The kiss of spring

The house that I recently moved to stands at the junction of a street crisscrossing the road. My house is located in an uncluttered, orderly suburb, discernible with the other known suburbs in the city. However, I am not sure whether it qualifies for a 'top' suburb. Neither do I mind much about qualifiers. Lined with comfort cottages, bordering on red tiled roofed period houses, the suburb road and the streets are lush and lavishly green - the trees throwing in together heralding spring.

When I moved into this part of the city, the trees, imposing and colossal, stood stark-naked avouching the shift in the seasons. It was winter then, receding reluctantly in time. Walking on the road and sometimes the different streets, cushioning the suburb, in the final winter month, I could feel the nature's nakedness with the blue expanse of the sky scrutinising and searching all that colluded beneath, our suburb's spartanism. It was an amazing experience watching the wintry sky, the buttery sun burning soft on the skin.

I had few companions walking their dogs. The pavements were mostly deserted, our road hardly witnesses hustling traffic with few swishing by to evade the expressway traffic as much as they can. The grass patches, hemming in the tree trunks, were mostly slush and sterile. Only the cars parked on the streets, zoomed into indolence. The houses, too, gave into the arms of Morpheus. For the first time in years, revisiting my memories back to a country where I lived for a while, I was face-to-face with human activity similarly shrouded into seclusion. But for now, winter has withdrawn not to be back until next year.

Like our rooms, the trees and its branches were sitting tight, the wilderness laid into waste. On my regular walks down the road to the grocer's and public transport, I used to look up into the early spring sky wondering when shall we witness the trees teeming with life, emerald in colour. The silence of the suburb has already been sweetened by the balmy scent in the weather. I am starting to look forward to the walks, but making no sign of haste as the fresh morning rimy air has delayed the season's prime.

The magic spell did arrive albeit a little late. The thin spray of the sultry breeze has put a stamp on our suburb's environs. Spring has arrived. Leafy throughout, the road and the streets has sprung up flourishing. The liquidambar trees, traditionally found in old English gardens, makes for a blue-green embroidery on our suburb's fabric and fora. Entwining and clinging, the leaves swell in the first flush of the morning. In spring, small spherical heads of tiny green flowers appear, and the blooms are inconspicuous, they are followed by distinctive, spiky, woody seed capsules.

Raw and rousing, the foliage of these trees spread out all embracing, kissing. The nature's first kiss of the season, so fresh and ethereal. Spring is truly the tonic of our innate intelligence, refreshing and renewing. Walking down the road, I feel lively but civic decency bars me from going wild. Else, I would have hopped, skipped and jumped on my way down the lonesome road beneath the rich green mural. These days as I look up to snatch a glimpse of the bright spotless sky, the towering trees embraces me abysmal. The sun rays, seeping through the palmately lobed leaves, pecks on my cheeks warm.

The clouds and the rains, propping up in between, are not pleasing and they do not even greet with good grace. 'Perfection' in entirety, I believe, is just an overtone of being 'phantasmal'. Amazing are the moments only when we cultivate the 'spring' burgeoning in the pink and prime of life. 

The cruise cut loose

Loading, unloading and reloading - in a nutshell, this has been my life since the last two years. Mostly jarred although I did my best to play the game. How much tranquiled was I on the track? Honestly, not much. Often bootless. I was gradually made aware of the flurry about to come down with full force. Surprisingly, I was unprepared for the turn my life had laid out.

While moving in and out, I collected my furs and furniture, casks and crockery, books and baggage, gems and gadgets. What I left behind are the boutiques and the bakery, the lounge and the luncheonette, the banks and the bookshops, the groceries and the galleries. Nevertheless, the personal trusting and the thistle got a pruning. Memories from these movements are like seeds, when randomly dropped, sprouts in our own sunshine to sunflowers. I could not discount the darkness though.

The silence in the anguish flashed back like dusk before darkness. We carry our pains, heavy as a heartbreak, sustaining the emotional intelligence while leaving indelible impressions behind. These have been so true to my life. Even to this day, I acknowledge transporting the agony within though some medication has muted it to an extent. But the memoirs come with the permit from the mind. Never to be erased. 

My connections with most humans have been cold. Some happened to be by chance, casual, not complete. Conversations, from myself, blew like a mist through the mountainous landscapes. Crickets, as in relations and acquaintances, make a lot of noise. We can hear them but cannot see them. When we pass by them they become quiet. Then there are shields people put on. Opaque to innocence, the lapping waves of my deep churning crashed against the steep cliffs and the times uncounted for. With time, a state of calmness, marked by ceaselessly rolling waves, shaped my final movement.

Nature is naked. It crowns us with charm. No wonder nature is healing, happy and handsome. Cruising through nature as in life, I never had the option to choose my cabin. The anticipation of not knowing what I'm going to see upon entering it, or what incredible panoramic ocean views my eyes should watch out for has always abandoned me drifting, disconnected. Nature wends with measured steps - some facile, some labyrinthine. My life's cruise is purposefully rough, testing the spiritual strength forever. Unleashing it into the mystic world of the waters, only to be soaked in an immersive experience, my self-assurance has now dissolved in a fleetingly light fuzz of sweetness, sharp and spiteful.  

A weekend eavesdrop expedition

“It's the way to educate your eyes. Stare. Pry, listen eavesdrop. Die knowing something. You are not here long” - Walker Evans.

Recently I was out travelling to a well-known spot in the city outskirts mostly frequented by families of shoppers. I had been there many a times before but every time I make a trip to the place I yearn to go back only for the colossal presence that opens up before me bit by bit. The master planning and the conceptual planning of the site is indeed astounding. 

 

My real intent of sojourn, in the course of my recent trip, was as aimless as ever. It was a late afternoon. The sun was warmer on the back and a light breeze fanned the lush leaves of the huge tropical trees and the motley paper lanterns lining the street of the site. I wheeled around the neat manicured vast landscape, dropping in for a brief moment at a local ice cream parlor for a vanilla scoop, with my senses disjointed and the walk moderated by the sight of the colourful weekend crowd, young and old, eating out, shopping either at a pell-mell or leisurely pace. People, in general, were in cheer except for few kids who howled for reasons best known to them. The mood was an upbeat one, the sauntering effect of a long weekend brought upon by a local festival, and the air was drunk in smoke, beers, laughter and popular folk music drumming out of bistros and cafes.

Sinking onto a roadside steel bench, after an hour or so, slowly reeling in the sightings around, I found company. The company, a young couple who I later found out to be professional mates, was physical but mine was virtual. I eavesdropped their conversation in halted English. The man, sporting Mediterranean features and accent, was tall, fair and in mid 30s dressed in a tee and cobalt blue jeans and tennis shoes. The lady in bare minimal make-up, an Asian elder to her mate, had jet black straight hair dressed in a laced see-through white shirt paired with black leggings and cheap flowery sandals.

The couple, waiting for a hop-and-skip bus or so was my wild guess, kickstarted a conventional conversation on professional jugglery. Only then did it dawn on me and the way they addressed each other that the young couple were professional acquaintances. The droll moments were just beginning to unravel.

"I wish I could make 10 million (in the local currency) every year and retire happily in a posh neighbourhood buying myself a small property," reflected the lady in her singsong voice. "An engineering degree does not fetch us far."

The man piped in "Oh, I see you have a dream buying yourself a property. Good and I do understand because you travel a lot you said." He sighed and started again, "My life takes a routinely affair - I have to be ready by 9:00am for office, come back to the house by 5:00pm and then switch on the television for half-an-hour before I go in for a shower, sit down to study for a couple of hours before the house-mates drop in and by 9:00 we all have dinner together, watch soccer on television and I'm off to bed by 10:00pm. I am hardly a night person, you know."

"So when do you finish your thesis?" asked the lady. The man was pursuing his Ph.D on some subject, which remained undisclosed during the conversation, that was supposed to be completed in six months' time.

Also, he turned out to be a bachelor shuffling his life between office and research papers and happened to share a flat with others to pay off a big rent which is a perennial problem in international cities. I inferred there was some, hidden in the colloquy, domestic help that prepared the meals, did the dirty dishes and laundry and cleaned the house.

The man seemed at ease with his life, loved his routines and did not wish them to be disrupted. However his one-time sigh put me in a tight corner - was he happy with the way his life stretched out or feigning, but only for a moment, to be in his mate's shoes whose life was far more enterprising?

He certainly did not earn much as on date. The lady did and her accounts gave me a vivid picture. "Right now I have rented out a small apartment all by myself. My entire day and evening is spent inside the office or on business tours, and the nights either at home or hotels. On weekends I do my laundry, iron my office clothes and cook."

