Looking back into the future

Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime.

No one tried to embrace the spirit of the above proverb more whole-heartedly than the nineteenth century visionary Jane Addams. Even though born into a very wealthy family of Illinois, Addams was not impervious to the woes of the down-trodden. Moreover, she understood that the long-term solution to the problem of inequality inflicting the human society lay in empowering the individual, and not in enabling him/her. During one of her visits to Europe, awed by the settlement homes in London, she returned to the U.S. to found the Hull House complex, in a destitute neighbourhood in downtown Chicago. It was to be the country's first settlement home, and would become the standard bearer for the 500 others,  which burgeoned nationwide, in the next 40 years. It was here that Addams decided to move her precious possessions, including books, paintings, objects d'art, and even heirloom silver, and welcomed people from all walks of life to capitalise on them.  For, Addams was convinced  that beauty and knowledge could stir the spiritual depth of an individual, and aid in drawing one out of the mechanical tedium of the daily life, to aspire for something higher.

Similar to settlement homes of London, where University students from affluent background mingled freely with the poor, without affectation, Addams's objective was to create an atmosphere of ease and self-esteem for those who came to the Hull house. Besides presenting an opportunity for the dispossessed and the uninitiated,  to cultivate and enrich oneself from the refined  home environment, the Hull House also helped create a  network of family and neighbourly bonds. The volunteers who came, intrigued by Addams' social experiment,  provided a complex learning platform, wherein anyone could take classes in subjects as varied as acting, weaving,  carpentry,  art history, philosophy and music! Before long, 2,000 people a day were thronging its premises, taking and teaching courses, offering and receiving day care, sharing experiences, and stories. 

This was not rich serving the poor, for Addams abhorred the patronizing attitude of the former. Everyone here "worked and lived together in reciprocity,  bridging social chasms", and most importantly, coming to understand one another.  Apt in feeling the pulse of the adult immigrants, some of whom were still groping in the dark, as they tried to discover their new country, with a new culture, and a new language, she assigned them the role of caregivers for the local children, to ensure a mutual learning process, and help the next generation develop empathy and love for the continual influx of the alien population into the country.

In this day and age, when our country, and the world at large, is once again faced with a sagging social fabric, growing inequality, disputes over immigration, we can draw inspiration from the pioneering vision of the likes of  Jane Addams. Her response to a similar set of problems, some 130 years ago,  was far more revolutionary and effective than our own.

To be or not to be: the challenge question

Mathew was ten years old when we first met him at a birthday bash. Halfway through the party, the front door opened, the cold  Arctic air rushed in, and someone quietly sneaked out, followed by who, but my eight-year-old son Dan, in his bright orange cap. Alarmed, I too left my unfinished cake  on the counter table, and scooted out. And, there was Mathew already busy displaying his authentic Swiss army knife to my little Dan, who, in turn, looked clearly awed by being  the chosen one. Embedded in a foot of snow, they stood, the older one pulling out every tool and bubbling out its functionality, and the younger one trying to match the former's enthusiasm with a smothering succession of oohs and aahs.

"You are sure, you are allowed to handle this? It's quite dangerous, you know," the horror in my adult voice, as I caught up with them, was palpable. 

"Oh, yes. I got it as a gift from my dad when I was four,"  shedding his usual shyness, Mathew was rather eager to answer.

"What?"

"See, this is a cockscrew, and this, a 6mm screwdriver, and this here is a bottle-openner...and with this one, you can punch a hole..."

The show over, Mathew proudly shoved the prized possession deep inside his pockets. Little did I know that the show, in fact, had just begun. As we walked through the backyard woods, my feet, through the suede boots, and alpaca wool socks were beginning to hurt with the cold, and the wind stung my face. "Let's go in and play with the Transformers," I suggested. But, the obvious desperation in my voice fell on deaf years, as Mathew stopped for the umpteenth time, to break a twig from a black spruce, or pick up a nice piece of kindling jutting out of the snow. When he thought he had had enough of foraging, he pulled out the shiny red knife and began to whittle: short, confident strokes set out to chisel the pieces of wood he had collected.  By now, I, the unsolicited chaperon, was beginning to feel that a nasty frostbite was about to claim my toes and fingers. So, I decided to bolt inside and throw myself by the roaring fire of the woodstove, and  beckoned the boys to do the same. 

