Nap in a KSRTC bus

 

If you read any article on how to nap one would always come across ideal situations.

One, noise should be low; create ‘white ‘noise, they suggest; or play some soothing music;

Two, reduce visual stimulation; dim the lights or better put on eye lids;

Three, cover yourself lightly as it aids sleep but not heavily as increase in warmth wakes you up.

Four, don’t keep shuffling but keep still; relax your muscles one group at a time etc.

I have no quarrel with any of these as we have experienced them sometime or the other.

Now imagine inside a KSRTC (State run Buses in Karnataka) bus in summer. There is no AC ; you are squeezed between people ; noise is constant and children crying adding to the variety ; windows are open and there is plenty of light; not to mention smell - of fellow human beings and diesel and a variety of others like fruits, masala ‘paan’, snacks and sweets ; and then to cap it all the bus is moving/ groaning/ struggling on an Indian road with frequent halts, generally sudden; one of your hands on the handle bar in front of you to steady yourself and the other clutching a bag, kit or whatever.

Then a miracle happens; bus starts moving and I fall asleep; it would not be an exaggeration to say that some of the best naps I have had were in these conditions; many times  I have even wondered why the journey was so short when I woke up

 

 

 

 

 

Gundu – the Teacher - 05

Gundu Takes Over My Mind

We come back and after an eventful lunch (meaning after many protests and unsuccessful pleadings) we coax Gundu to take a nap. I tell him a story. Halfway through, Gundu with one/ two / three fingers in his mouth and the other hand holding mine close to his body drifts off to sleep and so do I. When he stirs sometime I increase my pressure and he sleeps deeply. When he gets up I am so relaxed and comfortable. He tells me his dream (not realising it was one) as if it happened. I beam with pleasure. What pleasure is it? Does it have a name?

I call him names- all sorts of names- that are at once nonsensical. He does not know the meaning but understands the spirit. Whenever I call him by some such name he runs to Ajji (Grandma) complaining. After some days he gets smart and asks me to call him names so that he can complain to Ajji.

I am lying down in a hospital, Narayana Hrudayalaya, after a painful surgery. It has been four or five days after the surgery and I yearn to see him. Lakshmi does not like to bring the child into the Hospital and I agree with her. But to her credit she brings him (actually Hospital rules do not allow) to the ward. Gundu, all of five months, is unperturbed by all this drama. Once inside he screams at the top of his voice so that everyone in the ward and beyond can hear him. My spirit soars.

A few days later I feel I cannot carry him in my arms. The shock is huge and I cry uncontrollably. A few months later I can lift him and carry him around. I am now as proud as a peacock. He climbs up on me as if I were a tree or a ladder  with a war cry ‘ Hattu Mele ‘ meaning ‘ Climb Up ‘. His feet press on my chest and the wound (due to surgery) protests and there is a sharp pain. Soon pain dissolves into pleasure.

I do some antics and Gundu laughs uncontrollably.  I can feel joy flowing through me. I am reminded of my grandma who always smiled or laughed at any outrageous things I did or said. She would at worst call me a joker (‘nakali Shama ‘ ). I could do no wrong. Unfortunately the intermediate generations did not have such insight and wisdom to recognise the greatness! Perhaps wisdom eludes alternate generations. My grandmother ( that my  grandfather did not have a great opinion about me is an  inconvenient data and should be discarded ) , I and Gundu share similar wisdom and opinions !

Lakshmi leaves for office in a hurry without adequate parting talk. Gundu becomes aware of the fact that she has left. I am carrying him and try to say something soothing to divert his attention. Gundu is angry and hits me. A few minutes later Gundu comes close and asks me ’Why did I hit you Bebaine? ‘. I murmur ‘It was your right’.

We are in the swimming pool. Gundu sees my surgeon ravaged chest. He is shocked. ‘What happened Bebaine ‘he cries. I laugh happily.

It is night. Gundu sleeping next to me in semi darkness says that I scare him and turns away towards Ajji. He wakes up in the morning and looks at me coming into the room and asks in a voice dipping in concern and affection ‘Where were you Bebaine?’ This time something chokes.

I sing a song. Even Gundu finds it intolerable. He catches the last phrase of the line ‘ hosa Beedi ‘ and exclaims ‘ No Hosa Beedi ! No Hosa Beedi! ‘

We play many games. I lose a majority of them. Gundu is happy. This was expected. A few days later in a game (‘catching the ball’) he is leading 9 to 6 and intentionally drops the ball so that he does not win. I ask him why. He says that he does not want me to lose and feel unhappy. ‘What made you so sensitive? ‘, I wonder.

I meet him after a ‘long’ time of two months after he left Bangalore. We reach their home in North Brunswick around 7 pm. Gundu walks in and I rush and pick him and blabber something. Gundu is in my arms too overwhelmed by emotion to speak but pats my back and puts his head on my shoulders. He has spoken eloquently. I cannot recall or watch video without becoming emotional even now.

Time to say bye as we leave USA. On earlier occasions I preferred to leave when he is not around as I cry all the way to the airport and beyond. This time Gundu refuses to go to school and asks me ‘Will you cry when you leave me? ’ I say ‘Yes, I do ‘. My rascal boy smiles in satisfaction! When the time comes I do cry and Gundu, all of five years,  now looking soft and  serious  comes close to me and consoles  ‘ Don’t cry Bebaine ‘. I cry even more.

A book, a song, a mountain, a beach, a park, a pond, an animal, children playing or sleeping, a rainbow, – all trigger thoughts about Gundu.

I am in a Vishaka Hari discourse. The intense yearning of a devotee soon transforms into my yearning for Gundu.

Moments before going to sleep I wish he were here to hold and talk and tell my ‘great’ stories.

I invent a new name for him but he is not there to share it.

Usha cooks a delicious dish and I wonder how Gundu would have liked it

Now I am in Bangalore far away from North Brunswick where my Gundu lives. I think of him all the time and wonder when I would see him. (US visas are terrible. They allow hardly six months for us to stay). I listen to the song by Sankaran Namboothri and Krishna – rather Gundu  - comes alive.