"Do you have a washing machine to help you wash your clothes?" asked her mate. "Oh yes, otherwise I'll be lazy to do them by hand, you know," chimed the lady. To me, she aired a sense of self-dependence that was distinctly absent in her male counterpart. Did the frequent business travels from one city to another helped shape her self-sufficing nature, I pondered, or any other inherent reason that were clearly not a part of the conversation?

I am not sure whether both worked in the same company but their language of professional discussions hinted coming from a similar educational discipline - engineering. "One of my friends, you know, lives in Bangkok, but spends quite a considerable amount of her professional time in Dubai or Abu Dhabi and her working hours are not that stretched," quoted the man. "She works for an oil and gas company, earning big time with lots to spend at and takes breaks in between going to big places for holidays."

"Yes, oil and gas industry pays well," said the lady. "Oh it would have been nice to work for one 'coz of its big benefits." "Ah, I see, you aim for that property you spoke about," laughed the man. Sitting side by side I was not able to see their faces but gauged the lady's embarrasment for the way her dream was spoken of. She echoed, "No, no I was just kidding you see."

No bus did arrive, the couple continued in gaiety, and with the evening settling in I wished to hop into a taxi on my own. The idea just struck in me but put into implementation by the man beside me. A taxi drove along and the man jumped into the street, waving his hand to stop by, started giving directions to the driver on the route to his destination. The driver conceded and the couple, after a cordial hug, separated going their own ways - the man got inside the taxi and the woman walked off. I understood she lived closed by in the neighbourhood.

I waited, all alone on the bench in the pink hours of the twilight, for another taxi to come by.

“If money is your hope for independence, you will never have it. The only real security that a man can have in this world is a reserve of knowledge, experience and ability” - Henry Ford. The woman, though independent and earning, based her educational degrees in search for further material comforts not satisfied with the present means of sustenance. The man, dependent on others for his domestic trappings, exuded a sense of calm and comfort in his not so happening life. His talks, though, never charted into the future life imagery. He accepted his daily life as it came along.

I wonder how a short trip to a nearby known turf would open a Pandora's box for me revealing human traits that define a city in which we live - the standards of its living, the issues that ails its common man and the affordable solutions that follow. The eavesdropping, not fair at all times, also aided my thinking capacity - the same city which we share at the same time responds to people differently outlining their attributes to life on a palatte that comes in varied sizes and an array of colours. Few take it safe and content while the rest wallows in the fear and insecurity precipice.

Red with rage

"Sri Krishna said: O Arjuna, There are three gates leading to the hell — Lust, Anger and Greed. Every sane man should give these up, for they lead to the degradation of the Soul."

"Sri Krishna said: O Arjuna, One develops attachment for the sense objects by thinking about the sense objects. Desire for sense objects comes from attachment to them, and anger comes from unfulfilled desires."

"Sri Krishna said: O Arjuna, Delusion or wild idea arises from anger. The mind is bewildered by delusion. Reasoning is destroyed when the mind is bewildered. One falls down from the right path when reasoning is destroyed."

"Sri Krishna said: O Arjuna, Those who are free from anger and all material desires, who are self-realized, self-disciplined and constantly endeavoring for perfection, are assured of liberation in the God in the very near future."

"Sri Krishna said: O Arjuna, Pride, arrogance, conceit, anger, harshness and ignorance—these qualities belong to those people who are of demoniac nature."

This is what the Bhagwad Gita says on "anger".

It is but rational that every human being falls into the anger trap. And I am no exception. I admit that some of it is inherited from paternal genes. As one grows up especially when the euphoria of adolescence embraces delirium all worldly sense gets derailed. With the budding of youth, life is at the crossroads - awkward and riotous. The booby trap of anger is cavernous enough for a free flat fall. Realisation of rationale dawns at a time when you find yourself to have missed the bus long gone. You mellow down to a life not cherished with acquiescence.

 

Is flushed with rage worth? Over the years with age beckoning maturity, I realised my physical strength dissipated at a horrendous speed after a deadly brawl sucked in rage. That left me spiritless for days together and clueless when conducting activities that needed utmost zeal. I even lost my appetite for food and roamed around the house in unkempt hair. Surprisingly my lips got sealed for hours right after the raging episode. What sapped me most was lack of concentration on any book I read or any activity I carried out that needed mental vigour. I acted silly, taking stride of my pride hurt, exaggerating on an imaginary victimhood. Eventually I got myself doused in depression.

 

Now when I turn my thoughts to those volatile fuming episodes I find them utterly capricious and graceless. That was certainly not me. No oddity in guessing your instincts correct once smitten.            

 

As changing seasons caress and make love to the nature regaling her with a sense and spirit so do age and actions leave man, from buoyant youth to maturing grey, in bare introspection. I consulted my family doctor - the first steps were embarrassing but the next ones were easy. Speaking out helped. At every time I became angry at the behest of someone else's actions or words I started writing down in my diary: what was the issue, the settings that made things go wrong, what was my stance and continued inventing words and lines on paper until I found the tide inside me ebbing. On top of it my love for travel acted as a fillip in rejuvenating my senses. Long walks to the nearby gardens or the city library and lakes, bookshops and bistros, spa and salon brought back the laughter in my life.

To me travelling and reading, the dear choices I have made in this life, conditions the frail nerves a lot. I have observed and felt strongly that on many a passages, while meeting strangers and re-living their established routines that are in no ways different from what I travel through, my resilience to endure the tests of time take roots that are profound; bit by bit etching into my anger and arrogance, pride and parsimony and sulk and suspicion.

"Travel makes one modest, you see what a tiny place you occupy in the world" - Gustave Flaubert.    

I also know people who enjoys cooking or swimming or watering flowered pots or shaking a leg when their blood boils. Trust me these pills act perfect.

It is easy to address but hard to act. Anger is such a demonic constraint in our everyday lives, accentuated in cities and corporate spheres that can harm not only a man's senses but also pollute a soul. With my own experiments I have found that forgiveness ushers humility to one's character. Anger in a way is weighty in nature. One cannot do away with burdens overnight but only with patience and perseverance. In many cases I still have miles to walk and really unsure of the extent of chagrin within when life throws the gamble at you - there are no definite solutions or thumb rule to follow. To remain calm inside is a hard choice to make but we have to adapt and adhere to it strongly. Yoga and meditation, as in detoxifying agents, swab a handful of mental clog.

The outward manifestation of cheer, through physical journeys to distant lands or mental journeys through the pages of a book, is but an inward reflection of a mind, body and soul in contemplation. Dag Hammarskjold justly said that "The longest journey of any person is the journey inward."

 

Bookshop fables

Belonging to a kaleidoscopic nation gilded in culture and traditions, food and festivals, humanity and hospitality, I am but natural akin to love books, cherish and cultivate art and literature. More so when it has been handed down to you from one's parents who takes delight in reading. 

 

In my childhood it was a monthly ritual for my father to take me to his friend's brother's bookshop "Katha - o - Kahani" at College Street in north Calcutta. College Street is every book lover's sanctuary. Hundreds of big and small bookshops and publishing houses dot the narrow lanes and bylanes of the old part of the regal city gracefully sealing approvals even to the meagre booksellers to lay out their limited yet assorted treasures on the shrunken pavements lining the College Street. The archaic buildings of the University of Calcutta, the quaint Coffee House, colleges and administrative offices gave the Street a labyrinthine setting resplendent with a glorious past.

 

Tales of the Coffee House confabulations, that was similar to “Foro Romano”, where who's who of the Calcutta politico-literary circle gathered over cups of coffee and tea, sandwiches and snacks and a comradely smoke for meetings and interactions, debates and discussions are now retro profusely narrated inside and out by literary zealots. 

 

I remember the times when I was sent inside the brightly lit standard sized bookshop with my father leaving strict instructions to his acquaintance to look over me while he ventured out on his errands. Barely aged six or seven and steadily holding onto a piece of paper which I had taken extreme pains to copy the authors and books from newspapers and magazines or overheard in school parleys, I would hand it out to one of the shop's assistant who bade me to sit on wooden stool in a remote corner out of the active shop entrance passage and vanished with my dear list.

It had to be a long day and my father's friend's brother engaged me with Russian fables, Thakumar Jhuli, Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl, Asterix, Goldilocks and Rudyard Kipling, blank pages and crayons to get me started. He was magnanimous to order sandesh from the adjacent shop every time I visited. I was a quiet child and do not think I ever caused any alarm on a busy business day of the bookshop. I found myself contented enough to gaze at the neatly stacked shelves, the fingers of the assistants running through the lines briskly picking up the author or publisher they were shouted at over the counter. The smell of the fresh hot off the press pages of a book and the old coat of the paint of the bookshelves was fetching - the musty young odour hung in my senses for long.

