A Cockroach Ride

In a previous post, I narrated a rather memorable bus journey. It appears that buses aren’t the only providers of action… Last Sunday, D, G and I were on our way back to JIPMER from the beach, in one of those shared autos (a k a Cockroaches). The Cockroach was packed to the fullest extent possible, and I was crammed between G and a woman with four young kids. Right behind me, his back against mine, sat the driver of the Cockroach. We’d just started off when a fight broke out between the woman with the four kids and the driver. She refused to purchase tickets for her kids, saying they were all too young to count. The driver pointed out that no matter what their age, they took up space, because only kid sat on her lap while the other three sat on the seats, so she would do well to pay up. She refused.

The argument, inevitable as it was, began. The driver pulled over, turned around to face the woman, and began yelling. She yelled back. There was quite a shouting match going on. “Shut up! Shut UP! SHUT UP!!!”, he hollered. “YOU shut up!”, she hollered back. Another woman, ostensibly a friend of the one with four kids, hollered “SHUT UP!” at nobody in particular. Since I was caught right in the middle of the fight, literally, squashed between the warring parties, I was deafened by the “SHUT UP”s and also generously sprayed with spit. Ew ew ew. After shouting for several more minutes, everyone DID shut up, though both the driver and the women continued to mutter rather unintelligibly.

And then, quite suddenly, an oldish woman right at the back of the Cockroach said something about mothers not ‘keeping their kids to themselves’ (rough translation, that one). The mother of four sprang up from her seat (quite a feat, considering the Cockroach was CRAMMED with people (and four kids, of course) and slapped the oldish woman- SMACK!!! Soon there was a string of Tamil profanities that I can’t translate to English, and even if I could, I wouldn’t have been able to put those words in a post on my blog.

Soon, they came to blows. First they beat each other, trying to do their best, what with the limited space and lack of light. I received a few blows on my back. We decided it was high time we got off the Cockroach. The last I saw, each woman was trying to pull the other’s hair out. I thought of all those seemingly pointless questionnaires I’ve answered… You know, the ones that carry questions like

If you came across two people fighting, you would

1. Stop and watch
2. Try to pull them apart
3. Try to make them see reason and stop fighting
4. Just let them be and get out of there as soon as possible

I’d always answered either B or C (though option C doesn’t make any sense, really). But I now realize that it’s a LOT more important that I save my own back. I DID try option B, albeit half-heartedly, but I got kinda hurt in the process. From now on, it shall be D. Always.

Well, thanks to that catfight, we had to get down MILES from JIPMER and then walk most of the way. As a result, we were late for dinner, and missed the Gulab Jamun that had been prepared as the Weekend Special…. Sigh.

The City of Dawn

‘There should be somewhere on earth, a place which no nation could claim as its own, where all human beings of good will who have a sincere aspiration, could live freely as citizens of the world and obey one single authority, that of the Supreme Truth; a place of peace, concord and harmony…’

Reading that was enough to make me fall in love with Auroville, a utopian settlement a little to the north of Pondicherry. This alluring universal town was founded in 1968 by Mother Mirra Alfassa, the chief disciple of Sri Aurobindo Ghosh, as a ‘laboratory of evolution’. Here, a city has been created where all persons can live in freedom and peace, rising above all petty politics, caste, creed, and nationality, in unity and international understanding.

On February 28th of 1968, Auroville, or the City of Dawn, was inaugurated, when youth from 128 nations placed a fistful of their native soil in a white, lotus-shaped urn near the Matrimandir, representing the creation of a city dedicated to unity and harmony. Today, the city sprawls over 25 square kilometers, comprising of 80 settlements, separated by local villages. The city is planned in the shape of a spiral galaxy, with four zones radiating out from the Matrimandir, which the Mother called the Soul of Auroville.



The site of Auroville was originally a backward and impoverished rural area. Under the French architect Roger Anger, the Aurovillians toiled for twenty years and have succeeded in transforming it into a lush and beautiful settlement, with dense jungles and breathtaking greenery all around. The Aurovillians used only biological farming methods, planted over two million trees and paved all paths with plants. Even now, their primary activities include afforestation, organic agriculture, village development and environmental conservation.

I visited Auroville on a rainy Sunday with a few friends and students. We went straight to the Visitor’s Centre, built of mud blocks and Ferro cement. We spent considerable time looking around, gazing at the pictures in the gallery and reading all about the principles of Auroville, its history, conception, values and activities. After a cup of steaming coffee and a few brownies at the café, we went on to collect the free passes that would allow us to walk to Matrimandir, which our students called the Golden Globe.

Before actually going to Matrimandir, we visited a small information centre, where we learnt that the Matrimandir is erected on four pillars, each one representing an aspect of the Mother. They’re called Mahalakshmi, Mahakali, Mahasaraswathi and Mahaparvathi. The structure of the globe itself is quite interesting. At the heart of Matrimandir is a circular meditation room, with white walls, and white carpeting on the floor. At the centre stands a crystal orb, the largest in the world (about 70 cm in diameter). Around the room are 12 pillars. Through an operculum above, sunlight falls directly on the orb, lighting it up. There is nothing else… No idols, no religion or religious symbols, no writing, no ornate carvings. As the Aurovillians put it, there is nothing except absolute silence, meditation, and Truth. They claim that once inside, nothing matters, except the Supreme Truth. All that one must concentrate on is the play of sunlight on the polished surface of the sphere. Nothing else matters, nothing else is real.

The construction of Matrimandir began in 1971, and is still going on. The inner chamber is now complete, but work is still going on outside. We couldn’t go inside Matrimandir because of the ongoing construction work, and even if that weren’t the case, we would’ve been asked to come back some other time because Matrimandir is open only in the afternoons, and only on weekdays.

After watching a documentary on Auroville and Matrimandir, we collected our passes and walked one kilometer through the Matrimandir gardens (Battery-powered coaches are available for those who can’t walk that far) to the globe. It’s really quite awe-inspiring… like a gigantic blob of gold, surrounded by greenery. Right in front of Matrimandir lies an amphitheatre. And that’s where the urn containing the soil of 128 countries is. Nearby, there’s a huge banyan tree, the geographical centre of Auroville, revered nearly as much as Matrimandir itself.

I was delighted to learn that Auroville has only mud paths, paved with plants. Nearly all the construction here is eco-friendly. All the houses in Auroville are dependent on solar energy. In the kitchen of Auroville, there’s a solar cooker that’s 15 meters in diameter… probably the largest in India. Biogas tanks and solar heaters are commonly used for domestic purposes. There are 30 windmills, 2 wind turbines which pump water, and 100 photovoltaic pumps and a 36 kW photovoltaic power plant. What with all the greenery, energy conservation plans and near-zero pollution, this community must be every environmentalist’s dream come true.

The inhabitants of Auroville are actively involved in educational research, health care, cultural activities, community service, small and medium scale businesses. They have set up workshops and schools, and provide education to a large number of the rural populace. They also have several education centres for the local farmers. Research is on in several fields… organic farming, alternative energy sources, water management, and so on. Meanwhile, they also experiment with issues relating to organization- the process of entry, the economy, decision taking, and other aspects of administration.

