The Blue Expanse

Clouds Floating Across A Blue Sky

When the silvery puffs fly across the blue of your mind,

what makes them darken and heavy, thought and worry lined,

where do they start from and where fore are they bound?

what heat and intensity does make them rise from the ground?

awaiting the strong winds that will carry them to cool terrain,

and shed their load when blue skies and clear minds remain.

The Squirrel Mentality

We have read about squirrels and their hoarding habits pre winter. About how they sort and stack their food, either in one place or in multiple places sorted by the type of food with an indexing mechanism sort of like a Random Access key to a database. 

I have long since considered my parents to be of the same mentality. Having come from poor economic means and having had to work hard to get to a level of economic stability, their appreciation for the extra or free things reminded me of myself as a kid at the candy store on those occasions when I got my wish !

I recently had to open up and clean my parents home after 12 years of being locked up. While the process by itself was cathartic helped by some amazing friends and my brother who lent mind and body support to the task, one of the most memorable parts of the experience was finding out how much of squirrels my beloved parents were. 

Once bitten twice shy - I discovered 16 years of monthly telephone and electricity bills with receipts filed neatly. This was because in the initial days of moving to Chennai there had been trouble with the telephone exchange and the electricity line man on account of payments not being registered. Similarly with 40 years of LIC premium payments neatly filed with each policy. It made me remember the two times my dad got frustrated with my accumulating papers and not filing them - once in Madurai and once in Bangalore - and taking it up on himself to file each paper and index the files. I lovingly cherish the files with his handwriting (infinitely neater than mine) even now. 

Everything will come of use .... sometime in life - this was an universal truth with them. Leading to boxes of rubber bands, boxes of buttons and safety pins, piles of shopping bags from years of shopping when bags were free of charge, pens from every hotel that they ever went to. The list is endless. As I sorted these out and wondered what to do with them, I realized that my own shirt was hanging on a hook back in my apartment in Bangalore for want of a button. Even stuff that they didn't find a use for, was stored in the attic or in a trunk. I remembered my parents going to the temple each week and getting the vibhuti in a date calendar sheet that my father used to carry with him to the temple.

Items are actually free and of huge use - There were packets of the small bars of soap from travel, creams, a bag full of combs which came free with a hair oil that my mother used, two shelves full of duffel bags which came as a freebee with some investments my father used to make, every single note pad and diary that they got. I remember being given the free comb a few times, free duffel bags when I had to carry somethings extra from home. My parents had a magicians hat from which they produced almost anything at will. And as I sorted through the empty house full of things, I realized how they had accumulated all these in anticipation of just those occasions.

Memories are stored in objects - In today's day and age, when we have easy retrieval mechanisms for any thing we want to remember leading us to debate on whether the education system should test memory any more or application, how does one store memories ? What did one do when Google Photos wasn't around to remind you what happened on this day in that year with a nice collage and background music ? You stored objects that triggered memories. Photos were treasured. Albums were taken out and reviewed leisurely. And objects too - kindergarten school boxes of my brother and I, my mother's first blood pressure measuring device and her first stethoscope, my grand mother's spectacles, each and every one of our report cards from school, every letter I ever wrote home from college or after, the grand father clock that my parents got at their wedding. The list is endless. To the point where the house was 80% objects and memories and 20% living space. Even my first briefcase - broken and battered.

Everything needed a back up - we do not often pause to think what we would do in case something didn't work. Well, my parents did. And so there was the flashlight near the bed, the flashlight near the television table in the hall, the large emergency lamp that was always kept fully charged in my father's table. Who thinks of back up bedspreads, pillows, buckets, vessels - there were extra of everything. Just for a rainy day. And maybe a back up for a back up as well. Like the four pairs of nylon backing for the easy chairs which still had the original backing intact.

Home was a family event - I have heard of the old archetype of men being these non home body types. My father was the antethesis of this archetype. I have seen him making dinner for us if my mother was late from hospital. And helping cut vegetables and filling water etc. He was the perfect half to my mother. Helping her in everything for as long as he could before Parkinson's got the better of him. Washing dishes was no big deal as was getting the milk each morning and setting out the coupons each night. 

Technology was to be respected - whether it was the new cassette player that my brother got them or the laptop on which they made Skype calls to us or the television itself. Everything was kept properly with covers, bases and put away when not used. Who puts away a laptop properly and covers it each day ? Or wipes down a cassette player or television and cleans it each weekend ? Or treated the new vaccum cleaner like a life saver. My parents were unbelievably proud of each such new technology that they acquired and used. I can still remember their reaction to the Roomba at my brothers place and the CD player I got home. Even the mobile phone they used. There was a healthy respect for anything technology. My mother's first such brush with an advanced technology was a much celebrated affair when she went for an ultrasound machine training when I was a kid. We talked about it for a week. And so I discovered everything neatly packed and covered and in pristine condition at home. 