Paalvadiyum mugham

Pal vadiyum mugam  ( innocent face or literally milky face )

Ninaindu ninaindu en ullam (thinking about / recalling; thinking about / recalling - the face - my mind)

Paravasam miga vaguden          ( why is very much thrilled)

Kanna                                        ( krishna - Gunda )

ಪಾಲ್ವಡಿಯುಂ ಮುಗಂ

ನಿನೈಂದು ನಿನೈಂದು ಎನ್ ಉಲ್ಲಂ

ಪರವಶಮಾಗುದೇನ್

ಕಣ್ಣಾ

And later the poet sees him everywhere. It could have been written for me! I understand Gundu very well when he thinks of Rama all the same. Madness? So be it.

I wonder how a mere slip of a boy can occupy my mind entirely and dominate it. Gundu props up in usual and usual moments. He is a trigger for an experience and sometimes a catalyst and some other time the essence of it.

As I write recalling many such incidents there is a lump in the throat, eyes are watery and there is sweet sadness (he is not here now and moreover he is not the same Gundu although adorable in a different way). Gundu brings out the best in me – softness, forgiveness, tolerance, contentment, joy, a sense of wellbeing and a deep sense of gratitude to life which has been kind to me. I feel free and don’t have to prove anything to anyone including me. I feel intensely “ kurai ondrum illai Keshava “ – I have no complaints my Lord . I listen to music with greater pleasure, eat more heartily, and drift off to sleep so contentedly.

Life is kinder, brighter. Red is redder and Green greener and sweet is sweeter.

 Life presents the same picture to everyone but perception depends on the individual. Sensors, sensitivity and imagination define life. I feel Gundu has purified, enhanced, sharpened my perceptions and often added new dimensions so that life looks different.

I have always liked this poem (‘A Prayer for My Daughter ‘by W.B. Yeats ) and prayed for our daughters and now for Gundu with a minor change in gender:

   May he become a flourishing hidden tree

   That all his thoughts may like the linnet be, 

Gundu – the Teacher - 04

Here and Now  

RELAX says Yoga teacher. Stay in the present. Gundu is a living exponent of that.

I realise that the pleasure and intense satisfaction are not to be planned. It is like working hard ( with  dissatisfaction ) hoping and anticipating that we will have happiness in the future; perhaps – next weekend, vacation or  after getting that bonus or promotion or after retirement. No. It has to be ‘Here and Now ‘. I recall TS Elliot, in  Little Gidding ( did not mean this exactly )

          Here, the intersection of the timeless moment
         Is England and nowhere.

This  strikes  me again and again when I am with Gundu. It could be an afternoon nap or throwing stones or talking to ducks or telling a story .

Gundu – the Teacher - 03

Miracles and Magic

Miracles and magic are  round the corner. Crocodile pond in our sunken floor and Hyena (from ‘Lion King’) forest under the staircase just sprang up. It is scary to go near and the two serene statues standing there suddenly spring to life and have become guards to the dangerous place. Occasionally I am sent off to one of them to the accompaniment of Gundu’s shrieking. When it is Gundu’s turn to go to the forest there is great deal of protest and screaming and the verdict is reversed and instead I have to go.

It is a late   summer evening in North Brunswick and we are walking around. We pass by a pond full of ducks and geese. Gundu, the great warrior, who can fight with a variety of   arms and vanquish many rivals all at once, clings to me. He is not scared, he declares urgently.

He sees a big group of geese and then a smaller one nearby. Wait a minute! He has discovered how Kauravas of Mahabharata fame (one hundred of them) have turned into geese. The smaller group consists of  the five brothers, Pandavas and sometimes with mother Kunti leading. He can even identify a hefty one as Bheema.

Some other day he recognises his grandfather, Prabhashankar, with his two brothers walking slowly as appropriate to their age.

We look at the park below from our balcony in Bangalore. Two dark robed people are walking there. Gundu says ‘Look, Mama there are Gorillas in the park ‘. We hastily tell him it is not so. But then why are they wearing costumes, he wonders. Who knows!

I tell him a story while we try to sleep. I feel words getting jumbled up and some characters get mixed up. My wife corrects me. Gundu, my hero, is there for my rescue. ‘Ajji (grandma), sleep; Bebaine (my nick name given by Gundu) is telling a great story ‘. My heart swells with pride! To add to it a couple of days later Gundu declares that I know a lot. Alas, a few weeks later I am back to normal self and he feels that I am completely ignorant. Again a wave of joy passes over.

Gundu is immersed in Ramayana, one of our epics. He talks, eats and breathes Ramayana. He is Rama most of the time and I his obedient brother Laxmana or his faithful follower Hanuman or one of his  bitterest enemies , Indrajit, Kumbhakarna or Ravana , all ferocious and evil  rakshasas ( Demons ).

Gundu is Rama and I am his brother Laxmana and we are searching for Seetha. We are short of people as Ajji is busy in the kitchen. So we take on different roles but the hero or in any case any good character is always Gundu. But reality buts in. Gundu says’ you are very old, you can’t be my brother’. What do we do? Show must go on. Gundu has a simple solution. He says ‘let us pretend that you are not old’. Problem is solved.

 I ask him if he dreamt anything in the night. He says that he thinks of Rama all the time and his dreams are full of Him. Tulasidas would have been proud of Gundu.

He plays soccer. While running around he meets with two of his opponents. They start talking to each other and the game goes on around them.

He does not catch the ball though he runs hard and wild. When I ask him why does he not focus on getting to the ball, Gundu non- chalantly replies that he was thinking of Rama.

Under the influence of Ramayana and Mahabharata Gundu says when he grows up he will have eight wives. Mother and Ajji threaten him that he will end up in jail. Gundu reluctantly accepts the harsh and unfair reality. He dilutes his ambition. Instead of eight wives he would have eight sons. No daughters though. Nowhere in all our great stories girls are prominent or are role models. 

Occasionally he has an issue with getting children. He is certain that when one reaches the age of 100 one’s skull would crack open and one will die. He has a plan to forestall the future. While talking to me he says he does not want to grow up or at least will not have children so that I would not reach the dangerous age of 100.

There is a miracle happening in front of us. It is the miracle of growth. The physical growth itself is amazing to watch. From turning, sitting, crawling, standing, walking and running – each stage is truly remarkable. What is even more exciting is the mental growth. For instance, take the development of language. No one teaches him but he learns nevertheless by hearing.

