Shuvashree Chowdhury's Blog, page 32

Our Worldview

 

We tend to narrow the universe

by force – with our constricted

thinking and close minded

perspectives, don’t we?

 

We must trash anything

that we do not feel or see

in our classified cushy worlds –

with our limited vision!

 

Then we must go ahead and make

a mockery of anything that grows

outside our rose tinted vials –

while cramming ourselves into it.

 

This is in oblivion that we now see

the world outside of the shaded

vial – in a different colour

from what actually it is!

Stand Up To Live

 “How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.” – Henry David Thoreou.

I’ve spend about two decades, as was expected at several work assignments, in motivating and inspiring people to perform to excellence. This was in often being handed charge of the weakest or most troublesome ones – with ‘attitude problems’ as was commonly termed, in the system. But I’ve always looked at, preparing my wards not just for the job at hand but for a lifetime – by trying my best to instill ethics, values, drive, and ambition in them, to succeed and soar in life. This was by respecting each one, even when the organization and external training departments would give them to me as a last resort before showing them the door, either due to poor performance in the tests or misbehaviour. This after telling me at times, I was free to ask them to quit right away if I did not see they had a chance to sustain the long haul. But I never disclosed to these so called ‘misfits’ why they were sent to my department, rather I treated them at par with my smartest staff, thus making them first believe in themselves, and that they really matter.

These people in time grew wings – strengthening which, learned to fly and moved to other departments or jobs. How then, having viewed for myself – what trust and belief in a person – thereby in oneself, can do to ones confidence and performance levels, could I not follow this learning for myself when I took up writing seriously. This was even when no one was willing to give me a chance at it, what with the greatest critic and resistance at home.  I kept telling myself, I can, I must, I can, I must.

My Earliest Leadership Training.

I might have been in the fourth or fifth standard at the time. We were home from boarding school for the winter vacations. Mother, as she often did, took us sisters to work with her, to the residential teachers training college in Alipore, Calcutta. We girls would sit in the staff room for a while where mother had a desk cubicle for herself, entertaining ourselves with magazines and stuff lying around, and a teacher or two who would be at her own desk-cubicle. Then before our boredom had crossed endurance, we would be rescued by some student or a group 4 staff (as they were referred to) who would take us out for a stroll around the campus. If we were lucky to bump into Kaloo-da the in-charge of the large supplies room, he would generously give us a basketball, volleyball and badminton rackets with shuttles to play in the sprawling, lush fields.

At times we would peep into the principal’s office where a number of administrative staff would be busy typing on manual typewriter sets, or peering into thick files behind huge piles in front. They would fondly talk to us, offer us biscuits, but warn us if mother who occupied the inner principal’s cabin, had visitors or was talking to students who were free to come and meet her anytime, or if summoned by her. Mother would, if we had made it as far as her getting a glimpse of us, signal to us to go outside and play. She was always formal with us at her office, or in campus, even though students, other teachers and staff were very warm and friendly. Some would keep aside toffees and chocolates for our visits, pull our cheeks even, walk us with hands around our shoulders and even do up our ponytails. They would be thoroughly entertained by our curiosity and awe at what was mundane work to them.

On one such visit, there was a ladies’ hockey match in progress where we were seated in the pavilion at a distance from mother – who was seated along with a few teachers and students. A group of boys riding bicycles came into view and soon were circling the field. They looked at the ladies at play amusedly, peering enthusiastically at the lean athletic legs under rather short divided skirts. As they circled in slow motion, the 6-7 boys made comments and grinned as if they were in a public park. They commented and laughed loudly behind the ladies who were waiting as substitutes, also wearing shorts, in readiness to get onto the field. The lecturer-coach looked at the boys menacingly, but turned back to concentrate on the game. It was at the exact moment of commencement of the break in the game that mother waived to the by now panting ladies, 22 in all, who were walking towards the pavilion in any case. A few promptly broke into a jog to find out why they were summoned.

