This year, my parents and my in-laws celebrated 55 years of togetherness. Well, 50 went by five years ago, I could have written this then. Or 60 is coming in five years and I can write it then. But I choose to write today so don't ask why now...
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Sunday, May 29, 2016
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
A Different Plane
We waited for all eight of us to assemble for practice. The youngest two of the dancers called in sick. The rest of us looked at each other in dismay as the program was just a week away, and we had learnt this item just two days back. But, well, we assured ourselves, there was at least a week. So we had hope.
As we finished the rehearsal for the day and chatted up, the topic of the girls being unwell came up. We wondered if they would get better by the program date, and someone suddenly said, “Oh come! You have done it. I am sure they can too!”
Saturday, August 22, 2015
A Hundred Mistakes
Shishupala's mother knew that her son was destined to die at the hands of Krishna. She begged him to please spare her son.
Krishna promised his aunt, "I will forgive a hundred errors..."
The mother was content, thinking she had bought her son redemption with that promise.
At Yudhishthira's Rajasuya Yajna, ignoring warnings from others, Shishupala insults Krishna and continues to do so till he reaches his quota of 100. At 101th insult, Krishna lets fly his discus and beheads Shishupala.
Devdutt Pattnaik, in the notes at the end of the chapter on Shishupala in his book 'Jaya' points out that the mother sought Krishna's promise not to harm her son, but did not caution her son not to give Krishna a reason.
So many times I see children running to their mothers with complaints and their mothers immediately taking up arms on their children's behalf. Never are they asked for the complete picture, nor helped to take responsibility for their actions. When they make a mistake, some mothers brush it aside, and expect other children to overlook it... They are not taught to forgive others and forget small oversights. When they feel slighted, they are not taught to rise above the situation.
As a mother, many of us take our role as protectors too seriously. But we are not going to be there all the time. Children will grow up to be adults, out in the world on their own. These very things that seem small and insignificant in childhood will lead to bigger and unpalatable personality traits that will be hard to overlook and forgive. They will not know how to handle being ignored or rejected. They will not know how to be accepted... As parents, we will be unable to help them at that stage.
Or, if that becomes the norm, will that cease to matter?
Krishna promised his aunt, "I will forgive a hundred errors..."
The mother was content, thinking she had bought her son redemption with that promise.
At Yudhishthira's Rajasuya Yajna, ignoring warnings from others, Shishupala insults Krishna and continues to do so till he reaches his quota of 100. At 101th insult, Krishna lets fly his discus and beheads Shishupala.
Devdutt Pattnaik, in the notes at the end of the chapter on Shishupala in his book 'Jaya' points out that the mother sought Krishna's promise not to harm her son, but did not caution her son not to give Krishna a reason.
So many times I see children running to their mothers with complaints and their mothers immediately taking up arms on their children's behalf. Never are they asked for the complete picture, nor helped to take responsibility for their actions. When they make a mistake, some mothers brush it aside, and expect other children to overlook it... They are not taught to forgive others and forget small oversights. When they feel slighted, they are not taught to rise above the situation.
As a mother, many of us take our role as protectors too seriously. But we are not going to be there all the time. Children will grow up to be adults, out in the world on their own. These very things that seem small and insignificant in childhood will lead to bigger and unpalatable personality traits that will be hard to overlook and forgive. They will not know how to handle being ignored or rejected. They will not know how to be accepted... As parents, we will be unable to help them at that stage.
Or, if that becomes the norm, will that cease to matter?
Sunday, June 14, 2015
The Tyranny of Success
A cute sardar boy ran howling to his parents on being rejected in the selection round of a music reality show in TV today. A voice over said, "Rejection is not the end. It is the beginning of a journey to success."
I wanted to slap the scriptwriter. It was just the kind of shallow, oft-repeated thought that sounds deceptively inspirational, but means zilch for the child whose hopes have been raised and dashed. The entire ecosystem - right from parents to the show hosts - is responsible for this. Some children who cannot hold the tune are made to come and contest. They become laughing stock on national TV. Mostly under 12, they may not even realise they are being laughed at!
A week ago, one boy literally begged the judges to give him a chance. The boy was not more than 9 years old. I watched aghast as he started crying. The judges were embarrassed. Finally they called the family. The boy said his father will scold him for losing. The uncle said some crap about if the boy worked hard then he could meet expectations, but to give him a chance. The judge stopped the uncle bluntly and told him not to put so much pressure on the boy at such a young age.
I remember this topic coming up during an interview with Sri Sriram Parasuram, the Hindustani classical singer and husband of playback singer Anuradha Sriram. He was very vehemently opposed to such reality shows for such young children. "The kind of training they have to go through is not fair to them," he said firmly.
When attending a competition at a smaller level, I was amazed at the concert-level quality of some of the young children. Yes, it is amazing. But is it needed? If they do gamakams and palukals when they are 10 and 12, instead of enjoying the pace and the beauty of a song at that age, what will they be left with when they reach 20-25/30-35? Let me put it differently, if they have to worry so much about delving into the depths of ragas at this age, when will they play and enjoy life? Is it necessary to 'create' and nurture prodigies at such a young age?
The premium of success, the definition of success, the stress on success... Or, is it short cut to fame that is being sought, vicariously by parents through their young children? Are success and fame synonymous? Are we chasing success, which comes with hard work and maturity, or fame just to be in the spotlight?
