It was a few years ago that I first heard the expression, “slow cooker.” Since I had started cooking when I was well into my fifties, I thought the expression referred to someone like me, somewhat like a child who does not start speaking till age three. However, of late I have been hearing of the wonders of slow cookers, how bachelors have survived for months just putting in their meats or veggies and coming back home to a perfectly prepared meal. Sort of makes me wonder what the ideal tam-brahm bride would do, if she got married to a man who already had a slow cooker. To be brides from India, searching for a match on the internet, make sure that the man does not have a slow cooker. It may put to nought the skills that Amma has honed in you.
For those not fully familiar with the terminology or technology a slow cooker is aka crock pot. You put the raw food in, set it on low, go away, take a drive to Belleville or Niagara, depending on your preference, and, when you come back your food is done
Anyway, for a few months I have been eyeing different types of slow cookers. My daughter had one, and, on the few days she actually felt like cooking, would put some channa and masala and come up with a very tasty channa-masala. I had not ventured to acquire one of these slow cookers, though the thought had crossed my mind. So, this morning when my daughter’s friend called from Canadian Tire and said that slow cookers were on sale, 40% off, I said ‘Go for it…”
While I waited for the booty to be delivered I searched the internet, and, thanks to Google located a site giving slow cooker recipes for vegetarians. From there I selected a cauliflower-potato-lentil soup which is now being slow cooked as I write. This will be dinner for Lakshmi and I, tonight. Later in the night I plan to soak some chick peas, and, copy Geethu’s recipe for tomorrow’s meals.
These days when I go to the supermarket I go to the pots and pans section looking for cookware and other kitchen aids. The other day, as I bought an onion chopper, I remembered the first ‘mixie’ that my mother got, a Kenwood grinder. There is a bit of a family story behind that grinder.
My elder brother was very good at playing the football pools in England where I grew up as a child. Somewhere in 1953 or so he won Fifty Pounds (a princely sum of money in those days) and went and bought a Kenwood grinder for my mother. That evening when my father came home and my mother showed off the grinder to him, my father asked the pertinent question, “Where did he get the money from ?” When my mother told him that her darling son had won the money playing the football pools, my father was livid that his son was ‘living off the earnings of gambling’ and that my mother was encouraging it. Needless to add my mother had her way, and, notwithstanding the somewhat tainted funding of the Kenwood grinder it stayed to serve up many a delicious meal, full of ground coconut and masalas.
For many years my mother had a particular stainless steel vessel in which she cooked rice. Even after pressure cookers became common she would cook the rice in that particular vessel. For her there was an emotional attachment to it, something like the ‘akshaypatram’ (the vessel that cooked unlimited food) that the Pandavas used during their exile. She used to tell us that as long as the akshayapatram was there, there was no shortage of food in the house. When my father passed away and my mother closed down her kitchen the stainless steel vessel she cooked rice in, passed to my eldest sister-in-law.
When it came to food, my mother had several rules. The most important of them was that there should always be food in the house to serve an unannounced visitor. She taught her daughers-in-law never to cook to exact proportions. Her theory was that the Goddess Lakshmi (the Goddess of Wealth) often made her rounds unannounced and if there was no food for Her, the family would suffer. Needless to add, there is always enough and more food in the house, and, often during my college days, friends would come home with me, and, be surprised that there always was food available for a couple of ‘growing boys.’
These days, when I find that I have to retire a cooking vessel, I feel that I need to acknowledge the contribution it has made to our kitchen, in serving up food. So, I was very happy when my nephew and his wife wrote to tell me recently that the Sumeet grinder I had gifted them for their wedding seven years ago, had just retired (a dignified way of saying it had gone kaput…sounds more respectful).
Such and other are the thoughts that come to my mind as I wait for my new toy, the slow cooker to cook the cauliflower-potato-lentil concotion that I have placed in it.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Halla Bol and the life of empty nesters
Walking down to the parking lot on Friday evening, I met one of my colleagues who asked me, ‘Any plans for the weekend ?’ I started replying by saying, ‘Now that my son has left for grad school we are truly empty nesters…’ Before I could finish my sentence she said, ‘So what do you do now that it is just the two of you ? Frolic around naked the whole day ?’
My dear colleague has some illusions about sensuosness thirty five years into a marriage. For most of the weekend, Lakshmi is upstairs working her way through some tax journal, as the North American tax season approaches, and, I am doing YouTube searches for carnatic music on my computer in the study. This morning I cooked and before I did so bharya priyaa reminded me that there were only the two of us around, and, I should adjust portions accordingly. The rest of the day is taken up with her asking me to do something or the other which I heartily resist.
