On posing for photographs & projecting writerly sexiness

There was nothing sexy about me. I didn’t know what it meant to be sexy. But at 17, I began to write. And when I looked up from my books, I realised that some girls were sexy. Slender and clear-skinned, they knew how to hold a stranger’s gaze as if they were appraising the response, waiting to be amused. They wore jeans that clung in the right way. I wanted to look like them. And I also wanted to write.

At 18, I won a college-level prize for poetry and was invited to co-edit the college mag. I began to believe I had some talent. I won more prizes—poetry, stories, essays, drama. Everyone else told me I had talent. I still wasn’t sexy.

I worked hard to knock off the kilos. At 20, my body was toned almost to perfection (though I wouldn’t believe it then). Recently, in the context of sexiness, a friend and writer, Prateebha Tuladhar mentioned a photograph of me taken in the college hostel.

I looked at that self across this gulf—a girl in a short woollen blouse, a pair of jeans two sizes too large, rubber Hawai chappals. Slender, clear-skinned, big-eyed. Her flat stomach is exposed and her fingers push back her long hair. This is how actresses strike ‘sexy’ poses for the camera and that’s the only kind of sexy she knows.

... Now that word and image constantly make war on our nerves, surely, writers need to grab potential readers by the eyeballs. And if a bare shoulder or thigh can do the trick, why not? This seemed to be the premise of Karan Mahajan’s essay in Tehelka last year. I was in it, posing as a sexy writer. Or a writer who is not afraid to be sexy for the sake of a new book, The Bad Boy’s Guide to the Good Indian Girl.

The red chiffon sari was borrowed from my mother. The black blouse was meant for her, but the tailor got mixed up and sewed it in my size instead. I had been trying hard to look ‘natural’. I look at the photo now and wonder—was I really not afraid?

When I agreed to be photographed, I was doing it for a lark. I wasn’t thinking of the ramifications of writers becoming cultural non-entities. There was a vague assumption that my getting noticed would translate into my work getting noticed.

Well, I got some attention. But I doubt the photo persuaded anyone to buy the book. It might even have put off some readers. After all, even I remind myself sometimes not to judge books by the female author’s clothes. Women writers are victim to the idea that the public will read a book if a film of sexiness clings to the author’s body. But the opposite is true. A film of sexiness clings to the author’s name once the public begins to buy her/his books. Sexy photos are just a way of catching a reader’s eye on a crowded bookshelf. But nowadays, everyone looks nice in photos, and sexiness is coming out of our collective ears. So what did it matter?

In any case, I was reassured by the fact that others were doing similar photos. I hadn’t realised that the male writers would be in denim and leather jackets, and that would pass as ‘sexy’.

Read the full piece here.

Oh Ramon! Ramon!

Some years ago, I’d been shoveled up on stage to discuss women’s literature and romance. The head of Mills&Boon, India, was also on the panel and the proceedings descended rather quickly into hilarity. A feminist editor-publisher read out an extract from a Mills&Boon book, wherein the protagonist of the novel was in bed and, despite not wanting to, was moaning out loud: ‘Oh Ramon! Take me! Take me!’

When the laughter died down, I made a public confession, which is necessary to repeat before I go on with this review. My last encounter with Mills&Boon was in 2000. It ended with me flinging the book across the room.

When I first began to read Mills&Boon novels (I call them ‘Millsies’), I thought they were just silly, harmless fun (discounting the sad loss of tree-lives). College friends would underline ‘relevant’ bits and read them out loud to share either information or the laughs. But after four or five of them, I stopped reading Millies.

At home, if I was caught reading one, I was embarrassed; not because of the ‘relevant’ bits as much as the literary contempt in which these books were held in my family. The heroines were weak-kneed wimps – always wanting to be controlled, always needing a rescue, always being proved wrong, never able to say ‘no’. The heroes were always in control and, although they were never poor, they had workmen’s muscular bodies. The love scenes were mostly predictable: rarely was the woman ever in control. I grew sick of the stereotype and then I began to resent it.

I am now an unapologetic feminist, a much less tolerant reader, and somehow, I am holding a copy of Aastha Atray’s His Monsoon Bride.

It would be unfair to criticize a book for being what it is – an unabashed Millsie. If readers are looking for stories where women are beside themselves with lust, and are lucky enough to meet a sexy men who incidentally turn out to be loyal and rich and honest and… well, then, that’s what they get.

What we get here are protagonists Mehtab Rathod and Amrita Piramal, who belong to the swish set in Mumbai. He is a gorgeous, super-rich, playboy type with ‘society’ ambitions. She is a poor little rich girl – motherless, virginal, not size zero, a reporter who wants to write about real (read: poor) people.

His Monsoon Bride has a distinct local flavour. Marriages being brokered or arranged is par for the course in India. But in classic Millsie format, this romance breaks no caste, language or even class barriers. Rathod may have been an undernourished kid but he looks like a prince, and he lives like one. She looks like an Indian princess – all curves and chiffon sarees – and needs to be kept like one.

But daddy faces financial ruin. Ever daddy’s dutiful daughter, Amrita bails him out by agreeing to marry the hunky Rathod. We know how this will unfold, but that’s fine. We pick up a factory-made product for its conformity to the template, not because it shattered the mould in which it was cast. We don’t pick up a Millsie to look for insights into the meaning of life. We pick it up because we want a dip into shallow, sensual waters, with zero risk to the self.

So, suffice it to say that the first kiss arrives in the first chapter, more or less as Harlequin mandates. As the blurb suggests, this is a marriage of convenience, so the wedding is fixed within the first three chapters.

But the real test of a romance is its middle. Mr and Mrs Rathod must first misunderstand and then understand each other. We already know that much. So what complex route will they traverse towards love?

‘His Monsoon Bride’ falters in this respect. There are at least two plot contradictions within the first few chapters. Besides, the same bits of information – such as Amrita’s relationship with her family, her apprehensions about size non-zero, Mehtab’s desire to forget his poverty-bitten past – are repeated, so that little room is left for a full picture of these characters. Mehtab is supposed to be rude, but he doesn’t come across as rude. He seems civil, if not charming, at almost every encounter. Amrita is supposed to be confused, but about what? Her sense of betrayal isn’t allowed space to grow into a real obstacle, and there isn’t enough time spent on the ‘only for public appearances’ aspect of their marriage.

Another problem is that the supporting cast of characters is too sweet. Father, nanny, housekeeper, boss – nobody helps to twist and turn the story. An ex-boyfriend poses a small challenge but he is quickly squashed. Subsequently, the plot banks too heavily on mis-communicated feelings. This makes it reminiscent of a ‘family drama’ from 1980s Bollywood. Or perhaps the current crop of TV serials, especially considering the fact that the story takes a giant leap of about nearly two decades.

That’s another problem. Writing a Millsie, it is a cardinal sin to look beyond. You put the heroine’s heart into the capable, large hands of the hero, and then you break the pen. It goes against the grain of a reader to think about the children these lovers will have, or whether they are still in love when they retire. The future must be a golden blob of fuzzy feelings. That’s what a Millsie allows us – an impossibly bright picture without any scary details of age, kids, health, politics. The book should have ended at page 148, but it lingers on and launches into a whole new romance, which wasn’t needed.

In her author’s note, Atray says she wanted to write a love story about how people don’t fall for each other’s exterior, but for a heart of gold. She has also worked in her own experiences as a reporter (a prize-winning one!), and some very real angst about size zero bodies. But reality doesn’t do a Millsie much good. Perhaps Atray should have chosen a different publisher for a broader (yes!) age- and size-defying love story. The Harlequin factory churns out old hat; there’s no scope for variation on its lust-hard-and-you-will-lusted-for-and-then-you’ll-be-happy theme.

In this factory, an independent woman’s shape, her innocence, her rebellious streak is only useful to the degree that it turns on a man. And I couldn’t understand why any self-respecting woman buys from this factory. But while reading His Monsoon Bride, I discovered why.

I was reading the book on the local trains and wondered what other passengers thought. Did they worry about my self-respect? I looked around. Scarred faces. Women who aren’t ‘curvy’, just thin or fat. They go home to arguments. They are numb from having fallen in love. They will never meet a man like Mehtab Rathod. They don’t believe in such men, or such luck. But over 179 pages, they might allow themselves the mirage of a world where a lonely woman lusts after a near-perfect man, and he loves her for who she is, and their clothes are nice, and the sex is perfect, and their health is perfect, and they are not finally betrayed by a perverse destiny. Who can grudge anyone such a mirage?

