http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/20/world/americas/20burro.html?_r=1
A Lone Reader and teacher sets out every weekend to distribute books to those who cannot afford books of their own or even those who would love to just read and return! And his collection is now 4,800 books strong. These books range from textbooks to novels. The readers range from small school going children to adults. There are those who have even stolen from him but there are whole lot more who have donated books and who have lauded his efforts.
There was once a library service when I was a young child that used to come to our neighbourhood on Wednesdays. The Delhi Public Library- Where did it disappear? I have to wonder... It may not have had the greatest of collections but it was a library anyone could access. And it was exciting just to see the bus roll to a stop next to the post box. The hot Indian summer or the wet Delhi Monsoon, even the cold winters or the autumn resounding with the leaves crackling under our running feet to catch the bus... the bus was always there.
Where did the library go?
Now... fast forward to present... The neighbourhood is no longer the friendly locality where the old grand moms sat outside their doors in the sun and watched little children play 'bat and ball' and kept the ball viciously if it happened to stray anywhere near their hallowed halls! Their hands were always busy- their mouths always yacking... they were never free. Whether it was the sweater they were knitting for a child known to them or for sale, their gossip taps never ran dry. Now, the women are gone, the children were born in the USA, ( their parents having long ago decided that India could not do much for their potential!) and would not be caught in the back alleys of an Indian street playing pitthoo and paalaa. How many of the children today even know of games by these exotic names?
And the books had to be earned. We had to wake up each day DURINg the summer holidays and go for a five km walk with our parents- without dragging our feet... in order to get our reward in the shape of a book. We earned one almost every second day. Our thirst was unquenchable!
Though it is supposed to a special time when the parents read to their children the prized bed time stories- I remember my parents gently starting me off and expecting me to do my own reading. They shared with me their special reading memories and expected me to be able to tell them in no uncertain terms what was it that was holding my attention. This was quite unlike any other parents I have known then or since.
I think.. nay I know, they did a very fine job. If I found myself stumbling, they were always there. They made sure I was provided enough to read on and on... and yet, not quite enough to douse the flames of interest... just holding back to keep me interested.
I have now a library of Fiction, non-fiction and classics, some rare enough to be kept as heirlooms(!) including the original Darwin.
I realised that my love for the printed word was something I had inherited along with another special gift- my love for the language. I felt I would be doing a great disservice not only to my parents but also to my children if I did nothing about this love. So I got my daughter and a few of her friends together and started a reading club. We read stories and we read rebus, we read novels and we read grammar ( yes! we did!!) We had so much fun with words we often lost track of time.
My daughter started enjoying not just collecting books but also reading them. She has built a veritable, enviable library of her own! As has my son who is just five! He is already reading ( or pretending to- which is even more fun).
Gradually these children grew up and grew out of that club... they have mostly, however, carried the love of the books from those humble beginnings. At times we have about ten children joining us on Friday evenings and there are times when we read in a small group of two. It still is fun to read and be read to.
Are there any other clubs like this in Delhi? Can we start a movement? Can we share our books? Can we have readings from our favourite authors or favourite passages?
Why does mindless killing happen? Why do people spread mayhem and disaster?
How many times will we have to just bear with stoicism? Bob Dylan's song is still poignant...
If you hear it even today, you will find your heart tearing through the chest and coming out in frank agony at the wanton violence...
Is this what any religion teaches?
Is this what the divine demands from the humans?
If God IS all powerful ... why does HE need these weakling who kill innocent unarmed men, women and children to defend Him????
How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, 'n' how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, 'n' how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, 'n' how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, 'n' how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
How many years can a mountain exist
Before it's washed to the sea?
Yes, 'n' how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
Yes, 'n' how many times can a man turn his head,
Pretending he just doesn't see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
Copyright ©1962; renewed 1990 Special Rider Music
My grandmother...
My grandmother was a grand old lady. We still see her pictures and think how straight and regal her back usually was. Even when she was dying of failed kidneys and a failing heart due to longstanding and relentless diabetes, her conduct was always that of a person who expected to be followed.
She never apologised for her lack of erudition... she compensated by a wisdom that could not be read from books. It was a wisdom that mothers and grandmothers pass to their children and grandchildren. She could, and did, enough Hindi to be able to make out of her children were indeed doing their school work or were shirking it. She could do this even with her grandchildren. She made her decisions based on what she saw and understood... which was a lot.
She was also a grand matriarch that my grandfather could never ignore. She held her clan together with the ferocity of a tigress guarding her cubs and ruled with the lazy regality of a lioness basking in sunlight.
And... she never ran out of stories to tell, and in the telling- to teach.
And... she was sharp. By God! she was sharp.
Once, in the summer vacation when our home was full of all cousins- my paternal aunts and uncles, all with their respective families. All the kids used to play and study together. There used to be a healthy rivalry between those of the same age group and a somewhat condescending looking after by the older ones.
Summer vacation, each year was the time my grand mother relived her youth. She became the Grand mother rather than the grandmother. She was full of energy and enthusiasm that her daughters and daughters-in-law could not match.
Once- during one such vacation- all my cousins got together to point out to me a rather peculiar habit of mine. And they were far from gentle about this innocuous habit. They cruelly pointed out how my nostrils flared whenever I got excited about anything. Though I could do nothing consciously to control this flaring, it did worsen the more I tried not to do it. It was particularly embarrassing! And very isolating.
I felt totally alone. Un-understood. Ridiculed. I still remember the loneliness I felt. I sat alone in the flight of stairs, my tiny face resting in my hands, my elbows hitched over my knees. I was crying silent tears I hoped to hide from everyone... but especially from my mother. She was in the room above. Were I to climb the stairs, my mother would see my face and know something was wrong. Were I to stay on the floor below my grandmother would surely see me cry. What could I, a mere six or seven year old do? I came out of one world and resisted entering another one. Not wanting to be seen in that vulnerable state, I showed amazing maturity at that young age.
However, my grandmother came looking. She must have seen something of what went on before my departure from the group of children cruelly making fun of someone in their midst. She saw me sitting there and came and sat beside me. That took me by surprise. Then she quietly started speaking.
Her voice was gentle, yet strong. It did not need a genius to understand the depth from which the words came.
"Why are you sitting here?" She waited for me to answer her. I could hardly speak through the tears. It became worse when I attempted to hide them. It happens with most of teh reflex actions- quite like the flaring that was the cause of all the mess.
But all this was meant for me grandmother to be able to teach me something very inportant.
She began again," Warriors do not cry. You are a warrior. You do not cry."
These were her exact words. Exact. To this day, more that three decades later, I remember as if it happened yesterday. Whenever I find life treating me hard, whenever I want to cry, I close my eyes and I see my grandmother sitting there beside me. Saying, " warriors do not cry. You are a warrior. you do not cry". A clear and sharp image that speaks with strength and calmness. And instills the same in me. Gives me that little bit more to hold on to the belief of an inner strength and draw upon it just when I think I am all done for the time being. Surprisingly I find that little bit more to go on. And then it becomes okay.
Then she said something more that made me feel better about myself. She told me I am different. I am not like other children. I am... me! "You will find others trying to hurt you just because they want to bring you down. But remember they want to bring you down because they see you somewhere higher! They feel a sense of satisfaction in having hurt you because you are strong! They cannot feel satisfied hurting someone weak... Whether you let them be satisfied in having them hurt you- or be satisfied yourself that they cannot hurt you is a choice you will always be making yourself. Always."
While most of the times, I can draw upon those words of wisdom and feel strong, there are times that even I want to just rest on someone else's shoulder. And know I can. That I will be safe. That I am understood and cared for. That I am appreciated.
It does not happen very often. But when it does... I still want to close my eyes and see that grand old lady who did not try to console me. She did not try to hug me and let me cry. She only told me I was strong. And that itself would provoke people many times in my life.
Thanks Maanji ( that was what we all called her!) and each time I find my reserves dwindling I will try to remember your words and believe I am as strong and different as you told me I was.
She never apologised for her lack of erudition... she compensated by a wisdom that could not be read from books. It was a wisdom that mothers and grandmothers pass to their children and grandchildren. She could, and did, enough Hindi to be able to make out of her children were indeed doing their school work or were shirking it. She could do this even with her grandchildren. She made her decisions based on what she saw and understood... which was a lot.
She was also a grand matriarch that my grandfather could never ignore. She held her clan together with the ferocity of a tigress guarding her cubs and ruled with the lazy regality of a lioness basking in sunlight.
And... she never ran out of stories to tell, and in the telling- to teach.
And... she was sharp. By God! she was sharp.
Once, in the summer vacation when our home was full of all cousins- my paternal aunts and uncles, all with their respective families. All the kids used to play and study together. There used to be a healthy rivalry between those of the same age group and a somewhat condescending looking after by the older ones.
Summer vacation, each year was the time my grand mother relived her youth. She became the Grand mother rather than the grandmother. She was full of energy and enthusiasm that her daughters and daughters-in-law could not match.
Once- during one such vacation- all my cousins got together to point out to me a rather peculiar habit of mine. And they were far from gentle about this innocuous habit. They cruelly pointed out how my nostrils flared whenever I got excited about anything. Though I could do nothing consciously to control this flaring, it did worsen the more I tried not to do it. It was particularly embarrassing! And very isolating.
I felt totally alone. Un-understood. Ridiculed. I still remember the loneliness I felt. I sat alone in the flight of stairs, my tiny face resting in my hands, my elbows hitched over my knees. I was crying silent tears I hoped to hide from everyone... but especially from my mother. She was in the room above. Were I to climb the stairs, my mother would see my face and know something was wrong. Were I to stay on the floor below my grandmother would surely see me cry. What could I, a mere six or seven year old do? I came out of one world and resisted entering another one. Not wanting to be seen in that vulnerable state, I showed amazing maturity at that young age.
However, my grandmother came looking. She must have seen something of what went on before my departure from the group of children cruelly making fun of someone in their midst. She saw me sitting there and came and sat beside me. That took me by surprise. Then she quietly started speaking.
Her voice was gentle, yet strong. It did not need a genius to understand the depth from which the words came.
"Why are you sitting here?" She waited for me to answer her. I could hardly speak through the tears. It became worse when I attempted to hide them. It happens with most of teh reflex actions- quite like the flaring that was the cause of all the mess.
But all this was meant for me grandmother to be able to teach me something very inportant.
She began again," Warriors do not cry. You are a warrior. You do not cry."
These were her exact words. Exact. To this day, more that three decades later, I remember as if it happened yesterday. Whenever I find life treating me hard, whenever I want to cry, I close my eyes and I see my grandmother sitting there beside me. Saying, " warriors do not cry. You are a warrior. you do not cry". A clear and sharp image that speaks with strength and calmness. And instills the same in me. Gives me that little bit more to hold on to the belief of an inner strength and draw upon it just when I think I am all done for the time being. Surprisingly I find that little bit more to go on. And then it becomes okay.
Then she said something more that made me feel better about myself. She told me I am different. I am not like other children. I am... me! "You will find others trying to hurt you just because they want to bring you down. But remember they want to bring you down because they see you somewhere higher! They feel a sense of satisfaction in having hurt you because you are strong! They cannot feel satisfied hurting someone weak... Whether you let them be satisfied in having them hurt you- or be satisfied yourself that they cannot hurt you is a choice you will always be making yourself. Always."
While most of the times, I can draw upon those words of wisdom and feel strong, there are times that even I want to just rest on someone else's shoulder. And know I can. That I will be safe. That I am understood and cared for. That I am appreciated.
It does not happen very often. But when it does... I still want to close my eyes and see that grand old lady who did not try to console me. She did not try to hug me and let me cry. She only told me I was strong. And that itself would provoke people many times in my life.
Thanks Maanji ( that was what we all called her!) and each time I find my reserves dwindling I will try to remember your words and believe I am as strong and different as you told me I was.
Terrorism- Hindu? Or Muslim? Or Sikh? Oe even Christian?
REading today's Main Editorial in HT, Delhi edition, I wondered what could be making a Sharma- a pandit write so harshly about Hinduism?
Disillusionment with his religion? Disappointments with politics of the day? Or could it be that he just wanted to brew a storm- attract attention- being the professor of political science.
Nothing can make the present association of Hinduism with terrorism acceptable. History, however, is replete with stories of mass murder and persecution of Hindus starting in the remote prehistoric past.
Protected by the Great Himalayas, we never ventured beyond our geographical boundaries. We considered not only every human being a god but also accorded divine status to animals and birds. To us, Sun was as divine as was the monkey or the elephant or even the owl that carried the Goddess Laxmi. Our texts talk of 33 crore gods.
This made us a race that was self satisfied, and happy to work untiringly... resultant prosperity of the country won us the epithet of the Golden Sparrow. This was fine... till attracted by the wealth on this side, came invaders crossing the formidable barrier that had hither to hidden this great race from the world. Whether it was Taimur the Lame, or Babur or even earlier, Aryans, the indigenous people only lost. They lost their wealth, their lives and their culture.
Some of the times, these amalgamations were peaceful, perhaps as the mingling of Aryans with the locals giving us the rich heritage we are proud of to this day. At other times, the mixing was violent, brutal and ridden with plunder, rape and death. Taimur was cruel, ruthless and greedy. He killed to conquer and plundered without remorse. To him Himalayas to the present day Afganistan were Hindu Khush... the grave yard of the people called Hindu.
Babur decided to settle in this land that had an easy climate, fertile land and wealth that the people had built over millinea. Moreover, these people were of easy natures; they were trusting and nonviolent. It could not have been better!
Aurangzeb refused to eat a meal till he had proof of extermination of Hindus worth 40 tonnes of Jenyu ( the holy thread) whether by killing or by conversion, it is said. His mission in life was to promote Islam- at any cost. The cost that the Sikhs bore to counter this obsession was very heavy and a historically verifiable fact. For the Muslims, it has been "either My God or no God" mentality. Every non Muslim is a kafir- doomed to hell for eternity. As it is for the Christians, too. Either my God or no God! If you do not believe in Christ as your saviour, your soul is doomed to burn in the fires of eternal hell.
Somewhere, having tolerated this holocast the Hindus can have a justifiable axe to grind. The inherent unrest, irritation and resistance can atleast be understood, if not accepted.
India is the only country in the world where a terrorist is not a terrorist! He is first a Hindu or a Muslim or a Christian or a Sikh.
What is terrorism?
What is terrorism for you and me may be patriotism for the "terrorist".
Who is to decide what is right? And righteous? Who is to sit in judgement?
The only weight that can tilt the balance is the loss of innocent lives. People who have no political agenda or aspirations, who are innocent bystanders caught in the cross-fire of politicised religion.
These perpetrators of mindless violence are not Hindus, Muslims, or any other religion.
I see nothing wrong in what Swami Vivekananda, Sri Aurobindo or even Veer Sawarkar encouraged. How long can anyone expect any community to be killed because they accept all faiths as equal?
Hinduism is singular in not having any conversion rituals. In the Gita, Lord Krishna says that the Divine may be called by any name, It remains the same entity. The Gita further expounds the equality of religions by clearly directing that anyone who follows his dharma faithfully can realise God.
Where then is the need to berate any religion assuming that it promotes terrorism?
When will we as a nation learn to treat this problem as it is- one of mindless violence. And fail to help it grow by behaving irresponsibly either as journalists or as people?
Where will the sensationalisation end? And when will sensitisation begin?
Disillusionment with his religion? Disappointments with politics of the day? Or could it be that he just wanted to brew a storm- attract attention- being the professor of political science.
Nothing can make the present association of Hinduism with terrorism acceptable. History, however, is replete with stories of mass murder and persecution of Hindus starting in the remote prehistoric past.
Protected by the Great Himalayas, we never ventured beyond our geographical boundaries. We considered not only every human being a god but also accorded divine status to animals and birds. To us, Sun was as divine as was the monkey or the elephant or even the owl that carried the Goddess Laxmi. Our texts talk of 33 crore gods.
This made us a race that was self satisfied, and happy to work untiringly... resultant prosperity of the country won us the epithet of the Golden Sparrow. This was fine... till attracted by the wealth on this side, came invaders crossing the formidable barrier that had hither to hidden this great race from the world. Whether it was Taimur the Lame, or Babur or even earlier, Aryans, the indigenous people only lost. They lost their wealth, their lives and their culture.