As I watched curiously in awe, mother said to them in the crisply commanding tone that I recognised well from my visits to her workplace: “Go get those boys here, along with their bicycles.”

The ladies did not even wait a moment, as about 7-8 of them jogged over to the boys – still merrily watching them lustily now. The ladies forcefully gripped a bicycle each, and then compelled the rider to get off by sheer strength of voice and personality – after all they were future teachers in the making. Then each bicycle was walked around the field by a lady, its rider following meekly – pleading apologies, to where mother stood with a dare me if you can, menacing look in her eyes.

“Put these bicycles away in the games store room” she commanded, and then looking at the boys she calmly added, “Collect your bicycles from the police station, where they will be delivered by tomorrow. They have been confiscated for trespassing private property.”

“Maám sorry, we are very sorry…really very sorry” one or two boys pleaded, while others stood quietly with heads hanging low.”

“Ladies, go on take the cycles away now!” mother commanded, turning to those still clutching the handles of one each, without a word more to the boys who by now had lost all steam and looked shaken.”

As their cycles were taken away, the boys left the ground shamefacedly in view of a crowd now, even as my sister and I looked on in awe. One of the students who was a dear friend my now, and had been seated beside us, patted us on the head and smiled comfortingly.

“Your mother is very strict, but the kindest teacher and Principal I’ve ever known yet” she said to us. “She will not hand over the cycles to the police. She only wanted to teach us girls to be tough, also these neighbourhood boys a lesson, as they keep disturbing our evening games. Your mother organises funds for the poor students who cannot buy books and gear, also helps so many of the staff with children’s education.”

It is with these lifelong learning, this being just a glimpse, that I had grown up with, that I had stepped into my work life. There is nothing more ingrained than learning through experience, that too since a child.  Those who worked with me, in my varied work assignments, would be able to identify with my work ethics and values, not any formal degrees, from my style of leadership and management.

PS: Picture above is – My first leadership stint in 1998, aged 25. Below is my mother – with her determined look, the second picture is with her students around 1967/68 in Delhi University and the final one is Ma with the candles in 1959/60 – demonstrating discipline.

An Exemplary Woman

 

An Exemplary Woman: Pooja

 

Smart, elegant and beautiful,

at times volatile, but never spiteful;

Always proactive and respectful –

to the point of self-effacement,  

from a denial of personal fulfilment.

 

A doting and loving wife; but

as a mother her qualities shine:

As over and above attention she lavishes,

a habit of reading she encompasses;

the verbal rod to discipline she aptly uses.

 

Her duties as a daughter-in-law, 

sister-in-law, also every other relation

she dutifully abides, at the cost of her

desires, friends, even her personal time:

An exemplary woman – the world her defines.

 

PS: Wrote this poem for a handwritten card, for my dear friend Pooja, on her 35th birthday yesterday -the 23rd of July. It is obviously inspired by her.

 

Meet Pooja (below)…sketch by her sister-in-law Rumi Dutta.

 

 

 

On Learning To Fly, Without The Load Of Modesty

At the Delhi launch of my book Across Borders, rather at the end of it, I was flourished a fitting lesson in keeping modesty and humility at bay, for the world that does not value it, by a very dear friend from my DU college and hostel. She is a senior – qualified and much accomplished public relations professional, and was the Delhi university psychology honours topper…so definitely knows what she’s speaking. [image error]

At the end of the event, I stood up on the dais and very sincerely, with a grateful facial and body language – slightly bent over that is, said to the audience: “Thank you so much, for making the time and effort out of your busy schedules to come and attend my book launch. It really means so much, considering the Delhi rush hour traffic …and your work you might have had to leave early from.”

