Spring Water That Heals

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I am unable to drink the water that has been offered. One sip is enough to tell me the brackish, acid taste of iron it carries is not for me. But my photographer is already reaching out to refill his glass, and so is our guide.  Our guide bustles with health. She talks casually of skiing down the snow mountains that stand shadowing St Moritz; she walks with a stride that makes me wonder if she has spring on her feet. She often guides media and celebrities around, and a visit to the Forum Paracelsus  is almost mandatory. Perhaps the water is the reason, I muse, for her glowing health.

The water we are holding is from a small fountain inside the rather imposing building that now houses the springs. The  therapeutic values of these springs were first discovered and put to use around 1400 years BC. By the Middle Ages, word of the healing springs, reached beyond St Moritz, and Pope Leo X as well as the naturopath Paracelsus, after whom the bath is currently named, helped bolster its reputation further. Paracelsus combined chemical medicine and empirical, psychological healing to treat a number of maladies without resorting to surgery. The waters of St Moritz were perfect for putting his theory, of letting Nature heal, to effective use.

St Mauritius fountain

The taste of the water lingers as I wander through the large rooms and take in the St Mauritius Fountain, a large but decrepit fountain that dates back to the Bronze Age, embalmed behind a glass window. Touch screens and audio panels tell me of the curative properties of the waters, as well as share insights about the history. A large plaque reads out the composition of the water I have drunk. In brief, drinking it should help my stomach and intestines, make my blood redder, open blocked ducts and glands. It also prevents migraines, alleviates ear problems and clears mucus slime.

The waters have helped many chronic sufferers who come to stay at the town’s posh hotels to take therapeutic baths, and to drink the water. But I feel quite well, and I am glad I need not sip any more of it.

More healing waters in the Frankfurt Rhine region

Like St Moritz in Switzerland, other places in Europe are blessed with healing waters. None more blessed than Germany, perhaps. In fact, the Frankfurt Rhine-Main Region boasts of nine such towns with waters that cure a variety of illnesses. I visit two. The quaint and quiet town of Wiesbaden is one of them. Centuries ago, Wiesbaden was blessed with 26 hot springs, each of which was loaded with the fount of wellness. The legend goes that when the Romans first set up forts in Mainz, and crossed the Rhine on horses, they realised the horses loved to bathe in the warm floodplains of the river. Successful investigation into this phenomenon resulted in the discovery of the hidden hot springs, some hot enough to roast meat, others just warm enough to offer comfort on cold nights. Wies [ the fields ] and baden [bath] where the Romans enjoyed bathing 2000 years ago, was thus christened. Wiesbaden also contributed to fashion. The pink deposits were used by Roman women to add colour to their hair!

The 26 hot springs continued to garner attention, and soon Europe was paying homage to its healing powers. By 1370, 16 bath houses were counted. In 1800, the city boasted 23 bath houses. By 1900, Wiesbaden, a population of 86,100, would welcome 126,000 visitors every year. Among them were names like Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Richard Wagner, Johannes Brahms, and Henrik Pontoppidan.

Today, only 17 springs still flow. And at the start of the reconstructed old town that also hosts the hottest shopping centre with shops lining the streets and small eateries dotting the periphery, the old hot spring fountain stands, a perpetual fount of healing water. Famed for its ability to cure orthopaedic and rheumatic ailments, it welcomes any one who cannot afford the more expensive treatments in the clinics and hotel spas to collect the water and help alleviate their aches. For the rest, a variety of specialists and clinics offer treatment options using the spring waters, and spas like the Kaiser-Friedrich and the Aukammtal thermal baths offer visitors the chance to relax and recuperate.

Bad Homburg, a taste of luxury

On to the picturesque town of Bad Homburg, a 20-minute train ride from Frankfurt. Here‘s where the rich live, and the town breathes an air of luxury, right from the newly done windows at the railway station, to the flowering avenues and the glistening dome of the Russian church in the distance.

This is the town where the first casino was built. The first spa building followed, and the industry grew with the discovery of the Elisabethenbrunnen [Brunnen is German for “well”] in 1834. Two brothers built the casino, and were so successful in their enterprise that they later took over the Monte Carlo casino. When in 1860, the railway was born in its first avatar, connecting Bad Homburg to Frankfurt, the casino and the spas started drawing clients from all over, including rich Russians.

We seek a moment’s rest from the long hours of exploratory walking, and enter a beautiful church, restored to glory after it was ruined in the war. Inside between an old gracious statue of the Virgin Mary, and a modern sweeping version of Our Lady, the pews glisten emptily in the candle light. At the far end, two musicians are rehearsing. Brisk, happy music. It is heartwarming, especially in the evening cold. There are many therapies Bad Homburg has to offer, I think as we leave. Music too, among them.

