Earlier this week I met a friend to catch up on the past few weeks at a local pub. While there, I suddenly realised my handbag had been stolen. Not the nicest thing to happen. But this is not a post about the awful experience of having your possessions stolen!
First, I was surprised at how calm I was - no panic, not even anger. This equanamity is something relatively new, as for most of my life I have been a bundle of nerves concealed under a calm facade maintained only with iron discipline. In fact, most of my loved ones recognise the signs when the facade cracks under proverbial "the straw that broke the camel's back" and either fury or desperate sorrow comes pouring forth. In fact, my family and friends are really great at comforting me in those moments of absolute distress, but increasingly, I realise that they are also really good at identifying the moment when my iron control will snap.
Yet this time, there was nothing. I felt calm as my friend and I reported the crime, cancelled bank cards, organised the locks in my home to be replaced, called my family, and made my way home. Strangely enough, even though I had strange and unsettling dreams, I even slept that night.
This equanimity first reared its head some six weeks ago, in the midst of an emotional crisis. I fully expected to fall apart even then, yet after the initial release of tears, there was a strange peace. My brother called it "sthirta" - a Hindi word that translates as a combination of balance, groundedness, lack of movement, serenity even. I am not sure where or how I have acquired this but frankly, after a lifetime of being hyper-sensitive combined with keeping myself under rigid self-control, it feels strangely liberating and easy. For that alone, I am thankful.
But more importantly, the stolen handbag has made me remember something more important: that there are far more wonderful people in the world than awful ones (even though you won't notice that if you read the news or even fiction).
So for the one loser who stole my handbag, here is a list of super people who helped me cope:
1. My friend who gave me his phone to make the calls, walked me around the area to see if we could find a trace (often these are quick thefts only for money), found an internet cafe so I could find my family's phone numbers, and then accompanied me home and kept me company till I got most things sorted. He also gave me running cash while my bank stuff got sorted out, and went for another seach trip the next day to see if something would turn up. 2009 has definitely been the year of realising just how super my friends are!
2. The waitress in the pub who was more upset than me about the theft and really kind and gentle.
3. The street cleaner who promised to keep an eye out for anything odd and offered kind words.
4. The policewoman who took the initial report on the phone and then the various people who man the Metropolitan Police's telephone lines who have since taken bits and pieces of information I keep remembering since then.
5. My neighbour who not only reassured me that he would let me in the front door, but also organised the locksmith, so I got home and could actually enter my flat without a second's delay, or indeed having to watch the locksmith at work.
6. The locksmith who was not only efficient but also extremely kind and comforting. He told me stories of his own car (someone took off all the wheels and left it on milk crates), and made me laugh with strange tales of his life as a locksmith.
7. The policewoman who called the next morning having gone through the papers to find my home number (I couldn't remember it initially and obviously my mobile had also been stolen) so she could follow up on the initial report, showing a diligence that doesn't often make it to the newspapers. She also spent a lot of time taking down details and was one of the nicest people I have ever dealt with in any "service" capacity.
8. The kind soul who found my staff ID and keys on the street the next morning and turned it in to my office reception.
9. The really kind man who found my wallet thrown on the street, found my business card, and emailed me so I could collect it. The wallet has sentimental value: its a near replica by the same brand of the first "designer" one I bought for myself. That first wallet was purchased in Mexico, in 1991, after six months of saving up, as proof that I was a self-sufficient adult. I used it till it fell apart a couple of years ago. This year my brother found a nearly identical version of it and gave it to me for my birthday. So a lot of emotional investment had gone into it and it was the first thing I was sad about.
Antony, thank you so much for finding it and making sure I got it back.
10. The tall man with tattoos and ponytail near Highbury Place who helped me look through hedges and bushes the next day, as I thought I would take a chance and try finding more stuff, given that bits and pieces had turned up in the area.
11. The many, many people who took a few minutes of their own lives to help me look over hedges, in bins, and along the streets.
12. The security staff at work who not only promptly informed me that my keys and ID had been returned but also were kind and generous with their sympathy.
