Religion has never been a very big deal for me. And that probably is the reason why controversies, strife and aggression in the name of religion almost always confound me. More often than not, the differences between warring factions seem so insignificant that I wonder why people can't look past them, respect spaces and live together in harmony. And inevitably, my mind races back in time, to my childhood which was spent in the Middle East, where Allah's prayer calls resounded around us at regular intervals several times a day.
We lived in an apartment block inhabited by people from all over - staunch Catholics from Goa, conservative Muslims from Pakistan, Jews from no particular country and Protestant Christians from Europe. It was a very diverse group, which made for a very interesting childhood. I have the fondest memories of my life back then - the wonderful games of make-believe...The stories of life & customs in far off lands...sampling new flavours every time someone returned from a visit to their homeland. But the memories I still cherish in my heart are those of the festivals we celebrated. Be it Christmas, Eid, Diwali, Onam or Hanukkah, we kids participated in all with gusto and enthusiasm... well, largely because of the gastronomic delights which came our way.
I still remember the whirl of culinary activities in Auntie Irene's kitchen in the weeks preceding Christmas..The stirring of the Christmas pudding..The baking and sampling of cookies and logs..Wolfing down plates of the fragrant, delicately spiced Eid biriyani which was laden with tender succulent meat. I remember my brother and me badgering our parents into buying us a Christmas tree and keeping alive the Santa myth with a glittering tree stacked with presents beneath and white stockings bursting at the seams with sweets and gifts. I even remember in vivid detail, my friend Bilal gulping down several large mouthfuls of the holy Lourdes water from a receptacle shaped like the Holy Virgin and declaring to us, that he Superman had drunk deeply of the Elixir of Youth and would now never succumb to the evil kryptonite. As far as I knew, religion, culture and nationalities never came in the way of our childish pleasure.
Not that things were very different when we came to India. I studied in a quaint little convent school watched over by kindly nuns with friends from diverse backgrounds and religions. My best friends hailed from all walks of life and worshiped different Gods. And so, I grew up learning to cross myself in the presence of the Trinity, uttering a fervent Insha Allah after a voiced desire, wish or planned act and praying to Jesus as fervently as I did to Lord Ganesha when I knew I hadn't given my best in an exam!!!
Distance, antagonism and hostility based on religious differences were something that I read of only in history books. I could not conceive of a world where a Hindu could fight a Muslim or Christian or Sikh and even worse, kill one another. But come adulthood and things changed all too subtly. I was privy to adult conversations where at times, people spoke indignantly about religious conversions, diets which propagate cruelty to animals, bigotedness, exclusion...And so many such perceived transgressions committed by other religions, most of which I know are figments of one or the other's imagination.
I still hear such conversations... In restaurants, at stations and airports, at gatherings, houses, offices...And it never ceases to amaze me just how much religion has wedged itself between people, nipping love in the bud and shackling their minds with fear and moral self-righteousness. I am sure that this is not what the pantheon of Hindu Gods or the wise old founders wanted their religion to be. Or Jesus or Allah for that matter. The more I hear, the more I feel that the man-made barriers are rooted in more in fear than in faith.
Fear one may ask in surprise?. Well, yes indeed. I suspect people especially the self appointed guardians of any religion fear very many things - Change, Loss of Self Worth, Loss of Control, Loss of Stature in the eyes of others- and blindly cling to dogmas in a bid to protect themselves in their mind's eye. Religion merely provides them with a convenient guise.
Those of the true faith realise that God speaks to us in the uncanniest of places and often without attendant ceremonies. They are the ones who have great compassion and acceptance for all the creatures that inhabit their world, regardless of their colour, caste, creed, culture or religious beliefs. And they are the people who can live and let live without succumbing to the compelling urge to impose their will and principles on the people around them.
For me, it matters little which God rules in heaven. My most intense conversations with the Powers Above have been in dark, near-empty churches, ancient Buddhist temples, in wilderness and in the confines of my own home. And almost always in solitude. In my moments of aloneness, I often think that we all need to tear down the walls of fear and intolerance which separate us. We are no different from the man or woman who lives across the street. It is only in reaching out with open minds that this world has any chance of peace in it. And if, any of us, are tempted to bend another to his will, the question we need to ask ourselves is "Am I my Brother's Keeper?"
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
Awaken The Elephant!!!
8 lilliputian blasts in 30 minutes....
6 hours of fear and uncertainty in India's Tech city....
24 hours of media led confusion worldwide........
That, my friends, is what the serial bomb blasts that supposedly 'rocked' Bangalore city yesterday, was all about. A lot of noise, some hot air and almost zero impact. What else could one expect from crude bombs composed of nuts, bolts and poorly concealed gelatin sticks that were of much lower intensity than even those used for quarrying stone? It would seem, as one of my readers suggested, that inflation had indeed taken its toll on the 'wanna-be' terrorists, forcing them to resort to using any which materials they could lay their hands on rather than what was actually needed to trigger a high impact explosion.
The blasts would have perhaps earned the hype generated by the over enthusiastic media, if it had occured in strategic locations. However, the lackadaisical and almost random planting of explosives in landscaped islands, under trees in vacant lots and on the roadsides only ensured the redundancy of all, save one which took the life of an innocent woman and inflicted injuries on a few.
Although my heart goes out to Ravi, the wounded husband of the victim Sudha who is in a trance and still unaware of his spouse's demise, I could not help but wonder why the culprits even bothered?
A sentiment which perhaps the agents of terror also echoed in retrospect. Because just 24 hours later, the nation watched in horror and shock as 16 low intensity bombs ripped through Ahmedabad and tore a part of its society asunder. This time, bombs containing lethal ball bearings were planted strategically in crowded market places and hospitals with clear intent to kill in multitudes. And the effect: 30 dead and close to 100 injured at the time of publishing this post.
