The Uniform

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Narendra Kumar was mowed down by a tractor carting illegally quarried stones in Morena. 

He was an IPS officer, a man in uniform with an IAS officer for a wife.The dust on this brazen, open murder has settled somewhat with a CBI enquiry underway but the moral implication of the blood curdling incident stays and resonates.

This was a man doing his job. He wore a uniform representing the government, its rules and laws and authority. There was a special burden he carried, an alloy of responsibility and accountability made heavier by the obvious physical symbol he sported, the uniform. For any other non-uniformed person, it would have been easier to shrug off an inconvenient task but with the uniform as a constant nag, an ever present declaration and affirmation of where the wearer’s duty lay….oh no, that cannot, does not, ought not to happen.

I should know, surrounded as I am, by uniformed men. Dad used to acquire an entirely different persona as soon as he donned his uniform. It was subtle, the purposeful air, the all of a sudden watchful stance and a certain squareness of being that came with the brass. For the family, it meant he was off limits while in olive, his time and thoughts belonging to the state. There was a fuss over his uniform and constant spit and polish to keep it at its spunky best. A special and elaborate handling involving exclusive hangers, dust jackets and exhaustive instructions to the Sahayak on maintenance and upkeep was the norm.

I have seen the tradition duplicated, triplicated, and facsimiled in countless homes like ours where the head of the family wears a uniform to work. There is the same acknowledgement of the primary claim of the uniform on the wearer. It is understood that the uniform will come first, always. There are questions about work you do not ask. A lot is presumed and accepted in the context of “duty”.

Men and women wear this piece of cloth in the trust and belief that they represent a state that will stand by them. These are special people who could one day be called upon to pay with their lives in the course of a regular day at work. For the citizens of a nation, their uniformed brethren are a safety deposit to draw upon someday, God forbid. In a coalition democracy such as ours, they are the visible symbol of a civilized, law abiding, and orderly state.

A uniform is a point of privilege and an honour. But a state that does not protect her representatives is akin to a parent that abandons her child or a teacher who gives up on her student or a doctor who deserts his patient. It is called a moral washout! 

Brij Holi

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It had been on my “to do” list for years. Aqseer’s presence provided the catalyst and we were off early morning on 8 March, in the direction of Mathura, eager to experience a genuine “Brij ki holi”. 

The biggest thing going for us was our blissful ignorance. Not counting a cursory run through the online data about“Baanke Bihari” temple, we pretty much were without a clue.

Impatient with the car parking logistics, I just wanted to set foot on Krishna’s earth. They were all there, the cows, the monkeys, the saffron clad mendicants, the tourists in search of transcendental knowledge, the devotees and the colour merchants. And there was us; a family head feeling protective in face of the obvious gaiety and abandon, a young person thrust into a cultural assault of sorts and an impatient woman wanting to taste, smell, and absorb it all.

Enough and more information is available on the celebration of the festival of colours in Vrindavan, Barsana and Nandgaon. It was the contagious dynamics of the space that was reaching me. What I was taken up with was the spirit, the energy, the fervour, the charged atmosphere of the place.

Perhaps I saw what I wanted to see. It is likely that my rose coloured spectacles were firmly in place. I feel a bit out of place with my soulful pronouncements in the face of the cynical, all prevalent, pragmatic air around but the truth is, I came back wholly energized and uplifted by the experience. The “aloo kachori”, “Radhey Radhey saffron scarves,” “pale mauve abir”, “peda prasad”, “free parking zone”…these were only the embellishments. At the heart of it all was the palpable, human oneness, crackling through the air, as we made our way with the throng, towards the temple.

Sure, there were misdirected missiles of colour, heading towards the eyes, ears and mouth. Some hyper energetic youngsters danced electric and jerky routines, barely able to contain their ardour and zeal. The crush got tighter as we neared the holy precincts. It was clear as we shuffled along that slippers should have been off and dark glasses on. We were grateful we had carried a change each but beyond all this, there was the faith in the air, the concern as people suggested ways to minimize colour damage, the sideways smiles, the confident invasion of personal space, the community accord if you will, the joint reliving of an ancient, timeless tradition, the sight of children and women enthusiastically participating from the safety of their balconies and doorways, along the narrow lane! 

