Of Slaps & Schools

Schools are back in the news. This morning the papers are full of an eleven year old jumping down from the second floor of a school after he was slapped for being late. The institution is ironically named after Mother Teresa, recognized the world over as an icon of love and care. The news revived memories of Govt. Senior Secondary School, Lalpani, Simla, which I visited along with

my wife early this month. While sitting in the office of the Principal, Mr. R.C.Rangra, a teenaged Akhtar Ali was brought in who was accused of habitually jumping over the rear wall of the school and playing truant. The mild-mannered principal hardened his voice and demeanour and asked him why he did not choose the front gate. The handsome and slightly awed Ali thought for a moment and then merely said, ‘Short-cut’. It wasn’t much of an offence in my eyes since I too had done it several times while at school. Ali was luckier since he was dismissed only with a warning. I used to receive heavy caning when caught. I wondered if he had benefitted from our presence and asked the principal whether corporal punishment was given at his school. He denied it but he and my wife, who also teaches at a school, agreed that sometimes it becomes necessary to discipline the ‘tough’ boys.

I should have started on a different note. The school established more than a century ago, 1848, to be exact, and a decade older than the more popularly known British Cotton School, breathes history from every nook and corner. There was a Board listing the principals and their tenures. When I found one Bhagwan Singh, sandwiched between five or odd Englishmen, I asked Mr. Rangra if it meant Indians were good enough in those days to get the top slot. He agreed and revealed that it must have been a primary school in those days. Mr. Zia-ul-Haq, the former army chief and head of Pakistan was a student of what is now widely known as Govt. School, Simla. In fact the record of his birth was called for and sent to Pakistan following his death.

The School with 1400 students and a Staff of 70 offers all streams in two shifts. My wife was inquisitive about the infrastructure. There are ten class rooms, two offices and five labs. There was a computer in Mr. Rangra’s room so we deduced IT must be one of the subjects. Most students came from the middle or lower-middle class with about 25% managing to build good careers later. I scanned several medals and medallions lining the wall behind him. He confirmed most were won in sports & cultural events. He took us round the corridor with curious eyes peeping out of a class room. There was a locked almirah with the words ‘Old English Books’ painted at the top. I fought the instinct to ask if it could be opened and we could look at the spines of the hidden treasure. The Class room next to it with its polished wooden ceilings and creaking weathered floors had a colonial look.

Principal Rangra’s own career graph was interesting. He studied Electrical Engineering and worked for Navy before he discovered his love for English Literature did his Master’s from H.P.University and became a lecturer in 2001. He took over as Principal of Lalpani School five years later and has been managing its affairs well. We thanked him for his hospitality and took his leave only when the incessant rain outside took a short break. No short-cuts for us!

The Banyan Birdling!

Every morning springs some surprises but some are special. As I began to water the potted plants, which dry up faster in Delhi’s scorching heat, I noticed something lurking leisurely beneath the Banyan tree. Actually it is only a bonsai providing little cover, least of all to a little birdling, which just lay close to the stem hoping not to be noticed by birds of prey. I wondered if it was pushed out its nest prematurely since I had seen its parents often flying around the top of a nearby tree. They guarded the nest by turn; one going to look for food while the other kept an eye on the crows overhead. If any of them descended, they were willing to engage them in dogfights and to chase them off the target. I often forgot the newspaper spread on my lap and wondered whether the eggs or if they had been hatched, the nestlings would survive the onslaughts. As the little one crouching close to the banyan bonsai noticed me, it shrunk in terror. I withdrew a little to make it feel comfortable and scanned the sky for its saviours. There were none in sight.

