Physics or cricket?

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This was 30 years ago. We were cramped in a room that could barely hold half that number. It didn’t look like a typical classroom. There was no teacher’s table and chair at one end. It just had a bunch of stools upon which we all sat. Some of us had to share a stool with another. Still others were standing. He also sat in one of them, somewhere in the middle. There must have been at least 30 kids in that room. Given the noise, we had to remind each other to shut up, given how soft spoken he was. “If your primary motive is to do well in competitive examinations, then I suggest you approach Ms. X. She lives just two streets away and has lots of experience in helping students succeed. I haven’t bothered to collect past question papers, analyse the most popular questions and what not. What I can do, is help you understand Physics. More importantly, I think you’ll enjoy the subject,” he said. This was the first day of class.

About five of us turned up for the next class. We knew where the rest had gone. He sauntered in, his shirt neatly tucked in, a ‘Hero’ pen in his pocket. His hair thinning, his moustache greying. “What would you like to learn today?”, he quizzed us. I was surprised at this question. I expected him to simply begin with the first chapter in our textbook. We started with Mechanics, if I remember right. Over the next few classes, we couldn’t but help like the man. It didn’t seem like he had a ‘lesson plan’. Each day, he would ask us there to begin. And just like that, he would create magic from wherever he started off. He was always calm and smiling. He would answer every query patiently. And he made me fall in love with Physics.

One of the most striking things about him is his honesty. We had to draw those ‘free body diagrams’ in Mechanics, say. He would confess that he wasn’t good at drawing. I thought he was better than me. He once came in a few minutes late. He started with Electromagnetics, as was the mandate that evening. A few minutes into the lecture, he paused, and was looking at the floor, in silence. Then, he looked up at us, and said that there was a cricket match going on and that he was distracted. He requested us that we cancel the class and continue later, so that he could go and watch the game. The next thing we know, we were all sitting in his living room, in front of the TV. In another instance, one of my friends who had missed a class requested him to repeat it. He was told that he I could fill him in. When my friend insisted, he joked about how both his name and mine referred to Lord Muruga and therefore he could learn from me as he would learn from himself and it was all the same. The twinkle in his eyes, and a wry smile, were a joy to watch.

He later joined hands with a few others and started a tutorial institute. This meant that we stopped going to his home. The classes were held at the institute building. It was a more professional setup but he was just as warm as ever. When we finished our Grade 12, the institute had organised an event to recognise those who had got admitted to prestigious professional colleges. Each of them was called and prizes given away. I had not yet secured anything. I remember feeling embarrassed but I sat through the event anyways. Right at the end, he came up to the stage, called out my name and gave me his pen. I still remember feeling so happy, and a tad less ashamed at my predicament. He didn’t have to do it, but he did.

Over the years, I made it a habit to call him occasionally, especially on Teachers Day. I was informed by my friend a short while ago, that Mayilvelan sir passed away this morning. The last time I met this friend, I mentioned it to him, that I wanted to meet him. That meeting did not happen, because I did not make time for it. I called him on Teachers Day this year to wish him, and he didn’t answer. When he called back later that evening, I missed his call. Somehow, I never got back to calling him. And now I wish I had.

Looking back, I think he had profound influence on me. He may have even contributed to how my career eventually ended up in school education. Hats off to my favourite teacher.

Death is life

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Ma was terribly upset. The adenium plants that she grew, three or four of them, had all been infested with some kind of disease. She is old now, and unable to garden all by herself, though she loves her plants. She is always looking out for them, almost like they are her children.

That day, after we had finished the usual coffee-workout-cooking-breakfast routine, it was about 9 am. She said she is going to tend to the adenium. She had seen in youtube about how it is done. The plant is also called desert rose. As the name sounds, it apparently needs very little water, and usually has a thick stem and is a flowering plant. The root and stem had the infestation. One is supposed to cut through the stem transversely, bit by bit, until you spot the stage where it isn’t yet infested with disease, if you are lucky.

