Desicritics Category: Culture: Personal History

Ishq-Mohabbat-Pyaar-Vyaar: A Tribute to Filmy Love

Seema Dhindaw — Sun, 8 Mar 2009 03:42:39 EDT

Now that the controversies surrounding Valentine’s Day are in the past, I thought it would be fun to have a glimpse at the strange, comic and unusual things that love compels us to do. Catchy toe-tapping Bollywood tunes, the occasional romantic comedy, and sometimes corny poetic expressions have encouraged many of us to perform otherwise unthinkable, highly embarrassing acts of love. We can look back and laugh at spectacles that love or the illusion of it has inspired. The influence of the film industry, particularly Bollywood, hasn’t made matters any easier for those who have been pierced by Cupid’s arrow. In fact, many a times it is the sole culprit for implanting those bizarre and unrealistic ideas about love during those vulnerable, young growing years.

I grew up listening to Hindi film songs and religiously watched one Hindi movie a week with my family. When we were too young to know the implications of romance or love, my brother and I would act out the parts of hero and heroine, using trees at the park to play hide and seek which was followed by a high speed chase. We would eventually find ourselves running towards each other only to end the charade in a playful sibling fight instead of breaking into a song. When we didn’t know lyrics we would make them up. If we didn’t know the steps to a dance, we would choreograph our own crazy moves and our parents would watch sometimes in shock and at other times in dismay.

At home, it often felt like our parents were either villains in our lives or the stars of an ongoing Hrishikesh Mukherji film about complex marriages. When mom got upset over something, dad would sing and dance in a comical attempt to cheer her up. My brother and I would laugh in amusement, squeal in embarrassment or even play along. On Saturday mornings, mom made delicious parathas while melodious tunes played on the weekly Indian radio program. We anxiously counted the minutes, our eyes on the clock for the parathas and for the eagerly awaited weekly Namaste America television program that aired with previews of latest Bollywood movies, top ten songs and sometimes a special treat: an interview with one of the stars. Every week, I had a new crush depending on who was being interviewed and my brother had a new fight scene or dance move to play out. When Prabhudeva came on the screen we lost quite a few porcelain items. One of my first crushes was Salman Khan. I had a shirtless poster of his on the wall of my bedroom. That poster made a long journey with me from a small back alley in Rourkee, India and lived through my teen years in L.A. I remember my cousins hollering at me then for picking Salman over Shah Rukh. Today, if I make it back to Rourkee, I know for sure I will bring back a Shah Rukh poster instead. Tastes have changed.

In my teens, thoughts of how I would meet my knight in shining armor and what he would be like were always at the back of my mind. When I looked at Bollywood films for answers, the romances and love stories were fun and exciting, full of song and dance sequences, offering me hope but none or little practical advice. Hollywood portrayed a completely different perspective. Issues surrounding religion, career, premarital sex and race were at the forefront. Titanic, Father of the Bride, Sliding Doors, Sleepless in Seattle and many of Woody Allen’s films made things either too simple, fairytale-like or way too complex for me to grasp. Movies like Silsila, Lamhe and Chandni gave me hope that even if my soul mate was much older, married, missing after an accident or suffering from a predictable bout of amnesia, somehow miraculously and by defying every righteous principle, moral value and perhaps by way of nothing short of a miracle, he would end up being with me.

After watching Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, the prospect that I could have a guy best friend who would suddenly start to develop feelings for me years later when I grew my hair out, lost some weight and played basketball in a saree was extremely exciting. After a few years of shooting hoops, it didn’t take me long to realize that wasn’t happening. You’ve Got Mail offered hope of a promising fairytale romance which began after meeting a faceless stranger in an internet chat room. Thereafter began my brief and dangerous love affair with virtual chat rooms. I had my share of terrible experiences and realized that in the online world everything wasn’t as perfect or safe as the movies portrayed. As an adult, when I watch my nieces online, I feel a protective urgency come over me.

I slowly began to lose hope of finding my Prince Charming when one day I watched Dil to Pagal Hai. It suddenly all became crystal clear to me. Learning how to dance would lead me to the love of my life. I had to become just like Madhuri Dixit. A famous Kathak teacher was coming to Southern California for two months and taking her class was my only hope. I begged and pleaded with my parents. My dad made a few ill-timed jokes about California being earthquake prone and my mother politely suggested alternate hobbies that did not require much grace or rhythm. But they finally gave in to my childish whims and soon I was practicing tapping my feet to “tha thayi thayi” and undulating hand movements.

I observed in dismay that the Kathak classes were going too slow and I wondered if all this foot-tapping would break into a full-fledged dance any time soon. I figured I would have to be dancing to a song and not just these random beats in order for the love story to proceed smoothly. Nothing of the sort happened of course and the lessons were aborted within six months. I was left dolefully massaging the blisters on my soles.

