My father was a rich man. He was also a strict disciplinarian and a very famous surgeon with fellowships from Royal College London and Harvard University.
But I remember him as a rich man. Some one who could provide everything money could buy.
My mother was a beautiful lady. She had long black hair, beautiful eyes of a doe, a beautiful smile. She would smile with kindness in her eyes as her lips would part to show her pearly white teeth.
I can’t remember her ever complaining of her husbands long absences from her home and her life.
She painted beautiful pictures. She wrote lovely poems. She played the piano and she ran his household with the efficiency of a queen running her kingdom.
But I was not very happy. I wanted a father who could be with me, who would play with me. Just like other little boys fathers did.
Whatever little I got to see of him at home was usually watching him shout and bellow at the servants.
He never shouted at my mother or me. I don’t think he took much notice of us.
In fact the first time I felt he was noticing me as a person was in my 10th standard.
He was making plans for my career. I realized soon that I was a big disappointment for him. It hurt him that his only son should take after his gentle wife instead of himself. He wanted a son who was ruthless, practical intelligent and ambitious like him. I was intelligent but I was a dreamer. And my ambitions didn’t really belong to the realms of physical world. In my own way I was very ambitious.
But he didn’t give up on me. And I being noticed by my father for the first time was working very hard to please him.
In those days three were no common entrance tests. Admissions to medical colleges were based on overall aggregates. As Sanskrit was considered a scoring subject I was forced to take it up as my third language.
I had a private tutor for each subject. I was intelligent – I had my father’s genes. I soon started topping in every subject. Math, science, English, social science.
My father was proud. I was happy.
I thought I had proved myself finally when I stood first at state level for my SSC examinations. Now I could go back to my music, my paintings, my poetry.
But my father would have none of it. He pushed me to study harder. Only two more years he said. Finish your twelfth standard, get admission into medical college.
I was afraid to displease him. I worked harder. Suddenly studying was not fun any longer. Competing was not my nature. Creating was.
I started hating my studies. My grades suffered. But my tutors wouldn’t give up on me. Neither would my father.
I wasn’t happy anymore.
During this turbulent phase in my life I found solace in Sanskrit. The language I had been forced to take.
My Sanskrit teacher was a plain woman in her 50s. She had so much grace and composure that I thought of her as a goddess. Her face was always calm, peaceful and serene. And when she uttered shlokas they sounded very soothing and musical to me.
At 15 I fell in love – with Sanskrit.
Each day for one hour we would sit together and translate passages from Sanskrit. She would teach me grammar, the pronunciations the parent words, their meanings and their derivatives.
Suddenly words seemed so much more alive. Words from all Indian language3s began to make more sense. I fell in love with words. I started translating many old Sanskrit texts from my great grandfather’s collection by myself in my free hours. What I found difficult I took it to her. It helped me unlock the ancient wisdom trapped in those words. My young mind greedily absorbed the wisdom of many millennia captured in them.
That was the wisdom that gave me courage to stand in front of my father and declare that I didn’t want to be a doctor. I was only 16 then. It wasn’t easy facing a father whose wrath was feared by everyone who knew him.
I went on to do Masters in Sanskrit. I started translating many ancient texts. I wanted to bring the old wisdom to the new world. Then I did my masters in English.
My father gave up on me. He found a perfect pupil he could mentor.
I found my mentor too – my professor at the University.
*pause*
The rest is history.
*pause*
It’s a beautiful language.
.
.
.
.
Some times… sometimes I feel I have created very little of original work. I have spent most of my life translating other’s work.
*pause*
But then when I sit back n close my eyes and connect with my higher self – the place where there is all peace all knowledge all wisdom – I realize that creativity is after all only connecting with your inner being and bringing it out into the physical world.
Every artist, painter, singer, dancer, writer I know has said – I didn’t take lessons for this. It just comes to me naturally.
That is because each creative person has this inscrutable quality – this ability to translate from the language of the unknown to the language of the physical world.
Every body has that ability, but most people waste their time juggling account books instead of trying to find their passion. What a waste!
I’m glad I followed my passion. I have been translating all my life but very recently I realized that in fact we all do that. All creation, all wisdom, all invention that is needed already exists. We are only the means of translation to bring it into the physical world, to fulfill the destiny of the Universe.
With this the 77 year old professor of Sanskrit, winner of Nobel Prize and Bharat Ratna ended his speech and carefully sat down on his cushioned chair.
70 odd people in the room – his mesmerized audience consisting of his personal favorites people, mostly professors from various universities, colleagues and promising students as young as 21 year old – burst into a thunderous applause.