In a real democracy

A democracy is a system whereby all citizens have a vote, and a majority vote decides who will make decisions for the rest of us for a given number of years. By definition and in form, that is all it promises. Our constitution, however, offers us more than just a system of governance. It offers us rights and freedoms.

This makes for complex situations. Say, I want to play music at midnight but this interferes with the neighbours’ right to sleep peacefully.

A good democracy is one that allows us the right to make others uncomfortable, as long as we are not physically damaging them or their property. Which means that if I believe that you are immoral or indecent for wanting to strip down to your birthday suit as a form of protest, that’s okay. I can think and say what I believe. But if I assault you in response, that is not okay.

Therefore, in a real democracy, a small group of 13 activists can march about carrying placards, asking that cities be safe for women. The Delhi police should not prevent them from walking about with placards saying “Keep men at home after 8”. They certainly should not rough up the men who join such a march.

We all owe each other certain basic currencies of citizenship. I do owe it to my fellow-citizens to not murder them, or prevent them from earning an honest living. But I do not owe anyone the convenience of reaching to work swiftly, on smooth, protest-free roads, especially if your work and your air-conditioned offices demand the sacrifice of my children’s health.

Therefore, a real democracy does not send in 6,000 armed policemen to deal with a bunch of unarmed villagers who do not want a nuclear energy plant in their backyard. The villagers of Kudankulam (in Tamil Nadu) do not owe it to the rest of us to put up with radiation risks. Sure, the government and other promoters of nuclear energy can scream about how their fears are unfounded. They can promise jobs as compensation. But to send in policemen or paramilitary to deal with a non-violent protest, or arrest protesters for sedition is unconstitutional. And in a real democracy, it would be illegal.

Read full piece here.

Update: There's a open letter from an activist who is on a hunger fast against the nuclear power plant in Kudankulam/Koodankulam. He says there have been instances of the police trying to force fishermen to go fishing to keep up appearances of normalcy, and cutting off  food and other supplies to the protesters. Here's an extract from his letter: 

"The governments here are taking up a new weapon now and that is our alleged links with Naxalites (Maoists). They are fabricating evidences and concocting conversations to establish that we have connections with Naxal youth and trying to portray us as a violent group. The whole world knows that we have been struggling for the past eight months in a nonviolent manner with absolutely no violence or terror. They will fail as they have in the “foreign hand” and “foreign money” accusations. The governments are desperately trying to provoke our people to prove their theory that “ordinary citizens” of our country do not have a mind of their own; they cannot think for themselves; they cannot stand up for their rights and entitlements in a nonviolent noncooperation campaign; and most importantly, these fishermen, Nadars, Dalits, Muslims, women and children are all dispensable for the growth of the Chennai-based and Delhi-based multi-billionaires."

Time-time ki baat hai

Sometimes, I lie awake at night wondering what I might do if I was just walking along somewhere —maybe on a deserted road running parallel to a railway track, and I stumbled and fell and when I picked myself up, I saw that I had nearly rolled into an old mass grave.

It could happen. All sorts of things happen. For instance, I once heard of a salesman in the UK who put himself up for sale on ebay. I also read of a Bengali village where people sell kidneys — their own, and their wives’ kidneys too, as if it was a joint bank account.

A lot of bad things happen. I read something about a mother giving birth outside a public hospital in Madhya Pradesh, with a pig trying to drag off the newborn. And about a Dalit groom who needed police protection before he could ride a mare to his wedding. A Moroccan teenager killed herself after being forced to marry her rapist. Such terrible things happen and most happen ‘din dahaade’. In broad daylight.

I lie awake at night, sometimes, wondering if the protagonists of these true stories lie awake at night worrying about what they might do to prevent bad things from happening.

What could the villagers sell when there’s nothing left to sell? What do the young people think, knowing that a market that doesn’t want anything from them — not even the strength of healthy bodies. Just their vital organs, so that the lives of others might be prolonged? Do they think that if they just stay home all day, or at least, don’t venture out after dark, their kidneys will be safe?

Did the mother worry about dogs and cats in addition to marauding pigs in case she happened to deliver the baby at night on a public footpath? What could she do to prevent giving birth at night on a public footpath?

And the girl who had acid tossed at her ‘din dahade’ in a public place — does she lie awake wondering if things might have been better if she had picked a different time of day to venture out? And that young woman who was sexually assaulted by a gang of men in Gurgaon? Would 8 pm have been safer? What about 7 pm? What about never?

Read full piece here

Here a slap, there a slap, everywhere a slap-slap

I got off lightly. I mostly suffered communal slaps. When I say ‘communal’, I mean it was a community experience. The whole class would be lined up and the principal would deliver a slap on each cheek, one after the other. Thwack! Thwack! Next, thwack!

Eventually, my mother cited CBSE rules and put a stop to thwacking once she took charge of the school. But by then, a whole generation had grown accustomed to violence, brushing it off as part of a normal schooling. So I, for one, wasn’t surprised at the National Commission for Protection of Child Rights (NCPCR) survey, which shows 75% of students are caned and 69% slapped. An older study by Saath Charitable Trust also found that in most schools surveyed, teachers carried a stick, or kept one in plain view.

I’ve been shocked, though, at the severity of punishments as reported in newspapers. A history teacher makes three little girls hold fire. A 3rd standard girl beaten for not shutting her eyes. A principal beating up a 10th grade student for scribbling farewell messages on friends’ uniforms. Student losing his eyesight after being beaten for forgetting a book!

This isn’t discipline. It’s torture. Perhaps I’m doubly horrified now that I can see: most adults hit kids because they get away with it. Little wonder then that more vulnerable kids (6-12 years old) are punished more often. An older survey by the Educational Research Centre also showed that 50% of fathers believe corporal punishment is okay (as do 30% mothers). They also found 700-1,000 ‘severe cases’ reported, but less than 1% of the guilty teachers were punished. Which isn’t surprising given that parents hit children too and are reluctant to file cases.

Often, a child must die or be maimed before someone takes action. The La Martiniere School for Boys banned corporal punishment only after a student committed suicide. In Tamil Nadu, it took the suicide of a 16-year-old boy. The Delhi government was reluctant even after a petition was filed by the parents of a 12-year-old who lost 20% vision.

Severe cases might be accidents in the sense that the teacher didn’t mean to kill the student. But then, a drunk car driver doesn’t set out to kill either. So parents and teachers need to take equal responsibility for not protecting children. It is sad that the state should have to intervene legally, but since matters have come to that, it is best to spread the word that corporal punishment is already illegal in India.

The Right of Children to Free and Compulsory Education Act, 2009, clearly says that “No child shall be subjected to physical punishment or mental harassment.” It allows for disciplinary action against teachers. All states and union territories have not banned corporal punishment yet but they will have to, once the state adopts the NCPCR guidelines.

Read full piece here.

Review: The Other Country: Dispatches from the Moffusil

The Other Country is a collation of Mrinal Pande’s recent columns for newspapers like the Mint, Telegraph and The Hindu. What makes the enterprise worthwhile is Pande’s insights into the forces that push, pull or distort the world’s largest democracy, and a fearless liberalism that isn’t trying to squash itself into pat little moulds of right or left. 

She seems impatient with easy assumptions about India’s forward march, and she doesn’t pull her punches, whether she’s criticizing literature festivals (she likens conferences like Translating Bharat to ‘priest-giri’) or activists who try to beatify brothels by glossing over the brutalization of little girls.

Her sharp tongue is in evidence too and the critique is often peppered with delightful phrases such as ‘the milk of human kindness was never more tax deductible!’(My personal favourite is the (Mallika) ‘Sherawatting’ of the women’s rights movement.)

But aside from wit and startling observations, there are also heart-wrenching moments, such as Pande complaint that, “we women, bearers of life and death, are becoming like court jesters. We tell the horrible truth, everyone smiles in polite agreement, but it has no impact.”

This book raises important questions about language and power. But Pande’s best feature is her ability to draw out a string and weave half a dozen notions into a single loop. She hops from a lack of skilled workers to women’s juggling of responsibilities, to mangoes, to self-esteem and the President.

Importantly, she points at the joints in the twisted body of the nation to show how one set of problems feeds off, and bleeds into, another set. For instance, when she talks of the child marriage problem in Rajasthan, she touches upon not just tradition and patriarchy but also extreme poverty, whereby weddings and funeral feasts are sometimes a combined event.

