Braja Sorensen - Lost & Found in India

NEW POST. NEW COUNTRY. NEW BOOK.

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Sat, 11 May 2013 03:06:00 +0000

Well...there's not really an author signing today, but we got it all here. But more especially here. It's all happening: Lost & Found in India is being snapped up pre-release, and when I finish my break here in Oz and get back to India the official release will happen, in July. After that, worldwide; after that, the universe. Or something...

Meanwhile, I hate to taunt you before you've even read this one, but I'm onto the next book. It's all going on. I told you: this is where it happens. Try to keep up. If you think you'll fail, subscribe and get updates. And thank you!

LOST & FOUND---AT LAST!!

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Thu, 28 Mar 2013 14:38:00 +0000

If you're in India, pre-order here; otherwise the launch is end-July in India, and after that, the world!

THE KIND OF CRASH I WANT

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Sat, 23 Mar 2013 10:09:00 +0000

Waves. Lots of them. My toes crunching into the sand. The cold blue water swirling around my feet. This time next week, this is where those feet will be: in the cascading surf of Australia's Gold Coast.

Can't wait...

WHO PULLED THE PLUG?

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Thu, 21 Mar 2013 03:07:00 +0000

Practically every week we go offline here. Don't ask: it doesn't warrant thinking about. But yesterday's offline drama was classic: apparently the cables for the internet run through a village nearby. And they were stolen. That's right, the village idiots stole the internet cables. Yes: idiots. What, you think someone who steals an internet cable isn't an idiot? Off you go then, shuffle back to your ward, and don't let the padded doors hit you in the arse on your way out.

Anyway, the cables were stolen: possibly because they're just hanging around, looking something like this (above).

Nice blue rickshaw, though.

I'M HERE, IT'S JUST THAT...

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Sun, 10 Mar 2013 07:02:00 +0000

...this is kind of all I'm up for right now. Know the feeling?

5 THOUGHTS YOU'LL HAVE AT THE TIME OF DEATH

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Thu, 21 Feb 2013 02:54:00 +0000

No point in avoiding the inevitable. So let's get on with it, shall we?

Five thoughts you won’t have:

1. “I wish I’d had more plastic surgery.”
2. “I’m so glad I watched every episode of Desperate Housewives: it has given me a deep sense of fulfillment and inner peace.”
3. “I really regret not buying those midnight blue Hardtail rolldown yoga pants.”
4. “I have absolutely no fear of what is about to happen: I have money in the bank and good insurance.”
5. “I’m so glad I chose this peach silk nightgown: it really works with my complexion….”

Five thoughts you will have:

1. “I wish I hadn’t been afraid to think about what is going to happen next.”
2. “I wish I’d been a better person.”
3. “That was fast.”
4. “I want another try.”
5. “I think I left the oven on…”

Five thoughts you hope you’ll have:

1. “This is it: I have no fear, I am surrounded by love, and I accept this.”
2. “I have the spiritual strength and understanding to face this moment.”
3. “I don’t want to come back…”
4. “Whatever state of being one remembers when he quits his present body, in his next life he will attain to that state without fail.” (Bhagavad-gita)
5. “Bitch, get your hands off that diamond necklace.”

THE SMELL OF THE SUN IN THE AIR...

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Sun, 17 Feb 2013 01:08:00 +0000

The weather changes all the time here; my favorite time is just ending, when it's cooler, when it's all about heavy, winter-weight linen kurtas, trousers, wraps, and winter bedding; windows closed over at night, and crisp, cold sleeping weather. Now, the sun has become warmer, all my cottons have been dragged out of the cupboard, and my favorite white, silky mosquito net drapes my bed and rustles gently under the stir of the ceiling fans. It is the tail end of winter, and we're in the warm weather. A bat of the eyelid and the world has turned a little, taking it closer to the sun...

I love the seasons in India; especially those here in tropical West Bengal. We have six seasons: winter in Dec/Jan; spring in Feb/March; summer in April/May, when the burning heat is at its peak and Bengal's tropical dampness is furthest away; rainy season in June/July, when the fat, welcome drops of rain dissipate the remnants of the last two months and take the temperature down a few degrees; monsoon season August/September, when the floods can come if they choose; and my favorite, the quick turn of summer's last into the crisp and beautiful months of October/November, when autumn lands and spreads it's loving arms...

The best thing is, if you don't like the weather you only have to wait 2 months, and it will change---like clockwork.

It never fails...

THE SOUNDS OF THE VILLAGE...