Gundu is less than two years old. We wonder if he is slow to speak. The paediatrician for once overcome by parental stirrings declares that his son at Gundu’s age had a vocabulary of two hundred words. We come home slightly depressed. I count the number of words Gundu speaks. Even I cannot push it beyond 30 but declare it is forty. A few months later Gundu’s vocabulary easily exceeds two hundred and is much better than his peers (grandpa speaking?)

We play the Gorilla game. I challenge Gundu that I would stare and scare him. He laughingly agrees. Staring starts at a distance and Gundu is smiling. Slowly I close in and when it is really close a funny thing happens. Reality breaks down and imagination takes over. What if I am not Bebaine? Gundu shouts the game to a closure. He wants an encore!

Gundu - the Teacher - 01

Sheer Joy in Living

When I tell people that I learn a lot from Gundu, my grandson, there is incredulity and a smile at an old man’s preoccupation, passion or obsession. Sure, there could be elements of that but Gundu and I are only representatives of what I am writing. It is about children and adults (ok, ok, old adults or better mature adults). I read through what I wrote. I wanted to be sure that there is no condescending tone anywhere. While it has been fun and great joy the thoughts are serious and important to me. I have seen the world through his eyes as it were and not looking down.  

Let me enumerate a few lessons. First and the foremost is the sheer joy at so many things we take for granted.

He laughs, without malice, at jokes that are simple or at situations that are unusual; cap worn crookedly, a sheet covering your body, a ball balanced on the head or for that matter ball unable to stay there, a funny noise, imitation  of a tiger or mouse  - anything will do for laughter;

the cake is so enticing; so also beet root and rice ! ; the colours, the texture, the temptation to touch the cream, to lick your fingers, temperature - cold or otherwise – are all immensely tempting.

Joy in seeing a butterfly, cow, crow, sheep or a lazy man following the cows at a distance (‘farmer ‘ );  

We hear a cow moo. Gundu is wide awake and exclaims in wonder  ’ Did you hear that ? ’. He wants to run outside.

We touch many leaves, plants and tree trunks feeling the different tactile sensations. If we miss one we come back and touch it; he cannot express the joy in words.

There is wonder in the eyes, keenness and anticipation in the face.

Sights, sounds, odours, touch, movement all come alive with a new hue, with urgency and in large measures flooding me.

Some were new; some I had experienced; some I had forgotten; he awakens in me a fresh outlook and when he wonders at so many things how can I not do so.

A day before leaving India Gundu is two plus in age. We are on the terrace and he runs shouting ‘Charlie, Charlie ‘for no reason and is intensely happy. Then we sit on the swing and as it gathers speed we shout partly to overcome the fear and partly for the novelty of it. He is uncontrollably happy and I have to stop the swing so that he can get back his normal breadth.

It is an evening and we are again outside. This time there is a flock of sheep with the shepherd behind. Gundu and I run (Gundu runs after a sheep and I run after him). Gundu is excited and when he shouts sheep runs away making funny noises.

We are near fish pond looking at fish swimming. We count them and debate their colours. Also identify our favourites. It happens that the orange one is Gundu’s favourite. It occurs to him that it could be his (fish, I mean) birthday. So Gundu sings ‘Happy Birthday to you ‘and I join him. Gundu is certain now fish are happy. We say good bye for the day. 

A butterfly flutters. He wants to catch it just like he tried with the sheep but with no success. That does not matter because it is butterfly’s loss and we say bye to butterflies too.

After an eventful walk in the morning in North Brunswick – after talking to geese and scaring a few - we are collecting swords from the ground. After a careful selection from a variety of sticks we choose two – one for Gundu and one for me to fight. Naturally Gundu’s sword is slightly longer than mine. After an inconclusive fight we head home. A grocery van goes on the road and the driver smiles and waves his hand as it is the third time he has seen us. Gundu is thrilled.

A strange transformation happens to me. I start enjoying many of these things as intensely as Gundu. There is always immense pleasure when my smile is returned with a brilliant one. Nothing seems more important than soaking up the experience with a sense of surrender and feeling a wave of contentment. I recall the lines (Author: Ce­cil F. Al­ex­an­der, Hymns for Lit­tle Child­ren, 1848):

  All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
  All things wise and wonderful:
The Lord God made them all.

Gundu – the Teacher - 02

Perspectives and priorities

Gundu carries books – one time he took six of them - to the toilet and I have to accompany him. I pull up a low stool and settle down comfortably as it would take sufficiently long time not necessarily because he needs so much time for his toilet function but because he has to finish six books. He cannot read but that does not worry him in the least. His vocabulary is good and imagination even better. He insists on reading all of them and explaining to me. In spite of constraints of space and time (and smell, I should add) it is quite relaxing. He has his priorities and who is to say that they are less important.

We go for a walk and Gundu does not want to come back. He drags me in a direction opposite to the house so that he can be as far away as possible and delay the return. We end up near a house under construction. There is a heap of small crushed stones (‘jalli ‘ ) and we start throwing stones back to the heap one by one. It goes on for more than 45 minutes and the sound of stone hitting the heap, disturbance it causes to the heap, path of the stone, size and shape and careful selection of the stone itself and the competition to throw as far as possible – all are so pleasurable. After sometime I sit down on a nearby culvert and watch lazily Gundu playing. The man on duty is initially circumspect but smiles soon. Sun is shining but weather is mild (Jan or Feb morning in Bangalore), a breeze is blowing and time stands still. And at the end, reluctantly Gundu starts for home and looks at me with pleasure and I have become a hero.

We play a game while we walk. Whoever has more cars on his side wins. Gundu changes his side often – sometimes to my left and sometimes to the right – to get more cars in to his account. You see, fixed rules do not interest him. He likes rules to be flexible and he should change them at his will!

I cannot watch cricket. Under instigation or on his own inspiration Gundu stands in front of TV, hands stretched across, and says ‘No Cricket ‘. I move to another room stealthily and watch TV putting the audio on mute. Gundu smells it out and catches me quickly. Not watching Cricket was never so interesting.

My coffee is the next victim. It is morning and I have a nice hot cup of aromatic coffee in my hands and I sip it lazily. Gundu says let us go out. I plead with him to let me finish it. Gundu has his priorities and also has ready solutions.’ Put it down’ he says and I obey.