Of course, thanks to MSN and Yahoo we spend quite a bit of time video chatting with my son, who has some interesting theories about girls at his grad school. Given the supply-demand ratio, heavily weighted in favour of the girls, he feels that they are ‘over priced.’ Two hours spent in the company of girls in Canada would fetch better returns than with those at grad school, he says. My wife is happy at this economic model her son has developed…
Anyway, dear colleague, just wanted you to know that empty nesters do not spend the whole day frolicking around naked…by the time you reach empty nester stage, you have no desire to see any family member naked…
So, us empty nesters decided to watch a Hindi movie, ‘Halla Bol’ yesterday. The Indian lady at the Indian store where we buy our groceries and pick up movies had strongly recommended this movie as one that ‘your missus’ will like. My normal attention span for any movie, Hollywood, Bollywood or Kollywood is about 15 minutes before the snores take over…I sat through this movie, full three hours, and that is one indicator of how it impacted me…
Then, as I slept last night, fears buried deep in the sub conscious surfaced in my dreams. I remembered driving through Mumbai’s Eastern Express Highway some twenty five years ago, at 3am in the morning to be in the office before a bandh started, and, the fear that one would be stopped by marauding bandh protagonists and beaten up…the deep fear that memory churned up in the pit of the stomach is still there…similarly the deep fear that almost resulted in voiding one's self (aka shitting in the pants) as one walked through twenty deep picket lines of factory workers on strike, shouting and jeering at you, 'Management', not knowing whether a bulb of acid would hit me in the face...even today I check my pants when the memory surfaces...
Halla Bol as the name and its sound signify is all about protest and violence of this stomach churning, bowel loosening variety…the story captures the traumatic struggle of Sameer Khan, nee Ashfaque Khan, first as he struggles to reach the top rungs of success in the film world, then his alienation from the human world around him, and, then his trauma as he fights to reconcile his success with his human world…
There are several current Indian real life incidents of today’s news stories that find their reflection in the story…however, the violence that is captured is not restricted to India…that is the same violence that recently took the life of an innocent bystander as he walked down Yonge Street in Toronto last week…in the wrong place at the wrong time…and the same violence that I saw as I ducked one night sitting at New York’s Penn Station when suddenly shots rang out…could have been me in the wrong place at the wrong time...and the fear that grips me every time I get into the tube in London on a Saturday afternoon and see a bunch of soccer fans making their way into the same compartment...
Pankaj Kapoor in the role of Sidhu, the reformed dacoit performs best. There is a real life tinge to his reformation, as in the scene where he wields the sword once again, and, then takes his victims to the hospital…
Ajay Devgun is good…he is able to bring realism to his anger…and the scene that stays in my mind…full of anger and violence of the most potent kind…when he urinates on the Persian rug of a big time political bigwig’s house as the bigwig goes to fetch him Scotch…’yeh desi daar hai, Ganpatrao’ he says. Difficult to translate that statement into English except that to say that it is a play on Scotch and potent country liquor. However it fills one with disgust and that is what the filmmaker wants to accomplish…
The film makes us conscious of the violence we live in, such an integral part of our lives…not just in India…but, essentially everywhere in the world…something we cannot wish away with all the piousness…no mantra will help you control your bowels as you walk through picket lines for your bread...and as I became aware of it, the deeply buried fears of my own from days gone by surfaced…watch the movie and see what surfaces for you…
My dear colleague has some illusions about sensuosness thirty five years into a marriage. For most of the weekend, Lakshmi is upstairs working her way through some tax journal, as the North American tax season approaches, and, I am doing YouTube searches for carnatic music on my computer in the study. This morning I cooked and before I did so bharya priyaa reminded me that there were only the two of us around, and, I should adjust portions accordingly. The rest of the day is taken up with her asking me to do something or the other which I heartily resist.
Of course, thanks to MSN and Yahoo we spend quite a bit of time video chatting with my son, who has some interesting theories about girls at his grad school. Given the supply-demand ratio, heavily weighted in favour of the girls, he feels that they are ‘over priced.’ Two hours spent in the company of girls in Canada would fetch better returns than with those at grad school, he says. My wife is happy at this economic model her son has developed…
Anyway, dear colleague, just wanted you to know that empty nesters do not spend the whole day frolicking around naked…by the time you reach empty nester stage, you have no desire to see any family member naked…
So, us empty nesters decided to watch a Hindi movie, ‘Halla Bol’ yesterday. The Indian lady at the Indian store where we buy our groceries and pick up movies had strongly recommended this movie as one that ‘your missus’ will like. My normal attention span for any movie, Hollywood, Bollywood or Kollywood is about 15 minutes before the snores take over…I sat through this movie, full three hours, and that is one indicator of how it impacted me…
Then, as I slept last night, fears buried deep in the sub conscious surfaced in my dreams. I remembered driving through Mumbai’s Eastern Express Highway some twenty five years ago, at 3am in the morning to be in the office before a bandh started, and, the fear that one would be stopped by marauding bandh protagonists and beaten up…the deep fear that memory churned up in the pit of the stomach is still there…similarly the deep fear that almost resulted in voiding one's self (aka shitting in the pants) as one walked through twenty deep picket lines of factory workers on strike, shouting and jeering at you, 'Management', not knowing whether a bulb of acid would hit me in the face...even today I check my pants when the memory surfaces...
