According to a new study, levels of obesity are going up not just because of our sedentary lifestyles and unhealthier processed foods, but also because we aren't sleeping enough, and because of airconditioners (never did like those things), certain medication, chemical contamination (read: pollution) and not smoking as much as we used to (which reminds me, the great-aunts and grandmas who were once in purdah used to smoke bidis on the sly, and they were all thin as reeds).
Hmmm.
Which doesn't mean that you can go berserk with refined grain and sugar, while trying to sleep off the adipose tissue. It just means that when on diet, sleep a lot. Preferably in the open air. This is just the right weather.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Monday, July 17, 2006
Achu's Amma scores
Went to Osian.
I have yet to see anything fantastic (having made the mistake of leaving early, and thus, inadvertantly abandoning Paradise Now, in favour of aloo-parathas across the street) but I did enjoy watching Achuvinte Amma (Achu's Mother), a Malayalam film which I almost didn't see because the guy introducing it said it was about 'a girl looking for her identity'. My heart sank at the thought that it was going to be the usual blah about an adopted child or a girl who wants to know who her 'real father' is.
As it turned out, the film was a warm, funny one about two beautiful young women - Achu (Meera Jasmine) and Vanaja (Urvasi) - who are close, but not in that stereotypical cloying-conflicting fashion of the big screen version of mother-daughter relationships. This is a relationship with plenty of potential for disaster, but is not an emotionally draining disaster-zone from beginning to end. The pitch is higher than the typical festival-circuit movie, the colours louder. But that's something I'm used to, and rather like.
What's more, it struck me later - this is that rare Indian movie where a mother is a real person, not a weepy devi with greying hair, singing bhajans, or crying her eyes out for the sake of a wayward son. This mom's got a career, a personality, fears, quirks, mystery, etc. The daughter has a career too. And not as a secretary/nurse/doctor/teacher - which is what most Hindi films reserve for the working woman. This girl is a civil engineer who works at a very real construction site, helmet, dust and all. The best thing is, the mother is not dependent on the daughter, either financially or emotionally. She loves the daughter desperately, but finds her own way forward.
There are also some delightful characters to watch out for, such as the persistent matchmaker and the gold-strung great-aunt. I have minor quibbles with the assumed morality of Vanaja's history, when it is revealed, and the chronological inconsistency of the flashback scene. But on the whole, it is quite watchable. Do watch, if you get a chance.
I have yet to see anything fantastic (having made the mistake of leaving early, and thus, inadvertantly abandoning Paradise Now, in favour of aloo-parathas across the street) but I did enjoy watching Achuvinte Amma (Achu's Mother), a Malayalam film which I almost didn't see because the guy introducing it said it was about 'a girl looking for her identity'. My heart sank at the thought that it was going to be the usual blah about an adopted child or a girl who wants to know who her 'real father' is.
As it turned out, the film was a warm, funny one about two beautiful young women - Achu (Meera Jasmine) and Vanaja (Urvasi) - who are close, but not in that stereotypical cloying-conflicting fashion of the big screen version of mother-daughter relationships. This is a relationship with plenty of potential for disaster, but is not an emotionally draining disaster-zone from beginning to end. The pitch is higher than the typical festival-circuit movie, the colours louder. But that's something I'm used to, and rather like.
What's more, it struck me later - this is that rare Indian movie where a mother is a real person, not a weepy devi with greying hair, singing bhajans, or crying her eyes out for the sake of a wayward son. This mom's got a career, a personality, fears, quirks, mystery, etc. The daughter has a career too. And not as a secretary/nurse/doctor/teacher - which is what most Hindi films reserve for the working woman. This girl is a civil engineer who works at a very real construction site, helmet, dust and all. The best thing is, the mother is not dependent on the daughter, either financially or emotionally. She loves the daughter desperately, but finds her own way forward.
There are also some delightful characters to watch out for, such as the persistent matchmaker and the gold-strung great-aunt. I have minor quibbles with the assumed morality of Vanaja's history, when it is revealed, and the chronological inconsistency of the flashback scene. But on the whole, it is quite watchable. Do watch, if you get a chance.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Once upon a time
"Someone can only be strong for the future when they remember the suffering of the past ... this gives them roots." - Hero Ahmad.
Last year, one thousand women were nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize, collectively, (in my opinion, almost all of them were eligible in their own individual right as well). Hero Ahmad was one of them.
Her words led me to think of the battles women have fought for their rights, over the last century or so. In India, we have had a woman prime minister, several women chief ministers and now, women are demanding a third of the legislature. Yet, the Women's Reservation Bill has been stalled again and again, since it was introduced in parliament in 1998. Despite the fact that there is no outright, outspoken rejection from major political quarters, governments come and go but the bill remains a bill.
Yet, we've been lucky in India; at least, we didn't have to fight to be allowed to vote on equal terms. In other places - places, mind you, such as the land of the free etc - suffrage was a hard-fought battle. It won't hurt us to remember how hard this particular battle was fought.
Let us take a brief, sweeping look at certain points in the history of the movement. According to the wiki,
'It is notable that New Jersey , on becoming a Federal State after the American Revolution, placed only one restriction on the general suffrage - the possession of at least £50 (~USD 250) worth of cash or property. The election laws referred to voters as "he or she." In 1790 the law was revised to include women specifically. (emphasis mine) Female voters became so objectionable to professional politicians, that in 1807 the law was revised to exclude them. Later, the 1844 constitution banned women voting."
Think of that.
In fact, when the state of Utah did give women the vote, in 1869, the US Congress took away the right again, in 1887. This was the year in which Susanna Salter was elected mayor of Kansas, although she'd been nominated as a 'joke'. The first woman mayor in a country that was refusing to allow women to vote.
This battle for political equality was not necessarily a demure affair. Let me pick out some of the more aggressive events recorded in the timeline of the movement, (sourced from the ever-useful wiki, again).
1905 – Militancy began ( Christabel Pankhurst interrupted a Liberal Party meeting and spat at a policeman)
1908 – Herbert Asquith became Prime Minister (personally opposed to votes for women)
1905, 1908, 1913 – 3 phases of militancy (Civil Disobedience – Destruction of Public Property – Arson/Bombings)
1910 – Lady Constance Lytton disguised herself as a working class criminal, Jane Wharton, was arrested and endured force feeding to prove prejudice in prisons against working class women. Lady Lytton was instrumental in reforming conditions in prisons. The force feeding shortened her life considerably.
1913 – Emily Davison threw herself under the King's Horse at the Epsom Derby
1914 – Mary Richardson slashed the Velasquez in the National Gallery with an axe, protesting that she was maiming a beautiful woman, just as the government was maiming Emmeline Pankhurst with force feeding.
1918 - The Representation of the People Act of 1918 enfranchised all women over the age of 30. This was probably so that women would not outnumber men in the voting process
1928 - Women received the vote on equal terms as men (over the age of 21).
In 1913, at least 5000 women marched in Washington DC, demanding the right to vote. But ...
"The crowd became abusive and started to close in, knocking the marchers around. With local police doing little to keep control, the cavalry was called in as 100 women were hospitalized. Many suffragists now concluded that public protests might be the quickest route to universal franchise. " (For the whole history)
Equality is not a joke. Equality is a rough road. A long journey. And we would do well to remember those who broke their backs laying out this road. Because 'Someone can only be strong for the future when they remember the suffering of the past'.
Last year, one thousand women were nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize, collectively, (in my opinion, almost all of them were eligible in their own individual right as well). Hero Ahmad was one of them.
Her words led me to think of the battles women have fought for their rights, over the last century or so. In India, we have had a woman prime minister, several women chief ministers and now, women are demanding a third of the legislature. Yet, the Women's Reservation Bill has been stalled again and again, since it was introduced in parliament in 1998. Despite the fact that there is no outright, outspoken rejection from major political quarters, governments come and go but the bill remains a bill.
Yet, we've been lucky in India; at least, we didn't have to fight to be allowed to vote on equal terms. In other places - places, mind you, such as the land of the free etc - suffrage was a hard-fought battle. It won't hurt us to remember how hard this particular battle was fought.
Let us take a brief, sweeping look at certain points in the history of the movement. According to the wiki,
'It is notable that New Jersey , on becoming a Federal State after the American Revolution, placed only one restriction on the general suffrage - the possession of at least £50 (~USD 250) worth of cash or property. The election laws referred to voters as "he or she." In 1790 the law was revised to include women specifically. (emphasis mine) Female voters became so objectionable to professional politicians, that in 1807 the law was revised to exclude them. Later, the 1844 constitution banned women voting."
Think of that.
In fact, when the state of Utah did give women the vote, in 1869, the US Congress took away the right again, in 1887. This was the year in which Susanna Salter was elected mayor of Kansas, although she'd been nominated as a 'joke'. The first woman mayor in a country that was refusing to allow women to vote.
This battle for political equality was not necessarily a demure affair. Let me pick out some of the more aggressive events recorded in the timeline of the movement, (sourced from the ever-useful wiki, again).
1905 – Militancy began ( Christabel Pankhurst interrupted a Liberal Party meeting and spat at a policeman)
1908 – Herbert Asquith became Prime Minister (personally opposed to votes for women)
1905, 1908, 1913 – 3 phases of militancy (Civil Disobedience – Destruction of Public Property – Arson/Bombings)
1910 – Lady Constance Lytton disguised herself as a working class criminal, Jane Wharton, was arrested and endured force feeding to prove prejudice in prisons against working class women. Lady Lytton was instrumental in reforming conditions in prisons. The force feeding shortened her life considerably.
1913 – Emily Davison threw herself under the King's Horse at the Epsom Derby
1914 – Mary Richardson slashed the Velasquez in the National Gallery with an axe, protesting that she was maiming a beautiful woman, just as the government was maiming Emmeline Pankhurst with force feeding.
1918 - The Representation of the People Act of 1918 enfranchised all women over the age of 30. This was probably so that women would not outnumber men in the voting process
1928 - Women received the vote on equal terms as men (over the age of 21).
In 1913, at least 5000 women marched in Washington DC, demanding the right to vote. But ...
"The crowd became abusive and started to close in, knocking the marchers around. With local police doing little to keep control, the cavalry was called in as 100 women were hospitalized. Many suffragists now concluded that public protests might be the quickest route to universal franchise. " (For the whole history)
It seems to me that things have not changed drastically in the US, as far as public attitudes to women and politics are concerned.
I quote:
"Wal-Mart has even made anti-woman statements in the culture wars through products it chooses to sell, and those it chooses not to sell. Ten years ago, it pulled T-shirts that read, "Some Day a Woman Will Be President," featuring Margaret from "Dennis the Menace." Wal-Mart called the shirts "offensive" and "against Wal-Mart's family values." But it continues to sell violent video games such as the Grand Theft Auto series, where players get points for having sex with a prostitute and garner even higher scores for killing her to avoid payment."
Equality is not a joke. Equality is a rough road. A long journey. And we would do well to remember those who broke their backs laying out this road. Because 'Someone can only be strong for the future when they remember the suffering of the past'.
Questions, revisited
A former roommate asked me a question once. She'd said, "Why are muslims so violent?"
I felt insulted by the question, but looking at her face, I realised that she was asking because she really didn't have a clue.
Calmly, I put down my newspaper, and delivered a little lecture on history and current affairs.
She persisted. "But why are all terrorists muslims?"
I mentioned the LTTE. And the various armed guerrilla groups in the north-east. I told her about the Khalistan movement. About Ireland and about Nazism. About how fraught the word 'terrorist' is...
But I don't think she was persuaded. She probably still believes that muslims are aggressive, violent, murderous.
Now, we've had Tuesday.
For the first two days, I was so tired. Because being afraid is one of the most exhausting feelings I know.
My first reaction to the news was fear. Sitting safe at home, watching the news, listening to the high-pitched newscasters announce yet another, yet another... I was afraid. Not just of what might happen in Delhi. Not just of what might happen to family and friends in Mumbai. Not just of riots. Not just of a backlash.
I was afraid because once more, I was stuck with trying to distance myself from 'them'. Once more, millions of people like me find themselves ashamed because their name, their group, their community, their identity has been hijacked. Stolen by murderers and cowards. So that some will feel compelled to denounce and decry events they're not responsible for. So that others don't go on thinking of muslims as a violent murderous terrorising lump of homogeneity.
Through my exhaustion and numbness, I have read some nonsense about why Tuesday, why July, why now, why not other places, why not 'muslim-dominated' suburbs?
For one aggravated minute, I wanted to launch into a little lecture about Mumbai's communal demographics. To point out that there are few suburbs that are Muslim-dominated, but there are some where large numbers of them are concentrated. Mira-Bhayander, for one. Jogeshwari for another. Bandra (east) for yet another. Do they sound recently familiar? I wanted to point out that almost everywhere, victims of 'muslim' terrorism are muslims. Certainly, in Kashmir. And in Iraq. And in Somalia. And in Morocco. I wanted to say a lot of things about a lot of things.
But I was just too tired.
Note to friend with whom I've had warm debates about insecure youths in terrorist outfits: Cold-blooded, pre-planned murder is cold-blooded, pre-planned murder. You can call it a riot. Or you can call it a terror-strike. Murder, by any other name, would be just as unjustifiable.
I felt insulted by the question, but looking at her face, I realised that she was asking because she really didn't have a clue.
Calmly, I put down my newspaper, and delivered a little lecture on history and current affairs.
She persisted. "But why are all terrorists muslims?"
I mentioned the LTTE. And the various armed guerrilla groups in the north-east. I told her about the Khalistan movement. About Ireland and about Nazism. About how fraught the word 'terrorist' is...
But I don't think she was persuaded. She probably still believes that muslims are aggressive, violent, murderous.
Now, we've had Tuesday.
For the first two days, I was so tired. Because being afraid is one of the most exhausting feelings I know.
My first reaction to the news was fear. Sitting safe at home, watching the news, listening to the high-pitched newscasters announce yet another, yet another... I was afraid. Not just of what might happen in Delhi. Not just of what might happen to family and friends in Mumbai. Not just of riots. Not just of a backlash.
I was afraid because once more, I was stuck with trying to distance myself from 'them'. Once more, millions of people like me find themselves ashamed because their name, their group, their community, their identity has been hijacked. Stolen by murderers and cowards. So that some will feel compelled to denounce and decry events they're not responsible for. So that others don't go on thinking of muslims as a violent murderous terrorising lump of homogeneity.
Through my exhaustion and numbness, I have read some nonsense about why Tuesday, why July, why now, why not other places, why not 'muslim-dominated' suburbs?
For one aggravated minute, I wanted to launch into a little lecture about Mumbai's communal demographics. To point out that there are few suburbs that are Muslim-dominated, but there are some where large numbers of them are concentrated. Mira-Bhayander, for one. Jogeshwari for another. Bandra (east) for yet another. Do they sound recently familiar? I wanted to point out that almost everywhere, victims of 'muslim' terrorism are muslims. Certainly, in Kashmir. And in Iraq. And in Somalia. And in Morocco. I wanted to say a lot of things about a lot of things.
But I was just too tired.
Note to friend with whom I've had warm debates about insecure youths in terrorist outfits: Cold-blooded, pre-planned murder is cold-blooded, pre-planned murder. You can call it a riot. Or you can call it a terror-strike. Murder, by any other name, would be just as unjustifiable.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
More than you'd believe
Chai is not just to kick you awake, not just to keep you rooted, not just to welcome you home, not just to assuage hunger when food isn't handy, not just an experimental gift, not just to bond over standing at the tapri with a smoking-new buddy.
Chai is an hour in which to be left untouched, getting colder by the minute, while you write, writewritewritewrite, with a speed that overwhelms your sworn temptation. To sip when your fingers pause for thought, and let it half-register in your mind - 'it is cold'. To put it on the stove again, return to the writing, get caught up with one particular sentence that seems to be breathing larger, longer, until it is a whole paragraph. To look up at the stove and realise that the tea is boiling over and away. To bring what's left to the desk, take a sip, turn to the computer screen... 'so, where were we?'
Chai is to be left untouched, getting colder by the minute, while you write, writewritewrite, and to sip and think - 'it is cold'. To dunk it into the microwave. To look up when the microwave timer goes off, say aloud that you're coming, just half a minute... But to let it get cold all over again. To feel a pang of real sorrow as you finally pour it down the drain.
