Surgery- viswamitra and his parallel creation

Vishvamitra wanted to help Trisanku, to ascend to the heavens when he was refused by the Gods. As Trishanku ascended, he was pushed down and denied entry. This infuriated Vishwamitra, and he commenced the creation of another Universe (including another Brahma) for Trisanku. He had only completed the Universe when Brihaspati ordered him to stop. Trisanku, however, did not fully transcend through Trisanku Svarga created for him. He remained fixed and upside-down in the sky and was transformed into a constellation, which is now known as Crux.
In the process of forming a new universe, Vishvamitra used up all the tapas he had gained from his austerities. He did however create a Pratisrushti or an alternate universe. Of course it had its imperfections. An oft quoted example is the Buffalo being a Pratisrushti of the Cow. They are almost similar, with the buffalo probably lacking the touch of divinity.
        This story keeps coming to my mind as I do some complex spine surgery. This patient had a severe compression of the cervical spinal cord( in the neck) because of a calcified ligament which had thickened and compressed the spinal cord. It caused severe weakness of all 4 limbs of the patient.
It was located bang behind the vertebral bodies and decompression involved almost total removal of the vertebrae, removing the thickened ligament and then replacing the excised vertebrae with an implant. The implant is of course no where near the pristine original construct. This surely is a blasphemy, trespassing the perfection of creation.- Creating a kind of Prati srushti. Tinkering with the perfection of the Almighty and then constructing an alternative. The patient is recovering his power. What I have done is given such a poor substitute to the patient when compared to the original. It is sometimes very traumatic to meddle with a design, that's incomprehensible, irreproduceable, and unimaginable. I very humbly accept my limitation. The above legend is just lending a  mytho-philosophical twist to what we do.
Attempts to create this alternative should nonetheless not reduce the patients or the surgeons plight to Trishankus. Therefore, every such attempt is preceded by  begging pardon of the Almighty and with a prayer on the lips for the welfare of both.

Magnanimity is genetic

On the occasion of Children's Day.
From a child to his hero.

The rich and the magnanimous.

Far back in time. I was in my 4rth or 5th grade. Ours was a nuclear family. My father, essentially a self made man, used to manage his funds from an account in Bank of Maharashtra, Deccan Gymkhana. He was working as an executive in an industry that was a foreign collaboration and manufactured pumps.
We were the typical middle class family. Living within our means, austere, not extravagant, and yet very fulfilling and contented.  My father was the simple living high thinking types. He was 6 feet tall,  strikingly good looking, exercised regularly, and was an avid reader.  He was the larger than life hero. I would feel dwarfed, and totally insignificant when he was around. He was the epitome of manhood and made all of us, my mother my sister and me,  feel very safe, secure and protected. His personna was an eclectic mix of sauve, polished, machismo- a provider, a disciplinarian, an intellectual, and a formidable but extremely charismatic personality. Those times and our culture erected an invisible, unbreachable barricade around him, that precluded any trespass. There was only deep respect, a vague,  undefined fear, and an intimidating touch to his countenance. His true nature,  emotions, and affections were at best a calculated guess. He had a good sense of humour, which his no nonsense attitude seldom revealed.
    On a rainy 30th June, we were bundled into our family car around 4 pm. It was my mother's birthday. Those were the days of moderation and subtlety. Emotions  never needed accessories like cards, expensive gifts, or public display. Love and affection were of an implicit order, never explicit, and certainly not a demonstration in front of children. Love was an emotion to be experienced, simmering within the depths of the heart.
       Dad drove us down to Deccan, and parked the car on Ferguson College road just short of the Good Luck cafe crossing. Parking was never an issue. He got off and walked to the bank. It was almost 45 minutes. I was a very restless kid. Waiting in  confinement was a real punishment of sorts. My mother was getting restive and soon running out of ideas to restrain my impatience.
It started raining. It was the typical, irritating gentle Pune sprinkle, that neither inundated nor permitted one to walk without an umbrella. After a while, I saw dad scurrying back to our car. He was almost drenched. He quickly got into the car. He then unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, and pulled out a lovely red rose. He gave it to my mother.
His words still echo in my heart.
"Pushpa, wishing you a happy birthday. I went to the bank, but I couldn't withdraw any money as my salary has not been credited.  I emptied my wallet and there was just five rupees. I can't afford anything more just now. But this rose has all my feelings and love for you." Sounded a bit confusing and incomprehensible at that tender age, when birthdays were meant to be cakes, sweets and gifts. Was much later on in life, that I realised the gist of what my dad meant that day.
My father very early on taught me the value of magnanimity, and its difference from affluence. There are many with a surfeit of resources and wealth but very few with a lions heart. He always said, money is just a means. It can at best provide, but never  care or comfort.
          In my profession, I get to see this so often. Children providing all the creature comforts to their ailing parents but extremely frugal with the element that matters the most. Personally comforting them and being around. Spouses deeply entrenched in punishing routines, scarcely having time for one another. Parents compensating their absence with gifts and freebies. They are busy chasing careers and accumulating riches at the cost of ignoring their most precious possessions. One can surely get rich, but it takes a benevolent large heartedness to be magnanimous. Affluence can be acquired, but magnanimity is a trait thats possibly genetic. The two are not mutually exclusive, but strange bedfellows. The two are certainly not synonymous. Probably more an either /or situation or then quite possibly, inversely related.

