God’s Grace

What comes to your mind when I say Bangalore, Thanjore and Madurai? Of course you will say these are cities in southern part of the country. Bingo…any idiot would answer the same. What if I told you that these are names of people and people who are famous…you may start wondering who I am talking about. These were three foremost artistes who left an indelible mark on Indian cultural history. They were Bangalore Nagaratnamma, Thanjore Balasaraswati and Madurai S.Subbalakshmi.

Bangalore Nagaratnamma (3 November 1878 – 19 May 1952) was an Indian Carnatic singer, cultural activist, scholar, patron of the arts and a historian. Nagarathnamma was born in 1878 to Puttu Lakshmi whose ancestors served as singers and musicians in the court of Mysore. Nagarthnamma continued her studies and learned Kannada, English and Telugu, also becoming proficient in music and dance.  She made her first stage appearance before a learned audience as a violinist and dancer at the age of 15.Nagarathnamma became a singer early in her life and emerged as one of the best Carnatic singers of her time. She sang in Kannada, Sanskrit and Telugu. Her special musical forte included Harikatha. Her talent in dance attracted the attention of the Mysore ruler Jayachamarajendra Wodeyar who, impressed with her talent, made her the Asthana Vidushi in Mysore. She later shifted to Madras as it was considered the "Mecca of Carnatic music".

According to Nagarathnamma, she was directed in a dream to build a memorial in honour of Saint Thyagaraja and create a platform for perpetuating Carnatic music. Following this, she turned to an ascetic way of life and donated all her earnings to this cause. Nagarathnamma restored the dilapidated samadhi and convert it into a memorial in honour of the Thyagaraja. In the 1920s the music festival held at this location was male-dominated. As a challenge, she started organizing a parallel music festival at the back of the saint's temple.  Eventually, in 1941, her activism paid off, and the opposing groups involved with the festival merged into a single entity, allowing both men and women to sing in the festival. This music festival is now one of the most popular musical event in South India.

As an erudite and scholarly person, Nagarathnamma dabbled in editing and publishing books on poetry and anthologies. She was a linguist who held religious discourses not only in Kannada, her mother tongue, but also in other languages such as Telugu, Tamil and Sanskrit. She re-edited the Radhika Santawanam, The book was reviewed and attacked over some of its pornographic contents as totally "inappropriate for women to hear let alone be uttered from a woman's mouth.” Nagarathnamma strongly defended her version of the book and protested against this double standard and wondered, "Does the question of propriety and embarrassment apply only in the case of women and not men?”

“It may be true that I had dancing in my blood... I was a toddler when I danced deliriously with that street beggar. All called him a madman when he brought the house down with his frenetic dancing. Was he really mad? His unerring jatis (danced to rhythmic patterns) reverberate in my mind. Who knows which siddhapurusha (literally: “with all accomplishments”) he was? I can still see the gleam in his eye. If I am dance-mad now how could it be otherwise?My first guru was a madman.”

At the age of 7, in 1925 when Tanjore Balasaraswati was presented to the world in the Ammanakshi temple, Kancheepuram. Spellbound was the audience of devotees by the perfection with which the little girl offered her art at the feet of the deity with full devotion.The little bird, as one of her friends used to call her, Bala, was born on May 13, 1918. She was not the first in her family to be a perfect dancer. The family traces its roots to T. Papammal who was a noted dancer at the court of the kings of Tanjore six generations earlier. The mother Jayamal was a renowned singer and the grandmother VeenaDhanammal was the noted and respected Veena player. All the family members would snub her when she made dancing movements. But the more she was snubbed the more she would dance. There was agility in her body and she was electrified to movements like an electronic toy.

It was only when Bala's grandmother Dhanammal recognized her talents that she was given lessons in dancing by Guru Kandappa. The girl rose from strength to strength learning the art with perfection, working strenuously, waking up at 3 in the morning to do some basic dance movements. She introduced such natural movements with the accompaniment of music that in her later years her name became synonymous with 'abhinaya'. She believed that for a dancer of Bharat Natyam, dance and music are one, rather Bharat Natyam is the personification of music.Thus, she had mastered the art of music too which she had partly inherited from her mother and partly mastered herself. That is why when Bala came to the stage, the dancer, the singer, the accompanist and the mood became one.

Although Balasaraswati had mastered the art much earlier, the first public recognition came in 1932. It took Bala two decades more to be presented before national audience in Delhi. The Sangeet Akadami Award followed her perfection immediately in 1955 and the Padma Bhushan in 1957. A doctorate degree was conferred upon her by Rabindra Bharati University in 1973 and the Madras Music Academy too gave her the title of Sangeetha Kalanidhi. Many dance connoisseurs rate her the best dancer of all time.

"Who am I, a mere Prime Minister before a Queen, a Queen of Music"-Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru had this to say about her. Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan termed her Suswaralakshmi (the goddess of the perfect note) and KishoriAmonkar labelled her the ultimate eighth note or Aathuvaan Sur, which is above the seven notes basic to all music.

Madurai ShanmukhavadivuSubbulakshmi (16 September 1916 – 11 December 2004), also known as M.S., was a Carnatic vocalist. She was the first musician ever to be awarded the Bharat Ratna, India's highest civilian honour.She is the first Indian musician to receive the Ramon Magsaysay award, often considered Asia's Nobel Prize, in 1974 with the citation reading "Exacting purists acknowledge Srimati M. S. Subbulakshmi as the leading exponent of classical and semi-classical songs in the Carnatic tradition of South India."

Subbulakshmi (Kunjamma to her family) was born in Maduraito veena player Shanmukhavadivu Ammal.Her grandmother Akkammal was a violinist.She started learning Carnatic music at an early age and trained in Carnatic music under the tutelage of Semmangudi SrinivasaIyer and subsequently in Hindustani music under Pandit Narayanrao Vyas.

