Will The Meek Inherit The Earth?

I feel for Clarise M Starling.
As I have never before since the Silence Of The Lambs was first released.

The first time I first saw the movie, it was Lecter who caught my attention.
His cold unhurried demeanour, the subtle regality of his words and actions, his appreciation of classical music and of course his cannibalistic tastes, all  intrigued me.
If anyone could have made cannibalism fashionable, it had to be Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

Agent Starling, on the other hand, struck me as a rather strange young woman. 
Mostly because it was a little too hard for me to empathise with the scatty girl who carried into her adulthood, the childhood trauma of the bleating of the lambs during slaughter.

But this past week transformed my long buried disdain for Clarice Starling into empathy.

Last Wednesday, I came home to be greeted by a herd of frisky goats.
The goats, seven in all, were caged in a make-shift pen by the side of my apartment.
The windows opening into my bedroom and living room were festooned with boughs of succulent green leaves. And the goats who were tied to the window grills, eagerly flocked together to partake of their leafy feast.

Every once in a way, a rebellious little goat would stamp his feet and toss his head to the bleating cheers of his bovine mates, in a desperate effort to shake off his noose. But, in a matter of minutes, the lone rebel would realise the futility of his battle and turn his attention back to the lush foliage.

I was rather surprised, and, to be honest, a little annoyed by the new denizens of the building. 
Discrete enquiries, made around the vicinity, revealed that the Muslim festival of Bakrid was right around the corner and the chomping goats in front of me were to be sacrificed at the celebrations the following week.

'Madam, Bakri ka eid hain Bakrid*'  the watchman explained to me helpfully "Your landlord and his family have bought these goats for their sacrifice. I don't know why they have bought them a week in advance though....Most people buy the goats on the eve of the Eid"

The Koran, it seems, stipulates that the sacrificial animal be a part of the family for a whole year at the very least. And I supposed by some convoluted mathematical calculation that was bound to fly over my head at the speed of light, my landlord and his family had managed to compress a long year into a paltry 7 days.

I was livid and agitated.
And, with just cause.
While I would not presume to judge the rites and rituals prescribed by any religion, I do take exception to  people forcing religion or barbaric rituals down my unwilling throat.

Late as the hour was, I was all set to go knocking at the landlord's doors with my objections.

But, a quick call to a wise friend stayed my tongue and feet.
" Do NOT do anything right now when you are annoyed" she said "This is a sensitive matter. Sacrifice of goats is a part of the Muslim tradition at Bakrid. You need to communicate your displeasure about the goats tied to your window and their slaughter on the building premises. But, you cannot in any way imply that they should not slaughter. So, wait till morning so we can talk to the broker who fixed up the house and then let us decide how to proceed" 

I passed an agonising night of sleepless vigil, broken every now and then by the orgasmic grunting of the goats as they tore into the foliage.
But, the morning only brought with it news as bleak and cold as its grey sombre skies.

" Adjust...It is just a matter of a few days"

The response only stoked the embers of righteous indignation that were blazing within me.
And the glowing embers flamed into a mighty conflagration by evening, when I returned home to the news that one of the goats had strangled itself on the restraining rope.

Throwing caution to the winds, I determinedly marched up to my landlord's apartment on the floor above.
As I lumbered up the stairs, I mentally ticked off my grouses to make my case...the stinky goat stench that permeated every nook and corner of the house, the noisy bleats and orgasmic grunts that punctuated my sleep at night, and, the possibility of bearing witness to more suicides.

But, what the girl proposed, Allah was swift to dispose of. 
For I was met at the doorstep by his formidable mountainous wife, who tersely informed me that her husband was out and slated to return late at night.
"Too late to come calling on a SINGLE girl" she snapped at me, disapproval and suspicion dripping from each syllable that escaped her carmine lips.

Not that I was fazed.
"Try, try and try again...till the goats are all taken away" chanted the voices in my head, just as the spider intoned to the legendary Bruce centuries ago.

So I went calling the next day, and the day after.
And every day of the week, until it was painfully apparent that the landlord had got wind of my intentions and was in hiding.
My phone calls remained unanswered, as were my text messages.
Even the watchman who was recruited to track down the elusive landlord, threw up his hands in defeat and dejection in the face of my aggressive rants.

Despite the best of my efforts, the week continued to progress with the goats remaining firmly ensconced in their pen, steadily chomping their way to tender plumpness. Despite the stench and the noise, I could not help but respond to the furry faces that turned to me with warmth and friendliness every time I opened a window or emerged from my house.

As the festive fervour grew around me, I could not help but resent the people who blithely chuckled and chortled as they compared their goats and eagerly smacked their lips in anticipation of the blood that would flow and the juicy flesh that would grace their tables.

Even Ging, it seemed had discovered her blood lust and turned traitor to my cause, for she took to stalking me relentlessly until she managed to sink her tiny fangs into any jiggling body parts that chanced to sway her way.

And caught in this vortex, all I could do was to rant maniacally to my friends, while adroitly sidestepping the treacherous teeth and claws that swiped at me from under the couch.

The morning of the 17th dawned cold and grim.
The torrential rains that pelted the earth in impotent fury echoed the frustrated pain in my soul, as I tried to shut my ears to the distressed calls of the cattle and the rhythmic sounds of the butchers' blades that rent the air around me. 

It was with a heavy heart and a sense of anger that I lit my candles and lamps that morning.

For once, I had nothing to ask of God.
And so, for the first time in my life, I prayed not for myself or my loved ones, but for the innocents around me whose blood was being wantonly shed.

As I stood there praying, I could not help but wonder.....
How can the meek inherit the earth, when the road to heaven is paved with their blood?

C'mon Baby, Don't Light That Fire

The truth is out of the closet!
The Moggies, do NOT, like Diwali.

Yes indeed. We don't like Diwali.
And, we are not apologetic about it.

Diwali is noisy and dangerous.
If it had been less so, we wouldn't have had any grouses against it.
After all, each is best left to his own.

But, the loud and incessant kabooms of the crackers that started in the wee hours of the morning and rang on way past midnight, the thick cloud of acrid smoke that hangs heavy in the air, the sight of animals quivering in fear & cowering in dark corners, all reminds me of a war zone than a festive land.

