Mindsight by Dr. Dan Siegel - book review

The book does not exaggerate when it says it offers ‘The new science of personal transformation’

Review by | Urmi Chanda-Vaz

Even before I got around to understanding the idea of mindsight, I was reminded of the vast and inexhaustible powers that our minds and brains have. Reading this book by Dr. Daniel J. Siegel was like revisiting all those postgraduate psychology classes from years ago. I thought I had forgotten them, but with page after page, recollections of all the major concepts came tumbling out. I could pick up on the trail where I had left it. We truly never forget anything entirely. Our entire pasts and tremendous capacities for our futures lie within our minds. Mindsight is about channeling the vastness of the treasure of the mind.

One of the first things about this book is that it can be understood, enjoyed and applied equally by a mental health professional, a wellness expert, and a layperson, who wants to live an enriched  life. Mindsight, as Dr. Siegel defines it, is ‘a process that enables us to monitor and modify the flow of energy and information within the Triangle of Wel-Being’. One can learn to observe one’s own thought processes, the motivation behind actions, the formation of reactions, and thus guide one’s behaviour in fruitful ways. In simpler terms, mindsight is cultivating heightened mindfulness.

The book is written in two sections. The first section explains the basics of the brain - its anatomy, structure and functions, and is meant for those who either have no background in psychology or who, like me, would like to brush up on their fundamentals. It is in this section that the author introduces the readers to the common hand model of the brain, which he uses repeatedly in his therapy chapters later on in the book.

The second section is about Mindsight. Professionals may jump straight to this section, and begin to delve into this innovative therapeutic process formulated by Dr. Siegel. In every chapter in this section, the author begins with a case study from his own practice, which focuses on one issue. Non-clinical and common issues like those of relationships, self image, self confidence, phobias, and psychosomatic pains are highlighted in these case studies. Dr. Siegel then demonstrates, how with the help of mindsight, he helps his patients integrate their pasts and presents,  find and rectify problem patterns in their relationships, and open up channels of communication.

Dr. Siegel explains that the points of the relationships-mind-brain Triangle (of Well-being) are interconnected, and how one cannot do without the other. Through a simplistic model of the brain, he explains how our brains are wired, how mindsight can help form new neural circuits, and consequently ‘grow’ our brains and our ability to form nurturing relationships with ourselves and those surrounding us.

Apart from the application of mindsight in a professional setting, it is a great tool for everyday living. Mindsight empowers us with empathy, positivity, and clear reasoning, and can be applied to fix many problems in life. It is, as the book proclaims, a powerful new tool for personal transformation. Moreover, the book is easy to grasp with concepts so lucid, that anyone will be able to understand and apply its simple yet powerful principles. Mindsight helps cultivate wellness in our minds, which then extends to our bodies, and finally our entire lives. It is a good book to read and keep at home, in spas and wellness centres, offices, or any place where people matter. 

About the author

Dr. Daniel J. Siegel is a psychiatrist with nearly two decades of experience and is currently the clinical professor of psychiatry at the UCLA School of Medicine. Apart from that he is the executive director of the Mindsight Institute and the author of several groundbreaking books on the same subject.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The article appeared in the May-June 2012 issue of Spa Mantra and can be read on the website as well.

Leftovers

(Image: feministing.com)

He undresses me. He turns off the lights. In bed, he takes me in his arms and I close my eyes. But I have not been able to close my eyes, and shut it all out. You travel the years, the darkness, and are there. Always there. I see you so clearly, it’s frightening. I don’t think I saw you then like I do you now. At the end of every day, when I lie in bed - alone sometimes, sometimes not - you are there. Hijacking my present, hijacking my all. You left long ago, but you never left, did you?

Because the other morning, when I turned away from the mirror, I saw a flash of red in my reflection. How did that happen, when I removed every shade of that colour from my life after you left? Because a few moons ago, I remember hearing footsteps climbing outside, in the corridor, your characteristic drag, that little tap against the wall with your fingers. Rat-a-tat-tat. Because just yesterday, I opened my cupboard and caught a strong whiff of your cologne. You never left, did you?

I catch myself snapping at my lover because he is not you. Then I bite my lip, and fake affection. He has no clue. He does not know of the strings attached. Strings so long, they have years for yards. Hooked to the nape of my neck, the small of my back, heck, my heart even, these strings traverse distances unknown and place their ends into your hands. You perhaps do not know. But you play me still, like you did in those days and nights of dirty love. I laugh thinking how you left, but never really did. My lover stops. He senses something odd - like a sheet of glass between our bodies. But he cannot see it. He never will.

