Not an End

After a long procrastination, I felt something gut wrenching enough to write about. Death is part of the journey, just another milestone. We mortals have always been intrigued by death. ‘What lies in and after death?’ is probably the most thrilling story line. 2020 ushered in a long line of deaths. So many so that there is a ticker atop every app I open listing the number of deaths by country and date. If it wasn’t Moorish enough, ‘Was it the usual death from COVID or of natural causes?’ has been a question. Abundance of anything makes it frivolous, even death. Who knew?

While we are all locked up in our respective homes or wherever we are stranded, I talk to my mom who is miles away from me albeit safely locked in, and she says things like “glad we spent some time together last year. Who knows if we’ll see you again?” I flippantly said, “Come on Ma, don’t be so broodish. You’re going to live long enough to be a fat old lady!” Two days later, these too-young-to-die actors start bidding adieu. I mean, I understand if they were fighters in the front line or the emergency crew but dying of Cancer? It seems unwelcome here; not that it ever is welcome, but it especially feels unfair! Whatever happened to “God only gives you what you can bear?” How many demons do we have to fight all at once? Seems overbearing to me.

Anyhow, my heart grows restless as these dark thoughts loom in. Those 300,000 people who died, who are a mere number to me, are names and faces for few others. In their death, they left behind hearts forlorn and memories that will tickle and torture for time to come. These past two days took from us two charismatic entertainers, who were part of the formative years of two generation of Indians. Why does the heart cry a little more for them? Certainly not because their life was more important than the million others. But maybe because they were familiar. In their familiarity, the loss is pronounced. The loss is in knowing that there will never be another Irrfan Khan cinema that I absolutely have to watch; it is in the knowledge that the man who romanced his way into the hearts of millions of women never losing his boyish charm and win-over-anyone attitude is lost to us forever.

They say that we die twice, once when we breath our last and a second time when somebody says your name for the last time. Most cultures believe in this and celebrate an annual sacred ritual where they offer their respects and food to the departed. Mexican and Southern American cultures call it Dia de Muertos, the Day of the Dead. My thoughts are all very morbid and bleak. I know! My apologies if this is amounting to a gloomy read. All I meant to say is let us not say their name for the last time.

A Futile Effort to Win a Lost Battle

A couple of days after last week’s post was published, I came across this quote in a tweet, and I think there has never been a quote more appropriate in the context of free will, or more appropriately what we perceive as free will. Also, one mustn’t argue with Einstein.

In 1931, Einstein, in response to questions about his belief in free will, said: “If the moon, in the act of completing its eternal way around the earth, were gifted with self-consciousness, it would feel thoroughly convinced that it was travelling its way of its own accord.”

Without spoiling any consequential detail of the plot, when the Enlightenment happens, if it does happen, the dilemma will not be about free will. It will not be about a mother’s choice of bringing a new life into the world as we know it – the good, the bad, and the ugly of it. It will nor be about the pain of forgetting the relationships we treasure neither will it be about the void thus created in our lives as we live today. Because at the end of the day, in the post-enlightenment time the life we will live will be devoid of the knowledge of the past. Our brains will be pure, blank, and ready to learn in the new reality, or at least that’s the goal.

Let me not get ahead of myself and spill my thoughts without bringing you, the readers, up to a reasonable understanding of Enlightenment. There will be minor spoilers, but since I am talking about a past season of a rather famous TV show, I will assume that you wouldn’t mind the small details. If you do, then I would suggest revisiting this post once you manage the time to binge through 23 episodes of season four of the series. You only need to Netflix and chill.

The Thinker, one of the Flash’s more formidable enemy who has the power of thinking through every possible path between the two points on the timeline and identifies the most likely outcome. Since thinking is no bar, he could piece together a series of such outcomes and predict the future with high accuracy. Unfortunately, he is also a psychological maniac whose view of this world is tainted by the bad he sees in everyone. Pardon my digression for a moment, but the strange irony, as is with all the villains, is that the logical mind that can proof Riemann hypothesis and assess all the possible outcomes of an event, cannot see the humane part in humankind. Anyway, the supervillain wants to rid this world of everything that, according to him, is an obstacle to the progress of humanity. His solution is to reset everyone’s brains back to simpler times when our species was more willing to learn and evolve than to waste time on technology. And he would be there to teach the willing. The collateral damage was that the reset is not a selective reset which means existing knowledge, knowledge of the past, language, relationship, science, history – everything would be gone with one wave of the magic wand.

The hope is that, in erasing everything that defines us today as not only individuals, but also as a society, and restarting from the basics, the future would be different in the most positive ways.

The adage that comes in mind, in this case, is “History repeats itself.” Technically speaking, by the denotation of the word “repeat,” it doesn’t. However, when we take the word metaphorically or consider the connotation, it does. The overarching patterns and stories repeat. If those didn’t, we wouldn’t have been able to study them to the detail we have thus far. That is to say that no matter how far back we go and retry to establish our history on a different path, like an alternate universe, the most significant issues and effects will manifest in some form or shape which will bring us back to the state that the Thinker was trying to rectify in the first place. We have seen it happen in front of eyes. The racism, slavery, civil war, war, poverty, colonialism, sexism, each have repeated in a different form following an eradication effort. The thing is, our astonishing shortsightedness and greed will follow us to any path we take which will eventually manifest as effects the Thinker is trying to tackle.

Call me a pessimist, but no matter how far back we go, or by virtue of “free will” how many ever different paths we take, the defining milestones in human history will repeat itself. Those will be studied, documented and presented as lessons that, like today’s us, will fail to heed. So, if the Thinker with his mad plan, manages to take the people of this planet back to the time of the cave people, he although would have achieved the intended outcome, yet would have spectacularly failed at achieving the perfect humankind he was dreaming. Because eventually, our basic instincts would have brought us to where we are today albeit in a distinctly different way but a similar destination nonetheless. Then what is the point of going through the elaborate plan, and waste precious power in a futile effort? At the end of the day, then, the debate mustn’t be around the much-celebrated concept of “free will,” but the worthiness of the cause, and the path taken to advance the cause. Pardon my blunt summarization, but to me, it seems like a colossal waste of time and effort.

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

Free Will Over No Evil?

Is our advancing IQ and the resultant technology the cause of humankind’s problems? Are we incapable of using the technological advancements for the good of humanity? Albert Einstein famously quoted that "technological advancement is like an axe in the hands of a pathological criminal."

Free Will Over No Evil?

Is our advancing IQ and the resultant technology the cause of humankind’s problems? Are we incapable of using the technological advancements for the good of humanity? Albert Einstein famously quoted that “technological advancement is like an axe in the hands of a pathological criminal.” Was he right in saying that? These and many such questions came to mind while we watched the season 4 of flash. ‘Enlightenment,’ according to the villain, will rid humanity of its suffering and bring back peace. Resetting all minds to purge it of all its knowledge and emotions and function solely to perform the necessities of the human body was the plan. Making simpletons out of everyone was the professor’s idea of solving the world’s problems. Here is how the world would have looked; people would be rid of emotions and hence would not want to kill each other out of jealousy and passion but would also forget that they once loved each other. There was more to this but here is where I paused because, to me, there is no existence without emotions, without empathy, without endearment.

He will argue that no one will feel the loss because no one will know it existed. Knowing every evil thing that happens in the world today and the pain and suffering all around would I choose the alternative? Sitting in the comfortable couch in the cozy basement of my first world house, do I feel differently than the people in the war-torn regions of the middle east or Africa? Maybe I am. Perhaps not having lived a night of hunger bars me from arguing that everyone would pick living in hunger over living without love. Maybe if I had seen my loved ones or my children suffer the effects of warfare, I would not feel the same empathy I feel towards fleeing refugees. Suffering changes people. Many times I argued with my mum about her dislike towards a group of people, and she would say that I wouldn’t understand because I didn’t have to leave my cozy bed in the middle of the night to escape God-knows-what-evil. Would my mum choose not knowing me over seeing me suffer? Would I? Would I ever decide to let go of the feeling when my little girl comes running pitter patter on her little feet to give me a tight hug even if it means I can escape the constant fear of something happening to her? Again maybe not apples to apples because a mother who sees her child suffer because of someone else’s evil might choose a life where no one is evil even if it means she will never know a mother’s love.

