I consider myself fortunate. Fortunate because I had the privilege of growing up against a backdrop of soulful music. Being an only child, there were times when I was accustomed to playing (rather contently!) alone. I played with the voices of Rafi, Lata, Asha, Shamshad, Jagjit and Noor Jehan playing in the background. You see, the music system was and still is in a central position of the house from where its produce could be heard in all corners of the house. Over the decades, Mum had built up her personal collection of audio tape recordings of Lata's and Rafi's duets from the 60's and 70's, Asha's exclusives with OP Nayyar, and the golden oldies by the likes of Hemant Kumar, Kishore Kumar, Manna Dey and Geeta Dutt.
She may not have known it at the time but by infusing the house's atmosphere with such soulful music, Mum was setting the scene for my own musical tastes. You see, music is immensely powerful - it alone has the power to overturn your inner core and metamorphosise your very inner being in subtle but profusely profound ways. Music from the golden era was sprinkled with pathos and longing, but most importantly it had a soul. Growing up listening to that sort of music perhaps helped instil the intensity and depth of my thoughts today.
Such was the pluralism of Mum's music, that it was common to hear Qawwalis, Ghazals and Hindi film music all playing one after the other. The pluralism of music cultivates moderate and inclusive mindsets. It is the pluralism of music that enables it to transcend man-made barriers.
Alas, the golden nuggets of the past are perilously neglected by a large part of my generation today. South Asians have been blessed with the likes of Lata Mangeshkar, India's nightingale and Madam Noor Jehan, Pakistan's Mallika-e-Tarannum (Queen of melodies), whose music helped produce a generation that valued respect, cordiality and warmth. A far cry from today's factory-produced music, Lata's and Noor's music helped unify two countries, helped consolidate differing cultures, and helped bring to light the kalaams (lyrics) of the great 17th and 18th century poets of South Asia. The lyrics were pregnant with meaning, only if you listened hard enough. The melodies were passively soothing, inherently tranquillising and subtly soulful. In fact, Nargis Dutt, in her moving prologue at Lata Mangeshkar's 1979 concert at London's Royal Albert Hall described accurately the pervasive effect of Lata's music. Here is the video of that prologue:
Nargis Dutt on Lata Mangeshkar before inviting her to perform Saathi Re
The power of yesterday's music can only be felt when you hear it. Leaving you with three videos, one a medley of Lata's 1940's and 50's music from her Shraddhanjali concert, the second a medley of Lata's 60's music, and the third my favourite Noor Jehan ghazal, I hope the music and lyrics touch your soul and inject bliss in your being. Thank you, Mum.
Lata's Shraddhanjali concert in 2000 - a tribute to the music of the 1940's and 50's
Lata's Shraddhanjali concert in 2000 - a tribute to the music of the 60's
Madam Noor Jehan - Humaari Saanson Mein, a timeless ghazal
In this post, I share with you a poignant piece written by Duane Elgin in the Huffington Post:
Death is an important ally for appreciating life. I am not referring to a morbid preoccupation with death. Rather, I mean the felt awareness of our finitude as physical beings -- an honest recognition of the short time we have to love and to learn on this earth. The knowledge that our bodies will inevitably die burns through our attachments to the dignified madness of our socially constructed existence. Death is a friend that helps us to release our clinging to social position and material possessions as a source of ultimate security and identity. An awareness of death forces us to confront the purpose and meaning of our existence, here and now.
Those who have had near-death experiences confirm that awareness of death can be an uncompromising friend, putting us back in touch with what is most important. A common sentiment expressed by many near-death survivors is a decreased emphasis on money and material things and a heightened appreciation for nature and loving other people. Dr. Kenneth Ring, a researcher of near-death experiences, quotes a young man who had a near-death experience after a serious automobile accident. As a result the young man found that he developed an "awareness that something more was going on in life than just the physical part of it... It was just a total awareness of not just the material and how much we can buy -- in the way of cars and stuff, or food or anything. There's more than just consuming life. There's a point where you have to give to it and that's real important."
Gandhi once said, "Just as one must learn the art of killing in the training for violence, so one must learn the art of dying in the training for non-violence." If we are to lead nonviolent and loving lives, then we can begin by coming to terms with our own death. An appreciation that we must die awakens us from our social sleep and to the reality of our situation. Death is an unyielding partner in life -- an inescapable certainty to push against as we sort out the significant from the trivial in our daily lives. In this regard, consider the words of Nadine Stair of Louisville, Kentucky, who was 85-years-old when she wrote, "If I Had My Life to Live Over":
"I'd like to make more mistakes next time. I'd relax. I would limber up. I would be sillier than I have been this trip. I would take fewer things seriously. I would take more chances. I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers. I would eat more ice cream and less beans. I would perhaps have more actual troubles, but I'd have fewer imaginary ones. . . . I've been one of those persons who never goes anywhere without a thermometer, a hot water bottle, a raincoat, and a parachute. If I had to do it again, I would travel lighter than I have."
