Every morning, my alarm rings at 5:45 a.m. Monday to Friday. Without negotiation.
And just like that, the day begins.
A familiar sequence unfolds — the walk, the newspaper, breakfast, work, lunch, more work, dinner, a little television, sleep. Alarm. Again. Life hums along in a rhythm so predictable that we barely notice it anymore.
The weekend arrives like a soft breeze — light, liberating, promising freedom. And just as quietly, it slips away. By Sunday evening, Monday is already knocking, carrying with it structure, responsibility, and the weight of having to show up again.
Days blur into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. And somewhere in this steady flow, life keeps moving — leaving us caught between who we want to be and who we must be.
And what do we long for?
The spark of something new. Unplanned trips. Impulsive decisions. Late-night laughter and midnight malts. A life led by desire rather than duty. A life where mornings feel like paintings and evenings read like poetry.
And in this hopeful pursuit of the extraordinary, we dismiss the life we already have. We call it ordinary. Boring. Routine. We grow impatient, irritable, restless — convinced that our real life is waiting somewhere else.
Routine, after all, isn’t glamorous. It looks like the same breakfast, the same walk, the same conversations. It feels unremarkable — as if life is on a continuous repeat.
And yet…
Why is it that we ache for routine precisely when it disappears?
A few days away from home, and we begin to miss our 6:30 a.m. cup of tea. That quiet, focused hour of work. The comfort of an early night. Even the most beautiful destinations slowly lose their charm. And after retirement, many of us find ourselves longing for the days when there was no time to think at all — when life moved us forward without asking too many questions.
So what is routine really giving us, that we only understand once it’s gone?
I found my answer looking out from a hospital window.
Outside, life was unfolding as usual. People rushing to work, arguing into their phones, buying fruits, laughing, hurrying somewhere important. In their utterly unremarkable busyness was an unexpected comfort: the quiet assurance that all was well. That their lives were moving as they should — without alarm, without worry, without urgency.
And that’s when it struck me.
Routine is not monotony. It is evidence that things are fundamentally okay.
It means the world is not on fire. Children are healthy. Parents are well. Relationships are steady. Life is quietly holding together.
Routine doesn’t just organize our days. It anchors us. It gives us direction. It gives us the space to plan, to hope, to dream — and to build anything meaningful: a career, a relationship, a life. It isn’t stagnation; it’s movement without panic. Progress without noise.
So the next time you catch yourself thinking, “Nothing special today,” pause. Nothing dramatic is happening. And that — quietly, beautifully — is what makes the day special. It allows us to trust in another tomorrow.
True, routine is simply okay. And okay, I’ve learned, is a beautiful place to be.
“Gently… gently,” the potter murmurs, as if speaking to the clay itself. My fingers follow his lead — a press here, a soft release there. The wheel spins, the clay rises, and slowly, a tiny pot takes shape. With a loop of string, I cut it free and hold it up, smiling with the quiet wonder of having made something from nothing. Not perfect, not polished — but unmistakably mine.
Creation is like that. You begin with something raw, unformed. You work on it, and with time, it becomes something meaningful.
Creation is in sowing seeds and watching them push through the soil.
In nurturing children as they grow into themselves.
In turning a handful of ingredients into a meal that warms the table.
In arranging a room until it feels like home.
In filling a blank page with words.
In knitting a scarf or painting a canvas.
In growing an idea into a thriving venture.
In building relationships.
In shaping our own dreams into reality.
In each act, something shifts from nothing yet to something now. And no matter how often it happens, it never stops being wondrous.
We humans are, at our core, makers — not just of things, but of possibilities. This is our greatest shared heritage: a restless, hopeful urge to create, improve, and leave behind more than we found.
And we have carried this impulse across millennia. From shaping clay pots to building cities. From planting seeds in the soil to sending seeds into space. From stringing beads into necklaces to stringing satellites across the sky. From inventing the wheel to developing code that will power superintelligence.
And the wonder isn’t in the pot, the meal, or the invention — it’s in us.
I am sure the universe knows exactly what it’s doing when it brings people together. It rarely pairs like with like. More often, it brings opposites into the same orbit — people different in a hundred small ways, who, somehow, make perfect sense side by side.
Take my husband and me.
I like to share. Everything. What I did. What I didn’t. Who I met, what they said, what they didn’t (but clearly meant).
The blog I’m writing. The butcher who messed up my order. The stray dogs in the colony. The cook who staged yet another dramatic exit. The cousin whose cousin is now somewhat famous…
And him?
He’s a man of few words. But many nods.
Let’s be clear — these aren’t the tender, attentive, “yes, my dear, I agree” kind of nods. These are the absent-minded, default nods — dispensed while checking emails, reading the news, or scrolling through WhatsApp groups.
Over the years, we’ve settled into a rhythm. I talk. He nods. I throw up my hands in mock exasperation. And then — eventually — he looks up. Fully present. Curious. As if hearing it all for the very first time.
*
It’s not perfect. And yet — there’s something oddly comforting in this dance of words and nods.
Because I understand where his mind is… It’s somewhere between a delayed shipment at customs, a lost pitch, the latest dip in stock prices… and a hundred other quiet battles he fights daily.
And still — his nods, even if distracted, tell me something. That my words have landed. Somewhere. Softly. In that busy, burdened, but deeply dependable heart.
It’s hard to explain. It’s not logical. But in those simple nods, I hear this:
“I know you need to say it.” “I know it matters to you, even if it doesn’t matter to the world.” “I trust your instincts, even if I missed the details.” “And I’ll always be here, nodding along — because I love how your mind works, even if I can’t always follow where it’s going.”
It’s his way of showing up — with a nod. The smallest, quietest act of partnership.
(Though at times, he does surprise me. Like the time he suggested we holiday in Bruges — something I must have mentioned, sometime, somewhere. He had remembered. Even if I’d forgotten I had said it.)
*
So here we are. All these years later.
Me, still talking. Him, still nodding.
A marriage where one partner needs to speak — and the other gently makes space for it. And in these little spaces between our words and nods, we’ve built something whole.
We all remember O. Henry’s The Gift of the Magi. A short story that lingers from years ago. A story in which a young couple, poor in money but rich in love, give up their most valued belongings to buy gifts for each other.
Jim sells his treasured gold pocket watch to buy combs for Della’s long hair. Della sells her glorious long hair – to buy a chain for Jim’s gold watch.
And just like that, the gifts — so thoughtfully chosen — are rendered useless. But Jim and Della end up with something far greater… A seal on their love so tender. So pure. So perfect.
And O. Henry transforms the story into a universal lesson on love and wisdom with the lines:
Of all who give gifts, these two were the most wise. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are the most wise. Everywhere they are the wise ones. They are the Magi.
*
Somehow, I never really understood what O. Henry meant by the “Magi.” Maybe that’s because, as Indians, the idea of Magi isn’t part of our cultural inheritance — we don’t find them in our childhood stories or the epics.
But a few days ago, I stumbled upon a quiet reference to them… I learned that the Magi were the holy men of ancient Persia, guardians of sacred fire, seekers of stars, known for their wisdom, stillness, and spiritual vision.
In time, they found their way into Christian tradition as the “wise men from the East” who followed a star to offer gifts to a child born in silence and straw (Jesus). And in that moment, they came to represent something universal: the sacred art of giving — not for show, not out of duty, but from a place of deep love, reverence, and humility.
*
O. Henry, in his simple tale about Jim and Della, reimagines the Magi beautifully. He reminds us that the Magi were the first to give gifts — and that this young couple, foolish in their sacrifice and radiant in their love, had somehow become the wisest of the Magi.
Something stirred within me as I read the words and I thought: Maybe – just maybe – like Jim and Della, we all carry the spirit of the Magi within us? And perhaps it is simply waiting to be awakened?