Pande illuminates the links between linguistic racism, urban feminism and unethical media. There are introductions to women like Prabha devi, the only woman barber in her village, and Lad Kanwar, who explains why maternal mortality doesn’t hit the headlines the way farmer suicides do. There are all-too-brief forays into economic home truths, via tamancha (small desi firearm) manufacture in UP, a priest shortage in Maharashtra, Agra’s ailing ambulances, and Mineral Water Baba.

These are engaging and ironic and leave the reader hungering for more. Along with the diversions into Pande’s own memories of her family, her home state, or her attempts to prove an economic or feminist point, they make for good, insightful material. One wishes the book had more of these, and in a more fluid format.

The book would have held its ground if only Pande’s writing could be taken out of restrictive column-length jackets. The columns were written with an assumed familiarity with the current contexts on the part of the reader (as indeed, there would have been for a newspaper reader). It also subjects each piece to the unnecessary pressure of cramming in too much information, and constructing clear beginnings, middles and ends. 

All this book needed was to be treated like a book in its own right.

[A truncated version of this review appeared here.]

Aaj ka rangarang karyakram - filmi mahila kirdaar

A young journalist recently asked me some questions for an article about women characters in Bollywood films. I spent several hours going over lists of movies I've watched over the last decade, and thought it might be interesting to share whatever I came up with.

Interesting women characters who pushed the boundaries:

Geeta (Chitrangada Singh) in Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi.

She made choices, paid the price for those choices, had a sense of social and emotional integrity, but she didn't give up on herself, or her country, or indeed, on love.

Paro (Mahie Gill) in Dev D.

What a fabulous new Paro! She's a full-blooded north-Indian woman. She tends to take impulsive decisions. But when she sees Dev for who he is, she is self-protective enough not to turn into a sucker for emotional punishment.

Shruti (Anushka Sharma) in Band Baaja Baaraat.

A confident girl who knows her mind. She bends the rules, but she also uses tradition to her advantage. She's practical, self-respecting, and when things go wrong, she pulls herself together rather than moan about the past.

Sona (Konkona) in Luck By Chance.

She's ambitious, painfully honest - about her work, her industry, her future. She gets rejected at work and in love. She picks herself up. And she does not accept her (eventually) much more successful lover, because she values her happiness, and understands where it can/cannot come from.

All the women in Honeymoon Travels Pvt Ltd.

Each one is spunky in her own way. All of them are determined to take a stab at joy. All have clearly defined personalities. None of them takes much bullshit from the husband.

Alvira and Laila (Preity Zinta and Lara Dutta) in Jhoom Barabar Jhoom.

Fun girls, both. One is a feisty upper class girl. And how she loves a yarn! She's willing to take a risk or two. The other is a chilled-out sex worker. She does not have a golden heart, does not complain of victimization. And she gets a happy end!

[I did think of Tabu in Maqbool, but the film was released several years ago. Besides, it is an adaptation of Macbeth, where Lady Macbeth is a central figure. Shakespeare gave her generous doses of conflict, ambition, guilt, and some great lines. So I don't know if I should credit Bollywood with her character.]

More regressive characters (or films) from recent years: 

A few I can recall immediately are:

Priyanka Chopra's character in Drona.

She's supposed to be the hero's bodyguard. But of course, the hero must save her later. Bleargh!

Kareena Kapoor's character in Kambakkht Ishk.

Badly conceived, overall. She comes across as immature, incompetent (as a medic), arrogant and supercilious (as a 'supermodel'), a man-hater, a relationship-destroyer, a friend-controller, and finally, mistrustful of her own sexuality. Fail, fail, fail!

Kareena Kapoor's character in Kurbaan.

Clearly, lady professors don't use their brains very much. And they're no good at self-preservation. Hapless creatures who need vengeful boyfriends of dead girls to rescue them. And their lives are supposed to be less valuable than their wombs, but nobody seems to be challenging that notion. Ugh!

Aishwarya Rai's character in Action Replayy.

She starts off being feisty. Then she must be cut down to size. She must fall for a rather unattractive juvenile guy, just because he learns to dress better. She has no clue what she really wants, it seems. And her feelings can be turned around to suits the male protagonists.

Besides, divorce is portrayed as some great calamity that must be prevented at all costs. People sticking together, despite their inherent incompatibility, is advocated. Triple fail!

All the women characters in No Problem (or any Anees Bazmee film).

One of them (Kangana Ranaut) thinks she is the most beautiful woman on earth and does not have any other thoughts in her beautiful head. The other (Neetu Chandra) is a gangster's moll and doesn't have a personality of her own, except a robotic kind of hot-ness. She is useful only when she can quickly switch loyalties, when one of the heroes begins to flirt with her.

A third (Sushmita Sen) is just outright crazy. Wants to kill her husband because he is not a clever, brave cop like her daddy. Although, on second thoughts, her character's kind of fun. It was amusing, seeing her character chase hubby all over with a knife or a gun, and the whole family running for cover. Progressive? Regressive? You decide.

Most striking change in how women are imagined on-screen today (And should we be celebrating the change, or have new burdens emerged?)

The one change I have noticed in Hindi films over the last decade is that we finally have women characters who seem less anxious about sex. (Or about virginity). But that's only true of a small fraction of Hindi films.

My main concern is that there are fewer films with women in key roles (compared to what I've seen of films from the 1950s and 60s). I have been looking at lists of 'best' (most successful) films of the last decade. Very few have women as strong central protagonists. They often exist as caricatures, or as ghostly shadows. Or objects of desire. This is true of even 'small' films, the critically acclaimed ones.

The result is that female actors end up not exploring their full range. Their principal job is looking slender and wearing not very much, and getting fake boobs as soon as they can afford them. I find it hard to name brilliant actresses, even as 'character actors'. Not because they don't exist but because we don't get to witness their potential brilliance. 

I think a big part of the problem is that there aren't enough women producers, directors or scriptwriters. Or distributors. On that front, we've made no significant progress since the 1950s (yes, there were a few women producers back in those days).

I don't know much about the film business, but I am deeply disappointed that the growth in middle class women's education and income levels has not translated into a louder clamour for better women-driven films.

One of life’s minor joys is finding someone to admire.

Not many heroes are left to us, thanks to the mainstream press ignoring instances of quiet, sustained courage, and our own cynicism. I’m sometimes annoyed at ‘positive’ news that translates into interviews with students who have managed high scores, or interviews with successful businessmen or creative professionals. There’s nothing wrong with that, of course, but there’s a difference between success and heroism.

We rarely hear about those who take a stand — unless they end up being jailed or tortured or killed for it. And then we begin to wonder if there is anybody at all who takes a stand, and whether it is worth it. And if nobody does, why should we?

So I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Shyam Benegal and Gul Panag had withdrawn from the jury of a filmmaking competition organised by Vedanta... Corporations are powerful media forces. They control advertising in print and TV and, increasingly, movies. Filmmakers, actors and other creative professionals have a lot to lose when they criticise the people who sign the cheques. But when they do take the risk, they show us what they’re made of.

What, after all, does courage or morality mean? Waving to crowds at cricket matches or even doing a charity show is not especially brave, or moral. Besides, it’s been years and years since a Hindi film professional took a public stand that would actually cost them something (with the exception of Ranbir Kapoor and Bipasha Basu who do not endorse skin-whitening/lightening/brightening creams, soaps etc).

Read full piece here

She wanted money for a shroud for her dead husband. I glanced across the road. Indeed, somebody lay on the pavement. I didn’t know if he was dead, but I didn’t know if he wasn’t dead. So I gave her some money. She moved on. I wondered how much a shroud costs. Then the traffic lights changed.

A few days later, she was back. Her husband lay dead, she said. I glanced left (yes, a man lay motionless on the pavement), and smiled at her. “I know. I helped pay for his shroud, remember?”

A month later, she came up again. This time, I burst out laughing. I didn’t need to say anything. She hurried away.

Then I stopped seeing her. Maybe the scam ran dry at this traffic signal. Or maybe somebody complained to the cops. Maybe they put her in the beggar’s home.

Then I began to think of an elderly couple who had accosted me in Delhi, about five years ago. They were dressed like Rajasthani farmers and said they were looking for their son. He went to Delhi and disappeared. They didn’t have enough money for bus tickets to go home. My first thought was: “Scam.” My second thought was: “If this was a movie, you’d be the heartless metro-bred ‘extra’ who walks past the hero’s desperate mom.” 

I gave them the money. I never saw them again.

Last week, on a skywalk, I heard someone say: “Didi… vada-pav…” 

To my right, there was a young couple. A travel bag between them. Two toddlers asleep, bent over the bag. My first thought was: “They don’t look like beggars… farmer-migrants?”