After watching Maine Pyar Kiya, I turned to my amused parents and asked them if we had family friends that I could visit for a vacation in India. They did! And they even had a son. But as luck would have it, before my flight even took off, their beloved son had announced that he was in love with the girl next door and by then I wasn’t into love triangles any more. So I spent my vacation falling in love….with India and its people.

Recently, Hollywood, after years of criticizing the blatant escapism showcased by the Hindi film industry, finally caved and embraced the rags-to-riches, love story of Slumdog Millionaire. While controversies over the depiction of poverty in Slumdog continue, as an American, I was more taken by the moving story which spans several years and brings us a saga where tragedy, separation, loss and hardship, are all conquered by the one relentless pursuit of love. In India, love trumps all and I felt like this film captured that spirit.

I find consolation in knowing that I wasn’t alone in my filmi craze. Cousins, friends and siblings were also influenced by the love stories in the popular movies of the time. Unrealistic expectations and dreamy romantic ideas had infiltrated their minds as well. They too have sung in the shower, practiced pick up lines in front of a mirror and danced around the room in a towel like Kajol. I remember watching as my cousins practiced the famous pose of Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic, standing on the edge of a balcony above a sea of busy city traffic amidst the beautiful symphony of random honks. Much to my delight, on one trip to India, I helped a cousin plan many a secret rendezvous with her lover. Objections of their being together by their parents didn’t stop them from eventually eloping. The rage and tragic aftermath they faced from their families caused them much grief but their ambitious first steps together set off a trend in the family. Five other elopements followed in quick succesion within the next three years. Inter-cultural, inter-religious and inter-racial marriages were becoming more common. Old barriers fell away over the years. Thanks to inspiration from the popular films of the time, stale prejudices began to dissolve, bringing together soul mates across these divisive lines.

So all in all, these filmi influences have had the power to unite, bring positive change and offer hope to all of us who wait patiently to find that one true love. In addition to the cute, comic and sometimes foolish things that films have inspired all of us to do without their influence, life, both in love and looking for love, would not be as much fun.

Relationship Lawlessness & Social Criminals

IdeaSmith — Fri, 6 Mar 2009 13:01:42 EST

I recently saw a movie about relationships and love. In one scene, a man and a woman meet in a department store and strike up a conversation over the cash register which continues till they walk out. Standing on the sidewalk, they talk, like any two strangers who've just met, of things that interest the other and ooh and aah over what they have in common. Then, just on the verge of that crucial 'ask for her number' moment, the guy shrugs and says,

I can't do this. I'm married.

It struck me right between my eyes just then. They were following a socially accepted ritual. Then they reached a point where an expression of interest had to be made or not. And it could not be made since he was clearly unavailable. The social mores dictated that he not go any further unless he was intending to take it forward seriously.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Last year I went to Europe on holiday. After enduring much ribbing about Turkish delights and Greek gods, I returned to report that no man had flirted with me. My mother, on the other hand, told me of one of our co-passengers who had struck up a conversation and told her she was beautiful, adding with a snide look at my dad that he couldn't say the same about her husband.

She was highly surprised (even though I spend all my time telling her that she looks at least a decade younger than she is - and she does!) till I added that in some western communities, it was considered polite, practically a social requirement to mock-flirt with a lady and compliment her on her fine form. This especially for a married woman, since it was quite clear that it was in light vein and was not intended to be taken seriously. Quite unlike India where it would be considered highly inappropriate to flirt or compliment a married woman.

On the other hand, my father pointed out, that it would be equally inappropriate for the same men to have flirted with me since I was clearly available. Flirting would have been an indication of serious intent, a formal expression of interest.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~We are still in a nascent society as far as dating goes. Our parents generation invented love marriages in this society; we are the generation that brings in friendship between the sexes as well as socially sanctioned romantic/sexual relationships before marriage. We haven't quite learned where to draw the line between friendship-comfort and attraction-commitment. We are still experimenting with how far we go with being funny/cool/charming and where it trespasses into flirtation.

Think about some of the relationship scenarios that are very real to us today. The 'best friend' of the opposite sex that makes the girlfriend/boyfriend so uncomfortable. The good friends (sister-brother...this is really the most convoluted one of all) who vehemently decree that other people have dirty minds. The older colleague/father of a friend/friend of father/husband of a friend who are really friendly, but perhaps a little too much sometimes?

Don't we all know a guy who promises the moon and earth to every second girl, believing correctly, that she'll keep it to herself because in the larger sense, it still isn't done for a girl to admit that she's been with a guy? There is nothing to check him from repeating the same over and over again, no one to brand him for the cad he is. Even after the crime is complete and guy is far away, possibly chasing a whole new set of girls or actually married, how many of the women he has wronged are actually going to speak up? And if you say you don't know such a guy, give me a call. I have a private 'Hall of Shame' of these social criminals.

