Keeping my own counsel

There are a few excuses for staying away from this blog. None of them is convincing. Perhaps I should open with this one: after nine years of anonymous struggle, I now have a contract with one of the biggest publishing houses in India. Ergo, my novel titled Behind the silicon mask will be released sometime soon. Not later than Jan 2013, I hope. It's a thriller linked to the Indian IT industry, set in a city in the American Midwest. It has been written with the mass audience in mind and should do quite well. So much for that one.
The other big excuse is that I am now studying to be a counselor. Over the past few months, people have been approaching me for counseling and, although they generously declared that I was being helpful, it occurred to me that my potential ineptitude might be affecting them. So I decided to go about it the right way. Learn the theoretical ropes and thereby be certain about the process and effectiveness of my counseling. And now I'm officially a student of this complex craft (I'm told nobody ever becomes its master).
At this juncture, I have learnt a few commandments applicable in the field. And they are so interesting that I feel compelled to share them with you right away. Here they are:

1) Thou shalt not solicit
A mantra that, ironically enough, applies equally to sex workers in Singapore!! Ply your trade but do not solicit clients. In other words, a counselor must never counsel unless a counselee asks for counseling. Assuming that a person needs assistance is out of the question. So don't try to fix your family member, neighbor or that cute dog-walker from across the street. They are all fine. Perhaps your tendency to spot problems in them points to your own problems.

2) Thou shalt listen
D-uh, right? Of course, a counselor must listen. But how? Answer: attentively, non-judgmentally, expertly and empathetically. This requires the counselor to sideline all the nonsense he has received and all the nonsense he doles out. He must ignore all the values he believes in and all the "truths" he stands by. In comparison, it's easier to start a religion.

3) Thou shalt not solve
A human being is not a Rubik's cube or the possibility of a unified theory of physics. He isn't an equation that must be cracked or a code that must be deciphered. He exists in his own cocoon of perfection. Even if he does ask for advice, the counselor must suppress his own know-it-all gene and, if required, suggest actions that the counselee may or may not accept. Everybody is born with an innate ability to solve his own problems. The counselor must either be a catalyst in this process or nothing at all.
3a) Thou shalt not understand
This commandment is especially confounding for most of us. Having accepted that another human being cannot be "solved," let's take one step further into the darkness and accept that we have zero ability to understand anybody else. Oh, sacrilege! People married for half a century might turn around and quip: 'But I understand my spouse perfectly!' Really? Then why did he or she behave in a manner inexplicable to you last Tuesday? Claiming to "understand" another person is akin to claiming to understand the nature of the universe. People are the way they are because of the lives they led. At best, you stayed by their side for a decent spell. Even twins baffle each other by their behavior. So the counselor must, at all times, desist from using the phrase: 'I understand.' The counselor cannot wholly, fully, completely, comprehensively understand. Yes, he does his best to understand the counselee. He perhaps even succeeds to a great extent, but end of the day, all he can really do is help the counselee understand himself.

4) Thou shalt be self-aware
I pondered long and hard whether to put this commandment at the top or the bottom of the list. The bottom won. In many ways, this is the cardinal commandment. You cannot counsel unless you have a certain grasp of yourself. You must make attempts to know your demons, your dark alleys, your neural mazes. Again, you need not "solve" yourself. You just need to bring self-awareness into the complex process of counseling. Once you know your own truth-filters, you will listen attentively and non-judgmentally. Once you realize your own imperfections, you will neither solicit counselees nor try to solve them. Once you accept that you cannot wholly understand yourself, you will not feel the dire need to understand others. Instead, you will treat yourself and others as works in progress. And you will be able to offer your humaneness to the person seated on the other side of the table. In most cases, that will suffice.

That's all I've learnt so far. Many more lessons are in the offing. And I just might be tempted to publish them in this blog as I sputter along this chosen path.Meanwhile, gnothi seauton. That's apparently Latin for Know Thyself.