I walked on, then looked over my shoulder. The couple was sitting down, as if it took all their courage and dignity to ask for food, as if they needed to recoup before asking again.There was a vada-pav stall nearby. I bought four and ran back. Another woman was also rushing back, bringing some food. None of us could meet each other’s eyes.

I never saw the family again. Perhaps they found somewhere to go. Relatives, jobs? Or perhaps they were hauled off by the cops.

I remember reading a news report a few months ago about how a ‘poorly dressed’ woman who was put in the beggar’s home. She had a skin disorder that was being treated inMumbai, and was on her way back to Nagpur. But she was hauled off by cops who thought she was a beggar.

Because, according to our laws, beggars can be put away. We cannot ensure a nation in which there are no beggars. So we lock them out of sight. We can’t force them to work. Many beggars are ill, or disabled, or addicted, or homeless. I doubt we can find them minimum-wage jobs or decent hospitals. And yes, they need protection — from thugs, from traffickers — but must we take their freedom?

The non-beggar lady who was sent to the beggar’s home in Chembur told the newspaper that she was kept in a room with 75 other ‘beggars’. She was asked to strip and bathed communally by having “a mug of water splashed on each of us”.

I think now of that elderly Rajasthani couple, the young family on the skywalk. Perhaps they were professional beggars. Perhaps they scammed me. Do they deserve to be locked up in a room with 75 people? Is this our idea of a dignified ‘Home’ for the desperately poor?

Read full piece here

And then she dozed off

A couple of months ago, I undertook an arduous but very interesting train journey. It happened like this: I was booked on a night train between Lucknow and Delhi, but the vicious winter fog had been playing its dirty tricks. My train was delayed by four hours, then six, and then seven. Trains were getting cancelled every hour and I was panicking since I was committed to an event in Delhi, the same evening.

So I bought a new ticket and boarded the trusty old Gomti, a daily up-down express that only offers seating (no sleeper coaches). The engine was huffing gently as a girl pulled me into her coach. She said I must throw myself at the mercy of the TTE. I must wave my ‘AC ticket’, sadly unused, in his face. I must beg for the Ladies quota. Only when all attempts to get a ‘pukka’ seat failed must I shift to the ‘general’ coach. Meanwhile, I could have a few minutes of peace in this near-empty coach.

The train left Lucknow station. No sign of the TTE. At Kanpur, more people got on. Still no TTE. Conversations swirled around me like the thick mists of a December dawn. Most of the passengers were young men and they were talking about a police sub-inspector examination, which they intended to appear for that day.

A couple told me I was sitting on their reserved seat, and I vacated at once. On and on the train rolled. I stood an hour, two hours. A large contingent of young men boarded the train. They were headed to the centre for this police exam, and judging from their conversation, they were ticket-less.

Firozabad, Aligarh. More students, more families. By now, the coach was so packed that it was impossible for people to get in or step out. One family managed to put the kids on board, but failed to board themselves. The (emergency) chain was pulled.

There was no longer any hope of the TTE coming by. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t enter the coach, much less go around checking tickets. If he tried, he risked a mini-riot. From childhood journeys in western UP and parts of Bihar, I knew that many young men do not quite believe in train reservations, especially during daylight hours. If they want to sit, they sit. Hang your reservations. 

If you complain, you are politely threatened. Students travelling in large groups might quickly turn into gangs. People get thrown off the train; people get killed for fighting over seats. Most of us accept that it is better to be uncomfortable than dead, or even endlessly frustrated. So we sigh and ‘adjust’.

But one Sikh family was fighting for their reserved seats on board the Gomti. They pleaded, bullied, shoved. The fierce matriarch somehow wrenched seats for her husband and young son. She herself loomed over the young men who'd captured her seat.

The men seemed amused. They told her they were sitting for the police exam, as if that was a valid excuse. They said it was the government’s fault for setting up a center so far from Lucknow, or Barabanki. They said they could not vacate the seat because that would mean that they would have to stand, and there was no longer any room for anyone to stand. So they would just have to remain seated.

When the matriarch continued to scold, the men finally said, “Aunty, come sit on our lap.”

At my feet squatted two men and three toddlers; two pregnant women had managed to find seats. I realised that I was the only passenger who — ticketed or not — had actually vacated a seat. Everyone else had remained firmly seated. If a reservation-wala came along, they just squirmed until six inches of free space was created. Then they said, “Come, sit.” If you couldn't sit, well, tough! Somebody else would.

The matriarch’s scolding voice was silent now. I turned to look and found that she had dozed off. She was finally seated. In the bony lap of an aspiring sub-inspector of police.

A slightly shorter version of this appeared here.

The image says it all

Two bits about censorship, words, and speech

"Words don’t die of cold
they die from a lack of courage
Words often perish
because of humid weather

I once met
a word
that was like a bright red bird
in the swamp along the riverbank in my village
I brought it home
but as soon as we reached the wooden door-frame
it gave me
a strangely terrified look
and breathed its last

After that I started fearing words
If I ran into them I beat a hasty retreat
if I saw a hairy word dressed in brilliant colours
advancing towards me
I often simply shut my eyes"

- Kedarnath Singh
[From the poem translated as 'Words'. Full text here]

"Like grown-ups who spell things out in front of kids, to protect them from reality 'because reality leads to moral degradation' the subtitles too, have a word censorship and substitute stars or euphemisms for some words. Most intriguing of these are: ovaries, uterus, period, rape. It's as if everything connected to the female body will destroy our innocence. Let's not grow up! Let's pretend there's no ovaries, or rape.
...
Words are all we have. We can twist them, and with that, twist reality, twist people's lives. We can draw a thick line over reality. That's called censorship, but we can also subtitle it, bulls**t. For those who cross that line with truth there is rape, torture, banning. For everyone else there's Mastercard."

- Paromita Vohra

Because the freedom struggle isn't quite over

I'm just copying (and endorsing) this from here. Read, share, protest. And remember, the freedom struggle is an ongoing one.


#flashreads for free speech/ Feb 14th:
THE IDEA: To celebrate free speech and to protest book bans, censorship in the arts and curbs on free expression

WHY FEBRUARY 14TH? For two reasons. In 1989, the Ayatollah Khomeini issued a fatwa ordering the death of Salman Rushdie for writing the Satanic Verses. In GB Shaw’’s words: “Assassination is the extreme form of censorship.”
February 14th or Valentine’s Day has also become a flashpoint in India, a day when protests against “Western culture” by the Shiv Sena have become an annual feature. In Chandigarh, 51 Sena activists were arrested by the police after V-day protests turned violent in 2011. Our hope is to take back the day, and observe it as a day dedicated to the free flow of ideas, speech and expression.

#flashreads is a simple way of registering your protest against the rising intolerance that has spread across India in the last few decades. At any time on February 14th—we suggest 3 pm, but pick a time of your convenience—go out with a friend or a group of friends and do a quick reading. If you'd like some suggestions/ selected passages, email me or leave a message in the comments and we'll send you some selections from challenged books. Or pick your favourite passage on free speech, or passages from a challenged book or the works of any writer who has faced sedition charges, a book ban or other forms of censorship. 

Feel free to create your own protest.

Places where you might do public readings: subway and Metro stations, public parks, coffee shops, open areas in malls. If you’re talking about Flashreads on Twitter, please use the #flashreads hashtag.

If you have a blog, a tumblr or a website, an easy way to join in is to post Tagore’s poem, “Where the mind is without fear” (see below) on your site for a day, or choose any other passage on free speech/ censorship that appeals to you. Or write a post about free expression and what it's meant to you in your own life.

Where the mind is without fear

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high 
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments 
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way 
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee 
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

~Rabindranath Tagore

We are what we sing

The year is 2005. The rain has settled into a sweet Delhi drizzle. Between the bus conductor’s lusty cries of ‘Gurgaanva!’ the radio crackles with song. A group of college girls boards the bus, arranges itself in the row just ahead. The song changes to the still popular ‘Bheege honth tere’ (Your lips are wet). One of the girls begins to sing along, but there is one line she skips: Kabhi mere saath koi raat guzaar (Come spend a night with me).

In swoops a memory. I’m a schoolgirl in remote Rajasthan. It’s lunch break and the girls are soaking in the winter sunshine, singing 'Mr India' songs. The girl with the sweetest voice is singing the stunningly sensual 'Kaate nahin katate' but there’s one line she will not sing. All of us hang our heads, humming, afraid of being caught singing that line: ‘I love you.’

