the spaces between us

2011-05-11T12:03:00.004+05:30

writing needs leisure. but sometimes we need to write when there is no time. usually we write because the words simply flow out. but sometimes the swirling words get clogged and evaporate, and writing needs to be a process of unclogging and condensation. in these times of perpetual tension and writing blocks, of mounting deadlines and low productivity, where facebook one liners and the instant gratification therein seem to cover up the need for longer, more boring, mostly solitary excursions in public spaces- can i try write again?

wanted: ignorance

2010-01-27T23:56:00.002+05:30

i am bright enough to know i am not that bright. i am cool enough to know i am quite dowdy. i am intellectual enough to know i am psuedo. i wish i knew less.

nation as god

2010-01-19T15:41:00.002+05:30

much of last month went into one of those ridiculous promotion related courses that we lecturers have to do. now i am not going to rant about that course. as such all my friends have heard enough and more about it, and were looking forward to its end much more than me. but i wanted to share this.

now the first half hour of each day was called a review session, where we were to elect a chairperson among ourselves, observe a two minute silence, review the previous day's sessions and also come up with a 'thought for the day', to top it all. and one thought school was over. a prayer was optional and the first day we had some chanting of mantras. a few of us decided that we needed to do something about this and managed to convert the silence into a prayer thereby managing to avoid any prayer. so a secular victory? yes, but we couldnt do anything about another mandatory ritual- ending the day's proceedings with the national anthem. its logic never even came up for discussion.

what was also striking was the number of speakers who managed to assert their pride as Indians no matter what subject they were dealing with- teaching methods, respect for teachers, clothes of students, india's foreign policy, the actions of indian courts. and for even a mildly critical query, they felt the need to re-assert their Indian-ness, as no answer can better national pride. if someone persisted with the questioning, they aggressively retorted with - 'i cant help it if you dont feel proud as an Indian'. and if any of these starlwarts were doing the last session of the day, their chests puffed a little more while singing the national anthem.

so the nation has become our god, that which cannot be contested. even for a generation which is understood to be over the nation and for a profession considered to be woefully archaic in the liberalised era, nationalism exists as a convenient and reassuring marker of identity and its symbols are constantly invoked. this everydayness of nationalism is tougher to counter than the omnipresence of religion.

net me not

2009-12-11T23:11:00.001+05:30

I tried so hard to not be a television addict that i didnt realise when i became an internet addict :)

word weary

2009-10-07T00:22:00.002+05:30

My maternal grandfather was a man of strong will and many quirks. It’s a lethal combination, as is apparent. In the last decade of his life, this lead to many exasperating experiences for his immediate family. One of these quirks was a penchant for going into ‘mauna vratams’, i.e. taking a vow to not utter a single word for a whole day. Given his restless nature and levels of disenchantment with religion- something he probably didn’t acknowledge himself- a day of silence did not mean a day devoted to meditation or quiet reading or even tele-viewing. In fact he chose those very days to visit sundry relatives and friends, carry out random tasks at the bank or worse schedule important meetings. These led to hilarious and rather embarrassing situations (for those who accompanied him as translator/interpreter/whatever) where he would communicate through writing and sign language and occasionally give into an outburst induced by the non comprehending faces of those unfortunate souls he was meeting up with.

What was about this vow that he sought to take but could implement only in letter not in spirit? Why am I thinking about it now? The past few months have been the wordiest in my life, I have been incessantly talking. To different kinds of people. In different tones. Persuading, requesting, questioning. Angrily, despondently, formally, informally. Planning, discussing, updating. Typing, chatting, writing. Wondering what had to be said and what not to be said. Analysing how things were said- by me, by others. Putting down the phone, and then starting all over again.

And when it all got over, without a victory to celebrate, the one thing I wanted most was silence. That’s when my grandfather’s clumsy experiments came to mind. He was never a garrulous type, but he wasn’t the silent one either. And yet he wished days of no conversations. I need to block out too, but I keep getting back to it. I seek silence, but keep having to say it. Usually when I am done with something, I feel empty for any communication. But this time, the words keep flowing, I don’t even know whether I am making any sense. I even feel detached from my words- it’s a weird feeling where I don’t remember the last words I had just uttered or one part of my brain can see me saying things and wondering what the hell am I up to. I am perpetually distracted by myself, lol.

Yes, I do need to take a vow, a word fast. But will my genes allow me to implement it?

don't call me

2009-07-22T20:46:00.003+05:30

don't call me
I can't bear the phone ringing
it interrupts my nothingness

don't call me
I have nothing to say
no news, no gossip, no bitching

don't call me
I don't want to run down the world
say my life is in shambles
though it very well may be

don't call me
I am tired
of saying the same things
over and over again

I am tired
of hearing my own voice

Yamuna ki dhaara

2009-05-14T16:48:00.008+05:30

Can non-vegetarians support ethical treatment of animals? There is a rational and affirmative response to this, but a question like this instantly puts you on the backfoot. I felt myself in this rather inconvenient posture for the two days I was last in delhi. It was my shortest trip to delhi perhaps, but also one of the most hassle free one. Thanks to the delhi metro. By some strange coincidence, i found myself entering the new Yamuna Bank metro station on the first day of its operation, complete with dozens of TV news channel crews, officials and those saddest of creatures- protesters. i barely knew what the protest was about, but had to fight the instinct to go join them because i could get late for the meeting i was heading for- and plus I am rather metro illiterate and had to find my way about.

Inside the metro- possibly the first one to chug out of that station, as i sat contemplating the possible reason for the protest (was it those barely heard and heard only to be ridiculed environmentalists against the commonwealth games village or was there something about the metro station itself) I found a mike thrust on my face by an exuberant woman belonging to the creed which now rules our lives- television journalists. The reporter wanted me to speak on how convenient the metro was for me (jeez, come on, could i possibly have something negative to say about THE metro?)and even as i started to talk about how the protesters were probably making a point to be considered, she cut me short. Her script was being trampled on and she took over to salvage it- jumping up and about though the metro ride was completely non bumpy, saying how while environmentalists were worrying about the impact on the yamuna floodplain, 'senior metro officials' had already clarified that there was no such danger and everything had been taken care of. So with her clean chit we can all go back to enjoying our beloved metro.

I love delhi metro. It is easily one of the best things to happen to delhi. People have been talking about the big role Delhi Metro is playing in inculcating a sense of belonging and pride in the city, a sense Delhi-ites were supposed to lack in unlike Mumbai and Kolkatta wallas. And even if was aimed at the middle class, its users are not at all just the vehicle owning, auto affording people. And yet, the metro is by no means infallible. Its construction has meant massive tree felling (look at the completely illogical Airport to CP direct line and the impact on the ridge), demolition of historically significant structures, possible erasures of history with all the digging in the Mehrauli area for instance, not to mention the accidents that have taken lives of workers and others. Yet the metro's reputation remains untouched, especially in contrast to the kind of villification directed at the BRT. Now we can add to this list, a list not really found in our front pages and detailed analyses, the negative impact on the yamuna.

The yamuna bank metro station is located on the Yamuna floodplain. It is a major station, as the route here splits into two leading to Vaishali and Noida. It is a station located at the surface level. As such it is a violation of the high court orders according to which no construction or habitation can take place within 300 metres of the river. This was the same order used to demolish the Yamuna Pushta slum cluster. The cause of the river's right to live used so passionately to drive out hapless people living in the place for decades however fizzled out when the question of the other violations came up. These causes were more powerful, the progress of religion (Akshardam) and the religion of progress (the commonwealth games village). The court threw out the case against the monstrosity that is the Akshardam temple despite the very strong case that DDA had sold to the temple trust land that didnt even belong to it. Today the temple has entered the tourist map of delhi, complete with food courts, boat rides (the river it has helped destroy is so choked that no boat can move in those waters)and what not even as the other monuments remain neglected, encroached, and vandalised.

The games village itself was initially planned as much needed hostels for Delhi University and the metro line touted as a connection between the campus and the hostels. At what stage it became flats aimed at private buyers like the Asiad complex one doesnt know. Now with the downturn the DDA is busy trying to bailout the private developers who had over priced their apartments like the rest of the realty sector in those boom years. A faded banner greets the entrance to the construction site, reminding us that these constructions are at the cost of the river, but who cares?

We could ask, even if all this is valid, is there still any point in protesting now; now that the construction is over or is not going to be halted. It could be at most symbolic protest, to register the double standards and the anti-poor nature of the courts, law, administration and the selective use of environmentalism. Even as the symbolic value is important in itself, the issues raised include those the state have to address and cannot merely shrug off with a 'whats done is done' liner. The Yamuna Jiye Abhiyaan submitted a memorandum which also higlighted the loss of livelihood of the farmers cultivating the floodplain land. The issue of just compensation and rehabilition of the farmers and for all those displaced due to slum clearances, constructions and beautification plans has to be addressed and cannot be as easily shrugged off. Nor can the issue- immensely complex and of vital importance- of saving the river in the city.

I remember this old painting which appeared in some newspaper years ago, of the flowing yamuna waters hitting the walls of the red fort. That painting by an anonymous painter is etched in my memory and I hope I have preserved it somewhere. I hope someday there will be enough people who can tilt the powers to be to revive and preserve the river and the humanity of the city I love. In this hope and in the struggles that are going on, I find strength to deal with the guilt I will feel everytime I board the metro and cross the river.

For more info see http://yamunajiyeabhiyaan.blogspot.com/

sigh

2009-04-21T21:17:00.002+05:30

its here
i can see it
the end of the road
nothing ahead though
the promised beginning is nowhere to be seen
sigh...

my pink chaddi and u

2009-04-14T12:30:00.002+05:30

since you hack me, i know i am strong. i know i bug you. i know i trouble you. i know you have no response to me. you dont have the guts to argue with me. Thanks to you I know more about others. I know how free, free media is. I know how conformist innovative communication can be. every abuse, every act of trolling is a sign of your frustration, your weakness.

I like the way my pink chaddi makes you go red.

aaj rang hai

2009-03-12T14:52:00.002+05:30

A few days back, there was a gang of kids on my door demanding donation for a dargah on the occasion of holi. My usual answer to all these religious requests is that I dont believe and hence wont donate. I tried giving that this time, but all the qawwalis I love floated in my head even as I was trying to explain atheism. The Nizammudin dargah in Delhi is the closest I have come to getting a sense of what spirituality could be about.

So I put some money in that basket covered with green chunari, justifying to myself that since I have occasionally given into cute or pesky kids in the name of an akhand path or a jagran, and in my student days got bulldozed by my communist comrades to contributing to durga puja as well, the 'pir' also deserves a share.

