There are a few moments in life when one is well and truly alone. You are born alone. You die alone. In between, people come in and go out of your life. But whenever you are truly happy, can another be part of that pleasure in the same measure? And when you feel that gut-wrenching pain, can anyone else feel it the same way? Certainly not. And yet we crave the presence of others in our life not believing or perhaps not wanting to believe that loneliness is the truest part of our existence. Even when embarking on a journey to realize the true self, one must walk alone. You may have a guide for a while but you must go on alone if the ultimate is to be realized.
Somehow one tends to forget all that in the hustle and bustle of a daily existence. There is so much to do that is routine maintenance for a family, for children, for a marriage, for the house, for a career – it is endless and time-consuming. In the midst of it all we quite conveniently forget that the whole thing is merely an illusion and we are in fact alone. Entanglements are necessary for survival in a society but attachments bring with them their own misery.
For years I have lived with a spiritual atmosphere around me. I can safely say that I was born into it. It is a part of my being and though I have tried to fit in with my environment all those years I lived away from home, I find that a part of me is unalterably spiritual. I do not know whether that has made me more of a freak - I suspect so – in any case it has certainly made me different or rather given me a different view of most things.
Knowing all this I yet feel sadness, anger, misery, love, lust, excitement, contentment and whatever other emotion is capable of being felt. And yet a part of me sits aloof and wonders whether it is really me who feels all of it. Perhaps if I build on that, this terrible pain will not overcome me when I am faced with my worst fears. I do not know when I will have the answers but I do know one thing, my anger is never a solution…
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Unwanted
Life in Bangalore for techies and their families means mainly one thing – everything takes a back seat to careers. The hours that the software guys and gals keep are almost insanely ridiculous. No one has time to eat healthy, exercise, have a meaningful relationship, have kids or if they do have kids, even do more than make sure they are fed and paid for. The kind of incentives offered, the determination to elevate one’s standard of existence to match the gloss that is advertised, the chance to travel abroad and see new sights and make the family back home even more proud of one’s achievements are all factors that make a high-level software job irresistible. All fine and dandy – my only objection is the sad fate of the children of some of the more imbalanced of these marriages.
I have known families that make everything work together beautifully and I appreciate them for it takes a lot of effort to keep things sailing smoothly when careers and home life have to be balanced. I also know of a few where the children are so neglected that it makes me want to shake their parents and ask them why they chose to have these poor creatures at all. There is this little girl who lives nearby. She is a year older than my six-year old daughter and they are friends. She gets no attention from her busy father and her housewife mother is too preoccupied with jewellery and beautification to even walk with her to the gate and put her in the school bus. The child is so starved for affection that she is whiny and lies terribly – all in a vain attempt to get noticed. Sometimes she tells me “Mahi is so lucky Aunty – her dad is always home early!” Her mother never reads stories to her. She never walks out with her. She is left to her own devices and frequently left alone to sit with the guards at the gate in the security cubicle. What sort of mother would leave a pretty child like that alone at eight in the night with a bunch of men? Sometimes I feel that God is terribly unjust to inflict a child with a parent who does not deserve her.
I have attempted to speak to the mother only to be abused myself. Her thin sheen of politeness gives way to a market-stall manner when provoked. And I leave well enough alone knowing that I shall always feel guilty for not pushing more. I try to get my daughter to play with others too so that she doesn’t pay for my interference. And yet the image of the girl’s face full of yearning does not leave me.
Perhaps the neglect of some affluent children by indifferent parents has nothing to do with careers and everything to do with the single-mindedness with which they pursue increasing wealth or maybe just a good time. The only ones who really suffer are the children who are ignored and left unwanted.
I have known families that make everything work together beautifully and I appreciate them for it takes a lot of effort to keep things sailing smoothly when careers and home life have to be balanced. I also know of a few where the children are so neglected that it makes me want to shake their parents and ask them why they chose to have these poor creatures at all. There is this little girl who lives nearby. She is a year older than my six-year old daughter and they are friends. She gets no attention from her busy father and her housewife mother is too preoccupied with jewellery and beautification to even walk with her to the gate and put her in the school bus. The child is so starved for affection that she is whiny and lies terribly – all in a vain attempt to get noticed. Sometimes she tells me “Mahi is so lucky Aunty – her dad is always home early!” Her mother never reads stories to her. She never walks out with her. She is left to her own devices and frequently left alone to sit with the guards at the gate in the security cubicle. What sort of mother would leave a pretty child like that alone at eight in the night with a bunch of men? Sometimes I feel that God is terribly unjust to inflict a child with a parent who does not deserve her.