Subbulakshmi’s first recording was released when she was 10 years old. Subbulakshmi gave her first public performance, at the age of eleven, in the year 1927, in the 100 pillar hall inside the Rockfort Temple, Tiruchirappalli. Subbulakshmi gave her first performance at the prestigious Madras Music Academy in 1929,when she was 13 years old. Her performance consisted of bhajans and was described as spellbinding and earned her many admirers and the moniker of musical genius from critics. Soon after her debut performances, Subbulakshmi became one of the leading Carnatic vocalists.

In 1936 Subbulakshmi moved to Madras. She also made her film debut in Sevasadan in 1938.MS Subbulakshmi also played the male role of Narada in "Savitri" (1941) to raise money for launching Kalki, her husband's nationalist Tamil weekly. Her title role of the Rajasthani saint-poetess Meera in the eponymous 1945 film gave her national prominence. This movie was re-made in Hindi in 1947 and gave her national prominence. Sarojini Naidu said, “Subbalakshmi’s performance shows that she is not an interpreter of Mira but Mira herself.” Her many famous renditions of bhajans include the chanting of Bhaja Govindam, Vishnu Sahasranama,  Hari Tuma Haro and the Venkateswara Suprabhatam (musical hymns to awaken Lord Balaji early in the morning).

The Kancheepuram Saree shade known as MS Blue was named after her. A commemorative postage stamp on her was issued on 18-December-2000. United Nations decided to issue stamp to mark birth centenary M.S. Subbulakshmi. She was bestowed with enormous prize money with these awards, most of which she donated to charity.

The three legends of Indian classical music and dance had another cord which bound them together- all three were offshoots of the Devadasi system. 'Devadasis'- meaning female servants of God. Devadasi system is a religious practice in parts of southern India, whereby parents marry a daughter to a deity or a temple.Originally, in addition to taking care of the temple and performing rituals, these women learnt and practisedSadir (Bharatanatya), Odissi and other classical Indian artistic traditions and enjoyed a high social status as dance and music were essential part of temple worship. The Devadasi system was set up as a result of a conspiracy between the feudal class and the priests (Brahmins). The latter, with their ideological and religious hold over the peasants and craftsmen, devised a means that gave prostitution their religious sanction. Poor, low-caste girls, initially sold at private auctions, were later dedicated to the temples. They were then initiated into prostitution. MS Subbalakshmi once said, “When I was small, men would only think of how to spoil me. Seeing all this frightened me.”

With the death of Sashimani Dev in March 2015, died the last devadasis of  Jagannath Temple, Puri and brought a final closure to the 800 year old cult. Truly God’s Grace when you see the heights of glory Bangalore Nagarathnamma, Tanjore Balasaraswati and Madurai S. Subbalakshmi achieved in their respective fields. The noble rebel trio refused to live the lives of their mothers and their mothers and their mothers.

SS

La Marseillaise

Recently I saw a WhatsApp video which gave five reasons for Indians not to emigrate overseas. The man in the video made sense but still my heart was in France, not to trace the lost jewels of the Louvre, but for three simple reasons… Sharing this piece that was written over eight years ago.

It was the middle of the night

When the lights were out

And the world was sleeping

When I got up

Stood firm and straight

With arm turned in salute, singing

Arise, children of the Fatherland

The day of glory has arrived!

Against us tyranny’s

Bloody banner is raised.

Just when the song was reaching crescendo

A woman sleeping on my bed

Raised her head in horror

And threw a pillow on my face

Ki Korcho Tumi?

Paagol hoye  gechho ki?

I am singing the French Anthem

La Marseillaise

But why this anthem, did Robi Thakur write this?

You silly Bongo Santaan, I said

You think all anthems of the word

Were written by Rabindranath

I have learnt the song by heart

For have now made up my mind

And heart to migrate to France.

My tricolor just changed its shades

From Saffron, Green and White

To Blue, Red and White.

Give me one good reason

For you to take this call.

One, I will give you Three

Each one more powerful than the prior

Hearing which you too shall join me

On board the flight to La France.

 

Firstly, tell me what my medical report says

All organs are fit and fine

Just like a lad of eighteen

But for one thing…my little heart

The cholesterol levels are high

How much more can I exercise?

How much more can I control my eating?

Now only one solution remains

And that is to drink wine

Drink wine and be merry

Cleaning my arteries and veins

Where else do you find the best wine,

But in France alone

A hundred miles north of Paris

Lies the wine region of Champagne

Producing the best sparkling white wine

That’ll cure me of my ailment

And they say in France

You open the taps, wine flows.

Her eyes sparkled but her vicious tongue lashed

Gotchha you fool, for wine you want to leave

And what about daab chingri, shorshey eilish

Arsalan Biriyani and Hyderabadi Halim

And choley bhaturey, chaat and gol guppa

Will you get them in France…No Never.

She had a point there

No bread pakora, alu parantha and the rest.

My first argument was put to gastronomic rest.

Second reason for going to France

Will bowl you over My Love

Frenchmen are the sexiest

Frenchmen make more love than any other

And of course, the French women

Are so beautiful that you fall in love

With every lass you meet

On plane, beach and every street.

What more do you want in life?

The woman was desperately looking

For a rolling pin or slipper but got none

But threw a volley at me

Don’t get ideas by seeing Vicky Donor

All that crap about Bengali men and their powers

Release …Release…dialogues nesting in your mind

Oh! give me a break please

Are good for movies alone

With a balding head, fading vision and falling teeth

If you think French women are so desperate

To fall for men like you

Remember Carla Bruni loved a President

And you no Sarkozy by a mile

Understand you fifty something baldy aloor dum!

Third reason is the best

And there is no way you can find fault, my dear

Did you know French laws for work?

Just thirty-five hours a week! Yes 35 Only.

Just seven hours a day for just five days

 And here

We work ten to twelve hours everyday

Almost six days a week

Add to it three hours of travel a day

And even after it the phone never stops ringing

The laptop keys keep tapping

Calls at one in the morning

Mails at midnight…it just goes on and on.

In France you disconnect your phones and laptops

After office hours.

Even if Boss calls

You say ‘ello ‘ello, wrong number Monsieur.

We live a dog’s life here and I say no to it today

I too want my life back

I too want to live again

I too want to give time to

My family, my hobbies and my friends

So darling, let me go and come with me

To the land of Moulin Rouge, Eiffel and Louvre.

