I love looking at photographs. Oh no, not the kind in the bulky photo albums of your neighbour's daughter's wedding, where there are 657 photos of the couple posing with half the people in the world. Nor the colleague's honeymoon album, with photos that make you blush a deeper red than that of the brand new bride's brand new lipstick.
I am talking about the photographs of my childhood, of family get-togethers, of exciting vacations, of old friends, of school and college.... I can completely lose myself in them, looking through old photographs, recalling fond memories, replaying conversations. People tell me that while I am with my beloved photo albums, I have a wistful smile on my face, and a faraway look in my eyes.
"Din jo pakheru hote, pinjre mein main rakhleta" sang Rafi in Dil Ek Mandir. "If days were birds, I would keep them in cages". I Think photos come closest to capturing memories.
As a result, I am a shutterbug. I insist on carrying cameras wherever I go, and click everything and anything. If there is a family get-together, out comes my camera. If we are on a holiday, I first pack the camera. I capture people, places, roads, buildings, trees, hills, rivers, sunrises, sunsets - I want everything. I want to bring them all back and then look back on them and recollect the beautiful moments.
Some places, people and settings fade with time. Once it is captured on the camera, they stay forever. EAch time you feel that the memory is getting hazy, you can whip out the photograph, look at it, and voila! Your memory is refreshed!
S agrees that photographs are special, but he says that in the confusion of taking out the camera and concentrating on clicking, you miss out on the real experience. He feels that photos are great when you want to take back images of people, and of the places you have visited. But when the experience is a fleeting one, one where you need all your senses to experience it completely, then you should just put the camera aside. Some moments can anyway not be captured on camera, moving or still, so why not just forget the camera and enjoy the moment completely? So that later on, you can look back on this moment and still feel the joy of it.
Yes, there are definitely some moments that cannot be captured. If Rose, standing with Jack on the prow of the Titanic, with her hands outstretched, had thought, "Oh wow, how beautiful! What a lovely moment! I really should capture this", then taken out her camera, concentrated on getting the best view, while making sure that the camera does not plunk into the ocean - now that would have been stupid. Anyway, by the time she got her snap, the ship would have hit the iceberg. Ok, I am digressing.
What I am trying to say is, I am not that bad either. But where do we draw the line? How do we decide what deserves to be experienced by itself, and what ought to be captured on camera? There lies the problem. S and I are slowly on the way to agreeing upon a common definition of "camera-worthy" and "experience-worthy", but it will take some time.
Meanwhile, if you'll excuse me, that tree is swaying absolutely beautifully in the rain. I'll get my camera.
[Male voice in the background] Come on, just sit back and enjoy the rain. By the time you get your camera, the rain would have stopped!
And the story continues...
Friday, April 28, 2006
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
What YOU can do about it.
Too often we enjoy the comfort of opinion without the discomfort of thought." said John F. Kennedy, at a commencement address in Yale in 1962.
["...much less the discomfort of action", adds Raaji, a reader.]
---------------------------------------------
My parents are regular readers of my blog. They do comment, but very rarely on the blog. The bouquets and the brickbats are given to me offline. :)
My father watched the heated discussion on this post, and zeroed in upon the repeated complaints about infrastructure and the feeling that we cannot do anything about it.
This is what he wrote to me (modified slightly by me).
-------------------------------------------------------
I have been following keenly the post on Bangalore and the numerous comments. One of the concerns which is clearly coming out is the feeling of "helplessness" to improve infrastructural woes of Bangalore and also that nothing can be done by us as individuals.
Well, I tend to second the suggestions by the noted consumer activist and writer, Shakuntala Narasimhan. One clear message from her to the citizens is that one should protest whenever the situation calls for it. The citizen should put forth his views to the organizations meant to provide civic amenities like electricity, water, transport, health, education and the like.
If we do not do anything, nothing will happen anyway. However, if we assert our rights to get a fair deal from these entities, something "could" happen. If more people do it, certainly, it will be difficult to ignore the voice of the people. Therefore let us decide to "speak" and not be silent. This can be done by sending mails, personal meetings, demonstrations or whatever.
Since e-mail is convenient, the least we could do is to keep sending mails -
1) Directly to the departments and the chiefs concerned
2) To the media (newspapers, magazines, TV)
3) Consumer action groups.
One more point. Let us not assume that all officials/employees in the utilities are indifferent. After all they are also like us. There are sane voices within these behemoths. I was told by an official in one such organization that he spoke to his boss about some suggestions he had for bringing about improvements, quoting the inconvenience being caused to the public. The boss asked him whether anyone had complained, or whether he had any written complaints to show. He had none. The boss waved him off, saying that in that case, it must be a non-issue. And there ended the matter. Our action to register our views will strengthen the hands of this minority.
-----------------------------------------------------
I think it makes sense. I later discussed it with my father, and we agreed that there are two small obstacles.
1) It might not be easy to get hold of the email ids of all the relevant organizations. Writing letters is always an option, but more and more people are moving away from it, citing lack of time.
But this is not an insurmountable obstacle. If we have the will, we can find out.
2) We might not get any response or see any action for a long, long time. We need a lot of time and patience. So it is very difficult to sustain the initial enthusiasm. Not everybody can be as stubborn and strong-willed as Andy Dufresne of The Shawshank Redemption, can they?
There must be some way to sustain the interest. Form a group? Take turns in writing?
What are your thoughts on this? Any suggestions? Any ideas? Your inputs will be appreciated.
["...much less the discomfort of action", adds Raaji, a reader.]
---------------------------------------------
My parents are regular readers of my blog. They do comment, but very rarely on the blog. The bouquets and the brickbats are given to me offline. :)
My father watched the heated discussion on this post, and zeroed in upon the repeated complaints about infrastructure and the feeling that we cannot do anything about it.
This is what he wrote to me (modified slightly by me).
-------------------------------------------------------
I have been following keenly the post on Bangalore and the numerous comments. One of the concerns which is clearly coming out is the feeling of "helplessness" to improve infrastructural woes of Bangalore and also that nothing can be done by us as individuals.
Well, I tend to second the suggestions by the noted consumer activist and writer, Shakuntala Narasimhan. One clear message from her to the citizens is that one should protest whenever the situation calls for it. The citizen should put forth his views to the organizations meant to provide civic amenities like electricity, water, transport, health, education and the like.
If we do not do anything, nothing will happen anyway. However, if we assert our rights to get a fair deal from these entities, something "could" happen. If more people do it, certainly, it will be difficult to ignore the voice of the people. Therefore let us decide to "speak" and not be silent. This can be done by sending mails, personal meetings, demonstrations or whatever.
Since e-mail is convenient, the least we could do is to keep sending mails -
1) Directly to the departments and the chiefs concerned
2) To the media (newspapers, magazines, TV)
3) Consumer action groups.
One more point. Let us not assume that all officials/employees in the utilities are indifferent. After all they are also like us. There are sane voices within these behemoths. I was told by an official in one such organization that he spoke to his boss about some suggestions he had for bringing about improvements, quoting the inconvenience being caused to the public. The boss asked him whether anyone had complained, or whether he had any written complaints to show. He had none. The boss waved him off, saying that in that case, it must be a non-issue. And there ended the matter. Our action to register our views will strengthen the hands of this minority.
-----------------------------------------------------
I think it makes sense. I later discussed it with my father, and we agreed that there are two small obstacles.
1) It might not be easy to get hold of the email ids of all the relevant organizations. Writing letters is always an option, but more and more people are moving away from it, citing lack of time.
But this is not an insurmountable obstacle. If we have the will, we can find out.
2) We might not get any response or see any action for a long, long time. We need a lot of time and patience. So it is very difficult to sustain the initial enthusiasm. Not everybody can be as stubborn and strong-willed as Andy Dufresne of The Shawshank Redemption, can they?
There must be some way to sustain the interest. Form a group? Take turns in writing?
What are your thoughts on this? Any suggestions? Any ideas? Your inputs will be appreciated.
Monday, April 24, 2006
50 years of Ruskin Bond.
Wow! Ruskin Bond just celebrated the 50th anniversary of the publication of his first book, The Room on the Roof, and like he says in View from the top:Golden Memories,
Thank God for that! And well, why not? Who can resist his stories? Stories packed with fantastic pictures from the land of mountains, hills, trees and rivers, where every person springs to life, every little corner has an exciting tale to tell, and where every story is as likeable as the man who wrote them?
I cannot recall when I was first introduced to Ruskin Bond. But for as long as I remember, I have been an admirer of his. I remember looking forward to his articles in the Sunday supplement of the Deccan Herald. There was usually something by him. An essay, which would take me on a brief sojourn to the beautiful place he lived in, a little ghost story that would make me jump at my own shadow for quite a while afterward, or a seemingly unimportant incident, which would dance with life with his words.
I have spent many hours planning how I would go to Mussourie to meet him, sit on the porch of Ivy Cottage, sip tea, and talk to him. But before my dreams could see the light of day, he came to Bangalore. ;)
About a year and a half back, I woke up in the morning to see an ad in the newspapers that told me that Ruskin Bond would be spending an hour in a well-known book store, as part of a promotion tour. The next thing I knew, much to my disbelief, I was on my way, all across town, to spend a few minutes with one of my favourite writers.