Some of the times, these amalgamations were peaceful, perhaps as the mingling of Aryans with the locals giving us the rich heritage we are proud of to this day. At other times, the mixing was violent, brutal and ridden with plunder, rape and death. Taimur was cruel, ruthless and greedy. He killed to conquer and plundered without remorse. To him Himalayas to the present day Afganistan were Hindu Khush... the grave yard of the people called Hindu.
Babur decided to settle in this land that had an easy climate, fertile land and wealth that the people had built over millinea. Moreover, these people were of easy natures; they were trusting and nonviolent. It could not have been better!
Aurangzeb refused to eat a meal till he had proof of extermination of Hindus worth 40 tonnes of Jenyu ( the holy thread) whether by killing or by conversion, it is said. His mission in life was to promote Islam- at any cost. The cost that the Sikhs bore to counter this obsession was very heavy and a historically verifiable fact. For the Muslims, it has been "either My God or no God" mentality. Every non Muslim is a kafir- doomed to hell for eternity. As it is for the Christians, too. Either my God or no God! If you do not believe in Christ as your saviour, your soul is doomed to burn in the fires of eternal hell.
Somewhere, having tolerated this holocast the Hindus can have a justifiable axe to grind. The inherent unrest, irritation and resistance can atleast be understood, if not accepted.
India is the only country in the world where a terrorist is not a terrorist! He is first a Hindu or a Muslim or a Christian or a Sikh.
What is terrorism?
What is terrorism for you and me may be patriotism for the "terrorist".
Who is to decide what is right? And righteous? Who is to sit in judgement?
The only weight that can tilt the balance is the loss of innocent lives. People who have no political agenda or aspirations, who are innocent bystanders caught in the cross-fire of politicised religion.
These perpetrators of mindless violence are not Hindus, Muslims, or any other religion.
I see nothing wrong in what Swami Vivekananda, Sri Aurobindo or even Veer Sawarkar encouraged. How long can anyone expect any community to be killed because they accept all faiths as equal?
Hinduism is singular in not having any conversion rituals. In the Gita, Lord Krishna says that the Divine may be called by any name, It remains the same entity. The Gita further expounds the equality of religions by clearly directing that anyone who follows his dharma faithfully can realise God.
Where then is the need to berate any religion assuming that it promotes terrorism?
When will we as a nation learn to treat this problem as it is- one of mindless violence. And fail to help it grow by behaving irresponsibly either as journalists or as people?
Where will the sensationalisation end? And when will sensitisation begin?
Mind like water
The martial arts to the uninitiated convey only fights, winning and violence. However, the truth could not be farther!
The driving thought behind karate is to make fight unnecessary.
The art and the execution of t he skill in karate is not in the hands or even the belt that the 'fighter' wears. It is in the mind. In the heart.
When you see smooth, undisturbed, deep waters- you see everything faithfully reflected from the surface. A calm mind likewise sees and reflects all that is within its range. See the lake? See the sky and the trees? And the high mountains? All are contained within the lake as if an integral part of it!
The calm mind accurately forms an image of the opponent. The opponent's movements, force and even psychology are equally faithfully reflected from the waters of a stilled and deepened mind. Time seems to slow down. Analysis of each component of attack is easy and complete even before the attack actually starts.
The response to the well reflected opponent, then is correct, adequate and appropriate.
Neither too little nor too much. Just enough.
Is this not what life requires us to master?
Reflect calmly. Respond adequately.
A mind that is not calm is manifested by a body that is not under control. The body is tightly wound like a spring. It not only leaves open an opportunity to be attacked, it also responds inappropriately to an attack.
Too little or too late.
Just as the water can be calm in a deep ocean as well as catastrophic in its destructive power when in motion, so the mind must simultaneously maintain the opposites. Be capable of reflection and force.
Seen the artistically stupendous movie "Hero"? It illustrates this concept of clarity and slowing down of time repeatedly. And breathtakingly.
Try.
Train to make your mind like the water.
Karate or not.
MIZO NO KOKURU....
Time really flies...
I sat in the car waving to my son's back... He was going in the school gate. I thought back to just a few years ago.
It was the first day of preschool. He was ready and excited. I remember the striped blue T-shirt that he wore. The deep blue back pack was on his shoulders. He really looked on with his naughty eyes, almost daring anyone who cared to accept the challenge! " Catch me if you can!"
I was a little apprehensive. Is my baby ready for the first flight? Can this fledgling really try his wings? Was I ready? Could I leave him alone with some stranger for the few hours required for each school day? Will he be ok? Will he eat? Will he be able to tell the teacher his basic needs? Water? Loo? Who would help him there?
Now I am an experienced mom! So This should not have bothered me! I have gone through this before. My daughter turned out alright. She made it- despite me... or in spite of me. So will Moksh.
But a mother's instincts are never wrong. He was excited only so long as it meant Mom was not going to work. He was to be with Mom all the time. He went with me in the car. As soon as it was time for letting him go- he held on tight.
At first his eyes simply widened. His tiny mind could not make the leap. His mother was always there for him. She could not just take him some strange place and then leave him there. SHE COULD NOT.
Then I saw some liquid begin to fill those big eyes. He was still not saying anything. It was heart-breaking. Then the tears brimmed over. A tiny cry and then he transformed. The fierceness and the tenacity with which he held tight to my hands while screaming his heart out was tearing my insides out. How could I be so cruel?
The teacher simply took his hand away. I found my hand empty. And my heart full. This teacher could not be trusted! She had not even bothered to turn a glance at me. Hell! she was not even looking at Moksh. She was only dragging him to the class. This play school was a very bad idea. My heart and my mind were doing flip flops.
Thank God for those CC cameras they had installed in the class-room. He settled in soon enough. He was good with his hands. By the time they took him to the Blocks room, he had no memory of a certain female creature perhaps scanning each monitor for evidence of her progeny's being comfortable or uncomfortable.
Once in the school, he was fine. But he never really liked being put in the bus. He never really liked the morning- it brought separation.
Now my baby has grown into a young boy who still does not feel over-enthused about school but has been programmed by the system to accept each morning's separation as just one of those evils that have to be borne. We try and fit so much into the mornings that school becomes a place to brag what he knows each day!
And my young man does know!
He knows that you have to be gentle with those younger or weaker.
He knows that you have to say thank you and sorry.
He even knows that sometimes it is ok to feel angry.
He knows that school is the place where he gets to make friends and invent games.
He knows that school is also the place that will teach him when to say no. And how.
For a five year old, is that not a bit much to already know?
As if this is not enough- he also knows he loves his mother THIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSS much.
And then he knows that no matter what- his mother, too loves him THIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSS much.
We can hug over the phone. And we can also touch over the phone... because ... you see... God gave this special thing to us- it is called the mother child bond...
As I wave at my son's back, I try to reconcile the past with the imagined future... He will soon be grown up enough not to need me to dress him up. He will be independent enough to not even bother with a backward glance and go his own way. He will soar. And maybe... just maybe... he will see the wind beneath his wings is being stirred up by the same mother who held him in her lap as a baby and then held him when he took his first tottering steps and then again each time he needed consoling because he had scraped his knees.
But in all of this past present and future, one thing that stands out clearly is the fact that I really do love him. And he loves me. And he will never have to say it... I will see it in his eyes- hear it in his breath. Just as I know he will feel it in mine. Yet... being that silly thing people call mom, i tell him tirelessly," Mokshaaaa? You know something? " He answers- gleaming eyes-" Yes! You love me verrrrry verrrrry verrrry much!" And I repeat just to satisfy myself, gleaming eyes, " Yes baby! I love you verrrrrry verrrrry much!"
I never thought I could love another human being aS much as I loved my father and my mother... and then came along my man to redefine the limits of what a human heart is capable of feeling. I knew for sure that it is not possible to love anyone any more than this when I was blessed with the little angel I call my daughter. For nearly a decade ( she is seven years older than my son) I thought it is not possible to feel any more love than I now felt! Each little gesture and each little tick was endearing. Just as I was convinced that more love was not possible, along came my son...
Human heart grows with each new experience of love and at each step you seem to be brimming over... overflowing as if more cannot be accomodated. And somehow, more and more can be taken in...
Thank you God for all the love in our lives...
Remember to tell all those you love that you do love them. Everyday. Just like I tell my children.
One day they will grow up and find this silly. The daily reaffimation of our love. Many times each day.
And then, they will have their own families and ... THEN... They will feel it and hopefully remember the good feelings it brought and hopefully... they will reaffirm in their own unique ways- how much they love all those they do love in their lives.
It was the first day of preschool. He was ready and excited. I remember the striped blue T-shirt that he wore. The deep blue back pack was on his shoulders. He really looked on with his naughty eyes, almost daring anyone who cared to accept the challenge! " Catch me if you can!"
I was a little apprehensive. Is my baby ready for the first flight? Can this fledgling really try his wings? Was I ready? Could I leave him alone with some stranger for the few hours required for each school day? Will he be ok? Will he eat? Will he be able to tell the teacher his basic needs? Water? Loo? Who would help him there?
Now I am an experienced mom! So This should not have bothered me! I have gone through this before. My daughter turned out alright. She made it- despite me... or in spite of me. So will Moksh.
But a mother's instincts are never wrong. He was excited only so long as it meant Mom was not going to work. He was to be with Mom all the time. He went with me in the car. As soon as it was time for letting him go- he held on tight.
At first his eyes simply widened. His tiny mind could not make the leap. His mother was always there for him. She could not just take him some strange place and then leave him there. SHE COULD NOT.
Then I saw some liquid begin to fill those big eyes. He was still not saying anything. It was heart-breaking. Then the tears brimmed over. A tiny cry and then he transformed. The fierceness and the tenacity with which he held tight to my hands while screaming his heart out was tearing my insides out. How could I be so cruel?
The teacher simply took his hand away. I found my hand empty. And my heart full. This teacher could not be trusted! She had not even bothered to turn a glance at me. Hell! she was not even looking at Moksh. She was only dragging him to the class. This play school was a very bad idea. My heart and my mind were doing flip flops.
Thank God for those CC cameras they had installed in the class-room. He settled in soon enough. He was good with his hands. By the time they took him to the Blocks room, he had no memory of a certain female creature perhaps scanning each monitor for evidence of her progeny's being comfortable or uncomfortable.
Once in the school, he was fine. But he never really liked being put in the bus. He never really liked the morning- it brought separation.
Now my baby has grown into a young boy who still does not feel over-enthused about school but has been programmed by the system to accept each morning's separation as just one of those evils that have to be borne. We try and fit so much into the mornings that school becomes a place to brag what he knows each day!
And my young man does know!
He knows that you have to be gentle with those younger or weaker.
He knows that you have to say thank you and sorry.
He even knows that sometimes it is ok to feel angry.
He knows that school is the place where he gets to make friends and invent games.
He knows that school is also the place that will teach him when to say no. And how.
For a five year old, is that not a bit much to already know?
As if this is not enough- he also knows he loves his mother THIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSS much.
And then he knows that no matter what- his mother, too loves him THIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSS much.
We can hug over the phone. And we can also touch over the phone... because ... you see... God gave this special thing to us- it is called the mother child bond...
As I wave at my son's back, I try to reconcile the past with the imagined future... He will soon be grown up enough not to need me to dress him up. He will be independent enough to not even bother with a backward glance and go his own way. He will soar. And maybe... just maybe... he will see the wind beneath his wings is being stirred up by the same mother who held him in her lap as a baby and then held him when he took his first tottering steps and then again each time he needed consoling because he had scraped his knees.
But in all of this past present and future, one thing that stands out clearly is the fact that I really do love him. And he loves me. And he will never have to say it... I will see it in his eyes- hear it in his breath. Just as I know he will feel it in mine. Yet... being that silly thing people call mom, i tell him tirelessly," Mokshaaaa? You know something? " He answers- gleaming eyes-" Yes! You love me verrrrry verrrrry verrrry much!" And I repeat just to satisfy myself, gleaming eyes, " Yes baby! I love you verrrrrry verrrrry much!"
I never thought I could love another human being aS much as I loved my father and my mother... and then came along my man to redefine the limits of what a human heart is capable of feeling. I knew for sure that it is not possible to love anyone any more than this when I was blessed with the little angel I call my daughter. For nearly a decade ( she is seven years older than my son) I thought it is not possible to feel any more love than I now felt! Each little gesture and each little tick was endearing. Just as I was convinced that more love was not possible, along came my son...
Human heart grows with each new experience of love and at each step you seem to be brimming over... overflowing as if more cannot be accomodated. And somehow, more and more can be taken in...
Thank you God for all the love in our lives...
Remember to tell all those you love that you do love them. Everyday. Just like I tell my children.
One day they will grow up and find this silly. The daily reaffimation of our love. Many times each day.
And then, they will have their own families and ... THEN... They will feel it and hopefully remember the good feelings it brought and hopefully... they will reaffirm in their own unique ways- how much they love all those they do love in their lives.
It has been a wonderful week!
It all started Monday morning. It seems like it was ages ago but I do realise as I sit tapping the keys here it was only two days ago!
My alma mater, my high school is having their Annual Blood Donation day on Friday, 7 Nov, 2008 at Bharatiya Vidya Bhawan at Curzon Road, New Delhi. I got a call from a number in the area on my cell phone. It was my biology teacher... and currently the vice-principal of the school wanting me to be the Chief Guest for the event!
Me? Have I really grown up enough to be now chairing sessions and chiefing events?
I still remember the days of climbing trees and jumping on fences in the school play ground. The dirt and the grime did not matter. Niether did the scraped knees. What mattered was the trees to be climbed. And ofcourse, the ripe and the unripe mangoes that we plucked. I can still feel myself swelling up with the prize of my bountiful booty... all my loot. And the lemon trees... yes... they were trees. These were much smaller than the mango trees. I could stretch a little and touch the leaves. Each time I touched the leaves the aroma of lemon lingered on in the lines on my fingers and palms. I fell in love with the floral scent. I still am in love with it. I have planted atleast three lemon plants in pots of various sizes in my own home and almost obsessively gently touch the leaves to feel the aroma again in my hand. I have passed this love on to my children, too. I see them doing the same. I see this love for the flora enveloping generations and feel somewhat dwarfed as well as an instrument to immortality of emotions in the lives of mortals.
Small things. Insignificant things. Lingering things. Memories. Are these not what we are really made of?
Who was it that set all those records in the Olympics this year? And there was this guy frpom uptown Chandigarh who won India her first Gold medal in the Games. What was his name?
I honestly will have to jog my memory to recall their names.
But I remember the first teacher to have taught me and signed my first report card. Mrs L Bruce. She was a tall woman. She mostly wore daark colous and skirts. She tought the preschool of Holy Child. Her hand writing is still seared on my mind's canvas. Straight. Well rounded. Lovely loops to the L and the B in her name. And wonderfully rounded Capital E in the excellent she awarded me in each of the catetgories listed. My first report card! I sometimes take it out and reaffirm my own self. I am OK!
And I remember the geography teacher Mr Karan Singh in BVB who managed to make the subject so interesting that I often found myself dreaming of teh formation of the continental plates and the mighty oceans in the scheme of things. Mr Karan Singh was an exceedingly good looking teacher to our young brains and everything he said was ... well... divine word! But he managed to pass his love of the subject to atleast one student who despite having streaned out into the Sciences has continued to read avidly about the earth and her history. I hope I can pass on the same kind of love for something- anything to any one child I teach.
And I remember Mrs Khattar, my history teacher who taught for fun. She loved the subject she taught. She loved herself. She often would be seen in three pairs of sandals in the course of a day. She was aggressive. She was opinionated. And she was controversial. She was quite popular with the boys of our class for the kind of blouses she wore. She would have beaten Sush at her game long long ago!
And I remember Mr Mohan Kumar... our gentle Mathematics teacher. When he wrote a math equation on the board, the world seemed to shrink. It seemed as if even we, the students had disappeared. He had a problem to solve. It required a certain method to do it. And he was not bothered by anything anyone chose to do or chose not to do in the class. His job was done only when it was done. His voice could often not penetrate the din some of us managed to create in his class but he NEVER EVER raised his voice.
