Following a dream....

"I have a dream
A song to sing....."

That is one of my favorite ABBA songs. I and scores of others, respond to its call, as we sway to its tune, and surrender to our favorite fantasy, of following our dream, of singing our songs, and attaining Nirvana. It is very seductive - this call to living your dream.

After watching 3 Idiots, the much talked about movie, the one which exhorts students to follow their dreams, Nidhi, my 12 year old approached me with a serious look on her face. "Mom", she said, "You have asked me many times what I want to be, right? I know what I want to be. I want to be a dancer." Rebelliousness on her face, she murmured, "And, don't force me to do equations."

I squirmed internally, tore away the exasperation from my face, and made myself wear a interested and tolerant expression, "All right. What kind of dancer do you want to be, child?", I asked.

"Ummmm.... I am not sure. Like Katreena Kaif"

"Katreena Kaif? You think she is a good dancer?"

"Yes, mom. I like Kareena Kapoor too. You saw the white dress she wore when she danced on Zubi Zubi..? I loved that dress." Her eyes sparkled as she said that.

"Seems you liked the dress better than the dance."

"I love that dress, mom! Can you please buy me that dress, please, please, please, puhleeze... Alright, I will study for 2 hours every day, but puhleeze?"

The conversation ended. How could I discuss career and life dreams amidst craven desires?

I sat her down later to talk about what she meant. "Beta, you want to be a dancer. Alright. I had put you to a dance school, had'nt I? But you never worked there. You never even wanted to go there."

No answer, except an irritated look. "Not again, Mom! Sir used to make us work so hard....I don't want to talk about this any more. I have a History Project to do."

End of conversation. Hmmmmm.....

Nidhi is a good dancer. A really good one. I can tell - I have always loved dance and dancing. I have danced for years, too far back in time, but the love has stayed with me. I can tell the difference between a good dancer, and a forced one. I can tell who is a superficial dancer, and who is a natural. And I can tell when the movements are intrinsically beautiful, or made beautiful by the settings and the dresses that the dancer wears. I just know dance.

Hence, I know that Katreena Kaif is a pedestrain dancer. Kareena is not bad. They both have pretty faces and pretty dresses - like all Bollywood heroines, but their dance is nothing to remember. Bollywood has popularized dance all right, but it is no way the standard for dance. Not by a long shot. And Nidhi wants to emulate what goes around as being as dance by two bollywood actresses. Ah Well...

Nidhi is a natural dancer all right, but she has miles to go before she becomes an excellent one. She chafes at working hard, and I know it would be very difficult for her to reach excellence. Further, even if she is excellent, if she follows her dreams of being a dancer, I don't know whether she would have a shot at being a memorable, successful one.

Why do I say that? Lets take Kathak, a dance form I am passionate about. In all the years of my adult life, Birju Maharaj has ruled the roost amongst Kathak dancers. And he is still at the top. No doubt he deserves it. But how come this is so? Have there been no good dancers in 25 long years? Has he guarded the seat jealously and pushed others away? Even though he is close to 75 now, there is no good second line of dancers, who comes even 50% close to the audience he can get, the money he receives and the fame he has.

In the world of art, the cliff is a very steep one. There is a place for only the first. If there is. And then, in the pecking order, positions start from 50th to 100th. There is nothing in between. Either the artist is opulent, or the artist is barely surviving. There is not much of a middle ground. From the 50th to 100th, the dancers have to prostitute their art to just survive. Maybe take dance classes for small kids - who in terms of art, do not come even 5% close to what they can teach, or marry a rich man, or better still, get divorced from a rich man!

For every Birju Maharaj that we see on the cliff, there are thousands of wanna-be Birju Maharaj's who died trying. And none of them have lived to tell the tale. We see only THE Birju Maharaj, and we hear the bards who sing the story of a young kid who followed his dreams, and made it big on the stage. Yeah, right.

As for becoming someone like Katreena Kaif, I do not even want to hazard a guess to what happened to thousands of other Katreena wanna-be's. The thought itself scares me. No way in hell a daughter of mine will find herself on that route.

