My Sharira, my pride

I am sharing what I wrote a few weeks back. I feel this is relevant now in the light of the Tamil Nadu High Court ruling on dress code in temples.

I just got back from Sharira (the body). 

Confused? How can one come out of “the body”? Well, one can if one is in an introspective mode. Why can't we see ourselves, our body from outside, as an outsider. Perhaps, we will get a clear idea of what we are, who we are, where we are.

I will end this confusion, Sharira was a dance performance, a breath-taking one, for lack of a better word. This spectacle had been choreographed by the late danseuse, Chandralekha.

This is not a critique of the show. I am no connoisseur of art and art forms. I love watching various art forms and more than delving on the theme or concept, I like to understand the emotions behind them. Sharira, for me, was not just a theme. It was an emotion, a feeling of comfort, a feeling of self-worthiness, a feeling of wellness.

Till I reached puberty, I was “allowed” by a patriarchal set of people to roam around in frocks. Once nature gifted me the beautiful feeling of becoming a young lady, my wings were clipped. The frocks were, rather drastically, replaced by long skirts and sleeved blouses. One stray sleeveless shirt or a short skirt was not welcome at home. “You are growing up now. Wear clothes which are safe,” I was told.

“Safe? Now what was that?”

“There is no room for arguments. But if you insist on knowing, you must not be wearing clothes that attracts attention from boys.”

As a young girl, isn't it natural to want to feel good about oneself, and feel attractive?

I was asking impossible questions that had no answers, but only dirty glares and dirtier chides. I was a young girl and had to behave like one. I had to bind myself to the conforms of patriarchal prudishness.

As I went to college and was at an age when I wanted to look good, not merely because I felt I must make at least one boy “turn around once more to see me”, but because I wanted to feel good about myself.

“Don’t wear T-shirts. You will attract unnecessary attention. No, not sleeveless either. Your arms have to be covered; they are not something to show. Oh no. Change into something else. This is plunging low and showing a hint of cleavage,” were the constant checks. “Stick to safe clothes. There are wolves all around. This is for your good,” was the constant reminder from my “benevolent” elders. This was the toll tax I had to pay before leaving home.

With every step I took towards adulthood, I was monitored. One “wrong move” of wearing a seemingly inappropriate attire, something that I felt was befitting my casual demeanour, was invariably shot down rudely, my rush of confidence ripped apart with a pair of puritanical scissors.

So I began hating my body. I hated the way I looked; I hated my bosoms that, I was told, would attract unnecessary attention; I hated my arms as I was told they were fat and not worthy of showing to anyone.

So that left me with, sorry for a politically incorrect term, with a dowdy dress sense! I was a woman, carrying the burden of a false sense of virtue around her fully-clothed neck.

I got married, which meant I sleepwalked into another sententious household.

“Your kurta is too tight. Wear a dupatta,” I was told. “Oh no, you cannot be wearing a sleeveless shirt while visiting an elderly person.T-Shirts? Donate them!”

The messages were the same, the voices were different.

My body was tired of being constantly under probe. It was rather ironical that in the course of the sartorial diktats from puberty to motherhood, I realised my body was constantly being subject to gaze.

Why must I be the subject of someone else’s gaze? I asked myself. My body is mine and I have a right to make it a subject of my gaze, my expression and my emotion. I have a right to love my body, express myself the way I want to.

One cloudy morning, I realised “that was it”. The change was not really a overnight one. It took days of anger and helplessness and nights of introspection. I had to snap out of the manipulative restrictions that taught me only to hate my body, to be ashamed of it, so ashamed that I had to keep it covered all the time.

I realised loving my body is no different from loving my soul; Sexuality and sensuality are not dirty words; and Sex is not an unpronounceable three-letter word that never dares step out from the confines of the bedroom.

And, when I watched “Sharira”, I found that it reiterated all that I felt. It gracefully whispered in my ear; it reinforced my faith in the fact that being a woman meant feeling beautiful inside that would manifest outside. And unless I freed myself from feeling guilty of my body, I would never feel beautiful.

Today, I am unapologetic about expressing my sexuality. I am no longer envious about another beautiful woman or rue about what my body lacks. This also means I never allow a man to force himself on me and I exercise the choice to say no.

Finally, I gifted myself my femininity.

The garment and the goddess

My husband and I went on a feel-Kolkata nostalgia trip. I am from Kolkata, he is from Lucknow. This walk down memory lane was his gift to me.

I am a Calcuttan; grew up there, studied and worked there. I was somewhere in the warp and weft of the city’s fabric; a thread that retained its texture, flavour and culture even after having been separated from it.

This time, when I revisited my city and explored it, I realised how little I knew about it, how much I had taken my city for granted.

We set out exploring the city like two college students, sometimes by foot, sometimes by public transport.

The morning had begun with the sharp rays of the sun, but it was soon diffused by the rush of clouds as if protecting us. The riverside was breezy as we took the launch, settling ourselves near the railing for a clear view of the river, stunningly silhouetted by the Howrah bridge.

We wanted more of the ride as the boat dropped anchor at the Howrah pier. So after a sumptuous breakfast of puris and aloo bhaji washed down by an earthenware cup of hot tea at a roadside eatery, we sat on a boat to go across to Kumartuli, an erstwhile village and now part of the expanding city of Kolkata.

It had rained the previous evening, but the ramp on the pier was surprisingly clean.The climb led us to a narrow tar road bordered on both sides with slush that was not to be confused with drain. Though there were tea or snack shacks on the bylane snaking out of the narrow tar road, its cleanliness took me by surprise.

We had entered Kumartoli, a village of artisans; that place where the clay from the river bed is transformed into Gods and Goddesses; the river side which anchors divinity; the place where images of Gods and Goddesses embark on a  journey, reaching out, like the rays of the sun, to other parts of the globe.

The narrow alleys had garage-like shop floors on either side, with no distinct gates but just tinned frames that stood away from the opening. They probably served as gates at night when art went to sleep.

We peeped into the first opening, and were delighted to see the clay models of Durga with her 10 hands after a fierce battle with Mahishasur. The models were in various stages of completion. The sheer size and the number of the idols were fascinating.

Now I will start speaking in first person: replacing we and us with I and me; as it is only fair that I spoke for myself!

