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!’?!?
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
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.
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
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
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
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!
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!)
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!)
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
