Why Learn Music?

 Every now and then, this question pops up in my mind, “Why do I learn music?”  Sometimes the answers are not compelling enough.

Yes, I enjoy it.  But I can as well sing on my own, the way I always used to do- snatches of songs, lilts of tunes that enter my mind as I move through the day.  That has always been very enjoyable.

Why go through the rigour, attempting to squeeze practice time into an already overloaded schedule – slipping in ‘palta practice’ while the rice is getting burnt and sitting at the tabla while my son is having a bath, knowing that I will be interrupted periodically, with questions like, “Where is my towel?” and “Do I really need to put cream?”

Trying to learn notations doesn’t come naturally to me. Notes, attempted, often fail to reach the appropriate place.  I hate audiences and don’t particularly enjoy singing in groups or for gatherings.  So… why?

Initially, I started music to help my son sustain his music practice.  And it still does so.  Even when he is not practicing, just hearing me play and sing a raga somehow instills it in his mind and I hear him humming it unconsciously.  But now, our music has evolved to a stage where we are not always learning the same thing together.  And he is old enough to begin an independent practice.  Why then?

My next observation was that practicing music in a focused way made me feel better.  Rigorous practice requires a level of concentration that humming or singing snatches of a song to oneself often doesn’t contain.  In particular, my headaches (which had troubled me a lot) seemed to reduce or recede and I felt more relaxed.  This was certainly a good reason to continue, but, my mind argued, “I could probably feel similar effects with a combination of swimming and yoga, which I already know and enjoy.”

So.. back to square one - dealing with annoying yet persistent thoughts which ask me, “Why, at this age, when you have never done it before?  Why, when you are struggling with keeping pace with compositions learnt months ago?  Why, when learning a simple song takes about eternity?  Why, when there is so much pending work piling up?”

This morning, I thought about it again.  This time I came up with a new answer.

I am learning music because it is the perfect way to express certain moods and feelings.  Each note brings forth a certain energy that I feel within and that reverberates in the air around me.  Each classic composition that I like to learn has something new to offer – in terms of creating different effects with notes.  When I make contact with or approach a note in the right way, it resonates with a certain beauty and clarity.  

I relate to the lyrics of classical songs and the sounds of ancient compositions (several of which were composed without words).  Where words are used, I marvel at the way in which they have been fitted to music- particular words that  are set to specific notes that bring out their relevance or feeling in an extraordinary way.  Sometimes I try to imagine what the composers might have felt while creating this music and I also ask myself what I feel about it, and how best I can express this in my music.  It indulges the poet and imaginer in me.

When I sit at the tabla and try out a taal, something stirs within.  An old rhythm, heard but unheard for a long time.  

Music connects me to a different world- more than outside, it seems to take me to a world inside.  A world that connects me more closely to the things I love- the sounds of nature, the feeling of serenity and the joy of creating or expressing something beautiful.

And that is why, I continue to learn music.

 

Life In The Slow Lane

Relaxing near the Bhadra river

 Life has become much richer these days as I have stopped keeping track of the pace of my life and have allowed things flow in a more natural way.

Juggling with subjects that interested me, keeping in mind the research schedule (or lack of it) of a husband who is immersed in science, and the needs of a ten year old son was quite do-able.  However, doing it without worrying about perfect control and timing was hard.  

Until I decided that life was meant to be lived in a different way. No more staying up late pondering over the best way to teach my child Kannada (the second language in school, and a language I am barely familiar with) or what menu I should plan for a diverse set of scientists  (some who were pure vegetarians, thriving on a coconut rich diet and some hearty meat eaters who preferred the pungence of mustard) or how to fit in the fruit and vegetable shopping after my morning yoga schedule without getting tangled in office hour traffic jams.  You get the picture...

Things changed when my husband pointed out that lack of sleep is a major trigger for migraines and even low levels of background stress doesn't help the situation.  I had been planning to let go of my 'targets' and 'to do' lists for a while, but after hearing this I resolutely took the plunge..   I was helped a lot by my teachers, who have appeared in my life over the last several years.   With their patient and kind instructions and with my own inner compass at work, I gradually began to step into the slow lane. 

