The road before me is full of twists and turns. It is inviting at times being surrounded by lush green and shaded at spots by the overhanging boughs of flowering trees. The river runs by it for long stretches occasionally swelling to a mighty roar and at other times dwindling into a merry bubbling stream. And yet some portions of the road are hard to traverse - steep uphill climbs with no way to see what follows every crazy bend. On some days I have to forge my own road for there is none in front of me or else the one that was there has eroded to no more than a faint memory. And yet again there are days when I am so far off the beaten track, all I see is wilderness around me.
When everything is fine and there is a sense of complacency about my actions, the road ahead is smooth and without surprises – it is also boring and lulls me to sleep. That is when I am least productive for none of my senses are energized since I have nothing to focus on. But its also the time I can dream and lose myself in an array of thoughts both bewildering and fascinating. I have realized that it is that facet of my nature that helps me create new paths when I need it and focus hard on my next steps when I absolutely have to.
The nasty twisted treacherous parts of the road build character. Yes its hard but then it simply has to be accepted. It has to be survived and I have always grown stronger after traversing those parts of my life road that seemed cruelly tortuous at the time. Surrendering to the fact that sometimes the road is nearly impassable and yet taking it all in one’s stride requires not a little strength but then the sense of accomplishment at successfully journeying through such stretches is immense.
At times when there are no roads or markers for me to follow, the only way out is to listen to my heart and heed its urging. Could I be making a terrible mistake? Many a times I certainly have. Could there also be a possibility of discovering something so breathtakingly wonderful that it beggars even my rather fertile imagination? Yes, that too has happened. So of all the paths I have trodden, the ones I love most are the ones where I followed no one else.
Gradually I have realized that my road with all its ups and downs has something to teach me every step of the way. The good days are when I husband my strength. The hard days are when I live off those resources I have built up during the good days. The adventurous days are when I throw caution to the wind and laugh and go crazy like a child – when I receive with both hands the beautiful yet ephemeral gifts that make life so blessed.
There are days when I feel the overwhelming need to step backward to see a bit more clearly the nature of the path before me. It is merely to ascertain what I need to do to tackle more effectively an unfamiliar path or one that looks hostile almost as if overgrown with thorny thickets. Sometimes it is also to see just how beautiful the road is for oftentimes in our journey through life, we forget to appreciate the path we have chosen to traverse it. We can scarce remember our beginning and we know not our ending but the time in between is something that we can celebrate ...and so I walk upon my chosen path learning every day and growing stronger – sometimes I even laugh out loud...
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
Black and White
Life is rarely simple. It can be of course, but most of us do not find it so. What makes life so complicated for us? Why are there so many things to balance? How did we reach a stage where we each give ourselves an endless list of achievements to be successfully attained before we are a certain age? The constant drain on one’s energy to be all you can be is probably one of the major reasons why stress eats its way into our lives leaving us far less capable of dealing with emotional conflicts.
When I was a child, things were very clearly either black or white. There was never any room for greys. I did not do my thinking on my own for I was told what was right and what was wrong. There was no scope for improvisation and no flexibility in interpreting situations as falling into neither category. You were good or bad. A good girl did only the following things. A bad girl was anyone who missed out on an item in the list. Even happiness and sadness were clear cut- one couldn’t indulge in both at the same time.
And yet even at the age of seven, I knew inexplicable moments of sadness and periods of detachment. I could view my family as from the outside and wonder how I even fit in. The curious mix of love and hate that exists among siblings was perhaps what made me first question whether a simple one-dimensional answer could suffice as an explanation. The blacks were less black and the whites not quite so pristine by the time I left to stay in various hostels but I continued to be judgmental for many years after.
It took many more years before the greys began seeping into my life. I did not know what constituted right anymore. For I had always been ‘good’ and yet life got more difficult as I grew older and I often felt singled out for punishment from some unseen power. Then why be good? Pristine living didn’t ensure that divine wrath would be eternally deflected. I railed against a God who could make my father go through his painful degeneration due to terminal cancer and eventual death. I could not understand why a sweet child like my son should have to go through endless tough times while I could only stand by and watch helplessly. So there crept in large grey areas of faithlessness into my formerly believing self.
Gradually I have stopped believing in either black or white. Nothing is as it seems. The love you see today may turn to vitriolic hate tomorrow. The sadness you go through can instantly be converted into joy. Life is full of colour if you see it without judgement and live your life as if only the moment matters. And even grey is a beautiful colour – it is the colour of acceptance without judgement...
When I was a child, things were very clearly either black or white. There was never any room for greys. I did not do my thinking on my own for I was told what was right and what was wrong. There was no scope for improvisation and no flexibility in interpreting situations as falling into neither category. You were good or bad. A good girl did only the following things. A bad girl was anyone who missed out on an item in the list. Even happiness and sadness were clear cut- one couldn’t indulge in both at the same time.
And yet even at the age of seven, I knew inexplicable moments of sadness and periods of detachment. I could view my family as from the outside and wonder how I even fit in. The curious mix of love and hate that exists among siblings was perhaps what made me first question whether a simple one-dimensional answer could suffice as an explanation. The blacks were less black and the whites not quite so pristine by the time I left to stay in various hostels but I continued to be judgmental for many years after.
It took many more years before the greys began seeping into my life. I did not know what constituted right anymore. For I had always been ‘good’ and yet life got more difficult as I grew older and I often felt singled out for punishment from some unseen power. Then why be good? Pristine living didn’t ensure that divine wrath would be eternally deflected. I railed against a God who could make my father go through his painful degeneration due to terminal cancer and eventual death. I could not understand why a sweet child like my son should have to go through endless tough times while I could only stand by and watch helplessly. So there crept in large grey areas of faithlessness into my formerly believing self.
Gradually I have stopped believing in either black or white. Nothing is as it seems. The love you see today may turn to vitriolic hate tomorrow. The sadness you go through can instantly be converted into joy. Life is full of colour if you see it without judgement and live your life as if only the moment matters. And even grey is a beautiful colour – it is the colour of acceptance without judgement...
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Of silence
I sit propped against the pillows, idly surfing the net or if I feel too tired, just reading a book. I don’t want to lie down because of the slight wheezing that makes lying down rather uncomfortable. So I sit still listening to music or occasionally chatting to a friend who might find me online. I haven’t said a word since morning – it helps my badly infected throat to be quiet. The thoughts still buzz around my head like a swarm of angry bees. I am a chatterbox most of the time according to everyone who knows me but when alone I can only be pensive. Being completely quiet has had a different effect on me - its kind of calming to be quiet externally and after a few hours of it even the thoughts inside my head quieten down and desist from their normal frenetic buzzing.
I now have the time to examine each thought as it swishes by slowly and I also have the liberty to choose whether I wish to articulate it or not. Of late I have learnt that any word I say could be interpreted in a million ways and most of them in ways I may have never even thought about. It is but natural that one grows to communicate in a certain way attuned to those nuances that cause no annoyance to your loved ones. That others might see meaning unintended in one’s words is something that probably we all know but fail to realize in any depth. Therefore being quiet has a lot of benefits – for one it teaches you that silence has many merits. Being silent on things that you need not absolutely talk about saves you from the rather difficult task of backtracking and explaining why you used that particular set of words instead of some other.
Being silent also gives you the time you need to really choose those words that you will eventually say. Does this reduce the spontaneity in a conversation? Of course it does but if you consider the alternative which involves unnecessary recriminations, then a loss of spontaneity does not seem like such a sacrifice to keep a valued relationship going. People focus on words a lot more than on the person who says them – the same words said by different people mean different things and its harder to take back words than to simply keep one’s mouth shut.
As a medium of communication, talking is fraught with danger. How imperfectly can words convey feelings that fill you with happiness or despair! I can say I feel joyful but the words are so tame compared to the way my heart sings when I am happy. When something terribly hard to handle hits me, the words I use to describe the situation may sound more like a complaint and nowhere near the echo of the devastating feeling that is within me. If instead I just remain quiet and glory in my joy or accept my despair, then no one need judge me on my expression of these feelings.
Therefore I have come to appreciate silence for its innumerable merits. I will of course continue to be verbose whenever I get a chance. I won’t keep quiet if I see someone doing something wrong either. And to imagine I will keep quiet during a particularly lousy movie is really too far out. But I will keep quiet more often from now on – it distances me from situations and brings a level of detachment that serves as a buffer against too much pain and too much pleasure. I find that I am able to concur with Rumi who says “Let silence take you to the core of life”...
I now have the time to examine each thought as it swishes by slowly and I also have the liberty to choose whether I wish to articulate it or not. Of late I have learnt that any word I say could be interpreted in a million ways and most of them in ways I may have never even thought about. It is but natural that one grows to communicate in a certain way attuned to those nuances that cause no annoyance to your loved ones. That others might see meaning unintended in one’s words is something that probably we all know but fail to realize in any depth. Therefore being quiet has a lot of benefits – for one it teaches you that silence has many merits. Being silent on things that you need not absolutely talk about saves you from the rather difficult task of backtracking and explaining why you used that particular set of words instead of some other.
Being silent also gives you the time you need to really choose those words that you will eventually say. Does this reduce the spontaneity in a conversation? Of course it does but if you consider the alternative which involves unnecessary recriminations, then a loss of spontaneity does not seem like such a sacrifice to keep a valued relationship going. People focus on words a lot more than on the person who says them – the same words said by different people mean different things and its harder to take back words than to simply keep one’s mouth shut.
As a medium of communication, talking is fraught with danger. How imperfectly can words convey feelings that fill you with happiness or despair! I can say I feel joyful but the words are so tame compared to the way my heart sings when I am happy. When something terribly hard to handle hits me, the words I use to describe the situation may sound more like a complaint and nowhere near the echo of the devastating feeling that is within me. If instead I just remain quiet and glory in my joy or accept my despair, then no one need judge me on my expression of these feelings.
