"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!
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
IPL Vs IAF
Watching the IPL, I was wondering about the message that circulates from time to time in the Facebook - IPL players paid in millions while our soldiers (Indian Armed Forces) protecting the country getting pittance.
Mmmm... I know it seems unfair, but I wonder if I would really want the soldiers paid such obscene money. Won't it somehow make them solely mercenary? And then, the ones who sponsor such pays - since the government cannot afford it, I am sure - won't they want the payment to be justified (I am not even going to talk about tax payers who do not pay taxes or people who siphon off whatever they can in large projects, thus creating a greater deficit than is justified)? And just like the ordinance industry that justifies its production by encouraging terrorism, these people also want periodical wars just so the soldiers really earn their living? Which will mean there will be no peace times.
Something like the Hunger Games, maybe? And then, they will need to retrieve their costs - the sponsors, that is. So will they have these wars they create screened on TV? What about live spectators - maybe they will have people who love to live on the edge hogging the front rows cheering the soldiers?
And to add spice - for what is exciting about monotonous gunning - maybe some side shows that border on to horrifying sights that defy humanity?
No, I know the conditions of the army can improve, soldiers deserve better respect and recognition, and they definitely can be paid better. But to compare the act of service the soldiers do to a bunch of players playing for pure entertainment - it doesn't hold for me. IPL - the way the players are 'valued' - goes against the grain. But the way we root for the teams - it does pay to pay them, doesn't it?
And when there is a war? When there is a war, we would rather it ended quickly and peace returned, won't we? Where is the money in that?
Mmmm... I know it seems unfair, but I wonder if I would really want the soldiers paid such obscene money. Won't it somehow make them solely mercenary? And then, the ones who sponsor such pays - since the government cannot afford it, I am sure - won't they want the payment to be justified (I am not even going to talk about tax payers who do not pay taxes or people who siphon off whatever they can in large projects, thus creating a greater deficit than is justified)? And just like the ordinance industry that justifies its production by encouraging terrorism, these people also want periodical wars just so the soldiers really earn their living? Which will mean there will be no peace times.
Something like the Hunger Games, maybe? And then, they will need to retrieve their costs - the sponsors, that is. So will they have these wars they create screened on TV? What about live spectators - maybe they will have people who love to live on the edge hogging the front rows cheering the soldiers?
And to add spice - for what is exciting about monotonous gunning - maybe some side shows that border on to horrifying sights that defy humanity?
No, I know the conditions of the army can improve, soldiers deserve better respect and recognition, and they definitely can be paid better. But to compare the act of service the soldiers do to a bunch of players playing for pure entertainment - it doesn't hold for me. IPL - the way the players are 'valued' - goes against the grain. But the way we root for the teams - it does pay to pay them, doesn't it?
And when there is a war? When there is a war, we would rather it ended quickly and peace returned, won't we? Where is the money in that?
Friday, April 12, 2013
Can Age Wither Passion?
At around 4 every evening, as I settle down with my cup of tea, the sound of mrdngam being played drifts through the window to my left, setting a mellow mood in the golden evening light.
The player - a neighbour aged somewhere between 83 and 87.
He walks diligently every evening, stopping to catch his breath in between. He does not carry a stick for support, and sometimes has a bag of vegetables he has bought from the shop outside. He carefully makes his way between boys playing aggressive football in the complex, random cars and younger children running hither and thither.
Every time I greet him, I have to introduce myself - not because he cannot remember people or things, but because his vision is hazy despite the thick glasses he wears. And every time he will apologise to me for not recognising me instantly - at his age, he needn't care.
So yesterday I stopped by and expressed my appreciation for the pleasant aura his mrdngam creates in the evening and the diligence with which he practices the instrument.
He told me the story of his love for this instrument that made me stop in wonder.
He had initially learnt mrdngam when he was 10 for a few years from a leading guru. Then because of work he had to give it up. At the age of 62, he decided to revive his passion and approached Music Academy. He found a guru, another leading mrdngam vidwan. Then, when he was in his 70s, he started a school so that young boys maybe initiated in this art. But there were many dropouts, because boys nowadays want to learn the drums, the banjo or keyboard. It hurts him even to say this.
It was with great effort I restrained myself to ask him to do something similar in our complex. He is eighty plus, and I need him to initiate my son into an instrument that elevates me always when I am dancing?
He stunned me again when he said, "When I see the meditation hall here, I want to bring a guru for the boys in this building." My jaw dropped. But still I held my tongue - for my son doesn't seem too keen on the gentler arts, preferring sports. Seeing a cricket bat in my hand he asked, "You were playing cricket?"
"No, this is my son's. He is seven years old."
"I shall enlist him also when we start the class."
Does passion wane with age? I bowed to him mentally.
And, oh, he explained to me why he can't recognise me. "Your hairstyle keeps changing, so I tend to get confused. Please don't mistake me."
This time, I was truly speechless.
The player - a neighbour aged somewhere between 83 and 87.