How did the journey begin? It seems now that all the things I was attempting to learn were interconnected and formed a kind of grid that helped me relax and slow down without losing focus on the present moment. This required cutting off a lot of mental noise and delving within, being unafraid of both failure and perfection, of enjoying the process without wondering where it would lead to and whether it would be two good to last.

"That is not your job," said my music teacher. " Your job is to enjoy the learning".  And so I began.  

I learn music slowly, one note at a time, getting the feel of the sound, the pauses - what to do in the gaps, how to string the notes together - through my voice or the tabla - and create different energies. I learn the importance of going slow without breaking the rhythm (practicing in vilambit taal) before moving on to higher speeds.

Controlling my breathing is a challenge for me. But it is becoming a lot easier because of my pranayama practice. I sit with my yoga teacher and practice breathing for over an hour each time. Different ways of breath control, with the mind focused on each inhalation and exhalation. There is supposed to be a relaxed flow, a balance of incoming and outgoing air, with moments in between of the complete cessation of breathing. It is amazing how good it feels to just breathe and not think of anything else.  My teacher's decades of experience and very precise instructions and demonstration are of immense value.

This training also helps me in my swimming (I have recently begun swimming lessons).  The coach emphasizes the importance of slowness and synchronicity while training - of feeling the stretch, relaxing the joints, and maintaining the rhythm and flow of the movements and breathing. My music and yoga serve me well here. Being in water lifts my mood and clears my mind almost instantly.

Not every task is completed according to the anticipated schedule. Not every box is ticked off on my time table.  But I am sleeping better. I managed to bake chocolate brownies and discuss science with my husband. I managed to read an entire novel in a fortnight and wonder about how to attract stingless bees in our garden, with my son. I even managed to write this blog! 

Sunset in Goa

Sometimes, I like to immerse myself in my garden or in a beautiful snippet of music or dance, or read a few lines from a book, just to celebrate the beauty of life around me.  Not for long (I am still learning!), but each moment adds up and the journey is fun.  

I am attaching a link to a short Odissi dance recording that I think mirrors my feelings.  It is a recording of Guru Kelucharan Mohapatra - who spent his entire life dancing and composing dance movements because that is all he wished to do.

Pallavi by Guru Kelucharan Mohapatra

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.

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.

Seeing What Is

 On Tuesday morning, it was raining cats and dogs.  "Why not candies?" asked my son Nayan.  

"Candies would be like little rocks pelting on our head," I said, "And I'm not sure if we could eat them.."

"Of course, we could," said Nayan who actually doesn't eat much candy in real life.

"It might rain frogs," said Renee Aunty, who knows all about these things.  "It does, sometimes, you know."

"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."

"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.

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.

"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."

"There are no drains near my bus stop," declared Nayan.  "The next time it rains, I'm going to float a boat."

"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."  

No, we did not know any of this (actually neither did he, but a few minutes on the Internet is all it takes).

"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."

Wow!  Appa sure knows how to ferret out important information.

So we agreed to try and make a banana leaf boat to set sail in the next rivulet we found.

But before we could find a banana leaf, the rain began again.

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.

Nayan was very upset.  Tears trickled down his face.  

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."

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.

"Why does this child have to feel so intensely?" I asked Raghavan. 

"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."

"I told him," I said, "not to miss out on what is by dwelling on what is not, but he wouldn't listen."

"It's okay," said Raghavan, "He will soon get over it."

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).  

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.

"But, Do You Like It?"

 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!

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.

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?"

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."

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.  

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.

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.

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.."  

This has been a regular feature with Nayan but tonight something tugged at my memory.

"Nayan," I asked the next morning, "Do you like your room?"

"Hmmm.." he was not sure.  "I can't seem to sleep there."

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.

"Let's begin," I said, "By removing these clothes and putting all the things that YOU would like into this room.

Nayan pondered.  "We'll begin with the aeroplane cloud that Appa drew for me," he said.  "We can hang it above my name."