As soon as I entered the store, I spotted a plump, pink and pleasant figure in a maroon shirt, walking leisurely along the aisles. I lost no time in joining him. He looked up from the book he was browsing, and looked at me, much like a kind grandfather, and smiled and nodded. I don't know if anybody was watching, but I am sure I blushed. I introduced myself, told him I loved his writing, and thanked him for his delightful stories. He smiled, and said something like "That's good".
Before I could ask him anything else, some kids discovered him, rushed up and flocked around him, with eager faces and shining eyes. I hung around, waiting. The kids left him alone for a moment, and I snatched a few more moments with him. "How much of your work is autobiographical?" I asked. He spoke, in a slow, measured way. "You could say that most of the events are real. But I have built up on it considerably". Fair answer. But for me, more mystery. Which is built up, and which really happened? Sigh! Maybe some things are best left unanswered?
Then it was autograph time. Ruskin Bond sat, smiling pleasantly, as kids lined up with their newly bought books. I stood in line, a brand new Ruskin Bond omnibus in my hands. He spent a couple of minutes with every person who went to him. There was this little girl in front of me, who had bought a book of ghost stories. When she gave it to him to autograph, he looked at the cover, and made an expression of mock horror. "Ghost stories! Are you really going to read this? Even I get scared when I read this book!" There was laughter all around, and then it was my turn. He asked me what I do, and wrote a personal message in the book, and autographed it, while the official photographer took some snaps. I left with a feeling of exhilaration. I returned to pick up my snaps with Ruskin Bond from the store a
couple of weeks later. Highly amusing. My expression is one of joy, restrained with great difficulty. I went around showing everybody his autograph and the snaps, and I was promptly christened "Bond girl". Oh well!
If this little meeting sent me into such raptures, I wonder what I would have done, had I lived my dream - which is exactly what Uma at Indian Writing tells us she did, in >this delightful account.
In his article, in which he looks back at the 50 years since his first publication, he says,
He is happy, he says with the life he has lived.
Ah, such joy! :)
[*From The Night Train at Deoli, a beautiful story, in which he did not get down and speak to the girl on the platform, and later speaks of it with regret.]
A list of his books.
More info about him here.
Both book and I are still around.
Thank God for that! And well, why not? Who can resist his stories? Stories packed with fantastic pictures from the land of mountains, hills, trees and rivers, where every person springs to life, every little corner has an exciting tale to tell, and where every story is as likeable as the man who wrote them?
I cannot recall when I was first introduced to Ruskin Bond. But for as long as I remember, I have been an admirer of his. I remember looking forward to his articles in the Sunday supplement of the Deccan Herald. There was usually something by him. An essay, which would take me on a brief sojourn to the beautiful place he lived in, a little ghost story that would make me jump at my own shadow for quite a while afterward, or a seemingly unimportant incident, which would dance with life with his words.
I have spent many hours planning how I would go to Mussourie to meet him, sit on the porch of Ivy Cottage, sip tea, and talk to him. But before my dreams could see the light of day, he came to Bangalore. ;)
About a year and a half back, I woke up in the morning to see an ad in the newspapers that told me that Ruskin Bond would be spending an hour in a well-known book store, as part of a promotion tour. The next thing I knew, much to my disbelief, I was on my way, all across town, to spend a few minutes with one of my favourite writers.
As soon as I entered the store, I spotted a plump, pink and pleasant figure in a maroon shirt, walking leisurely along the aisles. I lost no time in joining him. He looked up from the book he was browsing, and looked at me, much like a kind grandfather, and smiled and nodded. I don't know if anybody was watching, but I am sure I blushed. I introduced myself, told him I loved his writing, and thanked him for his delightful stories. He smiled, and said something like "That's good".
Before I could ask him anything else, some kids discovered him, rushed up and flocked around him, with eager faces and shining eyes. I hung around, waiting. The kids left him alone for a moment, and I snatched a few more moments with him. "How much of your work is autobiographical?" I asked. He spoke, in a slow, measured way. "You could say that most of the events are real. But I have built up on it considerably". Fair answer. But for me, more mystery. Which is built up, and which really happened? Sigh! Maybe some things are best left unanswered?
Then it was autograph time. Ruskin Bond sat, smiling pleasantly, as kids lined up with their newly bought books. I stood in line, a brand new Ruskin Bond omnibus in my hands. He spent a couple of minutes with every person who went to him. There was this little girl in front of me, who had bought a book of ghost stories. When she gave it to him to autograph, he looked at the cover, and made an expression of mock horror. "Ghost stories! Are you really going to read this? Even I get scared when I read this book!" There was laughter all around, and then it was my turn. He asked me what I do, and wrote a personal message in the book, and autographed it, while the official photographer took some snaps. I left with a feeling of exhilaration. I returned to pick up my snaps with Ruskin Bond from the store a
couple of weeks later. Highly amusing. My expression is one of joy, restrained with great difficulty. I went around showing everybody his autograph and the snaps, and I was promptly christened "Bond girl". Oh well!
If this little meeting sent me into such raptures, I wonder what I would have done, had I lived my dream - which is exactly what Uma at Indian Writing tells us she did, in >this delightful account.
In his article, in which he looks back at the 50 years since his first publication, he says,
When, as a 20-year-old, I set out to make a living as a freelancer in India, many friends said it would not be possible. Fifty years later, some of them are still saying so.
He is happy, he says with the life he has lived.
If I could live my life all over again, I wouldn't change much. Only this time I would get down from that night train at Deoli and speak to the girl on the platform.*
Ah, such joy! :)
[*From The Night Train at Deoli, a beautiful story, in which he did not get down and speak to the girl on the platform, and later speaks of it with regret.]
A list of his books.
More info about him here.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
An open request from a Bangalorean.
A request
To those residents of Bangalore, who haven't been living here for long, and hence do not consider themselves Bangaloreans,
To those who consider themselves Bangaloreans, but who do not think too high of the "localite" or "Kannadiga".
* I know you have been inconvenienced by the recent riots in Bangalore, and I know that it was unnecessary. The reasons for the riots were many - most of the rioters were just drunken rowdies out to have a good time. Added to it, total mismanagement by the police, resulted in a totally chaotic situation, which caused agony to many. You have every right to bemoan your fate, and discuss about how silly and pointless everything was. But please refrain from making sweeping and unfair generalizations about how "Kannadigas are blind and crazy", "South Indians are movie fanatics", and more than that, please do not bestow rude epithets on the Kannadiga.
* Please note that Bangalore is what it is because of the localites. Bangalore houses you, clothes you, and feeds you, and it houses the concern where you earn your daily bread. The office has been set up here in the first place because of the conducive atmosphere of the city and its (once) salubrious climate, and the welcoming and hospitable attitude of the local populace. If the localites seem hostile to you now, it is because of built up frustrations over a long period, resulting from the hostile and superior attitude that most of you might have displayed.
* Hindi might be one of the most widely spoken languages in India. But the localites need not know Hindi. It is the mother tongue of only a few of you, and you cannot expect everybody to know Hindi for your convenience. Try speaking in English, and if it doesn't help, then learn Kannada. Learning new languages is good for the brain too.
* Bangalore is in India too, but there are cultural differences from place to place. Your natural confidence and open body language is more often than not, construed as arrogance, high-handedness and superiority here. This is not taken too kindly by the localites. Try to be polite. Even if you do not know the language, make sure you use "Thank you" and "Please". The localite is basically a good person. He will respond in kind. [This Thank You and Please will go a long way anywhere. It's called the lubricant that makes the world go round!]
* Do not make fun of the South Indian accent. For your information, the accent you are speaking with, is not too great either. Some English sounds are not present in Indian Languages. Kannada and other South Indian languages do not have the sound "o" as in North. Some of us tend to pronounce it as "Naarth". Some of you cannot say "school", you say "ischool". You think the pronunciation of "bear" is like "beer", but it is not. "Entry" is pronounced as "Entry", not "Antry". Just as some of you cannot speak good English, some of us South Indians do not speak Good English. We are all Indians trying to speak a foreign language. All of us are in the same boat.
* Yes, we speak Hindi with a funny accent. We pronounce "hai" as "hy", because the sound "ai" is not there in Kannada. But we do not know how well you speak Kannada because you do not even try. Even then, try making the "L" sound with your tongue rolled. You will find it very difficult. Because that sound is hardly used in most of your languages.
* Yes, there are rude and greedy localites. There are cheats, there are thieves. Like there are, everywhere. If they seem more rampant here, that is because it is proportional to the population. And because the disparity between the rich and the poor is ever-increasing, this will also increase.
* Yes, the infrastructure is bad in Bangalore. The planners of Bangalore never dreamt of this kind of a population. Even now, enough efforts are not being taken. There is inefficiency, and carelessness in the way things are being dealt with. We are also being as inconvenienced as you are. Stop the ceaseless complaining, or do something. [This applies to the localites too.]
* Bangalore is not a hotel. You are not paying to stay here, and hence there is no point in expecting some kind of special service from the place. It is a place like any other.
