An Unforgettable Lesson

It was our ninth grade creative writing teacher, who made us realise that each one of us was unique, with our singular way of looking at life and the world, if only we cared to observe ourselves in a moment of quiet contemplation. One of the first assignments we were given was a three-part study:

1. What people think of me

2. What I want people to think of me

3. Who I really am

On the surface, it sounded simple. But more than the writing skills, objectivity, utter honesty and sincerity were three requisites needed to dive into ourselves and fish out the answers to complete the essay.  

Such an exercise exposed us to our own self, and its many onion-like layerings.   The first two parts highlighted our role as interactive individuals within a socio-cultural context,  eager  to express ourselves truthfully as well as anxious to impress others. This unambiguous analysis of the multi-levelled self helped us gain an insight into our own being: the timid deeper one vs. the projected one. While the former remained inherently ours in essence,  and therefore steadfast, the latter was the result of constant chiselling, and thus, in  a continuous process of change.

Having gained a better understanding of  ourselves, we were now prepared to set out on a journey of self-discovery, where we would learn to identify and listen to our own voice, thoughts, emotions, and the wisdom latent to every individual, instead of penning down what was expected of us, or even worse, what sounded 'pretty'. 

I was reminded of this exercise recently, when asked to send a photograph of myself to accompany the write-ups, to be published by a burgeoning website, which believes in empowering its audience through in-depth articles, mainly related to health, spirituality, and nature. Unfortunately, I am a near nincompoop when it comes to posing in front of a camera: I don't know which way to look, how to smile, what to think...resultantly, the confusion reigns supreme in my entire persona. The tug-of-war between trying to be simply myself, and having to say, 'cheese' and pose, is apparent in virtually everyone of my photos. 

However, owing to the confession I just made, I usually like to steer clear off  viewfinders, lenses, and clicks. To cut a long story short, since the editor insisted that I send my photo to accompany the articles, I embarked on a 'selfie' mode, clicking away from different angles, while trying to visualise happy situations and places to give my smile the semblance of genuineness. I experimented with  indoor/outdoor lightings, and all the in-built editing options to finally come up with something I liked being associated with.  Here, as I was to  realise soon,  I had consciously committed myself to the second part of my school days' assignment: What I want people to think of me.

Even though I sent the photo to the editor, I was angry, both with myself, and with the publication for subjecting me to such a terrible ordeal. Why was it so important for me to make an impression on others? Just as, why do many of us stand in front of the mirrors and see which smile suits our face best? Like trying out a dress in a showroom! Why are there dentistries promising the customer 'that perfect smile'? Smile is not something which is perfected by polishing one's teeth and exercising the right muscles, but a spontaneous manifestation of the inner joy, or joie de vivre. A real smile simply unleashes itself from the depths of one's soul, and doesn't require a launchpad of even, ultra-bright teeth.

Why was it, I wondered, that a mere preojection of myself through a lens  had taken up such disproportional significance in my  mind. instead of being comfortable with who I was, I ventured out to be someone others would be comfortable with.  Is it, that the search which had begun in a creative class so many years ago, was still on, and will continue to be so? Being and becoming will coexist in over-lapping veneers?  Perhaps,  gregarious beings as we are, we will learn to concur  with all our different epiphanies, even revel in them... as long as we don't lose track of our real Self. 

An Artist's Journey

The mastery of great things comes with the doing of trifles."

                                       Henry Miller

Laura, an established ceramic artist, confronted with a sudden creative block,  began to feel smothered by the very thing that she had loved since childhood, and made a flourishing career of.  She yearned to break free from all the visible/invisible barriers, strike a discordant note, venture out into the expanse of unchartered territories. But, sadly, she had forgotten to let herself go. And just as she thought she had reached that pointless acme in her career, which is every artist's nightmare, a friend told her about a Master in Japan, who might be able to help her.

In no time, having stuffed some clothes in a backpack, Laura had bought herself a ticket and zoomed off to the land of the rising sun,  Shinto, origami, and sushi.

For the first six months, Laura was assigned the arduous job of sweeping and mopping the Master's house, along with cooking and cleaning the kitchen, and doing the laundry. The many chores in and around the house devoured up her whole day... what's more, she was not allowed anywhere near the studio...not allowed to touch the clay, nor to fire the kiln. After what seemed like a lifetime, the Master beckoned her. Inwardly relieved that the long spell of austerity had finally come to an end, she stood before the renowned teacher, waiting with bated breath for the next session of her training to begin. Imagine poor Laura's disbelief and disappointment, when she was asked to continue with her usual chores for three more months. However, every now and then, when and if she found some time, she was granted permission to stand outside the studio and watch from afar the Master and his young students at work. So, that's what my patient friend did, unflinchingly. Confident that the next session of training was bound to give her a free pass to the holy sanctum: the studio, she stood outside, smelling the earthy fragrance of the wet clay, mixing with the fired-up wood in the kiln. Oh, how she ached, and itched, and yearned all this time, to get her hands all dirty.

