How I lost an arm and got stranded on an island…

When I’m not resorting to sensational, misleading headlines to get more blog readers, I’m often somewhere in the world, sharing the practice of kirtan.

Last weekend was no exception. My Dad and I were invited to come and lead a kirtan retreat on the beautiful, 22 acre island called Inisrath in Northern Ireland. The island is home to an old Victorian mansion that was converted into a Krishna temple in the 1980s, and is also now a regular venue for retreats, run by Tim and the rest of the Lake Isle retreats team.

We left London on Friday – me without my violin. That’s where the losing an arm part comes in. I haven’t travelled without it for a good few years, but thanks to Ryanair, who are one of the only airlines in the world that require you to buy an extra seat for a small musical instrument, I left it gently weeping at home. After arriving at our destination and taking a barge over to the island, we spent the next couple of days introducing the practice of meditation, chanting and sacred music to a lively group of Irish locals. Though most of them had never experienced it before, they took part with gusto in breathing exercises, singing, dancing, trying out instruments and exploring the basics of bhakti yoga philosophy.

Father Harrison, on the barge along with the daily flower run for the temple worship.

Onto the island…

I’ve heard the Irish know how to have fun, and as this lot belted out ‘Govinda Jaya Jaya’ and ‘Hare Krishna’ at the top of their lungs, before dancing around the room, I realised it was true.

It was fun to run it with my Dad too. We haven’t done much as a team, and I was surprised to find we got a good flow going together – passing back and forth the speaking and leading of the chanting sessions.

If you’d like to find out more about Lake Isle Retreats, visit their website here.

Home again – there’s only one way to get back…well, unless you swim.

Fire in the Irish sunset.

Carnatic Music on BBC Radio 3 – World Routes Academy: Hari Sivanesan

I just happened upon this great episode of BBC Radio 3’s World Routes, focusing on Carnatic music, and more specifically, the journey of Hari Sivanesan – a young veena player (and also a friend I haven’t seen in a very long time – hi Hari!) who has been awarded a year’s mentorship with the incredible singer, Aruna Sairam. He talks about his musical journey so far, plays recordings from the BBC archives, gives a great introduction to Carnatic music for beginners and plays a beautiful piece live in studio. Stay tuned as the programme will continue to feature him throughout the year. For more information, see the BBC World Routes blog here. Congratulations Hari!

 

Spring Kirtan!

On Saturday I joined in the annual celebration of Sri Chaitanya’s birth. Known as Gaura Purnima, it marks a momentous day for all practitioners of kirtan and bhakti yoga. Chaitanya may have only been personally present more than 500 years ago in India, but his legacy is vibrant and pulsing with the same energy today. He protested against priests who wanted to keep the chanting of sacred names of God as an exclusive practice within the temple, and brought sacred song to the streets. This caused uproar at the time, but the power of his actions soon overwhelmed any protestors and much of Eastern India, as well as pockets of the West and South fell in love with the practice of kirtan. In this way, different classes, castes and genders were united. My friend Gaura often calls him one of the first non violent social reformists. In honour of his birthday, we paraded down Oxford Street, chanting and dancing, waving flags and handing out sweets. It was all quite jolly. Kirtan continued late into the night, and the next day too.

Yesterday I visited Oxford with my dad for another kirtan with the lovely group there, organised by Keshava. It’s always a treat, and yesterday was no exception. Sun streamed in the windows and we were blessed to have a group of enthusiastic singers, including many who had never attended a kirtan before. One girl came all the way from Manchester just to find out what it was all about! They hold events every month – the next on the 19th April. Please come along if you can – and come early to explore Oxford – it’s a fantastic place. It feels like breathing there makes you more intelligent!

More to come: this coming weekend my dad and I will lead a kirtan retreat in Ireland. It’s happening at a place called Inisrath – a beautiful Victorian house on an island near Co. Fermanagh. There are still a few places left if you feel like booking a last minute ticket. It’s sure to be a great event, run by the Lake Isle retreat team who are well seasoned in offering delicious organic food, alternative therapies as well as spiritual philosophy.

Coming up in London is our next kirtan at Yogabase in Islington on 2nd April. I’ll be there with some wonderful friends and guest singers from 6.30pm onwards. Our recent dates there have been truly enlivening, so if you can make it, please join us.

 

Pulse Magazine Now Online

Pulse magazine is the UK’s only dedicated publication for South Asian dance and music. It’s been running for a good few years and I’ve nearly been subscribing since the beginning. I first read a copy aged eighteen, thrilled to find a magazine that connected me with a wide community of people who shared my interests and discussed and wrote about them in an intelligent, thoughtful way.

