Identity Cr(ie)sis

I am a Jain. By birth.

By choice, I am a agnostic. By the way, as Jainism is based on the philosophy of Anekantvad - which essentially means "Each to his own", being a agnostic is not being non-jain. I am also a vegetarian by choice, though I do not differentiate between types of plant food or dairy products. I am aware and mindful of the violence humanity inflicts on the earth and its co-dwellers - and on my part try to minimize it as much as possible, without being fanatic about it. Which essentially means I am a happy middle-of-the-road person. My way of life will be frowned upon by ritualistic Jains, and will be frowned upon by hedonistic friends. So be it.

This past week has been one of Paryushan, the Jain festival of fasting and spiritual practice.

For my family, paryushan is business as usual. There are no changes in our routine, except that we sometimes go to Jain temple on the Samvatsari day, the day that most Jains fast, without partaking any food or water. I do not fast. For most Jains, paryushan is a period of spiritual practices, of fasting, of pratikaman, going to Vyakhan, and doing samayik. I do not do any of that. Nor does anyone else in my family.

This was not true with my parents. My father used to recite Bhaktamar every day of his normal life - all 48 shlokas, taking about one hour of his time, and would do it with joy and abandon. One of my favorite memories of him is him chanting the Bhaktamar with sheer joy and bliss. My mother, in my growing up years, used to do a full fast on every Panchami, and every paryushan was a time of spiritual activities. She knew the pratikaman by-heart, and used to lead several jain ladies in the practice. My husbands family are also passionate jains - with my mother-in-law visiting the Jain temple every day, before her meals, doing ekasana for the entire paryushan, and being a stoic jain in spirit and principle. My father in law, though did not follow Jainism's ritualistic ways of living, and though he was also a vegetarian by choice, there was little else he did by way of being a Jain.

This long explanation is just to make it known that whatever we follow in our family, has got nothing to do with my or my husbands parents. This is our way of life by choice. That being said, it is not that our family is a rebel. Most Jains my age are like us.

Till this time, this week, I have never had to think about the fact that I was born into a Jain family, or about Paryushan, and never had to defend it to myself or friends of mine.

The events in the last week, however, have changed that. Ban on sale of meat in several states in India, including Maharashtra, the state I call as my second home, along with a ban at Rajasthan, my birth state, presumably to respect the religious sentiments of jains, during our festival, Paryushan. Telling people that they should turn vegetarians because we Jains are observing days of spiritual practice is conceptually abhorrent and too invasive to me, even though I firmly believe that being vegetarian is a more humane way of life.

The social network and TV has been full of people condemning Jains. Some political leaders have spoken badly about Jains and asked them to leave "their" state. Jains, even Jain sadhus, have reiterated, some with disdain and some with harsh words towards the people who do not want to follow the meat ban. Celebrities have come out to oppose the ban and so on - the circus continues.

For the first time, I have had people ask me - Oh, so you are a Jain too, right? You do not want me to eat meat, right? And when I have responded that I really think that the decision of what anyone wants to eat today and any other day is theirs to take, I am asked again with an amused smile - Oh, so you are not a "real" jain....

All this has made me think about my identity. Yes, I am a Jain, as I was born as one. But I am not a meat-banning-and-forcing-peoples-choices kind of Jain. Yes, I believe is being compassionate towards animals and towards all humanity, but I don't think its any of my business to ask anyone else to also be the same. Its an individual choice, and a good one, in my considered view. However, I don't think this is the only way to be non-violent. There are other violent ways - avarice, dishonesty, laziness, materialism etc. Maybe I am violent in some other ways, which could be considered wrong by several other people of different faiths, but I don't accept anyone's right to force me to be how to be any other way than just what I am. I am willing to be persuaded, reasoned, but forced, no!

I am completely ok with people deciding to eat meat or any other thing during paryushan, indeed on any other day, if they are not persuaded that being vegetarian is not a good thing for them. I also believe and know that most Jains are like me. Each one to his own, is a most prevalent way of thinking, for most professional educated Jains.

I must speak up and say so. If I don't, then others who do not know what I think, will think I too want to force them as I am a Jain. My saying this publicly will make my Jain relatives and friends doubt me. It will make my non-Jain friends doubt me. Let them.

Wait - let me think some more. Am I sufficiently Jain? Am I willing to stand on the podium and support people who are opposing the meat ban?

Yes, I am.

Yes, I am a believer in live-and-let-live.

Yes, I need to let people know that there are tolerant, not-forcing-upon-other-people types of Jains too.

Yes, I will stand up and make my opinion known.

But wait - would I be ostracized by my extended family if I did that? My extended family knows what type of practicing Jain I am. Indeed, many of my cousins and their children are like me. However, what would be looked at askance would be about how I did not stand up for the jain point of view of vegetarianism at this time of so called crisis on the Jain community. How could I agree with the people who did not want the meat ban?

And, what about my mother, what would she say? my masi? my chacha? my mama? My mother would definitely be disappointed in my public tolerance of all things not jain, though not disapprove. My mother-in-law would chastise me and my husband and links with my husbands family would become even more tenuous. And my mama would definitely definitely disapprove. Next time when I meet these elders, I would be given a thorough talking to. I would be subjected to a lot of "Oh, how could you...?" - even by people who are like me in practicing jainism. And oh, does that mean no jain would marry my daughter? Oh My God......

Standing up for my convictions, I realize, will not be easy. Let me think again. Does this matter really matter? Would it really matter if I keep my opinion to myself and not subject myself to the necessary doubts?

Ok. decision time. I will keep quiet. Yes, given everything else, this is a sensible choice. And this is what I will do. Let the political parties and the gurus and the samaj ke thekedars sort this thing out. I have to live my life, take care of my business and take care of my daughter. These are things that are more important. Yes.

Anycase, maybe this will simply die its own death. The paryushan will get over in 2 days, and then we will be the same set of people who always were. The wealthy, unobtrusive, look-similar-to-Hindus types. Decision taken, dilemma resolved, I am at peace.

