“But the most important things I think we can learn about relationships are from Cleo herself, the bonds that she builds. Her relationships are rooted in loyalty and trust, forgiveness and nonjudgment. She gives affection but she receives it too. That’s empowering—to be loved but also to be able to offer it to another being.”
Cleo also empathizes no matter your mood. She’s willing to play, cry, or just lounge around and listen if that’s what you need. Throughout our life with her, almost on a daily basis, we have traversed these peaks and valleys with her.
“She’s quite remarkable really,” Papa said.
I too looked down at her, seeing her in a new light all of a sudden. Who knew Cleo held the keys to forming perfect relationships? Dr. Phil, watch out.
“What’s she doing?” Papa said, his expression turning from admiration to confusion as Cleo squatted.
I shook my head and winced. “Yeah, that’s why no matter how much she asks for it, hold out on the milk.”
Chapter Four
Papa, what would you do if you thought no one would ever find out?
I like to think that’s the way I already live. There’s a quote from Rumi: “I want to sing like birds sing, not worrying about who hears and what they think.”
So is that the way you roll?
Not really. But your question raises an interesting phenomenon. When anyone does something that becomes part of the public eye, then the public creates an image of that person. And then that image, because it never conforms to the reality of that person, sooner than later it gets defiled. It happens every time. And when that image is inevitably defiled, society gets enraged at the person when in fact they should be getting enraged at themselves for creating the image in the first place.
It’s a tangled web, for sure. The perfect example is someone like Tiger Woods. He and all of the people that believed in him cocreated the mythic persona that he started to become. Not just because he was a dominant athlete on the golf course (which he presumably wouldn’t ever want to change) but because of everything else—all of the multi-million-dollar endorsement deals—that he signed onto and the image they perpetuated together. He didn’t need to create that image that he allowed people to make of him but he did, probably because it felt good at the level of ego, not to mention the money. But all of that created false expectations that he couldn’t live up to. So he led a secret life. And in the confines of his own solitude and isolation, his shadow emerged. When you have to live up to an image that is not you, then sooner or later that image is defiled. Then everyone becomes enraged and many people end up getting hurt.
“YESTERDAY IS HISTORY, TOMORROW IS A MYSTERY, TODAY is a gift. That’s why it’s called the present.”
I’m not entirely sure where this corny axiom comes from, but I’ve seen it on greeting cards, bumper stickers, T-shirts, mouse pads, and at least one tattoo. Google it and almost nine million entries will appear, along with references to Emily Dickinson, Bob Marley, Joan Rivers, Lil Wayne, and a 1902 book called Sun Dials and Roses of Yesterday.
I have no idea who first said these words, but I do know that Master Oogway delivers the line with particular elegance in the animated film Kung Fu Panda. I know this because I’ve watched the movie every morning for the last six months. At 5:30 a.m.
I’ve been assigned “morning duty” in our house, a shift that entails waking up with the boy, letting the dog out in the backyard, changing the boy’s diaper, letting the dog back into the house, giving her a treat, pouring milk and cereal for the boy, making waffles, and then all three of us (boy, dad, dog) plunking down in front of Kung Fu Panda. At 5:30 a.m.
Despite my efforts to mix it up—introduce a little Horton Hears a Who or Madagascar 2 or maybe SportsCenter—Krishu’s loyalty to Panda is steadfast. We cannot deviate from the routine. It’s amazing, really. Krishu can watch Panda every single morning as if it’s the first time. He laughs at all of Po’s jokes, recoils when Tai Lung escapes from prison, and edges forward on the couch when Tigress, Mantis, Monkey, and Viper ready themselves to accept Tai Lung’s combative challenge. Krishu knows what’s coming—even anticipates it—nevertheless, he plays each moment over and over with an enthusiasm that is nothing short of amazing.