All education in Auroville is based on what Sri Aurobindo once said… ‘The first principle of teaching is that nothing can be taught’. Auroville claims that here, children would receive education not so that they can pass exams, obtain certificates or jobs, but so that they can ‘enrich existing faculties and bring forth new ones’. Opportunities to serve the community are considered more important than ranks and titles. Work here is not a way to earn one’s livelihood, but a means to express oneself and develop one’s capacities, while serving the community to the fullest extent possible.

Later, we checked out the Auroville boutique, which sells fine leather, marbled silks, batik textiles, essential oils, aromatherapy bath salts, fragrant candles, pottery, pewter, cards and handmade paper. We then stood watching as a few artists in the Artist’s Camp sketched and painted. Soon, it was time to go. We took one last look around and then headed back to the real world, which, even with all its corruption, communalism, hatred, bigotry and discrimination, isn’t such a bad place after all. But if every place could be like Auroville…


‘…It would be a place where human relationships, which are normally based almost exclusively on competition and strife, would be replaced by relationships of emulation in doing well, of collaboration and real brotherhood…’

Buses, brakes and bald heads

Once again, it's time to leave home. I've spent the last two days pressing, folding and packing. Really, I envy those Bollywood heroines who screech hysterically, "Mein yeh ghar chod ke jaa rahi hoon!" and then just toss a few designer sarees into a designer suitcase rather unceremoniously and strut out of the ghar. Ohhh boy. Not so easy. I know my kind of 'leaving' is slightly different, but still.

Anyway, this time tomorrow, I'll be on a bus to Pondicherry. I generally like journeying by bus. More often than not, a bus ride is anything but uneventful. This leads me to narrate something that happened the last time I was traveling to Pondicherry (Yeah, kinda like Tinkle's 'It Happened To Me', I know)...

I was traveling alone, and I had a window seat in the very nice, very comfortable bus. Sitting right in front of me was a bald, middle-aged man (henceforth referred to as BMM, for convenience's sake), who, soon after the bus started moving, reclined his seat and promptly fell asleep. Every few minutes, he'd wake up and move the back of his seat a little further back. By the time we entered Tamil Nadu, the back of his seat (and his head) was resting against my knee. Bugged, I moved to the next seat which, thankfully, was empty. BMM started to snore, loudly at that. I got bugged-er. I looked around. Everyone else seemed to be asleep too, with the exception of a heavily pregnant lady who was retching into a plastic cover (her second. The first plastic bag was still hanging from the hook on the back of the seat in front of hers) with abandon.

I looked away, and focused all my attention on the snoring BMM. How could I wake him up? Which would be the best, most irritating way of doing so? Okay, I was being unnecessarily mean, but an idle mind is the devil's workshop, remember? I played a game on my cellphone, careful to shine the light on BMM's face. I was contemplating playing a loud and unpleasant ringtone (Mars, or Coconut would've been my choice), when the bus, which had been whizzing along at a remarkable speed, lurched to a sudden halt.

Inertia. I fell forward. Since I'd stowed the arm rest, I quite involuntarily grabbed that which had now taken it's place- BMM's bald head!!! To make matters worse, I'd had my mobile in my hand, and there was a dull THWACK when it made contact with BMM's skull. I withdrew my hand at once and squeaked, "Sorry, sir!", but the damage had been done. I wish I could describe the look (The Look) BMM gave me, but I can't. I won't even try... I'll leave it to your imagination.

Anyway, after that, BMM pulled his seat back into the normal position, I moved back to my own seat, and the pregnant lady stopped puking and threw both plastic bags out. Nothing untoward happened during the rest of the journey.

But the best part was yet to come. I got off the bus right in front of JIPMER, instead of going all the way to the Pondicherry Bus Stand. And guess what? BMM got off too! As we walked through the gates of JIPMER together, another man, a doctor, came striding up to BMM and spoke to him for a while. He called BMM 'Doctor'. So he works there in JIPMER. He's very probably a staff member. Maybe even a big shot... the kind that can pull some major strings.

Dr BMM gave me The Look again, and walked off.

A Walk Along Serenity Beach

The first Sunday we were there, still homesick and kinda lost, S and I thought we’d spend the day exploring Pondicherry. We took one of those shared auto rickshaws (lovingly referred to as Cockroaches in JIPMER) to Nehru Salai, which is one of the busiest streets in Pondicherry. There. We bought ourselves a map (which later turned out to be BS… we got nowhere as long as we relied on that map), rented a two-wheeler for the day and set off towards the beach.



Pondicherry Beach, or Serenity Beach, is a 1.5km long, rocky shoreline. Some of the bloodiest Anglo-French battles were fought on these sands. Today, however, this beach is ideal for a calm (or romantic) stroll. Or one can just sit on the parapet by the sea (or on one of the rocks) and gaze out at the rolling waves for hours and hours, or watch fishermen at work, or just enjoy the sea-spray.

Goubert Avenue, which runs along the beach, is sprinkled with a number of monuments and memorials. The most imposing among them would be the huge, impressive statue of Mahatma Gandhi, which stands on the seafront, surrounded by eight beautifully carved pillars. I remember reading somewhere that this statue is 'life-size'. Believe me, it most certainly is not. It's big, the way MG never was.

Right opposite the statue is the French War Memorial, built in honour of the soldiers who were killed in the First World War. I heard that every year, on Bastille Day, this memorial is beautifully lit up. I would've loved to see that, but sadly, I won't be there at that time of the year. Nevertheless, this white memorial is elegant and charming, illuminated or otherwise.

Next to the French War Memorial, in the Place du Gouvernement, is the 29m-tall Old Lighthouse.It was first lighted on 1st July, 1836. In 1931, a revolving lantern replaced the old fixed lamp that had been used till then. It is said that the beacon could be seen from a distance of up to 29km away. This lighthouse was later abandoned, after the commissioning of the new one in 1979.

Further south, at the end of Goubert Avenue, lies the Children's Park. Here stands the statue of Dupleix, one of the most able French Governors. Though Dupleix's tenure ended in 1754, this statue was erected in only in 1870. Originally, this 2.88m tall structure stood on six intricately carved granite pillars at the Place du Republique. However, it was later shifted to this Park, overlooking the sea. As you can see in the picture of the Children's Park (the one immediately below), there's a pier (284m long, I think), located just beyond.

At the northern end of Goubert Avenue lies the Indian War Memorial, a helmet perched on a rifle, flanked by tall pillars on four sides, This memorial was erected by the Government of Pondicherry in memory of the Indian soldiers who laid down their lives for the country.


Riding further north, we entered a small fishing village. We spent a few minutes there, watching the men fish and the women weave nets, or sort out the freshly caught fish.

After that, we were nicely baked brown, and quite tired. We found a Pizza Corner, where we had our lunch. We then went to the Botanical Garden, but that shall be described in a later part of this series of Pondi-blogs.

The Pondicherry beach surely is a lovely place to visit in the evenings too. Goubert Avenue is quite well-lit, and the whole place is a lot more serene than it usually is in the day (a lot more crowded too). On Saturday evenings, Goubert Avenue is closed to vehicular traffic. The police hold some kind of a parade... They all march along the beach road, playing 'police band music'. They then assemble at the Square near the statue of Mahatma Gandhi, and the band plays for an hour or so.

Well, that's about the Pondicherry beach. One may not be able to enjoy a good swim in the sea, but it still is a wonderful place.. a 'pleasant promenade', as they call it. Peaceful Pondicherry at its very best, indeed!

