If I were a Pious and a Passionate Hindu….

   Devotion is an often misconceived notion. This misinterpretation is more complex when one is religiously passionate. If I were one of those extremely zealous Hindus, this is what I would identify with.

If I were a devout Hindu:

  • I would exhibit tolerance, for that is the very essence of my religion.

Hinduism is an age old religion that has survived the destruction of the ages and the ravages of the centuries. Like every other ancient religion, it inculcates truth as the ultimate goal of this journey on earth. How does one share this journey with numerous other living souls? It is through the practice of tolerance/ resilience.

It means that as a constantly evolving species, humans have the willingness to accept the meaningful existence of other religions, opinions, disagreements, and behavior-which also includes food choices.

  • I look upon all creatures equally; none are less dear to me and none more dear.

                                                                                             Bhagavad Gita 9.29

If I were a zealot flaunting my religion with utmost pride, I would remember the above words from the holy text and understand that in the presence of the Supreme light, every living organism is one. I would bear in mind that as per the teachings, the soul travels from one living form to another and my time in this physical form is but limited.

I would also remember that among my fellow humans there is none superior and there is no person who is of less importance whatever caste, creed or race he may be.

  • I would believe in the Freedom of Expression

I would comprehend the two forms of expression namely: Swatantrata (freedom of expression) and Swachandata (the freedom of unruly expression) and embrace the former. I would believe that every individual has the rights to express- through music, dance and through the various forms of art. I will not let my ego get offended when my thoughts are not in unison with the views and opinions of others (artists).

  • Yatra naaryasto poojyantay, ramantay tatra devata

(Where women are honored, there the Gods are pleased)

Manusmriti 3/56

If I had the ardent love for my religion, I would summon into my mind, time and again; that women are the opposite sex and in no way inferior. I would also bear in mind that a collective vibration of disdain can devastate a thousand low vibrations and I would refrain from adding to the contributing force to bring about that disdain.

 

In conclusion, one of my favorite Vachanaas ( a form of poetry) by Basavanna, a poet, a sincere reformer and an honorable statesman:

“What is the use of your learning and erudition?

Where is the proof of your claim to be high born?

You are a blacksmith if you heat,

You are a washerman if you beat,

A weaver if you lay the warp,

A brahmin if you read the scriptures.

Is anyone in this world born through the ear?

Therefore, whoever realizes the divine nature is high born.”

-Basavanna, Vacana 589

The Feminine Gender- An Anecdote

The Feminine Gender- An Anecdote

‘Mamma, please open up,’ she cried. She stood right outside the nest that was once hers. ‘What is the matter, dear?’ comes the reply. ‘I am exhausted, mamma. I feel my wings are beginning to weaken. I doubt my capabilities. I want to return here, to feel safe and joyful all over again. I would never have flown if I knew I was to live by myself’. A long silence follows. She knows she has to leave.

‘Mamma, oh mamma’ she sounds baffled. ‘How do I choose the right mate? They all do their best to impress. How do I find the right him to raise my kids? I need some time to think. Please let me in, for a night mother, please’, she pleads. The noise of the strong winds is all she hears, and into the dark, she flies.

‘Mother dear, I brave the heat and winds, rain and fog from dawn to dusk to build a home. It has been several days now. There seems to be no end. Will I ever get to finish in time? Please open up, just for today’. She knows what is to follow. She flies back to the place she will soon call her home.

‘Mamma dearest; with open eyelids I stand guard, protecting the yellow eye, through darkness and light. It has been days since I left home. My anxiety escalates every passing day, what if I fail? What if a predator nears? Please come with me just until dawn’. Solicitude hits the mind, and she takes flight.

‘Mamma most beloved, over the hills and far beyond I fly for a few morsels to feed the tiny mouths. In peace, they lie, but I have forgotten to feed myself. Can you feed me just for today?’ She intended to solicit sympathy, but her attempts go in vain. She realizes she is now a protector herself.

‘Sweet mother, they fear; they fall; they are anxious. I tend to their wounds all night.  It pains to see the scars on the tiny bodies. The heart never wants them to learn flying. The spirits are high and the heart bursts with pride, but melancholy hits at the thought of an empty nest. Can I hold onto you just for tonight?’ All she hears is the sound of a distant cry. She returns to her soon-to-be empty abode.

