CHAPTER 8 The Burra Saheb of Kingsway Camp - A Story of Faith and Miracles

CHAPTER 8 The Burra Saheb of Kingsway Camp Postgraduation – a trip down the memory lane Well, like I mentioned I could barely muster only 56.7% in the bachelor’s degree. To put it very plainly, I had passed with a second class which certainly did not endear me to my father. Khokan graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree and subsequently did a short course in journalism and perennially lamented the fact that he lost those twenty precious marks in mathematics in the 12th standard examination. This rattled him and became the primary reason for his poor performance. It was akin to Indian cricket team not recovering from 17 for 5 against Zimbabwe in a World Cup match and subsequently folding in at a paltry 42, all out. Meanwhile at Doctors Quarters there was a fresh suitor for Satra. He was christened Sunny. In our eyes Sunny was a rockstar. With his long curly hair and lean frame, he was also known as the Kumar Gaurav of our colony. Kumar Gaurav was the reigning heart throb of several Satras across India. Sunny a product of Modern School, after some dalliance with hash and alcohol eventually settled down to become a doctor. Sunny used to regale us with his escapades with the wives of some doctors of the colony which we viewed with some degree of suspicion and then turned his overtures to Satra. My inner voice maintained a studied silence when I thought about the veracity of Sunny’s claims. And I used to ponder over this strange silence, wondering whether I ought to challenge Sunny. Sunny replaced Bumboo in our everyday humdrum existence, but unlike Bumboo he was not fiendish or covetous. He had a humungous collection of western numbers ranging from Jimmy Hendrix, Eric Clapton, the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel and we collaborated to write and direct a musical play based on Pink Floyd’s The Wall. Those were the days where we all loved to revolt, be anarchists and our favourite tag line was, If one is not a liberal at twenty-five, the young have no heart. It is only later in life that we realised that, if one is not a conservative at thirty-five, then the man possesses no brain. We were still to discover faith in Sunnyisms. Sunny had some prodigious theories on life and medicine. He was a strict non-believer, who propounded that there lived and existed in every colony in Delhi, a Satra. In fact, he was brave enough to extend the theory to all of India. These were extremely interesting and radical views, at variance from the rest of the pack I had ever encountered thus far. Khokan and I found his views quite quirky and would argue over the Theories of Sunny. While he was extremely brainy, I had little idea he was under the influence of Calmpose (or diazepam) when he generously sermonised these homilies. His allegiance was to science, atheism and even to hash. The colony could be Defence Colony, Greater Kailash, Green Park or say R.K. Puram and the more we moved southwards from our lowly North Delhi area the benchmark of Satra was exalted. He had yet another important view and belief in life that Bollywood and other regional directors canned only two kinds of movies – one was sheharwali (or the urban based themes) and second gaonwali (the rural based ones- referring to the offbeat cinema). And very clearly after swallowing a couple of diazepam he would choose to watch a Bollywood block buster. I argued in vain to try and get him to watch the cerebral performances of Naseeruddin Shah and Om Puri, but the collective will of Sunny and Khokan prevailed and I was compelled to watch Vijay a.k.a Amitabh, Ravi a.k.a Shashi Kapoor, Ravi a.k.a Jeetendra, Paaji a.k.a Dharmendra and Chintu a.k.a Rishi Kapoor. Very soon after my graduation, I joined a Chartered Accountant at Chandni Chowk. My mother had rightly prognosticated that it would not be long before I would quit Chartered Accountancy programme. Her prophecy came true and I survived with disgust in those dusty files with numbers for barely 3 days … not even three weeks. “What is in the DNA of mothers that they understand the psyche of their children so very well?” I wondered. “From where do they manage to predict so accurately,” I paused to think. “Elementary Mr Watson … it is their faith in their children whom they carried for nine months,” the transmigratory souls whispered from the universe. Thus, mothers who carry children in their wombs for nine months and nourish them can understand the psychology of their children much better than fathers. As I was wondering what should be the next course of action after I dropped out of Chartered Accountancy, it was my father who helped me secure admission in M.A. (Business Economics) in South Campus, Delhi University. Confession Time – My experiments continued “Amma pardon me, I have been smoking occasionally,” I said while touching her feet in remorse. She admonished my misadventure and made me swallow homeopathic pills. I was afflicted by a double whammy of pharyngitis and chronic colic. My inner voice agreed with the cure proscribed by my mother to tackle the problem of throat and colic pain. Adversity was converted into an opportunity Even though I was plagued with a host of medical problems like amoebiasis, colic pain, pharyngitis and chronic cold apart from a relatively average academic performance and last but not the least shying away from Chartered Accountancy within a mere three days, I suddenly found my mojo while pursuing M.A. (Business Economics). One, I had thinned down and lost weight and was looking fresh and handsome. Some of the staff members at the rehabilitation centre at the T.B. Hospital found an uncanny resemblance with Dilip Kumar, the yesteryear melancholic, romantic actor par excellence. And I started to believe in them, while essaying the remarkable trouper in front of a mirror. Secondly the subjects in Business Economics were not boring and desultory like those in B.Com. and most importantly South Campus was flooded with several Satras. We surmised that Sunny was correct in his assessment and that there were Satras in every colony. A cynosure which attracts strapping youngsters who indulge in various fantasies ogling at them, as very few had the requisite courage to approach the women for a date. And Dr Sunny was in particular right about South Delhi girls who appeared smarter and better dressed than those of North and West Delhi (with no offence meant). Now we were the North Delhi type guys and generally shy of the South Delhi women and had to muster adequate courage to approach the real smart South Delhi girls. While Satra was my first crush but did not become my valentine, there was a prepossessing girl exceedingly charming and alluring who was nicknamed as Pimple- E - Azam soon to grab the eyeballs of the students in our class. I was attracted to the charming girl. Well, I fancied myself to be the melancholic and romantic Dilip Kumar and found shades of Vyjayantimala or the statuesque Madhubala. But I strangely lacked in courage and guts (despite my histrionics on the stage) to express my feelings to her, despite several opportunities. Though I spoke with her, I could never utter the three epochal words. In fact, on the Diwali day after downing a few pegs of exquisite scotch at Sunny’s residence, I mustered the courage to dial Pimple-E-Azam. “Hi, Happy Diwali.” “Oh, who is it?” she spoke softly almost expecting my call. But I could barely speak. My heart was pounding, palms were sweating, beads of sweat collected on my forehead and the throat was parched. Partho and Sunny were now pretty high and had egged me on. But I could barely speak and merely wished her a happy Diwali. I could hear a sigh and a comforting laughter as we hung up. Next day I was to meet a resplendent looking Pimple- E- Azam who was effervescent and enquired about the call the previous night. Once again, I could mumble a few indistinguishable words and Pimple-e- Azam just wrung her hands in despair. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Sometime during that period, one Saturday, I was asked by my father to accompany him to FICCI located at Tansen Marg, near Mandi House. A little later after my father wound up his work, we were at RAU’s IAS study circle, barely a kilometre away. Dr Rau has once been selected to the Superior Revenue Establishment of the Traffic, Transportation and Commercial Department of Indian Railways which was later to be rechristened as the Indian Railway Traffic Service (and now is a part of Indian Railway Management Service). Dr Rau was leftist in his leanings and considered to be a Maoist way back in late 1950s and thus could not get the necessary police clearance to join the service. He ate very parsimoniously – some fruits and upma and was quite thin. My father had suggested that he could start an academy to train Civil Servants and Dr Rau forayed into this unchartered territory. Now he had made a name for himself at the plush academy on Hailey Road. He was the lodestar in the firmament of IAS coaching institutes, and produced several civil servants every year. Other institutes could manage but an occasional Hailey’s comet. He looked at me and passed on a sheet of paper and asked me to write two pages on the current affairs of the country and the world. Rings of smoke of Dunhill made the room foggy as he intently read what I had written. “Mr Sri Ram, tell your son to join the institute from tomorrow. I promise he will crack the Civil Services in his very first attempt. He’ll become a burra saheb,” he spoke with conviction and faith. His eyes could spot talent and had remarkable faith in his intelligence. “I believe in everything until it's disproved. So, I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it's in your mind. Who's to say that dreams and nightmares aren't as real as the here and now?” the iconic John Lennon was to say. And Dr Rau was quite like John Lennon, blessed with incredible faith and confidence. However, my father was unsure. I was still to complete my postgraduation. As my father dithered, Dr Rau added, “Catch them young is the magic mantra in the bureaucracy.” “One can rise to exalted positions in government the earlier a bureaucrat joins,” Dr Rau argued. “He would lose two precious years of service if he were to wait to complete his post-graduation,” he attempted to convince my father. But my father’s logical and conservative mind was divided between the corridor of a safety valve and diving into what he presumed would be an abyss of uncertainty. My mother was a wager through her belief and faith. She was all for the gambit and advised that I ought to take the plunge. But in the end my father’s will prevailed and I did not join Rau’s IAS Study Circle, a decision which perhaps would have altered the course of my destiny. Surprisingly my inner voice was to remind me about the past encounters in Mysore Ashram about supply chain logistics and rattling trains. Was there a deeper meaning to this sudden flash I wondered in amazement. Though blessed with a scientific temperament n the true Nehruvian mould, my father had identified the precepts of fate and destiny and clearly delineated them. My mother was willing to take calculated risks. She reiterated that I ought to follow the advice of Dr Rau. So once again I was sandwiched between a rock and a hard place, but in the end, I opted for the softer, safer option. I continued with M.A. (Business Economics) at South Campus Delhi University. A match aborted by a murder The date was 31st of October and the year 1984. Few of us were aware this was the day the Iron Man of India was born. Yes, I am referring to Sardar Patel. The weather was salubrious and most of us bunked classes to catch the Indo-Pak one day match at Sialkot on the radio. But there was no sign of the match and we were wondering as to why it was called off. Suddenly news spread like wild fire that Mrs Indira Gandhi, the popular Prime Minister of India had been attacked and was rushed to the All-India Institute of Medical Sciences. We chucked our fags, left empty cups of tea and rushed for cover. There was absolute bedlam and also an eerie silence as students headed for buses. Everyone on the road seemed to be returning home. Prime Minister Indira Gandhi had been assassinated at 9:29 a.m. at her residence in Safdarjung Road, New Delhi by the bullets of her Sikh bodyguards, Satwant Singh and Beant Singh, in the aftermath of Operation Blue Star. Indira Gandhi, feisty politician and Prime Minister never brooked any defiance. It was a common knowledge among the political class and those interested in political activities that whenever her political star dimmed, she resorted to dramatic actions. Operation Blue Star was an Indian military action carried out between 1st and 8th June 1984, ordered by Indira Gandhi to exterminate Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale and his followers, most of them ultras holed up in the holy precincts of the Golden Temple in Amritsar. Collateral damage included the death of many pilgrims, as well as damage to the Akal Takht. The military action on the sacred temple was criticized both inside and outside India. Delhi and several places in the country were rocked by large scale violence, looting, rape and mayhem against the Sikh community as retribution for the assassination. Houses were set ablaze; trains were torched and the proud Sikh community was numbed. In our doctor’s campus lived two Sikh medical practitioners, Dr Pritam Singh and Dr P.P. Singh. They were petrified and scared for their lives. Several doctors and some of them very close friends turned a blind eye to their plight, but it was my feisty mother loaded with the power of faith and my cerebral father who rose to the occasion to organise their protection. Their lives were saved, but from our terrace for the next few days we could hear shrieks of terrified citizenry, stench of carcasses and smoke billowing from razed houses. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The cold war following the War of Roses between Satra and me suddenly thawed and terminated sometime in early May 1988 as the results of the Civil Services Examination were declared where I secured the 205th rank among the lakhs who appeared for the prestigious examination. This mellowed the heart of the beguiling woman. Quite unexpectedly, she broached a conversation while we were waiting for a bus to reach our respective destinations. This reminded me of our last bus stop encounter when she was drenched in a heavy downpour as we sought shelter under a shop. Suddenly only chemistry and bonding sparked-off in the laboratory of our minds. “Some pelf of being selected to the Civil Services,” I presumed. Relationship which had turned frosty by the antics of an irritating Bumboo were revived upon my clearing the Civil Services Examination as suddenly I had risen in her esteem. Finally, the faith of my mother translated into a miracle which stupefied the residents of our colony, especially the inhabitants of D-17, as I was to emerge a Civil Servant. As I was ranked 205th, doctors and other paramedic staff could hardly believe that I opted for the Indian Railway Traffic Service instead of the much-touted news which spread like wild fire that I had been selected for the IPS or Indian Police Service. Satra and company had apparently checked my rank, which was published in the newspapers. Very few, including the soon-to-become-bureaucrat were aware about what the Indian Railway Traffic Service (IRTS) was all about and as to what the job actually entailed. Generally, everyone felt that I would become a Station Master, a guard or maybe a TTE on a train, but for some reason not a uniformed police officer as was proclaimed by me and my mother. I could not but help remember a poem by the eminent poet R.L. Stevenson before heading to Railway Staff College (RSC), Baroda for my probationary training. This poem was published in Robin Louis Stevenson’s 1885 volume of poetry for children, A Child’s Garden of Verses. From a Railway Carriage Faster than fairies, faster than witches, Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches; And charging along like troops in a battle, All through the meadows the horses and cattle: All of the sights of the hill and the plain

