dibble dabble

This ad set my blood boiling!

2011-07-27T13:55:00.008+09:00

Have you seen the most recent MTS ad? I just saw it this morning and I couldn't find it online so it must be really new.

For those of you who haven't seen it, here is how it goes: It shows a creepy young guy stalking another (supposedly handsome) guy and saying something along the lines of "can I have just one date with your sister?"

What????

I thought I'd heard wrong. Can I have one date with your sister???

The macho brother is a little irritated because this creep is catching him everywhere: as he is waking up, when he's parking his car, while he's at the movies and going about minding his own business. Nope, he's not irritated because some random sleazeball is after his sister, but because this guy is just in his way all the damn time!

So the creep keeps showing up at random places, saying "one date?"..."just one date....?" Till one day he (well, believe it or not) runs out of talk time! And has to shut up... lucky for the harassed brother, non?

But as luck would actually have it, the creep gets on to MTS and suddenly he's back with his demand to have just one date with the sister.

And the most shocking bit of the ad is yet to come. It ends with the brother getting really annoyed and saying "just go, yaar, just take her!".

By this time I am so in shock, I am not even sure if I've actually seen this during a commercial break in the morning news.

And what worries me more than the absolute trash I've just seen (and I don't mean just the news) is that many, if not most, people would see this as just another ad. Some would find it funny. And there would be others who see nothing wrong with what's being shown. It's just an ad, right?

First of all, this happening in the real world would be harassment! And no, not of the brother! Women in India (especially in a city like Delhi) are cornered by men like this everyday for their phone numbers or because they want to make some "fraandship". Creeps are Never funny for a woman. And a creep, asking your brother if he can have you for a date is not funny at all.

An ad like this really shows deep rooted perceptions towards women in our country. As if the fact that a brother being asked permission for dating the sister is not bad enough, what is most infuriating is the idea that people think it is enough for a brother to give his consent. Whatever happened to this sister we hear about? Does she even know that there's a creep lusting after her and her pimp of a brother has just given his green signal to "just take her".

That's sick.

And what exactly does the brother think this creep wants to do to his sister on this one date? No prizes for guessing! It is quite apparent from the way the creep looks and acts that he's not meant to be attractive and if he would actually ask the sister out, she'd probably say no.

Is it, then, a mere coincidence that the brother eventually says "Just take her!".

So what MTS is essentially trying to say is: if you stalk or harass someone enough, they will surely give in to you. Better still, if you irritate the man who owns the woman you desire for long enough, it won't be long before you can "just take her".

Isn't that just a great message to send to the men of our country!!

This is, of course, not the only ad that is completely inappropriate. Seen the Airtel 3G Facebook ad? The one in which a grandson and grandfather use Facebook on their Airtel phones to hunt down a really old woman and sexually harass her in public? This because years ago her husband had kissed the grandfather's wife without permission.

Women's bodies have always been the public sphere that is used for men to play out their revenge dramas. And the absolute casualness that's being used in these ads is what is really scary. By accepting these ads or even by simply dismissing them, we are essentially making it ok for women's bodies to be the object of abuse, ownership and trade on television. Can it be any clearer that we as a society do actually believe that this is what women are for?

For those of you who say "chill, it's just an ad", you may need to think about what ads are for. Unlike films (esp Bollywood films that are often way beyond most Indians' realities), most ads these days are about the Indian middle class and what they give value to. Ads show you who you can be and who you should want to be.

This MTS ad shows a young, upper-middle class, modern man. But what we also get to see is this man's perception of his sister. In real life, he probably does not want to pimp her off to the first creep that comes along but he does think that she needs to seek his permission for all such matters and that she adhere to his rules. After all, he is her protector till she can be passed on to another man through marriage for safe keeping.

Let's flip the situation for a minute. Suppose the sister chose to date some random guy (or even the creep) the brother didn't' approve of? Would he respect her decision? Would a girl who has a crush on the brother need to seek the sister's permission to date him?

Similarly, in the Airtel ad, the old woman who gets kissed forcefully in public is paying the price for her husband's misdemeanors in his younger days. The message here is once again clear: men will be men and they have urges. And they can impose themselves on any woman as and when they please - be it for pleasure, revenge or anything else they bloody well fancy.

The brand names and contexts change but the bottom line remains the same: women belong to the men in their lives and their life choices, sexuality and bodies are controlled by these men who have the power to restrict and ravage them as they please.

Those who think these ads are just ads definitely are unaware of or are in denial of the power dynamics that are constantly playing out between male egos and female bodies all the time. At the risk of sounding dramatic, any routine activity outside of the house is sprinkled with various shades of harassment: be it going for a morning walk, buying groceries at your local shop, making casual eye contact with the guy in a car next to your auto or wearing what you damn well want to wear.

Unfortunately, there are no quick fix solutions. But I think as "educated" people we need to make an effort to engage with these issues. For starters, we need to stop distancing from them by treating them as unreal elements of our society and our lives. The minute we think "it's just an ad", we start trivializing the uncomfortable, the unfair, and oftentimes, the horrific realities of most Indian women.

Today

2011-07-07T13:13:00.001+09:00

It was in the folds
of that
grey matter.
Coiled against
clammy corridors.
When it lengthens,
stretches out,
its ruby eyes blink
and stare.
Its raspy tail
unfurls.

Some days are not
for standing up
and to be noble.
Some days
are meant for
spewing venom.

Bad Omen

2010-04-07T17:08:00.002+09:00

I should have known,
perhaps,
when I first sat
on that (forbidden)wooden threshold
of your house
that this was the bad luck
that they were trying to shoo away
from under my feet
(and yours).

And Us

2010-02-28T13:24:00.001+09:00

We were fools.
We owned the world
(only) in the twisted fantasies
of our own minds.