* Yes, there are many things wrong with Bangalore. LIke any other place. If you had great expectations from the city, then that is your problem. Try instead, to find out what is right with it, and enjoy your stay here. But also note that most "outsiders" do not return to where they come from, and make this city their home. Warts and all.
We are all Indians, for heavens' sake! Let's not waste our time in demeaning each other, and instead, try to understand, respect and appreciate each other.
NOTE1: You are welcome to comment on this, but let us all refrain from name-calling, and too broad generalizations. Let it not get ugly. Let's have a healthy discussion. Extreme regional or parochial statements will be deleted, whether it is from an "outsider" or a "localite".
NOTE2: If you want me to add anything else, please leave it in the comments. I will update it.
To those residents of Bangalore, who haven't been living here for long, and hence do not consider themselves Bangaloreans,
To those who consider themselves Bangaloreans, but who do not think too high of the "localite" or "Kannadiga".
* I know you have been inconvenienced by the recent riots in Bangalore, and I know that it was unnecessary. The reasons for the riots were many - most of the rioters were just drunken rowdies out to have a good time. Added to it, total mismanagement by the police, resulted in a totally chaotic situation, which caused agony to many. You have every right to bemoan your fate, and discuss about how silly and pointless everything was. But please refrain from making sweeping and unfair generalizations about how "Kannadigas are blind and crazy", "South Indians are movie fanatics", and more than that, please do not bestow rude epithets on the Kannadiga.
* Please note that Bangalore is what it is because of the localites. Bangalore houses you, clothes you, and feeds you, and it houses the concern where you earn your daily bread. The office has been set up here in the first place because of the conducive atmosphere of the city and its (once) salubrious climate, and the welcoming and hospitable attitude of the local populace. If the localites seem hostile to you now, it is because of built up frustrations over a long period, resulting from the hostile and superior attitude that most of you might have displayed.
* Hindi might be one of the most widely spoken languages in India. But the localites need not know Hindi. It is the mother tongue of only a few of you, and you cannot expect everybody to know Hindi for your convenience. Try speaking in English, and if it doesn't help, then learn Kannada. Learning new languages is good for the brain too.
* Bangalore is in India too, but there are cultural differences from place to place. Your natural confidence and open body language is more often than not, construed as arrogance, high-handedness and superiority here. This is not taken too kindly by the localites. Try to be polite. Even if you do not know the language, make sure you use "Thank you" and "Please". The localite is basically a good person. He will respond in kind. [This Thank You and Please will go a long way anywhere. It's called the lubricant that makes the world go round!]
* Do not make fun of the South Indian accent. For your information, the accent you are speaking with, is not too great either. Some English sounds are not present in Indian Languages. Kannada and other South Indian languages do not have the sound "o" as in North. Some of us tend to pronounce it as "Naarth". Some of you cannot say "school", you say "ischool". You think the pronunciation of "bear" is like "beer", but it is not. "Entry" is pronounced as "Entry", not "Antry". Just as some of you cannot speak good English, some of us South Indians do not speak Good English. We are all Indians trying to speak a foreign language. All of us are in the same boat.
* Yes, we speak Hindi with a funny accent. We pronounce "hai" as "hy", because the sound "ai" is not there in Kannada. But we do not know how well you speak Kannada because you do not even try. Even then, try making the "L" sound with your tongue rolled. You will find it very difficult. Because that sound is hardly used in most of your languages.
* Yes, there are rude and greedy localites. There are cheats, there are thieves. Like there are, everywhere. If they seem more rampant here, that is because it is proportional to the population. And because the disparity between the rich and the poor is ever-increasing, this will also increase.
* Yes, the infrastructure is bad in Bangalore. The planners of Bangalore never dreamt of this kind of a population. Even now, enough efforts are not being taken. There is inefficiency, and carelessness in the way things are being dealt with. We are also being as inconvenienced as you are. Stop the ceaseless complaining, or do something. [This applies to the localites too.]
* Bangalore is not a hotel. You are not paying to stay here, and hence there is no point in expecting some kind of special service from the place. It is a place like any other.
* Yes, there are many things wrong with Bangalore. LIke any other place. If you had great expectations from the city, then that is your problem. Try instead, to find out what is right with it, and enjoy your stay here. But also note that most "outsiders" do not return to where they come from, and make this city their home. Warts and all.
We are all Indians, for heavens' sake! Let's not waste our time in demeaning each other, and instead, try to understand, respect and appreciate each other.
NOTE1: You are welcome to comment on this, but let us all refrain from name-calling, and too broad generalizations. Let it not get ugly. Let's have a healthy discussion. Extreme regional or parochial statements will be deleted, whether it is from an "outsider" or a "localite".
NOTE2: If you want me to add anything else, please leave it in the comments. I will update it.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Fit and fine!
I have always been vaguely conscious of the need to be fit and healthy, and have made several ill-fated attempts at achieving fitness. More often than not, Lady Laziness, and the Slumber Queen have taken over and played spoilsport to all my plans.
That is, until I got married. Now S has very strong opinions about good health and fitness. Since both of us love walking, we have walked a lot before and after marriage. But my idea of a walk is a stroll, smelling the flowers and enjoying the breeze, whereas S thinks that a walk should be walked wearing walking shoes and track pants and exerting your pathetic body as much as possible.
Well, in short, S took over the department of fitness in my life, and Lady Laziness and Slumber Queen bid goodbye to me, and Uncle MuscleAche said Hi. But S was not to be beaten. He advised me, coaxed me, cajoled me, preached to me, threatened me, but he made sure I exercised every morning, and went for a walk with him every evening. At his pace. Which is more or less like the walking race in the Olympics.
I grumbled, whined, made faces, made up fictional stories of pains and sprains, but S was unfazed. He made me walk longer and faster than I ever thought possible, and he was the one who decided when I could stop. My protests fell on deaf ears. I even tried escaping, taking off in the direction of home, when he wasn't looking. But he caught up with me and threatened to make me walk for half an hour extra, as punishment. I finally gave up and relinquished all control to him. I followed his regimen, but took revenge by reminding him every day that I can't feel any difference.
That is, until the short trip we took last weekend. There are some really beautiful roads in those parts, and we walked a lot and had a lovely time.
We had walking for some time on one of the roads, when we came to a steep incline. "Sigh! An incline", I thought, and braced for the strain, the pants and gasps, and winced in advance, dreading the pain that I was sure I would feel in my legs.
Then the miracle occurred. I glided, yes, literally floated up the incline. I even had to look behind me to see if I really had walked up myself, or somebody had pushed me. It was effortless! My legs were strong and steady, my breathing was just moderately faster, and my heart was not pounding away! I was thrilled. My legs were listening to me! They were under my control! I beamed with pleasure. We had to walk a lot more after that, but I strode on so easily and tirelessly, that I could not believe it myself.
At first, I hid my glee from S. Ego, you see. But I could not contain my happiness any longer. I burst out with it. Thankfully, he did not say "I told you so", but I could see he was pleased, almost like a coach would be of the medal-winner that he has trained.
And oh, before S pounces on me, let me clarify. I still have a long way to go. Had that incline been steeper, or continued for longer, I would still have huffed and puffed and my legs would have protested. But I have now tasted blood. The heady feeling of being in charge of your body is too wonderful to disregard. S now has an uncomplaining walking partner.
That is, until I got married. Now S has very strong opinions about good health and fitness. Since both of us love walking, we have walked a lot before and after marriage. But my idea of a walk is a stroll, smelling the flowers and enjoying the breeze, whereas S thinks that a walk should be walked wearing walking shoes and track pants and exerting your pathetic body as much as possible.
Well, in short, S took over the department of fitness in my life, and Lady Laziness and Slumber Queen bid goodbye to me, and Uncle MuscleAche said Hi. But S was not to be beaten. He advised me, coaxed me, cajoled me, preached to me, threatened me, but he made sure I exercised every morning, and went for a walk with him every evening. At his pace. Which is more or less like the walking race in the Olympics.
I grumbled, whined, made faces, made up fictional stories of pains and sprains, but S was unfazed. He made me walk longer and faster than I ever thought possible, and he was the one who decided when I could stop. My protests fell on deaf ears. I even tried escaping, taking off in the direction of home, when he wasn't looking. But he caught up with me and threatened to make me walk for half an hour extra, as punishment. I finally gave up and relinquished all control to him. I followed his regimen, but took revenge by reminding him every day that I can't feel any difference.
That is, until the short trip we took last weekend. There are some really beautiful roads in those parts, and we walked a lot and had a lovely time.
We had walking for some time on one of the roads, when we came to a steep incline. "Sigh! An incline", I thought, and braced for the strain, the pants and gasps, and winced in advance, dreading the pain that I was sure I would feel in my legs.
Then the miracle occurred. I glided, yes, literally floated up the incline. I even had to look behind me to see if I really had walked up myself, or somebody had pushed me. It was effortless! My legs were strong and steady, my breathing was just moderately faster, and my heart was not pounding away! I was thrilled. My legs were listening to me! They were under my control! I beamed with pleasure. We had to walk a lot more after that, but I strode on so easily and tirelessly, that I could not believe it myself.