Contrast this with, lets say, investment bankers. There is nothing glorious about the jobs they do. Most of them are just trained to find suckers, and they drive around in big cars, hold soirees for the Birju Maharaj's of the time, and wear expensive dresses. But - and here is the key difference - they are a veritable tribe! Further, there are no cliffs in investment banking. They all jostle on a plateau, which has a small hill of excellence on it, which one of them climbs every so often. None of them stay on the hill for not long, but most do get a shot at the hill, however brief, if they try long enough. Even mediocre bankers make enough money to live well, none of the keep-the-body-and-soul-together business here. Also, what a star banker makes and does, and what a mediocre one makes and does, is not a the difference between survival and opulence - it is only of degree.

As a parent, what would you rather have your child do? Be an artist or an investment banker? Let her follow her dream, of force her towards the beaten path?

As an artist, she would have to work hard, very hard. Truth be told, even harder than the brightest investment banker. And then, she would have to play the fate game. Competition would be intense. Only if she is lucky, she would be recognized and celebrated. If fate cries foul, she could even struggle for survival. Yes, she would have followed her dream, but she could easily die trying. Her tale would not be told, and no bards would sing about her. Worse, she could be begging for work, from dirty opportunists who would not be above using her, in any which way they can. This is a dangerously risky business.

And as an investment banker, sure, she would have to work hard too. Not very though. On dark dreary stuff. But for a short while. Then, she would join the thousands of positions available on the investment banker plateau, and have a decent routine to live to. Her uncertainties would reduce to a large extent, she would have food on the table and a decent roof on her head, even though she may not be a stellar banker. True, no songs will be sung about her work, no press would spend time reviewing her. Routine, non-aesthtic, non-excellence oriented jobs do have their compensations.

As a parent, what road would I advise my daughter to take? The steep, uncertain not so travelled road to the cliff, or the motorable much traveled road to the plateau? For, the road less travelled is often a cul-de-sac, or worse, leads to a cliff. Look hard, you would find all the bodies lying next to it. Do the probability math. As parents, thats our job.

So, what am I saying? No dreams for Nidhi, just the beaten path?

No. I love her, how can I turn away from her dreams? Could I convince her not the take that leap of faith at this time, and continue on the beaten path for a while at least? Work on two roads at the same time. Try out the road-less-travelled and see how it goes, as she works the regular road. See if she can take the other road. See if she has the smarts and the brutal hard work required for this unbeaten path. Work with her so that she can gather strength in her wings, so that she can have a safety net to fall into, if the cliff proves to be a death trap.

After all, no one does bungee jumping without a chord on the feet, do they?

Insignificance

Insignificance. Isn't that what all of us fight against, all our lives? And even if we do become significant, to maybe some people or some animals, would it really matter in the long run? In the great scheme of things? To the cosmos? To the universe?

All Izz Well

This line is very popular these days. My daughter says it to me before going to school, her friends say this to each other, youngsters tap on their chests as they walk jauntily, and yesterday, I even saw a T-shirt emblazoned on it.

The "3 Idiots" fever is upon us. I enjoyed the movie too, immensely. A tale entertainingly told, about the most primitive deep rooted desire of ours - to make meaning with our lives. And this is in India, where making meaning is something that several of our country folks can only just dream of, most managing to just about survive. The setting is the young India, the youngistan, as they call it in the bubble gum kitshcy vocab that goes around these days.

Young people will dream. As they have always done. Always should. Always would. And every generation dishes out these feel-good movies, where the young are told that what they do, can and will, matter. Feeding them optimism and idealism. Thank God I am not young anymore. All this "All Izz Well" chant does not generate a fervor in me.

Most of our lives, All is not well. For most of us, what we do, does not really matter to anyone, except our immediate family, whom we feed and clothe. Most of us do not find what we love to do, leave alone being competent to do it. Most of us just survive.

The odds of finding the one thing that one was meant to do in the world are stacked against one. There are so many things in the world to do, how does anybody know what they are best at? Who defines best? How does one know that one is good at building bridges when one has never built one? Or even seen it?

I am not sure why this is so. There are people who DO find what they love, indeed, I am one of the fortunate ones, as I love what I do - not all the time, but most of the time. But only I know how long it took, the knocks I braved, the search that it took, the work after it, and even when I am here- my moments of doubt. So many of them. When I run into stone walls, barren fields, abusive team mates, irate customers, I despair still, and wonder if it was worth it all. This fleeting feeling of love for what I do -will it matter to me, really really matter, in say 5 years from now? In ten? Would it matter to anyone else?