It has finally succeeded in prodding me into coming out of my closet with my dislike.
This, and the fact that I have spent the past two days holding Ging's trembling paw, either semi-closeted in the wardrobe with my posterior sticking out in the most ungainly fashion, or in a supine state on a sofa.

Ging still remains firmly ensconced in the closet -or rather the wardrobe – into which she vanished on Friday evening. And despite my coaxing, she probably will not emerge from her sanctuary for another day, until the last smells and sounds of Diwali fade away.

As I set up a makeshift office well within sight of my little wailing one, I cannot help but wonder if this is the spirit Diwali is supposed to embody.

I had always been led to think of Diwali as the festival of lights....The triumph of good over evil. As a time for introspection and for dispelling ignorance and darkness from our lives.

Maybe, it once was so.
But, in today’s world, I see it more as a festival which brings in its wake as much darkness as it does light.

While most of us rush out to our parties and merry gatherings in our festive finery, bearing boxes of sweets and gifts, to play cards, laugh and gush over spectacular displays of fireworks, we often fail to see the dense smog and the harsh acrid smoke which threatens to blind and choke any benevolent God or Goddess who may dare to venture out in hope of blessing their devotees.

We fail to see the animals and birds of various sizes and shapes with their fear crazed eyes, trembling violently and desperately seeking some semblance of security in dark corners and hidden alleys.

Blinded by the glittering lights and deafened by the blaring music, we forget the endless hours of power cuts and black-outs suffered in the sweltering heat during the rest of the year.
And, we fail to remember the little children in Sivakasi who risk health and life to bring us the bombs, crackers and sparklers to add light and colour to our festival of lights.

Would these children and animals see Diwali in the same light as the rest of us?
I wonder.

I once learnt in a communications class, that the greatness of an idea lies in its relevance to its time.

I think this is true of our festivals too.
Festivals, like lifestyles, education, food habits and traditions, must be relevant to the changing times. To achieve this, man must find from within himself, the ability to look beyond iron clad traditions, to understand the true spirit of the occasion and interpret it in accordance with the world he lives in.

And until he learns to do so, the bright lights of Diwali will continue to be the right of a privileged few.

The Quivering Cat Cracks Down

Early this morning, mommy and I woke up with a jolt.
There were loud resounding booms from the skies outside.
As if the rising sun was splitting the dark dawn skies into a million pieces.

I was scared and huddled into mommy's side.
After all, she is bigger and fatter, and therefore, less likely to be crushed by the falling pieces of the sky.

But instead of grabbing me and running for cover, Mommy furiously muttered a few Fs and Bs at the skies outside our window, burrowed her head under the pillow, wrapped her arm around me and went right back to sleep.

I was still scared.
And perplexed.
So I dug the tip of my claws into her side till she emerged from under the pillow to comfort me.

Mommy said, with much exasperation and annoyance, that the Festival of Lights is here again.
And that I would have to be a brave girl for the next 3 days because it was going to be very, very noisy.

She said I wasn't to hide in her wardrobe like last year because then she would also have to try wriggle in with me and she didn't think she would fit !!
So she said we would dim our lights and curl up on the sofa together to watch cartoons and romantic comedies on the telly. 

I like snuggling into mommy's clothes in her wardrobe.
But I like sleeping on mommy more, even though the sofa is a little too cramped with her on it.
So I agreed to her plans...for now.

But, I still do not understand.
Why is the Festival of Lights so damn noisy?
And suffocating?

Mommy says people burst firecrackers to celebrate...That most people think it is fun.
Although she doesn't approve much of it, she still thinks the multi-coloured spirals and cloud bursts in the night skies can sometimes look beautiful.

I think she is crazy.

Firecrackers are bad.
They smell!!!
They make the skies go ba-da-boom till our fur stands on the end.
And the air...oh, crackers makes it smell so bad and harsh that it makes our eyes, throats and delicate noses burn in pain..

As much as I do not like to share my Mommy, Wanda the fish or Alvin the mouse, I cannot help but feel sorry for my sister and brother cats on the streets who have no homes to hide in or mommies to protect them.
Not to mention the big bully dogs, frisky goats and twitching cows on the roadside who suffer as much as we do.....Who ever said size matters?

Heck, I even feel sorry for you humans.
Especially those of you who are prone to allergies like mommy is.
You may not know it, but your noses, eyes, throats and lungs are as affected as ours are.

Mommy says I should not complain because the damage to our throats, lungs or nerves is nothing when one considers the health and life risks faced by the thousands of children who are put to work in very unsafe conditions to make these fire-crackers.

" Think of the little children working in dingy, cramped places to make firecrackers which we burn without a second thought for the little hands that made them" she tells me when I mew to complain "So many of them would cheerfully suffer the raucous noise and acrid stench that you are cribbing about if it meant an escape from their unhappy lives and back-breaking schedules.....I bet most of them wouldn't even mind being you"  says she, giving me a long disapproving look.

Trust mommy to sneak a dig at me in the middle of her pontification!!!
But, I guess she does have a point, doesn't she?

So, peoples of the world who celebrate the festival of lights, when you are about to fire that sparkler tonight, do spare a thought for Mother Earth and us poor quivering cats ( and dogs and cows and mice and rest of the Good Lord's four legged creations on earth).

And if that does not stir your conscience, think of the poor little children in their dingy dangerous workplaces whose blood, sweat and tears have brought that cracker into your hands. 

After all, it is the festival of lights.
Not some gaudy light and sound show....is it?

Miark!

The Girl, The Cat & The Wardrobe...

The slow creaking of the door stayed the hand poised over my eyelid.

Mothers, they say, have eyes at the back of their heads.
It must be true, for I instinctively knew that neither a truant gust of wind nor a stray critter was to blame for the mysterious creaking. 

Still as a statue, I peered out of the corner of my eyes at the gaping door...And sure enough, out popped a pair of dainty white feet.
Dark gleaming eyes framed in an inquisitive little orange-white face sidled out behind the feet and widened as it met mine. And then, with an involuntary miark, a furry orange body tumbled right out of the wardrobe.

Ging!!!

For a long minute, I stared with feigned annoyance at her now brazen look, which was focused on the kohl pencil in my hand.