The faint whiff of hot samosas and tea from a nearby snack shop did not affect me. Two gentlemen were engaged in a conversation about the type of Mahishasur idol a client had ordered. But I focussed my attention on the artisan working on goddess Durga. There were many other huge, imposing clay idols of the goddess, a face that looked calm after her slaying the demon king.

I walked on to the subsequent work floors, where the artisans had yet not begun their work, where the goddess was on her own, looking happy in her space.

I moved on and stood outside another work area. An artisan was working on an idol.

“May I come in?” I asked in Bangla, a language I find myself at home.

There was no response.

I asked again. The artisan was working on Durga’s face. He was holding on to something that looked like a sandpaper with which he was chiselling her nose. He was so engrossed creating her, he did not even hear my repeated requests.I decided to quietly go in, uninvited.

By then he had shifted his sandpaper to the breasts of the goddess and was rubbing it up and down, chiselling their shape.

I stood there in a hypnotic gaze as if I was stuck to the ground, as if I too was under his spell. At that moment, he was a sculptor, creating a voluptuous woman, with a full hip that had a few folds and a curvaceous body. Though his creation had 10 hands, probably reminding him that he was sculpting a goddess, it was still the curves and contours of the woman that seem to have enslaved him to the moment. Yes, he was creating a goddess. But she was a woman first, and that was what he created her as: a beautiful, curvy woman.

This was the artist’s space of expression; and the idol, with its curves and folds, was his realistic understanding of a woman’s body. He did not set any limits to his imagination. It was his theatre, his stage, where he was in charge of the dramatic strokes. He scripted the sequence of the  spectacle and was in command of its execution. It was as if he was in a trance during his creation, his worship of the divine feminine.

Soon, the artisan would paint the sculpture; and the transformation would begin.

I went the next day to the same work floor. The artisan had painted the goddess. She was a beautiful woman with large eyes, that must have been fierce, but was now reflecting her triumph and compassion; what a heady combination that is!

And then I witnessed the most amazing, magical moment: this was a moment of truth, of realisation.

He took a bright orange and gold garment, and slowly began draping the beautiful idol, carefully making the pleats in the front, that casually fell over the lion she stood on. Then he carefully dropped the saree over Mother Durga’s right shoulder and the let the pallu drop down gracefully till her curved bottom. He adjusted the six yards of silk slowly, covering her body, her breasts, her thighs, leaving her waist with those little folds and curves exposed.

I was stuck to the clayey ground. The curvy, voluptuous woman, was an idol. But the six yards of garment, the saree, turned her instantly into a goddess.

Durga now exuded confidence, where even a hint of vulnerability was suddenly buried under the garment; her demeanour radiating love and charm; her eyes showing affection and care.

She suddenly turned from a woman to a goddess and a mother, it looked like she was gently scolding the sculptor to stop thinking of her as just a woman with curves, but to think of her as a goddess, as a mother.

Yes, she still had the curves, she was sensuous, exuded sexuality; but she became a woman, a goddess, a diva, ready to take on the world with her beauty and courage, with her strength and wisdom.

This transformation became complete only after the sculptor draped the six yards around her.

This is not about dress codes; it is not about what women must wear. It is about women and their choices. Men might get more intimidated by women in western clothes. They also tend to take the saree-clad woman as a demure person, always seeking protection. But this vision of the goddess, who combined beauty, power and courage after being draped in the saree, was certainly a divine message to me: that the saree would express my sexuality, explore my femininity, preserve my sensuality, and at the same time exude confidence, strength and power.

Krishna consciousness

Chennai’s Carnatic music aficionados were in for a shock when the maverick musician, T.M. Krishna, decided to stay away from the December music season.His announcement in his social networking site went viral with shares and comments from fans and critics.

This most awaited annual event has global resonance, with people from all over the world converging to the sabhas (concert halls) to soak in the music and savour the sumptuous food dished out by the auditorium canteens!

But this year will be different.

Over the years, this art form with its exclusive caste and class patronage has been frustrating this controversial musician. He has been called “eccentric” by the patrons, who were essentially the educated elite Brahmins, for his on-stage “brusque” body language. 

His recent book, A Southern Music: The Karnatik Story, delves into his growing restlessness in wanting to change this caste and class dynamics. The book not only explores the historical evolution of this art form but also asks uncomfortable questions on the discordant notes of caste  hegemony over this art form.

A few years ago, he sang a different note during the December season to break the class jinx by making his performance a free-for-all. The sabha committees had no choice but to agree to the condition made by one of the biggest crowd-pullers. They decided to give him the morning slot as they could not afford to reserve the prime evening schedule, where the strains of music would ring in cash into their coffers.

Last year, Krishna organised an alternative December music season, roping in both classical and folk artists. The weeklong open air music concerts on the Chennai beachfront was a unique initiative to net the interests of fisherfolk and Dalits, and in the process break the concert walls that had been made sound-proof by the elite.

In a social networking site, Krishna recently added a dollop of dollar dynamics into the simmering caste-class Carnatic music pot. He alleged that the strength of the dollar against the rupee was causing corruption among the sabha committee members and middlemen who arrange the “meetings and concerrts”. This meant that Thyagaraja kritis emanated more from the vocal chords of NRIs, with the burgeoning local talent being sidelined.

After an uncomfortable silence from the music fraternity, soft whispers are being heard in the corridors of social networking sites. Critics point to Krishna’s “hypocrisy” in accepting fat cheques for concerts abroad while turning his nose up when dollars make an entry into the Chennai music circuit.

The musician’s decision has clearly stirred the fuzzy caste-class Carnatic broth, sometimes adding to the flavours and sometimes adding to the stink.

The Dravidian politics in Tamil Nadu has always kept the caste cauldron simmering. It came to a boil last fortnight in IIM-Madras after the authorities banned a Dalit study group, and later revoked it after protests spilled over across the country.

Today, the raga has gone off-tune.

My Appa and I

The movie, Piku raised a lot of laughter, its humour endearing audience across age groups. But I lifted the thin layer of film that coated the screen and felt the underlying happiness and melancholy in the relationship between my Appa and me.

My Appa was certainly not a copybook-style “cool dad” that we read in books and see in advertisements. Whenever my friends made glowing tributes to their fathers, I would create a tally sheet to see if any of this matched with my Appa, and failed miserably. God must have been at his creative best while assigning him the most unique human traits. He was a bundle of contradictions. He had his own way of looking at life and interacting with people.