To make a fresh cup of chai. To shut down the word document, open the music folder, put on Tu Bin Bataaye, lean out of the window, fresh air on your hands, hands wrapped round warm cup, and give that cup your full attention.
Chai is for reaching out for, in the heat of a July cheated of the Monsoon, yet another day, snapping - 'of course it is too hot for chai!' But chai must be had... Leave out the milk. The milk makes the chai hotter, denser, more unbearable. Like the humidity makes the summer unbearable.
Chai is to curse over. Chai is to lemon and ginger over. Chai is a moment in which you try to find a cooler place on a simmering pillow, the breeze in a muggy night.
Chai is more than you'd believe.
Chai 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Chai is an hour in which to be left untouched, getting colder by the minute, while you write, writewritewritewrite, with a speed that overwhelms your sworn temptation. To sip when your fingers pause for thought, and let it half-register in your mind - 'it is cold'. To put it on the stove again, return to the writing, get caught up with one particular sentence that seems to be breathing larger, longer, until it is a whole paragraph. To look up at the stove and realise that the tea is boiling over and away. To bring what's left to the desk, take a sip, turn to the computer screen... 'so, where were we?'
Chai is to be left untouched, getting colder by the minute, while you write, writewritewrite, and to sip and think - 'it is cold'. To dunk it into the microwave. To look up when the microwave timer goes off, say aloud that you're coming, just half a minute... But to let it get cold all over again. To feel a pang of real sorrow as you finally pour it down the drain.
To make a fresh cup of chai. To shut down the word document, open the music folder, put on Tu Bin Bataaye, lean out of the window, fresh air on your hands, hands wrapped round warm cup, and give that cup your full attention.
Chai is for reaching out for, in the heat of a July cheated of the Monsoon, yet another day, snapping - 'of course it is too hot for chai!' But chai must be had... Leave out the milk. The milk makes the chai hotter, denser, more unbearable. Like the humidity makes the summer unbearable.
Chai is to curse over. Chai is to lemon and ginger over. Chai is a moment in which you try to find a cooler place on a simmering pillow, the breeze in a muggy night.
Chai is more than you'd believe.
Chai 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
The limit
I do not use credit cards. The underlying philosophy being that it would only encourage me to spend what I didn't have and would charge me for getting into debt. When I got my first debit card, I was sent a free credit card by HDFC, since I had a corporate account. I didn't use it, told them I didn't want it and when they tried to charge me for 'services', I cut up the card into four little pieces and posted it back. (Aside: This was the time when one frustrated telemarketer told me - "What is it with you Muslims? People of your community always refuse to buy credit cards." I was at a loss; how does one answer that sort of question? I should have said, "Really? Good for my community!" But I didn't.)
Besides, journalists were on the banking blacklist back then. Many papers published reports saying that mediapeople were one of the groups that had awful credit ratings. Then, the media boom happened. Salaries shot through the roof and once again, the random phone-calling began.
All this while, I resisted. But lately, it has been very inconvenient not having one. To book rail or air tickets. To shop online. To book hotel rooms in advance. To establish credentials. One needs a credit card, and I ended up asking friends or family to book on my behalf.
That was why, when a turbaned, timid-looking salesman interrupted my fruit-salad break outside my office, and asked me if I'd like an ICICI credit card, between the slice of mango and the slice of chikoo, I said, 'Yes, please. I would'.
This turbaned salesman (TS) beckoned to his companion, a more articulate senior, I presume, and they followed me to my office. They asked for proof of identity etc. I cited passport numbers, pan card numbers, Form 16, visiting card, ATM balance-enquiry slip etc. The senior salesman (SS) asked me to just sign the form and said he'd do the rest.
I was taken aback. "How will you fill up my application form? You don't know me at all."
SS said, "Oh, we have your documents and we'll call you if we need any further information. Just remember one thing. When the bank calls you to verify your details, don't mention that you live in a rented accomodation."
It turned out that ICICI, as a matter of policy, will not give credit cards to those who live in Delhi but do not own a house there, which is more than half the population, I'm sure.
"But what if they ask for proof of residence?" I objected.
SS said, "Oh, don't worry. This verification business happens online or through the phone. They won't come knocking at your door."
I was uncomfortable with the lie, but the two of them persuaded me that I didn't need to lie. They'd do all the lying. I just needed to keep my mouth shut about living in a rented place.
They got up to leave again, but I insisted on filling up the form myself.
In the section that asked how many years I've worked at my current and previous jobs, SS told me to put in 5 years. "Or at least 3 years."
I refused.
He said, "But ma'am, that is the way things are done. You just write double the actual figures. That's how credit ratings are established."
I still refused.
At any rate, these guys left, TS' face all grins; his incentives would probably come through, after all.
In the evening, the bank called, to verify details. When I was trying to strike a bargain with the mango-wala.
A minute later, SS called me back. "Ma'am. There is a problem. You're a reporter and ICICI, as a policy, does not give credit cards to journalists. So, why don't you just change the employment details? Shall I put down 'self-employed'?"
"But how can I do that?"
"It's very simple ma'am. Nobody checks these things. I'll manage the form."
The mango-seller was cheating me, I noticed; putting a little 200 gm weight on the same side as the chosen mangoes.
I took a deep breath, struggling to bring a smile into my voice (tehzeeb, tehzeeb! never forget your tehzeeb). "I see. Listen, if ICICI bank has a policy of not giving credit cards to journalists, then I don't want a card from ICICI bank."
I turned to the mango-seller and pointed out, politely, (tehzeeb, remember?) that he'd been cheating me. He threw up his hands, as if he was being victimized in some way, and returned some of my money in loose change, as if he was doing me a favour. The correct thing to do would have been to throw his mangoes at his face, turn into a perfect domestic harridan and give him the tongue-lashing of the month. However, I simply took the change and left. (Aside to self: Hurree Babu was right. I might as well get myself a T-shirt that reads 'Kick me please. Everybody else does.')
Being the trusting idiot that I am, I haven't even bothered taking down the salesmen's names or phone numbers. Now, the temptation to call them, asking them to return my photos and documents, bringing back that form with my signatures on it, is overwhelming. I really would like to tear it up into tiny little bits, in front of their noses. (Of course, I intend to ask them if they wanted a cup of coffee, while I do that. Tehzeeb etc). As a matter of principle, I wouldn't name those particular salesmen because other salespeople do the same, probably. They must've been trained by their seniors to 'manage' forms this way.
Also, as a matter of principle, I wouldn't accept a card from a bank that doesn't trust journalists, as a matter of policy. But can somebody tell me - what sort of principles does ICICI bank have? I'm not angry enough to sue, but it seems to me that being discriminated against, as a matter of policy, is good grounds for a rather visible round of litigation.
That apart, I have a salary account with ICICI. I was willing to let the bank directly debit all credit card dues from this account. This account always has one month's salary as a minimum balance, which I do not touch, come hail or storm. They could easily have verfied this by looking at the last year's bank statements. No loans, no defaulted payments... But they do not want me as a credit customer. Yet, if I lie about owning a house in this city, running a small business from this house for the last 5 years, they'd give me a higher credit rating. And a premium card with a credit limit that's close to a year's income... what sort of banking sense is that?
(Aside: Can somebody tell me of a bank that doesn't mistrust journalists and doesn't require you to own houses?)
Besides, journalists were on the banking blacklist back then. Many papers published reports saying that mediapeople were one of the groups that had awful credit ratings. Then, the media boom happened. Salaries shot through the roof and once again, the random phone-calling began.
All this while, I resisted. But lately, it has been very inconvenient not having one. To book rail or air tickets. To shop online. To book hotel rooms in advance. To establish credentials. One needs a credit card, and I ended up asking friends or family to book on my behalf.
That was why, when a turbaned, timid-looking salesman interrupted my fruit-salad break outside my office, and asked me if I'd like an ICICI credit card, between the slice of mango and the slice of chikoo, I said, 'Yes, please. I would'.
This turbaned salesman (TS) beckoned to his companion, a more articulate senior, I presume, and they followed me to my office. They asked for proof of identity etc. I cited passport numbers, pan card numbers, Form 16, visiting card, ATM balance-enquiry slip etc. The senior salesman (SS) asked me to just sign the form and said he'd do the rest.
I was taken aback. "How will you fill up my application form? You don't know me at all."
SS said, "Oh, we have your documents and we'll call you if we need any further information. Just remember one thing. When the bank calls you to verify your details, don't mention that you live in a rented accomodation."
It turned out that ICICI, as a matter of policy, will not give credit cards to those who live in Delhi but do not own a house there, which is more than half the population, I'm sure.
"But what if they ask for proof of residence?" I objected.
SS said, "Oh, don't worry. This verification business happens online or through the phone. They won't come knocking at your door."
I was uncomfortable with the lie, but the two of them persuaded me that I didn't need to lie. They'd do all the lying. I just needed to keep my mouth shut about living in a rented place.
They got up to leave again, but I insisted on filling up the form myself.
In the section that asked how many years I've worked at my current and previous jobs, SS told me to put in 5 years. "Or at least 3 years."
I refused.
He said, "But ma'am, that is the way things are done. You just write double the actual figures. That's how credit ratings are established."
I still refused.
At any rate, these guys left, TS' face all grins; his incentives would probably come through, after all.
In the evening, the bank called, to verify details. When I was trying to strike a bargain with the mango-wala.
A minute later, SS called me back. "Ma'am. There is a problem. You're a reporter and ICICI, as a policy, does not give credit cards to journalists. So, why don't you just change the employment details? Shall I put down 'self-employed'?"
"But how can I do that?"
"It's very simple ma'am. Nobody checks these things. I'll manage the form."
The mango-seller was cheating me, I noticed; putting a little 200 gm weight on the same side as the chosen mangoes.
I took a deep breath, struggling to bring a smile into my voice (tehzeeb, tehzeeb! never forget your tehzeeb). "I see. Listen, if ICICI bank has a policy of not giving credit cards to journalists, then I don't want a card from ICICI bank."
I turned to the mango-seller and pointed out, politely, (tehzeeb, remember?) that he'd been cheating me. He threw up his hands, as if he was being victimized in some way, and returned some of my money in loose change, as if he was doing me a favour. The correct thing to do would have been to throw his mangoes at his face, turn into a perfect domestic harridan and give him the tongue-lashing of the month. However, I simply took the change and left. (Aside to self: Hurree Babu was right. I might as well get myself a T-shirt that reads 'Kick me please. Everybody else does.')
Being the trusting idiot that I am, I haven't even bothered taking down the salesmen's names or phone numbers. Now, the temptation to call them, asking them to return my photos and documents, bringing back that form with my signatures on it, is overwhelming. I really would like to tear it up into tiny little bits, in front of their noses. (Of course, I intend to ask them if they wanted a cup of coffee, while I do that. Tehzeeb etc). As a matter of principle, I wouldn't name those particular salesmen because other salespeople do the same, probably. They must've been trained by their seniors to 'manage' forms this way.
Also, as a matter of principle, I wouldn't accept a card from a bank that doesn't trust journalists, as a matter of policy. But can somebody tell me - what sort of principles does ICICI bank have? I'm not angry enough to sue, but it seems to me that being discriminated against, as a matter of policy, is good grounds for a rather visible round of litigation.
That apart, I have a salary account with ICICI. I was willing to let the bank directly debit all credit card dues from this account. This account always has one month's salary as a minimum balance, which I do not touch, come hail or storm. They could easily have verfied this by looking at the last year's bank statements. No loans, no defaulted payments... But they do not want me as a credit customer. Yet, if I lie about owning a house in this city, running a small business from this house for the last 5 years, they'd give me a higher credit rating. And a premium card with a credit limit that's close to a year's income... what sort of banking sense is that?
(Aside: Can somebody tell me of a bank that doesn't mistrust journalists and doesn't require you to own houses?)
Monday, July 03, 2006
Home
I am home. But it only registered in that moment when I stepped from the plane into the immigration/customs' area at Delhi's airport.
In that moment, I felt home on my skin. In that moist weight pressing down on each pore, that warm density - a little shock against my neck and slipping into my fingertips. And the smell. The smell of damp earth. That smell of the promise of rain. That smell of mitti!
It wasn't raining, but it was going to. And I knew. Even before I stepped into the open air, I knew. That damp weight on my skin was telling me; that elusive almost-here smell was telling me. And in knowing this, I knew I was home.
It took two hours in the immigration queue. That too spells home. Queues. At airports. At railway counters. Everywhere. Queues. Filmi dialogues about queues (Hum jahaan khade hote hain, line wahin se shuru hoti hai). The eternal snaking lines in a warm, dense place. Home. The chitter-chatter of four-year old girls in long plaits. Mothers scolding 'tujhe phir kahin bahar leke nahin aaongi'. The one public telephone in the area lying disconnected; the wire torn off. Reliance being its unreliable self. (I'd paid three months' bills in advance, in order to stay connected; they disconnected me, anyway). Lines, crawling, sweating, murmuring, phone-calling lines.
But all I had to do was to switch off the discomfort and impatience and start thinking of the smell, the air waiting outside.
That smell of mitti that drives women to Dariba Kalan. The smell they try so hard to bottle up and sell in tiny vials of oily essence. The smell of hot June flirting with rich July. That smell of home.
In that moment, I felt home on my skin. In that moist weight pressing down on each pore, that warm density - a little shock against my neck and slipping into my fingertips. And the smell. The smell of damp earth. That smell of the promise of rain. That smell of mitti!
It wasn't raining, but it was going to. And I knew. Even before I stepped into the open air, I knew. That damp weight on my skin was telling me; that elusive almost-here smell was telling me. And in knowing this, I knew I was home.
It took two hours in the immigration queue. That too spells home. Queues. At airports. At railway counters. Everywhere. Queues. Filmi dialogues about queues (Hum jahaan khade hote hain, line wahin se shuru hoti hai). The eternal snaking lines in a warm, dense place. Home. The chitter-chatter of four-year old girls in long plaits. Mothers scolding 'tujhe phir kahin bahar leke nahin aaongi'. The one public telephone in the area lying disconnected; the wire torn off. Reliance being its unreliable self. (I'd paid three months' bills in advance, in order to stay connected; they disconnected me, anyway). Lines, crawling, sweating, murmuring, phone-calling lines.
But all I had to do was to switch off the discomfort and impatience and start thinking of the smell, the air waiting outside.
That smell of mitti that drives women to Dariba Kalan. The smell they try so hard to bottle up and sell in tiny vials of oily essence. The smell of hot June flirting with rich July. That smell of home.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Ahem! This way, please
A friend mentioned that my name was entrenched in the midst of a pitted blog-war over at Great Bong's. I followed the thread (which, of course, in a different metaphorical thread of thought, led me to feel slightly disgruntled because, hey, if you're talking about me and my views, come do it on my blog, will you? This whole experience felt like eavesdropping outside a stranger's drawing-room where the conversation is all about me) with part-horrified fascination and part-bewildered amusement.... I mean, gosh! 'Intense hatred'?
Surely, surely not.
I would not have reacted except for that phrase. Hatred disturbs me. Hate is a strong word; I use it advisedly.
But let me clarify a few things here (and let this also serve as a response to those who did leave me comments, whether in agreement or not) with reference to my last post:
Okay, I'll concede that women too live trapped in women's bodies, as much as men in men's bodies. However, in general, women are not given to making assertions about men being the weaker sex. What's more, we are not permitted to make decisions based on such assertions. Hence, the reference to logic and rationale. What I was trying to say was - 'don't talk about the abilities and limitations of a woman when you don't know what it means to be one'.
The bit about women being more qualified to be in/lead armies, was based on an assumption made in the previous paragraph. There was an 'if' there, without which it wasn't complete. That 'if' was ignored and the whole sentence made non-contextual, and thereby, unfair. Which, to me, seems a little bit unfair.
Am I a female chauvinist?
Let me tell you something. It is said that all battles are finally fought for jar, joru, jameen. Gold, women, land. All three being things that are valuable. And possess-able.
Why?
Because women are the source of the most basic of all resources - human resource. And so, they had to be possessed. Controlled.
I believe that right through the history of mankind (and I use the term 'mankind' instead of womankind, with a careful pause for thought, because history in general has been written by men, for men), there has been an ongoing battle of the sexes. This is not a battle for a metaphorical supremacy. This is a battle for real power.
