Winds of Change

Self styling oneself as an 'observer' has one obvious BIG advantage- it allows you to sit back and inwardly snicker at the things people say and do. And then you can pretend to yourself that it is vital information that'll someday pay off when you write the next Catcher in the Rye- that one day you'll look back at this voyeuristic habit and thank the stars that you have it.

That day hasn't come yet for me. Neither have I yet stumbled on the next genius idea after Harry Potter.

In this post, I'm going to write about 'my' generation- children born in the late 80's and who grew up in the 90's. In India. The 90's were for us the time when we transitioned into mordernity. When not only were western markets famously made accessible to us by Manmohan Singh Part 1/2, but what was triumphantly denounced 'western culture' by our culture-vultures invaded. When our parents gasped in horror the moment Monica and Chandler saw each other naked under the sheets and said that their friendship was effectively ruined.

And so it has come to pass that a lot (if not most) of us follow Prison Break, 30 Rock, The Big Bang Theory, How I Met Your Mother, the ubiquitous F.R.I.E.N.D.S, etc etc more than our parents followed the insufferable Swabhimaan, Tamas and Buniyaad. And a lot (if not most) of us have surprisingly- almost European- liberal views about sex and 'hook ups'. And I am part of the generation that proudly bandies words like global village and intellectualism to justify our choices.

All of which is true- let's face it. The hawks who go on crying themselves hoarse about western culture 'destroying' India through Valentine's Day, The Da Vinci Code and late night clubbing are dinosaurs- and they know it.

But although it kills me to say it, this endorsement of the western way needs to have its limits. And not in terms of clothes. Or TV. Or Movies. Or porn. Or booze. Or XXXX. Those things come under the 'personal details not to be given out' heading. Fair enough.

But the kind of blind euphoria Indians in India go into when they see Barack Obama on TV is inexplicable. Especially we- the children of the 90's go into raptures. He's going to bring about 'change' we say- in a foolishly misguided belief that he is going to save the world. Even today- when his international stature hangs on the thin thread of his oratory ability, if you look past the obvious- and undeniably great- black metaphor, the fact remains that foreign policy has returned to the hawkish pro Pakistan roots that the Democrats have always been mired in. The man is apt to make statements that on the surface seem full of warmth and non partisan haloes- like 'I love Pakistan because I once had a Pakistani roommate', but lurking under the gloss is a clearer roadmap visible to any discerning non fanboy mind that American policy has shifted westward.

This isn't meant to be a political blog. It is just because I know of people who gush over the man's charisma, his command over language and his being black. True, true and oh boy- true. Look under the wrapping, and Pakistan is revelling in millions and millions of dollars given by the agent of change.

I am probably in the minority who actually longs for the Bush days. That man- whatever his faults- gave a truly historic, a truly great gift to us in the form of the civil nuclear agreement.

I suspect- at the risk of trivialising issues- that it is the same attitude that made us like the aforesaid mentioned TV programmes- a promise of greater intellectual reward if you will- that makes many of us- Resident Indians coo over the US President. Somehow we've convinced ourselves that it is hep and the in thing to say how (to use an alreadly obscenely overused word) amazing- he is. It is pop culture now you see. The same attitude that leads people to orgasm when he greets the Muslim world in Arabic, but ignores the actual working- and illuminating- statements of Hillary Clinton.

It happens in India too- with suave, Twitter using verbal diarrhoeaics like Shashi Tharoor. Just because he uses Twitter and speaks good- maybe even great- English doesn't make him cool. Cool would be him casting off his garrulous frivolity and not making ghastly mistakes in Sharm-al-Sheikh mentioning Baluchistan in a document that is going to come back and bite us in the arse whenever we deal with our oh-so-friendly western neighbours. But no- the 'support' galvanised for poor Tharoor focussing his energies on cribbing about flying economy- cattle class I mean- and possibly having clandestine links to the IPL franchise seems to say- excuse him because he's sophisticated.

Codswallop. Or considering that Monseiur Tharoor has given new bovine meaning to the phrase 'If pigs could fly (economy)'- Cattlecrap.

Oh and by the way- I can't get enough of The Big Bang Theory. How effing amazing is Sheldon Cooper?

2009

As the curtain rings down on 2009, it has been a ghastly grisly year all around.

With nothing to remember or cherish.

As I write this, I'm an unemployed doctor studying for the next entrance exam in the hopes to further my education. And although the next exam's on January 10th- a curious mixture of ennui and regret are the only things I feel.

Regret is a strange entity. One that I'll never comprehend. In that what does it mean- to regret? Can there be regret when you have no choice- when sometimes, circumstances and people contrive- unknowingly- to make your life a complete mindfuck? And then you do things that end up haunting you forever.