My heart was adrenalized, the blood was yodeling and I was on a high. Never mind the fact that my camera got an abrasive douse and there was green powder floating in my cardamom tea.

Aqseer concluded, “We are a crazy country and that is why I love India so!” 

It is true. The proof was all around.Our national religiosity makes us a happier nation. The associated charity, the free and dutifully consumed prasad, the unquestioning spaces, the comforting rituals, and the group connection...these are features that keep millions of Indians alive in a contentious, corrosive, combative cosmos.

For a glimpse of the “Brij ki Holi” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vxcoA4FxfZs

Note: There is a generic fear of stepping out on Holi in India but at Vrindavan, I have to say, neither I nor Aqseer experienced fear nor a personal threat of any nature. 

Force of change

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It is a sign of India’s coming of age.

More and more, I come across young people who are secure enough in their hearts and minds, to dive into circles of larger influence. These are children opting for roads less travelled, out of choice. They could have had it easier but are choosing to chase a personal fulfilment of the kind, my generation only dreamed of. They are the face of the new human evolution; they are a determined push for equity, equality and engagement in the truest sense of the words.

Undoubtedly, social commitment looks great on a CV drafted for grad school, but that would be too linear and cynical a view. And even if it be so, no harm that future leaders go to grad school with more than a whiff of poverty in their nostrils. Who is to benefit, if those sitting on crucial negotiating tables hear the voices of the underprovided for, whispering in their ears?  Is a larger good not feasible when those who aid formulation of wide ranging policies do so against a personal experience of the world, beyond their walls of security?

Too often, we as parents, envision a picture perfect post card life for our children. Adequate money, an appropriate life partner, a smart house, a decent car, a great job…all neatly slotted for the family portrait. But what if the kids hear a different note in their heads? What if they nurse ambitions of changing the world, of making a difference, of influencing the larger good, of making this a better place for all?

I grew up on Ayn Rand’s philosophy of rational self-interest but over the years, I have come to see that there are segments of society, it does not, cannot apply to. And therefore, it stands to reason that businesses have to be run in a socially responsible way. The products created must come out of processes that show respect for social and environmental issues. For far too long, the herd has given to the goatherd; it is time for him in turn, to assume some responsibility. This is the time for ethical banking, ethical lawyering, ethical teaching, ethical doctoring and ethical writing. The warning bell has long been sounded, with spring in New York and snowfall in Pathankot.

Corporate philanthropy, personal charity or social leadership of the young, there has to be a force of change. I am glad our educated youth feel secure enough to explore the potential of their social conscience.

May India’s social policy begin to stir in real earnest, under watchful and angry young eyes ! After all, not apathy but empathy and sympathy are the defining features of a robust democracy.  

Current points of interest:

http://populari.org/eng/

http://www.teachforindia.org/

http://www.facebook.com/lawyersforchange

Pics by Aqseer

Strength bonds

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I would be dead without them.

Well, not lifeless but with a whole lot less of a life than I have today.  

They are my family in absentia and I hesitate to even name them because they are so much their own people, they would be embarrassed at being acknowledged. The strange thing is that I don’t meet them regularly; in fact with some, the twinkling moments have been merely digital in nature; the commonality however, has been the role they have played in my life during vital phases.

Perhaps their appearance and presence in my scheme of things has been proof of my abiding belief that life conspires to give you what you want, if you set out on the path with clarity and resolve enough. This conviction that I often share with my girls, springs from personal experience. Every time I have stuck my neck out and called into the ether, a voice has bounced back. I have reached out, only to find a strong and sure grip waiting. Just the mere hint of a cloud, a fog, a smog, and there have been these people, dissolving the blur with perceptive words of wisdom.