He who could not be tamed

In August last year, I left a message on Murtaza Razvi’s Facebook wall, congratulating him on his super courageous article titled What a state to be in. ‘I hope you are safe,’ I added.
His reply was pithy and shorn of emotions: ‘Safe as can be.’
Two weeks ago, I read Where to with anti-Americanism and responded with a comment: ‘Courageous piece. I expect nothing less from you, Murtaza.’
As is evident, the leitmotif of my recent interactions with Murtaza was a single word: courage. Till the very end, he continued to write pieces that required exemplary courage, honesty and introspection. If the thought of personal safety crossed his mind, he didn’t allow his work to reflect that.
Today, as I sit here in shock and denial, I cannot help thinking of our first meeting. It was the morning of our first day at the Asia Journalism Fellowship in Singapore. Dressed in formals, I was waiting along with a few other Fellows for the bus to take us to the University when Murtaza – wearing cargo shorts, a collared T-shirt and glitzy sunglasses – walked up to me. He grinned and said:
‘You must be the other Fellow from India. I was looking for you.’ I shook his hand. ‘Sutta peethe ho?’(Do you smoke?) I nodded. ‘Tho chalo, chaoon mein khade hoke shauk farmathe hain.’ (Then let’s enjoy a cigarette in the shade.)
Just like that, he had used his easy charm to win me over. Over the next three months, I saw him employ this trick many times. It took but a few moments for him to connect with the human being across from him. Having done that, he would use his razor-sharp intellect and ready wit to seal the deal. Yet another friend was made, yet another barrier breached.
I suppose it was natural for us to strike a deep friendship – despite external appearances, we had so much in common. We had both spent longish spells in the US. More importantly, both of us were fond of Bollywood, Hindi music from the 60s and 70s, ghazals, smooth whiskeys, filter “ciggys,” and sub-continental history. I discovered that he could talk knowledgeably for hours on any of these topics. On one occasion, he stoked my jealousy by stating that he had managed to meet Gulzar in flesh and blood!
‘So many of your idioms come from West Punjab,’ he had told Gulzar sahb on that pleasant afternoon many years ago.
‘Where else would they come from?’ the great poet had replied.
We sat in the reflected glow of this nostalgic conversation, wondering aloud how conjoined India and Pakistan really are. We kept returning to this theme of commonality, whether we spoke about minority rights, gender issues, terrorism, bureaucracy, the Indus Valley Civilization, the rich-poor divide or geopolitics. Since both of us were veritable owls, we worked together till late into the night, often breaking into abrupt conversation to banish monotony. For instance, looking up from the manuscript he was writing on Musharraf at that time, he once asked me, his voice dripping with adulation:
‘Isn’t Waheeda Rehman one of the most beautiful women ever?!’
Another event of note happened during our stay in Singapore. Although he was already a renowned journalist with proven credentials, he could not get an Indian visa on time to attend a family wedding. He appeared to take the setback in his stride, declaring:
‘There are jokers on both sides of the border. Can’t be helped.’
I’ll always miss this, his willingness to look beyond the current situation with objectivity and humour. But what I’ll miss even more is his genuine warmth. Few know that Murtaza was not only a superb host but also a great cook. He seemed to revel in the opportunity to feed people. At least a dozen times in those three months, he told me:
‘Aren’t you fed up of that Food Court stuff? Come over. I’ll cook the evening’s meal.’
This was in addition to the festive pan-Asian potluck dinners we Fellows regularly enjoyed, in which the star dish would usually be the one cooked by Murtaza.
In Murtaza’s presence, I always felt as if I was at a crossroads he was familiar with. With him, I could always share the anxieties and joys of being a father to my daughter Risha. He, in turn, would talk with rare pride about his wife and their three angels – if memory serves me right, they are named Maya, Priya and Dina.
The last time I heard his voice was when he called from New Delhi.
‘Can’t you catch a flight to here?’ he asked. ‘My visa is not valid for Bangalore.’
I regrettably told him that I had committed my time elsewhere. I don’t remember now what those other commitments were, but I’ll forever regret not taking up his offer. I wish I had caught that flight to New Delhi. I wish I could have spent one more memorable evening with my dear friend from across the border.
All I can do now is to send out a silent prayer to him and his family. And hope to convey to him that he will be missed more than he can imagine.