Dancer Seeta Patel – photo by Simon Richardson, as published in Pulse

A couple of years ago I started writing for Pulse – mostly reviews as well as recently, my own series of articles on sacred music and the way it interacts with different areas of society. A new website has just been launched where you can now view the latest issue for free. Soon the opportunity for digital subscription will also be created, but for now, enjoy this month’s issue that celebrates the life of Rabindranath Tagore in his 150th year. You can find my article on ‘Sacred Music in the Street’ on page 18.

Voices Across Oceans

I often moan about the way technology influences my life. I remember the days when I didn’t own a mobile phone; when I actually received handwritten letters in the post and when a keyboard was something I played music on. It was kind of nice to not be accessible at every moment – or at least to be up against the expectation that I should be.

Now, after travelling for the past five years on and off, my once fairly small social circle has exploded to include thousands, across continents and timezones. It can be quite overwhelming to stay in touch, or just understand the nature of those relationships, kept alive by Facebook messages and occasional Skype calls.

The other day though, I thanked God for technology. I met a wonderful lady in Melbourne this year – a fellow Hare Krishna who also happens to love Carnatic music. While I was there we shared a happy hour swapping songs and ragas, and she told me how she’d been doing the same with another lady she knows in India. So last Friday morning we all met up on a conference call to have a music lesson – morning in London, afternoon in Coimbatore and evening in Melbourne. It was so enlivening, and unexpectedly easy, given that we couldn’t even see each other (which I know is possible too). We learnt ‘Jamuna Kinare’, a bhajan in Hindi by the Carnatic composer, Swati Thirunal. Below is a version sung by Prince Rama Varma.

Ahh. Sharing music gives me a warm feeling inside. Perhaps I can live with Skype after all.

A Glorious End

Some days remain etched within the mind forever. I think yesterday was one I will never forget.

I’ve only attended a few funerals in my life. None have been for people I was particularly close to, but all were moving in their own way. I’m sure everyone remembers the first time they saw a dead body – that strange twist of fear and morbid fascination and loss. I always felt so uncomfortable at the outpouring of emotion. As a teenager, I felt confused at what I was supposed to do. Should I try and cry, even if I don’t feel it? Would people appreciate it if I try and be lighthearted? Am I supposed to comfort people, or do they want to be left alone?

Yesterday’s ceremony was perhaps one of the most cathartic, moving experiences I’ve ever had. Close to eight hundred people gathered at the North London crematorium to pay last respects. One hundred and fifty crowded the small, sunlit chapel, whilst the remainder watched outside on TV screens. I sat with a few friends in a corner behind the plinth where the coffin would eventually sit. We were there with harmonium, kartals, mridanga, flute and violin to lead the major portion of the ceremony – continuous kirtan. Several family members gave beautiful speeches, glorifying the unique qualities of their father, uncle and brother. They spoke of his generous, unfailingly open heart and his humility. His desire to serve others and his lighthearted, loving nature were celebrated by so many. From my vantage point at the front of the room, I could see heads nodding as they spoke, each a moving testament to the truth of their words. The time line of his life was recited. It almost felt as if we walked through a gallery, examining images and memories, and fragments of a life, mapping his journey up to the present moment. It can be sobering to hear a life summarised. One life seems so short – a fluttering rush of days and months, like a moth falling towards a flame. But even a short life is glorious when lived with integrity and substance.

After speeches the front and back doors were thrown open, the March wind gusting in with the shafts of sunlight. A non stop line of people passed through, holding flower petals which they placed at his feet as a sign of respect. The kirtan began, and the sound carried up to the high ceiling. Watching every person pass, I was captivated by the range of emotions on each face. So many kinds of tears – of love, of pain and loss, of joy. Some were overwhelmed and wept uncontrollably, whilst others looked on his face with a steady gaze and peaceful heart. Children passed, looking dazed or distressed, and teenagers, trying to control emotions they never expected. Old friends, colleagues, saffron clad monks. Perhaps the worst to see were his parents, saying goodbye to a cherished son. They lovingly touched his face and walked away from the coffin with faltering steps. I sat watching, singing and playing my violin – trying to stay present to my task but finding tears streaming down my face at unexpected moments. They dripped down my nose, falling all over my violin. I looked over at my friends to see them crying too. My dear friend sang with her eyes closed, only pausing once in two continuous hours because emotion overwhelmed her.