शेवटचा प्याला

माझं शालेय शिक्षण कॉन्व्हेंट मध्ये झाले आणि त्यामुळे मी विचार सुद्धा इंग्लिश मध्ये करतो. पण भाषेची आवड असेल किंवा मराठी भाषेची प्रतिभा म्हणावी, माझे मराठी भाषेवर खूप प्रेम आहे.
परवा काशीनाथ सिनेमा बघितला. या सिनेमातल्या अनेक गोष्टी भावल्या. एक कठोर,कटू सतत बदलणारे वास्तव, पचवता न येणारे घवघवीत यश, व्यसनाधीन झालेल्या,अहंकाराने पोखरलेल्या मनाची होणारी दयनीय अवस्था, याची खूपच सुरेख अभिव्यक्ती. दारू पायी बऱ्याच लोकांची झालेली दुरावस्था अनाहूतपणे मनात डोकावून गेली. दारू हे एक अनाकलनीय रसायन आहे.  डॉक्टरी अभ्यासक्रमात वेगवेगळ्या औषधी तत्वांना प्रत्येक व्यक्तीचा वेगळा प्रतिसाद असतो,हे शिकलो होतो. दारूचे मेंटबॉलिसम वेगळ्या व्यसक्तींमध्ये वेगळे होते. काही मंडळी टँकर या टोपण नावाने ओळखले जातात, तर काहींची मजल एक किंवा दोन पेगच्या पर्यंतच असते. माझ्या उमेदीच्या कारकिर्दीत मी सुद्धा 'टँकर' होतो. दारूचा एका कर्मणुकीच्या साधना पासून व्यसना पर्यंतचा प्रवास अगदी नकळत,हलक्या पावलांनी कर्तृत्व,जवाबदारी,नाती, स्वाभिमान तुडवत होतो. आश्चर्याची गोष्ट म्हणजे एकदा व्यसनाधीन झाल्यावर चूक करतोय याची जाणीव असून देखील दारू व्यक्तीला नपुसक,हतबल बनवून टाकते. दारू चा नशा उतरल्यानंतर आपल्या व्यसनामुळे कुटुंबातल्या सर्वाना अपार त्रास होतो याची सल निश्चितपणे असते. वैद्यकीय संशोधाने आता सिद्ध केले आहे,की काही व्यक्तींना व्यसनाधीन होण्याचा समान्यांपेक्षा जास्त धोका असतो. आशा व्यक्तींनी सोशल ड्रिंकिंग,अथवा एक घोट देखील घेणे टाळले पाहिजे. दारू ही तब्येतीला अपायकारक असतेच पण त्यापेक्षा जास्त मानसिक दृष्ट्या कमकुवत करून टाकते . खूप जास्त भावुक होणे,एरवी पाळली जाणारी सामाजिक बंधने,मर्यादा,सैयम सर्वांचे नकळत  उल्लंघन करणे ही सर्वांना परिचित लक्षणे. सारासार विचार, सद्सद्विवेकाचा ऱ्हास तर होतोच. एका काल्पनिक, प्रतिसृष्टीची निर्मिती  केली जाते आणि त्यात डुंबत राहण्याची सवय लागते.
कालांतराने ही गरज मानसिक पातळीवर न थांबता, शरीराची गरज आणि आयुष्याचे अविभाज्य अंग होते
देवदास मधला प्रदिद्ध डायलॉग -

