Need a smiley to express condolence

Shobha De's observation about the demise of Bollywood's grand old man [even funerals are turned into events these days] is, sadly, true.

The turnout at HK Hangal's funeral was dismal. Also traffic flowed smoothly and media lacked frenzy as show-stoppers chose to stay away.

My family, too, had a funeral in India, the same day. Not to mention it was neither an event nor an affair. Just a family mourning together for a matriarch who breathed her last.

As a grandchild, I thought it was my duty to inform folks of my generation as well as a few selected friends who are scattered around the world.

Even as my act of posting the info was strictly without expectations, I could not resist but ponder over one message from one of my friends. The words got the better of me. "I don't know your grandmother. But my condolences."

The very act of the person replying thus reflected the futility of the exercise. Showed how meaningless the words were. Crude and pathetic!

You condole with the affected, not the deceased!

Such ignorant mortals better stick to emoticons! The ones with shades on would be apt so as to hide the true emotions.

Condolences and wishes need to be heartfelt. But when lol!s are used to imply anything from wisecracks to inventions and parentheses-cum-colon combinations convey a myriad emotions, little wonder knowledge of appropriate words are wanting.

The word, I guess, was coined to help people tackle the awkward position they inevitably find themselves in. Majority stammers and fumbles and search for words and gestures when faced with someone who has lost loved ones. "I'm sorry to hear..." is the most commonly used line. Condolence is its crisper cousin.

There are others who call upon the affected. While the effort they take is appreciated, some end up gossiping loudly enough to shed their mourning mask. It's simple logic: If you choose to take time out to pay your so-called respects to the departed soul then hold on for those few minutes and play that damn role modestly. Else, stay away and tweet or post a message.

The veteran Bollywood actor's death was also accompanied by a wave of tweets and messages that inundated the social media networks. But how many fingertips tapped obligation will always remain hidden because of the 'Me Too' syndrome. As media study Twitter traffic to gauge the significance of any untoward incident, movers and shakers ensure they make their presence felt.

But what about the ordinary class who seek to make their presence at someone's death but cannot do it right? A smiley will definitely rescue them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My tryst with painters

Into the world of colours I was heralded today. That's the reason why I'm writing this
at 11.30pm - way past my bed-time.

After meeting two painters -  my dear friend Archana and Sheena (whom I got
introduced to only a couple of hours earlier and have added on to my friends' list) my
inner palette is blushing in different hues.

I realised how little I knew of a divine art form. Today I learnt painting jargon (got
many more to comprehend) and understood that one need not start by copying
pictures to paint; that brushes are not the only tool used (how naive of me); why oil
on canvas is considered superior, among several other colourful facts?

The shades of ignorance in me began cloaking itself the moment I strolled into Blu's
(Archana's) venue... A whiff of serenity settled in. A calmness that tested my beliefs.
One that challenged the spirit.

I thought it was the ambience until I stood close to the canvases. From atop tall stands stood nature's untouched beauty and pink skies to the sluggish marshes, love peonies and the mysterious yellow river. There was even a flying horse. Each one spoke to me. In each one I saw a world unto itself.

That's when the bearded man bared his soul. Something in him tugged at me. And Blu
explained how he took life. That was coffee powder on canvas! Wow! If I was jolted
wild on learning coffee could be a medium, too, then I was awed at the minute details
my artist friend captured. I noticed a tiny little button on his shirt which I felt secured
inside his deep feelings of hurt, the reasons for his dishevelled crop of hair and
unkempt beard. From the contours of his jaws I heard him scream a thousand silent
words. I wondered what he ached to share...

Two-and-a-half hours later as I walked out of the venue, I couldn't help but look at
him once again - this time from a distance. And lo! my coffee man appeared to smile
at me.

I stand humbled beneath the magical canopy that painters create!

From there I went to meet Sheena whose portraits jumped with life. If Sheikh Zayed
exuded royalty, then the simple act of a mother applying henna on her grown-up
daughter's hair oozed maternal love. And the two kids whose naughtiness and
innocence sparkled through their eyes made me ask her questions to the techniques
she adopts.

