Life lessons

There is a best-selling book out there titled "All I need to know I learned in kindergarten". I have not read it but I am sure it offers something of value for all the readers who made it a bestseller. But just going by title alone, I find it hard to believe that a lifetime of learning can be crammed into the first 5 years of life. Perhaps I am a slow student but I know one thing, I am still learning. Everyday. From likely and unlikely sources. Not just teachers, leaders or elders but from every new interaction, every experience, every person I meet.

Teaching does not always happen only in a classroom. Learning does not happen only from professors. For a parent, a child is perhaps the best teacher. My daughter has certainly been the one for me. I have been smart enough to acknowledge the insights she has shown me in situations I have been through many times before, blundering through my days alike a bull in a china shop.

Here is what I learnt from her when she was 3 years old:
One busy morning as I was rushing through a list of errands, she spotted a snail moving across our path. She wanted to stop and watch it reach its destination - the lush grass on the other side. I left her to watch the show and moved on towards the stairs leading to our apartment. She bent down, deeply engrossed in observing the brown shell slide across the cobbled path. Careful not to impede its movement, she stayed far enough to watch but close enough to appreciate a miraculous moment in nature.

In that moment, she learnt about snails. And I learnt to stop and watch at least one of the many beautiful moments that each day brings into our hectic life. With many more of these moments that we have shared in the last 14 years, I now know that I have a teacher in my life who constantly amazes me.

Aleph - Book Review

Imagine an autobiography of a person who lived 500 years ago. A love story with a violent end. A narrative that stopped abruptly. A tale left resolved. Then imagine, completing that story today. Bringing a logical climax to what began centuries ago. When the story is Paulo Coelho's own journey, the book that he writes becomes "Aleph".

It is difficult to review autobiographies in general. When such books hold reader interest, it is usually because the author has lived an interesting life. No amount of salvaging by clever writing can cover a boring story. In Paulo Coelho's case, he is a man who has earned his fame by writing a particular genre of books that have been phenomenally successful all over the world, through translations. The strong spiritual bent of his words come from his own experiences in this lifetime. But here he goes into new territory. He tells the story of his journey to resolve something from a past life. He embarks on a travel across Russia by train, 9288 kilometers on the Trans-Siberian railroad. He is compelled to travel in order to renew himself and progress on his spiritual path. He encounters the fascinating Yao, a seventy year old man of Chinese origin but with exposure to Brazil and Japan, all of which makes him a perfect companion and translator for Paulo. But it is Hilal, the young Russian girl of Turkish descent who is the long-lost love from 500 years ago that Paulo must not only bear but also learn from, the one that will give him an opportunity to redeem himself.

The story is long and complex but written in Paulo Coelho's easy style. Even the esoteric concept of the "Aleph" - the point in the Universe that contains all other points, present and past, large and small, is explained in simple terms though one can only imagine the experience of being in the Aleph that brings the faraway past into current consciousness. There are exquisite insights offered by various people including Yao, the shaman and Hilal. I kept going back to passages that held me under the sway of not just the words but of the essence captured in them.

The Aleph is a heavy book to read. But for it to work on you, you need to be in the right frame of mind, just as Paulo Coelho needed to be in order to experience the Aleph.

Sisterhood

We sat in the garden in the warm afternoon sunshine. A group of seven women, some meeting each other for the first time, others having been friends for decades, classmates or neighbors. As each one entered, introductions were made and we settled into an easy banter. Surprisingly, there were no questions of "What do you do?" or even "how do you know each other?" We sipped a cold drink and watched the butterflies flirt around the flowers. The sun hid under a cloud. And then one woman started singing, a haunting romantic melody. Another joined in. A third filled in the words when the others hesitated. All of us traveled into another mood, the singers and listeners alike. There was laughter at lunch. The paan-making session included freshly-cut paan from the backyard filled with all the ingredients and professionally assembled to resemble the store-made variety. More songs filled the air. It was a heavenly afternoon spent at ease in the house of a relative stranger, amidst friends, in an atmosphere that I can only describe as "sisterhood".

