tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37256516379181166952024-03-19T10:27:39.558+05:30SUJATA'S BLOGSujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.comBlogger384125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-26370557858128460732024-03-01T10:06:00.004+05:302024-03-01T10:12:06.937+05:30Life's Rhythm - Lessons From Music<p> Sitting in my son's tabla classes, I am slowly hearing the world in a different way. The tabla is a relatively young entrant to Indian classical music and is an amazingly versatile instrument of percussion and harmony. So much so that when I hear everyday sounds now, I try and imagine how they might be recreated in tabla language (a series of 'bols'). The rustling of leaves in my garden reminds me of the bayan (the left, bass drum) and our bedroom fan creaks out a perfect taal (rhythm cycle) that once irritated me but now fascinates me.</p><p>It is spring and the air is full of bird song. This is my favourite form of music, but now I catch myself counting the beats. Is it the same number of beats in each kite call? What is the beat cycle of the bulbuls? Am I taking this a bit too far?? Even my tapping on the keyboard distracts me occasionally from my writing.</p><p>I know very little about the tabla, less so about percussion, but a few weeks ago, just by chance, I sat down and began watching a video of Ustad Zakir Hussain, one of the most acclaimed contemporary tabla players. I had a headache and time was moving slowly, but once I was drawn into Zakir's music, the headache and all else were blissfully forgotten for a while. Some of these recordings left a mark on my mind, for there was a haunting depth in what Zakir Hussain was trying to convey, both through his music and his words. Listening to him talking about the tabla was fascinating, and about life, equally so.</p><p>An element that Zakir lays great emphasis on is the art of listening. Although tabla has come into its own as a solo instrument, the primary task of a tabla player remains that of an accompanist to another instrument that drives the musical composition (raga). The tabla player needs to follow the lead of the main instrument, and enjoy complementing it, and if the musician invites the tabla player to a musical conversation (a 'jugalbandi'), then the tabla player adds his own musical comments to the composition. If he is not invited, he stays in the background, without forcing himself upon the musician or the audience. In trying to display his own dexterity over the instrument, a tabla player might distract his musical partner from his plans for the composition that is unfolding (Indian classical music, especially that played on stage, is often highly improvised depending upon the mood, the musicians, the audience etc.).</p><p>Zakir gave the example of his experiences during the first few concerts with Pandit Ravi Shankar, the renowned sitar player. He thought he had played very well in those concerts, but Ravi Shankar never said a word at the end of each concert. Then, before the third concert, Zakir Hussain mustered up the courage to ask Ravi Shankar if his playing had been satisfactory. Initially Ravi Shankar just nodded. Then, he sat back and asked, "Zakir, do you remember what raga I played in each of the concerts?" And Zakir Hussain thought hard but he couldn't recall what music had been played.</p><p>Ravi Shankar continued, "Did you look at me even once during the concert? Did we get a chance to know each other?"</p><p>The answer was "No". Zakir (with incredible honesty) recollected that he was so busy trying to showcase his skill on the tabla that he forgot that he was part of a team and that it is not two disjointed monologues but a conversation that is what gives the special energy to a partnership.</p><p>I thought this was an important lesson for life as well. The importance of being a good listener, and of being there for another person- sometimes silently, and when required, through your voice or action. Of wholeheartedly and joyfully deciding to take a course that you might not have chosen if you had only yourself to think about.</p><p>I also liked Zakir’s description of his own reactions during the initial concerts with Ravi Shankar. Ravi Shankar had played with Zakir Hussain’s father, Ustad Allah Rakha innumerable times, and Zakir was on the stage with his father during many of those concerts. </p><p>Zakir went for his first concert with Ravi Shankar, brimming with confidence. He knew exactly what he would play when Ravi Shankar hit those particular notes in specific ragas. But when the concert began, Zakir felt it was a complete disaster - Ravi Shankar did not play as Zakir expected him to, and Zakir had no idea how to proceed. It was frightening. Later, Ravi Shankar told him something like, “Don’t expect me to play with you the way I used to play with your father. This is a new relationship and a we have to chart a new path together.”</p><p>Describing this, Zakir said (I quote as best as I can, from a YouTube recording of his) - “How do I prepare? You’ve learnt so much, got all… (the information). Get on the stage, put it away. Put all the information away. But (there is) hesitancy. Inner laya (rhythm) is not strong. How will I ..? That’s okay. That’s alright. It’s alright to look silly. It’s okay to fail. It’s fine to trip and fall flat on your face in front of the audience. All it means is that you know what not to do next. It’s trial and error. </p><p>At some point in your life as musicians, you will have to decide, “Do I take the leap of faith? Do I jump off this hill without knowing how far the water is and how deep it is?” You have to do that. That means to stop the memorization. And to understand that it’s okay to fail. And when you get to that point, suddenly you will notice that nothing threatens you. Nothing makes you afraid. That there’s no fear. And when that happens, some door or window would open, which would allow you to experience the music in a light that shines brighter than anything else in the world…”</p><p>Deep lessons, that encompass much more than music.</p><p>Also interesting was Zakir’s recollection of two parallel incidents while working with famous musicians – the renowned guitarists George Harrison and John McLaughlin. At one moment, Zakir had dreams of being a drummer, perhaps in a rock band. It appeared much more glamorous than being a table playing accompanist. When he worked with George Harrison, Zakir once asked George why he didn’t play the sitar (which he had learnt from Ravi Shankar) on stage and George replied, “I don’t want to insult my teacher by playing bad sitar in a performance. I have taken my learning from the sitar and applied it to my own instrument, which is the guitar, and which I am good at. Similarly, there are a hundred drummers out there, all equally good, and I would have called any one of them if I needed a drummer. I have called you because you have something they don’t have. Why do you want to become the hundred and first when you can be unique?”</p><p>John McLaughlin was to express the same thought later, when Zakir asked him why he didn’t play the veena, after having learnt it from veena maestro S. Ramanathan. “The guitar is my voice.” You can hear the veena in his guitar but he cannot use the veena the way a master veena player can and so he chooses not to play it.</p><p>Zakir said this was a turning point in his thought process. He was living in the U.S. at this time and being exposed to music he had never heard before, including amazing kinds of percussion from all over the world. He realised that the tabla was an instrument that could allow expression of many of these sounds that had not been tried before. At one moment, he said that he felt he had been imposing his own training and desire to play on the tabla. But the tabla has its own voice and wants to express itself in many ways; we just have to listen and to let that expression emerge.</p><p>Sometimes it takes half a lifetime to get to know our instruments. But we still have another half to express ourselves, and to allow something beyond to reveal itself through us. It’s a completely new journey and a greatly satisfying one, when we trust and allow ourselves to move along these paths, however unfamiliar they may seem. </p><p>I am adding, at the end, a link to one of my favourite snippets from a concert by the amazing violinist N. Rajam and Zakir Hussain. It is not a high quality recording but it always brings a smile to my face and a warmth in my heart, which is what music is all about, for me. </p><p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mkiYCv6_PxM" target="_blank">N. Rajam Zakir Hussain concert</a><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-45537673572556945282023-09-25T15:04:00.006+05:302023-09-26T12:00:48.685+05:30The Elements In My Life<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJulfB9FJK43MeypdrIX3Y0KIS-twAkJxFR_Lu8OQvi8GpZgLSNctM1mqyn-Ehsaj0BgeJJnhyG5IQ35sgSIF8Y7k3ZYebHe4Swh_p9OlGDDRpXkm5o_Bf3xHBzFa2bB3vPOaCqYyRUcywEpVpyCbVMStMd7d4gmU9NHsOBiLRAayGtebsCECHH2QFkwg/s2827/IMG_20230926_114756.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2827" data-original-width="2040" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJulfB9FJK43MeypdrIX3Y0KIS-twAkJxFR_Lu8OQvi8GpZgLSNctM1mqyn-Ehsaj0BgeJJnhyG5IQ35sgSIF8Y7k3ZYebHe4Swh_p9OlGDDRpXkm5o_Bf3xHBzFa2bB3vPOaCqYyRUcywEpVpyCbVMStMd7d4gmU9NHsOBiLRAayGtebsCECHH2QFkwg/s320/IMG_20230926_114756.jpg" width="231" /></a></div><p>This morning, suddenly, sounds of the Shanti Paath (The Prayer Of Peace) flowed into my mind. It is a prayer that I heard first when I was eight, and some essence of it has always remained with me. "Peace to the sky and the ethereal space. Peace to the earth. Peace to the water. Peace to the herbs and all that grows on the earth. Peace to the Universe.." And so on.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyUhEiE3H-Kpt1RrOhVWIKeGCoQnfhZN6vLRWWFqf2uTW7atgaB6aSN6QwQA6ADEFjYgkG30Q3f2dwXFHq5JPEX9tfNB2XdA_rcVgEAZjp8FwQqmCZrKTTOgTVFBwo1zECSTiohmteJmsVW_JAVXSGJJGJdHdfEIAA2CnI8b1qkZRM2e3w00OhQzO3acQ/s4032/IMG_3434.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyUhEiE3H-Kpt1RrOhVWIKeGCoQnfhZN6vLRWWFqf2uTW7atgaB6aSN6QwQA6ADEFjYgkG30Q3f2dwXFHq5JPEX9tfNB2XdA_rcVgEAZjp8FwQqmCZrKTTOgTVFBwo1zECSTiohmteJmsVW_JAVXSGJJGJdHdfEIAA2CnI8b1qkZRM2e3w00OhQzO3acQ/s320/IMG_3434.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>I began thinking of how I relate to the elements around me, beginning with the silent space that sometimes envelopes me (as I write this, my environment is filled with loud, grating construction sounds, but you know what I mean). There is a space and a silence to which we can all retreat, even (and specially) in the midst of chaos and cacophony.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-3XDIULeni4eDs6hzIq3UoafwdkAv9Sey_XPYSX1BlNUx3QoRhNGhFAOVUcs4rhOpAp3zoI_kehFZki7Ij-EObVG-oVkEk__8iknVFQn4U-jieVXheKgfEUqQrZkpZlrU50UuCZbzQKtdwWbzEvOOAafpWQB0t_JXIFo-kxeWsvGvfZDQSMx7-Xarg4/s4000/IMG20230717173900.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-3XDIULeni4eDs6hzIq3UoafwdkAv9Sey_XPYSX1BlNUx3QoRhNGhFAOVUcs4rhOpAp3zoI_kehFZki7Ij-EObVG-oVkEk__8iknVFQn4U-jieVXheKgfEUqQrZkpZlrU50UuCZbzQKtdwWbzEvOOAafpWQB0t_JXIFo-kxeWsvGvfZDQSMx7-Xarg4/s320/IMG20230717173900.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>The silence is best interspersed with music. The music I like most is the song of the birds and the chirp and hum of nocturnal insects and animals as they go about their lives, unknown to us. Water, as it moves - humming, gushing, swishing and gurgling to itself. And the breeze at night - I tell my son that it is Byngoma and Byangomi (the legendary, wise, human faced birds of Bengali fairy tales) coming to whisper their stories to us (if we will only listen).</p><p>There are many other forms of natural elements that I love-</p><p>The vastness and limitlessness of the sky that always amazes me and gives me a feeling of unfettered freedom. My son looks up and points out the animals and birds that he sees in cloud form and imagines jumping from cloud to cloud. I am just amazed at how different the sky looks at each moment and how empty yet full it is.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjttoZT9Mj1wyN5O0fk8giwmnh2CMzugLqTNTw49mcbIWwBwnjDBVylS5qhNnwPt5xwZd35IAYDeZGJS30iUmX9lLIxVKb8ci-w8KiyacA3nRR57A2NoXP13_nUdYxKbWlC82eXND2fMzJZenX99Xa8IknH1xEb-xdRHConmTHv5uGYd3dHkNSEHVoM-Hw/s3050/IMG_20230925_154723.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3050" data-original-width="2699" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjttoZT9Mj1wyN5O0fk8giwmnh2CMzugLqTNTw49mcbIWwBwnjDBVylS5qhNnwPt5xwZd35IAYDeZGJS30iUmX9lLIxVKb8ci-w8KiyacA3nRR57A2NoXP13_nUdYxKbWlC82eXND2fMzJZenX99Xa8IknH1xEb-xdRHConmTHv5uGYd3dHkNSEHVoM-Hw/s320/IMG_20230925_154723.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><p>My son and I envy the effortless soaring of the birds and try to imagine the feeling of flight. We rush out as evening falls to catch a glimpse of the orange-pink-gold streaks of fading sunlight and to watch the soundless flight of bats and the eventual emerging of the moon.</p><p></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUkIvDxELYa0BW-zTJ6c46o0hGGrshc1Ld9lqMjoKWA6B6qfzpTibCCXrazytvAr7SMb8_WyLyY_ktBvSeMh4Rp79LeR4HKE1eH4sDBzGuOrxKfJYhmgGajHWgz0rekM1MAyUIw6rjBoeDPfA5iRo_-tyfzGNVdsuWB2n03Y9fMKLyX6dmovUTNmpL6kA/s2523/IMG_20221106_185504.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2523" data-original-width="1970" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUkIvDxELYa0BW-zTJ6c46o0hGGrshc1Ld9lqMjoKWA6B6qfzpTibCCXrazytvAr7SMb8_WyLyY_ktBvSeMh4Rp79LeR4HKE1eH4sDBzGuOrxKfJYhmgGajHWgz0rekM1MAyUIw6rjBoeDPfA5iRo_-tyfzGNVdsuWB2n03Y9fMKLyX6dmovUTNmpL6kA/s320/IMG_20221106_185504.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">I relate to the earth in the form of my garden and all the plants that I can nurture, and many that step into my space uncalled- hardy weeds, of which dandelions are my favourite. I love wood in many forms, but most of all in the form of ancient trees - filled with the wisdom of things beyond my world. I listen to the creaking and rustling sounds they make when the wind blows through them, and try to imagine what they might be saying.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVyYwW-th-epR4wLRyQWNArnKkxgJKG7e7w3x2RolOMn7qQVLi2SNVsphUnRiUCe03HzJ3PS5e4N7y4BfAeSqxkrS_1V7WtAUeJsrF1mb5Fb6N1PzDcBoZwp9Lyd2xwDkW2phHqeIFZ3-roLNVEEDt5eLNh_bGs9cGUztef6EiMYqsuxgfJbuG2lXjGg/s4000/IMG20230810131505.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVyYwW-th-epR4wLRyQWNArnKkxgJKG7e7w3x2RolOMn7qQVLi2SNVsphUnRiUCe03HzJ3PS5e4N7y4BfAeSqxkrS_1V7WtAUeJsrF1mb5Fb6N1PzDcBoZwp9Lyd2xwDkW2phHqeIFZ3-roLNVEEDt5eLNh_bGs9cGUztef6EiMYqsuxgfJbuG2lXjGg/s320/IMG20230810131505.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Though I am often wary of climbing, I am filled with awe at the sight of rocks and other natural earth forms - shapes melded and cooled to form irreproducible structures. They emanate a certain resilience and stoic strength that seems oblivious to tremors that may occur beneath and around. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt7pLO1ktmaC1i8of_Vg1juw9ksfQnmK2qz09ak8BL9FfZSz2rHOG_YRgUQjhSK75YBIrP-EvN8jWRKXc3OtIc3h9Az3nzcTcStwLYgJQc6oRWT0CeKgS8GlvgFp6-58SqpAM7wlxhPIHskEtXqP3z9yHDKHBzOEb7QZWVJ5sbnDJtp9WTHsFqZir7sLE/s3995/IMG_20230925_150703.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2311" data-original-width="3995" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt7pLO1ktmaC1i8of_Vg1juw9ksfQnmK2qz09ak8BL9FfZSz2rHOG_YRgUQjhSK75YBIrP-EvN8jWRKXc3OtIc3h9Az3nzcTcStwLYgJQc6oRWT0CeKgS8GlvgFp6-58SqpAM7wlxhPIHskEtXqP3z9yHDKHBzOEb7QZWVJ5sbnDJtp9WTHsFqZir7sLE/w640-h370/IMG_20230925_150703.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>I relate to water in many ways, but most of all when I am swimming! Its immense, buoyant energy always beckons me and I like to surrender myself to its drift and flow along. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit5GdmpcO7OwzFwEIzjPjIfpGK6PwqYOZGFF3q3H6Nhhs7X2jgxE6DXYk_8GRzJWhl1ZhAyUK6AMysMDDCzwSX1He5EcX8DqcM_wWv0ukVbCZhlGLUbefI5ZZpyjsDXExDU7OKvberKrG2PYfV44EoXlxNhVWvIWSW6sJwwZv41-YV1AeEhFYvhUPzrmc/s3348/IMG_20230925_150859.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2994" data-original-width="3348" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit5GdmpcO7OwzFwEIzjPjIfpGK6PwqYOZGFF3q3H6Nhhs7X2jgxE6DXYk_8GRzJWhl1ZhAyUK6AMysMDDCzwSX1He5EcX8DqcM_wWv0ukVbCZhlGLUbefI5ZZpyjsDXExDU7OKvberKrG2PYfV44EoXlxNhVWvIWSW6sJwwZv41-YV1AeEhFYvhUPzrmc/w320-h286/IMG_20230925_150859.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I relate to fire mostly in my kitchen. Steaming - simple and flavourful. Sizzling - in seasoned pans with dramatic sounds. Simmering - slow, delicate and aromatic. Baking - soft, buttery batter set in the warmth of the oven to rise of its own accord. Cooking fills my days with chemistry, craft and contentment.</p><p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU036CyA6QPWKMweC_-UL_is3hsiuTtMS14kQd79q1q-zlw_vEeSJ1SQfXHogkI22XALPBlpZDsT2qd55HBJCjyYL2Ie16S_7ZAEg_IQBNZ6TQz0lZxjq4xjPPtHYpbEhxoIqxr-Y1qn2j9-Lxpxy1nXm31-ROCZwqpE0jWGeoiwSXkYDe6q-tpMh4TTc/s4000/IMG20230317170722.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU036CyA6QPWKMweC_-UL_is3hsiuTtMS14kQd79q1q-zlw_vEeSJ1SQfXHogkI22XALPBlpZDsT2qd55HBJCjyYL2Ie16S_7ZAEg_IQBNZ6TQz0lZxjq4xjPPtHYpbEhxoIqxr-Y1qn2j9-Lxpxy1nXm31-ROCZwqpE0jWGeoiwSXkYDe6q-tpMh4TTc/s320/IMG20230317170722.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>I also love log fires, though there have only been a few occasions when I could sit next to one. I still recall the glowering logs and the occasional shower of sparks they would send out; the comforting warmth that is of a very special nature, different from what modern heaters can provide.</p><p>I am delighted when I get unexpected guests in my garden - a slow hopping toad, perfectly camouflaged chameleons, a bunch of butterflies, a hornbill (yes! once!), a baby eagle learning to fly, a barn owl oblivious to the fact that we had no barn. And I am thankful for my usual visitors, especially the bulbuls who sing so sweetly and effortlessly, the kites who are trusting enough to stop for a drink of water on my terrace, the hummingbirds, content with tiny water droplets that fall on my ginger lilies and feathers that seem to fall from the sky.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBVP7WfZMimp9vSCVGfAu4USEnkuoHRKTO8Gz2BPpsaAZ3qK9bVY0Mgoby_3JA91aIUMuKwNcsU3loXvHBzPiQvk6mUAY_uazsE9CDKXRmrISNLH1oeAVcKR4aV8KL-6Jy0DsC2Szz4ZgV01AIVKdNiZvBlhCrLaaNccvXKsWTp6CGk3YftFpIBBWyzS4/s4000/IMG20230326064817.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBVP7WfZMimp9vSCVGfAu4USEnkuoHRKTO8Gz2BPpsaAZ3qK9bVY0Mgoby_3JA91aIUMuKwNcsU3loXvHBzPiQvk6mUAY_uazsE9CDKXRmrISNLH1oeAVcKR4aV8KL-6Jy0DsC2Szz4ZgV01AIVKdNiZvBlhCrLaaNccvXKsWTp6CGk3YftFpIBBWyzS4/s320/IMG20230326064817.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: right;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: right;">For these, and other gifts of the natural world, I am truly thankful.</span></div></span></div><p></p></div>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-24782706962625258932023-09-07T19:39:00.010+05:302023-09-08T17:40:27.687+05:30Our Musical Journey<p> On this occasion of Teacher's Day, I sit and recall some of the life changing teachers I have encountered, notably my Yoga teacher and my Music teacher. In this blog, I will focus upon the musical journey that my son (Nayan) and I embarked upon that began a little over two years ago.</p><p>I never planned to learn music. I had always hoped I might as a child, but there was no opportunity. I was quite sure, however, that if my son showed the slightest inclination towards music, I would find a teacher to help him. </p><p>When Nayan was about five years old, he attended an ‘Introduction To Music’ course conducted by the Bangalore School of Music, that taught children basic elements of Western classical music. He enjoyed the music immensely, but didn't like being part of a large group with lots of sound and movement that distracted him from the music. I realised that group classes were not the way for him and a change would be required.