You see, it’s quite simple. Rain has marked every aspect of my life, and every point. I was named after the raga that supposedly brings rain. But, I share a rather ambivalent relationship with it. On the one hand, I love it. I love the freshness of the air we breathe; I love the wet flowers and leaves. I love seeing the colours of nature become so much greener with every spell of rain. To me, rain has always been a blessing. Every time I do something new, every time I start a new venture, the rains have arrived. My first job, and every subsequent job change, my birthday, my first trip abroad…it rained on each of these occasions; and each of them has been good to me in some way. Rain, therefore, is a benediction. Maybe the fact that I am named Amruthavarshini has something to do with it. Even if I did drop the “Varshini” over the years, to facilitate things; even if I cannot really sing the raga, despite several years of training off and on in Carnatic music.

However, it’s quite irritating when the rains cause massive traffic snarls. It’s even worse when you make plans to go out with friends, go shopping, meet people, or quite simply, spend the day at grandmom’s place. It’s much worse than you can imagine when there is something important happening in office, for which you need to be smartly dressed, but end up getting all wet and looking like a grumpy old lady! It is at such times that I wish there was no rain, that the day was bright and sunny.

But, all said and done…the rains are still like a friend, long-lost, but who will arrive, precisely when you need him most!

This morning, fighting morning peak hour traffic on Nelson Manickam Road, childhood memories came flooding back. I remembered how this, now-chaotic, nearly impossible-to-navigate artery was once frequented only by the odd autorikshaw and an occasional 15C. Oh! How can I forget? 15C was a bus route that can only be described as capricious. There was just one bus that plied, back in the early 90s, between Loyola College and Broadway. Yes. You read that right. Exactly one bus. It was supposed to arrive every 3 hours. But, it only arrived when you never needed it. It would arrive, when you were waiting for any bus other than 15C! The driver somehow seemed to have mastered the art of driving a perfectly empty bus even in the most crowded hours of the day. There were days, when tired of waiting for the damned thing, I would take an alternative bus, get off a couple of stops before Mehta Nagar, and walk the length of the road (a good 2 kms) to get home. All this, in the mid-afternoon heat, because school was over at 3, and I was invariably on the road around 3:30.

I remember the days, when armed with a heavy school bag, an empty lunch box and an equally empty water bottle; I would trudge home, wishing I would catch that elusive 15C at least the next day! I remember how taking an autorikshaw back home was such an earth-shattering decision, because using up my weekly dole of 20 rupees would mean I wouldn’t have money to eat samosas in the tiny school canteen! Today, the dilemma I faced over whether or not to take an auto is laughable, to put it mildly.

Snapping back to the present, I suddenly realized that the Madras of old has disappeared as irretrievably as the Amrutha of my childhood. I haven’t stepped into a bus in months, or even years now. The last time I did take a bus from T Nagar, I was so thrilled that it almost felt like I was reliving a part of my childhood. I called practically every close friend to tell them I was taking a bus! Nor do I think or pause before I flag down the nearest auto, at times when my bike is unavailable. There is so much today that I take for granted that I so cherished when I was 11. This reminds me how much people change. How much something can mean to us at one point, and how meaningless it becomes a few years later. That samosas in the canteen, the auto rides, the empty roads, all of them seem like things of the past. It seems today that I lived those times in a dream, or maybe in another lifetime. The city of my birth and childhood has changed beyond recognition.

That said, change is the only thing that’s eternal. I loved Madras then. I love Chennai now. I have lived in a city as beautiful as Paris for two years, and yet, nothing can beat the warmth I feel in Chennai. I don’t know why, but I will probably never be able to get this comfortable with any other city in the world. Maybe because this is home?

Speaking of journeys ending, I have something to say. To someone who’s been in my life for barely 10 months, but whom I will never forget in all the years to come. To J, who will know this is about her if she is reading it. So will a lot of other people, if they know both of us. On Friday, before she left, she said adieu. I didn’t think much of it then. On my way back home, I reflected. Is it really adieu? Or is it simply au revoir? Is it really that easy to say adieu and leave, as if nothing happened? As if that part of your life doesn’t exist? I think not. It’s always only au revoir.

