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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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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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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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Food for Thought

FOOD! We LOVE to live to eat and not the other way round

“Think of the Lord before you start to eat. Food is the complete nurturer, Brahman itself. The act of eating is as holy as performing a Yagnya!”
My grandmother assiduously reminded my cousins and me about this important couplet whenever we were about to dig into the piping hot delicacies prepared for special occasions. The one which specially stands out in my memory is my cousins’ ‘Upanayana’ or thread ceremony, because we had been up since the crack of dawn with not much by way of food, thanks to what were ‘millions of rituals’ to our puny minds. We were thus the proverbial starving little mouths and wanted nothing more than to dig into fooooood…..any foooood!

While there is nothing better than a healthy bit of going without food to appreciate it, the world definitely abounds in people who are as finicky, fastidious and fussy as two -year-olds when it comes to food, even though they may be perfectly sane and reasonable at all other times. In a country like India, blessed as it is with a rich diversity of the palate, it is pretty commonplace to see and hear people worrying about what the lunch menu is even before they commence breakfast, and about the dinner menu before the dirty dishes from lunch are cleared away. All our special occasions, right from the time we are born to the time we bid an adieu to the world center around specific types of what else? FOOD! We LOVE to live to eat and not the other way round.

“My little prince only eats the rice and curry I make! (Why is it always prince and not princess I wonder?) He only wants the specific tempering which I have honed to perfection!” declared many a proud Mamma of yore, as if her little bundle of trouble had calculated the exact value of Pi, written the sequel to the Iliad and Odyssey and discovered the answer to the space-time conundrum all within the space of an hour. And this is where the seeds of fussiness over food were not only sown but also well irrigated and fertilized so that the ‘Picky Eater Tree’ not only sprouted but waxed tall and strong to cast its long shadow over all and sundry. For the little boy now basking in the glow of his mother’s approval, being fussy had just proved to be extremely rewarding. These reinforced beliefs did not take very long to turn into traits and habits. What Mamma failed to realize is that she wouldn’t be around to make tempering all the time and fussiness was going to cost not just her little prince, but also the people whose onerous task it was to appease him with delicacy after delicacy in the later stages of life, while she was limited to only watching his antics from the relative safety of the heavenly clouds. And thus, households rang with the stentorian voices of many an authoritative mother-in-law addressing the daughter-in-law “Don’t you know that your Papaji does not eat this unless prepared in this way?”

Women of my generation have thankfully long since shed such notions of culinary invincibility and tried our best to raise children (princes and princesses) who while being connoisseurs while it comes to the good life and good food are not fuss-pots and will happily appreciate what the auntie-next-door cooks in addition to what Mamma makes! However, whether we can claim resounding success in this endeavor remains to be seen. Put the clock back by just twenty years or so and the world suddenly abounds with people who will eat only a specific type of food cooked in a specific way. As I have already mentioned in one of my earlier screeds, there are quite a few middle-aged gentlemen and silver haired eminences at large, who cannot tell the difference between toor and chana dal except when they are eating them!

Now that my family is flourishing, so is the picky eater tree. I have had to pick a lot of fruit off this strange flora which has sprung unbidden in my back-yard. In an idyllic time long ago, I used to dream of food, delicious dreams which left me drooling. Marveling at the succulent dishes which my mom’s kitchen turned out with unerring regularity. Though not very interested in many things culinary, (in my more wayward moments I’d dreamt of a chef for a spouse) I was quite willing to learn, knowing that I would have to tend to one of the most basic of human needs, sooner rather than later.

But now that I helm the kitchen, the dreams have developed a mind of their own, rather in the way of a wayward teen and morphed into nightmares. I find myself waking up drenched in a cold sweat, already sniffing the air for the smell of burning food, which I could have sworn I left on the stove just a moment ago. As far planning the daily menu goes, I am sure Ms. Nirmala Sitharaman our esteemed or reviled (depends on how you look at it) finance minister will agree that planning the annual Indian budget is child’s play compared to the shenanigans which are part of this arduous task. I think the secret behind the snow- white hair she now sports, is having to plan the menu and cook food according to her mother-in -law’s exacting tastes!