There was a time when I lamented the fact that I did not have a sister. God had kindly sent me two wonderful brothers to start me off in my journey of life where many lessons were learnt and social skills practiced within the safe confines of home. I enjoyed all my interactions with my siblings, the intellectual sparring, the rough-housing and the constant teasing that is common when children are closely-spaced. But I missed having a sister to giggle with. Perhaps an older one would have enlightened me about puberty, boys, co-ed college life. Or a younger one would have shared nail-polish and swapped stories of her first crush. I wondered if we would share clothes or bicker endlessly or have constant comparison contests. I hoped we would grow up to be close and share womanly tales and family times, as only sisters can. But I would never know. I was the only girl sandwiched between boisterous brothers.

Only recently did I realize that you do not need a biological sister to experience sisterhood. I have been generously blessed with girlfriends (or is it women-friends?) who have been like sisters to me. What else do I call the bond I share with a colleague who took me in when I had no place to live? The Moms who share carpool duty as the kids get ferried across town? The young mother of a toddler who is the same size as my teenage daughter and kindly lent her clothes for a one-off formal event? The elderly aunty who checks in every hour to make sure Aparna is OK when I ask her to keep an eye if I am out of the house while Aparna stays home? The Chinese colleague at my previous job with whom I shared the painful stories of my infertility so that she could deal with hers? My American colleague who helped me find dependable daycare for 3-month old Aparna more than a decade ago in sunny California, the one who still keeps tabs on Aparna on Facebook? The one whose daughter actually uses Aparna's outgrown clothes because they fit and the child hates shopping? The many women who have helped maintain my household while I work? The ones who enabled me to get on the path of spirituality?

There is so much we share - work, words, woes, wonder. There are so many shared memories as we all move together on our respective journeys, stopping to appreciate the moments that intersect. A hug, a pat, a helping hand. A kiss, a compliment, a little gift. A ride, a smile, an inspiring story. This is what sisterhood is about. Sharing, giving, receiving but above all being there. It may not be the same sister who sees you through your entire life, but there is always one to get you across. When in doubt look around. You will find a sister, willing to share your story. And if you don't; call me.

Gender barriers

I found myself parked on the roadside yesterday, with a flat tire. For a few minutes I was stuck immobile. In all the years that I have been driving my car, both in the US and more recently in India, it was truly the first time that I was by myself when it happened. I know the fundamentals of changing tires but had never done it. I got out and looked at the sad state of the rear tire. I looked around. A bearded man in a navy blue sherwani was fixing similar tires in a small shop on the opposite side of the road. I walked over and asked him to take a look. He proceeded with the work at hand, a scooter tire, followed by a motorcycle one, with no sense of urgency, much like a doctor with a waiting room full of patients, everyone is sick and miserable, what is the rush?

I spoke to Shyamala about options as I waited. The verdict on the tubeless tire was that it was damaged due to driving some distance after deflation. I asked him to load the spare tire which he completed efficiently. There seemed to be repair options but I was not sure if this was the right place to get it done. I paid him and went to the location suggested by Shyamala where after a couple of discussions a decision to fix and load the "repaired" tire was taken. It took over an hour from the initial observation of the flat to the restoration of the original tires so that I could head home. I had spent time outside greasy repair shops, interacted with mechanics and made decisions about the well-being of my car on my own.

It was the first time that I had dealt with automobile issues, a subject typically handled by men, not because of inherent knowledge in these matters but because in the great gender debate, men are often saddled with roles just because they are men. While men have proven themselves in the kitchen (if you don't believe me, just look at the contestants on cooking shows), it is possible that women can handle electrical and mechanical matters just as well as their male counterparts. It is a matter of application of the same approach you normally use for solving any problem; look at the situation, available resources, possible options and choose the one that works best in the best current circumstances.