Le passeport est tamponné!

SS

Yeh Dosti

It was the holy month of Ramadan in the summer of 2015. Faraaz Hossain, an eighteen year old, said Khuda Hafiz to his mother as he left his Dhaka home to meet two of his friends at an upmarket eating place of Holey Artisan Bakery where they loved eating bagel, croissant and coffee. Of course the ambiance was also very appealing. The restaurant was in the diplomatic area and security was hardly a concern. Around 8 pm, a group of eight mad boys armed to the teeth with guns, knives, swords and explosives entered the place and took all the guests and the workers at the Bakery as hostages. After rounding up all, they spoke about the bad influence the western culture was having upon the pure Islamic way of life.

By now the news had reached the security forces about the terror attack and they had surrounded the restaurant completely but refrained from entering fearing reprisals on the hostages which included over a dozen foreigners. Meanwhile the terrorists made an offer to the hostages, “Recite from the Holy Quran and you can walk out free. Fail and we shall damn you to hell!” The Bangladeshis among the hostages quickly recited from the Holy Quran and they were let off. Faraaz could have easily done as others had done before and walked to his safety. The terrorists asked him repeatedly to recite the Quran but the young man stood there and said, “I will recite but you will have to also let go of my two friends Abnita Kabir and Tarishi Jain. They study with me at America and are my guests here. I will go but not without my friends!”

Next morning after the security forces stormed the restaurant, they found the body of Faraaz which was hacked by the terrorists. There were signs of major injuries on his palms and shoulders which indicated that Faraaz had resisted the terrorists physically holding the sword which had been raised to kill him and his two friends whose mutilated bodies were also found.

I’ve often wondered if friendship can be such a powerful force which makes a boy of eighteen forget his safety and life and makes him stand before death to say, “No, not without my friends.” Around thirty years ago, I had an experience which makes me question this excessive glorification of the Sholay song,,,Yeh Dosti….hum nahin todengey…chodengey dum magar, tera saath na chodengey (This friendship we will never break…will give up our lives but never leave the friend’s side). The scene was quite alike as in Dhaka- an upmarket place near a diplomatic enclave, friends, cops and big trouble.

It was early December 1985 when my mind was occupied with football, football and more football. As captain of the college team, it was so important for me to play well and make sure the team won the Inter-College Championship. Just at that moment one of my closest school friend Sumit decided to get married. And as luck would have it, my first championship match and his marriage date fell on the same day. I had decided to play the match and then go to his house in the evening to attend the marriage. Nope…my friend and some more school mates landed at my place the evening before and forced me to pack my bags. The plan was to enjoy the Bachelor’s Night, stay overnight at Sumit’s place, next day I would be allowed to go to college to play during the day and from there I would return to his house to go for the reception.

Started off as an unwilling hostage in the group but gradually started enjoying the fun evening that went into early morning when we hit the bed going from restaurant to restaurant and from bar to ice cream parlour, the night seemed young. In the morning, however, while the other folks were in deep slumber, I got up, packed my small bag with the football kit and left for college. The match started in the afternoon and I found it difficult to keep my eyes open in the most important match of my football career. Surely Ronaldo would have felt alike playing in Stade de France playing the World Cup Final in 1998- completely looney and lost. Fortunately we managed a draw against a team we had beaten so many times in practice matches, thanks to the numerous missed chances by the captain who appeared to be taking a stroll in the park. Disappointed, distracted and dejected I returned to my friend’s place to freshen-up and get dressed for the big party at night.

The reception was being held at Taj Palace Hotel which happened to be part of Delhi’s diplomatic enclave. Not having been to five star hotels, the place really looked fit for kings with the opulence seen in every quarter. Many guests came decked up in gold and silk and so did my family- my father, mother and elder sister. Having known Sumit since class 5 it was almost a decade of friendship and a friendship that was really thick. So on his insistence my family members were there and enjoying the grand party. Suddenly there was commotion in the banquet hall. Someone had stolen the purse in which the jewellery and cash that was being gifted to the newly-weds was kept. Sumit’s mother claimed that there were two saree clad women who were near the stage who surely had stolen the bag and had left the hall. My mother and elder sister who were at that moment returning from the rest room to the banquet hall when they were surrounded by a host of people with Sumit’s mother pointing a her finger at them shouting, “Yehi hain who dono!”

Large hotels had the CCTV coverage available so the hotel security asked my mother, sister and father to go down to the floor below where the footage could be viewed. Sumit’s father accompanied by some of his influential Punju friends and relatives also barged into the room. The footage was played over and over again. We could all see two women, who definitely did not look remotely close to my mother and sister, walking out with a purse being tucked beneath the saree. The head of hotel security confirmed that the suspects were different and surely not my people but Sumit’s father insisted that my mother and sister be searched thoroughly. I rushed to my friend Sumit to tell him what was happening and what his parents were doing to my family, but he stood stoic and kept quiet. My mother and sister were let-off after a physical search. We returned home, almost all of us in tears of shame.

After a couple of days a police van came home and an inspector knocked at our door. He was very courteous and said that Sumit’s father had lodged a police complaint against my mother and sister and they would have to go to Chanakya Puri Police Station next day for enquiry. He said since the video footage was clear, the matter would be easily sorted out without much hassle. He assured us nothing bad would happen anymore. Happy that the police were convinced at our non-involvement and eager to close the case once and for all my mother, sister and I took an auto-rickshaw and went to the police station where we were informed that the inspector who had come home the previous evening was on leave. We were to meet another officer who was initially friendly but the moment Sumit’s father came along with a Superintendent of Police known to him, the situation changed. The police got abusive and compelled my mother to confess to the crime and tell them where the loot had been stashed. I tried to intervene upon which the inspector said one more word and they would put me behind bars along with the rest of my family. I tried telling them that my elder sister was unwell and was a special child, they, however, would not listen to anything. The grilling went on for over an hour when they asked me to bring my father to the police station. Leaving my mother and sister to the mercy of the police there, I took a bus home but before going home went to a friend’s place whose father was a Senior Advocate for CBI and requested him to come along with me. He refused to get involved. I reached home and asked my father to come along. By the time we reached the police station, the SP and Sumit’s father had left and my mother and sister were let off after interrogation.