How about the committed ones who pass off their behaviour as harmless friendliness? There's a general 'kehne mein kya harz hai?' syndrome working here. The problem is that people do fall in love, hearts get broken, trust is rended and lives are shattered. You can deny those are very real crimes, nasty things that people do to people.

As modern women, we are expected to be 'okay' with a certain degree of liberal expression. The question how far does that stretch? It's okay to know a lot of guys, it's fine to go out with them, even flirt with them, get into relationships with them. But all of that provided it ends in the institution of marriage or at least a 'stable, steady relationship'. But from meeting a guy to ending up in that last socially sanctioned comfortable relationship, it's a long way. Most men fall short far before that. Or I suspect a lot of them aren't even intending to go that far but try and drag out as much as they can get before they need to rat-tail it 'before it gets too serious'.

We stuff our best-looking side into our public persona and bury our insecurities. We put up with a guy who is 'commitment-phobic' for months and months because we don't want to be nags. We're okay with the 'just good friends' tag. We even tolerate cheating and tell ourselves patience is a virtue. What happens when he dumps you to go chase another girl and propose marriage to her in a week? You can be sure a crime of sorts has been committed but who's going to haul in the offender?

And if you're thinking this is equally true of women as well, I agree. With one small exception. Men who have been wronged in this manner can speak up about it and they do. Where else do we get such nasty phrases like slag and tease from? On the other hand, a woman who has been wronged cannot speak up. Liberated-ness be damned, one of those aforementioned crimes was perpetrated on me. I didn't dare speak up since I knew even our common friends would just think I was stupid for having believed such a guy in the first place. Well, you live, you learn.

Last month, I was flirted with by a committed man. I was unsure on when exactly I could draw the line and just relieved to get away without too much embarrassment. As I'm writing this post, I'm being propositioned by a married friend. This relationship is sometimes questioned by my friends who believe (quite correctly) that he is a social criminal. I agree and yet I continue to be friends (only in every sense of the word) with him. But few relationships are this manageable and heavenaloneknows that this one wasn't easy either.

Let me end this by just saying that delightful as this state may be with its glorious rule-lessness, the very lawlessness of it leaves each of us vulnerable to social crimes.

A Journey That Continues

Kishore — Thu, 5 Mar 2009 13:04:24 EST

He was a nice looking gentleman wearing an oversize coat and thick mufflers around his neck, who acceded to taking a picture of me and V standing on the edge of Dolphin’s Nose. “So where are you from?” he asked me handing over the camera to V. “I... Er... I’m from...”, I fumbled. V did better. She smiled, as she secured the camera into its case.

It was an incredible moment in our lives. A moment when we realized, we didn’t have an answer to the most rudimentary question of existence – “Where are you from?” Well, let me see. We have moved three cities in two countries in four months, have our belongings lying in five cities across the two countries and have no idea where we would be four weeks from this minute.

Things weren’t supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be happy days ahead. Family, elders and all that, you know? A fairy tale of the prince and princess living happily ever after. It sure was a fairy tale of sorts, until the day we called bitter-gourd bitter. Ever wondered calling bitter-gourd bitter could bring you trouble for the rest of your life?

Many months after that ignominious moment of getting reprimanded for stating the obvious, troubles continued. “Elementary my dear Watson.”, a well wisher suggested, “Everyone has troubles. Just deal with it.” Deal with it, huh? At what price? A few hundred dollars of happiness would do? Heard they started selling that thing in Wal-mart these days. So I could’ve helped myself, you know, with a few capsules whenever there was trouble.

We are dealing with it alright. But not like the Goody two shoes that we used to be. Although no one knows it that way. Life is simple. People are not. They are high on illusion or hung over on reality. So much so that any attempts at talking them out of their ridiculous assumptions or psychic outbursts only falls into deaf years. We became weary of our condemned routine and decided to find our own way.

We are on the move, although no one knows the real reasons of what we are doing or where we are moving. "Family" thinks we are happy. The indicators are there – we travel, we do the vacations, we shop, we laugh, what else one needs to know if someone is actually happy? For them, we are the good kids who do a lot of traveling on business. To ourselves, we are lost rowing in a sea without a compass and the shore is nowhere in sight.

May be we could still have waited for more time, until the day when the deaf ears would open up. May be, if we could’ve drugged ourselves with a few capsules of Solvomycin from Wal-mart, everything would’ve been solved and life would’ve been back to being a fairy tale. Life is a honey moon. Except that the honey doesn’t taste good at some times, and the moon is hidden by clouds at other times.