So why leave at all if you had to continue haunting me? If you had to flash through my mind seconds before he loses himself in me? If you linger on, like yesterday’s perfume, in the crinkle of my eye, the lines on my palm? Why do you linger, half here, half wherever it is that you have gone to, your life at a standstill and my life...? Hanging on by threads that look like they are about to snap but they will not, they will not. They have frozen over, delicate, fragile beyond any bond ever formed, but frayed over time in the glare of your going.

He kisses my mouth, seeking my tongue, but the taste of your being interferes. I respond, but haltingly, reminding myself this is him, this is not you. He runs his fingers through my hair, down my back and my legs, but my pleasure is marred by the memory of your fingers. I respond, but haltingly, reminding myself this is him, this is not you. Not you. My love notes are not entirely his either. Words meant for you keep slipping in, and I crumple sheet after sheet. How you still punctuate the story of my life.

He can sense so much amiss. I feel terrible for him on days when I am alone. I feel terrible when I see his naivete, when I hear him tell his friends I am not easy to ‘get’. When I slip in and slip out, to him it is mystery. Mysterious. It fascinates him. He tells his friends I am not ‘that into him’. He is drawn to this, this lack of the real me, this lack of a total presence of me. Like a moth to fire, he does not see it is going to suck the life marrow out of him one day. But he can sense so much amiss. I see it flit across his face when I smother your name on my tongue before it escapes my lips. I see it reflect on his brow when I jerk his fingers away when he tries to find mine, almost as if a stranger touched me.

He turns away, sulking, his pride hurt. But his manhood won’t comply. I see his body has gotten used to mine, his heart to my love (or pity or sympathy). I take his hand to apologise without words, and can’t help but see how his fingers are nothing like yours. I’ve never quite gotten used to his stubby, awkward fingers. Fingers that don’t know what they are doing, where they are headed. I remember your hands, those beautiful, confident hands, even as I hold his, and juggle three lives. He is fast appeased, his eagerness most apparent. He begins to make love to me again, hungrily. I recognise this hunger. This isn’t much unlike what I felt for you. Not at all unlike what I still feel for you.

And so I wonder, sometimes, if that is why you left me. Was I too eager? Too hungry for you? Did I yearn too much? Did I hold on too much? Did I show you how vulnerable I was with you, how much I needed you, not just to love me, not just to make love to me, not just to tell me that you found me breathtakingly beautiful, but to be that tower of light to a ship lost on sea? Did I cling too much? Did I smother you and scare you away? And this, now, this odd, frighteningly clear presence of you that I have around me night and day, is it just me? Is it the idea of you that I am projecting on to every present moment I have? Am I killing my now because I want to hold on so badly to our yesterday?

Questions there are no answers to. It is like having to lay in bed with a million demons. Where are you now, I know not. Why you left without a word, I know not. What we could have been, I know not. Yet I must live in the shadow of your presence, wear it like my skin, breathe your memories like my life depended on it. I must love another (for who can live without love?), knowing it will never be the same, no man will be you, no passion so perfect. I let him nibble my ear, gush love-laden streams into them, and I find myself laughing. I am not pretending either. Pleased, he leaves. But I hear your laughter too, calling me a sentimental idiot like you did. I resign myself to him, and to you. Strange, aching threesomes. Perhaps I will learn to live this way...

But perhaps, I will not survive this breach. This rip in loyalty, this splitting of my spirit into two. Perhaps, I will not survive this choice, while I stand here now, on this ledge, looking down into this dark, grey abyss. Perhaps, in the mangled remains of my physical form, he will see that crack too and he will understand why I never seemed to possess my own body. Minutes away from now, I will not have to make this choice anymore. Minutes away from now, I will have forgotten my name, your name, his name. I will have forgotten these lines as I teeter on this edge, between life and death. This rush of wind and the quiet it brings is liberating. The numbness on my skin will be a relief from the memory of your fingers on my flesh. Finally. Finally, my eyes shall be able to shut it all out.

(Co-written with Reema Prasanna @ScrollsNInk)

Living

(Image source: Seismic_2000's Flickriver stream)

Someone has died.

Someone I know not from too long ago, died. He was a colleague from my ex-ex-workplace, and he died last evening. Young, boisterous, beer-guzzling, kebab-loving AK died of some terrible kind of stomach infection. I find out on Facebook this morning. I am shocked, sad, upset. I leave a customary RIP message on that post made by my ex-ex-boss. But because I am on Facebook, and I have 10 minutes before getting ready for office, I proceed to 'Like' some posts and pictures of other friends. Someone's even had a baby. "Congrats!" I say.

