Apples and lemons

My phone has not been well lately. Suffers from fever, lack of energy and impaired cognition. I plug it in every chance I get, but it gets exhausted very quickly. I took it in for a diagnosis, which led to its being admitted for further observation. Ultimately it was discharged, not cured. "Motherboard problem" they said.

If it was any other phone, I might have made my peace with the outcome, bought another phone. Moved on.
But I am in denial. I still hold on to this sick device that is just about 7 months old, too young to be abandoned, even in these times of rapid upgrades. I cannot accept the immutable fact. Because the phone is an iPhone!

Sometime ago, during my "Apple-less" days, I read this article in The Hindu titled "Think different?".
http://www.thehindu.com/todays-paper/tp-features/tp-sundaymagazine/think-different/article2602615.ece
No point for guessing what the subject of the article was. I was so impressed by the author's logic and writing style that I took the trouble to send him an email. He graciously replied. Then I made the grievous error of sending the link to a friend who at that time owned an iPad, iPhone and a Macbook. She assumed I had joined the rotten apple bridge for bashing the company that not just made her favorite gadgets but bestowed upon her, the status of "cool". I had never owned an Apple product, neanderthal that I was. Uninitiated into the joys of owning a user-friendly gadget that would make my life easier and more meaningful. While I wasn't an Apple fan, I wasn't against the company or those that owned their devices, swearing eternal loyalty to the brand. I was an amused bystander who thought Apple product owners were no different from followers of religious or other cults who sought to convert the "others". While other manufacturers made and sold similar products they were unable to clone the rabid following that Apple had. Not having a business degree, I just found the whole business "silly".

About a year ago, I needed a new laptop that was light on my shoulder and easy on my eyes. While it wasn't easy on my wallet, I have been happy with MacBook Air that I bought. And then I succumbed to the pressure to buy an iPad to mark my daughter's 16th birthday. And before I could say Blackberry, I was gifted an iPhone by my husband. So we had a houseful of Apple gadgets,a fact that never ceased to thrill my friend who finally saw me as the ultimate turncoat. And it gave her great joy to remind me of the Hindu article and its aftermath in my life.

Perhaps I did switch over to the masses that believe Apple products are by far the only gadgets worth owning. Perhaps I did get used to the easy user interface. Perhaps the sensible side of me believed it was worth the premium pricing it commands, for its reliability. And a part of me felt a wee bit sheepish. Not for handing my life and loyalty to Apple but for being a late adopter, if not a total skeptic. Until last week.

I was totally shocked at the poor performance of my phone - a unit that I have used sparingly for about 6 months, it hasn't fallen, cracked or been dunked in water. It hasn't been exhausted by constant use of high speed data. In fact, the one thing my phone hardly does since I moved to Singapore, is ring. And for such gentle use, I get rewarded with a basic hardware problem which the service center is unable to fix. I have been asked to pay $350 dollars to get a new instrument. This seems a particularly harsh ending to the budding love story of me and my Apple gadgets. Do I feel disappointed? Yes. I am saddened by the lack of ruggedness of my phone but even more by my reaction. Expecting a mere device to last long, even though newer models have already made an appearance, expecting my phone to be my guide, my savior, my connection to life itself. Like Elizabeth Gilbert says about marriage in her book "Committed", I piled on all my expectations onto a puny device. And I blame it for my unhappiness, for my disconnect from the wired world.

I haven't been on the phone lately, I fear the burn mark on my ear if I hold the fiery hot instrument to my head. I do things the old fashioned way. I wait for a bus until it arrives - without relying on the bus App for accurate timings. I look out the window as I enjoy the bus ride, instead of plugging in the earphones. I have used a pay phone to make a call. I have knocked on a neighbors door to communicate a message. I am in retrograde.

While I would like Apple to send me an apology for the poor performance of one of its millions of pieces, I owe Apple a thank you. For releasing me from a dependence on devices, for opening my eyes to the world around me, for challenging my brain to live my life. For bringing me back to a saner life. For giving me a lemon, not an Apple.

A love for libraries

A cold breeze instantly chills me as I walk inside from the harsh afternoon humidity. My eyes take a few second to adjust to the dim interior though it is only a response to the sun's glare. I feel soothed, as if I am sipping a refreshing cool drink although there is no food or drink allowed inside the library. Its the sight of books that calms me, rejuvenates me and recreates in my mind the endless days of my childhood where I read everything I could lay my hands on.

