Masterfully directed by Tran Anh Hung, it follows the life of a Vietnamese servant girl in 1950s Saigon. The characters are subtly contrasted — male with female, young with old, decadent with diligent, selfish with satisfied, exposing the wide gamut of human experience.

This film heightens the senses — the attention to detail is exquisite. The photography is a feast in itself, like visual poetry, and with not a word wasted. Each sound is carefully placed, whether evoking the refinement of eastern culture or the simple elegance of nature.

It thus invokes my reverence for nature and my empathy for humanity. It awakens me to the flow of life and to my surroundings, however simple — after all, the whole set of the film is little more than a few rooms.

These ingredients are more than enough for me to return to the feast again and again, but what I love most is its message, like a constant heartbeat throughout: that duty is at once strong and beautiful, that humility and service win happiness, and that all we need is already within us.

C’est moi 4th from right

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It is that she (seemingly) brought God to me.

Nobody ever talked about God; it was just an unwritten rule in my family - almost a matter of courtesy - not to bring Him into anything. Yes, I believed in Him, right from as early as I can remember, and it is comforting to know that the affinity came of its own volition - not through coercion, or even prompting. This conscious skirting around the seemingly nebulous Progenitor of All was certainly due to the nobility of my parents, as they did not want to influence me in such a personal aspect of life. Certainly it may also have owed to their own mixed certainty about the Matter. So I restricted “when”s and “where”s to fairly routine areas, such as the predicted date of my being big enough to wear the jaunty yellow macintosh that Natalie’s sister had just outgrown, or the precise location of a sparrow’s ears.

Then God (seemingly) came, outwardly and boldly, courtesy of Auntie, in a miniature box set of Biblical quotations. He was (symbolically perhaps) in three parts, each with a pale satiny sheen. Nothing was said about them, or Him of course. I am not sure whether Auntie even believed in God, or whether she simply thought it proper for a young lady to keep such publications in her library. I remember choosing one prayer and reciting it about the house with jubilant abandon, driving my poor mother fraught and ragged.

The sacred books were in danger of confiscation, and with them God, or so it seemed, and that did serve as temperance to some extent. Their endangerment was not due to their content, but due to their roles as accomplices in my misuse of liberty. It was simply my style of repetition that oftentimes became unbearable. The books were heading the same way as the one particular Bach Two-Part Invention (or the one particular Joplin Rag if I was feeling roguish), played until the piano itself seemed vexed with boredom. As with the Invention though (and the Rag), the contents of the pages were greedily devoured by memory and could be recalled at will. It was not intentional obstinance on my part, but gleeous exuberance, although obstinance was admittedly the product most apparent to adults.

I read them quietly and covertly thereafter. The pages formed a sort of tryst, for a while at least. I could not help thinking, however, that while Auntie might be delighted with the three-part God in satin jackets, and so might proper young ladies who kept seemly libraries, I just honestly did not have eyes for Him there, not yet anyway. I sadly considered it my own failing, but accepted it nonetheless. The box set decorated a shelf, untouched, until it reached the table of a school fete or some such, and finally left my charge.

* * *

It was at a craft fair that He came again, unexpectedly but more convincingly to my simple eye. My mother had taken me exploring. Such exploratory was some means of establishing a friendship with an American city, newly crowned as our home. I acquired a splendid miniature wooden horse there. It was only a two-dimensional cutout, painted in glossy primary colours, with bright wool for a mane, but it was perfection to me and absorbed me almost completely. Almost, because I saw my mother crouch to collect a brighter prize from others scattered on the ground.

It was a leaf.

The horse was history. A new perfection glanced at me from a truer source than paint and wood and wool. It was yet more audaciously painted than the horse though, or so it seemed. The colours were ludicrous, and not even neatly finished. In my childly eye the blots and brush strokes were more real, carousing in crimson on lavish daubs of heavenly green and gold - not stooping to vermillion, or ochre, or anything so rude or bland. I held it to the light aghast; I was sure a human hand had tampered with it, but each drop and line bore Nature’s sterling hallmark. What’s more, the ground was strewn with myriad miniature canvases.

“There You are,” I thought to myself in my fond recognition. It was as if I had received some remote sly wink from the Divine - fleeting, yet wholly confirmatory.

* * *

Autumn is splendid.

It’s as if the leaves say, “Alright then, if we have to go, we’ll go about it magnificently. Don’t mourn; we’ll sing our own lament. In fact let us make it a thousand-part requiem, and while singing smother ourselves in all the most expensive paints. Or no! We’ll cast us all in purest bronze!”

My mother once suggested we grow some gourds. It was one of many scientifically creative things we would do together. “What are they for?” I asked, “Can we eat them?” I must confess to my deepening respect for the things when I was told that they served no discernible purpose other than being gourds. “There You are!” I would think to myself as I looked at their outrageous autumnal brightness and curious lack of purpose (except just to be wild and gnarled and puckered and pimpled). They seemed themselves to constitute one more sly wink from the Divine.

