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!
Monday, April 30, 2007
Friday, April 20, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
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.
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!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)