Pondicherry- India's Little France

I am home.

Those are probably the most beautiful three words I’ve ever heard. However, after learning to live in, and love, Pondicherry, I daresay I think the coming-home day came too soon!

Pondicherry is really a tiny town, packed with ‘seeables’. A well organized two-day trip should be enough to view every ‘tourist spot’ there. And I was there for forty days (and I’ll soon be going back for 50 more)! That’s long enough to make me consider taking up a job as a tourist guide. But since I have my work at JIPMER to think about, Pondi-blogging is about all I can do, for now.

Often referred to as The French Riviera of The East, this little town on the Coromandel coast is where the French dream of an Indian Empire began… and ended. French Pondicherry was a Boulevard Town, an oval with straight roads intersecting at right angles. The town was encircled by a boulevard, and split by a canal into Ville Blanche (White Town, the European side) and Ville Noire (Black Town, the Tamil part). While Ville Blanche exudes old-world charm, with its graceful French villas, paved streets and quiet, tree-lined lanes, Ville Noire is a realization of every Indian cliché- the bright colours, the dust, the heat, the flies, the noise and the people, the smell of sea and salt and fish thick in the air, enjoyable nevertheless.

Once called Vedapuri, Pondicherry is said to have been home to the sage Agastya. Excavations at Arikamedu, an archaeological site barely 4km from Pondicherry, reveal vestiges of a port town, and Roman settlements over 2000 years old. Vedapuri’s trade links with Rome and Greece continued till the Cholas took over Pondicherry (around 10^th- 11^th century). In the 13^th century, the Cholas were overthrown by the Pandyas. Later, the Vijayanagara Empire, which encompassed almost all of South India, ruled here till 1638, after which the Sultan of Bijapur took hold of Gingee (pronounced sen-jee, a fortified town 75km from Pondicherry).

In the early 16^th century, the Portuguese started a factory in Pondicherry. They, however, were routed out a century later by the ruler of Gingee. Then came the Danes, and the Dutch, who set up establishments here. The new ruler of Gingee invited the French to open trade centres in Pondicherry, so that they might compete with the Dutch.

On the Fourth of February, 1673, Bellanger, a French officer, took up residence in a Danish lodge in Pondicherry. Thus began the French hold over Pondicherry. A year later, Francois Martin, the first Governor, transformed Pondicherry from a tiny fishing village to a flourishing port town. In 1693, the Dutch took over Pondicherry and fortified it. However, six years and a peace treaty later, the French regained Pondicherry, and developed it considerably.

Under ambitious Governors like Lenoir (1726-35), Dumas (1735-41) and Dupleix (1742-54), Pondicherry grew into a large, wealthy town. But all plans of creating a French Empire in India were thwarted by Robert Clive. The British defeated the French at war, and all peace talks failed. Later, France sent Lally Tollendall to resurrect the French Empire. Tollendall seemed to be successful at first- he managed to raze the British Fort St. David in Cuddalore. However, his success was limited to his initial endeavour only, as France was later forced to cede the Hyderabad region to the British. Moreover, in 1761, Pondicherry was razed to the ground in an act of vengeance, and the city lay in ruins for the next four years.

For the next 50 years, the British and the French took turns occupying Pondicherry. Finally, in 1816, the French regained permanent control of Pondicherry and ruled there for the next 138 years. Long after India attained Independence, Pondicherry, in 1963, became an integral part of the Indian Union.

Today, Puducherry (yes, we do love going back to the Indian names our cities once had) is a Union Territory, and it includes Pondicherry (the town), Karaikal, Mahe and Yanam. Puducherry is considered a tourism hotspot.. Over 55 languages are spoken here. Walking down a busy street, one gets to hear snatches of conversation in Tamil, English, French, Telugu, Malayalam, and sometimes even German. Here’s a place where people from all over the world live together, where people reportedly speak French with a Tamil accent (!!!), where restaurants claim to serve Franco-Tamil food, where policemen continue to wear red military-style caps, the French kepis… India’s Little France.

P.S.: If any of you want to see all the pictures, click here. Some of these pictures may appear in future blogs, too.

Gonna be away...

Since I'm now posted in Puducherry, and have barely any access to the internet, I don't think I'll be blogging for a while. Of course, there are internet cafes, like the one I'm in right now, but... I don't like it. It's just not the same as blogging from home, is it?

But I promise a long and photo-rich story on my stay here, as soon as i get back home. That'll probably be around the last week of November.

Till then!

P.S: I'm working in JIPMER. Sounds pretty cool, doesn't it!!
:P

Kid-ding

"I'm going to be away this weekend... Is it OK if I leave T (speaker's five-year old son) here? He just loves playing with you"

In spite of being a speech-language pathologist (well, almost), and 'in spite of being a girl', as some people like to point out, I detest kids. At least, most of them. A lot of my work centres around children; I don't mind children who have problems, but I DO mind those who don't have problems, but behave as if they do. And T is most definitely one of them.

"Why, of course, auntie. He's such a sweet kid. I'm sure we'll have a great weekend. It's no problem at all... Really!" At the same time, I'm thinking, "If I were Pinocchio, my nose would've been digging into lunar soil".

"If you don't mind, S (five-year old girl, T's friend) is going to be here in an hour or so. Maybe she can spend the afternoon with T... You can sit back and watch them play, it's a lot easier for you that way. Just see that they don't get into one of their violent squabbles." With that, she was gone. Leaving me alone with T, with less than an hour to get all breakable things out of the way before S turned up.

As it turned out, the girl wasn't that hard to manage. All I had to do was let her sit on me and kick me repeatedly in the shins. The boy, on the other hand, wasn't satisfied with the rather dull activity of pulling my hair out by the roots. Tiring of that activity pretty fast, he shoved the girl off my lap, stood on me (wearing his Bubblegummers with God-only-knows what unspeakable filth on the soles), and punched me in the face to get my attention (I wasn't supposed to be looking at the girl who was now howling on the floor). "FOOD!", he yelled. Emptying my lap of a boy who was chanting "Food. Food. Food. Food", and careful not to step over the bawling girl, I walked over to the telephone and called my cousin, who had very kindly agreed to take us out for lunch.

We went to one of the 'big' restaurants in town. A very unfortunate decision, as it turned out to be. Our T made a beeline for an elderly man enjoying his fish, and said in a loud, clear voice that carried right ti the other side of the hall, " NEVER eat fish. Fish is yucky. Cheeeeeeeee!" And with his fingers clamping his nose, he ran back to us. The clink of cutlery had suddenly stopped, and I could feel two dozen pairs of eyes focusing on me. Any charitable floor would've opened up and swallowed me whole, but this one didn't and let me enjoy my moment of unadulterated embarrassment.

Luckily, S went back home after lunch. The rest of the day passed quite pleasantly, except for random incidents of hair-pulling, glass-breaking, yelling for no reason... the usual stuff. The kid slept a bit, while I enjoyed myself, using his crayons and his coloring books. Dinner was bearable too, owing to the presence of several older, wiser and stricter adults at the table. I got to read him a story (which I didn't mind at all), answer his "Why?" at the end of every sentence (which got very tiring after a while... I have a rather limited imagination), and then put him to bed. Peace!

