Author: Dr Sumedha

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Travel Article

Go, Goa ………..Gone!

With age comes wisdom, they say. I don’t think I am really qualified to comment on this, but I know that age definitely brings nostalgia. Of late, with travel reduced to a bare minimum, I have found myself getting increasingly maudlin about the journeys of life, especially the ones undertaken in the past when I could safely ensconce myself on a comfortable lap or wedge myself into the narrowest of crannies by the window of a vehicle, all set for a road trip. Whether or not India has made vast strides in the tourism department in recent times, travel in the past was fun in a way difficult to describe. Although the destinations were few, stretching to the homes of various relatives, the journey itself created precious memories which had a flavor all their own.

I grew up in an India which if known for tourism was a mere backpacker’s destination, with the Taj Mahal being the first name which sprang to the mind of at least the well-heeled Western traveler. Needless to say, the roads were narrow, winding and lonely and many of them existed only in the minds of the map-maker, having disintegrated into a pot-holed morass many a weary kilometer from their destination. The vehicles used for said journey were of course in a class of their own, and of such unprecedented vintage that the original designers themselves had forgotten whether they had had a finger in the dubious pie of their manufacture. The denizens you met on the road were weird and wonderful and surprising, ranging from bullock carts to pedestrians, dancers to caravans of donkeys and everything in between ambling at their own paces and to their own sweet time. Rules of the road were non- existent. No wonder, my cousins visiting from the USA, that land of rarified road safety rules called our trysts with the roads in India an ‘adventure’ instead of just a pedestrian ‘drive’! The number of breakdowns the cars suffered enroute, and the way we packed ourselves into them like so many sardines in a tin make me wonder as to how we managed to reach our destination at all, without leaving any vital part of ourselves or our baggage behind!

The earliest memorable childhood journeys then include several road trips to Goa, Sawantwadi, Vengurla and the like in our vintage Ford 1947 model, accompanied by sundry family friends with wailing little kids, relatives of all shapes and sizes with personalities and voices to match and what stands out the most in my memory, a strange Shikari Shambhu kind of character carrying a large gun. I think I had found the answer before the popular question of today ‘Kahan se aate hain ye log?’ was dreamt of!
While half the population of India now seems to descend on Goa like a swarm of locusts with the advent of Christmas and New Year, we descended (literally, since it was only a descent of a mountain away) whenever we felt like it or when familial occasion demanded. Our trips to Goa were strictly in the pursuit of spiritual succor (the state popular for golden beaches, golden tans and golden drinks houses the many golden temples of our family deities, so termed because they have golden cupolas. Not to be confused with THE golden temple of Amritsar) and thus my association with this tiny haven remains quite puritan. Much later, I attended an award ceremony for the better half in Goa, replete with wine and song. Old memories die hard and the first thing which sprang to my mind when I heard the choice of the venue, was “how on earth are they going to party in a temple?”

Added to this was the fact that half my family IS from Goa, all possessed of a remarkably religious bent of mind and thus even though I cudgel my brain, all that comes to mind is days spent in the dark, humongous sancta sanctora of temples, clad in silk clothes trying to quieten a tummy wailing in hunger while it awaited the completion of various rituals, living in the rather scary rooms of the agrashala (temple choultries) with their moody taps, moodier mattresses, teeming with bugs of all kinds or the Goan style houses of various aunts and uncles.

The latter packed their own punch by way of large hall-like rooms, odd shaped staircases, heavy doors and windows and strange bathrooms located quite a distance away from the house, the path to be traversed to get to them teeming with reptiles of all sizes and shapes. However, nothing could beat the feeling of bonhomie with which our entourages were enthusiastically greeted, whatever the time of the day or night and delicious meals of fresh fish and rice were served up in a jiffy, making me wonder at the skills which these domestic goddesses possessed given the fact that their kitchens were manned the old fashioned way with wood fired stoves, mortars and pestles made of stone and other quaint equipment which might make modern pretenders swoon with ecstasy but must have been a nightmare to use in real life. The banter and insults traded by the large extended family was our way of bonding, of staying in touch in the only way we knew, bereft as we were of artificial intelligence like Whatsapp, Facebook, Snapchat and the like. Life like the roads on which we travelled was riddled with potholes, unvarnished and rough around the edges, but it was real.

One of my cousins married into a Goan family of great repute and the journey for her wedding was a free-for -all carnival of sorts with vehicles of all shapes and sizes in a strange kind of convoy, racing each other on the single lane tar track road which aiming at greater things, called itself National Highway 4A. The residents of the forests of Anmod and Londha must have been driven from their green beds due to us strange creatures who kicked up enough dust to give them the allergies of a lifetime.
The wedding in itself was pretty memorable, taking place as it did in the grand hall of the temple of our family deity, with family priests and other heavy weights in due attendance. All I remember is the post wedding dance performance, totally unsolicited and impromptu which a couple of cousins and I (all ranging in age from 3 years to 6 years) performed in front of the palanquin of the family deity when He was brought out of the temple in procession as was the custom every Monday. It was a performance which must have remained etched in and permanently scarred the collective memory of the temple for the rest of the time to come. The head priest must have lost a decade of his life and is probably still shaking his venerable head over the fact that the parents of the day had allowed young innocents to get high on the local brew which has given Goa its reputation (good or bad entirely depending on whether your glass is half empty of full) before dancing wildly before the Lord of Dance himself. If you are looking for someone to blame for the trend of wild dancing shenanigans which we see under the name of Sangeet now-a days, look no further! Mea Culpa!