There was a very convenient little nail so we could do that quite quickly.

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...

Don't Be Afraid Of Dragons

 They hiss, they spit, they bare their fangs and snap at us!  

They rise effortlessly above us and just as we hope they have flown away, they come swooping down to breathe fire once more..

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.

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..

How, oh how do we deal with all these?  Merely shouting, "Dragons flee!" doesn't seem to help.  

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.

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.

My seven year old son, brimming with curiosity, peers over my shoulder as I write this blog.

"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.  

"Appa, are you afraid of dragons?  Don't be."

"I think I am," says his father.  "Dragons can be very scary sometimes."

"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."

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?  

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).

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.

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..

As I think about these things, the words of Lao Tzu echo in my mind-

"...The Tao is empty, yet when applied is never filled up.

So deep it is, Ah! it seems to be the ancestor of all things.

Blunting sharp edges, resolving confusions,

Diffusing glare, uniting the world:

Such depth, Ah! something seems to exist there.

I do not know whose child it is.

It seems to have existed before the Ancestor..."

Perhaps we can use this emptiness to our advantage.  When we are empty, how will dragons find us?

Thoughts, On Guru Poornima

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.  

A Guru is one who leads you from darkness to light (gu- darkness, ru- light).  One who shows you the way, not the end.

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.

I have not much time to write, so I am pasting below a few thoughts from previous blogs of mine-

"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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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: 

"Mano Buddhi Ahankara Chitta Ninaham Nacha Shrotra Jihve Na Cha Ghrana Netre Nacha Vyoma Bhoomir Na Tejo Na Vayu Chidananda Rupa Shivoham Shivoham" 

(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).

" 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"

(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)..."

"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. 

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.."

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.

Questions About Commitment

 Where and how do our commitments begin?  Today I dwelt on some of my life changing commitments and wondered.  

My commitment to writing happened unexpectedly.  I always liked to write but I never thought of spending much time on it.  

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?  

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.

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.

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.  

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?"

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".

"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."

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.  

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.

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.  

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.

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?  

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 -

"Two roads diverged in a wood and I - I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."

Memories, Music And More

A 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.  

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?

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.

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.

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.

"What does she teach?" I asked feeling a bit dizzy.  It had been too fast.

"Western music.  Fun, happy songs."

"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.

"This is a very old number," she said, "but try it."

I tried it and within a minute I got a reply.  "Please call tomorrow evening to discuss this."

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.

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?

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.

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-

  

"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.

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.

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)!"

Baul song

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.

Bangla Dhun

Thoughts on Death and Life

My father died a little over a month ago.  My mother had died many years earlier.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Finally, I put down below a few of my favourite verses on these matters of death and of life-

Death, Be Not Proud, by John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; 

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow 

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. 

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, 

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, 

And soonest our best men with thee do go, 

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. 

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, 

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, 

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well 

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? 

One short sleep past, we wake eternally 

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. 

A Walk, by Rainer Maria Rilke

My eyes already touch the sunny hill,

going far ahead of the road I have begun.

So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;

it has inner light, even from a distance-

and changes us, even if we do not reach it,

into something else, which, hardly sensing it,

we already are; a gesture waves us on

answering our own wave...

but what we feel is the wind in our faces.

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep, by Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight. 

I am the soft stars that shine at night. 

Do not stand at my grave and cry, 

I am not there; I did not die.

Coda, by Octavio Paz 

Perhaps to love is to learn

to walk through this world.

To learn to be silent

like the oak and the linden of the fable.

To learn to see.

Your glance scattered seeds.

It planted a tree.

I talk

because you shake its leaves.

Diving Into Stillness -and more

It has been an unusual year.  Uneventful in big ways but overflowing with twists and turns and changes of paths.  I have been unable to write much for my time and energy was tied up so tightly that I could not stop to slip in a stray few words much as I wanted to.  So, readers, thank you once more for still staying around long enough to read what (I assume) is the last blog for this year.  I hope to write more next year.