CHAPTER 7 The War of Roses

CHAPTER 7 The War of Roses My interest, rather my fascination with the Mahatma’s autobiography continued with fervour. Often, I would open the book and peruse a page or two. Each time I had the distinct feeling that through the book Gandhiji kept me forewarned of upcoming events in my life. The ministering angels seemed to whisper to me one day, “Beware of the War of Roses.” This was the sobriquet given to the events that engineered a split between the inhabitants of D-17 and D-19, Satra and me through the devious plan of the ever-covetous Bumboo. Earlier, my improved academic performance in class 10 triggered a greater bonhomie between Satra and me. Over the next few years, we became thick friends exchanging thrillers, crime fiction, unusual love stories, books, notes attending rock concerts upon joining Delhi University. Nature has perhaps designed in such a manner that women develop physically, mentally, and emotionally faster in than men and Satra was no different. The cynosure of our campus had come of age and my growing friendship with her certainly irked Bumboo who thought of himself as her exclusive suitor (that she did not consider any of us anything more than just friends was another story!). There was a tinge of romance in the air as my friendship with Satra blossomed and I meanwhile began to learn Hindustani classical music. From guitar to Hindustani vocals. My father was not particularly impressed as he was desirous that I pore over academic books of commerce and economics. But my mother who was herself trained in Carnatic music encouraged me to pursue this craft too apart from writing and theatre, so that I could develop into a well-rounded personality. She had an inviolable faith and belief that the personality and characteristics of a person metamorphose if one performs well in both academics and extracurricular activities. And this allegiance always proved handy to me as I could explore music, theatre, sports, writing, public speaking apart from my normal academic parrot-fashion study. The broken journey in the field of music My first music teacher was a visually impaired, but exceptionally gifted person. Hum Ko Manki Shakti Dena Man Vijay Karen based on Raag Yaman was my first foray in Hindustani classical music. This happened to be the first song I learned while playing the harmonium. Over the years my interest in classical Hindustani music got enhanced. I learned Hindustani vocal, and played the harmonium and sitar, over different periods of time. I had filled several books with the musical notes but hardly practised. That was my weak point in life. Only regular practice or riyaz makes a man perfect. Though my father’s somewhat cynical if not a sinister plan, was that during the Civil Services interview I could sing and talk about my interests in music and theatre before the adjudicators and score additional marks. As far as my father was concerned it was a question of impressing the interview board. Two raags were etched in my mind, which I can sing to this day; Raag Malkauns and Raag Bhairivi. And these send me in to a divine reverie and ecstasy even now. The notes touch a wonderful chord in the heart, body, mind, and soul. My dalliance with smoking, drinking, and eating non-vegetarian fare began in university days. It began innocently by smoking Wills Navy Cut, then priced at 25 paise, at the college canteen and having a few bottles of beer occasionally while rehearsing for plays in college. At home in the post-Swamiji days during some get togethers liquor and non-vegetarian fare would be served. The visitors usually included Prof Pathak, Vaishnav Uncle (my father’s close friend and a prominent civil servant of the Punjab cadre), my cousin Narayan Valluri, an IAS officer of the Maharashtra cadre and a host of Catholic missionaries who assisted my mother in her rehabilitation projects. The goal post was not changed. Merely some spirit was added to spirituality which became a heady concoction. Those were innocent times and we were raised on the scintillating music of the Beatles, Pink Floyd, Simon and Garfunkel, Led Zeppelin among others; where pride, prejudice, caste, and religion did not determine our friendships or relationships. And most importantly the seeds of revolution were imparted at St Xavier’s School. Later Delhi University became a melting pot for exchange of ideas and seeking greater liberation. Once I joined college, my performance nosedived. Certainly, B.Com. and I were not made for each other, the numerical papers. Metaphorically it became an abortive relationship. Sandwiched between writing, acting in plays, watching serious cinema, or rather parallel cinema of Shyam Benegal, Mrinal Sen, Satyajit Ray, Govind Nihalani and watching plays by the National School of Drama Repertoire Company apart from learning Hindustani classical music, I was accompanying my father who meet important opposition leaders like George Fernandes, Madhu Dandavate, Chandrashekar, Lal Krishna Advani and the leaders of the newly formed Telugu Desam. Party. My mother’s service to the hospital patients opened new frontiers as I could interact with other medical social workers and had the unique opportunity to have glimpses of Mother Teresa and Pope John Paul. And above all our family continued to receive blessings from spiritual Masters. All these factors fashioned a communitarian thought process. The frequent visits to Mysore Ashram may have come to an end but our family continued voyages to various parts of India – hills, temples, sea side resorts and spiritual centres which invigorated and rekindled the energy within us. But with my friend Khokhan apart from discussing esoteric subjects, the mind wandered to the mundane and our perennial fantasy, Satra. Why do we have carnal instincts we wondered? Is it just growing up or something else? Lust is the strong, passionate desire for something: not only sex, but also, among others, food, drink, money, fame, power, or knowledge. There are many reasons for which we can desire sex, for example, to be close to someone, to hold on to or manipulate that person, to hurt a third party, to hurt ourselves, to establish or reinforce our identity, to make a child, or to gain some advantage such as money or preferment. But with lust, sex is contemplated primarily for itself, or, to be more precise, for the pleasure and release that it may procure. Two Singular Events in my life Panduranga Hegde, nephew of Prof. Pathak, the man who grew a flowing beard to protest imposition of Emergency invited the noted environmentalist Shri Sunder Lal Bahuguna to our house. Shri Bahuguna was known the world over as the man who taught Indians to hug trees to protect the environment. He was the pioneering leader of protecting the environment through the Chipko movement. In Hindi the word chipko literally means to cling to. Heeding to the calls by Shri Sunder Lal Bahuguna and fellow activist Chandi Prasad Bhatt, men and women in the Indian Himalayas embraced and chained themselves to trees to stop loggers from cutting them down. It was a powerful symbol that conveyed, Our bodies before our trees. It also became a movement that brought to the world's attention the devastation wrought by the environmental crisis in the world's highest mountains. At D-19 it was not a glitzy power point presentation made by the environmentalist but a spartan and graphic display of slides which graphically captured denuding and deforestation of our forest cover. And this presentation resonated with my inner voice. He was soon invited by corporate honchos where he made presentations at FICCI, ASSOCHAM and CII and for once the captains of Industry and their wives hung their heads in shame and a committee on environment was formed. Quite interestingly at the same time, a block of flats was to be added to the existing ones at our very own doctor’s complex. The municipal authorities had run their bulldozer and levelled the one-acre mini farm of Dr Biswas (Satra’s father). The doctor watched helplessly the property which he thought belonged to him being snatched away to construct a new block of flats. He was egged on by his wife who tried to solicit the help of all Bengalis in this purported misadventure. I was torn between the curvaceous Satra and perhaps some legitimate rights of the Chandana’s. The simmering tensions exploded as on a fateful night, when Bumboo landed at the small park of the Bengali doctor’s house and ran amuck like a wild elephant in fields. “Munna, Munna … look at what is happening,” caterwauled Satra. “Mrs Bala, Mr Sri Ram please come down, see what’s happening,” yelped the Bengali family. My mother who had on earlier occasions attempted broking peace between the two families, was fast asleep with the rosary in her hand, oblivious to the happenings. My father was amused and seemed to be relishing the affray. I was shell shocked and fell between the proverbial rock and hard place. Tragically for me Bumboo’s argument won the day…. Satra felt cheated and exceedingly let down. And I lost my first crush. For several years we merely stared at each other blankly as she positively ignored me. We would no longer not watch the Simmi Garewal-Shashi Kapoor starrer Siddhartha at Palace Cinema as we had planned once at the bus stop when it suddenly began to rain and we had to seek shelter under the cover of a shop. We got drenched and she appeared prepossessing quite like the protagonist of the movie. As the downpour increased and we were thoroughly drenched and for those moments real life was almost mirroring reel life. In meantime a rapprochement was worked out between the Chandana’s (D-20) and Satra’s family (D-17). The Bengali family was permitted to access some area in front of the house. It was a token compensation for the Bengali family, more of a face-saving device. For a few days things at Doctors’ Quarters returned to normalcy, but how could one tame the thoughts and planning of the green-eyed Bumboo. The Chandanas were proud prized owners of a rickety British made Morris Minor. In fact, for several years as other doctors rode their wives of all shapes on Lambrettas and Vespas before Hamara Bajaj entered the market, Bumboo and the rest of the family travelled by their four-wheeler with glee. As per the new arrangements, following the aftermath of the bloodied War of Roses, the Chandanas had to directly drive their car to the main road as the occupants of D -17 had occupied the passage towards the main entry/exit gate as part of the compensation of lost territory where new blocks were to be constructed. My father had to travel by foot to board his chartered bus and my mother a few additional metres to walk up to the hospital. My sister and I had to catch our respective school buses and whenever we had the luxury of travelling by a cab or an auto it was parked outside the precincts of our residential complex. It is here that Chandanas were the worst sufferers as their Morris Minor could no longer cross the pathway of glory to the main gate and this punctured their egos. Bumboo, citing reasons of safety that their four-wheeler was to directly land on the main road lodged a complaint with the residential association. Tempers were frayed between the Chandana’s and the denizens of D -17 with no resolution in sight. The Chandana’s insisted on reduction in the size of the garden so that their grand old vehicle would not approach the main road directly and other doctors were swayed by the histrionics and caterwauling by Bumboo and family. A deal was swung. The garden of D17 was further reduced in size, but it was a pyrrhic victory for Bumboo as Satra’s dad on the frenzied goading of Satra’s mother purchased a second-hand Fiat which breezed past the rickety Morris every day. My inner voice chuckled at the compromise formula. “No more rock shows, no more guitar classes, no more watching television together,” chortled Bumboo who was still smarting with the acquisition of a Fiat by the family of D-17. I fell in the abyss of the egregious game plan of Bumboo. Khokhan, the suitable Bengali boy and yet another suitor of Satra was to confide, “Boss, you lost the War of Roses,” to which I agreed hanging my head in remorse. After the fall out of War of Roses and beginning of construction of the new block, the ecosystem of the colony changed both literally and metaphorically. Things never went back to being the same. Three years passed by in a jiffy and I could muster only 56.7% in B.Com. (Hons), while Satra had done exceedingly well in her Physics (Hons) course from Kirori Mal College. I sauntered back home from Hindu College ruminating the three years which passed by. But strangely I developed severe stomach problems once again and lost considerable weight. The numbers bug seemed to have got converted into a stomach bug. “What was this new problem plaguing my stomach?” wondered my mother. I was once again put through a battery of tests with no conclusive evidence found. “Was it recurrence of malabsorption or some other psychological problem?” thought my father. There was no plan to visit Vellore or Mysore Ashram this time. My mother was confident and kept administering me German made homeopathic medicines like Carbo Veg and Nux Vomica. I was looking at my inner voice to provide some panacea for the ailment. My mother’s allegiance or faith in the divine powers did not ebb and she tried out a new diet for me. My diet now consisted of papaya, fruits, large volumes of butter milk and the magical homeopathic pills. She had a staunch faith in homeopathic treatment and administered them on me and they seemed to work like an elixir. “Was it a placebo effect?” some wondered, but not my mother. Faith had once again triumphed over the demons in the stomach. “Forget about Satras and your stomach. It will be taken care off, you better concentrate on studies and learning Hindustani classical music,” my inner voice was to say.

