Thursday, October 29, 2015

Madikeri trip was an eye-opener

It had been months of captivity at home with the shackles of mid-term exams of the kids not allowing me complete peace of mind for sometime. So when it all ended and the annual festivities of Durga Puja began almost immediately, my mind, revelling in the joy of visiting puja pandals scattered across the length and breadth of Bengaluru, also pined for the refreshing calm and rejuvenating quiet that only a hill station can offer. There was sudden sickness at home and my long-held desire to run away for a weekend-long respite from the city I've been calling home for much more than a decade almost came under the threat of getting nipped. However all was well just before the long-awaited weekend arrived and a Friday morning saw us driving away towards Madikeri in Coorg district of Karnataka.

Before long we were zipping forward merrily on the highway, soaking ourselves in the special charm of a morning away from the city unfolding before four pairs of hungry eyes. The cloak of negativity recently built around me from frustration at being unable to realize where exactly my heart lay amongst a set of part-time constructive activities I have been engaged with and a series of unflattering recent experiences involving me directly and indirectly fell off from me gradually. The freshness in the air and the sunshine streaming in gently and generously acted as the perfect balm for our jaded minds and exhausted bodies. With a sumptuous, nutritious breakfast from the famous Kamat Lokaruchi in our satisfied stomachs, our car took us through cities and villages and towns and finally on the hilly road towards our destination, gifting us with long stretches of views that our thirsty eyes feasted on actively.

Oh! The temporarily-forgotten beauty of paddy and sugarcane and millets growing in fields flanking our winding path, joy of watching azure sky looking down at us and horizon of forested hills began working their charm slowly on our nerves! What is this magic hidden in these treasures that swiftly replaces the exhaustion and pessimism in the human minds with freshness, vigour and the-usually-elusive peace of mind? I assume it is because our race, uncountable years ago, originated in the forests. The sky was the roof, the trees formed the walls and the kitchen depended on forests and rivers. It is another story that, our ancestors , harassed by the unpredictable weather and threatened by wild animals, got fed up of the regular picnics and changed their way of life. To speak honestly, even now life in the hills is actually not as thrilling as it would seem to city-dwellers, what with the lack of many basic amenities and the excitement of malls and cinema that most city-dwellers cannot think of missing for long.

We had dared to travel without any advance booking but found a decent homestay in less than an hour of careful search. Tea-session over before five, we were free from having to think of our tummies till eight and so, no longer satisfied with charming view of forests through our room windows, set off on a stroll. Through narrow paths adorned with plants and trees, rich with leaves and flowers of varying sizes, shapes, colours and shades, our eager feet took us by a stream and to nerves-and-eyes-soothing stretches of vegetation that grew denser, darker and quieter by the minute. The next day was spent in driving down to Abbey Falls, watching and listening to the waterfall rapidly rushing down mammoth rocks and trudging back again to snatch a glimpse of Raja Seat.

In this three-day-two-nights trip, the icing on the cake was Mandalapatti. On the last day, after an hour-long drive that made half of our family extremely giddy and almost made us all consider giving up and returning to our temporary home, we reached a place from where only jeeps ferry people to the "best" point there for a "breathtaking view" (as the Internet said). My daughter and I, the "easily-feel-giddy-delicate-darlings", preferred to trek in the hills nearby while my son and husband took the rough ride to the "best point". So, while those two were gifted with a precious-thirty-minutes-stay loaded with awe-inspiring panoramic view from the last-accessible-hill, we two were delighted and fully contented with self-paced walk along the rough road alternating with trek on the hills rising next to us. We had the freedom to pause, absorb the beauty of the nearby hills - some carpeted with grass and some crowned with forests, and the lure of the faraway misty bluish hills, admire the beauty of never-seen-wild flowers on our way and contemplating on the changing, enthralling views.

Later, we exchanged our stories of walk-pause-relish the sight and the silence-resume walk-trek-walk AND quick-and-rough-jeep-ride-followed by -breath-taking 360 degree view from the last hill that could be reached there.
Almost simultaneously, I couldn't help but compare the 
feeling of relaxation we were immersed in during the hours we spent in the homestay, watching the forests on the rolling hills or listening to birds' calls with rapt attention AND the feeling of excitement we were awash with every time we went to a new unexplored point in Madikeri!

