net me not

I tried so hard to not be a television addict that i didnt realise when i became an internet addict :)

word weary

My maternal grandfather was a man of strong will and many quirks. It’s a lethal combination, as is apparent. In the last decade of his life, this lead to many exasperating experiences for his immediate family. One of these quirks was a penchant for going into ‘mauna vratams’, i.e. taking a vow to not utter a single word for a whole day. Given his restless nature and levels of disenchantment with religion- something he probably didn’t acknowledge himself- a day of silence did not mean a day devoted to meditation or quiet reading or even tele-viewing. In fact he chose those very days to visit sundry relatives and friends, carry out random tasks at the bank or worse schedule important meetings. These led to hilarious and rather embarrassing situations (for those who accompanied him as translator/interpreter/whatever) where he would communicate through writing and sign language and occasionally give into an outburst induced by the non comprehending faces of those unfortunate souls he was meeting up with.

What was about this vow that he sought to take but could implement only in letter not in spirit? Why am I thinking about it now? The past few months have been the wordiest in my life, I have been incessantly talking. To different kinds of people. In different tones. Persuading, requesting, questioning. Angrily, despondently, formally, informally. Planning, discussing, updating. Typing, chatting, writing. Wondering what had to be said and what not to be said. Analysing how things were said- by me, by others. Putting down the phone, and then starting all over again.

And when it all got over, without a victory to celebrate, the one thing I wanted most was silence. That’s when my grandfather’s clumsy experiments came to mind. He was never a garrulous type, but he wasn’t the silent one either. And yet he wished days of no conversations. I need to block out too, but I keep getting back to it. I seek silence, but keep having to say it. Usually when I am done with something, I feel empty for any communication. But this time, the words keep flowing, I don’t even know whether I am making any sense. I even feel detached from my words- it’s a weird feeling where I don’t remember the last words I had just uttered or one part of my brain can see me saying things and wondering what the hell am I up to. I am perpetually distracted by myself, lol.

Yes, I do need to take a vow, a word fast. But will my genes allow me to implement it?

don't call me

don't call me
I can't bear the phone ringing
it interrupts my nothingness

don't call me
I have nothing to say
no news, no gossip, no bitching

don't call me
I don't want to run down the world
say my life is in shambles
though it very well may be

don't call me
I am tired
of saying the same things
over and over again

I am tired
of hearing my own voice

Yamuna ki dhaara

Can non-vegetarians support ethical treatment of animals? There is a rational and affirmative response to this, but a question like this instantly puts you on the backfoot. I felt myself in this rather inconvenient posture for the two days I was last in delhi. It was my shortest trip to delhi perhaps, but also one of the most hassle free one. Thanks to the delhi metro. By some strange coincidence, i found myself entering the new Yamuna Bank metro station on the first day of its operation, complete with dozens of TV news channel crews, officials and those saddest of creatures- protesters. i barely knew what the protest was about, but had to fight the instinct to go join them because i could get late for the meeting i was heading for- and plus I am rather metro illiterate and had to find my way about.

Inside the metro- possibly the first one to chug out of that station, as i sat contemplating the possible reason for the protest (was it those barely heard and heard only to be ridiculed environmentalists against the commonwealth games village or was there something about the metro station itself) I found a mike thrust on my face by an exuberant woman belonging to the creed which now rules our lives- television journalists. The reporter wanted me to speak on how convenient the metro was for me (jeez, come on, could i possibly have something negative to say about THE metro?)and even as i started to talk about how the protesters were probably making a point to be considered, she cut me short. Her script was being trampled on and she took over to salvage it- jumping up and about though the metro ride was completely non bumpy, saying how while environmentalists were worrying about the impact on the yamuna floodplain, 'senior metro officials' had already clarified that there was no such danger and everything had been taken care of. So with her clean chit we can all go back to enjoying our beloved metro.