Growing up I was given a free hand to go through the pages of any new book I laid my hands on in the shop or any title or author that caught my fancy. With age I could freak out to other bookshops in the vicinity, peak inside the dimly lit printing houses on the College Street and linger for hours on a book at a store on which I have laid my heart on but budget did not comply.

One of my college friends was very good at bargaining and that is a skill you need to fiercely manifest while buying any good from a peddler on the streets of Calcutta and unfortunately that I was not blessed with. My friend hugely helped me procure some gems, although second-hand, at prices beyond my imagination easing the burden on my pocket. Till this day I owe her (my friend) gratitude beyond words as she used to travel through the traffic snarls of the north part of the city from down south accompanying me just for my cause.  

My parents never said "no" to any book I wished to possess but of course they delimited a sum that I could spend on books in a month. I was as happy as any child could be when given a candy and more so my parents readily indulged as I had no other wish to yap at.

Many years have passed by then, with each changing city and country my local bookshops swapped one for the other. The lanes altered, the landscapes expanded, I read more authors unknown of  in the pre-internet days, hobnobbed with new publishing houses but the charm of delving deep into the chock-full and colourful lines of a book shelf at a store is riveting even to this day.

I admit that over the years the world changed for better and worse and so did our books, publishing houses, our writing style, our reading habits and our snippety book-learning habits. Today I am really not surprised to see the veneer of the bookshops with all its ostentatious decor, swanky coffee places, jazzy audiobook corners, richly hued wallpapers, lucent kids' corners replete with books, glitzy stationery, stuffed toys and shelves done in bold colours jammed with books from moneyed publishing houses. The cacophony of the trade in these mega bookshops is more pronounced than the clairvoyance that germinates from the pages of a book that a shelf is so proud of. Mushrooming e-book business start-ups, with limitless choice and discounted prices on offer, also have led bookshops to lose their gloss.

There are small towns, till to this day, housing Gothic contoured neat and painted bookshops intact. What is more surprising is that here we end up reading books in death of silence and get to know of small time publishers devoid of any advertising blitzkrieg. Often I have found Doric paintings shielding the sodden plaster peeling-off walls of such treasure houses.            

 

"The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page" - Saint Augustine. Our journey into the edification of the bodhi is often in the lookout for the bathhouses of tome. The pus from the pen on the paper is just what a soul needs for prescience and prudence. There is nothing else to prove.   

The way we paint life

What can be more beautiful and laid-back to start 2015? Happyily recoiled on my sofa with a mug of hot chocolate in one hand and a good book in the other. I am talking of my present close knitted affair with "The Snow Leopard" by Peter Matthiessen. Travel writings have a wonderful way of bringing us close to landscapes, people and habitats, culture and traditions, soul and sanity, and obliteration and oblivion.

A book, an act or a place transports us to meditate on life and its philosophy. Sometimes we despair and sometimes we laugh out loud. Who facilitates our reflections on life? Who is the harbinger of one's introspections? Life is a vast cauldron where the cook empties ingredients both bitter and bland. The meal prepared is feasted upon by all but taste buds differ. But then feasting environs differ from one man to another.

"Keeping steps with that restless, rapid music,
seasons come dancing and pass away -
colours, tunes and perfumes pour
in endless cascades in the abounding joy
that scatters and gives up and dies every moment."
                                                                    Gitanjali, Rabindranath Tagore.  

What is fascinating about life is that it is not important what humans think of it - we are just a miniscule in the entire canvas - but how life raptures us in its splendour. Some may qualify the phase as a "trance" but I love calling it "comma" before a "full stop". The life we weave around before hitting the "comma" glorifies the texture, the pattern and the shade of one's fabric. None of us are skilled at what we weave but we are crafty in spirit living every moment of our lives though most of us fail to realise the essence of life's art.

Life is a fascinating subject. The birth of an heir in a Hindu household is ushered in by blowing conch shells signifying the celebration of "life" or the existence of being. The hallmark of a man speaks of the life one conceptualises. The shades of character in a man vary that owes its allegiance to the roots of his birth, cultural sanctuary, knowledge and experience. A man's ethos in conducting one's mind and soul to steer clear of the grim scenery at hand makes for a fitting tribute to life. In today's world we very often term it as "crisis management" or "reputation management" bringing out the light of the man and a leader is born.

Living in adherence to one's convictions throughout a man's existence is a "life" in cognizance. Rarely a man succeeds. The seasons that come and go during his being brings with it sun and snow, rain and rarity. The canvas has all colours in it, only the painter's incandescent style gives the life's framework a whiff of fresh air. That does not mean non-existence of a drab portrait whose insipid strokes cannot be brought to "life". Like in death - the shell of the soul perishes but not the soul that is yet reborn. Of course this has to do with the way of how I see "life".  

"All life is a journey, not a home; it is a road, not the country; and those transient enjoyments which you have in this life, lawful in their way,—those incidental and evanescent pleasures which you may sip,—are not home; they are little inns only upon the road-side of life, where you are refreshed for a moment, that you may take again the pilgrim-staff and journey on, seeking what is still before you" - Anon.  

In the company of bibliophile

"The habit of reading is the only enjoyment I know in which there is no alloy. It lasts when all other pleasures fade. It will be there to support you when all other resources are gone. It will be present to you when the energies of your body have fallen away from you. It will last you until your death. It will make your hours pleasant to you as long as you live." - Anthony Trollope

 

Books have been my world ever since life's epicarp mellowed. In my earlier posts I have written about my love for pen and paper especially the printed ones, smell of the de novo pages unwrapped from a plastic sheath just bought or the yellow crusty pages of a book pulled from the shelves of a library. The touch and feel of the inked words spun a magic on me and even today the whiff of the mad rush charging my senses of holding a book in my hands is no different. Reading and collecting books, more so, adds to the space my soul yearns for in this life.   

 

To me, the joy of reading books and reliving the author's fine prints of life knows no bounds. I can happily stretch my lazy bones on an elbow chair for hours together unmindful of the clock chimes and way behind the usual meal timings. Giving a miss to baths too. I am candid enough to voice that in yielding to the euphoria of the book world, I am, from childhood days quite remote and reserved.

Often your love for something can reach the brim of someone's benevolence. People mistake your aloofness as conceitedness. Not all kinsmen regard your conduct pleasing. You tend to become clumsy in all that is sociable.  If your life's priorities are notably different from that of others and not conventional enough to suit the society's fabric, you'll be cut out of the customary pie.

Folks who know you long enough will be happy to tow the line of conformance in all walks of life as long as you lie low in their circle. Folks who feign unfamiliarity of your nature often try best to exploit you going miles that are preposterous in nature. Knowingly they enjoy opening the can of worms for someone who rarely mingles with the crowd let alone talk. Those who genuinely don't know your "outlier" character is bound to misinterpret you.

So is the company of a bibliophile welcoming?  The response would be a mixed one I suppose. Observing all these years, especially in the circle of kith and kin, a muted affair holds onto the twig of the ties. For people who share their lives with such oddities can be burdensome. Normal people whose activities are commonplace, works the other way around - they coax bookworms to come out of their safe ports and engage more with the life's flow. Their perceptions are, indeed, baffling sometimes unnerving themselves completely. Very few weigh their options well with the booklovers and take delight in sharing their mindspace with them.

However bibliophiles seek no pleasure in disquieting their mindset and hardly view life's prism from common man's lens. To them, books are paragon of excellence offering insights and wisdom of both the acknowledged and the anonymous world, answering life's uncharted territories. They rarely bow down to peer pressure, albeit a few, and freely ride the road less travelled.

I have often believed that holding onto one's love resolutely leaves you with a deep satisfaction abound. Book readers and lovers may not have a goal to score but they are spirited inwards searching for life's cognizance. The gladdening of the heart, while holding a book in hand, is immeasurable. Maniacs they may sound yet they become monstrous upon finding any damage done to his/her precious collection. For the love of books, imagination soars, innovation runs deep, impact is creative and the future of mankind metamorphoses into absoluteness.

Relish  reading!            

Mejo mama and me

I lost my mama, 'mejo mama' as we fondly addressed him, last month to a disease that is yet not known to our family and neither his doctors. As William Hale White rightly mentions in his book Clara Hopgood: “Whenever anybody whom we love dies, we discover that although death is commonplace it is terribly original. We may have thought about it all our lives, but if it comes close to us, it is quite a new, strange thing to us, for which we are entirely unprepared. It may, perhaps, not be the bare loss so much as the strength of the bond which is broken that is the surprise, and we are debtors in a way to death for revealing something in us which ordinary life disguises.” So very true.

