The legacy

Most parents want the best for their children and would do all in their power to protect and nurture them. However, how much can we do? We can give them the best formal education we can afford, save money for them and pray to God to bless them.

Is that enough? No matter how hard we try to make our children's lives trouble-free, we all know that no one's life can be such. Problems and pain will come inevitably. What we as parents should do about this is to speak openly to them about this reality. Then, they need to feel that they will be able to deal with difficulties. Parents should demonstrate that they have faith in their children. Moreover, children need to be taught that it is okay not to be able to achieve all that we aim for or desire. Stress needs to be put on being just, even if it does not bring material success. Once, they are comfortable with the occasional failure or disappointment in life, they will be happy and emotionally strong enough to deal with travails.

Finally, children should be given the good news of a dear friend watching over them and us all the time. That friend, God, can be called by any name. But children, like adults, need to communicate with Him.

I think, this is the best legacy we can leave for our children.

A choice

Have been very irregular at blogspot, I admit. Hence, no idea how many will read this post. Even then, chances are that I might get a few brickbats for writing the following, but I just have to write it:

He was an exceptionally handsome boy, and a boy with a heart of gold. Very rarely do we come across people who inspire others, heal others without expecting anything in return. He is one such, always has been.

When Ashu had first met him, he was about 10, and she 8.

His parents gave him the best education they could afford, and brought him up with good human values. He gave up his training for a certain lucrative career only because he could not adjust to what was being expected of him: to smoke, was one of them.

All along, he has been a sensitive person; both to the feelings of others as well as his own. Girls and women find him very attractive, and Sanjana met him when they were MBA students. She found in him a very 'good catch' and left no stone unturned to marry him as soon as possible. One of the many things she used in order to impress him was that she came from a family of three sisters and a brother (the brother being the youngest sibling), cleverly indicating that her parents kept on having children till that one son was born! The picture she painted was that of an unappreciated girl now grown into a woman eager to have her identity as an individual.

He was very impressed, although did not want to rush into marriage. Sanjana insisted, saying that her parents were pressurising her.

He and Sanjana got married, when he was 27, and she 25. Although they belonged to different communities (a big issue, in Indian marriages, generally-speaking), his parents supported his decision.

Is he happy in his marriage?

No.

He is miserable; although he tries his best to hide his pain from the world.

Sanjana has no time for either him or for their child. His parents live in a different city because she refuses to adjust with them in any way. When his daughter was 15 months old (the child's mother was then 32), she was sent to his parents who looked after her for 6 months.

Sanjana is a career-idol to many, including some of his relatives.

He is a man with a heart of gold, but has withdrawn himself from others because he is unable to bear the fact that he had chosen the wrong person.

Ashu knows it all even without his saying things openly, and he knows that Ashu knows.

Both he and Ashu remain silent.

Krishnam, vandey Jagatgurum

Thank you, Krishna, for being my Guru.

Thank you, Krishna, for teaching me what I need to know.

Thank you, Krishna, for sending me beautiful people and moments, each one being a medium of your teaching.

Thank you, Krishna, for whispering in my soul.

Thank you, Krishna, for erasing fear from my heart.

Thank you, Krishna, for your love and mercy.

Thank you, Krishna, for being my Destination.

Vaasudev, hold my hand..

All was dark, till your face was seen.
The light and peace that are here now
Have come from you.
O Vaasudev, you are beauty!

In every agony that I have felt
You have given comfort
And healed wounds.
O Vaasudev, you are love!

When all else fail, and
Joy and hope abandon me,
I cling on to you,
Hoping to survive.
O Vaasudev, you are life!

As your call will be heard
Making me depart from this world,
May your name be on my lips,
And, you shining in front of my eyes.

Hold my hand then, as you are holding now..
O Vaasudev, you are mine.

Success and suicide

What drives an apparently successful person to kill himself? By 'successful', I mean that by social yardsticks: money, mate, status, looks, popularity.

I feel that a person can kill himself only if he feels life is not worth living. So, inspite of havings all the trappings of success, such people are not comfortable with themselves. No amount of earthly success can guarantee happiness, if self-esteem is low.

