Papa, I and a Song

The song ‘Naam gum jaayega’ has always been a mystery to me. I have listened to it a million times but was never able to decipher it. I knew that my heart clings to it but without understanding the meaning of the song what was the point of listening to it again and again? The song has an air of melancholy surrounding it. It can perhaps find its way into some of the finest written Hindi songs because the meaning changes with the individual listening to it. Songs with such depth are rarely written and seldom find a way into our lives.

This tightened grip of mystery was broken yesterday. Mom and I were listening to old songs and ‘Naam gum jaayega’ popped up. The opening lines of the song are,

Naam gum jaayegaa, 

cheharaa ye badal jaayegaa,

Meri aawaaz hi pahachaan hai, gar yaad rahe

In English, this translates to

My name will be lost, 

My face will change,

My voice is my identity, only if you remember

My mother paused the song and said, “Even voice can change… then what will remain of us.” I immediately disagreed and said, “Mom, if I ever meet Papa do you think he can recognize me? He can only recognize me if he remembers my voice.” At that moment the song lifted its veil and answered all my questions. The mist of mystery was finally lifted by a well-meaning discussion which never happened.

In his physical form, my father is not with us. He left us eleven years ago. Death is difficult and no one teaches us to deal with it. We deal with it ourselves. We make our escape routes. We make our own beliefs. What is life if it cannot celebrate death? Alas, no one teaches us to celebrate death. We learn to mourn because we see people doing that. We never learn to celebrate the moments of happiness, the beautiful memories we made, the love we shared. It feels as if we love to mourn.

I never mourn my father. I refuse to believe that death is separation. Of course, I would have loved to have him around me and discuss everything that is happening in the world. I am sure he misses the news and the views. But even though he is not present in his physical form, he is there with me guiding me. I think he allows me to make mistakes. He is okay with me not being right all the time. Above all, he is fine with me just being me.

There were many songs and that he and I heard together. And there are many songs which I can relate to him after his crossing over. ‘Naam gum jaayega’ just made into the list of the songs which are as sacred as Divine because they remind me of him, our conversations and a life that could be.

Hence, for me, the meaning of this song changes from its superficial appeal.

Below are the lyrics of the song and its literal translation

The Lyrics

Naam gum jaayegaa, 

cheharaa ye badal jaayegaa,

Meri aawaaz hi pahachaan hai, gar yaad rahe

Waqt ke sitam kam hasin nahi, 

aaj hain yahaa kal kahi nahi.

Waqt ke pare agar mil gaye kahi, 

Meri aawaaz hi pahachaan hai, gar yaad rahe

Jo gujar gayi, kal ki baat thi, umar to nahin yek raat thi

Raat kaa siraa agar fir mile kahi, meri aawaaj hi.. ..

Meri aawaaz hi pahachaan hai, gar yaad rahe

Din dhale jahaa raat paas ho

Zindagi ki lau unchi kar chalo

Yaad aaye gar kabhi ji udaas ho, 

Meri aawaaz hi pahachaan hai, gar yaad rahe

Translation

The name may be lost, 

the face may change,

but my voice will show my identity if you remember it

The whims of Time are no less charming,

Today we are here, tomorrow we will be nowhere,

But beyond time, if we meet,

my voice will show my identity if you remember it

What happened before, is the thing of the past, 

It wasn’t a lifetime, it was a mere night,

If ever we rediscover the night,

my voice will show my identity if you remember it

When it is dusk, the night is not afar,

Step ahead in high spirits,

When I remember, my heart becomes sad,

My voice will show my identity if you remember it.

The meaning of the song as I feel it

Names indeed fade with time. My face has changed dramatically in the past eleven years. People who’d have seen me last in college or even years ago will not be able to recognize me. What remains unchanged is my voice. I remain eternally thankful as now my voice is my identity.

Time is a great healer. But time is also a tormentor. The pain we go through, the torture we bear, it makes us. When we witness the worst of our lives, we perhaps will never recognize that it is leaving its indelible stain on our face. It changes us, for good or for bad. Indeed, the pain we witness will not go on for forever but it does change us for forever. I know this because I have straddled the hurricane of change in my life and I am also aware that there can be perhaps many more awaiting me. However, if beyond time and space I meet Papa, will he ever be able to recognize me? No. If my face is my identity then perhaps, I will be missed by him. But I am sure if he hears my voice he will know it is me.

