Best travel companion

I love road trips and traveling of any sort.  I love the idea of going to a new place and walk around aimlessly till the streets and the buildings become your friends.  It is as though the inanimate aspects of the place come alive and become your friends even in just a few days.

My love for road trips started with my father. We would go to Praturu, to visit our home. or we would go to Guntur or Eluru, to visit our relatives. We would take off in the early hours, often 6 of us in our FIAT. Around 7 am, stop for breakfast and then continue on our day journey. Usually, holidays meant visiting relatives. I played with my cousins and neighbors, read incessantly often finishing 2 books a day, watched movies, played cards and sat around for hours telling jokes and stories. These trips were always about people and not about places. I loved staying with our friends and family. Maybe, that’s why, even today, I love staying with people more than staying at hotels. The thought of going to a place where I did not know anyone, primarily to enjoy the beauty of that place was a foreign concept to me.

It was my aunt, Kasturi attayya, who changed all that for me. She loved to travel and she used to organize school trips over long holidays.  We were all from middle class, ordinary families and could not even think of traveling by flights let alone staying in hotels. She would organize about 50 of us in each bus and typically, a 3 bus caravan would go on a 10-15 days roadtrip. We would take a cook and his assistants with us. At meal times, we would pull over close to a large open area next to the freeway.  The cook and his assistants would pull out the stoves and make a simple meal of rice, sambar etc., The kids would all play in the open area while the spicy fragrance of the food being prepared would make us even more hungry.  When the meal was ready, we would all eat in disposable plates made from banana leaves or other leaves.  We would even get special snacks in the evening at another stop by the roadside. At night, we would sleep in the buses or in choultries (dorms made for travelers), where 40-50 of us would occupy a room, once even on a train platform. 

These road trips changed my life for ever.  We went to Goa, Nasik, Aurangabad, Chandigarh and many more places. To this day, I can clearly hear the guide telling us the story of the Daulatabad fort, of how this was one of the most intelligently constructed forts. It was impossible to conquer as there were so many obstacles and traps.  I was mesmerized by the beauty of the world – the brilliance of the fort, the expanse of beaches in Goa, the organized construction of Chandigarh, scenes of the countryside. We did not care where we slept or what we ate, we were excited by the smallest purchases (probably we each had only 200 rupees or so for the whole trip to buy anything). It was as though the secrets of the world opened up to me with each step I took in a strange city -- telling me stories of the feet that walked past and lives that went by.

Today, we have Google maps, GPS, cell phones, roadside fast food places and so many other aspects that make travel easy.  I think of the times gone by when none of these things were there, when my aunt and the teachers had to plan the route, places to stay, everything that we needed for meals like rice, dal, flour, snacks, banana leaves and most importantly, the safety of 150 or so young girls who went on the trip.  We were paired with each other, with teachers watching over us.  We felt carefree and totally safe.  Even when we all slept on a train platform one night because a train was late, we did not worry at all.  In fact, we all felt as though that was one the best adventures of our lives. 

It was in these trips that bonds were formed among teachers and they became a family in more ways than one. It’s no wonder that in my 12 years of being at that school, I did not know of a single teacher who left to take a job at another place. If there was any loss, it was because the teacher’s husband got transferred to a different place or because the teacher passed away. 

I also realize that for all the women of the school, my aunt provided a vacation that was more than seeing the world.  All these women, who were expected to behave a certain way and please everyone, who spent their days juggling their time among children, in-laws, spouses, student demands and school administration - she offered an escape to see the world in a way that was unimaginable for them.  They were free from duties of being a daughter-in-law or a wife or a mother for those few days and they got to experience freedom in a whole new way. She gave everyone the opportunity to discover the world beyond their daily existence, a world where they could discover the child within themselves. That’s why, to the day she took her last breath, she was a mother to every teacher and student who stepped foot in her school. 

Today, I have traveled across every continent except Antarctica, and I still have vivid memories of the night on that train platform under the stars where the mosquitoes did not bother me, where I lay excited to see the next town, the next wonder. In some ways, I never changed. That world that my aunt introduced me to, still beckons me and I have been sharing it with my 10 year old ever since he has been born. 