At first, I hid my glee from S. Ego, you see. But I could not contain my happiness any longer. I burst out with it. Thankfully, he did not say "I told you so", but I could see he was pleased, almost like a coach would be of the medal-winner that he has trained.
And oh, before S pounces on me, let me clarify. I still have a long way to go. Had that incline been steeper, or continued for longer, I would still have huffed and puffed and my legs would have protested. But I have now tasted blood. The heady feeling of being in charge of your body is too wonderful to disregard. S now has an uncomplaining walking partner.
Monday, April 10, 2006
A peek into paradise.
It was one of those holidays which you wish would never end... and you come back so refreshed and rejuvenated, that even coming to office on a Monday doesn't seem like such a bad idea!
Friday morning: (Had left Bangalore the previous night) Reached Mangalore. (Yes, Mangalore again). Bus is 5 hours late because of a traffic pile up on the Western Ghats due to an accident. But bus is a Volvo, and the sights out of the window are heavenly, so no problem. Attend a programme at Mangalore, dressed again in a Kanjeevaram saree (This time, I had not forgotten my safety pins) and eat 4-5 kinds of sweets (including delicious Badam halwa and luscious mango salad) at lunch.
Friday afternoon: Take a bus to Udupi, pause there for the customary Gadbad Icecream at Hotel Diana. Take another bus, which drives through some of the most beautiful hilly regions in the country - and through Agumbe, a little green village, known for the highest rainfall in Karnataka.
Friday evening: Reach a tiny village near Shringeri.
The village and the house - A cluster of old, beautiful houses. The house we visited - where my mom-in-law grew up, and where S has spent countless happy summer holidays in his childhood, and where S's uncle now lives. It is a stately old house with a tiled roof and a courtyard. With pillars and low doors. A beautiful 350 year-old temple on one side. With a garden all around. An erstwhile apiary. All in a beautiful setting, with trees all around, mountains in the horizon, and the Tunga river flowing in the backyard. [A Kannada saying - Tunga paana Ganga snaana - For ultimate bliss, Drink the waters of the Tunga and bathe in the Ganga].
Friday night: Eat dinner, sleep. In spite of blistering heat all day, no fan needed. No mosquitoes around, either.
Saturday morning: Explore the house, feeling like I am in another world. Hit my head and see stars while passing through the low doorways. Experience a different lifestyle. Eat food sitting cross-legged on the floor. Healthy, unpolished rice grown in the fields behind the house, Food cooked on a stove fueled by Bio-gas. Drink milk which comes from the cows and buffaloes in the barn outside. Bathe with water heated using firewood in the "Hande" (a mud tank with a hollow underneath, where firewood is stuffed, lit and the water in the tank heated.) Drink water drawn from the well. Well, you get the drift.
Watch the cows and buffaloes munching on straw, listening to them go chomp-chomp, their mouths moving comically from side to side, their eyes looking at you benignly, the not unpleasant smell of their droppings lingering...
Visit the famous Saraswati temple at Shringeri, and the Durga temple close by.
Saturday afternoon - another gorgeous meal. Then, sit on the cool floor and read stacks of old saccharine sweet Readers Digests, and doze off eventually.
Saturday Evening - visit a house two villages away, and walk back in the darkening evening, drinking in the deliciously cool and fresh air, walk through the trees, along the highway, across a 115 year old bridge over the Tunga, built by Sir M.Vishweshwarayya.
Saturday Night: Some more delicious food. Climb on to the roof, and watch the moon and the stars and enjoy the cool gentle breeze, wishing I could go to sleep right here. Come back reluctantly down, experience a relapse into modernity with watching a little Television, and then curl up in a tiny cool room with wooden doors and wooden bolts, and quaint little windows, and go to sleep.
Sunday Morning - Walk up to the Tunga flowing in the backyard. Sit on the banks, with feet in water, look at the river flowing gracefully past. Feed raw rice to the fish. Get a pedicure from the small fish, and a foot massage from the big fish, some as long as my arm and twice as thick. Take a small ride on a small "Ikkada/Theppa" (coracle) - a wide, but shallow bamboo basket, lined with plastic cement bags and fortified with tar, and rowed with a wooden oar (Rowed by a neighbour, with S trying out a bit of rowing later on!) Beautiful river, beautiful green trees, and even more beautiful weather. Takes all of S's might and persuasive powers to drag me away from there. Rest of the morning acquaint myself with the gorgeous, huge doggie in the courtyard, a cross between a Great Dane and a Doberman. Slowly graduate from being twenty feet away from it, to being 5 feet away from it.
Sunday Afternoon - An enormous lunch of raw jackfruit huLi(like sambar) and delicious wheat and jaggery payasa, and then hit the bed.
Sunday Evening - A long leisurely walk along the pebbly and sandy banks of the serene river. Throw stones into the river, watch the ripples. Try to skip stones on the river. Collect tiny shiny pieces of mica, in childlike fascination, but drop them all on the way. Watch birds, especially stark white cranes which come to rest on the overhanging trees of the river, looking like white handkerchiefs all hung out to dry on a single, favoured tree.
Sunday night - A quick dinner, and pack up and rush to catch...sigh!...the bus back to Bangalore!
Friday morning: (Had left Bangalore the previous night) Reached Mangalore. (Yes, Mangalore again). Bus is 5 hours late because of a traffic pile up on the Western Ghats due to an accident. But bus is a Volvo, and the sights out of the window are heavenly, so no problem. Attend a programme at Mangalore, dressed again in a Kanjeevaram saree (This time, I had not forgotten my safety pins) and eat 4-5 kinds of sweets (including delicious Badam halwa and luscious mango salad) at lunch.
Friday afternoon: Take a bus to Udupi, pause there for the customary Gadbad Icecream at Hotel Diana. Take another bus, which drives through some of the most beautiful hilly regions in the country - and through Agumbe, a little green village, known for the highest rainfall in Karnataka.
Friday evening: Reach a tiny village near Shringeri.
The village and the house - A cluster of old, beautiful houses. The house we visited - where my mom-in-law grew up, and where S has spent countless happy summer holidays in his childhood, and where S's uncle now lives. It is a stately old house with a tiled roof and a courtyard. With pillars and low doors. A beautiful 350 year-old temple on one side. With a garden all around. An erstwhile apiary. All in a beautiful setting, with trees all around, mountains in the horizon, and the Tunga river flowing in the backyard. [A Kannada saying - Tunga paana Ganga snaana - For ultimate bliss, Drink the waters of the Tunga and bathe in the Ganga].
Friday night: Eat dinner, sleep. In spite of blistering heat all day, no fan needed. No mosquitoes around, either.
Saturday morning: Explore the house, feeling like I am in another world. Hit my head and see stars while passing through the low doorways. Experience a different lifestyle. Eat food sitting cross-legged on the floor. Healthy, unpolished rice grown in the fields behind the house, Food cooked on a stove fueled by Bio-gas. Drink milk which comes from the cows and buffaloes in the barn outside. Bathe with water heated using firewood in the "Hande" (a mud tank with a hollow underneath, where firewood is stuffed, lit and the water in the tank heated.) Drink water drawn from the well. Well, you get the drift.
Watch the cows and buffaloes munching on straw, listening to them go chomp-chomp, their mouths moving comically from side to side, their eyes looking at you benignly, the not unpleasant smell of their droppings lingering...
Visit the famous Saraswati temple at Shringeri, and the Durga temple close by.
Saturday afternoon - another gorgeous meal. Then, sit on the cool floor and read stacks of old saccharine sweet Readers Digests, and doze off eventually.
Saturday Evening - visit a house two villages away, and walk back in the darkening evening, drinking in the deliciously cool and fresh air, walk through the trees, along the highway, across a 115 year old bridge over the Tunga, built by Sir M.Vishweshwarayya.
Saturday Night: Some more delicious food. Climb on to the roof, and watch the moon and the stars and enjoy the cool gentle breeze, wishing I could go to sleep right here. Come back reluctantly down, experience a relapse into modernity with watching a little Television, and then curl up in a tiny cool room with wooden doors and wooden bolts, and quaint little windows, and go to sleep.
Sunday Morning - Walk up to the Tunga flowing in the backyard. Sit on the banks, with feet in water, look at the river flowing gracefully past. Feed raw rice to the fish. Get a pedicure from the small fish, and a foot massage from the big fish, some as long as my arm and twice as thick. Take a small ride on a small "Ikkada/Theppa" (coracle) - a wide, but shallow bamboo basket, lined with plastic cement bags and fortified with tar, and rowed with a wooden oar (Rowed by a neighbour, with S trying out a bit of rowing later on!) Beautiful river, beautiful green trees, and even more beautiful weather. Takes all of S's might and persuasive powers to drag me away from there. Rest of the morning acquaint myself with the gorgeous, huge doggie in the courtyard, a cross between a Great Dane and a Doberman. Slowly graduate from being twenty feet away from it, to being 5 feet away from it.
Sunday Afternoon - An enormous lunch of raw jackfruit huLi(like sambar) and delicious wheat and jaggery payasa, and then hit the bed.
