Growing old is mandatory.... Growing Up?, well that's certainly optional.
What does it take to grow up?. Truth be told, its about taking responsibilities, about beginning to own up. Growing up is therefore about situations and not about time. How we handle situations shows how grown up we are.
Being able to take responsibilities and being selfless are just two sides of a coin, they go hand in hand. The more self centered we are the less is our ability to own up to others. To be able to open up to others, to be able to walk a mile in their shoes is the pathway of growing up. As a look back, the path of the 'Grown Ups' is littered with lost opportunities for self appeasement. Its important to put oneself two steps behind and find happiness in the happiness of others.
Fatherhood is one of the greatest opportunities to grow up. It lends itself quite naturally. The moment you hold that little baby in your trembling hands, selfishness just leaps out of your life. The funny part is, that, somewhere along the way, as time passes by, the original feelings wear off and then being grown up becomes a conscious minute to minute effort. Every moment we are faced with the option to remain grown up or revert to infancy.
In all honesty, I don't think I have always done the right thing as a father. And I don't think its humanly possible to do the right thing all the time.
I just want to be able to say to myself, in all honesty, that I am constantly growing up. Just that.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Cafe Musings 401
The Thinker, my Buddhist friend, my sounding board, my conscience keeper, called earlier today and said just one word,
“Coffee?”
And that is how we ended up once again in that quaint noisy little café overlooking the market place. I, with my coffee and he, with his ice-tea. We were meeting after months and I know that he had been away in the Himalayas. As he sat there, he dipped into his pocket and presented me with a beautiful book on the interpretation of ‘om mani padme hum’ the most powerful Buddhist mantra. Tibetans believe that chanting of this mantra invokes in those that chant it a feeling of absolute compassion and a state of bliss. I asked him if this was true.
Like always, he smiled and waited while thoughts arranged themselves in his mind. He then dipped his finger into the ice tea and flicked a drop in the air, chanted the mantra and offered his drink to nature, returning a little of what had been given to him.
He then said:
“Bliss is not so much about feeling happy and satisfied; it’s more about a feeling that things can’t get any better. The moment one feels that something can’t get any better then one feels a tiny rush of bliss.
There is so much perfection all around us that we don’t have to look very far to see something that can’t get any better. Almost everything in the nature around us is perfect, there is bliss everywhere. We just need to unite with nature.
Just like the river unites with the ocean
Just like the wind unites with the fragrance of the flowers
Just like the dawn unites with the warmth of the sun
Just like the prayers written on the flags unite with the winds
Just like the shrill call of the eagles unites with the peace of the valley below
Each loses itself while trying to unite but eventually gains so much from the union. So it is with the realization of bliss. We go looking for perfection and when we find it, the discovery leaves us filled with awe. We wonder in the ability of nature to awe us with its tiniest creation and it is in that realization, my friend, where bliss hides”.
“Coffee?”
And that is how we ended up once again in that quaint noisy little café overlooking the market place. I, with my coffee and he, with his ice-tea. We were meeting after months and I know that he had been away in the Himalayas. As he sat there, he dipped into his pocket and presented me with a beautiful book on the interpretation of ‘om mani padme hum’ the most powerful Buddhist mantra. Tibetans believe that chanting of this mantra invokes in those that chant it a feeling of absolute compassion and a state of bliss. I asked him if this was true.
Like always, he smiled and waited while thoughts arranged themselves in his mind. He then dipped his finger into the ice tea and flicked a drop in the air, chanted the mantra and offered his drink to nature, returning a little of what had been given to him.
He then said:
“Bliss is not so much about feeling happy and satisfied; it’s more about a feeling that things can’t get any better. The moment one feels that something can’t get any better then one feels a tiny rush of bliss.
There is so much perfection all around us that we don’t have to look very far to see something that can’t get any better. Almost everything in the nature around us is perfect, there is bliss everywhere. We just need to unite with nature.
Just like the river unites with the ocean
Just like the wind unites with the fragrance of the flowers
Just like the dawn unites with the warmth of the sun
Just like the prayers written on the flags unite with the winds
Just like the shrill call of the eagles unites with the peace of the valley below
Each loses itself while trying to unite but eventually gains so much from the union. So it is with the realization of bliss. We go looking for perfection and when we find it, the discovery leaves us filled with awe. We wonder in the ability of nature to awe us with its tiniest creation and it is in that realization, my friend, where bliss hides”.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Gusts of wind
I have always been fascinated with wind and what it can do with light things like a feather, or a leaf, or an empty plastic bag. I like the way it will make these things swirl and float, make them rise or dive, twist and turn, literally make them dance to some ethereal tune I cannot hear. I don’t know why this should fascinate me or why I should see beauty in it but I do and that is how it is. Sometimes when I write I get the same feeling, as if my hand is the wind and as it writes it takes those words and swirls them, turns them, makes them float about. As the work progresses I see all those words I wrote dancing, rising and falling, happy and free.
There was once a friend who did the same with the spoken word and as he told stories he would hold us all in a spell. His eyes, his hands, his face, in fact his whole body would weave those words into complicated ‘maya-jaals’ that would capture us, binding us into tight little bundles totally at his disposal.
He loved to tell stories but he loved more the way he could cast a spell on us. Unfortunately he took things a bit too far when, a few years ago, he was in a village in Rajasthan and was as usual telling stories. Caught up in is own omnipotence he dared to make eyes with the nubile daughter of the local thakur. The thakur didn’t like that and had his tongue nipped off…. Yicks!! Now my friend is trying his hand at writing but the magic is just not there.
One of his favorite stories was about a Buddhist monk who was on his way somewhere along with his young disciple. The path was through a forest and since it had been raining for a while, the path was quite slushy. At a particularly muddy intersection the two monks came across a very attractive young woman in a beautiful kimono. Obviously the woman was pondering whether to cross the intersection and risk dirtying her kimono. The older monk sensed her dilemma so he promptly hoisted her in his arms and crossed the intersection. Then he dropped her on the other side, accepted her thanks and carried on. That evening when the two monks had reached a monastery the young monk opened his mouth to speak.
He said “My reverend master, we are monks and it is forbidden for us to touch women, let alone carry one in our arms”
The older monk gently replied, “My dear fellow, I left that woman at the other side of the intersection but it looks like you are still carrying her.”
One of the best storytellers I have ever known was my great grand mother who, even at the age of 86 years, loved to spook us with her ghost stories. Every summer all us cousins would get together at our ancestral village and come evening she would light a lamp on the terrace and we little kids would, like helpless moths, gravitate towards her. She would then commence on some spook story, her voice clacking like a witch, her misshapen teeth and her several facial warts and wattles would add to the effect and in no time we would be jumping with sheer fright at every shadow, at every squeak, at every rustle of the leaves. Come bedtime and several beddings would be rolled out for us all on the very same terrace. None of us were brave enough to shut our eyes and how we swore we would never again listen to her stories but come next evening she would light her lamp and call us in. Such helpless moths we were.
There was once a friend who did the same with the spoken word and as he told stories he would hold us all in a spell. His eyes, his hands, his face, in fact his whole body would weave those words into complicated ‘maya-jaals’ that would capture us, binding us into tight little bundles totally at his disposal.