How many of us really find what we love to do? And how many of us are sure that this is it, the thing that we really were sent to this world to do? How many of us really know what we want? How many of us even know how to go about finding out what we want? And when we do find out, how many of us make a mistake? How many of us make a mistake, and then get stuck there, like a helpless fly in a spiders net? There are divorces in marital lives - but none in the professional life. Once an adult takes up a profession, he can never really shrug it off. Why isn't there a notion of divorcing your earlier-acquired-profession? If people make mistakes in finding mates, and give a name to it (divorce) for correcting their mistake, why is there still no word for changing ones profession?

Oh, don't give me that hogwash of the universe conspiring to give me that I really really want! Just tell me how I can figure out what I really really want, and what I am good at. And that too early in life, in youngistan days... the rest will fall in place.....

Strident Optimism

Watched a wonderful play a couple of days back -"Happy Days", written by Samuel Beckett. Exemplary acting by the cast of two - Patty Gallagher and Joe McGrath, performed in an intimate theater setting, like the one at NCPA I used to frequent at Mumbai, the location Rangshankara, Bangalore - which even has its announcements in the voice of Girish Karnad, an old friend sitting besides me, and a young niece on the other side, watching a play like this for the first time. A rare rare treat, in more ways than one.

The play itself, left lot more unsaid than the narrative itself. I was so intently listening to what was being said, that I could not reflect on what was not being said. Age, me thinks. There were times when I could listen and reflect, both at the same time. Ah, well…... Guess age has its compensations, such as being able to appreciate and ruminate over a play like this. Age is better. Yes, it is.

Coming back to the play - the play was about a woman, Winnie, buried in sand, waist down in the first act, and neck down in the second one. No reason evident on why it was so, the sand being a metaphor for many many things. She could be buried in a meaningless existence, a soulless marriage, a dead-end job, whatever. And the sand was just taking her deeper and deeper into the earth, to non-existence, slowly, inexorably, and presumably, agonizingly. And she has a husband, Willie, who lives around her, maybe due to the matrimonial bond, or some other, who is mobile, and yet chooses to live in a hole, crawling in and out of it, sometimes using his elbows and sometimes his head.

The play is about the optimism of Winnie, of her being determined to have a “Happy Day”, despite her being buried the way she is, and her efforts to reach out to Willie as she masticates over the memories when she was not buried thus, engages in her daily routine which she turns into a ceremony, murmurs half forgotten prayers, and tries very hard to reach out and engage with Willie, urging him to connect with her, terrified as she is about "talking to herself". She does not complain about being buried, but just accepts it the way it is, refusing to use the revolver she has in her bag at all times, which could end it all at one go, that which is any case is ending slowly, excruciatingly. She has her days of panic, when she fears about Willie not being there, and her days of doubt as she wonders what people (Shower/Cooker….or something that ended with an ‘er’) say about her, and resigns herself to existing and surviving, and tries to choose the perfect time to “sing her song”. And in all this, she is perennially gay, thanking her God for the thousand mercies, and once even curses mobility, the one thing she does not have, being buried so.

The play ends when Willie crawls out of his hole, one Happy Day, and reaches out to her, to maybe give her a kiss or maybe to make the revolver kiss her, maybe to end her pitiful yearning for intimacy with him, or snuffing out her pitiful existence- difficult to say, which, and when Winnie finally, finally, sings her song. Lilting, not musical, not good, but yet, her song, the Winnie song.

As I walked out with friends, I could feel a disquiet within me. This was an optimistic play, in a way, as Winnie is so hell bent on being happy, and yet, I felt so sad inside. No, this was a terribly dark sad play, I reflected later. Her insistence to be happy, in a situation which is so obviously an unhappy one, is sadder than everything else.

No wonder, the flyer that came with the play called her a “Strident Optimist”. Winnie is optimistic, but her optimism jars. I wish she wasn’t so, I wish I could tell her, “Winnie, it is’nt getting any better, you are just fooling yourself! Your optimism is sad. Very sad, sadder than the wails that you have throttled inside. Cry, if you must, but don’t smile. You are in a hell hole, and it maybe better to just end it, rather than go on this way, it may be kinder to die than to survive.” Maybe thats what Willie decides to do that after all. Kill her rather than face her strident optimism.

I have no idea of what Beckett meant when he wrote this play, or what others say about it. Maybe after I am done thinking about it, I would look for what others have to say, but for today, I need to think more about what he meant, and what sense I can make of it.

