Religious Deities And Their Followers' Lives

I passed by a church and saw the image of a saint built into the walls. The image was of a simply dressed woman standing straight in a long robe, fully covering her form except for the face. It had a soft, pious expression. Inside, I saw the image of Jesus and other saints. Those were all similar too - a serious or slight smile in expression, sober or solemn in mood. The clothing and attire of all the deities were of a simple, muted colours that did stand out - they appeared a plain, off-white or very pale colours that were almost not there and matched their mood and expressions. The poses or expressions of the deities were of moments of no agitation but calm. Even in crucifixion the expression of Jesus shown was of calm and serenity. Even the people that came to church service dressed 'down' in very elegant, neat and 'quiet' clothes.

I recollected my impressions of visiting a Hindu temple. The images outside and inside were quite different. Even from a distance, most of the images carved outside had a great variety of men, women and creatures, some real and some fantastic, in many kinds and stages of attire. The limbs and body barely covered in a few critical parts, fancy ornaments, jewelry on most. The poses too were not simple and showed contortions and such wild abandon that it would it would have passed for a yoga, gymnastic session or an energetic dance floor. Inside, the main deities were decked in great splendor with bright colours, shining gold, silver, gems and diamonds flashing. The main deities at the sanctum sanctorum too had deities in a standard pose, but they were attired in the finest silk. The expressions depicted in the various deities around the temple varied from the quiet, the serene, to joy, anger, to the humorous. It was a vast collection of human feelings and moods. The people visiting the temple too came dressed in a vast variety of clothes and in different moods, matching the deities.

This contrast set me thinking about the kinds of lives that the vast number of followers of Eastern and Western religions actually lead in 'normal real life' as compared with the kinds of people or deities they worship. 

It struck me that the vast majority of the followers of Western religions lead more active, colourful, lives experiencing a great spectrum of human feelings and experiences, as opposed to the vast number majority followers of Eastern religions who lead simpler lives with less variety. People's lives generally seem the opposite of the saints and deities that they idolize and worship. The Westerners seem to lead the life of Eastern deities and vice-versa!

This is just my observation, what do you think?


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2015
All rights reserved 

Aussie Legend - Ron Barassi

When my little son was starting out in primary school, he was swept into a passion for the Australian Rules Football, 'Footy' as they call it here. He joined his local club - virtually every suburb or town here seems to have a footy and cricket club. Since his best friend then was a supporter of one of the clubs, he too followed and insisted that all the rest of the family do so too. We all did. Even though we had no idea of the game and its rules or history then. We slowly started to know more and more about the game, its history and 'legends'. I used to think that legends were about people who were dead or imaginary from a long time ago.

 Here in Australia the most popular legends are not just stories, they are people who have been voted to the honour of being 'legends' themselves. Many are living legends. In other parts of the world there were 'heroes',, 'stars', 'superstars' and 'champions'. It is in Oz that we have these 'legends'. These were people who were voted by their peers and experts as having contributed something significant to the game and were often listed in a 'Hall of Fame'. The thing about these legitimate legends was that once they become legends, even their erstwhile rivals or supporters of teams that opposed them accept them as their own, true Australian legends. They had transcended the lower level rivalry and had risen to be of value above partisanship. There were Australian legends in many fields of endeavour -  in sports, in arts, in music and even in politics! 

I used to wonder what would such people be like? How different would they be from the rest of us and what kind of legends would a tough, physical and mental sport like 'Footy' produce. The game had long been known for its physical brawls and fights often drawing blood. We did not know the rules then, but my 5-6 year old son did perfectly. He could tell us that it was not part of the rules to fight or punch or 'unfairly' tackle someone. There was a legitimate 'tackle' that apparently did not cause injury or draw blood. Since I had to learn to play this new 'footy' with my son for about six months, before he outclassed me and I was no longer challenging enough for him, I did pick up the basis of the rules of the game and started to have a genuine appreciation and liking for it. Gradually, I realised that it is perhaps the best form of ball game among all that I had come across. It is more physically and intellectually challenging than soccer or rugby or football in the USA. Aussie rules footy involves no body armour. It does not look like a perpetual traffic jam with stop and start every two seconds. It has tremendous flow, speed and requires constant performance.

