From & To Sathish #5 - Page 33

I wish all of you a Happy, safe and peaceful Diwali. All the best.

Vaanathai Pola 397

It is not every day that an Airport sees group of people from two different walks of line grace their atmosphere. Chennai would have surely felt pride if the situation had been different. But, then, any situation concerning terrorists and hijackers is different and dangerous.

The members of the Press who were already in buoyant spirits and charged up after having been told that all the passengers from the hijacked flight were safe and that the six terrorists had been arrested, now nearly hit the roofs when the door on the far side of the press conference room opened and in marched people, they were all familiar with.

Although the post of Deputy Prime Minister of the United Kingdom is just a symbolic one, Dominic Raab held two other important posts. One was the Secretary of State for Justice also referred to as the justice secretary, which means, secretary of state in the Government of the United Kingdom, with responsibility for the Ministry of Justice and who is second in the ministerial ranking, immediately after the Prime Minister. The other post, Mr Dominic Raab held was that of The Lord Chancellor, formally the Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain, which is the highest-ranking among the great officers of state in the United Kingdom, and which also nominally outranks the prime minister. The lord chancellor is appointed by the sovereign on the advice of the prime minister and the sovereign happens to be the current Monarch, Queen Elizabeth II.

But, the humble man that he was and a man who knew his place when in the company of the Royal Monarchy stepped aside and let the members belonging to the British elite pass first and greet the members of the press. Behind them came a few important dignitaries from the United Nations and together they all stood facing the members of the press.

Defence Minister Rajnath Singh gently nodded with his head and greeted all of them with a warm Namaste but his smile and eyes revealed his bewilderment at this sudden intrusion by the guests who only a short while earlier had been victims of a terrorist plot. It was a bit of a break from protocol but one which had been over-ridden by his own boss, Prime Minister Modi himself and there was little he or anyone could do about it.

Princess Anne with the title of Princess Royal is the second child and only daughter of Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh. She is 17th in the line of succession to the British throne and has been Princess Royal since 1987. Besides her stood her only son, Peter Mark Andrew Phillips the eldest grandchild of Queen Elizabeth II and who is 18th in the line of succession to the British throne. Along with them stood other lesser-known members of the Royal family and all of them glanced in unison at Princess Anne who stepped forward and whispered a greeting into the microphone.

' Good evening everyone. I must first apologize to India's Defence Minister for intruding into this meeting that he was conducting but I think he will not mind it too much for I and the rest of us are here only to thank him and his country for coming to our rescue.'

She paused and glanced at Defence Minister Rajnath Singh who came closer to her and everyone present there saw her eyes search for someone and then they watched as she was told something that made her nod her head in acceptance.

Returning to the microphone, ' I am not going to say anything further but for the mention of one name. It is the name of the gentleman who singlehandedly fought against six armed terrorists and took all of them down and by his bravery and courage that man, a real hero saved all our lives. I and the others are in his debt and it is a debt that can never be repaid. Ever.'

The trauma that she and the other passengers had experienced now took its toll on her and her eyes began to fill with tears that revealed both her fear and gratitude and she said in a soft voice, ' Sorry, but this hijacking ordeal is finally taking its toll on this old woman and it matters not that I am a member of the British Monarchy. For, in the end, I am just an ordinary mortal like the rest.'

Wiping her tears, she looked fiercely at all the members of the press. ' The man who saved us is called Raman. Mister Raman, I wish you were here so that we could all thank you personally for the bravery and courage that you displayed on the plane. I don't know if we will meet but I hope we do. Your parents must be proud of you. God bless you, sir and God bless your family.'

Then just like that she turned and left and everyone who had come along with her did the same, leaving the conference room drowning in absolute silence. It was a silence that lasted for a few moments and then all hell broke loose.

One man stood grinning and feeling like he was over the moon for what he had feared would not happen had just happened and through the unlikeliest of circumstances.

' Raman, it seems that even if you don't want the crown and its glory, they want you and desperately need you. What will you do now, you brave man?'

Vaanathai Pola 398

They were compulsive smokers and they had been smoking from their college days and it was too late in the day now for them to quit the habit even though they knew very well that it might one day take their lives. They had both tried several times to kick the habit but had lost and pathetically. So, they had come up with a plan, which was to smoke less, rather than not smoke at all and they did appear to have found some measure of success in the new method. Where once they went through a pack of twenties in a day, now they stopped with seven or eight. Well, something better than nothing.

