Transcending Pain — from Mumbai to Gaza-OPINION (LIFE)- Shivani Mohan / Khaleej Times 21 January 2009

After a long time I ushered this New Year not by dancing the night away but propped up in bed with my right leg in a plaster cast.

Even if I hadn’t fractured my knee in an unfortunate parasailing accident, there was hardly anything left to celebrate about the year gone by. So while every year the dilemma I face before such parties is to decide between the swarovski-studded-brown-suede-boots-that-kill or the comfy-but-definitely-boring-black-pumps, this year I packed away both and was forced to have deeper thoughts occupying me. Things we normally don’t get time to think about while we go about the business of living.

It is amazing how pain and the entire process of healing can help you appreciate what you have but never noticed.

As I lay flipping TV channels I realised that although my pain was purely physical, pain is omnipresent in the world. So many people are in pain, seething with pain and blind with pain. India is still healing from the pain of Mumbai. Gaza is throwing up horror stories of pain and peril everyday.

The unfortunate fact about these times is that the pain felt in Mumbai leaves many cold in Islamabad and vice versa. The pain felt in Gaza is getting stilted, stoic responses from the powers that be in the UN and US. It is almost as if we choose to feel and acknowledge a certain pain, raising immense hue and cry about it and at the same time choose to justify some one else’s pain as destiny or the way the world works. Pain today has a colour, caste, creed and religion. This process of selective sensibility to pain is leading the whole world into dangerous times. As I battled with my pain popping one painkiller after the other, I reached a stage where my leg was numb. But pain is essential to healing. When a part of the body hurts, it is due to the release of prostaglandins in the blood stream. These prostaglandins apart from triggering pain act as the danger signals to the brain to initiate the process of healing.

By taking painkillers we simply suppress these prostaglandins and therefore the healing process. So hopefully through pain shall emerge means of facing and alleviating it.

While I tried to distract myself from pain, I rediscovered many forgotten pleasures. With this plaster around my leg, after ages I have had the pleasure of lying back and reading books from cover to cover, watching movies on TV while prostate on a couch, dosing off in the warmth of a golden winter sun and watching a scurrying squirrel climb up a tree-something working mothers (read superwomen) rarely get to do in the daily quagmire of urban lives.

While the much-awaited ‘Ghajini’ left me flinching at its graphic scenes of violence, one movie I really enjoyed was the 2004 musical comedy ‘Shall We Dance’ in which a disoriented, middle-aged Richard Gere escapes the painful drudgery of his picture-perfect life by joining a dance class.

As he ends up home late every night, his wife predictably suspects an affair and hires detectives to spy on him. There is this undercurrent of attraction between him and Jennifer Lopez, an instructor at that school but nothing really happens. The movie aptly conveys how sometimes just the presence of a new person in the most platonic of ways or introduction of a new activity can give so much happiness. When finally confronted by his innocent enough getaway, his wife is angry as to why he didn’t tell her about his dance class, he replies, “Because I was ashamed of wanting to be happier, after all we have.”

I remembered the many times in my life that I joined a dance class and withdrew within a few days as I felt it was too frivolous an indulgence. As a student I felt that idle hours spent pirouetting would take away from the seriousness of pursuit expected of me.

As a newly-wed bride, with my husband serving in Kashmir, I felt ashamed of wanting to dance while he faced life and death situations everyday in the valley. Then once we enrolled as a couple only to see his boss join the same class! The idea of spending the office after hours in mirth and abandon with the boss watching-that was sure to make his boss assign some extra tasks to him — made us withdraw from the class yet again. So I never went beyond the preliminary steps and stance lesson. However, in parties I continued to dance with a strange mix of Bollywood-meets-bhangra, something that needs neither technique nor finesse.

This New Year has come with its own set of woes and pain. The Satyam scam haunts Corporate India. The oil sector, truckers and Delhi lawyers have already been on a strike. People all over the country are facing days without essential commodities, petrol and paychecks. There seems no getting away from the pain of living.

But the relief to pain can come from the strangest of quarters. Two days after my accident, my story on India-Pak relations was run in this newspaper.

I was flooded by hundreds of letters from numerous Pakistanis extending great love and desire for better relations between the two countries. They invited me to visit my ancestral place in Pakistan promising to take care of me there, come what may! To say the least I was overwhelmed by the milk of human kindness flowing on both sides of the border, as opposed to the ugly rhetoric showcased on TV channels. And one particularly painful day as I sat crying holding my hurt leg, my five years old surmised, “Ma, why are you crying? You have a plaster on just one leg. At least your other leg is not hurting.” Trust children with their fuzzy logic to let you know that the glass is indeed half full. So I avoid the TV News and watch every dance show around these days. Not being able to move a leg has had me hooked to the vicarious pleasure of watching people accomplish impossible calisthenics.

