Sanjay Gupta's Blog

 

The image of Buddha sitting in meditation is etched in our hearts. But there’s another way the Enlightened One practiced meditation, and he enjoyed it greatly: Walking meditation.

After tens of thousands of mindful steps, I realize why it’s such a lovely thing. You are doing two of the best things a human being can possibly do: walking as well as meditating.

How can it be? Aren’t you supposed to sit still while doing meditation?

True, that’s the usual way meditation is practiced. But walking meditation is a bit different. Let me share a few observations from my own experience.

There are different ways and purposes of walking. You could be walking because your car broke down and you didn’t get a ride. You might be walking to school, which is not far away. Or maybe you are just hurrying to the market to pick up groceries.

In such routine acts of walking, our focus is mainly on the task at hand: to reach our destination, to get something from a place, to fulfill an objective.

There are some other reasons to walk as well, like when you are hiking. That’s like a sporting or outdoor activity you enjoy.

So, what does it mean to walk and meditate?

It means infusing your walk with the ease, simplicity, and bliss of meditation. It means to practice mindfulness while walking.

How you do that is by taking quiet, slow steps and observing your breath.

By not being in a hurry to reach anywhere but enjoying the very act of walking.

By looking around you in peace, even if you happen to be in an otherwise chaotic city.

By keeping this in your mind even as you take the next step: we are all connected to each other and to objects and phenomena in the universe. By seeing some of these connections happen or transform into another connection.

By being full of gratitude for the life you have been given, for your ability to walk, for the wonder of observing things that are nothing short of miracles: a bird singing, a flower in bloom, a tree swaying in the wind, a star-spangled sky, a horizon full of possibilities.

By simply walking at a pace that’s in harmony with your soul’s yearning.

By observing the joy rising inside you as you keep walking, not keeping track of time.

By smiling at the thought of having the better sense to have left your smartwatch back at home.

By wishing all sentient beings the same peace and happiness you are feeling right now.

That, my dear, is how you do walking meditation, IMHO.

Happy walking.

Happy meditating.

Happy doing walking meditation.

Image by Amariei Mihai on Unsplash 

Where does time go? 

And what have you done in all that time?

Could you have done more?

After thousands of years of civilization and centuries of creating clocks, we still haven’t figured out “time”.

So, why do we allow this ungraspable beast to be one of the most defining measures of our life?

As I look back on my years on Earth, the fabric of time appears tattered, full of visible stitches.

“Mujhko bhi tarkeeb sikha koi yaar julahe,” Gulzar’s soulful yearning for the weaver’s ability to stitch the warp and weft of life as if it was never torn echoes in my mind as I embark upon these musings.

I had a thousand reasons to do the things I did, to take the decisions I ended up taking—landing exactly where I am today. Some of them were logical, most now seem illogical, driven primarily by the need of the moment or the less-than-perfect context we all operate with.

But there’s one single reason to rule them all: destiny. 

“Aakhir destiny bhi koi cheez hai,” I recall the words of Dhirubhai Ambani spoken for an occasion I forget. (Translation: After all, there’s something called destiny.)

I used to have many regrets but, ever since I started on my meditative journey a few years back, they have more or less melted away in the sea of existence. Waves come and go, come and go…until all I see is a tranquil ocean of happy peace.

Happy peace? What’s that? (Let's keep it for some other time, dear.)

Well, what perhaps still riles or amuses some of my friends is the innumerable number of job-switches I made in my career.

Career. What a funny word, loaded with effort, time, and tricks of fate.

There you go: time to face “time” again. Sometime back, I had written a post on “a quarter century” of my career and the lessons I learned along the way.

This time around, I’ve got news for you. There’s no longer any career as far as I’m concerned.

While you could attribute some of that to ChatGPT and its ilk, it’s mostly about reaching an age (and a stage) where you want to pick a few things out of the many thrown your way—and see what gives.

For me, one clear benefit of all those frequent “career moves” is that I’ve made lots of friends (In fact, I’m notorious for turning my bosses as well juniors into friends over time). 

Thankfully, they all throw something or the other to me every once in a while: “Catch, Sanjay!”

So, I catch some of those opps and let others bounce off.

But isn’t that an unpredictable, risky way to earn a living, you ask?

In reply, I would just say, from experience as well as some foresight, “Well, have you heard of the best laid plans of mice and men?” (The phrase is courtesy of the Scottish poet Robert Burns.)

