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Perspectives

Where to begin and how? Here at Coorg, this morning on April 09 sitting at the balcony listening to bird sounds? From my perch I can set a green canopy  of trees, encircled by hillocks. Shall I talk to you of lazy afternoons spent at Janki, Kutir, Juhu, Mumbai fifty years ago?

I straddle across half a century, twelve then and sixty-two now. But it doesn’t make a difference to who you are at heart. May be then I was stronger but now I gasp for breath after a few steps. I have always been a loner, but still want to look  at trees, hear a waterfall tumble a short distance away. I may doze away, reading a book but I am happy to have trees and birds for company.

Let me go back to September 1, 1985:
The same date next year, I would turn forty. What a kaleidoscope of memories, so many patterns emerge, so many windows open: some open easily, some stuck, some translucent crystals, some confused thoughts.

I started the day with migraine, which had bothered me for so many years. Felt upset and helpless. But then I prayed to God, it is His hand I wanted to hold and seek comfort. Dr. Shenai and Peter had spoken to me of Him, and taught me how to meditate,  to concentrate.

I felt an inner peace. I started to be with it in pain - joy, confusion - clarity, yesterday - today - tomorrow. I learnt to look at myself from outside and to keep myself from events which threatened to overwhelm me.

I was about seven when my parents decided to move to a new flat at Matunga, Bombay. They had decided to shift from a three-roomed flat at Andheri, for  I was not comfortable there. Besides this new albeit.... small house was closer to my father’s new office. I could recollects the grey - pebbled outer walls, the pigeons hooting, a landlady constantly talking and her husband ever quite. Life became  more comfortable, more peaceful.

Our life at Andheri had some happy moments too. Meena would come home and play with me. She couldn’t speak Tamil properly. She had a wonderful  nanny and a doctor-mother, who later saw me through two C-sections. Her father was more under the wheels of his car than actually driving it. Her grandmother enjoyed turning out mouth-watering jams out of orange peel. The old lady lived to a 100.

My sister was born premature in 1954. She had a medical emergency when she was about two years. Ironically she had a baptism by fire in 1984, when thirty. She never came out of it alive.

I disapproved of quite a few things she did – wearing ‘loud’ sarees, spotting a huge red ‘bindhi’, etc. I stayed away from her. But now I wish I had spent some time with her. Good company, friendly talk could have kept  her from straying from the beaten track.

Her death blotted out all ill-feelings. The pain caused by her death troubled me often. Twice she came in my dreams, once eager to come back, but the door remained shut. Later she kept herself away, but I could sense her anxiety for her daughter. Did  peace still elude her? I would never see her again. I could quite understand what my parents felt of her absence. It was not temporary but for once and all.

My days in college! What a world of difference between a straight-jacketed convent school, and a tolerant yet no-nonsense co-ed college. We would discuss  politics with Chandrashekar, enjoyed Hebsur’s civics classes and Derek Antao’s interpretation of modern English drama. Homi hovered around us like a protective brother. Parthasarathy, a well known English poet (currently teaching at Connecticut  US), taught us in the final year and gave me a book at the end of the term. Later I would mull over those college days, and looked forward to meeting these people. I met Hebsur once at the Tata Institute of Social Sciences (TISS), Bombay and Parthasarthy  at a Sahitya Academy meeting in Madras. On both these occasions I felt tongue-tied. All of us looked like a bunch of strangers. They who were a part of my youth, gone out of my life forever.

It was an evening in mid-July, and I was walking town my verandah. I looked up to the house opposite and felt happy. I tried to figure how the house looked like from the other side. A box full of mysteries opening into a whole new world. A flight of stairs  led up to the terrace, visible between the coconut fronds. Those steps always intrigued me. I felt as thrilled as when I went up the Manasa Ganga temple by cable car in Haridwar.

Novelty fascinates. Even the ordinary contains the germ of the infinite. You have to perceive it and sift it out of everyday life. Wordsworth saw splendour in a blade of grass and glory in the flower!

Our trip to Europe and the U.S. was indeed memorable. While the U.S. showed a ‘brave new world’, in Europe culture and modernity co-existed. Cologne famous for its cathedral and its industries. Bonne a nice sleepy town. You could hear the  classical notes of a Beethoven sonata in its quiet streets. I did not see much of Germany. But it fascinated me a lot. Our bus whizzed down the autobahns and we cruised down the Rhine with Medieval castles looking down the river.

In the continent people didn’t converse on English much. It would be a relief to come across someone willing to speak in English. A Parisian grocer enthusiastically responded to me in English when I told him I was from India. He beamed “India.....  Indira Gandhi”.

How did I relate to Aparna and Anita? Earlier I had been rather strict with Aparna. Only after she came to std V. did I let loose my hold. Initially she needed a little push. But she bloomed in academics and everything else She was quite cheerful and  talkative.

Anita was a gay little bird with a mind of her own. Independent to the point of being stubborn. A voracious reader, I eagerly awaited the day she would post-graduate in English. She read my thoughts when she said that I wanted her to achieve what I couldn’t.

Sometimes time hung heavily like a damp towel. I had been looking through the family album — Aparna, Anita’s, our wedding photographs, snaps taken in London. Tokyo and the continent I looked quite beautiful twenty-two years ago. There was  one photograph which I cherished most — a black and white photograph of my daughters with my young cousin. It was taken by a disabled photographer in an old house, twelve years ago, in Abhiramapuram, Chennai.