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Ask me, I have worked sincerely, seriously and without even using up my CL [casual leave] or SL [sick leave]. For a while, years went past without my taking a vacation, but 30 years down this road, I am still raring to go, and full of beans!

I think I discovered the trick when I took over Femina as its editor. It was a huge challenge being at the helm of a magazine that was more than 30 years old, and lay gasping at the verge of collapse. It meant meetings and more meetings, discussions, and brainstorming sessions. It meant setting up a network… oh you know how it is with a start-up. And for all practical purposes, this was just that. We were scrapping everything but the brand name and starting afresh.

Well, to make a long story short, there were days when the enormity of what I had taken on would swamp me. Add to all this was the fact that there were seniors, in age and seniority in the company who resented a younger ‘boss’.

Under the circumstances, I should have in the very first quarter, been lining up for a stress test and risking a serious burnout. But I took a walk instead.

Go Take a Walk!

It has been my way of de-stressing, de-cluttering my mind when something could not be solved in writing, or a problem, to take a walk.

Walking the streets, window shopping, or looking at the sea or a river, calms one down; it makes the mind move out of its narrow corridors of thought and admire what it sees, relaxing in the process. Soon, I would find my brow easing, and a song presenting itself to be hummed. The feeling of being able to walk away from the scene, and find something else to interest the mind, would give the issue at hand perspective. And whittle it down to the proper size. In the large scheme of things, it was only a transitory drop of pique.

The walks were the first step. As the years rolled by, I found other ways to ensure that I created little asides to sidestep imminent burnout. Mental parks, to find the space to relax even as I continued with my rather demanding working schedules.

Fan an Old Flame

I think being blessed with an interest in many things is one reason this was easy. But interests can always be developed. It’s amazing how much there is waiting to catch your fancy, if you just look around.

We’ve all grown up with interests. Wanting to sing, or dance, or climb a hill, wanting to know how to skate, or fly a plane. Where have all those dreams gone? Chances are we write them off as dreams, and they are lying forgotten in some far away drawer beside the diary you once kept in school, or the trophies you won, which you could not bring yourself to throw away.

Time then to open that forgotten drawer and pull out those dreams.

Do it on some weekend. Just when you think you are so busy that you have no time to eat, or indulge in a siesta.

As you go through the things that you wished to do, but did not quite get down to, something might just grab your fancy.

I know I always wanted to do theatre. And one day, on an impulse, I did join a theatre group. It was an experimental play, and there was a lot of dance-based movement involved, and having learnt a bit of dancing, and loved it as a school girl, it would be easy and fun, I was sure.

It wasn’t. The dance was based on Purulia Chhau, a martial arts form; I was terribly out of form myself, thanks to my city bred ways. Just mastering the first steps took me over a month.

It was work all over again, hard work, the kind that made one sweat and sometimes made me think that I had more muscles than others and all of them only knew how to ache.

Earn as You Learn

But it was a learning, and learning something new is always an adventure. It uses different parts of the brain from what you normally use at work; it makes you stretch your limits as you go back to being a child again, and taking instructions and following them. It teaches you humility and wonder, and when you finally make progress in small steps, the same sense of wonder fills you that fills a child’s mind when it realises that putting one foot in front of the other can get it from one place to another!

In the process, the job you do gets pushed to its proper slot as one of the many things that fill time and space in your life. The humility and wonder are useful, they help you appreciate others’ skills and points of view and help you look at things at work afresh. Most important, the entire learning process de-stresses you. And you have earned a mental respite!

For years after my first foray into learning Chhau, I continued to be a part of the theatre group.

I made new friends, I learnt new methods of expression, I learnt to throw my voice and express myself in different ways, and I learnt after the Chhau episode, Kalaripayattu, T’ai Chi and a smattering of other disciplines.

Flirt Shamelessly

Over the years I have done most everything I wanted to do as a child. Well, most everything. I have learnt singing, serious classical singing from one of the country’s best teachers, who lamented the fact that I had a full-time job and only ‘flirted’ with learning. But the sessions with her were a revelation of another world, and I still value what she taught me about voice and expressing a note through it, in the morning classes where I sat on the floor looking up at her on the divan, as she strummed the tanpura and guided me along.

Her own dedication to music to the exclusion of everything else including marriage and children, gave me a sense of awe at her single mindedness, and yet told me there were pitfalls in being so single minded unless one was really world-class as she was.