Once words and meanings
showed their true colors,
we had nothing
but the gaping empty truths
of our lying bodies
(ringless and bare necked).
And a story that trespassed beyond
soured dreams
pointing fingers
and feminism.

Plot Device

2010-02-21T12:31:00.000+09:00

And we were weak.
We lied.
We made up stories
like children playing toy soldiers.
Thinking we will be home
in time to save the day.

Hindsight

2010-02-21T12:30:00.000+09:00

In our abstractness,
our "good intentions",
our pretentions to save them pain,
we have dug ourselves
our graves.

Basic Nature

2010-02-20T14:11:00.002+09:00

I have sat
too many times
in the midst of empty words.
Fitting meanings.
Make belief.

They didn’t feel the ill-fit.
The choking at the mouth.
And now when I speak
They don’t listen.

This Time I Speak the Truth

2010-02-20T13:55:00.002+09:00

Maybe that was what was called instinct. Hugely ignored. That little feeling in the pit of my stomach. That I-have-forgotten-something feeling. But in between all the pushier feelings maybe there was no space for that. Caution and stupidity have probably switched roles somewhere along the way and there is no knowing which is which anymore.

The games we can play with our own minds and our memories are embarrassingly potent. Here I am. I have a choice of how I want to remember that day. The day. The only day that from then on should have mattered. And all I can remember from it is the feeling of wrongness. Something missing. Somewhere, something, somehow.

The lead up to this event was also eventful. The excitement I saw in the younger eyes around me was missing in mine. How do I tell you the real story? How do I break your hearts by bearing my soul to you? How do I tell you that what you see is just an act colored by your own demanding and desperately constructed realities? If you knew the truth you’d just tsk tsk and sit back wondering why all this had to come this far anyway.

Flashback to that “fateful” day doesn’t help much. But does put things into perspective. Weighs them out and puts them into that futile bag of realities labeled “hindsight”. Learnings, there are many. But once again you’d say I think too much and this reality that belongs to me is only a manifestation of my arrogantly selfish mind.

I don’t have to close my eyes, sit in a dark room and brood to touch this reality. It swims right before me dimming only when I am deeply distracted. But you will say that is life. You will say distract yourself. You will say come here, let me give you a hug. Take a deep breath, move on.

And I am.

If only learning from mistakes was not our anthem. If only truth and honesty and dignity didn’t mean anything. If only you’d admit that you lied and you would prefer that we continue living our masked lives. If only you could bear yourself in front of me and let me hold you instead and remind you that this pain is more yours than mine. I have crashed and burned over and over again – and keep doing so – but am still breathing just enough to tell the story.

And a story there is. This one is the kind that is not talked about if helped. It reeks of human mistakes and childlike innocence. This one is just slightly poked at the surface, if at all it must be mentioned.

But here we are sitting opposite each other, lumps in our throats and questions in our eyes.

Why? What next? How could you? The questions are many. And the answers unsatisfactory.

There are people who are allowed (expected?) to make mistakes and those who are not. Ironically the former are forgiven easier. But I have made a mistake. Now under the weight of words like “perfect” and “flawless” and “destiny” I can feel myself give away. Look at me and you’ll know the empty words you are ranting. Can I just tell you that they are not true? It was only what you wanted to see. Those gaps were filled in by your own dreamy eyes. You made it up and made me like this. Just open your eyes a little wider and you’ll see the cracks expand into gaping holes. Bottomless pits.

This picture is not beautiful. And this cloud of hope that I hold in my hands belongs to you. I didn’t dream it, or want it. I hold it gingerly with my fingertips, nevertheless, afraid of what might happen if I let it go. But it prickles like an allergy and squirms to jump out. This thing that is yours. A stranger in my hands.

Just like me in your hands. Waiting to exhale.

Worship

2010-02-16T12:10:00.003+09:00

The God
that was battered yesterday
had to be pacified today.
There are still
so many wishes unfilled.

(sometimes that is done to people too)

The Upside

2010-01-31T12:39:00.000+09:00

down
down
down
doesn't always
have to be this way

down
after all
has been
fun too

Grammar

2010-01-31T12:38:00.000+09:00

why is it that

everything

words
meanings
paradoxes
and nonsense

fall apart
together

with you

?

Sages and Learners

2010-01-31T12:36:00.002+09:00

the metal din
of keyboards
and the whir
of stale computers
whiz on and on
in the background

here
the learners
and the sages
both give sermons

quiet, heavy words
about
soul mates
coffee
and spiders
killed by drowsy heads.

Pyre

2010-01-31T12:36:00.001+09:00

tempers roar
in this cold sea
of unseeing eyes
and whispering tongues.
dawn is short
- a flicker.
its orange hues
turning fiery too soon.
and as the fire roars
within,
and without,
look back
at the flicker
you have left behind.
I am still the flame
ready to burn
with you.
for you.

Acknowledgements

2010-01-31T12:34:00.000+09:00

It was in choked,
hushed whispers
that they told our story,
assuming (very bravely)
a grim embarrassment
for our shameless,
shapeless,
sheltered
love.

Radiant Fantasy

2010-01-31T12:31:00.001+09:00

I long
to ride
the waves
you summoned,
drowning in the
foamy crests
and surface
gulping,
drowning in the
unreachable heights
you plucked
and spread out for me,
drowning in the
depths unseen
of wild serenity
and float back
to life

Reflections

2010-01-31T12:30:00.001+09:00

reaching out
across the cold glass

these images
trapped inside on
"the other side"
whimper
in fear
of when they would have
to step out

and wipe their
old, tired hands
on that smooth surface
that, sometimes,
still tells their story.

