Divine Interludes

All of us need a period of time during the day when we can re-connect to Spirit doing something that we absolutely love - something that absorbs us completely and transports us to another world where everything ceases to be except for the sheer joy of being in harmony with the Universe.

Important as our daily rounds of duties are, there is no end to the things that clamor for our attention, and it is up to us to carve out time from our hectic schedules for a divine interlude whereby we can plug into our higher Selves. When we get back to the grind after this inner vacation, we do so with a fresh perspective. Some people are in their element playing ball or an instrument, walking their dog - whether they have one or not, meditating in the wee hours of the morning, cooking a sumptuous meal for loved ones or just being in the company of kids. It can be anything that rejuvenates you, puts you in sync with Our Source.

My father, for instance, finds peace in listening to music, and is grateful to God for every opportunity to indulge in this pastime. My mother, who is a celebrity in her own right, finds her center by stealing a few minutes several times during the day from her busy routine to sit and pray. My husband really comes alive on the field, kicking ball – be it soccer, baseball, cricket or golf. He sure comes home happy after a good game. I can tell because he amicably agrees to take care of the vacuum cleaning of the entire house after mowing the lawn. My sister, who works two jobs, tries to squeeze in a game of online scrabble whenever she can to bounce back to work with more pizzazz. A very good friend of mine finds contentment in tending for her black Labrador retriever. My brother made trekking a part of his hectic routine at IIT, Bombay. The oneness with Nature he experienced under the blanket of stars struck the perfect balance of yin and yang that we all need to be in harmony.

I have found that short breaks taken during the day to accommodate our hobbies, passions and interests offer an inexpensive way to revitalize our bodies, minds and souls on a regular basis as compared to elaborate vacations that apart from burning a hole in our pockets leave us sapped of energy in our attempt to cram as much as possible in the few days of holidays. On many occasions I have looked forward to coming back home and relaxing with a cup of hot “masala tea” to unwind from the frenzy of trips jam-packed to make the most of every dollar .

Settling down with a good book and my evening cup of tea after the day’s work is done is a ritual that I look forward to all day, but the excitement really begins to build up when I put the water to boil. It is at this time that I set my son up with his favorite movie or allow him some computer time, so that I can enjoy the Golden Period of the day without interruptions.

Finally I sink into the plush leather recliner in the family room across from the patio door which affords me a million dollar view of Mother Nature all year round. After a brief foreplay of watching the trees, birds, sky and the expanse of green behind our backyard, I get ready to share my tea with the guest of honor for the day. Wayne W. Dyer, Deepak Chopra, Sarah Ban Breathnach and Gary Zukav are frequently invited to share this special, almost sacred time with me. In fact, they have assumed the familiarity of old friends and keep showing up with uncanny regularity, enriching my life with their wisdom and humor. I am truly humbled to have at my fingertips the teachings and works of the likes of Budha, Sri Sri Paramahansa Yogananda, Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson.

My heart sincerely echoes the words of Leo Tolstoy, who in the process of collecting material for his last major work, A Calendar of Wisdom, which yours truly is blessed to be reading these days, created what he called a Circle of Reading, comprised of the world’s greatest philosophers of all time such as Manu, Lao Tzu, Budha, Pascal and Epictetus, and wrote in his diary, “What can be more precious than to communicate every day with the wisest men of the world?”

A few lines and a sip of ‘cha’, a few more words, another sip...space and time cease to exist as I am totally absorbed in the sheer magic of the moment. The ‘combo’ of good reading material with a brisk cup of tea never fails. It is something I indulge in to celebrate a good day, but also what I need to salvage a not-so-good day.

Whoever said time flies when you are having fun knew what they were talking about. What we all also know is that all good things must come to an end, and it is with a heart full of gratitude that I partake of the last sip of the ambrosial drink and bring this session to an end. Eyes closed, I sit in a prayerful, almost meditative state till my six-year-old comes running in the room announcing that he is ready for a snack.

What Do You Really Want?