Bangaloreans, please spare 8 minutes

Friends,

Some of you might remember that I and a few like-minded people launched a social initiative called Midnight's Children of Bangalore a couple of months aghttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifo. As part of that, we've launched a comprehensive survey titled "Night Life in Bangalore." You'll find details here.

I request every Bangalorean and erstwhile Bangalorean to offer their valuable feedback. As for the rest, I'd be much obliged if you spread the word. We need 10,000 responses to the survey. And we need a 100 volunteers who can implement the offline component of the survey. Looking forward to your support.

Fare thee well, the gentleman

Wrap Chinnaswamy stadium in a black armband. Inform the four winds that a great game came to a standstill today, albeit for a moment. Freeze those glorious statistics and post them on eternity's slate. Stand up and applaud till your palms bleed.
For a devoted son of cricket is taking his final bow.

A hundred years from now, when young cricketers study the career of Rahul Dravid - as they will - they'll ask each other:
'Did he really carry his bat into the twenty-first century? He seems so... gentlemanly.'
Hopefully somebody will remind them that true greatness is timeless.

The debacle Down Under

Indian cricket is at a crossroads. This cliche can be used to describe just about anything that happens in our favourite national pastime. Yet, let me insist on the point: Indian cricket is indeed at a crossroads.
Because we're too attached to the past, too fearful of the future and, resultantly, completely clueless to the present. All the more reason to acknowledge the instructive nature of our recently-concluded tour Down Under. Despite the plastering, or perhaps because of it, we received a clutch of takeaways. Having said that, the real fun is in analyzing the takeaways for each individual player:

1) MS Dhoni
Captain Cool sucked in the longer format and played the "will he/won't he" card in the ODIs. The Unreal Times carried hilarious articles on Dhoni's penchant for bottling up his aggression till it was almost too late. Pundits either mocked his depleting skills or lauded his amazing poise in a crisis. However, I feel that nobody really placed a finger on Dhoni's true achievement in that freakish win against Australia. I mean, the man was a floundering mess of incompetence till the last over. He wasn't timing the ball. Nor did he have an answer to straight length balls bowled slightly wide of the off stump. Yet, he found the strength of character to launch a stratospheric six in the last over. That shot was followed by 3 plus 3 off the next two deliveries (only one of which was legal), and India was home. If you want to praise Dhoni, then do so for his ability to leap from the brink of shame and land safely on the turf reserved for heroes. Even though his perseverance with some players sometimes gets the better of this man, he still holds the key to our immediate future.
2) Virat Kohli
The kid made a momentous contribution in the World Cup finals. For that alone, his fame should outlast a nuclear annihilation. And on this tour, he underlined a fact that was already becoming evident: his wicket is the most precious in a batting line-up that includes Tendulkar. 'Nuff said.
3) Gautam Gambhir
There was a time when this chocolate boy packed the nougat's punch in his dimunitive frame. He still does. But is all well with the man who outplayed Sri Lanka's attack in the WC finals? Let's wait and see.
4) Virender Sehwag
I can hit every delivery to the boundary. Whoopie me! But then, I'll fall to a ruse so simple that even 4-year-olds will wisen up to it. Boo-hoo. I'm born to frustrate. On some occasions, the opposition is frustrated. More often, I make my own team weep.
5) Sachin Tendulkar
The few Sachin-bashers ridiculed his not-so-secret obsession with milestones. The horde of Sachin-lovers still see him as divine. Unfortunately, as a nation, we still can't muster enough Sachin-centrists. As usual, the man himself will decide his future, leaving us with no option but to observe silently from the sidelines.
6) Rohit Sharma
If he had that little something called presence of mind, he'd bat like Vivian Richards. In reality, his imprudent shot selection comes straight out of Vivien Leigh's Batting Manual. He's theoretically the best Indian batsman of his generation. Practically, he's a big nothing. He'll redeem himself yet in the Asia Cup. And we won't kick him out till he's done enough damage.
7) Ravindra Jadeja
The boy never surrenders his spunk. He showed, yet again, that he has a big heart. But is he the answer to our prayers for an all-rounder? Well, the Lankans have Mathews and the Aussies have Watson. Need we draw the full comparison?
8) Yuvraj Singh
He wasn't there, but his absence seeped into the middle order like battery fluid making inroads into an electronic chassis. The quintessential brat of Indian cricket is fighting a man's battle in a distant land. Everybody loves him right now. That's how it should be. He's showing us that the 21-yard battleground is a mere facade to issues that matter.