Secret

2010-01-31T12:29:00.000+09:00

This unwant
is a gray thing.

Heavy,
so it sinks,
till it finds
a spot
- a grudge
or a sore.

A niche.

Color Blindness

2010-01-31T12:28:00.001+09:00

the yellows
reds
and oranges

dipped into
blue

does not look
as
different

(as one might think)

Postcard

2010-01-31T12:26:00.000+09:00

Red,
you had said

Red!
I had said

This is the
color
of our delirium.

A river
between
the parting in my hair

Actors

2010-01-31T12:25:00.000+09:00

centre stage:

"boil pasta,
chop chop,
salt and pepper,
serve hot"

back stage:

"is the fourth floor
high enough?"

afterwards

2010-01-31T12:23:00.001+09:00

It’s still too early

the sun hasn’t set
on the marks of our love
or on the crumpled
bed sheets
the still smell of bodies
(yours and mine)

Game

2010-01-31T12:22:00.000+09:00

come,
help me rub out my teary eyes
so that you can
once again
believe
they
glitter

Jigsaw Puzzle

2010-01-31T12:21:00.000+09:00

Directions for use:
Pick up pieces
And place them
Gently
Where they belong

Oh… Look!
It’s a pretty house!

Who Died?

2010-01-31T12:20:00.001+09:00

What is that rotten stench?
As if something was left
Forgotten.

Problem Child

2010-01-31T12:19:00.004+09:00

Please go away
I want to be alone now.

Splat

2010-01-31T12:19:00.003+09:00

Words
Drummed
Into
Me

Radio

2010-01-31T12:19:00.001+09:00

Listen
I’ve got a story
to tell you

Listen to me
I know things
You have no idea about

Listen listen….
Don’t fall asleep yet
Listen…
Listen
Listen
Listen…

Disclaimer

2010-01-31T12:18:00.001+09:00

When I go mad and fall
exhausted
You can kick my limp body and try to wake me up
“Wake up bitch
Don’t leave me
Don’t leave me now
Smile, dance, sing for me
Am bored
Wake up bitch
Am not done with you”

monsoon

2010-01-31T12:16:00.001+09:00

a lot more than
heavy drops
quenched soil
distant rumble
scented air
and pitter patter
got through this time

again

--

just the talk of
cloudy skies
and the drumming of rain
against window panes

and there

another shower
of his poetry
drenches my senses

--

on the other side
words
images
verses
painted a better picture
than the one
the skies so desperately
tried to paint
here.

dream sequence II

2009-07-07T01:08:00.001+09:00

She woke up to the sound of “please… please”… Murmured, gasped, begged all together. By the time she was groggily out of her own dream, the shape that was earlier lying beside her was standing; balancing unsteadily on the cushiony bed.

Please…, he said again

There was no light. From where she lay she couldn’t even see his silhouette. But had felt his breath, and the smell of his skin, waft away from her. She could feel that the voice looming over her was ready to walk away. Where to? She reaches over and meets his ankle with her palms. Come back, it’s okay. You are dreaming.

He sinks down into the pillow almost as stealthily as he had got up and is back asleep even before her arms could coil around his neck; embraced and a kiss planted on his sweaty forehead. His breath steadies and he has crept back into that faceless noiseless place where she was not allowed. Where no whispered whimper could tell her what he was thinking. And no amount of imaginary role play could fill in the gaps.

Sometimes – when she was more awake that she was right now – she would imagine how his thoughts looked. The words, the colors, the crooks and crannies that make up these nightmares when he’s asleep. She imagined a grey brain; the kind she’s seen in glass jar filled with formaldehyde in science labs and his thoughts are balloons stemming out of it like that which comes out of the heads of comic book characters. She wonders about the twisted knots of this mind and those that probably form in the pit of his stomach when he’s very silent.

When his body slouches in sleep, it’s her turn to step off the edge. Into dreams full of curiosity. The blanks that get filled in her dreams leave more gaping holes than before. Much time has not passed between her transition from passive oblivion to teary wakefulness but, to her, it seemed all too real – and too long.

By now the sun is already rising behind the thick curtains on the windows. Outside life would kick start back to normal very soon, just like it does every day. But the eerie remains of the night that has not entirely passed remains in the crumples of the bed sheets. The shape beside her is clear now, the face lit by the blush of dawn. Thoughts of superstitions and morning dreams lull her back to early morning sleep. But this time it is she who is not aware of her lips parting; breathing in a murmured plea

Please….

Excess Baggage

2009-07-06T13:21:00.000+09:00

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/05/weekinreview/05giridharadas.html?ref=global-home

My dad hates it when my sister and I make fun of Indian accents and say "it's true" to "you know you are Indian if... " email forwards. Sometimes I wonder, too, why we do it. I figure it's an awareness of how we are, and moreover, an acceptance of the fact: "yes... that's exactly how we are. so what?"

I laugh at all that because I know its true. after all, i still have to sprinkle chili flakes all over my pizza and pasta and still like my chinese food to be called "manchurian" and "chow mein". i still think of the saree when I think of formal wear. And at the end of the day I definitely want my bollywood, no matter which part of the world I am in.

What Giridhardas says(in the link pasted above) about the import of products and envies is not entirely one way. Till the last years of my stay in Thailand, each trip to India would mean loading our suitcases with incense sticks,papadam, all kinds of food,perfumes, biscuits, chocolates (yep!), maggie, audio tapes, movies, books, clothes, soaps etc. the list is endless. each time we came to visit, we wanted to take everything back with us. Just as exciting as our visits to our relatives' homes were our visits to the local grocery shop - "His Highness" - and more recently, "Varkey's". My sister and I used to load up on Liril soap while my perplexed aunt couldn't understand what about that lime and lemony soap was so great. we couldn't get enough of five stars, perks and dairy milks and used to treasure it in our fridge and have it stingyly long after we got back home to Bangkok. To this day I sometimes feel I should be careful with my supply of Maggie, a habit i'd got used to.

