Walking Wisdom

by Gotham Chopra

  For me, it was literally an awakening, a flicker in my own consciousness. There I was, having been exposed to so much my whole life, having access to my father—surely I needed to tap that well. Meanwhile, I also reflected more on all of my dealings with Cleo. From the time Candice and I first got her—a lonely rescue mutt with “food issues”—Cleo has been a wellspring of life lessons, delivered in a way that only her family could ever decipher or appreciate. At least, that’s what we told ourselves.

  With all that in mind, I decided a meeting of the minds was in order. One Sunday I brought my dad and my dog together, brewed some coffee, and cracked open a bag full of treats (Greenies for Cleo and brownies for Papa and me). My goal: to see if my dad’s and my dog’s philosophies on life aligned. We talked about Nicholas and Cleo, some of the more memorable events from their lives and the qualities we observed and admired most in them. The result is this book.

  As we laughed at our memories, my father reminded me that many of the qualities we were enumerating were not only largely instinctive to dogs, but also generally present in humans.

  “If anything,” my father told me as we started to dig deeper into the idea, “we often create barriers that neutralize these instincts. To identify and nurture these qualities in our dogs is to cultivate them in our own lives, which ultimately helps us feel more fulfilled every day we exist.

  “There is a genealogy to all of this,” my dad continued, unable to resist the temptation to veer into his favorite arena of science and evolution. “Google it,” another of his favorite expressions these days. “Tens of thousands of years ago, wolves and humans competed for food. But over time, that relationship transformed. Former foes became friends as the two species recognized in each other kindred spirits. Wolves—the genetic predecessors to dogs—live in family units just like we do, with two parents and a small number of pups.”

  Turns out he’s right. The journey toward dogs becoming our best friends all started roughly between 12,000 and 15,000 years ago. We’re talking hunter-gatherer time here for both humans and wolves, well before human settlements began appearing and our early agricultural culture set in. As part of our “civilized process,” humans began cooking meat over fire. The aromatic smell drew certain wolves toward these early settlements. When the human residents discovered that some of these wolves weren’t so threatening and might in fact prove to be helpful in accomplishing certain tasks, they freely offered up some of the meat to keep the wolves happy. Over time, a true codependence evolved: Packs of wolves and groups of nomadic men went out hunting together. The trade-off: With their superior smell and speed, wolves proved to be tremendous assets in tracking potential kills. In exchange, back at camp, humans cooked the meat and fed the wolves. An added bonus: The wolves—knowing where their bread was buttered, or in this case, where their steak was grilled—proved to be great guards against whoever might jeopardize this convenient arrangement they’d formed with their benefactors.

  In time, this marriage of convenience transformed as many do into a genuine “love marriage,” as my grandparents call it. Between that ancient wolf and the dog sitting at your feet came the interim evolutions of defender, watchdog, and shepherd. In short—actually over several millennia, but who’s counting—the loyal domesticated dog with whom we form our inseparable emotional bonds has maintained many of the qualities and instincts of that original wolf searching for cooked meat. Go ahead and test it with a medium-rare T-bone. You’ll see what I mean.

  Take it a step forward, or backward in this case, and you can identify the connections we have with our dogs. My father now recalled some of the many articles he read back when we first got Nicholas and he aspired to become an immediate dog expert. “Dogs can read us—our behavior—and figure out what we want. They can read human social cues. It’s pretty remarkable considering that even the chimpanzee, our closest animal relative with whom we are genetically aligned to the tune of ninety-six percent, cannot understand some of our gestures the way a dog can.”

  Again the research and genesis of humans and dogs reinforces this. As humans and dogs evolved together over thousands of years, the ability to communicate with us became part of dog DNA.

  “Quite simply,” my father concluded, “dogs became our best friends not by some random accident, but because of a relationship that evolved over time. Physical needs, emotional needs, psychological needs—we filled them for dogs and they filled them for us.” My father turned to me. “Sounds like a pretty healthy relationship to me.”

  Here’s the simple stuff: Dogs make us physically healthier by making us exercise. They make us emotionally healthier by asking for caresses that soothe not just their bodies, but our souls as well. The mere act of petting a dog can lower blood pressure. Seriously—go conduct your own experiment. And for many people, taking their dog for a walk—if even on a city sidewalk—is as close to nature as they get.

  Talk to the experts: While different breeds have been designed for different purposes—from retrievers designed to help fishermen retrieve their catch to herding dogs who work with livestock to toy poodles designed solely for their companionship and lap-friendly size—all dogs have the universal ability to communicate with humans.

  But is it possible to take this relationship to the next level?

  To make it spiritual?

  THE GREATEST LESSON I’ve learned from my father over the years is “Never take yourself too seriously.” Of course, in our culture, we have a tendency to do the exact opposite, to quickly and fanatically build ideas around people and expectations of them, and then be disappointed when they fail to meet them. Often, we then topple those same pedestals on top of which we just placed someone.

