• You are not born into a Bengali family
• When neither of your parents sing or play any instrument
• You grew up in a small town at a time when there wasn’t much of a live concert experience to speak of

I attempt to answer this question.

******

Since music (like books and sports) is such a pleasurable activity that one gets the notion that “Hey, if it’s SO much fun to consume, how much more fun it would be to produce!”

“Guitar!” I said sometime in the early 80’s. Parents were easily appeased and got us (my sister and me) a Spanish guitar. While the rest of the world referred to it without the adjective, in India ‘Spanish’ refers to the classic version and Hawaiian guitar is what we referred to slide guitar (go figure!)

So off we went to the local music teacher (Jishu) in Sector 1 (in the great city of Bokaro in case you were wondering).

Spanish or Hawaiian? he asked us siblings. Almost in unison, we said Spanish. However, for Jishu sir there was only one right answer – Hawaiian!  He gently told us that it was the ‘easier’ way to start and sold us the notion that Hawaiian to Spanish was an easier switch than the other way round.

A year of middling dispelled any fantasy that I was the next Knopfler, Rodrigo or Montgomery. Our humble beginnings were in Hindustani ragas actually: raag Bhairavi, raag Yaman, raag Peelu, raag Malkosh were some that I recall.

It was a lot of fun. Sure there was no danger of reaching virtuosity but it was satisfying as we ‘lite mastered’ them. We graduated to guitar renditions of light Indian music (Jaane man jaane man tere do nayan was one tune that I was able to master).

The big family move to Vizag placed my guitar aspirations indefinitely on hold.

Years later in college, after I discovered a bona fide rocker (Aditya), I gave the old ‘Spanish’ a fighting try. Aditya was generous with his time and taught me some chords. He warned me that my guitar’s neck was warped  so I could expect severe leathering of my fingers. My travails, insufficient talent and application, and a ready excuse of a sub-optimal instrument, meant that the guitar was safely returned home in a few semesters.

******

My bachelor years in Chicago would throw up act 2 of my creative aspiration. By this time I was a serious Jethro Tull groupie having amassed 90% of their discography.

This time the urge took shape as a silver flute – homage to Ian Anderson (obviously). The Old Town School of Folk Music wasn’t far from my apartment and I enrolled. A beautiful Gemeinhardt flute was procured. My ‘lucky’ teacher was Judith Johnson Brown, a graceful gray haired lady with a demeanor of a lady Jeeves,  polite to a fault, and patient.

I had to learn to read sheet music — poco a poco crescendo, decrescendo, staccato, B-sharp, B-flat, and stuff like that.

I would practice. But not obsessively enough because I’d be stuck on the same piece for weeks. Or maybe it was months.

Getting the embouchure right took some doing. My job was made all the more arduous because of a quirky epilogue sound with each breath. I was willing to ignore that sound but not Judith.

Plodded through some minuets and some lullabies (yes – some of them were really easy to learn).

I recall a conversation with Judith close to the 1 year mark.

Me (in a self critical mood): “I don’t think I’m making enough progress. I should probably quit.”

She: “Clearly you are getting something out of it because I see that you are practicing and I see you sincerely putting all this effort in class.”

I considered her assessment. Either she was being overly kind or felt I couldn’t handle the truth.

A recent acquisition of Jethro Tull’s sheet music (flute) scores had given a fresh fillip to my struggles.

Judith scanned the music and ruled it as too hard for me but, after seeing my crestfallen face, picked a piece that I could attempt.

My final months were a faithful grinding attempt at (maybe) Living in the Past (Tull fans will get this).

******

A weekend music workshop at the Old Town Schoo kindled an interest in (arguably) the oldest wind blown instrument known to man – the Australian didgeridoo. The word “didgeridoo” is an onomatopoeia made up by the first British colonists. A more appropriate term (although hardly known in pop culture circles) is yidaki, which is one of the many official aboriginal names for the instrument.

I was not a minimalist then but the fact that the didgeridoo was just a branch of a eucalyptus tree (hollowed-out by termites) and that the elemental drone would be produced just by vibrating lips greatly appealed to me. 