All in all, people and most gods have been kind to me. Why, I have lived a fairly good, interesting life—and continue to look forward to the full-tosses and googlies in equal measure.

By monetary yardsticks, I have been moderately successful. Which is perfect for a guy who never ran after money and possibly never will (In retaliation, money didn’t run after me either, which is okay, for we both took a little walk together nonetheless.)

Besides, how much money would anyone need if they want to spend it on books, chai, and music?

Now, coming back to time, I don’t know how much of it is left—in absolute terms or for me per se. 

And, by the way, what happens to time when our crazy ways have brought apocalypse to the human race? (I have this hunch that not all species will go extinct before we do.)

Will the insects and the birds and the horses worry about where the hell did all the time go?

No, time will not tell!

Neither can I.

Let’s “circle back” in a few years, shall we?

Buh-bye for now.

 

Image by Claire on Unsplash

“Nostalgia is a sweet, incurable disease,” I remember posting this on one of my social feeds sometime back.

Now, why did this particular thought—and not anything else—surface as I began writing this post?

My best guess is that this post is about memories and AI, and because I’m generally a nostalgic creature, that’s what my brain came up with. But we would never know for sure.

These days, the increasingly capable AIs remember a lot of things, including from past conversations with you. And they are getting better at providing more relevant or contextual answers to your prompts.

But…but…

For all their monstrous computational prowess and the supposed ‘smarts’ of remembering, the AIs do not have memories—certainly not in the way humans have.

What the AIs have is a vast pool of data and the blazing-fast ability to pick out a matching pattern. It’s all statistics, mathematics, algorithms…and yes, the brute force of hundreds or thousands of CPUs and GPUs.

They can do all of that pattern-matching ad infinitum. But they have zero memories. None whatsoever.

It’s humans who have memories.

It’s humans who are transported back to a joyous moment in childhood at the touch of a scent from a favorite savory. 

It’s humans who zip across time to relive their crazy youth when a song from their college days turns up on the playlist.

And it’s humans again when a blurry video—stored somewhere in the AI cloud—of their wedding makes it vivid like it was yesterday, even when it’s played thirty or forty or fifty years later. 

The sounds, sights, and smells associated with each memory come calling to the doorstep of our mind as well.

AI can mimic (read ‘steal’) our art, our stories, our music. But it can never stop us from creativity and imagination (unless all you choose to do is watch reels and give bad prompts). 

And, of course, no AI can make and cherish memories like we humans do. Thankfully.

 

There’s science fiction and there’s sciencefiction. 

 

And then there’s the adorable, zany, laugh-out-loudfictional world created by Douglas Adams.

 

I recently re-read the late author’s Hitchhiker’sGuide to the Galaxy—after more than 30 years. Not only did I find it freshas ever, I liked it even more this time around. You can say I’ve grown up—ormaybe down—a bit, I don’t know.

 

What I know for sure is that the crazy charactersconjured up by Adams immediately cast their spell on you and wouldn’t let gowithout tickling you senseless. Merely reading the wacky names can send ripplesof laughter down your spine.

 

Let’s try out a few:

 

Zaphod Beeblebrox.

 

Slartibartfast.

 

Vroomfondel.

 

Lunkwill and Fook.

 

Oh my dog, what a book!

 

I do not intend to make this post into a bookreview—there must be gazillions of them out there already.

 

What I’m doing here, instead, is picking out someof the most delicious excerpts and serving them up for your linguistic tastebuds.

 

Now, this Zaphod guy is the President of theGalactic Government. Adams describes him as “roughly humanoid except for theextra head and third arm.” There’s a scene in which he is addressing a pressconference to unveil a new starship. One particularly comic sentence aboutZaphod’s peculiar body stands out:

 

“The robot camera homed in for a close-up on themore popular of his two heads and he waved again.” 

 

The more popular of his two heads…hahaha!

 

The Vogons from the planet Vogsphere depicted inthe book are a weird lot. This passage about Vogon and other galactic poetrywill have you in splits:

 

Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in theUniverse. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitationby their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem "Ode to a SmallLump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning" four ofhis audience died of internal hemorrhaging, and the President of theMid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off.Grunthos is reported to have been "disappointed" by the poem's reception,and was about to embark on a reading of his twelve-book epic entitled MyFavorite Bathtime Gurgles when his own major intestine, in a desperate attemptto save life and civilization, leaped straight up through his neck andthrottled his brain.

 

In case you are wondering about the worst poetry,Adams conferred that honor on a human:

 

The very worst poetry of all perished along withits creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England, inthe destruction of the planet Earth. 