Closer to home, I battle on bravely. On a typical day, the offspring refuses to eat what the venerable ones (read parents-in-law) want for breakfast. The spouse in the meantime is in a hurry and wants food produced out of thin air at the drop of a hat, barring which he will depart with a shake of his head which manages to convey sorrow at having to make off on an empty stomach and disdain at my incompetence in producing the required sustenance out of said air, in equal measure, an art which he has perfected by constant practice in the space of two decades. Short of meeting Molly Weasley pronto and taking a couple of comprehensive lessons from her on the art of quick food conjuring, I don’t think I can do much about it. I have instead developed a hide a rhino would be proud of and continue to ignore his lugubrious looks, deciding that he can survive off body fat for a fortnight if he so chooses. Come lunch time, and the drama has slightly increased in intensity, thanks to the fact that the offspring is now terribly hungry, thanks to three rigorous hours of online schooling. A look at the various types of vegetables, mainly beans, leafy greens, eggplant et al on offer and her face grows darker than the proverbial ‘Neelameghashyam’ cloud. Meanwhile, a mere sighting of cauliflower, cabbage or spinach draws a deep frown of disapproval from the venerable-in-chief.

Mushrooms, cheese, pasta (home made with lots and lots of vegetables to assuage guilt) and fried rice is the fare which the offspring seeks, while the looks of horror that these newfangled foods draw from the venerable ones make me wonder if I somehow managed to pull a China and buy unspeakable stuff from the wet market of Wuhan. I no longer have the energy to contend with overly dramatic scenes for teatime and dinner and give everyone the ‘take it or leave it’ short shrift. The running about which all this gathering and cooking has involved in the meantime manages to put me off food altogether, but much to my chagrin this great sacrifice on my part seems to have no effect whatsoever on my ever expanding golden middle. And so, the saga of the Great Indian Kitchen continues, churning out different delicacies to suit every palate, despite several New Year and Birthday resolutions on the part of yours truly to put my foot down on the food (only figuratively, not literally) and to leave it in the capable and capacious hands of a cook which regularly come to naught, thanks to a conspiracy from a higher power!

While I still stick to my stand that we are trying to raise a newer generation who is unbiased as far as different tastes go, the advent of Swiggy and Zomato, those life lines of undomestic goddesses, have managed to supplant grumbling about food by providing one with the option of doing away with the day’s menu altogether if it does not suit one’s tastes. And thus, the prince’s life comes full circle. If you don’t like the tempering which your better half made as it does not taste just like Mamma’s, there’s no need to get shirty. Just call the friendly neighborhood delivery guy who will restore your temper in a jiffy.

And so, I say to all the nitpickers who abound, especially now that the festival season is round the corner, that you will do well to remember that whether or not you are capable of putting cooked food on the table, the right to criticize another’s offering a`la Michelin tasters is certainly forfeit, much in the same way you wouldn’t want them to criticize say for example, your driving or accounting or cleaning skills! And to the kindred souls sailing in the same boat as me, take heart for the food which you put on the table though perhaps far from perfect, definitely offers succor to several souls!

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The Golden Middle

I recently had a birthday and true to my female vanity, I refuse to divulge my age. Suffice to say that I can safely be described as a woman of gracious years, serene and collected. It is a polite way of saying that I am looking down the barrel on the wrong side of forty. I have hit the golden middle!

If current trends in life expectancy are anything to go by, the forties are the new twenties. A time when you come into your own a time to ‘rock’ yourself, the time to rock a cradle hopefully, thankfully long past. A time to ‘reverse age’, whatever that may be. But most importantly a time to finally have some time to yourself, be who you want to be, do what you want to do and perhaps discover that you can safely leave a good bit of unnecessary baggage behind. As far as leaving the unnecessary baggage behind goes, you swiftly discover that it is easier said than done. Mental baggage can be shed no sooner you make up your mind. The physical baggage however is another story altogether, possessed as it is with a mind of its own.

Much to your horror you find that the body has spent many of the intervening years developing new ways of metabolism. It has apparently developed its own hitherto unknown short cuts from the lips straight to the hips. Gone are the days when you could subsist on a diet of sinful sweets and savories with nothing to show for it on the waist-line. Now, the rationing of intake for any upcoming festival season (and believe me, in India we have plenty) requires more planning than the general elections, aided and abetted by complicated diet charts, fit-bits, apps, yoga and Zumba gurus and smoothies so enchantingly ghastly that they will put you off food altogether!

If you are lucky, you still retain the title of ‘Bhabhi’ or ‘Vahini’ from your household help, sundry grocers, vegetable vendors and their ilk, but otherwise it’s a swift descent into ‘Auntie’ or even worse, the ‘Auntieji’ hell. Of course, this has been somewhat mitigated thanks to the now popularly ubiquitous ‘Madam’, which cloaks all ages and sizes under its forgiving wings. But the great deference with which you are now treated manages to raise hackles along the way!