Sunday Evening - A long leisurely walk along the pebbly and sandy banks of the serene river. Throw stones into the river, watch the ripples. Try to skip stones on the river. Collect tiny shiny pieces of mica, in childlike fascination, but drop them all on the way. Watch birds, especially stark white cranes which come to rest on the overhanging trees of the river, looking like white handkerchiefs all hung out to dry on a single, favoured tree.
Sunday night - A quick dinner, and pack up and rush to catch...sigh!...the bus back to Bangalore!
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
The world from a wheelchair.
Ok, ok, the title is slightly misleading.. I must have spent a total of just 4-5 hours on a wheelchair, and only at the airport. But it is a different world indeed!
Continuing from this post - When I tore a ligament in my ankle, I had to fly home to Bangalore from Mumbai. I had not booked a wheelchair with my ticket, but the authorities saw that I really could not walk, and provided me with a wheelchair.
Now the wheelchair was quite trendy and comfortable. I sat on it and felt very conscious, and I giggled for the first two minutes. Then, as is the case with anything, I got comfortable and made it my temporary home. A wheelchair-attendant(let's call him WA) appeared and took complete charge of me. I zoomed through the check-in counter [no having to stand in the queue, mind you], and I passed as easily through Immigration check. [The flight was an Air India one in transit, hence the Immigration check]. Halls and escalators and people became a blur as we whizzed past them.
Where people used escalators, we used lifts [elevators, for the Americans among you!]. Some of these lifts were so tiny that there was just space for a wheelchair and a man. It was quite uncomfortable, in that cramped space, with the WA standing so close to me. Thankfully, nothing unpleasant happened [sad, how we are always wired to think that a strange male will take advantage of a helpless female] and we arrived at the waiting lounge. "There is still time for the security check, I will be back", he said, and disappeared.
I sat there, immobile, clutching my bag. No company. Totally dependent on someone else to move around, and that someone is nowhere to be seen. I got weird thoughts. What if the WA forgot about me? What if he could not recall where he had left me? What if....? I kept my thoughts in check and busied myself with a book.
A cursory glance at the electronic board revealed that the passengers of my flight were being called for security check. I looked around. No WA. I waited for half an hour. A painful thirty minutes where I could envision all my creepy thoughts coming true. People were queuing up and disappearing inside. And I was still here. I even tried to work the wheels of the wheelchair but it spun out of control. So I just sat and waited. A very helpless feeling indeed. Suddenly I was in motion. I looked behind me, to see the WA pushing me towards the gate. "Yippee! Yay!" I said in my mind, and bestowed upon the WA a grateful million-dollar smile. He just looked at me quizzically, and mechanically continued to push the wheelchair. "Humph!" I said, as I cruised through security check. The WA then deposited me at another waiting lounge, asked me if I needed anything, and then disappeared, leaving me waiting for the boarding call.
This time I was not that uncomfortable. There was another wheelchair in the hall, with an elderly lady, her husband hovering near her. She gave me a smile, it seemed, of compassion or solidarity. I sat, my book forgotten, observing the ways people gaped at me. Some people are so deliberate. They look at me, look at my foot and then back at me, and then again at my foot... sheesh!
The boarding call, finally. My WA appeared surprisingly quickly, and I was pushed through, clutching my boarding pass, and deposited on a kind of portico, overlooking the tarmac. The non-wheelchair passengers [Ha! See how perspectives change?] were getting into the bus which would ferry them to the aircraft. While I was wondering how we would commute, I found myself being pushed on to the tarmac, and taken well near where the huge flights were standing. Then I was suddenly alone. My WA had disappeared. This was the worst bit. Alone in the dead of night in the middle of the airport, with huge aircraft monsters all around me, the noses of some of them pointing menacingly towards me. I know I know, they were still and all that, but I could hear sounds of engines all around me. So what if I was just a few feet from the terminal, I was still immobile. What if one of the aircrafts lost its bearings and came right at me? I would just have to rely entirely on my childhood hopscotch experience! Frightening feeling!
Soon, my WA came back with the old lady, and just then, there came into view, the coolest contraption I have ever seen. People go ga-ga over cars and bikes, I have gone ga-ga over only one machine, and that was this.
It was a van with a closed cuboid passenger compartment. The rear end opened backwards, and touched the ground, and became a ramp. The old lady and I were wheeled up the ramp, into the compartment. The ramp closed up and once again turned into the rear end. The inside was quite plush. It had huge glass windows, and comfortable seats for the escorts. There was place inside for at least 4 more wheelchairs. We moved quickly, and within 5 minutes, we came to the aircraft. Then the entire passenger compartment started moving up, until it reached the level of the ceiling of the drivers cabin. The front end of the compartment opened up and became a platform, and we were moved onto this. Here there was another platform which whirred and extended itself, and adjusted itself beautifully such that the end of the platform came up just to the door of the aircraft. We were moved on to this, and wheeled directly into the craft. How perfect! I was totally impressed. [The van looked approximately like this.]
The wheelchair could not be moved into the aisle, and so I just hopped over to my seat, which was thoughtfully close to the exit. The air hostesses were very attentive and all that. I settled into the seat and turned to thank my WA, but he had disappeared. Sigh!
The flight was uneventful, though it did occur to me that if anything untoward happened, I wouldn't be able to run for my life! Anyway the flight touched down without incident, and at Bangalore, it was not much of a problem. A waiting wheelchair took me through the vestibule from the aircraft to the terminal, and it wasn't too long a distance from there to the exit. My father was waiting near the baggage collection area, and from then on, everything was cool.
On the way back to Mumbai from Bangalore, I had pre-booked a wheelchair, for, though I could walk, my ankle was still painful. But this time, i was a veteran with the wheelchair! The flight was again not very eventful, apart from a particularly charming head steward, who was exceptionally attentive.
Our airports, I concluded, are quite friendly to the physically challenged... but wish I could say that about our cities too! Anyway that's a different story altogether!
Continuing from this post - When I tore a ligament in my ankle, I had to fly home to Bangalore from Mumbai. I had not booked a wheelchair with my ticket, but the authorities saw that I really could not walk, and provided me with a wheelchair.
Now the wheelchair was quite trendy and comfortable. I sat on it and felt very conscious, and I giggled for the first two minutes. Then, as is the case with anything, I got comfortable and made it my temporary home. A wheelchair-attendant(let's call him WA) appeared and took complete charge of me. I zoomed through the check-in counter [no having to stand in the queue, mind you], and I passed as easily through Immigration check. [The flight was an Air India one in transit, hence the Immigration check]. Halls and escalators and people became a blur as we whizzed past them.
Where people used escalators, we used lifts [elevators, for the Americans among you!]. Some of these lifts were so tiny that there was just space for a wheelchair and a man. It was quite uncomfortable, in that cramped space, with the WA standing so close to me. Thankfully, nothing unpleasant happened [sad, how we are always wired to think that a strange male will take advantage of a helpless female] and we arrived at the waiting lounge. "There is still time for the security check, I will be back", he said, and disappeared.
I sat there, immobile, clutching my bag. No company. Totally dependent on someone else to move around, and that someone is nowhere to be seen. I got weird thoughts. What if the WA forgot about me? What if he could not recall where he had left me? What if....? I kept my thoughts in check and busied myself with a book.
A cursory glance at the electronic board revealed that the passengers of my flight were being called for security check. I looked around. No WA. I waited for half an hour. A painful thirty minutes where I could envision all my creepy thoughts coming true. People were queuing up and disappearing inside. And I was still here. I even tried to work the wheels of the wheelchair but it spun out of control. So I just sat and waited. A very helpless feeling indeed. Suddenly I was in motion. I looked behind me, to see the WA pushing me towards the gate. "Yippee! Yay!" I said in my mind, and bestowed upon the WA a grateful million-dollar smile. He just looked at me quizzically, and mechanically continued to push the wheelchair. "Humph!" I said, as I cruised through security check. The WA then deposited me at another waiting lounge, asked me if I needed anything, and then disappeared, leaving me waiting for the boarding call.
This time I was not that uncomfortable. There was another wheelchair in the hall, with an elderly lady, her husband hovering near her. She gave me a smile, it seemed, of compassion or solidarity. I sat, my book forgotten, observing the ways people gaped at me. Some people are so deliberate. They look at me, look at my foot and then back at me, and then again at my foot... sheesh!
The boarding call, finally. My WA appeared surprisingly quickly, and I was pushed through, clutching my boarding pass, and deposited on a kind of portico, overlooking the tarmac. The non-wheelchair passengers [Ha! See how perspectives change?] were getting into the bus which would ferry them to the aircraft. While I was wondering how we would commute, I found myself being pushed on to the tarmac, and taken well near where the huge flights were standing. Then I was suddenly alone. My WA had disappeared. This was the worst bit. Alone in the dead of night in the middle of the airport, with huge aircraft monsters all around me, the noses of some of them pointing menacingly towards me. I know I know, they were still and all that, but I could hear sounds of engines all around me. So what if I was just a few feet from the terminal, I was still immobile. What if one of the aircrafts lost its bearings and came right at me? I would just have to rely entirely on my childhood hopscotch experience! Frightening feeling!