CHAPTER 6 Upending the Pyramid - A Story of Faith and Miracles

CHAPTER 6 Upending the Pyramid Having been exempted from the final examination, Puneet and I jumped headlong into the rehearsals and performances at Delhi, Bombay, and Shimla. Well, I found all the Keralite priests and our teachers like Fr Puthumana, Fr Padyati and Fr Kunnankal who were the think tank at St Xavier’s School to be extremely considerate and thought out-of-the box. They consented to the unconventional decision of permitting two students from not appearing for class 11th examination but participate in a musical play. But can we imagine schools in this day which have classes 1 to 12, with sections A to Z, ever consider to take such an audacious step? The system of rote which has evolved over the years places premium on marks, numbers, and acquisition of information over knowledge, can seldom think radically. For me Wisdom= Information + Knowledge and only in such a situation can a tutee genuinely appreciate the vast repository of consciousness and academics. My mother though not privy to this atypical decision and silently prayed so that I did not miss out on the wonderful opportunity; the exposure of performing in a musical as grand as this one. St Xavier’s School had carved a niche for itself and became the lodestar of the educational system while her son was shining in both academics and extracurricular activities. Those were heady times for the family. A few months prior to the tasting the heady success of winning best new face award in Class 11th and preparing for Kidstuf, there were other exciting developments taking place. Along with a motely crowd of youngsters who despite possessing dramatic talent could not quite jostle space with those proficient in English language at St Xavier’s School, we managed to adapt a musical into Hindi - Bharatendu Harischandra’s seminal play Andher Nagri Chaupat Raja which was a surprise package and took St Xavier’s, the premier English public school by storm and was also selected for the All Delhi Schools Play competition and went on to win critical acclaim. Alas we narrowly missed the coveted trophy. My life was sandwiched between two musicals. While Kidstuf was a magnum opus production, Andher Nagri, Chaupat Raja was spartan but equally effective and telling. My co-actors of Kidstuf fretted in disgust as we staged the play and won the 1st prize in school but stood 2nd in the interschool competition the Delhi. It could have been a first prize but we were a trifle overconfident. Their angst was how could an English-speaking actor perform in a Hindi play? But my mother had instilled confidence in me and asked me to blank out all criticism from my mind and focus merely on studies and continue acting in theatre. As a medical social worker, she realised that participation in such activities released positive endorphins in the mind to transfigure our lives and become agents of change in the society. Class 12 was the next summit to be scaled. It was no surprise to my mother that I topped the 11th standard examination, though my father was apprehensive about me acting in the musical. The bugbear of numbers continued to haunt me and chase me. In order to prevent a repeat of class 8, my parents judiciously engaged a tutor, Shri Narendra Dev to teach me mathematics. And soon I could solve all questions ranging from algebra to probability. Very soon mathematics did not appear toxic. My friend Khokhan (a moniker for Udayan or rising sun, a student of Rosary School) and I practised mathematics every night after dinner, from nine to eleven. Zero Coefficient of Correlation The coefficient of correlation is always ranges between -1 to +1. This I learnt under the tutelage of my maths tutor. Thanks to him I also learnt the implications of this statement. Reading autobiographies and biographies and in particular Mahatma Gandhi’s autobiography gave me a remarkable insight into the minds of leading personalities and inspiring figures. These books provided several answers to the probing mind of a strapping youngster in me and honed my faith in myself. Before we realised months had flown by and it was time for my mathematics board exam. Several students appearing for this examination floundered while attempting the question related to co-efficient of co-relation. As I attempted the question, I calculated the answer to be zero. Thanks to my maths tutor I knew this was a possible correct answer, unlike my friend Khokhan, who worked out the problem correctly but scratched out everything thinking that zero could not possibly be the answer. In the bargain he lost twenty marks. Khokhan was devastated. Till date, I can empathise with him as he threw the gauntlet after that. The other Bengali, the sharp-witted Satra too had been flummoxed by the mathematics paper but she rallied round in other papers of sciences. So, among the quartet which included Bumboo of Doctor’s Quarters, I had fared amazingly well in the maths examination by scoring 97/100. My mother heaved a sigh of relief and silently thanked all the spiritual Masters we had encountered and whose blessings we had received as certainly this was a unique story of faith and miracles. Coup De Grace Amitabh Bachchan earns one crore per day, said the cover page of India Today. I was engrossed in the magazine, reading the about the meteoric rise of the superstar while travelling from New Delhi to Madras by Tamil Nadu Express in AC Chair Car. This was my first journey travelling alone and unchaperoned. Yes, my guardian angels were there to protect me. I was also thinking about Satra and admiring smart young girls who were travelling by the train. I reckon it was too early for testosterone to ignite but slowly we all were aware of our sexual drives and masculinity. While indulging in these thoughts electric currents passed through minds and bodies. Though later a feeling of remorse would grip the mind. However, this was an integral part of growing up. After spending a month in Madras, I returned to base camp Delhi. The all-important class 12 results were to be declared. Bumboo had not changed but was chastened and did not indulge in his repeated criticism and constant ranting about me. The month was June, and the year 1980. Mrs Indira Gandhi was firmly ensconced as the new Prime Minister of India after defeating the motley Janata Party and its offshoots at the hustings. Sometime during that month our 12th standard results were declared. I had topped the Commerce section! Perhaps I could have scored a century in maths with a little more alacrity. Nevertheless, it was a chutzpah moment for my parents, my sister and me. After my schooling, I joined Hindu College, Delhi University. My passion for writing and acting in plays continued and I also forayed into Hindustani classical music. I participated in several music and theatre workshops organised by noted artistes. National School of Drama and other theatre centres at Mandi House, New Delhi were almost my second home much to the consternation of my father who opined that I was going astray. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The School for Wives, is a comedy in five acts by Molière and was first performed in 1662 and later published in 1663 as L’École des femmes. This play was adapted in Hindi by the noted writer and director Balraj Pandit and we participated in the play under the inscrutable Pankaj Kapur. This was a defining moment for me. It was mesmerising to see him enact scenes in a facile manner. It was a daunting audition conducted by Pankaj Kapur a demanding and exacting theatre personality, but I was among the six participants who was selected to perform in the play Panchva Savar, the Hindi adaptation of Moliere’s play. Little did we realise Anu Agarwal who was one of our co-stars who attained the status of a celebrity thanks to the movie Ashiqui. The year was 1982 and we were in mid-October. Normally, Delhi is affected by an atmospheric phenomenon called October heat, but the weather was pleasant. Hindu College Theatre repertory company received a standing ovation by an enthusiastic crowd at Sri Ram Centre (a dream to perform by aspiring artistes) for staging Panchva Savar. I was on cloud nine and smoking a cigarette. I was in a tearing hurry to return home. Waiting at Mandi House bus stop, suddenly I felt someone tap my shoulder. Upon turning around, I was to face my father and the cigarette fell from my hands and I was feeling absolutely numbed. The journey on the chartered bus from Mandi House to Kingsway Camp was a treacherous and long one, as I was attempting to dodge a barrage of questions. My mother was aware that I was participating in the play, but not my father who was at his wits end with my first-year performance in B.Com.(Hons) where had I secured a paltry 50%. He was keen that I worked hard to ensure a better score in the following year. There was a big showdown between my parents and there were no winners. It was a combat between logic and faith. “Did he not top 11th and 12th standard examinations? Did he not participate in Kidstuf and other plays? When will you develop faith in almighty God’s plan that everything will be taken care off?” my mother confronted my father. Eventually it was my younger sister who brokered peace and I was left wondering whether my father upbraided me for the occasional drag or participation in theatre. Perhaps it was a combination of both the factors. Is there a circle of reason in life? I reckon there is a circle of reason in life which has both historical as well as supernatural elements. Mythical and supernatural elements have been woven by dramatists like Shakespeare and Girish Karnad. Bumboo in his jealousy had created ideas, characters and metaphors and the irony was they boomeranged on him. His actors and characters were yet to become fiendish metaphors, all this thought process was negative. And it is a truism that it imploded in greater negativity. The characters as well as different situations of our lives included our two families, Satra and his desperation to succeed and to ensure my downfall. But all these were rooted in baseless obsession. There was a historical context in my migration from St Michael’s to St Xavier’s and our family’s association with many spiritual masters which acted as a ballast in my recovery physically and mentally. Anyone who studies the importance of positive thinking and efficacious thoughts comes to realize that the more positive our thoughts, the more positive our life would be. Others see it as a Law of the Universe, and that we are all affected by the Law of Attraction, or the Law of Vibration. Many consider the effects of the power of the subconscious mind and how a person’s unconscious beliefs affect their life and their ability to achieve their goals. She inculcated this quality in me and advised me to stay positive and remain humble. I had passed out of school and enrolled as a student of the prestigious Hindu College based on my academic performance and Bumboo soon joined the class through patronage.

