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!!!

A Dream Gone Topsy Turvy

Circa 1989
The Mad Moggie, probably aged 19 or 20, day-dreams over an indescribably boring text-book.
She dreams of being a graceful swan, surrounded by a bevy of admiring men, tripping over the other to fawning men, the object of envy of other young women.
Pretty much like young Scarlett at the Wilkes plantation of Twelve Oaks.
Now, if only dreams came true.

2009
The Mad Moggie, aged 36, skips blithely down a crowded road, gleefully dreaming of the succulent kebabs and saffron rice clutched possessively in her hands, that was to be her lunch.
And suddenly, she was down and rolling unstoppably. Pretty much like a road roller sans the driver, sans the brakes.
When the world around her stopped revolving, she gazed up with dizzy eyes at the ring of young, concerned, boyishly handsome faces above her.
And wished that the earth, at that precise moment, would swallow her and her lunch .

Funny, how dreams have a strange way of coming true.
Just wish they would stick with the plan, instead of assuming shapes that one least expects!

Dance To The Last

Yet another birthday looms large on the horizon, and, my inner circle is abuzz with questions.
About celebration plans, wish lists and the special gifts that will come my way.
About the countdown to the larger than life '40' milestone, which now hangs over my neck like the sword of Damocles.
And, above all, if I intended to continue allowing the irrepressible child in my heart to manifest itself in my personality...

Most, I am afraid, are a little disappointed by my vague responses and perhaps, more so by my nonchalance about the impending event.

As the questions continue to stream in, I answer them as best as I can. All the while, wondering if the listener has sensed that, at this moment, my birthday plans are the least of my concerns.

This is not to say that I am against birthdays or anniversaries or celebrations in general.
Or, that I expect the rest of the world to slave their fingers to the bone, in making it a special day for me.

What does not appeal to me is the element of contrivance which prior planning brings to these special days.
I would rather go with the flow and take each moment as it comes.

Over the past many years, what made every birthday special was the love and warmth that I was cocooned in.

I love the fact that people care enough to remember, to call, or better still, to drop by for a drink and a giggle.

I am always touched when they stretch that extra mile, to do something that warms me to the cockles of my heart.

And I enjoy the sense of anticipation a beautifully packaged gift offers me.
The excitement of discovery as I rip it open.
It doesn't matter what is inside.
It could be a string of cheap beads or a ridiculously expensive solitaire.
For me, what matters is the element of surprise, the excitement of the moment and the warmth of being loved.

So inevitably, year after year, when friends ask me how I plan to celebrate my birthday or what I have asked for by way of gifts, my answer always is none what so ever.

I look forward to seeing what the day brings my way..the fun, the spontaneity, the discovery and the savouring of the emotions.

For me, this is what life is all about.
And I think I will carry this passion for life, with all its good and bad, right to my grave.

People tell me that everything slows down with age, except the time it takes for an utterly sinful wedge of warm gooey chocolate walnut brownie to reach your hips.

I disagree.

Age does not bring wisdom...Life and its many experiences does that!!!

At 15,I thought 20 was the Golden Age, and just couldn't wait to hit the magic number.
Unfortunately for me, life started at a snail's pace.
By 25, I was a little panicked because I thought I would be semi senile by the time I hit 30 and was haunted by visions of myself rocking away aimlessly on the porch of a geriatric care center.

But then, life in the 30s lane have proved to be incredibly exciting.
Probably because I have shed a lot of inhibitions, don't worry over much about looking like a fool and laugh easily when I do.
And, I am not afraid to demand love, express sorrow and more importantly, eliminate the weeds in my garden of life.

I find myself increasingly open to experimentation and new experiences.
So much so that on my 36th birthday, the only thought in my mind is that if the 30s are so incredibly exciting, then, what do the 40s and 50s hold in store for me?

Would I dare go skinny dipping in the moonlight...Climb a mountain...Tend a raucous bar in true coyote style...or swim with the dolphins in the deep blue ocean...
Would my dream of being a renowned writer come true?
Would my vision of bringing love and hope into the lives of abused children translate into reality?
Who knows?

For all I know, I may be skydiving at 60 or even doing the salsa at the ripe old age of 70.
Because in my heart I believe that you don't stop dancing because of age.
You grow old only because you stopped dancing.



Note: Reproduced from www.soul-talkin.blogspot.com with minor variations

When Life Came A Full Circle!