I felt very proud of myself for handling the situation well, felt macho actually. But there was still a little voice inside me that kept repeating "You should have checked the tire pressure. Haven't I been asking you to do that for the last two weeks?" Perhaps I should continue listening to my feminine intuition also.

Left Vs Right

For the past few days, there seems to be a phrase that keeps cropping up repeatedly in various conversations. Just two days back I was attending a motivational talk at a college and the accomplished speaker was drawing attention to thinking patterns by describing left brain vs right brain thinking. I had been trying to identify whether I approach life as a strict left-brained person considering I have pursued higher education in a scientific field which requires data, logic and reasoning. And whether such precise, data-driven methods always bring me to the right solution. Would I or should I try the intuitive, gut-feeling, right-brained approach followed by creative people?

It is tough to choose one path and categorize yourself into one or the other category, after all, I do have both parts of my brain functioning reasonably well, I think, even if I prefer one hemisphere to the other. So I looked up the subject on the definitive source of information on mind-boggling matters - Google. I came across multiple choice tests with quantitative scores to categorize me. Surprisingly, these mathematical approaches were featured on websites of institutes offering creative courses in the arts. A rotating picture of a dancer is also supposed to be a valid predictor of "right-brainness" depending on whether you perceive her to be rotating clock-wise or anti-clockwise. Newspaper websites seemed to have this link. Since my logical mind tried both the exam approach and the visual test approach, I am happy to report that I am left-brained as per my test score but right-brained as per the dancer. Huh?

What do I do now? The tests can't be incorrect? Google can't be infallible? Looks like my intellectual ability has slipped between the cracks of the two hemispheres! I tried to think of past situations where I have used historical data to come to logical conclusions that served me well. While there are many examples of those, it turned out that there were enough examples of situations where I followed my gut instinct without much documented support and that took me on interesting paths as well. I think we all do that. Tap into our available resources to find answers to issues that need solving. We have a complete brain and the smart thing to do is to use it fully, appropriately and finally be OK with the consequences of choices made with the head (left-brain) or heart (right-brain). While the two may differ sometimes when thrown the same question, one thing is clear. Stay away from putting yourself in a box with a label that does not completely suit you.

My dominant way of thinking may be left-brained but it is also the one that is now supporting my endeavors to try creative pursuits that exercise my right-brain.

One year

It suddenly dawned on me that I have spent a year in my "new" home. I moved into my apartment exactly a year ago. While I was excited at the prospect of finally having some square footage to call my own, I dreaded the change. I had spent 5 years at the previous address. I knew the milkman, the newspaper boy and had a good support system which enabled the household to run smoothly. I could tell what time it was by Buddy's barks on his morning walk. In the evenings, inevitably, my old neighbor of indeterminable age would sit at her doorstep, observing the comings and goings. On Tuesdays, the park across would be filled with kids on roller-skates. I was close to tears when the moving truck pulled out of the gate with my belongings.

It took a while to find a place for everything and to get everything into its new place. Moving from a large duplex house to an apartment is no easy task. I thought I had given up and given away a lot of my belongings in the weeks prior to the move. But I found out how much more baggage I had when several boxes stubbornly sat in the living room, refusing to move unless a proper space was found for its contents.

But things settled down. There were only 10 occupants in the building. The neighbors across helped provide contact information for the milkman and newspaper boy. Aunty negotiated with the maid on my behalf while Uncle befriended my father and later provided breakfast on days I had to travel early in the morning. The new school bus route brought new friends for Aparna and gave an extra fifteen minutes of sleep each morning. We now had two parking spots in the cellar, elevators and backup power. There weren't too many shops nearby though necessities like a medical shop, Xerox machine and a kirana store were within a reasonable walking distance.

Then came Diwali. Fairly quiet and dark. You could tell how many families lived here by counting the diyas in the balconies. A small gathering was organized for New Year's eve. About 50 families celebrated Holi. The swimming pool was full of people in May. The elections for the committee took place in June. And over 60 families stood together to hoist the flag on 15 August. We sang Jana Gana Mana and Vande Mataram to mark the first function celebrated by the Executive Committee. We welcomed Lord Ganesha with a grand 5-day celebration. And this Dasera, there is 90% occupancy.