How many of us fritter away the gift of the present moment by wondering when our lives will finally take off? What do you think will do it for you? A five-bedroom house, the latest model of Mercedes Benz or BMW, a world tour, a diamond ring, winning the lottery or becoming rich and famous beyond your wildest dreams? "Man is engaged in an eternal quest for that 'something else' he hopes will bring him happiness, complete and unending. For those individual souls who have sought and found God, the search is over: He is that Something Else," said Paramahansa Yogananda. Worldly possessions and accomplishments cater to the ever-multiplying demands of the ego, leaving the soul malnourished. True happiness, according to the Hindu scriptures, can be found in Spirit alone. In fact, the universal desire of mankind for eternal happiness is a sublime reflection of the soul's innate longing to return to Spirit of which it is a divine spark, but the material plane is the wrong place to look for it. That happiness has very little to do with our circumstances is obvious from the following story: Moved by the devotion of a poor woman, Lord Vishnu manifested before her in all his splendour, and granted her a boon. Unable to figure out the best thing to ask for, she requested the Lord for some time. In the days that followed, her confusion was perpetuated by the diverse advice of her husband and friends, and the poor woman forgot to worship the Lord, losing the peace, joy and contentment of leading a God-centred life. She begged the Lord to end her misery and tell her what the greatest wish of all is. Lord Vishnu told her to ask for the ability to be happy, irrespective of what life offers, and compassionately fulfilled that boon. Many people lead a life of inertia till the suffering caused by the loss of something that is held dear (a close relative or friend, health, wealth or power) shakes one up and makes one ponder on the meaning of life. Is there more to life than riding the waves of duality of birth and death, happiness and sorrow, health and sickness? Whether one seeks God after graduating from the school of 'hard knocks', or as a result of spiritual inclination, our spiritual journey begins when we turn our attention from matter to Spirit and make efforts to shift the centre of our consciousness from the body and ego to the soul. Sincere seekers of Truth find that answers to their burning questions about the mystery of life begin to reveal themselves through the medium of books or passages therein, and encounters with wise or evolved souls. And when a devotee is truly ready to seek Him, the Lord sends a guru, who eventually leads the disciple to God through his wisdom, teachings and discipline. Self-realisation comes from a direct and personal experience of God, attained by definite scientific techniques of meditation. It is the knowing — in body, mind and soul — of our oneness with the omnipresence of God. Paramahansa Yogananda, who instituted the Self Realisation Fellowship, has inspired millions to lead a realistic yet spiritual life. His teachings emphasise seeking God in both activity and meditation to realise him in our daily lives. His was a life of Divine Romance as is evident in his urgent message to humanity, "No matter what you do, God should be constantly in your mind. There cannot be any excuse for not thinking of God... Everything can wait but our search for God cannot wait."

Adieu Daddy

I am only one among millions of people who think that their father is beyond compare in the whole wide world. The large number of cards in the market dedicated to ‘The Best Dad in the World’ is a trifle paradoxical but certainly not surprising considering that the father-child relationship is probably the daddy of all relationships.
My father has been the strongest influence in my life — a loving parent, a patient mentor and a great friend, all rolled into one. My fingers in his hands, I took the first shaky steps of my life. As a little girl I thought he had all the answers.
Definitely not a born story teller, Dad’s attempts at lullabying the kids to sleep used to invariably misfire and we would find him dozing off much before his deep voice could work its magic onus. Doting kids that we were, my sister and I never held this against him. At least he tried.
Dad has always been a source of unconditional love to me. Even at times when I felt I had not done him proud or in fact had let him down, I felt secure in the knowledge that my grades in school or my performance in competitions was not the yardstick of his love for me.
Always present like a guiding star when I lost direction, Dad wanted my dreams to be just that — my dreams. There were no high expectations to be lived up to, just that he wanted me to be a good human being more than he wanted me to become a doctor or an engineer or a journalist. We were left to make our own choices and decisions in life.
Thank you Dad for the wonderful gift of a fresh and untainted canvas of life, and with it the freedom and encouragement to paint as I liked. The strokes were not always pretty but I had the satisfaction of taking credit for every right move. Sure I made mistakes, but they were mine.
If there is one thing Dad hates more than seeing money being wasted, it is some people’s tendency to hoard their funds. He is a lavish spender and knows how to enjoy life to the fullest. It is from him that I have learnt the ropes of the art that living is. Never confused about his priorities in life, he is blessed with the remarkable ability of putting things in their proper perspective at all times.
Few things are more painful for him than having to sell an old car. Dad unabashedly went back on his promise to turn out The Old Lady as we call our ancient Fiat on the arrival of our gleaming new Esteem. The expressions that cross his face when his cars are manhandled are highly comical. Our first and last chauffeur left in disgust when he found himself getting driving lessons instead of being given a chance to show his expertise behind the wheel.
Despite the powerful influence Dad had in moulding my personality, l am not a chip off the old block. In fact, we are as different as two people can - possibly be and I often find myself engaged in a battle of wills with him. Winning against him would have been downright impossible had he not taught me to stand up to him in the first place.
And now it is time to leave the nest. Goodbyes are never easy but the fact that I shall be leaving India shortly to join my husband in the States makes the task doubly painful for me.
The umpteen games of Scrabble that we played on lazy weekends, the long drives that we went on, the “Patiyala” cup of tea that is Dad’s speciality (and his only claim to culinary expertise) and the never-ending discussions on everything in general and nothing in particular. The list is endless. I am going to miss all this. But most of all, Daddy, I will miss you.