I don't like such battles. I think 'make love, not war' is a very good motto. But the battle-lines were drawn long before and the battle is being well and truly fought, like it or not. Sometimes, it was verbal, or artistic, fought through words and images. Most often, it was fought on terra firma. A fight for social control.
There were times when women were in control of human civilisation. Most societies have had some sort of matriarchal past. There was a time when women controlled land/property. And property is one of the main sources of power. Material/money/resource power.
The other major source of power was spiritual, which translates into religious, in practical terms. We all know that before the gods came, there were the goddesses. All humanity began with worshipping the earth-mother: the source of all life.
Which leaves one source of power - armed collectives - or the army. If we are to trust history, most armies (with the exception of records about tribes like the Amazons) were male.
We do not know, at what point of history men took up the sword/the gun/the missile. It might have begun as tribe/clan-wars. It might have been that women fought alongside. I don't know. Maybe it was that one group decided, maybe both did. Maybe women stayed away from war at first, in the mistaken belief that it was better for self/child-preservation. Maybe the men discovered soon enough, as was inevitable, that with a weapon in your hand, you become even more powerful than nature intended you to be.... who knows how it happened. But it did.
Like I've said before, swords and guns are dangerous things. Groups of people with arms are dangerous things. When you arm only one group, you make the world a more dangerous place for the other group. When you restrict weapons (and most countries do restrict weapons to the police and the armed forces) and the training required to use weapons to only one group, you automatically disempower and disarm the other group. When you say 'only men will fight', you automatically say 'women will not fight', which soon becomes 'women cannot fight'.... which becomes a belief. And widespread beliefs are often mistaken for facts.
Between the battle of the sexes, that leaves women staring into the muzzles of guns. Always. Never holding the gun. Not allowed to.
As long as society stayed matriarchal and matrilinear, and God didn't become a single HE, the balance of power was manageable. But as things stand, and have stood for centuries, the balance of power is tilted against women. Patriarchal systems ensured that women have control over nothing - not religion, not property, not arms-and-ammunition.
Do I want the balance of power to shift?
Yes, indeed. Equality is not even debatable. Like independence, it is our birthright. If it is not given, we will take it. But if it is a choice between male domination and female domination, I want the latter.
Does that make me a female chauvinist sow? (shrug-shrug) Please feel free to call me a sow. If it pleases you, you can even append 'virulent' and 'sophomoric' (Is that a bad word? Explain yourself, please) as adjectives.
But 'Misandrist'?
No, I do not hate men. I do NOT want to rid the world of all men. There are some men I love. I trust them with my life and I would give my life for them. But, there is not one man on earth who can persuade me that women cannot do X or Y task because they're not good enough.
Also, I've lived long enough in a male-dominated world. I'd like to live at least some of it in a woman's world and see if I don't prefer that instead, thank you very much. Does that spell misandrist? If it does... guess what I'm thinking?
On an entirely different note, I find it strange that a discussion about armies and women should lead to a generic discussion on feminism and that should prompt people to start mentioning lesbians and dildos.
Why?
Misogynists are simply called misogynists. Nobody refers to them as homosexual men running about with penis pumps. Why do feminists attract the lesbian-dildo analogy?
You guys wants to think about that?
PS - Did anybody notice that certain people slip in 'nutty' along with 'feminists' completely unselfconsciously. As if it were the most natural combination of words possible?
And this one is for the mirthful Mental Baba - http://www.oxfam.org.uk/what_we_do/issues/conflict_disasters/downloads/bn_tsunami_women.pdf
PPS - Aravind said, elsewhere, that he would never come back here. Will somebody please communicate to him that I do NOT make gentlemen get up for me in buses or trains, even if it is a seat reserved for Ladies? On the contrary, when I see elderly men, I offer my seat to them - and they gratefully accept. I have also seen several instances where men occupy the handicapped/eldery seat and do not get up when a handicapped or elderly person enters the bus. It was the women who vacated their seats and offered them to the person on crutches, each time.
Surely, surely not.
I would not have reacted except for that phrase. Hatred disturbs me. Hate is a strong word; I use it advisedly.
But let me clarify a few things here (and let this also serve as a response to those who did leave me comments, whether in agreement or not) with reference to my last post:
Okay, I'll concede that women too live trapped in women's bodies, as much as men in men's bodies. However, in general, women are not given to making assertions about men being the weaker sex. What's more, we are not permitted to make decisions based on such assertions. Hence, the reference to logic and rationale. What I was trying to say was - 'don't talk about the abilities and limitations of a woman when you don't know what it means to be one'.
The bit about women being more qualified to be in/lead armies, was based on an assumption made in the previous paragraph. There was an 'if' there, without which it wasn't complete. That 'if' was ignored and the whole sentence made non-contextual, and thereby, unfair. Which, to me, seems a little bit unfair.
Am I a female chauvinist?
Let me tell you something. It is said that all battles are finally fought for jar, joru, jameen. Gold, women, land. All three being things that are valuable. And possess-able.
Why?
Because women are the source of the most basic of all resources - human resource. And so, they had to be possessed. Controlled.
I believe that right through the history of mankind (and I use the term 'mankind' instead of womankind, with a careful pause for thought, because history in general has been written by men, for men), there has been an ongoing battle of the sexes. This is not a battle for a metaphorical supremacy. This is a battle for real power.
I don't like such battles. I think 'make love, not war' is a very good motto. But the battle-lines were drawn long before and the battle is being well and truly fought, like it or not. Sometimes, it was verbal, or artistic, fought through words and images. Most often, it was fought on terra firma. A fight for social control.
There were times when women were in control of human civilisation. Most societies have had some sort of matriarchal past. There was a time when women controlled land/property. And property is one of the main sources of power. Material/money/resource power.
The other major source of power was spiritual, which translates into religious, in practical terms. We all know that before the gods came, there were the goddesses. All humanity began with worshipping the earth-mother: the source of all life.
Which leaves one source of power - armed collectives - or the army. If we are to trust history, most armies (with the exception of records about tribes like the Amazons) were male.
We do not know, at what point of history men took up the sword/the gun/the missile. It might have begun as tribe/clan-wars. It might have been that women fought alongside. I don't know. Maybe it was that one group decided, maybe both did. Maybe women stayed away from war at first, in the mistaken belief that it was better for self/child-preservation. Maybe the men discovered soon enough, as was inevitable, that with a weapon in your hand, you become even more powerful than nature intended you to be.... who knows how it happened. But it did.
Like I've said before, swords and guns are dangerous things. Groups of people with arms are dangerous things. When you arm only one group, you make the world a more dangerous place for the other group. When you restrict weapons (and most countries do restrict weapons to the police and the armed forces) and the training required to use weapons to only one group, you automatically disempower and disarm the other group. When you say 'only men will fight', you automatically say 'women will not fight', which soon becomes 'women cannot fight'.... which becomes a belief. And widespread beliefs are often mistaken for facts.
Between the battle of the sexes, that leaves women staring into the muzzles of guns. Always. Never holding the gun. Not allowed to.
As long as society stayed matriarchal and matrilinear, and God didn't become a single HE, the balance of power was manageable. But as things stand, and have stood for centuries, the balance of power is tilted against women. Patriarchal systems ensured that women have control over nothing - not religion, not property, not arms-and-ammunition.
Do I want the balance of power to shift?
Yes, indeed. Equality is not even debatable. Like independence, it is our birthright. If it is not given, we will take it. But if it is a choice between male domination and female domination, I want the latter.
Does that make me a female chauvinist sow? (shrug-shrug) Please feel free to call me a sow. If it pleases you, you can even append 'virulent' and 'sophomoric' (Is that a bad word? Explain yourself, please) as adjectives.
But 'Misandrist'?
No, I do not hate men. I do NOT want to rid the world of all men. There are some men I love. I trust them with my life and I would give my life for them. But, there is not one man on earth who can persuade me that women cannot do X or Y task because they're not good enough.
Also, I've lived long enough in a male-dominated world. I'd like to live at least some of it in a woman's world and see if I don't prefer that instead, thank you very much. Does that spell misandrist? If it does... guess what I'm thinking?
On an entirely different note, I find it strange that a discussion about armies and women should lead to a generic discussion on feminism and that should prompt people to start mentioning lesbians and dildos.
Why?
Misogynists are simply called misogynists. Nobody refers to them as homosexual men running about with penis pumps. Why do feminists attract the lesbian-dildo analogy?
You guys wants to think about that?
PS - Did anybody notice that certain people slip in 'nutty' along with 'feminists' completely unselfconsciously. As if it were the most natural combination of words possible?
And this one is for the mirthful Mental Baba - http://www.oxfam.org.uk/what_we_do/issues/conflict_disasters/downloads/bn_tsunami_women.pdf
PPS - Aravind said, elsewhere, that he would never come back here. Will somebody please communicate to him that I do NOT make gentlemen get up for me in buses or trains, even if it is a seat reserved for Ladies? On the contrary, when I see elderly men, I offer my seat to them - and they gratefully accept. I have also seen several instances where men occupy the handicapped/eldery seat and do not get up when a handicapped or elderly person enters the bus. It was the women who vacated their seats and offered them to the person on crutches, each time.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Women and the warpath.
Here I was, lounging through desipundit, thinking how lucky I am to live in times when we can demand gender sensitivity, when wise people are beginning to ask themselves whether the world would not be better if run by women, when every so often we hear that delicious crunchy sound of the another crack in the glass ceiling, when it is universally acknowledged that women are people too... things could be worse. A lot worse. They have been.
But suddenly, I was forced to sit up - did I hear that right? In this lovely liberal blogosphere, did I hear someone say ‘Does the army really need women’?
The trouble is that men live trapped in men’s bodies (and of course, they don’t have a choice in the affair) which makes them utterly incapable of forming rational, logical views on the subject of strength, fortitude, courage etc. Some of them labour under the mistaken assumption that pressing a trigger or flicking open a switchblade requires a great deal of strength and fortitude and whathaveyou.
You’ll must have heard that one about the man who wanted to know why his wife claimed to be so tired, when he (glorious HE) did all the hard work? It’s an old one. Man prays to God to let him switch bodies with his wife. God (probably a wicked man with a bizarre sense of humour) grants his wish. A day later, man begs on his knees, to be given back his body. He’s seen and felt and suffered enough. But God, chortling, tells him to wait nine months; man just got pregnant.
While making random statements about strength, training, courage etc, do people stop to think about childbirth? Think about it. It involves having your pelvis ripped apart, pretty much. If somebody did that to you in Guantanamo, you’d be crying torture.
Have you thought about what comes after childbirth? Sleepless night, after sleepless night, after sleepless night… Don’t you know that it is an oft-used method of torture – not allowing a person to sleep for long periods of time?
Have you considered the fact that female foetuses have a naturally better chance of survival than male ones? Naturally tougher, if you like.
Or, thought about walking twenty kilometers or more, to fetch water. Twenty kilometers a day in the blistering deserts of Rajasthan. Without protective gear or proper shoes. I’ve seen soldiers in Rajasthan. They travel in jeeps, gypsies or trains.
You tell me: who’s tougher? Who’s more likely to survive under tough conditions, assuming they’re given the same kind of nutrition?
People also seem to fail to notice that in most mammal species, the task of protecting (the army’s task, in effect) falls to the female. She protects her young, even against her own mate, if she has to. It is not for nothing that they say, there is nothing more dangerous than a new mother in the wild.
In short, if you left mothers to mother nature, each one would be like a one-woman army. And each one would be like a mini-academy, because she teaches the young ones too. Combat or training, the responsibility is as feminine as it gets.
We, being a flawed, weak species, needed to stick together to survive. So, we worked out this whole division-of-labour civilization. Some dude, in a moment of self-delusion about his own abilities (or possibly in a stroke of genius for the rest of the male population) decided that it would be men who’d take up arms and join armies. Because women and children needed protection (but guns and swords represent power and control; see? Stroke of genius, after all).
The question is – who did women and children need protection from?
Obvious, isn't it? From other men. Other armies.
Because, really, what else is there to protect against? Against the forces of nature, men are as helpless as women. Except when our flawed civilization renders women even more helpless than they were intended to be. For instance, during the Tsunami, more women died because women are not taught to swim. Because women must not be seen at rivers and swimming pools. Because women’s bodies were made for the express purpose of tempting men to sin. Because….oh, don’t let me start on that, now.
Point being: in general, men fight for, and against, men. Not for women.
And if you want to talk about masculine/feminine natures, then, as history is our witness – the male fights to acquire. The female fights to protect.
So, let me pose a more pertinent question – Do women need the army?
An army serves only two functions. Either to protect, or to conquer.
There might well have been a time when women were not fit for war. Not because they were physically weaker – after all, a feminine hand that is strong enough to plow a field when the men run off to play with swords is definitely strong enough to use that sword.
But it is possible that women were emotionally unprepared for a conquest war. War meant looting, burning villages, raping, impaling children. Ever heard of a historic battle where women took the initiative to loot, rape or impale, en masse?
Neither have I.
(We’re not talking about individual cases of brutal murder that may have been motivated by greed, jealousy or a twisted mind. We’re talking war. Because that’s what armies are for. Conquest is a brutal business. Torture and enslavement is a brutal business and possibly, women were possibly ill-equipped to deal with it. )
In my imagination, once upon a time, a bunch of men OD-ing on testosterone must have decided that women are tender, fragile, weak things who were at their mercy and that they were going to play this game of attacking and abducting of other clans and tribes, so they could possess many more tender, fragile things. Just to protect them, mind you. Noble creatures, them.
That’s probably the history of war.
Now, some things have changed. We’ve got things like the UN and the international courts of justice and human rights commissions and television and journalists who will tell on you if you let your testosterone get the better of you. Conquering territory is frowned upon. To make war, you have to find defensive reasons; pretend to be under threat (as we have witnessed in recent times, the whole WMD-that-never-were war in Iraq).
We also have bombs nowadays, and hey, you don’t need to be a wrestler to hurl a bomb. All you got to do is push a few buttons, operate a lever or two – and boom! Half a country gets wiped out. Guess what? You don’t even have to fly too close to destroy. You don’t have to be directly overhead where you might be a target for retaliatory fire. You’ve got guided missiles! (I personally believe that modern warfare is an act of cowardice, not courage, but more on that another time)
But let me be bloody-minded and, for a minute, assume that women lack those necessary masculine qualities of strength, ability and aggression that an army needs.
Even so, how much strength does it take to fly a plane? And how strong do you think a fingertip needs to be, to direct a guided missile?
Oh, I know all the usual arguments. Soldiers need to be fit. To survive in difficult conditions.
How many soldiers survive in the kind of conditions that the average slum-dwelling mother in our metros? No toilets, queuing up for hours for drinking water, or walking miles for water, and a husband who might beat you if you complain. How many brave soldiers in the country have had to put up with that every day, day after day? And how many can, with all honesty, claim that a woman might not have survived just as well in those circumstances?
As a woman and a citizen, I can say two things with certainty.
One, that if an army requires strength, courage or sheer tenacity, women are more fit for the job than men are.
Two, that what the average soldier in the average army today needs, is not strength or aggression, but the ability to take orders without questioning them. To be able to blow up a school or a hospital without asking why. To counter ‘militants’ or ‘separatists’ without thinking about whether they have a right to separate or not. In short, what you have as your average soldier is a guy who doesn’t often exercise his mental/emotional/spiritual/social faculties. This is true of the average guerrilla soldier too. Or the average jehadi. He’s a trained killer, who is paid to kill without allowing his personal conscience to get in the way. Sure, he probably believes that he’s doing it for the motherland. But he doesn’t wonder, isn’t allowed to wonder, about what or who this motherland is and how it benefits. The day he starts asking questions, he stops being useful.
That is the way of the army (for which, we, the civilians, pay taxes... and no, we don't sleep in peace at night).
So, here’s another question – are women more likely to ask questions, worry about who they’re killing and why, as compared to men?
I wish I could say an emphatic ‘yes!’ ... but, I don’t know. Yet, I do know this – if women are more likely to stop and think before killing, then that is all the more reason to have women in the army.
Who knows, we just might have fewer wars?
PS – I cannot resist telling this little story that's not about the army:
I went to a girls’ college. The undergraduate cricket team once played against grown men from the town. They got beaten. Hollow. The men, that is.
Most of these girls hadn’t played cricket before, not even in the gully behind their homes. But they trained well, trained hard, for two years. These were girls who weren’t afraid of getting their hands calloused and bruised. I was not one of them, but I took immense pride in them. It was said in our college that you could tell a cricket-team-girl by her hands. You could. They felt like men’s hands.
