By Maxwell Pereira
There was a time, exercising came naturally, effortless. One did not need to be calculating calories of one’s intakes or the calories expended. The day’s routine and connected activities ensured the needful – kept one fit as a fiddle and trim as a tripod, or as a bi-pod if you prefered it that way! And for effect, erect as a ramrod! – though most ramrods one has seen in movies alone, have been used horizontally to ram bastions of castles and forts to gain access or entry – and not vertically as ‘erect’ would normally indicate.
But returning to the subject of discussion, one agrees that exercise is an excellent and necessary tool in the prevention of heart disease – believedly the major killer of mankind – and offers dramatic benefits for heart patients. Exercise can slow or even reverse atherosclerosis, manage or lower (blood pressure), reduce cholesterol levels, help lose weight in a healthier way, reduce stress and depression and make you live a longer and more energetic life.
As one advances in age, one experiences the sands of time though have gradually evolved exercising concepts from the abstract unconscious to the tangible realm of the conscious, when not only is one conscious, but has to make conscious effort to exercise. And direct such exercise to specific targets – be it specific to parts of one’s anatomy or what’s internal to one’s anatomy. Like one’s aches and pains or other ailments, physical or mental.
With this evolution comes also the need for regularity, failing which adverse consequences are round the corner – and with this regularity comes the need to devote time, take time off to exercise.
The more conscious one gets, the needs increase. The ones who never jogged before find the need to jog. The ones who pooh-poohed yoga as mere mumbo-jumbo suddenly find virtues in it, start reading stuff on it, even taking pains to find a teacher to put you through the basics and processes. It is amazing how yoga has taken the western world by storm, for someone told me the other day that the American continent today has more teachers, institutes, research centres and published literature on yoga, than India has ever produced in all of its history over 5000 years!
But here, yoga is just an example. For some it may be yoga, for others it could be other forms of the same stuff being touted by a plethora of fitness gurus – in the form of the exerting physical yoga, elevating spiritual yoga, vipasana, the art of living, or whatever…. For many others, the truly old tried and tested constitutional, the morning walk. And to those who prefer, the evening walk too. And before you know, you have graduated to the Walkers’ Club, even getting passionately addicted to it, to wax eloquent on its virtues at every opportunity that presents itself.
For those bitten by the exercise bug when still young, the need to get a ‘high’ through more vigorous forms of aerobics, power dancing to synchronised dancing and so on, grip the mind. And lately, the young ones swear by Salsa dancing as one of the best forms of exercise for boosting physical endurance and range of motion; for weight loss and muscle gain by burning up to 10 calories a minute without harmful side effects caused by high impact exercises – all while enjoying the latest social trends of the jet-set salsa types.
Conscious exercising drags in with it the thirst for every other form of recommended habit, practices and therapies – be it hydrotherapy or physiotherapy that gradually spreads its tentacles to meander through trodden and un-trodden realms and paths, and into the passions and pleasures of the masseuse’ world. To reach levels of nigh addiction. Massage and especially the therapeutic ayurvedic type gets addictive, as it improves circulation, encourages healing of sports and age related injuries and assists with managing pain, headaches, fatigue and other chronic conditions. It also supports and encourages a more youthful, vibrant appearance, and assists in retaining healthy, supple skin and muscle tone. Massage is a comforting, supportive, soothing and stress reducing way to recover and heal from the demands of our modern busy lives, and enables us to refresh and return to our lives and loved ones with a new sense of calm, peace, composure and security.
And then, most importantly, the realm of diets! Talking of diets, being one of those subjected to regular and strict dozes through childhood to purgatives like castor-oil and Epsom salts, followed by concoctions of bitters from a variety of tree barks to zardaal nutmegs and kiraten herbs, to decoctions or kashayams of pepper and selected spices or a variety of herbals to ward off severe colds and headaches, and some others laced with hing-asafoetida to ward off stomach ailments or remove flatulence – I had thought I had seen it all.
But no! Into adulthood too followed the kashayams and brews to envigorate you periodically, and cleanse you internally by purification of the blood through calculated dozes of unadulterated karela applications, and ‘neem concentrates insisted on by my late mother – God bless her departed soul – to whose foresight and insistence perhaps I owe a fairly strong and sturdy, and a free-of-serious-ailment constitution even at the stage of superannuation from active police service.
Even so, I am afraid, there has now come a time when one finds oneself with a questioning mind, wanting to know “Oh why! Why do I need to punish my body so much?! Is there really no room left for a less rigorous routine, a mellowed doze to caress the senses and the weakening flesh, to a smoother nirvana?”
