On Rohan 'thatha' and Ria 'paati'!

It was as if Subramanian 'thatha' and Mangalam 'paati' were born grandpa and grandma! There were no photographs to show they were ever young and youthful. The only photographs we had, were from an age when they had already slipped into the role of a grandparent. We assumed they hatched out of an egg together....exactly the way they looked. Subramaniam thatha, with his bald pate, stooped gait and an infectious, toothless smile. And Mangalam paati in her 9-yards sari with silver-hair, diamond studs and a prominent vermilion dot on the forehead. Mangalam paati was 9 when she got married to Subramaniam thatha, who was 12. And in the long innings together, they complemented each other as the sea and the sand. Needless to say, they were the quintessential grandparents: grandfather meant Subramaniam thatha and grandmother had to be Mangalam paati.


India has changed in multi-fold ways over the years. One of the most noticeable changes is the way parents name their newborn. Gone are the conventional names- no Suresh, Mahesh, Ramesh. It's anathema to name children as Panchapakeshan or Tirupurasundari or Meenalochani. The name has to be elegant and short, secular and stylish. And necessarily unique. Today's classroom is filled with Tarun and Shreyas, Tina and Shreya. As a diversion, names which find a parallel in the West are chosen- prominent among them being Neel and Maya. We don't want the Western world to trip over our polysyllabic names. I have no problem with the recent naming convention. What's in a name after all? But there is a hitch. Let me elucidate. Let's say these children grow up to be grandfathers and grandmothers. I mean, some day, they will. How is the grandchild going to introduce them? "This is my grandfather. He is Rohan thatha! This is my grandmother. She is Ria paati!" You get it now? There is something terribly jarring in this introduction- as if you are scratching the blackboard with your nail! The name just doesn't fit the role. It's as if Rohan and Ria can never slip into the grandparent role as effortlessly as Subramaniam thatha and Mangalam paati did.


Subramaniam thatha regaled us with tales from an epic past. His eyes lit up when he talked about Gandhi and Nehru with a familiarity and fondness which was stretched to the point of disbelief. It's as if he had played a game of marbles with the Master himself! "You should have seen Nehru! He spoke English better than the English themselves. In fact, he looked more English than the Englishmen! No wonder they liked him...and so did we!" His bedtime stories covered a wide canvas....days of the British Raj, the Indian Freedom Movement and his magnum-opus- the Second World War, which supplied text for many nights in a row. It was not a narration in third-person. He lived those times- those were epic times!


Thatha had immense breadth. His interests spanned from Cricket to Carnatic music. "In those days, you should have seen 'Tiger' fielding in the covers (referring to 'Tiger' Pataudi). He pounced on the ball as only a tiger would! Imagine, he did all this with one eye! Had he not lost an eye in that unfortunate accident, we don't know how much more he would have accomplished!" And when asked for his opinion on present-day music, he was at his animated best. "Tsch! Tsch! Tcha! This is all noise, I say! You should hear 'Tiger' singing this piece (referring to the yesteryear musician 'Tiger' Varadachari). There was grandeur in the voice itself- like a tiger's roar. He didn't need a microphone. Compared to 'Tiger', the present day musicians squeak....squeak like a mouse! They have to swallow the microphone itself to get the voice out!" Evidently, thatha lived in colorful times- times when tigers prowled....in the jungles, on the Cricket field and in concert halls. We tried to imitate tigers, with blood-shot eyes and with uplifted paws... either fielding or singing! Thatha knew we were pulling his leg. His wrinkled face spread into that most infectious grin. He gave us a tight pinch and an epithet we liked to hear- "You little devils!"


Mangalam paati was not to be outdone by Subramanian Thatha. Deeply religious, she began her day with prayer and ended the day with prayer. There was an involuntary quiver in the lips, as if she was having a personal conversation with God all the time. Any worldly problem that anyone had....it looked as if Mangalam paati had a cure and a definite one. The person always walked away with confidence, knowing that he now had access to a secret potion. Her home-remedies and kitchen recipes were stuff of legend- someone or the other always consulted her on these matters. And there was precision in every act- whether it was folding clothes or tidying the home...or applying the vermilion mark on the forehead.


