Category: Musings

The Sounds of Silence

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When we were children and started becoming overly excited or noisy, our aunt would say “OK time for Shantini Ramat!”(the game of silence). All we had to do was to close our eyes and stay still and silent. This was not in the form of a “fingers on lips” punishment, but rather always had the most calming effect. Even as young children it made us aware of the many sounds that even silence was made up of, and sensitized us to the power of Quiet.

Many years later, as environmental educators, one of the exercises we often did in our workshops, with teachers or children, was to ask everyone to close their eyes and sit silently for just 5 minutes. After that we would ask them what sounds they heard / how they felt. It was interesting to note that they found this hard to describe or pinpoint. They were so unused to distinguishing individual sounds—even if they were obvious and strident like the honking of horns, the rumble traffic, the hum of the fan; or less obvious like the chirping of birds or squirrels.

We all live in a continual clutter of noise. Most often our ears are so tuned out of the subtle sounds around us, we can hear only the loudest, glaringly harshest and strident noises. We no longer know what silence sounds like. In fact we are almost afraid of the Quiet. Yet there is much to hear in silence. Even amidst the clamour of urban life, there are sounds that we can hear if we really listen—the early morning call of the lone bird, the rustling of leaves in the breeze, the buzz of the bee, the plop plop of the first raindrops and the steady gush of a downpour.

There is magic in silence, in being quiet. There is great power, beauty and creativity in silence.

This is beautifully captured in The Book of Quiet, a wonderfully sensitive children’s book by Deborah Underwood. Each page, lovingly illustrated by Renata Liwska, is dedicated to a different Quiet moment, beginning with “first one awake Quiet” and ending with “sound asleep Quiet.”

Some excerpts

ALL KINDS OF QUIETITUDES

Best friends don’t need to talk Quiet (Comfortable)

Trying not to hiccup Quiet (Embarrassed)

Last one to get picked from school Quiet (Nervous)

Sleeping sister Quiet (Tender)

First look at new hairstyle Quiet (Shocked)

“Silence is itself the stuff of substance; the moments it fills are not the in-betweenery of life but life itself — rich and nuanced and irrepressibly, if quietly, alive.” (Maria Popova)

–Mamata

 

A Magical Walk

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I remember it well—a mere 400 metre walk on our office campus in Ahmedabad. That day we were walking along the path that all of us took regularly; walking along with us was Professor HY Mohan Ram, a member of our Governing Council, who was there for the Council meeting. As we walked, Professor Mohan Ram talked—gently, softly, but with passion and excitement, pointing out plants that we saw every day, but, as we realised, we never really ‘looked at’.

“Look at this one”, he pointed at a plant, “this is Aduso. Its botanical name is Adhatoda vasika which means ‘that which the goat will not touch’. This is what is used for making medicines for cough and cold.” Going just two steps ahead, “You know the cactus, but did you know that there is not a single native cactus in the whole of Asia and Europe? All cactii are from the New World—Mexico, North America and South America.” ”Look at this magnificent neem tree.  Its botanical name Azadirachta indica comes from the Arabic for azad meaning ‘free’ and drakhta meaning ‘tree’. This is thought to be a tree indigenous to India, but there is some doubt if it is originally Indian. It may have originated on the Burma border and come to Bangladesh from there.” “Did you know that Lutyens, when planning the landscaping of Delhi’s roads, planted only native species. Each avenue was planted with one species of fruit tree.” Three steps ahead, we come to the white flower commonly called Chandni. Professor tells us, “Have you noted carefully the arrangement of petals of flowers? Most flower petals are usually in multiples of 3 or 5 (except in the case of the mustard flower).” “Many high school students know this as the shoe flower that they got for dissection in the exams. But why the name shoe flower? Because it is used to polish shoes! Its other name is hibiscus, and is believed to have originated in China.”

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Professor HYM had a fascinating story for every step that we took, drawing attention to the tiniest of flowers that we carelessly trampled underfoot, to the towering culms of bamboo. The path that took us 5-7 minutes to traverse became a magical mystery tour that took close to two hours. Through his eyes the blur of vegetation turned into a veritable treasure trove, with each plant glowing with its own special attributes.