While the explosions did not take a serious toll on Bangalore, it has catapulted Ahmedabad into the ranks of Hyderabad*, Malegoan* and Varanasi*; though not into the big league where the Mumbai*, Jaipur* and the Samjotha* explosions rest.
Over the past 2 years, India's experiences of terrorist aggression seem to average 3 episodes annually, which is indeed quite a battering for any nation to take. But withstand it she does, despite the ineffectual fumbling of its political guardians. The irrepressible resilience that we Indians posses and our ability to bounce back in the face of any calamity has, undoubtedly, played a key role in the continued existence of the great Indian democracy. I mean where else in the world can you find men blithely urinating on the roadside the morning after a serious explosion or women squatting on the pavements nonchalently sipping steaming cups of chai without worrying about the possibility of a bomb exploding beneath them? But it remains to be seen just how much more the people of this nation can be pushed.
For me, India is like the Elephant, once an acknowledged symbol of imperial power and an animal possessed of remarkable intelligence and the wisdom of the ages. It is said that the elephant is slow to anger but once roused, can set forth on a rampage leaving in its wake destruction unimagined. I await the day when the little flames of anger flickering across my country today grow into a raging blaze and India, like its more resolute western counterparts, responds to even the smallest act of terrorist aggression firmly, swiftly, decisively and so ruthlessly that any aggresor would think not just twice, but a gazillion times before taking a second shot at us.
* Chronology of major bomb attacks in India 2006-2008
(Courtesy: Economic Times)
May 2008 Jaipur: 9 explosions, 60 dead & over 200 injured
Nov 2007: Serial blasts outside courts in 3 north Indian cities; 40 people wounded
Oct 2007, Rajasthan [ Ajmer Sheriff]: 2 explosions, 2 dead & 15 injured
Aug 2007, Hyderabad: 2 explosions, 43 dead & over 70 injured
May 2007 Hyderabad [Mecca Mosque]: Single explosion, 10 dead & over a dozen injured
Feb 2007 Samjhauta Express: 4 explosions, 68 dead & several injured
Sept 2006, Malegoan[Maharashtra]: 3 explosions, 38 people dead & over 100 injured
July 2006, Mumbai: 7 explosions, 186 dead & over 800 injured
Apr 2006, New Delhi [ Jama Masjid]: 2 explosions, 14 dead injured
Mar 2006, Varanasi: 3 explosions, 28 dead & 62 injured.
Oct 2005, New Delhi: 3 explosions, over 60 dead & 200 injured
6 hours of fear and uncertainty in India's Tech city....
24 hours of media led confusion worldwide........
That, my friends, is what the serial bomb blasts that supposedly 'rocked' Bangalore city yesterday, was all about. A lot of noise, some hot air and almost zero impact. What else could one expect from crude bombs composed of nuts, bolts and poorly concealed gelatin sticks that were of much lower intensity than even those used for quarrying stone? It would seem, as one of my readers suggested, that inflation had indeed taken its toll on the 'wanna-be' terrorists, forcing them to resort to using any which materials they could lay their hands on rather than what was actually needed to trigger a high impact explosion.
The blasts would have perhaps earned the hype generated by the over enthusiastic media, if it had occured in strategic locations. However, the lackadaisical and almost random planting of explosives in landscaped islands, under trees in vacant lots and on the roadsides only ensured the redundancy of all, save one which took the life of an innocent woman and inflicted injuries on a few.
Although my heart goes out to Ravi, the wounded husband of the victim Sudha who is in a trance and still unaware of his spouse's demise, I could not help but wonder why the culprits even bothered?
A sentiment which perhaps the agents of terror also echoed in retrospect. Because just 24 hours later, the nation watched in horror and shock as 16 low intensity bombs ripped through Ahmedabad and tore a part of its society asunder. This time, bombs containing lethal ball bearings were planted strategically in crowded market places and hospitals with clear intent to kill in multitudes. And the effect: 30 dead and close to 100 injured at the time of publishing this post.
While the explosions did not take a serious toll on Bangalore, it has catapulted Ahmedabad into the ranks of Hyderabad*, Malegoan* and Varanasi*; though not into the big league where the Mumbai*, Jaipur* and the Samjotha* explosions rest.
Over the past 2 years, India's experiences of terrorist aggression seem to average 3 episodes annually, which is indeed quite a battering for any nation to take. But withstand it she does, despite the ineffectual fumbling of its political guardians. The irrepressible resilience that we Indians posses and our ability to bounce back in the face of any calamity has, undoubtedly, played a key role in the continued existence of the great Indian democracy. I mean where else in the world can you find men blithely urinating on the roadside the morning after a serious explosion or women squatting on the pavements nonchalently sipping steaming cups of chai without worrying about the possibility of a bomb exploding beneath them? But it remains to be seen just how much more the people of this nation can be pushed.
For me, India is like the Elephant, once an acknowledged symbol of imperial power and an animal possessed of remarkable intelligence and the wisdom of the ages. It is said that the elephant is slow to anger but once roused, can set forth on a rampage leaving in its wake destruction unimagined. I await the day when the little flames of anger flickering across my country today grow into a raging blaze and India, like its more resolute western counterparts, responds to even the smallest act of terrorist aggression firmly, swiftly, decisively and so ruthlessly that any aggresor would think not just twice, but a gazillion times before taking a second shot at us.
* Chronology of major bomb attacks in India 2006-2008
(Courtesy: Economic Times)
May 2008 Jaipur: 9 explosions, 60 dead & over 200 injured
Nov 2007: Serial blasts outside courts in 3 north Indian cities; 40 people wounded
Oct 2007, Rajasthan [ Ajmer Sheriff]: 2 explosions, 2 dead & 15 injured
Aug 2007, Hyderabad: 2 explosions, 43 dead & over 70 injured
May 2007 Hyderabad [Mecca Mosque]: Single explosion, 10 dead & over a dozen injured
Feb 2007 Samjhauta Express: 4 explosions, 68 dead & several injured
Sept 2006, Malegoan[Maharashtra]: 3 explosions, 38 people dead & over 100 injured
July 2006, Mumbai: 7 explosions, 186 dead & over 800 injured
Apr 2006, New Delhi [ Jama Masjid]: 2 explosions, 14 dead injured
Mar 2006, Varanasi: 3 explosions, 28 dead & 62 injured.