I still regret having to give up my classes with her; it meant a long, long journey to a far off suburb from where I lived and an equidistant trip to work, which eventually got impossible to handle. But the experience left me richer in memory and understanding, and opened a new world. More important it helped me write with some knowledge on music. Besides singing and theatre, there has been a host of other things. Travel for instance!

Run Away!

I remember falling in love with the Everest when I first read a book about Mallory and Irvine’s attempt. Doomed though it was, it was fiercely magical in its hold on the imagination.

When the going gets tough, they say, the tough get going.

When things get bad, and seem irrevocable, they mend pretty fast if you really take your mind far away from it. I did that, and right in the middle of a worsening situation at work, once I had neatly tied all straggly ends, and set the boat sailing on its own for the next 15 days at least, I bought a pair of hiking shoes and set out on my first ever hike.

When things get bad, and seem irrevocable, they mend pretty fast if you really take your mind far away from it

It was tough, of course, but the exhilaration I felt at getting there and getting back washed away all negativity. If I can do this, I told myself, I can solve issues at work. And by Jove, I did!

Since that first trip, I have done another, trekking 84km to and from the Pindari glacier. Other times, I take a road trip into far off places, or fly away to a lesser known destination. When work presented me with fam trips, I took the untrodden route. That would make routine into an adventure.

Though fam trips are looked upon as pleasure trips by those not in the charmed circle of being invited, they are often trips where one is slave-driven from one tourist spot to another, one lunch meet to another tea meet where press notes and info comes in heavy overdoses. There is little free time, and by the time one returns, one might want to take time off on a vacation!

Walking the untrodden route is to either find the offbeat story while in the crowd, like concentrate on one aspect, so you can read up, take tiny side excursions, and no organiser minds that extra input for you, if it makes a good story for him. Or like I did, I took a colleague along; [she paid for her flight, but after that, the rooms were anyway twin sharing] and drove all over Ireland, daring myself to drive in a foreign land, through places that I could sometimes not pronounce. We got lost, we ended up in strange nooks and dead ends, but it was a trip we will never forget. And the result was we enjoyed writing the many stories we gathered along the way!

Play Peeping Tom!

Other times I have taken up writing a book, losing myself in another person’s life, in an era that is now almost forgotten. Living their lives, dreaming their dreams, understanding their lows, it was easy for me to breathe easier. When the pressure mounted, I could dream away in my secret world, and refreshed and relaxed, get back into the real one!

There are ways and ways, to escape. Write a diary, laugh at your troubles each night, and gloat over your successes. Better still, write it as the story of someone like you, looking at the events from a third person’s perspective. The 15 minutes of writing will make you see things in perspective and relax you completely, so you wake up with the past day well in the past.

Divide and Rule

As team leader, I have always believed two things are important. One is being hands on and leading from the front. And the second is delegating responsibility. Divide and rule is a great way to find time for oneself in the midst of a work week.

By delegating, you build responsibility, you nurture latent skills in your team, and you start a process by which the team becomes as good as you are. Yet, the very fact that should make a leader insecure will help make her more secure. Because most colleagues when they know you value them and treat them as equals, even as you mentor them, will hang on and ensure they learn everything they can. When they are ready to fly, they will, but everyone flies anyway. And knowing they will carry good things about you wherever they land next makes for a happy heart.

More important, your load at work is lighter. Of course you must weed out the ones who won’t learn, who play politics, who gossip and back bite. That is a sure-fire stresser-outer. But don’t build stress, give them a fair chance and if it does not work, let them go.

And try and pass this on to your team too. The bright eyed and bushy tailed among the team will try to sure get the first fox, the first snippet, be the best, mop up, take over, in short, their enthusiasm or efficiency, or simple need to prove themselves will make them work twice as fast and jump twice as high than everyone else.

Ease them into understanding the need to slow down. To look around, to take an hour off at lunch and read, or surf the net, or fish up old Calvin and Hobbes strips, to walk out and chill over an ice cream or a movie.

Get them to spread the enthusiasm all around and make fun and play as important as work. Creating games at work, during meetings, helps ease the tension for those who feel inferior and brings the know-it-alls down a peg or two.

Most important give them doses of the chill pill mantra, as you mentor them. And take two yourself.

Daily Doses

Our grandmothers and mothers knew the trick, there was always a piece of embroidery or knitting to take the edge away from chores, from long journeys, and keep the mind relaxed and stress-free. I think the tools were different in my case, but the trick is the same.

I sing as I drive, or take the train, I always carry a book to escape into, so long waits don’t frustrate me, most of the time. I remember once writing an entire TV script for a serial I was doing, while waiting for four long hours at a Consulate for my visa!

Find me time, find things to do that are different, find ways to keep smiling at every new day. When the going gets tough, take a break, a real or mental escape.And you will bounce back.