It was in stark contrast to that of Blu's. And it had to be so, I soon realised because
Blu is a self-confessed non-conformist, and Sheena abides by guidelines. But the
difference ended there. For the simple reason that their arena encourages only free
spirits.

Only those who garner courage to tear themselves off from the mundane hooks, and
desperately wander in ether yearning to conceive concepts that they passionately nurture to full term until they relieve themselves on canvases, can be called painters.

Only they are artists!

PS: Archana's exhibition is on at Raddison Blu, Yas Island, Abu Dhabi, for another week. Don't miss an enriching experience.

The morning I was challenged

Date: August 1, 2012

Time: 8.00am

Location: Workplace

Scene: Morning greetings

Characters: The B and Me

B: How are you Nisha?

Me: I'm good B

B: Others should be saying that about you.

Me: How can others say? And how should it matter what others say.

B: That's an arrogant statement, Nisha!

B walked away and I continued with my editing.

But...the rest of that day I pondered on what made him assume I'm "arrogant".

Old habits die hard, I concluded. And that holds true to both of us or anyone on the surface of this 
planet.

Let me clarify my stand first.

People around me were used to me sulking, cribbing and complaining about pretty much anything during work hours (home front I’ll write about another time).

My replies to 'How are you' were always an 'OK', ‘Not Bad’, Pulling Along', and if I muttered “Fine” it was always akin to a yawn 'Faaine'!

So how could I blame the person - who is disciplined in asking me this question every single day before he sets about his scheduled tasks and is accustomed to hearing only lethargic, unenthusiastic and pessimistic replies - for reacting thus?

He was probably jolted awake upon hearing a crisp “Good” from a ‘donkey’ (Check out my earlier blog)

The next day at 8 am in the morning, I waited for B’s usual round. He ignored me. I wasn’t surprised. For two reasons – One: That’s his way of telling ‘offenders’ he is displeased with them. Two: One’s wellbeing does prick others.

The next two days happened to be my weekend.

The following morning, I was again asked. But this time the query was structured differently. Umm…the bruise had definitely not healed.

“Nishaaa, are you good today?”

“Great B,” I replied. 

“Are you sure?”, B asked.

I simply smiled.

Three days were sufficient for me to ruminate on my mentors’ words and cement my decision. Wanna change yourself for the better? Wanna have that enviable glow on your countenance? Wanna empower yourself and achieve your dreams? The first step is to feel good about yourself. No matter how sick you are; how ugly you look; or how behind on any coveted ladder you may be…the first step is to be grateful for being alive. And begin saying good things about yourself. What better way that replying you are fantastic and great when asked “How are you?’

Once you repeatedly say you are good, you inevitably begin feeling it, and then it becomes easier to approve of yourself and start loving the self. Once you start loving yourself, it is only natural you will begin working on your flaws and weaknesses and then your dreams will no longer remain that. They become your aims and soon a reality.

So friends, I was challenged on my first step. I remember reading my favourite writer’s words - when you decide to change it is only natural for people close to you to pull you down because they fear to leave their comfort zone. Fret not. Carry on. Those prepared to accompany you will come along. Others can always join you in their own time and space.

Haven’t we heard statements such as “Oh! after he got that promotion, he doesn’t like our company anymore.” “After his business took off (add anything you want here) he started ignoring us.  Or “After her European tour, she thinks we are low class”. Or like I was told, “You wrote one book and you think you know it all. Don’t get cocky!”

Those who are determined to empower themselves will soon find nothing in common with naggers and negators. Period. They’ll move on and find new friends on their way – those who exude the same vibes, understand them and share their dreams.

The man who connected with me

I screamed, yelled, ran round, sipped from a bottle and choked. Was I frightened?

Excitedly afraid that I was living one of my dreams.

Dreams come true at the least expected moments! And so when my mentor rang me up, I reacted like a maniac.

Geoff Thompson - Bafta award winner and author of more than 40 books - was the first person to read my book.

I had wanted it no other way!

That reminds me, how I was adamant that I 'EARN' my first salary. While I was interning with a financial magazine in 1995 and my first stipend of Rs1,000 was due, I yearned that I received 'MY Worth' first. I was determined to ENCASH MY WORDS first!