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Wed, 23 Jan 2013 05:46:00 +0000

Out my back window the sounds drifting in are of children in the school yard, temple bells, the occasional bus honking, and farmers pumping water into the fields to plant rice (it's still winter and unlike winter in the west, here it means dry season). These boys, however, were pretty quiet :) Soothing sounds...love this place. If you want to hear this village, listen to this.

comments closed for today...

THE RISING of LOST & FOUND

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Sat, 19 Jan 2013 02:30:00 +0000

Final proofs for the book are due this coming week, and then it's ready to go to press. Still busting to see the cover design. Meanwhile Farrukh Dhondy, author/playwright, and creator of the screenplay/book "THE RISING: THE BALLAD OF MANGAL PANDEY," gave Lost & Found in India a review which will be a blurb on the front cover:

“LOST AND FOUND IS THE LEAST PRETENTIOUS DIARY OF LIFE IN INDIA I HAVE EVER READ. Braja Sorensen's Lost and Found In India is breezy, light, and descriptive, with funny meditations of a voluntary citizen of India. The book doesn't analyze India, it suffers and enjoys it...from the stink of soaked daal to the peril of the roads, Sorensen describes her adopted India with no analytical or spiritual pretenses. A funny, committed book....”

LIVING IN SOUND

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Thu, 10 Jan 2013 06:52:00 +0000

I'm in the village of Vrindavan, in Uttar Pradesh, a couple of hours drive from Delhi. Some people have gathered for the memorial of a dear friend, a lady who had a huge impact on a lot of the world through her singing (she recorded with George Harrison in the 70s), with her cooking (she published an international, huge-selling book on vegetarian cooking in the early 80s that is considered still to be "the Bible of vegetarian cooking"), and through her loving relationships (she was the first foreign lady ever to take up the practice of bhakti and the most senior lady in that spiritual tradition's international reach of millions). And she was adored by all. Her name was Yamuna Devi, and she died a year ago. Her memorial services were held in this sacred town, with friends from the world over gathering and remembering her. It is said that one whose lives were an example to others, whose spiritual practices were exemplary, and who chanted the names of the Lord in song and prayer, that they are "living still in sound." In temples the world over, a recording of her singing the morning prayers is played daily at 7am; millions hear her voice annually, and she is living in our hearts, and yes, living still in sound....

TRAINED TO KILL

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Wed, 02 Jan 2013 05:52:00 +0000

This train story happened in 2002. A group of people I didn't know so well, 5 of them, were traveling from Calcutta to Vrindavan, near Delhi. On Indian trains you generally get a coupe, or a small alcove, that sleeps 6: 2 bench seats face each other, and above, 2 pull down beds on each side makes up your coupe. The coupes are along the left side of the train off the corridor, which also has single seats on the right that face each other and above, a single bunk.

This group of 5 people heard I was planning to travel to the same place, and asked me if I wanted to join them, as they had bought a coupe and were looking for the 6th person to fill it. I agreed, though I didn't like traveling in 6-sleeper coupes. But it was only once and I was going that way anyway, so I figured it was better to go with a group than on my own. On one of the seats in the corridor outside our coupe was an old man, around 70+, dressed in traditional dhoti and kurta. A kindly looking soul, he was quiet and very dignified and old-fashioned. Next to him was a portly older chap.

Around the halfway mark we passed through a university town in Bihar---well known for its violence. Although the carriage we were in was sleeper class, still some male students got on, even though they were only traveling one or two stops. Some of them passed through the carriage, one or two found empty seats, and that was it. The train started to move.

After a couple of minutes, the carriage door opened again and 5 or 6 of these young men entered. They were carrying some energy with them: obnoxious, show-off kind of energy. They stuck their head in our coupe and stared, then said something I couldn't understand which made them all laugh. If you can't tell from that I was ready for a fight you don't know me well...

The leader of this grunty little pack then turned to the old man. He was speaking in rapid-fire Bengali and I didn't understand anything except "I want to sit down," "get up," and a few swear words. No one did anything. His talking got louder and more aggressive. Still no one did anything. I was at the far side of the coupe, near the window, and said to a man I was traveling with, "Do something..." and he shook his head at me like a warning, "Don't get involved." I could understand his point: he was sitting a few inches from these guys, and he had a young child. The others with us were also rather timid foreigners not keen on getting involved in some local fracas, and I can't say I blame them: these brainless idiots could have produced knives or something else.