As I watch young children put through the circus, I cannot but wonder what their life would be like once the limelight is snatched from them... What happens to them when they go back to their ordinary lives?
I wanted to slap the scriptwriter. It was just the kind of shallow, oft-repeated thought that sounds deceptively inspirational, but means zilch for the child whose hopes have been raised and dashed. The entire ecosystem - right from parents to the show hosts - is responsible for this. Some children who cannot hold the tune are made to come and contest. They become laughing stock on national TV. Mostly under 12, they may not even realise they are being laughed at!
A week ago, one boy literally begged the judges to give him a chance. The boy was not more than 9 years old. I watched aghast as he started crying. The judges were embarrassed. Finally they called the family. The boy said his father will scold him for losing. The uncle said some crap about if the boy worked hard then he could meet expectations, but to give him a chance. The judge stopped the uncle bluntly and told him not to put so much pressure on the boy at such a young age.
I remember this topic coming up during an interview with Sri Sriram Parasuram, the Hindustani classical singer and husband of playback singer Anuradha Sriram. He was very vehemently opposed to such reality shows for such young children. "The kind of training they have to go through is not fair to them," he said firmly.
When attending a competition at a smaller level, I was amazed at the concert-level quality of some of the young children. Yes, it is amazing. But is it needed? If they do gamakams and palukals when they are 10 and 12, instead of enjoying the pace and the beauty of a song at that age, what will they be left with when they reach 20-25/30-35? Let me put it differently, if they have to worry so much about delving into the depths of ragas at this age, when will they play and enjoy life? Is it necessary to 'create' and nurture prodigies at such a young age?
The premium of success, the definition of success, the stress on success... Or, is it short cut to fame that is being sought, vicariously by parents through their young children? Are success and fame synonymous? Are we chasing success, which comes with hard work and maturity, or fame just to be in the spotlight?
As I watch young children put through the circus, I cannot but wonder what their life would be like once the limelight is snatched from them... What happens to them when they go back to their ordinary lives?
Sunday, May 10, 2015
On Mothers
We paint all mothers with one brush - loving unconditionally, nurturing, god on earth. But as a mother, I hardly think I fit that description. I am loving, I am nurturing, and maybe I am even god on earth till my children discover otherwise. But we are also individuals and come with our own quirks and personalities. So a fun look at how each mother is different from the other:
1. The Hands-off Mother - she has given birth, and now she expects she has done all that she could.
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2. The Food-Supplier Mother - having given birth, she believes feeding is her prime duty. She will cook wonderful dishes, invite the child/children's friends and embarrass other mothers who cannot match her culinary skills. (You guessed it right, I belong to the 'embarrassed category'.)
3. The 'My-Child-Is-God' Mother - whether she is god on earth or not, her child is. To her. The child can do no wrong. The friends better scamper for safety if her child were to come to her crying when playing with them. The fault must all be theirs.
4. The Academic Mother - wants to see the child at the top of class, career, life. May steal the child's childhood in the process. But if the child can have a brilliant career, then they are set for life! Mom knows best.
5. The Intellectual Mother - physical nourishment, academic pursuits... they are important, but not all. Travel, books, freedom... She lets the child loose into the world and believes (s)he will come out stronger and better.
6. The Demon - yes, such ones exist too. Indifferent, feeling trapped, venting their frustrations, killing the spirit of the child. Maybe she is not evil, but doesn't know to find the god in her.
Mother - how many forms you take. And through all this, you try to live up to the image in your own way. In the eyes of the world, you may succeed or fail. But to your child, you will always be God on Earth.
1. The Hands-off Mother - she has given birth, and now she expects she has done all that she could.
.jpg)
2. The Food-Supplier Mother - having given birth, she believes feeding is her prime duty. She will cook wonderful dishes, invite the child/children's friends and embarrass other mothers who cannot match her culinary skills. (You guessed it right, I belong to the 'embarrassed category'.)
3. The 'My-Child-Is-God' Mother - whether she is god on earth or not, her child is. To her. The child can do no wrong. The friends better scamper for safety if her child were to come to her crying when playing with them. The fault must all be theirs.
4. The Academic Mother - wants to see the child at the top of class, career, life. May steal the child's childhood in the process. But if the child can have a brilliant career, then they are set for life! Mom knows best.
5. The Intellectual Mother - physical nourishment, academic pursuits... they are important, but not all. Travel, books, freedom... She lets the child loose into the world and believes (s)he will come out stronger and better.
6. The Demon - yes, such ones exist too. Indifferent, feeling trapped, venting their frustrations, killing the spirit of the child. Maybe she is not evil, but doesn't know to find the god in her.
Mother - how many forms you take. And through all this, you try to live up to the image in your own way. In the eyes of the world, you may succeed or fail. But to your child, you will always be God on Earth.
Friday, April 10, 2015
Mother Racketwali
She sat quietly, immobile, waiting for the attack. She offered her body for the sacrifice. But she was not going down without a fight. She was armed.
Right enough, the promise of food, the scent of blood, the sitting duck lured them from their corners. In ones, twos, almost invisible in the shadows, they emerged and reconnoitered.
She waited. She felt their pincer grip but sat still. She wanted the army out, not these minions. She towered over them, and so the damage was not significant. But it was not their bite which was dangerous. It was what they injected into her system. Even one minion could poison her system, but she was willing to take the risk.
