The Twilight zone

A spring time study

2015-05-06T22:00:00.001-04:00

Spring evening

Why we need more Revolver Ranis

2014-07-21T16:54:00.000-04:00

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Ever had the feeling of being jolted out of something or into something, say for instance, reality?

An awakening of sorts happened today, not to a reality I do not already know, but to one that is so common and repetitive that I have learnt to ignore it.

I watched the documentary, The World Before Her, by Nisha Pahuja. A film with a simple agenda: to contrast a modern, seemingly progressive India to its more conservative, religious, right wing cousin and in doing so reveal the treacherous world in which our daughters are born and raised. While some of the issues raised in the film are familiar, everyday problems one has to deal with on the streets in Indian towns and cities, the flip side was surreal and scary. Young girls, while being taught self defense lessons at a camp by Durga Vahini, were told in no uncertain terms that their life’s goal was to bear and raise children on the principles of hindutva taught at these camps. So, while a beauty pageant was trying to instil in twenty young women a certain idea of beauty, albeit by making them feel insecure about their imperfect face ratios; the other side was busy preparing a breed of future wives and mothers. The contrast is insane! What is worse is that neither is healthy or desirable.

The second film that raised questions was Sai Kabir's, Revolver Rani. Kangana Ranaut's acting is mostly what carries this film. Her character, Alka, is a study in contrasts. Nicknamed Coco, inspired by a coconut, by her lover, she is the tough woman bandit who is aching for love on the inside. Though this character is not new to Hindi cinema, it is worth noting that Kabir makes no effort to keep her sense of freedom and individuality intact towards the climax. Once Coco realizes that she is pregnant with her lovers' child, who by the way is using her to build a successful film career, we are shown her stumbling transformation into the quintessential woman a.k.a a child wanting, aspiring home maker. Oh my god, oh my god, OH MY GOD! My brain was ready to explode. For all it's Tarnatino-esque cinematography and mash up of music, this film is no Kill Bill. I can understand and appreciate the vulnerability underneath the veneer of a hardened criminal, she is human after all. I also support her choice to have a child. But I do not understand why her ultimate dream should be to have a home in Venice with an office going husband and a day spent minding her household. Why?

Now compare this to another Kangana Ranaut film, Queen. A traditional girl, with big dreams for her wedding and life thereafter finds freedom in the honeymoon that wasn't meant to be. What doesn't break you makes you stronger. Her family transitions to the idea of their daughter's new found independence and confidence by trusting her on her journey. Their faith in her sees them through and strengthens her resolve to make a life for herself. Things happen, life can be lived with dignity after what society, especially sneaky uncles and aunties, might term as the end of a girl's prospects. We need to see through this bogus nonsense.

To his credit, Kabir leaves the door ajar on Revolver Rani. The film ends with a badly burnt, injured Alka i.e. Revolver Rani still breathing and holding on to life. I am guessing this is the point from where a vengeful heroine will be reborn. A sequel waiting to be made. But my point is, why not have her sharpen her mind and look beyond her scheming minions and take charge of the situation in one go? And why do we need to have a woman give into stereotypes and desire what society around her propagates as normal.

After watching Revolver Rani I found my self revisiting the girls in Pahuja's film. One way or another, whether they were models competing for the Miss India title or trainees at a Durga Vahini summer camp, they were acutely aware of what was being demanded of them and their bodies by society. The models were frank in explaining that while they were young and unattached, they had the freedom to pursue their careers. Whereas that might change with marriage. Similarly, girls at Durga Vahini were being taught that children and a household run according to Hindutva, the VHP brand, had to be an essential in their scheme of things.This is not to say that a woman should not aspire to being a homemaker and a mother, she absolutely can and must if that makes her happy and provides her satisfaction. The only condition being that she do so out of her own volition. Our daughter should be taught to take pride in making independent decisions about their life choices be it education, career or spiritual and religious beliefs.

The best part about Revolver Rani and The World Before Her is the front and center placement of the female protagonists. In both films the audience comes face to face with girls who have strong personalities; people who are willing to challenge the norms. Prachi, a pracharak's daughter who is also an instructor at the Durga Vahini camp, understands that she is trapped by the very ideology that she is propagating. And remaining within those boundaries she revolts against her father and his expectations. It is moments like that that make a documentary magical. The conclusion though is disheartening: women, men, all of us are trapped by convention, tradition, religion and expectations of people around us, many who don't even matter. Why can't we, with our cerebral abilities look past these constructs,which after all are man made too?

When will we wake up to the fact that women are not just child bearing machines with a limited warranty. They are not equivalent to their reproductive system, instead they are as human as their male counterparts. This is a rant that is never ending. A reality that is mirrored in the inhumane acts of cruelty seen and heard in the news every morning. But just as the saying goes, every dark cloud has a silver lining, there must be one somewhere here too, don't you think?

For now the unapologetic title track from Revolver Rani, called Revolver Rani ki thai thai thai in the voice of Usha Uthup is going to be my soundtrack.

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2012-10-12T11:44:00.001-04:00

India as I see it....

It is hard for me to admit this but sadly the sight of India- in the news- is abysmal. Disappointing is an understatement, it is downright shameful.
Every morning that I wake up and read the latest news on Ndtv or TOI all I get to see are climbing figures of rape cases in Haryana, mud slinging a la Kejriwal followed by denials from minister after minister and the misbehavior of MP's across the board, across the country.

For all the years that I have lived in India, the greater part of my life, all this chaos was unfolding in such close proximity that it was just something to live with and ignore. Ignore we do, and very well at that. Otherwise would we let politician after politician take us for a ride? Would we let Khaps and a patriarchal Chief minister decide whether the choice for young women should be marriage or rape?

As I watched the American Vice Presidential debate last night I wanted to put Indian politicians on the stand and ask them some questions. Why is it that we never get to question the hypocrisy of our leaders and put them in the stand?

Indian politics is a complete and utter tamasha of rallies and misuse of public funds. It is all about the moolah everywhere, even in America, but no matter how many checks the Election Commission of India puts in place there is just no way to account for the funds spent by candidates. In India bureacracy is a way of life, it is no longer the domain of just the babus. We are a paper collecting elephant where losing relevant information is the norm rather than the exception.

Secondly, other than debates on television talk shows, the campaigning season in India never really sees candidates answer tough questions on policies. We don't get to know if the candidates that we have a to choose between even have the basic information and knowledge to do the work they will be entrusted with. All that seems to matter are caste affiliations and the assurance of benefits for your own under one candidate versus the other. For the most part political affiliations in India are either caste based or region specific, very rarely does the ideological bent of a party or its candidate matter.

Thirdly, our 'representatives' in both the houses of parliament and in state legislatures have for decades made sure that the legislative work comes to a halt when their demands are not met. The threats range from abstaining in vice presidential voting (link) to calling a no confidence motion on the floor of the house. All it really does is destabilize an already slow moving organism. No wonder then that the cabinet has to take policy decision after the end of the session. Policy paralysis is making sure that the hopes and rewards of economic growth that decades of reforms have made possible are thrown into oblivion.

Is moving backwards the only choice that these so called representatives can give us?

India as I see it from across the world is slowly sliding down, socially and economically.
No wonder then people still think we don't have air conditioners or safe drinking water in our houses. The ignorance about India does alarm me but to the credit of those who have never been outside of America, even in their reading and general knowledge, news coming from India is very rarely encouraging.

Somebody needs to be put in the witness stand and questioned- it is the MP in Maharashtra who brandishes a gun at a toll booth, the men who rape women, the chief minister who defends the logic of the Khaps, the SGPC that honours Khalistanis, the politicians who force reservation down on us rather than develop education grassroots up; the bureaucrats who line their pockets and the police who refuse to acknowledge a crime.

As with a speech, this too may sound idealistic and impractical. I agree there isn't a court in all the world that can have so many people in the witness stand. The only place where we can make them accountable it on the election ballot. I haven't had a chance to vote in any election but when I do get a chance, if I do, I would just like to vote for no one.

2012-10-04T16:51:00.000-04:00

The world spins on...

Sept 11th 2012

I can't remember when it began but since the time I realised my world, my home and family did not exist in isolation, that we weren't inside a glass globe; the enormity of the world, it's people, it's homes and families has amazed me. For a child's imagination it is simply mind boggling to imagine the simultaneity of millions of actions.