Whatever I have been through is a thing of past. It didn’t consume me but it did change me. Most of the lessons of life have come to me in the night and that’s why I love the moon and the stars and the sky holding it. Mornings are comfort but Nights bring perspective. What if we meet on the night He crossed over, again? Is it even a possibility? Only my voice will help him identify me in the sea of people that he’ll see.

We all are on a limited time. Whatever time we have, we have to ensure that we give our best shot. There will be moments of sadness when we shall remember the ones we loved and lost. But we mustn’t let this dampen our spirits. We have to keep sailing through Time to meet the ones we loved beyond Time. And then when we meet them, we would have changed beyond recognition. Our identity will be limited to our voice. Until then it is just a goodbye…

Papa and I, 2007

In case you’d like to hear the song, search on YouTube as Naam Goom Jayega 

Papa, me and Notre Dame

My first encounter with Notre Dame was when I had started the first year of graduation. One of my Uncles had mentioned about Nostradamus and his prophecies. 9/11 attacks had recently happened and apparently, Nostradamus predicted not only those attacks but also the atomic bombing, the French revolution, the rise of Napoleon Bonaparte and many other events which had changed the course of history. He fascinated me. I read about him from the available sources. Google in those days was not as efficient as today and we still relied on our hardbound friends. They took me to the fascinating world of Nostradamus and his predictions and I almost felt like a member of Illuminati. Not that these are related but in my head, I made all possible relations. In my head, it looked better than Harry Potter did and I was the sun of this solar system I had created.

I took a lot of pride in what I had read and told Papa about this. Papa being himself asked me what I knew about Nostradamus and I flaunted my knowledge like a pro. He was impressed. Then he asked me, “Do you know about Notre Dame?” My response was, “I just told you about it.” He smiled and said, “No. I am talking about Notre Dame.” Now I was confused. My entire research was hitting a roadblock, “I just told you about Nostradamus.” Papa by now had lost his cool. He almost gulped his anger and said in a stern yet polite tone, “How on earth can you find Nostradamus and Notre Dame similar?” My epic response was, “I think that Nostradamus in French is Notre Dame.” I believe at that moment shock waves would have run through Papa’s body. In that state of shock and utter disbelief he asked me, “What will your name be called in Hindi?” I answered, “Divya”. “And what will be your name in French?” I again responded, “Divya” “Then why do you think will Nostradamus be called Notre Dame in French?” I realized my folly. Now it was too late to respond. I swallowed my spit and stood still, careful to ensure I don’t move, I don’t blink, hell! I do not even breathe. Papa was shaking his head in disbelief. He knew that the human mind’s stupidity is limitless but he was definitely not prepared to discover that infinite stupidity in his own daughter.

After a few seconds, which I felt, was like a never-ending earthquake, Papa finally said, “I don’t believe in these modern-day, manufactured prophets. Who is Nostradamus? You may like him. However, do not waste your time reading bogus stuff. Get real. Read science, literature, and art. Enrich your mind. Travel. Think. Analyze. Do not be influenced. Where is your scientific temperament? Where are your analytical skills? Do not keep them limited to the Math lecture. Cut beyond it.” Papa paused and looked at me. I was still scared to say a word. He looked at me and said in the sweetest tone, “Beta*, come here.” I took a deep breath. This was assuring. Papa would call me Beta with unexplainable love and in one of the sweetest voices, I will ever hear. Sweeter than even the chirping of birds, blowing of breeze, the mountains talking, or the trees swaying. I went to him. He asked me to sit beside him. He put his hand on my shoulders and said, “Notre Dame is a cathedral in Paris. It has the finest medieval architecture in the world. Think of it to be Taj Mahal of France but it is older than Taj by some 500 years.”