"Just in time...."  twinkled her sparkling eyes at me, as if she had saved me from a life altering catastrophe.

The excitement then gave way to mock puzzlement : "But mommy, why on earth would you want to maim yourself with a pencil?" 

And if that was not enough, behind the injury came her carefully delivered insults.

She let her disdainful eyes rove over my still damp form before shooting me an "ugh!!! don't tell me you intend to go out in that ugly blue towel?" look

Another insolent miark to lend weight to her opinions about my intent to self-mutilate in an unfashionable state of near undress and then, the impudent little Missy plonked herself down and proceeded to lick her paw with an air of innocence that fooled none.

With growing apprehension, I made my way to assess the damage caused by my little marauder.
And with just cause.

The innards of my wardrobe was my worst nightmare come true.....
Well, it was not as bad as having my clothes split in public, but it was a close second indeed. The neat, crisp and colour coded stack of clothes now lay in a pile of utter disarray....crushed, crumpled, and speckled with stubborn orange fur.

For once, I truly had nothing to wear.
And, I was already running late!!!

Gnashing my teeth at the fates that had placed me at the mercy of a devious feline, I grabbed the first furry dress that crossed my hands and shook it out with all my might, cussing at the little picture of feline innocence who now sat at my feet grooming herself in joyful oblivion.
The perpetrator of the crime, of course, seemed blissfully ignorant of the glares and muttered
Every once in a way. she shot a hopeful "mommy stay home?" look at me. 

It was a good 30 minutes before the dress began to look presentable.
My muttering had given way to little grunts of triumphant satisfaction as each vigorous shake took me a step closer to a picture perfect dress.

Absorbed in my efforts, I was quite blind to the subtle shift in the mood of the truant feline at my foot who, had by now realised that neither blazing hell fires nor roaring high tides was going to deter mommy from going out. Desperate times call for desperate measures and kitty wasn't above a little emotional blackmail in a last ditch effort to keep mommy home for the day.

All at once I found my hand stayed in midst of the last few hearty shakes.
And as I peered down impatiently at the insistent little paw that held the dress, I found myself looking into a contrite pair of eyes that willed me to bend over so that my nose could be enthusiastically licked by a candy pink tongue.
"Stay" pleaded her beady little eyes "We can go walky mommy...And chase squirrels...Maybe even catch and share one for lunch....Or we could huddle under the covers and snooze"
And her face, bright with hope, continued to sketch out one tempting option after another.

With a regretful sigh, I gathered the little fur bundle into my arms and nuzzled her in mute apology, before setting her down on my favourite T for a vantage view of mommy's final touches to her attire and make-up.

A few minutes later, I was all set.
Steeling my guilty heart in anticipation of being accosted by those oh-so-sad accusatory eyes, I slowly wheeled around to face my recalcitrant feline child. But, surprise of surprises, the sad eyes and the accusing face was buried within the depths of her furry self on my T...fast asleep !!!

I crept out of the house on tip-toes....a little relieved.. a little disappointed...And immensely grateful to the powers above for their kind intervention in what could have otherwise been a sticky situation.

Indeed, all's well that ends well.

Payback Is A Bitch

Spying her dearly beloved's eyes trained on a passing posterior, a fair lady reacted with righteous indignation.

" How dare you ogle another in my presence?" she exclaimed with barely suppressed annoyance.
"Don't deny it" She snapped as her guilty partner opened his mouth to defend the rogue eyeballs, "...I just saw you leching at that woman out of the corners of your eyes.....Seriously, what is wrong with you men???"

From the depths of his mind, he dredged up an age-old martian platitude to launch his counter-offensive "There is nothing wrong with us. We are men. And, we are wired to look. What is the harm in looking? It isn't that I am cheating on you...I am just looking"

Attack, they say, is the best form of defence.
But, not when one has pledged his body, mind and soul to a watchful virago.

"Just looking?......Just looking???"
Her lilting voice was now pitched to lethal sonority.
"You don't think it is offensive for me stand by your side and watch you ogling shamelessly at every woman we pass?? How would you feel if I leered at every pair of pants that came our way? "

" Stop yelling...You know women are different that way. Why ARE YOU making a fuss over nothing? I told you, looking does not mean cheating...Just what is IT with you women??? "

" There is nothing wrong with us women. We are women and we are wired to react when we are hurt. You look, I react...Live with it!!!"

Payback is a bitch, huh??
:) :)

Capitalism For Souls...

Last weekend was rather extraordinary. 
On Saturday morning, we woke up to the loud chanting of sanskrit mantras in the neighbourhood. 
Not a surprising turn of events one might say in a country dominated by Hindus. But, it was surprising in a neighbourhood that has been home to a sizable Christian and Muslim population and their religious edifices for decades.
Even more surprising was that the mantra chanting was often interspersed with the muezzin's call to prayers, without an effort from either to outshout the other.

That  evening, Ging and I cooked dinner to the pulsating beats of Christian rock and then, turned up the volume on our television so that Manny Mammoth and his ludicrous herd could drown the booming music from the outside. As happy as we were to witness the religious harmony in our surrounds, we were looking forward to a lazy, quiet Sunday. 

But, it seemed that the Gods had not had enough. 
For come Sunday morning and there were more mantras and songs blaring.

Muttering and grumbling at insensibility of the Powers Above who should have doused the fervent chants with a deluge of rain or a thunderstorm, I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and decided to make the best of a bad day by catching up on my chores. 

As I dashed out of the house for a spot of weekend shopping at the shop round the corner, I ran into my neighbours dressed in their Sunday burkhas, all set for a day out at the most fashionable mall in town. 
We were standing at my doorstep making polite small-talk about the weather, the merits of KFC chicken vis-a-vis other native impostors and the shopping hot spots in  town, when all at once, one of them who had been avidly scanning the insides of my house caught sight of the Buddha at my door.

" Buddha is a Hindu God also?" she asked me with hesitant curiosity.  

"No" I clarified " Buddha was a wise, noble sage who found enlightenment as well as a whole new religion...He is not a  Hindu God"

" Oh, when I saw the statue I thought he might be another one of your Gods like that Ganesha in that corner"
The lady was quick to extend the olive branch, lest her query had caused umbrage.
After all, discretion is the better part of valour, especially when one ventures into uncharted territory. 

