Another early start.
On the roof, moving, breathing, simply being. My dreams last night had been very
vivid. I had watched myself age rapidly
– a beautiful reminder, as if it were needed, of the impermanence of this body.
So this morning my practice was a practice of non-attachment, of exploring the
limbo between “progress” and mastery of my movements and ultimately; letting go
of achievement once it had been attained.
In the back of the jeep my vision gave a continuous
commentary to the new details of another day. Its discerning how there is so
much more than what first meets the eye.
Today it was as if a distinct hierarchy appeared on the roads. Wealth reflected by use of vehicle. This ranged from the pedestrians to those on
bicycles, scooters, motorbikes, cars, to the chauffeur driven. Almost as if there is a negative correlation
between wealth connection to the earth.
When we arrived at Asha
there was a farmers' meeting. The group of
men all quickly stood up to greet us. I
still find this form of courtesy uncomfortable.
And perhaps because it was rooted in a frame of inequality. For the women we are working with would not
have received the same welcome. In fact,
the women stood patiently at the back, visibly excited to see us and waiting
for their chance to say “Namaskar”. Having
so many pairs of eyes on me at one time reminds me of how strange I must
appear. My white skin, blonde hair,
green eyes. Not to mention my giant like
proportions in comparison to the ladies tiny frames. They often come and squeeze my arms, say how
soft my skin is, pat my belly laughing that its shape is sign of
my role as simple “woman” as opposed to “woman, wife, mother, grandmother.”
Names are a challenge for me. As if we are so much more than a name so it
bypasses my mind. And the unique tribal
names were no exception. However, what
had become well established in these few days were certain faces and looks of
recognition. I’m not sure if I can
describe it. But I am very aware of it –
the necessity of my walking into a room with a presence which is open to
connection. When I find myself in the
middle of women from a very different backgrounds (whether that be occupation,
religion, age, culture, lived experiences), I need to find a way to establish
trust. As this can’t be through language
I am now very sensitive to ways which we look. And by that I mean eye to eye. Something magic is allowed to happen…
As a result I have formed connections with several women which
really have touched some place deep in my heart. These are connections that don’t come with
any words. I see them because they have
found ways to talk to me. As I have
them. Women who light up, who shine, who
are clearly deeply connected to an inner strength and resilience which they
share freely at any given opportunity.
Women who have bought to life the importance of our inner attitude, of
the ability to find peace no matter what life presents, to trust that
everything will pass. Indeed I realized
that for many of these women, the exile from the village had happened many
years ago. Many had now returned to
their famines and yet still suffer greatly from the shame and memories that
they relive every day. In comparison,
others have risen, either not so invested in their community’s acceptance or
have simply moved forwards with their lives to the best of their abilities.
We began the day with a gift to each woman of a garland of
marigold flowers. I spied the three
sisters peaking through the door, so I sneaked out and threw three rings of golden petals over each of
their necks. Three shy smiles to cracked their lips. Three priceless smiles.
Yoga followed. I
repeated the same poses as the previous days, in the hope that they would take
more than an experience home with them, and have embodied some movements, that
could with practice, limber up stiff and aging frames. However, I began to wonder how realistic it
was for the women to find a space, time or will to continue this when they
returned home. Asana could easily be categorized
as a leisure activity. And leisure after
all comes secondary to survival. The
first concern of the women is to be able to gather the essential commodities to
survive – food, water and shelter. Then
of course there is the mental attitude to want
to find some physical or emotional relief.
To be able to generate a belief that it is possible to feel differently, that life might not go
back to how it was but it also needn’t stay the same. After all this is an attitude which pervades all
cultures: The excuses that so many of us
give to struggle. And of course there is the final component of
circumstance – of the actual physical space, time and opportunity to practice. Yet after the session one of the women
shouted out that when she returned to her village she was going to gather up her
neighbors and share two or three different asanas with them every day. She grinned, hands on her shoulders, circling
proudly as she showed me what she remembered.
If that is the case – my contribution has been more than a novelty.