"कौन कंबखत केहता है हम बरदाश करनेके लिये पिते है?
मै तो सांस लेने के लीये पिता हूं."

अशी केविलवाणी परिस्थिती झालेली खूप उदाहरणे  आमच्या वैद्यजिय व्यवसायात देखील दुर्दैवाने  पाहिलीयेत. व्यवसाय,संसार,मुलं, प्रतिष्ठा,नाती,मैत्री सर्वांची आहुती देऊन नेस्तनभूत झालेली मंडळी आहेत.
मेंदूच्या पुढील भागाला फ्रॉनटल लोब्स म्हणतात.  या भागाची वैशिष्ट्यपूर्व जबाबदारी-  सैयम पाळणे, आवर घालणे,व स्वतःवर ताबा ठेवणे. पंचेंद्रियांचे लाड पुरवण्या पेक्षा त्यांच्यावर प्रभुत्व प्राप्त करणे,हे ह्या मेंदूच्या भागाचे काम असते.  दारू नेमकी या भागावर असर करते. जीभ जरा सैल होणे, आक्रमकता वाढणे आपण सर्वानीच अनुभवली असतील. पुढचा पेग नको म्हणणारा भागच अकाऱ्यांवित होतो. मग सर्व बंधने,लाज,आत्मसन्मान वेशीवर टांगून सौजन्याची ऐसीतैशी करून एका आत्मघातकी प्रवासावर प्रयाण.
ह्या कथानकात अपयश हा खलनायक नाहीये.
अपयशाचा पाया म्हणून वापर करून यशाचे साम्राज्य उभारणारी अनेक उदाहरणे ज्ञात आहेतच. या कालाकृतीतला खरा खलनायक दारू आहे.
या जंजालातून मुक्ती मिळून तब्बल 7 वर्ष झाली,पण हा सिनेमा बघितल्यावर या विकृतीला बळी पडलेल्या व्यक्तींसाठी जीव हळहळला. असो, एक अत्यंत दर्जेदार कलाकृती बघण्याचं समाधान निश्चित झालं.

दीपक रानडे
( हा माझा पहिलाच प्रयोग आहे. चुका असल्यास क्षमस्व)

Wedding of a Princess

The Wedding of a Princess.