Three months over, the teacher called her and announced that her training was now over, and she was free to leave. Bewildered by the Master's decision, yet unable to question him, she left, with a heavy heart. Perhaps, she had not been a worthy student after all, and the Master had given up on her. 

Once home, Laura locked herself up in the studio. And lo, nine months of pent up creative energy effortlessly flowed through her soul, inundating her like the miraculous surge of a mighty wave, and finding expression in her new collection of tour de force. Clay was no longer a tool  to assert her inner self...she was. Yes, the artist had consented to be the tool, the instrument, and let the clay enunciate itself through her...

The Master had rightly gauged the origin of Laura's discontent: the ego. And, it was only through the effacement of the ego, could she have freed herself from her own limitations. She needed to understand and appreciate the mundane to explode into the ultimate sublimity of Reality. She needed to surrender, and become an instrument, the chalice to receive the universal Creatrix energy. 

George Floyd, And Why the Caged Bird Sings...

There comes a time in history when the spiritual, mental and emotional well-being of a nation gains greater importance than its physical and economic health. That time for America is now...Unafraid of the horror being perpetrated by Coronavirus, which has claimed 110 thousand lives so far in the country, the American people are prepared to take on  the real behemoth, which has stalked the nation since its very inception, that of racial inequality. Last week, with yet another inhuman homicide by a police officer, of a black man, 'the land of the free'  where 'all men are created equal', has become a subject of mockery, a cliché, exacerbated by its long legacy of segregation. 

And it is of utmost import that it is not just the victimized ethnic group, which has risen to voice itself, but the entire nation. The utter amnesia of the system, and the total disregard by the Trump administration, have helped fuel the frustrations and anger of the people further, even as they sit in peaceful protests. The senseless murder of George Floyd resurrected the phantom of NYC resident Eric Garner, who met the exact same fate in 2014, for the petty offence of selling a loosey in front of a 711 store. His last words too were hauntingly similar, "I can't breathe..."

Covid-19  and its rallying cry of 'social distancing' seems of little significance against the urgent need for people to stand closer together in a gesture of true solidarity and empathy, to fight the bigotry of a system, which falsely prides itself in being the archangel of the down-trodden and oppressed. To cite some examples from recent history, George W. Bush, in his farewell address to the nation, stated, “freeing people from oppression and despair is eternally right.” Bill Clinton made a similar remark, when he said, “we achieve our aims by defending our values and leading the forces of freedom and peace.” Ronald Reagan's parting story, was about a Vietnamese refugee, calling out to his rescuer on a U.S. aircraft carrier: “Hello American sailor. Hello freedom man.”

So, while the presidencies have been patting themselves on the back for  championing the cause of freedom and justice for the oppressed, on the home-front, the very same tenet is comfortably forgotten. And, today, George Floyd has come to represent "one of the most egregious modern examples of the contradiction between what [the US] says it stands for versus what it really is”.

I am reminded of the famous poem by Paul L. Dunbar, "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings...":

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings —

I know why the caged bird sings!

How is it that 117 years after Dunbar wrote the poem, that bird is still beating its wings against the encroaching bars of the cage,  struggling to free itself, wanting to fly...soar, fill the air with its vibrant songs of joy and liberty...? 

Of Gnomes, and elves...

June 5th, World Environment Day

There once lived a venerable sage at the ghats of the river Ganga. When he preached, crowds flocked around him, and sat spellbound in his hallowed presence. It was during one such occasion, when the sage was addressing a gathering that a man who was always on a lookout to debase him, rushed in, clenching a butterfly in his fist, and asked defiantly, 'dead or alive?' The man's obvious intention was to humiliate the pious man in front of his devotees. If the sage said, 'alive', he would in that instant, crush the creature, and if the answer happened to be 'dead',  he would set it free, thus proving him wrong either way.

A hush fell over the place, as everyone waited for the sage's response, well aware of the criticality of the challenge. The sage looked into the man's eyes, and answered simply, "It's in your hands". 

This beautiful story could very well be representational of the ongoing plight of our planet Earth, at the mercy of man and his senseless drive towards consumerism. The onus is on him to continue to destroy it, or restore it to its primeval, pristine status.

Could one of the reasons behind this planetary mendicancy be linked to the fact that we have alienated ourselves from a way of life which enjoyed a close proximity to the supernatural beings,  inhabiting our natural spaces?  In ancient India, for example, at a time when our ancestors attained unsurpassable heights, both in the realm of intellect and spirituality,  Nature was a living entity. Indra, Varun, Agni, Surya, Usha were not merely forces to reckon with, but supreme energies to invoke and espouse. Ganga, Yamuna, Saraswati, Gaudavari, Narmada were not just waterways, but goddesses who had descended from heaven to bless the land with their divine presence. And, people of that era revered them as such. Some trees, such as, Neem, Banyan, Tamarind, and Peepal, to name a few, by the virtue of their innumerable properties, too were emulated to a godly stature. 