It is such a puzzle! There is one thing we can all agree on. We are a sum total of everything we have experienced till date. Our pain, suffering, love and passion define our EQ, our empathy, our ability to live and not just survive. Hope and love generate such euphoria as a ray of sunlight pilfering a dark and gloomy day. It is also real that humankind unable to find that hope and love used technological prowess to create drugs that generate that same euphoria albeit a false one leading a generation of addicts down the rabbit hole destroying lives and families. So, maybe his plan was sane after all.

But was it? What about free will? That mother who chose a life where no one is evil did not choose, did she? It goes back to being a conundrum where there wouldn’t be evil without free will because free will allows a reasoning mind to decide and act and some choose to do the right thing while others do not. But there would also not be right or pure. It is a neutral state where nothing happens. It is like the premise of Communism where the idea is the balance in society, and we all know it doesn’t work. A friend said something the other night which kind of fits in this context. He said life is better when there is ups and downs because a flat line signifies death.

I know that my partner will come back with a surgical dismemberment of this topic where I limited myself to the absence of EQ and empathy or he might not. He tends to surprise me, which again is thanks to choice and free will.

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

A Futile Effort to Win a Lost Battle

A couple of days after last week’s post was published, I came across this quote in a tweet, and I think there has never been a quote more appropriate in the context of free will, or more appropriately what we perceive as free will.

A Solemn Affair Or A Sombre Event

After reading last week’s post, one particular incident from years ago comes in mind. On a fine Monday morning, a colleague showed up at work with an ear to ear smile that seemed impossible to wipe off. Like a man who had little to no idea of what the future held, he was annoyingly happy to be getting married. However, after a little friendly banter and a lightly serious discussion in the moments following, the rest of us realized that his happiness might have been misplaced. He seemed unusually proud to the level of gloating about the gold watch on his wrist, the apartment in Bangalore, and copious amount of gold that suddenly adorned his fingers and neck the weight of which seemed to strain his back but not his conscience. After only a little while into such a discussion, one could’ve argued that the glee was more because of the “gifts” he was showered with by the bride to be’s family than the beginning of the new chapter in his life.

This particular incident has bothered me and everyone I have ever told, and in a boorish effort, upholds the perception of Indian weddings. If one would judge the situation in isolation, one would correctly conclude that the opulence in an Indian wedding is not in the celebration of the journey of two lives, but in the boasting of one’s wealth.

There are a couple of different ways the ugliness in the whole thing rears its head. The most obvious one is the blatant display of wealth particularly when it is beyond the families’ means. The grandiose of the setup, the luxury in hosting hundreds of guests for a multi-day event whose criticism at the end of the grand ordeal is always directed at the host for some irrational reason, the lavish food spread, and the list goes on. And not to mention the blood and sweat that goes into organizing such an event and making sure it happens smoothly, because that is, at the end of the day, the goal. However, the peripheral fluff to keep people entertained and happy while the bride and groom say their vows seem to require an inordinate amount of monetary resources that more often than not is beyond the families’ means. There is a strange hypocrisy in hosting as well as attending such an event. Both parties are aware of which among the two is more important in the ordeal, but neither acknowledge or act on making a change. In particular, the hosts cave to the societal pressure to live up to an arbitrary standard of marrying their children.

That brings me to the other face of ugliness. Like any societal norm, the layers of unspoken rules which dictate the final form of the said norm skew all the responsibilities – financial or otherwise – unfairly towards one party. One of the favourite tropes in the 80’s Bollywood movies, one that was twisted and wrung in infinite ways until there was no more financial success to be had, or more appropriately, the audience moved on to the decade of change with the turn of the 90s, was the classic saas-bahu conflict. Most odiously, the conflict where the victim was almost always the newly married bride, originated from saas’s anger at the bride’s family’s inability in meeting her demands. And the newly married groom helplessly watched from the sidelines his marriage pushed to the brink of destruction. Financial success was guaranteed only when the emotional whirlwind of a story resolved into a happily-ever-after scenario. The movies satisfied that demand by giving the protagonist, the groom, some balls to face the demons, and save his marriage in the nick of time. The real life, however, is as cruel is it comes, and it rarely grows a conscience. More often than not the monster of a family whose ridiculously unfair demands in the arrangements as well as in the form of “gifts,” or let’s call a spade a spade, dowry, when not met, retaliates in cruel, destructive and real ways that leave people’s lives in tatters. The ones who suffer the most are the newly married couple, or worse, one of them does. And here I thought weddings are supposed to celebrate two people’s union in marriage.

To each their own they say, and there is a certain sense of fairness in that statement in this particular context. A wedding is a private matter that is up to the families to celebrate in their own ways. Even when the social systems imposes and interferes into existence, the occasion of wedding aspires to be a solemn affair. Unfortunately, the occasion metamorphoses into an event, a fair of some sort, the goal of which is to entertain people and announce the host’s reach, every time the fourth cousin’s niece who has heard the bride’s mother’s name exactly once during her own wedding get added to the invitee list. Unfortunately, to meet the social obligation, that niece will show-up and will do so with a high expectation of hospitality. The more I think about it, the more my modern, liberal, and individualistic brain fails to grasp the sense in all of this. I fail to understand why, even with all the glitter and gold, the weddings seem like sombre events.

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

The Opulent Indian Weddings

Growing up in southern India, I always related weddings to a minimalist affair. Yes, I know the irony behind that statement. My exposure was limited to a small town in the Rayalseema region of Andhra Pradesh where weddings took place in the temples and the food spread was traditional and a pure vegetarian affair.

The Opulent Indian Weddings

Growing up in southern India, I always related weddings to a minimalist affair. Yes, I know the irony behind that statement. My exposure was limited to a small town in the Rayalseema region of Andhra Pradesh where weddings took place in the temples and the food spread was traditional and a pure vegetarian affair. People did splurge on the receptions but nothing that caused one to question the state of their finances at the culmination of the wedding. The two things that stood out was the extravagant jewellery on the bride and the sordid affair of the dowry and although I will never be on board with the latter, I considered the former to be a personal choice of the family, that is until I saw women in one of the wedding parties examining the bride’s jewellery and passing judgemental comments. Seriously, why do they care?

This illusion of South Indian weddings being minimalist first cracked and later shattered as I moved from my sleepy small town to the next city and then to the state capital. The more modern, richer and connected the family, the more extravagant were the weddings! Once my dad was invited to the wedding of his supplier’s daughter and upon his return, he told us that the diamonds on the bride were so big, so many and so sparkling that he didn’t remember how she looked. So, may be the supplier had tons of money to splurge but when I see similar expectation of extravagant jewellery on a bride coming from a middle class family and the parents of the bride fighting tooth and nail to meet those expectations, my blood boils a little. Just a tad!

It gets worse when we move from south to north. Once, I attended this wedding in Delhi of a colleague’s sister. One would think there was a fair going on if you were not familiar with Indian weddings. For days prior to the wedding there are events just as magnificent and as extravagant as the wedding itself. The haldi ceremony, sangeet and I don’t even know all the other rituals but through this all I see the brother running around fulfilling the demands of the groom’s family and meeting expectations of his guests. No one should be dissatisfied or else! Dowry is illegal and so these days “gifts” like a new residence, car, furniture, jewellery, clothes are given to the daughter for her new life. On the day of the wedding the bride started prepping for her big day right after noon. The bridal make up, draping the so-heavy-it-needs-four-people-to-carry-it lehenga, the heavy jewellery (which was fake because unlike southern India robberies are ripe in northern India) etc., took the bride six to seven hours which she then lugged around for another seven to eight hours because the groom’s brigade did not arrive until well past midnight. The bride looked exhausted and hungry. I was so flummoxed I asked the brother whether the groom even wanted to marry? why would he be so late and keep his bride waiting? It doesn’t make any sense. He told me that that is normal. I don’t get it. There should be no one more important than the bride and the groom on their wedding day but here it felt like the bride was an after-thought.