Oct 2005, New Delhi: 3 explosions, over 60 dead & 200 injured
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Dance To The Last
Yet another birthday looms large on the horizon and my inner circle is abuzz with questions...About celebration plans, wish lists and the special gifts that will come my way..The countdown to the larger than life '40' milestone, which now hangs over my neck like the sword of Damocles...And, above all, if I intended to continue allowing the irrepressible child in my heart to manifest itself in my personality...
I am afraid most are a little disappointed by my vague responses and perhaps, more so by my nonchalance about the impending event. As the questions continue to stream in, I answer them as best as I can... all the while wondering if the listener has sensed that, at this moment, my birthday plans are the least of my concerns. This is not to say that I am against birthdays or anniversaries or celebrations in general. Or that I expect the rest of the world to slave their fingers to the bone in making it a special day for me. What does not appeal to me is the element of contrivance which prior planning brings to these special days. I would rather go with the flow and take each moment as it comes.
Over the past many years, what made every birthday special was the love and warmth that I was cocooned in. I love the fact that people care enough to remember, to call or better still to drop by for a drink and a giggle. I am always touched when they stretch that extra mile to do something that warms me to the cockles of my heart.And I enjoy the sense of anticipation a beautifully packaged gift offers me and the excitement of discovery as I rip it open..It doesn't matter what is inside...It could be a string of cheap beads or a ridiculously expensive solitaire...For me, what matters is the element of surprise, the excitement of the moment and the warmth of being loved.
So inevitably, year after year, when friends ask me how I plan to celebrate my birthday or what I have asked for by way of gifts, my answer always is none what so ever. I look forward to seeing what the day brings my way..the fun, the spontaneity, the discovery and the savouring of the emotions.For me, this is what life is all about. And I think I will carry this passion for life, with all its good and bad, right to my grave.
People tell me that everything slows down with age, except the time it takes for an utterly sinful wedge of warm gooey chocolate walnut brownie to reach your hips. I disagree. Age does not bring wisdom...Life and its many experiences does that!!!
At 15,I thought 20 was the Golden Age and just couldn't wait to hit the magic number.Unfortunately for me, life started at a snail's pace and by 25, I was a little panicked because I thought I would be semi senile by the time I hit 30 and was haunted by visions of myself rocking away aimlessly on the porch of a geriatric care center. But then life in the 30s lane have proved to be incredibly exciting. Probably because I have shed a lot of inhibitions, don't worry over much about looking like a fool and laugh easily when I do. And I am not afraid to demand love, express sorrow and more importantly, eliminate the weeds in my garden of life.
I find myself increasingly open to experimentation and new experiences. So much so that with my 35th birthday right round the corner, the only thought in my mind is that if the 30s are so incredibly exciting, then what would the 40s and 50s hold in store for me?
Would I dare go skinny dipping...or climb a mountain...tend a raucous bar in true coyote style...or swim with the dolphins in the deep blue ocean...Who knows?
For all I know, I may be skydiving at 60 or even doing the salsa at the ripe old age of 70....Because in my heart I believe that you don't stop dancing because of age...you grow old only because you stopped dancing.
I am afraid most are a little disappointed by my vague responses and perhaps, more so by my nonchalance about the impending event. As the questions continue to stream in, I answer them as best as I can... all the while wondering if the listener has sensed that, at this moment, my birthday plans are the least of my concerns. This is not to say that I am against birthdays or anniversaries or celebrations in general. Or that I expect the rest of the world to slave their fingers to the bone in making it a special day for me. What does not appeal to me is the element of contrivance which prior planning brings to these special days. I would rather go with the flow and take each moment as it comes.
Over the past many years, what made every birthday special was the love and warmth that I was cocooned in. I love the fact that people care enough to remember, to call or better still to drop by for a drink and a giggle. I am always touched when they stretch that extra mile to do something that warms me to the cockles of my heart.And I enjoy the sense of anticipation a beautifully packaged gift offers me and the excitement of discovery as I rip it open..It doesn't matter what is inside...It could be a string of cheap beads or a ridiculously expensive solitaire...For me, what matters is the element of surprise, the excitement of the moment and the warmth of being loved.
So inevitably, year after year, when friends ask me how I plan to celebrate my birthday or what I have asked for by way of gifts, my answer always is none what so ever. I look forward to seeing what the day brings my way..the fun, the spontaneity, the discovery and the savouring of the emotions.For me, this is what life is all about. And I think I will carry this passion for life, with all its good and bad, right to my grave.
People tell me that everything slows down with age, except the time it takes for an utterly sinful wedge of warm gooey chocolate walnut brownie to reach your hips. I disagree. Age does not bring wisdom...Life and its many experiences does that!!!
At 15,I thought 20 was the Golden Age and just couldn't wait to hit the magic number.Unfortunately for me, life started at a snail's pace and by 25, I was a little panicked because I thought I would be semi senile by the time I hit 30 and was haunted by visions of myself rocking away aimlessly on the porch of a geriatric care center. But then life in the 30s lane have proved to be incredibly exciting. Probably because I have shed a lot of inhibitions, don't worry over much about looking like a fool and laugh easily when I do. And I am not afraid to demand love, express sorrow and more importantly, eliminate the weeds in my garden of life.
I find myself increasingly open to experimentation and new experiences. So much so that with my 35th birthday right round the corner, the only thought in my mind is that if the 30s are so incredibly exciting, then what would the 40s and 50s hold in store for me?
Would I dare go skinny dipping...or climb a mountain...tend a raucous bar in true coyote style...or swim with the dolphins in the deep blue ocean...Who knows?