The same girls who were so tough, went out into the world of men, and felt the need to become ‘feminine’. Girls who worked out two hours a day and could lift toss another full-sized girl in the air, learnt to paint their nails, straighten their hair and wear gold. Nothing wrong with that. But they’re not beating the men hollow, anymore.
All girls begin by being tomboys, if you let them be. But if you keep telling a girl that feminine means soft and smooth, and that masculine means rough and tough, and that she is a ‘tomboy’… of course, she’s going to try and change. Become soft. The opposite of male. Because that’s what she is. She’s not going to roll about in the mud. She’s going to wear fairy frocks and dream of a prince who will ‘protect’ her. And the prince will have a sword or a gun. He will lead armies. Because that’s the masculine thing to do, right?
What makes (or breaks) a woman is attitudes. What makes (or breaks) a civilization is its people. And women are people too.
But suddenly, I was forced to sit up - did I hear that right? In this lovely liberal blogosphere, did I hear someone say ‘Does the army really need women’?
The trouble is that men live trapped in men’s bodies (and of course, they don’t have a choice in the affair) which makes them utterly incapable of forming rational, logical views on the subject of strength, fortitude, courage etc. Some of them labour under the mistaken assumption that pressing a trigger or flicking open a switchblade requires a great deal of strength and fortitude and whathaveyou.
You’ll must have heard that one about the man who wanted to know why his wife claimed to be so tired, when he (glorious HE) did all the hard work? It’s an old one. Man prays to God to let him switch bodies with his wife. God (probably a wicked man with a bizarre sense of humour) grants his wish. A day later, man begs on his knees, to be given back his body. He’s seen and felt and suffered enough. But God, chortling, tells him to wait nine months; man just got pregnant.
While making random statements about strength, training, courage etc, do people stop to think about childbirth? Think about it. It involves having your pelvis ripped apart, pretty much. If somebody did that to you in Guantanamo, you’d be crying torture.
Have you thought about what comes after childbirth? Sleepless night, after sleepless night, after sleepless night… Don’t you know that it is an oft-used method of torture – not allowing a person to sleep for long periods of time?
Have you considered the fact that female foetuses have a naturally better chance of survival than male ones? Naturally tougher, if you like.
Or, thought about walking twenty kilometers or more, to fetch water. Twenty kilometers a day in the blistering deserts of Rajasthan. Without protective gear or proper shoes. I’ve seen soldiers in Rajasthan. They travel in jeeps, gypsies or trains.
You tell me: who’s tougher? Who’s more likely to survive under tough conditions, assuming they’re given the same kind of nutrition?
People also seem to fail to notice that in most mammal species, the task of protecting (the army’s task, in effect) falls to the female. She protects her young, even against her own mate, if she has to. It is not for nothing that they say, there is nothing more dangerous than a new mother in the wild.
In short, if you left mothers to mother nature, each one would be like a one-woman army. And each one would be like a mini-academy, because she teaches the young ones too. Combat or training, the responsibility is as feminine as it gets.
We, being a flawed, weak species, needed to stick together to survive. So, we worked out this whole division-of-labour civilization. Some dude, in a moment of self-delusion about his own abilities (or possibly in a stroke of genius for the rest of the male population) decided that it would be men who’d take up arms and join armies. Because women and children needed protection (but guns and swords represent power and control; see? Stroke of genius, after all).
The question is – who did women and children need protection from?
Obvious, isn't it? From other men. Other armies.
Because, really, what else is there to protect against? Against the forces of nature, men are as helpless as women. Except when our flawed civilization renders women even more helpless than they were intended to be. For instance, during the Tsunami, more women died because women are not taught to swim. Because women must not be seen at rivers and swimming pools. Because women’s bodies were made for the express purpose of tempting men to sin. Because….oh, don’t let me start on that, now.
Point being: in general, men fight for, and against, men. Not for women.
And if you want to talk about masculine/feminine natures, then, as history is our witness – the male fights to acquire. The female fights to protect.
So, let me pose a more pertinent question – Do women need the army?
An army serves only two functions. Either to protect, or to conquer.
There might well have been a time when women were not fit for war. Not because they were physically weaker – after all, a feminine hand that is strong enough to plow a field when the men run off to play with swords is definitely strong enough to use that sword.
But it is possible that women were emotionally unprepared for a conquest war. War meant looting, burning villages, raping, impaling children. Ever heard of a historic battle where women took the initiative to loot, rape or impale, en masse?
Neither have I.
(We’re not talking about individual cases of brutal murder that may have been motivated by greed, jealousy or a twisted mind. We’re talking war. Because that’s what armies are for. Conquest is a brutal business. Torture and enslavement is a brutal business and possibly, women were possibly ill-equipped to deal with it. )
In my imagination, once upon a time, a bunch of men OD-ing on testosterone must have decided that women are tender, fragile, weak things who were at their mercy and that they were going to play this game of attacking and abducting of other clans and tribes, so they could possess many more tender, fragile things. Just to protect them, mind you. Noble creatures, them.
That’s probably the history of war.
Now, some things have changed. We’ve got things like the UN and the international courts of justice and human rights commissions and television and journalists who will tell on you if you let your testosterone get the better of you. Conquering territory is frowned upon. To make war, you have to find defensive reasons; pretend to be under threat (as we have witnessed in recent times, the whole WMD-that-never-were war in Iraq).
We also have bombs nowadays, and hey, you don’t need to be a wrestler to hurl a bomb. All you got to do is push a few buttons, operate a lever or two – and boom! Half a country gets wiped out. Guess what? You don’t even have to fly too close to destroy. You don’t have to be directly overhead where you might be a target for retaliatory fire. You’ve got guided missiles! (I personally believe that modern warfare is an act of cowardice, not courage, but more on that another time)
But let me be bloody-minded and, for a minute, assume that women lack those necessary masculine qualities of strength, ability and aggression that an army needs.
Even so, how much strength does it take to fly a plane? And how strong do you think a fingertip needs to be, to direct a guided missile?
Oh, I know all the usual arguments. Soldiers need to be fit. To survive in difficult conditions.
How many soldiers survive in the kind of conditions that the average slum-dwelling mother in our metros? No toilets, queuing up for hours for drinking water, or walking miles for water, and a husband who might beat you if you complain. How many brave soldiers in the country have had to put up with that every day, day after day? And how many can, with all honesty, claim that a woman might not have survived just as well in those circumstances?
As a woman and a citizen, I can say two things with certainty.
One, that if an army requires strength, courage or sheer tenacity, women are more fit for the job than men are.
Two, that what the average soldier in the average army today needs, is not strength or aggression, but the ability to take orders without questioning them. To be able to blow up a school or a hospital without asking why. To counter ‘militants’ or ‘separatists’ without thinking about whether they have a right to separate or not. In short, what you have as your average soldier is a guy who doesn’t often exercise his mental/emotional/spiritual/social faculties. This is true of the average guerrilla soldier too. Or the average jehadi. He’s a trained killer, who is paid to kill without allowing his personal conscience to get in the way. Sure, he probably believes that he’s doing it for the motherland. But he doesn’t wonder, isn’t allowed to wonder, about what or who this motherland is and how it benefits. The day he starts asking questions, he stops being useful.
That is the way of the army (for which, we, the civilians, pay taxes... and no, we don't sleep in peace at night).
So, here’s another question – are women more likely to ask questions, worry about who they’re killing and why, as compared to men?
I wish I could say an emphatic ‘yes!’ ... but, I don’t know. Yet, I do know this – if women are more likely to stop and think before killing, then that is all the more reason to have women in the army.
Who knows, we just might have fewer wars?
PS – I cannot resist telling this little story that's not about the army:
I went to a girls’ college. The undergraduate cricket team once played against grown men from the town. They got beaten. Hollow. The men, that is.
Most of these girls hadn’t played cricket before, not even in the gully behind their homes. But they trained well, trained hard, for two years. These were girls who weren’t afraid of getting their hands calloused and bruised. I was not one of them, but I took immense pride in them. It was said in our college that you could tell a cricket-team-girl by her hands. You could. They felt like men’s hands.
The same girls who were so tough, went out into the world of men, and felt the need to become ‘feminine’. Girls who worked out two hours a day and could lift toss another full-sized girl in the air, learnt to paint their nails, straighten their hair and wear gold. Nothing wrong with that. But they’re not beating the men hollow, anymore.
All girls begin by being tomboys, if you let them be. But if you keep telling a girl that feminine means soft and smooth, and that masculine means rough and tough, and that she is a ‘tomboy’… of course, she’s going to try and change. Become soft. The opposite of male. Because that’s what she is. She’s not going to roll about in the mud. She’s going to wear fairy frocks and dream of a prince who will ‘protect’ her. And the prince will have a sword or a gun. He will lead armies. Because that’s the masculine thing to do, right?
What makes (or breaks) a woman is attitudes. What makes (or breaks) a civilization is its people. And women are people too.
Friday, June 16, 2006
What is wrong with them?
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Crows, Peruvian voters, Brazilian farmers, Indian theatre
Speaking of crows, according to nature writer Candace Savage, crows can make tools, play tricks on each other, and caw among kin in a dialect all their own.
As a sign of crows' advanced smarts, Savage cites Kacelnik's 2002 study in the journal Science on a captive New Caledonian crow that bent a straight piece of wire into a hook to fetch a bucket of food in a tube. "No other animal—not even a chimp—has ever spontaneously solved a problem like this, a fact that puts crows in a class with us as toolmakers," Savage writes in her book.
Go here, to see a video of a crow making that hook.
As a sign of crows' advanced smarts, Savage cites Kacelnik's 2002 study in the journal Science on a captive New Caledonian crow that bent a straight piece of wire into a hook to fetch a bucket of food in a tube. "No other animal—not even a chimp—has ever spontaneously solved a problem like this, a fact that puts crows in a class with us as toolmakers," Savage writes in her book.
Go here, to see a video of a crow making that hook.
---- ----
And it would seem that Indians are not the only ones who make incomprehensible voting decisions. Peru has returned to power a man who led the country to the brink of destitution and despair in the eighties.
This article says -
'... shortages meant nonpowdered milk was an inconceivable luxury, and hours-long lines for food were a weekly occurrence... One woman described how her next-door neighbor was gunned down by Shining Path guerrillas; her friend talked about an uncle who was unjustly imprisoned as a Maoist sympathizer. These young professionals were spared the most horrific experiences of the 1980s—like mass executions in the countryside or outright hunger. Still, even as 10-year-olds they knew Peru's chief executive was grossly incompetent. And yet on Sunday each of them voted for Alan García to be returned to the presidential mansion 16 years after he left in disgrace.'
The turn of events in Peru is mystifying, but awfully interesting. Also, please note that Peru has compulsory voting; there's a fine for those who don't vote. It would be very interesting to find out how the administration manages to keep track of who votes and who doesn't and what happens if people cannot pay the fine.
---- ----
Another bit from South America : landless farmers have decided that if the law will not do anything about land reform, they're going to break the law, under the aegis of the Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra (MST).
'The goal of the MST is to force the federal government to speed up land redistribution. Theoretically, the group has the constitution on its side. Much of the privately held farmland in Brazil lies fallow.... guided by the spirit of the legislation, the movement's strategy is to break the law....The MST has moved more than 300,000 Brazilian families from temporary quarters like the one in Sinop to permanent farm settlements. But the confrontations have levied a heavy toll. Police and landowners have killed more than 1,200 landless activists since the movement began in the mid-1980s...'
How many more will it take?
---- ----
Did you know that India could have more than 40,000 theatre groups?
I certainly didn't.
This article has much information about theatre in India, though it is essentially a review of Aparna Bhargava Dharwadker's Theatres of Independence.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Libertarianism, and the escaping of hurt
People have often thrown strange tags at me – this -ist and that -ist.
Now, there are several online tests that will give you your tags if you’re fond of wearing them. I took a test, and it turns out I’m libertarian. Though my quadrant is left-libertarian rather than right, and since I appear to stand close to where Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Gandhi and the Dalai Lama are positioned on the analysis graph, I'm not worried.
Yet, on the face of it, who isn’t a libertarian?
If the essential guiding philosophy of libertarianism is ‘liberty’, then I certainly am one.
Freedom - of the individual, of the community, of the mind, of the body, of the species, of other species, of speech, of action, of thought, of expression, of enterprise, of art, of science, of trade, of service – is precious.
If there is one thing worth fighting for – it is freedom. The right to live as you choose. The right to say what you think. The right to do what you will – as long as you’re not hurting anybody.
But that is a bit of a stumbling block - this business of 'victimless' living. It is so easy to assume that you’re not hurting someone else, and so impossible to believe it. Like the poet said, ‘No man is an island…’
In fact, no island is an island, either. One volcano on one island causes currents and ripples in the ocean, which might cause a Tsunami on another island.
Let’s begin with simple examples.
You want a divorce.
Your husband doesn’t. Would a libertarian go ahead with the divorce? Because the husband is going to hurt like hell... What’re you going to do?
Or
Your son wants to be a Bollywood actor.
You want to thrash him, but you don’t. You simply cut off his allowance. Your money… you have the right to do what you want. Your son has the right to pursue his Bollywood career. But he can no longer afford to. He gives in to your wishes and decides to become a bank manager instead. He spends the rest of his life feeling miserable. And hurt.
What’re you going to do?
Now, let’s take this to another level.
Let’s say you drive a car.
You need this car. You may have worked your backside off to acquire and fuel this car. You might drive very carefully, following all the traffic rules, but what will you do about pollution? Pollution in a major city might translate into a toddler being exposed to the equivalent of twenty cigarettes a day. If there are one million cars and one million toddlers…?
Are you hurting nobody?
Let’s say you live next door to an unhappy Muslim woman who wants a divorce but is not getting one, because she will lose custody of her children. It is none of your business, so you do not interfere. You are not a Muslim woman so you will not campaign for changes in the Sharia, nor fight to change the law of the land.
Have you hurt nobody?
Let’s say you set up a cola factory in a rural district where there’s only one source of fresh water. You set up shop, you pay your taxes, you put your little profit in the bank. It is true that there’s less water available for the villagers’ drinking, bathing, cooking, irrigation…
But nobody’s getting hurt, surely?
Let’s say you’ve got a girlfriend in another city. With cheaper airlines, it is absolutely glorious being able to fly down every weekend… and let’s assume that you’ve been convinced, beyond your ability to doubt, that human self-indulgence has led to climate change. That every decade of our development leads to rivers receding, polar bears dying, Amazon rainforests shrinking, deserts expanding, more frequent floods and hurricanes. The events that in the long history of planet earth used to occur at intervals of a thousand years, are now occurring at intervals of a hundred years, and by the time our kids grow up, will by happening every few years. There is more drought, more famine… and there’s cheaper air travel. Now, you just want to hold onto your girlfriend. You don’t want to hurt anybody.
In all honesty, have you hurt nobody?
Sure, we’re all advocates of individual freedom here. We’re all libertarians here… but each minute of each day, you are hurting someone.
Because you hurt people through silence. You hurt people when you refuse to rethink what you’re doing and why. You hurt people when you fail to acknowledge their needs and rights and ambitions and furies, as equal to your own. You hurt people when you betray their voice by superimposing your own agenda over it. You hurt people when you form opinions without checking on facts, when you fudge data, or tell only half the truth, show only half the picture, or fail to ask questions.
For, no man is an island...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind...
I know I should get on with my life. It is beyond one individual, trying to tackle the concerns of an ever-expanding, forever-besieged world…
But you know what?
I want those polar bears to live... I want the desert to stop somewhere far, far away from the doorstep. And the tides to stop at the shore. I want rivers to flow. I want children to eat. I want women to feel free. I want men to be happy and non-aggressive. I want everybody to work equally, but also to have the leisure to write poetry and paint masterpieces…
And it hurts me to see a pregnant mother bear dive into a frozen sea, again and again, coming up empty-handed, going hungry for eight months, giving birth, only to see a cub die...
It doesn’t kill me. But it hurts. It hurts even more to think that I am as culpable as anybody else, since I’m so busy doing my bit to warm up good old mother earth.
----
I don’t know about being this ‘-ian’ or that ‘-ist’. But I know we need to rethink ‘humanity’ and ‘equality’ and ‘justice’ and ‘growth’. A close friend recently pointed out to me that human civilization has charted a warped course for itself.