That rounds up the batsmen. I can do a round-up of the bowlers on popular demand. Meanwhile, IPL season is upon us. Anybody feeling the desire to retch?

A perfect evening

This week began with a fulfilling culmination and is coming to an end with the freshness of new beginnings.
I've written a bit and kept a few promises. At this moment, like in half a million homes around the world, Jagjit Singhji is singing to me. Standing tall by my side, a cup of strong tea is attaining the perfect temperature. A good friend has dropped by. She is excited about discovering her soul. She is owning up her mistakes, clearing her mess, creating newness in her relationships. Her mere presence is inspiring me to proclaim with joy, the following words:
If at all perfection exists in this world, it is here, right in this moment.

Midnight's Children of Bangalore

Friends,

This is my latest initiative. While my context is Bangalore, I suppose you'll relate to the theme in other Indian cities as well.

Midnight's Children of Bangalore


Do spread the word. We might be able to bring together different aspects such as law and order, lifestyle, employment opportunities and harmony. Your feedback is valuable as always.

2012 will rock

Time for my random musings for the new year.

Let me begin with Kun Faya Kun. I tuned into the song quite late; however, I've been making amends by listening to it 20 times or more each day. I'm beginning to think that Rahman took every other step in his journey so that he can keep delivering Sufi songs to us. Had he not, at a young age, found new energy in a spiritual guide who followed Sufism, would his music have found its strength? And how much would modern Indian music have lost in the process?
The phrase Kun Faya Kun is straight from the Quran. It means: "Be. And it is." In the holy book, this phrase alludes to the power of God to will the universe into existence merely by imagining it. But perhaps there's another meaning here: that we - by which I mean puny humans like you and I - too can create any result in our lives merely by declaring our resolve to do so. In other words, we're prophets, all of us, and every time we generate a thought and back it up with actions, we will achieve the desired results. Perhaps that's one of the reasons we're supposed to seek the divine amongst our fellow beings. We may never know if we're made in His image, but we've been given the power to lead our dream lives.
Kun Faya Kun.


Half an hour before my plane descended into Bhubhaneswar, we crossed the Eastern ghats. From 36000 feet above MSL, I saw a veil of morning mist lift itself off a hoary series of mountains, each resembling the other to a shocking degree, as if seen from the proper vantage point, the world has a perfect design. No human eye can punch a hole in this tapestry, apparently.
Below me, to my immediate east, I also saw a cloud cover so uniform and vast that it looked like the salt pans of the Rann of Kutch. On this soft feathery bed of altocumulus clouds (I'm guessing), I could see shadows of cirrocumulus clouds that were hovering far above it. God, it seemed, had breakfasted well this Tuesday morning and was in the mood to create beauty and tranquillity.
The same evening, I heard on TV that Cyclone Thane was all set to hit the eastern coast. Landfall was supposed to be on the southern tip of AP. As it turned out, Puducherry and Cuddalore were the worst hit. I couldn't help but think about the tsunami. More specifically, I thought of the forlorn look worn by NH-45A from Puducherry all the way to Thirukkadaiyur. And the devastation that I witnessed in the village of Kuttiandiyur was something else altogether. Brr.
Let's move on to happy thoughts this new year.