He was generous to the point of suffocating our guests. Our home was an open house and our house guests were not just familiar relatives and friends. They comprised mutual friends, friends of friends and relatives and friends of friends of friends. Many taxis from Howrah station and Dum Dum airport have brought guests to our place for them to enjoy Appa’s almost-claustrophobic hospitality. We were the casualties in this: the constant activity at home denied us the pleasure of peaceful reading or concentrating on our quadratic equations!
He has helped a lot of people find jobs, but refused to recommend one for his brother because he hated nepotism!
When I was barely six months into my first job, he planned a summer holiday to Chennai. He was entitled to air fare for his dependent family members. But I had to take the Coromandel express train, while the rest of them availed the travel allowance. He reasoned that technically, I was earning and was, therefore, no longer a dependent. That was the level of his integrity.
He was opinionated and intolerant of dissent. I would argue, fight, sulk and sometimes mutely follow his diktat. Our relationship was anything but smooth and easy.
He was embarrassingly honest and, believe me, I have often wanted the earth to part so that I could sink into oblivion to avoid Appa’s gift of putting me in the most awkward of situations.
But he was a gem, an unpolished gem.
And then, late one night Appa slipped into coma in his sleep after an attack of cerebral haemorrhage. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be at peace, without feeling the pain of multiple needles connected to tubes going in and out of his frail, diabetic body. Normally, a minor cut was all it took for him to bring the house down. I saw him through the glass window and visualised him waking up and shouting at the medical staff for “torturing” him. “Wake up, Appa. See what they are doing to you,” I silently instigated him.
Five days passed, and he showed no sign of waking up to throw his weight around. The doctor told us he would be a vegetable even after coming out of coma because his haemorrhage had caused significant damage to his brain. That was when I wanted him to die. I could not see him helpless.
There were many who revered him, but there were also many who ridiculed him after taking advantage of his generosity.
He passed away after 13 days. The doctor told us he lost the battle and died. I told myself he has won the war. He has left for a better place. He may have been whimsical, but never boring, he may have been annoying, but never unpleasant.
Whatever he was, he was my Appa. I could say anything to him, but could not tolerate anyone saying anything against him. He left me 14 years back, but I still love my Appa.

Smartphone: Connected or addicted?

“I am part of five WhatsApp groups, and sometimes find it so cumbersome to chat with all of them. I find myself chatting the whole day and it is tiring,” commented my friend, an avid smartphone user. I felt the comment sounded more like a lament.

This prompted me to think about whether I must buy a smartphone to stay “connected”. I own a conservative, 1200-rupee Nokia handset, which helps me take and make calls, send and receive messages and set the alarm for 5 every morning. It is rock steady even after having fallen from great heights a million times.

Coming back to chats, we are often faced with these virtual interactive sessions. Often, in the middle of some work, I hear the ping sound from the desktop (by the way, I am really old fashioned. I still do not own a laptop, happy with all my virtual connections through my desktop!) I always respond, though I must admit, it is sometimes done with a little reluctance as it would disrupt the flow of my work. I answer, not just out of politeness, but out of reciprocation. This is because I am equally guilty of clicking on my friends’ names that have a green circle next to it, indicating his/her availability. Sometimes, even when the circle is red indicating availability, though busy, I have pinged to say that “quick hi”.

I have been blissfully unaware that my virtual friend might really be busy and is responding out of politeness. And, what is more, I am unaware of the expression on the other side.  Then, of course, the chat never seems to end. The “byes, take cares, we must catch up soons” keep continuing, unless one of us abruptly pulls the plug.

When laptops replaced desktops, it made internet accessibility more mobile. And now, the smartphones/androids have made us all roving, active social butterflies. We are taking the idea of always being connected too seriously. Is this making us intrusive and ill-mannered?

Intrusive?  In a way, yes. We tend to intrude into the other person’s space, without realising the time that goes on in this cyber socialising. And, it can happen at any time of the day, night and late night. We do not even bother to feel whether that person is really free. We often assume and take their time for granted.

Ill-mannered? Again, yes. Virtual chatting can slowly eradicate manners among us. We tend to say things which we would have otherwise shied away from.

Virtual chatting can be dangerous, and sometimes even fatal. There have been cases of suicides after a virtual spat.  We tend to cross our limits as we are ensconced in our private space and there is no indication of any discomfort either in the form of body language or in the form of physical eye-contact.

Touch phones have made virtual interaction very convenient and trendy. College kids and adults often swim along in the (un)intentional flirting that goes on, which is often laced with sensual/sexual references. Lack of proximity helps virtual friends get that feeling of being “emancipated”. Sadly, that is only in cyberspace.

Another point is that this bunch of youth, which is so comfortable with virtual chats, is often seen to be pathetically backward in real interface. Small wonder then that they are unable to fluently communicate in the real world in a single language as they are often breaking into pitiable linguistic pauses like “you know”, “like” and “umm”.

Of course, I know I am opening up a can of criticisms as many of my friends will be hopping mad at my way of looking at things. The cyberspace has been a wonderful world where we picked up pieces of our childhood and found so many friends. So what is wrong with that? I do not have a problem with social networking at all. In fact, it is blessing that has made me run into friends I had lost touch with; my friends with whom I had shared my lunch in primary school.

Virtual chatting is my concern, not an abhorrent. Concern because it is time-consuming. I feel it is alienating us increasingly from the real world, reducing us into zombies, with our fingers moving back and forth, up and down the screen all the time, even when we are among “real” friends.

Having said this, do I switch to a smartphone when communication will be at my fingertips?  For the moment, I will stick to my old Nokia.

I want to stay connected, without being addicted.

Virtual bouquets and brickbats are welcome!

Rail’wayward’

If you wish to escape to Bangalore from the “unbearable” Chennai heat in the air-conditioned comfort of Shatabdi Express, think again.

The Indian railways’ recent decision to “upgrade” the coaches of that train by installing television screens in them, has, in effect, downgraded the sensibilities of passengers having to travel amid the cacophony of pure, unadulterated film music.

A travel by Shatabdi to Bangalore is anyway irritatingly punctuated by the catering department, from the sinful snack tray that ushers in the journey to the overloaded and overflowing dinner platter for that climactic ending.