If middle age is the golden middle, why, you wonder sadly is it the age when your hair develops a mind of its own and decides to start turning silver? Oh, the irony! The skin decides to cash in its chips too and begins to develop its fine lines rather like an expert artist who has not yet decided how much of pencil shading to put into a particular picture. You tend to thank your stars that you now need ocular prosthesis (glasses or contacts for the uninitiated) so that the finer nuances of age are left undiscovered! It is a world obsessed with youth you discover much to your horror, when the perfectly sane colleague who was the epitome of chic in elegant silks or handloom cottons at formal dos suddenly shows up in a tight ball-gown making you take in first- hand the sight of mutton dressed as lamb. Looking around, the number of ‘lifts’(no, I refuse to mention all of them) and hair transplants which abound make you realize that while plastic pollution may or may not be the undoing of us, plastic surgery definitely may!

A slight creak in the old bones on lifting something which you would have in a jiffy just a few years ago here, a slightly deranged blood report there, a tendency to walk into a room and wonder what you are doing there in the first place and an occasional feeling of being overwhelmed at the thought of boogeying away at yet another round of social dos are among the first few signs of a body trying to take it nice and slow even if you are desperate to up the ante and give it your all. The mind not only wanders but also boggles on occasion when you find that the one snifter too many (or in case you are teetotal like me) the one pakoda too many does not sit as well with a protesting tummy as it used to in the good old days.

The dear old mind is of course charting its own merry course during this time. It worries, it wanders hither, tither and yon, wants to have its say and strangely enough tries to rebel, much in the style of a wayward teen rather than the calm, cool, collected sophisticate that it is supposed to be. So much better for some unfortunates to suffer from a mid-life crisis, my dears! But, by and large, most of us have been down the “been-there-done-that” path by now. Also, having weathered a few quite a few knocks along life’s path, we tend to acquire a new kind of resilience, which keeps us swimming even when sinking seems the only option.

This golden middle is filled with its own golden challenges which often make people burn their candles at both ends. You tend to spend most of your time walking the family tight-rope between aging parents and their needs on the one hand and rebellious teens who are ready to take on the world and us on the other. Being called on constantly to fix this, that and the other creates paragons of patience of the most ratty of us. Many a time all that you long for is a bit of peace, with small mercies like watching a sun-rise or sun-set, drinking a hot cup of coffee while you catch up on your reading or just chatting with a stranger taking on a whole new meaning. While we miraculously learn not to sweat the small stuff, we tend to notice small miracles everywhere and they are what prevents us from turning into cynics.

Of course, for most of us, the children have grown into ‘adultish’ and scarily parent-like versions of their former selves, no longer cute and cuddly, but not completely detached either. They tend to think of us as people who are not to be trusted to take care of things on their own, especially if technology is involved, who might put their foot in things, or God forbid who might embarrass them with their misplaced sense of dressing or humor, especially with their peers or teachers. It is often with a sense of loss that you see your teen zipping out of the car while it is still running and a couple of hundred meters from the school gates and dash away, keen to put as much distance between themselves and you before you corner a couple of their friends and start talking to them! Wails of “Can’t you dress more appropriately for the Parent Teacher meet?” greet the best dressed of us, leaving us wondering on the wonders of parenting.

It was the Greek philosophers Aristotle and later Plato who advocated the concept of the ‘Golden Middle’. The term itself means finding a state of balance between two extremes so that a common view point is achieved. Unsurprisingly therefore, attaining this fine balance is what middle age seeks in human life. The trials and tribulations notwithstanding, it truly denotes an age when you can be at peace with yourself and look back upon some remarkable achievements even as you set your sights firmly ahead on all that remains to be achieved still.

The greatest fear of the human mind is fear of the unknown and when you find yourself floundering in unchartered waters without the familiar yardstick of youthful strength, it is perfectly fine to be thrown by this unknown. For this is what the golden middle truly is, a time of peace between the uphill battles of youth and the downhill ones of old age. It is the time to accept frailties, fallibility and foibles which are part of our make- up and yet walk on undeterred on the journey of life, to cherish and to accept what we have rather than running after the mirage of what might have been.

And thus, it is time to accept rather than fret over that slightly expanded middle. While age maybe just a number and youth just a state of mind, acceptance and wisdom are the true gifts we can give ourselves so that our entire life becomes golden and not just the middle.

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I Am Mumbai

Tension nahi lene ka. B(h)ai se poochne ka. Kasa kay, bara hay, I am MUM(BAI)!

It certainly is a fascinating city, ‘Amchi Mumbai’ as the locals call it. Its relentless pace, the never- ending race, umpteen possibilities, never-say-die attitude and indomitable spirit make it one of the if not THE most vibrant city in India. Gathering several satellite towns under its capacious wings, it channels a certain restlessness not felt anywhere else. And this is true for most if not all its denizens. Most people here are outdoing each other in trying to achieve something.