Therefore I have come to appreciate silence for its innumerable merits. I will of course continue to be verbose whenever I get a chance. I won’t keep quiet if I see someone doing something wrong either. And to imagine I will keep quiet during a particularly lousy movie is really too far out. But I will keep quiet more often from now on – it distances me from situations and brings a level of detachment that serves as a buffer against too much pain and too much pleasure. I find that I am able to concur with Rumi who says “Let silence take you to the core of life”...
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Pranayam
It is not often that a movie is both lyrical and thought-provoking but the one I was watching last afternoon happened to fit the description perfectly. I am not sure if it is because of the changes that my way of thinking has undergone in the past few years that made me so susceptible to every nuance in the movie but I think not – even if I had watched the movie as a youngster, it would probably have left an impact.
‘Pranayam’ is a Malayalam movie that stars Anupam Kher, Jayaprada and Mohanlal. It is not a conventional movie by any standards. I would think most people would be bored by the idea of love at a mature age and possibly even embarrassed at the very thought. But the director Blessy has handled the topic with sensitivity and delicacy. Anupam Kher’s excellent acting was let down by some really awful dubbing in the voice of a man who is well known for having some of the worst dialogue-delivery capabilities in the Malayalam film industry. The last forty minutes could have done with some crisper editing but even that is just an opinion – I loved the movie and enjoyed watching it thoroughly.
The basic storyline is simple. Anupam Kher’s character Achutha Menon is a 67 year old who survived his first heart attack and stays at his son’s flat in Kochi. The affectionate son Suresh, played brilliantly by Anoop Menon, is away in Sharjah and the daughter-in-law is none too pleased about having to take care of an old man while keeping track of a teenage daughter as well as holding down a 9 to 5 job. He is therefore a bit lonely and resents his status as a burden borne most unwillingly.
As a young and dashing football player Achu (as the younger avatar of Achutha Menon is called) falls in love with Grace and they elope to get married. Having gone against both families, they find themselves alone and not carefree either. Achu sacrifices his state football team selection to help his wife during the last stages of her pregnancy and for reasons unspecified they go their separate ways when their son Suresh is two and a half years old. To make things easier on the child, Achu tells him that his mother is dead.
Grace remarries within her community the second time and learns to love Mathew with all her heart and soul. Achutha Menon meets Grace (now played by Jayaprada) unexpectedly in the lift of the building where they both stay in their children’s flats and has a second heart attack right in front of her. Grace is frantic and manages to get help to admit him in the hospital just in time. She waits till his daughter-in-law and granddaughter take over and then leaves. Back home, a wheelchair-bound Mathew (played impeccably by Mohanlal) immediately senses something amiss. His right side is paralysed due to a stroke and his words are not often intelligible. His mind however is sharp and his thoughts as clear as ever. Eventually Grace breaks down and tells him of the day’s incidents and he consoles her.
The relationship between Grace and Mathew is one of intense love and mutual dependence. He is beholden to her for everything physical. She has to feed him, bathe him and dress him. He in turn is her rock – always cheerful and possessing a world view that is so refreshing and positive that to be around him brings joy. They stay with their daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter. The son-in-law has a wandering eye and the daughter is both judgemental and smug quite unlike her parents.
Meanwhile Achutha Menon gets a new lease of life. He is grateful to God to be given the chance to see the love of his life again after more than forty years. He had never remarried after their divorce and instead spent years in different towns with his small son in a bid to escape his feelings as well as to show his ex-wife how capable he was of handling everything. When he finally realized he was merely fooling himself and returned to Kerala, he finds that Grace is already remarried. He vows not to miss the chance of reconnecting with Grace this time. He has changed and learnt a lot since their last parting. And yet his love for her had not ebbed for even a moment all those years.
Mathew is aware of his wife’s turmoil and is extremely understanding. In one scene he tells her “It is not possible for you to forget him or be indifferent to his pain – he had possessed your heart and body before me – it is only natural but ultimately all love is selfish and so is mine.” Even though he is a great lover of romance and was generous hearted, his physical incapacity and dependence on his wife had created a glimmer of insecurity as evinced by his overly physical displays of affection to Grace when he first meets Achutha Menon.
And yet after the first few moments, his attitude changes and he genuinely likes Achutha Menon. They become good friends despite the disapproval of both families. Grace’s daughter and son-in-law accuse her of running around with two men and they decide to leave. Achutha Menon’s daughter-in-law is no better. Suresh rushes back from Sharjah to be with his dad and is incensed to find that he has a living mother who he believes, abandoned him so many years ago.
The three old friends decide to go away together by themselves possibly to Achutha Menon’s native village. They have the time of their life making the trip. Mathew is ecstatic at having the chance to feel alive again. The other two revel in his joy and they all feel young and carefree right up to the moment on the beach when Mathew collapses. More scenes in the hospital follow where Mathew is shown as recovering slowly while Grace and Achutha Menon share what happened to them all those years ago. She now understood why her son hated her and refused to let her into his life. He had no idea that his father took him away without his mother’s knowledge because of his selfish need. She confesses that she remarried only because her father threatened to kill himself. She also forgives him for poisoning her son’s mind against her albeit unintentionally.
Everything goes smoothly after that and Suresh calls from the airport to beg his mother’s forgiveness and extract a promise from her that the next time he comes home, he be allowed to stay with her too. She is so full of happiness at the moment that she doesn’t hear Achutha Menon’s happy chatter and when he smilingly hugs her in celebration of that perfect moment, she gasps and collapses in his arms. The doctor pronounces her dead much to the shock of the two sick men. They turn to each other for comfort. The last scene is one where Mathew places flowers at her gravestone and Achutha Menon helps him and finally wheels him away off somewhere where one hopes the two friends have comfort and companionship for the rest of their years.
The story was not unusual but the treatment of it was simply superb. I particularly relished one scene where a distraught Grace and an unusually depressed Mathew meet Achutha Menon at the pier’s edge which is their favourite spot. They were explaining how their daughter felt they were an embarrassment and how she was afraid they would spoil her pristine reputation. He in return was telling them how his days there were numbered because his son had requested he return to the village (on his wife’s incessant nagging). He then throws one shell into the sea and sees how far it goes. He picks up a second one and throws it – to his delight, it goes much farther than the first. He turns around and asks “Tell me Grace, why you think my second throw was more successful?” She smiles and replies that he just managed to do a better job. He turns to Mathew and explains “The second time around I was more focused – I knew what I wanted and I knew just a bit better how to get there and so I was closer to my aim...Why can’t we all look at this situation as our second chance in life?” He then makes Mathew throw shell after shell into the waters and they all laugh like happy children.
That is when they decide to run off together and grab a few moments of joy unfettered by the admonishing of their children and their small-minded disapproval. There was also an implicit admission in his statement of the far deeper bond Grace shares with Mathew than she perhaps ever had with him. And yet the simplest message of them all was that one should never stop striving for happiness.
The movie has far too many layers for me to present one view and expect it to be the right one. I took away from the watching of it a beautiful feeling of being closer to understanding something about the nature of love. If you truly love someone, you do not hesitate to let him or her free. The total acceptance and joy in another being opens you up to give and receive even more love. Not all love is the same and there need not be a name for relationships of the heart. Watch the movie for a fine story and masterful performances but take away from it something far more enduring – a new understanding of love and relationships...
‘Pranayam’ is a Malayalam movie that stars Anupam Kher, Jayaprada and Mohanlal. It is not a conventional movie by any standards. I would think most people would be bored by the idea of love at a mature age and possibly even embarrassed at the very thought. But the director Blessy has handled the topic with sensitivity and delicacy. Anupam Kher’s excellent acting was let down by some really awful dubbing in the voice of a man who is well known for having some of the worst dialogue-delivery capabilities in the Malayalam film industry. The last forty minutes could have done with some crisper editing but even that is just an opinion – I loved the movie and enjoyed watching it thoroughly.
The basic storyline is simple. Anupam Kher’s character Achutha Menon is a 67 year old who survived his first heart attack and stays at his son’s flat in Kochi. The affectionate son Suresh, played brilliantly by Anoop Menon, is away in Sharjah and the daughter-in-law is none too pleased about having to take care of an old man while keeping track of a teenage daughter as well as holding down a 9 to 5 job. He is therefore a bit lonely and resents his status as a burden borne most unwillingly.
As a young and dashing football player Achu (as the younger avatar of Achutha Menon is called) falls in love with Grace and they elope to get married. Having gone against both families, they find themselves alone and not carefree either. Achu sacrifices his state football team selection to help his wife during the last stages of her pregnancy and for reasons unspecified they go their separate ways when their son Suresh is two and a half years old. To make things easier on the child, Achu tells him that his mother is dead.
Grace remarries within her community the second time and learns to love Mathew with all her heart and soul. Achutha Menon meets Grace (now played by Jayaprada) unexpectedly in the lift of the building where they both stay in their children’s flats and has a second heart attack right in front of her. Grace is frantic and manages to get help to admit him in the hospital just in time. She waits till his daughter-in-law and granddaughter take over and then leaves. Back home, a wheelchair-bound Mathew (played impeccably by Mohanlal) immediately senses something amiss. His right side is paralysed due to a stroke and his words are not often intelligible. His mind however is sharp and his thoughts as clear as ever. Eventually Grace breaks down and tells him of the day’s incidents and he consoles her.
The relationship between Grace and Mathew is one of intense love and mutual dependence. He is beholden to her for everything physical. She has to feed him, bathe him and dress him. He in turn is her rock – always cheerful and possessing a world view that is so refreshing and positive that to be around him brings joy. They stay with their daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter. The son-in-law has a wandering eye and the daughter is both judgemental and smug quite unlike her parents.