No, they do not wear wings, nor are they dreamy apparitions. They are travellers on their own paths and happened to be in positions to facilitate my own journey. Forthcoming with their insights and views, they were empathetic and generous with their responses. They  answered, clarified, assured and gave me of their trust and open friendship. And it is amazing how keen and quick they were to grasp what I needed to hear, instantly connecting without fear and judgement.

Not in this but perhaps in another space and time, we were a regular family, I am certain. Who is to say? I am just so glad to have had them touch my life thus. 


Salad carving by a Sangini and pics by author

Pink bubble

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There is something palpable and alien, rearing and growing up in our schools.

It is the increasingly acknowledged phenomenon of dating.  An entirely new and unfamiliar frontier for all concerned, this high school culture is cocking a huge snook at the hitherto acceptable definitions and parameters of teen discipline, safety and security.  

What used to be spoken of in hushed undertones gets progressively audible as teachers, parents and staff members watch young people pushing the envelope, literally. Coming upon unexpected incidents of intimacy do not shock anymore and it is fairly de rigueur to have the educational spaces populated by dopey looking couples, shuffling in an invisible pink bubble, wearing school uniforms. It is as though the entire dynamics of the school system has swung from performance based self-worth to relationships oriented wellbeing. Watch that awkward spring to their steps and a shy voltage around them, you can’t miss it.

There used to be such a stigma attached to even a hint of these engagements in the past that one has to stop and wonder at the currently charged academic environment. What do these relationships signify in a time and space that is primarily earmarked for learning and value addition? How is this emotional maze impacting one of the most impressionable and vulnerable segments of our population? At a phase in life when they should be completely focused on their own development and growth, is it doing them any good to draw their self-esteem from amorous equations with other young people as wet behind the ears as they themselves?

I feel concern at this new-fangled world of relationships where closeness is illusory, based as it is on instant communication powered by text messaging and Google talk. There is no distance or breathing space to reflect on the friendship as the young lurch from one emotional strife to another, hanging out or hooking up. There is a real danger of jealous and controlling behavior being mistaken for love. And how about the other, gender based issues of unrealistic demands being made on either or partner?  With the adolescent's need for autonomy and high dependence on peers, dating violence and sexual assault go unreported for the most part. As of now, there seems to be nothing in the way of their first line of defense moreover. Truth be told, we are all in a blissful state of denial, shaking our heads and saying that this problem is exaggerated.

It is not. There is a real, clear and present world of sexual hostility out there in our schools. It ought to be addressed with a stated policy on gender discrimination and sexual assault by individual institutions. We are not talking statistics and case histories here, these are real people, our friends, students, acquaintances and family members who are struggling with overwhelming emotions and pressures.  The first thing to do is to call attention to it, to report it so that it does not go unpunished or unnoticed.

Too many young people are thrashing about in whirlpools of confusing signals with no clear roadmaps from adults who refuse to look their way from their spots in the sand. Schools have an obligation to promulgate policy, related handling procedures and necessary disciplinary action to deal with such incidents. Mere standing guard and physical vigilance is not good enough just as it does not help to call parents and engage in mutual blaming. These are civil rights we are talking about, the right of a student to receive instruction in a safe, comfortable and non-threatening space. Adults in charge of the young cannot use the excuse of having no knowledge of their adventurism to escape accountability.  

Sexual harassment starts with standing in the basket ball grounds and rating the other gender on a scale of ten. Let’s acknowledge its existence and educate students on what is healthy and what is not;what is safe and what is not; what is empowering and what will damage them for life. 

We have a new epidemic on our hands: the MYDS or the Modern Young’s Dating Syndrome!! 

Sonic nought

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Not enough has been said about the power of silence.

Silence can speak more and louder than mere words. Words only hurt, silence can annihilate. Words may, at times, heal; silence embalms. Words have been known to persuade; silence can virtually seal.