Operation Mind Clean-up

VIPASSANA is one of lndia’s most ancient meditation techniques which offers liberation from all misery through purification of the mind.
Rediscovered by Lord Buddha, Vipassana gradually disappeared from India and was reintroduced in 1969 by Mr S. N. Goenka who learnt it from Sayagyi U Ba Khin of Myanmar where the technique was kept alive in its pristine form through the millennia.
Vipassana, a Pali word meaning inside, is the essence of the teachings of the Buddha. It is taught by Mr Goenka and his assistant teachers in a 10-day course held regularly in different parts of India and abroad.
The Vipassana technique is taught free of cost in keeping with the pure tradition whereby teaching is offered freely. All Vipassana centers are run on a no-profit basis and the courses are financed totally by donations from former students.
The credit for bringing this not so widely known technique of meditation into lime light goes to Magsaysay Award winner Kiran Bedi, who introduced Vipassana in Tihar Jail in New Delhi.
The motley crowd that I saw on visiting Dhammathali, the Vipassana centre in Jaipur, bore testimony to the technique’s universal appeal. Though the search for peace, harmony and happiness is a common factor that brings people to Vipassana centers, I was amused to find that the lure of experiencing the ultimate spiritual goal of Nirvana was all too evident, especially among foreigners.
One look at the code of discipline to be observed during the 10-day camp was enough for me to develop cold feet. Adherence to the demanding time-table, in total contrast to comforts that modern lifestyle affords, seemed too big a price to pay for the peace of mind. I told myself I did not need this.
It was only out Of courtesy that I did not turn down the manager’s offer to show me round the campus, which turned out to be a blessing in disguise or I would have missed the opportunity of a lifetime.
For removed from the hustle-bustle and pollution of the city, the campus is located in sylvan surroundings. The idyllic setting of the Academy and the feeling of oneness with nature were partly responsible for my volte-face.
What clinched the matter was the tranquility of the surroundings being reflected on the faces of the students undergoing Vipassana. Suddenly I wanted to acquire that kind of serenity more than anything else in the world. By the time the tour ended I had made up my mind to register for the course.
Cell No 122. That became my identity for the next 10 days. For the duration of the entire course students are required to remain within the academy without any contact with the outside world. They observe rigorously the five moral precepts of abstaining from killing, stealing, lying, sexual misconduct and the use of intoxicants. All students refrain from reading and writing, and suspend any religious practice or other discipline. They scrupulously observe noble silence which prohibits any form of communication among them- selves.
The first few days were sheer hell! The demanding schedule included meditation, meditation and more meditation. Hours of sitting in one posture had my back cracking by the end of the day and it hit me that meditation is indeed hard work, contrary to popular belief that it is some kind of inactivity or relaxation. I’m not particularly fond of rising before the sun and the birds but the thought of missing breakfast provided the strength to hop out of l bed at an ungodly hour.
I was close to giving up when hours of practicing Anapana meditation, an exercise in mental concentration preparatory to the technique of Vipassana proper, began to pay off. The protests of my body were brushed aside by the sense of peace and tranquility that filled up my entire being.
On the fourth day, students embark on a journey of mental purification which is the practice of Vipassana. The technique unfolds before the students step-by-step over the next few days and depending on their understanding of the technique, unique sensations are experienced by the meditators. The realization of the universal truths of impermanence, suffering and egoless ness through self-observation helps in relieving the mind of underlying negativities resulting in inner peace and harmony.
The somber atmosphere of the course is lightened by the taped evening discourses by Mr Goenka. The discourses which are both, explanatory and inspiring reflect Mr Goenka’s pleasant personality and engaging sense of humor. The body clock adjusts to the new routine and lime flies when students start experiencing amazing results.
Students make the transition back to a more extroverted way of life with the end of silence on the 10th day. It feels wonderful to be able to smile and speak again. Positively glowing with a sense of achievement, students share their personal experiences with one another, make donations and purchase books and cassettes related to Vipassana before the course concludes on the morning of the eleventh day.
Vipassana has the capacity to make us better human beings and all students leave the Academy richer for the experience though rewards vary from one individual to another. Continuity of practice in seclusion is the key to the success of the technique and progress in Vipassana depends solely on the students’ previously accumulated merits. Full-hearted efforts, faith, sincerity, health and wisdom also influence the quality of results.
The lessons learnt during the course can be applied in daily life to make life more harmonious, fruitful and happy. One thing is for sure, attending the 10-day residential course at any of the Vipassana meditation centers will change your life forever.

