Faith Revisited

Khaleej Times (Issues) / 20 September 2013

 

FOR A long time as a child, I lived in the unshakable belief that doctors could never fall sick and die. How could someone who had the power to make ailments disappear ever succumb to them? This naïve conviction was however shattered when a classmate’s doctor father died of a dreadful disease, and when I sought an explanation to it from my teacher, she said, “Doctors are human beings too.”

The fact that possessing an ability to cure did not insulate doctors from the scourges of the body was a shocking revelation that I accepted only after a long period of denial and disbelief.

 Followers of Indian spiritual leader Asaram Bapu must have gone through a similar experience when he was recently held on charges of molestation. Supporters of what has now become a loose Indian coinage for spiritual leaders, godmen, must have asked the questions many times over — how can someone who administers spiritual potions and shares religious wisdom so copiously ever fall victim to something so temporal? How can someone so exalted ever fall for temptations of such carnal nature? The answer to these perhaps will be the same as that of my teacher — they are human beings too.

 Accusations of abuse and cases of other deviant acts unbecoming of men of faith aren’t new or unheard of. Yet every time it happens, the world that hinges on them for succour from their everyday travails heaves in consternation, dismissing every document of proof as concocted. The faithful firmly reject the accusations, largely because they are so consumed by creed that aberration by those they accept as their redeemer is non-existent in their scheme of thought. Somewhere in their journey towards seeking divine solace and support, they overlook the fact that the men and women that they so devoutly define as holy are human beings too, liable to err like ordinary mortals. This by no means justifies unseemly acts by them, but it gives a whole new perspective to the way we look at spiritual leaders and religious preachers.

 The primary debate is not about whether such godmen and women deserve special legal considerations because of their illustrious standing and support in the society. That they are ordinary citizens who by dint of their deeds became slightly extraordinary, and this does not absolve them of any crime, is undisputed. The debate should be on to what extent we, as thinking individuals, should place our trust on people who promise to lead us to salvation and ultimate peace. How far should we go in seeking quick fix solutions to our everyday difficulties? What, ultimately, is our objective of pursuing people who we naively assume are immaculate incarnations?

 India is rapidly turning into a land of faith factories where divinity is super imposed on human beings by unsuspecting millions. It will be harsh and unfair to paint all institutions of faith with a skeptical brush. However, it would help to remember that these institutions are not ultimate havens of bliss or eventual centres of redemption. At best, they are pathways that can lead us to an evolved existence and at worst, they can be a nemesis of the ideals that hold our life together.

 In our eagerness to find explanation and resolution to life’s mysteries, we try to find short cuts to take us out of the wilderness. In the process, we make supreme beings out of ordinary mortals and put them on the altar, and when they falter and fall, we cry foul, chagrined and shattered at being betrayed.

 There is God and there is man. Between them are infallible spiritual conduits that are above physical parameters. They are few and far between. They walk this earth to awaken mankind from its slothfulness and instill goodness. We could do with some wisdom that will help us distinguish the genuinely enlightened from the human imposters of our times.

Those sad goodbyes

Khaleej Times (Life) / 30 August 2013

 

THERE IS a joke that I tell every time I am asked about my date of return after a vacation. “I don’t want to stay for so long that my parents get used to having me around them and my husband gets used to not having me around him.”

 While the latter half of the statement is more tongue in cheek, the part related to my parents is more fact than fiction. Its significance stems from a sentiment that has grown in me over the past few years about the poignant goodbye moment at the airport, which despite its familiarity and frequency is as heart wrenching as ever.

The smiles that lined the arrival gate a few days ago are now morphed into sniffles choking the departure door. Craning necks and teary eyes don’t see much inside the terminal, yet hands wave fervently and hearts merge into a unifying emotion of parting and sadness.

I remember the first time I left home to pursue higher studies after college. Wary about stepping out of home and uncertain about the nature of life and the world outside my cocooned existence, it was a watershed moment in my life. I carried with me a melange of thoughts, partly elated about wriggling out of parental controls and partly concerned about a life beyond their secured wings and cozy nest. I clearly recall the fear that plagued my mind as I boarded the train. I also remember my parents’ faces marked with worry and sorrow as the train chugged off. I must have spent many nights thereafter in tears, home sickness and nostalgia.