It has been a year of continuous physical and mental activity as my little son tried to find his footing in the world of schools and 'educators'.  My husband inched forward with his work on flu vaccines.  My father-in-law braved his first year without his wife (whom he still thinks of as soon as he opens his eyes every morning, as he tells me).  Various family members faced challenges of some form.  And I found myself in the cross currents of all these events, trying to steer myself in the right direction.

Life is not linear.  It has a disconcerting (and exhilarating) Lewis Carroll like like flow- quantum leaps and lights that begin to gleam not at the far end but mid way through tunnels and fog.  In this blog, I have decided to do the same- to let my writing leap from place to place, as my mind follows the events of last year.  And to write exactly what I wanted to convey (which required a little leap of faith).

For sharing some of these moments with me, I thank my friends, whose words have helped tremendously.  Their outlook on life (and the fact that they took the time and effort to convey their thoughts to me) helped me feel braver and happier!

Two authors, whose books changed my life this year- Eckhart Tolle (The Power of Now) and Julia Cameron (The Artist's Way).

My husband, who has hardly been at home this year but when I have had immense need for him, has somehow managed to materialize and stay to help.

An acupuncturist, who sent wisdom and beautiful books to me from London.

A worldly wise rug collector and his bubble blowing, egg smashing, story telling wife who my son is incredibly fond of.

A scientist, co-inhabitor of this planet, whose one line mails are more pertinent and helpful than reams of theory from specialists.

A swimmer friend of my son's who shares a common interest in spiders, a writer in real life.

Another friend (of my mother-in-law's originally) who I have just got to know - a talented writer and photographer.

I dwell for a few moments on this last newly found friend of mine.  Particularly relevant in the light of this year's temple fights in Kerala, where masculine forces continue to resist the entry of women between the ages of 10 and 50 to the Sabarimala temple, a discrimination of the most perplexing kind in the name of God.

This photographer, a stranger in Kerala, has gained the confidence and trust of priests in some of the most sacred temples and has been given access to viewing and recording the ancient, still continuing forms of temple rituals and art forms.  A completely unexpected thing because she is a stranger to their land, a woman and furthermore - a foreigner (who has crossed the seven (or perhaps fewer) seas and approached them.  These reactions and occurrences are glimpses of hope in troubled times.  She occasionally sends me pictures of the temple dances that she is photographing - they are so incredibly powerful.  I am thankful for this sudden new opening in my life to a world unseen but intensely alive.

Descending a little further to murky realms, perhaps not really discussed in company, but- I do want to talk about it briefly- as it comes up in the ridiculous temple fights and many other forms- the menstrual cycle.  Essential, as the world agrees, but let women deal with this embarrassing set of events that seems to unleash the worst in them, and let them stay away from everyone else while doing so (except in progressive countries, where you really have to show them that women can work equivalently and so on..  I do not dwell on that).  I just want to mention my own experiences, which have made me wonder about things, as a scientist and a student of yoga (also because very few books deal with the aspects that I have been thinking about).

My most creative phase is always the one before the onset of this cycle.  Even if I am unable to write, my mind is filled with ideas and where they come from, I do not know (this happens each time, without exception).  I also wonder if men go through a similar cycle- molecules are in some way driving cycles of creativity, perhaps the cycles are not as physically obvious as in women but I feel they must exist.

Following this phase, there is a physical crash of the worst kind, intense pain in the form of a migraine series that necessitates withdrawing from everything except tasks that absolutely cannot be put off.  Why?  Not everyone goes through these intense reactions, and I should not have to.  "Don't bother with them, " says my husband.  "Hormones are powerful molecules, they come and they will go."  But my intense desire to get rid of the physical pain has led me to focus on the role of the mind and energy flows- subtle causes but certainly drivers of pain (and thus, hopefully, also healing).

