Prof.Prema Raghavan

Sharanyam

When we left our home in Mysore, we did so with many backward glances. It had been our dream home, built with care when our means were modest, and surrounded by a garden that brought us endless joy with its flowers, fruit trees and birds. Both our daughters were married from that house, and it held some of the happiest memories of our lives.

We held on to it for almost a year and a half after moving, hoping it would find someone who would value it rather than demolish it. Eventually, we let it go, believing that every chapter has its time.

As Buddhists, we believe that all things, animate and inanimate, possess life. Whether one calls it a spirit or simply the accumulated warmth of the lives lived within its walls, Sharanyam always felt like a home that protected and embraced those who entered it. Looking back now, I wonder if it, too, had a destiny.

Recently, I learnt something that filled me with awe. The legendary playback singer S. Janaki spent the last two years of her life in Sharanyam. Until then, I had imagined she had stayed there only briefly during the Ram Navami music season, when the house was being run as an Airbnb. I had no idea that it had become her home.

When she passed away, her mortal remains were brought back to Sharanyam, where family, friends and admirers gathered to pay their final respects. It was the last home that sheltered one of India’s greatest musical legends.

Only then did the name we had chosen so many years earlier seem to acquire an even deeper meaning. We had called the house Sharanyam, a Sanskrit word meaning refuge or shelter. We chose it because it had become a haven for our family. We could never have imagined that one day it would also become a refuge for a great soul whose voice had comforted millions.

There are homes that are merely occupied, and there are homes that seem to fulfil a purpose beyond the lives of their owners. I like to think that Sharanyam belonged to the latter. It sheltered our family through years of love and celebration. Then, in the fullness of time, it offered its quiet embrace to the Nightingale of the South in the final chapter of her earthly journey.

Somehow, that thought brings me immense peace.

The Power of Powder

It was only when I entered the shadowy world of academia that I discovered an unwritten rule: if you wished to be taken seriously as a scholar, you were expected to abandon make, up. It was, in effect, “tone down or perish,” whether expressed bluntly or conveyed through raised eyebrows and whispered suggestions.

I simply refused to pretend to be someone I was not.

My understanding of Kant or Chomsky has never been enhanced, or diminished, by what I chose to wear on my skin. Make, up is as much a part of my identity as my home décor or the bird friendly garden I tend.

Even today, make, up remains very much a part of the face I present to the world when I step outside. It lends me a quiet confidence and has become one of the ways in which I take pride in myself. Over the years it has grown subtler. It is no longer about dramatic colours or making a statement. The shades are softer, the eyeliner more restrained, and much of it is simply about gently concealing what time has chosen to reveal. Yet the pleasure remains. I still enjoy experimenting with make, up and discovering new products. There is something quietly satisfying about finding a lipstick with just the right undertone or a foundation that disappears into the skin.

To me, wearing make, up is no different from placing fresh flowers in a room, whether guests are expected or not. It springs from the same instinct that makes me take pleasure in a well kept home, a flourishing, bird friendly garden, or a thoughtfully arranged corner. None of these things is essential to survival, but each enriches the experience of living.

Perhaps that is what make, up has come to mean to me. It is no longer about conforming to an ideal of beauty or becoming someone else. It is a small, everyday ritual of care, a way of honouring myself before I step out into the world. If that is vanity, then it is a vanity I have long since made peace with.

How I Was Seduced

One of the reasons I haven’t been writing my blog as regularly is that I have been… seduced.

Not in the way Tess ever was. I could never have been Tess. I mention her because yesterday I listened to a monthly literary forum where Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles was discussed. It reminded me of just how different my own seduction has been.

Mine has been by the close proximity of Kunzum Bookstore.

Every evening I spend about an hour in Greater Kailash, and quite by chance I wandered into Kunzum. It is a tall, narrow building spread over four floors, each devoted to different kinds of books. There are inviting corners where you can sit and browse for as long as you like, and there is something wonderfully old-fashioned about losing track of time among shelves of books.

The first book I picked up there was by Jesse Q. Sutanto. It introduced me to Vera Wong, a sixty-one-year-old Chinese-American tea shop owner who appoints herself a detective. Vera is nothing like Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple. She charges into situations where wiser people would hesitate to tread, convinced that she knows exactly what everyone ought to be doing. She is exasperating, utterly endearing, and laugh-out-loud funny.

That book opened the door to a host of writers I had never encountered before.

These days, my taste has shifted towards what I think of as happy reading. I have no desire to immerse myself in the tragedies of Tess. At this stage of my life, I find myself drawn towards books that leave me smiling. They offer laughter, warmth, and, quite often, unexpected insights into worlds I knew little about.

One recent novel, for instance, took me behind the polished façade of social media influencers. I had never really thought beyond the glamour and carefully curated images. The story revealed a far more complicated world, with its own dangers and vulnerabilities. That, to me, is the enduring magic of reading. It allows us to inhabit lives we could never otherwise have lived.