We cannot hide from death. Its embrace will consume our social existence entirely. Job titles, social position, material possessions, sexual roles and images--all must yield to death. This does not mean that we should abandon our material and social existence. Rather, it means that in consciously honoring the fact of our physical death, we are thereby empowered to penetrate through the social pretense, ostentation, and confusion that normally obscure our sense of what is truly significant. An awareness of death is an ally for infusing our lives with a sense of immediacy, perspective, and proportion. In acknowledging the reality of death, we can more fully appreciate our gift of life.
If you were to choose death as an ally (as a reminder of the preciousness of each moment), and if you were to choose the universe as your home (as a reminder of the awesome dimensions of our existence), would a quality of aliveness, immediacy, and poignancy naturally infuse your moment-to-moment living? If you knew that you would die within several hours or days, would the simplest things acquire a luminous and penetrating significance? Would each moment become precious beyond all previous measure? Would each flower, each person, each crack in the sidewalk, each tree become a fleeting and never-to-be-repeated miracle? Simplicity of living helps brings this kind of clarity and appreciation into our lives.
What a superb rendition of Lambi Judaai, a song of which many listeners have preconceived styles. When one hears Lambi Judaai one expects to hear the usual intonations and stylistic elements that go with that song, simply because it has been sung and heard for so many years. It is one of those tunes that the ear becomes "used to". But Komal Rizvi has transformed the song and rejuvenated the inherent melody of this folk song that was originally sung by Reshma. In the video rendition below Coke Studio reinvents the popular classic by presenting the nostalgic melody against a backdrop of rich chordal elements to take on the quality of a ballad from the ‘50’s. Rizvi shines as a performer on this track, building emotion and expression into the lyrics.
I am mesmerised. All I can say is great work, Komal!
I now await, with bated breath, Sanam Marvi's rendition of my favourite Amir Khusrao kalaam - Chaap Tilak.
Gardens, in this life, are paradises for many people. They offer peace for those of us in a busy noisy and tempestuous world. They offer an atmosphere which is conducive to meditation, and are sanctuaries where people can feel at one with nature, and perhaps for some, even feel God's presence.
I recently visited one such oasis with a work colleague. The Chelsea Physic Garden can be accurately described as an oasis in the bustling London district of Chelsea. Originally founded as an apothecaries' garden, it now offers visitors a chance to experience a day out in a garden of just under one acre in size. There are guided tours for those with inquisitive minds who wish to learn more about the medicinal uses of certain plants and their origins. It is, in many ways, a horticulturalist's playing field.
The Chelsea Physic Garden
The power of gardens has been recognised for centuries. The poet Andrew Marvell led a very busy life as a long-serving MP, a member of Cromwell's government, and a public figure who made a successful transfer from the Commonwealth to the world of Charles II. But in one of his poems Marvell makes it clear that all the rewards of his public life cannot compare with the fair quiet and innocence he found in the garden:
An extract of The Garden by Andrew Marvell (1621 - 1678)
There is, I suppose, a profound satisfaction in spreading the roots of a plant in earth, feeding that earth, watering it and caring for it. I recall being given a valuable piece of life advice by Noel, who was one of the veteran residents at the old people's home at which I volunteer on a quasi-quarterly basis. Noel told me that growing old involves losing many happinesses. Therefore, he said, "any kind of happiness that is highly perennial, capable of withstanding the frosts of winter, is a very good thing to have." In Noel's experience, gardening had proved to be an immensely valuable pass time. He told me that he felt at peace in the garden, he felt at one with nature and certainly felt at one with God there. Noel described the garden as his church, and that garden's trees as the pillars of the church pointing up towards God. Noel is no longer with us, but I cannot help but believe that when his soul departed this life, it was at peace, and that the garden had contributed significantly to that peace.
The last time I saw Noel (pictured here with me), an ardent fan of the garden, was in Christmas 2010.