But I'm rambling. 2009 has just been that sorta year- spent in limbo- both professional and personal. As for the world, well- a world in which everything seems to be in economic hell, a world in which Kasab is still alive- gnaws at one like an unwanted, persistent rodent. A simmering insidous anger is what it is. Like the remnant of an old scar- irritating with its constant presence. It's not that one thinks of it all the time. Infact most of the time one doesn't think about it. It isn't the rabid, self proclaimed patriotism of the political parties- or the self rigteous lectures moralists give. It's about that moment when you're enjoying a drink with friends, that moment when you're having such a good time that it hurts- it's that moment when you suddenly recall 26/11 and shudder in wrath and guilt.

And that's something most of us won't ever come to terms with. Yes I'm not a Mumbaikar. Even though I've studied in Maharashtra and my parents are settled there. I'm not even particularly connected to the place. But the rage is there.

2009 was the year we proved that the whole 'unity in diversity' rhetoric is just that- rhetoric. With the passing of blame the only sport people play, with the hateful hateful regional politics played by the MNS, with something as idiotic as reading the messages in the comments section of various websites- it becomes increasingly clear that deep down we're still obsessed with colour, race and religion. Anger is the only thing that unites us.

And that has dealt a shattering blow to the pride I had in India's much vaunted unity. The textbook talk of India's unity was crap. Or written in 1947. And all the talk of the 'Mumbai spirit'- well what choice did they have? It wasn't courage- just plain everyday sense- to get on with their lives. If you or I are killed in the next attack, we can't help it. We might as well literally die trying (to live).

2009 was a year where this bloke I know pathetically pined after someone without ever telling her- all because he'd messed up even a good friendship. And now is numb.

2009 was the year when yet another tragic case cropped up for the annual media trial we seem to be having over the past few years. Another case of justice denied for 19 years. Another nail in the coffin of the Judiciary- the country's latest applicant for Jester-in-Chief.

2009 was the year many people faced the recession brunt- lost jobs, livelihoods and happiness.

It was also the year I learned that 'love' makes no sense. And not in a good way. None at all. Especially when it begins with K.

So to all the wide eyed '2009 has flown by so fast' and 'What a great year!' nerds I have news.

For a lot of us, 2009 sucked.

That Coming of Age Thing

There's a moment in Victor Hugo's mammoth Les Miserables when Jean Valjean is offered the silver candlesticks he stole just a few moments ago as a gift by the very priest he stole it from.

It's curious that the turning point of an epic should happen in the first few pages itself. It is only from there, indeed because of that event that the whole sequence of events unfolds.

Granted, Hugo's magnum opus is far from perfect. It is meandering, but grippingly so. Hugo, that champion of the masses- whose persistently wretched life he described in his book- ended up writing a big ol' coming of age tale- of Fantine, of Cosette, of Marius, of Javert and of Jean Valjean.

It was there, at the doorstep of a priest, stolen silver candlesticks in hand, that Jean Valjean, one of the great heroes of literature came of age.

It is a much overused term- 'coming of age'- particularly in these times of the pseudo psychology that every ingenue counsellor doles out like frogspawn.

Still others dismiss it as inconsequential- a quotidian indulgence of the highly placed, a fruit that the plebeians have no time or luxury to pluck and savour.

And yet, ask any urchin wasting his sorry arse on the street and he'll come up with a ripe long tale as to when he became a man.

Never mind that his manhood stopped with that tale and he regressed into a life devoted to debauchery.

Some people though have a life so spectacularly wretched and unfortunate that there remain no adjectives (or invectives) to curse fate.

This is the appallingly true story of C- whose life reads better than it is lived.

The third child of a litter of 5- with an erotomanic brute of a father and a paan chewing shrew of a mother, she grew in bitter poverty and neglect- raised to be house 'help'.

I still remember looking forward to meeting her whenever we visited that house, those people. Because the adults back then were insufferable. Because there was that uncomplicated friendship only children can make- bereft of class cognizance or social awkwardness.

Hugo himself couldn't have written a more affecting story.

As luck would have it, C's entire family- sister, parents, niece and nephew- ultimately came to work for us.

I use the word 'work' with faint hesitation- perhaps as part of the pretentious bourgeoisie philosophy that shies away from talking about 'house help'.

But C didn't want to remain entrenched in the stench that was her life- and she made the efforts to get out of it. Mum taught her English, she took up a job as a shop assistant.

Then came the delusions of grandeur. It's what we called them, but to C they were rungs of the social ladder that successive generations of the miserables must inevitably climb. C now wanted to become a businesswoman- and on the way to that Everest, she incurred debts amounting to vast sums. And there's no denying it- because through her own naivete and gullibility she had to quit her job.

Rescue- Mum, that democratic drawbridge, going down for eveybody. The debts disappeared.

