On Shoes & Change

Change, often, is like a new shoe.

At first, the need.
To buy or not to buy?
To change, or not ?

Then, the considerations.
Is this a better shoe than the one I have?
Is it a change for the better?

At what price?
How much, is too much?
How much am I willing to stretch?

And, then finally, come the moments of truth when we wear the new shoes to walk through new ways.
Or, perhaps on old roads.

Who really focuses on the scenery, when one is nagged by a vague, weird feeling of discomfort from a fit which is a wee bit too snug?
Or, if one is nursing angry blisters.

Until the shoes are broken in, or, shall we say, we are reconciled to the change, one has to continously resist an overwhelming urge to shake the tightly encased feet, hoping for a little more breathing space down there.

But, once you get past the blisters...the snug fit....the newness wears off and comfort levels rise, the change is no longer a change, but a well worn, comfortable habit.

And, how would you know when change knocks at your doors?

Just as you know when its time to trade in a worn pair of shoes...

It is time for change when there is an ache in the soul..when the familiar no longer delights us but instead, fills our being with a sense of jaded tiredness and self loathing.

Sometimes, every now and then, we come across a thought that grips our hearts, and fills us with an undescribable excitement and intense yearning to make it a part of our lives.

When this happens, you know that change is beckoning.
And when change comes calling, we can either stay.
Or, we can choose to run as fast as we can, in our old worn shoes till the threadbare soles completely give way, and then, my friend, is when change is gonna catch up & bite us hard on our bums.


Note: Reproduced from Soul-Talkin

The Yogi In Chains

A reputed master of yoga and other such ancient Indian sciences sauntered into office this morning.
Clad in a white kurta-pyjama, he meandered about lazily, examining the art and artifacts with detached interest.

In the distance stood a few admirers, gazing upon the noble guru in awe and veneration.
" 85 and still going strong...Can you imagine..." whispered one, all too audibly.
" He is a true master....even foreigners come to learn from him" hissed another.
Impressed more, it seemed, by the yogi's ability to attract hordes of white disciples than by the depth of his knowledge.

But, much to my surprise, he breezed into my office....The master of all that he surveyed. And, with scant disregard for all else, began to examine the yellow and white lilies in the Japanese vase on my desk.
Any offence I would have taken to this rude intrusion was mollified, in part, by his interest in my precious blooms. And so, when he eventually deigned to notice me from over the vase, I decided to accord him the traditional Indian welcome and brought my palms together in a Namaste.

Perhaps, it was that I did not look sufficiently overwhelmed.
Or, seem as if I would fawn or gush mindlessly.
For, the mystic man's glance flickered casually over me.
Without any interest. Without any acknowledgement.
And, perhaps, a tad dismissively.

With a last glance at my brilliant lilies, he wheeled about and left the room.

As I watched him walk out of the glass door, in surprised annoyance I confess, I noticed a white woman in her mid 50s walk into the office.
American, I guessed out loud to myself.
The master must have spotted her too....For his progress was, suddenly and inexplicably stalled.

To the adoring onlooker, it must have seemed as if he was pondering on a particular yogic puzzle.
Or, an unexplained mystery of life.
But, to my cynical eye, it appeared that he was sizing the entrant with barely concealed delight.

As he stood there, probably wondering how best to make his acquaintance of yet another potential disciple, a dutiful devotee stepped forward.
" Madam, this is one of the greatest men in Bangalore city. He is a famous teacher of the science of yoga. His knowledge is superlative and he may be amongst the best in the country..."

The enthusiastic eulogies that followed, floated down the hallway to my eager ears.
And I could not resist sneaking a glance at the mystic man.
He sported a benevolent smile. But beneath the modest expression, I could trace the signs of self-gratification.

My examination of his demeanor came to a screeching halt when the lady, who looked suitably impressed, flung out her arms to join her palms together in a rather exaggerated Namaste.
The beaming master, quite predictably, reciprocated with a deep, stately one of his own.

And, to think ,we Indians, take such fierce pride in having freed ourselves from the white man's yoke!!!

On Criticism

Two roads lie before a person criticised.

One is the high road, where she can examine the critical words for merit before reacting.
And, if she finds even an iota of truth in the harsh words, then, it is up to her to choose to change for the better.
Or, try brush it under the carpet of one's ego.
But, at least, she would have done the right thing of having looked within with brutal honesty, and introspected.

