Inspiration hour

inspiration hour….
It was while sweeping that new thoughts rose…sphinx- like from the dust. The article which had appeared in that morning’s Chronicle wove itself around her like a toddler seeking attention.

“A temple dedicated to the goddess of Anima”
The only temple in India dedicated to misfortune is found at Thacha-nattu-kara. The presiding deity of this temple is Jyeshta, the elder sister of Goddess Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, auspiciousness and of all prosperity. Which makes Jyeshta the goddess of of poverty, indigence and inauspiciousness. “

This WAS news. It provided food for thought, firepower for imagination and immense consolation to the soul. NOW she knew where to turn to when the neighbour’s daughter brought an astounding 99% in her exams, whom to dedicate the burnt toast to, whose shoulder to lay my head on when she felt like a four letter word…. The possibilities were immense and she wholeheartedly saluted the master creator of Jyeshta… above all she felt here was one deity who wouldn’t be hung on a 108 flattering names to open her eye to the devotee’s humbling prayers, who could be buzzed ‘hey Jyests!’ or ‘hi Jay’ and who didn’t care a damn about antiseptic offerings…
Jyests wouldn’t be draped in a gold bordered sari flaunting her slender waist and ample bosom, but would be unadorned by jewels and paraphernalia. Her temple wouldn’t have intricate carvings- it would be a mere cobwebbed shelter where birds, animals, insects, the afflicted mind and the incorrigible drunkard all would find refuge.
The burst of inspiration echoed in her sweeping. A resident lizard of under-the-pedestal fan ran in disbelief. Sandhya herself was taken aback by her own efficacy on the one hand and her flight of imagination on the other. She wanted a second look at the article to fuel her new wave thinking.
“The two sisters are born rivals. When one is in, the other is out. So the Indian household is engaged in a constant fight to keep Lakshmi in and Jyeshta out. Waste, dirt, slovenliness, indolence, idleness, disorder, anger and all such undesirable things show the presence of Jyeshta in the house. Until she is turned out, Lakshmi wouldn’t enter and stay. In some houses, it is a custom for the lady of the house to open the back door first, send Jyeshta out and then open the front door and let Lakshmi in.”
Fine. It was easy enough to imagine Jyeshta physically but … what exactly would be the significance of a goddess of – say disorder? Or disgrace? How can a goddess preside over dirt? By definition a god/goddess listens to prayers and gives…. What would Jyeshta give her devotees? Would she condone slovenliness, encourage idleness and provoke anger? She’d be the teenager’s goddess par excellence! Would she then also preside over divorces, abortions and the like? …….Perhaps quite simply, by building her an abode, it was hoped that she would stay put there and not haunt households. This persona non-grata among the Hindu pantheon could be kept busy presiding over her own little empire keeping out of Lakshmi’s haloed pathway.
One probably went there not to ask her for favours but to request her not to radiate inauspicious boons in one’s direction.
Sweeping over… the broom laid to rest..till tomorrow. Now Jyeshta had Sandya’s undivided attention. Somehow it seemed unfair to Sandhya’s ever probing mind to dismiss Jyestha as a persona non-grata. She remembered the bundle of alum hanging on her front door which her mother said would ward off evil eyes from straying into the house. Her answer to that was that her house should have so much positive energy that it would squash all negativities at the front door itself.
Coming back to the story at hand Sandhya mused:
Burnt toast would probably teach me more than a steady pocketmoney …from the necessity to replace it with something else (when the last of the slices are gone) on the breakfast table to the difficulty in disposing it off. Cobwebs are reminders of the attention that the house hasn’t received.
So…Mind meandering, thoughts thrashing, Sandhya sat down to eat her breakfast. So taken up was she with the story that the oil mark left
on the table cloth reminded her that she had forgotten to remove the cloth before eating. Now how am I going to deal with this she asked herself…but let me get back to my thinking.
Happiness and prosperity seemed to be the only guiding factors in mother’s prayers. She could conveniently label all mediocre situations as happy and accept them as ‘god-ordained’. And she could never really explain the very- less-than-happy occurrences in the context of her beliefs. Why did the young girl next door die during her delivery leaving a helpless little thing in this world- in spite of all the preceding rituals and rites?
‘goodness’ and ‘badness’ , or karma didn’t explain a great many things. Pilgrims dying in an accident, in stampedes for example. Thefts, fires, youngsters eloping….
Doubts, fears, insecurity and risks …..
Suddenly Sandhya seemed to find the answer to many questions which had mystified her, where mother’s explanations didn’t work. Jyestha beautifully filled in all the blanks and answered all her questions like a bright student. She seemed to say
I am the goddess of the aftermath of ravage, not of its post-mortem; the goddess of the just orphaned baby, of the terrorist victim, the abandoned doggie, the laid-off worker, of the parents of the disabled child; one who doesn’t answer to ‘why did you do this to me?’ but who asks with you ‘what can be done now?’ and counselor-like, helps one find self-acceptance and regeneration of the soul and resourcefulness to start all over again.
Jyeshts then would be the goddess of Ground Zero reasoned Sandhya;
Truly the goddess of the Spirit.