 

At one point, the protagonist of the book, ArthurDent, is talking with Ford Prefect, his co-traveler from another planet, justbefore the duo is about to be thrown out from a Vogon spacecraft:

 

"You know," said Arthur, "it's attimes like this, when I'm trapped in a Vogon airlock with a man fromBetelgeuse, and about to die of asphyxiation in deep space, that I really wishI'd listened to what my mother told me when I was young."

 

"Why, what did she tell you?"

 

"I don't know, I didn't listen.”

 

As you can see, Douglas Adams’s ability to createhumor out of thin air is nothing less than stellar—pun intended.

 

And it’s not all mindless humor (though youwouldn’t mind it for the fun element): Adams sometimes takes digs at issuesafflicting earthlings in the real world. Sample the satire about over-tourismspoiling the environment:

 

The introduction [to The Hitchhiker's Guide to theGalaxy] begins like this:

 

"Space," it says, "is big. Reallybig. You just won't believe how vastly hugely mind-bogglingly big it is. Imean, you may think it's a long way down the road to the chemist, but that'sjust peanuts to space. Listen..." and so on.

 

(After a while the style settles down a bit and itbegins to tell you things you really need to know, like the fact that thefabulously beautiful planet Bethselamin is now so worried about the cumulativeerosion by ten billion visiting tourists a year that any net imbalance betweenthe amount you eat and the amount you excrete while on the planet is surgicallyremoved from your body weight when you leave: so every time you go to thelavatory there it is vitally important to get a receipt.)

 

Brilliantly imagined satire, isn’t it?

 

This one is an absolute favorite of mine. The sceneis that Slartibartfast, a designer of planets, is met by Arthur Dent at acrater on the surface of Magrathea (where new planets are made on demand). Arobot by the name of Marvin is also with Arthur but it is a bit far andSlartibartfast is not sure if the two of them are together.

 

He [Slartibartfast] pointed down into the crater.

 

"Is that robot yours?" he said.

 

"No," came a thin metallic voice from thecrater, "I'm mine."

 

Imagine a robot saying: “I’m mine”!

 

(For all you know, ChatGPT might soon disown beingowned by Sam Altman or OpenAI!)

 

In the same scene, old Slartibartfast, too,delivers a snarky punch that will make you chuckle with delight.

 

“Come,” called the old man, “come now or you willbe late.”

 

"Late?" said Arthur. "Whatfor?"

 

"What is your name, human?"

 

"Dent. Arthur Dent," said Arthur.

 

"Late, as in the late Dentarthurdent,"said the old man, sternly. 

 

Besides the humor, you also marvel at how Adamsdescribes certain things in his own unique way. The concept of bigness andinfinity, for instance.

 

"I should warn you that the chamber we areabout to pass into does not literally exist within our planet. It is a littletoo ... large. We are about to pass through a gateway into a vast tract ofhyperspace. It may disturb you."

 

Arthur made nervous noises.

 

Slartibartfast touched a button and added, notentirely reassuringly, "It scares the willies out of me. Hold tight."The car shot forward straight into the circle of light, and suddenly Arthur hada fairly clear idea of what infinity looked like.

 

It wasn't infinity in fact. Infinity itself looksflat and uninteresting. Looking up into the night sky is looking intoinfinity—distance is incomprehensible and therefore meaningless. The chamberinto which the aircar emerged was anything but infinite, it was just very veryvery big, so big that it gave the impression of infinity far better thaninfinity itself.

 

And here’s the last one for this post—another gemfrom Marvin, the robot aptly described as an “electronic sulking machine”:

 

Ford stayed, and went to examine the Blagulon ship.As he walked, he nearly tripped over an inert steel figure lying face down inthe cold dust.

 

"Marvin!" he exclaimed. "What areyou doing?"

 

"Don't feel you have to take any notice of me,please," came a muffled drone.

 

"But how are you, metalman?" said Ford.

 

"Very depressed."

 

"What's up?"

 

"I don't know," said Marvin, "I'venever been there."

 

I didn’t get this one on first reading, but then itdawned on me and I couldn’t help but smile.

 

That’s it for now, fellow earthlings. Do keepsmiling and laughing.

 

Thank you for reading!

 

 

Ata time when Indians are celebrating the return to earth of Sunita Williams, mymind is still afloat with the thoughts of six astronauts aboard theInternational Space Station.