To me, the play typified the pain that we all go through, terrified of being alone, of talking to no one. Just like Winnie, we are all scared deep inside when the day will come with the ‘words will cease’, when our breaths are wound down. Just like her, we reach out to find companions, who would care, who find us lovable, and despite finding that the “Willie” we are with, does not care or does not want to, we incessantly try and find meanings in our relationships when maybe there aren’t any. We console ourselves with optimism when sometimes it is obvious that there isn’t any sense in it. And that’s the darkest hour. When we know internally that we are even faking hope.

It happens. It has happened to me. Hopefully, it wont ever happen again. But it did. Then I survived because there was nothing else to do but survive. It did not make sense to survive. Survival seemed worse than death, but survive I did – as I made the notions of going through the day, counting seconds, counting minutes and then hours, every single day, waiting for the sun to rise and set, willing myself to live the next second, even when it made no sense to, as I struggled with the multiple options that I could use to end it all, and found none to be satisfactory.

I survived. And it wasn’t because of hope. Hope had died. But I could not die even when hope had died. I remember a friend asking me of those days – "Just how did you survive?" And I remember answering him – “What else was there to do?”

Inane reason, but who said truths aren’t inane?

Willie survives, and so do the most tortured lives. Not because survival means something better, but because annihilating oneself is tougher and scarier than survival. So, one takes the easy option - Survives, fakes hope, puts on a cheery smile, and calls is optimism. Strident Optimism.

This is so dark, so full of despair. I recognized it because I have been here. Maybe Beckett had been here too. But wait wait wait….That was then. I am not at that emotional junction today, not today. No No.

Today, I would have chosen to take the other perspective, the other path. Not in its emptiness, not in despair. Not even in hope. But in acceptance - not in optimistic way that Winnie did, but in simple, stoic acceptance. Not in right or wrong, good or bad, but accepting reality the way it is, and dealing with it in a spirit of benediction to myself – not because the universe is kind – I still think it is indifferent – but because it is kinder on myself if I think it that way. Lame? Faking it, you say? Yes, maybe.

But could I sing my song, the way Winnie did, in my acceptance mode? No. I don't think so. I wish I could though. Stoic-ism does not lend itself to songs. Singing songs would definately be better, if I could figure out how to. The way, Rabindranath Tagore did. Where I can believe in the benediction of the universe, surrender to it, and believe that there is a beloved waiting for me somewhere, after this worldly existence, even though I have no means of really knowing that He is there, and sing my song, like Tagore does...with so much certainty.

“The song that I came to sing, remains unsung to this day.
I have spent my days in stringing and unstringing my instrument.
The time has not come true, the words have not seen rightly set; only there is the agony of wishing in my heart.
The blossom has not opened, only the wind is sighing by.
I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice; only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house.
The livelong day had passed in spreading his seat on the floor; but the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my home
I live in the hope of meeting him; but this meeting is not yet.”

-Gitanjali, Rabindranath Tagore

Some day, I hope, I can feel the way Tagore felt when he wrote that. And I hope that on no day, I feel like the way I think Beckett must have felt when he wrote Happy Day. No, I don’t want to go on that path again.

The day I feel like Tagore did, I would be at peace with me, my existence and that of the universe, and that day, I would need no “Willie”, nor would I need to fake optimism, strident or otherwise. Till then, stoic-ness is what I will stick to. Try to.

The Race Not Won

Not winning the race
Is not pretty at all.

They say
Its the race thats important
But when the trophy slips away,
Its not pretty at all

They say
Do your best, leave the rest
But the could'a-should'a thoughts
Are not pretty at all

They say
May the best man win
But when the best man is the judge's son
Its not pretty at all

They say
Its the journey that matters
But when one reaches a cul-de-sac
Its not pretty at all

They say
Dream, and the universe conspires to give it you
But when one the dream becomes a burden
Its not pretty at all

They say
In the long run it is for the best
But when the run itself is short
Its not pretty at all

I say
Nothing succeeds like success
And when optimism makes a fool out of me
It is really not pretty at all

In Silent Sufferance

The heat from your body
hits me in waves
under the shared rajai

I writhe and turn
while you snore
hand on my thigh

I crumble
my knees close
shiver out a sigh

What was that?

This is about that one time of my life when I taught "Decision Support Systems" to a class of MBA students at one of the top 20 (So the brochure said) B-schools in India. Management education is serious stuff, where the young wear confident faces, striped shirts and grey trousers to get trained in the business of lucre. The young go through a significant grind to get through to the colleges, pay a lordly sum to be educated there, and being a post-graduate program, none of the first-year-college type levity is expected from them.

