Food. For thought? No, just food!

Isn’t it nice when a belief you intuitively hold, sometimes not even aware that you hold it, for it’s a hazy unformed thought at the back of your mind, the need for having articulated it never having arisen earlier, turns out to be one that others hold as well? There is a feeling of acknowledgement and validation, not that it is needed, but which is nice to have anyway. That is one of the most distinct memories of my first Vipassana shivir.
My favourite part of the day in the shivir used to be the discourse in the evening. (And it took only a couple of days, and listening to the discourse one day in English and one day in Hindi, to realise that he was much better and at his humorous best in Hindi.) It was a pleasure to hear that discourse, to hear him explain in simple language using everyday examples, such concepts as love and compassion towards every one and tolerance towards other religions. I often found myself nodding in agreement, and a sense of excitement rose up in me as I realized that what I was listening to were concepts that I had intuitively believed, but had never strung together in words. It’s a wonderful feeling. It gave me goose pimples sometimes, at other times it made me teary eyed, and filled me with gratitude for everything in my life, all the joy and pain, all the people I loved and who loved me, and all the people who didn’t, and everything else that had come together over the years, towards this moment in time, which was as beautiful as it could be.
Does that sound tacky? Maybe it does, but that is how it was.

And it happened again recently, as I chatted with Neel, a dear friend from college days. Neel and Supriti are two beautiful people, and fantastic designers of buildings, furniture, lamps, and almost anything else that takes their fancy, who live and practise in beautiful Pondicherry as the design ensemble, ‘Ovoid’. They are also dear friends, who I happened to have the good fortune to visit in the later half of November. In one of our innumerable conversations, Neel mentioned to me why they make it a point to cook themselves, no matter how busy they are. He said food is best, and most nutritious when it is cooked with love.
It made me smile, for I couldn’t agree more. It is perhaps this secret ingredient- love that makes a mother’s cooking special. Have you ever noticed how you can tire of the best food, from the best restaurants, or the best cooks, but you never tire of your mother’s cooking no matter how many times you have it, over however many years. Have you also noticed the pet peeve of many a young bride that no matter how hard she tries, she can never quite match up to the standard of her mother-in-law’s cooking? :) In India of course it is taken to something of an extreme, for a mother’s love is often best expressed by food and the act of feeding. Indian families, many of them, tend to be rather undemonstrative in their show of affection, and uncommunicative too, to the extent that many topics are taboo, no matter how important they may be. But food remains the one way in which a mother continues to express her love, however old her child may grow.
But I digress, the point is: food cooked with love has a special wholesomeness, and a transfer of a kind of energy and good vibes happens, for lack of a better term, when you eat food that is cooked with love. There can be no substitute for this magic ingredient.

And it was perhaps this belief, as yet unarticulated, that made me cook all these years in Mumbai, coupled with the fact that it’s very hard to find a cook whose cooking you can endure for any length of time!And so it was also that I was thrilled when my maid walked in today with a dabba full of yummy veggies, sent over by someone who I once worked with as part of a film crew, but who I otherwise barely know. And it made me smile to read these words, as I providentially enough, stumbled upon this blog. 

Ruminations

There was a time, when I was in school and the Ramayana and Mahabharat formed part of course material. Thus it was that I knew even the complex Mahabharat with its many characters fairly well and could predict which episode would come next in the tackily produced Mahabharat that was aired on Doordarshan then. I took great pride in it too. It never occurred to me as unusual that a religious text was part of school course material. Many years later, and for many years now I have felt miserable about my dismal knowledge of other texts and cultures that form part of my country. I am quick to proclaim myself a secularist, but I’m never sure I even understand what that truly means. I now have friends from different faiths, and several of them have cross married. I’m always delighted when I see them celebrating each others’ festivals and explaining to the children their respective significance. So it is that Tanvi is as excited about making rangolis on Diwali as she is about picking out the perfect Christmas tree. And so it is that I almost faced a language barrier when I first met Sanaa, for I started to chat with her in Hindi while she blabbered away in Bengali and Malyalam with equal ease.

I’m equally distressed when I see youngsters so enamoured by foreign cultures, their concept of Diwali is more about playing cards and bursting noisy crackers than about the victory of good over evil. And of course I’m distressed by my own lack of understanding about my religion which is being misrepresented by the fundamentalist Hindu right on the one hand and simplistic and distorted depictions in films and television on the other.

Culture-al Woes

Sometime back I happened to be at a memorial concert for a lady I didn’t know and had never met. She must have been a good soul though for there was a hall full of people who had come to attend, and they were in for a treat of beautiful Sufi verses of Kabir, Rumi and others sung so soulfully that I was nearly moved to tears.

As I sat listening I wondered about the people on stage- those people with a talent that takes years of practice to hone and master. I wondered how old they were, how much time they would already have spent and how much more they would continue to spend on understanding music better so their performances could get even more soulful.

