23 years and I couldn't have thought there were so many types of headaches...Amen!

A bird's eye view

A beautiful, idyllic sunday..one where you can just sit in your garden and breathe in the air and look at the teeming sub-prime life and marvel that they all reside in the crooks and crevices, in the tiny breathing spaces. It was hot though which made me turn anxiously towards my thirsty plants silently exuding their plea to me, with a slight bend in their backs. Water pouring ensued with more on me than them. This happens when you want to stay in one place and yet somehow hope the water will reach every corner of the garden, bounteosuly to all the plants. After spraying the tops of the shrubs (simultaneously with the neighbour's wall and the good thing, their rose plant), I finally stopped to breathe in the scent of hot, baked earth soaking in the cold water, absorbing and seeping it in with all its pores like a mighty earthworm and then letting out a fresh, crisp scent into the air. I happily munched on roasted dal and let some fall to the ground so that the ants could munch on them. That's when I was really truly amazed because I didnt know ants could affect me that way. They called invisible others to come help them out and soon a horde of them were carrying one small grain into their hole. When they arrived at their den, the grain wasn't fitting in as the hole was too small to hold the entire grain in flat position. Without further thought, the ants turned it onto it's side and triumphantly marched with their dinner, right into the hole. Such simple creatures..and such a simple solution. Why can't we human beings be as intelligent and simple? Our ego immediately has to flex its muscles and we refuse to take even a simple suggestion and instead vouch for our vociferously advocated opinion just to prove our point.

Then came the tailorbird. It was the smallest and the sweetest thing i'd ever seen (i've not seen the hummingbird so this is stands me in good stead). My mum says it is a regular visitor to our garden. The poor thing was obviously, by birdie standards, feeling hot (by human, it was unbearable). It realised that the garden had just been watered and just swooped down onto a giant (by its standards) money plant leaf. And then, it had me looking at it with adoration and laughter in my eyes. It was using the leaf like an aqua slide! Its wings were spread in a wide angle, horizontal to the ground and it was relieving its body heat by sliding over the water-laden leaves. Just then, a light breeze shook the leaves of one of the trees which shed a few droplets from its leaves. The bird immediately shot like a bullet into the tree, leading to a heavy spray on its body. Then, after it had exhausted all the drops of water from the leaves, it happily hopped away.
I wonder why all my desires don't make me as happy as i was that day watching that little bird....bone-deep happy.....

Of air pollution and happy endings

I just realised i hate idealists. Not all though cos i'm a self-confessed idealist although i'm not too sure of its meaning now. Last thursday, i was really excited cos i thought i would get to meet journalists from other papers at a conference arranged by the Karnataka State Pollution Control Board (KSPCB) on how Greenhouse gases from vehicles are contributing to the increasing air pollution in the city. I had done my research before i left for the conference so i would know what areas had already been covered with respect to air pollution studies in the city. I had read what journalists from other papers had written and those from my own too. When i actually got to the KSPCB office, i saw all those people there and was quite excited frankly. Here were my bretheren. It felt good. I saw many smile at those they were familiar with and give a passing, haughty glance to "those newbies". It’s easy to guess the category into which i was slotted.

I dislike and detest those self-styled, stereotypical, generalising sorts who don't know who YOU are but smirk when they hear where you work or they come to, clairvoyantly, realise that you are a newcomer to the field and they are "veterans" (and it applies even if they have worked for 2 years..come on! its more than your lousy 3 months atleast!!). There were some from the Indian Express, more reputed for their text-heavy opinion columns, one from the Deccan Herald, which is really good with city news but whose journo decided that she had best be professional (here professional doesnt correspond with talking amicably and exchanging information..it is a self-generated version of deliberate snobbishness) and of course, my sister paper Bangalore Mirror who are more concerned with how many places are left for couples to "coochie coo". Well, all inclination to be nice and smile flew away into the air (i guess they musn't have come up with a special mechanism even in KSPCB to keep it clean of this sort of pollution!)
Finally, when the conference was over and the questions asked, tea and snacks was served to everyone. As i was the last to go, only two or three who were there till the end asking questions. I awaited my turn and thought i would talk to those already there. Oops! Wrong thing to do! Just one haughty glance and me, my smile, my ego, and my idealism - all died a lightning-fast death. As is usual with me, i asked my questions first, casually interrupting the shy slow 2-year old's (in the profession i mean!). I was met with "oh-sure-i-allowed-you-to-ask-first-out-of-my-generosity" look. Not that i cared! I was all upbeat and itching to sniff out an exclusive.