The second, which is the refuge of the weak and shallow, is to react like a cornered animal and lash out in rage. Without any thought what-so-ever.
To heap abuse and lies on the offender, making it abundantly clear to all and sundry that a raw nerve has been hit.

The first is the path of the wise, and, the strong.

And, the second, ....
Well...Now, what was it that the wise old men said about empty vessels and a cacophony?
:)

Where Has The Passion Gone?

Another hard day at work.
Of emotionally wrestling, and, of, trying to coax initiative, out of people.

Infusing positiveness into people, can, be exhausting.

Especially, in the times, we now live in.

It is, almost, as if, the recession has, churned to the surface, all, that is negative in people.
Fears, insecurities, frowns, withdrawals...mark the visages around me.
On strange faces on trains.
On the roads.
At homes.
At work.

When did people stop following their hearts, and, dreams?

When did money, and, status symbols, begin to matter more?

Where has the passion gone?
Or, is it that, it didn't exist at all, in the first place?

I wish I knew!

How stupid would I look?

How stupid would, I, look....

If, I tripped, and, fell down on my butt, in full view of my juniors, at work?

If, at a party, I was to prance about the dance floor, with a goofy grin, flapping my arms, like a giant albatross?

If, at a presentation, I am asked a question, I cannot answer?
Or, worse, if I am asked a question, so elementary, that, a cocky brat in school can answer it, but, I cannot ?

If, I sported my thick, cheap, plasticy home wear spectacles, outside my home?

If, I, were to speak up, when, everyone else is holding their peace?

If, I were to sing karaoke, in front of a crowd?

If, I, do not, espouse a cause, that, the world around me does?

If, I, was to lick the sticky, melted chocolate off the wrapper, in public?

If, I were to use my fingers to shovel food into my mouth, at a fancy restaurant?

If, I said no, because I really meant it?


So many ifs......

But, the, question is....Would I really look stupid?

Or, would I, just, be stupid, to, not, have tried it on for size?

Festive Magic

Vishu is right round the corner, and, apart from, channeling all my energies, into, recreating a little bit of the Kerala magic and spirit, in my life, it is also time for one of my nostalgic trips.

Having spent most of my childhood in the arid desserts of the Middle East, my first real experience of Vishu celebrations occurred, when I was, well into my adolescence.

Not that age diminished my enthusiasm for a festival, which, was to prove to be the biggest revenue grosser in an entire year.

I remember, as a kid, I would first carefully draw up a list of potential victims, and then, in the days leading up to Vishu, would drop carefully considered hints about my monetary expectations.
There would, also, be prolonged and heart wrenching discussions, with my friends, about the right amounts to be bequeathed to our younger siblings. Nothing less than a rupee, we would firmly tell ourselves, while furtively, practising at steeling our hearts, to survive the tears and squalls, which, we knew, would follow, on the morrow.

It was, only recently, that I realised, how much of our wonderful festivals, I had taken for granted, as a child.
The excitement of stumbling forward, with my eyes shut tight, in the wee hours of the morning, to start my day with the sight of my face in the Vishu Kani....
The thrill of the chase, as we determinedly stalked our quarries, and, dove unceremoniously, for their feet, to claim our Kai Neetam....
The fun and camaraderie shared with our families, and, extended families...
And, the delicious food, which we would stuff ourselves with, till we lay about, helplessly, gasping for breath...

Oh, Vishu was so much fun!!!
And, back then, I thought it would never change.

Looking back, I realise that Vishu was one occasion, which, brought the extended family together, and, helped them bond better.
It taught us, the invaluable lesson, of Give and Take, which are the two faces of the same coin, and, without which, our lives would remain incomplete.
We, also, learned, to reach out to each other, spontaneously, and, across distances, without inhibitions, preconceived notions or envy, and with this bonding, we enjoyed the day better.

Unfortunately, the fun and spontaneity went out of the window as we grew up, and, life took us, our separate ways.
Today, all of us in our corners of the world try celebrating Vishu to the best of our abilities.
And, often, all that remains of the camaraderie of the past, is a succinct 'Happy Vishu' mail to the family.
Some phone calls.
Pictures, on Orkut, and, Face Book.
And, a few stolen moments, on chat, for a quick update.

I don't know how the rest of my loved ones fare, but for me in a strange land, far far away from the people who matter, Vishu has become more of a forced experience. -something that I do, year after year, with the vain hope of recapturing the lost magic of the Vishus of my youth.