But someone has died.

A mother's son. I am given to tears. No parent should have to live through the death of their offspring. I am trying to remember if he had a girlfriend. I am wondering about crushed dreams. I am also looking at the clock and cursing myself. I could be late. I hate getting late. I run into the shower, and I am thinking to myself how uncertain life is, and how hot the water is. I turn off the geyser. The cold water feels nice on my sweat-dried, worked-out skin. I am reminded of the ritual of bathing dead bodies before clothing them in finery for their last journey. I am also taking mental notes about buying soap on my way back home from work. I like Mysore Sandal Soap.

But someone has died.

AK won't need soap again, or the money to buy soap. He won't need to worry about getting to work on time, or working at all. He won't need to stand in front of the cupboard and decide what to wear. But he must have done it all a week ago, perhaps a month (I don't know how long he was ill). How inconsequential all of it seems now. But the pink skirt is what I choose. It's not ironed, but it's okay; people will be looking at my freshly-waxed legs anyway. Irreverently, 'Yai re, yai re, zor lagake nache re' pops into my head. It is perhaps the skirt that invoked the image of Urmila swaying to music. I brush it off, chastising myself. I wonder at the measure the human mind takes to cope with bad news/grief/disorder. Anything to maintain the semblance of the normal. I wear my Titan Raga watch. It has been nicely fixed now. The glass face was broken. I also wear some dangly earrings - with a heart and a star on it. Must scoot. I wonder about the wisdom of wearing heels today.

But someone has died.

Someone who, just like me, cared about how he looked. He and I won the "Best Dressed Employees" that year on Diwali. He made the effort to adorn his body. But he doesn't have a body anymore. Taken away just like that. With something as 'lame' as a stomach infection. Why, I get those all the time. This doesn't seem real... ("R.K. Studio", I tell the rickshaw wala. These darned shoes are still giving me shoe bites)... Until last week, a young person dying of a heart attack seemed unreal. A junior from college. And until three weeks before that a young person, a college mate, committing suicide seemed so. News-y things happening to people I once shared spaces with. My world has three less familiar faces. These faces didn't mean much while they were living, but now that they are gone, the gap is noticeable. Not for long, though. Perhaps this is what it feels like when a tooth is extracted. You stop noticing it after some days. These guys here, drinking chai and smoking cigarettes, sending admiring glances my way as I walk up the steps of the office building, won't miss me if I stopped coming to office; if I stopped existing. For now, they make my effort to match my lipstick with my outfit seem worth it. I am drifting. I am going about my life, my work, as I would everyday. I am on Twitter, on excel spreads and word documents, on fashion websites and messengers, and good old Facebook, where a picture of AK, along with a condolence post by other ex-ex-colleagues remind me that     

someone has died.   

I am thinking people become pictures so easily. Like a little hiccup in our routines. Tomorrow, the lame jokes will start. But that's the thing about being alive. About worrying about groceries, and EMIs, an old crush, a new love, illnesses, weight loss, familiar sex, good music, favourite movies, pride, regret, old friends, new friends, and so much more. It is also about getting bugged with interns' questions, as I am now, about getting irritated with the excessive sugar in the watery coffee that this peon makes, about feeling elated at having helped change people's course of life, about sleeplessness that comes when your young children are young, or old. I think I am beginning to shed the romantic notions of dying young. For the first time, I feel greedy about living. There are so many people to live for, and so much in life to celebrate, although

someone has died.   

  

Ties that bind

(I am quite vocal about my dislike of parenthood, so I surprised myself when I found my answer to this question.) My most significant, memory-laden gushingly sentimental object is a little blue plastic clip.

It's no ordinary plastic clip. The little blue clip is an umbilical cord clip. The one they used at the hospital to stop blood from oozing out from my firstborn's body once they cut him off from me, moments after his body became separate from mine, moments after he became his own person. The remnant umbilical cord dried out and fell off along with the clip a few days later, but I've kept the clip, as I will for the rest of my days.

The clip to me is a symbol of letting go. The first of the many heartbreaking times in my life when I will have to let go of my son. It is my first lesson in holding back. So many things and people and situations will claim his share - even pain. And I will have to bite my lip, root my feet, and fetter my heart using all my might to hold myself back; hold myself back from protecting him or showing my love. Love unlike anything I've experienced before. A love so powerful that sometimes it threatens to take over my existence. The most selfless love there can be. A love that can perhaps be born only of giving birth. And a love that is returned by him in all its earnestness - at least for now.