Next morning I went to college and spoke to a classmate whose father was the Joint Commissioner of Delhi Police. While narrating the ordeal and the case, I broke down. I needed help and she understood. When she came back to college on the following day, she asked me to go to the Police Headquarters at ITO and meet her father’s deputy. Undaunted, I went there that very evening all alone and narrated the whole episode and how the police and Sumit’s father had been harassing my family for no reason. The officer took down the case details and names of the police officers who had invited and interrogated. He assured me of acting quickly and, for once, the police did act with haste. Within two days the police, with the help of the video footage captured at the hotel, were able to catch the two thieves who confessed to the crime. They had a past record and the modus operandi was always similar. The jewellery was recovered but the cash was all gone. Next morning the same police officer who had invited my mother and sister to go to the police station came down to our house to apologize and confirm that the case had been closed.

For all these thirty years despite having lived at Delhi for long after that, Sumit never came face to face. Thank God for him and me for don’t know how I would have reacted. He never apologized for the way his father behaved, for the spineless way he himself had behaved….that’s why I sometimes doubt the word called friendship. But life has given me more than one Sumit. I don’t know where I would be without many a wonderful friend in this journey of life who have given me so many opportunities to laugh and love life. Have come across many a Faraaz on the way so I sitting on my mobike of life with my family sitting behind as pillion and friends in the side car just like Jai & Veeru singing  Yeh Dosti, Hum Nahin Chodengey….

SS

Knocking on God’s Door

It is the month of July. It has been raining continuously for the past ten days or so. Having nothing better to do I have been thinking. You know the kind of thoughts that come to you when it’s just pouring and pouring. Whenever the intensity of rain subsides, I rush to go out for a while but by the time I have gathered together my keys, bag, money, umbrella, rain shoes, it comes back in full force and I am again left alone with my thoughts, watching the rain and getting lost in myself. The skies seem to have opened up completely and I am left wondering whether we are in for another deluge. Didn’t the same thing happen on 26^th July 2005 when all the major arterial roads in the city turned into slithering rivers and life changed upside down for many? That day, too, the morning had been fine; it was only from afternoon that the pattern changed. Our thoughts too change with time and season.

 It is on such rainy days that you think of Rabindranath Tagore and God the most. Tagore you can understand because of his repertoire of songs on the season but why God? Yes, that is the time I hold my conversations with God- questioning Him, thanking Him, complaining to him and even rebuking Him. I have seen that I remember God most when I am alone or distressed, in a fix or anticipating trouble or after having landed myself in the biggest mess.

My earliest interaction with my God goes back to the school days. That scourge of life-examinations- is what brought us together. Before touching an elder’s feet for that mark of dahi on the forehead, a visit to the puja room was a must. Please God, see me through this time! Let all the known guestions come. Or even better- While I am writing, please make sure that everything comes to my mind and slowly makes its way to the answer sheets in a state of free flow! I will not ask you for anything more! But this camaraderie always lasted till the examination; once over, God and I parted ways till, probably, the next one or just before the results.

In our childhood, Basant Panchami , in Bengali homes, was not restricted to offering Puja to the Goddess of Learning.  To us it meant a host of other activities too-early morning bath, donning of a new set of clothes, preferably the yellow sari, and gathering up all the major text books, especially Maths and Physics in my case, and placing them at the feet of Goddess Saraswati. Purpose being –Please Mother Saraswati, please help me pass these subjects. By the Goddess’ infinite grace I managed to cross the two major hurdles. Interestingly, I truly appreciated these two subjects only when, much later, I read Tolstoy’s ‘War and Peace’; that the whole mechanics of war, its causes and progress, could be expressed and analysed in terms of Arithmetic, Algebra ,Calculus and the Laws of Physics ,by a man of letters, is unbelievable! Perhaps, God, if you had sent us a teacher who could similarly have unraveled the complexities of Maths and Physics to us through such analogies from life or even the other way round, these subjects would have been so much more relevant and interesting to students like me.

Coming back to the point, this ritual I still observe with my daughter. The only difference being that the size of her text books kept growing voluminous as Microbiology and Biochemistry, Pathology and Pharmacology slowly replaced the more compact NCERT school books as she moved from school to medical college. Worried that the little shelf, where the tiny terracotta Saraswati stood, would collapse under the weight of the medical books, I took to the same tricks that medical students resort to a few days before their final examination. I replaced Harrison’s Internal Medicine and Bailey and Love’s Surgery with Davidson’s Medicine and the Manipal  Manual of Surgery. My reasons were in principle the same as theirs-less voluminous and more compact. At least, that way my deities would not be left homeless in case the whole shelf came crashing down under their weight!

My mother’s puja room was very ‘cosmopolitan’ and consisted of a few shelves filled with tiny icons, framed pictures, stone lingas, statuettes of Gods and Goddesses  collected from all over India cutting across all religions. From a stone Shiv-ling to a picture of Shiv-Parvati, little statues and pictures of Ramakrishnadev-Sarada Ma and Vivekananda, a beautiful miniature of Mother Mary with Jesus in an ornate frame, a black Krishna Murti  from Dwarka,  a framed picture of the Golden Temple, a tiny brass statue of Gopal , Shirdi Sai Baba in a metallic frame, all found their way to her shelves. She worshipped all and believed in the power of all. My father, egged on by us, often made fun of her and her ‘cosmopolitan’ Gods. Fortunately, for me, on getting married I found that in my in-laws’ home, too, the situation was very similar and my mother-in-law worshipped an array of similar Gods and Goddesses. So that made life easier for me and now I have kind of inherited some of these statuettes, icons, pictures who have slowly made their way to the two glass shelves in my home.  I pray in my own way, nothing hard and fast about the rituals I observe.