THE LORD'S PRAYER

Good Morning!!! THE LORD'S PRAYER Around the Year with Emmet Fox January 31 The Lord's Prayer is the most important of all the Christian documents. Everyone who is seeking to follow along the Way that Jesus led, should pray the Lord's Prayer intelligently every day. The Great Prayer is a compact formula for the development of the soul. It is designated with the utmost care for that specific purpose; so that those who use it regularly, with understanding, will experience a real change of the soul. It is the change of the soul that matters. The mere acquisition of knowledge received intellectually makes no change in the soul. The first thing that we notice is that the prayer naturally falls into seven clauses. This is the characteristic of the Oriental tradition. Seven symbolizes individual completeness, the perfection of the individual soul, just as the number twelve in the same convention stands for corporate completeness. The seven clauses are put together in perfect order and sequence, and they contain everything that is necessary for the nourishment of the soul. The more one analyzes the Lord's Prayer, the more wonderful its construction is seen to be. “After this manner therefore pray ye...” Matthew 6:9

Science of God

New Beautiful Quotes 1180-1171 My All Beautiful Quotes At One Place-… Newsletter cover image Science of God For Future World Part 123 Author image Pravin Agrawal 🇮🇳 Read this article on LinkedIn to join the conversation Read on LinkedIn Science of God For the Future World has been designed with the objective of bringing a positive change on this planet earth with the overall good of all the people of this beautiful universe. This ebook is for every age group of people who can understand it. It is the collection of beautiful thoughts with the blessings and grace of beloved Lord Sri Krishna which are shared for all the people of the world irrespective of any difference of religion, nation, gender, status, race, caste, language etc. What is Science of God? Do you know? Science of God For the Future World. It is the most secret, most sacred Science. It is the most ancient Science. It is thousands of years old Science. What is this Science? See every one soul, Atma, Self. See Krishna, Jesus, Allah, God or Almighty inside of everyone without any difference of religion, nation, gender etc. Behave accordingly. Be Roman in Rome. Behave as per the worldly requirement. But don't forget, everyone is the son of God irrespective of religion, gender, nation, language, race etc. Thus you can make your future golden. And one day you may find yourself very near to the Almighty. Thus one day you may know that you are not the body. You are soul, Atma, Self. In some places you may find some Hindi or Sanskrit words. If you want to know about these words, you can Google search for them. The author solicits your sincere apology in case of any types of mistake or inconvenience. Accept infinite love, thanks and Pranam from the author. ॐ ॐ ॐ