This is the sort of childhood memory I never share with Bombay and Delhi friends. They’ll never understand, but for us, it would have been too bold, which wasn’t a good thing to be. When I was a teenager, references to zulf (tresses) and ada (style) would make our eyes roll, but love songs were still about undying loyalty. We could not conceive of a popular song — or indeed a world — where boys and girls spent nights together.

Traditionally, Hindi film songs have had room for every shade of sentiment, including disillusionment. Like a sozzled protagonist singing something along the lines of ‘Rehne do, chhodo bhi, jaane do yaar’ (Let it be, my friend, I don’t want to fall in love). Today, he might sing ‘I hate love stories’ but he’s all up for one-night stands.

To an older generation, this spells the death of romance. Shikha Biswas Vohra, who runs Sangeet Smriti in Delhi (a group dedicated to keeping old film music alive through regular shows) and is the daughter of composer Anil Biswas, says that for her generation intimacy meant a single touch and fidelity was the norm. “When one broke the norm, bewafaai was the theme of the lyric. Nowadays the norm is ‘break up, move on’; short-term relationships. Modern technology too exults in shortcuts, which means love is not a ghazal, but an SMS. That is why you have very direct lyrics like ‘Aati kya Khandala’.”

Film writer Javed Siddiqi agrees that to the extent that films are a mirror to society, so are songs since they’ve traditionally been an intrinsic part of Hindi films. And it is only natural that words change. “Once, every other song mentioned sajan and balam. Not any longer.”

When I ask screenwriter and lyricist Jaideep Sahni about how the expression of love is changing, he seems unsure that it is being expressed at all. “A lot of songs have [love] words thrown around liberally but they are not really about love. They are meant to be good jingles with romantic phrases working like comfort food.” Sahni’s ‘Haule haule ho jayega pyar’ focuses on a specific mood: a fellow madly in love telling himself to go slow lest he screws things up. But barring a few exceptions, Sahni says that opportunities to tease out a full idea through a song are rare; songs are are marketing tools, not narrative devices.

Writer-filmmaker Paromita Vohra agrees. “Songs are now at a remove (of emotional logic). Which is why the music of films like 'Aisha' might be nice, but not memorable. The lip-synched song as a filmic moment is disappearing.”

Disappearing, but not quite vanished. Like children abandoned in the forest by hardnosed producers, lyricists leave a bread crumb trail, clues that tell us how to retrace our journey as a society. Hindi films dominate popular culture to the extent that even if, as Vohra says, the canvas is shrinking, it’s still big enough for a few corners to be painted such that they escape the censure of both market and moral police.

Thus, in a time of ‘break up, move on’, when lovers hope to remain friends, a song pops up to fit the situation. ‘Chor bazaari’ (from 'Love Aaj Kal') may well be the first Hindi song that exults in the relief of being free of someone you love. Or ‘Ladki kyon’, where the boy makes fun of the girl’s sentimentalism and hypocrisy, and the girl accuses him of hitting on her friends.

This is a sea change from the Girls versus Boys lyrical battles of the past, which were often designed as a tug-of-war between husn (beauty) and ishq (love). Now, girls are starting to call the boys out on the ishq fraud. ‘Gore-gore se chhore’ attacks commitment phobia with lyrics complaining: They cry out in the name of love, but they do not want to marry. 

These are songs for a more aggressive generation, one that has little appetite for niceties.

According to Vohra, ‘item’ numbers are quite revealing: “It is the one song in the film which is made to be listened to, so we really listen.” But they’re slightly problematic since these words rarely express female desire, although they’re mostly performed by women. “Most item numbers are about how the woman is so desirable, inviting men to look or touch.”

But there is a difference between saying "I’m drawn to you" and "I look hot, come take me". The current generation of ‘hot’ songs have words like ‘Zara zara touch me’ while ‘Sheila ki jawaani’ takes the here’s-my-sexy-body routine into unexplored terrain with words that seem to say: Why do I need someone? I can make love to myself.

Until the '70s, it was mostly men praising women’s beauty in song. Now item numbers suggest that women seek to overwhelm and cause destruction through their beauty. As Vohra points out, there is also a growing trend where women are blamed for ‘provoking’ men into violence. Not surprisingly, the words and the action they accompany can border on sexual harassment. I remember a scary visual from the '90s: a knife is pointed at a college girl, with the words ‘zara bhi choo-chaan ki jo tu ne...’ (not a squeak out of you) casually inserted into the ill-fated ‘Meri pant bhi sexy.’ There was some outraged spluttering, but only about using the word ‘sexy’, which was later replaced with ‘fancy.’

When I was growing up, there was much controversy surrounding film lyrics. ‘Choli ke peechhe’ made headlines. ‘Gutar-gutar’ ostensibly referred to cooing pigeons, but it ruffled so many feathers that lyricist Maya Govind was forced to defend herself on national television. ‘Sexy Sexy’ was changed to ‘Baby Baby’, while ‘Sarkaaye liyo khatiya’ remains a contender for the trophy at Raunch Central. Yet, these songs were not just experiments in titillation. ‘Sexy’ was fast becoming acceptable amongst young urban Indians; my older brother’s crowd even called vada-pao sexy.

This was the '90s and liberalisation was at India’s socialist throat. On MTV, multinationals battled for our teenaged souls during commercial breaks. ‘Western culture’ was everyone’s favourite bugbear. English and Hindi were on a collision course that would ensure neither was ever the same again.

Take ‘Saawan ka Maheena’ from 'Hulchul'. The title is a throwback to a subtle '60s song about the monsoon. But the new song leapt forward with: ‘We want girls beautiful-beautiful… / We want boys handsome-handsome, dashing He-man, Superman, Phantom.’ 

For a generation that grew up on comics, animation shows, and some Hollywood, Superman and Rocky were cultural reference points. In ‘Tan-tanatan-tantan-tara’, from 'Judwaa', the guy buys two tickets for the 9-12 show (seats at the back, so they can neck with a modicum of privacy) and when he asks the girl out, he promises a taxi ride, an air-conditioned theatre, samosas or idli-dosa. These were the new tropes of romance: movies, eating out, discos. A distressing change was evident: wooing a girl meant spending money.

In the '60s and '70s, at least on-screen, it was enough to compliment a girl and protest that you’d die without her. If she melted, you took her for a walk by the sea, or to a park, or the hills. Films often touched upon the conflict between love and money but there was little doubt about which would prevail. Songs like ‘Dilwale dulhaniya le jayenge’ spelt it out. As late as 1985, there was Anil Kapoor in 'Saaheb', trying to sell off a kidney for his family’s sake, and yet he sang: 'Yaar humein paisa nahin pyar chahiye' (we don’t want money; we want love).

But in the '90s, something shifted. In 'Chandni', Sridevi sings: You fool! You don’t bring any flowers or gifts / Never go empty-handed to meet your girlfriend. A few years later, ‘Sexy Sexy’ left little unsaid: ‘Me no worry, me no care, me go marry millionaire/ If he die, me no cry, me go marry another guy.’

The assumption was that you need to be a millionaire to get a sexy girl, and a sexy girl was inevitably westernised. This was the sort of girl for whom ‘Sheher ki ladki’ was written, a song that talks about English-speaking city girls who shake hands and say: 'Hi, how are you?' The assumption also is that an ordinary salaried guy isn’t going to get anywhere with this kind of girl. In ‘Sheila…’ the girl declares: ‘I know you want it but you're never gonna get it’ and then explains why: ‘I need a man who can give me all that’ (i.e. money, bungalow, car.)

We hear an occasional note of admonishment. The ‘Paisa’ song asks: Why do you keep talking money? Are you not afraid of God? But it does not take this criticism further. The guy simply promises to rain money upon the girl once she belongs to him.

This is a radical departure from older songs, which acknowledge the power of money but also describe it as a problem. 'Laawaris' made a direct argument, asking: Why are you proud of your money? What can money buy? Can it buy you the breeze, the sky, a human soul? ‘Paisa bolta hai’ from 'Kala Bazaar' says the world is one big black market, because there is rot in God’s house too; you need cash for worship.

But the '90s had given us a shiny new dream - Make pots of money, rule the world. A song from 'Yes Boss' speaks not only of wanting great wealth and power, but also wanting to be acknowledged as a good person; in fact, as the best person. In the new millennium, songs from 'Taxi No 9211', 'Johnny Gaddar' and 'Aa Dekhen Zara' said that money-lust is ubiquitous, but they offered little critique of the sentiment. 'Waah! Tera kya kehna' has a song that suggests money itself is both sin and virtue, and that money brings you love and friendship.