“Deal with it, kid”, an elder told me. “It’s the same with everyone”, a veteran confided. “You can’t run away from troubles. You’ll have to come back to it someday”, told a peer. I agree with everyone. Except that they are not me, and they haven’t seen what I’ve seen. But how do you tell the world you don’t bother about it anymore? I guess you just don’t. And that’s what we’ve done. Kept quiet, and moved. “Cheeky, but you did the right thing”, a friend smiled when he heard our story, “Life finds a way”.

We’ve set out to do what we think is our pursuit of happiness. We are moving places, driving in near-zero visibility. We don’t know where our next turn is, or how long until we stop again. We don’t know if we’ll run out of gas, or reach our hitherto unknown destination soon enough. We don’t know if we are alone, or there are other cars beside us. But we do know that we’ll keep driving.

Beyond Love

Kavita Chhibber — Mon, 2 Mar 2009 09:42:51 EST

My life has been a sonata of myriad colors and memories, the notes filled with resonance and beauty, and the emotion that fills me, is so far beyond just love. When I invited people to go beyond romantic love and honor special moments and special people for my emag last month, no matter how fleeting their presence in our lives I wondered if a special day was enough capture a few of those gems from the story of my life; a life so interlinked with that of so many loving souls? And yet every moment-is as good a time to recognize some of those special people and special moments.

They were both so distinctly different. One the diplomat, the patient one, the other blunt, hot headed and dominant. And they both left a lasting imprint on my heart, my mind, my intellect-and my soul.

Can I capture again, in the palm of my hand, their faces, the lines deepening not just with laughter, but the years that gently embraced them. Those lines that recreated the past, the present and the future for me.

Can I again stop and remember, believing that the memories that come flooding back won’t find a reason to escape through the tears in my eyes?

They were not famous, and yet celebrating their lives today makes me realize the immeasurable wealth they poured into mine-years of unconditional love, of laughter, creating a world of magical stories, transporting me to worlds I never knew existed.

Savitri and Saraswati-my two grandmothers. They taught me so much about sacrifice, generosity of heart, immeasurable patience, their pride in being women of substance. One faced adversities at a young age, and raised six sons single handedly, in a way that would put many authorities on child rearing to shame. What Saraswati, my paternal grand mother, a young widow, brought to the table was, to never let her sons forget to always be proud of themselves, to remember that they were lesser to none, and that the true measure of their worth would be only when they stood in front of the mirror and liked what they saw. She taught them to be honorable, upright, disciplined, to not take injustice either for themselves or others lying down, and to give everything their best shot, Above all, she taught her six sons to love each other more than anything else-and they do-to this day. There were days when she and her sons lived in a one room tenement after partition of India and Pakistan surviving on barley soup for days.

My grandmother, lived to see all of her sons excel and do well. Two of her sons became military generals; one the Governor of the State she lived in for the longest time. For her the wheel came a full circle when that son, the youngest child, came to the same spot where he sat so many years ago, as a little boy on a steel trunk outside a refugee camp not knowing what his fate would be-to cut a ribbon as the Governor of that very State and it was her picture that the major newspaper chose to splash across its front page. She lived to be a 104, lucid and alert and engaged in everything around her till the end.

Savitri, my maternal grandmother, was born in the lap of luxury, married a man who was brilliant and well to do but became a young widow like the other one. She was the greatest influence in my life. I spent all my summer vacations with her and when my father, a military man stayed away in remote areas, where his family could not be with him, my mom would come and stay with her. From her, I learnt to love books, from her I learnt to sing hymns, and pray to her favorite Gods. She loved Rama because to her he epitomized the perfect man. She frowned on Krishna, calling him a playboy. There was not a single picture of him in our house, though funnily she named one of her son Krishna and none Rama! Go figure.

She taught me to be proud of myself in a country that considered women second rate citizens. She was fearless, independent, hot headed and incredibly well read and sharp. She refused to live with any of her sons, preferring her own family home, where two of her sons decided to come and live with her. Every night, she would tell me stories from Indian mythology, go watch Bollywood films with me that she didn’t like much, encourage me to read as many books as I could and told me I was her most special grandchild. I still remember how she would come running out, her long hair flowing on her back, when we would come to visit and spend our summer vacations in her home to give me the biggest hug. I remember the nights she stayed up scratching my back when I had measles and chicken pox and was itchy all over. I remember the fragrance of the many jasmine plants that enveloped us as we all pulled our beds outside on her huge lawn and all the grandkids slept around her as she regaled us with stories under a full moon.

She died when she was only 62 and I a young teenager, who wasn’t told about her death for days until after she was cremated. Years have passed and I still don’t have closure. I miss them both to this day and I hope some day I will be as cool a grandmother as they were.