Meanwhile Achutha Menon gets a new lease of life. He is grateful to God to be given the chance to see the love of his life again after more than forty years. He had never remarried after their divorce and instead spent years in different towns with his small son in a bid to escape his feelings as well as to show his ex-wife how capable he was of handling everything. When he finally realized he was merely fooling himself and returned to Kerala, he finds that Grace is already remarried. He vows not to miss the chance of reconnecting with Grace this time. He has changed and learnt a lot since their last parting. And yet his love for her had not ebbed for even a moment all those years.
Mathew is aware of his wife’s turmoil and is extremely understanding. In one scene he tells her “It is not possible for you to forget him or be indifferent to his pain – he had possessed your heart and body before me – it is only natural but ultimately all love is selfish and so is mine.” Even though he is a great lover of romance and was generous hearted, his physical incapacity and dependence on his wife had created a glimmer of insecurity as evinced by his overly physical displays of affection to Grace when he first meets Achutha Menon.
And yet after the first few moments, his attitude changes and he genuinely likes Achutha Menon. They become good friends despite the disapproval of both families. Grace’s daughter and son-in-law accuse her of running around with two men and they decide to leave. Achutha Menon’s daughter-in-law is no better. Suresh rushes back from Sharjah to be with his dad and is incensed to find that he has a living mother who he believes, abandoned him so many years ago.
The three old friends decide to go away together by themselves possibly to Achutha Menon’s native village. They have the time of their life making the trip. Mathew is ecstatic at having the chance to feel alive again. The other two revel in his joy and they all feel young and carefree right up to the moment on the beach when Mathew collapses. More scenes in the hospital follow where Mathew is shown as recovering slowly while Grace and Achutha Menon share what happened to them all those years ago. She now understood why her son hated her and refused to let her into his life. He had no idea that his father took him away without his mother’s knowledge because of his selfish need. She confesses that she remarried only because her father threatened to kill himself. She also forgives him for poisoning her son’s mind against her albeit unintentionally.
Everything goes smoothly after that and Suresh calls from the airport to beg his mother’s forgiveness and extract a promise from her that the next time he comes home, he be allowed to stay with her too. She is so full of happiness at the moment that she doesn’t hear Achutha Menon’s happy chatter and when he smilingly hugs her in celebration of that perfect moment, she gasps and collapses in his arms. The doctor pronounces her dead much to the shock of the two sick men. They turn to each other for comfort. The last scene is one where Mathew places flowers at her gravestone and Achutha Menon helps him and finally wheels him away off somewhere where one hopes the two friends have comfort and companionship for the rest of their years.
The story was not unusual but the treatment of it was simply superb. I particularly relished one scene where a distraught Grace and an unusually depressed Mathew meet Achutha Menon at the pier’s edge which is their favourite spot. They were explaining how their daughter felt they were an embarrassment and how she was afraid they would spoil her pristine reputation. He in return was telling them how his days there were numbered because his son had requested he return to the village (on his wife’s incessant nagging). He then throws one shell into the sea and sees how far it goes. He picks up a second one and throws it – to his delight, it goes much farther than the first. He turns around and asks “Tell me Grace, why you think my second throw was more successful?” She smiles and replies that he just managed to do a better job. He turns to Mathew and explains “The second time around I was more focused – I knew what I wanted and I knew just a bit better how to get there and so I was closer to my aim...Why can’t we all look at this situation as our second chance in life?” He then makes Mathew throw shell after shell into the waters and they all laugh like happy children.
That is when they decide to run off together and grab a few moments of joy unfettered by the admonishing of their children and their small-minded disapproval. There was also an implicit admission in his statement of the far deeper bond Grace shares with Mathew than she perhaps ever had with him. And yet the simplest message of them all was that one should never stop striving for happiness.
The movie has far too many layers for me to present one view and expect it to be the right one. I took away from the watching of it a beautiful feeling of being closer to understanding something about the nature of love. If you truly love someone, you do not hesitate to let him or her free. The total acceptance and joy in another being opens you up to give and receive even more love. Not all love is the same and there need not be a name for relationships of the heart. Watch the movie for a fine story and masterful performances but take away from it something far more enduring – a new understanding of love and relationships...
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Joyful
A change has come over me slowly but surely. I think it may have been years in the making but the effects seem very sudden when the gestation is hidden. So, lately my thinking appears to have undergone a sea-change when all along all I lacked was the unwillingness to let my true nature reveal itself. I have finally decided that its okay to be a little selfish – to love myself and to pursue my happiness as an actual goal.
My unhappy self-sacrificing nature did not fill either me or my family with joy. I stumbled along for years in an existence that was pretty much like anyone else’s except for the fact that all along I knew there had to be more. There had to be some room for joy in one’s life – what was the point of living otherwise? And opening your mind to happiness automatically brings joy into your life. You attract it and it flows in. This does not mean that you are constantly roaming around with a beatific expression or in perennial bliss. Ups and downs happen as before but whereas it previously dragged you down terribly, now you have enough promise for future happiness that you get through a bad patch seeing it as a temporary setback and not as some terrible all-encompassing tragedy.
It helps too if you can laugh at yourself and with yourself. It helps if you can be child-like in your approach to life. You hear music you like? Then go ahead and dance. You see rain cooling down a hot day? Go and soak in it if you want. You want to go out and just be by yourself for a while? Indulge in it. Its okay to be happy with little things. You don’t need that BMW to get a smile on your face. If it makes you happy to spend an evening listening to your spouse tell you the same story he or she has related a million times before while you sit together in cosy comfort, then that’s nothing trivial. Happiness is not something you can price no matter what the advertisements say. And you can never be truly happy by following someone else’s idea of happiness.
I am happy when I write – when the ideas flow from my mind through my fingers and on to the screen that had only a blank document displayed on it a few seconds before. I am happy when I see my glorious African Tulip tree in full bloom with its flaming orange blossoms. I am happy when I wake early enough to walk with a solitary kite and assorted other birds for company. I am happy when I hear an old favourite song and it rekindles memories worth reliving over and over again. I am happy when the kids go ‘yum’ at something that I have cooked. I am happy when I see my husband’s wonderful smile – the one that lights up his eyes and transforms his face totally. I am happy when I watch the rain. I am happy when a friend goes out of his way to show how much he cares. I have so many things to be happy about – so does everyone but how seldom do we realize the joy that is in us and seek endlessly for an ephemeral joy that is dictated by what the world desires...
My unhappy self-sacrificing nature did not fill either me or my family with joy. I stumbled along for years in an existence that was pretty much like anyone else’s except for the fact that all along I knew there had to be more. There had to be some room for joy in one’s life – what was the point of living otherwise? And opening your mind to happiness automatically brings joy into your life. You attract it and it flows in. This does not mean that you are constantly roaming around with a beatific expression or in perennial bliss. Ups and downs happen as before but whereas it previously dragged you down terribly, now you have enough promise for future happiness that you get through a bad patch seeing it as a temporary setback and not as some terrible all-encompassing tragedy.
It helps too if you can laugh at yourself and with yourself. It helps if you can be child-like in your approach to life. You hear music you like? Then go ahead and dance. You see rain cooling down a hot day? Go and soak in it if you want. You want to go out and just be by yourself for a while? Indulge in it. Its okay to be happy with little things. You don’t need that BMW to get a smile on your face. If it makes you happy to spend an evening listening to your spouse tell you the same story he or she has related a million times before while you sit together in cosy comfort, then that’s nothing trivial. Happiness is not something you can price no matter what the advertisements say. And you can never be truly happy by following someone else’s idea of happiness.
I am happy when I write – when the ideas flow from my mind through my fingers and on to the screen that had only a blank document displayed on it a few seconds before. I am happy when I see my glorious African Tulip tree in full bloom with its flaming orange blossoms. I am happy when I wake early enough to walk with a solitary kite and assorted other birds for company. I am happy when I hear an old favourite song and it rekindles memories worth reliving over and over again. I am happy when the kids go ‘yum’ at something that I have cooked. I am happy when I see my husband’s wonderful smile – the one that lights up his eyes and transforms his face totally. I am happy when I watch the rain. I am happy when a friend goes out of his way to show how much he cares. I have so many things to be happy about – so does everyone but how seldom do we realize the joy that is in us and seek endlessly for an ephemeral joy that is dictated by what the world desires...
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Handling death
One lives through many life-changing events in a single lifetime. It is immaterial whether they are good or bad, what is all-important is the way you handle them. I did not handle my father’s death very well. I did not handle living very well either. No one is equipped by birth to handle trauma such as death with a calm demeanour and spirit and yet I was more devastated than I thought possible. It was an expected death not the kind that takes you by surprise like a flash of lightning. And yet I ended up missing the chance to say farewell to a much-loved father.
He was a six foot tall, unrelentingly cheerful figure who weighed a hundred kilos before he was diagnosed with terminal prostate cancer. Prostate cancer by itself is one of the most successfully treatable forms of cancer but in his case it had spread to the spinal cord by the time he was diagnosed and he was already partially paralyzed. The first emergency procedure offered some relief and the tumours were on the wane for a while. He had limited mobility and looked like a shadow of his former self. Mortality was a constant threat to the man who believed in living life to the fullest. Yet he was happy enough in the company of his daughters, son and the grandchildren who had no inkling of the sombre feelings that lay just below a brittle veneer of cheer.
A few months later however the cancer hit back with a vengeance and a second and more serious operation did not help. He lay paralyzed totally from the waist down and was brought to Bangalore where I lived so I could take care of him. Initially I had hopes that he would recover at least partial mobility but as the days passed and he himself realized that there was no possible progress to be made, the house became like a funeral home. I had a one year old son whose colic kept me up every single day from 12 to 3 in the morning. I had to cope with watching the strongest figure in my life, the one who made lifting any burden look easy, struggle with pain and the shame and indignity of dependence on the rest of us for his most personal tasks.