Ambassador of the less privileged

Let me give you
Both my hands
Please give me
Your self-confidence.

You are not a mere firefly
But a bolt of lightning
…..

some lines of the 10 stanzas of a painting-poem.
Remarkable in many ways.

It is written by an artist for another.
One a life prisoner
The other an adolescent…
One all emotions
The other all serenity…
Both imprisoned in flesh
But liberated in spirit.

Not all can compose verses or paint as Adi has done. This is but a remarkable example of the impact young Jana-Janardhanan- has on those who come in his life.
My first meeting with the Kesavan family is a little formal. Not surprising considering that the family has been in the media glare since 2002(?). while the father holds a discussion with a group of men, I share a bench with Jana. Seeing on the one hand the extent of the damage his body has suffered-an amputated left forearm, a completely amputated right arm, an artificial left leg and huge patches of grafted skin all over his body-and the quietness of the boy on the other, I am stuck for words, leave alone questions. Is he perhaps dejected beyond words? Or is this just another routine interview for him? Somehow it even feels foolish to ask him ‘so ..tell me your story’.
But as he calmly proceeds to describe the horror of what he underwent as a child of 8, my apprehensions are gone. All I feel is awe…
It was the 4th of March in the millennium year. The day dawned for everyone as usual in Chennai but not for young Janarthanan, a mischievous little boy of 8 years studying in third standard who went to school as usual. He returned from school and threw his bag in one corner of the house, and the shoes in the other corner, like every other child does. He then rushed to the terrace of his building to play.On reaching the terrace, he started playing with his friends. Suddenly fate had brawled with him in the form of an iron rod, seven feet in length. The rod fascinated little Jana and he took the rod to rotate it like a hero. Suddenly, it came into contact with a HT Electrical line that was passing adjacent to the terrace. The electric shock waves ran through the boy's body and the transformer nearby burst into flames with a huge bang. The neighbours ran to the terrace and to their dismay saw Janarthanan half burnt. He was rushed to a nearby hospital for treatment and his parents spent nearly Rs.1.5 Lakhs within a week. Unable to bear the medical expenses, the boy was given treatment at the Government Stanley Hospital, Chennai. Under the guidance of child specialist Dr.Seeniraj, 13 specialist doctors treated him. Ultimately, the burnt organs had to be removed from his body and they amputated his right hand till his shoulders, left hand till the elbow. They also amputated his left leg till the knee and removed the toes from his right leg. It was Dr.Seeniraj who masterminded the surgeries with full confidence and the motivator for the young boy who was undergoing treatment in the hospital for six months and ignited the young mind to live life like every other child. In fact, he advised young Janarthanan to write with the help of his mouth and study further.After six months treatment and motivation, Janarthanan was admitted at a rehabilitation centre to have artificial limbs. He started practising to walk, bearing pain. But the boy was courageous enough to withstand the pain just at the recollection of the untold difficulties and mental agony his parents had undergone to save his life. Added to this, his self-confidence and motivation made him walk during the practice sessions and start writing during late nights with his mouth. This gave some happiness to young Janarthanan and his parents. Jana's father had a printing press which he sold off to treat his son, spending nearly Rs. 4 Lakhs.