Both happened to be senior cameramen and both had been in the field for more than thirty years and were considered as super seniors by their juniors although they had not yet crossed 50 years in age.. Milind was older than Shiva by a few months for he had come into the world in the month of February while Shiva had come out in July. Both of them had started their careers with Doordarshan or Boredarshan as they now called it and had later given up their comfy, central Govt jobs in search of variety and spice. Milind had been the first one to leave for he had then gone on to join the newly launched ZEE TV channel launched on October 2nd 1992 and a few months later, Shiva had joined up with Sun Tv network that came into being shortly after in April of 1993.

Their paths had crossed several times over the years and soon they became good friends and it was Shiva who helped Milind join CNN while he stayed put working for the BBC.

So, here they both were Cameramen for two of the leading networks and smoking and chatting while a press conference of significant importance was going on. They were enjoying their smoking and leisurely for they knew that their assistants were more than capable of handling the cameras in their absence. But, the main reason for them both being outside was that video coverage had been politely refused as it involved national security and also because the hijacking situation was still not under total control. But, all the Tv anchors and reporters had been promised a separate but brief video announcement by Defence Minister Rajnath Singh.

Both their phones pinged and blowing smoke, both reached for their phones and stared at the message that said, " Keep your eyes open for a tall, good looking man wearing a blood-stained shirt " and hearing a door open, looked up to see a tall, striking-looking man walk past them with dried bloodstains on his shirt.

They stood still and watched as the man walked quickly and then proceeded to do what people in the news reporting business do and that is poke, probe, photograph or record audio and video of the person of interest.

They saw the man climb into an ambulance and close the doors behind him and Milind turned to Shiva, ' Bro, this is your news. Go for it.'

Shiva looked at him, ' hey man, are you sure?'

' Yes, brother. I owe you big time for that election scoop a few months back and it is time for payback. Go for it.'

Shiva nodded and pointed to his mobile, ' call Mallika while I call Sowtik and find out what is going on and who this man is?'

They need not have bothered for both their phones pinged at the same time and although the messages read differently in their phones, the context was the same, ' the man with the blood-stained shirt could be this mysterious Raman who is supposed to be the hero behind the rescue of all the passengers from the hijacked plane. His name was mentioned by guess who, Princess Anne herself. If you spot him, stick with him and take as many photos as possible.'

It is a rare thing for two rival companies to work together but then Shiva and Milind considered their friendship more valuable than their companies.

Shiva looked at Milind, ' Bro, our cameras are inside the press room and we have just our mobile phones and I doubt very much if the quality will work out.'

Milind put his hand into the jacket that he was wearing and came out with a small Nikon digital camera and offered it to Shiva, ' will this do?'

Shiva smiled and together both slowly and cautiously approached the Ambulance into which they had just seen the man wearing the blood-stained shirt climb into.

The VIP visitors pass that hung around their necks seemed to imply to a few of the ambulance drivers that both the men were someone important and on official business and turning a blind eye to them soon ignored their presence.

Both Shiva and Milind stood casually near the ambulance and after taking a quick glance to check if anyone was approaching them, Shiva placing a foot on the metal bumper, raised himself and slowly peeped into the ambulance through the glass window and was shocked to see the man they were after sitting near a person who was obviously dead and holding his hand and crying like a small baby.

He looked down to Milind and said, ' Bro, sad situation man.'

Milind looked angrily at the cigarette that he had just lit up and frustratedly chucked it away and he too placing a foot on the bumper, hoisted himself up and looked into the ambulance and turning to Shiva, snarled angrily, ' You moron. Shoot now or I will punch the daylights out of you. Just shoot you sad f..k.'

Shiva who had never seen Milind this angry before did what he was told and then also shot the man inside the ambulance in HD video and slowly got down and looked at his friend of 30 years who sarcastically mimicked him ' Bro, sad situation man' and did a pretty good job of it and then raged angrily, ' Idiot, do you know what that kind of shot is called. It is called the " million-dollar pic " and you nearly hesitated and threw it away.'

Shiva casually shrugged his left shoulder and said, ' what's the big deal bro?'

Milind used his right-hand knuckles to rap his friends head and said, ' You will know pretty soon. That camera has a blue tooth facility. So transfer the pics to your mobile and send it to both Yogita and Sowtik's phones and see what they have to say about it.'