But then, when her darting eyes spotted a stone sculpture of Mother Mary, a wall hanging with an evil eye and an Arabic inscription, a few more Buddhas and Ganeshas, as well as an array of  gleaming lamps and colourful candles glittering and twinkling in different corners of my house, she threw caution to the winds to exclaim " But you have different Gods from differnt religions in your house".

Her announcement had the desired effect on her sisters in black who looked suitably shocked and intrigued.
But before any of them could join in the inquisition, my questioner continued " Do you pray to all of these Gods? How is it possible?" 

For a moment, I was lost for words. 
How could I explain my spiritual beliefs to a gaggle of women whose approach to God, religion and spirituality was similar to that of a horse with blinders?  

So I flippantly remarked "We Hindus are used to having many Gods and Goddesses who co-exist in harmony. If I can pray to Ganesha, Durga, Shiva and Krishna in the same breath, why would it be a problem to call upon Mother Mary or Jesus or Buddha or Allah for comfort, peace and guidance"

I don't think the ladies in black quite expected that, for I could see a few eyes widen in shock.
Others were looking around distractedly- at the floor, the walls, and even invisible people next door.  

Etiquette and prudence must have demanded a graceful and hasty retreat, for one of them laughed nervously and quickly chirped an awkward "we must not keep you from your shopping"  to signal to the rest of her herd to lift the ends of their black robes and run for their lives before the brazen heathen corrupted their immortal souls with her heresy. 

As I walked down to the shop at the corner, I could not help but wonder why we humans tend to complicate God and Religion, insisting upon the need for die hard loyalties to a single God especially when we revel in the power of choices in every other aspect of our lives.

We are not confused when faced with an endless array of choices at the local supermarket, are we ?
Chicken, Fish or Mutton?  Breast, Thighs, or Wings?
Whole Wheat, Multi Grain, Rye or Just Plain Sandwich Bread?
Red Wine or White?  Sula, Grover, Australian, Italian.....?
Surf and Ariel Vs the 'sastha' brand on the lowest rack?
Plain Cornflakes or Flavoured?
Or, should we ditch breakfast cereal for Muesli or Porridge?.....

Are we confused while making selections off an excruciatingly extensive but mouthwatering menu card?
North Indian, South Indian or Indian Chinese?
Oh wait, there are Burgers, Sandwiches and Indian Continental too!!!
Soup? Starters? Paneer? Chicken? Fish?
One by two? Or each to his own?
Dessert anyone?

The truth is that, choice is the least of our worries.

The truth is that we consider choice as our due rather than a privilege.

And, in every other aspect of life, we pride ourselves on our ability to pack as much of the goodies as we can into our wallets.

So, why should there be a dilemma when it comes to deities or religions? 

For the life of me, I could not comprehend my neighbours' quandary at my spiritual style. 

Was it that they had overlooked the possibility of Hindus, with their plethora of Gods and Goddesses, having been the original capitalists of our world?
Come ye, Come all...
A God for every need & mood...
Take your pick...
Pick as many as you wish...
Pray as you will...
Pray where you want...

Was it that they had overlooked the truth, that most of the old religions - Hinduism, Paganism, the religions of ancient Greece, Rome, Germany and Egypt - all offered a free market of Gods and Goddesses where the souls were kings and queens?

Or, could it have been that the ladies in black were suffering from the classic " My God is better than yours, and no, before you say it, more IS not merrier" syndrome - a particularly infectious and mind rotting disease that is fast proliferating in the world today.

Can we imagine such an attitude towards, say, Coke and Pepsi?

Or, the possibility of a group of die-hard Baklava fans flying an air-plane through the World Trade Center to terrorise the unsuspecting population into declaring Baklava as the one and only true dessert?

Can we conceive of a situation where the teetotallers of the world unite to declare a spirited Jihad on alcohol and resort to covert and overt acts of terror enforce their choice on everyone else?

Silly as these may sound, the fact is, would any of these topics result in heated discussions, mulish obstinacy or a stand-off from one or both participants if there ever was an argument on the subject?

So why then, about which, and, how many Gods one prays to? 

Why is it hard to logically assume that a polytheist, like any other consumer in a capitalist society, would choose a God or Gods who delivered the maximum value to his soul?

And, if there are doubts and uncertainties, one always has the option of experimenting, as with a detergent or a cereal, before settling on a favourite.....
Nirma one month, Surf the next, Henko in the third, so on and so forth before Mr. White is crowned the favourite! 

Easy peasy, ain't it?


Disclaimer: I am not a axe wielding, gun toting die-hard Hindu, and, this post is not meant to promote Hinduism in anyway. If my words offend the religious sentiments of any reader, please do accept my apologies for having done so. The intention is not to hurt, but to merely point out that religion and God, like every other thing in our life, is a matter of personal choice, and, it is up to us to exercise our Right of Choice in a matter we think fit. 

Speak Up!

The Power of Sound.
T'is the one secret that cats know well.
And, men not at all.

It doesn't matter if you go through your entire life knowing just one word, or a single syllable.
As long as you SPEAK UP!

You can cajole responses with short, sweet chirps that roll fluidly off your tongue
Stretch nerves to a frazzle with high pitched trebles, to get yourself the attention you want

Growl a fierce hssssst to warn off offenders...
Or, to lash out, if need be

Send chills down the spine with blood curling shrieks

Warble in happiness for the sheer joy of living
And, caress the ones you love with your gentle crooning.

After all, it isn't the number of words you know that matters. 
It is, what you choose to say, that makes the difference. 

So, Speak Up!

Enlightenment

Strange are the ways of men.

They spend the first many years of their lives looking ahead to a bright, glittering future, unaware of the fetters that the mind slowly, but surely, clamps around their feet.

The fetters grow in weight over time...unseen, but never unfelt.
And, man, unmindful of the weights that bear him down, plods along wearily towards his dreams, one heavy step at a time, often wondering from sheer exhaustion where he has gone wrong.

Some men reach their destinations, sooner or the later, with bleeding feet and a weary soul.
Only to be disappointed to discover that the sheen of the glitzy dream has dulled a tad.
Perhaps, it is the bleeding flesh and iron bound feet that diminishes the joy of achievement.