Another change over the last couple of decades is that there is little mention of work or jobs. In 1971, 'Haathi Mere Saathi' had crusty lyrics saying: If you want to live, you must work; you must bow low to everyone. There was also pride in honest labour. In 'Khoon Pasina' (1977) the hero sings: We will eat only what our sweat earns us, else we will go to bed hungry.

Sweat is now distinctly unfashionable and words like roti (bread) have almost disappeared from lyrics. The inequity we speak of now is that of Middle-Class Cool versus Richie Rich. The former pokes fun at the latter in songs like ‘Pappu can’t dance, saala’, making references to Gucci perfume, coloured contact lenses, fast cars. Being elite translates into expensive brands, but flaunting these brands exposes you to mockery by those who are secure enough in their own Indian skins.

This newfound confidence had found expression in the anthemic ‘Hum hain naye, andaaz kyon ho puraana’. The chest-thumping words represent the buoyant half of India, one that can afford to say: The world lies at our feet; the earth and sky have been created only for us.

But what of those who can lay claim to neither sky nor earth? What are they saying? Not a lot, it seems. Filmmakers can rarely afford that kind of enquiry into desperate poverty; hunger doesn’t make for pretty ring-tones.

However, a generation ago, even a romantic comedy like 'Pyar Kiya Jaa' could hint at class conflict. A slogan like ‘Daal-roti zindabad!’ was slid into a song that threatened: Don’t give us jobs and we’ll wipe you out / We’ll burn down this bungalow, these cars.

Now, worker unions are rarely powerful. Threats of a backlash seem as distant as battles over forest and farmland. We focus on urban middle-class problems – the pressure to build lucrative careers, EMIs, the price of pulses. That’s precisely what ‘Pocket mein Rocket’ describes - the feeling that there’s just no time for anything. Our greatest burden seems to be our own upward mobility. Like the ‘Gadbadi, hadbadi’ song says: Keep running and they keep dragging you further / Your wants are your handcuffs.

Middle class India is also stressed out over matters that really shouldn’t be so stressful. It was perhaps first hinted at in the mid-90s, as in the title song of Rangeela, where a child’s voice breaks in abruptly to complain of 'Tension! Tension! Tension!'. And this tension was about things like drinking milk and choosing between different brands.

The parent-child relationship has always been fraught. But older songs were defiant, not despairing. In the '80s, ‘Papa kehte hain’ voiced a youngster’s hopes for himself, not what daddy wanted. In the '00s, songs hint at feelings of worthlessness. The lyrics of ‘DK Bose’ suggest: Daddy said I’m a mistake.

In '3 Idiots', there’s the saddening ‘Give me another chance; I want to grow up once again’. The song says that all our lives, we have been dying, while making references to heavy schoolbags and 99 percent marks. The ‘Percentage’ song from 'Faltu' confesses: ‘It makes me lie, mere percentage / It makes me cry, mere percentage’ Consider the spate of exam-related student suicides and these songs tell a story of frustration and fear of the academic system. 

This is a far cry from the 1940s and 50s, where films like 'Barood' and 'Kangan' sang of education as something that adorns a child, makes him worthy. In 'Sant Gyaneshwar', a little girl sings: One-two-three-four, brother, get smart/ Everyone says you mustn’t stay illiterate. 

It is hard, though, to find a lyrical exhortation to study in the '70s, perhaps because the ranks of the literate unemployed were swelling, and going to school didn’t automatically translate into jobs.

By then, we were waking up to the fact that independence was only the first of our battles. Shikha Biswas Vohra says that the post-independence euphoria shattered quickly. In the '60s, poets like Sahir Ludhianvi, Kaifi Azmi and Jan Nisar Akhtar lashed out bitterly against poverty and inequality. Sahir took apart the beautiful fantasy embedded in Saare Jahan Se Achha with his own mocking version, saying: China and Arabia are ours, India is ours; We’re homeless, and the world is ours’. 

And yet, in another song from 'Phir Subah Hogi', Sahir allows us to hope against hope. He writes that though the earth itself has a price tag and human dignity is worth nothing, yet, another day shall dawn.

In the '70s, disillusionment had turned into anger and bitterness. Thus, the caustic ‘Apni to jaise taise’ which suggests that poor people will survive anyhow, but what’s going to happen to the elite?

However, in the '90s, it was like a chord had snapped. Films were often about non-resident Indians and sure enough, a spate of songs emerged, full of a vacuous nostalgia. Songs like ‘East or West, India is the best’, or meaningless phrases like: 'Saare jag mein nahin hai doosra Hindustan' (There is no other India in the whole world).

Since then, patriotic songs have sounded a bit iffy. There was the disarmingly honest ‘Phir bhi dil hai Hindustani’ which admitted: We might sell you old things in new packaging… we’re a bit honest but we’re also crooked. The title song of 'Chak De! India' was neither wholly complimentary nor entirely blind to social realities. But it exhorts us to stop putting up with the grind, to rise above our desperation.

And if you complain about the young urbanite’s disconnect with the ‘real’ India, there’s lyrical evidence of that as well. The bhangra beats of ‘Rang De Basanti’ hint at a general cluelessness. This nation-love song is romantic and, like the euphoric ones from the '50s, it uses the language of ishq, but seems blind to the fact that in this same country, young people are still murdered for falling in love!

If there is one thing film songs have rarely acknowledged, it is caste-related violence and the aggressive control over women’s sexuality. There have been hints. In the '90s, for instance, there was ‘Tere baap ke darr se’ (I’m running away with you because I’m scared of your daddy). Even peppy numbers like ‘Kisi disco mein jaayein’ go on to say: I love you with my whole heart but it is true, I’m scared of your brother.

Naturally, for such fathers and brothers, a grown-up daughter is a headache. A song about the difficulties of getting daughters married off in 'Dana Paani' (1989) put into words what millions of Indians are probably still thinking: Once your daughter grows up, you’ve had it. And if our sex ratio has been so unbalanced over the last two decades, why is anyone surprised?

Filmmakers rarely address the obsessive, often violent control of women’s sexuality. Although incidents of lovers or spouses killing women have appeared in the news regularly for a decade, it was only recently reflected in the deeply discomfiting title track of 'Love Sex aur Dhoka' with lyrics that say: I’ll put a bullet through you… Try stopping me, I’ll cut you down. The song also reflects a schizophrenic desire to flaunt a woman and yet control her sexuality, as it says: I’ll film you, exhibit you in public / those who look, I’ll gouge their eyes out.

It's not like there haven’t been any lyrical fight-backs over the years. A few songs have rejected overt attempts by lovers to control women. Songs like ‘Bindiya chamkegi’ before the '70s were gentler, saying: I love you but I’m not your slave. A song for more aggressive times, ‘Bad Girls’ (Chak De! India), says that a girl can give back harder than she gets. She’s not interested in jewellery or ghazals. She’s rough, she’s sweaty and she’s not going to feed you, braid her hair, or lower her eyes.

These are rare exceptions, though, and according to Jaideep Sahni, there can only be more such songs if there are more films made where women protagonists have ambitions independent of men.

But every once in a while, lyricists rise about the limitations imposed by their production houses. 'Love Sex aur Dhoka' is a film about cameras and what they’re doing to India, but ‘Tainu TV’ refers to big money, crime and deliberate controversy, serving as an obvious critique of current television content. Similarly, Piyush Mishra managed to pull off what can only be described as lyrical stunt with ‘Rana-ji.’ Ostensibly an item number in 'Gulaal', it touches upon 9/11, the US invasion of Iraq, the bottled-water culture, and the undermining of our democracy.

So there is hope. As long as our writers are talking about the currents shaping India, or twisting her out of shape, there is hope. And as long as we are listening, we will know how to sing songs of truth.


An interview with Jaideep Sahni

Q: I believe films and film songs always tell us about ourselves - where we are as a society/culture, and what our values look like. What do newer songs tell us?
A: First, like always, they reflect the changing popular language and expression. Traditional metaphors are reducing at a at a frightening pace in both how people speak in the urban areas and the films that cater to them, but the new urban expression in Indian languages has not yet grown and matured fully to present a credible alternative which has enough depth and a bandwidth of metaphors and shared history. So it’s a bit of work in progress right now.