But I am not really. I am now worried more than ever on reflection. This is exactly how most middle-of-the-road minority people think when the fringe extreme elements of their religion start making extravagant, intolerant demands upon the others in name of religious identity. Most people simply choose to keep quiet, just like I am wont to. Most minorities consequently stand the risk of being identified by the religious intolerant actions, and several times, the price is high. Muslims have faced this for years and years, not just in India but at other places also. Recently, a muslim youngster in the US was accused of creating a bomb when all he was did was creating a home made clock.

Do I want my daughter to be forced to defend her identity like this innocent curious young boy? No. A thousand times No.

For the first time, I think about my identity, and how it affects me and others around me. Till now, I was always a part of the majority, and I never needed to think about it, but this time, I have walked in the minority shoes and realized how it exactly feels. It is not nice. Not nice at all.

I need to think again. And so do millions of other moderate Jains need to, too. Not just moderate Jains, all moderate muslims, all moderate human beings, who just want to let people be, to let people make their own choices. Moderate people who do not want their identities to become contaminated by the people who want to force other people to be like them.

Just what can we do to keep our identities intact and let them not be hijacked by others of our faith?

Not willing to settle

We have this favorite place that we all want to be. We want to "settle down". It implies peace, calm and repose.

Parents urge their children to settle down. Young adults talk about settling down, after a bout of flings. Young kids are told to settle down and take a professional interest after they are done dabbling with many subjects. It is by and large expected that once people 'settle down', they will be happier.

For some reason, I hate that world. It seems to me that settling down is like a closing of hope, along with a refusal to look at opportunities of improvement. I have chosen to settle down at times when I found myself with people or places where I really wanted to be, and sure that this is what matched my desires and wants in every way.

I have somehow not managed to settle down for things in life, simply because it was time for me to settle down. It had to be just so. Not just because the time was ripe. When I have found myself at places which are not good enough. They are okay, not uncomfortable, but it does not match my desirability or quality bar. And when I am not settled down, I am restless, out of sorts, irritable and constantly pecking away at the situation so that it ups itself and gets to be where I want it to be. My friends tell me that the situation is good enough, and most people do not have the good fortune of having even half of what I have. But I am not willing to settle at half measures, and lower my bar. It can be the way I like it, and I will not rest till it is. Of course, often times, this is not in my control and I can only try, but I will be damned if I don't try till I have a breath in my body.

It is so so hard for me to give up. If it matters to me, I find it hard, very hard to admit that it isn't working out, close my options and walk out.

I drive myself nuts being this way. Stupidly persevering, when it is obvious to me that it would not work out. Stubborn and mulish.

Oh, why can't i just settle down? Accept things the way they are. Tell myself that this is exactly how God intended it best for me - and other such positive statements.

Its killing me, this not willing to settle.

The hardest thing...

The hardest thing to kill is Hope.

Like life, it springs eternal in the human heart.

Moving on...

Was reading a movie review of "Ranjhaana", a love story set in Varanasi. I haven't seen the movie yet, probably will this week.

This note is however inspired by the movie review I read here. I quote a line from the review which caught my attention,

"Lesson#8 : “Nobody really moves on in life: This is because of the simple reason that a person molds you into a new being when you are with them. So when they move out of your world, they take away that part of you with them and it never comes back leaving you void from within and too exhausted to walk on the same path again."

I agree in parts - yes, we change with every relationship. We become something which is us plus something when we are in a relationship. This is true for all relationships, in my view. We are different with a parent, different with a son, different with a friend, different with a sibling and so on. I would go so far as to say that we have different selves that manifest themselves, depending upon whom we are with. And in a love relationship, we are completely transformed. We may sometimes not even recognize the self that we become when we fall in love.

However, this post is not about love, but about moving on, having been in love. I disagree that one does not move on. Yes, we never become that person that we were when we were in love. But we do fall in love again, and though we don't become the previous-person-who-was-in-love-with-the-previous-love-interest, we morph into a different human with the person we now have fallen in love with. Yes, every death of selves that we face hurts, hurts really really bad. But we can and are capable of creating new selves even out of the debris that is left behind. For many of us, the debris is small, so some of us can rebuild from it with some help from the discarded self. For some of us, the debris is large, but if we love ourselves well enough to piece together the debris and the smaller self, we can even glue together a bigger self from the experience.

Notwithstanding the moving on, I do think there is always this "what if" question that plays out in in the minds of the "Mover" and the "Movee" - for want of better words. I think both of them, the Mover and the Movee, wrestle with the "what-if" in their post breakup times. Several times. Regardless of who initiated the break up. The mover will wonder what if she hadn't moved on to look for something better, could she have been happier? Was she is the reason, or was it that the movee did not love enough and hence gave up the pursuit so soon. The movee on the other hand, may wonder if the mover was indeed the best, and whether maybe the movee is better off without her. He may also wonder on the reasons why he gave up pursuit when he did. Was it because she really wasn't quite "the" person? Was his pursuit an exercise of being in love for the sake of being in love? Invariably, after several years after the love episode, the mover and the movee will wonder what they saw in the other that caused the affair. Was the other person even worthy of the love? Was it because the person was ready for love at that particular point and the other person happened to be there, and hence love occurred, much like the bards Midsummer Nights Dream. It may happen that they want to fall in love all over again with the same person! (And that what I guess the Reviewer of Ranjhaana was talking about)

However, such what-if reveries would also largely depend upon the manner of the breakup itself, from the time event when the breakup begins, and then the event itself, followed by the process of moving-on. Ah, but thats perhaps for another post!

Whom Not to Befriend

Some may call me prejudiced, but these words come from experience. Been-there-done-that-was-hurt-never-repaired.

Never to befriend ones tailor/seamstress/neighbourhood boutique's owner
Never to befriend ones beautician/hairdresser/masseuse
Never to befriend ones personal trainer/personal coach/yoga teacher

For all the above, you are a customer/client first, and a friend later. Also, they make themselves interesting to others by telling stories about their customers/clients and boasting about their confidence in them. Your confidences may well become the next most interesting story they share with others. Beware.

Never befriend your banker/lawyer
Never befriend a insecure jealous woman's husband
Never befriend your childs best friend

For all the above, your right place in their life is not as a friend. You are best where you are - at a arms length.

Never befriend your boss's boss
Never befriend your boss's wife/husband
Never befriend your boss's other subordinates

For all the above, your relationship with your boss will be the primary link, and any of these relationships will cause undue stress /impact on the boss relationship.