Ater all, the wisest gifts aren’t the ones that sparkle. They’re the ones that say: I see you. I am here. They are the small, unshowy acts when we share ourselves – our time, our attention, our presence.
A quiet smile of acknowledgment. A simple thank you that speaks louder than any wrapped gift. A listening ear when someone has no one else to turn to. A kind word that steadies someone just when they need it most. A caring hand on the shoulder. A quick phone call that says, Just checking in. A soft reaching out to someone caught in a dilemma.
We don’t need material wealth to show up in someone’s world even when one barely has the time. Or to notice the unspoken ~A sigh that lingers too long. A smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes. Or when we meet someone, to ask about things that truly matter to them ~ what they’re dreaming of, what’s been weighing on their heart, or what brought them joy lately.
Because wisdom lives in the softer details ~ Letting someone go ahead of you in a queue when they look worn down by the day. Or giving someone the benefit of the doubt, especially when they’re not at their best.
Sometimes, the wisest gift can be not giving anything at all. When silence can be more healing than advice. It’s in knowing that the other person doesn’t need a solution, but just needs us to listen and understand.
These gestures don’t make headlines. They won’t earn likes or applause. But then, when we give from the heart, we make the deepest impact. And in the quietest way possible, become more whole.
And maybe that’s what the Magi knew all along… That every one of us holds the power to give gifts that don’t dazzle but quietly glow in the hearts of those around us, long after the moment has passed.
*
I hope to begin my journey in the footsteps of the Magi — not someday, but now. Not with grandeur, but with a softened gaze, a listening ear, a moment of presence. And each night, before I sleep, I will ask myself: What did I give today that cost nothing, yet meant something?
Because in these quiet reckonings — in these unspoken gifts of the heart — we become, in our own way, a little more wise.
A little more like the Magi.
The three wise men who followed the star to Bethleham
Ladies and Gentlemen, let it be known—I am a proud consumer of leftovers.
And no, I don’t just mean food (though yes, I’m absolutely the sort who’ll turn yesterday’s limp sprouts into a cheela, rescue last Diwali’s dates one a day like a ritual, and combine three almost empty namkeen packets into one glorious new mix).
But my leftovers loyalty runs deeper. Into bathroom cabinets. Into cluttered drawers. Into those mysterious, half-forgotten corners of the wardrobe.
When something new enters the house, the family does their little dance—sniff, dabble, grimace… and promptly abandon. And that’s when I swoop in.
That barely used bottle of Korean snail slime serum languishing at the back of my daughter’s cupboard? Mine. The lemongrass shampoo my husband tried once and declared “too fancy”? Also mine. The ergonomically perfect phone dock my son instantly decided was “too much effort”? You guessed it. Mine.
I am, unofficially, the patron saint of bits and bobs most would call remnants. Soap scraps? Lovingly stacked and pressed into a new bar. Hotel shampoos? Decanted into anonymous family-size bottles. (My kids once asked me what brand the shampoo was. I said, “Limited Edition.” The eyeroll I got? Predictable. But worth it.) Partially used deodorants? Stored upside down in a wire basket, ready for one last roll!
But my pièce de résistance? The humble toothpaste tube. It’s a full-blown ritual.
First, it’s inverted overnight like it’s in penance. Then comes the flattening. The rolling. The masterful squeezing. If it plays hard to get, I run it under warm water. Still stubborn? Out come the scissors. A quick snip. A full excavation. Because not even a whisper of minty freshness escapes me. Not on my watch.
Lately, I’ve been eyeing this contraption on Instagram—an absurdly priced roller that promises to squeeze out every last bit from the tube with elegant efficiency. Tempting? Of course. But really, who needs it?
I am the contraption. I am the Finisher-in-Chief. Not because anyone appointed me—but because I volunteered.
Because nothing—and I mean nothing—sparks joy in me quite like getting the most from the least.
There’s a smug, quiet thrill in watching the last bit of bodywash drip into the decanter. In using the patchwork soap bar I made myself, which now looks oddly artisanal. In admiring my fridge full of neatly stacked Tupperware, with stuff that has been repurposed and relabelled into something entirely new.
Little things, yes. But each one? A victory over waste. A tender nod to the women before me who believed that nothing was ever too little to matter.
We grew up hearing things like: A thing saved is a thing earned. If you look after the paisa, the rupee will look after itself. And my personal favorite: Wastage begins in the kitchen, and from there, marches straight to moral decline.
Back then, it was just called ‘not wasting.’ Today, it’s rebranded as zero-waste. Sustainability. Conscious consumption.
But for me, this dal to deo life is more than a habit. It’s heritage. It’s therapy. It’s love—expressed quietly through thrift, imagination, and care.
Akshay, my son, likes to take a chicken tikka roll to work. Not once in a while. Not as part of a rotating menu of varied choices. No, he eats one every single day, five days a week. Like it’s a job requirement. His colleagues don’t even ask what he’s having for lunch anymore. Instead, the running joke is, “Hey, Akshay! How was the roll?”
I know he likes chicken tikka rolls. Who doesn’t? But every single day?
In the beginning, I thought it was a phase… like the time his sister Tanvi insisted on bread-and-jam sandwiches for kindergarten. But no, this isn’t a passing fancy. Years have gone by. The world has survived Covid, multiple iPhone versions, political upheavals, and yet, Akshay is still unwrapping the same old chicken tikka roll, Monday through Friday.
Doesn’t he ever want a change? When I ask, he simply shrugs and says, “It’s easy.”
And that, I have come to realize, is the whole point. Having the same lunch saves him from thinking about lunch. One decision less to make. No weird surprises. No disappointing experiments with “something new.” No regrets about overindulging in something fried or fabulous. Just one tiny thing he can control while Trump throws the world to the dogs, while the stock market crashes, while AI threatens to outthink us all. Maybe eating the same thing every day isn’t a failure of imagination but an act of quiet resilience. A way to carve out a small, steady island of certainty in a sea of chaos.
And I’ll admit—it makes my life easier too. In an Indian household, where food is sacred and the kitchen often feels like a full-time battleground, my son’s predictable palate is a gift. No endless deliberations about what to pack. Grocery shopping? A breeze. Meal prep? Streamlined. Just roll, wrap, and done.
Still, I have a feeling the reign of the chicken tikka roll may be coming to an end. Akshay’s new bride enjoys variety in her meals. She’s unlikely to make the same roll with the same precision, day after day, year after year.
Or maybe, just maybe, she too may come to appreciate the quiet genius of the chicken tikka roll?
Time will tell.
PS: Do you like to eat the same meal every day for days? Do share.
Valentine’s Day arrives, and love steps into the spotlight. Everything – yes, everything -from balloons and chocolates to cupcakes and even pizza, is suddenly heart-shaped. And for one full day (at least), love feels magical.
*
This year, like every year, Valentine’s Day left me grappling with the eternal question: What is love, really? Is it a sudden jolt, like lightning out of a clear sky, which leaves you breathless, dizzy, and utterly bewitched?
And then I wonder: Did I ever fall in love?
I’ve been married for 35 years to a man my parents introduced me to. Before I even saw him, I heard his voice – deep, confident, reassuring. Our first meeting was a blur of conversation; we talked nonstop, swapping stories, dreams, and laughter. One meeting became two, then three, families gathered, wedding plans took shape, and just like that, we were married. Decades later, here we are – still together, still devoted, still finding joy in everything we share (touchwood!).
Our children, though, “fell” in love in the classic sense, full of drama, excitement, and movie-type romance. When they describe love, it sounds like fireworks and magic – something grand and dizzying. And I can’t help wondering: What makes their love different from ours?