Have you ever had chenna poda? If you've even heard of this dish, chances are that you'd have also heard an Oriya passionately claim ownership of that prince amongst sweets - the Rosagulla. If you thought the sweet originated in West Bengal, this article will make you think again:
Kling Canoes At Tamralipta
It's written by a Sengupta. And endorsed by another Sengupta (my friend Pat). And since two knowledgeable Bengalis have accepted that the Oriyas invented the sweet, I now consider the matter closed :P
Why this neither-here-nor-there topic? Because my daughter is half-Oriya and I must get ultra-familiar with elements that constitute the Oriya pride. And believe you me, a typical Oriya would sooner disown the Kalinga empire than lose ownership of the Rosagulla!
Incidentally, I feel distraught that my daughter's best friend will relocate to Mumbai for the next academic year. Must our children experience such a loss at such a young age? Anyway, happy thoughts. I clicked a lot of pics of the two girls together. Perhaps in the advanced digital age, they'd reconnect 20 years later and be more connected than today.


Did you hear about all the hoopla surrounding Sachin's 100th ton? You did? Well, that's because our performance Down Under has been dismal and we don't have much else to talk about. Had we performed superbly, well in that case, things would be different - we'd then hear about all the hoopla surrounding Sachin's 100th ton. What? That's just the same? Huh. How about that?
By the way, anybody wants to bet on another miraculous win at Perth?


Finally, let me describe a hypothetical scenario:
Suppose you're leading a project. A few people are assisting you in its implementation. You're allowed to make use of their skills, but you have been given no power to dominate them. No matter how badly they fare, you cannot blame them, get angry at them, put them down or bribe them. In other words, you can offer them neither carrots nor sticks. All you can do is be there for them, keep working with them and ask them, through your actions, to reconsider their attitudes even as you reconsider yours. End of the day, if you fail to produce results, your boss will ask you why you failed to inspire them.
Does this model sound too harsh? Does it have too many constraints?
Well, if you lead your life the way you're asked to lead this project, it will become extraordinary. It's just an idea. I'm requesting you to chew on it.


Have a fantabulous 2012, everybody. This year is gonna rock.

A mystical eclipse

Yesterday, thanks to a last-minute invite from a friend, I experienced a magical evening that was Ruhaniyat. (Details available here.)
As the moon slowly disrobed its earthly shadow, I sat down to enchanting music, unable to decide what was casting a deeper spell - the music or the moon.

The evening began with a Kashmiri group, led by Abdul Rashid Hafiz, singing devotional songs that effortlessly blended Kashmiri and Sanskrit words. The one about Meera complaining to Krishna that she doesn't get enough of his time and attention was superb and filled with surprises such as the ticklish presence of the word soundarya in an otherwise wholesome Sufi melody. But I soon began expecting "unusual" words. After all, language is to music what religion is to spirituality - irrelevant!

The second group of performers was from Alandi in Maharashtra and led by Avdhoot Gandhi. I revisited my childhood in an attempt to catch the untranslated meaning of the three songs they sung. I more or less succeeded in this endeavour, finding myself moved by the suggestion that we need knowledge to distil the divine within ourselves, just like we need knowledge to extract butter from milk and sugar from sugarcane. Interestingly, Gandhi's lineage can be traced back to Sant Dhyaneshwar himself. Talk about pedigree endorsing performance!