A few years later, on a vacation to Australia, I purchased a didgeridoo. Over the years, dabbling with it, largely in an experimental fashion with the only guidance coming from YouTube videos, has been satisfying. I was able to produce a predictable drone and could also generate some funky sounds but hit the wall on circular breathing. The beautiful yidaki still lives with me and maybe someday it will demand that I pick it up again.

You can only dilettante thrice but hey.. maybe third time lucky, huh?

Closing notes:

• After 23 years of disuse, I’m glad to mention that the Gemeinhardt has finally found a home – a home in a multi-instrumentalist’s house where finally somebody is putting the G through its paces. Thank you R.
• If you haven’t seen or heard of the didgeridoo before, here are a few recommendations: this video of Yanni (which also features a captivating jugalbandi) or this insane performance by Xavier Rudd (where he is on percussion and yidaki simultaneously). 
• If I had seen this most excellent tutorial from David Hudson earlier, I’d have surely made more progress.

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Then I met the Englishman (Richard) in Santa Clara. He declared, with an evangelical flourish, “My entire family turned vegetarian after we realized the massive ecological cost of meat eating.”

It would be my first encounter with someone who had eschewed meat for non-personal reasons. Thinking about the planet.. when so many folks don’t even think about their community, city or country, I thought to myself. 

Years later, I would learn that Europe & UK (and London in particular) would spawn the modern unstoppable movement towards veganism. Arguably the most famous member of the London Vegetarian Society is our very own Mahatma Gandhi – a fact I learned from Nico Slate’s wonderful Gandhi’s search for the Perfect Diet.   

The witness to a slaughter post was a reminder (to myself) as to why I remained a non-meat eater. When I shared it on Facebook, it triggered some interesting stories that I’m reproducing below:

Kavitha’s story: Most of the times, I prefer vegetables. I ate meat when I cooked for friends or family, once or twice a month. Recently when I went to pick up meat, I saw the butcher cut a baby goat. For some reason it turned my insides. Since then, I just don’t like the idea of meat and just in time I started procuring organic veggies which taste so much better as well. Pretty much a non-meat eater now. It’s a choice. ‘How can you’, for both parties isn’t a question that is not laced with some sort of judgmental pre-disposition. PS: I saw chickens being caught, hacked and sliced many times over during our village-life days. Didn’t react to that the same as I did to the baby goat’s butchering recently. May be I am just getting old!

Amit’s story: I was 7, me and my sister were in our village for summer vacation. The smell of mangoes and litchies were all around the house. One hot day, we both were going to a near by relatives house for some ceremony. Just near the mango trees, we saw few people surrounding a goat. We rushed towards them in excitement. What followed was horrific, to say the least. One swift movement of the blade and the tan, dry sand turned red. I puked a lot that day, maybe because of the hot sun or maybe because how for our own happiness we could kill someone else. The smell of mangoes and litchies were replaced by the horrific sight. I am a vegan, not because of religion or family values, but because of what I saw that day.

Shuchi’s story: we had gone to the dhaba for my birthday party. Some drinking but mostly a lot of eating, almost entirely meat. I had left my purse behind so I returned to the dhaba the next day. I retrieved my purse but the collateral damage was seeing an entire sackful of chicken legs. I don’t know why but that sight “turned my stomach” and I couldn’t bring myself to eat meat since that day.

(Gestational note: this post germinated after nearly 4 years in the Drafts folder. Go figure!)

The post Eschewing meat- a few short stories appeared first on uLaaR.

I’ve heard some of the most interesting stories at work townhalls when I’ve posed questions like “Tell us something about yourself that most colleagues don’t know about” OR “What’s the most embarrassing situation you’ve ever found yourself in” OR “Can you share one of your proud moments”.

