I love visiting temples. Specially the lovely sprawling old temples of Tamil Nadu. I love touching the intricately carved pillars and adoring the perfect figurines of gods, goddesses and demi-gods carved everywhere. I marvel at the mind that conceptualized and designed the space. I admire the mind that structured and meticulously planned the temples to near perfection.

I respect the hands that shared the dreams of the temple's designers and helped make them come true, hands and minds that could translate what was a hazy vision in a few people's minds into rock and sandstone and carved space.

I wonder at the magnanimous hearts that poured wealth into the realization of a dream, who tossed nets far and wide in search of talent and style that could make their dreams come true. When I look at a pillar or lean against it, I love the thought that Raja Raja Chola too might have rested his broad shoulders against it many centuries back.

I love the fragrance of fresh flowers and herbs, sandalwood and camphor, ghee and oil, the smoke of incense and burnt samith wood, the smell of swiftly- charring cotton wicks. I love the riotous colours of flowers and garlands, the glint of gold, the sparkle of gem stones and the sheen of silver, signs of a temple's well-being.

I love the taste of the puliyodurai, thayir saadam, chakkarai pongal, and even of the tulsi theertham. I love the sounds of music, molam, chanting and mumble of slokas, and the ringing voices of head priests rising over the general din of swarming humanity. And I love the sound of temple bells and brass gongs, and even the little tinkle-bells tied around the necks of temple elephants and cows.

I love looking at the old gnarled roots and branches of temple trees, and observing the little cribs and threads and cloth tied all over them, each symbolizing a devotee's prayerful wish, a yearning, or a desperate desire.

But there are things that I don't like about our temples. One is the swagger, the contempt and the measuring glances of [mostly young] priests, their smug smiles and undignified chatter. And I don't like the rows of beggars outside the temples, preying on the guilt and emotions of visiting devotees and forcing them to part with money in the name of 'dharmam'.

And I don't like the mess and squalor, the slush and garbage all over the temples. I don't like to see the outer prakarams of our heritage temples taken over by pedlars and hawkers of tawdry trinkets. I don't like the loud music blaring in the outer prakarams and the shark-like touts looking to feed on the minds of guileless devotees, promising a close darshan,or special blessings in return for monetary favours.

And above everything else I don't like to see milk and honey and ghee and fruits, tender coconut and curds poured in great quantities over the stone idols all in the name of abhishekam.

How can we allow this colossal wastage of good food when right outside the temples sit rows and rows of beggars who may never in their lives have drunk a full glass of milk or eaten ghee-spiced rice? If the idol of stone had but a voice, would it not have protested this injustice or stopped this wastage? They say service to man is service to God. Can't we feed our countrymen and enable them to earn their next meal before we pour milk and ghee and curds and honey over stone idols?

Mice have nine lives

Some of life’s strangest but most poignant moments descend on one suddenly, when one is least expecting them. They catch one by surprise and take one's breath away. So it was today. This happened at work. A couple of white mice had been procured for dissection two days back. One of them was pregnant. They were kept in a tiny cage in a storeroom. The dissection was scheduled for yesterday, but it was postponed for some reason. This morning, the pregnant female gave birth. She delivered six tiny babies.

We actually saw the mother mouse go through her delivery slowly through the day. In the morning, there was just one baby out, later by noon, there were two, by afternoon, there were six. I didn’t check before I left, I assumed that mama was done for the season. We marveled, how could six tiny lives actually exist within that one little white mouse? We wondered, when and how would those little yucky pink babies grow into handsome white mice?

Pink, skinny, slimy, hairless, and fragile babies. Their button eyes closed, they lay in a heap against their mother’s body, occasionally sliding and slithering over one another to get closer to her or reach for her teats. [The male looked the other way all the while, unblinkingly indifferent to the great and moving sight of a mother struggling to bring forth life. But what does one expect of males anyway?]

They did not know, the mother or her babies, that they had missed death [at least temporarily] by a mouse’s whiskers. The dissection may well have happened on schedule. Or the mice might have been bought by someone else and they might have been cut up even earlier. As I looked at the tiny, ugly little creatures that didn’t look one bit like mice, I couldn’t help asking myself, what this was if not destiny? It seemed to me that the little fellows were meant to breathe and live and feel like us, at least for some time. And so they were here. Life has a strong urge to be expressed, to be manifest. It will not be easily thwarted.

And what was it that drew us to the drama? The mice had been in office for two days, and except for those directly involved, none of the rest of us had felt the urge to drop by and visit them. But today, in ones and twos and threes, women and men popped in and out of the storeroom. Some ran around organizing food for the little survivors. A group even celebrated the births with chocolates. Even men were drawn. Young men.

What is it that draws us to life and brings a smile on our faces when we see life triumph over difficult circumstances? What is the kinship and connectedness that draws us to another creature at such times? What part of ourselves do we see reflected in another creature that makes us empathize with it, participate in its life, and feel the need to respect its strong self-expression, protect it and celebrate its existence?