13. My swim coach who reminded me that thiefs are professionals and there was little I could have done to stop it. Also that swimming would clear my head and stop me worrying. And thank you for not killing me by recognising that I was too frazzled to maintain balance, but with enough pent up energy to do laps.
14. The cop on Upper Street who reminded me to be glad because noone had been hurt and that things/documents can be replaced.
I realise that in normal scheme of things, many of these people were simply doing their jobs. But they could have been grumpy or abrupt or unkind and gotten their job done. For example, so the locksmith could have just replaced the locks without trying to make me feel better; the police could have been just as effective without the unfailing patience and kindness. But they made that extra effort.
Even more people acted out of the kindness of their hearts to help a stranger recover her belongings, or to try to comfort and aid someone.
Thats over a dozen wonderful human beings for that one lousy thief! I could be angry and upset, but I think it makes more sense to be grateful for all that is good in humanity, and for the fact that it obviously supersedes the bad in sheer numbers.
Thank you - universe - for this timely reminder!
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Deception: Some Thoughts
I have been thinking about deception quite a bit recently.
As children, we grew up in the smoke-and-mirrors world of international espionage thanks to my father’s career in the government. In that world, deception was the norm: people were never who they said they were; information was always suspect, to be double and treble checked with multiple sources before it could be believed; potential friends were treated with suspicion until they proved their loyalty.
And yet, perhaps because of the lies that constantly surrounded us, as a family we grew up with absolute honesty. Perhaps because, as my parents have since pointed out, dishonesty even in small matters like taking a detour on the way home from school to grab an ice-cream could place our lives in danger. The worst trouble we ever got into with our parents was never for the wild, crazy things we did as teenagers (generally those just made my father laugh, or worse still, worry that we were “geeks” because we weren’t raising enough hell). The worst reprimands and consequences were for those little white lies that most kids take for granted.
There was just one rule: Information had its own restrictions and so not everything could be shared by everyone at all times, but deception stopped at the main door to our home.
Over the past few months, I have thought about deception repeatedly. Why people choose to deceive each other, especially when there is no greater tactical or strategic motive? Worse, why they choose to deceive the people they are apparently closest to: family, partners, children? And worst of all, why do they choose to deceive themselves?
I can understand – and perhaps take for granted – that humans deceive each other. But perhaps like Chanakya, and thanks to my upbringing, I believe that lies told in service of a greater good have their role in society. An intelligence officer deceives the enemy, lies and cheats and betrays for the good of his/her own people and nation. Despite all talk of the global village, and nebulous ideals of brotherhood of all humanity, there is virtue in such deception, as it is carried out at great personal risk (and cost) and for very little personal gain.
In contrast, there is little virtue in lying and cheating people that one loves. And yet as statistics repeatedly tell us, people deceive and betray their spouses and partners with a regularity that is distressing. There is a special horror to this, beyond the banal but significant risks of sexual transmission of disease, and other physical ramifications.
There is the material and emotional fall out when the deception comes to light: changes in marital status with all its economic and social corollaries, the anguish of the betrayed partner, the sorrow inflicted on other members of the family. How ironic that all of these are results of ending deception rather than its continuation.
But then there is a strange added phenomenon: there is also the shattering of the self-deception that often people impose on themselves. The cheating partner must confront his/her own idiocy in believing that any deception can be maintained indefinitely and the deceived party must question their own collusion with the deception. Children of such homes learn not the honesty within relationships but rather the hypocrisy that their parents demonstrate in their domestic lives. How different from my childhood world of smoke-and-mirrors!
Deception in espionage is a game, with various parties aware of the rules and consequences. One reason for the need for utter honesty within our family was an early recognition that governments use its officials (and citizens) as pawns, to be sacrificed with ease and relative nonchalance. Perhaps, because of this, in espionage, there is also a sense of respect for the enemy: its just a game, nothing personal!