This is the early part of the story of Jana, in the words of Mr. Vishwanathan who himself has a remarkable story. Suffering from acute colitis for more than a decade which made him give up many jobs, it was the story of Jana’s extraordinary grit which inspired Mr. Vishwanathan to find renewed strength. From a position of despair he rose to win several awards himself in the area of software engineering.

Back to our young hero…

After the accident and rehabilitation process when Jana went back to Vivekananda School, he was considered a liability and refused re-admission. A young friend spoke about Jana in his school and the SRNM School came forward to welcome the child in its fold. Jana has spent 6 years in the warm atmosphere of the school, doing it proud with his winning streak.
Says his mother ‘even when he was a small child, Jana showed a lot of initiative. He would offer to cut vegetables and help us in whatever way he could’. The family looks so well-knit and calm.
The first question Jana asked after taking stock of his colossally mutilated body as a child of 8 was ‘how will I go to school?’. The doctor whom he questioned was inspired enough to get Jana a notebook and pencil and paper and asked him to practice writing with his mouth. Jana was taken up by the possibility that this opened to him.
The result of his enthusiasm and grit are before me…
Quite effortlessly, pen in mouth, Jana copies down a poem for me and draws the accompanying picture without leaving out the smallest details of curved lines. But more surprising is how Jana has also learnt to use the stump of his right elbow. If it took months of painful practice, there is no evidence of it when he opens the computer, and with his stump paints a boat on sea while the sun is rising. The artist has come full circle.
Jana has his eggs of talent in other baskets too. With a nimbleness one can only associate with fingers, Jana plays the keyboard with his elbow stump. Notes do not overlap, the rhythm is not shaky, the music is melodious. Not to leave any stones unturned or potential unexplored, Jana plays football with his artificial leg. ‘I want to become a graphic designer’ says jana. The computer opens up a huge unexplored world for his creativity to bloom. Jana is also learning oil painting and hopes to become the youngest member of the International Association of Foot and Mouth Painters soon.

Jana got his first experience of success in 2000. Inspired by some students of the Social welfare College to participate in a drawing competition held at the Victoria Technical Institute, Jana learnt of his getting the first prize while he was still recuperating in hospital. Media coverage started in 2001 and inspired Jana to practice painting seriously. A spate of awards followed, culminating in two successive National awards given by the President of India: the Best Creative Child Award in December 2004 and the Balashree Award in 2005. Says Mr Kesavan “the President who was seated on the dais in the Rashtrapati Bhavan came down to meet Jana and expressed his delight in seeing him a second time within the span of a few months. He wished Jana to become a role model for the younger generation”.
It seems very likely that the limelight will only become more and more intense for young Jana. He has been singularly lucky to come across very inspiring people in life: doctors, nurses, neighbours and certainly not the least, his doting family. Mr. Kesavan, who was crushed by guilt during the accident, and later by financial burden, is an ever ready father –‘Jana just has to say what he wants to do and I make sure he gets to do it’. His mother is sometimes worried about who will take care of Jana in the future when the parents are no more.
A question all parents of children with disabilities face one day or the other.