For all I know, I may be skydiving at 60 or even doing the salsa at the ripe old age of 70....Because in my heart I believe that you don't stop dancing because of age...you grow old only because you stopped dancing.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Of Blood, Water & Karmic Bonds
A very dear friend - someone I connect with at a subliminal level - left for a far away land over the weekend. Our parting was painful and my sense of loss immense. All the more so because I was only too aware of the vast distance between us and was not sure as to when we would meet next. The last time I experienced a similar gut wrenching emotion was back in the eleventh grade, when I had to say goodbye to a much adored brother at the end of his Indian holiday. It was the first summer that we had bonded and I was quite bereft as he boarded his flight back home.
I know this present feeling of pain and sorrow will abate in intensity, especially in view of the wonderful advancements in technology which offers us so many avenues of connecting with our loved ones. But my friend's departure also got me thinking...About how fortunate I was to have effortlessly discovered an almost karmic bond with a person who chanced my way one fine morning..And to have been given the opportunity to enjoy a wonderful relationship marked by freedom, unconditional love, very little judgement and a lot of laughter.
While it is easy for us to find people to bond with from within the confines of our family,it is not very often that we come across a person who strikes a chord within us from the very first moment we lay eyes on them. But every now and then, we do come across a perfect stranger who breezes into our life to claim a special niche in our heart for himself/herself. So much so that we often wonder how we ever survived not knowing him or her for so many years?
Today when I look back, I realise that I have been uniquely priveleged to have been touched by some very special people, who cheekily waltzed in and changed my life forever. A lot of them have been and still are, more family than family.
Strange thoughts for a woman who as a young girl grew up on a steady, unremitting diet of instructions for life – to be the epitome of genteel politeness and good breeding, grace in the face of hostility, maidenly modesty at all times, and the golden maxim: cherish blood which is thicker than water any day. Although my innate rebelliousness periodically reared its truculent head to challenge some of these directives; for the most part, I did make an honest effort to embrace these maxims.It was only when I left home with the grim determination to find my path in this world, that I had the opportunity of testing the mettle of these sacrosanct commandments.
A naive small town girl in the big city, it was rather difficult for me to affect the demure maiden act in an risqué atmosphere at work,when stalked by hormonally overcharged admirers or while fighting for bathroom rights with 6 other roomies. I must admit that when faced with the harsh realities of life with no family to run to for dutch courage or comfort, the last thing on my mind was grace, dignity or feminity. Life on the single track also meant that I was responsible for me...There were things to do, places to go, people to meet, friends to be made, new horizons waiting to be conquered...And also, there were decisions to be made, of which not all qualified as smart ones. Luckily for me, the very act of fending for myself brought some very special people my way, with whom I connected so deeply that I was able to fall back on their sage advice in moments of need. And it was only a matter of time before the gilted 'blood is thicker than water' tenet had faded away from my psyche.
Do I regret it? Most definitely not!. Like me, most of my family have gone their seperate ways to different lands and found their own paths. While this did not undermine the love we bore each other, it most definitely did enable us to expand our circles of trust to include people with whom each of us have connections that can only be termed as karmic.
It is indeed difficult to explain these connections, but for me, a much loved quote by Maya Angelou sums it well
“I do not believe that the accident of birth makes people sisters and brothers. It makes them siblings. Gives them mutuality of parentage. Sisterhood and brotherhood are conditions people have to work at. It's a serious matter. You compromise, you give, you take, you stand firm, and you're relentless...And it is an investment. Sisterhood means if you happen to be in Burma and I happen to be in San Diego and I'm married to someone who is very jealous and you're married to somebody who is very possessive, if you call me in the middle of the night, I have to come.”
Call it luck or destiny but sometimes, the ones who heed your distress calls and arrives to hold your hand in your moment of need, are the sisters and brothers of the soul rather than that of blood.
I know this present feeling of pain and sorrow will abate in intensity, especially in view of the wonderful advancements in technology which offers us so many avenues of connecting with our loved ones. But my friend's departure also got me thinking...About how fortunate I was to have effortlessly discovered an almost karmic bond with a person who chanced my way one fine morning..And to have been given the opportunity to enjoy a wonderful relationship marked by freedom, unconditional love, very little judgement and a lot of laughter.
While it is easy for us to find people to bond with from within the confines of our family,it is not very often that we come across a person who strikes a chord within us from the very first moment we lay eyes on them. But every now and then, we do come across a perfect stranger who breezes into our life to claim a special niche in our heart for himself/herself. So much so that we often wonder how we ever survived not knowing him or her for so many years?
Today when I look back, I realise that I have been uniquely priveleged to have been touched by some very special people, who cheekily waltzed in and changed my life forever. A lot of them have been and still are, more family than family.
Strange thoughts for a woman who as a young girl grew up on a steady, unremitting diet of instructions for life – to be the epitome of genteel politeness and good breeding, grace in the face of hostility, maidenly modesty at all times, and the golden maxim: cherish blood which is thicker than water any day. Although my innate rebelliousness periodically reared its truculent head to challenge some of these directives; for the most part, I did make an honest effort to embrace these maxims.It was only when I left home with the grim determination to find my path in this world, that I had the opportunity of testing the mettle of these sacrosanct commandments.
A naive small town girl in the big city, it was rather difficult for me to affect the demure maiden act in an risqué atmosphere at work,when stalked by hormonally overcharged admirers or while fighting for bathroom rights with 6 other roomies. I must admit that when faced with the harsh realities of life with no family to run to for dutch courage or comfort, the last thing on my mind was grace, dignity or feminity. Life on the single track also meant that I was responsible for me...There were things to do, places to go, people to meet, friends to be made, new horizons waiting to be conquered...And also, there were decisions to be made, of which not all qualified as smart ones. Luckily for me, the very act of fending for myself brought some very special people my way, with whom I connected so deeply that I was able to fall back on their sage advice in moments of need. And it was only a matter of time before the gilted 'blood is thicker than water' tenet had faded away from my psyche.