There's a wedding in our family. Our daughter Soniya is a few weeks away from trying the knot with the love of her life, Akhilesh.  The atmosphere is  festive, the day feels incredibly short considering the multitude of tasks to be executed. All waking hours are an unending flurry of activities, to-dos, deadlines, last minute realisations, rectifications, alterations. A sweet chaos ,a jaaz symphony,an insane happiness. Invitations waiting to be dispatched, shopping for bridal accessories, politely turning down dinner invitations, finalizing the wedding rituals and ceremonies, collaborating with service providing agencies, rehearsing for the sangeet....... the list goes on and on.
My wife, Medha   and Soniya are continuously discussing color combinations, attires, protocols for the mehendi, sangeet, reception ceremonies.
       The bride to be, Soniya is all charged and enthusiastic about every small detail. She's possibly, one of the most accomplished, beautiful, kind hearted, intelligent lady I have come across. ( Sorry, second only to my wife- )
When I see her going about the different tasks, my mind is overcome with memories and emotions. This little girl, just a few years ago was pushing hard and studying almost maniacally for completing her thesis. The topic she chose was- "Designing entertainment spaces for the visually impaired." Her ideas, her approach, her presentation truly had the touch of ingenuity. She had to deal with a bit of hostility from a couple of professors, who could not digest her creative genius. They  rebuked her ideas, and criticised her efforts merely to assert their position and power. Needless to say, she excelled in the Jury, with her principal himself acknowledging that her performance was  unprecedented.
She then made her way to Ahmedabad  to work with a leading architect and interior designer. She carved a place for herself, and soon was working on an assignment in the prestigious NID. She would in a short span impress her superiors and colleagues  with her sincerity, creativity, aesthetics, and competence.
She thereafter worked her way to a master's program in a top Art School- School of Art Institute in Chicago. Here too, she graduated with flying colors, braving the extremely hostile Chicago windy weather. She did it rather  effortlessly with elan, and aplomb. The young girl had metamorphosed into a young lady with a Master's degree in Product Design. Wow.
As I got familiar with this prodigal  daughter, it redefined my concept of two highly contentious , enigmatic domains.
Woman and Beauty.
Traditionally and conventionally, a beautiful woman was supposed to have loads of attitude, a touch me not aura, a very snooty and pricey disposition. She had to have tissues at hand, to blot any traces of moisture on her brow, or then that imaginary residual trace of coffee at the angle of her mouth after finishing her cuppa. She had to look menacingly at even a minor breach of etiquette with a " How gross" knotted eyebrows expression. A beautiful lady was honestly a bit intimidating. Specially to an untamed, casual, and earthy person likes me. I would be forced into behaving and doing things very unnaturally.
All beautiful ladies  had to have a casual disdain for the lesser mortals with whom they very condescendingly interacted. She was expected to pull out a small mirror from the Gucci handbag and touch up her eyeliner or lipstick. She had to have an air of displeasure, cursing the solitary bead of perspiration that dared to emerge whenever  she left  the confines of the Air Conditioned milieu. She had to feign irritation at the constant attention she drew from lecherous eyes, on which she actually thrived.She was not expected to eat street food, that spelt nemesis for her porcelain complexion. She had to sport a stressed look. She was never supposed to laugh loudly or hysterically. Her amusement had to be restricted to a cosmetic smile that had a very limited frequency. . How could she ever be the cheerful, lively, funfilled damsel with a great sense of humor, who laughed animatedly and uncontrollably on discovering comedy in the mundane ?.
If she did, these attributes were to be to  closeted. Revealed only in the tight inner circle. Beauty  was never supposed to be  trivialized to a 'girl next door' commodity with  easy accessibility. Soniya broke these conceptions. On an occasion,she climbed into a crane-lift in the dead of the night along  with her room-mate, to lend a hand to painting an overhead bridge. These impromptu acts could  never be the attributes of a prototype, mannequinesque beauty. Her beauty was augmented by spontaneity, ease, back slapping camaraderie, compassion, a very sharp intellect, an unending curiosity to learn anything from Vedanta to Quantum Physics to cosmology. She simultaneously exuded elegance, poise and ease that made everyone very comfortable. Her looks, her personna were striking but never served as  uncomfortable struts that distanced. She had an approachability, an affability, that endeared. Physical beauty that's skin deep is transient, and fades with time. Beauty of the soul, fragrance of being  a good human being, warmth of the heart are far more enduring and the most potent cosmetics. She has her beautiful head firmly fixed on her shoulders. There isn't a trace of conceit in her demeanor. She is not a bit self-conscious and never makes others conscious of her virtues. My impression and conception of a beautiful woman was entirely misplaced or so it seemed. The young girl that I had known , probably was kissed by the frog of destiny to transform into a Princess. She certainly is Destiny's own child. It looks all set to be the wedding of the season. Whilst all are working ceaselessly and tirelessly, I'm busy searching for traces of  royalty in myself to justify being the parent of this Princess. God bless the Royal Couple.