Shiva quickly downloaded the photos from the camera into his mobile and then sent them to his anchor's mobile phones.

Puneeth Rajkumar and the limits of fitness by Shoba Narayan, Hindustan Times, November 4, 2021

During this festival of lights, Shoba Narayan takes stock of the meaning and limits of fitness.

This Deepavali is a quiet and sombre one in Bangalore, not only because of Covid– it’s long shadow is finally fading– but because of the sad and untimely death of Kannada superstar, Puneeth Rajkumar at age 46.

“Look at these crowds,” said a hardened news reporter, filming the hundreds of thousands of weeping fans who had gathered. “To touch so many lives so deeply is something amazing.”

The death of a Bollywood actor does this– we know. But Puneeth Rajkumar seemed to wear his fame lighter than most. Perhaps it was being born as the son of Rajkumar, a legend and icon in Karnataka. Perhaps it was being the youngest son in a joint family of 30 people. Whatever the reason, the word that most people used to describe the “power star” is “humble.” You can see it in the movie clips that are currently playing on loop in Twitter. There is a lovely one made by Hombale Films in which fans are describing how they watch Puneeth’s films– first day first show for many. As they talk, Puneeth quietly walks up behind them and ad libs a phrase. “Will you give me a ticket to see the movie with you?” he mutters. The woman fan turns to find her matinee idol standing behind. He grins, she screams, they shake hands. You can see the delight in both parties.

Beyond the crowds, beyond the condolences from Prime Minister Modi, to Sadhguru to Sanjay Dutt to Virendra Sehwag to pretty much everyone in the Kannada film fraternity, one news item stood out: the fact that two fans died of heart attack when they heard about Puneeth’s death. Now, a fan can commit suicide, as some did when they heard of MGR’s death in Tamilnadu. But to die of a heart attack (of natural causes) requires you to be so linked to this actor emotionally that the grief of his passing is quite literally heart-breaking. That, if true, tells us that Puneeth Rajkumar had an emotional resonance with his fans that few can equal.

Part of the reason for the shock is of course that Puneeth died tragically young– he was just 46. Also the fact that he seemed really fit.

There is a fake message, ostensibly from Dr. Devi Shetty, another denizen of Karnataka that is making the rounds. It talks about people who are seemingly fit– like Puneeth was, who take exercising everyday to the extreme– Puneeth allegedly died after working out for two hours in his gym. The message ends with the cheery call for moderation. Eat what your ancestors did, and exercise in moderation, the message said. Fake though it is, the message resonated with many including me, partly because all of us have lost friends and family who are ridiculously young in this pandemic, and not just because of Covid. The truth is that I personally know four people who died young in the last year, all of them because of a heart attack.

When people die young, the public post-mortem includes their lifestyle. Puneeth was known to be a fitness fiend and suddenly, that is being called in question. A friend of mine cancelled a marathon because he is exactly Puneeth’s age (46) and his wife is freaked out by his “extreme fitness” as she calls it.

To me the message in Puneeth Rajkumar’s death is not about altering your lifestyle or your fitness routine. It isn’t even about moderation or being careful about what proteins or steroids or muscle relaxants you take. It is the limits of human intervention and being humble about what you can control.

People say that the only certain things are death and taxes. To that short list, I add pain. The one thing that lies in your future and mine is heartbreak. Some months ago, our family endured the loss of a young person– also of a heart attack. It was horrible, unfair and heartbreaking. We are still reconciling with this loss– just as Puneeth’s wife, Ashwini and his two daughters, Vanditha and Drithi will in the coming months and years.

It is easy to say that pain is and will always be part of the human condition. But living through it is hard because this pain will hit you when you are least expecting it. How then to make sense of it?

Well, our ancients tried to view pain as a pathway to the higher self. When the human ego is beaten, they said, the soul instantly recognizes this as an opportunity to shed what is no longer needed. When the heart is broken, the soul is released from its prior constellations. It begins the ancient process of dissolution, dismemberment, and new life. Rebirth. This is not a comfortable process. But it is a neccessary one.

Not all of us get to do it. Puneeth’s family will have to.

Shoba Narayan is an author, journalist and columnist. Besides writing, she is interested in nature, wine, gadgets and Sanskrit. Her lifelong mission is to get fit without exercising and lose weight without dieting.

