MORNING WALK

Daily bread does not land on my doorstep; I must fetch.  So, in the murky early hour after first Mass, I make my way through the back lanes that take me to the bread shop.  It is not a pleasant journey.  Dingy, shuttered shop-fronts line the pavements on either side; pavements that one cannot use because the previous day’s garbage has been put out for the collection that has yet to be accomplished.  The contents spill out onto the road, thanks to rummaging canines, cats and the hopeful crows. One has to walk in the middle of the road to avoid the odd squelch and snapping teeth, the occasional remnant from the previous night’s hangover – denizens of the local ‘joints’ – and the amorphous, swaddled shapes of the still sleeping homeless who make the pavements their bedroom.  

It’s not a long journey, but the surroundings make it seem so.  I hurry past my daily encounter with now familiar squalor, with purposeful determination. Today, the bread shop is manned by the father, a courteous old man who patiently waits on each customer. He reaches out for my shopping bag and fills in the items as I recite my list – bread, buns, butter, milk, eggs.  He takes my money and hands me my change. I shoulder my bag and sidestep a couple of eager cats playing tag and waiting on the probability of a punctured milk pouch – there is a crateful of them at the entrance. It’s time for the return journey.

In the time between, the conservancy gang has visited.  The garbage has been picked up and the road swept clean.  The pavement dwellers have gathered up their bedding and melted into an invisible background. The shop fronts are still shuttered but in a few hours they will be humming with arriving and departing customers who require the barber, the chemist, the tailor, the electrician, the stationer, photocopies, hot snacks – name it, you’ll find it; practically every need is met! Come evening, the bars will thrum with customers ending their day by getting high to remedy a low. And then shutters will down, some by nightfall others in the wee hours.

Shifting scenes on a temporary canvas – painted over but not obliterated. A living pentimento!  

Knee Jerk!

How quickly we react, how easily we see in black and white only, and how easily we pass judgment. But is it really that simple? I’m going out on a limb here with what would be considered as outrageous by practically everyone who has lapped up the media reports that have appeared over the past two weeks.

Let’s take the first.  A prank call, a lot of smug laughter, some chaffing, some backslapping (for those that pulled it off) and wide media coverage.  At that point it was still a prank to top all pranks! And then the laughter turned to censure. Just like that.  What an awful thing to do! How irresponsible! The pranksters are now considered criminals.  Irresponsible, certainly. But, criminal?

Let’s look at the picture a little more closely.  Two people impersonate public figures and make a prank call.  They do not know who will take the call and they probably expect to be sent off with the proverbial flea in the ear.  The nurse on duty makes an error of judgment, and the prank goes viral.  The unintended ‘victim’ becomes a joke.  Suicide follows. 

Now look at a mother who has to choose between remaining a national joke for probably a very long while (certainly among colleagues and friends) and being there for two children whom she is raising and loves very much.  Hard choice?  Probably, but only if you are already close to the edge.  A nurse’s life is not easy: graveyard shifts, the responsibility for life, taking tough calls, dealing with extreme illness, dealing with death. And, in this particular case, a duty that allowed a mother to connect with family only once in the week: the kind of life that would take its toll on the strongest of persons, physically, mentally and emotionally.  So, was the prank the cause of suicide? Or was it the last straw? Think about it. Then, whom would you hold responsible? 

Soon, the headlines change dramatically. We hear about the massacre of the innocents.  The one thing that should be a certainty is that children should always be safe: at home, in school, on the playground – everywhere. A while ago I read a novel titled ‘We need to talk about Kevin’ which has so many parallels that, in hindsight, it is almost predictive in its content: an exclusive affluent environment, a child that is different and who prefers to be excluded, the murder of a parent (and a sibling) and the massacre of a class in a truly gruesome way.  

So where lie the answers? Because, surely, there are questions that need to be addressed; issues that need to be confronted and assurances obtained that such an abomination will not happen again. 

Could we find it possible to look at the perpetrator as a victim? Or is it just too convenient to write him off as a psycho – someone monstrously evil?

Look again at the child who was different.  A broken family (the school had a Psychiatrist that had to help children with issues ‘that they were unprepared to handle’ and these were children in the age group 5 – 10!); a father who left; a mother who seems to be the tough cop’s daughter and who taught her boys how to handle a gun (the choice of guns sounds more like a male statement than an option for security) and there is nothing more powerful than the feel of a gun in the hand – alone you are vulnerable, with a gun you are invincible; a closed neighbourhood that sent out a message that they were perfect in an imperfect world.  