Another trip which stands out is the annual ‘Maghi Poornima’ trip (somewhere in the months of January or February) to the temple. The annual temple fair and the ‘Rathotsav’ (carriage ceremony) took place in the wee hours during this time and the scenes of the long road lit only by the flickering glow of the headlights of the car on the mad midnight four hour dash to Goa still sends a delicious shiver down my spine. There is of course the time when we housed ourselves in the verandah of the local school with impunity, since everywhere else was chock-a-block with devotees and also the time when everyone fell over themselves (literally) to prostrate in front of the advancing palanquin of the Lord. There were visits to the beaches, but more in the fashion of something which had to be done as a formality, rather than the purpose of the visit which is what happens these days. The memories are too many to recount and though the visits may have dwindled over the year, the memories linger still, made all the more precious with the passage of time.

The recent visit however brought home the sweeping changes which have crept in since the days of my childhood. Dotted with resorts, beach shacks, adventure sports, plantation trails and everything else to lure the well- heeled traveler, Goa is now a universal destination. But old habits die hard and despite the better half’s busy schedule, we still managed to find our way to the familiar comfort of the temples for an hour if not for the entire day. Pricey resorts, exotic food and the cool formality of professionalism may have replaced the sylvan land of my childhood, but, despite its new avatar, Goa remains in my memory a golden land, a beacon of piety, spirituality and hospitality, a land of magic in that magical time called childhood!

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Travel Article

Bitten By The Bug!

Almost two years have fled past and travelling plans for most folk have unraveled at the seams, thanks to the little tyrant of a shape shifting virus lurking just beyond the safe confines of our respective front doors. While enjoying a peaceful holiday at home for the first time in many years was a novel experience for many, the dragging pandemic has left most of us bereft of one of the better experiences which enriches our lives, the bite of the travel bug.

All of us were nomads in the distant past and this atavistic trait still lingers in latent form. There must be very few who don’t feel a thrill of excitement at the mere whiff of an outing in the offing. Throwing all caution and better sense to the winds, most people have flocked to the great outdoors whenever the pandemic has showed the least sign of receding, like so many sheep let out of a barn. I don’t mean to sound judgmental or preachy, I have been one of them.

Joining this great migration got me thinking. Perhaps it was time to revisit those memorable journeys ranging all the way from childhood to the golden middle, and write a travelogue with a twist. Humor to bring back the bright shades of happiness that the pandemic has temporarily snatched away. I am being pompously presumptuous that wit can replace the want which makes us travel for there are those who live in foreign lands and have not been able to visit their near and dear ones for a couple of years now. But I hope that my bit of buffoonery can from the comfort of your armchair, at least rekindle fond memories of journeys past and make the wait for new journeys to begin again seem that much shorter. Ibn Batuta, the famous Arabian traveler must have foreseen what was to come for he rightly pointed out

“Traveling—it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a story teller”.

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Lifestyle Article

The Contentment Conundrum

“CONTENTMENT IS THE GREATEST FORM OF WEALTH”

….Acharya Nagarjuna

When I think of the ways in which we wish each other, the word which always stands out is ‘Happy’. ‘Happy Birthday’, ‘Happy New Year’, ‘Happy Diwali’, so on and so forth. And thus, most of our lives are spent in the pursuit of happiness. It is that alluring mirage which lurks tantalizingly around the next corner, beckoning with its siren call to come and capture it and then life will be ‘set’.
We choose to answer its call unheedingly most of the times and when we do have the wraith in our hands, more often than not we find that it is not what we wanted after all. We link happiness to umpteen things… an education, a job, a house, a car, a fat bank-balance, a perfect relationship, an ideal family. However, there exist people in the world who find something missing after achieving all this and yet others who float through life on a cloud of happiness despite having nothing. This then begs the question whether the pursuit of happiness was along the correct path to begin with.

And thus, we find our roundabout way to another feeling which resides within us all along, but which we fail to recognize… the feeling of contentment. Cultures the world over, irrespective of their history or geography, ancient or modern have placed this feeling above all others. In fact, a study conducted by Yale has revealed that even those cultures who have long subsisted in isolation, far removed from the trappings of modern civilization still placed a feeling of contentment as the crown of all other emotions.

We can all clearly recall certain days when we have been perfectly contented with life, with small trifles like watching the rain through the mist rising from a hot cup of coffee, enjoying a familiar piece of music or a good read, even though we might have heard or read it quite a few times before. The same can be said about food, the contentment coming from eating a perfectly simple and wholesome home-cooked meal that we have eaten a thousand times cannot be matched by the offerings of a Corden Bleau chef from a Michelin starred restaurant. That feeling of ‘God is in His heaven and all is right with the world’ is nothing but the feeling of contentment! A feeling not unlike the broad sweep of a placid river or the still surface of a tranquil lake.

The root of the word contentment comes from the Latin ‘contentus’, which means ‘held together’ or ‘intact/whole’. Although originally used to literally describe containers like cups and buckets and barrels, the word later evolved to mean something that describes a person who feels complete. It describes a person who is whole, without any external input, complete within and by himself.

For us Indians, this concept is not novel at all. It in fact forms the corner-stone of our philosophy, that we are all complete beings, microcosms of the Creator. But, more often than not, we tend to lose sight of contentment because of its closely related kin, the feeling of happiness. And thus, sets in the contentment conundrum.

No-one can deny the role happiness plays in our lives. It is essential to our sense of well- being contributing not only to our mental but also out physical health. It plays a vital role in our sense of identity and helps us set long term as well as short term goals for personal achievement so that we grow as individuals. But happiness requires an external input. It is a product of successful interaction with the world at large, a product of reaping the rewards of hard-work, gaining appreciation from our fellows, and of course of earning material means. It is something which we get from the world and something which is based on tangible things.

