In Remembrance

An oddity of sorts – we spend half our lives gaining complications, and the other half trying to undo it all in the quest for simplicity.

I don’t know of many who actually realize the method to take the straight route to simplicity. So it took me by surprise when I realized there was such a soul in my own family.

I don’t remember the exact moment that I realized – she’d always been around. I think some part of me felt she’d always be around. Or maybe hoped it.

If you had a doubt or query, you called her. If you had good news and yearned to hear a congratulatory note, you called her. If you had bad news and wanted to wallow, you called her.

She included every one of us in her prayers – without a doubt. Equanimity must have been her middle name, because everyone felt they were special to her.

Every clan has its ‘go to’ person. The one person who holds the task of building bridges, approving decisions and pacifying nerves.

Saroji periamma was all that and much more. She remained an unwavering pillar of support and encouragement for every one of us. She was my aunt, and my first music teacher. Drifting back, I can almost taste the snacks and sweets she would make if I was visiting. After a full day’s work at the Kindergarten where she taught, she’d return only to tutor kids living nearby, and then somehow still have time to attend to all of us.

I think the family will agree that the one word that describes Saroji periamma is Altruistic.

I miss you Saroji periamma. And hope that I am able to retain a part, at least, of the wisdom you imparted through the years.

Here's to the beginning of dreams

I pick up this picture, and can’t help but reminisce. It nails the essence of those days -breezy and light - I was so sure I was going to be in a rock and roll band. Riding in a convertible (top down of course), my shades on.

Then again, I was sure I was going to be a lot of things.

The driver of an ice-cream truck. Come on, everyone has that dream. To get paid and work with unlimited supplies of Chocolate sundaes was the ultimate.

Outgrew that one, and then turned to Astronaut. NASA was sure to hire me based on my knowledge of the 9 planets. (Darn, they had to go and cut one off the list)

Would I grow up and become an actress? Sounded glam to me. Oh well……

A school teacher. I still remember wanting to outdo my Chemistry lecturer. I was sure I wouldn’t mispronounce the elements of the periodic table, like he did with a strange accent. Rational thought didn’t stretch far enough for me to realize I would actually need more than a cool accent and pronunciation.

A writer. With my poems about life, its means and ends (at least as much as I knew of), I knew fame was around the corner.

So I turned the corner (It’s been a while!) and Surprise! Not one of these things happened. Well, I still write, and I am involved in music, and I am a teacher. Somewhere along the way, a few starry notions fade away, ever so subtly.

Nevertheless, everyone has a different story about that one ambition that remains. It’s the one that sees its way into your heart in the most unexplainable manner.

The first time I sat through a Bharatanatyam performance, I was 6. My parents made it a point to attend every cultural program staged at Kuwait while we lived there. They always encouraged us to pursue our interests, regardless of the outcome. Learning in the process was a given!

To say I fell in love at first sight is an understatement. To say that I fell, and continue falling in love with dance, is more like it. Watching as masters of the craft choreographed themes that were way beyond cool was the equivalent of well, nothing else!

I didn’t take the rite of passage that so many others took – the arangetram. Instead, my teacher (God bless her!) spent hours nurturing my love for each graceful step. My parents drove me to the classes (more than an hour’s ride, with no malls nearby to take refuge in for the length of the class) as often as was required.

It’s hard to describe the magic of learning dance. Nostalgia takes you back to the sweat and toil and almost makes it look easy. I honestly can’t remember when my legs hurt or when I wanted to stop dancing and go home. (This is something I hear from some of my students!)

Dancing in my teen years was sheer joy. We laughed away the hours, discussing the strange heroes and heroines that we depicted, and dreamed of all the great dance dramas we could create. I distinctly remember having created a couple of short dance dramas with my cousin during the U.S. sojourns.

Stepping into the world of performing was like experiencing a whole new kind of ‘thrill’! I had presented dance pieces earlier, and if that felt magical, I had just stepped into the magician’s den. What else could explain that involuntary smile when you burst onto stage?

Somehow, I ventured into teaching and choreographing – yet another leg of my dance journey. Do I miss the earlier phases? Is my current phase enriched by the knowledge of the earlier?

All I know is that in the midst of all my capricious dreams, one hung around long enough to be acknowledged. It was and remains my truest and deepest source of ecstasy.

Not so far from being a rock and roll star, huh!