Meanwhile Jana makes rapid strides into the adolescent world, inspired by many, inspiring many. When I tell my aunt who lives a thousand kilometers away about my meeting with Jana, she says ‘of course I have read about him’. She says she withstands her immense pain thinking of how the child must have borne his. The autorickshaw driver who takes us to the rehab centre asks me about Jana; when I give him an outline of jana’s accident, he says ‘oh yes, I have read about this brave boy’. As letters of appreciation pour in, as mails come from people who contemplated suicide and were saved in the nick of time on reading about Jana’s travails, to those who were awakened to their sense of responsibility after reading about the child’s, it is clear that here is a role model in the making. From participant to chief guest in drawing competitions, Jana’s evolution is dizzying. Giving away prizes to winners among 1500 participants in a recent inter-school drawing competition, Jana narrated his story before a spell bound audience and urged children to value their parents and respect their teachers. He stressed the value of discipline to become an achiever. The generous help Jana is receiving from many organizations and people shows how he brings to the fore the best in people. And perhaps that is the best way the cause of the disabled can be furthered.
Jana is a promising ambassador of the less privileged.

Relationships galore

Archies has neatly categorised it. For Mother, Father, Sister, Husband….The thoughts are apt and beautifully printed. The range of emotions belonging to the mother-child relationship for example, are all there; it is only a matter of choice.
Personally though I would feel a bit cheated to know that others have sent the same card to their husbands. Or that glorious bouquet on the ‘for a Special Mother’ card sent by my daughter is but a clone of several thousands. A bit like a popular Cotton world T shirt which hangs in rows of all sizes, with sleeves, collar and without…
. While comparing notes with friends abroad, I discovered that the propensity to have it all said in print-a full card page sometimes-was an Indian characteristic. I thought of the author thereof who must have stretched his emotional, semantic and imaginative limits to compose pages of ‘miss you’ and ‘love you’ messages….and of the ‘miss’ - weary human who would be sending it to another. Perhaps he/she didn’t want to miss the bus and took this pre emptive measure. The ‘ For A wonderful boss’ series had enticing words for the gullible boss, words of warm praise which neither would associate with each other.
Greetings cards of course aren’t all that mark, make or promote relationships. Cadbury’s would nurture them with its old creations in new packs and ads; while a certain stirring tea claims to build relationships along with its toxic caffeine content. A paint commercial would suggest that it can double as matrimonial catalyst; cell phones- in the Indian context-seem like the long awaited messiahs who bring boy and girl and their respective uncles, aunts and parents together in matrimony. In fact, aren’t commercials more about enhancing the feel-good aspect of relationships, however caricaturized: dedicated parent-child ones, spouse-spouse, brother-sister…?
We often like relationships to be well labelled. Youngsters can define the moment they start ‘seeing’ someone and the moment they ‘break off’ or ‘call it off’. What changes when the ‘seeing’ ceases and yet they see each other over a cup of tea or an assignment? The duties and rights thereof? Experience and wisdom suggest that a daughter may remain a daughter for life while a son’s loyalty can be expected to shift gears after marriage. And yet, in another social reality, the son is the baton holder who keeps the race going. What makes a daughter in law ‘like a daughter’ (gossip or gifts?), a friend like a sister, X or Y a father figure, aunty or uncle? Guys are safely addressed as brothers. In the Indian context, smugglers and gangsters are united in brotherhood; sisters and mothers lean towards the saintlier side.
Undefined, grey areas of relationships however have their own appeal. Soulmateship perhaps lies in the greyest of grey areas. Someone thinking/feeling/perceiving just like me sends a wave of comforting thrill of endorsement or complementarities. But I do wonder whether soulmateship comes in bits and pieces. X and I are Nature freaks, Y and I transcend the spiritual together while Z makes my ideal shopping partner, not to forget A whose vivacity of spirit is just made for my happiness. Bu then B thinks of me just when I think of him/her, althought thousands of miles separate us; telepathy holds a charm that the most instant of instant messaging doesn’t…
But the need for nomenclature gives such relationships multiple names. Like various flavours of ice cream which go to form a scoop or two, one can be mother, child, friend, sometimes in layers, sometimes jumbled. ‘Friend-guide and philosopher’ would then be the cassata relationship. The best examples of these ‘calorie-rich’ relationships come from the spiritual domain. god can become lover, protector, child, guest, father…Tulsidas, in a moving song, tells God “many relationships connect you and me; choose the one which pleases you”. Whether God expressed his preference is a moot point but the line left me wondering how idyllic life would be if we could all say that to each other. Choice has its flip side too though and perhaps at least a part of humanity would be more comfortable with a firm “this relationship binds you and me and this is how we are supposed to express it”.
The mother of all relationships is perhaps that of the child as father of man and the most mysterious perhaps that of seeing God as a child.
Relationships are like mirrors, said a philosopher. Or like personality building blocks. In a way then I am the sum of what others reflect of me and also of what I reflect of others. Like the stripes of a zebra (black on white, white on black?) I would end up not knowing what the Pure Me is and what the ‘built up Me’ is. An ideal mother, a passable wife, a dedicated daughter, a lazy correspondent, a hopeless team mate…perhaps life would be easier if akin to the creatures of the coral reefs, humans could be color coded: blue: toxic, red: venomous; yellow: friendly. Not that they would lend themselves to such coding or, to give them the benefit of the doubt, they would perhaps not recognize their own toxicity levels. Most would perhaps identify with the Sulawesi octopus which changes colour to gently lead a prey to its mouth. The predator-prey relationship is perhaps one of the more fascinating ones which keeps the world going. What would happen if Oliver the octopus found himself feeling differently towards Henry the hermit crab? Of course humans can add substantially to the octopus-crab equation; in fact, chameleons would trigger a chord in them like perhaps no other creature. But a cow adopting and nurturing an abandoned fawn-perhaps a simple natural bonding-attracted media attention. Some worshipped the duo too, while fighting for their place in the queue.
Some relationships are best within context and before expiry date: teacher-student, doctor-patient for example. The ebb and flow of life ensure that new relationships must replace old ones. But life is strange. A hostage begins to feel a strange tugging towards his captor, admiration masquerades as love; hatred is said to be another side of love: like a two way mirror, feel one and express it with the other, the message will reach. Blood is said to be thicker than most fluids; and yet, the most binding relationships can happen on the least physical of mediums, across cyber or spiritual space. Some have the knack of keeping a relationship chugging, strictly on track. Formalities and norms ensure it. I have a 100 year old penpal, with whom I have been corresponding for the last 30 years. We have never spoken to each other but she can feel my pains and joys as much as the people around me.