I find though that respite, when it comes, is driven not through the mind but beyond it- by the spirit (if one wants to give these things a name).  In a state when the mind is switched off, when I go deep into the pain and feel it as energy, without giving it a label.  It takes time but I am beginning to realize that pain is not the rock hard surface it appears to be.  It does give way and if one manages to evade its grasp and dive further down, one comes to a pool of stillness.  What lies in this pool, I have no idea, for I have just about managed to touch the surface.  I have come up spluttering and gasping as the mind kicks back into its usual mind-stuff.  But pain (and all related painful memories) seem to me to be an active force that is trying to stop me from reaching somewhere that is more natural, more creative and that (I sense but do not know) has within in the potential to change my life.

So, next year's resolution is to try and dive deeper, hold away my thoughts for longer and trust myself to this unknown pool of stillness that lies silently within.

The last phase of the periods is the time of visions (as described by Native Americans, whose descriptions closely match my own experiences).  When the body is shutting down and the mind does not want to cope with everyday things, a kind of window opens into the spirit.  This results in shifts of perspective, a deeper understanding of oneself and where one is heading.  I do not believe one has to go through the rigmarole of hormonally induced changes to experience this, the signals are really quite evident for any person to see- when one feels that intense need for solitude,  the need to move away from mind or people-related work to activities like swimming or running or anything where one reconnects to an inner flow, one should try and yield to this yearning.  (In modern terminology, the pay offs are tremendous).

As the year ends, I am glad that though I could not move outwardly in any obvious way, I have moved deeper within,and, for me, this is enough.  My husband has been moving towards trying to streamline demands on him so perhaps the next year (or the following one!) will give him a little time of his own.  My son has taken brave little steps into a changing world and learned to deal with the ups and downs induced by other people, to identify the things he would like to do without giving up on the magic of dreams and laughter, love and innocence and all the good things of childhood.

I wish all my readers a wonderful year ahead and hope they move closer to things that give them peace and satisfaction in their lives!

Meditative Moments

In the last few months, I have been trying to work on areas that I previously neglected, in my yoga practice.  This is the part that deals with the mind- or rather the stilling of it.  How does one disregard the constant chatter of the mind, especially in the absence of a teacher to guide one?

For a while, I thought I would begin by looking for a suitable teacher.  This was hard to do- the last few steps in the classical yoga texts are very briefly defined, seldom do teachers go all the way (and even less do they talk about it).  It's a daunting task for both teacher and student for there is nothing tangible, no easy way to know if you have made any progress.  Or so I thought.

I began by trying to attend a meditation workshop (the only one I could find in Bangalore).  I read the person's book, then one Saturday afternoon, braving a heavy downpour that brought all traffic to a standstill, took a taxi and my google map and somehow found my way to the centre.  Braving further a hideous mosquito attack, an icy cold breeze and the butterflies in my stomach, I rang the bell, only to be greeted by a cacophony of growls and barks.  I looked to see two large dogs, one tied to each end of the gate post, leaving an area of two feet for people to walk through.  An unperturbed voice hailed me and asked me to come in.  Now, I am not afraid of dogs, having grown up with so many.  But the thought of walking through that clearing with two bristling beasts (who were unlikely to break free), was not very reassuring.  The mind plays tricks..

Anyway, it turned out that I had got the time wrong and had reached two hours ahead.  I thought it might be a good opportunity to talk to the teacher.  He did sit down for a few minutes with me, to ask about my background etc.  Then he said there was nothing I could learn from the class.  It was good I had come but I was just being lazy in not practicing on my own at home.

So.. I did attend the meditation session and reached home, seven hours after I had left it (leaving my son alone for that long a period for the first time).  Anyway, all was well- my son was making a dosa in the kitchen with my husband, and I accepted that I would find no teachers in Bangalore.

The next event that happened was the arrival of a book by Evald Flisar (a Slovenian writer) that I had ordered long ago and forgotten about.  Titled 'The Sorcerer's Apprentice', it described his experiences as a learner, initially with yoga and then tantra in the Himalayas.  It had some strange parts but was very useful at the time, in clarifying my thoughts on working without a teacher.  Evald, as an apprentice, found he could go only so far along certain paths.  He had to search for alternate options, meanings, interpretations, and try and work his way through to the end.  I believed that I would eventually find my way too.