Halla Bol as the name and its sound signify is all about protest and violence of this stomach churning, bowel loosening variety…the story captures the traumatic struggle of Sameer Khan, nee Ashfaque Khan, first as he struggles to reach the top rungs of success in the film world, then his alienation from the human world around him, and, then his trauma as he fights to reconcile his success with his human world…
There are several current Indian real life incidents of today’s news stories that find their reflection in the story…however, the violence that is captured is not restricted to India…that is the same violence that recently took the life of an innocent bystander as he walked down Yonge Street in Toronto last week…in the wrong place at the wrong time…and the same violence that I saw as I ducked one night sitting at New York’s Penn Station when suddenly shots rang out…could have been me in the wrong place at the wrong time...and the fear that grips me every time I get into the tube in London on a Saturday afternoon and see a bunch of soccer fans making their way into the same compartment...
Pankaj Kapoor in the role of Sidhu, the reformed dacoit performs best. There is a real life tinge to his reformation, as in the scene where he wields the sword once again, and, then takes his victims to the hospital…
Ajay Devgun is good…he is able to bring realism to his anger…and the scene that stays in my mind…full of anger and violence of the most potent kind…when he urinates on the Persian rug of a big time political bigwig’s house as the bigwig goes to fetch him Scotch…’yeh desi daar hai, Ganpatrao’ he says. Difficult to translate that statement into English except that to say that it is a play on Scotch and potent country liquor. However it fills one with disgust and that is what the filmmaker wants to accomplish…
The film makes us conscious of the violence we live in, such an integral part of our lives…not just in India…but, essentially everywhere in the world…something we cannot wish away with all the piousness…no mantra will help you control your bowels as you walk through picket lines for your bread...and as I became aware of it, the deeply buried fears of my own from days gone by surfaced…watch the movie and see what surfaces for you…
Sunday, January 13, 2008
'...par dil hai Hindustani...'
My visa for travel to India came through last week, in what is a somewhat involved, but, efficiently administered process. On account of very understandable security reasons the Indian consulate wants you to mail the application instead of personally visiting the consulate office to get your visa. I was a bit concerned about sending my Canadian passport by mail, and, invested $35 in special courier processing. Since I had followed the well drafted check list attached to the application, my visa came through fast, and, I was very pleasantly surprised when two days later I checked on the internet and found that the special courier was trying to deliver the package at the time I was checking.
Rushed home that evening, worried that the courier may have left the package outside my house and the wind may have blown it away. Everything was fine, and, the package was resting like a well behaved toddler in my mail box. Opened it, and, saw the Republic of India stamp, authorizing me to enter India, that is Bharat, my country of birth, multiple times during the next six months. Reminded me of my eldest brother’s response when I told him some twelve years ago that I had sworn allegiance to Her Majesty the Queen and her successors at the time I became a Canadian citizen. “You have undone all that the Mahatma fought for…” was his somewhat wry response. One of these days I shall take on the more onerous checklist of filing for Overseas Citizenship of India. I guess I would then have to swear back allegiance to the Indian Constitution. Does that make me a bigamist ?
In the last six or seven years, traveling back to India for those brief sojourns when one forgets all the office politics and caste rivalries that made one leave the country in the first place, is an event that is filled with tremendous promise. This time, as on the immediate past occasion, the provocation to visit India comes from an alumni reunion of the Class of ’71, those who graduated (‘passed out’ is the Indian expression, means something different in North America…though passed out may connote what exactly happened to some of us at IIMA) from IIMA in the year 1971.
The Class of ’71 has, over the thirty seven years since it got born as the Class of ’71, produced a few captains of Indian industry and academia, and, several able seamen (and women) who have tended the decks well. However, the seminal event in the history of this class is when two of the classmates started an e-group, in 2000, at a time, when e-groups were just being formed.
On the days I travel, my wife takes care of my Yahoo mail since my employer’s internet policies do not allow access to web mail. On those days she is shocked, startled and surprised with the twenty or so emails everyday from this august group of Management graduates of yore. She is shocked with the low level intelligence and absolutely risqué humour that floats around. (How did you guys make it to IIMA, rated as the most difficult business school in the world, to get into) She is startled with the occasional bursts of genius. She is surprised with the camaraderie, or, as one of the group members put it recently, espirit de corps, that exists among this bunch of fast becoming senior citizens. (Most of the class hit the age of 60 this year, with some notable exceptions like the writer who has a few years to go…point needs to be made) My wife barely remembers her classmates since they are not in touch, and, I suspect, though she will never admit it, hides a tinge of jealousy at the closeness of this group.