Do I regret it? Most definitely not!. Like me, most of my family have gone their seperate ways to different lands and found their own paths. While this did not undermine the love we bore each other, it most definitely did enable us to expand our circles of trust to include people with whom each of us have connections that can only be termed as karmic.
It is indeed difficult to explain these connections, but for me, a much loved quote by Maya Angelou sums it well
“I do not believe that the accident of birth makes people sisters and brothers. It makes them siblings. Gives them mutuality of parentage. Sisterhood and brotherhood are conditions people have to work at. It's a serious matter. You compromise, you give, you take, you stand firm, and you're relentless...And it is an investment. Sisterhood means if you happen to be in Burma and I happen to be in San Diego and I'm married to someone who is very jealous and you're married to somebody who is very possessive, if you call me in the middle of the night, I have to come.”
Call it luck or destiny but sometimes, the ones who heed your distress calls and arrives to hold your hand in your moment of need, are the sisters and brothers of the soul rather than that of blood.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Cankers of the Soul
Some time back, an acquaintaince I had once helped in her time of need took a vicious potshot at me.I should have dismissed it as the desperate whiplash of a soul tormented by jealousy and frustration, but the poisonous shaft struck a raw nerve. And the pain was augmented by a sense of betrayal.
Tempestous rage welled in my heart and rose to my lips as bitter invectives.I desperately wanted to tear her to bits and expose her for the pathetic sham that she was. For days, I raved and ranted to my intimates, most of whom listened patiently and doled out generous amounts of sympathy. Some were outraged. Others asked me to forget the ingrate and get on with my life. But, forgiveness was easier said than done. The hurt had eaten into my being like an infectious canker and no matter how hard I tried to forget, I was unable to get over the feeling of having been taken advantage of.
I wasn't sure if retailation would quell the rage within, but every cell in my body wanted to hit back as viciously.I was convinced that nothing but the sight of my enemy fallen low would assuage the pain inside. Although in reality, anger and my thirst for revenge would have only ravaged my spirit and in all probability, derailed my life. For pain like fire can either consume or temper. It can bequeath us with humility, grace and an appreciation for the blessings in our lives and spur us on to achieve greatness. Or it can erode the largess of the spirit within, sap it of passion and destroy our ability to dream.
Fortunately for me,after my umpteenth crib session, a good friend sensed that I was getting a little obsessive and sat me down for some plain speaking. She did not ask me to forgive nor did she urge me to move on. But instead, she drew upon facts to sketch for me an image of a desperately unhappy person, who was hitting out because she wanted so much from life but had not the faculties to realise her dreams.
And then, she posed a few questions to me:
What could one possibly expect from a bitter, envious soul than anger and venom?
Why transform myself into a spitting image of this unhappy virago, when I had so much more to look forward to?
And most importantly, how much of my time and energy was I squandering in dreaming of ways and means of retaliation?
She got her points through loud and clear. And the reality check was just what was needed to bring me back to earth with a bump.
At the end of our intense conversation, my anger miraculously faded away leaving in its wake, pity and a sense of immense relief.My walk in the shoes of the offender brought home a clear understanding of the environment she came from, its impact on her psyche and granted me greater insights into the cankers of her soul. It also freed my heart of its burden,ironed the frowns from my brow and set my spirit free to once again roam through green pastures in pursuit of its dreams.
As someone once said, the greater your capacity to love, the greater is your capacity to feel pain but while pain is inevitable, suffering is optional.
Tempestous rage welled in my heart and rose to my lips as bitter invectives.I desperately wanted to tear her to bits and expose her for the pathetic sham that she was. For days, I raved and ranted to my intimates, most of whom listened patiently and doled out generous amounts of sympathy. Some were outraged. Others asked me to forget the ingrate and get on with my life. But, forgiveness was easier said than done. The hurt had eaten into my being like an infectious canker and no matter how hard I tried to forget, I was unable to get over the feeling of having been taken advantage of.
I wasn't sure if retailation would quell the rage within, but every cell in my body wanted to hit back as viciously.I was convinced that nothing but the sight of my enemy fallen low would assuage the pain inside. Although in reality, anger and my thirst for revenge would have only ravaged my spirit and in all probability, derailed my life. For pain like fire can either consume or temper. It can bequeath us with humility, grace and an appreciation for the blessings in our lives and spur us on to achieve greatness. Or it can erode the largess of the spirit within, sap it of passion and destroy our ability to dream.
Fortunately for me,after my umpteenth crib session, a good friend sensed that I was getting a little obsessive and sat me down for some plain speaking. She did not ask me to forgive nor did she urge me to move on. But instead, she drew upon facts to sketch for me an image of a desperately unhappy person, who was hitting out because she wanted so much from life but had not the faculties to realise her dreams.
And then, she posed a few questions to me:
What could one possibly expect from a bitter, envious soul than anger and venom?
Why transform myself into a spitting image of this unhappy virago, when I had so much more to look forward to?
And most importantly, how much of my time and energy was I squandering in dreaming of ways and means of retaliation?
She got her points through loud and clear. And the reality check was just what was needed to bring me back to earth with a bump.
At the end of our intense conversation, my anger miraculously faded away leaving in its wake, pity and a sense of immense relief.My walk in the shoes of the offender brought home a clear understanding of the environment she came from, its impact on her psyche and granted me greater insights into the cankers of her soul. It also freed my heart of its burden,ironed the frowns from my brow and set my spirit free to once again roam through green pastures in pursuit of its dreams.
As someone once said, the greater your capacity to love, the greater is your capacity to feel pain but while pain is inevitable, suffering is optional.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Princess Dreams
All her life, people told her to rise above her circumstances and work at achieving everything she went without while growing up - security, self sufficiency, confidence, happiness, the education she wanted, but over and above all, a stable home of her own. She owned these dreams with every fibre of her being but without a trusty mentor or a manual for life, what she missed was the path.