900 words
15.03.2005: Copyright © Maxwell Pereira: 60 Ashoka Road, New Delhi-110001
You can interact with the author at http://www. maxwellpereira.com and maxpk@vsnl.com ; tel-23718822.
published in the Delhi Mid-Day, Wednesday, March 16...
Tuesday 15 March 2005
Monday 7 March 2005
Shakespeare – Indian ?
By Maxwell Pereira
A debate had raged a while ago, regarding the claimed actual origins of the greatest ever play-write, Shakespeare. The controversy was over the belief of some Arabs that the Bard of Avon was indeed their own Arab trader Sheik-Zabir, whose literary legacy the English had usurped! According to them, the worthy while in England on business, had observed the obsession of the locals for theatre, and sought to use this to his advantage. To promote his own trade by catering to their love of the stage, he put up a play titled Othello based on a Mediterranean tragedy he was familiar with. The play was a run-away success, and its writer was motivated into writing more for the stage; which ultimately led to this Arab trader to permanently settle in England.
I had occasion recently to remember this tale, when I encountered an even more intriguing claim that Shakespeare was in fact an Indian, and really a woman. A claim like the Arabs’ Sheik-Zabir, and more, recorded in 1942 in the college magazine of my alma mater St Aloysius’ at Mangalore – through the humorous pen of an alumnus Haridas Purshattam. This interesting piece of writing merited a place in the compilation “On Eagle’s Wings” of tid-bits put together by Prashanth Madtha from across 125 years of the College’s existence.
Dr Aybeesee Ph.D (Physical Director), the worthy informed his fellow college mates – during his recent excavations at Konchadi, had come across a rare inscription to prove that Shakespeare was none other than Tippu’s soldier Sheshappayya. During the Third Mysore War, this soldier was taken prisoner by the British. Cornwallis mistook him for Tippu himself, and took him to England where he was received by Sir Walter Raleigh. By the time Cornwallis realised his blunder and released him, Raleigh had been so deeply impressed by Sheshappaiyya, that he urged him to stay on. Sheshappaiyya gained employment in the Globe Theatre and started writing dramas (plays) and eventually was transformed into Shakespeare.
If this story was not enough, the writer had more – this one from the ‘unearthly’ pot in Bengal that Professor Exwyzed M.Sc. (Moral Science) had unearthed. Here, one Shah Behari who went to England for higher studies, fell in love with a not-so-beautiful lady. He then abandoned not the lady, but the idea of his return to India, and remained with his name changed to Shakespeare. In yet another tale, it was Khan Sahib Prof Hakeem M.D. of Kasaigully who discovered an inscription at Kudroli. Here it was Sheik Byari, a wealthy perfumer and a poet who went to England to become Shakespeare.
The writer in the St. Aloysius’ magazine continued, with another latest discovery by a gentleman who preferred to remain incognito – for only he knew that Shakespeare was a woman! And that was queen Mumtaz mahal, generally known as Shah-ki-Pyari (darling of the Shah). She received English education, wished to go to England to play tennis in slacks at Oxford; where, lo and behold, her name was entered in the Oxford rolls as Shakespeare instead of Shahkipyari.
The legends and myths surrounding Shakespeare are legion. But I am sure none of them would have made the poor play-write turn in his grave as many times as the ones perhaps that link him to his Indian origins – so claimed, in my College Annual of 1942. More, the one that makes him not a he, but a she.
William Shakespeare, the Brits are very sure, was born in England, on 23 April – the date known traditionally; and the register at the Holy Trinity Church at his birthplace Stratford, records his baptism on 26th April. He was one of Mary and John Shakespeares’ five children, of whom two died before William was born, and another was lost when still young. The town Stratford-upon-Avon where he was born in 1564 is located in the centre of England, which has always been, and still is, an important river-crossing settlement and market centre.
William’s father, John, trained as a glove-maker and married Mary Arden, the daughter of Robert Arden, a farmer from the nearby village of Wilmcote. John and Mary set up home in Henley Street, Stratford, in the house now known as Shakespeare's Birthplace. John Shakespeare was a prominent citizen, serving on the town council for many years and becoming Bailiff, or Mayor, in 1568. Besides his craft as a glover, he traded as a wool dealer and was also involved in money-lending.
As the son of a leading townsman, William is said to have studied at Stratford. Some of his ideas for plots and characters probably came from Ovid's tales, the plays of Terence and Plautus, and Roman history. It is not known what Shakespeare did when he left school. At the age of 18, in November 1582, he married Anne Hathaway (26), the daughter of Richard Hathaway, a local farmer. They had three children - Susanna, and twins Hamnet and Judith.