I regret beyond words not being able to support him mentally during that time. I had visibly given up hope. After six months of taking care of him, I was a wreck myself. My elder sister lived abroad and my younger brother was still in college. My mother would sit and cry most of the time. I had no emotional reserves left and yet I could’ve been softer towards the gaunt figure who lay on his bed, turning partially so he could look out the window as the world went by without a second thought.
I cannot turn back time and make his last days relatively happy. He was very proud of me and kept insisting that of all his children only I could face difficult situations head-on and yet deep inside I knew I had let him down by losing faith. For more than my father’s death, what changed my life was the complete loss of the faith I felt in God whom I had been brought up since infancy to believe in. My father was an ardent devotee of our Ashram and guru and he took solace from the fact that his faith would protect him. I, who till then had the faith to close my eyes and agree to marry a guy I had never seen just because of my guru’s assurance had completely changed into a cynic who refused to think that any God could justify inflicting so much pain on a good human being.
I have never fully regained the faith I lost when my father passed away back in his own house in Kerala three days after he left my house and before I could say goodbye. Death takes its toll and the accompanying grief itself is difficult to bear but to completely lose faith in the way of life that I was brought up with was perhaps the bigger loss. All the years since my father’s death, I have lived with eroded faith and no belief that things will turn out well – a fear has since then found its way to my heart – that anything could at any moment be snatched away from me and I will yet again not have a chance to say goodbye.
He was a six foot tall, unrelentingly cheerful figure who weighed a hundred kilos before he was diagnosed with terminal prostate cancer. Prostate cancer by itself is one of the most successfully treatable forms of cancer but in his case it had spread to the spinal cord by the time he was diagnosed and he was already partially paralyzed. The first emergency procedure offered some relief and the tumours were on the wane for a while. He had limited mobility and looked like a shadow of his former self. Mortality was a constant threat to the man who believed in living life to the fullest. Yet he was happy enough in the company of his daughters, son and the grandchildren who had no inkling of the sombre feelings that lay just below a brittle veneer of cheer.
A few months later however the cancer hit back with a vengeance and a second and more serious operation did not help. He lay paralyzed totally from the waist down and was brought to Bangalore where I lived so I could take care of him. Initially I had hopes that he would recover at least partial mobility but as the days passed and he himself realized that there was no possible progress to be made, the house became like a funeral home. I had a one year old son whose colic kept me up every single day from 12 to 3 in the morning. I had to cope with watching the strongest figure in my life, the one who made lifting any burden look easy, struggle with pain and the shame and indignity of dependence on the rest of us for his most personal tasks.
I regret beyond words not being able to support him mentally during that time. I had visibly given up hope. After six months of taking care of him, I was a wreck myself. My elder sister lived abroad and my younger brother was still in college. My mother would sit and cry most of the time. I had no emotional reserves left and yet I could’ve been softer towards the gaunt figure who lay on his bed, turning partially so he could look out the window as the world went by without a second thought.
I cannot turn back time and make his last days relatively happy. He was very proud of me and kept insisting that of all his children only I could face difficult situations head-on and yet deep inside I knew I had let him down by losing faith. For more than my father’s death, what changed my life was the complete loss of the faith I felt in God whom I had been brought up since infancy to believe in. My father was an ardent devotee of our Ashram and guru and he took solace from the fact that his faith would protect him. I, who till then had the faith to close my eyes and agree to marry a guy I had never seen just because of my guru’s assurance had completely changed into a cynic who refused to think that any God could justify inflicting so much pain on a good human being.
I have never fully regained the faith I lost when my father passed away back in his own house in Kerala three days after he left my house and before I could say goodbye. Death takes its toll and the accompanying grief itself is difficult to bear but to completely lose faith in the way of life that I was brought up with was perhaps the bigger loss. All the years since my father’s death, I have lived with eroded faith and no belief that things will turn out well – a fear has since then found its way to my heart – that anything could at any moment be snatched away from me and I will yet again not have a chance to say goodbye.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Unhappy minds...
I woke up feeling inexplicably sad today. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. True, the last few days have been somewhat difficult but I generally bounce back quickly and therefore found it hard to believe that a few more kicks when I am down would actually get me feeling that low. Somehow I don’t think that was the reason for the overwhelming feeling of sorrow that seemed to have pervaded my being. The sorrow was not invasive though – it seemed to presage some inevitability that I had no control over but must grieve for nevertheless.
Is man’s mind while at rest, happy? Mine never is – it tends to sit quiet and pensive thinking over the nature of things instead of simply relaxing. Can any thinking being be truly happy? I somehow doubt that – one is so busy ruminating on consequences and second-guesses that the moment of living is past before one knows it and one has neither relaxed nor enjoyed the present moment before it has moved on to the past. Maybe the key is to set a goal of making your mind live in the present for just that one moment and no more – gradually it will find itself not bogged down by too many thoughts perhaps.
I have never actively tried it since I am used to the buzz and traffic of too many thoughts in an overheated brain. I also wonder whether being quiet and happy for the most part will be conducive for a writer’s imagination anyway. I mean the periods when I am relatively content, I have no urge to write whatsoever. However when I am sad, angry, frustrated or ridiculously irritated, then the words seem to flow effortlessly. Am I like the oyster that needs to be uncomfortable and in pain to be creative? I don’t imagine satisfied, eternally happy, irritation-free oysters are capable of producing pearls.
So there may be a role for the forever-restless minded like myself to play in the vast production that is day to day life in the universe. It may be that some of the finest inventions were born of restless inquiry and not of content contemplation. It may be that intense feelings of sorrow can prompt an outpouring of creativity that boggles the mind. I don’t know for sure but I am certain of one thing – unhappy minds need to be celebrated too...
Is man’s mind while at rest, happy? Mine never is – it tends to sit quiet and pensive thinking over the nature of things instead of simply relaxing. Can any thinking being be truly happy? I somehow doubt that – one is so busy ruminating on consequences and second-guesses that the moment of living is past before one knows it and one has neither relaxed nor enjoyed the present moment before it has moved on to the past. Maybe the key is to set a goal of making your mind live in the present for just that one moment and no more – gradually it will find itself not bogged down by too many thoughts perhaps.
I have never actively tried it since I am used to the buzz and traffic of too many thoughts in an overheated brain. I also wonder whether being quiet and happy for the most part will be conducive for a writer’s imagination anyway. I mean the periods when I am relatively content, I have no urge to write whatsoever. However when I am sad, angry, frustrated or ridiculously irritated, then the words seem to flow effortlessly. Am I like the oyster that needs to be uncomfortable and in pain to be creative? I don’t imagine satisfied, eternally happy, irritation-free oysters are capable of producing pearls.
So there may be a role for the forever-restless minded like myself to play in the vast production that is day to day life in the universe. It may be that some of the finest inventions were born of restless inquiry and not of content contemplation. It may be that intense feelings of sorrow can prompt an outpouring of creativity that boggles the mind. I don’t know for sure but I am certain of one thing – unhappy minds need to be celebrated too...
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Bring it on...
I understand repeated hammerings can do beautiful things to metal giving it a texture, feel and appearance that is drastically different from the original and supposedly more alluring as well. That may work for metal. How does it work for human beings I wonder?
I am not writing a despondent note. Once ceases to be despondent after years of hammering anyway. I do remember vaguely the years long ago when I really did not have a care in the world and the hammering of fate was a distant nightmare. Such a happy girl I was in comparison to today. And yet today I have learnt to be happy with the smallest of things. Someone thinking of me and sending me an affectionate message. A compliment on my looks even when I feel like something the cat dragged in. A cup of tea someone actually makes for me. A little hand drawn card my daughter makes saying “you are the world’s best Amma” even if I have been hard on her that day. Hammering at least makes you seek joy wherever you can find it.
I have stopped asking the pointless question of why I seem to get all sorts of difficult situations dumped on me. I feel like I am specially marked out for all the wrong reasons sometimes. I rant and rail at fate. I break down many a time. I steel myself with a stiff upper lip at other times. Whatever mode I use to tackle the continuing stream of fate’s blows, I cope. My one saving grace is that given a little time, I can find some humour in any dire situation. That has saved me from losing my sanity over the years.
A few of my friends are somewhat surprised that there is so much going on in my life and I still pull through. It explains my basic negativity though. I get to a point where I feel somewhat content and on the cusp of happiness and wham! , there’s another blow with the cosmic baseball bat. I am wary of happiness. I am wary of letting go. I am really wary of relaxing. And yet with all this wariness I cope. It is truly amazing how much inner strength we each have that even we are completely unaware of.
Nobility does not lie in an accident of birth – it is a part of one’s character that you earn by being in difficult situations and not backing down or taking no for an answer. It is taking the more difficult path when there are many easier options available. It is looking at a belligerent fate and facing it with the courage born of anger, determination or even plain helplessness. Hammering does tend to impart that strength of character – being folded a thousand ways and beaten repeatedly ensures you never crack and though it leaves permanent scars, they are not necessarily disfiguring ones – in a certain light, they even possess an uncanny beauty.
It has also taught me one more thing - to be grateful at least occasionally for what I have – the strength to take what comes my way, a loving family that views me as some sort of superwoman, unexpected love that comes my way like a miracle, friends who believe in me way more than I have ever believed in myself and a sense of humour to laugh at it all in the very end for if you cannot laugh, you might as well give up now.