Silence is a killer, decimating soundlessly. It can withhold and show largesse, all at once. Very much the Cheshire cat, watch it lend itself to innumerable interpretations. Crafted and wielded right, it can work where expansive verbosity fails. Delivered and timed well, it deflates egos, douses anger and poignantly so, break hearts. An unexplored, unchartered territory, the sound of the sonic nought has to be heard to be believed. It can be deafening, way beyond the decibel levels of the daily chatter.

There is so much ballyhoo over the verbal skills, has anyone flirted with the idea of coaching lessons in the use of silence? One wonders if it is indeed an aptitude that can be acquired or is it an innate ability, a gift; an inborn skill in the use of a human tool not many stop to think about, a talent I am completely in awe of, having none of it myself!

Watch it at work. Someone is lashing out at you in a no holds barred offensive; treat them to the shattering noise of silence. You are at the cusp of uncertainty and self-doubt, and your emotional upheaval is met with a dose of non-committal silence, you will grow to be the tougher, believe me! There are human expressions of fear, love, and envy, magnanimity, guilt, bitterness crashing into and falling around the wall of silence, all the time.

Is it any wonder that silence strikes such terror in human hearts? We do not like silence; it conveys anger, hostility, timidity, menace, disconnectedness, disagreement, danger, indifference, prompting us to rush in with our ceaseless small talk .The only time we will shut up is in spiritual confines that aim to achieve an inner silence, barring of course,  the audibly challenged  who live in a sound proof cocoon.

There are silences galore; the tautness of the hospital wards; the hush of the library; the still of the graveyard; the calm of the church, the echo atop a mountain peak, the desolateness of the desert and the deadliest of all, the silence of a loved one

Perhaps that is life, the occasional silence and an ability to judge the time for withholding and the time for letting go so that others can weather out their internal storms and pick up the pieces to move on. 

"Saying nothing....sometimes says the most", Emily Dickinson. 

Pics credited to Asawari

Heal thyself

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No race in the world can beat us at evading personal responsibility.

Floundering businesses, failed relationships, rocky domesticity, social disasters, unfortunate accidents, professional misadventures, follies of the heart and tongue….’kismet’ is always on hand to shoulder the blame. There is one issue though; missing in the list and more often than not, credited to people around instead of fate, for a change.

Have you noticed how ailing Indians seem powerless over their ailments? Of course there is old age, a genuine physiological malfunction and God forbid, even accidents but there is a remarkable disconnect between the sick and the management of their sickness. It is as though, their diseases have to do with everyone else around them other than themselves. Rather than take personal charge of their physical malaise, they will have the entire clan aligned alongside, one way or the other, fretting, fuming and fulminating in their morbid miasma.

In a pan-Indian, national trend, every Indian adult’s health and fitness is someone else’s designated portfolio. A wife is completely answerable for her husband’s physical wellbeing. The daughter-in-law better account for her parents’-in-law state of health. Every soul under the same roof will have the family senior’s health needs marked well within their purview. Indian sons are known to chart their destinies around their mother’s aching joints and daughters have spent endless hours caring for fathers who stubbornly refuse to follow the doctor’s orders.

It is understood and presumed that the diabetic will not himself watch his sugar intake. The asthmatic cannot be expected to watch her tolerance level for the out of doors. Who can blame the rheumatoid for not regularly exercising their joints? Instead, the immediate brood around have to take the blame and carry the guilt for actions or inactions of the suffering. As a matter of fact, in many families, the disease becomes a lifelong presence, cultivated and stoked and at times, even used to manipulate family dynamics.

We will be a healthier, happier and more hopeful nation if we worked on the premise that one’s health is primarily, one’s own personal responsibility. If you have a urinary tract infection, the onus is on you to drink more water, not on your family to keep pushing aqua at you. If you are diabetic, please watch your sugar intake and don’t keep others on tenterhooks over having served a sugary concoction at dinner. If you are obese, stop blaming the wife for not serving enough salad as appetizer so you could stuff your face a shade less with the deadly stuff that you do, as a matter of routine.