My hero has always been my dad. I strive to be as classy, as smart, as honorable, and as giving as him-and I wish I was half as good looking, but I fall short by miles. Almost all my memories of my father are either of him spoiling me or of telling amazing stories to us, as my sister and I lay next to him completely riveted. Little did we know he would make them up on the spot. He is a man of few words, but each word has its weight in gold. He is one of the most perceptive, far sighted people I know. He has always been right about everything and while mom and I and others have grumbled when he has put his foot down about something, we have had to eat humble pie soon after because he was right-yet again!

Strangely all my memories of my father, a tough military man are that of being Mr. Mom. If I was sick, it was dad who stayed up all night and took my temperature, paced the floor till the fever broke, took time off from work, to play board games or cards with me, while mom was much more relaxed. He has such tremendous respect for women because his biggest role model was his mother and as a result he pampered my mother to the hilt as well, nurturing her talents and finding something to appreciate even in her flaws. And he is a tough act to follow.

My mom was and is a spoilt brat! She is the youngest of six siblings, so her dad spoilt her and then did her older brothers and sisters. She then got married into a family of six boys and my dad spoilt her. She does what she wants but has supported my dad and his going overboard with helping others, giving both time and money ( even when there wasn’t enough for us, and mom had to go to work), with resigned disbelief at times, with pride at others;, but even when they disagree they kinda like each other. Theirs is one of the best marriages that I have seen and I find it funny how when they complain about each other they start laughing and then forget what it was.

All my brothers and sisters, are incredibly special people. They have protected me, encouraged me, and watched over me. They have appreciated my achievements and lifted me up when I was down, but letting me make my own mistakes. I realized how lucky I was much later when I saw even siblings by blood squabbling over property and money, with envy and jealousy rearing their ugly head. I always go home to my amazing family and extended family, and they put everything on the back burner to create a magical world of incessant laughter, amazing food, endless love, filling my suitcases with generous gifts till they creak at the seams.

With the exception of one amazing woman, Anees Jung, an amazing writer and human being- all my mentors have been outstanding men, starting with my brother Parvez. The rest have adopted me as their daughter, or kid sister, or close friend, showed me the way to excel and opened doors for me to walk in and prove myself and taken immense pride when I delivered without any expectations, that I would live up to the potential they saw in me and wanted to nurture.

Most of the celebrities I have interviewed through the years have been very generous with their time, and sharing of themselves. Many have become close friends, and I have been inspired by their achievements, touched by their humility and their continued affection whenever we meet or interact.
But its some of the people like you and me, who I have interviewed, who have taught me some amazing lessons. That would be mean many blogs in the future.

My close friends have been there for me for more than 2 decades and more. I’m still in touch with many who I have known since I was a toddler. They have been there with me through the best of times and the worst of times and the one thing that has been constant is their constancy. They know who they are and they know I cherish everyone of them.

I wrote this earlier, but I think it’s the greatest truth in my life and so I will say this again in the end.

Every experience in my life has taught me something. The good ones that there are so many miracles at every step, and so much goodness all around-and that it’s not just a matter of perception.

The bad ones have taught me that it is all a matter of perception. People are never bad, its circumstances, their own insecurities and issues that make them react in a negative way. I have never seen a happy person act mean or unkind.

My work transports me to a world that changes on a daily basis and I learn something new every single day. And I have met innumerable people that have inspired me and amazed me. I have learned that the human spirit at its best, can soar to heights you cannot even begin to imagine. It has taught me that the possibilities remain endless.
.

Ramakrishna: A Lover of God

Dr Bhaskar Dasgupta — Sun, 1 Mar 2009 10:22:23 EST

The Ramakrishna Mission has been an integral part of my growing up. My grand parents, uncles and aunts, my parents, my wider family all have been associated with this mission. And singing in front of Ma Kali and slipping into a near trance was quite common back then. While I was growing up, two things happened which are pertinent. The first related to the regular visits to the Mission in Bhopal. At that time, it was in the middle of a vast stony rocky field. A temple of calmness in the midst of a very stark landscape. And you would get a sense of peace as soon as you entered the temple grounds. The teachers over there were wonderful, they wore simple clothes and their laughter was so wonderful. A childlike wonder at the world all the time and infinite patience to deal with zillions of questions. I regret to say that I do not remember their names. Singing the bhajans and the trance like state one would enter while singing to Ma Kali, just wonderful. Even now, it brings a strange sort of peace to myself and tears to the eyes.