There were no public libraries in Mumbai where I grew up. But I always had access to books. I read everything in the modest school library, borrowed shamelessly from friends whose homes were virtual treasure troves of books, secretly read Harold Robbins that lay around my grandparents home, probably being read by an aunt. While there were no official-looking libraries, there was the local store which traded old newspapers and magazines and lent paperbacks for next to nothing. The store had entire collections of Nancy Drew, Famous Fives and all the staple English books, many of them authored by Enid Blyton in the era preceding Harry Potter. My brothers and I fought over who got to read the Tintin or Asterix comics first. We narrated the funny bits to each other and to our mother as she cooked dinner for us. We then traded up to Sidney Sheldon and Jeffrey Archer. As I gravitated towards Mills and Boon and Danielle Steel, I veered away from the reading tastes that I had until then shared with my brothers. Reading habits marked my age, ability and personality. It tracked not just my tastes, but my maturity. It held my hand and illuminated the coming of age wonder years. Books were my friend, my guiding light and solace. And continue to be today.

No wonder then that one of the greatest source of joy for me in Singapore has been the ability to access the wonderful public libraries here. The one closest to home is located in the mall at the metro station and has a limited selection. The better one is the regional library which is 4 floors of book heaven. One level has audiovisual materials available while another focuses only on children. The rows of books are neatly arranged, precisely labeled and accurately identified in the online catalog. Magazines can also be rented. Along the long glass windows lining the walls, there are desks and chairs with outlets to plug in your laptop. A separately enclosed "quiet reading area" is furnished with comfortable sofas where you can safely browse or drowse.

I spent a productive afternoon there last week. Most of my fellow-library users were youngsters, school or college kids with their gadgets and devices. With a laptop open, I saw them fiddling with iPads or phones, texting or listening with earphones. I wonder if they got any homework done! I finished reading the last few pages of a book and then opened my laptop to write in that strange quiet of shared solitude in a public place. It felt wonderful. The words flowed as though I was afloat in a stream of imagination with words as my oars to navigate the streams of thought. I had been feeling adrift in this new country with no friends to hang out with, to vent or to venture. But the library felt like home, the books like old classmates that I had missed while we had both been busy doing other things. Now I have them within reach. Like the ones closest to you, these books will support me, watch out for me and be there to provide their infinite wisdom when I reach out to them.

Yellow watermelon

I tried something new today. I ate a yellow watermelon. Once I overcame my distrust for a familiar fruit that seemed to be in disguise, I found it to be delicious. It had the same texture, sweetness and soothing juicy bite. The black seeds looked particularly attractive against the bright yellow flesh. The outside was the same familiar green stripes that all watermelons sport. But it was a shock to see the yellow interior upon cutting through. I recoiled at first sight. Slowly I got over my resistance and cut through the wedges to cut bite-sized pieces. And finally put one piece in my mouth. The teeth crunched against the slice and erupted in a burst of sweetness in my mouth. Yummmmmy!!!

Like so many things in life, the older we get, the more judgmental we become. Whether it is an inevitable outcome of aging or a reluctance to try anything new or a desire to be proved right, over time we tend to get overly suspicious of novelty. At a recent get together, I observed a toddler taking a bite from the items on her mother's plate. It was amazing to see her reaction to all the new foods she tried that evening. A veritable culinary adventure for her taste buds with no knowledge of whether the next bite would be sweet or salty or downright spicy. She was game to try every single thing laid out in front of her. None of the previous reactions stopped her from trying out the next one. She was truly open to all the tastes and textures that touched her tongue. And she did it so joyously and effortlessly. While I loved watching from the sidelines, I knew that this bold kid might soon turn into a picky eater with limited preferences and those would be defined by the memories of previous experiences and a wish to assert her right to choose, to define her likes and dislikes and therefore define her personality.

Moving to a new country tests you. It is as different from a short holiday to an exotic destination as is watching a 30 second video clip of a person and then meeting them live. As travelers, we go for the novelty, for the exciting architecture, the interesting geography, the different weather. We rejoice, for a while, in the newness of things that stimulates our jaded minds. But living in another country challenges you. It changes your way of not just looking around but the way you respond to your surroundings. So you compare. And complain. And curiously venture deeper. And for all your apprehensions, sometimes you are truly surprised, pleasantly.
"It tastes yellow", exclaimed Aparna. Does yellow have a taste? Really? But I know what she meant. Its the same, but different. Is it the watermelon that is different? But the yellow watermelon doesn't know it is different. Our surroundings in a new country were always what they were, we are the new additions to the landscape.

As R.L. Stevenson aptly said, “There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.”