The Measure of Things

Despite my rant about money, I cannot but acknowledge that money is the most convenient and the most obvious measure for worldly success.

Just like marks (read grades) are the measure for intelligence. Just like the duration of a marriage is a measure for the love between the couple. Just like the beauty of a woman is measured by the number of men who desire her. Just like the worth of a painter is measured by the price his work commands.

If there were no readymade measures to assess the chaotic world that we live in, how would simple minded folks ever get by?

Measures are a necessary evil alright. But there are things beyond measure, where the human capacity to measure becomes subjective, and depends upon the viewers perspective. And often times, the measure that the world provides, such as money, grades etc falls short, woefully short. Thats just me, I guess. For most others, what the world provides as measures is good enough.

It is not the worlds fault that I have a wacky perspective of things. I am a dork. And I shall continue being so. And will continue paying a price for being so.

Dork. Dork. Dork.

The Sixth Sense

It seems to me that I lack one of the essential senses that is needed in the modern world to survive and thrive - a sixth sense of sorts. Of Money.

I am unable to sense how much does something costs, in terms of money. Unable to sense the value of something, in terms of money. I can only sense the pleasure/loss/pain from my five sensory senses and my emotions, which was probably adequate in some antiquated time, when money was not currency for every worldly thing.

Money by itself gives me no pleasure. Nor does losing it give me a sense of pain. What matters to me is the way I get pleasure when I buy an experience through money, or face pain by an emotional hurt when either a experience is denied to me since I did not have money, or the distress I feel when I am cheated out of it by someone I loved and trusted. When I cause someone else's money to be lost or used, either due to my bad advice or judgement, I feel an enormous amount of guilt though. None of that happens when I am blow up or gamble away my own money. It is as if I excuse myself with impunity of the bad decisions/judgement I make on money which is my own. I don't give myself the same immunity of excuse when dealing with others money. It is almost the other way around with people.

I do know what money means, but in abstract terms, not in visceral ones. Coming as I do from a "marwadi" family, my non-visceral understanding of money is a severe disadvantage. Everyone I meet professionally, expects me to be well versed with money matters. Specially my own, and also specifically so since I am an entrepreneur, supposedly someone who only credo is making money. I am an entrepreneur alright, but my credo is my work, my vision of what I am trying to create, my art if one can call it that - and I wish to make money through that. Not by any other means, but in the only way I respect of making money, by creating an artistic value, by creating something that is beautiful and functional both. I am idealistic enough (foolish enough, I call that in moments of sanity) to believe that money will come, if I create some experience that appeals to at least one of the senses for my potential customers and clients. Money by itself is not the end, the enhanced experience that I create for my customers and clients is. The only reward that I crave for.

I have often been cheated by fellow professionals and so called business partners, who assume that I must have taken care of my money first and foremost. They assume a certain money sense in me, and with impunity cheat me out of money that I trust with them. They assume that I would have gotten value out of them before I give money to them. Not so. I normally give money for value that I expect in the future. I have no other protection against thievery, other than a child like faith that the person I trust will abide by the emotion of trust I have placed with him. Consequently, I lose not only my money, but my trust and emotions as well. Its happened to me several times, this brazen misappropriation of my trust. Unfortunately, despite trying, I am not able to have a adequate perspective about money.

When others give me money for whatever reason, it weighs me down, and binds my soul. I am wary about accepting dinner invites, gifts from people, and even taking money for work rendered. I feel indebted to people who give me money - earned, reciprocated, bestowed, inherited - the reason for my having taken the money does not matter. In most cases, I have earned it. But still, if someone has given me money, I feel indebted to him/her for life. I then work my darndest to repay the debt, but though the money is perhaps paid back in full measure, I can't get over the feeling of being indebted. I can try gifting stuff back, inviting people over and over again to pay back their food debt, give stuff to them that I love and cannot bear to part with in desperation of the debt I feel, sometimes even money that I cannot afford to give - but there is no escaping from the feeling. I feel weighed down. Forever.

On the other hand, I hold no such expectations when I give money. That is given in love, with hope and with trust. In fact, I have issues in making people do things for tasks I have given money for. I find my employees cheating me, my maids cheating me, my partners pilfering money from customer accounts, and though all of this makes me really mad, I do not find that morally reprehensible, which it is.

I am just plain weird about money.

Nation of Pretenders

India is a nation of pretenders. Make Belief folks. Who go through life playing a role. Showing themselves to be something to the world which they are not. Focusing on the showing, rather than the doing.

Leaders who pretend to govern - but in reality, only interested in stuffing their own pockets with public money.

Students who pretend to learn - but in reality, only interested in passing the exam and getting a certificate which says they have learnt.

Workers pretending to work - but in reality, only marking time till the time-to-go-home bell chimes

Musicians pretending to make music - but in reality, only repeating their pitiful horde of 10 tunes

Fathers pretending to be caregivers - but in reality, only controlling their wife and children like chattels

Software developers pretending to be skilled - but in reality, only building their CV and not their skill set

Entrepreneurs pretending to run businesses - but in reality, only using their connections and greasing palms to get business

Women pretending to be equal partners - but in reality, refusing to part with a single penny to run the household

Actors pretending to be artists - but in reality, being just pretty faces with no capability to emote


As it is said in Hindi - Haathi ke danth, khane ke aur, aur dikhane ke aur. Pretenders - so many of them! Yes, there are a few genuine folks, but they are so so few, lamentably so.

Point of No Return

There are times in ones life when one reaches a point of no return. When the emotional, financial and time investment is so much that one cannot walk away. Even when the risks of moving ahead are staring at ones face. Even when the chances of success are mind-bogglingly slim. But one is too involved, and has no choice but to keep moving ahead.

On the other hand, at the point of no return, the cost of walking away is more than the cost of staying. And when the risk of staying is less than the risk of walking away.

It is terrifying, paralyzing, agonizing. This point of no return.

But strangely liberating. To know that one needs to do what one has to do regardless of the results. If one wants to live with oneself in the other breaths that follow this one.

I grit my teeth, take a deep breath and square my shoulders, and I tell myself to take the next step. And I do. And the next step. And the next one. And the next. And I just keep walking. Walking on and on and on.

