Healing Aura

At the outset, let me categorically qualify – this blog is not a spill-over from the “Women’s Day” jubilations. It’s just about how a person (it may be a man or a woman) could be bogged down from all sides and still chooses not to play the victim but makes the most of life.

I have a very good “bus” friend – we working women in India normally have a “train” friend, a “rickshaw-sharing” friend and where company buses ply (even in public buses) – a “bus” friend. Well, like I said before, I have a very good “bus” friend. She is maybe a good 12 to 15 years elder to me, but we still get along like a house on fire. It all rests on the fact that lively, smiling people make you loosen up and set the mood for the day. I like her, because she is unlike me – radiant and smiling always!! And I forgot she is quite “vocal”, giving her opinion like it is, without any misgivings – truth is what you get.

It is just this Monday – 21^st March 2011 to be precise – that we were on our company bus and passing the Teen Hath Naka stop in Thane……..I think I have to attribute an alias to my “bus” friend, otherwise this narration is going to be difficult! Alright, here goes ……….. I am calling her Nimmi. She suddenly spotted another of her “bus” friends - Neha and I happened to remark that she looked elegant and poised in her sarees. Yes, this woman almost always wore sarees and she wore them well! The outfit added to her character and personality – that is what I thought and expressed it too.

I don’t know what it was that prompted Nimmi to share Neha’s circumstances with me. Neha was married, was part of a five-member family - college-going daughter, husband, father-in-law and until recently mother-in-law. Her mother-in-law had been bed-ridden for several years and recently expired. The father-in-law had gone blind following some medical complications. Neha was always a working woman and since years had managed house and career. Every morning she cooked for the entire family and left the house at 7.30 am sharp. At work also, she had a considerably responsible portfolio.

The husband and wife had bought a bigger house two years back. With lot of pride and hope, they moved into the new house with the family. Within days it was obvious to Neha that her blind father-in-law was not in a position to find his way about in the new house. Instead of inconveniencing the old man, she decided to move the entire family back to their old house and rent out the new one. Since the elders in the family are dependent on others due to medical reasons, husband, wife and daughter have very little opportunity to move out for holidays or outings. She does have brothers-in-law who do not want to take the responsibility of their own parents even for a couple of days. Still Neha has looked after them not only as a responsibility, but with love. The same values are instilled in the daughter, who misses her grandmother immensely. Neha enjoys cooking. In addition to her career responsibilities, she take orders for delicacies – not I suppose due to a dearth of money, but because she enjoys it.

After Nimmi narrated the above quite factually, the reason for her to do so occurred to me. Maybe it was to forewarn me lest I jump to conclusions that Neha came from a settled, no-problems background, based on her always elegant and poised persona. It was maybe to halt my thoughts and make me reflect. With strength of purpose and character, elegance followed. People’s aura shone with the strength with which they made life decisions. So the next time you see a face with lot of character, stop and consider that maybe, just maybe life has tested the person time and again!!

It is a red-brick house at the turn of the winding road, which climbs a hillock overlooking the pristine sea-shore on its right. Anyone who stands in its tiny porch in the afternoon will have their eyes blinded by the sun, and the same sun will tease the waves at early evening to send the sparkle to your eyes. A wonderful serenity I feel, whenever I look at it! Its silhouette seems like an embrace welcoming me. It seems to talk to me, I don’t know what and I don’t know why! What is its fable?

Once upon a time, there lived an old woman in this house. An ever ready smile lit up the otherwise commonplace and dark face. Her village dialect course, but sweet to the ears all at once! This was one of the many houses she had occupied through her living years. This was perhaps the best of the lot, because she lived here for the longest time. And also because her youngest son had given his young years to pull it down and build it again in solid red bricks. How could his wife live in the old ramshackle house, whenever he married?

The old woman wanted to spend the sunset years of her life here, in her rightful house. The house now had all necessary amenities for her to lead a peaceful life at least (though it was a far cry from a five star). How would it be possible? Her husband was no more, all her girls were married with grandkids and her youngest son would have to leave the village to find a job – he had to pay off the loan he had taken to build the house. Even if the house had become habitable, she was old and there was no one to help her with the everyday chores. Against her wishes, she would have to go and stay with her daughter, who had a bustling household, with children and grandchildren. Her great grandchildren – the thought soothed her, she had seen it all and there really was some satisfaction in it.