Subramanian thatha lived in quaint times, associated with a vocabulary, equally foreign. His stories were filled with references to distances in 'furlongs' and currency in 'annas'. With each bedtime narration, he was seen walking more 'furlongs' to his school all alone or filling more  sacks with Deepavali crackers, that too for fewer 'annas'! At the end of each academic year, he moved from one 'form' to another and at some point, made the transition from the village school to the big Town High School. And true to form, in the absence of electricity, thatha was forever studying under the arc of a 'hurricane lamp'. When he travelled, it was in a 'jutka' or a bullock cart fitted with little bells which went jhil-jhil-jhil through the night. On his most exotic vacation, he took the prestigious 'Boat-Mail' powered by a YB Steam Engine which puffed its way to Rameshwaram. "Of course, thatha is right!" we giggled secretly, "Surely, the Boat-Mail then.....was faster than the present Rajdhani!"


Rohan thatha and Ria paati have an unenviable task at hand. They have to battle with more than the appropriateness of their name in assuming the role of grandparents. It would be unfair to compare across generations, but the boots they have to fill are big.
I hope Rohan thatha will still carry his little grandchild, with its legs across his shoulders. I hope he will allow the child to tousle his patchy hair or play 'ghatam' on his shining-head without a need to fix his hair or get a new coat of dye! I know Ria paati won't wear 9-yards. I hope she will still look just as stately and endearing without worrying about "looking 40 when she is 60". I hope Rohan thatha's bed-time stories are engrossing. I hope they are about magical times...that he was a part of. I hope Ria paati oozes with unbridled affection. I hope Rohan thatha's face is creased with that infectious, toothless smile when he fetches his grandchild from the school-bus and like Subbu thatha, will volunteer to carry the 'heavy' school-bag home. I hope Rohan thatha will not need to make an update on social media each time- "Fetching grandkid from school-bus. Cheerio!" I hope Rohan and Ria grow up with grace and embody the value of "simple living and high thinking".
Above all, I hope Rohan thatha and Ria paati will be there for each other at all times -"like the eyelid for the eye".

An ode to boredom!

"Don't laugh too much! You will cry later!" - an oft-heard advice from elders and the surest way to rein in the party and flatten it to a damp-squib! How supremely optimistic....we mutter under our breath!
On closer scrutiny, we actually find some correlation in this spoilsport maxim. We don't know if laughter is followed by a bout of crying, but a cathartic emotional spike...invariably peters out into a lull, a plateau of sorts.....into boredom!
Think about the most momentous events when the mind went into a tizzy- the end of the final exams and the onset of vacation....two months of absolute freedom! The euphoria of holidays lasts exactly one week. And then, it sets in......the blanket of boredom...and holds the mind hostage.


How familiar is this conversation-
"I am bored!"
"Why don't you go down and play with your friends?"
"There's no one to play with- Anil is out of town and Sachin...well, he bores me!"
"Why don't you draw for some time?"
"There is nothing to draw. Who wants to draw all the time? It's so boring!"
"Why don't you practice the violin for some time?"
"All the time, practice, practice, practice....I am bored!"
"You joined the library and got some books right? Why don't read them?"
"I already finished the books. There is nothing to read. I am bored."
"Ok. Come and have lunch first".
"What's for lunch? What! Rasam again? 365 days....how can I eat the same boring rasam?"
"You can have lunch and take the cycle out. When the exams were going on, you were so keen to cycle!"
"Yes, that was different. Now, I don't feel like cycling. It's boring! Plus, there is no air in the tire. In this heat, who wants to go out? The cycle shop is anyway closed at this time."
"I think the boredom bug has bitten you! You should bite it back! Why don't they employ you in the construction of the namma metro. You can instantly bore your way through the whole city!"
"Enough of your silly jokes and wisecracks! I am telling you I am bored!"


