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

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.

Thoughts In A Pandemic

Oh can you bring for me

Spray from the salty sea?

The sight of shifting dunes

Eight to ten midnight moons?

Oh can you bring to me

Creaks from the ancient trees?

Four songs the swallows sing

Flutters from new found wings?

Where does the silence lie

In me, or in the sky?

All things I long to see

Spring from old memory…

A Writeup For My School

 My school is celebrating its 40th anniversary this month.  I was a part of the first batch of the school, and the school has asked our class to make a short video of our experiences and remembrances.  I decided to write an essay to share my experiences of the ups and downs of school life.  Here it is!

My Memories of School 

I would like to thank Gyan Bharti School for this opportunity to share my thoughts, and also all my teachers and classmates.

As I was amongst the first batch of early students, I want to share memories of the very special year of 1980 and the extraordinary core of people who gave the school its roots and at the same time encouraged it to reach up to the sky.  Since then, our school has branched and blossomed wonderfully and I am sure my classmates and many others who have been involved in this process, will talk more about it.

My first impression of Gyan Bharti School in 1980, was a warm brick building with a hall ideally designed to play hide and seek in (not that we were ever allowed to do so)!

The school’s introduction to me occurred swiftly and dramatically – on my first morning at Assembly.  As we all sat cross legged on the mats, I could feel my feet getting gradually numb.  I knew it was impolite to fidget while people were talking so I sat absolutely still but in a state of inner anguish.  As soon as Assembly ended, we all stood up- or at least I attempted to.  What happened next was that I smoothly and effortlessly keeled over.  I made a few more attempts, with little success.  I could see a group of faces looking- startled, amazed and - amused.  That’s how I became instantly known to everyone as the girl who couldn’t stand!

Subsequently, I learnt how to unobtrusively shift my weight and wiggle my toes to keep the blood flow going, and the memory of this episode gradually faded.

Our classroom was small – but it was the perfect size for us.  There were just a handful of students and teachers under the helm of Mr. Kapoor, making the most of the limited resources we had and working together as a team.  At the age of ten, we felt perfectly equipped to cope with the challenges of building a new school and our teachers and very experienced Director encouraged us in our efforts.  It was this experience of putting aside my personal goals for a little while in order to carry out a challenging and interesting task as part of a larger whole, that has stayed with me and helped me adapt to my changing responsibilities at home and work throughout my life.

The very first teachers I encountered were the ones that left a lasting impression on me and shaped my values.  They were Chaturvedi Ma’m, Anju Ma’m, Usha Sarin Ma’m and Chandra Ma’m.  As days sped by, new teachers - and students joined - enriching our school experience in myriad ways.

As the senior most class, we also had the responsibility of taking care of the little ones- a task we took seriously.  I remember Deepak spending time during every break to push and whirl little children on swings, to the loud chorus of “Deepak Bhaiyya, dhakka do!”

I remember the first project I assembled on a large board in the hall.  Anant had just joined the class; he and I were assigned this task.  As both of us were rather short, it was quite a challenge reaching the top of the board to pin up the charts!  But it served to break the ice and get to know a fellow student.

We had only been a few weeks in school when the activities began- a precursor to many more that would follow in coming years.  

For Children’s Day, we made a beautiful paper model of a children’s park, complete with grass and tiny flowers.

We celebrated Diwali with a garbha dance – it was incredibly tricky managing a sari and a pair of sticks!  But the beautiful melody of the folk song our teachers sang as we danced still echoes in my mind.

Towards the end of the year we put up a ballet.  I think it was based on the story of Prahlad, but I cannot be certain because in order to include everyone, many delightful characters were introduced and the story deviated considerably from the original!  It was this feeling of inclusivity, especially in the first year, that brought a very warm feeling of happiness within me.

Not all moments were inclusive, however.  With complete awareness of the constraints that comparison brings, I cringed each time I was called on stage to find everyone clapping for me.  I would have preferred to have my friends sharing their own accomplishments with me rather than clapping for me.  But I had not the courage to voice my views at the time.