Records must be kept - I discovered years of daily book keeping of expenses. And read about how 1 kg of rice in Raipur was Rs 5 whereas the pujari who came for a puja home had to be paid Rs 2 + Rs 1 for the rickshaw charge. Like this there were diaries after diaries of expense records. Which finally came to an end as my father discovered that he couldn't write with his Parkinson's. I saw the game attempts he made to still write down the gas cylinder charges and the milk coupon and the shopping expense at the Spencer's Store (a whopping Rs 346 for a week as compared to Rs 12.25 - including the 25 paise - way back). I felt like a study of inflation could be made using these records. And then of course were the bank passbooks. Every single passbook from 50 years or so of earning was there. Even when I operated their account digitally and sent them quarterly statement print outs from the net banking account, the religious trip once a quarter to the bank to update the passbook was a must. 

Learning is a blessing - after having struggled their way through education and college, they had a healthy respect for education. Every single book, every report card, every letter of recommendation, every training attended and certificate received was stored in the steel almirah locker. Every academic book of us brothers was stored in the book shelf that had its own story to tell. My mother's pristine set of medical books was donated to a college which gave her a letter of receipt and thanks which also went into the locker. And did I mention the photocopies of each such certificate and record ? In triplicate or more some times. 

Everything must be accounted for and divided - there was a clear earmarking of what was for my brother and what was for me. I am sure they would have been heart broken that we never took those things from them and a majority of them were never used. This behavior had very early roots. My mother being a gynaec would often get chocolates after a successful delivery of a baby. And she would ask the father of the baby for two otherwise she wouldn't be able to accept the toffee - one for each of her boys. 

As I stood amongst the sofa that I had jumped on as a two year old and torn which remained intact till date, the television which was 20 years old, the almirahs which were bought on the occasion of my parents wedding, the trunks made of mango wood from a tree that had been cut down at home (can't waste the wood can we ?), 

Now which variety of squirrel do I classify my parents to be ? Chunky hoarders or scatter hoarders ? I only know that as I stood amidst all the things they had accumulated and decided to give it all away for people to use and requested for their blessing, that in the day and age of "circular" and "slow" when we search for bags to take to the store, many of our habits are changing to these. And when I looked at my attic and saw my son's pram and his early toys, I realised that there was still a lot of my parents in me. And suddenly I was proud.

Post Vaccine Musings On a Rainy Saturday Evening

As the rain drops fall on the puddles of my lazing mind,

their ripples testing the boundaries that crumble and cave in,

thoughts meander like the rivulets that seem to unwind,

searching and seeking asylum, a cave where no one's been.

The shadows chasing away the feeble light the lamps reflect,

an inky darkness that seems to absorb any attempt at casting clarity,

as the mind wanders on the border where sleep and waking intersect,

capturing each stray thought in the placid pool for posterity.

What is Courage Anyway?

You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore.” ― William Faulkner

You might be wondering how a set of pictures of a pigeon would qualify to explain this elusive quality of courage. But the fact is that I was returning from a 25^th year reunion of my college with a friend in November last year and we were in the lounge at the Delhi airport, having sated the hunger pangs and settling down to wait for our respective flights when we caught sight of the pigeon. He had been under one of the lounge seats and just popped out startling us. There were enough crumbs of food scattered on the floor for him to forage while darting between seated people’s legs and dodging walkers down the aisle. Few people paid him any attention at all.

But we were captivated. Starting off with the hypotheses that the lone pigeon was injured and therefore couldn’t fly and then reinforcing it by the fact that the pigeon was only hopping around and not trying to fly even when a passer-by suddenly startled him, we were quite convinced that while other pigeons would dart into the lounge for food when there were no people there, this little pigeon was forced to hide under the seats as he couldn’t make an escape. That is, until the pigeon completed its foraging trip and took to sudden glorious flight, at first low above the heads of the people and then darting higher up to the ceiling until it exited the lounge through a sky light that was ajar.