Ask me, I am still bouncing!

The post Here’s How I sidestepped Imminent Burnout at Work appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

This was something I learnt on my holiday in Florence. I decided to spend every penny I could to ensure that I visited every church, monument, gallery and museum worth visiting in this mesmerising city, even if it meant cutting down on hotel expenses and fine dining experiences.

As luck would have it, the Hotel Ester, bang opposite the Terminali [railway station], offered us a room at a very comfortable price and belied our fears of what the one star it bore as its rating could translate into.

The room was small but well equipped, the beds were wooden, and something about the place made me imagine that in some earlier time, it must have been home to young novice nuns. A premise that was either completely fanciful, or indeed reflected by the colours and decor of the tiny hotel, whatever it was, it went perfectly with the mood the city induced.

Through the four days I spent in this city of infinite beauty and history, I was entranced. With every turn up an alley or by-road, I discovered a new treasure, a new story, a new adventure.

I was, after all, walking the very roads that great poets and artists, powerful kings and thinkers had once walked upon. The Medicis, among who were rulers, popes and great patrons of the arts; Savonarola the fundamentalist friar whose extreme views first swayed the hearts of men to committing heinous crimes in the name of Christianity, but led him to his own death at the stake; Machiavelli, the great statesman thinker who wrote The Prince that is still a politician’s crutch when the law needs to be bent to his advantage; and Michelangelo the artist, whose perfectly proportioned David is the pride of Florence… was there a lack of reasons to linger on and imbibe the aura the city imparted?

As you walk around, secrets reveal themselves with amazing regularity. An early painting by Michelangelo, almost unnoticed on a church wall, Bartolomeo Ammannati’s Fountain of Neptune, a masterpiece of marble sculpture at the terminus of a still functioning Roman aqueduct, a Benvenuto Cellini creation or a Titian or a Raphael painting, the vaulting corridors of the Uffizi gallery… it was as if the wonders would never cease.

Florence needs a month at least to be understood, explored and assimilated. Maybe then, the eye will not turn greedily from one offering to another, hoping to catch it all before time runs out.

But if you find that you have too little time on your hand, as I did… then here are a few must sees when you visit Florence.

Detail of gates of paradise at the Florence Baptistery »

Michelangelo stated that these doors were fit to be the ‘Gates of Paradise’ and Giorgio Vasari described them as “undeniably perfect in every way.” The workmanship is almost perfect, with perfect proportions and the exact mimicking of human movement that is characteristic of the Renaissance artists.

View while crossing a bridge across the river Arno »

The River Arno almost divides Florence. The pretty bridges that span it are perfect spots for selfies and allow for more objective views of the city in all its infinite glory. Temperamental by nature, the Arno has often flooded Florence and has once even succeeded in destroying many priceless works of art, much of which still await restoration. Steps have however been taken to prevent such occurrences and the river is believed to be tamed to a large extent.

Ponte vecchio exterior view »

Like in Venice, this bridge is built in the style favoured during the medieval ages. Made entirely of stone with arches that hold it up, this beautiful structure also has shops on either side of the walkway that urge pedestrians to stop as they walk across the Arno.

Jewellery shops on the ponte vecchio »

Florentine jewellery has a distinct style of its own, marked by delicate gold-work, coral and precious stones. Drop-earrings, necklaces that cluster round the throat and delicate bracelets can be bought at some of the boutique outlets that sell heritage replicas in semiprecious formats. Of course, I fell prey to the temptation.

Palazzo Vecchio’s Arnolfo Tower »

Almost anywhere I turned, I could clearly see this tower—Florence’s tallest structure. At 95 metres it literally towers over the city. Strangely too, it is one of the oldest parts of the building. It was built in the 13th and 14th centuries to form the main building for government.

Replica of David at Piazzale Michelangelo »

Though I stood for quite a while admiring this replica of the original that had once stood at this exact spot, I did brave the long, long queues to see the original statue shaped by Michelangelo’s hands, which is now inside the Galleria dell’Accademia. The replica gives a good idea of the grace and power of the original and has the added virtue of the free standing space that allows it to be seen in the way the sculptor meant it to be seen… standing tall against the Italian sky. The bronze cast of David in Piazzale Michelangelo, Florence is flanked by casts of the reclining figures in the Medici Chapel.

The front of the Duomo »

The great Dome of the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore [Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Flower] is to Florence what the Eiffel Tower is to Paris. The Dome can be seen towering over the city from any height, and is a not just a work of art, but a marvel of architecture. The cathedral was started in 1296 but the dome itself would only be completed almost 200 years later.