  Living and working in Hollywood, where pretty young actresses looking for their big break are plentiful, the expression “Men are dogs” is all too accurate. As a happily married man and father, I like to think of myself separate from this lot, and yet I know I too am a dog underneath. Not simply because at times I seem to be hormonally driven, but because I am an instinctive animal capable of raw emotion and primal behavior, as well as love, loyalty, emotional intelligence, and deep introspection. I contemplate things—like how to live a better life, how to contribute meaningfully to society, how to raise my son and care for my parents—and I like to think I am always willing to listen to some valuable advice. I am not presumptuous to think I know it all, no matter who my father is, especially when he tells me that he’s got a long way to go himself.

  “I try not to live my life worrying about what others think. A core spiritual quality is nonjudgment, which is not just about not judging others, but also not living your life worried about others judging you.”

  I was reassured. We were on our second pot of coffee.

  “One more thing,” my father added. “Spirituality does not start and stop. It’s a ubiquitous part of life, in every moment, every encounter and relationship. Every nook and cranny of our lives is filled with the unfolding experience of self.”

  He grabbed a treat and handed it to Krishu, who ordered Cleo to sit and then rewarded her with it. My father smiled. In his interactions with my son, I sometimes sense he is in fact doing it the way he would with me if he were doing it all over again.

  “All of our interactions with each other should be filled with meaning and significance.” He nodded. “What could be more spiritual than that?”

  Chapter One

  Are you a dog person, Papa?

  I’m supposed to say yes, right?

  Right.

  Yes, I am. I was not a dog person until you guys showed up.

  And?

  And . . . the more I’m learning about animals in general, the more I’m understanding that most of them are emotional beings. They form social hierarchies. They build closely knit and nurturing bonds with their offspring. They sing and play. And some have a degree of awareness, almost to the point of self-awareness such that they have a sense of humor. Animals and humans also form special connection
s through limbic resonance, cementing their physiological and emotional well-being. Mammals have a limbic brain and develop emotional and spiritual relationships with us. I probably should spend more time with animals.

  IN MY FAMILY, THE FAMILY IS THE THING. WE ARE PROfoundly close. I live a block and a half from my sister. I take my son to her house for breakfast pretty much every morning. Our families have dinner together about three days a week, and at least once over the weekend. Our children refer to each other as siblings and not just to each other. “Cousins” is an awkward term to them because it implies an emotional distance beyond brother and sister, which is how they’ve felt about one another from the moment they entered the world.

  Mallika and I grew up much the same way with our so-called cousins. Even though we are separated by continents, we still refer to one another as siblings. Growing up with so many “brothers” and “sisters” was a thrill. Entire generational factions formed amongst older siblings, younger ones, tomboyish ones, girly ones, sporty ones, geeky ones, and so on and so on. Splinter groups formed between baseball fans and cricket fans, football fans and fútbol fans—there was even the Barbie bloc, with Diwali Barbie facing off against Malibu Barbie.

  These days, most of us have gone beyond those mere surface differences to once again count ourselves as siblings. And now our kids, who I suppose are technically “second cousins,” refer to each other as siblings too.

  When it comes to adults, the same familiarity applies. Mallika and I call my father’s younger brother “Chota Papa,” which in Hindi means “small papa.” His children call my father “Bara Papa,” or “big papa.” All of this can cause considerable confusion around the dinner table. Tara—Mallika’s older daughter, a little more than eight years old and one of the elders of this generation—recently fielded the question from one of her classmates: Are Indians like Mormons? The girl had heard Tara reference the exploits of her countless “brothers” and “sisters.”

  “You mean like on the HBO show?” Tara responded.

  And about “big papa,” in this case the guru otherwise known as Deepak Chopra. Mallika and I have always called him “Papa.” We never really got into the whole “Dad” thing. These days both of us talk to Papa at least four to five times a day. We are the reason wireless carriers created family calling plans. You’re welcome.

  But there really is only one anchor in the family. Mom. We’ve often joked that while my father talks it, my mom walks it. He may be great at coming up with lessons and laws that solve everything from stress management to existential madness, but it’s Mom’s grace, compassion, selflessness, and softness that are a shining example to everyone she comes into contact with. I am clearly my father’s child—a dreamer, a creator, a wanderer with hopeless impatience and driving ambition—but the reason I am the way I am goes far beyond genetics. The mere fact that I’ve made it this far, succeeded in finding an amazing woman to be my wife, and together with her started a family, is due to the emotional tapestry that my mother has woven. She’s the one, not only in our immediate family, but also all throughout our extended family and our many siblings, who provides the emotional bedrock on top of which we all stand. When the shit hits the fan, no one calls Papa for advice. We call Mom.

  So in May of 2009, when my mom got a call that her father had been admitted to the hospital, it took her just five minutes to contact the travel agent and book her flight to New Delhi.

  Nana, as we called him, had been on his early morning walk when he collapsed.

  New Delhi in May is feverishly hot—intolerably so—with temperatures in the triple digits at the crack of dawn. Despite this, both my nana and my grandmother, Nani, insist on going on their daily walks. Of course, considering that they are both almost ninety and still active, it’s hard to argue that they should let up on their routine. (That routine, by the way, involves their going on separate walks at separate times so they can meet up with their respective cronies and gossip while they stroll leisurely around the circular park.) Nana, in particular, brings a dry realism to these walks, as he does to most everything else at this stage of his life. Often when we talk on the phone he will tell me about the latest member of the group who has failed to show up. No further explanation required.