A moment of déjà vu occurred many years later when I left their home for good, this time as a married woman. There was an odd certainty about the departure, unlike the first one. I felt something prising me out of their life and putting me on a flight to my future with new relations and responsibilities. I must have spent months thereafter impaired in heart, and longing to be back in their midst. The sheen of marital bliss could not obliterate the ache for home and parents.

Years wore on. Life took me on many circuitous routes and taught me several vital lessons on joys, sorrows and inevitabilities. Visiting home and parents on vacation became part of an annual schedule replete with various duties. At some point down the years, my heart shifted base from my parents’ home to my own to where it longed to return after a few days of retreat. Yet when I left, I felt a stabbing pain of separation that was different from that of the early years.

 Now it was not about my sorrow. It was about theirs. Leaving them alone for another year was heart wrenching. I saw them grappling with the agony of having to go back to an empty nest, emptier than before. I had failed to see it when I left them alone first, but there is no mistaking it now. I realized that I had a world to return to, but they had none. We were their world and we were their sun and stars. Without us, they were mere shadows biding their time in the company of solitude. There was a time when they were our emotional crutches. Now, as roles reversed, they held on to us timorously, waiting for us to come and infuse life into their vacuous existence.

 I will spend weeks after my vacation in their thoughts, feeling their pain vicariously. I will relive the scenes at the airport — of sons, daughters, grandchildren and husbands carting away loads of love into the terminal, and a sea of heartbroken parents, grandparents, wives and children left behind until another time. The view from their side will be bluer than the one from ours, and their lives murkier till we return.

Vacation Vignettes

Khaleej Times (Life) / 23 August 2013

 

 

Like many Indian expats in the Gulf, I am pushing the last days of a rain soaked vacation in India. It is strange that vacations have such short life spans, no matter how many days you fluff them up with. They pass like a fleeting dream sequence, leaving us in a willingly suspended state of disbelief till we flock back to pick up our rants and routines.

Year after year, for a month or two, we fall into the rabbit hole of our native place, shrinking or growing in size to fit the contrasting conditions there, sometimes with groans, sometimes with cheer. Life assumes a different character and dons a curious cloak in the wonderland of our birth, and the starkness of the change that comes over us when we straddle the two worlds never ceases to amuse me.  Wasn’t it just the other day that I took off from the scalding summer sands and dipped into a verdant landscape awash in relentless monsoon?  The welcome drizzle, the puddles around my feet and the constant feel of rain in the air, the potholes in the roads and the frenzied traffic ushered in vintage memories as we steered on. The buzzing mosquitoes, eager to taste the perfume laced NRI blood confirmed that we were truly home. The pustules on our skin were the first welcome gifts we received. Cold, cough and allergies would follow suit, we knew. Those weak in their stomach would have more to anticipate. 

It feels immensely good to sleep in a room with a view, with windows thrown open to nature and the monsoon chill let in. I wish I could take a slice of these tranquil nights into the cloistered coops that we call bedrooms in Dubai. You don’t need a morning alarm here, for the roosters and crows are committed to their tasks. So are the blaring speakers from the local temples. Stepping out of home, you get chatty with neighbours, nod and wave to acquaintances from a distance. It makes you think about the isolated existence back there, where neighbours are tight lipped strangers behind closed doors, or at best, half smiling, semi-familiar co passengers in the elevator. There is something that alters in us when we touch foreign shores and adopt outlandish ways. 

I precisely know what is cooking in the neighbourhood in my home town, for conversations are rarely private. The dropping mobile signals inside homes make sure that people hold public telecons about personal matters, and it barely troubles them to know that they are being heard. It saves the curious cats around the area the trouble of snooping and eaves dropping. Gossip and gawking are socially accepted norms here that require no cover of pretence.

Self grooming takes a back seat when I am on vacation. It doesn’t matter if my hair is not blow dried or if my nails aren’t manicured. What I wear matters even less. I don’t search for the right costumes or worry about the wrinkles in a freshly laundered shirt. The romping lizards on the wall don’t freak me out, nor do the night insects that flit in only to become the lizards’ meal. I bashfully think of the ruckus I created on spotting a lizard in our Dubai home some months ago. I fail to fathom the reason behind my altered response to an identical situation back here. I give hygiene reasons for buying mineral water in Dubai, while I have little qualms in boiling tap water to drink while I am in my parents’ home.

Once in a year, we shift from a milieu of work and worries, and slip into a fairy tale setting. Along with our wrist watch, we reset ourselves to the changed environs. Like little children, we play pretend games and create make believe worlds, and like them, we fail to separate and recognise the truth from fantasy.