And I wondered how much money they made.

I am aware of how pessimistic I sound, but I do despair at this state of affairs where art and culture gets such a raw deal. How many more bankers and MBAs and software engineers will we churn out before we realise what a monochromatic society we’re creating? All the emphasis in our education system, in society even, is on securing the future by working towards a well paying job. ‘Competition’, ‘professional’, ‘job oriented’ are the keywords in a universe that is far removed both from culture or uncomfortable realities of any kind. The only ‘culture’ that a vast majority of our young population has access to is the one they see depicted on television in regressive serials- and that couldn’t be more distorted!

This is particularly sad because we have an incredibly rich culture- thousands of languages and dialects, songs, dances, literature and folk tales, architecture, sculpture, art, story telling and puppetry traditions, and more that can’t be categorised but contributes to making this subcontinent beautiful and diverse. How much of it do we really see around us anymore? Much of it has been reduced to being practiced by select families, and the younger generations even in those are not really interested in carrying on. They would much rather be ‘educated’ and find jobs that offer instant money than devote their entire lives to a craft that few are willing to patronise. A few years back, I shot for an organization called Kala Raksha based in Bhuj. It was left to an American woman who fell in love with Indian textiles, to study and write a book and subsequently start an NGO and set up a museum and a school to preserve dying local textile crafts of the area. She had little money to make the film, but we went ahead and shot anyway because she wanted to capture some of their genius on camera before the masters passed away, old as they all were.

Much of our adivasi traditions are endangered by the ‘civilised’ world’s attempts to take them into their fold. Instead of creating tolerant diverse societies, where individual cultures can flourish, the attempt seems to be to homogenise. Always has been, I suppose. What else are all the drives to convert people to specific religions? What are the attempts at ‘educating’ the masses in a Western style?

I’m not sure I know how we can stem this decline. State patronage comes to mind. I wish we lived in a world where people who have the money also had the conscience to do the right things. Then perhaps corporations (some of which are now so powerful, their turnovers are more than those of many countries) would also encourage art. But I’m old and cynical. I don’t believe anymore that corporations that run on the primary motive of profit, would ever do anything without some returns in mind. And if state support is the only answer, then given the state of our governments and their policies, I’m guessing its not too bright a future for many many artistic traditions.

:(

It’s a strange bird

It’s a strange bird: love.

Almost every text ever written has touched upon some aspect of it, we’ve read about it, seen films, heard songs. Even after all that we know or ought to know after all that exposure, we still falter through life making mistakes and yearning for it. Almost everyone who ever lived has struggled with love. How is it that the one thing that we should know about, is the one thing that eludes us? How is one feeling capable of so many manifestations? It is but one ras out of nine. How then does it dominate the creation of all kinds of art?

Speaking from personal experience, I can say that I have known several times, several kinds. I have always been grateful for it, even if I sometimes faltered in my expression. Sometimes it has sneaked up on me when I least expected it, or from quarters that I least expected from, sometimes it slipped away from where I desperately wanted it to stay. Sometimes it’s stayed well beyond I had imagined or anticipated. And sometimes it has come back like a boomerang, long after I thought it had died a natural death. Sometimes it has changed shape, devoid of a reason to stay as it originally was, or to wither away. Sometimes it evaporated altogether, without a trace, leaving only a doubt and wonderment about the reason for its existence in the first place. I refer here mostly to romantic love of course, though I, like each one of us, has known very many different kinds. And yes, it varied wildly in intensity, much of it was unrequited and hence untested, but that isn’t really the point.

I continue to be enamoured by it.

Not so much by its presence or absence in my life but by the elusive idea that it is. An idea that captivates all yet remains just out of reach of many, or with the very real possibility of slipping away anytime, for others.

It’s hard to articulate, but I feel a sense of mystery and wonderment and yet a submission, for there’s no other way really to respond- like you would while contemplating say the universe. Can we really contemplate the universe- its origins, its size. It’s always been there, and it’s always amazed man by its mysteries and continues to. So I feel has been the case with this one emotion that can fill us with joy and wring at our hearts with a brutal, physical pain. In another manifestation it’s the one emotion that can cause wars and inspire peace, in equal measure.

From where I am currently, I feel a strange detachment with life and with the world. It’s like floating over yourself, and seeing things for what they really are, stripped of the trappings of attachments that tend to skew our perspective. From here nothing is indispensable and everything is precious. Love is beautiful as it should be, but it isn’t selfish or compartmentalised. It is ever expanding, and it makes you see people that you never thought you could like, with compassion. From where I am, love comes easy. I see beautiful pictures and I love the photographer, I read a beautiful piece of writing and I love the writer. I see a good film and I love the filmmaker, I see a good design and I love the designer. I may not have met them, but I feel a love anyway.

But I digress.