வீட்டில் எண்ணூறு புத்தகங்கள் கொண்ட லைப்ரரி வைத்திருப்பதில் சந்தோஷமும் பெருமையும் இருக்கலாம். ஆனால் அதில் இருக்கும் சங்கடம் என்ன தெரியுமா?

வீட்டுக்கு வருகிறவர்கள், ‘அடாடா.. அற்புதம். அருமையான லைப்ரரி வச்சிருக்கியே’ என்று பாராட்டுவதோடு சும்மா இருந்து விட்டால் பரவாயில்லை. ‘ஆஹா ... The God is not Dead இருக்கா உன்கிட்டே! குடேன், படிச்சிட்டு அடுத்த தரம் வர்ரப்போ கொண்டு வரேன்’ என்பார்கள்.

அங்கேதான் சங்கடம் ஆரம்பம்.

புத்தகம் இரவல் தருகிறதில்லை என்று சொன்னால் சட்டென்று முகம் மாறிப் போகிறது வந்தவர்களுக்கு. அதற்கப்புறம் ஆறு மாதங்களுக்கு எங்கே பார்த்தாலும் முகத்தைத் தூக்கி வைத்துக் கொள்வார்கள்.

சிலர் ரொம்ப சாமர்த்தியமாய், ‘புத்தகம் விலை முன்னூத்தி அம்பது ரூபாய்தானே? இந்தா, இந்த நானூறு ரூபாயை வச்சிக்க, நான் திருப்பிக் குடுக்கிறப்போ குடு’ என்பார்கள்.

ஏன் இந்த முடிவுக்கு வந்தேன் என்பதற்கு ஒரு சம்பவம் சொல்கிறேன். சுஜாதாவின் ’மிஸ் தமித்தாயே நமஸ்காரம்’ புத்தகத்தை நண்பர் ஒருவர் நான் மறுக்க மறுக்க பிடிவாதமாய் வாங்கிக் கொண்டு போனார். அடுத்த வாரம் வர்ரப்போ திருப்பிக் கொடுத்துடறேன் என்றார். அப்புறம் அவர் என் வீட்டுக்கு வரும் போதெல்லாம் கொண்டுவர ஞாபகமாய் மறந்து போய்க் கொண்டு இருந்தார்.

ஒரு நாள் நான் அவர் வீட்டுக்குப் போயிருந்த போது அட்டைகள் கிழிந்து, ஆரம்பமும் இல்லாமல் முடிவும் இல்லாமல் இருந்த கந்தல் புஸ்தகம் ஒன்றிலிருந்து சர்ரக் என்று ஒரு பக்கத்தைக் கிழித்து சுருட்டி காது குடைய ஆரம்பித்தார் நண்பருடைய பெரியப்பா. எட்டிப் பார்த்தால், ‘ஊரே எங்கள் கட்டில் ஊர்வலத்தைப் பார்த்து ஸ்தம்பித்தது....’ அட ராமா! என் புஸ்தகம்தான்!!

அதிர்ந்து போய், ‘என்னடா இது இப்படிப் பண்ணி வச்சிருக்கீங்க?’ என்றேன்.

‘என்ன? புஸ்தகத்தை நீ படிச்சிட்டே இல்லே?’ என்கிறார் சர்வ அலட்சியமாய்.

படித்ததும் தூக்கிப் போட இது என்ன மாத நாவல்களில் வரும் ஒண்ணறையணா கிரைம் கதைகளா!

அன்றைக்கு முடிவு செய்தேன். ஷ்ரத்தா கபூரோ, வாணி போஜனோவானாலும் இரவல் கேட்டால் தருவதில்லை என்று!

Vaanathai Pola 399

The moment after the members of the British Royal family had left along with England's Deputy Prime Minister, every member of the press jumped up with their hands raised and waving them frantically to catch the attention of Defence Minister Rajnath Singh while several others did the next best thing and which was to google the name, " Raman" which had been mentioned by Princess Anne and with gratitude and immense respect.

I-phones, Tabs, Laptops were all put into use to search for information about the hero called Raman who had single-handedly rescued all the passengers from the hijacked plane. There is one virtue to which the entire human race will bend and bow to and that virtue is bravery. A brave man is a hero and a man who is celebrated all over the world.