I have, in every sense, returned to an old love.

I read all through the day whenever I can. Since I now spend a fair amount of time commuting, my evenings have become reading time. Netflix has quietly slipped out of my routine. Books have taken its place.

And perhaps that is why I have not been writing as much.

There are seasons in life when we pour ourselves out, and there are seasons when we quietly replenish ourselves. I feel I am in the latter. Before one writes again, one must first fill oneself with stories, ideas, laughter, and wonder.

People often ask for book recommendations. I hesitate because reading is such a personal affair. What delights one reader may leave another untouched. My only suggestion is this: wander into a good bookshop and allow yourself to browse. Sometimes the right book chooses you.

Yesterday I discovered another title that immediately caught my eye, a book about the Peepal Baba. I resisted buying it on the spot because I intend to return on Thursday.

Kunzum, after all, has devised a wonderfully seductive membership scheme. For ₹2,000, you immediately receive books worth ₹1,500, while the remaining ₹500 comes back to you in the form of gifts. On top of that, members receive a 30% discount on future purchases.

For someone who has rediscovered the joy of reading, that is a temptation almost impossible to resist.

So, if you don’t hear from me quite as often as you once did, you’ll know where I’ve disappeared.

You’ll probably find me wandering the aisles of Kunzum Bookstore, happily seduced by books.

Alfie, the Household Terrorist

Yesterday I was terrorized by Alfie.

Now, Alfie—A-L-F-I-E—is altogether different from Elfy, E-L-F-Y, who appears occasionally in my dreams and is also the name of my granddaughter’s stuffed baby elephant.

In the abstract, I am not afraid of elephants. In fact, I am rather fond of them. I can even show you a photograph of myself standing quite close to one. Of course, between you, me, and social media, that elephant happened to be securely tethered by a thick chain to a pillar. Even so, elephants inspire nowhere near as much fear in me as does Alfie.

Now Alfie is very small. Yesterday he assumed the avatar of a tiny, black, darting creature that zipped all over the floor with alarming speed. People invariably tell me, “Why are you scared? Alfie is far more frightened of you than you are of him. He’ll run away.”

Well, not from me.

For some mysterious reason, the Alfies of the world seem compelled to make a grand appearance before me and, instead of darting away, appear to dart towards me. I know perfectly well that this is probably not true, but phobias have little use for logic.

My scream literally brought the house down. My husband was convinced the neighbours would come rushing over, wondering whether I was being tortured. I told him that, if they did, I could always register a case of domestic violence. After all, there would be plenty of witnesses!

Alfie drove me out of my own sanctuary. I retreated to our master bedroom and barricaded myself inside.

Now, who exactly is Alfie?

Zoologists may contradict me all they wish, but I am convinced he is a metamorphosed dinosaur—or at least one of its surviving descendants. In other words, he is the much-dreaded household gecko.

And I am completely phobic.

The moment I spot one, I lose all sense of proportion and bearing. My husband has, over the years, become quite heroic in attempting to evict the various Alfies from our homes. Unfortunately, he is never able to find them on his own. It is always my responsibility to sight the enemy first, scramble onto the nearest piece of furniture, and stand there issuing frantic directions while he conducts the search.

There is absolutely no use telling me not to panic. I know it is a tiny creature. I know it cannot hurt me. Yet I am filled with complete revulsion. The larger geckos are, oddly enough, less terrifying because one can at least keep one’s eye on the enemy as it clings obligingly to the wall. These miniature versions are another matter altogether. They scuttle, dart, disappear, and reappear in the blink of an eye. My greatest fear is accidentally stepping on one.

Almost every house we have lived in has had extensive gardens, and consequently, geckos. Once, when we moved into a university campus house previously occupied by a zoologist, I discovered—far too late—that he had been breeding a new variety of spotted gecko there. They had chosen to inhabit the kitchen, which happened to be the room in the house most frequently occupied by yours truly.

My hair would have curled, if only it had been inclined to do so. Unfortunately, it was born poker straight and remains stubbornly so.

When we finally moved into this flat, which had remained sealed for four years, I rejoiced. There was neither sight nor sound of a gecko. In fact, I had not heard the characteristic gecko call for years. Perhaps northern geckos are less vocal than their southern cousins; I really must find out.

In the South, when a gecko makes its peculiar clicking sound, it is traditionally believed that whatever is being said at that very moment will come true.

The geckos here, however, have remained discreetly silent.

Until this summer.

This summer I have spotted three tiny Alfies. Three!

So I have appealed for rescue to the gentleman who visits every month to carry out our pest control. One comforting thought is that geckos remain only where there is plentiful food. Since our flat offers them very little to feast upon, I hope they will soon move elsewhere.

