The Road To Nirvana Is Paved With Distractions

During this lockdown, I’ve maintained a disciplined schedule of working out, sleeping well, eating healthy and lying shamelessly. But the one activity that I’m honestly trying to get better at is meditation, and yes I’m gonna ignore the fact that taking deep, relaxing breaths during a pandemic marked by breathlessness feels a little bit like showing off. It’s like running 100-metre sprints during the polio crisis or telling Okinawa war vets that kamikazes are delicious and they should totes try some.

For the record, I’d like to state that meditation truly is a life-changing invention, like the wheel or the ‘Skip Intro’ button. So any shortcomings are mine and mine alone. For example, on most days, I can spend six hours staring at my toenails but when I decide to meditate for just fifteen minutes, I suddenly have the schedule of an ER surgeon who’s also the President Of The World during an ongoing alien invasion.

The next step is to open the Headspace app on my phone (no, this is not a paid post – also nobody has paid for the written word since 2008.) But when I unlock my phone to open Headspace, some magical time travel happens and boom, it’s one hour later and I’m still on Insta and Twitter and now I want to slap people more than I did at the start of the day, so I’m worried a 15-minute session won’t cut it but I can’t do longer because remember, the aliens have just blown up the White House and I’m Bill Pullman giving a speech while simultaneously performing a C-section with my feet but whatever, let’s start.

Lights dimmed, notifications off, just the calming session playing and I start taking a few deep breaths, shutting out the world, my body relaxing as I focus on the inhale-exhale cycle, in through the nose, slowly out through the mouth, in through the nose, slowwwwly out through the mouth, in through the I LOVE IT WHEN WHEN YOU CALL ME SENORITA, NA MAIN SAMHA NA MAIN JAANA ugh earworm, okay focus, inhale, slow exhale, inhale, slow MUJHSE NAZAR NA PHEROOOO wow always the Abhay Deol voice, stupid brain, okay focus focus, why is my butt suddenly itchy, is it a symptom of colorectal cancer, is this how I die, I’m glad they called it colorectal cancer ‘cos if you told people they had ass cancer they would just laugh haha, oh hey that broccoli in the fridge might go bad soon, isn’t it weird how broccoli looks like gobhi that ate a lot of broccoli, oho is this what they call a veg joke wow Ashish aaj toh angaar hi angaar OKAY FOCUS YOU IDIOT and remember what you learnt: don’t try to fight the thoughts, let them come and go, don’t latch on to them, see them as clouds drifting across the sky, bye bye ass cancer thought, okay the mind is clear again phew, let’s just count breaths… 1… 2… 3… deep breaths deep breaths deep breaths deep RACE SAANSON KI!! I give up.

The lockdown is by no means my first attempt at meditation. I started a few years ago and by ‘started’ I mean I did it only when I felt like it, a strategy I’d also like to apply to taxes. My aversion was partly because I was once made to attend a three-day meditation camp as a kid. This proves the adage that whether it’s religion or karela, if you were forced to do it as a child, you’ll probably hate it as an adult. (Heroin is a notable exception to this rule.)

Anyway, this happened when I was ten and visiting my cousins in Ghaziabad, a town in U.P famous for its traditional murders, power cuts and murders during power cuts. But something worse was in store when I found out that I, along with two cousins my age, were to be bundled off to some meditation camp for kids, probably because the nearest gulag was full.

To be fair, some of my older uncles had gotten into meditation and wanted us to experience the same clarity of thought and peace of mind, which we did anyway BECAUSE WE WERE KIDS AND THAT WAS OUR DEFAULT STATE. In fact, the only stress I had in life was about being plonked into this camp during my summer holidays, which I’d planned to spend going back and forth between comic books and TV while slowly replacing all the fluids in my body with Thums Up.

My cousins and I protested the decision but minority voices in U.P are often ignored. Three hours later, we were deposited at the camp in Delhi whose name I forget but it was run by the same people who run that famous 10-day vipassana course that your hippie friend won’t shut up about. That’s the one where you wake up at 4 a.m., meditate for about 10 hours a day while maintaining absolute silence for the entire 10-day duration, but by the end you feel amazing because you get to leave.