I have made several new friends. Some like me, have moved within the city while others have relocated from other metros, following lucrative job offers from the booming local economy. I have new members in my support system. I buy vegetables from the Rhythu Bazaar truck that brings fresh produce every Tuesday morning. I slow down as I drive over speed-bumps and watch for little kids playing in the driveway. I walk around the building each night after dinner, savoring the cool breeze that sometimes blows me away. I know the old Uncles who also walk at this time. I see Goldy out for her night walk and stroke her golden coat as she runs towards me with a small bark of recognition.

I am once again comfortable. Comfort comes not from being in "my place" but by making this place "mine".

Dash in the Dark

The corridor was dark as we locked the door and moved towards the elevator. The security guards slept on chairs just inside the gate, the bedsheets covering their faces. We pulled up to the gate and turned off the ignition. In a few minutes, Aparna's friends appeared and quietly got into the car. Daylight stealthily advanced on us as we sped on the Outer Ring Road towards the school. The girls discussed possible exam questions as they geared up for the early morning examination. A stream of cars poured into the uneven parking lot and dropped off students at the gate. The medley of colorful outfits that walked sleepily into the school building made it looked more like a morning party than an exam day.

Parents sheepishly pulled out of the parking lot, looking a little guilty as if they had committed a crime in broad daylight. We had received word from teachers asking us to bring the children to school to take their exams which had been postponed by more than 2 weeks. School buses would not ply. We had to arrange for transport ourselves. So we planned to carpool and I had to take the early morning drop-off slot.

The current state of school closure in Hyderabad following the agitation for a separate Telangana state has made the pursuit of education an undercover operation. There seems to be no end to the fear mentality that has pervaded school managements. It is one thing to accommodate a couple of exams at an unearthly hour but what about regular school schedules? When do we put the children back on track? Do we even care about how this impacts children of all ages, not just the children in higher classes who have board exams and competitive tests lined up? Putting education as an "essential" service does not seen to feature in the minds of politicians who are busy safeguarding their positions and tenures. Already normal life has been thrown out of gear on a variety of levels, whether it is public transport, road and rail safety and other administrative problems that are piling up.

I wonder what will be left for the inheritors of the new state, if it comes up - stones and ashes, a lethargic workforce, a ruined economy and a younger generation that does not know what the next day holds in store for them.

While we wait for things to sort themselves out, I know what I will be doing tomorrow. Engaging in another undercover operation with "Project Sunrise Carpool".

The Last Lecture - some thoughts

There are books that you buy, books that are gifted to you, books borrowed from the library and books passed on through generations. Then there are books that mysteriously appear in your life. "The Last Lecture" by Randy Pausch was one such book that appeared in my bookshelf. I was dusting the books one morning and I found this "The No.1 Bestseller" on the second shelf. I have no memory of buying it or receiving it (or stealing it!). So I figured that it was in my hands for a reason - for me to read it NOW.

Normally authors write books and then go on a promotional tour. In this case, the author, Randy Pausch, a professor at Carnegie Mellon University, gave his "Last Lecture" at the University. It was a fun and poignant lecture since Pausch had been told he had only 3-6 months to live after detection of pancreatic cancer. He was 47 years old. The lecture became a huge hit with millions of viewers seeing it on the internet which then became a reason to put his inspiring words into a book with the help of Jeffrey Zaslow. The book is now a major bestseller and continues to influence people 3 years after the death of the author.