The second related aspect was my visit to Vivekananda Rock. If somebody asks me if I have met God, I say in the affirmative and that is one of the places I met him face to face. Strange no? So when I read this paper: Kali's child and Krishna's lover: An anatomy of Ramakrishna's Caritas Divina by Narasingha P Sil of Western Oregon University, published in Journal of Religion, 2008, I felt the tug of memories so badly. I quote the abstract:

The famous 19th-century Bengali saint Shri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa has almost universally been regarded as a Shakta (sometimes confused with Tantrika) devotee of the Mother Goddess Kali. His association with the Kali temple at Daksineshvar, in the northern suburb of Calcutta, has no doubt been a powerful argument behind his Shakta/Tantrika affiliation. This paper argues that Ramakrishna was essentially a bhakta (devotee) in the Vaisnava tradition and his cultural and family inheritance. His idea of the divine and his career and logia as a priest and a saint provide ample justification to consider him essentially a Vaisnava whose spiritual battle-cry was to demand to have dalliance with God.

The paper tries to decompose his feelings and his religious leanings by a variety of references, ranging from references to tantrik aspects to Vedanta to you name it. After reading the rather bewildering variety of references and attempts to decompose his faith, I was lost. But in the middle, the author hits on the precise nature of this wonderful man and I quote:

Nevertheless, it is important to bear in mind that Bengali folk culture essentializes simple fiducia and that Ramakrishna, an untrained and unread temple priest (although initiated into Shakti or Kali mantra by a professional priest named Kenaram Bhattacharya) cannot be pigeonholed neatly in any one sect formally. In other words, he was basically a lover of god

That is it. You really do not need a full fledged scholarly paper to know what he was, he was a lover of God. He investigated Islam and Christianity, delved into Buddhism and found that at end of the day, all paths lead to the same God. Sometimes, I think we make our relationship with God far too complicated. It is not, it is very simple. She loves us and we just need to love her back. Be like a Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, just love her.

It is very difficult to explain this feeling of wanting to be one with God or personally speaking, one with Ma (whether it be Kali or Shakti or Durga, or what have you, they are all the same) but it is an indescribable feeling and I tear up every time I experience it. But still, the article is good, if nothing else for the good discussion on tantric scriptures and practises, Vedanta and Ramakrishna’s life.

Oh!, the references are good as well.

Technorati Tags: Hinduism

Material Girl

IdeaSmith — Sun, 1 Mar 2009 10:20:27 EST

I went diamond-shopping this weekend. Last year I received a corporate pat-on-the-back with a financial award. Someone suggested that I spend it on jewelery instead of frittering it away on clothes, books and shoes. It took me months but I finally agreed.

It's not even the first major purchase I made, even for jewellery. I saved up on my first job and bought my father a new cellphone and my mother, a diamond ring. That was a funny feeling. A memorable feeling, a funny one and one I'll treasure all my life - the exhilarating thrill that comes from being able to buy something for the people you love, who have provided for you all your life.

A few years later, I'm going big-purchase-shopping again. But it just is different. A different kind of different.

I think in my head, despite all the wondrous freedom of financial independence and mental release, my liberated-ness has a few gaps in it. Like little stitches still binding me to old ways of being, long after I've snipped away the life I want to wear.

Diamonds are usually received as gifts, not bought for oneself. Gifted by a man - a father, a brother, a lover, a husband. If diamonds are a girl's best friend, it's because those sparkly stones carry the monetary value that they were bought for, but also the power of being cherished and indulged by men.

Diamonds have been symbolic for years and they continue to be so. Only my diamonds don't list out the men who will lavish their affections on me. They remind me of everything that I've worked for and achieved. The power to buy a diamond as well as the right to wear one that is truly my own. It's just odd how long it took me to accept the feeling. Not feel guilty about lavishing it on myself, not feel obligated to spending it on someone else or something more important/intelligent, not wonder if brandishing my economic power made me seem like even more of a man-hating feminist than people usually accuse me of being. It took me a long time to accept that it was okay to buy a diamond for myself and feel good about it.

Newfound power doesn't come easy; it's scary.

Poetry: Roadkill On Memory Lane

IdeaSmith — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 05:55:50 EST

Did you ever hear the call of memory
that screeching wail of nostalgia
like tires on tar
and you couldn't help looking back,
wondering if anybody died
and realising it wasn't you?

Did you turn back to proceed
and gape at the unfamiliarity of now
the past and its accidents seem so much real
and feel yourself lose footing on the road of reality
while even the blood stains from yesterday's carnage
fade away before you can grasp them?

Did you ever walk back into your past
and then find yourself lost,
not knowing how to come back
- Nostalgia is so disorienting -
and while you're frozen in your own mind
you get hit by a flood of something you never saw coming?

Maybe forgetfulness is just a way of ensuring we don't become roadkill.

Office Space

IdeaSmith — Sat, 21 Feb 2009 05:34:58 EST

While my current job is not my first, it is the one that I consider the real start of my career. Since I joined, I've switched three places, teams and bosses these past three years. With each shift I've replicated the space around me.