 

Mejo mama was my mom's elder brother but not the eldest in the family. My maternal grandparents had five children - my mom being the only doting daughter. The family had already lost a son, who had been terminally ill, in his spring. With my maternal grandparents long gone, mejo mama's demise knelled death in the family after a period of twenty years or so. And of all my mom's brothers and cousins, mejo mama was my favourite.

 

The difficult part lies in explaining my darling handsome mama. It was my parents' annual ritual to ferry us to our both paternal and maternal households every autumn during the Durga Puja school holidays. Dividing between the two households and trying best to keep pace with our parents, my sister and myself fitted well into our mom's childhood den. Not to forget the mollycoddling of all our three mamas.  

 

Somehow I was more attentive to mejo mama since my childhood days. This fact did not dawn on me till I lost him. Mejo mama, matured and measured in every word he uttered, could enthral his immediate audience dishing out tales of all hues and shades from his official postings all over the country. I, for one, would regale and remain spellbound to such chinfests. He would summon complete attention from all huddling nearby and narrate buoyant, jocular and spirited anecdotes of his travel journeys, office colleagues and environment replete with culture connotations from all corners of India. Mama would recount each story, be it food, festivals, climate, personality or culture and ways and means of life, with impeccable details. His odysseys were all ambrosial. Driving back memory lane I can say that his vivaciousness and zestful attitude towards life hooked me as his steadfast admirer. More so my love for travel can be credited, in some measure, to his chronicles.

 

Ranajit Mukhopadhyay née mejo mama was a stickler for spruceness and unswayable discipline although he was not difficult. A morning person, he would routinely do his pranayam and yoga for better health after waking up and perform his morning ablutions followed by puja. He would then comfortably squat on a hand-woven 'asan' or sit on an old chair by the window side to devour the regional daily, happily tended to by mami, his wife, with frequent cups of tea and a big breakfast. His Sundays would unravel with cleaning the house surroundings, picking up veggies and groceries for the week ahead, washing his own clothes, putting them on clothesline, ironing his cleaned and dried office wear and polishing his shoes spotless. An avid organiser of accoutrements, his books, notes and family albums remained uncluttered and chronologically stacked. 

Eating habits in all my mamas' households are nothing to be noteworthy of barring my mejo mama's place and this too can be held accountable to my mama who took immense delight in picking up the fresh green veggies and river water fish for daily consumption. He also took much joy in inviting people at home for lunch or dinner. Never once did I miss his earnest invites which I readily looked forward to. Mejo mama's yearly voyage to places far and wide or sometimes nearby his hometown with a coterie of friends was a score on its own. Renowned for deft organisational skills and a genuine companion, he was the brain behind every sojourn. This character trait of his etched a personality whose service was often called upon by friends and families.

I remember, when during my adolescence, I was diagnosed with Cushing's syndrome and had to be rushed to Christian Medical College, Vellore for better and proper treatment, he did not for a moment hesitate to accompany my mom there. My family was passing through a rough patch but mejo mama acted as a beacon to my already devastated mom. During our stay in Vellore, my mama used to frequent the roadside eateries and on one such occasion I recall mama happily furnishing out details to my mom of his gluttonous 'dosa' eating venture. My mom had to restrain such exploits of mama as she was afraid of him falling ill on the journey leg. Not only did he cherish food, more of the roadside variety, but also spiritedly referred others of his recent findings.

 

On our journey back to Calcutta he felt ill and that was clearly showing on his face. His feeble nature surfaced whenever he exceeded his physical limits - here was one such case when my mom was apt to understand that mama's body became dehydrated. Inwardly frightened as she was yet outwardly for the sake of mami and given the nature of the timing when we had to depart from the health city, my mom's poised nature, astuteness and decisiveness helped mama regain his original bouncy self - he was made to sip lemonade every half an hour till we reached home.

 

Not only did he accompany his relations to other metropolitan cities in India for better treatment facilities but also his friends who easily banked on his sense and sharpness. Moreover his pan India postings helped him to be coherent in all his dealings especially with professionals. His lithe nature saw him actively involved in most of our family weddings and other events' organisation.  

 

My mom echoes that mama's arduous efforts in building the family's economical backbone stands out from those of his other brothers. Yet somehow he was not at peace with himself, remained much unstructured all his life. His knotty familial relations plagued much of his thoughts that acted like a ball and chain to his mental grit. Mama was greatly instrumental in designing houses of his kith and kin yet he vehemently failed in building his own edifice. The labyrinthine like relationship fringes belayed his facile individuality. 

 

"J-O-O-Y-E-E-T-A" was his beloved ahoy on spotting me - the man whose cessation of life made us all fall down virulently as mejo mama's physical presence was an umbilical connection to his soul. Mejo mama - RIP. 

 

 

 

 

Mejo mama (right) with my mami (left) - photo taken shortly after their marraige

 

The canopy overhead

A long time ago when the planet Earth came into existence with vast water bodies and vicissitudes of land mass the canopy overhead echoed Percy Bysshe Shelley:

 

"Heaven's ebon vault,
Studded with stars unutterably bright,
Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which love has spread
To curtain her sleeping world."

During my childhood days I wished I would open my eyes to a rose cushioned sky just before the majestic sun spread its rays over Mother Earth. But city lives are frenzy. You wake up to see concrete monoliths outside your room. Over the years on my travels I always preferred putting up at rooms with wide open windows or verandah unveiling a pie of unclogged nature. Waking up I could just gaze at a stretch, for hours, at the open sky or the lush hills or the sky kissing the sea below. Simply to devour what nature gifts us every day that we rarely acknowledge.

The sky as we see it leased mankind key ingredients for sustenance - sunlight, pregnant clouds, rain, hailstorms and a starlit marquee for the nights. Nature's aura is unrivalled. Without them the entire ecosystem would not have thrived in the first place. Notwithstanding the sky is marvellous in its embellishment. It never reveals itself without a splendid palate of hues and shades - joyous and jubilant, sadness and surprise, fear and fury, anger and antagonism.

I have often found myself fixed at an open rugged natural landscape unlacing its charm slowly to the huge canopy overhead making love. The sky radiates a unique glow sculpting its exuberance seamlessly. The euphemism is limitless. The sky, all of a sudden, can change its conniption raving and ranting in ecstasy.

"When you realise how perfect everything is you will tilt your head back and laugh at the sky" - Buddha. 

 

What a journey it would be if you happen to be a floating cloud on the sky! I could traverse millions of miles effortlessly hanging loose over the earth feeling so very pleased to pass over the cherished places held dear to my heart. Globe-trotting as viewed through a 'cloud' lens.

In old days we did not have the privilege to study space and science and record the services of meteorologists. In villages men with good eyesight have a long history of observing and recording the weather’s 
ups and downs and predicting what it may 
do next. One can watch the film 'Swadesh' to understand how people reined in the ability to talk about the weather - well not the ignorant masses I mean.

Descrying is the blue sweep overhead - from farmers, space enthusiasts, star-gazers to kids and outdoor sportsmen all look up above the lofty sky for a glimpse of their interests and passions. It is a haven of solace and sentiments. Often people who read the sky rhetorically are mesmerised by its enigmatic behaviour - its transports one's emotions far and wide and play a Delphian dude with our ethos. Even nature spruces up to perfection.

A dark and dismal mind gifts the sky deep roots penetrating its veil looking for the essence of life wafting in out of the blue. The sky, in turn, reads our mind lifting our fettle for the glittering stars, away from pain and remorse, from sadness and shame. The sky, in its reflection on water, is contemplative of life itself. The mirror of water connotes an augury of life where the canopy ruptures to shreds. The sky is an echo of the nature's big league called 'life'.

"Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky" - Rabindranath Tagore.



Random spray of amber lights donning the sky

 
 

 

Being an Indian abroad

 

Dear Mr Prime Minister Narendra Modi,

 

First and foremost please accept my heartfelt congratulations on your spectacular win in the recently concluded General Elections and sincerely wishing you good luck on your journey ahead as the 15th Prime Minister of India. You made history that was well-deserved.

 

You can well understand reading my blog title that I am writing from a corner of the world that transcends Indian borders. Ever since the few state elections in India in 2013 unravelled its rainbow I started following you on social media, listening to each and every electoral rally you spoke at and devouring every bit of news published on electronic media that informed about you, your style and strategies - both good and bad. 