  Nana and the rest of his buddies accept each absence with a stark detachment that is both ironic and comical. They are resigned to their stage of life and watch and comment on the world with this in mind.

  “I don’t know why we even tolerate Pakistan,” Nana had remarked to me on a recent trip to India. Politics—especially its role in the strained relationship between India and its neighbor—is a constant source of discussion and debate for Nana.

  “Maybe because it is a nuclear power,” I proposed. “And any act of aggression could quickly escalate to something far more dangerous.”

  Nana waved his hand dismissively. “That would take years to happen.” Years, Nana had clearly calculated, in which he would likely leave us.

  Nana has been preparing for his own demise for some time now, something not uncommon within his group of buddies. Nevertheless, because the walkers take the narrow path two at a time, their fleet requires recalibration when one of their crew fails to show.

  “It’s not easy,” Nana once told me. “Who walks alongside whom depends on who is a talker and who is a listener. Take Ramesh,” he said, referring to a friend he’d had for close to forty years. “He passed away two months ago. Well, Ramesh walked with Arun, and he’s always rattling on about this, that, and the next thing. No one wants to walk with that fellow, so now I have to.”

  “Your grandfather says he likes to listen,” Nani interrupted us. “But he’s only doing it because he’s losing his hearing.”

  Nana smiled and nodded. Indeed Nani knows all his tricks.

  Because he walks every day, we like to take Nana a new pair of sneakers when we visit him in India. But since Nana has been convinced for roughly the last decade that he’s going to die imminently, he now refuses to accept new sneakers, which, he believes, will be wasted on him. He’s nothing if not frugal. Since I have the same shoe size as Nana, I will often wear a new pair of kicks for about a week . . . or until they are no longer new. I’d gotten used to skidding through dusty construction sites, moonwalking down grimy parts of Hollywood Boulevard, or doing my best Kobe Bryant imitation on the Venice Beach basketball courts before packing them into a box that doesn’t match their brand. All this so that Nana can accept the shoes with minimal guilt.

  But for this trip my mom didn’t have the usual time to gather gifts and plan her trip. As she rushed to gather her things in San Diego, where my parents have a home, she called to say she would be leaving from LA the following morning.

  “Gotham,” she said, waiting a beat, “I may be gone for a while this time.”

  “Okay,” I murmured back on the phone. “We’ll be fine, I think.”

  “Yes, you’ll be fine. Candice takes care of everything,” she said warmly.

  The moment lingered.

  “It’s your father I’m worried about.”

  . . .

  AS FAR BACK as I can recall, my father has always worked, and worked hard. Chief of staff at a prestigious local hospital and an associate professor at an equally highbrow university in Massachusetts where we grew up, he focused on moving forward with a singular fixation on his own professional path. Somewhere along the line, this obsession took a more spiritual shape, and his life and ambition were transformed. No longer part of the traditional medical community, he pioneered a new one that bridged conventional treatment with the ancient healing wisdoms of the past. As he blazed a trail through that wilderness, at times called out by cynics, skeptics, traditionalists—and dare I say racists—he did it with a passion and zeal that may suggest he was impervious to their rants. But he wasn’t. So even as Mallika and I struggled to maintain some level of normalcy to our lives in suburban Boston, where being the children of an Indian doctor was unique enough, let alone one who was
gaining notoriety for talking about such quasi-fringe practices as yoga and meditation, it was my mom who stood loyally by my father’s side.

  It was the commitment she had signed on for when the two of them were married when he was twenty-four years old and she was twenty-two. It was the commitment she had determined to honor. Within months of their marriage in India, my parents took off to a new life in glamorous Plainfield, New Jersey. They built that life in earnest, my father working all day in the hospital and then moonlighting in the emergency room on the night shift. Within a month, they bought a color TV and a Volkswagen Beetle, and the rest was history. Sure, there were a few bumps along the road, but nothing too catastrophic. And here they were almost forty years later.

  So as my father gained acceptance through many of those years for the work he was doing, traveling to every corner of the globe to speak and teach, it was Mom who reminded him where he had come from, and equally important, where he was to come back to.

  Later that evening, my parents arrived in Los Angeles. We all got together at Mallika’s house for dinner. The most recent word from India was that Nana had stabilized but was still unconscious in the hospital. His heart was weak and he might need bypass surgery. His age, however, made the decision less certain. My mother’s older sister was hopeful my mom would be there soon to help—check that—to make the decision.

  “Is Bara Nana [big nana] going to die?” Tara asked as we silently ate dinner that night. My mother looked at her with tears in her eyes.

  “No, Bara Nana will be just fine,” Papa said, holding his grandaughter’s gaze.

  “Can I have strawberry milk?” little Leela (Tara’s younger sister) asked. Since birth, she’s had a knack for timing and getting the things she wants, including knowing when the adults’ defenses were down.

  “Sure.” My sister nodded and got up to retrieve the milk.