It was right then that this dawned on me very suddenly - this journey of life too is like this! Some of us prefer to keep galloping and some of us prefer a self-paced walk. The former love to run towards difficult-to-reach-targets while the latter enjoy walking, running, pausing, relishing every bit of this life journey, resuming the walk, sometimes sprinting, and on the whole cherishing the whole set of experiences of everyday living. 

Where does your heart lie - in the charm of sometimes-slow-sometimes-fast journey or in the thrill of arriving-fast-at-the-faraway-destination? Both have their own basket of unique gifts!

(The snaps are not in any particular order).


Sunday, October 25, 2015

Bengal and Himachal in Bangalore, India in USA

A festival that was part of childhood is part of youth, part of our mid-life, now an integral part of our life – that special something that helps us recreate Bengal away from Bengal, Himachal Pradesh away from Himachal Pradesh, Gujarat away from Gujarat and so on, somewhere within India or somewhere as far as Europe or America or Australia.
Just the other evening, did you see a mother having a very late lunch at a Durga Puja pandal with her family and within a few hours biting into an egg-roll and then again a vegetable chop and also a plateful of momos and later biriyani? Well..who was she? None other than me in Koramangla. It was also another mother in BTM. And yet another mother in Whitefields. And someone in Ulsoor…Someone in Jaymahal…Someone in Sharjapur…it doesn’t end. What were all these ladies doing? Celebrating Mahashaptami of Durga Puja with their families obviously, with ‘good’ food – food that is always looked at with suspicion except during these tumultuous, chaotic, quick five days of Durga Puja when the kitchens shut down and ‘khichri’ and ‘aloo bhaja’ and ‘chutney’ taste better than the best dishes of the world and diabetic husbands get a free run. When ‘tantuja’ cotton scores over silks and when the young mother turns a blind eye to the little children missing their afternoon nap because puja-pandal-hopping becomes the priority.

The sweets (‘rasgullas’ and ‘bonday’) and ‘samosas’ have to be eaten from different stalls at the different pandals at the oddest hours. The images of Goddess Durga and her children (Lakshmi, Saraswati, Kartikeya, Ganesha) across pandals have to be offered prayers and their beauty with the innovative themes behind the pandals have to be compared and discussed! Durga Puja has been an essential part of childhood for all these Bongs and despite the years rolling on, the enthusiasm hasn’t died down. The festival celebrated with vigour during childhood brings us face to face with childhood once again with love and without a trace of regret of those years gone, because Durga Puja is something the Bongs identify themselves with. This major festival is something we link ourselves with since we grew up with it as a part of our life every year.

A festival brings back some beautiful moments before us to relish, to get nostalgic, to greet yesterday’s children as today’s youth, to realize the years have rolled by but the festival hasn’t lost its charm. The spirit of celebration slowly seeps into the children to help them relive these days after three decades when they in turn will be celebrating with their children, maybe together, or maybe over phone or maybe over the Net or who knows over what (with technology taking giant strides, anything could be possible)!

Whether it is a Bong celebrating Durga Puja, a Punjabi celebrating Lohri, a Tamil celebrating Pongal – a festival helps us remain firmly in touch with our beliefs, our culture, and the little things we grew up with, that all became part of us and no matter where we are in the world, we don’t feel rootless and find our own ways of living each day of the festival. It could be capturing the white beauty of autumn’s ‘kaash phool’ growing abundantly in far-flung Europe for sharing on Facebook with friends in India or worshipping Durga Puja in USA or freaking out on ‘samosas’ and ‘jalebies’ and ‘shondesh’ or watching dance dramas enacted on stage or listening to Rabindrasangeet sung by ladies in their fifties or tapping your feet to modern Bong songs belted out by some new band from Bengal even if the music is louder than the song, or Mahalaya songs filling the Bong home with endearing tunes or top honchos from MNCs taking off from work to serve “bhog” to the endless streams of visitors to puja-pandals.

A festival that was part of childhood is part of youth, part of our mid-life, now an integral part of our life – that special something that helps us recreate Assam away from Assam, Kerala away from Kerala, Gujarat away from Gujarat, somewhere within India or somewhere as far as Europe or America or Australia – through rituals, through traditions, through food, through greeting friends and relatives, through oblations, through prayers, through wishing and bonding. That’s how a festival runs across states, across countries, across continents and across generations. It’s something that helps us feel and stay rooted even as we grow as global citizens. It’s something the children today will imbibe as their parents did decades back and instill, in turn, into their children years later.