The cathedral complex, located in Piazza del Duomo, includes the Baptistery and Giotto’s Campanile, all of which are now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. One of Italy’s largest churches, the Dome remains the largest brick dome ever constructed.

Interior of The Gothic church of Santa Maria Novella »

If I had not asked about this church, I might have missed its awe inspiring beauty. The interior is completely different, resembling those of the Cistercian Gothic churches. Wide bays and high vaulting ceilings mark it out as do some of the exquisite art that nestles within. The Duccio’s Maestà [1285], known as the ‘Rucellai Madonna’ also belonged here, but now is safely in the Uffizi.

The interior of dome at the duomo is not as famous as the Sistine, but it is as engrossing. Painted by Vasari and Zuccaro, the interior depicts scenes from the Last Judgement and contains some of the largest paintings on Earth. Sadly, there was no way to compare the two to see how differently Michelangelo and these two great artists had interpreted the themes, or to compare styles. Maybe next time I will carry a colour print out of the Sistine version and take a longer, better look.

Door detail at entrance of Duomo »

A detailed appreciation of the Duomo can take up an entire day. The doors are works of art and have stories about them that can be heard from the locals. I, unfortunately, rushed through taking but an hour to inspect and marvel over the amazing work inside and outside this witness to Italian history and art.

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The beautiful city of Srinagar

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Five years ago, coming down to Kashmir from the barren slopes of Ladakh was like stumbling upon Paradise. The green tall trees soothed my eyes after the stark high slopes of hard rock. The sound of rushing water and the humming of bees, as they swung lazily over the masses of flowers, was sweet music indeed.

The land of infinite charm was calling me again

Srinagar was busy and quietly occupied with the business of loading the rich and juicy fruits that had been fetched from the many orchards around the countryside into trucks that would carry them away to the rest of the country. And though we briefly saw the Dal Lake only after nightfall, its presence was tangible and alive at the edge of the road that the traffic moved upon.

We stayed at a friend’s friend’s house, at the edge of the old city. And I found long walks in the grasslands close by, which skirted humble huts and makeshift shops, a great way to spend my evenings. I would return in time for a warm meal and to layer myself in a warmer sweater, as the cold descended from the nearby mountains and hung with the mist till the morning.

The memories stayed. And despite the news of bandhs and curfews, firings and all the rest of the turmoil that only humans can cause, I could only think of Srinagar as a land of infinite charm and beauty.

Which is why, when a friend asked me to accompany her to Srinagar while she went to check on her new house still being built, I agreed with alacrity. Making the most of not being on the nine-to-five treadmill, I packed my bags and bid goodbye to my own home for the next fortnight.

Srinagar or Mumbai?

The first disappointment came when we reached the house. I had been warned that we would be staying in what was practically an outhouse, as the big house was yet to be completed; but I was more than game. The disappointment was in the fact that the house was nowhere near Dal Lake, but in one of the new developed areas, close to the airport. We were thus situated on the high end of a slope, surrounded by new chalet-like homes that dotted the winding road down to the arterial road. But that meant there was nowhere to walk. No stretching wilderness, no green, flower-decked fields.

However, far away, the snow gleamed on the mountains and there was a stretch of tall poplars and willows waving in the breeze, and I comforted myself with the sight. Every city, I told myself, has to stretch itself to accommodate new areas of development. Why should Srinagar be an exception?

Every city, I told myself, has to stretch itself to accommodate new areas of development. Why should Srinagar be an exception?

But on my first trip to the centre of town, I realised just how much the city had changed: traffic jams, as two-lane traffic was funnelled into a half lane, which was cordoned off to complete flyover work; flyovers bent over roads that were once tree-lined, but now stood bare and dusty in the afternoon sun; dust coated, the sides of the roads and the houses that stood alongside looked sad and neglected, crying out for care and a lick of fresh paint. I could see none of the cheerful joyousness that symbolised a fresh green valley was in evidence. By evening, a splatter of rain did its worst. Like any other city, where roads have been paved to block the natural seepage of water into the soil, Srinagar’s roads were quickly flooded. Traffic came to a standstill, tempers flared, words flew across car windows, and I wondered why I had travelled so far to revisit a bad evening drive, like back home in Mumbai.

Splendid serendipity

The days were still very warm, and we would venture out only by dusk, when it turned decidedly cooler. One evening, as a sweet autumnal nip stole into the air, we honked our way ‘downtown’, determined to visit one of the famed gardens of the city. As the car drove in a series of starts and stops through the knot that funnels traffic into the Dal Lake area, I wondered what other disappointments were in store for me. The Dal Lake, like the Ganga, had fallen prey in recent times to the thoughtlessness of man, and had more than once been declared to be dying. As for the gardens, I hoped they had not been ceded to the greed of builders who had started constructing high-rise apartments on the generous stretches of once-fertile land.