The other 'chanda' collectors however have no use for your soul, once the money disappears into their donation box. These kids however wanted me to get some more notes, close my eyes and hold them against the basket, and then spend this blessed money on myself. They went on condescendingly explaining and re-explaining the importance of this act, reading my refusal as an inability to understand the ritual. The qawwalis stopped playing, Nusrat's voice switched off, I was back from Nizamuddin to my doorstep and buzzed them off.

bridge over

2009-02-25T20:33:00.003+05:30

there were bridges to be built
generations abridged
many old ones to be mended
before the next monsoon

it will pour again
but no one needs them now

the other side
has crossed over the horizon

taking away
analgesic wafts
moisturised wrinkles
pendulum swings
typewriting knocks

I often see
cotton swabs from diabetic tests
a pack of cards, 52 in all
the jokers as well
smiling on
headsets, unused
sweets unhidden, neglected

sometimes I encounter
over temple bells and remote switches
an impish smile
iron will
winsome persuasion
emotional drifts
conflictual trysts

the bridge I walk on now
is another
a bridge over
stories untold
waves threatening to straighten out
struggling
losing
becoming memories

bridge over
stilling waters

bombay meri jaan

2009-02-22T15:26:00.003+05:30

(This piece was written during the MNS campaign against Bihari and U.P migrants. Then the november attack happened and this went into temporary back burner. With elections round the corner, this issue of migration and outsiders is going to flare up not just in Maharashtra but other states as well, Punjab being one of them.)

Every vacation to Delhi in my childhood would see this grand debate between me and my uncle. I guess my lawyer uncle enjoyed provoking kids and arguments away from the court room, so every year the two of us – a pre teen kid and a mid thirties man- would stoutly defend their respective cities. Bombay or Delhi? Which is better? Which has better roads? Better cars? Friendly people? Better places of interest? It was as profound as ‘Gateway of India’ from my side to ‘India Gate’ from his!

Looking back, I can see we were both defending our ‘homes’. After all, we were both, despite that huge age gap, south Indians who had grown up outside the south. We debated about our homes in a combination of Tamil, English and Hindi. Though my Hindi then was much ridiculed as Bambaiya Hindi.

I grew up as a south Indian in Bombay. During the period when the Shiv Sena had declared that south Indians were outsiders depriving Maharashtrians of jobs and hence should leave the city. I don’t know how many did leave. We didn’t then and when my family moved, ironically to Delhi, it wasn’t because of the Shiv Sena. In Delhi, I slowly forgot the Marathi I knew and it took me a very long time to accept Delhi as ‘home’. Years later I learnt about the Shiv Sena when the Ayodhya controversy was hotting up leading to 6 December and as I began to take positions on Hindutva, secularism and communalism. The Sena had by then found that Muslims made a better enemy, a better outsider, than south Indians.

Now as the MNS and its parent Shiv Sena try outdo each other in the vitriolic campaign against migrants, this time around from Bihar and UP, I am reminded of my childhood. Particularly of our neighbours in Bombay, a Gujarati-Marathi family, who were very important in our lives. While my parents retain fleeting correspondence with their south Indian friends in Bombay, everlasting fondness is reserved for this special family. ‘They were the best neighbours ever’- is how both families remember each other. While it was shared childhood for us kids, for our parents the basis of that enduring relationship lay not just in the daily borrowings, mutual baby sitting, little outings, shared festivals and different cuisines which characterise neighbourly existence. It also lay in shared everyday experiences of very tough times. Like the whole period when both the textile mills where uncle and aunty worked were under strike. My dad was with Premier Automobiles then and there was the famous strike in that factory as well. Those were times of irregular salaries and uncertain futures; meanwhile home loans had to be paid, kids had to be sent to school, and the household run.

Around the time of the Gujarat genocide (an event which I think shaped the sensibilities of a whole generation just like the Babri demolition had for mine), I learnt that Uncle has always been a staunch Shiv Sena supporter. And aunty made enough communal statements last time I spoke to her. Now as the anti-migrant campaign has become a constant headline, I wonder at how uncle reconciled his support for Shiv Sena with a close association with south Indians living next door at the time when the Sena was in the flush of its anti-south Indian campaign.

This sounds like a reassuring story. Often we look at instances of friendships between warring and prejudiced communities- Hindus and Muslims, Indians and Pakistanis, Jews and Palestinians, as resources of hope. We cite them to backup our assertion that ‘ordinary’ people don’t indulge in hate politics and are manipulated and humanity survives in these friendships. But this recollection does not make this point. Rather it makes the contrary one.

I don’t think we can dismiss Shiv Sena’s or MNS’s activities as one of goondaism by a few lumpen disgruntled youth. Just like we cannot dismiss communal pogroms and riots of Mumbai and Gujarat as the handiwork of a few. We know that people killed, looted and raped their Muslim neighbours. Or covertly supported the attacks. We also know that people protected their Muslim neighbours at great personal risk. Hence from our experiences of living together and sharing joys and sorrows, we cannot conclude that the majority of the oppressor community was not involved. Because it is, in its collective consciousness, even as individuals have acted heroically due to personal convictions or political values.

When uncle managed to retain his friendship with us (and does to this day), it was not an exception. He could simultaneously occupy both realms- of friendship with the ‘enemy’ as well as resentment against the ‘outsider’. One of these sentiments won, perhaps because there was no real confrontation involved, but it is not a given that it would have.

For all of us who wish to understand the deep roots of biases and prejudices that regressive fundamentalist politics tap into, we need to examine this co-existence, this possibility of ‘living with the enemy’, in people’s lives.. Not only as we have done till now, as evidence of triumphant humanism or resources for conflict resolution. Instead, it should constitute the entry point into exploring the dynamics of collective ‘cosmopolitan’ co-existence of our times.

We cannot assert false truisms like ‘ordinary people don’t believe in hate’ anymore. Ordinary people may not believe in killing or throwing people out. But they share the resentment, paradoxically while maintaining friendships. This resentment is what unifies them with the lumpen activists and organised right wing political fronts. They lend silent support. Which can get tapped to active participation. Any time. As we saw in Gujarat. As we may see again. May be in Bombay, may be not. I do hope not.

Greer and chaddis

2009-02-16T22:24:00.004+05:30

I finally got it. While its symbolism was targetted at the RSS 'knickerdaaris' which is masculinist, The Pink Chaddi campaign rung some bell in my head -about underwear, feminism and women. Now I figure its Germaine Greer's The Madwoman's Underclothes'. Here is Greer

on underwear

'In Australia if you leave your room in a terrible mess, your mother says: 'Look at this room . . . it's like a madwoman's underclothes.'

on pubs

'When I first came to Sydney what I fell in love with was not the harbour or the gardens or anything else but a pub called The Royal George, or, more particularly with a group of people who used to go there every night … and sit there and talk…'

and for all those whose sense of decency and taste was offended by 'chaddi' talk

' The journey of woman's life defies order and good taste - if she is lucky.

warming up to mush

2009-02-14T16:19:00.002+05:30

The early nineties saw the country’s entry into the new liberalised age, the entry of Valentine’s day into the nation’s vocabulary and my entry into teenage. The concomitant entrance of the first two was not a coincidence, though my foray into teenage was. As Valentine’s day became more popular, my ire against it grew at the nauseating celebration of patriarchal romantic love, stigmatisation of singlehood and the unbridled commercialism to which it was put to use. In those years nothing could be so irritating as red roses, red heart balloons and chocolate wrapped in glossy red paper on that day. And I do dig chocolates, balloons and roses. This continued till I started teaching and interacting with students for whom the day meant so much. The meaning seemed to have changed subtly, though it retains all its consumerism and patriarchy, since my time. Or is it because I was dealing with a different set of students than my classmates in school and college.

A recent piece in Indian Express pointed out that understanding the Mangalore pub attack on women required an examination of class. It cannot be done purely in terms of gender. This is a valid point but we need to ask what is in this moment that the ‘liberated woman’s body’ has become such a target for the right wing. After all there have always been ‘modern’ Indian women who drink, smoke, frequent bars/casinos/discs, dance with abandon and wear revealing clothes. Every self-respecting hindi film till the late 1980s had the vamp character who was the embodiment of the fallen woman; never mind she was the only woman having so much fun. The liberated woman has become a threat at the same time when the vamp has been rendered obsolete in the hindi film with the heroine taking over her role. As long as the liberated woman was a vamp and her life safely distant from the aspirations of the ‘normal’ ‘respectable’ women she raised no fury among the protectors of culture. But it is precisely the smudging of the boundary lines between the vamp and the girl-next-door that has raised their heckles. She and her life is dangerously close to ‘ours’. She is definitely a product of class, but a product of the mobility and affluence of middle class and the spread of middle class aspirations to the smaller towns and mofussil areas of the country, some part of which is a result of liberalisation.

But that is just one part of the picture. If we look at our films again, the language of love changed in the decade since the inauguration of economic reforms. From the long duree where love -especially inter-caste, inter-community, inter class- inspired rebellion and unconditionally justified defiance of the family/community our films moved on to define socially sanctioned and permissible love. My students, when asked about their preference for love or arranged marriage, come up with ‘love-cum-arranged’ as the first preference. Our films and our middle class now endorse this seemingly oxymoronic category which effectively sees inter-community and inter-caste marriages as violative of community honour, parental affection and Indian culture. In Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham, Hritik Roshan pleads with the Patriarch (Amitabh Bachchan) to forgive Shah Rukh Khan but admits that ‘Unhone galti ki hai, Unhone pyar kiya’. A far cry from the proud defiance of ‘pyar kiya toh darna kya’ and its innumerable variations.

But love as defiance flourishes among the young, but not our metropolitan upper middle class elite, but rather in the small towns, suburbs and the edges of urban India. For this generation of youth, the promises of liberalised India overlap with hope for a liberal India. They are ready to risk life and futures for love. Many do not manage to convert their romances into choice marriages. Many are posthumously labelled victims of ‘honour killings’. For them Valentine’s day is special. They may not relate to the language of the Pink Chaddi campaign but do concur with its content. They dot campuses, parks and shopping arenas holding hands with cards, roses and balloons. Many see this day and this time of their lives as the only opportunity they have to give vent to their desires and can later remember with fondness. I find my fully formulated critique of Valentine’s day still valid but unable to capture the import of these happy giggling faces. So I wish them back, and give them a day off.

what was this?

2009-02-06T15:00:00.006+05:30

something rather strange happened to me a couple of days back. i reached office to discover that i had forgotten something very important back home. something i could'nt do without till the evening. so i went back home. feeling mighty stupid. cursing myself for increasing my carbon footprint. anyway as i entered home, a strange feeling enveloped me. i felt like an intruder. it was like i had walked into lovers caught in a 'compromising position' as they say :). or into someone sleeping, and had woken that person despite trying to be as quiet as possible. my footsteps actually got lighter and i became conscious of my breathing. i got out as quickly as possible, apologised and promised i would not show up till evening. when i came back in the evening, i had been forgiven, for i got my normal welcome.

prayer and me

2009-01-16T21:46:00.004+05:30

Mac's post on prayer reminds me of the time I used to be a believer. My dad was a card-carrying atheist then, and I remember numerous occasions when my mom and her two daughters would visit temples with dad choosing to stay outside and wait. I cant really remember praying in temples, even though I used to follow the rituals, carry milk for the shiv linga and recite the shlokas my mom had dinned into our heads (which I can recall to this day.