The foundation of human emotion is boredom. Happiness is a flirt- here today, gone tomorrow. So too with extreme sorrow- it's just a squirt... here and there. But boredom? If all those spikes and troughs of human emotion were to be connected, those connecting dots would be boredom dots! It is surprising that boredom doesn't find a place in the list of rasas. There are 9 of them- shringara (love), raudra (anger), haasya (laughter), veera (courage), bibhatsa (disgust), shaanta (peace), adbhuta (wonder), bhayaanaka (fear) and karuna (compassion). How did someone miss boredom? It is such a glaring omission! A plausible reason is that a bored person is too bored to even document. And, as far as a non-bored person  goes, he suffers from selective amnesia- just doesn't recall how bored he was.... a minute ago. Another possibility is that unlike the more dramatic rasas like love and anger, boredom does not have a face (or a trendy name in Sanskrit). How does a dancer convey boredom to the audience? Think about it. She simply has to walk off the stage. Undoubtedly, such practical limitations exist in its portrayal. However, it would be gross injustice...if in the grand gallery of human emotion, boredom doesn't find a place! It's like forgetting to pencil Tendulkar's name in an All-Time India-Eleven!


The expression of boredom is uniform- a distaste for anything and everything. But the trigger is varied. Boredom strikes in different ways- when you need to plough through the Zilla-Parishad chapter in Civics, or a never-ending technical document filled with unknowns, or an over-enthusiastic talk on the benefits of Mutual Funds. Or stuck in a home, with a Cricket-nut and a Test Match on TV. The same action - ball after ball, over after over, from morning till evening and no access to the TV remote or another channel for 5 full days in a row! Or stuck right in the middle, with music aficionados on either seat, in a classical music concert, you can't make head or tail of. Or a religious sermon you agreed to be a part of, because your friend dragged you into it. It's as if nature has conspired to get back at you with vengeance!
As time hangs still and an exit-strategy non-existent, the emotion swings between extreme boredom and seething anger.


Boredom is a contagious disease. A bored patient has to be avoided like plague. Hug him....counsel him, and before you know, you've contracted the ailment! It just doesn't work. Leave him alone, and he will surely wriggle his way out of boredom. One technique that a bore uses is... to irritate others. It's a ploy- get the other person all worked up and angry....and in the process, shed the boredom-slough. Typically, the bore breaks into a song, sings it badly and repeatedly. It could be "jingle-bells jingle-bells jingle all the way...." through an entire summer afternoon. You tolerate it for ten minutes, for half-hour....may be, a maximum of forty-five minutes. You can't take the jingle anymore- the endless rant which shows no stoppage or progress! "Can you stop singing?" The bore is looking for just this confrontation. The ploy is working. He continues to sing under his breath....with the voice raised to the audible zone in patches. It provokes you more.  "I said....stop singing! It's irritating!" The consequent showdown has ugly scenes all right, but in the process, the boredom disease has been successfully conquered.


Sometimes, you can eat your way out of boredom. You rummage through the store-room looking for something interesting to munch on. The biscuits are boring- the usual Marie and Good-Day and Nice. You move on and explore the Ever-silver vessels. The lid is jammed tight and you open each one expectantly. Of course, none of them is labeled. It's such a dampener- all you find is "dal" and lots of them- "tur", "moong" and what not, or some tamarind or maximum rock-salt. You recall that one of the containers should have some tasty tidbits, some chakli, but can't spot it. After half a dozen tries, you feel your way to a vessel which has been pushed to the back row. This has to be the one...till you find it's the same "tur" dal you laid your hands on...the last round too. It's terribly frustrating. Now, there's just one unexplored vessel. The lid is too tight. In savage anger, you try to scoop the lid out...till the lid, the vessel and the contents fly off in three different directions. You just toppled a kilo of rice flour..... The whole house wakes up from the afternoon slumber and surveys the damage! The bore has succeeded in his mission....there's every emotion except boredom!


End of the day, boredom is natural and healthy. It's the mind's way of rejuvenating itself after an emotional upsurge. It needs that time off, to stay defocused and bored to act as a buffer for life's highs and lows. They say "normal is boring", but a more appropriate statement would be "boring is most normal"!! I am bored now.... Signing off......

That bitter-sweet candy called nostalgia!

Nostalgia- that bitter-sweet feeling. The tune of a yesteryear film-song, a black-and-white visual on TV, a peacock-feather..pressed against a page, a letter....now in fading ink, written someday...somewhere, a photograph you suddenly stumble upon, or just a stray thought... all it takes, is one little suggestion to rake it up. And with that, it all comes back in a torrent- memories of another day....