Others fall by the wayside.
Still wondering what went wrong.
Still oblivious to the fetters biting into their flesh.

But, there are those whose course is altered by life.

I suppose I should call them fortune's favoured ones, for, it is not everyone who is able to emerge stronger, wiser or happier after being walloped over the head by one of life's giant candy stripped cushions.When you are at the receiving end of a blow, it is a rare man who can stand back to admire the beauty of the candy striped cushion.

For most of us, a blow is a blow is a blow.
It knocks us over.
Punches the wind out of our sails.
Scares the living daylights out of us.
Angers us, warping our soul a wee bit with negativity.
But mostly, it has us scurry for cover to a safe haven, where we can lick our wounds in peace and regain our breath before we resume our wearisome journey.

At times, a blow....well, let's make that a series of blows..lays us so low that we have no choice but to sit awhile and contemplate on the unfairness of life. And, as we sit lost in our thoughts, weeping for what is not, berating the Gods above for our misfortunes, our sight may perchance fall on the bleeding flesh and the cruel fetters.

This, my friends, is the moment of truth.
When it slowly, but surely, dawns on us that there is no God, Family or Society to present our glittering dreams to us on a silver platter.
There is just us, our dreams and the biting irons on our feet.

It is the moment when we can see, if we so chose, with crystal clarity, what is, what was and what has to be. When we know, with unquestionable certainty, what needs to be done, if we can muster the courage to do so.

The defining moment when we realise that we need, no longer, be the prisoners of our mind, but, can be the architects of our dreams.
If ...and only if, we dare undo the fetters on our feet.

Not the easiest of tasks, I know.

Despite the pain we suffer and the awareness of being restrained, there is a comfort these fetters offer that are born of habit and makes it difficult for us to cast them aside easily. That, and the crippling fear of being a free bird in a world filled with anguished souls groaning under the weight of their foot-cuffs.

For those of us who would dare cast the chains aside, well, be warned, life will not change overnight.
Nor, are there any guarantees of dreams coming true.

The bleeding flesh will hurt long after the irons fall off. And, temptation to revert to type is strong.

But, in time, the wounds will heal, the scabs will fall, and we will walk on unhindered....faster....without pain,doubt and fear.

We may or may not reach the destinations we dreamed of as young people.
But, arrive we will at our homes.
At the end of a journey, that is well travelled.

A Squeeze In Time Keeps The Cancer Away!

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
And, it being a cause close to my heart, how could I not devote a post to it?

Cancer, particularly that of the breast, hits a raw nerve.

Maybe it is that I am reminded of my loved ones who have fought losing battles with the dreaded disease.

Two years ago, I lost a favourite aunt.
A lump in the breast ignored for too long, eventually permeated her lungs and claimed her life.
In contrast another aunt whom I love deeply, acted promptly when she discovered a lump in her breast and today, leads a happy, fulfilling life.
Yes, the shadow of uncertainty does hang over her like the Sword of Damocles.
But, she is alive, and, most of us who know her are grateful for that.

There isn't a woman on this planet whose heart goes cold with dread at the prospect of being a victim of Breast Cancer.

For many, the fear of loosing a breast, and therefore being less feminine, is as terrifying as losing one's life.

However, despite the fear, despite the statistics that report on breast cancer being the most common cancer in women (aside from skin cancer), a sizable portion of the female population continue to remain apathetic in caring for themselves.

We women have a plethora of reasons and excuses to hide behind.
And, they come in all forms and tones.....

The self-assured, cocky.......Me & Breast Cancer? No way!'

The defiant challenge.......' If it was all that serious, surely my doctor would have suggested checks'

The weary, I-have-the-weight-of-the-world-on-my-shoulders.....' Where do I have the time? '
The patient, why-am-I-talking-to-a-retard....'I don't have a family history of breast cancer.'

The paranoid ' Because it will hurt...and besides, I hate hospitals and doctors and anything remotely associated with the medical sciences'
Which, I confess, is my preferred response to illness or any such threat to my physical self.

The terrified, ' What if I do have cancer? What if I die? I would rather live my last days in peace and not knowing...'
Not to mention the even more terrifying worries about the financial burden a positive test can lead to

The excuses are dime a dozen...And, so unreal.

It is amazing that a woman who would brush aside all such excuses when the health of a loved one is at risk, would resort to them when it comes to caring for herself.

Amazing.
Tragic.
And, depressing.

Breast cancer has claimed enough victims.

It is time for us to step out of denial and value ourselves better.
To accept our prime responsibilty to ourselves.
And, realise that no one else will fulfill our responsibilities to ourselves.

It is time for us to stand up and take charge of our health and well being.
Because good health is critical for our functioning in all spheres of life.
And, the key lies well within our grasp.

But above all, it is time for us women to free our minds from fear and understand that breast cancer does not necessarily mean the loss of a breast.

Even if it does, it is important to understand that a breast does not a woman make.

Femininity is a state of mind.
And for that to endure, it is important that a woman be alive and healthy.

So ladies, don't be shy.
Go ahead and cop a feel
Remember, a squeeze in time, will not only save that boob, but your life as well.

CREDITS

The Pink Ribbon Graphic used in this post has been designed by Kim West & downloaded from Pink For October

The Pink Ribbon that the Mad Moggies blog proudly sports has been designed by Denis Ryan & downloaded from Carol Sutton's website.

The Message On The Auto !

All my life, I have heard people talk about the wickedness of the world we live in today.

This is Kaliyug...trust no one
Pray that God keeps you...
Today's world has no conscience

Parents vs children, siblings at war, friends betrayed for a song, greed, theft, anger, violence...all the signs of a world gone wrong. Not to mention the incidents of catastrophe, natural & man-made, that strike at the foundations of our society at regular intervals.

Yet, there are moments in life, when the strength & generosity of the human spirit overwhelms me.
And, fills me with hope.

Like this morning.
I was in desperate need of fruit, and other such mundane essentials of survival that one only finds in a large supermarket. I confess, I love supermarkets and meandering about a large, well stocked supe is one of my favourite Sunday past-times.

As I stood on the lonely road, scanning the horizon for an obliging auto rickshaw, I was rather surprised to see a vehicle dressed in white heading my way.