Never goodbye; just…until we meet again! Because, I have learnt, that life always comes a full circle. That what goes around always comes around. Because people never really leave. They just go away temporarily, only to come back when you least expect it. As a poet (please let me know who, if you know) puts it,

“Ab ke hum bichde to shayad kabhi khwaabon mein milen,
jis tarah sukhe hue phool kitaabon mein milen.”

This is true for practically anybody we meet. Friends, colleagues, ex, even those we meet at a railway station or on a train. We never know when or how we might run into them again. So what if I won’t meet J at office again? So what if that part of the journey of her life is ending. It is, after all, a matter of time before our paths cross again. The time taken might be a day, two days, a year or ten years. But, our paths will cross. While we wait, I just want to say this to her. It was great knowing you. I know we will stay in touch, but I will still miss you. No…scratch that! We will miss you, speaking as I am on behalf of many others who know her too, but aren’t jobless enough to write blogs! I know I will. So, J! Until we meet again! Au revoir!

There is a sense of unease about the way I feel right now. As if I am going to write an exam tomorrow. As if I am flying abroad for the first time. As if I am waiting to hear about my admission into Sciences Po. As if I am waiting to find out if I can afford to study abroad. All this, and more. I feel like I am waiting for something more important than any of these things rolled into one. I don’t know why. Sigh! Sometimes, life keeps you waiting rather long. So long that you wonder if it’s worth waiting any more. You can convince yourself, if you knew what you were waiting for. But, in my case, I don’t even know that! I don’t know why am so tense, uneasy and nervous. Why? Why, my lord, why?

“Life answers you in three ways. It says yes, and gives you what you want. It says wait, and gives you something better. It says no, and gives you the best you can have!”

Sounds nice, isn’t it? But then, it’s so difficult to take no for an answer. I am human, just like everyone else. Sometimes, when life says no to me, I get frustrated. So frustrated that I wonder if I deserve anything at all in life! Like this morning. My long-awaited vacation of exactly four days got cancelled. Again! For the fourth time. The reasons behind the cancellation were beyond my control, or D’s for that matter, who was supposed to come along. But, my first reaction was…WTF? Then, I was frustrated, upset, depressed. Then, I saw D getting even more upset and depressed. I snapped back and told him it was ok. That we would compensate some other time. That there was always a second chance. This morning, I was back to feeling depressed and upset.

Post-lunch, I decided enough was enough. I wasn’t going to waste the whole day regretting something so totally out of my control anyway. That said, it was not easy. Why do we find it so difficult to take disappointment? Why is so tough for us to take no for an answer. This is, after all, a vacation. A vacation I can take anytime later. A vacation wherein I was supposed to go only to Bangalore, all of 5 hours away. Then why was I feeling so depressed? So frustrated? What is the point?

Maybe because we pin so many hopes on that one event, one possibility, one person, or one happening? Maybe we should learn to take that no and life would be that much better. Huh? I don’t know! Honestly, I wish I had the emotional maturity to take that no. I know I lack it. But don’t we all at some point? Life once said yes to me. It gave me what I wanted. Then, I realized I deserved better. Then, it said wait. I am still waiting. Now, it’s said no. I wonder what best it’s going to give me!

My conversation with a friend (let’s call him SK for convenience’s sake) was the start of my reflections. He was appreciative of the fact that I am a feminist, and don’t hesitate to be called one. Yes, I am. Not the bra-burning, man-hating feminist, but if feminism is about equality of opportunity irrespective of gender, if it is about being free to choose what you want to do, then I am a feminist. His questions set me thinking.  Why am I a feminist? First, because I see that there is injustice. Injustice in the way the world treats women. I see double standards. I see that what is sauce for the goose is not sauce of the gander. And this, my dear readers, violates my sense of justice. As I said sometime earlier, I can ignore, or choose to fight. I choose to fight because ignoring would mean silent acceptance.