I need not have worried, not about this at least. The lake stretched alongside the road, looking dazzling in the setting sun, the line of shikaras with exotic names adding the picture perfect touch. The mood suddenly turned magical. When, as if on cue, the car radio burst into ‘Taareef karoon kya uski’ from the film Kashmir Ki Kali; it was serendipity indeed!

Time and again, we would evidence honesty in those who served to maintain or guard public spaces

Integrity intact

There is no parking allowed by the lakeside promenade, so we scuttled across the road when the car dropped us off in front of the Nishat Bagh gate. As we tried to enter, we were stopped and the demand for an entry ticket presented itself. We were then told the ticket window was around the corner at the end of the gate wall. Loathe to descend the steps and walk down the crowded road, we grumbled to ourselves only to have the watchman tell us we could give him the money… he would get the tickets for us. 20 rupees changed hands and we were ready to set off on our explorations. But the watchman stopped us, telling us to please wait. In five minutes, a boy came running up to hand us the tickets. Ashamed at the thought we had harboured that the watchman would pocket the ticket money, we finally set off. Time and again, we would evidence such honesty in those who served to maintain or guard public spaces.

The Nishat and Shalimar Gardens of Srinagar date back to the Mughal times. And even today, despite the strife that brings the city to a frequent standstill, flowers bloom in these spaces in abundance, the fountains spray sweet water, and the old natural water-flow from one level of the garden to the next and the next, through the six levels, is maintained in quite its original glory.

Kashmiris as well as tourists find respite and pleasure in the green lawns and flower decked walkways, the magnolia blooms secretly overhead, and the chinar trees stand majestically like sentinels guarding the place. A bunch of school boys come rushing in and, stripping their uniforms, jump into the pools to gambol. It is as innocent and natural a sport as any that time has witnessed. It is impossible to imagine this in cities and towns elsewhere, except perhaps during the rains.

Development destroys

Verily, much of Srinagar is caught in a time warp. If you stop to listen, it is possible to hear the gentle cadences of poetic Urdu politeness, experience a hospitality that went out with the western concept of entertaining only invited guests on pre-ordained occasions, and feel the shaping hand of nature in the ways your days and nights are spent.

But even as I write this, my heart quails when I remember the ride back. I recall returning from the peace of the gardens, only to spy the first real mall that stands at the edge of the main road, a forerunner of the others that will perhaps soon follow. I think of the tourists who will return in summer, with loud, boisterous voices, and haggle with the shopkeepers over the price of the exquisitely embroidered garments and awe inspiring papier mache bric-a-brac, and upturn the way of life that prevails here. And I find myself wondering how the flyovers and the paved roadsides—malaises that come with prosperity and development—will change the quiet charm of this city irrevocably.

A week after I leave behind the Valley, the rains wash through it, wrecking havoc through the populated areas, laying waste to saffron fields and fruit orchards. It is as I feared. Development, I tell myself, needs to keep nature in mind and be shaped to suit each place differently. One size does not fit all! Srinagar proved it all over again, as Uttarakhand had a year ago. Why aren’t we listening?

The post A trip to Srinagar that was nothing as I had imagined it to be appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

The era of the dragon mother is gone, when children were mice that tried not to get under her feet and grew cat whiskers only when she was well out of their way. Today, democracy has entered the home. And like any territory that is freed of dictatorship suddenly, the democratic home is also struggling to find its balance. In homes where communication is a two-way street, it works. Questions are asked and answered, territories are marked out and rules are laid down for all parties. Aberrations, when they occur, are dealt with using the same arsenal of communication and tempered discipline.

But in other scenarios, mothers are mothers in so far as they have given birth and tended the squealing, squalling little one to an age when he or she can talk, think and ask questions. If the mother is not equipped to stand her ground after this point, there is quicksand ahead!

Mothers who do not get due respect from fathers; mothers who take on multiple roles or were working before they became moms; mothers who suffer an inferiority complex due to their lack of certain skills are all easy prey. The quicksand waits to suck them right in. And their self-esteem is the first to drown, followed by discipline, health, and finally family peace.

That said, we shall not go into scenarios. We will address instead the guilt that mothers—however loving, however conscientious—feel. True, all moms live with guilt, it is rubbed into them by society, by the caveman rules that say a woman tends the home and cooks and feeds, while the man hunts, and has his fun!