Not for a moment am I recommending that we abdicate care of the indisposed at home. But they certainly need to drop the martyr mantle and actively start sharing the major portion of the load. The greatest love we can show our families is to take charge of our own pneumonias, bronchial issues, nasal allergies and fungal growths.

It is time to take the necessary precautions, exercise the required self-discipline and follow the prescribed medical schedules to the T. The great Indian family is always on hand for terrible and terminal sicknesses but how about shouldering some genuine, self-directed and concrete responsibility for getting well! How about emerging from the convenient, comfortable, cosy couch of helplessness with a new resolve to get whole, healthy and healed? 

The new Valentines

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Within the Convent library I did my pre-senior school in, there used to be a shelf of romantic fiction books. I cycled home with one under the arm, every day. There would be maternal advice on how enough and more time would be available later in life to read up thus but the ravenous reading steam rolled ahead, no holds barred. The catalyst in this voracity was our friendly neighbour, Auntie Malviya! She had a son my age, was obviously married, must have been about 40 years or so but to my amazed bafflement, owned one fully stacked, wooden cupboard of row upon row of neatly arranged romantic novels, all beckoning with their brightly coloured ribs and drowsy, dewy, dreamy covers. I would wonder naively, “But she is married!”

Needless to say therefore, my early teens were a gluttonous haze in memory of all the Barbara Cartlands and Mills and Boons I gobbled up. Auntie Malviya, in fact, made me a birthday gift of my first ever, personally owned copy of one Barbara Cartland and one Mills and Boon. How was I to know back then that with every rapid read, I was digging my own private trench of future dissatisfaction and unhappiness at the real world of romance?! I had no way of knowing I was advancing towards an era that would, in time, be in dissonance with the world of those mushy books.

Without exception, the hero of those mischievous missives would be tall, dark and handsome. Cleft chinned and hoe shouldered, he would be sure of himself to the point of being arrogant.  Smouldering eyes, barely concealed impatience and the man about town air snapped but once in the story, well…when he pulled her close roughly and groaned with a harsh intake of breath at how small and soft she was!!  He did not speak much, but always managed to stay on hand for the grand rescue overtures.

She on the other hand, was designed as a packet of red haired obstinacy, kept together with an odd, wild streak. It made her a perfect foil for establishing his superior ability at eventually getting her to love, honour and obey him! Her financial security, sense of accomplishment and social status came from him. She was just that teeny weeny bit nervous of his power, almost in awe of him. The romance lay in his sense of authority and her dependent, attractively vulnerable status.

I do believe I grew up with this particular brand of romantic indigestion. 

Today, all those years later, with my daughters on way to becoming more educated than I was at their age, I wonder if  their Valentines will  be more equal; real partners in other words, men who will pitch in with their mates over housework and home and hearth, paying heed to their emotional cues, not threatened by their self-sufficiency,dependability and emotional stability.  

More Peter Benjamin Parker than Spiderman, if you will! More Clark Kent than the flighty Superman if you must. The new Valentines!


PS: My favorite romantic novel remained "Jonquil" by Denise Robins, notwithstanding all the mush guzzling!

Help !

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Twenty five facts your child’s teacher may not have shared with you!

*When selecting children to represent the school, parental involvement is taken a hard look at.

*The child’s tiffin is a pretty accurate indicator of the care he/she is getting at home.

*Some children in her class, the teacher is just waiting to pass on !

*Even though the teachers advocate impartiality, they most certainly have their favourites.

*She projects students she wants to build up for future appointments in school.

*Teachers’ kids very often do better because their mothers are nervous of a poor self-reflection.

*An occasional note from home will be tolerated but a constant pitch is taken as a harangue.

*Most teachers keep a close track of what their colleagues are up to in their own class rooms! 
            

*Any stressful condition at home is immediately visible in the class room.

*Kids at times, do share confidential information with their teachers.

