Days of simple happiness

A lot of my online friends,(well, I seem to have more of them than the real life ones!), have taken the 100  days of happiness challenge. Sounded weird to me. I mean, can you really limit the number of days you can be happy, or appear to be happy? What about the rest of the days of your life? Aren't we supposed to be happy then? Or was I missing the point? Then one of my 'real life' friend explained the concept to me. It's about finding, or trying to find, a source, a reason, an idea or anything that brings happiness to you for a specific duration, say in this case a 100 days. She dared me to do it for a longer duration of time, if I could. It's the easiest challenge I had accepted till date, or so it appeared till I started it. Finding a reason or idea or anything that brings a smile to our face or touches our heart in our daily life is not easy. Not because it's not there, but because we close our minds to it. So caught up are we in our automaton lives that we don't have the time or the inclination to enjoy the small pleasures. That's when, after two failed attempts to start and sustain my challenge, I decided to give it a final dedicated shot. Like my friend said, "It's all up here, in your mind!"  So here I'm, trying to find at least one instance of happiness in each day from hereon for the next hundred days.

Let me start of by talking about something that always brings a smile to my face, and heart, and stomach - food. Yesterday's weather was perfect for a drive, to be outdoors. So we decided to go visit the temple town of Annavaram. A quaint sleepy town, with its raison d'être being an old temple situated happily on top of a hillock. It was a favourite getaway earlier when I was staying alone. This visit was going to be different because we were going as a family. The two hour drive was blissfully uneventful. At the temple, a few extra hundreds ensured speedy, unobstructed darshan of the deity and we were done. Now for the more important things at hand, lunch. We walked into the first restaurant that we crossed as soon as we got out of the temple gates. It was a typical South-Indian mess, a fuss-free place with only one item on the menu, the self-sufficient veg-thali. This guy was a little more entrepreneurial and offered idli-chutney also on the menu. There were tables all around and people sat down where ever they found an empty place. We luckily got a table for four and settled down to have our thali. The adventure began when instead of plates, the lady got us banana leaves and placed it in front of us. She sprinkled some water on it and was gone. The girls went crazy. How could they eat on THIS? Then came the round of serving with one boy serving only chutneys, then another came and served us the curries, sambar, rasam, dal and pulusu, then came the papadams, and finally the lady came back and heaped our plates with hot steaming white rice. Yuuummmmm...it was pure heaven. That inconsequential gastronomical spread had done what I was wrongly seeking inside the sacred sanctum. I found what I had come looking for - inner peace and happiness. I didn't wait for the others to start and immediately dug into the hot rice while the others were trying to figure out from where to start. It was one of the best, most satisfying meals I've had in a long, long time. There's no fuss, no frills yet it's the most fulfilling experience. I'm sure every true-blue South Indian will identify with this incomparable experience.

Gives a happy feeling! Food always does. 

Boys Don't Cry ... Really??

  

The other day while watching TV, I saw the ending of an ad where the once-upon-a-time big-screen diva Madhuri Dixit was saying something about boys don't make others cry. As I had not seen the complete ad, this little teaser intrigued me and I wanted to see the whole of it. I sat in front of the idiot box, like an idiot, waiting for the ad to reappear.  It was sometime before I was able to break free from its hypnotic grasp and think. Heck! I could search for it online! God, never felt so dumb! But I guess I have many who understand the power TV has on many of the powerless zombies like us. Anyways, back to the issue at hand. So I searched online and found the ad I was looking for. It was a beautiful concept created  into a thought provoking ad by Vinil Mathews. 

The beauty of the ad was in its simplicity. It addressed such a basic prejudice we all are conditioned to accept as 'normal'. Gender stereotyping. Boys are the stronger sex, hence cannot cry. We have grown up listening to that reaction so many times that unconsciously we too say it, even without realising it. In this ad Madhuri says it, so I'm hoping many more men would have at least heard her out. Boys don't make other cry. Really? I would love to believe it myself. 