CHAPTER 5 Conquer new Frontiers - A Story of Faith and Miracles

CHAPTER 5 Conquer new Frontiers I had to seize fresh avenues as I entered class 11, with opportunity and hope and the unflinching faith of my parents and a burning desire to fulfil my passions – watch plenty of theatre, write plays, act, and direct dramas, learn music, participate in public speaking and watching avant garde movies. Strangely I was a very shy person, perhaps with more qualities of being an ambivert and was never an extrovert. And as I read Mahatma’s autobiography, I discovered he too was a very diffident individual yet he pioneered India’s freedom struggle through the strategies of non-violence and civil disobedience. Thus, I was inspired by the autobiography in search of my solutions to fight the warring demons and tormentors in my mind. Showtime at Purana Quila Girish Karnad was all of 26 when he wrote Tughlaq. As novelist late U.R. Ananthamurthy wrote in the preface to the OUP publication of the play, perhaps no other play reflects, the political mood of disillusionment which followed the Nehru era of idealism” in India in the 1960s. The Pathaks, their nephew Panduranga Hegde (recently arrived from Dharwad to pursue Masters in Social Work from Delhi University) and our family were stunned to the core at the majestic ramparts of Purana Quila once the curtains were drawn on Girish Karnad’s script, directed by the noted director, Ibrahim Alkazi and performed by National School of Drama Repertory Company. Our families were soaking-in the imaginative performance long after it was over and we were relishing a meal at the acclaimed Kwality restaurant in Connaught Circus. The play fired my imagination and I was keen to dabble in amateur theatre. Over the last couple of years, I did begin to produce plays at our doctor’s quarters complex along with other youngsters much to the chagrin and consternation of Bumboo and some others. Class 11 was a different ball game. But unexpectedly I was performing reasonably well in the Commerce stream, though mathematics and accounts were still bothersome. Like several others, I secretly admired figures but once again like most of them was horrified by numbers. Two sections E and D separated me and Bumboo in Class 11. I was in section E, while he was in section D. Bumboo could not follow the footsteps of his father and older sister to pursue sciences and emerge as a doctor. Securing mere 62% in the board examinations in class 10 examination did not fetch him a seat in the Science stream. He thus had to settle with the lesser mortals and the hoi polloi like us to be in the Commerce stream. While this did not mean a thing to the rest of us, the Chandana’s felt it was quite a climbdown for them. A petite English teacher was to become a new entrant to the faculty. Apparently, she had relocated from the USA where she had been teaching. This teacher instantly became the heartthrob of most of us and the more vocal among us unabashedly declared our affection and love for her. But things came crashing and we were all put to shame when we were confronted by a strapping youngster who confronted us stating that the woman in question was his mother. Hopes of students crashed, not quite a Summer of ‘42 rather a harsh summer of ‘78. Finally, my mother’s faith seemed to bear fruit with my performance in Class 10 and the midterm performance of Class 11, so much so I topped the class despite a not too brilliant performance in mathematics and accountancy. My father, seeing my performance gathered enough pluck to attend parent-teacher meetings with my improved academic performance. All these years it was my mother who with her faith in the divine had faced the brunt. The English teacher found reasonable spark in my performance and advised my father that I ought to read plays, biographies and autobiographies to improve my vocabulary. I had already read Mahatma Gandhi’s autobiography and she was suitably impressed and asked me to reread it apart from others. My father pulled out books like Discovery of India by Jawahar Lal Nehru, Is Paris Burning, books by Somerset Maugham and my mother was to give me a copy of the Autobiography of a Yogi by Parahamsa Yogananda, apart from Ramayana and Mahabharata by C. Rajagoplachari. The choice of books said it all where the heart lay and what was the deeper meaning of faith, miracles, and logic. Another sagacious advice the English teacher gave was to learn new English words and quotations of eminent people. This gladdened my father’s heart. And so, I began this practice. Very soon I was performing on stage and surprised my classmates and several in school to win the best new face award for my performance in a Hindi play. I was able to overcome stage fright and grab the opportunities which came my way. The biggest break for me materialized when I successfully qualified after an audition for the music-theatre workshop to be conducted by Barry John and Param Vir. Kidstuf, the magnum opus of the school was also co-produced by Max Mueller Bhavan. I was to take part in this production, a matter which confounded Bumboo and other detractors no end. Politics and spirituality are two subjects which have always fascinated my mind. And I always had my tryst with spirituality and politics at a tender age. Machiavelli the author of Prince proposed that immoral behaviour, such as the use of deceit and the murder of innocents, was normal and effective in politics. While spirituality involves the recognition of a feeling or sense or belief that there is something greater than myself, something more to being human than sensory experience, and that the greater whole of which we are part is cosmic or divine in nature. I was indeed surprised and my parents were delighted that their son was first made the class monitor by the affable Economics teacher Father Padyatti and soon elevated as school prefect. This was one step shy of being the Vice-President or President of the school. I was seizing all opportunities that came my way. The biggest of them of all was to top the commerce section. And my mother’s immense faith in the divine which guides our lives was buttressed further. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Inexplicable During all this, there were two inexplicable events which astonished me no end and the faith of my mother in the almighty increased manifold. Upon completion of rehearsals of Kidstuf, I had a rather strange feeling on the bus I was travelling by. Upon reaching our home, I was with my mother and sister and told them that something extraordinary or unexpected was about to occur. I kept repeating this to them and while they looked askance. It was sometime in the evening and we were standing in the balcony of our house. Quite unexpectedly the weather changed, the elements danced like never before, the weather was tempestuous which was followed by a massive dust storm, accompanied by blinding lightning and then a heavy downpour. My mother acknowledged my clairvoyance and brushed my hair. My inner voice had triggered the thought process I was to think to myself. There was a funnel of wind which moved at a frenetic and ferocious pace like a sizzling python from a spot in Roop Nagar (in West Delhi), crossing Delhi University causing massive wreckage enroute, demolishing trees, property, affecting the travelling public. Several theories were floated to explain the phenomenon which ranged from the arrival of a UFO, a Chinese satellite, atmospheric changes to the wrath of the Gods. Nevertheless, this brief spell of stormy weather left a trail of destruction about which I had had a semblance of clue through the inner voice. The next day we were a witness to the debris. And the testimony was a smashed autorickshaw perched on the terrace of Khalsa College in Delhi University. People narrated strange stories as to how they were lifted by the velocity of the winds, all of which added spice to the drama of the previous evening. The event, which was accompanied by a trail of havoc and most importantly that I could predict that something extraordinary was to happen registered on my mother. She could feel that with all the spiritual encounters and her intense faith in the divine, I had developed a strong sense, – a sixth sense. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The jaws of teachers and students alike dropped in disbelief and astonishment as the Principal, Father Kunnankal announced, “Ravi Valluri and Puneet Seth will not appear for the 11th standard final examination as they are performing in Kidstuf, our showcase project.” Both Puneet and I had been desperate to participate in the musical but wondered with the impending 11th standard examination, how we would be able to. “This is again providential, a clear indication of divine intervention and deep faith. I would call it a miracle,” my mother remarked. “An average of their academic performance of the entire year would be taken to determine the marks they secure for the final examination,” added our principal before he turned around and left the room. Incidentally I topped the class with distinction and a proud mother was present at the function in school clutching on to the rosary she always kept and uttered a silent prayer. Without doubt by the grace and blessings of Masters, my ancestors, my parents and Swamiji, I could seize opportunities even when the chips were down. CHAPTER 6 Upending the Pyramid Having been exempted from the final examination, Puneet and I jumped headlong into the rehearsals and performances at Delhi, Bombay, and Shimla. Well, I found all the Keralite priests and our teachers like Fr Puthumana, Fr Padyati and Fr Kunnankal who were the think tank at St Xavier’s School to be extremely considerate and thought out-of-the box. They consented to the unconventional decision of permitting two students from not appearing for class 11th examination but participate in a musical play. But can we imagine schools in this day which have classes 1 to 12, with sections A to Z, ever consider to take such an audacious step? The system of rote which has evolved over the years places premium on marks, numbers, and acquisition of information over knowledge, can seldom think radically. For me Wisdom= Information + Knowledge and only in such a situation can a tutee genuinely appreciate the vast repository of consciousness and academics. My mother though not privy to this atypical decision and silently prayed so that I did not miss out on the wonderful opportunity; the exposure of performing in a musical as grand as this one. St Xavier’s School had carved a niche for itself and became the lodestar of the educational system while her son was shining in both academics and extracurricular activities. Those were heady times for the family. A few months prior to the tasting the heady success of winning best new face award in Class 11th and preparing for Kidstuf, there were other exciting developments taking place. Along with a motely crowd of youngsters who despite possessing dramatic talent could not quite jostle space with those proficient in English language at St Xavier’s School, we managed to adapt a musical into Hindi - Bharatendu Harischandra’s seminal play Andher Nagri Chaupat Raja which was a surprise package and took St Xavier’s, the premier English public school by storm and was also selected for the All Delhi Schools Play competition and went on to win critical acclaim. Alas we narrowly missed the coveted trophy. My life was sandwiched between two musicals. While Kidstuf was a magnum opus production, Andher Nagri, Chaupat Raja was spartan but equally effective and telling. My co-actors of Kidstuf fretted in disgust as we staged the play and won the 1st prize in school but stood 2nd in the interschool competition the Delhi. It could have been a first prize but we were a trifle overconfident. Their angst was how could an English-speaking actor perform in a Hindi play? But my mother had instilled confidence in me and asked me to blank out all criticism from my mind and focus merely on studies and continue acting in theatre. As a medical social worker, she realised that participation in such activities released positive endorphins in the mind to transfigure our lives and become agents of change in the society. Class 12 was the next summit to be scaled. It was no surprise to my mother that I topped the 11th standard examination, though my father was apprehensive about me acting in the musical. The bugbear of numbers continued to haunt me and chase me. In order to prevent a repeat of class 8, my parents judiciously engaged a tutor, Shri Narendra Dev to teach me mathematics. And soon I could solve all questions ranging from algebra to probability. Very soon mathematics did not appear toxic. My friend Khokhan (a moniker for Udayan or rising sun, a student of Rosary School) and I practised mathematics every night after dinner, from nine to eleven. Zero Coefficient of Correlation The coefficient of correlation is always ranges between -1 to +1. This I learnt under the tutelage of my maths tutor. Thanks to him I also learnt the implications of this statement. Reading autobiographies and biographies and in particular Mahatma Gandhi’s autobiography gave me a remarkable insight into the minds of leading personalities and inspiring figures. These books provided several answers to the probing mind of a strapping youngster in me and honed my faith in myself. Before we realised months had flown by and it was time for my mathematics board exam. Several students appearing for this examination floundered while attempting the question related to co-efficient of co-relation. As I attempted the question, I calculated the answer to be zero. Thanks to my maths tutor I knew this was a possible correct answer, unlike my friend Khokhan, who worked out the problem correctly but scratched out everything thinking that zero could not possibly be the answer. In the bargain he lost twenty marks. Khokhan was devastated. Till date, I can empathise with him as he threw the gauntlet after that. The other Bengali, the sharp-witted Satra too had been flummoxed by the mathematics paper but she rallied round in other papers of sciences. So, among the quartet which included Bumboo of Doctor’s Quarters, I had fared amazingly well in the maths examination by scoring 97/100. My mother heaved a sigh of relief and silently thanked all the spiritual Masters we had encountered and whose blessings we had received as certainly this was a unique story of faith and miracles. Coup De Grace Amitabh Bachchan earns one crore per day, said the cover page of India Today. I was engrossed in the magazine, reading the about the meteoric rise of the superstar while travelling from New Delhi to Madras by Tamil Nadu Express in AC Chair Car. This was my first journey travelling alone and unchaperoned. Yes, my guardian angels were there to protect me. I was also thinking about Satra and admiring smart young girls who were travelling by the train. I reckon it was too early for testosterone to ignite but slowly we all were aware of our sexual drives and masculinity. While indulging in these thoughts electric currents passed through minds and bodies. Though later a feeling of remorse would grip the mind. However, this was an integral part of growing up. After spending a month in Madras, I returned to base camp Delhi. The all-important class 12 results were to be declared. Bumboo had not changed but was chastened and did not indulge in his repeated criticism and constant ranting about me. The month was June, and the year 1980. Mrs Indira Gandhi was firmly ensconced as the new Prime Minister of India after defeating the motley Janata Party and its offshoots at the hustings. Sometime during that month our 12th standard results were declared. I had topped the Commerce section! Perhaps I could have scored a century in maths with a little more alacrity. Nevertheless, it was a chutzpah moment for my parents, my sister and me. After my schooling, I joined Hindu College, Delhi University. My passion for writing and acting in plays continued and I also forayed into Hindustani classical music. I participated in several music and theatre workshops organised by noted artistes. National School of Drama and other theatre centres at Mandi House, New Delhi were almost my second home much to the consternation of my father who opined that I was going astray. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The School for Wives, is a comedy in five acts by Molière and was first performed in 1662 and later published in 1663 as L’École des femmes. This play was adapted in Hindi by the noted writer and director Balraj Pandit and we participated in the play under the inscrutable Pankaj Kapur. This was a defining moment for me. It was mesmerising to see him enact scenes in a facile manner. It was a daunting audition conducted by Pankaj Kapur a demanding and exacting theatre personality, but I was among the six participants who was selected to perform in the play Panchva Savar, the Hindi adaptation of Moliere’s play. Little did we realise Anu Agarwal who was one of our co-stars who attained the status of a celebrity thanks to the movie Ashiqui. The year was 1982 and we were in mid-October. Normally, Delhi is affected by an atmospheric phenomenon called October heat, but the weather was pleasant. Hindu College Theatre repertory company received a standing ovation by an enthusiastic crowd at Sri Ram Centre (a dream to perform by aspiring artistes) for staging Panchva Savar. I was on cloud nine and smoking a cigarette. I was in a tearing hurry to return home. Waiting at Mandi House bus stop, suddenly I felt someone tap my shoulder. Upon turning around, I was to face my father and the cigarette fell from my hands and I was feeling absolutely numbed. The journey on the chartered bus from Mandi House to Kingsway Camp was a treacherous and long one, as I was attempting to dodge a barrage of questions. My mother was aware that I was participating in the play, but not my father who was at his wits end with my first-year performance in B.Com.(Hons) where had I secured a paltry 50%. He was keen that I worked hard to ensure a better score in the following year. There was a big showdown between my parents and there were no winners. It was a combat between logic and faith. “Did he not top 11th and 12th standard examinations? Did he not participate in Kidstuf and other plays? When will you develop faith in almighty God’s plan that everything will be taken care off?” my mother confronted my father. Eventually it was my younger sister who brokered peace and I was left wondering whether my father upbraided me for the occasional drag or participation in theatre. Perhaps it was a combination of both the factors. Is there a circle of reason in life? I reckon there is a circle of reason in life which has both historical as well as supernatural elements. Mythical and supernatural elements have been woven by dramatists like Shakespeare and Girish Karnad. Bumboo in his jealousy had created ideas, characters and metaphors and the irony was they boomeranged on him. His actors and characters were yet to become fiendish metaphors, all this thought process was negative. And it is a truism that it imploded in greater negativity. The characters as well as different situations of our lives included our two families, Satra and his desperation to succeed and to ensure my downfall. But all these were rooted in baseless obsession. There was a historical context in my migration from St Michael’s to St Xavier’s and our family’s association with many spiritual masters which acted as a ballast in my recovery physically and mentally. Anyone who studies the importance of positive thinking and efficacious thoughts comes to realize that the more positive our thoughts, the more positive our life would be. Others see it as a Law of the Universe, and that we are all affected by the Law of Attraction, or the Law of Vibration. Many consider the effects of the power of the subconscious mind and how a person’s unconscious beliefs affect their life and their ability to achieve their goals. She inculcated this quality in me and advised me to stay positive and remain humble. I had passed out of school and enrolled as a student of the prestigious Hindu College based on my academic performance and Bumboo soon joined the class through patronage.

