Sunday, November 30, 2008

Tea for two - and everyone else


(IMAGE BY SEBASTIAN E., BRAZILIAN ARTIST)

There is nothing more and plenty more to say about the attacks in Bombay this November end.


Watching the news has been frustrating, both for the kind of news and for the kind of views being bandied about. The one thing instantaneous media seem to resolutely deny the need for is reflection. Reflection inherently requires time and thought. But the very next day people want to talk about Solutions. Anyway, more about that elsewhere...

But another thing that makes me marvel is the easy talk of the Taj's iconic status. I don't want to be callous about those who've suffered directly by indulging in reverse classism. But I do think that before Ratan Tata and others demand that the Taj should be protected as PUBLIC icon, it needs to do something about becoming one.

Terrorists understand what really divides our society - and they've hit out at the things that they know we really value. They understand that the temples of modern India, like of the US, are the icons of absolute self-interest and greed, such as five star hotels and the WTC. Apart from whatever warm and fuzzy things they represent, they also stand as symbols of the extreme class divide of this country, the absence of the working poor and the dying poor in our mainstream consciousness; the divide which is a daily terror we do unto our own. As long as we live in this culture of self-interest alone, I really don't know how we are going to have a changed world. I mean the world has to actually decide to change, not just demand something else does. This is the sort of culture that makes Ritesh (no I won't spell it numerologically, what's he going to do about it?) Deshmukh and Ram Gopal Varma go so openly to prey on the event and shows that there is no lag between an occurence and thinking of what it can do for you.

So anyway, here's something I think the Tatas could do, just symbolically so that maybe the cliche of indiscriminate openness that people bandy about without a thought can be a little more true. Because after all, why should only the cabbies, the dabbawalas, the train commuters and the other regular folk have to bear the onus of maintaing the spirit of Bambai? 

I think when the Taj is fixed up and restored, its ground floor sea fronted rooms should be turned into a public tea-room where not only the rich, but all sorts of people, can come in and afford the price of the tea. A place they keep as clean and lovely, if not as plush, as the rest of the hotel. A place which says - this building is a Bombay icon because the wealth of this city which was generated as much by workers as by industrialists, has also made it so - and this tea-room is a token participation in that idea. I think this would be a simple gesture and a step towards erasing those hard lines that keep one type of Bombayite far away from another, indeed, indicating which type of Indian citizen benefits more from our supposed democracy. Those are the things we also have to work at changing besides holding governments responsible for their duties. That won't require much money from them. But it would require a bigger heart.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

the report card of love

Yesterday I needed to find my Class X school leaving certificate- as that's what the government considers proof of age. I'd needed to find it for many days now, but I'd been dreading the exercise. Everytime I'd remember I'd go hot and cold with nervousness and feel that heavy feeling of gloom in the pit of my stomach.

Looking for it was part of so many pasts - it was the misery of those teenage years. Being 13 or 14, in a new school. Growing up and feeling confused about boys (not much has changed there!); feeling ugly, feeling dumb, feeling peculiar and not like the other girls, unable to translate their mysterious language of groups and giggles and arch phrases. It was the fear of board exams, the inability to soldier on past the inarticulate, inaudibe, intractable, self-hating teaching style of Miss Kalra from physics, Miss Saumya Das from maths, Mrs. Subramanium from chemistry. It was the confusion of seeing marks that had been really good, plummet to borderline pass, the fog of just not getting a thing in some classes and everything in others which made it impossible for you to just accept that maybe you were a duffer so why care? It was the emotional coldness of hostel - I was the type that hated it - the constant fucking surveillance, the suspicion of girls getting "too close", the public humiliation by a totally unbalanced Matron (what a designation) if you made a silly joke she didn't like, the enforced study hours, the one movie a month chosen democratically, which means it was always a horrible movie - the one time I got to choose I chose a strange but interesting sounding film called Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron, came out walking on clouds, only to be stoned to shock by everyone saying - what ya, Paromita, what a stupid movie you chose (not much changed their either notwithstanding said movie's cult status). The whole control of your time, first at school and then at home so that there was no time for dreaming, for sleeping, for reading too late into the night because you could not put a book down. It was the loneliness of not telling your parents what you felt because you knew instinctively that parents do not have the strength or the spine to deal with their children's hardships. It was waiting for letters from the free world of no-hostel - when the letter came you were lifted up on the breeze of excitement and for the 15 minutes it took to read once and then once more, not trapped in this gridlock of timetables, but lost in the world of the letter writer, feeling their love, imaging them talking like those old movies where the face is superimposed on the letter, clinging to every little detail of what they did, what they'd been reading, a new cassette they'd bought. And then when you put the letter down, you were surprised to find yourself still there, as the blood that had rushed up in excitement settled down, the colour of the world went back to medium setting. If it was a letter from my dad it was a less extreme experience of course. My dad's letters were always in point form, written in his strong, squat loops and usually only came on birthdays:

" My darling daughter,

1. May you have a wonderful birthday
2. My prayers to God to give you great happiness and the best things
3. I love you

and sometimes

4. Love and kisses.

Your loving Papa"

I laugh about it now, but I always felt disappointed then and would read it over and over to somehow suck more up from it, wanting there to be more. And if Matron passed by she would always say some Manorama or Shashikala type thing that would emabarrass and deflate you, break the spell.
For someone as easily terrorised as I am, the last years of school were the final inhospitality of life and took years and years to recover from. And still show up in my awkwardness with belonging to a gang or crowd of any kind.

Added to that, the search implied some of the terror of early PMGP days. I was 23, depressed, uncertain about my future, living like no one in my family had lived before, doing something that didn't seem marginal, it just seemed pointless - and always broke, always wishing I could have nicer clothes, a table to eat lunch on. I would try to store important things in suitcases or in a big wooden box under the window. But the PMGP rats were not a force to be so easily fought. If the damp didn't get the papers, a scrabbling sound would eventually start up and you'd know that the rats had squeezed or chewed their way in. I would be scared to open the box in case they leapt at me. So I would bang away at it and run back. Once the beast had scurried out I would gingerly open the box. On bad days I would find a clutch of pink rat babies. On good days I would find only some juvenile poems or old college assignments chewed to bits and would feel miserable. I knew that the papers were probably lying in that same box and I dreaded opening it to discover that in fact the papers weren't there, had been eaten by the rats and I had erased the memory.

And intertwined with it all was my irrational terror of all things official - property deals, passport applications, income tax, Matron asking if it was you who had thrown a sanitary napkin down the commode and you standing there frozen and terrified even though it wasn't you.

But eventually I couldn't put it off so I went down on bended knee and forraged.

Out they came - the files of proposals for un-made films, scripts that were never produced; then a layer of production files of various projects (no wonder the rats chase me, I'm a pack rat myself!); and finally, that blue plastic Tata Steel file marked 'important papers'.

What I found there took my breath away - because perhaps I hadn't remembered it was there, or if it was, never thought about it's meaning.

There was my Class XII and Class X certs. My college certificates and mark sheets. My "Character Certificates" - our famously corrupt principle Mahendroo certifying that I am a girl of good character!

But that wasn't the main thing. In it was also an envelope my father had given me when he thought I was old enough and responsible enough (well!). I had forgotten I had it. In it was every single report card of mine from Lower KG onwards. Each one neatly and lovingly preserved and handed over to me.

Looking through them made me smile at the quaintness now of what was once valued. In Upper KG for instance Science and Sanskrit had been crossed out and subsituted with Rhymes (Fair) and Conversation (V.fair). It made me laugh to see how some things have changed: Remarks - Remains tranquil and attentive (!!) Makes good use of reference books (oh why did I become the girl who only reads murder mysteries and steamy romance novels? Well perhaps that's all the refernce books one needs in life?) Well mannered, QUIET and friendly; Does not waste time uselessly (!!!!!!!! a game of wordtwist anyone?) and shows originality; A QUIET and affectionate child! Clearly I was leading a Jekyll and Hyde life early on because I don't think my family has this memory of me! It made me laugh to see how some things really haven't changed - Remarks: weak in Hindi; needs little work in Hindi; she is a good pupil but can work harder; she is an excellent student but she could be much better if she tried to live up to her promise; It made me remember that even if the report card of youth in my memory is full of Unhappiness - 9 on 10; Alienation 10/10; Sullen Misery 8.5/10; Life (V.Unfair), that isn't the only assessment possible.

