A Poem - Glow

It was an evening like any other. I was in Bangalore, on a business trip, stuck in rush hour traffic atop a flyover. Twilight was deepening, cars were honking, people everywhere moving at great speed. I had the luxury of sitting in the back seat of a taxi, leisurely observing the chaos. As I turned to my left, that is when I saw something that took my breath away. A moon in all its glory. In the hazy sky, full of magic and the words came unbidden to me.

The moon is beautiful tonight.
Large and low.
Almost within reach.
Like some elusive happiness
that had always seemed too far to be mine.

The moon seems to have wandered.
Far from its moorings.
In unfamiliar territory.
A little lost, like me.

Is it possible?
To glow with promises still to be fulfilled?
To rejoice while still in transit?
For a journey with an undefined destination.

The light within shows,
to those who care to look
Shines clearly even in the haze
of everyday life.

Sun, song and sangria under the Spanish sky

"There are no foreign lands. It is only the traveler who is foreign" - R.L. Stevenson.

We were strolling along La Rambla, the most happening part of Barcelona, ice-cream cone in hand, passing shops selling souvenirs, juices and trinkets. We had arrived from Granada a few hours earlier. The large poster announcing a series of concerts at local basilicas displayed at a travel information kiosk caught our attention. A long list of performance were scheduled for the months of October and November at various spectacular locations within the city. There was only one that we could possibly attend, a Spanish guitar performance by Manuel Gonzalez that would begin in a couple of hours at a church that appeared to be located within walking distance of La Rambla. Did we have a list of places to see, things to do, eat, shop and admire in Barcelona? Of course we did. But the best experiences happen when there is a change in plan. And so we decided to book tickets for that evening's performance.

We barely made it in time to the Basilica Santa Maria del Pi, a beautiful church built in the Gothic style of architecture. The seats were almost full with a low buzz as people waited for the artist to arrive. At exactly 9 p.m. Manuel Gonzalez, a distinguished looking man appeared on stage with the Spanish guitar and started playing. We had a program brochure in Spanish listing the pieces to be played. But it did not matter what was written or announced, the music enveloped everyone in that room. The wonderful acoustics of the monument, the ambience of the location, the time of day and the mastery of the artist over his instrument, I am not sure if any one of this was responsible for the temporary bliss that overtook me as I found myself immersed in this wonderful music. If I closed my eyes, I could have sworn that the sounds emanating from the stage were from a piano, or was it the drums or a saxophone perhaps. The artist was highly accomplished in taking the instrument to its limits of creation. Music, particularly instrumental music has the ability to transcend barriers of language fluency, accent and articulation to make a connection with the listener. As a person familiar with Indian music, I am always looking to connect with something I already know - the instrument itself, the raaga, the movie, composer, artist. I try to compare it with something I have heard previously, see if I remember the words. The pure joy of the moment gets diluted by tricks of memory. Here none of my past knowledge mattered, a simple melody, a succession of notes, a series of tunes registered in my consciousness. And filled me up.

Spain as a country seems immersed in music. Whether it was the banjo player outside Puerta de la Justica at Alhambra, or the guitar player in the sunny square near the Alcazar palace in Seville, the haunting music created by a strange instrument called the "handpan" outside the cathedral in Granada, they all created haunting melodies, some sang words that I didn't understand but could probably guess, while others just struck a chord in my heart, completely bypassing my bossy head.

As Mark Twain said, "travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness". With each day that I spent in beautiful Spain,struggling to communicate my need for vegetarian food or ask for directions to the toilets or enquire about train timings, I felt less uncomfortable at my "foreignness" and more connected to total strangers who showed the way or happily took photographs when asked. I read somewhere that it is important to "Travel more. Getting lost may help you find yourself". Isn't that the purpose of all journeys, if not all travel?

Gorgeous Granada

It is 7 a.m. and still quite dark. Dressed in a warm jacket with hair that is still wet, I wait outside the Alhambra this morning, along with hordes of people, all waiting to buy tickets to enter Granada’s prized attraction. The temperature is 10 °C. October is a month of great change said the guidebook – it meant weather-wise, the temperature drops sharply in Granada every week, sensible words of advice to the tourist. But the same words applied to me as well. At least those were my thoughts as I stood in line. My birthday is in 10 ten days and while each day marks my days on this earth, there are some days that dig deeper and leave a lasting impression.

I am on a Spanish holiday, combined with a business trip (at least as a excuse). Since business is far from my mind at this time, I justify this vacation as an advance birthday gift to myself. After all, I will mark a significant point in my life this year, with this birthday. It is the first year that I don’t have parents to watch over me and bless me, a year in which my daughter will finish tenth grade, a year in which my business seems poised to grow. It seems to be a time of great upheavals on many fronts, some that are welcome but scary at the same time.

The Alhambra, from the Arabic al-qala’at al-hamra (red castle), a fortress from the 9th century, is Granada’s main attraction – a palace that has seen many rulers, some who sought to build it, some who wanted to destroy it while others wanted to leave an impression on it nevertheless. Today within the vast space the main sights include the Palacio Nazaries and the Alcazaba (Citadel) and the Generalife gardens. Everyday about 6600 tickets are sold at the gates. Without advance booking, we were worried gaining admission. But as the line inched forward, we manage to get two tickets and start walking in.

The walls of the Alhambra look disappointing from the outside, not quite red or in a good state of repair, seem imposing, not particularly attractive. But the history of the Alhambra starts from the 1237 AD when the defensive fort Alcazaba was built. Almost 100 years later, the beautiful summer palace, Generalife was built. The opulent Palacio Nazaries was built later. As with most palaces of architectural splendor, the remains (most of which has been or is being heavily restored) themselves look grand. While the interiors with the ornate and intricate mocarabe work looks dull today, it is impressive for the extent and intricacy. The ceilings are spectacular and perhps the most striking aspect of the entire Alhmabra is the theme of running water. There are fountains inside rooms, within patios and in the Generalife, at one point the railing on the steps have water running through them. The carefully trimmed hedges of myrtle, a bush believed to have magical properties both hidden and visible, line every building. Pomegranate trees (from which Granada gets its name) are seen interspersed with olive trees. Water bodies are ubiquitous with benches everywhere to rest your tired feet or just to admire the scenery.

We climbed up the Torre de la vela in the Alcazaba for a spectacular view of Granada. At one point, tempted by the soothing breeze that had taken over after the sun rose and took the chill off, we lay down, sky gazing. I looked at wispy clouds splitting into nothingness as I dozed. The low hum of other visitors speaking softly or the soft clicks of cameras added to the lazy atmosphere. I felt one with the clear blueness of the sky. A simple joy took over. Upheavals happen to people, to cities, to civilizations. Even nature undergoes major changes. For me, change seems uncomfortable, unnecessary even but change also offers me an opportunity for growth. And that I am pleased to welcome. As the gentle sunshine warmed my face, I smiled. I felt happy, content, grateful to be here. Tomorrow I will go back home. That means change, but it also means I will move, travel and grow – into the person I am meant to be.

Amazing maze

Involuntarily the song from an old Hindi movie, Aandhi, bursts forth from my lips "Iss mode se jaate hain". The tune surprises me as much as my friend Anupama, who is my travel companion on this last-minute trip to Spain. I am standing at an interesting intersection, of narrow cobbled walkways bordered by shops in the distance and by the high walls of houses that line this spectacular neighborhood called Albayzin in Granada, Spain. The narrow streets lead into the old Muslim quarters of the Granada. The shops sell unusual trinkets made by local artists like a pair of leather earrings that I picked up on a whim or stuff that we see on Indian streets - agarbattis, elephant-printed cotton bedsheets and colorful jutis. Every other store seems to be an eating place, either selling crepes, or Arabic food or teterias, selling Morroccon mint tea or pubs selling sangria. The shopkeepers stand outside the shops that are bursting with the wares on display, exhorting customers to walk in. The tea shops seem to do brisk business on this warm Sunday afternoon in mid-October, days before the tourist season dwindles.

