It's My Life... no longer...

Do you ever wish for time to change its course or really to reverse itself? I most certainly do. I wish I could go back to the good old school days where there were no worries and no responsibilities. At that age where I was throwing a tantrum rather than handling my child’s. Where I was making demands to my mom rather than requesting my domestic help and pleading my child.  Sometimes I just wish if somebody could sit for an hour and feed my child. Life is not complicated it is stressful. Some days there’s absolutely no joy in living. Your whole existence seems as mindless as if you live only to yell, first at the kids, then the servants and needlessly at your husband as well.

Where is your catharsis? What do you do with the growing dissatisfaction crawling in and gnawing at your life? I don’t know. I am simply sitting and keying some words while my child is hollering “mamma mamma” in the background.  Is there something called ‘peace’, I don’t know when did I feel it last? Raising a child and a difficult one at that is by far the most challenging task that I have known. It challenges not your knowledge, not your skills but your very being and your very intrinsic qualities. It tests your patience almost every five waking minutes.  I am not exaggerating. And trust me it’s humanly impossible to pass this test that often. So how should I feel?  Normally, at any other failure I would have felt a twinge of regret or sadness but here it is anger and irritability that surges through every vein in my body.

My frustration or strained existence has no particular effect on my child. He goes about his stubborn ways with the same equanimity and joy. The only flicker of hope is that he turns around and says sorry sometimes.  Well, if your child’s airs and whims are not enough to destroy your stability, there are your domestic help to ruin it for sure. The comfortable Indian lifestyle is on its way to becoming a myth.  Life does come a full circle. As history records the upper class crimes of human slavery and exploitation, I record here my case of mental harassment by my domestic help. They have become the bane of a comfortable lifestyle. I say this not as a classist, I have due respect for all the classes of the society.  But it’s not far that we shall have to renounce our Indian lifestyle with all its taam jhaam and adopt a more practical American lifestyle.  Trust me on this, I am actually scared to question my domestic staff about any deed or misdeed for the fear that they might not turn up the next day. Yes, I tolerate the nonsense because I need them. And agonisingly, they know this fact too well and have decided to sit up and dance on my head.  Sometimes I seriously feel blood shooting to my head and whirring in my mind.

With all this humdrum sucking vitality out of my mind, I decided to read a Sunday column to freshen up. But to add to my dwindling stock of patience, I regretfully chose Chetan Bhagat’s infuriating article that day, thinking that it’s usually a light and simple read.  The article started with a brief synopsis of the recent movie Cocktail with its two very different female characters, the shy and homely girl Meera versus the outgoing and modern Veronica. And the swanky and debauched Saif Khan in the movie still prefers Meera to take home to his mom. So far so good. It further went on to question Indian men’s attitude to choose a traditional non-working, roti-making girl for a wife. True, this attitude is indeed questionable. A working woman can surely be and is a good wife, mother and daughter-in-law.

But the way Mr. Bhagat drives his point is offensive and disrespectful. He almost loses track of the original idea. He literally downplays a housewife to prove the worth of a working wife to the extent that he point by point lists the advantages of marrying a career woman as compared to a roti maker.  According to him, a working wife is more informed and aware of the world and its happenings and thus can help the husband in his career choices, she knows the office games and politics well and so understands the husband’s situations better and finally  she is also probably more knowledgeable and so can raise more informed and smarter children. So are we the ‘roti-makers’ some ignorant fools who indulge in the menial job of making hot phulkas (as he almost considers it) for our husbands and kids?  And even if we do, he has no right to belittle a home-makers job. I am a roti-maker but neither my husband nor I have felt myself incompetent to help him take work related decisions or raise our child.

The problem here is not whether a woman should choose a career or otherwise. It is absolutely her choice and circumstances that will decide her path. The point of the article was to make men change their perspective and see both working and non-working women through the same eye of respect and acceptance  rather than shift the balance of preference from non-working to working wife.  Any way as they say each to his own and so does every man has his own take on matters. But frankly I almost cringed by the end of the article and by the end of the day. That’s how life is… some days need more self control than others. Some days assault the core of your character and being. But thank God it’s only some, the rest are beautiful and bright.