There was another house, built by her elder son, where she would have loved to stay, but circumstances did not allow her to dream about it. And she did not spell it in words. Life had been difficult, many moves, many fields, many abodes, many falls and many upheavals later she finally spent the last years with one of her daughters and sons alternatively. And finally reached her rightful house, that of God!

Part of the house on the hillock is let out by the old woman’s youngest son. Still, whenever I pass it, it reaches out to me, waiting for someone of its own to come and occupy it, to make it complete. The youngest son is married, works in the city. Will he at least enjoy the fruit of his labor? Will the “Orphan House” beget its members? It is an abode in waiting, standing there like some elder, waiting for the prodigal son to come back.

A good night’s sleep and

The sound of a warm heart

Beating reassuringly nearby

Love and care to impart

A kind hand on the head

An understanding smile

A sympathetic ear

Sitting together awhile

A day spent toiling

A satisfied homecoming

Food then turns tasty

That’s called fine dining

When books serve their use

And the mind profits

When thought is elevated

Enlightenment benefits

When status implies stigma

And respect is offered to all

Others’ joys serve to enthuse

Every one - big or small

The sun then brightens

And the rain soothes

The wind – it caresses

And deeply life breathes!

Joys multiply when given

Smiles work to enrich

And cast their spell asunder

Happiness to bewitch!!

——–Gauri Kanyalkar——-

Let’s just call him that, though he would have loved it, if I put his name down here. I won’t though, as this is a very important and private part of me - he has managed to have a profound impression on the way my personality shaped up, without my ever realizing it. It’s just recently, that my son shook his head and rolled his eyes at his grandfather in that unmistakably “What the hell?” kind of attitude and my memories of my maternal grandfather – VBB were revived. It took me back thirty-three years through all the small settings that made up my childhood and his essence came back with clarity like scenes out of a long-forgotten storybook.

He was a man of average height, with snow-white hair, fair-skinned and handsome with a ready smile. Everyone who met him were sure to be charmed - children and grown-ups alike. He always dressed in a black blazer, white shirt sans tie, trousers and shoes. I remember him always carrying a walking-stick, as far as my memory takes me. He had suffered a stroke of paralysis and needed it while venturing out of the house. How can I forget, he was quiet portly too! Can you not picture him, a happy and endearing old man! Must have been quite the heartbreaker in his young age, I bet.

My sister and I grew up with my maternal grandparents in Girgaon, my parents were both working and stayed in Nallasopara. A stickler for education, my mother was left with no other option, but to ensconce us at Girgaon, due to dearth of good schools in Nallasopara. A greater stickler for education was VBB. I don’t know whether “stickler” is the right word, maybe “enthusiast” is a better word. What else would you call someone, who loved you beyond limits, just because you studied well, independent of your scrapes? Went out of the way to get your list of books on the day your results were declared and the next standard’s syllabus given? Always stood by you, when mom wanted justification for things gone wrong in school? Insisted you study on a full tummy? Went through funny jigs so that you would laugh? Never forgot your parents were what you needed and that grandma and he were poor substitutes?

He completed his schooling from an English-medium school some place in Belgaon, Karnataka. Spoke a smattering of English and Kannada. His English script was artistic and he always signed his name with a flourish. Oh yes, it’s true, I have seen him sign cheques umpteen number of times, when I accompanied him to the bank. He inculcated the habit of saving in me - he worked as a store manager for a small outlet of leather upholsteries. He earned well, managed to bring up six offspring and still saved in his own way. My grand-mom never had to rely on anyone else for her upkeep, when he died. All her expenses were covered by his money till the end, so says my mom.