A few years ago I heard this story “I had a terrible weakness for momos. Every time I’d go out to eat, I’d invariably order momos. I loved them of course but it got to the point where I’d have momos as the entire meal. And it kept getting worse — more full meals as momos, more frequent orders from my favorite momo place. I had become a slave to momos! I decided this had to change but how? I hatched an overdose plan —  momos for breakfast, lunch and dinner, for as many days in succession until I succeeded in getting it out of my system. I did this for a week until one day I felt like I had had enough momos to last a lifetime. It’s been 2 years since I’ve been momo-free.”

I filed this story under #extreme-way-of-combating-an-obsession and was reminded of it when I caught up with an old school friend (M) whom I was meeting after 30+ years.

Me: “So… any major changes in your life since we last met?”

M: “Hmm.. quite a lot actually but perhaps the most significant is that I’m now a vegetarian.”

Me: “Wow! How did that happen?”

M: “Well, you know chicken is something I’ve always loved. Not that I haven’t eaten other types of meat but it’s just that chicken has had an outsized presence on my dinner plate. And then one day, I looked at the chicken on my plate and decided that I had had enough chicken in my life. No more chicken. No more meat. No more fish. I turned vegetarian that day and have remained so.

Me: (always eager about people’s trigger points to turn vegetarian) “You mean to say there was no particular trigger point or epiphany to your decision?”

M: “I’m afraid so. Now that I’m a vegetarian I’m happy of course but I can’t pinpoint any one thing for that decision.”

Two different people. Two different diet change decisions. While both stories are interesting, the former begs the question “Has the overdose technique worked for anything/anyone else?”

If you found the above interesting, you might want to check other posts in the Food category.

Closing note: The Momo King presents some interesting facts about momos including how they came to India.

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“Sometimes I used to assume a rajasic mood in order to practice renunciation. Once I had the desire to put on a gold-embroidered robe, wear a ring on my finger, and smoke a hubble-bubble with a long pipe. Mathur Babu procured all these things for me. I wore the gold-embroidered robe and said to myself after a while. ‘Mind! This is what is called a gold-embroidered robe.’ Then I took it off and threw it away. I couldn’t stand the robe any more. Again I said to myself, ‘Mind! This is what is called a shawl, and this is a ring, and this, smoking a hubble-bubble with a long pipe.’ I threw those things away once for all, and the desire to enjoy them never arose in my mind again.”

For most mortals, giving up is hard especially when the desires are stronger. Which is why the wisdom of Dr. Fogg appeals to me. It’s hard to acquire new habits (or give up old ones) so a pragmatic way forward is to get into the habit of creating habits, ala tiny habits.

The post If only giving up desires was this easy appeared first on uLaaR.

But everyone can make a beginning. Things to do in the morning: 1) First, I remember that I’m going to die. This gives urgency to the way I will live that day. 2) Second, I spend 5 minutes in thanksgiving to Nature for being permitted to live, to have this chance to experience, to learn, and to achieve. And third, I resolve not to cheat my consciousness during the day. As long as I don’t cheat my consciousness nothing I do during the day can stain me; but if I do something wrong I know I am likely to end up like the boy whose guru swallowed the fish and then regurgitated them back up, alive.

And there is a practice which I follow every night before going to sleep. It is very simple, but it has helped me immensely and it can help anyone who uses it. It involves only three questions: Have I lived? Have I loved? Have I laughed?

Have I lived? Have I made the best use of the time provided me during that day to grow, to learn, to develop?

Have I loved? Have I reached out to everyone I met and made them aware of the love in my heart and eased their burdens of self-mistrust and self-doubt?

Have I laughed? Have I seen the humorous side of even the most painful incident?

If the answer to any of these questions is no, then it is a matter for remorse. One more day has passed and I am another day closer to my death, and I have not exerted myself to my fullest potential. This is enough to make me work harder the next day and try to make amends, before Mahakala comes and catches me unawares. It is this intense desperation to live life to the fullest which is the hallmark, the stamp, of a true Aghori.