First, my phone with its cord unknotted (I religiously unravel it every morning) and a funny scribble stuck on it with a post-it. Next to it, is a scribble pad to jot down numbers, notes and messages. This is flanked by a neon green plastic case that once contained a gift watch that my friend received. I retrieved the case along with its matching neon green cushion. Under that cushion is a secret stash of chewing gums and boiled toffees. I lost my taste for confectionary sometime back but some of my close work pals haven't. I keep it well-stocked for them (the way I’d keep my refrigerator full for friends and family who’d decide to drop in).

There's also a stuffed birdie sitting on the cubicle wall, a beanie owl with a graduation cap (or sometimes a green dinosaur with red spikes alternated by a beanie Hunchback of Notre-Dame) somewhere in grabbable distance. These are for those ARRRGGH! moments when I can't get a hug so settle for clenching a stuffed toy instead. And finally my visiting card (for referring to postal address) clipped to a porcelain cow (which I first thought was a piggy, its mouth was so snouty!).

My papers neatly stacked at the end of the day on the other side of the screen, next to my calendar. Three different neon coloured highlighters are lined up under the screen and put away at the end of the day, away from careless (and light-fingered) people. A post-it affixed to the corner of my screen says 'Stay hungry, stay foolish'. A jacket hangs on the back of my chair, sometimes alternated by a sweater.

I spend most of my waking day here. My workspace says that this who I am. Colourful, quirky and compulsively tidy.

Last year, I moved again. A new division, a different role, which started as a temporary stint but extended out into a larger arrangement. I now have a cabin of my own. It took my three hours to pack up everything from my earlier desk but all of 15 minutes to set up again. I put down very little in this new space since I had no idea how long I would be staying.

Pulling out your roots is so difficult (not to mention heart-wrenching) that I subconsciously decided not to put down roots again.

Now, my desk is bare. Even my new computer’s packaging has been retained and hangs dustguard curtain-like over the top to be flipped over each morning and back on at the end of the day. The minute I switch my monitor off and shut the door, any sign of life is gone and all it is, is an empty room. So this office is cold, Spartan and impersonal. There’s nothing to show that I sit here, work here, live here for the better part of my life.

I guess home is so much about how much of yourself you put into the space around you. I’ve put nothing in and hence I’ve been a nomad for seven months. Enough on the road now. Next month I’ll move again. This time I’ll take my owl beanie along and maybe I’ll carry a potted plant to keep me company and my room alive when I’m not there.

The Most Important Moment of My Life

Anurag Dixit — Wed, 18 Feb 2009 12:53:06 EST

In the year 1994...No, that's not working. Once upon a time in India an angel of hope was born. It was 1994 and all the clouds of despair went away, leaving behind the winds of happiness. It was the year of Prime Minister P.V. Narasimha Rao and Mr. Manmohan Singh, who, in future would be the Prime Minister of India was the Finance Minister. On the republic day of the year, India launched Prithvi missile successfully, for which Dr. Kalam(who, in future, would be the president of India) had been working for a long time, India signed North American Free Trade Agreement and on 25th of January, Bill Clinton, the then president of U.S.A., delivered his first State of the Union address calling for healthcare reform and a ban on assault weapons, and the most wonderful thing happened to me.

It was the month of June and the city was heating like an oven. My mother had had three lines on her forehead for almost all the month, she usually had (and still has) those lines on serious occasions, the size of her tummy grew and I was told that there was a baby in her tummy. I wondered what was the baby doing in her tummy and sometimes I wondered how many babies Mr. Bhushan and Mr. Sharma must be having because of the very big size of their tummies. I always thought why women went to the hospitals, when any family had a new baby? My grandmother was living with us those days, and we had to eat the food made by her only which was not easy for me so my summer vacations were being affected and we couldn't even go fro our routine outings.

On this day, daddy went to work as usual; grandma (who I call naany) was a little worried due to mom's illness. Me and my sister were playing and trying not to get bored. Suddenly I noticed some uneasiness on my mom's face.

"Ammy, do you need some water?" I inquired, offering water to mom. She was looking tired and she asked me to call grandma, I called her and after that I could not understand their talk but I knew something was wrong or something big was to happen. Grandma called and he came very fast. Now everybody, except me and my sister, had those lines on their foreheads. Grandma and daddy were taking mom somewhere.

"Daddy, what happened? Where are you going?" I asked holding his finger. He looked at me very seriously, the way he used to look at me before my exams.
"Listen beta, you have to take care of your little sister today. We have to take your mom to the hospital, she is ill. You are the eldest person now so don't tease your kid sister." He said, putting his hands on my shoulders.

"Daddy, I want to come with you and mommy."

"It can't happen. Try to understand."