But deception in “normal” life is personal. And perhaps that is why its greatest casualty is the sense of self. The deceived must not only recognise that they have been lied to and cheated, but also question why they were not trustworthy enough to be let into the secret: Why having loved a person were they left out of their partner or parent's unhappiness? And then there are the awful doubts over what else they have been deceived about!
But perhaps because of the shattering of self-worth, self-deception is the worst of them all. Long ago, I volunteered at a hotline for women in distress. Some of the women who called were being physically abused, but many others were facing what was euphemistically categorized as “relationship issues”: partners who had grown distant and remote, who were unfaithful, or in some way had stopped making the callers happy.
I remember being shocked initially at how deeply the callers deceived themselves. No matter how unhappy they were, they would rationalise their situation with the most clichéd of statements: “he is a good provider,” “he is a good father,” “he really does care,” "he will never do it again," and so on.
In an early training session, one of the senior counsellors explained that our job was to just listen, not to offer solutions or advice. And over coffee, she told me that she had come to accept that most of the callers would never leave their miserable situations, preferring the safety and security of the unhappiness they knew to the uncertainty of finding something new.
I was reminded of that comment recently, while thinking of this topic. And of the time I watched animals being brought into a nature reserve in Africa. These animals were from zoos and circuses, and had lived most of their lives in cages. And yet when that door was opened, and they could see the veldt beyond, they did not leap for that freedom. Instead they cowered at the very end of the cage where they had suffered their imprisonment and possible mistreatment. Even the fear of fire or sound of gunshots would not change their instinct to remain in their cages.
In espionage, the deceiver and the deceived are like two beasts of prey, hunting, stalking, evading. But the many people who deceive themselves, not only in relationships, but also jobs, lifestyles, entire lives, are like those animals, cowering in their misery rather than taking the risk of finding happiness. Like those animals, the deceiver and the deceived cower in their cages, but unlike those animals, they can't ever be drawn out: as humans, they carry their cages with them.
Perhaps that is why I am struck by Chanakya’s idea of anvikshaki knowledge: self-knowledge. Not in an easy new-agey way but one acquired by remorselessly facing up to oneself in all our darkness and brutality. Without it, we can not only never find happiness, but shall never stop being deceived in the worst possible way: by ourselves.
As children, we grew up in the smoke-and-mirrors world of international espionage thanks to my father’s career in the government. In that world, deception was the norm: people were never who they said they were; information was always suspect, to be double and treble checked with multiple sources before it could be believed; potential friends were treated with suspicion until they proved their loyalty.
And yet, perhaps because of the lies that constantly surrounded us, as a family we grew up with absolute honesty. Perhaps because, as my parents have since pointed out, dishonesty even in small matters like taking a detour on the way home from school to grab an ice-cream could place our lives in danger. The worst trouble we ever got into with our parents was never for the wild, crazy things we did as teenagers (generally those just made my father laugh, or worse still, worry that we were “geeks” because we weren’t raising enough hell). The worst reprimands and consequences were for those little white lies that most kids take for granted.
There was just one rule: Information had its own restrictions and so not everything could be shared by everyone at all times, but deception stopped at the main door to our home.
Over the past few months, I have thought about deception repeatedly. Why people choose to deceive each other, especially when there is no greater tactical or strategic motive? Worse, why they choose to deceive the people they are apparently closest to: family, partners, children? And worst of all, why do they choose to deceive themselves?
I can understand – and perhaps take for granted – that humans deceive each other. But perhaps like Chanakya, and thanks to my upbringing, I believe that lies told in service of a greater good have their role in society. An intelligence officer deceives the enemy, lies and cheats and betrays for the good of his/her own people and nation. Despite all talk of the global village, and nebulous ideals of brotherhood of all humanity, there is virtue in such deception, as it is carried out at great personal risk (and cost) and for very little personal gain.
In contrast, there is little virtue in lying and cheating people that one loves. And yet as statistics repeatedly tell us, people deceive and betray their spouses and partners with a regularity that is distressing. There is a special horror to this, beyond the banal but significant risks of sexual transmission of disease, and other physical ramifications.