This thought came back today- I remember standing in the lobby staring at the T.V. screen unable to believe what I saw. Two towers that I had only rarely heard of were coming crashing down and I felt my world would crash too. Until that moment the only thing that could've brought me down was a lack of preparation for the next morning's test in school! But as the news went on and we huddled around the t.v. screen I felt my heart beat faster and my knees go weak.

This feeling wasn't new- I had been anxious for my father when he served at some precarious locations during his career in the army. But for some reason the sight of the attack in New York was unsettling in a new, unprecedented way and nothing since has matched that. Yes, more people have died in conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq- civilians and soldiers- many of whom in the border regions of Afghanistan and Pakistan continue to be the victims of American drone attacks despite the unusually quick capture, killing and disposal of Bin Laden. Clearly, the war that began with accusations against Al Qaeda and Bin Laden was not meant to stop with them. We have since then seen the war on Iraq and repeated threats against Iran alongside NATO military actions in Africa. A country that once fascinated me, such that each Caucasian tourist in the streets of my hometown was instantly branded an American and products made in America were the epitome of quality and the pride of the working classes, is today a sorry shadow of its former self.

For decades the image of America in the media has been that of a resilient country, controlling the world markets and influencing global politics on the strength of its economic might. But every nation has its problems and America has it's too. Having been here for nine months my disillusion about USA which began in the early years of college has been reinforced. There is, of course, nothing magical here nor is it spectacular. It is vast and the expanse of the land has translated into it's town planning and the rules of social conduct too. These parallels run in such perfect symbiosis that it is not surprising to see transplants from here to India being perplexed at the complexity of Indian towns and cities. There is a measured politeness in social etiquette here, an opaqueness that shields prejudices and misconceptions fostered by mis/disinformation. This doesn't translate into all Indians in India being transparent but there is just something grossly wrong about a smile and a 'Hello!' or 'Good day!' that hides dislike behind it.

The perception of rampant ignorance among Americans about the outside world is real and tangible. It comes across in conversations and most strongly in the media. American news channels are given to reinforcing the idea of America; unlike the Indian media where the idea of India, to borrow from Sunil Khilnani, is constantly under scrutiny and the government is perpetually under fire. Sadly, for Americans their faith in the invincibility of their nation was shattered in a terribly disabling manner. For a lot of us from the 'third world', now for matters of politeness called the 'developing world', the interconnectedness of economic matters and market forces has been very real. Ever since the opening up of the India economy in 1991 prosperity has come but its trickle down has been slow and in many places almost non existent. The financial crash of 2008, having already lasted for 4 years, has widened the gap between the classes everywhere. America, the birth place of the crisis has been jolted into acknowledging the interconnectedness of the world from food to finance to manufacturing. Surprisingly though this is the very nation that forced countries across to globe to buy and sell oil in dollars, thus giving rise to the Petrodollar. Resistance by countries to trade in their own currencies has since then been successfully subverted and stopped. Were it not for American arm twisting, currencies across the world would not have been so intrinsically linked to the American dollar. As is the nature of a web the balance between the price of oil, the rate of the dollar and all other exchange rates is precarious. Therefore when an American, a new one or one with generations in the ground, points a finger at outsiders, outsourcing, China and so on for their financial woes, they should ideally be pointing finger at their government's successive economic policies.

At the anniversary of September 11 attacks the web like nature of the global market hits home more than usual. The 3000 people who died that day were from all over the world. It was a tragedy for all of us. Conspiracy theories about the twin tower attacks abound and enthusiasts and experts will continue to spin more. The truth though it that the wrath of revenge and the subsequent paranoia has reduced two countries to dirt. Whatever iota of civilisation that had existed in pre-war Afghanistan and Iraq has been swept away and the clock turned back many centuries.

The fear now, for that fourteen year old girl who shuddered at the sight of the crashing twin towers, is of a world full of hate and revenge fuelled by a lack of jobs, education and food. Whether the first world or the third, the ravages of the world economy leave nothing and no one untouched. If only leaders of the new world had used their foresight decades ago, if only things had been different. Even as I wonder at the possibilities I cant help but believe in the belligerence of the earth, in its innate movement. That movement is ours too and despite all hardships life will go on.

2012-08-23T15:01:00.001-04:00

Fighting for Survival

A few days ago I was browsing the website of a departmental store and came across items being sold under the banner "Heart of Haiti", meant to fund local artisans in the still struggling, earthquake battered island. A form of charity, this marketing strategy made me think of the idea of aid. Aid is defined as support to provide relief or help victims of a catastrophe or to facilitate and promote the progress of a project.

A look at the day's headlines, from India to Africa to Europe was enough to raise the question- Don't we all need aid in the current world scenario? Economic strains so deep and limiting have been unleashed on us in the course of this recession that aid no longer sounds like a dirty word.

Take for instance the violence in Assam's Kokrajhar region. It is a conflict between native Bodo tribesmen and Muslim settlers, many of whom the Bodo claim are illegal immigrants from Bangladesh. The illegal immigration of Bangladeshis into India is a known fact. There are no accurate figures but most articles and reports pitch it in the range of 20 million people. In a country of 1.2 billion, it is a number that can mix up easily. As domestic and manual labourers they are a part of the unorganised sector that struggles to survive while cooking, cleaning and baby sitting for the urban middle class. A resident of New Delhi will tell you that a majority of household workers are from Bangladesh. To me they aren't just people squatting on our land rather worker who are contributing to the economy.

The violence in Kokrajhar is not simple to explain, but from a distance the cause seems to lie in economics. The Kokrajhar constituency area falls under the Bodo Territorial Autonomous Districts. The Bodo tribes' agitation for a separate state began soon after independence. It rose out their need and want for development- the state having failed to provide them with education, health care and basic infrastructure. As a tribal people the territorial boundaries of Bodo land are understandably important to them and they have time and again agitated against the usurpation of land by outsiders (non Bodos). Early reports about the violence stated the cause to be a land dispute which turned violent. Even though the actual reason and perpetrators may not be found, the violent outburst against settlers in the region speaks of dissatisfaction with the state of development and growth in the region. It is a gruesome reminder of the economic downturn's many victims, after all in good times everyone is welcome everywhere.

This doesn't apply only to Assam but to the rest of the world. Greeks and Germans in the past few months have also raised demands for deportation of immigrants who are eating their slice of the pie. England has progressively made it tougher for professionals from the Indian subcontinent to work there and has reduced the number of student visas it issues to foreign students. Similarly in America students cannot stay after completing their course of study unless employed or pursuing further education. According to new data from the PEW research centre in Washington, D.C. the American middle class has shrunk 10% in the past decade while the rich have grown richer and the poor poorer. Sounds familiar? This, according to PEW, is the first time the middle class has shrunk so drastically since 1970.

Isn't it paradoxical that as economies and stock exchanges around the world get intrinsically linked, our political and national borders are becoming ever more impenetrable? We want to disconnect our local economies and make them exclusive. But no matter how hard we try to pursue exclusivism things will change only when the larger picture gets better.

In South Africa's Marikana Platinum mine, owned by British firm Lonmin, striking workers came under fire from the police. They had been on strike demanding better pay. The strike was the result of a feud between opposing unions and reveals the interrelated nature of union and national politics in South Africa. Whatever the ultimate outcome of this unfortunate event, the reason for the unrest was economic.

And then recently there was the shootout at the Oak Creek Gurudwara in Wisconsin, USA. The shooter, Wade Michael Page has been profiled as a white supremacist. A man who obviously had false notions of race superiority but along with that he probably hated the fact that 'outsiders' could be successful in 'his' country.

As I see it, it all comes down to money. It is about the means to provide for a family, to be able to cloth, feed, educate our children and provide them with a better future. In a shrinking world economy, where money comes and goes electronically, where savings and pensions can vanish within seconds- an immigrant is a threat to the hosts' livelihood. An immigrant on a Bodo's land- whether there legally or illegally- is growing crops that he could've cultivated and sold.

This is the largest and strangest of our world's paradoxes- as our worlds get closer we want to get farther away from each other.

2012-08-06T17:51:00.001-04:00

In the land of the diverse

In the wake of the killings at the Oak Creek Sikh temple in Wisconsin, it seems appropriate to reiterate some of the underlying principles of Sikhism and why it is perhaps a faith that binds more than it divides.