I realise the obvious. Deadlines are self-imposed and in hind sight often transient, silly and trivial. Perspectives change and so do the priorities. When you are driven by someone else’s rules, schedules and priorities it adds different flavour to life. It is a humbling experience. 

A Man of Culture ( ಸಂಸ್ಕಾರ)

It was a few years back when I was a volunteer supervising work for a trust this happened. We were checking to see if the patients (trust helped with) were getting the same treatment as other patients in a hospital. It was for surgeries related to heart and the hospital was Narayana Hrudayalaya. I met a few patients to find out their experience. They were all praise for the Hospital and were very grateful to the trust. That apart …

One of the patients (rather his father) I talked to was a poor labourer from Tamil Nadu and his son had undergone surgery. In my broken Tamil I asked him, amongst other things, if the financial assistance provided by the Trust was adequate and does he need anything else. He said in Tamil and I translate ‘Sir, whatever I got was sufficient for the surgery. I thank you and God for it. I do not want anything further. If I ask for more it will not be proper ’. I was moved.

I was reminded of an incident in Mahabharata. Draupadi gets three boons from King Dhrutarastra (partly out of his fear and partly out of guilt) after Kauravas win the game of dice. She asks as a first boon that her husbands Pandavas be released from slavery. For the second boon she asks for the arms to be returned to them. Both are granted. Dhrutarastra waits in anticipation.  Draupadi does not ask for the third one. When pressed to respond she says asking for the third one (when it was not needed) is greed and hence she refuses to seek it.

Pride and Prejudice

I was at Humayun’s tomb some weeks back. It has been restored by ASI and opened to public and is now a world heritage site. It is considered a precursor to Taj Mahal built a century later. It is a grand structure with a large garden. It is simple but dignified one and fits well as a Tomb for a king/ emperor. Be that as it may, it is not my topic.

I heard someone say that it is after all a grave and what is so great about it. A few minutes later I saw a Muslim adult standing near the tomb- eyes closed, face registering a reverential look and looking solemn and serious. Both were funny and worrying.

In Pakistan they have a problem in teaching History. Everything before Mohammad is not civilized or civilized enough. The achievements of people till then are difficult to stomach. The Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro cultures (some of the findings and sites are in Pakistan) cannot be praised or admired. (Recall how the militants destroyed ancient statues of Buddha in Afghanistan). In India, people of   Hindutva shades cannot find anything good in any of the periods of Muslim rule. Golden periods came before ( Gupta’s ) or after ( ‘ Shivaji ‘s or ‘ Vijayanagar’s  ) Muslim rulers.

When we identify (or disassociate) ourselves with an area, region, caste, religion, country, event, period or a person strange things happen. We forget that we are woven by blend of several strands. It is absurd to feel that (worse to proclaim) our ancestors were Vedic sages or cringe from the fact that there may be genes of Genghis Khan in us or that they (our ancestors) could have been cannibals. All we need to do is to go back in time a bit more and we would find changes like in a kaleidoscopic display. For instance if we go back in time for about  15  generations   we can claim  Akbar and 40 generations  Shankara , 120 generations - heroes and villains of Mahabharata or if you fancy Krishna himself and about 2000 generations a tiny African tribe. In fact we may find that we have descended from a woman in that tribe!  When we say ‘our culture’ what do we mean?  ‘Ours and theirs ‘is pure convenience but unhealthy trend. I am reminded of an Irish guide who said to us, “…they called him William the conqueror and Irish called him William the bastard “. Views – ours and theirs!

More basically why should we take unwanted pride in establishing ‘our culture’? Is it not just dependent on time? Why is it Mozart, Einstein, Shakespeare, Alexander (no pride though), Cleopatra and Stalin not mine but only Vysa, Ashoka, Guptas, Chanakya mine (as Hindutva person would claim)? Or as Bhutto once said how ‘we ‘ruled Indian subcontinent for 700 years? Should I jump with joy if Mouryas established a vast  pan India empire, if Cholas conquered some lands overseas , shed a tear for Babri Masjid built on a temple ( even if true ), not care if Vietnam war killed millions  or Iran - Iraq war killed countless Muslims ?

It is so easy to excite people – as German, as Dalit, as Muslim, as Born again Christian, as Jew , as Tamilian – the list is endless. Unless we teach Children not to feel proud  (  at least unduly ) of any one specific identity, or make them feel proud of all great legacy we will always suffer from historical injustice real or imagined , shallow prejudices and become poisoned.

I am reminded of a saying in Mahabharata which I have admired a lot. In essence it says : Sacrifice self for the group, group for the village, village for a country and all for redemption of soul. Large interest subsumes smaller ones. To change it a bit ( probably it meant just that )  : If any identity clashes with the larger one discard the lower one and for the sake of humanism discard all.

Nap - 1

Nap – 1

To sleep is human but to nap is divine

In college it was accepted practice (by me!) to skip classes in the afternoon (with an eye on 75 % attendance; otherwise a fine and more than that there could be a visit by father to the college); after lunch at home a nap at 2 pm; at least for one hour and extendable to 90 minutes; when you get up world has changed- and changed for the better

Dreaded the  time  after college when I had to work – I could see my nap slip away ; it was tough; Saturday and Sunday though were fantastic; those days were particularly exciting/ peaceful as we had no telephones and of course no mobiles nor TVs ; except unannounced unscheduled visitors who were few.

There was also a time when on holidays (Chamarajpet days) when we had lunch at 10 or 10 30 in the morning and you could actually nap at 11: 30 or so and get up around two pm in time for coffee

My daughter’s father- in-law  (ಬೀಗರು )  is fond of  20 minute ‘ power nap ‘ ; so also is  my son-in-law although I for one rarely have seen him getting up at 20 minutes sharp ! In any case it is not my cup of tea (mixed metaphor you would say as nap and tea should be in that order). For me longer the better. I do not want to nap for getting energised to work for long hours etc. I want to nap because it is so pleasurable

I have always wondered why Yoga people advise us not to sleep in the afternoon; this advice comes from a long time past; imagine someone (insomniac I suspect) living in a tropical country like ours full of sun shine and long days and yet advising us to stay awake; sadist! They constantly ask us to relax and when I do that with a nap they object; I cannot fathom; they say ‘tamasa guna ‘ (ತಾಮಸ ಗುಣ ) increases; actually I have always felt that after a good nap I become a better and gentler person – I could think ( no action though ) of doing some house hold work ; forget that I had an argument only a few hours back ; even helping in  children’s homework ( just for the effect though as I don’t recall any instance of our daughters stooping to such low levels as troubling their father )  did not look so bad or more realistically going in search of that KG card board with three coloured crayons etc. didn’t look formidable; sometimes I  even overcame bitter feelings of India losing yet another test – and that too against Pakistan !