“My precious mother, how do I control my emotions?” she sobs. ‘I was tired of teaching and tending. Now that they have gone, I feel lost. The home is empty, and so is the heart. There is no love around. Relief, I thought I would have, but what a paradox. The dawn seems to have no purpose. Will I ever survive mamma?’ She knew what is to follow, but her heart longed for some consolation.

She is about to take flight when the overly familiar loving voice interrupts “Darling baby, when you play the role of a nurturer and protector, doubts frequently appear. But these apprehensions should seldom break you. Remember, you are beyond fear, and the only hindrance on your path is the lack of confidence. Hold onto the strength you had, when you first flew from here. As long as we breathe, we all need mothers, but when you play that role yourself, you have to put up a courageous face. You are anything but ordinary, baby.  Go now, it is your turn to face anxious questions.”

‘But mother dear, can you pamper me just for tonight? Who else can I ask for?’ The sound of the dark is all she hears.

The Merry Islanders and their Canaan

chimney-island-richard-de-wolfeIslands and their inhabitants have a charm of their own. Parting ways with the mainland did not just help the farming thrive; it had a benefice effect on the humanness too. Islanders are a content and a harmonious lot finding tranquil in their piece of land- that kind of serenity that is contagious to every sapiens that sets foot there.

Look into their faces, and they flash the most benevolent of smiles. Over the ages, they have stayed away from the bug called stress and have developed a strong immunity to it. Life is laid back there; perhaps it has to do with the lazy oceans that spread the calm. The kind of serenity that is innate to the beds of the sea.

The people are probably unruffled like the waters, the low crime rates here being a testament to that. How often do we read about acts of horrendous crime on the islands? Almost never.

A heavenly retreat for those seeking refuge, an island/isle/ islet- no matter what you call, offers much more than solace for those who can connect to it. A land of enchantment for the adventurous, an Arcadia for those seeking tranquility- an island has yet another synonym- The Elysium (the place where celestial beings live)

An Ode to My First Teacher

An Ode to My First Teacher

There once lived an old man. He was tall, fair and handsome. His warm smile and the sparkle in his eyes instantly lit up even the most somber of people. He looked frail, even from my early memories. He is my first teacher.

There once lived an old man. He taught for a living. I learnt my first rhymes and songs from him. I also learnt about animals and birds, plants and flowers. He taught me my manners and disciplined me. Most importantly, he taught me the power of a prayer. He is my first teacher.

There once lived an old man. He was an epitome of selflessness. Kindness and compassion were always visible in his eyes, always; until the moment they shut permanently. Every living soul he encountered was treated with atmost respect. ‘There is a God within each one of us’ he would say. He is my first teacher.

There once lived an old man who read to me on most evenings. Many a cold evenings were spent in the warmth of his embrace. Those evenings are the fondest memories from my childhood and it is in that cozy room of his, that I learnt many a life’s lesson. I was special to him. He is my first teacher.

There once lived an old man who braved Parkinsons and wobbly limbs to pay me regular visits in my boarding school. ‘I am proud of you’ he would say, after a short meeting with the head of my alma mater. He is my first teacher.

There once lived an old man who turned out to be my biggest mentor through my adolescence. ‘Remember no matter the height of the tide, your strength will help you sail through’, he would say. I looked onto him as my role-model. He is my first teacher.

There once lived an old man, who always reminded me to stand by my ideals. ‘You are a woman; people are never going let you grow. You will be expected to do things beyond your competence. Don’t give in. You are precious. When you believe in something, stand up for it’, he once advised, shortly after I entered college.  He was my philosopher who was far liberal for his times. He is my first teacher.

There once lived an old man whose intellect slowly deteriorated as days progressed erasing the memories of his life completely lived. Through the many bouts of forgetfulness, his lessons deluged. ‘You all are not here to live in another man’s shadow. No man on earth is worthy of a woman’s sacrifice’, he once mumbled to a group of his descendants. He is my first teacher.

There once lived an old man who breathed his last with the infectious smile still on his lips. However, he failed to fathom his memories would forever haunt his youngest and favorite grand-daughter. He is my first teacher and forever will remain my demigod.

A tale of a Compassionate Healer

A tale of a Compassionate Healer

The year was 1984. On a warm summer afternoon, when bougainvilleas lent their chromatic intensity to a quaint hill town, a young and intelligent couple visited the most sought after medical practitioner in their small town with their 9-month- old in tow.