Sure, in our case, there was no chase, no drama, no stolen glances across crowded rooms. No love-struck confessions, no candlelit dinners, no carefully planned surprises or perfectly chosen gifts. But then, we dated with the quiet confidence of commitment. And like any young couple, we looked forward to being together, savoring every moment, counting down the days until marriage would seal our togetherness.
So maybe the real question isn’t What is love? but rather Why do we believe it only counts when it comes with fireworks?
*
After thinking it through for many, many years, I have come to the conclusion: It is not about falling in love – it is about being in love.
So what if our relationship began with mutual respect, appreciation, and commitment instead of a whirlwind romance? So what if it was a path of discovery, deepening over time through shared experiences? So what if it started with uncertainty and blossomed into something steady and enduring?
Arranged or not, love has a way of finding you. It sneaks up quietly, weaving itself through the fabric of everyday life – shared cups of tea at dawn, laughter over dinner, the chaos of raising children, and the resilience through life’s storms. It doesn’t arrive with grand gestures but settles in through small, unremarkable acts of kindness, patience, and unwavering warmth – until one day, you realize those ordinary moments are everything. Love isn’t just a feeling; it’s a sense of home – not in a place, but in a person. And it is in the years after marriage that love truly comes into its own, evolving into something deeper, something real.
For my husband and me, love has been a journey – one that, decades later, has brought us to a place where words are often unnecessary. It’s the quiet accumulation of a thousand little moments that, together, create something profound. It’s knowing each other’s quirks and embracing them, arguing without truly wounding, forgiving without keeping score.
It’s waking up every morning and instinctively reaching for his hand. It’s sharing inside jokes no one else would understand, reminiscing about past adventures while mapping out new ones, sitting through his favorite shows even when I can’t stand them. It’s reading in the same room in comfortable silence. It’s letting him have the last bite of dessert because I know he wants it but will still leave it for me.
In the end, it doesn’t matter how love begins—what matters is how it grows. It’s simply knowing, deep down, that life makes more sense with the other person in it.
*
So no, I didn’t fall in love in a grand, dramatic way – but love found me anyway, quietly and steadily, like sunlight creeping into a room, soft and unassuming, until one day I looked around and realized everything was glowing.
And after 35 years, that feels more romantic than anything else.
“Finally.” My body remarks sarcastically as I unroll the yoga mat. “Thought you could ignore me forever?”
I sigh. The moment has come – a long overdue reckoning. Years of slouching, scrolling, and slothfully avoiding movement have left my body stiff, shriveled, and simmering with resentment. I pretend not to hear the sarcasm. Instead, I take a deep breath and mentally map out the steps of Surya Namaskar before getting going.
Breathing deeply, I fold my hands in the Prayer Pose. My palms press together, my feet ground into the floor, and I hear my body scoff, “Oh, we are doing this now?”
I inhale, arms rising toward the sky. My shoulders groan. “You’ve been folding inward like a human croissant for years. Unfold us!” The left actually creaks, like an old door hinge in a haunted house. But miraculously, it complies.
And then, the real reckoning begins.
As I exhale and bend forward, my body – after months of deep lethargy – stages a coup. Joints crack. Muscles protest. Hamstrings pull taut. My stomach squishes uncomfortably against my thighs and shrieks, “What fresh hell is this?!”
I reach for my toes, and my body responds with a mocking chuckle. Undeterred, I exhale, relax my upper body, and inch a little closer – until, at last, my fingertips graze my toes. Just as I savor the small victory, my body interrupts with a sharp command: “Next!”
I ease one leg back into Equestrian Pose. My hips—accustomed to sofa life—sulk. My thighs grumble. My fingertips press into the mat as the stretch claws its way up my legs. And my body prods smugly, “Keep going.”
Then comes Plank Pose. My arms shake under the weight of, well, me. My core mutters, half betrayed, half disappointed: “We used to be stronger.” I breathe through it, a silent apology forming in my mind. I’m here now. We’ll fix this. But my body, skeptical and unforgiving, is not buying it.
Though I am not prepared for what happens next.
As I lower myself into Eight-Limbed Pose, my hands betray me – I slip and crash face-first onto the mat. “See what you have done to yourself,” my body jeers. I stay there for a moment, winded, flushed, utterly humiliated. How did I let it get this bad? The question barely forms before my body delivers its smug response: “You know the answer.”
With quiet determination, I push myself back up into the Pose. This time, my body lets out a reluctant sigh. “You’re listening,” it admits grudgingly. “It’s about time.”
The Downward Dog is tough. My calves scream, elbows quiver, and my hamstrings are, I am sure, actively plotting revenge. But there’s something oddly satisfying in all of this. Especially when my body, finally relenting, concedes: “You’re working on me. That’s all I ask.”
As I go through the last few motions of Surya Namaskar, my body doesn’t feel as stiff or accusatory. Instead, it feels hopeful. “Do this regularly,” it says, softer now. “At least thrice a week. And I’ll reward you.”
Finally, back in Pranamasana, hands folded in gratitude, I hear it whisper one last time. “We’re in this together,” it says.
And for once, I listen.
Fully. Completely. With the attention it deserves.
And I know we’ll get there. Slowly. Surely. Together.
Who would have imagined that a week that began with a doctor – who, with the precision of a prosecutor, laid out all the terrible things I’d been doing to my body for decades – could end up being, of all things, rewarding? And yet somehow, after the tidal wave of alarm and self-recrimination had passed, it actually was.
A week of detox at a wellness retreat tucked deep inside the forest in the remote hills of Uttarakhand. Just me and my husband Atul, and seven whole days of hot massages, green juices, and well-meaning strangers reminding us to breathe deeply.
And I have to admit, I can’t quite figure out why we didn’t do this sooner. Really, I can’t. Was it because we were so busy with the usual business of life? Or was it because we’d always thought of holidays as time to see new places, buy shoes, and let the kids have fun? And honestly, wasn’t detox something for other people? You know, the ones with bad knees and high cholesterol? Or… maybe it was because we’d always dismissed these retreats as glorified getaways for people with too much money and not enough sense. Whatever the reason, we were wrong. About everything. Every last thing.
So, finally—after being married for thirty-five years, after raising and marrying off two children, and after spending hours debating and rejecting every possible winter vacation destination on the planet—we did it. And here we were. Finally.
*
The first thing we noticed was the Quiet. Yes, with a capital Q. The stillness of the dense lush forest seemed to seep into us. It was divine. Sacred. People spoke in hushed tones, their movements slow and deliberate, as if unwilling to disturb nature’s rhythm. It was like stepping into an alternate universe where silence wasn’t just the absence of sound but a presence in its own right. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so utterly, completely at peace.
Life, for once, hit the pause button. And stayed there. The days stretched lazily before us: long walks down winding paths that seemed to go nowhere, indulgent massages that seemed to unlock every single knot of tension I’d been carrying since I could remember, and a menu of therapies that looked like something out of a dream journal. Yoga. Meditation. Gardening. And the pièce de résistance? Guilt-free sleep for long, unhurried hours. It was like living inside a self-help bestseller, except that I didn’t need to underline a single thing. By the second day, we were fully converted. Life, it seemed, was all about rest, renewal, and rejuvenation. And we had finally learned how to indulge in all three.
And then there was the food. Infuriatingly good food. Not the kind of good that makes you want seconds but the kind of good that makes you wonder why you haven’t been eating this way your entire life. Everything was fresh, filling, and annoyingly virtuous—salads so vibrant, broths so delicate, and desserts that tasted better than anything I’d ever eaten — despite containing absolutely no sugar. It wasn’t deprivation; it was discovery.