But the torture is now magnified by the continuous cacophony of “fresh from the oven” raunchy film songs that comes packaged with provocative movements. What is very disturbing is that the railway ticket does not carry a U, UA or A certification. The coaches are indeed full of children, running up and down the aisle. Now, they have a distasteful baby-sitter, blaring raucous songs accompanied by gyrating pelvises and heaving bosoms.

The point is: Is film dance and music the only entertainment for us? Television channels observe even Gandhi Jayanti with “superhit” films, sponsored by videshi colas.
But why did the glorious Indian Railways succumb to this lewd temptation? The old and prestigious institution can surely sense aesthetics and introduce a low-volume, high-interest package on television. It could be a circus show, a gymnastic presentation, an animal channel, anything but these suggestive visuals. Is the Indian Railways listening?

Chaos or custom-made cities?

A river cruise takes me till the area where the sea takes over. The port is Malaca. The river is dotted on both sides with beautiful, old quaint buildings. Portuguese architecture vies for attention with stunning Dutch and English buildings along the way, as old-style bridges connect the opposite sides.  There is a connect, after all. The connect of the ancient and modern; of an antiquated post office building and an internet café; of the gastronomic excellence of a Nasi lemak and the ever-present pizza-burger; of ancient churches and the new temples of worship: malls.

The first Dutch ship to have landed in Malaca has been redesigned as a museum for the younger generation to understand the dynamics of a nation, born out of maritime trade relations between East and West. This southern Malaysian port is sleepy, but it had once been a hub of active trade, and one of the inspirations of European colonial ambition. Today, it stands as a mere reminder of the past. The aggressive sophistication of the present has conveniently swept those memories under gorgeous Persian carpets, desperately being preserved by standalone connoisseurs.

But this was one of the small pieces of Malaysia one can taste. The rest of the cities are like any other. The buildings, the flyovers, the malls, the brands, the food: there is no sense of heterogeneity. They all look alike. Probably they would in any city in the world, what with its indistinguishable flavours of burgers, pizza and mall “getaways” stocking identical brands . Is there anything native about a place today? I doubt it.

At least, the countryside in Malaysia has some pockets of pleasant distractions in the form of stray landforms and stuctures. But its neighbour, Singapore, was built, it seemed, in an assembly-line factory. The residential buildings and spaces look alike, the parks are mirror images; their cafeteria-food line-up almost clinically exact. It was as if a template was created and the city built on that. This clinical and too perfect a city can evoke a sense of boredom. Its lack of authenticity and the absence of nativity reflect an identity crisis, a personality disorder. Are all cities going this way?

Pockets of Indian cities, for sure, look the same with their malls, pizza-coffee-burger outlets and brands. But there are still native elements preserved in its chaotic nerve structure. Give me the chaos; I will choose it any day to the clinical precision of modern cities.

Water bomb's ticking

We pack our children’s school bag, doubly ensuring that they do not leave behind the two essentials: the lunch bag and the water bottle. But do we carry a water bottle when we leave the house?  Why bother. All we have to do is part with Rs 12 or Rs 15, depending on the “brand” of pure water, and we get to quench our thirst in “convenient” plastic bottles, stocked in every corner shop in the country. Right? Wrong!

We need to bother as the bottles we use and throw are all out in its bio-non degradable form, choking our planet’s dump yard. Recently, my friend had sent a picture of a heritage site buried under a mound of plastic water bottles. That was just a fragment of the bigger time bomb merrily ticking away in our planet.

Will it be simpler to just fill up a bottle whenever we step out? Just our little bit. I have heard people say, what difference does it make if one person does it? What about the rest? Someone has to start somewhere.

This sounds pedagogical? Sorry, cannot help it.

Today, drinking water flow freely at large conclaves and conferences, small gatherings, fat weddings and  family functions through mini packaged plastic bottles. What is even more frustrating is when even quarter-used bottles are binned. This is double whammy: drinking water flows into the drain and more plastic is added to the planet.

Our fitness freaks run marathons, well-advertised and sponsored by corporates, and leave behind a monstrous clutter of plastic water sachets, making our planet that much more unfit.

The world water day is on March 22 to remind us of the resource that is getting scarily scarce. But we do not seem to just get it. We start rationing water when there is a red alert on scarcity. Once the dark cloud passes, we resume scrubbing vessels leaving the tap on. We do not tell our children not to turn on the tap during the process of brushing their teeth, but only to rinse. Our children have enough and more of television and ipods; they can do without the water music as they wake up or before they slip into slumber. We indulge in the Jacuzzi-type shower (like we see those jaw-dropping men and women in ads). We scrub and wash our cars like they are hitting a night club. We water the pathway like there was a storm the previous night. We mercilessly throw the water filled up in our buckets two days back when there would have been a water crisis warning, saying it is “old”.

The water bomb’s ticking;tick, tick, tick. It is time to wake up to this alarm.

Green drain

Will our cities ever allow us to go green?

I have been thinking about this question over and over again as I walk to my College as a green initiative at least three days a week. First, there is no road as I come out of my house, so to speak. It is gravel, sand and stones just put together on undulating patches and the rest of what is there or not there is in pits, literally. Patches have been dug up in the name of storm water drainage and it has been like that for months.

This challenging stretch leads to the chaotic four-point crossing with a narrows fifth lane pushing itself for attention.

The Chennai transport corporation buses charge menacingly, disregarding the red light. The threatened pedestrians are then forced to retract apologetically despite the signal post flashing green over the walk sign.

The SUVs and Sedans along with the two- and three-wheelers complete the chakravyuh (the circled trap), frustrating the poor pedestrians’ attempts. And, senior citizens are in for a rude, insensitive shock as they are unable to importune their way across the ominous crossing to reach their nationalised banks to update their passbooks or collect their pensions.

Once I manage to go to the other side, as a person and not as a corpse, I am forced to manoeuvre around piles of garbage, left unattended by corporation officials. The trash strays into streets after flowing out of unkempt bins. If I am not careful, I might just about squash a plastic bag of smelly, discarded sambhar or assorted plastic rubbish or used poopy nappies or even used sanitary napkins.

We want to go green. We want to walk, we want to cycle; we want to take the public transport. We want to save fuel for the next generation. We want to reduce ravaging our planet. We want our next generation to breathe easy.