The history of the Sikh faith is important since it began in an era of tyrannous rulers in a society divided on the lines of caste and religion. India during the 15^th and the 18^th centuries A.D. was under Mughal rule. While the early Mughal emperors Babar, Humayun and Akbar were open minded and allowed religious freedom, their later successors, particularly Aurangzeb, embarked on a program of mass Islamization of Mughal subjects. It was also during this period that Hinduism came under the firm grip of Brahmins, who at the head of the Varna (social classification) system lay down and followed strict rules of social segregation. As a result, the already solidified caste system now became a directive written in stone and the intermixing of castes was deemed a crime.

This atmosphere of subjugation on all fronts led to the rise of the Bhakti movement- a loose social and religious movement comprising individuals from varied backgrounds and castes like Meera Bai, a princess turned mystic devotee of Krishna and poets from lower castes like Ramdas, Surdas and Tukaram. They preached a personal love of god free from the shackles of rituals and religious rhetoric. Nanak, who began his journeys across the country in 1499, is counted amongst the Bhakti saints. He is the founder of the Sikh religion and first of the ten Sikh gurus. His teachings can be found in the Guru Granth sahib, the holy book of the Sikhs.

Guru Nanak traveled from Assam in the east of India up to Mecca in the Arab peninsula and from Sri Lanka in the south up to Tashkent in the north. During his sojourns he came in contact with clerics and scholars from different religions- Islam, Hinduism, Jainism, Buddhism and Christianity. He came to the conclusion that there is one supreme god- a nameless, genderless, formless godhead, which appears in all religions. He came up with the motto- “Ek onkar Satnam,” meaning there is only one god and his name is the true name. This motto became the foundation of the Sikh faith propounding the oneness of god, of religions, of people, of caste and creed, of race and culture. The gurus that followed Guru Nanak propagated the same philosophy. When Guru Arjan Dev, the fifth guru started compiling the writings of the previous gurus into a book he also included writings by many Sufi and Hindu saints from the bhakti movement. The Guru Granth Sahib therefore is a book of wisdom, which contains verses by Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs. It is in this sense a universal book.

The Sikh people have had to struggle through history to maintain their independence first from the Mughals and then against the British. But during all those times they remained the protectors of their brethren, both Hindu and Muslim. Whether it was Mughal oppression or rioting during the partition of India, throughout the centuries Sikhs have taken it upon themselves to protect helpless men, women and children irrespective of their religion and caste. As soldiers in the British army the Sikh regiments played a monumental role in world war one and two. Ever since the independence of India in 1947 Sikhs have been looked upon in the Indian armed forces as non-partisan, brave soldiers.

It is to the credit of Sikhs around the world that we have managed to honour the teachings of our gurus. It was in the pursuit of following those teachings that the Sikh community of Oak Creek was gathering at the local Sikh temple. The women inside the temple were preparing the meal that the congregation would eat together. This practice of a communal kitchen (langar) open to people of all faiths from all walks of life, castes and class was instituted by the third Guru, Guru Amar Das. As a matter of practice, small congregations in places like Oak Tree hold the communal meal once every week on a Sunday, a practice very similar to Sunday church.

It is thus not surprising that a man such as Wade Michael Page would choose a Sunday for his dastardly act. According to news reports he was an army veteran who joined the force in 1992 and served in Fort Bliss, Texas as a Hawk missile repair specialist and later became a ‘psychological operations specialist.’ He was also reportedly a member of various white supremacist rock bands. Just by going over the facts pouring in through the news media it is amply clear that Page was an intelligent man, one who knew when to attack. Why then did he not bother to run a Google check on who exactly are Sikhs? Or was he a Xenophobic willing to target anyone brown or dark skinned irrespective of religion?

These are questions that we may receive answers to but the larger problem still remains, that of ignorance. I am a Sikh and a recent entrant to this country. My husband is a turbaned Sikh. It was only in the beautiful and diverse city of New York that I became acutely aware of being different. As a woman I cannot easily be differentiated as a Sikh, I may be taken as another Indian or even as a Hispanic. But my husband’s tall frame can be spotted in a crowd. I was stunned to see the glares and doubles take he received while walking around 5^th avenue and central park. If in a city that is in the heart of one of the most racially diverse parts of America this is the reaction he got, I could only imagine what it would be if we were to travel where few Indians, let alone Sikhs, lived.

America has been the land of opportunity to people around the world. We flock here to better educate ourselves at this country’s universities, to practice our trades, to flee dictators and tyrants, to embrace the freedom of religion and the freedom to live a decent life. Why then is America failing to educate its own citizens?

2012-07-04T00:19:00.002-04:00

Modernity or culture- who should we choose?

Loss is difficult to deal with, right? I mean there is nothing good about it unless its a purge of the bad, the evil and the unnecessary. But when that purging and destruction is taken to the extent of erasing a culture and its history, it isn't just loss and destruction, its pretty much like re-writing history altogether.
There are places in the world where ethnic cleansing has been carried out and is still used as a means of finishing the opposition, cases in point- the regime of Saddam Hussein, civil strife in Sudan, Libya and even to a certain extent Syria. In all these cases what has existed is the opposition of two sides either races, tribes, religious sects or political groups. But the cultural revolution in China was like an auto immune disease- where the chinese communist party decided to rid the country of its bourgeois antecedents. The Great Wall survived because of the sheer magnitude of its size and strength but smaller, older nooks and crannies of culture, neighbourhoods where generations of Chinese had been living are being wiped off by modern construction companies.

In its urge to be a communist republic free of the shackles of class and inequality what China has created is a mass of people living their lives as dictated by the party- without democracy and without freedom, even the freedom to remember and appreciate their past. In a recent article the Wall Street Journal Magazine profiled Johnson Chang, an artist and curator working in China. He, along with investment and faith from his banker brother, has brought together artists and craftsmen with traditional skills to construct an entire town from scratch in the derelict industrial district called Jinze on the outskirt of Shanghai. This in a country where traditional, walled neighbourhoods called 'hutongs' are being demolished every day to be replaced by glass and metal skyscrapers.
Is development meant to replace traditions nourished over thousands of years? Chang says many of these skills that survived underground during the revolution are as old as four thousand years. I feel a sense of loss each time I see things disappear and alter in Jodhpur, the city of my childhood. I remember being upset when the municipality chopped off a tree to widen the road- it was at the edge of a divider and impeded a clear view for drivers- but as a kid being driven around, you tend to miss the smallest of markers on your short travels within the city. I can't imagine Jodhpur without its fort and the old city bazaars or Delhi without Chandni Chowk being as crowded and loud as it is or Hyderabad without the Charminar or Bhopal without its Chowk bazaar. Sure we need newer amenities but do we need to lose all that has an elegance earned with time? In a dictatorship that touts to be a 'democratic republic' apparently there isn't a choice.

I can't say the Archaeological Survey of India or the relevant departments of various state governments do a good job. (Sometime I wonder if they even work.) If in China it has been the political ideology which has struck at the root of centuries of culture, in India it is the redundancy of bureaucratic red tape and the lack of will to actually preserve, conserve, nurture and educate that is leading to the ruin of whatever we have left to show of our glorious years as an ancient civilization.
It is such a shame that ancient countries, the size of continents with languages and literatures that far surpass any other in the world should have such an apathetic attitude towards themselves. We destroy what we should honour and declare national treasures, we fail to teach in schools across the country what we were and can be, we fail to bring to light the things that our students should be proud of and respect. These are the most important lessons we can learn from a young country like America. They transplanted communities and built their own culture of modernity but along the way honoured those who fought for their rights and freedoms, even if belatedly. For all its shortcomings as the big brother of the world, there are admirable qualities in this state- qualities of standing tall and being proud of their inheritance and history. These are values that would seve Indians well too. We are definitely better off than the Chinese, who had to start with a clean slate, erasing all signs of their past. The past of our civilization still survives and is living in the modern world. If we learn soon enough to preserve our history and its narrative- good and bad, from the golden ages to the dark ages- we still might have a chance to learn from them and stand proud as a nation.

India's power increasingly has been its culture- something defined as it's soft power by Shashi Tharoor. It is the easy mobility of culture, going places with students and professionals, with immigrants and tourists that makes it so easy to showcase and share. We should harness it and back it up with equal measures of preservation of architectural, artistic, musical, dance and folk traditions. Only if we manage to do so will they survive the pernicious onslaught of half baked modernity and disparate development.

Link to the article referred in the blog.
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052702304765304577482580429791656.html?mod=WSJ_Magazine_LEFTTopStories

2012-05-31T12:03:00.004-04:00

Why Gangs of Wasseypur is worth a watch.