Yes, there are certain kinds of bumping allowed between players but if followed strictly, it should not result in any great injury in the worst case. Yes, there had been instances when someone transgresses the rules and the mateship and loyalty of teammates in defending each other results in a group brawl. Historically, it had been quite a bloody sport, but was changing a fair bit when my son started to learn it. There were more strict enforcement of rules penalising illegal contact and the culture had changed to the point that it was a family friendly sport, worth taking everyone to watch. Most famous players, however, had a history of being involved in  tough, physical confrontations and being injured sometime or the other. I wondered how such could be role models for youngsters.

As is typical in many small, local clubs they invited luminaries and famous people to visit, to talk to the players and families, to motivate and inspire the youngsters. I used to take my son every week for his practice and game on weekends. One day we saw that there was a bit of excitement and a show with even some press coverage.We heard that a footy legend was visiting his club that weekend. Many wanted to see him, shake his hand or have their picture taken with him if possible.

 I asked who he was and which team he had played for. 
' Ron Barassi from Melbourne Football Club' - said my son. He was not necessarily keen to have his picture taken with the visiting legend then.

It was not his favourite team. My son, a fierce supporter of his favourite team, who was normally fiercely opposed to other teams, their players and umpires who gave a decision against his team, did not appear to be particularly keen about this. But even his best friend who supported the same team as my son seemed keen and awed to see this person in person. His explanation that 'Ron Barassi' was an Australian Football League (AFL) 'legend' seemed sufficient for my son to accept honouring the players of the 'other teams'. I guess, little kids like a show, excitement and ceremony and quickly get into the spirit. 

We saw a big crowd, a lot of the families had shown up to catch sight of this 'legend'. He was a surprisingly small built man with greying hair, a kind smile and moustache. He looked quite different from the mostly big, huge or tall players of this era. The annual awards to the club players were given by him and he gave a brief speech as the guest of honour. He spoke in a clear, calm and friendly tone. He seeemed to be a bright, smiling man who definitely had a knack for lightening the spirit in the room as well as bringing something of a deep dignity to the atmosphere. The way everyone looked at this now diminutive and unassuming figure created an aura that the man himself seemed totally unaware of. 

After the formal ceremonies were over, we were told that Mr. Barassi had another engagement, somewhere else to go to, and that he would be able to spend only a few minutes to mingle with the common folk as these legends often did. One could instantly see many lining up to get a chance. I happened to be standing just where the line was forming. My son wandered over to me and stood there, taking all the sights in. 

As is typical among Aussies, everyone was polite and waited their turn to meet the great man. No one pushed past me or my son. He talked to the people ahead of us. Everyone wanted to get their picture taken with him. He patiently waited and cooperated. I used to think that most celebrities faked their friendliness or enthusiasm for this photo-ops which were probably a 'necessary nuisance' that they had to put up with. I did not pay much attention. I knew Mr. Barassi had to leave soon. The people ahead of me in the line were thoughtful about the limited time and hurried graciously. Suddenly, I realised the guest of honour was standing before me, smiling and extending his hand to my son who shook it. Then he looked up to me. I must say looked up, because he was slightly shorter in height. I too shook his hand. He then turned to my son and asked him with a warm smile, something about the game. He listened with full, undivided attention to the soft voice of the little boy, amid all the noise of the crowd. He asked more questions about how long he had been playing, what team he supported, where he was from. He listened with a serious look, a twinkling in his eye and a warm smile. I was stunned and felt the sudden envelope of his genuine heart and interest in people.

The football club and its activities had been great for my son and I to get to know our new homeland and its culture. We had been warmly welcomed and accepted as a part of the locals. I mentioned that briefly, to break the silence when my son had stopped speaking and the great man was still waiting, listening to him. He did not move away quickly, even though he had to go away soon. 
That legend then turned to me and asked me more about where we were from, how my son had come to take up Footy and how glad he was to see us learn about this true Aussie sport and its culture. 