I had become the wide-eyed listener. I asked him, “You have been to Paris?” Papa smiled, “No and if I had been to Paris you’d know.” “Then how do you know?” “Because I read. Blessed are those who can travel. They can leave their shores and travel to learn more. Then there are some like us. People like me who cannot travel, we read. We read to learn. To meet different people. To know different cultures. To understand literature and art. For us, books are our passports. Our sure ticket to unknown lands and undefined journeys. That is why I am so cautious about my books. I have to pick them right. The wrong ones can dirty my mind.” I nodded. Papa placed his hand on my head and said, “Go. Read something worthwhile or read your syllabus.” I hugged him tightly and said, “Tell me about Notre Dame.”

Papa said, “I haven’t been to Notre Dame. I have seen pictures and read the description. From what I can imagine, it has huge windows. Very big. Big windows allow light to fill the cathedrals. These windows have beautiful designs on them. Notre Dame was the first of its kind and gave way to the French Renaissance architecture. Napoleon was crowned there.” I interrupted Papa, “You like Napoleon na, Papa?” Papa nodded and continued, “It has fine architecture undoubtedly, but what makes it great is that it has withstood the test of time for so long. It is not as old as Buddha of Bamiyan or the Pyramid of Giza but is still old enough to tell you the history of the transition from medieval to the modern world. Think about it, it has seen the French revolution, the rise, and fall of Napoleon, the world wars, and so many other major events of history. The walls of the cathedral have a story to tell for those who listen. The roof of the cathedral welcomes every tourist and devotee who come to visit it. It wants to talk to you. However, do you want to talk to them? I have heard there is an organ over there. It is quite large. It has so much music in it, would you like to take a piece of it? I want a promise from you. I want you to visit Notre Dame on my behalf. I will see it through your eyes. I will feel it through your hands. I will live it through you. Promise me that you will definitely visit Notre Dame. And, remember to ring the bell if you are allowed to. I have read that this bell has been rung on important occasions. You visiting it from India cannot be any ordinary occasion. You will do this for me?” I hugged Papa. It was getting emotional. I made a promise to myself to visit Notre Dame with Papa and ring the bell together.

Years later in 2013, I visited Notre Dame when it was celebrating its 850^th anniversary. I did not visit with Papa. He had left this temporary world for a permanent seat in my heart. I want to tell him that, on that day he was behaving like Nostradamus, prophesizing the future in which his physical absence would always be felt. With a company, which was borderline boring, one hundred percent educated illiterate, I visited the great structure. I did not ring the bell. In fact, I do not even remember seeing it. All I remember was talking to the walls, to the roof, to the window panes and telling them it was Papa who always wanted to see them but could not. I was just on behalf. I saw the famous gargoyles and gave them a shout out. My company got offended. It did not understand the emotion behind the loud ‘hi’. I did not bother to explain either. Notre Dame was not just another tick for me in the travel plan, it was a feeling that I was living and a moment revisiting.

As I saw the images of Notre Dame on fire, I closed the channel. I could not see my feelings destroyed in the brutalist possible ways. If ever I have a child, I am going to ask the same promise, to visit Notre Dame and feel it on behalf of me. Say a hi loud enough to offend fellow travelers but sweet enough for the ears of gargoyles. Express my gratitude for the beautiful moments I got because of it. No way can Notre Dame burn down. It has to rise again to unravel the history it has carefully folded in its arms. To speak to us through its tough walls. To give us patience when the time is wrong. But above all, to embrace my child when I send it away so long.

Dear Notre Dame, I know you’ll be back and thank you for everything that you’ve given!

Beta* – It is a word in Hindi which literally translates to Son in English. It is used lovingly for children and is gender independent although a daughter is called Beti. 

P.S. In case you want to see Papa and me, the pic is below

P.P.S. The shirt I am wearing belongs to Papa. Even I belong to him!

Happy Independence Day

Let me start with the mandatory ‘Happy Independence day’ wish. The whatsapp messages, the facebook statuses, beyond the era of charged SMSes, we are perhaps still the same. Symbolic and utterly symbolic. Our deshprem is figurative because it is not all-encompassing. It is limited to 15^th August and 26^th January. And who knows 26^th January might just become another symbolic day as we progress towards barbarism every passing day. What India was and what it has become is a journey in what not to become. I always felt I was a study in what not to do in life; if not detailed at least in generality. But I never dreamt even in my wildest of dreams that India would become an unmaking of a great civilization.