 

This does not mean I was all agog about a Mr Narendra Modi from the very onset but the elections, as the Indian media said, was truly polarised - it was a rare show in a democratic election where the Agenda became 'Modi vs. the rest' - how, when and why have been discussed at length by many eminent journalists  and TV anchors and continue to rule the media headlines even today. 

 

What prompted me to back you, I tweeted earlier, was your steely determination, avowed dedication and unflinching direction coupled with the astute experience you'd being the chief minister of a prosperous Indian state. What made me to shun the ruling party at the helm of Indian affairs was misgovernance, lack of clarity and communication, withering leadership and the elitist arrogance. 

 

I might draw flak here from many of my fellow Indians who would take this opportunity to echo 'Another non-available and non-visible Indian harping on profound sentiments'. Well they have every right to say as I, an annual visitor to my country, never experience the bitter pangs of my countrymen. I enjoy 24X7 electricity and water services which many in India still do not.

 

However in the beginning of 2014 my name allegedly went missing from the electoral rolls and later heard that my name featured (quite surprisingly) although someone had cast the vote in my name!  The irony is I come from an Indian state, governed by a 'peppered' tigress, where our loved ones back home meet 'fear' at every turn in the alley and not tourists or travellers.

 

You would wonder what took me so long to pen my thoughts and wishes to you. I participated indirectly in the biggest festival of democracy whose voice surely got lost in the deluge of the saffron spirit of the nation.

Also I thought to tell you a short story, apologies for encroaching on your precious time, to which I am a part of. Who else is the best person I can relate to apart from our newly elected Prime Minister who superbly connects with the masses?

This evening I was shopping at a health and beauty store when the ever smiling sales woman asked me where I was from knowing pretty well that I was unsure of the products I was picking at in the store. Soon popped my answer and with pride. Going by the nature of women we eventually started sharing the social morsels of our lives. Sad that the parley came to an abrupt end when the lady candidly hit it "Oh you are from India, a big and beautiful country but very unsafe. My husband took our entire family to Mauritius on a holiday last summer. I was interested to visit India, having heard so much about the diverse country and so near to Mauritius. Sorry, said my husband, as India is no longer safe for women".

Well I acted following Mark Twain's quote: "It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt".

For acts and activities, for publications and policies, for conducts and conversations that we are not part of yet being an Indian abroad we are bound to be nit-picked by people of that nation where we are temporarily put up. Being an Indian abroad I represent the image of India, black and white or colour, and need to relentlessly preserve my country's reel negatives.

I hope you have a great week ahead and keep cool in the severe Delhi heat. I know you enjoy relishing Indian cucumber raita which is a sure shot health tonic in scorching summers.

I hope to keep in touch with you.

With warm regards

An Indian abroad

PS: I truly cherish your hard work. To me recently you'd been a ball of fire rousing my lulled spirits. I believe in good faith that you're the right person at the right time my India most needs. 

The ecstasy in the candle lore

What connected me to enjoy candles can be attributed to my visits in temples, churches and monasteries. I have nothing to do with religion but I take pleasure in travelling to places of architectural and historical significance. Candles and incense burning have been an integral part of our culture interwreathed in our  beliefs. Life and death, celebrations and commemoratings - all strike a match with a candle. William Shakespeare justly said: "How far that little candle throws its beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world."

 

The aura created by candles burning in a holy place is reinvigorating to our senses. A sanctified place has indeed a lot to offer to human mind - blissful and beautiful. All depends on how one perceives such an experience. I tend to reckon with the fact that the spirit of the shrine architecture, ambience and the age-old tradition of offerings made to gods sheathed in man's handiwork adds to the splendidness of a divine place - candles are just an innate part of the spiritual flavour.

The vivacity hugging a birthday party is all about health, hilarity and happiness. The fun starts with a cake cutting ceremony which is incomplete unless candles are blown off. As the wick of the candle burns, with a flicker of hope, and the wax produces the flame, the candle burns shorter and shorter we know that life is not eternal but the spirit of our buoyancy breathes forever.

The faith reposed in a relationship on a candle-lit dinner setting radiates a certain warmth and worship that percolates to one's immediate surroundings. The dinner is just a metaphor buttressed by none other than candles burning to embrace the feeling that life is not frigid but friendly.

Mother Teresa once said: "Joy is a net of love by which you can catch souls" and such is the intoxication of life's ruination that after the darkness of the night disappears, the sun kisses the day with resplendence. The candle burns out at death to throw wide open to the enigma of creation spilling out in the aurora.

Candles are the first blush of life and flickers to the cusp of death. They illuminate the life's phases of nascency, marvel and celebrations just as sunlight beacons a bud to blossom into a flower. The brilliance of insight leading the way out of ignorance. Likewise there is a new beginning after a withering - the path of journey illuminated by light and candles do provide a mesmerising glow in darkness. Hope and strength coupled with thriving and vivaciousness is resplendent on life's lighted path. It is inherent in us to be afraid of the open dark pit of life that which is unknown, unexplored and unapprehended. A dull, insipid and vain odyssey has hardly any fascinating stories to tell to generations next. A candle wipes off the darkness and clears the  shadows fallen on a sapless life spreading large the vigour and verve. The bright light of which transcends ages and boundaries.

"Thousands of candles can be lighted from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared" - Buddha.

The verve around the voting

 

In a democracy like India which is as diverse as it could be elections every five years ring in much like a bugle call that signifies the start of a critical long drawn battle. A handful wakes up on time eager to take opponents head-on. The majority dilly dally and take much time to come out of their foggy senses as such is the human nature. The interesting part, however, tunes in the last leg of the fight.

 

Indians love elections because of its startling and striking nature. The lure of the chaos on the ground, showcase of public obscenity, the laxity from the everyday mundane affair which is an inherent trait in the work ethos of an Indian are too much at stake to be ignored. The social media sycophant and the so-called popular panel discussions on TV are no less imminent.

 

In relation to my age, maturity and interest I have not observed any election, be that national or state, as electrifying as the 2014 national election in India. It is certainly rip-roaring to the core. 

 

The frontrunners in the 2014 election episode are Narendra Modi of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) and Rahul Gandhi of the Indian National Congress (INC) followed by oddballs like Arvind Kejriwal, Jayalalithaa Jayaram, Mamata Banerjee, Mulayam Singh Yadav, Mayawati, Nitish Kumar, Uddhav Thackeray, Prakash Karat and so on. In a nutshell a bunch of buffoons promote themselves to the 'idea of India' whatever that maybe on the democratic palate. Indian soil has produced many a statesman, scholars, philosophers and social reformers and impoverished political leadership never cropped up on an average Indian's mind but for the last decade.

A lot of writing has been on the wall since long. Demurral in decision making process and absence of stalwarts at the helm of democratic institutions led to acute indiscipline, nepotism, corruption, mistrust, lassitude and anarchy through and through. One can well imagine the wear and tear of the socio-economic fabric of a complex and myriad country, the panorama of caste, creed, religion, language, food, lifestyle and social parameters changing with every turn of the alley. As in flowering plants rupture of pollen tube makes way for fertilisation so has 2014 punctured the blight of the post independent Indian diaspora to unravel India's élan vital.

Going by the journalistic essays and research and relying on the prudence of my good sense I take it that Narendra Modi, as it stands today, is the clear frontrunner. His staid attitude towards governance as he has been instrumental in running the state of Gujarat in western India over 10 years although discoloured by the 2002 riot can of worms is the talking turkey political investment his camp is serving the Indian electorate. News of vote bank politics, secularism, polarisation of votes, riots pennon the media, panel discussions and political rallies yet to an aspirational young Indian such contents lack fuselage in the 21st century.

As a young Indian I never find the think tank, be it on primetime TV or elsewhere, discussing much on how do we find India's chassis 10 years from now on environment and climate change issues,  wildlife poaching, traffic and transportation planning (lived in India's three major cosmopolitan cities - Calcutta, Delhi and Bangalore; this comes naturally to my mind), building world class Indian universities and museums, theatres, libraries, preserving our heritage and architecture and imaging an Indian port of safety, security and freedom from religious and gender bigotry.

I feel ashamed that a chunk of our populace yet does not have basic access to water and sanitation, education and health care even after 67 years of Independence. However owing to a good education and intraurban backdrop I have transported my desires of an India to a greater next level and never did tomfoolery ideas of caste, region or religion venture in my 'idea of India'. I can strongly advocate my fellow Indians, young and productive, will think in the lines I outlined and postulate ideas and beliefs befitting to the organic and spiritual growth of India.