Survey camp naps:  We went to survey camps usually to some place outside Bangalore (ಘಾಟಿ ಸುಬ್ರಮಣ್ಯ ) for about two/ three weeks. There after a tiring field work – if you don’t believe consider this : when you have to manage five uninterested team members - including me - and avoid the roaming teacher and wonder how to  ‘ adjust ’  - when after a table survey the starting and ending points ( supposed to be the same ) differ in latitude, longitude and sometimes even in height. As I said after a day’s of hard work and after Bhatta’s (ಭಟ್ಟರು) lunch I would go to sleep (sorry nap) in the corridor with a bed sheet covering the body including the face; what a nap! ; at four pm  a gentle soul like Chandrasekhar or Narasimha Murthy would wake up with various incantations -  ‘ Elo Tea banthu ‘ ‘ magane Elu “ ‘ yavagalu nidde ‘  (  ’ ಏಳೋ ಟೀ ಬಂತು ’ ’ಮಗನೆ ಏಳು ’ ’ ಯಾವಾಗಲೂ ನಿದ್ದೆ ’   ); tea never tasted better!

Nap in the lecture hall –

Due to some reason college was not an ideal place to nap although there were several competent lecturers who would make it very difficult to remain awake. Looking back I think there were two reasons. One, friends around you would not allow that and secondly and more importantly you could skip the class easily.

In IISc it was different. One, there were a small number of students, often as low as 15 and it was difficult to sit hidden from the eyes of the lecturer. Two, lectures were more crucial and one could not afford to sleep through them. Still I remember my guide. He was no mean talent. He could drone on beyond 1 pm (his favourite hour as it was the last one before lunch) and make everyone late for lunch. He was a good influence for a nap that was not to be. There was another Prof who was bald and the light would shine reflected on his shiny head. It was mesmerising as we sat in the gallery looking down. It would appear that his eyes behind impressively big spectacles would follow you. What a powerful personality! Within minutes there would be violent struggle to stay awake. I know one person who said that he actually fell down from his seat while the lecture was going on. This sort of nap - you are there one moment and are out of it the next – is particularly exciting as it required a daring personality and blessing from above. But there was a price although minor – pinched skin, nail marks on the wrist. But it was worth it. 

Physical Work

Physical Work - October 2012

Returning from a long brisk walk of 50 minutes in Kukkanahalli Kere. Time 5 30 pm. Weather pleasant, cloudy and occasional drops of rain.

Drenched in sweat. Sticky, sticky …   Gundu would have said. Banian and T shirt soaked in sweat.

Feeling high. No guilt today. But more importantly the walk was very nice. Chamundi hills looking down on you. If you are a believer you tend to bow your head and move on. But there are other compensations for an atheist. The sky is glorious - cloudy but different shades of grey and white, size and shape. Different types of people. Young girls in their own world. A man walking slowly lost in thought. A worried looking man in spite of carrying an umbrella.

White cranes returning in flocks.  At a distance a big tree inside the lake with its top fully white with hundreds of cranes looks other worldly.

I walk with my Nano on but still listening to outside sounds.

While returning a strange thought – funny but understandable to us – came to me. Now I can go home throw everything - socks, banian, T shirt and I can afford all new for today and tomorrow and the days after. Shoes are light and cozy. Nano is fine and I can listen to Carnatic Soundarya lahari of Mani Krishnaswamy  followed by Talat Mahmood singing romantic songs. Don’t I feel grateful for affording all that.

There is pleasure in physical activities. I felt it when I played cricket. While I was not skillful but was a lot more knowledgeable about cricket. Played with some sincerity but without too much of talent or more to the point I was not physically strong. Under - age for my class.

Back to cricket.  An off drive was exciting and an occasional catch - difficult one at that - would remain in memory for a long time.

Later when I opted for sports instead of NCC parade in PUC I tried some running - 200 and 400 m! The results were predictably awful but experience was not. Several dreams of my winning sprint and long distance running races was not small compensation.

Also, when I read Tolstoy ( no Indian writer seems to have had this, i.e. celebrating physical deeds ) about the excitement of physical work I could relate. I felt and more so now that physical work ( chosen not forced ) when you are healthy and have no financial worries is thrilling.

Or while doing certain exercises in Yoga – lumbar stretch for instance -  body stretches and relaxes. Muscles move at your command. Waves of pleasure sweep over you.

Later, much later,  I became acutely aware of it   seeing my daughter go to Gym , Crav maga and coming exhausted but thrilled. This is something I learnt from her.

Sometimes I feel that I should have realized all these much earlier but then experience is experience whether you are in twenties or sixties.

Coming home to coffee is perhaps the icing on the cake. The imagined aroma, of sipping coffee sitting on a soft seat and hoping that this would never end!

Different Slices of Life

                             

I had the occasion to be in three or four different gatherings in recent weeks. It made me think ... before that the details

In Mysore I was attending a litigation case in a trial court regarding some land related issues. We were waiting in the court hall for the judge to arrive. Room was full of black dressed lawyers and some clients. One can sit down if there is a place but cannot cross legs as it would appear to show disrespect to the judge. The atmosphere is somewhat tense but not as much as I thought mainly because the cases drag on and many get adjourned. False cases, forged documents, clever lawyers, greedy ones, immoral lawyers who would do anything for money abound. (In an accident case, my lawyer  - client conversation: Any witness? Did you come across any one related to the person hospitalized? Have you seen the victim? Lawyer advises: say ' No ' to ' Did you hit?'  ' Did you see the injured ' etc. ಯಾರಾದರು ನೋಡಿದರ? ಏನು ಕೇಳಿದರೂ ’ಸುಳ್ಳು ’ ಅಂತ ಹೇಳಿ ಗೊತ್ತಾಯಿತ  ). Lawyer, a Jain, pious and clever man (ಇಹಕ್ಕೂ ಸುಖ ಪರಕ್ಕೂ ಸುಖ ಎಂದು ನಂಬಿರುವವರು ),  has Theerthankaras (ತೀರ್ಥಂಕರ ) exhibited prominently in his chamber under whose nose the conversation took place. 