The streets meander along in a haphazard fashion and we pick the way we want to proceed randomly. We stop and admire the Spanish jasmine creepers that enticingly swoop down from the high walls of homes that probably house large families. We can see tall trees peeping out of enclosed courtyards that are guarded by large doors or in some cases electronic alarms. A cat looks down lazily from a steep wall. A dog limps by, his foot encased in what looks like a shoe, probably a pet, allowed to roam free on these streets. I am intrigued by an old shoe that doubles up as a flower vase and stop to take a picture.

We keep moving up, wondering whether cars can come up these narrow bylines, described as "an open-air museum' by Lonely Planet. As we get to the top of the steep slope, we pause to admire the facade of the Alhambra that seems to be within touching distance. The Mirador San Nicolas square at the summit is lively at this time of day. Families, tour groups, tourists on segways, gypsies selling handmade jewelry and little kids and dogs run around in the general chaos. There is live music as well (a constant feature in Spain it seems) with soulful songs and tunes rendered by two young men who use their guitar not just to create music but to solicit donations from appreciative listeners as well. The sun goes down quickly, throwing uneven shadows on the Sierra Nevada and the not-so-red walls of the Alhambra. The city lights up in the distance like a magical fountain, bringing into contrast the dimly lit houses of the Albayzin.

In that magical semi-lit darkness, we descend from the summit to a wide road where buses ply. The streets are quiet but there is music in the distance, a reminder that you may just turn a corner and find yourself in a maze, that does not cease to amaze.

Flamenco

The chairs are arranged along three sides of a square, in a typical courtyard of a house in the Barrio de Santa Cruz. The entrance is deceptive but soon you find yourself seated in a functional foldable chair, looking at a 12 feet X 12 feet wooden stage set firmly in the middle of the courtyard. The fourth side of the square has 3 chairs facing the stage, placed about a foot apart, with a small table with a pitcher of water. The wall behind these is covered with a creeper that has seen many seasons and innuneraable performances of the traditional flamenco dance that were are waiting to see. A woman dressed in black comes in with a young bearded man carrying a guitar. Without much ado, she starts singing, a soulful tune, foreign sounding words, maintaining the beat with claps. The male flamenco dancer enters at some point, tapping his feet, using his hands and his body to convey the power of his passion as he dances to the music. At times, the woman is singing in the background, sounding very far away, though she is right behind him. The guitar provides both the melody and the percussion at other times, again seeming to be an unnecessary accompaniment to the force of the performance by the dancer. But there are times when there is no sound other than the tapping of the black-soled shoes on the wooden stage in a still night in this courtyard where the audience holds its breath as it watches him perform. The dance is memorable not because the dancer is able to perform intricate fast-paced footwork impeccably but for his ability to overwhelm and overturn the other artists and relegate them to the background as his joy for the art form spills out and takes over the entire audience.

The guitarist then performs alone, slowing down the tempo and bestowing a sense of calm after the explosive performance of the dancer. The melody and talent of the guitarist appeals in the way that instrumental music tends to do, connect at a higher level by making you listen to something beyond mere words that our ears strive to hear most often.

The beautiful senorita in a figure-hugging red dress, with her hair tied tightly appears. She takes up a striking pose and begins her dance. It is a high energy performance - she moves likes a tightly wound spring, exuding strength, passion and grace with the tapping of her feet and the movement of her hands and body across the tiny stage. Her dress moves likes waves of water around her, fluidly crisscrossing her swaying and tapping form. She seems angry almost, giving off vibrations of extreme emotions as she concludes her performance. Once again, the song and the guitar take a back seat as the dance takes over. Before we know it, there is a crescendo and the performance is done. The audience claps as the artists come in to take a bow, and a second one as the applause continues. And then there is silence as we step out into the narrow bustling lanes of the Santa Cruz quarter on a Saturday evening. The night is young, and so is everyone seated at the bars sipping sangria while waiters handout trays of tapas. The tourists take a look at the lit up cathedral in the night, the bells of the Giralda look down on the square benevolently. And I feel immersed in the history and spirit of Andalusia as I go to bed.

Ah, Seville!

There are things that you pay for, material things, tangible things, things that cost money, stuff that you save for, plan for, buy, own or add to your collection. And so it is that I find myself on a holiday in the beautiful Andalusian town of Seville, on a perfect October morning, looking at the cathedral that is a few steps from the hotel room. A small wedding party is busy with its activities, watched curiously by a large number of tourists, milling around aimlessly, dozens of immaculately maintained horse-drawn carriages standing patiently, observing the orderly queue that waits to enter the Real Alcazar palace.

We booked our flights to Madrid in advance but paid dearly for the hotel room that is located in such a prime neighborhood in Seville. The only seats available were first class ones on the train from Madrid. For a tourist it all adds up - the train fare, the taxi, the transaction costs on the currency. But what we got for free, was the gorgeous weather, a perfect 18 °C temperature, clear skies and a light breeze.

There is something about the colors that are favored in the architecture of this region. A brick red that is not as dull, a shade of turmeric yellow that borders on mustard, the green of the Seville orange trees and the sheer blue of the skies, as cloudless and clear as that of the guileless eyes of a young child. The Real Alcazar palace amazed me with its innumerable courtyards that led into intriguing gardens, each with its unique identity, some with fountains, others with manicured lawns and precisely cut topiary. The girth of ancient tree trunks shamed me into humility with their sheer size, age and wisdom.

There are benches everywhere, lined with the famous Triana tiles. Couples hold hands and lie in each others laps, lured into loving somnolence by the soothing bird calls in the trees, oblivious to tourists who pass by. The pink blossoms of the magnolia framed the arches held by columns that overlooked courtyards with little nooks that invited me to sit awhile, perhaps with a book or an ipod, or even better, a companion who shared the same sentiment.

I look up and see those characteristic yellow and red colors on the walls that support the Spanish jasmine creeper that sways gently and rises up the white façade of the building towards an inviting blue sky, bringing me a whiff of a heavenly floral fragrance as the sun gently warms me in this beautiful place that I find myself in. Can money buy me holiday? Yes. But can I afford to pay for this truly priceless experience? Absolutely not.

Defining happiness

I had an interesting discussion with my students last week. I asked them what does "happiness" mean for each one of them. They came up with interesting answers but all of them could be summarized as the feeling that followed the acquisition of something they wanted, whether the object was material (like a cellphone or abstract as in words of praise). I am sure this would be the answer any other group would come up with as well. But is this right?

If happiness lies in acquisition alone then the wealthy would always be happy and the poor would not smile! Most things that bring joy to us are free - a child's smile, a beautiful sunset, blooming flowers. Then why do we equate happiness with acquiring objects and empty words? Perhaps the incessant media messages and the resultant peer pressure that makes us think only along the lines of material wealth as a source of happiness. Is human nature this shallow?

Is "having" something a prerequisite to being happy? If yes, we crave things, we keep doing, working, stressing ourselves as we rise higher up the social hierarchy. Is it possible to just "be" in the moment? As I heard someone say, "We have become human doings instead of human beings." We believe that we can be "happy" - as if it is a destination, once we "have" all the necessary ingredients and for that, we have to constantly "do" something.

My students asked me what my definition of happiness was. I had no prepared response but on the spur of the moment, I said "being alive". In a way, it does echo my belief that for me to experience happiness, the prerequisite is to be alive first. And each day I am grateful to wake up and appreciate all I have in my life already. I like my life the way it is right now. And from this space of contentment and fullness, I can look at avenues for creating more such moments in this life. Being in the moment, helps me move to the next with a sense of enthusiasm. Therefore I set about doing things that will add to my already existing levels of happiness.

I have concluded that being happy is the prerequisite to having all the things you want and not the other way around.