"Please daddy." I said, and now those lines were on my forehead too.

"Hmmm..." He thought for some moments and said "OK, but you have to be a good boy and take care of your sister there."

"Yes, I will." I hastened and smiled.

All of us went to the hospital quickly, mom was feeling very uneasy and on the way told daddy to call Dr. Nirmala as soon as we reached. My sister started crying, like always, and I was trying to convince her & divert her mind.

When we reached the hospital, dad called Dr. Nirmala and mom was taken into a room where we were not allowed to go. Daddy was tensed and was walking here and there, I was still talking about stupid things to my sister, grandma was praying and suddenly a doctor came to daddy and said "Mr. Dixit, we need your signature on this form for the operation."

"Is everything all right?" Dad asked with a lot of tension on his face.

"Yes Mr. Dixit, everything is fine and if there is something, we are here for that only. You please fill the form so that we can start the procedure soon."

Daddy completed all the formalities and the doctor went again, grandma was still praying and now I didn't have to convince my sister because she was also watching everything silently like me.

Finally it happened. At Dr. Nirmala's nursing home, before the stroke of midnight, my little sister took her first breath in this world and clocks opened their arms to welcome the most beautiful girl of my life. The doctors came out of the room and told daddy that he, now, had a lovely daughter and she was very week to survive so we had to take extra care of her, grandma stopped praying and went to mommy, daddy came to us and told us that we had a little sister . My sister was happy because of the fact that she, now, had somebody younger than her.

The very next day I was allowed to meet mom. Grandma was in the hospital, daddy and I went to take some clothes and milk when we returned, and mum was awake but could not sit. I was scared because of mom's condition and then...huh then the moment came, they put her in my lap, she was covered with clothes and I was seeing and feeling the most wonderful thing of my life. It was so gorgeous; I had life in my hands, god, nature itself in my own hands. The feeling is unexplainable; I had butterflies in my stomach. That was the moment I first experienced life in my hands, I first felt responsible and I didn't want to leave her. Everything else just stopped and my sweet little sister, who shares her birth year with our country's powerful missile and Dr. Kalam's baby: Prithvi, was with me.

Kensei, The Dirty Cat

Deepti Lamba — Mon, 16 Feb 2009 13:23:27 EST

If you talk to any breeder they will tell you the same thing - Never pick up an animal from a pet shop. You never know what kind of disease they may be carrying.

Well, we picked up Kensei from a pet shop; better still we rescued a sick 4 month old kitten knowing he was sick. He was an affectionate little mutt and snuggled up easy in the crook of the arm but was a bag of bones. Our hearts became puddle and we took him home.

We nearly lost him. The poor guy had a weak constitution. He couldn't keep anything down. His litter tray was changed every hour and in the end even though Zoey out of pity accepted him he was isolated in another room with his litter tray.

The image of him unable to get up from his dirty litter tray is still engraved in my mind. We managed to pull him away from death.

But Kensei's constitution, however, never recovered. Any deviation from his meal and it would be stink time all over again.

On 14th of February early morning I heard the newspaper on which the litter was laid ruffle. Zoey was sleeping next to me and I knew Kensei was up to no good.

The sound of paper cackling went on for over five minutes. I groaned and buried my head in the pillow. I knew what had happened. He was trying to bury the crime but couldn't. The floor did not have litter on it! He had missed the litter tray again.

I walked out screaming- Kensei, you naughty cat! Its such a big tray! How can you miss it?

He stood still in his tray with one paw raised. He meowed as if to say- Good morning mama and I was too mad to think- oh, you look so handsome despite the crap you have left again for me.

And, yes, he had pooped right between the two litter trays!

He hopped off the tray, rubbed himself against my legs asking to be picked up and cuddled and I imagined kicking the cat to Timbuktu!

Zoey came out of the bedroom meowing her good morning and headed straight for the litter and I thought -oh! there will be two poops to pick up.

I grabbed the cats and locked them in the backyard. They both gave an indignant meow! Out without food!

I grabbed newspapers, Lysol, Dettol, face mask, hand gloves, a bucket, coconut broom, yanked up my nightwear and got to work.

It took me over forty five minutes to clean his mess, get fresh litter and scrub my hands clean in piping hot water.

I then let the cats in to eat. Ten minutes later I could hear the crackle of the paper again. And I groaned. I screamed- Kensei!!

The paper crackled louder, more rigorous. I hit my head against the couch. The crackling stopped, he sauntered into the living room, jumped up on the couch and snuggled up against me.

I told him he was lucky I didn't kick him to Timbuktu, lucky I preferred to clean up after him and not send him back to the damn pet shop and he sure was lucky that I saved his life.

He meowed, turned on his back, showed me his belly and went to sleep and I wondered if I would yet again have to clean his litter tray.