I eagerly await the day my plaster comes off. Some day I may take up the offer to visit Pakistan and see my ancestral place. But surely in the near future, I will join a dance class a la Richard Gere and dance my heart away, swaying and swirling to enthralling music. In times like these, no-one should be ashamed anymore of wanting to be happier.

Shivani Mohan is an India-based
writer. She can be reached at
smshivanimohan@gmail.com

Meeting a Doll Called Yasmeen in Dubai -OPINION- Shivani Mohan / Khaleej Times 18 December 2008

On my recent trip to Dubai, one of the various knickknacks I picked up shopping there was a doll for my daughter, Gaurika. This doll caught my eye amongst the many fancy toys lined up at Magrudys in BurJuman, each brighter than the other. It was almost as if the doll screamed for attention. It had a strong presence of its own amongst rows and rows of waif-thin Barbies and Barbie look-alikes.

Her big, long brown eyes reminded me strangely of Gaurika’s eyes in a strange city, thousands of miles away from home. The doll’s eyes pulled me to her side instantly.

Then I noticed her name, Yasmeen. Yasmeen had a thick mane of lustrous brown hair that could be coloured in many shades. Knowing what a fashion queen Gaurika is already at five, I felt it would be the perfect little gift for her. I liked the fact that Yasmeen had a normal, regular woman’s body. A chubby face, wholesome but intensely attractive. She had rounded contours, a warm dusky complexion, a cute round belly, full hips and legs shaped like the hundreds of women I meet everyday. Women who bear children, cook meals and feed families. Women who skip gym if something more urgent and important come up. I could see Yasmeen was her own person. She didn’t have to conform to a warped Western notion of perfect beauty-blue eyes, porcelain skin, a cinched waist, and stick-like long legs. I am sure we have all received that mail about how if Barbie was a real woman, she would be a living freak, a myth, and an airbrushed fantasy. Good that Barbie is a doll. Anyway I decided Yasmeen had far more character than a Barbie clone. I bought it and soon I was dying to show it to Gaurika.

Gaurika loved the doll at first sight. She embraced it with a shy smile almost as if I had brought home a real younger brother or sister for her to play with. When I told Gaurika her name, she was a bit confused, having never heard an exotic sounding name like Yasmeen. When she questioned me I told her that even though there are no Yasmeens in Amritsar, there are many Yasmeens in some other parts of India and the world. And even though the name sounded alien to her, all Yasmeens of the world were not much different from us. They all wanted to be admired and loved for what they are. They all wanted to revel in their unique beauty, their distinct qualities and strengths. They all wanted to be allowed to pursue every dream they ever saw. At this point Gaurika asked, ‘Ma, can Yasmeen be my little sister?’ And I said, ‘Sure, why not?’

I told her that many Yasmeens have to be covered in black burqas as this was the done thing. Gaurika wanted to know if they were all hidden from head to toe in a black outfit, how would we tell one from the other and know how beautiful they were, in their own way. Anyway Gaurika and I decided that Yasmeen could wear the burqa if she so pleased but she should at least have a say in the matter. This Yasmeen, for instance, wore cool blue denims that celebrated her Asian figure and a white and gold tube top. We felt that if Yasmeen ever felt uncomfortable, she could just throw a wrap or shawl over her bare shoulders as and when she wanted. In winters we plan to knit a little sweater for her that’ll shield her body from cold wind. But it is Yasmeen who will decide what she wants to wear and when.

I want Gaurika to be as proud of herself, her lineage and her originality as Yasmeen is. I want her to celebrate her existence as a woman in as many ways as she can. I also want Gaurika to grow up and learn to befriend every Yasmeen she meets without any boundaries, any prejudices or fears.

I want Yasmeen and Gaurika to be friends, confidantes and sisters in moments of bliss and pain. I do not want dolls like Yasmeen to get trampled in a police encounter in the hidden allies of a Jamia Nagar in Delhi. And I don’t even want dolls like Yasmeen burnt to embers in a hotel in Islamabad...ever. I don’t know where to start but for now I’ll begin by teaching Gaurika how to love every Yasmeen she meets, wholeheartedly and fearlessly.

Shivani Mohan is an India-based writer

Which Way to Go for Spirituality? (ISSUES)- Shivani Mohan/Khaleej Times 14 December 2008

As I typed away at the keyboard, I suddenly realised it was 12.30pm. Time to pick up my daughter from school. While media reports may make it seem that the whole of India is one big burning Mumbai, life fortunately has gone on at its normal pace in many other smaller cities in India.

My daughter’s school is just a block away and was selected for, besides other things, the advantage of just making it there in five minutes. But that day I was met half way with a huge motorcade in gaudy colours comprising of men, women and children distributing pamphlets, with songs blaring from loudspeakers, stopping traffic and creating chaos. As I muttered under my breath, trying to find some way through the fracas,

I was told by some considerate members of this melee that it would be better if I reversed my car and tried some other route. They even volunteered to help steer my car back while some of them signalled the full-fledged Indian wedding style band accompanying them to lower the trumpets while I struggled with the car. When I tried reasoning that why couldn’t I just wiggle my way through one little corner of the road, they informed me that they had taken over the entire public road and the procession went on for almost half a mile.