She was just 11 when her world came crashing down. One sultry night, she awoke to the screams of her brother begging her to wake up because "daddy was killing mummy". Rushing down the stairway of their plush mansion, she faced a sight which, with minor variations, was to become an integral part of her existence for the next 8 years.
Her mother lay curled on the ground, arms pressed against her mouth to muffle the cries of pain as she was beaten and kicked mercilessly. She ran down with tears of shock streaming down her cheeks and tried to wedge herself between her parents, all the while begging her father to stop. Eventually, her father did stop and lurched away to sleep off the noxious fumes that enveloped his brains, oblivious to the tears and terror of his family.
With daylight came the realisation that the life she had hitherto taken for granted was nothing but a farce. Despite his fortune, her father was fast becoming a notorious drunk who evoked sneers and ridicule behind polite masks and her genteel mother, an object of contempt, speculation and pity suppressed behind a facade of solicitiousness.
The carpet had been rudely pulled from beneath her feet and as she struggled to regain her balance in a crumbling home marked by a temperamental drunk and domestic violence, society reared its ugly head. First came the hushed whispers,sniggers and giggles at school, for little ears stretch a long way and children are often not well versed in the art of deception as their parents are. It seemed that, all at once, the teachers were a wee bit more watchful of her work and horror of horrors, she began to recognise pity in the indulgent tones of elders. Emotionally bereft and bewildered, she sought refuge behind the only weapon in her armour - indifference, reserving her tears for private.
As the years went by, the violence progressed from bad to worse. Money was in short supply. Friends & relatives came to help - some sympathised & berated her father, some viciously watched the fun, further fuelling the hyperactive rumour mills. And she withdrew more into herself, allowing none to look past the carefully cultivated mask. People marvelled at the strength of this teenager...pushed her...judged her...but never saw the pain within or offered her a lifeline to cling to.
When her father pushed their family beyond the boundaries of safety and sanity, her mother did the unthinkable and filed for divorce. The society feigned shock. Her father played the role of a martyr to the hilt. And what ensued was a filthy free-for-all, with her mother being subject to crude speculation and allegations. She longed to run away from it all, but couldn't bring herself to abandon the sinking ship like her sibling who went away under the pretext of higher studies.
When the court finally granted her parents their divorce, she packed her bags and left for the big city, determined to put the past behind her and make a new life for herself. Life was tough for the lone single girl but she gritted her teeth and slogged. And then one day, suddenly, it seemed that life took a turn for the better. A boy she knew professed romantic interest in her, wooed her with roses and sweet nothings, offered kleenex as she sobbed her woes out and even better..his family readily took her into its bosom treating her as royalty. It was a dream come true. She hungrily lapped up the affection they offered and greedily wanting more, accepted his family's proposal of marriage.
In a fairy tale, this is where the 'And They Lived Happily Ever After' comes in. But, life does not always take after fairy tales and in a matter of time, our Princess came back with earth with a rude bump.
In her new life, she discovered that her Prince Charming was not the person she thought him to be...he was a college drop out, seemed to think that marriage entitled him to live off her money and was all too willing to leave the handling of life's greater responsibilities to her. As she struggled to make the best of her circumstances, she also realised that Prince Charming nursed a strong oedipus complex, never having cut the emotional umbilical chord from his mother. And how did mommy dearest take to the new entrant in their lives? When the song, dance and festivities ended, she woke up to the fact that there was competition at hand and had age to her advantage. It was the mother's nightmare come true and she rose to the occassion, becomming a psychotic virago while fiercely defending her rights. So began a life of emotional abuse from the mother and son, which thankfully for her was short lived. Why you may ask? Well, it wasn't because the mother or son had a very bollywoodesque change of heart. Her husband, egged by his mother, walked out on her one morning and before she knew it, she was back in the divorce courts with the shards of her dreams around her.
For some time, she was angry at the raw deal life dealt. At other times,anger gave way to sorrow as she wondered if she was jinxed. She probably would have gone through life, alternating between anger and sadness, if her friend hadn't suggested that she meet a psychoanalyst.
The demons she exorcised through therapy are not important, but what is, is that all of us who are units in this almighty society never seem to really see or understand the pain, trauma and loneliness of such victims of abuse. But instead, there are those of us who seem to find perverse pleasure in harassing these desperate souls.
No matter what the abuse is - abandonment, domestic violence,rape,sexual harassment or a dysfunctional parent- the emotional trauma caused is not easy to surmount. Every victim of abuse has a closet full of skeletons clamouring to be let out. Their souls bear painful scars which throb and fester, infecting their present and future with anger, hatred, sorrow, despair, resignation and hopelessness. And all the while, we the society watch with indifference or malicious amusement, not realising that our love, patience and the generous giving of our strength would make a difference to these lives.
As for the Princess of our story, well, she kicked the impostor prince out and embraced life with a better understanding of herself and her emotions. The blue spells haven't entirely vanished but she is at peace.
She was just 11 when her world came crashing down. One sultry night, she awoke to the screams of her brother begging her to wake up because "daddy was killing mummy". Rushing down the stairway of their plush mansion, she faced a sight which, with minor variations, was to become an integral part of her existence for the next 8 years.
Her mother lay curled on the ground, arms pressed against her mouth to muffle the cries of pain as she was beaten and kicked mercilessly. She ran down with tears of shock streaming down her cheeks and tried to wedge herself between her parents, all the while begging her father to stop. Eventually, her father did stop and lurched away to sleep off the noxious fumes that enveloped his brains, oblivious to the tears and terror of his family.
With daylight came the realisation that the life she had hitherto taken for granted was nothing but a farce. Despite his fortune, her father was fast becoming a notorious drunk who evoked sneers and ridicule behind polite masks and her genteel mother, an object of contempt, speculation and pity suppressed behind a facade of solicitiousness.