While there is nothing wrong in the pursuit of happiness, one has to keep eyes open to the fact that it can quickly become a never- ending race of wanting ‘something more’, which may not always be feasible. With each achievement, there remains that much less which can bring a pure, unadulterated sense of well-being. Besides, today’s world is a world of instant options. Never before have we been so spoilt for choice that we can change our entire life much in the style of snakes shedding outgrown skin. Options abound everywhere. Not happy with the way you look? Go for the nose, lip, cheek and chin package! Wardrobe gone stale? Trash it for new styles! Not contented in your marriage? Find a new partner and set up a parallel life on Whatsapp!

Herein lies the danger of an onset of frustration, hopelessness and sadness if the goals which we set for ourselves are not met with. At the same time, with the airbrushed lives which we show the world that we live, routinely doing the rounds on social media, it is easy to fall into the trap of envy and hatred. This is where the answering call of the popular slogan ‘yeh dil maange more!’ should be ‘Na Na’ instead of ‘Aha’! With our hearts and minds conditioned to such pipe dreams as “Life lambi nahi, Badi honi chahiye, Babumoshai!”, we are too busy in the search of that which will make our lives bigger. Ridden as we are with the bigger is better disease explains why most business operations make a killing with ‘Mega’ ‘Jumbo’ or ‘Giant’ sales or most drinks, whether soft or hard come as ‘Large’ or ‘Grande’. We are too busy looking outside for that which can be found inside, because more often than not, we are what we HAVE instead of being what we ARE.

And thus, contentment. That kernel of satisfaction which resides within all of us. Staying happy in the moment, irrespective of what you have, don’t have or will or will not have. The state which sees each moment as complete in itself, the fruit of the past and the seed of the future. The emotion which does not require much to sustain itself, after an initial careful cultivation. For which, nor is less, less, neither is more, more. A feeling of such equanimity that it not only envelopes the person feeling it, but also people interacting with him in its warmth and comfort. A feeling if sufficiently nurtured can truly make a person blissful.

The feeling of contentment can be best observed in children, who more often than not seek to play with the packaging of a toy even before unwrapping it, rather that the toy itself, for they are content with playing, not what they are playing with. The reason why they are overjoyed with the tiniest of things, be it a gamboling puppy, running through puddles or catching a sight of the moon through the clouds. It is because they seek and find joy in ALL situations unaddicted as they are to the bigger and the better, looking at the world through eyes which are not yet blinded by the stark glow of the big and best. Thus, any person who exudes contentment draws others to him like moths to a flame, for in him we see a reflection of the Creator and thus of ourselves.

As the world increases its pace to run its ‘bigger, better, brasher’ race, it is time to look for contentment, to choose how much is to be obtained from the world and how much from our own selves. Giving happiness a place in our lives is a duty, but finding contentment in what already exists is the very purpose of human life. In the words of the wise, ‘Contentment is not the fulfillment of what you want, but the realization of how much you already have’. For when you choose wisely, you no longer need to realize, you become the realized.
This solves the contentment conundrum to some extent, for,

Your soul is complete in itself,
Seek all you need therein
Peer not into the darkness without for the light
For it illuminates you from within….

And thus, my wishes to you for the New Year differ a little. I wish you contentment lasting not just in the New Year, but for all time to come.

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Poem

Choice

The path of life is never straight
Riddled with twists and turns
Many a time crossed by brambles thick
As many a traveler learns

The roads of this long journey
Diverge now and then
Eyes awash with forks and crosses
Which seem beyond out ken!

This or that, what and which
Form this expedition’s tale
Every step a new riddle unfolds
Along this winding trail…

Some forks are left behind,
Some crossroads never seen again
You can but follow your chosen path
Lamenting loss is all in vain.

For most of us, the life we forge
Is nothing but the fruit of choice
Listen well to what the conscience says
For it softly speaks in His voice!

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Poem

Hope

The old year sets, the new one arises
Both have a message to give
A lesson from the old, a whisper from the new
They teach us that life is to live.

Old anguish, despair, sorrow and pain
Is best left behind in the past
Those colors best fading quietly away
Not repainted to last.

If life is to be lived on memories alone,
Remember to keep them mellow
Look for the white within the black
For the good in each of your fellow

When the sun rises on that new dawn
Let its new rays warm your heart
Let the golden light spell novelty
A new path and a new start!

It is never too late to begin again
You are never too old to cope
Let the feeling of newness engulf you in its warmth
The greatest feeling of HOPE!

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Articles

Flitting To Foreign (Shores)

“You don’t need magic to disappear, just a destination”, what an interesting observation! But what about the more hapless of us who wish that they could disappear when they reach the destination? Welcome to the world of this traveler’s travails which can degenerate into wails in the blink of an eye.
I think I must have a bit of nomadic blood in me for I love to travel. Planes, trains and automobiles, I have done them all. Ranging from rickety old cars, even ricketier old buses, trains which rattled every one of the two hundred and six bones in my body and airplanes which looked like they might drop out of the sky. Nothing much can faze me when it comes to solo travel, having undertaken many a wacky and wonderful journey by myself, ranging from the renowned US of A to the relatively obscure but supremely peaceful town of Ghataprabha.