It has given us the tools to make nuclear missiles and to create the wonders of the world, to write poetry and to perform brain surgery. But it has failed to give us the tools to be content, to give each other the minimum possible pain. We have failed, as a species, to avoid hurting ourselves or each other.
We’re quite pathetic, come to think of it. We cannot be content with three pairs of clothes, or even thirty. We buy new jeans (and cell phones and ipods and laptops and television sets and insurance) each year. We buy bathtubs to bathe in. We buy plastic shower curtains for our bathrooms. And we don’t just take a dip in the sea. Instead, we buy bottled ‘sea minerals’ mixed with ‘soap-free shower gel’.
Guess what nobody buys?
An argument.
The argument that we need to stop, and think about all this ‘growth’ and where we’re headed. To think about reversing some of our damage, and to acknowledge the victims of our passivity, to acknowledge the need to make amends when we do cause damage. That argument, nobody wants to buy.
(Disclaimer: There is no particular agenda to this post. I was writing all this in my diary really, chewing my intellectual cud… and thought it might be fun to get others to chew along. Chomp-chomp.)
Now, there are several online tests that will give you your tags if you’re fond of wearing them. I took a test, and it turns out I’m libertarian. Though my quadrant is left-libertarian rather than right, and since I appear to stand close to where Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Gandhi and the Dalai Lama are positioned on the analysis graph, I'm not worried.
Yet, on the face of it, who isn’t a libertarian?
If the essential guiding philosophy of libertarianism is ‘liberty’, then I certainly am one.
Freedom - of the individual, of the community, of the mind, of the body, of the species, of other species, of speech, of action, of thought, of expression, of enterprise, of art, of science, of trade, of service – is precious.
If there is one thing worth fighting for – it is freedom. The right to live as you choose. The right to say what you think. The right to do what you will – as long as you’re not hurting anybody.
But that is a bit of a stumbling block - this business of 'victimless' living. It is so easy to assume that you’re not hurting someone else, and so impossible to believe it. Like the poet said, ‘No man is an island…’
In fact, no island is an island, either. One volcano on one island causes currents and ripples in the ocean, which might cause a Tsunami on another island.
Let’s begin with simple examples.
You want a divorce.
Your husband doesn’t. Would a libertarian go ahead with the divorce? Because the husband is going to hurt like hell... What’re you going to do?
Or
Your son wants to be a Bollywood actor.
You want to thrash him, but you don’t. You simply cut off his allowance. Your money… you have the right to do what you want. Your son has the right to pursue his Bollywood career. But he can no longer afford to. He gives in to your wishes and decides to become a bank manager instead. He spends the rest of his life feeling miserable. And hurt.
What’re you going to do?
Now, let’s take this to another level.
Let’s say you drive a car.
You need this car. You may have worked your backside off to acquire and fuel this car. You might drive very carefully, following all the traffic rules, but what will you do about pollution? Pollution in a major city might translate into a toddler being exposed to the equivalent of twenty cigarettes a day. If there are one million cars and one million toddlers…?
Are you hurting nobody?
Let’s say you live next door to an unhappy Muslim woman who wants a divorce but is not getting one, because she will lose custody of her children. It is none of your business, so you do not interfere. You are not a Muslim woman so you will not campaign for changes in the Sharia, nor fight to change the law of the land.
Have you hurt nobody?
Let’s say you set up a cola factory in a rural district where there’s only one source of fresh water. You set up shop, you pay your taxes, you put your little profit in the bank. It is true that there’s less water available for the villagers’ drinking, bathing, cooking, irrigation…
But nobody’s getting hurt, surely?
Let’s say you’ve got a girlfriend in another city. With cheaper airlines, it is absolutely glorious being able to fly down every weekend… and let’s assume that you’ve been convinced, beyond your ability to doubt, that human self-indulgence has led to climate change. That every decade of our development leads to rivers receding, polar bears dying, Amazon rainforests shrinking, deserts expanding, more frequent floods and hurricanes. The events that in the long history of planet earth used to occur at intervals of a thousand years, are now occurring at intervals of a hundred years, and by the time our kids grow up, will by happening every few years. There is more drought, more famine… and there’s cheaper air travel. Now, you just want to hold onto your girlfriend. You don’t want to hurt anybody.
In all honesty, have you hurt nobody?
Sure, we’re all advocates of individual freedom here. We’re all libertarians here… but each minute of each day, you are hurting someone.
Because you hurt people through silence. You hurt people when you refuse to rethink what you’re doing and why. You hurt people when you fail to acknowledge their needs and rights and ambitions and furies, as equal to your own. You hurt people when you betray their voice by superimposing your own agenda over it. You hurt people when you form opinions without checking on facts, when you fudge data, or tell only half the truth, show only half the picture, or fail to ask questions.
For, no man is an island...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind...
I know I should get on with my life. It is beyond one individual, trying to tackle the concerns of an ever-expanding, forever-besieged world…
But you know what?
I want those polar bears to live... I want the desert to stop somewhere far, far away from the doorstep. And the tides to stop at the shore. I want rivers to flow. I want children to eat. I want women to feel free. I want men to be happy and non-aggressive. I want everybody to work equally, but also to have the leisure to write poetry and paint masterpieces…
And it hurts me to see a pregnant mother bear dive into a frozen sea, again and again, coming up empty-handed, going hungry for eight months, giving birth, only to see a cub die...
It doesn’t kill me. But it hurts. It hurts even more to think that I am as culpable as anybody else, since I’m so busy doing my bit to warm up good old mother earth.
----
I don’t know about being this ‘-ian’ or that ‘-ist’. But I know we need to rethink ‘humanity’ and ‘equality’ and ‘justice’ and ‘growth’. A close friend recently pointed out to me that human civilization has charted a warped course for itself.
It has given us the tools to make nuclear missiles and to create the wonders of the world, to write poetry and to perform brain surgery. But it has failed to give us the tools to be content, to give each other the minimum possible pain. We have failed, as a species, to avoid hurting ourselves or each other.
We’re quite pathetic, come to think of it. We cannot be content with three pairs of clothes, or even thirty. We buy new jeans (and cell phones and ipods and laptops and television sets and insurance) each year. We buy bathtubs to bathe in. We buy plastic shower curtains for our bathrooms. And we don’t just take a dip in the sea. Instead, we buy bottled ‘sea minerals’ mixed with ‘soap-free shower gel’.
Guess what nobody buys?
An argument.
The argument that we need to stop, and think about all this ‘growth’ and where we’re headed. To think about reversing some of our damage, and to acknowledge the victims of our passivity, to acknowledge the need to make amends when we do cause damage. That argument, nobody wants to buy.
(Disclaimer: There is no particular agenda to this post. I was writing all this in my diary really, chewing my intellectual cud… and thought it might be fun to get others to chew along. Chomp-chomp.)
Monday, May 29, 2006
last day extended
Update: I hear the last date has been stretched forward until June 10th.
There is a travel-writing contest on, for bloggers.
I had written back to the mail-sender, to ask what the selection criteria was going to be like, since this is intended as a sort-of reality show, of which I have an inherent suspicion. I didn't like Indian Idol, I detest Big Brother.
But the good lady wrote back to reassure me - "oktatabyebye has nothing to do at all with anything which even remotely resembles the indian idol madness. This is an experimentative idea where the winner will blog about the trip across India on the oktatabyebye blog."
She further says that the selection process will be like this - "after registrations close on 30th May, we are going to ask all who have registered to send in a small writeup on any of their prior travel experiences in 150 to 200 words. Once these writeups are scrutinised, further shortlisting will happen followed by personal interview. Sidharth,Webchutney's CEO and a couple of people from makemytrip.com who are jointly supporting us are going to personally meet them. A final winner is then declared. Nothing emotional, nothing personal.... Also, this won't be on TV, its all online, travel and blog! That's why the initiative to talk about it through blogs and communities, if its online so should be the talk...."
So, it won't be on TV, all you've got to do is travel and write... that sounds ok-ish to me.
There is a travel-writing contest on, for bloggers.
I had written back to the mail-sender, to ask what the selection criteria was going to be like, since this is intended as a sort-of reality show, of which I have an inherent suspicion. I didn't like Indian Idol, I detest Big Brother.
But the good lady wrote back to reassure me - "oktatabyebye has nothing to do at all with anything which even remotely resembles the indian idol madness. This is an experimentative idea where the winner will blog about the trip across India on the oktatabyebye blog."
She further says that the selection process will be like this - "after registrations close on 30th May, we are going to ask all who have registered to send in a small writeup on any of their prior travel experiences in 150 to 200 words. Once these writeups are scrutinised, further shortlisting will happen followed by personal interview. Sidharth,Webchutney's CEO and a couple of people from makemytrip.com who are jointly supporting us are going to personally meet them. A final winner is then declared. Nothing emotional, nothing personal.... Also, this won't be on TV, its all online, travel and blog! That's why the initiative to talk about it through blogs and communities, if its online so should be the talk...."
So, it won't be on TV, all you've got to do is travel and write... that sounds ok-ish to me.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
The dead fish that's making me gag
Recently, I finished reading a book called Machhli Mari Hui, by Rajkamal Chowdhary.
It is not a new book – probably written in the sixties, certainly set in Calcutta of that time.
I began by liking the book, especially since the introduction itself was written well. I liked the lusciousness of certain phrases. The extreme qualities of the characters, even though some of them didn’t ring true. The way the city and the stock market players are described.
There were flaws but one goes on, thinking the flaws are only logical, sequential failings… but by the time one gets to the end, one is worse than disappointed!
The author just doesn’t understand his material.
The trouble with books like Machhli Mari Hui is that they deal with multidimensional subjects with a unidimensional vision. Sex is a multidimensional subject. Homosexuality is a multidimensional subject. It is a mistake to approach such subjects unless you’ve either got some first-hand experience of it, or you’ve talked to a lot of people who had first-hand experience. This author, clearly, doesn’t know s**t about women’s sexuality or their feelings.
In the introduction, the author claims to have read almost everything there is to read on the subject of female homosexuality. From early medical books by psychologists, to Simone De Beauvoir’s The Second Sex. He makes references to Sappho, and to lesbians’ autobiographies. With this wealth of knowledge and this spectrum of perceptions, how he could end his book the way he did, is beyond my comprehension!
In the last chapter, his female protagonist Shirin is described as shedding her homosexual skin, and turning into a ‘woman’, instead of a fish. The fish is now dead. (That is where the title’s reference to dead fish comes from. In the book, the fish is used as a symbol of lesbian desire. The image of two fishes swimming are used to represent a lesbian encounter between Shirin and a younger girl, Priya)
What is most appalling is the sequence of events after which this ‘transformation’ comes about.
I’ll try to tell the story straight, in some sort of sequence as events happen, and not in the back and forth flashback style adopted by the author.
(Shirin’s husband) Nirmal Padmavat is the main protagonist, the ‘hero’ if you like.
He is a tall, dark, strong, hard-working, honest businessman with humble origins, who neither tells lies, nor bribes, nor discriminates on the basis of colour or religion etc. People think of him as either a magician or a monster.
From a village in Bihar, via Lahore and Bombay, he reaches New York, where he meets a beautiful woman called Kalyani. She used to be a medical student but has now become a ‘model’ (the author uses quotation marks) and a prostitute. She is sexy, fearless, alcoholic.
Nirmal falls for her.
Kalyani uses his support when she needs to. Hard times fall upon her. She empties his bank balance and offers herself to him. But there’s a problem. He loses his erection (or maybe ejaculates too soon – the details are not clear; there are euphemisms like ‘he was like a tiger/wild animal’ and then suddenly ‘he was cold; the fire was gone’)
So, Kalyani insults him and screams at him to go away and never come back. He never comes back.
But he returns to India when he hears of her death, some years later, in Calcutta. She is buried there, in a cemetery, by her husband - a well-known neurosurgeon, Dr Raghuvansh. The good old doctor has a daughter by Kalyani, six year old Priya.
A leap of some fifteen years - Nirmal is now a very rich man in Calcutta. Fortyish. He has built a thirty-storeyed skyscraper – the tallest building in the city – called Kalyani Mansion. He has married the socialite, Shirin.
She was married earlier to another rich businessman called Vijay Mehta, who made the mistake of insulting the dead Kalyani (he was one of her clients in New York). Nirmal punches him in the face. Shirin is curious about the man who punches her husband; she likes powerful men. So she lives with Nirmal and divorces Mehta (in that order).
Sex is awful.
Nirmal turns into a ‘wild animal’ (author's descrption; I don't believe wild animals behave as he does) and loses erection after erection, hurting Shirin both physically and emotionally.
In the meantime, since Priya is Kalyani’s daughter, Nirmal is attracted to her too. (The author suggests that she is both afraid and attracted, though she stays away from boys in general. )
The good old doctor smiles upon this, and is open to the idea of his daughter marrying her mother’s lover... oh yes, he knows all about his wife’s past. He is full of nothing but empathy for Nirmal.
Priya gets friendly with Shirin. They begin having sex. Shirin is described as ‘cheap’, as being obsessed with her looks and her body, and as scarred – because she saw her parents having sex, because her mother died during childbirth, because her mother disliked and was afraid of men, because her elder sister introduced her to some awesome lesbian sex.
In short, Shirin cannot enjoy men, because she is afraid of getting pregnant and wants to sleep with girls – like herself, like her elder sister. Her room has a painting of two women looking at each other with fire in their eyes. There’s a statue of a naked Negro woman, red eyes and red lips, in that room where ‘the two fishes swim and play’.
Nirmal wants Kalyani; he sees her image everywhere – in Shirin, in Priya.
One day, Nirmal goes to Shirin’s room. (The marriage is a clear disaster; they live on different floors of Kalyani Mansion). He begins making out, but loses it – both his temper and his erection. Shirin goes wild – calls him names, screams at him. Repeat of what happened with Kalyani.
At this point, Priya walks into the room. Nirmal gets dressed and orders her – Priya, not Shirin - to come to his own flat. Priya wants to go back to Shirin… Shirin is crazy already, and is tearing at her own body… but Priya is stuck with Nirmal. She is frightened, but reproaches him for mistreating his wife. Priya is a medical student herself and has seen the scars on his wife’s body.
Nirmal loses his temper and rapes her : please note, this time, no loss of erection... He rapes her repeatedly. He almost kills her.
When she leaves his place, she throws up, and rolls down the stairs. The lift-man and building guards have been warned to expect Priya, they come looking for her. They find her and deposit her unconscious body at Dr Raghuvansh’s house. He takes one look, and understands what has happened. Since he’s a doctor, he dresses her wounds, treats her, bathes her, puts her to sleep, and Nirmal calls to ask how Priya is, and this empathetic father says ‘she’s alive’.
After three days, Priya seems to be better. She doesn’t go out anywhere, doesn’t take calls. Not even Shirin’s calls.
Dr Raghuvansh sits down to write a letter to Nirmal, saying that he knows his daughter has been raped, repeatedly and brutally. He was afraid this would happen. But at least, he is glad that his daughter has helped him get over the sexual maladjustment (author’s words), for he knew Priya could cure him of it. He was hoping that Nirmal would marry Kalyani’s daughter, and would have if he hadn’t ended up marrying the unfortunate unhealthy homosexual Shirin (authors’ description) – whom he has tried to cure earlier (author’s words), but who is a gone case, quite hopelessly lesbian.
The empathetic doctor is also glad that his own daughter has been ‘cured’ of her lesbian ways; she is now 'healthy'. Normal. He insists it a great thing to be normal. It is easy to be extraordinary/abnormal (the author uses a word that is interchangeably used for both).
The doctor wills away his whole property to the medical college, leaving his brutally raped daughter penniless, and overnight, drinks himself to death.
His daughter goes through the funeral. At the funeral, she imagines that Nirmal is not only carrying the dead body of her father, but her own, and that of Shirin and that of her own mother.
But what does this girl do?
She takes her father’s last latter to Nirmal’s house. Back to the same house where she was raped. Puts the letter on the table, and offers to make some coffee.
Yes, coffee.
Shirin is still waiting – for Priya. For Nirmal. For somebody. And while she waits, she drinks and drinks, and drinks. If some cheap society ladies (author’s phrase, not mine) come to visit, she makes a little noise, then goes back to drinking, and waiting.