The carpet had been rudely pulled from beneath her feet and as she struggled to regain her balance in a crumbling home marked by a temperamental drunk and domestic violence, society reared its ugly head. First came the hushed whispers,sniggers and giggles at school, for little ears stretch a long way and children are often not well versed in the art of deception as their parents are. It seemed that, all at once, the teachers were a wee bit more watchful of her work and horror of horrors, she began to recognise pity in the indulgent tones of elders. Emotionally bereft and bewildered, she sought refuge behind the only weapon in her armour - indifference, reserving her tears for private.
As the years went by, the violence progressed from bad to worse. Money was in short supply. Friends & relatives came to help - some sympathised & berated her father, some viciously watched the fun, further fuelling the hyperactive rumour mills. And she withdrew more into herself, allowing none to look past the carefully cultivated mask. People marvelled at the strength of this teenager...pushed her...judged her...but never saw the pain within or offered her a lifeline to cling to.
When her father pushed their family beyond the boundaries of safety and sanity, her mother did the unthinkable and filed for divorce. The society feigned shock. Her father played the role of a martyr to the hilt. And what ensued was a filthy free-for-all, with her mother being subject to crude speculation and allegations. She longed to run away from it all, but couldn't bring herself to abandon the sinking ship like her sibling who went away under the pretext of higher studies.
When the court finally granted her parents their divorce, she packed her bags and left for the big city, determined to put the past behind her and make a new life for herself. Life was tough for the lone single girl but she gritted her teeth and slogged. And then one day, suddenly, it seemed that life took a turn for the better. A boy she knew professed romantic interest in her, wooed her with roses and sweet nothings, offered kleenex as she sobbed her woes out and even better..his family readily took her into its bosom treating her as royalty. It was a dream come true. She hungrily lapped up the affection they offered and greedily wanting more, accepted his family's proposal of marriage.
In a fairy tale, this is where the 'And They Lived Happily Ever After' comes in. But, life does not always take after fairy tales and in a matter of time, our Princess came back with earth with a rude bump.
In her new life, she discovered that her Prince Charming was not the person she thought him to be...he was a college drop out, seemed to think that marriage entitled him to live off her money and was all too willing to leave the handling of life's greater responsibilities to her. As she struggled to make the best of her circumstances, she also realised that Prince Charming nursed a strong oedipus complex, never having cut the emotional umbilical chord from his mother. And how did mommy dearest take to the new entrant in their lives? When the song, dance and festivities ended, she woke up to the fact that there was competition at hand and had age to her advantage. It was the mother's nightmare come true and she rose to the occassion, becomming a psychotic virago while fiercely defending her rights. So began a life of emotional abuse from the mother and son, which thankfully for her was short lived. Why you may ask? Well, it wasn't because the mother or son had a very bollywoodesque change of heart. Her husband, egged by his mother, walked out on her one morning and before she knew it, she was back in the divorce courts with the shards of her dreams around her.
For some time, she was angry at the raw deal life dealt. At other times,anger gave way to sorrow as she wondered if she was jinxed. She probably would have gone through life, alternating between anger and sadness, if her friend hadn't suggested that she meet a psychoanalyst.
The demons she exorcised through therapy are not important, but what is, is that all of us who are units in this almighty society never seem to really see or understand the pain, trauma and loneliness of such victims of abuse. But instead, there are those of us who seem to find perverse pleasure in harassing these desperate souls.
No matter what the abuse is - abandonment, domestic violence,rape,sexual harassment or a dysfunctional parent- the emotional trauma caused is not easy to surmount. Every victim of abuse has a closet full of skeletons clamouring to be let out. Their souls bear painful scars which throb and fester, infecting their present and future with anger, hatred, sorrow, despair, resignation and hopelessness. And all the while, we the society watch with indifference or malicious amusement, not realising that our love, patience and the generous giving of our strength would make a difference to these lives.
As for the Princess of our story, well, she kicked the impostor prince out and embraced life with a better understanding of herself and her emotions. The blue spells haven't entirely vanished but she is at peace.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Fun At Games....Why Not?
The cricket fever is back and India is, once again, a nation possessed!!!
Night after night, people remain glued to their television sets cheering their favourite teams on and devoting great chunks of their time to an analysis of past games and what one can expect in the next. Be it the on-field drama or the emotional histrionics of Sreesanth and Harbajan, the titilating cheerleaders or the glamorous SRK & Zinta shaking a leg to urge their teams to victory..IPL has, with quite a bit of help from Bollywood and the corporate world, glamorised and reinvigorated cricket as never before, seducing even the not so avid fans like me!!
I personally think the IPL is a brilliant concept. And when I say this, I am looking past the glitz, the drama and referring to the idea of mixing nationalities to creating racially diverse, multi-cultural heterogeneous teams.
There comes a time in any entity's growth when, to avoid stagnation, it has to heed the cry for departure from the tried and tested and infuse fresh blood, ideas and energy into its existence. And how better to achieve this, than to wed the known with the relative unknown? Of course, such a marriage can result in utter disaster but then, as long as survival remains a basic tenet of life, there often emerges a new, stronger order. I suspect this will be the case with our cricketers. After all, strength does lie in differences rather than in similarities. Playing as a single team, alongside professionals from all over the world hitherto viewed as opponents, should raise the learning curve of our cricketers.
And it should have taught us, as a country, a little more about the spirit of sportsmanship. While our cricketers hone their skills, it appears that the IPL has done very little to infuse a change in the sportive spirit of our viewing public.
Let's face it. Indians generally make rather fanatic cricket fans, with successes and failures being taken very personally. While these sentiments are understandable to an extent in an inter-nation or an inter-state tournament, I have been struggling to come to terms with the empty stadiums in the wake of a "home team's" loss and the rather fierce expressions of joy and sorrow churned up by the victories and losses of Chennai or Bangalore or Punjab. Surely, all of us know that there is no way that teams like the Deccan Chargers or the Rajasthan Royals which boast of names like Warne, Afridi, Gilchrist,Symonds, Vaas, Smith, etc. can be representative of Indian cities or regions, regardless of the ownership. So how is it that these matches, which are played by mixed medley of players from all over, are internalised by the viewers and metamorphosise into much fiercer battles with regional overtones like Chennai vs. Bangalore and Delhi vs. Mumbai?