SK is an atheist. At least, he calls himself one. I would prefer to call him a rationalist who doesn’t see the rationale behind religion. Indeed, there is absolutely no rationale behind matters of faith. He said he saw religion as the major stumbling block to the emancipation of women. Do I agree? I honestly don’t know. It is true that practically every major religion discriminates against women. But then, I have a problem with the word in itself. Religion is made, nurtured, organized and promoted by men. I don’t use the word men as a generic term for human being. I mean it as a term to denote the male of the species. Most religions are male-friendly because they were invented by men. Women are often incidental in the making of a religion. In fact, their existence is a bit of an inconvenience, conflicting often with the concept of God the Father. So, it’s pretty normal that they be discriminated against and be treated like second class citizens.

That brings us to the fundamental question. Since we know that all is not well with religion, and that it is often used to justify oppression, do we shut up? Do we sit back in quiet acceptance in the name of faith? I think not. Don’t get me wrong. I am a believer. I’ve always been. But, my God is not an old man sitting somewhere up there and controlling my every action. My God does not discriminate against me because I was born female. My God is omnipresent, omnipotent and omniscient. Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to be doing much about the rampant injustice we see. Maybe he wants us to sit up and take things into our own hands! Isn’t it time we did just that?

Then, there is the question of who is responsible for women being treated as doormats. Upbringing? Society? Parents? Family? Or the woman herself? This lady is a case in point. She worked in a college before marriage. She gave it up for marriage. Now, she wants to work but can’t seem to find a job. She will also not work in the industry because papa told her that it’s not appropriate. And no, I am not criticizing her. But, I really feel bad that other people have so much of a control over our lives. It hurts that women here cannot dare to dream, or even hope; that much of our lives is way beyond our control. This control is exercised by parents, friends, family, society and every other external factor you can think about. It’s crazy how we get so caught up in this idea of duty and obligation that we don’t even stop to think about whether this is what we really want from our life.

This lady cannot fall in love. Forget falling in love, she cannot even think of a man in that way. Because, she is not expressive, in her own words. No…scratch that! She is not allowed to be expressive. Because expressing love, wanting to express it, or wanting to see it expressed is a bad thing. This is true with most Indian families. The touch is taboo. We cannot touch to express how much we love someone, even if it’s a parent or a sibling. We cannot express it verbally either. Because of a rather deluded concept of love being silent. She cannot choose her life partner because parents know better what kind of man is required in her life. So what if he is less qualified, had a string of girlfriends, or arrogant. Parents know better! Sigh! When will this end? When will we stop treating our daughters like cattle, which needs to be sold off to the highest bidder when still saleable?

Maybe I am being emotional here, but that’s just me. Rashmi calls it the hen coop. Maybe it is. Or maybe it’s simply a gilded cage that apparently offers all kinds of comforts but still clips your wings when you wish to fly. I have wings now. I wish to fly. I wish to let my dreams take flight. And for the last 27 years, nobody or nothing has come in my way. I can only hope that it will remain that way. I can hope because unlike millions of other women in this world, I am privileged. I am privileged to have been born in an urban, progressive household; privileged to be educated; privileged to have parents who will not force me to do anything that I do not want to. No, not even get married. Unfortunately, not all women are this privileged. But, this brings me back to my original point. Being able to live your life should not be a privilege. It should be a right. When will the rest of the female half of humanity get this right? Anytime soon?

I liked what I saw. But, not as much as I like Unnaipol Oruvan. Call me a die-hard Kamal fan who will digest anything he chooses to dish out, but I still like UPO way better. That said, I think there were a lot of differences between the original and the remake. A Wednesday has faster camera movements, indicating the urgency of the situation, while UPO stays rather focussed on the matter at hand. Editing is definitely slicker in the Hindi version than in Tamil, where the camera tends to linger on each of the characters longer than strictly necessary. In fact, A Wednesday gives you the feel of a classic Hollywood action thriller, at times. And that, for those who want action, is a good thing!

Anupam Kher as the Commissioner is a lot more active than Mohanlal in UPO. However, with his activity is also a certain melodrama that Mohanlal manages to avoid in UPO. Restraint is the name of the game, and Lalettan is nearly perfect in it. The CM makes no appearance in the Tamil version, but the voice and diction are more than enough to let us know who exactly is talking. Mohanlal’s clash with Lakshmi is a talking point of UPO, although Lakshmi’s acting is a bit over-the-top, especially compared to the restraint shown by Mohanlal.