Having said that the 2014 elections in India is a harbinger of 'nest egg' for many unknown Indian faces. If you closely look at a rally rather than listen to the contender's speech you realise a lot of apt groundwork has gone into making a rally fructify. Road-side food makeshift vans, valet, stage fabricators, security personnel, young party workers, flag bearers, florists, electrical vendors, printers, drivers, reporters and cameramen, techies and a huge number of productive hands outsourced that goes without saying making brisk business courtesy this festive season of elections. Not to lose out on the election tourism - so many NRIs have flocked to India to exercise their franchise or the international media making a beeline to all the locations where the contestants are heading to.

I feel this is good for them as the busy period in India is helping them to upgrade their marketing skills and be productive. It also helps with a clear stream of income for the ordinary hardworking people as they have to sell their labour in order to break bread, send children to schools, install an electric line in their houses and a little extra income will help them increase their purchasing power. They can recoat the paint that have peeled off the walls of their house before the onset of monsoons, buy a bicycle or a two wheeler or open some savings accounts with banks or postal office. No one reports such stories in media which can be an interesting read - 'the election by-product'.

Most of the rhapsody centres around who is wearing a special cap, poverty porn fuelled by politicians and media editors (who claim in galore on camera that they are experiencing election heat outside the air-conditioned studios!), the TV interrogations in thy name of interviews, who is meeting whom, why are spaces in the electoral form left blank, why is a manifesto so late, is there a wave of an individual, or is a recent book by an ex-media advisor to PMO a tool for the opposition rather than shying away from the truth of confirming to the family run business of the 'idea of India', hate speeches flying in full colours from all corners but the essence of the discussion is 'who spread the animosity first', who's sharing the dais with whom and who's absent, how much flower petals had been arranged for on the day of a roadshow, who's trending more on the social media, what is the conspiracy behind a contestant being slapped and the Gandhian way of reaching out to the culprit with a flower, politicians crying on cameras, the brouhaha of Indian media of what media in the West and self-proclaimed intellectuals are saying about our candidates, and the list is endless. 

The burlesque is still not over and will continue till the morning of May 16. However there are some good journalism, analysis and comments coming out of the election heat too. Funny but intelligent adverts and punch lines, making women and young voters aware of the need for voting are not lost in the din.

India is a colourful country and the elections are psychedelic. Child-like sparrings thrown at each other 'We need a leader not a reader' vis-a-vis 'We do not need a bleeder and pleader', enthusiasts getting their body and faces painted with voting symbols, selfies with inked fingers displayed with media harping 'Did you vote? Get yourself a chance to win...by showing a selfie of your inked finger', nonagenarians being carried on backs to the polling booths, music blaring at rallies idolising slapstick contestants like 'Hamare desh ki aankhon ki taara hai Mulayam Singh' are quite a jesting. The musical chair competition is in full swing 'Kaun banega Pradhan Mantri?' but the grim news is there's no prize for guessing that! 

India's biggest gag show is on and the political parties' bazaar is proud to float the sale of 'democracy' discounted up to May 16 morning! Desfrutar shopping!



The culture concoction

Earlier this year during Chinese New Year celebrations, much to my surprise, a visit to one of the neighbourhood Chinese temples opened a new chapter in my life's understanding.

 

 

The temple on the eve of the Chinese New Year celebrations

 

While I was in India mingling with Chinese was not much of an option. The monthly visits to salons would get you to hire services comprising of mostly north-east Indians whose features were Chinese look-alike. Chinese take away was in name only. In India Chinatown in the eastern state of Kolkata was once home to tens of thousands of ethnic Chinese working in a nearby tannery but the population have now dropped to few thousands. 

 

So it was rather inquisitiveness compounded by the presence of a proportionate Chinese demography in the city which I presently call my 'home'  I decided to visit a popular Chinese temple on the auspicious evening of 2014 - the Chinese Year of the Horse.

The temple, sitting on top of a hill and dedicated to goddess Thean Hou (The Heavenly Mother), is a religious and philosophical conglomeration of Buddhism, Taoism and Confucianism reflected in the temple architecture and activity. It was well lit throughout festooned with red hanging Chinese lanterns and its posts and pillars sheathed in red. Monks continuously chanted Buddhist hymns. The ambience created - joss sticks and colourful candles burning, tiny little red paper flags blowing in the mild wind, fresh fruits offered to the gods, children and adults dressed in red milling in the crowd, artefacts sold and road side lunch wagons doing brisk business  - was reinvigorating to the senses.

Not only people of Chinese origin but also other nationalities visited the temple on the New Year eve. A good confluence of culture and enthusiasm ascended the temple premises.

The land of China is fortified to such an extreme that the whole world is overtly interested in finding out what is happening on the other side of the Great Wall. Evidently we believe people from the land of China to be so. What I found here was a festival much like ours - city folks, dressed in their best attire, accompanied by family and friends - paying reverence to god. I am not religious, however, the thriving fealty made me  happy to follow in the footsteps of the human chain offering candles and joss sticks and even donation to the temple fund. I was guided by temple usherette to the rituals, its history and architecture.

The temple premises carpeted in red hanging lanterns

The multitude of mankind weaving a tapestry is an exquisite bodhi I wholeheartedly embraced - so peaceful and rich in colour. The essence of spirituality was so deep in the air that evening I was simply bowled over by the gracefulness of a race, floating in tandem, with whom a mere association raises many eyebrows back home.

What force helps us to bind together on such occasions? In wilderness wild flowers growing unkempt emanates a strong heady smell that draws many a butterflies, birds and bears. They all love the pollen of the flowering plants. Does majority affect our thoughts and tribulations? Or is it something in the evening hill air or the rhythmic chants? Is life a celebration of itself latent somewhere deep within our reflexes exuding warmth and harmony unobserved?

A festival is always an interesting soiree. Bonhomie of rich heritage and architecture, flavours and fireworks, history and habitats, arts and intensely hued performances all bear a compelling testimony to vintage 'time'. An age-old tradition does not transcend period unless there is a connect with  community and engagement. The transcultural diffusion, practised as tangible and intangible heritage, acts as a catalyst educating and enlightening generations.

“Without culture, and the relative freedom it implies, society, even when perfect, is but a jungle. This is why any authentic creation is a gift to the future.” - Albert Camus. To me on that enchanting evening the place was magical and the people, even after bitterness among the neighbouring nations, were friendly. The wisdom of physical bonding permeates our limitless thoughts opening windows to nurture and nourish. Indeed a great way to celebrate culture - toast to that!  

The push for the passage

I am yearning for my spring vacation albeit in late March. More so looking forward to travel - the vast expanse of the earth is the passport to our "footprints in the sand" uncensored and unrecompensed. As a city dweller hopping from one burghal space to another I usually pick up places to travel earmarked for simplicity, nature's retreat and historical and archaeological treasure trove. 

 

These days most places known for tourism do have adequate transportation and lodging infrastructure. However few not-so-frequented tracks and locales of pristine natural and historical magnificence do need a dedicated resource mapping and planning in advance before we tread upon. In today's connected world getting information on any leg of a journey is easy and gridlocks seem to etiolate in no time.

 

Having said that the heart and the head sometimes do not sync in a world mired in gloom and despair. Acts of terror, war and blood bath, environmental degradation and the polarisation of the world in so many ways on nature's bounty arrest your thirst for travel. Places of historical significance and nature's myriad are fast losing the echelons of safety a traveller tags 'high priority' in his backpack. You pick one - Middle East, North Africa, Latin America, Eastern Europe, Central Asia, South-east Asia - and your country's Ministry of External Affairs website resolutely offers you a dedicated webpage on cautions of travelling to almost all corners of the world. 

 

My heart bleeds when I chance upon media reports of libraries burnt engulfing age-old literary and cultural reserves. I feel helpless watching on television the barbaric acts of dynamiting antiques and relics or torching shrines and synagogues of ethereal beauty holding keys to the trans-cultural diffusion. Alas neither will I be able to get to visit such antiquated places of both historical and sociological relevance but also dread the fact that such nonpareil treasures are gradually being isolated from our history and neighbourhood. 

 

Adding to this is the Machiavellian act of plundering natural resources. Deliberate forest and peat fires in South-east Asia, depleting reserves of coal and fossil fuels the world over, exploitation of natural resources and deforestation in Latin America, degradation of coral reefs and highly risking valuable bio-diversity in Australia, poaching in Africa, intense air pollutions in Asia, record wet winters in Europe adversely impacts the community and economic health at large. Rescheduling travel plans burns a deep hole in a traveller's pocket. More so when I and certainly many travellers like me do not fall into the lap of luxury travelling.   