But here’s the thing—the real revelation wasn’t in the food or the deep breathing or even the quiet. It was the unloading of the stress. Stress we’d been hauling around, both of us, for so long we’d forgotten what it felt like to be rid of it. And somewhere between the Ayurvedic massages, the green smoothies, and the gentle meditation sessions, that stress began to dissolve. I knew it was gone when Atul burst out laughing when he was served rolled-up pineapple presented as stuffed cannoli dessert… and laughed and laughed, the belly-deep laugh I hadn’t heard from him in years. That’s when I knew we’d found the magic.
By the end of the week, I wasn’t just detoxed. I was transformed. Lighter, freer, calmer—and dare I say it, kinder to myself. Because sometimes, all you really need is the quiet of a forest, the space to breathe, and enough time to forget about the chaos around—and inside—of you. Perhaps most importantly, I learned to listen to my body, which had been screaming at me for years, and finally figured out what it had been trying to tell me all along.
Sometime during that week, I realized the sheer brilliance of putting myself first. Not in a narcissistic, self-absorbed way, but in a way that gives me permission to pause and think about what I, as an individual, want. My own desires. My own thoughts. My own well-being. It sounds so new, so revolutionary—and yet, somehow, it feels like the most obvious thing in the world. Like discovering a secret that had been sitting right there, quietly waiting for me to notice it. Which, of course, I did, while sipping herbal tea and wearing a white kurta-pyjama!
*
This coming New Year, I’ve made a resolution. It’s not about losing weight or achieving targets or tackling the endless to-do list. It’s about I, Me, Myself. Not in the selfish, “ignore the world” sense—but in the “finally take center stage in my own life” sense. And I can’t wait to see how much brighter everything looks from here.
If I were to name one thing that I absolutely associate with my mum, it would be her ‘Singer’. Her beloved Singer sewing machine. The most poignant memory of my childhood is her sewing away in the afternoons till it was time to cook dinner. And then, she would unhinge the handle, tuck the unfinished garment in the base, and pack the machine in its wooden cover.
It was from its compartment that toddler me had fished out a tailoring chalk and pushed it up my nose, watching her as she hunted around for it until she realized it was up my nostril! Another time, I did the same with a tich button which would not get pulled out and she had to rush me to the doc! After which she stopped storing her tailoring supplies in the machine’s compartment (and began keeping a sharp eye on me as I toddled around!)
The machine is as old as my mum. Her mum – my grandmum – bought it soon after my mother was born, an original Singer machine made in England. When my mum married, grandmum gifted the machine to her.
My mum would sew everything we needed ~ our clothes, school uniforms, curtains, cushion covers, blankets, even pants were made on the Singer. I remember my dad coming home from work and helping her cut fabric for my frocks from patterns in magazines. My favorite is the dress she fashioned out of my grandmother’s 50-year-old-real-zari lehenga for my eleventh birthday!
She even stitched the chenille quilts for my trousseau, frocks and a silk blanket for my daughter on her birth, and a tiny tiger-print velvet jacket for my son which was later worn by my grandson. All with her faithful Singer!
When my mum moved in with me a couple of years ago, the Singer came along. Despite the (almost) nine decades it has seen, it shines bright, black paint intact, gold lettering faded a little here and there, wooden base and cover as good as new.
Till date, all our clothes are repaired on the Singer. Which is why life came to a standstill last week when threads from the reel and the bobbin would not interlock properly. And for the first time in nine decades, the ‘repairer’ needed repairing.
And as I watched the technician service the machine, brushing it, oiling it, adjusting it, I realized the extent of my emotional connect with the machine. It is an extension of my mum and all that she epitomizes. The three of us have been together from the day I was born! Perhaps this explains the amazing amount of contentment I felt when all was well in our ‘Singer’ world again!
I love the 10-second videos you have been sending of baby Arham as he comes out of play school. We were all so apprehensive (and I am sure you and Garvit were too, perhaps even more than us) that you had enrolled him into a play school. Goodness, he is so young, all of eighteen months, was our first reaction. And he will cry and cry and not want to go at all, we were certain. And sure enough, he came out howling the first day of school. He cried more the next day, and even more the next… on the fourth, he was teary-eyed, and on the fifth, he smiled meekly at the young girl who escorts him out. Over the second week, we have watched with delight as Arham strides out the door, confident and happy.
And this is how it always is. The first time at school. You were the same. So was your brother. And I myself remember crying inconsolably as my mom walked out the door of my nursery school. This is an instinctive reaction to things never-seen-before, to situations not yet understood, to the monsters unknown… Who are these people? What is this place? Where are mom and dad? Why have they left me here? What will happen to me?
Slowly this newness gives way to familiarity… children soon realize that there is, after all, nothing to fear in these new surroundings ~ people here are quite all right, the boys and girls friendly, and the toys and games fun! Which is so evident now in the confident smile Arham beams up at you!
As Arham grows older, he will feel the same alarm, the same anxiety, the same agitation in every new situation he finds himself in… And he will always have two options. To step back, stay put, and avoid experiencing anything new. OR. To step forward, explore possibilities, and forge new paths for himself.
And this is where your role as a parent comes in. What you teach Arham, how you respond to situations, will model how he responds to anything and everything around him…
*
I love the way you let Arham saunter freely on the walk back from school, keeping close behind, as he picks up fallen fruit, examines stones, splashes through puddles, falls and picks himself up, points out tractors as they thunder past… If you were to keep cautioning him, you would curb this exploratory enthusiasm, you would rob him of all chances to grow. I like the way you let him venture forth, let him discover things, let him make his world bigger. I admire the way you curb your instinctive urge to protect him… and I am sure he will become a cheerful, confident individual in his own right.
*
Children feel fear… it’s a normal part of their development. They are afraid of the dark, loud noises, going to the doctor, and all the ghosts and imaginary creatures created by their vivid imagination. These fears are transient and will no doubt fade over time, but no childhood fear is ever small. No monster any less real or terrifying.
Welcome him when he seeks refuge in your lap; trust me, your reassurance at this moment is crucial in rebuilding his confidence. Never dismiss his fears as childish or dumb or irrational. Encourage him to share his fears with you. His fears are to be respected, not ridiculed at. They are to be acknowledged, not overlooked. They are to be explained, not belittled.
When Arham fears something or someone, as you did every time our bearded-turbaned neighbor visited us, ask him: What are you afraid of? Why are you afraid? See: there is nothing to be afraid of… It was only when we made you tickle our neighbor’s black bushy beard were you able to let go your fear of him. And when he tickled you back, he became your friend.
Teach Arham to ask himself: Why am I afraid?
Because only when he understands his fear, can he reason with it, deal with it. And feel competent enough to conquer it.
*
At times, you may have to tamp down your own ingrained fears as he ventures forth… Do not let your fears become his fears. Do not show him your fears. Just like I do when I see him running into a flock of feeding pigeons… Arham’s joy as hundreds of pigeons scatter and fly away in a mad flutter of wings keeps me from giving in to my own phobia of feathered birds.
Do you remember the first time your brother Akshay, not yet 13, went off alone on his first wildlife photography trip with a group of strangers? We had learned about this expedition barely two days ago… and there we were, on a hot summer afternoon at Nizamuddin station, meeting the couple who ran the tour and fifteen amateur photographers at least thirty years old, all strangers. Akshay had a wait-listed ticket and the train kept getting delayed hour by hour until it was nightfall. Both your father and I felt misgivings stir in our minds during the long wait, our anxiousness increasing by the minute. What if Akshay’s seat in the train could not be confirmed? Wouldn’t Akshay be totally isolated among the much older strangers? What if he had a problem? What if he needed something? How would he cope in the unknown jungle for an entire week? But we kept our disquietude to ourselves. How could we rob Akshay of the quiet composure he had exhibited throughout the day?
Akshay did leave on the train that day. And came back brimming with stories about his new friends, his new adventures, his new passion. Over the next two years, Akshay went on more than thirty expeditions in India and Africa. And published a 172-page-coffee table book on wildlife at the age of 16!