One feature which differentiates Mumbai from many of its other contemporaries is the sheer distance which people travel for work. Commuting two or three hours each way each day is par for the course and leaving home at the crack of dawn only to return exhausted long after the lamps have been lit is no big deal as everyone is doing it. With most households having both spouses working and trying to outdo each other (intentionally or unintentionally that remains to be seen) in the hours they keep, and given the familiar milieu of ‘Taaza Ghar ka Khaana, Teen baar Rozana’, someone has to step into the void left by the lady of the house, who in most cases is worked literally off her feet. As Dr. Seuss, the acclaimed children’s author put it so poetically in his popular book, ‘The Cat in the Hat’, “Somebody, somebody has to, you see” but unlike Sally and Me in the book, here most women say, “My Bai and ME!”.

India is unique in many ways, but perhaps one of the most unique features of all is the ease with which we Indians unblushingly delegate most given tasks to several other people. Given the humongous population, labor tends to be far cheaper than in most other countries and thus hiring household help is the norm rather than the exception. One of the largest unorganized sectors of Indian industry is the service industry which is teeming with help of all shapes, sizes, and capabilities performing most tasks from cooking and gardening to child-care and beyond. Even cinema, our popular form of entertainment is largely incomplete without an unfailingly kind ‘Ramu Kaka’ character, the revered help of the household hovering in the background, ready to ease the life of the protagonists in any which way possible.

Small wonder then that most of us hope for just such a character to materialize out of the wood-work and waltz into our lives smoothening out all the rough corners which abound at every twist and turn. Well, to burst everyone’s bubble, fiction is best relegated to the annals of films or the pages of a book. But, be of stout heart my friends, Mumbai is not totally without hope for in her name itself is enshrined that mainstay of so many households, enter the uncrowned queen who makes everyone dance to her tune (a drumroll here would be great!) “The BAI of Mumbai”.

You find her scurrying busily on her way, especially in the wee hours, a certain spring in her step, hair neatly combed and tied sensibly into a top-knot. Feet shod in sensible chappals, a capacious bag slung from one shoulder and one hand clutching the purchases which ‘Tai’ (as the lady of the house is referred to) had ordered the previous evening. A certain belligerence is often her hall-mark and woe betide any poor shmuck who even dreams of curbing her authority when it comes to almost all things domestic. She is the ‘Bai or Mavshi’ as household help is referred to in Mumbai.  

Her arrival is marked by the fanfare of the doorbell and few feelings fill the heart with as much pure, unadulterated joy as the arrival of the Bai on time, especially if she has sought two days of leave and has arrived promptly on the third day as planned instead of sending an application of extension via Whatsapp. It means a slightly more elaborate menu, a slightly cleaner house, well laundered clothes and heaving a sigh of relief for finally getting the boss off your back as you will meet a looming deadline successfully. A few Bais successfully morph into real helps or mainstays of sorts, who warn you which supplies are at a low ebb and need supplementation, the better varieties of brooms, mops scrubbers, dishwash soaps et al, having gleaned wisdom from practical experimentation in several houses in the same apartment building and wanting nothing but to pass on the knowledge out of the goodness of their hearts.

Most are possessed of quirks, some adorable, others which feed a feeling of frenzy and some right down dubious, which of course depends on whether the three Fate sisters were feeling benign or particular vicious when you were negotiating terms with your maid-to-be. Of course, trying to make maximum profit with a minimum amount of effort is a human trait not found only in this maximum city, but the world over and hence the wise turn a blind or benign eye on the smaller cutting-of -corners during the course of the Bai’s job, unless and until it results in a complete meltdown of the household chores.

An extra chore or two may be met with a sigh and a long- suffering air on occasion, but keep up the extra overs at your peril or expect an immediate demand for a raise! However, try cleaning out your closet or linen cupboard or the kitchen and the Bai is ever ready to lend a hand, having ear marked the stuff that she has had dibs on long before you unpacked it from its box. By- and-large, however they are an honest lot who would rather not purloin stuff but ask for it upfront, a trait which is endearing and annoying at the same time,

A simple way to get a management degree without actually studying for the hugely difficult entrance exams for management colleges is to successfully manage a small staff of three or four of these household helps, with a driver thrown in for good measure. I doff my hat to Nita Ambani here. A house with 27 floors? Window panes running into the thousands? And a six hundred and counting staff? And there was I, deluded into thinking I had it hard with my meagre staff of two, who happen to be related to each other! I think it is time someone introduced Mrs. Ambani as the Guru of all management Gurus. Methinks her capabilities would have made a much better plot for the film ‘Guru’(pun intended) rather than those of her redoubtable father-in-law.