I anyway asked to meet the Chairman who looked utterly bored and lost as if asking "Shucks! what the hell am i doing in this chair???" Accidentally, he let slip some info that caught my ears and the rest as they say, is history! (oh how i love this line!!) So in the end, all they got was a press release and i got a scoop!! *chuckle*
I guess all's well that ends well and that applies to idealism too...

"Cinderella wanted....anybody fit the bill???"

I frankly didn’t know what I felt – bugged or weary…It was one of many times that I had heard that…I thought it wouldn’t affect me but it did…We had gone to a little village called Chinnapaalam in Rameshwaram during our deprivation trip. We took quite sometime there; exploring and enquiring about the residents’ problems…It was a small village where the primary occupation was sea weed collection; the women collected weed while the men went fishing. Me and my friend waited, with the children, for the women to come back from their watery jobs. Since the others in our van had to proceed to other places for their stories, we decided to stay back. The van would come back for us once the others were dropped. As time ticked by, we decided to look around the village and take pictures. Two of the little girls came with us and showed us around. We got to see a very different side of life there. There were no bathrooms, not enough water, thatched houses and dependency on a very uncertain profession. Despite that they were happy…perhaps because they had and would probably never know what it is to live well.

That’s when it started…one of the little girls became really attached to my friend and even stood next to her in all the pictures that we took. It didn’t strike me as odd….in fact it was very touching that they became so friendly with us so soon. But then she said something, to my friend, that made my ears prickle and my heart burn. I never thought that even in such a remote corner of the world where I hoped to alleviate others’ troubles, I would meet my own demons. Her words-“Akka, you are so pretty.” My friend just ruffled her hair and we forgot about it. Then we went towards the shore where the ladies would arrive soon. There were many boats and we thought it would be fun to take some pictures. My friend wanted one first so I got the turn to capture the moment. All the little girls and boys crowded around her as they wanted to go back with us on our little chip. This little girl pushed everyone, went and sat right beside my friend and asked her to put an arm around her; “friend friend like” she said. The adoration in her eyes was so evident that if she could, she wouldn’t have let my friend go. It was sweet. But every time she could, she kept telling my friend that she was very pretty. My friend then asked her “How is she??” pointing to me…I just waved her away and laughed…the little girl promptly said “She is very nice but I like you; you are very pretty.”

I felt exhausted because I suddenly realized that wherever I went, that’s the only thing that would matter in the end. Not how good I was at my work or as a person, I was just not pretty. I remember telling my mother that it never mattered to me if I wasn’t pretty as there were many more aspects to my character that people would see and appreciate. I guess I couldn’t have been more off the mark. Even in such a tiny village where I would probably never step foot again in my life, I was reminded of that stark reality. It was not the little girl’s fault…she had probably heard that all her life too that being pretty is all that matters…she was just a zaria, as they say, for me to remember that…

It strikes me as odd because then I was reminded of what my till-then-I-thought-best-friend told me the day we left college finally “you should grow your hair, dress more like a girl and look pretty…then you won’t have any difficulty in finding a boyfriend.” It was unwanted advice but it just drove the nail in deeper.

It’s always not “enough” to be just how you are…when you are an infant, you are not “cute enough”…when you grow up a little, you are not “happy/witty enough”…when you grow into adolescence, you are not “thin enough”….when you grow into middle age, you are not “beautiful enough”…when you are almost into old age, you are not “interesting enough”….when you are finally old and think that it’ll finally end you find that you are not “fit enough”….underlying all this, is the constant “you are not fair enough” speech…

Now that I know how the human mind works, I try to ignore it. I know that I matter most to myself and how I perceive myself. Others and their opinions don’t decide who I am. But I think of countless girls who fall into this trap and are not able to convince themselves that they matter and not their faces. They go into depression, mostly ending their lives. In my mind, I know it doesn’t matter and I wish I could tell them but I know why they do it – the inability to withstand the humiliation of not being born beautiful is indeed a great burden…created by others nevertheless one which you have to carry your entire life unless you choose to unburden yourself…and look deeper to find what really matters….