From a Hindu home to a missionary school, the transition never bothered us in our childhood or youth. It was the same. We said all our prayers in chorus as a matter of routine. I can still recall that the only time we made a dash for the school chapel was during the exam season or whenever we were in some tight spot. Singing hymns or carols, committing to memory the sayings of Jesus or celebrating a Christian Saint’s Day never gave either us or our parents any reason for concern. They were as much a part of us as the annual Laxmi and Saraswati pujas at home. It surprises me that nearly half a century on, parents are going overboard if their children are made to learn a  piece of shloka or doha,  or even sing an anthem or a patriotic song, penned by some of the greatest minds, which say or have any association with anything outside their own religion. Honestly, it would do the children of today a world of good if they really read or learnt about something or somebody outside what is being infused into their system by the unputdownable coaching centres. How else will the children of today learn of tolerance if we fail to show them the way? Probably, old habits die hard but till date I still find solace in saying the “Our Father…..” every day.

From my own experiences, and let me put it clearly, they are absolutely my own personal views, I have observed that we remember God in our moments of fear, frustration and failure. On normal days when life is going smoothly we really do not turn to God. We remember Him only when the ride becomes rough, when there is loss or failure, when something is longed for or when we are at the altar of success. That is the time we remember Him, turn to Him, ask Him, beg Him with the promise of loyalty and faithfulness only to be whisked off the path at the slightest pretext. Perhaps, I should say ‘I’ and not ‘We’ since these are all my thoughts. When something good happens it is very natural to be thankful but I have seen that this gratitude is momentary; yet, when misfortune befalls us, my first thought is “Why me and not someone else?”  I guess that is what makes us human- this very frailty of ours. Misfortune sees us raving and ranting against the same God whom we were extolling and praising only a few days ago. I am reminded of Kabir who so aptly said:

Dukh mein simran sab kare, Sukh mein kare na koye;

Jo Sukh mein simran kare, Tau dukh kahe ko hoye.

(In anguish everyone prays to Him, in joy does none;

To one who prays in happiness, how can sorrow come)

During our visits to the various temples and other places of worship across the country, as a child with my parents, I saw my mother seeking God inside the shrine offering her prayers there, while my father preferred to admire the temples, the churches or the gurudwaras from outside.  While one sought God inside the shrines braving long queues and making offerings, the other sought Him in man’s architectural brilliance and artistic craftsmanship and also by interacting with those working hard in trying to maintain the cleanliness, sanctity and discipline at God’s place of abode.

I guess each one of us has the right to seek our Maker in our own way since He is everywhere but if, in the process , we do learn a little about other faiths or  cross paths unknown to us, we do not lose anything. Doing good and getting it right is what really matters at the end of the day and discovering and keeping alive that tiny bit of the infinite in each one of us is what we can teach our children to strive for. Finding God is left to each one of us -He comes to you whenever and in whatever form you seek him as Rabindranath Tagore put it in one his gems from Gitanjali :

When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of mercy.

When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song.

When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest.

When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king.

When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one, thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder.

DS

Three Idiots

This is the story of the Goldilocks Family of Papa Bear, Mama Bear and Baby Bear. Set in the cold winters of Delhi, the time zones may differ but their foolishness remains legendary.

Baby Bear

She was about 3 years old and studying in the neighbourhood play school with an Anglicized name of St. Stephens where there was no trace of any Christian Brother or Sisterhood. It was a house converted into a school with almost all the children of the Bhadralok families of Chittaranjan Park doing their initiation into the world of education in this famed institution. Baby Bear was in Lower KG and just didn’t like going to school one bit. Often early in the morning she would make a sad looking face and the Grandpa Bear would jump to her rescue to tell the Mama and Papa Bear not to send her to school that day. While Baby Bear would miss the school quite often, there was her next door neighbour Boy Bear who was ever so enthusiastic that he would never ever miss a single day. Spurred by his ever charged up parents, this Boy Bear would return home to tell her how wonderful the day in school was. Baby Bear was hardly upset but slowly the two of them became the best of friends. They would go to school together and often come home together, the only difference was that while the Boy Bear would walk to and from the school, Baby Bear found the comfort of either Baba Bear or Granny Bear carrying her in their arms.

Baby Bear and Boy Bear made sure they sat next to each other in the class. They both found joy in each other’s company and often shared their kiddo jokes. One day while the teacher, Mrs Bhattacharya, was busy trying to teach the children elementary math, the two Bears were seated in the first row of their class. Suddenly, the Boy Bear decided to have some fun. First Boy Bear would put his leg on the desk, roll up his trouser and Baby Bear would hit him softly with a scale. Next Baby Bear put her leg on the desk, roll up her trousers and Boy Bear would hit her with a scale. This went on a couple of times and both were having a good laugh. Their laughter was reasonably soft so the teacher never realized what was going on behind her back as she continued writing numbers on the blackboard. Just then Boy Bear told Baby Bear to continue keeping her leg on the desk in front while he went out for a bio-break. She nodded her head in acquiescence. The teacher suddenly turned around and saw the sight of Baby Bear sitting in quite a posture without any sense of fear or shame of having done anything wrong. The teacher walked up to Baby Bear and with her wooden scale and gave two tight whacks on her sole. Sensing trouble, Baby Bear quickly removed her legs from the table and put them down. When things had got back to normal, Boy Bear reappeared and saw Baby Bear all red faced and on the verge of tears. The school got over and the two bears walked back, chatting and laughing with a Granny Bear unable to understand the joke.

Later that night Papa Bear and Baby Bear composed their first limerick:

I am Miss Bhatta, I am Miss Bhatta, I am Miss Bhatta-charya;

And I am so angry, I am so angry, I am so angry at Mritti-ka.

Mama Bear

Coming from Calcutta, Mama Bear always found Delhi winter the coldest of all places she had ever visited including Shimla, Darjeeling and even Rohtang Pass. The chill of Delhi’s winds would pierce through the bones and it often seemed the end of the world.  Like all Mama Bears, this Mama bear also loved going to shops and fairs. Annual visits to Pragati Maidan were a must. Wrapped in inners, thick cardigan bought from Mohini Knitwear Sale of the previous season and a Kullu shawl, Mama Bear with Papa Bear and Baby Bear in tow walked into the huge fair ground of Pragati Maidan. State pavilions were her favourites but one look into the Children’s Section was mandatory to pick up a toy for Baby Bear. There were many traditional toy counters and the Bear Family looked at them. A window shopping of all counters was essential before deciding which toy or game would Baby Bear like the most. Then there were these new age battery operated toys which were becoming a rage among kids.