Charminar Charms

There was one thing on my list that finally got crossed out this week. Since the time I have been in Hyderabad, I have wanted to visit Charminar during the month of Ramzan. The entire neighborhood comes to life at night after the fast is broken, in the days preceding the Id. It has a unique atmosphere that is specific to the season regardless of the time of year. I have thought about going there every year for the last five years at least. I was told that it is not safe, it is too crowded, there is nothing for me there since I don't eat mutton biryani and a myriad other reasons to stay away. And I heeded these words. Until this week.

On Tuesday night I spent the hours between 11 p.m. and 3 a.m. in the area around Charminar. I bought glass bangles at Laad Bazaar, picked up cheap chappals on the roadside and ate sinful chola bhatura. The place was lit up like a thousand Christmas trees. There were cartloads of fresh fruit and stores selling the seasonal haleem. Piles of clothes at bargain prices blocked the entrance to stores. Footwear in an astonishing range of colors and mind-boggling prices twinkled in the bright lights. You could engage in good-natured bargaining with the smiling vendors for chappals, crockery and jewelry at every step. Women in burkhas walked by while men in motorbikes ogled every woman without one. Young boys announced the latest discounts while college girls selected accessories with a vengeance.

Festive energy enveloped the place. An easy camaraderie seemed to permeate the streets. The Charminar was lit up for the occasion and looked like a new Chinese implant. The bangle seller tried to convince me about the novelty of his goods by saying that the only old thing in the neighborhood was the Charminar, everything else was brand new! We took pictures with our fancy cameras but no two-dimensional depiction could capture the enthusiasm of the shoppers or the incipient joy that underlined the streets.

I felt totally at home in the crowds. It was almost like a regular day in a Mumbai local train. With all the lights around, it seemed like 8 p.m., not midnight. I am not a night owl but the contagious energy of the masses seemed to move me for a few hours until it was time to grab some Famous icecream and return home. What a great way to participate in the spirit of Ramzan! I hope to do it again.

Clear answers

I missed my mother today. She passed away more than four years ago. I sense her absence often but miss her acutely on some days. Today was one such day.

Did something happen to trigger the feeling? Was I in need of advice? A lecture perhaps? A prescription to fix what was ailing me? Is there a pattern that I can discern in this occasional feeling of melancholy that grabs me and punches me hard in the abdomen when I feel the void? No clear answer comes to mind.

My mother and I grew close over the years but had a tumultuous relationship in my growing years. In many ways we were like chalk and cheese - she was a quiet diplomatic woman while I was an outspoken firebrand. She was a quintessential homemaker while I was the flag-waving activist. I looked outwards to conquer the world while she had the internal stillness that everyone craves for. Was she perfect? No. Was I flawed? Perhaps.

But she was always there for me. To discuss, to debate, to discover. To observe, to object. To understand. Very often our stands on most issues were contrary. But from this divergent viewpoint, we would speak - freely and without fear of judgment. Seldom did we get converted to the others viewpoint, but we always listened. Vexing questions, weighty decisions, huge obstacles, we wrestled with them all. As I became an adult, she did not tell me what to do, but showed what the consequences of my actions could be, leaving me alone to decide. All the practice made it easy for me when I did have to take major steps in life.

We are always at crossroads in life, some minor, some major. There are clues, and people to guide, but choose you must for you alone will walk that path. It is simpler to listen to those well-wishers who speak loudest and with the most conviction or to the majority. But who will be the contrarian then? The soft-spoken voice of reason. The one who flips over the coin to show the other side? Mother was that divergent voice for me. The one I had to work hardest to convince and in doing that I would convince myself.

So when no clear answer comes to mind. That is when I miss her the most. Like today.

Tread Softly - Book Review

I have been looking for a good Indian writer who writes with honesty, about life in contemporary India. A sensible urban story, not chick-lit, not Bollywood wannabe script. I read two books recently and I am sorry to say that the search still continues.

"Tread softly" by Nandita Bose is the story about Paroma, a small-town girl who finds herself marrying the older step-brother of the intended groom and finding herself in Kolkata in an unusually hostile home. She starts off as a typical "sati savitri" trying to put the house in order, cooking, cleaning, being a good "wife" in spite of not sharing the bedroom with Abhinn, her distant husband. Mamun, the spinster aunt constantly berates Paroma for being the stereotypical backward woman whom Abhinn was brought up to abhor. Even on her deathbed, the aunt engineers the proximity of the beautiful Geetika who willingly gravitates into her beloved nephew's arms. Paroma is a bundle of contradictions as she watches the drama, wanting to escape it while fearing the consequences if she returns to her parents home. But that does not seem to stop her from distancing herself from Abhinn, blinded by her self-righteousness. She leaves only to return, assuming Abhinn will help her establish a bookstore in his home, put up a facade of a normal marriage when her father shows up while she holds no such responsibility towards him. The second half of the book drags on with repeated instances of people stepping in and out of their lives. The dialog between the couple is regressive sometimes and plain illogical most of the time. Paroma argues well with Abhinn but is unable to sustain a life on her own. Abhinn is the good husband who is unable to get through to his wife. What a long winded story until the final expected ending!

The author has created layered characters but they don't seem to generate much sympathy in the reader. Parts of Paroma's character seem incoherent like much of the dialog. Abhinn is a wimpy goody goody character, sweet and difficult to digest.

Influence and inspiration

I watched "Ferrari ki sawaari" yesterday. A cute, feel-good movie, based on our national obsession, cricket. The final credits thanked Sachin Tendulkar for being an inspiration for kids. It is true. Sachin's phenomenal success has stirred the imagination of all wannabe cricketers, showing a path of possibility for the truly talented. Inspiration is essential. Inspiration is the equivalent of the magician's "abracadabra" that ignites motivation in an individual to act upon his calling.

I also watched Amir Khan's Satyamev Jayate this weekend. The topic was domestic violence and was handled in the characteristic format of bringing to light individuals who have suffered, those who can shed light on the matter and others who show a way out. Some members of the audience speak in what appears to be impromptu statements but is probably finely orchestrated to fit the format of the show. But I still love to watch the show with my daughter and discuss the topic again, sometimes while watching the late night repeat. By bringing subjects like dowry, female foeticide, abuse and violence to mainstream television, Amir Khan has managed to shine a light on issues that we seldom discuss openly. These are issues that plague our country, across states, religions and social class. These are the stains on the image of "India shining" that the world sees. Like other countries, we have our social problems, compounded by the size of our population. But brushing it under the carpet has been the way we like to deal with it. Educated, informed people make choices every day that fuel the greed for dowry, that favor boys over girls, that systematically encourage violence against women. To change society, what we need is not just the occasional inspiring story, but a voice that influences choices and behaviors. A sustained debate, a possible solution, a tangible helping hand. The mass appeal of television can be channeled to encourage public discussion on topics that are not popular. But for people to listen, the spokesperson has to be one who has the charisma and the conscience to build the confidence of the audience. With his work and his image, Amir Khan does that, easily. While it may be easy for him to portray an image of earnestness considering his acting abilities, it is definitely not a popular choice for an actor to be typecast as a "do-gooder".

I am glad that Amir chose to host this show. While I am inspired by his decision to take up a task which no other Bollywood actor chose to do, I am happy to see today's youth being influenced by the sentiments expressed in the show. Whether its inspiration that brings about an individual change or influence that motivates social upheaval, one thing that is not up for debate is the fact that it is time for a change.

The tourist and the traveller

"The traveller sees what he sees. The tourist sees what he has come to see", said the quote by G.K. Chesterton, on the Lonely Planet bookmark. One week after my return from a 15-day trip to Europe, the quote aptly sums up what I feel.

