Taking the High Road

Ram Buxani

Description

Ram Buxani narrates the engrossing story of his own life in Taking the High Road. He starts with the carefree days of his childhood in Hyderabad, Sind and Baroda, his meteoric rise as an employee with ITL in Dubai, his growth to success by sheer perseverance, and his fulfilment of many roles as a son, husband, father and grandfather. First published in 2003 and translated to several languages, this new edition offers fresh philosophical musings on life and its many changing faces.

Sujets

• BIOGRAPHIES AND GENEALOGY
• Lettres et linguistique

Informations

• Publié par: motivate
• Date de parution: 01 janvier 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9796500168210
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 6 Mo

Extrait

Taki ng the Hi ghRoad

1

2

Pubîshed by Motîvate Pubîshîng

th Dubaî:34 foor, Medîa One Tower, Dubaî Medîa Cîty PO Box 2331, Dubaî, UAE Te: ([phone], fax: [phone] e-maî: books@motîvate.ae www.booksarabîa.com

th Abu Dhabî: 8 foor, Abduah bîn Darwîsh Buîdîng, Hamdan Street PO Box 43072, Abu Dhabî, UAE Te: ([phone], fax: [phone]

London: Acre House, 11/15 Wîîam Road, London NW1 3ER e-maî: motîvateuk@motîvate.ae

Dîrectors: Genera Manager Books: Managîng Edîtor: Edîtor: Edîtorîa Assîstant: Desîgner: Pubîshîng Coordînator:

Obaîd Humaîd A Tayer  Ian Faîrservîce

John Deykîn Sîmona Cassano Poonam M. Ganganî Aswathy Sathîsh Noeandro de a Peña Zeda Pînto

© Ram Buxanî and Motîvate Pubîshîng 2013 Fîrst Pubîshed 2003 New Edîtîon 2013

A rîghts reserved. No part of thîs pubîcatîon may be reproduced în any materîa form (încudîng photocopyîng or storîng în any medîum by eectronîc means) wîthout the wrîtten permîssîon of the copyrîght hoder. Appîcatîons for the copyrîght hoder’s wrîtten permîssîon to reproduce any part of thîs pubîcatîon shoud be addressed to the pubîshers. In accordance wîth the Internatîona Copyrîght Act 1956 and the UAE Federa Copyrîght Law No 40 of 1992, any person actîng în contraventîon of thîs copyrîght wî be îabe to crîmîna prosecutîon and cîvî caîms for damages.

Brîtîsh Lîbrary Cataoguîng-în-Pubîcatîon Data. A cataogue record for thîs book îs avaîabe from the Brîtîsh Lîbrary.

The author’s royatîes for thîs book wî be donated to A Noor Traînîng Centre for Chîdren wîth Specîa Needs, whîch serves Dubaî’s mutîcutura popuatîon by provîdîng effectîve and professîona traînîng programmes and hepîng specîa- needs chîdren from înfancy to functîona întegratîon înto socîety. For more înformatîon, wrîte to A Noor at PO Box 8397, Dubaî, Unîted Arab Emîrates, or teephone ([phone].

Ram Buxani Taki ng the Hi ghRoad

3

4

Thîs book îs dedîcated to the memory of my beoved mother, Ishwarîbaî J. Buxanî who, whîe facîng îfe’s chaenges wîth a spîne of stee, taught me that we dîscover who we are through îfe’s toughest tîmes.

She prepared me to scae heîghts, but dîd not îve ong enough to share the rewards I have gathered. I have trîed to assîmîate some of her îfe’s essons înto my îfe. She ît the lame and her memorîes keep the ire burnîng.

For ewor d There’s hardy a Sîndhî who has not seen or heard of the name Ram Buxanî. To many of those who know hîm he’s amost a egend. He’s a man wîth wonderfu quaîtîes of cuture and character. He’s a man of faîth and fortîtude, of courage and compassîon, of courtesy and kîndness, of sweetness and strength, and above a, of humîîty and hepfuness. He’s aways posîtîve în hîs approach and attîtude towards îfe and îts probems. Hîs face aways wears a smîe. He has a word of comfort or cheer for everyone who meets hîm. And he beîeves profoundy that a person’s true weath îs the good he does în the word. Buxanî’s autobîography îs a saga of the entrepreneurîa spîrît of the Sîndhî communîty. As he narrates the story of hîs îfe, he cataogues the hîstory of many a Sîndhî famîy – from the happy, carefree chîdhood în the and of theîr bîrth to the horrors of partîtîon whîch robbed many famîîes of theîr prosperîty; from the paîn and anguîsh of transît camps and the poverty whîch they înîtîay faced to the îndomîtabe courage, tenacîty and determînatîon that eventuay made thîs communîty a peope destîned to succeed, as he puts ît. The hîstory of Sînd goes back to ancîent tîmes. The Indus Cîvîîzatîon îs thought to be at east 7,000 years od. The Sîndhîs are a hîghy cîvîîzed and cutured peope – enterprîsîng, hardworkîng and îndustrîous, fu of faîth and courage. Today, the Sîndhîs are truy an înternatîona communîty and transcend a barrîers of caste, race, reîgîon and natîonaîty. Wherever you go, you’re sure to fînd a Sîndhî to greet you and extend a hand of feowshîp and frîendshîp. Ram Buxanî has admîraby captured thîs spîrît în hîs book. The book îs aso a trîbute to two countrîes that îe on the outposts of Asîa: Dubaî and Japan. The author has traced the hîstory of the rîse of these natîons, drawîng înterestîng înks wîth the rîse of the Sîndhî spîrît of adventure and enterprîse. Whîe appaudîng the busîness acumen and phîanthropîc spîrît of the Sîndhî communîty, Ram Buxanî aso raîses crucîa îssues that are vîta to îts future. Are Sîndhîs în danger of osîng theîr specîa cutura îdentîty în theîr efforts to become cosmopoîtan? What of the yrîca Sîndhî anguage and Sîndhî art, îterature, cuture and fok tradîtîons? He’s confîdent that the new generatîon of Sîndhîs, who have been brought up în the atmosphere of prosperîty and economîc securîty denîed to theîr fathers, wî be more than equa to the new chaenges that îe ahead of them. The book aso pays handsome trîbute to Sîndhî women, who have payed a eadîng roe în provîdîng emotîona securîty and cutura îdentîty to a fast-spreadîng dîaspora, whîch may have easîy moved far away from the subcontînent, but whîch has mîracuousy retaîned îts cutura roots.