He walks diligently every evening, stopping to catch his breath in between. He does not carry a stick for support, and sometimes has a bag of vegetables he has bought from the shop outside. He carefully makes his way between boys playing aggressive football in the complex, random cars and younger children running hither and thither.
Every time I greet him, I have to introduce myself - not because he cannot remember people or things, but because his vision is hazy despite the thick glasses he wears. And every time he will apologise to me for not recognising me instantly - at his age, he needn't care.
So yesterday I stopped by and expressed my appreciation for the pleasant aura his mrdngam creates in the evening and the diligence with which he practices the instrument.
He told me the story of his love for this instrument that made me stop in wonder.
He had initially learnt mrdngam when he was 10 for a few years from a leading guru. Then because of work he had to give it up. At the age of 62, he decided to revive his passion and approached Music Academy. He found a guru, another leading mrdngam vidwan. Then, when he was in his 70s, he started a school so that young boys maybe initiated in this art. But there were many dropouts, because boys nowadays want to learn the drums, the banjo or keyboard. It hurts him even to say this.
It was with great effort I restrained myself to ask him to do something similar in our complex. He is eighty plus, and I need him to initiate my son into an instrument that elevates me always when I am dancing?
He stunned me again when he said, "When I see the meditation hall here, I want to bring a guru for the boys in this building." My jaw dropped. But still I held my tongue - for my son doesn't seem too keen on the gentler arts, preferring sports. Seeing a cricket bat in my hand he asked, "You were playing cricket?"
"No, this is my son's. He is seven years old."
"I shall enlist him also when we start the class."
Does passion wane with age? I bowed to him mentally.
And, oh, he explained to me why he can't recognise me. "Your hairstyle keeps changing, so I tend to get confused. Please don't mistake me."
This time, I was truly speechless.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Down Memory Lane
It was just another boring day. She was feeling frustrated, and yet, there was nothing big that had happened to trigger that frustration. Just a petty quarrel at home in the morning; a small payment pending at work; a new friend acting funny; an old friend missing on Facebook... and deadlines piling up.
Her cell rang and her eyebrows shot up. The call was brief, unexpected and sent her down memory lane. Anil, her senior from college - a man she could never define her feelings for clearly. Did she love him, or it was the respect and affection you feel for a mentor, or just the joy of hearing a friendly voice? He was always pleasant, cool, encouraging, the wind beneath her wings...
The invitation for the alumni meet that weekend was just the shot in the arm she needed. And yet, she hesitated. The mood she was in, she was not even sure if she wanted to meet Anil with those mixed feelings he managed to arouse in her every time. And just now, she felt very vulnerable, very much in need of assurance.
She stepped out for lunch and the music player in the restaurant blared out an old Lata song - Chand phir nikla, magar tum na aye. It was like a punch in her stomach. Unexpectedly, tears sprang up and her eyes hurt. She blinked quickly and sat in the first available table, ordering a very boring roti and dal tadka. It was a day for memories, she realised, for this song was just how she felt when Akash left for the US for further studies. No letters, no phone calls. So typical. It did not surprise her, but it hurt her very deep. True, they had seen it coming, this parting that could be final. But to so easily distance himself from her? Was she so forgettable, really?
And now, though they were friends on Facebook, it was rare for them to even post anything on each other's timelines. What was the point? He seemed not to care. And she still cared too much.
She quickly finished her lunch and returned to work. Her colleague Tejas was pacing up and down. Handsome and fierce, there was an intensity that roused strong feelings in her, and many women in the office. Sometimes she wondered if he felt the same way about her. But since it stopped with that devouring look, she satisfied herself with sighing about him in private. Face to face, they were professionals.
Today, though, she feared something of her longing for those strong arms to wrap her in their comfort showed. "Anything bothering you?" she asked, throwing the question at him.
"I was waiting for you," he said, his deep voice immediately sending a thrill up her spine. But it was an anti-climax when he asked her to mail him some financial details. That's all? Sigh, of course. That's all. She consoled herself and went to her seat, focusing on getting the task out of her hands.
6! Where did time fly! She sat back, remembering her fight with Varun in the morning. Did she have to face him? She closed her eyes. And suddenly, the distance bothered her. She wanted to fly to him, tell him all was forgotten. Today, of all days, she couldn't bear sulking.
She would surprise him... get him something nice, for being there for her. But where would he be? She decided to take a chance and walk to his office. She hoped he wouldn't snub her.
Just the thought of meeting him rejuvenated her, her blue mood dissipating. She realised that Varun and she could celebrate their three years of togetherness today. Yes, there were others, there would be others. But just the thought of Varun, the familiarity, the comfort, the dependability, made her feel she was home.
The surprise in his eyes when he saw her at the reception, the joy when she dragged him out to the foyer and pressed the beautiful wallet in his hands that she picked up from the wayside shop, the promise of something more in her eyes. 'Avni,' he whispered.
Suddenly, nothing else mattered. Their eyes met,their hearts were united in one thought, of getting home right away.