I poured a little water around it to make the soil wet and a bit cooler. However, it acted with alarm and looked at me accusingly as if I was about to drown it. I gave up and called my grandson to give him a peep at the newborn. He initially missed it and looked everywhere but beneath the bonsai banyan. I moved my finger towards it to make it move and get noticed but my daughter shrieked in protest. The noise disturbed it even more and it opened its wings a bit, the redness of the raw flesh making it look more like a wound. We all withdrew to let it lie in peace. When I returned to the newspaper, I noticed one of its parents moving cautiously towards it. It climbed over the rim of the pot, poked the little one with its beak and wow! It opened its eyes, stretched its neck, parted its beak and had its breakfast. The newly-formed wings spluttered as it asked for more. The mother had by then noticed another bird moving closer and almost hid its baby by spreading all its feathers while it cuddled close to it.

The day wore on and as the evening spread across the sky, I ventured out to look for the little birdling. My heart nearly sank when I found there was no sign of it around the banyan bonsai. I imagined the worst- it might have died in the blazing sun or was perhaps cut into pieces by a cruel crow-and then blamed myself for not doing enough to save it. It was really not necessary since I found it the next moment. It had hidden itself behind a bigger pot out of which a Cycas with its protective barbs provided it enough security. Once it got used to my presence, it sauntered across the courtyard with its loving parents tailing it all the time.

The battle for survival is not over yet. As the day ends, let us pray it overcomes all adversity even tomorrow. Amen!

P.S.

As we entered the courtyard late last evening, I spotted a cat stop over the boundary wall, clean its whiskers and jump out.

‘I suspect the little birdie may have been done in’, I expressed my fear.

‘What!’ my younger daughter said aghast.

‘A cat also needs food’, the elder one opined matter-of-factly.

‘It’s a carnivorous animal’, my wife, who’s a teacher, summed up succinctly.

‘We shall only know tomorrow’, I closed the discussion as we ordered chicken biryani.

The morning revealed it all. Broken leaves around the bonsai spoke of the little resistance put up by the victim. On the terrace, a few feathers strewn around showed what a neat job the damned cat had done. On the FM radio, my favourite anchor spoke about the several cycles of birth and death a soul has to traverse before it is endowed with a human body.

I wished the little birdie’s should get at least a cat’s!