But some moms feel more guilt than others, for a variety of reasons, some of which are justified. Most are not. Here are some of the latter. And hopefully, it will ease some of the burden that centuries of conditioning implanted in your genes have imposed on your psyche.

No guilt please for working

It is the right of every individual to choose to work. Especially if one is educated, and has used a seat in an educational institution that could have gone to someone more needy or more deserving of it. Then it‘s a moral duty to give back to the society of that knowledge.

Going out to work increases not just the family kitty, it enlarges the mind space, and expands the horizon. It gives a mother a reference point and perspective to view her home differently. And if she does not feel guilt but instils the pride of being a working mother in her children, they grow in perspective too. It is a delicate balancing act to be a working mother, and there are sacrifices involved. But there is no room for guilt.

No guilt please for not working, either

There is no right way or wrong way. Every choice is individual and right. So if you are a stay-at-home mom and choose to manage your home and children full time, feel not the need to say sorry for it. Especially when you meet other moms who have highflying careers, or are doing ‘amazing’ things. The world over, women choose to be full time home people and some give up glittering careers for it. Remember, being a home manager does not mean you are idle, or dull, or ill-informed. All information and interface is possible should you wish it… And you should. Never ever apologise to your family for being ‘ just a housewife’. Because there is no such thing.

No guilt for ‘me time’

I remember when I got a chance to join a production by the Indian People’s Theatre Association. The rehearsals were in Juhu, my office was at CST, and my home in the far end of the Eastern suburbs. Colleagues, friends and older women would look accusingly at me when I talked to them about the fun I was having being part of a production, as the stage had been a thwarted dream till then. How could I leave my son alone for so long, from morning till 10pm, which is when I would finally return? How could I deprive him of my company?

Strangely, it did not make me guilty. I knew my son was secure, my parents were around, and when I did return, we would have a lot of fun enacting our own version of theatre. Perhaps most mothers will see me as unfeeling or a strange kind of mother. I, however, read the wistfulness or envy in the voices and eyes of those who accused me, and thought it better not to build resentment for what being a mother held me back from, and let the dream fulfil itself.

‘Me time’ is important. It revitalises the mind, helps bring balance to one’s routine and brings in a fragrance all its own. So, whether it be a spa weekend, the movie outings, or a hobby group, make time for it. And feel no guilt, moms have a life too! Separate from their kids.

No guilt for saying No

Moms feel guilt, even fear about articulating the word NO. From a generation of moms whose buzz word was the two letter word, moms have evolved into creatures who believe No is a bad word that will swiftly alienate their children from them.

No is a powerful word. It is not a weapon, but a discipline tool that needs to be used with discretion and whenever necessary.

So, it is no to alcohol except under supervision, if at all. It is no to bad behaviour, abusive language, especially with elders and younger kids, it is no to treats if punishment is due for breaking the rules of good conduct.

Saying No does not alienate children. It gives them boundaries, it tells them that wrong can be punished. It is an indicator of the world outside where No is more common than Yes. Mothers who feel guilt over using No, are guilty of spoiling their children, of letting them grow up in a fool’s world that ill prepares them for the reality outside.

And lastly, no guilt on spending money on self

I once travelled with a colleague, who drooled and sighed over shopping to pass on and spend her money on something for her daughter instead. She ended up buying six dresses, and a whole lot of treats for her, and nothing, not even a discounted top for herself. The reason: guilt, disguised as love. Guilt over being away on a trip overseas, even if it was a working trip; guilt over leaving her daughter behind, guilt over spending money on buying herself something when she was being a ‘bad mommy’.

Hmm, I could see her point, but only up to a point. Surely, deprivation or self flagellation does not bring the daughter closer. Some things, like travel on work, are necessary; might as well enjoy the fringe benefits that free time on tours gives you. Guilt spoils it all for everybody.

Guilt, dear mamas, is something best wrapped away in plastic, and buried in the soil, so it will slowly suffocate and die away. Needless conditioned guilt, is something families will be healthier without. So dump it!

A version of this was first published in the May 2013 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

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Hmm, surprise! It tasted good too.

Wholesome delight

My friend Rukmini Chatterjee, a dancer who combines her knowledge of Bharatanatyam with that of hip hop artistes, western music players, Indian singers, Kathak dancers, and heavy metal bands to create amazingly varied shows for stage, had created a soup out of the dal, and a macaroni dish to go with it.

Neither of them had any spice. The soup had some spinach leaves, coriander and garlic as embellishments, and she squeezed a large lemon into it before serving. It was astonishing, how good it tasted.

Suddenly I knew the meaning of wholesome food. “Do you need some salt?” she asked, pushing the minuscule salt holder towards me. “I have added almost none.” I shook my head; it seemed perfect as it was.