But somewhere, sometimes I too succumb to my humanness….

The Not-so-Golden Touch

Just yesterday an uncle, whom I knew from childhood, came on a visit. I knew it was not entirely innocent as he claimed because he only visited when he wanted something…His first sentence and I knew that his job was with me. His opening lines were "Ahh...my journalist friend!!" and he gave his more-obvious-now gummy smile...Hesitantly, I looked up from Wilbur Smith's 'River God' and gave up my contemplation of ancient Egyptian characters. To my great surprise and even greater shock, he told me that he had recently started a new magazine and he was the Editor. This person had always dabbled in new things all his life but this was totally out of the blue!! I realized where his practiced speech was heading...he tried to ask me, albeit what he thought very casually, about what I was doing after my course...the conversation is not of much use here but the end result was that he wanted me to contribute an article for every issue of his magazine...I showed him one of my articles which has recently been doing the rounds with most newspapers as I'm job-hunting...Curiously, I wanted to see his reaction as I had got good reviews for it...He read thru it and even asked if I had done an in-depth study of Indian history to write it...I flushed and grinned and tried my hand at modesty...But his next statement left me flummoxed!! His magazine, he said, catered to students from the age of 8 to the PG level...It didn’t hit me just then because I didn’t understand what he was trying to convey…His argument was that they wouldn’t understand my language because it probably had more words than he cared to admit he knew!! But my frown had him back-tracking…He said that in the end it was entirely up to me to do as I pleased with it and it was just his view…I told him I’d think about it as he prepared to leave and I was, thankfully and very gratefully, interrupted by a phone call from an old friend.

I argued heatedly with mum that I couldn’t and wouldn’t change my article nor my style of writing for anyone…She then asked me if all the students who read it would understand what I wanted to say…I reluctantly conceded that my classmates never used to understand what I wrote even in 10th although they claimed to like my vocabulary!!! But his words had set me thinking….I read the first issue of his magazine which contained numerous spelling mistakes and random sentence association…It dawned on me that most people I’ve met outside my school and college circle spoke that way!! Probably they understand English only when it is written that way…Well hell!! Maybe the masses understand only that much English! There lies the hitch...Do I write with my usual flair and panache for a limited section of the society or in broken English because it will be more readable by the common person on his treacherous road to knowing Shakespeare??? My ego at being able to understand, read and write English effortlessly always wins hands down but at the end, it always leaves me with the nagging after-thought that the message is for the masses and what is the use, after all, if it doesn’t reach them, touch them, just leaves them clueless…….

The Ho(rr)nor story

Sometimes when I’m making tea and waiting for the tea leaves to boil, I just watch the vessel. The water remnant from its wash fizzles and evaporates in seconds from putting it on the burner. Imagine the temperature then at which it is being boiled. Probably if you tried putting your hand there then you would smell the flesh burning. You wouldn’t be able to stand a nanosecond of that heat let alone anything else.

It gets me thinking about those women who attempt suicide by burning themselves or conversely, those who are burnt by their family members. Well, sorry to burst your bubble…but it is not fiction that exists in otherwise pointless saas-bahu soaps but also in many households mostly in North India and also in countries like Jordan, Pakistan, and Palestine.

You may be familiar with the term “honor crimes/honor killings”. This dreadful practice came to my notice atleast, when the Reader’s Digest carried an article about a young girl in Palestine, Samera who was found in a well with her neck broken, killed by her mother and brothers more to preserve their honor than her promiscuity.

Girls are killed or sometimes maimed, mutilated, burnt by their own family members mostly fathers and brothers. It is, they feel, the failure on their part to fulfill their responsibility to keep the girls in check. The accused are let off if they give some compensation to the victim’s family. The maximum sentence is for 3 months to one year. Many times, teenage boys are made to do the job so that they are let off with a lighter sentence than the adults.

In India, parts of Rajasthan, Haryana, Punjab and Uttar Pradesh this custom still exists. If a girl from a higher caste marries a boy of a lower caste, then both of them are sometimes severely punished by mutilation or at times even death. In most cases however, the boy manages to escape the punishment either by absconding or getting off with a lighter punishment. But the Panchayat makes sure that the girl does not escape. One example is that of Geeta Rani and husband Jasveer who were killed by members of Rani’s caste for having married irrespective of their caste (Punjab, India).