As I grew through the months, so did the school.  I cannot do justice in recalling all the people and events that have made me and the school what we are today.  But here are a few people and memories that have stayed uppermost in my mind-

I am grateful to Dr. Sharma for joining the school mid term and cracking the whip to get our clueless class well prepared to face our first Board exam in Maths.

To Dr. Brar, for leaving the Chemistry lab completely open for us to use at any time, under the supervision of Satish, the lab assistant.  Having worked in many labs later, I realize that it was a rare opportunity given to high school students.

I recall with great fondness the administrative staff, in particular, Mr. Taneja.  Each time I met him, he would ask, “How is your class doing?  Do you need any kind of additional support from the school?”, and he always listened to my answers gravely and carefully.

I remember marvelling at the extraordinary combination of Art and Chemistry that went into our batik paintings.  The incredible way in which Mrs. Arora (or Art Ma’m) taught us, with minimal words- the need to imagine, conceptualize and then work towards creating a piece of art.  And the realization that at some moment the medium takes over and something magical happens to your creation.

I distinctly recall Mishra Ma’m, who provided a special spirit to the fiery roopaks.  She also introduced us to various sports, including basketball – a game I instantly loved and still enjoy playing.

I cannot forget the time I heard Wasif singing.  He usually never did, preferring to keep a low profile.  However, one morning, when there were ripples of restlessness in the Assembly hall, as students waited for Mr. Kapoor and Chaturvedi Ma’m to come, a teacher beckoned Wasif, led him to the stage and suddenly asked him to sing.  I remember the grace, dignity and beauty of Wasif’s performance and the music has remained with me to this day.  

An unusual experience that left a tremendous impression on me occurred during the horse riding class.  One of my classmates, Tripat, somehow managed to edge his horse out of the fenced enclosure.  Suddenly we heard a pounding of hooves and saw Tripat- a largish fellow transformed into a small speck in the horizon.  The riding instructor wasted no time in leaping onto a horse.  Then he looked around and somehow decided that I should accompany him on this rescue mission.  All through the classes, I had been sedately practicing trots and canters and now, suddenly, I felt my horse break into a gallop to keep pace with the instructor’s horse.  I clung to the saddle, hoping desperately that I wouldn’t fall off as we raced down the sports field to the hills beyond.

We managed to reach Tripat in good time and it was only on the journey back that I realized I was actually enjoying the gallop- feeling the strength of the horse and the wind in my face as we sped along.  Perhaps no one will believe now that once it was possible to see – and reach the little green hills by galloping through our school’s fields!

But in essence, this is what my school experience taught me- while moving along predictable paths, sometimes, without warning, life sweeps you up and takes you to unknown places – and all you can do at the time is to try and stay in the saddle.  But if you believe in life – and yourself –  then at some moment you find yourself enjoying some part of the ride, no matter where you are going.

As this was a small school and we were the first batch, the school was keen to provide all the support they could for us to do well in the Board examinations.  There were pluses and minuses.  We had special teachers and extra classes to help us prepare for the tenth standard exams.  Alongside, all our regular teachers reminded us of how important it was to do well in these exams, in hindsight it must have been important for the school to have their first batch do well.  As class topper, the burden of this fell to a large extent on me – or perhaps this is how I perceived it.  It was not an easy load for a child of fifteen.

I was gently reprimanded for the various careless mistakes I made in my ninth standard final exams.  But what nobody knew was that I had taken each exam without sleeping the previous night, due to nervousness.

My family situation was a bit different from others as my brother and I were staying away from our parents (who were at the time stationed in Bangalore).  For the tenth standard exams, I requested my mother to come and stay with me just for the duration of the exams, and of course, she was very understanding and reassuring about it.  

This academic pressure only increased in the last two years, bringing a shadow to the otherwise sunny aspects of school life.  It was at this time that my mother was diagnosed with leukemia and there were many moments in which I felt completely alone.

