Happy New Year!

 

Come December and my thoughts turn to winter vacations and to Delhi.  People are always startled by our choice of city- why leave Bangalore and go to Delhi in December??

But Delhi is always Delhi - crisp winter mornings, sometimes foggy, sometimes clear with golden winter sunshine that one soaks up whenever one has a chance.

The Delhi of music - where Nayan and I learn to our heart's content and, sometimes get to hear a concert or two.  Delhi brims over with music and dance in December.

The Delhi of Humayun's Tomb, walks in Lodhi gardens, strolls down little lanes - trying to choose uncrowded byways like Sundernagar where we can drop in to buy some Darjeeling tea and fresh spices.

The Delhi of winter feasts - deep red gajar (carrot) ka halwa, crisp pakodas, winter greens, fresh fish and shellfish, roasted sweet potatoes and more.  Never do the naans and kebabs taste better than in December.

December is also a time of reunions - when old friends travel back home and get in touch.  Of sending cards and wishes to all those we know and catching up on their news.  Of savouring sunsets and awaiting sunrises.

The Delhi of ancient monuments and memories- where old compositions like dhrupad spring naturally to mind.  My son sings one such composition (set to raga bhoopali) in his music class and we wonder at the words - tu hi surya, tu hi chandra, tu hi pavana, tu hi agana (addressed to the energy that is everywhere- "you are each of the elements in my life - the sun, the moon, the wind, water and fire").  Its profound beauty and wisdom always moves me.  My son, Nayan, requests the music teacher to join him as he sings and together the notes resound - a beautiful way to usher in a new year.  Nayan asks why we address this energy as 'tu' (a term meant for our equals or those younger than us), why not use aap, which is the respectful or more formal word for 'you'?  The music teacher explains that it is because of familiarity.  The energy or spirit of the world is so close to us that we don't need to use words that keep it far apart from us.  This is a recording of the song that was sung-  Dhrupad

I realise then that we are singing, in a sense, for ourselves.  And my heart fills with a burst of joy at this reminder.  All aspects of nature and life that I love, are, in essence, a part of me.  My new year resolution takes shape at this moment.  I hope that I remain connected to this energy and that I allow it to lead me forward to fulfilling new experiences in the coming year.

 I wish all my readers and their families a wonderful year ahead!

Life's Rhythm - Lessons From Music

 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.

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.

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.

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.).

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.

Ravi Shankar continued, "Did you look at me even once during the concert?  Did we get a chance to know each other?"

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.

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.

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.  

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.”

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.  

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…”

Deep lessons, that encompass much more than music.

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?”

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.

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.

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.  

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.  

N. Rajam Zakir Hussain concert

The Elements In My Life

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.

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.

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).

There are many other forms of natural elements that I love-

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.

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.

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.

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.  

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.  

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.

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.

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.

For these, and other gifts of the natural world, I am truly thankful.

Ginger Biscuits and Allspice Tea

 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.  

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.  

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.  

Nayan took some pictures – the birds were too fast for him but the rain drenched plants stood patiently, waiting to be photographed.

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.

“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.”

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.

“How tall it has grown!  Not a berry in sight but so many leaves.  I wonder if we can use them for tea...”

“Yes, let’s!” said Nayan the intrepid adventurer.

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.

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.

Thirty Years Ago

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.  

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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..

"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.

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.  

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.

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).

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.

Music Enters My Life

 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.

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.  

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.

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.  

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.

For Nayan, singing is almost effortless.  He glides in and out of notes, with minimal practice and complete confidence.

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.  

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."   

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.)

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).

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.

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.

"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."

"And when you are facing an audience who  has come especially to listen to you, who are you singing for?"

I falter.  The prospect of facing an audience is unnerving.  I say with some hesitation, "For the people who have come?"

"No!  You are singing for yourself.  You are always singing for yourself."

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.

Birthday Surprises

 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.  

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."

"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.

In his sleep, Osito Nayan sighed contentedly.  He and Samatva were dreaming of their own tricky mountains to climb.  

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.

He had stepped out into the garden, to check the maze of pipes and valves.  Osito Nayan promptly followed.  

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?"  

"He has to learn to get back inside.  This CANNOT wait," said Appa, and he was right, as he often is.

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.  

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."

The gardener, when questioned, claimed it was actually the monkeys.