Sitting by the window of the speeding bus, you steel yourself to divert the train of thought. It's a hopeless attempt, for once triggered, it has a momentum, all its own. The entire world is recreated- the place, the people, the conversation....down to the last detail. You replay it one more time, but this time....with moist eyes, a lump in the throat and a heavy heart. How do you define nostalgia? It is at once.. sweet and sad, plaited inseparably. Sweet that it happened, sad...that's it's all over. Once it has taken over, it has a certain inevitability. All you can do, is surrender to the emotion and allow the tornado to pass over. It takes a while for the clouds to clear up. The mind returns to its familiar moorings, you break into a little smile and purse your lips with an audible click...wistfully. How beautiful were those days!


Nostalgia need not be this heavy. Let's say, you huddle over your childhood album with family. The company makes the difference now. "This is you? Is this really you...as thin as a drumstick? You had so much hair! And look at this picture! You look like a dacoit appa! With long side-burns and such a hideous moustache! How did someone even marry you?" Laughter rings across the room. You join the merriment and snatch the album to take a closer look at yourself. College days.....the reckless abandon of the times, the friends who shaped that nest, those unforgettable incidents, those arguments, those little fights- the images rush forth and hold the mind captive. But, nostalgia surprisingly, has only one component now- sweetness. There is no element of sadness. You run the finger softly over the pictures; they are dear. Those days are dear. Still, the convivial company makes these musings totally pleasurable. With ease, you move on, to the next page of the album and to the next.


We romanticize the past. Those pictures have no rough edges. We blend them now, with a brush dipped in the mellow hues of the setting sun; no wonder they are so tender, so rosy. Someone reflects about Pre-Independent India and says those days will never come back. Another ponders over the swinging sixties and swears by those wild and fun-filled years. Watching Amitabh Bachchan dripping in the rain and gamboling across Oval Maidan in a popular song from the seventies, we exclaim with a hint of regret, "Look! How Bombay was then! So beautiful! Can we ever get those days back?" There is a pattern in this thought-process: that the present is irksome, but the past had a certain simplicity and beauty which is lost forever. It looks like a downward slide and a hopeless one at that. For sure, even the present irksome days will be gilded in gold someday....when seen through the goggles of the future.


In an attempt to recreate the magic- we organize an Alumni Get-Together and meet-up with the same friends, at the same venue. Stroll past classrooms where we once sat; gaze at those empty chairs and desks and search for those familiar faces. There are none. Sometimes, the place has changed completely. The mental images can no longer be superimposed on these foreign locations. As for people, they have all moved on. So have we. We have a good time no doubt, but in retrospect, the Alumni-Meet falls short. It's as if that age of innocence is irretrievably lost. At times, the feeling is deliberately stoked- we rummage through the old records and play that favorite music collection once more. Or pull out those letters and read them one more time. Or fall back to that genre of music that celebrates and whips up nostalgia- ghazals. We feel we are in control; we even like the sensation. Often, it's the control exercised by one who has hit the bottle. Before we know, it drags us down a dangerous spiral.


Being nostalgic is not a problem. That it should be accompanied with a sense of loss....is. As the years roll by, we turn more cynical about the present. But, what do I really miss? Is it the past? Is it the people? Is it the place? The truth is, I miss myself....myself connected to that cocoon. I miss the younger-me, the dreamer-me, the hopeful-me. I miss that believer-me, that child-in-me.


Hence, the course correction has to begin with me. The only germane attitude with respect to the past is one of acceptance, of gratitude. I make nostalgia truly work for me. I recollect the past and fortify myself that I am richer that those experiences were mine. I feel fortunate and humbled that I was chosen for them. Regrets if any, are also mine. I make peace with them and hug them closer.
With that, I let go of the past. The present is all that I have. I focus on it entirely, cheerfully....the immense possibilities of this moment... to make it the most beautiful, the most fulfilling. It is my present to the present! I live life....king-size!


As Javed Akhtar puts it so wonderfully....


"aankh teri bekaar hi nam hai,
har pal ek naya mausam hai,
kyoon tu aise pal khota hai,
dil aakhir tu kyoon rota hai"


"Unnecessarily are your eyes moist....
Each moment- is a new season.....
why do you miss this moment?
O mind, why needlessly do you cry?"


Or this timeless classic......


"aanewala pal jaanewala hai....
ho sake to isme zindagi bitaa do....
pal ye jo jaanewala hai...."

"This moment... about to arrive....destined it is...to depart....
But....if you can....do live an entire life....within this....
for....this moment....destined it is....to depart...."

