In Rugged Rajasthan

In Rugged Rajasthan So, on the appointed day my family and I hopped on to a metre gauge train to Bikaner for me to take up my new posting. Tragically for my family, I was again in an inebriated state and a nuisance at the Sarai Rohilla station from where we boarded. Bikaner is located in the north western part of Rajasthan which has extreme climes. During summers the weather is scorching and sapping, though evenings are generally tolerable. As the sun sinks in the sands of the deserts and shadows lengthen, nights turn very cold touching zero and sub-zero temperatures, especially during winters. The control office (or Railway ops room as per the military personnel) once again came into the news. As the Sr DOM, Bikaner Division, I was to interact with Indian armed forces in a major operation which was quite reminiscent of my tenure at MILRAIL. This was when the temple of Indian democracy, the Parliament of India was attacked by dreaded ultras (LET and JEM) from across the border. It was a crisp and chilly morning of December 13, 2001 in Delhi, when a blood thirsty cell of five armed men attacked the Parliament of India by breaching the security cordon at Gate 12. The five men killed seven security people before being eliminated by the Indian security forces. On 20th December, despite calls from the United States, Russia, and the United Nations to exercise restraint, India mobilised and deployed its troops to Kashmir, Punjab and Rajasthan in what became India’s largest military mobilisation since the 1971 conflict. India codenamed this massive mobilisation as Operation Parakram. Following Operation Parakram, the Railway Board recognised the untiring efforts of Bikaner, Jodhpur, Ferozepur and Alipurduar control offices. These control Offices were awarded with the Member (Traffic), Railway Board Award for seamless movement of military specials (VPs, SPs, ammunition, ordinance material, tanks and those of the air force too). In those trying conditions under the influence of alcohol, I braced up to the challenge and marshalled my troops consisting of all the railway control staff, and other operating staff at stations and terminals who were in turn ably supported by other departments of railways to handle military specials. Today, I recall those wintry weekends of Bikaner, when I hit the bottle after performing a part of my official duties where I was in charge of passenger and freight operations and overseeing the military movement. It was a strange fixation with the drink. I vomited only to drink more. One could call it drinking bulimia. As darkness spread across the deserts of Rajasthan, shadows lengthened in our railway bungalow, I was trying to handle the second bottle of gin. As a routine, it became one and a half bottles of gin on weekdays and over the weekends there were two bottles. This was nothing to trumpet about. I continued to lead or rather exist in a wretched life. Whenever we were invited for lunches or dinners, my wife was absolutely petrified as a drunk and now an evidently boorish and aggressive person accompanied the family. This was the scenario every weekend and holiday. My mind was always desperately pining for that bottle of gin. Why was it Blue Riband Gin? Somehow in the cranny corner of my mind I thought gin did not stink. Gin is euphemistically referred to as a lady’s drink, but the stuff has almost forty per cent alcohol in it. By divine grace the official establishment seemed to tolerate my aberrations. My wife’s patience was now running thin with our constant sparring over things minor to something more vexed. At this juncture my octogenarian grandmother suggested we pay obeisance at Hanuman temple at Salasar and Radhaji’s temple at Merta Road. My grandmother remained a queen all her life with long ears studded with diamonds who advised me to religiously recite Hanuman Chalisa with immense devotion to overcome negative thoughts, combat the demons in my mind and eschew drinking. For once, I listened to some sagacious advice and kept a copy of Hanuman Chalisa and began reading it seriously. Occasionally, the family ventured out to watch Bollywood block busters like Lagan, and a series of Bhagat Singh movies which hit the screen to whip up patriotic hysteria as war clouds once again gathered in the wake of Operation Parakram. While I was smirked and scorned at by my colleagues and by “friends” for compulsive drinking, they were taken aback when Anil Sharma and Tinu Verma (makers of the block buster Gadar) sauntered into my chamber with their customary filmy swagger to work out the logistics of filming the climax scene of the Sunny Deol- Amisha Patel starrer which was shot on Lalgarh – Kolayat section of Bikaner division. Angels who are neatly perched in the Elysian fields treated me and my family kindly despite my alcoholism and the