Anyway, at least there was no leak and more water was gradually pumped in by the time Osito Nayan's classes began.

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.

"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.

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.

"It must be because of yesterday's rain," said Appa.

"It must be because of the monkeys," said Mummy, who liked to blame everything she could on the monkeys (just like the gardener).

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.

"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.

Classes over, it was time to dwell on other important matters.

"I'm so sad I couldn't give you anything for your birthday," said Osito Nayan to Mummy.

She gave him a big hug.  "You give me a lot of happiness, which is the best gift," she said.  

"How about a card?" suggested Samatva.

"You are wearing ice cream coloured clothes today Mummy," said Nayan, "so let me make you a big ice cream card."

Samatva and Osito Nayan proceeded to make a big, beautiful card.

"This looks wonderful!" said Mummy.  "What flavour is it?"

"Rainbow flavour!" said Nayan, "The most delicious!"

Then, Osito Nayan thought of other important birthday things.  Like balloons, cakes and candles.

"Mummy, can we have a balloon game?" he asked excitedly.  "Will I be able to blow some balloons?"

"Yes, after dinner," said Mummy.  "Let me search for some."

"And what about a cake, Mummy?  Can I blow out the candles on your cake?"

"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."

"We know Mummy!  Let's make one!"said Osito Nayan.

"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.."

"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."

"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.

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.

There were balloons to blow and play with.

"A lovely party!" sighed Samatva in satisfaction.  "I'm ready for bed now."

But Osito Nayan wasn't.  "I want to stay up forever and juggle the balloons with Samatva," he said.

"Samatva is ready for bed," said Mummy.  So, very reluctantly, Osito Nayan came to bed.

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?"

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.

Osito Nayan sat up immediately.  "A huge gust of wind?" he asked. 

"You have to lie down and close your eyes," said Mummy, "otherwise the story won't work."

So Osito Nayan and Samatva lay down once more while Mummy continued-

"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.

There were so many balloons that the people there used them for all kinds of things.."

"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.

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.  

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!

How Samatva Got His Name

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.

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.

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.  

“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.

Bear soon became an important part of Nayan’s life.  They woke up together to discuss Plans for the Day.  

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.  

“Yes, I haven’t had a sore throat for days now..” said Nayan.

They had other meals together too.  Bear usually ate three fish- one green, one yellow and one orange, as those were his favourite colours.

“Orange is my favourite colour too,” said Nayan.

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.

Kenny Bear and Nayan discussed the great mysteries of the world.  Like how so many exciting countries ended with ‘ia’-

“Serbia,” said Nayan.

“Croatia”, said Kenny Bear.

“Slovakia,” said Nayan.

“Slovenia,” said Kenny Bear (though perhaps they spell it Slovenja).  Kenny Bear knew all about these things.

“California..?” asked Nayan.

“Hmm,” said Kenny Bear.  “It’s not a real country though it could be one.”

“India,” said Kenny Bear, “is also a very exciting country.”

“Hmmm, yes of course,” said Nayan.

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.

“Mummy, can Samatva stay with us?” Nayan asked one day.

“No, I don’t think so.  Samatva is so little; he will miss his family and they will miss him,” Mummy replied.

“Well, do you think we could get another baby called Samatva?”

But Mummy said there were no babies coming along the way.

“Do you think we could order one from Santa?”

“No, I don’t think elves can make babies.”

“But what can we do, Mummy?  I really want a Samatva at home.”

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.

“How about we change Kenny Bear’s name?”  she asked.  “I think he has outgrown ‘Kenny’ and ‘Samatva’ is a much nicer name.”

“How is it much nicer, Mummy?”

“It has a lovely meaning- it means treating everyone and everything equally.”

“Hmmm… It also has a nice sound,” said Nayan.

“I agree,” said a little voice that reminded everyone of drippy chocolate.  “A Bear has the right to choose his name.”

“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.”

“Yes,” said Samatva, hugging him back.

Swimming Surprises

It's summertime and swimming is the highlight of our day.  The best way to celebrate 'no school', in my opinion (and probably my son's too).

My own swimming is usually a low key but happy affair of relaxing and watching the water move by, with shafts of sunbeams piercing it.  A place of no thought and effortless gliding.