As kids our room was full of bollywood and cricket posters (some I am Very embarrassed of now)and audio tapes of Hindi songs that,i am sure, many children our age living in India had no idea about. We used to be experts in Antakshri, going on for hours and hours. There was hardly an instance when one group would run out of songs. To the extent that we found the game not challenging enough for our "extensive knowledge" of Hindi film music and started making up our own more difficult games.

Yes, its very easy when staying "abroad" to be convinced that the movement was one way. It was perhaps more true for our generation, or maybe just us. Maybe we were exceptions and still remained very Indian in our consumerism. I don't think kids living abroad today have a shopping list similar to ours. But that's also true because lines of Indian and foreign products are blurring.

But the changes that we see in India right now is rather an anti-thesis to the India of my parents' days and dreams. That is to say, the "price" one pays for malls and convenient stores is with that of "remembered simplicity". Perhaps its also true that at the age my parents left the country they were too young to realize what they were leaving and took with them only the parts of our country that we love best. And that is what they passed on to us. The India I grew up with was glorious, full of love and food and festivals.

The India that my parents will come back to a few years from now will be very different from the one they left. But when they do come back, they will return bringing with them reverse importation. Those things that they took 30 years ago will come back with them in their imported suitcases. The pressure cooker with the broken lid, the steel plates with their names engraved on it, sarees, some of which are older than me and music - old, worn out cassette tapes - that is definitely older than me and already lost to many of those who have never left the country.

Often the concept of India is much bigger than our experiences with it. I've met both extremes: "I never want to go back to that country again" and "there's no place like here" but I find that everyone has their own special tie with this place. Those who never want to come back here still have India on their Ipods and tongues. No matter were you stand, whether you love it or hate it, India has a way of pulling you in and forcing you to be part of its throbbing vibrancy.

What I came to was an imagined India and the transition was smoother, than it might have been for many others, because I found that life was much the same to the one I have been living - though people are very different. But during my time here I realized that feeling at home, to a large extent, is just a matter of constant import and export. My Maggie then is my MaMa now.

this ain't a love song

2009-07-04T11:59:00.001+09:00

today am thinking about nationalism. rather have been for a while now, especially about two months ago with elections et al. I think its a rather taken for granted emotion and it could be quite a fiery one, sometimes flaring up at "wrong" times.

Two or three things have got me really thinking about nationalism. and what it really means to be part of a country. and if you are living in a country that is yours, can you still refuse to acknowledge it because of the things you think it stands for? i guess we might think that it is easier to take a stance when you are a citizen of a "rogue nation" (whatever that might be). But once in a while there comes a time when you have to question what you stand for when you are considered part of a group.

So there have been unfinished and not completely convincing conversations about nationalism and patriotism. however (and maybe I say this because i really don't understand the emotion) there seems to be an imbalance in that thought. for example, what does nationalism even mean in a country like ours? India is a so vast and diverse that each indian has his or her own individual little india. So then what does the Entire construct of India, in the political/geographical sense actually mean? or perhaps that's just it: each person - when it comes to any nation - should just hold on to what their idea of their country might be. if it works for them, they are a nationalist and if it doesn't they are one of those complainers who say "i hate this country". of course there's a spectrum of other stages in between these two extremes.

so yes there are some things that really disturb me about India and i don't mean potholes and powercut. yes, those are problems too but of an entirely different nature. what disturbs me most right now are individuals' own unwillingness to accept or overwillingness to reject people who are different from them.

It was great that Article 377 (a law that criminalizes homosexuality in India) got overturned by the high court (02/07/09). Much too late of course... but better late than never. but immediately there are a hundred people jumping up and saying this is against our culture. sure... it may be if you are stubbornly going to choose to look at it that way but in a country whose religious and cultural traditions have been built from listening to stories about characters like amba (the transgender in mahabharat who eventually helps kill bhishm), mohini (vishu in female form; rumored to be very beautiful and if i remember right he/she has fathered/mothered a chlld). and lets not forget the few years when Arjun was in hiding, dressed as a woman. so clearly the cultural argument really doesn't work here.

but beyond that, these people who are so quick to jump to the defense of indian culture never seem to do that where it matters. As far as I know ragging is not Indian culture but no one seems care about that. Torturing youngsters who want an education, am sure, was not part our gurukuls. The same goes for raping children and women in war zones - or anywhere. how come talk of culture comes up only when the argument is hollow? why does the entire country have to carry the weight of being narrow-minded because those in power can't think beyond themselves?

So here's my anxiety about nationalism: When I call myself Indian, am i supporting all this? Am i supporting all these unspeakable crimes against human rights? if India is one "thing" then whatever the country does, we all are part of and have to take responsibility for.

I don't want to part of these things that I can't relate to or understand - and thank God for that.

I remember the exact moment when my sense of "nationalism" crumpled. It was after hearing the news about two women who were raped in Kashmir by a whole army camp. It was not the first such instance but somehow hearing it from someone I know, instead of on the news, really shot a hole through me (no pun intended). But what shocked me more is that the nation only wants to talk about militants and bombs. but where does 'truth' in all of this go? Doesn't it matter what happens to people in our own country? And if it doesn't, then what is this great civilization that we are talking about?

Some might say I am taking this too seriously (but I know I am not)and that every country has these problems. Sure, why not? But that isn't an excuse.

My question is if my country Also stands for atrocities and injustice, how can I label myself an Indian without saying that I agree and am part of this?