I have thought about that occasion several times after that and wondered what would have prompted the pigeon to behave in this fashion. While Faulkner’s words are clearly pointing out that we must have the guts and gumption to swim for the far shore even when you lose sight of the near one, I wonder, if in all cases, we do realise that the far shore is that far? If we did not know the distance and still decided to swim for it, would it count as courage? Would it be counted only when we reach a point of no return when we must take a decision on swimming forward or returning to the near shore? Or would it be counted when you have reached the end of your limit and are still forced to go on?

Take for instance a baby that sees a candle and is entranced by the dancing flame and tries to catch it. We try and tell the baby that the flame would be hot and that it would hurt. We don’t call the baby brave and praise its courage. At what point of time in the baby’s journey of life does he stop being innocent and curiously naïve and move to becoming stupid or ignorant? Exactly at that point when we believe that the baby should have the knowledge of the fact that the flame is hot and therefore should not touch it. What of the school boy who dares to put his hand into a flame anyway? Is that bravery or bravado?

Is courage a quality that stems from clearly weighing all consequences and still taking the plunge or does it come from not knowing the consequences at all? Is there a difference between the two, because, when you weigh the consequences, there is still that element of belief or probability that makes one think that one can do it? Would that belief still exist if the outcome was a certainty and not a possibility? Is courage the ability to challenge the odds or is it the ability to stare in the face of certainty and still walk into the dark forest with nothing in your hand?

Can one distinguish between the courage of a tight rope walker who will walk on a thin rope between two skyscrapers and the courage of a child entering a pitch-dark room when the power is gone? Both instances require one to put aside a natural fear and brave it into a situation where there is a probability of some amount of danger. One could say that there is a choice that sometimes defines the courage that is required to deal with a situation.

One has read about heroes and heroines in battle whose glory has been sung time and again. They had a choice; but decided that the alternative is simply unacceptable and therefore, the only path left is the one that needs courage to walk it. What of those cases where there is no choice at all and the person must walk the path knowing full well that the most probably outcome is negative. And to choose that path knowing the consequences, that must then be the definition of courage that we are most comfortable with, like the swimmer who has reached the end of his strength and still chooses to go on rather than call out to the support boat that is following him

And so, in the case of the pigeon, it is most likely that while its peers were more cautious and approached the lounge only when people were sparse or absent, this one was much more confident, either of the fact that the people there would not hurt him or that he would be able to escape any attempt to catch him. Therefore, the pigeon knew of the choices and the possible consequences and chose to believe in his own ability to deal with them. That, at the end of the day, is the courage that we all praise and look up to.

Atlas Groans ...

One of the everlasting pictures that I have is of Atlas holding up the world. Mythology tells us that he was cursed by Zeus after he led the Titans against the Gods. And he is believed to be still standing there holding up the world at the western end where the Atlantic Ocean is named after him.

Are each of us also cursed to carry our own loads? I believe we are. We carry the weight of expectations on our shoulders and these expectations keep building over time to become loads that break people down and drive them to despair. Having watched my own interaction with my son, I realise often that I am trying to live my life through him and therefore load him with my expectations of what he should and should not do. I find myself doing this in both subtle and not so subtle ways. Like the time I wanted him to continue in a music class even though he was finding it tough to balance his increasing load of academics and also his desire to play cricket.

At first it was the subtle means where I told him that he was fortunate enough to have the choices that I did not and that he was too young to know the importance of a well-rounded profile. And that I expect (please notice that the word actually made an appearance in the conversation) him to get good at all things he does. And then there was the not so subtle showdown where I nearly lost my shirt at him throwing more burdens for him to bear like the money I spent on the class, the need for us to decide what was right for him and how he needed to “prioritise” things in life.

After one such episode, I realised in a cold rush what I was doing and had a quiet talk with him asking him to follow his heart and find his passion and chase it. It didn’t matter what I wanted or what I had to do to make that happen for him. I still find myself pushing him on his academic performance and I am still rationalising that in the name of making sure that he has to focus on studies.

Each of us has a whole load of expectations of people around us and this is complicated by the fact that every one of these people have an equal if not even bigger expectation of us. Familial expectations, expectations of friends, those of colleagues at work, the list is endless. And each of these force us into our routines and schedules and almost control our lives to the point where I am sure some of us feel that we are not living our lives but are living for the sake of completing other’s lives. At what point is one of these going to become the last straw on the proverbial camel’s back?

And on the other end is the disappointment, no scratch that, almost betrayal, that comes when someone else fails us. Everything becomes personal when that happens. Even our own expectations of what God can and will do for us. The convenient believer that I am, I always find myself searching for God and making requests of him when I am stuck at a dead end. And I have myself cursed and shunned him when he failed me, down to the point of ignoring him for a whole period when my dad passed after a period of lengthy suffering.