Our social conditioning and gender stereotyping is so, so deeply entrenched in our psych that we look upon the men, or to be politically right the males, as the stronger sex. In India, mothers dote on their sons because they carry the family name forward, thus keeping the lineage going. Fathers adulate their sons, irrespective of their capability, talent or character, because now they, the fathers, are assured a place in heaven as they have a son to light their pyre. Sisters are made to keep in mind that it's the brother who calls the shots, so keeping him happy has its perks. Wives, well, the lesser said the better, after all he is the 'pati-parmeshwar'. So in short, each one in the family treats him as an irreplaceable asset, almost a Demi-God status. So what happens when you get so much attention? Well, you learn to take all this for granted; you treat everyone around you as menials, whose duty is to serve you. 

Growing up on this staple diet of confused and convoluted thinking can distort ones attitude towards the other sex. The scene of the husband abusing his wife is not fake or unreal. That's the real ugly truth. He doesn't give a damn to what she feels. He's right in his thinking because that's what he's learnt from the time he was in his mother's lap. So the suggestion made by the ad is very correct, and required. For the men to be made more sensitive towards the others, they have to be made to feel that the others too are equally important. Be it socially, within the family, at the workplace, or anywhere. Other people, not only the women but also other men, are as human as they are. They too feel pain, hurt, denial, humiliation, anger, frustration. Once these men understand that they are not the focal point of everyone's universe, they will better understand the others. And this can be done only, and only, if they are told about this right from the time they are born. Treating them as just another family member, another sibling, another child, will make them truly belong to the family, and not as the poster boy for the family. 

#StartWithTheBoys is  fantastic initiative which is the need of the hour. With the increased cases of rapes, it only brings to forth the glaring reality of our skewed stereotyping of the genders. For women to be treated as human beings and not a non-entity, it is important boys be made more gender sensitive. A tall order given that centuries of social conditioning has now become an accepted norm, especially in the Indian context. But a start has to be made, and it has started. Let's be part of this change. 

Do round rotis taste better than non round rotis

Rotis are rotis. Round or otherwise. It will always have atta and some water to make it into a soft dough. The shape becomes relevant in the context. I mean the ingredients remain the same, well most of the time, unless you decide to become adventurous and improvise. You know like add some thing extra like freshly chopped dhania or some finely grated veggies which would otherwise be unpalatable to the kids. So I guess the shape and size do not really matter. Yeah if you ask this same question to a hungry person, you can expect a very predictable answer. Just gimme the roti Amma! Round, square, triangle, or any other polygon that you can think of. Just give me the damn roti. Well for a person suffering the pangs of deprivation and denial, any edible consumable is welcome. Colour, shape, texture, vintage etc. are of no consequence or importance to the starved being. What's relevant is it is consumable. Period. 

Hot just off the tava soft rotis are the fastest and surest way to reach the gastronomic heaven. No ambiguity there. Umm ..serve it with a sinful blob of butter and you do the greatest service to the insatiable palates. It earns you enough compliments to want to go back and create more such pieces d'resistance. Most of the Indian households , especially those north of the vindhyas, need the assurance of these simple, unassuming, delectable rotis to feel satisfied about their dinner. You know that alls fine with my world feeling. The weariness of the day, the fatigue when struggling to earn the very same rotis for the family, the struggle to provide two square meals ( square meals of round rotis!?! Strange!!) , everything seems so irrelevant when the first morsel enters the mouth. Life seems so blissful and complete. God is generous and merciful. Every Lalita Pawar incarnate would bless her good-for-nothing daughter-in-law for these gems. Maybe not aloud but happy she will feel. 

So I guess the shape doesn't matter. What matters is the how hungry is the consumer. 

Proud to be an Indian ...always

I saw her on YouTube. A most impersonal first meeting. Thousands more would've seen her too. But images of her stayed in my mind all night, making it a long sleepless night. When I switched on the TV next day for the morning news, there she was again. Dressed in a tan color overcoat, looking over her father's coffin, draped in the Indian tricolor. Alka Rai is all of twelve but she carried herself as a woman. But when she broke down, I did too. The pain was too deep to escape it. I didn't know Col Rai. Now, would never know him. But by watching his proud daughter I wished I had a chance to know him.