What great injustice would we have done Akshay if we had held him back… it was an important lesson for us too… a reiteration of the learning that what cannot be seen needs to be explored, not retreated from, not shied away from. Because on the other side of uncertainty, lies possibility.
Swallowing our own monsters, we had let him leave on that train that day, let him take the risk. We had let him create his own safety simply by letting him do things on his own. And then celebrated his sense of pride at mastering something new independently. And over the years, watched as he grew into a confident young man, comfortable in all situations, at home and away.
*
As Arham grows older, he will encounter fear at every juncture of life… When he leaves home for college, takes on a challenging job, moves to a new city, settles down with a partner, has children… he will then need all the tools he has learned over the years to decode his fears, unravel them one by one, overcome them. Only then, will he be an independent human being, capable of living his life to the utmost.
And now is the time he needs to begin assembling his toolkit; over the years, he will add on more and more till he is – to use Michelle Obama’s expression – ‘comfortably afraid’ in dealing with situations in life. So that he will emerge, again and again, with the strong conviction: I CAN DO IT!
Perhaps this is why I have always loved the song “Hawa, hawa!” (Wind, wind!) from the film Rockstar ever since it released way back in 2011. The music, the lyrics, the setting, the shooting, the dancing… everything about the song is par excellence.
In case you are not familiar with the song, simply imagine: Picturesque plazas in Prague bustling with people. Vibrant music. A local troupe enacting an age-old fairytale. Young flamenco dancers turning and twirling. Drawn by the sounds, our protagonist, an aspiring musician from India, joins in with his guitar, and in his unique bohemian style, begins narrating the mysterious tale of an errant Queen who disappears at night and wears off twelve pairs of shoes every night! Soon the heroine in the film joins in in the merrymaking, and we are treated to a colorful gala amidst the timeless beauty of Prague!
The pure energy and youthful exuberance of the song are infectious. But it is the story in the song that appeals to me even more.
Adapted (and changed considerably) from the original German legend of ‘The Twelve Dancing Princesses’ compiled by Brothers Grimm, the song recounts the agonizing despair of a young Queen as she yearns to break free from a life stifled by societal norms and pleads with the King to take away all her riches in exchange of a carefree existence filled with joyous love.
Woven beautifully into the narrative of the film, the song befittingly conveys the emotional turmoil of the heroine who rebels against her loveless marriage and desires the tempestuous thrill of unbridled passion with her lover. The song refrain: Hawa, hawa! (Wind, wind!) is her cry for freedom.
*
Personally, trying to understand why this song resonates with me is part of my quest to find my Self and define my own unique purpose in life.
“Hawa, hawa!” is a call for me to delve into the depths of my inner Self and reflect on my values, my beliefs, my passions… so that I can wash away years of conditioning and discover the real Me.
Because unless I know myself, how can I flow freely like the Wind? Unless I embrace my true nature, how can I express myself fully? Unless I follow my own path, how can I experience true joy in life?
Yes, that’s me. Holding sunflowers. For the first time in my life. Though I fell in love with them decades ago…
I first saw sunflowers as a kid in a coffee table book we had at home… Van Gogh’s sunflowers were strangely alluring. I would see them in movies, magazines, and photographs… Yellow fields stretching into the horizon with sunflowers so big, so bright, so beautiful, their cheery heads bobbing in the breeze. And I would imagine myself walking among them…
Though I would actually get to hold them many years later when in Mexico City my husband Atul espied them at a florist and promptly bought me a few. And lovingly clicked a pic of me too!
And this is how you see me here with my sunflowers…
A wide smile on my face,
A warm glow in my heart,
A wonderful moment captured in time.
Isn’t it amazing how the smallest of things in life become our greatest joys?
PS: Another precious moment: A bouquet of sunflowers arrives from my children Tanvi, Garvit and Akshay on Mother’s Day today (13 May 2023). And I happily pose again!
When my sister-in-law Sandrine sent me this beautiful photograph last year, it captivated me instantly. The bird of paradise is my favorite flower and this particular picture tugged at the strings of my heart… the young flower seemed to be saying something, seemed to be yearning, seemed to be ready… FOR WHAT?
After I wrote the first version of the poem, my thoughts stayed with the flower for a long time… its youthful energy and enthusiasm giving way to a sombre moment wherein it contemplates the course of its life…
When my sister-in-law Sandrine sent me this beautiful photograph last year, it captivated me instantly. The bird of paradise is my favorite flower and this particular picture tugged at the strings of my heart… the flower seemed to be saying something, seemed to be yearning, seemed to be ready…
When my dad Arvind shortlisted my mom Kusum from matrimonial ads in Hindustan Times, his primary consideration was her BA-LT degree. Which could get her a job as a teacher. Arvind being the sole breadwinner in a family of six, one more earning member would make all the difference.
And it did. The family’s circumstances improved considerably after my mom took up a teaching job in a government secondary school. A loan taken to buy land and build a house in Model Town was soon paid off, and my grandmother would go around proclaiming: I have one more son now!
And this is how it all began. My mom and my dad. At that time, Arvind could not even imagine the monumental and memorable role Kusum would go on to play in his life!
*
The biggest quality in my mom is her ability to view life with a “सब ठीक होगा” (everything will work out just fine) attitude. When I am worried, when I am in turmoil, a feeling of calm practicality pervades me because, thanks to my mom, I truly believe that things will be fine in the end.
Her immense sense of contentment is unheard of. Whatever be the circumstances, I have never heard her lamenting on ‘what could have been,’ never seen her demanding anything, never found her dissatisfied with life.
She is content within herself… never afraid to take on work, putting in her best, for whatever it takes, till whenever it takes.
*
Of her various roles, I think my mom Kusum’s role as a wife has been the most commendable. Walking with my dad, side by side, matching step by step. With unconditional support. And utmost commitment.
*
By the 1970s, Madhuri, the Hindi film magazine my dad Arvind launched for the Times’ group, had become a household name. Yet, he was haunted by a gnawing restlessness to do something more meaningful in life… And in a moment of epiphany one night in December 1973, he clearly saw his goal: To create a thesaurus in Hindi. A feat not attempted by anyone else in the world!
The next morning, during their walk in the Hanging Gardens, Arvind shared the thought of making a Hindi thesaurus with Kusum. For which he would have to give up his job and they would need to move back to the family home in Delhi, living on meager savings till the thesaurus could be published.
And Kusum agreed. Immediately. How many women would do this? How many women would agree to leaving behind a comfortable lifestyle in South Bombay and renounce a social life hobnobbing with film industry people? And trade it all for an existence of uncertainty, obscurity, and adjustment in a large joint family?
From that very morning, Kusum cut down on household expenses saving every penny for the future; Arvind began work on the thesaurus along with his Madhuri job. And Kusum worked by his side. Over the next twenty years, Kusum would help Arvind build up the mammoth Samantar Kosh data, and then, single-handedly supervise its computerization over several months ~ every day, she would organize rows of cards scrawled with handwritten words to be fed into the computer, proof-read the computerized data, pick out errors, and then check the corrected data. Arvind’s perfect partner.
*
In a journey fraught with difficulties. Kusum faced every challenge, bore every calamity, rode every crisis, with unheard-of resoluteness.
When an unexpected devastating flood in Model Town swept away all their material belongings, Kusum did not grieve for all that was lost; both she and Arvind celebrated the fact that their future – their thesaurus cards – had been saved from the flood waters because they were safe on the mezzanine floor!