To my mind, the IPL matches need to be viewed for what they are: Fun, Games, Glamour,A lot of Noise and almost zilch sentimental baggage. After all, its not the glitz of the uniform that matters, but the spirit that shines within it.
Night after night, people remain glued to their television sets cheering their favourite teams on and devoting great chunks of their time to an analysis of past games and what one can expect in the next. Be it the on-field drama or the emotional histrionics of Sreesanth and Harbajan, the titilating cheerleaders or the glamorous SRK & Zinta shaking a leg to urge their teams to victory..IPL has, with quite a bit of help from Bollywood and the corporate world, glamorised and reinvigorated cricket as never before, seducing even the not so avid fans like me!!
I personally think the IPL is a brilliant concept. And when I say this, I am looking past the glitz, the drama and referring to the idea of mixing nationalities to creating racially diverse, multi-cultural heterogeneous teams.
There comes a time in any entity's growth when, to avoid stagnation, it has to heed the cry for departure from the tried and tested and infuse fresh blood, ideas and energy into its existence. And how better to achieve this, than to wed the known with the relative unknown? Of course, such a marriage can result in utter disaster but then, as long as survival remains a basic tenet of life, there often emerges a new, stronger order. I suspect this will be the case with our cricketers. After all, strength does lie in differences rather than in similarities. Playing as a single team, alongside professionals from all over the world hitherto viewed as opponents, should raise the learning curve of our cricketers.
And it should have taught us, as a country, a little more about the spirit of sportsmanship. While our cricketers hone their skills, it appears that the IPL has done very little to infuse a change in the sportive spirit of our viewing public.
Let's face it. Indians generally make rather fanatic cricket fans, with successes and failures being taken very personally. While these sentiments are understandable to an extent in an inter-nation or an inter-state tournament, I have been struggling to come to terms with the empty stadiums in the wake of a "home team's" loss and the rather fierce expressions of joy and sorrow churned up by the victories and losses of Chennai or Bangalore or Punjab. Surely, all of us know that there is no way that teams like the Deccan Chargers or the Rajasthan Royals which boast of names like Warne, Afridi, Gilchrist,Symonds, Vaas, Smith, etc. can be representative of Indian cities or regions, regardless of the ownership. So how is it that these matches, which are played by mixed medley of players from all over, are internalised by the viewers and metamorphosise into much fiercer battles with regional overtones like Chennai vs. Bangalore and Delhi vs. Mumbai?
To my mind, the IPL matches need to be viewed for what they are: Fun, Games, Glamour,A lot of Noise and almost zilch sentimental baggage. After all, its not the glitz of the uniform that matters, but the spirit that shines within it.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Festive Magic
Vishu is right round the corner and apart from channeling all my energies into recreating a little bit of the Kerala magic and spirit in our home, it is also time for one of my nostalgic trips.
Having spent most of my childhood in the arid desserts of the Middle East, my first real experience of Vishu celebrations occurred when I was well into my adolescence. Not that it diminished my enthusiasm for a festival, which was to prove to be the biggest revenue grosser in an entire year.
I remember as a kid, I would first carefully draw up a list of potential victims and then, in the days leading up to Vishu, would drop carefully considered hints about my monetary expectations. There would also be prolonged and heart wrenching discussions with my friends about the right amount to be bequeathed to my younger brother and cousins.
It was only recently that I realised how much of our wonderful festivals I had taken for granted as a child...The excitement of stumbling forward with my eyes shut tight in the wee hours of the morning to start my day with the sight of my face in the Vishu Kani....The thrill of the chase as we determinedly stalked our quarries and dove unceremoniously for their feet to claim our Kai Neetam....The fun and camaraderie shared with our families and extended families...And the delicious food which we would stuff ourselves with till we lay about helplessly gasping for breath...Oh, Vishu was so much fun!!! And back then, I thought it would never change.
Looking back, I realise that Vishu was one occasion which brought the extended family together and helped them bond better. It taught us the invaluable lesson of Give and Take, which are two faces of the same coin and without which, our lives would remain incomplete. We also learned to reach out to each other spontaneusly and across distances, without inhibitions, preconceived notions or envy, and with this bonding, we enjoyed the day better.
Unfortunately, the fun and spontaneity went out of the window as we grew up and life took us our separate ways.
Today, all of us in our corners of the world try celebrating Vishu to the best of our abilities. But often, all that remains of the camaraderie of the past is a succinct 'Happy Vishu' mail to the whole family. Some phone calls. And a few stolen moments on chat for a quick update.
I don't know how the rest of my loved ones fare, but for me in a strange land, far far away from the people who matter, Vishu has become more of a forced experience. -something that I do, year after year, with the vain hope of recapturing the lost magic of the Vishus of my youth. Despite the careful planning and the best of efforts, the food is never as good...There aren't too many people to plague or for that matter, very many diving for my feet and hounding me for kai neetams...There is less laughter and bonding....And with many hotels and malayali associations getting into the act, Vishu seems to have become more of a commercial experience than a family one.
Even so, there are many of us who religiously maintain, if not the festivities, then atleast the Vishu Kani in our homes. Is it a habit which has waned in strength, but continues to live nevertheless? Or is it an conscious attempt to preserve tradition in a world beset with change and speed?
I, for one, believe it to be an effort to keep the happy memories going and to draw strength from it in the current day. For when 14th April dawns and I open my eyes to the sight of my face surrounded by bounty, bathed by the golden glow of the flame of the Lakshmi Lamp, I feel peaceful, calm and aware of a sense of well being which pervades my entire being and the space around me. And in that moment, I know the magic, though weak, is not entirely gone.
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