It was a whirlwind tour, or so it seems in retrospect. Italy, Switzerland, France and Belgium; numerous hotel rooms, innumerable train rides, unfamiliar languages and unforgettable experiences comprised the European holiday. If you ask me the short version, here are the top 10 things I remember:
1. Pizza, pasta non-stop
2. Gelato everyday
3. Playing cards on Eurostar
4. Grandeur of Rome
5. Canals of Venice
6. Lakes and mountains of Switzerland
7. Filter coffee in Paris
8. Warm Belgian waffles and icecream in Brussels
9. Chocolates and tiramisu
10. Walking, walking, walking

It was a fun fortnight. Great company; fantastic weather. The holiday included help from the travel agent for hotel and train bookings but we were on our own for local sightseeing. Did we see everything there is to see? Probably not. But did I get a feel for the new places that I had visited. Definitely yes. Its easy to get carried away by ambitious sight-seeing plans, packed itineraries and tiring days. Our days were full, when we were not seeing places, we were going places, literally, dragging out suitcases across train stations, poring over bus routes in new cities, asking for directions to strangers who did not speak English and finally crashing into beds in different hotels every third night. But we could chose our daily outings. We picked the place where we ate our meals. On many days we made sandwiches in the train, munched on juicy strawberries for dessert and ate ice-cream for an afternoon snack. That is how we came across lip-smacking pasta, melt-in-the mouth pizza and heavenly gelato in unpretentious eating places.

We took some organized tours - a day trip to Naples and the ruins of Pompei with Wilma as our tour guide, a guided our of the Vatican museums with Marco and saw the leaning tower of Pisa with Ricardo, the flirt. We had our share of adventures as well - finding out that the hotel booked for us in Venice was 100 km away from the gondolas, two youngsters in our group of six getting left behind on a platform in Paris, losing the key to a suitcase, misplacing sweaters/jackets. But there were no major mishaps. And many memorable moments.

At the top of the list are:
1. The symmetry of the spiral staircase in the Vatican
2. Being referred to as "Shahrukh Khan family" while waiting to get into the basilica in Florence by a street vendor
3. Seeing signs in Hindi on top of snow-covered Mount Titlis
4. Sliding down in snow tubes along with other "Aunties and Uncles" in Switzerland
5. Early morning in the Pantheon
6. Flea market at Montreaux
7. Waving to a family on the lakeside at Interlaken
8. The gentle clang of bells on the Swiss cows
9. Talking to the non-singing gondolier, Antonio
10.Learning about Belgian chocolates from Thomas at the Godiva store near Mannekin Pis
11. Wanting to work at UN for two reasons - to make a difference to the world and for the wonderful view of Lake Geneva from the corridors

Being a tourist is hard work, as demonstrated by the bus loads of Indian tourists who thronged many of the same places that we visited. But being a traveller is more interesting. Traveling is more of a two-way interaction. It is an experience, not just a visual treat. I have been to Paris at least twice before and I know I am not inclined to visit again but Rome, is another story. I know for sure I want to live there, not just scratch the surface as I did this time. Belgian beckons, as well.

I like going to new places. But now I have tasted the distinction between being a tourist and being a traveller. I want to be the latter. And I will. Where will I travel to next?

As Paul Theroux says, "Tourists don't know where they've been, travellers don't know where they're going."

Education and the arts

I attended a Bharat Natyam arangetram last night. The artist who was making her debut as a professional dancer, Aditi, is the daughter of a relative of mine. The Guru was Padmasri Dr. Ananda Shankar, a well-known dancer in Hyderabad. The hall was full and we entered as the introductory speech led to the stirrings of the live orchestra. It was an engrossing two-hour performance and Aditi held the interest of the audience for the entire duration. She has an expressive face and a stamina that belies her petite form. The musical support was excellent and the preface to each item, provided by Ananda Shankar set the tone for what was to come.

At the end, a few words were said by the Guru not just about the student but also about art in general. She gave credit to the parents for honoring the dancing potential of their daughter by enabling her passion. As per rough statistics, she pointed out that across various genres of classical dance forms all across the country, if one were to count the number of artists,they would add up to no more than 5000 - 10,000. What an abysmally small number for a country of a 1.2 billion people, a country that boasts of a great heritage in the fine arts?

The reason for this poor showing is the popular craze among parents of this generation to make doctors and engineers out of their children regardless of their innate talents and aptitude. In the quest for such degrees, no effort or expense is spared. Entire childhoods are sacrificed at the altar of these ambitions. Seldom do parents indulge the natural talents of their children particularly if it goes against the common grain. A society composed entirely of engineers and doctors would be an empty one if there was no value for the arts. Pursuit of natural talents, honing of innate artistic abilities, brings a joy and completion to one's life purpose, even if we don't pursue it professionally. Creativity is its own reward. Not every dancer can win a Padmasri and not every artist may reach the stature of M.F. Hussain but every time a girl with a graceful step prepares to dance even if only to reduce the stress of a working day or a boy picks up a brush to paint from his imagination, the world is a better place. How? As each person pursues their inherent ability to create, the resulting sense of well-being is communicated by the person and his art. In this stressful world of ours, if we are to feel good about ourselves, we need creative outlets that the arts provide.

But time is in short supply. How do I learn these creative techniques? The answer lies in prioritizing. We all are allotted the same amount of time each day that we live. If we put individual well-being on the top of our list, I am sure time will be available. For me the first place to start is to participate in such live cultural events that drive home the point that life is not just about degrees and paychecks. I choose to spend Saturday evening at a music or dance recital and appreciate the arts. Next step would be to try it myself. And then to encourage my child to do the same.

Under water

I have a new goal this summer - learning to swim. There are some items that have been on my "to-do" list for decades and this is one of them. I don't particularly have a phobia for water and it seemed like a cool thing to learn. The barriers however, were many, beginning with the lack of a swimming pool that was conveniently located, inhibition in wearing a swimsuit, finding a suitable coach and of course, the usual excuse - I just don't have time for this. When the time is right, most excuses simply vanish (or should I say, dissolve?).

I have a pool in the building where I now live. I bought a modest swimsuit that suits my sensibilities. My daughter is my coach. And I truly do have the time now. As I always say, there are a 100 reasons to NOT do something. There is only one reason do something - because you want to. Right now, I want to learn to swim.

Aparna has been a great teacher so far. I am her first student and she is amazingly intuitive in breaking it down to small steps and incredibly patient. As adults, we snap much more at children when they fail to master what appears to be simple tasks to us grownups. Add to that the emotionally charged atmosphere of a parent-child relationship. It is almost as bad as your spouse teaching you to drive a car. But when the child teaches, perhaps there is something about this upside-down situation that removes the obstacles.

I remember taking Aparna to the local pool 3 days a week from age 2 to 6 to first learn and then master swimming. I had noticed her comfort when immersed in water at her first bath in the initial two weeks of her life. She was happy to jump into the pool and obediently followed the instructions of the youngsters who served as coaches for little kids in the Santa Clara pool in California. She would come out happy, tired and extremely hungry. In the car on the way back home, she would gobble the food, drink juice and fall asleep. It took a lot of effort for me to make time on weekday evenings after work to ensure she did not miss any classes. But today, when I see her swimming so effortlessly I feel so happy and proud. Not of her talent or my contribution but the fact that when a natural talent is honed, it brings joy to the person and to others as well. Although there were years when she did not get into a pool, she takes to the water like a fish, each time she has the opportunity. Quite often Aparna is asked by total strangers if she competes in swimming meets.

Now the roles are reversed and she is leading me. What better way for me to try my hand (and feet) at something new. I would like to put new things on my to-do list once this one gets crossed off.

Manthan experience

I attended the Manthan discussion yesterday at Saptaparni. It was a chance to listen to the noted Carnatic vocalist T.M. Krishna talk about "Who does the musician sing for?" We were late and the discussion was already in progress. The cozy amphitheater was full of listeners interested in participating in a dialog as Krishna asked thought-provoking questions both of himself (representing a community of musicians) and of the audience. We sat with the cool grass tickling our feet as a gentle breeze blew through the trees that circle the seats.

