Letter to the Unknown Reader - Series 2 - Infinite Love

 Hello Dearest Reader,

This being the globally accepted month of love, I thought an over indulgence on the topic will be forgiven by your kind heart. So let me share another story on loves of different kinds and of different times with a bit of travel experience thrown in.

It is believed that love touches a person’s life at different points opening portals to different experiences as is needed for a person to evolve. The first one which touches your life is generally when you’re young and that probably is your first encounter with the emotion. Often we term it as our first crush. But then what is crush but the budding love which creaks open your heart. It is like the  first flush, gives you joy of newness, excitement of the inexperience, this love like the first rains on the parched soil, transforms your childhood in to a more matured and beautiful version of yourself . Unfortunately this kind of love rarely lasts. They teach you the beauty of its existence but lack of an experience ensures it fades away from life.

Then as you enter your early adulthood, you’re hit by a stormy kind of love. This one consumes you. You believe this is ‘The One’, and you give yourself completely into it. There’s trust, desire, unbridled passion and shared dreams. You get swept by the intensity of it. Every good that you believe in, is poured into this one kind of love. With faith of a blind, you swing in its merry tune. You give so much of yourself that your individual existence loses its meaning. You learn to be one with another soul. Some lucky few will live their lives with this kind of love. But most mere mortals are left a broken mess after this love exits your life. You see you had given away yourself completely to another, so when the other person no longer remains a part of your life, you lose meaning of existence. Death seems dearer and the pain of broken heart manifests physically. You die a death more brutal than the real one. I take responsibility of using such a strong word as death, because what remains after that is an entirely new person. You metamorph into a version which is toughened, colder and practical. This kind of the emotion teaches you to fear love, because it exposes you to the destructive power of its strength.

So now you’re determined to not fall in love again. Don’t confuse love with marriage though. By then most of us have entangled ourselves into matrimonial bliss. Marriage needs a different kind of mindset. Mostly the key ingredient of a successful marriage is respect, trust, sense of responsibility and personal alignment to societal fabric of existence where you nurture human lives. Both young and old. 

The last kind of love sneaks past your practical, no-nonsense persona, when you’re least expecting it. For that matter you don’t even term it as love. Confidently you tell yourself that this is some kind of aberration of frivolous kind. You’re in denial. And invariably it is with the wrong kind of person ( very different from the idea you have created in your head) who has nothing in common with your tastes and preferences. For sure it’s at the wrong point of time, because by then your established social existence has lulled you to believe that you’re safe from another onslaught of the emotion. This love teaches you to observe. It teaches you not to expect anything. It teaches you to let go of the grasping. But by no means it is less intense. Its at a soul level and evolve you in to final stage as you learn to be happy for someone else. This I believe is the deepest kind which you carry over lifetimes till it manifests in the mortal plane at the right point in the right lifetime.

In this context, I head read a lot about Banke Bihari Temple of Vrindavan. I’m not religious but definitely spiritual. Shree Krishna had been a part of my life since I was four and I used to play with His idol like any four year old will with their doll. I would speak my deepest secrets, and request Him often to protect me from my Mom’s scolding, cried in front of Him for bad results of exams, broken heart, fought with Him, threatening to never talk unless a particular wish was fulfilled, blackmailed Him and gave into Him till He became integral to my life. I was named Krishnapriya by my Dida who probably is the one who filled my hearts with stories from Purana and Mahabharata. She gave me my Muraridhari murti as my 16th birthday gift. I was married away to my man in front of my Krishna. And Krishna came with His Krishnapriya to her new house. Lorded over my heart just as he used to. Not surprising that His stories enchanted me a lot. Specially because I found all the three kind of love including marrying sixteen thousand and one women very nicely and neatly wrapped in His stories.