 

I recall one of my relatives last year planned in advance to enjoy the serene unruffled sandy beach of Gopalpur in the state of Orissa in India in the autumn but had to put off his travel because of cyclone Phailin battering Gopalpur and its adjoining coastal areas. Gopalpur, ideal for sailing and surfing, was an acclaimed port in the days of Kalinga empire trading in silk and pearl with far off archipelagos of the Malay peninsula in the south-east Asia. The peaceful white beach of Gopalpur, lined with clusters of coconut and palm trees and azure waters of the Bay of Bengal, lost its rhythmic charm to howling winds and uprooted trees. Ecological restoration of such places is pushed back further into decay and abandonment.

The love for travel, however, is all-encompassing and boundless.

“Once you have travelled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quietest chambers. The mind can never break off from the journey.” — Pat Conroy

So what pushes so many travellers to go out into the wilderness and travel and explore and tell the world the glories of their journeys?

For me travel is the fun of losing myself into the voyages of introspection. This chaotic world full of noises and insanity drives me hard to hit the road less traversed (remember Robert Frost?) far off from glitzy tourist spots and hobnobbing with friends and families. The more I read and the more I hear my fellow travellers' story the stronger is my quench for travel. The desire to see and smell the uncharted, the longing for leaving my footprints behind, the freedom from the daily bondage of life's way and the liberty from the mind's jittery are all that help me spread my wings wide and large.

How much knowledge can I devour reading and watching quartered in a city's cell? Not much even in such dynamic times breathing in the stale air-cons.

Fresh air, lots of clear sunlight and white clouds floating in the sky and the starry twinkles at night unmarred by swanky architecture and high capacity urban roads - sometimes living in jagged terrains, with no recourse to basic urban infrastructure to fall back on, gives me the simple pleasures of life. I need a big room to take in the tall looming trees, birds flocking their nests in dense foliage in huge number in the twilight hours, insects cooing from shrubbery, the whiff of the wild flowers or the giant mountains redefining an entire landscape and the sun sinking deep on an orange coloured ocean whose soft ripples kiss the warm sandy beaches.

Moreover the euphoria I drink in travelling places for food, fairs and festivals is immeasurable. The colours of life become more vibrant here with each passing day. I tend to adrift in a sea of mankind whose concerns do not touch mine but its culture makes my heart and head twine and throb together excitedly.

I believe the places of historical relevance do enrich my insights when I touch them with my own limbs, see them with my own eyes and feel their prolonged presence standing quiet in the midst of their stillness.

At one time travelling to Almora nestled in the Himalayan foothills with temperatures dropping down below 5 degrees centigrade,  I recall, in the frosty wind shivering against the cold romancing the soft sun on my back and simply enjoying the afternoon cuppa on a roadside bench I fit in decently among few unknown wayfarers. The snow-capped mountain peaks peeled ravines between humanity and Mother Earth. I was in my twenties travelling alone headed to a realm of unknown never once dreading the anon. Till this date I strongly feel the archaic mountain range offered me the buoyant spirit to take the pilgrimage of the soul.

No amount of money or materialistic comfort can buy us a good deep night's sleep beside a gurgling mountain river under a canopy of shining stars. No amount of mirth derived from watching your kid bouncing gleefully with the dog on an open meadow can be equated with your community park experience howsoever beautified that might be. No amount of joy can be had from watching butterflies sitting on a dancing flower flapping its wings while you lie arms spread on a lush soft earth than viewing them on digital communicators. No books on history can offer us an opportunity to absolutely experience why 'history' really happened in a place unless we explore them physically arm in arm with the written knowledge.

Does anything stop you in your tracks to document a country, its people and culture so varied and rich? Pruning inward is an important aspect as Anatole France  said, "Wandering re-establishes the original harmony which once existed between man and the universe.” The idea of re-inventing myself in the heart of wilderness without the baggage and smelling a distant shore silencing the time and the world outside fiercely pushes me ahead for the passage. Travel, explore, dream and discover as it is certainly a therapeutic ritual of the soul. 

Remembering Rajiv - A child's ethos

 

These days as the election heat swipes India one finds wannabe prime minister writing open letters, intense confrontation between political bigwigs, the temple of democracy turned to a Bollywood bijou, more inapt persona eyeing the prime minister's chair (suddenly this position has turned lucrative), the hunt for a game is so rousing at the moment to score seats that the chassis of ethos of India is completely broken. The result is that the dumbfounded citizens, who are paying a heavy price to watch the circus, are already down in the dumps.  

 

One such story making the headlines now is the release of our late prime minister Rajiv Gandhi's killers. This too made murkier by none other than the political contestants.

 

I was in school when Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated. As a child, especially in the formative years, you tend to listen and devour more than voicing your thoughts. My demure and shy nature also did not push me to raise many a queries to my elders. I observed a surge of emotions rippling through the gatherings of family and friends; Doordarshan airing the devastating news relentlessly. The newspapers, wrapped in Rajiv's dimpled handsome face, opened to the acerbic chronicles of his passing away. Schools, offices, markets and other institutions remained closed.

 

On the morning of May 22, 1991 I remember my father dragging me out of bed very early in the morning not for school but for relaying the shocking news that had already spread like a wildfire gripping the nation. We had already hit the bed when Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated on May 21, 1991 at about 10:20 PM in Sriperambudur, India. The news struck me hard as I could gauge with my limited understanding then that we have lost someone who is an important face of the country. Not exposed to civics and political science classes in school yet I also did not have much knowledge as to who was more important - the President or the Prime Minister of India and that too a former one. Nor did I comprehend what LTTE was and why they were instrumental in wiping out Rajiv Gandhi.  

 

Nonetheless we had no choice but to listen to what our parents discussed over the newspaper reports, what they watched on the television and the many versions of the homicide sketched out in the gatherings that followed over numerous weeks trickling down to months. 

 

Being my father's pet I took to adoring Rajiv Gandhi early as I imagined a special similitude as my father shared the same birthday with him. A child's imagination running bonkers! It was easy for me not to make an extra effort to learn his birth date for General Knowledge examinations in school. Also Rajiv's name - both first and surname - were easy to be spelled out. To me what mattered more then was to learn different names and mug spellings of leaders and who held which vital position in the country. Moreover the despondent clippings of the bomb blasted site, grief-stricken demeanour of Rajiv's wife and children  aired in the TV unnerved my senses.

 

Someone had just lost his loved one. The dirge emanating from Indian soil reached far away shores with dignitaries from other nations sending in their heartfelt messages. The irreversible throe engulfed the entire nation, so I thought, and deemed proper to be in a pensive mood especially while behaving in front of the elders. 

 

Thereafter P. V. Narasimha Rao hemmed in as the ninth prime minister of India in June that year. However in the years to come by the nation, as is the way of life, matured in commerce and economy, socio-culturally, science and technology sculpting development. Elections happened, ministers and leaders hogged limelights underpinning both success and failures in their tenures, and India metamorphosed as a centroidal government in the world political diaspora. So did my germinating years. 

 

Today when my understanding to Indian politics has improved, albeit slightly, and Rajiv Gandhi's killers after a period of 23 years should be freed or not plaguing the social media discussions which has since long taken over the rein from the living room exchanges I find myself reliving the past once more.

 

Although we are in the 21st century and still there is no clear sign yet to the end of political wars encumbering the nations worldwide I find it ironic reviewing whether Rajiv's killers should be freed or not. Moreover a country like India, who still cannot put a full stop to its prying neighbours, evokes mixed sentiments debating and discussing freedom of convicts tried for killing a former prime minister especially when the country goes to vote its 16th national government in a span of two months.

 

What has gone entirely wrong in the reasoning is that the post of the prime minister of a nation plays no relevance now. The number crunching, gormandising political parties are losing no time cashing on the verdict, recently passed by the Supreme Court of India, lest they fall behind wooing the voter's sentiments at the appropriate time. Neither am I responsible enough to justify or endorse any action initiated by a political party but what pains me now is to find myself accountable to the confused minds of a child I had long cast off. The knowledge gained over the years to respect a country's institutions and the doctrines of the founding fathers of our Constitution suddenly seems to be decrepit. Going by the newspaper features we, as citizens of India, have certainly failed Rajiv Gandhi. 

 

Over two decades passed and as a nation we are still flummoxed when the question arises in dealing with culprits as we all view our embarrassing shadows while facing the mirror of mankind.   

What drives us to consumerism

This is an era where we travel miles to sit down to conferences facing experts, diplomats and business people to discuss climate change topics, discuss peace on malignant wars that transcends centuries and generations, discuss commerce and trade for a bigger and better share of the revenue pie. It is evident that human race has gradually steeped into gluttony digging up and making use of natural resources more than what is required, acting on ethnic cleansing to get hold of occupied land for improved commercialism and complete clout. Citing circumstantial aspects - religion and race, caste and creed, clan and community is but a disguise under a restrained human mask.