Friendship

There was cantaloupe on the table today for breakfast. Along with guavas, apple and jackfruit. But the sight of the ripe pieces of melon that was introduced to me so many decades ago in another country brought back memories. And I smiled.

Poonam and I shared an apartment that summer in Delaware. We were at a summer job, a requirement of the Ph.D. program in which we worked side by side in the lab. We needed a place close to the company location and finalized a quaint house near the university. The old couple that lived there went fishing to Maine (or was it New Hampshire?) each summer, renting out their home for a few weeks. It rooms were cluttered with antique furniture, knick-knacks, books, clocks and curios. The common theme underlying their possessions was - birds. While they seemed to own bird-shaped, or bird-like items in every room (even the kitchen towels has bird prints), they seemed to have a preference for owls. And so we found ourselves being followed around the house by large eyes, whether it was the bird feeder in the yard or the mounted owl in the dining room. The rooms were dark and dusty. So we limited ourselves to the bedrooms and the kitchen area when we returned each evening from a long day "at the office".

It was a time of great adventure for me. I was being paid a decent salary for the first time in my life at what looked like a regular job (not counting the student stipend that the university paid). I reported to a great boss who mentored me and built my confidence. It was the first time I stayed with a room-mate. Poonam and I would drive from Baltimore to Delaware on Monday mornings and return on Friday evenings. We ate cereal or toasted English muffins and fresh fruit for breakfast - juicy summer berries, watermelon, bananas and one day Poonam picked up cantaloupe. I loved the soft texture and sweetness of each bite of this exotic fruit. And so we consumed large quantities of cantaloupe and had a great time that summer. We went to Atlantic City one weekend, to the famous Jersey shore on another. We shopped at the malls and visited some of the famous Dupont family museums.

I learnt other things from Poonam and about Poonam. We tried cooking with new ingredients and came up with recipes for mushroom curry and broccoli masala. I heard stories of Poonam's pen pals and her pet dog. All this came to me in a rush, propelled by the sight of a fruit. Something so simple has the capacity to evoke tastes, experiences and a stream of memories, like a magician looking into his hat for a coin and pulling out a long colorful ribbon. Friendship is a not just a special feeling of affection but an experience that forever brands you, with its own mark.

In Singapore, I find so many new things to compare to my days in the US and to my more recent years in India. But each place carries memories of people I met, friendships made and cemented with shared experiences. I am new here. No one yet to label as "friend". But I know that soon I will have another stash of experiences to recount at a later point and then the events won't simply be a narration but a story, one that includes friends.

When did I get so lazy?

It’s a rainy Monday morning. The children have left for the day, so has my husband. The clouds hang low across the trees on the hill in the distance, caressing the uninterrupted greenery on the horizon. I sit with the newspaper on my lap. My maid hands me a hot cup of tea to start my day. Bird calls surround me while a cool breeze blows in through the kitchen window. I look out the balcony and see the clouds caressing the treetops, moving aimlessly together, and then apart, unsure of the plan for the day ahead. Like me.

“It’s mid-January oready” – as the locals say. Three months since I moved to Singapore – this multicultural oasis that is now home. It has been a time of transition for the family and not just in the “we just moved here from India” sense. My husband and I, through our decision to marry, are in the process of building our blended family. We each had a daughter through our previous marriage and now we are four in a new place, a new job for him, new schools for the girls and of course, a new family of our own.

It feels a little strange, not being a single parent any more. There is once again, a spouse, another adult under the same roof to share the days’ details – like the leaking sink or plans for the weekend. It is reassuring to not have to worry about paying the rent or running out to a full-time job to keep the home fires burning. It feels wonderful to have full-time help at home to take care of the mundane chores that form the bane of every housewife. For the first time in a long time, I am free to pursue my dreams, with time on my hands and no impending worries about the future. I have the support that I have craved – physical, material and emotional. I have in front of me days of unstructured time when the girls are in school, with no other distractions, time in which I can do exactly as I please. In short, this is the life I have always dreamt of. An environment that is totally conducive to writing. But I find myself stumped.

I go to the library every week. Sometimes I borrow books. Other times I just browse. I came across a book last week titled “When did I get so busy?” – a typical self-help book for those whose lives and chores have taken over their days. The book was meant to help such people carve out time for meaningful tasks in order to make the most of their life. There was a time I would have picked up this book and surely have used at least a few tips to simplify my life. Those were the days when I held a full-time job and every day was filled with to-do lists. I hastily put the book back. That life seems so remote from the one I lead now.