Coming back to Banke Bihari Mandir, the saying goes that the Temple was situated in Nidhivan, a Tulsi garden in Vrindavan by Saint Haridas. It is believed that Shree Krishna with His love Shree Radha comes down to do Raas, the divine dance every night. The Tulsi trees turns into Gopis. The bed which the priests prepare for the celestial couple with Srinagar ( ornaments, dresses and beauty enhancers) and Paan, looks used every morning. The Srinagar used the beetle eaten inside the locked garbha griha (the sanctum sanctorum). No one’s allowed to enter the Nidhivan at night. Those who tried either lost their sight or mental balance or died as they couldn’t comprehend the energy of what they saw. The Banke Bihari Temple now situated at a nearby site has the most beautiful idol of Shree Krishna. The priests keep a curtain in front of the idol which is dropped every two minutes. They believe that if you look too long at the beautiful face of Shree Banke Bihari you’ll be mesmerised forever and if you’re a true devout, Banke Bihari ji will follow you back to your home.

To put to rest all kinds of love that touched me, I had gone to see the temple. I did not offer any Puja, because I just wanted to see my Krishna. See I did, I’m sure for more than two minutes. Have not taken a single click but His face  is etched in my heart like a photograph. I can see His face even if I keep my eyes wide open, 500 hundred miles away from Vrindavan in the heart of Mumbai, the minute I remember Him. I’m not sure why Banke Bihari will follow me back home, because He was always with me before and after my tryst with him in  Vrindavan. But one good thing did happen, I could put my love to rest. The emotion now sits quietly with all its hues in my heart and I can rest within it without the drama which we usually associate with love. I love and I am perfectly fine with just doing that, without associating anything with it, without expecting anything from it, without seeking any culmination or fleeing from it…just being it. Phew!

I’m not hoping or wishing that any of you experience what I did. Each one if us have our own journey and our way to engage with emotions as they touch our lives. I did it my way, I’m sure you’ll do it your way. And both our ways will be equally enchanting and perfectly right. But I do wish dear reader that love touches your life. Let it enrich your journey and help you evolve into the best version of yourself.

Always yours 

Pocket full of life

Letter to the Unknown Reader - Series 2 - A 50 year old love story

 Hello Dearest Reader,

Hope you are well. The new year is settling in and slowly falling in place, like every other year gone by. The end of January took me to Kolkata - my hometown. We were celebrating my parent’s 50th wedding anniversary. It was a lovely evening with friends and family. All the laughter, conversations, good food, cake cutting and free flowing stories laced with free flowing spirits ensured that I bring at least one of the nuggets to your doorstep. Let me tell you a 50 year old love story.

I was told it was 1965, the Girls Guide troop of a particular school was getting trained for war time service in the heart of Kolkata. These trainings were held in the Indian Museum, situated right in the centre of the city. A sixteen year old girl met a 20 year old boy under a tree on the street right outside the museum. Some common acquaintance introduced them. Two individuals from very different socio-economic-cultural background. The beautiful young girl, gentle, shy, led a very protected life. The only scary thing she ever encountered was her very strict, conservative father. She could barely utter a word in front of the tall stature of this serious almost fierce persona. The boy on the other hand was very street smart, brash, had been often hit hard by life and cared a damn about societal protocol. 

How they bonded are known by the few who were close to them. Supposedly the boy was very possessive, demanding of every minute of the girl’s spare time. Often spouting, philosophical theories and psychological jargon, swept the girl off her feet. There was no proposal but a pure conviction that they would be together. And finally after a lot of drama and disowning by the girl’s family, the boy almost did a Prithiviraj and took away with him, his Sanjukta to get married.

He joined the Indian Police Force and his beautiful wife accompanied him to every God forsaken place he was posted. Both of them lived through life threats which was a part of the man’s job description, financial pressure, having two kids who had pre-decided to visit hospital often didn’t help the cause, and families were least supportive - at least in the early years of their marriage. They survived it. Turned around their life. Brought their parents together, to the extent when these octagerians left this world they were in separable friends to each other. The couple ensured their kids do not go back up  to heaven above, just from where they came via the hospital route. They lived a simple and happy life.

Today if you look deep and observe in silence, you will still see the glimpse of the young daredevil of a love story in the grocery list they bicker over. You will see it when the food is being cooked in the kitchen where they both fight over the menu of the day, prioritising what the other likes. You will find it in the way they drink their morning tea, and peep over each other’s shoulders when talking to their children on video calls. You will feel the love in their shared worry, shared joy, shared happiness and shared pride. The love still holds true in their 70 something bodies and shines in their eyes as they exchange the red rose garlands with embarrassed smiles. Two very old eyes recognising the dashing love of their younger days beating forever in their hearts.

