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.