</p><p>A few months before the course ended, Covid struck and everything was shut down. The music school had no plans of restarting anytime soon, and at this stage, my husband and I felt it would be nice if our son could be exposed to the richness and diversity of Indian music. Thus began our search for a suitable teacher.</p><p>I searched for a couple of months, asking a lot of friends and calling several musicians and music schools, but nothing suitable worked out.</p><p>Then, unexpectedly, once when I called my sister-in-law, just to check how she was doing, at the end of the call, she said (as sometimes people say), "What else is happening?" </p><p>What else? In quarantine times, there was hardly any news. So I said, "Nothing much. I have been trying to find a music teacher for Nayan with little success so far."</p><p>"Let me send you some numbers," she said. "Is piano and singing happy songs good for you?" </p><p>I said, "Not really”. It was not at all what I was looking for. “I am searching for an Indian music teacher who can teach children. Nayan is about six and a half now." </p><p>"I have an old number," she said. "I don't know if it still works. Try it.”</p><p>I called the number. Someone answered. They said they would call back the next day. I hung up with little hope.</p><p>The next day, the phone did ring. It was the music teacher. He was based in Delhi. Online classes would not be a problem, but could he see my son first? A ray of hope went through me. He was the first teacher who had wanted to meet my son. </p><p>We had our first video call. My son was busy watching cartoons at the time and I didn't know if I could even get him to take the call. But when he heard it was a music teacher, he jumped up and answered the call. </p><p>"Soo- do you want to learn music?" the teacher asked. "Ye-es!" yelled Nayan. The teacher nodded, "Yes, I can make out from your face. I think this will be a good thing. So, when do you want to start?" And that was that. I tried to explain that I didn't want any pressure, just a relaxed class where Nayan could enjoy learning, but words were hard to come by, and I finally decided to let go and see how things emerged.</p><p>When the classes began, they flowed in a torrent and not the gentle drizzle I had expected. At the end of the first class, Nayan had a list of songs that he was to watch online. Before the class ended, the teacher asked me to sing. Sing? I was taken aback. Surely it had been made clear the class was for my son, not for me? </p><p>"You must be knowing the basic notes," he said. “Everyone knows them.” </p><p>"No," I replied. I most certainly did not know the basic notes and I had no intention of singing in front of anyone.</p><p>"I am asking," he explained, "because it will help your son tremendously if you can support with him with some singing and if there is music in your house. So please try."</p><p>Put like that, it was churlish to refuse. I heard him singing. I tried to imitate the sounds, feeling like a baby bird chirping for the first time. "That's fine," he said, "Now your homework is..."</p><p>Thus began my music class, unintended, unasked for, but a gift for my son and more than ever, for me. It has made a difference to the continuity of Nayan's music. It has made a difference to my life.</p><p>We have barely begun but we seem to have been introduced to so much, so simply. Soumitra Paul (aka Shomitro Sir) has a gift for teaching, especially children. It is done rigorously but so gently and joyfully that children don't know how much they are absorbing. </p><p>He is trained in Hindustani classical music- singing and the tabla (a percussion instrument). Both areas meld together beautifully when he explains notes and rhythms, the teaching is highly personalised and spontaneous. He is a professional table player and has played with many renowned musicians. But teaching is his first choice. </p><p>Each class brings something new and unexpected - new insights into previous learning combined with the introduction of a new raga or bol or song. In fact, they are introduced at so rapid a pace sometimes that I struggle to keep up. "Two hours, ten minutes of practice every day, Madam", he reminds me. In my chaotic life strewn with unexpected events everyday, two hours (and ten minutes) are hard to come by. I struggle and cannot manage but I am learning to stay relaxed even if I am not ready for the next class. I sing for myself and am learning to enjoy every moment of it, steering away from judgement and doubt.</p><p>For Nayan, the routine is completely different. "Fifteen minutes of whatever you want to play (or sing) is enough." Nayan has become enthusiastic about the tabla. "I didn't know I had a gift for the tabla. But it's so simple and so enjoyable,"- he says with frankness and a disarming naïveté. </p><p>We didn't know either that he had a gift for any form of music, we just sensed that he responded well to it, like so many children do. We often wonder how our music teacher recognised Nayan’s gift so early on. According to him, it was glaringly obvious. But it was not obvious to anyone else.</p><p>Whenever we are in Delhi, Shomitro Sir makes it a point to come home every day to teach us music in person. The classes extend forever, time is forgotten, or just held in abeyance for a while…. It’s a wonderful experience.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzG6gjMNq5kU5l1jedgj4Qf_hEmhajCnpQyazfjBTHliNxUDv3Hvarm9SjweKPHquKzmEDVpeivagFqyMtclQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><p>Teaching a child to sit and focus on music for close to an hour at a stretch is not easy (especially online). But, music interspersed with conversation - not just talking to the child, but listening to him, makes all the difference.</p><p>"So, are you tired today? How was school?" Shomitro Sir begins.</p><p>“I missed my football game because it was raining,” says Nayan, a bit put out. </p><p>"Maybe we can play a football tukda on the tabla today. Would you like to hear it?" Nayan nods. He is curious. Soumitra Sir demostrates. </p><p>"See, it is a spherical composition. Did you understand?" Nayan gives a thumbs up. It is perfectly clear to him. </p><p>"Did your mother understand?" </p><p>“No”. No I definitely did not understand how a composition can be spherical but it is perfectly clear to both of them. In fact they have gone so far ahead musically that sometimes I can only sit back and marvel. </p><p>"Would you like to play it?" Nayan begins playing immediately, each note sharp and clear on the tabla as it is in his mind. They continue in this manner, all fatigue forgotten. </p><p>"Next time we will do a hockey tukda," announces Shomitro Sir. </p><p>"Is there really such a thing as a hockey tukda?" I ask curiously. </p><p>"Now there is," he grins.</p><p>"I have composed a tukda also," pipes up Nayan. </p><p>"Let's hear it," says Shomitro Sir. And effortlessly, the class has shifted from understanding and practicing to composing. A subtle but noticeable shift. Nayan's energy and excitement are high now. The compositions are not random notes or lines picked up from different sources. They are unique creations that follow the rigour and pattern of the rules of classical Indian music.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-cwzjN4YPVrMaLJec6W8zY9KT4wIH4yNj8PK_OZf7tl9mGKE_nw-ANfwWfYYz9MV-JN8C5pk5D_l1Zam8xZDzNZyhCl-EsBcXhlhFsB8GQotJwwruy5QGlP7bJYw1xN31Xl-X3sROocOlsQf81pkZ4OT2aAtwzQ7uQj6YMbqU7KB4wv2OTmuzBNpBp9E/s1485/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-08-30%20at%2008.54.08.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1324" data-original-width="1485" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-cwzjN4YPVrMaLJec6W8zY9KT4wIH4yNj8PK_OZf7tl9mGKE_nw-ANfwWfYYz9MV-JN8C5pk5D_l1Zam8xZDzNZyhCl-EsBcXhlhFsB8GQotJwwruy5QGlP7bJYw1xN31Xl-X3sROocOlsQf81pkZ4OT2aAtwzQ7uQj6YMbqU7KB4wv2OTmuzBNpBp9E/s320/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-08-30%20at%2008.54.08.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nayan's composition to a beat of four</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwbT9yrabkVYduEk38XXUDYuzfmEiPhYKvYYM8wsnF28DR1Ngp6bH1oLnTjIFzLzLSnIoaWLbmmTlVfi8nCow' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><p>I am also encouraged to compose. I don’t find it that simple or spontaneous. However, in the midst of my practice sometimes, when my mind is still and receptive, a series of notes make themselves known. It’s a very different experience for me, a bit like writing using notes instead of words.</p><p>We also learn folk songs and several songs composed by Rabindranath Tagore because of the haunting lyrics and melodies. A song about inner longing on seeing the beauty of nature, a song about clouds shifting on a holiday and what the children could do amongst the fields, lakes and forests on such a day. Ekla chalo re - if no one heeds your call, then walk alone- written by Tagore for Mahatma Gandhi during the freedom struggle. Whimsical songs - admonishing a sulky cockatoo, songs to bulbuls and other birds (we love to sing this when bulbuls perch outside our window). Miscellaneous tunes that we are attracted to. “Okay,” says Shomitro Sir, “We will learn them all.”</p><p>It is the ‘we’ instead of the ‘you’ that makes all the difference. We are moving along this path together. I find myself searching for songs I want to learn instead of waiting for instruction. In this way I have heard an enormous range of music (at the cost of my two hours ten minutes of practice). It has helped me pay attention to notes and lyrics. We deconstruct each song, play it on the harmonium and then find our own way to sing it.</p><p>Shomitro Sir explains how he approaches each song. “It’s not just about getting the right notes. You must put your own inner feelings into it. It's about sending a vibration,” he says. </p><p><a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1dC7uB9nklJIMH_Sn5KkS4wDbjc6o-SZn/view?usp=sharing" target="_blank">Song for Nayan- link</a><br /></p><p>Thus, I am introduced to the concept of the energy of music - something I had noticed but not really dwelt upon. “Call upon each note as you would a friend.” I realized that each note indeed had its own energy. Rounding off notes, singing in between notes and interspersing music with moments of silence created different effects. As I practiced this with some focus, I could sense the amazingly varied energy of music. It could calm me down and ease a lot of troubles away. It could make my heart race with anticipation. Sometimes it triggered my imagination. It often helped me sleep better and if I awoke in the middle of the night, I would find notes playing on in my head, lulling me back to sleep.</p><p><a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1AZ8v946fL2wz28cyz9nLxQz7-CBMCTgZ/view?usp=sharing" target="_blank">Song for Sujata - link</a><br /></p><p>In this manner, Nayan and I have embarked upon our musical journey. It takes us to unknown places along unchartered terrain, but is always enjoyable.</p><p><br /></p>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-36907101011915926502023-07-09T13:26:00.000+05:302023-07-09T13:26:31.545+05:30Ginger Biscuits and Allspice Tea<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOn4aFbSwP1u9Rt6ufpLsuBoHARuiIYf4EWjHfiECNTRSlVwPprQ_MGlT1ijX414WCLuv8rvQtEE6rgcWIrj8TqAscKdoLRD4AV5e9-LzLwr2q8qSbQGd7dQ5JvChrgqJLndN2b_Kvs7W68E0uMiMhkA68_YkHYU9IqMz-HttfzRhIabfosoU4oHE_VTU/s1600/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-07-09%20at%2013.21.05.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOn4aFbSwP1u9Rt6ufpLsuBoHARuiIYf4EWjHfiECNTRSlVwPprQ_MGlT1ijX414WCLuv8rvQtEE6rgcWIrj8TqAscKdoLRD4AV5e9-LzLwr2q8qSbQGd7dQ5JvChrgqJLndN2b_Kvs7W68E0uMiMhkA68_YkHYU9IqMz-HttfzRhIabfosoU4oHE_VTU/s320/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-07-09%20at%2013.21.05.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p> Today we are making allspice tea, with leaves from our garden. Nayan has baked ginger biscuits, just perfect to dip into the tea, especially on a rainy day like today. </p><p>We have just returned from a walk – an unplanned ramble on a rainy day. There was no one else around – just us and trees bursting with birds – barbettes, humming birds, bulbuls and all kinds of tiny ones whose names we did not know, hopping from branch to branch, shaking themselves dry and singing away, unconcerned about us or the rain or anything else around them. </p><p>Nayan and I sang the unforgettable children’s Bengali song “Bulbul pakhi moyna tiye” as the bulbul, moyna and tiye flew above and around us. </p><p>Nayan took some pictures – the birds were too fast for him but the rain drenched plants stood patiently, waiting to be photographed.</p><p>It was like being in a treasure hunt. We chose a path, looked around for the place that seemed to beckon us towards happy adventure, and then waited for wondrous things to reveal themselves.</p><p>“We can choose one of many paths,” I told Nayan. “Each one is right for that moment. And going along the path is the exciting bit because it can lead you to many treasures if you use your inner compass as a guide (Nayan has recently dismantled an old clock to try and convert it into a compass so he knows all about these things). That warm, happy feeling means you are going in the right direction and good things will show up if you are ready for them. The not so happy feeling means you need to change your direction a bit. Even if you can’t see exactly where you are going, but if you like the way the flowers smell or the birdsong you hear or just the thought of what might lie beyond that little hill that is inviting you to climb it- that’s a path worth exploring.”</p><p>Today our path led us to the feel of the wind, the touch of the rain, the sound of the birds and then back to our garden where we encountered the allspice tree.</p><p>“How tall it has grown! Not a berry in sight but so many leaves. I wonder if we can use them for tea...”</p><p>“Yes, let’s!” said Nayan the intrepid adventurer.</p><p>But I needed to check with Google first. Certainly, allspice leaves were used extensively in Caribbean cooking. And they seemed to have all kinds of beneficial properties.</p><p>So, we made ourselves the perfect Sunday morning breakfast – poha (light, beaten rice) flavoured with curry leaves from our garden and fresh lemon juice from our lemon tree, allspice leaf tea and homemade ginger biscuits. The tea was so incredibly delicious, I wondered why we had never made it earlier. The tree has been standing outside, patiently, all these years, we just had to find our way to it.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGRAcc0X6OFllvfGZLU3-2gM8gL8Rd-gyMJu-GoM8cxZz_Py0jizDlWGK9xwZYnwz84piDk7qzmTFRJxmIEkdpx1FcwTyG7Ol8iM_jK6EBtWmp1ngmwWpWcA1Wf1OBlwFXtQSeGFLDZbsLWnuBzmSCWadeo2y3MC53UAQEmTTk2yL_Mya4h0CJQOL1244/s1489/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-07-09%20at%2009.15.24%20(1).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1489" data-original-width="1331" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGRAcc0X6OFllvfGZLU3-2gM8gL8Rd-gyMJu-GoM8cxZz_Py0jizDlWGK9xwZYnwz84piDk7qzmTFRJxmIEkdpx1FcwTyG7Ol8iM_jK6EBtWmp1ngmwWpWcA1Wf1OBlwFXtQSeGFLDZbsLWnuBzmSCWadeo2y3MC53UAQEmTTk2yL_Mya4h0CJQOL1244/s320/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-07-09%20at%2009.15.24%20(1).jpeg" width="286" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-15749746532179408182022-10-31T14:30:00.002+05:302022-10-31T14:59:26.454+05:30Thirty Years Ago<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Thirty years ago, on this day, I was rushing out of my room to get to a Halloween party. Just as I had locked my door, the phone began to ring. The sound was shrill and persistent, so I went inside and took the call. It was Raghavan, proposing to me. (I don't think the word 'marry' was ever mentioned, but in those few halting sentences, I understood that it was a proposal). He was in India and I was in the U.S. at the time, and it meant a sudden change of lifestyle, which didn't really worry me. </span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_zxQtB2ytNgIG_0SqFT4cYxhhmedflx0GQ8aLxZb4_i8PyHt3twxACFiq5ligM_sozUzD_wO9Q4nflC3iUEX-5vXk9jNS4vM2r2ACa7OFYttYrKnZaNuPX6Uip-x10CB-7dmU7ZpjUR5jATQXD0vSsm7upNETBn6tt8SsPC6bcNvEEHUh2zna_1Ex/s1500/image.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1126" data-original-width="1500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_zxQtB2ytNgIG_0SqFT4cYxhhmedflx0GQ8aLxZb4_i8PyHt3twxACFiq5ligM_sozUzD_wO9Q4nflC3iUEX-5vXk9jNS4vM2r2ACa7OFYttYrKnZaNuPX6Uip-x10CB-7dmU7ZpjUR5jATQXD0vSsm7upNETBn6tt8SsPC6bcNvEEHUh2zna_1Ex/s320/image.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyz1lUudzlrHaNMWOJ8UX7oZPA5sWMWPEBix5VM6aida9aPVk4__ouAR5RfwfHEqpIYjUX_4EXlY3aCk2PSCEfNsfcLpNKjkRUEZC-jedj_3Jz99DiRt2GH2dC4A4kHL_gWMfUHk_StOgRQHKMhhf_4SiuyQLhWRlD3Kee9JsJVALQ-tkETypTz3TH/s3000/IMG_20221031_110814.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2321" data-original-width="3000" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyz1lUudzlrHaNMWOJ8UX7oZPA5sWMWPEBix5VM6aida9aPVk4__ouAR5RfwfHEqpIYjUX_4EXlY3aCk2PSCEfNsfcLpNKjkRUEZC-jedj_3Jz99DiRt2GH2dC4A4kHL_gWMfUHk_StOgRQHKMhhf_4SiuyQLhWRlD3Kee9JsJVALQ-tkETypTz3TH/s320/IMG_20221031_110814.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">It was a time of "I don't have time to deal with my hair, another day is beckoning." A time when one didn't really think too much ahead. Leaving a bustling campus not far from New York where I was a student, to settle into a quiet campus in a relatively conservative part of Bangalore, where I would set up house with the person I wanted to spend my life with, and do... what else? I didn't know but it was a dream come true.</span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXwpyPaMLCy1R44KmNy85VAZ3q7gYpb8fSw8PofXQBAyKPa-3RwOTVNGeIcoFq24LLNCxax-IWH-FEo6_w46WMQ8m7He8bPmqMPXyS0s4sukDX45uS9G55Zwh_eOjdGq9cijL9nx6g0doQgXI4SgKKf1Blte-fqgK0gDmPmZexV2bmj3kv3pUez314/s3701/IMG_5553.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3701" data-original-width="2394" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXwpyPaMLCy1R44KmNy85VAZ3q7gYpb8fSw8PofXQBAyKPa-3RwOTVNGeIcoFq24LLNCxax-IWH-FEo6_w46WMQ8m7He8bPmqMPXyS0s4sukDX45uS9G55Zwh_eOjdGq9cijL9nx6g0doQgXI4SgKKf1Blte-fqgK0gDmPmZexV2bmj3kv3pUez314/s320/IMG_5553.JPG" width="207" /></a></div></div><br />And so it was that the following year found me in Bangalore, looking at a tiny two room apartment meant for postdocs (but campus accommodation was scarce so we were lucky). I arrived with nine bags in tow. "No space! Keep two and send the rest back to Delhi," said Raghavan. So my possessions were unpacked gradually over time. The most important first - books, music, herbs and my favourite crockery. A few clothes and shoes. Everything else could wait.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">We had a house with a stone wall on which hung our first rug - a wedding gift from a master weaver that was filled with colours of the sea. Raghavan felt it was too beautiful to spread on the floor and on the wall it has remained ever since, in each of our houses. A wall to wall bookshelf and a small space for the music and crafts that we collected. Stone slabs served as seats and tables. There was no space for a dining table and other luxuries.</span></div><div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjohzB92CsiZiLpLBsxsid2bOtlohpSCOiw2c2Kb9b-NLug21-vIVqYoGZPlibgH-JrVBnQreJvxqShy_sHE9pXv0bl3NTp7JP1m9ujR0ezav2WnkpL-1Jq1zXjfJGXpAmX-tdQIIfC6tOHul3d-8VTqiiDdve2IEkntsO2CtFG_UjGgWlxHM9hyjm4/s2898/IMG_20221031_110740.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2480" data-original-width="2898" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjohzB92CsiZiLpLBsxsid2bOtlohpSCOiw2c2Kb9b-NLug21-vIVqYoGZPlibgH-JrVBnQreJvxqShy_sHE9pXv0bl3NTp7JP1m9ujR0ezav2WnkpL-1Jq1zXjfJGXpAmX-tdQIIfC6tOHul3d-8VTqiiDdve2IEkntsO2CtFG_UjGgWlxHM9hyjm4/s320/IMG_20221031_110740.