Being Worthy

Today, I rededicate my life to being worthy of life.

To be able to live life the way it is right. For me, and my loved ones.

To be able to justify the expenses in ecological and economic terms - of living on this earth.

To be worthy of my parents love and their nurturing.

At the end of it all, it should be worth it - not just for myself, but for my parents, first and foremost, for my family,for my friends, for my professional team mates, for this Earth - that I lived and breathed for a few years and was a part of their life.

May I have the resolve (my Achilles heel) and inner strength to stay the course I chart out for myself.

What it means to be a Liar

"People think that a liar gains a victory over his victim. What I've learned is that a lie is an act of self-abdication, because one surrenders one's reality to the person to whom one lies, making that person one's master, condemning oneself from then on to faking the sort of reality that person's view requires to be faked. And if one gains the immediate purpose of the lie - the price one pays is the destruction of what the gain was intended to serve. The man who lies to the world is the world's slave from then on."

- Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand

Building Trust

How do you make yourself trust-worthy?

Here is my recipe for it:

1. Accept people the way they are, with their faults and kinks.
2. Let them know that you accept them the way they are. By means of affirmative words and caring actions.
3. Be there for them when they are in trouble or need help. Help them the way you can. If no help is possible from you, listen to them. Heartfelt listening.
4. When they need help, help them in the way they want to be helped.

Remember, if you want that the people you love, accept your help when they need it the most, then you have to first invest in being trust-worthy for them.

It is very hard for people to be trust worthy. It is not easy to accept, to keep your judgement at bay, to put the person you love before yourself. It is hard to be so un-mindful of your own ego, your opinions and your judgement. If a person trusts you, you can then help that person come out of a possible toxic situation or behavior. Real change only comes from within, so be mindful that you do not try and force the change.

If it is so hard to be trust-worthy, why do it?

Of all the human situations, not having anyone close to you whom you can trust, is absolutely the worst. You cannot guarantee that you will be able to find someone you can trust, but you can certainly try and be the person who someone can trust. By being trust-worthy, you can be sure that you have eased the pain of human existence for some people on this earth. Do it because you are a compassionate person or aspire to be one.

Secondly, do it for love. In most cases, people have been hurt the most by people whom they have loved the most. In most cases, unknowingly. Most suicides occur as people become lonely, and find that they cannot relate to anyone. This may happen to your loved one, without your realizing that you are the one who is not showing up, not giving acceptance, and hence contributing to your loved ones loneliness and desperation. Your loved ones need to know that you are there for them. And that you love them and accept them. And that you will do whatever you can for them. In short, you must be trusted by them.

Neglect the building trust part of a relationship, and you stand the risk of your loved one some day falling apart as he/she did not know he/she could lean on you. Think about it. You may lose a loved one if the loved one does not trust in you.

Build trust.

PS: Amazingly, today a story appeared on Inc.com on building trust. But of course, for work relationship, and for leaders. Just for reference

http://www.inc.com/kevin-daum/brian-halligan-5-ways-to-build-trust-fast.html

On Valentines Day

TOTD:

There are two loves that you should never abandon quest of:
1. Find a person to love unconditionally, without ego, with full abandon. In the rare case of having found someone, make EVERY effort to keep her/him. And if you do happen to be with the person you love, rejoice every minute!
2. Find work that you love doing. Again, in the rare case of having found what you love doing, do it - without thinking of reward, its social payoff, its monetary reward, its acceptance in the world. Just do it.

But first, be the person who can love. By choosing to love, you allow yourself to be vulnerable. Fulfillment only comes to the vulnerable and the needy. It may take a while to come, but every effort spent in seeking fulfillment is worth it. It can be terrifying, giving yourself permission to love. Be of courage.

Love is the only thing that makes life worthwhile.

Who will continue to cry....

There is this book called "Who will cry when you die" by Robin Sharma. It is one of those books that exhort you to live your life in such a way that others are impacted by it, and that you are missed when you are gone.

There will be some people who will cry when I die.

There are always some people who cry when a person dies. Of course, barring the very poor, the lonelies and the sick. When some of these people die, there are in fact people who are relieved. It is profoundly sad that this is so.

The key question to ponder is about who will continue to cry after you have been dead. For a week, month, year. Think hard. Picture to yourself the day of your funeral. And then the next. The next week. The next month. The next year. Maybe three years after your death. And ask yourself this question - who will continue to cry after you have died. Picture the people doing their daily routines. Imagine the thoughts they would have, while they eat, drink, make a living, party etc. Ask yourself honestly - be brutally honest - will they spare one thought to you? Two? Several in a day? Once in a month? Once in a year? Will it be a happy thought? Grateful thought? Revengeful thought? Loving thought? These are questions you ask yourself of the people in your life today.

Life goes on. That is the tragedy and beauty of life. Everything passes. Even you.

Think about what your imagination is telling you about life after your death. About which people will continue to feel your absence, in a good, bad or indifferent way. The ones to focus on first is the indifferent ones. For the ones whose lives would continue with nary a thought for you, eliminate doing things for them in your current time. Eliminate estimating your lifes worth on what they think of you today. Or what you think they think of you. They don't really matter - in the short and long run. You do not really impact them. Maybe you never did. Purge them from your life.

Now examine the people who will miss you in a good way. Even weeks after you have gone, or even years. Nurture them, love them and try and maximise your impact in a good way in their life. You really are a part of their lives. Choose to work hard on them. It is important to you, and to them.

And now, the ones who curse you when you are gone. Look hard - if there anything you have done to have earned that blame or curse? Fix it if you can. If not, then accept their curses, eliminate thoughts about them from your head and let them cease existing for you today. These could be people who you can do nothing about. Cultivate the wisdom to accept their prickly existence in your life, and stop trying to please them.

Now, besides the people who would cry when you die, think of the people who won't cry when you die, but whose life would be impacted by what you did in life. Maybe these people have never met you. Could you have impacted some people in your life even though you did not know them? Picture the impact. Maybe your work has made them spend one hour less doing repetitive boring stuff in their lives. Maybe you helped them reach their goals with less barriers. Maybe science and thought progressed in a different way because you lived and worked. It does not matter that they were not in your funeral. They could not have been there even if they wanted to - they don't even know you exist!