I am not writing a despondent note. Once ceases to be despondent after years of hammering anyway. I do remember vaguely the years long ago when I really did not have a care in the world and the hammering of fate was a distant nightmare. Such a happy girl I was in comparison to today. And yet today I have learnt to be happy with the smallest of things. Someone thinking of me and sending me an affectionate message. A compliment on my looks even when I feel like something the cat dragged in. A cup of tea someone actually makes for me. A little hand drawn card my daughter makes saying “you are the world’s best Amma” even if I have been hard on her that day. Hammering at least makes you seek joy wherever you can find it.
I have stopped asking the pointless question of why I seem to get all sorts of difficult situations dumped on me. I feel like I am specially marked out for all the wrong reasons sometimes. I rant and rail at fate. I break down many a time. I steel myself with a stiff upper lip at other times. Whatever mode I use to tackle the continuing stream of fate’s blows, I cope. My one saving grace is that given a little time, I can find some humour in any dire situation. That has saved me from losing my sanity over the years.
A few of my friends are somewhat surprised that there is so much going on in my life and I still pull through. It explains my basic negativity though. I get to a point where I feel somewhat content and on the cusp of happiness and wham! , there’s another blow with the cosmic baseball bat. I am wary of happiness. I am wary of letting go. I am really wary of relaxing. And yet with all this wariness I cope. It is truly amazing how much inner strength we each have that even we are completely unaware of.
Nobility does not lie in an accident of birth – it is a part of one’s character that you earn by being in difficult situations and not backing down or taking no for an answer. It is taking the more difficult path when there are many easier options available. It is looking at a belligerent fate and facing it with the courage born of anger, determination or even plain helplessness. Hammering does tend to impart that strength of character – being folded a thousand ways and beaten repeatedly ensures you never crack and though it leaves permanent scars, they are not necessarily disfiguring ones – in a certain light, they even possess an uncanny beauty.
It has also taught me one more thing - to be grateful at least occasionally for what I have – the strength to take what comes my way, a loving family that views me as some sort of superwoman, unexpected love that comes my way like a miracle, friends who believe in me way more than I have ever believed in myself and a sense of humour to laugh at it all in the very end for if you cannot laugh, you might as well give up now.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Of not so smart phones...
It is definitely an addiction. She’s smart, a lovely deep red, looks hot and fits in my hand perfectly. She throws none of the tantrums that an overstrung smart phone does. I mean you can actually hold her any which way and type messages to anyone while being driven at speed over potholed roads - try doing that with an iPhone or a Samsung Galaxy and you will immediately understand what I mean. On top of that you don’t have to wave your hand or gesticulate in one fell swoop to answer or more importantly to disconnect the phone – all you have to do is click buttons normally and even emphatically if you so desire. Try being emphatic with a smart phone and all you get is a headache.
So my Blackberry is a thing of beauty and utility while my husband’s touch screen phone to me looks like an unmitigated disaster except for the games. It acts like something I’d give a kid and not something I would want to use while making vitally important calls. I simply cannot send a message on that thing to save my life. It is important to position your nails (I have nails) somewhere in the upper right quadrant of the numbers/letters on the screen if you actually want that number or letter to be typed. Who the hell has time for that? I would rather just use my thumbs and click away at high speed and get the message done rather than vexedly deleting every wrong letter I have managed to somehow get typed. Smart phones are really not very smart or they would come with buttons like any sensible piece of equipment.
The main advantage of using one of those touch-screen disasters is that the children have no interest in attacking my phone but instead make a beeline for my husband’s phone when they have had enough of cartoons and the laptops. My phone is fine for them to listen to songs on but gaming looks so ancient that I happily have had no reason to fear for my phone’s safety whereas my husband’s phone frequently freezes, hangs and locks up after the twosome’s loving ministrations. Such peace of mind cannot be purchased at any price, I assure you.
On top of all these wonderful features that come free with the smart phone, my major grouse is that it is really quite useless for a multitasking wizard like myself. I can answer the phone while doing almost anything. That however is solely under the assumption that it can be operated with one hand (please do not tell me about voice commands). So I click the answer button with one finger, prop the phone under my ear and get on with whatever chore I am performing at the moment. But when my husband is in the shower and yells at me to answer the phone while I am in the crucial stages of making that coconut fish curry, I have to first run and wipe both hands, do the weird swishy wave and attempt to cock the thing under my neck before trying to salvage the finely chopped onions for the tempering – invariably the call disconnects and the tempering gets messed up. If it were my little Curve, that would never have happened – happy fish curry, happy me would’ve been the only result.
Therefore I have decided to rename the smart phone to the ‘oversmart’ phone – smart when least needed and way ‘oversmart’ at all other times. Give me my non-smart phone any day!
So my Blackberry is a thing of beauty and utility while my husband’s touch screen phone to me looks like an unmitigated disaster except for the games. It acts like something I’d give a kid and not something I would want to use while making vitally important calls. I simply cannot send a message on that thing to save my life. It is important to position your nails (I have nails) somewhere in the upper right quadrant of the numbers/letters on the screen if you actually want that number or letter to be typed. Who the hell has time for that? I would rather just use my thumbs and click away at high speed and get the message done rather than vexedly deleting every wrong letter I have managed to somehow get typed. Smart phones are really not very smart or they would come with buttons like any sensible piece of equipment.
The main advantage of using one of those touch-screen disasters is that the children have no interest in attacking my phone but instead make a beeline for my husband’s phone when they have had enough of cartoons and the laptops. My phone is fine for them to listen to songs on but gaming looks so ancient that I happily have had no reason to fear for my phone’s safety whereas my husband’s phone frequently freezes, hangs and locks up after the twosome’s loving ministrations. Such peace of mind cannot be purchased at any price, I assure you.
On top of all these wonderful features that come free with the smart phone, my major grouse is that it is really quite useless for a multitasking wizard like myself. I can answer the phone while doing almost anything. That however is solely under the assumption that it can be operated with one hand (please do not tell me about voice commands). So I click the answer button with one finger, prop the phone under my ear and get on with whatever chore I am performing at the moment. But when my husband is in the shower and yells at me to answer the phone while I am in the crucial stages of making that coconut fish curry, I have to first run and wipe both hands, do the weird swishy wave and attempt to cock the thing under my neck before trying to salvage the finely chopped onions for the tempering – invariably the call disconnects and the tempering gets messed up. If it were my little Curve, that would never have happened – happy fish curry, happy me would’ve been the only result.
Therefore I have decided to rename the smart phone to the ‘oversmart’ phone – smart when least needed and way ‘oversmart’ at all other times. Give me my non-smart phone any day!
Friday, August 19, 2011
This day...
He looks at me with eyes full of pain. I don’t notice the pain or I do, but I choose to ignore it. I am filled with anger fuelled by worry as always. “Why do you just sit there?” “Why can’t you show an interest in something?” “You aren’t a potato for god’s sake, say something!!?” “Stop that weeping – why can’t you just tell me what you feel!” I scream all of this and the pain hits me like a wave.
I don’t cry because I am mad. Mad at a fate that can gift me with a son I do not know how to handle. I worry insanely night and day about what it is he can do with himself. There are moments when I feel carefree but that is only because of one newfound friendship that makes me behave like a young girl after ages. When that ends, I’ll have to go back to being in pain nearly always yet again.
I am not untalented. And yet I have earned nothing for myself monetarily. All the years I spent in so many hostels at college were not of much use except to earn me the degrees I needed to be marriageable material. How could I work when there is no one else to be home for my son when he needed it? So yes I resent him for that as well. All this negative feeling pops up when the worry strikes me hardest. Otherwise I leave well enough alone and we are both reasonably happy.
I realize that life has no answers sometimes and the questions can be very tormenting. I also realize that there is no point beating one’s head endlessly on a wall – the wall’s still there and you have a blasted headache to top it all. And indeed on most days humour comes to my aid and I pull through. But there are always those days that I dread where I don’t see a chink of light in the gathering gloom; where I am swamped with the kind of fear only a mother knows; where I regret every single thing that I have done in my life – today perhaps is one such day. Tomorrow I will be alright – I shall see the shadows for what they are and glimpse the light behind it but for now, I am hard-pressed to simply get through this day.
I don’t cry because I am mad. Mad at a fate that can gift me with a son I do not know how to handle. I worry insanely night and day about what it is he can do with himself. There are moments when I feel carefree but that is only because of one newfound friendship that makes me behave like a young girl after ages. When that ends, I’ll have to go back to being in pain nearly always yet again.
I am not untalented. And yet I have earned nothing for myself monetarily. All the years I spent in so many hostels at college were not of much use except to earn me the degrees I needed to be marriageable material. How could I work when there is no one else to be home for my son when he needed it? So yes I resent him for that as well. All this negative feeling pops up when the worry strikes me hardest. Otherwise I leave well enough alone and we are both reasonably happy.
I realize that life has no answers sometimes and the questions can be very tormenting. I also realize that there is no point beating one’s head endlessly on a wall – the wall’s still there and you have a blasted headache to top it all. And indeed on most days humour comes to my aid and I pull through. But there are always those days that I dread where I don’t see a chink of light in the gathering gloom; where I am swamped with the kind of fear only a mother knows; where I regret every single thing that I have done in my life – today perhaps is one such day. Tomorrow I will be alright – I shall see the shadows for what they are and glimpse the light behind it but for now, I am hard-pressed to simply get through this day.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Little lives ...
No sane person would enjoy reading the newspapers these days. And I punish myself twice each morning since I get two sets daily. Its normally amusing for me to see the wide disparities between the facts as presented in one paper compared to the next. There was nothing funny about today’s news however. A host of tragic stories – all to do with children. How many ways will we find to neglect and abuse our children I wonder? Abrupt endings to lives just beginning are so much more painful to contemplate – that’s why such stories haunt me for days.