A Brush with Glamor

How could I even have dreamt of becoming a beauty queen, given my temperament and unpreparedness for the event when I participated in the Femina Miss India beauty contest a few years ago? If anything I was a perfect misfit for the fashion world and a brush with glamour was all I needed to realise that it was not my cup of tea.
I watched with pride the crowning of Sush and Ash as Miss Universe and Miss World respectively, even as my mind wandered yet again to my hilarious fiasco at the Siri Fort Auditorium not so long ago. Reliving those moments was not so much amusing as painfully embarrassing initially, but with time I came to look upon the experience as one that cured me of the glamour bug.
For a person given to stage fright, my biggest folly was to give in to the coaxing and cajoling of my friends who were of the opinion that a pretty face and attractive vital statistics was all it took to be crowned a beauty queen.
Big on natural beauty, I use make-up rarely and then too sparingly. Diamonds are definitely not my best friends and glad rags have their uses but give me pyjamas any day. That I was an introvert with a penchant to be politically wrong completed the picture.
So, unprepared and very green, I set off to New Delhi with the barest of bare war-paint, a sari that did nothing for my curves and a pair of brand new stilettoes that I hadn’t had the forethought to break-in.
The interview with Ms Vimala Patil, the then editor of Femina, was an informal affair, and after sizing up the young women I was to rub shoulders with at Siri Fort Auditorium, the friend accompanying me assured me that there was no competition to speak of in the gathered coterie.
It hit me that I had done nothing to enhance my natural looks as I entered the green room teetering precariously in my high-heeled sandals. Poured in dazzling ensembles and sporting elaborate hairdos, with faces done up professionally, the girls-next- door seemed to have transformed into angels overnight. Now I know why “Kaya-Kalp” is a popular choice of name for beauty shops.
In the minutes before I went on stage I know I got a glimpse of the behind-the-scenes activities of beauty contests and fashion shows. The obsession of people in this line with their looks would have been hilarious if it were not so disgusting. Some would spend ages before the mirror practising catwalk and perfecting facial expressions till they got it just right. The haughty look, sexy pout, innocent charm—they could do it all.
Even before I went on stage I knew I could never be part of this world but a dignified exit was not to be. If friends in the audience are to be believed, for all the poise and grace I displayed on stage, I could have been trying to avoid puddles in a street in monsoons, what with one hand clutching the pleats and the other trying to keep the “palla” of my sari from falling off. Not that it did me much good and my worst nightmare came true when one of my sandals came off and I actually tripped on the stage. (No, it did not make headlines like Ash’s famous slip.) That I had forgotten to put on my one and only smile all through this misadventure seems a minor offence in retrospect.
Never been known for diplomacy, I could have made Madhu Sapre’s faux pas in the crucial poser round at the Miss Universe beauty pageant seem trivial, but as it so happened I was eliminated in the preliminary round and an incidence of national shame was averted.
Experiencing first hand the nervous energy, tension and chaos behind the glitz and glamour of the fashion world revealed that people in this profession are hardworking, ambitious and highly competitive. It was also an environment I could not thrive in, if my life depended on it.