He loved to tell stories but he loved more the way he could cast a spell on us. Unfortunately he took things a bit too far when, a few years ago, he was in a village in Rajasthan and was as usual telling stories. Caught up in is own omnipotence he dared to make eyes with the nubile daughter of the local thakur. The thakur didn’t like that and had his tongue nipped off…. Yicks!! Now my friend is trying his hand at writing but the magic is just not there.
One of his favorite stories was about a Buddhist monk who was on his way somewhere along with his young disciple. The path was through a forest and since it had been raining for a while, the path was quite slushy. At a particularly muddy intersection the two monks came across a very attractive young woman in a beautiful kimono. Obviously the woman was pondering whether to cross the intersection and risk dirtying her kimono. The older monk sensed her dilemma so he promptly hoisted her in his arms and crossed the intersection. Then he dropped her on the other side, accepted her thanks and carried on. That evening when the two monks had reached a monastery the young monk opened his mouth to speak.
He said “My reverend master, we are monks and it is forbidden for us to touch women, let alone carry one in our arms”
The older monk gently replied, “My dear fellow, I left that woman at the other side of the intersection but it looks like you are still carrying her.”
One of the best storytellers I have ever known was my great grand mother who, even at the age of 86 years, loved to spook us with her ghost stories. Every summer all us cousins would get together at our ancestral village and come evening she would light a lamp on the terrace and we little kids would, like helpless moths, gravitate towards her. She would then commence on some spook story, her voice clacking like a witch, her misshapen teeth and her several facial warts and wattles would add to the effect and in no time we would be jumping with sheer fright at every shadow, at every squeak, at every rustle of the leaves. Come bedtime and several beddings would be rolled out for us all on the very same terrace. None of us were brave enough to shut our eyes and how we swore we would never again listen to her stories but come next evening she would light her lamp and call us in. Such helpless moths we were.
Friday, October 19, 2007
A cup of tea
There was once a university professor in Tokyo who was known for his knowledge and understanding of practical sciences. He often mocked religion and spirituality. One day he decided to go and challenge the then existing Zen master Nan-in.
Nan-in invited the professor and served him tea. He poured the visitor's cup till it was full and then kept on pouring.
The professor watched the cup overflowing until he could no longer restrain himself. "Its overfull. No more will go in!"
"Like this cup," Nan-in said, "you are full of your own opinions and speculations. How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup?"
Nan-in invited the professor and served him tea. He poured the visitor's cup till it was full and then kept on pouring.
The professor watched the cup overflowing until he could no longer restrain himself. "Its overfull. No more will go in!"
"Like this cup," Nan-in said, "you are full of your own opinions and speculations. How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup?"
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Zen and the art of getting your wish
Everybody advised him that she was way out of his league and he'd best stick to his own, not that any of that mattered to him. He just politely heard them and then carried right on. Somewhere deep down even he knew they all may be right, but that too had no effect on what he did. Just like with everybody else, he politely listened to his mind speak and once it had done saying what it had to, he turned around and went straight to the local grocery and paid the checkout girl to get the latest list of the stuff she had bought just a little while back. Another day he struck up a conversation with the librarian to find out what she had been reading recently and then he got all those books issued to himself. He read every word and thought over every word. He did the same with the local music shop, the video parlour, found out what she had ordered at every restaurant she had been to in the last three months. Things weren't always that easy. Sometimes his charms failed him and people didn't give him the information he wanted. Some got angry, others got wary and some even had him thrown out. He took all this in his stride and carried on just the same. He knew the names of each member of her family, her relatives and her friends, and he knew much more about those that he thought mattered to her more than the others.
He did all this for six months and during all this while he never made even the slightest attempt to catch her attention or get her to notice his presence. Then one day, when he was ready, he wrote her a story. The story was about a girl who woke up one day and realised that she had the power to live her life just as she pleased. In the story, he got the girl to express what mattered to her, what she wanted to do in her life, the places she wanted to visit, the things she wanted to eat, wear, do. The things she wanted changed.
As she read the story, she slowly saw herself emerge out of the pages in a way she had never seen herself. He ended the story by getting the girl to express her ultimate fantasy...to meet a man who knew her almost as well as she knew herself.... as she read this, tears flowed down her eyes... for that was her wish too.
Nothing happened for a few days but then one day she picked up the phone and dialed the number that came with the story to speak with this stranger who had written it.
That was the break he was waiting for.
They met and soon she had met the man who knew her almost as well as she knew herself.
Do I really need to tell you what happened thereafter?
He did all this for six months and during all this while he never made even the slightest attempt to catch her attention or get her to notice his presence. Then one day, when he was ready, he wrote her a story. The story was about a girl who woke up one day and realised that she had the power to live her life just as she pleased. In the story, he got the girl to express what mattered to her, what she wanted to do in her life, the places she wanted to visit, the things she wanted to eat, wear, do. The things she wanted changed.
As she read the story, she slowly saw herself emerge out of the pages in a way she had never seen herself. He ended the story by getting the girl to express her ultimate fantasy...to meet a man who knew her almost as well as she knew herself.... as she read this, tears flowed down her eyes... for that was her wish too.
Nothing happened for a few days but then one day she picked up the phone and dialed the number that came with the story to speak with this stranger who had written it.
That was the break he was waiting for.
They met and soon she had met the man who knew her almost as well as she knew herself.
Do I really need to tell you what happened thereafter?
Monday, October 1, 2007
Music of the Soul
A narrow dimly lit lane leads to the hovel where Qasim Miyan stays with his wife and children. Qasim met me at a mushaira and invited me to his home during Ramzan. Qasim was a Sufi Qawaal with a clear leaning towards ‘mausiqui’, the spiritual part of Sufism.
So on the 19th day of Ramzan, come iftar, Qasim and I partook a frugal meal of dates and milk. We later sat and discussed music and as he spoke his face transformed, a glow seemed to wipe away all his wrinkles and his eyes took a faraway look. He spoke of the nuances of shayari, how ashiqui (the ode to the beloved) transcended to mausiqui. How the great shayars through out time had a personal relationship with the almighty and how for them there was no difference between pursuing a consort or communicating with the almighty.
It was getting dark and Qasim called one of his sons to get a few lamps. In the flickering light of the lamps I saw Qasim sit in a corner, faintly clicking his fingers and nodding to some tune that was playing in his head. He signaled his sons, a mere flick of a finger, and with perfect understanding they trooped in with a set of tablas and a harmonium. They handed Qasim a sarangi and soon all three were busy tapping and tuning their instruments. I just sat back, waiting for the music to begin. As he sat tuning his sarangi, Qasim looked up and said;
“bhaijaan, hum sub toh thaireh qawaal, humare ehsaas hi hamare ruh ki jabaan hain, aur yeh ruh hi hamari sachayi hain (brother, we are just qawaals, feelings are the language of our soul and our soul is our truth). You see poverty all around me but do you not see my feelings that are overflowing straight from my soul, do you not see how my feelings are reaching out and speaking with the almighty and how that truth is the real essence of my existence, my soul…”
With these whispered words he began to sing a couplet by Khusrau. In the flickering light of the lamps his face was lit up, the tiny beads of sweat glittered like some shining jewels. His fingers flew over the strings of his sarangi and every once in a while his hands would abandon the sarangi and reach out towards the sky entreating the almighty to accept some offering, his fingers weaving in the air, sometimes beseeching, sometimes urging. His voice reverberated through out the tiny room, his words swirled around, strangely echoing as they hit the walls and returned to envelope me again and again. The flames danced as if swinging to the words…. Rumi followed Khusrau, then came Niaz, Hafiz, Hasraf Mohani, Zaheen Shah…. All words straight from the very soul, all words of absolute truth… they talked of submission, of bewilderment, of the almighty’s power and his grace, his beauty and his mercy. The tiny room seemed to expand and grow, the little flames danced till they seemed to light up the whole world, the music became a conversation between galaxies…. And I sat, unblinking and mute.