I decided to help ma, because it was a weekend, and I didn’t have the heart to let her do it all by herself. She tends not to temper her enthusiasm with pragmatism. We did it with all the plants we had uprooted. We didn’t have the right tools, all the knives at home are blunt and we had to toil a bit. We lost most of the plants, I thought, but she insisted on trying what was explained in the rest of the video. We had to apply some chemical. Sulphur, I think, blue in colour, and apparently toxic. And then hang up the stem, painted blue. We did that. We all were traveling and the stem would just hang there for a fortnight at least, if not more. I had since forgotten about them.

When we even got back to them, most of them seemed gone, save one. So on that day, we decided to pot the only one that seemed to have some hope to survive. We picked the biggest pot and I helped her transplant it into a pot of suitable size. By the time I was done, I was tired. I felt stupid, because this was hardly any work. At the same time, I was happy because I could help her do what she wanted, and I had learnt something new. I had learnt about adenium, how to treat it, and how ti transplant it. It was also a revelation. Working with plants, earth, dirt, worms and what not, and having ants bite, was in a strange was, very relaxing. I wondered if I should take time out and do more of it. How much can one do, especially if we are wasting time?

“After all these years of watching you garden, I learnt for the first time what it means to transplant, ma,” I said.

“Did you think of Sujith?”, she asked.

As a matter of fact, I did. He was a son of the soil. I can write a lot about him if I wasn’t so lazy, and I may, perhaps, but not today. In November last year, all of a sudden, he had passed away. Ma was perhaps more upset than I was.

Despite all his shortcomings, he was a good man. Anyway, it was done and dusted – Sujith had gone, so had most of he adenium, and I had very little hope about this one. Yesterday, a month or so after the repotting, both my parents pointed out that the lone adenium may just have survived after all.

Yet again, I thought of Sujith, and yet again, I missed him. Recently, one of our dear family friends was home for lunch, and all of a sudden, uncle started weeping that he was losing his loved ones. He is eighty. I told him that death is life. Things must die, to regenerate life. Even as I said it, my stomach churned. It hits now and then, like a sucker punch. I have lost someone, who I fear I will miss until my dying day. I wonder when that will be. Regeneration.

Adenium

Why do we push ourselves?

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We hear of people performing seemingly impossible feats. Scaling certain mountains without oxygen, running or swimming incredibly long distances and so on. I’ve sometimes wondered what makes them do it. I got a taste of it with the Basic Mountaineering Course a few years back. We had to trek 5-6 hours on an average with a 15-20 kg load, at progressively higher altitudes. When we reached the Base Camp, at 10,000 feet, after 4 days, I realised that unbeknownst to myself, I was shedding copious tears while I sat on a rock, alone, far away from the team.

I happened to watch the movie first. That it had a topless woman was known to me only much later and at that point, was a matter of talk among young. We first watched it in an ashram, as part of my spiritual training, and I think the scene may have been edited out. I then happened to find out more, and read the book. I found it even more appealing. Siddhartha is looking for a job, and is asked what he can do. Quite simply, he says, “I can think, I can wait, I can fast.”

I’ve always been nervous about fasting, and wondered how people manage it, despite having several friends who do it regularly. On the rare occasion that I miss a meal, or it gets delayed, I find myself to become grumpy and sometimes even end up with a headache. For a year or so now, I’ve been thinking about it, though and wanting to try it.

Yesterday was an important day for Seeking. It is generally spent in prayer and contemplation. I had my morning cup of coffee at 4 am, and prayed to my Guru for help. I knew that I couldn’t do it myself. By afternoon, my stomach was growling. So I decided to meditate some more than usual, continuing to seek for His help. By evening, I found myself a little distracted and unable to focus on work. However, there was only a mild, dull headache and it was eminently bearable. I realised that I wasn’t at all grumpy, but only thankful with every passing hour, for the divine grace was helping me.

I had my first morsel at 5 am today, after around 32 hours – a cup of coffee and some biscuits. I was filled with gratitude for some food, and for all the help I received in completing my first fast. I hope to do this more often and will be relying on the very same help.