family was to maintain some element of tenderness and togetherness. We were to visit some exotic places and attempt to nurture a bond. The first pit stop was Gajner, which is located on the shores of Lake Gajner and in proximity to the wildlife sanctuary barely thirty kilometres away from Bikaner. This exotic property is built in red sandstone. My wife and children particularly relished the famous Rajasthani thaali, gatte ki sabzi, Bikaneri bhujiya and massive rasgullas. Those were some brief moments when my parents, grand mother and wife were happy that I was not consuming alcohol and spending time with the family. Next on the agenda was the famous Junagarh Fort, an old bastion of Rajput kings of the city. Despite the visits to Salasar and Merta Road, my mind was only centred around the control office monitoring running of trains and being fixated on quotidian drinking. Eventually, my quotidian drinking took a toll on the physical body of my wife as she suffered an attack of jaundice and was to take adequate rest to recover. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx A few months later the duo of my wife and daughter happened to watch some melodious bhajans rendered by a group of bright looking faces, shimmering with serenity. They were buoyed with the energy on display. My daughter danced with gay abandon to the rhythmic beat of the bhajan, “Gori gori gayan, gore gore gwaal, beech mein mere madan gopal, Ghas khaye gaiyya, doodh peeye gwaal, maakhaan khaye mero madan gopal.” The songs had an electrifying impact on everyone in the family as we all tapped our feet in unison. There was a magical quality about the bhajan which enraptured us. Unknown to us, this was the second time we were exposed to the Art of Living, for it was only much later that we learnt that the satang we had so enjoyed was conducted by the Art of Living. “So, there is a vast space in life and enjoyment which needs to be explored other than looking after the needs of a drunken husband,” my wife mused and attempted to uplift her sagging spirits. My mother spent considerable time practising Vipassana, Pranic Healing and Siddha Healing processes which she had learned. She practised them unflinchingly as it provided her succour and armed with the techniques she passed on curative and positive energy on me through distance healing. These breathing and other holistic techniques had cured my mother and it was her deep faith that the Universe and the superior intelligence would one day cure me of the ailment of alcoholism. She was to tell me, “Goenkaji an Indian based in Burma used to have severe attacks of migraine which he countered by using opium injections. However, through the technique of Vipassana he overcame the medical problem.” “What exactly is Vipassana?” was my question next. “Vipassana, which means to see things as they really are, is one of India's most ancient techniques of meditation. It was taught in India more than 2,500 years ago as a universal remedy for all ills. One just has to observe the breath and upon completion of the ten-day course radical changes happen in the mind and body and several physical ailments get cured through the power of breath. “Over the years I have realised that not only faith but even breath can move mountains. It is a robust power house about which we are not aware,” she added. She suggested that I undertake the ten-day Vipassana course to combat the problem of alcoholism. However, on account of Operation Parakram, we could not leave our place of work and had to be confined to the control office. For me this was a mere ruse to continue with my drinking. Meanwhile, my father once had a very unusual experience at Bikaner. One evening during his customary walk, from nowhere appeared a stranger who tapped his shoulder and remarked, “Ask your son to enrol for the Art of Living course and learn the unique rhythmic breathing technique of Sudarshan Kriya. He will recover from the problem of alcoholism.” This was something inexplicable… And my father was in a state of daze after his encounter with this stranger. This was the only encounter my father had with the stranger. Who was he? Where did he surface from? How was he aware about my vice? All these questions tormented the scientific and logical mind of my father. “What is Art of Living? And what is Sudarshan Kriya?” my father was to ask my mother and wife who expressed their ignorance. We were not quite so accustomed to Uncle Google back then and hence could obtain little information about the technique. As spring had set in and Bikaner had warmed up considerably my parents were now leaving back to Hyderabad. “This is our last visit to Bikaner, Lakshmi. If Ravi continues to drink this way, we will never visit you,” my mother firmly conveyed the message to my wife. Providential transfer to Jaipur The troops after