The first story was one of those that will give any mother nightmares. A young mother was feeding her eighteen-month old son near open windows in a ninth-floor apartment. According to one account, the bowl of food slipped from her hand – she instinctively tried to catch it and loosened the grip of her arm around the little boy and he fell to his death. Was it a completely idiotic thing to attempt to feed a squirming child near an open window in a high-rise? Of course it was. Why was there no grill or some such protective mechanism? When builders cut corners, they don’t think twice about something as trivial as children’s safety. The buyers don’t seem to care or think ahead either. Despite all the immediate reaction to cast blame and wonder at how people could be so thoughtless, the overwhelming emotion is that of empathy with a mother who lost a child in the most careless fashion possible. How on earth will she live with herself? When I had two very young kids vying for my attention, I used to lose it with myself and the kids often enough so its easy to understand why she wanted to just get done with feeding the baby and on to the million other things vying for her attention. But it still doesn’t change the fact that the loss of her child was completely senseless and tragically avoidable.
The second story was something I should be used to by now but somehow never can get inured to. A guy grabbed his newborn daughter and threw her on the ground in an attempt to end her life because the combination of her undesirable sex and accursed clubfeet was simply too much for his manly pride to handle. After all he had apparently forced a promise out of his wife that she would only deliver a son – how dare the useless woman go back on her word and produce a freakish specimen instead? The last update mentioned the baby was still alive and struggling for life – every being wants to live, sex and club feet notwithstanding.
The third story is also tragic, perhaps excessively so because it shines a spotlight on how a society such as ours allows young children to be influenced in the most bizarre ways imaginable. A ten year old boy and his siblings were playing by themselves at home. Both parents were away at work. The children decided that they would try to see whether hanging was actually possible or not. They had seen countless movies where forlorn lovers attempted it and were saved at the last minute. They had read enough stories about children hanging themselves from the nearest object after getting a dressing-down from their parents on anything ranging from poor marks to a badly chosen partner to undesirable behaviour. The temptation was therefore present and so was curiosity. So the little guy was egged on to hang himself from the window curtains. Imagine his surprise when he actually succeeded. The other kids raised a hue and cry and neighbours whisked him away to a hospital where he is reported to be in a critical condition. Go ahead – leave kids who know no better by themselves – expose them to the most ludicrous movies and news stories and then expect them to have the judgement to make a sensible choice.
How many ways will we find to let down our children? In India, the answer would be – in countless new and innovative ways. Tomorrow we will end up far poorer for the choice we make today to neglect these young lives. When will this country wake up and take notice? I am simply lost trying to find an answer...
The first story was one of those that will give any mother nightmares. A young mother was feeding her eighteen-month old son near open windows in a ninth-floor apartment. According to one account, the bowl of food slipped from her hand – she instinctively tried to catch it and loosened the grip of her arm around the little boy and he fell to his death. Was it a completely idiotic thing to attempt to feed a squirming child near an open window in a high-rise? Of course it was. Why was there no grill or some such protective mechanism? When builders cut corners, they don’t think twice about something as trivial as children’s safety. The buyers don’t seem to care or think ahead either. Despite all the immediate reaction to cast blame and wonder at how people could be so thoughtless, the overwhelming emotion is that of empathy with a mother who lost a child in the most careless fashion possible. How on earth will she live with herself? When I had two very young kids vying for my attention, I used to lose it with myself and the kids often enough so its easy to understand why she wanted to just get done with feeding the baby and on to the million other things vying for her attention. But it still doesn’t change the fact that the loss of her child was completely senseless and tragically avoidable.
The second story was something I should be used to by now but somehow never can get inured to. A guy grabbed his newborn daughter and threw her on the ground in an attempt to end her life because the combination of her undesirable sex and accursed clubfeet was simply too much for his manly pride to handle. After all he had apparently forced a promise out of his wife that she would only deliver a son – how dare the useless woman go back on her word and produce a freakish specimen instead? The last update mentioned the baby was still alive and struggling for life – every being wants to live, sex and club feet notwithstanding.
The third story is also tragic, perhaps excessively so because it shines a spotlight on how a society such as ours allows young children to be influenced in the most bizarre ways imaginable. A ten year old boy and his siblings were playing by themselves at home. Both parents were away at work. The children decided that they would try to see whether hanging was actually possible or not. They had seen countless movies where forlorn lovers attempted it and were saved at the last minute. They had read enough stories about children hanging themselves from the nearest object after getting a dressing-down from their parents on anything ranging from poor marks to a badly chosen partner to undesirable behaviour. The temptation was therefore present and so was curiosity. So the little guy was egged on to hang himself from the window curtains. Imagine his surprise when he actually succeeded. The other kids raised a hue and cry and neighbours whisked him away to a hospital where he is reported to be in a critical condition. Go ahead – leave kids who know no better by themselves – expose them to the most ludicrous movies and news stories and then expect them to have the judgement to make a sensible choice.
How many ways will we find to let down our children? In India, the answer would be – in countless new and innovative ways. Tomorrow we will end up far poorer for the choice we make today to neglect these young lives. When will this country wake up and take notice? I am simply lost trying to find an answer...
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Sleeping children
I look at the little faces lost in sleep or perhaps in dreams of another world. How still they are now as opposed to the restless energy that seems to possess them when they are awake! They are so alike and yet so different. They smell wonderful – not the special mixture of mother’s milk and Johnson’s baby powder like they used to when they were infants but clean and light – they still smell of innocence.
I don’t watch them sleeping very often because the love that catches me by surprise always tends to be overwhelming and I do not want to feel this much love for fear something will happen to detract from it. I usually look at them for a few minutes in the morning before I wake them up for the crazy round of brushing, bathing and breakfasting before school that never seems to finish on time.
Today I notice how beautiful the shapes of my son’s eyes are. He has lashes that any actress would kill for. His head is a perfect round, his nose is just right and he has little cupid’s bow shaped lips – such a cute face and yet whenever I see him my heart fills with anxiety at what the future holds for a child who will never belong with others. Maybe he will surprise me. For now I just look at him and let the sight take my breath away.
The little one has grown so much the past year. She is all tanned gangly limbs like a colt. Even while still you can see her grace and fluidity. Her face is still small and she still looks like a baby to me when asleep. Her features are like her brother’s in many ways but she has a very determined expression even while dreaming. I am sure her dreams are of flying. Her feet never touch the ground – my little colt has wings.
In a few moments the morning frenzy will start. I will go nuts and yell at them to hurry, hurry and hurry some more. I will not hear the stories Mahi wants to tell me about the girl whose jacket got exchanged with hers. I won’t notice the cat on the backyard wall as the distraction that prevents Appu from finishing his breakfast. I will heave a sigh of relief when they are bundled off and then immediately I regret not being softer, gentler more patient. And then I will think of them when they are asleep and smile – what a blessing these two are and how little I deserve them. But I too shall learn to grow as a parent and one day I shall be worthy of these two...
I don’t watch them sleeping very often because the love that catches me by surprise always tends to be overwhelming and I do not want to feel this much love for fear something will happen to detract from it. I usually look at them for a few minutes in the morning before I wake them up for the crazy round of brushing, bathing and breakfasting before school that never seems to finish on time.
Today I notice how beautiful the shapes of my son’s eyes are. He has lashes that any actress would kill for. His head is a perfect round, his nose is just right and he has little cupid’s bow shaped lips – such a cute face and yet whenever I see him my heart fills with anxiety at what the future holds for a child who will never belong with others. Maybe he will surprise me. For now I just look at him and let the sight take my breath away.
The little one has grown so much the past year. She is all tanned gangly limbs like a colt. Even while still you can see her grace and fluidity. Her face is still small and she still looks like a baby to me when asleep. Her features are like her brother’s in many ways but she has a very determined expression even while dreaming. I am sure her dreams are of flying. Her feet never touch the ground – my little colt has wings.
In a few moments the morning frenzy will start. I will go nuts and yell at them to hurry, hurry and hurry some more. I will not hear the stories Mahi wants to tell me about the girl whose jacket got exchanged with hers. I won’t notice the cat on the backyard wall as the distraction that prevents Appu from finishing his breakfast. I will heave a sigh of relief when they are bundled off and then immediately I regret not being softer, gentler more patient. And then I will think of them when they are asleep and smile – what a blessing these two are and how little I deserve them. But I too shall learn to grow as a parent and one day I shall be worthy of these two...
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Again...
The headlines are mile-high. The pictures are unspeakably horrific. The words are all the right ones. Anger. Shock. Outrage. Fear. Panic. Every one of these emotions is captured well. There is also an unbelievable sense of frustration. The bile rises in my throat as I read about the latest series of bomb blasts in Mumbai. I cannot swallow past the acrid taste. There is no room for feeling anything other than real disgust that I am the citizen of a country that cares nothing for its people. And of course an overwhelming sense of déjà vu...
For the question in everyone’s mind is “When is the next one going to hit us?”. We all know there is going to be a next one and one after that as well. There’s no comfort in numbers or in knowing that perhaps by mere chance one might not lose a loved one in the next set of blasts. India, being the eternal soft state seeks neither revenge nor retribution like some other countries – indeed this erstwhile centre of spirituality does not even seek to teach those responsible any sort of lesson but instead chooses to assume that all things will even out in the next world. Those who died in the most gruesome manner were after all victims of their own past-life karma. The wheel turns and life goes on. Forgive. Forget. Never ever take steps to see that this doesn’t happen again. There are enough of us so that a few more dozen such incidents will not matter.
And we are to raise children in this kind of a set-up. We are to leave them be and hope that they go out of homes and come back eventually. We are to let them go in trains and buses to schools and colleges or to friends’ homes with a constant prayer on our lips and a dull throbbing fear that the almighty may not spare our children from the fate of countless others in a country that cares less for its children than roadside garbage.