With the ever- changing wheel of time, ‘tourism’ is now the hot new word in the lexicon. Roads developed, low- cost airlines soared high carrying the minds, bodies and dreams of a large section of the population with them, everyone and their aunt became either a ‘hotelier’ or a ‘restaurateur’ at the very least and tourists from foreign shores have started flocking to even relatively obscure Indian destinations in droves. The converse is also true. Indians proved to the world that they were determined to ‘go global’ in the truest sense of the word.
Indians now flock to foreign shores en masse, backpacks and bacchas in tow, families and food finding their place in the sun. And this is where the intrepid traveler, (read me of course) began to experience unprecedented travails. Planning a desi trip though tedious, at least offered the comfort of the familiar and if I did not dare voice my dissent in having to endure a bumpy car ride with the FM radio wailing in the background and a relatives’ relatively scary haunted house in the Konkan awaiting to greet us in the dead of the night for the umpteenth time did not mean that I did not chafe and gnash my teeth in secret about it.

Many Machiavellian manoeuvres later, I had convinced the family about the benefits of visiting foreign shores, the first of which of course was that they would not have to commit me to a mental asylum and visit me every week, my mind unhinged from lack of a change in scene. Add to this the fact that following this week of unabashed lazing, I would be a relatively docile and hardworking (haha!) creature for the rest of the year and they were sold. Mentally patting myself on the back for my sharp skills in salesmanship, I went so far as to consider a career in marketing, when it suddenly dawned on me that the entire onus of pulling this caper off rested on my rather fragile shoulders!

I knew something was amiss when I began checking famous travel websites for inspiration. I was bedazzled by the sight of lonely beaches, lofty snow- covered peaks, quaint streets, smiling families and the like. If anyone is laboring under the misconception of thinking that these sights materialize out of thin air, you better give up now, especially when saddled with a spouse who thinks that sharing his schedule in advance is akin to giving away state secrets. Prising from him the exact dates of his vacation made stealing secrets from the Prime Minister’s office seem like child’s play while my constant nagging had the effect of him donning his ‘don’t-you -have -anything-better-to-do-I am-busy’ look on a near permanent basis. But, with the persistence of a leech, I managed the feat even as he slumped in defeat.

Little did I realize that my nightmares had just begun. On my rather timidly breaking the news that we would have to visit various consulates in search of visas brought about the kind of Satyagraha which even the Mahatma would have been proud of. Ergo, I began to do it with the air of Savitri, determined to follow Yama to the end of the world in search of her husband’s life! When the visas finally deigned to arrive, it was a hard -won battle but I was still miles away from winning the war. My life was taken over by lists, of airplane tickets and food, clothes and medicines, of foreign currency and multiway chargers. You name it and I had a list for it. If I had had a mere hint that planning a holiday was such hard work, I would have put my rather fertile imagination to good use, planned a staycation and bought myself a sparkling diamond necklace with the money saved (in my dreams of course).

Ah! When realization set in (rather late), nothing could be done and it was a mere case of setting off, nodding my head to the ditty of ‘yes Sir, yes Sir, three bags full!’ And thus, I traipsed through quite a few countries, spouse, offspring and venerable ones in tow, many a times wishing that I was safely at home instead! Adventure upon misadventure followed me across the world of holidays bringing me to the conclusion that I was prone to inexplicably madcap capers no matter where I went to escape them.
If it was not the offspring binge-watching in- flight entertainment and nearly giving herself conjunctivitis on the way to an island paradise, it was the spouse and myself slipping on ice in a snowy haven and nearly giving ourselves broken bones. There was the food saga in a famous island city, where the South Indian Thali ordered by the spouse made us consume enough rice (to prevent food wastage) to feed the denizens of a small African nation and then put us off rice for the next few months. A bright sunny sky in a quaint European town made the spouse leave his jacket behind with a supercilious air despite my voicing my misgivings (when will they grow up and listen?) and then found him ducking into dark and draughty cathedrals in vain efforts to keep warm. Our adventures also found us getting totally lost in an even quainter town and wandering around with rather fast beating hearts and dry mouths until we were able to hop aboard a friendly bus which bore us back to our destination, slightly older, but unfortunately not much wiser for we promptly repeated the feat on our next holiday, the low wailing of the offspring providing background music!

Given my true Indian penchant for all things thrifty, I have often committed the serious mistake of hiring apartments in foreign lands with the delicious dream of setting up a cozy ‘home away from home’ without thinking things through in my usual headlong rush. Well, the home away from home bit has worked wonderfully, with me womanfully manning the stove and the dish washer and the provisions a task which I could have performed perfectly well in my own kitchen without having to put myself through three thousand kilometers of travel in airplane seats which seem to get progressively narrower the wider I grow! The spouse and the offspring of course revel in setting courses diametrically opposite to each other whether it is the food to be eaten or the sights to be seen and I am invariably left wondering whether I signed on for a holiday or for the UN peace keeping force in let’s say war torn Syria!

This wanderlust has had its more than fair share of near disasters, mainly involving the offspring and me, bitten as we are with the adventure bug, while the poor hardworking spouse prefers to snooze in peace leaving us to our madcap ventures with a sad shake of his head and a lugubrious look. “While you were sleeping” has taken on a whole new meaning with the offspring and me setting off in the wrong direction on an adventure trail in an island resort, freezing our noses off in Alpine subzero temperatures with only our scarves and a flimsy umbrella to keep us warm, getting lost in narrow cobbled streets in search of summer palaces and souvenirs and almost meeting a black bear face to face a la Goldilocks while wandering aimlessly down what looked like a wooded path but was in reality a forest trail on a secluded coffee estate near the equator.

I like to think that we have created memories. Enough to last us through the current times. Now that we haven’t travelled for a couple of years, they seem all the more precious and have borne home the fact that we have led a privileged life as far as travelling is concerned. Travails notwithstanding, I am ready to dust off my well-worn shoes and hit the road once again, for someone once rightly pointed out, “Travelling in the company of those we love is a home in motion!”