As we moved through teenage years, I felt a growing sense of alienation from many of my classmates, which saddened me.  There were distinct camps of ‘Boys’ and ‘Girls’ and the boundaries were sharply defined.  Any attempt to communicate with a boy was greeted with hoots of derision.  The people I had grown up with suddenly seemed to be like strangers.

Over-sensitivity has always been a weakness of mine and over the years, I also sensed a strange internal competition that some of my classmates had set up to try and beat me in academics.  None of this was induced by me and I felt uncomfortable with a situation that I had not the means to resolve.

I felt the same on the playing fields many times.  After hearing several times teachers saying, “Here comes the class topper.  Let’s see what SHE can do on the field,” I retreated into a shell during many of the games.  I longed for anonymity and was always thankful when I got a chance to play basketball as no one could closely monitor my movements on the crowded court.

However, these aspects were a product of the particular states of mind and the environment that all of us were immersed in.  It blew away with the passing of years and I am truly glad to be reconnected with my classmates through largely happy memories.

I was overcome by the genuine warmth with which I was welcomed to the class Whats App group - I had put off joining this for many years until some of my friends tracked me down and said they would be happy to catch up with my news.

A few months ago, when my father unexpectedly passed away, my classmates got the details of the Chautha ceremony and some of them turned up to be by my side at this difficult moment.  It was a gesture that deeply moved me, though I was unable to express it in words at the time.

But that is the wonder of childhood friendships fostered by school ties – they never grow old, even if we do!

Excitements of the Day

Yes, we are all locked down - down but not out!  Each day brings a battle of its own.  But it is almost summer now; nature heedless of man, unfolds at its own exquisite pace.  We are fortunate to have garden with a few fruit trees, some herbs, plenty of bees, squirrels, monkeys and an occasional snake to break the monotony.

We had many eventful moments yesterday.  The not so great ones were our cycle valve tubes getting leaky and our new car battery dying.  Now only my son is able to cycle about and fortunately our old yellow car is still trudging along.

I have been working on a live yeast (and bacteria) culture for bread (as we are running out of baker's yeast).  I was all set to start the bread early yesterday morning when we suddenly decided that we should get down the mangoes from our trees.  In hindsight, this was a very good idea because we had a terrific storm today and the monkeys came this morning searching for fruit.  (They found no mangoes left but threw down some hefty jackfruit, which I am still clearing up.)

Anyway, the mangoes had to be brought down with a hooked stick and they fell (or we caught them) in our bedsheet.  We got three bucketfuls of mangoes and my son was busy handing them out to neighbours who wanted some.  Most people nowadays assume you get ripe orange mangoes from markets and that's how they like them.  Not green and waiting to be covered up in straw and ripened, so there were not many takers for our fruit.  But we are busy wrapping them up and they should ripen in a while.  The fragrance is incredible and I wish we could preserve it on our bedsheets too..

So, I was late by a couple of hours to start the bread.  Anyway, it was fun to make, and I and made a loaf from the Tartine  recipe book.  It was so crusty outside that I had to saw through it and inside it was a bit like sourdough bread, but I think it is not a bad beginning (only my husband has taken the plunge and eaten it so far!).

 And, tomorrow is another day, hopefully filled with - better bread, mango chutney and eventually- ripe mangoes!

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.

Kenny Bear Lends A Paw

My husband is travelling and my son, Nayan, is down with viral fever (103 for last two days, is getting better today).  Nayan misses my husband and keeps telling me of all the terrible things he is going to do to him once he is back!

Temperature monitoring and medicine and food giving are a challenge.  What does one do?

It so happened that Kenny bear fell ill at the same time (with a temperature of 1000).  Someone had to take his temperature and feed him and he needed someone to huddle next to. So Nayan came to the rescue.  Kenny bear loves honey, especially when it is mixed with ginger and basil.  So does Nayan.  Lucky, for both of them.

P.S. Kenny bear is also better today (temperature of 55) but fast asleep.