Random musings on a merry day

Christmas...to any kid who has studied in a Christian Missionary Convent, Christmas remains etched in mind, maybe forever. The following musings are random totally but have their own meaning for me. Mrs.Rita Pillai - my headmistress when I was in Primary School.Even today I can see her sitting at the piano leading us in choir. I can see her directing all the teachers for the proceedings of the day. This included the usual walk of the Three Kings of the Orient, greeting the Lord in the manger [I remember the song' Away in the Manger, No crib for a bed,...'] And of course, ensuring that the Santa Claus had his bag of chocolates in place. I tend to remember the chapel in my school.A low-lit place, carpeted red. The statue of Christ on the cross on one of walls. Flower pots adorning the place. We had to remove our shoes to get inside. And had to remain silent. Actually we were supposed to pray. But I used to wonder why Christ's body was twisted on the cross. What would a child's mind understand about the metaphorical implications of pain? Many years later, I found my answer in the book The Agony and Ecstasy by Irvingstone. Mrs. Pillai never found out that I never used to pray there. My mother was from an orthodox background. Despite that, one fine day her curiosity got better of her and  we marched to Santhome Church to witness the Christmas Eve festivities. So impressed were we that my Mom made it a practice to visit the church more often.  Another memory associated with Christmas was our visit to Spenser's, the only mall worth speaking about in Chennai at that time. I and my Mom marched in for some window shopping on that day only to realise that there was a painting competition going on for kids. Mom told me to participate and bought some crayons and colors for me. I won the second prize - a fancy pencil box. [Today, Spenser Plaza doesn't appeal to me.It looks more like Kafka's castle.] And of course, the plum cake that Dad used to bring. With great ceremony we used to cut the cake and I used to reserve my share for a late night snack. And then look pleadingly at my brother and sister. No one could resist that look! College? The whole month we used to play this game called Chris Mom and Chris Child. It involved leaving some secret gifts for the assigned friend. Of course, for the better part of my stay, I thought it was a silly game. In the band, there was no choice, you had to play it. Christmas also reminds me of the day when the band as a whole got into a soup with our teachers. We had decided to play on Christmas Eve. The catch was that we had not taken the permission of our teachers, who, quite conveniently, were on a holiday.Our band was pretty much in the nascent stage and this was going to be our first standing performance. We put together a few tunes, and played for about 15 minutes. Felt on top of the world.:) We came crashing down the next day when our teachers returned.:( We got a solid blasting for not having gone through the official channels. Most of all, Christmas always reminds me of that scene in Home Alone [Part 2] The mother comes in search of the kid and the kid is praying in the Church. Praying for his family. And I think of the time when I and my mom used to sit in the church, more out of curiosity rather than reverence. And I can hear the music,...Hark the herald, Oh come all ye faithful, .......And I just think of a human being who lived many hundreds and thousands of years ago, personifying all the good that man is capable of. And whose message of love and brotherhood is preserved mostly for a day's festivity. :)Merry Christmas to one and all.

I had a great big fall!

The latest bug that has bitten me is that of dancing. Yes, I do  dance once in a while and am also trained in the classical version to some extent. It all started when a group of us were discussing those 'irrelevant things' which, as if by some stroke of chance, suddenly mutate into possibilities of expressing hitherto hidden talents. [Especially when you have nothing else worthwhile to discuss]

In case you have not understood the previous line, some of us decided to dance. The suggestion was put forth by an adventurer and was promptly accepted. Can you picture the six of us crammed in a room, music at full blast, stomping away to glory, with occasional pretensions to being professionals? Of course, we had taken care of the coffee part.

We were indeed an interesting group - called ourselves The Electric Girls - 3 serious dancers, 2 wannabe dancers and 1 adventurer. We yelled, screamed and laughed at our own mistakes. Making the wannabe dancers and the adventurer understand and develop a sense of rhythm and beat proved to be a daunting task.

But oh, when did the great fall happen? We were rehearsing live before an audience and some of us in the 'interesting group' were in a hyperactive state. One hyperactive girl challenged me to a classical dance posture which had been child's play to me earlier. In retrospect, I was an idiot to accept that challenge. I had been out of practice for quite some time now. However, the general consensus was that I should attempt at it, and not be a coward. As that girl held on to me for support, I attempted the impossible-bending backwards and touching the floor with my head (a classical pose pertaining to the snake dance. And yes, in my younger days, I could achieve that!) I miscalculated and instead of a smooth progress towards my destination, I landed with a thud. Nevertheless, my instincts made me reach out for the hand of a surprised onlooker and finally, the three of us, tumbled on each other - a sorry mess right in the middle of the stage. The entire amphitheatre's attention was drawn to the three dazed souls.