Nothing happened for a long time. Only the minions got drunk on her blood. She was getting angry now. It was not an easy call, this decision to kill. Largely peaceful as a person, she felt that she was justified in killing because she was being attacked. It was pure self-defense.
She saw the fat ones moving up closer. She swished her weapon - the electric racket - and heard the satisfying burst of the body against the electric wires. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She felt another one bite. Swish, swish, swish she went. Crackle, crackle, crackle she heard the response. She smelt burning bodies.
She had promised herself, she would kill only those who came to her. And that the stream had to end. But like Raktabeeja, each death caused at least two more to emerge and strengthen the attack. The frenzy to kill consumed her. She bent low and looked far. She caught the tiny bodies in mid air and swung her arm with relish.
But it was unending. 11. 11.30. 12.00. She must go to bed now. She will resume the battle the next day.
The survivors hovered, having won another day.
Right enough, the promise of food, the scent of blood, the sitting duck lured them from their corners. In ones, twos, almost invisible in the shadows, they emerged and reconnoitered.
She waited. She felt their pincer grip but sat still. She wanted the army out, not these minions. She towered over them, and so the damage was not significant. But it was not their bite which was dangerous. It was what they injected into her system. Even one minion could poison her system, but she was willing to take the risk.
Nothing happened for a long time. Only the minions got drunk on her blood. She was getting angry now. It was not an easy call, this decision to kill. Largely peaceful as a person, she felt that she was justified in killing because she was being attacked. It was pure self-defense.
She saw the fat ones moving up closer. She swished her weapon - the electric racket - and heard the satisfying burst of the body against the electric wires. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She felt another one bite. Swish, swish, swish she went. Crackle, crackle, crackle she heard the response. She smelt burning bodies.
She had promised herself, she would kill only those who came to her. And that the stream had to end. But like Raktabeeja, each death caused at least two more to emerge and strengthen the attack. The frenzy to kill consumed her. She bent low and looked far. She caught the tiny bodies in mid air and swung her arm with relish.
But it was unending. 11. 11.30. 12.00. She must go to bed now. She will resume the battle the next day.
The survivors hovered, having won another day.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Life - An Illusion
My heart, my belief system is rooted deeply in the firm conviction that the divine and I are separate. He, (She, if you insist - it is just a word at that level) is all pervading, and so in me, in you, everywhere. A part of it rests within me, but the larger part rests outside, like in a bank account - to be accessed when the Self is incapable of dealing meeting a situation.
The separateness is reassuring, as if there is someone watching over, a shoulder to cry on, an ear to pour the troubles into, an arm that envelopes protectively, a dark, reassuring night that soothes and cools, a bright light that guides... As if it is all not my responsibility.
So probably, 'Yoga Vasishta' was not the book for me.
Or, just the book for me. A treatise on Advaita philosophy, it is Sage Vasishta's discourse on the non-duality of the Paramatma and Jeevatma, of how it is the Brahman, the Supreme Consciousness that is manifest in every living and non-living thing not just in the universe but the various universes that exist in multifarious forms in parallel. The discourse is given to Rama when Sage Vishwamitra calls on King Dasaratha asking for Rama's help in killing Tataka.
Rama has been distressed and restless and feels a strange detachment that he is not able to explain. The discourse aims to enlighten Rama on the nature of non-duality of the world and the need to perform our duties with detachment and realisation of the true nature of the self.
Whether you are an atheist, agnost, or theist matters not; whether you go to temples or to war matters not; whether you act or not matters not. The gods are not gods, but like us, creation of that Supreme Imagination. Life, and even non-life, is but a dream. What matters is to know this Truth and to contemplate on it, be aware of it, and repose in that Supreme Consciousness.
While I read novels at least one a week, this book needed time - I took two years to complete it. It is the same idea repeated with many stories, instances and examples. Creation and dissolution of the cosmos are also mere beginning and end of a dream. There is no you, no me, nothing. We dream and think that is true and the waking world becomes a lie. When we wake up, the dream world dissolves and becomes a lie. So it is with the world.
Am I nothing? Just a puff who will vanish, has vanished and materialised again? Are you whom I love, hate, like, dislike, am indifferent to, don't even know you exist - really? Just the effect of a dream?
The mind is still struggling to understand how all that I see and experience are but a dream of some supreme being that is and is not; that life is an illusion, a mirage that vanishes the moment the dream ends. It all seemed so clear when I was reading it, but so hard to comprehend when I close it!
I love that God who stands by me. But if that God and I are a but dream...?
Yet another illusion or self-realisation?
Am I awake or asleep?
The separateness is reassuring, as if there is someone watching over, a shoulder to cry on, an ear to pour the troubles into, an arm that envelopes protectively, a dark, reassuring night that soothes and cools, a bright light that guides... As if it is all not my responsibility.
So probably, 'Yoga Vasishta' was not the book for me.
Or, just the book for me. A treatise on Advaita philosophy, it is Sage Vasishta's discourse on the non-duality of the Paramatma and Jeevatma, of how it is the Brahman, the Supreme Consciousness that is manifest in every living and non-living thing not just in the universe but the various universes that exist in multifarious forms in parallel. The discourse is given to Rama when Sage Vishwamitra calls on King Dasaratha asking for Rama's help in killing Tataka.
Rama has been distressed and restless and feels a strange detachment that he is not able to explain. The discourse aims to enlighten Rama on the nature of non-duality of the world and the need to perform our duties with detachment and realisation of the true nature of the self.