With my son around, it takes on a completely different hue.  The Bangalore club pool is packed in the summer with other children (being coached), their parents sitting alongside, regular swimmers and, thrice a week, an aqua-aerobics class attended solely by grandmothers.

In the midst of this, we come, splashing in- the grandmothers turn to give beaming smiles to my son and chat with me about their lives.  I exchange smiles with the parents (they are quieter on the whole than the grandmothers), get to know the children by sight and by name.

The swimming coach comes over to share a few moments of conversation and swimming tips with my son.  I am one of the few, possibly the only parent, to enter the pool solely in order to teach my son.  And he is learning, in his own determined, chaotic way - refusing teachers and floats, bobbing up and down in the water until he is able to move a little at a time, by himself.  Hands and feet move in an unstructured but determined fashion while he breathes out bubbles and endures the chlorine of the water (glasses are too tight, he says, and so are swimming caps).  A happy, bubbly, truly free style swim.

After this, we sit out with his toy trains and eat our snack (which has gradually increased in size over the last few weeks, the number of trains has also swelled).  We watch the swimmers and my son strolls over to say a word or two to his neighbours.  Sometimes, they talk to me as well.

And what wondrous things result from these conversations!  Grandmothers' tips on places to buy swimsuits, a European lady telling me that my son would certainly learn swimming - based on her swimming experiences with Polish coaches, and most recently a very precious gift of an old winding train set from England, placed carefully in a hand painted biscuit tin, given by one of the swimmers to my son - it is the set he used as a child.

My son beamed on receiving this and said he would have fun with it forever and ever.  I hope he does- and I hope he has fun with his swimming forever and ever too, just as I do, with mine.

Holidaying At Home

My son's first summer vacation - and we are spending it at home!  It's blazing hot in most parts of the country and so we decided just to sit back and do all the fun things that we had planned but never got down to.  No summer camps, no retreats and no road trips.  Just waking up when the sun pours in, eating summer fruit and home made bread and cheese and heading out to greet the day.

Swimming every morning is a must - and we go to Bangalore club, meet all the old regulars, say hallo to the swimming coaches and splash about for an hour, thoroughly refreshed at the end of it.

Then it's time for our snack, and we open our tiffin box with great gusto.  I sit back and relax and my son splashes in swimming pool puddles, urges the swimmers to jump in (and make more puddles!) and walks around looking for fallen baby coconuts.

Occasionally we shop, trying to avoid the big malls (my son trying to steer me to toy shops).

We get back home in time to water the garden (with more splashing) and eat a light, cool lunch.  Then it's time to crash and wake up for an evening walk to a neighbouring pond.  We keep some time aside to hear music, paint or build trucks and cook a special dinner after which we read our favourite books.

In the midst of all this, we try and meet all the friends we couldn't during school time- this is truly enjoyable and enriching.  As the world shrinks, it seems our lives do too unless we make an effort to stay in touch with people.  So we have spent our time inviting and cooking for family and friends, making mango tarts for my husband's lab, meeting people in Bangalore club and elsewhere for a meal or just a chat, and visiting a few homes.

We have returned with freshly churned white butter for our breakfast, hollow papaya straws (to blow soapy bubbles), fresh green papaya (to convert into meat tenderiser for biryani), freshly picked Coorg oranges and lemons for marmalade, a bottle of splendid champagne and most of all- happy memories that will stay with us forever.

Tones of Autumn

Yesterday we went to see Carpet Stories, Danny Mehra's beautiful exhibition of rare tribal carpets (and ended up buying yet another of them!).  These carpets have a way of transporting one to faintly familiar yet unknown and unencountered worlds. A reminder of the vast sky above and the bountiful and sometimes harsh land around us. Of perhaps a simpler life, more rooted to the natural world.

We selected a carpet that had a beautiful combination of unusual, soft colours, that reminded me of autumn.  Blue skies, pink hued leaves, browns and mustardy yellows.  Not the freshness of spring, not the heat of summer and not the bareness of winter.  Just a soft, mellowing season of change.

After that we went across the road for dinner.  Ate slow cooked lamb with tiny carrots and baby potatoes and hand made ravioli with light creamy pesto.  The band next door was playing 'Autumn Leaves' and the gentle notes drifted in (fortunately it was instrumental; no one can sing it quite like Edith Piaf).  All in all, it was a very satisfying, very autumnal day, at the beginning of winter!