If you can picture such people, your life would have lived beyond your death in some measure.

Can't think of anyone like that? Maybe you need to look at your lifes work to know if there is some work you need to start so that someone is impacted due to your death. Someone you don't know. Someone who you still nevertheless love. Invest in that love. Invest in a ever lasting life.

The distorted popular

My daughter asked me about the interpretation of these lines from the very popular poem, "The Road Less Taken" by Robert Frost -

"Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;"

She wanted to know the exact meaning of the words 'just as fair'. As I explained it to her, I read the following two lines -

"Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same."

Wait wait... this means that the poet is saying that both the roads were pretty much the same. And I freaked out.

Not on the poem itself, because the meaning of the poet was clear. But on my own understanding of what the poem said. Or rather what I thought the poem said. Truth be told, I had never really read the poem properly, though it forms a integral part of my subconscious, and there have been several times that I have referred to it in conversations, with myself and with others. Stored as it is in my mind, the poet celebrates the doggedness of pursuing ones own unique vision, the risks involved in doing so, and passionately advocates following ones path - even though there have not been too many people who had earlier walked that path.

But the poet does not do that at all! The poet is saying that as the years go by, he probably would justify the path that he had taken by wistfully called it the "road not traveled", though in reality he had no means of knowing if the path indeed was not traveled - but the need to somehow see oneself as a hero, a lone traveler will make the poet deceive himself by calling the path so, in the future.

My appreciation of what the poet has written has jumped up several levels. My own estimation of how I think has taken two steps down. Two large steps down.

I, who snacks on words - how could I allow myself to subscribe to a popular opinion - without reading the poem itself? It did not take me even 2 minutes to know that the popular opinion and take away from the poem is very different from the way the poet intended it to be - and yet, yet, I took it to be true. I believed the popular opinion to be true, though I could have easily assessed for myself on whether it was true or not (which I did today).

Popular has the propensity to distort. Beware of the popular! And beware of your own propensity to blindly follow the popular.

Constantly

I am not what I used to be. You are not what you used to be. Constantly changing life has changed us, and will continue doing so.

Let us be aware of what each of us has come to be. If we can still love each others changed self with our changed self, it would be rare. And beautiful beyond measure.

Let's constantly create a new "Us". Shall we?

Thats My Girl!

I received a note from an on-line friend today, asking me if there were any gender stereotypes that I went against, and to celebrate the stereotype departures.

Stereotype departures? Hmmm, have I done those? As I look back, look at the gender stereotyping, and compare my life with it - oh yes, there have been many of departures. Most of them done unconsciously though, since I did not know what “girls” were expected to do. That’s not to say that I was/am a tomboy. No, not that. I have just been me. You see, I was raised to be just myself, thanks to a doting father and mother, who never told me to not do something because I was a girl. They wanted me to follow my heart and my sinews, and believed that I could do whatever I wanted to.

So, with no gender specific expectations given to me, what kind of life did I carve out for myself?

Well, to start way back when I was a kid, I was not one of those “Seen, but not heard” types. I was a talkative child, and a very opinionated one, normally the first and the loudest to express my opinion, never mind if it was not politically correct. I could argue with other kids and adults, and sometimes even with teachers, with a bristling manner, which caused many eyebrows to be raised against my parents and the way they were raising me.

When not playing verbal duels and yakking incessantly, I enjoyed wrestling with my brothers, muscling myself into all kinds of street games that they played with their playmates – Gulli danda, Gada gadi, Sitauliya, Langdi, Catch Catch – I was game for everything except cricket- which I hated for some reason. I caused much exasperation for my mom, who had to work hard to keep me in bounds, for I was constantly breaking rules by coming late, collecting smelly bones and feathers and reading books that were forbidden – some of them hidden under my frock and carried inside loos to the read in private, away from the prying eyes of my brothers.

Things become much more fun when I turned into a teenager. I loved sports and I quickly became a part of the school basketball team, and also joined a football club. Our sports coach spotted me and got me engaged in multiple teams – Volleyball, kabaddi and kho kho, as I was one gutsy player. I could run fast, had tremendous stamina and thought much of myself, even going so far to challenge the schools Boys team for a match – which we girls unfortunately lost. I still bristle when I remember that one!

For the record, I was never a cheerleader. Our class mate boys would often come out and cheer for us when we played the school matches, and later treated us with samosas and chais!

My mother tried hard to teach me feminine work – such as embroidery, crochet, tailoring and even doll making. She was very skilled in these arts, and she worked hard on imparting some of her knowledge to me – and though I did learn how to put down a cross-stitch, I still tremble when picking up a needle. I would rather give away a torn hem to a tailor than to stitch it myself. Ditto for cooking. Mom tried hard to inculcate culinary skills in me, and made sure I stood beside her when she did her cooking, but it never interested me. Even at the ripe age of eighteen, I did not know my daals. Tuvar dal, Chana dal, Moong dal – they were all was the same to me. Sometimes, my moms friends would give her a talking-to, and she would force me to go through the culinary skill building exercises with grim vengeance. I had to then burn rotis and create burnt sabzis to escape those sessions! I did learn to cook, but till date, have remained a half-hearted one. So much so that even today, when my daughter wants to eat her favorite dish, she is more likely to ask her father to make it, rather than ask it of me.

In studies, I was equally good in languages, maths and science, though maths was clearly a favorite. I enjoyed the beauty of mathematical equations and atomic physics as much as I enjoyed the intricacies of my favorite dance, Kathak. They both moved me in similar ways. After my high school, when I opted to study engineering, nobody was surprised, even though this was in eighties, when barely 5% of an engineering class comprised of female students. I did not even know what I could do after I graduated, did not know if women engineers were hired at all. Heck, no one in my family, or for that matter, our family friends, knew a single woman engineer! But it seemed like the natural progression of things, and nobody really objected to my choice. The objections came from a different fall out of the decision.