And I remember Mr Chourashiya, my Electrical gadgets teacher. He tried to tell me how difficult it would be for me , a girl, to take up the subject which was a boy's domain. And then he openly appreciated my grasp of teh subject.
And I remember Mrs Kavoori who gave me 25 out of 20... five marks extra for neatness and organisation of my answer book in the exam.
And I remember... most of all... the little girl... who caught the hem of my skirt in the central courtyard... and told me... " You are the best" She handed me a tender rose with her small hands. I had to bend over doubled up at my waist to take it from her. I was in class twelve and she would have probably been in the first grade or second grade. I remebered very clearly the emotions of this powerful moment from being the giver of a similar rose some six years ago to the then head girl Anjali... and being made the laughing stock of her entire class! I gently took the rose and thanked her. I was overwhelmed and grateful that God had prepared me for this moment. I may not be able to recognise the girl now. I do, however, remeber the emotions that coursed through me. I have to say thank you... again... I did then. It was the most touching moment of my school career.
I have lots of memories that make me proud to a part of the family called Bhavan. Most of all I am grateful to god for the way He made me...
And to the many people who have shaped the way I have turned out...
More later. I am getting more emotional than I can handle!!!!!!
Thank you... all of you.
My alma mater, my high school is having their Annual Blood Donation day on Friday, 7 Nov, 2008 at Bharatiya Vidya Bhawan at Curzon Road, New Delhi. I got a call from a number in the area on my cell phone. It was my biology teacher... and currently the vice-principal of the school wanting me to be the Chief Guest for the event!
Me? Have I really grown up enough to be now chairing sessions and chiefing events?
I still remember the days of climbing trees and jumping on fences in the school play ground. The dirt and the grime did not matter. Niether did the scraped knees. What mattered was the trees to be climbed. And ofcourse, the ripe and the unripe mangoes that we plucked. I can still feel myself swelling up with the prize of my bountiful booty... all my loot. And the lemon trees... yes... they were trees. These were much smaller than the mango trees. I could stretch a little and touch the leaves. Each time I touched the leaves the aroma of lemon lingered on in the lines on my fingers and palms. I fell in love with the floral scent. I still am in love with it. I have planted atleast three lemon plants in pots of various sizes in my own home and almost obsessively gently touch the leaves to feel the aroma again in my hand. I have passed this love on to my children, too. I see them doing the same. I see this love for the flora enveloping generations and feel somewhat dwarfed as well as an instrument to immortality of emotions in the lives of mortals.
Small things. Insignificant things. Lingering things. Memories. Are these not what we are really made of?
Who was it that set all those records in the Olympics this year? And there was this guy frpom uptown Chandigarh who won India her first Gold medal in the Games. What was his name?
I honestly will have to jog my memory to recall their names.
But I remember the first teacher to have taught me and signed my first report card. Mrs L Bruce. She was a tall woman. She mostly wore daark colous and skirts. She tought the preschool of Holy Child. Her hand writing is still seared on my mind's canvas. Straight. Well rounded. Lovely loops to the L and the B in her name. And wonderfully rounded Capital E in the excellent she awarded me in each of the catetgories listed. My first report card! I sometimes take it out and reaffirm my own self. I am OK!
And I remember the geography teacher Mr Karan Singh in BVB who managed to make the subject so interesting that I often found myself dreaming of teh formation of the continental plates and the mighty oceans in the scheme of things. Mr Karan Singh was an exceedingly good looking teacher to our young brains and everything he said was ... well... divine word! But he managed to pass his love of the subject to atleast one student who despite having streaned out into the Sciences has continued to read avidly about the earth and her history. I hope I can pass on the same kind of love for something- anything to any one child I teach.
And I remember Mrs Khattar, my history teacher who taught for fun. She loved the subject she taught. She loved herself. She often would be seen in three pairs of sandals in the course of a day. She was aggressive. She was opinionated. And she was controversial. She was quite popular with the boys of our class for the kind of blouses she wore. She would have beaten Sush at her game long long ago!
And I remember Mr Mohan Kumar... our gentle Mathematics teacher. When he wrote a math equation on the board, the world seemed to shrink. It seemed as if even we, the students had disappeared. He had a problem to solve. It required a certain method to do it. And he was not bothered by anything anyone chose to do or chose not to do in the class. His job was done only when it was done. His voice could often not penetrate the din some of us managed to create in his class but he NEVER EVER raised his voice.
And I remember Mr Chourashiya, my Electrical gadgets teacher. He tried to tell me how difficult it would be for me , a girl, to take up the subject which was a boy's domain. And then he openly appreciated my grasp of teh subject.
And I remember Mrs Kavoori who gave me 25 out of 20... five marks extra for neatness and organisation of my answer book in the exam.
And I remember... most of all... the little girl... who caught the hem of my skirt in the central courtyard... and told me... " You are the best" She handed me a tender rose with her small hands. I had to bend over doubled up at my waist to take it from her. I was in class twelve and she would have probably been in the first grade or second grade. I remebered very clearly the emotions of this powerful moment from being the giver of a similar rose some six years ago to the then head girl Anjali... and being made the laughing stock of her entire class! I gently took the rose and thanked her. I was overwhelmed and grateful that God had prepared me for this moment. I may not be able to recognise the girl now. I do, however, remeber the emotions that coursed through me. I have to say thank you... again... I did then. It was the most touching moment of my school career.
I have lots of memories that make me proud to a part of the family called Bhavan. Most of all I am grateful to god for the way He made me...
And to the many people who have shaped the way I have turned out...
More later. I am getting more emotional than I can handle!!!!!!
Thank you... all of you.
Ah! Those days!
Reading a blog from a very old friend I was reminded of those lovely days in the seemingly remote past ( God! are we THAT Grey?!) when we read poetry for its humor and enjoyed it DESPITE the curriculum that forced these down our gullet... and sometimes inspite of the teachers who made it a point to drown all the humor out of the written word! ( Teachers Please pardon!)
One of the most lasting impressions on me was of an enchanting man called Ogden Nash. I loved his humor in The Born Spectator ( I think that was the title!) and in a few others. I loved him so much that I decided to set upon a mission- collect all that I could lay my hands on. Each piece that I read made me crave for more. That is the highest compliment one can give an author of any style or genre or even any form of literature.
Among my personal collections of his works were:
And that put me on his trail.
I bought a collection of his verses- Candy is Dandy.
Those were the days before the Internet was a part of our daily lives. You had to sit in a library or a book-store for hours looking for that elusive title or work that you wanted. You could not simply type the word on a computer screen and hope to look up a thousand or more pages that could satisfy our curiosity.
Incidently, typing Ogden Nash on Google.com throws up 5,16,000 pages/ sites in 0.19 sec!!!!! Oggle all you want! I could never have dreamed it would be so easy to know so much about this great poet somewhere in the future.
There is even a Wikepedia entry that is called- quite simply- Ogden Nash.
Now I know he was a Leo ( Aw! Shucks! I always thought he was a Gemini- with such a flair for the language he had to be an artistic zodiac. But he was a Lion!)
Now I also know that he lived to the ripe old age of nearly seventy ( 1902- 1971) and had a great life writing but died of an unfortunate illness Crohn's Disease in John's Hopkin's, Baltimore in May 1971.
One of his oneliners are irrepressible!
People who work sitting down are paid more that people who work standing up.
And then the playful rhyme that was inimitably his unique style...
I would love to finish with one of his poems... and hope I find others who love him as much and want to have a collection of his available to savour
Song to be sung by the father of infant Female children
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise my, my blood runs cold
when little boys run by,
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then, they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry,
No matter how they tarry, Eventually they do marry.
And swine among pearls,
They marry little girls!
Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
with parents who feed him and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.
Yes! I loathe him with a loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless
This bachelor child in his carriage,
gives never a thought to marrige,
But a person can hardly say knife,
before he will want himself a wife!
I never see an infant (male)
A-sleeping in the sun,
without I turn a trifle pale,
And think," Is he the one?"
Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls
And Holy Matrimony.
He'll put away his pony
And sigh for matrimony
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.
Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk
And quietly sucks his thumbs,
His cheeks are roses painted on silk
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.
But Alas! the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.
He'll sell a bond or he'll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for a kill,
He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle
is diapered still
will want to marry
my daughter Jill!!
Ah1 sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!
My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohen grins!
I'll open all of his safety pins!
I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring
And tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
Then perhaps, he'll struggle through fire and water
To marry someone else's daughter!
I have to specially thank Swati for refreshing my jaded memory cells and reminding me about Nash. Please do see her blog for several interesting sites she has researched and reviewed.
www://hellonetbaby.blogspot.com/
One of the most lasting impressions on me was of an enchanting man called Ogden Nash. I loved his humor in The Born Spectator ( I think that was the title!) and in a few others. I loved him so much that I decided to set upon a mission- collect all that I could lay my hands on. Each piece that I read made me crave for more. That is the highest compliment one can give an author of any style or genre or even any form of literature.
Among my personal collections of his works were:
- Song to be sung by the father of infant female children
- Complaint to four angels
- Thunder over the nursery
And that put me on his trail.
I bought a collection of his verses- Candy is Dandy.
Those were the days before the Internet was a part of our daily lives. You had to sit in a library or a book-store for hours looking for that elusive title or work that you wanted. You could not simply type the word on a computer screen and hope to look up a thousand or more pages that could satisfy our curiosity.
Incidently, typing Ogden Nash on Google.com throws up 5,16,000 pages/ sites in 0.19 sec!!!!! Oggle all you want! I could never have dreamed it would be so easy to know so much about this great poet somewhere in the future.
There is even a Wikepedia entry that is called- quite simply- Ogden Nash.
Now I know he was a Leo ( Aw! Shucks! I always thought he was a Gemini- with such a flair for the language he had to be an artistic zodiac. But he was a Lion!)
Now I also know that he lived to the ripe old age of nearly seventy ( 1902- 1971) and had a great life writing but died of an unfortunate illness Crohn's Disease in John's Hopkin's, Baltimore in May 1971.
One of his oneliners are irrepressible!
People who work sitting down are paid more that people who work standing up.
And then the playful rhyme that was inimitably his unique style...
- I think that I shall never see
- A billboard lovely as a tree.
- Perhaps, unless the billboards fall,
- I'll never see a tree at all.
I would love to finish with one of his poems... and hope I find others who love him as much and want to have a collection of his available to savour
Song to be sung by the father of infant Female children
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise my, my blood runs cold
when little boys run by,
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then, they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry,
No matter how they tarry, Eventually they do marry.
And swine among pearls,
They marry little girls!
Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
with parents who feed him and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.
Yes! I loathe him with a loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless
This bachelor child in his carriage,
gives never a thought to marrige,
But a person can hardly say knife,
before he will want himself a wife!
I never see an infant (male)
A-sleeping in the sun,
without I turn a trifle pale,
And think," Is he the one?"
Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls
And Holy Matrimony.
He'll put away his pony
And sigh for matrimony
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.
Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk
And quietly sucks his thumbs,
His cheeks are roses painted on silk
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.
But Alas! the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.
He'll sell a bond or he'll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for a kill,
He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle
is diapered still
will want to marry
my daughter Jill!!
Ah1 sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!
My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohen grins!
I'll open all of his safety pins!
I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring
And tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
Then perhaps, he'll struggle through fire and water
To marry someone else's daughter!
I have to specially thank Swati for refreshing my jaded memory cells and reminding me about Nash. Please do see her blog for several interesting sites she has researched and reviewed.
www://hellonetbaby.blogspot.com/
Lost in Wilderness !
This is not a picture postcard painted out of imagination. This is not some far out place simply taken out of some picture album either.
This is an ordinary path that we walk everyday rendered breathless by the surreal light of early morning sun.
It has the same leaves that fall each autumn from the same trees and adorn the same earth. It has the same sun lighting it up even!
What makes this unique is the stillness... the solitude... the silence.
Can we find our moment of beauty and acceptance? Each day? Can we find our peace and solitude? Each day?
Can we look for our centre or do we even have to look?
These and many other questions arise in our minds as we behold a thing of beauty. We forget that the majestic lies with in. It is the internal reflected on the external that lends appeal and enchants.
Are you ready to be enchanted?
Set off...
A moment of silence...
It was an overcast morning.
A light drizzle and a small breeze were just enough to remind an onlooker about that wonderful feeling! People were rushing to work or blowing their horns at having been delayed ( much to their chagrin) at a traffic signal just turned red for them!
Running. Everyone is running. Everyone is running to catch they know not what.
I noticed a warning light come up on my dashboard... Fuel up NOW. It insisted. In the middle of the road. I found myself hoping either for a continuous unbroken driving pleasure with all the signals green or if red, to be so long enough for me to stop my car. Dead stop. No idling. No fuel wastage even on red signals.
One such traffic signal- inside a stopped car, I sat. Stillness enveloped me like a soft coccoon. The car windows rolled up had blocked out all he noise of the people in so much hurry that they could not notice their own breathing. I sat comfortably and closed my eyes for a moment of respite. It was in that moment of solitude and silence that I heard it.
A gentle tapping sound came from somewhere outside the car. It was inviting... very enticing. And very very very gentle. I wondered where it came from and what could it be. Then I saw it... The rain gently falling on the windscreen.
The Lord talks to us in many ways and myriad languages. He shows us plenty and we fail to see. He whispers in our ears and into our hearts and we fail to hear. He touches us in a lot of gentle ways but we are far too busy in our mundane existence to fathom the profound.
Take a moment.
Slow dow.
Hear.
See.
Live life... don't just survive it!
A light drizzle and a small breeze were just enough to remind an onlooker about that wonderful feeling! People were rushing to work or blowing their horns at having been delayed ( much to their chagrin) at a traffic signal just turned red for them!
Running. Everyone is running. Everyone is running to catch they know not what.
I noticed a warning light come up on my dashboard... Fuel up NOW. It insisted. In the middle of the road. I found myself hoping either for a continuous unbroken driving pleasure with all the signals green or if red, to be so long enough for me to stop my car. Dead stop. No idling. No fuel wastage even on red signals.
One such traffic signal- inside a stopped car, I sat. Stillness enveloped me like a soft coccoon. The car windows rolled up had blocked out all he noise of the people in so much hurry that they could not notice their own breathing. I sat comfortably and closed my eyes for a moment of respite. It was in that moment of solitude and silence that I heard it.
A gentle tapping sound came from somewhere outside the car. It was inviting... very enticing. And very very very gentle. I wondered where it came from and what could it be. Then I saw it... The rain gently falling on the windscreen.
The Lord talks to us in many ways and myriad languages. He shows us plenty and we fail to see. He whispers in our ears and into our hearts and we fail to hear. He touches us in a lot of gentle ways but we are far too busy in our mundane existence to fathom the profound.
Take a moment.
Slow dow.
Hear.
See.
Live life... don't just survive it!
Web-cast !
We are all stuck. Some of us are like the spider- spinning the web, finding the prey and surviving. Some are like the insect caught inexorably in the web- the prey- struggling to break free. The more the prey tries to break free, the more entangled it gets in the web.
The web is cast.
The predator and the prey are both an undeniable reality- both needed to sustain each other in the circle and the cycle of life.
The spider's web, comparatively speaking is stronger than steel ( (Yes! remember the Young's modulus you read in Class X? )
Can we escape that trap?
Sometimes... Longings
Sometimes... life gets so tiring... One just wants to rest a while...
Sometimes... people one loves say hurtful things.... and one just has to smile...
Sometimes... people just clamp up... and one wants to draw them out-
But know not how.
Sometimes one just wants to feel a little understood and cared for...
and knows not where
Sometimes... the laughter hides tears and sometimes the tears just flow-uncontrolled.
Sometimes... the smile hides tremendous pain and it shows through anyhow.
Sometimes... just sometimes... even the brave feel faint hearted.
Sometimes... just sometimes... even the most positive souls need some holding up.
Sometimes...
Sometimes...
And it is okay!
It is Okay to feel sad as well as happy. It is fine to feel love and frustration.
It is fine to love and not be loved in return.