My class was of about 50 students, all of them with above 90 percentile of CAT (The vigorously competitive admission tests for management courses in India, for the uninitiated of the Indian education and its competitiveness). All of them came from good schools, presumably english medium schools, and had gone through the 12 or more years of instruction in english. Most of them wore tolerably intelligent expressions, and sometimes appeared to me interested in what I was espousing the intricacies of how business decisions are made, or thought to be made.

The course was graded based to class tests, exercises and cases. Exercises were normally conducted in the class and the students were expected to submit them to me on-line, using wi-fi, after they were done completing them.

One pleasant saturday morning, I was sitting in the class, patiently staring at my laptop, as students laboriously sat in front of me on their laptops, completing the class exercise I had given in the class, while I answered some of my other e-mail. As they would submit and I would receive the submission, I would call out the name of the student whose submission it was, verify that the document reached me safely – as computer viruses could sometimes confound these on-line exchanges, and mark the assignment done. The students could then walk out, or stay depending on their preference.

So, as I sat there on my laptop, watching the exercises fly in as e-mails, listening to the gentle “Ping” sound it made as it dropped into my mail box. Suddenly, one more ping, and I see a lewd e-mail from a student.

“Here is my ass” – it said.

Taken aback, I stared at the screen. I looked up to see if any of the students was grinning lewdly. But no, the class was humming along as usual, with students bent upon their work, or peeping into others.

This is probably one of those corny e-mails which supposedly come from people known to you, but sent by porno drug companies – which promise to make the girls scream all night, and make one the star of the parties if using their drug, I thought, as I checked again, hovering the mouse on the senders name to check the e-mail id. No, the e-mail id was legit, it belonged to a student alright - this came from no drug peddler.

"Here is my ass” the message header screamed at me, as I looked at it again.

Oh Lord, I thought. I don’t think I can deal with a love sick student, not when I getting over all this lust-shust business, my brain hummed. A tiny tingle of anticipation did run through though, and I wondered who the student was. Yes, the name was familiar, but I did not know this student.

But wait, wait, wait - the right side of my brain sang out, “Why is someone offering you his ass? What would you do with an ass? You are not a man!”

Quite right. I skidded to a halt inwardly. No, this is perhaps somebody trying to proposition someone else in the class, and maybe my email id got wrongly used. I sighed, mildly disappointed - cheated out of some cheap thrill, and then glanced around curiously. Just where was this bunch of young lovers?

But no, there were no coy looks, no longing glances, no tears flowing anywhere. What are the young coming to, I wondered. Sending lustful messages, and not even looking at each other? My, technology has really changed things, I rued to myself.

Ping! Ping!! Ping!!! my laptop intoned again! Heck, the same fellow, and similar messages. Looks like the lover is getting desperate…

“Here is my ass 1” – screamed the newly arrived message!

“Here is my ass 2” – screamed the second one!

“Here is my ass 3” – screamed the third one!

Zonked, I watched the screen. Ass 1, Ass 2 and now Ass 3? Hey, hey, hey, how many asses does a human being have? What is this going on, some kind of an orgy?

Then, it began to dawn on me! Aw s*it, I was the one with lewd thoughts - this was just a student submitting his assignments, shortened as “ass”! The previous non-submitted exercises, which were being sent from his machine to mine – and as the young nowadays do, shortened, without realizing what it could read as.

I stuffed the laugh which was threatening to break out of me, and stood up, a solemn look on my face, and asked the class in a loud voice, “Just who is offering me his ass?”

The class could not believe their ears. Some jaws dropped, some eyes glazed, and some nodded their heads side to side, trying to get the bee out of their ears. The silence was complete.

I spoke again, “Just who is offering me his ass?” The class, now sure that they heard me right, began to twitter, not knowing how to react. I turned my laptop around, hooked it to the overhead projector, and let the class see the messages, for themselves.

And then, I sat down on the chair, and laughed with the class till the poor hapless student who had sent me that “ass” offer, ran out of the class, embarrassed like never before! As I walked out – I could not stand in front of the class, and guffaw like a silly fool – I continued to hear the whoops of the laughter till I reached the professors block, and then, I surrendered to the silliness!

That poor student did not attend any of my classes for the rest of the semester. And I bet none of the students ever used abbreviations unthinkingly for the rest of their lives!