Thankfully, as kids, we had way fewer hours of meditation. The sessions were split across the day and drove home the basics: focusing on one’s breath and blocking out all thoughts about how much you hate your uncles. The No Talking rule also only applied to a small radius outside the main meditation hall because the headline ‘INSTRUCTORS MAULED BY TWO HUNDRED FERAL KIDS, NO ONE SAW ANYTHING’ would’ve been bad PR.

There were other non-meditation activities as well like drawing, playing in the park, slowly digging a hole in the wall and covering it with a Rita Hayworth poster etc. We also had multiple meal breaks where we enjoyed khichdi and lauki, the scintillating cuisine of jaundice patients. A huge curtain ran through the centre of the dining hall, separating the boys and girls, which was hugely discriminatory against a boy who had just spotted a cute girl and fallen in love, something that happened every three days at that age. It was pointless though. Even if I’d had the guts or the charm to talk to her, what could I really say at a meditation shivir? “Heyyy… nice nostrils. You inhale really well. Do you want to get some lauki tonight?”

Of course things have changed since, or as the poet Rilke once wrote, “Friendship ended with childhood, stress is my best friend now.” And while it’s definitely not a substitute for professional help, meditation has served as a helpful anxiety mitigation device, much better than my other techniques like large whiskeys and restless leg shaking that looks like Elvis getting electrocuted.

But you don’t need to wait for undue life stress to kick in before you try it. That sense of focus and equanimity feels great at any point. The only side-effect is that you might use the phrase ‘high on life’ unironically, in which case please walk into the nearest glass door repeatedly until that urge subsides.

Also, to the women reading this: in case you were at that meditation camp and think you may be the girl from my story, do feel free to get in touch. I don’t know your name but I will recognize your nostrils.

It Was Mother’s Day. What Happened Next Will Amaze You.

According to a recent scientific study about the human race, mothers are kinda sorta important in life. They spend their lives caring for the next generation, spurring them on to go forth and conquer and also get a haircut and what is that shirt you’re wearing and what you’re going to a party you must be doing drugs are you doing drugs tell me the truth I’m your mother I always know when you’re lying to me (Hah. No, you don’t) and oh god who will clear these plates DO I LOOK LIKE YOUR SERVANT OR WHAT OKAY DON’T ANSWER THAT YOU CHEEKY BAS… well, you get the idea.

On that joyous Mother’s Day note, I’d first like to say to all the mothers reading this – and I mean this in the nicest possible way – you’re insane. Why else would you sign up for what is essentially a lifelong unpaid internship at Stress and Sacrifice Pvt. Ltd.? I appreciate the work that you do, not because parenthood is some noble, holy endeavour, but because the whole thing looks extremely difficult. (This is also my approach towards jazz performances. I have no clue what’s happening, but it looks tough, so it must be good.)

This would also be a good time to talk about a subject that I’m clearly an expert on: pregnancy.  I’ve reached that age where half the people I know have started having kids (the others have started getting cats). So my Facebook is plastered with typical baby albums with those typical baby album names like ‘My angel!!’, ‘My little bundle of joy <3’ or ‘The Systematic Destruction of My Hopes and Dreams. Awwww.’

But I find it odd that we see pregnancy as routine and commonplace. When your friends say, “Hey, we’re having a baby!” you just smile and reply with the usual “Congratulations. I guess we’ll never see you again.” And sure, pregnancy seems simple enough. You have sex and nine months later, you have a kid. Or if you’re Haryanvi, you have a son. Simple, right?

But in my head, pregnancy is amazing. It’s almost like a magic trick, so when I meet an expectant mother, I’m normal on the outside but there’s a voice in my head going, “HOLY CRAP, LADY! THAT’S CRAZY! HOW ARE MORE PEOPLE NOT AMAZED BY THIS? First there were two microscopic cells the size of nothing, and they turned into a living, breathing, thinking human being that is growing inside you, complete with arms and legs and a brain and a liver and pancreas and an iPhone and its own Instagram page and a sense of entitlement and whatever it is that kids are born with these days.”

That’s not my favourite bit though. You know what I really, really appreciate about pregnancy? That I’m a guy.

(That disturbance in the force you just felt was all my female readers flipping me off in unison.)

I don’t think I’ve ever wished my mom a happy mother’s day, because why restrict yourself to one day when you have 364 days to annoy the hell out of her? Gifting is also a problem, because like a typical Indian mother, she’s pretty difficult to impress. This is how it usually goes:

Me: Look Ma, here’s a fancy dinner at the best restaurant in town.

