The Sweet Spot

I woke to the calm rhythm of the trees swaying to the summer breeze and took in one deep, refreshing breath, as the cool gentle breeze brushed past my face. As a matter of habit, and a part of a mindfulness exercise called pranayama, I took in a couple more deep breaths. This kind of breathing is normally a great start for my day. I ordinarily continue with a few more minutes of breathing, which leaves me feeling energized by the sequence of the deliberate exercises. I can focus my rested, ready mind towards the day’s events and intended tasks. But that morning my mind was restless with the thought of how a fellow human being had been deprived of the very breath that I was taking for granted as a part of my existence. The vision of the man imploring his captors, who held him in a chokehold, “I can’t breathe”! And right there, for millions to see, the very people who are meant to protect civilians, deprived him of the precious breath he needed to stay alive. I was engulfed in the

“Kya naam hai?” I could hear Mummy ask our cleaning lady’s little girl her name, in Hindi. I wasn’t surprised when the girl responded, as Mummy had this knack of carrying on a conversation in a universal language of love. Our cleaning lady was surprised. “Oh, your mom speaks Portuguese?” When I said no, she explained “Qual é o seu nome?” is how one asks in Portuguese, which sounded very similar in Hindi. Though that day the question was phonetically similar, on other occasions, despite a language barrier, Mummy never stopped herself from getting her point across. She always had a kind tone, and kind words, wrapped in love, that everyone understood! Of the umpteen values I learned from my second mother for the last almost-thirty years, the one I covet most is to be kind rather than right. Among a family of obsessive arguers, she was the calm one to cool down a heated argument. Though she was right many times, she never felt the need to say “I told you so”. She was never the one