Groom in good time

All plans for my wedding, right down to the color of the ‘lehenga’ that my sister is going to wear, and the song that my maid servant is going to sing, have been worked out. Everything has been taken care of, except for one last detail—the bridegroom. My parents are still in the process of finding one.
When they first placed an advertisement in the matrimonial columns of a national newspaper, in their search for a suitable match for me, they were very pleased with the response. Knee-deep in mail, my father spent the better part of his days grading the bio-data of eligible young men.
Everybody around assumed that it was only a matter of months before things were finalized, because of the way the phone never stopped ringing and the rate at which photographs were exchanged and meetings fixed. Topics such as wedding dresses, guest lists and menu for the wedding monopolized conversation.
But I had my misgivings right from the beginning, I found the very idea of such a marriage and all that it entailed, very clinical and difficult to swallow. And the very thought of getting dolled up to enter a room full of prospective in-laws, with a tray in hand and bracing myself for a session of rapid fire questions, seemed so distasteful.
Of course, I was sure, I would never have to go through such an experience as I grew up in a liberal environment, secure in the knowledge that my choice of a life partner would be welcomed by my parents. I, however, failed to cash in on their broad-mindedness as all of my many infatuations fell short of growing into love.
So, when my father consulted me before placing an advertisement for a bridegroom in a newspaper, I opposed the idea tooth and nail. After much argumentation and reasoning, a deal was struck. I promised to co-operate on condition that I would not do anything that made me feel like a cow and that I would have the right to exercise my veto power at all times.
In the months that followed, I met young men from different cultures and professions. I came as close to becoming Mrs.Popli as I did Mrs.Verma. The meetings with my prospective husbands or should I say “could be husbands” and their families were interesting with many mess-ups, awkward moments and funny times. Though I definitely felt richer for the experience the bottom-line was that none of my ‘could be husbands’ became a ‘would be husband’.
When my parents felt satisfied about the family background and qualifications of the boy, I had some reservations. When I was ready to nod, they didn’t approve of some aspect. When my parents and I seemed to be in agreement, the stars, in the form of incompatible ‘janam-patris’ intervened. There were other twists and turns that my parents expect me to be discreet about.
Now, eight advertisements and fifteen months later, my mother is trying to unravel the mystery as to how this could be happening to her ‘tall, fair and slim’ daughter who is soon going over the hill. I, on the contrary, feel on top of the world, at twenty three years of age.
And every time my father looks at me suspiciously, I swear that I never tried to sabotage their efforts to find a suitable match for me. I would have thought that my family would be happy at this chance to have me enrich their lives for some more time.

Forgetful Legacy

Papaji, as my grandfather is called by one and all, was almost out of the house for his morning walk before I noticed that he was sans his pajamas. Clad in his neatly ironed kurta, he looked at me questioningly for stopping him at the doorstep. His memory, regressing by the day, had obviously deserted him mid-way in the task of dressing.
It is amazing how a person, sharp and intelligent in his or her youth, can become so infirm in old age as to forget the names of his or her kith and kin. Having witnessed the transformation of my grandfather from a dashing man in his middle age to a passive and vulnerable man who does not know good from bad in his twilight years, I get goose pimples just thinking that this could happen to me too.
That Papaji’s physical condition is excellent for an octogenarian is little consolation and does nothing to stop us from popping almonds dipped in honey first thing in the morning as a preventive measure against memory lapses.
Though there is every reason to believe that Papaji’s is an extreme case, the fact that absent-mindedness and poor memory run in the family is not far from anybody’s mind. Moreover, it is difficult to ignore the signs that point to the fact that all of us have inherited this legacy in different degrees. And if the frequency of lapses is anything to go by, I seem to be heir apparent of this genetic trait.
Remembering birthdays is not my strong point. Bulk purchase of ‘belated wishes’ cards, marks every visit to the card shop. Missing deadlines has become a way of life as I have never quite managed to catch up with the times.
Almonds with honey, Shankhpushpi and unpalatable concoctions galore, I have tried it all. I have spent a small fortune on memory improving medicines and preparations, the results of which are yet to show.
Though it has been years since we moved into our current house, I have yet to make friends with the switchboards. Years of usage have not left a mark on my memory and I stand for minutes facing the switchboards like a zombie, trying to figure out which switch is for the fan. I usually punch most of the switches on the board before I hit the jackpot.
I might have been worst hit by this genetic syndrome, but no one in the family can boast of having gone unscathed, with the exception of my mother who has a different blood group. She has to bear the brunt of it all though. My father has this uncanny habit of remembering her birthday and their anniversary till the eve of these occasions only to blank out on D-day. Though my mother’s sulks tip him off, it is not till bouquets and phone calls start coming that realization of his faux pas dawns on him.
My sister is a movie buff of the worst kind. She got so agitated during the climax of a gripping movie that she crumbled the paper napkin in her hand into a ball and proceeded to tear it into bits and pieces to dissipate her tension. It was too late by the time she realized that what she had thought to be a paper napkin was a hundred-rupee note.
Clichéd situations like an absent minded professor searching for his pen tucked behind his ear are not uncommon in our house. They are also painfully embarrassing if witnessed by outsiders. However, there is only one answer to question like why I ask others for time when there is a healthy watch ticking at my wrist. A sheepish grin.
Nothing pleases a forgetful person more than making acquaintance with one of his own kind. There is an instant rapport as they communicate in their own special (fuzzy?) way. Being bad with names doesn’t hurt when they greet each other with a new name every time. Like minorities of all kind they feel secure in sticking together.
Now it is time for me to spend some time with Papaji and listen to the tales of his glorious past for the umpteenth time. I am not clairvoyant but I can bet on the course the conversation will take within minutes of my talking to him. “In 1937, when I was Depot Manager of Tata Iron and Steel Co. in Lahore…..