Mom: I can make better food at home. Don’t waste money.

Me: Look Ma, here’s a necklace that was once owned by the Maharani of Jaipur.

Mom: I know a shop that can make this for one-tenth the cost. Don’t waste money.

Me: Look Ma, I bought Antilla. Just for you.

Mom: Ugh. Who designed that was he on drugs he must have been on drugs is he your friend does his mother know…

The one gift she would like is for me to be more responsible and start investing in something that is not a Jager Bomb. This pales in comparison to her other concern, which is, “Khaana khaaya?” I’m almost thirty, but everytime I see her, she will put forth this question with the urgency of Obama demanding updates on a nuclear attack, because there’s a real danger of me starving in my own home. Once again, I appreciate the concern, but I still don’t get why anyone would willingly put themselves through this. So the least I can do is dedicate this column to my mother. Because this isn’t something she can make at home for cheap.

I think.

(P.S. Thank you for everything.)

(Note: This is my HT column dated 11th May 2014.)

It’s All About Loving Your Privacy

So I came across an interesting survey this week, which talked about the notion of privacy amongst Mumbai’s youth. When asked what privacy meant to them, 35% of the respondents answered ‘solitude’, while the rest were too busy trying to free their faces from random armpits. Because while Bombay has a lot to offer – a great work ethic, garbage-flavoured air, pani-puris made with crotch sweat – privacy isn’t really one of her gifts. No surprise there, considering that most Mumbai homes pack in about 243 people per square foot, and its biggest public spaces are located in Delhi.

The report also said that in their quest for privacy, 62% of Mumbai’s youth prefer spending time outside the house, away from the family. Really? You mean young people don’t want to hang at home with their parents? NO! Next you’ll say that those nice ladies outside Rock Bottom only want me for my money.

Have you noticed that when a report like this tells us that the habits of the youth have changed, and that things aren’t the way they were 40 years ago, the tone is almost always that of alarm? It’s never positive. It’s always, “Tsk tsk. Look at these youngsters. When we were their age, we used to respect our elders, support our entire family, fight wars, overthrow corruption, save the tigers – and we did it all while dressed in prints that could induce epileptic fits.”

Well, duh. Of course people spent more time at home because what else was there to do? Back then, Bombay nightlife consisted of four townies, and they were all sleeping with Alyque Padamsee.

It doesn’t help that we’re the last generation to know what a large joint family looks like. Practically everyone I know has some sort of a “native place”, with an ancestral home that houses the same number of people as Australia, because back in grandpa’s time, birth control was considered a myth, much like unicorns or feminism.

What surveys like these don’t tell you is that the older you get, the more effort you put into keeping in touch with your family, both immediate and extended. Not because you have to, but because you want to. For example, I recently visited relatives back home in Bhaiyyaland, because it had been a while, and more importantly, because I’d forgotten what it was like to have plates of food being thrust at me all day.

Also, I really wanted to meet my niece, who pretty much rules the house despite the fact that she is only two and I could easily take her in a fight. Hanging out with her is great fun though, especially when you realise that kids that age are like adults on drugs, minus the annoying bits. Seriously, it’s like talking to a stoner:

Me: (pointing to a red object) What colour is that?

She: Blue.

Me: No, that’s red. Again, what colour is that?

She: Red.

Me: (pointing to green object) What colour is that?

She: Red.

Me: What is the capital of Libya?

She: Red.

Me: What is the second law of thermodynamics?

She: Ice-cream??

I guess one of the reasons that kids are so hopped up is because they just got here, and everything is new and fascinating. We look at stuff around the house without a second thought, but when kids look at, say, electrical sockets, they’re thinking, “HOLY CRAP, THIS IS AMAZING! NOW I’LL PUT MY FINGER IN IT BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE HILARIOUS!”

Anyway, my point is that while things have changed, I don’t see the family structure in any real danger, simply because we’re Indian, and this is what we do. No matter how far we move from home, or how busy we are, our elders are right behind us, to remind us that we’re doing everything wrong, and that we should really get a haircut. Jokes aside, no matter how flippant or self-absorbed we may seem, we’ll be there when it really matters. Like when we’re really hungry.

(Note: This is my HT column dated 16th Dec, 2012.  Cross-posted from here.)