The problem here lies that unlike my most middle class counterparts I was not brought up in hate or shame. My father, the late Dr. L.N. Dixit, whom I revere to the extent of believing him to be an incarnation of Lord Vishnu, was influenced by prominent Hindu sangathan in his early years of life. Though his main inspiration continued to be Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose. As a child he was part of the Bose house and his elder brother was part of Gandhi house. In later years my father admitted how proud he was of his elder brother being a part of Gandhi house (the best house in his village school) and how he secretly harbored a desire of leading the Gandhi house, the best house. Of course, he loved every inch of being ‘the Subhash boy’.

During the most magnificent days of my life, when he was around, and I was a child, I learned about what independence meant during the late 60s and early 70s. How he was the only student standing for his guide when the entire nation had turned its back on the Sikhs. He was proud of learning the most beautiful of all languages, Urdu and all this while being influenced by the sangathan. He was a product of SD College Kanpur and later on post his PhD in organic chemistry he went to become assistant professor in Pandit Deendayal School. He was proud that he started directly as an assistant professor. He was an honored man who believed that life was a continuous learning wave and that one cannot just sit on the wave. One has to learn to surf in order to survive.

He married my mother, whom I believe to be the greatest soul who has ever walked on Earth. I think God is a manifestation of my mother. I might doubt existence of God and then I see her and I believe there is God. When she married my father she was close to 20 but not yet 20 and he was 27. Notwithstanding a gap of seven years they developed a friendship which was driven by mutual respect for each other. In years to come, I would be a living proof of their heartfelt and empathetic conversations. My mother a believer of Lord Ram and my father a man who critically analyzed Lord Ram’s decision to banish Goddess Sita in the woods. My mother famously remarked to him once, “God for me is not a subject of debate but of belief.” Till date I remember his graceful exit from the argument. Yet when Zee TV showcased a serial glorifying Ravana, my mother didn’t stop my father from watching it. I could see the pain and frustration on her face weekly when the episodes were aired. However she also said that, “I can’t stop a person from thinking. He lives with his beliefs and I live with my faith.”

Growing up in an environment like ours was enchanting. I had my parents with bang opposite beliefs and then we had books. We were surrounded by Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Premchand, Tagore, Shivaji Sawant, AshaPurna Devi, Mahasweta Devi and the greatest of the authors from across the world. My parents had varied taste in literature. My father was a lover of history and my mother a constant pursuant of women causes. My father adored Chanakya and my mother detested him. He admired how Chanakya installed nobody on the throne and made out of that nobody Chandragupta Maurya. My mother on the other hand felt that women suffered because of Chanakya’s misogynist viewpoint. She once called out my admiration to Chanakya, “Your father has a mind of his own but you behave like a cow. Nodding and believing whatever he says.” I retorted, “Aren’t you influenced by your teachers? My father is my teacher.” My mother made a comeback, “My teachers didn’t believe in Nehru’s socialism. They didn’t approve of Nehru as the rightful successor of Gandhi, as India’s first and best prime minister ever. But I don’t think like that. Because I read my facts.” That night my mother and my father had a discussion. I remember next day we had books on Nehru, Gandhi, Subhash Chandra Bose and Sarojini Naidu. I was curious. I remember asking why these and then my father said that we must not dwell in the past which is ancient, but past which is recent can teach us a lot. We started reading about the makers of our great nation. They were slim books just touching history superficially but for me they were an understanding set in motion.

In days to come my father would read out Premchand’s Namak ka Daroga, Panch Paremeshwar, Eidgah, Bade ghar ki Beti, Laila and what not. My mother and father both agreed on Premchand’s compassion and his belief in unity.