When I finally left Qasim Miyan’s little hovel I saw that hours had passed. Quite surprising really, I swear I felt I was in there for just a few moments….
So on the 19th day of Ramzan, come iftar, Qasim and I partook a frugal meal of dates and milk. We later sat and discussed music and as he spoke his face transformed, a glow seemed to wipe away all his wrinkles and his eyes took a faraway look. He spoke of the nuances of shayari, how ashiqui (the ode to the beloved) transcended to mausiqui. How the great shayars through out time had a personal relationship with the almighty and how for them there was no difference between pursuing a consort or communicating with the almighty.
It was getting dark and Qasim called one of his sons to get a few lamps. In the flickering light of the lamps I saw Qasim sit in a corner, faintly clicking his fingers and nodding to some tune that was playing in his head. He signaled his sons, a mere flick of a finger, and with perfect understanding they trooped in with a set of tablas and a harmonium. They handed Qasim a sarangi and soon all three were busy tapping and tuning their instruments. I just sat back, waiting for the music to begin. As he sat tuning his sarangi, Qasim looked up and said;
“bhaijaan, hum sub toh thaireh qawaal, humare ehsaas hi hamare ruh ki jabaan hain, aur yeh ruh hi hamari sachayi hain (brother, we are just qawaals, feelings are the language of our soul and our soul is our truth). You see poverty all around me but do you not see my feelings that are overflowing straight from my soul, do you not see how my feelings are reaching out and speaking with the almighty and how that truth is the real essence of my existence, my soul…”
With these whispered words he began to sing a couplet by Khusrau. In the flickering light of the lamps his face was lit up, the tiny beads of sweat glittered like some shining jewels. His fingers flew over the strings of his sarangi and every once in a while his hands would abandon the sarangi and reach out towards the sky entreating the almighty to accept some offering, his fingers weaving in the air, sometimes beseeching, sometimes urging. His voice reverberated through out the tiny room, his words swirled around, strangely echoing as they hit the walls and returned to envelope me again and again. The flames danced as if swinging to the words…. Rumi followed Khusrau, then came Niaz, Hafiz, Hasraf Mohani, Zaheen Shah…. All words straight from the very soul, all words of absolute truth… they talked of submission, of bewilderment, of the almighty’s power and his grace, his beauty and his mercy. The tiny room seemed to expand and grow, the little flames danced till they seemed to light up the whole world, the music became a conversation between galaxies…. And I sat, unblinking and mute.
When I finally left Qasim Miyan’s little hovel I saw that hours had passed. Quite surprising really, I swear I felt I was in there for just a few moments….
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Joy of Ageing
Nowadays everybody wants to be young. So much so that even the young are looking old in an effort to remain young. Its almost like a miasma, silently floating among us. Stopping every now and then to breath its foul spell into our lives, forcing us to run towards the newest thing that is on the shelf, a tall promise to shed years off our skins.
It aught to be lovely to be old,
to be full of peace that comes of deep experience,
and of wrinkled ripe fulfilment.
It aught to be lovely to smile,
that wrinkled smile of completeness,
a smile that follows a life lived undaunted,
a life lived with accepted lies.
If people live without accepting lies,
they would ripen like apples
and be tasteless and rotten in their old age.
I pray and hope and I pray again,
that a young girl would say,
"It must be wonderful to live and grow old,
look at my old mother, how beautiful she looks"
that a youthful boy would think,
"My father is wrinkled for he has faced many weathers,
what a lovely life he has lived"
It indeed aught to be lovely to be old,
to be full of peace that comes of deep experience,
and of wrinkled ripe fulfillment.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Divine Conversations
A mother to the Creator once said,
"I wish I had your power"
The Creator then to the Mother replied,
"Raise my Good Woman, but its you I envy,
I create, but cannot undo,
for yours alone is the right to scrutiny.
As powerful as I may be,
mistakes are but a part of me.
To you is that divine power,
While I wait and despair,
you provide perfection to all I do."
"I wish I had your power"
The Creator then to the Mother replied,
"Raise my Good Woman, but its you I envy,
I create, but cannot undo,
for yours alone is the right to scrutiny.
As powerful as I may be,
mistakes are but a part of me.
To you is that divine power,
While I wait and despair,
you provide perfection to all I do."
Monday, June 18, 2007
Flight of Fantasy
Come, together lets undertake a flight of fantasy,
tucked away among the meadows I have,
a wee little plane just for two,
you need merely to think and it takes you there,
its a secret invention just for us two.
It has no complicated gadgets to engage the frivolous mind,
it has but two chairs but with ample leg space,
it has a tiny fridge and a warm stove,
its little windows have red silk curtains, tied and tasseled,
and a wee little door to let us explore.
It flies fast yet its safe,
no rules, but those of joy, to it apply
its fuel is a smiling face,
its brake.... the tiniest frown.
It needs no landing place, nor any guiding lights,
to it, the directions are to run wild,
its coloured bright red so we know its there.
not the scorching desert heat deters it,
nor the frigid cold of the arctic blue.
It needs no company except us two,
all we have to do is think and it takes us there,
no treasure can dream to buy it, for its ours and ours alone
tucked away among the meadows I have
a wee little plane for two.
tucked away among the meadows I have,
a wee little plane just for two,
you need merely to think and it takes you there,
its a secret invention just for us two.
It has no complicated gadgets to engage the frivolous mind,
it has but two chairs but with ample leg space,
it has a tiny fridge and a warm stove,
its little windows have red silk curtains, tied and tasseled,
and a wee little door to let us explore.
It flies fast yet its safe,
no rules, but those of joy, to it apply
its fuel is a smiling face,
its brake.... the tiniest frown.
It needs no landing place, nor any guiding lights,
to it, the directions are to run wild,
its coloured bright red so we know its there.
not the scorching desert heat deters it,
nor the frigid cold of the arctic blue.
It needs no company except us two,
all we have to do is think and it takes us there,
no treasure can dream to buy it, for its ours and ours alone
tucked away among the meadows I have
a wee little plane for two.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Keeping in touch
Came across this, thanks to a dear friend.... It really got me thinking.. When was the last time i had penned a letter to someone I care about... a note or even a scribble??? It was a long long time ago, so long ago that i don't remember exactly when... now i have, maybe, five different ways of keeping in touch with those I care about, there is the phone, the e-mail, the Gmail chat, there's Skype and finally there is(and I am least proud of this one) the ubiquitous and the extremely abbreviated Mr SMS.
All of them are about bits of binary codes or radio waves swirling about and ferrying my affection across. Very efficient, very quick and very very Hi-tech....
But since when is affection about being Hi-tech, about being quick and about efficiency?.. will somebody tell me that?