Needless to say, the boys, unbothered, unhurried, lingered on a while longer. And, when the door finally opened to reveal the cherry-red faces of two beaming youngsters, each one was proudly holding up his treasures. Dan came running to me to show his new acquisition, "mom, mom, look! Mathew made this for me!" In his outstretched palm lay a beautiful carved mini totem pole! And, in Mathew's,  was his Swiss army knife.

Joanna, Mathew's mother, sitting beside me, sighed. "This is all he does: whittle!" 

"But, it is simply beautiful!" I exclaimed.

"You know, we have been here for two years, and, he hasn't made a single friend. He cannot concentrate in school. His grades are constantly falling. Imagine, when he goes to Middle school! How would he ever cope with that?" Joanna was positively stressed.

On the eve of the second anniversary of International Day of Education,  let us  commemorate the Mathews of the world, who get the axe for not being able to assimilate the deadwoods of  the conventional schooling system, and yet, can bring any number of deadwoods to life with their gift of imagination and untapped talents. 

My Brother Anand

Today is my younger brother’s birthday. He would have turned 48. Born after much fasting and litany, on behalf of my mother, whose womb was jinxed to produce one girl child after another, he was rightly named `Anand’, meaning `joy’. For, much joy did he bring to the five sisters who needed a brother, and to the parents, who wanted a son. 

I remember how during her long months of pregnancy, my mother would urge me to pray to dear God to send us a little `babua’, a boy doll, to play with. Just round the corner of the road where we lived, was a beautiful temple. I would often totter down there, and looking deep into the bright faces of myriad gods, stationed under its canopy, plead with them to send us a brother. My solemn request was followed by the gesture of touching my forehead to the marble steps which lead to the inner sanctum.  It was a ritual I had invented, and followed it rigorously with an uncanny fanatical zeal. So, when my brother was born, I had no doubt that the god almighty was indeed kind and had listened to my ardent prayers. My ecstatic mother too was more than happy to pass on all the credit to me for his arrival, making my four-year-heart swell with sisterly pride.

So, in Nov. 2015, when he passed away because of an acute kidney and heart complication, somewhere I felt as though it was I who had failed him. But, on the other hand, inwardly he was too strong to rely on anyone, let alone me, to help him sail through life. As a Master Navigator, he did not believe in sails, nor a compass. The wide, wild sea was his to tame and befriend. And befriend, he did, with a mischievous smile on his face, and twinkle in his eyes. He loved this Ocean with all its billowing fury, and its beguiling calm. Just as much as he loved to dance, sing, do gardening, heal, indulge his muscular body into every kind of martial art, from Indian wrestling, boxing, to lathi, Judo  and Kalaripayattu. I remember the last time we met; I was visiting him from New York. He was already very sick. His body was swollen with water retention.  I avoided looking at him, for the memory of his once healthy, alive, and glorious self was too difficult to erase.

One morning when I was up eary, he asked me if i wanted to go to the terrace to watch the sunrise with him. I didn’t know how he was going to make it all the way up to the fourth floor, yet, sensing his aversion to be reminded of his illness, I consented. Silently, we climbed, step after step...right to the terrace, to find a brand new day slowly lifting itself up from the Bay of Bengal.

As we stood watching, woven into the magic of that moment,  Anand suddenly began to stretch himself in a slow focused manner, encompassing the sky, the earth, the waves crashing in a distance,  the jungle crow poised on the TV antenna.  And as he stretched, he moved, covering the large terrace in the blink of an eye.  Unhindered by his physical condition, he had become boundless, weightless... and unfettered. Each posture effortlessly flowed into the next without pause, ensuring continual motion. His feet hardly touched the ground, as he leaped, and flitted...golden rays of the rising sun lit up his face, his whole body, until he became engulfed in light, and turned into a ball of pure energy, into chi.

Much later did I learn that my brother Anand, amongst many other things, was also a Tai chi master.