What is it about the marriage of two people that makes their families want to empty out their life’s savings? Destination weddings, celebrity weddings, billionaire weddings it keeps getting worse. I left India eight years back and from what I see this tragic splurging keeps getting better and better. There are engagement parties, cocktail parties in addition to the usual mehendi and the sangeet followed by the wedding and the reception and god knows what else. Designer outfits, food extravaganza, alcohol, DJ, hundreds if not thousands of guests, celebrity performances, global venues and the list goes on. Does it sound like sour grapes? It is not, in all honesty. I am not against a good party. Heck I love parties, music, and dolling up. However, I dislike the pressure people/ families feel to match the very high expectations. I struggle to understand why an educated strata of society would go through with this. I am sure Mr. Ambani, Sonam, Deepika, Anushka or Priyanka did not feel the brunt of their recent lavish wedding enterprises at all. A recent tweet condemning the Ambani extravaganza was replied with “the money was not wasted; it was paid to the service providers. This is how economy works.” Enlightening! I can’t argue with that statement in my right mind now, can I?

But what about the young girls who now grow up following the instagram? What about their growing expectations? I was watching this recent commercial of an Indian jewellery enterprise where the parents of the bride have prepared for her an extravagant (I am tired of using the word today) wedding trousseau but she is unhappy because it is not like the other extravagant jewellery that she desires. Then her brother plans a set for her wedding with the help of a designer. I kid not! A set, like for a movie, yes. But the bride has her own ideas and she is unhappy when she shows it to her brother and he tells her that the set is already designed. This is followed by a few more ludicrous moments which all make the bride sulk. Her fiancé notices this and the prince charming that he is, decides to give her the day of her dreams. Voila! Her mother presents her with bling identical to those that she desires and then the set is transformed to match her sketches and blah and blah. The bride is teary eyed and her parents are proud and her brother teases her as the jewellery brand’s tag line goes “royal wedding for every Indian bride.” Now what is wrong with that statement and this commercial? I wonder!

Families go down under by the time they get through the wedding of a daughter. What would they do if they have more than one? From the moment a girl is born, the parents starts saving for the girl’s wedding. If that is not ridiculous, I don’t know what is. Even in educated modern families where the girls are brought up with just as much education, freedom and independence as boys, the story is similar. Of course there are exceptions but that is all they are, anomalies in an otherwise wedding obsessed society. What is wrong with a simple ceremony with two people exchanging vows to love and respect each other in the presence of family and friends who personally know them and genuinely wish them well? Why spend life’s savings on an event that marks the beginning of a journey and not the end?

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

A Solemn Affair Or A Sombre Event

After reading last week’s post, one particular incident from years ago comes in mind. On a fine Monday morning, a colleague showed up at work with an ear to ear smile that seemed impossible to wipe off.

The Literature of the Heart

“A key to a woman’s heart is hidden in her playlist” – Anonymous

For the longest time, I have been surrounded by music lovers and the sorts who have an ear for all genres of music in multiple languages and can hold a conversation for hours together about rock and metal and Jazz and can tell the singer and the album by just listening to a microsecond of the tune. I felt out of place because when such conversations started as I had no input whatsoever until a friend pointed out to me that there is no shame in one’s choice of music because music speaks differently to different people, that which stirs your soul is different than that of mine, and it is alright. The beauty of music is that there is some for each one of us and as long as it satisfies the purpose of rejuvenating one’s soul, nothing else matters.

The choice of lyrics drives my choice of music. For example, my happy place would be a room with all open windows with bright curtains billowing in the wind and the room aglow in the moonlight and brightened by a lone lamp while a gramophone in a corner stands and plays “Ajeeb Dastaan hain yeh… kaha shuru kaha khatam.” Many times when the experiences in the day to day life feel arbitrary, listening to songs with lyrics that speak to me at the moment helps me shake off the feeling of melancholy. As a teenager, experiencing my first crush, everything felt rosy and peppy around me. In those days I would often find myself drawing parallels with most love songs. Later when I experienced loss, I repeated the same with melancholic music. In turn, those particular songs and I were bonded for life and no matter where I am or what I am doing, when I listen to that music, I am transported back to those moments, and a wave of nostalgia hits me. In a way, it is therapeutic knowing that there is a song for every moment one can live because then it means one is not alone.

I had a friend back when I worked in Mumbai, who spent insanely long hours at work and when he finally left work, he drank to the point of passing out. All the time at work, unless he was addressing the team, he had his headphones on. One evening, I asked him what was on his playlist, and he handed over his headphones in response. He explained that his genre was trance. He listened to that music all day long and typed away at his keyboard. I didn’t have to know him too well to figure out that he was numbing himself from his surroundings. Where I took solace in words, he found the absence of words ataractic. Today, I know him to be in a much happier place in life. If he handed over his headphones today, would I find a different genre? Maybe! Or maybe if we could manifest for just a moment the digital playlist in the physical world, those tracks that numbed his soul and helped him live through whatever pain he was experiencing, probably is stacked in that dark corner with dust settling on it but still at hand’s reach to be picked up for when he needs them again.

Coming back to my playlist, I listen to songs I can hum along. It is as simple as that. Hindi Bollywood music pretty much exhausts my playlist. But lately, I find myself enjoying American folk and country music. This I know because ignorant of the genre, I told dear H a few times that I like so and so song while it was playing, and he smiled and drew the conclusion that I enjoy the country. I don’t remember all the songs, but I know the title song of the Netflix original, Ranch is a soother for me. So, that is new, and although this genre is not in my playlist yet, maybe I’ll evolve. The other new genre I am warming up to is Bengali band music courtesy of a crazy new friend I made this past year. The intensity with which she sings some of these songs leaves my skin tingling and hair standing as if her feelings for the duration of that song stood up, walked by and ran a finger down my skin.

“Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and turn my back to loneliness” – Maya Angelou

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

Music is a Journey

As pure happenstance would have it, I discovered a somewhat recognizable fact about our music listening habit while surfing through the suggested playlist on my choice of music streaming service. On the fated Friday evening while we entertained a few friends, the 90’s Bollywood music playlist bubbled up to the top, and serendipity joined us for a drink while familiarity played the DJ.

Music is a Journey

As pure happenstance would have it, I discovered a somewhat recognizable fact about our music listening habit while surfing through the suggested playlist on my choice of music streaming service. On the fated Friday evening while we entertained a few friends, the 90's Bollywood music playlist bubbled up to the top, and serendipity joined us for a drink while familiarity played the DJ. And oh what an evening it was! Our dance moves matured from the clumsy moves of the early decade to the end of the decade where the steps became more elaborate and sharp. Needless to say, some of us followed the more modern moves with embarrassingly poor dexterity. Among our friends we seem to unequivocally and almost unfairly favour the melodious, groovy and sometimes hauntingly romantic tunes of 90's Bollywood when it comes to gatherings which demands to drop the guard, kicking the shoes and letting yourself lose in the lyrics and tune -- words that we discover to be embedded deep into our souls. This whole episode made me ponder upon the intimate nature of music. In my specific case, in spite of growing up with a genre, as happenstance would have it, I found a genre with which solidarity seems to have come naturally.

I have this playlist which I absolutely cherish. I call it the Best of the Bests. It represents a fusion of genres covering the entire spectrum from Indian classical and Sufi inspired tragic numbers to the hard rock and metal songs. It starts with the exquisite vocal work of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, continues on to the pop-rock inspired more technical work by A.R. Rahman, pauses for a moment on the evergreen Beatle and then in an absurdly inconsistent manner takes a turn to the metal portion which consists of Iron Maiden, Metallica, Alice in Chains and some other lesser known metal band. In other words, that list has songs that suit every mood, and in many ways, it is the medicine that can heal any scar that the world can inflict on my soul. Naturally, I listen to this in solitude, in joy, sorrow or anger, at the end of a long day, and on a Sunday morning while still figuring out the day.