I only remember praying with all devotion and total fervour everyday for one particular thing. As a 4 year old when I expressed a desire for a sister, my mom, then pregnant, saw one more opportunity to minimise the possible impact of her husband's athiesm on her child. 'Pray and God will grant your wish' she told me and there I was, on my knees absorbed in prayer in front of the little puja box of our house everyday, for probably most of her pregnancy.

I dont think I prayed like that, with such faith, ever after. Years later I declared myself an athiest, exactly what my mom feared; ironically precisely at the time my dad did an about turn. I dont stand outside temples though, finding enough to interest and amuse me on those few occasions I find myself inside.

Even though I dont believe in any God anymore, I can only say that God, the person who doesnt exist, did grant me the one thing I asked for. Thats the only way I can put my brief encounter with faith.

forgive and forget?

2009-01-14T20:27:00.003+05:30

I cant forgive
I try forget what i need to forgive
But I cant forget to forgive myself
For getting into a situation which needs forgiving and forgetting

why should i look at your moon

2008-12-12T15:10:00.002+05:30

A 'public' school in Chennai. Moans the loss of teaching days. rains, bandhs, festivites have taken a toll. so it decided to work on tuesday.
conscientious teachers?
dedicated school?
of course. and such brilliant trouble-shooters as well.
all it needed was to allow the 'few' Muslim students to take the day off. so generous of us. they can celebrate Id. everyone doesnt, no? so why lose precious time. pongal is coming next month and we need to take that week off.

the kid gets it right

2008-12-04T22:22:00.001+05:30

these times

2008-11-26T12:55:00.006+05:30

when the jar has been emptied
and remains so
when you lose
never to gain
when you move away
and don't get called back
when you move away
but don't come in someone's way

where seasons change
but the heart sees no spring

where there is no cosmic balance
no self regulating ecosystem
when what goes
doesnt come around

when times are not changing
when times don't remain the same
when life is not
that neat set of propositions-
direct and inverse
it is feted out to be

never say goodbye

2008-11-24T19:38:00.004+05:30

there is an alternate universe out there. in the increasingly plasticy high-pitched blundering yet very much our world of meanings, our family that is hindi cinema, there are finally some relatives we can relate to. vinay pathak, ranvir shorey, rajat kapoor, saurabh shukla, brajendra kale, and the others whose names i dont know but the faces i can recognise- from a small role in that film, from an appearance in that serial. they come together again in Dasvadaniya.

the film marks a hat-trick, coming after bheja fry and mithya. populated by characters who are in situations you hope you never will be in. and yet what marks these bizarre situations- an actor finding himself playing the role of a don in real time, the aspiring singer finding himself a live cartoon, and a regular accountant handed a pink slip of life with three months notice- is its everydayness. a world when you have to wait in real roads, climb real stairs, stare at the real sea hedged in by buildings and visible only from a higher floors of an apartment block, a world where people forged childhood friendships in their 'society' as apartment blocks are called. a world where u can laugh at and yet emphatise with the character. where jokes dont mean an endless routine of caricaturing.

I cant help comparing dasvadaniya with dostana, if only because they came out around the same time. but where the 'aunty aunty' character was so made that she could be humilated, vinay pathak's encounters with his boss and even his clumsiness in the plane (stock fare of slapstick comedy)are strikingly nuanced. he may be a simpleton in many ways, but he is also a mature guy, his assessments of his life and handling of dissappointments touch you. you dont pity him, you identify with him and you respect his feelings.

dasvadaniya is what a film is about for me. unlike dostana, which interests me only as a cultural text (its handling of homosexuality for instance) but irks me for it is not a film. even by the standards of mainstream big budget hindi cinema, dostana makes not even a modicum of effort to develop its characters, make the friendships convincing, trying to see a story in all that display of skin and sand is asking for too much (i am not making a morality argument i must clarify and i do find the relentless focus on John's scantily clad body interesting. but thats what it is- interesting not involving) unlike this shabby-under-all-the-glitz effort, dasvadaniya is a story well told, with restrain, with attention to detail. it is not a new concept and it may never become one of the top 100 films of all time. but it is a film watching experience. not only is it a counter to dostana type assembly productions, it is an effective foil to the other format of hindi cinema- the melodramatic one. in this particular case, it is the perfect answer to the film i do like otherwise- anand.

i liked the fact that when vinay finally gets even with his boss, it is not through a long truimphant dialogue. that his equation with his brother is shown as different from that with his boss, stressing that everyone goes through different roles in life. i liked that contented smile when he manages to tell the love of his life how he feels. and the conversation with the best friend- it was awkward, with pathos but also ordinary in a potentially explosive moment. where memories are recalled, but emotions are incoherently articulated. vinay doesnt moralise, doesnt lecture on what life is, he reflects and you can follow his thought processes.

spoiler alert: what it left unsaid was even better. the guy before his death finalised parting gifts for everyone. but not for three people who can be deemed to be the most important people in his life. he didnt because for these three people he was a active valuable person. theirs were relationships of mutual value. the gifts were for people who had added to his life, made it better especially in the last months. there is no explanation in the film, but i read it as such. and found it brilliant.

commitment

2008-10-20T14:27:00.003+05:30

to seize the moment,
live it
let it course through
my being
and
let it go
to sail free
denying it anchor
to be secure
in its transience
to savour
the morning after

to be selfish
and not want to feel so

What Women Really Want

2008-10-10T21:27:00.002+05:30

A shorter version of this appeared in The Indian Express on 10 October 2008.

http://www.indianexpress.com/news/What-women-really-want/371539

There is a key difference between Plato’s ideal state as described in the Republic and the second best state in Laws. In the former, Plato abolished marriage and family for the ‘guardian classes’( i.e. the rulers) through what is called the communism of wives (not husbands!) and property, removed child rearing and education from the realm of the family and made it the all important task of the state. Alongside, he argues that women have the capacity for reason and hence should be trained like men to participate fully in all aspects of public life, including war and governance. In the Laws, Plato reintroduces marriage, family (male-headed of course) and private property for the guardian classes and this has significant implications for the nature of public life he offers women. Their duties, apart from household work, are confined to low ranking, child oriented and domestic tasks and restrictions are placed on movement, military service, and education. The central idea that emerges from this comparison is that for a woman, marriage/family, motherhood and domesticity cannot co-exist with public life, it is in the nature of an either/or choice.

While the Indian state has not explicitly kept women away from public life in terms of political participation and especially paid employment (indeed they cannot do so, as the masses of women have to work if their families have to survive) they have steadfastly adhered to two ideas- that a woman is primarily defined by motherhood and domesticity, and that child rearing is exclusively a mother’s responsibility. This viewing of women (across class differences) through the lens of motherhood and the model of the housewife is reflected in almost all state policies aimed at ‘welfare of women’, often clubbed with ‘child development’. The recommendations of the 6^th pay commission and the eventual action taken on it by the central government is only the most recent manifestation of this perspective.

The pay commission recommended increase in maternity leave from 135 to 180 days, and more significantly additional paid ‘child care’ leave upto 2 years for women to take care of minor children, not just during infancy, especially for examinations and sickness (both accepted) and flexible working hours for married women to meet the dual demands of home and work (not accepted). All these measures come under ‘allowances’ and get termed ‘gender-sensitive’ provisions, ‘keeping in view the dual responsibilities of the working women and increasing practical difficulties in balancing work and family responsibilities’ as reported in most papers.

Likewise, announcements regarding mid-day meal schemes routinely made by governments are accompanied by exhortations that mothers monitor these schemes to ensure the well being of the child. The Integrated Child Development Services (ICDS) meant to combat malnutrition and infant mortality as well as act as pre-school centres proclaim that ‘No programme on Early Childhood Care and Education can succeed unless mothers are also brought within its ambit as it is in the lap of the mother that human beings learn the first lessons in life’. It is another matter that the government pays scant attention to the service conditions of the anganwadi workers who are the backbone of the ICDS scheme. These workers, often women from poor families, are paid a pittance as ‘honararium’ as their work is considered voluntary, despite the fact that their services are used for implementing a whole range of government activities at the local level. As they are not regular government employees they do not get covered by any pay commission.

The other side of glorifying motherhood is the absence of the father in the entire discourse. While the 5^th pay commission had introduced paternity leave, it is for a grand total of 15 days. Those who avail of it often make news, as a web search would show. The 6^th pay commission goes a step further by placing not just early child care but care for the entire duration of childhood on the mother. That the male employee is also most likely a father and that fathers can (leave aside that they ought to) take care of children during sickness or help in exams appears beyond the comprehension of the state. One news report pointed out that these provisions discriminated against single fathers, thus reinforcing the exceptional nature of a father’s child care responsibilities.

That motherhood would ‘rightfully’ encroach on a woman’s employed life is deeply internalised in society even as work participation rates among women continue to rise. If the masses of women have always worked, either in the family’s economic activities or more often as paid workers, among the middle class too, the older debate of whether a woman should work or not after marriage has been eclipsed by the near acceptance of the need to work. Notwithstanding the fact that ‘saas-bahu’ serials continue to vilify the working woman, employability is a much sought out qualification in the marriage market, as evidenced in the matrimonial advertisements.

However, increasing work participation of women has not meant any effective change in the distribution of roles and responsibilities within the household on gender lines, despite what the glossies say on the changing Indian family and the new age man. What happens as the pay packet increases is the reallocation of household responsibilities to servants often under the supervision of the mother/mother-in-law.This internalisation explains the near absence of any discussion or analysis on these recommendations of the pay commission in the past 6 months even as almost all other aspects have been subject to intense scrutiny and debate.

At another level, it is important to note the absolute disconnect between the state’s policies and the demands of women themselves. Various studies and reports brought out by women employee’s associations and federations, the women’s and health movement and organisations working on issues of child and maternal health have consistently demanded the provision of day care and crèche facilities in or near the workplace. In India, there is a near absence of safe and reliable day care provisions in the government and the private sector, even as just a few private enterprises have begun experimenting with in house crèches (and have noted the positive impact on employees- male and female). This despite the fact the existing anganwadi infrastructure can easily be expanded to include this vital need. Most studies of the NREGA implementation note the failure to provide day care, despite the Act providing for it.

Moreover is it not vital to ensure easily accessible crèches if we were to succeed in the UNICEF mission (of which India is a signatory) to attain exclusive breast-feeding for the first six months of a child’s life. And yet, the breast feeding campaigns in India focus only on ‘awareness raising’ and not on enabling workplace environments.

Surely, it makes more economic sense (apart from being a sign of a caring state/employer) to provide day care facilities rather than dole out extra leaves. Which woman employee would choose a year extra leave over assured day care though out childhood near her workplace? That the state finds it easier to dispense with employees for long periods points to both the concentration of women employees in the lower levels of the bureaucracy and its lack of will to recognise childcare as an ‘economic right’ of its employees.

We do not have to abolish the family, like Plato did, in order to socialise child care or ensure gender equality; but surely we can recognise that child rearing is both the shared responsibility of the partners and the collective responsibility of society and that only equal and happy families will result from a state genuinely interested in the welfare of its citizens- women, men and children.