There is the material and emotional fall out when the deception comes to light: changes in marital status with all its economic and social corollaries, the anguish of the betrayed partner, the sorrow inflicted on other members of the family. How ironic that all of these are results of ending deception rather than its continuation.
But then there is a strange added phenomenon: there is also the shattering of the self-deception that often people impose on themselves. The cheating partner must confront his/her own idiocy in believing that any deception can be maintained indefinitely and the deceived party must question their own collusion with the deception. Children of such homes learn not the honesty within relationships but rather the hypocrisy that their parents demonstrate in their domestic lives. How different from my childhood world of smoke-and-mirrors!
Deception in espionage is a game, with various parties aware of the rules and consequences. One reason for the need for utter honesty within our family was an early recognition that governments use its officials (and citizens) as pawns, to be sacrificed with ease and relative nonchalance. Perhaps, because of this, in espionage, there is also a sense of respect for the enemy: its just a game, nothing personal!
But deception in “normal” life is personal. And perhaps that is why its greatest casualty is the sense of self. The deceived must not only recognise that they have been lied to and cheated, but also question why they were not trustworthy enough to be let into the secret: Why having loved a person were they left out of their partner or parent's unhappiness? And then there are the awful doubts over what else they have been deceived about!
But perhaps because of the shattering of self-worth, self-deception is the worst of them all. Long ago, I volunteered at a hotline for women in distress. Some of the women who called were being physically abused, but many others were facing what was euphemistically categorized as “relationship issues”: partners who had grown distant and remote, who were unfaithful, or in some way had stopped making the callers happy.
I remember being shocked initially at how deeply the callers deceived themselves. No matter how unhappy they were, they would rationalise their situation with the most clichéd of statements: “he is a good provider,” “he is a good father,” “he really does care,” "he will never do it again," and so on.
In an early training session, one of the senior counsellors explained that our job was to just listen, not to offer solutions or advice. And over coffee, she told me that she had come to accept that most of the callers would never leave their miserable situations, preferring the safety and security of the unhappiness they knew to the uncertainty of finding something new.
I was reminded of that comment recently, while thinking of this topic. And of the time I watched animals being brought into a nature reserve in Africa. These animals were from zoos and circuses, and had lived most of their lives in cages. And yet when that door was opened, and they could see the veldt beyond, they did not leap for that freedom. Instead they cowered at the very end of the cage where they had suffered their imprisonment and possible mistreatment. Even the fear of fire or sound of gunshots would not change their instinct to remain in their cages.
In espionage, the deceiver and the deceived are like two beasts of prey, hunting, stalking, evading. But the many people who deceive themselves, not only in relationships, but also jobs, lifestyles, entire lives, are like those animals, cowering in their misery rather than taking the risk of finding happiness. Like those animals, the deceiver and the deceived cower in their cages, but unlike those animals, they can't ever be drawn out: as humans, they carry their cages with them.
Perhaps that is why I am struck by Chanakya’s idea of anvikshaki knowledge: self-knowledge. Not in an easy new-agey way but one acquired by remorselessly facing up to oneself in all our darkness and brutality. Without it, we can not only never find happiness, but shall never stop being deceived in the worst possible way: by ourselves.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
On beauty: mothers and daughters
This past week was my mother’s birthday. I called to wish her in the morning and then headed to work.
On the way to the tube stop, a strange thing happened: I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window and was startled enough to stop and stare at the reflection. Somehow, for the first time in my life, I reminded myself of my mother. Not resembled her, but somehow echoed her. And that was bizarre enough.
When I was a child, I was fascinated by my mother: she was beautiful and glamorous in that old-style movie star way. People would stare at her but rarely approached her, not only because we lived in a conservative society where she was a scion of a well-known family in the region, but also because there was something intimidating about her beauty. Even in kindergarten, friends would sigh every time she appeared at the school gates – all silks and chiffons and warm perfumed cuddles. “Your mother is soooooooo beautiful,” they would whisper in awe.