 

Don’tget me wrong: the space station I’m talking of is from Orbital, SamanthaHarvey’s Booker prize-winning novel.

 

Andwhat an amazing book it is!

 

Likemillions of Indians, I’ve enjoyed Williams’s videos of her extended stay on theISS. But after reading Orbital, I can happily say that I’m “witness” tomuch more.

 

Firstand foremost, the wondrous, all-too-human thoughts of Anton, Pietro, Roman,Shaun, Chie, and Nell—whom Harvey has compared to the spaceship’s heart, mind,hands, soul, conscience, and breath.

 

Butembodying what goes on in their minds and hearts, I suspect, is the author’sown voice. A voice so beautiful and enchanting that the Guardian calledOrbital “an uplifting book, in every sense.” 

 

WhenI started reading the book, I picked up a pen to mark a few lines or paras Iparticularly liked. By the time I finished it, however, the markings engulfedmuch of this tiny treasure (it’s less than 140 pages but its scope andimagination are vast).

 

Thebest parts I liked concern the sheer beauty anduniqueness (thus far!) of the pale blue dot we call Planet Earth—our only homein a seemingly endless universe, not counting the astronauts’ occasionalsojourns outside. And I completely second the spacefolk’s thoughts, echoed sopoignantly by Harvey in her book, about how the humans’ non-Sapiens behavior isruining it beyond repair.

 

Whenthe astronauts arrive on the spaceship, the lights of the “night earth” impressthem most. As Harvey writes: “From the space station’s distance mankind is acreature that comes out only at night. Mankind is the light of cities andilluminated filament of roads. By day, it’s gone…The night’s electric excesstakes their breath.”

 

Aftera week or two of “city awe,” however, the astronauts’ senses begin to broadenand deepen and it’s “daytime earth” they come to love, the author notes. 

 

Withthe space station orbiting the earth at over 17,000 miles an hour,there’s a new daybreak for them every ninety minutes. And the kaleidoscopicplay of night and day casts a mesmeric spell on how they observe the earth.

 

“It’sthe humanless simplicity of land and sea. The way the planet seems to breathe,an animal unto itself. It’s the planet’s indifferent turning in indifferentspace and the perfection of the sphere which transcends all language. It’s theblack hole of the Pacific becoming field of gold or French Polynesia dottedbelow, the islands like cell samples, the atolls opal lozenges; then thespindle of Central America which drops away beneath them now to bring to viewthe Bahamas and Florida and the arc of smoking volcanoes on the CaribbeanPlate. It’s Uzbekistan in an expanse of ochre and brown, the snowy mountainousbeauty of Kyrgyzstan. The clean and brilliant Indian Ocean of blues untold. Theapricot desert of Takla Makan traced about with the faint confluencing andparting lines of creek beds. It’s the diagonal beating path of the galaxy, aninvitation to the shunning void.”

 

Thelove for a shifting, turning, breathing earth is alsoaccompanied by the realization of how human choices and politics have wreakedhavoc.

 

“Everyswirling neon or red algal bloom in the polluted, warming, overfished Atlanticis crafted in large part by the hand of politics and human choices. Everyretreating or retreated or disintegrating glacier, every granite shoulder ofevery mountain laid newly bare by snow that has never before melted, everyscorched and blazing forest or bush…or the altered contour of a coastline wheresea is reclaimed meter by painstaking meter and turned into land to house moreand more people…or a vanishing mangrove forest in Mumbai, or the hundreds ofacres of greenhouses whose plastic makes the entire southern tip of Spain whitein the sun.”

 

Whenthey look upon the earth, Harvey writes, the astronauts come to see thepolitics of want, of growing and getting—a “billion extrapolations of the urgefor more.”

 

Insidethe spacecraft, the astronauts go about their duties with mechanicalprecision—often marveling at the meaning of it all. They tend to mice andplants brought along for scientific experiments, do the chores of maintainingthe ship, and engage in small talk like most people would do back here onearth.

 

Onoccasion, Harvey skillfully melds sensitive moments withthe critical realities of living in the extraordinary environment of aspaceship. For instance, when Chie shares a memory of climbing a mountain withher mother (who recently expired in Japan while Chie is here on the station),Anton finds himself crying. His tears form four droplets which float away fromhis eyes—which he and Chie “catch in the palms of their hands.”

 

Liquidsare not to be let loose on a spacecraft.

 

Harveynarrates the life and challenges of astronauts in a way that stays with youlong after you have read her words.