CHAPTER 4 Celebration Time - A Story of Faith and Miracles

CHAPTER 4 Celebration Time Few in the extended Valluri and Vemavarapu families were privy to the fact that my mother would have been a Padma awardee for her notable contribution in rehabilitation of tuberculosis patients. Apparently, Sanjay Gandhi was singularly impressed with the yeoman service performed by her in revamping the scarred physical and mental bodies of those suffering from the debilitating disease. This word was carried by a Gandhi family loyalist named Bibi Amtus Salam who had generously contributed to the rejuvenation exercise launched by my mother. The Catholic Church through the benevolent aegis of CARITAS and the Missionaries of Charities also pitched in and above all the right-wing Sangh Parivar led by Shri Dhanraj Ojha (who bore an uncanny resemblance with character artiste Om Prakash) also arranged for funds to run the projects. “Balaji, how can you equate Swami Vivekananda a spiritual giant with the Swamiji of Mysore,” the more cerebral friends would question her. And pat came the reply, “Has your child suffered from malabsorption, have you kept innumerable nights watching your child writhing in pain?” The genius and intellect of such friends paled into insignificance as they had no answer. I was now in Class 10, a decisive year, while my sister was in Class 5 of Presentation Convent. My father was busy climbing the ladder of FICCI and simultaneously working backroom for the Janata Party. Several devotees of Swamiji attempted a truce which was politely turned down by my parents. However, the strings of spirituality were unexpectedly conjured by the magical universe. This was the period when we began frequenting Aurobindo Ashram in New Delhi where my father’s close friend Mr A. Rama Rao working with Khadi and Village Commission was based, and their organisation too started to help my mother in the hospital projects. Quite unexpectedly we attended several lectures and discourses of Swami Chinmayananda of the Ramakrishna Mission and we also had the privilege of paying homage to Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Thus, the universe had manufactured in its own strange and magical way such that the vacuum of Swamiji’s absence would not be felt by the family; a family which was once tied so closely to him. My inner voice made me realise that it was my parents’ faith that things would work out fine even if we were no longer attached to Swamiji; faith which was developed over a period. Tenth standard meant hectic preparation in all the subjects which included mathematics and sciences. I was competing more with myself than against Bumboo who was expected to be one of the toppers of the school. Not surprisingly, a majority of the students performed rather miserably in the pre-board or preparatory examination. This was also the stage where I began my tryst with reading biographies and autobiographies, a habit I have never given up. I also began to write and act in one act plays at home. My father would read out C Rajagopalachari’s Ramayana and Mahabharata to me and my sister besides which we devoured comics like Tintin, Asterix and Amar Chitra Katha. In Hyderabad It was the day of denouement as the class 10 examination results were to be declared by C.B.S.E. This was a major milestone leading to an important career choice for any student. Job opportunities, prior to globalisation and opening of the economy in 1991 were straight jacketed and followed a straight and narrow pattern, a definite trajectory. In this steeplechase majority were asses and a few, fine bred horses. I was figuring out whether I was an ass or a horse as education implied going through motions, rote learning being the modus operandi. In the pre-liberalisation era, the standard markers in the life of a student were, 10th standard, 12th standard, graduation, and post-graduation. Unless of course one joined course like engineering, medicine, Chartered Accountancy or MBA. The really hardworking ones crack the Civil Services Examination. At the top of the pyramid was to become a Civil Servant, an IAS officer. My father was very keen that I follow the hallowed traditions of the Valluris and join the august IAS. I was in Hyderabad spending my summer vacations once the 10th standard examinations were over. My mother had decided that I ought to interact with the Valluri clan too after spending considerable time with my grandparents at Madras and being at the Mysore Ashram. The weather was muggy and a flight landed from Delhi ferrying my cousin Jaya, her husband and their two young sons. The quartet was returning from London. The Valluri menage were present in large numbers at my uncle’s household to receive the family from London. My paternal uncle, once a former judge of the Andhra Pradesh High Court had subsequently emerged as a prominent arbitrator. As a trustee of the Sathya Sai Organisation he had performed seva for the organisation. He and several other Valluris were staunch devotees of Sathya Sai Baba. Baba has a world-wide presence even to this day and several miracles take place; sacred ash appears from nowhere among other magical events. When on this planet, he commanded a mammoth following which included the who’s who of India and overseas. I was once told by the parting transmigratory souls at Mysore Ashram that Swamiji and Baba often met at the astral plane, something which I could never decode or fathom at that time. In the meantime, the ongoing celebratory mood did not seep into me. Since morning I was in a mild kind of tension as the results by C.B.S.E. were to be declared on that very day. I was expectantly waiting for the telephone to ring, waiting for the BIG announcement. Every minute seemed to be a lifetime. Clouds of doubt and fear gripped me. Did I flunk? Oh God! Hope I did not fail in maths. How much did Bumboo manage to score? Why were my parents not announcing the results? Such kind of negative thoughts cannonaded my mind. and I was struggling to remain afloat. In this finite existence this extraordinary long wait appeared eternity peppered with several possibilities. Jaya, my cousin, could palpably feel my levels of anxiety increasing with beads of sweat forming on my forehead. After some agonising moments she handed over a chit of paper. With a degree of trepidation, I read my mother’s handwriting and silently exclaimed - a 1st Division, 64.45% with 120/150 in social sciences. The Valluri ménage broke into quite an applause. Though because my uncle, was present the celebration was rather muted. The results were a shocker for Bumboo, as a rank outsider, treated like a pariah by him and the more cerebral kinds, I had outperformed several of them. Bumboo could manage only 62% and was a picture of resignation and discomfort! I was to learn later that Satra had enquired about my result. She had sailed through scoring a splendid 70% plus. My parents and their friends were extremely joyous and some devotees had called up Swamiji to inform about my performance in the 10th standard. My mother heaved a sigh of relief as her faith in the divine had scaled new heights. My father was rendered speechless with my performance and achievement as he pored over The Statesman, his favourite newspaper. It was a high-octane time and there was massive celebration at D-19 the moment I arrived Delhi from Hyderabad quite like a politician winning at the hustings.