Aftermath

“…the most dangerous period is the aftermath. It is then, with all his resources spent and his guard down, that an individual must watch out for dulled reactions and faulty judgment.”
- Richard M.Nixon

I am not sure how it happened, but darkness loomed. I suppose it must though. If there is a light at the end of every tunnel, isn’t there darkness at the end of every bright corridor?

Don’t mistake me for a pessimist. I am the eternal optimist, an idealist. But in the moments after a dance production, especially one that is my own, emptiness creeps in. But this is a vacant feeling that I welcome.

Initially, the aftermath was one of elation and pride (well, mostly pride I must admit to) at having achieved. It was always accompanied by a hint of sorrow at being parted with friends who’ve worked tirelessly with you. Soon after, the only thought would be of the next year’s production, and how much better it had to be.

Over the years, though, the sense of ecstasy over success has replaced itself with a deeper sense of fulfillment. With it comes an understanding that none of it really matters. I am beginning to feel that praise and rejection are not to be viewed as the opposite sides of a coin, but as the coin itself. Discard that coin, and you divorce the mundane.

The numbness is fleeting however, and soon, you are back in the throes of disappointment. Someone decides a scene should have been choreographed differently, while another decides that some performers were not up to par. Poof! The heady sensation of nothingness is gone.
This time, though, the remnants of the black hole are still with me. I am not sure what has changed. It may be that in my 35th year, I feel the need to internalize my higher quest. I almost yearn for that singular moment when nothing but truth mattered.

I am certain that if I am to envision and choreograph my next show in my current state, it will be rewarding. For somewhere in my mind is the realization that it is not the applause or the disparaging moans that I hear. I seek to listen to that inner voice congratulating me on being true to the art form, and true to myself.

Perhaps the feeling will last longer next time.

Am I really back?

I spent the summer switching off from work. It occurs to me that I haven’t done that for years. Even vacations would be spent choreographing for a stray piece of music, or looking for a interesting piece of fusion work.

Back to the summer. I boarded the non-stop flight to the US, certain that I would write all the way. Not a word. Not even a thought. It appears that my mind had decided to switch off too early, and not just from work. I went through the hassle of taking out my laptop from the overhead bin, deciding that it was paper and pen that were the root cause of my problems.

I placed the laptop gently on my pull-out tray (Foreplay to writing, I believe is just as important and satisfying). I waited as the OS booted, all the while thinking that precious time was slipping away. Every second, the thoughts that I was sure I had somewhere were vanishing into the stale air of the aeroplane. I was sure of it.

I wonder what laptops or OS they use in movies – when a character opens up his laptop, its ready to go, and with a few random clicks on the keyboard, work is done. I would like one of those, please!

A little later, I was still waiting for a single word to start me off. I was sure that I had spent half the flight doing this, so I looked up the flight tracker. I could then just put down my writing inability to the inefficiency of the laptop. No such luck – a mere hour had passed.

Just as a thought surfaced (I still maintain it did), the sound of the drink cart rattled my ears. Ah! That was it! I needed some wine to clear my head.

Sufficiently intoxicated, I opened up the laptop again. This time, booting time didn’t bother me. I smiled (or maybe the wine smiled – not sure which) and began writing. I declined the meal service, refusing to be distracted from writing the greatest work yet!

An hour later, having completed my chosen task satisfactorily, I returned my laptop to its secure location, and caught up with some zzzs.

A sniffling sound startled me out of my dream (in which I was receiving the Pulitzer, no less). I shot an exasperated glance to my left, where my fellow passenger was watching a movie and crying. I decided the guy was identifying with some lost soul on reel, and decided to cut him some slack.

After catching a movie, it was time to go back to the creative board. I pulled up my most recent work of art, and began to read. “It was the best of times....”it read. As I read further, all my hopes of grandeur and awards receded. Suddenly, I felt like someone had taken my aspirations and squished them to pulp. Except that the ‘someone’ was me! The opening paragraphs of Charles Dicken’s masterpiece was all that I had typed .

Almost as an ode to my stupidity, the man next to me began to laugh. Shocked that another human was party to my folly, I turned to berate him. The poor chap, of course, was enjoying the comic relief in the movie.

I turned back to the screen, and proceeded to delete the file. Quickly, I returned the laptop to the overhead compartment, and spent the rest of the flight in discontented sleep.