The family went to one such counter where the salesman was showing a toy which looked like a dinosaur standing outside a cave. Mama Bear asked, “Kya khilona dikharahe ho?” (What toy is this that you are showing?). The salesman replied with a smile, “ Su Su Dinossur!” Papa Bear and Baby Bear heard it right but in the din of the fair Mama Bear couldn’t get it right. She again asked, “What is it?” the salesman again replied, “Su Su Dinossur!” Papa and Baby once again laughed aloud. Mama still didn’t get the joke so persisted in asking the salesman, “Show me what this toy is all about.” She was quite commanding in her voice and the salesman showed her the toy which apparently looked as if the dinosaur was facing towards the cave with his tail towards Mama Bear. “What does this do?” Mama asked. The salesman now had to demonstrate the new toy in town. He pressed a button near the cave, the dinosaur turned towards Mama Bear and then squirted water at Mama Bear. Embarrassed she turned red, realizing now what ‘Su Su Dinossur’ was all about. Baby Bear and Papa Bear just couldn’t stop laughing. They almost fell down on the floor holding their bellies laughing. Mama Bear took it sportingly and she too began laughing as did the salesman.

Papa Bear

Papa Bear was a thoroughbred Dilliwala and winter had no fear for him. He was quite a favourite of his class teachers in school for his back had helped many of them perfect the fine art of caning. Papa Bear was then studying in class 9 and he had a teacher who was simply unputdownable. Spelling was never his strong point and school teachers in the seventies never kept name plates on the table for children to know their correct names. One day Papa Bear, who was himself a Baby Bear then, was absent from school and asked his Papa Bear to write a note for the teacher. Papa Bear pulled out a white foolscap sheet, folded it neatly on top and side for the margins and began writing the leave application. “What is the name of your class teacher?” he asked. “Mr. Anus” said Baby Bear. “No, it can’t be. Are you sure that’s his name?” “Yes Dad, everyone in the class addresses him as, Mr. Anus. I have heard other teachers also calling him the same.” Reluctantly Papa Bear wrote the application and put it in an envelope putting the teacher’s name on the cover. No sooner had Baby Bear given the envelope to the teacher than he turned furious and shouted, “My name is Innis….spelt as I N N I S!” The love story with Baby Bear with Mr.Innis had begun on a bad note, one which Baby Bear was to rue for the next 12 months.

One winter morning, Papa Bear was sitting with his three close friends, Anil, Sunil and Sumit, while Mr. Innis was teaching English. He was asking one student after another to read a paragraph at a time from Radiant Reader. Papa Bear and his friends that day decided to have some fun. They agreed to make the other laugh when his turn came to read. When Anil stood up, Papa Bear poked him from behind and Anil started laughing while reading. “What’s so funny?” asked Mr. Innis. “Nothing Sir, he is troubling me from behind,” said Anil pointing a finger towards Papa Bear. “Stand up on the bench.” Papa Bear quietly stood up on the bench to the amusement of the class. Next Sumit started reading but Papa Bear softly told him a line from a Santa-Banta joke and Sumit couldn’t resist giggling while reading the passage. “Now what is the problem?” Again the blame fell on Papa Bear. “Stand up on the desk!” And Papa Bear stood up on the desk. Despite looking a fool, it never stopped him from again making Sunil laugh as he began reading the passage. “You Bloody Urchin…I will now teach you a lesson you will never forget. Take off your shoes and hold them in your outstretched arms. If your arms drop, I shall chuck my shoe at you!” he said as he took off his slip-on leather shoe. Papa Bear did what he was ordered but soon realized that his arms had begun to ache very quickly. He requested the teacher to allow him to take a break and said he was sorry for what he had done. Instead of pardoning the boy, the teacher went and opened up the classroom door. Now, not only did Papa Bear’s own classmates see him standing in crucified stature but children of other classes also came in large numbers to see the circus. Red he turned both in pain and shame but, when the ordeal got over, all the friends gathered round him, his sadness gave way to happiness and they all had a good laugh.

Only Idiots can laugh over their foolishness and move on, the intelligent ones take it to bed and stay awake. No wonder the Bear Family were tied to each other by an umbilical cord that cut across different timelines and geographies.

The Three Idiots take this opportunity to thank all our readers for having tolerated us and encouraged us as we kept on sharing our blogs week after week- some good, some fair and others completely obnoxious. It feels wonderful having completed a journey of 100 blogs in 100 weeks without a break. When we started off it was all fun but gradually it became like a commitment which had to be met at all costs. Today marks the 100^th episode and so we lift our pens saluting you on scoring this Century of Blogs.

MS, DS, SS

The Search for Truth

It all happened in a single day in Kolkata recently.

Early morning as I reached the gates of Tata Medical Center, Kolkata, I was taken around the beautiful complex spread over a large area with the most modern equipment handled by the most humane doctors and nurses who were tending to the patients round the clock. It was during this visit that I was taken to Premashraya which is a home where patients and their families are allowed to stay at a nominal cost of Rs 100 per day for their prolonged treatment. There is however a floor set aside in the building for palliative care patients which means these people are in the sunset of their lives with doctors having given up all hope. There are a few trained sisters who are stationed there and I met the lady who manages the floor. She walked with me and stopped at one of the doors that was ajar. There was an old lady on the bed and beside her were a few people, surely her relatives. My companion told me that, in all probability, today would be the last day for the woman on the bed. I just stood still for about fifteen seconds, looked inside again and then looked at the sister beside me who, by now, had her eyes soft and moist. The person who said that death either comes early or late may not have seen this sick woman and her family who knew that today, the 8^th of December would be her last.