The students were standing in the narrow corridor, so they couldn't crowd around the old man, they were kind of single-file, but as crowded around him as they could get. Suddenly the guy in front slapped the old man around the head. I was out of my seat like a bolt of lightning and barked "HEY!" in my most commanding, authoritative voice. It stopped everyone in their tracks--for about 3 seconds. Once they'd sized me up as only a woman, and a foreigner at that, they laughed, turned back to the old man, and slapped him again.

I saw red. It wasn't long since I'd seen the beloved Anjelina in Lara Croft-action, so I may have been slightly influenced.

I told the man I was travellng with to get his kid on the floor and duck, and I stood on the seat; with my hands on the upper bunks for support, I swung out and round-kicked the leader in the head twice.

Suddenly it was chaos, with everyone screaming and yelling and these idiots going nuts at being attacked by a woman. I knew if I backed off I'd be history, so I jumped down off the seat and went for him, screaming, "You wanna fight? FIGHT ME!" and pushing at him. The look in his eyes said the last thing he wanted to do was fight me, not because I was a woman but because some instinct told him this woman was nuts and he was about to get his sorry arse kicked by her in front of all his buddies, and she'd have the whole train behind her.

I never let up, and I knew it was the key: I kept screaming at him the whole time, telling him he was a disgrace, scum of the earth, whatever. He either had to get out the train or I'd have to go for him again and I hadn't really thought this through, but at the same time it was like the movies: you know how in those improbably ridiculous scenes when only one guy at a time attacks the leading man? Well on the train is was really like that: only one guy at a time could come for you in that narrow train aisle. It was all so Hollywood :)

Then through the carriage door burst this guy who was obviously some kind of student body chief or something. He was angry like hell, but super efficient and polite. He pushed his way in, grabbed the idiot by the collar and dragged him out, threatening all the others and pushing them out the carriage too. He actually pushed them off the train, I swear...I think we were coming into a station and slowing down, but he pushed them right off; some of them must have jumped out of fear of him, but he got them all off. Man, did that guy have some command!

He then came back and actually apologized profusely; he sat down and spoke to the old man quietly and gently for some minutes, and then he again apologized to me, saying this was not representative of his country or it's residents, and to please forgive them. I thanked him for his help, told him I knew it wasn't how Indians in general act, but that forgiveness would have to come from God, and good luck with that one, beating up on old people...

I started shaking then and realized how much adrenaline had been pumping through me. I react to fear with violence: if someone is threatening me, I get plain angry and could kill with my bare hands if I had to.

I didn't embellish this story at all; it's totally how it went down. Nor do I assess it: would I have done it differently, should I have thought more before I acted? The answer to both is "absolutely not." It's not "thought" that makes you act, but impulse; if your impulse is to run, then run. No problem. That's one response and it's completely legit. But if your impulse is to fight, then fight. It doesn't matter if you get your arse kicked, or even if you die. If you don't do something when you know you should, it would be hardly worth living knowing you'd sat there and let something happen. Better to die on your feet than live on your knees, and all that...

FALLEN WOMAN — INDIA DIVINE

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Mon, 31 Dec 2012 08:39:00 +0000

As the year draws to a close, a young girl dies in Delhi's streets and a nation rises to voice its rage at the role it has been cast in without consent...

Jesus wept...a dark street's plea

to heartless rage, insanity.

In shame a country hangs its head and cries.

Innocence died in the cold of night,

a nation's pain rose from the plight

that snuffed the spark from one girl's sparkling eyes.

As moth-wings beat upon a lamp,

the night air oozed like rising damp

those mortal blows whose dents would form her shrine.

Her name concealed in scented skirts

and family love pained by the hurts

inflicted, that a heart can ne'er confine.

Don't ask the voice that rages loud

or forms itself into a crowd

what cure for broken hearts it can proclaim.

It's there to rent the air with sound,

to watch the blood flow on the ground:

Vengeance "for her life" and "in her name."

Be still! O land you cannot see

that time is on a killing spree:

Your sight is lost, just waiting for a sign...

...that frees you from your fear of past,

bound to a future that won't last:

The Fallen Woman—India Divine.

Don't block your ears or shake your head,

Your ignorance won't raise the dead:

They've fallen on the sword of their own fate.

The world has changed; it won't reply

while violence claims its ground is high:

Divinity won't rise from seeds of hate.

It has its path, this sacred land,

It waits for men of God to stand

and lift the crumpled veil to show its face.

Not servile, down on bended knee

to virgin queen across the sea

inhaling Bharat's wealth through Honiton lace.

Not dancing in the tinsel shower

of Hollywood's cheap magic power

of plastic cards and idol lives of waste...