GOD SPEAKS...

Give me a chance son, I just want to heal you,

Give yourself a chance son, Love shall truly find you.

Father you call me oh father you call me

But love me so vain,

Mere charade I am for you, In your sinister games.

Give me a chance son, give yourself a chance…

Don’t die in my name son, 

I feel so guilty.

Your father’s pretty strong son, Shall defend his identity.

Give me a chance son, give yourself a chance…

You killed to build me a home son,

But I don’t need so many.

 Ayodhya , Mecca, Jerusalem, I ain’t living in any.

Give me a chance son, give yourself a chance…

You write reams and reams son, 

But I don’t read so many.

Call it Koran, Gita or Bible, My word is love only...

Give me a chance son, give yourself a chance…

I asked for nothing son, 

You made me your god.

Now don’t distort my message son, I refuse to be your pawn.

Give me a chance son, I just want to heal you.

Give yourself a chance son, love shall truly find you. 

A RAPIST TARGETS THE BODY BUT INJURES THE SOUL

“Rape”- a forced sexual indulgence - as surmised by a dictionary. But for the victim it is a loss of dignity and self respect that is beyond others’ comprehension. This heinous crime that has no barrier, ubiquitous at the higher end of the society as much as the lower class, the urban setting and the rural surroundings, the middle aged and the teen aged. And the worst climax is that it often plunders the sanctity of a relationship as well.

But the moot question is why does any man turn into a rapist? What incites him into this devilish role? It is definitely not the fulfillment of physical needs because the trade of prostitution runs rife in our societies where the give and take is cheap, convenient and willful. Is it then ‘provocative dressing’ as stated by a public servant in a newspaper recently? I fear not. If it was so, how does anybody explain the rampant rapes of 10-12 year old girls who have barely reached even their puberty and surely don’t go about provocative clothing or vulgar dressing?

“Provocative dressing” is the meekest explanation that I have heard and read for a crime that is diabolic in nature. Don’t we read shocking, mind numbing stories of rapist brothers and fathers? If a sister or a daughter, irrespective of her dressing, fuels a man’s sexual fantasy, it is nothing but a filthy retarded mind. The only explanation for a rape is the ugly stilted growth of the criminal’s mind. The animalistic side of him that knows no restrains. The extreme sadism that a rapist enjoys in physically overpowering his victim and forcing himself upon her borders towards pathological condition that needs serious help. It is no less than a psychological illness but sadly this condition sees its consequences in ruining other’s life.

A peek into the mind of this criminal reveals that for him women are not humans but desirable toys that are conveniently “use and throw”.  The centuries old subjugation of women in a repressed society where even the husband could and does rape his wife, it is not difficult to understand the genesis of such sick mentality. Right from the formative years, if a boy is made to respect his mother, sister and other females around him and look upon them as an equal counterpart of the society, the growth of this kind of infected psyche can be arrested.

Unfortunately, half the rape cases are not reported in our country and of those that are, how many rapists do get convicted? The cases only languor in the court alleys dying a slow death as does the dignity of a victim. A hard-line dictatorial punishment is the only measure to check this abominable crime. There is no scope for democracy for a crime that has no justification. As the saying goes, nip the evil in the bud. The judiciary should set examples with its punishment that thwart the intention of every man who sets to commit this crime in the future.  A strong social fabric supported by an unyielding judiciary is the answer to mitigate this despicable crime.

MIND GAMES

What makes you sing? What makes you jive? What makes you go around the world? What makes you click a photograph? And the possibilities are endless.

Thinking of these possibilities, I came up with a question as to what makes a person act or react. I surmised that a person, place, thing or situation doesn’t always garner a reaction from all. And when it does, the reactions can be extensively and intensively different. An example would illustrate my point better. When a group of people listen to a song at the same time, the first instantly thinks about its raag, taal and pitch, the second delves into its rhyme and lyrics, the third begins to choreograph it in his mind and the fourth predicts its commercial appeal while the fifth only wonders what to cook for dinner tonight.  Isn’t it fascinating how our mind evolves in different dimensions and the same thing impresses different people so distinctly?