Which brings me back to the concept of a scattered India. An individual India. A developing or enriching or shining India. Each one of us in our cozy corners can choose what we want to believe about here and anywhere else. It might be a convenient escape rather than facing the demons out there. But there has to be some compromise. And this one seems to be the best way out.

Having said that though, separate from the concept of nationhood (in fact a step Ahead of nationhood), some things are wrong no matter where it happens and who it happens to. So the injustices here and everywhere else, as a human being, I can't wash my hands off by saying "this is not my problem".

dream sequence

2009-07-03T11:37:00.000+09:00

She knew because she saw. Twirling whirling colors. Perfume in the cleft behind knees. Stilettos.

And she knew what she was going to see much before she walked into the theatre. She scanned the almost full auditorium till she found her. Shiny shouldered. She found a seat a couple of rows behind her, diagonally.

She smiled and semi-greeted the strangers who came to sit beside her.
“Is this seat taken?” someone asked.

No, come sit next to me. “No… Go ahead”. She smiled.

This was going to be good. The lights dimmed and the emcee walked onto the stage. She noticed the way his hands held the mic. He flashed his perfect white teeth at the audience and started his soliloquy. Phones off. No eating. Applause.

As the lights changed – dimmed and darkened – she watched as the lights fell on her hands. She moved her hands off the arm rest and the lights sunk into the cushiony soft velvetness of the seats. The same seats that stain so fast. Have been stained. She was sure of that.

As she watched the young girl in front of her watch the play, things seemed to fall into place. She preferred it when she let her imagination take over rather than having to grapple with reality. Who was this random girl watching some really badly made play all alone (seemingly)? But it is so much easier to put a face to the thought and get this agony over with. So her. So what?

The next day at some shopping mall she’ll find someone else to haunt. Even girls with beady eyes and plain faces. She was ready to slap a mask on anyone she found. She just needed a face to crush beneath her feet.

At night she would dream of white dresses and shadows dancing around a musical fountain. Light that splayed out of the fountain became paint and made swishes of green yellow blue pink orange on her white dress. She scoops water out of the fountain to wash off her painted speckled fingers. The water is chilly.

Once again she has a gaudy mask in her hands. The kind used in parades with feathers and glitter painted all over it. She placed it on her face, ready to walk on to the stage. The fountain gushed on, spraying more colors on to her now iridescent dress.

Click.

Cameras were whirling and the dance was on. The mask meant she saw everybody and no one saw her. It was a myth she was fooled into believing much too early in her life. Sometimes, as she dances, she cannot feel her feet; instead she is moving on sponge. As she whirls in and out of the spotlight she can hear the cheers around her. She is impressed at her impressiveness.

She looks down at the audience and the girl in the white dress is clapping for her. Admiration flickering in her eyes. Her neatly manicured fingers touch her glistening lips and she extends her hands towards the stage as she watches the dancer move – a kiss; a sign of affection. She is mesmerized.

The dancer looks at the audience once again. There they are applauding. A silhouette stands against the bright lights. It walks out the EXIT.

sunday morning feeling

2009-05-03T10:57:00.000+09:00

Most of my other (very few) blogs have been about realizations or venting or learnings. But this one is just purely to state that I am at this moment completely and utterly happy.

Its early sunday morning and I am in Dehradun sitting in Shruti's apartment with a hot cup of tea with creamer (creamer always makes tea so much more fun) with kishore kumar and lata mangeshkar crooning tum aa gaye ho noor aa gaya hai lightly on the laptop.

travel, music, good food and friends snorning away in the next room... does one need much mmore? :)

recently someone mentioned that being able to appericate the beauty of early mornings is a gift... one that you carry with you for the rest of your life. I would tweek that philosopy a little bit and say the ability to appreicate these moments - any moment - morning noon or night - is the bigger picture. "The smaller things in life" is an overused statement, one that has almost lost all real meaning. but its true... those who say it and, more importantly, mean it know what they are talking about.

so juat stopping for a moment and etching out on to this virtual space of confessions and ramblings that this moment (as delhites would say lightly) "sahi hai"

disclaimer: they are not actually snoring... just a figure of speech

reading woes

2009-04-28T12:30:00.000+09:00

standing in front of shri kalyanji temple in Diggi (a few hours away from Jaipur) I realized I am indeed illiterate. Carved into the stone wall of the temple was the history of the temple. The person who accompanied me to the place waved his hand affectionately towards the writing and said "everything you want to know about the temple is written here".

I stare blankly at the wall... pretending to read what looked like gibberish to me.

This experience of not being able to read is not new to me. In fact, I've spent the majority of my life in a country where I couldn't read the local language. But I had never felt that to be a handicap. Or more so, a fact about me that I was embarrassed to admit to someone else.

Later we sat at restaurant and a menu in Hindi was placed in front of me. My colleagues insisted that I decide what we'll have for lunch. Once again i started at the menu. Thankfully, my numerous visits to restaurants like these had given me a good idea of the kind of names that should appear on a menu.

"anything is fine" I squeaked out sheepishly. What must have seemed like shyness or some sort of politeness was actually just inability to read the menu. I was surprised at my own hesitation to just tell them things as they are... after all its not just a big deal. right?

Later on, i realized it was not so much admitting that I do not read Hindi rather than the assumption that I do read it that made it so difficult speak up. One might say, and i do so believe often enough, that i have enough excuse for not reading Hindi. At least I read my own mother tongue. Yes, I smatter through it... but at least...

Perhaps thats where nationhood comes in. Not knowing Thai never bothered me but I can't seem to hold the same perspective towards Hindi. It's all the more ironic considering the nature of my work and many inferences during all these trips to education and literacy.

Of course the space between realization and action still remains. Two books lie dustily on some shelf somewhere around the house. Both promise to make me proficient in Hindi.

