Of blind prejudice...

The fact that you are born with eyes does not mean you see anything at all. If the eyes of your soul are cataract-ridden, you see the world through a cloudy haze that distorts unendingly and you grow so used to this distortion that you make no effort to achieve clarity of thought. Children, if left to themselves, un-poisoned by an adult’s hammering opinions, have very clear vision. My son stays clear of all those who judge him, he does not go towards minds that are so small they fail to understand his heart and since he will probably stay innocent all his life, his innate goodness will protect him from the  disgustingly cruel people that abound especially among those who are supposedly educated and well-off.

My partner at the centre Aks was quite upset the other day. Resembling a quivering ball of indignation, she vented on the lack of manners of the general population here in Bangalore. She had taken one of our kids to the McDonald’s at a small mall close to the centre. They were rude and unhelpful when it came to seating the child. Everyone looked at the kid like he came from another planet. They told her there was no space and that she would have to change her order to take-away. Of course they hadn’t bargained for a woman who spoke her mind. She accused them of incompetence and indifference and fought her way to a table. She made the child sit and eat his burger slowly. She chatted away with him trying to draw him into a conversation, ignoring the curious, disparaging looks of the ill-bred crowd. They then returned after the meal.

I let her vent out her hurt and anger. I pointed out softly that being a parent of an autistic child I already knew what was out there. There was no point in getting angry – even righteous anger would not help. Our much-vaulted Indian culture had no place for anyone who was less than perfect. The poor would remain poor. The disabled would be looked down upon. The different ones would be ridiculed. I see so many people who think that they are ‘good’ because they follow some unwritten code of ‘ethics’ that they have designed for themselves. These rules have loopholes larger than continents to fit in their personal failings. It is alright for them to do anything. But the rest of humanity is not allowed failings. They roam around this world spreading hate and prejudice in the guise of being pure. They carry about them the stench of a closed mind. For such good people, there must be reserved a very special hell indeed. 

I know all of that but I refuse to react. Aks has been exposed to this many times because she is courageous enough to take our kids to movies and restaurants and face the world. I have personally come across plenty of unseen prejudice and hatred that is masked by beady-eyed ‘goodness’. I have dealt with ‘educationists’ who ought to be shut away in asylums rather than be allowed to continue corrupting children’s minds. I have dealt with institutions that are so invested in making money they forget they are trading away the lives of children who need help desperately. 

My only hope comes from children themselves. The other day two smart teenagers came to the centre promising to help us build a community around our children. They want to make a difference. They told us they hadn’t seen anything as impressive as the lovely artwork created by our champions. They wondered why we hadn’t marketed ourselves at all. They want to bring their friends in. They want to spread awareness. And seeing the joy and respect in their eyes, I felt renewed. My cynicism takes a backseat and I let my being fill with hope once again…

Compassion...

Her eyes were huge, black and shiny with intense fear. She stood cowering at a doorway as the man approached. He had a soothing voice and a non-threatening manner but she growled and snapped. He didn’t leave. He stayed and talked to her for a while but she kept growling and baring her teeth. She was skinny and hurt and shivered uncontrollably through it all. Gradually the man’s voice got through to that part of her that had been buried under pain and abuse and abandonment. A dim memory grew stronger – the memory of a time when soft hands had petted her, when her belly was full, when there was warmth around her.

She was still terrified. She yet snapped at the blanket the man was using to stroke her softly. He kept soothing her with a loving voice. He told her she was a good, lovely girl and that everything would be all right. He wouldn’t hurt her. She didn’t have to be scared anymore. Slowly, she stopped trembling, she leaned into the stroking blanket and looked up with the tiniest ray of hope in her expressive eyes. They seemed to beg the world not to cause her any more pain. She had been through enough.

The man gently coaxed her closer and began to stroke her with his hand instead of the blanket. The connection seemed to break the wall of fear that she had built around her in order to survive, however miserably. She trusted the man and came even closer. He pulled her on to his lap and praised her lavishly for being so good and so brave. He promised her he would take care of her and off they went together.