When both of us were young and filled with all sorts of silly notions and feelings, how we poured them into long letters that we wrote to each other. How I waited for those letters to arrive. How I suffered when they didn't and how i rejoiced when they did. I knew the postman by his bell and I knew he was there when the faintest tinkle reached my ears. He was still far off, just about getting into my lane and still with many houses to call on before he reached mine. But I would race down and wait for him, impatiently swinging on the iron gate. As he got closer and he met my eye, I knew I had a letter, if he didn't then today was not the day. How my heart would break when he would keep his eyes glued on the road ahead as he passed my house on his stupid rickety cycle, ringing his stupid rickety bell. And I would have to wait another whole day to know if you had been thinking about me...a whole day!
That is the bitter sweet magic of a letter. That is what this image reminded me about.
Its time I conjured up that magic all over again.
Its time I wrote you a letter...
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Strange Connections
Who is she to you?, that's what a lot of you have asked me. Frankly, I too wonder the same. Many an hour I have pondered over it as I sipped several tall glasses of ice-tea and stared at the green patch that reluctantly rolls out on the small terrace garden overlooking her room.
It's not really her room. It was just another room in my house till one day she kinda slept over and then on it just became her room. It now has so much of her stuff that I cannot imagine anybody else claiming that room to be theirs.
Her room can be accessed directly from the street. There is a spiral staircase that leads from the driveway to the terrace garden and from there to her room. Some nights she gets into her room from there and I realise she is back only the next morning when she walks lazily down for some breakfast. I would be sitting at the table in the kitchen, with a cup of coffee, a bowl of cereals and some fruit, reading the newspaper and she would gently creep up from behind, plant a tiny kiss on the top of my head and reach for a fruit. Sometimes instead of reaching out for a fruit she would instead gently rub my shoulders while both of us read the newspaper open in front of us, her warm breath tickling my ears.
Generally both of us treasure the morning silence and its takes a lot for either of us to disturb it. So we would continue like this till one of us would, with a wave of the head, indicate to the other that breakfast was over.
She loves to fiddle with her hair and would often wind a strand around her finger, starting at the bottom and going all the way up till her finger would jam against her head. I have always found this habit of hers mildly irritating and many a times I have gently tapped her finger to make her stop. She would invariably pout and very reluctantly let go of her hair.
She read somewhere that chewing a gum was an effective way to keep her teeth clean and thereon she became a fanatic gum chewer. I would carry bits of paper in my pocket and pass her one whenever she wanted to get rid of the wad in her mouth. She understood my need for cleanliness but that kind of stopped at her door. Once inside she would pull out the gum and merrily stick it anywhere out of her sight. These would eventually harden into dried pips and I always thought they looked like small microphones put in by some sinister undercover agent. Every once in a while when she was not in her room I would don a hat, put on some gloves and pretend I was some sort of a spy sent out to 'debug' the room. I would tiptoe around looking into all the nooks and crannies and let out a whoop every time i found one of them 'microphones'. In the beginning I used to have great fun and would easily spend an hour looking for the pips but now I know all the little places where she is likely to stick her gum and can clean the place up inside of ten minutes.
Some evenings when she is home we would sit in the living room and play a board game or solve the Scrabble or just laze and listen to the Hi-Fi. Sometimes while listening to the music she would slide up and snuggle into my shoulders. When that happened, she would always shiver a bit and I would gently hug her hoping to drive away the devils inside her. We both like to listen to the music with our eyes closed and every once in a while she would doze off and I would have to lug her all the way up to her room and tuck her in. I don't sleep much, so often I would pull up a chair and watch her sleep. These were the only times both of us were in her room together and I would get this desperate urge to hug her. But invariably I would just walk out and go to my room downstairs and catch up on some work.
Often she goes away for many days, sometimes on some project, sometimes just to be on her own and I would wait for her to return. If the waiting got too long and I was missing her then I would often go to her room and soak in her presence, sometimes I would slip into her bed and just lie there, mind blank. Once I lay like that the whole night and in the morning she walked in. She saw me lying in her bed and she had this amused smile on her face as if she had caught me doing something very naughty.
It's not really her room. It was just another room in my house till one day she kinda slept over and then on it just became her room. It now has so much of her stuff that I cannot imagine anybody else claiming that room to be theirs.
Her room can be accessed directly from the street. There is a spiral staircase that leads from the driveway to the terrace garden and from there to her room. Some nights she gets into her room from there and I realise she is back only the next morning when she walks lazily down for some breakfast. I would be sitting at the table in the kitchen, with a cup of coffee, a bowl of cereals and some fruit, reading the newspaper and she would gently creep up from behind, plant a tiny kiss on the top of my head and reach for a fruit. Sometimes instead of reaching out for a fruit she would instead gently rub my shoulders while both of us read the newspaper open in front of us, her warm breath tickling my ears.
Generally both of us treasure the morning silence and its takes a lot for either of us to disturb it. So we would continue like this till one of us would, with a wave of the head, indicate to the other that breakfast was over.
She loves to fiddle with her hair and would often wind a strand around her finger, starting at the bottom and going all the way up till her finger would jam against her head. I have always found this habit of hers mildly irritating and many a times I have gently tapped her finger to make her stop. She would invariably pout and very reluctantly let go of her hair.
She read somewhere that chewing a gum was an effective way to keep her teeth clean and thereon she became a fanatic gum chewer. I would carry bits of paper in my pocket and pass her one whenever she wanted to get rid of the wad in her mouth. She understood my need for cleanliness but that kind of stopped at her door. Once inside she would pull out the gum and merrily stick it anywhere out of her sight. These would eventually harden into dried pips and I always thought they looked like small microphones put in by some sinister undercover agent. Every once in a while when she was not in her room I would don a hat, put on some gloves and pretend I was some sort of a spy sent out to 'debug' the room. I would tiptoe around looking into all the nooks and crannies and let out a whoop every time i found one of them 'microphones'. In the beginning I used to have great fun and would easily spend an hour looking for the pips but now I know all the little places where she is likely to stick her gum and can clean the place up inside of ten minutes.
Some evenings when she is home we would sit in the living room and play a board game or solve the Scrabble or just laze and listen to the Hi-Fi. Sometimes while listening to the music she would slide up and snuggle into my shoulders. When that happened, she would always shiver a bit and I would gently hug her hoping to drive away the devils inside her. We both like to listen to the music with our eyes closed and every once in a while she would doze off and I would have to lug her all the way up to her room and tuck her in. I don't sleep much, so often I would pull up a chair and watch her sleep. These were the only times both of us were in her room together and I would get this desperate urge to hug her. But invariably I would just walk out and go to my room downstairs and catch up on some work.
Often she goes away for many days, sometimes on some project, sometimes just to be on her own and I would wait for her to return. If the waiting got too long and I was missing her then I would often go to her room and soak in her presence, sometimes I would slip into her bed and just lie there, mind blank. Once I lay like that the whole night and in the morning she walked in. She saw me lying in her bed and she had this amused smile on her face as if she had caught me doing something very naughty.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Who is the mad one?
During a visit to the mental asylum, a visitor asked the Director,
"What is the criteria that defines a patient that needs to be institutionalised?"
"Well," said the Director, "we fill up a bathtub, we offer a teaspoon, a teacup, and a bucket to the patient and ask the patient to empty the bathtub."
Oh, I see, that's pretty smart," said the visitor. "A normal person would choose the bucket as it is larger than the spoon or the teacup.. right?."
"No," answered the Director. "A normal person would pull the drain plug."
;-)
Gotcha....
Hey, my friend, I too flunked this test... but living, as we do, in this mad world, methinks all of us qualify to be institutionalised...
"What is the criteria that defines a patient that needs to be institutionalised?"