Col Rai was killed in another of the many encounters which are a daily phenomenon in the lives of the Army men posted in the troubled regions in J&K. His death too would have got a few lines coverage in some corner of some page in the national dailies, unnoticed by most of us. What changed the whole scenario was the show of sheer grit, pride and love exhibited by his little princess. As she stood next to her father's coffin, she shouted the war cry of the Gorkhas! The somber, sad surroundings were suddenly electrified into a highly charged atmosphere where everyone felt as one. The men of the unit stood united in their shared pain. They shared the pride of their slain warrior's family. They felt honored to be part of that large family of the Gorkha regiment. I felt it too. I felt pride at being associated with the uniform, of having the honor of having worn it, of a sense of belonging. It's a feeling hard to describe but easy to feel. What struck me was the way that little girl reacted. She felt this the best way to honor her slain father. To shout the oft-heard warcry of the Gurkhas. She wouldn't have felt this way had her father not felt the same way. Children learn what they see at home. If she had seen her father not take pride in his uniform, in his job, in his duty, she would never have reacted this way. 

It was a wake up call for all of us. So caught up are we in the daily grind that we forget some basic essentials of being a human being. We forget the value of life. We forget how fickle and unpredictable it is. The house still not back into normalcy after the celebrations for his receiving the gallantry award when it was jolted into shocked silence by his untimely and sudden death. That's life. That's death. Totally and absolutely unpredictable.  No one wants this, maybe except for one Mr Geelani, who sits esconed in the warmth of his shawls and Indian hospitality. Anyways, it made me think about the vagaries of life. 

Pride in being a human being first, pride in our work, pride at being blessed with family and friends. These are things we tend to overlook. No, it's not the feelings of a self centered, ego centric narcissist. This is the kind of pride one feels in gratitude. This is what makes us more consciously responsible. More emphatatic and giving. Makes us feel like pushing ourselves to excel and better ourselves. That warcry set the tone for that young girl who till then lived in a dream.  She will henceforth want to do better so that her father can feel as proud of her, as she does of him. 

But do we need to go through so much pain to realize our potential? Or the value of others around us? 

Deja vu

Just got back from a relaxing weekend in the hills. There's something in the air there that gets to me. I have always felt totally at home in these environs; it's like home, a sense of belonging, of comfort , of freedom. I don't know. It's always felt this way doesn't matter which place it's been. Whether it's a commercial tourist destination or a tiny little indescribable hamlet tucked in the hills.  Maybe it's the air...like I said before. The clean air, the open spaces, the sparkling sunshine, the smiles on the rugged features of the people or the star spangled skies. Whatever it is, I just love the place up there among the hills and want to be there...forever! 

My love for the hills began when as children we would go on vacations to the various hill stations in UP. My father, being a ardent traveler himself, would take us to the hills and we would drive up there in his old fiat. Sometimes we did do part of the travel by train but the road trips were the best. We would stop by the roadside to have some fresh fruits and vegetables picked from the farms en route. For lunch breaks, we would stop at the roadside dhabas and devour the hot rotis and dal tadka. Everything would taste so amazing. I guess the most important ingredient in those dishes was the love and affection of the people cooking it. We would get an extra helping of the dal or an extra glass of that fresh frothy lassi. Most of the times there would be no sanitizers to clean our hands or bottles of bisleri to drink. Once we would reach the destination, we would set out to discover every little corner of the place. The old little temples tucked in some corner, behind some hill or near some lake or waterfall were our favorite because there would always be some story there. The churches were full of tales from the World Wars or the colonial times. Some even had some ghost stories as part of their history. It all added to my fledgling romance with the hills. And of course, once back home in the plains we had Ruskin Bond to help keep the fires going with his books set in the hills! 