As I reach the section with the more hardcore numbers every time I play that playlist, I reach a realization that in some ways establishes the solidarity I speak of, and in some other ways upholds the intimate nature of our relationship with the art form. I realize that no matter my affiliation with a specific decade of Bollywood music, Rock as a genre dares to explore the intricacies and complexities of the entire swath of human emotions. Like any other genre of art, it is not without its flaws, and there indeed isn’t a shortage of objectively unpalatable material. However, it’s the inherently rebellious, explorative nature and the raw emotions that make me put on my headphones and push play.

I don’t recall the exact circumstance under which I was introduced to rock-n-roll, but it was well past my early formative years. As I got to exploring more not just the music but also the culture, I came across the stereotypes associated with a metal-head. Around the world they are known by many names: headbangers, punks, anti-cultural, the worshiper of Satan and on goes the list. As with victims of typecasting, the so-called metal-heads didn’t care about the rest of the world. With a little poking and prodding, I figured that the secret of the carefree attitude came from both the subject matter and the mannerism of expressions. Being deeply rooted in the free-spirited yet assertive Blues, the subject matter of study span beyond the love or related tragedy that Bollywood primarily offers. It explores happiness, sorrow, disgust, anger, depression, and love with a certain mannerism that is raw, honest, and real, all keeping the balance that is life. With that carefree attitude came immense freedom and along with it came the burden of reality.

From the early days of exploration to today when I am deep into this genre, one fact that I believe to be true is this: the harsh words, more honest and direct expressions, and the subtle sarcasm represent reality and life that we live in that reality. However, the apparent shabby, and the unwelcoming look have been a barrier in social settings, but not something that a bit of scotch can’t solve.

One’s taste in music is probably one of the most intimate things that one holds close to heart, and rightfully so. With so many genres and sub-genres, the choices are virtually infinite. That is precisely why even with a few million songs readily available at our fingertips, artists still write, sing, play and release new ones every day. I may have grown up with music that focused on some basic human connections, but the genre I can connect to and fallback to is rock-n-roll. Comparatively, what rock-n-roll lacks in melody, makes up with the subject matter and intensity of the expression and both are easy to relate to and align with. To someone else, the genre might be too boorish, uncouth, and unsophisticated, but then again, the fascinating thing about music is that loving music is like loving a person; the process and reasons are as cherishable as the company of the person.

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

The Literature of the Heart

“A key to a woman’s heart is hidden in her playlist” – Anonymous For the longest time, I have been surrounded by music lovers and the sorts who have an ear for all genres of music in multiple languages and can hold a conversation for hours together about rock and metal and Jazz and can tell the singer and the album by just listening to a microsecond of the tune.

Some Actions Shouldn't Be Emulated

They say, as a parent, you evolve every day. You adapt and adjust only to realize that your adjustments were effective the one time she let you have it your way, and you go back to finding ways to adapt again. I can attest to that fact that, at the end of a long day of work getting the cute little monster whose life’s work consists of scribblings on a blank paper or shabbily coloured picture of Dora, to do the basic necessities like having dinner feels like utilizing the entirety of the last drops of mental and physical power. At that point, it is only human to feel the well of patience and composure drying up. Then again, doing so every day for as many years as we have been doing seems like entirety at the end of which the parents come out as unrecognizable people compared to the time before parenthood. In a beautifully ironic way, through every guilt-laden manifestation of the anger and impatience, we change in fundamental ways.

Of late, the little one, whose level of intelligence we still seem to underestimate, comes up with unexpected responses and statements and we invariably look at each other with raised eyebrows. Raised eyebrow sometimes in appreciation of original thought and sometimes wondering where did she learn that. On either occasion, my first reflex is to scrummage through the timeline to figure out is that something I have done or said in the past. In other words, is she emulating me or us? So, when I read last week’s post and visualized the scene of a four-year-old screaming in frustration, I do what I always do. Try to figure out when, if ever, the wife and I reacted that way. Although I couldn’t find an occasion where our frustration got the best of us, and we needed to scream at someone quite possibly because age has given us the arsenal to control the rage to a certain extent, I came away from the process with an unsettling discovery. I realized that with every instance when we couldn’t help ourselves and expressed our anger in any form or shape, we have normalized that behaviour and therefore implicitly encouraged that behaviour.

In the consulting industry, one of the first lessons we learn is that identifying the problem is half the battle. Observing and listening through the complex sequence of events and arriving at a concise and solvable definition of the problem is not only a Herculean task when it comes to people due to the innate complexity of human nature, but also some may consider an art. So, now it becomes a simple matter of finding a solution. It becomes a matter of finding something that brings back the composure and helps us keep the calm during the testing times. However, knowing the problem is only about half the battle. When it comes to human nature, and especially when one is dealing with a child, solving the problem is the half that, contradicting arithmetic, may seem more significant than that. In this particular case, even when we are fully aware of the solution, overcoming ourselves and composing ourselves becomes insurmountable. I acknowledge that, but should there be a lack of trying?

A while ago, I tweeted that, and I paraphrase, “parenting isn’t all about teaching, it is also about having a bit of fun in the process.” One of the responses to that tweet from a dear friend made me pause and think. He said parenting might be all about learning. Learning to do things in the way a little human being with a developing brain would understand and can follow, learning about ourselves and our behaviour, learning to, no, re-learning to behave in ways we want our offspring to behave. So, after reading last week’s post which was primarily an outlet of some pent-up frustration, I have been raking my brain to figure out a way to contribute to the conversation. Then it dawned on me: if it is all about learning and adapting, then I must do precisely that. I must keep aside my share of venting, compose myself, and try to figure out a reaction that when my daughter emulates, I would be ok with it. And in the process, if I am able to change for better just a little bit, that’s an outcome I can live with.

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

Some Actions You Can’t Rewind

Call my post today inspired but waking up in the morning after minimal sleep and dealing with a cranky toddler is no fun. So I start the day saying “Go back to being in a good mood,” instead of a good morning to her and not thinking one bit about it.

Some Actions You Can’t Rewind

Call my post today inspired but waking up in the morning after minimal sleep and dealing with a cranky toddler is no fun. So I start the day saying “Go back to being in a good mood,” instead of a good morning to her and not thinking one bit about it. “Don’t cry,” “Don’t whine,” “Don’t be cranky” are all common phrases I throw around my little four-year-old quite a lot. Needless to say, it never works. My saying “Don’t cry” only makes her wail harder and “Don’t whine” brings out extreme ultimatums like “I don’t like you at all” or “I hate you.” It is a vicious cycle for we each rile the other up and not too long after we stand glaring at each other with tightly closed fists on the side. Only where I feel unimaginable anger, I see her lips quiver and eyes well up in hurt. My passion vanishes just as quickly as it appeared and in its place comes guilt. She is still standing there trembling and staring at me as if asking me to bring back her mom. We hug and stay like that until it is ok to let go.

My parenting skills are imperfect, to say the least, and there are quite a few items on that list that requires my attention, but short temper trumps the list. This is especially worrisome to me because for the longest time I considered myself to be a calm and peaceful person. My response to situations has hardly ever been stomping away in frustration, but that’s become my de facto reaction these days. I ignored this because it was easier to do that than fixing until the other day when my very angry toddler opened her mouth and with her body bent forward to let out the loudest scream I ever heard, and her face turned red while her fists were folded tight enough to leave nail marks in her soft pink palms. Her reaction made me kneel, hug her close while continuously asking her to breathe until she calmed down. It was weird to see a child of her age do such a thing. It felt improper and disturbing so much so that I haven’t been able to get the image out of my head.

Ever since becoming a mother, two things have changed drastically in my life. The first is the lack of six straight hours of undisturbed sleep and the second is inadequate personal space. About the former, I was never one for proper sleep routine. I love reading before sleep which always takes me to the wee hours of the night and the mornings were up for grabs depending on weekdays or weekends. Motherhood got me into a good routine of early to bed and early to rise, and we got our baby girl sleeping by herself early on however, there is the nightmare phase, the overly tired baby phase, then I-have-no-reason-but-i-want-to-cry phase, the separation anxiety phase, the codependency phase, the grand-parents-are-next-door phase and innumerable other non-reasons that make her wake up during the night screaming bloody murder. One of my morning routines has turned out to be checking the camera in her room to count the number of times I moved from my room to her room through the night, and two to three seems an average.