In the meantime, Nirmal has been surrounded by 'enemies', mostly led by the old and vindictive Vijay Mehta, whose wife got carried away by Nirmal’s power and stature, not to mention, relative youth. His little coterie of capitalists is bribing people in the audit and income tax department to ruin this honest ‘black prince’.
Nirmal’s little business empire is crashing because he refuses to pay bribes. And the workers are ungrateful – the more he does for them, the more they want. So he gets rid of them, by selling his mill to his arch-enemy Mehta. But still, he is losing everything. He doesn’t mind losing everything, only wants to keep Kalyani Mansion. His home, his sky-scraper.
Honest and incorruptible to the last, the black prince loses everything (how this happens is very vague). But to save Kalyani Mansion, he is forced to lie – that he had taken a huge loan from Kalyani, Dr Raghuvansh’s wife, to construct this building and that he is now forced to sell it to their daughter Priya.
Priya knows it is only a paper transaction, but she plays along.
At the end of it all, Nirmal realizes that he has never even looked properly at his beautiful wife, Shirin. Never looked into her eyes properly. So he goes to her room, looks at her, caresses her. She, meawhile, is all admiration and adoration. He spends the night. When he wakes up, he sees Shirin is emerging from a bath, with sindoor in her hair, and face glowing with empathetic love.
She is no longer dead fish. She is a woman (author’s description).
I cannot describe how I felt after readin that last chapter. It nullified the author and whatever virtues the writing itself may have had.
One can deal with complexes and sexual ‘maladjustments’. One can even understand a situation where a woman wants to be raped (have read of similar situations in other books, written much more realistically, much more empathetically). But one fails to understand the concept of a violent man and a lesbian girl being made ‘normal’ through rape. Or, that all this violence makes him into a tender, caring husband (with his dead lady-love’s daughter thrown in for free). It is more than unpalatable. It is disturbing.
The author is either completely insensitive, or completely clueless.
Homosexuals do not overnight become ‘normal’. After great lesbian lovemaking, somebody gets raped, and wham! Everybody’s happy...? Even if a reader goes along with the theory that a woman will feel ‘normal’ and wholly ‘woman’ only if she has sex with a man (idiotic though the presumption is, even if one agrees to go along with the theory), this book would have been worth the paper its printed on, only if the author explored the psychological complexity of the idea.
I personally do not like authors who think in terms of ‘fish’ and ‘woman’. But personal opinions aside, the book could have handled so differently.
Imagine the plight of a girl, whose father just died, deliberately leaving her penniless, leaving her at the mercy of her rapist, whom he is thanking for having ‘cured’ her of lesbianism. Imagine the plight of this girl who goes back to her rapist, knowing he was her mother’s lover, and that she might have to depend on him now – where else will she go? Imagine that she is love with this man’s wife…. Imagine what is going on inside the mind of the lesbian wife, who lives with a powerful man, who has just raped her lover.
Imagine what is going on inside the man’s head. This wonderful powerful incorruptible business genius – who has raped the daughter of the two people he loved most.
It is plot with potential, but the author fails it.
He thinks in grandiose terms – tall, black, strong, built like a rock, incorruptible ‘black prince’… the lesbian’s bedroom, the negro’s naked statue, red lips, an old empathetic doctor, a prostitute who loved so long, lived so little… Cliché-ridden to the last.
The author seems to be able to think only in black and white. His hero, Nirmal, is a larger-than-life hero: neither anti-hero nor merely human; his sexual ‘maladjustment’ is more like a fatal flaw, his hamartia, if you like, which, instead of destroying him, is sorted out eventually… at the cost of two women’s happiness and ravaged bodies.
When you finish reading it, you cannot help thinking that this is a judgmental book. That is the final, fatal flaw.
In some ways, it is a man’s book. I doubt if the author even understands women’s bodies. I doubt if a woman could have written a book like this (though I shouldn’t be making sweeping statements; time and time again, women have unpleasantly surprised me by going ahead and behaving exactly like men...much to our collective shame and despair).
A writer is a creator. Like all creators, he/she has to shed his/her skin. Nothing except your own writing style is permissible. You cannot be any gender, if you’re going to be a good writer. You can adopt the cover of a gendered voice. But your mind must be gender-free. Your values must be gender-free… and race-free, shape-free, nationality-free, colour-free, class-free, sexual orientation-free.
If you’re not free, you’re merely a peddler of words with X amount of skill... And words alone do not a writer make.
It is not a new book – probably written in the sixties, certainly set in Calcutta of that time.
I began by liking the book, especially since the introduction itself was written well. I liked the lusciousness of certain phrases. The extreme qualities of the characters, even though some of them didn’t ring true. The way the city and the stock market players are described.
There were flaws but one goes on, thinking the flaws are only logical, sequential failings… but by the time one gets to the end, one is worse than disappointed!
The author just doesn’t understand his material.
The trouble with books like Machhli Mari Hui is that they deal with multidimensional subjects with a unidimensional vision. Sex is a multidimensional subject. Homosexuality is a multidimensional subject. It is a mistake to approach such subjects unless you’ve either got some first-hand experience of it, or you’ve talked to a lot of people who had first-hand experience. This author, clearly, doesn’t know s**t about women’s sexuality or their feelings.
In the introduction, the author claims to have read almost everything there is to read on the subject of female homosexuality. From early medical books by psychologists, to Simone De Beauvoir’s The Second Sex. He makes references to Sappho, and to lesbians’ autobiographies. With this wealth of knowledge and this spectrum of perceptions, how he could end his book the way he did, is beyond my comprehension!
In the last chapter, his female protagonist Shirin is described as shedding her homosexual skin, and turning into a ‘woman’, instead of a fish. The fish is now dead. (That is where the title’s reference to dead fish comes from. In the book, the fish is used as a symbol of lesbian desire. The image of two fishes swimming are used to represent a lesbian encounter between Shirin and a younger girl, Priya)
What is most appalling is the sequence of events after which this ‘transformation’ comes about.
I’ll try to tell the story straight, in some sort of sequence as events happen, and not in the back and forth flashback style adopted by the author.
(Shirin’s husband) Nirmal Padmavat is the main protagonist, the ‘hero’ if you like.
He is a tall, dark, strong, hard-working, honest businessman with humble origins, who neither tells lies, nor bribes, nor discriminates on the basis of colour or religion etc. People think of him as either a magician or a monster.
From a village in Bihar, via Lahore and Bombay, he reaches New York, where he meets a beautiful woman called Kalyani. She used to be a medical student but has now become a ‘model’ (the author uses quotation marks) and a prostitute. She is sexy, fearless, alcoholic.
Nirmal falls for her.
Kalyani uses his support when she needs to. Hard times fall upon her. She empties his bank balance and offers herself to him. But there’s a problem. He loses his erection (or maybe ejaculates too soon – the details are not clear; there are euphemisms like ‘he was like a tiger/wild animal’ and then suddenly ‘he was cold; the fire was gone’)
So, Kalyani insults him and screams at him to go away and never come back. He never comes back.
But he returns to India when he hears of her death, some years later, in Calcutta. She is buried there, in a cemetery, by her husband - a well-known neurosurgeon, Dr Raghuvansh. The good old doctor has a daughter by Kalyani, six year old Priya.
A leap of some fifteen years - Nirmal is now a very rich man in Calcutta. Fortyish. He has built a thirty-storeyed skyscraper – the tallest building in the city – called Kalyani Mansion. He has married the socialite, Shirin.
She was married earlier to another rich businessman called Vijay Mehta, who made the mistake of insulting the dead Kalyani (he was one of her clients in New York). Nirmal punches him in the face. Shirin is curious about the man who punches her husband; she likes powerful men. So she lives with Nirmal and divorces Mehta (in that order).
Sex is awful.
Nirmal turns into a ‘wild animal’ (author's descrption; I don't believe wild animals behave as he does) and loses erection after erection, hurting Shirin both physically and emotionally.
In the meantime, since Priya is Kalyani’s daughter, Nirmal is attracted to her too. (The author suggests that she is both afraid and attracted, though she stays away from boys in general. )
The good old doctor smiles upon this, and is open to the idea of his daughter marrying her mother’s lover... oh yes, he knows all about his wife’s past. He is full of nothing but empathy for Nirmal.
Priya gets friendly with Shirin. They begin having sex. Shirin is described as ‘cheap’, as being obsessed with her looks and her body, and as scarred – because she saw her parents having sex, because her mother died during childbirth, because her mother disliked and was afraid of men, because her elder sister introduced her to some awesome lesbian sex.
In short, Shirin cannot enjoy men, because she is afraid of getting pregnant and wants to sleep with girls – like herself, like her elder sister. Her room has a painting of two women looking at each other with fire in their eyes. There’s a statue of a naked Negro woman, red eyes and red lips, in that room where ‘the two fishes swim and play’.
Nirmal wants Kalyani; he sees her image everywhere – in Shirin, in Priya.
One day, Nirmal goes to Shirin’s room. (The marriage is a clear disaster; they live on different floors of Kalyani Mansion). He begins making out, but loses it – both his temper and his erection. Shirin goes wild – calls him names, screams at him. Repeat of what happened with Kalyani.
At this point, Priya walks into the room. Nirmal gets dressed and orders her – Priya, not Shirin - to come to his own flat. Priya wants to go back to Shirin… Shirin is crazy already, and is tearing at her own body… but Priya is stuck with Nirmal. She is frightened, but reproaches him for mistreating his wife. Priya is a medical student herself and has seen the scars on his wife’s body.
Nirmal loses his temper and rapes her : please note, this time, no loss of erection... He rapes her repeatedly. He almost kills her.
When she leaves his place, she throws up, and rolls down the stairs. The lift-man and building guards have been warned to expect Priya, they come looking for her. They find her and deposit her unconscious body at Dr Raghuvansh’s house. He takes one look, and understands what has happened. Since he’s a doctor, he dresses her wounds, treats her, bathes her, puts her to sleep, and Nirmal calls to ask how Priya is, and this empathetic father says ‘she’s alive’.
After three days, Priya seems to be better. She doesn’t go out anywhere, doesn’t take calls. Not even Shirin’s calls.
Dr Raghuvansh sits down to write a letter to Nirmal, saying that he knows his daughter has been raped, repeatedly and brutally. He was afraid this would happen. But at least, he is glad that his daughter has helped him get over the sexual maladjustment (author’s words), for he knew Priya could cure him of it. He was hoping that Nirmal would marry Kalyani’s daughter, and would have if he hadn’t ended up marrying the unfortunate unhealthy homosexual Shirin (authors’ description) – whom he has tried to cure earlier (author’s words), but who is a gone case, quite hopelessly lesbian.
The empathetic doctor is also glad that his own daughter has been ‘cured’ of her lesbian ways; she is now 'healthy'. Normal. He insists it a great thing to be normal. It is easy to be extraordinary/abnormal (the author uses a word that is interchangeably used for both).
The doctor wills away his whole property to the medical college, leaving his brutally raped daughter penniless, and overnight, drinks himself to death.
His daughter goes through the funeral. At the funeral, she imagines that Nirmal is not only carrying the dead body of her father, but her own, and that of Shirin and that of her own mother.
But what does this girl do?
She takes her father’s last latter to Nirmal’s house. Back to the same house where she was raped. Puts the letter on the table, and offers to make some coffee.
Yes, coffee.
Shirin is still waiting – for Priya. For Nirmal. For somebody. And while she waits, she drinks and drinks, and drinks. If some cheap society ladies (author’s phrase, not mine) come to visit, she makes a little noise, then goes back to drinking, and waiting.
In the meantime, Nirmal has been surrounded by 'enemies', mostly led by the old and vindictive Vijay Mehta, whose wife got carried away by Nirmal’s power and stature, not to mention, relative youth. His little coterie of capitalists is bribing people in the audit and income tax department to ruin this honest ‘black prince’.
Nirmal’s little business empire is crashing because he refuses to pay bribes. And the workers are ungrateful – the more he does for them, the more they want. So he gets rid of them, by selling his mill to his arch-enemy Mehta. But still, he is losing everything. He doesn’t mind losing everything, only wants to keep Kalyani Mansion. His home, his sky-scraper.
Honest and incorruptible to the last, the black prince loses everything (how this happens is very vague). But to save Kalyani Mansion, he is forced to lie – that he had taken a huge loan from Kalyani, Dr Raghuvansh’s wife, to construct this building and that he is now forced to sell it to their daughter Priya.
Priya knows it is only a paper transaction, but she plays along.
At the end of it all, Nirmal realizes that he has never even looked properly at his beautiful wife, Shirin. Never looked into her eyes properly. So he goes to her room, looks at her, caresses her. She, meawhile, is all admiration and adoration. He spends the night. When he wakes up, he sees Shirin is emerging from a bath, with sindoor in her hair, and face glowing with empathetic love.
She is no longer dead fish. She is a woman (author’s description).
I cannot describe how I felt after readin that last chapter. It nullified the author and whatever virtues the writing itself may have had.
One can deal with complexes and sexual ‘maladjustments’. One can even understand a situation where a woman wants to be raped (have read of similar situations in other books, written much more realistically, much more empathetically). But one fails to understand the concept of a violent man and a lesbian girl being made ‘normal’ through rape. Or, that all this violence makes him into a tender, caring husband (with his dead lady-love’s daughter thrown in for free). It is more than unpalatable. It is disturbing.
The author is either completely insensitive, or completely clueless.
Homosexuals do not overnight become ‘normal’. After great lesbian lovemaking, somebody gets raped, and wham! Everybody’s happy...? Even if a reader goes along with the theory that a woman will feel ‘normal’ and wholly ‘woman’ only if she has sex with a man (idiotic though the presumption is, even if one agrees to go along with the theory), this book would have been worth the paper its printed on, only if the author explored the psychological complexity of the idea.
I personally do not like authors who think in terms of ‘fish’ and ‘woman’. But personal opinions aside, the book could have handled so differently.
Imagine the plight of a girl, whose father just died, deliberately leaving her penniless, leaving her at the mercy of her rapist, whom he is thanking for having ‘cured’ her of lesbianism. Imagine the plight of this girl who goes back to her rapist, knowing he was her mother’s lover, and that she might have to depend on him now – where else will she go? Imagine that she is love with this man’s wife…. Imagine what is going on inside the mind of the lesbian wife, who lives with a powerful man, who has just raped her lover.
Imagine what is going on inside the man’s head. This wonderful powerful incorruptible business genius – who has raped the daughter of the two people he loved most.
It is plot with potential, but the author fails it.
He thinks in grandiose terms – tall, black, strong, built like a rock, incorruptible ‘black prince’… the lesbian’s bedroom, the negro’s naked statue, red lips, an old empathetic doctor, a prostitute who loved so long, lived so little… Cliché-ridden to the last.
The author seems to be able to think only in black and white. His hero, Nirmal, is a larger-than-life hero: neither anti-hero nor merely human; his sexual ‘maladjustment’ is more like a fatal flaw, his hamartia, if you like, which, instead of destroying him, is sorted out eventually… at the cost of two women’s happiness and ravaged bodies.
When you finish reading it, you cannot help thinking that this is a judgmental book. That is the final, fatal flaw.
In some ways, it is a man’s book. I doubt if the author even understands women’s bodies. I doubt if a woman could have written a book like this (though I shouldn’t be making sweeping statements; time and time again, women have unpleasantly surprised me by going ahead and behaving exactly like men...much to our collective shame and despair).
A writer is a creator. Like all creators, he/she has to shed his/her skin. Nothing except your own writing style is permissible. You cannot be any gender, if you’re going to be a good writer. You can adopt the cover of a gendered voice. But your mind must be gender-free. Your values must be gender-free… and race-free, shape-free, nationality-free, colour-free, class-free, sexual orientation-free.
If you’re not free, you’re merely a peddler of words with X amount of skill... And words alone do not a writer make.
Money and my mouth
Here's another blog I’ve been following with a great deal of interest.
Via this blog, we hear of the great tragedy of the Jarawas, and how the law is being flouted with impunity, not to mention, with disastrous consequences. Not enough people protesting, and therefore, very little fear of being found out, being thrown out of office or being arrested for contempt of court and illegal construction.
At How the Other Half Lives (I’ve hopped on board recently) a maiden post led to a flurry of comments, some of which have made me think about myself and my take on the issue at hand.