What did a woman want in life — education, a caring family, challenging career and social interactions. But beyond the frontiers of knowledge and status was the zone of peace and harmony, lovingly nurtured by a man and woman despite strong personalities.

Started writing again after a year’s gap. Father was no more. I couldn’t accept his death. So harsh, so unreal. I could sell hear him asking for a cup of coffee, back home after a hard day’s work in the office. He had a strong personality.  He taught me to tell the truth, even if it hurt, even if it was embarrassing, or put you in a negative light. He taught me to love books, introduced me to the national struggle for freedom, and to respect our country. I came to know of great journalists  and the literatti, like Taya Zinkin. S. Sadanand (founder of the Free Press Journal), Natrajan uncle, son of the great social reformer, Kamakshi Natrajan, Stalin Srinivasan of ‘Manikodi’ movement.

He started his career as a journalist in the ‘Bombay Chronicle’ now defunct, for a ‘princely’ salary of Rs. 600 per month. He would often entertain us with stories of the inimitable Sri Sadanand, a hard taskmaster who would  often sack and re-employ his employees. Sadanand stood for the freedom of the Press till the end and almost burnt his fingers starting a news agency in the forties.

As a journalist father took more than passive interest in the Quit India movement. He spent a few days with Gandhiji at Juhu, Bombay. Later he ventured into printing and publishing and started Sevak Publications. Recognizing the value of research, he  published scientific research papers of the University Department of Chemical Technology (U.D.C.T.), Silk and Art Silk Mills Research Association (SASMIRA), and the Bombay Textile Mills Research Association (BTRA). He was fundamentally a journalist, who  sought to analyze political and economical issues. His brief comments on the state of the nation was a breath of fresh air in techno-economic journalism.

In 1976, father decided to set up a unit in Madras — Shri Raj Printers — to give employment to some of our employees who couldn’t get domiciliary status in Bombay. I joined the unit, having dabbled in correspondence journalism for  a while.

He liked listening to classical/religious cassettes. He had deep respect for Tamil literature. An ardent admirer of Kalki (R Krishnamurthy), he had written a serial ‘Panigrahanam’ in ‘Kalki’ magazine. A tamil novelette (the  re-birth of Srikandan) was published through Alliance Publishers, Madras. For sometime he ran a Tamil magazine ‘Vindhya’ in Bombay.

Later, he became spiritual, an attitude catalyzed by my sister’s untimely death in 1984. He was not orthodox by conventional standards, but was very much aware of the Grace of God till the last breath.

I have stopped mid-stream in my recollections. May be later I’d get new insight into his character. Perhaps I might see him as a blazing ray of light, darting through the universe of which we know so little.

Was there life after death? On the night of August 23, 1986, I felt he came to bid me good-bye in our Madras office. The time twelve midnight, an hour after he had died.

Till we crossed again at the twilight realm, ‘from whose bourne no traveller returns’, au revoir.

August 1999
The third millennium is about hundred days away. Father’s 13th anniversary held a week back.

These thirteen years have been like Lord Rama’s Vanavasa for me. I feel as if my life is coming full circle, with a few tasks unfinished. I wonder what the Lord felt as he entered the Sarayu to shed his human form. Father’s memory is tucked  deep within and it rises occasionally to shed a few tears, if I chance upon any of his letters.

Aparna and Anita have their own homes now, in San Jose and New Delhi respectively. Aparna is expecting her first child and Anita will change her job. My husband and I feel lonely like most NRI parents. At times I feel least inclined to even go for a walk  that can let in sunshine into my life.

Coming into Swamy’s (Bhagawan Baba’s) fold has helped me to handle father’s death positively. He had not died young like Sukanya’s husband Badri, who was just 34. Swamy has taught me to discipline my thoughts, my actions and  how to love all like as parts of the One Whole. I take Bal Vikas classes and love my Bal Vikas children immensely.

Swamy took my hand and walked me up the spiritual path. I met the Divine Mother (Shakthi) at a crossing. It was a time I was racked by anxiety and anguish about Aparna’s problems in conceiving. I have prayed to both constantly. Aparna has been  gifted with a child by her and Sai’s grace.

I worship both Sai and the Mother as sparks of the same divinity.

Now, I am preparing to leave for the U.S. to welcome my daughter’s baby into the new millennium.

May 2003 & later
Hari is three years old. He’s a bundle of joy to his parents and grandparents. When he sings on the telephone: ‘welcome Uma Amma... and welcome Mani thatha........’ I want to drop everything and be with him, I will see him in November  2003. I will be flying to California to be with this impish fellow and his baby brother to be born sometime in July ’03. Trust swamy and the Divine mother to take care of everything.

Anita’s Maitreya is seven months old. He is a happy child with Jabba the Great for company.

Life has come full circle. Less expectations, less desire. I want to travel around the world, and be with my grandkids. Sometime I may write, or walk on the beach at Thiruvanmiyur.

Want to self-introspect, go deep within, and observe happenings, joys & sorrow, success & failure, day & night, summer and winter from a distance. Want to experience the divine consciousness within me, and all around. Will I succeed? The journey has just  begun.

Om Sri Sai Ram

Om Shakthi