Even with regard to romantic love, there has been so much learning. Couples that I absolutely adored, broke up. Couples that I thought were doomed, survived. People married for reasons inexplicable to me, and they are happy. I have friends who found love early and have spent over a decade together. I have friends who struggled, unable to work out even long standing relationships, then marrying in a jiffy. And I know several people including myself, who have in their past, that one relationship that has become the defining one of their lives. Which is not to say that they continue to pine after what could have been, or draw comparisons or parallels, just that they are shaped more by that one experience than any others.

For me personally, getting over and ahead of that one was a liberating experience. Having touched the heights of happiness and the depths of sorrow with it, everything else since has been easy. I wonder, in fact I worry sometimes if this detachment is really a maturity aided by the new perspective accorded by Vipassana (which has had a small but significant role in my life) or if I have built an impregnable wall around me to shield myself from further hurt. It’s schizophrenic almost, to oscillate between those two states- of supreme peace and self-assuredness and of a deep, unforgiving confusion.

I’m not sure any of this makes any sense. This was an idea forming in my head for much of yesterday, and even as I sat down to write I realized it had already slipped away. All it left behind were these scattered thoughts.

More questions- reverting back to an earlier post

A couple of days back while on our way home, looking out of the auto rickshaw Malu and I noticed a young boy swinging on a pole, using his T-shirt. He had put the front of his T-shirt over the pole, and was leaning backwards, using his foot as fulcrum and his weight to swing. In front of him, a young girl was sweeping the pavement with broad strokes of a piece of cloth. For a second it seemed odd, until we noticed the tarpaulin sheet behind her, covering up their belongings. There was a water-bottle and a glass perched on the boundary wall adjoining the pavement. This then was home, and she was readying the ‘bed’.

As we observed this scene, an unlikely memory came rushing back. Some time back I had posted about the incident of this teenage girl who was picked up by the police for flinging her employer’s baby from their fourth floor balcony. What disturbed me about this story and the way it was reported was the amount of emphasis there was on the intentions of the ungrateful girl in flinging the baby away because she ‘was irritated by its crying’ contrasted with the kindness of the family that had taken her in. (She is a migrant from Bihar who was living on the street until recently.) The moment I read the news report, my first thought was about the girl- ie why was she brought to the house? Was it really out of ‘good intentions’ or for the cheap domestic help she could be? But most importantly, was she in any way molested- physically or sexually? These are all valid questions, if you ask me. But the Good Boy (yes, he makes an appearance again! That story unfortunately is unfinished- the short of it is that we became good friends and more, and spent a lot of time together for awhile. The long of it shall appear by and by) disapproved- both of the writing and the thoughts it encompassed. He felt that the writing was not lucid enough- it simply wasn’t clear what I meant by ‘not asking the right questions’. Though I’m not sure that’s necessarily true for he did get the drift. He further disapproved of my suspicion. He asked me why it wasn’t possible that the man genuinely meant well, and how I could think so ill of him, without any proof.This strikes me as very odd. There was enough evidence in the story I thought, skewed as the perspective was, to question the family’s intentions. It was a clear case of employing child labour. I suppose we are so used to the reality of our children having to work to feed themselves that we no longer find it out of the ordinary. And there may not have been evidence of any molestation, but that girl could not have been more vulnerable, and therefore it was an angle that definitely needed to be looked into and as far as I could tell from the story, it wasn’t. There isn’t even an iota of doubt in my mind about this. If there wasn’t any molestation or ill treatment, well wonderful! But there’s ground to check and make sure that there wasn’t.

And to his question, ‘So you’d rather that she stayed on the street?’- My response would be, ‘We’re still asking the wrong question!’

I understand where he is coming from. It becomes a matter of choices really. Is the security of a house better than the pavement, even if it means the loss of freedom? Better clothes, food to eat better than begging on the street? Made to work at home as opposed to being molested on the street? Since those are the only choices we seem to be able to offer to so many children, I suppose an act of the kind that the family did, is only welcome, while we pray fervently that she stays safe and well. Which is his (hopeful) stance.

I am more realistic, or maybe more cynical- I’d rather have the matter investigated. And I'd like to believe I’m also more demanding. I’d rather that we did not accept these as the only choices. That we fought for the future of our children. And that we were not content with such a solution for ‘taking them off the street’.

Ageing

On my way to work today

I ran my fingers through my hair

came away with a strand,

the grey at the root

working its way to the tip.

More than halfway through,

just like life.

When we met again

Many years I spent wondering
what could have been
How things might have been different
if we had spoken up
Would they have been different?

How we may have been different people
had we not been racked by an unnecessary guilt
Would we have been different?

How we may have met
had we met without context.

Many years later, the storm has passed
leaving behind an engulfing peace,
a quiet acceptance
and faith in the belief
that if this is how the Universe intended it to be
this is how it best is.

And so it was amusing to see
that meeting after years
you were more nervous than me.