During one of our trips to Nainital, dad got us to walk all the way up to see the Nainidevi temple. The next day we walked around the Nainital lake. During another trip, we had gone to Ranikhet, renowned for its tigers and other wild cats. My brother and me were playing outside the Circuit House, where we were staying, when we heard the deep growl of the tiger on the prowl. The chowkidar shouted at us to get inside immediately. We ran for our lives towards the guest house. As soon as the door was closed shut, we saw a tiger walk into the garden where we had been playing just a few minutes ago. Till date whenever I think about it,  I get goose pimples. 

My most life altering experience had been when I had gone for a trek with some friends to Manimahesh. At 13800 feet, life achieves a new meaning. The higher we went, the terrain became more rugged, the air more rare and the people more friendly. Whenever we would stop to give our weary legs some rest or to take in the view, cups of hot tea would appear, without fail, made by one of the villagers. Sometimes we paid, sometimes not. The kids there would then become our eager guides on the mountain trails. In spite of the effort it took to keep moving, with the heavy loads on our backs, I don't think I were felt anything like regret for being there. On the contrary, the higher we went, the changes in the terrain and the landscape, kept me motivated to keep going. As we kept going higher, the villages we crossed become more and more smaller. It would be a few dozen houses spread around the place. At Bharmor, our bus stop was actually the last house in the village. It was cold, I mean killing cold, at the place were we had pitched camp for the two days before we started back. There was no water, only ice. So we had to collect ice and melt it to use it. It was fun. All of us tried to fit in around the tiny camp stove to keep ourselves warm. In the night, we packed ourselves into our sleeping bags and then lay down as a box of tightly packed sardines to avoid getting frost bites. And of course there was no electricity. And that's when I heard the most enchanting sounds. The sound of the majestic mountains. In the night, the silence was as beautiful as it was surreal and frightening. I mean the sound would get magnified and appear to echo in the hills. We could see the silhouette of some animals standing against the moonlight but couldn't see the animals clearly. Now I know why there are reams and reams written about the beauty of the moon. I couldn't write anything, I just felt it. The words could never do justice to the beauty I saw that day. It's safely tucked in the deep recesses of my mind and only I can enjoy it from time to time. If the night had mesmerized me with its silvery web of magic, then the rising sun and the glories of the morning made me believe in the power of nature, a power above. The palettes had colors I had never seen before. The sky changed from an inky blue to various shades of red and pink and finally a golden hue washed over them. As the sun rose, watching the scenery change was the best form of meditation for me. I have never felt the same way about the hills since then. My love for them borders on reverence. 

But I have had an experience of another kind also in the hills. It's not the hills per se but rather the setting. We had gone for a trek through the Kangra valley. After visiting McLeodg

The lonely remainder of the days of past

anj and Dharmasala, we decided to walk back to the town. The walk was dreamlike with the tall conifers lining the road on either side, the wild flowers adding color to the wilderness, the occasional racket created by the monkeys. It was all too perfect to be true. As we all walked along, intoxicated by the general feeling of being content and happy, when we noticed a quaint little church peeping through the trees. It was a lonely church along the road, hidden behind the thick wall of trees and creepers. As we approached the church, I kept feeling like I had been there. It was a beautiful church. A true remnant of colonial architecture. We all went inside and offered our prayers in whichever way we thought it best since none of us were Christians to know what to do. As expected we decided to look around. There was a graveyard behind the church. Most of the graves belonged to the the latter part of 19th century. There were families buried, some related, some not. That's when we noticed a rather ornate cross over the grave of a lady and went over to have a look. As soon as I went 

there I told my friends that her child was also buried there. They looked around and found it next to hers! All of us were stunned. That was it. My friends, not wanting to abandon me yet not sure if they wanted to be around, asked me to get out of there. It was scary for me too. I didn't know how to react. I mean, I had never gone there yet I seem to know that place. It was creepy to say the least. 