The change has been that in the past few days I've remembered that those books exist and have in some way been convinced that its time i put them into use. Maybe thats the blessing Kalyanji's bestowed on me: a flicker of who I should be, now that I am here.

The Human Face

2009-01-19T00:31:00.000+09:00

I just came back from the Tri-continental Film Festival. “Human Rights in Frames” is what it is all about. Of the two days out of the four during which I managed to catch a few films, I was left with this deep sense of disgust. The films, naturally, captured gross human rights violations all around the world in a sincere effort to tell the stories of some very brave people. Most of these people are tired of being depicted as victims and just want their voices heard and want the world to realize that only collective efforts can bring about some kind of change. Many of the films that I watched just left me shuddering within – how can people be so inexplicably cruel? These stories stretched from India to Tibet to South Africa to Burma to America. At some level you like to believe that people turn cruel under strange circumstances – desperation, provocation, poverty… something. But these stories left me completely baffled – what one earth could the problem be? What can possibly make an individual so coldhearted that he/she inflicts such imaginable pain on others? Worse still, is this ‘tradition’ of cruelty being passed on from one generation to another?

The last film I watched today was one by Hana Makhmalbaf titled “Buddha Collapsed Out of Shame”. It is the heart wrenching story of a girl trying to find her way to school and all the obstacles that stand in her way. The brilliance of Iranian films, I feel at many times, is the way they use the simplest of situations and characters to tell the most amazing human stories. This one, like many other Iranian films I’ve loved, uses children to convey some very grim facts of our world. As a bunch of boys surround her on her way to school and start “playing war”, you can’t help wondering how in the first place these boys thought of a game like this. They ask her to raise her hands and stand within a designated circle as they dig a grave for her and prepare to stone her to death. The most chilling thing is that you never find out throughout the film if they really mean to stone her to death or if it’s just a game of pretentions.

As the end credits roll, I couldn’t help wondering if this is a bleak prediction of where our world is headed. Yes there are a lot of efforts around the world to change the way people think about each other but there are still children being born into hatred and unthinkable horrors. And the sad thing is, can you expect a child who has been born into unfair treatment to grow up and treat others differently?

What I realize is that there is such a huge task in front of us to be as human as possible. I know I am miles away from these horrific stories but I also see behavior around me that is disappointing enough; acts of disregard, selfishness, humiliation and prejudices that really make me wonder if we are headed in the right direction.
I know you cannot blame humankind for atrocities that are happening in certain parts of the world but then the fact that these things are happening and there are powerful people who are not doing anything about it leaves a sour taste in the mouth. So what needs to be done before governments and other agencies really stand up and say “we won’t let this happen”? I know at individual levels we can do our own best with whatever it is that we can do, but what else? How do we change fanatical minds that have no regard for human life?

I guess films like these is one starting point. Awareness of what is happening is so essential. At least it makes one feel that when the time comes one will stand up and fight against cruelty.

At least I pray I will.

Crab apples, Cornflakes and Questions of Homesickness

2009-01-19T00:29:00.000+09:00

My mother picked crab apples
off the Glasgow apple tree
and pounded them with chillies
to change
her homesickness
into green chutney.

This poem by Imtiaz Dharker and Ashima (in The Namesake by Jumpa Lehari) adding chillies to cornflakes to have something that tastes like home are perhaps the two most touching moments of homesickness that I have come across.

It would be too simplistic to say that homesickness is about geographical boundaries. Having grown up almost entirely in a country that is not ‘mine’, I know that it is possible to transform ‘home’ and its subsets of culture, traditions, languages, emotions, values etc into cassette tapes, satellite television, cans, flight tickets, celebrations, concerts and tea parties. Believe it or not, I grew up playing gulli cricket in a country that has no idea that a game like this exists.
So let’s shed away this concept of countries and nationality when we speak of homesickness. But then what’does it really mean? I agree that the physical area that you are most comfortable in is a huge portion that makes up home. But I am pretty sure that this space can be moved around, perhaps not in entirety, but more or less. (Am not sure, I’d have to wait and watch if that statement really means anything)
Part of me wonders if homesickness is a human tendency to live in the “grass is greener on the other side” syndrome. I know many people who crave for a place they have left behind but I am sure when they do return they might not be as happy as they expect to be. (Again, let’s wait and watch)

Another thing I feel about homesickness (and this might be more of an individual case) is the element of guilt that comes along with admitting that you find another space more comfortable that the one you are in right now. But what I remind myself of is that (and this is a reason, not a justification) it takes time to get used to a place. And the concept of ‘home’ is not built overnight.

There has been a lot of discussions (mainstream media, academicians, individuals) about diasporas and their feeling of (un)belonging. Would it be too arrogant to say that those who have not experienced homelessness cannot understand the extent of this emotion? And again, if it was as simple as geographical boundaries, then it becomes as simple (though time consuming and expensive) as visas, permanent residencies and citizenships.

I worry if this is just a block in our heads. If we were more open about things, people and changes around us, would we feel ourselves to be less out of place? (I don’t know why I find myself speaking for ‘the collective’; I presume people other than me also feel this way). But another reality that stares blankly into my face is that acceptance of this new place is one thing but others acceptance of you is quite another. The unfortunate fact is that all of us, to some extent or another, have set parameters of how others should be and when an outsider comes in and doesn’t fit into that (I don’t want to say mould) notion, it is difficult to be non-judgmental about that.

So the idea of homesickness comes also from the fact that ‘home’ is a place where you were accepted for how you are, for the most part. Of maybe our definition of home is the place where we feel that we can be ourselves without sticking out like a sour thumb or without having to make to make efforts that are not natural.