Polishing the traditions

The Traditional Robe.
     Soniyas wedding preparations are reaching a crescendo. It's an experience of a lifetime. The Troupe, sorry cohort that's going to do a kind of  "flash mob" furiously practices to the pulsating music. The gyrations, the steps, the dance moves really  inspires even people like me with two left feet to shake a leg. The energy, the cheer, the frolic really makes practice sessions add  pep and zing to the ambience. Then there is the never ending shopping, which is the chorus line of this wedding song. Each activity is either preceded or followed by shopping. I never realized, it requires so much dedication,perseverance, resilience and stamina. An important part of the wedding preparation is  getting the brides ensemble. It  would be utter humiliation or blasphemy,to restrict it to being called just a  bridal wardrobe. The Ensemble as I prefer to call it, comprises of different genres, depending on the occasion for which it is to be donned. To quote, a few,- Lehenga, Indo- western, traditional, western......... The list surely goes on.
The traditional Saree is one of the most stylish of all attires. It drapes completely, and yet has a subtle sensuality, an elegance that's stately. Draping a saree is  an art, that needs to be perfected. The bridal saree is an attire that includes an accessory, that is supposed to drape the bride's shoulders as she makes her way to the altar. It is like a shawl, - called  'Shela' but much more ornate and lush, hand embroidered with gold threads,appliques and truly is a resplendent robe.
Medha tells me, that she wants me to escort her when she carries this robe for getting it polished. I baulked. Garments to be polished?
She tells me that this particular 'Shela' was almost a 100 years old, worn by  Medha's grandmother. As she pulls it out of a neatly wrapped packing, i can't help marvel at this heirloom. It has a rich, maroon color, with the feel and appearance of royalty. Its  borders, called 'Kaath' almost 10 inches broad are braided with  gold thread. The weave, and the workmanship is exquisite. A piece of art, that's stood the test of time. I can't help marveling at the artisans, who  crafted this masterpiece nearly a century ago. A machine made fabric, might be faultless, but it doesn't have the distinctive human touch, that transforms mere fibre  to a piece of cultural extravaganza.
      She tells me, she has found a person, who will hand polish this robe, without damaging a single thread. That sounds really impossible. The only snag is that to reach his place, we might have to traverse some really shady localities and  therefore, my services as a bouncer are solicited.
I agree, and we set off right into the heartland of Pune, which is almost unapproachable. We reach a spot, where  we  abandon our vehicle and hoof through the extremely narrow lanes. Mofussil, archaic, Pune. Almost like having walked through a time machine. Small houses, rather dwellings, where one has to almost crawl to enter, small one feet wide  staircases to reach the upper level, duck down almost genuflect, to reach the artisan who will be restoring the garment.
We eventually meet him. He looks at us, with a rather annoyed expression, but then his eyes light up when we show him the Shela. He takes it in his hand, and one can almost sense the connoisseur in him caressing the fabric and leching at the workmanship. He studies it carefully, and spontaneously utters some words in an unknown but appreciative jargon.
He says, he will need a week to painfully polish the garment inch by inch carefully avoiding any inadvertent damage to the underlying fabric. I am a Surgeon and can appreciate the dexterity that is required to execute a task of this magnitude and complexity.
We finalize the charges, which are quite reasonable, considering the highly skilled task he has on hand. We request him to be careful, as he is handling not just a garment, but a piece of our family history. A legacy, that will be passed on, a tradition that will be perpetuated, by Soniya.
We are just transient instruments, links in this chain of  transmission, of performing sanctifying rituals,  taking solemn vows, that ensure propagation of the the tribe and it's rich, enriching culture.
   The fitting finale was to indulge in some lip smacking authentic Muglai Street food. The flavors were truly surreal. My taste buds explode in ecstacy as we make our way back to our car, with a hope that Arif will restore not just the garment, but also the faith that we reposed in his hands.

Romance of the Train

The romance of a train journey.