But I know there will come a time when the river of his love will have run its course, thinning down perhaps to a tiny trickle, divided into many streams for many people. There will be a time when I will no more be the woman of his life, the holder of his hand. There will perhaps be a time when he, full of dreams of a new life, goes away.  But I will know, holding the little blue plastic clip in my hand, that he can never be too far. An umbilical cord is never really cut.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

@MentalExotica, as she is known on Twitter has been asking people this pertinent question recently: “What is the most significant, memory-laden, gushingly sentimental object currently in your possession?” – Andrew Kaufman. The answers she is collecting in her precious project blog. This post is my partial answer to that question.

The Devotion of Suspect X by Keigo Higashino: Impressions

I stopped reading thrillers some years ago, mostly because I don't walk away with anything after the story has ended. Perhaps I've not chanced upon good thrillers, perhaps all thrillers are the way I think they are. The joy of style apart, very few thrillers leave you with bits of themselves after you've put the book down. But when I happened to spot The Devotion of Suspect X by Keigo Higashino on Blogadda as part of their book review program, I decided to pick it up for three reasons: one, they were giving away 100 copies; two, I was curious about non-Murakami Japanese literature; and three, 'I haven't read anything light in a while, and this thing has sold 2 million copies, so why not?' So I read it and as usual, I'm empty-handed at the end of it.

The Devotion of Suspect X is not a bad book. The language is crisp, the plot racy. I enjoyed it while it lasted, like one would enjoy drunken sex perhaps. But if you asked me what the author's name was after three days, I wouldn't remember it (if you know what I mean). Higashino is a good writer as mystery/thriller/crime writers go. If The Times review is to be believed, he is even like Stieg Larsson (not that I knew who Larsson was before I Googled him). His characters are well-sketched, his plot well-defined, and his ending, twisty. 

But how the story concluded I have a problem with. 'Contrived' is the word I'd use to describe it. I also have a problem with the title of the book. The devotion part I can understand, but who the heck is suspect X? I know who it refers to after having read the book, but why the author chose to call the person Suspect X on the cover when there's not even half a mention in the whole book is beyond me. Another thing that I didn’t appreciate about this book, like many other books written in this manner, is that there is no whodunit. The reader is made privy to the murder and the murderer right in the beginning, and all through the plot, one can’t help but feel that the wild goose chase is for nothing. However, it is the twist in the tale that Higashino wins all his points for. Because I cannot say anything about the twist without betraying the plot, I won’t.

The plot revolves around three principal characters – the beautiful, middle-aged Yasuko, her neighbour, Ishigami, the quiet genius of a Maths teacher and Yukawa, a physicist doubling up as a sleuth. Yasuko’s vulnerability as a single mother, Ishigami’s unruffled surface, and Yukawa’s cunning are all brought out beautifully. The author captures well the chemistry between these characters, and well as the other secondary ones. He keeps the interactions real and the setting vivid, enabling the reader to visualize the story as it flows. Even though I am not a fan of this genre, I can easily say that for those who love thrillers, The Devotion of Suspect X is definitely worth a read.  

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sign up for the Book Review Program for Indian Bloggers. and get free books! Participate now!

Trividha

Dusk had started its greedy journey of claiming real estate across the lands. Like a witch’s sinewy hands shadows grew, consuming a chunk of grass here, some trees there. Soon the land would be flooded with darkness. A darkness that perhaps no new sun would be able to erase again completely. The skies bore a hint of melancholy as she waited, patiently, for their arrival. But within her, behind the veils of reasons, a storm awaited.

The air was thick with incense. An everyday ritual in the palace, whenever the sun took a graceful exit. But that particular day she felt as if the smoke would snake across the gleaming floors, crawl up around her like an innocent creeper and choke the remaining life out of her. Such had been the impact of the news she had received. She could no longer see the poetry of the colours that had always been her one resort of solace. No more would the fragrance of flowers bring her peace. Not that day would the arrival of her heart’s beloved master and emperor, Arjuna, make her rush to the threshold to greet him into her arms. Everything was whirlpooling into a blank. A void. And she had started to ask questions that she feared she already knew the answers to.

He mused at the lightness and heaviness of the air. The breeze brushed past his arm as playfully as ever, fragrant like the new bride by his side, yet it was laced with a gloom, a cold, that he knew the palatial air would be like. He absently placed his arms around that warm nubile body as they walked, his steps light with anticipation, and heavy with guilt. Subhadra, that beautiful creature made of misty mornings, seemed to be floating alongside him. So different she was from Draupadi - that woman of flaming beauty. Yet how similar they were in their love for him. He sighed, his broad shoulders drooping under the weight of what was to be. “I should learn to live with paradoxes now,” he thought to himself. Even as a gale began to rise from the pit of his stomach, he wondered what was going through Subhadra’s mind, and let the chariot soar.  