Early in my childhood, I realised that my mother’s kind of beauty was not only extraordinarily rare but also beyond my reach. In any case, everyone said that I resembled my father, and while he is handsome, it isn’t much help being a little girl and being told that one looks like a man!
So early on I rebelled: not in any overt way, but by simply refusing to take on the trappings of femininity and beauty. And quite early on, and thanks to my mother who was unfailingly proud of me, I realised that I had something extraordinary too: a brain that worked in ways that were unusual and powerful. As early as elementary school, I had decided that instead of the beauty of the family, I would be the brains. At least that I could achieve on my own steam.
At sixteen, someone took a photograph of me at a party and my mother was genuinely thrilled: “I have a beautiful daughter,” she exclaimed over and over again, putting that photograph in a frame. I didn’t believe her then. Tomboyish and bookish by turns, beauty was just as unattainable in my teens as when I was a child.
Then in my early twenties, I fell in love a man who I believed was a connoisseur of feminine beauty. Perhaps he was poor at communication or just deeply insecure, but during one alcohol-laced conversation, he told me that while I was “extremely attractive,” I would never count as “beautiful.” It was an affirmation of what I had always believed, and yet it hurt. Nothing he ever said afterwards to explain or make up, could undo that initial hurt.
In the years that followed, I single-mindedly pursued the goal of becoming the “brain,” eventually with a degree of success. And then, increasingly, I found that people were intimidated by the knowledge I had steadily and painstakingly acquired, by my ability to out-reason them.
And after the first flush of power that ability to intimidate gave me, I started to question it. I remembered the remote glamour that accompanies beauty and didn’t want the same reaction for my brain. Instead I began to search ways to inspire not intimidate. Over time, it is a skill I have acquired to some proficiency, and in the past few years, I have slowly gotten better at it: I can see that in my daily life.
Over the same period, my hankering for beauty has also fallen by the wayside. Perhaps that is only a natural corollary of deliberately trying to shed an ego that prides itself on intelligence and knowledge and on deliberate and consistent attempts at superiority, and instead focussing on excellence.
This is why I was stunned to see the reflection in the shop window. The woman who looked back at me was frighteningly good looking. Perhaps she was not glamorous in that movie star way like my mother, but still shockingly arresting, perhaps even intimidating, in her looks. Since then I have started noticing the way people “check” me out on the street, in cafes and pubs, in shops. They often wear the same arrested expression that I remember from my childhood, the one that my mother evoked. And sometimes, they approach me (no protective social barriers for me!) with curiosity and yet hesitation, as if expecting to be rebuffed.
My women friends (including my sister) laugh at me when I tell them of this strange new phenomenon. “You’re the only one who doesn’t notice she is beautiful,” my sister tells. “You’re crazy,” one of my oldest and closest friends exclaimed the other day, telling me (for the first time) that even that hyper-critical lover from my twenties couldn’t keep his eyes off me when I entered a room; this time I believe her.
My mother would also laugh when she reads this. She will call me to point out all the beautiful women in the family and wonder why I should expect to be different (she has done that before). For the first time, I remember that I also look like my paternal grandmother, and she was an accredited beauty of her times.
Sometimes I wish I hadn’t doubted myself for so long. But then perhaps that is good: convinced for years that I could not be beautiful, I have nurtured my brain; wracked by insecurity since my childhood, I have learned to identify with the underdog and have (hopefully) escaped the horrors of hubris. Those are not mean achievements for half a human life!
I also think I understand why I begin to look like my mother: some how, without trying, I have found the same confidence that my mother has always radiated, full of warmth and happiness, and a bubbling enthusiasm for life.
And that is a gift from her that is impossible to match, no matter how hard I try. Even for the rest of my life.
Happy birthday, mum!
On the way to the tube stop, a strange thing happened: I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window and was startled enough to stop and stare at the reflection. Somehow, for the first time in my life, I reminded myself of my mother. Not resembled her, but somehow echoed her. And that was bizarre enough.