It is fine to go on... so long as one can find even an ounce of strength within to go on.
Sometimes- it is okay to just go on anyway!
ANYWAY
Sometimes... people one loves say hurtful things.... and one just has to smile...
Sometimes... people just clamp up... and one wants to draw them out-
But know not how.
Sometimes one just wants to feel a little understood and cared for...
and knows not where
Sometimes... the laughter hides tears and sometimes the tears just flow-uncontrolled.
Sometimes... the smile hides tremendous pain and it shows through anyhow.
Sometimes... just sometimes... even the brave feel faint hearted.
Sometimes... just sometimes... even the most positive souls need some holding up.
Sometimes...
Sometimes...
And it is okay!
It is Okay to feel sad as well as happy. It is fine to feel love and frustration.
It is fine to love and not be loved in return.
It is fine to go on... so long as one can find even an ounce of strength within to go on.
Sometimes- it is okay to just go on anyway!
ANYWAY
Noise...or peace?
The Alarm is shrill, and persistent. It does what it is supposed to! It makes sure you leave the bed and get on with the day.
You have been rudely woken up by an intrusive sound. It does not belong here by your bedside. What if it was not there? Would you be able to wake up in time for the children's school? For your own work? Or work-out? Would your system be refreshed and happy and contented at a good night's restful slumber and be ready to lumber up to the world?
When you do start a routine day on this loud and peace'less' note what is it that can bring peace into your life? Your day? You rush through the morning hours to fit into the morn a life time of activities. Bathing, brushing, breakfast, newspaper and the rush hour commute. Oh! The laundary. And the cooking.
The gentle morning awakenings are a dream like state that happened somewhere in a past life that no regression can reach. There is a faint awareness of a noiseless awakening that can lead to a peaceful day... but it is faint.
Why do we do this to ourselves?
The noise in the world outside threatens to invade every molecule of our existence. The angry motorist who honks because he wants the right of way from us is no better or worse off than the one who glares and shows his fist in a gesture of utter irritation early in the morning. Then there are those who believe that they are not on the road if they do not honk. So... even when there is nothing that needs to be blown out of their way, they simply SIT on their horn. They are themselves shattered souls in a noisy world and want to shatter any one who remotely connect with their existence. Even if it means blaring on a empty road.
What about those 'young' blood who give not a thought to spilling blood at the drop of the proverbial hat. They are listening to loud music that drowns out all else. They are not only listening themselves but also making sure that those on the road can critique their choice and they better be nice about it!
WHy is the world running and where is it running to?
Will we ever decide in favour of peace and silence?
Can we?
You have been rudely woken up by an intrusive sound. It does not belong here by your bedside. What if it was not there? Would you be able to wake up in time for the children's school? For your own work? Or work-out? Would your system be refreshed and happy and contented at a good night's restful slumber and be ready to lumber up to the world?
When you do start a routine day on this loud and peace'less' note what is it that can bring peace into your life? Your day? You rush through the morning hours to fit into the morn a life time of activities. Bathing, brushing, breakfast, newspaper and the rush hour commute. Oh! The laundary. And the cooking.
The gentle morning awakenings are a dream like state that happened somewhere in a past life that no regression can reach. There is a faint awareness of a noiseless awakening that can lead to a peaceful day... but it is faint.
Why do we do this to ourselves?
The noise in the world outside threatens to invade every molecule of our existence. The angry motorist who honks because he wants the right of way from us is no better or worse off than the one who glares and shows his fist in a gesture of utter irritation early in the morning. Then there are those who believe that they are not on the road if they do not honk. So... even when there is nothing that needs to be blown out of their way, they simply SIT on their horn. They are themselves shattered souls in a noisy world and want to shatter any one who remotely connect with their existence. Even if it means blaring on a empty road.
What about those 'young' blood who give not a thought to spilling blood at the drop of the proverbial hat. They are listening to loud music that drowns out all else. They are not only listening themselves but also making sure that those on the road can critique their choice and they better be nice about it!
WHy is the world running and where is it running to?
Will we ever decide in favour of peace and silence?
Can we?
Power of the Universe... HeMan!
Child is the father of man... the cliche` that has become almost torn and tattered in its overuse.
When a father falls down in a wrestling match with his son... it is the dad's idea much more than the child's strength.
You realise what it is like to have your heart ouotside your body only when you love someone more than you ever thought possible. It is felt most between parents and children. ... And childen will feel it only when they have their own kids!
A very famous author has admonished her children by saying that she prays that they have children like her children to realise what an ordeal parenting is!
This is one match you proudly lose EACH time... time after time...
My life... my love...
Life... happens.
Time passes...
Love... prevails...
We often fail to sit with people who matter to us most of all.
Quite like the light in the refrigerator! We find the refrigerator lit up from within when we open the door. We donot even give the light bulb a solitary thought... till... we find it gone! One never really misses a good thing till it is gone.
Sometimes it is good to just sit together and share a few moments of peace and be grateful for what we do have.
It is strange that people often are willing to invest an enormous amount of time, emotion and feeling, not to mention money, in trying to win over a person they THINK they love; and very little in keeping the ones they KNOW they love!
In order to have a peaceful life it is important to find our centre. It is equally important to acknowledge the sources of peace in our lives... our loved ones.
Live.
Love.
Share moments and eternity.
Sunset Across Danube, Belgrade
Sunsets always have an otherworldly quality. They always seem to be announcing a gateway to a different world, a different life- or even the after life!
Nature has so much to offer that we cannot begin to assimilate it all in one life time. We, as a race, however, have plundered her and bared her over several lifetimes for millenia.
We are singular in being ABLE to alter what we see and turn it into what we want... and sometimes even into what we did not anticipate or want.
We have raised forests into flatlands to give land for agriculture and Athen nature has reared her head in anger and washed these away Ain floods! Where are the forests?
We have built dams over rivers and seen Nature tell us saving one part of land will drown another in the reservoir that we have created.
We live under a delusion that we are powerful. We assume that global warming, the climate changes, the freak weather changes, the melting ice belts and the receding snow lines are somehow a result of human activity.
Through the ages, earth has gone through periods of warmth and cold. She has seen extinction of old races and species as well seen emergence of new ones. Why do we assume that Earth is not going through one of her Natural cycles and is facing all of these changes because of us?
Are we stronger than Mother Earth?
Shimla
A concrete jungle that is threatening to overtake the hills and the natural jungle...
The wild life that once adorned the hills has now been taken over by the tame variety...
What is spirituality?
Is spirituality an Ivory Tower discussion with no basis in real everyday life and living? Is spirituality something that teaches others how to live? Or is it something that makes each of us live our lives more truthfully, more sincerely and more attentively than we would otherwise. Is spirituality for others or for ourselves?
I heard this story from one of our friend's mother-in-law. It was very instructive! There were no names. No great people being quoted. I cannot be certain of the source of the story either.
See what you make of it. So... here goes.
Once upon a time, long, long ago there lived a very learned sage. He was well read and well versed. As his knowledge grew, so did his ego. Strange as it seemed, the sage grew increasingly proud of his knowledge and erudition.
One morning, he set out to beg for his meals. Upon reaching a household, he spake, resoundingly," Mai... bhiksham dehi! Oh Mother, give me alms, please!"
The lady was drying out the laundary. She left the clothes in the bucket and prayed," Please give me a minute, O Sage! I shall just be back." The sage waited. And waited. And waited. Then, he began to get irritated. "How can this woman leave me waiting? " He pumped up his own anger. "How dare she!?" His anger began to rise like the mercury in a thermometer on a hot summer day!
By the time the lady came out with the alms, he was livid. "O woman! Do you know who I am!? Let me show you." He looked at the bird sitting on a tree facing the house. The bird fell lifeless to the ground instantly.
The woman was saddened. And somewhat taken aback.
The sage thundered,"Woman, do you realise who I am? How powerful is my spiritual reach! How dare you make me wait! I can kill with one look!"
The lady replied very calmly, " Yes indeed! I can see who you are and what you can do. I went in to get you food. My toddler was crying. I do not know what is your spirituality, sir. But my love did not permit me to leave a toddler crying while you were waiting. I apologise." She quietly walked up to the fallen bird and tenderly picked it up. A tiny sound escaped the bird's frail frame. The sage was surprised.
And ashamed.
The little bird flapped its wings tentatively. The lady outstretched her hands and the tiny thing flew away!
Anger can kill. Spirituality does not.
Spirituality is much deeper and much more tolerant than the sage experienced despite his erudition!
Spirituality is in devotion, in sincerity, in love, in being in the moment- whatever you may be doing. This could be cooking for your family or studying for your theosophy degree. Or meditating for the Lord.
I heard this story from one of our friend's mother-in-law. It was very instructive! There were no names. No great people being quoted. I cannot be certain of the source of the story either.
See what you make of it. So... here goes.
Once upon a time, long, long ago there lived a very learned sage. He was well read and well versed. As his knowledge grew, so did his ego. Strange as it seemed, the sage grew increasingly proud of his knowledge and erudition.
One morning, he set out to beg for his meals. Upon reaching a household, he spake, resoundingly," Mai... bhiksham dehi! Oh Mother, give me alms, please!"
The lady was drying out the laundary. She left the clothes in the bucket and prayed," Please give me a minute, O Sage! I shall just be back." The sage waited. And waited. And waited. Then, he began to get irritated. "How can this woman leave me waiting? " He pumped up his own anger. "How dare she!?" His anger began to rise like the mercury in a thermometer on a hot summer day!
By the time the lady came out with the alms, he was livid. "O woman! Do you know who I am!? Let me show you." He looked at the bird sitting on a tree facing the house. The bird fell lifeless to the ground instantly.
The woman was saddened. And somewhat taken aback.
The sage thundered,"Woman, do you realise who I am? How powerful is my spiritual reach! How dare you make me wait! I can kill with one look!"
The lady replied very calmly, " Yes indeed! I can see who you are and what you can do. I went in to get you food. My toddler was crying. I do not know what is your spirituality, sir. But my love did not permit me to leave a toddler crying while you were waiting. I apologise." She quietly walked up to the fallen bird and tenderly picked it up. A tiny sound escaped the bird's frail frame. The sage was surprised.
And ashamed.
The little bird flapped its wings tentatively. The lady outstretched her hands and the tiny thing flew away!
Anger can kill. Spirituality does not.
Spirituality is much deeper and much more tolerant than the sage experienced despite his erudition!
Spirituality is in devotion, in sincerity, in love, in being in the moment- whatever you may be doing. This could be cooking for your family or studying for your theosophy degree. Or meditating for the Lord.
Story of the umbilicus aka Umbi
Who has paid much attention to this eternal friend of the humans? Umbi, we lovingly call him in our family, reflects our internal life stages quite faithfully.
Consider how he looks when a baby is just born. The little one is full of wonder at the world that greets it. It cries and laughs and eats and gets to explore everything around. Umbi is quite like eyes popping out of their socket at this time. Full of energy. Wanting to see and take in all the eyes can...
The child begins to grow and the sense of wonder imperceptibly becomes an acceptance of the world. It just is. Umbi begins to recede. He still peeps from within its socket. It is open but well encased. Now Umbi is alert but not necessarily gaping in fascination.
Then... further growth and further receession. Now the adolescent and preteen is more full of what they are and what they want to be or do rather than be interested in the world.Now Umbi is just about visible. Not really caring about anything and least bit interested in anything except itself. If you still look for him, you will find him there but he is not looking.
Adulthood sets in. Life takes over. Belly fat tries and often defeats belly button. Umbi is now safely burried but his socket still is toned and youthful. The smile begins to straighten and the crease begins to get defined... Life is no longer fun or funny. Care begins to take over.
Soon, the socket is completely taken over. Umbi has now to be carefully searched for. If you pull apart the two lips of the nonsmiling crease, behaving like a door that has a rather good closer, you will be able to find Umbi.
And then... Umbi begins to lose the battle of the Bulge. The crease becomes an inverted 'C', sad, sad Umbi. Care and daily grind make sure Umbi feels similarly.
Sometimes, in ill-health, Umbi peeps out or pops out to protest. Lo! You have an Umbilical Hernia. It seeks attention. It needs attention. Catch me now... or else...
If we are still mindless of the plight we ( and Umbi) are facing... We land up under the surgeon's knife on the surgeon's table!!!
Whoops!
WOW!!
Whoa!!!
Love you, Umbi!
Consider how he looks when a baby is just born. The little one is full of wonder at the world that greets it. It cries and laughs and eats and gets to explore everything around. Umbi is quite like eyes popping out of their socket at this time. Full of energy. Wanting to see and take in all the eyes can...
The child begins to grow and the sense of wonder imperceptibly becomes an acceptance of the world. It just is. Umbi begins to recede. He still peeps from within its socket. It is open but well encased. Now Umbi is alert but not necessarily gaping in fascination.
Then... further growth and further receession. Now the adolescent and preteen is more full of what they are and what they want to be or do rather than be interested in the world.Now Umbi is just about visible. Not really caring about anything and least bit interested in anything except itself. If you still look for him, you will find him there but he is not looking.
Adulthood sets in. Life takes over. Belly fat tries and often defeats belly button. Umbi is now safely burried but his socket still is toned and youthful. The smile begins to straighten and the crease begins to get defined... Life is no longer fun or funny. Care begins to take over.
Soon, the socket is completely taken over. Umbi has now to be carefully searched for. If you pull apart the two lips of the nonsmiling crease, behaving like a door that has a rather good closer, you will be able to find Umbi.
And then... Umbi begins to lose the battle of the Bulge. The crease becomes an inverted 'C', sad, sad Umbi. Care and daily grind make sure Umbi feels similarly.
Sometimes, in ill-health, Umbi peeps out or pops out to protest. Lo! You have an Umbilical Hernia. It seeks attention. It needs attention. Catch me now... or else...
If we are still mindless of the plight we ( and Umbi) are facing... We land up under the surgeon's knife on the surgeon's table!!!
Whoops!
WOW!!
Whoa!!!
Love you, Umbi!
What is religion?
Religion is any given system of belief in and worship of a God. Who is God? He... or She has been variously described as the all-knowing, the omnipresent, the superconsciousness, the Paramaatman etc.
Most religions accept that God created the universe and us. Most religions, however, 'worship' different Gods. They attribute the same powers to their Gods. They describe the same entity and define this entity into various identities.
The concept of religion, historically speaking, would have been to make a cohesive group that followed common rules and provided safety in numbers. Gradually, rituals and celebrations came into the picture as events that gave people a reason to congregate on these occassions.
So far... so good.
Man grew. He matured- if one could call it maturity. He was evolving. He graduated from the perilous living of being a hunter constantly under threat from his food to a gatherer who discovered safety of collecting his food from the trees that could not attack him. With this came more time at hand and more thinking. Then man moved further down the road learning to grow and cultivate, making life even safer and freeing up even more time to contemplate.
Religion began as a means to provide some rationality in an unfavourable world. It not only laid down the rules that the community had to follow, it also prescribed the punishment God would wreck on those who broke the Law. The safety thus established freed up even more time for culture and conmtemplation.
Till now, man was satisfied with his environment; he fed it with his toil and sweat, and was amply fed by the product of his effort. Somewhere down the road, he became dissatisfied with tilling his own soil. He found his neighbour's or his neighbour's neighbour's soil more attractive. Territorial wars began. He who won, also imposed his own religion and culture on the one who lost.
The concept of "My God, Your God" became a reality. The God was still the same- now came the war of ideas and ideals.
In all of his own history, man forgot the basic premise that had prompted him to create religion. Safety. Contemplation. Maturity, self realisation.
Those who choose to fight wars for their Gods- Is your God so weak that He needs you to defend Him? This might have been the revelation to a certain evolved soul in a taxi ride- but it is the harsh truth. If God is so powerful that he requires nothing, He also does not require to be defended.
Today, religion has become the flashpoint of Human existence. It has become the reason people are unsafe.
Why?
Most religions accept that God created the universe and us. Most religions, however, 'worship' different Gods. They attribute the same powers to their Gods. They describe the same entity and define this entity into various identities.
The concept of religion, historically speaking, would have been to make a cohesive group that followed common rules and provided safety in numbers. Gradually, rituals and celebrations came into the picture as events that gave people a reason to congregate on these occassions.