Flitting between obesity, unrealised dreams and lets face it- a basic stubborn incompetence- C blundered on towards 30. No hint of boyfriends- she was still in the 'brother' phase.

That was when that ogre of a father, that lowly disciple of the Marquis de Sade, got her married to an auto driver somewhere in the bowels of Tamil Nadu's villages. And packed her off- dowry et al.

C never saw her groom before the marriage. And when she did, it was apocalyptic.

A wizened limpy 48 year old monstrosity, he flaunted his mistresses and whores in front of his wife, and fell mysteriously sick to what is known as 'that disease'. C nursed him for a whole year- thanklessly living under leaking roofs while her husband whored the nights out.

And after a year, when she had finally had enough- C hopped onto a train with the scant money she had and returned home, to an unwelcoming household.

By which time the mother had died. Of cancer it turned out.

Now began an endless wait for the husband - either to die or to 'divorce'. An irate father, hateful sisters, a niece who accused her of being a prostitute and a mat in a corner of the house kitchen to sleep on- with 'roaches and rats for company didn't help.

The old man now turned up and demanded his wife.

C put her foot down and refused. And then began a battle for her dowry and a divorce (for a marriage in the temple) in the notoriously male centric panchayats and courts of Tamil Nadu which hasn't been resolved even today.

The one brother she loved was murdered. And the other murders himself senseless everyday with the bottle.

Now C- neither married nor divorced is involved with a married man. In spite of the warnings of well wishers and the threats of doom by naysayers. C talks in hushed tones about how wonderful sex must be. She gets breathless climbing 5 stairs. She refuses to visit a gynecologist due to the 'shame' it would cause to know that a 33 year old might be rapidly reaching menopause.

A few days ago, her 75 year old father threw her out of the house to accommodate his 40 year old new wife.

Today, if you ask her when she 'came of age'- her answer, despite the journey she's had is- A few days ago, when my father disowned me.

Time heals all wounds? Like hell it does.

For God's Sake

I stood there- in the sanctum sanctorum of gilded gold, surrounded by a throng of people feverish with piety and fervour. A gentle breeze wafts through the temple and the curtain flutters. A collective gasp- was it going to reveal its secret?



13 hours ago, I had reluctantly willed myself into a car to go to what is commonly considered one of the greatest pilgrimage sites in India. A place where they said dreams came true. A temple whose presiding deity is generous to a fault to his devotees.


Uh- slight problem- the religious thing really ain't my cup of tea.


It wasn't always like this. As a kid, one invariably follows one's family in matters of faith- in fact I seem to remember (rather wistfully, I must admit) days when I had a set of some 12 Sanskrit prayers I'd religiously recite every day. Days when I even put flowers on the idols.


Even a highly embarrasing moment at my munji- the sacred thread ceremony- where my panche fell off in front of a whole lot of people didn't really deter me from assuming that somewhere in the skies lurked a god with four hands with a conch, a lotus, a discus and one hand raised in blessing.


Come to think of it- there isn't really a moment when I stopped believing. It was the idea of the thread that put me off. This ornament that supposedly set me apart from others felt too foreign- too unfair to my dreams of normalcy.


Yes, I wanted to be like everyone else- I didn't want to be unique..


Ah-the innocent stupidity of childhood!



The breeze dies down. 250 people exhale. Then it begins. A low clang- growing steadily louder. At its zenith, the drums produce a deafening sound. Sanskrit chants accompany the drum beat- the whole sound blends into a symphony of sounds that cannot be separated from one another.



Make no mistake, the idea of 'God' was hard to accept to begin with. All juvenile arguements laid aside, it just didn't seem possible. Miracles, I put down to coincidence. Good marks I put down to hard work. Those who survived in hospital I put down to great doctors.


Never to Him.


But in times of need- somehow one has an automatic tendency to ask God for help. And that's wrong said everyone- don't pray to God for help. Pray because you believe. And then ask him for what you want.


Fair enough.


But if He's omniscient, surely He already knows what I want? And because I've never offered propitiating sacrifices, never whole heartedly lit the lamps, never really prayed- I don't mean recite shlokas- but actually prayed because I believed, admired the architecture in his temples more than him- He's not going to give a crap about me anyway!


And strangely- that gives one a quiet satisfaction. If people believe that praying to Him everyday will keep him happy- so that when you really want something, He'll grant it- well then they're really praying out of fear, not piety.


And so I never felt right asking him for favours. Not in the most dire of situations. I had no buisness doing so.



The drums go on. The people around start chanting. A security guard grins sheepishly and scratches his unmentionables- this is all probably too blase for him. The whole atmosphere- loud drums, the perfectly pitched Sanskrit chants, the bells, the breeze, the devotees swaying in unison- different people united for perhaps the only time in their lives- unknowingly stirs memories- why, (if I may say so) only God knows..