Picture Imperfect

Khaleej Times / (Point of View)17 August 2013

 

I HAVE been lately hassled by a repeatedly failing task — getting a decent photograph of mine taken. A friend has been asking me to get the pathetic profile picture on my blog changed and I haven’t been able to do it for a reason that I now believe is a veritable truth — I don’t have a ‘photogenic face’.

 I have tried everything — from taking simple self portraits on my smart phone to posing ridiculously in front of advanced SLRs; from getting a salon touch up before a photo shoot to flashing fake smiles and expressions. But they have all returned pitiable results of making me look like a caricature of what I truly am. The latest attempt even made me want to tag a caption of ‘a bloated, marinated chick pea’ to it!

 That might sound a tad bit self-deprecating, but let me clarify. Not being photogenic is not the same as being not good looking. The matrimonial advertisement that my parents ran in the newspaper at the time of groom hunting for me described me as ‘fair and good looking’, and I don’t dare to doubt their estimation and conviction about me. Yet the photographs that they took of me at that time in our home camera were such that many a men lost a great opportunity of having me for a wife by saying ‘No’ in haste.

 What goes wrong between a face and the camera it gazes into at is a mystery to me.  How can a fairly good looking face turn so gross in its replica? Greater is the mystery of one wanting to look endearing in a pictorial representation of oneself. I have met many people who have reservations about posing for pictures and shy away from any attempt to have them pictorially documented in an album.

 It is hard to convince them that pictures are mere moments caught and preserved for posterity and they barely have any bearing on their personality. If it is mean and nasty comments that one is concerned about, then consider this — how many times has someone really said that you looked like a hag in a picture or said you are a photographic disaster or a camera man’s disgust? I have had people tell me that I looked tired, a little fat or a little tanned, but never has anyone remarked that I looked grotesque. People are civil, trust me.

 We have no need to create impressions with our photographs unless we are stars and celebrities. We have no obligation to Photoshop our images unless we are creating a fashion profile to launch a career in modelling. To those in the show biz, it is imperative, for it is what the world sees of them. It is what they live off and survive on. It is the facade that sustains their lives. The next time we ogle at an ethereal looking movie star’s poster, let us remember the agony of having to look good in every shot they give and our freedom to look whatever the camera pleases to make out of us.

 No one who knows us will love us differently because of a poor, graphic depiction of the real persons that we are. Knowing what we all are in real, matters. Photographs are impressions twice removed from the real persons we are and we create these images for two reasons — to lock in moments and to enhance self esteem. Whether to build memories or a myth, being photogenic barely matters. What matters is the joy of saying ‘cheese’, and I’ve come to fully accept this idea now.

Tail piece: For reasons best known to her, my mother-in-law had insisted on her son seeing me in person instead of my snaps at the time of our proposal. Had he seen my pictures, would he have rejected me? Oh well, it doesn’t matter to know that now!

A matter of Opinion

Khaleej Times (Issues) / 10 August 2013

 

GUESS WHAT the two most disposable items in our personal kitty are — things we have been endowed with in such large measures that we will burst if we don’t disburse them regularly? Money and material?

You can’t be kidding. None of us ever believe to have been so lavishly provided (for we are always a tad bit short of it) nor do we pop if ever it’s in excess. Try again. It’s what we ladle out unasked, happily and at will. Two things we are pleased to give for free, but never to take, even with love. You got it. It’s opinion, and its twin, advice!

There is only one difference between the two — while Opinion is self serving, Advice is philanthropic in nature; at least seemingly so.  Both are born of a fertile mind that is brimming with responses that we consider significant and urgent for the smooth running of the universe. It’s so hard not to respond to things people do and say. There is so much going on around us that we need to speak about it, primarily because we are all entitled to it.

Whether it is about a deviant political system that we can’t do much about or our neighbour’s choice of new car or a friend’s life changing career decision or a distant family dispute in which we don’t have even a cameo, it’s difficult not to pass our personal judgment. Funny, how many of our own domestic arguments have been over someone else’s life and their decisions! We debate as if there’s no authority over us in the related matter. We spar as if our own happiness depended on it. It’s equally hard not to tender advice to someone who really doesn’t need it from us, yet as citizens of this universe who are concerned about the wellness of our fellow beings (ahem), it’s impossible to disregard our responsibility. So, from the bottom of our heart we counsel, knowing full well that the listener is not obliged to accept it. We plod on with our selfless services, in the vain delusion of being the all knowing wise men who have the key to all problems in this world, except our own.