She repeated her name in her own head, over and over. Subhadra, Subhadra. Auspicious. Blessed. Her whole life had brought her to this one juncture where she was on the brink of questioning why she was here. What was she learning? She felt Arjuna’s body radiating guilt and a measure of worry as they swooped towards Indraprastha in the air-borne chariot. She was reminded of a child that had to go home after a day of rule-breaking to a waiting mother, ready to be chastised. It almost made her smile. Auspicious? Who could ever tell what Krishna had planned for her, for Arjuna, for Draupadi? But she had learnt one thing from all her time with this flute-player that everybody seemed to adore; everything you perceive is the tip of the iceberg. As they stepped out of the chariot and walked up the palace stairway, she remembered that it was she who had ridden the chariot. She had made Arjuna elope with her, albeit on Krishna’s instructions. She knew she could shield Arjuna. She also knew she would never have to do that until Krishna called for it.

The chambermaid came in and announced that the valiant Pandava had arrived with his new bride. Without batting an eyelid, Draupadi nodded her head in acknowledgement. It was so mechanical and instant that it was almost as if she had heard the maid’s voice inside her head. “Here he comes now” she told herself and began walking towards the main door. “How do I make him see what burns inside me?” she wondered, as her legs, unwillingly, dragged her towards him. “What misses the great Gandiva-bearing Pandava’s eyes? Nothing.” she reminded herself and approached the giant gold embroidered doors that somehow seemed taller than usual. Heavier and more merciless than what she had of them in memory. Every inch of her body was aflame with feelings that had been so alien to her. But she was no stranger to fire. It was her home, after all. So she awaited the pristine moment that would convert this raging wildfire inside her into a placid lamp.

The first thing she spotted was just Arjuna. For a fleeting moment all the rage within her disappeared. Could it be true? Was it really just him who stood there outside the door? Had he abandoned the idea of crushing her tender heart and decided to smother it with more love instead? A droplet of happiness pushed itself out of her eyes as these thoughts made home within her. But as she blinked in anticipation, the mist grew thin. And her smile, shaped like the beautiful Gandiva, was cruelly broken. Standing next to her Arjuna was the new girl. Krishna’s sister and the new stakeholder of her beloved’s heart. Subhadra. The tears in her eyes froze from the heat that now surged through her, turning them from transparent pearls to translucent sparks. Red with reason. Red like the tongue of a flame.

Arjuna froze too. Draupadi’s eyes locked into his, a million images flashed through his head. He remembered the Swayamwara, and Draupadi’s eyes when she first saw him there - she had smiled a bashful yet knowing smile. She knew that no one but him could win the contest. It was designed for the archer supreme. He remembered her victorious eyes again, when he stood before her, neck bent to wear the varmala, past all his contenders. Her eyes full of dreams when they walked together towards the Pandavas’ kutir in the forest. Her confused eyes when Kunti and Yudhishtir discussed dividing her into five parts. Her hurt, angry eyes, when they made the biggest decision of her life. Nobody had asked her then. Nobody had asked her now. She had acquiesced then to not giving all of herself to Arjuna. But would she agree now to not having Arjuna all to herself? Would she agree to a painful splitting again? He couldn’t tell.

All Arjuna saw were proud, angry tears, that streaked Draupadi’s fiery beauty. The tears singed him. How would he ever explain why Subhadra was here at her door, claiming to be another wife to him? How would he explain that his love for Draupadi hadn’t died, but a new love for Subhadra had been born? He summoned his voice with great difficulty. Words came forth from his throat like arrows, hurting his mouth, his head, his entire being. “I come to ask of you again today, to share what you hold dear. Would you, my love, give up a little of me?” His sigh melted into Subhadra’s - two united breaths. The first words had been uttered. They didn't know if it would annihilate them or embrace them - but at least the floodgates had been opened.

The wind from Arjuna’s and Subhadra’s sighs amplified the already roaring firestorm inside Draupadi. She collected herself, inhaled deep, and looking at Subhadra’s downcast eyes, said in a clear distinct voice  “Greetings, O great son of Pandu. Would you be so kind as to also tell me why this is being asked of me?”

Subhadra put a restraining arm on Arjuna. She had sensed his lips part, ready with a reply but she had also seen Draupadi’s eyes boring into hers. She knew it was a question thrown at her. She could see that Draupadi, this glorious, powerful creature literally born of fire, had faced betrayal before from Arjuna. She hardly expected an answer from him. But a woman, a woman just like her in so many ways, how could she do this to her? There were a thousand questions in Draupadi’s fiery glare but Subhadra was protected. She looked into those red eyes, gently tilted her head and noticed something. She was home. There was Krishna everywhere. There were his symbols strewn across Indraprastha and in this moment, when those should be least of her concerns, Subhadra’s heart leapt in joy.