***

Abida Parveen

Meda ishq vi tun, meda yar vi tun!
I continue to meander through music. This time it was Abida Parveen, the noted Sufi singer who was singing her heart out with gay abandon. What caught my ear was the lyric. Penned by Khawaja Farid (1845-1901),one of the greatest Saraiki poets of Punjab region, who knew Arabic, Persian, Urdu, Sindhi, Panjabi, Braj Bhasha, and Saraiki. It is the dialect I heard every day at home till my parents departed. Saraiki is widely spoken in Dera Ismail Khan of North West Frontier Province of Pakistan & by those forced to flee to India at partition and their descendents. Some extracts:
Sufi music equates God with love in all its manifestations. It begins with the beloved’s resolve. ‘Yar meda pardes gaya, main kalar ves karensa/har singar kun sat ghatan, main surma mul na paisan/tutti, tang chole wali ho, main kapde mul na dhosan/, Gulam Faridan, jadan yar angad aasi/tadan har singar karesan’. I will be dressed in black, throw away all adornments, not darken my eyes, manage with old, uncomfortable attire but shall not wash my clothing till my lover enters my courtyard. Once you give your hear away, it matters little whether the person is dark or fair. Hence ‘Meda ishq vi tun/ meda yar vi tun/Meda deen vi tun, Iman vi tun, ho meda jism vi tun, medi ruh vi tun.’ (you are my love and lover too; my faith and conviction too; my body and my soul too).
The worshipper as the beloved is quite boastful too. ‘Mede yaar jeha na yaar koi/ O meda yar gulab da phul ae/ Attar kathori, lal jawahir/Onde qadam,qadam da mul ae/main han unde bagh da mali/O attay o medi bulbul ae/ (None is like my lover, he’s the rose flower/ a bowl of perfume, the red jewel or Ruby). ‘Deen dharam di mekon lor na kai/Ik darshan yaar da loran/kafar kafar har koi akhay/Tab hargiz munh na mooran/Mari khayin, jhirkian/Teda daman mul na choran’ (I long not for religion but only for a glimpse of my lover. Though everyone calls me an unbeliever yet I wouldn’t turn my face away. Willing to be thrashed and reprimanded, I will not let go of my lover). Once the heart is given away, no wonder all that matters is a total surrender to the other, whether dark or fair: Ghulam Farida, jeh nal dil ar paway/O gori hovay ya kali! For ‘Meda dharam vi toon/Meda bharam vi toon/Meda sharam vi toon/Meda shaan vi toon’ (you are my faith and illusion too, my blush and my magnificence too).
Two lines, which establish the secular credentials of Sufism by merging the lover’s identity into Lord Krishna’s beyond doubt are: ‘Meda sanwal mithra sham saloona/ Man mohan janan vee tu’. (My sanwal or dusky, mithra or darling, Sham another name for Krishna, saloona, the beautiful/ Man mohan, who wins everyone’s hearts too). The reference is in Hindi words. That may explain why the Islamic site, which I accessed simply mentioned its inability to literally translate these verses. Interestingly, in a similar strain, another verse discounts the stigma attached to the dark skin. It mentions people telling Majnu, the lover that his Laila or beloved was dark. Majnu retorted that the problem was not with his Laila but with the viewers’ sight. He drew an analogy to the sheets of Quran, which are white but the writing of holy verses is in black ink.
The Sufi lyric celebrating Krishna in one stanza, describes the lover in the other as kaba or Mecca, kibla or the direction in which prayers are offered, masjid, the mosque, mimbar, the pulpit from where sermon is delivered, mushaf or the white sheets & the holy Quran too. In fact, the Almighty in a lover’s role is identified with everything around, especially with items of adornment. ‘Medi mehndi kajal musag vi toon/Medi surkhi beera paan vi toon’ (my henna, eyeliner, teeth-cleaner/My rouge, betel too). ‘Musag’ is a piece of bark women commonly used to clean their teeth with and it would leave a tinge of red on lips too. The relationship between the two is variously described: as that between a servant and his master (O main nokar tun sarkar hoven) or the gardener tending the bloom-lover in his garden of beauty (Husan tede da bagh hovay/Main mali tun gulzar hoven). Inspired by such heavenly beauty, the beloved is acutely conscious of filth around her. (‘Charay pallu mere chikar bharay/Main kehra mal mal dhovan/Pani melay atay saban thoray/O main talpay rovan/Gulam Farida, je mekon khabar hondi/Ta main mundhon heer na theewan’) There is filth on all the four sides, which one should I scrub and clean. The water too is dirty now and the soap is scarce leaving me upset and in tears. Gulam Farida, had I known, I wouldn’t have become your Heer or beloved.
A biographical note on Abida Parveen claims that her ‘husky but equally delicate voice proclaiming a deeper bond of Universal Love that soars above the boundaries that divide religious and secular denominations. In this sense, her message can be compared to the likes of Kabir and Nanak, both of whom united Hindus and Muslims. How true!