Despite, the careful planning, and, the best of efforts, the food is never as good...
There, aren't, too many people, to plague, or, for that matter, very many, diving for my feet, and, hounding me, for kai neetams...
There is less laughter, and, bonding....
And, with many hotels, and malayali associations, getting into the act, Vishu seems to have become more of a commercial experience, than a family one.

Even so, there are, many of us, who religiously maintain, if not the festivities, then at least the Vishu Kani in our homes.

Is it a habit ,which has waned in strength, but, continues to live nevertheless?
Or, is it, an conscious attempt, to preserve tradition, in a world beset with change, and, speed?

I, for one, believe it, to be, an effort to keep the happy memories going, and to draw strength from it in the current day.
For, when 14th April dawns, and I open my eyes to the sight of my face, surrounded by bounty, bathed by the golden glow of the flame of the Lakshmi Lamp, I feel peaceful, calm, and, aware, of a sense of well being, which pervades my entire being, and, the space around me.
And, in that moment, I know, the magic, though weak, is not entirely gone.



Note: Festive Magic, reproduced with minor variations, from Soul Talkin.

On Letting Go

A wise man once said, if you love somebody, set them free.

If, the recipient of your affections is truly yours, he, or she, will come back to you.
One way or the other.
Sooner or the later.

And, if not, then, the object of your affection was never yours, to start out with.

Scary, as that is.
Painful, as that can be.
I still believe, freedom, forms the foundation of true love.

Because, it then is about two people being connected, because they want to be.
Not, because, they have to be.

I talk not only about lovers.
Or, spouses.
But also, about friends, siblings, parents, pets, and, even objects for that matter.

The rule applies to anyone, and anything, we have a deep, honest and sustained emotional connection with.

 Relationships are not about ownerships.

And, yet, it is the ones we love the most, that, we seek to possess completely.
That, we yearn to belong to.
Body, mind & soul.

I have heard people say that, we, humans, are wired to seek love.

That, true and unconditional love is a desirable emotion to achieve.

Perhaps, it is true.

But, then, is not freedom implicit in the very concept of unconditional love?

So, why are we, almost always, compelled to own our loves?

At times, I, cannot help but wonder, if it is completeness we seek, in the guise of love.
A ratification of our identity, through the most important roles we assume in life, with the most important people in our lives.
An affirmation of our measure of self worth.


What if we love too much, and, are not loved back the way we want to be?
Or, worse, what if we love deeply..allow ourselves to depend..and, eventually, the person we love is no longer there for us?

Like it or not.
Man is a being, driven by needs & wants.
By, feelings and emotions.
And, by dreams and expectations.

Letting go, is never easy.

I have, in the past, sought to insulate myself from the pain of loss by trying to let go.
By, retreating into fortresses, and, feigning indifference.
By, refusing to get fully involved.
But, withdrawal and indifference can, sometimes, make for an unfulfilled existence.
And, the dam of pent up emotions, eventually breaks.

After, painful spells of tears and tantrums.
Of, clinging and pleading.
My way today, is to try, accept a loved one for what he or she is.

To savour the love, warmth and happiness, that fills my being when all is well.
To jealously guard the memories, and, bring them out for an airing when I hit a bumpy road.

My way today, is to listen to the whispers of my soul.

Very often, it tells me to rise above the pain and sorrow.
To strengthen my spirit by looking within, reflecting and accepting.
To channel, and expend, the negative energy in nurturing my passions.
But, above all, to, keep the faith.
And, look forward to tomorrow.

It's never easy.
But, then, the voice of the soul is seldom wrong.

After all, what ever will be, shall be.
Que Sera, Sera.


Or, could it be that the compulsion to own arises from a fear, of not receiving, as much as we put out.

A Rose By Any Other Name.....

Some time back, I was privy to a rather entertaining conversation between two colleagues of different nationalities, living in different continents.
One was in the thick of putting together a legal report which required every teeny tiny detail to be deadly accurate, while the other was coordinating with agencies and, people for information gathering and transmission.
Everything was going well.
Until, the one on home base, received a missive which threw her off guard.
The document referred to a certain Mr. Anthony, who seemed to hog credit for all the tasks currently handled by her good friend Tony. Perplexed and chagrined, she shot off an express message asking him who the mysterious Mr. Anthony was.