"What is the relationship between the musician and the music? between the singer and the composer? between the listener and the performer? Is it necessary to understand the words in the song? Since Carnatic music is almost exclusively devotional in nature, can an atheist set out to learn Carnatic music? What does the audience expect when they attend a live music concert as opposed to when they watch a movie in a theater?" Wonderfully stimulating points for discussion. The audience was quite forthcoming in answering and defending their viewpoints. Krishna was equally adept at managing the wide-ranging responses and incorporating them into a logical resolution. He expressed his own opinions quite eloquently.

So many insights into topics that I had wondered about before.

I love attending live classical music performances. I prefer that to passively watching movies. When Krishna emphasized that an art music performance is not merely paid entertainment but a shared aesthetic experience between the listener and the musician in celebration of the music itself, he verbalized my own feelings about this subject. When I am sitting in an auditorium attending a performance, I have always felt humbled to have this privilege of being a part of the communion between the artist and his art. By my presence and participation, I get a glimpse of the divine. I vividly recall dance ballets and concerts from 20 years ago where I have felt removed from my physical self as I am transported by the atmosphere into a mystical environment. In many ways then, the artist is not merely performing but allowing me to witness something larger than either of us.

Krishna also talked about how an artist (or a listener) may not understand the words or agree with the sentiments of the composition he is singing but he can appreciate the melodic appeal of the lyrics and the sheer beauty of the music. This is why we feel drawn to different kinds of music, sometime vocal, sometimes instrumental even when there are no words or words that we do not understand. It simply appeals to us. We enjoy it. Period. Seldom do we pause to reflect on the “why?” of it. In response to a question, he pointed out the difference between Carnatic and Hindustani music and expressed what he would like to see in an audience. The discussion ended with a rendition of Vande Mataram and a composition in raga Kalyani.

It was a great way to spend a Friday evening, getting to know new facets of a musician. It was intellectual discussion perhaps but one that probably enhances my interest in music. Knowing that each time I attend a live concert, I am involved in a shared musical experience that I can feel and enjoy.

Mother blindness syndrome

Aparna took up a project last month. She wanted to make a scrap book of school memories, now that she is in Class X. She spent days going through piles of school report cards, photos, memorable and significant events since she began kindergarten. But she wanted to start with a baby picture, taken as soon as she entered this world. She found a cute picture of her tiny self bundled up and with a cap on her miniature head. Her face is swollen and red. One eye is half-open while the other one has puffy bags. Her skin seems to have red patches. "See how absolutely adorable picture you look", I exclaimed. "I look disgusting" she replied. "How can you love such an ugly baby?" she questioned. "All moms love their babies" I said. "Why?"

Why do mothers love their babies? A rhetorical question at best. When you give birth after a long pregnancy, the birth is the culmination of all the months of togetherness for mother and child who are seeing each other for the first time. After sharing the wonderful experience of labor and delivery, it marks the successful completion of a long journey undertaken and understood only by the duo. Both are exhausted. Not looking their best. But the first moments of snuggling together are unforgettable ones. I think mother nature conspires to put a little stardust into the eyes of the new moms so that all they can see is their perfect little baby - not the misshapen head or the swollen eyelids or the bald head. What you see is a perfectly formed little human, with ten finger and ten toes, a pair of eyes that look into your soul and a lusty pair of lungs to announce any displeasure. What is not to love?

Yesterday, when I told Aparna that she looks pretty, she said I must be suffering from "mother blindness syndrome" since many of her friends are truly pretty. I agree that there is something that makes many mothers blind to their children's flaws and they tend to cover them up. There are also instances where mothers are blind to their children's innate gifts and talents and choose to smother them under the weight of their own dreams. But motherhood seems accursed with a selective vision. The nine months of pregnancy are like a comically long blind date, there is intimacy between the two without having set eyes on each other. But the soul knows all, sees all. And the two are joined forever. Yes, there must a such a syndrome. One that does not make you frail, just vulnerable, a syndrome that does not weaken you but adds strength. My wish for my daughter is that she will also experience the wonder of this syndrome.

Mind body connection

The pain was lodged firmly in the lower back, a band about 6 inches wide across the base of my spine, all the way from left hip to right hip. I could not think of any physical activity that I could have done to set this off. It was a diffuse area that remained painful for 10 days, starting from two days before my father's death and continued for the days of emotional rituals that my brothers performed while I witnessed their actions and my response to these acts which formed our final goodbye to our father. I probably took one tablet for the pain in this time, aware that the pain was caused by something inexplicable. I also knew for sure that the pain would go away in due course.

I know people who came down with extreme physical symptoms immediately after loss of a parent. The medical condition could not be diagnosed and usually disappeared as mysteriously as it had appeared. In my case, the pain subsided. But two weeks later, when I returned to Hyderabad, I felt drained. Empty. Listless. I had no motivation to get the day started. My fridge was empty. My cooking was insipid. My energy levels were at an all time low. I could not get into my daily routine of morning yoga or evening walk. I read sporadically. I refused lucrative projects at work, aware that I would not be able to do justice to it. My reflexes while driving were very lethargic. In short, I was just not myself.

Even now, more than a month later, I find myself tired. There are shooting pains that criss-cross my back, stopping me in my tracks. I still can't find joy in cooking. Perhaps the hardest task has been to focus on my music class. For two consecutive weeks, I kept struggling to learn a new raag, something that I usually grasp easily. This week has been better. I am able to sit still for pranayama if not yoga. I completed reading a novel. I am able to meditate for short periods of time. I am able to make conversation with ease.

It has been a time of great change and learning. I have been surprised by this strong mind-body connect, this situation where I can see my body harboring emotions and struggling to let go, to balance itself, and reorient to a new reality. The pent-up grief is a tangible ball of pain that moves around, reminding me constantly of my attachment. The lack of energy shows how essential it is to build reserves of mental strength that can be deployed in such situations to overcome physical limitations but how the body gives up when the reserves dwindle. It is a time for grieving but for rebuilding as well. The only way for me to regain my physical stamina is to build core mental strength. Like most important things in life, it will be built slowly, as time works its unfailing magic and heals. I can speed it up by filling it with things that add meaning to my life - my work, my reading/writing, music, being with family and most of all, finding peace within myself.

As they say, pain is inevitable but suffering is optional.

Farewell dear Father

My father passed away last month. He is at peace now, having suffered with a series of health problems in the last year of his life. Not major illnesses but small problems that reduced his mobility, prevented him from doing the things he wanted. He liked going out, meeting people, managing his paperwork, handing out chocolates to kids, watching cricket on TV. Small pleasures at the end of a meaningful life. A life spent taking responsibility for siblings, parents and children.

My father was the first guy in my life. The man who accompanied me to the school bus stop for years when I was afraid to go alone after being chased by an angry cow at age 9. He took me to colleges in torrential Mumbai monsoons to submit my application forms. When I won a scholarship for my college education, an amount equal to the tuition fees, he opened a bank account for me to keep my prize money, "It is my job to pay for your education. This scholarship is won by you, you can keep the money for yourself. Learn to use it wisely", he said. He did not indulge my every whim but gave pocket money from an early age to teach us the value of managing within a budget.He took us on family holidays to Kanyakumari,Darjeeling,Srinagar and other exotic places in spite of financial limitations. He ensured that his sisters completed college degrees before getting married.

After mother's death, four years ago, he took on the role of mother and father. Of course, it was not the role of a caregiver to little tots but being a friend, mentor and guide to grownup kids that he saw in a different light. He observed our strengths and weaknesses. He gave advice, instructions and orders. He listened. He spent time with us, something that he could not do much in the early years. He gave us an opportunity to "serve parents' a philosophy that he whole-heartedly subscribed to since he had served his parents as a dutiful son. We indulged his requests (for samosas and rasgollas), did what we could (temple visits) and argued when we could not fulfill his demands. He sorted out his finances and assets in such a manner that there are no administrative hassles left for us to deal with.