I did not restart with any fixed aim in mind but I just decided to pick out and read again a relatively recently written book (instead of the classics) that had always appealed to me as it contained a lot of timeless wisdom written from a first hand perspective.  This is called 'The Power Of Now' and is written by Eckhart Tolle (I don't like the title, apt though it is, as it reminds me of one of those Readers Digest articles which attempt to tell you the solution to all your problems).  A subscript adds 'A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment'.  So simple!!!  (Eckhart attained stillness of mind at a moment when extreme anxiety was prompting him towards suicide.  He then spent a long time in meditative states and finally decided to write this book to answer the questions various people had been asking him.  He moves away from pre-conditioned concepts and tries to explain things the way he experienced and perceived them.  I quote a sentence from this book, which is probably the bottomline of his teaching- 'Be the ever-alert guardian of your inner space').

I found the technique I needed written very simply and clearly in this book, the hard part is to make it a part of everyday life!  But for the moment, this is enough.  I have stopped searching and begun practicing, and contrary to what I thought, I can feel the difference in myself already- the increase in equilibrium, the lowering of negativity and consequently, of anxiety and pain.

This is one of the reasons why my blog was unwritten for so long- all my energy was being directed to finding my way forward.  I believe I have taken the first step, and I hope I now have more time (at least once in a while!) for my writing and the other things I like to do.  Time will tell!

It Never Hurts To Ask

This has recently been driven home to me in the gym, where I do my morning practice of yoga.  I usually go there around nine, when there's hardly anyone around (except a couple of regulars).  Often it's quiet but occasionally the radio blares on, loudly and unrelentingly.  Initially I would just grit my teeth and get on with it, especially as the radio seems to coincide with some additional person working out at that time.

Lately however, I have been asking people if I could turn it down a little (the talk and music are really quite grating) and to my surprise, every time I have asked, everyone has said that they do not want the radio on.  They say it was just on when they came, and there's a universal sigh of relief when I turn it off (with cell phones and headphones, no one really needs a public radio in a gym).  This has happened about five times in a row, which just goes to show...!

Poetry and Conversation

My neighbour (a remarkably astute principal of a college) periodically asks me to judge a poetry contest she conducts during their college festival.  So it was that I spent much of yesterday poring over poems, almost all reflecting teenage angst (except for one, who had written about Hitler's prowess as an artist!).  The title given to them was 'Is This Me', hard enough for anyone to think about, more so perhaps for young adults.

When I went to return the poetry filled sheets, I mentioned to my neighbour about how much angst the students seemed to have.  "Yes," she said, in a very matter of fact way.   "That's partly why I organize these contests - to give them an outlet."

We have all gone through phases of struggle; the process is familiar but the contents seem to have changed, and we discussed this for a while.  She said that the main problem students in her college voiced was not peer pressure but being unable to communicate with their parents.

I was a bit taken aback at this; I had attributed many of the problems to social media, lack of time and place for sport or creative opportunities, a sense of isolation and more.  Not to parents.  But that's not how the students seem to see it.  Reality probably lies somewhere in between but I can see that relentless pushing at home would not help a teenager who is anyway struggling to come to terms with the world around.  Something to ponder about.

The poems were free and frank and reflected more confusion and dismay than anger.

At the end of all this, I was happy to turn back to old loved poetry, to Rilke, who reminds us that every moment is precious and life changing.  I have quoted this poem before but I put it down once more for it moves me each time I read it-

A Walk

My eyes already touch the sunny hill,
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has inner light, even from a distance-

and changes us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on
answering our own wave...
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.

Dreams Drift On

One relearns many things through little children.  The importance of dreams, for example.  Not the kind that come when we are asleep but the ones we actively generate.  Much of the time we are too busy to dream, too reticent to voice them.  But children have no such reservations.  My son has a distinct set of things he would like to do in an ideal world, and he says them all aloud.

Saying things aloud has a different effect from just thinking them.  They seem more concrete, like little rose coloured clouds that take shape in front of us and drift along beside us.  Our companions, not our foes, that serve not to dredge up frustrated goals but to remind us of wondrous possibilities.  If only..