Despite so many tears, as the ceremony drew closer to the end, an indescribable feeling of joy began to rise within the room. Voices called with such love and focus. The sound was heavenly in a rare way. With an irresistible rise and fall, the mridanga drum picked up tempo, and a few men began to dance. They stood beside the coffin, gazing at their old friend with such love, arms raised, swaying and stepping in time. More joined in and soon almost everyone was standing and moving to the beat – even those looking on from the rear balcony. I wondered if it was disrespectful to dance at a funeral? It certainly seemed incongruous in the white walled, Victorian chapel. But no one cared – in those last moments, all sounds were of loving prayer – every tear stained face decorated with a smile.

Then silence fell, and my Dad recited the final prayers from the ancient Upanishads. ‘Let this temporary body be burnt to ashes, and let the air of life be merged with the totality of air. Now, O my Lord, please remember all my sacrifices, and because You are the ultimate beneficiary, please remember all that I have done for You.’ We repeated the words together, speaking one final prayer that described the glory of kirtan as the garden-like oasis for the weary soul. Then with the press of a button, it was all over. Vacuums were quickly whipped out to clean away the petals and everyone was ushered out.

May we all lead lives rich with love and service, that flower in such a glorious end.

The S Word

Tonight I was sitting next to my mum and a few people commented that we looked ‘exactly like sisters!’ Compliment for her. Yes, I know I’m not getting any younger. Tomorrow marks one more year of being, and I’m surprised at how meaningless it’s starting to feel.

When I was younger I was all into birthdays. Each year had a different theme, from St Patrick’s Day, to murder mystery, to Hawaii. It was fun. But now that I’m officially an old crotchet, I don’t feel much for the passing of another twelve months – except the realisation that there’s no time like the present to become more determined to live my words – put my thoughts into action.

So many experiences this year have brought me to the understanding that I have to surrender. I know – it’s almost a dirty word in today’s society. Surrender is what you do when you get arrested, or when you realise that you’re going to be stuck in traffic, whether you beep the horn twenty times or not. Surrender means relinquishing control. Failing to take charge of life.

Well, not really. At least not from where I’m standing. To me surrender means being satisfied with the fact that I’m not in control. It means acknowledging the divine source of everything in my life, and having faith that there is a higher plan. It means letting go to whatever vision I have of the way things are supposed to be, and listening, watching and learning as they unfold the way they will.

Tomorrow is a birthday for me, but a funeral for my uncle. We step into this life for a few moments, and walk off through the wings after the play ends. It’s so important to make everything inbetween count. Not in a frantic way. Not anxiously watching the years passing, our bodies changing. But with grace, good humour, patience and faith.

I love the way my dear friend Gaura put it in his song, ‘Surrender’. Heartfelt realisation.

 

The Perfect Family

Call the family. Gather friends. Sign papers. Put away bright clothes. Every tradition has its own sequence of events that are set in motion when someone passes away.

In the tradition of bhakti yoga, the first priority is to gather together and sing God’s names. Doing so is part-prayer, part-emotional release, and partly for the benefit of the soul of the departed. It’s an all purpose activity. In a recent kirtan workshop I was helping to run in Australia, I called it the Swiss Army knife of yoga practises. I’m sure it could be put more poetically, but it’s quite true.

So last night, after the morning passing of a dear uncle and member of our temple community, we gathered in the evening to sing. Throughout the day, the news had spread and now hundreds of well-wishers and friends streamed through the temple doors to pay their respects. One of the most touching things was the breadth and diversity of the people that came. For different reasons, groups are usually a bit segregated in our temple community. Over the years, Sundays have been mostly attended by the Gujarati/Indian members of the congregation, whereas a different demographic is represented on other days. But last was one of those rare occasions where everyone you could think of was present – young, old, families and ashram residents, even some faces I hadn’t seen around for years.

In the passing of a loved one, we were united. It was a testament to the breadth of the love he showed, and it brought us together to form what felt like the perfect family. Family doesn’t mean blood or the same last name. The bhakti tradition teaches that we are all the same in essence – and that our ultimate goal – to love God, is the same. In realising this together, sharing our sadness together, praying together, sharing our appreciation for a dear friend and giving each other strength, we felt the closeness of true family. Though it may be too big to fit in a family portrait; it may be more multi-coloured than a Benetton ad; more complex than any family counselor could handle, it felt perfect to me.