 

“Uphere in microgravity you’re a seabird on a warm day drifting, just drifting.What use are biceps, calves, strong shin bones; what use muscle mass? Legs area thing of the past. But every day the six of them have to fight this urge todissipate. They retreat inside their headphones and press weights and cyclenowhere at twenty-three times the speed of sound on a bike that has no seat orhandlebars, just a set of pedals attached to a rig, and run eight miles insidea slick metal module with a close-up view of a turning planet.

 

Sometimesthey wish for a cold stiff wind, blustery rain, autumn leaves, reddenedfingers, muddy legs, a curious dog, a startled rabbit, a leaping sudden deer, apuddle in a pothole, soaked feet, a slight chill, a fellow runner, a shaft ofsun.”

 

Oneof the astronauts, Shaun, once receives an editorial email asking his viewsabout an imminent moon landing. The question posed is this: With this new eraof space travel, how are we writing the future of humanity?

 

WhileShaun answers the email in the customary and predictable way (“There’s perhapsnever been so exciting and pivotal a time…”), he turns the question to hisfellow-traveler, Pietro. The answer Pietro gives is more pointed (and perhapsapt, given our current situation): “With the gilded pens of billionaires, Iguess.”

 

Thegilded pens of billionaires indeed seem to be writing our future in space,perhaps without as much thought as should have gone into it. And often in a“tearing” hurry.

 

Whichis why we must take a pause and go with Harvey on a considerate “Orbital trip”.The book doesn’t have all the answers—but at least it compels us to ask somequestions that urgently need to be asked.

 

Representative image created with Meta AI

The world’s largest gathering of people, this year at the once-in-12-years Maha Kumbh in Prayagraj in the Indian state of Uttar Pradesh, is a cauldron of faith, holy folk, spiritual journeys—and unfortunately, tragedy.

The joy people felt when an awe-inspiring illuminated picture of the religious megafest was tweeted by NASA Astronaut Don Pettit from the International Space Station transformed into harrowing images of bodies and belongings strewn around the bathing ghats after a stampede.

Nevertheless, devotees, tourists, and curious folks continue to throng the site for a holy dip in the confluence of two of India’s holiest rivers, Ganga and Yamuna. There’s a third river, too, but that is said to be hidden or invisible (French author Michel Danino has written a book that unpacks the mystery, titled The Lost River: On the Trail of the Sarasvati).

This year’s event is nothing short of a gargantuan drama featuring loudmouth politicians, selfie-seeking celebrities, and pseudo-spiritual wannabes. (Notables include India’s home minister, Amit Shah; Laurene Powell Jobs, Late Steve Jobs’s wife; actor Anupam Kher; and industrialist Gautam Adani.)

As the tales of tragedy follow those of IITian babas, the fierce-but-revered naga sadhus, and beautiful sadhvis, you might be wondering—Should I go, too, after all?—swinging between the twin prospects of (instant?!) nirvana through a holy dip and the mortal fear of getting crushed in the crowds.

Here’s another proposition: Maybe you can try visiting Maha Kumbh without even stepping out of your house. 

I can almost hear you say: “What? Are you crazy? How’s that possible!”

Let me tell you how (to the extent possible in this short post).

Ready for the pilgrimage?

Just be where you are and sit down comfortably. Close your eyes and take a few deep breaths. Sit still, relaxing like this for a while.

Now, if you need to make some adjustments to your posture or surroundings, do it quietly. Then return to sitting down and breathing.

Start to deepen your breaths, bringing your attention to the process of inhaling, holding for a few seconds, exhaling, and again holding for another few seconds before taking the next deep breath, and so on.

You will soon discover that your breathing is rhythmic and calm. The thought-avalanche has subsided to a trickle. And your minor body aches and discomforts have gone. 

The stray thoughts that do come to your mind will dissipate once you bring your attention back to breathing.

Practice like this for 10, 15, 20 minutes. Maybe a little longer if that works (and if you are not in a hurry to go somewhere else before visiting Maha Kumbh!)

Do you know that the rivers Ganga and Yamuna are part of your own being in a way?

The breath flowing through the left nostril is said to pass through what is called the Ida nadi and the one through the right nostril, through Pingala nadi. And Ida and Pingala correspond to Ganga and Yamuna respectively. 

What about Saraswati, you say? 

That would be the Sushumna nadi, which flows—hidden like the mystical river—along the core of the spine.

Nadis are subtle energy channels in the human body that carry prana or the vital breath—72,000 in all, with Ida, Pingala, and Sushmna being the most important or primary nadis.