When I was a child, I was fascinated by my mother: she was beautiful and glamorous in that old-style movie star way. People would stare at her but rarely approached her, not only because we lived in a conservative society where she was a scion of a well-known family in the region, but also because there was something intimidating about her beauty. Even in kindergarten, friends would sigh every time she appeared at the school gates – all silks and chiffons and warm perfumed cuddles. “Your mother is soooooooo beautiful,” they would whisper in awe.
Early in my childhood, I realised that my mother’s kind of beauty was not only extraordinarily rare but also beyond my reach. In any case, everyone said that I resembled my father, and while he is handsome, it isn’t much help being a little girl and being told that one looks like a man!
So early on I rebelled: not in any overt way, but by simply refusing to take on the trappings of femininity and beauty. And quite early on, and thanks to my mother who was unfailingly proud of me, I realised that I had something extraordinary too: a brain that worked in ways that were unusual and powerful. As early as elementary school, I had decided that instead of the beauty of the family, I would be the brains. At least that I could achieve on my own steam.
At sixteen, someone took a photograph of me at a party and my mother was genuinely thrilled: “I have a beautiful daughter,” she exclaimed over and over again, putting that photograph in a frame. I didn’t believe her then. Tomboyish and bookish by turns, beauty was just as unattainable in my teens as when I was a child.
Then in my early twenties, I fell in love a man who I believed was a connoisseur of feminine beauty. Perhaps he was poor at communication or just deeply insecure, but during one alcohol-laced conversation, he told me that while I was “extremely attractive,” I would never count as “beautiful.” It was an affirmation of what I had always believed, and yet it hurt. Nothing he ever said afterwards to explain or make up, could undo that initial hurt.
In the years that followed, I single-mindedly pursued the goal of becoming the “brain,” eventually with a degree of success. And then, increasingly, I found that people were intimidated by the knowledge I had steadily and painstakingly acquired, by my ability to out-reason them.
And after the first flush of power that ability to intimidate gave me, I started to question it. I remembered the remote glamour that accompanies beauty and didn’t want the same reaction for my brain. Instead I began to search ways to inspire not intimidate. Over time, it is a skill I have acquired to some proficiency, and in the past few years, I have slowly gotten better at it: I can see that in my daily life.
Over the same period, my hankering for beauty has also fallen by the wayside. Perhaps that is only a natural corollary of deliberately trying to shed an ego that prides itself on intelligence and knowledge and on deliberate and consistent attempts at superiority, and instead focussing on excellence.
This is why I was stunned to see the reflection in the shop window. The woman who looked back at me was frighteningly good looking. Perhaps she was not glamorous in that movie star way like my mother, but still shockingly arresting, perhaps even intimidating, in her looks. Since then I have started noticing the way people “check” me out on the street, in cafes and pubs, in shops. They often wear the same arrested expression that I remember from my childhood, the one that my mother evoked. And sometimes, they approach me (no protective social barriers for me!) with curiosity and yet hesitation, as if expecting to be rebuffed.
My women friends (including my sister) laugh at me when I tell them of this strange new phenomenon. “You’re the only one who doesn’t notice she is beautiful,” my sister tells. “You’re crazy,” one of my oldest and closest friends exclaimed the other day, telling me (for the first time) that even that hyper-critical lover from my twenties couldn’t keep his eyes off me when I entered a room; this time I believe her.
My mother would also laugh when she reads this. She will call me to point out all the beautiful women in the family and wonder why I should expect to be different (she has done that before). For the first time, I remember that I also look like my paternal grandmother, and she was an accredited beauty of her times.
Sometimes I wish I hadn’t doubted myself for so long. But then perhaps that is good: convinced for years that I could not be beautiful, I have nurtured my brain; wracked by insecurity since my childhood, I have learned to identify with the underdog and have (hopefully) escaped the horrors of hubris. Those are not mean achievements for half a human life!
I also think I understand why I begin to look like my mother: some how, without trying, I have found the same confidence that my mother has always radiated, full of warmth and happiness, and a bubbling enthusiasm for life.
And that is a gift from her that is impossible to match, no matter how hard I try. Even for the rest of my life.
Happy birthday, mum!
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