a year’s stay at the frontiers returned back to their barracks and semblance of normalcy returned between the two warring countries. Meanwhile at the stroke of midnight hour, Indian Railways underwent some substantial changes. Overnight Bikaner became a part of North Western Railway and our umbilical cord with Northern Railway was snapped. Not that this affected my drinking. Anyway, for the better or the worse I was transferred to Jaipur. My wife recalled the chance encounter between my father and the stranger at Bikaner and registered my name for the Part 1 course of the Art of Living at Jaipur which was organized very near our house. The die was cast and she was hopeful that something positive would emerge. She appeared to have immense faith that a miracle may occur. This was something inexplicable and venturing into an unknown turf as my wife remembered the number of times, we had had encounters with the name Art of Living in one way or another. The family was on a learning curve on an unchartered territory. We live in a world that hails superheroes like Super Man, Bat Man, Spider-Man, and thus, often society end up taking women and their strength for granted. Across times there have been superwomen. Shiva drew his power from Shakti. If Lord Rama is worshipped across Hindu pantheon, so is Durga. Women generally have longer the life-expectancy, they are blessed with greater survival skill sets, they are known to manage handle pain better and are also emotionally and mentally stronger and more robust. My wife was no different as she drove a somnolent and languorous man to attend the Part 1 course of Art of Living and picked me up every morning after dropping the children at their school. It was a challenging task, but she followed the regimen unflinchingly. I did not know it at that time but that was to be the first day of the rest of my life. I was extremely fidgety, sweating in the cold winter of Jaipur in the month of November stinking of cigarettes and liquor. The teacher and guide scanned through my form and gave me a warm smile. I was to see a large portrait of a bearded person, who looked beatific and sported an impish smile which could disarm anyone, perched on a mantelpiece as mellifluous music played in the background. We all were asked to sway to the music and I was quite unsteady on my feet much to the discomfiture of other participants. It was tough undergoing the course and there were times I wanted to quit it. But the teacher encouraged me gently to continue with the course and so did my wife who goaded me not to abandon the ship midway. And then came the earth-shattering moment when we were to learn the unique rhythmic breathing technique called Sudarshan Kriya. Zillions of toxins were expatriated from my body and tension which had accumulated in trillions of cells in my very being were expunge as I inhaled and exhaled to the syllable of SOHAM (I AM THAT) which was played from a cassette recorder. It was paced as slow, medium and fast rhythmic breathing successively, but each breath entered each and every single cell of my being. The participants were to listen to the sounds of shrieking, moaning, groaning and crying as we inhaled and exhaled to the syllable SOHAM. “What was the sound – a mantra, a syllable, a sound ….,” we just could not fathom but continued inhaling and exhaling rhythmically. It was a blast as the entire body ached and finally collapsed as I shed copious tears and slept like Rip Van Winkle. This technique was taught over two days and when I met my boss who was quite sceptical about babas, gurus, rishis, sadhus, swamis and spiritual masters, he remarked, “Hey you look so fresh. Looks like you have not drunk over the last two days. Quite a feat young man,” he added. But that was not true, I had drunk like a fish, but the breathing technique of Sudarshan Kriya was so overpowering that it eclipsed all negativity and my skin was shining like a star in the firmament. For once I lived up to my name - Ravi. Upon completion of the course that Sunday, I rang up my mother and could discern palpable happiness and gratitude in her voice. After years, her son had spoken in a sober condition over a weekend. It is essential that a participant who undergoes the Part 1 course (now called the Happiness Programme) should necessarily attend the weekly follow up of Long Sudarshan Kriya apart from practicing the short Sudarshan Kriya every day without fail to derive full benefits of the programme. The participant should also attend various programmes from the bouquet of courses designed by Gurudev Sri Sri Ravi Shankar and imparted by the Art of Living Foundation. Unfortunately, I did neither. And this was a major folly on my part. An Advanced Meditation Course had been planned and had I attended the course right then in 2003, my life would have been so different.