Back to court. No clients are smiling although lawyers, even the opposing ones, smile, talk, laugh ... Outside it is chaos. So many people, so many lawyers and their assistants moving around hectically. Notaries sitting and waiting like vultures for someone to come. False cases are foisted and several lawyers and judges are busy for a long time and hundreds of documents get created, copied, falsified constantly. A huge waste which we can ill afford. When we talk of democracy  we forget what colossal drain on our resources such a system imposes. One might say it employs so many people but I wonder for what purpose. I am reminded of army men digging trenches and filling them later for want of better things to do.

The clients are from different strata of society - villagers and  town folk, literate and illiterate ;  an old man still hoping for something before he dies ;   Religion , caste , gender do not matter. Everyone is united by a greed more powerful than what their religious leaders, prophets, gurus have advocated as way of living. It is an unreal world. Second sin according to Christians. Lobha third in Arishadvarga - Kaama,Krodha, Lobha , Moha, Mada,Maatsarya  - ಅರಿಷಡ್ವರ್ಗ : ಕಾಮ,ಕ್ರೋಧ,ಲೋಭ,ಮದ,ಮೋಹ,ಮಾತ್ಸರ್ಯ,

It distorts and often destroys the person. I wonder what effect it has on lawyers over extended periods. Very dehumanizing.

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Lust (opposed by Chastity), Greed (opposed by Charity), Pride (opposed by humility), Sloth (opposed by diligence), Gluttony (opposed by temperance), Envy (opposed by kindness), and Wrath (opposed by forgiveness).

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The second occasion was standing in the queue for visa - first for finger printing and later for the visa. Finger printing day was cloudy (had rained previous night) with impending rains. The road is narrow with heavy traffic in both directions. Footpath has hardly enough width for people to stand. There are at least hundred people from the gate onwards. Gate is opened by an impressive (at least to himself) guard who has assumed importance. People are different now. Most of them young, most of them can speak English and appear well to do. They arrive in autos, taxis, cars accompanied by elder persons - usually parents. There is a gleam in the eyes, ' we are different ' attitude, ‘we have arrived ' - or almost - feelings all tinged with uncertainty. We wait for our turn, keep asking the guard and a team of two busy looking officials about what slot is going on.9 30 he says. A 10 30 man looks benignly at a girl and her mother with 12 30 pm slot. We look towards the sky and wonder when it would start raining. And then what? Files are in unprotected  covers and we clutch them to our bodies as we cannot allow the rain to spoil them. Everyone prays - let it not rain till I get in.

Again no one is smiling. No, that is not entirely true. There are a few who do. Ones who have attended it earlier and are through and come to help / show off to their friends. They offer free and serious advice. There is a distinct difference in demeanour, talk, gait when they get in and when they come out.  Somehow it was demeaning. I wonder about boat people ( trying to get into European country or USA ) , illegal immigrants trying various means to get into prosperous countries, our own Biharis and Oriya people , if not illegal, treated as illegal immigrants in Bombay…

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The third group was when I went to Narayana Hrudayalaya for a check-up after 4 years of my bypass surgery. Again there are hundreds of patients waiting for their turn to see cardiologists, surgeons for the first time or for a post-operative check-up. You can feel the gloom, fear, hope and trust. It does not matter if the doctor they have to meet  is John or Pravin, Jyoti or Kishore, Indian or foreigner. They want assurance that their Doctor is one of the best if not the best. There are patients who have undergone surgery earlier and somehow feel that they are beyond danger. One patient was telling a new one that he was operated by XXX six years back implying it is safe now. He misses the irony. It is possible he has exhausted a major portion of his quota (perhaps 10 years) and is in more danger than the other. He is blissfully unaware that he may be closer to yet another surgery or he might be beyond any intervention. I spoke to one person who was sitting next to me. He had stroke one month back and now is diagnosed with multiple blocks. It appears that surgery is risky and so also leaving it as it is. He is 50 years old with two young children. His wife wants someone to ' fill him with some courage' ( swalpa dhairya thumbi  ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಧೈರ್ಯ ತುಂಬಿ). Next to me is another woman. She was disillusioned with an earlier hospital and doctor for whatever reason. She wanted to know what had happened to me. I told her thinking that it might infuse some confidence in NH. She was not convinced that mine was the right case because according to her unless a valve is put in place surgery is not complete. I have no heart ( what I have is a damaged one with a bye pass; pj Papu would say )  to argue. Practically everyone is a heart patient of some sort or the other except the ones accompanying them. For whom the Bell Tolls? I wonder and that includes me!

Outside there are three places of worship - Hindu, Muslim and Christian - all joined together (ಸರ್ವ ದೇವ ನಮಸ್ಕಾರಂ ಕೇಶವಂ ಪ್ರತಿಗಚ್ಚತಿ ! ).  For me it does not mean much. Faced with death at last we seem to forget religious differences but not when life is in full bloom.  The place actually fills me with hope. One, I feel part of a larger group. Two, the irony as I see it - death is a great leveller. Thank God for that. Basic issues are the same for everyone. Three, you find unexpected streaks of courage, kindness and fortitude. There is definitely some dignity here.