Our religious texts have always over-emphasised the importance of letting go of expectations and desires. Solutions prescribed in the Bhagavad Gita were to follow a path of unselfish action in pursuit of a goal which was God, Knowledge or one’s work. It is almost as if the seers of yore knew that the word expectation itself was dangerous. They have told us to keep our expectations low since these expectations are based on our limited knowledge. They have told us to hope but not expect. And many such verses that one can read but not follow.

There is a second side to this that stems from self-belief and this is the vein that exhorts us not to expect anything from anyone but believe in what we can do. Believe in the self and don’t depend on anyone else. Dependency is a sign of weakness. I am sure many of us subscribe to similar thoughts in specific aspects of our lives.

While all this has been said and repeated, we carry our expectations around and keep building on them, keep getting disappointed and keep trying again. In the meantime, under the weight of the expectations that the people in the world carry, Atlas groans.

Two Sides to the Coin

Being at that particular stage in life where one is sensitive to signs of one’s age, being called “Uncle” is particularly cruel. And twice in two days by people who are on the wrong side of 25, kind of hammers it in for good.

The woman who called me that today at the hypermarket was carrying her baby, a bright eyed cute and cuddly package that one normally smiles at. And when she asked me for a swap of my trolley, I almost refused. Being a stickler for these kind of things, I usually pull out the trolley, check the wheel alignment and back and then decide to use it. But then, the reason won me over – the trolley that she was using, had a baby seat that didn’t open properly and therefore, she wanted to get one that did. The husband stood behind her, anxious to step in if I refused. And I didn’t have the heart to.

And so I ended up pushing a trolley that had a slight kink in one wheel and a dummy baby seat around the hypermarket. With my son in tow, the job got over pretty fast and about an hour later, we were out of there with him wheeling the cart laden with the weekly supplies and some more odds and ends. A couple of feet more to the gate and I heard a loud crash. The back of the cart had opened up and a bottle of honey, a box of eggs and some vegetables had fallen onto the floor.

There is nothing like an accident like this to sour the mood and the broken eggs and near cracked bottle of honey did its bit to make the afternoon pale around the edges. We gathered the stuff as best as well as we could muttering about how these people should make sure that the carts are properly fixed. The walk turned a little nightmarish as we had brought the stuff in the cart to load as it is without any bags. A couple of times, the back came off and things slid out making our mental condition even worse. Finally, we got the stuff loaded up with no more mishaps and sat down, heaving a sigh of relief. Both of us were complaining about the loss of eggs, the bottle of honey, and the near misses of the yogurt.

And it suddenly occurred to us, that if things hadn’t changed, the baby would have probably been sitting in that ill-fitting baby seat which would have rested on the back of the trolley. God forbid that something would have happened and that bundle of joy had come to some pain. That thought quenched all of us down as quickly as a bucket of water poured on a matchstick. Some stroke of luck had intervened or maybe providence itself, and the lady had seen me with an empty trolley and exchanged hers with me. There is a providence after all. And maybe today was the day when He chose to intervene and rearrange things a little bit.

How many times in our lives do we call on Him to come to our rescue and we all know of the countless times, He does. But do we even realize that there are so many occasions when we don’t even know that there is a threat and He effortlessly manages it for us. Do we thank Him for all those times? Speaking personally for myself, I am a selfish enough believer who calls for help when I need it. And so, these invisible touches would most certainly go unnoticed if it had not been for the baby. Would I even be aware of this providential angle if it had not been for the baby? If the woman had come without the baby and if I had refused, would I have been guilty?

But this afternoon after that, as we sat around discussing it, never were we more aware of the fact that there are always two sides to the things that we see. The side which we see, are familiar with and judge. And then there is the other side, the invisible side, only visible to the other that has suffered it or who knows it. And that it’s not true only for the incidents in our lives but also our words and actions. And in all those circumstances, are we aware of the baby who was saved by the bottle of honey and the box of eggs? What therefore was Heads and what was Tails and who won?

Religion and All That Baloney?

It was a curious episode across two weekends and a random conversation in between that has got me thinking. Both of these involved religious places – the first a temple and the second a choultry right next door.  And the conversation was with my son about his own belief systems. And all three are different facets of the way religion plays in the lives of the young people today. Actually I am not sure that it is a matter of age as much as it is a matter of belief.