Somebody supported reservation but not caste-based ones. Somebody else supports academic reservations, but not professional ones. Somebody asks me to ‘donate’ my job if I am such a great advocate of reservations in the private sector.
The first two have made me think a little harder about the precise form of affirmative action that I would like to see being implemented.
The third is a very pertinent question – because it all comes down to putting your money where your mouth is.
Would I?
My answer: firstly, reservations do not imply charity. They imply giving someone a leg-up.
Secondly, I do not control my own job. I don’t have hiring and firing rights, but if I did, I would still support a reserved percentage of positions in the organisation. Especially media organisations. (How many backward castes, or even poor people from upper castes, are represented in the mainstream media? Do a head-count. You’ll find a few answers as to why and how certain stories get covered) and if, as a result, my own chances of finding and keeping jobs is lessened, lowered… well, too bad. It won’t be the first time I’m sitting at home, jobless. And it certainly won’t be end of the world.
Let us assume that I did have hiring-firing rights.
Let’s say I have this little dhaba by the highway and I need a cook. Given a choice between candidate A and candidate B, both being competant, I’d give the job to whoever needed it more. And no, I would not give it to somebody who came with a hotel management diploma. I’d send both candidates to the kitchen and watch them roll out parathas – trying to gauge creativity, speed, and their enjoyment of the task at hand.
If there isn’t a vast gulf between the two candidates, skill-wise, I’ll look at their needs. Let’s say A is a runaway kid and this is a first attempt to make an honest living, or that A is the eldest child of retired parents and has two other siblings to put through school… if B has healthy parents and faces no immediate financial crunch – I would choose A over B, at least in the short term (in the long term, hopefully, such considerations would not be needed, if there aren’t vast gulfs between people’s assets and needs)
If I could give away four jobs, instead of one, I’d reserve one for a man who comes from backward origins, even if he is less competent than others, assuming he is eager to learn and work a little harder than the rest.
And I would hire at least two women, even if the men are just as skilled, giving preference to single mothers, divorcees, widows or just women with a very strong independent streak who want to live on their own. Because I have a vested interest in ensuring that women make their own money.
So yes, I’m willing to put my money where my mouth is.
Not as charity, but as a way of investing in people.
Via this blog, we hear of the great tragedy of the Jarawas, and how the law is being flouted with impunity, not to mention, with disastrous consequences. Not enough people protesting, and therefore, very little fear of being found out, being thrown out of office or being arrested for contempt of court and illegal construction.
At How the Other Half Lives (I’ve hopped on board recently) a maiden post led to a flurry of comments, some of which have made me think about myself and my take on the issue at hand.
Somebody supported reservation but not caste-based ones. Somebody else supports academic reservations, but not professional ones. Somebody asks me to ‘donate’ my job if I am such a great advocate of reservations in the private sector.
The first two have made me think a little harder about the precise form of affirmative action that I would like to see being implemented.
The third is a very pertinent question – because it all comes down to putting your money where your mouth is.
Would I?
My answer: firstly, reservations do not imply charity. They imply giving someone a leg-up.
Secondly, I do not control my own job. I don’t have hiring and firing rights, but if I did, I would still support a reserved percentage of positions in the organisation. Especially media organisations. (How many backward castes, or even poor people from upper castes, are represented in the mainstream media? Do a head-count. You’ll find a few answers as to why and how certain stories get covered) and if, as a result, my own chances of finding and keeping jobs is lessened, lowered… well, too bad. It won’t be the first time I’m sitting at home, jobless. And it certainly won’t be end of the world.
Let us assume that I did have hiring-firing rights.
Let’s say I have this little dhaba by the highway and I need a cook. Given a choice between candidate A and candidate B, both being competant, I’d give the job to whoever needed it more. And no, I would not give it to somebody who came with a hotel management diploma. I’d send both candidates to the kitchen and watch them roll out parathas – trying to gauge creativity, speed, and their enjoyment of the task at hand.
If there isn’t a vast gulf between the two candidates, skill-wise, I’ll look at their needs. Let’s say A is a runaway kid and this is a first attempt to make an honest living, or that A is the eldest child of retired parents and has two other siblings to put through school… if B has healthy parents and faces no immediate financial crunch – I would choose A over B, at least in the short term (in the long term, hopefully, such considerations would not be needed, if there aren’t vast gulfs between people’s assets and needs)
If I could give away four jobs, instead of one, I’d reserve one for a man who comes from backward origins, even if he is less competent than others, assuming he is eager to learn and work a little harder than the rest.
And I would hire at least two women, even if the men are just as skilled, giving preference to single mothers, divorcees, widows or just women with a very strong independent streak who want to live on their own. Because I have a vested interest in ensuring that women make their own money.
So yes, I’m willing to put my money where my mouth is.
Not as charity, but as a way of investing in people.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
An argument and a few stories
A story from nine years ago, in Lucknow.
I was enrolled at Aptech for a computer course and had shifted location to Lucknow during the summer vacations (for the record, I dropped out of the course, after the ignominy of flunking miserably in the programming module; in the instructor’s words, my efforts to write a computer program had ‘gone for a six... gone for a toss.’).
My old and mostly immobile grandparents lived in Gomtinagar; I had to attend classes in Halwasiya. It is a long commute, involving a ride over a bridge over the river Gomti, usually in a rickety six-seater called a ‘Vikram’, though I obstinately insist on calling it ‘tempoo’. It used to cost me ten rupees everyday.
One day, a tempo strike had been announced. In solidarity, all the auto-wallahs were also staying off the roads.
All of a sudden? Not all of a sudden - the tempo-walas must have given out a date and time when the strike would begin, which I didn’t know about.
After my classes, I stepped out and found that there was no way of getting back home, except a cab. I emptied out my purse – only thirty-three rupees left. Rs 33 will not get you a taxi ride to anywhere, not in Lucknow…not even round-n-round, in your own garden.
To add insult to injury, the clouds broke water and the rain came pouring down. All of a sudden… this was June. No umbrella, no raincoat, because monsoon was a month away.
No umbrella, no raincoat, no money for a taxi.
A very young and very clueless me, drenched in the rain, walking down Hazratgunj, getting stared at by loafers who had nothing better to do. It wasn’t pleasant.
And then, I saw a cycle-rickshaw. Not one, but many cycle-rickshaws. But the point was… would they agree? Hazratgunj to Gomtinagar takes half an hour even in a nonrenewableenergysource-guzzling tempo. No cycle-rickshaw would go that far.
Even if they did agree to, with this tempo-strike on, they’d want to make a killing. Anybody would ask for a hundred rupees. Even an auto-wala would have asked. But that day, I didn’t have that hundred; I had only Rs 33.
But the rain was pouring. And men were staring. So finally, I went up to an old rickshaw-wala, “Tees rupaye mein kahaan tak chhodenge, bhaiya? (How far can you take me, for thirty rupees?”)
He peered at me, surprised at the question. “Kahaan tak jaogi? (How far do you have to go?)”
I said, “Gomtinagar.”
He thought this over, then, agreed to take me as far as the petrol pump, just before Gomtinagar starts.
I agreed. The petrol pump was about a kilometer and a half, from my grandparents’ place. I could walk the rest, and hopefully, the rain would have stopped by that time.
The old rickshaw-wala put up the hood to offer me whatever little protection and privacy he could offer, and pedalled away. Through the rain, against the wind.
It was bitterly cold, and I can’t imagine how difficult this trip must have been for that old man.
Near the petrol pump, I got off, gave him all the money I had. Each paisa in my purse, and started to walk. It was still drizzling.
The old man called out to me. “Kahaan tak jaogi, bitiya (How much further, little daughter)?”
I told him, pointing, - the colony on the left.
He asked me to get back on the rickshaw. I protested, said I hadn’t have any more money.
He just said, “Ladkiyon ke liye theek nahin hain. Hum kone tak chhod aate hain. Phir chali jaana. (It isn’t safe for girls. I’ll drop you at the corner. Then you can walk.)”
And he did.
I can’t quite describe the feeling as he dropped me off at the corner of our lane. Partly, it was being eaten up by guilt at not paying him as much as he deserved… how much did he deserve anyway?
But mostly, it was the knowledge, that I could not pay him as much as he deserved. Even if I had a hundred rupees, two hundred rupees, five hundred rupees to give him - it would not be enough to repay him, now.
Because now, he was the bada aadmi; the big man.
He had done his good deed, and in my eyes, developed a stature that prevents me from monetizing the value of the service. He left me spiritually bankrupt.
Today, people ask why cycle-rickshaws should stay – in a city that is crawling with cars, autos, taxis and cows – where is the place for these shabby, skinny men who bring nothing to this city except their sweat and sinew?
I have the standard arguments - the ‘cycles are easy on the environment’ argument. The ‘need for cheap modes of transportation in smaller geographical units’ argument. The ‘right to livelihood’ argument. The ‘who are you to decide who stays and who goes’ argument.
But those are not real arguments.
My real argument is that memory – of an old man who took pity on a hard-up young girl in the rain and pedalled and pedalled, all the way to a distant suburb, when he could have made five time as much money, if he’d hung around in the market-centre, to take advantage of an auto/tempo strike.
My argument is not his sweat and sinew, or his right to life. It is his calling me ‘bitiya’ and taking me that extra mile, that had not been agreed upon.
My argument is that I have a debt to pay and I will go on arguing for cycle-rickshaws as long as there are men who want to pull rickshaws for a living.
Because transport is not just about fares or convenience. It is also about journeying. Low fares, quick modes, quality service and all that jazz… but what about lasting memories?
Transport and commutes are about stories.
You want to hear other stories? I have more. Many more.
One of my favourites is about my friend, G, who used to study at Allahabad university, and lived in Civil Lines; a cycle-rickshaw was appointed to take her there and to drop her back home, everyday.
As old men do in bhaiyya-land, this man used to call my friend, ‘bitiya’. Little girl or daughter.
This shabby old man who had nothing to offer but his scrawny muscles, but he didn’t just stop at calling her ‘bitiya’. You see, in north-India, according to tradition, you do not touch your daughter’s money. So he would not accept money from G’s hands.
She tried to explain, to protest. But it was no point arguing. He would accept money only on days when G’s parents paid him.
Silly traditional nonsense? I know.
Pointless sentiment injected into, what was essentially, a commercial transaction? I don’t know…. I don’t know about that.
Because, this man is another of my personal arguments. A man who knows how to treat you like a daughter, when he addresses you like one, is worth having in our cities, don’t you think?
I can also tell you about the young boy who helped me bring up mattresses to the third floor, when we didn’t have a lift. Yes, I paid him extra, but that’s not the point. He is not a loader, he is not a coolie, he is not a manual labourer – he pulls a rickshaw and his job only required him to drop me at my doorstep. But I asked for help, and he agreed to help.
I can tell you that some of my most beautiful childhood memories are from the time when six of us kids would be on one rickshaw, me standing on a narrow plank behind the wheels, holding onto the hood for support, the wind in my face, shrieking with delight.
I can tell you of the look on the faces of some of the rickshaw-walas, as they turn to look over their shoulders, meeting this delight with their own smiles.
I can tell you of the time in Ajmer, when six unruly college girls hailed a tonga, took the reins from the driver’s hands, and bullied him into letting them drive. I can tell you about all the crazy men who deck up their cycle/auto-rickshaws like new brides. I can tell you about boring flights too. You can see for yourself which is more fun, or worth holding on to.
Some day, maybe I will acquire and learn to drive a khataaraa piece of metal, and start navigating the roads myself. Some day, maybe I will not need the rickshaws. But if I ever forget that old man who left me spiritually bankrupt at the corner of a lane in Lucknow, may the gods strike me down, when I take the wheel... Because if I forget the things that make life worth living and fighting for, I might as well be dead.
My point:
When I began writing this, it was in an entirely different context – the context of anger, alienation and the difficulties of transportation in a western, modern society... Their clean, clean roads and their organised, rule-bound traffic. Cars and buses only. Bicycles being the only alternative.... If there is one thing I miss in this small Scottish town, it is the cycle-rickshaw… no, that's not entirely true: I miss seeing dogs and cows too, and the occasional horse or elephant or camel.
[Those who think they’re are a traffic menace, I’d like to point them in the direction of a certain busy road near Andrewsganj, Delhi; with mine own eyes I have seen a row of cows balancing delicately, all hoofed fours, atop a narrow road-divider, patiently waiting for the traffic to slow down before crossing. Which is more than you can say for half the speeding guys on speed, who treat narrow kuchha lanes like virtual superhighway]
Then, I began thinking of those people who actually believe that cycle-rickshaws are a menace!
I am writing this post, because too many people have been lobbying to allow fewer and fewer cycle-rickshaws in Delhi. First it was just the heart of New Delhi; now, there are moves afoot to keep them off the suburbs too. I could cite reports by way of counter-argument.
But the point is this - we talk about giving the public a choice.
So, I want that choice. Have low-cost airlines by all means; I want those too. But I also want buses. I want my tonga, I want my metro, AND I want the cycle-rickshaws. I see absolutely no reason why not.
The roads are public property.
The rickshaw-pullers are as much the public as the cabbies or pilots. If you want them out of the way, build separate tracks for rickshaws, and then talk about speed and safety issues. Delhi does have separate 'priority' bus lanes, in some suburbs. How difficult would it be to just plan for different sets of tracks, in different regions, starting right now?
Make it a part of the master plan. Listen to the experts. It is not undo-able.
And if it is undo-able, tough!
Learn to drive slow, and pay at least as much respect to the man pulling a rickshaw, as you do to the cows. Defer. Slow down. Wait to let them pass.
For the world-class wannabes, a reminder: out here, in the UK, cars wait, while a duck waddles across; those are the rules.
I was enrolled at Aptech for a computer course and had shifted location to Lucknow during the summer vacations (for the record, I dropped out of the course, after the ignominy of flunking miserably in the programming module; in the instructor’s words, my efforts to write a computer program had ‘gone for a six... gone for a toss.’).
My old and mostly immobile grandparents lived in Gomtinagar; I had to attend classes in Halwasiya. It is a long commute, involving a ride over a bridge over the river Gomti, usually in a rickety six-seater called a ‘Vikram’, though I obstinately insist on calling it ‘tempoo’. It used to cost me ten rupees everyday.
One day, a tempo strike had been announced. In solidarity, all the auto-wallahs were also staying off the roads.
All of a sudden? Not all of a sudden - the tempo-walas must have given out a date and time when the strike would begin, which I didn’t know about.
After my classes, I stepped out and found that there was no way of getting back home, except a cab. I emptied out my purse – only thirty-three rupees left. Rs 33 will not get you a taxi ride to anywhere, not in Lucknow…not even round-n-round, in your own garden.
To add insult to injury, the clouds broke water and the rain came pouring down. All of a sudden… this was June. No umbrella, no raincoat, because monsoon was a month away.
No umbrella, no raincoat, no money for a taxi.
A very young and very clueless me, drenched in the rain, walking down Hazratgunj, getting stared at by loafers who had nothing better to do. It wasn’t pleasant.
And then, I saw a cycle-rickshaw. Not one, but many cycle-rickshaws. But the point was… would they agree? Hazratgunj to Gomtinagar takes half an hour even in a nonrenewableenergysource-guzzling tempo. No cycle-rickshaw would go that far.
Even if they did agree to, with this tempo-strike on, they’d want to make a killing. Anybody would ask for a hundred rupees. Even an auto-wala would have asked. But that day, I didn’t have that hundred; I had only Rs 33.
But the rain was pouring. And men were staring. So finally, I went up to an old rickshaw-wala, “Tees rupaye mein kahaan tak chhodenge, bhaiya? (How far can you take me, for thirty rupees?”)
He peered at me, surprised at the question. “Kahaan tak jaogi? (How far do you have to go?)”
I said, “Gomtinagar.”
He thought this over, then, agreed to take me as far as the petrol pump, just before Gomtinagar starts.
I agreed. The petrol pump was about a kilometer and a half, from my grandparents’ place. I could walk the rest, and hopefully, the rain would have stopped by that time.
The old rickshaw-wala put up the hood to offer me whatever little protection and privacy he could offer, and pedalled away. Through the rain, against the wind.
It was bitterly cold, and I can’t imagine how difficult this trip must have been for that old man.
Near the petrol pump, I got off, gave him all the money I had. Each paisa in my purse, and started to walk. It was still drizzling.