My next stop was at Ramakrishna Mission Shilpapitha, Belghoria. This is a poly technique institute, where children of underprivileged sections are imparted training and are made ready in various technical skills which help them get jobs in manufacturing factories. Students from this institute every year find themselves employment at reputed places like Tata Steel and Tata Motors. What caught my attention were the beautifully kept campus and the discipline with which the students and the teachers were doing their work, which was very unlike most educational institutions today. The head of the institute is a monk or Swamiji as he is addressed by all. Swamiji is full of life and energy and takes great pride in showing me around the campus and sharing an excellent meal with me. While talking to him got to know that Swamiji himself happens to be a B.Tech from Jadavpur University and later did his masters from Indian Statistical Institute, Kolkata. After completing his program, he went to work with Cisco at the United States.  After working there for two years, he felt a calling and he returned to India and decided to take to the life of a monk in the Ramakrishna Mission Order. Today, Swamiji, apart from running the Shilpapitha well, has another important task that he has been doing for many years now- he goes from one corporate to another, one affluent individual to another collecting funds for the institute. The monies collected go into buying equipments for the various labs where students practise and get ready for the real world ahead. Swamiji’s energy shows no let down over the years that I have seen him as he collects the alms for the cause he strongly believes in. Happy to have met the Monk who sold his Ferrari.

In the evening I went to my aunt’s house. She is about 95 years old and happens to be my mother’s sister. Since my visit to the city happened after nearly 3 years, she is almost in tears as she sees me. While I try my best to touch her feet, she just won’t let go of me from her frail hug. She is, today, unable to walk properly and keeps repeating the same things over and over again. I spend some time with her and, repeatedly, she says that she has no desire to live anymore. Why doesn’t the Creator call for her? She would happily go away on the last journey. With age comes inability to do her simple daily chores and for a person who I have seen as being most active, whether it was travelling to every tourist place in India multiple times or ensuring well-being of the family members and relatives, buying gifts for all and then in her free time going to supervise a nearby library and then annually raise funds for a few good trusts….you could count on her for anything. But today she seeks death, seeks end to loneliness and misery, an end to sleepless nights and waiting for someone to help her for the smallest of things. She, who gave up her entire life to ensure that the younger brothers and sisters were taken care of, today is at crossroad of life awaiting death.

From my aunt’s place I finally returned to my hotel room when I spoke to my wife. But before I could tell her the day’s proceedings she informed me that there had been a death in the housing society we lived in at Mumbai. The deceased was an old doctor who we liked very much. He was in his eighties and had been suffering lately. He used to be a man of good taste who would dress up neatly and talk very softly. He would go out for an evening stroll in the society garden where a number of old men would get together and have their quota of fun. My wife said that the man had turned very frail and turned dark. He was wrapped in a crumpled bed sheet and the ambulance boys took him away on a stretcher. As I put down the phone, I could visualize the old man’s smiling face. Did he die a contented man seeing his son turn to a doctor just like him, seeing his grandson grow into a tall and handsome lad or he too had his share of unfinished dreams, hopes and aspiration….no one will ever know as he went for his heavenly reunion with his wife.

It had been a hectic day so I decided to hit the bed early. Lying on the soft hotel bed I was suddenly hit by a realization about the sightings of the day- an old man, a sick man, a dead man and a monk. Were these not the same things Prince Siddharth of Kapilavastu saw which turned his life and he became Lord Buddha? Yes, they were. Were these signals mere coincidences or signals for me to renounce the worldly order and seek the Truth of Life? At that moment remembered the Four Noble Truths Lord Buddha spoke about under the Bodhi Tree and despite centuries having passed, the Truths seem truly universal and timeless. The Lord said:

The world is full of sorrow.

The cause for sorrow is desire.

Desire must be conquered to attain Nirvana.

It can be conquered by following the Eight Fold Pathwhich is the righteous way of living.

Living that night alone in a hotel room 2000 kms away from home, I dozed off for a while but woke up very early at around 5.30am decided to walk out….a walk in the woods….not really but in the darkness of the winter morning, the trees on both sides of Red Road appeared no less than the forest. The walk took me to the historic Victoria Memorial where I bought a ticket for a morning walk around the beautiful monument. Had never seen the monument from so close before that day and found it no less an iconic structure than the Taj Mahal and I am not exaggerating. The intricate marble carvings, the majestic dome and the exquisitely kept garden with lakes around makes it a must see place. In the garden were some huge banyan trees where I could have sat down, closed my eyes and meditated but then I saw a huge statue of Queen Victoria sitting on a throne perched up on a pedestal. Seeing the crows sitting all over her and dirtying her made me give up any desire to sit under any tree to attain Nirvana.

I just will not be able to give up my family and give up on my desires. I walked back to my hotel room but not before giving some of my desires a new lease of life by eating nan-puri at 6.30am in the morning, when not truly hungry, from a street vendor who had just started frying the puris in a vessel full of boiling oil; walking into an empty ATM and pulling out two 2000 Rupee notes even though I had no need for more cash and then taking a leisurely bath in a huge tub filled with warm water. 

Next was my morning agenda for the 9^th of December included going to a school run by government for girls at Ultadanga where there was the annual kit distribution ceremony to be done on behalf of the NGO we work with. The Nanhi Kalis sang and danced before us and brought a smile on our faces that I got reminded of the famous quote by Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore where he said with every child born the Creator sends out a signal that he is not all upset with the world he has created and there is hope for the future as well. I had come a long way from yesterday’s renunciation into the worldly ways today of children and hope for mankind.

The world is truly full of sorrows and yes the cause for sorrow is almost at all times our desires. Both the Noble Truths I accept completely. However the next Truth is the one which is most difficult to follow- conquering desires. And since I have failed to conquer desires, I shall remain in my earthly abode in blood and muscles ready to face sorrow at every turn. However, nothing stops me from still following the Eight Fold Path of Right Views, Right Thought, Right Speech, Right Conduct, Right Livelihood, Right Effort, Right Mindfulness and Right Meditation. Nirvana or No Nirvana, Karma or No Karma but surely we can all live the right way and make this abode beautiful and a happy place for you and me.