As to the latter, I like a vast personal space which I never paid too much attention to until I did not have it anymore. There are huggers and those that love to cuddle in the world, and there are people like me who would like to snuggle with a glass of wine, a book and a cozy blanket. Oh but it feels like such a luxury since my little girl needs constant physical contact with Mommy dearest, even if it is just a finger. I am told that these are cherished moments and fleeting and before I realize she will want nothing to do with me and cuddling will become a luxury. I understand, however, in this very moment, the absence of boundaries and the constant demand of physical closeness feels overwhelming. The combined effect leaves me with a short leash.

Knowing the cause of my problems is not helping me solve it, but it does help me be cautious and in control. I still feel unsurmountable anger at times, but I am also conscious when I start to feel that way and instead of reacting, I try to take a breather like walk to the room next door and take deep breaths or close eyes and count to ten while focusing on the feeling of the hopeless anger. It works for the most part, but sometimes it doesn’t. Many of you might disagree or not, but I find that taking refuge in a few good tears when the emotions are staggering, really helps. So I do it, and I feel like a phoenix after. It is a rinse and repeat process but once that is worth practicing because I can never get the image of my child screaming at me with her balled up fists out of my mind.

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

Some Actions Shouldn’t Be Emulated

They say, as a parent, you evolve every day. You adapt and adjust only to realize that your adjustments were effective the one time she let you have it your way, and you go back to finding ways to adapt again.

A Weekend Is Longer Than A Sunday

The astounding number of cliches we hear every day is, well astounding. Especially in the North American corporate culture, some people take it on to themselves to jump on absolutely every opportunity they get to throw in a healthy dose of cliches. I once witnessed a conversation no less than five minutes long consisting entirely of cliches. To my pragmatic soul, every hollow, overused word uttered felt like an assault to one of the salient features of a conversation -- clarity. Needless to say that a five day week filled with such banality is ironically a true definition of a long week. Thankfully, then the weekend rolls in with a promise of rejuvenation sits beside us and with an arm around our shoulders assures us that the next two days are going to be like a soothing tone of music -- a bit more healing with every beat. Sunday might very well be the end of the week or the beginning of the week based on which continent you are, but is it just Sunday that deserves all the attention?

As I embarked in the journey to find the answer to the most challenging question that there is, I found myself reminiscing. Much like the accounts in the last week’s post, thinking of Sunday takes me back to the days where the children’s shows on television enchanted my mornings, the customary special family lunch made the afternoons delicious, and the trepidatious anticipation of the coming Monday made the evenings mildly unpleasant. I have written somewhat in length about my love for those cartoons and the Sunday morning programs in general. Those consume so much memory space even today that the other day we were at a friends place and most of the evening we were talking about those. The lunch was something truly magical. Rice and fish curry, the staple Bengali food got a pass on Sundays and instead chicken and rice were served piping hot. On a side note, every household had an unique way of preparing the chicken, and to this day debates rage on about the suitability of adding green papaya in chicken curry, and I am firmly on the side of yes. Anyway, delight, although overused, is the word that consumes my mind when I think about Sundays of my growing up years.

Then the work-life happened. Added to the delight of Sunday was the unbounded promise of freedom of Saturday -- more freedom than we knew what to do with. Initially, Sundays still stayed special. Deep within ourselves we anxiously anticipated the defining moment of a Sunday. Well, maybe not the cartoon part, but you get the point. However, as time went on, Saturday started to seem more like the Sunday we desired but didn’t had. The reasoning is simple. Our lives were set up to attend school or work Monday through Saturday. In the business of daily life, we never had a day that had no caveats, that had no time where anything but the present time was important. And that’s the part Sunday can never satisfy. Except for the long weekends which I understand is limited to the North America, there will never be a Sunday which will not have a few moments of Monday-anxiousness which, to be honest, can consume all or brain power. Saturday however, has a promise of being a true weekend day that would not bother us with the worry of life. I can’t help but think, given our today’s life we almost overestimate the importance of Sundays, and at the same time don’t appreciate the Saturdays as much as they deserve.

At the risk of uttering platitude, our lives are fast-paced, probably more than we are willing to accept sometimes. From the first day at school to the day we retire, our weeks serve the purpose of either getting us ready for the life of earning or working towards making a living. I see my daughter uncontrollably excited to go to school and meet her friends and at the end of the day, crash before her dinner when the tiredness becomes so acute that she doesn’t even care for her favourite dish. And every time I am reminded of her excitement during the days leading up to starting school. Little did she know what she was walking into. So, when the Friday evening rolls in, the anticipation itself of walking away from the monotony and realizing the time we have been working for is nothing short of refreshing. At that point the name of the day becomes immaterial. I started this post with the thought that Saturday is the new Sunday, but then I realized why single out one day when we have two. So, as much as I know and appreciate the special place Sundays hold in our hearts, I think weekend as a whole deserves our appreciation, probably much more than we are willing to.

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

Time Flows Differently on Sundays

I got a text this morning from my cousin who just welcomed a little girl into this world and to his family. He subsequently shared a picture of my older niece with her cousins sitting on the same ancestral cot that has been in their home since before we were born.

Time Flows Differently on Sundays

I got a text this morning from my cousin who just welcomed a little girl into this world and to his family. He subsequently shared a picture of my older niece with her cousins sitting on the same ancestral cot that has been in their home since before we were born. He said that the picture made him think fondly of our childhood. His words brought back memories of childhood not just those spent with cousins during the summer holidays but also of those spent with my brother and friends growing up. If you have been reading my blogs you know that sentimentality plays a big part in my thoughts and on cue I go back to that Sunday morning when no one except mom woke up before 9 AM.

The morning was quiet in the absence of the chaotic run of two kids getting ready to catch the bus to school. School used to be six days a week, not five and hence the sleep-in on Sunday morning was special. But if you have kids, you know how they refuse to wake up on a weekday, but on the weekend they are up and moving at the break of dawn. “But I see the sun mamma,” is a common statement I hear from my four-year-old on every Saturday and Sunday and only on those days. I can’t blame her for I was the same. On Sunday morning I remember waking up excited to start the day with ‘Rangoli’, a TV show on Doordarshan showcasing about five or six yesteryear songs. I used to snuggle in next to Dad as he sipped on his tea and biscuits and swayed to the music. Once during a competitive game of Antakshari, a tune from the middle of a song was played, and the teams were asked to guess the words of the opening lines of the song, and I remember picking up the mike and singing the words from the middle all the way to the end of the song. The anchor of the competition asked me how I know all the words of a song from my father’s era and I remember telling her that watching ‘Rangoli’ with dad was the favourite part of my week.

This morning ritual with my dad was followed by the soporific news hour and the extremely dramatic Mahabharat at which point my favourite part of the day started. Ma made the best breakfast of the week on Sundays. Bread omelette, aloo parathas, luchi & aloo-dum, chowmein, crispy dosas and the yummiest of all Maggi made regular appearances on the Sunday breakfast menu. With my tummy full and my appetite satisfied I spent the next hour watching Disney hour which happened to be the only time here, I wasn’t fighting with my brother over the remote. We had a limited pool of shows consisting of He-man, TaleSpin, jungle book, bugs bunny, mickey mouse and few other Disney productions but we cherished them. The most prized possession of my brother and I when I was still very young was a video cassette of Tom & Jerry which we watched with all our friends sitting on the living room floor as the tape played on our VCP. As I write this, I can feel the same excitement and rush I felt as a kid in anticipation of watching something on the VCP. There was something so rich and grown-up about the experience.