Everyone around was patiently waiting. The man did not hurry us and without saying it, made us feel important and valued just as much as anyone else he had spoken to that day. Suddenly, I really wanted to get a picture of my son with this wonderful man. I fumbled with my camera that I had put away. I will never forget that wonderful, gracious, friendly, patient spirit of a someone who is truly a legend in my heart now.  We got our pictures taken quickly and thanked him and those that had waited patiently for us to finish. I was in a bit of a daze. It was quite unexpected to feel such a spirit.

Shortly later, as we walked away from the gathering, we saw Mr. Barassi walking over to his departing car. He greeted us and waved goodbye to us just as a long time friend would have. He was like this to everyone I saw him meet and greet.

Many years passed since that meeting and one day, Mr. Barassi was in the news again. He had been injured in a violent attack by some young punk when he had gone over to help a young woman being assaulted in public, when he had gone dining with his friends in St. Kilda in Melbourne. He was named Victorian of the Year in 2009.

I know that I have met a true gentleman, a true legend! They still live among us.

Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2015
All rights reserved 

Two Illusions - Misleading Western Media

The image of life in Western countries that people in other countries get is often by the western media - movies or TV series or the newspapers. In my experience, there are two areas where the impressions gathered from the Western media can be quite misleading. While some of it is accidental, I suspect some of it is deliberate. It is designed to create an impression on the young, immature growing minds and make them want to migrate to the West or feel totally dissatisfied with their life in their own countries, even if they have a fairly good life and opportunities for personal growth while developing their own countries.

1) The image of life in a developed country is shown as if people are all wealthy, living an extravagant lifestyle, fast cars, fast women, partying at the beaches and nightclubs. What happens on a weekend or an yearly holiday is portrayed as if it is a regular lifestyle. What is not shown or emphasized enough is that people work bloody hard to afford a 'middle-class' lifestyle, cars are not luxuries, women do not walk around all over the town, all day in bikinis and people are not sipping martinis all day. People slog all day for a full working day, many barely have any savings, many live for a bit of fun and unwinding during the weekends or a rare holiday that they can barely afford and that most of the 'middle-class' is neck deep in debt!

2) All Western people do not sleep around with their neighbours, strangers and friends or their friends' mothers. Not all are promiscous. Even those that are more free-spirited or liberal in their love life follow very sound policies of decency in how they approach anyone and keep childrens' eyes away from inappropriate scenes (as per local standards). People do not use pick up lines and dialogues heard or seen in movies in regular life.

The illusion of unexplained wealth or easy money, lavish and a lurid promiscous lifestyle hooks in the mind of many youngsters and teenagers who are led to believe that such a lifestyle awaits them the moment they land on the shores of an 'advanced country' and that if they cannot make it there, they must try and emulate their illusions in their own country. Those that try often ends up as a crude, awful caricature of something that would never be tolerated in any advanced Western nation.

And then when people rush to immigrate into a western country either as a deluded person seeking an illusory lifestyle  (landing at the airport) or a genuine refugee fleeing the horrors created in their homeland by meddling foreign powers (trying to sneak into the country without legal papers), the average westerner complains, sometimes with some justification at foolish incompetent economic migrants and confuses real refugess with them.

It would be good for decent people both in the developed and less developed countries to send an honest image of life and lifestyles in the developed world. It might discourage many deluded migrants as well as motivate many good ones to stay and contribute to making their own nations better. The young teenage mind needs a more sober and real message from all those who care.




Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2015
All rights reserved 

Self-respect, self-confidence and self-esteem - East vs West

These are qualities necessary for anyone to believe honestly that one can be or become the best in the world in any area or any endeavour. It is not simply considering one superior to others, it is a belief that we need not be or feel inferior to anyone else, if we put in honest effort.

It does not mean one has to be aggressive or loud or bombastic in exhibiting these positive qualities. They can be done while still being mostly quiet, calm and soft spoken. That is how most right thinking people display their self-respect and self-confidence. On rare occassions where the situation demands it, they can be assertive, speak up and even shout, but not as a matter of routine. Being over-confident, arrogant, brash and loud-mouthed in trying to appear self-confident and show self-respect is actually an indication of the lack of these qualities. Often failure to build up the self on a real basis results in an ego inflated with hot air.