In one absolutely shocking case in Turkey, a woman was killed by her husband because he heard another man dedicating a song to his wife over the radio!! Women are killed for infidelity, asking for divorce, not serving meals on time and sometimes ironically, if they “manage to” get raped. A father-in-law burnt his daughter-in-law because he felt that she had not washed her son’s clothes properly.

When I see or hear of such instances, I feel, more than the male domination and the establishment of their own principles, of the lack of humanity of such people. How can they????? is all I can ask because I am horrified when I see the picture of a woman in Pakistan whose heart doesn’t give out even though she has over 93% burns…she has a child to look after….I see a woman with holes where eyes and ears should have been, a woman who has nothing on her chest but burnt, peeling flesh…..all this for what gain??? On grounds of suspicion??? On the basis of a dream, a rumour, jealousy, Power…..total control over a woman, over her fertility, her ability to reproduce so that she does not toe the line where they are afraid to tread….Create a new race without anyone from their own community….that too eloping without permission…it wouldn’t do to let them go now would it????

Perhaps J K Rowling, albeit unknowingly, summed it up rather well – Mudbloods cannot be tolerated and blood traitors will have to die……

The UnQuestionable Quest

‘She tried to cry herself to sleep but it mingled with the water leaking from the roof. Why did she have to put her bed in the bath room when all she wanted to do was to sleep? But her husband’s stern reproach resounded in her head. “Never question; just do it”. She thought he knew best and always listened to him. Now and then there were the questions of course. They rose sly and unbidden from some cavernous depth of her heart. Was it so hard for them to let her be?’

My grandmother had to experience this when she was a little girl of just 15, married to a man who controlled every aspect of her life. During her menstrual cycle, her bed was placed in the bathroom which had a leaky roof. No one thought of her as a child but as an adult with a huge cultural responsibility to shoulder. The daughter-in-law (my aunt) could not cook for the father-in-law or cross his path because she did not belong to our caste and had not been branded with the sacred symbols of the Vaishnava sect. Human dignity did not find a place in the strong holds of religion.

The eternal perplexity of man has been linked to religion and spirituality. There are so many questions which arise as we grow up and begin to comprehend and logically reason out. A traditional upbringing saves no room for analysis. The rules have been there from time immemorial and acceptance is not a reasoned choice; it is an unquestionable legacy.

I was brought up in one such family which held up the staff of religion for whatever action was done. Nothing before or beyond. It was law. Individuality and opinion were crushed as soon as they decided to have a free rein. Childhood was the beginning of a rigorous training for a lifetime of docility and a spotless character.

Women were not allowed to go into the shrine during their menstrual cycle when they were regarded dirty because of the very mechanism which endowed the family with an heir. We were not permitted to enter into the puja room or touch the idols as they would become impure. The meaning failed to register. How could a bronze idol feel my dirt when I had just had a bath? There were no answers for this. I had always heard that God was supposed to be beyond everything. Then how could that great God have the time to feel my dirt? My opinions were just snubbed or never heard. If the concept of God was even questioned, it was considered worthy enough to be guillotined. When I raised this with my mother I was told not to question….not because she believed this but because she did not have an answer to give. Is this how spirituality and religion operated? With no base?

My first tryst and continuing battle with religion began when I was two. My grand father, the one person whom I loved beyond anyone in this world, passed away. He was 65 with a son who was barely 12. God had decided to just be an idol. Why didn’t he respond when my grandfather died? If he could feel my dirt then he could feel my pain too. But I didn’t see his response. Why then do we follow meaningless rituals without reasoning out why they are actually being followed?

I saw my mother being subjected to torturous rituals without a care about whether she was well or not. She just had to pull on. What kind of God was this who didn’t understand the pain of a mother and was selfish enough to want offerings when my mother was in pain? Religion, for me, always meant bondage and limitation of ideas and rational thought. There was always a ‘do-this’ and a ‘do-that’. There was no freedom of thought. Culture is just a cloak of the ignorance inherited from generations.

To this day, I have not found an answer to my question because all the people whom I have spoken to have themselves been puzzled. Is this really inscrutable or have we been conditioned in such a way that we do not want to question at all?