Days later, she looked like a different dog entirely. Her coat was clean and glossy. Her bones no longer poked starkly against her skin. She looked happy and active. But most importantly, the shadows of fear had fled from her eyes. She was rescued.

This is not a story – it is a video I had watched on Facebook about rescuing abandoned dogs; one of the many links that one sees posted daily. I watched it and was moved. The idea that all it took was a little bit of genuine love and caring to alter fear-fuelled violent behaviour into calm, responsive behaviour was truly amazing. We all know the power of love but few understand it with the depths of their soul. The man with his wonderful voice and even more wonderful heart reaching across to an animal no one wanted and who was showing him the worst side of her nature in an attempt to keep away from more hurt, spoke to me in more ways than one. It is easy to be angry and violent if that is the path one chooses but it is far more difficult to keep life’s hurts from transforming you into a hard, implacable creature and instead continue to keep the flame of humanity and compassion alive in you.A beautiful message indeed and one that works for us all…

To be remembered...

Yesterday was rather special. I woke up to the news that an old family friend was about to visit us. My mother and brother were home too. I had not seen Uncle for perhaps twenty five years. He had stopped by to visit the family a few times but I had always missed his visits. He was a very close friend of my father and therefore it was his way of showing respect – this occasional visit. I gave him directions on the phone and went for my morning walk as usual.  I got back early and made sambar and idlis in time for their arrival. Uncle loved dosas and so I planned to make my paper thin dosas only after they showed up. Uncle’s favourite breakfast was dosa and chutney podi teamed with a steaming hot cup of black coffee.

Uncle and his son and daughter-in-law soon showed up and we talked of this and that. He looked different of course. We all did. Twenty five years is a lot of time and I sat wondering at how quickly the years seemed to have passed when I look back but how interminable some of the more painful phases seemed while I was living through them. The simple breakfast followed and I caught up with Uncle’s son whose memories of my father were as clear as daylight. 

He told me how they (his father, mother, sister and himself) loved to visit our flat in Kuwait in the weekends. It was not just my father’s famous hospitality, it was the love with which he prepared and served his friends, it was the joy with which he received them, it was the stories he wove around each dish and the way he could always entertain the children that stayed in everyone’s minds. To them, he still deserved to be a cherished memory because they associated him with some of the happier moments in their lives.

I was incredibly touched to hear others remembering my father the way I did. He was an unusual man whose love was genuine and touched everyone who came near him. I think my son inherited the largeness of his heart and some little gene of his is embedded in me, for I love to feed people too although perhaps not on the scale that my father used to. All my friends know they can walk in for a meal anytime and they also know how much I enjoy remembering each one’s favourite dishes and attempting to make them whenever they drop by.

As we laughed and caught up and reminisced, it was time for Uncle to leave to catch his flight. He bid us all farewell but before that he told me a few words that moved me immensely – “You have turned out so well! I am very proud of you. After years, I have tasted food that reminds me of the times I spent with your father. Thank you for taking me back in time to those very memories.” I hugged him tight because I couldn’t speak. We waved him goodbye and I walked back home feeling as though my father was watching over me with a smile …

Price Tags

The other day, I heard a quote courtesy a short online conversation. It was by Pico Iyer from his book ‘Cuba and the Night’.  I think it goes as follows (apologies if I have gotten this wrong) - “When love is a commodity, why would anyone give it away for free?” Initially, I found myself quite irritated at that depiction of love. It is not that I believe so much in love especially the frivolous crazy version.  I have learnt along the way that it is only the non-earth shattering ordinary kind of love, the kind that signifies quiet everyday togetherness that endures and grows into something more and more beautiful as time passes. And yet I wasn’t too happy to hear of love being described as a mere commodity, an article of trade, an object with a price tag.