Of grass is greener movie lies,

and soulless heartbreak, gun-shot cries

that leave both girls' and heroes' lives erased.

Muslim, Jain, Vaishnav, Hindu,

Parsi, Buddhist, Christian too,

Sacred threads combined: a tapestry…

...of hearts united through the Lord

and lives that stem from divine word,

United they can set this evil free...

This glorious land, it wrote the rules

of unfeigned truth, the shining jewels

in this world's stolen, tottering culture crown.

Fill the air with voices, yes!

But with wisdom, words that serve to bless

a world who's lost and desperate to be found…
__________________

PRAYERS for the UNIVERSE...

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Sun, 30 Dec 2012 06:14:00 +0000

svasty astu visvasya khalah prasidatam

May there be good fortune

throughout the universe,

and may all envious persons be pacified.

That's Sanskrit.
That's timeless wisdom.
That's real beauty...

THE ART OF INDIA

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Wed, 26 Dec 2012 10:58:00 +0000

I've closed down my photo blog, Braja's India, and transferred everyone (I hope!) and everything over here. All the images from that blog fit into the "Lost & Found in India" category. You'll see them here over time, but I wanted to start with this one, the first I posted over there 18 months ago. It's Sudder Street in Calcutta, my husband took the shot, and it's one of the cover options for the book, hence the watermark.

Like the site's facelift? :)

PEACE OF MIND

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Wed, 26 Dec 2012 01:30:00 +0000

“Peaceful” is not a default setting: seeds that flower into a conscious life are planted with utmost care and tended to with devotion…

The blast of Calcutta’s streets smashed into my mind, the nonstop orchestra of car horns a cacophonous scream of torment, a clash of violent sounds all meaning nothing. I quickly climbed from the yellow Ambassador taxi, dodged the dozen or thirty coolies who wanted to carry my bag, “Eksho taka mataji!!” (“only one hundred rupees madam!”), and ran the few steps up into the train station, the outside noise dimming slightly, replaced by the wild, chaotic, stop-start rhythm of life on the platforms: food salesmen, drink sellers, beggars, waiting passengers, trains arriving by the minute, unloading their over-packed carriages, refilling, and sliding out the station, leaving a stunned silence…momentary but welcome.

I found my seat on the sealed-window chair-car carriage…relief after a day in this insanely curious city. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and thought of home…

Mayapur village has a depth of life, activity, thought, and purpose that are tangible and are the essence of my reason for moving here a dozen years ago. The sound of temple bells fills the air; mantras and song, music and rhythm, drumbeats and kartals (cymbals), prayer and meditation, all daily practices that drift in through my window, carried on the breeze like a scent.

Each sound creates a samskara—literally “impression”—that enters the consciousness: every step taken, every breath inhaled, every birdsong sung, every building, tree, path, or person…all leave their visual or audible footprint.

We’re an impressionable lot, us humans: every sound and word and sight that entered the mind when we were little molded us...

...shaped our thoughts and actions, our characters and traits, our quirks and idiosyncrasies, our strengths and weaknesses, our fears and our habits, our love and our hate.

They might appear to us now as childhood memories—innocuous or harmful—but they left their mark in our psyche: good/evil, truth/lies, sad/happy, pain/peace. Those samskaras were created by the actions and words of those around us when we were very little, and by ourselves when we were bigger.

It’s happening still, and will do until the very end…those daily samskaras that live in every cell of the day; an uncountable number of things we hear or see that direct the mind, the body, the intelligence, the senses, the ego, or the soul. Every moment of the day we plant seeds that can bear fruit or create disease, which can flower and decorate our hearts or tangle like a twisted vine and throttle the delicate creeper of devotion, prayer, meditation—peace.

Mindful is the the gardener who tends these tiny seeds, who waters and nurtures the thoughts that sprout, who inhales the heady scent of the flowers that bloom in the heart, the result of such tender care…

Without doubt, the continued practice and development of a mindful life is easier here in this little village, which exists for no other purpose but to create ideal samskaras daily, hourly, constantly. Each mantra I chant in the early hours embeds itself in the soft surface of morning and leaves an imprint that remains throughout the day, sustaining me.

Words borne from a spiritual essence, pregnant with nourishment, from sound or from the written word.

Whether we live in such a place, visit it, or create it in our own environment for even a few minutes a day, anywhere we are, it sustains us. It is our compass in a raucous world, a path that leads us to the temple of the mind, which serves as a gracious landlord to the ideal tenant: a conscious life…

JOY IS WELCOME ANY TIME...