Well, in now what is turning to be an annual affair, the Class of ’71, along with spices (singular, spouse) meets in some location in India. In 2004, it was in Bengaluru, where the first Makkal Koota (People’s Celebration) was celebrated. Then, in 2006, Aati kya Khandala ? was celebrated in the hills near Mumbai. And this, February, the Class of ’71 and spices will meet in the deserts of Rajasthan for three days, for the Grand Desert Milan, 2008, or, GDM2008. I am told that those who will not be accompanied by their spouse will be provided a camel, for company…whether they will have to share one camel or whether there will be enough camels to go around, I do not know...
What will transpire during these three days comes under the category, ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’ and so I cannot reveal full details. However, what I can tell you is that there will be a song in Bengali sung by the Evergreen Bong, a campfire replete with humour that cannot be published for family reading, and, much good food and drink. And, as GDM2008 winds down, there will be plans made for the next get together…
The rest of the five days in India will be spent, sampling the sulphurous air that hits one as we land in Mumbai, early morning walks to Rama Nayak’s for upma and idlis with the elder brother, a visit to the twenty first century living sage, Ramesh Balsekar, and, a day in Chennai. This, done in the style that the strong Canadian dollar permits one to, will refresh one enough to last till the next Milan of the Class of ’71…Thanks to my blog, I am connecting up some long lost friends from Chennai and am looking forward to meeting them, however brief that meeting may be…and, as I pack my bags Raj Kapoor's famous song comes back
'...mera joota hai japani
patloon inglistani
sar pe topi laal roosi
par dil hai hindustani...'
My clothes may be from foreign lands, yet
deep down, in my heart, I am an Indian...
Rushed home that evening, worried that the courier may have left the package outside my house and the wind may have blown it away. Everything was fine, and, the package was resting like a well behaved toddler in my mail box. Opened it, and, saw the Republic of India stamp, authorizing me to enter India, that is Bharat, my country of birth, multiple times during the next six months. Reminded me of my eldest brother’s response when I told him some twelve years ago that I had sworn allegiance to Her Majesty the Queen and her successors at the time I became a Canadian citizen. “You have undone all that the Mahatma fought for…” was his somewhat wry response. One of these days I shall take on the more onerous checklist of filing for Overseas Citizenship of India. I guess I would then have to swear back allegiance to the Indian Constitution. Does that make me a bigamist ?
In the last six or seven years, traveling back to India for those brief sojourns when one forgets all the office politics and caste rivalries that made one leave the country in the first place, is an event that is filled with tremendous promise. This time, as on the immediate past occasion, the provocation to visit India comes from an alumni reunion of the Class of ’71, those who graduated (‘passed out’ is the Indian expression, means something different in North America…though passed out may connote what exactly happened to some of us at IIMA) from IIMA in the year 1971.
The Class of ’71 has, over the thirty seven years since it got born as the Class of ’71, produced a few captains of Indian industry and academia, and, several able seamen (and women) who have tended the decks well. However, the seminal event in the history of this class is when two of the classmates started an e-group, in 2000, at a time, when e-groups were just being formed.
On the days I travel, my wife takes care of my Yahoo mail since my employer’s internet policies do not allow access to web mail. On those days she is shocked, startled and surprised with the twenty or so emails everyday from this august group of Management graduates of yore. She is shocked with the low level intelligence and absolutely risqué humour that floats around. (How did you guys make it to IIMA, rated as the most difficult business school in the world, to get into) She is startled with the occasional bursts of genius. She is surprised with the camaraderie, or, as one of the group members put it recently, espirit de corps, that exists among this bunch of fast becoming senior citizens. (Most of the class hit the age of 60 this year, with some notable exceptions like the writer who has a few years to go…point needs to be made) My wife barely remembers her classmates since they are not in touch, and, I suspect, though she will never admit it, hides a tinge of jealousy at the closeness of this group.
Well, in now what is turning to be an annual affair, the Class of ’71, along with spices (singular, spouse) meets in some location in India. In 2004, it was in Bengaluru, where the first Makkal Koota (People’s Celebration) was celebrated. Then, in 2006, Aati kya Khandala ? was celebrated in the hills near Mumbai. And this, February, the Class of ’71 and spices will meet in the deserts of Rajasthan for three days, for the Grand Desert Milan, 2008, or, GDM2008. I am told that those who will not be accompanied by their spouse will be provided a camel, for company…whether they will have to share one camel or whether there will be enough camels to go around, I do not know...