CHAPTER 3 On a Learning Curve - A Story of Faith and Miracles

CHAPTER 3 On a Learning Curve June 25th 1975 Little did my father realise that on the fateful day of 25th June 1975, a national internal emergency would be clamped in the country and several leaders of the then opposition belonging to various hues such as the talismanic JP, fabled Kriplani, a stickler-Gandhian Morarji Bhai, Sangh leader Advani, socialist Madhu Dandavate, and the renegade Chandrashekhar (who was still in the Congress but opposed to the dictatorial policies of the Prime Minister) and the orator par excellence Atal Behari Vajpayee among others would be garrisoned that night. Scores were hunted, hounded and sent to jail for their acts of defiance, charged with treason. There was apparently an internal and external threat to the nation. An external emergency was already in force after the 1971 war with Pakistan. My father returned home after listening to the galaxy of leaders at the iconic Ram Lila maidan. They had launched a clarion call against the despotic ways of Mrs Gandhi and demanded her resignation following an indictment by the Allahabad High Court for resorting to malpractices in the polls held in 1971. Officially the state of Emergency was issued by President Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed invoking Article 352 of the Constitution because of the prevailing internal disturbance. For much of the Emergency, most of Indira Gandhi's political opponents were incarcerated and the press was censored. Several other human rights violations were reported from the time, including a mass forced sterilization campaign spearheaded by Sanjay Gandhi, the Prime Minister's son. My father, a socialist by training, was working for the captains of the Indian industry at FICCI, yet he waged his own battle. He became an intermediary to pass on confidential literature of the rebels fighting the Prime Minister and her tyrannical and power-hungry son in Sanjay Gandhi. At times some strange looking individuals would surface at our house during Swamiji’s satsangs. They would mingle among the group of devotees, sing bhajans in a croaking voice much to the consternation of devotees immersed in blissful singing. Behind the veneer of religiosity and spirituality political activities were undertaken. While he would never acknowledge it, the fact my father was not nabbed by the police was nothing but providential grace and my mother would attribute it to his good karma, blessings of Swamiji and faith resulting into miracles. Some other locations where my father interacted with the rebels of the government who were then labelled as the enemy of the people included Triveni Kala Sangam and Sri Ram Centre for Art and Culture while savouring parathas with keema (the ministering angels through the inner voice exclaimed animatedly to me). Overnight my father became a dilletante and theatre lover, confabulating strategy of the anarchists in hushed voices with political activists while National School of Drama staged Macbeth, Julius Caesar and Tughlaq. “The fact that once again you escaped unscathed from the wrath of the dictatorial mother and son indicates that you are protected by the blessings of Swamiji and the ministering angels,” my mother was to firmly tell my father who still remained unmoved. A professor friend of my parents at the Delhi School of Social Work began growing a beard to register his protest against the imposition of Emergency. Once a strange incident had taken place when an uncle from Allahabad, who bore an uncanny resemblance with the firebrand socialist and trade union leader George Fernandes was almost taken into custody at Malkaganj near Delhi University where my maternal aunt stayed. Today this may appear hilarious and comical but it only reflected the prevalent fear during that period. He was spared of being arrested as Gautam Kaul, the DCP and a Gandhi family loyalist stepped in at the appropriate juncture at my mother’s behest. Normally people would fear to call the police in such situations, but my mother had immense faith in Swamiji and her icons which did not deter her from taking the step. Tragically a trade unionist belonging to the AIRF and my father’s close friend, was taken into custody the moment he landed at Secunderabad station, apparently for indulging in antinational activities. He was to perform the last rites of his father handcuffed. The ministering angels through the inner voice were to mention how deeply these people were affected by the Emergency while we youngsters squabbled for marks and adored Satras of the day. But the rebels carried the day through an intrinsic belief in the change of regime at an opportune time. All these intrepid efforts of saviours of democracy were attributed by the family to Swamiji’s miracles and dutifully reported to the mystic miracle man of Mysore. My mother continued with her social work alongside organising various events of Swamiji. I continued to visit Mysore Ashram and struck some spiritual roots; my father was busy with his official and political work. Though I had discovered my mojo to a great extent I was to suffer occasional abdominal pains and excruciating cramps. Now that I had apparently overcome the malaise of malabsorption, there were a few savouries which I began to devour in school. These included samosa, bread pakora of the school canteen, Fateh Chand’s delectable kachoris and Tibetan food at Tip Dhab (an acronym for Tibetan Dhaba) as students narrated their wet dreams, sexual fantasies and those who had some close encounters shared them with great pride. Suddenly, one day I was gripped by an acute, unbearable abdominal cramps which lasted for several hours till I reached home. It lasted for 4 to 5 hours and I was taken to the medical room in the school and was administered an analgesic as a palliative which was scarcely effective. My sister was quite young but could empathise with my agony. She managed to call up my father and my mother. My mother’s simple remedy was, “Give Munna Swamiji’s vibhuti and tell him to hold on to the tayatu. He will be fine.” And the magic worked. Was it a placebo effect my father wondered? Soon my mother made a call to Swamiji and thanked him. Swamiji sent his blessings and asked my mother to be present for the Navaratri pujas at Mysore Ashram along with us children. Swamiji’s directive was a commandment which could not be ignored or violated. Come Navaratri, and it was an extraordinary spectacle to behold as the Ashram resonated and reverberated with the hymns of Devi bhajans. Those nine days passed away in a jiffy as the devout were transported into ecstasy. Swamiji looked majestic in his divine form as he performed numerous miracles. The colour blind got back their hue, those suffering from chronic spondylitis and arthritis could soon move around the Ashram without much discomfort. The prasadam served after the pujas acted as an elixir for the ones suffering from rheumatism, heart ailments, diabetes and other disorders. The Ashram became a veritable healing centre. “This is what faith does, it can move mountains,” my mother’s common refrain and we all were aware about it. What is faith? Under comfortable environments, with our careers going well and family lives maintaining peace, many of us will have the faith to follow the Lord, actively reading the spiritual texts and attending meetings; however, once something unpleasant happens, we will become enfeebled immediately. For example, when we are facing adverse situations because of losing our job, when our families lose peace due to something against our wishes happening, or when we are always refused a new job despite our praying, we begin losing our faith in God. Then, in consideration of all these things, what is real faith exactly? Perhaps in the case of our family the energy or fuel for the extraordinary attenuation was supplied from the Chamundeshwari temple; the moment when Swamiji materialised the talisman and produced sacred ash from thin air which set about the process to repair my health. One becomes a magnet for miracles, only if one chooses to be. Our thoughts, emotions, beliefs, feelings, intentions and actions are nothing but energy and based on vibrational frequency we attract things to our life. In other words, we attract words, events and extraordinary situations and emerge stronger. Swamiji declared that New Year’s Day would be celebrated on the banks of the Ganges at Rishikesh. All of us were to be present and join the Shivaratri Puja in February too. We were at Rishikesh and at Mysore Ashram; when Swamiji produced a Shiva Linga from his throat while he was in havan kund during Shivaratri. My father who was still waging his war against an authoritarian regime in his own small way was never impressed with the miracles of Swamiji. Babas, swamis, rishis and mystics never appealed to his thought process. The bedrock of his faith always remained science and pluralism. Thus, he paid more attention to the Chandana school of thought rather than listen to my mother. This tussle between my parents continued endlessly and my sister and I were a witness to their endless sparring. His mind could never accept a person jumping into fire and producing a Shiv Ling or something else or producing some sacred ash or materializing objects. The only credit he gave Swamiji was the exceptional musical talent with which enthralled devotees and him alike. March 1977 My father’s faith in democracy carried the day as Janata Party which consisted of various opposition parties joined hands to oust the despotic Prime Minister and her coterie which included her tyrant son. Mr Pathak was dispirited with the news of Shri Ramakrishna Hegde’s defeat but nevertheless shaved off the trademark beard he had grown against Emergency the moment Congress Party and the perpetrators of Emergency met their nemesis. My father who was one of the members of the Manifesto Committee of Janata Party was ecstatic with the performance of the Janata Party. In fact, lamps were lit on our terrace and several people like Mr Pathak lit candles. It was a moment of triumph as good prevailed over evil. Around this time, we had returned back from Shivaratri at the Ashram. Little did I know this was to be our last visit to the Ashram. Soon after there was a phone call between my mother and Swamiji. Our relationship was severed over certain misdemeanours. My mother confronted Swamiji and snapped ties. But till her end she never bore any grudge against him and always attributed me regaining my health to the divine powers of Swamiji. My mother always lived on her terms by living in the present moment with the construct of truth and karma. She never spoke ill of Swamiji, but we were no longer devotees of the Miracle Man as my uncle would refer to him. A deliberate Digression My uncle was to marry a Protestant. None in the family had the courage or conviction to defy my grandfather and attend the exchange of vows except my mother. “Walk like a king and be a humble servant,” is what Gurudev Sri Sri Ravi Shankar says and this is what my mother did all her life. Meanwhile there were no more questions asked about Swamiji in D-19 much to the delight of Bumboo and the rest of the Chandana clan. But mother never uttered anything negative but only spoke about positive aspects if at all about Swamiji. “Never curse, never speak ill of anyone – you will only fritter your spiritual energy,” says Gurudev Sri Sri Ravi Shankar. And this is the cardinal principle my mother espoused in her life.

THE IMPRISONED SPLENDOUR

Wed 29 Jan, 20:12 (19 hours ago) to Good Morning!!! THE IMPRISONED SPLENDOUR Around the Year with Emmet Fox January 30 Truth is within ourselves; it takes no rise From outward things, what e’er you may believe. There is an inmost centre in us all, Where truth abides in fullness; and around, Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in, This perfect, clear perception—which is truth. A baffling and perverting carnal mesh Binds it, and makes all error: and to know, Rather consists in opening out a way Whence the imprisoned splendor may escape, Than, in effecting entry for a light Supposed to be without. —Robert Browning, “Paracelsus.” Part I “… ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free” John 8:32

*An interesting article for those who believe in God and those who do not believe in God !*

*An interesting article for those who believe in God and those who do not believe in God !* It stimulates our lateral thinking : This lovely parable is from *"Your Sacred Self" by Dr. Wayne Dyer.* In a mother’s womb were two babies. One asked the other: “Do you believe in life after delivery?”The other replied, “Why, of course. There has to be something after delivery. Maybe we are here to prepare ourselves for what we will be later.” “Nonsense” said the first. “There is no life after delivery. What kind of life would that be?” The second said, “I don’t know, but there will be more light than here. Maybe we will walk with our legs and eat from our mouths. Maybe we will have other senses that we can’t understand now.” The first replied, “That is absurd. Walking is impossible. And eating with our mouths? Ridiculous! The umbilical cord supplies nutrition and everything we need. But the umbilical cord is so short. Life after delivery is to be logically excluded.” The second insisted, “Well I think there is something and maybe it’s different than it is here. Maybe we won’t need this physical cord anymore.” The first replied, “Nonsense. And moreover if there is life, then why has no one ever come back from there? Delivery is the end of life, and in the after-delivery there is nothing but darkness and silence and oblivion. It takes us nowhere.” “Well, I don’t know,” said the second, “but certainly we will meet Mother and she will take care of us.” The first replied “Mother? You actually believe in Mother? That’s laughable. If Mother exists then where is She now?” The second said, “She is all around us. We are surrounded by her. We are of Her. It is in Her that we live. Without Her this world would not and could not exist.” Said the first: “Well I don’t see Her, so it is only logical that She doesn’t exist.” To which the second replied, “Sometimes, when you’re in silence and you focus and listen, you can perceive Her presence, and you can hear Her loving voice, calling down from above.” *May be this is one of the best explanations to the concept of 'GOD'!*

What are some interesting facts about Mata Satyabhama from the Mahabharata?

What are some interesting facts about Mata Satyabhama from the Mahabharata? Satyabhama was the daughter of Yadava Chief Satrajit and was the 3rd wife of Sri Krishna. She makes several prominent appearances in the Mahabharata. Satyabhama - Krishna couple are compared to Indra and Sachi - While he was still speaking, Keshava could be seen. That supreme of charioteers was on his chariot, yoked to Sainya and Sugriva. He was with Satyabhama, like Maghavan with Poulami. Devaki’s son had arrived to visit the best of the Kurus. 477(180), Markandeya Samasya parva, Mahabharata. 2. Satyabhama, Krishna, Draupadi and Arjuna had a special palace for themselves in which no one else can enter - After purifying myself, I entered the quarters of those gods among men, looking at my toes and joining my hands in salutation. Abhimanyu and the twins are not allowed entry into the abode where the two Krishnas, and Krishna and the beautiful Satyabhama, reside. 721(58), Yana Sandhi Parva, Mahabharata. 3. Satyabhama had a boon of eternal youth from Aditi - As surely as this universally revered king of the gods is unconquered, you’ll continue to be invincible and unassailable to all beings. And lucky Satyabhama, the best of women, will remain youthful: as long as you’re a human being, Krishna, your wife won’t get old. Chapter 92, Harivamsa, Mahabharata, BORI. 4. Satyabhama's palace was called Bhogavat - Satyabhama lived in a different palace, the white one that they called Bhogavat, the Winding Palace, which had amazing jewelled staircases and was decorated with flags the colour of the bright sun. Chapter 93, Harivamsa, Mahabharata, BORI. 5. Satyabhama was with Krishna during the last journey of the Yadavas to Prabhasa and during the final argument between Satyaki and Kritavarma - Satyaki reminded Madhusudana about the Syamantaka gem that used to be with Satrajit. Hearing this, Satyabhama was enraged. In her rage, she approached Janardana and sat on his lap. 1982 (4), Mausala Parva, Mahabharata. 6. After the destruction of Dwaraka, Satyabhama went to the forest to perform austerities - O king! Satyabhama and the other queens, honoured by Krishna, made up their minds to perform austerities and entered the forest. There were the mentioned who had resided in Dvaravati and had followed Partha. 1986 (8), Mausala Parva, Mahabharata.