Whether you are an atheist, agnost, or theist matters not; whether you go to temples or to war matters not; whether you act or not matters not. The gods are not gods, but like us, creation of that Supreme Imagination. Life, and even non-life, is but a dream. What matters is to know this Truth and to contemplate on it, be aware of it, and repose in that Supreme Consciousness.
While I read novels at least one a week, this book needed time - I took two years to complete it. It is the same idea repeated with many stories, instances and examples. Creation and dissolution of the cosmos are also mere beginning and end of a dream. There is no you, no me, nothing. We dream and think that is true and the waking world becomes a lie. When we wake up, the dream world dissolves and becomes a lie. So it is with the world.
Am I nothing? Just a puff who will vanish, has vanished and materialised again? Are you whom I love, hate, like, dislike, am indifferent to, don't even know you exist - really? Just the effect of a dream?
The mind is still struggling to understand how all that I see and experience are but a dream of some supreme being that is and is not; that life is an illusion, a mirage that vanishes the moment the dream ends. It all seemed so clear when I was reading it, but so hard to comprehend when I close it!
I love that God who stands by me. But if that God and I are a but dream...?
Yet another illusion or self-realisation?
Am I awake or asleep?
Saturday, September 27, 2014
A Moment of Glory
When the mail inviting me for the event came, I had to excuse myself as I was traveling that evening. Then I got a mail telling me I was a winner.
Now that changed everything and after much agonising, I decided to risk going there. Oh what a sweet surprise was in store for me!!! The first prize in Romance!!!!
Of course we were getting late as the event stretched beyond expectations, but when my name was called out and I walked up to receive the prize, it was as if my efforts had finally borne some fruit. Getting published by Pageturn was the first step, but this one was a recognition of a different sort and just gave hope in a new direction.
With hope comes a sense of responsibility - that I continue to write different things and that too, stuff worthy of note or at least consideration.
Saturday, April 12, 2014
A Kind Turn
My elder one came home almost everyday with a bird dropping its blessing on her person - her clothes, her hand, her head! Naturally frustrated but philosophical by nature, she asked me in an amused and frustrated tone, "Why is it happening to me, ma?"
"Because you care so much for the birds - you are after me to give them food and you are so sensitive to their plight... It is their way of saying a thanks. They don't have anything else to give, so they drop their blessings on you," I teased her.
A few days later, when riding the scooter with her behind me, I told her, "You know, everyday a loose gravel or sand hits me on my face."
Pat came the reply, "It is the road's way of thanking you for using the scooter instead of the car and causing it less pain."
Quick learner...
"Because you care so much for the birds - you are after me to give them food and you are so sensitive to their plight... It is their way of saying a thanks. They don't have anything else to give, so they drop their blessings on you," I teased her.
A few days later, when riding the scooter with her behind me, I told her, "You know, everyday a loose gravel or sand hits me on my face."
Pat came the reply, "It is the road's way of thanking you for using the scooter instead of the car and causing it less pain."
Quick learner...
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Moving Forward
Just then, my daughter jumped up to see which photo we were discussing. She said, "Amma, it is not how you look but how you danced!"
Stunned at this piece of wisdom, I asked her what she meant. "Grandfather said you were dancing like a teenager, doing the thoppukaranam (sit ups done before Lord Ganesha) with ease."
This pose was at the fag end of the varnam, by when I had already danced for 30 minutes non-stop on stage. I was tired but not out. I went on to do two more items without fatigue overpowering me. I had felt one with myself throughout the show, feeling the emotions flow freely and my feet and hand move agilely. Why then should I apologise for how I looked?
I posted this photo as it is. But I promised myself, next time, I would not give myself any reason to feel embarrassed.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
A New Cap to Don
My forays into teaching dance have been entirely due to others' efforts. A neighbour wants her daughter to learn; another is my mother's friend and looking for a teacher; a third - here for a short while... Nothing serious, no long commitments. My own work commitments prevented me from considering teaching seriously - I didn't think I would be able to train others for the long term.
Then, a few years ago, a few of my friends and neighbours requested me again. They overcame my resistance saying - Do it it till you can, share what you will.
A few more joined, but I have kept it to bare minimum due to paucity of time and space. Better to train a few well than spread myself thin.
Then suddenly, another opening, again, not for long term, but more formal. An honour to be part of this. Vazhuvoor style of dance is one of the leading forms, with several famous dancers including Vyjayanthimala Bali, Dr. Padma Subramaniam, Kumari Kamala and her sister and my Guru Rhadha coming from this background. All trained under the legendary, Vazhuvoor Ramaiah Pillai.
Now, Vazhuvoor Ramaiah Pillai's grandchildren are starting a dance school to further his legacy, and my guru deemed it fit to recommend my name along with another of her student's to train the students. Check out: http://www.vazhuvoorars.com/ About us page even has a brief bio
about me!
Keep your doors and windows open. You never know when opportunity will take you by surprise.
And, if you know anyone seeking to learn dance, you are welcome. Classes will be held on weekends, in the mornings.
Then, a few years ago, a few of my friends and neighbours requested me again. They overcame my resistance saying - Do it it till you can, share what you will.
A few more joined, but I have kept it to bare minimum due to paucity of time and space. Better to train a few well than spread myself thin.