Management principles from a great school principal

Mrs. Kasturi Prasad, my aunt

As a farewell to my aunt, Mrs. Kasturi Prasad, the Principal of Madapati Hanumantha Rao School for 25 years, I thought of composing the ABCs of life that she taught me by what she DID and not by what she SAID. This is more significant than any management book could have taught me: 

Authority

When she walked into the room, people gave her the stage. No one refuted her final decision. She managed up with the authorities to maintain the freedom of the teachers and students who were under her care. 

Autonomy

She found great teachers and gave them the freedom to teach the way they chose. She did not intrude but she was always there if she was needed.

Beyond call of duty

She was available for teachers and students much after they even graduated and it did not stop there. She helped with the admissions of the kids into higher education, getting scholarships, and even getting them married.

Balancing professional and personal life

She woke up at 5am, made all the meals, packed 6 tiffin carriers (three kids, husband, herself and me), left for school on time at 8am, was one of the most accomplished principal for over 25 years. Everything started on time, the school won medals in debating, essay writing, painting and any other activity that it entered. Many of the students went into medicine, engineering, which were the most desirable professions of the day. 

Caring

At age 82, she lost her eyesight and sometimes had to depend on help to move her from place to place. Still, she would sit like a queen in the middle of the room, making calls, keeping in touch with what was happening with family, teachers and past students of the school. The moment someone entered the room, she would recognize them by their voice. She would remember what each guest would like and make sure that either coffee, tea, sweet or savory was served based on her memory of the individual’s preference. 

Curiosity

She was curious about the world, wanted to travel as much as she could. Every summer, she would arrange for a three to four week road-trip. We went in regular buses with the most uncomfortable seats; we slept on train platforms, slept on the long seats, on the floors of buses parked in petrol bunks, often 50 of us staying in just two large rooms packing up the floor space, and we never thought that it was uncomfortable. The worlds opening up in front of us was so magical that it masked any amount of dis-comfort of travel. She let her curiosity conquer any financial obstacles that came her way. 

Courage

When I last saw her on August 14th, she was in the hospital. She held my hand and said “, We are so proud of you. None of us ever supported all the stuff you did. You fought alone and accomplished everything. It is so easy for us to be proud of you now, but I feel bad that we did not support you then.” I was stunned and blown away by her ability to be such an unbiased critique of her own actions, especially in that physical condition. There were times I felt alone when I was young, when I was apart from the pack, but I never held her responsible for it. I always felt grateful for the schooling I had, for my teachers who taught me what matters most. I always felt that the tough experiences that I had actually gave me the strength to move forward. I told her that she gave me the greatest gift of all – an atmosphere of true learning where I was allowed to push the limits of my own capabilities. What she did or did not do at an individual level did not matter at all compared to what she did for the school and thereby for many individuals like me. 

As I grow older and think of my own legacy, I think of my aunt, my father and their siblings. More than any individual accomplishment, their greatest gift was the way they were there for each other, unconditionally. Most Sundays, our car would go to pick up my two aunts and a few uncles, and gather to have a meal together, chat, laugh and just hangout. They never made great plans or promises, and none of them ever said “, I love you,” perhaps ever in their life.  But, at times when I am alone and wondering about my life choices, it’s their unsaid love and unspoken actions that give me all the strength to keep moving forward. 

Death Matters

Mrs Kasturi Prasad, my aunt

When grief envelops you, it is silent yet all pervasive. It is as though your body and mind have been taken over by a stranger and you are a mere observer of the world surrounding you. As I bid farewell to one of the last members of my father’s generation, grief got a grip of me. The first sense I got was that of thankfulness. I was so glad that my sister insisted that I come to Hyderabad immediately and that I went without giving some excuse, that I got to my aunt and in that unbearable witnessing of her belabored breath, I got the chance to whisper in her ears that she had the permission to go IF she wanted to go.