So far... so good.
Man grew. He matured- if one could call it maturity. He was evolving. He graduated from the perilous living of being a hunter constantly under threat from his food to a gatherer who discovered safety of collecting his food from the trees that could not attack him. With this came more time at hand and more thinking. Then man moved further down the road learning to grow and cultivate, making life even safer and freeing up even more time to contemplate.
Religion began as a means to provide some rationality in an unfavourable world. It not only laid down the rules that the community had to follow, it also prescribed the punishment God would wreck on those who broke the Law. The safety thus established freed up even more time for culture and conmtemplation.
Till now, man was satisfied with his environment; he fed it with his toil and sweat, and was amply fed by the product of his effort. Somewhere down the road, he became dissatisfied with tilling his own soil. He found his neighbour's or his neighbour's neighbour's soil more attractive. Territorial wars began. He who won, also imposed his own religion and culture on the one who lost.
The concept of "My God, Your God" became a reality. The God was still the same- now came the war of ideas and ideals.
In all of his own history, man forgot the basic premise that had prompted him to create religion. Safety. Contemplation. Maturity, self realisation.
Those who choose to fight wars for their Gods- Is your God so weak that He needs you to defend Him? This might have been the revelation to a certain evolved soul in a taxi ride- but it is the harsh truth. If God is so powerful that he requires nothing, He also does not require to be defended.
Today, religion has become the flashpoint of Human existence. It has become the reason people are unsafe.
Why?
Love touches us in several ways
Love creates its own path, has its own life and pulsates with its own life blood. Love does not warn before it invades your body, mind and soul. It does not respect any boundaries and barriers that may be erected to keep it out.
Love simply happens!
Love is not in reading treatises and texts on the subject. Love is in the look that conveys a life-time of togetherness. It is in the touch that electrifies even when innocent and accidental. It is what makes people do great things- reach beyond their percieved limits. Love is what makes a person give freely and recieve greedily. Love feels...... ummmmm....
Love is what makes a man and a woman want to grow old together. Love is what a mother feels when her son wears the graduation day headgear. Love is what makes a bride's father cry and smile simultaneously. Love is what makes a small child bring crumpled flowers in a tiny hand lest they fall and with a tight hug say," I love you, Mom!" Love is what makes a daughter hug you at night and whisper in your ear how much she would want to hold you when she sleeps. Love is also in the teddy bear that she finally holds close.
Love is in the eyes of the teacher who sees his student achieve heights; as also in the heart of the student who comes back to the guru each time he climbs another rung in life.
Love touches us in several ways...
Love is also in the loneliness one feels in the absence of the beloved. It is also in the sadness one feels in the loss of a beloved. Love is in staying together AND in fearing separation.
Love is not an easy feeling to feel or to sustain. It requires a lot of work, devotion and dedication. It requires not just living with but also not being able to live without.
Love is what brings a tear to your eye when you see your little one take the first gold medal. It is what makes your eyes sparkle when you recieve your beloved backe from a trip. It is what makes the world a breathing, pulsating, beautiful place to be in.
Love makes life worthwhile.
He drew a circle to keep me outEdwin Markham
heretic rebel, a thing to flout
but love and I had the wit to win-
We drew a circle that took him in!
Love simply happens!
Love is not in reading treatises and texts on the subject. Love is in the look that conveys a life-time of togetherness. It is in the touch that electrifies even when innocent and accidental. It is what makes people do great things- reach beyond their percieved limits. Love is what makes a person give freely and recieve greedily. Love feels...... ummmmm....
Love is what makes a man and a woman want to grow old together. Love is what a mother feels when her son wears the graduation day headgear. Love is what makes a bride's father cry and smile simultaneously. Love is what makes a small child bring crumpled flowers in a tiny hand lest they fall and with a tight hug say," I love you, Mom!" Love is what makes a daughter hug you at night and whisper in your ear how much she would want to hold you when she sleeps. Love is also in the teddy bear that she finally holds close.
Love is in the eyes of the teacher who sees his student achieve heights; as also in the heart of the student who comes back to the guru each time he climbs another rung in life.
Love touches us in several ways...
Love is also in the loneliness one feels in the absence of the beloved. It is also in the sadness one feels in the loss of a beloved. Love is in staying together AND in fearing separation.
Love is not an easy feeling to feel or to sustain. It requires a lot of work, devotion and dedication. It requires not just living with but also not being able to live without.
Love is what brings a tear to your eye when you see your little one take the first gold medal. It is what makes your eyes sparkle when you recieve your beloved backe from a trip. It is what makes the world a breathing, pulsating, beautiful place to be in.
Love makes life worthwhile.
Have you ever ridden through the rainbows?
Have you ever ridden through the rainbows? I have.
We were young and very much in love. I was wearing a traditional churidar suit- pastel green shirt and a baby pink churidar. He was wearing a checked shirt in maroon and purple with a pair of blue trousers. The bike that carried us on the road was a fiery red.
We were returning from the Delhi University when the drizzle began. The tiny drops fell on us and stung as if a thousand scorpions were awash in the rain. There was a strange mix of heady sting in the touch of the falling drops. The sun had yet to be completely drowned by the clouds. The ring road was washed a dark shade of all absorbing black by the rain water.The smell of the suddenly drenched and wet soil was intoxicating.
Several people had stopped under the fly-over to be safe and dry.
We, however, wanted the rain to wash all over us. Enjoying the cool breeze and the drizzle steadily becoming heavier into a downpour was giving us a definite high. We were both smiling into the sky... speaking... listening... soaking up the clean atmosphere.
Then, we simultaneously saw the rainbow. The seven colours were stretched across the sky reaching like a bridge across the road from here to eternity.It was asurreal scene. The light was just bright enough for the raionbow to form and yet dull enough to give a shaded grey look to the road and the people on it.The people, then simply disappeared. They were not a part of our consciousness. It was as if we were in a movie and the camera had lost all depth of focus while zooming in on the two of us on the red bike.
The banking road seemed to invite us to ride right right through the rainbow and into eternity. Was it just an optical illusion? Just some mirage that would disappear as soon as we approached it or was it a magical moment that would make us experience the divine?
When two people are in love- EVERYTHING takes on magical powers. We slowed down going through the rainbow- a perfect arch of beautiful colours. It did not disappear. The thrill gave us fresh shivers. A strange electricity ran up our spines and engulfed us both as well as the bike in magic.
It was a picture perfect moment but could not be caught on film.
Life throws up experiences that force us to slow down and think of the NOW. These moments are fleeting in nature and will simply disappear lest we hold them in our hands and consciously experience eternity through them.
Yes... I have ridden through a rainbow.
Yes... the rainbows are an expression of divinity in the mundane.
And... Yes... I AM a diehard romantic who still loves to look for rainbows- simply to ride through them!
We were young and very much in love. I was wearing a traditional churidar suit- pastel green shirt and a baby pink churidar. He was wearing a checked shirt in maroon and purple with a pair of blue trousers. The bike that carried us on the road was a fiery red.
We were returning from the Delhi University when the drizzle began. The tiny drops fell on us and stung as if a thousand scorpions were awash in the rain. There was a strange mix of heady sting in the touch of the falling drops. The sun had yet to be completely drowned by the clouds. The ring road was washed a dark shade of all absorbing black by the rain water.The smell of the suddenly drenched and wet soil was intoxicating.
Several people had stopped under the fly-over to be safe and dry.
We, however, wanted the rain to wash all over us. Enjoying the cool breeze and the drizzle steadily becoming heavier into a downpour was giving us a definite high. We were both smiling into the sky... speaking... listening... soaking up the clean atmosphere.
Then, we simultaneously saw the rainbow. The seven colours were stretched across the sky reaching like a bridge across the road from here to eternity.It was asurreal scene. The light was just bright enough for the raionbow to form and yet dull enough to give a shaded grey look to the road and the people on it.The people, then simply disappeared. They were not a part of our consciousness. It was as if we were in a movie and the camera had lost all depth of focus while zooming in on the two of us on the red bike.
The banking road seemed to invite us to ride right right through the rainbow and into eternity. Was it just an optical illusion? Just some mirage that would disappear as soon as we approached it or was it a magical moment that would make us experience the divine?
When two people are in love- EVERYTHING takes on magical powers. We slowed down going through the rainbow- a perfect arch of beautiful colours. It did not disappear. The thrill gave us fresh shivers. A strange electricity ran up our spines and engulfed us both as well as the bike in magic.
It was a picture perfect moment but could not be caught on film.
Life throws up experiences that force us to slow down and think of the NOW. These moments are fleeting in nature and will simply disappear lest we hold them in our hands and consciously experience eternity through them.
Yes... I have ridden through a rainbow.
Yes... the rainbows are an expression of divinity in the mundane.
And... Yes... I AM a diehard romantic who still loves to look for rainbows- simply to ride through them!
I also remember the day when...
It was a hot and stuffy day in September. I had just started Medical school.It was four in the evening. With another friend in tow, I was rushing to catch the bus back home. We had assiduously avoided the group of 'Seniors' sitting on the Dean's Carpet- the oval lawn that marked the facade of MAMC.We were still 'facchas- freshers' and extremely suitable ragging material. We were keen to get out safely.
Just as we were stepping out of the college gate, we were called by the seniors we had been trying to avoid. Two 'boys', we later discovered, who were from the Final year. One lad was dark and a little stout. The other was somewhat fairer and very thin. Quite like Little Tommy Thin and Little Tommy Stout of the Nursery rhyme.
We, the 'freshers' did not know any names... So for the sake of description, we could label them X and Y.
A gruelling session began right there on the lawns. X ( Tommy Stout), roughly asks," Fresher, What is you name?" I am supposed to answer EACH question with a 'Sir' as the punctuation mark. "N, Sir".
X asks again," What are your interests?" " Reading, writing, singinig... " I start the usual litany and finish with a rather dry 'Sir'.
X is visibly displeased. Y is gently smiling, sitting on the grass with his legs spread out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, there is a strange sense of abandon and yet being reined in...legs reaching out... and yet pulled back in being crossed... I steal a glance. There is something very attractive about Y! I am a fresher! A senior who is ragging me- attractive? I must be nuts!
X barks," Fresher!" "Sir", I reply. "You do not seem to like the conversation we are having."
I do not know to this day what had come over me at that moment. I replied with complete confidence," As a matter of fact, I am not."
For a few seconds, there was utter silence. The air was thick with tension. X let the other girl go and asked me with over-emphasised politeness," And what, madam, is the manner in which you would like this conversation to go?" Again in a flash of rebellion or was it simply stating the first thing that came to my head, I replied, " I do not like the way in which you are talking. You are being rude and rough." Now I had stepped on a porcupine! " And what may be the right manner in which to address your Excellency?" the sarcasm was obvious.
I answered with simplicity that defied the complexity of the moment- "Like Y. He is smiling. He is relaxed. He is not being unpleasant".
Thereafter, when we became from four to two, I do not quite remember. I do remember being carted to the college cafe for a snack and coffee. I do remember being escorted to the bus stop. I do remember the chance and the not so chance meetings that kept happeneing thereafter. I also remember the discussions on Pride and Prejudice among other things. I remember being wished on my birthday in a very unusual manner. For someone who had simply ragged me, Y was becoming quite a part of my life.
I liked it. And yet I was afraid. I loved being with him and yet did not. What was the confusion? HE helped me choose the right books for the curriculum and the right instruments for the dissection hall. He was always there when I needed him and even when I did not know I needed him.
I also remember the first public phone call that he helped me make! I did not know when the coin needed to be dropped in and how it went in... in fact where did the coin go?
Gradually we became friends and shared pain and pleasure. We supported each other through our exam stress or our heartbreaks. We simply appeared out of thin air for each other whenever we needed to be with someone.
We talked and we discussed things as diverse as the meaning of life as well as the wonder of medical science. We would not realise where the time went... it just went by too fast.
Then we fought. Bitter and hard. We did not talk with each other for weeks together. And then we did. It was like riding a rollercoaster.
Finally, he got engaged.
I was stunned.
You never miss a real good thing untill it is gone...
All I wanted was a chance to say to him that he mattered. In life, however, there are no rewinds or restarts. No undo buttons. For the first time in my life I acknowledged to myself, THIS IS LOVE. MY FIRST LOVE. And I had lost it! I was doomed to lifelong heartache. Or would I get over it?
Then... studying in the library... he came to meet me...
I could not stop myself. I knew this was wrong. But if today I did not say it, I would never be able to say it to anyone with any degree of truth in my heart or my soul. " Could you not wait?" The pain was plain to see. I saw it his eyes. He turned and drove away into the horizon. I did not hope to see him ever again.
And... then... something else happened... he came back...
A lot happened thereafter... but today Y and I are man and wife. He is my fisrt and only love. I still am crazy about him. He still holds the same magic for me. We may not sit through the night like we once could and simply talk... but we are together and madly in love after more than twenty years of being together!
True love beats all odds.
True love is.
Just as we were stepping out of the college gate, we were called by the seniors we had been trying to avoid. Two 'boys', we later discovered, who were from the Final year. One lad was dark and a little stout. The other was somewhat fairer and very thin. Quite like Little Tommy Thin and Little Tommy Stout of the Nursery rhyme.
We, the 'freshers' did not know any names... So for the sake of description, we could label them X and Y.
A gruelling session began right there on the lawns. X ( Tommy Stout), roughly asks," Fresher, What is you name?" I am supposed to answer EACH question with a 'Sir' as the punctuation mark. "N, Sir".
X asks again," What are your interests?" " Reading, writing, singinig... " I start the usual litany and finish with a rather dry 'Sir'.
X is visibly displeased. Y is gently smiling, sitting on the grass with his legs spread out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, there is a strange sense of abandon and yet being reined in...legs reaching out... and yet pulled back in being crossed... I steal a glance. There is something very attractive about Y! I am a fresher! A senior who is ragging me- attractive? I must be nuts!
X barks," Fresher!" "Sir", I reply. "You do not seem to like the conversation we are having."
I do not know to this day what had come over me at that moment. I replied with complete confidence," As a matter of fact, I am not."
For a few seconds, there was utter silence. The air was thick with tension. X let the other girl go and asked me with over-emphasised politeness," And what, madam, is the manner in which you would like this conversation to go?" Again in a flash of rebellion or was it simply stating the first thing that came to my head, I replied, " I do not like the way in which you are talking. You are being rude and rough." Now I had stepped on a porcupine! " And what may be the right manner in which to address your Excellency?" the sarcasm was obvious.
I answered with simplicity that defied the complexity of the moment- "Like Y. He is smiling. He is relaxed. He is not being unpleasant".
Thereafter, when we became from four to two, I do not quite remember. I do remember being carted to the college cafe for a snack and coffee. I do remember being escorted to the bus stop. I do remember the chance and the not so chance meetings that kept happeneing thereafter. I also remember the discussions on Pride and Prejudice among other things. I remember being wished on my birthday in a very unusual manner. For someone who had simply ragged me, Y was becoming quite a part of my life.
I liked it. And yet I was afraid. I loved being with him and yet did not. What was the confusion? HE helped me choose the right books for the curriculum and the right instruments for the dissection hall. He was always there when I needed him and even when I did not know I needed him.
I also remember the first public phone call that he helped me make! I did not know when the coin needed to be dropped in and how it went in... in fact where did the coin go?
Gradually we became friends and shared pain and pleasure. We supported each other through our exam stress or our heartbreaks. We simply appeared out of thin air for each other whenever we needed to be with someone.
We talked and we discussed things as diverse as the meaning of life as well as the wonder of medical science. We would not realise where the time went... it just went by too fast.
Then we fought. Bitter and hard. We did not talk with each other for weeks together. And then we did. It was like riding a rollercoaster.
Finally, he got engaged.
I was stunned.
You never miss a real good thing untill it is gone...
All I wanted was a chance to say to him that he mattered. In life, however, there are no rewinds or restarts. No undo buttons. For the first time in my life I acknowledged to myself, THIS IS LOVE. MY FIRST LOVE. And I had lost it! I was doomed to lifelong heartache. Or would I get over it?
Then... studying in the library... he came to meet me...
