Sumangali.org: In The Spirit Of Serendipity

The Song-Bird of St Petersburg pays tribute to Sri Chinmoy at the Royal Albert Hall

Boris Purushottama Grebenshikov is a living paradigm in the world of music and poetry, justly lauded in his Russian homeland and throughout the world. Tapping the ‘infinite silence’ within as a source of his prolific creativity, his songs are his direct interpretation of the universal musical consciousness.

No wonder then that he found in Sri Chinmoy a profound inspiration. With almost 1600 books to his name and over 21000 songs, here was a Spiritual Master who shaped his own life’s service from the very fibre of music and poetry, singing the songs of Heaven into the ears of the earth.

Sri Chinmoy was born in East Bengal, 1931. Following an inner calling he moved to New York in 1964, to be of spiritual service and inspiration to the west. From then until his passing in October last year, his meditation brought forth a wellspring of creativity in many fields.

Sri Chinmoy met Grebenshikov in 2005, and offered him the spiritual name Purushottama. A unique friendship blossomed from there. The immediate bond between teacher and student was exceptionally deep given its outer brevity; a recognition and reflection of true inner harmony. In Grebenshikov’s own words:

“Before meeting him I could never imagine I would see with mine own eyes the enlightened spirit operating from within the frail human body. It made me realize we do not really understand how strange it is to be fully realized in the world that misunderstands Divine realization. And I am endlessly grateful for his love and unflinching selfless courage.”

As part of his soulful service, Sri Chinmoy offered over 700 free public concerts in the span of his life, which he dedicated to World Harmony. London’s Royal Albert Hall ranked among the most notable venues, where he last performed in October 2003. In this same spirit, and at the same venue, Boris Purushottama Grebenshikov paid tribute to him last week.

Under a 14-foot portrait of Sri Chinmoy, flanked by statues of Ganesha and Saraswati, the setting was an Indian garden at night. An enclave of trees and glowing candles waited on a backdrop of winking galaxies. Hoards jostled outside for a place in the hall, peering over galleries high up into the roof to catch a glimpse of the artist. The legendary Song-Bird of St Petersburg entered with a smile of joy equal to his air of poise and humility. As he took centre stage his audience could not have been more attentive, appreciative, or more alive with electric anticipation.

Some 20 musicians joined him, mostly from the Indian and Irish genres, and some of the finest in their fields. Two were from Grebenshikov’s original band Aquarium, which dates back to the early 1970s. The tabla talked in rhythm to four Irish bodhrans; a sarangi sang sweet melodies over a group of classical strings. The fiddle, tin whistle and Uillean pipes carried on an Irish banter with such unbounded effusion, precision and harmony, that the crowds could not contain their shouts of delight.

All the while Grebenshikov was an ocean of depth, speaking through an acoustic guitar as if it were a part of himself. His singing voice itself was, as always, an exquisite blend of strength and sensitivity; ageless and imperturbable wisdom with a sweet and heart-melting centre. The essence of the poetry, although mostly in Russian, could be felt even by the uninitiated, such was its earnest delivery.

The songs vaulted from pin-drop soulfulness to ebullient joy, via countless spirited forays into new musical realms. They stopped neither at folk, nor jazz, nor rock, nor classical, nor world music, but spun into a whirl of all these, where no division or identity could be defined, where music sprang forth unbounded and unadulterated from its source.

As a finale, Grebenshikov offered a bhajan he wrote in Sanskrit for the goddess Saraswati, and a loving song in the ballad style, which he wrote for Sri Chinmoy during one of their earliest meetings. The Sri Chinmoy Centre Choir accompanied him on the refrain:

“O, Guru Sat, we may be far apart,
O, Guru Sat, forever in my heart.”

It was a poignant end to a magical evening; an evening whose spirit seemed to have no age, no beginning, no end; no limits or worldly boundaries of any kind. With simplicity and utmost self-giving, Boris Purushottama Grebenshikov offered a tribute to his teacher which was at once fittingly grand, heartfelt and joyous.

IMAGES:
Portrait of Boris Purushottama Grebenshikov by Antonov Pavel

LINKS:
More about the concert at GrebenshikovConcert.com
Review by Tejvan Pettinger at SriChinmoyBio.co.uk
Photographs of the event by Pavitrata Taylor at Pavitrata.com
Download a PDF of the official programme (26Mb)

Is there such a thing as a junkophobe? That’s me. I buy the same thing over and over because I keep throwing useful stuff away; I’m ruthless to the point of impracticality. I can’t tolerate anything old, broken, unlovely, unclean, or out of place.