But why is this relevant?

That’s because the meeting point of Ida, Pingala, and Sushumna is behind the forehead, between the eyebrows (called Trikuti or Triveni point).

This is the inner Maha Kumbh I’m talking about. (The one that hundreds of yoga and tantra adepts have spoken about over the past several centuries in Bharat before it became India.)

With ample practice of meditation and pranayama—what I just described very briefly above—Sushumna, Ida, and Pingala tend to have their own confluence in the human body. 

And when that confluence happens, you realize the futility of going to any physical Maha Kumbh. Forget a hard-fought dip in the melee of Prayagraj, the inner Maha Kumbh makes it possible for you to be drenched in true and abiding bliss—Sat-chit-ananda.

Yes, this may also take 12 years or even more. But it’s worth every breath you take.

At least you won’t get crushed in the madness.

Happy inner journey!

NOTE: If you are interested in knowing more about meditation and pranayama, watch this space for my upcoming book, River of Love: Meditation beyond the App.

 

“We want rock stars.”

“10x engineers.”

“Super achievers.”

It’s an overwhelming reality of the world we live in. Every company wants exceptional, super-productive people on its teams. And every individual strives to be in the top 10, 20, or whatever number they fancy in a given realm.

The human race has been in a relentless race with its own kind for as long as anyone can remember. For everything—from jobs and sports to crazy feats and rare honors.

But, of late, the desire to be extraordinary has taken on a ferocity that makes the rest of us—the ordinary folk who form the bulk of Planet Earth’s inhabitants—shudder.

I have nothing against superlative achievement or the pursuit of excellence, mind you. On the contrary, aspiring to reach our highest potential is a worthy, admirable goal.

I’m here to warn against and provide a contrarian view to the blind cult of ambition at any cost. Against an all-consuming pursuit that usually breeds secret fears of being left behind in an avalanche of technology-led progress. Which also begets unhealthy envy. And depression. And, quite often, a dangerous attitude of “making a mark, come what may.”

So much so that many “driven” people wouldn’t think twice before building their palaces by bulldozing the tiny huts of those who aren’t as “passionate” (read “aggressive”).

Again, it’s all right to be full of energy and follow one’s dreams in right earnestness. But reckless driving to mow down others? Not done.

To be sure, it takes a combination of talent, hard work, and the right circumstances (also known as luck) to reach the pinnacle of success in any field.

Plus, there’s only so much room at the top (unless you are thinking of climbing Mount Everest, where it’s a crowded slugfest now!)

But, more importantly, and the main point of this post: not everyone needs to be super ambitious or extraordinary. In fact, in their heart, a majority of people are not ambitious—though many of them harbor borrowed ambitions and expectations of those around them (Remember the “What do you want to be when you grow up” spiel or the never-ending plea to “push the envelope”?).

IMHO, most folks just want to live in an admixture of peace, love, and fun—with or without achieving a supposedly lofty goal. 

Not all who join as employees do so to become the CEO—which is okay. (They may still become the CEO which, again, is okay.)

Not all folks who play a sport or go for daily runs do so to win an Olympics medal—which is okay.

Not everyone who applauds a theatrical performance is looking to be a stage actor—which is okay. 

And not all who put on makeup want to win beauty pageants—OK, again.

Ordinariness is an essential, irrefutable fact of life. It is, of course, not to be worn as a badge of honor—but nor is it to be looked down upon. Ordinariness or lack of ambition is usually the way things are, and the person that others label as “ordinary” or “unambitious” may not give it two hoots.

What’s more, labels can be misleading. An ordinary assistant, for instance, may be a great human being while an extraordinary CEO can be lousy and mean. A “successful” career politician can fill you with disgust while a “street tramp” playing the violin can bring a smile to your face.

What matters more than ambition—whether you consider yourself extraordinary or ordinary—is the sincerity with which you do the job at hand or the empathy with which you treat your fellow humans and other sentient beings.

I’m not just preaching this to you—I speak from experience. I gave up being ambitious in my career when I was in my forties. Somewhere along the line, I stopped chasing increments or jumps but, instead, began to walk with a pace that was more in step with my psyche. I also focused more on what mattered to me personally (to the extent I could). This included meditation, reducing my cravings, and taking joy in the little things of life. Seeing my friends and even complete strangers flourish and laugh made me happy. Before long, I felt more fulfilled, more connected with the world at large, even as I quietly acknowledged my own tininess.