There is enormous temptation to take out the car to avoid the bad roads, the disrespect of vehicles to pedestrians and cyclists and walking on trash. We will fight that. But wouldn’t it be helpful if there was some cooperation from corporation and the government and a little compassion and show of concern by our motorists?

Coming back to the question: Will our cities allow us in our green endeavour?

Salaam, Kalam

Thank you, Mr Kalam!

For maintaining a dignified silence throughout the drama staged outside the gates of Rashtrapati Bhavan;

For watching the chequered games of our political parties who are using the presidential election to checkmate one another;

For being the uninterested bystander as Mamata Banerjee performed her street plays in Delhi;

For being nonchalant when the West Bengal chief minister dragged Mulayam Singh Yadav to pledge his Samajwadi Party’s support for her choice: by the way, it was You, Mr Kalam;

For remaining oblivious to THE Congresswoman and her sycophants playing games in our democratic field and finally zeroing in on Pranab Mukherjee, who is desperate to come out of the sinking ship, also called the Indian economy;

For being non-committal from the beginning when the BJP-led National Democratic Alliance proposed your name to score a point against the UPA-nominated Pranab;

Thank you, Mr Kalam, for standing by the people of this country;

For not budging from the pedestal, where you had placed yourself simply by being you;

For snubbing all those political clowns who claim to represent us.

Thank you, once again, Mr Kalam.

Post Script: I hope Mamata does not read this. I have called her tribe clowns. She may call me a Maoist and order my arrest.

Mobile revulsion

“Don’t lie,” a girl, sitting next to me in the public bus, snarled.

I looked at her, rather startled, my expression soon changing to that of amusement: I detected a wired device connected to her mobile phone that was peeping out of her bag.

A quick survey threw up an amazing answer: most of the passengers in the bus were talking into their mobiles. This was not a stand-alone phenomenon. Being a public transport user, I found this mass walkie-talkie spectacle in every bus, every train.

This mobile revolution has made all of us look like morons on the road, enslaving us all, reducing us to the lowest levels of insanity.

When we walk on the road, we see most of them talking aloud into their wired devices; most of them gesticulating with great intensity, totally unaware of everything around them. Without a dunce cap or those “mental inside” T-shirts, they would still qualify as deranged. So, passing cyclists now have the added responsibility of negotiating their way past these walkie-talkies apart from those impatient and rash two-three-four-wheelers.

We see bikers craning their neck to one side talking into their phones that precariously rest on their shoulders even as they flout all traffic rules. We see people talking on their phones while on the wheels, in blatant disregard to safety norms. We see pedestrians sauntering across busy zebra crossings as if they were in a park, their mobile conversation dictating their pace.

What we have got ourselves into is mobile insanity, mobile indiscipline, mobile helplessness; in short we have all become portable carriers of unruliness, chaos in their 2G and 3G versions.

The wise claim that technology has shrunk this world. Yes, it has blurred geographical distances. But hasn’t it increased distances among us? We prefer talking to people far and away, but do not feel it necessary to interact with those we rub shoulders with.

In a restaurant, very few tables will witness family time well spent. Most families look fragmented, with spouses on the phone, texting or talking. I recently saw two families sitting on a table together, apparently to celebrate someone’s birthday. But they were all talking into their respective phones. When the chef approached one of them to check when the cake would have to be delivered, he had to wait there for a good 5 minutes for the instructions because the guests and the hosts were all busy interacting with the world outside.

What is this mobile revolution getting us into? Is this a good idea sirjee?

I call this a mobile revulsion.

Mamata’s Knight out

Eden Gardens was packed, inside and outside; but there was no match being played there. It was an ecstatic Mamata Banerjee and her team who led a victory lap for the Kolkata Knight Riders after a felicitation ceremony outside Writers Buildings that included flowers, shawls and shondesh for the players and glitzy team owners. And, in the stadium, the West Bengal chief minister actually shouted into the mike, goading the crowd to chant the korbo-lorbo-jeetbo war cry. News channels went live to capture the moment. The crowd, too, went berserk outside the VIP gates and had to be pushed out with police batons. It was as if the entire city, specially its glitterati, had converged to participate in the celebrations. What’s more: the West Bengal Governor was present during this post-IPL tamasha. It was indeed a tamasha. The Bengali film fraternity was present to full strength, desperately trying to snatch the attention from the victorious team members. They refused to budge an inch from the front row, even as players disembarked from their bus towards a smiling Mamata outside. The chief minister took it upon herself to even control the crowds. She was all over the place, mike in hand, giving orders to people, press, policemen, and Shah Rukh Khan. “Shah Rukh, ekhane esho (Shah Rukh, come here)”, she said, delegating some chore for him. And, the obedient Shah Rukh Khan gave an award-winning performance of that gracious, humble Bengal brand ambassador, occasionally showering affection on his fiery didi. Or was that act to avoid him being labelled a Maoist? Poor guy is already barred from Wankhede stadium. He has been sued for smoking in Rajasthan stadium. The US is always asking why his name is Khan. Keeping didi in good humour is probably the wisest decision. Television viewers across the country were treated to some news reporting fun too, when channel reporters screamed into their mikes over the Bengali film brigade’s attitude. “They have no right to be there. These players have sweated it out and won for the city. These actors have no right to be at the centre-stage,” shouted the Times Now correspondent. These high-decibel sound-bites, though an ear-sore for viewers, showed another angle of the tamasha. So why were these IPL winners given a state welcome as never seen in the earlier four editions? True, KKR won after a five-year-wait. But was it really a victory befitting a state honour? There can be arguments for and against. The fans will obviously agree that their heroes made their city proud. That the city is marked bold on the IPL map after those four years of poor showing. The critics will call it a waste of time, energy and money. I would like it see it this way. Mamata showed a lot of promise when she was sworn in. But she has not been able to evolve from being a street-fighter to an administrator. She has been berated for continuing to be a stormy petrel, rather than managing a debt-riddled state. She has been a trouble-maker rather than a trouble-shooter most of the time. Her weakness comes across with her Maoist paranoia and the subsequent intolerance to uneasy cartoons and debates. In this mood, Mamata’s goading the crowd to sing the KKR’s korbo-lorbo-jeetbo anthem was parochialism at its best. But it seemed like her desperate attempt to prove a point through the IPL victory. After all, IPL is a corporatized sport. And it really need not be made into such a big, proud moment. All those who have been associated in the event have laughed loudly all the way to the bank, ruining for others all those precious and productive man/woman hours spent in front of the television set and stadia from April 4 to May 27. I see this entire exercise not as a routine felicitation event, but as an emotional appeal to the people of Bengal to support her and her endeavours. She is trying to give her message to the youth of Bengal to work, fight and win (that is what Korbo-lorbo-jeetbo stands for). And, to be fair to her, she needs the youth to wake up and fight to get Bengal onto the political and economic map of the country.