The same can’t be said for me. Maybe that’s why I’ve dreamed up an alternative, more Dark Knight-ish story line, one in which Tai Lung actually succeeds in his coup to unseat Master Shifu. In this version, Tai Lung takes over the world, disrupting the spiritual equilibrium of the planet and propelling it into an apocalyptic darkness, like being forced to sit in the oversized chairs at Starbucks while staring at drab pagan artwork for all eternity.
In this Armageddon, spiritual disciplines and martial arts like kung fu, karate, and judo would have to be mined, reawakened, and reimagined, and the warriors who mastered them would be the planet’s last hope to possibly reignite civilization from the barista-driven madness it had become. It’s just a thought.
The trade-off for my doing morning duty is that by 6:30 I can return Krishu to bed to snuggle with his mama while I mount my flashy new road bike and head out into the canyons for a semi-strenuous bike ride. The point of this obsessive riding (aside from getting out of the house) is to train for an intensive bike trip I had planned in Italy. My brother-in-law, senior to me by about five years, had recruited me into this boys’ club comprised mostly of guys like him: successful professional investors, bankers, and real estate magnates whose jobs had suddenly become a lot less busy on account of a receding economy. When we weren’t actually out on our bikes, forming amateur race formations, comparing slick new pedals, gears, and other components I was only just becoming familiar with, we were sharing YouTube videos and links to maps and commentaries that showed just how impossible our upcoming Italian endeavor really was.
Aside from the rigorous physical training and mental games spurred by YouTube, I had also adjusted my diet considerably. Carbs and sugars were strictly monitored. Proteins were consumed in plenty and calories—once so forbidden—were now most welcome to provide energy for the training rides that included steep climbs up the canyons of Santa Monica and Malibu. Our kitchen had turned into a veritable laboratory, the cabinets packed with colorful powders and thick protein bars. I spent early mornings mixing, shaking, blending them like a sorcerer and concocting elaborate molasses-like shakes that I’d muscle down as Candice, Krishu, and even Cleo watched aghast. It was worth it, I told myself. After all, didn’t the packaging promise that these supplements would energize my body and help it recover after particularly grueling training sessions?
The more I thought about all of this training and the collateral effect, the less clear I was about why exactly I was doing it. I knew that while I enjoyed biking, it didn’t come close to stirring the competitive juices I once felt when I played pickup basketball games at the local playground, recreation I had given up only months ago after chronic knee problems forced me off the court. Biking was one of the few sports I could come up with that didn’t involve high impact on my creaky joints. Still, there was nothing really competitive about the sport, just long, arduous rides, sometimes with steady climbs up hills that required their own strategy to conquer.
If anything, scaling these hills required quieting the mind and pacing thoughts over long, taxing periods. That sort of mental training was new for me, akin to meditation, which I was familiar with, but very different from the sort of instinctive movements that came with basketball. Taking on steep hills too aggressively risked overexertion, sabotaging reserve energy that was required for longer rides. This recalibration of my athletic life—always a big part of my existence—was significant for me and something I was still adjusting to even as the Italy trip crept closer. So even as I fixated on how I was going to do it, I still hadn’t fully resolved why.
My father noted my sudden obsession with riding.
“You’re really into it, huh?” he remarked one morning as he brewed his coffee.
“I guess so.” I sh
rugged, still ambivalent.
“I know why,” he said as he poured hazelnut creamer into his cup. “You’re getting old.”
I looked at him dubiously.
“You used to just put on your sneakers, pick up a ball, and go play.” He stirred the creamer into his coffee. “From when you were about eleven years old to just a few months ago. Now you have an expensive bike with expensive bike clothes packed with strange gels and liquids, preparing for an expensive trip halfway across the planet just to exercise.” He shrugged and sipped his coffee.
“Um, I don’t think—”
“You’re too young to have a midlife crisis,” he determined. “But the writing is on the wall. You’re going to Italy to exercise.”
I stared at him blankly, unsure of what to say. My first thought was to just be impressed that he actually had any memories of me when I was eleven years old. Not the generic age of ten, nor the broad swath of being a teenager, but eleven. That was pretty good.