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">The kitchen was sparsely equipped. Raghavan had bought a microwave and an ancient toaster. The shelves initially contained packets of pea soup and cashew nuts. The first dinner I cooked required a walk to the campus outskirts, to search for a small shop selling any kind of food. Sure enough, there was a tiny shop just outside, catering to the needs of a traffic intersection - displaying eggs in a rack, sweets and glucose biscuits in glass jars and a bunch of bananas that dangled overhead. I chose the eggs and went home to cook cashewnut omlets and to microwave the pea soup. That was our first and most memorable home cooked meal.</span></div><p></p><p>We had a little patch of garden where marigolds planted themselves each year. A small hardy custard apple tree and a papaya tree which yielded delicious yellow papayas (these are now hard to find, they have all been replaced by their hybrid orange-red cousins). I remember my first few spirited arguments with the Bengali neighbours who lived above us. The lady would keep plucking unripe papayas from our tree without telling me. While I claimed ownership to the tree because it grew in my garden, she claimed ownership to the papayas because they appeared at the level of her house! A dispute that was mercifully resolved a few months later, when they moved out.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8k4VhngQF_lKBpmHuNwCnX0x68lrl_9t0wKktuBGvq-hSGSqbUl69qdzE2wQQg8SGPF2nTfVn05CEY4X2pAyIJHwlLk7h2tY_NUJq9vNu4jyrGi3G_knSbyNwz7rPsBN7Yv8QrD1EJ-DXAS_kGRBuLfiGO-953wWraY5nYYcAnQqgLA-IDYKVYIek/s2950/IMG_20221031_110625.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2532" data-original-width="2950" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8k4VhngQF_lKBpmHuNwCnX0x68lrl_9t0wKktuBGvq-hSGSqbUl69qdzE2wQQg8SGPF2nTfVn05CEY4X2pAyIJHwlLk7h2tY_NUJq9vNu4jyrGi3G_knSbyNwz7rPsBN7Yv8QrD1EJ-DXAS_kGRBuLfiGO-953wWraY5nYYcAnQqgLA-IDYKVYIek/s320/IMG_20221031_110625.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I remember learning to rat proof my house. There was a large group of wily rodents of varying sizes and shapes that would sneak through gaps in doors at the slightest chance. Raghavan's hockey skills proved very handy in chasing them out and we gradually learnt to seal every possible crack in our house.</p><p>Raghavan's first birthday celebration was to be a surprise party. It was indeed a surprise filled evening, more for me perhaps than for anyone else. It was to be barbecue dinner. The friends who were to bring the barbecue set called at the last minute to say they could not come. There was a power cut that entire day, which meant no mixie - so all marinades were hand pounded. Large pans of drinking water were furtively boiled and cooled. I did not possess an oven so I made gulab jamuns from Amul full cream milk powder (which has since vanished from the shelves- it's all toned milk now so I am unable to use that splendid hand me down recipe from my mother any more). I fried the minced meat that had been kept to make seekh kebabs- a kebab by any other name name tastes almost as good..</p><p>"No more surprise parties, " I decided at the end of the day. It had been a nice celebration but I needed more hands to help out at parties at home in the future.</p><p>What I loved most about the campus were the magnificent trees. They really made me feel connected to an ancient and natural spirit. I still love seeing them and reaching out to them each day. </p><p>Summer brought tamarind, and in those days when the campus was devoid of stray dogs, homeless monkeys, security guards and resident construction labour, I was free to cycle down the little lanes, gathering tamarind pods that had fallen on the ground, to make into a delicious tangy pickle.</p><p>I remember our first Diwali, when my father in law made a special trip from Delhi to see us. It was filled with light and happiness. We lit a huge number of fireworks on our terrace and ate home made sweets, then drove him to the little airport in Indiranagar (which was rather a peaceful drive in those days).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEVRQ-0Voc8LDzYxiSGNZ3ZkIqGbbtQzeiQFd0MSXLe-jUMH7SzXcmGJXjlpHE2IuHxxRuKF4cSNR6AxQhnybVd5Q9BiCkFVQGmf2H0ITx8si3tfhjHxQVAQqmZLkZTILNbnyiRoKt_NL5RpbXw7hlmbkR2YVdcMOyh1FDAbGvZO48WM04uhAJcxVu/s2842/IMG_20221031_110656.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2525" data-original-width="2842" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEVRQ-0Voc8LDzYxiSGNZ3ZkIqGbbtQzeiQFd0MSXLe-jUMH7SzXcmGJXjlpHE2IuHxxRuKF4cSNR6AxQhnybVd5Q9BiCkFVQGmf2H0ITx8si3tfhjHxQVAQqmZLkZTILNbnyiRoKt_NL5RpbXw7hlmbkR2YVdcMOyh1FDAbGvZO48WM04uhAJcxVu/s320/IMG_20221031_110656.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhogIrmfv6C_Ul_UogTk0Gski-HVmIUVRX5uZxsrhAiIRilVXYIAgU29lECdlKk2ZLj5dZa1rkul48OLzZQlqTIk5ka71kfH_gOr3GC88u591CKf4I5BPGn6jEk-XzhHo7MwbavFLb4pPnpFyfw9q8DxBVu1ImADTwMPunDTT1oFiuBqz2-atDqq7iJ/s2558/IMG_20221031_134444.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2558" data-original-width="2240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhogIrmfv6C_Ul_UogTk0Gski-HVmIUVRX5uZxsrhAiIRilVXYIAgU29lECdlKk2ZLj5dZa1rkul48OLzZQlqTIk5ka71kfH_gOr3GC88u591CKf4I5BPGn6jEk-XzhHo7MwbavFLb4pPnpFyfw9q8DxBVu1ImADTwMPunDTT1oFiuBqz2-atDqq7iJ/s320/IMG_20221031_134444.jpg" width="280" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">When I look back, I get a warm, contented feeling thinking of all those moments. Not knowing where I was headed and not worrying about it, life moved on exactly as unpredictably as it had begun for me on that happy Halloween day, thirty years ago Not knowing where life was taking me but knowing it would be a good journey, and that was all that mattered.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUtrf9uvm9G9Gsw0WrAjANkDKEhjhSaGTMFsOoLSa2XTdCxXb52M73eDsMT3J7i3YBdiAixilvNikYZZxM7vUWeH6Z2ZYEyx-7jtDPgYzos-3dlZ9fdCaspScH5ToOns2guE_w_9iE2ZTaNkA9u3souWloYCV-CNSevZhHxoInYXotiZuy0Y3htTUA/s2189/IMG_20221031_141754.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2189" data-original-width="1451" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUtrf9uvm9G9Gsw0WrAjANkDKEhjhSaGTMFsOoLSa2XTdCxXb52M73eDsMT3J7i3YBdiAixilvNikYZZxM7vUWeH6Z2ZYEyx-7jtDPgYzos-3dlZ9fdCaspScH5ToOns2guE_w_9iE2ZTaNkA9u3souWloYCV-CNSevZhHxoInYXotiZuy0Y3htTUA/s320/IMG_20221031_141754.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmonxWVqGhGlJCelf8-FEjgTbU6L3nAWPt4gdmqvgxnkO__3ETd6Scxc4Q1VNx-GOC35Qb31gi16bYA8iHpZZdURADADRs7qkbE0L9Eywn-2E6nrlbAaRkp-885WoIwBhXId6rWkucJMvXmzUUBwdZxYuEN7TrYr2gWXF7RPqT9hcrkKaGmabQZLKa/s3714/IMG_20221031_110855.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3714" data-original-width="2914" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmonxWVqGhGlJCelf8-FEjgTbU6L3nAWPt4gdmqvgxnkO__3ETd6Scxc4Q1VNx-GOC35Qb31gi16bYA8iHpZZdURADADRs7qkbE0L9Eywn-2E6nrlbAaRkp-885WoIwBhXId6rWkucJMvXmzUUBwdZxYuEN7TrYr2gWXF7RPqT9hcrkKaGmabQZLKa/s320/IMG_20221031_110855.jpg" width="251" /></a></div><p></p></div>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-4993265998937430962022-10-13T13:59:00.001+05:302022-10-13T14:04:05.023+05:30Seeing What Is<p> On Tuesday morning, it was raining cats and dogs. "Why not candies?" asked my son Nayan. </p><p>"Candies would be like little rocks pelting on our head," I said, "And I'm not sure if we could eat them.."</p><p>"Of course, we could," said Nayan who actually doesn't eat much candy in real life.</p><p>"It might rain frogs," said Renee Aunty, who knows all about these things. "It does, sometimes, you know."</p><p>"It's raining rhinos and leopards in Arunachal Pradesh," said Ram Uncle who likes a bit of a jaunt now and then. "All I have been seeing are car wipers."</p><p>"On my farm in Maharashtra, it usually rains elephants and hippopotamuses," said Hasmukh Uncle with a smile. Nayan was worried that the farm animals might get squashed but I said they would probably be wise enough to keep away from the rain.</p><p>But after Nayan had sent the video of the rivulet flowing past his bus stop to all his friends, everyone agreed that this was an unusually torrential downpour.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw92ylE147yRoI-j2M9VTIAlkQcB393w34JJCn-bJidVjvCsq1zrHkORgZgrAu1agKzApR4R1UYh6cXi_Mivg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><p>"We used to float paper boats in the water," sad Mona Bua from Kolkata, "But that isn't a good idea because it could clog the drains."</p><p>"There are no drains near my bus stop," declared Nayan. "The next time it rains, I'm going to float a boat."</p><p>"We could make a banana leaf boat," said Raghavan aka Appa. "Did you know that leaf boats are decorated and floated on the river, on Kartik Purnima (the full moon day in the Indian month of Kartik)? This happens during a festival called Boita Bandana celebrated in Odisha to mark the day when merchants would set sail from the coast of Odisha to Southeast Asia and Sri Lanka for trade. Now it's a festival to mark the ancestral maritime journeys. There is also a similar festival in Thailand called Loy Krathong." </p><p>No, we did not know any of this (actually neither did he, but a few minutes on the Internet is all it takes).</p><p>"Actually,"continued Appa, "Kartik Purnima will be coming up soon, it usually occurs in November. And look - here's a video showing how to make a banana leaf boat without any pins or staples."</p><p>Wow! Appa sure knows how to ferret out important information.</p><p>So we agreed to try and make a banana leaf boat to set sail in the next rivulet we found.</p><p>But before we could find a banana leaf, the rain began again.</p><p>On Thursday morning, it pitter pattered without warning. There was no time to find a banana leaf or watch the video but Appa did make a perfect paper boat while the rest of us were rushing to get ready. I carried the boat carefully for Nayan but as we reached the bus stop, the rain tapered off. No rivulet! Not even a reasonable sized puddle.</p><p>Nayan was very upset. Tears trickled down his face. </p><p>I did not take it too seriously. "Look Nayan," I said, "Look at what all we have around- it's a beautiful day - crisp and clear, the sun has risen, the trees are all saying "Good morning' to you. We have time for a little walk. Look at what is, and not at what is not, or you will never be happy."</p><p>But he couldn't be consoled or diverted. So I just let him stand there with tears running down, until the bus arrived. He wiped his tears off as he sat in the bus and he did not see me wave goodbye.</p><p>"Why does this child have to feel so intensely?" I asked Raghavan. </p><p>"Maybe I shouldn't have made the boat. I did tell him that there would probably not be enough water and we could float it later at home, but I didn't think he would take it so much to heart. Anyway, it's a learning experience for us, and for him too."</p><p>"I told him," I said, "not to miss out on what is by dwelling on what is not, but he wouldn't listen."</p><p>"It's okay," said Raghavan, "He will soon get over it."</p><p>As I relaxed and thought about it, I realised that it was I who needed to see things as they were. Yes, it was a beautiful day for me, and not so at that moment for my little son, whose heart was aching because he had imagined and dreamt and so looked forward to floating a boat. ("Pray to the gods for rain," he had told me earnestly). </p><p>But in wondering why Nayan was so upset, I had stopped seeing him for what he is - a boy who is sensitive about things, and there are many things each day that touch his heart. When I freed myself of judgement, I appreciated the fact that Nayan could feel strongly about things that were important to him, and he could express his feelings without worrying about how others perceived him. I also know how buoyant he is - that once he is back from school, he will create a giant artificial puddle to float that boat, with much glee and splish-splashing. And later, Raghavan will watch that video and make that banana leaf boat for a rainy day. My job will just be to procure that banana leaf from our neighbour's garden (and pray to the God of Rain for a torrent even though our walls are dripping with water). I am gradually learning to see.</p>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-10391554203002805462022-09-10T18:03:00.003+05:302022-10-13T14:05:13.661+05:30Music Enters My Life<p> It has been about a year since I began my music lessons. It is very different learning experience compared to those when I was younger. The path seems considerably steeper, much more strewn with boulders.. Perhaps this is why I appreciate the opportunity to be able to learn more than ever.</p><p>I often feel I need to thank life - and my music teacher (Soumitro Sir as he is called) for adding this unexpected new dimension to my life, and my home. </p><p>It began, as many things do nowadays, with my son Nayan who does have a gift for music and a tendency to disregard his gifts. I searched hard for a music teacher for him, and am glad I finally found the perfect one for Nayan: someone who could introduce him to music gradually, systematically and playfully. My son often doesn't realise how much he is learning or how gently he is being prodded to continue with his practice when all he wants to do is to veg out.</p><p>I began to learn a little later (at the suggestion of the teacher) to support Nayan's music and help him at home. Thus Hindustani music found its way into our house. </p><p>We had always heard all kinds of music but now we were actually singing (and playing the tanpura and harmonium), and it had a different kind of energy. Nayan and I practiced singing; my husband periodically searched for similar kinds of music to what we were learning, and other songs that he thought we might like to learn.</p><p>For Nayan, singing is almost effortless. He glides in and out of notes, with minimal practice and complete confidence.</p><p>I am completely the opposite. I plod along, repeating each step innumerable times and I always feel I have a long way to go before I can sing something properly. Soumitro Sir understands. He just sits quietly, waiting for me to gather my confidence before I embark. It is an online class, so he offers to switch off his video so I don't see him there but I say that closing my eyes is an easier option. Once the momentum builds up and I stop thinking about how I sound, notes flow in a happy way. </p><p>Our classes are oft interrupted as both of us are working from home. "Ek minute, Madam, aap gate rehiye, main abhi aa raha hoon" ("One minute Madam, please keep singing, I am coming") or "Soumitro Sir, the gas person is here with a cylinder refill," or "The washing machine repair man has finally come. I will just be back." Or "I could not practice today. We had a dinner for ten people and I was cooking." </p><p>Our classes are filled with discussions of life, philosophy, family anecdotes and even food. Soumitro Sir knows I relate well to food (as he does), so I often hear, "Add a little sweetness Madam, not too much or it will get sickening, just a tiny bit.." Or, "When you make prawn curry, you need to mix the ingredients in the perfect proportions for the right taste. Music is like that. It's not just getting each note right, it is the mix of sound and feeling." He emphasises bringing softness and the right kind of emotion to each composition, which is something I would love to achieve. It's like breaking a sheet of ice of uncertainty and hesitation and allowing the warm, spontaneous feelings to burst through. (I am trying.)</p><p>Our classes are varied, keeping in mind a broad theme - streams of notes learnt in different ways that somehow fit into a greater whole that was not obvious to me at the outset. Often improvised depending on the mood (after months of practicing classical ragas, I have suddenly embarked upon learning a Bengali folk song written by Tagore. Soumitro Sir sang it for Nayan and the song resonated so much within me that I thought I would look into it, and there's no turning back now).</p><p>No turning back. For months I was full of doubts about my ability to learn singing. To be able to play the harmonium (and now, my son wants a tabla for his practice, there's no knowing where this journey is taking us). Now, I know there's no turning back. I would like to continue and I hope one day to sing freely, with all my heart. I hope, someday, to lend a voice to all those notes which float in my mind. Like writing, the words (or notes) seem to have a life of their own- and keeping them true to form while bringing them to paper (or in the air) to be read (or heard) is the main challenge.</p><p>When I write, there is no one looking over my shoulder, but when I sing, I am aware that everyone around can hear me. That is a big difference, and that is what makes me hesitate as I sing. But then, I remember Soumitro Sir's questions from an early class.</p><p>"When you are singing in the class or at home, who are you singing for?" My invariable answer would be, "I am singing for myself."</p><p>"And when you are facing an audience who has come especially to listen to you, who are you singing for?"</p><p>I falter. The prospect of facing an audience is unnerving. I say with some hesitation, "For the people who have come?"</p><p>"No! You are singing for yourself. You are always singing for yourself."</p><p>It is something I never forget. I sing because it opens up something vast and wonderful within me. I sing because I am filled with joy when I approach the right notes. I sing to air melodies that linger in my mind. I sing in deference to extraordinary composers, to the grace of classical music and the spontaneity of folk music. I sing in memory of all the love and beauty of Nature and of Life itself. I sing because I want to.</p>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-89148729718559009192022-04-03T15:44:00.001+05:302022-04-03T15:46:15.085+05:30The Way Back To Happiness<p> I recently read an article on Ricardo Munoz ‘s (former chief psychologist at San Francisco General Hospital and now distinguished professor of psychology at Pal Alto University) mission to prevent depression. He began in the nineteen eighties when very little was known about this subject and depression was largely thought to be unpreventable. </p><p>Munoz used simple techniques based on the premise that if people resumed pleasurable activities even though they didn’t feel like doing them, they felt better and were able to do more activities. This significantly helped to cure people suffering from depression and led to Munoz wondering if it could actually prevent the onset of depression. Years of work with a large number of patients (many from a low-income group, who didn’t speak any English) proved that it could.</p><p>Munoz then utilized the internet to reach out to many more people in different ways- he ran a very effective smoking cessation programme in the nineties and later founded a company to provide self help mental health information that he admits “won’t work for everybody, but nothing does.” It has helped a large enough number of people though, especially during the pandemic when the number of U.S. adults who had symptoms of a depressive disorder or anxiety disorder rose from 11% to 40%.</p><p>Munoz recommends simple methods like calling a friend, getting enough sleep, being with nature, listening to music or having a special event to look forward to, to prevent people from spiralling down into anxiety or depression.</p><p>This simple commonsense approach that has apparently worked wonders struck a chord in me. I had never given much thought to how troubling these problems can be until recently. My study of Ayurveda had just informed me that health is the state of equilibrium between the mind, body and spirit. I had read all about what happens when this equilibrium is shifted but never thought to apply it to myself.