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=n2s2tPORlW4

"Hallo!" Said The Dandelion

The nursery (the plant kind) is one of our favourite haunts.  To me it seems the perfect playground and a splendid way to teach children about life around us.

Today, a cloudy kind of day, was perfect for walking around, talking to the plants and animals we happened to meet on the way.

"Hallo!" said the Dandelion, and "Hallo!" said Nayan, "Are you lost?"

"No, I'm just standing here, looking at the sky," said the Dandelion.  "Have you seen the sky, Nayan?"

"Yes, it's beautiful, full of big trees!"

"Look - there are the wheelbarrows," said Nayan, pointing excitedly.

"And there are the mountains of mud," said Mummy.  "Be careful, the gardeners have worked hard to make them."

"Let's go to the lily pond," said Nayan.

"We'll go through the poinsettias," said Mummy.  "I think they are growing them for Christmas."

"Look at the lily pond!" said Nayan.  "Those leaves are upside down."

"Yes, the leaves are upside down, " said Mummy.  "They need to look up at the sun so they can make their food."

"You can eat chlorophyll?" asked Nayan.

"Yes, in spinach and methi and lettuce," said Mummy.

"And grape leaves?"

"Yes."

"I want to eat grape leaves!" declared Nayan.

"Let's put the lily leaves right side up," said Mummy.  And so we did.

"I want to touch big water," said Nayan after this was done.

"Let's go to the fish pond," suggested Mummy.

"What should we do next?" wondered Mummy.

"Let's see the ferns!" said Nayan.

"And the orchids!  And the pink flowers!" said Mummy.

And so we walked along, sniffing and looking and carefully touching the plants along the way.

"Let's sit on the stony bench for two minutes," said Nayan.

And so we rested on a weathered plank of granite hidden away in a shaded nook.

"Hallo Crocodile," said Nayan.  "You can come up here but it's a bit prickly."

"And a bit thorny," agreed Mummy.

"No thank you, Nayan," said Crocodile.  "I think I'll rest in the musty, dusty, muddy, damp moss."

"I want to eat green drops but they are toxic!" said Nayan suddenly, looking at some berries.

"That's right!" exclaimed Mummy.  "How about some yellow pineapple when we get home?"

"How about some brown chiku when we get home?" asked Nayan.

And so, in pleasant anticipation, we sauntered back home.

The House Is Breathing

Many weeks of house cleaning seemed to result in nothing - masses of cobwebs were being swept off the ceilings, balls of dust emerged from all possible spots.  Mud covered the floor beneath the washing machine and so on.  I'm sure you get the idea.  All work seemed to vanish into a vacuum but still I toiled away (and asked the maids to toil away) everyday!  The garden too was choked with weeds, overgrown shrubs and fallen leaves.  A few weeds yanked up everyday, a few leaves cleared out - and finally, we are able to notice the effect.

Today, it seemed to me that the house was actually breathing.  It's clogged up pores seemed open and it was inhaling great gusts of air, with relief.  The garden too seemed filled with an air of satisfied calm.  Instead of the wasps (which I had been battling for several months), butterflies wafted in and hovered over some of the plants.  They stayed there even while I was working in the garden, fluttering very close to my face.

It's a nice feeling indeed!  The calm and contentment seems to diffuse into me too.  I feel waves of peace flowing in from time to time.  I can sense instantly the change in my breathing, reminding me of an old yoga lesson that I need to practice more.  We can calm our minds by regulating our breath and when the mind is calm and receptive, the spirit breathes its stillness and creativity (a sometimes a certain knowledge) into us.  It's very nice, however, to feel peaceful when one is not focussing on trying to make it happen.  All the other things then fall into place by themselves.

So, as my house breathes with ease, I do too, quite unconsciously.  And as the bamboo rustles and the butterflies flit in and out, my life seems to be filled with the best kind of beauty there is - the natural and effortless kind.

Food, Music And More - Some Memories

Yesterday we said goodbye to Chef Prashant, at Windsor Manor.  Low key and efficient in a very quiet way, he produced memorable meals for us and churned out buffets and banquet meals with ease.  We will miss him!

This got me thinking today of all the years we have been frequenting the buffets at the Windsor coffee shop and all the chefs with their diverse styles that we have met there.  How long has it been?  It's hard to say, for time slips by unnoticed.  A decade perhaps?  Certainly a long, long time but it seems like just a few years.