'Us' and 'them'

There is a certain level of expected snobbishness to the Supreme Court upholding the Right to Education Act for children between 6 and 14 years. The law requires both public and private schools to set aside a quarter of their seats for children from low-income families.
This step has obviously evoked mixed reactions from a cross section of people, with a level of predictability coming from the upper class/upper caste sections. But what stirred in me a concoction of fury and disillusion was a reaction from a few students of two of the most reputed schools in Chennai that pride itself in having the most number of NRI alumni after having helped them past the imposing gates of IITs and medical colleges. These students have said they would now be “forced” to study with “them”. To quote one: “Our school inculcates value systems in us. We follow rituals like doing sandhya vandanam and eating vegetarian food”.
Sandhya vandanam is a Brahminical ritual observed twice a day by boys and men post their thread ceremony. That this is part of their value system was more shocking than surprising. Added to this was the students’ concern about their vegetarian food atmosphere being “polluted”.
This brazen haughtiness is so typical of the crop, sown so deeply in the soil of such schools that simply aims at spreading its roots of denial to weaker sections of society. This “us” and “them” approach and the subsequent creation of a structured “elite” class is a dangerous proposition to a democratic society. What is worse is that these schools choose to boost their self-esteem by marketing themselves in their websites, saying a chunk of their alumni were settled in the US and Europe! Isn’t that what we call the brain drain?
So we have an India of private schools that produces “brilliant” students rubbing shoulders with like-minded peer group in a “superior value system”. This has skilfully taken forward a system of exclusion, creating a vertical “us” and “them” chasm.
Another thread of argument against the ruling is that the economic affluence of students from private schools may emanate an inferiority complex among their classmates from poor families. Isn’t that another smart exclusionary tactic?
There were reactions from the “them” sections as well in today’s newspapers, with many fruit vendors, flower sellers and domestic help expressing happiness over the chance to compete at the national level. They said this will now enable bright students from their families to shift from the pathetically-run government schools.
The court ruling is aimed at sensitising students of private schools and helping them liaise with their peers from less privileged background.
Education is the greatest leveller, and this will, let us hope, dilute elitism and casteism and also discourage our powers-that-be from using the much-abused the caste card. This could add maturity to our democratic set up. Shall we at least try and be more accommodative?

Pune, I hate to say goodbye...

As the first sheet of the bubble paper is unwrapped from the roll by the packers tomorrow, the one bubble that had rested in my heart might burst, oozing out my emotions and angst at having to leave Pune.
Ever since the seeds of my relocation plan germinated, I have been trying to keep it away from sunlight, lest it sprouts faster, grows taller and blooms, all too soon. I had watered it all right, sunned it, too, occasionally, but also kept it under shade, carefully soaking it into my Pune stint. I did not want it to snatch from me what this city showered me with, apart from warmth and cheer. It gave me the most delightful gift that life can offer: it gave me friends.
The relocation spasms might not have been so alarming had I not met my friends here. Three years ago, when I had to relocate from Chennai, I was not so devastated as I knew a new life beckoned my family, away from the hustle of the big city life. Pune? How will the city be? But the city began drenching me in its character almost spontaneously. The city was nonchalant, but not cold; it was laid-back, but not indifferent, it was quiet, but not dreary. Pune had a heart of a small city with a soul of a large one; it opened its warm arms to me and my family.
Now the shift is happening again; this time the city is not alien. After all, Chennai had tolerated me for 10 years. The lanes will be familiar; and I hope to find the familiar faces of the milkman, the boy at the neighbouring grocery store, the vegetable seller. The city has been special to me in a number of ways. It helped me evolve from being a Calcuttan to a Chennaiite with much ado. It slipped its easy charm into my psyche and I took to the city like a fish to water.
Today, as I think about moving out of Pune, I am swarmed by a thousand emotions. I am not really apprehensive. But I can spot a few butterflies, flapping their colourful wings in my stomach, making me wriggle occasionally. I do hope to soak in the same camaraderie that Chennai as a city articulated when I arrived one November morning from Calcutta.
So as the final bubble paper is wrapped and the lorry loaded, I will have managed to snatch from Pune a rich treasure, a plunder, a cache……of friends. What better return gift can I ask for from any city?

The scorned scion

So Akhilesh Yadav’s red cap got the green signal from the Uttar Pradesh electorate, which has systematically ripped apart Rahul Gandhi’s white topi that lies tattered in the dusty terrain of the state.
The electorate spurned the advances of one scion, but warmly embraced the other. Wonder why the Congress failed to make any dent into its once-strong fort? Worse, Amethi and Rae Bareli, the Nehru-Gandhi family’s traditional boroughs have left the dynasty battered and bruised.
Mayawati’s Bahujan Samaj Party had to go anyway because of the elephantine levels of corruption her regime took the state into, making it even more “bimaru” than ever. The only imprint of her government had been her multi-crore giant statue projects that are left littered all over the state, specially the capital city of Lucknow. Maya’s phenomenal rise to power and her promises to uplift Dalits and raise their standard of life has remained empty, unlike her overflowing personal coffers.
Coming back to the Congress question: why couldn’t Rahul Gandhi manage to leave a mark despite his attempts at taking himself so seriously as the leader of the masses? Akhilesh Yadav scored all his goals with his “bicycle kicks”, leaving India’s post-colonial dynasty scurrying for cover.
The country has had enough of dynasties I think. The Congress and its sycophants have dented the democratic principles of the country enough. The electorate of the 1950s and 60s, fresh from a colonial hangover, rooted for this dynastic concept to fill up the leadership vacuum. They wanted monarch-style icons and the Congress was only too pleased to have its plate full with the Nehru-Gandhi lineage. What the party could not do was look ahead and groom a few leaders. They stuck to the idea of “ruling” the people rather than getting people to “represent” the electorate.
Today, people want someone from their own to don the leadership cap. Agreed, Akhilesh Yadav is also a scion, but has probably managed to connect better with the electorate with his rustic image, far removed from the sophisticated one of Rahul Gandhi.
But the Congress will never give up. In all probability, it will begin portraying Rahul’s sister, Priyanka, as another leader to reckon with. But the electorate is tired of the ultra-chic and stylish Gandhi family. The mandate’s message is clear: they want representatives, not rulers anymore.
Elections and the polity with its lack of convincing leaders are left with a hope: that Akhilesh Yadav, who might seem promising enough with an environmental engineering background, does not become another non-performing asset of a rich, influential family.