Nature must realise autumn has to be magnificent. I always found it a bother putting on a school tie again after lounging and frolicking all summer. Autumn could only mean ever-darker evenings and ever-colder feet for months to come. It’s also a fine excuse for a new scarf and more honeyed crumpets than usual, but if it weren’t for the coloured magnificence it may be a little dull and daunting. How welcome then such beauteous distractions as leaves and conkers!

* * *

I love everything about the Horse-Chestnut tree, or Aesculus Hippocastanum to use its grandest and most proper name. It is always straight and strong. The scent of buds is like the freshest nectar in spring. The leaves are like ample hands spread open in gladdest offering. The nut itself though is the most glorious component, dropping in a most hostile yet beguiling transport. Its green and spiny capsule with leathery skin over fleshy white may seem to the untrained and unintrepid hand to garner nothing at all. The trophy is well worth the tricks and travail though, as a bright new conker greets the light. If the skin is left to crack naturally, it looks to form the slit of an eye with spines for lashes, the conker resting in that socket and peering ever wider.

“There You are!”

The nut is damp and cold, shiny and richly grained like oiled walnut wood, but the colour more like an opulent mahogany. It is weighty in the hand when new, but dries to a prizefighter more adamantine than Auntie’s shoes. Its fate may have it soaked in vinegar, baked in a mother’s oven, burnished, varnished and nurtured into a near-invincible player in playground tournaments.

Conkering was never my first choice of break-time pastimes - the pierced and strung conker would too often reach a knuckle before clashing with the opposing nut, and too often with terrible belligerent force or even malice. No, I would stick to sourcing the largest and most handsome of them for my brother’s sporting. Though they were doomed to a warrior’s end if I came upon them, they were assured a generous admiration first.

* * *

I always buy the same brand of chocolate - I know it will always be exquisite. I never tire of it because I am different every time I sample it. The Bach Invention never twice sounded the same to me, as I felt different every time I played it. No two conkers are alike, but equally marvellous finds are enveloped in each inhospitable Horse-Chestnut shell. Through my simple eye, still childly for all these years, I fancy God still goes on and on making conkers and painting leaves because He knows no two will be the same: He Himself is new and different each time He creates. Maybe one day on meeting a creation with this simple eye, I will be able to say, “There You are,” with yet more certainty, and that fleeting glance will stretch to an eternal wondering gaze…

* * *

Image: Pavitrata Taylor

Following my last post, I have read some research on ‘Near-Death Experiences’ (NDEs), which I thought may be interesting to share.

Dutch cardiologist Pim van Lommel made headlines with an article in The Lancet. in 2001. In a study of 344 Dutch patients surving cardiac arrest, 62 of them reported NDEs when they were clinically dead. Van Lommel’s writings centre around what he calls “Endless Consciousness” :

According to van Lommel, the leading mainstream materialistic vision held by doctors, philosophers and psychologists on the brain-consciousness relation is insufficient to explain this phenomenon. There are good reasons to assume that our consciousness does not coincide with brain activity; it can be experienced separate from the body. [Source]

Two things I find most interesting in NDE research. The first and most obvious is that NDEs can be considered proof of an afterlife. I am not so surprised or fascinated by that evidence though; I have always believed in reincarnation, and have further studied the teachings of my spiritual Master, Sri Chinmoy, on that subject for the last 12 years. I am most fascinated by the fact that those who have had NDEs are very often permanently changed by their experience, and pretty much always for the better.

This phenomenon is not only reported by van Lommel, but by PMH Atwater who notes the following amazing findings (and more), in her article Another Look at the After-Effects of the Near-Death Experience:

• Unconditional love — Experiencers perceive themselves as equally and fully loving of each and all, openly generous, excited about the potential and wonder of each person they see…
• Lack of boundaries — Familiar codes of conduct can lose relevance or disappear altogether as unlimited avenues of interest and inquiry take priority…
• Timelessness — Most experiencers begin to “flow” with natural shift of time, rejecting locks and schedules as they exhibit a heightened awareness of the present moment and the importance of “now.”
• The psychic — Extrasensory perception and various types of psychic phenomena become normal and ordinary in the lives of experiencers…
• Reality switches — Hard-driving achievers and materialists can transform into easy-going philosophers; but, by the same token, those once more relaxed or uncommitted can become energetic “movers and shakers,” determined to make a difference in the world. Switches seem to depend more on what is “needed” to round out the individual’s growth than on any uniform result.
• The soul as self — Most come to recognize themselves as an immortal soul currently resident within material form so lessons can be learned while sojourning in the earthplane. They know they are not their body; it is a “jacket” they wear…

Atwater reports other remarkable patterns in patients following NDEs: substantially altered energy levels, hypersensitive to light and sound, stress easier to handle, lower blood pressure, increased intelligence, clustered thinking (as opposed to sequential), charismatic, quicker assimilation, reduction in red meat consumption, “merge” easily (absorption), latent talents surface, a hunger for knowledge, synchronicity commonplace, multiple sensing (synesthesia).

She notes that such positive life changes do not only depend on a person returning from clinical death (fortunately!); they can arise from a life-threatening or frightening situation for example. They can also be achieved consciously and gradually through spiritual practice:

I would also include those more tranquil in how they’re experienced: from the slow, steady application of spiritual disciplines, mindfulness techniques, meditation, vision quests, or because, in a prayerful state of mind, an individual simply desires to become a better person.