Fearing future floods, Arvind’s father sold off their house – the very house on the basis of which Arvind and Kusum had moved to Delhi! Refusing to let this major setback deter them, they used all their savings to purchase land in Chandra Nagar on Delhi-Ghaziabad border. Perforce, Arvind returned to journalism ~ to launch the Hindi edition of Reader’s Digest, Sarvottam. With hardly any money left, the new house was built using unorganized labor on a daily wage basis with Kusum supervising single-handedly, procuring materials, seeking permissions, making innumerable trips to Ghaziabad to procure the meager quota of 25 bags of cement and riding back in the truck alone… uncomplainingly. With zest and zeal. Arvind’s valiant warrior.
*
And my mom did all this while managing the house and bringing us up. Resources were limited but she never let us feel deprived. She took special care of my dad’s health after he suffered a massive heart attack in 1988. After his bypass surgery, keeping Arvind in good health became her mission. Arvind’s perennial protector.
*
And this is how it was. For 62 long years till the second wave of corona swept Arvind away from this world. Always. With him. Beside him.
A woman who made her husband’s dream her own, and became his endless source of energy, enthusiasm, and encouragement. His wife. His companion. His collaborator. His champion. Undoubtedly, a togetherness ordained by nature.
Very often accused of not letting the other person complete his talk and of reacting hastily and dramatically, I am always trying to inculcate that rare quality of being a good, nay a great, listener.
And I came across this interesting article in Harvard Business Review, What Great Listeners Actually Do, by Jack Zenger and Joseph Folkman that throws new light on the topic. Contrary to what is believed, great listening is not being a sponge and absorbing what the other says; this research-based study suggests that an effective listener is like a trampoline, against whom you can bounce your ideas and who actively helps you look at things clearly and effectively. https://hbr.org/2016/07/what-great-listeners-actually-do
So, I penned down a note to myself on all I learned from this HBR article. The style of writing is inspired by Rudyard Kipling’s poem ‘If’.
If I be silent while you talk If I sit nodding now and then, making an occasional ‘mmm…hmmm’ If I can repeat what you say Then you will know I hear what you say.
If I be active in the You-Me interaction If I question you, gently, in a constructive way If I do so without judgment, trying to comprehend Then you will know I am interested in what you say.
If I be attentive to what you say and also, what you don’t say If I listen to you with my ears AND eyes If I hear you out without offense or defense Then you will know I am trying to help in what you say.
If I be supportive and keep the conversation flowing If I make suggestions which challenge your assumptions If I help you sort your thoughts and see things in new light Then you will know I am truly listening to what you say.
*
And only when I remember to do all of this in every interaction I have: Then, only Then, will I be a great listener!
“I know less about films; so does my reader. So, I should tell them all that I would like to know about films,” reasoned my dad, Arvind Kumar, as he set out to launch Madhuri, a new film magazine in Hindi for the Times of India group way back in 1963.
*
Films are much more than stories enacted by actors. Yet, anything published about films, in those times as is the case today, focuses on the gloss and the glitter and the glamour of films and their stars. And of course, the gossip around stars. The vision, the intellect, the expertise, the dedication, the collaboration that goes into making a film – the quintessential art form – goes unnoticed, unappreciated, unrewarded.
Madhuri brought all this to the fore. Right from its very first issue that came out on 26 January 1964. Madhurisought to educate its readers about each and every aspect of film making, about the people involved in its making – onscreen and off it. It taught its readers how to watch a film; what to look out for, what to appreciate…
*
I began reading Madhuri when i was about 10 years old. And my favorite part of the magazine was Shilalekh, a unique feature that Arvind serialized for the magazine.
Shilalekh was a remarkable, never-before-tried format of film narration ~ an experiential description of the film, shot-by-shot, word-by-word, in graphic detail, with extensive commentary on the notable use of expressions, camera, music, songs, scene, setting, lighting, costumes as well as distinct style and techniques of direction. It made the reader understand the specific elements and techniques that contribute to the impact of a scene. Arvind ‘shilalekh’ed’ many great films ~ Mahal, Pyaasa, Aadmi, Baazi, Devdas, Dhool ka Phool and so many others.
Shilalekh made Madhuri one of the largest selling Hindi film magazines of its times, a record unmatched till date! Expectedly, the circulation fell when Arvind, by design, discontinued the feature in 1977; much before his planned departure from Madhuri in May 1978 ~ because he did not want the dip in circulation to reflect on his successor’s performance.
I hold Shilalekh especially close to my heart because I was witness to the entire process… I remember going with my dad Arvind to Pune to see these films at the Film Institute of India Archives; the yellow pads on which he would take copious notes; the Philips tape recorder he used to record the entire audio of the film; the bringing together of the recordings with his notes; the sessions at home where over a stretch of 2-3 days he would dictate the Shilalekh content to his typist; and my pride when at times, he would call me to check the finer details of a scene!
*
To give an idea, here is an excerpt from the Shilalekh of P C Barua’s Devdas (1935) in which K L Saigal played the lead role.
THE OPENING SCENE
–फ़्रेम मेँ बंगाल की शस्य श्यामल धरती का एक टुकड़ा दिखाई देता है. पार्श्व संगीत की धुन बदल गई है. इसी फ़्रेम मेँ नीचे बीचोँबीच किसी युवती का सिर है. केश की लट पीठ पर लटक रही है. उस के दाहिने कंधे पर थाली मेँ फूल रखे हैँ. वह फ़्रेम मेँ पूरी तरह दिखने लगती है, लगता है मंदिर जा रही है. वह हम से दूर जा रही है. वातावरण मेँ सहगल की आवाज़ मेँ गीत गूँजने लगता है:
बालम आय बसो मोरे मन मेँ
बालम आय बसो मोरे मन मेँ
बालम आय बसो मोरे मन मेँ
आवाज़ सुनते ही युवती ठिठकती है. पलट कर इधर उधर देखती है. इस तरह हम भी पहली बार उस का मुँह देखते हैँ. यह अभिनेत्री जमना है. वातावरण मेँ वही पंक्ति बार बार गूँज रही है. यह न समझ पा कर कि आवाज़ किधर से आ रही है, वह फिर हमारी तरफ़ पीठ किए आगे चलने लगती है. फिर रुकती है, चलती है. आवाज़ शिकायत कर रही है:
सावन आया तुम ना आए
युवती फिर रुकती है. अचानक गाना बंद हो जाता है. युवती ने फूलोँ की थाली घास पर रख दी है और पलट कर देखती है.
–पेड़ की झुकी शाख से टिका, दूसरी तरफ़ मुँह किए, आधा छिपा एक युवक खड़ा गा रहा है:
बालम आय बसो मोरे मन मेँ
बालम आय बसो मोरे मन मेँ
गायक को खोज पाने की सफलता से प्रसन्न हो कर, उस की शरारत को पहचान कर, स्वयं शरारत के इरादोँ से भरपूर, मन ही मन मुस्कराती युवती दबे पाँव उस की तरफ़ बढ़ती है. हम भी धीरे धीरे युवक के पास आते जा रहे हैँ.
युवती ने पेड़ से पतली टहनी तोड़ ली है. वह फिर युवक के नज़दीक आ गई है. उसे निहारती है. शरारत से मुस्कराती है. नौजवान गाए जा रहा है. युवती ने टहनी से नौजवान के कान को छेड़ना शुरू कर दिया है. एक पल नौजवान ऐसा अभिनय करता है जैसे उस पर कोई असर ही न पड़ा हो. वह गाता रहता है…
Language makes us human. When our ancestors invented language more than fifty thousand years ago, they forever sealed our fate on earth. They set mankind on a path of constant growth and development making us the most powerful species on earth.
Indeed. The power of words is extraordinary.
Words can inspire, words can demoralize.
Words can strengthen, words can damage.
Words can nurture, words can destroy.
Words can cheere, words can condemn.
Words can win peace, words can make wars.