Ours was a Bengali household, and hence Sunday lunch meant rice and goat curry. As Ma toiled in the kitchen the aroma of freshly ground spices in oil filled the air, and so did the tunes of the latest and greatest hits of the time from Dada’s stereo system. I hovered around Ma popping the just fried potatoes for the curry into my mouth and Ma slapping my hands off the counter telling me off for eating all the potatoes and not leaving any for the curry. “Go out and play and do not come back till I call you,” she would say. Thrown out of my home, I wandered out to find my friends. We lived in a colony, and it was normal and quite safe for kids to be out and about without parental supervision. I would see Dada playing cricket with his friends in the grounds under the hot sun, and their screaming voices of ‘Howzzat’ and ‘Sixer’ echoed everywhere. I usually found my friends huddled under a tree somewhere. We were a lazy bunch, especially on Sundays. Now all this was an interlude for me as I awaited the lunch hour when I could go back home and gobble down that delicious meal of mangsho bhat. DD Metro telecasted a Hindi movie on Sunday afternoons, and I usually hoped it was one of Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s light-hearted family comedies. We used to settle down in front of the TV with our lunch plates and enjoy the meal while watching the movie. I loved how Ma used to keep aside an extra piece of organ meat for me. No such special treatment for Dada or maybe he got it too without my knowing. I wouldn’t be surprised. Moms are sneaky and strategic like that.

Ma toiled through the day while we lazed and enjoyed our day of leisure but the smile never left her face. She loved and still loves having the pitter patter of children around her. It was her happy place. Years hence, Sundays have lost its stature to the mighty Saturdays, but as someone who cherishes the memories, I long for those lazy Sundays and the rituals that made it so special. Everything is available in abundance now. Cartoons are not limited to Sunday mornings or a single channel, meat and rice is staple available all through the week, music is at everyone’s fingertips, and there are two days of rest instead of one in the week. Everything that made Sunday morning special is no longer a reason, but still every Sunday morning I wake up early enough to live the day, I want to make a great breakfast but usually end up with eggs and toast, and I sip through my big mug of coffee with my husband talking over our topic of duologue. I guess I am making my rituals with my family now although I long for the Sundays from my childhood. I think I always will.

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

A Weekend Is Longer Than A Sunday

The astounding number of cliches we hear every day is, well astounding. Especially in the North American corporate culture, some people take it on to themselves to jump on absolutely every opportunity they get to throw in a healthy dose of cliches.

A Multicultural Tapestry

When I go back home to visit and step out of the airplane into the foggy morning sky, my nose itches and eyes irritate but there is another aspect that is obvious; the familiarity. The feeling of comfort and security that arises from being familiar with one’s surroundings. As a child of the Nation, I feel a security; a belief that in this country I am safe. A strength that is rooted in fundamental rights, family history and a network of friends and acquaintances. That day as I sat with my entire family in the room where the ceremony was to be held, I looked around me and saw the familiar diversity that made for a rich multicultural tapestry. It felt like a privilege to be part of this nation that had its fundamentals rooted in humanity and individuality. There was hope in everyone’s eye, some more than others at having finally reached the moment where on we would belong to this adopted country just as much as the judge who was swearing us in.

In the past I heard many times that Canada was wrong to give shelter to the refugees of the world and every time I wondered what would happen to those people if everyone refused to give them a home in the name of geographical borders. All other living beings are free to move to any habitat that suits them except for us humans who divided this planet into as many countries and now inflict sufferings on one another for many reasons, one of which happens to be the land. But I respect this country more for its approach towards the refugees, for giving a roof to a family with children as young as mine, hungry and terrified. Agreed that with this influx comes aggression and hatred and this otherwise sparsely populated peaceful country is at risk of gradually feeling the wrath of population and post traumatic behaviour. But most of these refugees are educated, middle class peaceful people not unlike most of us. I have friends whose stories of eviction and flight are terrifying to say the least and I feel an unrelenting gratitude towards this Nation that accepted them and adopted them.

Living in this country lets me witness certain aspects of humanity that revives my hope in our species. If while watching one of those apocalyptic movies I ever wondered, “what’s the point? Let them die, they’ll kill each other anyways,” the people in this country make me say “No, save them. Humanity still exists here.” Couple of weeks back, I was stuck in a train for three hours on my way back from work. I was to take an earlier train to attend the open house at my daughter’s school and because I promised her, I was quite agitated with this delay. Like me there were many exhausted people on that train but none more than a four year old who like my daughter spent the day at school and was going back home with his dad. Hunger and exhaustion made him cranky and he screamed to the fullest extent of his lungs. As the kid’s dad was beating himself up trying to calm the kid down, the passengers in the train took upon them to entertain this little guy. They played with him, offered him cookies, played tag with him in the compartment and a bunch of people even made the dad laugh. As a mother, i know the panic that sets in when kids misbehave in public places and in a closed compartment, a screaming toddler can have the same effect as an ambulance but kudos to those people who smiled and laughed with this little guy and his distressed father. It takes tons of mutual respect for people to behave the way that coach full of people did.

The people in this country love the nation just as much as those to the south of the border or those on neighbouring continents but they do not believe that patriotism requires wearing the flag or the flag colours, hats or displaying flag coloured tattoos. They are secure in their identity and roll their eyes at other’s passionate display of love for National symbols. They do not have enemies that arouse in them feelings of martyrdom. Their passiveness doesn’t suggest disrespect but only that they prefer peace to war. Quoting from a Canada 150 article written by Don Ford, “Canada has been at the forefront of social change, eclipsing our neighbours to the south by 31 years in abolishing slavery (1834), while becoming the first non-European nation and only the fourth country in the world to make same-sex marriage legal in 2005 — a full decade before the U.S. followed.” Canada’s achievements are many and monumental which one can google but the humility of the people is what defines this nation.

I will never stop cheering for India in a game of cricket and I’ll always stand up when I hear the Indian National Anthem but I am also proud to be part of this nation where people can be fearless about accepting who they are and being themselves, practice their faith without repercussions, speak their mind irrespective of the colour of their skin. I am excited about my journey as a Canadian and the memories I make in this nation that celebrates Navratri just as enthusiastically as Thanksgiving and Diwali with just as much pomp and splendour as Christmas.

“Ultimately a great nation is a compassionate nation..” - Martin Luther King

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

Citizens of the World

A few days ago on a momentous day, we were going to be sworn in as Canadian citizens, we were sitting at the lobby of the Government of Canada building, and I noticed a rather interesting sign. It said, and I will try to paraphrase, “please don’t smoke near the entrance of the building out of respect for others.”

Citizens of the World

A few days ago on a momentous day, we were going to be sworn in as Canadian citizens, we were sitting at the lobby of the Government of Canada building, and I noticed a rather interesting sign. It said, and I will try to paraphrase, “please don’t smoke near the entrance of the building out of respect for others.” The notice was interesting to me for a couple of reasons. Firstly, the notice was in English as well as in Quebecois French, and the mangled alien mess that comes out anytime someone reads and pronounces French verbatim is beyond funny. Waiting at a lobby of a government building can be, well, rather mundane and a much needed comic relief out of a customary sign is the best kind one can hope. Secondly, and more importantly, let’s pay close attention to the language used in deterring smokers from smoking close to the front doors. It doesn’t try to be authoritative and say “smoking is prohibited” as one would find to be the most widely used version. It doesn’t try to instil fear of the law by sighting the maximum fine one would incur by disobeying the words. It doesn’t even try to be politely assertive and say “please smoke at designated areas only.” It requests refrain sighting a moral obligation of one decent human being towards another -- respect. I think that’s one ideology that’s reasonably easy to reconcile with for anyone. A simple no-smoking sign that thoughtfully and politely requests to uphold the essential human virtue embodies the fundamental quality of this country, and we were going to be citizens of that country.

It was probably because how important the day was to us or maybe it was a coincidence that I was paying attention to minutia that was as important as the age of the fly that bothers you in the morning on the day we were to become citizens. However, this got me thinking about patriotism and how one attaches oneself with a country, or more generally, a common political community. What does such attachment entail, what is the outcome or the objective of such attachment? In hindsight, I guess, I was keeping myself busy with internal political debate while waiting for the day’s proceedings to begin. The more I pondered, the more I came down on the side that equates patriotism to nationalism. It seemed to me, especially in the wake of the recent political turmoil in North America, that patriotism is a political construct that exploits our natural tribalistic behaviour to protect and guard the ethnic and cultural homogeneity that arises consequently. It seemed to me like a weapon to use to resist the foreign ideology and the cultural assimilation, a weapon to use against a cosmopolitan and more tolerant world. Needless to say that the feeling was unpleasant.