I told S about it while I chatted away on Skype and he surprisingly agreed that love could indeed be viewed as a commodity. He thought it was a far more practical explanation than the irrational teen view of love which completely distorts its nature. My husband has always been logical and has never lost his head or heart to anyone but the children. I mused at how two people whom I see as completely different could think of something as profound as love in an identical fashion. I argued that there were many things that could then be ascribed a price tag – how much would you pay for truth, for grace, for poise, for fidelity, for beauty? If love is an object, so are these. He said they all come at a price. Love expects certain things for it to be called ‘love’ in the commonly portrayed sense. He didn’t believe in the film or poetry version of love. Neither did my friend. According to my friend, love came at the cost of commitment if you were not married and at the cost of marriage if you found yourself in love at an inappropriate time. So the price had to be paid or if you had any sense, you would shun and ignore love, if it happens along your path in life. Paying the price was simply not worth it.

I sat in thought for a while wondering at how differently the bundle of emotions and expectations that is love could be viewed from so many angles. In my mind true love is less selfish than mere attraction, there is no such thing as a soulmate and more people in this world are fooled by an illusion of love than by any other enchantment. Does love extract some kind of payment? In many ways it does. So perhaps S was right. Perhaps my friend of twenty years knew what he was talking about for he had led a varied life unlike my mainly sheltered existence. Nothing in this life comes for free. 

The price tag for love or truth or grace isn’t monetary but if it was, I wonder what amount of money one would have to pay to be free of heartbreak or what amount would suffice to purchase grace under extremely trying circumstances. What is the value of someone’s tears? How much would you ask as reparation for being taken for granted? If you are given a great lifestyle and fancy possessions, would you forget in a trice? If you are on the verge of death, does the idea of how much money you leave behind rather than the difference you have made to a handful of lives, make death seem nicer ?Money seems quite ineffective for a few things in life but yes, for everything else, including a certain kind of ‘love’, there is always MasterCard.

A long ago bride

Today my tree looks like a bride – adorned with bright jewels and an excited trembling smile – coming to think of it, my wedding sari was flame coloured just like the flowers on my tree. But there was a huge difference. I wasn’t a happy beaming bride. I was a young woman doing what I had been asked to do. I had had neither time nor inclination for romance. Hell, I never even believed in love. So I clearly remember the picture I made with my very slender frame, long hair bedecked with jasmine flowers, some jewellery and a slightly impatient look on my face. S, on the other hand looked quite happy and attempted conversation on the pandal which I quite nastily refused to take part in. I sat there that morning in the glare of the lights of the video cameras and in front of a crowd of at least two thousand people, in a completely detached state.

 I look at one photo taken almost sixteen years ago and I can see the uncertainty on my face and the look that signified being lost in thoughts yet again. I was scared of what was to come. I was nervous as to whether I would fit in with a family that seemed so traditional as compared to mine. I was unhappy with the idea that I was not allowed to work at my career as I wanted but asked to get married before I was done with my final project. My mother as I recall was clearly incensed with the fact that I had grown even skinnier during my project period. I always have had trouble gaining weight but she thought this was a personal choice – that I deliberately rebelled in that particular fashion. I didn’t care much. I was thin, and not very good-looking but I had lovely hair that cascaded down to my waist and that more or less made up for any shortcomings according to my father. My long locks were his pride and joy.

The fact however is that it all turned out quite well for me. We took our own time to get to know each other. S was patient enough to build a friendship with me before deepening our relationship. I was like a skittish colt for months but S was very understanding and still continues to be so. I look back and laugh at how old-fashioned my nature must appear now , at how today’s kids would find my shyness and tears incomprehensible. I have changed a lot but there is one aspect of me that has not changed. The essential core is the same. I believe I am a good human being capable of a great deal of love which I know is rare and that I wish to raise my children to bring light rather than selfishness to this world. There was a turbulent period in my life not too long ago when I began questioning how I could take a path that went against my grain and then I realized life also consisted of recognizing one’s imperfections. What was important was to be true to myself and the person I have always been. And that is what I try to do more consciously these days.

The gorgeous flowers smile back at me cheerily while I sit writing this. Their beauty does not diminish if no one is around to tell them they are beautiful. The beauty is in their very nature and no one can take that away from them. Perhaps they would not be constantly recorded in my words if they were flowering in solitary splendour where no one could see them but they would always be beautiful. I write about my lovely flame tree when my mind is in need of quieting  because its simple existence never fails to take my breath away and make me feel uniquely blessed to be in this world.