VBB kept a good house. There was never any want of food at his home - all who came went away on a full stomach. Nobody was sent empty stomach during meal hours. He loved food and feeding people, especially the non-vegetarian variety. Most times he took me by the hand and we walked merrily to the market, talking, chatting and laughing. Result was that I learnt about how to verify the freshness of fish and how to haggle with the fisherwoman. The Grant Road market was huge - we could buy all groceries, fish, vegetables, provisions everything in one place. You could call it a departmental store. Better actually, because you could forge relationships with people, I did. Even when later on VBB could not accompany me to the market due to his health, the specific store owners knew the girl who always accompanied “Sahebji” (that was what they called him, he also spoke a smattering of Gujarati – Parsi style, and many people mistook him for one. Even after coming to know that he was a Maharashtrian by choice, the name stuck). Not once did anyone take me for a ride, even though I was young.

I was fortunate, that I had some one at home, who spoke Queen’s English. I owe the way I converse and write, to a large extent to VBB - poised, disciplined and fluent. None of his children picked up the language from him, he was busy with his work and they were all admitted to Marathi medium schools, though all of them spoke fantastic Gujarati. I think my knack for languages I got from him in inheritance. He was strict – we stayed in a chawl with a common gallery. My sister and I were not allowed to while away our time standing there – girls from good families did not do that. Though there were no restrictions on having friends. They were welcome to come home. There was a curfew by which time we had to be in the house.

He loved children to distraction. Maybe, that was the reason why his sons were spoiled silly and developed an ego the size of a mountain, notwithstanding the intelligence they possessed, lives gone waste in different ways. This taught me one thing, never impress upon children, that there was no one like them. His daughters turned out pretty well, I cannot say otherwise, in case my mother happens to read this write-up! Jokes apart, his less than perfect experiences with his children subconsciously programmed me to value the balance between love and the proverbial “iron hand” – figuratively, so to speak. Not to take away from the way he raised his children in anyway, obviously there is no one best method of raising them, after all they come in all shapes, sizes and temperaments. There is no sure-shot formula for winning there. You first have to be on your best behavior, let them know the right and the wrong in life and keep your fingers crossed.

Keeping oneself updated of the day to day happenings in the world was one more thing he stressed on. Be it through newspapers, television or word of mouth. I used to be a bit backward in this area - nowadays it’s my son, who keeps me abreast of what’s happening. Though the internet has given lightning speed to news and knowledge – how they travel, faster than you can say “Abracadabra”!!

I remember VBB’s last days – close to four years. He was bedridden, did not have the strength to walk out of the house. We all know how irritated and short-tempered sick people can turn. VBB was an exception. He lay there silently, calling out only when an emergency was there or he needed something. Four years in bed is no mean duration. Bedridden did not equate to “losing it”, he understood everything crystal clear. I remember, when I communicated that I had got a job, his eyes danced with joy. He was extremely happy. Granny took care of him for all of those four years – she was herself old and bent!! Now, that’s another story altogether.

It’s the inherent wish of every human being to be respected and treated civilly. Some are just not given the circumstances, which would present them with an opportunity to command respect. And then there are some, who have been given the circumstances and the opportunities, but who even when they are shown respect, do not appreciate its worth. Yes, your question is indeed valid, “How do we know, they don’t appreciate its worth?” It’s simple really, because they don’t return it.

There’s an incident, which comes to my mind. Once I had accompanied my mother to a wedding held in a village in Nerul. My son was also with us. The host was one of my mother’s colleagues from office, with a humble background. The wedding was to be held in the ground in front of his house, like it’s always done in villages. The entire village chips in, helping with the cooking of the wedding dinner and also with other arrangements like the music, flowers and the colorful tents.

We were taken to the tables, where dinner was being served. You had a choice between vegetarian and non-vegetarian food. My son and I both are incorrigible non-vegetarians. The fare was simple. One plain curry, rice and the non-vegetarian dish, no chapattis, and plain water to drink. My son looked from the plate to my face, I smiled at him. We started eating. My son finished his meal in record time and took a second helping as well.

The cuisine was typically local and spicy, but tasty nevertheless. And all through the meal, miraculously our water glasses were never empty. Children my son’s age kept refilling them. There was one particular boy, who had a serious and determined bearing. I thanked him, the third time he refilled my glass. My son, taking my cue thanked him as well. Little did he expect the boy to return back with “You are welcome!”