The book begins with Pausch making an unlikely statement "I won the parent lottery" referring to his good luck at being born to parents who brought him up with the right values and support to help him move ahead in life while keeping him firmly grounded. The speech was about achieving your childhood dreams. For Pausch it included experiencing zero gravity, playing football and being a Disney imagineer among others. In a self-deprecating humorous narration, Pausch tells us the stories of how achieved (or did not achieve) all the dreams but shares the lessons he learned while pursuing them. He tells stories of his teachers, mentors and students who he has enabled to achieve their own dreams. In a non-preachy manner we get nuggets of wisdom which were either passed on him, or are cliches that work or gems that he has gleaned from his experiences.

All the humor comes with an underlying tone of sadness but at no point do we feel "you poor thing" for Pausch. All that comes through is his earnest wish to pass on a part of what he feels are lessons for his 3 young children who will not have a father as they grow up, to the larger audience that he is ostensibly addressing in his last speech. So the speech is really about "how to live your life".

I went on to watch the Youtube speech after finishing the book and it is easy to see why the speech has been so phenomenally successful. Pausch is handsome, persuasive and completely in control. The amazing optimism and sense of awe and gratitude for his life is clearly evident in his narration as well as the tremendous passion for life and family.

Should you read "The Last Lecture"? Absolutely yes. If you are not a reader, watch the video.

Growing Circle

It is the time of year when I follow one family tradition. During Navratri, I keep the traditional display of dolls, a custom prevalent in Tamil Nadu. I grew up in Mumbai and after a longish stint in the USA, I am now a Hyderabadi. But traditions stay the way they are because they get transported across not just state borders and geographical limits but across generations as well.

The collection in my annual display is eclectic. It has clay and porcelain dolls from my grandmother that are over 50 years old, miniature brass ans steel utensils from my mother, local Kondapalli toys bought by me, plastic Barney and Winnie the Pooh from Aparna's toddler years, terracota Ganesha's from Pondicherry artisans and a mish-mash of souvenirs from places visited including a bamboo basket from the recent holiday in Shillong. While there is an overarching religious significance to this ritual, for me it has been more of a social ritual. I am not a party animal. I seldom have hordes of people visiting me at one time. But I invite friends to visit during these nine days. Mostly the women and children show up. I make a little snack along with the prasad and give age-appropriate gifts to those who come.

Coincidentally this year the festival marked the one-year anniversary of my occupation of my new apartment. So I invited friends who had been visitors in previous years but I also had new people on my list - my new neighbors. Shweta came with little Yogya, who did not mess the display but quietly destroyed the rangoli outside the door. Little Snigdha did not come but her grandmother came and I struggled to keep a conversation going in Telugu. Anjali appreciated not just the display but other parts of the apartment as well since it was her first visit. My cousin's kids had a great time identifying objects and animals. Shyamala is not a neighbor but a new friend who I met hardly a few weeks ago. Priyanka and I got friendly after she opened a book store near my old home. Shailaja,Radha and Prabha come every year.

It struck me that I had built a substantial network of friends in Hyderabad. As I thought about the years in the US and the friends who would come over then, I realized that I have always made friends in each of the places I have lived. It felt to good to count my blessings in terms of the friendly bonds that I have with so many people. The festivals give us a chance to renew links, to share joy to spend time on what is important. While it may seem like a little extra work, it is worthwhile to keep growing the circle of friends, making new ones and nurturing the old. Long live tradition!

Fifth gear

"Please pick up your ward at 8.00 a.m. sharp at the airport." The SMS appeared on my phone at 3.45 a.m. It was Sunday morning and the school excursion group was returning from a week-long visit to Rajasthan. I had decided to drive down by myself to the airport, something I had not done previously. At 7 a.m. I was speaking to Shyamala about the airport parking logistics and she pointed out that I should probably be on my way right now. She was right. The airport is 35 km from my home. But I pottered about the house some more, read the paper while I sipped my morning cup of tea. I pulled my car from its spot at 7.30 a.m.