So my dearest reader, cherish the love you have with the love of your life. A life of love, is a life well lived. Store the memory nuggets. They are the most precious keepsakes you will ever have.

Always yours,

Pocket full of life

Letter to the Unknown Reader - Series 2 - Rescue

 

Hello Dearest Reader,

Welcome to a brand new year! Hope the next 365 days unleash their charm on you. May you have adventures in your daily routine and dreams in your soul. I sincerely hope when you reach the end of this year, there are gallons of stories to keep you cheerful and make you laugh when you look back.

Today started off just the way I like it. Calm and weekendy ( if at all there’s a term like this). But I’m sure those who trudge the week days through measurable monotony can understand what I mean by “weekendy”. The feeling is usually light and cheerful for no apparent reason besides the fact that you can escape a routine which you have set for yourself to survive this life. I had my morning meditation session followed by hot cup of milky, sugary coffee with munchy “nimkees “ which my mother in law rustled up. These “nimkees” were a staple during our post puja visitation to all the neighbouring houses where we sought blessings from the elders of the house and met up with friends. Very similar to Diwali parties of north and west of India. But absolutely glamor less, much shorter, mostly done in the early evenings and completely, utterly focused on food. The yummier, crispier and sweeter the spread was, more of neighbourhood kids, teens and friends were likely to drop by to do the routine “Shubho Bijoya” pronam and “kolakuli” which is nothing but a customary hug done ritualistically thrice. 

Let me not digress from my morning. Food related thoughts tend to transport me to my childhood memories. However my very soothing morning was broken by a shrill war cry from my 16 year old. The boy learns martial arts, talks calories and muscles incessantly throughout the day, so I assumed that it must be part of his physical fitness jingoistic routine. However followed by the war cry came very timid fearful voice for help. Lo and behold my very macho boy had a baby pigeon stranded on his windowsill and hence was unable to enter his room. I was alarmed at his reaction towards a very small, and scared birdie. Fearful about where his mighty strength may fly in face of real threats. Then my man entered the scene with his strongest of weapons. A cell phone. This machine is capable of making 50 calls in a span of 5 minutes to all the people who will definitely give a patient hearing to the crisis in the house but in actuality cannot do a damn to help. My man however volunteered call the Security to save us from pigeon catastrophe. 

With so much chivalry and machismo surrounding me, including that of our pet retriever Mithai, I was scared to intervene. Mithai suddenly forgot the meaning of the name of his breed. Surreptitiously started retreating with not a single sound instead of retrieving, I thought it’s time to step in. Out came medical gloves, reminiscent from my liver transplant days. The huge box of infinite numbers of surgical gloves, never seem to end, even though they had been mercilessly trivialised and used for hair colouring, gardening, and saving manicured hands from cooking with our very own haldi. A pair was taken out and worn with a grim face. Then I picked the freakingly nervous bird gently and planted it outside my window sill so that the poor baby can fly away.

Another bout of macho circus started. Man of the house retreated with his mean machine, mumbling under his breath that he was ready to do anything to protect the family. The young cub roared and flopped back on his bed, re-settling his weights and dumbbells on the now won over land on the windowsill. Funniest of all was Mithai, the four legged man of the house. He started scratching the now closed window with his paws as the birdie perched  peacefully on the other side.

The tremendous show of bravery and the ultimate subjugation of chaos brought back my calm. I am still laughing to myself as I look back at the circus that enfolded in my household. I’m sending silent prayer to heaven above for those magical, mundane, surgical gloves. It fulfilled its destiny in a newest possible way and helped me to rescue a sweet little baby pigeon.

Wishing you be rescued when you need it, by the most ordinary of folks with apparently the most useless things. It re-onforces the fact that there is strength in ordinary and in absolutely mundane existence. And if you are one like me, preciously ordinary, then be there to rescue who need your help the most.

Always yours,

Pocket full of life 

Letter to the Unknown Reader - Series 1 - Donning different hats

Dearest Reader,

Hope you’re well and enjoying the cheer of the season. I’m sure your holiday plans are getting ready to be gift wrapped and delivered at the door steps of your life. I on the other hand did get to see some dramatic flips in truest of literary sense recently. Like any bits and pieces of my life, it opened up a can of story telling.