Peacocks strolled languorously in the sweeping gardens surrounding Indraprastha. She heard the gentle note of a flute playing somewhere far away. Draupadi was exactly how Krishna had described. In that one moment, she knew she was meeting a part of her own soul; a lover of Krishna, no different from who she was. Arjuna’s first queen, no different from who she was. “You don’t have to,” she whispered, glancing at Draupadi’s red-lined feet. “Krishna sends me.” A tear drop rolled down her eye as she uttered her only truth.

For a brief moment Draupadi’s fury seemed to find a sense of calm. Such a magical concoction lay in Krishna’s mere mention. In Subhadra’s words she could almost hear Krishna’s melodious voice. She relented, briefly. And in that brief instance she realised how tender Subhadra really was. Krishna’s name in the conversation had started to kill the fires. But it wasn’t comforting. The sting of desperation resumed with renewed energies when her gaze shifted to Arjuna, standing like a rock, next to the new girl.

“Did Krishna just send this new gift to Indraprastha? Or did he also send some arrow-tipped words with the great Arjuna? Why do I not see that quiver strapped to his person? What words will you choose, O famous Pandu putra,  to explain this truth to me?” Draupadi said, without mincing her words, aiming them straight at Arjuna’s bosom.

“How do I say this, Panchali?” Arjuna began. “ How do I begin to mirror what churns beneath my skin? How do I explain the motivations of Keshava, which my actions have fructified?”

“He, who is sarathi to me, sakha to you, and bhrata to Subhadra has brought us together, like three flowers bound with one string. While it was Madhava who prompted me, Subhadra who whisked me away, it was I who has chosen to love and be loved back. Yet, dear Draupadi, I love you no less. While it was in the soil of your heart that my love first took root, I cannot now thrive without the water of Subhadra’s affections. And the sunlight of Dwarkadhish’s blessing is indispensible for all of us. You have been, and remain, my first love. In the name of that love, I implore you, in the name of our rashtra, I implore you to accept Subhadra. Accept her because it is Krishna’s will, accept her because it is my doing, accept her because it will make our state stronger. Accept her as you will partake in all of my karmas as my ardhangini. Accept her as your sister. All Subhadra seeks is a little place by your side, our side,” he said, turning towards his new bride.

Draupadi looked away. Krishna, it occurred to her, had indeed sent well-sharpened arrows with Arjuna. Each one of them made their mark on her hurting heart. With each new pierce the grief and rage in the pit of her stomach only worsened. Her mind was filled with memories.

“Acceptance...,”she said slowly. “You have chosen your words wisely, O valiant one. Many moons ago, was it not this same request for acceptance that gave me more than the man I had chosen at my Swayamwara? Was it not the same venom of acceptance I had been made to forcefully consume in the name of dharma, in the name of rashtra, in the name of the betterment of all humanity? What guile had been used against me back then to accept five husbands instead of one? How strategically was I implored, time and again, to consume within me the flames of someone else’s decisions? A land that was supposed to be your empire, a haven that would flourish with your monarchy, a golden oasis of nectar that would extinguish the flames of my passion, had to accept the hands of four more men to rule it. Yes, I accepted. I accepted relinquishing you for four years at end. I accepted standing equally with your shadow wherever you went. I accepted the tiny piece of attention I got from your war riddled lifetime. I accepted them all Partha. But the only gushing waterfall in the dense rainforest of my little heart. That one small stone of pleasure on which I sit today along with you in my arms....”

She turned now to face Subhadra.

“...is being taken away from me. That singular tree I sit under. Krishna’s truth, I must admit...” Draupadi continued as the ghosts from her days bygone began choking her voice. “...is not cutting down that tree Gandeevi. It is killing that tree’s only existent, life-giving, pleasant shadow. And what is a tree without a shadow? That, I cannot accept, O Dhananjaya...” she said looking expectantly into her beloved’s eyes.

“Do not accept it, then," said Subhadra. You are well within your rights to send me back. You are my king’s first queen. He first found love in your eyes, in your embrace. The love of an equal, the love of a woman, he found it first in your words and your silences. And I? I am but a pawn in this story of life. While I have loved your Arjuna more than I have ever loved any man, I harbour no illusions about what position I hold in his life, and in your life with him. I know why Krishna chose to name me Subhadra. I know I am being used. But that also tells me that I am useful. I do not know what Madhava plans. I am blessed with only human eyes and a human intellect and it is not for me to show you what lies beyond the horizon. I can only tell you that I place my unflinching faith in Govinda, in his plans, no matter how dark the clouds loom over the horizon.