Ah… this thought goes on. There is no end. And sometimes I feel all this really doesn’t mean anything at all. And sometimes I feel it’s the most essential thing. For now, I feel there is nowhere else to go with this though right now.

Good night.

love in the time of romance

2009-01-18T13:30:00.000+09:00

On our way back from watching “Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi”, we had a conversation about how believable the surinder/raj angle is. Those who have watched the film know that its got nothing to do with multiple personality or any other explanation, surinder simply decides to become raj to impress his wife.Convincing? Maybe… maybe not.

So the argument was: how can someone as shy and meek as surinder, transform overnight into boisterous raj? Does that mean surinder is only pretending to be this meek person? Though the do-ability of something like that (in real life) is questionable, isn’t it true that most romantic films come to us packaged in a set of “un-doable in real life”? Be it jai in “jaane tu ya jaane na” running into the airport or stealing a bike to impress the girl next door in ‘oye lucky, lucky oye’. Even going back to aditya chopra’s own film, “dilwale dulhaniya le jaayenge” where raj impresses simran’s whole family and by the climax convinces everyone about their love.

If its love that makes our world go round then it’s definitely these ‘un-do-ables’ that make us love our romantic films.And i think the only reason most of us tend to continue watching love stories on celluloid, even though we know exactly how it is going to end, is to see these unthinkables and impossibilities. to, perhaps, see these things that "can't" really happen to us.

but rab ne takes its anticipatory bail very cheekily. First through its title and then with the constant motif of the the golden temple and 'rab' overlooking everything these characters are doing . both, surinder and bobby constantly saying that everything that's happening is god's doing won't let you forget that you have to believe anything and everything thats coming next.

All of us might want surinder to get the girl without resorting to raj's gimmickry or like to believe that that is even possible. (and that may be, too). but that won't be a romantic story anymore. that would just be love. and of course one is more fun to watch than another.

vraiment?

this is what i think

2008-12-03T23:13:00.000+09:00

(richa… this is for you. Yes, there is the option of picking up the phone and “debating” this with you but I also want more posts on my blog :p)

"When life offers you a dream so far beyond any of your expectations, it's not reasonable to grieve when it comes to an end."

Yes, that is really beautiful (and so poignant, more so because this moment is this moment).

As you point out, the problem is with the word “reasonable”. Because we (us collectively and you and i individually) know that ‘reasonable’ and ‘human’ don’t go together.

But then that becomes more about what is “reasonable”.... that is a whole other post

I agree with what you are saying but I think the difference between “human” and “reasonable” is the difference between ‘moment’ and ‘time’’. So in the moment it is human to cry and let your heart break over what is lost a million times over. But over time, when these moments are strung together, in that “time”, do you grieve or at least smile about the fact that it happened?

I know that’s a cliché but I think it’s totally true.

And then this thought strikes me...

Perhaps what is reasonable is to cry over it. When we choose to smile about it, that’s what makes us human... and totally unreasonable?

So the quote makes sense all over again.

I should read this book! :)

Lady

2008-09-17T00:22:00.000+09:00

I am disgusted at this country today.

Sitting with a few friends, discussing “the state of the men in this place” I was once again reminded of “my place”. A place I have not only not chosen but have also refused to acknowledge. But I realize that over here, before anything else, I am a girl.

I hate to sound like a pseudo-feminist movie but the fact of the matter is that when a situation like this comes up, my thought is “So what if I am a girl?”Again, the hollow monologues from various Hindi movies come to me.

But the difference here is that my side of the story is not a question. It’s a statement. I am a girl and am not guilty about it.

But unfortunately that is not enough. Because everyone else disagrees. So here I am bogged down by the weight of the dignity of my nation that men all around me want to gnaw to bits the first chance they get. These are the men strutting tall talking about developing India where everything around us is booming.

The fact of the matter is that everyday, with everything you do, you are made to feel like an inferior.

Because you are not worth it.

As a jeans-wearing, English speaking girl, every often I have been made to feel like trash. But my enlightenment came when I realized that even salwar kameez’s and sari’s don’t make a difference.

“You are a girl.. are a girl.. are a girl… and I am going to rip you apart”

So right now I am trying desperately to figure out what all this culture we all talk about is.

I can already hear those many concerned men saying “we want you safe that is why we want you tucked away at home”

Of course, it is always easier to rub against a woman in a bus when you wife is not watching.

I also realize that the statement/question (the one about being a girl) is hollow within itself because there is no answer or counter-argument.

Sitting in a café sipping cold coffee and munching on crinkle cut fries turns into a teary mess. Because none of us have answers. And that leaves me frustrated like nothing else does.

Tomorrow all of us would step outside and it would be the same thing. The whistles. The hoots. The lewd comments. The shady songs. The satisfied smiles….

Is the only option to get off the bus and catch an auto? That is a way out of the situation for the moment. But is that the only solution that we are going to be stuck with forever?

And the thought that bothers me over and over again is that, even though women have accepted this as part of everyday life, this is Not life. At the moment when I have to walk into a railway station or have to catch a bus my patriotism crumbles. I hate this country. I want to go back to a place where civilized people dwell and you don’t have to scold yourself for wearing a t-shirt instead of a kurta. Or for forgetting that you should have protected yourself with a bag or something else.

The irony of all this of course is the many comments that one hears about “girls abroad”. Girls abroad, for all their “looseness” are not gnawed in public while the whole country watches.

Perhaps it is because I have something to compare with (and thank God for that) that I know not all men are desperate sex-maniacs.

But I wish, on a day like today, that I had another side of the story to make me feel better.