Then suddenly, another opening, again, not for long term, but more formal. An honour to be part of this. Vazhuvoor style of dance is one of the leading forms, with several famous dancers including Vyjayanthimala Bali, Dr. Padma Subramaniam, Kumari Kamala and her sister and my Guru Rhadha coming from this background. All trained under the legendary, Vazhuvoor Ramaiah Pillai.Now, Vazhuvoor Ramaiah Pillai's grandchildren are starting a dance school to further his legacy, and my guru deemed it fit to recommend my name along with another of her student's to train the students. Check out: http://www.vazhuvoorars.com/ About us page even has a brief bio
about me!
Keep your doors and windows open. You never know when opportunity will take you by surprise.
And, if you know anyone seeking to learn dance, you are welcome. Classes will be held on weekends, in the mornings.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Loving the Image
"East or west, mommy is the best" declared my daughter. Touched, I smiled. "West or east, mommy is a beast," she added, quite anticlimactically. Then she hastened to correct it but got stuck when the younger one piped in, "West or east, mommy is cheese!"
I notice a sudden sprout in demonstrativeness in an otherwise self-contained child. "Mommy, my head is aching," she rushed into my arms. I held her and kissed her forehead. She chimed, "Mother's hug is a medicine; mother's kiss is a medicine..."
I wondered... I am as small or limited as always. I am as susceptible to the vagaries of physical and emotional swings as before. Patience is in short supply, but suddenly there are vast hidden sources of anger that come within reach at the drop of a hat. I am not so lavish on the 'cuddle' or 'showering love' department. I am 'too busy' to join them in their games, and prefer a book at other times to their nonsensical babble. I am on the lookout for their lazy disobedience and try to keep them on their toes (unsuccessfully, of course) so that they turn out to be 'fine, well-rounded, helpful individuals'.
I try to see from her eyes and all I see is this larger-than-life image she creates of me in her mind. The image that she projects on me, making me more loving and lovable. I see myself in her, and my mother in me.
I know this image may take a beating as she enters her teens, and then grow large again as she faces the world alone. She will see the original for what it is, one day. But if even then she can say, 'East or west...' I may not have done such a bad job after all.
I notice a sudden sprout in demonstrativeness in an otherwise self-contained child. "Mommy, my head is aching," she rushed into my arms. I held her and kissed her forehead. She chimed, "Mother's hug is a medicine; mother's kiss is a medicine..."
I wondered... I am as small or limited as always. I am as susceptible to the vagaries of physical and emotional swings as before. Patience is in short supply, but suddenly there are vast hidden sources of anger that come within reach at the drop of a hat. I am not so lavish on the 'cuddle' or 'showering love' department. I am 'too busy' to join them in their games, and prefer a book at other times to their nonsensical babble. I am on the lookout for their lazy disobedience and try to keep them on their toes (unsuccessfully, of course) so that they turn out to be 'fine, well-rounded, helpful individuals'.
I try to see from her eyes and all I see is this larger-than-life image she creates of me in her mind. The image that she projects on me, making me more loving and lovable. I see myself in her, and my mother in me.
I know this image may take a beating as she enters her teens, and then grow large again as she faces the world alone. She will see the original for what it is, one day. But if even then she can say, 'East or west...' I may not have done such a bad job after all.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Airing the Room Upstairs
One of the two doors shrank to become the window. A window with the doors wide open.
The other door led to a path that grew and grew. And then, it seemed as if that too would have to be partly closed. But strangely, having opened the door, it was now not a question of whether it was a door or a window. For the path led me on, curving, undulating, zig-zagging, but always moving further and further - sometimes through dry patches, sometimes through lush green vistas, always exciting and wonderful.
The window? That I thought I could peep at the other world from, seemed to be shuttering up and as the day grew into mid morning and afternoon. It seemed that before night fell, the curtains would have to be drawn with not even a hint of light coming in through there.
There were many reasons to close that window forever. The light was weak, the breeze mild. And yet, those were reasons enough to keep it open - light still streamed in, breeze was refreshing still.
How children love to enter a house through unbarred windows! Opportunities find their way in just like that, taking me by surprise. They invigorate me, tease me with endless possibilities and add variety. The window may now not expand now to become a door. But the path takes a life of its own. It may be short or long, but it is there, for me to see, relish and cherish.
I am glad that I kept that window open.
The other door led to a path that grew and grew. And then, it seemed as if that too would have to be partly closed. But strangely, having opened the door, it was now not a question of whether it was a door or a window. For the path led me on, curving, undulating, zig-zagging, but always moving further and further - sometimes through dry patches, sometimes through lush green vistas, always exciting and wonderful.
The window? That I thought I could peep at the other world from, seemed to be shuttering up and as the day grew into mid morning and afternoon. It seemed that before night fell, the curtains would have to be drawn with not even a hint of light coming in through there.
There were many reasons to close that window forever. The light was weak, the breeze mild. And yet, those were reasons enough to keep it open - light still streamed in, breeze was refreshing still.
How children love to enter a house through unbarred windows! Opportunities find their way in just like that, taking me by surprise. They invigorate me, tease me with endless possibilities and add variety. The window may now not expand now to become a door. But the path takes a life of its own. It may be short or long, but it is there, for me to see, relish and cherish.
I am glad that I kept that window open.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Holding My Little Finger
He would return from work and fill every bucket, every mug with water before it stopped after freshening up and before having his evening tea.