Sankaran Sings

A singer, in my opinion, of high calibre, not popular in Chennai sang in a school premises under the auspices of small sabha. The concert was at an uncomfortable 4: 00 pm. We go there 30 minutes early and find we are the first to arrive. We are welcomed by a make shift canteen (alu mooti - ಅಳು ಮೂತಿ - meaning dreary) manager. We have coffee and the manager /bearer and the cook are polite and happy to see us. It is easy to see why. A few minutes later we see the artists of the evening at a distance. We get into the hall, find our seats and settle down. We stare at the curtains covering the stage. Curtains are old, discoloured; walls need a fresh coat of paint and a stone plaque declares that is was opened by someone important at that time. It is a Karnataka association and the office bearers for years have been incompetent and lazy and the bad shape of the hall is a testimony to it (cynically one feels like saying’ what else can you expect from …‘)

 A tilted photograph of ‘ Trinity ‘ ( composers Thyagaraja, Dikshitar and Shyama Shastry ) is hanging on a wall near  a corner with a garish , ‘zero watt ‘ yellow  bulb (somewhat  like you may  find in a  ‘ Hindu military ‘ hotel )  shining on it; next to it , a faded donor, long since dead, looks down on us solemnly. No announcements are made and at 4 pm sharp the curtain goes up.  I count. There are 10 (perhaps 12) people in the hall and after half an hour it swells to 16.  A cleaning lady is still busy in her work hardly concerned about the stage artists or us. There are four people on the stage – main singer in a red kurta, a violinist, a mrudangam player and a serious looking teenage sishya . No thamburas but Radel is the on display.

Sankaran smiles and starts his concert as though he is singing to a full house. He has a strong, vibrant, full throated, enthusiastic voice. He sings, often appearing, as if he is explaining to us. He seems unconcerned about anything else. He sings phrases and almost applauds himself or at least approves them before going further. He sings to Gods as they say and I feel they must be satisfied.

Violinist is sad faced and looks even sadder whenever he looks at us. He plays well and gets some approval from Sankaran and a smile from mrudangam player. A smile appears on his face as he treasures the appreciation of his community - of two. (Reminds me of a scene in ‘Everyone loves Raymond ‘; Frank says he may face dishonour in his community. When son jeers and says ‘what community, there are only a few oldies’. He responds that they are his community).

More seriously I wonder what motivates these people and what sort of fortitude they should have to survive let alone prosper. At the end of the concert (almost ' mangalam' time) there is some commotion as a few people start getting into the hall. I realize with some shame that they are rushing in for the next program, perhaps more popular, hardly concerned with the feelings of artists on the stage. The concert ends as it began with no announcements.

The concert was very good to my ears and when it ended I get up with joy and sadness.

Visaka Hari – Impressions, Admiration and unsolicited suggestions

Visaka Hariji : ‘Guruvayur Appan ‘, Dec 26, Thyagabrahma Gana Sabha, Chennai

She used be called Visaka Hari, now Hariji . I wonder if her husband has become more venerated or she herself!

She has an attractive stage presence –smartly attired, traditional looks, pleasant -   but it does not distract. Her voice is rich and when she speaks it is well modulated. Clear and good pronunciation.  Her language skills are excellent– Sanskrit, Tamil , English and Hindi. Seems to understand Telugu and Kannada.

Brilliant  brand building  – educated, musically trained  ( ‘ A ‘ Grade artist of AIR ) ,devoted wife, mother, family person respecting tradition, Father – in – law  ‘Anna ‘ as mentor, philosopher, guide – perfectly acceptable or even aspirational for her audience.

The hall is nearly full. Discourse starts promptly at 6: 30 pm with Violin, Mrudangam and Ghatam and  Tambura as in a regular music concert. It starts off with some songs in praise of Krishna and then Guruvayur Appan.  Krishna’s birth, his childhood, deeds etc.  are sung well. By now she has traversed lands all over India – Sri Rangam, Udipi, Srirangapattina, Dwaraka, Ayodhya, Mathura … and covered in a broad sweep Chaitanya, Tukaram, Nandanars, Purandara Dasa, Meera  … Guruvayur Appan is not yet introduced.  

Sthala mahatme begins and it is more than one hour since she began. She compares many places of worship of Lord Krishna. Light heartedly remarks how Guuvayur Krishna wakes up at 2 or 3 am where as the one in Melukote near Bangalore is slow in getting up at 8 am ;  perhaps it is cold weather, she adds.

Now on to an episode.

A devoted couple preparing to celebrate the first anniversary of their only son. Description of the child - clothes he wore, ornaments, preparations etc. follow. Due to negligence or accident the child dies under tragic circumstances. She describes it well . Sleeping child buried under discarded old wet clothes. Audience react in unison ‘ Ayyo ‘. Some wet eyes and many sobs.

‘ Krishna Krishna Mukunda Murahare ‘ follows. Sings really well and with great feeling. It touches the heart. The story is only a peg ; you could supply your own version of the story or any other story for that matter and absorb the sentiment into it.

Father goes out to temple and is lost in prayers to the Lord.

A pause in the story as Visaka branches off to stress another philosophic point ,ever popular with us. She talks about permanence or transience of things. ‘ Nitya ‘ and ‘ Anitya ‘;  and ‘Maya’. I think people are not comfortable but nod their heads wisely.  But they wait and would like to know what happened or (as they already know) how it happened and want to hear from her again. They want simpler solutions. ‘ Maya’ can wait.

 Now a lighter moment. She mixes languages effectively – for example, in this case Sanskrit and Tamil - How one may be born from  Nara (ನರ ; man )  in last  birth to Naari (ನಾರಿ ;  women ) in the present  birth and  from Naari  to Nari (ನರಿ  ; fox ) in the next.  Audience laugh but nervously wait to know the fate of the devotee. Suspense continues.

She makes a philosophic point. Mind is like a mirror. It reflects (gets filled) what is in front of it. Colours change, shapes change etc. If it is filled with anger, lust etc. that is what one gets and suffers. When it gets cleansed by Krishna consciousness then it becomes pure and filled with joy. 

Now she comes back to the main story and connects it.  Lord appears as a child in devotee’s arms because the devotee intensely desires  it. There is a collective sigh of relief and exclamation of wonder. A song flows freely about the wonder called Krishna. She has her poetic moment. She raises the story to an abstract level or rather makes it universal by saying how we see Krishna every day. I thoroughly enjoy it.