"Well," said the Director, "we fill up a bathtub, we offer a teaspoon, a teacup, and a bucket to the patient and ask the patient to empty the bathtub."
Oh, I see, that's pretty smart," said the visitor. "A normal person would choose the bucket as it is larger than the spoon or the teacup.. right?."
"No," answered the Director. "A normal person would pull the drain plug."
;-)
Gotcha....
Hey, my friend, I too flunked this test... but living, as we do, in this mad world, methinks all of us qualify to be institutionalised...
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
The Eaglet Story
A young naturalist once was on a field trip when he came upon a small village. At the edge of this village was a small farm where a brood of new born chicks were pecking at some grain. He looked at the brood and thought something was odd. So he called the farmer and told him that one of the chicks was actually an eaglet.
The farmer looked at the naturalist and insisted that they were all chicks, after all they all looked just the same. But the naturalist too insisted that one of them was not a chick at all but an eaglet and that he wanted to take that eaglet away from this brood of chicks.
The farmer shrugged his shoulders. What was one chick less to him who had several hens. So he let the naturalist take the little bird with him.
A few days later, when he thought the time was right, the naturalist took the little bird and climbed a tree. At the top to the tree he whispered to the little bird:
"You are an Eagle, the king of the Sky,
So my little bird, Spread your wings and Fly."
He then stretched out his hand and let go of the little bird. But the little bird just flapped its wings and tumbled to the ground. There it promptly began pecking at some grain, just as it had been doing all this while.
The naturalist waited a few day more and this time took the little bird to the top of a much larger tree and again whispered:
"You are an Eagle, the King of the Sky,
So my little bird, Spread your wings and Fly."
But the bird merely flipped and flapped its way to the ground.
So he waited some more and this time took the little bird to the top of a large hill. There he again whispered the same thing to the bird and let it go. This time the little bird flapped a bit harder and it felt a surge of wind below its wings. It liked the feeling so it flapped harder still and by and by it began to soar. Soon it was doing all that eagles do... it flew high and fast.
Way down below the farmer saw the bird fly and knew it was indeed an Eagle. So he rushed to the naturalist and asked him:
" My friend, tell me how did you know the little bird was really an eagle"
The naturalist simply replied:
"How does it matter what it really was, I just believed that it was an Eagle".
The farmer looked at the naturalist and insisted that they were all chicks, after all they all looked just the same. But the naturalist too insisted that one of them was not a chick at all but an eaglet and that he wanted to take that eaglet away from this brood of chicks.
The farmer shrugged his shoulders. What was one chick less to him who had several hens. So he let the naturalist take the little bird with him.
A few days later, when he thought the time was right, the naturalist took the little bird and climbed a tree. At the top to the tree he whispered to the little bird:
"You are an Eagle, the king of the Sky,
So my little bird, Spread your wings and Fly."
He then stretched out his hand and let go of the little bird. But the little bird just flapped its wings and tumbled to the ground. There it promptly began pecking at some grain, just as it had been doing all this while.
The naturalist waited a few day more and this time took the little bird to the top of a much larger tree and again whispered:
"You are an Eagle, the King of the Sky,
So my little bird, Spread your wings and Fly."
But the bird merely flipped and flapped its way to the ground.
So he waited some more and this time took the little bird to the top of a large hill. There he again whispered the same thing to the bird and let it go. This time the little bird flapped a bit harder and it felt a surge of wind below its wings. It liked the feeling so it flapped harder still and by and by it began to soar. Soon it was doing all that eagles do... it flew high and fast.
Way down below the farmer saw the bird fly and knew it was indeed an Eagle. So he rushed to the naturalist and asked him:
" My friend, tell me how did you know the little bird was really an eagle"
The naturalist simply replied:
"How does it matter what it really was, I just believed that it was an Eagle".
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Happy Valentine's Day
Someone once told me that nothing happens just by chance, also that nothing ever happens that has no significance somewhere, somehow or to someone. I believe its true, that indeed when a butterfly flaps its tiny wings somewhere in China, its sets off a series of cause and effects that leads to, maybe, a thunderstorm somewhere in Brazil...
Is a thunderstorm in Brazil a good thing or is it a bad thing? I don't know... depends... but the point is 'cause and effect'.... that whatever I do will have an impact somewhere... and that makes me feel responsible... I am no longer just a mute and dumb spectator in this theatre of life...
So on this day of love and peace I will go out there and do something, something I may have never done before.
I am sure it will have some impact.
Just imagine if a whole bunch of people, a BIG bunch of people, all did something today, something they never done before, just imagine how many ripples that will set off, how many new directions the 'cause and effect' stuff will fly, imagine the chaos, this is stuff that can shake the very roots of who we are and how we are....
WHAM!
I don't know for sure if what happens from all this will be good or bad... but what is the worst.. things will really go bad... well, we are at the very edge anyway, at best this will tip things over and BOOM, we are all history. Great, then all of us can dust out hands and begin all over again....
So lets go out there and do something....
Smile at a stranger, better still smile at someone you dont like.
Take the stairs instead of the elevator,
Hop instead of walk
Dig a hole, plant a tree
Yell "BOO" at the top of your voice
Buy handloom
Call a person you haven't spoken to in a long time
Schedule a reading at an old age home
Skip a meal
Bake something with your child
Cry at the plight of a stranger....
....
....
....
What, my friend, are you planning to do???
Is a thunderstorm in Brazil a good thing or is it a bad thing? I don't know... depends... but the point is 'cause and effect'.... that whatever I do will have an impact somewhere... and that makes me feel responsible... I am no longer just a mute and dumb spectator in this theatre of life...
So on this day of love and peace I will go out there and do something, something I may have never done before.
I am sure it will have some impact.
Just imagine if a whole bunch of people, a BIG bunch of people, all did something today, something they never done before, just imagine how many ripples that will set off, how many new directions the 'cause and effect' stuff will fly, imagine the chaos, this is stuff that can shake the very roots of who we are and how we are....
WHAM!
I don't know for sure if what happens from all this will be good or bad... but what is the worst.. things will really go bad... well, we are at the very edge anyway, at best this will tip things over and BOOM, we are all history. Great, then all of us can dust out hands and begin all over again....
So lets go out there and do something....
Smile at a stranger, better still smile at someone you dont like.
Take the stairs instead of the elevator,
Hop instead of walk
Dig a hole, plant a tree
Yell "BOO" at the top of your voice
Buy handloom
Call a person you haven't spoken to in a long time
Schedule a reading at an old age home
Skip a meal
Bake something with your child
Cry at the plight of a stranger....
....
....
....
What, my friend, are you planning to do???
Monday, February 12, 2007
Chill Connection
I take a walk to the park on most mornings and on my way there I have to cross a traffic junction. As far I can recall there has always been this old frail woman who sits in the corner soliciting alms. She has this plaintive pathetic look which follows you as you cross and that look simply melts your heart.
I, however, have some rather firm ideas about never giving money to beggars and I really couldn't think of any other way of helping her. So when on a cold winter morningI saw her all huddled up and shivering in her usual threadbare sari, I knew right away what I had to do. Later that day I went over to the flea market and picked up cheap but warm second hand sweater. This I gave to her the next morning. I thought that was a nice thing to do. So the very next day imagine my surprise when I saw this woman still in her threadbare sari, just as cold and shivering as before. She told me that her son had taken the sweater away from her. I said, that's fine, I will buy her another one. She said what's the point? someone else will take it. Who cares about an old widow keeping warm.