From personal experience, sitting in a government building waiting for our adopted country to accept us as one of its own is a nerve wrecking process. In our case, we had to give up being a citizen of India to be a citizen of Canada. The idea of giving up the country where we were born, the infectious familiarity and its influence in our identity, was one crazy and terrifying proposition. The patriotic proclamation, in the most commonly used sense of the word, of being an Indian was to be replaced by that of being a Canadian. In an effort to distract myself from the spiralling thoughts, I looked around, and the excited but calm faces made me feel safe, feel at home. Then again, just to satisfy the contradictionist in me, I wondered if it was the calmness or was it the diversity in the room that made me feel better. It was a combination of a healthy dose of introspection and cynicism that made me realise what a real force diversity can be.

In the room, there were about sixty individuals. Among them were people from European descent, Indian, some African descent, some Central American, and some middle-easterners. Each one of us was doing what is growing more commonplace by the day -- we were adopting a new country to call it home. We were to rebuild our sense of belongingness and attachment to our new country, in other words, we were to feel patriotic for our adopted country. Then again, this is the country that was built on and even today stands on the multiculturalism as one of its pillars. The prospect of living in a society calms all the preconceived trepidation like one soothing magical balm or a drag of a certain drug that I hear Canada has recently legalised. A patriotic sentiment with this country didn’t mean solidarity with the traditional sense of loyalty and commitment to the state or the military or economic superiority of the country; it meant reconciling with the commitment to universal human principals -- respect, diversity, pluralism, acceptance and fundamental rights. Again, those ideologies are the easiest to reconcile with.

I thought it was going to be a journey. I imagined that from the point I came out of the airport to meet my wife to the day I hold my hand up to pledge allegiance to the queen, there would be a natural progression of how I felt about the new home. It was precisely that, however, when to came to the matter of feeling patriotic, it happened almost immediately. The sympathetic approach towards patriotism that is rooted in the respect for the universal values and human rights, aligned perfectly with my values and principles. The idea of living in a society that actively encourages multiculturalism and yet maintains its true identity, which is common sense approach towards progressive improvements, was a lucrative proposition with harmonious prospects. Reading and interpreting the no-smoking by the door sign was just a culmination of all the little experiences and “patriotic” feelings I felt through the process. Now that we are past the watershed moment, we are on to the next one.

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

A Multicultural Tapestry

When I go back home to visit and step out of the airplane into the foggy morning sky, my nose itches and eyes irritate but there is another aspect that is obvious; the familiarity. The feeling of comfort and security that arises from being familiar with one’s surroundings.

70% Of Us Experience It

A couple of years ago, I walked into my boss’s office to congratulate him the day after he won the Most Valuable Player or MVP award which goes to a handful who contribute above and beyond their jobs’ requirements. The conversation was an exchange of usual pleasantries except for the part where I insisted that it’s him who made the team look good. In hindsight, that statement seems meaningless. It is not him who made the team look good, it is the team’s good work that brought the attention he got. The unfortunate truth is that the behaviour I exhibited is so common in the modern corporate culture that it has been elevated to the status of normalcy. Individual achievements are generally attributed to the team’s achievements. This culture has its benefits for the organisation which tries to dampen individualism and amplify cultural uniformity, but at the same time, it creates a culture where Imposter Syndrome is widely accepted as the norm and therein lies the problem.

According to studies, about 70% of us experience Imposter Syndrome at some point in our career. That number to me seemed significantly higher than I would have guessed based on no real data. So, I had to spend some time on the internet to gather up more information on what really consists of the said syndrome.

Apparently, my knowledge on this issue, like many other is thoroughly limited. According to this Time article there are five different kinds of people all of who exhibit the syndrome in different ways. Only one of which covers last week’s post as well as the incident I talked about at the opening of the post. It’s an informational read, and I will let you dive into the juicy details and judge for yourself how prevalent these types of behaviours are or how often we meet someone who would display such behaviour.

The information was overwhelming. But I am sure every issue or condition I try to study will leave me with the exact same feeling — an overwhelming sense of smallness that cast long and dark shadows on everything else that is positive; a realization that we understand ourselves so little that the lack of knowledge may one day be the cause of our demise. Focusing back to the subject at hand, among the different manifestations of the concerned condition, the theme that stood out was that the effects, in any setup, are detrimental to the person and the people around.

At one extreme of the spectrum, a student who is still building her life could feel the urge to be the perfectionist. In spite of the rigorous preparation, she may feel inadequate and consequently, sense the much-needed confidence in her ability ebb away with every passing moment leading up to the exam. To an overachiever, everything they do may seem like a pretence to win the approval of the people around. Alternatively, to an average Joe who feels requiring help in anything he does is a proof that he is an imposter. To him, every little piece of work may seem akin to climbing the Mt. Everest. On the other extreme of the spectrum, someone like Maya Angelou whose life had been a endless episode of spectacular accomplishments, the pang of doubt and fear every step of the way takes away the ability to enjoy those very achievements. Statistically speaking, Imposter Syndrome, in some form or shape, could affect people from all walks of life and at any stage of their life.

Knowing the effects is one thing, and it is essential, however, knowing the symptoms, in my opinion, is much more empowering.

Only a short search away lies the pitfall of the internet. Everyone is an expert, and everyone has a solution for the problems most of them don’t even understand. My revulsion towards those who think can solve all the problem in this planet is about the same as that towards a cockroach living in the sewage system. However, the same internet serves as a conduit to the information we need to educate ourselves and raise awareness. And as it is with all issues, the more aware we are, the more equipped we are to make an intelligent judgement of any situation that is a consequence of such behaviour even if it is our own creation. So, here I am trying to do my part.

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

I Am Worthy

How do you feel if you could hear Mary Angelou think “uh oh! They are going to find out now. I’ve run a game on everybody, and they are going to find me out”, or Albert Einstein say “The exaggerated esteem in which my life’s work is held makes me feel ill at ease” or Meryl Streep wonder “Why would anyone want to see me in a movie again?”

I Am Worthy

How do you feel if you could hear Mary Angelou think “uh oh! They are going to find out now. I’ve run a game on everybody, and they are going to find me out”, or Albert Einstein say “The exaggerated esteem in which my life’s work is held makes me feel ill at ease” or Meryl Streep wonder “Why would anyone want to see me in a movie again?”

It feels ridiculous, doesn’t it? But it is surprising how prevalent self-doubt is and how often people find themselves feeling like they do not deserve what they achieved. If you do not experience self-doubt, then you are in the minority. My father-in-law suggested we write about “The Imposter Syndrome” here on Duolog, but I laughed at the idea. I mockingly said, “Baba, but attributing the credit of one’s success to their team is called humility, and it is a good thing.” So, imagine my surprise when a little reading tells me otherwise which then led me to introspect.

The first time I experienced it is in Business School. I came to Canada cocksure that with my five years of experience and the international travel I had under my belt, MBA would be a steal. I don’t think I was ever or have I ever been since as sure of anything as I was then. My first awakening was when I attended my first class of Integrative Thinking and when the professor asked a question, I raised my hand to answer. Gibberish came out of my mouth and the Professor looking at my colourfully highlighted notes said, “Next time focus on what you are highlighting instead of the highlighting itself.” I was not used to such trauma. I was always the teacher’s pet, the straight A student, the example. That marked the beginning of the end of my career in Finance. Since that day I find myself doubting myself. I hardly ever raise my hand to answer a question for worry of sounding like an idiot. Many professors came after who proved that my one traumatic experience was an outlier but for some reason, I can’t get over it.