Soon, my WA came back with the old lady, and just then, there came into view, the coolest contraption I have ever seen. People go ga-ga over cars and bikes, I have gone ga-ga over only one machine, and that was this.
It was a van with a closed cuboid passenger compartment. The rear end opened backwards, and touched the ground, and became a ramp. The old lady and I were wheeled up the ramp, into the compartment. The ramp closed up and once again turned into the rear end. The inside was quite plush. It had huge glass windows, and comfortable seats for the escorts. There was place inside for at least 4 more wheelchairs. We moved quickly, and within 5 minutes, we came to the aircraft. Then the entire passenger compartment started moving up, until it reached the level of the ceiling of the drivers cabin. The front end of the compartment opened up and became a platform, and we were moved onto this. Here there was another platform which whirred and extended itself, and adjusted itself beautifully such that the end of the platform came up just to the door of the aircraft. We were moved on to this, and wheeled directly into the craft. How perfect! I was totally impressed. [The van looked approximately like this.]
The wheelchair could not be moved into the aisle, and so I just hopped over to my seat, which was thoughtfully close to the exit. The air hostesses were very attentive and all that. I settled into the seat and turned to thank my WA, but he had disappeared. Sigh!
The flight was uneventful, though it did occur to me that if anything untoward happened, I wouldn't be able to run for my life! Anyway the flight touched down without incident, and at Bangalore, it was not much of a problem. A waiting wheelchair took me through the vestibule from the aircraft to the terminal, and it wasn't too long a distance from there to the exit. My father was waiting near the baggage collection area, and from then on, everything was cool.
On the way back to Mumbai from Bangalore, I had pre-booked a wheelchair, for, though I could walk, my ankle was still painful. But this time, i was a veteran with the wheelchair! The flight was again not very eventful, apart from a particularly charming head steward, who was exceptionally attentive.
Our airports, I concluded, are quite friendly to the physically challenged... but wish I could say that about our cities too! Anyway that's a different story altogether!
Monday, April 03, 2006
Part 2 - but not quite!
Oops! When I wrote the previous post, I never intended to write part-2 of that episode! Yes, looking back, I seem to have ended the post on a suspense-filled note, and it tickled the curiosity of many of you! Some of you thought that my husband was one of the characters that figured in the post, but I clarified that, no, he was nowhere in the picture.
There are some things which I would like to keep private, more like the "no-comments" policy of the glitterati. :) Of course, I am not a glitteratus [is that a word? ;)] and my story is not top secret either, but at the same time, I would prefer not to blog about it!
But since, inadvertently, I built up expectations and made you all so curious, I will just put it this way. It is just that my invalidity [Is that a word? If not, I am coining it now. It’s a convenient word :)] led to some situations and circumstances which ultimately led to my marriage. It should suffice to say that had I not been confined to one place, things might not have turned out the way they have.
I apologize for the anti-climax :( but then, that's about it!
There are some things which I would like to keep private, more like the "no-comments" policy of the glitterati. :) Of course, I am not a glitteratus [is that a word? ;)] and my story is not top secret either, but at the same time, I would prefer not to blog about it!
But since, inadvertently, I built up expectations and made you all so curious, I will just put it this way. It is just that my invalidity [Is that a word? If not, I am coining it now. It’s a convenient word :)] led to some situations and circumstances which ultimately led to my marriage. It should suffice to say that had I not been confined to one place, things might not have turned out the way they have.
I apologize for the anti-climax :( but then, that's about it!
Friday, March 31, 2006
The day that changed my life.
Exactly two years ago, when I was working in Mumbai, the client arranged for everybody working on our project, to go on a visit to EsselWorld. Having seen the EsselWorld ads repeatedly on TV, with declarations of "Esselworld mein rahunga main! Ghar nahin jaaunga main!" [I will stay on in Esselworld, I will not go home!], I couldn't wait to go and see what was so special about it.
I went armed with a mini first-aid kit, on my mom's insistence. [Yes, she has heard too many horror stories involving fun parks.] Her advice rang in my ears. "You are over-adventurous. Don't go on rides which are too crazy." Well, moms will be moms. Anyway, after promising to send her an sms every one hour to prove that I am still alive, I joined my colleagues on the bus to EsselWorld. Just as the bus started, I got another sms from my mom. "Be careful. If the ride looks too dangerous, do NOT go on it. Remember, there are people who love you waiting for you back home." Phew! "Ok mom!" I replied, and we were on our way.
At the gates of EsselWorld, a couple of colleagues went to buy tickets. The rest of us, more than 60 of us, were just waiting around. Someone suggested a game to play to while away the time. It was an improvised version of kho-kho. The players stand in pairs, one behind another, in two concentric circles. There is one guy who is the chaser, and he chases a designated runner. When the runner is tired, he tags one of the pairs, and the player in the pair who belongs to the outer concentric circle turns into the runner.
Well, the game progressed, and finally, somebody tagged me. I did a little of smart running and dodging, and then decided to tag somebody else. I approached someone, tagged him, and stopped with an awkward jerky movement. Suddenly, my left ankle twisted beneath me. I desperately clawed the air for a handhold, and the guy nearest to me tried to prevent me from falling, but I went crashing down. A number of hands immediately helped me up. I stood up, put my weight on my left foot, and promptly went down again in pain. I hopped over to the side, sat, and suddenly found that my left shoe was too tight. I took off my shoes and socks, to find my ankle twice its size. It was throbbing in pain. I was half-laughing, half-crying. An ambulance materialized out of nowhere, and took me to the "medical centre" in Essel World. There was a very gentle and soft-spoken doctor on duty. She examined my foot, and declared that it could not be just a sprain. It could be a fracture. Whaaaaat? Yes, she said, and advised me to either go back home to Andheri and show it to an expert, or, go to Bhayander, a suburb close by, to a doctor on EsselWorld's payroll. Going back to Andheri would mean that someone would have to go with me, and that would mean that s/he would lose out on a fun-filled day. Going to Bhayander would take just a couple of hours, and my escort could continue with enjoying himself/herself in Esselworld. I chose the latter. The ambulance again came for me. First they confirmed that I indeed held a valid EsselWorld ticket, failing which they would have probably cast me out just like that.
We set out, my colleague Bhupi, and I. Now Bhupi is one of those people who has helped me a million times when I have been in trouble , and has been a very good friend, but unfortunately, I have never been able to acknowledge how much his efforts have meant to me. Maybe it is just that sometimes you can never thank some people adequately. Anyway, Bhupi accompanied me in the ambulance to the doc in Bhayander. On the way, my mom sent me a message, "How are the rides?", and Bhupi prompted me to write back, "Enjoying a very special ride!" :)
The ambulance ride was pretty painful. The road was bumpy, and my poor ankle kept getting tossed about. I gritted my teeth and bore it. After too long a journey, we arrived at the Bhayander hospital, and I went hopping in on one leg. The doctor examined my foot, said that it was not a fracture (a sigh of relief) but looked like a ligament tear (whaaat?). He bound my foot with a crepe bandage, and told me to go to a specialist. I decided to do that the next day, and went back to the EsselWorld medical centre. I was given a clean bed in a cool room smelling of disinfectant. I convinced Bhupi that I would be fine and he went to join the others.
I lay down there and called mom and told her what happened. I philosophized to her, telling her that you can never know what will happen, and when. See? You were so afraid that I would hurt myself on some ride. I hurt my ankle even before I could enter EsselWorld! Anyway, After that, left with nothing to do, I made a lot of calls, and played games on my mobile. Finally it was lunch time, and the ambulance came for me again. I joined the rest of my colleagues, to a lot of solicitous questions and pampering. After lunch, I got back and slept well, until another colleague, who was feeling woozy after a particularly dizzying ride, joined me. We chatted and kept each other company until it was time to go back home.
I reached my paying guest accommodation, and got pampered by PG Auntie. Then I went into the bathroom. I was hopping on one foot, and the toilet was wet, and well, you know. I crashed again. I tried not to howl, but just took painkillers and went to bed. The next day, I went to an orthopaedist close by. He took some X-Rays, and said that it indeed looked like a ligament tear, and he said he would refer me to an expert. [What was he?] He said, you need bed rest for at least 2 weeks. Whaaat? Then might I as well go back to Bangalore and get treated there? That would be best, said the doc. Fine. Then Bhupi arrived, heard of my predicament and immediately went to the airport to arrange for tickets. Meanwhile I got back and called office to tell them that they would have to do without me for a while. They were supportive, and I packed whatever I could while I hopped on one foot. Bhupi came back with some really economical tickets, for a flight which started at... 3 am! Well, obviously I needed an escort at that time of the night.. and naturally Bhupi volunteered. Well, he took me to the airport, and found that we needed to have booked wheelchairs while booking the tickets. So there are no wheelchairs, sorry. Sigh.. I made a very sad face, and hopped very helplessly around, while Bhupi did some pretty good convincing. Then the airport authorities felt sorry for me and gave me a wheelchair. [My experiences with the wheelchair here]. Bhupi checked me in, and went back. I reached Bangalore early next morning, and horrors! - my entire family had come to receive me. My mother got all teary-eyed to see her dear daughter in a wheelchair.