It began when I got a call asking if I was interested in a card offering discounts on the ITC hotels.  I unhesitatingly said, "No."  Why would I want such a card?
"Well, it's a very good deal," said the very persistent lady at the other end.  I said I would think about it, and my husband and I did.  Finally we decided to try it out for a year as the hotel is very close to where we stay.

That's how it began.  For people interested in trying different kinds of food, it was a good deal, especially the buffet, which we stuck to.

The hotel business in those days was booming.  Tourism was still doing well.  The buffet was large and lavish.  It's been cut down now but it still meets all our requirements and more.  There was an accordion player who would play wonderful European folk and dance music.  (Thus began our friendship with Prakash - a talented musician, one of the few accordion players left in the country, who plays just because he likes to.)

The chef in charge of the buffet at the time was Chef Mazdiyar, a genial, sociable Parsi, who would flit around, chatting with whoever caught his fancy.  We would get tons of Khow Suey and a clear soup with lots of vegetables, in those buffets.  Also prawns in some kind of sweet orange sauce, which he seemed to like.  I got a recipe for vegetable stock from him, which was very handy (as it's tricky to make a flavourful stock with just vegetables).  When he left he organized a week long Parsi food festival, using old family recipes - including everything down to pickles and chutneys.  It was an interesting and new array of food for us.

The next chef, Gaurav, specialized in Indian food, and so we saw a change in the menu style.  A lot of new and different curries, pullaos and biryanis were made.  One that I remember vividly was a prawn biryani from Odisha.  The orange sauce had been replaced by  a spicy tomato one, for the prawns.  A particularly memorable meal we had at this time was on the eve of the Bangalore marathon.  We sat surrounded by Kenyan and Ethiopian runners, who stuffed themselves with carbs (mostly noodles and white bread) while we were eating a very delicate Awadhi chicken curry made with almonds along with traditional breads.

Gaurav was a very spontaneous and enthusiastic chef.  I remember calling him once to request for a birthday cake (part of the 'card package'!) and instead of giving what I believe chefs are instructed to for these occasions, he suddenly launched into a description of a cake with nougat and cream and what not - and proudly produced it!  I was a bit embarrassed but very happy to receive this quite different and delicious cake.

The next chef we met was Prashant.  He specialized in Western food, I think with a generally European slant.  I remember the first time we had the buffet at this stage, there was a white gazpacho soup, which I had never tasted or heard of.  The spicy tomato sauce was now changed to a cocktail sauce, which was terrific.  A new chicken and green papaya soup showed up, which was also very nice.  What I like most about Prashant's cooking was the simplicity of style combined with the high quality of ingredients.  He also reintroduced many of the classic combinations.

In this day of innovation where creativity is greatly rated, I think people forget that classics are classics for a reason.  There is a timelessness about great recipes that must be respected.  Pastry may be painted in different hues and food may be garnished fancily but ultimately, the proof of a pudding is in the eating.  Commercial food establishments (and perhaps buffets) are particularly susceptible to these changing styles, but through many of the years that Prashant was around, I'm glad he didn't yield to this view and served many basic, delicious things like home grown sprouts (mustard sprouts in a green salad, which was tossed with lemon juice and olive oil was one of his simple and delicious dishes).  His stint at the coffee shop was the longest of all chefs when we were around, hence my descriptions also contain more about this style of food.

After this, budget cuts increased.  The hotel embarked on a green policy, wherein they said buffets were wasteful and a fixed buffet like menu would be offered but people could select what they liked and it would be freshly made and sent from the kitchen.  This was the time that we had several nice stir fries (especially with pork and lamb), prawn fried rice and so on.  We were also thankful for Prashant's unabashed joy in cooking with pork, which is one of our favourite meats and is not easy to cook just right. In fact it rarely appears on most menus.

This phase did not last long and we were back to the regular buffet and some nice grills.  A hot stone sizzler option appeared, which was also a terrific new addition.

Then one day, my husband found himself in charge of organizing a banquet to celebrate a special event - the golden jubilee of the Ramachandran plot (a path breaking calculation conceived by Professor GN Ramachandran that was worthy of a Nobel prize, which it never received).  A host of notable scientists from around the world had been invited.  Our thoughts turned to the Windsor poolside, with its charming ambience, and to Prashant, who was still around, and in charge of banquets.