As I walked away from her my shoulders felt very heavy, as if a collective guilt of the uncaring humanity was weighing it down. I changed my route so I never had to cross her again.
A few months later I was at a gathering and the talk turned to beggars and I related my story of this old woman at the junction. A friend who works with street children told me not to worry too much. She said that its a well known fact in her circle how the beggars simply look forward to winters. They sit out there all cold and shivering and melting our hearts. She told me that all beggars make several times their daily take in the winters. The colder it is the better, the more they shiver and the more money they make. She also told me that's why the old woman would never have worn my sweater even if she was the only person left in the world.
I, however, have some rather firm ideas about never giving money to beggars and I really couldn't think of any other way of helping her. So when on a cold winter morningI saw her all huddled up and shivering in her usual threadbare sari, I knew right away what I had to do. Later that day I went over to the flea market and picked up cheap but warm second hand sweater. This I gave to her the next morning. I thought that was a nice thing to do. So the very next day imagine my surprise when I saw this woman still in her threadbare sari, just as cold and shivering as before. She told me that her son had taken the sweater away from her. I said, that's fine, I will buy her another one. She said what's the point? someone else will take it. Who cares about an old widow keeping warm.
As I walked away from her my shoulders felt very heavy, as if a collective guilt of the uncaring humanity was weighing it down. I changed my route so I never had to cross her again.
A few months later I was at a gathering and the talk turned to beggars and I related my story of this old woman at the junction. A friend who works with street children told me not to worry too much. She said that its a well known fact in her circle how the beggars simply look forward to winters. They sit out there all cold and shivering and melting our hearts. She told me that all beggars make several times their daily take in the winters. The colder it is the better, the more they shiver and the more money they make. She also told me that's why the old woman would never have worn my sweater even if she was the only person left in the world.
Friday, February 9, 2007
Cafe Musings 301
Its been a few months since the time I willingly gave into silence. Silence of words and silence of mind. A peaceful sensation that breeds thoughts. Thoughts that are simple and beautiful. Beautiful because they are my own and simple because they are without pretentions and without any need to impress.
My Buddhist friend (The Thinker) must have liked the ice-tea at my favorite noisy little cafe because when I met him again after all these months and asked him to join me for a cup of tea he promptly suggested the same cafe.
So here we are, he with his ice-tea and I, stirring my my coffee and searching in my mind for something smart to say, to start off our reunion with that 'A-ah' sentence.
He just saw right through it and with a smile he said;
"simplify"
"what??!!"
"be simple, if its not simple its probably not very good"
I just couldn't help laughing. He had got me again. But try as I might I just couldn't think of something simple to say. So I just stared at my coffee and admired the way it looked.
One of the nice things about keeping things simple is that everything flows so naturally. Once I had given up looking for that 'A-ah' thing to say, words and thoughts just kept coming up and before anyone knew it we were back to talking, just talking. Nothing in particular. I, sipping my coffee, and he letting his ice-tea go flat.
He spoke of a Lama he had spent his last winter with. He said lamas like to live on their own because its easy to be simple when you are on your own. He said this lama had a very unique way to attain spirituality. His measure of spirituality was a clear conscience and for him spirituality manifested in being able to sleep peacefully night after night knowing that there was nothing he did during that day that if done in some other way would have made things better than they already are. For him the pursuit of spirituality lay in being able to extend the scope of his involvement in ever increasing circles around him.
First he limited himself to making his own life better. Then he included his immediate surroundings, his room, his immediate community. Then the circle kept growing wider and wider. Every night he asked himself the same question, "Can I do something that would make things better?" The night he answered this question in the negative, that next morning he would push his circle a bit wider to include more things. When I mean things I just don't mean people, I mean everything. The animals, the trees, the stones, the water, the air, everything. He said that's why he wrote prayers on flags and let them flutter in the wind. That way the wind would carry the prayers away and the prayers would swirl around touching things and making them better. Things that were too far away for his hands to touch but things that were nonetheless on his mind, on his conscience and that deep down something told him that he had to help in making them better.
My Buddhist friend (The Thinker) must have liked the ice-tea at my favorite noisy little cafe because when I met him again after all these months and asked him to join me for a cup of tea he promptly suggested the same cafe.
So here we are, he with his ice-tea and I, stirring my my coffee and searching in my mind for something smart to say, to start off our reunion with that 'A-ah' sentence.
He just saw right through it and with a smile he said;
"simplify"
"what??!!"
"be simple, if its not simple its probably not very good"
I just couldn't help laughing. He had got me again. But try as I might I just couldn't think of something simple to say. So I just stared at my coffee and admired the way it looked.
One of the nice things about keeping things simple is that everything flows so naturally. Once I had given up looking for that 'A-ah' thing to say, words and thoughts just kept coming up and before anyone knew it we were back to talking, just talking. Nothing in particular. I, sipping my coffee, and he letting his ice-tea go flat.
He spoke of a Lama he had spent his last winter with. He said lamas like to live on their own because its easy to be simple when you are on your own. He said this lama had a very unique way to attain spirituality. His measure of spirituality was a clear conscience and for him spirituality manifested in being able to sleep peacefully night after night knowing that there was nothing he did during that day that if done in some other way would have made things better than they already are. For him the pursuit of spirituality lay in being able to extend the scope of his involvement in ever increasing circles around him.
First he limited himself to making his own life better. Then he included his immediate surroundings, his room, his immediate community. Then the circle kept growing wider and wider. Every night he asked himself the same question, "Can I do something that would make things better?" The night he answered this question in the negative, that next morning he would push his circle a bit wider to include more things. When I mean things I just don't mean people, I mean everything. The animals, the trees, the stones, the water, the air, everything. He said that's why he wrote prayers on flags and let them flutter in the wind. That way the wind would carry the prayers away and the prayers would swirl around touching things and making them better. Things that were too far away for his hands to touch but things that were nonetheless on his mind, on his conscience and that deep down something told him that he had to help in making them better.
Cafe Musings 201
'The Thinker' and I have been planning to go on a trek to Tibet. We have been planning this for over an year. We now finally seem to have a viable plan and looks like we may end up doing it this summer. We like to prepare for our treks by spending a lot of time together. Sometimes discussing the details, the logistics, but mostly we end up, like today, just talking. Talking about anything. sometimes we discuss our previous treks, our shared experiences. He has been trekking far longer than I have so he has more stories to tell then I do. Often he tells me stories of his experiences, sometimes to prove a point, sometimes to express his fears or sometimes simply to enrich my knowledge.
Up in the mountains everybody is a guru. The awesome power of the mountains breed humility and humility is the preferred grounds where spirituality sprouts. Extreme cold and rarefied air make conversations difficult, so people speak as little as possible. But they converse as much as you and I, they only do it through their eyes and with slow clean gestures.
I once spent a whole evening with a family in Spiti Valley. They hardly spoke a word but everybody in that family, including a naturally exuberant 5 year old boy, did everything a normal family does. The father helped the little boy with his home assignments, the mother cooked and the daughter helped set the table.... all of it in a calm quite way. They politely smiled (the little boy and his sister giggled) while i foolishly wasted my energies trying to fill up the silences with my constant chatter. That was a long time ago. Now I am as comfortable with silences as they are.