Fuming and panting, I reversed the car and took a long trip around the block to reach the school from another direction. And lo and behold, I met the rear end of the half-mile long procession. I reversed again and tried to out smart the serpentine parade. I spent the next half an hour doing so till I reached the school where my five-year-old sat next to her teacher with a longing look in her eyes. Most parents had been delayed in a similar fashion. This motorcade was yet another of those shobha yatras or grand processions that are becoming a common ostentatious occurrence in India. I live in a city called Chandigarh, which enjoys the dual honour of being the city with the highest per capita income in the country and one of the highest literacy rates. So the question arises that what are these seemingly well-to-do, well heeled and well educated people, doing taking out such processions in the middle of a working day, not to mention in the middle of a global financial crisis and the aftermath of a major national tragedy? Don’t they have places to go to, things to do, and deadlines to meet?

Many of these were young people who should have been in educational institutions or workplaces doing something meaningful. Let me clarify that I am not an atheist. I am a devout Hindu who observes most norms and festivals laid down by my religion. I visit temples for sanctity and peace. I even have a small temple in my house where incense is lit every day. I am a bit averse to extreme ritualism but yes, if following a tradition makes some elder in my family happy, I observe it.

What gets my goat quite often these days is the way in which my religion is being projected and popularised. While Islam today is in the eye of a storm for obvious reasons, it saddens me that there is a palpable resurgence of ostentatious expressions of Hinduism. There are half a dozen sadhus and sadhvis who hog headlines on national channels not for anything spiritual but a multitude of nefarious activities. They don saffron garbs but flit around in the best of luxury hotels, have superstar disciples and the world at their beck and call. Saffron was once supposed to be synonymous with renunciation and sacrifice. Today it is the colour of religious power and political nexus.

Yogis, babas and gurus are revoking a number of spurious superstitious practices. There are so called Vaastu, tarot, numerology and jyotish experts who are minting money by helping people start ventures with names starting with K, supposedly an auspicious letter; break and rebuild their houses according to some ancient dogmas; say no to perfectly eligible marriage proposals and yes to some others based on the compatibility of stars and not the personalities of the two people involved; and cure obscure diseases that actually need medical or psychological help.

It is surprising that it is not just uneducated people who are taken in by all of this but well-known film stars, industrialists and politicians. Spirituality in India today is a multi-million dollar industry. It is this commercialisation of religion and spirituality which is doing disservice to religion more than anything. Uncle Raghav, a favourite uncle of mine has for decades lived the jet setting lifestyle in Europe. He has owned the best of luxury cars, flown to Paris because he suddenly felt like shopping, had races on autobahns on fancy bikes that cost more than most cars in India. Two divorces and many ailments later, he was with us last year seeking peace and sanyaasa.

Sanyaasa according to age-old Hindu belief is the final stage of life when men are supposed to turn celibate and dedicate their lives to spiritual pursuits. When we arranged for him to visit a world–renowned religious sect, which has hundreds of branches in India and abroad, he was told that to attain sanyaas, he would have to forgo non-vegetarian and alcoholic drinks for a year. He was made to sit in a big silent chamber and asked to meditate for the better part of the day. After about three hours of doing this, feeling very calm and pious, when he asked the authorities if he could now meet the spiritual head of the organisation, they said “Oh! Baba ji is inMiami!”

Uncle Raghav was a bit stumped to hear this, wondering why he was meditating in a room in the back of beyond when babaji was feasting at some beach resort in Miami. Uncle Raghav decided to let go of his fancy ideas. He informed the person attending to him that he will try and meet babaji the next time he was in India. The attendant’s demeanor changed and he said, “ Oh! You are an NRI? Sir, you can take sanyaas tomorrow if you want. Just pay up $…… !” Uncle Raghav was back with us the next day enjoying his stiff Scotch and chicken tikkas! Millions of people come to India every year from all over the world seeking a sublime experience. They visit the ghats of Varanasi, they haunt the crowds in Pushkar, they visit temples, shrines and mosques, they seek private interviews with the many gurus and swamis of India. But does one really need to go to the other end of the world to find himself? Or to discover a dialogue with divinity?

One reason for this spirituality renaissance could be the mounting unrest in modern living. It is mostly in times of crisis and pain that most people remember God. While maintaining a personal dialogue with God would be a desirable thing, is there a need for a mediator or go-between to establish that sublime relationship?

It is the intelligentsia today in India that can show the way by not participating in any such form of religion that defeats logic. The educated masses should not get taken in by deviant forms of religion put forth by agencies that have their own ulterior motives — be it breeding blind superstition or violent manifestations of religion. These distorted definitions of spirituality and religion need to be nipped in the bud. Spirituality to me is a person’s private communion with God. Spirituality above all, is to live and let live.

Shivani Mohan is an India-based writer