It was a rickshaw, seemingly draped in a white dhoti!
Well, a white dhoti with red and blue words and squiggles all over it.
Pretty much like one of those privileged permed and coiffed pets on TV, which is forced into designer clothes by its doting owner.

As I squinted disbelievingly, the auto in white cruised to a slow stop next to me.

And, a young cheerful face popped out of the side, oblivious to my expression of shock and curiosity.

I was not entirely sure if I wanted to ride into town in a shrouded rickshaw, covered in squiggles that I did not understand.

What if it was propaganda of sorts?

And yet, I did not seem to have very many choices by way of transport....

Which is why when he enquired nonchalantly, I could only stammer out my destination..distractedly.

His accepting nod suddenly resolved the conflict raging within.

I had to know before I hopped on.

And so, hesitantly, in pidgin Kannada, I asked him what the message on his auto was.

" Oh, I am collecting funds for the flood victimsin Karnataka & Andra Pradesh. I do not like to ask people for money, which is why I have a banner on my auto and a collection box inside. Anyone who wants to contribute is welcome to do so."

This, he said, in a matter of fact tone which asked neither for applause nor appreciation.

It was merely an answer to a question.

And one, which piqued my curiosity.

As we sped along, I could not resist asking Ramakrishna as to how he planned to ensure that his money reached the intended recipients.

" Madam, I hand this over to the TV 9 office where they are collecting funds for relief activities. It is explained on the banner so people will know I am not a cheat."

And did people contribute? I asked

" Yes they do...In tens and twenties. I collect about 600-700 Rs. each day "

The numbers he cited jolted me.

And, my skepticism about the generosity of the society we lived in.

Are people more giving that I had imagined them to be?

Are they capable of more compassion and caring?

As I mulled over these questions, my eyes fixed unseeingly on the crude collection jar in front of me, Ramakrishna added

" Actually madam, the fares I have received this past week have also gone into that jar. I must set an example, no? So I ask the passengers to put the fares into the jar and a lot of them add a few rupees extra."

The man flummoxed me.

Why would he deprive himself of a week's earnings for people he did not know?

Had never met and probably never would in his whole life.

Maybe he was a mind reader.

Or perhaps, it was the incredulous expression on my face that prompted him to explain his motives.

" I feel bad when I see the plight of the people in these flooded villages. Imagine that, madam. Imagine loosing every single thing you posses and not have anyone to turn to because everyone you know is in the same desperate situation? And still they refuse to give up. When I see the hope on their faces, I feel I should help them..even if it is a small effort, at least I know I have done something"

His words struck a chord deep within me.

I could not, for the life of me, imagine being in such a plight.

Or, having the courage to cope with a catastrophe of this magnitude.

I don't know how many of us can.

Every single day, the world wakes up to news of such disasters.

Yet, many of us go about our daily lives without a second thought about the people afflicted by these disasters.

We tell ourselves that there isn't much that we can do.

Little realising that every little effort counts.

And that we can make a difference.

We do not need to make extravagant gestures.

Nor, do we need to deprive ourselves vastly.

Sometimes, a little goes a long way.

And this, I learnt from a humble auto driver today.

As I alighted at my destination, I gingerly pushed the fare into the box and then, some more.

Ramakrishna's delighted thank-yous sent waves of shame rippling through my being.

Here was a man who was donating a whole week's earnings, incurring costs to go about his daily work and uninhibitedly urging the rest of us to do our bit for people in need.

And, the grandness of his gesture did not prevent him from appreciating me for having donated just the cost of a decent meal.

What could I tell him?......Other than Salut.

An Affair Not To Remember?

The times....they are a changing!

Gone are the days, when men like Romeo and Devdas either died, or drank themselves to destruction to forget the pangs of a love lost.

At the movies this afternoon, a friend and I watched with aching hearts as the hero's friend broke his pensive contemplation of his drink, to hold aloft a diamond ring before mournfully informing his friend that his girlfriend had not only rejected his proposal, but had also dumped him.

As we blinked back the early prickles of salty tears at the back of our eyes, we were surprised to hear scattered laughter in the theatre. Despite the darkness, we could not help exchanging bewildered glances.

" People are laughing???" Every syllable of mine, resonated with consternation and indignation.

"New age wisdom, I suppose?" She hissed back at me, sarcasm writ all over her words .

And, we turned our attention back to the silver screen, expecting the hero to console his friend in the time honoured manner of Hindi movies. With sympathy, liquor and maybe, even a song and a dance.

Well, we were in for a disappointment.

For, on the large screen, the hero gleefully gurgled " I told you so..", amidst paroxysms of laughter.
And, the heart broken lover concurred " You told me so", with equal gay abandon.

" You are such a fool..."
They were, by now, rolling around, clutching their sides, barely able to contain their tears of mirth.
" I am such a fool...."

As the duo chortled away the last wisps of tragic romance out of the theatre, the two disillusioned romantics slumped into their seats, grateful for the anonymity of the darkness, as they manfully tried to join in the laughter that now echoed around them.

New Age Wisdom?
The Age of Cynicism?
Or, The End of Tragic Romance as we knew it?

On Shoes & Change

Change, often, is like a new shoe.

At first, the need.
To buy or not to buy?
To change, or not ?

Then, the considerations.
Is this a better shoe than the one I have?
Is it a change for the better?

At what price?
How much, is too much?
How much am I willing to stretch?

And, then finally, come the moments of truth when we wear the new shoes to walk through new ways.
Or, perhaps on old roads.

Who really focuses on the scenery, when one is nagged by a vague, weird feeling of discomfort from a fit which is a wee bit too snug?
Or, if one is nursing angry blisters.

Until the shoes are broken in, or, shall we say, we are reconciled to the change, one has to continously resist an overwhelming urge to shake the tightly encased feet, hoping for a little more breathing space down there.

But, once you get past the blisters...the snug fit....the newness wears off and comfort levels rise, the change is no longer a change, but a well worn, comfortable habit.

And, how would you know when change knocks at your doors?

Just as you know when its time to trade in a worn pair of shoes...

It is time for change when there is an ache in the soul..when the familiar no longer delights us but instead, fills our being with a sense of jaded tiredness and self loathing.