Moments of Inspiration

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As an adolescent, I somehow decided to spend my summer vacations studying. Someone got the bright idea that if one started studying the books of the ensuing year, it would make things easier and they began such a coaching centre. The teacher himself was very sincere, and I heard that he passed away a few years later. While these classes undoubtedly helped, as I would discover through the academic year in my regular school, looking back, I’m not sure how someone like me would do such a thing. After all, in all my growing up years prior, summer vacations meant play and more play.


So these two years, I would spend nearly 2 months in Chennai, with one of my paternal uncles. My paternal grandparents too lived close-by. Every day, my uncle & aunt would commute to work in a van that was shared by some of their friends & colleagues. Since this ‘summer coaching centre’ was close to their workplace, they were kind enough to find a seat for me. I would have some lunch packed, and spend the entire day at this place.


On my way back, though, I had to fend for myself. I would be done by 4 o clock in the afternoon, while my uncle and aunt had to work until about 6 or so. So I would take a city bus back home. An interesting aside here – it was the year the various transport corporations like Cheran, Cholan, Panidian and so on, were unified in the state. In every bus run by the Metropolitan Transport Corporation, just behind the drivers seat, would be a verse from the Tirukkural. It was a 45 minute bus ride, and I would mostly be standing. In that time, I would read, and re-read the Tirukkural enough number of times to memorise it, even though I did not understand it. Since I went to a central-govt run Kendriya Vidyalaya, I never had an opportunity to formally learn either Tamil, the language of my father, or Konkani, that my mother spoke.

Once I got home, I would go to my paternal grandpa, about whom I have written here. He was extremely well-read, and would only gladly explain the meaning of the verse. Each time, I would not only marvel at the timelessness of the great Tiruvalluvar, I would also somewhat appreciate the pithy manner in which each verse was written in the Tamil language. This was my limited tryst with the book and in this manner, I may have learnt about a dozen of the verses.

Today, I revisited these memories as I paused at a traffic intersection, waiting for the signal to turn green. The wall that ran alongside had some verses painted on it, and one of them caught my attention.

எப்பொருள் யார்யார்வாய்க் கேட்பினும் அப்பொருள்
மெய்ப்பொருள் காண்ப தறிவு.  423

Everyday, everywhere, we are bombarded with information. People run concerted campaigns to make us believe in falsehoods. This verse exhorts us to discern the truth. ‘No matter what we hear from different people, the mark of wisdom lies in discerning the truth.’ Timely reminder, isn’t it?

A dilemma

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Someone I know and respect very much posted a poll on Twitter. I reproduce it here –

Recently Saraswati or Ganesh puja in govt schools is becoming a contested issue. The Govt schools are supposed to be secular institutions. Pujas of all kinds are necessarily religious. Should pujas be allowed in Govt Schools?

The immediate response in my mind was – no. Government run schools are open to all. This may include Hindus, people of other faiths as well as atheists. To workship Ganesha or Saraswati would mean favouring the beliefs of one community over the other. Therefore, one must not allow puja of Ganesh or Saraswati in a Govt run school. In my mind, the answer until this point is clear.

When we were school students, our morning assembly included a prayer song among other things. Part of this prayer song included Sanskrit Slokas borrowed from an Upanishad, which is essentially a Hindu text. The first lines mean – “(Lead me) from untruth to truth”. Further, there was a song, in Hindi, दया कर दान विद्या का which can be loosely translated to “In your compassion, give me the boon if wisdom.” Even the way it was done was typically the Hindi way – with eyes closed and palms folded like a ‘namaste’. As a kid, nothing seemed out of place. We simply fell in line, and when the school pupil leader gave the command – “प्रार्थना गीत गाओ” (“Sing the prayer song”), we just started singing. As a teenager, we would start chatting through the assembly, playing pranks, and sometimes get caught in the process. One particular teacher would sneak up behind us quietly, and cane those of us who are doing things other than what we were told by the school pupil leader. We’d wince, then wink & grin at each other and carry on as if nothing happened.