Bleak, dark, gritty, hard hitting, vulgar, rhythmic, base, tragic, whimsical, real- just some of the adjectives that may begin to describe the breadth and intensity of the latest Anurag Kashyap offering. I had the good fortune of watching it on the closing night of the New York Indian Film Festival followed by a discussion with Kashyap.

The Gangs of Wasseypur is like a tornado of strong characters and compelling stories that sucks you in and takes you on a whirlwind trip of Dhanbad and Wasseypur. The opening sequences of the film are a prelude employing the narrator to establish the boundaries of the story and its characters. This is very important, given that once we enter the underbelly of Wasseypur’s society there is no knowing what is waiting around the corner. With pre-independence beginnings, the narrative is a tale of exploitation, discrimination, injustice and revenge chronicling the rise of the coal mafia in the mineral rich Dhanbad belt, which in present day India falls under the state of Jharkhand. There is no wavering in the story telling- the film maker gets straight to the point, it is a story from the perspective of the underbelly and about the underbelly. There are no cover ups or attempts at making things look peachy when they are bleak and grey.

The story begins with Shahid, a Pathan living in a predominantly Qureshi village of Wasseypur. After impersonating ‘Sultana Daku’, a local Qureshi dacoit, he is threatened and forced to leave with his family for Dhanbad. It is here that Shahid begins life anew as a coal mine worker and the fight between the establishment and the unprivileged, underpaid and overworked labourer begins. From here on the paths of many rivals crisscross and the families of each carry on the legacy of hate and the fight for revenge. The narrator helps the audiences navigate through this maze of jealousy, hate, love and lust. This is a film that does require some diligence on the part of the audiences. Be forewarned, it is not a film for the faint hearted or one for a fantastical escape. This is as real as it gets, from basal craving of the flesh to the use of profanities as the standard for expression or the butchering of wrong doers and rapists. It is the portrayal of a society where each day is a fight for survival and justice is meted out by gang leaders and their henchmen.

In this violent society women play a pivotal role in taking the story forward. They have a distinct voice and perspective to offer, both within and outside the legitimate boundaries of family. Not surprisingly the stronger and more prominent of the female voices arise from the underbelly. They are the wives of the gang leader, Sardar (Manoj Bajpai), while on the other hand the coal mine owner turned politician, Ramadhir Singh’s (Tigmanshu Dhulia) wife is seen only in the background.

The film is also an exploration of the tensions within a family and its impact on the actions and characters of young children. They are exposed to violence at an early age and also struggle with questions of morality concerning money and sexual relationships. All this and the burden of revenge contributes towards the rise of the next generation of protagonists and the anti hero.In this respect this film is extremely similar to The Godfather.

Cinematically, the film is appropriately dark and befittingly so in a film that has its beginning set in the establishment of coal mines by the British in pre-partition Bengal. As a team Rajeev Ravi and Kashyap have already established their style with films like ‘No Smoking’ and ‘Dev D’. They successfully use the interplay between a continuous grey tone and an occasional burst of colour as a trope. It serves the purpose of giving a whimsical retreat to the anti hero and a visual relief to the audience. It is a style that film makers like Tarantino and Danny Boyle have used often.

The soundtrack shoulders its responsibility beautifully. If it weren’t for the soundtrack with an array of refurbished folk tunes and wonderful new compositions, the film would’ve lost an important dimension. The emotional quotient of the soundtrack is very high- offering support and a backdrop for a character’s state of mind. Sneha Khanwalkar breathes new life into traditional folk songs from Banaras and Bihar. In a post screening chat with Aseem Chhabra at the NYIFF, Anurag Kashyap mentioned his intention of using as many traditional tunes as possible in this project. To fulfill this Sneha Khanwalkar travelled to Trinidad and Tobago where she found the ‘Hunter song’, a Bihari folk song which has survived there along with other folk music which travelled to the islands with Bihari slaves. Then there is ‘Womaniya’, the result, he said, of an extensive workshop and collaboration with women folk singers from Banaras. One of the more somber and touching tracks, ‘Ik Bagal’, written and sung by Piyush Mishra, has the qualities of a classic.

The painful attention to detail in the script translates on screen to a story that does not slacken in pace. The characters are so wholesome and perfectly placed that their presence never raises any doubts or confusion. In this saga of revenge there are stunning performance by new comers and seasoned actors alike. Anurag Kashyap mentioned that the second part comprises of fewer trained and known actors. If the first part is anything to go by then we will be in for another set of brilliant performances in part two.

This project is encouraging and praise worthy for another important reason- it was the brainchild of young, struggling writers. What was most fascinating during the post screening conversation at the NYIFF was the revelation by Kashyap of how he came across the script and was sold on the determination of the writers- Zeishaan Qadri, Sachin Ladia and Akhilesh. Based on true events and written and performed by people who have lived in Bihar, this film shows us a world few of us could know and fewer still, survive.

These are just a few of the reasons I believe ‘The Gangs of Wasseypur’ is worth a watch, the rest of course is for the audience to decide.

2012-04-20T16:37:00.001-04:00

The fateful date...

My date of birth is an identifier for me, not only does it reinforce each passing year the passage of time since but it's almost integral to my very being, at least officially. I posses at least a couple of documents from high school and college mark sheets to of course my passport and such other government issued ID that must absolutely display my date of birth. So while I do need my date of birth to be eligible to vote, drive, drink and marry, do I really want to remember it, always?

The instant reply is both yes and no. Yes for obvious reasons of wanting friends and family to remember me and congratulate me and so on and so forth as modern traditions of birthday celebrations demand. But on the other hand, the day of my birth anniversary usually has a sombre undertone.

Until middle school birthdays meant a long trip around school distributing sweets to all teachers and staff and of course my own class while at home it would either be a birthday gathering with neighbours and friends or a nice dinner with family. Then came high school when I felt too grown up to have a birthday party or even distribute sweets all over the school but that dint stop me from wearing civilian clothes to school. The only constant that remained was the celebration at home, cosy and delicious. As the years went on, during college and university, the burden of celebrating the passing of a year just didn't sound very exciting. It all seemed like such a waste and in fact a day to mourn the loss of time. But, and there is always one when a person's self worth and image is involved, my lamentation for the loss of precious time could always be overcome by a tiny gift or a dinner out with my parents. So fickle was or rather is my mourning!

This cycle of self pity born from the idea of getting older only to be assuaged by small gestures of love, makes me wonder about the norms of such celebrations. In my generation of hyper connectivity and massive documentation through social networking and micro blogging sites the chances of a users birthday going unnoticed are rare, unless of course they don't want to share it with anyone. The volume of messages- online, via text or email and the occasional call- have become measures of a persons popularity and also a gauge of how many people remember them and perhaps even like them enough to wish them. Come to think of it, how many people in your list on facebook and elsewhere would be part of an actual birthday celebration were you to host one? Does it even matter that they took 10 seconds from their browsing time to type in two words on the box provided next to your birthday alert? I admit to being that very person for you. When you see a wish by me even though we haven't had any interaction in over a year do you like it, say a polite thank you or just plain ignore it?

This brings me to another set of people on the opposite end of the spectrum, those who never knew when they were born except as an approximation. My paternal grandparents are two such people and they both have had different reactions to such a situation. My late grandfather's birth in 1922 was not recorded but when it was time for documents to be prepared he chose a date, probably from the approximate time frame that he was given. He chose April 1st, 1922 as his date of birth and each year he celebrated it and expected the family to remember it and wish him. My grandmother on the other hand meets a birthday wish with surprise. Her official birthday is 22nd March but she seems to have little faith or interest in it. According to her it was sometime later in the year. They couldn't be truer to themselves in such opposing reactions to the issue of their birthdays. The lack of certainty about their birth dates didn't stint them as people but then did it free them or as documentation became a necessary evil in a bureaucratic, democratic and free India, did they feel strange and lost? I might still get some answers to these questions from my grandmother.
But for me the question remains, what would it be to not have a birthday? I know mine and when I don't get messages and call from friends and family remembering me on my 'special day' I do feel slightly upset. Would it be freeing to cut lose the bounds of social customs? I would definitely feel better not to be reminded of my age each year!

2012-04-05T17:25:00.004-04:00

Harbinger's of Hope

As a matter of routine I spend about an hour or so every morning reading news coming out of India. There is always a mix of the encouraging and the disappointing, both in equal proportion. But off late there have been a few that stand out and I hope they will be the harbingers of hope for a better India.