My work had got done, and I had no tearing hurry to get back to Pune. It had been ages since I had undertaken a train journey from mumbai to pune.
I check the time table and the Sinhagad Express is scheduled to depart at 2.30 pm. Its 2.10.  On an impulse, i take a cab from Nariman Point to CST. I quickly settle the cab and rush to the ticket counter. Gasp. A long queue. I quickly go to the window and request a guy just 2 slots away from the window to buy a ticket for me. I thrust a100 buck note into his hands. I sheepishly pacify the guys behind by flashing my Doctor identity.
It's 2.25. The fellow obliges and soon hands me my ticket. We make a dash to platform no 9 where the Sinhagad is hooting and has started its labored puffing and panting before  breaking  its inertia.  We squeeze into the general compartment.
The stench and the grease hits hard. The co passengers are hostile. There is no vacant seat. I am left panting and gasping for breath. I'm standing near the loo and the aromas are unbearable.
My good samaritan ticket purchasing friend suggests that he will disembark and rush into the compartment that's reserved and locked for the passengers who board the train at Dadar. That's the other main port of boarding the train. 
The train chugs on and crawls to Dadar.
My friend jumps off and rushes into the just opened doors of the compartment reserved for passengers boarding at Dadar. I follow suit. But I cannot grab a seat. The aggression and skills of procuring a seat have become vestigial.
My friend has kindly blocked a window seat for me. I am touched and  heave a sigh of relief as I settle into the seat. We are soon off, on the short 4 hour ride, but an unending saga of memories. The train soon picks up speed as the suburbs of this monstrously large city whiz past.
Soon, the very familiar  blind beggar, with his blind wife singing some devotional songs make their appearance. They very  aptly sing songs that  highlight the virtue of charity,  bribing us emotionally  by promising the good karma of our philanthropy will surely  serve the welfare of our kids .  Such nostalgia. These characters  are so typical, in fact a legacy of the train journey. They are the essential fixtures without which the experience is incomplete.
The couple is soon followed by the wada paav vendor, and the tea vendor. The co passengers once ensconced in their seats soon reveal a bonhomie . Foes turned friends. Some initiate a conversation that's very perfunctory. Just to kill time.
The train hurtles along, and the slums fly past as we catch glimpse of  squalor and a whiff of the stench.
My good Samaritan turns a bit, pulls out his  lunch packet. It's stuffed with chapatis and an oily vegetable. He tucks into it, very formally asking me to join. I decline his offer though I'm tempted to rip a piece of chapati and shovel a mouthful of that spicy  vegetable.
The train has now picked up speed and is hurtling down the tracks  at well over 90 km an hour. The landscape morphs into green fields and tall trees, a sudden change in the rhythmic sounds of the wheels as the train navigates a bridge. The musical sounds are such stark reminders of childhood memories. Of sitting in the door and lifting the feet up in time at the fast appearing platform of a remote  station that is not worthy of a halt by this Express train. The struggle to light a cigarette by backing into the door through which the wind rushes in like a gale.
Those frequent cups of tea, to foment the throat , meek attempts to soothe the smokers cough. We reach Karjat, that's at the foothills of the Sahyadri. The gradient of the tracks on this section is one of the steepest in the world. The climb needs to be augmented by another locomotive engine that's quickly attached to the rear end of the train. We set off on the arduous climb.The train heaves along and strains to keep moving despite  the supplemental  rear engine as it navigates the ghat section. The thrill of the train going through a string of tunnels added to the magic of the journey. I remember there were 26 tunnels and they all seem to be very much around still. Memories of getting off the train after the third tunnel while descending, crowd the mind. Five of us classmates, under my leadership trekked down the valley ( called Ulhas valley) with a tent. Could locate the spot and  uploaded a picture of the spot herewith. We all got a rude shock when we ran into bootleggers who were preparing hooch in large drums at the bottom of the valley. We managed to evade attention and camped in the tent. It rained the whole night and Kanwar Singh, the tall sardar's feet remained outside. They were all swollen and soggy by morning. It was a nightmare that just didn't seem to end.Early morning, looking like fugitives, we made our way up the valley to relieve ourselves in the luxurious ambience of Fariyas.
Lonavla will always remain the epicentre of all the seismic events that irreversibly restructured the landscape of my life. Lonavla bears testimony to so many moments and experiences that sculpted the contours of manhood from the malleable, vulnerable clay of those years of innocence. The never ending night of strumming the guitar under the stars, those misty early mornings, that hazed the landscape of reality to a blur of romanticism, those tender times of soaking into that mystical potion called Love.......
        The train soon recovers from the exertion of the ascent and speeds along the plains. The weary landscape readies  to wrap itself in the blanket of darkness.  As the train thunders on, it serves as a gentle reminder of the speed with which life is hurtling along. It leaves  a load of memories that bring a smile on the lips, caressing those pleasurable scars, attempting to peel away the scabs  and recreate the times of indulgence and insanity.