The Windsor managers were too busy to meet us in our personal capacity.  "You are just footfalls in this hotel," they said, with a (charming) smile.  We shrugged and let it be.  Perhaps it was not destined.  A little enquiry from Prakash set the ball rolling again.  And this time, we managed to negotiate and book and meet with Prashant, who offered (and produced) an outstanding and truly elegant buffet at the poolside.

Many people remember this with happiness and satisfaction.  Everything was wonderfully presented and served.  The final flourish came from Prakash, who began playing some Russian tunes when an elderly Russian scientist came up.  The scientist was so moved that he spontaneously broke out into song; his joyful notes reverberated down to the lobby, making people smile.

So, here's to all the people I have known in Windsor, who have worked behind the scenes, handing out happiness through food, music and more.

A World Apart

There's nothing quite like a baby to train you to live in the present moment.  To let go of preconceived notions and take life as it comes- in its merry mad whirl and its flurry of excited screeches, protesting howls, wet nappies, mud splattered clothes and contented smiles.

Letting go comes much easier to my baby than it does to me.  He stands shakily, holding on to a small shelf for support, takes a few tottering steps along the floor, then lets go of the shelf.  My heart begins a wild thump and I rush forward to catch him as he collapses.  He smiles contentedly, gets up and is ready for more.  (I don't think I am, but I don't really have a choice).  Yes, letting go is harder than one thinks, if one thinks too much about it.

We live in a different kind of world these days, fogged up a bit by sleep deprivation, but an interesting world all the same.  A world where adult strangers come and yank the baby's thumb out of his mouth by way of greeting, during our morning walks.  (I am now used to this, and so is the baby, so we pay no attention and politely wait for the grown ups to leave.)  A world where people cannot imagine that the baby has no teeth yet and cannot bite into hard foods- yet somehow he finds food of his choice, and it seems to keep him well nourished.  A world where he has to wear eye patches for a couple of hours each morning (as he has a slight squint) and everyone asks why, how, provides theories on how the squint may have developed and how we should or should not fix it - and the doctors advise us on how to put the patches on while he is sleeping for he will never let us do it while awake.  But in reality, he sits quietly while we put the patch on, then immediately gets back to the extremely busy life unfolding around him.  He is a light sleeper and often wakes up smiling - and putting a patch on him while he is asleep always brings about howls.  So- yes- others don't always know best, even if they are doctors or well wishers.  The gross generalization here is that gross generalizations don't work.

Yes, we live in a very different world and at some time we will come down to earth with a bump (hopefully not in a gorse bush as Pooh often does, but drifting gently down like a little glider).  At this time, our world is populated with an assortment of animals and characters that are not really human.  We listen to Pooh's poems, look at the Cat in the Hat doing his amazing balancing acts, wonder what Green Eggs and Ham would taste like.  We swim with belugas, cross rivers with wildebeest, snuggle up to woolly and soft armadillos and pink rabbits.  We are at eye level with grass, muddy puddles and twigs.   We lie on our backs and wonder where the sunlight comes from and what causes shadows to be the way they are.  And when all that is done, we call it a day and fall suddenly and soundly asleep.

Nothing In Particular

This blog is about nothing in particular- I have just managed to snatch a few moments to sit and write.  It's cloudy outside and, in the garden, my lilies are slowly budding and blossoming - white tendrils of spider lilies, deep yellow mango coloured lilies, little mauve oniony ones and more.  I have a whole garden full of lilies now as they are low maintenance and I discovered that the monkeys don't touch them.

I have just finished baking a deep dark chocolate cake for my tea.  It is tender and deeply chocolatey - baked on low heat for a long time.

For lunch, we are to have a salad with cherry tomatoes, crisp lettuce, feta cheese and a little olive oil- served along with a small pizza with peppers and pineapple.

I have just finished The Three Musketeers and am  slowly savouring an Agatha Christie.

My baby is asleep.  When he wakens, we will crawl all over the floor and then hit the books, which both of us enjoy very much.  We read Pooh's songs, The Cat in the Hat, The Gruffalo and look at lots of interesting cookbooks learning about Mexican, Mediterranean and Chinese cuisines.

Yes, it's a busy but satisfying Sunday.