Sometimes, every now and then, we come across a thought that grips our hearts, and fills us with an undescribable excitement and intense yearning to make it a part of our lives.

When this happens, you know that change is beckoning.
And when change comes calling, we can either stay.
Or, we can choose to run as fast as we can, in our old worn shoes till the threadbare soles completely give way, and then, my friend, is when change is gonna catch up & bite us hard on our bums.


Note: Reproduced from Soul-Talkin

The Yogi In Chains

A reputed master of yoga and other such ancient Indian sciences sauntered into office this morning.
Clad in a white kurta-pyjama, he meandered about lazily, examining the art and artifacts with detached interest.

In the distance stood a few admirers, gazing upon the noble guru in awe and veneration.
" 85 and still going strong...Can you imagine..." whispered one, all too audibly.
" He is a true master....even foreigners come to learn from him" hissed another.
Impressed more, it seemed, by the yogi's ability to attract hordes of white disciples than by the depth of his knowledge.

But, much to my surprise, he breezed into my office....The master of all that he surveyed. And, with scant disregard for all else, began to examine the yellow and white lilies in the Japanese vase on my desk.
Any offence I would have taken to this rude intrusion was mollified, in part, by his interest in my precious blooms. And so, when he eventually deigned to notice me from over the vase, I decided to accord him the traditional Indian welcome and brought my palms together in a Namaste.

Perhaps, it was that I did not look sufficiently overwhelmed.
Or, seem as if I would fawn or gush mindlessly.
For, the mystic man's glance flickered casually over me.
Without any interest. Without any acknowledgement.
And, perhaps, a tad dismissively.

With a last glance at my brilliant lilies, he wheeled about and left the room.

As I watched him walk out of the glass door, in surprised annoyance I confess, I noticed a white woman in her mid 50s walk into the office.
American, I guessed out loud to myself.
The master must have spotted her too....For his progress was, suddenly and inexplicably stalled.

To the adoring onlooker, it must have seemed as if he was pondering on a particular yogic puzzle.
Or, an unexplained mystery of life.
But, to my cynical eye, it appeared that he was sizing the entrant with barely concealed delight.

As he stood there, probably wondering how best to make his acquaintance of yet another potential disciple, a dutiful devotee stepped forward.
" Madam, this is one of the greatest men in Bangalore city. He is a famous teacher of the science of yoga. His knowledge is superlative and he may be amongst the best in the country..."

The enthusiastic eulogies that followed, floated down the hallway to my eager ears.
And I could not resist sneaking a glance at the mystic man.
He sported a benevolent smile. But beneath the modest expression, I could trace the signs of self-gratification.

My examination of his demeanor came to a screeching halt when the lady, who looked suitably impressed, flung out her arms to join her palms together in a rather exaggerated Namaste.
The beaming master, quite predictably, reciprocated with a deep, stately one of his own.

And, to think ,we Indians, take such fierce pride in having freed ourselves from the white man's yoke!!!

A Dream Gone Topsy Turvy

Circa 1989
The Mad Moggie, probably aged 19 or 20, day-dreams over an indescribably boring text-book.
She dreams of being a graceful swan, surrounded by a bevy of admiring men, tripping over the other to fawning men, the object of envy of other young women.
Pretty much like young Scarlett at the Wilkes plantation of Twelve Oaks.
Now, if only dreams came true.

2009
The Mad Moggie, aged 36, skips blithely down a crowded road, gleefully dreaming of the succulent kebabs and saffron rice clutched possessively in her hands, that was to be her lunch.
And suddenly, she was down and rolling unstoppably. Pretty much like a road roller sans the driver, sans the brakes.
When the world around her stopped revolving, she gazed up with dizzy eyes at the ring of young, concerned, boyishly handsome faces above her.
And wished that the earth, at that precise moment, would swallow her and her lunch .

Funny, how dreams have a strange way of coming true.
Just wish they would stick with the plan, instead of assuming shapes that one least expects!

Dance To The Last

Yet another birthday looms large on the horizon, and, my inner circle is abuzz with questions.
About celebration plans, wish lists and the special gifts that will come my way.
About the countdown to the larger than life '40' milestone, which now hangs over my neck like the sword of Damocles.
And, above all, if I intended to continue allowing the irrepressible child in my heart to manifest itself in my personality...

Most, I am afraid, are a little disappointed by my vague responses and perhaps, more so by my nonchalance about the impending event.

As the questions continue to stream in, I answer them as best as I can. All the while, wondering if the listener has sensed that, at this moment, my birthday plans are the least of my concerns.

This is not to say that I am against birthdays or anniversaries or celebrations in general.
Or, that I expect the rest of the world to slave their fingers to the bone, in making it a special day for me.

What does not appeal to me is the element of contrivance which prior planning brings to these special days.
I would rather go with the flow and take each moment as it comes.

Over the past many years, what made every birthday special was the love and warmth that I was cocooned in.

I love the fact that people care enough to remember, to call, or better still, to drop by for a drink and a giggle.

I am always touched when they stretch that extra mile, to do something that warms me to the cockles of my heart.

And I enjoy the sense of anticipation a beautifully packaged gift offers me.
The excitement of discovery as I rip it open.
It doesn't matter what is inside.
It could be a string of cheap beads or a ridiculously expensive solitaire.
For me, what matters is the element of surprise, the excitement of the moment and the warmth of being loved.

So inevitably, year after year, when friends ask me how I plan to celebrate my birthday or what I have asked for by way of gifts, my answer always is none what so ever.

I look forward to seeing what the day brings my way..the fun, the spontaneity, the discovery and the savouring of the emotions.

For me, this is what life is all about.
And I think I will carry this passion for life, with all its good and bad, right to my grave.

People tell me that everything slows down with age, except the time it takes for an utterly sinful wedge of warm gooey chocolate walnut brownie to reach your hips.

I disagree.

Age does not bring wisdom...Life and its many experiences does that!!!

At 15,I thought 20 was the Golden Age, and just couldn't wait to hit the magic number.
Unfortunately for me, life started at a snail's pace.
By 25, I was a little panicked because I thought I would be semi senile by the time I hit 30 and was haunted by visions of myself rocking away aimlessly on the porch of a geriatric care center.