But, this action of the man called Raman seemed to border on superhuman powers and yet it had taken place and had been declared to them, not by a passing stranger, a hearsay witness but an eye witness who had been there on the plane and who just so happened to be a princess and a member of the most elite family in the world.

Minister Rajnath Singh exhaled his stress through his breath and then silently raised both his hands and spoke in his chaste Hindi dialect and the translator next to him did what he was supposed to do, ' In light of what just happened, I need to discuss the situation with the experts before I go on to brief you more about the situation concerning the plane and the rescued passengers. So, lets take a small break and gather here in about 30 minutes. Thank you.'

At this exact moment, the photos and videos sent from outside by their cameramen, Milind and Shiva reached the mobile phones of Yogita Limaye and Soutik Biswas, BBC's foreign Correspondents and Mallika Kapur, CNN'S correspondent and both Yogita and Mallika jumped to their feet and rushed towards Rajnath Singh spotting them and the phones that they were frantically waving, nodded to the commandos who stood in a defensive circle around him to step aside and they did but their eyes and guns were trained on both the world famous anchors and watched their every movement as they approached the Minister.

Although Defence Minister Rajnath Singh's smile belied what he truly felt, the veteran politician was too tired and confused to worry about that and yet he gathered himself and enquired in a very polite voice how he could help both the ladies.

When you have been in the news business and that too reporting from a particular region continuously for a few years, one tends to develop a sense of familiarity and a friendship with the subjects that you have been reporting on.

Defence Minister Rajnath Singh knew both Yogita and Mallika very well and greeting them with a tired smile said, ' I am sorry but there are no exclusives today and you will have to wait like the rest.'

Yogita Limaye smiled, ' Minister ji, I know that and accept it but I need your answer before I go with the photo and report on it.'

The moment she said the word photo, CNN's regional anchor Mallika Kapur knew what exactly which photo her rival Yogita was talking about and the consummate actress she was she did what came to her spontaneously and deviously and stepped back saying, ' Minister sir, Yogita came first. So, finish up with her while I wait for my turn.'

Minister Rajnath Singh totally unaware of what was about to unfold, smiled cheerfully and said, ' My day would be much better if everyone from your field were as courteous and polite like you ladies.'

Mallika stepped back and turned on her video camera and waited for BBC's Yogita Limaye to ask the question and she did.

' Minister sir, Princess Anne mentioned the name of the gentleman who saved all of them from the hijacking as Raman' and raising her phone, showed the pic of a man inside an ambulance, asked, ' Is this him? Is this Raman who saved all those passengers?'

India's Defence Minister Rajnath Singh joined the RSS( Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh) at the age of 13 and at the age of just 21 became a general secretary of the Sangh's Mirzapur branch and two years later joined national politics. In his nearly 50 year career in politics, Shri Rajnath Singh had served as a Cabinet Minister several times and also as the Chief Minister of Uttar Pradesh and yet.

A veteran politician and yet he froze seeing the photo of Raman holding V.K.Singh's hand and crying and all he could muster up was a look of shock and surprise and this was enough for Mallika who slowly stepped away from them both and called her boss.

Meredith Artley, editor in chief of CNN.com answered on the second ring, ' Mallika, I guess this is about the hijacking.'

' Yes, boss and I think we can lead right now although BBC might not be too far behind.'

' Okay. Details please.'

Quickly, Mallika Kapur explained what had happened and Meredith staying silent for a few precious moments, said, ' I have but one question and which is.....'

' Boss, I know what the question is and my answer is, 100 per cent and I will stake my career on it.'

' Okay. Send me everything right away and we will go with it.'

Mallika Kapur sent the photos and videos to her CNN headquarters and their nearly super computers crunched through the internet and soon came up with more news about Raman.

In today's world, there is only one way to live totally incognito and no, it is not by being invisible but by cutting yourself from everything that passes for Technology and importantly by staying away from Social Platforms.

https://youtu.be/-bZD7os3ZG0

Raising middle class kids

I Wanted to Raise My Kids Middle Class.

The Problem Was We Weren’t Middle Class Anymore

By Shoba Narayan, Wealth Simple (Canada), October 27, 2021

Like many high-achieving immigrants, the writer Shoba Narayan wrestled with a thorny question after she struck it big in North America: Can you pass on your working-class values to your children even if they’re not, well, working class?