No one knows when or why Shakespeare left Stratford for London, or what he was doing before becoming a professional actor and dramatist in the capital. Among the tales concerning his 'lost years' between 1585 and 1592, is one that tells how he was caught poaching deer in Charlecote Park, near Stratford, and went off to London to avoid prosecution.
Shakespeare's reputation was established in London by 1592; in the year Robert Greene, another dramatist, called him 'an upstart crow' - envious of his success. 1n 1594, Shakespeare joined others in forming a new theatre company, under the patronage of the Lord Chamberlain, and for almost twenty years remained its regular dramatist, producing on average two plays a year.
900 words
07.03.2005: Copyright © Maxwell Pereira: 60 Ashoka Road, New Delhi-110001
The author would love you to interact with him at http://www. maxwellpereira.com
published in the Delhi Mid-Day
A debate had raged a while ago, regarding the claimed actual origins of the greatest ever play-write, Shakespeare. The controversy was over the belief of some Arabs that the Bard of Avon was indeed their own Arab trader Sheik-Zabir, whose literary legacy the English had usurped! According to them, the worthy while in England on business, had observed the obsession of the locals for theatre, and sought to use this to his advantage. To promote his own trade by catering to their love of the stage, he put up a play titled Othello based on a Mediterranean tragedy he was familiar with. The play was a run-away success, and its writer was motivated into writing more for the stage; which ultimately led to this Arab trader to permanently settle in England.
I had occasion recently to remember this tale, when I encountered an even more intriguing claim that Shakespeare was in fact an Indian, and really a woman. A claim like the Arabs’ Sheik-Zabir, and more, recorded in 1942 in the college magazine of my alma mater St Aloysius’ at Mangalore – through the humorous pen of an alumnus Haridas Purshattam. This interesting piece of writing merited a place in the compilation “On Eagle’s Wings” of tid-bits put together by Prashanth Madtha from across 125 years of the College’s existence.
Dr Aybeesee Ph.D (Physical Director), the worthy informed his fellow college mates – during his recent excavations at Konchadi, had come across a rare inscription to prove that Shakespeare was none other than Tippu’s soldier Sheshappayya. During the Third Mysore War, this soldier was taken prisoner by the British. Cornwallis mistook him for Tippu himself, and took him to England where he was received by Sir Walter Raleigh. By the time Cornwallis realised his blunder and released him, Raleigh had been so deeply impressed by Sheshappaiyya, that he urged him to stay on. Sheshappaiyya gained employment in the Globe Theatre and started writing dramas (plays) and eventually was transformed into Shakespeare.
If this story was not enough, the writer had more – this one from the ‘unearthly’ pot in Bengal that Professor Exwyzed M.Sc. (Moral Science) had unearthed. Here, one Shah Behari who went to England for higher studies, fell in love with a not-so-beautiful lady. He then abandoned not the lady, but the idea of his return to India, and remained with his name changed to Shakespeare. In yet another tale, it was Khan Sahib Prof Hakeem M.D. of Kasaigully who discovered an inscription at Kudroli. Here it was Sheik Byari, a wealthy perfumer and a poet who went to England to become Shakespeare.
The writer in the St. Aloysius’ magazine continued, with another latest discovery by a gentleman who preferred to remain incognito – for only he knew that Shakespeare was a woman! And that was queen Mumtaz mahal, generally known as Shah-ki-Pyari (darling of the Shah). She received English education, wished to go to England to play tennis in slacks at Oxford; where, lo and behold, her name was entered in the Oxford rolls as Shakespeare instead of Shahkipyari.
The legends and myths surrounding Shakespeare are legion. But I am sure none of them would have made the poor play-write turn in his grave as many times as the ones perhaps that link him to his Indian origins – so claimed, in my College Annual of 1942. More, the one that makes him not a he, but a she.
William Shakespeare, the Brits are very sure, was born in England, on 23 April – the date known traditionally; and the register at the Holy Trinity Church at his birthplace Stratford, records his baptism on 26th April. He was one of Mary and John Shakespeares’ five children, of whom two died before William was born, and another was lost when still young. The town Stratford-upon-Avon where he was born in 1564 is located in the centre of England, which has always been, and still is, an important river-crossing settlement and market centre.
William’s father, John, trained as a glove-maker and married Mary Arden, the daughter of Robert Arden, a farmer from the nearby village of Wilmcote. John and Mary set up home in Henley Street, Stratford, in the house now known as Shakespeare's Birthplace. John Shakespeare was a prominent citizen, serving on the town council for many years and becoming Bailiff, or Mayor, in 1568. Besides his craft as a glover, he traded as a wool dealer and was also involved in money-lending.