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Stories

‘D’ Is For Duty

As a little girl, Sharada had been very fond of reading the dictionary. It surprised everyone, friends, family and teachers alike. When most children were fathoms deep in Enid Blyton, Nancy Drew, ‘Tell-Me-why’ and the like, Sharada could be found tucked into a nook, muttering strange words under her breath.
Perhaps it was because she lived in a large, chaotic joint family in an even larger house which always looked as if a whirlwind had blown through it. She was a lover of order, a neat freak, and the dictionary was her escape to an orderly world where ‘there was a place for everything and everything was in its place’. As she grew older, she started looking for natural order and finding nothing more interesting than the perfectly co- ordinated functioning of the human body, chose to become a physician so that it could be her life-long job to restore order to disorder. She thrived on it and how!

Marriage and family did not deter her from her calling and now while she ran a perfectly neat home, she occasionally got down her well-thumbed copy of Miriam Webster, for old time’s sake. It had been a sort of yearly ritual, two letters a month so that the dictionary could be finished in a year. Now-a-days, she found it difficult to stick to her dictionary schedule though, and hence picked the letters randomly.
The past year had been one which her order-loving soul had loathed, thanks to the pandemic which had blown life so off course, that it was getting increasingly difficult to find the way back to safe harbors for many. Sharada had been a “front-line worker” and though the welts on her cheeks caused by the respirator had faded, she knew that the welts left on her soul by the heavy loss of life would always remain. Now that the vaccination drive was in full swing, she hoped for a breather, and a break which she sorely needed.

She called the past year the ‘Year of the D’, a dragon like disease, dedication, and increasing desperation being the chief words coming to her mind. There had been a dearth of medicines and oxygen, hope drying up with each new death. Dire straits, dreadful times and a demonic virus. The tide thankfully seemed to be turning now. Perhaps normalcy would return.
But a phone call proved that this was still a distant dream. Suman ji, Sharada’s mother -in-law who had been a diabetic for quite a few years now had suddenly taken a turn for the worse. Sushil ji, her father-in-law although a GP himself was aging and found it next to impossible to manage his wife’s illness. In addition to her kidneys being affected, Suman ji had suffered an injury to her foot and it had rapidly morphed into gangrene, necessitating an amputation of the fourth and fifth toes of the right foot. Since Sanjeev, her son and Sharada’s husband, was a surgeon, it was only right that he performed the surgery himself, in Mumbai, where he lived. Besides, Sharada’s expertise as a physician would be put to good use.
If Suman ji had a fault, it was that she was a foodie in the real sense of the word. Since she was a good cook, it naturally followed that she should love sampling her own offerings. Her home-town of Indore was renowned throughout the country for its delectable cuisine, especially the night market of Sarafa Bazar which came into its own on long, leisurely evenings, offering delectable treats to tickle the most finicky of tastebuds.

A life-time of home making had left Suman ji lonely when her chicks flew the nest. With dwindling visits from sundry other relatives grown too old to travel, came an all- pervading loneliness which found an outlet in binge eating, gradually becoming a habit. Before she knew it, her diet had become a demon bent on consuming her as she fell prey to diabetes, which grew so rapidly and to such unprecedented levels that it brought doom in that she had to leave her home town. But even worse, she had to leave her beloved daughter, Rewa.

Suman ji was a woman who lived her life by the ‘old code’. Thus, her obstinate outlook that her daughter was the best at whatever she did. Of course, it helped that both of them shared a similar love for titivating, occasional gossip, kitty parties, one upmanship and most importantly, food. Rewa would never be content with running a home like her mom and was an up-and-coming architect. To have a house designed by her firm ‘GenXLive’ was the ‘in thing’ in Indore and she was fighting off several of the well-heeled thronging her office. Her children, Arnav and Priya had been cared for by their ‘Nani’ in infancy and early childhood so that she could pursue her career unhindered. Not that any of them had much time for Nani now, deeply immersed as they were in their busy lives. While this feeling of being made redundant perhaps hurt Suman ji, she would never ever utter anything against her daughter. Instead, she thanked her stars that she got to see them occasionally at least and hence, the move to Mumbai hit her harder than imagined. It did not help that Sharada was her complete antithesis in most things.

Quiet, disciplined and serious, Sharada was mentally described as dour, dry and distant by her mother-in-law. She found her bookish tendencies rather ‘show-offy’ and unladylike. The still waters which ran deep in Sharada’s case left Suman ji truly out of her depth and she hated floundering. Added to this, was the fact that Sharada was extremely determined and exacting where her patients were concerned and now that her mother-in -law was one of them, she was given neither deference nor quarter for her position or seniority. She knew that the strict diet that she had enforced did not go down well with Suman ji, but her hands were tied. If her mother-in-law was to limp back on the long road to recovery, she would have to follow Sharada’s exacting routine complete with a draconian diet which comprehensively excluded all things sweet, deep-fried or seasoned with excessive salt.