Hear Evil, Read No Evil?

2008-10-02T21:27:00.006+05:30

I dont have a tv. Most of the time, especially when important events happen like bomb blasts or police encounters, I am very glad I dont. I shall live longer perhaps. But when I am in delhi, I catch up with my older avatar- the channel surfing, remote control freak one. And I try and familiarise myself with 'popular culture' as they call it. Yesterday I even saw quite a bit of Balika Badhu, the latest soap in town. ya ya there was a moral in the end, but for what i saw they seem to actually celebrate child marriage.

Anyway what spurred this post was actually the movie I saw on HBO this evening. Though our regular Hollywood fare, it had the subtitles on and this is how the translation/transliteration happened.

we dint have , did we
if you are keeping away because we had , then you can rest on that account
i dont remember the last time i cried after so i am overwhelmed
you look very

and so on. yes! you can hear it but cant see/read the word. there wasnt even the --- or **** to tell you a (shhh) bad word was being used.

I guess the subtitles were for us, the poor desi audience, but was the censorship for us as well? Surely this is self-censorship, for I think even Balika Badhu may very likely use it soon. I can almost read out the moral -' kachi umar main sexual relationship bachpan ko khatam kar deta hai' probably after a scene where the kids have explored sexuality.

I remember gay and lesbian kisses being edited out of sitcoms in Star and Zee channels, and even then it was self-censorship, but this takes the cake. So why? And why only in print? And you cant even say 'you look sexy?'. Long long ago some filmmaker had to re-record the song 'sexy sexy sexy mujhe log bole' because the censor board asked for THE word to be replaced. The songs doing the rounds these days (and unlike tv i am very updated on those thanks to radio) have phrases like 'saiya saiya sexy lage hai mujhe' and 'I am craving for your body now'. Not to add that one of our lyricists' most favourite words 'shava' means sexual passion. My friend who has been dealing with urdu and persian words made this startling discovery and i have been scandalising people ever since. But we can put that down to ignorance.

So whats next? Lets activate our imagination and outpace them. Meanwhile I shall go catch some old episodes of and the city.

finding tirthan

2008-09-18T22:04:00.003+05:30

Rewind to summer 2006. it was, for me, the best of times and the worst of times. it had been six months since I moved to Chandigarh, set up home. At the end of the semester, I looked forward to a summer break in delhi, though it was not meant to be as leisurely as it sounds. My parents had decided to shift home, yet again, and I knew what was in store. Still, my spirits were high, I wanted to meet my friends and get back to the teen murti library. Emotionally, however, it was also a harrowing time. looking back, I don’t think I have ever felt pain like that, before or after. And I didn’t know then that getting over it was going to be much much longer than I had imagined.

So anyway, it was early may then. The big plan was that Sri was supposed to come to Chandigarh with a couple of her friends (and my acquaintances), we were then to go to a place called Chindi in himachal for 2 days, and then while those two would take a direct bus to delhi, Sri and I were to get back to Chandigarh and drive to delhi the next day. so that was the plan. When more efficient people make plans, I happily concur and at most assuage my guilt by doing what I am told- make a phone call here, or an enquiry there.

But this was not to be. the plan, as plans often do, fell through. The 2 friends weren’t sure why they need stopover in Chandigarh; they were probably feeling awkward about the fact that they hardly knew me or thought the time could be better spent by directly reaching chindi. And Sri, in her completely sorted out thought process, decided that come what may she will land up in Chandigarh on Friday night. This she tells me on Friday morning, and added that we were both to think about where to go as it would make no sense to now go to Chindi. I had read about Shoja long time back in some magazine, so did a brief search in my colleague’s computer. My room had not still been wired into the net. Some random site that came up in the search spoke about trout fishing in the tirthan river near Shoja. I jumped at the mention of a river and did another search but it threw up some info of a guest house which seemed very expensive. Places to stay in Shoja seemed even more unaffordable. There was no way to call, as no phone numbers were provided.

Sri arrived by late evening, we had dinner, and were all set to sleep because we had to leave early morning to the bus stop. But what exactly were we to do once in the bus stop- that minor detail we had not yet worked out. So we sat down to review options. The easy alternative was a drive to Kasauli, both me and my car were confident of doing that stretch. But that didn’t appeal, as we had both been there before. So with the info we had from my meagre research, we decided to take the bus to Aut, from where we were to find buses to Shoja. Happy to have taken this decision, we slept and reached the bus stop on time and boarded the bus. Looking back, I wonder at how little we thought about where we were headed. While I appreciated that kind of wanderlust approach, I had never done it before. Of course, Sri and I had done a couple of trips before from the completely planned (tickets, accommodation all booked) trip to Landour to the trek to Valley of Flowers where we made no bookings but had the itinerary worked out. I guess, that May morning, we felt that we had graduated to the next level.

It was nearing 2 pm when we got off at Aut and crossed the road. Now that road is no longer there, it has been submerged by the larji hydro electric project. At that time the construction was going on, and the water was of a brackish colour and hence hardly inviting. Enquiries revealed that we needed to get to Banjar to reach Shoja or the tirthan region. So we waited and took the bus. That was another two hours by the local bus which stopped too frequently. We tumbled out in Banjar and began enquiries, now more earnestly for we could see that the day light was not going to last. The moment of decision had come. We were told Shoja would take an hour and half and no one knew when the next bus was scheduled. At least not for an hour, locals confidently informed. We turned to the taxis now, the time to spend had come. To the taxi guy I asked the question which had drawn a blank in Aut- did he know about a place called trout house. And he pointed to the logo in his taxi, and indeed it was that very place. We decided to take the chance as it was closer than Shoja, and hopped in. I later realised that the choice was between the higher mountains and the valley, and we had opted for the valley. The river doesn’t flow by Shoja.

Almost as soon as we drove out of the banjar market, we were along the tirthan river. This was a different river. Clear and fresh, noisy, flowing over white rocks, forming little rapids all along. And pretty little villages perched on the mountains admist forests and meadows. some ranges were rocky and barren. Quaint wooden bridges and the iron basket ropeways connected the two banks of the river. Both of us knew that even if we had to return to Chandigarh that very evening for lack of accommodation, this sight was worth it. I was busy calculating if we could just go to the river side for a half hour before turning back. And as the road got worse and worse, the view got more enchanting. Soon we reached the Himalayan Trout House which was just across the river, by the road. The taxi driver left us staring dazed at the river, to find out if there were rooms available. And there comes a man in a blue kurta, Christopher, one half of the couple who run this place. The place was full, but since one occupant happened to be a friend of the couple, he was asked to vacate and move to the tent (or the house) and the fancy room made available. It was a tad expensive by our previous budgets, but we realised we could do it. One look at the room and the conversion was complete. It had been freshly made, and smelt of fresh pine with tasteful décor. After a cup of tea, we went to the river side. As we sat on the rocks with our feet in the ice cold water, I felt so many things at the same time and yet such peace. Intense excitement. A sense of discovery as if the place had been conjured up right at that moment of our arrival and specially for us. Achievement. Gratitude- for those two who changed the plan- and triumphant, for if they hadn’t, we would not have made it here and look what they missed out. And finally, I could think back on the horrors of the past month, and sitting there, found the energy to cope with it all.

We wandered about the rest of that day, spent time by the campfire among the assortment of people collected there, and the next morning trekked up to a waterfall, which is according to me the best waterfall in the world, and returned to the river once more before we left on Sunday evening. As the taxi took off, I knew I would return.

This April, two years later, I did return. I started the last week countdown to my 30th birthday with a drive with my sister. Six and half hours later, we were along the tirthan river. I had fulfilled a promise, to myself and to my sister who had in the time of 24 months reminded me about 24,000 times about it. I think I cant now be burnt at stake for being a bad sister at least on this count.

All along the drive, I was unsure about my feelings. I was not sure how I would react to the place. In the past two years, I had carried a certain image of the region, it could collapse. I was reminded of how it took me time to even react, forget assessing my feelings, to Bombay, the city of my childhood, when I had returned after many years. But the river, the rocks, the villages, the bridges and mountains above gently rested anxieties. Sure the place had changed, there were much new construction, some of them rather ugly. I hope it doesn’t meet the fate of the touristy destinations in the country. As of now, it retains all its charm, self confident in its power of seduction. You can’t as tourists say, ‘do’ this place, it opens up its secrets slowing, enticingly.

That evening, after we had to leave the river side due to sudden rains, I sat under the now covered gazebo, hearing the patter of rain, facing the river and called Sri. I hadn’t spoken to her in over a month. She had no idea where I was. As she picked up the phone, I said, no preamble nothing, ‘guess where am I?’. Sri took just a second, and her voice assumed a zing tone as she exclaimed, ‘ tirthan!’.

Epilogue:
I returned again in May. And this time, after 2 days of being spoilt by the trout house, went to Shoja. The drive to shoja was beautiful, through thick deodar forests, pretty villages, and awesome views of layers and layers of huge imposing fold mountains. It was so lovely, especially the sunset. And yet, I could not stop myself from a mental thank you to the local bus service for not scheduling a bus to Shoja at the time we had landed in Banjar on that may day two years ago.

kya rock-shock

2008-09-13T20:25:00.002+05:30

One of the first things I did on getting the internet connection today was to listen to the songs from the film Rock On. It’s a big deal cos I have no knowledge of rock apart from reading Pink Floyd’s lyrics. I am of course a devoted fan of Indian Ocean, but have never associated it with rock music. It has elements I guess, and they are primarily performance oriented like rock, but I need to be enlightened on what actual genre their music falls under. So, what am I saying? That I will explore more of rock? I am not sure I will take all that initiative. But if ever I do, I will have to credit this film for it. My friend, with whom I saw this film, is a rock fan and she tells me the music is not ‘filmy’ and is authentic to the spirit of rock. And it’s the music which will live on. For the film is a no show.

The characters are well cast, they have the ‘look’. But apart from Debbie, no one becomes the character. I couldn’t find a story being told in the film, even if it is a oft done story. Maybe it is the influence of hindi cinema’s emotionalism or maybe it is my familiarity with the American ‘lets talk’ culture, but the film is much too unexplained. It is not understated communication, rather it is the lack of any effort at connecting with the mind of the viewer. It never takes us thru the process and the pain of the breakup. And never tells us why they managed to get back. We keep waiting for something which will put the film together for us as an experience, and that never comes.

And yet, I hear, the film has connected. The reason, if one were not to fall into cynicism and proclaim that any film manages an audience these days, i think is in the music- it has energy, joy, pathos, and lyrics to match the moods.

sloganeering

2008-08-11T13:32:00.003+05:30

Recently i had to go to the Bsnl office. now going to any consumer care related office (government or private) is not my idea of a good outing. i end up losing temper, getting frustrated about the system- the works. but bsnl seems to expect this attitude from customers, and since they cant change their way of functioning (for that would erase their very identity) they came up with a plan to cheer customers. lined up all along those old stairs and dreary corridors are slogans, all by the way on power saving. I think they had an in-house competition among the staff for this. (wonder what the prize was- a free phone connection? or a promise of a lifetime hassle free billing?) What a novel idea! engage the staff and make the customer smile- in one go. Some top guy has taken his refresher courses on personnel administration seriously. Anyway my favourites were:

Save one unit a day, keep power cut away!
Maximise Energy Conservation, Minimise Financial Implication!
When its bright, Switch off the light!