On Sunday, we watched a lot of TV... Barney The Purple Dinosaur, Bob The Builder, Clifford The Big Red Dog, Elmo, and, for some reason, Ed, Edd & Eddy, which HAS to be one of the ugliest cartoons ever. My tastes are slightly different from his, but I wasn't going to grapple with a five-year old for the remote. But I wasn't overly enthusiastic about playing board games with him for hours on end. Imagine having to play Snakes and Ladders again and again and again and again and again. And again. AND losing every single time, on purpose, because he's 'still a kid'. Kinda hard on a 20-year old.

That evening, his mom came to pick him up. T bolted out of the room we were playing in and hurled himself at her. "Can we stay here amma? With Neha akka? Please? Please please please please?" That's when I felt a little guilty... The little thing DOES seem to like me, I thought. Aloud, I said, "Why don't you come over next weekend too? We could play with your new water gun (the truth- I wanted to play with his new water gun)..."

"You don't mind? Are you sure? "

"Absolutely. I'd love to have him over." Maybe I mean it. May be.

"Can S come too?" T wanted to know.

Uh oh. "Uhm... Sure, why not... Yes, of course."

T and his mom grin and disappear. I grin too... a weird, twisted grimace. Shaan's song, "Kya karoon, mujhe naa kehna nahin aata" is playing in my head. It's only five days to the next weekend. Only five.

Eye yam back!

Just when you thought this blog was dead... Sorry, folks. No such good luck, I'm afraid. I hadn't been able to post anything for the past couple of months owing to a string of rehearsals, performances and random cultural events at <name of college> , and also owing to certain... er.. 'unavoidable circumstances' (read overwhelming laziness). Anyhow, I'm back now, and hopefully, I'll be slightly more regular a blogger than I have been this far.

Adjusted relationships

"Well, I think you should call her"

I looked at my mom, not fully convinced. Actually, not convinced at all. It was the birthday of my old teacher. Had it been anyone but her, I wouldn't have thought twice before dialling his or her number and trilling "Happy birthday!". But now...

It had been several months since I'd met her. We had parted on decidedly bad terms; she declaring that she'd officially 'kicked (me) out of the Academy', and I vowing never ever to go back to her again, even if she begged me to. I found myself another teacher and she, I suppose, found herself many other students.

I remembered the numerous times she'd yelled at me, reducing me to tears. The ten years I spent training under her were the ten most teary-eyed years of my life. And her last outburst had been the last straw. That's when I decided to quit, for good. That should've been the end of the story. But it wasn't. Mom wasn't going to let that happen.

"You supported me at that time, remember? You were so totally on my side!" I said reproachfully.

"Yes, and I still think you were right to quit. But then, she is your teacher, you know..."

"Was", I mumbled.

"No, is. A teacher always remains a teacher, even if she isn't actively teaching you anymore."

"What, once a teacher always a teacher?"

"Yes! Go ahead. Call her. She made you. No matter how bad you feel now, you do know that she's the reason why you are what you are today. Call. You owe her at least that!"

"Uhm..."

"Well, it's up to you. Your call!" With that she walked out, leaving me alone with my cell phone and my conscience. I sighed. I didn't have enough balance to call from my cell phone. And as for my conscience... Well, I didn't call her. Not right then, anyway.

A week later, I decided I'd rather just grit my teeth and do it, rather than let mom make me feel guilty. And so it was, that I found myself outside her room in school, nervously clutching a cheap bouquet and a Dear Teacher card. I took a deep breath and walked in. I knew from experience that she could raise a frosty eyebrow and ask me to leave her alone. Or worse, pretend she was stone deaf till I walked out of the room. I was prepared for all that.

But what I wasn't prepared was the warm hug she gave me, or the genuine joy that seemed to sparkle in her eyes when she saw my card and flowers. We ended up having lunch together. We had a nice, long chat... Something we certainly hadn't done before. I found her an interesting person, to say the least. The conversation was animated, and I enjoyed every bit of it. It was nearly two hours before I decided to get back home, but before leaving, I promised her I'd visit her, at her place, soon.

It was nearly a month before I could make good on that promise. As I sat in her living room yesterday, eating my way through a plateful of green grapes (something we both love), my eyes fell on a faded, wilted bouquet by the side of the TV. She saw me looking at it and smiled. "I can't bring myself to throw it away", she said. "That's the only thing I received this birthday". As we sat there, smiling at each other in a comfortable silence, I realized I'd found myself a new friend. It's a weird relationship we have. I still learn from her, and she from me, as we keep up a continuous flow of 'gyaan'. Of course, she still doesn't want me back in her Academy, and I don't want to be there either. But friends we are, and, something tells me, friends we shall remain.

You know, sometimes, it really pays to listen to your mom!

Dad's little adventure

Today, my father returned from his pilgrimage to Kailas-Manas Sarovar, and I've been jumping around all day, tremendously escited and delighted to see dad after over a month. Here's what he had to say about his trip, in his own words (well... more or less his own words):


We arrived in Kathmandu at 4.30 in the afternoon, and checked into our rooms. In spite of the heavy rain, we managed to take the Mountain-air flight, which offers a splendid aerial view of the Himalayan range, Mt. Everest included, as it flies past them. As luck would have it, I got the seat right above the wing of the little airplane. However, I got to take a few pictures from the cockpit. It's awesome... Those gigantic mountains seemed intimidatingly close, and breathtakingly beautiful. If anyone had asked me, or any of us, to describe how we felt, the answer would've been "Top of the world...Literally!"

Once we got back to Kathmandu, we went to the Pashpathinath temple. We tried to hire a vehicle to Swayambhunath, but because of the incessant rain, we couldn't do anything but sit around and talk.

The next day, we left the hotel at 3 a.m. and set off towards Nylam, China. We got off at Kodari, a tiny Nepali village on the Sino-Nepal border. After getting our visas, and some sort of laser-stamping on our foreheads, we crossed the Friendship Bridge and walked into China. The land cruisers that would take us to Manas Sarovar were there, waiting for us. It was an extremely hot day, and the road was very, very bad. However, the beauty all around seemed to make up for the sweat, dust and backache- A raging river on one side, and towering mountains on the other.

It was a little past 7 p.m. when we reached cold, rainy Nylam. Seeing that the rooms allotted to us were pathetic, we decided to find ourselves a decent place to spend the night. This turned out to be a lot harder than we'd expected, as none of knew Chinese, and the none of the locals spoke even a modicum of English, let alone any Indian language. But we managed, all right... using a variety of hand gestures, bodily actions and a calculator (to haggle over the room rent).

In the morning, we found that there was no water to bathe in. When we asked the girl at the Reception (we had to mime out our request. It was a little embarrassing, but there wasn't much else we could do), she led us to a tap a short distance away from the hotel. She turned it on. Nothing came out but a deep, gurgling sound. She pointed to the tap, then at her watch, then held up nine of her fingers. Water at 9 o'clock. It was 6 o'clock then! Later that morning, we went for a preliminary fitness trek. We spent the rest of the day climbing, sliding down glaciers and having snowball fights.

The next day, we drove across a blistering desert, past pastures and bleak, featureless plains in the midst of bare, rocky mountains, and reached Saga in the evening. We stayed there for the night. In the morning, we left for Paryang. The drive, scenic but bumpy, was long and tiring. When we reached Paryang, we saw that our rooms were filthy, musty and all but falling apart. There were almost no toilets... It cost me 10 Yuvans (that's like 60INR) to find myself a potty!