Oh, we know what ails the society, we know how terrorism can be countered, we know how the errant son of a friend can be tackled, we have suggestions for the economists, we have sound advice for our children, youth and politicians, we know where the other man should put his money to maximize returns, we have solutions for someone’s allergy, migraine and weight issues…we know it all! And how we are raring to let the world know about it!

The opening up of the media has only made opinion making and advice tending easier as a vocation and a pass time. News time on TV has become views time, with people suffering from verbal diarrhoea permanently pasted on panels; the comments section in online newspapers have turned into a malicious riot zone where abuses are hurled and exchanged; the social media has expanded the scope for unrestrained expression further, and in this unzipped version of the world, we have become virtual vending machines for opinion and advice, revelling in our freedom to purge our views and slap it on the world.

Amidst all these thrives a community that is distinct by its intent, style and relevance — thinking people who send letters to the editor. They are writers and philosophers in their own right, holding and proffering genuine views. Their earnestness and the absence of frivolity in their endeavour make them a unique cluster of opinion makers. I hold them in high regard and have immense love for them, for it was as one among them that I started my writing career several years ago and it is in their company that I continue to thrive on this Opinion page.

Loving sob stories

Khaleej Times (Issues) / 3 August 2013

 

HUMAN BEINGS, as a rule, love tragedy.

That might be a scandalizing opener, but nothing can be truer than this contradictory revelation about our innate love for the sordid and solemn aspects of life. For all the fear and forbidding sentiments we have of adversities, there is a strange allure in matters of misfortune that keeps us engaged in them for longer than we may please. Let’s put ourselves under the scanner briefly and examine this curious predilection we have for the dire dimensions of life.

 What keeps us glued to the television more — breaking news about a major terrorist attack and a massive earthquake or tame reports about changing political equations in our country? News about a horrendous gang rape or the details of a foreign minister’s state visit? A talk show on domestic abuse or a panel discussion on the country’s economic prospects?

 I must confess that the three most enduring television reports I have in memory are of the twin tower collapse in NY, the siege of Mumbai by terrorists and the South Asian tsunamis. There have been better, awe-inspiring events in the world that might have characterised human existence in the past few years, but none of them have left imprints of the kind the above events have done. It wasn’t appetizing in the least to watch the tragedies unfold, yet the appeal and mystery of doom that I previously mentioned probably outweighed any sense of revolt and horror that I might have felt in those moments. I shuddered, shook my head and clicked my tongue in disbelief, but didn’t stop the TV from running for hours on end or lapping up exhaustive details from newspapers. I am fairly certain that I was not alone in feeling or doing so.

A journalist friend once mentioned in the passing that crime reports enjoyed the maximum hits on their website and it was impossible to gloss over this curious factor that kept many news joints from shutting shop. It brought home the point that the world essentially survived on the gross and grotesque, without which it would have been just another monotonous patch in the cosmos.

 Concurrently, the rule applies in our private lives as well.  The message on the T-shirt of a young man I saw in the metro the other day read, “If you are truly happy, don’t let others know.” It echoed a thought an old friend once gave me as a tip to happy living — groan and stay safe, for that’s what the world loves to see you doing. Your happiness can incur wrath and envy. It was a bizarre piece of advice, but it probably carried a weird nugget of truth.

 Either for reasons of keeping envy at bay or for our irrational fear of tempting misfortune by openly expressing our joys in life, we have made it a habit to conceal the pleasant and reveal the unpleasant. We revel in narrating our tales of woe, and feel vindicated. Even in adverse times, when the heart affirms hope and the mind instills faith, and somewhere in the green room of our existence we feel that it really didn’t matter if we didn’t make it, the mouth bawls ceaselessly just so the world takes notice and sighs with us.

 We need audience that sympathises with our narrative; so we embrace our sorrows and stay tagged to them even after they have tempered down. We tuck them away in memories and look in time after time. It is as if the retrieved pain compliments our pleasures and completes our existence.

Man, by nature, fears evil, shuns pain, despises misfortune. Why on earth does he still harp on the nuances of the unseemly, and bring forth more distress than he deserves? Like the protagonists in Shakespearean tragedies, why does he hurtle himself towards his denouement aided by his own projected love for catastrophe? Clues anyone?