</p><p>I have been suffering from migraines for many years and sought various forms of remedies for these. Nothing seemed to work very well, the triggers (largely hormonal) were too strong and were getting more frequent over time. So last July I visited a few doctors. One of them recommended a medicine called Sibelium that was very commonly taken to prevent the onset of migraines. When I asked about side effects, he said, “Oh it will make you a bit sleepy and hungry. But you are thin and can afford to eat.. Ha! Ha!” It was said lightheartedly. And so, in the same spirit it was that I began this medicine.</p><p>The first day that I began the medicine, everything seemed strange. I could hardly keep awake and I was continuously eating whatever I could find. This seemed dreadful. I should have stopped right there. Instead, I told the doctor and, on his recommendation, went on a lower dose that reduced these symptoms and kept me away from the pain killers I had been using. I was able to function (and I really needed to function, with the pandemic lockdowns and my little son’s online school and assignments to be dealt with. My husband was, and since, has been busy making Covid and other vaccines - he was in his lab right through this period).</p><p>A few months later I noticed something startling. (My husband said that he had started noticing changes much earlier on- he felt I had lost my lightness of spirit- but he thought it might just be a small change with the medication and was probably reversible). I began to get sudden panic attacks for no reason. Fortunately, I connected it to the medicine (and when I read the list of possible side effects, this was one of the innumerable side effects listed as affecting a miniscule number of people). I got in touch with another doctor, who knew me and who I trusted, and his words were, “Get off the medicine immediately.”</p><p>I did just that, but the panic didn’t subside. It went on – a fierce churning in my abdomen and a terrible cloud of worry and gloom covering my mind, day, and night. I couldn’t enjoy even a single moment. I couldn’t sleep. I somehow had to still stay functional, to deal with my family life and also, unfortunately, the very large tangle of paperwork and other responsibilities that my father’s death had left on my shoulders. (My father passed away just at the onset of the pandemic quite suddenly, even before I had time to say goodbye to him, and this had also left me emotionally weak). It all seemed overwhelming. </p><p>Normally I would have dealt with everything one step at a time, but I was not functioning like my old self and, worse still, I didn’t know if I would get better. When I asked people, there seemed to be no answer other than, “Hopefully, the effects of the medicine will pass.”</p><p>Quite serendipitously, the day I went off the medicine was the day I was to meet an Ayurvedic doctor. I had set up the appointment some weeks ago, hoping to ease off the allopathic medicine. When I went, I gave him my medical history. He noted it down but said he just wanted to balance my elements from within and then gradually get me off all forms of medicine. He didn’t mention the migraines, the panic or anything. </p><p>I had not much hope but since I started the medicine, my migraines are very much under control. So, I am keeping my fingers crossed that I don’t get any other kinds of side effects with this medicine, though the doctor has told me that it is quite a mild kind of medication that he has given.</p><p>This blog is not about my troubled times. It is really about how I pulled myself through all this and how love and faith are really what can guide us in times of trouble. </p><p>I made an effort to listen to my inner voice which seemed shaky and weak, but which pointed me in a certain direction. I learnt that the direction which makes me feel better from inside is always the direction to take, no matter what anyone says. I learnt not to ignore those little bits of contentment or peace which came unbidden. And that peace leads to a trickle of joy sometimes, which may be easily forgotten. But then another trickle of joy comes along and slowly, very slowly, I realized that there are many tiny trickles of joy to be found in my world.</p><p>People helped a lot too; I was lucky enough to find the right kind of people. Too much talking does not help. Some people are embarrassed or don’t seem to want to hear about your misfortunes. Some give weird and wild advice which just unsettles you even more. Some will just shrug it off or say, “Snap out of it,” which is exactly what you want to do but don’t know how to.</p><p>I was very fortunate that my husband stood firmly beside me at every step. I woke him up a million times at night, called him endlessly at all hours while he was in lab and just repeated the same thing over and over, “I don’t feel good. I want to be back to what I was.”</p><p>He always heard me out, always encouraged me, always stood firm in his belief that I was gradually getting better, and everything would be fine.</p><p>My sister-in-law Tanu supplied me with virtual hugs and physical lavender sachets, both of which I clung to at night. Another sister-in-law, Kaveri, provided kind words over the phone. My friend Nora who is a Five Element acupuncturist, sent me diagrams of points that I could press or needle to get back into equilibrium.</p><p>My music teacher, Soumitro, served as a great source of strength and focused my energy in the direction of music, which I found very therapeutic. Though I began learning music less than a year ago (to help my son practice), never having learnt it before, I found myself drawn greatly to the sounds and notes that were introduced to me. My head felt better, my mind felt soothed and I discovered that I enjoyed singing. I called my teacher many times when I was low, and he always responded positively and joyfully, talking me through my troubles with examples of his views on how to feel good about life and reminding me that all was well in my world. He introduced me to peaceful and happy ragas that I could hear and sometimes hum or just replay in my mind. From being a music teacher, he moved onto being a friend to my son and myself.</p><p>And so, gradually, began the shift to positivity. I began ignoring the pangs and they gradually receded. I did not know how to actually feel happy again but my husband encouraged me to take time to do the things I had always enjoyed. Swimming, cooking and music filled the hours when my son went back to physical school. I stopped dwelling on all the paperwork that was piled up related to my father’s work. I timidly began asking people for advice or help when I found there were financial and other tasks beyond me, and I discovered how much goodwill there was for me. I may not have achieved any high-flying targets in recent years, but I care about people and people seem to remember and appreciate it. I sensed that and it made me feel grateful. This is how, gradually, the transition occurred. </p><p>Initially, in the swimming pool, my mind would be full of troubled thoughts, “I’m just wasting my time here when I should be doing bank work.” Now I enjoy the tranquility of the pool, the pale turquoise water with the glimmering sun beans slanting through. I enjoy the feel of the water and the way my body feels at the end of the swim. I enjoy the warm shower I take after that.</p><p>Earlier I would quake at the thought of making anything more complicated than rice, dal and a curry. Now I’m back to khow suey, stir fried crabs, homemade pizza and more. </p><p>Earlier, a walk outside would just be a short respite before I returned to my old worries. Now, I feel the breeze, smell the damp earth, reach out to the ancient trees and the young, springy grass that grows alongside. I thank Nature for showing me all its beauty each time I step outside. </p><p>I make it a point now to stay in touch with people I care about. Earlier I wondered what I could say to them as nothing much was happening in my life. Now I realize it doesn’t matter. Somehow, we connect, words flow, and people appreciate my gesture of reaching out to them.</p><p>Not that I no longer sense those clouds gathering. They do come once in a while, but they don’t stay for long. I try to remember the peaceful or happy moments of my days and remind myself that each day will be filled with some of these special times, which will stretch out for longer and longer periods. And I will get back to my yoga and my writing soon. </p><p>I no longer take natural beauty, bursts of joy, periods of peace and different forms of love or compassion for granted. Each such moment has become very special for me- a gift to be grateful for and to be cherished. I find that acknowledging and appreciating each beautiful moment inevitably leads to other moments of great positivity.</p><p>And as for banks and other impersonal institutions that I need to keep dealing with? They can all wait. My happiness can’t.</p><div><br /></div>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-68022274286238684842021-08-28T14:52:00.005+05:302021-08-28T14:59:44.462+05:30My Cupboard Complains<p> It all began with the packers. Everything that goes wrong in our house, if not blamed on the monkeys, is always blamed on the packers. But it WAS their fault. For mixing things up in big boxes, leaving them unlabeled and strewn all over the house. Boxes that were too big and heavy for me to move, boxes that were too jumbled up for me to guess what lay within each. There is more order in volcanic eruptions than in my unpacked boxes.</p><p>"It's okay,"says my husband. "We're not here to win a prize for neat and tidy homes." (This means, "I'm not going to waste my time clearing up this mess when I can work on a Coronavirus vaccine."). Fair enough. And, usually, it's okay. The inherent lack of order combined with the disorder my son brings each day into our house is something we live cheerfully with. (Garbage is not garbage, according to my son. It is a thing of wondrous possibilities, which he must explore).</p><p>We moved in just before the Coronavirus did. At a busy time, a few days before Diwali. "Don't worry about unpacking, immediately" said my husband (which meant, "I have to go to Africa on Diwali. We'll deal with things when I return."). And so I just skimmed the surface of what lay in the boxes and put them away. Of course certain emergencies required immediate action (like my husband realising a few hours before his flight that he had no sweater. Finally, after much upheaval, we located one (and only one) sweater -the rest were packed in a completely different box in the garage.</p><p>It has now been almost two years since we moved. Gradually I have unpacked, leaving the lowest priority and most voluinous items for the end. These were undoubtedly my clothes. Living in three pairs of clothes for a year brought a certain sense of freedom. No choices to be made. No accessories to choose. Just wear, wash and repeat the process. This served me well through the first pandemic year. Until my clothes developed holes that grew larger and larger.</p><p>It was then that I unpacked and put away the rest of my clothes. My cupboard is old and exceedingly beautiful. It has spotless glass and coloured tiles on it and is made of ancient, gleaming teak. But its design is such that I cannot see half the contents because the doors do not open completely. To access these, I have to pull everything our, sift through the clothes and push everything back again. Not practical but I love my cupboard much too much to change this. And my cupboard (when it is not in one of its moods, loves me immensely too).</p><p>So I carefully put away my things but had no use for most of them because life was still moving at maximum simplicity scale. The priority was waking up early, going outdoors to play, rushing back, cooking breakfast, checking internet connections, making sure we were in time for the zoom calls, cooking the next meal and repeating this process over and over.</p><p>It was finally only today that I gathered the energy to wear a saree. I got my first saree when I was sixteen and I have loved wearing them ever since. In my parents' house I was oblivious as to the demands of sarees- they demand to be hand washed, starched, sun-dried, carefully ironed and put away in the right place, next to the matching blouses and petticoats. It is understandable that I have not been able to summon the energy to wear a saree for the last two years.</p><p>But today things were different. Today I was determined to wear one. And so I went confidently to the cupboard and pulled out my favourite colour- off white. I love all shades of white and this white and blue one was what I would wear today.</p><p>But life had Other Plans. The saree was perfect, but - no blouse! I searched high and low and finally located the blouses tucked away in a corner, camouflaged next to a bunch of dupattas. Whew! But the problem was far from solved. My cupboard, which once overflowed with white petticoats suddenly shook its head when I asked it to produce just one. "Not possible," it said with a little sigh. "You didn't put them in here."</p><p>Didn't put them in here! I was aghast. Where HAD I put them?</p><p>"Well maybe you did. But - ahem- you have so many white clothes and they look all the same folded up that I can't tell," my ancient cupboard groaned. "Here- why don't you take this nice- grey one."</p><p>Grey! I shuddered. It is a colour I don't like. "Okay, how about- bright yellow, dark mustard, navy blue.."</p><p>I shook my head. "Oh! You're so hard to please," creaked my cupboard. "Well, take this- it's a very old green one."</p><p>Green- I rummaged around. Yes, I had a saree. I had a blouse (did it fit?- whew! yes it did..). Okay I could manage that. "Thank you," I whispered to the cupboard. "Don't mention it- ever again," it sighed. I wondered. Had I been too demanding?</p><p>Finally, after I got into my saree, I felt it had all been worth it. Yes, there are mounds of clothes scattered about which have to be rearranged and put back. Yes, I need to find those white petticoats asap. Yes, I will have to wash this saree (but I am not going to think that far ahead). Today, I am going to enjoy wearing my green saree with this cheerful red blouse. A small triumph of perseverance in the face of complete clothes-finding chaos. Even my cupboard approves of that.</p>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-62198467395269444152021-08-17T14:02:00.002+05:302021-08-17T14:02:54.853+05:30It Rains!<p style="text-align: center;"> It rains, the Earth</p><p style="text-align: center;">Sighs in relief</p><p style="text-align: center;"> It has been parched</p><p style="text-align: center;">Beyond belief.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">It rains, the trees sway</p><p style="text-align: center;">With the breeze</p><p style="text-align: center;">I watch the drops</p><p style="text-align: center;">Leap off the leaves.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">It rains, the sky</p><p style="text-align: center;">Is all aglow</p><p style="text-align: center;">With fireflies'</p><p style="text-align: center;">Fluorescent flow.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">It rains, I hear</p><p style="text-align: center;">The koel call</p><p style="text-align: center;">Nocturnal notes </p><p style="text-align: center;">That rise and fall.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">Faultless notes</p><p style="text-align: center;">That flit and dart</p><p style="text-align: center;">They echo deep</p><p style="text-align: center;">Within my heart.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">It rains and brings</p><p style="text-align: center;">A peace so deep</p><p style="text-align: center;">My heart is full</p><p style="text-align: center;">I fall asleep.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-45uDwNDNr8M/YRty5RzDLQI/AAAAAAAAEEU/V3Lx57nPAQEzLgXeDxeZyWMofu2h58vwwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/439D135C-DFAC-4B9C-8749-07135BFD317A_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1444" data-original-width="2048" height="226" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-45uDwNDNr8M/YRty5RzDLQI/AAAAAAAAEEU/V3Lx57nPAQEzLgXeDxeZyWMofu2h58vwwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/439D135C-DFAC-4B9C-8749-07135BFD317A_1_201_a.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-9695247621670157542021-08-01T14:48:00.001+05:302021-08-01T14:48:10.296+05:30"But, Do You Like It?"<p> The eye of the beholder is always subjective. This is driven home to me each time I see the amazing rug collection of my friend Danny, who travels thousands of miles to search for tribal rugs from Central Asia, some of them over a hundred years old!</p><p>This thought also comes back to me with some force when I deal with my seven year old son, Nayan, who hasn't strayed from home since the pandemic began, but whose eye and mind work very differently from mine.</p><p>This was reinforced during Nayan's music class, when the teacher would ask him, "Do you like these songs? Which song would you like to sing? How do you feel?"</p><p>Initially I found these questions rather odd for a regular music class. "Leaving these decisions to a child is asking for trouble," I thought. "Nayan is just going to take advantage of this or impulsively say something that he will be stuck with, forever."</p><p>But that didn't happen. Nayan relaxed, sometimes he didn't even reply (and that seemed to be fine with the teacher); sometimes he couldn't give his reasons very clearly. But during this process, there developed between him and the teacher, a kind of trust and understanding. Nayan understood and respected the fact that he would not be pushed into learning music and that he was an equal and active participant in the class. </p><p>He began analysing the songs he was to sing, watching all possible versions of them and saying to me, "This one is too fast, this is sooo slow, this tune is not correct, this pronunciation is funny.." All this helped him learn to listen.</p><p>It was a lesson for me on leaving certain decisions to children and trusting them to find their way through the maze of perplexing possibilities.</p><p>This struck home again last night when Nayan wandered into his bedroom to sleep on his Very Own Bed. Within fifteen minutes, he was back by my side, snuggling close to me and saying he couldn't sleep on his bed even though his favourite bear Samatva was by his side. "No, he was not scared. No, he was not disturbed. But he just couldn't sleep.." </p><p>This has been a regular feature with Nayan but tonight something tugged at my memory.</p><p>"Nayan," I asked the next morning, "Do you like your room?"</p><p>"Hmmm.." he was not sure. "I can't seem to sleep there."</p><p>Looking at the room, I realised that it had none of Nayan's possessions. Not even his toys (because he usually plays in the living room). His name (which he had proudly coloured and stuck) was on the door. There was a picture of tigers high up, looking down at him (because I love tigers) but, apart from that, the walls were bare. The room was usually just used for ironing clothes during the day so there were piles of clothes everywhere.</p><p>"Let's begin," I said, "By removing these clothes and putting all the things that YOU would like into this room.</p><p>Nayan pondered. "We'll begin with the aeroplane cloud that Appa drew for me," he said. "We can hang it above my name."</p><p>There was a very convenient little nail so we could do that quite quickly.</p><p>Now Nayan is busy thinking of the other things that he can put up. While doing so, perhaps he will spend a little more time looking at and getting to know his little room. And someday, he might even feel comfortable enough to lie on the bed there and happily fall asleep...</p>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-386243545963835102021-07-30T11:05:00.001+05:302021-07-30T11:45:42.418+05:30Don't Be Afraid Of Dragons<p> They hiss, they spit, they bare their fangs and snap at us! </p><p>They rise effortlessly above us and just as we hope they have flown away, they come swooping down to breathe fire once more..