We left Paryang at 9. 30 the next morning, and drove to Manas Sarovar. I was absolutely thrilled when I saw the famed Lake and Mt. Kailas. I was surprised too, for I had never even imagined that at the sight of Manas, my eyes would well up, or that my arms would be covered with goose bumps (though that may just be because of the sold, relentless wind). To be there, under the clear sky, surrounded by snow-covered mountains, with the vivid blue lake before me was an experience that simply refuses to let itself be put down in words.

We drove around the Lake once before going to a nearby place called Dolpa. I got to bathe in a hot-water spring, much to my delight. There's another stream here. People say the stars (nakshathra devatas) come down here at dawn to bathe. Everyone says 'miracles' such as this one are very common around here. However, we saw no such happenings. Maybe miracles don't happen in bad weather.

I tried to take a picture of Kailas at sunrise, but it was terribly cloudy. We went to the Lake, performed some pujas, then proceeded to Darchen. The trek around Kailas (parikrama) starts here, at a small doorway right in the middle of nowhere, called Yamadwara.

We were to start our parikrama the next morning. It had been so cold in the night that all the water we had had turned into ice. Even the streams had frozen over. Manas alone remained unaffected, rippling blue in the chilly wind. Almost as soon as we got up, we learned that 13 members of our group (of 40) were ill, four of them critically so. All four had had heart attacks, and one of them had pulmonary edema. They were transported to the Saga hospital in a helicopter, with much difficulty and at an unbelievable price.

Once this was done, we started climbing. We went over 5 km up on the rock-strewn path, past frozen rivers, mountain springs and glaciers. The landscape was bleak- bare and colourless- in an appealing sort of way. At around 24,000 ft above sea level, at seven degrees Celsius below zero, every step ahead seemed a victory, every breath an achievement. Before long, our noses started bleeding. But we ploughed on, intending to reach the first base camp. We knew we wouldn't be allowed to go any further from there anyway, owing to a raging blizzard a little higher up.



We soon met a Swiss group on their way back to Darchen. They told us to turn back too, as it wasn't safe to go on ahead, what with the gusty wind and heavy snowfall, the snow nearly 4ft deep in places. Not wanting to take the risk, we headed back to Darchen. As we couldn't do the actual parikrama, we had to make do with the parikrama of Chhota Kailas, a small shrine made of cloth and string, with three holy rocks in the centre.


The next morning, we woke up to find the village looking like something on a Christmas card- houses, cars, the road... Everything was under a thick blanket of snow. Later that day, we learned that one of our tourmates had died on the way to Saga. We immediately started on our way there, despite the poor visibility. At Saga, we learned that neither cold storage nor a coffin box was available, to preserve and transport the body. All of us were miserable and disturbed. All we wanted was to get back home.

The following day, we drove to the little village on the border. The vegetation here seemed violently green, in contrast to the brown, grey and white of the past few days. I went out to buy some soap. The shopkeeper kept interpreting my actions- repeatedly rubbing my hands over my face- as 'lotion'. Finally, exasperated, she let me in behind the counter and asked me to pick whatever I wanted. I bought a cake of Mysore Sandal Soap (packed in 2003) and a razor. Once I returned to the hotel, I set about the task of getting rid of my new, white beard and making myself look more like the me I was accustomed to.

We arrived in Kathmandu the next day. We visited Mukthinath and Bhakthipur. At last, it was time to go home.

And now we're back... A bunch of middle-aged men and women, badly sunburned, stiff and tired, but happier than ever before. After all, as they say, "East west, home's best!"

Of fairies and farces...

Having pulled out my wisdom tooth, the dentist straightened up, beaming, his own crooked, white teeth gleaming in the afternoon sun. "Here you go!" he held out what was, till moments ago, a part of me- my tooth. "You might want to keep it... Maybe the Tooth Fairy will give you something for it!" he chuckled. I could only glare back in reply. The guy had caused me immense pain, and was now chortling. You don't do that when a fellow human being is in pain. And in any case, Tooth Fairies wouldn't want wisdom teeth.

The Tooth Fairy is, today, probably one of the most loved and most popular fairies. In the United States, Britain, Canada and Spain, she supposedly visits in the night and leaves money or little gifts in return for milk teeth placed under a child's pillow. Nobody seems to know when exactly tales of the Tooth Fairy began, but it was in the early 20th century that this little fairy started gaining popularity. However, the association of teeth with gifts dates back to over a thousand years ago, when Viking children were given a 'tooth fee' when their first tooth grew in. In the nineteenth century, European children often placed their teeth in mouse holes, under kitchen shelves and other such places where their 'Tooth Mouse' might find them. These Mice not only left behing coins and candies, but also made the child's new tooth as sharp as a mouse's!

The word 'fairy' itself comes from the Latin word, fata, which refers to the three mythical women (Fates) who spin the threads of life, controlling all our destinies. Fairies often participated in the lives of mortals... Sometimes helping humans out of sticky situations, and sometimes doling out huge servings of misery. So much so that during the Middle Ages, fairies were blamed for more or less everything that went wrong- from bruises to paralysis to missing babies. By the 16th century, the fear of witches grew to be more prominent, and fairies began to be seen as benevolent and fun-loving creatures. But they still engaged in their share of mischief- upturning trash cans, smashing dishes, and so on.

In July 1918, Elsie Wright and Frances Griffith from Cottingley, England, produced the world's first photograph of actual fairies. The picture showed Frances sitting in a forest with several tiny, winged fairies around her. Though Elsie's father suggested that they had staged it all, the girls swore they'd seen the fairies in the woods, and not just that once.

Elsie's father didn't believe the photos, but her mother mentioned them to her friends, who were rather inclined towards the supernatural. The story spread quickly, catching the attention of many, including that of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of Sherlock Holmes. Doyle and equally interested others consulted several experts to determine if the photographs had been faked. Except that the fairies' hairstyles looked a bit too modern, no evidence of fraud could be found. In 1919, Doyle published an article in the magazine Strand- 'Fairies Photographed- An Epoch Making Event'. While the article fueled much excitement, leading to a heated debate between the believers and the skeptics, the girls surprised the world by coming up with three similar photographs in 1920.

The debate as to whether the photographs were 'real' raged on for several decades. Finally, in the early 1980s, Elsie and Frances both admitted that they had constructed the fairies out of paper and had used hatpins to secure them to tree branches. They said they themselves had been shocked that so many individuals had believed their story. As she said, the pins were visible in a few pictures- and nobody ever noticed!

Kissa kiss ka

I frowned down at the India Today in my hands; the cover story was about the Richard Gere-Shilpa Shetty kiss that's sparked off a huge controversy and has created a lot more ruckus than sanity allows. I mean, come on! It's just one little kiss! Why do the ego-maniacal, self-appointed moral police of our country have to split hair over an issue as trivial as this one? If anyone has the right to complain, it's Shetty herself. Why then, as the cliche goes, are we making a mountain out of a mole hill?