Hey come on, these do rhyme, dont they....

When in doubt?

2008-07-10T15:28:00.003+05:30

When in doubt, play trump- it was one of the rules of that 'intelligent game' - Bridge that my dad taught me. needless to say, I am not so good at it, despite the occasional streak of amazing luck. know people who would rather endorse- When in doubt, have coffee. So what is it that I do when in doubt? What do I keep returning to- when I really don’t know what to do. When I need to recover some sense of self? Or achieve a state of unawareness about the problems beseting the self. Atheist that I am, God and prayer are not an option despite an occasional yearning for the qawwalis in Nizamuddin dargah. So what is my pilgrimage?

Tea.

Cant think, cant write, cant read, cant sleep, depressed, bored- my first instinct is to get myself a cup of tea. I hope that once that beverage has seeped into my blood system, something would miraculously occur. But at least with writing, there is no such thing- its back to hard work with words, even as the cuppa adorns the desk. But the power of faith- the kettle continues to boil in my house.

Pride and Prejudice

My copy of the book is in near tatters; if its pages could speak it will tell you of the great diversity of moods with which they have been held. I keep discovering meanings, I keep marvelling at the insights and the prejudices of the writer, and especially wondering if people ever spoke like that, whether conversations could really be so nuanced and yet spontaneous. Other Austens beckon too, but this is the one with the irresistible pull.

Monumenting

The thing I miss the most in the city I live! A historical monument gives me a sense of calm. Even the ones teeming with tourists. Somehow, all that din just doesn’t register or is a murmur in the background. I could be happier without it, so I really prefer the not-on-the-ten spots to visit-list of any place. A drizzly cloudy day or a winter afternoon is ideal, but when the craving begins, heat or humidity doesn’t matter. The impediment is of course the illogical timings decided by ASI and liberally modified by the guards- I am still seething from not being able to enter urgasain ki baoli recently. A glimpse of the steps leading to the well only flamed the desire to be there. Monuments, especially the medieval ones littering delhi- they get me. So when I cant make sense of myself, this is where I want to go.

Cleaning

This is a confession. When my brain is blocked, the dusting cloth is my best friend. I rearrange furniture, put clothes into order, sort out bills, scraps of paper I cant made head or tail of, get around to disposing old newspapers, make lists of things to do and a timetable to be followed henceforth. By the next cleaning session, millions of timetables have added up and face the wrath of an unceremonious expulsion. I have perfected the art of ‘making a fresh start’. When life is smooth, the house is in perfect disorder.

Blue Trunk

2008-05-15T13:22:00.000+05:30

Every now and then, I used to open a blue iron trunk, examine its contents one by one, throw some away and put most back in.

Letters, often chronologically arranged. Some of my own- never posted. Greeting cards. Some of them, handmade. I haven’t written letters or sent cards for a long time now. Movie tickets, with a little note on the backside- about the film or who I saw it with. Stuff friends had scribbled on my notebooks during class. A school project. Even an answer script, I topped, you see. School Magazines with some of my stuff in. And photographs too. A feather. A bark of the tree that has long been chopped off. A stone with a few words inked in, they have blurred now. The script of a play I was part of. A school momento, I wonder why I didn’t throw it. I despised both- the school and the momento- it is the ugliest possible. Even an autograph book. Poems, well that’s what I called them. Tucked into a diary I started over 15 years ago. I kept at it regularly for just over a year, but kept ‘re-starting’ it over the years.

I haven’t opened that trunk in two years now. Its lies in the attic of my parents house. I contemplated moving it to my house. But I didn’t. I can still see the contents as I listed them just now. And my life scrolled across. But its better located in that hidden corner. I wouldn’t want to throw anything away. I wouldn’t want to hold any of it as well.

Bounce

2008-04-06T14:39:00.003+05:30

Past few days I have been playing this game on my cellphone with the feverishness with which i used to, in my pre-history, read novels. Maybe i need some counselling from Mac, about this sudden turn towards games-on-the-mobile, something i used to despise almost as much as i do camera-on-the-mobile. But something struck me about this game about guiding a ball past many obstacles to reach higher levels. There is no killing involved in this game, as in, in order to reach the target the player doesnt and cannot destroy anyone. It rather has to overcome those which can destroy it. It cant kill its detractors and finish them once and for all. Some times it has to trace its route of progress all the way back to the starting point just to enter the next level. Instructive and humbling.

My obsession with the game is over as well, it seems. For some reason or the other i cant get past level 7. I have one gate to pass, and i cant, try as i might, find it. So i have given up. Some meaning in this as well...

end of history

2008-03-24T16:40:00.001+05:30

CPI(M) says Tibet is China’s internal matter, so no comments. Well so from now on we should not comment on

Racism, so no judgment on apartheid in South Africa please
Islamophobia, since its worst and everyday manifestations (as with racism) is on citizens and legal residents.
Colonialism as well, since before the colony became a state, it was part of another state, and hence its internal matter.
Torture, inhuman and draconian laws, human rights violations, anywhere. Including Palestine, its Israel’s ‘internal matter’. There is no Palestinian state and cannot be, as it will be against Israel’s sovereignty.

I could go on….and so could you. The point however is, do you want to go down this path?

Tagging along

2008-03-13T17:44:00.001+05:30

I am doing this tag for two reasons, one, I have never done a tag before (yeah my life is that miserable) and second, its on hindi films. I can add a third, I am in a particularly washed out state right now, tired and not feeling any satisfaction about work well done, cos the work is not worth it in the first place. so i need something to pep me up.

Anyway, here it goes:

Five film titles that describe your life:

Chalti ka naam gaadi
Maine pyar kyun kiya
Waisa bhi hota hai
Sapnay
Rama rama kya hai drama (!!!)

Five songs that describe you:

Jaane kya soch kar nahi gujra
Jaane kya chahe mann bawra
yeh kya jagah hai doston
Dil khudgarz hai
Woh subhah kabhi aayegee

Five Bollywood characters you can relate to:

(Smita Patil in Bhoomika was my first choice but am trying to not repeat vagabond)

Geeta (Chitrangada) in Hazaaron Kwaishen Aisi
Rose (Lillete Dubey) in Zubeida
Tony (Amol Palekar) in Baaton Baaton Main
Geet (Kareena Kapoor) in Jab we met (in a strange way also Aditya (Shahid Kapur) in Jab we met)
Anooradha Patel in Ijaazat

Five characters you want to kill:

Raj Babbar in Insaf Ka Tarazu (I would like to kill that filmmaker too)
(Narayan Shankar)Amitabh Bachchan in Mohabaatein
Shah Rukh Khan in Kal Ho Na Ho
Amitabh Bachchan in Black
Aamir Khan in Raja Hindustani

Also- Bhagyashree (Suman) in Maine Pyar Kiya

Five characters you would like to date:

Manik (Rajit Kapoor) in Suraj ka saatvan ghoda
Sashi Kapoor in Kabhi Kabhi
Irfan Khan in Maqbool
Sanjeev Kumar in Namkeen
Purab (Neel) in My Brother Nikhil (yes, he is gay, but this is my wish list not his)

Moving on

2008-02-07T13:24:00.000+05:30

Sometimes we need someone to tell us -its all ok, things are going to get better, all problems will get sorted out, what we want will come about, things will work out- often with a liner- we just have to work at it and it will be done. We get such reassurance from others every time we are in trouble. Sometimes we reassure ourselves with these same very words and tactics. Tell ourselves- I will make sure that such-and-such situation never arises again, I will work hard, I will do all I want to do...

I am done with such reassurances- from myself and others. I think I have overdrawn on my permissible quota anyway. I am tired of it. I cant hear another reassuring word anymore. I want to scream out saying- stop, you're doing it again, you are doing what I dont have the will to hear.

I dont know how much of my will can survive if I get rid of these comforting expressions. What does survive will make me, or destroy me forever. Either way, the prospect is infinitely better.

those JNU rocks

2007-12-07T16:36:00.001+05:30

Three classmates walked through
entered unknown terrain
from the highest point
and emerged far away, as friends
the friendships gave way
the exhilaration of that walk holds

And there were kisses
In the still air of summer
and in winter, with the cold seeping through the shawl
and once, as we soaked in the rain holding each other
We meandered through those years,
looking for shorcuts, hoping it would take longer
to hit the regular road
We fought, made up and broke up

The first long conversation
with a parallel one in the head,
Is this attraction, or it is the starry night
Also, the last conversation
The stars did look on
And the planes waved a goodbye

A shared space in an unshared phase
of an old friendship
Where we sought to escape
known faces, strange looks
new faces, knowing looks
and recovered what we knew and loved
about each other

Alcoholic though I am
‘on the rocks’ has always meant something else

you have aged

2007-12-04T13:55:00.000+05:30

there are no circles under your eyes
no wrinkles on your face
no receding hairline
no grey hair
-even on the sideburns
you haven’t put on weight
any more, that is
your lips haven’t darkened with cigarette
but then you didn’t smoke, do you now?

your smile remains serious,
the kind of smile earnest youngsters have
when they discuss big issues and write abstract poetry
you even wear that ridiculous purple sweater often

my memory lens is all scratches
(did I overuse it
or put it carelessly among other such odds and ends)
but even through the tottering lens
I can see
you have aged

it doesn’t show in the face I used to know
your age shows
in me
in my face
in my being
in the time I have traveled…since

the child for me

2007-10-18T14:08:00.000+05:30

He was playing inside the car. His grandma and ayah were having a tough time keeping him within. And as soon as he saw his mother coming towards the car, where she had left them to do a quick errand (everything has to be done quickly in her life these days, he rules it, you see) his face transformed. Oh, he continued to look every inch of the brat that he is, but a special smile erupted on his face and reflected the softness that came to his mother’s expression. She- his mother, my friend- doesn’t have that kind look otherwise these days- its usually too troubled, too cynical, too burdened, too defeated. Anyway, that little exchange I caught between the two brought up the question again- do I want a child of my own?- a question that is getting posed way too frequently not just by others who point to the biological clock ticking away but one I find asking myself way too often for my happiness.

Do I want a child then? I really don’t know. It’s an awful world to bring up one. And I would share the hypocrisy of the progressives- critical of and yet choosing the mainstream. Kids judging themselves according to what they have, what brands and how much. Parents pushing them to become super kids. Schools streamrolling children into marks producing machines. I fear ever having to tell my child- be practical. But more than that, doubts over my own ability to bring up a kid. What if I get bored. What if I don’t love my kid. What if I resent the disruption in my life. And as I keep saying, no more film festivals for a long long time. The irreversibility of parenthood is nothing less than horror. And then I don’t know if I want to go through the pregnancy. I would like to adopt, but would I discriminate. Perhaps I fear a child also because I suspect a tendency on my part to want to completely own another person. People I know say that is no cause for worry because this and all other decisions will be worked out with a partner.