Not long after this visit, Meena and I invited Professor HYM to contribute to a collection of tales of ‘Nature Heroes’ that we were putting together. He graciously agreed, and shared with us some of his journey, experiences and inspirations in a piece titled Reflections of a Botanist.  He writes “I have not pursued any single course. I have done what interests me and not what is in style. I have a deep interest in Indian classical music and photography.”

He concludes the piece with this, “What enlightenment have I received as a student of plant biology? I wish I could be like a tree: deep-rooted and firmly fixed, bearing a lofty bole and a broad canopy, continuously absorbing, synthesizing and renewing, unmindful of stresses and insults, resilient to changes and perpetually giving.”

In the passing away of Professor HY Mohan Ram the world has lost not only a botanist par excellence, but a much loved and respected teacher, researcher, and writer. For us, the Matriarchs, Professor Mohan Ram will always be remembered as a gentle, unassuming guide with a twinkle in his eyes, and a life-long inspiration whose visits to the Centre were like the Open Sesame to a fascinating world of flora.

A page from my notes on the Walk!  (Date 22 August 1998)

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–Mamata

Cacophony

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Just about fifteen years ago, as I lay in bed at night, I could hear the howling of jackals, the rhythmic beat of the distant train, hoots of owls, and the chorus of frogs after the first rains. I would waken to the call of the Sarus cranes, and the meowing cry of the Jacanas in the open ground across from my house.

Today I lie awake all night to the rattling, shattering clangour of the monstrous mechanical cranes and concrete mixers as they dig deep into the soil where the Sarus sang and Jacanas nested, and from where rise the gigantic metal skeletons of multi-storey towers. On the weekends I can no longer listen to the music that used to be a part of our evenings, over the incessant honking, beeping, screeching and yelling from the traffic jams outside my gate, as a noisy, rambunctious crowd heads for the ‘happening’ mall that looms in neon-lit glory, where once the buffalo wallowed and the froggies sang.

Our lives are so cluttered with noise, we do not know silence any more. We are almost afraid of the quiet. We get anxious if we are not continuously reassured by the hum, buzz or ringtone of our phone…Why no calls, no messages, no alerts?? Does nobody ‘like’ us anymore? We feel unmoored without the 24/7 din around us. Is there a moment in our day when we can hear simply silence?

On a visit to Bali last year I learned about Nyepi–the Day of Silence. This day falls (usually in March) on the day after the dark moon of the spring equinox when the day and night are of approximately equal duration. It marks the start of “Caka” year – Balinese New Year – which is celebrated over six days. The first two days are marked by parades, noise and revelry, and Nyepi falls on day 3. The observance of the Day of Silence is based on an ancient myth that, after the boisterous and active celebrations of day 1 and day 2, the Island goes into hiding to protect itself from the evil spirits, fooling them to believe that Bali, enveloped in an atmosphere of complete tranquility and peace, is a deserted Island.

The quietest day of the year is guided by the four precepts:
No fire or light, including no electricity.
No form of physical working other than that which is dedicated to spiritual cleansing and renewal.
No movement or traveling.
Fasting and no revelry/entertainment or general merrymaking.

Everyone stays indoors, engaged in fasting, prayer, meditation, reflection and introspection—erasing the clamour, and cleansing the body and spirit. What a wonderful tradition and even more, how wonderful that it is so well honoured and celebrated in spirit and deed, even today.

If only we could all disconnect from the din, and connect within.

STOP PRESS!

This year for Nyepi all phone companies on the island of Bali agreed to shut down the mobile internet for 24 hours. Imagine a day without internet, Facebook and Instagram and instant messaging apps! And this, on one of the world’s most popular and busy tourist destinations! Yes, they did it, and survived!

–Mamata

 

Matchmaker, Matchmaker….

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Shared memories are probably what define a community or nation or any grouping.

And one indelible memory shared by millions of Indians is seeing miles and miles of walls painted with:

‘Rishtey hi rishtey

Prof. Arora

Mil to lein’.

Prof. Arora rocked social media before social media was invented!