Lizzie Hopthrow, Chaplain of the Pilgrims' Hospice in Canterbury is very much involved in caring for and speaking to people who are terminally ill as well as their relatives and friends. Her hospice places great significance on a garden in the healing process. "Having a garden around the hospice is enormously important. Every patient in every part of the hospice will look out on to a part of the garden. People tell us how comforting that is - to be able to see something growing and green, or even woody in the winter", says Lizzie. The day patients at the hospice are particularly fond of the garden. They say that they find it calming to walk in the garden, they like to sit by the pond and watch the fish swimming, the squirrels running about and the birds singing. Patients at the hospice are encouraged to sow seeds on the garden patio - Lizzie explains that this is enormously important for many people as they feel involved with the future, even though they may not be around to see the fruits of what they have sown. In a way, that makes them feel that they too will, in some sense, belong to the future. They look forward to the thoughts of people coming to their sown plants and harvesting their fruits.
Lizzie, herself a patient of multiple sclerosis, claims that such is the power of the garden at her hospice that there are some conversations, she feels, that can only be had in the garden. The garden provides, she says, an amphitheatre of a kind. It is a place where patients find it possible to get in touch with God at the deepest level - the garden helps patients to feel the spirit of God which brings them much needed encouragement, hope and comfort. Lizzie explains this phenomenon by the use of an analogy - she says: "Perhaps we could say that God walks in our internal garden, where at the deepest part of ourselves all is beautiful and flowering. Those kind of thoughts can only occur to us in our external gardens." In many ways, the garden represents the cycle of life and death.
Lizzie Hopthrow in her hospice's garden
In many ways, I can relate to Lizzie's claims. Last year I visited the Prior Park Landscape Garden in Bath. One of only four Palladian bridges of that design in the world can be crossed at Prior Park, which was created in the 18th century by local entrepreneur Ralph Allen, with advice from 'Capability' Brown and the poet Alexander Pope. The garden is set in a sweeping valley where visitors can enjoy magnificent views of Bath. I felt at peace there. And as I walked through the garden, there was a profound sense of serenity and tranquillity. I felt at one with nature, and felt very close to God. It is an inexplicable feeling, one which you will, I hope, experience for yourself the next time you are in a garden.
Prior Park Landscape Garden - the Palladian Bridge
Prior Park Landscape Garden
Perhaps, my disposition towards gardens comes from my childhood. I, for one, was very lucky to have grown up in a home in Mombasa, Kenya with a sprawling garden that covered much of our one-acre site. I spent a lot of my time there - running around the Ixora coccinea flower bushes (only to be stung by bees!) that were neatly trimmed and aligned to form a garden periphery. Our garden is lined with palm trees, the leaves of which generate a calming rustling sound when swayed by the wind. My childhood bedroom looks out on to the garden. Upon my mother's insistence, we had a large swing installed in a small paved area of the garden. That area has since hosted a number of my delightful conversations with my parents and grandparents. It was a particular favourite whenever there was a power cut, in order to escape the equatorial heat we would flock to the swing area with our deck chairs and enjoy the breeze. It was in that part of the garden that my grandparents would often tell me tales about their lives in colonial Kenya, and let me in to old family secrets and gossip. That area still remains a favourite of mine - it is a place for everyone to get together, watch the sunset, and just connect.
Spending time with my grandfather in the garden at home in Kenya
Summer is here - what a better time to experience the outdoors. If you're looking for ideas of gardens to visit, check out the National Trust's website which will present you with thousands of exciting places to visit in the English country.
It was expected. After its resounding success in Pakistan, Coke Studio's entry into India was inevitable, and almost, natural. So far the episodes have received commendation from the Indian audiences, particularly those who yearn to hear Indian music as it used to be - unperverted, pure and innocent.
Modern-day Indian society is changing. One cannot help but remark that along with that change, present-day Bollywood is changing, too. Producers are concerned with churning out films for the cineplex-going audience, and there is an inclination towards the American-ised "cool dude" films (Yes, I am not an Imraan Khan fan). Amidst the unforgivable overuse of words such as "dude" and "awesome" in everyday youth language in India, there is certainly an innate desire to, at the very least, maintain some connection with, if not to actively personify, one's roots. That is why shows like Coke Studio work in India. They bring to today's modern, American-ised Indian youth a sense of originality, a sense of connection with their roots (albeit subtle) and, most importantly, a sense of true belonging.
So, Coke Studio - well done on bringing back some folk music into the lives of India's youth. This rendition by Sunidhi Chauhan, a symbol of today's "new" Indian generation, is just what is needed to restore the balance in "East meets West".
Chitthiye was originally sung by Lata Mangeshkar in 1991 for the Hindi film, Henna. Here Sunidhi Chauhan and the Wadali Brothers recreate the magic of the harmony between new-age music and folk.