That’s more scary if you ask me. I wonder if there really something by way of an equal parenthood. I don’t see much of it anyway. All I see is irony – the mother who is simultaneously both overworked and guilty and the father who ends up being loved more precisely because he has less time to give. And then I see competitive parenthood all around, most partners don’t share the child or the experience with each other, they try to prove to each other and everyone else how they are the better parent, and especially how they are the child’s preferred parent.

So, please no partner for child rearing. For romance, yes. In my imagination, its always been me and my child. This ultimate example of romantic partnership is for me the last bastion of singlehood, and I hold on it fervently.

state of life

2007-10-17T13:44:00.000+05:30

For those who wondered at the bizarreness of the last post, a tiny defence- it was written in a state of near delirium. As I was struggling to stay put in office, my pounding head was creating in-the-body sensations I was trying to escape by typing away. And though the fever went off in a week, it has taken me a while recovering the confidence to write and for my life to provide me with something to write about. Much was written in-the-head and disintegrated right there. A post about me conquering the swimming pool collapsed (and along with it the dreams of conquering rivers and seas), my stint in the pool abruptly ended just as I showed sings of more than just floating. But hope floats and maybe next season, I may survive longer. And while the rest of the world went on about the feeling of being there and having done it all and having nothing to look forward to, here I was with all the to-do lists and no where near crossing any thing off yet. But now, I have seen Chak De (and relieved to have actually seen it finally for I was getting left out of social conversation a little too often and was under threat of losing my reputation as a film buff), read the final harry potter (on my computer, the first and hopefully the last time I ever read a novel like that), splurged money on the clothes I don’t really need. Even my car revs up so delightfully these days, having got a face rather engine lift to tide over its mid-life crisis. Through all this I have acquired intimate insight of what it feels like to be a third world country caught in a debt trap. Confusions have re-risen about career moves and whether what I am doing is what I want and whether I want this for the rest of my life and do I even know what I want. With spondilysis making an entry in my life and my landlady landing up soon to harangue me on the lack of cleanliness in my house (I don’t clean door hinges, mirrors, buckets, taps, floor mat and the soap dish everyday u see) I should be all set for as many battles as I could wish for- against imperialism, capitalism, the culture of elitism, competitiveness, consumerism, unhealthy lifestyles et al. The thing is, I am too tired to fight. I may get just bored half-way. I do wish I was a warrior sometimes.

Cry not baby

2007-08-20T15:34:00.000+05:30

Just wondering whether crying is an act of instant dehydration.

When we see someone pouring their heart out before us, do they really squeeze it dry? Can we make out the outlines of the skeletal frame in the tear-racked body of even the most well rounded individual?

Yes? Next time someone is howling away I will tear my eyes off their face, what if they are crack, literally, while I am earnestly telling them its not so bad or worse, letting them lighten what I think, oh so mistakenly, is a heavy heart which as a delicious side-effect also cleans up and lubricates the eye. Ask those of us who suffer from dryness of eyes, we pay (an exorbitant amount at that) to cry.

No? Then why is the common instant response to anyone who cries before us to immediately scamper for and force down their mouths a glass of water?

(yeah I am back!)

the search is on

2007-07-26T16:17:00.000+05:30

I
felt
thought
dreamt
blanked
broke
mended
laughed
howled
wished
pitied
sought
escaped

but somewhere along
lost the words
the search is on...

Lets deal with it though

2007-06-12T20:49:00.000+05:30

They tell u, there is no fulfilment without it. They tell u, that’s what u need to look out for. All the time. Be prepared. Be ready. It could strike you anywhere. It’s a war, you need to win. Yes, surprise, surprise, they are indeed talking about love.

Love makes for a Complete life. Your life must be an advertisement for success, you see. Even if u never ever feel free. Or think you have no power of choice. You need to just do it. Buy gifts for someone you love. Chocolate is nice, but it melts. But diamonds are forever you know.

Emptiness.
Loneliness.
Dissatisfaction.
Unhappiness.
You can feel them all. Even if u have love. Most often, because of that blasted love.

Of course love is no big deal. Ideology, yes. Hegemony, definitely.

But then if you find yourself in love do you fail the counter-hegemonic test? Have you become a revisionist? Have you sold your soul like foreign funded NGOs or communists implementing neo-liberal policies?

Isn’t romantic love a relationship too. And for all the hype that 'it's different', its really much the same. With its own expectations, explorations, joys, anguish, doubts about the self, about the other. If we can talk about everything and advocate dialogue in the age of contradictions then cant we talk about love too. Isn’t it often the case that we make sense of our jumbled self when we unblock to others. Aren’t our interpretations of the self a series of conversations? We affirm and celebrate a shared life. Has love got nothing to do with it?

welcome

2007-05-24T00:02:00.000+05:30

Welcome. you finally made an appearance in my being. though by some standards you could have taken some more time, but these days the pressures are such that you are expected early in our lives. i hear sometimes people feel they have not made it in life if they dont have you. so when i first realised your presence, i almost heaved a sigh of relief. right now only those very close to me and the really discerning can spot you but very soon it will be obvious to the world. till that time, i intend to enjoy the way you caress my cheek and make me feel a little different everytime i realise you are there. we are set for a long journey together.

my single strand of white hair, welcome.

(btw, obvious comments are best avoided!)

I hear about you once in a while

2007-05-09T23:39:00.000+05:30

I hear about you once in a while
Your name leaps at me as I leaf through pages
or as I scroll through the net
I stop my hand,
but it moves, clicks on the link nevertheless
My hand is a sadist,
or is it a masochist?

Every time I wake with a thud
and in those seconds,
as I try recall why
your face appears
You blend in with every bad dream I have

What if I come across you someday
What will I say
Will I smile
Will I run away
Will I feel the same as I did the day
I turned to find you gone
leaving a conversation hanging
a slice of my past, rigged
the warmth of memory, punctured

I believe you are happy
Some people tell me so
I don’t know what to make of it
I don’t know whether I wish you were
or wonder how you could be

All I feel is numbness
I feel it every time I hear your name

coming of age

2007-04-28T22:48:00.000+05:30

last year i ran away. from people. from familiarity. from the routine. i was tired, ready to scream out against the ordinary. i drove to the hills, perhaps hoping that within the folds of the mountains, i will find clues to understand myself, including the need to escape. i had never taken off like that before. i look back on that day with myself with fondness. i thought i was going to do this often.

but this time around i escaped that very solitude. i sought out people, familiarity, a day where i dont search for meanings, for purpose, where i dont really reflect or take stock of things, where i dont make resolutions.

how is it that what was so right and perfect once is just not what you even consider later. the riddles are much the same, but the routes to crack it change all the time. or is it that there is really no solution, no end of the puzzle ever. the routes are all there is. and as i have gone about avoiding the beaten track and taking convoluted pathways, have i come to a point where i am ready to be surprised by the ordinary and if i am not, it doesnt put me off either.

i dont mind the chit chat of life. the conversations i seek may very well lie in all this general blah. i may never find them but its ok as long as i know i can run away from it whenever i wish to. perhaps the point is that i am an eternal escapist. i am getting to like it now.

the long summer ahead

2007-04-12T19:56:00.000+05:30

This pic was taken in the evening of what was one of the last days of winter in the city. It had rained the night before and in the morning, and was very windy through the day. The wind was icy, it must have snowed in the mountains. Not the ones you can see here, for these are just the shivaliks, the starting of the Himalayas.

This time winter and spring played with our linear ordering of seasons. And we must be thankful the pleasant season had actually lasted so long. But then, the human heart yearns for more and more of the good thing, it can never be satisfied with what it has.

Winter is a love story. We keep waiting for love but it creeps in imperceptibly. It always takes you by surprise. And it has layers and layers, each closing in on the other. Shawl, half sweater, full sweater and jackets. Blanket, then quilt, then the rajai. And the heater.

There is never enough that one could have of love. At its peak, I would still want it to get colder, the temperature to drop further. It went to 0 this time, I wanted snow. I went to shimla and walked on snow, I wanted it to snow then and there and stay for days there.

And like love, one fine day its over. Its probably been in the offing for a while, but nevertheless you never know till you wake up one day to declare summer. You can fight the inevitable by continuing with the warm water baths and by not switching on the fan, but you can pin the end, almost to the day. The day you stopped saying ‘I love you’, the day you woke up with bad dreams because it got hot under the quilt.

And then the long wait begins. You think you will never see it again. Yet you keep planning for it. You think you will make do with affairs for love may never happen again and go to hill stations. You think you will never live through summer to see another winter. But you will. When you have given up altogether, the nip in the air returns. This love story will survive. Till global warming do us part?

the house baker didnt build

2007-04-06T12:21:00.000+05:30

That would be my house, for one. I mean I can not hope that the house I can afford one day will be designed by Laurie Baker as he passed away on april first.

I first read about Baker when I was 13 or 14 in one of the supplements of times of India and in an article written by cartoonist Abu Abraham if I remember correctly. This article was called- the house baker built- or something like that. its with me still, somewhere among my newspaper cuttings, it was probably the earliest of the collection, a practice which was then pleasure but now is a professional requirement. The writer spoke about his home which Laurie Baker had designed. At one point he says how a room had been so designed as to avoid cutting down a jackfruit tree, and the area around the tree was further made into a small sitting space in the open. He also mentioned that Baker had once designed a house on top of a hill facing the sea. I think it was that line which decided it for me. I had always wanted that exact same kind of location for a house of my own. And had figured that it would mean somewhere along the coastline of India, and preferably the western coast. Years later the Himalayas caught my fascination and became the preferred location for the dream house (though I still moaned about not having the sea side). Ya ya, this is a great deal of wishful thinking but whats wrong with that? But whatever be the spatial location of my dream, I always hoped it would be made on the principles of architecture that Baker’s life and work represented.

You would think all this sounds pretentious, but i dont think Baker would have minded. For Baker was a Gandhian, it seems he considered his chance meeting with Gandhi as the one which changed his life. He is one more instance of the exciting possibilities within Gandhi's thought. He specialised in low cost housing which was simple, functional as well as aesthetic . Most importantly it used locally available material, and avoided as much as possible cement and steel. His buildings blended into the surroundings, and were sensitive to local ecology. He wouldn’t chop trees, remove rocks or flatten a slope but incorporate them all into the structure. I just read that he described his own house as a blanket draped over a hillock. Wow. I have never been in a Baker home, I have only seen pictures. But I do think that a great deal of traditional architecture does make immense sense in terms of weather and ecology.

Baker died on April 1^st. Perhaps it is a way of alerting us to the joke that we have made of our homes and built spaces in the race to become the country with the most malls, the most ugly and energy guzzling buildings.

living the tale all over again

2007-03-29T18:13:00.000+05:30

I have done it again.