How can one reconcile oneself to such a fate? To live in eternal fear? To not know closure for the deaths already caused. To get up in the morning and see pictures splashed in the newspapers cruelly depicting the bodies of young and old missing limbs and bathed in gore and mired in trash. Nothing can take away the horror or the pain. No one can soothe away the hurt. But if we had a government with some sense of responsibility or even commitment to the cause of protecting the very people who put them in positions of power, we wouldn’t have to live so. India today should be ashamed of itself for in India, tomorrow, who knows what will happen? All I know is that if its something bad, we still will not be prepared for it. People will die, speeches will be made, the spirit of a city will be lauded and then all will be forgotten. The spots marked by the blood of innocents will become mere tourist attractions. Their deaths will be as inconsequential as a series of summer rains. And it will happen again.
For the question in everyone’s mind is “When is the next one going to hit us?”. We all know there is going to be a next one and one after that as well. There’s no comfort in numbers or in knowing that perhaps by mere chance one might not lose a loved one in the next set of blasts. India, being the eternal soft state seeks neither revenge nor retribution like some other countries – indeed this erstwhile centre of spirituality does not even seek to teach those responsible any sort of lesson but instead chooses to assume that all things will even out in the next world. Those who died in the most gruesome manner were after all victims of their own past-life karma. The wheel turns and life goes on. Forgive. Forget. Never ever take steps to see that this doesn’t happen again. There are enough of us so that a few more dozen such incidents will not matter.
And we are to raise children in this kind of a set-up. We are to leave them be and hope that they go out of homes and come back eventually. We are to let them go in trains and buses to schools and colleges or to friends’ homes with a constant prayer on our lips and a dull throbbing fear that the almighty may not spare our children from the fate of countless others in a country that cares less for its children than roadside garbage.
How can one reconcile oneself to such a fate? To live in eternal fear? To not know closure for the deaths already caused. To get up in the morning and see pictures splashed in the newspapers cruelly depicting the bodies of young and old missing limbs and bathed in gore and mired in trash. Nothing can take away the horror or the pain. No one can soothe away the hurt. But if we had a government with some sense of responsibility or even commitment to the cause of protecting the very people who put them in positions of power, we wouldn’t have to live so. India today should be ashamed of itself for in India, tomorrow, who knows what will happen? All I know is that if its something bad, we still will not be prepared for it. People will die, speeches will be made, the spirit of a city will be lauded and then all will be forgotten. The spots marked by the blood of innocents will become mere tourist attractions. Their deaths will be as inconsequential as a series of summer rains. And it will happen again.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Of friends...
What makes me like someone at first glance? Is that sort of liking far more assured of permanence than a liking developed slowly over time? Have I ever liked someone later if I disliked them right at the beginning? Sometimes yes and sometimes no. There are people I have liked simply by speaking once over the phone and then the friendship continues strong to this day. There are people whom I have disliked intensely at first glance and never gotten over it. There are people whom I have instantly gotten along with and continued to love even when they were not very nice to me. Its really quite hard to explain why people just like some other people.
There are also some special people in my life whom I have learnt to love very slowly – so slowly in fact that I was not even aware of it. That sort of love grows continually over time – its what I feel for my husband. I had friends in college whom I didn’t dislike intensely at first but didn’t overwhelmingly like either – I later found that they were indeed a lot more worthy of respect than I first thought. So knowing a person takes time – its like peeling the layers of an onion one by one – what may appear dry and forbidding at first turns out to be rather palatable inside. With others you just know you are going to like them – like that wonderfully ripe mango you know will be sweet as heaven.
Then there are the others – the ones you don’t notice at all – whom you merely see out of the corner of your eye and whose presence registers not a whit. Then some accidental meeting or chance remark makes you look at the same person in a completely different light. You now see so much to like – so much to admire – so perfect a friend hidden within the trappings of former superficial disinterest. And then you go from casual acquaintance to good friend with the speed of light surprising even you and leaving you slightly breathless. To anyone who observes this, it only seems as if you lack judgment and can make friends with the first person who crosses your path but that’s not true.
Yes I have made mistakes galore in my choice of friends but I have been lucky a lot more than I have been otherwise. My friends are true ones - who have stood the test of time and adversity - who would help me in the space of a heartbeat without thinking twice about the trouble it would cause them personally. So due to a fear of having lost my judgment or perhaps as the result of ignoring my gut and only going by what society dictates, my few mistakes have been fairly large ones but then one has to go through a whole lot of dross to get at the good stuff. I count myself fortunate in my friends and blessed as well that no matter how low I feel, there’s someone to say just the right words but a phone call away.
There are also some special people in my life whom I have learnt to love very slowly – so slowly in fact that I was not even aware of it. That sort of love grows continually over time – its what I feel for my husband. I had friends in college whom I didn’t dislike intensely at first but didn’t overwhelmingly like either – I later found that they were indeed a lot more worthy of respect than I first thought. So knowing a person takes time – its like peeling the layers of an onion one by one – what may appear dry and forbidding at first turns out to be rather palatable inside. With others you just know you are going to like them – like that wonderfully ripe mango you know will be sweet as heaven.
Then there are the others – the ones you don’t notice at all – whom you merely see out of the corner of your eye and whose presence registers not a whit. Then some accidental meeting or chance remark makes you look at the same person in a completely different light. You now see so much to like – so much to admire – so perfect a friend hidden within the trappings of former superficial disinterest. And then you go from casual acquaintance to good friend with the speed of light surprising even you and leaving you slightly breathless. To anyone who observes this, it only seems as if you lack judgment and can make friends with the first person who crosses your path but that’s not true.
Yes I have made mistakes galore in my choice of friends but I have been lucky a lot more than I have been otherwise. My friends are true ones - who have stood the test of time and adversity - who would help me in the space of a heartbeat without thinking twice about the trouble it would cause them personally. So due to a fear of having lost my judgment or perhaps as the result of ignoring my gut and only going by what society dictates, my few mistakes have been fairly large ones but then one has to go through a whole lot of dross to get at the good stuff. I count myself fortunate in my friends and blessed as well that no matter how low I feel, there’s someone to say just the right words but a phone call away.
Monday, May 30, 2011
The many faces of rain...
Its wonderful that one can write about rain in endless ways. One can also experience rain in endless ways. Growing up in arid Kuwait, rain was an unprecedented gift. Continuing my childhood in Kerala, I found rain to be a real pain to live with – clothes never laundered well and the splashes of dirty water ending up on one’s clothes when too-fast buses headed self-importantly to their regular destinations, was far from poetic. In college, we danced unselfconsciously in the rain portraying a liberation of spirit not felt previously or indulged in since. Rain could be beauty, misery or liberty – reflecting the state of one’s mind for of course only we change – the rain stays the same.
Rain in California was a very sanitized version of rain in Kerala. It was not only milder but also did not bring with it the aroma of newly moistened soil. Every visible bed was mulched to perfection, so no smells assailed you when you walked in the rain along streets lined with pretty houses. Flowers were huge and picture perfect but their fragrance was either non-existent or a pale version of the lusty fragrances of the tropical flowers from back home.
Bangalore rain is civilized without being deprived of its soul. So for the most part it rains only in the evenings and nights with the days being sunny or merely slightly overcast. At nights, all restraint is left to the winds and the rain pours down in torrents saturating the earth and then overflowing every which way.
Last night I sat outside on the portico steps watching the downpour as it lashed the trees and bushes. Sipping my nightly cup of hot milk and feeling the spray of water on my face, I sat for a long time just breathing in the beauty of the scene. The drumming of the rain on the roof of the car shelter was in sync with the vibrations of my thoughts. For a few moments, there was that pure harmony and nothing else. For me today, rain means a rejuvenation of the spirit – tomorrow of course it could mean something else entirely :-)
Rain in California was a very sanitized version of rain in Kerala. It was not only milder but also did not bring with it the aroma of newly moistened soil. Every visible bed was mulched to perfection, so no smells assailed you when you walked in the rain along streets lined with pretty houses. Flowers were huge and picture perfect but their fragrance was either non-existent or a pale version of the lusty fragrances of the tropical flowers from back home.
Bangalore rain is civilized without being deprived of its soul. So for the most part it rains only in the evenings and nights with the days being sunny or merely slightly overcast. At nights, all restraint is left to the winds and the rain pours down in torrents saturating the earth and then overflowing every which way.
Last night I sat outside on the portico steps watching the downpour as it lashed the trees and bushes. Sipping my nightly cup of hot milk and feeling the spray of water on my face, I sat for a long time just breathing in the beauty of the scene. The drumming of the rain on the roof of the car shelter was in sync with the vibrations of my thoughts. For a few moments, there was that pure harmony and nothing else. For me today, rain means a rejuvenation of the spirit – tomorrow of course it could mean something else entirely :-)
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Ex-Indians
One topic that has been pushing its way into my mind is that of the ex-Indian. The ex-Indian is a curious creature who has spent the majority of his life in India ( having been born and educated here) and the rest elsewhere usually the US or UK for Indians in the Gulf are never awarded citizenship of their country of residence so they remain essentially Indians. The ex-Indian looks like a regular Indian but for the accent and the dependence on faded t-shirts and shorts as a lifestyle statement. Of course there is another important thing that sets these exalted creatures apart – a piece of paper that says they are now officially a citizen of the country of their choice. In other words if one had no idea that they possessed said piece of paper, it was easy enough to mistake them for er..locals.
I have no issues with ex-Indians or pseudo-Indians or even fair-weather Indians. However I do have a problem with someone criticizing my country after they have chosen to leave it for greener pastures. Everyone has the right to choose where they want to live and raise their kids and I respect that. I do not respect their newfound ridicule for the country of their birth however. Not only is that akin to ridiculing your own mother, its also patently forgetting your road to whatever level of success you are convinced you have attained.