And then he would settle down with the newspaper, immersed in the crossword.
Once in a while, I would need some drawing done and he would help me out with that - drawing the entire thing as I went about my other activities, like playing, play acting, watching TV.
He would tell me bedtime stories - he would be reclining and I would be up vertical and I would have to shake him awake to continue with the story.
He would ask me to sing - his only expectation of me - and I would howl in reply, singing through tears.
And then, we shifted cities, shifted homes. I grew up from a child to an adolescent.
I was shaken from my comfort zone - having known only one home for 10 years, suddenly I was taken to a city my family was familiar with but I wasn't. I left behind my school, my colony and my friends. From wide streets, I was looking at rooftops from my 8th floor balcony and unable to make out any trace of even lanes between the congested houses. I felt friendless and alone.
My first entrance exam in one school came to naught and I panicked, fearing his disapproval. He just smiled. "There are other schools, don't worry."
I made it in the next (and ironically, I would go back to the first school to complete my senior school). I struggled with the new school, passing only provisionally to the next class. Strangely, no fire and brimstone rained on me. Life seemed placid with just gentle cautioning. But despite having two brothers in IIT (one, in fact, doing his IIM by then), my poor performance in 9th went almost without remark.
And I discovered other sides to the man I called father. His broad mindedness, his easy going nature, and his Taurean temper that flared up once in a while, but never at me.
As I grew, he became less of my father and more a friend - a person I could tell my deepest secrets to without being judged.
And, even living away from home several times and now for several years, that bond remains - father remains friend, with whom I share my secrets, my joys and troubles. He is the listener every woman dreams of (he is not that with my mom, I know...), who shares my interests, and encourages me with his childlike wonder at what he considers my achievements.
I can be me with him.
Love you dad, though I often don't say it.
And then he would settle down with the newspaper, immersed in the crossword.
Once in a while, I would need some drawing done and he would help me out with that - drawing the entire thing as I went about my other activities, like playing, play acting, watching TV.
He would tell me bedtime stories - he would be reclining and I would be up vertical and I would have to shake him awake to continue with the story.
He would ask me to sing - his only expectation of me - and I would howl in reply, singing through tears.
And then, we shifted cities, shifted homes. I grew up from a child to an adolescent.
I was shaken from my comfort zone - having known only one home for 10 years, suddenly I was taken to a city my family was familiar with but I wasn't. I left behind my school, my colony and my friends. From wide streets, I was looking at rooftops from my 8th floor balcony and unable to make out any trace of even lanes between the congested houses. I felt friendless and alone.
My first entrance exam in one school came to naught and I panicked, fearing his disapproval. He just smiled. "There are other schools, don't worry."
I made it in the next (and ironically, I would go back to the first school to complete my senior school). I struggled with the new school, passing only provisionally to the next class. Strangely, no fire and brimstone rained on me. Life seemed placid with just gentle cautioning. But despite having two brothers in IIT (one, in fact, doing his IIM by then), my poor performance in 9th went almost without remark.
And I discovered other sides to the man I called father. His broad mindedness, his easy going nature, and his Taurean temper that flared up once in a while, but never at me.
As I grew, he became less of my father and more a friend - a person I could tell my deepest secrets to without being judged.
And, even living away from home several times and now for several years, that bond remains - father remains friend, with whom I share my secrets, my joys and troubles. He is the listener every woman dreams of (he is not that with my mom, I know...), who shares my interests, and encourages me with his childlike wonder at what he considers my achievements.
I can be me with him.
Love you dad, though I often don't say it.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Removing Poison
Just as I stood poised to take the bow, be showered with words of praise, for the applause to come, few random, unexpected words lodged themselves in my head, making all accolades bitter. The casual remark, not even meant for my ears directly, had pierced through several tongues to reach me. And like Rama's arrow that found its mark on Vali's chest piercing through seven large trees.
And yet, what was it? Though it pins me down to despair, can I pin the speaker to those words? For nebulous and ambiguous, the syllables change, the words change, the very meaning changes as different people hold the words in their tongues before pouring it into another ear, adding their own thoughts, words and syllables to it.
Am I that? That which someone implied? Or that, which others suggested? Or that, which I think I am?
When my very character is not the same, cannot be comprehended wholly, can those fluid words have more weight, more character, be understood better?
How then do I dislodge it? How do I let the bullet not poison my blood, my mind, my very soul? How do I swim above the overwhelming waves of grief and disappointment, smile truly, not just bravely, hold the eye, not shy away, nor accuse nor pity?
I remain I knowing I am this, and that, and sometimes even that other.
I remain I knowing through all this I am one - true to myself, and not untrue to others.
I remain I, letting my breath fan the fire of my soul and burn the garbage.
And it is then that the bullet is burnt, dissolved, dislodged and yet the poison touches me not.
And yet, what was it? Though it pins me down to despair, can I pin the speaker to those words? For nebulous and ambiguous, the syllables change, the words change, the very meaning changes as different people hold the words in their tongues before pouring it into another ear, adding their own thoughts, words and syllables to it.
Am I that? That which someone implied? Or that, which others suggested? Or that, which I think I am?
When my very character is not the same, cannot be comprehended wholly, can those fluid words have more weight, more character, be understood better?
How then do I dislodge it? How do I let the bullet not poison my blood, my mind, my very soul? How do I swim above the overwhelming waves of grief and disappointment, smile truly, not just bravely, hold the eye, not shy away, nor accuse nor pity?