Now comes the dilemma. I went to a Govt run school. While the prayer did not explicitly mention any deity, it included lines about ‘purifying our inner selves’ and what not. Some of these words, the ‘Om’ for instance, were clearly ‘Hindu’. (“What is Hindu?” is a question for another blog post and I doubt if I’ll ever write it because I doubt if I am clear enough). More importantly, this clearly was a ‘prayer’. By definition, this means an address to an God, an already unknown concept. Therefore, we are willfully suspending our belief and supplicating to an unseen entity. While as a kid, it was a mere ritual, I grew up to appreciate the value of submitting to a higher power. So the question arises – is it alright to teach children acts of faith in an unknown God? Does it not contradict rationale thinking, something we want every human to be capable of?

As an adult, I have somehow managed to reconcile rational thinking, questioning and faith. I am not sure about other religions, but I think this is eminently possible for a Hindu. But is it alright to teach this to children? I am tempted to say, no, but then, I have a fear. I think in some way, I favour a spiritual society, as opposed to an atheistic one. By ignoring this important aspect of human lives, the development of the spirit (for which there may not be an adequate ‘scientific’ definition, I admit), I am not sure if we would be doing justice to ‘educating’ a child. One solution would be to teach children a bit about all religions, or at least the major ones. That, however, could only be done when they are slightly older. What about the younger kids? I think it is ok for them to pray as a group, with verses similar to the ones I’ve said as a kid – there’s no Ganesh or Saraswati. However, there is a form of submission to something unknown. And I think that’s alright.

I wonder what Rohit ji would say.

Same old, something new

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I turn a year older today. The better part of life is now behind me. We tend to turn reflective on such occasions. What can I claim as my accomplishments? Not much. I’ve enrolled and dropped out of two different Masters Programmes. May be there’s a third, I don’t remember. I’m quite good with languages. I started learning French, later Sanskrit. In both cases, I was my teachers’ favourite. And I eventually dropped both. At home, my parents lament that I don’t persist with anything. Decades back, Appa told me that I am not exploiting my fullest potential. May be that’s true to some extent, but it is also true that he perhaps overestimated me. I’m quite an ordinary bloke.

Another thing that my parents rue about is my absent-mindedness. They’d instruct me to do something and minutes later, I would check back with them on the exact details. This is something that has dawned on me more and more, in recent times. My mind is forever preoccupied. I’ve lost the ability to sit down and perform a task without being distracted within minutes; eventually getting up to shake a leg or smoke a cigarette or fiddle with my phone. It is frighteningly true of me.

They say awareness is the first step. This year, I’ve resolved to work on my focus. I want to become more focused. Am I too old for it now? Can such qualities be changed when one is past their prime? I think it won’t be easy, but I’d like to believe that nothing is impossible. I’m going to put in some concerted effort.

As a first step, I am re-reading this book. This time around, I am going to be more conscious while reading it. I want to make a summary of it and share with some of my colleagues before the end of February. That’s the first goal. And by doing this, I hope to imbibe some of the ideas and work on myself.

There were a bunch of other things that I had thought of. I wanted to post a list of resolutions. I don’t remember if I’ve done it in the past. I’ll stop with this one item though, for now.

Focus. I might not get there overnight, but I won’t stop trying. That’s a promise to myself.

We don’t understand some things.

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I’ve worn something (usually, Vibhuti – sacred ash) on my forehead since childhood. Was ‘indoctrinated’ into it, later understood & appreciated, undoubtedly only to a limited extent, it’s significance. Conditioning, conning oneself, imagination – call it what you may; if it helps me and if its harmless to me or anyone else around me, I’ll gladly do it. I’m a person of #faith and I doubt if that will change in this janma. Even today, when it comes to some special people, I point it out & request them / suggest to them, to wear something – chandan, kumkum, anything. Those few also understand where I’m coming from & continue doing what they must. We still #love each other. Faith and rationality are beautifully reconciled in #Vedanta . Is this #SanatanaDharma ? It is, & much more. There are apparently 5 more astika school of thought & 3 or more nastika schools commonly studied. Wait! Each of them well articulated & comprehensive logical frameworks. Now, beat that! This land, #Bharat , is unique. #SanatanaDharma however vague an entity it is, has some thread that needs to be understood & articulated. And even if you don’t care about the politics of it much, or perhaps even hate this aspect, you can not ignore something as vast, yet subtle & significant as this idea. #SanatanaDharma of #India – it belongs to everyone here, irrespective of ‘religion’. People will rise. I’m confident, because this civilisation has stood the test of time. It is, after all, eternal & will eventually lead the human race into a spectacular & new realm of consciousness. Sri Aurobindo has seen it, as have others. #tathaastu

(Copied from my twitter feed, with edits)

Who is ugly?