Star-struck

“Que Sera Sera, whatever will be,will be... The future is not ours to see, que sera sera…” These happen to be the lyrics of one of my favourite songs despite the fact that far from letting the future be, I jump at every chance to take a peep into what the morrow holds.
I am a sucker for astrology. And palmistry. And numerology. And anything that promises a glimpse of the future. But pursuing, my interests has not been easy, what with my father taking on himself the task of exposing the tribe of fortune- tellers as charlatans, out to make a fast buck at the expense of gullible people like me.
Ours being a democratic family, my parents’ disapproval of my appointments with ‘jyotishijis’ and the expenditure on books on astrology and allied subjects didn’t bother me much. What did cramp my style was the financial crunch that the non-cooperation movement launched by them landed me in. But it didnot snuff out the fascination that the stars held for me.
True, there are many quacks in this business who have given it a bad reputation. All the same I believe that astrology is a complex science, the intricacies of which elude many. But there are a select few who really know their stuff. It is another thing that encounters, however brief, with this rare breed of learned ‘pundits’ can play havoc with one’s pocket.
As a result of my low-budget planning, I have been told some very contradictory things about my future by different authorities in this field. Putting all the pearls of wisdom together I now know that I will either be stinking rich or I will have to sweat for every rupee earned; I will either have the Midas’ touch or all my endeavours to rise in life will come to naught;! will settle either in or abroad, Iwill either bear sons or daughters or both. Broadly speaking, my future holds either this or that. Some revelations, these!
I might have been deflated with this anticlimatic state of affairs had it not sprung upon me the answer to a question that had been titillating me for quite some time.
My mind went back to an argument that I’d had with a friend a few months ago on the futility (from her point of view) of probing the future. Pitted as I was against this pal with the mind and tongue of a lawyer, I was fast losing ground before she dealt this last deadly blow that had me totally lost for words with its logic. She said, ‘Life is like a mystery novel. Why spoil the suspense by turning over to the last page and reading the end?’
Put like that, her words made perfect sense. I said ‘touche’ and bowed out gracefully but losing the argument did nothing to abate my leaning towards crystal gazing. Well, some of us just can’t resist the temptation of turning over to the last page and the prospect of getting a sneak preview of a much talked about movie excites us no end.
Voila. And now I have the answer to my friends’ winning logic. If life is indeed a mystery novel, then far from diluting the suspense element in the story, all that I have gleaned from the many astrologers, palmists, face readers, etc., about my future has only added to the suspense and ‘masala’ value of the story. Isn’t that the stuff best sellers are made of?

Driving Crazy

Everyone is entitled to a phobia, but I seem to have more than my share of them. The one that tops them all is my fear of driving a car. I am sure there is a menacing name for this phobia, which is precisely why I avoid looking it up in the appropriate book.
My worst nightmares are those that find me stuck in a jungle of trucks, buses, cars and motor cycles, trying to wade my way through a traffic jam. A rather pathetic state of affairs for a girl who dreamt of becoming a pilot, wouldn’t you say!
I have the theory down pat. Some people find the very notion hilarious. “Driving and theory? Ha!” is the standard response. Anyway, I know all there is to know about the functioning of the gears, clutch, accelerator etc. the brakes are my favourite though. They have helped save many a life (mine included) and that is no mean achievement.
What gives me the heebie-jeebies is the practical part. The problem starts when I find myself in the midst of traffic and my hands and feet just fail to move in proper coordination.
I remember the time when, concentrating on changing the gear, I lost control of the steering wheel and landed on the pavement. It was long before I could laugh about this embarrassing episode. Not as long, however, as it took me to get over the shame of landing my mother, who had been bold enough to be driven by me, in a ditch. It took four volunteers from the crowd that had gathered around to haul us out.
The one and the only good thing that came out of my debacles on the road was that my well-wishers unanimously decided not to let me loose on the roads in the best interests of all concerned. Freedom at last! I berated myself for not having pulled the stunts earlier.
All was hunky-dory when the attacks started again — this time from unexpected quarters. I happened to read quite a few articles on the growing role and importance of vehicles and driving in modern times. They all came to the conclusion that one who could not drive in this day and age was functionally handicapped.
Now I didn’t like that term one bit but was affronted enough to undertake the daunting task of giving driving one last shot. So, beware, I have hit the road again and have been taking driving lessons for the past few days.
The traffic still terrifies me. I get stuck in the middle of heavy traffic and on crossings, adding to the, chaos and getting dirty looks from other drivers. I often catch myself wishing that people were sitting in their homes watching their favorite soaps on TV leaving the roads empty for me. I know, I know, I will never make a good chauffeur.
I seem to have inculcated a rather nasty habit of spewing expletive—some so shocking, I didn’t know they were part of my vocabulary — at rash drivers.
And, when behind the wheel, all worked up trying to be in control, I never cease to be amazed at the sight of people digging their noses, scratching their heads, glancing at hoardings and driving, all at the same time. I envy the guys who zoom past in their cars, talking nonchalantly with their companions, a cigarette dangling carelessly from one hand, the other adjusting the volume of the music. I refrain even from the small luxury of yawning while driving.
I dream of becoming an expert driver one day but my priorities are slightly different at present. As of now I have to concentrate on keeping off pavements and out of ditches. Send up a prayer for me, won’t you?