To me, this is the story not of individuals but of a society that demands more – much more – in terms of who you should be, what you should deliver and the image you have to maintain.  It is the story not of individual crime but of collective error. We need to turn the mirror on ourselves and face the truth.  We need to retrace our steps and find the wrong turns. We need to ask ourselves the tough questions and accept the tougher answers.

When it comes to being as we believe God meant us to be, we need to stand tall and call the shots.  Without using a gun.

An internet evangelist…

Why is it that inspiration strikes in the most inconvenient moments? I get visited by a host of ideas either when I’m stirring onions on the stove, visiting the loo or dropping off to sleep; in any event, there is no keyboard to hand. By the time I’m able to boot the comp, the thoughts have flown and it is almost impossible to recapture the freshness of the original idea.

Today, I was musing over a number of happenings, emails, communications, conversations and things to do – a very usual beginning to my day. My first task since Lent began is to post, to our parish blog, a discourse on the readings of the day together with a prayer and an action plan – the work of a dynamic, straight-to-the-heart-of-the-matter, no-holds-barred priest in our parish. This gives me the opportunity to read twice over and reflect and also feel that twinge of discomfort. And I return to that endless question – why am I here? I look at others around me as they stride confidently into the day – purposeful in all that they do. They know exactly where they are going and what they will achieve.

When goals are material ones, they are easy to identify, to work towards and to realise (particularly if you believe that the universe conspires to give you your heart’s desire!!). But, if you are lucky, life hands out a reality check. Suddenly, you realise that there are other goals. Ones that are not so clear; in fact, they are a little blurry. Now, I step out diffidently, one feeling step at a time and I have to ask for guidance – is this where I place my foot? What is it that I am really called to do?

There is no thunderclap from the clouds, or a voice from heaven (today’s environment is very noisy compared to that of the Old Testament – noisy enough to muffle the thunderclap!). Instead, there will be an email with a request or a phone call regarding something that needs to be done, a request for involvement in a ministry, a cry from someone who is lonely or misunderstood, a visit to share joy or bring one another upto date. A signposted path and small steps that take me through the day.

And there are bonus strides: all the opportunities to share on Facebook and blogs the happenings and events, the interactions, the ability to use the written word and know that others read. To forward the message of the Gospels and to urge others to share it too – in thought, word and deed. To know that somewhere a seed is sown that might bear fruit. To recount examples and experiences of how some are making a difference. To feel God’s direction in my life (even though God does not always sound or look like I expect Him to!)

Does this make me an internet evangelist? Is this my role? I’d love to think so!

Deed for the Day

For provoking insights and practical action, go here:

http://hnfollowhim.blogspot.in/

Ants

I love the nonsense poetry of Ogden Nash (I love most things that border on the ridiculous!) and one of my favourites is the one on the ant:

The ant has made himself illustrious
Through constant industry industrious.
So what?
Would you be calm and placid
If you were full of formic acid?

What reminded me of this verse today of all days? The first reading at Sunday Mass!

The ant has been held up to us as an example of ‘constant industry’ and it is an example we seem to have overdosed on. Everyone today seems to be in a state of constant motion, always doing something: if we are not rushing between destinations and chores, we are networking through sms and Facebook. A casual encounter will invariably elicit the question, ‘So, what are you doing today?’ How many of us would be happy to say, ‘Absolutely nothing!’ ??

I do make it a point to check the reading that is assigned to me. Today’s reading was a cinch - no tricky words, no intricate sentences, no confusing punctuation or pronunciation. In fact, it was familiar – the good old ten commandments. Yet, when I read at the lectern, the words seemed to be imbued with the unfamiliar. It was as if someone else was speaking and I was the listener. And I was hearing the commandments for the first time, with resounding clarity. Nine commandments were simple one liners, but the third was a detailed exhortation to ‘keep holy the Sabbath’ – in effect, ‘ …rest with me as I rested after creation - be still and know that I am God.’

Orthodox Jewish practice observes the Sabbath rigorously, beginning on the Friday evening and ending twenty-four hours later on the Saturday. They have done this unbroken through the generations from the time of Moses. And in the Jewish State everything is shut. It is the law. Among Christians, the Sabbath is observed on the Sunday. It is a busy day. It is a day for catching up with all the undone chores of the week gone by. Or perhaps chilling out and unwinding with a different kind of activity, always aware that Monday is dogging Sunday’s heels!!

Be still? Be absolutely still? Physically and mentally? That seems impossible. Already I can hear the objections in my mind, ‘But, I have to….!!!’.

Could this be the reason why we find it difficult to ‘know God’?