Not only did I opt for Engineering, I hankered to go to a top notch Engineering school, which was away from my hometown, and one which had a hostel, tucked away miles away from civilization. I wanted to be on my own, on my own two feet, forging out a life for myself. Now, sending a girl child to a hostel was not an easy decision for my parents. In fact, it was the only time when I heard the gender issue being considered as a fact during the family decision making process. Several friends of my parents and respected members of the Jain community, when consulted, expressed fears about raising a girl child in this manner. My parents were warned that they would not be able to find a mate for me if they sent me away to a remote school, where they could not directly supervise me and protect my virginity. They were warned that I would turn too independent and would not get along with my future mother-in-law, warned that I would not be able to create a home with my future lord and master with this kind of upbringing etcetera.

However, I knew my father to be a sensitive fair parent, and knew that despite his fears, he would never let my gender become an issue with him. I appealed to his sense of fairness, citing example of my brother who was sent to the same remote engg school. If my brother can be sent, then why not me, I argued. Did he really believe that since I was a girl, my claim was inferior? My parents could not but agree. After having raised me as an equal child, they could not - indeed, did not want to hold me back. Gender could have mattered, but it was over-ruled. In the final decision, gender did not matter. I was ecstatic!

The engineering school that I went to reinforced my belief in being an equal sex. This school had no reservations for female students, and things were the same for all students, male or female. Competition was intense, but girls could do as well. The topper of our batch was a female, and so was the topper of the batch before us. At least, in the professional training part, Gender did not matter.

On the other part, of being the 5% female population out of the 95% male student community – Ah, there it did matter! And all for good! It gave all us girls a surfeit of male attention, so much so that even now, years later, I have never really felt the need to attract any male attention, unless it was more than a casual lust. This engineering school taught me that all I needed, really really needed, to attract a guy I wanted, was – well, I just needed to be - a female. That’s all – I just needed to be myself. No artifices were really needed. Nature has bestowed women, at least at that age, everything that is needed to attract a man. Gender does matter, but here, women really have the winning hand!

The entire cosmetic industry, I concluded back then, was based on thin air. This relieved me a great deal because I could never stick putting nail-polishes, brushing my hair, and putting mascara, etc – I found the entire beauty rigmarole irksome. The beauty skills were very difficult for me to master, for one, and for the other, I could never really get my colors right. Added to this, I hated spending money on these things. I could never really bring myself to spend money on a color cosmetic or a piece of jewellery, preferring to buy a book, or a samosa instead. Over the years, I have thought about this industry, indeed, it was one of the ways one of my employers made money, and have now agreed that it meets a need. But not to attract and retain men, as it commonly believed, but it feeds on the fears of scared women, who want to buy the belief that they can. It is sad that many of us women need to buy this confidence – if we only look deep enough in our bones, it is right there, within us and never really goes away.

So, while my parents decision to allow me to fly away from their nest made me a young girl from a child and made me confident of my abilities, my engg alma mater, gave me the confidence and awareness of my own feminine power to deal with the other gendered part of the world. And, after that, I never looked back. Never doubted that I was equal. Equal not just to the male sex, but also equal to face anything that life would throw at me.

As I graduated and walked into the professional world, I found myself absolutely at home in the factory and workplace. There were no other women engineers in the company I worked for, as it was a mining company, located in Rajasthan, a state known for its repressive practices against women. But being the only woman engineer never bothered me, and I can also say with certainty, it never bothered anyone else who worked with me. Responsibility was thrown at me by strict uncompromising demanding bosses who cut me no slack, and I delivered. I built control systems by myself, built a brand new department, negotiated with the ferocious mining workers and traveled with my male colleagues, staying at moldy rickety hotels, wherever needed, intent on what we were building and creating together. It was exhilarating, to be a part of a team, who was creating and building. It felt good to be an engineer. Though I must have been a rarity, and perhaps the only professional woman they had worked with, none of my male colleagues ever made me feel like an outsider. In fact, looking back, I think I got more respect and opportunity than I deserved, as I was still a chit of a girl, and very raw professionally. It was here that I really earned my professional spurs.

Professionally, I have since then changed multiple jobs, till the time I now find myself as an entrepreneur, leading my company, my all-male team and my business. During the journey, I have never doubted that I could not do this as I was “only” a woman. That I am a woman, and that I am an engineering entrepreneur, are two unrelated facts.

In my professional life, I doubt that I can say that I had to work 10 times more than my male colleagues to be where I am today. I had to work hard – very hard at times - every professional has to do that, but I do not think that I worked the hardest. There were many of my male colleagues, who worked harder, and just like me, their progression was governed by the market exigencies of the time, the kind of clout the bosses carried, and I, along with them rued the multiple slips possible on the corporate ladder. For as many gender related slip-rungs on it, the corporate ladder has many more which were otherwise. In a long career, gender does not really matter.

Ah, but that was the professional side of it. But how about the personal side of it? Was I not subjected to gender stereotypes here, in the great Indian Marriage, bound by the most intimate and lasting relationship of it all, the often-called stifling relationship where the men rule over the women with a iron fist?

Well, as in the other phases of my life, I am blessed to be helped with the males I find myself with. I am wedded to a man who is as committed to running an equal-opportunity marriage, as I am. In all of 22 years, going on 23 years, of my marriage, both my husband and I have pursued independent careers, and each of us has provided opportunities to each other in every way we can.

We have both taken turns at being the primary nurturer and being the primary bread winners, and everything in between. There have been times when my husband has been the dominant (read making more money in the job) bread winner, and times when I have taken on that role. There are times when he has taken on the mantle of being the primary nurturer (read keeping house, baby sitting), and times when I have dropped everything to nurture our daughter. I am both mother and father to my daughter, and my husband is the same. Each of us have a life of our own, not necessarily inter-wined with the marriage, where we have individual friends and interests, which we both enjoy with or without each other. The number of invitations we get, addressed to Mrs with spouse, are as many as the ones we receive as Mr. with spouse.

That said, over the years, we have realized that I am more suited to do the home bound nurturing, for our daughter and our close relationships, and he is more suited to doing the outside oriented fix-it jobs, and the tough negotiation jobs. It is basically a role distribution with emphasis on innate capabilities, standing on the bed rock of unflinching commitment to the family unit. In our home, Gender does not matter.

My slate of life as I have led till now is wiped clean of gender roles. It is not that people have not heaped me with gender specific expectations, but whenever I have resisted these expectations if they were not in line with what I wanted, most have had no problems in accepting the role that I did decide to play in that situation. It was not that difficult for people to accept to my “No, I will not do that.” statements, and from what I can tell, I have lost no relationships or opportunities because of it. Gender does not matter. I am just me. I do things because I can and I want to, and not because I am a woman.