Talking blunts all other senses and therefore its only by being silent that one observes better, perceives better, understands better. Mastering silence is at the very core of all evolved religions. Its through silence that one acquires the sensitivity to listen, appreciate and eventually advise.
Up in the mountains everybody is a guru. The awesome power of the mountains breed humility and humility is the preferred grounds where spirituality sprouts. Extreme cold and rarefied air make conversations difficult, so people speak as little as possible. But they converse as much as you and I, they only do it through their eyes and with slow clean gestures.
I once spent a whole evening with a family in Spiti Valley. They hardly spoke a word but everybody in that family, including a naturally exuberant 5 year old boy, did everything a normal family does. The father helped the little boy with his home assignments, the mother cooked and the daughter helped set the table.... all of it in a calm quite way. They politely smiled (the little boy and his sister giggled) while i foolishly wasted my energies trying to fill up the silences with my constant chatter. That was a long time ago. Now I am as comfortable with silences as they are.
Talking blunts all other senses and therefore its only by being silent that one observes better, perceives better, understands better. Mastering silence is at the very core of all evolved religions. Its through silence that one acquires the sensitivity to listen, appreciate and eventually advise.
Cafe Musings 101
There is a quaint little cafe I often visit. Its beside a thoroughfare leading straight to the bazaar. Its noisy but one can see a lot of interesting things. Its here that my friend, a practicing Buddhist, whom we all lovingly call 'the thinker', often meets us to catch up and chat up.
"You often talk of a rhythm of life, that everything is part of some cosmic dance and as that dance ebbs and flows so does life go through a change of rhythm, at once agile, at once resting. Sure, but my dear friend, look at this street... where is that rhythm?, that flow?, all that I see is chaos, discord and cacophony....."
As I finished speaking, he just sat there, sipping his ice-tea and staring somewhere in the distance. My heart skipped a beat... had I done the unthinkable... had I finally stumped 'the thinker'. Striking him mute with my profundity? I guess not, his eyes slowly focused into mine and he mumbled, almost to himself..
"too many dancers and too close, way too close". I held my breath, I didn't want to anything to disrupt the sound waves as they carried his message to my eager ears. His eyes slowly returned to that point in the distance.
"The aakar, he continued, is neeraakar unless its seen in its totality. It does not exist meaningfully in bits and pieces. What you are seeing are those bits and pieces. You need to step back and then you will see the rhythm. Imagine a dancer, her eyebrows are shooting upwards while her eyes are flared sideways. Her fingers are splayed out while her hands are folding in. Her head is thrown back while her chest is pushing forward, her lips are compressed while her teeth are flaring... all bits and pieces individually discordant but step back a bit and you see a perfect execution of the Vibhasaa Raas. So it is with the rhythm of life."
I couldn't help smiling.... if one peers at an anthill from up close it appears to be chaotic but stand back and the same anthill is all efficient movements. But I somehow don't feel like giving in... not just yet. So I combat verbally.
"Come on, look at this street, no matter how far one backs up its still going to be chaotic"
He looks at me, his shoulders slump a little, he can see that I am being deliberately dumb and he could choose to ignore me.... he chooses not.
"The true essence of stepping back is to loosen your grip over the details without losing your sight of the form. One appreciates a form not by merely adding up the details but by sensing the harmony that joins the details into something more that just the sum of parts. To see the rhythm in this street one needs to look for the purpose, the essence. That's when one realises that much of the chaos is purposeless and therefore does not exist in the larger picture. What is left then is the purposeful actions of people with a goal in mind and their movements are therefore efficient. All efficient movements are always graceful, always beautiful, always rhythmic"
He seemed a little out of breath. Its rare when he speaks for so long and that too in a single breath. He reaches for his ice-tea. Its gone flat, all ice having long melt. We ask for some lemon juice and sugar syrup. His ice-tea always ends up being nimbu-pani because he takes so long over his drink and keeps adding extra lemon juice and syrup after regular intervals.
"You often talk of a rhythm of life, that everything is part of some cosmic dance and as that dance ebbs and flows so does life go through a change of rhythm, at once agile, at once resting. Sure, but my dear friend, look at this street... where is that rhythm?, that flow?, all that I see is chaos, discord and cacophony....."
As I finished speaking, he just sat there, sipping his ice-tea and staring somewhere in the distance. My heart skipped a beat... had I done the unthinkable... had I finally stumped 'the thinker'. Striking him mute with my profundity? I guess not, his eyes slowly focused into mine and he mumbled, almost to himself..
"too many dancers and too close, way too close". I held my breath, I didn't want to anything to disrupt the sound waves as they carried his message to my eager ears. His eyes slowly returned to that point in the distance.
"The aakar, he continued, is neeraakar unless its seen in its totality. It does not exist meaningfully in bits and pieces. What you are seeing are those bits and pieces. You need to step back and then you will see the rhythm. Imagine a dancer, her eyebrows are shooting upwards while her eyes are flared sideways. Her fingers are splayed out while her hands are folding in. Her head is thrown back while her chest is pushing forward, her lips are compressed while her teeth are flaring... all bits and pieces individually discordant but step back a bit and you see a perfect execution of the Vibhasaa Raas. So it is with the rhythm of life."
I couldn't help smiling.... if one peers at an anthill from up close it appears to be chaotic but stand back and the same anthill is all efficient movements. But I somehow don't feel like giving in... not just yet. So I combat verbally.
"Come on, look at this street, no matter how far one backs up its still going to be chaotic"
He looks at me, his shoulders slump a little, he can see that I am being deliberately dumb and he could choose to ignore me.... he chooses not.
"The true essence of stepping back is to loosen your grip over the details without losing your sight of the form. One appreciates a form not by merely adding up the details but by sensing the harmony that joins the details into something more that just the sum of parts. To see the rhythm in this street one needs to look for the purpose, the essence. That's when one realises that much of the chaos is purposeless and therefore does not exist in the larger picture. What is left then is the purposeful actions of people with a goal in mind and their movements are therefore efficient. All efficient movements are always graceful, always beautiful, always rhythmic"
He seemed a little out of breath. Its rare when he speaks for so long and that too in a single breath. He reaches for his ice-tea. Its gone flat, all ice having long melt. We ask for some lemon juice and sugar syrup. His ice-tea always ends up being nimbu-pani because he takes so long over his drink and keeps adding extra lemon juice and syrup after regular intervals.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Life in nano-distances
I think of the time you are not here beside me. That's the time i am thinking of you all the time but i don't miss you at all. For that to happen you have to be away from me and that you never are. When i think of you, i just close my eyes and in my mind i can see clearly what you are doing every moment of your life. Its almost as if i am right beside you as you spend your day.
Therefore, its really does not matter where you really are or how far, for once i give my thoughts wings, there is no place such as far away.
Therefore, its really does not matter where you really are or how far, for once i give my thoughts wings, there is no place such as far away.
Sunday, January 7, 2007
Dreamchasing
The good thing about dreamchasing is that one needs no further motivation. The dream does it all by itself. It beckons, it goads, it inspires and even disciplines. It is said that if you dream long enough then you will get there. The trick is to dream long enough. But how long is long enough? This question reminds me of Archimedes when he spoke of the power of cantilever and said something like 'give me a pole long enough and i will lift the earth with just my bare hands'. Yeah sure... but i bet it will have to be a very long pole..... very very long.
But then there are people out there who keep looking for this long pole, some even find it and in their own way end up lifting the earth with just their bare hands.