*Delhi's Madrasis*

*Delhi's Madrasis* Till about the early sixties, New Delhi was just a central government city, except for a few corporate offices along Ramlila Maidan from Delhi Gate to Ajmeri Gate, a stretch of about a mile and half long road called Asaf Ali Road, and some shops big and small in Connaught Place and Karol Bagh. The inhabitants of the city were mostly government servants living in government quarters located within in a circle of about two miles radius from Gole Market. The high ranking Government servants like Secretaries, Joint Secretaries etc. Lived in aristocratic bungalows in Lodi Estate, Queen Mary’s Road, Aurangazeb Road, Ashoka Road etc. while lesser rank officers like superintendents etc. lived in smaller bungalows on Talkatora Road, Mahadeo Road, Baird Road etc. Low ranked officials like Assistants and Stenographers lived in smaller quarters consisting of an open veranda in the front, a small front room, one or two bed rooms, a store room and kitchen. The latrine in most quarters was away from the living rooms and kitchen at the end of a court yard at the rear side. The quarters were in blocks called “Squares” named after British monarchs and viceroys like Edward Square, Hastings Square, Cornwallis Square, etc. with an occasional Indian name like Ganesh Place, Ranjit Place. The difference between a Square and a Place lay in their shape; the Sqaure had four rows of quarters, one each on its four sides while the Place had quarters only on three sides, the fourth side being the boundary road, like Reading Road (now renamed as Mandir Marg). What intrigued us as children was that the squares were mostly rectangular , two long parallel rows of quarters on two opposite sides and two short parallel rows on the other two opposite sides In this great city there lived the “Madrasis”- a collective noun invented by the North Indians for all people who came from the south of the Vindhyas. Almost all of them were government servants with some essential service providers like school and music teachers, vadhyars (religious pundits0 and cooks. With many Subramanians and Ganesans, distinction was made either with reference to the Ministry where they worked or in the Square where they lived, like Finance Subramanian, Defence Ganesan or Wilson Square Ramasubban and Lawrence Square Sivaramakrishnan. If two Sethuramans were in the same Finance ministry, then the distinction was based on the Wing/ department, such as Expenditure Sethuraman versus Controller of Capital Sethuraman. Another distinctive clue was their pass time or leisure activities like Bhajana Samaj Krishnan or Karnataka Sangeetha Sabha Ramamurthy and these persons had high titles like Additional Secretary, Joint Secretary Etc. in their respective organisations... And in addition, there were also nick names given and recognised by the whole community like Bonda Srinivasan, Typhoid Krishnamurthy, and DriverDevarajan and so on. When it came to their career in government, all Madrasis earned the unenviable reputation as honest, sincere, hard- working, efficient and with absolute integrity. The price that was paid for such appreciation of work was the neglect of leisure time happiness on holidays with family and friends. Many of them would have spent decades living in Delhi but not had had time to v see the Kutb Minar, the Red Fort, Purana Kila and other historical monuments which abound in Delhi .Their Annual Confidential Reports grading them as “Outstanding” were confidentially and individually leaked to them by their superior officers. They would then confidentially tell their wives! There was this joke about a Madrasi junior officer once getting reported by his senior Punjabi officer that he (the Madrasi) often “slept in office” - a remark considered as adverse in his annual confidential report. When he remonstrated to the senior officer about this, the latter told him that he wanted to highlight the fact that on several days the Madrasi officer had worked very late hours in the office almost till the early hours of the next morning and was thus compelled to sleep in the office itself in the absence of a bus to go home at that hour. ! Similarly another Madrasi officer’s work was graded as “far from satisfactory” by his senior Bengali officer. He later explained saying that the work of the junior was exceptionally good and the grading category “satisfactory” did not adequately describe the quality of work which was several notches high!! The institutions that united them were The South India Club, The Madrasi School, The Karnatak Sangeetha Sabha, The Vaishnava Siddhantha Sabbha, The Saturday Bhajana Sabhas, The Navaratri Golus and of course the Irwin Road Pilliar Koil and the adjacent Hanuman Mandir and the Baird Road Kali Koil. Apart from mutual family visits, inter family communication was through the Tamil Vadhyar group to which the families belonged when a Sastrigal of that group came to announce the important religious events of the month and collect monthly subscription. Integration with other communities was next to nothing for most of the Madrasis although they collectively enjoyed the confidence of the Punjabi grocers, clothiers and other shopkeepers who gave them credit facility liberally without a question The Madrasis however privately made fun of the Punjabis’ English pronunciation like meyerment for measurement, lier for lawyer as well as bad grammar like “Mehra don’t even Know English”. Little did they know as to how many times the Punjabi traders took advantage of the Madrasis ‘confusion between “Dhed” (one and a half) and “Adhai” (two and a half). Among the uniting institutions mentioned above, the Madrasi School occupied a predominant position as it was here that the children of all Madrasis irrespective of the status of the parents, whether a Joint Secretary or an Upper Division Clerk, or the child of a Sastrigal or a cook, came for studies. Those were days of no dress code or uniforms and yet all children studied in an environment of equality and fraternity .The teachers, both male and female, were exceptionally devoted to their profession, took avuncular interest in each student and were kind hearted . Till the fifties there was only one school at Reading Road. Even when there was no bar for students from other regions or linguistic groups for admission, the Madrasi School remained exclusively a Tamil school. Ironically, when it became a multi branch Tamil school in its name in the sixties, called The Delhi Tamil Education Association School (DTEA), it has now both students and teachers form other parts of the country. The Madrasis were a powerful group in the Central Secretariat. Their network was strongly knit and mutually helpful. Any special treatment or facility in AIIMS, Safdarjung and other government hospitals were arranged by the Madrasi Jt. Secretary, in Health Ministry, while his counter- part in Civil Supplies Department took care of additional allotment of sugar and maida for weddings. Acquiring of land and construction of the many temples in the sixties and seventies in New Delhi was mainly because of the initiative and strength of this group which at one time had the Hon’ble President of India as Patron. . Even the introduction of Leave Travel Concession for visiting home towns by Central Government Servants and their families was said to be the brainchild of some Madrasis in the Home and Finance Ministries. They quietly introduced the main condition that the home town should be at least 400 kms away from Headquarters so as to benefit the South Indian employees! Not only did the Northerners feel jealous, the Punjabi booking clerk oh the Northern Railway felt further injured as he had to book the onward journey to a home town like Kattumannarkovil by the shortest route and had no clue as to which of the two routes from Madras Egmore, the chord line or the main line, was shorter. Most of these Madrasis have retired by now. Many continue to live in Delhi in DDA and other housing colonies in the faraway Dhwarka and Mayur Vihar and their post- retirement activities and interest are confined to within these areas mainly centring the local temple. Some of their sons and daughters, the next generation Delhi’s Madrasis, took the Madrasi School – St. Stephen’s College route to qualify for induction into the All India Services and other Allied Services while others have become doctors, engineers, lawyers and accountants. The Old Students Association of DTEA Schools with branches in Chennai and Bangalore is their social network apart from Facebook.

A Story of Faith and Miracles

https://epaper.thedailyguardian.com/view/1953/the-daily-guardian%09/15

*THE BIGGEST GATHERING OF HUMANITY ON THE PLANET EARTH IS THE LARGEST RELIGIOUS GATHERING OF HINDUS*

*THE BIGGEST GATHERING OF HUMANITY ON THE PLANET EARTH IS THE LARGEST RELIGIOUS GATHERING OF HINDUS* ~ Khalid Umar (Brilliant post... I wanted to edit and make it shorter, but couldn't delete even a single sentence. MUST Read...) It’s pure joy and ecstasy. *NO ANIMAL SCARIFICES, NO BLOODSHED, NO UNIFORM, NO VIOLENCE, NO POLITICS, NO CONVERSIONS, NO SECTS, NO SEGREGATION, NO TRADE, NO BUSINESS.* *IT’S HINDUISM.* Nowhere else HUMANS ever congregate(d) for a single event in such a number; be that religious, sports, war, funeral or festivity. It’s always been the KUMBH mela and this year it’s Maha Kumbh, which is celebrated every 144 years. The world of statistics look with awe at the statistics; 400 million people over 44 days, over 15 million taking the holy dip on the first day, a temporary city across 4,000 hectares, 150,000 tents, 3,000 kitchens, 145,000 restrooms, with 40,000 security personnel, 2,700 AI-enabled cameras, etc. These are mind boggling statistics but is not what makes me wonder. MY AWE IS NOT ABOUT MATERIALISM, STATISTICS OR PHYSICAL ASPECTS OF THIS EVENT It’s not about what our eyes can see. It’s not about size or numbers. What amazes me is (what we call ancient) knowledge of the humanity’s connection with the universe. *It amazes me that its rituals are performed with reference to the alignment, positioning and timing of the celestial bodies in the heavens signifying human relationship with the Cosmos and its physical and spiritual effect on human destiny and future.* It has no power structure or political polity driving it. It’s indigenous to the faith. It’s not about an organised religion. It’s not about a hierarchy. *This Hindus Dharma’s understanding of the humanity’s relationship with the universe, from vegetation (under our feet) to the stars (in the milky way) is an evidence of the advanced knowledge in Hinduism which has extraterrestrial roots & connections.* *The meditating Sadhus’ consciousness is able to reach frontiers beyond space & time. It breaks the illusion of duality of me & the universe.* BEYOND MATERIAL SCIENCE I think today’s space travel through rockets is a primitive technology. Our physical bodies are not us. We don’t need to physically travel anywhere as once we understand that we are souls having a physical experience, from localised particles, we become infinite, part of the whole, present everywhere, as entangled particles exhibit; distance and time barriers lose existence. When we become pure consciousness; part of the divine light; timeless and formless. *It’s the awe when Sadhus of Himalayas and Quantum mechanics take a holy dip together in the vast ocean of knowledge. It’s not enough to say that Hinduism is aligned with nature. There is no duality; it’s nature itself. Being a Hindu is coming back to your natural state.* Nature is Hindu!