What will transpire during these three days comes under the category, ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’ and so I cannot reveal full details. However, what I can tell you is that there will be a song in Bengali sung by the Evergreen Bong, a campfire replete with humour that cannot be published for family reading, and, much good food and drink. And, as GDM2008 winds down, there will be plans made for the next get together…
The rest of the five days in India will be spent, sampling the sulphurous air that hits one as we land in Mumbai, early morning walks to Rama Nayak’s for upma and idlis with the elder brother, a visit to the twenty first century living sage, Ramesh Balsekar, and, a day in Chennai. This, done in the style that the strong Canadian dollar permits one to, will refresh one enough to last till the next Milan of the Class of ’71…Thanks to my blog, I am connecting up some long lost friends from Chennai and am looking forward to meeting them, however brief that meeting may be…and, as I pack my bags Raj Kapoor's famous song comes back
'...mera joota hai japani
patloon inglistani
sar pe topi laal roosi
par dil hai hindustani...'
My clothes may be from foreign lands, yet
deep down, in my heart, I am an Indian...
Friday, January 11, 2008
When mangoes will fly
My eldest brother, Dorai Anna, is twenty years older than me. In addition to the many other wonderful things that he is, he is one of the greatest story tellers. Yesterday I sent him a piece on Benazir Bhutto’s brush with Vipassana meditation, and, he responded with this story. The Vipassana story is blogged in a separate post on this blog.
Some years after Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto’s assassination by hanging, Benazir went to Bangladesh where she met a Pir (an Islamic mystic). She asked the Pir if her father’s murderer would ever be killed ? In other words, would she find, justice, as they say. The Pir closed his eyes and said, ‘Zia (General Zia ul Haq who ordered Zulfiqar Bhutto’s hanging) will die when the mangoes will fly…’ Like most statements of mystics and oracles this did not make sense to Benazir. However, no further explanations were forthcoming. In 1988, Zia was killed in a mysterious air crash. One theory about the air crash is that a box of mangoes was kept in the plane after all the security checks were done, and, that box contained a bomb…and when the bomb goes off, the mangoes fly…
It was a very interesting story, like the hundreds of stories my brother has told me…
As I was meditating this morning, the mind was doing its usual rounds of disturbing the awareness…the one thought that kept coming back is Benazir’s question to the Pir, ‘Will my father’s murderer ever be killed ?’ Having read Benazir’s autobiography the pain of that question comes through. In her autobiography she has talked of how she touched him for the last time through the bars of the death row cell he was held in, and, that sentence brings tears to my eyes as I write…the knowledge that her father would be gone in a few hours and all that meant…the search for a similar disposition to the person who brought about her father’s fate was only natural…
And then, another story came to my mind, which was still dancing around, disturbing the awareness. A story of another daughter whose father was assassinated, Priyanka Gandhi, the daughter of Rajiv Gandhi. Rajiv died somewhat similarly to Benazir, he was assassinated by a person who detonated a suicide bomb.
Some years after her father was assassinated, I am told, Priyanka sat a Vipassana course. Soon after she sat the course the question of sentencing one of her father’s killers who had survived the bomb explosion came up. I shall not be so naïve or presumptuous as to draw a connection between her sitting the course and the action that followed. However, both she and her mother appealed to the President of India that the killer should not be sentenced to death. “Just because I have lost a parent, it does not mean another child should lose a parent,” is what Priyanka is supposed to have said.
I cannot verify to the actuality of the course of events regarding Priyanka and the commutation of the death sentence just as I cannot verify to actuality of the story of Benazir and the Pir. As Goenkaji, one of the the principal teachers of Vipassana, would say, “A story is a story…that is all…”
What strikes me about these stories is our linear approach to life, which has its origins in Newtonian physics. Every action has a reaction that equal in nature and opposite in direction, or something to that effect, is the basis of most justice and human thought. It is also based on the linearity of time.
This was brought home to me once as I sat listening to another twenty first century sage, Ramesh Balsekar, in his house in Mumbai. Talking of Karma and reincarnation he once raised the interesting proposition, “You are saying that you are what you are today because of what you did yesterday…perhaps it is the other way around, what happened to you yesterday, is because of what you are doing today…”
That is the sort of statement that, on initial impact, makes one wonder whether the speaker is in full possession of his marbles…however, on reflection, it become crystal clear (at least to those just as insane) that our understanding of life is based on linearity, time goes ahead in a line. If one sees time as a circle which wraps around us it becomes so obvious…to take it further, take away time completely and there is no cause, no effect…any way all these are what Ramesh would himself dismiss as ‘concepts’.
The important issue is that as long as we look for cause and effect, right and wrong, we will continue to be trapped in the linear flow of life and energy. The same patterns will continue and history will continue to repeat itself.
