One such curious following was in a monastery. I denounced Islam a long time ago, but when I enlightened my family about this bizarre departure they weren’t all too ecstatic. After I arrived at San Francisco Zen Center skipping the evening installation of the city and her vibrant culture, the famous gate, and yes, yachts and sailboats on the still waters at Sausalito, I found a arduous journey via taxi uphill through forestry at night. Other than a minute factor of lugging my sleeping bag along with my suitcase, I must quite admit it was very romantic at first. I was greeted by two nuns in Japanese hat who were doing the walking meditation at night amidst the soft hues of lanterns.
Any delusion of this temporary retreat being a holiday was dissipated. I woke up early in the morning around 4:30 for about back-to-back forty five minute meditation session. This was followed by a fifteen minute of chore, such as brooming, after which came the one of the highlight of the day – the breakfast. There was food, plenty, oh yes. I enjoyed it until a friend called Louis explained to me that when I balked to clean toilets, or dishes, it was God himself pushing my buttons. Because it was to escape these – which my Dear Mom did it all for me all these while- that I came here. We talked about Kerouac. We talked about Dogen. And he assured me levitation was possible if we believe that we are made of energy. He mentioned of whim and intuition and Malcolm Gladwell. Louis became my friend, and he had a serene, hrishi like smile in his gleaming eyes. I borrowed Herrigel’s Zen and the Art of Archery from library, which basically meant just writing your name down as they were apathetic to the concept of theft. I borrowed a book on mondo, or a book of Japanese koan in form of question and answers.
We were instructed to read Suzuki roshi’s book before coming here, which I did in Greyhound. And just like any Buddhist, one had to keep the vows when one came to the center. One of the shock I got was how when I knocked the door for direction an Asian girl replied with a friendly “What’s up?” in informal clothes. The separated co-ed living was not the scary party, rather how once she freaked me out by speaking a cute phrase in of all language … Bangla!
After days of hard work of sorting screws, or moving furniture or cutting apples, we could go and take sauna, or visit the beach through serpentine trail cutting the mountains, which I did and isolated myself even more. Perhaps that was not too therapeutic as I eavesdropped once in a dining hall about the isolation from community.
Some days I would either sit next to Louis in the basement and browse internet. Louis said how he even went to Christian monastery and had to leave because it wasn’t “too monastic”. Yes, we had internet access and who could blame me for checking mails and opening forum topics during my time there?
One such afternoon, I turned onto a stream of India playing some team. They were at their finest form. They had the best and most explosive firing power with Dhoni and Pathan, Sehwag and Yuvraj in their lineup. They were a beast to reckon with. At that time India basically dominated the sport.
And one such exuberant outburst came through the vicious bludgeoning of Raina. Now I love Raina and I was aware of him, but never knew the demonic spirit possessed behind his ‘circular’, baby face. If anything Raina reminds me of me. But what he did on that day was just blowing the opponents out of the water calculatingly.
But before I remonstrate what he actually did, it necessitates on a rather curious anecdote of my mother. My mom may have episodic memory, although not photographic. In order to find out the match scorecard, I asked her when did I go to the monastery. “….my birthday… hold on…March 9th…you said you will come before my birthday…so stayed for a week…probably… a week before…around February and March…..2009…” It was magic. And this is the not the first time she did this. Give her any date and she can tell you exactly where she was or give a reference to my point in space and time. She also rattled out ten phone numbers like Erdos once.
Having unearthed the scorecard, I realized why no one talks about it. Tendulkar was the man-of-the-match for his 163 before being retired hurt. But for me, Raina was the real man of the match. For the moment I turned on the stream, this guy just basically toyed with the bowlers with sixes after six. He smashed five sixes and zero fours for his 18-ball 38.
One can read the commentary section all one wants, but the brutality seen cannot just be encapsulated by a mere words. It was as if all the meditation paid off, forcing me to enjoy an otherwise casual day of cricket in an explosive performance. The few glimpse, the darshan– I got stayed with me forever, and this became my episodic memory.
Yes, I surfed Internet, climbed cliffs, joked, stole a morsel of chocolate, strolled to beach, enjoyed sauna and left my name marked on the walls in the interior antechamber in the same basement which was made alight by Raina in my revelry times. My time was up and I came back just before in time for my Mom’s birthday.
Cricket Literature 