Can I pass my middle-class values to my children without them, you know, actually living middle-class lives?

My aunt lived in a tiny yet clean home in the village of Painganadu, in Tamil Nadu, India. After traveling some 8,400 miles from our apartment in New York City, my husband, two daughters, and I arrived outside, via a black Ambassador taxi, jetlagged and sleepless. My husband, Ram, and I both grew up in middle-class Indian families, and had arranged the trip to help connect our two American-born girls to that nebulous thing called heritage. We planned to conduct Hindu rituals at a temple, just as Ram and I had as newlyweds, and pray for our family’s continued well-being. Crucially, we also planned to stay with relatives. Which suited Ram and me fine. We had come to America as broke college students on scholarship, lugging a sole suitcase each, and gone on to have good careers. Still, at our core, we considered ourselves middle class. Turns out, our two American-born daughters very much did not.

On the ride to my aunt’s, my daughters, ages seven and three at the time (this all happened about 20 years ago), had stared in fascination, and perhaps with some unease, at the stray dogs and water buffalos wandering the dusty streets. When my aunt welcomed us inside, my seven-year-old took one look at the “Indian toilet” dug into the ground and clearly thought nope! “Why can’t we stay at a hotel?” she whispered, turning to me. Shhh, I hissed. Thanks to a divine act of mercy, my aunt didn’t hear the comment. Still, I was mortified, bulldozed by the feeling that I was raising if not brats then something certainly in the neighbourhood. Are our girls growing up in some sort of la-la land? I asked Ram later. The answer seemed to be yes.

Of course, Ram and I hadn’t intentionally raised two hyper-privileged daughters. But we weren’t exactly without fault. After graduating from college and marrying, we landed in New York City — Wall Street for him; journalism for me — and began climbing the ladder of prosperity, the very thing that drew us to North America. My grandmother was a child bride at age 12. My mother didn’t finish college; she had to get married. My father, an English professor, worked and saved for 20 years — 20! — before he could afford a car, a green Fiat. I not only wanted one car, I wanted two, and I didn’t have two decades’ worth of patience. I had come to America in pursuit of the classic immigrant rags-to-riches story, and I was living it. I studied art at Mount Holyoke College, then journalism at Columbia, becoming the first woman in my family to receive a higher education. I launched a successful freelance career. I won fancy awards and fellowships.

By the time I had my second daughter, two months after 9/11, Ram and I were fully ensconced in upper-class NYC life. We bought a three-bedroom apartment in an Upper West Side co-op. We sent our kids to private schools. We spent weekends in the Hamptons and vacationed in Nassau, Aspen, and Bali, staying at nice resorts. Ram and I considered these experiences indulgences, not necessarily our way of life. The problem was that our kids viewed these luxuries as their life — their default. Until my daughter’s hotel comment, however, I had failed to internalize how distinct my upbringing was from theirs, and how our worldviews differed as a result. Can I pass my middle-class values to my children without them, you know, actually living middle-class lives? I wondered. Is that even possible?

As an immigrant, I found satisfaction in the fact that, through diligence and a healthy dose of desperation, I had secured a degree of economic mobility that remains elusive throughout much of the world. And I worried that, in letting my daughters float through childhood in a cloud of privilege, I was doing them a disservice somehow, that I was denying them the gumption they needed to achieve their own financial independence. Many high-achieving immigrant parents grapple with similar concerns, I learned. We want our children to share our ambition and resourcefulness and frugality, but these traits are often rooted in the defining experience of having been hungry, young, and broke — a way of living our children haven’t known. “We tell them not to waste food and talk about starving Indian kids,” the clinical therapist Shanthi Karamcheti told me. “But kids learn from experience, not talk.”

Ram and I, for our part, tried to live frugally, by Manhattan standards anyway. We bought a home at the bottom end of our budget, so that we could live among families who had values like ours. We kept our kids in private schools, yes, but in mid-level ones, instead of Dalton or Trinity, the tony favourites of our friends’. We made them do chores. We didn’t buy the latest, glitziest, exorbitantly priced Christmas toys. As our daughters grew older, we talked with them about wealth, about how fortunate we were.

All the same, there came a tipping point. One day, our eldest daughter, still in grade school, came home and shared some news: she’d learned that some parent had rented out the FAO Schwarz toy store — the entire thing — for their kid’s birthday party. Can you even do that? I wondered. The extravagance felt next level. There was surely no way, I thought, that such indulgences would turn a child into an at least quasi-grounded, well-adjusted adult.