I have attempted to speak to the mother only to be abused myself. Her thin sheen of politeness gives way to a market-stall manner when provoked. And I leave well enough alone knowing that I shall always feel guilty for not pushing more. I try to get my daughter to play with others too so that she doesn’t pay for my interference. And yet the image of the girl’s face full of yearning does not leave me.
Perhaps the neglect of some affluent children by indifferent parents has nothing to do with careers and everything to do with the single-mindedness with which they pursue increasing wealth or maybe just a good time. The only ones who really suffer are the children who are ignored and left unwanted.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Creativity
There are only two things I do with any degree of creativity – one is writing and the other, cooking. I love both and I can technically do both every day though the result is far better if I feel inspired or am simply in the mood for it.
When I write, it is with a feeling of pleasure that I am among my friends, the words that are all about me. When I cook, it is with a feeling of anticipation that those I love would enjoy eating it and then their pleasure becomes mine. I would infinitely prefer to watch someone enjoy that which I have created than consume it myself. Both require a degree of skill in the sense that one cannot simply throw either words or ingredients together randomly and hope for a favourable result. Both are very sensual experiences for me. If the words are strung correctly, they fall in place like the pearls on a necklace – perfect and lacking nothing. If they are put in haphazardly, they look like the Lego blocks in my kids’ room after a riotous bout of playing.
When I cook, I know beforehand that I would not mix certain spices together but I never try to anticipate where the ingredients will take me. Each step should be done with love from the artful chopping of onions to their perfect saut̩ing to the addition of roasted and hand-ground spices and the final garnish. Friends and family look at me askance when I only serve dishes with colours that complement each other РI am no perfectionist by a long shot but I do long to be one. Of course there are days when I cook just to finish a chore but even then I refuse to compromise on the basics.
It can be very de-stressing to let oneself go and give free rein to the emotions and ideas within – the only problem with cooking like that is that I can never recreate a dish that I myself have prepared well since my moods vary. The words that I put down have a part of me in them forever. The food that I create also reflects the person that I am – a bit of zing, plenty of passion and lots of colour. Perhaps that is why I always choose to show my affection for my family by giving them their favourite foods when I know they are down and do not have the words to comfort them. Food is celebration, comfort and adventure all in one. Just like a well put-together piece of writing.
When I write, it is with a feeling of pleasure that I am among my friends, the words that are all about me. When I cook, it is with a feeling of anticipation that those I love would enjoy eating it and then their pleasure becomes mine. I would infinitely prefer to watch someone enjoy that which I have created than consume it myself. Both require a degree of skill in the sense that one cannot simply throw either words or ingredients together randomly and hope for a favourable result. Both are very sensual experiences for me. If the words are strung correctly, they fall in place like the pearls on a necklace – perfect and lacking nothing. If they are put in haphazardly, they look like the Lego blocks in my kids’ room after a riotous bout of playing.
When I cook, I know beforehand that I would not mix certain spices together but I never try to anticipate where the ingredients will take me. Each step should be done with love from the artful chopping of onions to their perfect saut̩ing to the addition of roasted and hand-ground spices and the final garnish. Friends and family look at me askance when I only serve dishes with colours that complement each other РI am no perfectionist by a long shot but I do long to be one. Of course there are days when I cook just to finish a chore but even then I refuse to compromise on the basics.
It can be very de-stressing to let oneself go and give free rein to the emotions and ideas within – the only problem with cooking like that is that I can never recreate a dish that I myself have prepared well since my moods vary. The words that I put down have a part of me in them forever. The food that I create also reflects the person that I am – a bit of zing, plenty of passion and lots of colour. Perhaps that is why I always choose to show my affection for my family by giving them their favourite foods when I know they are down and do not have the words to comfort them. Food is celebration, comfort and adventure all in one. Just like a well put-together piece of writing.
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