I love delhi metro. It is easily one of the best things to happen to delhi. People have been talking about the big role Delhi Metro is playing in inculcating a sense of belonging and pride in the city, a sense Delhi-ites were supposed to lack in unlike Mumbai and Kolkatta wallas. And even if was aimed at the middle class, its users are not at all just the vehicle owning, auto affording people. And yet, the metro is by no means infallible. Its construction has meant massive tree felling (look at the completely illogical Airport to CP direct line and the impact on the ridge), demolition of historically significant structures, possible erasures of history with all the digging in the Mehrauli area for instance, not to mention the accidents that have taken lives of workers and others. Yet the metro's reputation remains untouched, especially in contrast to the kind of villification directed at the BRT. Now we can add to this list, a list not really found in our front pages and detailed analyses, the negative impact on the yamuna.

The yamuna bank metro station is located on the Yamuna floodplain. It is a major station, as the route here splits into two leading to Vaishali and Noida. It is a station located at the surface level. As such it is a violation of the high court orders according to which no construction or habitation can take place within 300 metres of the river. This was the same order used to demolish the Yamuna Pushta slum cluster. The cause of the river's right to live used so passionately to drive out hapless people living in the place for decades however fizzled out when the question of the other violations came up. These causes were more powerful, the progress of religion (Akshardam) and the religion of progress (the commonwealth games village). The court threw out the case against the monstrosity that is the Akshardam temple despite the very strong case that DDA had sold to the temple trust land that didnt even belong to it. Today the temple has entered the tourist map of delhi, complete with food courts, boat rides (the river it has helped destroy is so choked that no boat can move in those waters)and what not even as the other monuments remain neglected, encroached, and vandalised.

The games village itself was initially planned as much needed hostels for Delhi University and the metro line touted as a connection between the campus and the hostels. At what stage it became flats aimed at private buyers like the Asiad complex one doesnt know. Now with the downturn the DDA is busy trying to bailout the private developers who had over priced their apartments like the rest of the realty sector in those boom years. A faded banner greets the entrance to the construction site, reminding us that these constructions are at the cost of the river, but who cares?

We could ask, even if all this is valid, is there still any point in protesting now; now that the construction is over or is not going to be halted. It could be at most symbolic protest, to register the double standards and the anti-poor nature of the courts, law, administration and the selective use of environmentalism. Even as the symbolic value is important in itself, the issues raised include those the state have to address and cannot merely shrug off with a 'whats done is done' liner. The Yamuna Jiye Abhiyaan submitted a memorandum which also higlighted the loss of livelihood of the farmers cultivating the floodplain land. The issue of just compensation and rehabilition of the farmers and for all those displaced due to slum clearances, constructions and beautification plans has to be addressed and cannot be as easily shrugged off. Nor can the issue- immensely complex and of vital importance- of saving the river in the city.

I remember this old painting which appeared in some newspaper years ago, of the flowing yamuna waters hitting the walls of the red fort. That painting by an anonymous painter is etched in my memory and I hope I have preserved it somewhere. I hope someday there will be enough people who can tilt the powers to be to revive and preserve the river and the humanity of the city I love. In this hope and in the struggles that are going on, I find strength to deal with the guilt I will feel everytime I board the metro and cross the river.

For more info see http://yamunajiyeabhiyaan.blogspot.com/

sigh

its here
i can see it
the end of the road
nothing ahead though
the promised beginning is nowhere to be seen
sigh...

my pink chaddi and u

since you hack me, i know i am strong. i know i bug you. i know i trouble you. i know you have no response to me. you dont have the guts to argue with me. Thanks to you I know more about others. I know how free, free media is. I know how conformist innovative communication can be. every abuse, every act of trolling is a sign of your frustration, your weakness.

I like the way my pink chaddi makes you go red.

aaj rang hai

A few days back, there was a gang of kids on my door demanding donation for a dargah on the occasion of holi. My usual answer to all these religious requests is that I dont believe and hence wont donate. I tried giving that this time, but all the qawwalis I love floated in my head even as I was trying to explain atheism. The Nizammudin dargah in Delhi is the closest I have come to getting a sense of what spirituality could be about.

So I put some money in that basket covered with green chunari, justifying to myself that since I have occasionally given into cute or pesky kids in the name of an akhand path or a jagran, and in my student days got bulldozed by my communist comrades to contributing to durga puja as well, the 'pir' also deserves a share.