At a time when the specter of AI is looming large over jobs, it is important to wield human ordinariness not only as a shield but as something of great value—one that no extraordinary AI model can ever generate. 

It is important to strive for excellence—but more by means of who we are than by the judgment of others. It's even more urgent to achieve collective happiness and peace in a world increasingly divided by labels, gaps, and rifts. 

It is indeed important and necessary—and perfectly all right—to be ordinary.

In India the early morning hours, called Brahma Muhurta, are considered auspicious for new initiatives and great beginnings. Even otherwise, there’s something in the morning air that takes you to another level of exalted existence—provided you can shake off the sleep and be up and about this side of 6 a.m.

I used to be an early bird but, somewhere along my worklife, I metamorphosed into a night owl. Even so, every once in a while I chirp up at a respectable morning hour.

Recently I got up around dawn, took one final yawn and, freshening up quickly, made for the nearby park that’s my usual walking heaven.

The moment I found myself in the middle of a grassy patch with peepul, margosa, and ashoka trees, I paused to take it all in. The beautiful, green landscape. The cool breeze. The sound of koels, barbets, mynas.

Sitting down on a bench, I listened. Above the sweet din of birdsong, my ear caught the curious cry of a black kite. I have often wondered at the onomatopoeic symphony that so closely resembles the Hindi name of the raptor. It goes like this: “Chee-eel, chee-eel, chee-eel.” The kite was making slow circles up in the air, probably looking for its first catch of the day down below on the ground. Or maybe it was eyeing me, reciprocating my curiosity!

My attention was diverted by a unique buzzing chorus that was growing in loudness and intensity. I wondered whether it was a swarm of crickets, grasshoppers, or some other insects making those shrill noises. In all probability, they were a bunch of male cicadas out on their annual short sojourn out of the mud, attracting females through what’s called “stridulation.” Later on, when I searched the web, I came across this beautiful article  by Ramya Coushik on the whole shebang. The Britannica entry throws in some amazing tidbits, too (like, each of the 3,000 species of cicadas has a distinct sound; or that they can contract their tymbal muscle, responsible for those screeches, 120 to 480 times a second!).

But let’s not lose our wings in entomology—back to the park and the morning.

Having noticed all that natural drama around me, I did some stretches and settled down to meditate. Most often, I meditate in my room but exercising or meditating out in the open, green surroundings is remarkably different. Your lungs are fuller, your mood lighter, and your spirits higher. Gratitude and love flow more easily from the bottom of your heart.

On this particular occasion, I didn’t have to wait long before I eased deeper into a state of peace and equanimity. I felt healthier and more agile, even though I was barely moving.

When I opened my eyes, the benign sun was just appearing on the horizon. It was the middle of summer but there was still an hour or so before the day would lose its cool to the ferocious glare of the sun.

I surveyed the park before getting up to leave. The crowd of people to make good on their jogging and exercising self-promises had grown. Dog-walkers were jostling for track space with slow-moving uncles and impatient athletes. Not far from where I sat, a group of yoga enthusiasts were folding up their mats. It was apparent from their echoing banter that they had had a good session.

On my way back home, I saw the city wake up in an outburst of laziness and bustle. Reluctant folks bringing milk and groceries; long-distance commuters hurrying up to the nearest metro station, trying to avoid the dust from the mighty sweeps the street cleaners made with their witch-brooms; cows munching on leftovers they shouldn't be eating for producing healthy milk; the neighborhood elder shouting North India's most common salutation as he passed the next house or shop: “Ram-Ram ji!”—each one playing their usual part in the forward march of the day.

Just another great morning in the ongoing drumbeat of time.

Amaltas on a road divider in Delhi: Photo by Sanjay Gupta
 

When people say, “May heaven's choicest blessings be showered upon you”—a  popular wish, spoken frequently at weddings—they could be visualizing amaltas, also known as “the golden shower tree.” 

This yellow beauty wears multiple monikers. Indian laburnum and Cassia fistula (the botanical name) are fairly well known. Somewhat less common, but more significant from historical and health points of view, are Aragvadha (meaning disease killer) and Rajavriksha (the royal tree)—both of which find mention in Charaka Samhita, the oldest Indian treatise on Ayurveda.

There are several other names, too. But I'm particularly fond of amaltas and how easily it rolls off your tongue with a lyrical feel: amal-taas.

Different parts of this tree provide different medicinal benefits. It is said to have anti-inflammatory and laxative properties, and is useful in arthritis and skin diseases, among other ailments. Killer of diseases indeed!