</p><p>I have always dreaded dragons. There seemed so many of them- waiting to pounce on me when I was a child and they find their way still, when I am asleep - and sometimes (even worse) - when I'm wide awake.</p><p>They come in a bewildering array of forms (bringing that sinking feeling which is much more dreadful than the dragon itself) : nagging doubts, gnawing anxiety, dreaded deadlines, tugs of disappointment at things that didn't happen the way I wanted, unachieved 'targets', being the victim of dangerous road rages, vitriolic verbal outbursts, cold shoulders and more..</p><p>How, oh how do we deal with all these? Merely shouting, "Dragons flee!" doesn't seem to help. </p><p>One way forward, I think, is by taking it one moment (and one dragon) at a time and thinking of it as an opportunity for change and self discovery. Once you make sense of one dragon, you realise they are all the same even if the shapes vary. They all aim to distract you and disrupt your natural state of equilibrium.</p><p>When they succeed in doing so, everything looks bigger and harder to tackle. So- hold on tight to your inner self, don't let it slip away and you will find your Very Own methods to deal with that particular Dragon in your life.</p><p>My seven year old son, brimming with curiosity, peers over my shoulder as I write this blog.</p><p>"I'm so happy you're telling people not to be afraid of dragons, Mummy," he says, hugging his special red and yellow dragon, Flamie Jamie. </p><p>"Appa, are you afraid of dragons? Don't be."</p><p>"I think I am," says his father. "Dragons can be very scary sometimes."</p><p>"But that's not real!" exclaims my son. "They look like they're breathing fire but that's only their mucous which comes in the winter or when they're sick. That mucous doesn't burn you, it just stops you from seeing clearly. And what they are asking for is just some medicine and a hanky."</p><p>Thought provoking words indeed. Dragons lead us to despair and destruction. To battles we wouldn't have chosen for ourselves. But what lurks within a dragon? A sense of loss and despair? A world frozen so many times, it has lost the ability to appreciate warmth? </p><p>Can we provide all that the dragon asks or secretly desires? No (at least I cannot!). Handkerchiefs and medicinal brews are not so easy to come by (handkerchiefs in particular, in my house, seem to do the vanishing act each time I need them).</p><p>Perhaps we can begin by avoiding the usual pitfalls- those flashes of temper, gushes of dislike or cold contempt. Let's not move away from our inner tranquility (that we have worked so hard to reach). Hang on desperately to our place of refuge and shelter- our inner core and refuse to budge from there. Use our inner core to throw the dragons off balance as a Tai Chi master might have effortlessly done in days of yore.</p><p>The dragons may not disappear but we will feel better about ourselves. And holding on to this feeling, we might deal with our opponents in ways better than when we were filled with hatred, rage or fear. The dragons might even just recede, filled with disgust at our lack of opposition, for perhaps all they wanted was a good old fight. Perhaps we might even discover that dragons lack weapons with which to approach the deep stillness that lies within us. The possibilities are endless..</p><p>As I think about these things, the words of Lao Tzu echo in my mind-</p><p>"...The Tao is empty, yet when applied is never filled up.</p><p>So deep it is, Ah! it seems to be the ancestor of all things.</p><p>Blunting sharp edges, resolving confusions,</p><p>Diffusing glare, uniting the world:</p><p>Such depth, Ah! something seems to exist there.</p><p>I do not know whose child it is.</p><p>It seems to have existed before the Ancestor..."</p><p>Perhaps we can use this emptiness to our advantage. When we are empty, how will dragons find us?</p>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-91849382922360895072021-07-27T16:32:00.001+05:302021-07-27T16:32:37.448+05:30A Little Love, A Lot of Work<p> When my nephew told me last week that he had bought his own house, I was amazed at how much time had gone by. My nephew spent several years with us when he arrived after school, from Kolkata, to attend college in Bangalore. </p><p>This week he sent a message saying the house drains were blocked and he was having a difficult time getting them fixed. My husband and I immediately thought,"Maybe we should have told him to check all these things before, we have had so many years of experience setting up houses.." But we didn't want to appear to interfere. There is a special joy that comes from settling into your first house and learning from your early mistakes.</p><p>This incident reminded me of our own last move to a lovely house on campus with exactly the same problems (tree roots had grown into the drains)- it was airy and spacious but old, unlived in and full of niggling problems. As with all houses, this one too required a little love and a lot of work to set it right and show up its charm.</p><p>I began to think of all the houses we had changed over the years since I was married. I first arrived in 1993, with ten bags, to join my husband in a tiny one bedroom apartment. My husband looked at me and then at all the bags. </p><p>"We only have space for two bags," he said. "Send the rest back." Then, looking at my despondent face, he relented and said, "We'll try to fit as much as we can in."</p><p>So out went our institute furniture- two metal chairs and a metal camp bed. We put some shelves high on the wall and hauled the bags and their contents up there. Some boxes doubled up as benches and tables and somehow we fit everything in. This was nice because I had saved up all my student stipend to buy things for us- nothing fancy but very nice cookware, a pile of books, tons of CDs and cassettes and all else that my husband and I could happily share in our first home.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NDE6GjCN5So/YP_kFiKmsLI/AAAAAAAAEC0/nXdQH35PWjU6iunrY_Wzhx_W-lWkKBF9gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7742.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1739" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NDE6GjCN5So/YP_kFiKmsLI/AAAAAAAAEC0/nXdQH35PWjU6iunrY_Wzhx_W-lWkKBF9gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_7742.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our first home</td></tr></tbody></table><p>We needed lots of light so I cut up old sarees to make curtains - they swung gently in the breeze and reminded me of my mother as they swished about our rooms.</p><p>We had a little garden and this space gave me my first lessons- on life and gardening. I planted marigolds with gay abandon, which were torn to pieces by little children and monkeys. We had a custard apple tree bearing the mot delicious fruit and a papaya tree which also gave the sweetest yellow papayas (nowadays a rarity). The trouble was a Bengali neighbour living above us, who claimed right to all the papayas because they grew up close to her terrace, and she wanted all the green papayas she could get. I was furious because I claimed ownership of the papaya tree since it grew down below, in my garden. She claimed her right by means of seniority, I claimed mine by my fiery temper (which is now usually under control but in those days was unpredictable).. This issue was never resolved and after a few months, she moved to a bigger house elsewhere.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-toUieI88Ph8/YP_kRD8IpNI/AAAAAAAAEC4/b_5mY0ZmRSgJ9uRIf4__siijxgtHGxDBwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7741.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1645" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-toUieI88Ph8/YP_kRD8IpNI/AAAAAAAAEC4/b_5mY0ZmRSgJ9uRIf4__siijxgtHGxDBwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_7741.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marigolds, papayas - and trouble!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Now my papayas were safe but we had problems of another nature. The next neighbour complained bitterly of my husband's habit of inviting students home and playing music for them on the weekends. This was hard to rectify, I think we just closed our door and windows and did our best to keep out of their way.</p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U6PtBUwTuw8/YP_kamCYIVI/AAAAAAAAEDA/Yfh5Rn0vxG0dc166CAR6AzN-jY1YqLJpACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7743.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1737" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U6PtBUwTuw8/YP_kamCYIVI/AAAAAAAAEDA/Yfh5Rn0vxG0dc166CAR6AzN-jY1YqLJpACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_7743.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With students at home</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Our next house was bigger, almost palatial, in comparison. It had two bedrooms and a huge empty space on one side, overgrown with trees. At this time, when my father visited, he bought us a plastic table and chairs (that we somehow transported home on the back of our ancient Fiat). We placed these in our overgrown garden and had our morning meals under the trees. There were plenty of snakes and rodents; many of them found their way into out house. This experience really taught us the ways to animal proof our house. My husband's hockey skills were much appreciated while chasing all these animals out.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IHk6aNzsPgE/YP_ktsNXm-I/AAAAAAAAEDM/MonVOI4S8gQ44qvotxki7fJGYCCrophTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7744.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1563" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IHk6aNzsPgE/YP_ktsNXm-I/AAAAAAAAEDM/MonVOI4S8gQ44qvotxki7fJGYCCrophTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_7744.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My nephew and I organise a barbecue </td></tr></tbody></table><p>Then we moved to a first floor apartment; this was the first time we were off the ground. I always feel very rooted to the earth and I wondered if I would ever settle into a house located somewhere in space. But to my surprise, I loved it because every window looked into the top of a tree (filled with birds, squirrels and insects of all kinds) and there was much more sunlight. Yes, my baby (who is very sensitive sound) would get startled and cry each time the koel sang and the most ferocious (Vespa) wasps would love to nest in out windows, sometimes stinging us- but my terrace garden flourished with the sunlight, and so did we.</p><p>Now we are in a larger house with a garden and a huge empty (overgrown!) space on one side. I have spent months clearing the space of concrete debris from past inhabitants. We have snakes, monkeys, rats but they are now firmly kept out of the house. There is not much sunlight below and some mango trees keep raining mangoes on our driveway that smash into our car and that no one likes to eat. An enormous jackfruit tree has shed its hefty fruit, completely crushing out roof outside. But it is lovely to see so much greenery and hear so many birds.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5eY8UizIfFM/YP_l5sW-48I/AAAAAAAAEDY/H_xkbuNrHioqzkG42Fkg8E9QHkaaAQi-QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/3B36DFF3-76C2-4404-82F8-C1901D9EF7AB.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5eY8UizIfFM/YP_l5sW-48I/AAAAAAAAEDY/H_xkbuNrHioqzkG42Fkg8E9QHkaaAQi-QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/3B36DFF3-76C2-4404-82F8-C1901D9EF7AB.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giant roof-crushing jackfruit</td></tr></tbody></table><br />We all have our favoured nooks- my husband has set up an airy corner for his computer work that overlooks our garden with its outsize ginger lilies on which humming birds sit. Bougainvillea sways in a corner and bulbuls love to play in between its thorny stems and he can watch all this while working. <br /><p>My son has his study table next to my husband's and his favourite teddy bear sits on a bench behind, watching every move. </p><p>I like to sit on the terrace especially for my evening music practice, as long as I can, before the mosquitoes drive me in. </p><p>Our bedroom overlooks the trees that grow tall and wild; in the monsoon season, the fireflies light up the darkness outside the windows. Little birds perch on the windowsills, looking for beetles to eat and squirrels peep in hopefully trying to find an opening to enter and build their nests. </p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mAUbUb62f7o/YP_l5Or6o8I/AAAAAAAAEDU/CeknjlcysYMv8B_fGAGbhXfX6tR70JZUgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/0AFA5F3F-6555-460C-8408-D4D978FDA335.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mAUbUb62f7o/YP_l5Or6o8I/AAAAAAAAEDU/CeknjlcysYMv8B_fGAGbhXfX6tR70JZUgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/0AFA5F3F-6555-460C-8408-D4D978FDA335.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mangoes that no one likes to eat</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>We have this house for five years and next will have to move out of campus, to yet another house. Until then, we enjoy this house, getting to know its creaks and leaks and sighs..</p><p></p>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-27033685196003093002021-07-23T20:09:00.003+05:302021-07-24T09:40:08.429+05:30Thoughts, On Guru Poornima<p>It is Guru Poornima, the day when we remember and pay respect to our Guru- the word goes far beyond the meaning of Teacher or Master. </p><p>A Guru is one who leads you from darkness to light (gu- darkness, ru- light). One who shows you the way, not the end.</p><p>And so, tonight, as I use my last five minutes to type, I can only feel thankful that I met and studied with my Yoga Guru and that I can still be in touch with him though I am no longer directly practicing yoga with him. As has often been said about Gurus, my Guru's house was a place of silent refuge for me each morning. I would leave my worldly worries at the doorstep and focus entirely on yoga for the next three hours, feeling the calm and strength that the practice gives, slowly growing within me.</p><p>I have not much time to write, so I am pasting below a few thoughts from previous blogs of mine-</p><p>"Last week, in one of our class discussions, we wondered about the reams of writings on yoga - What is necessary? What is useful? What is desirable?- according to various accomplished yogis. This is a confusing area, strewn with subjectivity, many times topics are described in the absence of context or level of difficulty. </p><p>Finally, our yoga teacher gave his own views, repeating several times that yoga is for those who have nothing. Nothing? Not exactly - but what he meant was that people who have already attained control over their minds, their physical selves don't really need most of these practices. </p><p>But for the average person, physical health is necessary to carry out most of what one wants to achieve, and along with this a certain peace of mind and sense of satisfaction are desirable. For this person (which includes most of us), yoga is a simple step towards staying healthy and peaceful. </p><p>There are many different approaches to yoga based on our specific temperaments and affinities. In a more physical sense too, all one really needs to practice yoga, is a bit of land or a part of a room, where one might be undisturbed. In addition, having a yoga mat is perhaps not asking for too much! And of course, a bit of time. But that is all it takes to begin. </p><p>Somehow, the phrase 'for those who have nothing' stayed in my mind and I began thinking of the verses composed by Adi Shankaracharya (an eighth century spiritual preceptor) in his Atma Shatakam (the song of the self). According to the story about him, when he was eight years old, he was walking through the Himalayas in search of a guru. He met a sage (the teacher he was searching for)who asked him who he was. The young boy replied with this Sanskrit poem, of which I quote a few lines: </p><p>"Mano Buddhi Ahankara Chitta Ninaham Nacha Shrotra Jihve Na Cha Ghrana Netre Nacha Vyoma Bhoomir Na Tejo Na Vayu Chidananda Rupa Shivoham Shivoham" </p><p>(I am not mind, nor intellect, nor ego, nor the reflections of the inner self I am not the five senses. I am beyond that. I am not the ether, nor the earth, nor the fire, nor the wind (etc. - the five elements). I am indeed, That eternal knowing and bliss, I am Shiva, I am Shiva).</p><p>" Na Punyam Na Papam Na Saukhyam Na Dukham Na Mantro Na Teertham Na Vedo Na Yajnaha Aham Bhojanam Naiva Bhojyam Na Bhokta Chidananda Rupa Shivoham Shivoham"</p><p>(I have neither merit, nor demerit. I do not commit sins or good deeds, nor have happiness or sorrow, pain or pleasure. I do not need mantras, holy places, scriptures, rituals or sacrifices. I am none of the triad of the observer or one who experiences, the process of observing or experiencing, or any object being observed or experienced. I am indeed, That eternal knowing and bliss, I am Shiva, I am Shiva)..."</p><p><br /></p><p>"Our Yoga class is slowly winding down, the teacher is moving to Mysore where a fresh batch of students await him. After studying with him for almost ten years (the first six involving three hour classes from Monday to Saturday, beginning at 6 a.m. sharp) there is a little tug of separation. Try as we might to emulate paths laid down by the yogis, feelings intervene at times. </p><p>The class is almost empty now, just my husband and I and the teacher. We spend the last few days asking questions of all kinds, moving as always, towards understanding the asanas (postures) and pranayama (breath control) within our limitations. It is a time of change. </p><p>The yoga teacher discusses teaching styles and ways to correct students. Having gone down this path for so long, we have decided to finally teach, but the details are still unclear.</p><p>We stretch, lift, inhale, relax - and occasionally collapse - some things don't seem to change! The yoga teacher is trying to convey the very essence of the practice to each of us, it seems to me. My husband is shown ways to correct difficult movements and I am reminded of the key components of the practice - focussing on the joints, breath and mind.</p><div><div>The mind is the hardest to deal with. To disregard its tendencies to flit about and to remain focussed on the breathing and movements is a big challenge for me. To be able to do this on my own each day - the thought is daunting but exciting as well. For this is the only way to go deeper into the practice.</div><div><br /></div><div>But no matter what we do (or don't do), some essence of the practice always remains within us, ready to express itself at any moment we choose.."</div></div><div><br /></div><div>And so today, I thank my Guru, and all true Gurus in the world, for helping their students find their individual paths and for guiding and supporting them during this process.</div>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-68233152705397996862021-07-19T15:34:00.006+05:302021-07-19T17:27:32.134+05:30Questions About Commitment<p> Where and how do our commitments begin? Today I dwelt on some of my life changing commitments and wondered. </p><p>My commitment to writing happened unexpectedly. I always liked to write but I never thought of spending much time on it. </p><p>Until my career as a scientist was blown apart and I decided to take a deep breath and face the blank wall in front of me. Something would appear at some time, the question was, did I have the courage and faith to wait and see what else I could do with my life? </p><p>Yes, I did, and I filled this time with writing - writing just for myself. I wrote little dramas, poems, children's stories. I wrote a book about my mother's life. It turned out that many people wanted to read what I had written, and in due course I found myself taking this task more seriously. A blog? I was almost computer illiterate, but why not? A new column for a college Science journal- I had never before met or interviewed outstanding Indian scientists, mathematicians and engineers in different parts of the country, but this was something I chose to fill my column with. Science journalism- yes, of course. Judging poetry contests in colleges? I didn't think I was qualified but the colleges seemed to think I was doing all right.