A festival is a parent – a balm to the stressed-out mind, the link between childhood and the rest of the life - as it helps the present to bond with the past. It is a strong thread that binds me with my grandparents who raised me and parents too and would bind me with my children. 


Years into future, when my children could be in far-flung places, it is a festival that would ring the bells and would prompt us to get in touch. It is a festival that would help them get in touch with their roots, even if for a day. And it is a festival again that would bring their childhood back to them once again, year after year. The memories would bring tears of joy and nostalgia - happiness and sweet sadness. It would be a mix of rays and rains.


Wednesday, October 7, 2015

At a Rehab Centre - Why do they throw away a life that was going hunky-dory?

When one life begins to change, there are other lives too entwined with it that change. 
There could be a distressed mother waiting for her only son to give up drugs and substance and take charge of life. There could be a distraught father in his twilight years hoping his alcoholic son would again rise from the well of despair and bring stability and warmth to his life.
Let us not turn away disapprovingly from someone just getting up on his feet again after valiant efforts. Let us create a positive-thinking full-of-optimism society.
For some parent, when it keeps 'raining', a warm, encouraging smile from us when the adult child 'rises' from a life of nothingness and despair, could be the 'ray' of hope.


The first part of this series appears at A basketful of experiences at a rehab.

Most of the time an addict is conscious of his folly and yearns to return to his previous way of life. In the regular group counseling sessions at the rehab centre I visit now and then, I’ve come face to face with facts that are as much startling as they are thought-provoking.

A score of us sat in a circle in the dormitory. It was the routine group counseling session that happens every day of the 365 days of the year. A young twenty-something surprisingly shared very matter-of-factly how he is assured of a life of “a bed of roses”, of course only if he allowed his love for alcohol to be replaced by love for work. His father, a rich, successful builder has chalked out everything for his son to follow and flourish. The young man knew if he didn’t mend his ways soon, his would be a from-riches-to-rags story. His voice had the desire to become “clean” and a tinge of helplessness. A nice guy from a nice family, his good manners from a good upbringing showed in the sessions.  A silent struggle raged on inside him as he couldn’t nail any event or anybody as a pretext for having fallen victim to alcohol. He wasn’t keen to know when he would be allowed out of the rehab. Nor was he sure about how much self-control he would have then to be at an arm’s length from liquor bars. It’s because even a single visit to the liquor bar would mean going-back-to-square-one. With a decent education behind him he knew the chilling truth that life doesn’t give chances indefinitely to an idler and that time was running out.

It was a group counseling session and I talked about transformation. What was over was gone, and was no longer in our hands. Instead of mulling over the past, each one of us has the power deep inside to stop looking back and be fiercely determined to stay positive and do something constructive with our life. Having an ambition is a healthy sign, but let that not lead to a great hurry to do things too fast, so fast that your dream cannot materialize and you give up and go back to your old ways. The mantra is to take things step by step.  He was one amongst some of the score of counselees seated there in a circle who began thinking about what I said gently but firmly. On one hand there was a bright future as a builder and on the other there was this bottle he was slave to. His was a clear case of how an idle mind could wreak havoc on one’s life. He was sure about not wanting to “end on the road as drunkards do”, but wasn’t sure of how he could tame his mind.

The rehab has its strict schedule of making the inmates follow a routine every day, 365 days of the year. The day starts as early as five, ending before ten in the night. In between meals, there would be time allotted for tasks in the kitchen or elsewhere, group counseling, individual counseling by counselor/psychiatrist, medical check-up, self-introspection and diary-writing, brief interactions with other inmates, confrontation with family as and when applicable followed by introspection in isolation and yoga, not necessarily in that order. There is no special treatment accorded to anyone. It is indeed a humbling experience for those who come from the higher strata of society. But that is how it is meant to be. Whoever comes there as an inmate, has to go through the same regimen. That is how it is supposed to be an eye-opener for all, particularly for the ones who have it all but throw it away for the sake of alcohol or substance.

When I left the place, I had this uneasy question in my mind – Once he is out of the place, who would win in this tug-of-war - His conscience that is still talking with him or his carefree, lazy self that is threatening to overshadow his inner self? But I was glad that he was still very clear about reality and conscious of his tendency to forget about it all suddenly. This strict timetable would take care of him and give him the badly-needed jolt to begin taking charge of his life without his “Dad” having to run around looking for ways to bring him on track. 
A new world is beckoning him. He would work on himself, I knew somehow.