*It is good to pay heed to the teacher’s personal observation of your children, she is on their side.

*A good teacher works terribly hard, appreciation will encourage her to do more.

*Teachers love being remembered by old students, it is their chief reward.

*Parent-teacher meetings are not on her list of ‘best days’.

*It really bothers her when there is no response from the parents to her notes sent home.

*Students come into a class with a reputation and leave with a reputation.

*When across a child she has taught, she expects to be acknowledged ! 

*Your justification that the child does beautifully at home holds no water with her.

*Gifts are best avoided.

*Phone calls on her cell phone after school upset her balance.   

*It eases her correction work if the student reproduces her answers verbatim !

*A written complaint to the institution head has a lasting effect and not necessarily positive.

*The disrespect you air at home shows in your child’s attitude to the teacher in school.

*The pressure to go home with a ‘good’ or a ‘star’ comes up in class.

*The world is waiting to corrode them; we should let them be their natural, friendly and helpful selves in school.

Final word: Yes, there are some indifferent teachers, perhaps there have been some disastrous experiences as well but many teachers I know, want to do justice to their class. 

Parents can help them to help their kids.

Half the sky

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She is a great Mom, keeps a tight check on the kitchen, stays just so in his shadow and is respectful towards his family. He works hard to provide for the unit, is a loyal husband and an indulgent father.

A perfect family portrait but for one latent difference; his portfolio stems from himself and hers from those around her. He is the centre of his own universe; the world around her is the axis she circumvents. His self-esteem comes from his personal capability and application in the arena outside home, her sense of self-worth depends upon approval from those she is related to. He is the doer, she is the pleaser. He has expectations, for her are mostly the adjustments. Marriage embellishes the life he already leads; it transforms her existence beyond recognition, shifting the very centre of her gravity with a fundamental change in the reason of her being.

And no, neither of them is the villain. They are products of a self-perpetuating social order that is so deep and time tested, it is taken as the given. Yes, there have been major shifts in gender based roles but the foundation stands, only the sheen has dulled and very nervously!

At the core of how we conduct the business of living our lives is the assumption that humans exist primarily for each other. There is no cultural recognition of individual autonomy and accountability for developing one’s own potential in our tradition. Salvation has been spoken of mostly in relation to masculine seekers of truth. The women have either not bothered or have been content to be a ‘Mata’ or a “Devi’ with supplementary and augmentative functions. There is no folk thread of a woman needing to or deserving to validate her personal evolution as a better, larger, wiser human being. Yes, there is an active encouragement towards getting an education and acquiring skills but only until she ties the knot. Thereafter, we can tolerate light weight hobbies but heavy duty notions like ‘wanting to make a difference’ or ‘realizing her own potential’ become ridiculous and offensively ambitious phrases in her lexicon. Of course, she will have to pitch in with her hard work and drive outside the four walls but only when the family needs it. For the most part, her role-book includes being a caretaker of her family in return for a secure home and socially acceptable status.

Nothing can be a greater sin for a woman than to want to authenticate herself. Who does she think she is, wanting to prove the point of her existence? Why, she ought to get all the meaning and fulfilment she needs from her family and the extended network. What more can there be to her?

That’s right. Women have come a long way. But until the day they begin to stop feeling apologetic for their existence, it is not far enough. The world will be a cleaner, more transparent, wholesome and happier place when it gives its permission and acceptance for self-realization to those who hold up half the sky. 

The Planners

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Basic education done by 22, work for the next two years, Grad school over in a year plus,  marriage at 26, baby by 28 and time for reading, travelling, chilling and the occasional adventure.
This generation wants everything! And all of these subheads come under a more ambitious header called “Life’s passion”.
I fear for them. 