I've often wondered why kissing in public places, or anywhere, for that matter, is condemned with such relish. Aladdin was handed an 'A' certificate by the Censor board. Why? Because of the passionate kiss that Aladdin and Jasmine share on the balcony, right at the end of the movie. Apparently, Indian women don't kiss!!! Saying the word 'sex' aloud is often accompanied by titters and nervous giggles, and even more often, met with throat-clearing and 'Chi!'s and 'Ssshh!'s. Why, people are even against sex education (I'll be airing my opinions on that issue soon)! One teacher wanted condom ads to be banned, as they were instilling 'wrong ideas in the youth'. Talking about sex is a no-no. Because it's just not 'Indian' to do so, you see!

Kamasutra was written right here in India, by an Indian. I haven't read it myself, but if public opinion is to be trusted, it's the most comprehensive sex manual ever. It's here, in India, that we have a temple whose walls are carved with orgies and depictions of the umpteen positions in sex. Yet, when it comes to discussing safe sex, AIDS or even kissing, we're terribly prude. If this isn't hypocrisy, what is?

I always thought the right to express oneself, feelings and emotions included, was universal. It's sad to learn that our 'culture' (the same culture that created the Kamasutra and Khajuraho) represses our freedom of expression.

What kind of an image would Gere have of India now, after being quagmired in our royal cultural mess? What is the world going to think of India, a nation progressing fast on the path to development and modernization, if we continue to adhere to rather medieval values?

If we don't learn to draw a line between being morally right and being ridiculously conservative, we might as well kiss the picture of a 'modern' India goodbye.

"There's someone else..."

The words seem to echo slightly, quickly disappearing into a silence so loud it’s near unbearable. But the words themselves convey nothing to her, just at that moment. He could have blabbered jargon, or recited the first few lines of ‘Jabberwocky’, for all the sense it makes to her. She just stares for a moment that seems to last an eternity, then continues to sip her coffee as she waits for the enormity of what he’s just said to sink in.

Sink in it does, too early to numb the pain and too late to stop him from leaving. Him- her friend, her confidante, her husband. The man that she’d loved… no, worshipped ever since they’d played together in his backyard as five-year olds. He was leaving her now. What is she like, she wonders. Does she know he doesn’t like yellow? That he likes his food slightly on the salty side? She wonders about that other one… Is she pretty? Intelligent? What was it about her that made him break a million promises he’d made?

She frowns as she reaches for the toothbrush in the morning. If your toothbrush is still wet, you obviously haven’t slept much. When she looks at herself in the mirror, she sees a tired face, eyes heavy with tears that refuse to come. A defeated woman, she thinks as she turns away.

She gazes absently at the card on the mantelpiece… the one he’d given her for Valentine’s Day. It was a card that didn’t overdo the mush and yet didn’t underplay the sentiment behind Valentine’s Day. It hits her all over again, like an unpleasant wave, the realization that this time, it’ll be with someone else that he shall have a candlelight dinner; it shall be someone else who gets the red roses.

How could a love so strong have failed? Where did she go wrong? She still remembers the day they’d first met, and the current of love that went through her every time she saw him after that. She remembers the way he’d brushed her hair away from her face, looked into her eyes and said he loved her. She remembers the way he had breathed her name into her hair many a night. Try as she might, she cannot push away these memories. Try as she might, she feels no anger, no jealousy… Just overwhelming fatigue and emptiness. She loves him… Loves him too well, but not wisely. Absent-mindedly, she picks up a blade, and holds it over the pale skin on the inside of her wrist.

Was he worth the pain? Was he good enough to die for? Indecision stays her hand. Should she, or shouldn’t she? She remembers all the happiness he and she had shared together… The number of times they’d been giddy with laughter. She sighs. Life wouldn’t be the same without him, but it would nevertheless go on. The blade is down, for good.

She doesn’t know it then, but for years to come, she continues to wear black, a color he loves. She continues to wear her hair the way he liked. That card lies on the shelf, gathering dust, for years to come.

And those words, those damned words, “There’s someone else” continue to echo in her ears, for years to come.

One mother's story

Case file in hand, I walked out to the patients’ waiting room and called out for (Patient’s Name). A thin, middle-aged woman dressed in a tattered sari stood up. She then pulled the fifteen-year old boy sitting next to her to his feet. One look at the boy, and I could tell that he was severely retarded, and also had cerebral palsy (as a clinician, I know I’m not supposed to make such diagnoses without the appropriate assessments and without administering certain standard tests, but in some cases, one just knows).

Assuming the most professional manner I could, I sat down behind my desk and started asking the mother the usual questions- what the problem seemed to be, whether he could carry out day-to-day activities without any assistance, how he got along with other children, so on and so forth. After scribbling down her answers, I turned towards the boy.

He was sitting exactly as his mother had left him. He seemed supremely unconcerned about the ongoing clinical interview, staring at the ceiling as if it were enormously fascinating. I tried to talk to him, but he paid me no attention. He just sat there, staring and grinning, saliva dribbling down his chin.

“Why didn’t you consult a doctor earlier?” I asked the mother. “Why didn’t you bring him here before? He’s fifteen years old!”

“Ayyo, avva… what do I do? People said I should bring him here, but…” she trailed off, wringing the pallu of her rag of a sari.

I pressed on, “You must have noticed that he’s not like other children his age. He can’t walk, he can’t talk… Why, he hasn’t even achieved bladder control yet! We can help you, but we could have done so much more if he were… say two or three years old.”

She was silent for a while. When she spoke, her voice was hard- “I was hoping he would die. I waited all these years, but he didn’t die. So I brought him here, hoping you could give him some sort of treatment.”

I’d be making an understatement if I said I was shocked. I was enraged, too. Isn’t a mother supposed to be the epitome of love? And here was this woman, waiting for her own flesh-and-blood to die! How cruel! Inhuman! How could she wish death upon her own son?

I had a few (well, more than a few, to be honest) angry words with her. She was his mother, for Heaven’s sake! Didn’t she realize it wasn’t his fault that he was this way? How could she be so heartless as to hope for his death?

She turned away and gazed out of the window, the sheen of tears in her eye. “You wouldn’t understand, avva. I scrub toilets in that private school over there for a living. How much do you think I earn? Close to nothing. I’ve made my children go hungry for days on end.

“My husband comes home once in a while. He’s always drunk. He beats me up, forces himself upon me, then takes all the money in the house and goes away. He comes back only when he needs more money to buy liquor.

“I had eight children to feed, avva. I didn’t want so many sons and daughters. I didn’t want to give birth to the offspring of a man I hated so much. Moreover, I was pregnant so often that I couldn’t work regularly anymore. When I was pregnant for the fourth time, I went and had an abortion without telling him. But he found out. He was very angry, avva… Look! Look what he did!” She held up her left hand… The monster had chopped off her little finger and ring finger! She was now sobbing heavily. “He cut them off, avva… He said it would teach me a lesson. After that, I never objected to anything he said or did. I just didn’t have the strength to!

“But when I was pregnant with my twelfth child- this boy here- I decided enough was enough. My eldest daughter was 14 then, working as a maid. There wasn’t sufficient food in the house to feed even half of us. I didn’t want to bring another child into this loveless marriage. I couldn’t bear to have another child wailing in hunger. I wanted to get rid of him right then. I took some pills; I had heavy bleeding all through my pregnancy. But it didn’t work. I was unlucky, he was born.