But this piece is not so much about the ‘world-famous in India’ professor, as about how matches were and are made.

Detail from ‘Matchmaker’: A painting by Nilofer Suleman

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When we were young (and for centuries before that, I would imagine), it was about

Pushy pishis

Mission-mode mamas

Chatty chachis

Anxious ammammas

Each activating their network of relatives, friends, acquaintances; chatting up people chance-met at weddings or house warmings or whatever; reaching out to guests of their neighbours, sisters in law of their cousins, whoever. But the fundamental strategy was ‘pass the word, pass the word’.

And boy, did it work! Everyone (except the resolutely resistant), did end up getting married.

‘Matchmaker’: Nilofer Suleman

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And then came a generation where it was considered OK to put up a matrimonial ad in TOI or Hindu or whatever the local dominant newspaper was. This seemed to work fairly OK too.

Today, with so-called efficient networks and all manner of specialized networking sites, that doesn’t seem to be the case anymore. I meet so many 30+ people who are not married. It could be that they don’t want to get married. But I know at least half of them do want to. But they never seem to find the right person. The trick seems to be to find a soulmate in school or college. It seems to get increasingly difficult afterwards.

Then parents come into the picture. And they are pretty clueless!

Which makes me think that we have to find some other means to fix matches. Have no idea what, but maybe go back to real-live human beings as intermediaries, rather than just bits and bytes of information floating in the ether?

—Meena

The Upside-Down Tree

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A Tree-Tale on the occasion of World Environment Day

I first saw a Baobab tree in Tsavo National Park, on safari in Kenya. With a huge bulging trunk and branches that looked like roots spreading in a wide canopy, it was unlike any tree I had seen. I was intrigued. As I read more about Africa I found that this tree, which was native to Africa, Madagascar, and Australia, played a significant role not only in the ecology, but equally the folklore of these regions.

Across Africa, there seem to be many stories passed on from generation to generation, that explain why the Baboab looks the way it does. One of the most popular, and my favourite one, goes like this.

The first Baobab grew near a small lake, along with many other trees. One day it saw its reflection in the water, and it was shocked. It saw a huge fat trunk covered in bark that looked like the wrinkled hide of an old elephant; small leaves and pale flowers.

Now this Baobob was a complainer. “Why did you make me so ugly?” it asked the Creator. “Why did you make me so big and fat? Why can’t I be tall and slender like the Palm tree?” “Why is my bark so rough and tough? Why can’t I have a smooth trunk like the Mahogany tree?” “And such insignificant flowers, why not bright ones like those of the Tulip tree?”

And the Baobab went on whining and complaining, comparing itself to every other tree, and feeling short-changed in every aspect. Until finally the Creator had enough! In a fit of exasperation, he came down and yanked the Baobab up from its roots, and replanted it upside down! No longer could the Baobab see its reflection, and no longer could it compare and contrast!

But the Creator could not be heartless. The vain whiner had to be taught a lesson, but after all this too was one of his own creations! So the Creator gave the Baobab some special features that would make it one of the most valued of trees for countless other living beings, including humans.

This Tree of Life, as it is called by some tribes in Africa, creates its own ecosystem, as it supports the life of countless creatures, from the giant elephants to the thousands of tiny creatures scurrying in and out of its crevices. Weaver birds nest in its branches and owls and Hornbills roost in its hollows; baboons and warthogs devour the seedpods and the fruit; bush babies and fruit bats drink the nectar and pollinate the flowers. The tree can store hundreds of litres of water in its trunk, an adaptation to the harsh drought conditions of its environment. This water is tapped in dry periods by elephants and Bushmen.

P1130244.JPGEvery part of the tree is valuable for the local communities; its lumber is used for storage, its bark is pounded to make rope, fishnets, mats, baskets, paper and cloth. More recently, its fruit has joined the ranks of international Superfoods–it is known to contain six times as much vitamin C as oranges, twice as much calcium as milk, and plenty of B vitamins, magnesium, iron, phosphorous, and antioxidants.

Baobabs can reach up to 75 feet in height, and the trunk can grow more than 60 feet wide. Humans have used the hollowed trunks for a variety of purposes—from a post office, to a jail, and even a pub!