The first case in point is the landslide victory of the Samajwadi Party in the UP assembly elections. This political feat to me is of great significance because not only has the electorate spoken but expressed itself with a force that quite literally blew away the incumbent. I am quite sure that Mayawati's elephants did not imagine that there would be a wind strong enough to blow them away. Her party's loss just goes to show that rhetoric about reservations and quotas, sometimes for the poor and backward and at others for the upper yet neglected castes doesn't amount to loyalty from the said groups nor is it enough to improve things. Quotas in higher education do not guarantee jobs and quotas in government and private sector enterprises do not necessarily mean that the quality of work will improve or those that avail these facilities will in fact be honest towards their duties. There have been plenty of cases of the 'creamy layer' (read well to do) from the backward classes misusing quotas meant for the 'really and truly' backward.

Nothing comes with a guarantee, least of all power. During her tenure Mayawati painted the town blue and made memorials for herself, cut cakes weighing quintals and was garlanded with flowers worth crores. But towards the end of her reign allegations of corruption and scams surfaced everyday. If this is the image of the resilient and rising Dalit then Ambedkar surely wouldn't want to be associated with the likes of her. The father of our constitution surely saw empowerment as an all encompassing enterprise, larger and greater than money and politics. His enterprise, if the constitution of India is any hint, would have stressed values of equality and justice and a fairness in the distribution of rewards over favouritism and quota politics. Mayawati hasn't hung up her boots yet and she will be there for the next fight with more ways of wooing both the upper and lower castes and classes.

For now though, Akhilesh Yadav is the man in control. His steps of disbanding a hospital set up within the premises of the Chief Minister's residence and reduction of his official fleet from the 40 SUV's used by his predecessor to 8, do sound promising. He has also announced the re-launch of the weekly Janta Darshan when the gates of his residence will be opened to allow common people to meet him, the man they swept into power. Mayawati, on the other hand, was a far cry from being open and approachable. She moved around in a fortress of security, distant and aloof from the masses she has so long wanted to bring into the mainstream. If the first few days are anything to go by then Akhilesh Yadav might just be the Nitish Kumar Uttar Pradesh has been waiting for.

The second story is more grass roots and in fact the news of an endeavour started by a teacher turned civil servant who taught me in high school in Jodhpur. He is a tehsildar and four years ago initiated an NGO, an educational and rural development organisation, with like minded people to provide education to children in and around Osian, Rajasthan. Four years down the road they are still there with over 300 students and a dedicated staff of 15.

Mr. Bhagirath taught us physics and he was perhaps the most engaging teacher during my high school years, dedicated and demanding but also considerate and helpful. He has been joined in his initiative by our second and more experienced physics teacher, Mr Yadav as well as my classmate Aniket Baheti. There couldn't have been a better start to the day than reading about this initiative called TERDS i.e. Thar Educational and Rural Development Society based in Osian, Rajasthan. I hope that they go on to achieve their goals in rural development and prove to be an effective and efficient collaboration between citizens and government officials. There have been various stories in the media in the past about corporate executives giving back to their communities and I see a hint of that here, my friend and classmate is from that breed of people. More than anything else it is inspiring to read about things done by people one has personally known. I wish them luck and hope that I too can give back someday.

These stories are the few that provide a glimmer of hope and relief in a news day otherwise full of violence and abuse.

2012-03-23T02:34:00.000-04:00

Trigger happy, America?

A vast desert with the sun glaring down, boring holes in the earth. Mirages rising like dancing flames as far as the eye can see with the hint of mountains far far away.
Now imagine three cowboys facing each other, guns drawn, eyes narrow with concentration, each judging the other, sizing up his guts.

This is how I remember the climax of the spaghetti western, 'The Good, the Bad and the Ugly'. The quick montage between the eyes and the hands of each of the men makes the scene intense and also extremely alluring and gripping. That scene, for me, encapsulates the daredevilry associated with cowboys and the wild west as well as the romance and the kick of possessing a gun. There is no denying that the combination of brawn with machine power does send the adrenaline pumping. That is what keeps action films from going out of business. Combine that fire power with a woman who knows how to yield it and you have a blockbuster.

I would've loved to be that woman and I have secretly nursed the desire to own a fire arm ever since I was a kid. For me it was my father's profession and the lifestyle of an officer in the forces that gave rise to my fascination with fire arms and my mother's worries that if handed one I would in all probability end up using it. It is that thought of being able to pull out a gun and aim at anyone under the pretext of self defence that is frightening. Nothing brings it home more than the recent case of a Florida teenager being shot dead by a community watch volunteer for no apparent reason.

This is the result of a 'Stand Your Ground Law', passed in Florida and adopted in 31 states in the USA in one form or the other. This law allows any person who owns a gun legally to carry it along in public places and use it for self defence. Of course, they have to be in imminent danger to make use of the fire arm. Under these laws the policemen who reach the scene of the shoot out are given room to decide if the action was justified or not. And in the most recent case a 17 year old, unarmed, black boy was shot dead in Sanford, Florida by a man twice his size, driving an SUV. I can't imagine how a teenager walking on the side walk was a threat to this armed man and why he was not arrested and taken into custody even after the 911 calls clearly demonstrate that Mr. Zimmerman (the shooter) was urged against following the boy. Was shooting a boy in a hoodie Zimmerman's idea of protecting the neighbourhood?

America has a private gun ownership rate of 88.8% according to a 2007 survey and a homicide rate of 2.89 per 100,000 persons. It ranks number one in the world on all counts of gun ownership and gun homicides, gun suicides as well as unintentional gun deaths. There is definitely a room for considerable doubt about its international standing in this field since there are plenty of illegal arms in much of the developing world and many unaccounted deaths and killings. What is shameful is that in a country that claims that it has the wellness of the entire world on its conscience its lawmakers are giving a free hand to trigger happy fellows. There is nothing which explains this except commerce. The 'stand your ground law' has been backed by the National Rifle Association which makes $200 billion from gun manufacturers and gun sellers. The market rules!

Instead of making laws against violence in public spaces legislators in this part of the world are actually making laws to enable more guns in public spaces. America witnesses school shoot outs every year. When teenagers can find guns easily it should be a wake up call and a reason to spring into action to reduce fire arms and further control their sale and use. The new world clearly doesn't have its priorities sorted out. I am no expert on the Federal Union of America but I know this much that a government is responsible for maintaining peace and guaranteeing the safety of its citizens along with fostering equality before law.

Gun totting cowboys look good only in movies, in the real world where their occupation is no longer required its high time the romance of being one was limited to the make belief world.

2012-03-22T01:29:00.003-04:00

Reality anyone...?

The eternal dilemma of whether media mirrors society or vice versa looms large over every student who treads down the path of studying journalism and mass communication. The answer to this question is tricky and elusive. It takes a lot of research and sincere observation of content on the telly- endless evenings and nights of prime time television where soaps fight reality TV- to arrive at a conclusion. I've been through the phase of writing essays on this topic but recently this eternal quest jumped back at me.

My academic pursuits haven't been on the top of my list off late. They've been relinquished to the back burner but television has taken up a prominent position in my daily activities. I find myself juggling through hundreds of channels, looking for something interesting and engaging amongst the humdrum of American TV. This might come as a surprise to some, but television in the free world (read: free market) is nothing short of a fish market of sellers vying for your attention. From advertisements for insurance firms offering car insurance and deals for everything insurable under the sun to innumerable weight loss and skin improvement programs endorsed by an assortment of experts. Then come the closeouts of furniture stores, as seen on TV products and quick and easy money making schemes. There is, no doubt, a healthy assortment of products and services advertised but when compared to television back home in India there are somethings that just pop out.

There is a definite obsession with weight loss in this country i.e. USA, revelations that a couch potato is privy to! I did some Internet research and found that 35.7 % of adult Americans are obese. No wonder then the entrepreneurial spirit of the West is cashing in on this disease. Compare this to the 5% national adult obesity average in India and this is a no-brainer. USA is struggling with an epidemic like situation and we are heading there with higher individual figures for men and women than the national average. At 30% Punjab, of course, is leading.
The obvious difference, in terms of television viewing, is that Indian advertisers do not have as many weight loss programs and diets to sell to their viewers. VLCC has been around for two decades and neighbourhood gyms are sprouting up but TV adverts for them on national television are a rarity. American television looks like the one place where the media do mirror society. If you walk down a street in the tiny town I live in there are chances that you will be able to count at least ten people in as many minutes who are obese. In case you are in the vicinity of a city centre, a mall or a hospital the number of morbidly obese people climb up steeply. It's sad and depressing to see this reality rubbed into every TV viewing experience around the clock.