Then what is this old Cheese Doodles packet doing here? Cheap crinkly empty bag, garish primary print, “Made with real cheese” blaring from the top, like that would make it ok. It’s taped into a big silver book of handmade paper, Indian beads hand stitched onto the front. It sits beside seven others, now amongst my most precious possessions: one of raw silk in a rainbow weave and coloured pages, one embroidered with satin ribbons, one with my name across the face of a dog, and a felt-tip drawing of a bird.

Words are scrawled inside: rough shapes of words, the pen hurried or tired, the phrases hackneyed and dull, but this content has held me stunned over the last two days; compelling as an elysian dream remembered at daybreak.

These, my journals of the last ten years, have stayed mostly unopened. I wrote them for a future self I thought I would not meet for many years to come, never imagining my Master would leave his earthly frame for Heaven so soon.

I knew such apparent debris would turn to treasure then. The spent packets of blessed food from Sri Chinmoy’s hand are now a link to another world which used to be my own; a world of outer instruction, more subtle, more powerful, more inwardly refined than I can even comprehend, let alone fit into the bounds of words. The Path of The Heart; The Silent Teaching; the sacred life of meditation; the unviolable bond between Guru and disciple.

Mostly these packets, photos, notes, bulging out of pages, are triggers to more abundant memories than those recorded. A concert ticket took me to the first time I saw Sri Chinmoy in person, Heathrow Airport 1997. In a bustle of artificial light and noise and movement, waiting for his arrival, I entered into one of the most profound meditations of my life. He passed by, looked into me with such surety and pure affection, I knew my life had found its home. Here at last was a teacher who could take me to God; a journey I knew I needed more than my own breath. His was the most familiar face I had ever seen, recognition flooded with sanctuary. Tears of relief followed me for twelve continuous hours.

* * *

Today I met with four others to meditate, the thirtieth day after Sri Chinmoy’s Mahasamadhi, an official end of mourning. One of our little band was raised a Hindu, as was Sri Chinmoy, and told us that in India, family members take lotuses on such a day, to set them adrift in the Ganges with a prayer. Perhaps we could do the same as a symbolic mark of gratitude and respect.

We took golden roses with only stubs of stems to help them float. We walked a long way down the river Ouse, slipping on the cobbles in the damp of autumn, checking at intervals with each other if “this” could be the “right place.” Two lads, three girls, and one sleek white dog named Pearl, seemingly out for a weekend stroll.

Who would have thought such profundity would come to pass on a rotting jetty by a rowing club somewhere in North Yorkshire. In the space of moments, so many impulses rose up in me that I have not dared to feel these past days. It seemed we grew up all of a sudden. Orphaned, we had only each other then, with whom to carry the legacy of a sacred life into an unknown future, to offer to others what we have had the unimaginable boon of receiving.

I set the small bundle of softness on the wide mass of water and watched it bob away. It seemed to have its own light, glowing with a joy and purity I thought only Heaven could conceive, smiling and shining at the onset of an unknown journey; a warm light above the dark and changeable—on it, in it, yet apart from it. I touched my fingers in the water, then to my head and heart, making some unspoken promise to this beautiful city where I was raised: a sudden totality of love and oneness.

We parted, all but wordlessly, and I went home. I smiled to the homeless man selling magazines and gave him a pound—I will not give to beggars, but he works hard, all in joy and fun, to make others smile. I saw myself in part in him. I smiled to the youth absorbed in a greasy paper of chips and scraps. I smiled to the aged lady struggling in pain and fear from the harbour of her own front door: I saw myself in part in her, and felt only love. I smiled to the big girls in skinny jeans, cursing and shouting (in fun, or in fear of not being heard?); the lady in shades on an overcast day; the pub landlord at his back door in a dressing gown, ruddy from the night’s excess; the sulking seven-year-old whingeing to her Dad for something vitally important.

Today I saw myself in part in them all. Or was it God?

“Thou art one Truth, one Life, one Face.
Supreme, Supreme, Supreme, Supreme!
I bow to Thee, I bow.”

—Sri Chinmoy
from Invocation

Image: Pranlobha Kalagian

I first became acquainted with the Ramayana when someone lent me a translation many years ago, written in rhyming couplets. It was originally written in rhyming couplets, but in Sanskrit, by the sage Valmiki.

I wish I had taken note of the translator, as I have never found a more charming version. The beauty of the writing alone made tears obscure my view of the pages. The story itself is in turns intensely moving and jaw-droppingly thrilling, studded with spiritual lessons which have endured their journey through time. The heart it warms is broken on the next page, and on the next made whole again. Passages of the sweetest purest devotion sit beside almost shocking displays of heroism.

Rama was a virtuous and spiritually evolved Indian prince, forced into exile by his jealous stepmother so her younger son might take the throne. Luckily that son was quite spiritually evolved himself and wouldn’t take the throne from its rightful heir, but that didn’t stop Rama dutifully doing time in the forest.

Rama was accompanied by his wife Sita and his devoted brother Lakshmana. Much of the story revolves around the abduction of Sita by Ravana, the monstrous king of Lanka (now Sri Lanka). In order to rescue Sita, Rama built a bridge of stone from India, with the help of an army of monkeys led by his greatest devotee Hanuman (the monkey god pictured at his feet).

There are many beautiful stories surrounding the building of the bridge. Some say Hanuman wrote the name of Rama on each stone before it was laid, and that his devotion gave the bridge its strength. Some say a spider carried tiny pebbles on its back to add to the cause. Rama was delighted with the spider because it was using its full capacity, however small. Some say the gods made the stones float, others say the gods held them steady so the army could cross. There are so many versions of the story from so many countries. In one Hanuman uses his tail as a bridge, as he had magical powers allowing him to change his size.

About five years ago NASA released pictures from space which show very clearly a bridge across the gulf between India and Sri Lanka. (They’ve named it Adam’s Bridge, but whatever). This finding has sparked much controversy over the age of the bridge, and whether it is man-made or natural. It has been in the news recently because its protection by devotees of Rama is holding up a proposed ferry crossing.

I am not about to chip in to the debate, as I know nothing of geology. As with Stonehenge and other prehistoric structures, we will probably never know the truth. What I do know is the thrill I got today when I first saw the pictures! As there is no concrete evidence either way, I am holding my fond belief that this is the remains of a legend.

You can see the pictures here.

The Ramayana formed a blockbusting 78-episode TV Series in 1980s India which brought the whole country to a standstill every time an episode came out. I’ve watched the whole thing twice, and the sequel Luv Kush about Rama’s sons. It’s very dated and the effects are like something out of a 60s B-movie, but the devotional lessons shine through victoriously. Put away your Hollywood-honed sensitivities and it is deeply inspiring.

The Ramayana was also the backdrop for the 1995 film A Little Princess. Okay I know it’s a soppy film but I secretly love it. Don’t hold it against me, and definitely don’t tell anybody.

Thanks to Rathin at SriChinmoyInspirationGroup for inspiring this post.

Perhaps one gets so used to hearing strange stories in the news that they no longer seem so strange. I read about this one a couple of weeks ago, and thought “Oh that’s nice,” then turned the page. It is only now that I am realising how absurd it is, but also how wonderful.

In December of last year one of Audrey Hepburn’s dresses (valued at £70,000) fetched £467,200 at Christie’s auction in London. That in itself is mind-boggling. My first (ridiculous) thought when I saw the photo was “It hasn’t even got any sleeves.” As if sleeves would have made it plausible.

The proceeds have gone to the City Of Joy Aid charity, to be used for education facilities in Bangladesh. The first school was set up last month.

A school in return for a piece of plain black cloth. Yes.

No, it’s more amazing than that. This is one of fifteen schools to be built with the proceeds.

The dress was donated by the designer, Hubert de Givenchy, to the founder of the charity, French author Dominique Lapierre. Lapierre said:

“I am absolutely dumbfounded to believe that a piece of cloth which belonged to such a magical actress will now enable me to buy bricks and cement to put the most destitute children in the world into schools.”

Indeed. The more I think of this story the more unreal it seems. The motto on the charity’s website is an Indian proverb: “All that is not given is lost.” The more I think of that the more true it seems.

Audrey Hepburn would be glad, I’m sure. Despite her glamorous appeal, her own life was not all powder puffs and champagne flutes. Whilst on a childhood holiday in Arnhem, Holland, the city fell under wartime occupation. Audrey suffered and witnessed great hardships that stayed with her forever, and she spent much of her later life working with UNICEF.

You can read about Audrey Hepburn’s inspiring work at AudreyHepburn.com, and even watch video clips of her charity speeches. On the other hand, you can watch a clip of the bizarre bidding at Christie’s and read more about the beneficent piece of black material at BBC.co.uk.

Photo: Bud Fraker/Paramount Pictures Circa 1956 from AudreyHepburn.com