Anyways it was quite an experience. All these memories came rushing back to me when we went to Araku. As we approached our guesthouse, I saw a white chapel standing a little apart on a small hillock adjacent to our lodge. The similar serpentine roads with its own tall green sentinels guarding nature's bounty on either side. The clear blue skies, with an occasional tuff of cotton white cloud crossing over. The women singing songs as they crossed the fields on their way back from work. The delicate plumes of smoke rising from the wooden stoves burning in some distance reminding us that dinner was being prepared as another day was drawing to an end. As the sun set over the hills, the shadows got longer. The tiny hamlets nestled in the lees were getting ready for the long night ahead. A few lights would be seen glittering down below, pointing out to the human settlements while the uncountable stars glimmered above showing the address of the residents above. After a long time I was able to point out the various constellations. Venus was sparkling like never before. Experiences like these can't be described. There are no words for it. And the words we have are 
not enough. 

No, never mind the experiences, I still love the hills and want to go back to them. Maybe I'll settle down in a small wooden cottage with a view of the towering mountains. Some dream this is. 

Cricket

It's all over the news channels, in the newspapers, networking sites, everywhere. The amount of space it's occupying shows the importance attached to it. Before I continue I must tell you it's about MS Dhoni's retirement from test cricket. Yup, I was talking about this news. The lost Air Asia flight, incursions by terrorists along J&K border, China's expanding military ambitions, ISIS crisis, all fade away in comparison to this particular bit of information. Gosh, it's unbelievable!  

Cricket has been a national passion since its introduction by our colonial lords and masters. Now it's reached obsessive proportions with the cricketers becoming demigods. Cricket unites people like nothing ever has or will. It has breached the boundaries of religions, castes, colour, states, countries, politics and anything and everything in-between.  I've nothing against cricket per se, but I can't understand this kind of obsession. I absolutely agree that Dhoni is a gifted sportsman (don't want to refer to him as a cricketer and restrict his talents!) and has proved himself on the field time and again. But going on and on about his retirement is overdoing the fan-following bit. He excelled in his sport and now like a sensible person is calling it quits before he becomes a shadow of his own past. Very sensible, to leave when still ahead. So instead I feel it would be a better farewell to just let him go and respect his decision instead on harping on it for so long that he starts getting self doubts. 

But then I guess if we need to fill up our sports columns we have to write about cricketers since no other sport has this kind of following. I read today about what Sachin Tendulkar had had for breakfast on the first day of this year. Really, are you serious? Do I really care?? But then it sells, so who's complaining. Surely not the news guys. I mean who wants to read how many didn't get to eat anything on New Year's Eve and went to sleep on empty stomachs not knowing what day it was? C'on, give us break here. Fans are meant to be obsessed, not in a negative manner though, about their idols. But keeping track of their daily diets and itinerary is a bit too much. 

People, don't forget. These guys have made their millions and now are reaping the benefits of such blind adulation. They didn't achieve what they did by following someone on Twitter or some other social networking site. They achieved it through sheer hard work, grit, dedication and determination. If you want to be Iike them, then work with similar single minded passion. Like true fans let's try to emulate their traits and get results. Let's get a life for ourselves instead of trying to look at their lives and feel inferior. 

I hope we survive this and live to see many more deserving sportspeople do well and make us proud. 

PK

Went to see the latest Aamir Khan movie 'PK'. As usual it was good. I mean when I say good, I don't just mean it as a package but in how such a sensitive subject has been dealt with. Of late when I go to watch an Aamir Khan movie I go with expectations of having my comfort zone shaken.  I've been forced to look at 'things' from a perspective which is very obvious yet not palatable to the average mind. PK has once again made us all rethink about something's which we all in our deep subconscious know as a 'wrong', yet most of us would not touch it with a pole. Even with people with whom we profess to be honest, we discuss such issues cautiously lest we disturb their sensibilities. 

PK is a movie about an alien who gets stuck in our blue planet because his first encounter happens to be with a small time thief who makes a quick getaway after robbing this naive alien of his remote. The whole movie is thereon about this alien's attempts to get back his remote so he can go back. Cute storyline, I thought. Ok, they could have done away with, or cut down, the rantings of Anushka Sharma in flowery summer dresses, showing off her svelte figure, in the cold climes of Belgium. But then I guess, "the script demands it". After all they need to have something for the non-thinkers too. Anyways no complaints there though I confess Sushant Singh Rajput looked pleasing in the sleeveless sweater. 

