TO THE CURIOUS MIND - PART III

Contd…

I pray for every little thing. I say “thank you” to God for every small gift. I run to Him for every mundane wish. Diffidence or maturity?

As I shift from one milestone of my life to the other, I wonder whether this very introspection itself is maturity! This self analysis! This eternal quest! This every day every hour every minute question “Have I faced the situation or taken the decision with maturity?” And if this is how we gain maturity, then it is not to be attained one fine morning. The process is ongoing. Rather everlasting!Till the last breath of one’s life!!!

My residence in Kolkata was a twenty minute auto-ride to Dakshineshwar Temple. The Temple is dedicated to Goddess Kali. It is here that Thakur Ramakrishna Paramhansa worshiped Ma Kali as a child beguiles his mother. Being such a short distance away, we would frequently visit the Temple on Holidays and auspicious occasions. Often, while waiting in the queue for Darshan, I’d observe a bare-chested man in a soiled dhoti, loitering like a lunatic around the temple premise, shouting in a tearful voice “Maa will you not listen to your children? Will you not give a Darshan? What a stone hearted mother you are! Please give Darshan, Maa, please do!” A sun burnt, disheveled spectacle totally oblivious of time, reality, situation, surrounding! Such heartrending would be his plea that it would often bring tears to the eyes of the gathered crowd. Sometimes he would cajole the deity; at others he would be angry and restless. Nobody mocked or laughed at his soul stirring petition. Rather the devotees had the same query in their heart of heart which found voice in the old man’s uninhibited cries and submissions. I was told that he was a learned man who had taken to the path of renunciation. Months later, I found him in a more tranquil state. He would just sit in a hypnotic stance outside the erstwhile bedroom of the Paramhansa. At times, I would find one of his disciples reading out stanzas from holy books to him; some other time, somebody would be helping him to eat a frugal meal, like a nurse spoon feeding a child. While the immobile man would just be staring with vacant eyes at a point far beyond human vision!

My aunt would prostrate before him in reverence whispering me to follow her. On enquiry, she told me that there were various stages of spiritual upliftment. The earlier madness for experiencing the Divine has now transcended to an elevated level of sainthood; the devout has now become the apostle of God!

“Shivoham shivoham shivaswaroopoham adwaitamananda roopamaroopam…………..”

The thirst for maturity is insatiable. The quest goes on till we come to that point in life when we realize as humans how weak and incapable we are. Just a cog in the infinite gamut of the Universe! A miniscule dot in the cosmos! It is then that we bow down to the Eternal. The ultimate surrender! Or the penultimate maturity!

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It is difficult to draw a line to this discourse or put a full stop at random. I have yet to find a point in life where I can conceitedly claim that I have matured completely and there is nothing more to be gained or learnt. This is a subject of interminable discussion and unstoppable delving. Hence, the lengthy three part post. Though some may simply define maturity as intelligence gained on hindsight, alternately, one can go on fathoming the deeper and subtler nuances of the concept. I have opted for the latter and in doing so relied heavily on mundane, personal experiences and anecdotes which many may or may not subscribe to. But I strongly feel all human experiences are more or less threaded by common emotions and feelings, and hope my friends, who happen to read this post, will empathize with what I have tried to arrive at, if not unanimously agree, which is difficult to attain on complex themes like this.

TO THE CURIOUS MIND..........PART II

Contd…

I was a control freak. (I still am to a certain extent. Bad habits die hard.) I wanted to control everything around me including myself, my near and dear ones and my surroundings. If anything went beyond my control or premeditated plan, my equanimity dithered.

I was also the Atlas of the family taking on every responsibility on my shoulder whether bearable or not. Soon I was overloaded. I freaked. Being a compulsive worrier I worried about every little thing. All my thoughts generally started with “what if……” and in order to take care of all the “what ifs” I recoursed to proactive meddling. It is meddling because I go against life’s own course and scheme of things when I want to settle them my own way.

Soon I found, organizing life is a fruitless exercise. There is a streak of disorderliness inherent in Nature which takes over at intervals to topsy-turvy our world till orderliness again sets in by itself, after sometime. As I came to understand Nature’s cyclic order, I started valuing delegation and the principle of “let go”. I am happier now.

.

Moral of the Story: I have matured. I appreciate and surrender to Nature, discover every minute that source of happiness and peace is somewhere beyond my realm of control and in order to achieve that I have given up on clinging and controlling.