After the meal was over, my son personally sought out the host and thanked him for a meal he would never ever forget for his entire life, he even went to the extent of saying it was “better than continental cuisine”, though he has never had a continental meal in his life!! When the host suggested cooking the same non-vegetarian dish for his wedding maybe fifteen years hence, he readily agreed!! He admitted to me, “My glass was not without water even for a second mom, I have never been shown so much respect in my whole life!” I had not thought of the ever filled water glasses from this angle, I was touched deeply, and it made me happy and wiser to learn from someone so young.

Irrespective of circumstances, every human being deserves to be respected. And if you give respect and civil treatment to others, you get it in return. A small nine-year old also likes to be respected as the above incident shows. Whether it is a laborer or a manager, all work is equal and people should not be respected or disrespected based on what work they do. It’s just people’s circumstances, which determine what opportunities they get. Given the right circumstances, even your driver could be the esteemed passenger in the back seat.

I met her during the heady days of 1994, when I enrolled for the Grundstufe 1 intensive batch with Max Mueller Bhavan Mumbai to learn German. Actually, it was after I passed on to the next level - Grundstufe 2.

Chanamma was a tall, wheat-complexioned girl, maybe a couple of years older than most of the class. What initially attracted attention to her was the unapologetic regal way she carried herself. She was a girl, who was always in her element and extremely confident even in her inadequacies. Hers was an enigmatic personality. You could easily imagine her entering uncommon situations without batting an eyelid, the kind portrayed in the “James Bond” movies. No they don’t make them like that anymore, no-offence to all the ladies out there!! And there are innumerable life-lessons (though I recognized these as such much later in life) I learnt from her subconsciously in the two years, that we were fellow-students!!

Both of us were poles apart, she appeared to be a young woman of the world and I was a naïve and immature 19 year-old, just out of college. She was attractive, though today when I think of it, I would not call her beautiful, but there was something unmistakably avant-garde about her. I was thin as a rake, with typical tired intelligent eyes and reserved to the extent of obscurity. One thing going for me, though, was my aptitude for languages in general and German in particular. I don’t know how, but Chanamma soon became my constant companion. Maybe it was because we both stayed at the other end of the world on the Western Railway Route, she in Virar and I in Nalla Sopara.

Let me not be far behind in admitting, I did not suffer this companionship in good humor initially. I found nothing common between us, absolutely nothing. I made all sorts of excuses to get rid of her company, not because I did not like her, but because I felt threatened, I don’t know why. At one point of time, I thought of this feeling not as a threat, but as jealousy! When I reconsidered, I discovered I did not want to be like her, or have anything she had. Suffice it to say, to some extent our wavelengths didn’t match. She had this quality of a being a character right out of a thriller, melodramatic and larger than life, though she never portrayed it in her behavior to others. It was not how she conducted herself it was she “the person”!

It seemed she had adopted me, taken me under her wing so to say, a helpless creature needing guidance in the ways of life. She dragged me to theatres with the entire group. We studied our conjugations together, playacted our group discussions and labored over our Aufsaetze (compositions). Whenever I refused to be part of some activity she was keen on, invariably would I hear myself named “Nerd” in English and “Dummkopf” (stupid) in German!!

She hated the name Chanamma and insisted - nay demanded people call her Anju. To do justice to her, the name did not suit her at all. The name has an old-world charm, which could not be attributable to her, though her liking for gold jewellery likened very much to the jewellery bedecked statues of Indian goddesses.

Some incidences of this two-year long “Friendship” (am I allowed to call it that?) still come back to remind me of her and the lessons learnt. I remember, during the Grundstufe 3 classes, once we were gathered in the breakout area of Max Mueller Bhavan. It was early and there was some time for the class to begin. I was wearing a sweater in cream and ash, one of the guys complimented me on it, do you know what I turned around and did? I told him I had bought it from a roadside stall. The talking to I received from Chanamma, how could I be so immature, it was not good etiquette, being a girl I did not know how to accept compliments gracefully with a thank you and so on and so forth!! I promise, never ever have I committed this faux pas again, especially with guys (its fine to blush though).