The next session of
the day bridged worlds between imagination and reality: Between an inner journey
and outer movement. The women were
instructed to paint coloured light with their whole bodies. Moving through space and internal
limitations. Bringing colour to darkness, and play to frail bodies. My skepticism that they would be receptive to
such instructions was quickly washed away.
Through closed eyes rainbows were danced. This led beautifully into an art class. The class was simple. It involved only two elements - a blank piece
of A5 paper and paper plates filled with a few blobs of primary colours. There were only a handful of paint brushes. I thought of the complaints or even plane
refusal to paint with fingers by women from other backgrounds and
cultures. Yet here today, these women
had no such comments. After all, many
had never painted before – never put paint on paper in their lives.
They were content with so little and carefully dipped fingertips into
colours to create magic – transforming what was empty, blank, shapeless into
expression. The room dropped into a deep
meditative stillness. One by one women
called me over to show me their decorated pages, their moments of
creation. The women from the tribal
villages had their own style – I’ll call it “unconditioned”. They painted anywhere on the paper – not just
in the middle. And their work/play did
not depict objects or tell stories, but represented unique patterns and
shapes. In comparison, the survivors of
domestic abuse who had grown up in the towns all drew the same composition: A house, a river, hills and the sun. The picture perfect ideal.
Lunch was another huge affair. I watched the three young cooks take it in
turn to run in and out of the compound, juggling huge bundles of fire wood as
they navigated the heavy front gate. Now
and then a baby goat would charge in behind them, until it was chased back out.
The bael tree provided another moment for my memory. The
women lined up in front of me, pointing to parts of their body and asking for a
short massage. I often think of the
rather cruel and inhumane research carried out in the United States in
1944. Twenty newborn infants were housed
in a special facility where they had caregivers who would go in to feed them,
bathe them and change their diapers, but they would do nothing else. The
caregivers had been instructed not to look at or touch the babies more than
what was necessary, never communicating with them. All their physical needs
were attended to scrupulously and the environment was kept sterile, none of the
babies becoming ill. The experiment was halted after four months, by which
time, at least half of the babies had died. There was no physiological cause
for the babies' deaths; they were all physically very healthy. Before each baby
died, there was a period where they would stop verbalizing and trying to engage
with their caregivers, generally stop moving, nor cry or even change
expression; death would follow shortly. The babies who had "given up"
before being rescued, died in the same manner, even though they had been
removed from the experimental conditions. The response of the women we were
working with showed clearly that maybe we can physically survive without
connection and affection as adults, yet something within us thrives with simple
platonic.
As I worked I closed my eyes and let my intuition guide
me. Years of cutting bamboo, of weaving
baskets, of carrying countless children, buckets of water -years of life in a tribal Indian village –
had left its mark in distinct areas of the body. Back and shoulders, hands and wrists were all
bustling for attention. As I opened my
eyes I saw Murni – a young women in her late teens staring at me. For a moment I realized how strange the scene
must look. A blonde foreigner hands
working stiff joints of crooked women who were all brandished as witches.
Murni had a young child called Puja. She always had the baby on her hip. And when either were separated both became
anxious. When Murni was wed just two
years prior, as is custom here, she moved in with her husband’s family. Yet her new family were not impressed with
their new addition. Even though it was
an arranged marriage, it was soon to be arranged that Murni would be replaced
and a new wife was found for her husband.
She was kicked out. Baby in
belly. I often stop and pause, look
around at the faces which stare back at me.
The stories which over the days have began to accompany them. And I am left wondering that we really have
no idea about the “what ifs”. What if
these women had not been branded as witches, sold into sex slavery, beaten into
submission, made a homeless teenage bride?
I say this because what I see in front of me each day is a testament to
the strength of the human spirit. And I am weary about using that term as
it is elusive and yet oh so apparent.
It’s the fusion of what can’t be seen, quantified or valued. It can’t be taught or bought. Yet it represents the weaving together of the
shakti of women the world over. The
ability to rise up, to move forwards and to do so countless times and through
countless years. Each woman here has
survived not just for her own benefit but to be a living testament and guide
for others. Each woman’s resilience - regardless
of age, tribal or Indian – has the potential to be the spark of perseverance
for another.
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