As the son of a leading townsman, William is said to have studied at Stratford. Some of his ideas for plots and characters probably came from Ovid's tales, the plays of Terence and Plautus, and Roman history. It is not known what Shakespeare did when he left school. At the age of 18, in November 1582, he married Anne Hathaway (26), the daughter of Richard Hathaway, a local farmer. They had three children - Susanna, and twins Hamnet and Judith.
No one knows when or why Shakespeare left Stratford for London, or what he was doing before becoming a professional actor and dramatist in the capital. Among the tales concerning his 'lost years' between 1585 and 1592, is one that tells how he was caught poaching deer in Charlecote Park, near Stratford, and went off to London to avoid prosecution.
Shakespeare's reputation was established in London by 1592; in the year Robert Greene, another dramatist, called him 'an upstart crow' - envious of his success. 1n 1594, Shakespeare joined others in forming a new theatre company, under the patronage of the Lord Chamberlain, and for almost twenty years remained its regular dramatist, producing on average two plays a year.
900 words
07.03.2005: Copyright © Maxwell Pereira: 60 Ashoka Road, New Delhi-110001
The author would love you to interact with him at http://www. maxwellpereira.com
published in the Delhi Mid-Day
Friday 4 March 2005
A Faithful Remembers….
By Maxwell Pereira
maxpk@vsnl.com
As millions around the world pray today for the most prominent religious leader in the world, my mind goes back to February 1986. The time when Karol Josef Wojtyla visited India for the first time. Of Polish origin and a survivor of the II-World War ravages, he had opted for priesthood and risen to become the Supreme Pontiff of Roman Catholics all over the world, the 261st successor to St Peter in Rome, who chose the name John Paul II when he was elected Pope in 1978 soon after his predecessor John Paul I died with less than a month in office.
I recall the excitement within me, as just before and in the run up to the impending visit, I was informed I would be the PSO (personal security officer) to the visiting Pontiff during the Delhi lap of his India visit. A job normally assigned to officers from Delhi Police’s Security Unit, and usually at an Assistant Commissioner’s level. Not only was I slightly more senior, not from Security, but handling a normally-not-spared-from ‘District’ charge, as DCP/South.
So I was there at Palam airport on Feb 2, hovering behind the line up of VVIPs there to receive His Holiness as he stepped out of the plane, and waved to those assembled below even as spontaneous shouts and cheers rent the air. President Giani Zail Singh, Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi and other dignitaries waited patiently for the Pontiff to climb down the ladder, but before they could shake his hands in greeting, there was the Pope bending down fully prostrate on the tarmac and kissing the soil of the country of his visit in blessing.
Following the ceremonial reception, the first port of call was to the Sacred Heart Cathedral near Gol dak-khana – and throughout the long drive involved, I found myself in a trance, literally in awe in the virtual presence of the man – The Almighty’s representative on earth. An unbelievable unlikely happenning even in the wildest of my dreams. The hair on my hands was standing, even as I sat on the edge of my seat just in front of the Pontiff sitting in the back seat of the six-door Presidential Mercedes with Delhi’s then Archbishop Angelo Fernandes – fighting my awe-stricken trance for the alertness needed of a security officer guarding a VIP.
There are some unforgettable visages indelibly planted on my mind’s screen of experiences that brought me down to earth to tell me he was still a human: Like when throughout all jouneys in Delhi over the next two days, I was acutely conscious and aware of the Pontiff’s hand placed on my right shoulder, even as he conversed with the Archbishop and took in the sights and sounds of Delhi as we travelled. Like the time when a ‘thunderbox’ portable commode of some old nuns from the neighbouring CJM had to be smuggled into the Cathedral Sacristy for the man to do something no one else could do for him in a church without a toilet – an unpardonable lapse of an unanticipated contigency. Like when I, a Catholic boy brought up with immense reverence to the cassock and the ‘habit’ had to heave and shove the lot of stampeding Bishops from all over the country at the IG Indoor Stadium, eager to hold the Pontiff’s hand, touch his body or even just the tip of his robes! Like when the accompanying tall Swiss guards on sighting a tiny-tot in the gathering would yell out “bambino, bambino” and His Holiness would hold aloft the baby with delight, for all around to view. Like the time during one of the car journeys, he willingly obliged me and blessed the family rosaries and all the gold which I carried in a pouch just for the purpose.
And not the least, a personal audience and blessing he granted me, my wife and three little children, just before departing to the airport for other ports of call elsewhere in India. My delight had known no bounds when weeks later the Vatican Nunciature in Delhi had invited me over for the Papal Nuncio to present me with a parcel of large sized photographs received from Rome, so graciously sent by the Vatican for me and my family to remember our moments with the Pope.