If you are a city dweller and happen to hop onto any shopping complex you'll find people milling all over the premises clinging onto hyaline flashy and huge branded paper or polythene bags and at times heavier than their physical capacity to carry. Earlier I wondered how rich people are growing and so fast. Even while dining out I observed people placed next to your table was more interested in finding out what platter and drinks you ordered before making up their minds for ordering dinner. The bigger the serving on your table the better is the hospitality of the dining room manager. The "more you shop till you drop" phenomenon is so arresting that it sets a benchmark for respect and social graces for the one who's carrying the excess baggage.

I have also observed mood shifts not just restricted to adults but children as well if you're unable to buy something you fiercely desire. The tiny ones cry out at the top of their voices while the adults are smart enough to label the products either as tacky or start comparing one brand with the other silently making their way out of the shop with a hard-nosed face. Sometimes feigning to be smarting under unruly behaviour of the dull sales people hired at the shop.

Today our lifestyle is more showy and snazzy measured by yardsticks like the number of cars we own, the pockets of the city where we live, the brands we wear, the solitaire we possess, the type of membership to a club or lounge we have - priviledged, gold class or premium, the number of real estate properties we own, which schools or foreign universities we are sending our children to study, the number of company shares we own in the stock market and whether we are a prized proprietor of a boutique hotel and spa in an upmarket place and the number of followers we have in social media platform. Family reunions and festivals are weighed much on the gifts we exchange bragging our worth in monetary terms. The whole mankind, it seems, is quantifiable.

The age-old adage "Cut your coat according to your cloth" holds no sway in this era. The owning and the buying habit is epidemic. It is a naked truth that behind all the arty show the credit market takes the full advantage having the last laugh. The labyrinthine of splurge is so intoxicating that certain psychoanalysts prescribe retail therapy for people with dismal outlook towards life!

Feeling miserable I have tried my hands on retail therapy or spa outing but never sensed any magic healing. I wonder how throwing money at tangible goods will help uplift one's mood when actually you're burning a hole in your pocket.

Does tying to emulate other people's behavioural and consumption pattern fog our senses? We get caught in our own web not knowing where to tie the leash. The results are ominous indeed. Feeling low, tensions wrought, outburst of frustations in open forums, child spanking, excess drinking to erase your mind off the carnal failures - we are no longer able to rein in our lives.

Surveys worldwide suggest urban people flocking to yoga classes or taking recourse to spiritual sessions have leaped over the years. And so has the healthy living business show. So has the gun violence, more stories of rape making headlines the world over and more erosive treatment towards Mother Earth for the already bloated city resulting in extreme weather shifts in both the world hemispheres.

Who is at fault putting one's fodder to another's mouth, wasting resources in the name of imperforate development? No prize for guessing that! We, human beings, cannot live in harmony with each other, neither are we thankful for what we already have upsetting the entire ecological system of the world. Even today I do not understand what amount of booty we all should have to satiate our needs. Natural resources are limited but we have devoured them to such an extent over the eons that now the straits are clearly visible. All good things come to an end.

Our philistine nature combined with remorseless behaviour drives us to make iconic progress in science and technology both constructive and destructive. Nonchalant of the fact that life has taken control of our senses. We are mute spectators watching the gladiator in an open ring fight for his life. With the bloodbath over, we go down to the ring to clean the spot before another one comes in. The need to be socially responsible towards environment and life draws upon us once the scene of decimation comes to a close.

Albeit the cleaning up process be it in the name of poverty eradication, human rights issues of relocating refugees, environmental upgradation, making access to safe drinking water and sanitation, clean fuel and energy, cultural transcendence, community counselling and so on all comes for a price. Thus the show of going for more never ends. Self realisation is just but a paradox. 

The cleansing ewer

All social beings are freedom loving. We all steer towards minds' potpourri, contemplating hard no matter whether we are a struggling or a priviledged class. But where do we all go to restore our preserval? Where do we mull over our life's slippages? Where do we queue up for a candid soul - searching talkfest? Get ourselves free from the stereotyped and stale schtick?

Cafes, bar lounges, community clubs, libraries, spas, lakeside parks, or sitting at the attic or at the garden terrace? Or while we enjoy a drink and listen to soothing music over a friend's place or at a pet turf? How about a weekday lunching out on your own? Or it might be on some religious chattel or archealogical sites at your place?  Idling away "your" time on a pal tola nouka if your are fortunate enough to belong to a riverfront habitat? 

 

When my parents were posted outside their hometown I always watched my mom fuss over while choosing a house, especially the one that had a patio, the one with a larger patio and the one without a patio. Her selective inbuilt trait always opted for the second preferrence. My dad just followed her taste, he had a more salt and pepper expression towards the art of living. Over the years I had found my mom, on her off-days, embracing the kitchen and the flower garden outside our patio with a spirit even greater than holding onto the reins of the domiciliary life.

What was so special about a patio that my mom puppy loved it? I never asked her. Growing up I was more like a creeper blending in to my parents' likes and dislikes plucking and preferring one comportment over the other that knitted to my pubescence maturity.

Just like my mom, I too was drawn to the patio overlooking the small patch of our garden. I longed for the twilight hours knowing well that homework would soon be done with. Slipping out quietly with a book in hand and a glass of icy lemonade on sultry summer days, I snugged up on a cushioned rattan chair on the patio. Before starting to devour the book in hand, I breathed in the garden whiff emanating from the buds and flowers. I feasted my eyes on the trampled leaves on the walkway, damp earth neatly piled up hemming in the shrubs or the spade and the trowel concealed by a ripply bush. The lawnmower, the watering can and the insecticide spray bottle would be stowed away behind a hedge adjacent to our patio. The birds flocking to their nest.

Sometimes my mom plodded late into the evening hours working away silently over the rose bushes or the kitchen garden. She scrutinised every detail of the plants or the fruits they bore, ripe or raw, moth-eaten or healthy. Buttoned up in the nature's cortege she did not even press me for leaving my study table so early. At other times she would sit on the patio closely overlooking our weekly gardener's landscaping and planting skills. It was her early morning ritual to take a hike around the garden tending to the plants for a short time or making a mental note of, sipping her morning cuppa on the patio, what was needed to be ministered to later in the day in "her" time.

The patio was her ark of mental retreat. "Her" time which she only cared for and nourished wholly. Free from daily household and professional routines and worries, the patio served her as a palette of life's spectrum. Mother Nature enveloped her train of thoughts or a book satiated her insights. A cup of tea at the patio helped her hit off a conversation with family over a problem. The vast expanse of the sky looming large above embalmed her life's twinges. Those times had not yet ushered in the dotcom era so a letter from a friend or family from distant lands would be opened, read and re-read on the patio. She was high on social circles and so letters, carrying good, bad and general tidings were always addressed to her. Naturally she was predisposed to answer them not at the study table but sitting tight and comfortable at the patio chair. Her letter pads, pen, stamps and gluestick commanding the table before her. No family members were allowed to come out at the patio during that time. Her flawless handwriting, unsmudged paragraphs and fresh thoughts neatly combed the blank letter page. When the daylight was good enough she would pour over the local dailies sitting at the patio.

No doubt the patio acted as a fillip to her concentration and nurtured her mentally. Our entries, avenues and exits in life are well mapped in advance. Only to read it aloud, envisioning our success and slips at a spiritual level, and redefining our own existense needs a small space exclusive to one's own self. More like monitoring and evaluating one's own theories and ideologies and this is a day-in and day-out task. Not something like we do every quarter or once in six months sitting in closed confines of a four-walled room videoconferencing, with counterparts sitting miles away, over a corporate assessment. At the same time I'm not rebutting conferences or workshops, fairs and festivals, community hangouts or events where physical collaboration helps in stemming out ideas and philosophies for betterment. But we all need collaborating with one's own self for amelioration. Not engaging though during a hustle.

"Looking up and out, how can we not respect this ever-vigilant cognizance that distinguishes us: the capability to envision, to dream, and to invent? the ability to ponder ourselves? and be aware of our existence on the outer arm of a spiral galaxy in an immeasurable ocean of stars? Cognizance is our crest" - Vanna Bonta

The quest for ourselves, exploring the inner free voice, is mostly latent amongst us especially today when life starts at the push of a button. Enrolling for a meditation class helps but is this something you've been pushed to going with the flow or a thriving sense flooding your mind? No-one but only you are responsible for the intrinsic sparkle in environs best suited to one's own mind and reflex. An ewer is always handy helping you to penetrate and cleanse within.