I miss him. I still feel his protective presence sometimes. But the loss of both parents marks a big milestone in life, a sudden promotion of sorts. The place that parents occupy in our lives is irreplaceable. While my brothers and I stand united, trying to be there for each other, we acutely feel the void. The tree under whose shade we grew up, the tree that helped us to take off with our newly developed wings, is no more. Thank you, dear parents for giving us life, good grounding and the strength to fly. There is no way we can repay you, except by providing the same roots and wings to the next generation. What else can we do? We are the new elders now.

Doing and delegating

I remember when I was promoted in my first job to a level where I had one employee reporting to me. While it seemed like a major milestone, it was quite scary to be responsible for the work produced by another person. As I progressed in my career, I became more comfortable managing people but I was more distant from doing the work myself. Quite often I missed doing "real" work and would try to keep my skills intact by showing up in the lab, operating instruments, getting my hands dirty, in a manner of speaking. When I returned to India and started working, I had a driver, a maid and a cook to help with the household activities in order to ease my life. Once again, I distanced myself from doing things, by surrounding myself with helpers.

Today I lead a simplified life. A fairly self-sufficient life. I drive my car. I cook. I do have a maid who spends about an hour at my home for daily housework but I still tackle all the major cleaning and dusting myself. I like to cook my meals, try my hand at making pickles and halwas, without having to delegate this work in painful detail. I can whip up a sandwich on the days I don't feel like making an elaborate meal or put together an eclectic menu when friends drop in for an impromptu lunch. I dusted the ceiling fans this afternoon, washed my colored clothes and scrubbed the grime from the kitchen cabinets. It was tiring but when I look around to admire my handiwork, I feel happy, and proud. It is great to know that I can afford to pay someone to do these tasks, but it is more satisfying to actually do my work. There is joy in doing. There is merit in self-sufficiency. By doing my work myself, I also want to teach Aparna that there is dignity in labor. While we use the services of others to ease our lives, we should be grateful for their presence. We should be able to do those tasks ourselves as well. While delegating may look glamorous, doing it yourself brings a sense of joy that is unparalleled.

Parental narcissism

It happens quite often. Someone who meets Aparna for the first time or sees her after a long break, will say "You look just like your mother." For a teenager who is still trying to get comfortable with her own skin, that comment is as unpleasant as someone telling her that her phone is "not cool". Parents, in general, are thrilled when genetic similarities are remarked upon. Even if we don't pass on the best of our personalities, at least the superficial markings are enough to confirm our parenthood. It massages the ego, it reaffirms our exalted status as parents who brought similar-looking children into the world.

Parental narcissism, however refers to the inclination of parents to view children as extensions of themselves. In a newspaper interview, Howard Gardner, renowned developmental psychologist, reiterates that "parents should avoid positive and negative narcissism." Positive narcissism is expecting that the child will be interested in and excel at activities that the parent himself/herself preferred, such as playing the violin or a sport. The latter refers to the insistence of parents that the child excel at activities which the parent could not do, such as swimming or singing. We see children of doctor's becoming doctors. The epidemic of Indian parents wanting their children to become doctors or engineers, because they themselves could not pursue those courses of study, continues unabated across generations, even today. I wonder how many parents have considered themselves to exhibit behaviors that can be classified as positively or negatively narcissistic? And if they were told, would they behave any differently?

I have always felt that I have made much progress in my personal life largely due to the fact that I was not "labeled" at birth to fit into a preconceived category by my parents. I was free to chart the course of my life, within reason of course, but I knew that these decisions had no major bearing on my parent's wishes. It is incredibly liberating to be in a place of myriad options, as you grow into your own adult persona.

I understand my daughter's irritation at being compared to me or to her dad (most of her dads friends/relatives think she looks like him too). While she accepts her biological origin, she wants to create a separate identity, whether it is with how she appears physically, the traits she displays or the talents she expresses. She wants to explore many possibilities, some of which may be common to our preferences while others may be totally off our radar. And that is her right. Then what is the role of the parent? As Gardner says, "the challenge is to watch your children very carefully, see what interests and excites them, and find ways to help them follow that talent/passion/curiosity."

It is so much easier to dispense advice and give prescriptions to today's youth about what they need to do. It is much harder to silently observe without passing judgment, even on our children. The children have a long road ahead as they turn into good adults and responsible citizens of the world. Can we then support them by aiding them in their chosen paths, igniting in them the passion to pursue their talents even if they tread on a path unfamiliar to us? A hard test to pass!

The Descendants - Movie Review

I once saw a statement at a bookstore in Mumbai - "Don't judge a book by its movie." How true, I thought. For a book lover like me, seldom has a movie based on a book, come up to the level of the original writing. Sometimes, a picture which is supposed to be equal to a thousand words, does not do justice to the sheer beauty of the writing or depth of the story. But then, I came across "The Descendants", a contender for this year's Oscar, which made me think again. Here is a movie that makes me want to read the book. I wonder if the writing can convey in mere words, the poetry of the scenes that move you, whether the text can be true to the magnificence of the Hawaiian sunsets, whether the central character, played wonderfully well by George Clooney, can generate the same empathy in the reader.

The story is simple. It revolves around the lives of Matthew King's family as they deal with the fact that his wife, Elizabeth lies in an irreversible coma after a boating accident. Matt goes from being a self-proclaimed "back-up parent" to his two girls to being in the center of the most important events in his life. As he comes to terms with the fact that Elizabeth will never wakeup, the fact that he has no clue how to handle the girls, a major decision as trustee of his family's large parcel of land that is being considered for sale to developers, we get to see a man at the lowest point of his life. A place where he feels inadequate at every level of relationships, as husband, father, son-in-law, cousin and friend.

Clooney, despite his obvious charm, underplays the part to perfection. Holding the rapidly unraveling strings of his life, he shows grace under fire. He is not a perfect human but a good one. As he deals with all the cards that seem stacked up against him, he rises to each occasion. The blue ocean of Hawaii contrasts with the gray areas of their lives. And without even noticing the transition, we see why the movie has the title of "The Descendants". Family, linkage, legacy, trust, love, forgiveness, how do these fit into our daily lives? Do we give it any thought? Are we ruled by where we come from? Do we fear what we know or don't know? What would you do in tough situations? These questions came to my mind as I left the theater with the image of the girls dispersing the ashes in the ocean. As they mourn the loss of one parent, they find a connection with other. And that is what families are about.

Of Aunts and Apps

Every so often, my elder brother, an ardent fan of old Hindi movie songs, will get a tune in his head. He wants to know which movie was it from, who the singer and composer was, who were the featured actors. So he contacts the expert. Our aunt, father's youngest sister, a great singer and movie buff, will give him the answers within a minute, give or take a few seconds. Sometimes she will call me to relate this incident. Sometimes, the quiz continues to other songs, other movies, a few bars sung across a STD call and another memory is created, a connection reaffirmed.

Now there is an app that you can download on your phone, Shazam (?) It can listen to a piece of music and within a few seconds, it can tell you the name of the song and the singer. It takes very little effort, no small talk and works pretty well most of the time. It impresses me for a while but leaves to impression. I don't feel any more connected to my gadget than the minute before it showed me its "smartphone" features. I marvel at the technology but make to memories. I don't have an excuse to call my aunt. Perhaps initiate a conversation where I learn more about her than her prodigious musical memory, a few bits of the Bhagavad Geeta perhaps, that she is mastering or a fable that has a moral underpinning that I need to hear that day.

I know my friends look up recipes on the internet. But I learnt to make avakai last summer because another aunt was visiting and she transferred to me not just the proportions and process of making the pickle but also her love for preparing foods that her family loves. If you need directions, use Mapquest, not the friendly Uncle next door who would love to have an excuse to chat and provide valuable advice as to which route to take on a weekday at rush hour versus the scenic route on a leisurely Sunday drive. We call Just Dial for a phone number instead of asking a friend who has used a service where she gives you not just the number but also her opinion about how three competing companies compare on service.