While there is an assortment of more idealistic, creative, refreshing advertisements and messages that could perk up your spirits, there is definitely something here that limits creativity. Most advertisements come across as almost aristocratic, they are the modern day, digital, 2-d equivalent of a stiff upper lipped English gentleman. Summing up American television, while diversified with an assortment of channels on each subject from housing to clothing to the traditional news and 24-hour movies, seems to be in an overdrive to bring viewers close to reality and it ain't a pretty sight.

2012-03-01T12:53:00.004-05:00

Joining the dots

When my brother and I were little children we had angelic faces with such likeness that we could be mistaken for twins. Our likeness in looks alas did not affect or influence our opposition in behaviour. Of course, we can still think alike on numerous occasions and issues and there is always an underlying sense of comforting familiarity when we discuss problems on a larger scale- global, national, economic, political and so on, far from the personal and yet mirroring our beliefs.

As we grew up people other than our family of four, our parents and us, started spotting facial similarities
between us and our mother and father. Some thought my brother was a 'carbon copy' and I resembled my father. We denied neither and did occasionally try to spot the similarities ourselves. We had meagre success, mannerisms mimicking our parents became more apparent in the two of us as we grew but more often than not we rarely reached a conclusion.Outside the house though, especially in the school headed by my mother teachers would tell me how much i looked like her. That was in Jodhpur. My brother had moved away to Canada so he was spared from this repetitive exercise.

Cut to Hyderabad circa 2007 and I am pronounced, 'an exact photocopy of my mother' by all whom I meet in the first few visits to her office. I was blown away and so was my mother. She had her pound of flesh by announcing that she could see I was upset at being compared with her. That was definitely untrue. On close examination I know I have plenty from both my parents to turn people in favour of one over the other.

Almost five years later, a conversation with my first cousin the other day was extremely revealing. We discussed my maternal grandmother's need to be meticulous to the extent that the house goes through a round of 'spring cleaning' every quarter. He was with her when the most recent spring clean up happened. And thank god for that, because otherwise she would most definitely have earned herself an injury or extreme exhaustion. Besides the extensive spring clean ups, our grandmother is thorough in her everyday house cleaning too. She is well past seventy and as she heads towards being a new octogenarian, there is little that hints at her slowing down. Both, my cousin and I, believe that we have inherited her incessant need to be clean and organised. Though we do go through bouts of untidiness, something she abhors.
While there is no denying that my looks are a good blend of both my parents, my mannerisms and habits aren't entirely derived from them. Looking back at all the times that I washed all the clothes that dint even need to be in the laundry or walked around inspecting and remarking on the poor dusting abilities of our maid, I should've known.
I should've known that I would be a watered down version of my grandmother one day. After all, the generation gap has to account for something.

I recently heard a commencement lecture by Steve Jobs where he had said that you can always join the dots in hindsight. He was talking in terms of his life and the career trajectory that made him who he became. As for him, there are numerous dots to join for each one of us. I know I will enjoy the feeling of De ja vu when I spot some of myself in my grandparents and parents.

2012-02-24T14:17:00.001-05:00

Spring's almost here

Yesterday I was surprised by a few unexpected visitors outside my window.
On the wire mesh they sat in what seemed like a gathering of friends, lazing on a warm, sunny morning. These tiny winged creatures, who I am guessing are young mosquitoes. Mosquitoes hibernate during the winters like most cold blooded creatures. Their eggs are submerged under ice during the winter season and hatch when spring arrives, raising the temperature of the water and freeing the eggs. The state of New Jersey, where I now reside, is called "Mosquito State" since it has 63 known species of mosquitoes within its boundaries! And we were led to believe as kids that America didn't have flies and 'machhars'. I was also visited by a housefly the other day. These insects take refuge inside houses and apartments in the winters, often burrowing close to heating vents. Since you can't wash the floors of houses here or just dust the whole place from top to bottom with a good old 'phool jhadu', pest control is your best friend. Entrepreneurs owe much to mother nature!

Spring which we call 'Basant' in India is associated with the colour yellow. I remember going to school on basant panchami, the day when spring begins according to the Hindu calendar, in late January or early February wearing a bright yellow sweater fighting off tiny mosquitoes that seemed to aim straight for my eyes and nose.
A day prior a circular would do the rounds of the school and the class teacher would dictate a notice for students to take down in their diaries asking parents to ensure 'yellow' as the colour for cv's the next day. The term cv's would inspire much excitement and debate, continuing until the end of the bus ride home. It signified freedom from wearing the school uniform for a whole day, a day to flaunt your middle school fashion. Once the bus ride ended it would be our mother's turn to be harassed to find the right clothes and hear repeated complaints about her children owning insufficient clothes, even though their wardrobes would barely close.
Such are the challenges and pressures of childhood!
The visitors heralding the arrival of spring are still at my window. They transported me back to the sandy playground of my school in Jodhpur. I remember playing kho-kho on the day I wore my yellow sweater, hand knit by my mother.

Basant panchami was on the 28th of January this year and winter in India has shown no signs of abating. I hope that did not deter students from adoring yellow and having a ball on the playground.

2012-02-23T17:49:00.002-05:00

Spam. I learnt of this word only when I started using my email regularly, by which I mean almost 6 to 7 years after I first made an email address. That was the charm of the good old nineties, no mobiles, no emails, no orkut or Facebook or the pokes and hugs and news feeds.
Well, let's cut to the chase. I recently moved to a new apartment building and I check my mail box (an actual, physical mail box) everyday and there is an enormous amount of spam inside it. This very apt comparison was made by a neighbor I met in the elevator. And he was so right! According to this gentleman the irrelevant mail left in the hallway is duly returned to the post man. There on the mail is sent back to the sender. My questions is, if that be so, then why doesn't the flow of envelopes addressed to a Chinese gentleman in my mailbox cease?
I was returned a letter that I sent out with a wrong address by Indian Post. So I know they do make the whole journey. I suppose USPS needs better spam filters.

2012-02-21T17:03:00.000-05:00

Inspiration is a word with diverse meanings and implications. I suppose it is fruitless to expand on those attributes; they would be as many as there are hands and minds on this earth. So far as this post is concerned, it is about the inspirations that move me and push an otherwise happy procrastinator into action.
Inertia, that principal of physics we had to learn the definition to and apply to solve problems commonly called numericals, the ones i detested and only managed to scrape through within an inch of failing; is perhaps the one universal principal that applies to more than the physical world. Inertia we were taught isn't always negative, just as friction is a necessary evil for motion, so is the inertia of motion. It can be the lazy kind or the kind that won't stop. I, needless to say, fall in the former category.
There is an interesting dichotomy at play in my being. The paradox of a mind that works overtime and a body which ignores and refuses to listen to the head office. So much so, that ideas for blog posts gather dust only to be rediscovered, dusted and then left to the same fate. The cycle of the procrastinator continues relentlessly.
Except, when a spark lands on an idea ripe enough to ignite a fire. Such incidents are rare but welcome even in the procrastinator's den, after all a challenge cannot be left unanswered.
So, today my over worked brain bursting to the seams with ideas for short write ups on things mundane and trivial was thrown a challenge to channelize some of that into a new project (I cannot mention it just yet). I am at liberty though to mention that it is an exercise in documenting my life, with a good sprinkling of details from here and there. A microscopic examination of things that make me tick. As is obvious the adjectives for this un-named, yet to kick off project are stacking up. A sign that I must let this spark do its work and let the fire begin!

2012-02-17T18:08:00.004-05:00

Hues

There is a painting in my living room.
It goes through moods every day, every moment.
It changes colour, it warms my eyes and cools me down.
It can be soothing and depressing.
It has so much life hidden inside it, deep within the woods it depicts.
There, under the cover of those brown, winter trees is a deer, darting to the water's edge. And now comes another!
Who would've thought the brown wilderness, beautiful yet wistful of its full bodied glory would reveal such bounties of nature. A raft of ducks wades past the bridge while a flock of gulls is off into the distance.
And gently as the sun bids farewell there is a tiny twinkle on the hill far away. Then another and one more, closer now.
The orange-peach hue, receding towards the horizon gives way to the cold blue-grey of a wintry night. The deer are hidden from view and the silent waters of the river now reflect an endless stream of white and red.
There is a buzz on the street below, a scramble to reach somewhere. All this while the moon has quietly moved into place, shining it's beatific smile.
There are stars up there, I know. And there are aero-planes too.
Maybe a little later; perhaps when the buzz stops and the planes rest, the stars will come too.