Someone whispers- The time is close....

And then in a flash, the green curtains are drawn.

And out of nowhere- from some primeval recess of the mind, knowing it is wrong to do so, one asks Him for something...

If only I could have her back. ..

What Women Want

Musicals are for women.



I believed that until I saw Sweeney Todd (the movie).



Absolutely bloody fucking brilliant.



From the writing to the music to Tim Burton's realization of the play- incredible.



And the fact that Helena was in it didn't hurt.



That got me thinking. Would the Indian ideal of a woman do the same? Would she lie and connive to keep the man she loved? Would she sleep with him all the time knowing he didn't love her? Would she aid him in murder? Would she love his child from another wife?



You know what- maybe she would.

For as the demon barber of Fleet Street sings-

Pretty Women..
At their mirrors-

In their gardens,
Letter writing,
Flower picking,
Weather watching-
How they make a man sing!
Proof of heaven, as you're living...



Someone tell me, WHERE ARE THESE WOMEN? We need them.


And the terrible part is, that we might have had them if we were born long long ago.

Take Draupadi- an enigma in the Mahabharata. Now of course, any mention of polyandry and you'll have the purists touching their ears and warding you away, lest your sussurations pollute their homes. Now she was, to my mind the first feminist. A woman of blazing beauty, (by all accounts) what continues to fascinate is the way she used her loins- for both good and ill. Oh yes, who are we kidding? Why did she go to the fateful game of dice in a 'single garment stained with blood'? She should have taken some Meftal Spaz and stayed at home. I propose that she had an inkling that her state would come in handy if the need arose. It did. And ultimately, the whole bloody (pun intended) war was fought because of one woman. And she knew it- perhaps even planned it. Ruthlessly planned it for power- under the garb of restoring her honour. It took 13 years, hundreds of deaths and the loss of her own sons, but she got there in the end.

And lets not even start about her relationship with Krishna- which, deny all you like, has always been more than a little ambiguous. That she worshipped him from afar seems obvious, but there is a fine line between worship and love (maybe even lust).


Yet, inspite of having five husbands and still trusting someone else more than any of them, Draupadi has always been considered a virtuous woman. Never as a politically savvy schemer. I'd even call her reformist.


And what makes it even more interesting is, that even if you look at the Mahabharata (as I do) as a great fictional epic and not gospel truth, the fact that a writer in those times- a man in all probability- could concieve of such a character and not turn her into a whore is really far sighted. That free thinking was so prevalent in ancient India makes one boil with wrath at the current state of affairs.




From those lofty times, are today's women worse off? It's hard to tell. Yes, inspite of those crazy fire spitting feminists (Good day Ms Roy) who quite frankly I think need a good romp in the sack with anybody, inspite of some men with inflated egos who, when their fiancee breaks it off say, 'You should marry me because I'm good at studies and you're an average student..'




Yet for all these people, there is a Sonia Gandhi- who, whether you agree with her politics or not, is an interesting case study. An Italian woman, meets the heir to the throne (rolls eyes in disgust), marries him and soon after his death becomes the most powerful politician in the world's biggest democracy. That's a real story. Or a certain Ms. Mayawati who uses all her evil genius and rules with impunity. Or even Sushmita Sen, who gets around and doesn't care what anybody thinks.

The position Indian women are in today- is strangely dichotomous. One the one hand you have some who can head a Biocon, and on the other you have those who equate a date with marriage instantly. The only reason we ask them out has got to be marriage. If you say you just want to get to know them better they reply, why not as friends?

It's this disparity between professional and social freedom that baffles.

And this is probably because the idea of marriage has been drilled into everyone's heads as the sole reason a girl exists. Even among educated society. Wanna date me? Marry me first.


The evolution of the Indian woman has been a little strange- from an emancipated personal life in ancient times, to wonderful professional opportunities nowadays. Long ago she could still sleep with the Sun God no less, have a child, remain a virgin, ditch the child, have no regrets or guilt, and then years later, blithely ask the same child not to kill her 'real' sons with absolutely no qualms whatsoever. She didn't get to rule, but she was the power behind the throne. Paradoxically, in modern times, our women are given a lot of freedom to pursue careers (more or less). But personal morality is of paramount importance. She has to be 'pure'. She shouldn't wear short skirts even to play tennis. She shouldn't hang out in pubs. She should be 'perfect' and should be married by 25, otherwise she's deemed 'too old'. It's different for us menfolk, we can fuck who we want and get away with it but somehow an Indian woman's virginity is of paramount importance. As to why, that's beyond me. Is it objectification of women? Maybe. I mean YES! It's just crass and low.

That being said, I think I'm gonna dump my girl tonight- her forehead's too wide, one nostril is wider than the other and I didn't like the location of her tattoo.