Being a woman, it is expected by most people I meet that I must have been subjected to stereotypes, and I must have chafed against them. Indeed, when I meet any member of the press, this is one of the standard questions, and I normally have a ready made “politically correct” reply for it, so that it is keeps my feminist friends and listeners happy. But I realize that I must, at last, speak the truth. It would be a disservice to all the people in my life, if I did not acknowledge the truth that I did not face much gender discrimination. Perhaps I was lucky, but not really inordinately so– since I know of scores of other women – fellow engineers, mothers, home makers, professionals, matriarchs, who have succeeded in being themselves and have not been stopped by the men, and women in equal measure, in being equal.

The feminist world insists that women face a bias, and that they get the raw end of the stick from men. Not necessarily. Not much in the educated middle class India. It happens, but not all the time in ones life. It depends. The world is a rough place, for men and women both, and almost as many men get the raw end of the stick than women do. My feminist friends will not like my saying so, and accuse me of being a gender traitor. But I am not. I do not believe the world owes us equality. We owe it to ourselves to find it.

But, my feminist friends scream, how come many educated middle class women have these issues? Are all of them wrong? The propensity to blame their gender by women for all the problems faced by them is a tough one to deal with. I have as seen as many women take advantage of their genders, as many being beaten up due to it. It is just that the women who get beaten up about it speak about it. The ones who take advantage of it, well, they probably snuggle up with their predatory advantage and gloat over it.

That said, how about the women who do get beaten up due to their gender? After careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that wherever gender discrimination occurs, and it does occur, I believe that the responsibility lies as much as with the perpetrators as with the receiver. Women who cow down to conform at the first hint of the gender expectation, who do not insist on being equally capable and gritty, are equally responsible for the gender issue as the perpetrators.

Gender is an issue if one makes it so. I believe that reasons for women making the gender issue important one in their life, goes back to the way they were raised by their fathers and mothers, rather than the bosses and husbands they face in their adult years. If there is a bias, it is more likely to be at home as a child, as a daughter - than the one at home, as a wife or a significant other. The bias a girl child suffers at home, can make her believe that she is not equal and blight her future in ways not imagined by the parents and care givers. If a girl child is raised as an equal child, she is not likely to settle at being anything other than an equal employee, an equal employer, an equal parent and an equal partner.

How can I be so sure of what I am saying? I can, because I know. For, in the final analysis of what caused me to become what I am today, the one thing that stands out in its contribution to me is the pride that shone in my fathers face when he saw me doing things I liked doing, and exultingly cried, “That’s my girl!”

That’s all I ever needed. This one is for you, Papa, for making me the woman I am.

Coming Home

I just got back home after 40 days. It was an exciting trip to multiple places in the country. Vacation, work, visiting friends, attending conferences, meeting partners, doing review meetings - the works. And I have had a jolly good time. Enjoyed it all.

But it is heavenly to be home. Absolute bliss. Despite the fact that the place is covered with layers of dirt, there is no water in the refrigerator, there is no food in the kitchen, my household support staff is absconding, and the whole house would need at least two three days of back breaking work to get back to routine. However, I am ecstatic to be back.

After I reached home, I just flopped into bed and slept for 12 hours non-stop. Now, thats weird. I had slept well wherever I was, had eaten well, had rested well, and had travelled in fair bit of comfort. And yet, tiredness seeped out of me, in thin sheets, from my bones, my muscles and even my mind. It is delicious - this letting go and sinking into my familiar surroundings, and letting the tiredness ebb out of me.

I am taken aback by the level of tiredness I felt. I am not even aware this tiredness existed. How come I did not feel this tiredness before? Till yesterday, I was the alert professional, being swift on my feet and mind, working and networking with people, and enjoying myself with friends I was meeting after months. How come this tiredness is coming out day? Where was it yesterday, I wonder? Am I the only person who is feeling this way? And then, I saw - this was the same way it was hitting my twelve year old too. She too was just relaxing, thumbing her books, listening to music, all random, all familiar things, but her pace and languidness told me that she felt the same as I did. She was even smiling to herself as she was cleaning up her room. Unusual that.

I cast my mind back and remember many such home-comings. And yes, there is a pattern to this. No matter where I have been, no matter with whom, no matter how much I enjoyed being there - it has always been great to come back home. And always, I have slept for hours, with no care in the world, even when there were chores to be done, clothes to be laundered, stuff to be put back into shelves - pressing routine household chores that otherwise would keep me awake - but no, all that waits on the homecoming day. Homecoming is always that, a day to rest. Really really rest. Put all your bones down in a sack and sleep kind of rest.

I wonder, why is this so? I am not overly fond of my home, nor am I emotionally very invested in it, rented as it is. I run a simple household, and most stuff is there for its functional use, rather than its sentimental value. Maybe moving frequently has something to do with it. There is not much in my home that screams me, except maybe my books and some photographs. And still, why is there such a strong feeling of comfort with this place I call as home? Why does my mind, body and soul feel rested here, more here than anywhere else in the world?

I have a theory on this. Maybe we, as homo-sapiens species, have more territorial instincts that we are aware of. Whenever we move out of our territories, our age old, deep down primal animal brain, stiffens up, and tenses up to deal with all the unfamiliar sights it sees. Our gut screams caution, much like it must have done, thousands of years ago, when our brains were figuring out how to survive in the world. Whatever was unfamiliar could be dangerous, and we get into full-alert state to deal with whatever comes in the unfamiliar situations. And wherever we travel, this deep down animal brain of ours refuses to buckle down, and lower its guard. Its like a unseen watchdog, which is constantly looking out for lurking dangers. It stiffens up the muscles, gnarls up the gut and squares up the shoulders as well, all unknown to us.

It does not matter apparently to this watchdog brain that we are amongst friends, or that we are amongst places that are probably even safer than home. This watchdog brain also has little value for comfort - better springy mattresses, heavily carpeted floors, air conditioned environs et al mean nothing to it. It just knows it is in a territory that it has not seen too often, and is scared about it. This watchdog primal brain of ours does not communicate well with our rational, verbal and senses dominated aesthetic brain, and does not give a damn to it - and despite the pleasure signal that the aesthetic brain gives to it, continues to look for lurking dangers. Just in case.