Anyway a quick trip to the best orthopaedist followed... after confirming that my ligaments were indeed torn, they had to determine how bad it was. So a particularly painful x-ray followed. The doc said "Ready? This will hurt!" and grabbed my ankle and twisted it with all his might, and the x-ray guy took the x-ray. The whole twisting thing probably lasted for just 3-4 seconds but my I saw red and black spots and i clenched the sides of the bed. I was sweating and whimpering with pain by the time it was done. This was to see how much damage my ligament had undergone? Ha! The ligament would have suffered the most damage during that x-ray. Sob sob :( Anyway, doc knows best! Then the doc took one look at the x-ray and declared that my foot needed to be in a cast for a minimum of six weeks. Whaaaaaat? Well, my leg was put in a cool blue fibreglass cast, a walker was obtained, and I was a pampered invalid for the next six weeks. Then of course, i needed two weeks to be able to walk after the cast was removed, and it was 2 months before I could go back to Mumbai.
Now why did that fall change my life? Well, some of you know why.. for others, I will just say that this little, but painful incident, drastically and unexpectedly changed the course of my life in a very positive way - I met the guy I would marry. ;)
I went armed with a mini first-aid kit, on my mom's insistence. [Yes, she has heard too many horror stories involving fun parks.] Her advice rang in my ears. "You are over-adventurous. Don't go on rides which are too crazy." Well, moms will be moms. Anyway, after promising to send her an sms every one hour to prove that I am still alive, I joined my colleagues on the bus to EsselWorld. Just as the bus started, I got another sms from my mom. "Be careful. If the ride looks too dangerous, do NOT go on it. Remember, there are people who love you waiting for you back home." Phew! "Ok mom!" I replied, and we were on our way.
At the gates of EsselWorld, a couple of colleagues went to buy tickets. The rest of us, more than 60 of us, were just waiting around. Someone suggested a game to play to while away the time. It was an improvised version of kho-kho. The players stand in pairs, one behind another, in two concentric circles. There is one guy who is the chaser, and he chases a designated runner. When the runner is tired, he tags one of the pairs, and the player in the pair who belongs to the outer concentric circle turns into the runner.
Well, the game progressed, and finally, somebody tagged me. I did a little of smart running and dodging, and then decided to tag somebody else. I approached someone, tagged him, and stopped with an awkward jerky movement. Suddenly, my left ankle twisted beneath me. I desperately clawed the air for a handhold, and the guy nearest to me tried to prevent me from falling, but I went crashing down. A number of hands immediately helped me up. I stood up, put my weight on my left foot, and promptly went down again in pain. I hopped over to the side, sat, and suddenly found that my left shoe was too tight. I took off my shoes and socks, to find my ankle twice its size. It was throbbing in pain. I was half-laughing, half-crying. An ambulance materialized out of nowhere, and took me to the "medical centre" in Essel World. There was a very gentle and soft-spoken doctor on duty. She examined my foot, and declared that it could not be just a sprain. It could be a fracture. Whaaaaat? Yes, she said, and advised me to either go back home to Andheri and show it to an expert, or, go to Bhayander, a suburb close by, to a doctor on EsselWorld's payroll. Going back to Andheri would mean that someone would have to go with me, and that would mean that s/he would lose out on a fun-filled day. Going to Bhayander would take just a couple of hours, and my escort could continue with enjoying himself/herself in Esselworld. I chose the latter. The ambulance again came for me. First they confirmed that I indeed held a valid EsselWorld ticket, failing which they would have probably cast me out just like that.
We set out, my colleague Bhupi, and I. Now Bhupi is one of those people who has helped me a million times when I have been in trouble , and has been a very good friend, but unfortunately, I have never been able to acknowledge how much his efforts have meant to me. Maybe it is just that sometimes you can never thank some people adequately. Anyway, Bhupi accompanied me in the ambulance to the doc in Bhayander. On the way, my mom sent me a message, "How are the rides?", and Bhupi prompted me to write back, "Enjoying a very special ride!" :)
The ambulance ride was pretty painful. The road was bumpy, and my poor ankle kept getting tossed about. I gritted my teeth and bore it. After too long a journey, we arrived at the Bhayander hospital, and I went hopping in on one leg. The doctor examined my foot, said that it was not a fracture (a sigh of relief) but looked like a ligament tear (whaaat?). He bound my foot with a crepe bandage, and told me to go to a specialist. I decided to do that the next day, and went back to the EsselWorld medical centre. I was given a clean bed in a cool room smelling of disinfectant. I convinced Bhupi that I would be fine and he went to join the others.
I lay down there and called mom and told her what happened. I philosophized to her, telling her that you can never know what will happen, and when. See? You were so afraid that I would hurt myself on some ride. I hurt my ankle even before I could enter EsselWorld! Anyway, After that, left with nothing to do, I made a lot of calls, and played games on my mobile. Finally it was lunch time, and the ambulance came for me again. I joined the rest of my colleagues, to a lot of solicitous questions and pampering. After lunch, I got back and slept well, until another colleague, who was feeling woozy after a particularly dizzying ride, joined me. We chatted and kept each other company until it was time to go back home.
I reached my paying guest accommodation, and got pampered by PG Auntie. Then I went into the bathroom. I was hopping on one foot, and the toilet was wet, and well, you know. I crashed again. I tried not to howl, but just took painkillers and went to bed. The next day, I went to an orthopaedist close by. He took some X-Rays, and said that it indeed looked like a ligament tear, and he said he would refer me to an expert. [What was he?] He said, you need bed rest for at least 2 weeks. Whaaat? Then might I as well go back to Bangalore and get treated there? That would be best, said the doc. Fine. Then Bhupi arrived, heard of my predicament and immediately went to the airport to arrange for tickets. Meanwhile I got back and called office to tell them that they would have to do without me for a while. They were supportive, and I packed whatever I could while I hopped on one foot. Bhupi came back with some really economical tickets, for a flight which started at... 3 am! Well, obviously I needed an escort at that time of the night.. and naturally Bhupi volunteered. Well, he took me to the airport, and found that we needed to have booked wheelchairs while booking the tickets. So there are no wheelchairs, sorry. Sigh.. I made a very sad face, and hopped very helplessly around, while Bhupi did some pretty good convincing. Then the airport authorities felt sorry for me and gave me a wheelchair. [My experiences with the wheelchair here]. Bhupi checked me in, and went back. I reached Bangalore early next morning, and horrors! - my entire family had come to receive me. My mother got all teary-eyed to see her dear daughter in a wheelchair.
Anyway a quick trip to the best orthopaedist followed... after confirming that my ligaments were indeed torn, they had to determine how bad it was. So a particularly painful x-ray followed. The doc said "Ready? This will hurt!" and grabbed my ankle and twisted it with all his might, and the x-ray guy took the x-ray. The whole twisting thing probably lasted for just 3-4 seconds but my I saw red and black spots and i clenched the sides of the bed. I was sweating and whimpering with pain by the time it was done. This was to see how much damage my ligament had undergone? Ha! The ligament would have suffered the most damage during that x-ray. Sob sob :( Anyway, doc knows best! Then the doc took one look at the x-ray and declared that my foot needed to be in a cast for a minimum of six weeks. Whaaaaaat? Well, my leg was put in a cool blue fibreglass cast, a walker was obtained, and I was a pampered invalid for the next six weeks. Then of course, i needed two weeks to be able to walk after the cast was removed, and it was 2 months before I could go back to Mumbai.
Now why did that fall change my life? Well, some of you know why.. for others, I will just say that this little, but painful incident, drastically and unexpectedly changed the course of my life in a very positive way - I met the guy I would marry. ;)
Thursday, March 30, 2006
My aunt's new blog!
At last! My aunt finally got herself a blog! It took quite a lot of persuading, though.:) I love her style of writing. She intends to write about her extensive travels, her life in UK and Singapore, and other interesting bits and pieces along the way. Look out for her at Anu's "Walk a-musing".
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Bring on the darkness!
Summer is here! Bringing with it, the inevitable power-cuts. A power-cut during the day is simply a nuisance. But power-cuts at night have always been an event, for as long as I remember!
Age 5 - We lived in a colony with lots of kids. Lots of screaming just as the lights went out, and everybody assembles to play hide and seek. Terrified as I am of imaginary creepy-crawlies in the dark, I avoid that game where I will have to hide in nooks and crannies - what if a giant tarantula lived in there?! I run home and busy myself in bugging my kid sister, or just get in everybody's way until my father devises some cool games to keep me occupied. And I laugh and play until the lights come back. Then I scream..."Nooooooooo lets switch off the lights again!"
Age 6 - My father entertains me with shadow figures that he makes using his hands. He performs an entire story, complete with dialogues and sound effects. I watch fascinated, and try my hand (pun not intended) at it, but succeed in getting only a little yapping shadow puppy on the wall.
Age 7 - I am a regular little bookworm. You can always spot me with my nose in a book. When the lights go out, I just pull my chair close to the candle and continue reading. No amount of coaxing by my parents will tear me away from my book. Then I go too close to the candle and get a couple of hair on my head burnt by the flame of the candle, and I withdraw, screaming, with the smell of burnt hair in my nostrils.