</p><p>This commitment to writing continues, though I am able to spend much less time on it nowadays. However, I realised recently that I write almost everyday in some form- especially notes and letters to friends (I do warn people that I write way too much in my letters and I often do not always expect replies). But writing has now moved beyond work and has helped me to connect and share thoughts with many friends and acquaintances, enriching my life beyond belief.</p><p>I can say the same with yoga. I began learning it mostly because I went through many years of ill health. I was looking for something to strengthen and heal me from within, something I could do on my own without fancy equipment and most importantly, a philosophy I could relate to. Yoga provided all these. </p><p>I tried a lot of yoga classes while working- studying with teachers in several cities, reading books and attending workshops. Nothing seemed to work the way Patanjali (to whom the earliest work on yoga- the yoga sutras - is attributed) had described. "Do the yoga sutras really work?" I wondered. "And if they do, can I find a teacher who can help me?"</p><p>I did find a teacher. It was not while I was juggling between studying and running a home. It happened during the time I was facing the blank wall and was willing to travel to any reasonable city to study with a teacher for a few months. As it turned out, I did not have to. There was a teacher (and in my mind, after an extensive search, there was only one teacher in the entire city of Bangalore who I could accept as a teacher). But would he accept me as a student? The answer, initially, was "No".</p><p>"I don't do therapy," he said. "And you live 17 km away. You don't know how to drive. My asana classes begin at 6 a.m. and go on till 9 a.m. In the beginning there is unbearable pain, which you will have to bear, and you should not take any painkillers for all this. I think it is better you find someone closer to your house."</p><p>It all seemed intimidating but by tackling one step at a time, I managed to convince the teacher to give me a chance. After a few days, he told me, "If students don't practice what I tell them, I just ask them to go away." My heart leapt in shock. "I must practice!" I told my self desperately. This is my only chance. </p><p>In all the ten years that I spent in the yoga class, I have in fact never seen my teacher being anything other than compassionate, skilled and patient. Excessively slow sometimes, I thought- I spent five years requesting him to teach me pranayama (which regular yoga workshops teach in a few minutes of starting). Anyway, it was a very enjoyable phase of learning, and when my teacher moved to Mysore, I continued at home, on my own.</p><p>My teacher did encourage me to teach but I felt I always needed to work on my own practice. How could I are to teach people when I was not perfect? It took me a long time to realise that what people are looking for in a teacher is not perfection, but someone who might be able to provide a way to help them. I never organised a teaching class or looked for students. But people did come to me for help, one or two at a time, and to my surprise, I found that I was able to apply the methods I had learnt to help them. </p><p>When the time is right, they tell me they have learnt all they wanted to and are now self reliant in their practice. And so, what I thought was a way to delve into myself has become means to reach out to others who may be looking for a way to get back to a natural state of well being.</p><p>Music is my most recent commitment. Again, I am not quite sure of when I made this commitment because all I was looking for was a way to encourage my son's interest in music. But it has begun, and though I am singing just for myself, it has already overflowed into my life - we begin the morning with music, we spend the evening in music, it provides a safe refuge when life is at its most demanding, it soothes me as I sleep- and as it does this, my reactions to the world change. I am perhaps a little calmer, a little more rooted as I face life and - at the same time, I feel as perplexed and insignificant as I did when I began my training as a scientist. The world of music is so vast, I know so little and am so ill-qualified- will I ever find my way through this? </p><p>I realised today that it didn't matter. Something inside me is already committed to this, and it will take its own course. I just have to sit back and trust myself and life. As Robert Frost said -</p><p>"Two roads diverged in a wood and I - I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."</p><p><br /></p>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-43581416795067277352021-07-04T12:12:00.003+05:302021-07-04T12:16:18.467+05:30Smoky Rice And Imperfect Notes- A Musical Journey<p> It has been a couple of months since I began my music classes. So much seems to have changed since then. As I dwell on this, I begin to realise that music is really a very potent form of energy. Though we all know this at some level, we take it for granted many times. The sense of hearing is linked so closely to our brain that the softest of sounds is capable of triggering memories, affecting moods and even altering breathing patterns.</p><p>I began my music classes unintentionally. As I have written earlier, I was searching for a music teacher to help my little son sing. But in the very first class, things seemed to be going according to a completely different plan. After my son had finished his lesson, the music teacher asked me to sit down and sing. "You must be knowing sa, re ga ma.. (notes of the octave)," he said. </p><p>Yes, almost everyone knows that.</p><p>But not me.</p><p>My mind went back to school days when I had always been considered a poor singer in my class. I think there were a lot of talented musicians in my class and the task of making a large, heterogeneous group sing in tune was a Herculean one for the music teacher. So there were a few students like me, who were asked just to stand there and not really sing much.</p><p>I don't think adults mean to influence children so much but over the years this message somehow stayed and got amplified in my mind. "I cannot sing."</p><p>While all this flashed through my mind, I was sitting before the computer during the first music class, wondering how to get out of this excruciatingly embarrassing situation. The teacher was proceeding to explain that my son would learn considerably more if I could participate in his singing and help him during his practice.</p><p>So I began, perhaps where every music student begins, with the first note (sa). "Apna sa khojo (search for your sa)," said the teacher, as many teachers have said to their students. Thus began my search for a note, and I had no idea where to begin.</p><p>"You are doing very well," the teacher said a few weeks later, "even though you have just begun."</p><p>Yes, I had just begun. But was this the real beginning? While singing, I often found my mind taking me back to the past - the time I was about six years old and I could see my mother practicing music. I could almost hear her notes. So the octave was not really unfamiliar, it was just hidden somewhere inside me. </p><p>I did not have too many more memories of my mother's singing because the next few years of my childhood were those of transition for our family as we moved from place to place. The musical instruments were lost somewhere in transit and it seemed my mother was not able to find time to continue her singing. My brother and I moved to my grandfather's house at some moment and singing was forgotten.</p><p>My mother passed away when I was twenty three, after a valiant battle with leukaemia. Though it was a battle she lost, she had given us and many others around, so much strength and happiness that we did not know how to cope with her absence. </p><p>When I began my music practice, these memories suddenly came flooding back. I had just buried the pain, not finding a way to release it. It sounds incredible (it felt incredible to me) but as I sang and sang, I felt the pain go. I was closer to my mother than I had been for years. I felt her (and my father's) presence somewhere very close to me- as if I could reach out to them anytime I wanted. This was a big step in healing a source of continuous pain that I had been carrying about for years.</p><p>Healing rarely happens in one go. I felt lighter and was able to practice more joyfully. But there were other swirling patterns of negativity that I only recognised after some time. Just as when a pond is stirred, many things seem to rise to the surface, not all at the same time.</p><p>Why was I so convinced I could never get the notes right? What was this strange feeling of guilt telling me I was just indulging myself and neglecting important work at home? What was the uneasiness that crept in each time I visualised myself learning from the music teacher over a long period of time?</p><p>Why, instead of discussing music, as I wanted to, did I find myself sending messages to my teacher like 'Burnt rice again because I was practicing in the kitchen' or 'Very bad headache. Cannot record anything.' This did not feel like 'me' but I realised gradually that it was a phase of settling in. Something new had suddenly entered my life and I had to come to terms with it. Life was affecting my music, and music, in turn, was affecting my life.</p><p>My husband helped tremendously. Each time I discussed these thoughts and wondered if I should give up, he said, "This is important for you. It's something you like to do and it is good for you. You must continue." </p><p>Yes, my son could manage for a little while, finding ways to entertain himself. Yes, we ate smoky rice for a few meals and I did waste precious water by putting plates under the tap but not washing them until I had finished singing an octave. Yes, we had to order some food when I ran out of energy. But... I did find my 'sa' (sometimes).</p><p>And with it, I discovered many other things I had never experienced before. I perceived strongly the sense of silence that encompasses everything, the source from where music arises. I felt I was reaching out to each note, requesting it to make its presence felt. And to enable me to express its presence in the best way I could - with my voice.</p><p>The notes did make their presence felt, most strongly at night just before I drifted off to sleep. </p><p>Sometimes, I hear them in between dreams and many times just before I awake. They are perfect then because they lie unsung in the stillness. Singing makes them imperfect but also beautiful in some way.</p><p>There is another energy that is driving me on. Partly within me and partly outside of me, saying, "Don't give up. Continue. Everything will be alright."</p><p>And so I carry on, as best as I can. I know that I am fumbling and faltering as each new step comes in sight, but I believe I will find my way. Until then, we will just have to make do with smoky rice and imperfect notes. My family doesn't seem to mind.</p>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-74418084705078740142021-06-28T10:16:00.000+05:302021-06-28T10:16:02.876+05:30Restarting Yoga<p> It has been seven years since I left my yoga practice. Life is busy with the lockdown and I would perhaps have delayed restarting if it were not for the frequent headaches which have been plaguing me in the last several months. I find myself wide awake at four in the morning (the result of going to bed at eight at night with my son), lying in bed with a throbbing head and nothing to do.</p><p>So yesterday, when my husband suggested I get up and try some yoga, I staggered out of bed and said, "I don't know if I have the energy," but I did try. And it felt like coming home all over again. I knew immediately that it was the perfect thing for me in the mornings and I must continue. I love waking up when it is still dark and perfectly still- to feel the stillness within and not worry about matters the world is concerned with. It is a time when all the wisdom of ancient teachers seems to hover somewhere around you, waiting to disclose itself if you are ready.</p><p>The hardest aspect of the new schedule was convincing my little son that it is okay for me to wake up at four thirty in the morning, but not for him. Having a sleepy and irritable seven year old wandering around, following me would be disaster. So, for now, my husband has agreed to keep an eye on my son in case he awakes, until we all get used to the new routine.</p><p>There were other complications, as I realised this morning. How do I know when to wake up without setting an alarm, without disturbing anyone, without endlessly getting up to check the time in the dark (as you may have guessed I am not a gadget oriented person). I usually gauge the hour by the amount of light entering our bedroom window (we get to see clouds and trees, moonlight and fireflies outside at night, which is very exciting, so we usually have no use for curtains- waking up when the first ray of light enters our room).</p><p>Last night I was so happy that I did not dwell on the specifics of early morning awakening. This morning I woke up, ready to step out of bed when my husband told me,"It's still three o'clock. Go back to sleep." Sleeping was out of the question but I did my best to relax and rest. I got up around four thirty and began my practice soon after.</p><p>It has been so long! I am so stiff! I know I can barely move and sometimes my back goes into a spasm, sometimes my legs cramp up- nerves and muscles all over are protesting. But it feels the same as it always did from inside- just perfect! I think that I will not remember the movements, it has been much too long. But my teacher's voice and my own years of practice take over and I am soon finding my way, one step at a time- evaluating what my body needs, what the next posture I need is, how much I can stretch and so on. For my yoga training has been with a teacher who let me learn by myself, in my own way. It was never a group class, I was never handed an easy solution, I had to find my way through by focussing internally, with just a little guidance from my teacher. This helps me enormously now, as my teacher probably knew it would.</p><p>He always insisted that yoga is for everyone, no matter what their physical condition - it just has to be modified to suit each person's requirements. And so he emphasised the principles, not achieving one particular specific goal.</p><p>By the time everyone was awake, I was done with my practice, feeling energised and ready for the day. </p><p>I am grateful to my teacher and I know he is glad I have restarted my practice. Being the remarkable teacher that he is, he had told me,"There is no hurry. Enjoy the time with your son, young children need a lot of attention." But he had also told me that if I did the complete practice, my headaches should go away. So here I am, at the threshold of another new beginning, waiting to see how it unfolds.</p>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-10054994194420357702021-06-26T12:07:00.000+05:302021-06-26T12:07:33.785+05:30Birthday Surprises<p> Mummy woke up to a new day. Like all days, some things were the same but some things were very different. She squinted in the dim light. </p><p>Appa was already up and ready, whispering something to her. She listened carefully. It did not sound like, "Happy birthday," but more like, "There's no water in the taps. I am going to outside to check the tanks. Go back to sleep."</p><p>"No water in the taps" was a bit worrying but not as worrying as "Going to check the tanks", for it was still quite dark and the tanks were high up. Of course Mummy knew that Appa had climbed many tricky rocks and mountains in the past and water tanks were nothing compared to that, but she still worried for a moment. "Going back to sleep" was, of course, impossible.</p><p>In his sleep, Osito Nayan sighed contentedly. He and Samatva were dreaming of their own tricky mountains to climb. </p><p>As the light broke through, everyone awoke and had to share the half bucket of water that remained in the house. It was still too early to call the pump house but Appa was slowly getting to the cause of the problem.</p><p>He had stepped out into the garden, to check the maze of pipes and valves. Osito Nayan promptly followed. </p><p>Mummy was a bit annoyed. "You should have waited until we began breakfast," she said. "How will I get him ready in time for school if he's wandering outside?" </p><p>"He has to learn to get back inside. This CANNOT wait," said Appa, and he was right, as he often is.</p><p>So, when Osito Nayan was finally convinced it was a good idea to get back, he meandered to the dining table to begin his breakfast. </p><p>Appa returned and said, "Someone closed the inlet valve at night. The pump house said they had sent someone to close the sewage water connection but actually they turned off our water inflow. Also, the gardener left the tap open in the garden."</p><p>The gardener, when questioned, claimed it was actually the monkeys.</p><p>Anyway, at least there was no leak and more water was gradually pumped in by the time Osito Nayan's classes began.</p><p>As soon as we switched on the computer, there was a flashing red light- no internet! Osito Nayan began to cry. He hated glitches in his classes.</p><p>"Explorers need to be brave and strong," Appa reminded him. "They have to deal with all kinds of unknown things," so Osito Nayan tried to cheer up. It was hard. Samatva slipped a paw into his hand and held it tight.</p><p>Mummy tried to get the backup internet on but it refused to work. It was one of those mornings. She called the internet company. "There is a break in the cable Madam, my worker is already there," the man told her.</p><p>"It must be because of yesterday's rain," said Appa.</p><p>"It must be because of the monkeys," said Mummy, who liked to blame everything she could on the monkeys (just like the gardener).</p><p>Osito Nayan didn't care what it might be due to. He was still crying, still hoping he would be able to join his classes and, soon, with the help of Mummy's cell phone, he was.</p><p>"Don't switch on the video right now," he said to Mummy. "I want to calm down." So when he felt calm and brave enough, he began his classes and everything went very smoothly.</p><p>Classes over, it was time to dwell on other important matters.</p><p>"I'm so sad I couldn't give you anything for your birthday," said Osito Nayan to Mummy.</p><p>She gave him a big hug. "You give me a lot of happiness, which is the best gift," she said. </p><p>"How about a card?" suggested Samatva.</p><p>"You are wearing ice cream coloured clothes today Mummy," said Nayan, "so let me make you a big ice cream card."</p><p>Samatva and Osito Nayan proceeded to make a big, beautiful card.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3cm63CUjvII/YNbGqR4RiCI/AAAAAAAAEAc/2ywcni9D3_w7jgV9mFVSSOE-YNp9-afWACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/0B9580D1-C9A6-4E4C-896C-582B936ED14C.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3cm63CUjvII/YNbGqR4RiCI/AAAAAAAAEAc/2ywcni9D3_w7jgV9mFVSSOE-YNp9-afWACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/0B9580D1-C9A6-4E4C-896C-582B936ED14C.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p>"This looks wonderful!" said Mummy. "What flavour is it?"</p><p>"Rainbow flavour!" said Nayan, "The most delicious!"</p><p>Then, Osito Nayan thought of other important birthday things. Like balloons, cakes and candles.</p><p>"Mummy, can we have a balloon game?" he asked excitedly. "Will I be able to blow some balloons?"</p><p>"Yes, after dinner," said Mummy. "Let me search for some."