The other 'chanda' collectors however have no use for your soul, once the money disappears into their donation box. These kids however wanted me to get some more notes, close my eyes and hold them against the basket, and then spend this blessed money on myself. They went on condescendingly explaining and re-explaining the importance of this act, reading my refusal as an inability to understand the ritual. The qawwalis stopped playing, Nusrat's voice switched off, I was back from Nizamuddin to my doorstep and buzzed them off.

bridge over

there were bridges to be built
generations abridged
many old ones to be mended
before the next monsoon

it will pour again
but no one needs them now

the other side
has crossed over the horizon

taking away
analgesic wafts
moisturised wrinkles
pendulum swings
typewriting knocks

I often see
cotton swabs from diabetic tests
a pack of cards, 52 in all
the jokers as well
smiling on
headsets, unused
sweets unhidden, neglected

sometimes I encounter
over temple bells and remote switches
an impish smile
iron will
winsome persuasion
emotional drifts
conflictual trysts

the bridge I walk on now
is another
a bridge over
stories untold
waves threatening to straighten out
struggling
losing
becoming memories

bridge over
stilling waters

bombay meri jaan

(This piece was written during the MNS campaign against Bihari and U.P migrants. Then the november attack happened and this went into temporary back burner. With elections round the corner, this issue of migration and outsiders is going to flare up not just in Maharashtra but other states as well, Punjab being one of them.)

Every vacation to Delhi in my childhood would see this grand debate between me and my uncle. I guess my lawyer uncle enjoyed provoking kids and arguments away from the court room, so every year the two of us – a pre teen kid and a mid thirties man- would stoutly defend their respective cities. Bombay or Delhi? Which is better? Which has better roads? Better cars? Friendly people? Better places of interest? It was as profound as ‘Gateway of India’ from my side to ‘India Gate’ from his!

Looking back, I can see we were both defending our ‘homes’. After all, we were both, despite that huge age gap, south Indians who had grown up outside the south. We debated about our homes in a combination of Tamil, English and Hindi. Though my Hindi then was much ridiculed as Bambaiya Hindi.

I grew up as a south Indian in Bombay. During the period when the Shiv Sena had declared that south Indians were outsiders depriving Maharashtrians of jobs and hence should leave the city. I don’t know how many did leave. We didn’t then and when my family moved, ironically to Delhi, it wasn’t because of the Shiv Sena. In Delhi, I slowly forgot the Marathi I knew and it took me a very long time to accept Delhi as ‘home’. Years later I learnt about the Shiv Sena when the Ayodhya controversy was hotting up leading to 6 December and as I began to take positions on Hindutva, secularism and communalism. The Sena had by then found that Muslims made a better enemy, a better outsider, than south Indians.

Now as the MNS and its parent Shiv Sena try outdo each other in the vitriolic campaign against migrants, this time around from Bihar and UP, I am reminded of my childhood. Particularly of our neighbours in Bombay, a Gujarati-Marathi family, who were very important in our lives. While my parents retain fleeting correspondence with their south Indian friends in Bombay, everlasting fondness is reserved for this special family. ‘They were the best neighbours ever’- is how both families remember each other. While it was shared childhood for us kids, for our parents the basis of that enduring relationship lay not just in the daily borrowings, mutual baby sitting, little outings, shared festivals and different cuisines which characterise neighbourly existence. It also lay in shared everyday experiences of very tough times. Like the whole period when both the textile mills where uncle and aunty worked were under strike. My dad was with Premier Automobiles then and there was the famous strike in that factory as well. Those were times of irregular salaries and uncertain futures; meanwhile home loans had to be paid, kids had to be sent to school, and the household run.

Around the time of the Gujarat genocide (an event which I think shaped the sensibilities of a whole generation just like the Babri demolition had for mine), I learnt that Uncle has always been a staunch Shiv Sena supporter. And aunty made enough communal statements last time I spoke to her. Now as the anti-migrant campaign has become a constant headline, I wonder at how uncle reconciled his support for Shiv Sena with a close association with south Indians living next door at the time when the Sena was in the flush of its anti-south Indian campaign.