“So send me back. But know this, Panchali, that the responsibility of refuting Krishna’s word rests heavy on your already-laden shoulders. Know this, O Krishnaa, that you make Krishna who he is. To refute his word is to go against your own grain. Remember. And I shall go in peace.”

Arjuna looked distraught. Tearing in the middle, fraught with pain. He looked at Subhadra, in awe of her stand. Yes, she was a woman who could steer destinies as well as she could steer chariots. She was, after all, Parthasarathi’s sister. Then he looked at Draupadi, a woman cast in embers, flaming with a passion of love and defiance, teetering on the edge of a decision.  

Draupadi smiled. Not at what had been said by the new love in Arjuna’s life but at the familiarity of the situation. She recalled the words of her father, the great king Drupada, back when she was just a child. On an evening not too unlike the one that day, the aged king had made little Draupadi sit on his lap and told her the magical story of her birth. He had spoken of sacred fires, as tall as mount Meru itself, that had roared relentlessly for several days as many renowned sages had prayed to the heavens to grant the king a gift. “The gift,” Drupada had whispered in the little girl’s anxious ears “was wrapped in gold, yellow and red. It was made of fire. It was as if Lord Agni himself had walked into my humble home holding this beautiful little bundle of unbridled bliss. A little girl born of fire. A little soul that had the command of turning empires to dust with its fury and also the gentleness of giving warmth to shivering mortals.” The girl, amused at this comparison to fire, had laughed out loud. “Yes..” the king had added. “In time, you will see my little fire flower, that there will gather skies above your head that will need you to choose. What kind of fire will you unleash? Will you burn down castles of ambitions? Or will you set afire a million hopes?”

A tear rolled down Draupadi’s cheek. Much like the one Subhadra had let out a few moments ago while releasing her truth. This was Draupadi’s truth now. Her lifetime of truths wrapped in various boxes of acceptance from different corners of the universe. Her dark exterior had, much like the shadows cast by the Parijata tree, absorbed all the heat the world gifted her with. She recalled Arjuna’s look of surprise and admiration back at the Swayamwara at having spotted her singular beauty. But she wondered if he knew how many rabid energies had penetrated her to make her glow from the inside. Today, under the skies as dark as her, Draupadi was being asked the same question her father had asked her. What will she be? The generous flame that consumes everything it is presented with? Or the uncontrollable hurricane of anger that spares no one, vaporizes anything that comes its way?.

“Krishnaa exists because of Krishna...” she finally managed to mouth. “Had it not been for the immortal hands of Keshava, the many mortals who have ruled Draupadi’s heart would have extinguished her long ago.”

She looked at Subhadra. It was true what she had heard of her. Just like her brother, she had been born with the gift of words. But how different she was from him too. Unlike him, who chose his words to show the way ahead, her words seemed aimed to herald the truth of today. This moment. This heartbeat.

Subhadra stepped carefully over the threshold and approached Draupadi. Draupadi stood, barely balancing herself on her two feet, almost in a daze. Subhadra covered the last few steps towards Draupadi in a run and clasped her arms around her. “I know. I stoke no fire. I am not water. I will never put you out. I am Krishna too. And I will hold this earth beneath your feet. Forever and beyond,” she whispered. Words that passed only between her and Panchali. Draupadi felt frail in that one moment, like embers about to die out and Subhadra knew it was her job to fan them to keep them going. There was a long journey ahead. This life had hardly begun.

Draupadi’s fury came out as tears. Much like the waterfall in her mind’s forest, this was generous too. Much like the shadow of her singular tree, this was greedy too. Greedy not just for claiming Arjuna’s sole rights to her heart, but greedy for this new vision of Krishna to, hopefully, make the forest fire in her become a lamp that would brighten the dark days strewn like fallen flowers ahead. She held on to Subhadra.

Subhadra held one hand out behind her. They would never be complete without Arjuna. Arjuna held it fast.

In that one moment a confluence was created. The life forces of three strong streams merging into one. The barriers breaking between the elements of fire, water and earth and forming one divine. Arjuna saw Draupadi melt, forging a bond between her and Subhadra, forming one Prakriti with two faces, to accompany him, the Purusha, into the future. “Paradoxes,” he mused, “exist only as long as we fail to perceive the larger, divine picture.”