After seeing her, I went to our school where she was the Principal and her daughter Padma and I were students, along with my friend Neeru, from US. As all three of us stood in the school ground, I felt as though I was paying homage to her along with representatives of two parts of my life. In that split second, it was as though life went on a fast rewind. Memories of the school ground full of kids having lunch with smells of roti, dal, subji, rasam, curd and pickles assaulting the senses; of rushing back to classes when the bell rings, falling in love with Telugu as we were being prepared for debates by Satyavathi teacher, being mesmerized by math by the ever serious Augustine teacher, learning lyrical lines for English plays being directed by Thomas teacher, of being taken to painting competitions by Farida teacher, the laughter of Murali teacher; of being made to stand on a bench or being called into the Principal’s office because of some mischief or the other, totally hating having to wear that awful pink and red half saree as a uniform, secretly longing to wear the blue and white uniform of the convent school and speak in fluent English; going to book binding classes after school, spending many nights at my aunt’s house as I would inevitably miss the school bus home, Padma and I making up games and playing in their front yard, moving many homes of aunts and uncles without any distinction, scenes of my dad and aunts laughing together sipping cups of coffee on a Sunday afternoon – so many mundane moments made magical in memory. 

A few hours later, when I got the news that my aunt was no more, I went to the hospital and Padma and I brought her body back home in an ambulance. I sat next to the body that was kept in an icebox for a long time marveling at the beauty of complete stillness. The difference between her belabored breathing in the morning versus the complete quiet of her body placed in front of me now taught more philosophy of life than any book could ever have. 

Through the course of the evening, I met many of my old teachers and fellow students who all came to pay their respects to her. The next day, we took her body to the crematorium and stood close by as they bathed her, arranged a new saree on her, carried her to the burning ghat, placed her on a funeral pyre, arranged the wood on her body and lit the fire. As the fire crackled and enveloped her body, a sense of finality descended upon me. 

It is somehow fitting that she died the day after Teachers’ Day. She taught us all that we do not build schools, but we create institutions that shape lives. And there are many members of Madapati Hanumantha Rao Girls High School spread all around the world whose lives were shaped by what she created. What more of a legacy would anyone want to leave behind?

Death always brings into sharp focus what really matters… to make time for those who matter to us, when they are alive as well as when they leave us. I used to feel that when someone dies, it does not matter whether we go to bid the final farewell or not, as it does not matter to them, which is true. But, what missed my attention was that the final farewell was for ME and not for them. Witnessing death always grounds me. It is so easy to get lost in this world of meetings, money and the mundane of routine and traffic jams. But, watching her body turn into ashes, made me think of all that she left behind with most clarity.

Making Ideas Happen: My feature in New Woman magazine

My interview with Archana Pai Kulkarni for the New Woman magazine. This appeared in the publication’s March Woman’s Day special edition. 

A correction - My son's name is Arnav, not Arnab. 

Billionaires of Moments: Keeping the memory alive to make way for positive change

After the heart breaking Delhi gang-rape incident in December and ahead of my TED2013 talk I felt that I must do something. 

Don't Forget Do Something

I launched Billionaires of Moments last week, and entries started pouring in from all over the world.
The whole idea of Billionaires of Moments is to recognize moments that need to be remembered. A reminder of incidents both great and gory. The current edition is to pay homage to the young rape victim from Delhi.

We want to capture the reactions this incident evoked around the world. While we find ways to personal safety, WE MUST NEVER FORGET this incident.

I am sure that if we not let this incident slip out of our conscience, then change will definitely happen. Here is a growing crowd-sourced collection of such moments. It is important that we express ourselves, may it be through our own words or words from someone else. Our effort is to magnify every moment -- your feelings, your reactions, your thoughts and actions.
Please take a moment to submit your thoughts and go through the submissions of others.
HERE: http://billionairesofmoments.com>>
Warm regards,
Lakshmi Pratury

BOM Project on twitter: http://twitter.com/BOMproject
BOM Project on Facebook: http://facebook.com/BOMproject

http://billionairesofmoments.com

When is being funny not really funny?