I remain I knowing I am this, and that, and sometimes even that other.
I remain I knowing through all this I am one - true to myself, and not untrue to others.
I remain I, letting my breath fan the fire of my soul and burn the garbage.
And it is then that the bullet is burnt, dissolved, dislodged and yet the poison touches me not.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Hiding 18 Hours
"I was trying to call you and cancel the class. I have a very rushed schedule today," the lady said. Her daughter learns dance from my Guru, and I am filling in for my guru in her absence.
The mother is a homeopath. "I just got back and my husband was insistent that I take her today. But on reaching I had to catch up on my household work." Knowing she belongs to a traditional family, I could well understand how demanding managing a clinic, her eight year old daughter and her home which also housed her in-laws would be.
"I am going to the stadium to watch the IPL match today," the girl said enthusiastically.
"Oh, so you will also have to go back and pack dinner also?" I asked the mother sympathetically.
"No, but I have a Sanskrit class to attend," the mother said. That was unexpected. "It is for her," she pointed to her daughter. "She goes for sloka competitions, so I want to train her properly."
"How do you find the time?" I asked, imagining a day that would already be filled with enough responsibilities.
Indeed, before the end of the evening, I was humbled to have met a person with not only great time management skills but also great sense of social responsibility. In the clinic, she uses what free time she gets to make the envelopes and sources the glue from a slum in Pondicherry - she went there to see for herself and order the quantities so that poor families may get some source of income. She works in slums and especially with girls, educating them about hygiene and sanitation when treating them for other illnesses.
And then, when I told her about my interest in psychology in some context, she enthusiastically replied, "I started doing post graduation in psychology after marriage but discontinued because I was pregnant. Now I am thinking of completing it. I have several books on pyschology and love consumer psychology. I even apply it when dealing with my patients. I will get you some of them." I sat with my mouth open in wonder. And then she ended, "I may be writing the exam to get the degree this year."
"How do you manage it?" I asked her.
"My mother hides 18 hours of her time," the little one chirped in. "She spends 6 hours in the clinic and then slowly takes the remaining time little by little to do the things she likes."
What an apt way to save and use time!
The mother is a homeopath. "I just got back and my husband was insistent that I take her today. But on reaching I had to catch up on my household work." Knowing she belongs to a traditional family, I could well understand how demanding managing a clinic, her eight year old daughter and her home which also housed her in-laws would be.
"I am going to the stadium to watch the IPL match today," the girl said enthusiastically.
"Oh, so you will also have to go back and pack dinner also?" I asked the mother sympathetically.
"No, but I have a Sanskrit class to attend," the mother said. That was unexpected. "It is for her," she pointed to her daughter. "She goes for sloka competitions, so I want to train her properly."
"How do you find the time?" I asked, imagining a day that would already be filled with enough responsibilities.
Indeed, before the end of the evening, I was humbled to have met a person with not only great time management skills but also great sense of social responsibility. In the clinic, she uses what free time she gets to make the envelopes and sources the glue from a slum in Pondicherry - she went there to see for herself and order the quantities so that poor families may get some source of income. She works in slums and especially with girls, educating them about hygiene and sanitation when treating them for other illnesses.
And then, when I told her about my interest in psychology in some context, she enthusiastically replied, "I started doing post graduation in psychology after marriage but discontinued because I was pregnant. Now I am thinking of completing it. I have several books on pyschology and love consumer psychology. I even apply it when dealing with my patients. I will get you some of them." I sat with my mouth open in wonder. And then she ended, "I may be writing the exam to get the degree this year."
"How do you manage it?" I asked her.
"My mother hides 18 hours of her time," the little one chirped in. "She spends 6 hours in the clinic and then slowly takes the remaining time little by little to do the things she likes."
What an apt way to save and use time!
Sunday, December 9, 2012
A Virtual Address
It was the year 1996/97. The Internet was still in its nascent stages, but an entrepreneur saw into the future and started domain registrations and creating websites. I went to interview him - a rarity back then, as I preferred the anonymity of editing the articles rather than write. During the interview, he told me, "In a few years, you will have a website in your name."
I smiled sceptically, but he continued confidently, "You don't believe me? But you will see... It will happen..." or words to that effect.
When I started this blog, I couldn't help remembering that man. Between then and now, I have changed as any individual does, and not changed in many ways. But the most obvious change is in believing in my own cyber space. Apart from this blog and the inevitable facebook page, I also uploaded one of my novels online http://www.booksie.com/Meera.
A friend recently suggested I should have a website of my own. I am not sure about that - maybe some day I will start seeing his point of view too. But when my third book was announced, I went ahead and created a page for myself as an author on FB: https://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=logo#!/meerasrikant.author
And that brought that man's words back to me. I don't think that he became a big name in the IT world. But his words have come true. The virtual world does lure us to acquire space there, to give in to the urge that traditionally prompted us to carve our name in a tree or any wooden sruface.
The need to leave our names behind so that others may know we exist.
I smiled sceptically, but he continued confidently, "You don't believe me? But you will see... It will happen..." or words to that effect.
When I started this blog, I couldn't help remembering that man. Between then and now, I have changed as any individual does, and not changed in many ways. But the most obvious change is in believing in my own cyber space. Apart from this blog and the inevitable facebook page, I also uploaded one of my novels online http://www.booksie.com/Meera.