One of my son's most predictable dreams is to swim in any water source he sees.  Thus it is not surprising that he now wants to swim in a lake close to our house, called Sankey Tank.  This is a dreadfully muddy and polluted place, so it is now his dream to clean it up so that people can swim there.

A long list of what he has to do follows - remove the mud and the rocks, take them to a dump, filter the water, add some chlorine and ozone to clean it up and then, finally, to put up some signs.  What kinds of signs should he put, he asks me.

"Please don't throw garbage in the tank.  Use the garbage bins," I reply.

He nods.  And then dreams on.

"I think we will have some more signs -

'Hallo and welcome and how nice to see you'

'Have a good swim'

and

'Bye bye and thank you and see you next week'"

He laughs and claps his hands, and I'm amazed that these dreams did not occur to me.  Now that we say them aloud, it seems as though it may only be a matter of time that Bangalore lakes are cleaned up and full of happy swimmers.

Swimming Lessons

My three year old son and I are going to the swimming pool everyday, until school begins (for the first time, next week).  We wake up early, get ready the way we would for school and set off in the car.  The driving time is about the same as what it would be to drive to school.  We carry our bags, filled with the same things we will take next week.  We meet people and swim and, afterwards, sit and watch the swimming classes for older children while eating our tiffins.

I did not plan this routine months ahead, it just fell into place by itself.  I'm not a meticulous planner!  This schedule has given my son a sense of direction to his day (he loves water so it's nice to see him waking up all excited every morning), a sense of independence (he now happily converses with all the 'aunties' sitting around (the children are too busy swimming to notice him)) and has increased his stamina to the extent that I am confident he will not get completely exhausted during his long school hours.  He has also figured out ways to cope with the unpredictability of traffic and road conditions.  Apart from all this, he has learnt to make egg sandwiches from scratch and loves doing so (more than eating them)!

I too have learnt much from my visits to the pool, which in the mornings, is filled with elderly people and children who are taking swimming lessons.  There are no young people or teenagers in sight.  All the mothers (and an occasional father) are sitting at tables scattered around the pool, waiting for their children, shouting a few instructions now and then.  Some are talking to each other, many are busy with their cell phones.

My son and I are cheerily greeted by many of the women, the coaches smile when he comes because he's so excited about going into the water.  He and I are the only ones to enter the children's pool.  All the other children are hard at work in the main pool while we are playing about in the water. Many mothers are surprised that I am teaching my son on my own instead of handing him over to the coach next year.

I realized, with some surprise, that parents feel that other people (especially professionals) are better equipped to deal with the education of their children.  This is something I came across while searching for schools as well - mostly it was said by teachers (except for a small number who urged me to keep my son at home in the early years), but it seems to resonate within a large group of parents as well.

I see four year olds crying, throwing up and older children wanting to 'goof off' periodically in the pool.  The parents are not sympathetic.  My instinct would just be to go and hug the child and say, "It's all right.  You can relax," but parents look disapprovingly at the child and a bit apologetically at the coach (who is a very dedicated and well meaning teacher in my view, but not every child is ready for intense coaching).

Play is greatly underestimated nowadays, especially spontaneous play.  My son and I have a wonderful time playing in the water, driven mostly by him.  He is at the stage where make believe adventures have just begun, so he's not just swimming when he's in the water.  He is standing like a sea horse, jumping like a dolphin, floating like a jelly fish.  He is surfing, he is hunting, he is deep sea diving.  He has learnt how to move in water, how to cope when water gets into his eyes, nose or mouth.  He has understood the feeling of floating and he loves to enter the big pool whenever he is allowed (the sense of buoyancy and the excitement of seeing so much water is far greater there).

I have learnt the importance of sharing these adventures and moments of learning with a child.  Of being there at the same level, and doing the same things, to enable him to overcome fear and hesitation easily.  Of not pushing him into things he is not ready for or not meant to do no matter how sensible or worthy the ideas appear.

Of enjoying each step of life along the way, if I have the chance to.