Muse

2008-08-20T22:19:00.000+09:00

There!

sitting,

standing,

coiled up, sometimes,

beneath a ladder

or a chair

or a tree,

perhaps

and each time

stretched

a bit too far
away -

just the length of

a cinnamon stick

whip

2008-08-15T00:55:00.000+09:00

Long after the welts
have crusted
and the black blue bruises
have faded,
I simmer
gold and amber,
with the longing
to hold that whip
tightly
in my feeble hands
its razor claws
hungry
to gnaw
as my lips
quiver with the delight
of biting back
a guilty smile

the classroom

2008-08-15T00:53:00.001+09:00

this child is a small one,

just taking in its first gulps of

arid air,

it is only a moment or two

before the choking

and the spluttering will start

(again).

but it can be stopped

(smoothly)

with the swipe of a crusty foot.

The Month He Lent Them

2008-08-15T00:48:00.000+09:00

his eyes

are closed

teasing words out of the

cozy corners of his

crowded mind.

his fingers

flicker

lightly over the soft rug,

etching words

over ornate designs.

an image over another.

when the murmurs outside

stop

words that were running around

wild

climb back into his skin

where they belong

artists and actors

2008-08-15T00:46:00.000+09:00

red,

you had said

red!

I had said

this is the

color

of our delirium.

a river

between

the parting in my hair

Bathroom Break

2008-08-15T00:43:00.000+09:00

crouched thus,
the cold, tiled floor
has much to offer

the steady drip from the rusty pipe
plays background music
to this mocking scene

spent,
cocooned in
muted humiliation
I wait
for another wave
of nausea
to live up to this glorious moment.

strip tease

2008-07-07T02:00:00.000+09:00

and this one was amusing.

as each layer,
each tired layer,
melted,
peeled,
or slipped off,
the reflections
on the aging mirror
had stories to tell
and lullabies to sing
to ears that were too well-versed
in human conversation

walls

2008-07-07T01:58:00.000+09:00

These are our stories. Stories that we don’t talk about. Stories that are easily ignored. Easier ignored. These are the stories about the times when every other story is done with. Manners left aside, friendships forgotten, favours misunderstood. Behind closed doors we are all different people. Behind closed doors we all know more… or think we do. Behind closed doors we do more with this knowledge that we scream out is so worthless in the ‘real world’. Here we know that this smile is not a smile, this tear not a tear, this scream….well…. These words are just as empty as we are. We know about blood and tears and sweat and pain. We know that it was not from fingernails that we got scratch marks on us. We know the sharp objects from the dangerous ones. We know how to use the pointy edge of a paper cutter to make someone else bleed. We can make our own meanings and our own outcomes. We are the only heroes. Our carefully constructed images crumble as we stand in front of the speckled mirror and undress. On the other side of the mirror, the stories are different. And too far away to hear clearly. It only takes a minute to put that image to sleep and wander off into the distance with ourselves. We can give this indifference a new name. Call it something else and mellow its jagged edges. We float into the slumber of a sleeping child, oblivious to the shadows sharing the bed with us.

Story Tellers

2008-07-06T20:06:00.000+09:00

There are no photographs
out of which he
smiles

no garlanded frames
or charcoal sketches

moist eyes and choked whispers
utter his name
anxiously
careful not to uncover
those dusty memories
too quickly
and make it all too real

all over again

Cradle

2008-07-06T20:05:00.000+09:00

As his innocent eyes dimmed
to darkness
the last he saw
was the torn leather seats
of that old car

(A gilded prince
of years too short
and a story
that went
on and on
long after he had fallen

asleep)

Faded Memory

2008-07-06T20:02:00.000+09:00

Did the rains slash down
on the windshields
of that old car
like it does today?

Was that the last he heard?
And saw?

Along with the muffled sobs
of his helpless mother
and the constant hum
in his young head
heavy

with uninvited sleep.

daydream

2008-07-01T13:03:00.000+09:00

the mind lingers
on these sordid images:

fingers, legs, lips
intertwined,
the heaving closeness
of hungry bodies

let the eyes bleed
and smudge
these vile flashes
of honest hallucinations

the tongue can go
the silent way
(once again)
biting back moans of
pregnant fear.

Morning Walk

2008-07-01T10:35:00.000+09:00

come, let’s run wild
amongst the barren trees
and grainy wind

rip our eyes out
and gag our mouths

but the stench….
oh the Stench!
of bare bodies and soiled feet
and lively flowers in lifeless hands

The Tenth Life

2008-06-30T14:23:00.001+09:00

It was this plentiful that was suffocating her. air air air. There was plenty of it. She was suffocating on this excess. With her face down in the pillow, she could restrict it. Let the air in more slowly. Let the lack of air make her gasp. Then swallow huge gulps that came rushing back. It wouldn’t stay away. It wouldn’t stay away.

Here she could see the air. It had got into every corner of the room. Uninvited. With the smell of the road outside and the blurry sun. They all came marching in and sat stubbornly in the shabby corners of her crowded room. She glared back with dark eyes swollen with heavy tears. But they refused to leave.

And they refused to listen to her. She wanted just enough so that she could rub some into those weary limbs. That tired chest.

Later she ran around, trying to catch a few in her graceless hands. A gust here. A waft there. They stopped and settled on her palm just for a moment before slipping off on to the floor. They scuttled around on their stumpy feet. Always too fast for her. The cracks she had never seen before swallowed and hid them. Till she crouched on the floor too exhausted to run after them.

Then they did come out. Cautiously. Circling around her squatting body but not coming too close. She had held her hand out helplessly. But they had refused. Again.

On the other side, she knew someone was waiting. She had promised. But yet again she couldn’t do it. Another night will go by like this. Excess and want playing practical jokes on their tired bodies. And they would both choke, together.

starting trouble....

2008-06-20T02:12:00.000+09:00

perhaps its just about time to start