The old man called out to me. “Kahaan tak jaogi, bitiya (How much further, little daughter)?”
I told him, pointing, - the colony on the left.
He asked me to get back on the rickshaw. I protested, said I hadn’t have any more money.
He just said, “Ladkiyon ke liye theek nahin hain. Hum kone tak chhod aate hain. Phir chali jaana. (It isn’t safe for girls. I’ll drop you at the corner. Then you can walk.)”
And he did.
I can’t quite describe the feeling as he dropped me off at the corner of our lane. Partly, it was being eaten up by guilt at not paying him as much as he deserved… how much did he deserve anyway?
But mostly, it was the knowledge, that I could not pay him as much as he deserved. Even if I had a hundred rupees, two hundred rupees, five hundred rupees to give him - it would not be enough to repay him, now.
Because now, he was the bada aadmi; the big man.
He had done his good deed, and in my eyes, developed a stature that prevents me from monetizing the value of the service. He left me spiritually bankrupt.
Today, people ask why cycle-rickshaws should stay – in a city that is crawling with cars, autos, taxis and cows – where is the place for these shabby, skinny men who bring nothing to this city except their sweat and sinew?
I have the standard arguments - the ‘cycles are easy on the environment’ argument. The ‘need for cheap modes of transportation in smaller geographical units’ argument. The ‘right to livelihood’ argument. The ‘who are you to decide who stays and who goes’ argument.
But those are not real arguments.
My real argument is that memory – of an old man who took pity on a hard-up young girl in the rain and pedalled and pedalled, all the way to a distant suburb, when he could have made five time as much money, if he’d hung around in the market-centre, to take advantage of an auto/tempo strike.
My argument is not his sweat and sinew, or his right to life. It is his calling me ‘bitiya’ and taking me that extra mile, that had not been agreed upon.
My argument is that I have a debt to pay and I will go on arguing for cycle-rickshaws as long as there are men who want to pull rickshaws for a living.
Because transport is not just about fares or convenience. It is also about journeying. Low fares, quick modes, quality service and all that jazz… but what about lasting memories?
Transport and commutes are about stories.
You want to hear other stories? I have more. Many more.
One of my favourites is about my friend, G, who used to study at Allahabad university, and lived in Civil Lines; a cycle-rickshaw was appointed to take her there and to drop her back home, everyday.
As old men do in bhaiyya-land, this man used to call my friend, ‘bitiya’. Little girl or daughter.
This shabby old man who had nothing to offer but his scrawny muscles, but he didn’t just stop at calling her ‘bitiya’. You see, in north-India, according to tradition, you do not touch your daughter’s money. So he would not accept money from G’s hands.
She tried to explain, to protest. But it was no point arguing. He would accept money only on days when G’s parents paid him.
Silly traditional nonsense? I know.
Pointless sentiment injected into, what was essentially, a commercial transaction? I don’t know…. I don’t know about that.
Because, this man is another of my personal arguments. A man who knows how to treat you like a daughter, when he addresses you like one, is worth having in our cities, don’t you think?
I can also tell you about the young boy who helped me bring up mattresses to the third floor, when we didn’t have a lift. Yes, I paid him extra, but that’s not the point. He is not a loader, he is not a coolie, he is not a manual labourer – he pulls a rickshaw and his job only required him to drop me at my doorstep. But I asked for help, and he agreed to help.
I can tell you that some of my most beautiful childhood memories are from the time when six of us kids would be on one rickshaw, me standing on a narrow plank behind the wheels, holding onto the hood for support, the wind in my face, shrieking with delight.
I can tell you of the look on the faces of some of the rickshaw-walas, as they turn to look over their shoulders, meeting this delight with their own smiles.
I can tell you of the time in Ajmer, when six unruly college girls hailed a tonga, took the reins from the driver’s hands, and bullied him into letting them drive. I can tell you about all the crazy men who deck up their cycle/auto-rickshaws like new brides. I can tell you about boring flights too. You can see for yourself which is more fun, or worth holding on to.
Some day, maybe I will acquire and learn to drive a khataaraa piece of metal, and start navigating the roads myself. Some day, maybe I will not need the rickshaws. But if I ever forget that old man who left me spiritually bankrupt at the corner of a lane in Lucknow, may the gods strike me down, when I take the wheel... Because if I forget the things that make life worth living and fighting for, I might as well be dead.
My point:
When I began writing this, it was in an entirely different context – the context of anger, alienation and the difficulties of transportation in a western, modern society... Their clean, clean roads and their organised, rule-bound traffic. Cars and buses only. Bicycles being the only alternative.... If there is one thing I miss in this small Scottish town, it is the cycle-rickshaw… no, that's not entirely true: I miss seeing dogs and cows too, and the occasional horse or elephant or camel.
[Those who think they’re are a traffic menace, I’d like to point them in the direction of a certain busy road near Andrewsganj, Delhi; with mine own eyes I have seen a row of cows balancing delicately, all hoofed fours, atop a narrow road-divider, patiently waiting for the traffic to slow down before crossing. Which is more than you can say for half the speeding guys on speed, who treat narrow kuchha lanes like virtual superhighway]
Then, I began thinking of those people who actually believe that cycle-rickshaws are a menace!
I am writing this post, because too many people have been lobbying to allow fewer and fewer cycle-rickshaws in Delhi. First it was just the heart of New Delhi; now, there are moves afoot to keep them off the suburbs too. I could cite reports by way of counter-argument.
But the point is this - we talk about giving the public a choice.
So, I want that choice. Have low-cost airlines by all means; I want those too. But I also want buses. I want my tonga, I want my metro, AND I want the cycle-rickshaws. I see absolutely no reason why not.
The roads are public property.
The rickshaw-pullers are as much the public as the cabbies or pilots. If you want them out of the way, build separate tracks for rickshaws, and then talk about speed and safety issues. Delhi does have separate 'priority' bus lanes, in some suburbs. How difficult would it be to just plan for different sets of tracks, in different regions, starting right now?
Make it a part of the master plan. Listen to the experts. It is not undo-able.
And if it is undo-able, tough!
Learn to drive slow, and pay at least as much respect to the man pulling a rickshaw, as you do to the cows. Defer. Slow down. Wait to let them pass.
For the world-class wannabes, a reminder: out here, in the UK, cars wait, while a duck waddles across; those are the rules.
This year, I have not been able to read properly.
I am reading, but in fits and starts, as if I have lost the art of being absorbed. Or at least, of being absorbed in a linear, narrative fashion… I get fascinated by an idea, then I let go. I grasp again, cling, flounder, tentatively touch, but then, float away.
I go away from a book, but return a month later. I run beside one author, but abruptly abandon him/her, change tracks and start running with another. This is guilt-inducing – because I usually don’t leave authors in the lurch; I’m a faithful reader. Or was, until now.
Now, it is impossible to become one with a book; my whole brain refuses to be dragged into the experience of reading. Part of the problem is being bilingual.
It all started when I began to read Hindi literature seriously again, some time last year.
As a result of being more or less equally fluent in both English and Hindustani (my real mother-tongue is Hindustani, which is neither pure Hindi nor pure Urdu, but a colloquial mixture of the two), there’s this corner of my mind that begins to translate it back to me. Hindi to English.
This corner of my mind is busy translating simultaneously. Each word, each sentence - this corner pokes at it, picks it up as if it was a curio and then translates it into another language, to make it a souvenir.
This corner wants to feel the intricacies, the fine-ness of the ideas, in another tongue. I like to wrap my mind around the words and turn them over and over until they’re something else, and yet, the same.
Sometimes, I even go from English to Hindi. Especially when the book has an Indian context. The bilingual corner of my brain immediately begins to wonder how this would sound in Hindustani: would it sound better? Worse? More natural? Would this narrative sound as if this could be any place, in any other nation, if I put these thoughts into English? Would the flow be more delicate, the language more impactful, in Hindustani? Suppose you mixed up the two?
Most recently, this habit has transcended books with an Indian context. I find myself trying to translate Orhan Pamuk and Murakami into Hindustani – just to see if it works.
Unfortunately, this means that there’s a one-second time lag between one part of my brain and the other. Sometimes, I get stuck, because the part of my brain that is translating is stuck for a word or appropriate idiomatic transformation. It gets larger and more assertive and refuses to let me read further, until I can solve its bilingual dilemma.
Sometimes, I must take a firm stand and yell at the corner – ‘I don’t care what this means in English, okay? I want to finish the damn story!’
Sometimes, I go and google up the word in an online dictionary. Sometimes, I run down my address book, to check if there’s somebody whom I could randomly call or email, to see if they’d help me with word-meanings.
And sometimes, I just content myself by telling unsuspecting bibliophiles - ‘Read this, read this; get a translation. Is there a translation? There should be a translation; why doesn’t somebody do a translation?’
All the same, it has become impossible to read with the old fluency of thought. Maybe I should just translate something and exorcise the ghost, once and for all.
I am reading, but in fits and starts, as if I have lost the art of being absorbed. Or at least, of being absorbed in a linear, narrative fashion… I get fascinated by an idea, then I let go. I grasp again, cling, flounder, tentatively touch, but then, float away.
I go away from a book, but return a month later. I run beside one author, but abruptly abandon him/her, change tracks and start running with another. This is guilt-inducing – because I usually don’t leave authors in the lurch; I’m a faithful reader. Or was, until now.
Now, it is impossible to become one with a book; my whole brain refuses to be dragged into the experience of reading. Part of the problem is being bilingual.
It all started when I began to read Hindi literature seriously again, some time last year.
As a result of being more or less equally fluent in both English and Hindustani (my real mother-tongue is Hindustani, which is neither pure Hindi nor pure Urdu, but a colloquial mixture of the two), there’s this corner of my mind that begins to translate it back to me. Hindi to English.
This corner of my mind is busy translating simultaneously. Each word, each sentence - this corner pokes at it, picks it up as if it was a curio and then translates it into another language, to make it a souvenir.
This corner wants to feel the intricacies, the fine-ness of the ideas, in another tongue. I like to wrap my mind around the words and turn them over and over until they’re something else, and yet, the same.
Sometimes, I even go from English to Hindi. Especially when the book has an Indian context. The bilingual corner of my brain immediately begins to wonder how this would sound in Hindustani: would it sound better? Worse? More natural? Would this narrative sound as if this could be any place, in any other nation, if I put these thoughts into English? Would the flow be more delicate, the language more impactful, in Hindustani? Suppose you mixed up the two?
Most recently, this habit has transcended books with an Indian context. I find myself trying to translate Orhan Pamuk and Murakami into Hindustani – just to see if it works.
Unfortunately, this means that there’s a one-second time lag between one part of my brain and the other. Sometimes, I get stuck, because the part of my brain that is translating is stuck for a word or appropriate idiomatic transformation. It gets larger and more assertive and refuses to let me read further, until I can solve its bilingual dilemma.
Sometimes, I must take a firm stand and yell at the corner – ‘I don’t care what this means in English, okay? I want to finish the damn story!’
Sometimes, I go and google up the word in an online dictionary. Sometimes, I run down my address book, to check if there’s somebody whom I could randomly call or email, to see if they’d help me with word-meanings.
And sometimes, I just content myself by telling unsuspecting bibliophiles - ‘Read this, read this; get a translation. Is there a translation? There should be a translation; why doesn’t somebody do a translation?’
All the same, it has become impossible to read with the old fluency of thought. Maybe I should just translate something and exorcise the ghost, once and for all.
A story
I'd come across this story weeks ago. It's worth reading. It's worth replicating.
http://www.deccanherald.com/deccanherald/mar242006/she105642006324.asp
http://www.deccanherald.com/deccanherald/mar242006/she105642006324.asp
Thursday, April 20, 2006
excuses, excuses
Since people have begun to ask, I had better post something about where I am and what keeps me from blogging (though I must confess that I have also been wondering and testing the issue of how long it takes before bloggers start wondering about where another blogger is, and why the blog is silent... it took nearly three weeks.)
Anyway, the blog is silent because I am not in India at the moment. I'm at Stirling University, UK, and will be here for another couple of months, thanks to a residency offered by the Charles Wallace India Trust... which is no reason to abandon the blog. Some friends suggest that it is all the more reason why I should blog - new stuff, new country, new eyes.
But the thing is - this blog has a persona, an identity of her own.
Known Turf has never been a 'personal' blog, yes, I do believe that the personal is public and the public is personal, but I have rarely written about my life, my feelings - unless it was in the context of my work. Known Turf is the result of my experiences on the reporting field, the discovering my own country and people, smaller and larger issues of social concern, media debates...
and well, also about chai (but that is only because chai is an issue of great social import. And while I am on the subject, I might as well say that I have a peculiar longing for extra-sweet, extra-strong, thick and full-bodied chai, which is impossible to get anywhere except at street corners in Bombay, where the tea-leaves are boiled for at least an hour... here, I manage by boiling tea-bags - yes, you can get a reasonably strong brew if you boil two dainty English Breakfast tea bags, for a good ten minutes - am wise enough not to attempt buying ready-made tea from a cafe.... and oh, there's an advertisement for Tetley Extra-strong which I totally love: a hefty, middle-aged lady is held up, horizontally, by three young men with big muscles, smiling faint but determined smiles. Winking, the lady advocates the virtues of 'extra-strong' tea. Must try it next.)
But what I'm trying to say is - Known Turf is the record of what I see, wonder at, grow thoughtful about, fail to understand, want to change - but only when I looking outward, especially in my own country.
Over here, my life is turned inward... I don't step out much, or travel much, or even talk to people all that much.
I'm still keeping a record of living and thinking and wondering etc - but am not sure if I want to blog all of it (though I get tempted sometimes - there is a certain amount of gratification that comes from writing and immediately being able to hit 'publish'). But I am not yet ready to make Known Turf a personal diary... so the likelihood of updates happening is not high.
I may change my mind, though... and if I do... well, either your bloglines account will inform you of the change. Or, just keep coming back here every week or so, to check.
PS - for the reader who asked me about the Jesustan Diaries: I do know that the said blogger is alive, but I don't know why he isn't updating. To the best of my knowledge, he does not have another blog. But it is possible - if and when he chooses to tell me, I'll post the link.
Anyway, the blog is silent because I am not in India at the moment. I'm at Stirling University, UK, and will be here for another couple of months, thanks to a residency offered by the Charles Wallace India Trust... which is no reason to abandon the blog. Some friends suggest that it is all the more reason why I should blog - new stuff, new country, new eyes.
But the thing is - this blog has a persona, an identity of her own.
Known Turf has never been a 'personal' blog, yes, I do believe that the personal is public and the public is personal, but I have rarely written about my life, my feelings - unless it was in the context of my work. Known Turf is the result of my experiences on the reporting field, the discovering my own country and people, smaller and larger issues of social concern, media debates...
and well, also about chai (but that is only because chai is an issue of great social import. And while I am on the subject, I might as well say that I have a peculiar longing for extra-sweet, extra-strong, thick and full-bodied chai, which is impossible to get anywhere except at street corners in Bombay, where the tea-leaves are boiled for at least an hour... here, I manage by boiling tea-bags - yes, you can get a reasonably strong brew if you boil two dainty English Breakfast tea bags, for a good ten minutes - am wise enough not to attempt buying ready-made tea from a cafe.... and oh, there's an advertisement for Tetley Extra-strong which I totally love: a hefty, middle-aged lady is held up, horizontally, by three young men with big muscles, smiling faint but determined smiles. Winking, the lady advocates the virtues of 'extra-strong' tea. Must try it next.)
But what I'm trying to say is - Known Turf is the record of what I see, wonder at, grow thoughtful about, fail to understand, want to change - but only when I looking outward, especially in my own country.
Over here, my life is turned inward... I don't step out much, or travel much, or even talk to people all that much.
I'm still keeping a record of living and thinking and wondering etc - but am not sure if I want to blog all of it (though I get tempted sometimes - there is a certain amount of gratification that comes from writing and immediately being able to hit 'publish'). But I am not yet ready to make Known Turf a personal diary... so the likelihood of updates happening is not high.
I may change my mind, though... and if I do... well, either your bloglines account will inform you of the change. Or, just keep coming back here every week or so, to check.
PS - for the reader who asked me about the Jesustan Diaries: I do know that the said blogger is alive, but I don't know why he isn't updating. To the best of my knowledge, he does not have another blog. But it is possible - if and when he chooses to tell me, I'll post the link.
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