This sounds like a reassuring story. Often we look at instances of friendships between warring and prejudiced communities- Hindus and Muslims, Indians and Pakistanis, Jews and Palestinians, as resources of hope. We cite them to backup our assertion that ‘ordinary’ people don’t indulge in hate politics and are manipulated and humanity survives in these friendships. But this recollection does not make this point. Rather it makes the contrary one.

I don’t think we can dismiss Shiv Sena’s or MNS’s activities as one of goondaism by a few lumpen disgruntled youth. Just like we cannot dismiss communal pogroms and riots of Mumbai and Gujarat as the handiwork of a few. We know that people killed, looted and raped their Muslim neighbours. Or covertly supported the attacks. We also know that people protected their Muslim neighbours at great personal risk. Hence from our experiences of living together and sharing joys and sorrows, we cannot conclude that the majority of the oppressor community was not involved. Because it is, in its collective consciousness, even as individuals have acted heroically due to personal convictions or political values.

When uncle managed to retain his friendship with us (and does to this day), it was not an exception. He could simultaneously occupy both realms- of friendship with the ‘enemy’ as well as resentment against the ‘outsider’. One of these sentiments won, perhaps because there was no real confrontation involved, but it is not a given that it would have.

For all of us who wish to understand the deep roots of biases and prejudices that regressive fundamentalist politics tap into, we need to examine this co-existence, this possibility of ‘living with the enemy’, in people’s lives.. Not only as we have done till now, as evidence of triumphant humanism or resources for conflict resolution. Instead, it should constitute the entry point into exploring the dynamics of collective ‘cosmopolitan’ co-existence of our times.

We cannot assert false truisms like ‘ordinary people don’t believe in hate’ anymore. Ordinary people may not believe in killing or throwing people out. But they share the resentment, paradoxically while maintaining friendships. This resentment is what unifies them with the lumpen activists and organised right wing political fronts. They lend silent support. Which can get tapped to active participation. Any time. As we saw in Gujarat. As we may see again. May be in Bombay, may be not. I do hope not.

Greer and chaddis

I finally got it. While its symbolism was targetted at the RSS 'knickerdaaris' which is masculinist, The Pink Chaddi campaign rung some bell in my head -about underwear, feminism and women. Now I figure its Germaine Greer's The Madwoman's Underclothes'. Here is Greer

on underwear

'In Australia if you leave your room in a terrible mess, your mother says: 'Look at this room . . . it's like a madwoman's underclothes.'

on pubs

'When I first came to Sydney what I fell in love with was not the harbour or the gardens or anything else but a pub called The Royal George, or, more particularly with a group of people who used to go there every night … and sit there and talk…'

and for all those whose sense of decency and taste was offended by 'chaddi' talk

' The journey of woman's life defies order and good taste - if she is lucky.

warming up to mush

The early nineties saw the country’s entry into the new liberalised age, the entry of Valentine’s day into the nation’s vocabulary and my entry into teenage. The concomitant entrance of the first two was not a coincidence, though my foray into teenage was. As Valentine’s day became more popular, my ire against it grew at the nauseating celebration of patriarchal romantic love, stigmatisation of singlehood and the unbridled commercialism to which it was put to use. In those years nothing could be so irritating as red roses, red heart balloons and chocolate wrapped in glossy red paper on that day. And I do dig chocolates, balloons and roses. This continued till I started teaching and interacting with students for whom the day meant so much. The meaning seemed to have changed subtly, though it retains all its consumerism and patriarchy, since my time. Or is it because I was dealing with a different set of students than my classmates in school and college.