“He was a sickly little thing, avva… Thin as a skeleton and his face black as coal. He was scary to look at. The doctor said he wouldn’t live, but he did. He somehow managed to survive. But…

“Look at what I’ve given birth to, avva! Just look at him! What sort of a life is he to have? His father beats him up, hits him so hard that his fingers leave welts on my little boy’s arms. But the poor devil doesn’t even realize he’s in pain! Is he to live this hopeless life, this wretched life of poverty, misery and hunger? I have no money. I don’t have anything to give him, not even food. I can’t bear to see him like this, avva… I just can’t take it anymore!

“You were right. He is my son. But let me tell you, I would’ve wrung his neck and killed him if I had the nerve to do so. Because I love him, and I don’t want him to suffer.”

The story is an old one, but I still felt sick and miserable as I heard her retell the story of thousands of mothers in our country. When would it all end? I wondered. The poverty, alcoholism, domestic violence, sexual abuse, lack of education, the stigma associated with contraception… How does one tackle all these? Where would one begin?

In my happy, fun-filled life, there was no room for such despair or anguish. There was no way I could relate to the pain this woman had endured, and would continue to face. I felt (and still do feel) inadequate, out of my depth. Eyes stinging, I wrote “CERTIFICATE TO BE ISSUED” on the top of the case history sheet. The money from the government might bring at least a little cheer into their gloomy lives.

I promised the woman that we’d do our best to make her son as independent as possible, that we would train him to be able to take care of himself. I told her about the concessions available to him, the facilities he could avail, and the pension he would receive from the government upon procuring the required certificate. And then, chucking all ‘professional etiquette’ out of the window, I walked over to that brave woman and gave her a hug. It was the least I could do.

Frankly, I needed one too.

Misplaced priorities

Indomethacin, isoniazid, methaqualone, metronidazole, misonidasole, n-hexane, nitrofurantoin, parathion, pentachlorophenol, perhexiline, phenytoin, stilbamidine, streptomycin, sulphanilamide, triorthocresylphosphate…

I groan as I bury my face in my hands. I’m absolutely sure I’ll NEVER get those names straight. At least, not in time for the exam tomorrow. I mean, come on!!! Triorthocresylphosphate? Which reasonable person would expect a poor, tired and worn out (anti-chemistry) student like me to remember such stuff?

It’s nearly 3 a.m. I can’t even read my own handwriting anymore. My bed seems to glow softly, invitingly, with a strange kind of iridescence. I then realize it’s my eyes- everything’s a little blurry. I rub my tired eyes frantically and squint at my notes, pushing myself to study. But even as I scan the first line, my fingers creep towards my mobile, all of their own accord. I tell myself, no. I try to pull myself together and do what I’m supposed to do- STUDY!

But it’s too late. The mobile’s in my hand, my disobedient fingers have already typed out an SMS, ‘Up?’, and sent it to half a dozen people. In the next 60 seconds, my phone buzzes thrice. Three friends awake at this ungodly hour. I wonder why. I ask them. There, I’ve started three conversations now.

Quite in vain, I try to juggle SMSes, studies and music. No luck. It dawns on me that I’ve read the same sentence 6 times, without taking in a word of it. A few minutes later, my phone rings. Actually rings. I frown; I never get calls, let alone at 3 in the morning. Perplexed, I look down at that accursed, yet adored phone, to see a much loved name flashing on the screen, little hearts popping all around (both on the screen and in my head :P). I smile, albeit a little guiltily. With a sigh, I snap my book closed, give up trying to organize my incoherent thoughts and resign myself to the inevitable… I reach for the phone.

Triorthocresyl-whatever will have to wait till morning.

Tears can be medicine, too!

We're sitting on a bench, watching a little child playing with a ball. The ball flies through the air; so does the child, valiantly attempting an impossible catch. His chin strikes the pavement, and a moment later, the air is filled with his cries. His mother leads him away, tears still streaming down his face.

My friend turns towards me and asks, "When was the last time you cried?"

"Uhm...", I grope for an answer, "I don't know. I've never bawled like that, even when I was little, even when I was badly hurt. And it's been a while since I cried. Why?"

"No specific reason. I just asked. I was wondering, what makes you cry? As in, why do you cry?"

I wish i knew the answer to that question. I tell him I often cry for no apparent reason. He gives me his typical I-know-you're-crazy look. I just smile, and refrain from elaborating. Guys wouldn't understand!

It's true. When I cry, more often than not, it's impossible to reason out just why i'm crying. Or rather, there's no single cause I can put my finger on. I cry when I'm happy, I cry when I'm sad (duh!). I once sobbed my heart out when I listened to a song I love- a song that brought back some very special, bitter-sweet memories. Not too long ago, I went all teary-eyed because a friend told me just how much I matter to him. I cry when I'm lonely, I cry when I remember the happy times I've spent with my buddies in the past.

As for why we cry, technically, here's the deal.

There are actually three kinds of tears-

Basal tears: These keep our eyes well lubricated

Reflex tears: These are produced when the eye experiences some sort of an irritation- like when we cut onions, or when something falls into the eye

Emotional or Psychic tears: The body's emotional response to something

Crying (I mean shedding psychic tears) is a rather complex process. These tears require an emotional trigger to be pulled. Tears could be a reaction to pain, loss, or anything that one would consider 'emotional'. When emotions affect us, the nervous system stimulates a cranial nerve, which sends the appropriate neurotransmitters to the tear glands. And then- we cry!

The lacrimal gland, which happens to be the largest of the tear glands, produces tears of emotion and reflex. It is believed that in times of emotional stress, the body depends on this gland to release excess amounts of chemicals and hormones, thereby returning the body to its stable state.

We need both laughter and tears to live a happy and healthy life. crying helps in relieving stress, reducing hormone and chemical levels in the body and returning us to a state of calm and peace.

So, you see... Laughter may be the best medicine, all right. But crying's not that bad either!

The dance of life

"Why do you dance?", they ask me.
Why indeed? I don't really have an answer to that question. Or maybe, I don't have any ONE answer.

Try this.

Dance is therapeutic (HEY!!! don't you dare suggest i need therapy). It stimulates both the cerebral hemispheres, provides a workout for the neck, arms, legs, waist and even the eye muscles. For children with cerebral palsy, it's physiotherapy. Language for the hearing impaired, de-stressing play for the autistic, mathematics for the dyslexic. And oh... joy for me.

According to the NATYASHASTRA, an ancient scripture, dance, apart from being a good exercise to increase the strength and flexibility of the body, boosts memory and will power, enhances concentration, teaches music, history and spirituality. It also makes the dancer smarter, sharper, and is excellent for teaching basic math.

The Natyashastra tells an interesting story about the origin of dance. At the beginning of the Dwapara yuga (the era of Krishna and his cohorts), the Gods and their sub-Gods were really bugged. They'd had enough... They were sick of humans, in whom the four vices- kama (lust), krodha (hatred), lobha (greed), eershe (selfishness)-were becoming more and more pronounced. They decided they needed entertainment, to take their minds off the vile creatures, the scum of the Earth.

So they went to Brahma. Yes, the Brahma of too many heads. They pleaded with him to create a fifth veda, one which would both refresh and entertain them. Brahma listened, nodding all four heads. Then, he screwed up his face.. sorry, faces in concentration, and he extracted one element out of each of the pre existing four vedas- text from rigveda, rhythm from yajurveda, music from samaveda and emotion from atharvana veda- and voila! Natya, the Panchamaveda, was created.