The allure of the Indian Summer!

Sugarcane juice bubbles up to the brim of the glass. It's as though churned right out of the ocean- the same greenish-yellow tint and freckled with froth and foam! A couple of ice cubes bob up and down as you raise it to your lips. If ever there was amrita...nectar, it has to be this! Saturated with sweetness, with a dash of lemon and ginger, the icy-cold concoction soothes your entire being. The relief is instant.


For outside, it's a raging inferno. The afternoon sun shows little mercy.
Man and animal scurry for cover...to find that elusive patch of shade. Even the crow is silent. Dust billows from the deserted streets......and scatters all over like volcanic ash. The whole world is on fire. Welcome to the great Indian Summer!
But then, sitting inside the dark environs of the wayside shop, with each sip of cool sugarcane juice, it is a feeling of total fullness. You are suddenly at peace with the world, raging though it be, and with yourself!


Happiness is a strange fellow. He conceals himself behind contrasts, behind opposites. To know the happiness of a free life, ask him, who has spent a decade in prison. The happiness of one peaceful day, ask him....who is ravaged by war. To experience the ineffable pleasure in a sip of cold-drink, in one scoop of ice-cream, get roasted in the Indian summer!


Happiness is a quirky little fellow. He is stingy to the extreme, and reveals himself in a tiny trickle, never in a torrent. You sit in the US, with the fridge stashed with buckets of ice-cream, of every possible flavor. It goes totally unnoticed. Three months elapse. Mold and fungus take over. Without batting an eyelid, you dump it whole...in the garbage. It is a problem of plenty. It spoils you- there is no happiness! Rewind now.....to that one choco-bar you savoured as a kid, on a hot summer day. A second one, well, you never asked for it, since it was usually beyond one's budget! As you twirled the choco-bar, this way and that, and watched its chocolate shell crumble in your tongue, it was not just ice-cream you enjoyed, but dollops of happiness too!


Summer is....a kaleidoscope of memories! What about that summer, eons ago,  when you competed with your sister over a mango-shake. How you faked finishing off your glass, and waited till she was done with hers. And then, with mischievous delight, you now flashed your glass, still filled to the brim! And while she looked on longingly, how you prolonged the agony endlessly, one sip at a time, with visible relish, all the time scrutinizing the remaining level of the shake...by the ounce!


And that summer afternoon, when the entire neighborhood kids ransacked  the kitchen in one home, (much to the consternation of the lady of the house) as part of a mega ice-cream making project! How after much custard-stirring and accompanied spillage, it was finally hauled into the freezer. The endless wait for the custard to solidify, with repeated checks- how collective impatience finally brought closure to the growing frustration! The 'ice-cream' still tasted immensely divine....despite having to be drunk off the cups!


And those summer memories, of travel by train in the month of April. It blazed its way through Wadi, Raichur....and places straight out of a furnace! Sitting by the window, the throat was parched and the tongue chalk-dry. And the stop at a nondescript station, when the hawker held up a bottle of Cola....tantalizingly against the face. Ice-water dripped off the base of the bottle, and the sides, pocked with diamond-like beads of condensed-vapor! How you looked back expectantly...piteously...at your stern father...... for that one nod of approval!


Yes, summer is oppressive- it is humid and sticky or unbearably dry. Yes, the electricity plays truant for most parts of the day. You are vexed and you express your irritation. But that instant, that instant....when the current is back....and the fan makes an audible grunt...and whirs into action....the thrill, the happiness.... is for keeps!


The Indian summer and exams are inseparable. It is the season when students suddenly turn overly studious and religious too! As each exam comes to a close, the anticipation of a full two-month vacation takes over. The start of the grand summer vacation- ask those students how they feel.  Happiness, that slimy fellow, gives up his miserliness for a change, and pours his heart out with abandon.


No one celebrates summer like we do- it's the time for lassi topped with generous cream, of delicious kulfi at the beach, of the mango in all its variety, of ice-cold rose-milk and jigarthanda, of sleeping on the terrace by night, of curling up with a book the whole day, of lazy mornings and leisurely walks, of a drugged siesta in the muggy afternoons, of matinee shows and back-to-back mindless movies.....and finally....the pulsating excitement of the IPL circus!
Summer is upon us! Come, let's enjoy this summer to the hilt!