‘well connected’, ‘related to so and so’ ‘descendent of such and such a family’ are strong cable connections in life. The Indian system traces ancestry back to the ‘rishis’ (ascetics) of yore. A new born baby is not only comfortable in his cushiony crib, he is equally cushioned by his descent. Science has recently undertaken to trace right back to its origins human evolution. Isnt it fascinating to think that my ancestors were Africans? That perhaps yours, mine, why everyone’s ancestors were trekmates in the Ice Age? That perhaps one day our descendents would be perhaps fellow trekkers in the Milky way?A

Would we then “start as parental fantasies and die as our grand children’s memories” as a psychologist said or would be specks of relationships in the Universe?

But in the last count, across all the criss cross of relationships that sustain us, the ones we are born with and the ones we create in our life, amid our efforts to trace our ultimate family tree and our desire to perpetuate it, across our sense of clanhood and manhood, through acts of altruism and through our spiritual quests and invocations, I have a sneaking doubt that it is only the relationship with our own selves that we seek to define. ‘I’ by any other name smells just as sweet isn’t it?

Even as I reach this momentous conclusion, a small newspaper item catches my attention: “Call it God’s wish or man’s ultimate tribute to relationships,” it says, about Percy 105 and Florence 100, who will soon complete 80 years of marriage. “we kiss every night. He can’t settle if I am not holding his hand”.

It’s THAT simple really!

Food thoughts

Dane dane me likha hai khane wale ka naam. Goes an oft used Hindi proverb. On each grain is written the name of the eater.

Cryptically sexy.

Evocative too.