All that we could do at this defining moment was to give a gracious smile and nonchalantly pretend as if this was all a part of the act. [The accusations could be hurled later.]

As for dancing, we did put on our act, with a medley of songs from Madonna, Westlife, popular dance numbers from Hindi and Telugu and yes, the act was widely appreciated. Three cheers to the spirit of adventure! 

Towards making the existing model obsolete

In the page immediately after the contents of A Year in Green Tea and Tuk-Tuks is the Buddhist adage “What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls the butterfly.” I knew right away that this was going to be a different kind of book. A book that showed 1. an awareness of the problem 2. creative and yet practically sustainable solutions to it. My introduction to the environmental crisis happened in grade 10. There were a couple of questions on the climate change and ozone depletion. Definite questions which would fetch you 10 marks. As I saw it then, there was nothing much I could do about the reducing the rate of ozone depletion except to convince the examiners that I knew the processes. The equation was so simple and for all practical purposes, the ozone hole became my favourite topic. My curiosity regarding environmental management shot up when I saw An Incovenient Truth. To tell the truth, I felt a lot wiser but strangely uncomfortable. I needed to know more. Suddenly terms like genetically modified food, ozone hole, climate change, biological warfare etc. started acquiring a sinister meaning. From the way I look at it, a book that tries to address environmental issues should essentially 1. Give the real picture of the crisis in a language that a layman can understand 2. Suggest practical ways and means to address them both at the local/global level 3. Narrate real life experiences to prove that living in harmony with the environment doesn’t necessarily mean uncomfortable living. Rory Spower’s book is an excellent instance of environment awareness in daily life. As he narrates his experience of creating an organic farm in a country torn apart by natural disasters and civil strife, we accompany him on a journey to create a more self-sustaining lifestyle. There is no problem without a solution. This is exemplified in his attempts to address the need for comfortable yet ecologically sustainable living. Is he joking? NO. He proves that this is possible with a few modifications to the design and structure of of our living areas. Electricity? Spowers tells me that I can generate enough power in my own backyard and stop depending on the unpredictable power grid, or fuel my living expenses with diesel. From what he says it appears that it is also possible not only to recharge a laptop but to address all the electricity requirements of a household using solar power. But what about the costs involved in designing and restructuring our living space in a manner that would preserve the biodiversity and promote sustainable lifestyle? Spowers does not simply throw statistics at us. When he calculates the cost of this kind of sustainable living and the savings and the profits that can be generated out of it, we can see that the man knows his economics. Sample his narration of the Doc Man’s life style [Chapter 3] and his own attempts at building his domicile in a cost-effective manner. Colin, the doc-man hits the nail on the head when he says that ‘the only way to reverse the situation was to bring economics and ecology back into synergy, to apply ecological truths to our corrupted economic thought and make it beneficial not only to all human beings, but all forms of life.”And this remains the effort of Spowers. Combining ecological and economical sense in designing a sustainable lifestyle. The best thing about the book is that it is not just mere narration, but narration backed with research, experiences and most importantly, a tinge of humour. And when it ends, you have the ‘highlighting of the horrors of our predicament with respect to various apects of our life’ along with the ‘initiatives, projects and technologies that give us a cause for hope.’ And it was this section which caught the interest of my curious mind which was in search of knowledge about the fuel consumption by vehicles, genetically modified food, the effects of pesticides, the impact of the pharmaceutical industry, so on and so forth. Here Spowers blows apart many myths about the role played by the developing technologies in creating a sustainable and peaceful life. According to him, they seem to be directed only along the capitalistic lines and the generation of profits with scant regard to environment. He does manage to make his point here. The final solution apparently seems to be in education. Right type of education which would enable us to be informed beings living in harmony with our environment rather than machines living in isolation. For which the ‘illusion’ of us being separate little selves rather than a ‘manifestation of one universal and absolute self’ has to be removed.It is on this affirmative note that the book ends. One of the quotations used in the book remained in my mind for quite sometime is: "You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete." And to make the existing model obsolete, we need to understand our own roles both as a part of the problems and the solutions. But for that mere concepts, models, and theories alone do not suffice. You need to have your heart in the right place. At the end of this journey of exploration, discovery, challenges, minor/major victories, minor/major defeats, the point really driven home is that there is no problem without a solution. To make the existing model obsolete, you need not only need a new model, but also your heart and mind in the right place. That remains the USP of this book.