The dirtier picture!

Where is the colour of ethics in our country’s saffron citadel? The self-styled moral policemen, the guardians of our culture, the keeper of our women’s chastity and the Hindu religion have tainted their own starched saffron robes.
Three ministers of Karnataka’s ruling BJP have been caught watching pornography on a mobile phone device! Ironically, one of them, C.C. Patil, seen peeping into Minister for Cooperation, Laxman Savadi’s phone and gesturing mirthfully is the Women and Child Welfare Minister. The other partner-in-crime was Minister for Ecology, Environment and Ports, J. Krishna Palemar.
At one level, we have the saffron brigade baring its fangs at inappropriately dressed women, attacking women at bars, or vandalising gift shops to embitter the Valentine season. And, to think that all this have happened in a state where the BJP is in power, speak volumes of the Sangh Parivar’s double standards.
The Sri Ram Sene had brutally attacked women in Mangalore night clubs. The organisation had also announced an action plan to target people observing Valentine’s Day in Bangalore, saying its activists would go around with a priest, a turmeric stub and mangalsutra, and drag such couples to nearby temple and ritualise their marriage.
Interestingly, this minister for women and child welfare, C.C. Patil, had said recently that provocatively dressed women would inevitably invite sexual assaults. He had suggested that women must pay attention to wear “decent” clothes to “prevent” being sexually abused.
Sigh! Little did these ministers realise that their tiny mobile-screen pleasure while the House was in session is going to get ticklish. Mr Savadi then made a preposterous statement in a face-saving press conference that Mr Palemar was showing him a video wherein a woman was gang-raped in a western country. “It looked like a blue film, but that was not what it was,” he said.
So sorry, Mr Minister, this is not a blue film. This is voyeurism at its best. We have a women and child welfare minister getting ghoulish pleasure watching a woman’s body being exploited. And, an environment minister joining in this supremely revolting conduct even as his state’s environment is in abysmal health, raped as it is repeatedly by miners and land sharks.
By the way, the house was discussing drought conditions in the state when these ministers were caught on camera quenching their thirst!
The Chief Minister, Mr D.V. Sadanand Gowda, made an even more outrageous statement today: “I am happy with their conduct,” he has said. “They said they hadn't committed any big mistake. They have resigned on their own. This is honourable behaviour in democracy.''
This is indeed a matter of honour, Mr Chief Minister!
Now a six-member inquiry committee will probe the conduct of the three BJP MLAs. And, like any inquiry committee, we all know which way it will go. Into oblivion!
Will this hypocrisy ever end?

The dirty picture

‘Balan is the new Bollywood Hero’, cried a flier on a news capsule featuring Vidya Balan, whose Dirty Picture has emerged a top grosser.
The anchor (a woman) was gushing all over Balan’s new star status after her dare-all, bare-all act in the film, apparently a biopic on Silk Smita, the southern actor who played havoc with male hormones with her itsies and bitsies.
Balan exuded this confident, glowing persona after being recognised by people, media and critics for her “scintillating” performance, which they said could fetch her coveted awards next year.
We were treated to the promotional (read provocative) snatches of all that was dirty in the picture. And, then the question time began, with the anchor asking her what she felt about being the new “hero” of Bollywood. Balan was a picture of anything but humility. She was over the top because she had arrived, and even suggested that the Khans could add Balan after their name because she had replaced the Khans as the new hot property of Box Office.
I did not know how to react to the Q&A session and to the anchor’s conclusion that the Bollywood heroine had indeed “arrived” and she raised a toast to the celebration of womanhood; and how the Kareenas and Priyankas must take a leaf out of Balan’s book (which incidentally also means boobs in Bengali). Pardon my Freudian slip.
Our new diva said she was thrilled that she could make the people come (no pun intended) to the theatres with her orgasmic presence. She said she had only played the character of Silk Smita, who used her sexuality to get even with the men who exploited her, and reached the heady top of her career.
As a woman, two questions came in my mind: why did the media call her the “hero” of Bollywood? Why couldn’t it refer to her as a successful heroine? By adding this sobriquet, aren’t we celebrating the male authority, yet again?
Second question: Did Balan fetch the returns, or did her Silk, and her chest-heaving gyrations. Back in the Eighties, men had undeniably flocked to the theatres to feel Silk’s raw sexuality. Balan said she put herself into the Silk’s sleazy costumes and character, and managed to pull off a compelling performance. So why wouldn’t people go in droves in 2011 (like in the Eighties) when Silk’s character is splashed all over the screen from when the curtains rise to its fall?
Then the anchor and Balan discussed on how other heroines were willing to shed their inhibitions and bare all on stage to become the new “heroes” of Bollywood. Post-Dirty Picture, the anchor said Kareena Kapoor had reportedly asked her producer-director to make her film, Heroine, bolder and brasher.
The whole sequence of events is so problematic. It is sad that celebration of womanhood is reduced to celebration of her curves, her body, her sexuality. So even today, a woman remains just a work of art to be admired, to be fantasised, to be possessed, and to be destroyed, all at the whim of the male owner.
Balan, would you like to try playing an Erin Bronkovich and check whether your magic still works?