Baobabs are some of the longest living of trees, believed to live for more than 2000 years!  When they do die, they simply rot from the inside and suddenly collapse, leaving a heap of fibres, and so the local belief is that they do not die at all, but simply disappear!  No wonder the Bushmen call it the Magic tree!

Some years after I returned from Kenya, we visited Diu, an island just off the coast of Gujarat. As we walked around, we were astonished to come across a Baobab tree! Solidly ensconced in majestic, solitary splendour among the Hoka palms and green fields, it brought back memories of our Safari days!  No one seemed to know when and how it came to be there. Thereafter, on our annual Diu trip with the children, we all eagerly looked forward to spending a morning exploring the Baobab. Over the years, as the children grew, it remained a reassuring and comforting presence. This year, the Baobab was introduced by my now-grown daughter to her husband, as an old friend!

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Happy World Environment Day!

–Mamata

Average is Normal

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It is that time of the year again. It is the season of Superlatives. Exam results with Beyond Belief percentages, pictures of the Highest Scorers in the papers, magazines listing the Best Colleges, coaching classes advertising Record-breaking Achievers. So many wonder-kids? Are there no ‘average’ children anymore?

Even several years ago, I remember meeting my children’s classmates’ mothers when we were summoned to meet the teachers after the exam results were given. I heard exchanges about the achievements of the respective prodigy—prizes for painting, dancing, skating, swimming and more. Class toppers, school leaders all. I wondered, if every child is so brilliant, are there any simply ordinary children in the class?

I began to have doubts about my own parenting responsibilities and skills. Well, I did try to get the children to go for swimming coaching, largely because their cousins were going too (50% success—my daughter picked it up, and my son did not), dance lessons (my daughter did last a couple of years, but never made it till an arangetram!), and karate (my daughter made it till the first camp, my son till the white-one belt!).  Neither they, nor I, seemed to have the endurance run the gauntlet and emerge a Winner every time!

As parents who followed a relatively laissez-faire style of parenting, our considerations were mainly that the children were given the space to simply be, and blossom as they will. But as they grew, it became increasingly difficult to cope with the expectations of a competitive system. Still we thought that we were managing ok within the larger environment. We got a jolt one fine morning, when our son was denied readmission into Class 11 in the same school he had studied in for 10 years, because he missed the “cut off” by a couple of marks. Imagine the devastation for a fifteen year old. The experience that followed is a story in itself. One of the outcomes was that we decided that we did not wish our daughter (who was even less equipped to cope with a mindlessly competitive system) to go through this. Despite being told that “this is the system, your children and you will need to learn to swim with the tide, or sink”, we actively explored alternatives….and found them.

The children made it through! Today they are in the ‘system’ as it were, without being sucked into its vortex. They may not meet the generally accepted norms of Mainstream Success. (“Settled” so to speak, with six-figure earnings, car and apartment, designation, the skills to compete ruthlessly …and burn out at 35). They are following somewhat unconventional paths; they continue to explore, and discover new passions, new horizons, and new accomplishments. They are rich in experience, life skills, and relationships. They have the confidence to be themselves, and “not just another brick in the wall”.

Perhaps the greatest freedom we can offer our children is to allow them to think differently, and more importantly, to act differently.  Gunter Pauli

peanuts flaws

From Peanuts by Charles Schulz

Two BHIMS I am Fan Of

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The first is the hero of Randamoozham, or The Second Turn, the masterly Malayalam novel by M.T. Vasudevan Nair, based on the Mahabharata. It is told from the perspective of Bhima who never got his due, though he took the brunt of every battle, was the bravest, kept every promise, and made his share of sacrifices. The novel makes one question stereotypes and assumptions. For instance, after reading the book, you will never quite respect Yudhisthra, who comes across as self-righteous and pompous, or admire Arjun, whom we now see as egoistical and pretty focussed on himself.