But then, life in the 30s lane have proved to be incredibly exciting.
Probably because I have shed a lot of inhibitions, don't worry over much about looking like a fool and laugh easily when I do.
And, I am not afraid to demand love, express sorrow and more importantly, eliminate the weeds in my garden of life.

I find myself increasingly open to experimentation and new experiences.
So much so that on my 36th birthday, the only thought in my mind is that if the 30s are so incredibly exciting, then, what do the 40s and 50s hold in store for me?

Would I dare go skinny dipping in the moonlight...Climb a mountain...Tend a raucous bar in true coyote style...or swim with the dolphins in the deep blue ocean...
Would my dream of being a renowned writer come true?
Would my vision of bringing love and hope into the lives of abused children translate into reality?
Who knows?

For all I know, I may be skydiving at 60 or even doing the salsa at the ripe old age of 70.
Because in my heart I believe that you don't stop dancing because of age.
You grow old only because you stopped dancing.



Note: Reproduced from www.soul-talkin.blogspot.com with minor variations

When Life Came A Full Circle!

" I thought about you a moment back", she said, her voice heavy with quiet happiness.
And, after a moment's pause, she blurted almost shyly "I was thinking that the books you read are quite qualitative....And, I felt proud of you"

My eyes suddenly blurred. And,my throat choked with emotion.

This was the mother who had introduced me to the pleasures of reading, much before I could even walk a straight line with my baby feet.

A student of literature and a voracious reader, Amma has had a life-long love affair with books.
A passion which she passed on to me.
With reverence and pride.
As a torch bearer would, his precious flame.

As I went through life devouring Austen, Dickens and the rest of their ilk, before progressing to more contemporary writers, Amma's roles as wife and mother ate into the time reserved for her beloved books. And, even as my love for books grew with each passing day, her passion waned into barely aglow embers.

Years passed by, and, I grew into adulthood.
Into a career, and, life in a big city far away from home.
But, I never stopped reading.

Despite the demands on my time, I read voraciously.
In cafeterias.
On the bus.
Over meals.
And, in bed late at night.

Maybe I was driven by a deep-rooted fear.
That if I slacked, I would loose my passion too.
Just as Amma did.

I came home on visits with bags bursting at the seams with books.
Which I would wave tantalisingly at her face as I danced circles around her in our huge kitchen.

But, Amma was made of sterner stuff.
And, never bit the bait.

Until my last visit home.
When I left Kakar's 'Mira and the Mahatma' behind.

A month later, I sent home some books for a cousin, who was to visit.

And now, this call.

As I struggled to recover my composure, my mother went on " Mira and the Mahatma was riveting. I enjoyed it tremendously. Even the Ice Candy Man looks interesting, so I thought I would read it before passing it on to your cousin. In any case, she is not due to visit in the immediate future"

" Sure Amma".
And then, crossing my fingers, I held my breath as I asked her the million dollar question " Shall I send you some more books from my collection?"

For a split second, she hesitated.
" Well, not immediately. But, maybe when you come home next."
" What kind of books will you get me? I am interested in good books...good language...strong storyline..."
Again, a pause
" I leave it to you to decide. Bring me what you think I will enjoy......"

And, then she was back to her impressions about Miraben and the Mahatma.

As she gushed excitedly, a voice from the past rang loud in my ears. Of Amma reading out to the wide eyed, baby me about the good king Richard or Richard Lion Heart as he was known, who went on a crusade leaving his kingdom in the hands of his evil brother John.

Sudhir Kakar may never know.
But, I will always remain in his debt.

For not just writing a book that closed the circle of life between a mother and daughter.
But, also for leveling the playing field between us.
Finally!!

On Criticism

Two roads lie before a person criticised.

One is the high road, where she can examine the critical words for merit before reacting.
And, if she finds even an iota of truth in the harsh words, then, it is up to her to choose to change for the better.
Or, try brush it under the carpet of one's ego.
But, at least, she would have done the right thing of having looked within with brutal honesty, and introspected.

The second, which is the refuge of the weak and shallow, is to react like a cornered animal and lash out in rage. Without any thought what-so-ever.
To heap abuse and lies on the offender, making it abundantly clear to all and sundry that a raw nerve has been hit.

The first is the path of the wise, and, the strong.

And, the second, ....
Well...Now, what was it that the wise old men said about empty vessels and a cacophony?
:)

Seriously, Why Archie?

So, the latest to clamber on board the marriage bandwagon is the Andrews lad.

If reports are to be believed, the famous carrot top is all set to wed the rich Lodge brat leaving Betty, the adorable girl next door, clutching at the pieces of her broken heart.

In the eyes of the world, the Good Girl has lost out,and, the Bad Girl gets to take home the trophy.

But, even as disbelieving fans the world over continue to ask, why Archie would pop the question to the 'live life queen size' Veronica and not to the 'sugar, spice and all things nice' Betty, I cannot help but wonder just what the fuss and bother is all about.

Let's face it.

Archie is no trophy husband.
He is a very ordinary guy, with an average IQ and no special talent to write home about.

In all the stories I have read, Archie shows no ambition.
No inclination to work......Well, except his roving eye that is.
And, truth be told, he has not the good sense to see a good thing for what it is, as is clearly evidenced by his treatment of poor love-sick Betty.

In short, Archie Andrews is just a lazy, skirt-chasing dork!

Correction: a goofy-looking, lazy, skirt-chasing dork!!!
For a moment, I forgot the carrot head and bushy eyebrows which works well in a comic strip, but, in the real world, well, that would be no Brad Pitt we are talking about.

Sure, he is a fun buddy to hang out with when you are in school.
But, as a life partner, it beats me why any woman would want to fight it out for Mr. Vanilla Andrews!

And, here we have two beautiful, intelligent women, each a catch in her own way, doing just that.
With the world split down the center, debating who would make the better bride!
Rather than ask, if Archie is the right husband for either girl.

Even in a comic strip, shouldn't women be settling for men who are more their equals than an ordinary Joe?

Well, the way things stand.
Whoever gets to walk down the aisle with carrot top...Betty or Veronica.
Me thinks, this is one story which is not going to end with 'And They Lived Happily Ever After'

Sad, isn't it?