When a person does his best and is not impatient or greedy for result, when one makes decisions based on his conscience and common-sense and does not succumb to the opinions of others, he does not kill himself.

Life is both a test and a gift. One ought to respect and cherish it.

Are Indians listening?

I shuddered as I watched on the TV, news of people killed by their kith and kin.

What were they killed for?

For marrying the people they chose for themselves.

Where did the killings take place?

In Delhi, India's capital.

I feel that as a nation, we are hypocrites. On the one hand, we claim to have a grand civilization of thousands of years, and on the other hand, we commit all kinds of atrocities possible.

In the name of upholding traditions and customs which blatantly go against basic human rights, we have stopped practising what used to be the corner-stone of Indian values, sarvo jeevay dayaa or compassion for all.

Are Indians listening?

The X-factor

Much that we do in life is of our choice, directly or indirectly. However, results are sometimes unexpected. What determines the results? Success or failure depends on a whole lot of factors, some of which cannot even be quantified, although understood. Still, something remains unexplained: the X-factor.

I call the X-factor, God.

He decides; He breaks; He makes.

He plays the tune and we dance.

The Mischief-Maker

The mischief-maker by my side
Keeps me busy the whole day..
And often I regret having no time left for myself.
No answer do I have for his flow of questions;
Thus, he defeats me.


Running all over the house,
My mischief-maker
Makes noise, breaks things
And comes and hugs me
So that I do not scold him!


For all the trouble, and all the worry
I am glad; because my house
Has at last become
A home,
Thanks to my mischief-maker.

Yashoda's mischief-maker has sent my one to me;
To fill my life with joy.
Hence, in my little one's hug and his laughter
I feel Yashodanandan's healing touch,
And can hear the flute once more.

The wind played with her long, dark hair..

Walking away one day from all that is mundane,

She stopped to soak in a moment of silence.

Looking at the glorious setting sun,

And letting the wind play with her long, dark hair,

She rested.

No thought did she let bother her

Nor worry about the next day,

As for the moment, she was her own,

Enjoying every breath she took

While the wind played with her long, dark hair.

(A tribute to womanhood)

The moon running..

No answer could I give

My little one,

When he pointed out with wonder

The moon running in the sky

Just like the car in which he was!

His wonder made me trust

The deep joy of childhood

Which I had thought was lost to me

For good.

Nothing is lost if there is joy

In heart, for

Joy pure proves there is love and faith in the soul.

My child is a sign of God being by my side,

And my fragmented life

Is once more whole.

This night..

This night is

A time to rest, a time to heal.

This night as

I organise my thoughts and

Dreams, and gently pull out the shards of glass

From the soul,

I know that tomorrow the sun will rise again

With new travails, and new hopes.

This night is

A time to share, a time to pray,

For I know not if tomorrow's sure sun

These eyes of mine will see.

The Last Days

Walking down memory lane one day

Since I know my days are numbers,

I asked myself if the balance sheet

Satisfied me.

No, it didn't give me contentment,

As we are trained to look only for joy

Forgetting to accept the fact that

Sorrow is a part of this life.

Today, as I am nearer the exit,

I understand that even the rude balance sheet does not matter.

Battle-weary was I, but am so no longer

As all battles are now over.

Standing quietly in the twilight,

After giving up all that is meant to go

Sooner or later,

I am waiting to embrace rest

Without the terror of battles anymore.

Call me an escapist, if you so wish;

But I am what I am, and my life and my death

Are my very own.

Krishna

Krishna,

Your presence is felt

When my friend holds my hand,

And when my child hugs me with pure joy;

Your hand touches me

When deeds go unrewarded,

For injustice does not make me lose faith or hope.

Your healing balm is there

In every breath of wind

That plays gently with my hair let down.

Now, as I stand on the brink of a new birth,

A nascent life, full of trepidation,

Wondering if the labour, the pain, the tears,

Will bear fruit,

I cease to worry any more, for..