2012-02-16T14:49:00.000-05:00

Exhibition

Exhibit 1. A wooden box, rectangular with carved sides and lid; finished with delicate brass inlay and hinges.
That is the possession of a young woman and an old lady, all at once. A possession that has just begun its journey and one that is nearing the end. A tiny box holding within it a lifetime of memories.

Siting on her nightstand it is witness to things that touch her, move her and perhaps change her. The nights she tosses sleeplessly, opening and closing the box for lack of anything better to do or the one when she stays up reading because the book is too good to put down or the one when she lulls herself to sleep with tears soaking her pillow or the ones when she looks stunning as she dresses for an evening out with her husband.

Married or single, old or young, surely there is such a keeper of secrets at your bedside. One that sees you grow and change day in and day out. In fact as time goes by there might be a retinue of such witnesses on your mantelpiece in the living, on the television console, at the sideboard in the dining or on the steps of the veranda. Familiar objects and artifacts that make a house your home. Some bought instinctively and others purchased after much deliberation on cost, function and beauty. At the end of it when they come together and make you feel at home in a way that you don't ever feel alone; that's when you know it was worth it.

Our possessions mirror us. They are parts of a puzzle which tell the story of a lifetime much like exhibits in an art gallery or a museum. Curators work with diligence to provide an accurate account of the age of a piece, its place of origin and the many hands it changed before reaching it's current position. These bits and pieces of information when put together provide a narrative for the object.

Similarly the trinkets that we acquire with age and time are part of our narratives. Our homes are the galleries which host a continuing exhibition of our lives. It is a perpetual display of who we are and who we want to become and ultimately how we achieved it. The only difference between this lifelong exhibition and the one curated by a professional is its temporality. The time lines in a house criss cross many times over creating a web which would be difficult to traverse without directions from the chief narrator. Yet there is a synergy in a home, a harmony of things big and small, old and new.

Unlike an exhibition curated to tell a specific tale, we are the tales we tell. In our lives and in our homes, the chief exhibit is our self. We tell our stories through our acquisitions and achievements, depositing and linking a memory of a place and an event to an object, a photograph, a piece of furniture, linen, a candlestick, a rug, a sari, a wall hanging and so on hoping that someone someday will recount the same anecdotes with affection. It is the image that we form on others, family and friends, that all this is geared towards. The image of who we are and who we would like them to think we were. At the end of it all, these inanimate beings with a history of acquisition, use and maintenance are the skeletal structure which will tell a partial story once the curator has excused himself. For in this case, in life, the curator is the narrator.

2012-02-11T20:06:00.002-05:00

You look well. I didn't realize it had been so long.
So much has changed, but you; you are just as I remember you.
Steadfast and calm.
Refreshing with your reassuring smile and gentle gaze.
Each time I stretch my hand out to you, you never disappoint.
You led me to places I din't think I could go.
You made me see what I couldn't and hear what I should've.
It's been so long and yet it feels like yesterday.
Your familiarity is like the grains of sand that slipped through my fingers in that desert faraway when the stars twinkled and the moon shone.
You are the sand that slapped my face in the storm, that stuck to my skin in the sweltering heat, that pinched my eyes.
You rode on the back of the wind and met me half way to give me a whiff of my land, its heat, its sweat, its trees, the mirages and it's beauties. You mirrored it all!
Oh, you mirrored me; you are the mirror to my soul.

Take Back the Night

2010-09-17T20:00:00.000-04:00

Women unite
Take Back the Night!

They say stay home
We say fight Back!

Women united
Will never be defeated!

Whatever we wear
Wherever we go
Yes means yes
No means No!

One, two, three, four
We won't take it anymore!
Five, six, seven, eight
No more violence! No more hate!

Claim our bodies, Claim our right,
Take a stand, take back the night!

I can still hear the ring of these chants. Last night women's organisations working within and around Hamilton got together yet again for an event they have been organising for a few years, it is called 'Take Back the Night'. The event includes a march through downtown Hamilton post sunset, competitions for the best slogan and display by participating organisations and individuals, followed by free dinner for all those present. I did not know about the event until my brother handed me the pamphlet and suggested I go. I am glad I did. In the front yard of the City Hall women of all ages and from many diverse regions stood together, shoulder to shoulder. There were volunteers from NGO's, groups form colleges, friends of all ages; many of whom walked with strollers. It was a cross section of women from the city of Hamilton. Their energy was infectious and as the evening went on I found myself participating in a mass dance display and then dancing to the music down the streets of the city. We passed men and women in cars, many of whom responded by honking in tune with the music, others stood by on pavements and encouraged and applauded the marchers. As the column of dancing, jumping, walking, running women moved on, people came out from stores and their apartments to look, wave, smile and clap. For a moment there it was LSR revisited, where feminism is always in the air. We are called a feminist college for a reason!
The part about last night which was both a revelation and one that is disappointing is that crime against women is a reality everywhere in the world. If streets in a town as small as Hamilton cannot be safe and still aren't then one can just calculate the centuries it will take to sanitise the streets in India. While 'Take Back the Night' is at the surface about making streets safer for women, it was a protest against all forms of violence against women. It was also a reaffirmation and reiteration of the fact that a woman is a woman's best friend. They might despise each other and be fierce fighters but ultimately only another woman can understand the travails and suffering of her sister. This understanding and bond requires no words and it doesn't recognize status or country or race because women all over the world are surrounded by the same elements; work, family, home, spouse, children.
It is in outpourings like these, when there is a show of solidarity that we realize we aren't alone. It is then that we see how close we are and how alike.

Silent Rain

2010-08-23T22:16:00.000-04:00

Rain...monsoons...an annual event in India, one that is eagerly awaited and then just as enthusiastically celebrated until of course the civic systems start breaking down and the downpour of curses begins. Its a cycle we repeat over and over again in our lives and never tire of it, never can. Just the thought of raindrops falling on parched earth, on my cheek on a sultry afternoon, with the promise of more, a light breeze and the rising fragrance of the thirsty dry dirt soaking up every drop is intoxicating. It is the kind of stuff dreams are made of, that the surreal embodies.
And yet this rain which falls silently outside my window hasn't stirred in me the same sensations, none of that wanting and longing.
It's almost like the rain drops have decided to mind their business and not disturb me. In fact the clouds here are showering us with an even, continuous spray one that feels like mist when the wind blows.
It could have been raining for hours before you even realize it,that's how silent it is. That's how minimal the fragrances in the surroundings. For one there is hardly any un-patched, open to the sky land available on the sides of the roads, everything is either tarmac or cement and so very very clean. Which brings me to the second point of no unnecessary rubbish sitting on street corners just waiting to be blown by the wind or swept by the deluge of urban flooding. And therefore, even when the heavens pour down heavily with all that they have, it feels like nothing much has changed.
Its a strange, unusual feeling. Its wondrous, enjoyable and yet lacking in flavour.
I miss the monsoons, I miss the fragrance of dry earth savouring the seasons first rain. While many would say I am lucky to be away when India like its neighbour might be getting a little too much rain and the capital failing its citizens, I cant help but write as a traveler would, longing for home.

Tambourine n Beatles

2010-08-18T22:52:00.000-04:00

'It's been a hard day's night, and I've been working like a dog
It's been a hard day's night, I should be sleeping like a dog...."

fade out with a tambourine....

'If I fell in love with you
Would you promise to be true
And help me understand....' (tambourine with every beat)

fade out with the tambourine

'When I am walking beside her
People tell me I am lucky
Yes I know I am a lucky guy
I remember the first time
I was lonely without her.....'

fade out with the tambourine

Just some of my favourite Beatles songs being played on a cool summer evening in a seamless flow, accompanied by the tambourine. The jingle of the tambourine matching the song, beat for beat and adding a flourish every once in a while with a soft roll.

This private performance was taking place only a few moments ago somewhere in the interiors of the apartments across from mine, the darkness in the windows shrouds the exact location in mystery. As I sit here typing and browsing online, the same place where only a few moments ago I was relishing the duet between the Beatles and the tambourine, I wonder if from that window the performer can in fact see her audience.