Much to her surprise, Tony nonchalantly claimed to be Mr. Anthony without offering any explanation what so ever.

Which prompted yet another mystified mail from her "What IS your real name...Anthony or Tony?"
And his response "What is in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet....I personally prefer Tony but either would work on official documents"

His words lingered on in my mind, long after the laughter abated.

What is in a name indeed?
Everything it would seem, if, one was to go by the names, people seem to come up with, on the social networking sites.

In the days that followed, I found myself taking a greater interest in the alternative names that ordinary people like you and me come up with for cyber spaces.

Most were ordinary first names.
Some communicated a mood, an event or an experience.

There was the odd pervert who solicited or raved, ranted and abused like a certain Ms. Fatafat who seemed to think the world was interested in her pantie liners!!!
* Violent Shudder*
Talk about persecution complexes and extreme reactions!!!

And then, there were the bizarre, bordering on the funny, like the King of Devils, Error and BlOoDsUcKeR sCaR.
*Laughing out loud*.

Seriously why on earth would anyone refer to himself/herself as an error or a bloodsucking scar???
Low self esteem?
Or, a flair for theatrics?
Your guess is as good as mine...
These, my friends, were the not too wild ones.

My other favourites included:
The Alien Has No Name
.... *rolls eyes*.
Duh, isn't that why they are called Aliens???

Kalari Panda

*Laughing My A*** Off*
Now, how cute is that??

Hate me or Add me

Bad Command or File Name, Nice Try Though

*deadpan expression*
I am still trying to figure these out.
In the Monotone of Idiosyncrasy
*Wide Eyed*
Uh huh, sounds suspiciously like Magic Mushrooms, Floyd, Cheap Rum and Random Musings....
Still He Was Butter Phulka in a CD player....
*taps forehead*
What ever...I am not even trying to figure this one out!!!

Maybe, I should spend some time thinking up a bold new mysterious name for myself instead
*winks*

The World's Largest Trash Can

Hallelujah...I have attained enlightenment!!!..

I have realised one of life's great truths!!!

That India is nothing but a giant trash can.......The largest in the world in fact!!!

When I woke up this morning, I had no premonition what so ever about the discovery that awaited me. A few hours later, I was at the airport desperately waiting for my boarding call.
Not that I had places to reach in a hurry, but only because I was desperate to get away from my litter rich surrounds and the gut-racking stench from the toilets nearby.

Perhaps it was the lack of oxygen.
Or the catatonia of a sleep & caffeine deprived brain.
But, as I held my breath and feverishly counted the moments all the while staring mindlessly at an over-turned cup of coffee on the floor, it struck me rather forcibly that we were all the rather hapless residents of a giant garbage bin

* Defiant expression which dares anyone to challenge the C.R.A.P theory*

Protest all you want, people...but the cold hard fact remains unchanged.

India IS a garbage can.
Or, even worse, perhaps, when you consider the urine, excreta and spittle that accost us every single day.
365 days of the year.

This is in addition to the rotting heaps of various other forms of organic and inorganic litter that we have to deal with on an average day.

So, what does that make us??

The creepy crawlies that blithely wallow and make merry in the muck and filth??

Yeouwh...What a thought!!!

But those are the only creatures that come to my mind when I think of dirt.
Just imagine us as repulsive little squiggly worms and maggots or the buzzing flies, all of which not only hover around the crap, muck and rotting filth, but also have no compunctions in fostering it.

Sure there are those of us who preserve every single apple core, plastic bags, bottles and teeniest scrap of paper for proper disposal, but that is such a small minority. The rest just seem impervious!!!

I glance around at the people around me, most of whom are well dressed and engrossed in their papers or their thoughts.
None of them look even remotely affected by the malodour around us.

I contemplate taking over the P.A system and expounding my C.R.A.P Theory to the lesser non-thinking mortals. But thoughts of the padded cell and shock therapy deter me!!!

Maybe another day...when I am drunk silly on Tequila shots...
*Deep Sigh*

Before I rush off to board my flight, I decide to toss the offending coffee cup from the floor and some others into the dust bin.

As I make my way out of the terminal, rubbing sanitizer into my palms, my attention is momentarily caught by an effervescent reporter on T.V. who is gushing about all the things India can be proud of as she celebrates yet another Independence day!!!

Seriously, is there no end to the crap attack??