Most Westerners have it right. Some Easterners also have it. They consider it extremely important and teach it to their children and they do. It involves sticking up for each other, boosting each other up even when we fail and building people up based on something real and solid. IMO, there is a higher percentage of Westerners who have this right than Easterners. That is why a smaller number of them are able to dominate and control the world. It is one marked and significant difference I observe between the two kinds of societies - Western and Eastern. There are several reasons, cultural and historical for this difference.This is something more Easterners NEED to learn properly, even from the West if need be. 


What do you think?


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2015
All rights reserved 

The Homecoming - Chapter 3

[He had never been envious of people who were better off than himself. He had never resented others' riches or possessions. Sometimes, he had felt a twinge of deep yearning to have what some of his friends had. He had lived with one friend's family and had often seen the father or mother opening the door to let in or welcome his daughter as she returned from school everyday. He had seen his neighbours open the door to let in their daughter when she returned from work. It was always a quick, casual, natural act without any dramas, even when they had something to say at each other or occasionally yell at each other the moment the door opened. Memories of those openings flashed by for a moment and a great wave of anger washed over him. He intensely envied his friend and neighbour their easy door openings right then.]

"Knock, Knock", the knocking sounded again, more firmly this time and brought him out of his sombre reverie. He composed himself for a second and walked over and threw the two unlocked doors wide open. His arms were open at his side from opening the two doors. They were ready as if to catch an angel. He stood there with a wide gentle, welcoming smile and a calm expression, but his hungry, thirsty eyes gave away some indication of the storm of feelings that was raging within. There were strong and turbulent waves of feeling crashing upon him and his daughter. A roller-coaster ride was about to begin in the middle of this storm.

All of them stood still, saying nothing, seemingly for the eternity of a second, only their eyes taking in everything.

He saw his daughter standing in front of him with an expression of curiosity, the curiosity of meeting a stranger. She stood straight, tall and held her hands together in front of her with the tissue in it. Her eyes rose up slowly to meet his. The first expression was one of searching for the father she vaguely remembered and imagined, inside this person in front of her. He could read this expression of her search and it tore a part of his already battered heart and a dark cold anger rose at those that had caused this awful situation between him and his child, while at the same time, he was thankful for what he had regained. He knew he should be grateful to fate, but could not help his feelings. He only knew how to deal with them peacefully.

The young girl saw a grey haired, middle-aged man of medium build, smelling of a fresh bath and coffee, dressed in a full-sleeved tartan shirt. His hairline had receded and the hair had formed an unruly halo around his head. His smile showed a warm welcome. As she looked into his eyes, she sensed something intense and suddenly her composure broke for a moment. His eyes seemed to be searching for something deep inside her. She could not figure out that it was looking to see something of the little girl he knew, to see if she recognised him. They were both looking for something from a long time ago to connect with, so that all the years apart would vanish in a jiffy. 

The tentative expression of his daughter suddenly changed, her eyebrows furrowed just a little and the mouth curved slightly to indicate an almost frightened expression. She could not understand the reasons for his searching expression or feelings of hurt or anger, like he could. She was still a child. 

Seeing her torment, an internal flash of pain seared his heart. He realised she had sensed his searching eyes and it had scared her. Two waves of feeling hit him, one after the other. 

The first one was of love - suddenly his heart let him know that his eyes were not important, his look was. Immediately, his eyes softened and his whole appearance changed in his daughter's eyes. She visibly relaxed instantly.

The second feeling that came to him was something he had been used to for a long time. He had occasionally felt this before, He had practice in dealing with it and keeping it at bay. It was a searing hot ball of anger and resentment at those responsible for bringing this upon his daughter and himself. It was a deep and dark feeling that he could shunt aside for now.

"Hello! Sweetheart! Welcome home," he said in a steady voice, stepping up to her, his eager hands open. 