This morning, I sat down to write the script for my upcoming dance production, with scribbled notes by my side. I began to write, and the result is what you’re reading right now!

I should submit a few more blog entries before another obstacle rears its ugly head. And I can only hope that the script from which I have sidetracked, doesn't meet with the same end as my in-flight creation!

Come into my world

It hurts that you won’t stop teasing me. I call for you repeatedly, but you don’t take the step that separates us. Or is it that you won’t take it? Is this an issue that will remain unresolved forever?

There is a simple solution, isn’t there? You walk into my life, and allow us the pleasure of being with one another. A win-win situation, if you ask me.

There was a time when you stood at my door, but didn’t make the effort to knock. How was I to know that you were on the other side? It didn’t take very long for you to change your mind and walk away!

If only you had stayed! My voice broke as I asked for you, and realized you had strutted off without a morsel of compassion.

I stood on the porch thereafter, hoping that you would turn back. I yearned for the chance to hold you, care for you. I waited to be healed by your mere touch.

Shadows and time crept by, and my weary eyes dried up. We are not meant to be together yet, I thought. Perhaps you had varied priorities ~ but I didn’t; you were, and remain my priority.
Perhaps this is a game that you mercilessly enjoy. You’ve won, you know. You’ve infiltrated every defense shield I had carefully erected.

You’ve allowed this plea to shape up quite well. It’s up to you now. Do as you must, for I do not have the strength to fight any longer. Come into my world, if you must, and know this. All the love in my very being is in storage for you. Incentive or de-motivation? I eagerly await your
judgment.

In acceptance, finally

I am utterly confounded. The reason for my state of perplexity is not a complicated math problem or even a law of science. I would have you know that I am quite alright with problems that involve logic, or even lateral thinking and all that. The creation of Mark Zuckerberg, however, is a different story altogether. Facebook, the social networking site, continues to bewilder and astound me.

It’s not that I am anti-social (I claim, rather, to be aloof due to circumstances). I too have my moments. With changing priorities and increasing workloads, though, social interaction comes down to a minimum. And if you believe that every moment counts, why spend a good number of them making small talk, right?

So then, good friends are a rare commodity. Not all conversations start off from the point at which it was interrupted by life! So, instead of picking up the phone, why would I POKE them (POKE = virtual notification). Also, explain this. How do teens chat with and poke friends that they saw roughly an hour before in school?

Ok, so I POKE someone and then what? I spend 2 hours on the Facebook site instead of the 2 minutes originally planned! I decide to check out Photos that friends have uploaded and suddenly realize there are REQUESTS waiting for me. I excitedly click on these, thinking someone would have started a thought provoking string, but NO! It’s a REQUEST to join a fan club for some TV series or the other.

For the young, FACEBBOOK is perhaps an outlet for interaction that would otherwise be considered rude. I don’t remember a time when it was ‘friendly’ to write on another’s wall! Then again, sending virtual gifts is probably a conscientious effort to save pocket money!
Now for something positive – the above thoughts were mine before I actually started networking on FB. Now, I am a regular, and love that I am getting back in touch with friends I never thought I’d see again!

I am most impressed with the myriad groups that find interested parties with shared aspirations. Of course, I also find the games (silly or not) irresistible. And hey, where else can I join a group that is titled ‘Bharatanatyam:Because we’re cooler than you!’?!?

Halo or no Halo

I feel a special bond with the mundu. There’s something elegant about the hand spun light cotton handlooms edged with golden thread. The simplistic image created when worn is in contrast to the richness of the golden zari border. And I simply love a paradox.

But my fondness for mundus probably stems from the annual visits to the Guruvayur Shri Krishna temple (Thrissur district, Kerala) that my husband and I make. This blog’s setting is one such viist.

For some reason, that particular year’s visit felt more sacred than usual. In the wee hours of the morning, I stood in queue and felt an unusual eagerness (I always maintain that I am more spiritual and philosophically inclined than religious) to get a glimpse of the sanctum.

The presiding deity, Mahavishnu, worshipped as Balakrishna, stands in all glory in the inner dimly lit sanctum. The rare stone Patala Anjana used to sculpt it just adds to its mystic aura. When you know that it is one of the few remnants of Dwarka’s Yadava clan, worship takes on a whole new meaning.