For me, amaltas represents soothing drops of nectar sent from above for the benefit of parched souls. Especially for Delhiites sweating it out in the scorching days of May and June.

The signs of delicate yellow on slender, otherwise-nondescript branches of the medium-sized tree begin to appear in April. Come May and the golden shower works its magic everywhere. On trees planted along traffic dividers. In clusters across city parks. In fortunate folks’ backyards. Just about anywhere.

Take one look at the pleasant flowers twinkling invitingly and the heat that has been oppressing you relents a bit. Pause a little longer to drink their blessings and a cool reassurance percolates in your being.

In the sweltering afternoons of harsh city life, the relief that sightings of amaltas bring to me—and countless others I'm sure—is immense. The yellow petals, swaying in the wind, make your spirit soar and put the bounce back in your step.

Trees remain Nature’s most benevolent, most visible marks on a rapidly deteriorating Earth. Let’s give a shout-out to one of their most lovable manifestations.

“Love you, amaltas!”

Around 300 million people are said to practice yoga worldwide. It may seem a huge number but it’s less than 4% of the global population of 8 billion. The folks doing meditation — which is an integral part of yoga — would be far fewer.

For me, these statistics matter a lot. Because I’m a strong advocate of yoga, especially meditation. And as a fairly long-time practitioner (10+ years of meditation every day), I want to say a few things about what meditation involves, and why I think it’s the best gift of yoga and why every human being on the planet should do it — regardless of country, belief, or social status.

According to the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, meditation or dhyana is the stage between dharana and samadhi in what the sage called Ashtanga or eight limbs of yoga. So one begins to focus on a single object in dharana and when that focus becomes smooth and uninterrupted, it becomes dhyana. Drawing upon my own experience, I can say that meditation makes you feel full of peace, joy, and contentment: after a “successful” session, your physical pains and mental anguish melt away, and a supreme sense of calm and blessedness takes root. (With more practice and sticking to it regularly, success comes more frequently and naturally.)

Most people largely relate to yoga and are more familiar with its third limb, asana — the numerous body postures that bring balance and health to the practitioners. Unfortunately, only a few know about or practice meditation.

Here I would like to highlight dhyana or meditation as something that is very simple and accessible (simpler and easier to follow than asanas for most people, I’d say). And if practiced regularly by a sufficiently large number of people, meditation can bring about a profound change not only in their own mental and spiritual wellbeing but also in the overall health and sustainability of our planet.

What has meditation got to do with the Earth’s sustainability, one might wonder?

Let me briefly recount how our mind works and how meditation can help.

The human mind is a constant cauldron of thoughts good and bad. It is a fantastic, majestic contraption, no doubt — one that has left every other species behind in controlling and dominating the space and resources of the planet. From using tools to innovating in industrial technologies to the current boom in artificial intelligence, humans have used their minds to an absolutely complex and remarkable degree. They have created innumerable products to make life more comfortable and devised countless ways to “spend time” for pleasure.

Alongside the good parts, however, a lot of “badness” has gone unfiltered to create all sorts of havoc: pollution, inequality, hunger, war, and disease. So much so that we are at a precipice, looking at disastrous possibilities for the human “race” (pun intended).

This chaos and impending disaster is reflected not only at a global level but also at multiple levels — regions, countries, cities, societies, and families are struggling to deal with it. Ultimately, it boils down to the individual level.

So, when an individual — you, me, everybody — sits down to meditate for a few minutes each day, it helps them deal with this internal chaos. Closing our eyes to the external world for a few moments and looking inward with peace and calm can help nurture our thoughts in the right direction. Meditation helps us reset our intent for being in this world and heals our relationship with fellow humans and creatures. It allows us to question our inner selves as to what is it that gives us real joy, real happiness? What is it that makes our life worth it? What is the meaning of it all? Why do we do what we do?

With our breathing calm, our body at rest, and our mind attuned to the inner voice that otherwise gets drowned in the daily noise of external exigencies, meditation opens up great possibilities for peaceful, better answers to our turmoil.

[Those new to the “process of meditation” my find this post I wrote a few years back useful: How to sit down in meditation.]

Imagine the change that millions of meditating souls can bring about! Change that is peaceful, positive, and “progressive” in the truly meaningful sense of the word.

You don’t have to listen to me — but please do listen to your inner voice. Do spend some quality time each day with your own self: meditate.

Namaskar and happy meditating :)