I could not stop myself. I knew this was wrong. But if today I did not say it, I would never be able to say it to anyone with any degree of truth in my heart or my soul. " Could you not wait?" The pain was plain to see. I saw it his eyes. He turned and drove away into the horizon. I did not hope to see him ever again.
And... then... something else happened... he came back...
A lot happened thereafter... but today Y and I are man and wife. He is my fisrt and only love. I still am crazy about him. He still holds the same magic for me. We may not sit through the night like we once could and simply talk... but we are together and madly in love after more than twenty years of being together!
True love beats all odds.
True love is.
I still remember the day.
I still remember the day I first stood on stage a mere three foot something, a child of 5 in the first grade. The day was bright and the morning assembly was an 'as-usual' affair. I was well prepared.
My lines were a quotation that could make sense to a group of students from first through to twelfth grade. ... "then blow it east or blow it west... the wind that blows, that wind is best..."
I walked tentatively to the front of the stage. The mike was too high for me. I tried to reach for it on tip toes but could not. Mr Chhaya, our school principal saw me and smiled. He was later to remark that he had never in his entire career seen a child so young walk up to the mike. He took two giant steps and was by my side lowering the mike. It was a typical old-time mike of the sixties and the seventies- a rounded cylinder with horizontal grooves and fitted on a stand that could be adjusted.
I spoke my lines. No forgotten words. No stumbling.
Suddenly the silent school assembly was thrown into a tumultous applause. Everywhere I looked, I saw smiles and glow. The feeling was heady. Just a few moments ago I had been 'reassured' it was not difficult to speak. The Senior prefects conducting the school assembly were doubtful that the chit of a girl standing in front of them could have done what she had.
The rest, as they say, is history...
I spoke in every declaimation- Intra or Inter school. I debated in each category- For or against. I participated in the poetry recitations and the speech makings.And I loved each moment of it.
In those days- butterflies were only those pretty flitting creatures that loved flowers. They had nothing to do with a strange funny feeling in the pit of my stomach.
It was my father who taught me the most. He taught me that books ARE a (wo)man's best friend. He taught me that I CAN. Even if no one had done it before if I could think it, I could do it. He taught me never to let anyone tell me what I could not do. He led by example. To this day, I wonder what he found in our 'kiddie' weekly or monthly books. He would 'steal' the books as they were delivered to our doorstep by the newspaper vendor and playfully declare," Finders... Keepers...! I get to read it first because I got it first!" He would take these to work in his brief-case and strangely would allow us to raid his brief-case on his return from work in order to find these invitingly lying on top of all his papers! Was it really a co-incidence?!
My father made it possible for me to set standards for myself that very few had dreamed of in those days. My parents were among those rare few who got to see test-papers ACTUALLY marked 15 out of ten... five extra awarded for neatness and clarity of concepts.
I still remember that first day that set the tone of the days to come. I still remember how my mother waited and asked me first thing as I got off the school bus- How was the assembly. I remember waiting for Dad to come home to jump UP to his height and tell him ,"I did it!" ( Those were the days without cell phones!)
I remember the hug, the crushingly intense bear hug my dad gave me after having picked me up to his height- pleased and proud, happy and confident.
I rememeber a lot more...
Thank you, Dad!
I love you!
My lines were a quotation that could make sense to a group of students from first through to twelfth grade. ... "then blow it east or blow it west... the wind that blows, that wind is best..."
I walked tentatively to the front of the stage. The mike was too high for me. I tried to reach for it on tip toes but could not. Mr Chhaya, our school principal saw me and smiled. He was later to remark that he had never in his entire career seen a child so young walk up to the mike. He took two giant steps and was by my side lowering the mike. It was a typical old-time mike of the sixties and the seventies- a rounded cylinder with horizontal grooves and fitted on a stand that could be adjusted.
I spoke my lines. No forgotten words. No stumbling.
Suddenly the silent school assembly was thrown into a tumultous applause. Everywhere I looked, I saw smiles and glow. The feeling was heady. Just a few moments ago I had been 'reassured' it was not difficult to speak. The Senior prefects conducting the school assembly were doubtful that the chit of a girl standing in front of them could have done what she had.
The rest, as they say, is history...
I spoke in every declaimation- Intra or Inter school. I debated in each category- For or against. I participated in the poetry recitations and the speech makings.And I loved each moment of it.
In those days- butterflies were only those pretty flitting creatures that loved flowers. They had nothing to do with a strange funny feeling in the pit of my stomach.
It was my father who taught me the most. He taught me that books ARE a (wo)man's best friend. He taught me that I CAN. Even if no one had done it before if I could think it, I could do it. He taught me never to let anyone tell me what I could not do. He led by example. To this day, I wonder what he found in our 'kiddie' weekly or monthly books. He would 'steal' the books as they were delivered to our doorstep by the newspaper vendor and playfully declare," Finders... Keepers...! I get to read it first because I got it first!" He would take these to work in his brief-case and strangely would allow us to raid his brief-case on his return from work in order to find these invitingly lying on top of all his papers! Was it really a co-incidence?!
My father made it possible for me to set standards for myself that very few had dreamed of in those days. My parents were among those rare few who got to see test-papers ACTUALLY marked 15 out of ten... five extra awarded for neatness and clarity of concepts.
I still remember that first day that set the tone of the days to come. I still remember how my mother waited and asked me first thing as I got off the school bus- How was the assembly. I remember waiting for Dad to come home to jump UP to his height and tell him ,"I did it!" ( Those were the days without cell phones!)
I remember the hug, the crushingly intense bear hug my dad gave me after having picked me up to his height- pleased and proud, happy and confident.
I rememeber a lot more...
Thank you, Dad!
I love you!
The teacher... and the taught
There are, as my Tai chi teacher rightly said, three types of difficult to teach students:
1. Those who are like inverted containers
2. Those who are like containers with a hole
3. Those who are like filled containers
My teacher was trying to explain to me the difficulties that a teacher encounters in teaching if the student is non-receptive.
Any amount of instruction will simply slide off the sides of an inverted container. Nothing can go in!
Any amount of instruction will leaak out of a container with a hole. Nothing will stay in!
Any amount of instruction will not be accepted by a filled container. There is no space for anything!
The blame for failed learning falls on the shoulders of the student. It never really is questioned that the student may infact, be the unfortunate one, having not met the right teacher! Such is the respect for and importance of the teacher in our culture that it is assumed that any failure is that of the student.
My college professor used to feel quite the opposite. Prof. Vishwakarma, my teacher of ENT, often said that the student comes to a teacher for a limited time. In this case only three years. The teacher, on the other hand has vast experience, often as much as thirty years. If a teacher who is so experienced is not able to impart the knowledge to a student in the limited time available, it is the fault of the teacher. That teacher needs to be failed in the assessment not the student!
These are two very opposite views that are instructional in how a teacher can approach a class to be taught. There are spirit whisperers who treat each available opportunity to talk to teh spirit of the learner. They do not point out mistakes. They point out learning opportunities. They do not inculcate fear. They encourage adventure.
Coming back to the topic of difficult to teach students, however, I submitted that there is yet another class of difficult to teach students. These are the ones who want to learn and seek more with each teaching. These students are very difficult to teach.
They, infact, bring out the best in a teacher. It is in teaching these students that the teacher has to delve deep inside his own soul and knowledge and try to impart all that he knows. These students may end up improving the teacher, too! We all teach best what we need to learn the most ourselves. In teaching something well, our own understanding of the taught matter rises to the next level.
One has to ask Who is a teacher? And who is the taught? What is the lesson? and what is learnt? How does a teacher assess a student and how does a student relate to the teacher? All these are extremely important in determining the outcome of this relationship.
There are far too many teachers who teach with the central idea of trying to find out what a student DOES NOT know. They do not stop here. These teachers then go to great lengths to prove just how much a child does not know!
There are a few teachers who set out to show- not teach just how much the student already knows.There is a famous old Indian saying. Learning is a matter of REdiscovery. We only have to realise what we already know. All knowledge is a common pool- we only have to have the courage and the strength to dip in.
While it takes a good and recieving student to learn a lesson well, it is equally important for the teacher to be able to tap into the spirit of the student and teach what is needed for a particular soul. Tai chi or any other practice is a matter of the soul and is only a physical manifestation of a much deeper drive. It is the responsibility, nay- duty of the teacher to be able to impart enough love and dedication for a student to start on a voyage of self discovery.
Sometimes this may require the teacher to instill a certain degree of desire and discipline in the student. It may require the student to be patient or even impatient in his learning. Each soul has its own destiny and each interaction, each action can either take us closer to self realisation or farther away.
A good teacher helps a student realise his own destiny.
In short, important as it is for a student to have a proper perspective to be able to learn, the true teacher is the one who is able to surmount even that barrier and is able to instruct despite a lack of 'proper perspective'.
1. Those who are like inverted containers
2. Those who are like containers with a hole
3. Those who are like filled containers
My teacher was trying to explain to me the difficulties that a teacher encounters in teaching if the student is non-receptive.
Any amount of instruction will simply slide off the sides of an inverted container. Nothing can go in!
Any amount of instruction will leaak out of a container with a hole. Nothing will stay in!
Any amount of instruction will not be accepted by a filled container. There is no space for anything!
The blame for failed learning falls on the shoulders of the student. It never really is questioned that the student may infact, be the unfortunate one, having not met the right teacher! Such is the respect for and importance of the teacher in our culture that it is assumed that any failure is that of the student.
My college professor used to feel quite the opposite. Prof. Vishwakarma, my teacher of ENT, often said that the student comes to a teacher for a limited time. In this case only three years. The teacher, on the other hand has vast experience, often as much as thirty years. If a teacher who is so experienced is not able to impart the knowledge to a student in the limited time available, it is the fault of the teacher. That teacher needs to be failed in the assessment not the student!
These are two very opposite views that are instructional in how a teacher can approach a class to be taught. There are spirit whisperers who treat each available opportunity to talk to teh spirit of the learner. They do not point out mistakes. They point out learning opportunities. They do not inculcate fear. They encourage adventure.
Coming back to the topic of difficult to teach students, however, I submitted that there is yet another class of difficult to teach students. These are the ones who want to learn and seek more with each teaching. These students are very difficult to teach.
They, infact, bring out the best in a teacher. It is in teaching these students that the teacher has to delve deep inside his own soul and knowledge and try to impart all that he knows. These students may end up improving the teacher, too! We all teach best what we need to learn the most ourselves. In teaching something well, our own understanding of the taught matter rises to the next level.
One has to ask Who is a teacher? And who is the taught? What is the lesson? and what is learnt? How does a teacher assess a student and how does a student relate to the teacher? All these are extremely important in determining the outcome of this relationship.
There are far too many teachers who teach with the central idea of trying to find out what a student DOES NOT know. They do not stop here. These teachers then go to great lengths to prove just how much a child does not know!
There are a few teachers who set out to show- not teach just how much the student already knows.There is a famous old Indian saying. Learning is a matter of REdiscovery. We only have to realise what we already know. All knowledge is a common pool- we only have to have the courage and the strength to dip in.
While it takes a good and recieving student to learn a lesson well, it is equally important for the teacher to be able to tap into the spirit of the student and teach what is needed for a particular soul. Tai chi or any other practice is a matter of the soul and is only a physical manifestation of a much deeper drive. It is the responsibility, nay- duty of the teacher to be able to impart enough love and dedication for a student to start on a voyage of self discovery.
Sometimes this may require the teacher to instill a certain degree of desire and discipline in the student. It may require the student to be patient or even impatient in his learning. Each soul has its own destiny and each interaction, each action can either take us closer to self realisation or farther away.
A good teacher helps a student realise his own destiny.
In short, important as it is for a student to have a proper perspective to be able to learn, the true teacher is the one who is able to surmount even that barrier and is able to instruct despite a lack of 'proper perspective'.
I'm 10... going on 20!
“I wake up everyday at six, have a glass of milk on the run and am off to my destination! I usually do not get a shut eye during the day and finally am ready to sleep off by around eleven at night. My day is packed with back to back things to do. I love living life this way!” This is not a twenty or a thirty year old describing a typical day in their life! This is my daughter. She is ten. She firmly believes,” There are two kinds of people in this world- one who go about their entire life only doing one kind of thing. And the other who fill one life with entire spectrum of things to do.” She pauses dramatically for effect. “I am the second type,” she proudly finishes.
For a ten year old, she knows her mind quite well. She is a classical dancer- Odissi, a classical singer and musician in the Indian classical tradition, a karate Black belt from a Japanese tradition and is learning fast mental mathematics the Chinese way! She does not want to drop any activity- she loves them all! On a typical day she needs to be woken up in the morning to get ready for school. She loves school, too! She always has! Last two years she has been the only student in her class to have been accorded the attendance trophy for hundred percent attendance!
She is a teacher’s pet. She is her mother’s darling and she is a cute little mother herself to her three year old brother! Is she deprived of childhood and innocence? Not in the least! She speaks the love languages like all children her age and she speaks them well. She loves to receive little tiny presents that she treasures and she loves a back massage when she is going off to sleep. She loves her brother and dotes on her mother. She depends on her father and maintains “Pa is the fixer who can fix anything!”
I wonder what I did to deserve such an angel for a daughter?! She makes me proud and keeps me happy!
She is not, however, always this good. She irritates me, too! And I am ashamed to say, I fall into the trap of losing my cool and getting angry with her! When I do get angry with her, I do so out of utter helplessness and complete frustration! She would not do a certain subject in school (Hindi) because she does not like it! She knows she does not like it. She knows she does not want to do it. I feel exasperated as a parent that she should, nay must! Is it because I feel put on the spot when her teachers ask me whether I am giving her time? Should she perform for herself? Or for me?
An American pediatrician has even written a book “Allow your children to fail if you want them to succeed” We are bringing up a generation that achieves phenomenal success early in life, gets heady on their laurels and has not tasted defeat and agony of failure. They crumble when confronted with blood in their mouth. They cannot accept anything but the best! Or so this expert would have us believe. My daughter has won enough Gold medals in her Karate tournaments to know the heady feeling that comes with winning. She has also won occasional silver, a bronze or no medal at all to have experienced the pain of defeat. She is being groomed well by well meaning instructors and she is lucky for that. She still would answer to the question, “Who is your best friend?” with a prompt, “My mother”. She even wrote an essay in her school assignment extolling the virtues and adoration that her mother (moi!) personifies. I am lucky for that!
I am not bringing up my daughter according to manuals that experts write. I am trying my best to be an example for her to follow. I am giving her enough freedom to explore activities she could pursue as a hobby to rejuvenate later in life and yet, exerting enough control or influence to draw the line where I need to. That I am well educated and a doctor helps. I command enough respect alongside the love from my children to be heard. Sometimes I may have to scream to be heard… but that’s ok too!
I am bringing my daughter up to be a responsible, empathetic and passionate person. I am doing it by instinct. I have read my share of books to understand today’s children and what the experts think about current parenting philosophies. I have come to the conclusion these books only put in words what parents like me everywhere in the world are already doing in loving and growth oriented families.
Sometimes it is not easy. It takes its emotional and physical toll, both on the parent and the child. In the end, however, if the parent and the child are happy and feel loved- that would be good parenting.
Often, we notice only the negatives. We may not even notice the good things and get quite involved in corrective action. Sad as this preoccupation with remedial action is- it is a habit very easy to break! At the end of each day, especially at the end of a demanding and challenging day, sit down for five minutes. Just five minutes. Think. Write if you want to. Thank god for your child and the unconditional love and acceptance you have there! Would you feel as frustrated with an office mate? Would you scream at a colleague? And if you did, would that person ever talk to you again? Children do.
Maintain a journal. Write one good thing to smile at every day for each child. It could be the good health. It could even be the smile and the hug you got when you came home after work! Could anything else have perked you up quite as effectively? Do you remember the little crumpled flower in small hands and the smile with which your child says, “Happy Mother’s Day” on an ordinary day made extra special?
Parenting is best done by instinct and with love… not by manuals written by proclaimed or self proclaimed experts. It is important not just to love but also to be felt to be loving. Home is a place where if you have nowhere else to go, they have to take you in! And parent is the source of that confidence. Be a proud parent. Be a loving parent.