Lost my world.

Every collective, every commune like existence, every ‘gang’, every comfort zone- I have found, been a part of and built… there has come a point when I lost what linked me to that world. Not through the usual and familiar process of moving on and losing touch. I have walked out deliberately. I have never returned to that world, even if I have held on to some, often unlikely, strands of those worlds.

why? why me? where am I going wrong?

Have I been a misfit in each one of them? Have I been cautious, hesitant, unsure? Have I not given it enough? Perhaps. or it is my ego. Maybe. or am I expecting too much from those I care about. Most probably.

But what if I didn’t say what I said or do what I did? What if I didn’t walk out?

That’s where I find my answer.

The costs of staying on, I cant bear. They numb me.

I can bear the pain of loss. It kills me. It affirms I am alive.

can i not take my pick

2007-03-16T12:30:00.000+05:30

There are questions which one faces all the time. Regular run of the mill kind. But I never manage to have a clear answer for them. Everytime I fumble with the answer, I resolve to have one ready for next time, but the point is there is no one answer ever- either as the final well formulated one or even a concise one which can ward away further questions.

Like I never know how to answer which city I like better- delhi or chandigarh. ever since I moved to the latter, this has become my most feared question. (Only next to – where do I belong to 'originally', but I will come to that some other time.) It doesn’t help that most people who put this question belong to either one of the cities. The snooty delhite’s contempt for a small city mixed with sniggers about the panjabis or the proud chandigarhian’s inferiority complex (which is forever competing against delhi) who jumps to list its virtues and run down delhi. Every word, every expression of theirs holding out a challenge, inviting me and daring me not to counter.

I got so psyched I even made a table comparing the two. Here it is…

Delhi	Chandigarh
History, Monuments, big and small, famous and little-known everywhere	50 year old city, has erased all history and now seeking status as a ‘modern heritage city’.
Half an hour minimum, don’t even ask about the maximum	7 minutes to work, maximum half an hour drive to anywhere in the city
Autos, buses, metro- multiple options of transport within city limits. No such luck if you have to cross the border.	All this only with personal transport, appalling state of public transport- buses and autos included
The ridge, fast disappearing	At the foothill, the awesome view of Himalayas
Grand old parks, but depleting green belts	Parks and more parks, so much green but what about variation?
Lots of movie halls. Also film festivals, screenings in various fora	Only one multiplex, most slightly non-mainstream films don’t make it to the city, festivals few and far between.
Friends- old	Friends- new
Malls, malls everywhere…ugly glass buildings dotting the skyline	Only one still, but threatening to come up with more
A dead river	A lovely lake the administration is trying to kill but hasn’t succeeded as yet
Pollution	Delhi is the goal on pollution, trying to reach it soon. But can still see the stars. Full moon nights are bewitching.
Great libraries	Nothing outside the university for the academic but decent collection within
Academic activities keep happening, talks, seminars etc	Nothing outside the university, fewer of everything within

But this doesn’t say it all. For how can I describe what it means to know that I have entered delhi when I can smell the Azadpur landfill, to get down from the bus in ISBT, arguing with the autowallah who quotes double the meter fare and telling him, hey u cant mess with me cos I am from here, or crossing the stinking yamuna and the horrendous akhshardam on the way home, cursing everyone responsible for it. Can I describe the feeling of knowing that this is the place where I can hopelessly lose my way but will never feel lost. Can I explain why those run down monuments of the 12^th century mean so much?

At the same time, can I put into one answer what it means to have a home of my own. Explain what I feel when I am on my way back to chandigarh after a weekend and am on a rickshaw and give the chap directions, the feeling that I am giving directions to ‘my home’. Or why the sight of the mountains, especially on a clear day washed by rain, which looms ahead when I drive to work makes my day and lifts my spirits on a bad day.

I ‘come back home’ every time I enter delhi and every time I enter chandigarh. I own both. I criticise them both. I live in both places. Can I say all this when I am asked ‘which one is better’ or ‘which one I prefer’?

it doesn’t matter...(the other side)

2007-02-24T17:32:00.001+05:30

it doesn’t matter
that we love each other
so much
however much

if
you don’t

hear me out
talk to me
take the time
try to understand
show you care
share in work

give me space
to do my own thing
and do my own nothing

treat me as an equal,
in deeds, not just in words

be a parent
not just the father

if you don’t value
me
us
all we have between us

you may love me ever so much
but this is what matters
our life not being thus is what shatters

and love
my love, your love, our love
cannot make up for it

love may never wear out, never die
we would perhaps be in love always

but it isn’t enough
for a life of togetherness
it just isn’t enough

it doesnt matter

2007-02-23T20:27:00.000+05:30

it doesn’t matter if you love me still,
for I once did too

it doesn’t matter if you don’t love me,
as long as I do

what matters is the feeling
of feeling nothing at all

neither love, nor longing nor hope
or pain, hurt, sorrow

no anticipation of what could be
no anguish over what has come to be

that small house

2007-02-01T15:47:00.000+05:30

It was a very small apartment. A hall, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, loo, balcony. It was something which I would today think ideal for my single living. I would most probably complain about the size of the kitchen and the old world separation of the loo and the bathroom. And curse the steep stairs to the second floor.

Eventually, that balcony got converted into a room. For a long time there was a half wall, a sort of fence, separating the bedroom and the balcony room. As children we loved to cross that fence and go back and forth the two rooms. Often we would use that fence as the vantage point to sit and observe the goings on.

And there was a lot going on in that house. At any given time the house boasted of the most eclectic combinations of people, conversations, and activities. In that house I have watched serious art house films and live cricket matches, heard the latest chartbuster or the rare old song recovered from some archive, played card games involving any number of people. The circle of players could get as wide as there were people, even if our knees and shoulders hit each other and to get up meant a shake up of the whole circle. There were people but never a din, for I have read many a book there. Others have learnt intricate embroidery designs or the latest knitting pattern even as another group of people were putting together the model of a building. And all this over the most amazing food.

The couple who made that home were not the most progressive of people. They had their share of conservatism, superstitions and hang-ups. But what made them distinctive was their openness. They were ready to listen, in fact eager to hear and know more, whether or not they agreed or approved. To date, they are the only people in the family (at least among the older ones) with whom I have shared any detail of my research.

Their home, the small apartment, reflected this openness and invited diversity with spontaneity and unaffected hospitality.

The two of them don’t live in that house any more. They don’t live any longer. But for me and I think for all of us who lived there, that small house was an huge rich experiment in a whole way of life, some part of which I hope I have imbibed.

growing up to feminism

2007-01-31T11:37:00.001+05:30

My sister mentioned home grown feminism in her blog. Was there indeed something like that in our homes? At surface level, there seems to be no room for feminism or indeed any kind of radicalism in our kind of background.

But then just as feminism approaches us in the safe spaces of women’s colleges and from the approved habits of reading classics, it finds strands in the dampest of traditions and voices in the silences of history and memory. It creeps through the crevices of correct upbringing, through the pauses between the narration of stories and their moralistic conclusions. It soaks our consciousness through the women in our lives.

Through a mother who countered every outbreak of temper with- ‘this is not the attitude with which you can go out into the world and make your way in it’. Leaving no doubt that not ‘going out into the world’ was an option we didn’t have.

And whose deep affection for her sibling never stopped her from making it known what she wanted to study and what she ended up studying and who was to blame.

Through an aunt who had to give up her job because her husband was too busy climbing to the top to share in parenthood and who never stopped regretting it, and is never satisfied with the cliché that she is ‘behind’ his phenomenal success.

Through another aunt who was forever criticised for prioritising her job over family occasions and functions.

And another who started working at the age of 40 to prove a point and find her worth and revels in that space which not only keeps her sane, but is all her own.

Through a relative who had to drop out of school when she got married to a man 13 years her senior, but who took her 12^th standard exam when her children were at college.

And another whose minimal knowledge of English didn’t stop her from learning how to operate the computer, and use the internet.

Through the glowing admiration for and fond recollection of a great grandmother (a tonsured widow) by her sons and grandsons; their assertion that had she the opportunity she could have been the prime minister. What kind of role model did she and their memory of her make for their daughters?

Feminism also pokes us through the barbs directed at unwomanly women. And through the sympathy and condolences expressed to people with no sons. And the fear felt by the people with no sons when they read an ancient text detailing the awful fate of their souls as their pyres would not be lit by the rightful male progeny. And when some of them react to this fate with a laugh (however nervous) and a shrug, it is a triumph for feminism

over (with) a cup of tea

2007-01-27T17:02:00.000+05:30

I always throw used tea leaves into the dustbin. I hate the idea of tea leaves going down the drain. They could clog the drain.

But that once, while I didn’t wash them down the drain, I didn’t throw them away either. I left them on the strainer.

They stained the strainer. They dried up. They threatened to fly. So I wet them under the tap. They stained everything that came under them. It took much heavy duty dish wash and detergent to get rid of those stains.

A year later, I threw them away.

Wondering why I made that tea then anyway.

It wasn’t the time, just before lunch. My appetite remained unsteady for a long time.

It wasn’t my kind of tea either. Too much sugar. Tea leaves boiled for too long. Too sweet and too bitter at the same time.

Am now trying to pacify the strainer. And we can’t work it out over a cup of tea.

each not to her own

2007-01-10T16:45:00.000+05:30

‘Have you got engaged?’ A student asks me as the class adjusts to seeing me in a saree. The expressions on their faces showed that whether they agreed with this possibility or not, they were all looking for an explanation. They did not look convinced when I said I liked wearing it, but nodded as I proceeded to explain I usually don’t find the time required. That they could comprehend, but still the fact that I had not come up with a reasonable explanation showed in the incredulity in their faces.

This reaction coincides with the other response I invariably get every time people gather I live alone and their next question is what I do for food. “I cook’ I answer, a little proudly of course, but also as a matter of course. Instead I am asked - Really? Don’t u find it boring? Isn’t it tedious? Why don’t u have a tiffin system? Aren’t hostels better just for this reason?

Would these people have the same reaction if I was married and had a ‘family’. If I wear a saree, even if occasionally, I guess would not provoke any big reaction but more so, cooking would be something I would be assumed to be doing. The image of the mother comes to mind- the woman so admired because she is so selfless. Mother’s food is always for others.

So is there a problem in doing something for myself. Dressing up just because I feel like it. Not for anyone. Not on any occasion. And cooking for myself. Because I like to eat good home cooked food too. And can make it even though I have not, in popular terms, made a home as yet.

Go Fish

2007-01-09T16:10:00.000+05:30

See A fish called Wanda. It’s a hilarious tale of the aftermath of a robbery with various members of the team trying to backstab and outwit each other over the loot. (incidentally, what is it about fish and films on crooks? Fish out of water, another film I recently saw, was on the same lines). Made in 1988, it has references to the secret service, KGB as well as Margaret Thatcher and a popular (but always amusing) take on the English- their characteristics and way of life. The best is when we are informed of one of the crooks, a Nietchze spouting temperamental fellow, becoming the minister of justice in (apartheid) South Africa! It has a great deal of situational comedy and some super cool lines like:

Aristotle is not a Belgian, the central tenet of Buddhism is not each man to his own and the London Underground is not a political movement.