On to the macaroni. Rukmini had stirred in some tomatoes, garlic and herbs into the pasta, and though it looked dry, there was a moistness that was just right. My idea of pasta is loads of tomato and cheese, but I realised this worked just fine. “This is yum,” I said, my mouth still stuffed.

“Everything is organic,” she explained, “which is why it tastes so good. And we need to add no spice at all.”

It was quite an eye opener. Why, I wondered, did I think organic was equivalent to boring and tasteless? Everything I ate that night and the next day; the crackers made from organic wheat, the organically matured cheese, the grapes that tasted like none other I had tasted, was delicious. I hogged.

You are what you eat

“It is our way of celebrating Nature,” Rukmini explained.” We learnt it from friends we met some time ago. They were around 70 when we met them, and they inspired us to start eating organic food. They only eat organic food and their entire being radiated perfect health. I have always been aware of the fact that whatever you put into your mouth, who cooked it, where it comes from has an immense effect physically and psychologically on the being. Annie and Noel Blotti are physical proof of what organic food taken over a long period of time does to the body. It changed me,” she added.

Luckily for Rukmini, her husband, Pierre La Cloche De Vallombreuse, a renowned photographer who creates socio-anthropological photo documents that he puts together as books, also respects the natural way of eating. Organic food has been on their table ever since that first meeting with the Blottis.

Whatever you eat—who cooked it and where it came from has an immense physical and psychological effect on you

Shopping for organic foods

Eating organic in Europe is not tough. A growing awareness about a more holistic approach to life has resulted in organically grown food and clothing fibres being more easily available. It might cost a bit more, as organic produce yields are not consistent and are also easy prey for natural enemies, but the benefits are seen to be much greater than the inflation in costs.

Rukmini who lives in the heart of Paris finds shopping for food easy enough. “I buy everything at Naturalia, which sells organic food and other organically grown produce.”

Though she has spent her younger years in India, and returns frequently, Rukmini’s acquaintance with typically Indian food is limited to eating it on visits home.

In a way it suits the couple, as finding organic Indian condiments in Paris might be a bit of a challenge, or is at least one not worth taking up.

“I cook as I feel,” Rukmini says, “the simpler the better. Mostly I make vegetables or lentils, which taste better when they are organic so a simple spinach soup can be real treat.”

I agree, I have proof of this in the meal I have eaten.

In her own way, she decides whether a meal should have Indian or Western leanings: “I guess it is in the herbs or fresh leaves I add to the different preparations that make my food taste more Indian or European. If I add fresh coriander to a quinoa soup it tastes more Indian and when I add Basil to an Indian dal it tastes more European,” she says laughing. “Anyway, for us food is a celebration for our body, a toast to good health, and strict recipes are not necessary.” Listening, Pierre nods in agreement emphatically.

A growing awareness about a more holistic approach to life has resulted in organically grown food and clothing fibres being more easily available

No compromise on nutrition

Celebration of life is a part of their work. Pierre travels extensively, spending up to six months with tribes as he acquaints himself with their ways, and lets them understand his reasons for being there, even before he starts shooting. This, he finds, gives him uninhibited glimpses into their life and results in real unselfconscious photographs. When she is not working on a production, or performing, Rukmini travels with him, though, “we always end up taking different flights to and from the same destination,” she laughs. “With Pierre we usually travel to tribal places where the food is very simple yet wholesome, because the vegetables, fruits, poultry, everything is grown or raised on that very land. They are usually far away from polluted places. So again we are more or less eating organic food. The tribal people are hardy and enjoy simple meals, organically grown, and I see that as further vindication of our choice.”

And nothing about organic grains or food—which has no extra nutrients added artificially—makes for lesser goodness. Pierre has trekked vast distances, crossing hilly terrain in pursuit of his pictures, and more than once, Rukmini has gamely trotted along, not aware of the tough paths she would be traversing. And of course her rehearsals and performances need their own brand of stamina, which their brand of eating does seem to provide in good measure.

“Of course,” Rukmini explains, as a dancer touring countries as far flung as Norway and India, she cannot be rigid about food habits. “On my dance tours I eat and relish the food of the country I am in. I am not a hardcore organic food eater, though I try to eat a lot of fruits and vegetables, to keep as close to my food habits as possible.

“And when I am back home in India I eat Indian food, organic and non organic, and relish it completely!

“I think eating the way we do has changed us a lot,” she adds, “I see the difference in my skin, and hair. I see it in the way it gives me stamina and endurance.”

I am beginning to see her point of view. Especially when I see the bright sparkle in her eyes, that even the worry over her mother’s pending operation back home cannot dull!

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