As screenwriter-lyricist Divy Nidhi Sharma aptly writes:
शब्द हैं… अतरंगी, कुछ सतरंगी से…
शब्द हैं... गुनगुनाते गीत गाते
कुछ मस्त हैं, कुछ त्रस्त हैं, होठों पे करते गश्त हैं...
कुछ झूठ हैं, कुछ सत्य हैं, जादू भरे ये शब्द हैं!
Words are... many colored, some with the seven hues of the rainbow
Words are... humming, singing
Some merry, some distressed... swaying on the lips
Some false, some true... Words are full of MAGIC!
She then goes on to say…
जन्म से लेकर मरण तलक
सब खेल-तमाशा शब्द हैं!
From birth until death
Life is a theater of WORDS!
Covid has disrupted the way we live. And just when we seem to be adapting to the change, the virus mutates and a new normal is defined… once again.
Yes. Corona has, for years to come, definitely rung out our existence of worrylessness. It has taken away our sereneness, carefreeness, sureness. It has shaken us out of our insouciance, and tomorrow now is uncertain, unpredictable, ungranted.
Yet. As we ring in the New Year, I realise that Covid has not been able to throw out our hope for the future. Our belief that we will overcome. Our ability to live life to the fullest.
Dawn heralds the beginning of a new day, a new opportunity, a new hope. For my family – my mom, dad and brother and me – the rising sun will always hold special significance.
*
I remember the morning almost 48 years ago when my brother a lanky teen and I an eight year old, had tagged along with our parents on their usual walk in the Hanging Gardens. A quiet solitude bathed the garden, the animal figures carved from hedges barely discernible in the morning haze. As mummy and papa took their customary five rounds, bhaiya and I hung around, examining spider webs, hunting snails and caterpillars, playing hide and seek, and then tired, sitting at the far end of the park, enjoying the view from our vantage point atop the Malabar Hills ~ the steep slope of the rocky hillside, the high rise buildings in the distance, the Arabian sea down below.
Little did we know that at that very moment, our parents were making decisions that would change the course of our life. That my dad would decide to work on his dream of making a thesaurus in Hindi, a vital resource for the language not yet conceived and created by anyone. That my mom would begin saving in earnest so that my dad could give up his job as editor of the film magazine Madhuri and devote himself full-time to the thesaurus. That we would move to our family home in Delhi to escape the high cost of living in Bombay.
The sun was coming up as mummy-papa joined us. Together, we watched the rising sun bathe the sky a purple-pink, turning the gulmohar trees on the hillside a golden tangerine and the sea a mass of twinkling blue in the distance.
Mesmerized, the four of us stood there, hands resting on the garden railing, silently taking in the vast expanse of openness around us… Looking back, I realize, the rising sun had been a harbinger of hope and hard work in the times to come… forging the paths of our lives.
*
Two years later. 19 April 1976. The day my dad wrote the first card of the thesaurus.
Since their decision in the Hanging Gardens, my parents had actively begun to give shape to their dream. Preparations were afoot ~ reference books purchased, cards for writing the words printed, trays for housing the cards customized… Papa decided he would launch the work in Nasik, a city in Maharashtra on the banks of the holy river Godavari, where his company, the Times of India, had a guesthouse. We could stay at the guesthouse, a comfortable bungalow with huge gardens and compounds, for the entire summer while papa began work on the thesaurus.
Rising early that day, the four of us made our way to the Godavari for a dip. Everything seemed special that day. The glow from the rising sun, the near-empty banks, the pigeons on the banks, the ring of temple bells, the whoosh of wind in the trees, the sound of our feet as we went down the steps to the river…
The water rippled as the four of us waded in. I slipped my hand into my mom’s… For a long moment, the four of us stood there, looking out at the river stretching before us till it seemed to meet the sun in the sky, and in that moment, the river became a molten gold, blinding us to tears. It was magical. A perfect morning to launch a dream.
Later, we bought a copper urn and had the date engraved on its rim. Returning to the bungalow, papa wrote the first card of the thesaurus (then titled Shabdeshwari) and all four of us signed on it, date and all.
Though I would fully appreciate the true significance of that day only twenty years later, when mummy and papa presented the first copy of Samantar Kosh, the first ever thesaurus in Hindi or any other modern Indian language, to the erstwhile President of India, Dr Shankar Dayal Sharma.
*
Today, forty five years later, I wonder: Was it fate? Or destiny? Or the will of a higher power that my dad’s dream became a family enterprise over the years? And that Samantar Kosh came to epitomize togetherness in its truest sense and became the binding link of our family?
Who would have thought that day on the banks of Godavari that papa would dedicate his entire life to Hindi, overcoming hurdles, physical, financial and personal, in his unabashed, undefeated and undeterred pursuit of a dream?
That my brother Sumeet would be instrumental in making papa’s dream come true. That he would organize funds for a computer, and despite being a surgeon, learn programming himself to create software for the database, and then teach papa how to work on it… and that he would become an integral part of all papa’s works for always.
That papa would not rest on his laurels even after the stupendous success of Samantar Kosh but continue to improve and update his database, and most importantly, link it to the English language making Arvind Lexicon the only bilingual database of its kind in the world.
That my mom would prove to be the ultimate partner in life and support my dad unconditionally through thick and thin. That she would be there alongside him ~ building the database, looking after his health, taking care of us.
That from a little girl who only comprehended that her father was working on a ‘book,’ I would take it upon myself to take papa’s work to the people. And that my husband Atul would encourage and support me completely in my efforts.
*
Last week, Samantar Kosh brought our family together once again. As part of our venture to document papa’s contribution to the Hindi language in a film, we came together at Rock Beach, Puducherry, a town where my parents and Sumeet spent many years working on the database. And the four of us, decades later, witnessed yet another glorious sunrise.
A cool breeze blew in from the sea as we made our way to the black rocky path jutting into the sea, the blue water stretching endlessly before us. And the orange disc of the sun becoming visible through the clouds above the water, tinting the sky a bright orange, outlining the clouds with a vivid pink. And brilliant rays of light fanning into the sky!
It was simply divine.
Wordlessly, we watched as the magnificence of the moment filled us with wondrous joy, transporting us to another realm, drawing us still closer. It took us back in time to the sunrise at Hanging Gardens when the four of us had begun our journey almost five decades ago. We stood there now, each one of us silently acknowledging the vital forces of nature that had been inspiring us, guiding us, urging us, all along. Each one of us happily aware that togetherness along with devotion and dedication are key to realizing dreams, however unattainable they may seem!
We turned back, revived and revitalized, with another dream in our eyes, the vision of linking the Arvind Lexicon database with global languages to create a World Bank of Words… the rising sun our witness once again.
With every passing year, our circumstances change, our aspirations change, our priorities change… and life? Life adjusts accordingly.
At 20, I was a student looking to complete my education, begin a career, get married. At 25, I was married with a baby girl and working with an international NGO. At 30, I had crossed over from the field of health & nutrition to hard core consumer research. At 35, I was a mother of two and had given up my full time job to work from home. At 40, I took up my passion for writing, wrote on health for newspapers and magazines and authored a book on nutrition. At 45, I set up a firm for publishing our in-house dictionaries and thesauruses.
At 50, my children had flown the nest, and it was just me and my husband at home… We spent more time with our parents and friends, travelled, ate out, attended plays & exhibitions, binge-watched TV shows… a refreshing change from the time-bound commitments of earlier years.
It also gave us a lot of time to think. To think about ourselves. What did we want as individuals? As a couple? As a family? What direction did we now want our life to take? More importantly, how could we prevent ourselves from sliding into a comfortable existence with only memories and remembrances to bring joy? How could we ensure that we had something to look forward to every single day?