I have known sheep which can outwit you. I have worn dresses which have more IQ than you.

Season's greetings

2006-12-27T17:59:00.000+05:30

Recipes on plum cakes in special interviews with chefs, christmas special desserts in restaurants, red and white santa caps and christmas tree decorations on sale, santa clauses too in local markets ... everything is red, green and white! It may be an indicator of western imperialism, the impact of American television shows all running new and old episodes of 'the christmas spirit' but the way Indians, a majority of them non-Christians, have taken to Christmas and made it their own seems to hold out a hope. Hope of harmony, of cross cultural celebration, of festive spirit transcending religious barriers.

But something prevents me from making any such inferences. For the past few years Diwali and Id have been falling around the same time- a gap of a day or two between them making for one long holiday. The markets were buzzing, everything was gay and glittery. I sent out greetings on behalf of my family to all on our email list wishing them for both festivals. I know it was naive on my part but i didn't anticipate the reactions. Some were simply astounded that I clubbed the festivals together. Some were angry that i had tarnished my grandparents' name by making them wish on Id. One relative, living in the gulf, replied saying it made sense to wish him as he was in a 'muslim country' but why subject others to it. Most of them noticed and had something to say, either immediately or through the whispering network that characterise family communications. none of them ever cringe when wished 'a merry christmas' or reply similarly to greetings on the 'season of giving'.

so as for composite culture, we arent there yet. Meanwhile, I will return to polish off the plum cake.

to poetry with love

2006-12-25T20:04:00.000+05:30

Poetry came into my life along with love. As I struggled to make sense of the strange bunch of emotions which deliciously complicated my being, I began to articulate in verse. The internal struggle on admitting that another person could enter and hold any power over my domain, the independence of this personal domain itself so newly acquired and hence so precious, found an outlet in words. But words about other things- opinions and emotions- asserting this independence and in this assertion containing the connection I denied. I think I could then qualify for the ‘bad poet’ of the generation, but poetry I did write.

Love brought in poetry to my life but I never wrote about love. But as love receded, the poetry drained out. Though I found and lost love after that (to one I owe the joys of hindi and urdu poetry), but never did I recover the well springs of verse. I tried to suck it out, now trying to word lost love but the stray phrases petered out, like promising dark clouds of summer, leaving behind the frustration of inadequacy. Prosaic I called myself, often wondering whether the love I have found since has also been that- prosaic. Later, I even stopped reading poetry, thinking I had lost the capacity to connect to verse

That’s when Neruda came into my life, unannounced, unexpected, in the form of a film. And my eyes turned to verse again, trying to find meaning in the now unfamiliar pattern of words. (oh why cant they be all straight lines, from one end of the page to another, paragraphs which cut at the appropriate frequencies, arguments which are introduced and concluded). Love is so short and forgetting is so long, he said. Poetry and love belong to the same old trunk of memory, shoved into the farthest corner of the attic but never abandoned. Indeed, it’s the memory of love that makes me turn to poetry again. Not to pick up the pen ever perhaps (so other contenders for the ‘bad poet’ title can relax!) but to reconnect to the personal domain buried under experience, caution and all such clichés of living.

living the 'easy option'

2006-11-29T07:15:00.001+05:30

Everybody who is incapable of learning has taken to teaching.”
Oscar Wilde

I never thought i would be a teacher. Teaching was considered 'the easy option' and a job 'most suitable for women' as it 'was hardly a job' and 'just good pocket money'. Even as i outgrew that socialisation and began to question it, it remained a scary option. After being so critical of all my teachers it was not very comforting to put myself in that place.I just drifted into teaching, dont know how long i will continue, but its humbling, challenging and frustrating all at the same time.

On family and festivals

2006-11-27T12:08:00.000+05:30

Festivals. We have too many of them. And I don’t care for most. Leaving my atheism aside, most festivals if not about sundry gods, are in honour of brothers and husbands (why never mothers or sisters). If they are about women, they are concerned only with the married woman (husband still living, mind you) or pre-pubescent girls. The only good thing about them is the food! Each festival comes with a detailed menu of goodies which are specific to it, on which it seems to have a virtual monopoly.

Diwali, in particular, has much going against it. It has become an excuse for socially sanctioned bribery and unbridled consumerism. But diwali has a subversive quality to it. ‘Our diwali’ (as I tell all non-south Indians) is the one festival where we go against all rules. We seem to be insulting Narakasura, the evil asura king whom Krishna defeated. But aren’t we honouring him instead? After all didn’t he in his death ask people to celebrate his destruction with lights, new clothes. Or are we affirming the original dravidianism by refusing to follow Aryan ritualism even in the moment of its supposed triumph over the dravidas? Is this the explanation for the thumbs down to rituals, to purity? The only other tamilian festival I value is pongal. There is something endearing about the vision of tamilians, spread over as they are, stubbornly celebrating the onset of harvest in one tiny part of the country and searching for sugarcane, tamarind and such season specific products in parts of the world which follow very different time-tables.

Coming back to diwali, for me diwali has always been with family. And over the years, my extended family has been making less and less sense to me. The feeling I know is mutual. But come diwali, I wander back. To diwali-eve late night card game sessions. To endless retelling of family stories and jokes, of which one will be new and everything else has been repeated a million times. To drop off to sleep exhausted with food and laughter. To be woken up an hour later to have oil applied to our hair. To sit in front of gods defiantly munching on snacks without a mandatory offering to them. And that too without having a bath. To being pushed into taking the bath in the lure of new clothes.

But increasingly diwali is becoming poignant in its nostalgia value. For in the past year and half, three people whom I most associate with diwali and who are (perhaps not coincidentally) the nicest people in the family are no more. Next diwali I know I will trudge back home seeking the familiarity of the festival I like and the family I want (at least during the festival!!!), but wonder if it hasn’t changed forever…

on a poem

2006-10-10T15:26:00.000+05:30

Across
by vikram seth

Across these miles i wish you well.
May nothing haunt your heart but sleep.
May you not sense what i dont tell.
May you not dream, or doubt, or weep.

May what my pen this peaceless day
Writes on this page not reach your view
Till its deferred print lets you say
It speaks to someone else than you.

I am not great with poetry but loved this one. but then had a long discussion on and dissection of this poem with a friend. he thought it glorified sacrifice and is an exercise in self-torture. for me it spoke of the quiet dignity of unrequited love. love is magic and often, love is pain, but it is also primarily about self. how we talk to ourselves when we are in love tells us a great deal about our own self.

Finding a home

2006-09-21T14:23:00.000+05:30

“You cannot have both- freedom and a good apartment” informed the property dealer. It has been 9 months now but I still remember the look he gave me, because this was the look which was mirrored in the various faces I encountered as part of my search for a rented accommodation in the city I had just moved into. All those faces conveyed various versions of the same conclusions they were making in their minds about my ‘character’.

What I was looking for was a place which would be my home. The hallowed notion of home conveys I think a sense of independence and privacy- it’s the place to be yourself. But this was precisely what all these owners of property found objectionable in my context- how can a single woman be allowed to be herself? Most owners of properties consider that they are doing their tenants a favour by leasing out their apartments, the monetary benefit is not seen as an equal deal- surprising even in our market society. So they can lay down any number of terms.

My problem started with the fact that their terms didn’t not include a person like me. Many turned me out because they wanted “families”. They added that they were a decent set of people and couldn’t take risks. That apart, I got to hear lectures on Indian culture, it seems Indian culture is dependent on my returning home by 6pm everyday. Otherwise it under grave threat. Moreover Indian culture is threatened by having male friends over at my house. One couple debated in front of me whether a male colleague could come home for tea or not and what would be the appropriate time after which he should be turned out. Half an hour said the wife, the husband wasn’t sure why the colleague should come to his house at all. Other than colleagues one is not expected to have a social life anyway.

One man gave me a long lecture on how he doesn’t like noise, loud music, too much clatter etc. I was actually surprised when he agreed to finalise the deal me that evening. But within a few hours, he said they wanted families with children, how he was going to apply the noise/ clatter restriction I am at a loss to explain.

For those who found the idea of a single woman as an acceptable tenant of course had their own assumptions. I was to be like their daughter- they told me. I was touched but the sub-text was clearer- I was to be answerable to them just like to parents. The assumption was that a single working woman had very little things to do in life- work and then come back straight home!

On narrating such experiences to people, I also got friendly advice on how I should go and ask for an out of turn allotment of the campus accommodation. The outside world is harsh, I was told. This seemed to me to be another version of the same argument that my potential landlords cum torchbearers of morality were giving me. It sounded much like – the world is unsafe, don’t go out in the world. Instead of trying to make the world safe by going out and making it confront your presence

What I was looking for was a house where I would not be told when to enter and when to leave, who can visit me and who cant. Some very basic stuff I thought. Instead I encountered a whole set of people who not only demanded a virginity test as it were, but thought that it was a most ‘normal’ demand to make. My reactions shook them; they had only my dubious character to fall back as an explanation.

The threat of a single woman I realized was indeed immense. This was the figure
society was most anxious to keep away from its collective understanding of itself. The only way it could deal with the multitudes of single women who don’t seem to be disappearing is to suggest hostels or hostel-like situations.

Eventually and interestingly, the person ready to rent out a place turned out to be a very old, illiterate, religious woman (our prime example of patriarchy). While being obsessed with cleanliness, she has mostly tended to keep her reservations on my life to herself. This when, ‘young’ and ‘educated’ people refused the second they found I was not a ‘family’!

what are memories all about

2006-08-19T22:45:00.000+05:30

finally i decide to write. the gap between creating this blog and putting these words down probably explains much abt me. i want to do so much but mostly keep postponing them all. not that i am doing something very important but i do manage to push out the most important things away...
anyway to come back to what did actually make me start this...i was intrigued. not by the blog business actually. but by poeple's desire to be "back in touch" with older friends in their life. i was introduced to this group called orkut where one has communities of one's school and college aparrt from a mind-boggling variety of interests.a whole of people reported how they had got in touch with thier school mates, neighbours from old times...i got excited. i wanted to know whether there was any possibility of meeting up with some of my childhood friends, people i had lost contact with suddenly as i moved cities or even those who moved off after school. i was curious- what did become of them. but with this curiousity was linked another one- why this curiousity afterall? would i even make sense of these people if i met them now. what after we had updated each other(forget update, in most cases it would be almost a blank) would we have to say to each other. lives have meandered and changed many courses since. often leaving most of us in opposite banks of the tale. but we still seek to meet, to find out.
i think some of this is the power of memories. we all live with our memories and to connect to someone from the memory is a chance to liink up with our whole self all over again. perhaps i think there is some essetial me whcih has lived thru all this time and the possibilty to connect offers one a hope to find out that essense. of course the idea of an 'essence' is problematic, so in that sense it is good i havent really come across my older worlds. but the possibilty remains attractive.