" I thought about you a moment back", she said, her voice heavy with quiet happiness.
And, after a moment's pause, she blurted almost shyly "I was thinking that the books you read are quite qualitative....And, I felt proud of you"

My eyes suddenly blurred. And,my throat choked with emotion.

This was the mother who had introduced me to the pleasures of reading, much before I could even walk a straight line with my baby feet.

A student of literature and a voracious reader, Amma has had a life-long love affair with books.
A passion which she passed on to me.
With reverence and pride.
As a torch bearer would, his precious flame.

As I went through life devouring Austen, Dickens and the rest of their ilk, before progressing to more contemporary writers, Amma's roles as wife and mother ate into the time reserved for her beloved books. And, even as my love for books grew with each passing day, her passion waned into barely aglow embers.

Years passed by, and, I grew into adulthood.
Into a career, and, life in a big city far away from home.
But, I never stopped reading.

Despite the demands on my time, I read voraciously.
In cafeterias.
On the bus.
Over meals.
And, in bed late at night.

Maybe I was driven by a deep-rooted fear.
That if I slacked, I would loose my passion too.
Just as Amma did.

I came home on visits with bags bursting at the seams with books.
Which I would wave tantalisingly at her face as I danced circles around her in our huge kitchen.

But, Amma was made of sterner stuff.
And, never bit the bait.

Until my last visit home.
When I left Kakar's 'Mira and the Mahatma' behind.

A month later, I sent home some books for a cousin, who was to visit.

And now, this call.

As I struggled to recover my composure, my mother went on " Mira and the Mahatma was riveting. I enjoyed it tremendously. Even the Ice Candy Man looks interesting, so I thought I would read it before passing it on to your cousin. In any case, she is not due to visit in the immediate future"

" Sure Amma".
And then, crossing my fingers, I held my breath as I asked her the million dollar question " Shall I send you some more books from my collection?"

For a split second, she hesitated.
" Well, not immediately. But, maybe when you come home next."
" What kind of books will you get me? I am interested in good books...good language...strong storyline..."
Again, a pause
" I leave it to you to decide. Bring me what you think I will enjoy......"

And, then she was back to her impressions about Miraben and the Mahatma.

As she gushed excitedly, a voice from the past rang loud in my ears. Of Amma reading out to the wide eyed, baby me about the good king Richard or Richard Lion Heart as he was known, who went on a crusade leaving his kingdom in the hands of his evil brother John.

Sudhir Kakar may never know.
But, I will always remain in his debt.

For not just writing a book that closed the circle of life between a mother and daughter.
But, also for leveling the playing field between us.
Finally!!

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?
:)

Seriously, Why Archie?

So, the latest to clamber on board the marriage bandwagon is the Andrews lad.

If reports are to be believed, the famous carrot top is all set to wed the rich Lodge brat leaving Betty, the adorable girl next door, clutching at the pieces of her broken heart.

In the eyes of the world, the Good Girl has lost out,and, the Bad Girl gets to take home the trophy.

But, even as disbelieving fans the world over continue to ask, why Archie would pop the question to the 'live life queen size' Veronica and not to the 'sugar, spice and all things nice' Betty, I cannot help but wonder just what the fuss and bother is all about.

Let's face it.

Archie is no trophy husband.
He is a very ordinary guy, with an average IQ and no special talent to write home about.

In all the stories I have read, Archie shows no ambition.
No inclination to work......Well, except his roving eye that is.
And, truth be told, he has not the good sense to see a good thing for what it is, as is clearly evidenced by his treatment of poor love-sick Betty.

In short, Archie Andrews is just a lazy, skirt-chasing dork!

Correction: a goofy-looking, lazy, skirt-chasing dork!!!
For a moment, I forgot the carrot head and bushy eyebrows which works well in a comic strip, but, in the real world, well, that would be no Brad Pitt we are talking about.

Sure, he is a fun buddy to hang out with when you are in school.
But, as a life partner, it beats me why any woman would want to fight it out for Mr. Vanilla Andrews!

And, here we have two beautiful, intelligent women, each a catch in her own way, doing just that.
With the world split down the center, debating who would make the better bride!
Rather than ask, if Archie is the right husband for either girl.

Even in a comic strip, shouldn't women be settling for men who are more their equals than an ordinary Joe?

Well, the way things stand.
Whoever gets to walk down the aisle with carrot top...Betty or Veronica.
Me thinks, this is one story which is not going to end with 'And They Lived Happily Ever After'

Sad, isn't it?