A tendency to provide unnecessary intelligence (read gossip), down sugary tea by the liter during the course of the job, remind you constantly of the Diwali bonus, never mind if it is only December and a penchant for seeking several days off (directly proportionate to the number of offs the other maid seeks if you have two) can be the hallmark of this person whom you have now come to regard with the awe you reserve for a ‘Bhai’(don), not a Bai! But many -a -time, theirs can be the only sympathetic ear and enthusiastic voice many a harassed homemaker or even a professional can hear over the course of a long, busy day. And trust me, since I have been there and done that, these exotic sub-types of the homo-sapiens must be related to the feline species, for often it is not just a case of you choosing the Bai, but the unmistakable feeling of the Bai choosing you! The Bai network would give the STASI of old serious run for its money with the information about all households and their quirks which circulates on its grape-vine!

The importance of these maids-in-Mumbai was brought home like never before during the lockdown of the past year when most of us had to do without help. It was a time for EVERYONE to cry HELP when they realized the grit required to run a home all by themselves, especially with all members stuck at home and food flying out of the kitchen like it was going out of style tomorrow. Yes, this largely unacknowledged work-force has a major hand in the success of all professionals, irrespective of gender. We all know it, but dare we say it? The answer is clear as crystal, a resounding yes.

Jokes, puns, quirks and foibles apart, you have to admire the sheer resilience of these individuals and salute their never-say-die attitude. Even their belligerence stems from the fact that they have to weather the knocks which life hands out to them on a regular basis. It can be the uncertain tenancy in a slum, a drunkard husband, wayward kids or the queue for clean water at the common municipal tap. But, by and large, they are a tough and driven lot who try bettering their lives without getting on the wrong side of the law. Being an unregulated sector in the service industry also has its pitfalls in the lack of standardized wages, hours of work, paid holidays and job security, made even worse thanks to the pandemic.

All said and done, we owe these domestic tyrants for making our lives more comfortable, especially when there is a large family to cater to. Reliable staff is a boon granted to a lucky few, whether it is a large corporate house or a small household. Perhaps all that is needed is to be a little understanding of their hopes and aspirations (within reason of course!) so that many a wrinkle in daily life is seamlessly smoothened out.

Hence, let us part with the sight of the Bai beetling along on her way to work, where she has the last word in the popular ditty,

“Tension nahi lene ka. B(h)ai se poochne ka. Kasa kay, bara hay, I am MUM(BAI)!”

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Appreciation : An Unappreciated Art?

Recently, I met an old friend who looked a little pensive. After much pressing on my part, she revealed that she had recently been awarded an advanced diploma in creative writing from the Symbiosis University in Pune, with an A+ grading, no less! Not a mean feat if you consider the fact that she was working part-time while being a full-time mother to a three-year old toddler, with no familial support to speak of and domestic help rather thin on the ground. Upon informing her spouse about her new qualification however, she was greeted with a lukewarm response, which put a comprehensive damper on her justified high spirits, leaving her with the baggage of self- doubt and resentment. “All I wanted was someone to appreciate my achievement. I was not looking for a pull-out-all-the -stops kind of party, a few genuine words of appreciation would have sufficed”, she said sadly.
Her story got me thinking. When centuries of study by several scholars have proved that appreciating and being appreciated is a basic human need, right up there with food, clothing and shelter, why do we begrudge it to our fellows, be they colleagues, friends or family? What is it in human nature that makes us not only far quicker to criticize, but to find an unholy glee in it? Do we still carry the atavistic mentality of our hunter-gatherer selves where only the best could win the battle for survival and one hence had to ride rough-shod over all else? And hence, how far have we truly evolved if we cannot appreciate our fellow beings?

WANT AND NEED

Several studies on human behavior have now proved beyond doubt that not just people, but society as a whole, functions much better when individual effort is appreciated. So much so that the art of appreciation now forms an important corner-stone of corporate culture, and is considered to be an important soft-skill. Good leaders may know how to hound a team and get a job done, but great leaders know how to make each member of the team feel appreciated so that everyone revels in the team`s success which instills in them the will to go one better the next time.
It is a common experience across cultures that anyone who is appreciated is calmer, more self-assured and positive towards life than one who is not. Merely saying a simple ‘Thank You’ can make one feel happier. Scientifically, it has been proved that that giving and receiving appreciation results in the release of dopamine and serotonin, the ‘feel good’ chemicals of the brain, leading to the much touted ‘positivity’ which exudes from some people. Not only does appreciation have a positive effect on mental health, it succeeds in boosting the immune system too, resulting in less illness in general and infections in particular.
A person develops a sense of security on being appreciated and is better adapted to stepping out of his or her comfort zone and trying new things, thus broadening horizons. It instills a sense of confidence in people and when it becomes the habit of society as a whole, results in overall progress. Putting it simply, the world becomes a better and a happier place.