It was a Friday noon and a very calm and otherwise insignificant day which turned nightmarish. My dearest mother in law, who is a brilliant cook and loves tinkering in the kitchen, did her morning rounds of doing so. And then BAAM! We don’t know how, whether she had a black out or she tripped… she fell face flat straight on the floor hurting her forehead badly. I’ve never seen so much blood coming out of someone’s body besides me. But then I’m a pro. Poor Ma, lied on a pool of blood, hurt and in pain. Goes without saying there was emergency rush to the nearest hospital. I will be ever grateful to the bunch of stable headed, compassionate and selflessly helping women in my Building of the Society I stay in. These women who rally around each other in crisis, celebrate happiness and take pride in each other’s success ensured, the in house medic came rushing in, the Society Ambulance was waiting ready and all the security staff carried the injured carefully and fast to the waiting ambulance so that we could head towards nearest hospital emergency. 

But the story is not of the accidental fall but of human reaction to crisis. Around the situation, there were folks who almost fainted seeing so much blood, one started crying and sobbing, one was in so much panic that he almost froze and Mithai our 9 months old retriever thought that it’s his sole responsibility to lick my mother in law back to normalcy. 

As I grew up in a family where crisis was normal, my father being and IPS officer honoured with Gallantry award by the President of our country, I find myself more often than not emotionally detached and clinically cold in such situations. It’s like I have an automatic reaction to crisis and it’s with surgical precision I tend to deal with it. So the crisis in my home was managed. My dearest mother in law all stitched up, cleaned, being monitored in the ICU and finally shifted to a ward for recovering to health. The associated running around to the hospital and police station all being taken care off before my husband took over charge.

I often wonder if folks find me insane that I can laugh in such situations making it light and funny and that I don’t crumble. But then there are many like me across the world where women handle more than the most masculine of men as expected in our common social parlance. My father brought me up as the eldest son of the family. I was taught what he probably would have taught if he had a boy. I was taught to be the Alpha as I was being prepared to fend my circle. And such an upbringing though had its advantages for those that I shield, has often than not backfired as far as I’m concerned. I have stopped embracing the woman in me since I was a kid. 

 I took pride in being tougher than the toughest. So I stand up for, I fight for and protect all those who are under my care. I take it personally if my tribe is not getting their due, not being appreciated, being disrespected or not having the comfort they need. For that, I’m often told that I’m emotional, I’m overtly protective, I defend unnecessarily and I am fierce when it comes to my own. It really doesn’t matter, if it’s the family I’m born in or the family I’m married to, my extended family, my helping hands, my team, my larger business unit, the place of my work, the community I’m a member of or my friends. I’m fierce when it comes to shielding them from the wrath of life. That doesn’t mean I have not reared enough tigress cubs. I have and am supremely proud of some of these people who were a part of my life and embraced this philosophy. It takes courage to be unselfish and do the thankless job of being a shield. And I have seen these folks turn into shields and protected me as much as I have protected them. If not anything else, as long as you are guided by sense of righteousness with compassion, you will turn out to be great human beings.

Saying it, I still search for the woman I wanted to be. How would it feel to depend, to be protected, to be cared for…not too sure. Never been there and didn’t get a chance to taste it. Maybe I’m too tuned to the role I have played and don’t know how to depend. Some lives are led like that of mine and you slowly forget the body you reside in as you have metamorphosed into some other beast. I had heard in one of the interviews I had watched years back - “a woman can afford to be a woman when she is with a man who’s man enough”. Else she generally tends to takeover. It’s that nurturing quality of a woman which pushes her to be Dashabhuja (10 handed Goddess Durga) where she kills her demons mercilessly as she nurtures her family single handedly. 

I hope dear reader if you’re a woman, you have your man in your life who shields you…and in case you’re a man, then celebrate your woman. Each of you celebrate the balance of divine feminine and the masculine. That’s the natural flow of energy in this universe.