Manhji, a small time farmer in a remote village somewhere out there, is one such man. It seems that his little village is separated from the cultivable lands by a rugged hill and that all the farmers have to cross this hill to get to their fields. The trek is long, tough and dangerous and many a villager slipped on the slippery slope and was hurt trying to get to or from his fields.
One such villager was a petite women who slipped and broke her ankle while trying to fetch her husband's lunch as he toiled across in the fields. The very next day, Manhji, the husband, sold all the goats he had and traded them in for a chisel, a hammer and some rope. He then set about chiseling the sheer rock face intending to cut a safe and direct path through to the fields. It looked a funny sight, a man dwarfed by the 300 ft rock wall, hammering away at the formidable rockface with little more than a small chisel and a puny little hammer. He worked day and night, long hours, caring for nothing else, many a times even forgetting to eat. Villagers jeered at him, called him names but he just kept at it. Day after day, month after month, year after year. It took him 22 years to do it but one day he stood on the other side looking at all the fields. Behind him was a path he tore through the rockface straight to his village.
22 years is a long time to chase a dream. But ask Manhji and he will tell you how it was longer than what meets the eye.
Manhji, a small time farmer in a remote village somewhere out there, is one such man. It seems that his little village is separated from the cultivable lands by a rugged hill and that all the farmers have to cross this hill to get to their fields. The trek is long, tough and dangerous and many a villager slipped on the slippery slope and was hurt trying to get to or from his fields.
One such villager was a petite women who slipped and broke her ankle while trying to fetch her husband's lunch as he toiled across in the fields. The very next day, Manhji, the husband, sold all the goats he had and traded them in for a chisel, a hammer and some rope. He then set about chiseling the sheer rock face intending to cut a safe and direct path through to the fields. It looked a funny sight, a man dwarfed by the 300 ft rock wall, hammering away at the formidable rockface with little more than a small chisel and a puny little hammer. He worked day and night, long hours, caring for nothing else, many a times even forgetting to eat. Villagers jeered at him, called him names but he just kept at it. Day after day, month after month, year after year. It took him 22 years to do it but one day he stood on the other side looking at all the fields. Behind him was a path he tore through the rockface straight to his village.
22 years is a long time to chase a dream. But ask Manhji and he will tell you how it was longer than what meets the eye.
Thursday, January 4, 2007
When love and hate collide
One meets friends all the time, but one will rarely meet an enemy. One has to make a enemy. Its a deliberate act. One can make a friend without trying but never an enemy.
Read on...
There is this interesting story I once heard. Its a story about two clans, bitterly opposed to each other for as long as one could remember. The animosity was so old that no one really knew why and where all the bad blood began. Generations upon generations the animosity carried on, flamed every once in a while by some act of atrocity and carnage. The children born to these clans inherited hate... their enemies were made for them, sort of hard coded into their brains.
In this world of mutual hatred came of age a boy and a girl and fell in love with each other. Unfortunately they belonged to opposing sides so their love was doomed. They chose to die rather than let their love be sacrificed. When the final moment came they made one last desperate plea for peace but it was lost in a macabre swishing of swords... blood flowed...
Its a very old story but people still point out the spot where the two lovers were slain. Every year many gather there to celebrate the unrequited love. Nobody now remembers what eventually happened to the two clans.
I think i can guess... it must have taken a long long time but eventually the plea of the two young lovers was heard.
Read on...
There is this interesting story I once heard. Its a story about two clans, bitterly opposed to each other for as long as one could remember. The animosity was so old that no one really knew why and where all the bad blood began. Generations upon generations the animosity carried on, flamed every once in a while by some act of atrocity and carnage. The children born to these clans inherited hate... their enemies were made for them, sort of hard coded into their brains.
In this world of mutual hatred came of age a boy and a girl and fell in love with each other. Unfortunately they belonged to opposing sides so their love was doomed. They chose to die rather than let their love be sacrificed. When the final moment came they made one last desperate plea for peace but it was lost in a macabre swishing of swords... blood flowed...
Its a very old story but people still point out the spot where the two lovers were slain. Every year many gather there to celebrate the unrequited love. Nobody now remembers what eventually happened to the two clans.
I think i can guess... it must have taken a long long time but eventually the plea of the two young lovers was heard.
Monday, January 1, 2007
Speaking with Silence
Ever wondered how uneasy most of us are when conversations lulls into silence. How we fidget, hem and haw, often saying whatever comes to mind so long as the silence is kept at bay.
I often wonder why? Is it because we live in constant fear of being judged and we think that if the other person is silent that's because he or she is thinking and thereby forming an opinion about you? Is that why we leap to break the silence so that we can, by our words and thoughts, influence his or her thought process? I think that is what it is.
When we overcome this fear of being judged, we overcome the need to talk. We then are comfortable with silence. Comfortable with not knowing what the other person is thinking about you. Unlike the silence between strangers, which is uncomfortable and begging to be broken, this silence is enduring and likes to go on and on...
Someday you and I will sit all day and not say a thing. Wont that be a day to remember? I bet it will be.
I often wonder why? Is it because we live in constant fear of being judged and we think that if the other person is silent that's because he or she is thinking and thereby forming an opinion about you? Is that why we leap to break the silence so that we can, by our words and thoughts, influence his or her thought process? I think that is what it is.
When we overcome this fear of being judged, we overcome the need to talk. We then are comfortable with silence. Comfortable with not knowing what the other person is thinking about you. Unlike the silence between strangers, which is uncomfortable and begging to be broken, this silence is enduring and likes to go on and on...
Someday you and I will sit all day and not say a thing. Wont that be a day to remember? I bet it will be.
Sunset Musings
The sun has set on 2006 and my thoughts wander and wonder. Where will I be in 2007 ? What will i be doing?
"Giving Back"
Giving back to my family... my wife, my daughter, my sisters, my parents. Giving back the love and care, the sense that i am always there.
Giving back to my community... my friends, my neighbours, my acquaintances. Giving back the shared joys and accommodations, the helping hand, the sense of responsibility and accountability.
Giving back to my country... my fellow citizens, especially the one's whom opportunity has not favoured as much. The women, the children, the old and the unemployed. Give back my time, my experiences, my learnings and a bit of my fortune. Empower, educate, reassure and re-employ.
Giving back to my mother earth.... my environment, my lands, my nature. Giving back the old way, less abuse, less plunder, less greed. Giving back the respect for the natural order, the belief that co-existence is not just about us humans living in harmony but about letting go of the sense that we, as humans, have the right to do what we feel with all that surrounds us.
Om.
"Giving Back"
Giving back to my family... my wife, my daughter, my sisters, my parents. Giving back the love and care, the sense that i am always there.
Giving back to my community... my friends, my neighbours, my acquaintances. Giving back the shared joys and accommodations, the helping hand, the sense of responsibility and accountability.
Giving back to my country... my fellow citizens, especially the one's whom opportunity has not favoured as much. The women, the children, the old and the unemployed. Give back my time, my experiences, my learnings and a bit of my fortune. Empower, educate, reassure and re-employ.
Giving back to my mother earth.... my environment, my lands, my nature. Giving back the old way, less abuse, less plunder, less greed. Giving back the respect for the natural order, the belief that co-existence is not just about us humans living in harmony but about letting go of the sense that we, as humans, have the right to do what we feel with all that surrounds us.
Om.
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