</p><p>"And what about a cake, Mummy? Can I blow out the candles on your cake?"</p><p>"I'm not getting a cake," said Mummy. "You know I can't eat chocolate or coffee or citrus things, and no one really knows how to make a good vanilla cake."</p><p>"We know Mummy! Let's make one!"said Osito Nayan.</p><p>"Yes!" said Samatva, "I love vanilla cake, not too soft and not too hard, not too sweet and not too creamy, with just the right amount of.."</p><p>"There's no time today,"said Mummy, "We have so many assignments to finish. So I have just ordered some food and we will have seviyan for dessert."</p><p>"I like seviyan too," said Samatva, "Not too thick and not too thin, not too nutty and not too plain, not too heavy and not too light, not too warm and not too cold.." Samatva was a very particular bear when it came to the matter of food.</p><p>So everyone had a delicious dinner, there was plenty of water and plenty of internet. The restaurant had somehow figured out it was Mummy's birthday, so they did send a cake with a candle to blow out.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MuJbJVROJL0/YNbGIdUFBnI/AAAAAAAAEAM/OeCNkG0yitMog6dNBwME8QeZpqkVGM43gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/DECE7C55-63ED-4ED7-B786-84D490C546B7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MuJbJVROJL0/YNbGIdUFBnI/AAAAAAAAEAM/OeCNkG0yitMog6dNBwME8QeZpqkVGM43gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DECE7C55-63ED-4ED7-B786-84D490C546B7.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p>There were balloons to blow and play with.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JIYdAa9rOnw/YNbGXieJNwI/AAAAAAAAEAQ/Sv8oYfsumHwoFtUAc0poZTFjAfcZDqHygCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/876A38BA-CAEA-42C6-AB8A-8C793171558B.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JIYdAa9rOnw/YNbGXieJNwI/AAAAAAAAEAQ/Sv8oYfsumHwoFtUAc0poZTFjAfcZDqHygCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/876A38BA-CAEA-42C6-AB8A-8C793171558B.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p>"A lovely party!" sighed Samatva in satisfaction. "I'm ready for bed now."</p><p>But Osito Nayan wasn't. "I want to stay up forever and juggle the balloons with Samatva," he said.</p><p>"Samatva is ready for bed," said Mummy. So, very reluctantly, Osito Nayan came to bed.</p><p>After many moments of tossing and turning and trying to escape and get back to the balloons, Osito Nayan said, "Mummy, I can't sleep. Can you tell me a story?"</p><p>So Mummy began a story- "Once upon a time, Osito Nayan and Samatva went out into the garden to play. As they were searching for new and exciting things, a gust of wind blew them both up, up and away.</p><p>Osito Nayan sat up immediately. "A huge gust of wind?" he asked. </p><p>"You have to lie down and close your eyes," said Mummy, "otherwise the story won't work."</p><p>So Osito Nayan and Samatva lay down once more while Mummy continued-</p><p>"Hold on to me, Samatva!" cried Osito Nayan, "So we don't get separated." And hand in paw, they flew over many lands until they gently came down to a land full of balloons of all colours and sizes.</p><p>There were so many balloons that the people there used them for all kinds of things.."</p><p>"What kinds of things, Mummy?" murmured Nayan. And as Mummy told him, he drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face. Samatva was already fast asleep.</p><p>It was a full moon night and the moon shone through the trees. Mummy lay back contentedly. She was full of happiness, and thankfulness too, for her special family that made every moment, however imperfect, seem like the best possible moment. Something she would not want to exchange for anything else. </p><p>Notes of music filled her ears. The best kinds of notes - the ones that hung unheard in the air, waiting for someone to bring them to life. She thanked Life too for the gift of music that it had recently presented her with. So many birthday surprises!</p>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-43923962864300766182021-05-24T11:03:00.002+05:302021-05-24T11:21:58.179+05:30Memories, Music And MoreA couple of months ago, before my son Nayan's summer holidays began, I started my search for a music teacher for him. Nayan had been missing his music classes, which had abruptly ended with the pandemic. I thought this would be a good time to restart. <div><br /></div><div>I knew my son well enough to understand that he couldn't be put into a very regimented programme. He rebels if he feels pushed and I also didn't want his joy of music turned into a routine of monotony. My husband and I discussed this. I couldn't think of where to start but my husband suggested folk music. That seemed to be perfect but- how does one find a teacher for this?</div><div><br /></div><div>I asked a lot of people- parents, teachers, musicians. It took a month and a half until I was finally connected to a folk singer in Bangalore. He promptly got in touch with me but said he mostly played folk instruments of Bengal and could sing a few folk songs but only in Bengali. I felt it would be difficult for Nayan to learn songs in a language he was not familiar with, so the musician very kindly offered to introduce me to someone else in his band who was a singer and knew Hindi.</div><div><br /></div><div>It took a while to get connected and the singer said he was too busy to take classes, but he would ask a friend of his. And so on. This went on as a kind of Chinese whispers, each step taking us one step further from our point of initial contact. After a while there was just silence.</div><div><br /></div><div>One day, while talking to my sister in law in Delhi, I mentioned my ongoing search. Immediately she said, "I have the numbers of some teachers who taught my children." In a few seconds, a number flashed on my screen.</div><div><br /></div><div>"What does she teach?" I asked feeling a bit dizzy. It had been too fast.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Western music. Fun, happy songs."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Er- do you have anyone for Indian music?" I asked, not very hopeful, but yes, she had! My sister in law is a walking repository of information and numbers.</div><div><br /></div><div>"This is a very old number," she said, "but try it."</div><div><br /></div><div>I tried it and within a minute I got a reply. "Please call tomorrow evening to discuss this."</div><div><br /></div><div>The next day, the classes were fixed up and we were to begin soon. I still had no clear idea of what Nayan would learn (whether he would learn at all, sitting in front of a computer) but it was a beginning. I hoped it would not be too classical or rigorous for him.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, two weeks down the line, I can only smile at the way things have worked out. We are learning Indian classical music. It is rigorous, it involves work, it is also playfully done, and my son loves it! I discovered the teacher was Bengali, and now we are also being introduced to the language and music of Bengal through him. I say "we" because I have also been induced to learn music, initially as an attempt to help my son and now just because it is so enjoyable. It is a strange feeling to embark on this learning so late in life but if my vocal chords are not complaining, why should I?</div><div><br /></div><div>My husband's mother comes from Bengal and this is why the Bengal connection is particularly meaningful for our family though it has cropped up inadvertently in the music class. I remember snippets of Bengali music heard in the past years- Rabindra sangeet in Kolkata, songs of boats (because my mother in law worked with boat builders) and the beautiful folk music of Bengal. I cannot forget the Baul singer who visited the family house in Kolkata every few weeks and his simple yet haunting songs.</div><div><br /></div><div>With all these memories floating through my mind, I am pasting below a snippet from an earlier blog I had written about the Baul singer and his song that I had recorded at the time-</div><div> </div><div>"In the midst of all this, I feel truly blessed to have our local Baul visit every Sunday morning. He walks down the street, playing his simple string instrument and singing his soulful songs. Hardly anyone listens but he always stops in front of our family house, where he knows someone or the other will emerge. And if I am there, I always do. I love listening to these down to earth songs with mystic roots. Songs which remind us that God must be searched for (and discovered) within our own hearts, by ourselves.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bauls- the wandering mystic minstrels of Bengal used to travel from village to village, bringing these messages and their wonderful music to the common man. Each village would provide them with food and shelter and take care of their needs. Now things have changed, the Bauls have to fend for themselves and their travel is restricted. They are hardly seen in urban settings, except for a few high profile ones, who perform periodically in concerts. These performances are quite powerful but they often lack the spontaneity and simplicity found in a more natural setting.</div><div><br /></div><div>This time I was fortunate enough to have my cell phone with me while rushing down to hear the Baul. And so I made my first recording of one of his songs, the link is given below. There was plenty of neighbourhood action at the time of the recording (and my hand finally shook when my little son made a beeline for the road). People were coming and going, the driver was revving the car, the dhobi arrived with his bundle of freshly ironed clothes, an irate crow was demanding his biscuit breakfast and so on. But the Baul was lost in his music and in his world - which is as it should be - and it reminded me to search for what gives my life meaning and pursue it without distraction (or at least attempt to)!"</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3IZiTYb_YqA" target="_blank">Baul song</a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div>I am also putting a link to a tune played by Pandit Ravi Shankar and Ustad Ali Akbar Khan long ago for a concert in aid for Bangladesh, called Bangla Dhun. It still echoes in my mind occasionally, reminding me of stories I have heard from my husband's family- of the plants (the special round chillies, the fragrant coriander-like herbs, the gandharaj neebu), the ponds near each house, the playful rivers, the birds and their songs- and the special Padma river fish- the ilish maachh- not to be found as easily any more. But the memories- and the music remain.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vo7lxXW6tO0" target="_blank">Bangla Dhun</a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-39120902401013922492021-04-28T10:56:00.002+05:302021-04-28T10:56:32.513+05:30How Samatva Got His Name<p>A very long time ago, maybe about four years, Osito Nayan looked up from his exploration of the floor to find some new faces at home. There was a tall fellow who towered above him. He was carrying a little brown bear. “This is for you,” he said to Nayan.</p><p><br /></p><p>The fellow was so tall and Nayan was so shy that he forgot to say, “Thank you”. The bear, however, was just the right size and quickly slipped his paw into Nayan’s hand. “How nice to meet you,” he said. “Can I see your territory?” His voice was not at all gruff or growly as Nayan had imagined. It had the sound of melted chocolate. His paw was soft and warm.</p><p><br /></p><p>So Bear and Nayan happily set off, to see the train tracks and other exciting things that were strewn about the house. Nayan wondered where the tall fellow had come from. </p><p><br /></p><p>“America?” volunteered Bear. But Nayan felt he might have come from other exciting places, perhaps near Serbia? Or Croatia…? “Probably Slovenia,” said Bear who seemed to know all about these things. And that seemed to be about right.</p><p><br /></p><p>Bear soon became an important part of Nayan’s life. They woke up together to discuss Plans for the Day. </p><p><br /></p><p>They ate breakfast together. Bear introduced Nayan to the importance of licking a spoonful of honey with some ginger in it. “Keeps the throat in good order,” he muttered. </p><p><br /></p><p>“Yes, I haven’t had a sore throat for days now..” said Nayan.</p><p><br /></p><p>They had other meals together too. Bear usually ate three fish- one green, one yellow and one orange, as those were his favourite colours.</p><p><br /></p><p>“Orange is my favourite colour too,” said Nayan.</p><p><br /></p><p>Bear needed a name so Nayan looked into the book he was reading. It was by Richard Scarry and it showed a great big bear called Kenny. So Bear was named Kenny Bear.</p><p><br /></p><p>Kenny Bear and Nayan discussed the great mysteries of the world. Like how so many exciting countries ended with ‘ia’-</p><p><br /></p><p>“Serbia,” said Nayan.</p><p><br /></p><p>“Croatia”, said Kenny Bear.</p><p><br /></p><p>“Slovakia,” said Nayan.</p><p><br /></p><p>“Slovenia,” said Kenny Bear (though perhaps they spell it Slovenja). Kenny Bear knew all about these things.</p><p><br /></p><p>“California..?” asked Nayan.</p><p>“Hmm,” said Kenny Bear. “It’s not a real country though it could be one.”</p><p><br /></p><p>“India,” said Kenny Bear, “is also a very exciting country.”</p><p><br /></p><p>“Hmmm, yes of course,” said Nayan.</p><p><br /></p><p>Now Osito Nayan had grown much bigger and was already going to preschool. He missed Kenny Bear but he made other friends in school. One of them was a little toddler called Samatva.</p><p><br /></p><p>“Mummy, can Samatva stay with us?” Nayan asked one day.</p><p><br /></p><p>“No, I don’t think so. Samatva is so little; he will miss his family and they will miss him,” Mummy replied.</p><p><br /></p><p>“Well, do you think we could get another baby called Samatva?”</p><p><br /></p><p>But Mummy said there were no babies coming along the way.</p><p><br /></p><p>“Do you think we could order one from Santa?”</p><p><br /></p><p>“No, I don’t think elves can make babies.”</p><p><br /></p><p>“But what can we do, Mummy? I really want a Samatva at home.”</p><p><br /></p><p>It seemed to be an enormous problem. But Mummy looked around, the way Mummies sometimes do. And then she came up with a solution the way Mummies somehow do.</p><p><br /></p><p>“How about we change Kenny Bear’s name?” she asked. “I think he has outgrown ‘Kenny’ and ‘Samatva’ is a much nicer name.”</p><p><br /></p><p>“How is it much nicer, Mummy?”</p><p><br /></p><p>“It has a lovely meaning- it means treating everyone and everything equally.”</p><p><br /></p><p>“Hmmm… It also has a nice sound,” said Nayan.</p><p><br /></p><p>“I agree,” said a little voice that reminded everyone of drippy chocolate. “A Bear has the right to choose his name.”</p><p><br /></p><p>“I love this Samatva best of all, I don’t need another one!” said Osito Nayan giving his bear a hug. “He always agrees with me.”</p><p><br /></p><p>“Yes,” said Samatva, hugging him back.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-30594572529746978682020-12-09T09:56:00.000+05:302020-12-09T09:56:51.897+05:30Thoughts In A Pandemic<p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh can you bring for me</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Spray from the salty sea?</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The sight of shifting dunes</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Eight to ten midnight moons?</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh can you bring to me</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Creaks from the ancient trees?</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Four songs the swallows sing</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Flutters from new found wings?</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Where does the silence lie</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In me, or in the sky?</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">All things I long to see</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Spring from old memory…</span></p><div><br /></div>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-57732368532024265062020-09-06T12:23:00.006+05:302020-09-06T12:23:53.537+05:30A Writeup For My School<p> My school is celebrating its 40th anniversary this month. I was a part of the first batch of the school, and the school has asked our class to make a short video of our experiences and remembrances. I decided to write an essay to share my experiences of the ups and downs of school life. Here it is!</p><p>My Memories of School </p><p>I would like to thank Gyan Bharti School for this opportunity to share my thoughts, and also all my teachers and classmates.</p><p>As I was amongst the first batch of early students, I want to share memories of the very special year of 1980 and the extraordinary core of people who gave the school its roots and at the same time encouraged it to reach up to the sky. Since then, our school has branched and blossomed wonderfully and I am sure my classmates and many others who have been involved in this process, will talk more about it.</p><p>My first impression of Gyan Bharti School in 1980, was a warm brick building with a hall ideally designed to play hide and seek in (not that we were ever allowed to do so)!</p><p>The school’s introduction to me occurred swiftly and dramatically – on my first morning at Assembly. As we all sat cross legged on the mats, I could feel my feet getting gradually numb. I knew it was impolite to fidget while people were talking so I sat absolutely still but in a state of inner anguish. As soon as Assembly ended, we all stood up- or at least I attempted to. What happened next was that I smoothly and effortlessly keeled over. I made a few more attempts, with little success. I could see a group of faces looking- startled, amazed and - amused. That’s how I became instantly known to everyone as the girl who couldn’t stand!</p><p>Subsequently, I learnt how to unobtrusively shift my weight and wiggle my toes to keep the blood flow going, and the memory of this episode gradually faded.</p><p>Our classroom was small – but it was the perfect size for us. There were just a handful of students and teachers under the helm of Mr. Kapoor, making the most of the limited resources we had and working together as a team. At the age of ten, we felt perfectly equipped to cope with the challenges of building a new school and our teachers and very experienced Director encouraged us in our efforts. It was this experience of putting aside my personal goals for a little while in order to carry out a challenging and interesting task as part of a larger whole, that has stayed with me and helped me adapt to my changing responsibilities at home and work throughout my life.</p><p>The very first teachers I encountered were the ones that left a lasting impression on me and shaped my values. They were Chaturvedi Ma’m, Anju Ma’m, Usha Sarin Ma’m and Chandra Ma’m. As days sped by, new teachers - and students joined - enriching our school experience in myriad ways.</p><p>As the senior most class, we also had the responsibility of taking care of the little ones- a task we took seriously. I remember Deepak spending time during every break to push and whirl little children on swings, to the loud chorus of “Deepak Bhaiyya, dhakka do!”</p><p>I remember the first project I assembled on a large board in the hall. Anant had just joined the class; he and I were assigned this task. As both of us were rather short, it was quite a challenge reaching the top of the board to pin up the charts! But it served to break the ice and get to know a fellow student.</p><p>We had only been a few weeks in school when the activities began- a precursor to many more that would follow in coming years. </p><p>For Children’s Day, we made a beautiful paper model of a children’s park, complete with grass and tiny flowers.