Buddhang Sharanam Gachhami…

SS

PS.The last picture is from the movie 'Bucket List' staring Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson

The First

May 28^th 1953.

Edmund Hillary’s Diary

“We are holed up in our tent. The weather has been treacherous. We have just got the news that the first summit team of Tom Bourdillon and Charles Evans have returned. Bourdillon and Evans had crested the South Summit—at 28,700 feet (8,748 meters), and were only 330 feet (101 meters) short of the top—by 1 p.m. on May 26. But Evans was exhausted, and both men knew they would run out of oxygen if they went on. They agreed to turn back. Had they continued, they would surely have been the First on the Summit. Someday surely they will regret the decision.”

“With 362 porters, twenty Sherpa guides and 10,000lb of baggage the party set out from the Nepalese base at Katmandu on March 10. Gradually we had made our way up to a point where we were all set to scale the final peak. My partner in the tent today is Sherpa Tenzing Norgay, someone who had been a part of a strong Swiss team in 1952 that included legendary alpinist Raymond Lambert. Lambert and Sherpa Tenzing Norgay had reached all the way to 28,210 feet (8,598 meters) on the Southeast Ridge before turning back—probably as high as anyone had ever stood on Earth till then.”

“We have to surely make an assault tomorrow as we had news that monsoon was set to arrive on 1^st of June when heavy snows would make climbing almost impossible. This is my fourth attempt at Everest and no way am I going to let it pass.”

“Tenzing and I had formed a good partnership throughout the climb from the base camp to where we are today. Tenzing was also the most experienced climber alive with six previous attempts in the past. No wonder our leader Col. Hunt chose us to be a team together.”

“I am still wondering about tomorrow when we reach the summit, the highest place on earth, why should I allow the Sherpa to step on top and claim any credit. After all he is just a paid person who has neither dreamt of climbing the mountain and is too naïve to understand the implications of reaching the peak for the first time in human history. He joined us for money that we have been paying him and many like him since we started on the expedition.”

“While I am frantically writing with shaking fingers, Sherpa Tenzing sits quietly in one corner of the tent with a look of contentment and joy. He keeps smiling back at me. I am unable to not understand this tiny mountain man who knows no fear. He seems happy at all times.”

“How many remember the sailors who went with Christopher Columbus and Vasco da Gama on their maiden voyages as they discovered West Indies and India? No one. The books and history will always show the name of one man only, the person who led the expeditions. In this case Col. Hunt had led the expedition and if at all anyone other than me whose name should figure when the newspaper headlines are written tomorrow, it should be his. Not of this Nepalese porter surely.”

“I am sure Norgay does not know how to read and write. So he will surely not see the newspaper or any book in his lifetime. To him this is one more expedition and an opportunity to make some good money from foreign mountaineers.”

“If I let him go atop the peak, I may have to unfurl the flag of Nepal as well. How will I place the flag with two triangles beside the Union Jack? No way. Tomorrow morning when the weather clears, I shall walk out of the tent with Tenzing and climb the remaining distance. Finally I shall step on the Mount Everest, thump my chest in glory and put the flags of victory on the peak, admire the view, take pictures before beginning the descent.”

“It is getting late so let me take some rest for tomorrow is a big day.”

“No sooner had I closed my diary than I saw Tenzing stand up and start walking towards me. He put his hand inside his thick jacket and I thought he may be bringing out his khukri which is the favorite weapon of the Gurkhas to kill their adversaries. I got defensive and put my hand to the axe lying beside me. Tenzing took out what appeared to be a picture with which he first touched my forehead and then handed it over to me. It was the picture of the Hindu God Shiva. The picture had become faded. Tenzing explained to me that Lord Shiva was the Supreme God. This picture had been given to him by his mother to ensure the God protects him whenever he goes for such dangerous adventures on the mountains. I am amazed and feel so small. Here I was being selfish just to stand on top of the peak and here was a simple soul who just gave away his lifeguarding symbol to me.”

“Next morning we took off together. Slowly but steadily, we made good progress till the two of us reached the Highest Point on Earth at 11.30am on May 29^th. We shook hands, in good Anglo-Saxon fashion. Tenzing clasped me in his arms and pounded me on the back. We spent only 15 minutes on top. Three flags were placed on the peak together- the Union Jack, the United Nations flag of a white globe on a blue background and the Nepalese flag.”

“As we made our way back down, the first climber we met was teammate George Lowe, also a New Zealander, and I said to him: "Well, George, we knocked the bastard off!"

“As we were leaving the mountains, our fame was spreading. When we came out toward Kathmandu, there was a very strong political feeling, particularly among the Indian and Nepalese press, who very much wanted to be assured that Tenzing was first. That would indicate that Nepalese and Indian climbers were at least as good as foreign climbers. We felt quite uncomfortable with this at the time. John Hunt, Tenzing, and I had a little meeting. We agreed not to tell who stepped on the summit first.”

"To a mountaineer, it's of no great consequence who actually sets foot first. Often the one who puts more into the climb, steps back and lets his partner stand on top first." The pair's pact stood until years later, when Tenzing revealed in his autobiography, Tiger of the Snows, that Hillary had in fact preceded him. Hillary always maintained, “We climbed Mount Everest.” Interestingly there is no picture of Hillary atop the peak. He, in fact, took a picture of Norgay on the summit but when Norgay offered to return the favour, he declined.

My mind wanders to July 20^th, 1969 when Neil Armstrong made his historic speech of “, one small step for a man and a giant leap for mankind,” as he put his first step on Moon. Should he have taken Edwin Aldrin with him as well? Edwin Aldrin was the pilot of Apollo 11 and Neil Armstrong was the Commander of the mission. Could Neil and Aldrin have stepped on the moon surface together? Today not many will remember Aldrin but everyone will remember Hillary & Tenzing- together, forever. In the race to be the Best and the First we forget the people who got us there and claim individual glory. Often what the materialistc world believes is a Giant Step Forward for Mankind’ is in fact a Giant Step Backward for Humankind. 

NB. This article is a product of my imagination blended with facts.

SS