Devotee says in a voice of surrender and fulfillment how fortunate that he is born in Bharat. She branches off. ‘Mera Bharat Mahan ‘, she says. Why? Because it is a land of so many saints, seers, mahatmas, warriors who fought for preserving our religion and culture (particularly Rajputs). I wonder. Rajputs might have fought the then Muslim rulers but it was more of survival. Moreover when they were not fighting them they were busy fighting themselves. Her ‘Bharat’ is an imaginary one and does not include other religions or regions. If I am a person from Sikkim I wonder .. Why will they feel proud to be associated with this?  However, people applaud in patriotic fervor. She takes a jibe at Indians ‘dying’ to go to USA leaving our glorious land. Now a section of the crowd applauds. Some because they believe, some because they could not go and now find a respectable reason and some parents of NRI children who would not return.

(I am reminded of a conversation between a Bengali and a non-Bengali. Bengali proudly claimed how Bengal has been the land of so many reformers like Raja Ram Mohan Roy, Iswar Chandra Vidyasagar, Aurobindo, and Tagore which other regions of India can never boast of. The other man said it was because Bengal (being so depraved) needed so many reformers! )

Story is on hold again. Music continues. Very soon, almost without a clue, she gets into Tanam singing followed by a brief expansion of a raga and a Pallavi with appropriate emotive phrases.

Guruvayur Appan waits. She now talks about an old lady, another  devotee, who was guided home one night by the Lord assuming the form of a boy. She gives him a piece of her saree to cover himself as his dress gets wet. He takes leave of her. Next day when the temple gates open, behold - the deity is covered in a piece of old cloth given by her  on previous night.  Audience responds enthusiastically as she sings praising the Lord.

Now the release from climax. She cracks a joke about how an elephant does not eat whole day on Ekadasi while there are many (like me!)  of us who would gorge on food like an elephant. She speaks of the elephant Keshava’s devotion and how till the last breadth he serves Guruvayur Appan. And now he is commemorated by a statue (‘it is there even today ‘as if Keshava is a true historical figure with no doubts whatsoever about his existence )

Now we are ready for another episode. It goes on for some time. It is nearly three hours of non - stop discourse. People are happy as she sings a song followed by Mangalam. They are ready for the next concert. We leave the hall reluctantly with smiles all around.

Now some more of general impressions.

She feels the pulse of the people and establishes excellent connection with audience very quickly. She is an excellent communicator . People hang on to her every word. Builds up tempo  to a climax then brings down.  The cycle repeats. Makes it participatory.

Her discourse is an amalgamation of drama, music, story, philosophy, devotion. There is free flow – effortless transitions from one to another.

She has created this unique combination. While Harikatha has existed for long  she has made it beautiful, vibrant and glamorous

Excellent story teller – holds suspense, meanders at the right time making her audience wait and wonder ‘what happens next’ and then she is back.

Gamakas  are many – Sphruta , slides, murchana, kampita etc. Likewise she has pun, irony, satire, and she  chides, jabs, exaggerates, dramatizes ( Henry James, once said,  ‘ Dramatise’ ‘ Dramatise ‘ ), appeals emotionally , uses melodrama sparingly, dishes out wise cracks, homilies, talks as if she is next door neighbor come for a chat, visualizes, paints as it were through words,  ‘ pesum chittirame ‘.

Her advantage is that she can use any thing that is popular. If ‘ Kaliyugadali .. ‘ ‘ Kurai onrum .. ‘‘ Vaishnava janato ‘ have been  sung  well and made popular by others she can and does put to use immediately and effectively.

I believe she is still evolving this form. Balance between music and recitation of story.

She has to find new episodes constantly. As of now she does good research, composes or selects songs, creates a framework, takes up wise sayings of ‘Anna ‘or someone else.  But she has to be creative all the time.

Entry barrier is high for others.

Her audience by and large are the people who are interested in classical music. Brahmins in general. Her utterings ( sayings of ‘Anna’ ) like for example, the importance of ‘ Sandya vandane ‘ would not interest non Brahmins; let alone other communities. She has to find a way to make it more secular but retaining moral tones so as to retain the present set and attract others. How to make it appealing to non – Brahmins (non – Hindus)?  

Language: While she is proficient in Sanskrit, Tamil, English , Hindi and can understand Telugu and Kannada , her   discourse is in Tamil – English combination. This limits her audience although songs in Telugu (Carnatic Music) and Kannada would draw others to some extent. How to reach out beyond Tamils?

Some jarring notes though.

She mouths Imbecile Philosophy sometimes. I feel it is an insult to our intelligence. Makes   incredulous statements (Rama and Krishna lived millions of years back. Vedas are sooo ancient; NASA has proved it- I do not what)

Showing disrespect or complete ignorance about Knowledge. A saint’s or mahatma’s knowledge supersedes all others. All knowledge can be attained by such mahatmas. Then what happens to our poor scholars in Art and Science I wonder. It is a pity that these are pitted one against the other for which there is no need. Ignorance of say science, arts etc. is understandable but there is nothing to appreciate in it. Playing to the gallery perhaps? People hiding their ignorance in a veneer of spirituality.

Mature, consistent philosophy or framework needed and not ad hoc and changing ones depending on the needs. Have humility / ability to acknowledge cultural diversity and the fact that Brahmanism is not central to the world! I ardently hope she sticks to common sense.

Should approach miracles etc.  in a poetic way ; as metaphors rather than literal truths. If she does it can become beautiful and thought provoking.

She has the right to expect from her audience ‘suspension of disbelief ‘(as long as a writer could infuse a "human interest and a semblance of truth" into a fantastic tale as poet and aesthetic philosopher Coleridge suggested) it should not be juvenile. She does well sometimes but goes overboard carried away by her enthusiasm and perhaps goaded by sayings of ‘Anna ’.

Why do I like her?

Sheer joy of story telling / listening. It incorporates music and talk, drama and feelings. It is magical at her best. When she does well ‘a terrible beauty is born’ as Yeats says. At that moment the particular incident disappears (for me) and I appreciate in a state of ‘suspension of disbelief ‘and often substitute my own story.  When she extracts an abstraction from some examples I do my own if I not in agreement with her. To give her credit she does well most of the time. So amongst believers I sit and enjoy and often relate to what she is saying. These are ‘musical truths’ and ‘literary truths ‘and are colored by me to suit my taste.

But to end with what happened:

As we leave, one lady remarks rather seriously that she feels like to going on a trip to Guruvayur as soon as possible. Visaka Hari has successfully sold Guruvayur to her fans ! Marketing at its best.