The third group of performers infused the evening with a dose of high-octane energy. This group of Khans (led by Shakur Khan) hailed from Rajasthan. The standout performer, for me at least, was Daevo Khan playing the Khadtal. The instrument demands movements not unlike using a stapler in an angry mood. At first, I was reminded of shirtless kids in the Belapur-Kurla local trains who would click filmy melodies out of two pieces of ceramic tiles. I now know that the genesis of those tiles is the Khadtal which, in the hands of an artist like Daevo Khan, is mesmerizing. This man demonstrated the process by which Man and Craft merge together. Apparently all that's required is to develop a mad relationship with the art form and also the ability to stay in the moment. Khan's jugalbandi with the dholak player whetted my appetite for more. Perhaps we'll see this man on a larger stage soon, bonding with the best percussionists in the world.

I confess to zoning out when the next performer - Parvathy Baul - came on stage. I'm still trying to figure out why this happened. Perhaps the subtlety of this music form was lost on me after the energetic performance of Rajasthanis (who, I forgot to mention, also sang a Baba Bulleh Shah song). Perhaps I and my friends began talking shop at this point. I started paying attention again only when Ms Baul, who was performing in a trance-like state, was distracted by the discordant toot of a passing train.

After the Baul came the whirling dervishes from Turkey. And since the hostess explained the ritualistic dance before it began, one could make enough sense to feel wonderment.
As the universe and everything in it revolves, so do the dervishes. But always in the counter clockwise direction - that way, they're circling the heart and thus embracing love. I also learnt that the dervishes always point to the skies with the open palm of their right hands even as their left hands form arches pointing to the earth. In this way, they're collecting blessings from God and distributing them amongst the mortals.
It was a good debut for me in the world of dervishes. I'm still wondering whether the powder that was sprinkled on the stage floor before the performance had any ethereal meaning. Or was that just showmanship?

Finally, the qawwals from Jaipur, led by Shameen and Nayeem Ajmeri, took the stage. What followed were three spirited qawwalis that, time and again, touched upon secularism. During one interjection, Nayeem Ajmeri spoke about the non-duality of the human condition, about commonalities that cannot be dissolved by religion. His nonchalant reference to Ka'aba-Kashi and other such beautiful word-pairs touched my heart. The final memory of the evening was of Shameen Ajmeri reproducing the sounds of ghungroos using his mouth and tongue.

Before revving back home, I took a final peek at the moon. It was clear as a limpid pool. The soulful prayers performed at Jayamahal Palace had cured it of all earthly influences. Or so I'd like to believe.

In Treatment

A phlegmatic therapist. An agitated patient. A none-too-sunny room. Three to four cameras. And an unwavering exploration of the human mind via memories, impressions and emotions. Has television ever been so compelling?

After watching three seasons of In Treatment almost non-stop, I'm willing to swear that the Israelis know how to create drama using minimalism. And I feel grateful that the Americans adapted this Israeli television series, put an intense Irish actor at the centre of it and made the concept sing.

Throughout the week, Dr Paul Weston (portrayed by Daniel Byrne) plays the dutiful therapist, concerned with the welfare of each of his patients, struggling to understand their motivations, aching to help them find happiness. But if any of his patients try to find out who he is, he becomes obtuse. If that doesn't work, he deflects their questions. That's when the viewer realizes that not all is well in the inner world of Dr Weston. And when he visits his own therapist over the weekend, the viewer realizes that he is a veritable mess. He has neither resolved his past nor considered his future. He is completely lost, just like most of us. But that doesn't stop him from practising his profession with the utmost sincerity. And one feels for his situation. He must combat an unhappy childhood and address his pugnacious attitude towards his parents. Moreover, he must come to terms with a failed marriage, a disastrous love affair and partial alienation from his own children. Paul Weston is as lonely as a human being can be. But Dr Weston is an engaging professional. And as he helps his patients come to terms with themselves, as he helps them close their loops, one cannot but feel admiration for the man behind the mask.

It's a pity this series is being aborted by the studio. Why can't we see Paul Weston complete his journey of self-realization and evolution? Can't we leave him in a state of contentment?
Perhaps some loops are meant to be interpreted and closed by ourselves, in a proactive manner. The ultimate lesson of In Treatment is that, perhaps, we must find our own joyous resolutions.