So Ram and I said forget it. After much deliberation, we blew up the life we’d built in New York — a city we loved — and moved with our daughters, then nine and four, to Bangalore, India. We hoped that our girls would absorb through osmosis the middle-class work ethic of the people they came in contact with. And they did, at least to a degree — from people like the lady who sold fresh cow’s milk in front of our apartment each morning, or the disabled woman we bought bananas from en route to the bus stop. While volunteering at a local NGO, our girls met slum children and saw the ambition they had to rise above their circumstances.

But did moving to India solve all our problems? Take one wild guess.

After high school, both our daughters attended undergrad back in America. Like many Indian parents, Ram and I felt, and still feel, an urge to push our American-born children into safe, lucrative fields, like medicine or engineering. (Perhaps no surprise that Indians are the wealthiest immigrant group in the U.S.) But we’ve had to learn that ambition and success mean different things to us and them.

Our eldest, now 24, is what she calls a “digital nomad,” working as a software engineer as she bounces between U.S. cities. She wants to join a start-up eventually. I want her to get an MBA. I try not to nag her about it. Meanwhile, our youngest, a college junior, recently announced that she might pursue something called subaltern studies. “Before you guys freak out,” she began. “Just look it up, I beg you.” I worry about her, too. I think she would make a good lawyer.

Listen, neither path is one Ram and I would have chosen for our daughters. But we’re trying to stay open. We seek help and see therapists — still a taboo among many Indians. We try to listen to our girls, to be cool, even though we know it’s usually pathetic when parents try to be cool. Still, we’re trying.

What’s interesting is that, after spending the past two decades trying to impart my Very Respectable Values on my daughters, they’re now doing the same to me, having gained principles from their upbringing that I hadn’t anticipated. They’ve patiently explained, for instance, that it’s okay to value a healthy work-life balance over brute-force ambition, that it’s fine to say that you are clinically depressed or otherwise struggling, that it’s good to take time off to find yourself. Maybe they have a point.

Parenting is uncomfortable. Its failures stare me in the face. Have I damaged my girls? I often wonder that, but I don’t have an answer yet. For now, they seem okay. Time will tell whether the middle-class values we tried to instill in them will hold, or even prove useful. Not long ago I asked my youngest what she wanted for her 20th birthday. She had been talking about buying Air Jordans for years. “But they cost a ton of money,” she always says. “Plus, you have to bid on them.” Is that frugality? I’ll count it.

Shoba Narayan is the author of five books, and the recipient of a James Beard Award and a Pulitzer fellowship. A journalist for over 30 years, she is currently the host and anchor of Bird Podcast and the overseas correspondent for Radio New Zealand. She enjoys wine, studies Jung, and is a gadget geek.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U6tZZ0aaAOY

Vaanathai Pola 400

All of us live by a certain code that we make up as we slowly step out of the teenage psyche and into adulthood, love, marriage and family. We see the world with eyes and the codes that we set are mostly based on our personality and needless to say, steeped in self and furthering of one's own self issues and needs.

That said, most of us are aware of the needs that are separate from the self that we call " I " and they fall into two or to be more accurate three other categories. They are " You and Us, Them and lastly IT".

I is you, the self. You and us means our family, close friends and our personal bubble in which we dwell. Them means work, colleagues, and people with who we frequently interact but wish we didn't have to. ( Sorry, I have a long list but then I am in a way a pariah. So, it does make sense.)

Then we come to IT which simply means Life and its Machiavelli techniques or if you feel the need you can think of it as destiny and destined course. But, there is a higher power that we simply know as God and good fortune ( when it suits us) and devil and fate ( when it does not suit us) Wimps and their wimpy thinking.

Completely unaware that he had been photographed and his thought process totally cut off from the moment and lost in his grief, Raman sat in the cool interiors of the Ambulance and by the dead V.K.Singh's body.

He sat on the left of his boss, cradling his left hand gently in both his palms and stared down at the former and late head of R&AW whose death only he and Minister Rajnath Singh were about.