The bane of Mathematics!

Mathematics is the greatest guzzler. It soaks up all your attention and time, as your first child would, so much so, the rest of the children are left in the lurch and forced to fend for themselves! If subjects in school had a mind of their own, there would be an open mutiny. How easily the Mathematics teacher raids an Art-Class or a PT-period and takes over the whole class with the impunity of a Genghis Khan simply because the Maths portion has to be completed? Can the drawing teacher likewise bulldoze a Maths class because the umbrella-drawing is unfinished? Or the last step in the Surya Namaskar has to be perfected at the PT class, and hence giving the Maths class a miss, would it be fine? I bet it has never happened. That's where the rub is. All the other subjects have been reduced to nameless and faceless extras with the spotlight on one over-dressed actress- Mathematics!


"How is the teaching in the school?"- a topic which surfaces often amongst parents with school-going children. Though it looks like a general question, it is not. No one worries if History isn't taught well in school or Hindi doesn't have a proper instructor. It's all about Mathematics, if the "concepts" are taught well and if the "basics" are strong. If there is a parent-teacher meeting, everyone makes a bee-line for the Maths teacher. Does anyone meet the PT-instructor on that day? The Art-Teacher.... well, he could swat flies! Or the often quoted...."He is good at Maths and Science, but loses marks in languages! He just can't write ya!" parents gloat over their wards. There is rarely a sense of regret in this admission. It's as if accomplishment in Math is sufficient and a passport to greater success and other subjects.....well, they can very well fall by the way-side.
When was the last time someone took tuitions in Geography or History because the child was "weak" at it? Think about it!


Mathematics is a glutton, one giant blotting paper. Give it any amount of time, and it will soak it all. And there will still be no closure. No closure because the next problem can be different and can involve some "subtle concept" which the child will invariably stumble over. Sometimes, the child knows the solution but commits a "silly mistake" and loses out. At other times, the child has no clue about the problem and loses out. Either way, he is doomed! And then, those helpless haggling sessions with the teacher, as with a grocery vendor, trying to squeeze out that extra mark for the "steps", while the teacher equally resists, as if donating that mark would leave her eternally anaemic!


The basic problem is..... Mathematics isn't easy....at least for most normal people. There are too many rules out there. Each concept depends on other concepts making it a chicken-and-egg problem. It's an entire minefield and merciless- one careless step and it will surely blow up on your face. Signs change when you take the number to the "other side" (the dark side), sometimes, it is good to simplify, sometimes, it is good to leave it as is, sometimes, there are units to be converted, sometimes, there are brackets to be removed, sometimes brackets to be added, sometimes you can "cross multiply", sometimes, the fractions can be added, sometimes, you need the LCM, sometimes, you need to add powers, sometimes, you have to express y in terms of x and sometimes, you do all the above....and correctly....hallelujah...but...but...you forget to write the "units" for the answer and that's it! The teacher takes a devilish delight to circle the value...which is correct to a T, scrawls "units" in red....and amputates your whole leg! How heartless!


And then, those "word problems"...problems where Ram and Shyam are forever exchanging mangoes or pens!! "If you don't follow the problem the first time, read it one more time!" This is the pet advice every Maths teacher mouths. It is the most useless piece of instruction. I mean, I could spend the whole examination reading the same problem, aloud and under my breath, in different accents may be, and still stay just as clueless! It never made more sense, on the second reading or the third, except giving more scope for the mind to drift off to other unwanted trains of thought...wondering whether the mango was an Alphonso or a Banganapalli and whether Ram had a massive stomach-ache after this mega-mango eating binge! And the problems where the LHS has to be proved equal to the RHS, how after 4-fullscapes have been filled, expanding each side, and going nowhere, we finally give-up, write...what the hell... "therefore, LHS is equal to RHS" and wipe our hands off!