It suggests having one’s name calligraphically engraved on a long grain of Basmati rice, to check out for spelling mistakes on which would be like reading the fine print of an important document. Wouldn’t it be a rather long drawn process to sort out the grains which are to be mine? thus goes my rather linear thinking at first. Then there are other related questions too. Who does the engraving and on what basis? More on it later, I tell myself, as always when confronted with unanswerable questions. Let me first visualize and substantiate the possibilities.
Chill, says the voice of reason from within, it is only a pithy proverb. A profound one though. The aforesaid grain is like the algebraic factor X. It can stand for anything from grains of rice to BT brinjal...from genuine melting-in-mouth dates from Muscat to fake Chinese milk powder. It simply suggests that everything in life comes earmarked. Or that ears lend themselves to a palmistry of their own.
Thinking of it, while I may not actually engrave the eater’s name on each grain of rice, don’t I automatically earmark food for my family members on the basis of their preference-and the availability factor? potato fries for the daughter, carrots for son, crispies for the husband. Or, Crackle for daughter, figs for son, diet crackers for husband etc. Compartmentalizing tastes prevent competition and aids budgeting. However, when supply exceeds demand, or when the domestic market is down, doesn’t that small papaya look orphaned? Like someone forgot to give it a destiny-or engrave the eater’s name on it. I am taken back to the apprentice years of marriage when many of my by-the-recipe-book delicacies meant to find my way to the new spouse’s heart ended up elsewhere: the brown doggie who visited the garbage bin outside our home. So it is all about the end-user, understands my mind.
The rows and rows of glittering products on supermarket shelves have so much marked on them: the name, brand, the exclusive qualities of the products, the freebies, the name of the manufacturers…and written all over, though not in ink, in brackets, the name of the consumer: child or adult, lower class or well to do, men or women, working women, housewives. Did the author of the proverb have target marketing in mind?
Destiny as food or food as destiny is best seen in the nation’s granaries…Fat rats eat up the bottom layers of the food stored in it; middle men eat up the middle and the rest is spirited away by spirits-often across states. I heard that stones of special caliber and carats casually replace grainlessness. The proverb must suggest permutations and combinations.
On the other hand destiny is seen as a box of suspenseful chocolates, and you never know what you are going to get. You may drool for the liqueur filled one while it is only the caramel and raisin which reach your palate, after a certain somebody raided the fridge in your absence. Perhaps just a roundabout way of saying that on each empty chocolate wrapper is engraved the name of the eater (along with that of the manufacturer).

One man’s food, it is said, can be another’s poison. Or allergy. Live in Chocolate Land and be chocolate incompatible. Watch with envy the neighbour’s child munch the chips even as your own obesity-prone kid must thwart her eyes from it. Not yet 20 and already declared insulin resistant? And they say it is part genetic and part lifestyle. The proverb now begins to assume graver tones. Like the author thereof had had a crash course in crystal ball gazing or biotechnology.
Nature, the greatest food engraver has a smart plan to keep its species from killing each other over food. Killing AS food for each other appeals better to her sensibilities. Like the famed Russian dolls which telescope into each other, creatures from planktons and krills inaugurate the food chain. All creation has a go at it, in an orderly way, standing in a queue.
There-what I thought was substantial food for thought has tamely ended in nature’s orderliness.
Orderliness my foot, guffaws a voice from behind. It is all about the new world order also called globalization. Who eats what is now also about smart choices, means and menus. What illustrates this better than the fabled crow and fox pair? the piece of Kraft cheese in the crow’s beak no doubt had another name scribbled over it. FOX. Or simply SMARTNESS. Street smartness too. So does it mean that the writing on the grain is also about qualities of the consumer: gullibility, cunningness, alertness, aggressiveness, savoir faire.…and what you, the individual, the society, the country, get is only the karmic result of tossing those around?
There you go..grins the fox …this proverb is like one of those eye catching optical illusions in which you see what you choose to see. I saw not a piece of cheese but OPPORTUNITY in the crow’s beak. Each grain comes not inscribed but with the potential to be inscribed upon. Change places and see the difference. Don’t spend a lifetime scrutinizing each grain to see if your name is on it. Just make a dash for it, annex what you want and write your name on it. Use technology if profitable.
Perhaps all one needs to do is to get that prohibitively priced durian, or what seemed prohibitive, with a bottle of genuine French champagne and say ‘this is my menu for the day’…