Back to PK. Though the initial attempts of PK to retrieve his remote looked hilarious, it also made me think. There were many instances when his simple observations force you to not only think but also admit about their correctness. Finally I would feel the cogs of my under-used grey cells trying to turn, much against their will. Like when in one simple sentence he conveys the importance we give to clothes when he points out that it's the crow which would appear out of place if it dressed up in a necktie since it's a not a natural thing for it to do. Or when he gets a few people to dress up in dresses which identify them to a particular religious group irrespective of what their personal beliefs. Yes of course it's so true. I mean isn't this what our subconscious has been conditioned to think like over the years? A guy in Pathan suit has to be a Muslim, a Sikh has to have a pagdi, etc. Whether we admit it or not, we've all indulged in this kind of stereotyping many times in the course of our social interactions. 

PK tries to approach as many gods as possible in his attempts to retrieve his stolen property. But every time he asks for assistance, our God fearing brethren tell him that only God can help him out. I could feel his helplessness and anguish when he speaks to the unfinished idols of Durga. His confusion is so genuine.  I mean what are we, the normal regular people, supposed to do when dealing with such states of helplessness? His remote is symbolic of our own problems. It could be anything; uncontrollable situations or circumstances going out of our hands and spiralling into unwelcome directions, or unfulfilled, untenable goals or ambitions. I don't know, it could be just about anything which we desire so badly that we want to get it by any means. And that makes us desperate. And that desperation makes us so vulnerable that our otherwise logical mental faculties just stop operating and we decide to seek interventions.  Really? Does it help? I don't know that but what I know is that it provides us with some kind of excuse to look for comfort, like knowing someone's there watching over us. 

PK very aptly calls these overseers 'managers', I mean after all they do manage our affairs once in their hands. PK's inferences and comparisons may sound childish and naive but the logic doesn't fail. I couldn't help but agree when he says that our minds have been so absolutely conditioned to give in to these managers that we unconsciously act the way they want us to, not how we actually should/would. Jaggu leaving the church just before her wedding after reading a letter is a perfect example of how even the educated are remote controlled by social conditioning. Of course the whole scene was very filmy et al but one can't ignore what's been said so loudly. 

Why all this hullabaloo about this movie? Damaging theatres, tearing down posters, filing court cases. What's it all for? Excuse me gentlemen, if you can take a well earned popcorn break (all these activities are strenuous and can burn a lot of cals as well!), I would like to ask you what exactly offended you to go so aggressively against the movie? PK never said anything about God or any religion. He didn't like the managers. That's it. Assuming the managers maybe paying for all these activities but then it's their job. They thrive because they work on the weak minds of desperate people who want to get results which they are not meant to get. In India at least there's no dearth of such managers because there's no dearth of God fearing people. With more media coverage and exposure, one expects people to be more cautious of such pseuds, but daily we get to see more and more of how these Godmen are exploiting the masses while they live in unbelievable luxury. Bottom line, even education doesn't help since many 'educated' people also fall for such fakes.  After all who can resist a shortcut to guaranteed results?  

The basic premise of the movie is that we don't need managers to speak to our God because somehow the whole conversation between our God and us gets lost in transit when we speak through the managers. And in the bargain, the managers gain control of our minds and by extension, our lives. I absolutely agree with this whole thing. What happens between my God and me is personal. If I can't get my God to understand what I'm saying, then how can anyone else, who doesn't even know me well enough, get through to him and get my job done. It sounds so demeaning to the whole spiritual experience. Maybe that's why I no longer feel like visiting temples. 

Each of us as individuals has a mind of our own. Each of our minds is an individual in itself. It thinks like no other. Has views and opinions of its own. It's a medium of expression of our deepest thoughts. So why get so aggressive and agitative? If the views expressed don't suit you, don't watch the movie. It's that simple. But please don't ask people to stop thinking. Or worse still, don't ask them to think like you want to. That's death knell to many. Personally, I give a total thumbs up to the movie, the content and the acting. As far as the concept is concerned, well it's beyond such trivial things as star ratings. I think it's life altering.