It is this variety in thought that makes life so interesting. A recent treasure hunt that I participated in accentuated this fact most humorously and concretely. The organizers couldn’t have ever imagined that their clues could have so many possible interpretations as the participants came out with.  For example, one of the clues to be solved in a particular area just mentioned “Father on the board”, now with that hint we had to actually find the signage “Appa Garden Street” (appa means father in the local language) which is put at the corner of the road but coincidentally there is a church in the same vicinity and some of our friends went around the church looking for a message of the ‘Father’ as in “Jesus” put up on some board. And others went further to find the ‘Father’ inside the church in the form of a ‘priest’. Isn’t it hilarious and contemplative at the same time? There were several such stories of my treasure hunt with the most imaginative interpretation of every clue. I am sure the organizers never thought that their clues would be source of such reflective fun.

Another thing that I found quite interesting about that day was that none of the interpretations were literally right or wrong, they were simply different. The organizers thought in one way while the participants thought in quite the other. Of course the interpretation as meant by the organizers would have helped to decipher the clue and win the treasure but we can’t judge the “interpretations” per se.

The same holds true between individuals, families and societies. We are all entitled to our own interpretation but asserting it as the verdict creates conflicts and rifts. Each thinks himself to be right and the other as follied, but in truth we are just different. To think differently is the beauty of the mind but to react differently is the test of the mind.

We live in a world of differences – pun intended, where Salman Rushdie’s book is acclaimed by one society but he is issued a fatwa for the same book by another society; where music is considered a path to God by one community yet it is labeled blasphemous by another; where Agent Vinod might run a marathon at the box office in one country but it is already banned in another.

You see, we have the right to our thoughts, but do we also have the right to wrong others’?

A movie that lingers...

BUM BUM BOLE. Do you know a film by that name? I wonder not. It didn’t have much matter to garner publicity or tabloid attention but surprisingly not even critics’ attention. It is a non-starrer, low budget movie but considering it non-descript would be gross injustice to a beautiful piece of cinema by the veteran Priyadarshan. A film that effervesces with warmth and delight throughout its span of a simple story line.

The synopsis can be put as a story about a brother and sister, whose family is undergoing financial crisis, and how they manage to go to school with one pair of shoes while hiding this fact from their parents. The child actors both Darsheel Safari and Ziah Vastani are so adorable in their roles and almost surreal with their expressions. Their depiction of a brother and sister makes you pleasantly melancholic of your own childhood. Those little secrets that still hang between you and your sibling, those silly fights and most importantly and funnily the intimidations and blackmails, ‘if you tell mummy this or if you don’t do this, I’ll open my mouth about that’.  How amusing and entertaining to grow up like that.

This movie also gently strokes the heart with its not-in-the-face loving relationship between the siblings.  “Pinu” the elder brother is set to do just about everything possible to buy “Rimzim” his sister a pair of shoes and those are the high points of the movie.  Well, I am no critic and doing no movie review but I personally felt that the emotional pitch and the sensitive yet comical nuances of this straightforward film drift you to the wonderful years and moments of sibling bonding. I wholeheartedly cherish the presence of my brothers in my life especially my elder brother who has been privy to a lot of stupid things in my life and a real bridge between my mom and me.  It just reminds me of the time that is left behind but the bond that remains…

Yeah with our population woes and the stress of raising even a single child these days, not many think of two. But candidly, I do. I feel a sibling enriches the life in a very different way. Your childhood gets scribbled with many more colours than the usual 12 crayons. A real kaleidoscopic growth process. When you sit back and reminisce those years you can’t help but savour them and smile. My memory bank is so prosperous and Bum Bum Bole makes you revisit it in time and innocence.

Another thing that stood out for me in the movie was that Pinu and Rimzim are far from having a perfect childhood but they are neither sad nor complaining about it. In fact they are naturally trying to overcome and reverse the condition. That kind of spontaneity is the extraordinariness of the movie’s direction and screenplay. But I guess the same holds true in our lives as well. An ordinary rut with difficult patches, but it’s the dialogues (internal and external) that we deliver in its course and the pace we choose to follow that determines the simple story as mere livable or enjoyable.

