ConcentricCircle's spot

This was my second 10-day course of Vipassana (which means seeing reality as it is). I had been to Dhamma Arunachala in Tiruvannamalai a couple of times for short courses and liked the place, so I decided to do this 10-day course there. This time, I expected it to be different because I went as a sevika (to serve). Dhamma Arunachala is set in the remote village of Perumbakkam, about 20 km away from the Tiruvannamalai bus stand. Accessibility is difficult but not impossible. This distance from the city is what gives the place its raw, unmanicured beauty. Surrounded by fields, the centre itself is set amidst a dense overgrowth of trees. Arriving there on Day 0, I was ready to immerse myself completely in the experience and unplug from the world. After helping out at the registration desk and settling everyone into their rooms, I met my own roommate, a lady from Bangalore. Unfortunately, she took ill and had to leave the next morning. So, of the three sevikas, only two remained—me and ano...

Only four letters, one syllable, red in colour— so primal, so pristine to describe what you mean to me. A pinched circle that makes everything whole in the vast expanse of preserved distance. A symbol of trust, of lasting comfort, of words meant yet unspoken. Held to a standard that rises above us— solid yet gentle, strong yet flexible. I ask nothing more and give nothing less. Like every breath you take: necessary, yet unnoticed.

  One day you wake up and tell me, nonchalantly, that you were never faithful. What am I supposed to do? How do I sit with that? And why now, I ask, after all these years of weaving dreams and painstakingly making them real— as if the strength in that woven fabric would catch my fall in this new knowledge of losing everything. Unfettered, you walk out and on your way take the little dignity I had left. Snapping my string— a kite untethered, a ship unmoored. My trust in love, in the sacrifices I made, burns in the fire of betrayal. How do I begin to pick up the pieces and regain faith— if not in love, then at least in a patched-up me.

She looks at me with black liquid eyes. Sniffing, wagging her miserable stump of a tail, she closely follows my every movement. She is scrawny, with one of her hind legs twisted out of shape and one front leg broken. She has a lean, rat-like face with black and brown skin and hardly any fur on her body. On cold and wet monsoon mornings, she shivers and shakes as she tries to stand up. I remove my slippers by the shoe rack, but my eyes are fixed on her. Some days, when I have a supply of biscuits, I beckon to her. A slight nod of my head or a sign with my eyes, and she understands. She struggles to rise from her curled up position. A light shines in her eyes as she senses that there is something to eat. She walks a couple of steps, tentatively, haltingly. She gauges whether what I have to offer is worth the effort. I drop a couple of milk biscuits on the floor. She comes closer, sniffs at them. On some days, she sticks out her tongue and tries to gather them up into her mout...