Always yours,

Pocket full of life

Letter to the Unknown Reader Series 1 - Simple living

 Hello Dearest Reader,

Hope the winter chill has seeped into your lives. December is half way through and Yuletide cheer has set in. The year of 2023 finally breathing its last. For us Bengalis, specially those who were born and brought up in Kolkata, it’s the season to celebrate Christmas lunches and New Year’s Parties in the quintessential clubs that dots the city since British Raj. The Babu culture shining through the mists of time. Calcuttans who thrive on this club culture are more British than the Brits. If you ever get sneak peak in these Christmas lunches, you’ll see roasted turkey and shepherd pies gracing the tables with drool worthy gravy, followed by the rum soaked plum cakes. Park Street decks up in lights and Christmas carols are sung in every city corner. The flavour of this old city is that it doesn’t need a particular community to celebrate life. Be it Durga Puja or Eid or Christmas,  Calcuttans (and that’s what they always will be in my mind) celebrate it with all the merriment and good food.

My girlhood in the city saw winter picnics being organised within families and extended ones. Elaborate Para picnics (one with friends and families of the same locality) being planned with meticulous precision. These picnics would have bus loads of laughter early in the morning heading towards the nearest Bagan bari ( bungalows dotting the near by villages) parks and forested areas of the surrounding rural areas that girdled the city. Smell of peeling oranges and the cracking shells of boiled eggs for breakfast in those buses will always be a memory which brings a smile to my face. These picnics where the places where  cricket matches were played, badminton rackets swung in the air, games of cards and memory's games played with battles fought to choose the winner.

And away from the hustle bustle of the winter galas, in the quiet corner of my Thama’s (granny’s) home we could smell the sweet intoxicating smell of nolen gurer payesh (sweetened rice pudding with seasonal jaggery) pithey, puli, and chitoi pithey (Bengali sweet dish) which made the chilly winters heavy and cosy. The Poush parbon warmth of the kitchen, where we cuddled in our sweaters and shawls, waiting impatiently for our turn of the next piping serving of the delicacies was what girlhood was made of. And then Thama’s stories would lull us to forget the childish desires of the delicious morsels. In her lilting, gravelly voice she would talk about her girlhood, her struggles, her battles with hunger and poverty in a manner which would make it seem like fairy tale beautiful. And her stories will always have a common theme. It will always be of hope, finding beauty in the simplicity of the moments, enjoying the quiet and cherishing the pause. In our lives we often encounter pauses. Where there’s nothing to do but the next thing which requires our attention. You have no conscious strategy, no battles to be fought, no action to be taken just simply sit and wait it out. Those are the moments where we become restless, anxious and feel helpless. Humankind has been trained to wage a war for survival. That’s the basic instinct.  Doing nothing doesn’t come naturally. However if we observe carefully life treats us to those moments at regular intervals, preparing us for our last days of our lives. Where you wait out an end before a new beginning. My grandma would always say that, your mind should be latched on to the fluttering wings of hope. 

As I battled my chronic illness I learnt that this is one of the best ways to live a life. Every time the entire medical fraternity will tell me that I don’t have many years to breathe, every time families surrounding me will have despondent looks, I always thought about the next travel plans, the return to work, the next fabulous step in my spiritual journey, the next plate of yumm food, the next book I will read, yet enjoying the brilliance of the sunset from my hospital window across the Mumbai skyline. And that’s how I learnt to live and not just survive. And as I’m ageing towards eternity, I find myself dreaming of a quiet life within the folds of the mountains where the sun shines brightly and simplicity is what days are made of. Yet I know if life treats me otherwise, I will embrace the last days on a hospital bed, friendless, surrounded by caregivers with equanimity. Sharing my stories of a wonderful life with those around then. Reminiscences of an old soul on its way out, giving back to all those who’ve touched this life.

I hope dear Reader, you’re able to enjoy the quiet of the winters. The warmth of the fire places or the winter sun depending on whichever part of the world you are in, is making you feel cosy. May the last of this year is gracious to you and you are able to enjoy the sublime lull.

Always yours,

Pocket full of life 

Letter to the Unknown Reader Series 1 - The Black Cat and its omen

Hello Dearest Reader,

Hope you have been keeping well. Month of November had been a delight for my travel happy feet. The beginning of the month I could visit my soul’s home in Sikkim and I shared the story of Gasa the dog who gave up his life for his love. I hope you enjoyed the read. However this one is a different one though about animals and the way they have communicated to humans over the eons of time.