The daughter too opened out her arms a little bit and barely had time to say anything or react when he was upon her and had his arms around her. He smelled the top of her head as he used to do when she was a baby. She smelled different now. He kissed her forehead and then held her in an tight embrace almost lifting her. He did not realise how strong his grip was until she gasped. She was taken aback by the strength and firmness of his arms.

"Darling, are you OK? Sorry..I did not realise. Silly me," he stammered piteously and stepped back, holding her gently by her arms on her side and looked into her eyes. He mentally cursed his fate for not having the right idea of how tight he could hug his daughter without crushing her. Again, he felt angry at those responsible for his fate.

The counsellor and his daughter saw the concern and tenderness in his expression.

"Dad! That's OK," said the girl tenderly.

Hearing her call him "Dad" brought him to another high of the roller-coaster ride he was on. The last time he had heard her call him, it had been "Daddy".

He almost knelt down to reach her height and this time tenderly hugged her. She returned the embrace with her hands around his neck. It suddenly seemed to take them back a long time ago. 

"Dad, I love you!" said the girl, as she had planned on telling him.

He could not see his daughter's eyes as they hugged. She had closed them anyway and let her imagination carry her away. She could not see his eyes too, fortunately. But the counsellor could.  He was restraining himself. He looked and gently held the hair falling behind on her shoulders for a brief while, confused as to what he wanted to do. He was not sure how to hold her naturally as other parents did. He did not know how she would feel. He wanted to run his fingers through her hair. The pain and joy were both only too evident. The counsellor saw his struggle and his restraint. Her eyes stung suddenly with her tears.

 "I love you too, my darling! " said the father, his voice sounded a bit strange as it cracked despite his heroic efforts. The floodgates opened. A faint moan of pain escaped from him as he remembered waiting for this for a long time. 

"I missed you Sweetheart," he said softly. In a few seconds he shuddered in silent sobs holding onto her. The daughter felt them and she patted his back as he used to do to her a long time ago. 

"That's Ok Dad," said the daughter and continued in a singing voice,"All will be fine, darling of mine!" 

It was a line he used to sing to her as a lullaby since she was a baby. He pulled back and looked into her face, laughed out loud among the tears.Suddenly he was singing it too, patting her back to the rhythm of the singing. They alternately looked at each other, laughed, smiled, cried and hugged for a long time. The counsellor stood there patiently.

He noticed the counsellor and realised he did not even know how long he should hug his daughter and when to let go.  Again a dark wave of anger and resentment directed at 'those responsible', washed over him. He let it pass. He knew he should not keep them all standing outside. Suddenly, he got up and broke free gently from his daughter.

"Where are my manners?!!  Let's go in. Come on in. Breakfast is ready," he said. He shook the hands of the counsellor, thanked her and reached out to get his daughter's luggage. He picked it up easily in one hand. With the other one holding his daughter's hand he led her across the door step into the house.

The counsellor walked in behind them, dabbing at her eyes.

Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2015
All rights reserved 

The Homecoming - Chapter 2

The daughter was expected at about 8 o'clock. He showered as something stewed on the stove. He shaved and put on fresh clothes. He came back to the kitchen and as he cooked, he mentally went over the discussion with the counsellors about the first meeting. They had kindly and thoughtfully pointed out that youngsters might not be able to handle displays of intense emotion, especially by adults.The daughter would perhaps not understand his feelings as a parent until she herself become one and encountered the same situation. While the counsellors did not try to tell him how to be, they put the thought into his head so that he would find a balance himself. They pointed out that they had counselled the daughter as well and prepared her for the meeting. 

He decided to focus just on his feelings and thoughts for his daughter as best as he could and try to keep so many other thoughts and emotions that also arose, at bay. The counsellors suggested that he not try to ignore the feelings of anger, resentment at his fate, at his ex and the pain of all the time lost that would come up. They suggested he take time to let them wash over him, let his feelings out, a little while before he came face to face with this daughter.

As he worked on breakfast and setting up the table, he was not his usual self - humming or singing along. He was quiet that day. He had to sometimes sit down, let the tears of pent up anger and grievance flow once again. He was angry at his fate, but had the sense to thank it for what was to come. He knew there were other fathers in this world who were not as fortunate as he was.