Even as I reminisce and write this, the Vatican and millions of people around the world are bracing themselves for the apparent inevitable. Newsreports everywhere are announcing that Pope John Paul II is edging closer to death, having sufferred multiple organ failure and other complications. In what is likely the last struggle of his 26-year papacy, the 84-year-old pontiff has prayed with aides and doctors as his kidneys faltered, his breathing grew shallow, his heartbeat slowed and his blood pressure plummeted…. the vicar of Vatican City, has told thousands of anxious worshipers gathered in St. Peter's Square, "This evening or tonight, Christ will open the gates to the pope."
maxpk@vsnl.com
As millions around the world pray today for the most prominent religious leader in the world, my mind goes back to February 1986. The time when Karol Josef Wojtyla visited India for the first time. Of Polish origin and a survivor of the II-World War ravages, he had opted for priesthood and risen to become the Supreme Pontiff of Roman Catholics all over the world, the 261st successor to St Peter in Rome, who chose the name John Paul II when he was elected Pope in 1978 soon after his predecessor John Paul I died with less than a month in office.
I recall the excitement within me, as just before and in the run up to the impending visit, I was informed I would be the PSO (personal security officer) to the visiting Pontiff during the Delhi lap of his India visit. A job normally assigned to officers from Delhi Police’s Security Unit, and usually at an Assistant Commissioner’s level. Not only was I slightly more senior, not from Security, but handling a normally-not-spared-from ‘District’ charge, as DCP/South.
So I was there at Palam airport on Feb 2, hovering behind the line up of VVIPs there to receive His Holiness as he stepped out of the plane, and waved to those assembled below even as spontaneous shouts and cheers rent the air. President Giani Zail Singh, Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi and other dignitaries waited patiently for the Pontiff to climb down the ladder, but before they could shake his hands in greeting, there was the Pope bending down fully prostrate on the tarmac and kissing the soil of the country of his visit in blessing.
Following the ceremonial reception, the first port of call was to the Sacred Heart Cathedral near Gol dak-khana – and throughout the long drive involved, I found myself in a trance, literally in awe in the virtual presence of the man – The Almighty’s representative on earth. An unbelievable unlikely happenning even in the wildest of my dreams. The hair on my hands was standing, even as I sat on the edge of my seat just in front of the Pontiff sitting in the back seat of the six-door Presidential Mercedes with Delhi’s then Archbishop Angelo Fernandes – fighting my awe-stricken trance for the alertness needed of a security officer guarding a VIP.
There are some unforgettable visages indelibly planted on my mind’s screen of experiences that brought me down to earth to tell me he was still a human: Like when throughout all jouneys in Delhi over the next two days, I was acutely conscious and aware of the Pontiff’s hand placed on my right shoulder, even as he conversed with the Archbishop and took in the sights and sounds of Delhi as we travelled. Like the time when a ‘thunderbox’ portable commode of some old nuns from the neighbouring CJM had to be smuggled into the Cathedral Sacristy for the man to do something no one else could do for him in a church without a toilet – an unpardonable lapse of an unanticipated contigency. Like when I, a Catholic boy brought up with immense reverence to the cassock and the ‘habit’ had to heave and shove the lot of stampeding Bishops from all over the country at the IG Indoor Stadium, eager to hold the Pontiff’s hand, touch his body or even just the tip of his robes! Like when the accompanying tall Swiss guards on sighting a tiny-tot in the gathering would yell out “bambino, bambino” and His Holiness would hold aloft the baby with delight, for all around to view. Like the time during one of the car journeys, he willingly obliged me and blessed the family rosaries and all the gold which I carried in a pouch just for the purpose.
And not the least, a personal audience and blessing he granted me, my wife and three little children, just before departing to the airport for other ports of call elsewhere in India. My delight had known no bounds when weeks later the Vatican Nunciature in Delhi had invited me over for the Papal Nuncio to present me with a parcel of large sized photographs received from Rome, so graciously sent by the Vatican for me and my family to remember our moments with the Pope.
Even as I reminisce and write this, the Vatican and millions of people around the world are bracing themselves for the apparent inevitable. Newsreports everywhere are announcing that Pope John Paul II is edging closer to death, having sufferred multiple organ failure and other complications. In what is likely the last struggle of his 26-year papacy, the 84-year-old pontiff has prayed with aides and doctors as his kidneys faltered, his breathing grew shallow, his heartbeat slowed and his blood pressure plummeted…. the vicar of Vatican City, has told thousands of anxious worshipers gathered in St. Peter's Square, "This evening or tonight, Christ will open the gates to the pope."
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