This morning I cautiously ventured back into the room where yesterday’s drama had unfolded. Alfie had disappeared.

At last.

Before I finish, I must record the final word on the matter. It came from my granddaughter.

“Amuma,” she said, “be kind to animals. Why are you so afraid of the poor little thing?”

Her grandfather nodded in solemn agreement, no doubt hoping I would feel sufficiently ashamed to mend my ways.

But I cannot.

A phobia is not something one can simply reason away.

So I remain profoundly grateful that no gecko—or, for that matter, no mouse—has ever found its way into my car. Whatever the traffic outside, I would almost certainly leap out of the vehicle in blind panic.

Living and driving on Delhi’s roads, that is one small mercy for which I offer heartfelt thanks.

The Sound of a Woman’s Laughter

Growing up, one of the things I was conditioned to believe was that, for a woman, it was important to behave with decorum, to be subdued, calm, and well-behaved. No one necessarily told me this outright, but it was something I absorbed from the world around me. It was part of the social fabric of the time and of the milieu in which I grew up.

I became aware of it most keenly during the vacations we spent in Kerala at my paternal grandmother’s home. There, as elsewhere, certain assumptions about femininity were taken for granted. A woman was expected to be modest in her speech, restrained in her laughter, and careful not to draw attention to herself. It was often said that a woman’s voice and laughter should not travel beyond the room in which she sat. Such ideas were not peculiar to one individual. They reflected a broader understanding of what constituted feminine virtue.

I, however, was a spirited child. Somehow, I came to believe that there was something wrong with me because my behaviour never quite measured up to that ideal. I loved running wild with my male cousins. I sought out their company because I enjoyed the things they did, climbing trees, swimming in the pond, and exploring without restraint. Even as a pre-teen, these were not pursuits that were particularly encouraged in girls. Yet they were things I could not help loving.

Looking back, schooling often felt less like education and more like socialization, a process of learning which parts of oneself were acceptable and which were not. For a long time, I believed that my conduct was less than ideal. Yet that untamed spirit was the essence of who I was.

I have never been comfortable with domination, whether overt or subtle. Criticism, gossip, and unsolicited opinions are woven into the fabric of the society we live in, and they are hardly worth dwelling on. What does provoke me is contempt, contempt for convictions, values, or people I hold dear. Then I find myself compelled to defend what matters.

Whether such behaviour is considered feminine has ceased to concern me. In fact, I think it is a quality worth cultivating, particularly in women. When you belong to what Simone de Beauvoir called “the second sex,” standing up for yourself and for what you value becomes not merely desirable but necessary.

That conviction has served me well, but more importantly, it has shaped my understanding of freedom. Freedom is not simply the absence of restraint. It is the ability to live truthfully, without shrinking oneself to fit the expectations of others. It is also a lesson I hope my daughters have absorbed, not as defiance for its own sake, but as a form of self-respect.

One of the texts that remained with me long after it ceased to be part of a syllabus was Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. At the centre of the play is Nora, who forges her father’s signature in order to secure a loan that ultimately saves her husband’s life. What fascinates me is not the deception itself, but what its discovery reveals. The crisis exposes the foundations of her marriage. Nora realizes that she has been cherished not as an equal human being, with a past, flaws, and independent thoughts, but as a pleasing figure who exists within her husband’s idea of who she ought to be.

A marriage, like any meaningful relationship, requires more than affection. It requires an acceptance of the other’s history, imperfections, and individuality. To love another person is to acknowledge that they have an existence beyond the roles they perform for us. When that recognition is absent, intimacy becomes a form of make-believe.

Nora has everything society tells a woman she should want: beauty, children, comfort, and social respectability. Yet she leaves because she wishes to discover who she is beyond the identities of wife and mother. While I have never shared her desire to walk away from family, which remains one of the things I value most deeply, I have always understood her hunger for authenticity.

That, I think, was Ibsen’s enduring insight. Relationships founded on illusion cannot endure indefinitely. Living honestly, and extending that honesty to others, is essential. Anything built upon falsehood, however comfortable, is unlikely to withstand the test of time.

For a free individual, authenticity is not a luxury but a necessity. Being authentic does not require aggression or belligerence. It simply requires the courage to inhabit one’s own truth and to allow others the freedom to inhabit theirs. Perhaps freedom begins when one no longer worries how far one’s laughter carries.

If Not Now, When?

The thing about aging is that it takes you by surprise. One day, you are that bustling ball of energy, taking stock of your appearance with satisfaction in the mirror. The next, you are nursing a stiff back and wondering how the age spots crept up on you when you were not even watching.

People around you also treat you differently, or perhaps it merely seems so. I am undecided. Sometimes it is as though you are fragile china; at others, an easy pushover.