Straying into Spirituality

The week that I began courting classical music and lived through live painting sessions till its middle had more to offer. I strayed into spirituality when my niece told me about Swami Sukhabodhananda’s discourses on the Bhgwad Gita at Pragati (called pargati or the higher world by bus conductors!) Maidan over the weekend. My senior colleague, whom I had coaxed into the rendezvous, began to lose his patience when Swamiji did not show up past 6.30. As we sauntered out for a stroll, he sarcastically commented, there’s your swami in the big car to our left, attired in silken, saffron. Why can’t these people be more austere? The car may not be his”, I offered the best defence I could muster, and he needs to look good... on camera. He gave me a glare so I used some humor to calm him down.
Swamiji was also to use it to intersperse his talk full of Sanskrit slokas, most of which flew over my head, and words of divine wisdom during the next hour. “Every one I meet with has a problem- with the boss, some Mr. Verma at office or his wife at home. You marry my wife, Swamiji, and all your ananda shall disappear”. The males in the audience broke into guffaws. “I am glad you in Delhi at least laugh at my jokes. At some places, people show constipated faces” and he won over the hearts of Dilliwalas.
“We blame our pristhiti (situation) for our suffering but the real cause lies in our manosthiti or mindset. It made sense. Most of our colleagues are quite happy with the way things are at our work-place. If some of us continue to crib, we need to change our attitude since we can’t change others’ anyway. Swamiji offered more gems of divine wisdom. “All of us experience vishad or sorrow, don’t we? So did Arjuna. He didn’t want to kill his kins, his gurus and wailed in the battle ground. Why? The reason was that he needed to be awakened; to be able to see beyond the physical and become one with the Soul. We too must see beyond and see what we often do not see”. I could only see a paradox. “Sometimes we think we are awake but still do not see-like somnambulists- who walk, eat and even drive a car while still in a slumber. Therefore, my friend, Bhagwad Gita is a wake-up call. Arise and be awake”
I jerked up as a mosquito sang into my ear while another stung me on the ankle. I realized many in the audience were similarly struck and were busy waving them away. An innocuous insect could spoil the serene session of spirituality. My senior prodded me to get up. The next evening, I returned with another friend and found a Prasanna Trust’s volunteer spraying mosquito repellent around the Swamiji’s seat but my raised eyebrows fell when I saw a coil being lit and placed in our vicinity. Repel the negative thoughts, I told myself and immersed myself in the melodious bhajans being played to bring us into a better mood.
Swamiji's arrival was announced-something I missed the previous day. He walked through the audience, many men and women touching his feet, one hefty man almost blocking his way. I thought he would bend and raise them but he just looked benevolently at them with folded hands. Better safe than sorry, I thought, swamis are in the news for all the wrong reasons. His mother arrived on stage to light a lamp. I wondered if he would touch her feet but he didn’t. Perhaps he has transcended the level at which ordinary mortals exist. Swamiji asked us to chant Om with him three times. As the resonance of the divine sound reached a crescendo, I found my mind racing to the Red Fort from whose ramparts successive prime ministers call upon the spectators to shout three times, Jai Hind.
“The cause of our distaste for the present lies in our past. We keep thinking about what happened and it fills us with anger and hurt. So what happens? We spoil our present. We don’t enjoy it. By enjoying, I don’t mean smoking and drinking- to some people enjoyment only means this. I mean being at peace, looking within, being awake and seeing. And then we begin to worry about the future. What would happen to us tomorrow and so on.” The lone Sikh seated ahead of us nodded I agreement.
Swamiji narrated the interview of a trapeze artist who changed swings without a safety net below. When asked if his job required toughness, the artist answered in the negative. One needs awareness and timing. You have to let go of the first to catch the second or you will be left swinging on the first. Similarly, Swamiji concluded, we have to let go of the past and grab the present. Forget the hurts of the past and forgive those who caused it. What did Jesus say about those who were crucifying him? ‘Forgive them for they know not what they are doing’. I wondered if it is easy and found my frown projected on the large screen.
“If you keep living with the hurts of the past, you devastate not only your present but destroy your future too. You keep worrying about things like death”. Swamiji mentioned a computer expert in his thirties, very successful and intelligent, who had stopped going out for fear of being killed on road. He had downloaded data from Google about maximum number of people being killed in road accidents. I said to him, “Your data has not been updated. In fact, most people die not on the road but in their beds. The young man got the message right. So stop worrying about what may happen tomorrow and live your present fully”. I rose to leave with deep thoughtful sigh and bought a book written by Swamiji by way of thanksgiving. The title reads, ‘Oh, LIFE Relax Please!’ and offers Y