This veda, Natyaveda, they called it, was given to Bharatha. He learned dance, practised a lot, mastered it, and even trained his 100 sons (pretty virile guy, eh?). Shiva taught Thandu Thandava, the dance of force and fury. Parvathi taught Ushe laasya (grace). This Ushe married Krishna's grandson, and they settled on Earth. Once thay all got here ('they' includes Bharatha, his 100 sons, Ushe and her husband, and Thandu), they scattered themselves all over the globe, and began spreading the knowledge they had.

Every geographical entity gave their dace form a different name. Fair enough, considering the dance forms themselves varied from each other, owing to the way they developed. Yes, I'm saying Merengue and Mohiniattam, Ballet and Bharathanatyam, Salsa and Sathriya were all once the same.

Well, Bharatha patented the forms of dance that sprouted up in India. Actually, he says he didn't. 'Bharathanatyam' does NOT mean Bharatha's dance. It doesn't even mean Indian dance, for that matter. "Bharatha" is an acronym. Bha- Bhava, Ra- Raaga, Tha- Thaala. Once upon a time, ALL the classical dances of India were Bharathanatyam (all of them... Bharathanatyam, Kathakali, Kuchipudi, Manipuri, Kathak, Odissi and Mohiniattam, and the not-so-classical Chou, Bihu, Sathriya, Koravanji, Yakshagana, Bhagavatha mela, Ummatthaat, and many, many more). But with time, each region developed it's own distinct style, and today, we have a rich cultural variance that is hard to find elsewhere.

In 2 B. C., our Bharatha wrote his book, the Natyashastra. He wrote about the birth of dance, the purpose of dance, how one should dance, for whom one should dance, what a dancer should wear... A rather comprehensive manual, you may say. He even laid down rules regarding who should dance and who shouldn't. He said a good dancer hould be young, strong, quick, eloquent, intelligent, dedicated and must be a good singer, or at least have some sense of music.

More interesting is his description of one who should NOT dance. Here's a rough translation of the sanskrit shloka...
" A person who has green eyes, scanty hair, sagging breasts, thick lips, is too tall or too short, is too fat or too thin, is a hunchback or a bad singer should refrain from dancing".

The earliest dancers were the devadasis. Dance and music were offered to temple deities along with aarthi and flowers, as a form of prayer. When the Turks invaded India, most temples were vandalized and the devadasis were forced to seek refuge in the courts of Maharajas, Sultans and nawabs. They became Rajadasis. With the advent of the British rule, Indian dance suffered a major blow. No temples, no courts either. So the Rajadasis sank even lower. They became 'naach' girls... bar dancers of yesteryears.

Indian dance lay dormant for several years. Then, a small group of dancers, revolutionaries, started performing. They danced out their emotions, they danced to the beat of patriotism. Their dances screamed out against oppression. They carried out their propoganda against the British in the dead of the night, all through dance. They danced out their yearning for a independent nation, thereby becoming an integral part of the Freedom Movement.

After the struggle, dance rose again. The times when the idea of Brahmin girls dancing was considered scandalous were gone. Today, dance has become a hobby for many, a commitment for me. I'm proud to be a part of this country, and this culture. And I find dance to be a way to express my pride and faith.

Besides, dancing is a joy in itself. When you feel the music well up inside you, it spills over. That is dance. When you feel the first drops of rain on your face and embrace the monsoon with outstretched arms... that's dance. When a young child with hearing impairment pirouettes to express his delight, that's dance. Next time you're listening to some rocking music, and your feet begin to twitch, don't let it stop there. Feel the rhythm, let go, and have a good time. Live that glorious moment of abandon. Because dance... is life.

Why do I dance? I dance because I'm alive.

And I'm alive because I dance.

The man who was...

A great man died this day- a brilliant mathematician, a witty conversationalist and a loving grandfather.

My first memory of him is rather blurry. I was three years old at that time, and as far as I knew, he was a magician. Or at least, that’s what he said. He would entertain us (a gang of six young cousins who thought they ruled the world), pulling an endless string of silk scarves out of his pocket, turning his ‘wand’ into a bunch of gaudy paper flowers, and making eggs disappear into thin air. Needless to say, we loved ‘magic thatha’. He was our hero, a treasure we could boast of.

I didn’t learn till much later that magic thatha, who’d been a highly respected and proficient mathematician, suffered from schizophrenia. He’d been in Hyderabad during the Telangana riots; the echoing sounds of gunshots and the sight of mangled bodies everywhere left a scar so deep, his once brilliant mind was crippled, and he was sadly robbed of his sanity.

The disease reduced the once stately and dignified old man into something of a clown. He would dress in lurid shirts with large and bright flowery prints plastered all over, polka-dotted elastic braces holding up his trousers. He always wore a large straw hat with a peacock feather stuck in it, always wore a pair of large sunglasses with a hideous yellow-and-black checkered platic frame, always carried his ‘wand’ with him.

In spite of his eccentric appearance, or perhaps because of it, it was impossible not to love him. He would turn up at our house, hug me warmly and ask, “yaar sollu maa (Tell me, who am I)?” I’d intone, “Sheshu thatha”. “Very good!”, he’d beam, “Pappi kud maa…”. I’d oblige, planting a kiss on his leathery, clean shaven cheek. In return, I’d be richly rewarded with all my favourite chocolates.

He often spoke of Ronald Reagan, who, he claimed, was one of his closest friends. He said Reagan depended on him whenever it came to decision making. For a few months, his sentences all began with “As I was saying to Reagan…” or “Reagan thinks…” or “When I was out riding with Ron (!!!)…”, and so on.

The next time I saw him, he said he was a representative of India at the UN. He was feared by all, and had earned himself the title, ‘The Atom Bomb of India’. He was the one who created Esperanto, and he was working hard to abolish English itself.

Time rolled on. His mind grew feebler and stranger. His visits were unique, each one special. He’d still ask, “Yaar sollu maa?”, and then ask for a pappi. I still received chocolates in return for that one little kiss. The ritual remained the same, the hat and the glasses remained unchanged. But otherwise, it was like having a new grandpa every few months.

He was a doctor, a bureaucrat, a nuclear scientist… The list was endless. I began to see more sense behind the question he asked me every time. Who WAS he? I barely knew him!

Schizophrenia took away the coherence of his thoughts and removed him from reality. He could no longer relate things or events. But what remained untouched was his zest for life, his sense of humour and his loving heart.

His health began to fail; he was no longer able to visit us. I’d write him letters… Letters I didn’t know he loved so much as to preserve them, carefully filed. The day came when he had to be admitted to a hospital. I went to see him there, but he didn’t recognize me any more than I did him. I wondered who he was now… an architect? A professor? A politician? I stared, and all I could see was the wonderful grandfather who had somehow managed to teach me more than one would believe possible, in a way that I can’t describe.

My magic thatha was gone. I gave him one last pappi. Only this time, there were no chocolates.

I'm here!

Last night, as I was checking out the blog of a very dear friend of mine, I was seized by a sudden and rather reckless urge to create my own blog. Of course, I’d had random thoughts about this before, but I’d never taken myself seriously. Till now. So, here I am, making my debut in the world of blogs. Hope I manage to stay afloat!