Suman ji hated Sharada hovering over her at meal times. She hated the bland food dished up with unfailing regularity four times a day, hated Sharada’s barely concealed impatience at repeatedly having to cajole her to eat, but most of all she hated that Sharada was not Rewa and never would be. No frippery, no embellishment of words or face and no overflowing emotions. The almost machine-like efficiency with which Sharada accomplished her tasks set Suman ji’s teeth on edge. How she longed to return, to her hearth and home and most of all her beloved daughter!
**

Rewa preened as she adjusted the pleats of her peacock blue Maheshwari saree. Today was the day she had been working towards all year. Her interview on ‘Madhya Pradesh Aaj’ was scheduled for 6pm. She thrummed with excitement and energy. The success of ‘GenXLive’ artfully combined with a few well-placed contacts in the right places translated into a prime-time slot on the flagship show ‘Bulandi’ which was aired live on the last Saturday of every month. ‘Indore Daily’ was planning to carry a feature on a few of her latest architectural designs in the New Year. A few nominations for the up- and- coming Indore Annual awards were also in the bag. The sky was hers for the taking.
“Credible, capable and creative”, was how she had been described for as long as she could remember, the image first fostered by family and later by friends and clients. While there was no question about her creativity and capability, what she had always excelled at was stealing the lime-light, being blessed with credible looks and a confidence bordering on brashness. The greatest champion she had was of course, Suman ji who credited her with extraordinary management skills, intelligence and all the qualities necessary for a complete woman. Today’s interview would be for want of a better phrase, her ‘crowning glory’.
Suman ji had wept unabashedly at the sight of her daughter on TV and her joy knew no bounds when Rewa graciously acknowledged Suman ji’s role in her success. The phone had been ringing off the hook with congratulatory calls from relatives and friends. In fact, a couple of weeks later, Suman ji was crediting Rewa for her recovery as well, thanks to a famous physician friend of hers, who often called and advised Sharada about the regimen she was following with her mother-in-law. If Sharada found this galling, she kept her thoughts to herself as there was hardly anything she could do about it.
And thus, Diwali drew to a close and the diyas and decorations were put away. Darkness came earlier and earlier on stealthy paws these days. Sharada looked at her mother-in-law’s reports and then at the letter on her desk. The decision she had been dreading could not be put off any further. Opening up her laptop, she began to type “I sincerely regret that I am unable to take up your kind offer of a travelling fellowship to the Joslin Diabetes Center for the current year. I sincerely hope that I may be considered eligible in the near future”. She pressed send without reading the letter through and left the study with a sense of finality.
It was time for Suman ji’s medications. In Sharada’s dictionary, ‘D’ meant many things, but the first word which came to her mind was ‘duty’ and duty alone.

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Musical M(a)elodies!

I am rudely awakened from the sweet recesses of slumber, heart pounding, throat dry, wondering where the earthquake is. A few groggy, confused seconds later I realize that it is the neighbor’s new boom-box, brought out with much gusto for the New Year party. But the level of the thumping beat accompanied by the constant caterwauling of the self-proclaimed musician sends me scurrying for cover and for my ear plugs. I think what he lacks by way of tune is being compensated for by sheer volume which continues till the wee hours, rules be damned. And thus, the dawn of a New Year begins with a splitting head-ache for me!

While my claim to fame is definitely not a great musical ability, I enjoy good music as much as the next person. It is not my habit to make tall claims at being a connoisseur, since I tend to appreciate the lyrics more than the music. Therefore, my caveat: I like to listen to music in peace without self -proclaimed singers providing unnecessary accompaniment. And thus, a group of strange folk whom I call the “hummers” for want of a better word vex me no end. They are those wonderful folk who will keep mum in the absence of an audience or actual rendition but will immediately give tongue if there are sufficient people around or just HAVE to sing along if someone is performing really well, justifying themselves by calling the humming ‘spontaneous’.

The strange sounds which emanate from some such throats and which pass as “singing” leave me confused at the ease with which everyone and their aunt is claiming to be a critic these days. This belief is further strengthened by the number of invitations for ‘Facebook-Live’ music concerts which I receive on a daily basis. While these have done a great job in furthering budding musicians by providing a unique platform for everyone, danger lurks in the form of those with a dubious musical ability who unfortunately firmly believe in their own talents. I honestly believe that not only should Mark Zuckerberg take a bow here but should be specially honored for this great service rendered to mankind.

Schooled in a convent, I was taught the virtues of silence at a very early age. Back in the ’eighties, no-one gave a second thought to teachers not sparing the rod, and the mere sight of the raised eyebrows of the teacher made one literally swallow their words and their songs. The only music I was thus exposed to was choir-music, with its deceptively soothing cadence. Possessing a tape-recorder in those days was a thing of pride and while we did have one at home, our selection was limited to cassettes of a few well vetted film songs, bhav-geet, natya sangeet and P.L.Deshpande’s humor. My mother had tried to entice me into learning classical dance, an activity I so loathed, that it merely had the side effect of putting me off classical ANYTHING for the greater part of my childhood and teens. The music scenario at home remained limited to occasional warbling on our collective parts to the popular ditties of the day, some tuneless whistling (not at anyone in particular) and some God- awful screeching by a few family members who considered themselves Belgaum’s answer to Pt. Bhimsen Joshi of blessed memory. Thus, I grew up, a relatively ‘bereft of music’ kind of child.

Twenty odd years rolled by and not only did I happen to join a new family, but also a branch of medicine which (gasp) happened to deal with all aspects of sound, from its perception to production. And thus, I bid adieu to my old way of life of (relative) peace and quiet. It is great to listen to classical music at dawn they say, but for someone who is a notorious night-owl like yours truly, being startled in the wee hours by the strains of the sitar or shehnai or Anup Jalota (no offence to the great man) meant passing the day in a semi-dazed, sleep deprived state! This definitely was not my idea of ‘rise and shine’, more of ‘pull pillow over the head’.
While I totally agree that ‘Jyoti Kalash Chalke’, ‘Jaago Mohan Pyare’ and ‘Ghanyashyam Sundara Shreedhara’ are eternal morning songs, I am equally firm in my belief that their rendition is best left to the original playback singer, in this case the redoubtable Lata Mangeshkar. The easiest way to kill a morning in my humble opinion is for a self-proclaimed singer to go around trilling these songs driving the birds, butterflies, bees and family before them, shrieking for mercy.

Another of my pet peeves remains constant noise in an enclosed space, the sterling example of which, is a car. Give me Nilesh Misra’s storytelling, Suhana Safar with Anu Kapoor or even the news over constant twittering any day (nothing to do with the popular app). In the early part of the millennium, FM radio was neither as popular nor as widespread as it is now, and we carried music tapes with us on long drives thanks to the insistence of the spouse who apparently could not function without a constant background noise, making me want to leap out of the car and run over the hills and far away. Or at least chug enough intoxicants to put me out of commission for the duration of the journey. But since neither was possible, I meekly settled for stuffing my ears with cotton.
But, my tryst with music truly began with the arrival of the offspring. In constant quest of new ways to lull her into a soporific state, I quickly discovered that songs from the Golden Era of Hindi Film music did the trick where traditional lullabies from the throat of yours truly had had the effect of the neighbors coming a -calling to find out if someone had done something to the baby. Kishore Kumar, Mohammad Rafi, Hemant Kumar, Manna Dey, Mukesh, Lata Mangeshkar, Asha Bhosle all flitted through my home borne on their lilting voices and making me realize that if silence was golden, their ethereal voices were pure platinum. I even learnt a bit (a very tiny bit) of appreciation for the great classical singers like Pt. Bhimsen Joshi, Pt. Jasraj, Gangubai Hangal, MS Subbulakshmi, Kishori Amonkar and the like.

Now that the offspring has grown, the house on a good day resounds to a lot of different music, ranging from K-Pop, Ariana Grande, Arijit Singh, Shreya Ghoshal and the like. Personally, I don’t like to criticize her choice because I’m sure my choice in music (though somewhat limited and rather dubious) did not sit well with my mother back in the day either. But the venerable ones (read her grand-parents) are hard pressed to understand how apparent noise can pass for music and make no bones in stating their views in rather loud, opinionated and definitely unmusical voices. I am then the one who literally faces the music in my futile attempt to keep the peace.

But music is drowned in the clash of battle when the spouse is at home too, espousing (what else?) his cause for the betterment of music. His brands of music are rather eclectic, ranging far and wide from ABBA and the Beatles on the one hand to Bade Ghulam Ali Khan and Kesarbai Kerkar on the other with everything in between. When he is in a bit of a classical music mood, the offspring is in the mood to wail about “stop whatever music he is trying to play, I’m trying to STUDY”, totally forgetting that she was playing video games only a moment ago. Add the venerable ones and their warbling to this discordant symphony, (for they in the vein of almost all Indian parents just HAVE to side with their beloved son) and the only music you hear is the offspring retreating to her room with an almighty ‘bang’ of her door. Where there is music, there is disharmony, I muse with a sad shake of the head as I listen to the maid busy cutting her own album in the form of clanging utensils.

Where words fail, music speaks is what the wise say, but I have often been in unhappy situations where both words AND music have failed me simultaneously, especially when I am called to comment upon the performance of certain close relatives, whom I cannot afford to offend for it would be akin to disturbing the harmony of the universe! “Oh! My daughter is taking music lessons in middle age and sings so well”, declares a proud father. Well, while the feat is an achievement in itself, my difficulty arises when I am called to comment on her singing prowess which sounds like a cat whose tail has been at the receiving end of a size 10 shoe. But I can’t say this and coward that I am, merrily change my tune in a bid to ingratiate myself with the proud father.

But luckily for me, such disasters are few and far between. I am actually fortunate in the fact that I have a niece who is an award- winning singer par excellence, the offspring who at the end of the day is quite a credible percussion artist, as well as a couple of good friends who can render the most difficult of songs with deceptive ease even in the absence of a background score.

And it is this silver lining which makes me plod on my semi-musical path, facing the music and ignoring the discordant notes in the orchestra allowing music to free my soul from the dungeons of my mind!

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The Festival Of (de)Lights!

Festival of lights and delights!!

Deeeeelightfuuullll! As my phone pings incessantly, I feel a glow within. Perhaps it is long lost family and friends who for once have decided to take the initiative to initiate a flurry of good wishes. I reach for it joyfully but alas and alack! I am being made a part of various strange Whatsapp groups about the admins of which I haven’t the faintest! The glow fades, the joy is gone, my dreams go up in smoke when I find that I am now a befuddled member of an online clothing store, an online jewellery store and an online crockery and cutlery store group, you get the general drift.
The email inbox is already clogged with “GRAND SALE” notifications ranging from Amazon to Armani and Myntra to Miu Miu having somehow managed to sneak from spam to substance. The less said about Facebook, the better. I find it difficult to even read an article in peace without being bombarded by advertisements for things I happened to browse two years ago. And thus, I prepare to celebrate a delightful, digital-age Diwali!
I remember a time not so long ago when the arrival of Diwali was heralded by a sudden plethora of activities ranging from cleaning, cooking and decorating to unabashed merry-making with family and friends from far and near. While we Indians are not in the least bashful when it comes to the fanfare associated with festivals (in fact I would go out on a limb to say that we plan our yearly calendar around them), Diwali is THE universally beloved festival, carrying all on a tide of beauty, novelty, hope and warmth, cutting across caste, creed and continents with ease. I love it to bits for all the positive vibes. The countdown to it is however another story altogether and is enough to make me break out in a cold sweat.

There was a time in my not- so- distant youth when Diwali cleaning meant tying on a bandana, arming yourself with a bucket-mop-broom- floor cleaner (phenyl being the only option, none of this floral- exotica nonsense) combo and marching off to wherever your presence was demanded under the hawk like gaze of my formidable grandmother, unclogging wash basins and the like along the way. Without ever having read about the new-fangled, much touted Feng Shui and applying her own Shastra (instead of Vastu), this canny lady by using commonsense knew that decluttering and unclogging your surroundings meant a catharsis of sorts, a letting go of the old which helped you unclog your mind and heart to welcome new ideas. The sight of me frenetically trying to unclog my inbox would have been richly rewarded with a disdainful shake of the head, an exasperated click of the tongue and a few choice remarks about the fool hardy ways of the younger generation and that “Ghor Kali-Yug” had definitely overtaken the planet with people sitting around muttering to themselves when thousands of chores were still left undone!
Now, as I run around the home like a headless chicken trying to declutter it, while the spouse and the offspring are breathlessly planning new devilments to sneak in more, I desperately miss the dear lady who would have sorted them out with a few trenchant remarks. Finally giving up in exhaustion, I flop next to them on the sofa and decide that the best course of action would be “if you can’t beat them, join them” and begin to unclog my inbox again, handing them a tame victory rather like Virat and his boys bleeding blue against Pakistan and New Zealand every Sunday.
When I get into a long argument with the family about the decorations, I am reminded of the dear lady again. She had a very precise idea about the exact placement of her star shaped paper ‘Akash-Kandeel’, small clay diyas along the walls with her traditional brass lamp occupying place of pride near the front door and a tiny but tasteful rangoli and woe betide anyone who dared interfere. Not for her the ‘mine-is bigger- and -better than yours’ rangoli competitions which we see played out in private and on social media these days! I, on the other hand, with my artistic skills leaving much to be desired seem to spend too much time either arguing or choosing rather than doing any of the actual decorating, which is why I am found in a sorry state on Dhanteras day frantically putting up strings of garlands and the like, like a minor whirlwind, having been spoilt for choice.
But NOTHING can beat the mayhem caused by ‘faral’ (special Diwali munchies) making! Granny hovers in spirit-form at my elbow right from the time of Sharad Poornima (harvest moon) telling me to get a move on with a list of items that I am going to make and buy the necessary ingredients before everyone gets the same bright idea and makes a bee-line for the shops resulting in traffic jams, hour long waits and substandard stuff. But me? I am still trying to play it by ear and vacillating between whether to make karanji or chavda (flour puffs stuffed with a mixture of coconut and sugar), blithely forgetting that both require similar ingredients. When I finally come round from my ‘There’s still time’ stupor, there are precisely four days left for me to get my act, the ingredients and my backside (in that order) in gear and finish making the stuff if I am to have a respectable list of munchies on the menu. And much to my dismay, since most of the list gets an airing only once a year (a diet to stick to for the rest of the year, you see) the recipes to half the stuff have disappeared into thin air from the recesses of my mind! A lot of frenetic calling my mother ensues. Her exasperation at my yearly failure to WRITE DOWN her instructions for once is totally justified, but knowing me well, she fetches a sigh from the soles of her shoes and with the patience of Job, gets down to instructing her irresponsible daughter once again.

Well, the munchies turn moody mid making and decide to fall apart if they are supposed to stick together (as in the case of laddoos) or stick firmly to the bottom of the wok in the manner of a tearful toddler clinging to its mom when they are supposed to stay apart (as in the case of sev). After a few hours of coaxing and cajoling, I am beyond exhausted and decide to get in some ready-made ones, which in hind-sight is what I should have done in the first place! So much for the best laid plans however. With a most unholy and unfestive glee, the friendly neighborhood shop guy tells me that they have run out of everything and wasn’t I aware that I had to place the order a fortnight in advance? Short of tearing my hair in desperation, there is hardly anything left to do, when help arrives in the form of my maid who takes one look at my face and sets to. The munchies are putty in her capable hands and soon the tins though not exactly brimming with the good stuff, have a respectable amount in them to prevent raised eyebrows at leaving the larder bare. I have managed to save face. Prepared at last, I sally forth, bonhomie exuding, clad in good cheer, delighted literally and figuratively at all’s well that ends well.
I am honest enough to admit that while I happen to be something of a perfectionist at the best of times, there is something about this festival which carries this latent trait to new heights. For these few days of the year are a time for loved ones, a time for cleansing the body and the mind of everything dark and depressing and a time for ‘Tamasoma Jyotirgamaya’ to go from the darkness towards the light. Everyday quibbles and quarrels notwithstanding, it a time for healing, patching up and trying to be a better version of our jaded selves. It is a time of peace and contentment and not the commercialized competition that it can rapidly degrade into. Most of us look upon these days as ones which symbolize harmony, warmth and most of all, the appreciation and love of those we call our own. I am sure my Granny agrees.
Once the mind is cleansed of cobwebs (no matter if a couple remain in the house), everything seems right with the world. And on this upbeat note, I send you dear readers my good wishes for this festival of lights and delights!!

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Light

The festival of light approaches 
Setting the world  aglow 
Good wishes,  bounty and cheer
Causing many a soul to grow
The light of these lamps burns quiet
Without the fire of aggression
Hope, peace and plenty for all
Their  only wish and passion
Whether the sparkle of thousands of the  rich
Or a solitary  one in a poor home
These lights brighten the path for all
Bidding all welcome!
May these lights serve their purpose 
Keeping us on the path good and kind
Driving before them darkness and despair 
Cleansing all corners of the mind!
May all seek goodness and direction
In their warmth and brightness  kind
May the plant of peace take root
And Divine blessings  find!
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