In Hindustani classical music there are some raags of such great depth that mere lifetimes reveal next to nothing. Bhairavi is one such and so are Marwa, Shree and Darbari.
But raag Malkauns (also pronounced Malkosh) - if honey were to be distilled into music, it would result in Malkauns. Such is the spectacular greatness of this raag, such is its haunting addictive quality that the body and mind writhe in agony, unable to tolerate the sheer wonder of such magnitude.
For the uninitiated, a raag is a series of five musical notes upon which a melody in Indian classical music is made. The notes in Indian music are: Sa, Re, Ga, Ma, Pa, Dha and Ni. Each raag takes a combination of these seven notes and then sets parameters within which a melody can be based. Malkauns is a raag based on Sa, Ga, Ma, Dha and Ni - five out of the seven notes are used, and as such, it is a pentatonic raag. In Indian classical music, each raag has a samay given to it - a time of day during which it is most appropriate to sing it. Malkauns is a midnight raag.
What makes raag Malkauns the King of the raags, and therefore the ruler of emotions? For starters, it is a pentatonic raag - taking 5 out of the 7 notes available. The effect of this is that the field of play within which a melody can be based is broader than the tritonic (e.g. raag Sarvasri - Sa, Ma, Pa) or tetratonic (e.g. raag Bhavani - Sa, Re, Ma, Dha) raags. Secondly, and more importantly, Malkauns has the capability to seize the listener's core because it produces a narcotic effect by taking the listener to dizzying heights of intensity. This makes Malkauns the ideal raag for devotional renditions and songs of love. Indeed, the origins of Malkauns, it is believed, lie in the taandav dance performed by the God-conscious Shiva.
So it comes as no surprise that Coke Studio took raag Malkauns and applied it to a Sufi kalaam by Mirza Qateel (d. 1817), Kangna. Here is raag Malkauns performed by two popular qawals Fareed Ayaz and Abu Mohammad at Coke Studio:
My favourite part of this is at 3:00 minutes when the heights of Malkauns are revealed.
In Kangna, the singer (servant) is asking his/her beloved (God) to return the singer's bracelet (the kangna) - imagery drawing upon how the servant yearns for a glimpse of the Truth, and aspires to do so by asking his/her beloved (God) to return the bracelet. In a real sense, the servant has no interest in the bracelet, but uses it as a medium through which he/she can compel his/her beloved to return to him/her, if only to return the bracelet. Such yearning to realise the Truth, to catch a glimpse of the Absolute (God) can only be depicted accurately by the use of raag Malkauns, as done in the video above.
Forgiveness. Something that we all struggle with, something that is so difficult to implement. Yet, it is the best tonic for a lot of our wounds in life. But we have to ask ourselves: what have we suffered? Is Mrs X hurt because she's had a long-standing feud with her sister over so many petty issues, which have now built up into a concrete standoff? Is Mr H hurting because his boss at work treats him with disregard? Is Ms L hurting because her mother reprises her over everything she sets out to do in life? And are you hurting because the guy standing next to you on the Tube stepped on your toes and jumped off without apologising? Mrs X, Mr H, Ms L and "you" all have something in common - the first thing you probably think of is how they/"you" are going to avenge the hurt/pain.
How about giving the 'F' word a shot? Forgiveness. After all, if a rape victim, a 9/11 victim and genocide victim have been able to forgive their perpetrators for what are clearly abhorrent crimes, then why can't we forgive others in our daily life? We are fortunate enough to have not suffered such horrific tragedies in life. Yet we all have our mini-tragedies in life - some of us battle with broken relationships, some of us battle with inferiority complexes, some of us battle with people who said nasty things to us when we were kids.
I recently came across the Forgiveness Project. The Forgiveness Project works at a local, national and international level to help build a future free of conflict and violence by healing the wounds of the past. By collecting and sharing people's stories, and delivering outreach programmes, The Forgiveness Project encourages and empowers people to explore the nature of forgiveness and alternatives to revenge. It is a UK-based charitable organisation which explores forgiveness, reconciliation and conflict resolution through real-life human experience. Many of those whose voices are celebrated in their exhibition and on their website, also share their stories in person. The organisation works in prisons, schools, faith communities, and with any group who want to explore the nature of forgiveness whether in the wider political context or within their own lives. The Forgiveness Project has no religious or political affiliations.