Then there was this episode, when she turned up suddenly and unannounced at my house (we had still not heard of mobiles being used by middle class folks like us)! It was raining cats and dogs, a 26/7 kind of day, circumstances 100% conducive to all life coming to a standstill in Mumbai and suburbs, especially the railway. This madam wanted me to dress up and go out with her for an English movie all the way to Victoria Terminus (we had also not heard of multiplexes then). And I was shocked to witness my parents being taken in by her sweet tongue - they actually pushed me out the house. We got wet, we watched the movie (shivering away to glory in the theatre), we were blissfully at peace and without a haranguing crowd surrounding us – not in the trains and yes not in the theatre as well. Bohemian experience to say the least! And no, we did not eat hot corn, actually I don’t remember what we ate, I also don’t remember the name of the movie. But sure as hell, I remember that day and the pleasure in small things of life and doing things spontaneously – absolutely unplanned.

Another experience I always reminiscence, is the day she forced me to board a Virar fast train at Andheri station in the peak hours of evening. My God, the journey left me scared, the way we pushed into the ladies compartment, Chanamma had to literally pull me inside the compartment, right through the milling throng of people gathered to get off at the next station. My thin frame could not take the pressure of such a lot of people! I was used to travelling by train, but not from stations in-between the route, I stuck to good old stations at extremes, where I could get in and off easily. Lesson learnt, to survive in Mumbai (anywhere for that matter), you had to be strong physically and mentally.

I don’t know why I always had this feeling, that she was an accident waiting to happen. She got married – yes you guessed it – to a jeweler, who wooed her with diamonds and delivered a splitting image baby girl all in the course of one and half years!! Life was on a roll for her, it was as if, she was running out of time. Doggedness was Chanamma personified, if you wanted her to do something, tell her not to do it, and it would invariably get done. She loved travelling by crowded trains, and that’s exactly what she did, six months after her delivery. She never did reach her destination. The accident finally happened, the train was so crowded, she was pushed out and was seriously injured. She went into a comma and never came out of it. Her daughter must be about 16 now, a chip of the old block perhaps?

Geeta still remembered the longing look on Bhargav, her husband’s face, whenever someone in the complex got a new car or changed an old one - some of them maybe twice in six months. It was always an unsolved riddle to him, how people managed it.

Come to think of it, both of them earned quite well, though not in six figures between them every month. They had an only son. Not a very socially active family, eating out, entertaining maybe only three to four times a year, movies – say three per year at the nearest Cinemax!! They had a joint family with in-laws and two brother-in-laws, who were their greatest support system.

Still they found it difficult to indulge in the luxuries of modern life. Only luxury Geeta allowed herself was giving Yug the best of education and relaxation, making it a point to save regularly. Whether the savings would see Yug through college and higher studies was a question she did not want to contemplate. Ten years hence would be another ball game altogether and they really did not think too much about it, only ensured that Yug would be well-provided. She did not want Yug to go through the ordeal of taking an education loan and worry about paying it off for the first few working years of his life.

Both of them had had good childhoods, but luxury did not have the modern day definition in their dictionary of life then. A ride in the taxi back home, when they were tired at the end of a day out was their idea of heaven. A skipped dinner at home and a stolen snack in the Udipi restaurant five minutes away from their residence was the taste of “dining out” for them. For Bhargav, spending the vacation at his aunt’s place and riding his cousin’s bicycle was the once-a-year treat he always looked forward to.

She was standing in the terrace of her home, awaiting Bhargav’s return from National Garage. He was to take the delivery of his car today. Every minute was excruciatingly long – never in her life had she felt so much on tenterhooks – not even on her wedding day!! She was longing to see his face and feel the pride in his smile, when he handed over the extra set of keys in her hand. It was raining in torrents today. Bhargav’s frowning face came to her mind, his unspoken fight with showers everyday while travelling to work. His drenched and tired frame, adorning the door every rainy evening!!

There he was, in the misty blue new car of his!! Yug was already out of the door and like a flash into the front seat, not minding the rain. Bhargav stepped out and raised his face to hers, wet once again in the torrent of rain, still it was hard for her to miss his tears!!