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I was conversing with S about our weekend plans. I had been invited by this old friend from college, for his son’s upanayanam. Over the years, I’ve almost stopped attending weddings because I find them too crowded and ostentatious, and generally lacking in anything meaningful. However, in this case, it is different, where a child is being initiated into the bath of ‘brachmacharya’. While this has been taken to mean celibacy, abstinence and so on, the literal meaning could be translated to ‘abiding in the Self’.

I mentioned this S how this friend was ‘fat & ugly’, and ultimately got wedded to one of the prettiest day scholars, which shocked a lot of us back then. I was reliving some of my boyhood memories, and smiling, as S bade me farewell and I was left to myself. In a flash, it occurred to me that S had mentioned about her own journey with fitness, about how she had been overweight and chose to work on it. I felt embarrassed at my brashness, and wondered how she must have felt, especially in her younger days.

Later, I felt a tad guilty about my insensitivity and sent her a message. She was kind enough to open up and share with me the emotions she has experienced in this context. I’ve never felt any shame at what others have said to me. For instance, I routinely get teased about my baldness and it has made little difference to me. In contrast, S told me how when she looks back, she doesn’t feel good about the way she was treated. So much so, that she finds it hard to look at herself as someone who is ‘not ugly’.

I can’t recall when I have felt more remorse. It wasn’t just about today, and bringing back undesirable memories to my dear friend S, especially after we had had such a great time together. I also looked back at the times when I, as a younger boy, have bullied people for various reasons and it made me wonder how I could have been so mean. I hope those people are alright.

I can’t take back what I’ve done. Our thoughts, words and deeds leave impressions that are indelible, and the consequences are only for us to face. Each one of us have our crosses to bear. I can only hope those that have been hurt by me have been able to overcome, as I say a mental apology to all of them.

I was reminded of the following verse attributed to Kabir –

बुरा जो देखन मैं चला, बुरा न मिलिया कोय ।
जो दिल खोजा आपना, मुझसे बुरा न कोय ॥

“When I set out to find badness, I couldn’t find any. When I looked into my own heart, I found that there was nothing worse than me.”

Perhaps it is an opportunity to get better. After all, it is the ability to reflect on oneself, identify one’s faults and work on them so that we evolve into a better version of ourselves, that makes us human. I’ll try.

Trees of Delhi

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That’s the name of a book I came across many years ago. The author has painstakingly documented more than 250 species of tress in the city of New Delhi, India. The book includes beautiful photographs, botanical names, descriptions, anecdotes and what not else. It is indeed a field guide of sorts. The moment I heard about it, I wanted to get it for Ma. I’ve seen her browse through it now and then, in utter fascination. She loves plants and tress. She knows the names of many of them, grows a few when she can afford to and will never miss the opportunity to look at them no matter where she travels.

Recently, a friend of mine told me about an interesting phenomenon. I got to verify it this morning. As I was walking down the street in Madras, where I currently live, I started observing the different trees. I observed copper pods, badam, mango, a couple of tree jasmines and a few others I do not know. There was a kapok silk cotton, with most of the pods having broken, exposing white fluffy bulbs and it was a sight to behold. I observed, as I was told, that the branches in one direction seem particularly more robust – bigger, fatter – compared to the rest. This was indeed true of most trees I could observe. Apparently, being in the northern hemisphere, the southern direction receives the most sunlight and hence this happens. Well, I told myself, I’ll use this to navigate if I were ever lost in a jungle.