Stop The Clocks

Today began with a 4am drive into central London, where a dear friend and uncle was passing away. It was quite unexpected, as these things usually are. We bundled out of the car into the biting March wind, desperately trying to find the main entrance to the hospital. Lights were out, seats empty – reception desks abandoned in the early hours. Unusual things catch your attention in such moments, and I noticed the chorus of birds singing incredibly sweetly just before we reached the sliding doors.

Upstairs in the ICU, close to fifty friends and family had gathered to say a last farewell. Nurses were even threatening to call security as the number swelled and the hallways became packed with clusters of people. I had a couple of minutes to say goodbye – a strange, dreamlike moment amidst the chaos, then back downstairs to wait. It wasn’t long. Death comes fast, especially when you least expect it. According to the culture of bhakti yoga, the most important thing to do in times of happiness or distress is chant the names of God. In doing so we connect with our Divine source, with each other and with our essential nature. So even though it probably turned some heads on a Wednesday morning in the hospital reception, we sung our hearts out. Tears streamed and voices rose, some ragged, some strong and powerful, determined to make this moment count. We sang for the safe passage of our dear friend, we sang to honour him, and we sang because that is what we do.

My Dad and I sat for a while when we got home, reflecting on the reality of death, and the lessons we must learn and learn again, each time we lose another dear one. He remarked that whilst we spend so much of life worrying about our own happiness and satisfaction, what ultimately matters at the end is how much we did for others. These moments, the times we serve, the times we care, nurture, assist and selflessly give, accumulate like the tiny particles of pollen on the leg of a bee. Though they may seem insignificant, it is these tiny, golden specks that collect in life’s jar to become the honey. No one knows when their time will come, but whenever it does, the jar will reveal how much you made a difference in the lives of those around you.

As much as death is a sad occasion, it is a cause for celebration. The person that leaves us also gives a gift – the chance to reexamine who we hold dear and cherish them, the chance to look again at the things we choose to prioritise and most of all, the chance to come together and sing in kirtan – the beating heart of the bhakti tradition.

Two years ago I wrote a little adaptation of the famous W.H. Auden poem – ‘Stop The Clocks’. It is quite melancholy, and often read at funerals, but this version speaks more of the way I see this last farewell.

Vaishnava Farewell

after W.H. Auden

The sun will rise soon, throw off your sleep,

Today we will celebrate, we shall not weep,

Leave your houses as bells resound,

Let the drums and cymbals be heard all around.

Let unseen aeroplanes circle above,

Let them gather to hear our offerings of love

Hang fragrant garlands around each door

Give rice in hand to the young and poor

The shore bears witness as we honour you today,

May our prayers be your ferry as the ocean gives way

You have nothing to fear as you leave this place,

Run now, run to his waiting embrace!

Good Morning Sunshine

I went for a long walk this morning in the unexpected dazzle of spring sunshine. It makes all the difference when every other day dawns under a thick, grey sky. Whenever I walk, I pass lots of different people – the blonde mums walking their kids to school (three steps in front while the nanny juggles two kids and all their schoolbags); men with briefcases; teenage girls deftly texting as they sidestep lampposts and ditches, all without looking up.

I’ve started forcing myself to say good morning to everyone I pass. A friend from Belgium walked with me once and marvelled that English people were so unfriendly. He said that everyone, young and old greets each other in Belgium, even if they cross paths all the time. A little ashamed, I realised that I didn’t often make the effort to acknowledge anyone. Maybe I’m shy, or just lazy, or maybe we’ve all fallen out of the habit.

The gentle art of saying hello seems tied to slower times, or perhaps just more rural settings. One of the opening scenes of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast sees the heroine, Belle, sing a wistful song about how she wants to leave her provincial country life where nothing ever happens, and everyone is in her business. It may not sound much fun, but the entire song is based around her greeting everyone in the village, and I always remember wishing I lived in a town where every morning was full of so many exuberant greetings. There’s something so basically human about wishing a fellow soul ‘good day’ – something that Ebenezer Scrooge also realised after his night of realisations. The scene where he throws open his window and shouts, ‘Good morning!’ at a little boy down below always stuck with me.

Last November I spent the month in the village of Vrindavan, India, where almost no one passes without greeting ‘Radhe Radhe!’ It was a refreshing nudge out of my usual habit – avoiding eye contact, and minding my own business. Though sometimes in the West we guard our personal space, putting in ear phones and practising staring into middle distance, in India, and many other countries, this barrier doesn’t exist. I hope that more and more of us will remember what a wonderful difference it makes to simply look someone in the eye and say ‘good morning’. For now, I’m practising, even if it meant scaring the local teenage postman this morning. He looked back at me, quite bewildered as I continued walking past. Ah well.