If my father had kept each progress report of his child so carefully, surely there needs to be a column in my head: Acts of Love - 100/100. Looking at it all I felt again the intense fragility and perfection of being one who is loved. People say to be loved makes them more secure - and in some ways I believe it does. But it also makes you aware of the fleeting, ephemeral quality of life, so unbearable is the beauty of being cherished by someone in this simple way, so full of pride; and of the wafting, wispy nature of love that can pass through the tightly packed wall of death. It was fitting that I looked and found these yesterday, November 11, which was my father's birthday. Because even though he is gone I felt once more enveloped in his kind and generous hug, in his simple, never second-guessing love - one perhaps, like everyone, I hadn't always felt aware of as a miserable child or an angry teenager.




That's my father on his last birthday. My mother and sister always buy a cake on his birthday and say they will celebrate his life and not cry. I am not yet that brave or beatific but I will get there. This year too, they each bought his favourite dark chocolate cake and cut it. As for me, I got the back-present.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

The Other Me (would rather be the nice one): a rant and a half

Last night I went to see Madhur Bhandarkar's Fashion. Don't ask why please. I did. Maybe I'm growing old or what I don't know. But lately things like this arouse only utter violence in my breast. I want to run into Madhur B wearing Doc Martens (me, not him) and kick him senseless. To kick him senseless I would have to kick him in the crotch because that's where our man's sense and sensibility both reside. Then, as he lies there disintegrating and groaning I want to shout loudly - dude, ever heard of ANOREXIA?? No?? BULIMIA then maybe? Oh, you thought all those models that you saw throwing up during your ASSiduous so called research were just pregnant out of wedlock and getting a reminder for their next abortion.

How can someone be so unempathetic? Oh well, I guess it's easy if you're a racist, homophobic misogynist. How can anyone write such a bad script in which plot point 1 is - Meghna smokes a cigarette - drums and synth full power AND Interval! Plot point 2 - Meghna has sex with - not 6 men, one dog and an anteater - But-with - a black man - silence on the track and then racing heart music. Meghna wastes a whole box of tissues trying to rub out her face. Is she worried that the mascara giving her raccoon eyes is man's skin colour rubbing off on her perhaps? Breakdown happens.

And what is Madhur B's problem with women who have sex by the way? What? All the women in the film who have sex come before a fall. The one who comes out smelling of roses (Janet/Mughda Godse) is the one who has a marriage of convenience/companionship with a gay man. Even when the gay man asks her to marry him he never says - hey, we can be married but you can have sex with other people or be in love with them or whatever you want. There is only one straight man in the film and he's a bit of a jerkofsky - Arbaz Khan. So maybe Madhur B on the whole has a lot of discomfort with heterosexual sex? I don't know.

In fact I am thinking that if he didn't make films he might be a serial killer - so on second thoughts, carry on O progeny of Arthur Hailey and Jackie Collins who's loving nanny was Danielle Steele.

But why is it ok to make a film which is basically made up of all these moments of moral horror rather than a story which explains how each person makes their own Faustian pact as they move on through life? I guess because people are going to see it. And because so what if the US president is now a Black man - back home the MNS can go round beating people up and the Shiv Sena can burn valentines cards and... you know.

Oh and by the way I've got one more thing to say to Mr. Realistic Research Bhandarkar - Mathur's are not Punjabis! So there.

Anyway I've lost all claims to family values after this demure tirade, I know, but what else to do?? Luckily there's an Other Me. The inestimable Mr. Karan Bali has persuaded me to blog on upperstall.com and so there's a grown up, well behaved version of this post there. Hey the truth is complex. You can choose this version or that version.