Which brings me to the next point I came across during my reading. I often remember my failures but hardly ever congratulate myself for my successes. Isn’t it ludicrous that we remind ourselves of incidents that set us up for failure instead of those that inspire us? When someone asks me if I am capable of doing a particular piece of work, I think of all the times that I failed to be an overachiever and nod a half-confident yes. Even though I am capable of finishing the task swimmingly, I find myself questioning my thoughts and ideas through and through. I also face a moment of surprise when the feedback to my work is positive before I absorb it and that nagging self-doubt takes a back seat for a little while. If I am reading both sides of the coin, then this same doubt also compels me to do better, to be my best.

For years I walked around thinking everyone else in the room knew more than I did which probably was true at times but most of the times were not and as good as it feels to know that most of those people felt the same way it is such an unnecessary fear. The comparison should be made between like things, apples to apples but how often have we compared ourselves to others who are in a whole different stage of the career trajectory? As I write this morning, I can think of many moments when I have been told by influential people that I shouldn’t be intimidated by them because when they were at the career stage, I am in I would have been surprised to meet them. I am sure there are quite a few in the world who perceive themselves to be more capable than they are in actual but surprisingly the percentage of people who undermine themselves is larger. It is as if we look for a reason to confirm our bias and the moment we find one we anchor ourselves to it and allow the nagging self-doubt to return to the forefront.

“Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.” - William Shakespeare

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

70% Of Us Experience It

A couple of years ago, I walked into my boss’s office to congratulate him the day after he won the Most Valuable Player or MVP award which goes to a handful who contribute above and beyond their jobs’ requirements.

The Adda and The PNPC

I woke up this morning with a full heart. The colours on the leaves are transitioning all around me from the summer green to a bright amber and a vibrant red. Autumn is beautiful in Canada, and even though it is the messenger for the onset of winter, Autumn is still loved and cherished, especially so by Bengalis around the world. Growing up outside of Bengal, I never got a vacation during this time of the year-long enough to make the 36-hour long journey by train to Bengal and so, my family never got to celebrate the much awaited ‘Durga Puja’ in Kolkata. The city lovingly called ‘The city of joy’ is more joyful than usual during these festivities. The Memories I often read and heard are about visiting the various pandals all night long, spending time with family, catching up with friends, flirting and the beginnings of budding love, latest fashion trends and of course the delicious, mouthwatering, coma-inducing spread of food. Unfortunately, I never had these memories, and I never felt my heart flutter in anticipation of Pujo, until now.

Last night was offbeat. It reminded me off a few beautiful moments in my life. It reminded me of when as a little girl I sneaked out with my friends to a corner of the nearby park which we called our place and talked about our little troubles. Neither the scorching sun nor the intense rain bothered us. We had an oasis that we cherished and treasured. We shared silly stories and laughed at stupid jokes. It reminded me of my girlfriends from college. The night before the final chemistry exam, my best friend and I stayed up until 5 AM talking about god-knows-what and almost flunked the test. This incident happened seventeen years ago, and we still think of it fondly every time we meet. I believe our friendship was elevated to a whole new level that night.

Last night reminded me of the early days of my career when my monthly salary barely lasted five days and in those five days, away from home and lacking nutritious food; we hunted for places that offered to satiate our cravings without digging a hole through our wallets. There was a restaurant called Annapurna in Chennai which was on the other side of town and getting there took us a good hour or two, but it promised a Bengali fare, and so we went. The queue was long, and we waited impatiently but when that glorified plate of steaming hot white rice garnished with single green chilli with an accompaniment of medium-sized bowls filled with delicacies made of fish and meat was served in front of us, our worries for food for the rest of the month did not matter. That one meal and the commute to get to it, however, lightened our wallets incredibly and so for the better part of the month my roommates huddled around in a circle and ate steaming hot Maggi from a big bowl. This morning as I think about it I can’t recall which meal was more memorable, but where one offered delectable food, the other offered delightful memories.

Talking of memories, these past two months have been a whirlwind of rehearsals. I don’t think I ever heard as many Bengali songs or Bengali humour as I did during this time. The thing about rehearsals is that you make friends. You dance together, correcting each other’s flaws, learning from them and about them, you encounter hilarious moments which become anecdotes for a dinner party. You laugh together, get mad at each other, feel the pain and pleasure of dancing together and in the process, you make friends. The last time I rehearsed as much and had so much fun was in high school as we prepped and planned for the Ganapati celebrations. Days in school seemed never-ending as we awaited the end of the day bell so we could hurry back home and meet our friends for rehearsals. My mom mentioned this the other day as we were heading out to the rehearsals, “why do you need so much practice for a three-minute performance?” Where the audience watches a three-minute performance, the performers spend months perfecting it. And so as the day arrived closer, the activities became more and more frenzied, and in those moments, I finally started to feel the anticipation and flutter in my tummy.

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

Fake Guns, Potka Competition, Bird Watching

Durga Puja, Dassera or whatever we choose to call it, brings one thing above any other, and that is the feeling of togetherness among seemingly disparate sets of people. Sure, it has an insanely long mythological story that upholds the triumph of good over evil, but that is not important.

Fake Guns, Potka Competition, Bird Watching

Durga Puja, Dassera or whatever we choose to call it, brings one thing above any other, and that is the feeling of togetherness among seemingly disparate sets of people. Sure, it has an insanely long mythological story the upholds the triumph of good over evil, but that is not important. One doesn’t have to take the word of an ageing adult. One only needs to observe the happiness of the little boys whose unfamiliarity of each other isn’t an obstacle to the fun they have running around the puja pandal wearing their new dresses, and shooting their fake guns at each other and seemingly everyone who is paying even the slightest attention to their fantastic little world of good and evil.

A seemingly eternity ago, as a teenager, I recall my friends, and I used to dress up, get on our bikes and make rounds of all the puja pandals. Pleasure wore a simplistic disguise those days. Days of no worries, no responsibilities, and no pressure to be an adult. Anyway, before I drift into the bliss of teenage, the guys’ gang I am talking about wasn’t really a gang of boys who knew each other from the get-go. It was a gang of boys who just happened to come across each other in the middle of nowhere and just chose to scout the scenes together. Ah! “Together”. That word again.

The thing is when I think about Durga Pujo, there is a whole lot of blur. Don’t get me wrong. The blur is not because I don’t remember anything, it’s rather quite the opposite. I remember so many things that I struggle to organise those in a sensible order. I remember going to mom’s “gramer bari” as a kid. Besides the only available vehicle to travel the last few miles of the journey was a bullock cart, the village also until very recently didn’t have any electricity or proper toilets. The sole brick and mortar house was more than a couple of hundred years old was ours, and the rest were mud houses. Looking beyond all the minutia about the village, the most interesting part was that we all used to make the journey together and I mean all of us from my mom’s side -- that’s a convoy of 10 bullock carts. I can write a whole essay on those memorable journeys but let’s stick to Durga Pujo for now. So going back to the topic at hand, it’s not very subtle that we went through a lot of sweet pain to be there for those 5 days of Durga Puja every year. Why did we go through all that pain? It took me a long time to come up with an acceptable rationale. I realized that the importance of new dresses vs. meeting all the cousins in a godforsaken village or the inconvenience of being in such a village vs. the fun of inter-“para” “potka” competition or the importance of gathering around grandpa and listening to the age-old stories of our ancestors vs. the overcoming of the fear of darkness to respond to nature’s call late in the night is inconsequential. It’s like asking a kid to choose between a new pencil and a candy. Confused? That makes 3 of us. Yes, 3. Don’t forget the confused kid!

Life however cruel it is, it always gives us some moments which we want to hold on to till the end of time. I know I sound overly philosophical, but what the heck? It’s Durga Pujo. If I can’t even afford to sit down and share a little bit of those moments with others then what is it that makes Durga Pujo unique for me? The thing is we don’t make Durga Pujo special for ourselves, we make Durga Pujo special for all the people around us, and the memories we thus build are just a by-product of that togetherness.

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

The Adda and The PNPC

I woke up this morning with a full heart. The colours on the leaves are transitioning all around me from the summer green to a bright amber and a vibrant red. Autumn is beautiful in Canada, and even though it is the messenger for the onset of winter, Autumn is still loved and cherished, especially so by Bengalis around the world.