Raman could not believe that V.K.Singh was dead for he could still feel the warmth of life in his mentor's body but knew that it was ebbing away. Placing a gentle, tender kiss on his friends fingers, he said, ' You were dying when I met you and yet you did not baulk or give in to the fears that come with the knowledge of one's own imminent death. You constantly kept egging me on by showering compliments about my brave, bold ideas and how I executed them. But, little did you know that all my achievements were possible because, you were near me, and around me, even when you were far away from me.'

He smiled and whispered in a ghostly voice hoping against hope that the ghost of V.K would be able to hear him.

' Do you remember the very first time when we both met? It was in Delhi and in the Pathology department of the Army College of Medical Sciences. It seems so long ago although it is not even six months since that happened. Now, here you are dead and here I am alive and left all alone wondering what I am supposed to do now.'

He felt his hands being gripped by V.K.'s dead left hand and looked down at his face and saw his mentor's eyes open wide and with a sad smile, Raman said, ' This is a dream, boss. I am dreaming.'

V.K.Singh smiled back and replied, ' Of course you are dreaming my son. For it is only in dreams and nightmares that the dead and living can exist and talk. But, there is another place where the dead remain alive and undead' and placing his hand on Raman's cheek, ' in a person's loving and caring heart.'

Raman could not help the grief that blossomed as tears from his soul and he said, ' What do I do now, boss? What do you want me to do?'

V.K.Singh sighed, ' Ram beta, it is not what you want, what I want, or what the govt and world want from you but what life wants from you and the reason why it created you?'

Raman looked at his dead boss who looked healthier and alive than before and mumbled, ' I don't understand.'

' Raman, you were supposed to come to Delhi. I was supposed to meet you and our paths were destined to cross and form a junction. Why?'

' Why boss? Why do you say that? I came to Delhi for Vijay's body and nothing else.'

' I am sorry Raman but that was not all you came for. I think you were always meant to come to Delhi for the sake of humanity and for the simple reason that you were born a hero, a protector and defender of all that is good and beautiful in this world.'

Raman shook his head, ' What about me and what about my family, sir? '

V.K.Singh smiled, ' right but have you given thought as to what will happen to all the families of this nation and its world.'

Raman shrugged his shoulders confusedly, ' what about the world, sir?'

' Raman, you did not come into this job by accident and you were not promoted by accident. Nothing in this world happens without a reason or a purpose. You are who you are and have become who you are because you carry a great responsibility and such responsibilities are only given to those who can carry it out and see it through to the end.'

' I am sorry boss but you have lost me as always.'

V.K.Singh smiled, ' No, you are not lost but just hesitating. There are but a few laws of life that govern this whole universe and the most important one is what is your purpose and what you need to become to carry that out.'

' what are you going on about, boss? You tormented me with your riddles and conspiracies while you were alive, and are doing the same now, even in death.'

V.K.Singh smiled, ' That's the spirit, my son. Don't worry, it will all come to you and it will all work out in the end. F..k all of that, for now, is the time for my favourite poet and his famous poem.'

The dead V.K.Singh gently pulled Raman's right hand to his lips and kissing it lovingly said, ' Child, I know that you love Wordsworth and Yeats more than Shakespeare but make allowance for a dead man and sing my favourite poem as my flesh goes cold.'

Holding Raman's hand in his, close to his chest, the dead V.K.Singh whispered, ' warm my heart with your voice and song and bid me farewell one last time my son. Let me depart with your song ringing in my ears for that will be heaven for me.'

Raman broke down and cried like a baby and after a few moments, wiping his tears, slowly began to recite his late boss, mentor and friends favourite poem of death.

Fear no more the heat o' the sun

Fear no more the heat o' the sun,

Nor the furious winter's rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;

Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great;

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:

Care no more to clothe and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:

The sceptre, learning, physic, must

All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;

Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finished joy and moan;

All lovers young, all lovers must

Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

Nothing ill come near thee!

Quiet consummation have;

And renownéd be thy grave!

This Shakespeare funeral reading comes from the play Cymbeline. It talks about how death can be a release, to a place of peace and safety.

You and I have not met by accident for in life accidents do not happen and everything has a reason and purpose and all of which I believe is guided by a secret hand called Nature, God or some higher power.

If you are reading this then stop and ponder, why am I reading this. Simple. You were meant to just like I was meant to write, act and entertain with my joy and with my sorrow.

The boy who went into the dark and came back as light.

We are all dark and light at the same time. The choice remains as to what we want to be. Heaven or hell. Be well.