"O...History is so tough! I have to memorize so many dates. How does it matter to me if the Third Battle of Panipat was in 1761 or 1671 or any other blessed date?" That's the most unfair comment to make. The time that we spend on Maths, if we were to give the same time, to all other subjects put together, we would master them all...and many times over. That's how it is! With other subjects, there is closure. There *are* only three battles at Panipat, it's not going to change. It was the same when your grandfather read about it, it's the same now. "Nouns", "Verbs", "Prepositions", "Adjectives".....they never change, you learn once and you've learnt it for life. The rules are few and the process of learning, fairly pleasant. But Maths- it's the stuff nightmares are made of, the endless hours, the toil, the tears, the frustration, the nervous anxiety bouts, the near-suicidal feeling everyone has undeniably gone through! May be, there is a method to the madness, but at the end of the day, it is still madness all right.


This over-obsession for Mathematics (and all its allied incarnations) has a basic unquestioned premise which has taken over our lives- that "problem-solving" is "cool" and the end-all and be-all of our existence. "If humans had no problems to solve, there would be no progress, and humankind will die." If human beings need to solve problems to be alive, I would suggest, they better die! I mean.. how unimaginative can this get? The whole purpose of living is to have a sense of fulfillment and find some happiness. I hope there is no debate about this. Think about the last time you were happy. Where was it? Was it when you cracked the Ram and Shyam conundrum? It was at the beach, for heaven's sake, it was at the beach! It was when you strolled on the hills, it was when you held someone's hand! We don't need to solve any more problems to be happy! Wake up! Go on top of the mountain and scream...."There are NO problems at all to solve!!" And watch the thrilling happiness pulsate through your veins! It's exhilarating....as the surrounding mountains...join the chorus and shout back...."There are NO problems at all to solve!!!"

Lest we forget

These are volatile times. In these volatile times, even animals are not spared from controversy. We wish animals could speak-up and tell us in no uncertain-terms whether a particular action constitutes cruelty to them or not. Unfortunately, these voiceless creatures have no direct way of communicating with us, much like a newborn child. It is only through non-verbal communication, through inarticulate sounds and expression, can we gauge what they are going through. That animals also have feelings is a given. Every dog-owner swears by it. However, the expression of these feelings is muted and left to the interpretation of the human.


That's where we step in. Amongst us, there are those who are over-sensitive and fine-tuned whereas others who are laid-back and largely indifferent. The topic has now become complicated. There are grey areas in both places- animals cannot convey emotion clearly to us and even amongst us, the yardstick to interpret the animal-emotion varies from person to person.
For some, an animal is in pain when it is forced to plough the field or draw a cart, or stay chained for hours on end at the temple premises; it is cruel to cage them in zoos or have them perform at the circus. For others, it is fine to consume the animal for food, for after all, life feeds upon life. In the present context, we have one more added element- using animals for sport. We want animals to race with us and perform fight-sequences for our pleasure, for continuity of culture and pride. Hopefully, animals are sporting enough and participate with a smile. We don't know. We only hope they do!


Given this background and the long relationship animals and humans have had, it is tough to take a definitive stance. Any decision to brand certain human-acts as "cruelty to animals" will be acceptable to some and stoutly contested as hypocritical by the others. In short, no agreement is possible on this topic. To each his own.....we can only have a personal viewpoint on this topic, no more!


But the topic is relevant and cannot be skipped. We flip the pages of history and go back in time....may be a thousand years or more, to a dim and distant past. King Manuneeti Chola ruled over Tiruvarur. The king was an epitome of justice. He had a bell hung in the town-square. Anyone in distress could ring the bell and get instant redress for their complaint. The bell remained unused. No one had a complaint- such was the egalitarian law of the land.
One day, the prince took his chariot out. As he rode the chariot with abandon, a calf came under the wheels of the chariot. The mother-cow was grief stricken and angry. She reached the town-square and rung the bell. The king gave the cow a patient hearing. He empathized with the cow's feelings, to the extent that he felt that the only just punishment would be for him to face the same predicament. He asked his minister to ride his chariot over the prince. The minister refused. King Manuneeti Chola then made the supreme sacrifice- he took his chariot out and rode it right over his son's neck.


Gandhiji wrote freedom isn't attained till we have wiped every tear from every eye. Animals also have tears. Are their tears any less precious than the tears in my daughter's eyes? Who will wipe their tears?
Each one of us has to grapple with this question. We may not have complete answers, but these stories have set the bar high.....so high..that we gaze at it in amazement.


Voiceless animals.....back then...had a voice- a voice which was heard and heard clearly! To this day, this story stands as a silent sentinel, arrested in stone, at the Temple of Tiruvarur. We salute King Manuneeti Chola.