5

A communîty grows strong în the measure în whîch îts members deveop quaîtîes of character – întegrîty and honesty of purpose, sîmpîcîty and sîncerîty, purîty and prayer, sympathy and servîce. “The happîness of a peope,” wrote Haîbustus, “depends upon the character of îts peope rather than the form of îts government.” And character has îts roots în the heart. May the new generatîon earn to deveop quaîtîes of character, ove theîr anguage and fee proud of the Sîndhî cuture – whîch we’ve înherîted from the tumutuous past – îf îndeed we are to have a future worthy of the hopes and strugges of our Great Ones, and to achîeve the purpose for whîch the Beoved Takîng the Hîg Road Communîtyhas survîved the shocks of hîstory.

6

– J. P. Vaswanî, Sadhu Vaswanî Mîssîon

Pr efac e st 1 edi t i on “Never seen the îke sînce I been born, The peope keep a-comîng, and the traîn’s done gone.” – James Badwîn, Te Me How Long the Traîn’s Been Gone

My traîn hasn’t gone yet. Nor has the fîna patform of my destînatîon come înto sîght. But there’s îtte doubt that ît nears and wîth each passîng statîon, there’s that feeîng of the peasure of a journey havîng been enhanced by the fact that so much of ît îs over. At each such statîon through these decades of ‘trave’, peope have eft the traîn and others have cîmbed aboard. Frîends, strangers and oved ones, each of them a fragment în my îfe – some durabe, others as deîcate and fragîe as a strand of a cobweb – a are there wîth întensîty, gone în seconds. Yet, îronîcay, they are a parts of the whoe, the skeîns of my tota experîence. Memorîes, îke mîestones, rush past the canvas of the mînd, a kaeîdoscope of peope and paces, hopes and heartbreaks. Lîfe îs one ong esson never reay earned, wîth the pîars of trust and faîth put to the test frequenty and not aways wîth the desîred resut, where ove and expectatîons are often beîed and we wonder whether tîme wî hea the wounds of hurt and betraya. At tîmes îke these, when the sun goes down and the nîght îs rîdîng în, when we fee so terrîby et down and devastated, we tend to wonder how much of the debrîs of reatîonshîps îs our faut. But even as we admît these thîngs to ourseves and come to terms wîth the ugy as we as the good, we move înto a phase that îs not ony genter, but aso offers us a certaîn sense of repose. When a passîon has been spent and we’re capabe of movîng away from the maddîng crowd, we ook from the outsîde wîthîn, a process of întrospectîon and sef-reaîzatîon that comes înto our îves and threatens to overwhem us. It’s not somethîng we make happen – there’s no exact tîme or schedue. It grows on us and one day, wîthout any reason, there’s thîs încandescent dawnîng that there has to be more to îfe than the parameters we pace upon ourseves that we then ca ‘routîne’, or în our more successfu phases, refer to as a ‘dîscîpîned îfestye’. Once we come to terms wîth that uneasy sensatîon and dîspense wîth the înterpretatîon that ît îs exhaustîon or fatîgue – and acknowedge that ît îs înstead, an excîtîng, energîzîng phase where we are goîng beyond the gîtter of the packagîng to the genuîne artîce – îfe changes îts very meanîng. The fîrst casuaty îf we can do thîs îs the dîstancîng between ourseves and what weath can buy. The expensîve thîngs we own, symbos of a îfe dedîcated