I support technology and appreciate the ease with which we have integrated it into our lives, saving large chunks of time that previously were spent in lines for paying utility bills and booking tickets. But what are we doing with this extra time? Spending it on looking for more gadgets and widgets, for apps and downloads, withdrawing into a virtual world where human interaction becomes optional? To live a full life, it is important to feel, to interact, to engage. Not just with the buzzing screen of the computer but with a living person, however slow, fallible and unpredictable they may be. Humans need human interaction. It is through these relationships that we learn and grow, we love and share, we bicker and bond. When the interface does not respond in the same human dimension, however quick it may be, it is an incomplete feeling. For the geeks who get all their satisfaction from developing these new apps and gadgets, I have a simple questions. When you have that "Eureka" moment of discovery, who do rush to share it with? Android or human?

Parenthood

More than 15 years ago, I attended a birthday party for a friend's daughter in Washington DC. The group was composed of mostly Indian families with small kids and a few Americans. I remember watching a young Indian mother running after her active toddler son, trying to get him to eat something. The curious child moved rapidly between the tables, attracted by everything around him, finding the task of eating too boring. The mother had not sampled the buffet lunch, was clearly exasperated and obviously quite hungry. But she stopped chasing the child only after he had eaten to her satisfaction. At the same time, the American toddlers were sitting around the tablet with bibs around their neck, bravely tackling the items on plate, sometimes with tiny plastic forks or with their chubby fingers. Their parents were enjoying the food on their own plates and rarely paid attention to what was happening at the toddler table. After a reasonable amount of time, the child indicated that he wanted to get off the high-chair to which he was confined and went off to play. The uneaten food was dumped into the bin.

This scene came to mind when I read about the furor created in Norway when two little kids of Indian parentage were taken into protective custody by the child welfare agency for parenting behaviors that were found "odd" (to put it mildly) in that culture. There seems to be some resolution after intervention by the President of India and the resulting decision to hand over the children to their Uncle.

Parenting is a universal activity that all the people in the world who choose to rear children do daily. Most of the time, parents do what they do, unconsciously. How they bring up their children is guided by personal choices, not as per prescribed textbooks. Like so many other things we learn in life, parenting is a learned skill. While most parents build upon what they saw in their own childhood (either to replicate or rebel against), they also negotiate the wishes of the spouse who may have a different view on the subject. Parents from the same culture and similar socio-economic class may perhaps make the same choices. But at every corner, there are sharp turns and divisive opinions that trouble the most peaceful families.

When the subject of bringing up a child in a different cultural environment (from the one you grew up in) comes up, there are even fewer pointers, hardly any role-models. Does culture influence parenting? Yes. How and where you grew up is a major factor in how you make your choices as a parent. Where are you living now features heavily while making decisions in the present specially when you are bringing up your child in a different country. But can we honestly say that all of us who grew up in the same culture would bring up our children the same way? No. Parenting is influenced by culture but is comprised of a series of individual decisions, unique choices, keeping in mind the needs of today's society and the demands that the future will make on the children of today.

We may debate the merits of junk food and TV watching but what we need to observe as parents is the impression that we make on young minds. Everything we do should be guided not just by blind love but an awareness of the imprint that our choices will leave. Will our children grow up to be caring and committed citizens of the world? Will they be able to imbibe the best of all cultures that they are exposed to? Will they become responsible parents and not dogmatic supporters of everything that they see in their immediate world? Since each of our actions are to be weighed in light of our own context and situation, quite often there are no right/wrong, black/white solutions. The proof of good parenting can only be determined if we follow the children into adulthood and when they in turn bring up the next generation. If we continue to live in civil society as responsible citizens that protect not just their progeny but look out for a sustainable world, I think we can consider ourselves to be on the right track. For the globalized village in which we live today, that would mean bringing together the good from all cultures and melding it into a way of life, not a court-documented recipe, for a harmonious world.

My First Love - Aparna's first poem

Aparna wrote this poem today at the literary workshop for school children at the Hyderabad Literary Festival held at Taramati Baradari. I am thrilled at her effort and even more pleased to share that she won a prize for it, 8 poems from 140 submissions were selected for the prize.

MY FIRST LOVE

He came into my life
One Sunday morning
He was my first
He brought such joy I have never felt before
We brought him home
He explored the place
He settled down and took a rest.
I looked at him lovingly,
Imagining how life would be now.

The days passed
And I grew to love him more
We ran and played
And grew closer
He became a part of me; a possession
Perhaps I took him for granted
For four years later,
When I saw him lying still there, I was devastated.
His tongue out, and his tail stiff,
Tears rolled out and fell to the floor.
I knew he was gone forever.
I looked at him lovingly,
Imagining how life would be now
Without him.

But when he was here, I had been happy
‘That was his job,’ she said, ‘to make you happy.’
‘To teach you how to love.’
I hope he’s happy in heaven
Chasing butterflies and cats
My first ever pet,
Sharky.

Innocence

This rangoli graced the space outside my neighbor's apartment this weekend. A beautiful creation on the occasion of Pongal. We stopped to admire it and rang the doorbell to compliment the creator. My neighbor's son, a naughty three year-old promptly stepped out with his new toy, a slim and long airplane and promptly started using the rangoli as a runway to demonstrate. Both Aparna and the boy's mother were upset and asked him to not mess up the masterpiece. But the child kept on with his antics until we bid goodbye to them and moved away. If you look closely, you will see the tiny lines running across the colored spaces, marking the areas where the aircraft came into contact. But the rangoli is still as eye catching.

Aparna asked me why I had not stopped the boy. I told her a story that my mother had narrated to me years ago. Once upon a time a woman prayed to God. She asked him to send someone who would wipe off the kum kum from her forehead, someone who would eat the dryfruits that she offered each morning as prasad and someone who would erase her daily rangoli. People were shocked at these prayers since traditionally all of these constituted bad omens. Only the people who could look deeper into the words realized that she was asking God for a baby. For only a child would do all of the above with innocence, unaware of the connotations or significance of his/her impish actions.

As we grow up, we get caught into the idea of perfection, of maintaining our life, our figure, our routine within predictable confines, coloring within the lines so to speak. We are not even able to tolerate others doing something different, off the beaten track. Why stop the child from being true to himself for that small part of his life when he can be true? Yes, destruction of a large magnitude needs to be curtailed and limits of acceptable behavior need to be enforced. But just as we appreciate the creation of a beautiful rangoli, let us also celebrate the innocence of childhood when we see it in action.

What goes around

It happens often enough these days. You are standing in the checkout line at a department store with your car, awaiting your turn. Just as you get to the counter, the person behind you requests you if he could go ahead since he has only one item to buy. What do you do? Insist on following the system since you were ahead anyway? Or do you make an exception and let him go ahead? Is this a big deal?

There is no right answer. Following the system, first come first served, is the rational, logical approach. Letting a fellow shopper go ahead with his solitary purchase while you wait to buy a cart-load of stuff seems reasonable too. It won't make a huge dent in the greater picture given the fact that your billing will take much longer. So what is the right answer? How do you decide? If I am not in a tearing hurry, I usually oblige the other person. Why?