Impressions of Light

Imagine a festival-less world. Austere, drab, serious, monotonous…

Even for a die-hard routine lover like me, steeped in practicalities, an occasional festival seems a necessity. It would seem that India’s tryst with festivals is wholesome: they are numerous, colourful, varied and meaningful at different levels. There are austere ones and there are flamboyant ones. There are serious ones and simply fun ones. Those oozing mythology and those moving and merging with the times. Some are pan-Indian, some regional. Most of India’s festivals come with a religious and a social component attached.

Diwali is one such multi –layered, multi-levelled, all India festival. Let us say it has the heady mix of all the attributes of a complete Indian festival. This is a multi sensorial festival with every sense claiming its share of excitement. A vivid recollection is that of Diwali fireworks over Marine Drive, so colourful, so gorgeous. A universal celebration. But perhaps the acrid smell of smoke, the rhythmic and out-of-the-blue bangs of ‘crackers’ and the excitement of seeing a small red and gold cone erupt into a riot of blinding colours are the real ‘personal’ Diwali. What about the eye catching colourful rangolis before every house? The rustle of new silks, the fragrance of flowers and sandalwood, the aroma of sweets cooking…Diwali has everything to tickle the senses. On another plane, while Diwali celebrates relationships it also prescribes material prosperity; it begins the New Year for many Indian communities-with a literal bang .

My most enduring memory is that of traveling by train on a Diwali night. In between patches of pitch darkness and eerie silhouettes, tiny rows of earthen lamps would suddenly appear from nowhere. Illuminated villages succeeded illuminated villages. Imagine a whole –or most of the country-lit up on a moonless night…
My most endearing memory of the festival is the dark green cotton frock with dancing girls on it which I got, after much expectation, trepidation and near despair. Diwali was one occasion we kids looked forward to; that was such a magnificent coming together of the best of life: it was dress, sweets, cousins and holidays-train travel in perspective-wow! Grandma’s narration of Krishna’s purposeful killing of the demon Narakaasura inspired awe and total belief. So many rituals supplemented and completed it. At the end of the highly exciting day, the green frock was removed, folded back fondly and put away. Peace descended.

A wholesome simplicity, or a simple Whole.

Time changes needs; time simplifies goals, time complicates perceptions.

As I idly go by in hoardings-enriched Chennai, I see Diwali splashed all over: Diwali blast-of the shopping variety, Diwali Dhamaka-more shopping, Diwali offers…in tune with the changing times from small ‘time pieces’ to DVD players and imported diamond jewellery sets…My English friend says he knows Diwali; so does my American friend; it is celebrated among Parisian Indians…with no doubt a French touch. Diwali gifts have metamorphosed too. Cadbury Celebrations vies with tradition; a trip abroad makes as good a corporate ‘gift’ as the traditional silver coin. Earthen lamps have yielded to blinking rows of coloured bulbs; the awareness about noise pollution and the unfailing warnings for safe celebration have watered down the enthusiasm of yore. Childhood itself is perhaps critically short lived now, like the ignited ‘chakras’ which described a couple of magical, brilliant ellipses before becoming a heap of ash.

Are my thoughts going elliptical too? I have only tried to get to the essence of the complex and multifaceted Mother of Indian festivals. Through a powerful combination of mythology, rituals, veneration, liberal splurging and sensual delights, Diwali is the celebration of all that makes life worthwhile: like all aspects of the hindu way of life, this festival puts in relief that which one is equipped to perceive and cherish-the Transient, the Temporal or/ and the Transcendent and Perennial.