As I was thinking about all this, and enjoying the trees, it occurred to me that Madras has quite a few. Especially locations such as T Nagar, Mambalam, Mandaiveli, Mylapore, Adayar, Besant Nagar and even Anna Nagar to some extent. Perhaps it is the newly developed OMR that may not have as many but even there it isn’t bad. Suddenly, I felt a surge of gratitude. I don’t find city life particularly likeable. When you are on the road, very often, it feels like a dog-eat-dog world. More so for a small town person like me. Trees provide a sense of calm in the midst of all the chaos. They’re just there, and they survive unless someone decides to harm them. They take almost nothing, and give us so much. I was inspired by this being.

I also wondered if some of us who yearn to get out of the cities, to their ‘getaways’, ever stop and notice the trees that we have all around us. I made a promise to myself. To make time for the trees around me, no matter where I go.

Untranslatability

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I met with some college friends, after many years. One of whom I was driving with, is from Orissa. However, he has lived and worked in Tamil Nadu since 1998. He has even bought a home here. And I noticed how he was speaking very good Tamil. As we drove, we got speaking in Tamil just for the heck of it and I was enjoying listening to him. The music was also Tamil film songs from the 70s and 80s, my father’s collection, and he was enjoying it.

“What does ‘sakka podu podu’ mean?”, he quizzed me, while listening to a song. I thought about it for a moment and tried to explain, but also adding that it is probably untranslatable.

I encountered, quite unknowingly, another word – sisu.

According to Wikipedia, “Sisu is a Finnish concept stoic determination, tenacity of purpose, grit, bravery, resilience and hardiness, and is held by Finns themselves to express their national character.” What a beautiful concept, I thought. I was quite fascinated by the Finns when I visited them twice in the last decade. And some of it made sense.

The word as a title for the movie made even more sense. War veteran and now prospector Aatami Korpi finds a significant amount of gold in the wilderness of Lapland and sets off with it. Unfortunately, he crosses paths with a Nazi squad. They are ruthless, and intent on snatching his gold, while Aatami is equally determined to protect it. The mayhem that follows forms the entire length of this 90 minute movie.

I didn’t think much of it. I happened to browse through a review in the newspaper where the reviewer had said said that it is a mindless action movie. For some perverted reason, I seem to like violent movies. So I just decided to go. Even though watching OTT has become a lot more common these days, I still enjoy the experience of watching it in a cinema theatre. I had a school friend for company too this time, so there was nothing to lose.

The violence was excessive, perhaps even by my standards. At least in a couple of scenes, I had to shut my eyes. Half, to be honest. The plot, as described above, is quite simple. It is a movie that expects you to set aside the logical mind in multiple instances. Yet, I was hooked. For on, I found the background music to be strangely alluring even when it was grim. While I admired the beauty of the country, I couldn’t make it to Lapland and therefore was in awe of some of the stunning frames that capture the beauty of the terrain.

The characters were very well etched, and that’s another thing that I found quite fascinating. Be it Bruno, who is commanding the German troop or Wolf his assistant. Both equally vile, the former is a bit more crude and takes undue interest in the group of women who are held captive. Then, there is Schütze. In one scene, when Aatami is hanged, he takes off his cap in deference towards the enemy. Then, there is Aino who volunteers to be picked up for the one to lead the troop into a minefield while they are in pursuit of Aatami. Aatami himself is obviously fascinating. He ‘simply refuses to die’, and at one point, Bruno discovers that Aatami, after losing his family to the Russians, sets out to find and exterminate them, and is called a ‘one-man death squad’. He is nicknamed ‘Koschei’, by them, which means immortal. Bruno doesn’t seem to take it seriously, but over the course of the movie, that changes, if only gradually.

All is all, I found Sisu to be a fascinating cinematic experience, and I’m no film critic anyways. As I was reading more, I was continued to be fascinated. I discovered what he word means. I also discovered that First Blood, John Woo movies, and the Finnish legend Simo Häyhä were inspirations for the movie. He was a sniper, and is believed to have killed more than 500 enemy soldiers. So terrified were the Russians of him, that he was called The White Death.

It made me wonder if we know enough about our soldiers. I purchased a comic book some years ago. It described, in brief, the heroics of the recipients of the Param Vir Chakra, the highest military decoration in India. I remember reading it with much respect, and awe at how there are people who don’t fear their death. I find it quite unfathomable.