I shook my head as I filled my water bottle. “I don’t know if that’s it,” I mumbled.
“That’s it.” He nodded, convinced. “While our existence in the cosmic context is barely a parenthesis in eternity, at times it can seem interminable for those of us enduring it. So we seek ways to distract ourselves.” He changed the subject. “It’s a nice bike. How much did it cost?”
No way I was going there. “I forget.”
“Sure.” He nodded again as he shuffled out of the kitchen. “Have a good ride.”
ON THE EXPENSIVE business class flight to Italy, I thought more about my conversation with Papa. Maybe he was right. Deep inside, I knew there was a part of me that was feeling an itch. Back at home, I had become a creature of habit adhering to a routine. My daily schedule had become rigid and predictable. Where not long ago, I used to gallivant around the world, hanging out with and interviewing narco-traffickers and terrorists (or freedom fighters, depending on your POV), now I was a guy with a wife, a kid, a dog, a mortgage, obligations and commitments, and a new expensive indulgence. As much as I adored my family and valued my life, I saw it leading down an even more predictable path—more kids, more dogs, higher mortgage payments, school fees, increased obligations and commitments. What was I going to do to counteract all of this? Get a more expensive bike? Go to Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne next year to retrace the Tour de France? Was that what my life was becoming? Who I was becoming?
“Mr. Chopra, can I offer you a cocktail?” the flight attendant interrupted my rapidly evolving crisis. She had been chatty when I first boarded the flight and had helped me identify all the perks of my fancy leather seat. Already I had put to good use the chichi moisturizer and lip balm, donned the soft socks, and planned on using the silky blindfold. She feigned great interest when I informed her of the purpose of my trip. My gaze lingered on her attractive smile and raven-colored hair for a beat. This is where the midlife crisis inevitably goes, isn’t it?
I shook myself out of it. “No, thanks.”
I recalibrated my mind. I needed to stop thinking about the distant future, filled with anxiety-inducing images of suburban blight. I had more immediate problems, namely an exhaustive physical conquest I still wasn’t convinced I was ready for. And it wasn’t only the physical challenge. A large part of the energy committed to the imminent ride was the hype surrounding it. Not just in terms of the six months or so of intensive physical training leading up to it, but in the discussion and research around it. I’d already collected a veritable archive of video footage on my computer, meant both to inspire and intimidate. In the immediate days before I left for the trip, when I dropped by the local bike store to load up on additional paraphernalia, I mentioned my trip to the store manager.
“Really?” he said, more than a little perplexed.
“Yeah, really.” I nodded back.
He laughed and shook his head. What was that supposed to mean?
I pressed him but he wouldn’t let on. “No point in getting stressed about it now.”
Too late for that. Some of the mountainous passes on our agenda were amongst the toughest rides in the world. They came with fancy Italian names like the Stelvio, Gavia, and Motirolo, and were spoken about in awe by those who knew. While most of the rides themselves would likely last only four to five hours at most, the discussion around them could evidently last months. Each was cloaked in legend and lore. Each aroused anxiety and intimidation in amateur riders and veterans alike. Like the guy who ran the bike shop. I was suitably stressed.
Upon landing in Milan and embarking on the three-and-a-half-hour car ride north into the Dolomite region, I saw the hills we’d be scaling. They were impressive to say the least, terrifying to say it plainly. From afar, they appeared majestic, their peaks shrouded in clouds. As afternoon turned to night and it became more difficult to actually see how far out the road in front of us climbed, I found myself staring out the side of the window, inspecting the angle of the road as it rushed by and counting “Mississippis” in my head, trying to get a gauge on just how lengthy these slopes were, how long it would take to ride them. The higher the counts rose, the more nervous I became.
Figuring the best thing I could do to suppress my nerves was to distract myself, I turned my attention to Ian, the sinewy instructor we had hired to be our guide for the week. But he did little to quell my fears. After some obligatory chitchat about movies and other forgettable fare, the conversation turned to riding, little more than a passing fad to me, but a full-on passion for him. When I described some of what I had heard about the epic rides we were to encounter and the nerves that accompanied them, he responded solemnly. “Don’t think about any of that,” he intoned. “Seriously, it can really paralyze you to think that way. Just stay focused on the road in front of you.”
