the path of the tenth picture: in the marketplace, with helping hands.

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