For a ten year old, she knows her mind quite well. She is a classical dancer- Odissi, a classical singer and musician in the Indian classical tradition, a karate Black belt from a Japanese tradition and is learning fast mental mathematics the Chinese way! She does not want to drop any activity- she loves them all! On a typical day she needs to be woken up in the morning to get ready for school. She loves school, too! She always has! Last two years she has been the only student in her class to have been accorded the attendance trophy for hundred percent attendance!
She is a teacher’s pet. She is her mother’s darling and she is a cute little mother herself to her three year old brother! Is she deprived of childhood and innocence? Not in the least! She speaks the love languages like all children her age and she speaks them well. She loves to receive little tiny presents that she treasures and she loves a back massage when she is going off to sleep. She loves her brother and dotes on her mother. She depends on her father and maintains “Pa is the fixer who can fix anything!”
I wonder what I did to deserve such an angel for a daughter?! She makes me proud and keeps me happy!
She is not, however, always this good. She irritates me, too! And I am ashamed to say, I fall into the trap of losing my cool and getting angry with her! When I do get angry with her, I do so out of utter helplessness and complete frustration! She would not do a certain subject in school (Hindi) because she does not like it! She knows she does not like it. She knows she does not want to do it. I feel exasperated as a parent that she should, nay must! Is it because I feel put on the spot when her teachers ask me whether I am giving her time? Should she perform for herself? Or for me?
An American pediatrician has even written a book “Allow your children to fail if you want them to succeed” We are bringing up a generation that achieves phenomenal success early in life, gets heady on their laurels and has not tasted defeat and agony of failure. They crumble when confronted with blood in their mouth. They cannot accept anything but the best! Or so this expert would have us believe. My daughter has won enough Gold medals in her Karate tournaments to know the heady feeling that comes with winning. She has also won occasional silver, a bronze or no medal at all to have experienced the pain of defeat. She is being groomed well by well meaning instructors and she is lucky for that. She still would answer to the question, “Who is your best friend?” with a prompt, “My mother”. She even wrote an essay in her school assignment extolling the virtues and adoration that her mother (moi!) personifies. I am lucky for that!
I am not bringing up my daughter according to manuals that experts write. I am trying my best to be an example for her to follow. I am giving her enough freedom to explore activities she could pursue as a hobby to rejuvenate later in life and yet, exerting enough control or influence to draw the line where I need to. That I am well educated and a doctor helps. I command enough respect alongside the love from my children to be heard. Sometimes I may have to scream to be heard… but that’s ok too!
I am bringing my daughter up to be a responsible, empathetic and passionate person. I am doing it by instinct. I have read my share of books to understand today’s children and what the experts think about current parenting philosophies. I have come to the conclusion these books only put in words what parents like me everywhere in the world are already doing in loving and growth oriented families.
Sometimes it is not easy. It takes its emotional and physical toll, both on the parent and the child. In the end, however, if the parent and the child are happy and feel loved- that would be good parenting.
Often, we notice only the negatives. We may not even notice the good things and get quite involved in corrective action. Sad as this preoccupation with remedial action is- it is a habit very easy to break! At the end of each day, especially at the end of a demanding and challenging day, sit down for five minutes. Just five minutes. Think. Write if you want to. Thank god for your child and the unconditional love and acceptance you have there! Would you feel as frustrated with an office mate? Would you scream at a colleague? And if you did, would that person ever talk to you again? Children do.
Maintain a journal. Write one good thing to smile at every day for each child. It could be the good health. It could even be the smile and the hug you got when you came home after work! Could anything else have perked you up quite as effectively? Do you remember the little crumpled flower in small hands and the smile with which your child says, “Happy Mother’s Day” on an ordinary day made extra special?
Parenting is best done by instinct and with love… not by manuals written by proclaimed or self proclaimed experts. It is important not just to love but also to be felt to be loving. Home is a place where if you have nowhere else to go, they have to take you in! And parent is the source of that confidence. Be a proud parent. Be a loving parent.
Till death did them part...
Till death do us part…
“Why are women dissatisfied” scream headlines of a newspaper read everyday in thousands of homes! There are quotes from studies in the UK and the USA, which go on to explain that love is no longer a feeling to be cherished. Women are earning and contributing equally to their households, and expectations from their relationships are necessarily determined by these new-found freedoms- freedom to work, freedom to earn and freedom to express. Little do these studies address the issue of love as a feeling that keeps the companions satisfied with two morsels of food or warm in one less garment. These studies focus even less on the warmth of family homes and clans that India revered just a few decades ago.
Love is not a feeling to be ‘expected’ and demanded. It is a feeling to be lived and experienced. I am convinced my grandparents’ saga is not unique but it bears telling in these days of selfish self-centred demanding mates!
9 th of March, 1987… it has been more than two decades ago… but the scene is still as if a movie is playing on a screen and I am watching it- my grandmother’s head in my grandfather’s lap with death, peace and love so thick in the air one could touch the curtain and feel the cold and the warmth of the fibre.
My grandmother was a woman of the royal family of Kapurthala in Punjab, married to an ordinary college professor of Lahore, then in India. The story starts long ago in early nineteen hundreds. My grandfather was born in a rich merchant family with acres of orchards and uncountable money. However, soon after his birth, his mother caught an illness they could do nothing about. The times were not good and all the money could not save my grandfather’s mother. This was, perhaps the unconscious memory that made money the least important thing in his life. Gyan Chand Soni. Literally translated, his name stood for the gentle light of knowledge. It is said in the Hindu scriptures that the two sisters, Saraswati- the goddess of Knowledge and Laxmi, the goddess of Wealth do not stay together under the safe roof! The early events of his life dictated a very strong personality and an almost pathological disregard for money.
His father contracted tuberculosis when he was about to start college. Shunned by the elder brothers, he was left alone to look after his ailing father and even had to physically carry him to the hospital on certain days. Unable to tolerate the misery his father was in, he decided to study to become a doctor- a decision that would take him overseas to some great institution of learning in the British Empire. Fate, however, intervened again! Mahatama Gandhi launched the Swadeshi Movement and my grandfather gave up his plans to study Medicine in UK and took up an ordinary teacher’s job in the FC College.
It gave him enough to run his family and the shared income of the orchards was adequate to tide over occasional hardships. It was in these climes that he was introduced to the Princess of Kapurthala – Janak, my grandmother.
They got married in early nineteen twenties- she a young girl of seventeen or eighteen and he, nearly ten years older at twenty seven. Not a penny in dowry did this self-respecting man accept. The first set of plates and the spoons to go with these… the first set of cups and saucers. The beddings and the pillows, the clothes for themselves- everything was built with love and care.
Janak soon conceived. Their first- born was a daughter- frail in body and not very resilient, this child soon succumbed to nature’s forces. The couple was shattered. They had taken on the responsibility of not only looking after my grandfather’s foster mother but also the ailing father. The pain mellowed a bit but never really went away completely. They soon conceived another child- again a girl. My grandmother looked after this child and guarded her like a tigress. This girl grew up into a brilliant lady- elegant and the first one to live the destiny my grandfather had rejected decades ago- she became a doctor from the Lady Hardinge Medical College in Delhi and went on to do her specialization from UK earning for herself the FRCS. There were others- three sons and one more daughter.
The children used to come to Kapurthala each vacation from Lahore and my grandmother used to spend some time in the royal palaces being pampered and looked after. My grandfather would often finish the college work and at the onset of the vacations join her in Kapurthala for a couple of weeks. In the summer of 1947, with seven children in tow- the youngest, my father being just seven, my grandmother came to Kapurthala again. This once she was apprehensive. She did not want to leave Lahore without her husband.
The situation was tense and the debate on Indo- Pak division was hot. The politicians were playing a dirty and dangerous game. My grandfather forbade my grandmother from coming back to Lahore and promised her he would join them soon. She spent days in agonizing wait and anxiety- all the money, the jewellery, the utensils and the clothes would be lost. How would they start their life again? Could they? As a self-fulfilling prophesy, people started dying- beheaded bodies started arriving in trainfulls. The blood and the hatred were unbearable. The anger was like a volcano- killing everything that came in its way. My grandmother only wanted her husband to join them safely- no material possessions were important. She moved towards Delhi as he had ordered. He joined them. The homecoming was momentous. The government gave the ‘refugees’ land to rebuild their homes and lives. My grandfather joined the Hindu College as a professor of physics and physical education- a strange combination even in those days! Life started again- from scratch. Twigs to rebuild their nest… rags to rebuild their riches. They were a resilient couple, as were a lot of other ‘refugees’. All children used to visit my home all summer vacations. My Grandmother was the grand Matriarch- Seth (A rich woman) and my grand father was always (Soni- his last name).
She sat as regally as a queen would with both her feet firmly on earth and head held high in total confidence of her power. She talked as clearly as a queen would with every word and every sentence telling a saga of a life of devotion to her clan.
Soon, however, the ravages of time and age began to take their toll on her fragile frame. Her diabetes was going out of control and had started affecting her kidneys and her heart. Her high blood- pressure was dealing a double whammy to her already failing systems. As an 11 year old, I had to accompany her to the hospital to decide whether she would be put on Dialysis. I remember her words- “I will not lie down with tubes and needles. No dialysis. I want to die with dignity at home”. Such was her strength and resolve that none could oppose her.
She started behaving somewhat awkwardly- spitting in the sitting room and eating at inappropriate times. My grandfather rallied all his strength to look after her. The rising blood urea was entering her brain and making her delirious. Her clothes started hanging on the skeleton she had become. She was now just skin and bones. It was heartbreaking to see this pillar of our household crumbling. Sometimes, it was embarrassing, too. We could not get through to her- she would not understand. When we felt angry she would shrink as if we had hit her physically. How could a strong willed woman crumble so?
However, on the ninth of March, 1987, she became suddenly lucid. It was half past ten at night. Her entire family had gathered for the inevitable. She was sinking- unable to maintain blood pressure and heart beat. Her brain was clear for the first time in two years! She called her husband and told him,” Soni, I am going… I want you to hold my hand” Even as I write these words, I find my hair standing on ends- a strange electricity running through the back of my neck on to my temples… Her head in my grandfather’s lap, her hand in his, she recollected her entire life in that last half hour with only me as her witness. At eleven, my grandfather gently told me to call the entire family to the bedside- “your grandmother is no more”.
I did not cry- she had set a powerful example of love and service to the family… this deserved a lot more than a few tears shed, dry and forgotten. I decided as a tender sixteen, I would marry only if I could find the same (not similar… but SAME) feeling of loving and being loved. I pray to God my Grandmother eventually found her peace… I know from her final moments on earth it could not be otherwise.
Love has the power to transcend all and heal all.
“Why are women dissatisfied” scream headlines of a newspaper read everyday in thousands of homes! There are quotes from studies in the UK and the USA, which go on to explain that love is no longer a feeling to be cherished. Women are earning and contributing equally to their households, and expectations from their relationships are necessarily determined by these new-found freedoms- freedom to work, freedom to earn and freedom to express. Little do these studies address the issue of love as a feeling that keeps the companions satisfied with two morsels of food or warm in one less garment. These studies focus even less on the warmth of family homes and clans that India revered just a few decades ago.
Love is not a feeling to be ‘expected’ and demanded. It is a feeling to be lived and experienced. I am convinced my grandparents’ saga is not unique but it bears telling in these days of selfish self-centred demanding mates!
9 th of March, 1987… it has been more than two decades ago… but the scene is still as if a movie is playing on a screen and I am watching it- my grandmother’s head in my grandfather’s lap with death, peace and love so thick in the air one could touch the curtain and feel the cold and the warmth of the fibre.
My grandmother was a woman of the royal family of Kapurthala in Punjab, married to an ordinary college professor of Lahore, then in India. The story starts long ago in early nineteen hundreds. My grandfather was born in a rich merchant family with acres of orchards and uncountable money. However, soon after his birth, his mother caught an illness they could do nothing about. The times were not good and all the money could not save my grandfather’s mother. This was, perhaps the unconscious memory that made money the least important thing in his life. Gyan Chand Soni. Literally translated, his name stood for the gentle light of knowledge. It is said in the Hindu scriptures that the two sisters, Saraswati- the goddess of Knowledge and Laxmi, the goddess of Wealth do not stay together under the safe roof! The early events of his life dictated a very strong personality and an almost pathological disregard for money.
His father contracted tuberculosis when he was about to start college. Shunned by the elder brothers, he was left alone to look after his ailing father and even had to physically carry him to the hospital on certain days. Unable to tolerate the misery his father was in, he decided to study to become a doctor- a decision that would take him overseas to some great institution of learning in the British Empire. Fate, however, intervened again! Mahatama Gandhi launched the Swadeshi Movement and my grandfather gave up his plans to study Medicine in UK and took up an ordinary teacher’s job in the FC College.
It gave him enough to run his family and the shared income of the orchards was adequate to tide over occasional hardships. It was in these climes that he was introduced to the Princess of Kapurthala – Janak, my grandmother.
They got married in early nineteen twenties- she a young girl of seventeen or eighteen and he, nearly ten years older at twenty seven. Not a penny in dowry did this self-respecting man accept. The first set of plates and the spoons to go with these… the first set of cups and saucers. The beddings and the pillows, the clothes for themselves- everything was built with love and care.
Janak soon conceived. Their first- born was a daughter- frail in body and not very resilient, this child soon succumbed to nature’s forces. The couple was shattered. They had taken on the responsibility of not only looking after my grandfather’s foster mother but also the ailing father. The pain mellowed a bit but never really went away completely. They soon conceived another child- again a girl. My grandmother looked after this child and guarded her like a tigress. This girl grew up into a brilliant lady- elegant and the first one to live the destiny my grandfather had rejected decades ago- she became a doctor from the Lady Hardinge Medical College in Delhi and went on to do her specialization from UK earning for herself the FRCS. There were others- three sons and one more daughter.
The children used to come to Kapurthala each vacation from Lahore and my grandmother used to spend some time in the royal palaces being pampered and looked after. My grandfather would often finish the college work and at the onset of the vacations join her in Kapurthala for a couple of weeks. In the summer of 1947, with seven children in tow- the youngest, my father being just seven, my grandmother came to Kapurthala again. This once she was apprehensive. She did not want to leave Lahore without her husband.
The situation was tense and the debate on Indo- Pak division was hot. The politicians were playing a dirty and dangerous game. My grandfather forbade my grandmother from coming back to Lahore and promised her he would join them soon. She spent days in agonizing wait and anxiety- all the money, the jewellery, the utensils and the clothes would be lost. How would they start their life again? Could they? As a self-fulfilling prophesy, people started dying- beheaded bodies started arriving in trainfulls. The blood and the hatred were unbearable. The anger was like a volcano- killing everything that came in its way. My grandmother only wanted her husband to join them safely- no material possessions were important. She moved towards Delhi as he had ordered. He joined them. The homecoming was momentous. The government gave the ‘refugees’ land to rebuild their homes and lives. My grandfather joined the Hindu College as a professor of physics and physical education- a strange combination even in those days! Life started again- from scratch. Twigs to rebuild their nest… rags to rebuild their riches. They were a resilient couple, as were a lot of other ‘refugees’. All children used to visit my home all summer vacations. My Grandmother was the grand Matriarch- Seth (A rich woman) and my grand father was always (Soni- his last name).
She sat as regally as a queen would with both her feet firmly on earth and head held high in total confidence of her power. She talked as clearly as a queen would with every word and every sentence telling a saga of a life of devotion to her clan.
Soon, however, the ravages of time and age began to take their toll on her fragile frame. Her diabetes was going out of control and had started affecting her kidneys and her heart. Her high blood- pressure was dealing a double whammy to her already failing systems. As an 11 year old, I had to accompany her to the hospital to decide whether she would be put on Dialysis. I remember her words- “I will not lie down with tubes and needles. No dialysis. I want to die with dignity at home”. Such was her strength and resolve that none could oppose her.