End of November took me to the beaches of Goa. The sun, the sea and the sand, was relaxing to say the least, but in a luxuriously leisurely way. The good food, the doing nothing and the ribbon like village roads entwining the greens, lulls you to believe that the world is perfect.

Coming back from one of our long walks post dinner, this jet black silken coated cat greeted me. It was sitting in one of the corners resting slightly on the edges that skirted the garden of our cottages in the resort. And was silently watching the world pass by. I being one of those click friendly people started taking its photograph to show it to my cat lover school buddies.

 All was fine so far, however things started turning strange. The cat started stalking me. Literally, and I’m not kidding about it when I say this. It would not cross my path, and walk by my side and nimbly run a few steps ahead of me turning its head awaited for me to pass by. The moment I will cross by walking a few steps, it will repeat the same action running past me, and looking at me with greenish yellow eyes wanting to convey something. I am an animal lover and have loved dogs and cats since I was a kid. In return I have received unconditional love from them throughout my life. But I’m being honest, a sense of chill and dread blitzed through my spine. As if something is not right… somewhere something is not going right for me. I am a sensitive soul and will like to trust my instincts and gut. I quickly climbed up the stairs to my room trying to increase my distance from the animal. Once up, I told myself if the cat looks up at me directly, I will know that something will not go right for me. And the moment that thought passed my mind, the cat looked up with a piercing gaze and slowly stared climbing the stairs. I rushed into my room locking the doors firmly. For the first time since I saw the cat, I heard a piercing “Meow” right outside my door as if some evil omen waited patiently for me outside the door.  

Saying a silent prayer. I went off to sleep. And as always, I find Universe has a way of communicating, I did face my demons shortly thereafter. Let’s keep the story of disappointment for another time and place. As you never know if a life event is actually positive for you or not much later….when you look back and reminiscence. However, I am always pleasantly surprised how I am oft prepared for things that come into my life, good, bad or ugly. I have learnt to listen to the cosmic rhythms. And to every incident in your life there’s always another side to it. You just need to trust that you’ll be in a place where you’re either required to give or take. Either you learn a lesson or teach some. And once the purpose of your soul is fulfilled you are plucked from that life sequence and put into another.

Some of you’ll know, I am born and brought up in Kolkata which is in the eastern part of country and spent quarter of my life there. Never dreamt of living the city or the job where I had made friends. However life dragged me to the extreme west of the country to the city of Mumbai. Put me in another job to meet new set of folks and make new acquaintances and friends. I grew as a person and a professional. I will not say the journey had been easy but I also feel I wouldn’t have been the person I am today without the displacement.

Some people left my life, who were indispensable at one point . I thought I will not be able to breathe a minute without them. However some newer souls dropped into my life almost from thin air and helped me survive the loss. Helped me love myself once more, helped me to just be happy.

Being a liver transplant patient, I’m often questioned on my mortality. Folks find it unbelievable that I’m comfortable with my life and its limited trajectory. But I know deep down I have spiritually evolved because of that one goddamned illness. It taught me kindness. I know how hard it’s for people to bear the burden of prolonged life threatening illness. It taught me humility. I know how dependent you may have to be for your basic movements and needs on others.  It taught me gratitude towards all those who had been kind and compassionate during my journey to recovery. It also taught me one valuable lesson. That Life is all about impermanence. 

So irrespective of whether the cat is black or white. Irrespective of whether you’re being warned of bad omen or getting happy signals from the universe, it’s not going to last. Simply because you are not going to last. 

I hope dear Reader you do not take your wins or losses so seriously. Don’t be caged by your own perceptions or others’. There’s always another way of looking at things. You will be where you’re meant to be, with those you’re meant to be with, learning lessons from the school of life. One of my revered teachers had once mentioned in one of his teachings a meditation practice, where you wish for  yourself only one thing - “ let me rest in great equanimity without any attachment or aversion “. I wish you the same.