A recent piece in Indian Express pointed out that understanding the Mangalore pub attack on women required an examination of class. It cannot be done purely in terms of gender. This is a valid point but we need to ask what is in this moment that the ‘liberated woman’s body’ has become such a target for the right wing. After all there have always been ‘modern’ Indian women who drink, smoke, frequent bars/casinos/discs, dance with abandon and wear revealing clothes. Every self-respecting hindi film till the late 1980s had the vamp character who was the embodiment of the fallen woman; never mind she was the only woman having so much fun. The liberated woman has become a threat at the same time when the vamp has been rendered obsolete in the hindi film with the heroine taking over her role. As long as the liberated woman was a vamp and her life safely distant from the aspirations of the ‘normal’ ‘respectable’ women she raised no fury among the protectors of culture. But it is precisely the smudging of the boundary lines between the vamp and the girl-next-door that has raised their heckles. She and her life is dangerously close to ‘ours’. She is definitely a product of class, but a product of the mobility and affluence of middle class and the spread of middle class aspirations to the smaller towns and mofussil areas of the country, some part of which is a result of liberalisation.

But that is just one part of the picture. If we look at our films again, the language of love changed in the decade since the inauguration of economic reforms. From the long duree where love -especially inter-caste, inter-community, inter class- inspired rebellion and unconditionally justified defiance of the family/community our films moved on to define socially sanctioned and permissible love. My students, when asked about their preference for love or arranged marriage, come up with ‘love-cum-arranged’ as the first preference. Our films and our middle class now endorse this seemingly oxymoronic category which effectively sees inter-community and inter-caste marriages as violative of community honour, parental affection and Indian culture. In Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham, Hritik Roshan pleads with the Patriarch (Amitabh Bachchan) to forgive Shah Rukh Khan but admits that ‘Unhone galti ki hai, Unhone pyar kiya’. A far cry from the proud defiance of ‘pyar kiya toh darna kya’ and its innumerable variations.

But love as defiance flourishes among the young, but not our metropolitan upper middle class elite, but rather in the small towns, suburbs and the edges of urban India. For this generation of youth, the promises of liberalised India overlap with hope for a liberal India. They are ready to risk life and futures for love. Many do not manage to convert their romances into choice marriages. Many are posthumously labelled victims of ‘honour killings’. For them Valentine’s day is special. They may not relate to the language of the Pink Chaddi campaign but do concur with its content. They dot campuses, parks and shopping arenas holding hands with cards, roses and balloons. Many see this day and this time of their lives as the only opportunity they have to give vent to their desires and can later remember with fondness. I find my fully formulated critique of Valentine’s day still valid but unable to capture the import of these happy giggling faces. So I wish them back, and give them a day off.

what was this?

something rather strange happened to me a couple of days back. i reached office to discover that i had forgotten something very important back home. something i could'nt do without till the evening. so i went back home. feeling mighty stupid. cursing myself for increasing my carbon footprint. anyway as i entered home, a strange feeling enveloped me. i felt like an intruder. it was like i had walked into lovers caught in a 'compromising position' as they say :). or into someone sleeping, and had woken that person despite trying to be as quiet as possible. my footsteps actually got lighter and i became conscious of my breathing. i got out as quickly as possible, apologised and promised i would not show up till evening. when i came back in the evening, i had been forgiven, for i got my normal welcome.

prayer and me

Mac's post on prayer reminds me of the time I used to be a believer. My dad was a card-carrying atheist then, and I remember numerous occasions when my mom and her two daughters would visit temples with dad choosing to stay outside and wait. I cant really remember praying in temples, even though I used to follow the rituals, carry milk for the shiv linga and recite the shlokas my mom had dinned into our heads (which I can recall to this day.

I only remember praying with all devotion and total fervour everyday for one particular thing. As a 4 year old when I expressed a desire for a sister, my mom, then pregnant, saw one more opportunity to minimise the possible impact of her husband's athiesm on her child. 'Pray and God will grant your wish' she told me and there I was, on my knees absorbed in prayer in front of the little puja box of our house everyday, for probably most of her pregnancy.

I dont think I prayed like that, with such faith, ever after. Years later I declared myself an athiest, exactly what my mom feared; ironically precisely at the time my dad did an about turn. I dont stand outside temples though, finding enough to interest and amuse me on those few occasions I find myself inside.

Even though I dont believe in any God anymore, I can only say that God, the person who doesnt exist, did grant me the one thing I asked for. Thats the only way I can put my brief encounter with faith.

forgive and forget?

I cant forgive
I try forget what i need to forgive
But I cant forget to forgive myself
For getting into a situation which needs forgiving and forgetting