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It was my friend Ann, knowing of my interest in such take-offs on the epics, who told me about Randamoozham, which she said was the best book she had ever read. After a huge build-up, when I asked her to get me an English translation on her next visit to Kerala, she said she thought there wasn’t one! Anyway she said, she would check –she mentioned that there was a bookseller who sold books on the train, who was very knowledgeable, and he would be the best person to ask. And faithfully, she asked him on her next train trip from Bangalore to Kerala. And oh boy! Did she get an earful! The bookseller took a break from business and lectured her for five whole minutes about the younger generation who did not care to know enough of their mother tongue to read in it; how did they expect to get the real essence of a book written in Malayalam when they read it in English; how could she insult the writing of a master like Vasudevan Nair by even dreaming of reading his masterpiece in English. etc. etc.

Subsequently, several English translations of the book have come out. But the one I love is BHIMSEN by Prem Panicker, shared with me by my friend Unni. It has none of the hiccups and awkwardness that translations from Indian languages to English often suffer.  It is surely a work of love. I am not even sure it is published formally—what I recall is that it was published chapter by chapter on Mr. Panicker’s blog. Prem Panicker, is incidentally a cricket journalist.

(You can access the book on https://prempanicker.wordpress.com/2009/10/05/bhim-complete-and-unabridged/)

The other BHIM I love is the app for money transfer. I am in general very wary of financial transactions through electronic media. And being technologically-challenged, have great difficulty operating most of them. But BHIM is one thing which works like a dream. I routinely pay salaries using BHIM. I use it in shops. Whenever my friends buy anything on my behalf, two clicks and the money is in their account.

So folks, two messages:

Download Bhim the novel, and enjoy the best read in a long time.

Download Bhim the app, and enjoy superlative convenience.

–Meena

P.S. ‘Duryodhana’ by V. Raghunathan, is the re-telling of the Mahabharata from, you guessed it, Duryodhana’s point of view.

Rain, rain…

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The Monsoon is scheduled to hit Kerala today, 29th May. Traditionally, in agriculture-based societies like ours, rain is a welcome phenomenon. Down the ages, music, art, dance, poetry in every part of India have celebrated the rains and the monsoon. There is a raga to bring rain. Lovers long for the rains. Literature celebrates the monsoons.

Even young urbanities, thanks to movies like ‘Lagaan’ will appreciate that rains are the lifeline for agriculture. And let us not forget that is not only the farmers who depend on the rains. The looming food crisis and rising prices of vegetables, fruit and produce has brought home very sharply that ultimately for everyone, it all goes back the land, to those who till the land, and to the rains.
In spite of all this, we urbanites have to admit that we are not happy to see the rains, except for the fact that it brings down temperatures. That could be attributed to two major reasons—(a) lack of preparedness of civic authorities to cope with the rains, and (b) our own increasing inability to put up with even minor inconveniences.
If the rains bring flooding to my street because the storm water drains are not kept in functional order; if manholes left open become death traps for people who are wading through knee deep water; if the roads are potholed and pitted after the rains and never mended; if improperly planned road dividers and badly leveled roads lead to stagnation and chaos—no wonder then that the normal city dweller fears the rainy season. If rains mean uncleared, rotting garbage all over; if rains mean frequent electricity cuts; if rains mean the threat of minor epidemics due to unsanitary conditions—no wonder then that we dislike the rains.
Is there anything unexpected about the rains? They come every year, on a fairly predictable date. The volume of rain is also forecasted—if not accurately, at least better than election results! Then why can our cities not prepare better? Should not every city and town worth its name have a regular plan of action to prepare for the rains? Civic authorities may say they have such plans, but isn’t the proof of the pudding in the eating?
Apart from civic authorities, we as individuals also love our comfort so much, that we cannot stand clothes drying inside the house; we cannot put up with rains disturbing our plans for an open air party; we don’t want the driver or maid to come in half-an-hour late because of the rain.
Rains bring joy; rains bring life to the land; rains are what make the world go round. Let’s bring back the joy of monsoon to our lives.
–Meena

Simple Joys of Summer

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Come May, and it was time to begin the summer excursion from Delhi to “home town” Bhavnagar, in Gujarat. This entailed a long hot dusty meter-gauge train trip to Baroda or Ahmedabad, complete with bedrolls, surahis of water and much food carried, and bought from the stations. Some years later when the first Deluxe train with AC sitting coaches was introduced, it was the very height of luxury! One’s best outfits were to be worn en route, and there was much anticipation about choosing comics and magazines from the AH Wheeler stall on the platform. That was only Part 1. Part 2 involved an equally long and hot and dusty onward bus on the state transport or ‘ST’ bus. And then, we were there!