I am a born pessimist and negativity is contagious. It affects one’s surroundings like a disease. Mine did too till one day my sister thrust a book in my hand and told me to make it my bible. And wow my outlook changed perceptibly!

Moral of the Story: The source of maturity can be anything, from a lisping child to a book, if you are an enthusiastic and avid learner.

My Department is full of youngsters. They are garam khoon and do not hesitate to give their piece of mind to any irritant in and outside the Department. Often they unburden themselves in my”benign presence”. I have realized long back that a heavy heart or mind only needs a pair of receptive ears and no sermons please. I am a good listener but mostly amused by gen now’s impatience. As Aunt Agony listens, my signature thought is ”bachhe abhi tumne duniya dekhi hi kahaan hai…..yehi sawaal tumse bees saal baad karenge tab sunenge tumhara jawaab…………….”

Moral of the Story: Viewed in a lighter vein, maturity is a great source of amusement. On a more serious note, it bestows a farsightedness, which is almost akin to wisdom.

The other day, my boss called me aside and told me a little apologetically (did I imagine?) that though I was eligible he could not guarantee a promotion to me the next year. I was not surprised. I was not expecting one (duniya mein aur bhi gham hai promotion na milne ke alaawaa!). I did not react to the news!

“Karmanye vaadhikaraste maa phaleshu kadaachana………………?”

Moral of the Story: Giving up expectations is maturity personified as I realize that the most powerful also has his/her own constraints/limits and there are certain situations which are beyond argument.

I think I am the nicest person on this earth and everyone’s trying to take advantage of my good nature. A few unhappy incidents have made this belief stronger. Trying to help somebody and being misunderstood, being loyal to someone and getting jilted, many encashing my work (creative genius? LOL) and misappropriating appreciation without my knowledge and to my disadvantage, gifted with utter disregard in return of unfaltering cooperation etc.etc. Now I am a bit cautious when it comes to helping people and make them conscious of my role in their life/work directly or indirectly. I am not very good at it though. I still lag behind…….

Moral of the Story: Modesty a gift of maturity (wink!)? I discern a few negative shades here. Has maturity handicapped me in some ways?

After prolonged suffering due to an undiagnosed ailment, when I chanced upon a lifesaver of a surgeon, I knew that the dark phase of my life was over and I would be okay soon. I did thank God but stoically.

Moral of the Story: Conviction and maturity go hand in hand. Which follows which is difficult to trace but sufferings always give way to peace and calm, if not happiness.

Contd…

TO THE CURIOUS MIND..........PART I

On one of my previous posts (“Life Is The Greatest Teacher”), my good friend Vel (Velm of MS), raised a few ticklish questions: What is maturity? When and how does one gain maturity? Who and what are the factors responsible for maturity? Parents? Mentors? School? Age? Experience? Knowledge? Failure? Questions to which I did not have definite answers! Questions which made me ponder. I thought to myself, really, who is or when can one be called a mature person? Questions were too many and the answers perhaps hidden within them. My curiosity was triggered. I peeped into my own self and asked, “Am I mature enough to answer these questions?” The reply came in the following form ……..

As a child, if I was denied a box of chocolates, I’d throw up such a rowdy tantrum that my parents in the long run had to succumb to my onerous demands and get me not one but two boxes of chocolates as compensation for the chance denial. Now, if I miss one, I am secretly relieved that I have scraped past an opportunity to gain additional ounces of calories. But if my colleague, bypassing me gets a promotion, I am in the throes of almost incurable depression.

Moral of the Story: I have matured but relatively – yes, when it comes to the box of chocolates and an emphatic no, when it concerns promotion. Maturity, therefore, is not absolute. As we proceed with age, knowledge and experience, so does maturity.

When my friend suffered her first heartbreak, she went berserk with grief, humiliation, betrayal etc. When it happened the second time, she waived the mishap out of her system with a “Yeh toh hona hi tha” sigh and did not take much time to bounce back to daily routine.

Moral of the Story: My friend has matured and come to accept the adversities and deprivations of life in her stride aided by a philosophical shrug and smile.