High Time

Increasingly I get this intense sense of urgency. There's not much time left, I tell myself almost every day. More than 50% of my life is surely over. Maybe much more, who knows. So, I tell myself, do, do, do all that you want to do. And do it fast. Don't postpone.

And to think of all those people who 'kill' time. To think of the millions who grope to find ways to 'pass time.' Just bored. Don't know what to do. Aimlessly slouch. Throw pebbles into water. Munch peanuts. Watch a lousy movie knowing it is lousy. A long phone chat. Cover oneself up to the eyes and try to sleep. Kill time. Somehow kill it. Mercilessly.

Funny. The thought - that every second we kill is a bit of our lives chipped off. All by ourselves. A second given to one but kicked away because one did not know what to do with it. A second that will never come back, even if one were to beg it to.

Are we all really so very ready for death? Ready as we are to give up chips and chunks of our lives, I doubt that we are prepared to move on. We have just not got round to associating the time that we kill with OUR LIFESPAN. But maybe it is time we did. It will give an entirely new spin to life. Add a new dimension to our thoughts. And most of us sure could do with a jolt or two!

Changes - outside and inside

There was a time when I was young when children read. They read and read. And read. People said we were book worms. People said so much reading can't be good for the eyes. What we needed was a bit of physical activity.

Then when my daughter was growing up, it was the age of the television. I cannot forget how sick I would feel when I saw my daughter watching the same silly Popeye cartoon day after day after day. Then we said all that television couldn't be good for the children. It made them passive. It did not allow their imagination to grow. It was bad for their eyes. What they needed was a bit of physical activity and reading.

Then my little nephews came into being. We saw them grow, handling the mouse and the computer almost as if they were born with computers tied to them. They played games on the computer. They learnt on the computer - first from CD ROMs and then the internet. Then we all said so much computer can't be good for children. It spoilt not only their eyes, but also their hearing. It messed up their little wrists. It made them sedentary. Above everything else, it made them unsocial. What they needed was a bit of physical activity, some reading and some company.

Then the children grew up and found Facebook. They found orkut and various other social networking platforms. They also discovered telephones and specially mobiles. They spent hours chatting - over the internet, over mobiles and landlines - by texting - to known and unknown people, sometimes at great risks. Then we said so much socialising cannot be good for them. Social media and communication technology made them obsessive and egotistic. Social media tended to trivialise relationships. There was great risk from strangers. What they needed was a bit of physical activity, some reading and responsibility and discrimination in relationships, and a return to committed formal education, from which they were gradually straying.

Now we have the ipads and smartphone devices, adding a new addictively attractive dimension to technology tools, bringing back the excitement of touch and feel to life - the kinaesthetic sensation that had occupied the backseat in the early years of communication technology advancement. Now what will this do? What will happen to the next crop of children with their little hands exploring the world through the touchpad technology? What faculties of theirs will their new toy heighten? And what faculties will it atrophize? What will we say of this new tool ten years from today?

Women, women, women

Who said the world was progressive? Who said our women were liberated? Sometimes I can't help thinking not much has changed.

Look at USA. The most advanced nation in the world is yet to have a woman President. Look at us. We have a woman President, but she has not come through as a symbol of emancipated womanhood, for whatever reasons.

Why are we still getting it wrong?

Everybody must have watched the soccer world cup. And before that the IPL cricket tamasha. Everybody must have seen crappily dressed cheerleaders wildly gyrating to some silly music (I cringe to call it that). Why must they be women? Why not men? Why can't we have ridiculously clad men shaking their bellies and rolling their hips to drums and bagpipes or whatever? If we must have cheerleaders at sporting events, that is - now that would call for another blog post.

Don't let's forget the Stone Age Cave Woman following her He Man into the World Wrestling Fed's wrestling rings. Big brutish male hunks followed by growling shrieking women.

You must have seen ads where women come, leaning on and clinging to men - like some prized jewel, a possession that one showed off. Why, for god's sake, can't they stand and walk straight?

God, and we talk of the progress we have made.

I recently attended some functions - some weddings, and some other social gatherings.
At every function, there was a reception committee to welcome guests. A reception Committee made entirely of women. Heavily decked and dolled up they draped the doorways. The bouquets and prizes were brought in by women, but not necessarily given away by them. They were just the fetchers and carriers.

The food arrangements and anchoring was always the women.

The accounts and operations, the men. Why? Why don't we reverse roles? What is so unmanly about receiving guests that it must be relegated to the realm of the woman? Isn't pleasantness and warmth a thing of the mind. Why shouldn't men be pleasant and warm and man the reception committees?

And then again - why must the women who receive guests be the most presentable females round the place? And why must they be gorgeously dressed. Isn't this a bit like putting out your best china or silverware to impress the guests?

Obviously attitudes have not changed. Not here in India. Not anywhere in the world. we have a long way to go. And it would help all around if women put their foot down where it belongs - on the ground - and refused to play ball. Most of the changes that have happened seem facile when one thinks that the change in the mind without which no change would be effective - has not yet happened.