I once traveled from California to India with Aparna who was 2 years old then. For some unknown reason, she began throwing up soon after we boarded the trans-Atlantic flight. She was unable to keep anything in and started appearing quite dehydrated after a bout of vomiting and retching every half hour. After 8 hours of this, we landed in Frankfurt. I wondered if I should get off and seek medical attention or continue on the second leg of the journey.During the stopover, Aparna finally took a few sips of water and was able to keep it in without promptly ejecting it. I thought it was a sign of improvement and boarded the flight to Mumbai. We had been assigned two middle seats. I knew that I had frequent trips to the washroom ahead of me on this leg as well given Aparna's condition and requested the person in the aisle seat if he would exchange seats with me. He refused instantly since he had specifically requested an aisle seat and was not going to part with it. I was taken aback but did not have much choice. I then requested the other gentleman seated on the other side. He promptly obliged and moved into an uncomfortable middle seat. I was intensely grateful for his consideration. It made the rest of the journey a little bit easier as I made endless trips to the washroom.

A few years later, I was traveling alone in business class from Paris, in an aisle seat. A family of four had been upgraded from economy and were assigned seats next to mine. The mother of the two kids came up to me and requested me to change seats with her son who had been throwing up on the previous flight. I promptly obliged. I definitely empathized with her and her concern for her child's well-being. But more importantly, I remembered the kindness of another stranger a decade ago and felt that it was opportunity for me to repay it. I was not returning a favor to the same person but repaying a debt by making a deposit into the global "good-deeds" bank. I was helping someone who may in turn pay it forward for another person in need.

Allowing the person behind me in line to cut across is not a big deal or a great deed. I don't endorse people cutting across queues thoughtlessly. But sometimes there are opportunities to be gracious, particularly when asked politely, to give a few minutes of a head start to another person. Who knows whether these few minutes may be paid back by another person to me when I need those minutes the most? And if it does not come back to me, I can rest peacefully knowing that someone in greater need has made a withdrawal from the good deeds bank. What a lovely thought!

Retail therapy

I woke up on Monday morning feeling empty. This was not your typical Monday morning blues, associated with the beginning of another work week. But more of a hangover type of remorse, usually felt after a binge. In my case, it was not overdose of alcohol but more of a shopping orgy. I purchased jewelry, electronics and many additions to my wardrobe all in the course of a weekend. For three days, I entered several shops, parted with a large chunk of my earnings and walked out with large bags or a tiny box. Some of what I bought will appreciate over time (like gold) while the electronics will only depreciate and the clothes will certainly wear out. The joy of acquisition was short-lived, as all these facts became apparent to me the next morning. No wonder I felt depleted, instead of rich.

I wonder why retail therapy is so popular for anyone looking to feel better. I had an associate at my previous job who faced every minor setback in life with a trip to the mall. While she glowed with the joy of new possessions on that day, she looked very different on the day the credit card bill was due. After amassing a huge debt and faced with the reality of any salary increment only in the distant future, she came to me with request. She handed me her credit cards (she had a handful of them) and asked me to keep them away from her reach until she settled every bill. It was almost a year before she could claim them. The whole experience was a lesson for her, as well as for me. I decided to possess just one credit card. This helps me manage my finances better since I see one consolidated bill which accurately gauges my expenditure and is due at the same time each month, allowing me enough time to arrange for payment before the due date.

Material objects bring temporary pleasure but the joy of ownership pales in comparison to the joy other activities can bring. Today I had my music class. It had been a busy day till then, I had not practiced and I was not sure I could handle singing. But once the class started, I was transposed into a world of melody, engrossed in music, drowning in the ocean of new raagas. I tried to keep pace with the teacher, I grasped at slippery notes and subtle nuances. I felt transformed at the end of the hour. I felt rejuvenated, refreshed, full.

The best things in life are not bought, but experienced.

Life lessons - from teenage kids

Many years ago, in a small apartment in Mumbai, I lived with my two brothers, mother and grandmother. My father was posted in small town and felt it was better to leave three teenagers in the care of my mother in order to not interfere with our education during the critical years. For a long period of 11 years, my mother suffered with each of us as we went from 13 to 19 and turned into adults. I wonder how she did it. Specially on those days when I am having a hard time with my one and only teenage daughter.

Ask any parent of a teenager today and you will find pain, tears, frustration, helplessness, anger. Ask any teenager how they feel - they will tell you about helplessness, frustration, anger, pain, tears. Both sides experience the same feelings although one is in the role of a powerful parent while the other is the manipulative teenager. The amazing fact is that every parent has been a teenager at some point and empathy should be a large part of the parenting process. But there seems to a selective amnesia that the parent chooses to exercise and repeats a lot of the same mistakes their own parents made.

I think back to what my mother did in those turbulent time. She is no longer in this plane to guide me. How did she keep her sanity? How did she deal with unreasonable requests, uncouth behavior and general non-cooperation that dominated most of our days? We survived. And thrived. So did she. I think she started dealing with this issue on two counts. First - she did not overtly worry about the dreaded "teenage" phase. Second, she trusted us. She told us repeatedly that we were good kids, long before we turned into surly teenage brats. She told us we were her true treasures. She calmly responded to my incessant questioning rationally. Very rarely did she pull rank and say "because I am the Mom". She knew we would rebel but ultimately make the right choice. She gave us a long rope. She kept her cool. She was genuinely interested in our lives, our friends, our school and college stories. She maintained a sense of humor. I am sure there were days when she was tired and one was us was pushing her buttons. She must have lost her temper and given us an earful. But she was always there for us. Like the daily sunshine and Mumbai humidity.

My personal experience has been one of continuing amazement that my daughter is a wonderful 100% reflection of whatever I am feeling or thinking at that moment. When I am feeling peaceful and grateful, I am showered with affection. When I am stressed and feeling generally "blah" about life, she gives me more chances to feel worse. I have finally figured out how to change the dynamic. I can restore peace in the home by restoring peace within myself. Sometimes that requires me to just slow down. Sometimes I need to meditate. Other times, ice-cream works.

I have now changed my thoughts about "teenagerhood" as a tough phase. I know it is an essential phase of her growing up and each year is special to me as I see my little bird testing her wings in the world. I want to be a part of it. I want to build a stable nest for her and enable the growth of strong wings so she can fly high. It is an intense period of learning for me as well. So we keep moving, through trial and error, in search of equilibrium. It is not easy but as with most things in life, keeping a sense of humor helps.

Here is a funny link to "The Mom Song" on Youtube. Pay close attention to the lyrics. And if the link does not work, please google it. It's hilarious.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CXgoJ0f5EsQ

Letting go

It is 2 Jan 2012. Now that a regular work day has dawned after a party to ring out the old year, it is time for people to plan, to ask, to list all that they want in this new year. Making resolutions is a common phenomenon, breaking them is even more common. It is surprising that each year we continue this ritual (or is it a charade?) of wanting things in our life, even lofty ones like healthier lifestyle and peace of mind and common ones like a new gadget or luxury car.

Very often when I look at my closets, I feel overwhelmed by all the things I own. I am not a pack rat and usually only keep things that are of use to me and periodically even purge my belongings. But clutter has a way of taking residence unannounced. As I see clutter around me, I feel that my thoughts are also cluttered. It is time to clean up.

I feel this year that I should make a list of things that I want to let go. The list obviously includes several material possessions of dubious current value. But more important are the intangibles that I would like to let go. Most of them feature in the category of "fear". Here is what I plan to release this year:
1. Fear of attempting Shirsasana (head stand in yoga)
2. Fear of water - I would like to learn to swim
3. Fear of public ridicule when I sing in front of an audience
4. Fear of taking up a large writing project - book, novel, memoir???
5. Fear of sharing all my fears - this one I will tackle another year

I think I will start with the third item on the list. I plan to post mp3 files of some of my singing previews. It is a big step for me, akin to posting pictures of yourself "before" going on the huge weight loss diet where your "after" picture makes you look like a fashion model.

Why am I doing this? It has been my experience that sharing your plans loudly with the Universe makes it come true faster than if you were hoarding this information inside you, afraid to make it public in case you fail. I hope to get better at items 1-4 as I make efforts during the year. I also be more accountable by feeling the need to update readers on my progress. It feeds a virtuous cycle to achieve.

All I need to figure out is how to embed my mp3 files into the blog. Help!