Even though I have lived my life by the dictum that attitude matters more than facts and that the mind can bring about anything it visualizes strongly enough, I shudder at the audacity of the young life planners today. Are they being too wishful and unrealistic? Are they off mark in agonizing so much over discovering what it is, their heart hankers after? Are they right in trying to cram everything into one lifetime? What are the odds that they will lead their lives with a reasonable measure of happiness with so many conflicting needs? Are they setting themselves up for a lifetime of frustration with their ‘instant gratification’ theory? Is it them who have it wrong or is it us, with our jaded, apologetic and fearful tales?!

I can’t help but stoop to pick up my jaw every time I stand across a twenty something, holding forth on the milestones they see very clearly on their life’s journey. The predominant sense is of a worldly wisdom far beyond their years. It is as though life has fitted them with far seeing binoculars that ruthlessly filter all romance and airy, bubble views.

  

My response to the fifty year plans I hear is a mix of admiration, concern and a shade of what they call ‘blah’. Why this heart breaking awareness; this excessive need for a sense of control and order? While I marvel at their courage to follow their heart, I wonder if there is just that misstep between the plausible and the possible.

Of course we have a role to play in this ‘all or nothing’ theme song when we offer unconditional support to our young. It is we who bring them up to think all paths are smooth when we do not allow them to bear the consequences of their actions. Perhaps we spoil them by always standing by. There may even be an anxiety born of a relationship so open with parents that everything is shared, including misgivings and insecurities. And with so much generic alarm and mess around them, is it any wonder so many young people suffer from insomnia and depressive disorders. 

What an industry of guilt around parenthood we have built up, we dare not be anything but the most appeasing, reassuring, understanding, accepting, deep breathing Moms and Dads. I now believe there might have been a sense of reassurance, even security in our parents’ non-committal ways!

This generation ought to be whooping with joy. They are path breakers in that no other lot had their brand of educated, supportive and aware fathers and mothers. They are enviably poised to be able to have their cake, eat it and take some home too!

So grab it all with ten fingers, two hands, arms and toes kids, will you? And do us proud, in the passing.

Demons

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The deadliest demons lurk in our heads. Like horned devils, they sit, picking the worst moments to spring up; those nasty pieces of work.

A human mind has to be the world’s most fascinating and complex contraption. One can never say when and how a connection will go short circuiting, birthing self-perpetuating hellions in that moment of mis-alignment, sowing seeds for all times of paralytic dins, at sadistic hours.

Have you been lucky enough, not to have made their acquaintances, those deep, dark aural clouds of self-doubt, guilt and inadequacy?! You are a fortunate one to have escaped the rogues and extremely lucky to have stayed whole and confident and upbeat and forward looking.

Unfortunately, this brand of personal wholesomeness is a myth. Most of us are engaged in beating down our anxieties, shynessess, and guilt, every single day. Some of the world’s most creative and successful people are hosts to their own versions of Mephistopheles. It is hard to say where these diminishing zealots sprout from. A childhood trauma, sibling rivalry, skin colour themes, overly critical parents, unrealistic expectations, financial insecurities, past life baggage which is to say, the list could be a ream long.

The good news is that far from feeling crippled in the presence of these goblin ghosts, humans are for the most part, programmed to draw strength from them. Much in the fashion of restless catalysts, their demons spur them on. They might be the very lessons the hosts have come to the earth to learn. And the fact that they know not where they are headed with these devils, is what keeps them going. In that sense, demons are empowering entities, giving wisdom and keeping hosts from tailspins.

But of course, demons defy. Demons debilitate. Demons dwarf. Demons dramatize. Demons devour and deny, leaving many of us too frightened to live and too week to flourish. Like narcissists Daimons, they feed on attention. The thing to do therefore, is to beat and drown them out with actions. Bring them out of the cranial lobes, draw strength from their stubborn existence, air them and puuuff...snuff them out. 


"You are no good, you are too dark, you are too tall, you are too challenged," these demonic little voices in the head and heart have to be used and exorcised in a channelized exercise.

That first leap from the bed in the morning has got to be one  of faith. 


The day has to begin with a firm resolve to last, no matter what or who the demon standing in the way!