One is often expected to catch whatever slice of a glimpse of the deity while being prodded and
poked to keep the line moving. It was a rare day then, for I stood staring at the idol for what seemed like eternity. (Of course – after a few seconds, my mind wandered to anticipation of someone shoving me aside.)

Re-energized with a zing that only comes from purifying your mind (even if it was just a brief sojourn), I floated back to the hotel. My husband and I checked out and then took the taxi and drove (or flew?) to Coimbatore airport.

Inside the airport, amidst the chattering passengers, I felt a strange sense of calmness. It felt
exhilarating. I was on top of the world. I did a slow spin, and felt amazed that the bustling activity didn’t touch my serenity. I began to envision ….

Like a zap of lightning, something (or rather, someone) caught my eye. And I crashed down into the materialistic world. For there, in the corner, sitting with my sense of calmness was my favorite Bollywood actor. He seemed unmindful of all the commotion around him, and quietly sat, reading a newspaper.

In my mind, I was racing towards him, but something stopped me. I painted a mental image of myself at the moment – mundu, with flowers in my hair, vibhuti smeared on my forehead above my giant round bindi. Mmmm. … My worldly sense made me wonder if I was too ethnically dressed to meet him.

A tap on my shoulder reminded me that I was not alone. My husband had a gleam in his eye. Had he spotted the star as well? I knew we had the same tastes , but his enthusiasm surprised me. I began to wonder if I had overlooked the female costar.

But, no. My husband was still within the devout experience. He quickly pointed out to me that a revered Swami (one whose discourses we had benefitted from) was at the same airport. I followed his nod and spotted the saffron robe. If I had but seen him a moment earlier! I was already in a different frame of mind.

I grabbed my husband’s sleeve and pulled him to get a better visual of my discovery. Of course, the only response I got was ‘Oh!”

He quickly turned back and suggested we greet the swamiji. I pulled on his sleeve (a constant vice of mine) and insisted that I had to first meet the actor. The dubious look on my beloved’s face led me to meekly suggest that I would likely never get this chance again. This time I got an impatient,” Ok fine! Don’t be too long about it though.”

With the tenacity of a well, you know which four-legged animal -I took off to meet the man who had occupied much of my dreams as a teenager. Thoughts of Guruvayur and Shri Krishna exploded in my mind like those techno-flashbacks, and I felt the halo fading.

“Hello (Halo!?!)”, I said as the actor suddenly appeared, or rather, I appeared in his line of sight. At a loss for words, I quickly mumbled something about how much I love his work and watch all his movies (Sparks of ingenuity, I say! – I bet he would have never heard that one before!), quickly got an autograph (I can’t even find it now) and beat a hasty retreat.

Confused at the turn of events, I walked back to my husband, who now had a smirk on his face. “Happy?” he enquired, “Can we now go and meet the swamiji?”

So, we did greet him, and had a conversation about work being carried out to promote awareness of values among the youth. From the corner of my eye, I could see the actor walking towards us. My heart went aflutter and I wondered what I had said.

The actor, of course, had come to greet the swamiji, not me. My husband and I said our
goodbyes, and left, hearing our boarding announcement.

That day, I left with my halo half on, and half off. I am not sure of its present status.

Invisible or just a trick?

My super happy student, incidentally a 5 year old, walks with a characteristic spring in her step into my class. Motivating reluctant students is a familiar task for classical music teachers. So, I am pleasantly surprised when a student is actually content to be here.

The little one chirps her hellos, assumes the typical cross-legged position and begins her music lesson. After giving me an assurance that she indeed sing (and sing she can!), her eyes begin a journey around the room. A myriad questions leap into her mind, and I find it amazing that you can actually see these doubts being framed. What was that painting in the corner? And why would anyone have such a huge mirror in their living room?

Of course, within a few minutes, the questions are given a voice. The notes D and N suffer brushing aside, as the eager scholar ventures to get her answers. After supplying her with responses that I hope will suffice for the moment, I manage to lure her back to the patterns of S R G M…

My eyes closed, I listen as she effortlessly belts out an entire phrase. All too soon, the singing is cut short. I look up amusedly expecting a new question. Instead, I watch as the child adjusts her sitting position. The cross-legged position, she decides, is not comfortable after all. She swings her feet out in an attempt to assume a new pose, and unwittingly ends up with a foot on her music book.

Hastily, I pull the book out from under her foot, and remind her of our age old beliefs. She gives me an incredulous look and replies,” I know I shouldn’t step on my book!”
I decided to probe. “Why shouldn’t you?”

“Because God is in the book!”

Not the usual answer. “Yes”, I agreed.

She went on. “God is everywhere!”

Ok, so this conversation was getting a bit profound. “OK”, I intoned, not knowing what would come next.

“But,” she whined, “I haven’t seen Him. My mom says He is everywhere, but I don’t see Him”
Somewhere in my mind, I felt a little jump. And I knew I had to be careful with my response to this young child whose protest reflected mine.

At a complete loss, I decided to stick with a non-committal “I know. I haven’t seen Him either.”
I could almost hear the wheels churning in my little student’s mind. She’d gone into some deep puzzling thought. After a pregnant pause, she inched closer (in that adorable way little ones do), and in a conspiratorial tone, asked,” When you were little, did you complain to your mother too –that you couldn’t see God?”

Before a little laugh could escape, I replied in equally hushed tones, “Yes I did!”

Now the imp smiled. At least one other person (an adult, that too) shared her grievance, and hadn’t found a solution. At least one other person contemplated on the same issue that plagued her mind. All was well again!

Within seconds, she was back to singing a new pattern of notes, oblivious of the torrent of questions that had arisen in my cerebrum (I am not sure which side! – As far as this topic is concerned, I think the two halves of the cerebrum overlap).

I can’t think of a better way to conclude than with this quote I found -
“God, to me, it seems, is a verb, not a noun, proper or improper.” –Richard Buckminster Fuller

Innocence remembered

I began my foray into teaching dance without knowing what to expect really. Students of all ages began to enroll. Some tumbled in, some were pushed in (by over-zealous mothers with unrealized dreams of grandeur) and some actually walked in on their own two feet.

Among them was a child of no more than 5 years. Her lack of inhibition led to several rib-tickling conversations, and I shall always cherish them.

Once she had gotten over the initial few classes, she ventured to ask boldly, “Aunty, where are your children?”

I was married for just over a year at the time, and the question hadn’t started popping up too much (Ask me now, it’s a different situation altogether!). So I calmly replied that I didn’t have any.

The incredulous look on her face was a worthy sight. “But”, she insisted, “You must have them!”
“But I don’t!” I insisted back.

At this, my student took a few minutes to think things through, and decided she’d investigate further. “You are married, right?”
“Yes.” I assured her

“Ok see, aunty”, she sat down next to me (all too happy to take a break during dance class) and with a childlike sense of know-all, she stated, “You get married and then you have a child!”
“Ok!” Roles were reversed and I became the student who had to listen for a change.
“You see”, she continued, “You get married once, and you have one child. You get married again, and you have another child.” After a brief pause and thought, she whined, “I have been begging my parents to get married again, but they just won’t!” (She has a younger brother now )

Before the bubbles of laughter could escape, I quickly injected, “Oh! Ok!”
And then she capped it all. She was certain I hadn’t understood anything and reiterated, “Aunty, the 1st time you get married, you get your 1st child. Then you get your 2nd child … (Here she went on for a while, proud of her knowledge of ordinals). And then …. (I can still hear the imaginary drum roll in her head)… you will have a 101 Dalmations!”

After a few months of prophesying to me, she actually stopped classes.

Early this year, she actually came back –not to learn dancing, but singing instead. She had no recollection of the spark of ingenuity that she had displayed but laughed as long as her newly fit braces would allow. These days, it is her brother who shares his visionary insights. Another story, another time!

The Isle of No-Beyond

In today’s world of constant turbulence, we seek methods to calm the mind. Building a resort of sorts within…

I can’t even begin to contemplate the concept of Nirvana. Observing silence for hours – there’s no problem there. To quiet the mind, on the other hand, seems impossible.

So, I think the part that scares me about enlightenment is the silence. Thoughts are so heightened, understanding is so clear, and you embrace this silence.

I am so used to the din of passing thoughts that I’ll assume something’s wrong with me if I don’t experience them. What about the cacophonies of auras and vibrations (both positive and negative) that you get when you meet a person?

I’ve been told that meditation is the key to understand the humble serenity of nature. So, I tried. I sat in silence and took deep breaths and felt the clamors subside for a moment. But it was just that – a moment. The telephone rang, and I happily picked it up. My attempt to visit the transcendental plane was thus ended.

I didn’t let that stop me and tried again. And here is where the dilemma begins. I achieve a spiritually peaceful state for a few minutes (okay so, it is more like a few seconds or milliseconds even) but then go back to my world of noise. I feel like a traitor to both worlds now. I can’t possibly do full justice to one realm if I keep travelling to the other.

Is there a flight to bliss with the option of a return trip? I wonder. Just in case, you know, that
the Isle of bliss not really all that great.

I want it all, I want none of it. This paradox will remain with me till I find my contentment (but then what!?!)

At the moment though, I am stuck in the transit lounge not knowing which way to go! If the two worlds were to reconcile and start a new route – there too, issues will arise - 50-50?, 60-40? Who’s to decide what merger equation will achieve maximum Nirvana (that’s a whole new topic – levels of Nirvana!)

Of Gods and boons...

I have always believed that teaching mythology is an indispensible part of spreading culture. The lives of people of yore (or fictitious yore) are meant to kindle a sense of righteousness and all that. Stories have been passed from one generation to the next mostly by word of mouth.

So the other day, I sat my dance students down for a discussion on the clever acts as well as follies of the various characters in mythology. Assuming (and of course, this was my biggest mistake) that they were familiar with the main characters at least, I plunged into a story that told of penance, boons and curses, and of course, a happy ending.

I mistook the looks on the faces of my dear children for wonderment and happily blabbed on. I was delighted when one student raised her hand as I completed the story. Wondering which character she was going to question or analyze, I urged her to ask her question.

“Aunty”, she hesitated, “who are these Devas you speak of?”

Suffice to say my heart sunk to the bottomless pit of the black hole called shock. The story couldn’t have made any sense without that basic info! Seeing a reflection of the state of disbelief on my face, the student hurriedly added, “I know all the other characters you mentioned.”

Deciding not to take that proclamation at face value, I asked, “Ok, dear. According to you, who is Indra?”

A giggle escaped another student, and she raised her hand. I nodded, hoping that the giggle simply meant that the answer was too simple.

“My gardener!” the student replied, following which the entire class burst out into peals of laughter.

I, meanwhile, was stuck in an isolated divide between horror and amusement. Taking a few deep breaths, I decided to prove a point. I pointedly looked at the student who had invited her gardener into our midst, and asked, “Who is Zeus?” She looked at me like I had lost it and replied, “The God of Thunder and lightning, of course!”

Now where was the of course in that? I explained to her that the Indian counterpart of Zeus was Indra. A collective sing-song ‘Oh!’ was all I heard in response. I went on to explain that Indra was the king of the Demigods known as Devas, and that they acted as ministers, if you please, for the Gods. They had functions and often misused their powers, leading to various situations that needed corrections by the Gods themselves.

A sudden gasp from one of the students stunned me out of my narration. I turned to her, and she merely smiled. I smiled back, a question in my eyes. Clearing her throat, she said, “NOW the story makes sense!” My smile grew wider – I had aided in her path down mythology lane.

The enlightened student continued, “What was Indra thinking when he cursed that sage (she referred to a portion of the story)?”

With a straight face, I answered, “I am not sure. I wasn’t there.” This, of course, set the class into another bout of laughter. Soon, they were role playing their favourite characters, offering blessings, boons and even curses freely.

And I went on, determined to demystify the plots and subplots of the epic tales of our land.

Thoughts-a few of them

Love .. Unrequited
It was like a slap on the face. Except it wasn’t. That first look across a crowded room was all it took. I think I can stick to the clichéd expression ‘heart went pitter patter’ because nothing says it better. Oh, I think about that moment now, and revel in the memory, but can hardly replicate that moment. Not now. Not ever. Because your first love is just that. Your first.
But then in the ordinal sense, I guess it’s called first, because, then there is a second and a third…. And each of those moments counts too.

Adults performing the tango
I am convinced – more than ever – that it’s the children who have it all sorted out in their heads. Ask them a question and you WILL get an honest-to-god answer. Ask an adult the same question and you’ll get a typical dance number – one step to the right, another to the left and successfully sidestep the issue.

To run or not to run
So okay, escapism is in the air. It’s like a fad or something. A friend once told me it’s easier, for example, to walk away from a situation rather than confront it.
The thing is I totally DISAGREE! It seems, to me, that a escapist = conformist. You tend to be non confrontational, but you haven’t stopped thinking of what you’d like to do to rectify the situation. So, yeah, it’s not like you don’t know what to do, you just decide you don’t want to do it.
That must be such a load on the mind!

Men!!!

DISCLAIMER : This is not a random generalization. It is based on certain discussions and observations.

Nature has framed the character of man thus. He goes into the world and performs his various activities. He selects a standard of living that meets his approval, and then pursues it with all his heart. His senses are alert, and he is careful not to neglect a single detail that will serve his purpose.

So tell me this. The various aspects make life distinct, and this is the case with every single person. So, how does one view the components of an individual life as separate?

It seems to me, that men tend to compartmentalize more than their female counterparts. Should plucking apart the web of life into single threads be called ability? Or is it merely an inclination?
Women search to interconnect their experiences and view them as holistic. Growth in one doesn’t necessarily equal success in the other, but still..You tend to transfer part of the attitude and heightened levels of self-belief from one activity to another - Something I call the ‘Sagacity to achieve Totality’.

Meanwhile, some men have multiple lives & wives (metaphorically, of course). They leave both success and failure with the wife they call ‘work’, and come home and are willing to live an entirely new set of ups and downs with the wife they call ‘wife’. The two wives don’t really meet. So a man that’s obsessively organized at his workplace refuses to pick up his socks at home.
I think women just have higher mood thresholds, and don’t mind mixing it all up. They revel in stepping into this big puddle of different depths. Ask a woman about any one existence-shaping incident, and she’ll talk for hours. Ask a man, and he’ll give you a non-committal ‘huh’.

Women need people on different paths of their lives to meet. Men are blissfully happy if they never do. Really, do friends need to be organized like jewelry (sorry, that is an obsession of mine).

And I thought delving into the psyche of women was proving to be mystic.

But perhaps I must bid farewell to this contempt. Maybe the partitioning of life’s aspects is what allows for a quiet maturation. Or perhaps in the words of the most prolific bard, this is all ‘much ado about nothing’!

Damned if you do, damned If you don’t

So, I am what most people call a purist. At least as far as dance is concerned; specifically my chosen style, Bharatanatyam. (Did it choose me or did I choose it? – will never really know)

But walk on the trodden path of a singular dance form I cannot. Dance is dance, after all.

This discussion began in my head (it gets pretty busy in there!) when I stumbled into a Bollywood Dance Class. The first reaction from friends – ‘Et tu, Janaki?’ Bollywood? But you are a classical dancer! You’d think I had betrayed my country or something!

As I turned the reflections inward, I asked myself what I had slipped into. And then ,being me, I turned to –no, not God or even my mom- the dictionary! I actually looked up the word ‘purist’. And there, I found my answer.

The dictionary didn’t tell me that venturing into new paths was offensive, but that adulterating or diluting my chosen path was. I think I actually breathed a sigh of relief.

So, in my bollywood class, I shall stick to the hip swaying and eel-like slippery movements. And I shall continue pushing myself into knee-breaking araimandis in bharatanatyam.

So, this wasn’t really an epiphany, rather a re-epiphany. Sort of like being born again!

As for people around me, they are utterly confused. I spent a long time spurning anything that wasn’t classical dance. Especially with all the offensive lyrics that people actually enjoy! And every time I turned down a chance to participate in their crowd-whistling performances, I was labeled Inflexible. Now it’s just gasps and ‘You hypocrite’.

Purists get to the point of being rigid. If living life is about change, let’s allow butchering of art. The result may possibly be met with ‘wow! Contemporary!’ and all that.

Ok don’t butcher art. Take small changes in the direction of choreography – it actually will end up in a simple yet striking presentation. Maybe it’s time to do that.

My point - when will we stop stereotyping everyone?

You have to seemingly sit (whether you are comfortable in your seat or wriggling in it doesn’t matter) on either one of two chairs – there’s Black and there’s White.

Me, I like the Grey chair! I want my silence and my noise, and I shall have them both!
And hey, you never know. Tomorrow, I may decide to go meditate in a cave – maybe the Tiger’s Nest Monastery – hear it’s breathtaking atop the 3,000 feet high cliff!

And then I become the enlightened one…. You see, this line of thinking could start another long tale of epiphanies….. let’s not go there just as yet.

For now, I maintain I am a purist.