That evening, when the vast majority of the town settled for their afternoon tea, the woman wept, for the worst of her fears just came true. She was torn as guilt took over her mind. The presence of an incipient embryo in her womb was just confirmed.

Hasty decisions were made as the dusk painted hues of crimson on the azure canvas. ‘Technically there is no life within you as yet,’ the man tried to make sense picturing what could be a mass of cells (blastula is the jargon used) within his lady’s belly. The same place the precious infant in his hand took shape.

In the cold office that was occupied by the doctor overlooking the valley, opinions were conveyed. In the sixty minutes that followed, the physician with premature grays and the most ethereal of smiles talked them out of the folly. He convinced them that they would be the most excellent architects of their child and the one that was to arrive.

Episode of the Birth

The following spring, on an unusually cold night, the woman developed cramps in the lower belly, a good three weeks ahead of the said date. After what seemed like an unending agony, she slowly drifted into a trance.

The sharp clamor of a plunging utensil transferred her back from the morphine-induced chaotic world that she had drifted into. Starring into the ceiling and looking around, she swallowed a shriek when her eyes caught sight of what lay in the crib beside her.

‘She is healthy, but her head is 16 inches long and her body 18 inches. She had to be pulled out with the forceps; you must be aware of it’, it was the comforting voice of her mother. She wanted to let out a wail. ‘The doctor is making calls to his colleagues; he will be here soon.’

She could not shut the cacophony in her mind. What will come of a woman with an extended head?

She is going to be a laughing stock. Will treatment, if any cause injury to her brain? Her ambiguity persisted as she tried to speak, but she ran short of words.

Blasphemy?

In a short while, the physician arrived. ‘I tried calling more than a dozen of my colleagues. I am baffled now’. And then he did something that was considered blasphemous to the medical fraternity. He called for the local woman, in her 70s, who specialized in natural medicine. This woman belonged to the same community of the newborn, and hence the 50 odd people gathered in the corridors of the missionary-run hospital agreed to summon the natural therapist.

For the adept healer, the task in hand was a piece of cake. ‘It will take a few hours. I will repeatedly stroke her scalp cautiously and let’s see if there is an improvement’. The old woman then settled down to work, hoping for the best.

As she promised, in a few hours the length of the head reduced significantly. ‘It is going to take a month or two of continuous massages, twice a day, for the head to get to a standard infant size and shape,’ she announced to the now swelling crowd.The mother smiled for the first time in 12 hours.

Of Strong bonds and friendships

The parents raised their two daughters giving them everything. They faced the usual tribulations of hospital visits and hospitalizations with their girls. In the years that followed, the physician, now a celebrated person in the town formed a remarkable bond with the little girl.

From saving her from certain grave congenital abnormalities to running to her rescue through the bouts of temperature spikes, he made sure he was her prime attendant. He made exceptions for her, like home visits that he otherwise did not encourage owing to his hustling work hours.

On the days the little girl was hospitalized (which was too often), he would discharge his duties for the day and visit her in her room, and that was two chambered cottage overlooking the garden in full bloom. They spent their evenings playing with the buds of Morning Glory or just walking around the garden.

He would tell her stories from the faraway land, where he grew up. He would show her the presence of ‘other kinds of God’, the ones she was entirely unfamiliar with. He would tell her many tales that her five-year- old mind would fail to comprehend and would let slip.

The little girl’s fondest memories include conversations by the fireplace exchanged between her granddad and the doctor, both benevolent souls with similar looking black bifocals. She would not forget the clinking of the Chinaware or the aura of orange peels as they melted into the decoction, the smiles, and hugs that were exchanged between the two men and the way she sat perched on either of their laps.

Chapters do End

On a rainy day, the little girl now almost ten, moves to a boarding school. In a few months, the old doctor decides to return to his soil. He leaves her a goodbye note with his contact details. But the ten-year-old mind of a boarder had far more important things to process.

In her teens and early adulthood, memories of the man who played the Godfather in her life would brighten her days. The sight of Morning Glory in full bloom, the clinking of Chinaware, the aroma of citrus-laden tea, brick fireplaces, stones strewn pathways, thick framed black bifocals- the memories live on.

My Space

It is the belief and notions of the human populace that drives the world. The inhabitants of every region of the globe are accustomed to certain presumptions and speculations that are sometimes reliable, but largely uncertain.

This space is meant to document the opinions that I am entitled to- from politics to parenting and everything in between. Did I mention, I could get a little creative too?