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Tue, 25 Dec 2012 14:28:00 +0000

High tea, poolside, ITC Luxury Calcutta

I hope your day is filled with the spirit of the season, whatever form it takes for you...

"May there be good fortune

throughout the universe,

and may all envious persons be pacified."

Merry Christmas...

WELCOME TO MAYAPUR...

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Mon, 24 Dec 2012 07:41:00 +0000

Listen to the beautiful sounds of a Mayapur morning (beneath pic) while gazing at the peaceful, soul-soothing Ganga, or click here to download, if you'd like to keep it...

see more images of Mayapur on my Facebook...

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS...

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Tue, 18 Dec 2012 12:08:00 +0000

...is for Xena to come back. Since that's not going to happen, this is going to have to make do:

DON'T GO GET GETTIN' ALL CHRISTMASSY...

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Wed, 28 Nov 2012 01:02:00 +0000

Apparently Christmas is approaching. I say apparently as there isn't a speck of evidence of it over this side of the pond. At least not in this village there isn't. And it had better stay that way.

The last gang who tried to get all "Santa Clausy" on us had their asses carted outta here, driven in the "shame carriage" to the village outskirts and dropped in a pond of water.

One of Santa's elves witnessed the entire event and has been in therapy since. Of course, he had to go to the city for that, because we don't have any kind of therapy treatment outlets here. If you're suffering from any kind of ailment that may require therapy, the choices you're limited to in the village are:

Go for a swim in the Ganges: it is a holy river, after all. Wash that mental hell away.
Visit the nearest temple and indulge in any one of the indescribable activities that go on there daily. It may not even help but hell, it'll keep you busy...
Sit outside the temple gates and wail: at least that way it will look like some kind of epiphany-oriented madness, and not the regular variety.
Get drunk on the local hooch. This is not really recommended, as my former, ex, has-been, dead-as-a-doornail bathroom plastering man will tell you. Or could tell you if he was still alive to tell the tale. He did it, and died. True story. Don't go there.
Eat! All the food in this village is blessed so you can't go wrong.
Go to Calcutta and shop.

So sure, drop on over, stay awhile, get to know the place. But mention Christmas, buddy, and you're outta here....

SUMMER EXIT...

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Sat, 03 Nov 2012 03:01:00 +0000

The ceiling fans are off, and winter is on its way...

Nowadays the southerly breeze doesn't blow in from the fields through my back window with warm-day scents and the sound of long grass and summer attached to it; now it comes in silently and slowly from the north, the only time of year the snow-capped Himalayas share themselves with us.

And, of course, it's the wrong time of year: where were those cool, frost-winged breezes in the melting, melting, month of May? No doubt those winds reached out, eager to spread their love, but were hurled back to their mountain by the oven-door blast of heat that radiated from the plains of the country they dwell above. No one is free to move in the summer here...not even the wind.

A WONDERFUL NIGHT FOR A MOONDANCE...

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Mon, 29 Oct 2012 03:39:00 +0000

...full moon night, the first in the special month of Karttika...and a wonderful night for a moondance. And as we do on this night, some creamy, scented sweet-rice will sit on the rooftop, absorbing the delicious rays of that full, fat moon...

THE SECRET LIFE OF ELEPHANTS

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Sun, 21 Oct 2012 08:35:00 +0000

...because you were asking yourself what an elephant does before a big night out:

CROP CIRLCES

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Sat, 20 Oct 2012 01:15:00 +0000

... Indian village style. Takes longer, makes more noise, no attempts to disguise their activities, but just as effective (well, kinda...). The only real mystery is where the damned thing went after it broke through that line on the edge of the field. Maybe they did really fly off...

LOST & FOUND IN INDIA, THE BOOK Pt. 347 (or something like it...)

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Thu, 18 Oct 2012 04:34:00 +0000

It feels like lifetimes have passed since I wrote the book and my agent took it to Frankfurt Book Fair and a publishing company bought it and we signed contracts and I rewrote it seven millionty times and even though I did I completely forget the entire content .... so on. And yet, still it hasn't transformed into a book that I can hold in my hands. Three-and-a-half years isn't so long in the grand scheme of things, especially if you throw in some minor distractions along the way.

It is, however, now going into the publishers' edit stage, which means I'll be receiving the galleys soon, approving the final copy, looking at cover samples, and awaiting the final product...

...and I can't wait.

BALCONY VIEW

noreply@blogger.com (♥ Braja ) — Sat, 13 Oct 2012 06:40:00 +0000

Judge a moth by the beauty of its candle.

~ Rumi