The Outer Ring Road (ORR) leads straight to the airport. It is a road I take frequently on my many trips outside Hyderabad. But I always take a cab. I have seen the transformation of this grand stretch of highway after the inauguration of Shamshabad airport at all times of day and night. I have boarded domestic and international flights, arrived in blindingly hot summer afternoons and rainy evening thunderstorms. I have seen the many detours that sprung as parts of the road were constructed and then pieced together like toy train tracks. I have seen the beautiful rocks of the region reduced to rubble and heard the dynamite blasting away the hillocks. Today, there is a gorgeous wide blacktop road with 4 lanes on each side that cuts across a dense urban jungle and runs beside the lake as it traverses small settlements to end in the ultra-modern glass and metal facade of the Rajiv Gandhi airport.

I got onto the ORR and changed gears as my car happily picked up speed until I finally engaged the fifth. All the lanes belonged to me. At that time of the morning, only a few cars dotted the road ahead. I passed a green Meru cab and Maruti 800. I leisurely surveyed the surroundings - no honks, no brakes, no sudden swerves. The speedometer showed 110 km. I noticed for the first time that my dashboard speedometer has markings till 240 km! I routinely drove at speeds above 65 miles an hour when I drove in the US. But just getting into fifth is such a rare occurrence while driving in Hyderabad. It was absolutely exhilarating to be in control of the car, on a smooth road while heading to your destination without any stress. I relaxed. A few cars passed me. I wondered how fast they were going. And why? I turned on some music. I sang along.

Before I knew it, the airport exit came up. Time - 7.50 a.m. I reluctantly pulled into the final stretch and parked. Time - 8.00 a.m. sharp. The day had begun.

Listening

It is said that God gave us two ears, two eyes and one mouth with the intention that we will use them in the same ratio i.e. look and listen more and speak less. But most of us seem to have missed the point and perhaps talk more than necessary and definitely talk more than we listen. As children we are often asked to "listen" but the people saying the word seldom seem to do so themselves. And so we learn from what they do and not what they say. When we become adults, we too, speak more and hardly ever listen.

Listening is a skill that most communication workshops talk about a lot. It is about focusing on the words of others so that we can communicate more effectively. But I am talking about a different kind of listening, listening to yourself. That is what meditation is about. When you start quietly observing the frantic thoughts racing around your head, the thoughts get self-conscious, they pause, sometimes even come to a grinding halt. Just for a fleeting moment, the pool is still and when you peek into it, what do you see? Your own shadow, not obscured by the ripples. Similarly, when you are stuck, confused or at cross-roads, we seek the counsel of others, hoping to find a solution externally. Ignorant to the basic fact that the solution to our problem lies within us.

My experiments with meditation continue on a daily basis. Here is what happened last week. My printer was jammed with an aborted printout. I tried the only method I knew of opening the back door and pulled out the offending sheet harshly until I realized that I had ripped the paper and now one half of it was irretrievably stuck in the mysterious plastic and metal interiors. A few days passed by. I need the printer on a daily basis and it was not a good situation to be in. Before going to bed one night, I relaxed my thoughts and sent out a message to the universe asking for a simple fix to the problem. I woke up the next morning with one clear message, as though someone had whispered it to me just before awakening. "Read the manual."

I am sure even the book "How to use printers for dummies" (if there is such a book) points to the manual for troubleshooting. But I decided to do as suggested and read the manual and voila! There was no section on how to clear paper jam, in all the 8 languages in which the booklet was published. So much for divine messages! I skimmed the pages and found a diagram naming the parts with little arrows pointing to the sections. On an impulse, I pulled up on one side and lo and behold, it opened up the section where tiny curly strips of the jammed paper were clearly visible. I joyously removed the bits and expected the printer to get back on track. But the paper jam message persisted. Now that I was already looking at the innards of the printer, I felt bold enough to explore hitherto unexposed internal organs and finally located the missing paper bits. Once those were removed, my printer chugged back to life like the active 4 year old that it is.

Moral of the story - I pursue my meditation with a renewed faith in the capacity of my brain to provide me the solutions I require (not just for mundane IT stuff). All I need to do is meet the necessary condition - of listening.