Secondly, a lot of new lyrics show that most new films are about nothing. A song can rarely rise above the film it is a part of. Most songs are made to fit a producer’s ‘requirement.’ Due to technological changes and financing patterns, this is about selling lucrative ringtone rights to music companies or aggressively marketing the film on TV for an opening weekend. Most songs are carefully designed by producers and their buyers in music companies not to be about anything specific or important.

Q: Do contemporary songs address critical issues? I know you wrote 'teeja tera rang' which is a contender. But have other songs tried to confront discrimination on the basis of religion?
A: It happens now and then. The title track of Chak De! India was about a kind of patriotism which rejects our national past-time of praising ourselves. But a song embracing an issue obviously cannot fit an issueless enterprise.

Q: Why have Hindi songs never addressed Caste? Religion is at least acknowledged (in that old national integration style) but I cannot remember anything on caste.
A: That’s because most films are largely designed to give a rollicking grand time to urban multiplex viewers. Serious issues don’t exactly fit the bill, do they? When a film does (address caste), so will its songs.

Q: Despite the 'ring tone' approach, do writers still try to push in larger ideas into tiny spaces?
A: Yes, all the time. But you win some and lose some. Most wins happen when you write lyrics for your own scripts or for colleagues who share your sensibilities; most losses happen when you’ve misjudged the real intentions of the people who hired you. You try your best to make the songs say something, failing which you grit your teeth and get your contractual obligation over with as soon as possible.

Q: What about attitudes to women and their aspirations?
A: Well, they are a bit more ‘equal’ in tone, a nod to changing urban lives. It’s a kind of upgrade, a diet version of the traditional film heroine and what she sang. Lyricists have tried to get away from the diet lyrics representing women, but few manage to get past the filter.

[Interview ends]

And finally, a very short list of must-hear Bollywood songs (for the lyrics):
Pyaasa (1957), ‘Jinhe naaz hai hind pe who kahaan hain’ and ‘Ye duniya agar mil bhi jaaye to kya hai’

Phir Subah Hogi (1958), ‘Cheen-o-Arab hamaara’

Kagaz Ke Phool (1959), ‘Ek do teen, chaar aur paanch’

Barsaat Ki Raat (1960), ‘Na to caravan ki talash hai’

Dosti (1964) ‘Jaane wale zara mud ke dekho mujhe’

Laawaris (1981), ‘Apni to jaise taise’ and ‘Kahe paise pe itna guroor kare hai’

Saath Saath (1982), ‘Ye tera ghar, ye mera ghar’

Ijaazat (1987), ‘Mera kuch saaman tumhaare paas pada hai’

Satya (1998), ‘Goli maar bheje mein’

Jodi No. 1 (2001), ‘Ande ka fundaa’

Gulal (2009), ‘Aarambh hai prachand’ and ‘Rana-ji mhare gusse mein aaye’.


[A slightly edited version of this essay was published in the winter edition of Forbes Life, 2011]

Bleeping bleeps

In a collection of ghost stories, Washer of the Dead, Venita Coelho describes a place where women no longer speak. Mothers cooperate by silencing their daughters, but one woman breaks the rule. Of course, suffering ensues. And much of the suffering comes from people cooperating too much with the oppressive forces.

In stories, it is easy to tell the good guys from the bad. But in real life, most of us dither. We wonder why there’s such a fuss about Salman Rushdie. Well, the fuss isn’t about Rushdie, or Taslima Nasreen. The fuss is about societies that silence people through violence. We read about such societies in books and we shudder.

And yet, we do so little to protect our society from silence. The wretched assumption is that some people’s freedom is morally superior (such as the press) to others’ (such as writers). I missed most of the exciting events at the Jaipur literature festival this year but some writers had started a petition asking the state to reconsider the ban on Satanic Verses. I was helping get signatures when I was ambushed by some TV crews.

They wanted me to speak about “the issue”. I told them to read the petition. They didn’t want to. They just wanted another face to take up the Rushdie chant. I asked if they would sign the petition. They refused. I asked why they didn’t want to sign and they mumbled, “Well, we’re press people…”, which left me very annoyed. There’s a difference between being objective and being a mute spectator to injustice.

There are some basic rights that our constitution guarantees us and freedom of speech and expression is one. Press people are citizens first and in fact, they should be at the forefront of this particular battle. How can reporters expect that they can tell a true story unmolested, if a writer cannot write fiction unmolested?

Besides, the press is supposed to inform public opinion. But often, the only information being conveyed is that X group is offended by Y book, and Z is at risk. Why is there no emphasis on the fact that X group is breaking the law? Death threats are illegal; writing is not.

Look at what is happening to us. Actors are dragged to court for a peck on the cheek. Art is destroyed (without it being paid for). Activists are arrested for possessing leftist literature (including Bhagat Singh’s writings). Recently, Aseem Trivedi, a cartoonist (reportedly a Team Anna player), was accused of treason because he lampooned the state’s (alleged) attitude to corruption. When Arundhati Roy expressed her views on Kashmir, she was threatened and her house attacked. TV crews stood there, recording, but not really condemning.

Now take this thing about cows. When historian DN Jha wrote Holy Cow, publishers didn’t want it. They expected violence since Jha reminds us that cow sacrifice and beef-eating were common during the Vedic era. A decade ago, reports in newspapers mentioned calls for a ban, and suggested that the book was blasphemous. Almost nobody focused on the fact that Jha was facing death threats, and his tormentors deserved to be arrested.

A decade later, beef stands criminalised in states like Madhya Pradesh. When foreign TV shows like Friends are aired, the word ‘beef’ is removed. As if beef simply did not exist anywhere in the world. Which is a lie, of course. But in eliminating the word, cable networks are demonstrating to us how to cut off our tongues, offer them up at bloodthirsty altars of silence, and pretend that we have managed to live unmolested.

Read full piece here.

Class conflict on the Virar Fast

Over a year and they haven’t faded — two tiny scars on my right hand, caused by another woman’s hands. Both of us were trying to get into a local train and she was both impatient and aggressive.

Trains are the rather choked lifeline of Mumbai and commuter fights are routine. I don’t mean squabbling about who gets to sit down where. I’m talking about petty violence — an elbow in the ribs, a shove, a slap, plenty of speculation about the incestuous and bestial relationships in our families.

But what troubles me the most are the nightly first class-second class confrontations. Around 11pm, one of the three ‘Ladies Only’ coaches is de-reserved. Or, like the Mumbai ladies say, “It becomes gents”. Around 10.45pm, men start to pour in. Women commuters choose to get into the adjacent coach instead, which is ‘24-hour Ladies Only’. This is also a first class coach.

Now begins our nightly drama. Most women scrambling in don’t have first class tickets. Those who do have legit tickets are forced to stand, even at that late hour. They get cranky. They get resentful. They get ugly.

They assess each other’s clothes, bags, burqas, kids. They sniff, and say things like: “These women, they just get in, don’t they? How many do you think have a valid pass? But here they are! And we’re such idiots. Paying extra money to travel in comfort. But what for? We stand and they sit.”

They do sit, rather shamefacedly, afraid of being exposed. Some are so embarrassed that they stand near the door, faces averted. Some brazen it out. They say things like: “We have valid passes, okay? Who are you to ask us for tickets?” Or, “Well, the ladies became the gents so what do you expect? It is the railways’ fault.” Or, “We aren’t regular commuters. It was a family outing, and with the kids...you are also a woman. You should understand.” Or, “Shut up, b***ch.”

This can lead to either an all-out slanging match, or a shrug and a remark directed at another first-class passenger: “These second class people… No point talking to them. No manners.”

The scary thing is that everyone seems to have a class radar whereby they can identify first or second class passengers. In case someone gets it wrong, there is an outraged splutter. First class passengers offer proof, angry at being mistaken for ‘them’. Their eyes seem to be asking: “Why? Do I look like I’m second class?”

On the other hand, there’s the silent outrage of ‘second class’ passengers. I remember two incidents of loud ‘class’ confrontations clearly. One woman had shouted: “Be grateful for us. If we weren’t here, robbers would enter this precious coach and all you first class people would get mugged.” Another night, another woman had snapped: “Are the seats made of gold in this coach?”

They aren’t. The seats are cushioned though. For first class bums, I suppose.

And to think that all this unpleasantness can be avoided. The metro in Delhi doesn’t have first class coaches. So although there is overcrowding and discomfort, we are not constantly gauging each other’s ‘class’, nor humiliating each other.

I’m hoping the new metro lines in Mumbai won’t have class distinctions. And I hope the older trains will also be rid of first class coaches. It might mean more discomfort for a few of us. But if we are to move towards a better world, if we want to build ‘world-class’ cities, then we must try to minimise social resentment. And how can we avoid resentment when some bums have cushioned seats while many others don’t? 

Read full piece here

Incident

A tribal person set out from home to encash a cheque, after working hard to collect tendu leaves. He was ‘picked up’ allegedly by the Chhattisgarh police.

While he was in lock-up, the police said, he used a bedsheet (or perhaps a shawl, or blanket) to hang himself. Then the police were saying that he was caught by the CRPF and tortured nearly to death. The post mortem report has mentioned injury to the genitals. Some constables have been suspended.

Funny, isn’t it, the way these incidents play out? The police explanations… if they must make fictions, can they not come up with something more creative than ‘Hung himself’? Although it is sort of amazing — the speed at which some people grow weary of life whilst in custody. It makes the imagination boggle to think of the kind of misery a man must feel in order to injure his own genitals before hanging himself. And what sane woman would put foreign objects into her genitals before contriving to slip in the bathroom and hurting her head and spine?

On a serious note, what are these cops (or those armed forces guys) thinking when they put out such blatant lies? They must know that forensic and medical science will give them away. They must know that questions will be asked if someone dies whilst in custody. Or, do they not know any such thing?

... Perhaps they are thinking: this wasn’t part of the deal.

Read full piece here

Breasts bodies and the bilge about provocation

My colony has a fancy western-sounding name and, while constructing the illusion that we were buying into something exotic, the builder has installed statues vaguely modeled on Venus de Milo — nearly nude white female forms, arms missing.

Then one day, our statue was found dressed in a nightgown. But perhaps some poor person badly needed a nightgown, so the statue was bare again. Soon enough, somebody had dressed it up again, in a man’s shirt. I often wonder at the people who did that. I doubt they were worried about the dignity of our fake plaster-of-paris Venus. It hasn’t been molested (as far as I know). And I doubt they care about women looking at it. Maybe they were worried about the effect it would have on men who must also look at real, breathing women.

But surely, they don’t believe that every male that happens to be exposed to the female body is psychologically damaged, that he will turn into a rapist and killer?

Perhaps, they do. 

Some people believe that even when it is clothed, the female body can turn the male into a damaged, dangerous creature. The Andhra Pradesh police believe it causes sexual assault and blames ‘fashionable’ clothes. I suppose they refer to clothes that draw attention to women’s shapes, or exposed skin. A teacher who heads a committee to combat sexual harassment also believes that women are only safe in sarees with long-sleeved blouses.

I’ve often wondered why we don’t put these theories to the test. Does a human female body make the male want to attack it? Do clothes — any sort — prevent sexual attacks?

A good place to start would be a society where women don’t wear any clothes. From what I hear, such tribes still exist. From what I hear, sexual assault is virtually unknown there and when it occurs, the culprit is usually an outsider — men who don’t belong to clothing-less societies themselves. Such societies are not very different from us. They marry, bring up kids, worship. The only thing that’s missing is clothes. And, perhaps, the constant fear of assault or humiliation.

Another good place to test this theory is a society where men and women are totally covered up. Is sexual assault unknown? From what I hear, no. Women’s relationships and economic choices are severely curtailed. And yet, they confront accusations of soliciting male attention.

As for our society… but that brings us to the difficult question — which part of our society? Every year, schoolkids dress up in clothes from all over India as a sort of patriotic stage shows: Look, ma! So much diversity! 

Well, diversity means that we show our bodies in different ways. Our women wear sarees without blouses too. Or woolen shawls, backless cholis, dhotis, ghoonghats. Or jeans.

For the last few years, I’ve been part of a campaign against ‘eve-teasing’ or street sexual harassment. One of the projects we run is an exhibit of clothes donated by women who were harassed or molested. The diversity of the collection speaks for itself — sarees, salwars, men’s shirts, sleeveless tops, long skirts, school uniforms, jeans. I personally donated a saree with a sleeved blouse.

Perhaps, the police force (and all University teachers) should see the exhibition and maybe they will acknowledge the daftness of their attitude. Or perhaps, we should all just stop wearing clothes. I don’t know if it will help us become a rape-free society. But we might at least become a society in which we stop blaming the victim.

Read published piece here

Mouths, food, lip service

So, it is a new year, and I hope it is a good one. Many new things are happening. For one, there are so many new babies. At the time of writing this, our estimated population was 1,180,282,734 (according to the population calculating system at medindia.net). By the time I finished typing that sentence, it went up to 1,180,282,747.

It’s quite freaky actually. Try sitting still and staring at the numbers as they go up, up, up. Each minute adds 29 babies. The exercise is kind of hypnotic, and pointless of course. But imagine a new baby popping up in the room every other second. Here’s a baby! And here’s another! And one more…

And the question is: what are we going to do? They’re not numbers. They are all real, squalling babies. They want milk. Soon they’ll want roti and daal, rice and meat, eggs and fruit. We must think about how, and what, we’re going to feed them.

My grandma used to say that if God has given you a mouth, he will also give you food to eat. Which, I thought, was a bit rich, considering how many people die of hunger in this country. But even grandma, despite her faith, didn’t wait for God to fulfill his responsibilities. She actively fed as many mouths as she could and, sometimes, a few more than she could afford.

On a national scale, there are (at this moment) 1,180,283,395 mouths to feed. Some of us can afford to feed ourselves. But there are hundreds of millions — children, old people, sick people — who cannot take responsibility for feeding themselves over several years. And there are hundreds of millions of able-bodied adults who cannot find jobs, nor land on which to grow their own food.

So what are we going to do? Are we going to tell them: “Sorry, but we have no land to give you, not for food, not for housing. You were just born too late.”

Because currently, that seems to be our approach, as a nation. The government, as a representative of our larger collective responsibility, is required to interfere only in a crisis. Like, it might step in to save a malnourished infant, or distribute free food after a natural disaster.

Currently, we don’t ensure that every Indian has enough to eat. True, there are schemes. We have mid-day meals for small children in government-aided schools. We have the promise of 100 days of employment, in the villages at least. The state offers grain and sugar and kerosene at subsidised rates for the poor. (Now there are attempts to give cash instead, although the poor aren’t so happy with this arrangement. A hungry person needs a food guarantee, not a cash guarantee.)

However, we have not yet addressed the basic question: Do all Indians deserve to eat? Or do we believe that some of us deserve bottled water and broadband and truffles while some of us starve?
We must answer this question. Before we blame the government for crippling the economy through food subsidies; before we talk about how people may become lazy if they eat; before we discuss how farmers will be impacted, we must answer this question.

The National Food Security Bill has already been introduced in Parliament. Before it becomes law, we must answer this question. Because this Bill stops short of offering food security to all. There are problems with its categorisation of the poor. But it can be redrafted so that we move closer to the ideal: Food as a universal right. Because every citizen — all 1,180,285,856 of us — need to eat.

Read here

Year-end Grant

[A poem I wrote in 2009, at a New Years' party. Setting it free today. Ainwayee.]

I had heard of human love, thwarted
by the underworld: one backward glance
and all is lost! 

For the gods are cruel and quick
to snatch.

So I expected no generosity, stepping over shards
of sozzled gloom, I stalked the night for
sandpapered hopes: It's new year's and I've paid 

my dues.

On every floor, a bruising joy
brushes past like a metaphysical conceit

that no longer expects to be understood.

Glitter lines two streets - those eyes! - and hair hangs
heavy on balustrades.
Knees pump, sucked-in bellies, a yowl

of beseeching.
The air parts - warm cake 

with rent hearts
of strawberries.

I turn away, but
too late!

The gods have sidled up

and caught my hair, icy hands
on my neck, they whisper: Now! 
Make a wish. Quick!

The countdown begins: ten, nine...

We give you, here, someone to hold.

Eight, seven, six... Scream, hop about, 
kiss... Three, two...

I creep up the steps, tumbling
like plastic glasses of abandoned rum,
I try to hide in a loo where a woman weeps 

(except it is a man: beads, cleavage painted on);
A god follows me in, grim

under that sussurating yawn.

He pretends concern, says: Come!

This is not done. Make a wish.

We're happy this year. Really. 
And even for gods, good times don't last. 
Don't be this way, don't piss me off.
It's new year, come on, 
ask!

The gods are cruel and quick
to snatch, and I had heard
of human love, thwarted
by the underworld: one backward glance...

But when a god stood there, screaming: Ask! 

I lost my head; I felt cowed.

And that was how, this year too,

I went ahead and asked for you.

(C) Annie Zaidi