By accepting duality, we understand the presence of the One. It is this One that may sometimes play life’s sweet music on the banks of the Yamuna, and sometimes send life’s toughest choices in the way He sent a Draupadi, a Subhadra, an Arjuna, a Draupadi and a Subhadra, an Arjuna.

(Co-authored with @Shakwrites and @ScrollsNInk)

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Leela struck some deep chords, not just within me and Reema, but also in some others who read us. One such person was our mutual Twitter friend Shakri, who expressed interest in doing another collaborative project on a mythological subject with us. We were only delighted to agree, and after some deliberation agreed to write a fictional piece based on the Mahabharata on the Draupadi-Arjuna-Subhadra situation. And we did. We picked one character each by drawing lots and put together a spontaneous piece that has taken the form of Trividha. I will not reveal who wrote what. If it seems seamless, the purpose was achieved.

Leela

(Image: oilpaintingsonline.com)

I hear you often. The ripple of a breeze around my knees. The soft whoosh of the wind blowing through my house. Leaves raining down on me while I walk promenades when it isn’t even autumn. I hear you often.

I am sure you do. Because I speak in so many voices. How silly of people to assume one has but a pair of ears and one voice. There are thousands, I say. Millions even. Because when I have to reach out to you, I am heart, I am earth, I am wind, I am fire, I am me, I am you. I am a hundred lovers there were, I am a hundred lovers that will be.

So what sense lies in missing you, then? I am enveloped in your presence. It wraps me in a hundred layers that transcend even my body. You go where I go. Where is the pining? Where are the tears? They call longing ‘Radha’. What if it means ‘Krishna’? A synonym, dressed in a different colour? How would they ever know?

You are right. They would never know. They can never see the pain that stays hidden beneath my smile. They would never understand that what is Radha, is Krishna and what is Krishna, Radha. They would never fathom the agony of a soul split in two, of the burden of wearing two kayas. That is the pain, dear Radhika. That is the missing. It is that weary feeling of being lost, torn.

Then why split in the first place? Why start this leela? Is it not enough to remain one? This entertainment, this evolution, why? You erase my memory with every birth. I have to remember everything, all over again. I have to remember that that dull ache in my bones every night as I lie down to sleep, is the weight of not remembering. Of having to remember, excruciatingly, that every element breathes your name to me. Why start this leela?

There is dharma, Madhava-sangini, the need to fulfill duties, to repay the debts of karma, to heal what is broken. But that is a story for another day, priye. Another knife that slices through our union is desire. My desire. The desire to see you searching for me. The pleasure of seeing you find me. The ecstasy of becoming one again. Transcendental as the joy of eternal unity is, desire is undead. It rises, like a ripe seed beneath frosty earth, when spring beckons.

And in that little act, you inflict two wounds on me. All at once. You split into two, you and me. And then you go away too, leaving me waiting, turning into ‘Radha’, the ‘Radha’ of longing, of tearing, waiting by the Jamuna. Not the ‘Radha’ that means Krishna. I have turned into every lover’s quoted example. I have become the pain from a phantom wound. I am you and all at once, I am not you. I no longer see my own reflection in the dark waters of the river you have left me by. I see you.

Ah, dearest Vrindavana Viharini, how easily you fall prey to my leela. How ready you are to see what I show you. How unquestioningly you believe what you see. But without you and your unconditional acceptance of this plot, my sundari, this play wouldn’t be as beautiful. Whether it is I & you, Shiva & Parvati, or any man & woman, Purush and Prakriti must constantly engage and disengage from passion play. Nothing can break the cyclical nature of existence. We must break and mend, part and unite, cry and laugh for eternity. For how will we belong, without tasting over and over the salt of the other’s tears, and the madhurya ras of the other’s embrace?

So there will be no end, you say? No final closure. No final relief. No final oneness. Just this eternal ekta and dvandva, this constant chase must continue. If there is no other way for Prakriti and Purusha to engage and disengage, then what remains of this tarka and vitarka? Nothing. Nil, shunya. There is tremendous rest in this shunya. I am that when I am not with you. I am that when I am with you. And I am that in between too. An entire universe, not of minds floating inside different bodies, but of bodies floating inside a singular mind.

You know now, dear Gandharvika, that you and I are one, even when we are not. You know why you hear me often. Why I am like the ripple of a breeze around your knees; like the soft whoosh of wind blowing through your house; like leaves raining down on you when you walk the promenades when it’s not even autumn. You hear me often, you know, because I am the song of your heart.

(Co written with Reema Prasanna @ScrollsNInk)

Mixed media on paper (Click on image to enlarge)

Aphrodite

Away