She started behaving somewhat awkwardly- spitting in the sitting room and eating at inappropriate times. My grandfather rallied all his strength to look after her. The rising blood urea was entering her brain and making her delirious. Her clothes started hanging on the skeleton she had become. She was now just skin and bones. It was heartbreaking to see this pillar of our household crumbling. Sometimes, it was embarrassing, too. We could not get through to her- she would not understand. When we felt angry she would shrink as if we had hit her physically. How could a strong willed woman crumble so?
However, on the ninth of March, 1987, she became suddenly lucid. It was half past ten at night. Her entire family had gathered for the inevitable. She was sinking- unable to maintain blood pressure and heart beat. Her brain was clear for the first time in two years! She called her husband and told him,” Soni, I am going… I want you to hold my hand” Even as I write these words, I find my hair standing on ends- a strange electricity running through the back of my neck on to my temples… Her head in my grandfather’s lap, her hand in his, she recollected her entire life in that last half hour with only me as her witness. At eleven, my grandfather gently told me to call the entire family to the bedside- “your grandmother is no more”.
I did not cry- she had set a powerful example of love and service to the family… this deserved a lot more than a few tears shed, dry and forgotten. I decided as a tender sixteen, I would marry only if I could find the same (not similar… but SAME) feeling of loving and being loved. I pray to God my Grandmother eventually found her peace… I know from her final moments on earth it could not be otherwise.
Love has the power to transcend all and heal all.
"I have the power," said the HeMan!
I remember Heman's line and the transformation that he undergoes each time he says it far more than anything else from this cartoon from my childhood. The meek and weak looking guy becomes a well sculpted powerful soldier for the Good. Skeletor, on the other hand does nothing quite as dramatic.
What really is power? It is the ability to do something. It requires a task. The energy to accomplish it and the result. The attractive power is one that we experience from mentors who allow us to discover our own inner capacity and strength. They nourish our soul and make us believe in our ability. They empower us to do what we can. This kind of nutritive power enhances the human and the humanising nature of our existence, making power struggles unnecessary. True power is the kind Vivekananda had. He believed each individual could be raised to a level of optimal living. There is no need for leaders as this presupposes followers who would be less than the leaders. According to him, all could be raised to teh level of so called leaders and integrated into the league of performers and doers. True power is not insecure. It works with all it touches to raise everyone through co-operation. Synergism is when each of both ( or all of several) individuals involved in an interaction produce a bigger result than they would add to. That is the power in action.
However, as the saying goes- power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. It takes a great soul not to lord over the less fortunate ones. It takes a truly powerful individual not to abuse teh power he is vested with and allow all to grow. These people try to exploit and manipulate those that they lead for their own personal gain. In these cases, the led are losers and the leader cannot long remain a winner... This expression of power tends to incite violence and war. It kills all- the leader and the led. There would be none left to be led... and no leader can then be called a leader.
These powers survive on mob mentality. Such people speak convincingly and mislead masses on religious or caste basis and divide rather than uniting. They encourage poeople to join Institutions and project that the Institution is bigger than an individual. They sacrifice humans just as in teh olden days humans sacrificed animals. They kill in the name of a noble cause. They fight in the name of God they say they want to protect from sacrilege. Is their God so weak as to require them to defend Him?
God, in any religion, promotes love and justice. Religion is just another way to get several people together and give them security to be able to discuss and practice certain tetnets that allow for growth, peace and love.
True power allows people to work together without the fear of losing; to come together and create a world order that is safe and just. It allows for social justice to prevail as a natural law. It allows all to express their soul and realise its purpose and desire. It allows people to feel empowered enough to influence the course of history... without fear or ulterior motive.
True power allows society to grow and nurture its people in safety without competing for basic life needs... it allows every one to be... secure and contented.
What really is power? It is the ability to do something. It requires a task. The energy to accomplish it and the result. The attractive power is one that we experience from mentors who allow us to discover our own inner capacity and strength. They nourish our soul and make us believe in our ability. They empower us to do what we can. This kind of nutritive power enhances the human and the humanising nature of our existence, making power struggles unnecessary. True power is the kind Vivekananda had. He believed each individual could be raised to a level of optimal living. There is no need for leaders as this presupposes followers who would be less than the leaders. According to him, all could be raised to teh level of so called leaders and integrated into the league of performers and doers. True power is not insecure. It works with all it touches to raise everyone through co-operation. Synergism is when each of both ( or all of several) individuals involved in an interaction produce a bigger result than they would add to. That is the power in action.
However, as the saying goes- power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. It takes a great soul not to lord over the less fortunate ones. It takes a truly powerful individual not to abuse teh power he is vested with and allow all to grow. These people try to exploit and manipulate those that they lead for their own personal gain. In these cases, the led are losers and the leader cannot long remain a winner... This expression of power tends to incite violence and war. It kills all- the leader and the led. There would be none left to be led... and no leader can then be called a leader.
These powers survive on mob mentality. Such people speak convincingly and mislead masses on religious or caste basis and divide rather than uniting. They encourage poeople to join Institutions and project that the Institution is bigger than an individual. They sacrifice humans just as in teh olden days humans sacrificed animals. They kill in the name of a noble cause. They fight in the name of God they say they want to protect from sacrilege. Is their God so weak as to require them to defend Him?
God, in any religion, promotes love and justice. Religion is just another way to get several people together and give them security to be able to discuss and practice certain tetnets that allow for growth, peace and love.
True power allows people to work together without the fear of losing; to come together and create a world order that is safe and just. It allows for social justice to prevail as a natural law. It allows all to express their soul and realise its purpose and desire. It allows people to feel empowered enough to influence the course of history... without fear or ulterior motive.
True power allows society to grow and nurture its people in safety without competing for basic life needs... it allows every one to be... secure and contented.
Multitasking is the way of life for a mother...
And I thought I was of a rare breed managing home and grocery and bills and kitchen and cleaning and laundry and kids classes and ... being a surgeon!... the list could go on endlessly. But you know at the end of the day I do not even expect to be acknowledged let alone appreciated for what I do and just how much I manage to fit in a day. What is really killing is the remark that comes casually floating on the air riding my raw nerves and hitting my consciousnes... my husband asking me ( deliberate attempt to rankle?) What is it that you really do the whole day!?
When I first heard that remark, I was stunned. Speechless. I thought I was in a delusion. It really needs a man- any man- to make that kind of a remark to a woman- any woman!
I wanted to go on strike. No waking up the kids for school. No tiffins. No cleaning up the clothing left on the floor or wet in the bathroom either. No picking up of utensils after a meal and no cleaning up of spills in between. No. Nothing. See what happens to the well ordered and organised household that is visible to all who care to be with us at any given point of time.
And smugly at the end of the day, amid the mess, be able to say," You know Hon! You wanted to know exactly what is it that I do during the day? Well... I did not do it today!"
The day would probably end in the woman cleaning up all the mess before she hits the pillow. Better to do it as it comes along rather than wait to show anyone exactly what happens when you do not! And end up not sleeping the night because the mess will trouble you in sleep as well.
Most women today would be single parents despite having a partner. It takes a mother to understand the meaning of multitasking as well as being totally invisible while managing ALL those tasks simultaneously!
I am sure I am not alone in the league of women who have changed diapers in moving cars and left their meal in the middle because junior wants to piddle! Or even poop. Then having done the needful- come back to finish the meal totally unaffected by what happened in between!
We can even enjoy being wet in the middle of the night and laugh about it the next morning!My children are still young and I know I have not had unbroken sleep for last several years. Let a man try having this kind of sleep one night and he ends up being irritable the rest of the day. It does not have to be a sick or unwell child to make a mother a light sleeper.
I enjoy every moment of being a mother. I know I would probably not be able to do as great a job were I to be a full time mom. I think I do better by being full-time surgeon and over-time mom! Being at work is like relaxation from the activities at home and being at home is a clean and refreshing break from office chores!
can we form a club? Working moms... supermoms?
When I first heard that remark, I was stunned. Speechless. I thought I was in a delusion. It really needs a man- any man- to make that kind of a remark to a woman- any woman!
I wanted to go on strike. No waking up the kids for school. No tiffins. No cleaning up the clothing left on the floor or wet in the bathroom either. No picking up of utensils after a meal and no cleaning up of spills in between. No. Nothing. See what happens to the well ordered and organised household that is visible to all who care to be with us at any given point of time.
And smugly at the end of the day, amid the mess, be able to say," You know Hon! You wanted to know exactly what is it that I do during the day? Well... I did not do it today!"
The day would probably end in the woman cleaning up all the mess before she hits the pillow. Better to do it as it comes along rather than wait to show anyone exactly what happens when you do not! And end up not sleeping the night because the mess will trouble you in sleep as well.
Most women today would be single parents despite having a partner. It takes a mother to understand the meaning of multitasking as well as being totally invisible while managing ALL those tasks simultaneously!
I am sure I am not alone in the league of women who have changed diapers in moving cars and left their meal in the middle because junior wants to piddle! Or even poop. Then having done the needful- come back to finish the meal totally unaffected by what happened in between!
We can even enjoy being wet in the middle of the night and laugh about it the next morning!My children are still young and I know I have not had unbroken sleep for last several years. Let a man try having this kind of sleep one night and he ends up being irritable the rest of the day. It does not have to be a sick or unwell child to make a mother a light sleeper.
I enjoy every moment of being a mother. I know I would probably not be able to do as great a job were I to be a full time mom. I think I do better by being full-time surgeon and over-time mom! Being at work is like relaxation from the activities at home and being at home is a clean and refreshing break from office chores!
can we form a club? Working moms... supermoms?
The price of being a working mother...
When I joined the MBBS course in 1987 ( Is that not a once upon a time kind of statement?!), I never realised what I was letting myself in for!
At that time, it was a dream come true. My parents had worked very hard to give us all they could and then some more. What I remember of my childhood is single-minded dedication of my mother to sit with us EVERY day and make sure our work for the day was done. They had had their own share of hardships. This was not clearly communicated to us children but was not hidden either. My father would work 18 to 20 hours a day just so we would be able to afford the books and the food- in that order. My mother had no friends to distract her from the job she had taken upon herself- rearing her children. Each waking moment of the day she was doing something for us- waking us up for school, getting us ready in time to catch the bus, preparing our tiffins ( I do not remember a single day in my school life that I ate cafeteria food from the school canteen!). I wonder what she did while we were at school. I think she would have been completing the tasks that would otherwise take her away from the children's presence- laundry, bathing dishes etc.
At that time, we used to, quite innocently feel that we were the ones who were really busy! What was it that the grown ups used to complain so much about? They simply had to get up- and go to sleep. What happened during the day in between never occured to us as something that needed to be actively done! It was like breathing and walking- part involuntary and part vountary! It simply happened! Look at us, though. The children ahve to wake up at an inhuman hour ( they donot realise the parent who wakes up even earlier for this simple task to be completed!) and then get ready to rush to school ( who lays down all the small pieces in the puzzle so perfectly that the effort is not even visible each morn?!). As if that is not enough, now the children have to study... what do the adults do? Some are like their teachers- they teach. Some others are free... FREE... to do nothing! Nothing, however, when dissected means a lot of bills to be paid, teh ration to be stocked, the daily supplies to be replenished, the household chores to be completed, the kitchen to be run, the cooking to be completed, the laundry to be done, the ironing to be perfect, the house to be clean, and .... blah blah....
It is only when we grow up that we realise just how much work doing nothing really is!! Add to this the occassional need for the maintenance of the place we all take for granted- home! And ofcourse, if you are a professionsl, that is added chores. This does not take away from the rest of the things you would do! You do not, for instance, not look after the bills or the kitchen- these things do not take care of themselves.
The needs of the work place take on a new meaning when they are given to a mother. If she does everything well- she must have ignored her family. If she does not, she is ignoring her work. Either way, it is teh working woman who ends up losing. Little do all those around us realise just how much energy and effort goes into maintaining the balance between the two fronts so that both feel well looked after. Psychologists talk about Win- Win and force the women into a lose- lose.
When a working mother goes to school for her children's PT Meeting ( parent- Teacher interaction), the first refrain from the teacher is a very sympathetic, " Oh! Being a working mother, may be yoou are not able to devote full time to your children" It is often said as a question but meant as a underhand attack. Little do these teachers realise at the time they say it that they, too, are working mothers! Who looks after their children? And how?
All said and done, the balance really has to tilt in the favour of the children. I have observed- quite closely, and come to the conclusion, that children are resilient. They adapt. If the parents are always around, they are largely dependent or rebelliously independent. On the other hand, those whose parents are working, end up being largely independent or rebelliouosly dependent!
My children are quite independent. And immensely attached to me. I am part of all their adventures as well as activities. I play hopscotch with them as easily as I teach Math or even how to hold the pencil!
In my opinion, a parent who is able to strike the right balance to be able to give a child opportunity to fully bloom as well as provide the water and the manure when these are needed for these tender plants is the parent who can call himself or herself successful.
Children need parenting. More than that the adults need childrening!! It is good for our mental health to have loving nurturing relationships. Let us love and nurture...
At that time, it was a dream come true. My parents had worked very hard to give us all they could and then some more. What I remember of my childhood is single-minded dedication of my mother to sit with us EVERY day and make sure our work for the day was done. They had had their own share of hardships. This was not clearly communicated to us children but was not hidden either. My father would work 18 to 20 hours a day just so we would be able to afford the books and the food- in that order. My mother had no friends to distract her from the job she had taken upon herself- rearing her children. Each waking moment of the day she was doing something for us- waking us up for school, getting us ready in time to catch the bus, preparing our tiffins ( I do not remember a single day in my school life that I ate cafeteria food from the school canteen!). I wonder what she did while we were at school. I think she would have been completing the tasks that would otherwise take her away from the children's presence- laundry, bathing dishes etc.
At that time, we used to, quite innocently feel that we were the ones who were really busy! What was it that the grown ups used to complain so much about? They simply had to get up- and go to sleep. What happened during the day in between never occured to us as something that needed to be actively done! It was like breathing and walking- part involuntary and part vountary! It simply happened! Look at us, though. The children ahve to wake up at an inhuman hour ( they donot realise the parent who wakes up even earlier for this simple task to be completed!) and then get ready to rush to school ( who lays down all the small pieces in the puzzle so perfectly that the effort is not even visible each morn?!). As if that is not enough, now the children have to study... what do the adults do? Some are like their teachers- they teach. Some others are free... FREE... to do nothing! Nothing, however, when dissected means a lot of bills to be paid, teh ration to be stocked, the daily supplies to be replenished, the household chores to be completed, the kitchen to be run, the cooking to be completed, the laundry to be done, the ironing to be perfect, the house to be clean, and .... blah blah....
It is only when we grow up that we realise just how much work doing nothing really is!! Add to this the occassional need for the maintenance of the place we all take for granted- home! And ofcourse, if you are a professionsl, that is added chores. This does not take away from the rest of the things you would do! You do not, for instance, not look after the bills or the kitchen- these things do not take care of themselves.
The needs of the work place take on a new meaning when they are given to a mother. If she does everything well- she must have ignored her family. If she does not, she is ignoring her work. Either way, it is teh working woman who ends up losing. Little do all those around us realise just how much energy and effort goes into maintaining the balance between the two fronts so that both feel well looked after. Psychologists talk about Win- Win and force the women into a lose- lose.
When a working mother goes to school for her children's PT Meeting ( parent- Teacher interaction), the first refrain from the teacher is a very sympathetic, " Oh! Being a working mother, may be yoou are not able to devote full time to your children" It is often said as a question but meant as a underhand attack. Little do these teachers realise at the time they say it that they, too, are working mothers! Who looks after their children? And how?
All said and done, the balance really has to tilt in the favour of the children. I have observed- quite closely, and come to the conclusion, that children are resilient. They adapt. If the parents are always around, they are largely dependent or rebelliously independent. On the other hand, those whose parents are working, end up being largely independent or rebelliouosly dependent!
My children are quite independent. And immensely attached to me. I am part of all their adventures as well as activities. I play hopscotch with them as easily as I teach Math or even how to hold the pencil!
In my opinion, a parent who is able to strike the right balance to be able to give a child opportunity to fully bloom as well as provide the water and the manure when these are needed for these tender plants is the parent who can call himself or herself successful.
Children need parenting. More than that the adults need childrening!! It is good for our mental health to have loving nurturing relationships. Let us love and nurture...
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