• Image: Painting by Abbott Handerson Thayer (1849-1921)
• The Near Death Phenomenon: an article by PMH Atwater
• Death and Reincarnation: a free online book by Sri Chinmoy
• Learn to Meditate: a practical site based on the teachiings of Sri Chinmoy

Ashrita Furman is one of Sri Chinmoy’s students, and also (not-so-coincidentally) happens to hold the Guinness World Record for holding the most Guinness World Records. This 48,000-candle cake was his 86th record, a symbol of gratitude to Sri Chinmoy on what would have been his 77th birthday.

Sri Chinmoy, who passed away last October, advocated self-transcendence — going beyond one’s own perceived boundaries in any field, competing with oneself rather than with others for self-improvement. This latest record by Ashrita and friends is literally a glowing example of such a philosophy!

On the 27th of August an international team of 200, led by Ashrita, spent many hours counting and placing 48,523 candles on the 52 x 17 foot cake. Near midnight 80 assistants lined up around the cake with blow torches, knowing they had a span of only 2 minutes to ensure all their candles were alight simultaneously.

I was fortunate enough to be standing only a few feet away in the intense heat and electrifying atmosphere. Multi-coloured wax poured off the cake in strange rivers under the table, and I realised only then how fine the timing was.

The assistants had a large and dense rectangle of candles each to light, as they could not feasibly stand closer to one another whilst wielding blow torches. As they started near the centre of the cake and worked steadily towards themselves on the outside of it, the lit candles melted rapidly. The first would burn out soon after the last ones were lit, so the window of time in which the world record could be claimed was very slim.

Not only did they need a steady hand and nerves of steel, but a decent pair of lungs; as the whoops of success went up, each assistant had the job of blowing out all of his own candles! (I hope they remembered to make a wish.)

At the height of this spectacle, strings of sparklers went off along the back of a huge arch adorned with pictures of a smiling Sri Chinmoy. Meanwhile the audience of around 1100 sang “Happy Birthday”.

Visit Ashrita.com for more of Ashrita’s latest escapades, including slicing apples mid-air and drinking Tabasco sauce. “Don’t try this at home”, as they say! Previous records to honour Sri Chinmoy’s birthday include constructing the world’s largest pencil (76 feet), building a 20-foot high cake and assembling the largest flower bouquet (101,791 roses)

Photos by Susameepan Kalbitzer, Piyasi Morris and Jowan Gauthier (click images to see close-ups)

Most urban Chinese appear to live in fairly cramped conditions, so they are very inventive when it comes to using public space for daily activities. The side of a busy dual carriageway serves as a fine arena for Tai Chi practice. It’s perfectly acceptable to hang clothes to dry wherever there is space; any flat wall on a roadside is likely to have a line tacked on to it from which to hang pyjamas and suchlike. High-rise blocks are a patchwork of colour; verandas crammed, layer upon layer, with flags of laundry.

The public park almost reaches saturation point by 7am. A dark tangle of bicycles forms a complex unintentional sculpture at the entrance. Three long stone hoops create a gateway, each hoop crested by curled green tiers of roof tiles. As if locked in some darkened oil painting, clusters of Mahjong players converge on stone tables. Smoke hangs like carded wool between them and the awning of trees above. Some practise Tai Chi alone; others form groups. I am mesmerised. They move as one body, so they are acutely conscious of one another, yet their faces betray only an inner awareness. Each face is devoid of expression, basking in the serenity of concentration. Tiny children stump around with overflowing energy as they do anywhere in the world. They are perfect models of charm; fine porcelain faces touched with bloom. Nothing seems to be used as an excuse for inactivity. Even the most wizened are out shuffling or stretching with what vigour they have at their disposal, however limited that may be.

I continue to the vast, placid scenes of a botanical garden. In the damp breath of morning huge rounded rocks adorn the edges of a lake. Through mist an ornate summerhouse, open to all sides, juts out into the depths. All thoughts are suddenly hijacked by its classical splendour. Trees reflect their softened versions in the water; I reflect on a life composed of love and beauty. Within that stunned silence there is space for a fount of gratitude. A steep hill behind invites me to a higher viewpoint. I accept, and climb. Many others are climbing too, so perhaps there is a destination. Perhaps mine is not the same as theirs though. The road winds and splits, winds and splits again. Town looks toy-like; tall buildings rendered squat. The road twists and splits again. Youths are calling to one another from craggy peaks, voices echoing eerily in the gorge below. I pass an elderly lady under a tree… then for a moment there is only me.

The sun stretches warm fingers out to me through a haze broken by branches. There is a tangible stillness beyond the mere lack of movement: a living stillness. Bags of sand and cement are propped against trees. Then I see why: ahead is a bridge of white stone — so new one would think nobody had ever set foot on it. With soft, reverent steps I reach its centre and look sunward. In an envelope of clarity that brief moment sets me alone with God, and it all makes sense.

Images by Kedar Misani at Sri Chinmoy Centre Gallery