Jacinda Saldhana

Jacinda Saldhana was a nurse from Mangalore working in a hospital in England. She was minding her own business when she received a call at 5:30 am. It was from Prince Charles and his wife checking up on their daughter-in-law’s health, as she was checked into the hospital. Jacinda put the call through to another nurse who gave them the update. Nothing unusual about the interaction except that the call was from a couple of prank RJs from Australia and the contents of the call were broadcast to the whole world to have a hearty laugh. A few days later, they found Jacinda dead. The reasons are unknown but it is presumed that she took her own life. Even though the Royal couple did not charge the hospital, I can imagine the pandemonium that broke when it was broadcast to the world the inefficiencies of the hospital with Jacinda being the butt of all the jokes. May be she could not take the pressure and took her own life? Could she not have simply shrugged it off as a prank and moved on?  Could she not simply get past this?  May be not. In this fast moving world where we are all connected in an instant, even follies are forwarded with lightning speed. A simple woman who was going about her own way must have felt humiliated beyond imagination to be an international target of a joke of such gigantic proportions.  

All this got me thinking of what has media become and what lengths we are willing to go to get a story / to get a laugh ..even if it is for a split second. The joke played by the RJs would be in public memory for a week or two but the hurt it caused Jacinda could have lived with her all her life EVEN IF she was alive. The RJs have been removed from their jobs, their twitter account suspended making it seem as though it was their fault. But, I think that the blame should rest on us.. each one of us who has gotten used to being a voyeur even at the cost of someone else’s feelings. As time went by, we all have become insensitive to the feelings that we hurt along the way. The horrible nicknames we give in college that stick for the rest of their lives, how we make fun of those who look a little different, kids taping their friends in compromising positions and webcasting them, the pranks that we play – all lead to a very unhealthy living. Do we need to hurt someone to have a laugh? If we pick on public figures, that is one thing but I feel strongly that we should not pick on simple citizens who are minding their own business. We have to invest new ways of entertaining ourselves that does not involve others.
Photo credit: dailyrecord.co.uk

Tribute to a Trampled Soul

Nine years ago, in the early hours of one day, I gave birth to my son. A small group of people consisting of my friends and family rejoiced with me. In the early hours of today, a mother lost her daughter and the world is mourning with her. When I first heard of the Delhi rape, I was saddened, hurt and even angered. Today, I am truly shaken by the brutality of the rape that actually killed her. What kind of an attack she must have been subject to … to have her internal organs fail and have her heart stop. I do not know her name or her family but this morning, I wept and hung my head in shame for silently witnessing this crime, and for our collective inability to prevent it. I think part of the problem is the language we use. She is being called “Amanat” (treasure) but we should really call her “Trampled” or “Trashed” because this is exactly what we did to her. We trampled all over her … WE … all of us who have been witnessing this …trampled all over her and thrown her on the street.

I know that the police and the politicians are going to be worried about the outburst of anger on the streets, the activists are going to be busy with planning protests, journalists are going to write articles and citizens like me are going to fill the blogosphere and every possible social networking avenue. We are all going to be outraged today in our own way.

Here is how I paid homage in my own way. One is, I sat with my eyes closed experienced the pure physical pain this 23-year-old medical student must have gone through as she was being gang raped by men driving around the streets of the very city we proudly call our capital.… just so that I NEVER forget this. And the second thing I did was to remember something that Gloria Steinem said “,We've begun to raise our daughters more like sons… but few have the courage to raise our sons more like our daughters.” If I stop and think for a second of the men who raped her, I wonder what was going through their minds to be that brutal, to turn such a deaf ear to screams of pain, to derive any pleasure out of the most gory attack. I want to know what they must have heard when they were growing up to think that THIS is what it means to be a man. Maybe we all should look at ourselves and never ask our sons not to “cry like a girl” when they are being sensitive or not call them a “sissy” if they don’t want to play sports or not call them a “weirdo” if they are not interested in being a Casanova. I feel sorry for the mother of the “Trampled” soul and also feel terrible for the mothers of men who committed the rape. What must they be going through to witness this side of their sons. Today, I made a promise to myself to raise my son more like a daughter and teach him what it really means to be a “huMAN”.