Naseerudeen Shah was perfection personified. Nothing can be said about his acting. He was absolutely perfect for the role he was playing. But, the dialogues in the climax scene, although power-packed, somehow seemed incongruous coming from the mouth of a purported common man. Because, the common man, when angry, cries silent tears. Because, all of us are human and the last thing we do when overcome with emotion, is to deliver a ten-minute-long dialogue. We tend to clam up and shut down, both emotionally and verbally. To me, that is where UPO scores. While the dialogues are there, they do not take away from the character of the common man. They do not sound too dramatic or exaggerated. That’s why I liked UPO better.

One little thing that drew me closer to the Tamil version was the portrayal of the IIT dropout. He came across as both genuine and geeky. Indeed, I have seen many like him in real life: cousins, friends, classmates…they really exist. The portrayal was absolutely realistic and fabulously etched. The “cool dude-ness” of the Hindi version was a bit of a put off, really!

Finally, to me, the background music in A Wednesday was a trifle too loud for my taste and often came in the way of the comprehension of the dialogues. Not that Shruti Haasan did a great job in Tamil either. The soundtrack really is the only major drawback of the movie in both languages. And yes…these are my opinions. I am not an expert at cinema, nor do I claim to be one. So, if you think I am mistaken, please feel free to tell me!

Yes, yes. Me too. I look for perfection too sometimes. Every now and then, I stop and tell myself I am chasing a mirage and learn to chill. I have said somewhere before this that the world is not a Mills and Boon novel, where demure, pretty heroines end up with tall, dark and handsome Greek business tycoons. No way! Life would be boring if it were so easy, wouldn’t it? And how are we to know whether those tall, dark and handsome Greek business tycoons actually make good husbands. The book ends before we ever find out.

Perfection in an individual is sometimes scary. It is intimidating to see a apparently flawless person. Call me a cynic, but the first thing I wonder when I see someone ostensibly perfect is what skeletons he/she is hiding in their closet. Sigh! I really need to learn to trust don’t I? Don’t mind me…am just being…erm…difficult??

Sriram quotes a few lines from Shruti’s article that infuriate and disgust.

“Urban denizens who’ve actually heard of this art form often mistake it for its disreputable half-cousin ‘Therukuttu’ (street performance), unpractised, spontaneous roadside performances that take place during temple festivals—and indeed, the word Therukuttu has also come to mean “making a disgraceful spectacle of oneself in public.”

Several things about this sentence infuriate. First, calling an art form a disreputable half-cousin of another is entirely uncalled for. Secondly, Therukoothu, as the name suggests, is indeed played out on the road. In fact, it is at the origins of the three Tamils (Iyal, Isai, Natakam) and is performed on crossroads (naarchandi in Tamil). The fact that an art form is performed on the street does not demean its worth in any way.

In fact, Bharatanatyam, the much-revered classical dance form of Tamil Nadu has its origins in what was called Sadir Attam or Dasiattam – the dance of the Devadasis. This is precisely why dance as an art form was considered demeaning for a woman from a good family to practice until its popularization by Rukmini Devi Arundale. Devadasis, for a certain period were nothing but courtesans (prostitutes to be blunt), and maintained by the Saraboji Rajas of Tanjavur. Does this mean that all Bharatanatyam dancers today are not worth respecting? Also, Therukoothu is by no means unpractised. Practice sessions for Therukoothu stretch over several days, sometimes weeks or months.

If Therukoothu were indeed the disreputable half-cousin Shruti claims it to be, why would there be organized groups, as Sriram so rightly points out, working tirelessly to promote the dying art? For those who need the stamp of “international recognition”, there is even a course on Therukoothu offered by the Singapore National Arts Council. What more do you need?

This article by Shruti Ravindran is nothing more than a piece of shoddy journalism at best. It simply proves, once again, that journalistic standards are at rock bottom today. If Outlook can allow publication of such an article without editing or verification, it makes me wonder what kind of media we have today. I suggest Shruti look for an alternative career, that has nothing to do with either journalism, art or even writing.