Sunday, May 31, 2015

How to never grow old (or at least slow down the process)

Last week I had the good fortune of seeing tabla maestro Ustad Zakir Hussain in concert for the second time. The first time was about 15 years ago, at an all-night Indian classical festival back in India. It's possible I might be romanticising the event a little, but I have a vivid memory of sitting transfixed as Hussain proceeded to cast a spell on the assembled audience, with his eyes closed and a big smile on his serene face. 

It was one of those occasions when time seemed both to stand still and speed up all at once. As his fingers danced over the goat-skins of the drums, the darkness seemed to retreat almost in deference- making way as the sun peeked over the distant hills and bathed everything in a sort of ethereal glow. The intervening years have done little to dim the magic of those glorious few minutes. 

But back to last week. 
We didn't have the best seats in the house, but they were close enough for me to notice two things: 
  1. The smile was as big as ever. 
  2. He looked like he hadn't aged a day. 
As I watched him weave another one of his musical spells, I couldn't help but think that this gift, this passion, was surely the life-force keeping him this way. (Perhaps good genes too, but we'll leave that aside for the moment) 

Watching Zakir Hussain is to watch not just one of the finest masters of the tabla at work, but also maybe one of its keenest students. The joy on his face as he regarded both the results of endless practice as well as spontaneous alchemy was as much of a pleasure to behold as the performance itself. 

Somehow, I knew he felt the same excitement he did when he performed a soundtrack to a sunrise fifteen years ago, but also maybe it goes back even further; all the way back to when he first laid eyes on these little drums and decided that he was going to spend the rest of his life tapping them with his fingers. 

I thought about other people who seemed to have the same Peter Pan-like quality. AR Rahman seemed a good example of another musician, likewise Sachin Tendulkar and Roger Federer in sports. I am sure there are so many more, but to me these are people who seemed to lose themselves in their art. They appear to derive at least as much pure, child-like joy from it as we do from watching them. 

It's a wonderful thing to know exactly what you were born to do, and then have the will and courage to completely give in to it. Watching Zakir Hussain is to get a glimpse of what it's like. 

If you don't yet know what your passion is, there's still time to try and find out. And if you do know, chase it down. Follow it to where it takes you, no matter the cost. It's worth it; and I am pretty sure it works better than all the anti-ageing cream in the world.
Sometimes, the best cure for writer's block is to remember how utterly insignificant you are. 

[Click to enlarge]

Friday, May 15, 2015

Not a Nike advert

When was the last time you felt a sense of utter devotion to your craft? 
When did you last revel in glorious failure? 
When did you last experience the thrill of the adventure; a journey started, a fear vanquished, a destiny discovered? 
When did you last hear the call of your calling, and feel the cool breeze of your life's true purpose? 
That overwhelming feeling of being smaller only by virtue of being part of something bigger? 
If you can't remember, it's time for a reminder. 
There is no better feeling, no greater satisfaction. 
Because the unknown isn't that scary in person. 
Because you are only truly free when you are what you are meant to be. 
Just do it.

Remember the Sherpas

I recently met someone who had just returned from a trip to the Himalayas where she made it up to Everest base camp. I heard her tell the story of her journey and the Sherpa who accompanied her up the mountain. She spoke of how he was kind and knowledgeable and helpful, and invited her into his little home to meet his family and share their food. 

I listened with great interest as she recalled the bond that formed between them and how she was panic-stricken when, two weeks after she returned, the earthquake struck Nepal and she lost contact with him. Thankfully, she eventually heard news and while he was safe, their house had been destroyed and many he knew had lost their lives. 

It was a thrilling story in so many ways, containing on the one hand triumph and adventure, and on the other, adversity and destruction. And, like all good stories- it stuck with me. For days after, I thought about the fragility of life but also about the Sherpa in her story. I tried to imagine what he looked like, tried to picture his home and his family. 

I have not met a Sherpa in person; the closest I have come is probably the ever-smiling Bahadur who works at my aunt's home in Delhi. Perhaps adversity is part of their lives, and they deal with it in their own way. Perhaps, despite everything, they even find a way to be happy. But I couldn't help but feel for them- these kind, knowledgeable men who live in tough, unforgiving conditions, making a living out of leading others to the top of mountains. 

I thought back to when I first read about (Sir) Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing Norgay, the first men to conquer Everest. It occurred to me that in almost every reference to these two men, Hillary's name was mentioned first. The subtle implication seemed to be that Hillary was the main man, and Norgay was just the sidekick. 

The reality, however, was that Norgay had made more summit attempts than any other person alive before actually conquering the peak with Hillary. While there's no doubt Hillary deserves every recognition for his efforts (he certainly wasn't carried to the top by Norgay), it is safe to say that without Norgay's experience and expertise, they would most likely have failed like many before them. 

When they finally reached the highest point on earth, the story goes that the two men made a pact that they would not reveal who actually scaled the peak first. It was an acknowledgement of the fact that each needed the other, and it was a team effort in the truest sense. 

And yet, so often Sherpas are a small footnote in the still-unfolding story of the great Himalayas. For them, it is just a job and the people with the money, expensive equipment and the Twitter and Instagram accounts take the glory. [There's something poignant about imagining a Sherpa guide a climber to the top, take his or photo, and then guide them back down again.] 

There are plenty of stories where Sherpas have lost their lives trying to help those in their care, losing their footing while seeking out a trail or even giving up their oxygen when climbers have run out of theirs. Day in and day out they get on with their jobs of trying to tame these treacherous peaks, and then return to fragile houses that fall apart in the next tremor, flood or avalanche. 

I'm not sure I will ever scale any of the Himalayan peaks or even get as far as base camp, but I suppose I have, in my own way, encountered Sherpas in my own life- people (both men and women) who have selflessly guided and helped me along the way and then disappeared into the background when the summit was in sight. 

In the end, these are the people I ended up thinking of today; I am sure you have had them as well. So whatever peaks you end up scaling in your own lives, whether literally or figuratively, I hope you too will remember the Sherpas. Those who helped you get there. People who went before, or who came along for the ride just for the satisfaction of seeing you reach the top. 

Remember them, because without them there's often no story worth telling.
When they pick through the rubble, of another unexplained crash, 
They won't know I was a writer, or that I listened to The Clash,
They'll gather up what remains, and dust off all the ash,
And they will identify me by my shoes. 

Everything I'd ever done, and all that was left to do,
That brilliant unfinished novel, or that masterpiece I drew,
All those battles won and lost- they wouldn't have a clue,
They will just identify me by my shoes. 

Every so often I think, of what it really means to lose,
I consider loss and longing, and what I can and cannot choose,
And how when the end comes, and it's time to clear the dues,
The only thing that will matter, is the colour of my shoes.