I first heard about the Aghoris from Mihir (circa 2010), the eerie fascination lay dormant until April 2016 (when I finally bought, what is arguably, a most compelling tale of the life of an Aghor). It would take me ~ 4 more years before I finally picked it up and, in fits and bursts, finally read it in Feb 2020. The front and back covers aren’t for the faint of heart and #NSFW.

The Wikipedia page on Aghor Yoga is informative and, compared to the content of the Svoboda book, is quite sanitized. A partial extract from Wikipedia page below:

The word Aghor literally means “that which is not difficult or terrible”. Aghor is a simple and natural state of consciousness, in which there is no experience of fear, hatred, disgust or discrimination. According to Aghor Yoga, any time that humans experience a state of discrimination, we limit our wholeness and fall prey to disruptive emotions such as anger, fear, jealousy, greed, and lust.

You need to add a widget, row, or prebuilt layout before you’ll see anything here.

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It was day #6 (of our 3-week trek from Uttarkashi to Yamunotri) and my first reminder that I was an asthmatic. I rummaged through my rucksack, found the inhaler and ran along with the messenger.

Ten minutes and a few puffs later, R’s breathing came back to normal and everybody heaved sighs of relief.

******

Our seniors had scared us plenty about the rigors of Tata Steel’s 3-week trek (aka Character building course) which was mandatory for all trainees. The paranoia levels were high enough that most of the batch were seriously following a “get in shape” regimen months before D-day. My lungs had spent a lifetime playing “defense” so I needed to put in more than a pedestrian training volume to raise my game.

******

It was as though the crystals of green kryptonite (lurking in my innards) were able to foil my attempts to become superhuman in the plains. But those very same crystals were neutralized by the crisp and pure mountain air! I could think of no other explanation why I felt so normal (athletically speaking). Of course it helped that the legendary Ms. Bachendri Pal (of Tata Steel Adventure Foundation) was leading our expedition, ably supported by Mr. RS Pal (her illustrious brother) and seasoned Everest campaigner Magan Bissa. If this was not inspiring enough, we also had a 5 year old (son of Everest summiteer Ang Dorji) perpetually in the lead pack with an effortless hurried gait that confounded us greatly in the initial days.

Another noteworthy episode (in the second week) went a bit like this. My pal Uttam and I had gone slightly ahead (‘strayed’ from our groups is more like it) and came upon a downhill stretch – not a treacherous incline but certainly not a bunny slope. We cast one look behind, exchanged a quick look and tore down the slope. Several intense minutes later and after negotiating some skids we reached the base panting like dogs at the head of a hunting pack. Don’t recall who won the race — not that it mattered (then or now).

Our final camping stop was in the town of Hanuman Chatti. The final leg (to Yamunotri) was really interesting because we we’d do it without our rucksacks. My recollection was that the one-way distance was 20km but per Google it’s more like 11km. After 3 weeks of trekking with a loaded rucksack, its absence made every one of us superhuman. It didn’t matter that the trail to Yamunotri was up and the return was down — we raced like pro athletes. The fun interlude at the top of the hill was soaking ourselves in a super hot thermal pond.

After we descended to Rishikesh, there would be a final memorable high. I chronicled the 5k race 5 years ago – when finishing fourth became a game changer.

Two years after I’d become a barefoot runner, I wrote a gift that keeps on giving – a paean to a recent Nandi Hills run. That was when I first realized how pivotal those 3 weeks in the Himalayas were for me. I wrote that (in  third person),

“In Uttarakashi lies the answer. That’s where he felt (almost) invincible for the first time in his life. He was trying to reproduce some of that magic today. As all of you are widely attesting to, he WAS feeling strong – he just wanted to attack the slopes with the same vigor a second time.”

Happiness is only real when it’s shared

Of late, I’ve come to the realization that I don’t write posts. The posts tell me when it’s time for them to be written. Two nights ago, I read The tragic allure of Alaska’s Into the Wild bus. Immortalized by Jon Krakauer, Chris McLandless is the modern day (tragic yet inspiring) embodiment of the allure of the great outdoors.

