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.

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?

Mind like water

Pokhara - Phewa Lake, originally uploaded by heartthatbeats.

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 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.