Her cell rang and her eyebrows shot up. The call was brief, unexpected and sent her down memory lane. Anil, her senior from college - a man she could never define her feelings for clearly. Did she love him, or it was the respect and affection you feel for a mentor, or just the joy of hearing a friendly voice? He was always pleasant, cool, encouraging, the wind beneath her wings...
The invitation for the alumni meet that weekend was just the shot in the arm she needed. And yet, she hesitated. The mood she was in, she was not even sure if she wanted to meet Anil with those mixed feelings he managed to arouse in her every time. And just now, she felt very vulnerable, very much in need of assurance.
She stepped out for lunch and the music player in the restaurant blared out an old Lata song - Chand phir nikla, magar tum na aye. It was like a punch in her stomach. Unexpectedly, tears sprang up and her eyes hurt. She blinked quickly and sat in the first available table, ordering a very boring roti and dal tadka. It was a day for memories, she realised, for this song was just how she felt when Akash left for the US for further studies. No letters, no phone calls. So typical. It did not surprise her, but it hurt her very deep. True, they had seen it coming, this parting that could be final. But to so easily distance himself from her? Was she so forgettable, really?
And now, though they were friends on Facebook, it was rare for them to even post anything on each other's timelines. What was the point? He seemed not to care. And she still cared too much.
She quickly finished her lunch and returned to work. Her colleague Tejas was pacing up and down. Handsome and fierce, there was an intensity that roused strong feelings in her, and many women in the office. Sometimes she wondered if he felt the same way about her. But since it stopped with that devouring look, she satisfied herself with sighing about him in private. Face to face, they were professionals.
Today, though, she feared something of her longing for those strong arms to wrap her in their comfort showed. "Anything bothering you?" she asked, throwing the question at him.
"I was waiting for you," he said, his deep voice immediately sending a thrill up her spine. But it was an anti-climax when he asked her to mail him some financial details. That's all? Sigh, of course. That's all. She consoled herself and went to her seat, focusing on getting the task out of her hands.
6! Where did time fly! She sat back, remembering her fight with Varun in the morning. Did she have to face him? She closed her eyes. And suddenly, the distance bothered her. She wanted to fly to him, tell him all was forgotten. Today, of all days, she couldn't bear sulking.
She would surprise him... get him something nice, for being there for her. But where would he be? She decided to take a chance and walk to his office. She hoped he wouldn't snub her.
Just the thought of meeting him rejuvenated her, her blue mood dissipating. She realised that Varun and she could celebrate their three years of togetherness today. Yes, there were others, there would be others. But just the thought of Varun, the familiarity, the comfort, the dependability, made her feel she was home.
The surprise in his eyes when he saw her at the reception, the joy when she dragged him out to the foyer and pressed the beautiful wallet in his hands that she picked up from the wayside shop, the promise of something more in her eyes. 'Avni,' he whispered.
Suddenly, nothing else mattered. Their eyes met,their hearts were united in one thought, of getting home right away.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
The Omnipresent
You fill the air
And our hearts with despair
You never get defeated
Rebounding with flair
Nets and sprays
Cannot keep you out
A generation is all it takes
To come back and bout
We talk and try
Our best to find ways
To finish you forever,
Once and for all
And yet you return
Not letting us turn
Walk, sit or sleep
As you suck our very blood
Hail Mosquito
You are more present
Than the almighty
Who is sometimes easy to forget
And our hearts with despair
You never get defeated
Rebounding with flair
Nets and sprays
Cannot keep you out
A generation is all it takes
To come back and bout
We talk and try
Our best to find ways
To finish you forever,
Once and for all
And yet you return
Not letting us turn
Walk, sit or sleep
As you suck our very blood
Hail Mosquito
You are more present
Than the almighty
Who is sometimes easy to forget
Sunday, March 17, 2013
The Human Touch
Thousands cover the green trees. Pelican, egrets, painted storks, plain storks, black beaked ibis... They come here for the warmth, the wa...
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Let it Bloom
The green hides the beauty within
Promise of colours raring to spring
Layer by layer, with time it blooms
Petal by petal unravelled, none too soon
The wayfarer, passing casually by
The promise of colours catches his eye
Stirring up feelings that we dare not pry
For they make us tremble, fear and cry
Oh! What evil lurks under his skin
Why this wish to crumple this thing
That which needs tender, loving care
Rape, plunder and crush, he dare!
Let it bloom, display its colours
Spreading joy, smiles all over
Don't pluck the bud before it's time
Let it too bloom and shine.
Promise of colours raring to spring
Layer by layer, with time it blooms
Petal by petal unravelled, none too soon
The wayfarer, passing casually by
The promise of colours catches his eye
Stirring up feelings that we dare not pry
For they make us tremble, fear and cry
Oh! What evil lurks under his skin
Why this wish to crumple this thing
That which needs tender, loving care
Rape, plunder and crush, he dare!
Let it bloom, display its colours
Spreading joy, smiles all over
Don't pluck the bud before it's time
Let it too bloom and shine.
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