The Last Matryoshka

Stepping out of the last Matryoshka

Matryoshka is a wooden doll  which separates into two halves, top and bottom. The belly of this doll contains a smaller figure of the same sort inside, which has, in turn, another figure inside of it, and so on. The first Russian doll set was made in 1890 by Vasily Zvyozdochkin from a design by Sergey Malyutin, who was a folk crafts painter.  Traditionally the outer layer is a woman, dressed in a sarafan, a long and shapeless traditional Russian peasant jumper dress. The figures inside may be of either gender; the smallest, innermost doll is typically a baby turned from a single piece of wood.
         The human body is constantly remodeling itself. The body almost completely replaces itself every 7 to 15 years. We get a totally new skin coat every 27 days. Like the Matryoshka doll, a new doll emerges almost every month as the old one is shed off. During the course of life, the rampaging and ravaging time wears, weathers, erodes  the inner being, reshaping and  remodelling the mind, the personality continuously. The emotional Matryoshka dolls keep   getting uncovered by tough times, unforeseen problems, stacked up adversities. They all contribute and aid to split open the outer dolls of opinions, impressions, beliefs and convictions and reinvent a new entity. Each new doll, is  fresh, nascent,  with newer
outlooks and perspectives, newer vision and objectives. This is analogous to getting software updates. The software of emotions, of affiliations, of attitudes and associations needs to be updated regularly to deal with a very rapidly changing world. The updates have to be installed, the emotional Matryoshka doll has to be consciously  deconstructed. It is not a passive process, or a default setting. It is an endeavor. This process can be painful. Casting away the emotional exoskeleton  requires effort, will and resolve. Many pride themselves on very rigid, indoctrinated infallible convictions, perceptions and beliefs. They are reluctant to moult, to cast off the outer doll, which is plastered to the inner one by the glue of ego and ignorance. Such dolls are anachronistic entities, totally out of synch with their resurrected peers. The process of shedding misconceptions, beliefs, attitudes is a prelude to shedding the most difficult, last Matryoshka doll. Shedding the Matryoshka of the ego, the identity, is the most precarious of all. The very entity that's seeking and searching for what lies within has to be dissolved. The annihilation of the doll of  "me" cannot be "achieved". This is so because the one who wants to "achieve" this is none other than the "ego"  and the ego cannot destroy itself.  Discarding this last doll reveals no further dolls  but only an emptiness.  Emptiness is a concept that needs a container to qualify and conceive. The container segregates, isolates and  casts a spell of discreteness. The empty space felt it was separate by virtue of the confining doll.  The confining force is the ego that refuses to yield. The ego, that creates, nurtures and sustains all the successive dolls. The ego that forbids all attempts at communion. Vanquishing the last doll, merges inner and outer spaces to reveal the unbroken whole. The separation of inner and outer spaces was the illusion, created by series of Matryoshka dolls. The unbroken whole was unbroken, the presence or absence of the innumerable Matryoshkas notwithstanding.

Dr Deepak Ranade