Let me share one of the several stories on their website with you:
Bud Welch’s 23-year-old daughter, Julie Marie, was killed in the bombing of the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City. In the months after her death, Bud changed from supporting the death penalty for Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols to taking a public stand against it. In 2001 Timothy McVeigh was executed for his part in the bombing.
Three days after the bombing, as Bud watched Tim McVeigh being led out of the courthouse, he hoped someone in a high building with a rifle would shoot him dead. He wanted him to fry. In fact, he'd have killed him himself if he'd had the chance.
Unable to deal with the pain of Julie’s death, he started self-medicating with alcohol until eventually the hangovers were lasting all day. Then, on a cold day in January 1996, he came to the bombsight – as he did every day – and he looked across the wasteland where the Murrah Building once stood. His head was splitting from drinking the night before and he thought, “I have to do something different, because what I’m doing isn’t working.”
For the next few weeks he started to reconcile things in his mind, and finally concluded that it was revenge and hate that had killed Julie and the 167 others. Tim McVeigh and Terry Nichols had been against the US government for what happened in Waco, Texas, in 1993 and seeing what they’d done with their vengeance, he knew he had to send his in a different direction. Shortly afterwards he started speaking out against the death penalty.
He also remembered that shortly after the bombing he’d seen a news report on Tim McVeigh’s father, Bill. He was shown stooping over a flowerbed, and when he stood up Bud could see that he’d been physically bent over in pain. Bud recognized it because he was feeling that pain, too.
In December 1998, after Tim McVeigh had been sentenced to death, Bud had a chance to meet Bill McVeigh at his home near Buffalo. He wanted to show him that he did not blame him. His youngest daughter also wanted to meet Bud, and after Bill had showed him his garden, the three of them sat around the kitchen table. Up on the wall were family snapshots, including Tim’s graduation picture. They noticed that Bud kept looking up at it, so Bud felt compelled to say something. “God, what a good looking kid,” he said.
Earlier, when they’d been in the garden, Bill had asked Bud, “Bud, are you able to cry?” He’d told him, “I don’t usually have a problem crying.” His reply was, “I can’t cry, even though I’ve got a lot to cry about.” But now, sitting at the kitchen table looking at Tim’s photo, a big tear rolled down his face. It was the love of a father for a son.
When Bud got ready to leave he shook Bill’s hand, then extended it to Jennifer, but she just grabbed him and threw her arms around him. She was the same sort of age as Julie but felt so much taller. Bud doesn’t know which one of them started crying first. Then he held her face in his hands and said, “Look, honey, the three of us are in this for the rest of our lives. I don’t want your brother to die and I’ll do everything I can to prevent it.” As he walked away from the house Bud realized that until that moment he had walked alone, but now a tremendous weight had lifted from my shoulders. He had found someone who was a bigger victim of the Oklahoma bombing than he was, because while he can speak in front of thousands of people and say wonderful things about Julie, if Bill McVeigh meets a stranger he probably doesn’t even say he had a son.
About a year before the execution Bud found it in his heart to forgive Tim McVeigh. It was a release for Bud rather than for Tim.
This is what Bud says about his forgiveness ordeal:
The Forgiveness Project has several other real-life stories on their website. Visit theforgivenessproject.com/stories and click on any one of the pictures of the forgivers there.
The Forgiveness Exhibition is a series of posters that tell the stories of some of these forgivers. It is on from 8 June to 16 June at Imperial College London, Main Stairwell, Sherfield Building, South Kensington Campus, London.
The impact of the Forgiveness Project on me
It has cracked open my heart. I, like the rest of you, hold grudges, and do struggle to forgive. It is only human to struggle to forgive. But, hearing stories such as Bud's, it makes one realise the empowerment that one can get from implementing the F word.
It reminds me of the day when Jains celebrate forgiveness. The day of Samvatsari, the last day of the 8-day Paryushan festival of the Jains, is the day on which forgiveness is asked for. Jains shed their egos and ask for forgiveness from others around them by saying Micchami Dukkadam.Micchami means to be fruitless (forgiven) and Dukkadam means bad deeds. Therefore, Micchami Dukkadam means "may my bad deeds become fruitless". Samvatsari is a day on which one asks for forgiveness and one receives forgiveness.
Saying Micchami Dukkadam is easy. But the act of asking for forgiveness and forgiving goes beyond just one day in the year. The real battle is the implementation of forgiveness in life.
Using Bud's example above, I hope I can start forgiving and continue to be able to forgive. It will be difficult - but it will be worth it. As Desmond Tutu says: "To forgive is not just to be altruistic, it is the best form of self-interest".