Sunday & Thereafter

Sunday was a special day. On the lawns of Indira Gandhi National Centre of Arts lit by lamps, Dr. Shanno Khurana (Shanno mami to me) gave a classical vocal recital dedicated to the Rampur-Sehaswan Gharana as part of The Gharana Festival. What’s amazing is the way she has been defying age to immortalise Indian classical music and its lofty traditions. Born in Jodhpur in 1927, she began singing at an early age and has been enthralling music lovers since then. Her range spans Khayals, Thumris, Dadras, Tappas and her voice transcends the heights of melody when she sings a Maand, Chaiti, Kajri or Hori. I vividly recall her opera ‘Sohni Mahiwal’, which was staged at AIFACS Hall on Rafi Marg, then the epicentre of Delhi’s cultural activities. Shanno Khurana has sung and won bagful of awards at home and abroad-the one aptly bestowing upon her the title of ‘Nightingale of the East’. After a non-stop rendition lasting almost two hours, she was mobbed by admirers. One of them gushed and asked how she could continue to do it at the age of 83. She disarmingly smiled and said, ‘Why not call it 38?” God bless her!

If Sunday showcased the veteran Shanno mami, Monday brought me to face to face with Megha Madan, a promising painter who has hardly stepped out of her teens. When she asked if she could paint a potted plant lying in our courtyard, I was a trifle surprised. There were worthier specimens adorning my home- the hollyhocks along the boundary wall, which have shot up to tree-height and are in full bloom being my favourite- but she repeated her preference. She was enamoured of the varied colours of leaves and the way they formed the shadows in the morning Sun. I gave into the wishes of the third year student of Delhi’s College of Arts and saw her work every morning till noon during the next three days. I thought it was the heat that made her call a halt at noon. The real reason lay in the shifting shadows as the Sun rose in two hours. The white canvas was turned into a replica of the plant catching its hues of colours, twitching leaves and swaying shadows. When she took the work home for the final touches, I could wait no longer and shot her with it. Best wishes to the budding artist!

Tharoor's Interlocutors

Shashi Tharoor has tweeted himself into trouble for the umpteenth time. This time over the role visualized for the Saudis in sorting out Indo-Pak problems. When there was a hue and cry over involving them in what India has always maintained to be bilateral disputes, the Minister of State took shelter in semantics. He has been misunderstood, he claimed, since what he had in mind for the Saudis was the role of an ‘interlocutor’ and not a ‘mediator’. Oxford’s Advanced Learners’ Dictionary defines an interlocutor as ‘one who takes part in a discussion or a dialogue’. One wonders how the Saudis would do that without getting involved in the dispute. If the intent was to use Saudis’ leverage with Pakistanis (remember how they bailed out beleaguered Pakistani leaders like Nawaz Sharif, Zardari & Musharraf !) to put a stop to terror strikes from across the border, our delegation failed to visualize that the Saudis can do likewise in raking up Kashmir problem at Pakistan’s instance. Tweeting apart, it is time for our government to understand that we have to fight our own battles and secondly, prudence is better than valour

On Success & Failure

I have lately become a Robin Sharma fan. In his book, 'The Greatness Guide', he says, 'Nothing fails like success.. Success actually breeds complacency, inefficiency and -worst of all- arrogance'. People 'go on the defensive, spending their energy protecting their success rather than staying true to the very things that got them to the top.'
The thought was striking since one always heard the opposite. So I circulated the quote among friends. This morning, a lady friend emailed her response and emphatically stated that she disagreed and the matter was debatable. I went back to the quote to be able to appreciate what made her express such strong disapproval.
Well, who doesn't seek success? All of us do. And those who do manage to become what in Bollywood or Sports rankings is often described as Number 1, do flaunt their position, market-price and often contempt for competitors. Robin Sharma is merely highlighting that our focus, even while at the top, should be to go on improving ourselves rather than become complacent or condescending. If our industry and innovativeness has taken us to the top slot, we must continue to excel rather than assume airs and worry only about slipping or sliding down the ladder. Most of us do falter, lose focus and come down the rankings. We end up with the first best-seller, be it a movie or a book; the first grand slam; the first major success. A perfect example of success finally failing to deliver consistently.
It will be misreading Robin Sharma to infer that he is decrying success. He is only highlighting the need not to be bogged down with our achievements but aim still higher. The message displayed outside the local YWCA once read, “The widest room is the room for self-improvement”.