If we want to step away from the constant mousetrap of action, reaction, we need to step back and stop, and, in that stopping, aka Noble Silence, new patterns will emerge…it is like the little touch you give a kaleidoscope and the broken glass rearranges itself in a new pattern…a new mental model will emerge…and an awareness of why mangoes will fly…nevertheless still a mental model and not reality...
Some years after Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto’s assassination by hanging, Benazir went to Bangladesh where she met a Pir (an Islamic mystic). She asked the Pir if her father’s murderer would ever be killed ? In other words, would she find, justice, as they say. The Pir closed his eyes and said, ‘Zia (General Zia ul Haq who ordered Zulfiqar Bhutto’s hanging) will die when the mangoes will fly…’ Like most statements of mystics and oracles this did not make sense to Benazir. However, no further explanations were forthcoming. In 1988, Zia was killed in a mysterious air crash. One theory about the air crash is that a box of mangoes was kept in the plane after all the security checks were done, and, that box contained a bomb…and when the bomb goes off, the mangoes fly…
It was a very interesting story, like the hundreds of stories my brother has told me…
As I was meditating this morning, the mind was doing its usual rounds of disturbing the awareness…the one thought that kept coming back is Benazir’s question to the Pir, ‘Will my father’s murderer ever be killed ?’ Having read Benazir’s autobiography the pain of that question comes through. In her autobiography she has talked of how she touched him for the last time through the bars of the death row cell he was held in, and, that sentence brings tears to my eyes as I write…the knowledge that her father would be gone in a few hours and all that meant…the search for a similar disposition to the person who brought about her father’s fate was only natural…
And then, another story came to my mind, which was still dancing around, disturbing the awareness. A story of another daughter whose father was assassinated, Priyanka Gandhi, the daughter of Rajiv Gandhi. Rajiv died somewhat similarly to Benazir, he was assassinated by a person who detonated a suicide bomb.
Some years after her father was assassinated, I am told, Priyanka sat a Vipassana course. Soon after she sat the course the question of sentencing one of her father’s killers who had survived the bomb explosion came up. I shall not be so naïve or presumptuous as to draw a connection between her sitting the course and the action that followed. However, both she and her mother appealed to the President of India that the killer should not be sentenced to death. “Just because I have lost a parent, it does not mean another child should lose a parent,” is what Priyanka is supposed to have said.
I cannot verify to the actuality of the course of events regarding Priyanka and the commutation of the death sentence just as I cannot verify to actuality of the story of Benazir and the Pir. As Goenkaji, one of the the principal teachers of Vipassana, would say, “A story is a story…that is all…”
What strikes me about these stories is our linear approach to life, which has its origins in Newtonian physics. Every action has a reaction that equal in nature and opposite in direction, or something to that effect, is the basis of most justice and human thought. It is also based on the linearity of time.
This was brought home to me once as I sat listening to another twenty first century sage, Ramesh Balsekar, in his house in Mumbai. Talking of Karma and reincarnation he once raised the interesting proposition, “You are saying that you are what you are today because of what you did yesterday…perhaps it is the other way around, what happened to you yesterday, is because of what you are doing today…”
That is the sort of statement that, on initial impact, makes one wonder whether the speaker is in full possession of his marbles…however, on reflection, it become crystal clear (at least to those just as insane) that our understanding of life is based on linearity, time goes ahead in a line. If one sees time as a circle which wraps around us it becomes so obvious…to take it further, take away time completely and there is no cause, no effect…any way all these are what Ramesh would himself dismiss as ‘concepts’.
The important issue is that as long as we look for cause and effect, right and wrong, we will continue to be trapped in the linear flow of life and energy. The same patterns will continue and history will continue to repeat itself.
If we want to step away from the constant mousetrap of action, reaction, we need to step back and stop, and, in that stopping, aka Noble Silence, new patterns will emerge…it is like the little touch you give a kaleidoscope and the broken glass rearranges itself in a new pattern…a new mental model will emerge…and an awareness of why mangoes will fly…nevertheless still a mental model and not reality...
Benazir's brush with Vipassana
This news item was forwarded to me
Roop Jyoti
KATHMANDU: In 1994, during her official visit to Nepal, the then prime minister Benazir Bhutto’s wish to visit the Dharmashringa Vipassana Centre in Kathmandu could not be fulfilled because of her prior commitments.
Two years later, the foreign ministry contacted us again. Prime Minister Sher Bahadur Deuba was going to Pakistan and there was a specific request from Bhutto to bring along a Vipassana teacher.
Our principal teacher Acharya Goenkaji asked me and Nani Maiya Manandhar to go with the delegation. On the last day of the state visit, Maiyaji and I were finally summoned at 3pm, after the rest of the delegation had flown off.