Even before I could descend from the dais, my friend Rajni (thank you so much!) briskly walked up to me and said – “Why are you being so humble and modest Shuvashree? It just does not work…understand! Your book is great, from the excerpts you’ve just read. The media reviews and coverage have all been good. Most importantly, you’ve worked very hard and it’s an honour for all of us to attend the function…Think of it that way and don’t plead with your audience…Please! What makes you think or feel people are doing you any favour by coming here? We were honoured to be invited here and we enjoyed ourselves. Just think like that from now on and act like it…got it!”

I was taken aback and tried to mumble some excuses and explanation for my behaviour, as knowing her well I knew she had my best interests in mind, and also promptly realised how right she was. After my varied work stints, I would advise anyone the same thing, just that when it came to my own first baby (book), I just could not show it off to the world, at least not yet…I was shy that they might ridicule it. I had already gotten a very similar lecture the evening before from a very senior and established writer (thank you once again), on not opening my mouth and blatantly saying the ‘wrong’ things.

On Learning To Fly, Without The Heavy Load Of Modesty

At the Delhi launch of my book Across Borders, rather at the end of it, I was flourished a fitting lesson in keeping modesty and humility at bay, for the world that does not value it, by a very dear friend from my DU college and hostel. She is a senior – qualified and much accomplished public relations professional, and was the Delhi university psychology honours topper…so definitely knows what she’s speaking. [image error]

At the end of the event, I stood up on the dais and very sincerely, with a grateful facial and body language – slightly bent over that is, said to the audience: “Thank you so much, for making the time and effort out of your busy schedules to come and attend my book launch. It really means so much, considering the Delhi rush hour traffic …and your work you might have had to leave early from.”

Even before I could descend from the dais, my friend Rajni (thank you so much!) briskly walked up to me and said – “Why are you being so humble and modest Shuvashree? It just does not work…understand! Your book is great, from the excerpts you’ve just read. The media reviews and coverage have all been good. Most importantly, you’ve worked very hard and it’s an honour for all of us to attend the function…Think of it that way and don’t plead with your audience…Please! What makes you think or feel people are doing you any favour by coming here? We were honoured to be invited here and we enjoyed ourselves. Just think like that from now on and act like it…got it!”

I was taken aback and tried to mumble some excuses and explanation for my behaviour, as knowing her well I knew she had my best interests in mind, and also promptly realised how right she was. After my varied work stints, I would advise anyone the same thing, just that when it came to my own first baby (book), I just could not show it off to the world, at least not yet…I was shy that they might ridicule it. I had already gotten a very similar lecture the evening before from a very senior and established writer (thank you once again), on not opening my mouth and blatantly saying the ‘wrong’ things.

Stealing A Slice Of Sunshine

 

 

I’m walking downhill the boulevard

with picturesque sights at every verge,

through which I see rhododendrons

and roses at doors and windows of cottages –

with the backdrop of a peeking, pristine blue sky

through hills over which clouds playfully pry.

 

Even as I stand in awe at every other hedge-gate

to steal an eyeful of nature’s abundance –

Thimphu in the ‘land of happiness’ is blessed with:

A couple of furry dogs invariably come barking up at me

but they merely sniff around, then quietly watch

me as I steal a slice of the setting sunshine.

 

Then I stroll on with an eyeful of pictorial joy

I’ve collected as if alms from a doorstep as a handful of rye –

my soul is as if that of a wandering monk’s

as it’s floating light in the cool sky:

for in my mind’s eye I’m collecting gratuitous

sights – I’m carrying along in my heart’s inflated pouch.

 

Cars floating uphill I deftly dodge with pictographic sight

when two boys dribbling a football become primary highlight –

as I walk by satiated with their polite innocence

along with a woody aroma infused with the chill in soft sunlight,

my heart is full of the generous alms of sights I’ve imbibed

to carry back to my world to wear as a perfume named – ‘Sublime’

 

 

 

 

Solitary Enchantment

 

 

My cottage in the green woods is

made of mud and pine wood, it’s

 

nestled in the crook of tall ferns

and a variety of thick green bush.