And then the inexplicable happened. From discussing literature they digressed to recent history. Assassination of Mahatma came up. My mother accused, almost blatantly, the forces responsible for his violent death. She called out extreme Hinduism and how it interfered in women emancipation and dalit upliftment. She had the courage to speak against my father’s unwavering faith on the organization which she thought was responsible for tearing apart the fabric of unity of our country. In fact, she called out my father’s apparently no stand on the important issues and that he was influencing us kids to become monsters in the long run. Stung by the dignified but biting remark, my father was determined to hit back on my mother’s allegation but with evidences. Those were not glorious days of our lives in terms of money but my parents ensured that they kept a generous amount for books. My father traveled to CP Tank in Mumbai to his favorite shop, Hindi Granthalay which is a treasure house of books in Hindi and History. He got books and books and books. He would read everything available in literature to negate my mother’s remarks.

He was a struggling businessman at that time. But definitely he wouldn’t let his belief struggle. He just couldn’t digest my mother’s comments. In later years he confessed that he was also not very comfortable with a woman whose knowledge was better than this. He regretted his misogynist attitude but then he said that he could be a bad man at certain junctures in life but he was strongminded to be an evolved man at any given point in life. And he sure was evolving throughout his life. His deep study of Mahatma’s murder made him profound. His mentor, Dr. R.R. Dixit, whom he called with utmost love and affection, Papaji was a staunch supporter of sangathan. He had influenced my father deeply but couldn’t take away from my father the appetite for truth, as I would like to put. My father always believed that there couldn’t be any negotiation with the truth. He was disappointed when he couldn’t find a single evidence against my mother’s rock solid allegations. There I learned an important lesson of my life, once you know you are on the wrong side of the road, apologize and shift towards the right side. My father was an extremely proud man to apologize but he admitted that my mother’s knowledge of history and politics was unparalleled. He once said jokingly, “between science and political science it is the later which takes precedence and not just because it has more letters.”

From being a Hindu without a motive my father became a secular with a motive. He taught us to appreciate religions and not harbor distrust or animosity just because a person’s way of worship was different than ours. The problem was he had been doing the exact opposite before. Thank God for our mother who had better understanding of the human mind between the two. In later years, my father confessed how apologetic and stressed out he was as he felt he had created monsters instead of humans. Then my mother came to rescue and told him to stop stressing out so much because a child’s mind is malleable and sloppy at the same time. But then what should be the bed time stories like? This is when we were introduced to television. My father thought it was a bad idea. My mother thought anything if in control cannot be a bad idea. And who decides control he wondered? Parents, she would have said definitely.

Never mind the impressionable minds we were. Slowly but certainly my parents ensured that as kids we appreciated diversity and the ability to keep faith in our head and within our minds. Secularism was never out of fashion inside or outside our house. My father had friends from all beliefs and didn’t mind experimenting with food. In a strange Brahman house like ours, eggs were a regular. My mother would cook for him eggs but warned against going any further. He took the warning seriously. Although he felt that mother should have been liberal with chicken and mutton also. I still wonder how my strict mother managed to become this flexible.

Slowly but steadily we started appreciating diversity and questioning the basis of religion. My mother was okay with diversity part but questioning the grounds of religion was something she was iron willed to oppose. She had issues with areligious upbringing. He had issues with religion which had torn apart India multiple times. It was not just difficult time for the nation but also for us as kids who were not sure the path to walk on.

Whatever path we would choose, however, ensured that there was peace and harmony because whether there was religion or not there was appreciation of myriad faiths. There was Tulsidas and then there was Rumi. We could have friends who could belong to any faith or caste or gender and we would come back home to an awakened environment. As much as debate would happen we were ensured our dose of humor was delivered uninterrupted. Being goofy was fun and empathy was cool. My friends still shake their heads in disbelief but I am truly the product of an awakened household where we could be anything but intolerant, rubbish human beings.

Today when India celebrates its 72^nd Independence, I miss my father. Of course, I have had worse days but the slogans of Bharat Mata ki Jai raise suspicions in me and I want to run to him and ask him to clear off my suspicions. When people say Vande Mataram I want him to assure me that behind every Vande Mataram chant there is a true Indian and not a blood seeking pseudo nationalist. Behind the mob which salutes the tricolor there is Indianism and not a lynch waiting to happen. I want him to assure me that I don’t need to move with suspicion on the roads and that being carefree doesn’t mean accidents. As I see through the portrait of Dr. L.N. Dixit, I want him to assure me that acche dine zaroor aayenge.

The Journey Begins

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton