Momentary Muse

Between Chamique and me...

2007-01-12T03:52:00.000-08:00

In between the freelancing and taking on multiple projects, the training course for Elementary Education, and the ongoing domestic restyling of our house the landscaping of the school and garden, the potential Spin Instructor status that means setting my body clock alarm to the rising of the sun, all elbowing their way through the urgency of sending out applications for a masters degree and the niggling reminders to myself of needing to get started on more serious, development-specific writing…

In between this and that, I think I’m all blogged out.

Dilli ki sardi

2006-12-01T04:14:00.000-08:00

While in Delhi, a place I have declared my love for already, I met Sou one evening. We laughed with our eyes and drank through our laughter, dipping deep fried goodness into mayonnaise as we played fill-in-the-blanks with news and gossip.
E-group catfights from fellow journalists, Delhi weddings and what the rest of our tribe was up to. And then, Woman, how come you didn’t include Delhi in your post about your favourite things to do in cities? And all I could see was a frown as she sipped at crushed ice soaking in a minty mojito.
What? I dedicated an entire post to why I love the place.
No good. I demand a Delhi post. And you must move here soon after.

This last week was a slow winter seduction.
Firstly, there was the stunningly gorgeous Neemrana. Made even more breathtaking by a fabulous (and remarkably tasteful – I mean, come on, Delhiites, show me some bling!) party. If the view from a 15th century fort palace can’t take your breath away, imagine fireworks that drop down towards you from a pitch black sky while you crane your neck and lay back in brocade and high heels, sipping wine to warm your insides as the winter air pinches your bare skin.

Then there was an embarrassingly large amount of food. Of which much was had. Street chaat stalls, upmarket hotels, roadside dhabas, take-aways, ordered-ins, home-cooked food by tipsy dancing chefs, Dilli Haat counters and coffee shops. Blr Bytes and I have come to the conclusion that Delhi has more for the die-hard foodie than Bangalore does. But everytime we’d go out to eat, my companions would roll their eyes as I gasped at the prices alongside meal options. Delhi may have options, but Bangalore restaurants let you have your fill without having the check spilling over to five figures for a group of four.

Also, given my traveling companion, I was urged, nay, forced to use the metro. I think a tiny part of me wanted to believe that the Cal metro was the real deal in an old city. I was very impressed, despite my worldly air (I mean the metro in Cal is ancient, and Delhi’s all excited about this?) as we rode yellow lines and blue lines just for the heck of it. So yes, I agree, Delhi’s done a great job with that. I only hope Bangalore will follow suit, but all I see is those green metal sheets being moved from one end of the road to another. (Metro station here. No, here! Here! Now you see it, now you have to wait for us to make up our minds. Uhm, just keep watching, you irritable pedestrians. Gaping holes in the national highway are meant to be dug!)

And then there was the cold. Which Delhi friends described as a gentle nip, quietly whispering the winter’s imminent arrival. To me it was nothing less than a scream. Shawls and sweaters and socks were procured for me to wear indoors. Though I eventually did get used to the slap in my face upon stepping outside. Soon, I could sit through an entire sound and light show at the Red Fort with just a jacket. At night. *cue superhero theme song*

And then I came back to Bangalore. Where cold is a sickly distant cousin of the Delhi model. So now, with my newfound resilience, I skip and toss my hair carelessly about, feeling a light spring breeze where others feel a harsh, mocking threat.

So now I have strappy tops that must be worn on terraces for open-air nights out. Take that, you empty threat of an approaching winter.

Lovechild

2006-11-16T00:11:00.000-08:00

When I heard that my best friend was going to have a baby I don’t think I really believed it. I don’t think I allowed myself to meditate long enough on what carrying a tiny, fully formed human being inside of you actually means.
Hetu and I watched the seventh month scan with wide eyes and our jaws hitting our toes.
And Zo asked me to go with her for her last scan since the next scan I’ll get to see will be my own. See, this is why you need a sister, she said with such sisterly authority.

Her baby, whom I have named Lovechild, has a nose just like hers and is busy sucking its toes and hiccupping these days.

It’s been 37 weeks already and I might not be here to see her holding her newborn. Although, I’ve given the tummy and the mother strict instructions to hold on until I get back from traveling, I’m not so sure the baby heard me properly. The mother promised she’d try ‘holding it in’, at least until her real due date, but the doctors told her to keep her mommy-bag ready for the birthing suite.
I can’t wait.

Doing it right, right now

2006-11-06T03:12:00.000-08:00

Strangely, there is a series of frantic workshops and consultations underway about the rehabilitation of the tsunami-affected in the Nicobar islands. (Yes, affected by the tidal wave which hit two years ago.) After I was done clicking my tongue and slapping my forehead I ended up representing a landscape architecture firm that was at Katchal in Nicobar four days after the tsunami struck. Four days.

The firm designed homes in consultation with the Nicobaris and most of the designs incorporated locally available material as well as using much of the debris that was left all over the island. Eco-friendly, indigenous, low-cost and with minor curing and a little change of techniques, the designs were ready for implementation. By the architects and by the communities. They were ready to get started within a week.

But then there was much deliberation and consultation and frowning and clearing of throats at the mainland. That would be where I’m typing from now. The mainland. So far away from the islands that we really can’t comprehend how different and far away the Andaman and Nicobar islands are. It seems that the A&NI are a part of India only by an accident of history.
So the powers that be at the mainland have finally realised that much of the relief money hasn’t reached the Nicobaris. That they have been living in ‘temporary shelters’ made of tin sheets and tarpaulin for two years now. The designs that had been approved by the government are proving uneconomical and unpopular amongst the island communities. Steels beams and cement flooring is alien to the community and we aren't making them feel resettled at all.

It's difficult for some people to understand that it isn't earthquakes that kill people, it's buildings. And the tribals know that. They experience earthquakes every other week. Ask them and they'll say, Haan, zameen hila tha kuch-kuch. (Yes, the earth moved little-little.)

As an aside, it’s funny how good intentions are not always enough for effective rehabilitation. I’ve written about culture-appropriate development and resettlement measures before. Here are some of the things that happened in Nicobar soon after the tsunami.

We sent 500 fishing boats from the mainland to the islands, immediately making connections such as islanders = fishermen. The Nicobaris, however, do not fish for a living. One person from a tuhet (extended family comprising of 80-100 people) goes out, catches some fish and they all eat. Sometimes they don’t fish at all. The 500 fiberglass boats still lie anchored to the shore and children play hide and seek.
Relief workers were out identifying orphans and grabbed the children whose parents were killed by the tsunami. The tuhet doesn’t consider anyone as an ‘orphan’ given that the entire community raises children as their own. The Nicobaris had to row their way to Andaman, covering distances as huge as 500 km between islands, in order to bring back the children.
Donations in kind included thousands of saris, which the Nicobari women don’t wear. The men, who wear sarongs, couldn’t even use them because they wear thin cotton, not chiffons and synthetic blends. However, given the tiny bushy mosquitoes that could fit through the Indian standard mosquito nets, the saris were effectively stitched into custom-made Nicobari mosquito nets.
The Nicobaris were sent over ten thousand sanitary napkins. Not knowing what to do with the tidal wave of winged and lined sanitary pads, the tribals stitched some saris closed and stuffed them with the pads, making pillows out of them!

Plans have been (re)circulated and there is much frowning and clearing of throats still. I only hope the proposal gets cleared and we can get started right away. The right way.

waves

2006-10-24T04:55:00.000-07:00

My real life seems to have crept up on me and when I did recover from the Boo! moment, I was left with a long list of to-do things. Each of these Things To Do has an empty circle next to it now, (instead of a hierarchical number) waiting to be filled (instead of being obliterated by an arrogant tick mark). Little round full moons waiting to be made dark by ballpoint pen ink and satisfaction.

That, incidentally, was my excuse for blog neglect.
We will return to our previous irregular programming shortly.

*fade to black*

Suddenly sexless

2006-10-11T21:50:00.000-07:00

It’s interesting how men avert their eyes most conscientiously when a woman is breastfeeding her baby on the bus. When there is soft brown skin being exposed from beneath a sari blouse.
Connections are instantly and unconsciously made - motherhood, family, wholesomeness, duty, purity - and eyes to dart away reflexively. Suddenly breasts become asexual.

My own body is undefined. Almost invisible through layers of gym clothing, yet it still draws stares as I buy my ticket and find a place to stand, leaning against the side of a metal seat. One arm raised to hold on to the bar above. Backpack strapped purposefully over my shoulders.

There are eyes that suddenly look at my chest, authoritatively, intrusively, searching. When there’s a bare breast not even two feet away from me. (No sports bra, camisole and cotton jacket to hide naked skin.) Unlayered-upon, unhidden. Just sheer chiffon leaving little to the imagination. But still, there are eyes searching for mine.

Greasy choices

2006-10-06T05:20:00.000-07:00

Last weekend Angana was in town and being the media celebrity that she is (she actually has people stop her on the streets and ask – Don’t you anchor for such-and-such news channel everyday?), a conversation with her is like a personally delivered, live scoop on the fourth estate.
On one of our nights out, she told us the story of a certain Well Endowed Starlet who was in no real need of further exposure (pun obviously intended), but who was happy to have been asked to appear live on air. She stepped into the studio, demurely dressed as compared to her onscreen persona, ready for her interview.

The producer took one look at her and barked, ‘What the hell is she wearing?’ And instructed one of the anchors to take her to the green room and dress her more appropriately. Well Endowed Starlet was handed a tiny ‘inner’ that news anchors wear under their sophisticated formal jackets.
So, did she do it? Those of us (two of us, actually) who strayed from mainstream media long ago asked, wide-eyed and hungry for greasy media kibble.
Angana gave us a look of pity reserved for stray dogs.
‘Then what? The top Hindi news channel, dahlings. She’d be an idiot to refuse.’

At that we sipped contemplatively at our spiked juices; all of us readying to launch into an animated conversation about feeding the gaze and media ethics and gender discrimination at the workplace. But suddenly we sipped so much that it didn’t matter for the rest of the night.

Because we’ve come to understand a few things between us. Things that J-school doesn’t teach you, but you learn once you leave the shelter of the crowded computer labs and shared apartments and the comfort of a crowd that becomes your family in the course of ten cramped months. We’ve learnt that we’re all idealists, only that some of us are more practical than others. We’ve learnt not to question each other’s choices so much. Especially since our reunions are so few and far between.
Media is media. Non-profit work is non-profit work. Columns will be read and forgotten. And documentaries will be made and watched only by those who care.

And sensationalism is what sells. It’s what we buy, you and I. Even if it’s only to wrinkle our noses and express contempt at what passes for news today. It’s why my editor used to tell me I’d never be taken seriously. It’s why Angana quietly hands over her inner to Well Endowed Starlets who will never be seen as anything else. It’s why women as individuals are seen as one-dimensional and only when it serves a purpose, they acquire (or certain parts of them acquire) a 3-dimensional reality. It's why our tolerance levels for scandal have shot up so much that we’re in need of a bigger fix everyday. There are no more raised eyebrows anymore.

Because greasy fries are a hard habit to break, dahlings.

Ananya

2006-09-20T23:08:00.000-07:00

Ananya the six-year-old smiles with her eyes before the corners of her mouth begin to dance.

One of the first times I met her was when she came to the office with her backpack stuffed with entertainment for the day. Her parents were both at the office and she didn’t have school, so she was instructed to busy herself and not disturb anyone else.
I was almost done with the newsletter and had some free time so we went for a short walk and picked up some leaves. I showed her how to colour over the veins and make patterns through paper and she showed me how to wrap a dupatta around my head and transform myself into a queen.

Another time she was visiting, I heard singing. I grabbed my tea and peeked into the conference room and Ananya was dancing around the table with flowers tucked behind each ear and scarves draped over her hands.
‘Whatchu doing?’ I asked.
‘Ohfo,’ she turned around impatiently, ‘Can’t you see? My husband and I have been married for seven years and I’m doing a puja to see if we still love each other.’
‘Oh, okay,’ I said casually, ‘Can I watch?’
And when she nodded I quietly sat down in the nearest chair.
‘Can’t you see?’ she said, her eyes as big as saucers, ‘That’s where my son is sitting.’
I quickly switched chairs and asked how old her son was.
‘He’s six.’
And then she danced and sang and swished her scarves around and chanted Om most soberly, indicating the ceremony was done and that I must conclude by saying ‘shanti shanti heee.’

I told my Project Coordinator - her mom - about the love-test puja later and she rolled her eyes. I think it has to do with being an only child, she said. And then she looked at me and asked if I was happy as a kid.
I was, I replied. And I’ve never really missed having a sibling because you find that you’re an interesting enough person to spend time with, I smiled, signalling to Ananya reading softly to herself.

Ananya’s in school now, learning arithmetic and pottery and the life cycle of butterflies.
Soon she’ll learn too much. Her smiles will be reserved for those she knows, never for strangers. Her treks down the road in search of the perfect flower will be bartered for tuitions.
Her wide-eyed belief in the tooth fairy, who sneaks into her room and slips a five rupee coin under her pillow, will be traded for gift coupons at the mall. Her screeches of delight at having her father announce it’s time for swimming class will be swapped for crossed legs and polite thank yous.
Soon she’ll grow up and she’ll remember what was. Maybe she’ll have a blog and write about first crushes and head rushes. She’ll meet friends of her parents who’ll tell stories that embarrass her in front of her friends.

Now Ananya sings songs out loud whether the people in the room are real or imaginary. She instructs me not to pick up completely dried leaves from the ground because the ritual of dying is complete and mustn’t be interfered with.
She runs into the room and removes my headphones that cocoon me from the rest of the world so that I can pay attention to her latest masterpiece in crayon and photocopier paper. She tosses her hair authoritatively over her shoulder and grabs the latest Down to Earth, tucking it under her arm like it’s a purse. She announces that her children have to be dropped to school (the balcony). She slurps iced tea with her legs dangling from the chair.

But I love best that she smiles with her eyes before the corners of her mouth begin to dance.

Five things

2006-09-15T01:15:00.000-07:00

Another tag.

This one requires one to post five things to do in one’s city - not touristy stuff, but what one loves to do.

I know, I know. Five things in one city.
I suppose this is fraudulent, but I couldn’t make up my mind. Noting down all my favourite things made me realise how much I love each of my cities. So I’m posting the entire ordeal that I went through in choosing just one place. And that’s why I could leave out none.
So here’s a list of my five favourite things to do in the cities that have been home to me so far.

Bangalore
I keep coming home to:

Full meals at RR
Bus-ing my way around the city and looking at the traffic without an ounce of road rage
Fish curry-dosa at Pecos
Disappearing for hours at the invisible Select Bookshop
Walking the streets of Indiranagar/Jayanagar/CV Raman nagar when it drizzles

Bhubaneswar
Home base and respite during my work in Orissa:

Diesel fry
Sitting on the wall of the Dhauli looking over the expanse of paddy fields between the stupa and the city (must be done again before Bbsr starts eating up the empty space and engulfs Dhauli altogether)
Multiple share autos
Badam kulfi at Unit I market
Sleeping on the terrace during sweltering summer nights

Chennai
ACJ and an insane schedule permitted the following:

Iddiappams at Vasantha Bhavan
Frozen yoghurt at Amethyst
Turtle walks
Watching local and amateur rock bands perform at the Unwind Centre
Lingerie shopping at Mermaid with the girls

Kolkata
The following make me feel at home:

A corner table and conversation at Dolly's Tea Shop in the Dakshinapan shopping complex
Phuchka
Elaborate breakfasts at Flury’s
Stopping for maati bhaarer cha at a corner tea stall, asking for refills in the same earthen cup until you’re entirely satisfied
Tram rides (because nobody’s ever in a hurry)

And now, Arka, Gee Baby and Aristera may consider themselves tagged.

Fifty five in parts

2006-09-15T01:04:00.000-07:00

A steady buzzing vibration woke him as he lay down, his feet sticking out of the taxi window. Reaching behind him, he found the phone wedged between the seat.
The glowing screen registered eleven missed calls.
Stupid drunk girl had left it behind.
I’ll get a good price for this, he thought, switching it off.

In response to this by BB.
As part of a 55 fiction-chain initiative by Gaurav.

Strange Google searches

2006-09-13T02:08:00.000-07:00

Being tagged provides one the opportunity to post without actually having to think. Good fun, this.
So, as BB from Dilettante has requested, here are the ten strangest Google search terms that have led the unsuspecting to my 'blog.

What means "craned my neck"
India lightning goddess
Sridevi before plastic surgery
gym lady; India
dying for a smoke
Krishna tattoo, nose piercing India
potato ganesha pakora
hot coorg women
gurgaon city salsa classes
One forgotten phone call and I'm deflated

And in true spirit of such memes, I will now tag Teleute, Gamesmaster and eM.

Flash 55

2006-09-07T23:50:00.000-07:00

The sun somehow dipped below the turquoise sky. It sat laughing above the girls standing side by side, the same smile stretching across their identical faces. The same spindly legs, the same big ears. The same triangle frocks.

Then there was a pause. Tiny hands reached for the box and the search for lavender began.

And BB continues here.

Silly me(me)

2006-09-07T01:02:00.000-07:00

It appears I’ve been tagged by Mia.
The silly picture tag dictates that one must post atleast one silly picture of oneself. The picture has to be taken within the last 5 years, and one has to look silly in it.
The silly picture could be balanced out by a normal picture, but silly stays.

Ah, the problem of plenty. In my case, I had much to choose from.
So for those of you who take this blog (or me) too seriously, here is a selection of Chamique’s (most recent) silliness.

Exhibit A: July, 2005

Exhibit B: Bonus silliness from last night.

And now I tag both Dilettante and Blr Bytes from doesthisthat, Dr. Legalese, Chemical brother, and Scribbleamus.
Show me some silly, you people!

Kolkata is kind to me

2006-09-04T03:04:00.000-07:00

It’s a strange kind of sadness that sweeps over you when you hear a young man singing Rabindrasangeeth for small change on a train. We were on our way to Bolpur and he climbed into our compartment. The maudlin of his songs and the unrealistic green of the paddy fields made me feel like I was in art film. (Yes, I can get most dreamy sometimes, but it might well have been the thought of Santiniketan and all that’s associated with it that did this to me.)

I’ve often travelled by train to Kolkata from South India. Sitting by the window, I’d watch the countryside through the shaded blue tint of the glass. (Ma insisted we travel by AC and I only discovered the joys of the general compartment when I started travelling on my own.) As soon as the first chaiwallah announced himself to the sleepy compartment, I’d jump down from my Side Upper berth (still a constant) and push my mother’s feet impatiently aside to press my forehead to the window.

Since then I’ve looked out at the countryside bathed in the light of the winter mornings, summer evenings, spring twilights and monsoon afternoons. And I’ve noticed that the countryside there has only one colour in all those seasonal mornings. Green. A hundred million shades of green. And small clumps of trees in the middle of the artificial-looking bright green paddy. Trees that give way to houses and villages, and as the train passes by, you see tiny dots of people in the distance, coming to the field from the warmth of their morning chulha or readying to light the night’s fire. And then it blends into another village miles away. A whole new shade of green, a new clump of trees, a differently coloured pond - a whole different world in the space of a train-minute.

So when the harmonium strains faded and the singing ended, the wandering musician stood silently in the middle of the aisle with his palm outstretched. As I handed him my appreciation, I wondered if he actually supported a family with his singing. As I wonder with rickshaw pullers and cobblers and people who sit on the footpath with just a few fruits placed neatly on newspaper for sale.

Kolkata was the same and not quite. I’ve discovered that the monsoon was born in Kolkata. I’ve come to believe that Calcuttans consider waiting at a traffic light for a little over two minutes as the equivalent of being stuck in a ‘traffic jam’. (And is it just me, or is every city now greener than what used to be the garden city?)

I love Kolkata’s weathered buildings and the ubiquitous black umbrella that everyone carries with them as soon as they step out (Chaata nite bhulo naa kintu!). I love that everyone has time for a chat. I love the jade ponds that dot the landscape, the people bathing at water fountains on the sidewalk, the children splashing soap water in delight at having beaten the sultry heat for a while. I love maati bhaarer cha – sipping steaming tea from the cool dry clay, smelling the earthy bottom of the cup once the last drop has been drained. I love the shocking red of hibiscus that garlands the Ma Kali idols and photographs. The shocking red of shindoor in the parting of black hair.

I love the bazaar that dadu visits to get three different kinds of fish for a single meal. Even though he’s past eighty and has to take a rickshaw back home when the groceries are heavy, he hasn’t given up his authoritarian task of fish-buying. I’d go to the bazaar with dadu and carry the groceries back, forcing him to walk the return trip, insisting he needed the excercise.
He’d wave out to the people in shops on the way and call out, This is my naatni. My older daughter’s girl. From Bangalore!
And they all nodded and said they could see the resemblance. The tea blender and the mishti shop owner. The chemist and the tailor. Everyone down the entire street.
Surprise visit! We didn’t even know! And my ear would be twisted playfully.

I asked the man who was descaling our ilish where his fish came from.
Madras, he said, matter-of-factly.
Really? Where in Madras? But there’s no ilish in Madras.
Andhra, dadu clarified quietly.
Oh, Andhra, I said loudly.
Madras, he repeated.
I seemed to have forgotten that anywhere south of Orissa is Madras for some people.

And then I got back on a train and watched the landscape change from audacious green to red mud. And I didn’t know which way was home for a while.

Five and fifty

2006-08-31T21:54:00.000-07:00

And my life flies by in Fridays...

She noticed the couple sneak into the bathroom and couldn’t hold back any longer.
The giggles and fruity-floral vapours escaping from underneath the door did nothing to hide their secret.
Deciding to push her luck, she got up and knocked softly.
‘I’ve been dying for a smoke since we boarded, mind if I join you?’

Written in response to this by BB.

Early 55

2006-08-24T00:28:00.000-07:00

Since I'm travelling tomorrow, I'm posting my 55 early this week.
(It's been quite a party of late and I'd hate to be left out.)

--

I’m healed, an old man proclaimed to the curious cameras.

She elbowed her way through the crowd and stepped gingerly into the murky water.
Maybe it would go away. Maybe what medicine couldn’t cure, a miracle would.
She pushed stray polythene aside and closed her eyes, praying softly as she sipped at the fleeting sweetness.

--

I'm expecting BB to respond only tomorrow, though. And since mine is a sleepy little blog, do send me links to the follow-up 55 responses and I'll catch up with the chain once I get back from the hinterlands. I'm also especially curious to see how this particular thread might partake in the customary orgy that ravishes Dilettante's comment box!

City of mad joy

2006-08-23T23:58:00.000-07:00

It’s been raining on and off here in Cal, the way I wish it would in Bangalore. In endearing tantrums and sudden outbursts.

I went to Howrah station yesterday and tickets have been bought to take me elsewhere all over again.

The family is as theatrical as ever and every time I have to go away is always too soon.

In other news, two bloggers I have been wanting to meet have finally been met. And much coffee, conversation, greasy fries and chocolate was had.

One thing I cannot get over when I’m in Kolkata is that everything I see is a photograph. And it seems I almost always forget my SLR.

Fifty five

2006-08-18T01:02:00.000-07:00

Between the clothes, she tucked in small surprises. Moisturising lotion for her grandmother. Seaweed hair gel for her grandfather. The cologne her brother had been hinting at...

Later, she realised her lip-gloss had been checked in as well.
Maybe she’d ask the girl next to her for some when she got back from the toilet.

Written in response to this by BB from Dilettante.

The right to choose

2006-08-15T04:04:00.000-07:00

I often ask myself what exactly it is that I’m hoping to achieve by working with adivasis. Why am I doing what I am?
There will always be a section of society that thinks these people need to be roped into the mainstream or alternatively, left exactly the way they are – so that they may continue to be photographed and pointed at and referred to as ‘these people’. They’d rather we leave adivasis in a sort of greenhouse, so we may peep in every once in a while, just to make sure they’re there, living their lives devoid of televisions and Coca Cola, and then reassure ourselves that India still does have indigenous communities.

Often, people ask me what exactly organisations like mine hope to achieve. Do we want to leave tribal communities in tiny hamlets in the hills or do we try to integrate them into the mainstream? What the hell is the mainstream? Are we, who live and work in the few metros of our country, the mainstream? Isn’t the mainstream the majority? And do we - the educated, the Coke drinkers, SUV drivers, degree holders, professionals, nightclub goers - as a segment of society form the mainstream?

One of the issues I deal with is displacement and land rights. We’ve become so used to viewing forests as lush retreats with deer skipping through the thickets. So much so that we want to preserve this image at the cost of people. So we get rid of the indigenous tribes - who step lightly on the planet, whose women sustain their entire family on minor forest produce, who do a much better job of conservation than we do – and convert every green space into restricted areas. Restricted for those who know no other life and reserved for mining companies and five star hotels. We remove the people from their natural habitat and create places for the urban elite to visit in the name of eco-tourism.

To clarify my own position, I see it as providing people with the right to choose.
If you want to roam the ghats and migrate from one hillside to another the whole year round, I won’t force you to do otherwise. But I just wanted to tell you that now there are schools in the valley – for you as well as your children – so you may learn to read. And when the big companies show you papers, you can read for yourself what they have to say and decide whether you’d like to give all your land away and move to a slum in the city.

After all the broad ‘development’ talk, doesn’t it boil down to a solid chunk of rights?

I remember visiting a tribal pocket soon after I moved to Orissa on work last year. It wasn’t as isolated as the rest of the villages I frequented, but it was a difficult trek all the same. I was a little disappointed to see my (self-appointed) ten-year old guide wearing a Michigan State University t-shirt. I don’t know what exactly I was expecting, I just didn’t think I’d see Aamir Khan posters stuck on the walls of mud huts. I wanted folk songs sung to me at night – not the speakers they rented from town (Chalo bhauni! Naacho naacho!). I wanted to hear the children speak in their own singsong tribal dialect, not the Oriya taught to them in the night schools. Where had all the tribals gone?
Shame on me.

The people had made their choice. In addition to constructing water conservation structures, grain banks, and sending their children to school, they also fancied Bollywood music, pelvic thrusts and bubble gum.

I guess that’s as much as any of us can do. To provide the alternatives and to let the people decide for themselves. That would be democracy, yes?
Jai Hind.

Friday 55

2006-08-10T23:04:00.000-07:00

She lay on her back, knowing she wouldn’t see dawn.
Her vision grew pleasantly opaque.
Last night, before she slit streaks across her wrists, she looked up at the sky and silently begged.
Anyone, she screamed to the stars, anything. If there is a God. Help.
There was no sign. And that was her answer.

Written in response to this by BB.

My sentimental mornings

2006-08-09T02:25:00.000-07:00

Every morning as I walk the walk from the bus stop to work, I stop by at a nearby darshini for a big post-workout breakfast. It’s been a while since I’ve confessed to my darshini addiction and my routine is juggled around everyday to accommodate either a darshini breakfast or a lunch into the day’s menu.

Sometimes, I eat breakfast at the smaller darshini on the quieter street closer to the office, depending on which bus I take, since the stops are pretty far apart. On bus number 20 or 27-E days, when I walk up to the corner, I see a familiar face look up from his plate of set dosa to smile at me. Every 20 or 27-E day. He waves me over to share his small section of the steel table that everyone stands around. And once I’m done handing over my colour-coded food ticket, having procured my breakfast items, I squeeze through the crowd towards Mr Reddy, former advocate, High Court.

That’s how he introduced himself the first time I met him, as I shared his table along with other strangers, as you often do in darshinis. Nobody usually looks at what you’re eating, no one smiles hello or asks how you’re doing. Everyone’s busy digging into bowls of vada-sambar, scooping up potato palya with a piece of crisp paper dosa or dipping fluffy idlis into cool coconut chutney. Nobody smiles goodbye and tells you to have a nice day. Perhaps because darshini dining deserves one’s undivided attention.

As I cut my vada with the standard two-steel-spoon technique, I was vaguely aware of someone looking at me. I looked up and remember thinking to myself that this man looked a lot like my grandfather who passed away. I used to call my dadu Ha-dadu, because of his loud, unabashed laughter. Hah Hah Hah.

I smiled at Mr. Reddy, who then asked me if I would pour his coffee from one steel tumbler into the other, to help him cool it. And then he said, Myself, Reddy. Former advocate of the High Court. And we started talking. A little more each day.
And he waves me over whenever we meet at the corner darshini. He asks about my work, my family, my travel plans for the month, my bus route, traffic, weather, anything. And just when I think he isn’t there as I step up to the darshini, I hear my name being called from one of the steel tables and make my way through the crowd to join Mr Reddy and pour his coffee from one tumbler to another, leaving half to cool as he sips the other half.

He walks to the nearby park every morning and treats himself to breakfast before going back home. Sometimes, when I’m late to breakfast and he’s already asked someone else to pour his coffee, he’ll still wait for me to finish and walk past my office with me, on his way home. Sometimes when I’m early, he joins me and I wait for him. He sips his coffee slowly and his hands tremble gently with age.

This morning, Mr Reddy’s daughter was standing next to him at one of the tables. She lives in the US and is visiting Bangalore with her husband and child. She introduced herself, saying that she’s heard about me and thanked me for helping her father with his breakfast. Thanked me. Whatever for, I asked.

She smiled and fed her son khara bhaath as he sat on the wobbly table. You go ahead, appa, I’ll finish with this and catch up, she said. Mr Reddy told her that he’d like to wait with them if they didn’t mind.
Today you carry on, he said to me as I handed him his walking stick that rests beside the water cooler while he eats.
In all these months I’ve never seen him smile so wide as he did this morning when he was watching his grandson make a mess of his upma.

Ever since Mr Reddy and I have established this informal routine, I’ve been thinking about my own grandfathers. One in Kolkata, whom I speak to every Sunday morning. And one who remains a vivid memory.
I’ve been missing Ha-dadu and wishing that I wasn’t a bratty teenager when he passed on. I wish I had shared breakfasts with him. I wish I had offered to join him on his morning walks. I would’ve liked to talk to him. Really talk to him. I wish I hugged him more.

The next time I hear Shastidadu’s voice will be when I get to Kolkata next week. He’ll jump up from the sofa in front of the television when I surprise everyone by landing up at the flat early in the morning. He’ll feign anger at my not having told them. When I bend down to touch his feet in a pronaam he'll catch me by the shoulders and stop me halfway. He’ll ask me why I show no signs of getting married to a nice Bengali boy. He’ll raise his hand, pretending to be ready to slap me when I steal his spot on the couch, curling up near the armrest where the seat has started sagging to accommodate his weight.
And I’ll remember to hug him.

55 fiction

2006-08-03T22:26:00.000-07:00

She walked a little faster, hugging her books closer to her chest as she crossed the street.

They stood by the corner shop, sharing cigarettes and profanities.
She caught the eye of someone she used to know. He didn't say anything, but he didn't stop the catcalls either.
They used to dig for earthworms together.

And this is what BB from Dilettante says.

Delhi love

2006-08-02T02:10:00.001-07:00

The one thing Delhi-ites take for granted is being able to bump into little bits of history every time they step out into their city. Being able to see ancient Mughal architecture from their car windows, exposed brick from another era as they walk the wide, wide roads and elegant jaalis peeking out at them from street corners.

I’m told that I exoticise everything I see when I travel. But I really can’t help that I love each place I visit. I might be promiscuous in my love for places, but there’s so much to see and love for so many reasons…
And Delhi, much like Calcutta (yes, I’m Bengali and I love the place), has so much to offer the peripatetic traveller. Which is how I always go city-seeing.

Delhi has stories to tell. Ruins, tombs, mosques, stone lattices, fallen empires and glory days. I like that in Delhi, next to a mosque is a Jain temple and next to that is a Hindu one.

Delhi lets me visit its museums and art galleries, bargain on its footpaths and meet friends for a long leisurely night out. A Delhi night lets you eat dinner, lounge at a coffee shop, go somewhere else for gelato and then still has time left over for you to drop in at a nightclub. Delhi nights let you go clubbing in spectacles and a baggy kurta without making you feel like you're any less of a babe.

Delhi lets you walk through the winding alleys of a market place and walk across the street, straight into a deer park. It lets me squeeze through a small gate and step out into a wide courtyard of a centuries-old madrasa. I can watch a cricket game from an ornate window many storeys above. I can drape an arm around an intricately carved stone pillar and lean languorously over a balcony like I could have done a hundred years ago from the same place, surveying the evening walkers below. I can crane my neck to search for the sunset with nothing but minarets and watermelon skies to fill my vision. Delhi makes me feel like a princess in sports sandals.

While I was there, I stayed in the breathtaking Sanskriti Kendra campus in Anandagram. When I wasn't checking out their Terracotta Museum and the Museum of Everyday Art, I was walking with peacocks early in the morning. Every morning.

I swear I felt like a princess. Walking with peacocks in the beautifully landscaped lawns, dewy from a sudden drizzle. Letting my fingers trace the sandstone jaali overlooking the grassy ampitheatre. Chancing upon an antique palanquin parked next to an old temple door and being transported back a hundred years all over again.
Walking with peacocks.
Now how is that not exotic, pray tell.

Also: Thanks muchly to Recluse for the drink and junk food, and my ACJ peeps for a most wonderful night out on the town. Delhi has wonderful hosts!

Affy birdie!

2006-07-23T23:16:00.000-07:00

Sometime last evening this blog turned a year old.

I promised in my very first post to return to my journal every once in a while. And although it travels with me still, I've become increasingly unfaithful.

It was never a complicated affair. And the guilt has faded fast.
My new mistress has turned a year old and my trusted companion waits patiently for me with empty pages.

Flash 55

2006-07-20T22:46:00.000-07:00

She loved being surprised by him.
Today it was something bold, bordering on obnoxious even, but delivered with such confidence that she could do nothing but gasp and let his magic sweep over her.
Tendrils of spicy seduction curled up towards her nostrils…

‘My compliments to the chef,’ she sighed, as she leaned back, satiated.

Written in response to this by BB from Dilettante.

looks over her shoulder and types quickly

2006-07-19T03:10:00.000-07:00

This morning my dad was reading aloud from the paper. He looked at my mom and said, Somika blogs doesn’t she? It seems that blogs have been blocked by the government now. And my mother’s eyes widened and she said, really…why? And then he replied, because apparently, terrorists have been using blogs to communicate. And then ma called out to me, did you know this?

I was in the kitchen making tea and listening, amused a little and angered a little that the entire issue was being reduced to that of curbing terrorism. It gives people the impression that the government is doing us all a favour. Look how safe and protected we all are now that access to weblogs has been denied.

So I raised my voice and said, yeah well, there are ways to work around the stupid block. And just because the government feels that a few blogs threaten national security and communal harmony, why did they have to go and block every blog in the country? It just proves incompetence and nothing else. A panicky government doesn’t instill much faith in its citizens. And I smiled at baba as I handed him his mug that says Insanity is hereditary, you get it from your children.

It’s a bit of a family joke when ma and I take digs at the GoI. With baba being a scientist for the defence, we have no clue as to what exactly he does. If he told us, he’d have to kill us, we recite before collapsing on the floor in a giggle fit. If ever we do go to his office (which we stopped after the very first time, when I was around two years old, I think), we’re asked to wait (outside the gate) until my father is informed (after he’s located, that is).
We have our own acronyms for all the departments and wings of the DRDO. And we crack up at our brilliant wit while he quietly asks himself how on earth he survives living with us.

He reasoned that the block must be a preliminary measure and that they’re probably filtering those sites they find offensive. And I had to point out that the very definition of offensive seems to be misconstrued in this case. Like the blog that’s an entire two posts long, written by an American college student. And the bulk sms gateway. Or the naxal news blog that posts stories from mainstream newspapers. So I made a list for him to check out on his own.

I believe that words are enough to intimidate. To outrage. To insult. To empower. And that’s precisely why free speech is necessary. To force someone into silence is a violation and nothing less.

So maybe all our blogs are threatening to the stability of the country. Perhaps my outburst about faulty autorickshaw meters and unfair systems has the government all hot and bothered. Maybe it was when I posted from Orissa about the plight of the adivasis. It could be that telling people what I see during my work in slums is actually top secret. Maybe demanding rehabilitation for communities displaced by development projects makes me anti-development and anti-national. I do remember complaining about my city’s infrastructure once.

Perhaps we’re all under scrutiny. I know they could find more dirt on my blog than poor Princess Kimberly’s.

Big brother-ing

2006-07-17T04:10:00.000-07:00

Although I'm not very regular with my blogging, it's nice to have the option of sharing my musings every once in a while.

I wanted to post a little something today, but it appears that I've been intercepted.
In fact, we all have.

Details here.
Desipundit has updates.

And here's how to use the Right to Information Act to find out what's going on. (Even if it will take 35 days at best.)

Fifty five

2006-07-14T00:12:00.000-07:00

She left with everything she called her own. With her chipped coffee mug. With their daughter. So he could start over.
Without them. Without any tangible trigger of a memory.

Later, she remembered that her giggly voice was still on the answering machine.
‘Sorry… we’re uh, too busy to come to the phone right now…’

Written in response to this by BB from Dilettante.
We've started a Friday rally of sorts. I'm tempted to keep this up.
Different takes in 55 words.

Always innocents

2006-07-12T02:42:00.000-07:00

I’ve been frantically reading the news and posts and comments about the blasts last night.
I’ve been trying to call friends. I reached for my phone as soon as I got home and went through my address book. Alphabetically. Name by name. I was able to speak to some. Not to others.
I’ve been watching the death toll increase through the course of the day. The heavy ache that’s settled in my stomach feels uncomfortably familiar.
Always civilians. Always innocents.

I hope Mumbai’s spirit is truly as resilient as we hear. I hope the heart-warming acts of kindness shown in the last twenty four hours spill over, through the rest of the year. I hope I get through to those I still haven’t heard from. Just so they know that I’m thinking of them. Even if I don’t email as often as I promise. Even if we haven't seen each other for over a year. Two years, for some. Even if their numbers have been sitting in my address book all the while.
I hadn’t called until I started fearing for their safety.

I hope we all make it home safe this evening.

Mumbaihelp has regular updates.

Today's 55

2006-07-07T05:50:00.000-07:00

He hung up after inviting her to the wedding.

It wasn’t really planned, he offered. His fiancée was in the country only for the weekend and she had a busy schedule. Sorry for the late notice, he said. I hope you’ll still make it.

I love you, she whispered to the static on the line.

Just one of the guys

2006-07-06T05:38:00.000-07:00

The other day Harish called and asked me to go out with the boys. I had to decline, since the (few) girl friends I have were planning a night out. He offered to meet us wherever we were, boys in tow. And I said it was strictly women only. No significant others and no guy pals who might be tempted to hit on the rest of the girls.
‘Are you trying to avoid us?’ He asked, suddenly sceptical.
‘What? I love you guys. I just need to be with my girls once in a while.’
‘But you hardly ever go out with girls!’
‘My point exactly!’

For some reason, eyebrows shoot up when I declare that I need time away from a boys’ binge night. Even my parents are surprised when I announce that I need the car because it’s girls only and there won’t be anyone dropping me home.

But being one of the guys is uninhibited, ridiculous fun.
The long drives in a packed car, screaming songs out of the window, making up our own lyrics if we don’t know the words. The playful fist fights and meaningless curses when we disagree. The unexpected protective behaviour they take on if a stranger tries getting fresh with me. The embarrassing question and answer rounds that my parents put them through, which are brushed aside and laughed about later. The late night chai or phone call when one of them needs to talk about girl trouble. The lingo unique to the clique. Spit bubbles. The comfortable silences. Entire meals comprising only junk food. Burping contests. Waking them up on a Sunday morning to take me to breakfast. Sunday breakfast plans which eventually materialise into late afternoon lunches.
Coins on paper napkins placed precariously over a beer mug. Drinking the vile ash-beer mix by whoever loses the game. Bottoms up. Smiling with the coin glinting from between front teeth.
Of course I can never keep up. And although shouting philosophical discussions across a table full of liquid distractions with Bob Marley wailing in the background is most enjoyable, I like being a girl once in a while.
Once in extended, interrupted whiles, I suppose. Therefore the raised eyebrows.

And though they may complain about being excluded from a girls’ night when I’m included in all their plans, they do take complete advantage of my being a girl in their midst. Lingerie shopping and creative gift ideas for respective/assorted girlfriends? Take Chamique shopping. Struggling through a semblance of a love letter? Shomikin’ll write it! Spot analysis of when exactly the foot was carefully inserted into the mouth so as to anger respective/assorted girlfriends? Shamiska, what the hell did I do now? Bored and hungry and passing through the area at some obscene hour? Shanmugs, I’m coming over now…make me some pizza, will you?
And I love not having to worry about the zit on my forehead. Or my unwaxed legs. Or my runny nose dribbling onto a sweatshirt if I’m crying on a shoulder. It’s comforting not sweating the small stuff.

But it’s also been remarked that I cease to be one of the guys when it comes to love interests. But of course. Being one of the guys with the clique is an equation that I don’t drag other relationships into. Plus, I can’t have someone enamoured of me seeing anti-zit gook on my face. (That look is reserved exclusively for the boys boys.)

Something else that comes from hanging out with mostly guys is that compliments are automatically discounted. (Since compliments from the boys are usually non-existent.) What? You think she’s what? Dude! That’s Chamique you’re looking at!

So when G was forced to come inside to meet (all of) my aunts when he came to pick me up one night, he obliged and later remarked, ‘Wow, you come from a family of very attractive women.’

So the next night when we went out and I was done with my prettification and wafted into the living room to rescue him from my parents, he said I looked beautiful. Now, judging by his previous remark, it would be kind of pompous to accept the compliment as entirely my own.
So I stuck to: Why thank you, I have good genes you see.
And he looked at me like I was a little crazier than I was the day before.

But he’s a boy. So.

Friday's 55

2006-06-30T04:08:00.000-07:00

A (long) while ago, I had decided that Fridays would be flash fiction days. This was many, many Fridays ago. So with another attempt at being more regular... Here's today's fiction in 55 words:

She swung one long, tanned leg around the pole and swayed to the beats that shook the dimly lit bar.
‘Here sugar,’ breathed a potbellied man as he reached across, tucking sweaty currency into her g-string. She bit her lower lip and bent forward, offering him a better view.
She could have been a model.

Update:
It seems I've inspired a post from this guy over at Dilettante.

Systematically annoyed

2006-06-23T04:08:00.000-07:00

I get a free ride into town these days because Uncle J comes to the gym with me. And having asserted himself as bigger (6’2”), stronger (years and years of weightlifting) and wealthier (goes without saying) than me, I’m exempt from sharing the auto fare and I’m also spared the long walk to the bus stop from home.

So this morning, right in the middle of an enthralling discussion about plagiarism and ethics in education systems all over the world, he pointed to the meter and let out a slow whistle.

'Seventy seven bucks?!' I gasped, 'We haven’t even reached!'
It’s usually fifty, give or take a few rupees.
And I raised my voice and screamed questions to the driver as he sped down the near-empty streets. He pretended like he couldn’t hear me over the sound of the wind screeching in his ears and I told Uncle J to pay our usual fare because we’d been using the same route by rickshaw everyday. Give him fifty, I said.
And with all my arguing, the driver finally decided to bring the eighty buck fare down to sixty. But still.

And then, Uncle J took out three ten rupee notes and pressed it into the guy’s hand along with the fifty we had already given him. I stomped my foot (yes, I really do this sometimes) and watched the auto speed away as soon as he got the extra money.
Now it wasn't the amount so much as the behaviour of the autodriver. Because in principle it’s wrong to cheat people when they’ve agreed to pay for a service anyway. He could have asked us for extra fare. I've paid one and a half before. I told Uncle J that it was obvious the guy’s meter had been tampered.
'You really shouldn’t have given him that extra money. We travel the same distance everyday.'

So he looks at me and says, 'Don’t worry I’ve got the license plate number and his name and his driver’s license number from the display board behind his seat. I’ll give the information to the police. They should be able to do something.'
And he watched my jaw hit the ground.
'Well, that’s what the police are for, right? If they can’t do something, they should feel pretty useless,' he reasoned.

Now Uncle J is a wonderful wonderful person. He teaches doctoral students and travels the world with my aunt. He’s American and is completely at home with our loud Bengali family and our loud Bengali meals. He’s a great cook and is a complete gentleman. I’ve never seen him upset and have never ever heard him raise his voice. He’s the kind of person who hopes subtlety and irony will make themselves known to offending parties, thereby resulting in a much more powerful insult to the perpetrator.
When he and my aunt travel around India, he takes offence at being charged ten times the amount of money for an entry ticket to visit historical monuments and tourist attractions. When they went to the Taj Mahal he looked at my aunt and said ‘But you’re as much of a foreigner as I am!’ And while pishi roamed about, admiring the exquisite ancient marble and taking photographs of the setting sun, Uncle J sat patiently outside the compound, reading his book and sipping chai. Did they change the If You Don’t Look Indian You Don’t Pay Indian rule because of this quirky tantrum of his?
I don’t think so.

So when Uncle J grabbed me by the shoulders and steered me away from the road towards the gym, I told him I was very angry with him. He laughed and said I was very impatient for someone hoping for social change.
'You need to use the system that’s in place for these things,' he explained.
Use the system? Oh, you mean the system that we’ve all learnt to ignore? The system we avoid because it serves no purpose other than to mock us? That system?

The system didn’t change when I watched a man die of hunger right in front of me in Kalahandi, Orissa. The local communities called it a natural death. There is nothing natural about having no food to eat. The system didn’t change when we went to the District Collector complaining that the tribals were dying because they didn’t have the rations that were promised to them. And as we speak, the system knows that there are tonnes and tonnes of foodgrains in this country lying in godowns in various stages of rot.
The system didn’t change when adivasi women were being violated by the mine construction workers who first took their land and then the jobs that were promised to their husbands by way of compensation packages. The system ignored all my project proposals for involving women’s groups in slum development. (Yes, but how silly of me, the system didn’t tell me that all the slums were scheduled to be demolished later on.)
The system doesn't empathise with eunuchs who sell their bodies at the risk of getting AIDS because that’s all they believe they can do with their lives. Because the system makes them believe that. The system didn’t help when I went to the police station to file an FIR against a group of guys in a Sumo who were trying to nudge me off the road when I was driving home alone one night. The system left me feeling naiive and even more harassed in the cop station.

So when I continued to stomp and frown and explain all these things to Uncle J, he said he’d try nonetheless. That one must never get too exasperated (like me) and one must trudge on, undaunted. Even if it looks stupid. Even if people say there’s no way to beat the system. We need to use it, if only to prove how futile the system is. And only then will things begin to change.

But didn’t you hear what I just said? Nothing is going to come of your complaining.
Well, he said calmly, if nothing came of it, he’d write an article for the newspaper.

Yeah, well.
There’s a good reason why I’m not a journalist anymore, Uncle J.

Two dozen today

2006-06-20T00:28:00.000-07:00

Between this day that year and this day right now, all this has happened.

Birthdays are most excellent occasions for stocktaking and plan-making.

No excess baggage

2006-06-15T03:42:00.000-07:00

Last night I got back home really late and curled up in the back seat of our van instead of tucking myself into bed.
My backpack was my pillow and I fluffed up my workout clothes from the morning, so my head could nestle a bit more snugly. Being small has its advantages and I turned to my side as I did so often on train berths. My legs like this and my arms like that and my head slightly inclined. Just so.
I had my toes pressed up against the window and the sky was suddenly at my feet. I watched a grand total of six stars through the dusty glass. Shining and sputtering in the sky through clouds and reflected lights from a sleepy city.

I didn’t sleep much, but I remember dreaming of train journeys. Of watching changing scenery fly by my window as different kinds of dust settled on my skin. Of lying on my side in my upper berth just so, knees bent, my backpack for a pillow and my alarm set on my cell phone to wake me well before my station arrived. Sometimes, the lower berth people would put a bag or two at my feet, smiling apologetically by way of seeking permission. Often I’d click my tongue at the loss of precious leg room when I stretched or wanted to switch sides, but often, I’d feel a little more cosy, being closely packed. Like a breathing book tucked in between two bookends. On a warm shelf of my own. I’d feel more comfortable somehow with compressed bits of days and lives framing my head and feet.

My own backpack always has my house keys, cell phone and wallet in it. And also my journal, gym clothes, basic toiletries and something to read. Everyday, always. I carry my life in my backpack. All my worldly possessions, I often explain to those who ask. It sits close to me on buses and in autos. Waits patiently to be picked up from the backseat when I drive. Holds everything I feed it and lets me rummage through its insides whenever I need money for a meal, an umbrella for downpours, and lip gloss and kajal for those impromptu diva moments.

And late last night, when everything grew suddenly still and the car windows were freezing to the touch, I slept with my head on my backpack and felt an almost-forgotten sense of comfort.

At the first hint of birdsong I got out of the car and realised I was happy - not just because I was safe in my own car in my own garden outside my own house - but because I was looking at the place I called mine. And I had everything I needed. Right on my back.
I could totally be a tortoise.

To do: save planet

2006-06-07T01:51:00.000-07:00

Al Gore says we have ten years to save the planet.
Ten years before we’re all fried.

I remember the person I was ten years ago. It can’t have been that long ago in the larger scheme of things. Ten years is the time it took for my frail silver oak saplings to grow into tall sturdy pillars of shade in our backyard. Ten years and me and my friends have graduated from pleated uniforms to low waist jeans since then, from comic books to boyfriends, from orange juice to screwdrivers. Ten years has seen me move several times between cities and towns and villages and slums. And ten years from now I hope to have seen much much more.

I’d flip through pages in encyclopedias when I was a kid, looking at drawings of animals I’d never be able to see since they succumbed to the mysterious extinction disease. I’ve thought about how our children will have to visit atrocities like zoos to see animals that we’ve endangered.

And to think we’ve gone and endangered ourselves. We should feel like right idiots. We might be the next millennium’s dinosaurs.
And to think, I still haven’t seen a real live platypus.

Today...

2006-05-30T11:10:00.000-07:00

I met this woman.

And I am left groping for words to describe how awed I am.

Big dams and little people

2006-05-29T01:42:00.000-07:00

India has 3,600 big dams that have devoured over 50 million people already, and the promised gains from the dams have still not arrived. The Indian Government remains unwilling to own up to the vast costs in terms of exclusivist policies, of ruined farm lands, of homes lost. And of human misery.

During the last 20 years of the Sardar Sarovar Dam-affected adivasis' struggle, people's participation at various stages - especially in the last year - has greatly strengthened the movement. What has been especially significant is how people's organisations, activists, students and intellectuals have worked together with the farmers and adivasis to make this their own movement, a true people's movement. Diverse programmes and events around the country - relay fasts, protests, artistic expressions, writings, and films - every action has been important to the struggle. From adivasis, dalits, slum dwellers, and farmers to public personalities, students, teachers, and politicians - people from across the country have raised their voices against this dominant model of unjust development and have begun a historic mission to fight for the truth.

This is a time for us to form one movement against the forces that work against democracy, that favour inhuman development paradigms while displacing people from their homes, lands, and livelihoods. These forces have set forth a great challenge before the people. To fight against every form of injustice as a single, collective strength.

Despite a tough month-long struggle and despite enough substantial field evidence (including that obtained from the Pol Khol Yatra) in support of their claims, the Narmada Bachao Andolan (NBA) cannot rest nor can they celebrate. The construction of the Sardar Sarovar dam continues. The killer dam, which will destroy and drown thousands of families and hundreds of villages, more so adivasi villages, is not just illegal but inhuman.

The new committee constituted by the PM, with Mr. V.K. Shunglu and two other government bureaucrats, has been asked to conduct a survey through the National Sample Survey Organisation from 19th May to 19th June. The committee has been assigned the task of surveying the number of displaced people, the land available, and the area to be submerged through a sample survey, and has been asked to aim to complete rehabilitation within 3 months.

Several agencies, including state and central government bodies have visited the valley, and the group of three ministers, including the Prime Minister, know that the construction of the dam is against the orders of the Supreme Court, yet neither the Prime Minister nor the Central government has intervened or taken a firm stand against it.

Can the rehabilitation of 35,000 families be completed in 3 months? When law and policies clearly call for allocation of land and house plots one year before submergence and for rehabilitation to be completed 6 months before submergence, why is a central government committee (that violates these legal provisions) being set up now?

The Supreme Court, after asking for affidavits from all affected parties, was to make a decision on the dam in February - which it delayed. Even after the 8th March decision of the Narmada Control Authority to raise the dam height to 121.92 metres, 2 months have lapsed without any order to halt the illegal construction of the dam. At the 1st May hearing, the Court postponed its judgement to 8th May, when again despite glaring evidence of failed rehabilitation, it refused to halt construction on the dam and decided to hear the matter on 7th July (after the report of the Shunglu Committee is submitted to the Prime Minister on June 30th).

This decision reflects a complete denial of justice by the country’s highest judicial institution. Despite evidence that the Court is violating its own orders, the construction on the dam continues incessantly. This will result in the evident submergence of adivasi villages, houses and fields, more so with the approaching monsoons. Given the circumstances, the report of the Shunglu Committee seems to have little purpose other than to conduct a post-mortem on the matter.

Across the country, the tide is rising against the rural and urban poor, farmers, and labourers. With large-scale infrastructure, development and city beautification projects displacing more and more people, the challenge before us is enormous. The struggle against the Sardar Sarovar dam is merely one example of this.

Please do not be a mute witness to injustices carried out on such a large scale. There is a growing and murderous development paradigm that is spreading across the country, even if it remains concealed from our own well-fed realities. Please find it in yourself to support the movement against displacement. Oppose violence against the poor. Speak up against forced evictions. Do not condone what is fast becoming state-sponsored murder.

The Convention of the National Alliance of People’s Movements (NAPM) will be held in Bangalore from 30th May to 1st June. The meeting will discuss the critical issues facing us all across the country, to build greater solidarity across movements and communities, and to develop long-term strategies in support of people’s struggles.

For more details on the NAPM Convention, please write to: muktaATriseupDOTnet

I happened

2006-05-23T04:07:00.000-07:00

Nothing happened to me, Officer Starling. I happened... You can't reduce me to a set of influences.

-- Hannibal Lecter to Clarice Starling in The Silence of the Lambs

In a feminine tongue

2006-05-23T02:24:00.000-07:00

Zubaan is planning to produce an anthology of short fiction showcasing new women writers from South Asia. Called the 'Zubaan book of new writing by young women', the book will focus on works by young writers in their 20s and 30s.

* The writers should be women of South Asian origin, but may be based anywhere in the world. Non-resident Indian writers as well as those in India are encouraged to write in.
* Stories can be of any length, ideally anywhere between 2-5,000 words, and should be complete stand-alone narratives.
* All submissions must be in English.
* The anthology will be of fictional writing, and a variety of genres will be included- from humourous pieces to science fiction, fantasy, detective stories, and other forms, which may fall under the general rubric of 'speculative fiction'.
* Preference will be given to unpublished stories.

Selection will be on merit, and the stories would be read by Zubaan's in-house editorial team. The final selection for inclusion would rest with the Editor.

Complete stories should be sent as word attachments to:
contactATzubaanbooksDOTcom
zubaanwbooksATvsnlDOTnet
anitaroy1000ATyahooDOTcoDOTuk
with the subject line "Submission for Young Writers Anthology". Along with their story, writers should email a short biography about themselves, including details of their published writings (if any).

Responsibility for the editing, design, production and sales of the book rests with the publishers. Copyright for individual pieces would rest with the respective authors, but rights in the anthology as a whole would rest with the publishers, who will actively pursue the sale of translation and co-publication rights for the book.
Selected writers will receive a modest fee for their work.

All submissions should be received by July 31st 2006.

Zubaan is a small independent feminist publisher, based in New Delhi. Headed by Urvashi Butalia, who co-founded India's first feminist press, Kali for Women, Zubaan is committed to publishing books by, for, on, and about women and women's issues in South Asia for an international market.

Tea-time rains

2006-05-17T03:30:00.000-07:00

The rain is unexpected these days. It’s difficult to say whether summer will ever really arrive. Or if its here, but in an impish hide-and-seek mood. Or if it’s over already, bored that nobody wants to come out and play. It’s suddenly here and then suddenly gone.

I stretch in the afternoon heat on the office balcony. I put tea leaves out to soak in sunshine for iced sun-tea. I turn up the fan when my colleague isn’t looking. And knot my adamant hair as high as it’ll stay before coming undone on its own once more.

And when I step onto the balcony to retrieve my slow-brewed tea, the skies are dark and the strong, cool winds have already begun their dance through the streets, flirting with fallen leaves and napes of necks. It’s a sneaky little nip just when you’ve started to sweat. A kiss on the cheek. A pleasant surprise. A light shawl over your strappy top.

These days, the smell of roasted peanuts wafts over traffic to find one’s nose most efficiently. Pants are rolled up as puddles are navigated on half-tarred-half-mud roads. Polythene bags become wraparound, tie-up raincaps. Couples huddle close under shared umbrellas. Roadside chai shops do roaring business, selling sweet sweet chai to those who drain the warmth from plastic cups. Men in formals bend over to light their cigarettes from labourers squatting and smoking beedis on the footpath. Buses are shiny wet and cold on the outside, muddy-floored and warm on the inside.

And I add ice cubes to my sun-tea as the rain drenches the city in surprise.

Doing it in strange places

2006-05-11T00:04:00.000-07:00

A commonly asked question at social justice events is, ‘What can I do to get more involved?’ This question is usually answered in one of three ways: send money, call politicians, and volunteer. Unfortunately, none of these fosters a sense of personal investment in an issue; neither does it offer a solution for how to be personally involved in solving injustices around the world. It also doesn't account for the lack of time, money and resources that voluntary organisations face, and which these three solutions require. What if we could just incorporate our politics into our every day lives, particularly into our seemingly apolitical careers?
In fact, that's exactly what most activists do.

Call for Submissions - Young Women's Anthology

"Doing it in Strange Places... And Making Change: Young Women Fighting for Social Justice"

In this anthology, young women from all walks of life who have found creative ways to use their job/career/talent/passion (from writing to banking to computer programming to being a homemaker) as an outlet for social justice activism, are encouraged to write in.

The end result will be an anthology that makes activism more accessible and inspiring for others to use the resources they already have to contribute to social justice. Changing the world won't happen over night, so let's share our daily successes and strategies for making all of our visions of a better world possible.

Writers of all experience levels are encouraged to submit work. All work must be original and should not be published elsewhere.

Submission Guidelines

* "Young" is about how you self-identify. There are no age limits.
* Submissions should be sent via email in a Word or Rich Text Format document to mandy_vandevenATyahooDOTcom
with "Doing it in Strange Places" in the subject line.

Submissions can also be mailed to:
Mandy Van Deven
955 Metropolitan Ave, #4R
Brooklyn, NY 11211

* If you'd like your submission returned, please include a SASE.
* Word count: 2,500 - 5,000
* All submissions require your name, address, phone number, email address, and a short bio.

Send your submissions by May 15, 2006.

Lightning goddess

2006-05-08T03:35:00.000-07:00

Photo courtesy: Morquendi

What's a reunion without a little drama?

My deviant day

2006-05-03T04:48:00.000-07:00

Today is a day for aberrations.
Ice cream and potato chips for breakfast.
Toast and chocolate biscuits for lunch.
The tease of a playful cloudburst by my staid window.
A late afternoon omelette.
No work tip-toeing its way onto tomorrow’s list of things to do.
Tomato juice for tea.
And rapture while sifting through stacks of dusty, disinterested print.
For dinner, another ice cream meal is in order.

Elsewhere

2006-05-02T01:44:00.000-07:00

You play tourist well, he says. Your eyes become wider. Your voice and hands grow animated.

I pretend to take offence and stop talking for a while. The straps of my backpack leave wrinkles on thin-weave cotton. Grooves at my shoulders develop when I walk for long, my body accommodating the extra weight like a detachable, semi-permanent physical feature.

You play worldly well, I tell him. And we share a smile as we did years ago in another city. I’m suddenly aware of the thin film of sweat that clings to us both. Shiny shoulders and forearms in the heat of an indifferent afternoon. He says I find everything exotic when I’m in a place called elsewhere.

I stretch. We reach for our knapsacks. And agree to meet in another city. Another time.

In solidarity

2006-04-26T02:25:00.000-07:00

The Narmada Solidarity Forum in Bangalore is organising a rally to protest the Government's failure to rehabilitate the several thousand families displaced by the Sardar Sarovar Project.

Time: 3:00 pm
Date: Saturday, April 29th, 2006
Route: from Chiklalbagh (beside Bangalore Bus Station) to Banappa Park followed by a Public Meeting at the Banappa Park at 5:00 pm

For further details contact: The Narmada Solidarity Forum at
alforumATvsnlDOTnet

The government wants to raise the Sardar Sarovar dam height to 121m despite the fact that the Supreme Court has said that rehabilitation must take place first before the height is raised. In March 2006, three members of the NBA including Medha Patkar went on a fast for 20 days before the government agreed to discuss the issue.

In April 2006, three Union Ministers visited the Narmada valley and reported to the Prime Minister that rehabilitation has NOT taken place. The SupremeCourt however has allowed the government to continue construction of the dam while violating its own guidelines. It will re-examine the states' reports on the rehabilitation on May 1 2006. The lives and lands of thousands of people depend on the Supreme Court's decision.

The State has shown that it operates responsibly only when forced to do so. Please pass the word around.

The long ride home

2006-04-21T03:04:00.000-07:00

Have you ever wondered where people go once they get off the bus?
After breathing the same sweaty air as you, watching the same passersby from your shared window. After being rocked and swayed in tandem with you. Their elbow at your waist, a chin resting on your shoulder, their hand grabbing yours for support when nothing more solid is within reach. Where do they go when their feet hit solid ground? Where do they call home?

The young girl who strains her neck to catch the eye of someone lost in the crowd at the back. Stepping on toes and calling out a name at each stop, to make certain he doesn’t leave without her. When she finally pushes her way through, he’s waiting for her at the front entrance, taking her hand in his. Pushing the hair away from her face, smiling because she felt lost without him. Guiding her to the footpath with his arm around her shoulders. Would they make passionate love when they closed the door behind them?

The well-dressed woman who buys strands of jasmine from the lady sitting next to her. Watching her twirl thread deftly around the heavy blossoms, reaching into her lap for loose buds. An aromatic garland of white snaking its way into the stained jute bag at her feet. Would she weave the flowers into her braid when she reached home? Would they be kept in the refrigerator and worn just before stepping out for work the next morning? Was it to garland a photograph of a loved one who had passed on?

The college girl sending frantic text messages throughout the journey. Checking her phone every few seconds to make sure she hadn’t missed a reply. Talking animatedly to a friend over the roars and sputters of the engine with her hand cupping her mouth. Asking for advice on how to let him down easy. Dismissing advice on why she should give him another chance. Will she call him? Will he call her? Will the two of them let their fingers and lives entwine once her stop arrives?

The conductor who raises both arms as he pushes through the throng of passengers. Yelling at the men to get out of the ladies’ seats. Waiting for me to fish for change and slapping his forehead when I shrugged and offered him a hundred-rupee note. Who let me have a ticket even though I paid one rupee less. Who leaned out of the door and shouted at slow cyclists. Who smiled when I gave him the fifty paisa coin I dug out of my bag. Where would he have his dinner? Where would he smoke the day’s last cigarette?

The bespectacled man pressing up against the woman standing in front of him, ignoring her frown. Inching forward every time she tried moving away without losing her own place, her feet firm, her grip making her knuckles white. Looking the other way when she’d turn to face him, suddenly interested in the peeling paper advertisements stuck to the walls above the windows. Putting his hand on top of hers, entertained by the clicking of her tongue and watching deep creases form between her brows. Her sindoor smudged, but clearly visible. Would he go home to a wife and children of his own?

The driver with the blotchy Krishna tattoo on his forearm.
The old lady with a bag of vegetables.
The man with liquor on his breath.
The labourers balancing babies and bandlis in their arms.

Where do they go when I go home?

55 revisited

2006-04-14T00:48:00.000-07:00

She ordered iced tea. How many lunches and dinners were had here.
Same city. Same café. Same diluted drink.
A couple of times it was the same table, the same chair even.
Only she was different.

She looked up at the promise that walked in and smiled as he pulled up a chair for himself.

The Mad Rush

2006-04-07T05:44:00.000-07:00

Board outside Gandhi's ashram, Sevagram, Wardha.

Wardha

2006-04-07T05:42:00.000-07:00

Rambhai shows us how hollow cylinder roof tiles are made.

Ashish has a go.

Young love

2006-04-03T22:44:00.000-07:00

So I was dressing in the changing room after my workout when two teenage girls (who couldn't have been older than sixteen) walked in to wait for the shower. They turned to the mirror and proceeded to check themselves out.

Girl 1: (looks at her side profile and tugs at her sports bra) They just aren’t growing fast enough.
Girl 2: (rolls her eyes) They don’t grow everyday, you know.
Girl 1: Not like that, I’m using this new cream. It’s supposed to help. Two to three weeks.
Girl 2: Really? Where’d you get it?
Girl 1: (blushes) Rehan bought it for me.
Girl 2: That’s so sweet of him!
Girl 1: Yeah, he likes me to look good, you know.

Um, yes. Sweet.

Delivered to the wrong address

2006-03-29T00:48:00.000-08:00

Last week, I went to Wardha.

Our first stop was a settlement just off the dusty national highway. The villagers were working in the adjoining field and we waited until they decided to take a break. Forty minutes later, the group returned and sat down to join us. Men first, taking their place on the chatais we had spread out on the ground. Women next, and the children stayed away, peeking out from behind nearby haystacks and tree trunks.
The customary namaste is acknowledged but a tentative smile is met with blank stares. Every time I’d smile at an old lady or child when we were speaking, I was stared at. The only reaction it elicited was that everyone began looking at my teeth more closely.

One of the topics that we were addressing was the transition from a human settlement to a human habitat. In order to focus on such an enormous theme more realistically, we walked around a number of villages where the government, under its Indira Awas Yojana had constructed houses for the rural poor.

At the first village, we noticed that each one of the doors was bolted. I figured it was because everyone was in the field, but after a mapping exercise*, and while we were on our village walk**, they showed us where they actually stayed. Under oilcloth and canvas sheets behind the cement building. The people in that particular village believed it was bad luck to stay in houses which opened out onto the main road. Straight passage for spirits and ill omens.

‘And it’s too dark inside. Nature has never been unkind to us. The heat is bearable because we wait for the breeze. How are we supposed to stay in those houses, madam? Who will live like that?’

And so they keep their livestock in the government constructed houses. And they sleep under torn tarpaulin with their families.

A few kilometres away, in another tribal settlement, the State decided to let the community enjoy the benefits of sanitation. The women explained that the toilets were initially a welcome addition to their village because they’d have to walk a considerable distance to relieve themselves – day or night.
Then the structures were finally constructed. Tiny cubicles with no ventilation whatsoever. Unhygienic cement squares.
And so they’ve filled up the pans with bricks and sand. For their goats.

‘Atleast two small ones can fit at a time. Then we move them with the older ones later. Next time, we’ll ask the contractors to build them bigger. We could start keeping the calves of cows here also!’

I tried keeping my facial expressions to a minimum and made my notes, said my namastes, and moved from one ironical situation to another. And it struck me that so many of these incongruities could have been addressed by having a simple conversation with the people. One conversation.

As bleak as the statistics are, it disturbs me that even those facilities that may be included in the official figures are, in all practicality, useless.

*Village mapping is an interactive exercise wherein the target community draws their entire village on the ground with rice flour. The layout of the village provides a great deal of insight into the lives of the people; houses are sometimes clumped according to income, family, caste, crops cultivated and food habits; some homes may have access to a well while others do not; some are pucca while others are not. It’s also a technique that’s used to break the ice with a tribal/dalit community, given that initial tension is palpable between outsiders (us) and the villagers. It’s also interesting because the roles are subverted to an extent, with the community teaching us instead of an entirely one-way interaction from our side.

**The village walk is my favourite exercise where we split up into groups and get someone from the community to walk us through their settlement. You see an entire settlement as the community sees it, as a functional habitat. As you pass by different parts of the village, you hear all sorts of anecdotes about the history and changes that have taken place in the area over time. It’s very informal and a great way to get to learn more about the people, their livelihoods and way of living. Often, arguments will break out because some feel that a story is being told all wrong, and you get several versions of how a hand pump was rendered dysfunctional, why the grain banks were formed or the gossip on the young couple that got married and moved to the city.

Rent a smile

2006-03-20T04:44:00.000-08:00

Last week I visited one of the slums we work in for Holi. The kids went all out and choreographed an elaborate dance routine, directed and performed their own plays and did the decorating on their own. We were all suitably impressed. I let my colleagues find their places and went off to see if the children needed help with their costumes. As soon as they saw me approaching the green room, I was promptly chased away and instructed to sit down patiently.

The speakers were being tested and I sat on the ground to wait. One of the speakers was misbehaving and a small army of the older boys were fiddling with the wires. Occasionally, snatches of music blared from both and they'd whoop and start jumping around to the beat, hands in the air. Then the faulty speaker would go silent once more, the jumping would stop and a huddle would form again.

Now and then a small boy would run across the stage, to the changing room and back to the group at the speakers. He wasn't participating that day but took the role of supervisor upon himself. Nobody paid much attention to him, but he ran around with tremendous purpose. Every once in a while he'd stop suddenly and bounce his bottom to the music before scrambling off again.

I caught his eye and called him over to keep me company. His name was Chelu, he said. He wouldn't be participating because he missed most of the rehearsals. He was very ill, he said.
'You don't look ill to me,' I said. 'And you dance very well.'
'Thank you auntymadam,' he grinned. And stuck out his hand for me to shake.
I shook his hand and gave him a hug.

I don't know if it was because he wasn't used to physical affection of this sort, but he blushed and looked at his friends coyly, who stood a small distance away, giggling into their palms. I let him go and ruffled his hair just before he sprinted away.

Later, as I sat cross legged in front of the area chalked out as the stage, Chelu sat down quietly next to me. Before I turned and saw who it was, I felt a small, skinny arm resting lightly on my knee. I shifted to my right slightly and the arm flew back into its owner's lap.
'What happened?' I asked.
Chelu shook his head, probably embarrassed at having used me for an armrest. He dropped his head and became suddenly interested in the manuscript he had begun writing in the sand.
I reached over and placed him in my lap, not expecting the squeal that escaped from his lips. He wriggled around a bit, then found a comfortable spot and he didn't move after that. Once in a while I'd tickle him, just to hear that squeal again and to watch him cover his face in embarrassment.

We watched the kids dance, joined in at the end and handed out syrupy jelebis once the programme was over. As we were leaving, Chelu asked me to visit him the next day. I tried explaining that I had to go to my office, just like he had to go to school the next day.
'Holidays?' he asked.
'Of course, whenever you invite me. And you can come to my office, okay?'
Chelu looked suddenly serious, 'No auntymadam.'
'Why? Why can't you come to see me?'
'I don't have a clean pant-shirt,' he said, the smile never leaving his face.

And I smiled back and said it didn't matter. That he could come wearing whatever he wanted.
And after that, my smile wasn't really mine.

Therefore I think

2006-03-12T21:55:00.000-08:00

Last evening saw me lecturing an eighteen-year old boy to ‘let go a little more in love’ and to ‘not always think about the consequences of every spoken word’ because he’s ‘so young’ and that ‘even if you get your heart ripped out and completely pulverised, it’s still completely worth it’.

The said boy slumped in his chair, examined the terracotta floor tiles and replied, ‘But it’s such a waste of time.’
‘Nothing is wasted. You only become more aware of yourself with every person you let into your life.’
‘I’m eighteen, Chamique. I can’t be thinking about this now.’

‘There’s nothing to think about,’ I insisted, ‘you needn’t think so much. It’s very simple, really.’
‘Thanks for your concern and all. But you know what? I’ll think about this stuff when I finally get to being your age.’

How does one calculate one’s age in human years, again?

Reclaim the streets

2006-03-06T21:54:00.000-08:00

I’ve already posted something similar about the issue of street sexual harassment.

It’s assumed that a woman walking alone in a public space becomes public property. A mobile display of body parts that seem to be suddenly disengaged from the actual person that she is. I find myself thinking twice about a lot of things when I step out.

I debate over which route I should take home, depending on what time of the day it is. I think about getting tinted windows when I’m driving home alone at night. Whether outstation trips are safer by bus or by train.

I think twice when I rummage through my closet and look for something to wear. I have separate clothes for when I use public transport. For when I drive. For a girls’ night out, when we don’t want to be hit on by strangers. For when I’m with the boys and I know someone will be looking protectively over my shoulder.

I wear separate faces for friends and strangers. It’s not who I am, the brisk-walking, half-frowning girl you see on the roads.
I smile a lot. I like laughing at myself. I do charcoal sketches. I like my navel ring. I tell rambling stories and I forget what I wanted to say initially. I'm proud of my muscular legs.
I'm more than a girl with a backpack.
I love walking alone. I would love to bend over and pick up a torn butterfly wing from the sidewalk. But the footpath is not mine. The roads are borrowed. And the public space is for a public from which I am excluded.

Much has been said. But so much more needs to be heard.

As part of the Blank Noise Project blogathon.

No summer love

2006-03-01T03:04:00.000-08:00

Something about the weather these days brings back memories of my summer vacations in school. Where sunny mornings would be spent at the pool and sultry afternoons would find me on the basketball court. After an exhausting game (girls first, boys next and then mixed teams) and lying around on the court, we’d head towards the juice joint on the corner and make plans for a movie or lunch somewhere.
Having gotten used to that routine for a couple of years, college holidays created a strange vacuum of sorts. My clique had dispersed and there were few sports-oriented people in my class. (This is excluding those who watched cricket and F1in pubs.) My swimming was put off because of the coaching classes for kids, and I grew tired of swerving around little legs on every lap. I eventually did find a few people in my final year who played basketball and conceded to come to college during vacation (and who didn’t cringe at the thought of playing with girls).

I was reminiscing at the gym this morning when the instructor closed all the windows and switched on the air conditioner. I looked up and he shrugged, pointing at a group of gossiping aunties who were sitting on a row of cycles without even pretending to pedal. There were a number of others, stretching, jogging in place and waiting to actually use the machines.
'Committee members,' he said.
‘Oh fo,’ I said to my reflection in the mirror, ‘Tell them to sit in a coffee lounge or something.’

Later, an aunty (from the stationary cycle kitty party) came up to me at the water filter and asked me to sign a petition to get rid of one of our gym instructors.
‘Uh, sorry but I don’t think I can sign that, really,’ said the diplomatic me, ‘my dad’s the member. I’m still a dependent.’
‘But you’re the one using the facility. Just put down your name. We need to get professional around here.’
I was firmer the second time around and told her I was getting late. My polite smile had disappeared a while ago.
I was given the once over and another lady said ‘We should introduce a new rule about allowing people to use hair oil when they come in.’

Background note: As part of my It’s About Time I Start Taking Care Of Myself deal, I’ve taken to oiling my hair once a week. Since the thought of sitting with oily hair all day scares me, I take care of this obligation at night. And since Saturday nights usually find me sauntering into the house at too obscene an hour to be rubbing oil into my scalp, I do so mid-week. And I take my greasy head to the gym with me the next morning, to be washed just before leaving for work.

‘I didn’t know young girls still did that with all the products available these days,’ another said to me, her eyebrows in her hairline. ‘I mean, my teenage daughter doesn’t.’

Yes aunty, some of us don’t use a multitude of products for straightening, defrizzing, styling, colouring and crimping; and we end up using things like oil. And judging by your scanty, spilt-ended, heavily dyed ’do, I’d suggest your daughter start doing the same.

Another looked down at my worn sneakers and remarked, ‘And put down sports shoes for the gym only.’

Background note: My sneakers give me sole support when I’m running after a bus that’s threatening to take off and leave me in a wake of exhaust and dust. My sneakers kick up their own dust clouds and heave a sigh of relief when I’m stationary once more. Then they are stepped on when others are searching for enough room to place their own feet. They walk the long walks I take from one place to another. Occasionally, they are known to step into minor accidents created by the big and bovine.
Wearing them to work makes me feel like I’m ready for anything physically demanding.

Field trips? Sure thing.
Walking kilometres to find a potential spot for a new settlement? But of course.
Joining in a game of kho-kho with a group of girls when they ask you? Go ahead, madam, we’re doing a technical survey now anyway.
Skipping off to the market to get a kilo of lemons for shikanji? Not a problem, my lethargic colleagues.
Jumping out of your seat and breaking into a dance of joy at a proposal being sanctioned? Got it covered.
My sneakers are worn until they have no wear left in them. And that is the only way of doing justice to a pair of sports shoes.

So excuse me lady, but I have neither the time nor the inclination to colour coordinate my shoes with my exercise clothes for the day unlike you.

I used to like the no-nonsense crowd that came in to work out at the club in the mornings. Everyone with somewhere to be at a certain time - work, home, college. We were the ones who came to exercise (unlike our evening counterparts who’d visit the gym for a public preening session). We’d sign the register, tick off a list of the equipment we’d use, pass the newspaper around and wish each other a good day. I suppose in the two years I was away from home, things have changed.
So now, when I wake up in the morning and step out into the early morning sunshine, my senses are fooled into smiling. Even though the weather tells me it’s a great day for something sporty, things just aren’t the same.

Maybe swimming classes for the kids haven't started as yet...

Trivial injustices

2006-02-22T01:32:00.000-08:00

Street sexual harassment seems to have become an anecdotal topic. My friends and I speak of incidents offhandedly, revealing how we kicked some serious lecherous ass, or how we surprised ourselves by not doing anything at all.

The other day, while negotiating the crowds on Brigade Road, Akshay told me to walk in front of him. If anyone touched me, he’d be ready to throw a couple of punches. That eventually nothing happened bothered him.
‘Dude, why not now? When I’m here covering for you?’
I was about to object to his ‘covering for me’ when I realised that the situation had been different when I was walking up the street to meet the boys. I mentioned minor traumatic incidents later over lunch and the guys seemed outraged.
‘You women are all alike. You let these creeps do whatever and some two hours later come and tell us.’

Usually nothing happens when a woman is associated with a man while on the street. There have been times when I’m holding B’s hand and walking on a crowded footpath and men will stay away because I have a man with me. The same goes for when I’m with baba, or any guy friend. But when ma and I are out, there have been ‘situations’. (I’m feeling euphemistic just now.)
Presumably, the woman is an easier target when she’s alone. Though it really doesn’t matter whether I’m holding someone’s hand or not; I’m quick with profanities and my hand is ready to hit the person if he’s been particularly offensive.

I also believe that I react differently on different days. Sometimes, I make eye contact with everyone who looks in my direction. (This is often interpreted as Look How Bold I Am Won’t You Please Put Me In My Rightful Subservient Place.)
Other times I feign indifference at stares and advances, trying to exude the impression of the I’m Used To City Streets And I Know I’m Attractive So You Can Give Up Trying To Fluster Me type. (This is also interpreted as Look How Bold I Am Won’t You Please Put Me In My Rightful Subservient Place.)

I notice that I’ve stopped reacting to certain types of harassment while others, I address. This could be construed as a sort of self-censorship, where I begin slotting offences according to my own pre-determined categories.
Can Be Overlooked. Can Be Mistaken For An Accident. To Be Dealt With. Deserves Slap. Deserves Rude Retort.

Now singing in my ear as I walk past is ignored.
As are the loud conversations by groups of college boys referring to body parts.
And the high-pitched unnatural kissing noises.
The seemingly accidental brush against my thigh is dismissed with a click of my tongue.
Someone blowing on the nape of my neck in a queue is accosted with ‘Excuse me? Please move back.’
A man staring at my chest would get nothing more than a glare if I were tired or preoccupied.
Sometimes, if I’m irritated or have had a bad day, I retaliate by making the common mother-sister references.

Sometimes I confront a man pressing up against another girl on a crowded bus.
Sometimes I scream so loud it draws a crowd.
Often, the crowd consists of men who hang around silently and size you up from head to toe.
Almost always, the men deny having done anything.
A couple of times, a man has apologised.
Once a man hit me right back.
Sometimes I’m afraid of what might happen to me while walking on a deserted road.
And sometimes I disappoint myself.

Please visit and support the Blank Noise Project if you feel strongly about this issue. Hell, do it if you feel anything at all.

Jacaranda morning

2006-02-17T03:57:00.000-08:00

With summer breathing down my neck, I walk the circuitous, scenic route to work. My path is now longer, but trees reach out from either side of the road and the sun hits my eyes less frequently.
And the jacarandas are now in full bloom. The tar roads seem festive now, strewn with purple trumpet blossoms. The pockmarked path seem less harsh these days.

The tree outside our compound wall has only just burst into bloom and I slowed down this morning to appreciate its tardiness. Standing close to the trunk, I craned my neck upwards and filled my gaze with lilac flowers, jaunty against the electric blue of the sky.

Then my peripheral vision caught Aarti sipping her coffee on the terrace.
‘What are you? Ten years old?’ she called out.
‘Just making some time for the little things, you hardened caffeine addict,’ I answered.

And as I took my first step towards the office, I landed my foot squarely in a fresh pile of cow dung. Covered almost entirely with gorgeous lavender flowers, of course.

Turning up the faders

2006-02-14T01:28:00.000-08:00

Who would’ve known that this guy I grew up with in North Carolina is a total rock star now?

All it took was a few shy e-mails; clicking on some innocuous links made me realise that I’ve missed out on so much these past couple of years.

I still remember jumping into piles of dry, scratchy leaves in the fall – our reward for having raked the entire yard.
Finding a nest full of baby sparrows, being careful not to touch because Mother Bird would then abandon her young.
Making home videos; taking turns at being actor and director; being the only corpse in the history of cinema that squeezed her eyes tight and giggled when the camera was focusing on her.
Good times.

And now he’s a singer-songwriter with a band.
His music is phenomenal and his lyrics are explosive.

Nathan, I wish you all the luck in the world.

Aubade

2006-02-13T22:15:00.000-08:00

I came across this in the mail – it peeped out at me from amongst all the Valentine’s Day promos, ads and e-cards. If I were ever to write a poem about being in love, it would be like this. (Well, perhaps a bit shorter.)

Being in love with you
Is to abandon the piano:
It is to take up the castanets,
The bugle,
The kettle drum.

It is to sleep naked, with all the doors and windows open,
Fearing nothing.

Being in love with you means
I wake one morning feeling
Such warmth rising inside me
That I am suddenly confident
All snow would melt
Within my steady gaze;
And I dress quickly
To test this
On the crisp,
DecemberLandscape.

Being in love with you means the moon is full and the wind strong
Along the western ghats of South India.

In summer, being in love with you is red, raw and delicious.
In winter it is blue, lucent, and shimmers when touched.

Being in love with you is to forget
For a moment the use of fruit:
It is to stare long at the splendour
Of a green pear
On a white porcelain plate.

Being in love with you is old as Laughing Buddha,
And as fat.

Being in love with you for even one second
Is enough. The big picture changes.
(When the honey jar is opened, the whole kitchen is instantly sticky.)

Being in love with you is a deep thirst,
An undermining hunger.

Being in love with you is ludicrous and cannot be explained.
Being in love with you sneaks up on me from behind.
It is a kind of ambush.
Or worse, it is an avalanche
In which I am tumbled furiously
For a time, then stopped cold
In whatever absurd position the snow
Finds me - perhaps only a hat
Or a hand
Visible to the outside world.

Being in love with you is alpine and religious, naked and fierce.

In spring, it is green, resilient, and sways to the rhythms of wind.
In autumn, it is pale gold and fills the sky.

Being in love with you is centripetal.
It cradles and cherishes, yet
Confiscates as much as it confers.

It clobbers and clocks, then cloisters - but only to clarify
And cleanse.

It seems to cathart then catnap, but later celebrates
And celestialises.
It cures and cushions,
Compels and completes.

It is hard to believe
Being in love with you
Was once
That tiny space
In my heart
That has since exploded
Into a vast cathedral
Of sky
Under which I stand alone,
Looking up.

It is raining cats and dogs.
I am drenched.

Being in love with you has soaked me
To the bone
And I will never again
Be dry.

-- Michael Londry

With eyebrow raised

2006-02-10T02:56:00.000-08:00

Jute Cottage, with its adorable Jute is Cute logo on every product, still hands over customers’ purchases in plastic bags.
Irony seems to be wasted on some.

Coloured pencils

2006-02-08T02:48:00.000-08:00

I'm quite tempted to go home and sketch this myself.

Groupie love

2006-01-31T02:46:00.000-08:00

Z’s husband plays the drums. And we had a chance to watch him perform at BC’s Nostalgia Night. Since Z and I were below the age limit, we had to use the crew passes to get in. So Z, B, Dilettante and I were IJ’s groupies for the night. And although we didn’t get to hear a drum solo, we did hear some talented senior citizens crooning. Also, much dancing was done. It’s wonderful to watch old couples waltz and foxtrot with such tremendous grace. I was sighing most of the night as elderly gentlemen reached for their wives and led them to the dance floor.

B and I decided we’d be a waltzing couple (when it became appropriate for us to stop bouncing and bopping). When the waltz stopped and the jive and disco started, we hit the floor. I have now realised that couples need practice in order to coordinate their jive. Say this to B and he’ll shoot back ‘You have to improvise, see?’ before breaking into his Coorg tribal dance butt-shake while I’m still waiting for him to dip me. Sure, salsa classes helped, but then after a point he refused to attend, saying that he was spending money to watch me dance with other guys. (Our class had an acute shortage of girls, so we’d rotate.)

While we weren’t dancing, we were (okay, I was) checking out the women on the lawn and on the floor. Spotted were plenty of ladies I would love to look like when I become fifty. Speaking of attractive women, I saw Hot Gym Lady who comes to work out in the morning. At one point Dilettante and I were so busy checking out Hot Gym Lady (he, being more tactful than I, managed a great view - owing mostly to his height) while we were wildly flailing our legs in a can-can sort of item number, when we banged shins as a result of our shameless ogling - after which we decided to do the twist instead.

And Z would look lovingly at IJ sitting behind the drums and smile whenever he looked up and made eye contact. Z eventually confessed she was missing him. So, anticipating a break in between songs, we walked around to his end of the stage waiting for him to jump down. He disappeared backstage just then only to join B and Dilettante at the other side, looking for Z. That was such a movie moment.

I’d say we make excellent groupies!

Happy negligence

2006-01-31T01:26:00.000-08:00

Gautam Bhatia in this Hindustan Times article writes of the emerging trend of gated communities and the new urban India. I found my views swinging as I read the editorial. Some of his points come across as pro-poor while he ended on what I interpreted as an anti-development note.
Of course, the umbrella term 'development' has different connotations for different people. (And has sparked many a debate on ACJ's terrace canteen - as also having induced deep slumber in the a/c lecture hall on the floor below.)
In my opinion, misguided development should have been more of the focus here.

He says:
'…the new India is an incomplete picture; its makers are on the road to trial and unabashed plagiarism. The perfect picture has already formed somewhere in the world and we are merely buyers on an expensive and indulgent shopping spree. Take an American highway and string it between Mumbai and Pune. Plant a New Jersey suburb in Bangalore, copy a California condominium in Gurgaon. Help yourself to South Korean rail technology, buy yourself German carriages. Ask a Spanish designer to build a world-class airport. Do it, because action must be seen to have been taken, and it’s just too bad if the international amalgam is a mess.'

I agree that such cut and paste techniques aren't the best solution to infrastructure development. Capital-intensive construction in a labour-surplus economy isn't the way to go. And importing the exorbitantly priced skills of foreign architects ignores the talent of our urban planners and barefoot architects who know infinitely more about appropriate technology.

'To wish a Shanghai on Delhi or Mumbai would kill the very reason cities are made: the variety of economics, cultures and sociologies that come together to share common space. For all its richness and squalor, Mumbai survives. It may not be glinting across the sea like Hong Kong, but the thick, messy geography of varied perceptions, people and places, fuelled by rural migrations and urban growth all makes into a one-of-a-kind city.'

Again, I agree for the most part. Even if this reasoning seems to somehow rationalise the squalor, making it seem palatable if only because we're Indians and we can handle poverty and filth and squatter settlements. Because it's taken for granted that those without choices are content with charity. The charity of allowing the poor to settle outside the city limits, only to push them away and allow them once more to live on the fringes. Okay, so I suppose I don't agree after all.

'A happy third world city.'

Excuse me? But who exactly is it that gets to decide who is happy? Certainly not the slum dwellers themselves? Surely not the migrant labourers who are treated even worse than Maharashtra's resident poor?
In this case apparently, it's by an architect.
It's one thing to voice concern over the misguided priorities taking over the urban elite. And it's quite something else to pass off our own government's negligence (just because we live with it) as romantic.

As of now

2006-01-27T00:50:00.000-08:00

Two from this group of four are married

Settle for less

2006-01-25T03:20:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I visited one of our project sites near the ITPL. The slums there have proliferated rather fast compared to other parts of the city and one would expect more by way of facilities and access, considering this is where the money is. But the people there had a long list of complaints and point to where a fence is now being constructed.
That land was ours, they say, we still haven’t gotten anything for it.
I nodded quietly, taking notes and listing names of CEOs and Managers I need to speak to, on the other side of the barbed wire.

I ask them about toilets, running water, electricity, drinking water, fodder and such like.
(Most are unavailable or very hard to come by.)
Questions answered, we sat down to drink syrupy tea. And I asked a young man - who was a security guard on the nightshift – whether he thought the area had ‘developed’.
Of course, he said, signalling to his friends that I was a moron to be asking such a question. The land prices have more than doubled in the past three years. Even if we haven’t gotten paid as yet, the amount we’ll get ensures us a profit of something atleast.

But they've been pushed back and fenced out. That they don’t have drinking water or electricity or functional toilets didn’t figure in his little assessment.
When I pointed this out to him, he laughed and said they set lowers standards for themselves.

I find myself easily depressed these days.

Postscript:
B used to tell me that CSR is nothing but a gimmick and I’d click my tongue and roll my eyes. (At the time, I was more of an idealist than a realist.)
I still haven’t been able to prove him wrong, though.

Content

2006-01-23T04:08:00.000-08:00

It's nice to know that weddings don't change people.
Z can still laugh out loud when I’m lining her eyes. We still pull faces at each other when nobody’s looking and speak in incoherent sentences that somehow only we can understand.
I’m glad to have held her hand when she became suddenly nervous. I’m glad to have caught her eye from the back row when she thought I had left.
I’m glad she’ll be close enough for weekend lunches and movies and pyjama parties.
And like she says, when it’s time, I’ll be glad to be the backpacking godmother who babysits (on occasion).

Unladylike for one night

2006-01-16T02:35:00.000-08:00

Z's bachelorette party was pure, unadulterated madness.

Here's a do-it-yourself kit for brides-to-be:
*soothing golden lotus instrumental music in the background*

Get your best friend to treat you to a day at a spa. (In this case that friend would be me.)
Make sure the aforementioned friend treats you to a large, late lunch at a restaurant of your choice.
Go with said friend for some last minute girly shopping. (This would include lingerie, phone charms, flip-flops and funky stationery.)
Discover during the course of the day that your cousins and some close friends (aforementioned friend included) have planned a night out for you.
Feel flattered that they went to all this trouble.
Promptly call husband-to-be and tell him the heartening news.
Say goodbye to your companion for the day, making plans to meet a few hours later, all dressed up and ready for a night out on the town.

*soothing golden lotus instrumental music fades out*

And here's the do-it-yourself kit for friends of the bride-to-be:

You will need --
(for the girl)
One bright yellow stretchy synthetic skirt with pink and orange sequins
One fitted, matching top (sold as part of a set with the skirt)
Black pantyhose
One fluorescent orange teddy bear bag to complement the yellow outfit
One pair of translucent pink plastic high heels
One pair of pink plastic earrings which proclaim I Love You to the world
Two bright orange scrunchies
One pair of red lacy hair clips (yes, they don't go with the colour scheme, but our girl needed something extra)
A generous amount of yellow bangles
Talcum powder
Plenty of make-up
A paper sign which warns No Making Nuisance!

(for complete strangers encountered during the course of the night)
One bright red Y front
One very large dabba of impotence medicine
Plenty of creativity

Firstly, while escorting the sentimental, gushing girl to the first girlfriend's house, tell her how much you love her. Start the evening with a drink of her choice and kick up your feet and channel-surf while the rest of the girls make final phone calls to one another, out of earshot.
Again, keep reassuring bride-to-be that no matter what, she will be loved.
And just when the warm fuzzies start enveloping her, introduce her to the contents of your Bachelorette Kit.

Z was such a sport. She wore the yellow child's outfit with grace and an inimitable sense of good humour. I braided her hair into two neat plaits and attached the clips and scrunchies at the ends. Her cousins powdered her face, geisha style, and extended her eyeliner just beyond her eyebrows. Red lipstick and green eyeshadow completed her look for the evening.

Proceed to a crowded nightclub and be sure the sign on girl's back does not go unnoticed.
Introduce her to a many people as possible, after all, it is her party.
Hand over a list of tasks which must be completed before the ridiculous club-curfew.
This would involve auctioning the Y fronts and impotence medicine and anything else that catches your fancy.

Aside: a group of stags is always an easy target, especially when the bachelorette has a posse of women with her at all times. Phone numbers are often asked for in addition to the Y fronts. In such situations, it helps to change a digit or hand over a boyfriend's number. (Sorry B!)
The undies, medicine and her teddy-bear bag were sold for ridiculously high amounts. (Yes, all to members of the opposite sex.)

Again, Z was wonderful. She worked that yellow pencil skirt and swung her braids and smiled for the camera. Even though the future-husband condemned it. (But, why WHY are they doing this to you? Tell them I don't approve!)

Well, I think a wife with a wild streak is infinitely more fun.

Friday the 13th fiction

2006-01-13T04:15:00.000-08:00

They left at daybreak. Dust flying from under their parched heels.
Baby bounced as she looked over her mother's shoulder. The toddler clung to the pallu as his tiny feet tried hard to keep up, making him rush forward everytime the cloth was pulled straight.
The bus left just as they broke into a run.

So unsexy

2006-01-10T03:45:00.000-08:00

Can't get this out of my head...

Oh these little rejections how they add up quickly
One small sideways look and I feel so ungood
Somewhere along the way I think I gave you the power to make
Me feel the way I thought only my father could

Oh these little rejections how they seem so real to me
One forgotten birthday I'm all but cooked
How these little abandonments seem to sting so easily
I'm 13 again, am I 13 for good?

I can feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful
So unloved for someone so fine
I can feel so boring for someone so interesting
So ignorant for someone of sound mind

Oh these little protections how they fail to serve me
One forgotten phone call and I'm deflated
Oh these little defenses how they fail to comfort me
Your hand pulling away and I'm devastated

When will I stop leaving baby?
When will I stop deserting baby?
When will I start staying with myself?

Oh these little projections how they keep springing from me
I jump my ship as I take it personally
Oh these little rejections how they disappear quickly
The moment I decide not to abandon me.

-- Alanis Morissette

Urban decay: revised and scheduled for renewal

2006-01-05T00:10:00.000-08:00

The switch from a rural to urban environment, from rural to urban issues, from grassroot-level to advocacy work has been engaging as well as exhausting. I hope certain people are right when they say that my skills are being better utilised at the policy level.

I'm finally done with this.

Those who are interested in the subject (a number of people have refused to even glance at the first drafts - even my colleagues - so be warned) do send across any comments you might have.
Also, I apologise for the strange, blindingly blue colour that the boxes and text have taken upon themselves when I converted the Pagemaker file to PDF. Still can't figure that one out. Technophiles who might know how to retain image quality and true colour composition while doing such a conversion, do keep me in the loop.

Sporting

2006-01-02T02:28:00.000-08:00

Overheard on my way to work, as I passed by three girls with a cricket bat --

One of the trio (calling out to another girl perched on her compound wall, across the street):
Come ya, tell fast. What you want to do? Batting or balling?

Girl on the wall (examining her baby pink nails):
No ya, I only want to faint.

This year

2006-01-02T02:24:00.000-08:00

I want the universe to conspire with me for a few seconds everyday.

(Happy 2006!)

Abu-bhaiyya

2005-12-23T03:42:00.000-08:00

This weekend is Abbhya's wedding in Hyderabad. His sister, Z, is to follow suit next month. And I'm getting suddenly sentimental. We've shared the passage from children to adults so intimately. I don't know how much a part of their lives I will continue to be in the future.

(I dug this up from my Zatang archive. I wrote it for him when I was eighteen.)
Dear Abbhya, I still mean every word.

And everytime he puts his arm around me and says 'Stick in there,' I'm filled with new resolve. I love him and I'm now looking forward to our transition from young adults to geriatrics.

Demystifying the double-speak

2005-12-20T22:00:00.000-08:00

This is just brilliant.
Make time for a good read.

Stars wrapped with fuchsia ribbons

2005-12-19T04:12:00.000-08:00

There's about a month left to go for my best friend's wedding. And I, the overworked, underpaid, procrastinating friend, have done next to nothing about arranging a suitable bridal shower.
I was initially planning on a huge party at one of the lounges, with plenty of dancing, alcohol and loud bawdy jokes. (But we do that almost every weekend, dahling.) A night out would be a trifle redundant, so I'm still working on an appropriate substitute.

I've also decided to make a 'wedding care package' for Z, which would comprise a large number of little nothings.

A scrapbook with lots of embarrassing photographs and some of the letters we had written to each other. (Though we lived down the road from one another, exam times were when the two of us were quarantined. So we'd scribble notes and send our maids to deliver extremely important messages to one another. Yes, there were phones at the time, but this was such, such fun.)

A couple of books which I had recommended, but being the scatterbrain that she is, she'd forgotten about. Then again, maybe she was politely ignoring my suggestions. Anyhow, some forced reality reading, then.

Plenty of funky innerwear. This was supposed to have been done yesterday, but I was completely distracted by the Fabindias they've placed in every conceivable shopping area in the city. Also discovered was a new Good Things store tucked away on Comm. St, which took up a fair amount of time as well. (B was most upset that we weren't shopping for naughty lingerie.) You horrendously seductive pashmina stoles, you.

And lengths of double-shaded raw silk with which to do whatever her heart desires. (Because we are absolute divas when it comes to creating stringy tops from any sort of fabric.)

Knick knack shopping having been decided, the actual wedding 'present' still needs some serious contemplation. Instead of an inebriated girls' night out, I was thinking of gifting her a day at one of the spas I criticise ever so often. (Okay, so sue me. I'm ready to make a compromise for my best friend's complete rapture.)
I may be a junglee myself, but Z totally deserves the best.

Much like the best friend. (That would be me.) See?

Bean town

2005-12-15T05:20:00.000-08:00

By the time I get home it's around nine pm and the national highway isn't lit well enough for me to enjoy the walk back from the bus stop. Recently they've started digging up either side of Old Madras Rd with the lackadaisical intention of expanding it. We were glad to note that the bulldozers and road rollers make occasional appearances.

Last evening, the traffic forced me onto the dug-up part of the road on the side. Which was okay really, because most of the motorcyclists and the odd car preferred the same recourse.
As I brisk walked the last stretch before turning into my bylane, the ground gave way below my left foot and I dropped straight down. Three feet. And landed clumsily on my left ankle. I also scraped my knee through my jeans (on the jellystone-soft mud mixture that was forming the foundation for the expanded road). Something that hasn't happened since my last fall on the basketball court back in college. And just the other day I was noting how most of my sports scars had nearly disappeared, too. Ah, well.

This morning at the office someone poked his head inside the door.
'Excuse me, this is for a survey. What is your opinion on changing the city name to Bengaluru?'
Aarti replied instantly, 'Arre, I don't mind if you call it Chennai also. Just do something about the roads.'
I second that.

Upwardly mobile

2005-12-09T04:20:00.000-08:00

My office is actually a small apartment on the first floor of a house. Our landlord lives downstairs with his family. Since most of our space is open – with large balconies and the terrace – we can hear most of the domestic affairs on the ground floor. Often, we find ourselves smiling when we hear aunty baby-talking to Tiger, their pet dog and shouting insults to her son in the same breath. We can hear uncle cursing salespeople when they knock on the door, interrupting an impromptu siesta. Sometimes, we even catch snatches of the son’s conversations with his girlfriend.

When I leave in the evening, uncle’s usually walking around the garden, waving his arms while doing some deep breathing exercises. We always exchange a smile, and sometimes, when he’s in the mood, he indulges me in small talk. Normally, it’s about how far I have to travel to get to work, traffic problems, the work we do and temperamental weather.
Last evening, though, he was arguing with his son. I dropped my gaze and focused on the paving as I made my way towards the gate where they stood.

‘See this girl,’ uncle said suddenly as I was on my way out, ‘She’s coming from so far everyday just to do something she enjoys. Ask her how much she gets paid. You’ll start laughing.’
I did my uncomfortable half-smile at the son. He half-smiled back and twirled his finger near his ear, indicating his father’s lunacy.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt…’

‘No ma,’ uncle said, ‘You tell him no? Tell him your work and what you’ve studied and what you’ll do in future. You told me that day, no? Tell him. Let him know.’
The son was growing visibly impatient.
‘Uh, uncle, I think it’s better if I just…’

‘What?’ the son burst out, ‘What the hell do you want me to do? Leave my job and do some stupid course where I’ll just be wasting my time and your money? What’s your problem, huh? I’m not asking for any money from you. I pay for myself when I go out with my friends. I bought my own cellphone, my own car, my music system…what’s your point, huh? Stop this drama, okay? Leave me alone. I don’t care what you want.’

Uncle didn’t seem alarmed by this sudden yelling.
‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong,' he said, 'I’ve been asking him to leave his call centre work so he can get some qualifications and a better job…’

‘What better job?' his son interrupted, louder this time, 'You’ve done your degrees and engineering and all that bull and I’m earning more than you are. What’s wrong with you? You’re so stupid, man,’ he shouted one last time before he slammed the gate behind him.
I was at a loss for words. I looked at uncle and he ventured an apologetic, ‘Kids today, no...,’ before he turned around and walked back inside.

I'd like to clarify that I’m not being self-righteous at this point, but I’ve often wondered what it is that my generation stands for.

If spending an easy thousand bucks in a few hours at a nightclub is an achievement, if impressing your peers with a fancier phone every month is important, if increased purchasing power is viewed as the right to disrespect the people who love you, if money is the only thing that drives the young and upwardly mobile today…
it’s bloody pathetic.

Friday again already

2005-12-02T02:40:00.000-08:00

This is turning out to be a reminder of my blog-neglect. Ah, well.

He waited at the coffee shop for forty minutes.
Okay, I'm being stood up.

She sat in the crowded bus and sighed.
He's going to think I'm one of those girls who enjoy showing up late.

He checked his inbox once more.
Her cell phone bleeped the low battery bleep just before it switched off.

Flash fiction

2005-11-25T02:08:00.000-08:00

I had decided a while ago that every Friday would be a flash fiction day. Considering my long-term relationship with procrastination, I hope to make this a more regular feature.

I swallowed the giant boulder wedged in my throat.
I tasted bile. The wind screamed threats as I climbed higher. Ticklish taunting. Tendrils of hair wrapped themselves around my face.

Then the ethereal free fall. Arms outspread. Downward spiral. Supernal mortal. A scream of reckless abandon.
Nothing but me and my big ol' rubber band.

Lakshmi

2005-11-17T01:18:00.000-08:00

Lakshmamma has been around ever since I can remember. She was here when ha-dadu and Madge didi were here. She was here when ma wanted to clean up the yard for her school's playground. She was here whenever a snake was spotted. She was with us when we moved next door. She'd come over to help make luchis whenever I called friends over.

Her eyes crinkle in a smile whenever we open the door for her. And everytime I say Thank you Lakshmi she says right back Thank you, Somi-ma with crinkly eyes and a bright flower stuck jauntily in her bun.

She once said that she was never afraid of coming to work at our place because she belongs to a caste that doesn't fear snakes. Earlier, trees surrounded our entire compound. The winding mud road that made its way back to the house was enough security for our family. The rumours that the place was haunted also seemed to help. But Lakshmi would come to help clean up whenever she was called, balancing a big pile of twigs on her head when she left.

Ma told me that Lakshmi's twenty-year-old son died in the hospital the other day. He had a reputation for spending his mother's money on alcohol.
'But why do you give it to him?' we'd ask her.
'He gets very angry. What to do, he's my son,' she'd say simply, smiling it off as a childish whim.
Finally, he succumbed to the illness that had eaten him up from inside.

I couldn't understand why Lakshmi was doing what she was. To work at so many houses everyday, just to earn more, knowing that most of her earnings would be spent on liquor.
Then I heard that her daughter committed suicide. Long ago.
And her husband had left her.
And it was just her and her alcoholic son.

And ma somehow understood that keeping her son happy was important to Lakshmi.
And Lakshmi did everything she could to keep their small household from falling apart.
Whenever I handed her some freshly baked cake, she'd wrap it up and take it home to share- even the extra portions that I'd insist she eat in front of me. She'd just take a bigger packet when we weren't looking.

She indulged him. She left him alone. She'd scold him, but keep food ready for him whenever he chose to come home. She watched over him when he was in the hospital. She saw him in excruciating pain. And watched him die.

I want to cry now.

Floral

2005-11-13T21:34:00.000-08:00

I wish I could wear strands of jasmine in my hair every Saturday night.

Sadly, delicately draped mallige huvu worn with a tummy-baring halter is appropriate only on 'ethnic-fusion' theme nights.

Lunching

2005-11-10T04:19:00.000-08:00

Darshini: (n) small quaint joint, typical of Karnataka, serving 'breakfast items' like idlis and vadas, also known for their efficient, hygienic and quick service

The joint on the corner is a short walk away and I do the walk alone. Strangely, I'm the only one in the entire organisation who enjoys darshini food.

I have the menu practically memorised, and when I step up to the counter to get my colour-coded food ticket, I almost always know what's listed on the whiteboard behind the cashier.

My week passes by according to my lunches.
Pongal Mondays.
Sevige bhaath Tuesdays.
Mangalore methi rice bhaath Wednesdays.
Vangi bhaath Thursdays.
Bisibelebhaath Fridays.
Vegetable pulao Saturdays.

I've been advised by the guy behind the counter to cut down on the spicy, tamarind-loaded sambhar. I offered to pay more if he had a problem with an extra spoon being doled out on a regular basis. Now he just rolls his eyes and pours it on whenever I extend my plate for a second helping.

Some time ago I noticed a vermilion-streaked potato sitting in a steel bowl where the sweets and fruits are displayed. Upon closer inspection I found it was a tuber that bore an uncanny resemblance to Ganesha.

From that day on, I placed myself close to the glass display while I lunched standing up.
The other day, a couple of us went to the darshini for chai and I pointed out the potato Ganesha to my colleagues.

'That's a fake,' Shivraj said, 'See how they've cut the potato on that side so the trunk is more pronounced? That's not a natural potato Ganesha.'
We all stepped closer and scrutinised the improvised potato. After this proclamation, everyone felt a little betrayed.
'How sad, otherwise it could've been featured in one of the newspapers.'
There was much clicking of tongues.

Somehow, this only increased my fondness for the fat potato. I imagined one of the cooks chancing upon a big potato and instead of peeling it and chopping it up for the day's pulao, turning it this way and that before adding a single, flowing arch to transform the innocuous potato into something of reverence. To be placed on a steel-bowl pedestal and stored next to the sweets. Only fitting.

And now, I stand next to the potato Ganesha everyday. Not staring (because that would be rude), but glancing up every once in a while.
And the potato Ganesha sits in the darshini on the corner, turning slowly greener everyday.

Third gendered

2005-11-03T20:42:00.000-08:00

Noorie opened the door and let us in. Her make-up was a bit heavy, but it accentuated her sharp features. Glass bangles tinkled, covering almost her entire arm. The room was full and we squeezed shyly into a single seat nearest the door. After about five minutes any initial apprehension was lost. The gathering looked like a household of women cutting up vegetables for the afternoon meal. Laughing loudly, telling stories, and debating who would be the one to go to town for spices and rice. They took up almost the entire space in the cramped two-room residence. The walls were peeling paint and there was an odd calendar tacked here and there. Lakshmi, Saraswati and Ganesha looked down from their Fevicoled places.

Once we made ourselves as comfortable as we could get, we considered our hosts for the afternoon more carefully. They all belonged to the transgendered community. Eunuchs, as they are more commonly referred to. However, the word "eunuch" does not describe them satisfactorily. Eunuch, literally means, ‘castrated man.’ This definition would be inaccurate, given the complexity and socio-psychological parameters of this community. In Tamil Nadu, they prefer to be called aravanis. (From the character Aravan in the Mahabharatha, believed to be a reincarnation of Lord Krishna.)
Forced to live in their secretive community, making a living as commercial sex workers, these members of the third gender live in the periphery of Indian society. Say the word aravani and the images that come to mind are brusque, loud, uncouth she-men that exhibit their ambiguous sexuality while extorting money from social gatherings, singing songs with lewd innuendo.

Whatever their image in the public sphere may be, they are sensitive and soft-spoken when encountered in close quarters. There is an overwhelming sense of community sentiment among the members of the alternative sex. A large extended family that welcomes those who come out of the closet. Their demeanour was calm and when we gingerly put forward questions, they did not hesitate to respond. They almost revel in their sexuality and that was what came across as most striking in the time spent there. Considering that sex work is their main source of income and is also the source of the HIV virus that claims many aravani lives, the topic of prostitution was a sensitive one. But the aravanis in Choolaimedu spoke openly about this aspect of their lives which is usually brushed under the carpet.

Sridevi was the first to tell us about her foray into sex work. She was born in Chennai with the name Shankar, the third son of her parents. She had one younger sister. Their father was a Central government employee, and their mother a housewife. Sridevi recalls being drawn to effeminate games and makeup from a very young age. Shankar was often teased about carrying copper vessels on his hips and playing with his sister all the time. His brothers were rough and macho, and when they fought him, he would only scratch with his nails, like a girl. He was constantly compared to them and his inferiority complex was manifest in almost every other area of his adolescent life.
"I was the butt of many jokes," she explained, "My brothers and classmates would pick fights with me only to make me cry. I was very unhappy and knew that I wasn’t like the other boys, but I couldn’t understand."
Ultimately, she befriended the eunuchs who lived near her house and started her life as a commercial sex worker. Now she displays her diamond-stud nose ring proudly- a gift from her pathi, her ‘husband,’ or rather- her regular client, who supports her financially.

Like Sridevi, Vanitha also struggled with her sexuality. Vanitha was the younger of two brothers. Ever since her childhood, she was drawn towards anything feminine. Vanitha was sent to a mechanic shop along with her brother but she refused to handle the spare parts and shied away from menial work. Over time, the men who worked in the neighbouring shops became increasingly conscious of the young boy’s alternate sexuality. He was approached by a number of people, and over time he learnt that men have sex with men. The money was good and he left home before his parents could marry him off and entered the secretive aravani community. After a couple of years of life as a sex worker, Vanitha earned enough money to undergo cosmetic surgery which completed the initiation process into the aravaani society. She plans on entering the beauty pageant scheduled in Villupuram, at the annual festival exclusively for the aravanis.

It might be the hypocrisy that exists within Indian society which perpetuates the belief that sex work is the only means by which aravanis can earn a living. The only jobs that have been offered to them so far have been those of stenographers and typists. Time consuming jobs that offer little monetary compensation. "We can make more money in one night than the government training cells are offering us for one whole month," said Sheela, "I can earn upto one thousand in a single day."