So the day I was to receive the stipend cheque, I delayed going to the workplace and waited for the postman to tinkle his cycle bell. And yes, he did arrive late-noon around 3pm with 'My self-earned' cheque - Rs50 from Akashvani Radio for reciting poems.

Years later, when I wrote my book. I was determined the person I admire the most be the first to read it.

I sent across a copy addressed to him, expecting an email response a few months later.

I had spoken to the UK-based Geoff Thompson innumerable times through his pages. Each time I read, chewed, digested and ruminated his each word.

Every night before I hit the bed I read a couple of his lines [the book case on my bedside table has a permanent place for one his works]. Such obsession will see my desire to pass. I had no inkling of a doubt.

So on the afternoon of April 2, when my mobile rang and I droopily said 'hello' into it and heard a Brit-accent ask 'Is this Neeeshuh?', I already knew who it was.

'Hi. I'm Geoff." And it was extreme euphoria that swelled to maniac proportions in a fraction of a second. I howled, screamed and gasped. His words of review... such as "honest", I choked. "Your profound insight into human emotions is very moving..." and tears pinched my eyes. "Every page was a feast..." and I felt humbled. "It made me cry twice..." he said and I couldn't stop my tears.

I've distributed more than 50 copies of the book to my acquaintances over the last five months, and I received a few reviews.

Mention of the protagonist's relationships with her family was termed frivolous by one reader. Another said she identifies with Anamica's plight; yet a few said typical characters. A few took instances mentioned to heart, while a couple of others said it is verse-heavy. Some said well-written without explaining why they think so. A few could not understand (that's something I'm yet to crack). One of them, who claimed to have read half-way through - advised me to write simple language.

While I accept every word of feedback with gratitude, it hurts to say just one person got to the crux. Only Geoff Thompson got it bang on. Emotions it is. Human emotions. How you control it determines how you shape your destiny. How you weigh it determines how you identify your purpose in life. In other words let not anything stand in your heart's way. Only that will lead you to joy!

It's all about connections, I'm convinced.

An ode to my inspiration

He called and my eyes cried! 

Miles afar he lives, teaches and works

He sows words with intentions divine

And plants ideas unashamedly pure

Urges one and all with his stoic might

To get up and follow their hearts;

He called and my eyes cried!

Took me minutes long to calm my nerves

As I held the mobile tight until my palm sweat

Pressed it hard against my ears to hear him close

I tried in vain to quench the quiver in my voice

While he soothingly spoke at the other end;

He called and my eyes cried

Words of praise I heard in my ears

And each syllable of advice I hung to raptly

While I made attempts to behave mannerly

Then a casual-sounding query sapped my nerves

For that was proof he understood my words;

He called and my eyes cried!

I had yearned to speak to him, to meet him once

The innumerable times I devoured his works

And when I send across my first book to him

I prayed he finds time to take a look

I was sure he would write to me

But

He called.

And my eyes cried!

It is MY birthday!

So what do you do when you are tossed a knife and told 'hack it'. Well, I played the hacker to perfection because the scene was purportedly staged in my honour. This after I had pleaded not to be ordered to the front line.

Indeed, it was a battle for me. It consumed some decent nerves to subside that ugly feeling that brewed up within. And a dozen more to hold that 'gratitude' smile measuredly on my lips until the antiphony (ostentatiously termed ceremony) was over.

My workplace mates 'celebrated' my birthday! An event that was adhoc, succinct and formally informal.

A five-minute break was announced. People ushered into the conference room, box of cake opened, plates placed and my name called. I made a cut. Did I hear a birthday song amid the cacophony of bitly exchanges of gossipy juices? Allow me to give colleagues the benefit of doubt. Heads counted, pieces sliced and passed around. As they got, so they turned back akin to dolphins after an act.

Did anyone wish the birthday girl? I was holding the knife so how could anyone have shaken my hand? I am responsible.

"You took the date off Facebook!" "You never told you were next." Accusations followed as I made my way to the desk.

"Last week's cake was real wow, man!" "Yeah, I loved that." "This is fresh." "Any one for this piece of orange"... I overheard as I made an attempt to etch the event so I could recall it to my two loved ones back home in the evening.