Bhutto had heard much about Vipassana and wanted to learn the technique. We told her it required a 10-day retreat. She did not have such time, and insisted to be taught right away. Acharya Goenkaji had foreseen such a response and had given permission to teach her the Anapana technique.
So, Nani Maiyaji taught her Anapana. Bhutto started practising right away and found it very calming. She said that she had not slept for days and after the session of Anapana, she wanted to take a nap because she felt so tranquil. After a few hours of sleep, she emerged looking refreshed and happy.
We explained to her the salient aspects of Vipassana: a means out of human suffering and misery; not a ritual of an organised religion but an art of living. Vipassana involves no conversion from one religion to another and is open to all and sundry. We also gave her books, tapes and videos. By this time, it was late in the evening and the last flight from Islamabad to Karachi was about to leave. We rushed to the airport.
Upon the prime minister’s order, two seats had been kept for us and the plane took off as soon as we boarded it.
When we landed at Karachi that night, we learnt that there had been a military coup and Benazir Bhutto had been deposed. We were the last visitors she met as prime minister.
Last week, as news of her assassination came in, I was filled with sadness, but took solace in the fact that she had learned Anapana, an important part of the Vipassana technique. May she be happy and peaceful in her heavenly abode.
Roop Jyoti
KATHMANDU: In 1994, during her official visit to Nepal, the then prime minister Benazir Bhutto’s wish to visit the Dharmashringa Vipassana Centre in Kathmandu could not be fulfilled because of her prior commitments.
Two years later, the foreign ministry contacted us again. Prime Minister Sher Bahadur Deuba was going to Pakistan and there was a specific request from Bhutto to bring along a Vipassana teacher.
Our principal teacher Acharya Goenkaji asked me and Nani Maiya Manandhar to go with the delegation. On the last day of the state visit, Maiyaji and I were finally summoned at 3pm, after the rest of the delegation had flown off.
Bhutto had heard much about Vipassana and wanted to learn the technique. We told her it required a 10-day retreat. She did not have such time, and insisted to be taught right away. Acharya Goenkaji had foreseen such a response and had given permission to teach her the Anapana technique.
So, Nani Maiyaji taught her Anapana. Bhutto started practising right away and found it very calming. She said that she had not slept for days and after the session of Anapana, she wanted to take a nap because she felt so tranquil. After a few hours of sleep, she emerged looking refreshed and happy.
We explained to her the salient aspects of Vipassana: a means out of human suffering and misery; not a ritual of an organised religion but an art of living. Vipassana involves no conversion from one religion to another and is open to all and sundry. We also gave her books, tapes and videos. By this time, it was late in the evening and the last flight from Islamabad to Karachi was about to leave. We rushed to the airport.
Upon the prime minister’s order, two seats had been kept for us and the plane took off as soon as we boarded it.
When we landed at Karachi that night, we learnt that there had been a military coup and Benazir Bhutto had been deposed. We were the last visitors she met as prime minister.
Last week, as news of her assassination came in, I was filled with sadness, but took solace in the fact that she had learned Anapana, an important part of the Vipassana technique. May she be happy and peaceful in her heavenly abode.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Taare zamin par
Taare zameen par is not a movie just about dyslexia. Yes. It does talk about dyslexia, and, how those of us not affected by it see the world differently. More importantly it tells us how, whether as a dyslexic or not, all of us remain trapped in a world of our creation.
Dyslexia is most commonly characterized by difficulties with learning how to decode at the word level, to spell, and to read accurately and fluently.
What is important is that dyslexia does not result in low intelligence, and, this is the first point the movie makes. Albert Einstein and Leonardo da Vinci were dyslexic, and, in a very telling scene, the art teacher Nikumb (Aamir Khan) shows the children how the written word would have looked so different to Leonardo, by writing it in mirror version form and then holding up a mirror for them to read it. Such a beautiful way to teach...
Ishaan, the young eight year old protagonist of the film, is struggling his way through grade 3, for the second time, and, it looks like he will not make it to grade 4, once again. His elder brother, Yohan, is the parents’ dream, studious, focussed and topping every single exam.
The sheer Bombay middle classness of the lives of Mr and Mrs Awasthi, the parents of Ishaan and Yohan, is portrayed excellently by Vipin Sharma and Tisca Chopra. Caught in the social conditioning of competitiveness compounded by the ‘success’ of their elder child, they struggle to find a solution for Ishaan. The father reacts angrily when the school teacher tells him, ‘…some children are not so lucky…’ He says, ‘Is my child a retard ?’ and you have to grow up in middle class India to know what the import of that statement means. It means that somewhere as a parent, as a family you have failed…failed beyond hope and, or, redemption. Remember that this is a country where nearly 200,000 students take the annual Common Admission Test (like the GMAT) for admission to the 2,000 or so places at the country's business schools...no retards tolerated...