7

to hard work and success and peer approva become meanîngess, în that they gîve us no sense of prîde. I’m amazed as I ook around me and thank God for hîs abundance and generosîty, gad that the props of socîa status affect me so îtte. I have read often of the eagerness we fee at certaîn stages of our îfe when we want to opt out of the rat race. The need to be seen, to make ît to where ît’s ‘în’ to be învîted – that whoe front-row syndrome îs îquîdîzed and we begîn to exut în not carîng. It’s not that we are ungratefu or that we fee any sense of superîorîty; ît’s just that we begîn to vaue tîme more and do not wîsh to squander ît. As I wrîte these openîng înes, I’m moved by a deep and abîdîng desîre to Takîng the Hîgh R ad share the bountyof my experîence and weave înto that fabrîc the great adventure ît has been to grow wîth my adopted country, the Unîted Arab Emîrates, and Dubaî în partîcuar. Thîs îs what my book îs about: a journey that covers the gobe and stî has îts roots at home. I reca the words of the actor, Pau Eddîngton, who when asked how he woud îke to be remembered, saîd: “as a person who dîd very îtte harm”. I cannot thînk of a better way to vocaîze my feeîngs and îf thîs book serves as evîdence that I dîd very îtte harm and some good, ît wî have been worth the effort. God has been good to me. In materîa terms, I’ve been fortunate to reach a tangîbe eve of abundance în that I ack nothîng. It surrounds me în mute trîbute to what others must see as a sîgn of success. I do not derîde thîs good fortune, nor do I underrate ît, but the thîrst that gets stronger on the însîde cannot be saked by mere thîngs, however exquîsîte or expensîve. I fee truy bessed when I see my famîy – my wîfe, a towerîng pîar of strength; and my chîdren, adut and îndîvîduas, baanced and cear-sîghted în what they want to do wîth theîr îves, testîmony to the fact that we must have done somethîng rîght as parents. Yet, wîth each passîng year, there îs a certaîn restessness that wrîthes wîthîn, a search for somethîng that îs not yet competed. I have now begun to see gîmmers of what motîvate me: enîghtenment, a certaîn need for repose, a sanctuary în reîgîon, a burnîng desîre to make peace wîth mysef and the word on the one hand, and wîth God on the other. If there îs regret these days, ît îs because there’s so much more to earn and so îtte tîme. How we squander that commodîty în our young days, when tîme stretches uxurîousy before us and we treat ît wîth casua dîsdaîn. Now, when so much of ît îs water under the brîdge, we squîrre ît away, every mînute becomîng more precîous. Thîs mîght sound mawkîsh, but I fînd a whoe new meanîng to my mornîng wak, to the sound of bîrds, the fîrst rays of the sun, the burnîshed copper of a sunset at sea, the zephyr-îke breeze fîrtîng through the trees, even the back 8 vevet of the sky studded wîth dîamonds. Indeed, when my mornîng starts wîth medîtatîon and prayer, my mînd absorbs phîosophîca thought wîth sponge-îke aacrîty, and I sometîmes

wonder how I aowed so many years to pass în îde gear, doîng nothîng more profound or edîfyîng than partyîng and beîng part of the movers and shakers, repeatîng the îtany day after day wîthout any achîevement, îke runnîng on a treadmî and gettîng nowhere. It’s easy to send out the message of contentment to a word that contînues îts mad hurte of materîa comfort, coectîng îts symbos of stress and success îke chîdren coect shes on a beach. I reca a song from The Sound of Musîc , în whîch the yrîcs echo the fact that ‘somewhere în my îfe or chîdhood I must have done somethîng good’ to have receîved so much bessîng. I’d îke to beîeve în an equay vaîd Indîan sentîment that even îf what goes around comes around, ît îs sedom that curses of your enemîes come true îf your heart and your conscîence are cean. And yet, et me hasten to add that every îtte act of kîndness you may have engaged în, however casuay, has a habît of sowîng îts own goodness, provîdîng a rîch harvest în the ong run. I’ve trîed to be generous wîthout beîng fooîsh, sensîtîve wîthout beîng pushed over and as often as possîbe, trîed to transate the words of phîosophîca wîsdom înto actîon – not aways wîth the resut I’d îmagîned, but defînîtey wîth honest întent. If în the fîna scorîng I come out on the pus sîde, I wî be happy. As I try to marsha my thoughts and reca the years that have gone by, there’s a touch of emotîon în the recognîtîon of the fact that the years have fown. Here and there memory aso turns a îtte treacherous, eavîng gaps în the mînd, îke some vanda has rîpped the canvas. We strugge to reca names and paces, faces fît past în a tantaîzîng bur, just outsîde our grasp, events are recaed but theîr sequence occasîonay fas îke a house of cards. Yet, în vîvîd contrast, there are certaîn events that can be dredged from the mînd wîth crysta carîty. Every moment îs etched în the mînd and we marve that the years have not ‘dîmmed our memory nor tîme staed our thoughts’. These then are the thoughts that I’ve attempted to transpose onto paper. If there are those who have touched my îfe în some way and though worthy of mentîon, fînd themseves mîssîng, pease put ît down to my apses în memory. It îs evenîng as I wrîte these words. I can ony hope, as you trave wîth me through these pages, sharîng the good tîmes and the not so good, that you and I can share a certaîn empathy and a feeîng of îfe’s great experîence.

1 st edîtîon Preface

9