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.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, March 23, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
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.
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.
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