Okay, I nodded. My first impression of Ian was that he was a pretty relaxed guy. This turn into serious land felt somewhat abrupt. While his point was to not think about the rides coming up just hours away, his sudden earnest tone did the exact opposite. “I’m screwed” reverberated in my head the way my father once taught me to silently repeat my mantra, or secret sound, when I meditated.
A few hours later we at last arrived at the charming hotel that would serve as our home base for the next few days. I called Candice to check in.
“Are you nervous about the ride tomorrow?” she asked.
“Apparently we shouldn’t be talking about it,” I told her.
“Seriously?” I could picture her brow furrowed. “Why?”
“Makes the ride impossible or something. I don’t know.” I shook my head. “Biker talk.”
“That makes sense,” Candice agreed.
“Really?” I was the one grimacing now. “Since when did you become Lance Armstrong?”
She laughed. “I don’t know. Focus on the race, not the finish line. The journey is the destination. That’s probably something your dad would say.”
“Or Nike,” I shot back. “How’s the boy?”
“Good,” she replied. “Entertaining his grandmother.”
Candice’s mother had traveled from her home in Atlanta to lend Candice a helping hand. Preparing his meals, changing his diapers, reading him books, giving him a bath, watching Kung Fu Panda; there were a lot of routines for which Candice needed coverage. Her mom was more than capable of mastering them all. But more than anything, Wai pó (the Chinese term by which Krishu referred to his maternal grandmother) was his long-lost play pal. She indulged him far more than anyone else, thereby becoming his favorite person. He ordered her around, demanding foods on off hours—cereal at night, sandwiches in the morning—as if to test her boundaries and find his own.
Bad timing. Prompted by a great deal of pressure from Candice’s newly formed mommy mafia, she and I had in recent weeks begun the great potty training challenge. All of the parenting books had been consulted and all of them agreed, the more we could add structure around Krishu’s life, create a reliable routine for him and a set of expectations for him to re
ly on, the smoother the process would go. So started Krishu’s cultural indoctrination, as my father later described it, into the ways of our world.
“It starts with regulating your biology. It ends with regulating everything else until you’re just a bundle of conditioned reflexes.”
Like many of Papa’s statements, this sounded like something the Unabomber would say. Oh well.
Early on, Krishu seemed to take to the new routine, happy to park it on his little plastic potty chair as long as one of us was willing to park it alongside him and read him a story. He even managed to deliver the goods once or twice in the first week, earning accolades from family members with whom we shared the joyous news.
“He’s really advanced for his age,” my mother commended.
“A total prodigy,” Candice’s father agreed.
Those initial deposits into the potty chair set us on a dangerous path of false expectations. Candice and I were convinced that the books had it wrong, that this was not a process that would take months and was inevitably fraught with setbacks. It would take just days for our metabolic boy-genius to master the tao of poo, as Master Oogway might call it. Alas, it was as if Krishu sensed this sudden pressure for him to mature too quickly, and soon enough his defiance kicked in. He had no real interest in our desire to assimilate him in a world where potties were deposited in some strange porcelain throne and flushed away. He was perfectly happy with the current system where he’d do his business whenever and wherever he needed to and we’d clean up after him. It had worked out fine for him so far.
“How’s the potty training coming?” I asked Candice warily.
“Not so great,” she replied. She blamed it on Wai pó’s arrival and her indulgences of the boy. We both knew the real reasons ran much deeper, that our son was the Mangal Pandey, India’s legendary mutineer, of potty training. If given a chance, he would lead a revolt of as many two-year-olds as he could find to resist this horrible custom called potty training. He had played a leading hand in similar rebellions in the sandbox. Still, it was far easier to pin the blame on Grandma.
Walking Wisdom Page 7