Convinced that it is the child’s ‘attitude’ Ishaan is packed off to a boarding school as his mother looks on, in middle class feminine helplessness.
The boarding school stands for all that is miserable about the way we educate children. On arrival, Ishaan and his parents are greeted by the teacher who tells them, ‘Don’t worry. We have tamed many wild horses here…’ Almost sounds like a Madam dealing with an unwilling entrant to her brothel, rather than a teacher. And what follows is brothel keeper like treatment by teachers who demand submission and reward any deviation from it with corporal punishment. As expected, Ishaan goes into almost catotonic state, extremely well portrayed by the young Darsheel Safary.
And into this horrific place known as a school, dances Nikumb Sir, the temporary art teacher, substituting for the art teacher who has left for New Zealand. Himself, a dyslexic, Nikumb Sir, recognizes what Ishaan is going through. With the experience born of knowing where the shoe pinches and compassion born of the desire to love, he coaxes the child out of the near-catatonic state into a free flowing expression of the world as Ishaan sees it, aka art.
Yes. The movie talks about dyslexia. More importantly it talks about how we do not see any choice but to accept the social definition of success as mirrored in grades, academic honours and accomplishment. There is a catatonia in our lives, a settting in of a pathological form of rigidity that refuses to let us see that the world can look different to anyone. And, when we let go of that rigidity we move away from the world of linear achievement to that of warmth, love and affection.
The punch line of the movie comes in the story Nikumb Sir (Aamir Khan) tells Mr. Awasthi of how the original inhabitants of the Solomon Islands kill a tree. Watch the movie to hear this story and how it reflects what we do to abilities that are different.
Dyslexia is most commonly characterized by difficulties with learning how to decode at the word level, to spell, and to read accurately and fluently.
What is important is that dyslexia does not result in low intelligence, and, this is the first point the movie makes. Albert Einstein and Leonardo da Vinci were dyslexic, and, in a very telling scene, the art teacher Nikumb (Aamir Khan) shows the children how the written word would have looked so different to Leonardo, by writing it in mirror version form and then holding up a mirror for them to read it. Such a beautiful way to teach...
Ishaan, the young eight year old protagonist of the film, is struggling his way through grade 3, for the second time, and, it looks like he will not make it to grade 4, once again. His elder brother, Yohan, is the parents’ dream, studious, focussed and topping every single exam.
The sheer Bombay middle classness of the lives of Mr and Mrs Awasthi, the parents of Ishaan and Yohan, is portrayed excellently by Vipin Sharma and Tisca Chopra. Caught in the social conditioning of competitiveness compounded by the ‘success’ of their elder child, they struggle to find a solution for Ishaan. The father reacts angrily when the school teacher tells him, ‘…some children are not so lucky…’ He says, ‘Is my child a retard ?’ and you have to grow up in middle class India to know what the import of that statement means. It means that somewhere as a parent, as a family you have failed…failed beyond hope and, or, redemption. Remember that this is a country where nearly 200,000 students take the annual Common Admission Test (like the GMAT) for admission to the 2,000 or so places at the country's business schools...no retards tolerated...
Convinced that it is the child’s ‘attitude’ Ishaan is packed off to a boarding school as his mother looks on, in middle class feminine helplessness.
The boarding school stands for all that is miserable about the way we educate children. On arrival, Ishaan and his parents are greeted by the teacher who tells them, ‘Don’t worry. We have tamed many wild horses here…’ Almost sounds like a Madam dealing with an unwilling entrant to her brothel, rather than a teacher. And what follows is brothel keeper like treatment by teachers who demand submission and reward any deviation from it with corporal punishment. As expected, Ishaan goes into almost catotonic state, extremely well portrayed by the young Darsheel Safary.
And into this horrific place known as a school, dances Nikumb Sir, the temporary art teacher, substituting for the art teacher who has left for New Zealand. Himself, a dyslexic, Nikumb Sir, recognizes what Ishaan is going through. With the experience born of knowing where the shoe pinches and compassion born of the desire to love, he coaxes the child out of the near-catatonic state into a free flowing expression of the world as Ishaan sees it, aka art.
Yes. The movie talks about dyslexia. More importantly it talks about how we do not see any choice but to accept the social definition of success as mirrored in grades, academic honours and accomplishment. There is a catatonia in our lives, a settting in of a pathological form of rigidity that refuses to let us see that the world can look different to anyone. And, when we let go of that rigidity we move away from the world of linear achievement to that of warmth, love and affection.
The punch line of the movie comes in the story Nikumb Sir (Aamir Khan) tells Mr. Awasthi of how the original inhabitants of the Solomon Islands kill a tree. Watch the movie to hear this story and how it reflects what we do to abilities that are different.
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