Life throbbing in my hands.

It was a tiny creature, almost the size of my palms. Slowly, with love and care, it had learnt to fly. But it made a point to return to the hands that had nurtured it. My palms were but a temporary refuge and the creature slept before I realized. It did not peck, it did not protest. It perched comfortably in my palms and took a short nap. If it had lips and teeth, it would have given a smile of contentment. But the closed eyes were enough for the adequate expression of the feeling. Softly, I stroked its head. It did not flinch. I patted it,...it snuggled further into my palms. For five solid minutes, life was throbbing in my hands. In the silence that surrounded us, I could feel the throbbing heart of the creature. It sounded just like mine. The bird was small, much smaller than me in size and much more fragile. But the heartbeat was the same. No wonder it felt so contented in my palms. A short walk we had together, the bird and me. As I approached the end of the corridor, the caretaker stepped forward to take the bird. Gently, the bird changed hands. Yet again, it did not flinch or protest.

Life was throbbing in my hands,...for five minutes.

Glimpses!

[This post was originally written in 2001. During those practice teaching days, I had a diary in which I used to pen down my daily sob stories and all the varied stuff that used to come to my mind. This time when I was at home I rediscovered that diary and the original post. Made a few cosmetic changes and there you go,...]

A flight of stairs is an interesting sight. I was sitting in the lobby of a Primary School awaiting my turn. I had just completed my final sessions of practice teaching and a post-mortem was going to follow. Not a very pleasant frame of mind I should say coz when I use the word ‘post-mortem’ I mean it. So picture me sitting there feeling like a gladiator being thrown to the lions [okay make that a female version of a gladiator, whatever!] In short, I was feeling condemned. Anyone of you who have done practice teaching here would know how exactly I felt. Good place to see teaching and learning in practice.

So, picture me sitting there, lost in gloomy forebodings. If I may be permitted to use a hyperbole, lines from Ode to Dejection were playing around in my mind. Suddenly there was this deluge. A swarm of small boys blitzed down the stairs on their way for lunch. The accompanying acoustics and the dynamics of their movement jolted me out of my intimations of mortality and I was hooked.

One took the easy way down. He slid down the banister with faint concern to life and limb. Few others took the hint and followed suit till a stentorian warning from a teacher discouraged them. One came down on an imaginary chariot, encouraging his imaginary horses to gallop faster. Another budding singer timed his descent to the hallowed school prayer, which he sang aloud with energy and gusto. Didn’t care a bit about the wrong timing though.

Another came down, whistling like a train, leading a coach of boys behind. One would-be philosopher came down, lost in thoughts and consequently stuck to the wrong route till a friend took the initiative to direct him onto the right path.

The best, of course, was the chap who decided that the world had no choice but to listen to his wailing. He made his way straight down the stairs, crying all the while. He walked up to me with tear stained eyes and demanded ‘Where is my Mamma? I want her!’ I was left clueless. The whole idea of the post-mortem was ejected as a mind that used to dwell on Eliot and Yeats and theories of criticism suddenly started racing furiously in searching the answer to the eternal question – HOW TO MAKE KIDS STOP CRYING? Maybe we got some short term solutions along the way. But convincing solutions? No. My idols offered no way out and all the theories of psychology and behaviour that I had studiously learnt as a part of the paper on Educational Psychology had not prepared me for this kind of an eventuality.

I had a brainwave. I dived into my bag and retrieved a chocolate. A chocolate that was supposed to be all mine after the ‘post-mortem.’ The reaction/response time was instant. Three things happened in an order that I couldn’t quite figure out. The wailing stopped, the chocolate disappeared from my hand and the kid ran away.

Truly glimpses!

Desperate Remedies!

Falling ill is like opening up your life to public scrutiny. The enquiries about your well-being, the phone calls when you are fast asleep, the various suggestions as to the possible remedies, so on and so forth.