P.S:
The story is from the Tamil text "Periya Puranam" written by Sekkizhar.
It is the definitive book where the life story of all the 63 Naayanmaar Saints (devotees of Lord Shiva) is documented. At the beginning of the text, while introducing the subject matter, the author presents the sanctity of the town of Tiruvarur. That's when he talks about this Chola king and this story.
But he does not end the story as abruptly as I did! He says that pleased with the king's sense of justice, Lord Shiva appeared and brought back to life.... both the calf and the prince!

Trichur Brothers- a scintillating concert!

Doodle drawn on location....!

The concert began with a brisk varnam in Shankarabharanam- "chalamela" by Swati Thirunal. We've all heard the traditional varnam that children learn in Shankarabharanam- "sami ninne". Swati Thirunal's varnam is different. Shankarabharanam is stately as ever, but this varnam has some most interesting phrases which gives it a "western tinge" in parts. There are "straight note jump-sequences" like "ma dha.... ni... Ga Ri Sa". If we've not heard this varnam, we are unprepared for this exhilarating note-hops. It makes us sit up in wonder, widen our eyes and exclaim "wow" or may be "bale"!!


Trichur Brothers have a wonderful voice and excellent coordination. There are places where one of them sings in the lower octave, while the other traverses the upper....which makes it extremely pleasing. Both are equally skilled; we don't find the one-upmanship sometimes seen in other duo concerts.


They moved onto "Rakshamaam sharanaagatam" in Naattai. We find the words..."gurupavana puraa vaasa" indicating that it is based on Guruvayur. There is a nice alliteration in the lyrics: "pannaga shayana....padmajaa ramana".


Next, a soulful rendition of the Dwijavanti kriti by Dikshitar- "cheta sri baalakrishnam bhajarey". Dwijavanti is elegance incarnate! We've all heard "Akhilandeshwari" many times. It was nice to hear a different kriti. And Dikshitar is Dikshitar! He simply owns this raga....as seen through these compostions!


It was followed by Papanasam Sivan's kaa-va va set to the raga Varali. The swara sequence sung by the Brothers was notable.


They moved onto a Jayadeva ashtapadi "priye charushiley" in the raga Mukhari. The listener has to be careful to differentiate Mukhari from Huseni. To set the doubt aside, the Brothers announced the raga and set us at ease!


The tempo of the concert was maintained through out. There was never a moment when the concert sagged or our mind drifted away. Tyagaraja's popular "Thelisi Rama" in purnachandrika was presented with the usual gusto associated with this piece.


The main item was the ragam-thanam-pallavi in Kalyani. It was grand! That's the beauty of these time-tested traditional ragas. We've heard Kalyani infinite number of times, but it is still thrilling. Like watching the waves in the ocean, there's never a dull moment....never a time when "we are done-with it" so to say!
There were elements of "yaman" woven into the Kalyani...and portions where they dwelt in the lower octave....like a diver...picking up the choicest pearls from the depth of the sea! The thanam in particular, was impressive. With the two singing in unison in parts, it created the element of "harmony". The pallavi refrain was "hare raama govinda murare....mukunda shaurey....mura hara" and back to "hare raama". The ragamalika swaras were in Saveri, Naatakurinji and the ever-fresh Sindhu Bhairavi.


Thani Avartanam was followed by thukdas- "baaro krishnaiyya" (maand with ragamalika), "naanaati" (Revati), "Hariharaatmajam" in Brindavana  Saranga. Needless to say, they have made "Hariharaatmajam" their own! For sure, they will be hounded to sing it in every concert!
The concert was brought to a close with the effervescent "English Note" popularized by the maestro Madurai Mani.


The father of the Bros played the mridangam delectably, young Vittal Rangan was wonderful on the violin and Kovai Suresh ably assisted on the ghatam.


It was over 10 o'clock by the time the concert ended. It was a Friday evening to remember. Sometimes, we feel lazy and don't make that extra effort to attend concerts. We feel we can catch up on youtube. A terrible choice! How much we miss!
Concert music is like taking spoonful after spoonful of condensed milk right out of the tin..... and have it drip from the sides of the mouth!!! So delightfully sweet! Go for it!!


Make that extra effort. Land up at the concert...the next time Trichur Brothers are in town!!!