</p><p>We celebrated Diwali with a garbha dance – it was incredibly tricky managing a sari and a pair of sticks! But the beautiful melody of the folk song our teachers sang as we danced still echoes in my mind.</p><p>Towards the end of the year we put up a ballet. I think it was based on the story of Prahlad, but I cannot be certain because in order to include everyone, many delightful characters were introduced and the story deviated considerably from the original! It was this feeling of inclusivity, especially in the first year, that brought a very warm feeling of happiness within me.</p><p>Not all moments were inclusive, however. With complete awareness of the constraints that comparison brings, I cringed each time I was called on stage to find everyone clapping for me. I would have preferred to have my friends sharing their own accomplishments with me rather than clapping for me. But I had not the courage to voice my views at the time.</p><p>As I grew through the months, so did the school. I cannot do justice in recalling all the people and events that have made me and the school what we are today. But here are a few people and memories that have stayed uppermost in my mind-</p><p>I am grateful to Dr. Sharma for joining the school mid term and cracking the whip to get our clueless class well prepared to face our first Board exam in Maths.</p><p>To Dr. Brar, for leaving the Chemistry lab completely open for us to use at any time, under the supervision of Satish, the lab assistant. Having worked in many labs later, I realize that it was a rare opportunity given to high school students.</p><p>I recall with great fondness the administrative staff, in particular, Mr. Taneja. Each time I met him, he would ask, “How is your class doing? Do you need any kind of additional support from the school?”, and he always listened to my answers gravely and carefully.</p><p>I remember marvelling at the extraordinary combination of Art and Chemistry that went into our batik paintings. The incredible way in which Mrs. Arora (or Art Ma’m) taught us, with minimal words- the need to imagine, conceptualize and then work towards creating a piece of art. And the realization that at some moment the medium takes over and something magical happens to your creation.</p><p>I distinctly recall Mishra Ma’m, who provided a special spirit to the fiery roopaks. She also introduced us to various sports, including basketball – a game I instantly loved and still enjoy playing.</p><p>I cannot forget the time I heard Wasif singing. He usually never did, preferring to keep a low profile. However, one morning, when there were ripples of restlessness in the Assembly hall, as students waited for Mr. Kapoor and Chaturvedi Ma’m to come, a teacher beckoned Wasif, led him to the stage and suddenly asked him to sing. I remember the grace, dignity and beauty of Wasif’s performance and the music has remained with me to this day. </p><p>An unusual experience that left a tremendous impression on me occurred during the horse riding class. One of my classmates, Tripat, somehow managed to edge his horse out of the fenced enclosure. Suddenly we heard a pounding of hooves and saw Tripat- a largish fellow transformed into a small speck in the horizon. The riding instructor wasted no time in leaping onto a horse. Then he looked around and somehow decided that I should accompany him on this rescue mission. All through the classes, I had been sedately practicing trots and canters and now, suddenly, I felt my horse break into a gallop to keep pace with the instructor’s horse. I clung to the saddle, hoping desperately that I wouldn’t fall off as we raced down the sports field to the hills beyond.</p><p>We managed to reach Tripat in good time and it was only on the journey back that I realized I was actually enjoying the gallop- feeling the strength of the horse and the wind in my face as we sped along. Perhaps no one will believe now that once it was possible to see – and reach the little green hills by galloping through our school’s fields!</p><p>But in essence, this is what my school experience taught me- while moving along predictable paths, sometimes, without warning, life sweeps you up and takes you to unknown places – and all you can do at the time is to try and stay in the saddle. But if you believe in life – and yourself – then at some moment you find yourself enjoying some part of the ride, no matter where you are going.</p><p>As this was a small school and we were the first batch, the school was keen to provide all the support they could for us to do well in the Board examinations. There were pluses and minuses. We had special teachers and extra classes to help us prepare for the tenth standard exams. Alongside, all our regular teachers reminded us of how important it was to do well in these exams, in hindsight it must have been important for the school to have their first batch do well. As class topper, the burden of this fell to a large extent on me – or perhaps this is how I perceived it. It was not an easy load for a child of fifteen.</p><p>I was gently reprimanded for the various careless mistakes I made in my ninth standard final exams. But what nobody knew was that I had taken each exam without sleeping the previous night, due to nervousness.</p><p>My family situation was a bit different from others as my brother and I were staying away from our parents (who were at the time stationed in Bangalore). For the tenth standard exams, I requested my mother to come and stay with me just for the duration of the exams, and of course, she was very understanding and reassuring about it. </p><p>This academic pressure only increased in the last two years, bringing a shadow to the otherwise sunny aspects of school life. It was at this time that my mother was diagnosed with leukemia and there were many moments in which I felt completely alone.</p><p>As we moved through teenage years, I felt a growing sense of alienation from many of my classmates, which saddened me. There were distinct camps of ‘Boys’ and ‘Girls’ and the boundaries were sharply defined. Any attempt to communicate with a boy was greeted with hoots of derision. The people I had grown up with suddenly seemed to be like strangers.</p><p>Over-sensitivity has always been a weakness of mine and over the years, I also sensed a strange internal competition that some of my classmates had set up to try and beat me in academics. None of this was induced by me and I felt uncomfortable with a situation that I had not the means to resolve.</p><p>I felt the same on the playing fields many times. After hearing several times teachers saying, “Here comes the class topper. Let’s see what SHE can do on the field,” I retreated into a shell during many of the games. I longed for anonymity and was always thankful when I got a chance to play basketball as no one could closely monitor my movements on the crowded court.</p><p>However, these aspects were a product of the particular states of mind and the environment that all of us were immersed in. It blew away with the passing of years and I am truly glad to be reconnected with my classmates through largely happy memories.</p><p>I was overcome by the genuine warmth with which I was welcomed to the class Whats App group - I had put off joining this for many years until some of my friends tracked me down and said they would be happy to catch up with my news.</p><p>A few months ago, when my father unexpectedly passed away, my classmates got the details of the Chautha ceremony and some of them turned up to be by my side at this difficult moment. It was a gesture that deeply moved me, though I was unable to express it in words at the time.</p><p>But that is the wonder of childhood friendships fostered by school ties – they never grow old, even if we do!</p><p><br /></p>Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-23774679938129336412020-04-29T14:22:00.002+05:302020-04-29T14:22:23.127+05:30Excitements of the Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Yes, we are all locked down - down but not out! Each day brings a battle of its own. But it is almost summer now; nature heedless of man, unfolds at its own exquisite pace. We are fortunate to have garden with a few fruit trees, some herbs, plenty of bees, squirrels, monkeys and an occasional snake to break the monotony.<br />
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We had many eventful moments yesterday. The not so great ones were our cycle valve tubes getting leaky and our new car battery dying. Now only my son is able to cycle about and fortunately our old yellow car is still trudging along.<br />
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I have been working on a live yeast (and bacteria) culture for bread (as we are running out of baker's yeast). I was all set to start the bread early yesterday morning when we suddenly decided that we should get down the mangoes from our trees. In hindsight, this was a very good idea because we had a terrific storm today and the monkeys came this morning searching for fruit. (They found no mangoes left but threw down some hefty jackfruit, which I am still clearing up.)<br />
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Anyway, the mangoes had to be brought down with a hooked stick and they fell (or we caught them) in our bedsheet. We got three bucketfuls of mangoes and my son was busy handing them out to neighbours who wanted some. Most people nowadays assume you get ripe orange mangoes from markets and that's how they like them. Not green and waiting to be covered up in straw and ripened, so there were not many takers for our fruit. But we are busy wrapping them up and they should ripen in a while. The fragrance is incredible and I wish we could preserve it on our bedsheets too..<br />
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So, I was late by a couple of hours to start the bread. Anyway, it was fun to make, and I and made a loaf from the Tartine recipe book. It was so crusty outside that I had to saw through it and inside it was a bit like sourdough bread, but I think it is not a bad beginning (only my husband has taken the plunge and eaten it so far!). <br />
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And, tomorrow is another day, hopefully filled with - better bread, mango chutney and eventually- ripe mangoes!<br />
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Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-68409410509225379292020-02-26T14:29:00.001+05:302020-02-26T14:41:54.265+05:30Thoughts on Death and Life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My father died a little over a month ago. My mother had died many years earlier.<br />
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Death always has an air of finality to it and when a special loved one dies, in particular loving parents, it is as if an invisible umbilical cord is suddenly jerked out of you. Umbilical cord and fathers? Yes, if you know what I mean.</div>
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When my mother died there was an immense gap of emptiness and despair. It took decades for me to cross the vast vacuum within me. I was quite young and my mother had been the nucleus of our family. But there was also relief and thankfulness at her death, for she had suffered a great deal from leukaemia in the last few years of her life.</div>
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When my father died, things were very different. It was a sudden, hospital induced death and I am grateful for the fact that my father did not suffer. He always hated being hospitalised and by the time he reached the emergency unit in hospital, he was hardly aware of what was happening.</div>
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Three days before my father's death, about the time he was hospitalised, I began to get messages from him. Early morning, quick flashes as soon as I awoke, that at the time I did not even quite comprehend. Messages about life and death. My father has always been highly intuitive and I do believe that minds and spirits can communicate. Not in an eerie way but in a wholesome, natural, positive manner.</div>
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This sense of communication was heightened on the night of my father's cremation. I was not the only one to feel my father's presence- my young son did and a few others who were close to him. In addition I also felt very intensely, the presence of my mother, the presence of a yogi and great joy, love and wisdom emanating from them all.</div>
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At the time I did not trust my feelings, thoughts or instincts. And why do I write all this in a blog? I have since continued to feel the presence (and communicate with) people who are not here in visible form, in some fashion. I do not mean that I hear voices or see visions. It is far more subtle and always a positive, non judgemental and compassionate form of communication. Perhaps I am more open to listening to my spirit after many years of yoga, I do not know.</div>
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I just want to say that it has opened new doors for me. Though yoga texts clearly say so, we do not really believe that there is more to a person than the physical form. But now I know there is. Death no longer has an air of finality for me. It is nothing but the dissolution of a physical form. Recently I have spoken to people who have faced similar losses and they have all said that they felt their loved ones close by and had many uncanny experiences which they could not explain. Coincidences, serendipity, there are many other words for things we do not quite understand.</div>
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This view of the transience of death and the continuity of life has made me think and perhaps live my life a little differently now.</div>
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Finally, I put down below a few of my favourite verses on these matters of death and of life-</div>
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Death, Be Not Proud, by John Donne</div>
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Death, be not proud, though some have called thee </div>
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Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; </div>
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For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow </div>
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Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. </div>
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From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, </div>
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Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, </div>
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And soonest our best men with thee do go, </div>
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Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. </div>
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Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, </div>
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And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, </div>
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And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well </div>
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And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? </div>
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One short sleep past, we wake eternally </div>
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And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. </div>
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A Walk, by Rainer Maria Rilke</div>
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My eyes already touch the sunny hill,</div>
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going far ahead of the road I have begun.</div>
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So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;</div>
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it has inner light, even from a distance-</div>
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and changes us, even if we do not reach it,</div>
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into something else, which, hardly sensing it,</div>
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we already are; a gesture waves us on</div>
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answering our own wave...</div>
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but what we feel is the wind in our faces.</div>
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Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep, by Mary Elizabeth Frye</div>
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Do not stand at my grave and weep</div>
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I am not there; I do not sleep.</div>
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I am a thousand winds that blow,</div>
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I am the diamond glints on snow,</div>
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I am the sun on ripened grain,</div>
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I am the gentle autumn rain.</div>
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When you awaken in the morning's hush</div>
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I am the swift uplifting rush</div>
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Of quiet birds in circled flight. </div>
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I am the soft stars that shine at night. </div>
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Do not stand at my grave and cry, </div>
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I am not there; I did not die.</div>
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Coda, by Octavio Paz </div>
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Perhaps to love is to learn</div>
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to walk through this world.</div>
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To learn to be silent</div>
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like the oak and the linden of the fable.</div>
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To learn to see.</div>
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Your glance scattered seeds.</div>
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It planted a tree.</div>
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I talk</div>
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because you shake its leaves.</div>
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Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3725651637918116695.post-20598694817520054362019-09-01T13:39:00.001+05:302019-09-01T13:41:17.734+05:30Kenny Bear Lends A Paw<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My husband is travelling and my son, Nayan, is down with viral fever (103 for last two days, is getting better today). Nayan misses my husband and keeps telling me of all the terrible things he is going to do to him once he is back!<br />
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Temperature monitoring and medicine and food giving are a challenge. What does one do?<br />
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It so happened that Kenny bear fell ill at the same time (with a temperature of 1000). Someone had to take his temperature and feed him and he needed someone to huddle next to. So Nayan came to the rescue. Kenny bear loves honey, especially when it is mixed with ginger and basil. So does Nayan. Lucky, for both of them.<br />
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P.S. Kenny bear is also better today (temperature of 55) but fast asleep.<br />
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Sujata Varadarajan (Sujata Malhan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/16814636938322964431noreply@blogger.com0