This thinking-through process was especially important for me. I had spent the last 20 years working from home in the mornings and then being with the children when they were back from school. Now I had the entire day to myself. How could I make my days more meaningful, more purposeful?
It was now time. Time to review, renew, refresh. Time to reboot.
*
Something the American talk show host Oprah Winfrey frequently talks about finds complete resonance within me.
Your life journey is about learning to become more of who you are, and fulfilling the highest, truest expression of yourself as a human being. That’s why you’re here.
Oprah Winfrey
Inspired, I dug deep within me. I asked myself: What do I really want to do for the next 10, 20, and 30 years of my life? What gives me true happiness? What aspects of my life do I need to change? What flaws do I see in myself? How can I align myself more with the world around me? And the answers set me off on a path of self-actualization wherein I have done the following:
1 I have reignited my spark for learning.
I have become passionately curious. I am all eyes and ears for news on politics, economics, technology, business, health, fashion… I realize that being up-to-date helps me understand the world we live in, it empowers me to participate in conversations freely and knowledgeably.
To stay intellectually alive, I try to expand my knowledge every which way I can ~ meeting new people; reading newspapers, magazines, and books; listening to podcasts and talks; watching YouTube videos, films, documentaries and TV shows; participating in workshops and master classes… I now seek to learn from each person I meet, every interaction I have, anything I come across. So that I never ever become outdated.
2 I have become more social.
Nothing de-stresses more than the company of people we like and vibe with. I have reconnected with long-lost friends from childhood, teachers from school, colleagues of yesteryears. I now mingle with them regularly ~ heart-warming interactions over coffee or a meal or on whatsapp. I do more ‘together’ things with them ~ zumba, dance, mah-jong, movies, short holidays and such.
I have also begun volunteering within our community, something unimaginable five years ago!
3 I have taken charge of my health.
I have – with considerable success – shaken myself out of my comfort zone and begun to focus on improving my eating habits, exercising seriously, resting adequately, getting health checks regularly and whatnot. And believe me, the sense of satisfaction is beyond description.
4 I have tried to become a better version of myself.
I have finally begun applying the self-help gyaan I have been reading over the last so many years. (Richard Carlson remains my favorite author till date… his Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff series suggests simple daily changes for leading a more fulfilled and peaceful life.)
For instance, I am – slowly but surely – making peace with imperfection and becoming more tolerant; letting go and accepting others as they are; talking less, listening more; becoming more compassionate, more kind, more helpful… Most importantly, I have become less rigid in my likes and dislikes and more open to change.
My self-improvement list is endless… but a beginning HAS been made. I now get along with the world more easily, more amicably.
5 I try to make every day count.
Every day is important and I try to include all that I consider essential in my day – work, fun, rest, exercise, socializing… so that when I go to bed, I can happily (and honestly) tell myself that the day had been meaningful and that tomorrow will be even better.
*
Given the improved quality of life and advanced health care in our times, I genuinely believe that the 50-70 year category is the new middle age. And this definitely merits a major re-think of our life as we turn 50.
Each one of us is unique. And the path we choose for ourselves will also be unique. But choose we must. So that the next few decades can be as full of energy as the decades gone by. With no regrets for the ‘roads not taken’.
The very fact that I have been able to identify my path fills me with great joy. The knowledge that I am moving along my chosen path fills me with an intense sense of fulfilment.
We don’t know each other though I have seen you on the Netflix show Indian Matchmaking. Something you said on the show has been bothering me for months. Hence this letter. Don’t dump it… read through please.
Your single-minded conviction to excel is impressive. You moved to the US with your mum and sis when you were a kid. Today, you are a young successful lawyer in Houston. Bravo! In search of a ‘perfect’ mate, you have networked with friends, tried dating apps, and now, hope to find one through the services of a matchmaker. And I sincerely wish you find your match soon!
And perhaps my ‘two-penny worth’ could help you in your quest? And who am I, you may ask, to advise you? Consider me a well-wisher who is happily married with two grown-up children and who would like to share her learnings from a life spent living with the same man for the last 30 years.
An interfering antiquated auntie? That I am not. DEFINITELY NOT!
*
You are right: we don’t pick our parents, we don’t pick our siblings, the only family member we CAN choose is our spouse. True. It’s a choice with lifelong repercussions. You seem to be a person with sound judgment; indeed, as you say, every choice you have made since the age of three has been great. Good for you. This will surely help you find the right man soon!
True. One can’t settle with just about anybody. And you have every right to reject men ‘because they haven’t fit with what I want in my life partner.’ But what really unsettles me is your single-minded steadfastness when you say that the person you pick has to fit into your life perfectly.
How does this happen Aparna? Is a perfect fit possible when two people come together?
You rejected one guy because he loved football and you hate it. You declared that you would never watch football with him, not live, not on TV. You didn’t think much either of the guy who had not heard of the salt plains of Bolivia or of the man who said he would like to visit Dubai and South Africa, both places you don’t think much of. You found it weird when someone expressed the wish to spend ten days on a beach, doing nothing. You were horrified by the prospect of going mountain climbing with another. Anyone with a sense of humor, according to you, does not take life seriously.
Aparna, each partner brings his or her own likes, dislikes, interests, obsessions, strengths, weaknesses into the relationship. Every individual is unique. Even congenital twins. So how can a spouse be exactly like you? Does one marry a clone?
My husband Atul and I are poles apart. He loves anything and everything to do with business, economics, politics, crime, war ~ be it news, books, movies, shows, documentaries. I am into nature, history, travel, space, art, literature, sci-fi and romcoms. I love shopping, he does not. I am crazy about movies, he is not. I love meeting people, he is unusually shy. He loves to eat out, I am a cook-and-eat-at-home person. He is committed to golf, I am not. I can go on and on about how different we are as individuals… Yet, our relationship resonates with happy togetherness.
Each one of us has learned from the other, experienced new things, widened our perspective and I seriously believe, grown into better individuals with time. And isn’t this how it should be when two people share a life? And this togetherness has taken days, months, years to nurture.
I request you Aparna to approach the matter differently…
Don’t be categorical about what you like and what you don’t. Instead, next time you meet a prospective match, ask yourself: Do I connect with this man? Because if you do, you can carve out a shared vision for your life together.
Communication is key. In all relationships. To talk, discuss, argue. To share your thoughts, to express your viewpoint. To sort out differences, to bridge the divide, to be able to reach an agreement. Especially since each partner brings his or her unique ideals, experiences and expectations into the marriage.
And once you do settle on a match, commit yourself wholeheartedly. Marriage then can be a wonderful journey where both of you grow without growing apart, without changing the other, without resenting the other.
*
Another thing on the show bothers me. The matchmaker Seema Taparia reiterates, time and again, that marriage is a compromise. I disagree.
Compromise implies giving in, relenting, resigning, succumbing, suffering, doing something against your will. Marriage is not a game of one-upmanship. You and your spouse are a team. If changing one’s ways helps the team, it is NOT compromise. It is charting a path with mutual agreement, even when at times, it may not be entirely suitable or convenient to one of them.
A married couple creates (or rather, needs to create) a life where strengths and weaknesses of one complement the other. Somewhat like Atul and me. Where his ethically motivated choices complement my aesthetically motivated ones such that, I am the action to his vision. He is the clarity to my clutter. I am the how to his why. He is the thinking to my feeling. I am the anchor to his industry. He is the contemplative to my reactive.
And it is this complementariness that secures and strengthens our relationship. That keeps us warm and secure in happy times, in trying times.
*
This letter has begun to sound like a sermon… forgive me Aparna. But I HAD to write it in the hope that it sets you thinking anew. And when you do find your special someone, remember: No decision can be de-risked completely, however much you think, deliberate, analyse. And once you do decide on your mate, will you be happy?
Being Meeta 