Through Myopic Eyes

I have always been short-sighted figuratively but a few years ago I became myopic in the literal sense of the word, too. I started having slight problem with my vision soon after passing out from school. Initially I turned a blind eye (pun unintended) to the problem thinking that if I buried my head in the sand long enough, it would disappear by itself.
Perfect timing, I thought sarcastically. Here I was looking forward to the freedom of collegiate life after years of being trapped in a school uniform, and specs just did not gel. With a heavy heart I went to the optician’s and in an attempt to raise my spirits selected the most expensive frame on display. (I could afford the luxury in those pre Ray-Ban days).
When I wore my specs for the first time, reactions came pouring in from friends and relatives. “Boy! Do you look studious,” said one. “Intellectual,” another and “cute”, someone else.
The kind part was over. “Specs! you can kiss good bye to your dream of becoming an air-hostess.” The unsolicited comments continued and I realised how brutally frank my friends could be. “Gosh, it’s amazing how specs can change a person’s appearance.” “Jesus Christ, Sheenu, you look awful.” Some people just didn’t believe in softening the blow. “Join the club,” welcomed my specy friends gleefully.
I tried to get used to wearing specs. I even tried to joke that a good way of doubling money was to take off ones glasses and look at it through myopic haze. However, all efforts, to accept specs as a part of life failed miserably.
I wore specs for a full week before I decided to brave the world without them. I learnt to wave in the general direction of Hi’ sand Bye’s. A smile pasted at all times so as not to appear snooty to friendly souls smiling at me from a distance was another ploy that worked.
With a little ingenuity, things progressed rather smoothly except for a few cases of mixed signals. I remember the time when I kept waving excitedly at this boy having mistaken him for my tomboyish cousin. I felt like crawling under my shoes when on moving closer I registered his puzzled expression.
However I found myself missing out on a lot of fun and happenings at parties and weddings because of my insistence on not wearing specs. Though it seemed a long way before I’d need specs to locate my specs, the limitations of my unaided vision made me feel insecure.
Life became a series of guessing games. When people would be speculating on the sex of the approaching person, I would be straining my eyes, to make out if the vague, distant form was a cow or a human being. I learnt to my disadvantage that I was not very good at guessing and that’s when I started thinking seriously about contact lenses.
The eye specialist after knowing my plight convinced me of my cosmetic need for lenses. Fortunately my eyes were receptive to soft contact lenses and with a hole, bigger than the size of my contact, in my pocket
I stepped out to see the world through new eyes. I was ecstatic. Everything seemed sharper and more beautiful. It felt wonderful to be back in focus.
It is nice to be able to see the white of everybody’s eyes. I am so happy I could try. But wait a minute. Let me ring up my eye specialist and ask him if it is all right to cry with the contact lenses on.