Bhavnagar had the double bonus in that both my paternal and maternal family homes were in the same town…and within a stone’s throw of each other! Two houses, two sets of aunts and uncles, and two sets of cousins! Where was the question of feeling bored, or not knowing what to do next? Most of the morning was spent in doing nothing much, while waiting for one’s turn to have a bath. As the hours rolled from breakfast to lunch, one of the assigned duties was to go up to where the home-grown mangoes were laid out to ripen, and pick the ones for lunch. Another one was digging ice cubes out of the dinosaur-age fridge and making a bucketful of cold water to drink. As one grew older, the duties graduated to squeezing the pulp out of the dozens of mangoes, and learning how to roll chapatis! Replete with mango ras and an array of newly-made pickles it was time for a long siesta, with the gaggle of old and young, lying down from wall to wall in the central room, with the vetiver or khus ‘chicks’ keeping out the glare and keeping us cool. (Another assigned duty was sprinkling water on the chicks).

Post-siesta special outings involved a ghoda gaadi (tonga) ride into the ‘bajaar’ accompanied by an aunt. Walking through the crowded market with halts to buy thread for embroidery, or fabric for summer clothes was indeed an adventure. And then, the delicious process of ‘designing’ one’s own clothes…to be executed by the family tailor who sat at his machine, day after day, in the verandah, whirring out baby-doll pyjamas, ruffled frocks, and basic petticoats and bloomers! (The person whose clothes were being tailored on the day was assigned to ensure that the tailor was kept well supplied with food and water). Talk about bespoke wardrobes!

As soon as the peak heat of the day abated, it was time to walk across to the other house. More cousins, more food and more fun and games….learning to ride the bicycle; pretending to swim in the 6 by 6 feet water tank; trying to get on to the roof with clay tiles (and being scolded by granny); climbing trees, and huffing and puffing up the  hill to the temple…After sunset, when the grand-aunts came by, it was time to sit on the steps and the jhoola, and listen in on the family gossip!

Dinner in the open chowk, all seated in a circle on the wooden paatlas, with much noise and merriment. (Later this evolved into several tables of varying heights put together to form a long dining line). Bedtime involved tying of mosquito nets and making of beds–in the front courtyard or on the flat terrace, depending on which house we were spending the night at. And, falling into a blissful slumber, under the starry sky, after a day well-spent.

And so the summer passed…until it was time to start the trek back. No helicopter parents, no scheduling, no planning, no personality development classes, no activity clubs, no life-coaching, no play dates! We drifted along languorously, and yet every day was packed. A good time it was indeed, to be young!

Last week I visited the home town. Much has changed. Only one of the beloved homes still stands, empty now; but housefuls of memories remain, as fresh as if it were yesterday.

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–Mamata

Ministry of T

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It is finding the known in the unknown, and the unknown in the known.

It is mental exhilaration and physical exhaustion.

It is anticipation and satisfaction.

It is memories of things seen and the curiosity to see new things.

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It is re-living old memories and storing up new ones.

It is sinking in comfort, it is roughing it out.

It is pleasant surprises and unpleasant shocks.

It is a camera lost, it is a vision captured in memory.

It is being with the family, it is getting away from the family.

It is being duped by touts, it is being helped by strangers.

It is tasting exotic food, it is finding the familiar dhabha.

It is being a bit bored, it is having a lot of fun.

It is being away from home, it is finding new homes.

It is being out of touch, it is finding new connections.

It is cockroaches in the bathroom, it is squeaky clean sheets.

It is upset stomachs, it is healthy carrot juice.

It is swearing never to travel again, it is booking tickets for the next trip.

Is this just me, or do most people think of travel like this?

 

–Meena