But what about HIV? Don’t they know how fatal the virus can be? What about the condom distribution campaigns that are rumoured to be doing their rounds in the eunuch ghettos outside the city limits?
"We know that unprotected sex is unsafe. But what do you say if a man offers you Rs. 500 more for sex without a condom? What if I don’t have any clients the next day? I would be a fool to refuse."
A classic case of the means justifying the ends? In a society with plural identities, there are certain threads, like poverty, that weave even the marginalised into the mainstream. Another aravani, Malati, told us of the split within the community itself. Not all eunuchs are castrated, she explained. Some, called dangas, exhibit male physicality but display traits of the feminine gender. They typically lead a double life. During the day, they behave like men, wear lungis and shirts and are employed in regular offices as men. However, at night, they dress as women and indulge in sex with other men. They are often married with children, lead heterosexual lives. Any similarity to transsexuals is only to attract members of the aravani community.

Dangas are more commonly bracketed in the MSM category- men who have sex with men. The duplicity of their gender identities and their sexual behaviour put them more at risk than aravanis because their partners include their wives, girlfriends, boyfriends and other aravanis. The dangas are viewed as distinct from transsexuals because, though they may be transvestites, they have not taken the decision to irrevocably change their physicality.

For the aravanis, the decision to undergo the surgery changes their lives completely. It is symbolic of embracing a third gender status while discarding norms and conventions that they had earlier been brought up with. The procedure is perhaps the most secretive topic amongst the community. Quacks or an ‘adopted mother’ usually conduct the surgery, often without aneasthetisation. A regular sex-change operation is often unaffordable for the aravanis belonging to the lower socio-economic strata of society. There were no details volunteered, and when the subject was broached, perhaps once too often, they refused to speak about it altogether.

Though the aravani community is open about their third gender status in private, their image as brash extortionists denies them any semblance of respect in the public sphere. One afternoon with these honest, uninhibited ‘women’ was enough to change our entire perspective about textbook issues like gender, poverty and marginality. Perhaps their outward aggression is a self-defense mechanism.

It is their only guard against the shame that society has thrust upon them. Until the High Court of Chennai recognises their third gender status - and the struggle continues even at this moment - the aravanis of Choolaimedu will have to seek comfort in the small pleasures life has to offer.
Glass bangles and shared meals, as transient as they may be.

Beyond me

2005-10-31T01:03:00.000-08:00

I want to be held every night by someone who loves me. I want to fall asleep knowing that the people who matter most to me are safe and happy. I want to die a quick and painless death.
But I don't know anymore. I don't believe I have any control over variables of such magnitude.

My heart goes out to everyone who has lost a child; a mother, father, lover or friend in the hideous Delhi blasts. Lives taken and families torn on a whim. Those who left their homes with light hearts and careless smiles. Always innocents.

Perhaps there were unresolved arguments. Sentiments waiting to be expressed. A husband would take home sweets and trinkets to his wife to compensate for the previous night's misunderstanding. A brother who was choosing a silver bracelet for his sister with his first month's salary. A child tugging at her mother's saree pallu towards the stall selling firecrackers.

I don't remember exactly when or why I stopped kissing my parents goodnight.
Maybe I grew out of it, maybe because we had argued before we went to sleep.
The I love yous would come so easily when I was away from home.

I want to sing a song in every language on Earth. I want to change atleast one person's life for the better. I want to love without fear.
I want to live every bit of life I have because my life is not my own.

Blog Quake day

2005-10-26T02:14:00.000-07:00

Cars to ignore people in buses; phone calls to avoid a human face.
Strange how civilians are the worst affected in the event of war. Funny how the poor and homeless suffer the most during natural calamities. Ironical how we splurge on i-pods and sports cars but hesitate to hand over a portion of what is ours.

Please give. We owe it to the people and to our collective conscience.
Desipundit lists organisations involved in relief work and related links.

Justice pending

2005-10-19T23:44:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading this book by the man who was forced to be Uday Saddam Hussein's body double.

It took me three hours. Cover to cover.
No, I'm not trying to prove anything. I was rushing through the horror, hoping that once I finished I could sleep at night.

Didn't work.

Housewarming

2005-10-18T01:22:00.000-07:00

It's a strange sort of nostalgia.
Ha-dadu's farmhouse. I remember coming home to this place when I was much younger. The split levels. My underground bedroom, the enormous kitchen, too many ways to enter the house.
And ha-dadu on the divan in the verandah. I'm told I called him that ever since I was two. Ever since I heard his deep, throaty laugh. Ha ha ha.
With ha-dadu gone, it wasn't the same. The house seemed hugely hollow and we moved into a smaller, more manageable place just next door.

So the new house and the old house and ma's montessori were all in the same compound, but the old house was eventually ignored.
I'd walk friends around the place pointing to where my old room was.
Underground, I'd explain, recalling how Z used to think the place was haunted when we were kids.

Recently, ma decided she actually liked the old place and wanted to move back. But not without some major changes. I missed the renovation while it was underway and came back to a 'new' old house.

I walked through ha-dadu's place trying to remember where exactly things used to be; turning corners and climbing stairs that never were. My room isn't underground anymore but it's bright and cosy.
We're all a little wobbly; still finding our feet. Deciding where to put paintings, rearranging the furniture, arguing about whether the gramophone and valve radio stay or go. (Baba and I want them on display while ma's made extra room in a large closet.) We're still wondering how to fill up all this space.

In all this madness, it still hasn't registered that I might only be passing through. Stopping here on my way to elsewhere.
But in all this madness I've thought to myself more than once -- it's good to be home.

In solidarity

2005-10-14T02:47:00.000-07:00

Management insititutions that buy entire pages of newsprint in order to be noticed will, of course, be noticed.

Desipundit has all the details.

Show your support. The bloggers have mine.

Tagged

2005-10-07T05:19:00.000-07:00

This is a tardy response to Kaashyapeya's tag.
Semblance of a story in 55 words.

He said I was beautiful. I believed him.
Before the lies over late dinners. Over complicated entrees. Steaming soup.

And the dinners grew cold as I waited. Soups were seasoned with hatred. Drizzled with disgust.

And now I can bear to look at myself.
Black eyes. Red blood. Blue bruises.
I really am beautiful sometimes.

(I'm not technically tagging anyone because mine is a sleepy little blog. But if anyone's reading this and wants to precis-write, consider yourself tagged.)

Homecoming

2005-09-30T03:23:00.000-07:00

The city is the same and not quite.
I'm renegotiating the roads with all the improvised one-way routes. I've felt like an idiot boxed up in my car, counting down with the sadistic traffic signal timers. 149 seconds of watching pedestrians glide across zebra stripes on tarmac.

I've noticed that young conclusions have suddenly disappeared. All the teenyboppers in Blr seem to be wearing their backpacks ridiculously low. Bottompacks they should now be called.

I've watched cigarette stall owners strike matches for women without flinching. This sort of behaviour is the kind I now make note of after life in a non-metropolitan.

There are more women bus conductors now. They shout at men who slip into ladies' seats. They throw back their long braid as they make mysterious ticketing notes. They push one off the bus when one has missed the right stop because the bus routes have changed because of all the one-ways.

People are the same and not quite.
They've grown. I've grown. And a forked path has made me take a diversion.
Reunions here are more exasperating than the traffic.

Puri

2005-09-19T00:54:00.000-07:00

Konarak

2005-09-18T05:29:00.000-07:00

Peripatetic

2005-09-09T01:45:00.000-07:00

I love that I can walk a long, meandering path and chance upon a mosque, a church and a gurudwara with a dozen temples strewn along the way.

Even the severed chicken heads floating in roadside drains didn't stop me from smiling.

Cross-culture travels

2005-09-07T01:54:00.000-07:00

After much deliberation, B has finally decided to make the trip to Orissa.
I’m rather touched by his sudden enthusiasm. With a couple of days left until his arrival, he’s been downloading maps and reading up on Kalinga and Kolkata history.

And now I’m feeling a little guilty that I hadn’t taken the trouble to read about his place of birth when I visited over a year ago. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Coorg is a district of coffee estates and little else. Perhaps I felt no need for history when I knew I’d only be looking at trees and streams during my time there.
Talacauvery was beautiful and the wild honey was delectable. But I was a little bored by then end of the second day. If it were up to me, I’d choose a little more chaos. A little more noise, more people, more colour. I’m strange, but I’m still young. I can handle chaos.

B seems genuinely interested in seeing the sights in Kolkata. He remembers visiting as a child and recalls that it’s ‘very big and very dirty’. Of course, I take offense at the ‘very dirty’ recollection. And then we start arguing.
The usual North vs South comments. Sweeping generalisations. Broad insults.

I start with Kodava men and how they’re chauvinistic.
He calls Bengalis big-mouthed and unwilling to work with their hands.
I comment on the unflattering way Coorg women wear their saris. (With the pleats at the back and draped around themselves with no aanchal.)
He makes fun of the topor that Bengali grooms wear, calling it a dunce cap.
I say atleast our wedding ceremony doesn’t require the bride to stand with a pot on her head for hours, while she’s taunted by the groom’s side as they dance around her.
And so on.

And then we laugh about ethnocentricity.

So B’s chalked up an itinerary which is impossible given our time frame. An itinerary that covers Bbsr, Chilika, Puri, Konarak and Kolkata in seven days.
And I like the thought of days bursting at the seams with things that must be done.

I’ve recently been promised patient answers to genuine questions about the Kodavas.
I’ve also been promised a trekking expedition in Kodagu when I get home.

Diesel fry

2005-09-03T06:27:00.000-07:00

My Saturday night unwind involves copious quantities of roadside food, an empty room above a garage and neglected reading.

Most of the time it’s rolls from Unit I. Three share autos and a bit of a walk, but that’s where the action is and I can safely sit on a broken plastic chair and people-watch until my plastic-wrapped dinner is ready.
When changing ricks doesn’t seem appealing, I stick to the stalls on the national highway. These are shadier joints, so no sitting. But the samosas make my standing around worthwhile.

When I first came here, I’d pass by the sidewalk shacks breathing in deeply the piquant aroma of batter and spiced potatoes. I’d fiddle with my backpack, check my toe ring, just to stand there for a little while longer, debating whether the time had come. Not confident enough to elbow my way through the crowd and shout my order to the cook; it was a while before I started my Saturday night ritual take-aways.

The first time I asked for a roll, one man looked at me and said aloud in Oriya, ‘She must be living alone. She’s come by herself.’

An obvious and harmless enough a statement, but I was disturbed for some reason. So I ordered more rolls. Three more. Of the same thing. Just to prove I might have company and we all had the same craving.
That night I ate four double egg rolls.
And six samosas.
Till two in the morning.

By now most of the tin-shed caterers know my order. (Not so many rolls and small portions of everything on offer that evening.) And I don’t have to shout anymore. I wave to the guy behind the coracle-sized kadai and a warm polythene bag is handed over to me a couple of minutes later.

And I hop in and out of autos and walk the long walk with my backpack a little heavier.
But my steps a little lighter.

Roadside fried anything.
Therapeutic.

Home stretch

2005-08-31T02:25:00.000-07:00

These men love their machines. Incense burning in front of the mandatory God sticker- a Lakshmi, Ganesha, Hanuman or Shiva. Small change handed out to the regular pujari who makes his way from rickshaw to rickshaw at each auto stand every evening. A marigold dipped into a brass container, drops of sacred water sprinkled on the single front wheel.
The driver waves his coins in the air, urging the aged priest to finish the auto-puja.

Plastic flowers framing the windshield, artificial internodes sprouting gold tassels. A scratched compact disc strung on either side of the driver’s seat. A pair of blue eyes, possibly a Bollywood starlet’s, stuck on a meaningless rear-view mirror staring back at the driver.

One by one, passengers squeeze in. Drivers start their engines and edge towards the road, not quite ready to leave with a few square inches still unoccupied. Always insisting that there is place for one more.

Last evening there were nine of us in the auto rickshaw.
Five at the back and four in front.

The driver chose to put his three front seat passengers on his left, so he sat all the way on the other end of the seat, leaving him room to stick his head out and yell to all the vehicles which we proceeded to overtake from the left.
Leaning as he was to one side, sitting with no more than one cheek of his bottom on the edge of his seat, I wondered just how much control he had over his brakes.
Acceleration, however, was just fine.

Convalescence

2005-08-25T22:50:00.000-07:00

Relief is receiving the results of your blood test and seeing the word negative next to 'Malaria Parasite' in faded ink.

Restlessness is waiting for the resilient symptoms to subside.

Stubborn little junglee

2005-08-20T04:08:00.000-07:00

I admit I’m obstinate. And demanding. I’m a patient listener but I’m easily bored. I have few friends that I can really call friends.
I’m restless. A bit of a recluse.
Yes, I’m an only child. No, I’m not selfish.
And I can’t really be bothered to explain the choices I’ve made. It’s tiresome. And I refuse to get used to it.

When I go home, when I travel, when I’m introduced to someone new.
We sit at a café sipping ridiculously overpriced brew, inhaling passive smoke and vehicular fumes. Talk steers towards work and I stare at traffic. Once I’m roped in, I’m quickly reeled out once again.
'Oh. That must be interesting.'
'Why, yes it is. Tremendously.'
Back to traffic.

Nobody asked me to leave home, to forfeit a mainstream career and regular pay. I needn’t walk around in a medication-induced stupor as a job requirement. There was no compulsion to live in relative poverty for a year.
I wanted to.
It’s who I am now and will shape the person I become later.

Of course, this sort of behaviour has earned me the distinction of being the family junglee.
So, what’s your daughter doing these days? They ask.
Oh. How um…interesting. They say.

And the family has been more than supportive.
Ma and Baba check on me every night when I happen to be in a mobile network zone. To find out what’s for dinner, when’s my next field trip and whether they missed anything significant in the last twenty-four hours. Didi and dadu ask about my bank account balance and when I’m planning to go to Cal next. L pishi and uncle J e-mail editorials while they travel the world. T pishi will send a surprise sms telling me she’s heard about a recent ‘episode’ in my life.
All of them dropping hints that it’s never too late to stop running around in the forest.

Sometimes Ma will call from the club, chomping into the phone, announcing in accurate detail what’s on her plate. And then what’s on Baba’s plate. And what I would have particularly enjoyed had I been with them, reading aloud from the menu.
Z will send me a hurried sms from her car in the middle of a night out, mentioning what certain people are wearing and who’s most likely to get drunk and humiliate themselves later on. B will call, say that he misses me and then head towards beer and hard rock.
It’s all very comforting, even though I feign exasperation.

And now I’ve grown rather fond of my muesli mornings, my long walks to work and all the share-autos in between.
Skipping to trance. Reading to lounge. Cooking to Floyd.

Of course I miss home.
But I’m a stubborn little junglee.

2005-08-15T01:37:00.000-07:00

Jai Hind

Momentary Muse

Between Chamique and me...

Dilli ki sardi

Lovechild

Doing it right, right now

*waves*

Suddenly sexless

Greasy choices

Ananya

Five things

Fifty five in parts

Strange Google searches

Flash 55

Silly me(me)

Kolkata is kind to me

Five and fifty

Early 55

City of mad joy

Fifty five

The right to choose

Friday 55

My sentimental mornings

55 fiction

Delhi love

Affy birdie!

Flash 55

*looks over her shoulder and types quickly*

Big brother-ing

Fifty five

Always innocents

Today's 55

Just one of the guys

Friday's 55

Systematically annoyed

Two dozen today

No excess baggage

To do: save planet

Today...

Big dams and little people

I happened

In a feminine tongue

Tea-time rains

Doing it in strange places

Lightning goddess

My deviant day

Elsewhere

In solidarity

The long ride home

55 revisited

The Mad Rush

Wardha

Young love

Delivered to the wrong address

Rent a smile

Therefore I think

Reclaim the streets

No summer love

Trivial injustices

Jacaranda morning

Turning up the faders

Aubade

With eyebrow raised

Coloured pencils

Groupie love

Happy negligence

As of now

Settle for less

Content

Unladylike for one night

Friday the 13th fiction

So unsexy

Urban decay: revised and scheduled for renewal

Sporting

This year

Abu-bhaiyya

Demystifying the double-speak

Stars wrapped with fuchsia ribbons

Bean town

Upwardly mobile

Friday again already

waves

looks over her shoulder and types quickly