And then, when we return home, our watchdog brain now sees the old familiar territory it is in, and now, releases it guard. It now knows all the dangers here, it knows every visual image, it knows every sound, it knows every smell - and this place is safe. Now, it packs up its scared feelings, and lets all the tension go from the muscles. And then, it sleeps. A sleep that it has not known for the days that were spent in travelling, in laughing with friends, in drinking in beauty and moving about in luxurious hotels.

At home now, our watchdog releases our muscles and our guts, and sleeps. And we relax. We feel blessed that we have come home. Not because it is the prettiest, nor because it is the nicest, or it is the most comfortable, or even that it has people we love - but simply because it is familiar, it is the most well known territory that we know on this earth. And now, at home, we rest - in a way that we could not rest earlier. The kind of deep rest that nurtures, rejuvenates and uplifts.

Being home is sweet, indeed, in a primal way.

Dreams

Some dreams die early. And that's a relief. The ones who die, even loved cherished ones, can be put behind and one can get on with life.

The ones that I am tormented with are dreams that refuse to die. Dreams that hold me in their bear hug and refuse to let me go. Dreams that do not let me accept reality the way I find it. Dreams that continue to keep me awake at night even though I by now know that they can be just that - dreams.

There was a time in my life when I loved dreams. They were visions of what could be. And they were mesmerizing, seductive. I used to surrender to them whenever I was at leisure, and I used to hatch plans of making them real. Some of them did turn into reality - some by those hatched plans, some by benevolence, and some by providence - and they promptly lost their seductive appeal as they turned real. In a way, they died for me, even though they technically did not die.

And then there were the ones who died. Died because they got killed. Some of them were killed by loved ones, some by destiny's cruel turns, some were born weak, and some of them were killed. By me. The ones I murdered are the ones that I sometimes still remember, the rest now have been forgotten, as they were the ones who I had to wrestle with, and kill them before they killed me.

And then, there are these dreams that live with me now. Some of them I think I still cherish, though I am not sure, not all the time, anyway. Some of them I have tried killing at some time. For some, I have fought for them for years, with back breaking passion, with loved ones, not-so-loved ones, and downright evil ones. Some I have fought with - days and nights on end, sometimes with hard reason, sometimes with brilliant harsh reality, but they have survived. If I kill them, and thats only if I could - Lord knows I have tried - they would kill a part of me. Not leave me whole. Or they may just take me down with them. They are too strong.

I am tired of these dreams of mine. They used to be pleasant to me earlier, not anymore. Maybe they have waited for too long for some action from my side - an action either I could not, or would not do, or providence would not let me do. These days, they do not let me be happy. Lately, they been hollering for attention, screaming for action, and worse, have sometimes made me drop perfectly acceptable situations to run after them. They have me work for them, slavishly, desperately, ruinously. They mock me when I see myself in the mirror, they laugh at me when I laugh on small triumphs, they kick me out of comfortable sleep... Oh, they are demons who feed on me!

Go away, Dreams! Go away. Yes, I no longer need you. I don't need to run after your grand visions, your unquenchable thirst and your deep desires. Go away and leave me in peace. I am too old a woman now, and I now just want to be. Just be what I am, and not what I could be.

Please just go.

Time Stopped By

Time stopped by today, and stayed for a snuggle. It had been a while since I met him. He was in the neighbourhood, he said, and could not resist dropping in. I am glad he did.

I was in the middle of a call when he rang the bell, hesitatingly first, and then, loudly and insistently. I used to love unannounced, surprise visitors earlier, but not any more. I had half a thought to ignore the bell. Whoever it is, if he/she does not have the courtesy to plan beforehand, perhaps I should give them a miss, I thought, but my old self kicked in, and made me relent.

He came in, looking different that what I remember him. He used to have a lazy, langrous, dreamy look about him, with eyes that smiled and loved. He now looked anxious, almost feverish, his teeth clamped under a determined jaw, and I almost did not recognize him. Just then he smiled my name, and it came back - the redolent look - and blood coursed through me, reigniting the love and fierce protection I had always felt for him. I found myself smiling back, forgetting the call I had put on hold, as I took him by his hands, and sat us down on our favourite love seat by the French window, our breaths mingling, hands barely touching.

“How have you been?”, he asked.

“Er… I have been ok, I guess. “, I quivered, as I devoured the familiar look about his eyes. I wondered if he knew that my knees had turned to water.

He looked long at me, his eyes touching every corner of me. I felt myself blossoming under his eyes, and sighing, stretched out on the couch, enchanted by his presence alone.

“You look weary.” he said, looking me deep in the eyes.

“Ah, yes, perhaps I am. You are not with me much anymore these days”, I had to tell him I missed him so.

“You wanted more of me?” he retorted, his gaze now caressing my lips. “For what? Haven’t you used me enough?”

“Used you?”

“What else would you call doing what you do? Running from one place to other, making money, making investments, smiling at strangers, talking to crowds..”, he accused, his eyes still riveted on my lips, making them burn with longing.

I snuggled closer to him. And ran my fingers through his hair – they felt the same. Curly, thick. I could spend hours like this, I thought.

“Be with me tonight.” I whispered, dropping my head on his shoulders, suddenly aching for him inside.

“I am with you now, just as I have been before. You just stopped noticing me’. His voice smelt of unshed tears, smoked dreams and half-forgotten desires. “But I am going away soon. That’s what I came to tell you. I am running out.” he blurted out in one breath.

“Running out?”

“Yes. There will be fewer tomorrows than yesterdays”, he whispered, his eyes now on mine, soft and luminous, my face reflected back in them. “Do me a favour, will you? Do what you really want with me. And be quick.”

With that, he yanked his eyes away, and in one swift movement, got up from the love seat, wore his anxious look again, and before I could assemble my feet to entreat him, opened the door and walked out.

I continued sitting on the love seat, dazed with what he had said, still feeling his presence warm next to me, as waves of regret washed over me. He had to run out, I knew that, but how did I know that it would happen so soon?

I am glad Time stopped by today. I managed a small snuggle – it is not much, but it is something.