Why am I not writing regularly any more? Is it writer’s block? I don’t think so. I have plenty of ideas about topics to write about and hardly anything else to do. But each day comes in marching hopefully and goes out limping and I have nothing to show for it. And this has repeated for 100 days now. What message from the universe am I waiting for to begin my writing project?

“Procrastiparna!” – that is what Aparna’s status on Whatsapp says today. I love this newly coined term that aptly describes her, the typical narcissistic teenager that she is, this older daughter of mine. I smiled when I saw that. And then stopped short.

I think the message I had been waiting for was not to be found on a banner flown in the sky but has been channeled through a closer source, not just closer to home, but from within the home. Thanks, Aparna – for the wake up call. Let me not waste another perfectly beautiful day of freedom. I am back doing what I love, reading and writing. This one is for you.

A new year - a new experience (Part 1)

"Health is wealth. Peace of mind is happiness. Yoga shows the way." - These words welcomed me into the Sivananda Ashram in Kerala a month ago, a sultry March evening. The reception building was well-lit but all was quiet as I was quickly ushered to the temple for the initiation ceremony where a smiling gentleman applied ash, chandan and kumkum on my forehead before handing me a bag that contained a book and some clothes. I was escorted to my dorm where I selected a bed and parked my suitcase. I was told to put the pillow and sheets on a bed and head for satsang. I obeyed. And walked over to a large hall where almost 150 people seemed to be engrossed in chanting "Om namah Shivaya" and other such names of Hindu Gods. There were pictures of various deities on the walls and the first one I set my eyes on was Goddess Saraswati. I looked around and saw a few Indian faces amidst a sea of faces of people who had obviously traveled a long distance to be here. Many seemed to be wearing a yellow t-shirt and white pants which I realized was the uniform that was given to me in the bag a few minutes ago. The announcement at the end of the satsang reminded us to be present at the 6 a.m. satsang the next morning. I was tired from my travel, hungry, sweating profusely and vaguely registered the words as I dropped into a disturbed sleep on an unfamiliar bed in a strange room.

Thus began my 4 weeks at the Sivananda Teacher's Training Course at the ashram. The days were hectic, starting well before dawn and ending in a dreamy stupor each night until the bell rang again the next morning. We had what seemed to me like unending hours of asana classes where my body endured a lifetime worth of yoga postures. We sat on the floor for chanting sessions, daily Bhagavad Gita discussions and lectures on Vedanta philosophy. This was in addition to morning and evening satsang with silent meditation and chanting and homework as well. A brutal routine with two meals where "sattvic" food was served and of course, no TV, internet or newspapers. Not that we had time to enjoy any of these distractions - there was just enough time to bathe, sometimes wash your underwear and occasionally talk to loved ones on the phone.

The days were a blur of activity, buzzing around from one session to the next with barely a moment to spare in admiring the sheer beauty of the ashram, located on a hill, right beside a beautiful lake fringed by mountains in God's own country. On Fridays, we got a break from the routine to admire the barrel-sized jackfruit that hung from trees like grotesque appendages, fruits trees with tropical fruits like chikkoos and papaya which dotted the campus. A green lawn invited us to spend a few moments each evening for some fresh air while the dorms radiated the days heat. A lovely temple with a gorgeously bedecked goddess watched us scurry around like the naughty squirrels who zoomed past. A lion growled in the distance in the Lion Safari Park across the lake.

Most days were hard for me. Most days I grumbled. The asana classes wiped me out. Every pore in my body seemed to produce nothing but sweat. Every muscle wanted to just curl up and rest. My scalp was not dry for a single moment during that month. I longed for the familiar solitude of my comfortable home. I was constantly surrounded by 120 classmates. Each day I wondered what I was doing here and most importantly - why?
Sometimes it seemed like everyone else was having a good time - every foreigner who struggled to sit on the floor and eat food served in stainless steel plates with their hands, every person who struggled to pronounce the Sanskrit shlokas, every student who grappled with the esoteric concepts of karma and koshas. I admired them all. And was still full of self-pity.

There was a final exam before we could graduate and we had exactly one day to study. And we did. Sitting in a secluded spot beside the lake. A gentle breeze caressed the waters like the birds that flew silently above the surface before dipping down to grab a fish. THe humidity kept rising until the thunder rumbled in the distance. And the rain crashed around us. The leaves rustled in the high wind and fell on the ground. Raindrops dripped from branches and through the gaps in the tiles that covered our shelter. Our books got wet. Our notes flew around aimlessly. And then all was quiet.

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.