Mornings with Vinnuachaya

Written in Bangalore, April 2008
Each day some silent alarm goes off inside my head,
It says, “Wake up, Frances, wake up and look outside.”
Answering the quiet command, I sit straight up in bed.
I gaze out of the window, feel the breeze, and look around.
I hear the music of the morning – a symphony of sound.

Dogs barking in the street outside, some making mournful cries,
Lamenting about their dog desires remaining unfulfilled,
Concerns that only other canine friends can truly comprehend –
“I want a mate, I am injured/sick, I’m tired of being penned,
I’m thirsty, I am hungry, I sure could use a friend.”

Stiff, stubby, banana-leaf brooms make swishing scraping sounds,
It’s Bauvya sweeping walkways, removing flowers from the ground.
Followed by a splashing of water being poured at the front of this pious
Hindu home,
Honoring the sun god, Surya – Om Surya Om.

And still more sounds of water, as Bauvya waters all the plants,
Hibiscus, roses, marigolds – it’s the morning “song and dance.”
Distant muffled voices of walkers talking to their friends,
Heading out for work or school, they often pass this way,
Speaking only English, though, I know not what they say.
They converse in Kannada as they go about their day.

The bird calls are so many – cawing crows and cooing pigeons, parrots and
parakeets,
Producing all kinds of chirping sounds, one even says, “tweet tweet!”
Announcing their area of domain or looking for a mate,
They have to get up early, they can’t afford to sleep in late.

Looking out the windows at the morning fresh and new,
Banana trees and flowers – it’s a pleasant scene to view.
Four white windows by the bed, with ironwork – ornamental,
A north-south breeze passes by, always predictable and gentle.                                       
The house next door resembles a layer cake,
With strawberry icing – top and sides, of soft and creamy pink.
Is there some creme filling hiding inside somewhere?
It looks like a tasty house I think!

In the yard, banana trees – very green and quite prolific,
Fifty or sixty grow on one stalk, and they really taste terrific.
The child who lives there says his family eats so many,
They just go out and cut them down, they never purchase any.

The doctor who lives there has a garden,
He gives me flowers for my pujas.
Never-ending garlands – they bloom and bloom and bloom.
I see their magenta faces from the windows in this room.

Also in the bedroom sleeps Vinnuacharya, my great Shiva friend,
Wrapped in a cocoon of quilted cotton, underneath a ceiling fan,
Surrounded by his pillows, he sleeps there snug and tight,
Resting oh so peacefully, he builds a new “nest” every night.

I always wake up before he does, time and time again,
Cherishing this special time before the day begins.
I see the subtle rise and fall as his chest moves up and down.
I listen to his breathing – it makes a wispy, airy sound.
Focusing on its rhythm, I shut out other things that are around.

The sound of my teacher’s breath is far more beautiful than the calling of
the birds,
More beautiful than the breeze, the trees and flowers,       
It’s the sweetest music I’ve ever heard.

Shrouded inside his cotton cocoon are long and powerful legs.
I tell him he’s like Lord Vishnu, the long-strider –
When he’s out walking or swimming in a pool.
He covers so much distance – powered by Shiva fuel!

I’m glad he isn’t up yet, so I can see the features of his face,
In America he came and found me – I’d know him anyplace.
Each contour of his countenance exudes nobility, strength and grace.
He looks like a kshatriya warrior, a raja – a king.
He’s stern with me, but always fair – he gives me everything.

His dark expressive eyes are hidden now because he is asleep,
They are windows into his consciousness, I’ve seen them in many ways:
In times of trial and turbulence, reflecting detachment and non-reaction,
Determined, strong and constant, not wavering in his conviction,
Shining, laughing, sparkling – expressing happiness and mirth,
Filled with confidence, but not ego – he knows his own self-worth.
Or supremely concentrated, focused one-pointedly on Shiva or Ayyappan,
With his eyes upturned, locked in bliss – his world of private, sweet
communion.

In my memory, all these times with him can never be erased,
Sitting with Vinnuacharya when tears of joy are streaming down
his face.
His pujas are so powerful, soaked with love and inspiration,
He cries for Shiva and Ayyappan, filled with bhakti – such devotion!
Far better than worldly pleasures and temporary “highs,”
To sit in stillness with Vinnubaba, my teacher with the lotus eyes.

To say I love my teacher would be grossly incomplete,
I do not choose to use the word, instead I touch his feet.
Greater than fathers, mothers, daughters, lovers, brothers, sons,
Is my teacher sent by Shiva – strong and stable like the sun.
He knows my attachments, all my subconscious hidden desires,
He smashes down my ego and throws it in the fire!
We go to Shivaloka where we are forever free.
I’m glad Vinnuacharya came and found me, I’m glad he teaches me.