I did not realise that, as a defence mechanism, and particularly after coming to Delhi, I had become a lot more insistent on being heard and noticed. The way of Tao is not for me, unfortunately. From the gardener who takes care of my plants to the chap who drives me around, I have laid down the rules and, at times, laid them on rather thick. The cook and other help also need supervision. The trick lies in soft power, I think: to be firm, not unjust. Whether I always manage that, I am not sure.

Then there is the other question which assails me from time to time. Do older people laugh less? Perhaps they do, or perhaps they do not.

It has been a very long time since I giggled hysterically the way I once did. I remember a time when my mother would stop me by pinching my thigh when no one was watching because I would be overcome by bouts of laughter, and it was not necessarily a polite time to be laughing. I remember, much later, during official meetings, something would strike me as funny and I would have to bend over and pretend to meddle with whatever was on my lap, literally trying to wipe the laughter off my face.

Now, I find myself smiling polite smiles and other smiles, and laughter seems to be processed internally. It sometimes manifests itself as a grin rather than the loud chuckle it used to be.

And then there is the feeling that I must endeavour to squeeze the maximum out of a moment, an hour, a day, because a thought keeps popping up:

If not now, when?

A friend recently sent me these words, perhaps to remind me of the life I have lived and how very good it has been:

“There will come a time when you believe everything is finished; that will be the beginning.”
— Louis L’Amour

As I reflected on them, memories came flooding back.

My childhood was, for the most part, idyllic. My father headed a major petroleum company, and we lived a life of remarkable ease. There was a chauffeur to drive us to and from school, a sprawling house with a huge garden, a mali to tend it, a cook for everyday meals, and a khansaman who appeared for official dinners and special occasions. There was even a lady who came to wash and braid my very long hair.

More than the comforts themselves, what I remember is the sense of complete security. We belonged to a generation of carefully protected children. We lived without much thought of tomorrow because tomorrow appeared certain.

And then, when I was about seventeen, everything changed.

We returned from one of our annual trips to our parents’ native town to discover that the petroleum companies had been taken over by the government and there had been massive layoffs. Overnight, a way of life ended.

We moved to a smaller home. The car gave way to public transport. We could afford only one person to help my mother. The life I had known simply ceased to exist.

Curiously, I was not unhappy. Perhaps youth carries within it an extraordinary resilience. I had just entered college and there were new friends to make, books to read and possibilities to explore. I did not spend my days mourning what was gone.

My mother, however, had every reason to be distressed. Yet she made a decision that changed the course of our lives. Instead of packing up and returning to our hometown, where opportunities for us would have been limited, she insisted that we stay and face our altered circumstances.

As it turned out, she was right. We all did well. Life moved forward.

Another ending arrived when I landed my first job in a different city. My father would have preferred that I accept a local position, but a kind journalist friend intervened and persuaded him to let me go.

And so I found myself living alone in a new city. For a young woman who had never spent any significant time away from home, it was a plunge into the unknown. I learnt to fend for myself, to make decisions, to manage my finances and, perhaps most importantly, to discover who I was.

I spent my first few salaries with great enthusiasm and very little wisdom. During a visit home, my father looked at my bank passbook and asked, with genuine concern, whether I had been lending money to someone. I had not. I simply had no idea where it had gone.

So I learnt.

I learnt to be careful with money. I learnt that wanting something and immediately possessing it are not the same thing. There were moments when I longed desperately for things I could not afford. Once, I even toyed with the idea of selling a couple of my bangles to buy some trifles I fancied. Fortunately, better sense prevailed.

And every now and then my mother would arrive like Santa Claus, carrying gifts that were uncannily the very things I had silently wished for.

Somewhere during those years, I came down from the clouds and surveyed the land and the people around me. I believe I emerged with a little more wisdom and, hopefully, a little more compassion.

Years later, another ending arrived.

We belonged to a generation for whom building a house was itself a dream. Brick by carefully supervised brick, we built ours. It was the house in which we nurtured our hopes, celebrated our children’s weddings and watched life unfold in earnest.

And then we left it.

I turned my back on it without hesitation. My husband perhaps found it harder. Yet I have no regrets. In Delhi, the view has changed. Perhaps everything has shrunk a little, but other vistas have opened and they more than compensate for what we left behind.

Looking back, I realise that every ending I once thought significant turned out to be a doorway. Each apparent loss altered me, enlarged my world and led me somewhere I could never have anticipated.

And so these lines from a friend did indeed remind me of the life I have lived. It has been a good life. Rich not merely in comforts or possessions, but in experiences, lessons and unexpected beginnings.

Renewal is the way of life itself. Nature sheds, rests, blooms and begins again with unfailing regularity. The seasons do not mourn their passing. The leaf that falls makes way for new growth. Why then should we fear renewal or resist it? Every ending carries within it the seed of another beginning, and perhaps our task is simply to welcome it with grace and curiosity