Always yours,

Pocket full of life

Letter to the Unknown Reader Series 1 - Stories from the Mountains

 Hello dearest Reader,

By the time you’ll read this, I would have left my mountain perch and have gone back to my bustling sea side metropolis. I’m sure, all the stories that strangely crop up as you walk through the mountains, talking to locals there, will dissipate in the rush hour traffic and creepy crawling of emails hitting my work mailbox. So before I forget let me share it with you just like the first sip of piping hot Temi tea as you wake up to the Kanchendzonga.

As I was spending the first evening with my soul sister and her family sitting in their warm cosy drawing room, catching up on the stories from monasteries and her practice, the topic gently tumbled on to our pet dogs. She and her daughter who is my dearest heart niece (I fondly call her Baby D), had lost a slew of dogs one after the other. My heart niece was obviously heart broken. Loosing pets is no mean feat and her young heart must have been badly bruised as she faced such grief in such an age. 

One of the stories I heard is of a mixed breed named Gasa. He was a mix of Husky and Mountain breed which I conveniently forget. He supposedly lost his heart to a local female dog who was adopted by a neighbouring Bengali family. Initially all tried to keep these two apart but Gasa having more freedom than his human counterparts would cry his lung out forlornly every night when tied to his post. I don’t know what prompted aunty to have mercy on Gasa, whether she empathised with the love lorn creature or wanted to have soundless peaceful sleep, but finally the decision was taken to let Gasa go to his lady love. As they say, the streets of love are murky and never easy, Gasa’s love used to spend her nights in the bedroom of her adopted parents. So Gasa had to do with scratching the main door and breaking through their fence in pursuit of eternal love. 

A few days later the neighbouring family had planned a trip to their hometown for a month. They arranged for their pet to be taken care of by a family staying in the nearby village. It was agreed that on the day of their travel Gasa would not be allowed out as he could have follow his lady love to the village. As planned, Gasa was locked up for the day. The family departed and in the evening Gasa was let loose for his nightly walks. The next morning Gasa was found dead in front of the porch of the neighbour's with no telltale sign of any injury. It was a massive heart attack. And the one and some years Gasa died out of heartbreak. The local vet confirmed that such incidents do happen with dogs.

When I heard the story, I felt a bit shaken. I know how death feels dearer than life to a broken heart. A heartbreak manifests physically with excruciating pain. You can check around to see it in your world. Sure there are enough live stories lurking in the nooks and crannies of your lives. I wish Gasa had given himself another chance. 

Love does come in many forms and shapes and rarely can be bottled in one glass container. Spiritually Hinduism speaks about Samsara Dharma. Philosophical texts will tell you that Dharma is “ Jaha tomake dharan kore” meaning that which holds you. So Samsara Dharma is explained as a form of sacred responsibility for us who are born into the cycle of Samsara. What makes you a yogi is when you can fulfill your responsibilities with utmost sincerity, love and compassion without getting attached. It is a form of spirituality , a journey where you dedicate yourself to the service of your circle. 

Some love is complete in its existence. It defies logic built by current societal norms.Think Shree Radhika Yog. We get an essence of it in our music, folklore and Vaishnavite texts. Where love of Shree Radha is epitomised as a means of worshipping the eternal. Where you love with all your being, the one and only. Your love don't have to reach a culmination. You do not need to share a life path. You do not need to seek outside of you, who you love. You feel the presence of love in every mountain ledge when watching the glory of sunset. You are never alone as you splash on the gurgling stream.You are together in your prayers, wishing happiness and freedom from suffering. 

Strangely the biggest love story of our culture glorifies a love which was never fulfilled. As the story goes, Shree Radhika and Shree Krishna, went their ways, lived their lives, fought their battles and reared their families. Yet there was an eternal love between them which is revered. I wish Gasa knew about it. I wish Gasa didn’t give up. I wish someone taught him to move on. He had sacred responsibilities to fulfil towards his adopted family. But then some love stories do end like this.

We tend to use the often viled , rarely understood, wrongfully mystified term “Love” very loosely. I always felt “Connect” is a better word to express such luminescent emotions. I hope dear Reader,  you are living with the love of your life. If not, it’s good enough to love what you’re living. If you love someone this fiercely, then don’t give up on life. The definition of completion is different when you know how to connect. 

Always yours,

Pocket full of life