 

To the right side is a clearing in

the woods – drops sharply into a

 

deep ravine, over which sunlight

creeping uphill – stealthily sneaks

 

past my ethnic Bhutanese – blue

and red blinds, waking me at five.

 

I am now sitting at my doorstep –

the topmost of a five stone stairs

 

where the cool breeze is floating

with haze, and caressing my face.

 

I listen raptly to piercing whistles

intermittently from atop the Fern

 

and Cypress, amid diverse chirping

of mixt birds hidden from my sight –

 

Perhaps sitting on branches astride:

Noting, envying my solitary delight.

   

 

After The Rain: In The Land Of Happiness

 

 

I can still hear the rain pattering

on red and green ridged tin rooftops –

against silhouettes of mountainous forests

in varied lush tones of emerald.

 

Grey clouds are soaring skyward, as fog

steadily descends: between clouds

and fog a magnificent light bursts-

illuminating the land of thunder dragons.

 

Ink-blue sky peeps intermittently below

the grey clouds right through the splendid light:

Even as rain stops and fog creates a halo over

the stupa’s many tiered golden roofs.

 

A man or two in tartan brown and black Gho

have descended onto the washed streets,

as a woman in a purple silk Kira walks by my window

cautiously, as do cars ascending a light-swathed valley.

 

In the distance I see grey peaks, white peaks

that are etched out in thick smog,

as clouds through them hop in and out in turns –

as if characters playing their part for a live audience.

 

The green wood’s stage irradiated as if by Arclight

is visible in fog, also mud-tracks on hills in the backdrop:

as hearts in ‘the land of happiness’ – Bhutan illumined

by spirituality: are unfazed by anguished deluges.

 

 

 

 

A Spiritual Hike: To Taktsang (Tiger’s Nest) Monastery

It was at twelve-thirty of a late June day

with light showers through the sun’s soft rays

we set out to climb on foot –

the narrow, steep mountainous track

at Paro’s heart: driving past her white-pebble lined

arterial river, Pachu – flowing amidst winding

flower-lined cottages and bridges

on uphill picturesque paths.

 

After peering over numerous handicraft stalls

displaying mostly stone-jewellery of every colour and form

under the wood and tin canopied shopping enclave –

we crossed it to step on to the narrow, rarely used trail,

foregoing the broader, safer, beaten track

people hike on foot, or colourfully dressed ponies

to reach the fog draped mysterious cliff – at 3,120 ft. over sea level

that cradling Bhutan’s holiest monastery, majestically beckons.

 

Wanting to save on time, we risked a tedious climb

as our group of six – of four local Bhutanese youth comprised:

who would take us by a short-cut in two hours

instead of the regular three to four hours –

in reaching us well before the monastery gates closed at five

barring us from the peace of the sanctum we sought

after relieving our sins – as is popularly believed

through the toil of the breathless, wearying climb.

 

I was excited by the picturesque view over the first few yards

of dainty bridges, tiny stupas, varied Rhododendron;

also hill-water crests from which we drank by the hand-full

till a colourfully saddled horse, rider-less came gawkily strutting downhill

with coir reins intermittently entangling in his front hoof:

He ensnared my attention, wilting my heart with his helpless plight

to trot off straddling my steady breath – to terminally gasp

the rest of the precipitous climb, a native girl by hand sturdily lugging me up.

 

After a three-hour climb and a half-hour halt in steady drizzle

once Tiger Nest’s white-washed stone walls, golden tiered roofs are visible –

our Bhutanese friends in respect, drape their Gho and Kira –  the traditional dress:

I bid my last dash of strength to press on, though my breath threatens to desist

on the final 350 steep stone steps – on which the air is so thin and crisp

 I gasp ominously – alarmed it’s my Death Whistle. But once inside the temple, as if

floating between life and death I bow my head to the floor – to Guru Rinpoche the patron

sage and his manifestations: till I interpret ‘nirvana’ seeing the mystical glow on Buddha’s golden face.