Traveling Light

The sight of my attache case sent my dogs in a state of mild depression. My servants tried hard to underplay their glee as they went about helping me pack for a few days’ trip to visit a friend who had shifted to another city a couple of months back. I am not a pervert but I was happy that my dogs were sad and sad that my servants were happy - so happy, at the prospect of getting rid of me for a few days, that I was almost tempted to cancel my trip, if only to wipe the silly grins off their faces.
In an attempt to shift the focus of my vindictive thoughts, I went back to attack my luggage with a ferocity that would have put my dogs to shame. I surprised myself with the speed at which I got the packing done and over with. I hate packing for a journey about as much as I love traveling, but since the two go hand in hand and there is no getting out of it, I settle for procrastinating the unpleasant task till it can be put off no more.
My theory is that no matter how much in advance you complete your packing, you keep tormenting yourself about all the items you’ve forgotten to pack, so I cut my losses by giving myself no time to think, getting ready only in the nick of the moment, It is a lousy theory, even if I say so myself, but I stick to it anyway.
As a result of last-minute packing, I invariably start my journey with a feeling that I’ve forgotten to pack something important. I mentally go over the list of important things and discover that I have forgotten not one but many things. Before I can recover from the slip of having left behind my tooth brush, I am plagued with the thought of having to do with out my eyes - oops, my con tact lenses - for the duration of my stay away from home.
The torture continues even as the beautiful scenery passes me by. And though the list of things forgotten grows longer by the minute, I cannot shake the feeling of having forgotten something ‘really’ important.
On this particular day, I congratulated myself on getting ready well in time to double check that all the necessary items had been packed. I felt extraordinarily pleased as I left my house.
At the bus terminus, I got out of my car and reached out for my attache case only to discover that I had left my meticulously packed attache case back home in the mad rush to catch the bus on time.
I was very upset and looked enviously at my co-passengers loading their possessions in the luggage compartment of the bus. I felt stripped without my luggage but since there was not enough time to go back and get my attache case before the bus left, those who had come to see me off bid me goodbye promising to send my things at the earliest possible.
I boarded the bus with a heavy heart. The bus started moving and I prepared myself for the journey ahead and the self-admonishment that I saw coming. I tried to be mad at myself for letting myself down once again but soon gave up. I never could stay angry with myself for long. As the bus gained speed, I looked out of the window and it struck me that for once I didn’t have to worry about having forgotten anything important as I had made the most beautiful faux pas of having forgotten everything.
I took in everything around me - the magnificent landscape, the melodious sounds of birds, a glimpse of a partridge and a couple of deer - making up for the preoccupation of my past journeys. Time flew and before I knew it, the bus came to a halt at the destination.
I disembarked from the bus and spotted my friend who had come to receive me. She walked toward me and gave me an inquiring look noticing that I had only a purse in my hands. Smilingly, I looked at her and said, ‘I am traveling light’,

The Weird Sisters

I learnt all about the good virtues of love, caring, honesty and loyalty from my parents. They did a good job but my sister did a better job of educating me on the not so good virtues of life. But in all honesty, I must admit that it was only in reciprocation of similar gestures on my part.
My sister is younger tome by a year and a couple of months. I wish she was a whole lot younger as all my hopes of bossing over the new arrival crashed the moment this ‘Gabbar Singh’, as she was nicknamed, stepped out of the cradle.
She weighed a mighty nine pounds at her birth and had a temper to match her nickname. My mother once caught her banging my head mercilessly against the wall. I often wonder what would have happened if my mother had not intervened at the right time.
Having been very close and of the same age group it was inevitable that many of our characteristics rubbed off on each other.
My sister was not a born ‘chicken’, which is more than can be said of me. If there is one thing my friends have learnt to rely on me for, it is backing out. I stick by this golden rule, ‘Face it or flee’ and whereas I resort to the latter, more often than not, my sister is stuck up on the former. So when I find her trapped in a situation, gearing herself to do the honourable thing, I show her the easy way out of a tight spot. I wonder if I overdid it, as now even I shy away from banking on her.
My sister has done her share of corrupting me. She is an incorrigible lotus-eater, and I have often envied the way she indulges herself in what some would call sinful living, without feeling the slightest need to rationalise her lifestyle. Svelte despite her rich lifestyle, she volunteered to give me a few tips on how to become a graceful lotus- eater, looking pointedly at my jeans that looked a size too small for me. I took her up on her offer and now I can gorge on my favourite pastry without once worrying about its consequences showing on my hips and thighs.
If I introduced her to the first whiff of a cigarette, she arranged for us to see our first blue film. And often when we are fighting about who loves whom more, the matter is often settled by drawing a list of who has introduced the other to more forbidden pleasures.
I am sure I would have resisted the lure of gambling had my sister found someone more gullible to lay bets with. To start with, I was the dummy party and played the part of the loser while she won the bets. But I soon caught the bug and wagers have become a part of our life. The stakes keep getting higher as we speculate on the zodiac sign of every newcomer in our lives.
Despite her many flaws, my sister is an idealist and all my attempts to enlist her help in bribing the staff of our hostel, to raise our standard of living in that fortress of a building, failed miserably. My ‘Sister Act’ and sermons on how it is never too soon to acquaint oneself with the intricacies of largesse, backdoor entries and working the system, were all lost on her.
While most of our common characteristics can be traced to one of us, many bizarre traits lie in the no man’s land, their origin shrouded in mystery. Eccentricity, regular bitching and gloating sessions, an appalling dress sense and day dreaming are some such features. I guess we really can’t blame our near, dear and not so dear ones for calling us ‘The Weird Sisters’.