The Grass is Still Green

I am not a Facebook aficionado, but one has to keep up with the times and the news of family and friends, so I have joined the herd. I check in occasionally to see what is happening, but most times I forget that it is there until an email pops into my box reminding me of messages, birthdays and ‘friend requests’. The other day a more unusual message met the eye – my photo had been tagged. I followed the link, so helpfully provided, to find that a young friend had labeled me as being ‘very rich’. Annoyance gave way to humour. But then humour gave way to introspection. How do others really see us? How do we see ourselves?

When the majority of our people are without shelter, clothes, proper food, education and are denied much of their due and when I have all these then, by comparison, I am certainly well-off.

I have a loving and supportive family and a small but close and understanding group of friends whom I can turn to when in need and that is wealth indeed.

I have enjoyed the benefit of an excellent education which means that I am employable and can earn enough to put jam on the bread and butter. As the billboard outside the Anglican Church says: ‘When you know that you have enough, you are rich.’

I have also enjoyed my rights as a citizen of my country with freedom and without fear, albeit with some hassles which now appear insignificant when viewed against a comparative backdrop. This means that I am certainly better off than those who need to do interminable battle for what is their entitlement.

I have kicked off my senior citizen year with my health and faculties in good order (by my standard at least!). And that is an immeasurable blessing.

Though there is much I would like to change – I have known insecurity and I have known grief - at this point in time, it is obvious to me that the grass is still green on my side of the fence.

Therefore, I am not just rich, but very rich indeed. Thank you, my young friend, for reminding me.

The picture in the frame

At four floors up, our hospital ward provides us a bird’s eye view of the surroundings. I use the phrase quite literally: two sets of pigeons are roosting on the AC fans outside the windows. One pair is sitting on eggs while the other is nursing two hatchlings. And, since hubby’s bed is near the window, we share the same lookout.

The view spans the hospital backyard and the by-lanes and buildings beyond. On the nearer horizon, is a wide and heavy gateway. Strong pillars support an ornate horizontal beam – too narrow to be a canopy, too broad to be termed a strip. And as the scenes of life unfold, this gateway provides a temporary surround to an ever shifting tableau.

Caught within the frame, today, were five schoolgirls, laden backpacks in place but uniforms askew, chatting animatedly. They were replaced by a young boy walking an exuberant puppy, the red of the collar and leash a bright contrast to the puppy’s firm cream coat. After a small hiatus, the ‘frame’ was filled by a man trundling a barrel on a handcart. He was succeeded by a gaggle of local matrons, gaudily attired in nylon saris, on their way to the shops in the maze of by-lanes that characterize the locality. A couple of nurses going off duty walk swiftly through. Two little boys persuade their bicycles forward, the training wheels providing unnecessary traction. A young man, eyes fixed on the paper in hand, pauses to get his bearings. He accosts a couple of gents entering ‘stage left’. A short conversation later, they go their divergent ways.

In the afternoon, the ‘frame’ remains empty. It casts a shadow on the road below, lending a watchful tranquility to this somnolent time of day. Even the inanimate deserves a siesta!

Come evening, the light fails gradually into sunset. In slow motion ‘still life’, the vegetable vendor lays out his produce, while sparrows peck at the seeds and leaves – their final scrounge for the day.

Each moment presents new pictures for the viewing, a little bit of detail against the larger canvas in the background and a welcome distraction from the ward within; it provides the opportunity to speculate and daydream and weave a little fiction of my own.

I have no talent with brush and paint, but if ever an artist needed inspiration, he – or she – would find it here; a sketch already composed and framed!

That Little Bit Extra

When I picked up my weekend treat – a brick of caramel ice-cream – from the vendor, I noticed that it was much larger than usual. Sure enough, a band across the width proclaimed 20% extra. Triple scoops instead of double – somebody up there must surely love me!

And the extras did not stop there: my toothpaste tube announced 20% more on its extended length, the carton of teabags stated emphatically that two additional bags had been included, the jar of Horlicks confirmed that 50 grams extra could be found inside, and the packet of cornflakes declared that I would find extra goodness along with, of course, 10% more of those nutritious, tasty, crispy, flakes. Every item had a little extra added on without the asking – joy indeed.

October has signed off and November has signed in and the preparations for Christmas will gather pace: cards to be bought, sweets to be made or ordered, cupboards to be turned out and not just of the home but also the heart – time to review the year’s clutter and to make some extra space for those that need it. This is the season which calls for extras: a little extra love tucked in to all that we do, a little extra time and attention to those that need it and to ourselves, a little extra in the envelopes for worthy causes. And so on.

Now, if only I could find that the 24-hour day has been granted a few hours more: with my to-do list also sporting several ‘extras’, a bonus hour or two would be the most welcome extra ever.

But, in the meantime and until that happens, I shall hie me off to tackle the tasks that await. A little extra exercise won’t come amiss and will help to accommodate the surplus ice-cream!