One of them tagged the pictures taken on my Facebook, and that served a reminder for my 'friends'. Within minutes 'Likes' were clicked and 'Wishes' poured beneath my face.

The following day, other late-wakers followed... "a day late...happy birthday...even if u keep quiet u can't hide the fact that u r getting old:-) [I learnt another socially-accepted girly reason to explain why I don't like announcing my birth date]

"Hey, it's your birthday. Many happy returns", wrote another. A couple even called. "Just saw on FB, so how was your day?"

Two days later, another friend wrote, "Oops missed your birthday. but I guess its never late to wish, so belated happy birthday." Would he have remembered the date had my picture with a cake beneath my nose not popped up on his page?

So I stopped myself short of following Facebook protocol. I did not acknowledge 'friends' wishes.

Am I being rude? [http://on.fb.me/KxGZvK]

Well, this should help you decide. Every June 10th morning when I open my mailbox, I see my classmate turned dear friend Jyothi's birthday wishes. The last we saw each was in 1999. Long 13 years and not once has she missed wishing me!

When I say the day is strictly personal for me, it is my time to be spent with my loved ones, in a manner that pleases them and only them; It is one day that I love to reminiscence the wonderful people who care about me. Those who do not need to be reminded I exist on the surface of this earth. Those who couldn't care if they got a slice of cake without a fruit piece on it. Those who will include me in their prayers without me asking them to do so and who will skip a heartbeat if I didn't pick up their call on the third ring.

So even as I thank all those who took efforts in having the cake-cutting ceremony organised, I would not willingly endorse it - an HR populist measure!

Are you a Mallu, Malabari or Malayali?

It's all in the name! Haven't we heard this before? So also the rose line... Call a rose by any name  and...well, I cannot forgive myself if I were to drag the greatest bard into his, because my reference is to name-calling and not naming.

I was privy to a couple of instances of unpleasant name exchanges of late. And my first stop was at Google to ensure I'm updated on the latest definition of 'racism'.

One of my friends took serious offence on being called a Mallu. [For all those uninitiated, the pronoun refers to people from the South Indian state of Kerala].

Indians call their compatriots from Bihar, Biharis; those from Bengal, Bengalis; those from Tamil Nadu, Tamilians; from Gujarat, Gujjus, similarly Nagas, Telugus and so on... So why should Malayalis take offence to being called Mallus? And don't we hear bhiyyas and madrasis, too.

"We are Malayalis and not Mallus," came one stern correction.

Then why don't you take offence when called a Malabari - another common reference to a native of God's Own Country? I wondered aloud.

Probably because 'God's own subjects' seem to have silently accepted that pseudonym, I suggested, when I got no reply. To that, one of them told me rather miffed, "to how many will you explain the geography".

[Let me explain the geography bit...The exodus to Gulf countries from Kerala initially - way back in the 1980s - was from Malabar region of state. So they were called Malabaris and the name not only remained but over time anybody who speaks Malayalam is called a Malabari.]

But how should it matter? It does not imply the caller is superior in any which way. If at all, it only highlights their ignorance.

Name-calling is a form of racism, I was corrected. [Now you know why I first Googled]. The theoretical definition of 'racism' is the same in this hi-tech century as it was when first formulated.

If name-calling is racism, then what is not? Our behaviour, beliefs, opinion, actions and habits are conditioned to a certain extent by our surroundings and our upbringing. And, thereby, any word we utter, any action we initiate will be racist in nature in some bizarre context to at least a few, who consider it is unacceptable.

How about blondes, blokes or Pakis? Definitely 'racist' because they are culture-specific. And so every time you call a man by his nationality, you are a screaming racist. However, if you laugh it off, you are a sport. If you take offence, you are hurt. And if you didn't bother, it's just another name.

Just like kheer is termed pudding; idlis called rice cakes; rotis called breads; any South Asian dish a curry...so also for non-Keralites or non-Malabaris or non-Malayalees or a combo of any of these, residents of the state are just Mallus. Easy to pronounce, short to write and fun to taunt. But then, it's zimbly unbearable to some of us. Each syllabblle faals like a bombbu on ower eaers!