The  ancient Greeks also lived in concurrence with Zeus, Appollo, Poseidon,  and various other powerful gods connected to the natural world. Their legends all revolve around the constant interplay between the two main strata of existence: of gods and men. The Greeks were keen observers of their environment, and aware of an elemental living world within the outer forms. They called them satyrs, dryads, and naiads etc. It might be all too easy to write it off as sheer fantasy of an idle mind. But, remember, the ancient Greece was hardly that. Considered the crucible of philosophy, science, arts, and aesthetics, it had already laid the foundation for the modern Western thought. 

The people of the Celtic west, of Ireland and Wales had also  enjoyed a beautiful rapport with these supernatural beings, working out miracles in Nature. They talked of gnomes and elves, busy amongst the roots of the trees, the sylphs shaping the flowers, the undines helping the water flow, and of salamanders setting the flames ablaze.

How is it then, despite the human civilization's age-old bond with this miraculous world of fairy enchantment, and its mystical divinity, it has become impervious to its very existence?  As it butchers through nature, in the name of progress, it chooses to remain oblivious to the beings it once befriended, and gods it worshipped. I am reminded of the famous playwright Bertold Brecht, who, while questioning the moral goodness of man, asks, "Should it be another man? Or another world? Perhaps simply, other gods? Or none?"

Today when the whole world stands at a crossroad, under the menacing shadow of Covid-19, Brecht's rhetorical question sounds almost prophetic. But, truly it is up to us to reverse the trend, by viewing our destructive past as a necessary evolutionary stage. To use a lepidopterist's image, the last couple of centuries could be regarded as our caterpillar stage during which we chewed up everything in our wake indiscriminately...until Covid-19 happened.  Providing the necessary pause, it coerced the caterpillar to withdraw into its cocoon, to finally sleep and dream...and, let's hope that when it finally wakes up, it would have grafted wings, and metamorphosed into a beautiful butterfly...

"I Dream on Two Wheels"...

When I inherited my older sister's hand-me-down gearless, heavy-weight, good old-fashioned 'Hero' bicycle, I thought I had the world in my hand. And, come to think of it, as a 13-year-old student growing up in a boarding school in Pondicherry, it literally felt that way. Confined within four boulevards, this little French town, until the eighties, totalled to a perimeter of 6 kms. So, equipped with a sturdy bicycle, which was always eager to roll, I could zoom around from one end to the other, and be anywhere within minutes. The east boulevard, also called the beach road was a free zone, and a desolate stretch. I remember flying down that road, without even my hands on the handle bar, feeling the sea breeze ruffle my hair. During the holidays, if I didn't go home to see my folks, it was because the lure of riding through the blustering downpours of monsoons simply sucked me in...and the immense joy of wedging through big puddles, watching the waterlogged stretch part on both sides, was irresistable. It felt akin to riding a chariot and the crowd parting humbly to let it pass. Yes, we were all kings and queens in our own right, and the roads were at our service, ready to take us wherever we wanted.  While the holidays allowed the leisure to venture out beyond the boulevards, to the paddies, to the lakes, to a forgotten temple at the outskirts of a village...it also brought to one's attention the need to service the bike, change the dynamo, repair the brakes, get an overhaul perhaps. 

Even though the airport in Pondicherry came up in the late eighties, it took two decades before it actually became operational. So, racing down the runway became a sought-after holiday activity. After a bout of furious pedaling, we could just rest our feet, and keep on going forever and ever, until the very end. It was the most exhilarating experience that I cherish even now, three decades later. 

In the seventies, my dad, a senior scientist then, in the defence department, used to cycle down to the office. Since we lived close to his workplace,  it was a simple non-expensive mode of transport, to get from point A to point B. However, in the early eighties, for us kids, it served more as a means to fulfill a recreational pursuit, than a necessity. And now, for many migrant workers in this Covid-19 era, it has become a symbol of their struggle, as they ride for days together, through treacherous weather, and unfriendly highways, in order to reach home. Three names stand out from the multitude of stories which have been broadcast by the media in recent weeks. 20-year-old Mahesh Jena cycled 1700 kms over a span of seven days, all the way from Maharashtra to Odisha, without any help from Google maps. Jyoti, the fifteen-year-old girl rode 1300 kms from Delhi to Bihar, carrying her injured father on the backseat. And, who can forget the 65-year-old Arivazhagan,  who covered 140 kms, cycling through the night, to bring his wife to the hospital for her third chemo session? 

On the eve of  World Bicycle Day (June 3rd), I salute these heroes and innumerable others who, despite being faced with adverse circumstances , wouldn't let the wheels come off. These brave souls might have never heard of Albert Einstein, but they perfectly encapsulate the advice he penned to his son in 1930: "Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving." 

And, that is what they  did.