Soon I earned the nickname of “Jhansi Ki Rani” in office. Reasons - a volatile temper and ready-to-lash-back attitude. Over a period of time, I realized it was doing me no good –a formidable image was attached to my name, my temper was telling upon my health, it was impossible to change people/situations to my choice and colleagues poked me more on my weak point (read short temper). Gradually, I learnt to avoid confrontations and keep my cool even though incited. There were better and calmer ways of tackling friction and resolve differences! Nowadays, I drink a glass of cold water and count slowly till 100 when anger tries to have the better of me. More importantly, I have learnt to evaluate my foes a bit more neutrally, impartially, in a quiet and detached manner.

Moral of the Story: I have matured on two accounts – I have realized my limitations and tried to get over them and stopped indulging in futile exercises, like changing the world, which takes one nowhere.

My aunt (my father’s sister), with whom I spent a considerable period of my life (in Kolkata), would never let me help her in the kitchen or do other sundry household chores. Her standard reply was “What will people think! I am making you work?” When she was ill, one day I forced myself in to the kitchen and told her it was more important to do the right thing rather than what people thought would be proper for us to do. My aunt, after a prolonged debate, gave in.

Being a football of people’s perceptions is a self imposed burden which robs us of the joy of life. It takes time to learn that the alternate course of doing what is right in a given situation is a far better option. Giving in to people’s wish is too easy a way.

Moral of the Story: Maturity comes without an age bar. It can gatecrash anytime, especially, when one musters up the confidence and courage to choose between what is right and what is easy.

Contd….

INCOMPLETE

She has tasted the thorn
And bled profusely
In the arms of the man
She loved

As I have..............

ELUSIVE

The disheveled youth with matted coils
Dirty stubbles, stinking clothes and a hunched spine
Wants freedom from the needle and its prick
The convoluted imageries of concocted euphoria

The girl with the crimson pout, rich-kohled dreams
Loud garb, decadent glamour and deadened expressions
Wants freedom from the nocturnal ritual of
Permitted plunder of an irreproachable mind

The woman “all tattered and torn” decked up
With the blemishes of a tainted vow long forgotten
Wants freedom from the drunken assaults on the
Nascent dream nestling in her womb in fetal innocence

The mother with the wrinkled brows, crinkled saree, lost
Vigour, fading charm, musters the shards of courage forlorn
Wants freedom from the tight rope act, the Draconian
Dilemmas of family, foe, friends and future of a 9 to 5 job

The father with the harrowed smile, the stooped shoulders
The receding hair line has recently given angina a good fight
Wants freedom from this brewing fear of a skipped beat,
A missed chance of dragging breath just a wee bit long

The children with sagging forms, sometimes with a twisted arm
Saddled with the burden of tomes and at times a begging bowl
Wants freedom from this quest unbound of illusive ranks
And non-bailed imprisonment by the parasites of poverty

The stone-faced man fondling a barrel against his chest
Stares hard at the enemy post with unblinking gaze
Wants freedom from this bloody battle of mine and thine
Years he has postponed a vacation to his home town

The stranger with the haunted look caught in the rut of
Prefixed deadlines, the celeb tagged the “handsome hunk”
Blessed with the boon of ceaseless adulation infantile
The country with its sustained growth and territories
Ravaged by sanguine oath, all want freedom
From their vicious in-fights, all are irresistibly
Resigned to the closets of their preordained existence

SPITEFULLY YOURS

I was silent for so long

That I forgot my speech

I have so much to say now

That words fail me

Let's begin from the very beginning

And go back to the end

Start afresh from anonymity

To freedom once again

I did the colossal mistake of addressing a fellow netizen by the word 'kid'. He turned out to be a strapping boy of 18 brimming with the pride of new found adulthood. Chaffing was inevitable. He snubbed me back, a little arrogantly, that the word sounded strange to him and should be avoided at all cost. I immediately apologized and replaced the "kid" with a 'ji' suffixed to his name. And that somehow assuaged his hurt ego.

It was a "minor skirmish" which made me realize, rather forcefully, the quintessential difference between the two genders. Had it been my female counterpart, the word would have aroused coy sentiments even if she were a doddering octogenarian. No exaggeration there!

A true incident, gleefully recounted by my sister to many, goes like this. Her colleague's mother-in-law, teetering on the edge of life and death. The young doctor attending her placed the stethoscope on her scrawny, heaving, gasping chest and said politely ,"Mataji! please try and take a deep breath!" Pat came the reply, "Mujhe maataji mat kaho naa, abhi meri umr hi kya hai!"(Don't call me mother. I am not that old).