When you appeared before me

A spiritual bond I could perceive

There was no reason to extend

Friendship forever and my hand

But your aura, it compelled

Made me step up and herald

A Friendship so clean, innocent

And a presence so very pleasant

Though so young, you taught

The calm I so eagerly sought

In your company, I felt blessed

Frustrations often laid to rest

Distance and time now separate

Me from my good friend and mate

No matter, we will be together

Not in person, but when visions gather

So many different lives touch me

So many different ties bind me

Some of them in iron shackles

And some in ethereal manacles

Its past two decades now

We said our goodbyes

Young girls riding a wave

Expecting to reach new highs

The learning still continues

Albeit n the School of Life

No more warnings or detentions

Lessons are eternal strife

This ode is to thank you

For giving us knowledge and values

For making us all so strong

And equipped to voice our views

Oh how we would like to snatch

Moments spent comprehending

We have just about realized

Learning is never-ending

Wenn mancher Mann wuesste,

was mancher Mann waer,

gaeb mancher Mann manchem Mann

manchmal mehr Ehr!!

Translated from German, the above toungue-twister reads

“If the arrogant and daft Man only knew,

That his Fellow-man would conquer all he saw,

He would sometimes consider counting him in the few,

He held in respect and downright awe!”

I do not profess to have translated this sentence word to word, but I have surely tried to put across the meaning. I came across this tongue-twister few days back, was taken up by it, not only because of the fantastic play on the letter “M”, but also the depth of meaning it contained. It started a chain of thoughts in my mind.

Many a times, we come across people, some you take to immediately, others rub your ego the wrong way and even the sight of the person is irritating to you (without any reason, you just do not like the body language). Must depend on the way we are raised or more significantly how we have trained our minds to think, analyze, empathize – in short our reaction to people. In most of our intuitions about people, we may be right to some extent. There are some exceptions though, your perceptions about some people could be way off the mark. What do you do, how do you read people?

15.03.2010

DEEP MUSINGS

It was Saturday, and Geeta looked forward to taking her son Yug to his new once-a-month singing workshop. It would be nice to catch up with Sunaina’s father. The man was so down-to-earth and such a great family man. She did not always have this opinion of him. On first sight, he appeared to be a person, who bragged about his daughter – a genius in her own right, dressed without a care for the impression he created, seemed to know everything under the sun. However, as the monthly workshops progressed, his views about life in general left Geeta pleasantly surprised. A highly qualified IT professional, at a to-die-for post in a reputed company, he was very intelligent, extremely helpful, a fantastic mentor (no wonder Sunaina was such a confident girl and did everything so well), all this was vouched for by colleagues working with him. He still had camaraderie with his ex-subordinates and ex-colleagues, they could approach him for advice and help whenever needed. All this profusely commended and confirmed on professional networking sites!! He was not rich, only because he earned mega-bucks, but more so because he had earned mega-respect as a professional and as a friend, mentor, father and a fine human being.

Geeta’s mobile rang, she picked it up. It was her boss Pramodini, calling to tell her she had mailed her “Abraham Lincoln’s Letter to His Son’s Teacher”. Once again, she basked in the sunshine of the aura of people, who were not merely great due to their education, qualifications, profession or the success they had achieved, but who still held on to their roots, giving them new strength of modern knowledge, uprooting the weeds of useless ways of life, retaining the higher elevation of their intrinsic culture and religious values, their aura brightened by simple living and high thinking!! How many bosses had the time to notice, that their team member was depressed, how many of them could make out she had not slept for nights together? How many sat down and suggested a solution? How many of them believed, that deadline of a week was enough to get the work done (albeit, not through late sitting) and converted it into confidence, which actually did get the work done? I am sure very few. Many of them would start with “Oh no, only seven days, let’s not do it!!” Geeta had come to believe in “Let’s do it, we will finish it. If not, we will learn!” The moment one definitely commits oneself, divine Providence moves too. A few days with such inwardly and worldly mobile company can make you so fulfilled and happy.

Flashback to the mere interactions with some high flown professionals, boasting, belittling, flush with their own importance, negating everything human relationship advocates, rich, but never rich enough, never taking the extra step to meet someone half-way. As a result, they were always dissatisfied with the success they achieved (they did not enjoy it), never enjoying the wealth of human gestures, nor experiencing the joy of helping others. Geeta, like Arjun was by Sri Krishna, was pulled back to the present, Yug’s surreal rendition of Raag Asavari falling on her ears, her prayers imploring God to impart good sense to her son!