Krishna,

You are holding my hand

And climbing into my lap

While playing with my breeze-smothered hair

All the time.

You are in all, and all are in you,

My Krishna, o my

Krishna.

Blooming

In this cold winter morning,

A little bud has decided that she will bloom,

Knowing that the chill will not last forever,

And sooner than later, spring will come.

Having being a bud for a long time now,

She is waiting to spread out her soft petals

Full of colour and fragrance.

No winter can kill a bud, for she

Has the patience to wait for the time of bloom.

A child shall show the way

Walking on the steep hilly road,

With sweatdrops dripping

I almost gave up.

It was not of my choice

That I was on the road

So forbidding.

I had been politely ordered to walk

And walk, and walk.

The boss had underestimated my difficulty

In walking. It was not her fault;

She had no idea how different I am.

On the uphill climb, my little son came running to me,

Seeing me panting, and by seeing him so near me

Full of faith and natural joy,

I knew I could walk all the way.

As my son walked a few steps ahead of me,

I followed willingly, and with revived vigour.

My handicap no longer holding me back,

I remembered that years ago,

Someone had whispered to me,

"A child shall show the way."

The Fifth Sense

This is not my work, but I thought it worth sharing with you.

A 65-year-old Cypriot Greek shepherd, Nicolis Loizou, was wounded on 30 December, 1957, by security forces. He was challenged twice; when he failed to answer, troops opened fire. A subsequent hospital examination showed that the man was deaf.

Lamps burn all night
Here, where people must be watched and seen,
And I, a shepherd, Nicolis Loizou,
Wish for the dark, for I have been
Sure-footed in the dark, but now my sight
Stumbles among these beds, scattered white boulders,
As I lean towards my far slumbering house
With the night slumbering upon my shoulders.

My sight was always good,
Better than others, I could taste wine and bread
And name the field they spattered when the harvest
Broke, I could coil in the red
Scent of the fox out of a maze of wood
And grass. I could touch mist. I could touch breath.
But of my sharp senses I had only four.
The fifth one pinned me to my death.

The soldiers must have called
The word they needed: Halt. Not hearing it,
I was their failure, relaxed against the winter
Sky, the flag of their defeat.
With their five senses they could not have told
That I lacked one, and so they had to shoot.
They would fire at a rainbow if it had
A colour less than they were taught.

Christ said that when one sheep
Was lost, the rest meant nothing any more.
Here in this hospital, where others' breathing
Swings like a lantern in the polished floor
And squeezes those who cannot sleep,
I see how precious each thing is, how dear,
For I may never touch, smell, taste or see
Again, because I could not hear.
(From, Collected Poems by Patricia Beer, published by Carcanet Press Limited in 1998)

The world is still very much the same.

Closeness: an act of love

As I walk down the narrow lane

Trying to save myself from all the crowd,

Smell and touches undesired,

I feel a breath on my neck.

Yet, for the first time in the narrow lane,

Did I like to have someone so near me.

There is that one whose closeness

Makes me survive anything, anywhere;

Yes, survive even in the narrow lane.

(Dedicated to the one who makes my life worth living)

Manners?

A good friend visited me a few days back. Along with her came her 7-year-old daughter. As we were sitting in the living-room, the child got up and started roaming around the place. I thought she was getting restless sitting for long, and wanted to stretch her legs.

After about 10 minutes I heeded towards the kitchen to check if the domestic-maid had prepared the snacks and the tea for the guests. As I crossed my bedroom, I happened to glance inside and what I saw irritated me.

The child was at the dressing-table, had opened the drawer and was using my comb!

When we were children, our parents, grandparents and teachers had taught us never to touch things that did not belong to us. They had said that manners are important in life.

The Healing

Toiling hard each day of this life

Or living in doubt or pain or despair

One gets tired.

Tired to work; tired to laugh;

Tired to breathe.

With every bone aching

And every tear fallen,

What is left?

Is there anything that can heal

This broken being?

Leaving all that hurts..

Oh, there is so much that does!

And, no longer trying to control life,

She surrenders, to the one

Who holds the thread running through all.