In college I had met all sorts of rabidly political guys – extreme in their views both to the left and the right. Now I see them embracing the very things they scoffed – mostly they (be they former RSS supporters or ardent Communists) argue about Obama’s policies and make sure they tell everyone back here that they voted for him. Afflicted with an increasing loss of memory they now laugh at everything Indian but do not forget to remind the world of their ‘Indianness’ when we win the World Cup in cricket. Human nature, you say? Well of course it is – animals rarely have this conflict in their soul.
The pseudo-Indian is an ex-Indian in soul but due to the exigencies of circumstance has been forced to live in India. This includes the newly-rich who suddenly don’t think the country is good enough for them and make sure their kids poop only in imported potties as well as the ex-Indian who has not managed to survive something traumatic like a job loss in their beloved new country and comes back to the country that he hates but acknowledges to be more viable economically.
The fair-weather Indian supports India when the going gets good and criticizes it remorselessly when the going gets bad. These guys are also ex-Indians but have chosen to return to India permanently with the rider that “if things get too bad, we can always go back”. This particular set of people although tending to be boastful, still make some attempt at integrating with the society around them.
Then there are those who call themselves neither Indians nor Americans – they have the coveted US passport but do not act like that its a God-given gift. They live simply and contribute meaningfully to the society. They don’t go overboard one way or the other and can find things to celebrate in the country of their birth as well as the land of their choosing. They are a pleasure to interact with because they do not go on endlessly about life in the good old wherever. They don’t shy away from responsibility and they are open to change whenever possible. Their children can move back and forth between worlds seamlessly and can be as passionate about cricket as they can about baseball. To me they represent a nice balance which is not really all that difficult to achieve.
To all ex-Indians I have but one thing to say – pick a side and stick to it. Do not use your country of birth as a safety net. Above all respect your route to your present, forgetting your roots makes for a very shallow existence.
I have no issues with ex-Indians or pseudo-Indians or even fair-weather Indians. However I do have a problem with someone criticizing my country after they have chosen to leave it for greener pastures. Everyone has the right to choose where they want to live and raise their kids and I respect that. I do not respect their newfound ridicule for the country of their birth however. Not only is that akin to ridiculing your own mother, its also patently forgetting your road to whatever level of success you are convinced you have attained.
In college I had met all sorts of rabidly political guys – extreme in their views both to the left and the right. Now I see them embracing the very things they scoffed – mostly they (be they former RSS supporters or ardent Communists) argue about Obama’s policies and make sure they tell everyone back here that they voted for him. Afflicted with an increasing loss of memory they now laugh at everything Indian but do not forget to remind the world of their ‘Indianness’ when we win the World Cup in cricket. Human nature, you say? Well of course it is – animals rarely have this conflict in their soul.
The pseudo-Indian is an ex-Indian in soul but due to the exigencies of circumstance has been forced to live in India. This includes the newly-rich who suddenly don’t think the country is good enough for them and make sure their kids poop only in imported potties as well as the ex-Indian who has not managed to survive something traumatic like a job loss in their beloved new country and comes back to the country that he hates but acknowledges to be more viable economically.
The fair-weather Indian supports India when the going gets good and criticizes it remorselessly when the going gets bad. These guys are also ex-Indians but have chosen to return to India permanently with the rider that “if things get too bad, we can always go back”. This particular set of people although tending to be boastful, still make some attempt at integrating with the society around them.
Then there are those who call themselves neither Indians nor Americans – they have the coveted US passport but do not act like that its a God-given gift. They live simply and contribute meaningfully to the society. They don’t go overboard one way or the other and can find things to celebrate in the country of their birth as well as the land of their choosing. They are a pleasure to interact with because they do not go on endlessly about life in the good old wherever. They don’t shy away from responsibility and they are open to change whenever possible. Their children can move back and forth between worlds seamlessly and can be as passionate about cricket as they can about baseball. To me they represent a nice balance which is not really all that difficult to achieve.
To all ex-Indians I have but one thing to say – pick a side and stick to it. Do not use your country of birth as a safety net. Above all respect your route to your present, forgetting your roots makes for a very shallow existence.
Just Cricket
The cup runneth over – in this case probably with champagne since after 28 years, India has won the World Cup in cricket. The joy of a nation was tremendous to behold. Celebrations were on a scale that is difficult to describe. The country rejoiced as one – millions of throats grew hoarse chanting “Indiaaa” and of course “Sachin”.
It is hard to explain to a non-Indian why this sport is followed with so much fervour in this country. I don’t claim to understand all the nuances myself. I like watching cricket and I love cheering for my country – its as simple as that when all is said and done. But why only cricket? And why do we not love cricket itself as a sport but tend to love only our team playing and winning? Again I am far from qualified to answer that. I can only guess at a few factors based on the way I comprehend the manic frenzy of the Indian cricket-lover.
In no other field do we feel like we have a chance to succeed and impress the rest of the world. Its almost as if beating England in cricket makes up for three hundred years of colonization and beating Australia is a way to get back our pride after too many bouts of humiliation. Against Pakistan, let no one even attempt to dissemble – its an outright war. There’s no grace or dignity that comes into play – we want to decimate them. So for most purposes cricket is our weapon to get back at the world or rather a tool to carve a place for ourselves in the world that is right out there in the sun.
Another interesting aspect is that for us our current Indian captain shows true leadership. The kind of leadership we don’t get from our politicians. We are embarrassed by our silly President and fed up with our ineffective Prime Minister. We are not interested in hearing about yet another scam or sleazy scandal. When we have nowhere to turn for inspiration, we look to our cricket team to lift us out of the mundane and elevate our life to the sublime even if it is only for a few brief moments.
We get inspired – we believe we can fly when we see Dhoni hit that final six with a flourish. We cry out loud with sheer happiness. This is why we burden Sachin with a billion expectations. This is why we think he is God – in a country where very often one wonders whether there really is a God watching out for us, only a manifestation of almost poetic sporting ability seems to be true divinity. This isn’t mere cricket – for the majority it is a religion.
It is hard to explain to a non-Indian why this sport is followed with so much fervour in this country. I don’t claim to understand all the nuances myself. I like watching cricket and I love cheering for my country – its as simple as that when all is said and done. But why only cricket? And why do we not love cricket itself as a sport but tend to love only our team playing and winning? Again I am far from qualified to answer that. I can only guess at a few factors based on the way I comprehend the manic frenzy of the Indian cricket-lover.
In no other field do we feel like we have a chance to succeed and impress the rest of the world. Its almost as if beating England in cricket makes up for three hundred years of colonization and beating Australia is a way to get back our pride after too many bouts of humiliation. Against Pakistan, let no one even attempt to dissemble – its an outright war. There’s no grace or dignity that comes into play – we want to decimate them. So for most purposes cricket is our weapon to get back at the world or rather a tool to carve a place for ourselves in the world that is right out there in the sun.
Another interesting aspect is that for us our current Indian captain shows true leadership. The kind of leadership we don’t get from our politicians. We are embarrassed by our silly President and fed up with our ineffective Prime Minister. We are not interested in hearing about yet another scam or sleazy scandal. When we have nowhere to turn for inspiration, we look to our cricket team to lift us out of the mundane and elevate our life to the sublime even if it is only for a few brief moments.
We get inspired – we believe we can fly when we see Dhoni hit that final six with a flourish. We cry out loud with sheer happiness. This is why we burden Sachin with a billion expectations. This is why we think he is God – in a country where very often one wonders whether there really is a God watching out for us, only a manifestation of almost poetic sporting ability seems to be true divinity. This isn’t mere cricket – for the majority it is a religion.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Words
Words have immense power. A friend tells you that you are looking lovely and you find yourself walking just that bit taller the rest of the day. Someone says they love you and you bloom. A child tells you that he loves his yummy dinner and it makes you glad. Actions may speak louder than words but words have the power to transform even over a distance.
Many a time when I have felt low and depressed, a phone call from someone who cares enough to check up on me changes my mood drastically. Sometimes it is my children who tell me the most beautiful things. Who hasn’t felt the impact of harsh words? Have you seen how a child visibly wilts under the angry lash of words you didn’t manage to control in time? I have regretted most the words I have spoken in anger to many – they may have been justified or not – but they could never be taken back. Indeed it took nearly six years for me to undo the mistake of one impassioned speech. That relationship is still not fully mended and I doubt if it will ever be unless the right words of love are spoken to heal things but the ego intervenes and messes matters up.
Words to lift up and words to let down. Words to entrance and words to distract. Words to fulfill and words to deny. There are all sorts of words and their power is simply astonishing. Try thinking different words and saying different words than is your wont. No matter how irritated you are, try to substitute words of anger for words that are soothing or at least quieter. The transformation in you and around you will be beautiful.
Many a time when I have felt low and depressed, a phone call from someone who cares enough to check up on me changes my mood drastically. Sometimes it is my children who tell me the most beautiful things. Who hasn’t felt the impact of harsh words? Have you seen how a child visibly wilts under the angry lash of words you didn’t manage to control in time? I have regretted most the words I have spoken in anger to many – they may have been justified or not – but they could never be taken back. Indeed it took nearly six years for me to undo the mistake of one impassioned speech. That relationship is still not fully mended and I doubt if it will ever be unless the right words of love are spoken to heal things but the ego intervenes and messes matters up.
Words to lift up and words to let down. Words to entrance and words to distract. Words to fulfill and words to deny. There are all sorts of words and their power is simply astonishing. Try thinking different words and saying different words than is your wont. No matter how irritated you are, try to substitute words of anger for words that are soothing or at least quieter. The transformation in you and around you will be beautiful.
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