This tambourine, before it went on to duet with the Beatles, was merrily dancing or so it seemed. I could hear a roll, first soft then fast and long followed again by a jingle to a count of 1,2,3,4 and roll and 1,2,3,4 and roll...something like a belly dance. At least my imagination made me think so.
The possibilities are endless, it could be anyone, young or old, man, woman or child, unwinding in their own way or just playing with a newly acquired or perhaps a recently re-discovered old tambourine. It could be anything. But what prompts me to write is the joy that I recieved from the performance. And even as I write this I do have a feeling that I am being a little sneaky or perhaps acting in a manner similar to James Stewart in Rear Window, except all I am using are my ears!

Its good to know that a stranger in an apartment opposite has similar tastes in music as mine. On the other hand I just hope he/she doesnt take the tambourine too seriously and practice at odd hours! As long as its the symphony in the afternoon and a little tambourine practice in the evening, I will remain a contented and appreciative audience.

Two Intoxicants

2010-08-11T18:01:00.000-04:00

Language....it's like wine...the point of first contact is crucial and what determines the path ahead. The aroma of a drink is akin to hearing another language, unknown and fresh with its own sounds, some soft, others loud; a click of the tongue, a sharp syllable, rising pitch with a sudden hush. The rhythm of each language, no matter how close it maybe to another geographically, varies with such astonishing degrees from the other that to me it seems that no possible sound in this universe has been left unused. And each such sound is not just that, a sound or a note, it is infused with meanings; cultural, regional, social, religious, educational.
Just as wine, you don't know a language, can't know it until you actually taste it. Take the sip, roll it around, pick up the syllables, join them together to make a word and then savour it. Hold on to it as long as you can before you let it leave your lips, feeling the sensation before it slides down. It's such a sense of achievement, even if it only means that you have learnt a greeting. That release, no matter how self conscious and inaudible leaves a lingering after taste, wanting more to fill up the void, to transform it into a continuous unending stream. Wouldn't that be every wine lover's paradise?
And wouldn't it also be like owning a cloak of invisibility? To know a language, its subtleties and then be able to slide into another just as easily, like it never left you or you it... its wondrous to imagine the variety of things on this planet and even more wondrous that you and I know the same things, feel the same emotions, go through the same turmoil the only difference being we say it in another sound, in another word, in another syntax.
Language is like wine....language is like food, language is in every way the essence of a culture, its the tastes of it's cuisine, the aroma of its delicacies, it's the feel of it's cloth and beauty of it's people.

All roads lead home

2010-08-09T21:51:00.000-04:00

Time to write again, the laziness is slowly fading away and the itch to get typing, and reading and re-reading and editing is just gnawing me, my fingers tingling to get going.

Dramatic, I would say, a little too much in fact for my mundane everyday subjects.

The setting tonight is a round table with an over head lamp, the lamp shade is also circular and made of glass, the light is bright enough to catch the eye of each of the three occupants of the four chairs around the table and dim enough to let small twitches, a roll of the eyes go unnoticed. They lean in, with wrists resting at the edge, elbows bent, backs against the stiff, curved back of the wooden chairs.
This little gathering has come together after the evening meal, the sun is setting and the sky has taken its warm hue. Lights in the neighbourhood are slowly turning on, some flicker like a firefly before they burn bright.

The atmosphere inside is warm and cosy, like an inviting blanket on a cold wintry evening. But the air around this assemblage carries with it an aura of solemnity. Not stiff or menacing just plain solemn, almost sacred. For tonight, like some of the previous nights, they will talk about one thing they all hold very dear. They have been discussing home. One that is real yet not reachable, one that remains in memories, such that they are far more vivid than any recent experience. A home that was until sometime back a reality for two while the third left it many many years ago. They discuss it, its problems, the possible solutions, their role in making the 'change' or at least in initiating it, the sense of belonging they have and cant let go even after decades away from it and most importantly why that longing and why those memories aren't enough to take them back; to take them home.

The answer to this is habit. Man is a creature of habit and once formed habits are difficult to change. Especially such habits that allow a system to run smoothly, those that oil its bearings and keep it moving. Such are the systems here, no points for guessing where. Canada. This is home for now, the home left behind is of course the one we all long for, wherever in the world it might be.
I heard a show on CBC radio today about refugees and political asylum seekers coming to Canada, the presenter said,"We bring to you stories of escape and they all end in Canada."
That made me wonder, why is the entire world, or at least the 'majority world' which reels under poverty and its associated ailments taking flight to Canada. I come from one such third/ developing/ majority world country, but one with a difference because even with its teeming millions it is now claiming stake as a super power, in terms of economic growth. Whether the benefits of this economic growth will ever trickle down or not to even a minute percentage of those millions is a question which has remained unanswered. As much as I enjoy being party to such dining table/ drawing room conversations, what i fail to fathom is the 'them' that we refer to. The 'them' should change things, improve systems, make them more efficient, more hygienic, friendly, rid the country of corruption, eradicate poverty, clean up the political set up and so on and so forth.

In all this there have perhaps been two people who left their homes decades ago and now after a life time of working in an organised society want to give back to their homeland. I appreciate them for their honesty and their noble aims.Its ultimately the actions which will speak for themselves. I am not being cynical, not of the generation before mine which came out of India at a time when the private sector was small and industry was mostly government controlled. These professionals, doctor, engineers and teachers have given much to the world community by being innovative and industrious. It is the present generation, all over the world that is reaping the benefits of their labour. And therefore when 'we' myself included talk about the 'them' back home or even the system back home, I cant help but notice the hypocrisy. We were until sometime ago a part of the 'them' and the 'system'.

The concept of brain drain held sway some years ago and we were discussing it in classes and debating about it in school. Then came the more pacifist idea that the world is after all a global village and where you work doesn't matter, the benefits are for all to share and enjoy. The question is, is that really so?

Wouldn't innovations done in India with available expertise and material work better? Wouldn't testing done in the working environment give more usable and relevant data for analysis? And ultimately shouldn't we be working within the system to throw out the rot or at least try as much as we can?

At the end of the day it is I believe a matter of conviction as well as acceptance. Conviction to work where and how we want to and to do it well, and the acceptance of our homes, new or old, of our realities along with a resolve to improve them in every way that we can.I might be contradicting myself here on a few counts but at the end of the day if we all do our work well it will lead to something better, maybe cleaner, safer, greener depending on the area of work. These are the ethics we need to spread and if we can do them at our respective places of origin and support those who work on the ground, things will improve and we will one day be able to quote examples of good performance and efficiency from even our systems back home.

Communal Kitchen

2010-07-28T09:38:00.000-04:00

We i.e. my father, our hosts and I went to the gurudwara on Sunday, the local London (Ontario, Canada) gurudwara. This gurudwara serves a small community of about 50 Sikh families and in all about 200 Indian families in the city of London. Since the sangat (members of a congregation) is not very large they are open everyday for the morning and evening prayers but Sunday is the day when everyone gathers for the morning ceremony and stays on for langar (free kitchen). This is a routine that is followed in sikh temples all over the world, much like Christianity, the discipline here too is to gather your flock on Sunday, a day off from work. The langar was started by the first sikh guru, Guru Nanak, as a symbol of equality between people of all races, castes, religions, colour, creed and age. A langar at any gurudwara all over the world is open to all, irrespective of your religious sentiments and following.

So there is really nothing unusual about the Sunday service and the communal kitchen at work for all those who come. But it is worth writing about because the service here is truly communal, for the community and done by the community.

The langar is sponsored by a member of the community, his/her family takes it upon themselves to cook for the day, prepare the tea and snacks and then the lunch. Other women, friends and some regular volunteers help out from early morning until each plate, glass and spoon has been thoroughly washed and dried and put back in place. I know this because for the first time in my life I did some seva. And it was fun, I just picked up washed thalis, brought them to the kitchen island and wiped them dry. This 'fun' of course is qualified by the fact that the infrastructure is much much different from most places in India, there are no makeshift kitchens housed under tents, no muddy floors and over flowing tubs of soapy water or even the cacophony of men and women calling out to each other.

This is not to say that everyone's quiet, there is plenty of talk that goes around, gossip and catching up after a week of hard work. The beauty of it lies in the fact that everyone knows most of the other people around and the sincerity with which they participate in the proceedings is perhaps heightened because of the distance from their land of origin; the inspiration to carry on their traditions and to hold on to their identities is probably a driving factor.

This is one experience that I hope will bring a change in me and hopefully drive me towards doing more such work, not necessarily in the gurudwara langar but also in other areas of life. After all service to the community in any form is ultimately service for the self and service for god; don't they say he resides in all of us.