Couple of days ago, in the night, I started feeling weird in my throat and had a choice between strepsils and Coldarin. I took Coldarin praying that the darn thing should end by morning. But by then, it became a full-blown throat infection accompanied by ominous signs of approaching fever. The various remedies suggested since then:

1. Half a teaspoon of honey [which probably increased the fever]

2. gargling with dispirin [made me throw up my breakfast]

3. milk with a generous dosage of turmeric [not much of an impact other than changing the milk to a thick yellow]

4. crocin [generously donated by my head of the department, which only knocked me off]

5. good old strepsils [I liked the taste though I honestly wonder whether it made any significant impact on the condition of my throat]

6. Some flu medicine [reduced the fever which returned with increased intensity]

7. Plain chocolate mixed in hot milk [this is the one remedy I liked and wouldn't mind having more of it!]

8. Finally antibiotics [which seem to be working currently but have transformed me into a zombie!]


Of course the best remedy of all was the consistent phone calls from mom and sister. If I have to fall ill to feel so much of love and affection in a world where relationships are business transactions, so be it.

Mango Party

Mango Party

The Mango season in Hyderbad is quickly coming to a close, whilst yet another year, I rue the missed opportunities. For what? Sitting under a tree and eating a mango with bare hands

When I was a kid, I had this aunt of mine who stayed in a village in Andhra Pradesh. Come summer [not September!] our tickets would be procured and the three of us would be packed off to this village sans our parents. What halcyon days they were!

My aunt was a wonderful cook. In a jiffy she could make anything that was mouth watering and fit to be consumed on those lazy afternoons or nights under the sky. But when that, sometimes, didn’t happen, the mangoes were always there as a backup. Gorge into them, no questions asked. And where did we get these mangoes from? No, not from the supermarkets! In that village, most of the people had their own mango groves and it was customary that each family gave a basket of mangoes from their grove to all others. And of course the kids from Chennai had a special place in everybody’s heart. From the village doctor [I wonder whether he was really a doctor or a registered medical practitioner] to the official village painter – they would troop into my aunt’s house with baskets of mangoes. It was considered offensive if you refused their offer.

The best of course were the invitations to the mango groves where you could sit under a tree, pluck a raw mango and eat to your heart’s content. No gardener to shoo you off! Strangely enough, the visits to the grove stopped after a village kid told us that the groves were frequented by ghosts very often. But the mango party continued. Morning, noon and night.

In Chennai, we had a custom at home. We would not eat mangoes until the completion of my grandfather’s ceremony in the latter half of May. It seems my grandfather used to love mangoes a lot and as a tribute my dad stopped eating mangoes till the completion of the yearly ceremony. We followed suit. So two days before the ceremony, Mom, brother and I used to go the place in Parry’s corner in Chennai and purchase tons of mangoes [hyperbole of course, what I actually meant to say was as much as we could carry between the three of us!] And post ceremony – it was all mango celebration.

After I came to Hyderabad, the interest in mangoes weaned away. Especially this year, I had hardly had a decent mango. Even the mango faithfully given by Chachaji would just rot away in my house. I mean what is the fun having mango in your own room with no company of either human beings or Mother Nature. And of course, there is also no fun in having perfectly cut pieces of mango in a bowl with a fork to go along with it. Many a time I felt like using my hands, but etiquettes had a better claim over me.

And of course, the place where I stay, we used to have mango party every night. Want to know how it went? Mango’s would be cut and given in a plate. [I was not worthy of cutting mangoes with a kitchen knife because after one attempt, my friends concluded that I would cut my hand instead of the mango] and you had to partake of it with a spoon. The seed inside was of course, condemned to the dustbins. So this was the rather sorry state of affairs. The season was going to come to a close without my having manhandled, or rather womanhandled a mango. But then … fate intervened.

Day: Thursday

Date: 19-Jun-2008

Place: in front of friends who thought that I had gone mad!

I had had a difficult night the previous day and lost my appetite during breakfast. Naturally at around 12.30, rats started running in my stomach. I became desperate for food. There was a distinct possibility that I might turn into a cannibal when I spotted Chachaji. Without any prelude, I stated my problem, and in an instant he took me to the room where mangoes had been stored. Without pausing to think, I picked up opened it up with my hands and ate it to my heart’s content. Of course, a liberal dosage was on my face and hair as well, and everyone knew why I ate less lunch. Whatever, after 4 years, I actually ate a mango with my bare hands. Cause for celebration, right? I got four more and I am going to attack them tonight!