The first episode at the temple was at a puja at the temple last week. After having made it early in the morning, I ended up still being late thanks to a family that had gathered there for a prayer, all three and a half generations of it. The granddad was there, old and doddering in his dhoti but still firmly independent. He was holding onto his walking stick like it was a part of him and yet refused anybody’s help to stand or sit. His son was there, dhoti and shirt, doting and ever attentive to any word from his father, taking him around the temple and trying to hold him and walk, even though the old man pushed his hand away each time.  The daughter in law of the old man sat silently in her 9 yard traditional sari while the puja was going on, telling her two daughters aged about 15-18 what to do and when to do it. She had a peaceful authority about her, a calm sort of confidence that made everyone around comfortable in the knowledge that she was taking care of everything and that they could ask her anything if in doubt.

The younger son of the old man was apparently recently married and with his bride, was the reason for the puja on that day. He was slightly uncomfortable in his formal shirt and trousers while his newly married wife was significantly better off in her salwar suit. They sat silently through most of the proceedings. The two daughters were mainly taking care of everything around – running errands, taking care of granddad’s whims or taking orders from the mother. The one noticeable thing about them and the mother was that they seemed to know every single bhajan that was being played in the temple and were singing it alongside. Both the girls were extremely comfortable in the temple environs and knew the right mantras for each god. The temple pujari knew the family and the daughters and addressed them by name. When it came time for the aarti, the chanting grew louder and the pujari smiled his approval at the lilting voices of the two girls rising in prayer. The two girls did everything by the book – down to the direction from which they prostrated before the idol. And were as geeky and technology addicted at the end when they stepped out of the temple and started playing a game on the phone while the dad brought the car around. I couldn’t help but be impressed by the way they were so comfortable with both these ends of their lives but also at the way the boundaries were defined.

Cut to today’s scene at the choultry where there was a similar family with the two sons in their mid-40’s with their wives and kids – all there to pay their respects at the first year anniversary of their father’s passing. The sons were bare chested and wore the traditional dhoti and the wives the traditional 9 yard sari. By contrast there was a grandmother in this case who was authoritarian and amused at the same time. They were waiting for the priest who was a little late in coming, the slightly cold morning causing some discomfort all around. Three kids completed the picture, one girl of about 8 in a pretty frock with spectacles and two boys of about 15-18 in jeans and jackets sporting wristbands with various bits of wisdom sprinkled on them. The boys and the girl soon grew tired of waiting and while the girl was escorted by the women to the temple next door, the boys started playing a game on a phone. About half an hour later, the priest was yet to make his appearance and patience was wearing thin around. The girl had become as restless as children who have nothing to do, are apt to become after five minutes of sitting still or trying to do so while the boys were still engrossed in their game.

The priest showed up about 15 minutes later and the ceremony started with the homam fire being lit and smoke making its presence felt soon after. The family had gone into the room for the prayer while the boys were outside, still on their game. I could hear the little girl complaining that the smoke was making her eyes burn. Her mother quickly told her to shush up but the little girl couldn’t bear the irritation from the smoke and the complaining soon started. The grandmother could be heard telling the girl that the smoke from the fire was considered to be sacred and cleansing, but the sacredness of the smoke didn’t seem to make it any better for the little girl. The boys in the meantime had started on listening to songs with a noise reduction speaker, oblivious to the smoke inside. One of the women soon escorted the girl outside to the fresh air and sat down with her while the prayers went on. Soon afterwards, the boys started taking selfies and comparing their degrees of photogenic-ness. The grandmother came outside for a brief while and tried telling the boys to come inside to offer prayers but gave up soon after and retreated to her spot inside. The selfies and music continued unabated until the prayer ended and then everybody packed up and went home with the two boys not having entered the prayer hall – they could have stayed at home for all the difference it made.

The stark contrast of the two behaviours of the teenagers in the two situations brought back into relief a home truth. My own son is a lover of mythology, a buff who loved to read up on it and knows weird facts that I myself haven’t heard about. But he prefers not to pray to an idol or wear his sacred thread – making it a pointed habit of ignoring repeated instructions on occasion. He does come to temples with me sometimes but does not really pray or participate. However, he exhibits a keen curiosity about rituals and their meaning and sits through them sometimes asking questions. Having been a convenient believer in religion myself, a person who searches for god at my time of need, I find myself puzzling at the differences in interpretation, belief, practice and adoption of religion by the young people of this day and age. From a support structure that used to guide and provide a way to live, has religion come of age in this day of modern science enough to become redundant at best? Is it depicted as a series of rituals and practices that no longer matter? The several mores that we see around us with religion at the core – are they just last vestiges of a society trying to enforce a code that has ceased to become relevant?