Anna’s fortress

Anna Hazare has confessed how he flogged men who got drunk in his Taliban-like fortress, Ralegaon Sidhhi. It is frightening to know that the man behind the anti-corruption crusade that has caught the imagination of the Indian populace is running a village by his rules.
It reminded me of Sri Ram Sene’s goons going berserk in a Mangalore night club when they spotted women drinking their spiked colas.
There have been stray reports and noises from political groups about Hazare’s saffron links. But the aam janta and the media decided to overlook that in the face of the mass hysteria at Jantar Mantar. And, the media glare was such that anyone making uncomplimentary comments about Hazare and his team was branded corrupt or supporting corruption.
The overwhelming support created by Anna’s vrat and maun vrat seemed to have created a monstrous ego among his team; an ego that goes out to behead the democratic institutions each time they rear their head. The team runs parallel campaigns against political parties (read Congress). Their extensive anti-Congress campaign in Hissar by-election, declaring the election as a referendum to Anna Hazare’s campaign for the Jan Lok Pal Bill, is one such example. The team then touted the Congress’ defeat as its “victory”. And, Arvind Kejriwal, a key member of Team Anna, went to the extent of saying this anti-Congress campaign will stop only when the party passes the Bill. Pressure tactics? Or is that neat black-mailing?
Agreed, we needed an anti-corruption crusade in our country. There are probably more people’s representatives in Tihar than in Parliament. But this entire Anna Hazare’s package is problematic. His Taliban-style methodology in his village goes against the grain of democracy. And he has smartly photographed himself against the Gandhian halo; giant Gandhi black-and-white picture in the background and leaning against a white bolster….the works.
He has forced vegetarianism in his village. His argument: Non-vegetarian food increases the craving for alcohol. This extra-constitutional authority had even banned cable television in his village, a ban lifted only when he sat in Jantar Mantar for the nationally-televised fast.
Now what next, Mr Hazare? Hold women responsible for high incidences of rape for their provocative attire? Or, ask women to dress “appropriately” to avert the make gaze? Or worse, ask women to stay indoors and out of the bad world “infested” by salivating men?
This will make the Talibanisation complete.

Corporate despotism?

Kingfisher’s high-flying chairman, Vijay Mallya, has been knocking the doors of the Manmohan Singh government and banks to help him wriggle out of the financial mess his airlines is into. The owner of the F1 team and the IPL team, however, made it a point to clarify that it was not bailout that he was seeking but a “working capital management assistance”. Nicely put, Mr Mallya.
However, our Prime Minister has made a statement that the government might consider “bailing out” the airlines.
What is the logic of bailing out a private sector unit? If Manmohanomics is the mantra post 1991, why are we chanting a different tune? We have been pushing for private participation; we have been preparing a suitable environment for attracting foreign investment; we are bending backwards to disinvest the public sector units.
Let us decide the economic system we want to find ourselves in. If it is capitalism, then let us play by the rules ruthlessly. Why are we trying to bring in our socialism sympathy here? Agreed, a number of jobs are at stake. But isn’t that the norm of free market economy: Cold-blooded competition which shows no mercy on those who have failed in the race.
Then why is Mr Singh considering a pit stop for this F1 team owner? Why does he want to refuel Mallya’s bottomless appetite for grandiose?
The civil aviation ministry has been pushing banks to offer support to the country’s second largest airline, while not having readily responded to Mallya’s pitch for investment by foreign airlines.
A consortium of 13 banks, led by the SBI that have lent money to Kingfisher Airlines, are planning to quiz Mallya before a debt restructuring plan for the private carrier.
As expected the India Inc is divided over this “bailout” scheme. Bajaj Group chairman, Rahul Bajaj, opposing the government intervention has said that those who die must die in a free market economy.
By the way, the same Bajaj was opposed to the idea of a cut in import tariffs in early 1990s when Singh, then finance minister, ushered in reforms.
Spice Jet chief Neil Mills has said the government should not use taxpayers’ money to revive a private sector unit.
These seem music to the socialist’s ears. But is there a rulebook for the games that corporate India and the government of India play? The finances, bailouts and concessions are all the jokers in the pack that help them substitute their aces and spades in this game of symbiotic relationship.
There is just one question: in free market economy everything is according to market prices. At least that is what the capitalism rulebook says. What about special economic zones or simply put: land given at dirt prices. Or what about land bought (read usurped) from farmers for a song and given to industrialists to set up their industrial plants?
Are we talking about capitalism? Oligarchy? Or worse, corporate despotism?

Reverse gear!

Two reports in the newspapers today grabbed my eyeballs. I skimmed past the humungous coverage given to F1: it did not interest me as much as a small story on our sports minister, Ajay Maken, being denied a ticket for the inauguration of the obscenely expensive sport that India (or even our planet) obviously cannot afford to host, given the huge appetite for fuel that it has. The other one was on Wipro’s Azim Premji planning a network of free primary and secondary schools in our country’s remote districts.
Ajay Maken is trying to be for the sports ministry what Jairam Ramesh had been for environment ministry and is now for urban development ministry: a minister with a conscience.
A few months back, Maken had tried to bring forth a new sports bill that would bring the sports federations, including the super-rich Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI), under the ambit of the Right to Information Act (RTI).
Predictably, the Cabinet did not clear the Bill that was essentially meant to increase transparency and introduce accountability of all sports bodies. How could it when it had its ministers heading the federations and boards?
Today, when the media, corporate giants, celebrities and F1 enthusiasts are focussing on the flag that will be waved to ignite the event that is to take place on the swanky Rs 2000-crore Buddh International Circuit, our sports minister will be laying the foundation for the Rs 5-crore synthetic track at P.T. Usha’s academy in Koyilandi near Calicut.
The F1 organisers decided to snub the sports minister because he refused a Rs 100-crore tax exemption for the sport that is guaranteed to rake in billions. Isn’t the demand for tax waiver for a sport like Formula One itself a bizarre one? Especially when we are going to witness unbridled flow of money and liquor from corporate coffers; when we are going to see film promotions on cars; when we get to peek into those lavish after-parties (thanks to the paparazzi hunting down the celebs). So the very suggestion of a tax exemption is rather infuriating.
The other news story on Azim Premji planning free schools was a novel gesture in a country plagued by the heady concoction of population, poverty and corruption. The lack of basic education and health care in a country which is hosting a multi-billion-dollar sporting event is a trifle difficult to digest. Sorry for bringing in the formula one again and again into the thread of argument. But, when a country is unable to even whet the basic calorific appetite of millions, and offers an unrealistic Rs 32-a-day as a level to measure poverty figures, it does seem lopsided food for thought.
At least, Premji has lead by example for corporates to come out of their ivory towers and spare a thought for a country starved of basic necessities for survival. Even a few crumbs from them could go a long way to redefine corporate social responsibility, and not let us believe that it is an oxymoron!