I shared the story on Whatsapp –>  a friend shared back the soundtrack of the airlifting video –> which reminded me of Animal Collective’s Banshee Beat – background score in this climbing video Grand Teton by Anton Krupicka and Kilian Jornet (ascent in 2:05, descent in 1:18). As I was doing the dishes Friday night, I listened to it on loop. Then again on Saturday morning after I returned from a breezily satisfying 15k run. Then again Saturday night dishwashing time.

There are so many layers of awesomeness in the 8-min video that the trail runner, hiker and climber in you will be able to unpack. For me personally, I finally understood why those 3 weeks in the Himalayas were so pivotal to me.

Closing note: Our fearless guide Magan Bissa suffered an accident in 2009  which nearly took his life (our Tata Steel batch responded to the crowdfunding campaign). In this 2013 article, we learn that he survived, is still climbing and still harbors a dream to summit. In his own words,

“It’s been an obsession with me since 1978,” he said. “My intestines are damaged now but I’m hoping that there will be some technology that can aid me.”

“You see, Everest is my Olympics and I still have to get the medal.”

The post The asthmatic who went up a hill but came down a mountain appeared first on uLaaR.

So the prescription is pretty simple folks. Start with that tiny rock and work your way up to that large boulder. Sure – you’ll not yell “I’M A SUPERMAN” on day#1 but once the streak gets to 100 or even 200 days (and maybe you’ve reached a mid-size boulder), you’ll feel it. All the best!

The post Tiny Habits, as explained by Goscinny & Uderzo appeared first on uLaaR.

David, a super affable chap and India lover based in New Delhi, continued to produce his trademark high-quality documentaries. We met one more time in Bangalore and stayed in touch on digital channels.

This is possibly the first time a documentary from David does not involve him being the cameraman. His superb editing skills are on display however. Give it a dekko.

The post Lockdownland – a documentary by BBC’s David Reid appeared first on uLaaR.

D: Has God a form?

M: Who says so?

D: Well, if God has no form is it proper to worship idols?

M: Leave God alone because He is unknown. What about you? Have you a form?

D: Yes. I am this and so and so.

M: So then, you are a man with limbs, about three and half cubits high, with beard, etc. Is it so?

D: Certainly.

M: Then do you find yourself so in deep sleep?

D: After waking I perceive that I was asleep. Therefore by inference I remained thus i deep sleep also.

M: If you are the body why do they bury the corpse after death? The body must refuse to be buried.

D: No, I am the subtle jiva within the gross body.

M: So you see that you are really formless; but you are at present identifying yourself with the body. So long as you are formful why should you not worship the formless God as being formful?

The questioner was baffled and perplexed.

As I searched for a suitable image to add to this post, I found this forceful defense of form worship by Amrit Hallan.

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My thoughts went back to 1959 we were in 1st year of college PUC [11th grade for us modern era kids]. One girl named Subhadra had newly joined commerce stream. She came from Chittoor [the town in Andhra, not Rajasthan]. Her father was a lawyer. In Ooty, she was staying with her elder sister and brother-in-law. He was working in the governor’s  palace, maybe as administration staff. She was an Iyengar girl but spoke Telugu very well. She became friendly with Prema [my mother’s best friend] and me. One afternoon she took all of us to her sister’s house for lunch. Governor’s Palace was situated far inside the Botanical Gardens;  staff quarters were nearby. After meeting her sister she took us around the governor’s place [now called Raj Bhavan]. Her brother-in-law showed us all the rooms and the grand ballroom! It was a great experience. The governor would stay here every summer. Flag hoisting used to take place every morning with military band during his stay.

She was in our college only for one year. We walked into class one day and saw “Subhadra is a horse” written on the black board.  She cried like anything. She said she would bring her brother-in-law to college, etc. She went to the principal to complain. All of us went with her as support. After hearing her out patiently, he didn’t say anything but we could notice a small smile. So that was the flash back.

[Closing note: It was a co-ed college so it was obviously a specimen of the male species who perpetrated this dastardly act. I asked my mother if her features were remotely equine and her reply “Not really.. but she was a tall girl”.

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