He composed himself, wiped his face and finished setting up the table. He put on the kettle to warm up the water for tea and coffee. He poured out the juice and put a lid on the glass at his daughter's place at the dining table. He then went out to the living room to look out the front windows with the cup of coffee. He could see past the driveway onto the street and a side street ahead from where he expected the counsellor's car to drive up. There was some morning traffic. 

Up ahead, a few blocks away, the daughter was sitting next to the counsellor as she drove. The girl was looking out the window. She too was feeling a bit numb and strange after having looked forward  to this for so long. She seemed to want the car to go as slow as possible to give her time to compose herself and prepare for this meeting. In her vague memory, her father was a close loved one, but now in reality she felt she was meeting a stranger inside whom she hoped to find her father again. She dabbed at her eyes with tissues and adjusted her understated lipstick that had smudged a bit, looking at the vanity mirror.

"We will be there soon, dear. How are you doing?" asked the counsellor gently.

"I am very nervous. I so much want to meet him, but I don't know why I feel scared and not ready right now. I know there is no perfect time. I have to do it," said the girl.

"Yes, that is right. You have to do it sometime and get over the first step. It will be easier after that."

The girl remembered the talk that she had had with the counsellors preparing her for the meeting. They had reminded her gently and tactfully that adults are also just like children when it comes to feelings and there are moments in life when they cannot always be in perfect control and express them elegantly. Sometimes they let it all out and it might seem odd, while we accept such with little children easily. They suggested she not be intimidated or upset with her father if such were to happen, but just to remember that he loved her very much and that he was getting over many deep hurts in life. At once she had said that she wanted to comfort him as he had comforted her in her faint memories. The counsellors knew then that she was ready for this and would be alright.

As they turned a corner and saw the father's house a little way ahead, the counsellor pointed it out.

"We'll be there in a minute," she added.

"Can you pull over and stop for a minute, please?" said the daughter, her voice sounding a bit breathless.

"Sure, dear!"

As the car stopped, the girl rolled down the window. Took some deep, slow breaths and gazed long and hard at the house, the shaded windows and the driveway and the shut front door. She wondered if her father was looking out of the windows at that very moment, waiting for her. He was. He had looked at cars approaching and when he saw his one pull over and stop, he thought it might not be the one. His eyes tracked other cars passing.

Suddenly, he realised that a car was pulling into his driveway. He froze. He heart started to beat really fast. His mouth went dry. He took a sip from his cup. The front door was already unlocked and ready to be opened. He had kept it shut. He wanted to get a look at his daughter as she walked up to the door.

The car stopped. He could see two figures faintly behind the reflective glare of the windshield. The counsellor got out after a few seconds, holding her handbag. She shut her door and went over to the rear. Shortly afterwards the passenger door opened and his daughter tumbled out. He barely got to see the side of her face with her long straight black hair with a blond streak when she turned and almost ran to the rear of the car. He saw a flash of denim jeans and a pale yellow shirt top. She was a slim, petite figure.

Soon the counsellor emerged from behind the car and following her came his daughter pulling a wheeled suitcase. She walked slowly, hidden partly behind the figure of the counsellor, looking down, her hair covering her face like a waterfall. She held one hand with a tissue to her face. As they approached the door, he watched his daughter walk with hesitation in her steps. He waited for the knock.

The counsellor turned around at the door and said,"Let me get the suitcase, you go ahead and knock."  

She went behind the girl and took hold of the luggage. The young girl finally walked up to the door, stood straight and tall. She looked up at the door for a few seconds, staring intently at the door. 

He looked through the corner of the thick patterned curtains at the window right next to the front door. She was so close to him and yet unaware of him. All his thoughts and feelings were suspended as he observed his daughter's figure with great attention and curiosity. He still could not see her face clearly.

The girl breathed in deeply and slowly out.

And then he heard the "Knock, Knock" of the door.

Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2015
All rights reserved 

The Homecoming - Chapter 1

He woke up early that morning, excited. He could not sleep well at all the previous night. His feelings were too many, too strong and kept him from simply relaxing and getting some much needed rest though he went to bed early. He felt like he could stay up and active and do anything he wanted to. He had so many plans and things to do once he woke up. It was about early morning around 4 am that he finally got into a deep sleep with a vivid dream. He woke up suddenly due to an involuntary reflex movement in his dream where he slipped as he came down the stairs.

He saw that it was still a while before the alarm was set to go off, but he could not get back to sleep. He decided to get up and make himself an early cup of coffee. He was feeling a bit tired and tense. Activity relaxed him. He started out to make the special breakfast he had planned. He had breakfast, lunch and dinner planned in great detail. The shopping for all the ingredients had been done and the pantry was full. He could not contain his excitement and thrill that his daughter was coming to visit him and stay with him. 10 years had passed since he had last seen her.

He remembered her the last time he saw her, as a little, smiling, happy 4 -year-old who had hugged him tight as he said 'Goodnight' as he tucked her in bed after reading her a bedtime story. He remembered her warm soft sweet smell. She always had looked directly into his eyes with a penetrating innocence, trust and love that he still remembered. As he read the story, he had watched those very eyes close gradually as she had drifted off to sleep with a calm expression on her sweet face. Her long dark tresses partly covered her face as she slept on her side. He had come back once again in a few hours to kiss her goodbye while she slept soundly, unaware of what was happening. He had been escorted out of the house that night by the police. His ex-wife had called them complaining of domestic violence when he had raised his voice in protest at her false allegations and pushed her away as she attacked him. It was an automatic response and  policy to remove the man from the house when a woman complained of domestic violence - 'just to be on the safe side'.

He had been kept away from seeing his two children because their mother had gone into hiding and kept moving. It had taken many years to find them. Meanwhile, his youngest one, less than an year old when he had left home, had passed away and he had not known about it until recently. He had grieved over so many things he had lost that it felt strange that he seemed to take another one in his stride for a child he had barely known. He could not suppress the feeling of elation of looking forward to seeing his daughter and getting to know her. He could not approach his daughter as he was prevented by the law and his ex had legally contested it. He had to be patient until the court finally ruled in his favour. He could see his daughter and have some time with her to make up for all the years lost. He had followed the law and ten years had passed before he was finally, legally able to have his daughter visit him and stay with him for a while. They wanted to take it slow as suggested by the counsellors.

He had carried her memory and image in his heart every single day that they had been apart. He was a quiet man and did not speak much. He talked about his plans for meeting her but not much about how he felt. The counsellors noticed the internal intensity despite his almost deadpan expression and his changed voice as he said in almost a mild whisper that he would not be able to bear walking away from her after meeting her a few minutes or an hour after seeing her after all these years. The daughter had herself suggested a week to start with rather than a very short meeting. She had been led to believe a lot of untruths about her father in the years past and her memory of him was limited, but they still were loving memories.She wanted to get to know him.

It was arranged that a counsellor would bring along his daughter to his house that morning, spend a few hours to get everyone settled down and then leave. She would check on them occasionally during the week. If that week went well, they would arrange more time.

He hardly knew his daughter now and would not have recognised her on the streets. She must have grown into a young lady, he imagined. He had decided not to even talk to her over the phone before meeting her. He would not have been to able to hang up and if it did not go well it would have devastated him and her further. He had seen a few photographs that she had sent of herself over the past years. He could barely recognise her from memory in only one of them, taken a couple of years after he had last seen her.

The counsellors had talked with him yesterday. One had asked him about his plans for the week and watched him keenly. It had been easy to talk about his plans for the week ahead. At one point one of the counsellors had asked him directly " How are you doing?" to gauge his feelings. He was silent for a few seconds. It had been hard to answer and he had said gruffly "I'm alright."

From the counsellors he had found out his daughter's favourite foods, colours, her interests in clothes and movies and games. He even inquired a bit about her school, friends and got some advance information. He listened to them with grave intensity, took notes and pored over them for a long time alone, back at his house. He had spent a couple of weeks cleaning his house, organising his daughter's room, bed and decorating the room. There were shelves and closets with a few clothes, he wanted to go shopping with her to let her fill up the remaining space.


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2015
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