WHY NOT ?

In a world which has grown more fast-paced, competitive and perhaps more insular, everyone is in the race to get ahead and be the alpha who leads. This has led to a catch 22 situation where everyone needs to BE appreciated while REFUSING to appreciate another. Criticizing seems so much easier, the momentary popping of someone’s bubble of pleasure lending a misplaced sense of power to the perpetrator.
Adding to this is of course is what can only be described in this case as the curse of social media, where one can safely draw blood through criticism, while safely remaining cloaked in anonymity, lending a whole new meaning to the term ‘cloak-and -dagger game’. For every positive tweet or comment or like, you find an innumerable number of trolls, sprouting like weeds after the monsoons. It will serve us well to remember the truth of the sayeth “blowing out another’s candle will not make yours glow any brighter.
A word of caution to the wise however, it is important to be able to know the difference between true appreciation and sycophancy, so rife in today’s world. Perhaps it is because that the feeling of being truly appreciated irrespective of achievements or status is rather thin on the ground that one easily falls a victim to flattery. It has become a way of life of sorts that every whim and fancy of anyone in a position of power be catered to or beware the consequences, leading to peans where none are necessary.

PARTING SHOT

Life is a rich tapestry of experiences and if undershot with the golden thread of appreciation takes on a richness of hue all its own. Gratitude and appreciation are perhaps the only traits which have been proven to benefit both the giver and the receiver. From the smallest child to the oldest adult, we humans are in constant search for the validation of our existence and being appreciated fills this deep void and gives a new meaning to life. The gesture need not be grandiose, a small “thank you” or “I appreciate what you do” will suffice.
So, remember to find time to water the plants of all your relationships with a trickle of appreciation and watch them bloom like never before.
In the wise words of Voltaire, “Appreciation is a wonderful thing. It makes what is excellent in others belong to us as well” And thus, practicing what I have preached, I would like to thank you, my readers for taking the time out to read this. I truly appreciate it!

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When the Lines Blur

“You can`t do a good job if your job is all you do”

These lines strike a chord with many of us, for this is the truth of modern life, being frenetically busy all the time. The easier life gets with all the technology we have at hand, the more we find ourselves entangled in the world wide web of work, with hardly any time for ourselves at the end of long, busy days which leave us drained and exhausted, not just physically but also mentally.

Do the words of Viru Sahasrabuddhe, the hard- taskmaster director in the cult hit 3 Idiots, “Life is a race. If you don’t run fast, you will be like a broken anda” hold more truth than we care to acknowledge? Perhaps yes.  When you want everything, you have to work that much harder to get it and this is where the all-consuming beast that is workaholism raises its ugly head.  The high that comes with better outcomes at work are no less addictive than any drug, and though initially we out of necessity consume the drug, we hardly ever know when the drug starts consuming us!

There is indeed an extremely fine line between work being worship and worshipping work which is becoming increasingly blurred, with most people now bearing the brunt of “being available 24-7”.  This commonly used phrase has now come back to haunt those who happened to use it without giving it a second thought.

THE WHYS AND WHEREFORETOS

Work-leisure lines have been gradually blurring with the advent of globalization but the speed and reach of this have increased exponentially in recent times. With rapid technological advances, it has not only become easy to peek into the personal lives of others, but to invade their private space too.

This often takes the form of work- related matters being communicated at all hours and all places, some as mundane as the office and others as unique as a holiday destination. Being totally switched off from technology is becoming increasingly difficult for most of us. It is now the norm to check or send emails right up to the time one goes to bed with quite a large number of people actually waking up in the middle of the night to make sure that they haven’t missed the latest communique.

We have talked the hind legs off donkeys and written reams about the sanctity of the family dinner hour and proudly boasted about the rule of “No phones at the table”. Ironically, each of us definitely recalls an incident where there was that ‘extremely urgent’ call from the boss which made us miss our dinner altogether! While this occurs only few and far between for the luckier ones, most of us are slaves to the whims of the powers that be.

If the dinner hour can be sacrificed, small wonder then, that a holiday where one is totally isolated from the world of work is the stuff of dreams. You only have to look at the number of travelers toting laptop bags at any bus or train station or at any airport to know that by and large we are happier when we carry our work with us. Perhaps it keeps us grounded to the reality to which we have to return or perhaps, it just lends a sense of security that we have a job which will pay for the lovely vacation we are taking!

Working from home is yet another culprit, proving that every rose comes with its inbuilt thorn. Yes, we are now saving enormously on commuting time, have the freedom to work from remote locations which are very far afield and of course corporates are making a killing by saving on office space and all the paraphernalia it entails, but it comes at the cost of ‘the end of the working day’. Anyone is expected to available anytime of the day or night. If children as young as twelve and thirteen are no longer spared from the vagaries of school and/or tuition classes at odd hours, it is small wonder then, that adults are seen hunched over their devices, muttering to themselves at all hours of the day and night. The luxury of ‘winding up’ at the office and heading home reveling in the end of the working day is gradually being done away with.

The extreme competition on the employment front and in various jobs is another important reason due to the insecurity it breeds. With ‘here today, gone tomorrow’ being offered by way of job security, one has no option but to step up to the mark and try to make a lasting impression in any way possible, even if it means being the early bird who arrives at the crack of dawn never to leave or go off-call. The shrinking of traditional employment especially in up- and- coming industries like tourism, entertainment and hospitality, and the need to recast oneself in a different model following the new trends in the wake of the pandemic have been a significant contributing factor in this regard.

CONSEQUENCES

When the work culture changes and how, so suddenly and significantly, it is bound to leave debris in its wake. This is what people in all job spectra face today. Stress and lifestyle related issues, either physical or mental, fraying of the social fabric beginning with the family unit and economic issues form merely the tip of this iceberg. Far deeper and more serious consequences like substance abuse, increased rates of suicides, increased tendencies to violence, whether domestic or other wise and an increase in white-collar crime are becoming more the norm than the exception. Not to speak of the inadvertent neglect which hapless dependents often face and are increasingly normalized as collateral damage as the perpetrator is often working to pay for their needs, but doesn’t know when and where to stop.

WORD TO THE WISE

To seek betterment, whether monetarily or in terms of recognition is a human need. But again, as humans we need to exercise the unique power of discretion given to us and consciously differentiate between our needs and wants.  It is up to us to decide whether putting a foot across the line is worth the price which will have to be inevitably paid.

 So, remember that when we see blurred lines, it is time to correct the vision to view the world in all its glory. A befitting reply to the culture of workaholism would be “ Am I a workaholic? Yes, but I also have NO problem taking time for myself”!!

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The Great Indian Inequality

Laying bare the hidden patriarchy in modern society

He is born, she is born. There`s rejoicing in both families. His family distributes pedhas, her`s barfi. Both are loved, cherished, encouraged to spread their wings. Both go to the same school, score similar marks throughout, pass the same entrance exams and join the same professional course. She is selected to pursue residency in a more challenging branch but facing some familial opposition picks a `lighter` branch instead while he continues unhampered. So far, not so rosy.

After some parental pressure, she agrees to join him in holy matrimony and in the blink of an eye or rather in the tightening of a knot, the world as she knew it changes! Now, she wakes up early and makes the breakfast while he lounges with the newspaper (he was late the night before because of an emergency, you see) she gets the tiffins ready while hustling the kid along, whom he drops off to school with a long -suffering air if he has no emergency. While she`s in an important consultation, she fields a call on a PTA session, cancels an overseas conference invitation because it clashes with the kid`s exams, and heads home early cancelling a shopping trip with a friend as she has to get dinner ready. After dinner, she clears the plates and puts on a load of washing before checking the kid`s project. In the meantime, he has come home after having a drink with a colleague and settled at the dinner table where he pulls a face because the vegetables are not to his liking. He then makes himself scarce in the study because he has an important presentation the next day on which his promotion hinges, while she puts the kid to bed and preps for the next day, entirely forgetting to go through the reports which her junior mailed her.

And so it continues, with his rapid progress up the career ladder until she can no longer keep pace and she resigns her job for not being able to undergo institutional quarantine during the Corona pandemic.  `Good riddance`, he says, `I earn enough for both of us anyways. You can now devote more time to home and hearth while I bring in the bacon`. And so ends another chapter in the book of `The Great Indian Inequality`, with her taking the mandatory step back for the wellbeing of her family, rueful about the long hours she spent poring over tomes to ace her exams, biting back the bitter remarks when anyone, from friends to family preen and compliment HER on HIS success and on how she`s the perfect foil to complement him, on how he owes his success to her sacrifices and what an asset she is in caring for his parents, many a time at the cost of her own, wishing that she had not been born into an emancipated family only to marry into a patriarchal orthodox one.

People think that their platitudes will fill the job shaped hole in her heart and the kitchen will replace the void created by her laboratory. And so, a pathologist conducts her own post-mortem. What irony for a country which advocates `Beti Bachao Beti Padhao.`

THE GENESIS

Inequality amongst the sexes is not new to the Indian milieu. While recent historical evidences point to ancient India being more egalitarian, the advent of agrarian society changed all the rules creating shackles for women which they have been struggling against for millenia. While quite a few regions of the country like Meghalaya, Assam, Kerala and a few regions of Karnataka boast a matriarchal society, by and large patriarchy still dominates huge swathes, especially in the hinterlands. Under the guise of protection, women have been systematically alienated from politics, economics, sociology and education. With male bonding coming to the forefront, most rules governing society were made by the male for the male. What is strange is that while we chose to break off genetically from the chimpanzees millions of years ago, we still choose to ape the ape when it comes to our societal structure. The inroads which patriarchy have made into our psyche are so deep that we choose to normalize or ignore them rather than looking them in the face and acknowledging them for the problems that they pose to the physical and mental health of half of the population of the country.

PATRIARCHY IN TODAY`S WORLD

The Indian constitution is revolutionary in the fact that it guarantees  Universal adult franchise, thus eliminating the need for a suffragette movement, but this has not created the equality that it was meant to. Centuries of conditioning have ensured that women are only now emerging into the light of day as far as education, legal rights and economic rights are concerned.

While it is now `Trending on Twitter` to support feminism and female equality, ways and means of hobbling women in the most innocuous of ways still remain hidden in plain sight. It maybe the conditioning in early childhood where most people attending a little girl`s birthday party tend to gift her dolls, miniature kitchen sets or frilly things in pink or that older girls are often admonished for sitting, eating or laughing in what does not conform to ladylike ways in society. Schools, whether pedestrian or elite generally do not have cricket or football teams for girls or if they do, they hardly play the kind of matches that boys play. Any woman who is prone to stick to her opinions and challenges societal norms be they about clothes, food, customs or traditions is viewed as `forward` and not in the right sense.

While more and more women are breaking the glass ceilings to take up challenging careers, they are so few and far between as compared to their male counterparts that they often warrant headlines in dailies as seen in the case of B. Sirisha and V. Bharathi who filed and won a case against the Telangana electricity board to become the first `linemen ` in the country!

Nowhere else in the world is the image of women as the `Magna Maters`, the great nurturers as popular as India! No matter what the lady maybe capable of achieving, if she can`t turn out perfectly round rotis, she is looked at with a prejudiced eye, however slight. They are expected to pick up the slack from the word go when it comes to the `Great Indian Sansar` or family life. And being the natural caregivers that they are, they do bend over backwards to do it all, often taking personal responsibility for circumstances beyond their control ranging from the mundane like a few dishes sitting unwashed in the sink to the extraordinary like a downturn in the family business. Another sad fact which needs to be acknowledged is that most often than not, it is other women who stand to gain in the patriarchal hierarchy who perpetuate these injustices so as to safeguard their own position within the family structure ingratiating themselves with the males rather than bonding with their own ilk by dint of soft sighs and rolling eyes whenever another woman puts a foot wrong. With the want it all trend, women are under more pressure than ever, to manage superhuman tasks, while looking like dewy roses with not a hair out of place at all times.

It is ironic to know that even in emancipated western countries, women are paid less for the same work as their male counterparts, with a recent American study revealing that women were paid only seventy five cents for every dollar earned by the men. The picture is especially grim in countries like India where women work in far more menial tasks at construction sites, as household helps or in sweat shops where they earn less despite working longer hours. Another glaring example is the Indian film industry where the so called `Queens of the Heart` are paid a fraction of what the `Badshahs` receive, for films promoting women empowerment! In many families, women hardly have a right to what they earn, with a male member of the family taking over either the investment or spending of the monies.

….THE ROAD AHEAD

Although a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, we have miles and miles to go before we gain any semblance of equality between the sexes. Yes, laws being enacted and landmark decisions like the recent one by the Supreme Court which ruled that the value of a homemaker`s contribution was the same as her husband`s in his office are definitely that step in the right direction, we still need to gain Herculean proportions to clean out the Augean Stable of inequality which has been festering in our society through the ages. It will be only when women are accorded equal rights from the cradle to the grave in the form of zero female feticides and infanticides and similar funeral rights granted to both bachelors and spinsters that we can proudly call ourselves a truly egalitarian society.

Until then, those of us who face the great Indian inequality on a daily basis can hope that the appeal the brilliant Malyalam movie,` The Great Indian Kitchen` had to our collective conscience is the beginning of our journey of a thousand miles  where we can truly embrace the preamble of our constitution which  guarantees equality, liberty and justice to all its citizens! It is high time that we call out the invisible enemy of inequality for what it is ….a mill stone around the neck which truly needs to be discarded so that Indian women can soar to reach their true altitude.

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