A friend recently suggested I should have a website of my own. I am not sure about that - maybe some day I will start seeing his point of view too. But when my third book was announced, I went ahead and created a page for myself as an author on FB: https://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=logo#!/meerasrikant.author
And that brought that man's words back to me. I don't think that he became a big name in the IT world. But his words have come true. The virtual world does lure us to acquire space there, to give in to the urge that traditionally prompted us to carve our name in a tree or any wooden sruface.
The need to leave our names behind so that others may know we exist.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
All In Its Time
I noticed the bud in the rose plant, and my heart beat raced. I expected the rose to bloom the next day and lighten up my balcony with its reddish orange hue. Every day, I see one more bud, but the first one hadn't opened yet, and even after 10 days, all the buds are slowly expanding, ballooning, but are yet to bloom.I am impatient, but will the flower bloom because of that? I have to find the patience within me if I want to enjoy the flower take its proper shape and emerge in its beautiful, complete form.
So is it with everything in life. Yet we rush, bang our heads and hop up and down to see the result we desire.
I went with an art-based NGO to a government boys home, with the aim to help them find release through various creative art forms. So when I saw a boy who wouldn't participate, I put on my best, motherly smile, took him aside and waited for him to pour his woes to my expansive heart and feel cleansed. When he continued to avoid looking at me and maintained a stubborn silence, I despaired. Reluctantly I had to get back to the room accepting defeat. My eyes were on him the entire day, but his were fixed outside the window.
Next day, he and I ended up in the same room doing some craft work. He did the artwork and clumsy me watched the boys in the background. He was quiet still, but not as withdrawn. I saw him smile and mingle with the other boys his age. He will find his mettle in his own time. Only I, the adult, need the patience to wait and let life take its natural course.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Blessing a Curse to Others?
A three year old boy has been hitting a younger, or at least smaller, girl child. When the girl's mother brought this to the notice of the boy's mother, the latter turned away ignoring the plea that she discipline her son. Then recently, the boy scratched the girl and the girl's mother (GM) caught hold of the boy. Noticing this, the boy's family pounced on the GM accusing her of child abuse! In the exchange of words in two different languages - the GM is a north Indian and the boy's grandmom a Tamilian, the GM finally gave up because she was unable to get through. The boy's father, who can understand English, finally said, "I had this boy after two years of praying in temples. If my son is bothering your daughter, please keep her at home(!)"
When I heard of this, I was shocked. Does having a child late entitle parents to bring up the child without any discipline, especially as a threat to others? I am reminded of stories of Markandeya and Sankaracharya. In both cases, the boys were brought up to be so devout and disciplined that the former in fact got a long life as a blessing, and continued on his path of devotion. In case of Sankaracharya, he voluntarily gave up his earthly life and became a saint.
We don't need to go to such extremes. But what if this little bully ends up on the wrong foot with someone stronger? Will he be spared? Such an instance has happened too earlier. When the parents were unable to discipline another boy - now much older - who was a nuisance, his "friends" cornered him and beat him up... This is not an incidence in some slum, or a movie or a serial. This happened where I live...
Finally, disciplining and bringing up a child well is not just for the benefit of those around, but for the child himself. Unless parents realise that first, their children will soon find themselves isolated, which will further aggravate their aggressive behaviour. But this simple logic seems to defy even the educated...
Even if we cannot do good to others, let us at least learn not to harm others, and teach the same to our children too...
When I heard of this, I was shocked. Does having a child late entitle parents to bring up the child without any discipline, especially as a threat to others? I am reminded of stories of Markandeya and Sankaracharya. In both cases, the boys were brought up to be so devout and disciplined that the former in fact got a long life as a blessing, and continued on his path of devotion. In case of Sankaracharya, he voluntarily gave up his earthly life and became a saint.
We don't need to go to such extremes. But what if this little bully ends up on the wrong foot with someone stronger? Will he be spared? Such an instance has happened too earlier. When the parents were unable to discipline another boy - now much older - who was a nuisance, his "friends" cornered him and beat him up... This is not an incidence in some slum, or a movie or a serial. This happened where I live...
Finally, disciplining and bringing up a child well is not just for the benefit of those around, but for the child himself. Unless parents realise that first, their children will soon find themselves isolated, which will further aggravate their aggressive behaviour. But this simple logic seems to defy even the educated...
Even if we cannot do good to others, let us at least learn not to harm others, and teach the same to our children too...
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Ripple in Routine
For this program especially, I had put in more effort than in recent years - it was a point I had to prove to myself. And when my performance flowed smoothly, when I looked slimmer than last year, when I was able to sustain my energy throughout... I felt vindicated. This award was like a crowning glory - though it is a small and probably routine affair for the sabha, it was unexpected and the first time for me. And that is what made this moment sweeter.
But strangely, what brought tears to my eyes was when I stepped off the stage after a group photo, my father who had accompanied me, asked me affectionately, "Why were you hidden behind and not in the front for the photo?" I felt like a child again. It was hard to respond to my children like a mother on reaching home.
But I must add here another honour I had received last year. A leading sabha has a wing that brings dancers together for them to take the art form to the poor. After a performance for that wing in the regular forum, I was called. I was flattered at being identified as one of the potential dancers who could be trusted to do this. Though my group of four have not done anything since then, I am hoping that we will soon resume our endeavour to do this - yet another excuse to dance, what else!
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