Who Else Am I Not? Part One-"What's not in a name?"

There is a popular saying in Hindu philosophy that if we wish to understand life, the answer to just three questions can reveal all:

1. Who am I?
2. Where have I come from?
3. Where am I going to?


In today’s time, when the nation with its demands for separate state hoods simultaneously splits itself along hitherto non-existent seams, while appearing to be united and secular, I often find myself plagued by the first question.


If you know me by name, I appear to be a female Hindu Kayasth. Yet, my mind cringes at the thought of all the stereo types that most people imagine when they hear my name or meet me for the first time.


Being born to a UP man and a Haryanvi woman, raised in different states in the North East of India, living for the past 25 years in the west and south of India, loving Hindustani Classical music as well as Western Classical and Carnatic, I find that I’m at the same time part of all groups, and also a part of none.


Similarities and differences are two sides of the same coin. So, I thought, in order to find out who I am, let me first discover who I am not.....


Here is the first post in a series towards that end.....
                                        
 "What's not in a name?"


There was something funny about my name.


The teacher ran through a list of names like ‘Karma Choden’, Deki Wangmo’, ‘Sonam Tsering’, ‘Charmaine Jones’, and similar other names. Then , a pause, and very carefully, as though trying out a new tongue twister, ‘Smita ************.’

This was my first day at school at *****************, Kalimpong, a boarding school that also allowed day scholars, in the year 1969 or was it 1970?


I forget which, but that trivia is insignificant.


What’s significant is that I felt different that day, and I didn’t want to be different.


Being too young to know that one could take all one’s grouses to God, without fear of a reprimand or a shouting-at, I went home and cornered my mother. Why on Earth did I have such a funny name? I wanted it changed at once!


How should I do it? Should I tell all our neighbours, friends, my younger brother, my father’s friends, or would she and my father do it? Why was I named by them? Shouldn’t I have some say in what I would like to be called for the rest of my life?


I wanted it to be Sonam Caroline Wangmo.


That way it would be better than all the others.


I raved and ranted, to no avail. She just gave me an exasperated look that turned into a dismissive one, and carried on shelling peas. Even at that age, I could sense that I shouldn’t try my luck too far, as she would take just one second to decide whether she could pause long enough in the rapid disembowelment of the peas to give me a whack on my behind.


I returned to school the next day, determined to tell my new classmates my chosen name.


Once there, however, I soon forgot all about it, as we found a surprise awaiting us inside our desks. Each one of us had been gifted an old, empty little metal tin by our teacher, to keep any odds and ends that we might like.


Each tin was different, mine had been an old tea container (in those days, tea and many other items usually came in metal tins), red, with a black pagoda on the top and also on all the sides. Some of the others received old tea tins as well, while some others got biscuit tins, and a few got toffee tins.


Mine was one of the prettiest, and very soon everyone knew my name in the class, as they tried hard to get me to part with my tin. I realised that it didn’t matter if I was Miss Unpronounceable for them as long as I held on to that tin, so I guarded it zealously.


Three beautiful years in one of the prettiest school properties later, it was time for my father to move. The orders were for him to move to an unheard of tongue twister of a place, Mukokchung, in Nagaland.


With packed boxes painted black, that displayed the neatly stencilled name of my father, the place where we were boarding the train (New Jalpaiguri) and the place that we were going to (Mariani-in Assam, the last point that it would take us to), we all headed for Nagaland. Little did I know that the comfort I had arrived at after three years of being ‘Smita *****************’ would be short lived.


To be continued.....

Is religion to blame?

The Mumbai terror attacks have once again brought the spotlight on Muslims in India and abroad. Yesterday, on a private English news channel, one guest,during a discussion on whether tighter terror laws would help, said that he was very glad he did not have a muslim surname, for he feared what he might have been subjected to if that was the case.


Why blame religion, and a particular one at that, for the evils of today? Blame the interpreters, the so called 'custodians' or the self appointed keepers of these religions. In the same manner that we said 'NO taxes", can we also say "no mullahs, no priests, no pundits?"


We have been blessed with sound intellect, reasoning ability and logical skills. We have elders in our homes, who have a wealth of experience of life. Then why do we give more importance to rituals, ceremonies, God men than common sense?


Religion, to me, is actually a particular community's combined wisdom, there for the next generations to benefit from, so that they may go farther and do better than the previous ones.


Wisdom can be shared but never compared. In fact, like the English language, it can borrow from each other to become richer and more relevant. Exclusion always denies knowledge. Imagine if each religion studied others and borrowed from each other to enhance their own!


Can any of the terrorists claim to have read even one of the holy books? The fourth standard pass Kasab may not have read even the Koran in its original state, forget about the Ramayan and the Mahabharat. How many non-Muslims could claim to have read the Koran? How many non Christians would have read the Bible? Maybe the few sane voices that we hear belong to this tiny minority!


Since most of these texts are written in languages long forgotten, they are interpreted at will by manipulative people. The real terrorists are these people who manipulate the meanings of these old texts to suit their gory purposes.


When we logical beings always ask for proof for even the smallest of things, how do we accept opinions that have such a huge consequence without checking out for ourselves?


Also, are we brave enough to stand up and say that since some of these texts were written for a different time, they may not all be relevant today in totality? It does not mean that we are debunking an entire way of thinking, but adapting it to suit the times. Its like how we use a constitution or a school curriculum, constantly amending and reframing it to keep it relevant.


A knife is not evil by itself. It depends on the user and the use it is put to. In a chef's hands it is perfectly harmless, but becomes lethal in the hands of a killer. The intent of religion by itself is not bad. But in the hands of wrong and negative people it can bring in the end of the world.


The fault is ours, who persist in looking outside ourselves for a religious experience. All religious texts like the Koran, the Ramayan, the Bible, and others, were the result of deep meditation and introspection, and observation of the way of life. Religion was supposed to guide us to a more fulfilling and enriched life, not become slaves to it.If we allow our minds to follow our instints without insecurity, we can sense religion and spirituality deep within us, without the aid of texts, priests, mullahs and god men.


The trouble starts when our insecurities and fears, rather than a deep happiness at being born, make us seek religion. This makes us doubt our own ability to find it, and we turn to supposedly 'learned custodians.'