While spontaneous it is, Bum Bum Bole is no less realistic. Like any other child, the brother and sister feverishly long for all the fancy things around them especially the shoes.  The non-fulfillment of it undoubtedly disappoints them but it does not rob them of their courage or the basic human character of optimism. How I wish if we could retain the grace of a child, life would be simpler, more enjoyable and more beautiful to live.

Well, some works of art make you feel and think and this film made me do both. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Disclaimer:  After reading this, if you wish to watch it, it is aired pretty often on one of the Hindi movie channels, though I am not sure about the name. And if after watching it, you don’t have the same experience as I did, I am not responsible :).

Hope of Deliverance

Alps, beckoning to the heavens, melting down,
New snow mounds on Washington grounds.
Moist deserts now in the Middle East,
Mona Lisa’s smile shrivelled in Paris’ heat.

‘Third planet getting warmer’ read a report,
What with hot heads and cold shoulders, I retort
“I am moving to Jupiter,” lamented the Lord,
“Exploding atoms clouding my blue abode”.

The sky is vacant, our shameless might.
Orphaned by choice, our pitiable plight.
Yet, the needles of time are a bit apart…
Brothers in Maldives need not depart.

Confessions of a Dosser

“What is this life, if full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.”

Immortal lines by the great poet William Henry Davies which suggest most people’s plight these days but fortunately or unfortunately it does not include me.

Fortunately, I do not have many worries in my life except running behind my little boy with a glass of milk, then breakfast and then something or the other. Yes, like most Indian mothers I fret a lot about my kid. Conveniently, this was my excuse for not being able to do much for my own self. However, off late he has improved food habits and is toddling his way to the play house. That leaves me even more time to stand and stare these days. Unfortunately, I have been doing only that. Yes, I am the Dosser, the idler. My ample time has been squandered away pitifully by me.

And I had this emphatic realization only the last Friday witnessing the riveting musical journey of Anoushka Shankar with her Spanish and Indian troupe. What an immaculate performance. As much as the sitarist is charming, the music was enthralling. Piece after piece of harmonious melody. The sheen of pure unbridled joy reflected on every artists’ face as their fingers played magic on their instruments. You could feel the ecstasy in their being. To say the least, it was awe inspiring and it inspired the writer in me. I realized I feel similar joy every time I complete a piece of writing and post it here. It is the joy of creative accomplishment irrespective of the field and genre.

While the sitar and the Cajon (box style drum widely used in Flamenco music) created symphony, my mind seem to be quelled with words and sentences, jumping to be out of my head and arrange themselves on a sheet but I had none. The foremost rule for any writer is to carry a pen and a notebook always, to which I have paid little heed. But that evening I realized my grave mistake. That evening was an evening of realizations.

So after that evening here I am professing my love for scribbling ideas but confessing to doing little of it. It’s simple logic that when something gives you pleasure and you have the means to do that something; you would do more and more of it. But not me. Why do I go against this rationality? I don’t have to introspect to find the answer. I know it only too well. I suffer from mental languor.

I don’t know if there are others like me. No doubt it would console me to know of their existence but the consolation would only lax my recovery further. So for my own good I hope I am the only afflicted one. It’s really terrible. I feel like writing but the thought of “thinking” intimidates me. Firstly, “thinking” needs effort and translating that thinking into coherent writing needs further sweat but I have become plainly sluggish. Secondly, what if my thinking is not bright and effective? What if I don’t find readers and it remains unread and unappreciated?

When slackness is burdened with self- doubt it is extremely disorienting. And in this disorientation I take refuge in others thinking. I read others’ thoughts. Of course reading is an enriching act and every writer writes to be read by others or else why would even I post my own confessions here? But my reading at times, though not always, is a means to procrastinate my own mental labour. Though I emerge with a fizz of inspiration and committment at times, I fail to compress it enough to deliver a result.

But not this time, while Anoushka Shankar’s music stirred every listener’s heart it stimulated a dosser’s mind.  Hope the joy of her music shall pervade through me always...