Age 8 - I have realized that reading in the dark is bad for the eyes. So I just keep my book aside when the lights go out, and go out and play running and catching in the dark. Or I play word-building with my parents. If some of my friends dropped by, we play Antakshari or play some games which involve very silly songs and lots of hand-clapping. ;)
Age 9 - I sit around with the other kids and exchange ghost stories. There are half a dozen tamarind trees in our colony, and these apparently house ghosts. We dare each other to walk under the tamarind trees. If a slightly reckless soul steps forward to take up the dare, we follow, making eerie, creepy, howling and creaking noises, and the brave kid turns into a bawling kid.
Age 10 - Influenced by the freedom-fighters, I hold my palm at the level of the candle flame but not right above it, and mouth patriotic dialogues. My little sister, watching from one side, looks at me admiringly, probably thinking how brave her Akka is, to hold a palm to a candle. Of course, like a responsible big sister, I make sure that she gets nowhere near the flame.
Age 11 - I spend all my time staring at the candle flame, and comparing it with the diagram of a flame in my science book. My father has taught me how to run my fingers through the candle flame without getting burnt, and I spend hours doing it, not getting bored. Then he teaches me how to light a candle out of the still hot smoke of a just-extinguished candle. I think this is next only to magic, and blow out and light candles until the table becomes a mess of wax much to my mother's exasperation.
Age 13 - My friends and I take walks around the colony, or sit somewhere and just chat. We whisper secrets to each other and wonder about the mysteries of life. We comment on the guys, and giggle uncontrollably. We look up at the sky and try to identify the constellations. Or count the stars. Or hope to see a shooting star. Horses were needed to drag us home.
Age 15 - Exam time. Just curse the electricity board and continue studying with the aid of an emergency lamp.
Age 17 - My sister and I are into serious singing. The moment the lights go out, left with no alternative, i.e. no books and no TV, we automatically pick up the Tanpura, tune it and start singing. The deep resonant twanging of the Tanpura. Our clear voices in perfect harmony with it soar through the darkness. We revel in the sound of our own voices in the silence. My mother, half-ground chutney in the mixer forgotten, just sits and listen to us, probably thanking the darkness for hiding her tears of joy at hearing us sing.
Age 20 and after - Quiet moments on the terrace or balcony, alone. Breathing the crisp night air. Looking at the moon.
Or precious moments with parents. A mat on the terrace floor, lying on it, with my head on my mother's lap, looking at the sky. Serious discussions underway, about the future.
Quiet conversations with my sister. About life, love, friends, hopes and dreams. Spontaneously bursting into song.
Or just sitting with eyes closed listening to my mother hum, or my father play plaintive notes on his Hawaiian guitar.
Yesterday - A lovely walk. After dinner, Just sit and talk with S. Slip into a comfortable silence. Enjoy the peace and happiness that comes with being together and doing nothing. Listen to the silence of the night.
Rather strange, isn't it? Power cuts have caused loads of misery and inconvenience, but if I think back, all I remember are the happy moments!
Age 5 - We lived in a colony with lots of kids. Lots of screaming just as the lights went out, and everybody assembles to play hide and seek. Terrified as I am of imaginary creepy-crawlies in the dark, I avoid that game where I will have to hide in nooks and crannies - what if a giant tarantula lived in there?! I run home and busy myself in bugging my kid sister, or just get in everybody's way until my father devises some cool games to keep me occupied. And I laugh and play until the lights come back. Then I scream..."Nooooooooo lets switch off the lights again!"
Age 6 - My father entertains me with shadow figures that he makes using his hands. He performs an entire story, complete with dialogues and sound effects. I watch fascinated, and try my hand (pun not intended) at it, but succeed in getting only a little yapping shadow puppy on the wall.
Age 7 - I am a regular little bookworm. You can always spot me with my nose in a book. When the lights go out, I just pull my chair close to the candle and continue reading. No amount of coaxing by my parents will tear me away from my book. Then I go too close to the candle and get a couple of hair on my head burnt by the flame of the candle, and I withdraw, screaming, with the smell of burnt hair in my nostrils.
Age 8 - I have realized that reading in the dark is bad for the eyes. So I just keep my book aside when the lights go out, and go out and play running and catching in the dark. Or I play word-building with my parents. If some of my friends dropped by, we play Antakshari or play some games which involve very silly songs and lots of hand-clapping. ;)
Age 9 - I sit around with the other kids and exchange ghost stories. There are half a dozen tamarind trees in our colony, and these apparently house ghosts. We dare each other to walk under the tamarind trees. If a slightly reckless soul steps forward to take up the dare, we follow, making eerie, creepy, howling and creaking noises, and the brave kid turns into a bawling kid.
Age 10 - Influenced by the freedom-fighters, I hold my palm at the level of the candle flame but not right above it, and mouth patriotic dialogues. My little sister, watching from one side, looks at me admiringly, probably thinking how brave her Akka is, to hold a palm to a candle. Of course, like a responsible big sister, I make sure that she gets nowhere near the flame.
Age 11 - I spend all my time staring at the candle flame, and comparing it with the diagram of a flame in my science book. My father has taught me how to run my fingers through the candle flame without getting burnt, and I spend hours doing it, not getting bored. Then he teaches me how to light a candle out of the still hot smoke of a just-extinguished candle. I think this is next only to magic, and blow out and light candles until the table becomes a mess of wax much to my mother's exasperation.
Age 13 - My friends and I take walks around the colony, or sit somewhere and just chat. We whisper secrets to each other and wonder about the mysteries of life. We comment on the guys, and giggle uncontrollably. We look up at the sky and try to identify the constellations. Or count the stars. Or hope to see a shooting star. Horses were needed to drag us home.
Age 15 - Exam time. Just curse the electricity board and continue studying with the aid of an emergency lamp.
Age 17 - My sister and I are into serious singing. The moment the lights go out, left with no alternative, i.e. no books and no TV, we automatically pick up the Tanpura, tune it and start singing. The deep resonant twanging of the Tanpura. Our clear voices in perfect harmony with it soar through the darkness. We revel in the sound of our own voices in the silence. My mother, half-ground chutney in the mixer forgotten, just sits and listen to us, probably thanking the darkness for hiding her tears of joy at hearing us sing.
Age 20 and after - Quiet moments on the terrace or balcony, alone. Breathing the crisp night air. Looking at the moon.
Or precious moments with parents. A mat on the terrace floor, lying on it, with my head on my mother's lap, looking at the sky. Serious discussions underway, about the future.
Quiet conversations with my sister. About life, love, friends, hopes and dreams. Spontaneously bursting into song.
Or just sitting with eyes closed listening to my mother hum, or my father play plaintive notes on his Hawaiian guitar.
Yesterday - A lovely walk. After dinner, Just sit and talk with S. Slip into a comfortable silence. Enjoy the peace and happiness that comes with being together and doing nothing. Listen to the silence of the night.
Rather strange, isn't it? Power cuts have caused loads of misery and inconvenience, but if I think back, all I remember are the happy moments!
Friday, March 24, 2006
A mountain out of a molehill?
Do you know who Hari Sadu is? No? Right now, he is very famous. ;) Remember that ad for naukri.com? The ad where a tyrant boss called Hari Sadu is having trouble spelling out his name to a caller, and his junior offers to spell it out for him, and says "Write down, Hari. H for Hitler, A for Arrogant, R for Rascal and I for Idiot" - all this bravado because he has just landed a job, thanks to naukri.com. I thought it was a cool ad. But now I hear that a 11-year old boy called Hari Bhanot has sued naukri.com because his classmates have been harassing him and making fun of him because his name is Hari. Naukri.com has issued a press release here
This made me laugh out loud. Yes, LOL in the true sense of the word. Though I feel really sorry for little Hari, because I know how demeaning it is to be laughed at, especially at that tender age, I think he has over-reacted. How many ads, how many movies exist that have made fun at fat people, thin people, bald people, dark people, bespectacled people, nerdy people, physically challenged people, people of certain regions, and what have you. And simultaneously created stereotypes like, this-guy-is-fat-and-so-he-has-to-be-laughed-at. Going by Hari Bhanot's example, 90 percent of India should be busy suing film-makers and ad-makers.
And all those of you who want to challenge me and say that "No, no, movies and ads do not influence people and make them laugh at 'different' people" can take a trip. I know what I am talking about.
And no, I absolutely do NOT subscribe to what these ad-makers do. I think ads which ridicule somebody are in terribly bad taste. I do not buy products that demean a trait or a character or looks. But the naukri.com ad was making fun of just one particularly obnoxious Hari, and so, it did not fall under my category of bad ads. Well, apparently some people do think otherwise!
This made me laugh out loud. Yes, LOL in the true sense of the word. Though I feel really sorry for little Hari, because I know how demeaning it is to be laughed at, especially at that tender age, I think he has over-reacted. How many ads, how many movies exist that have made fun at fat people, thin people, bald people, dark people, bespectacled people, nerdy people, physically challenged people, people of certain regions, and what have you. And simultaneously created stereotypes like, this-guy-is-fat-and-so-he-has-to-be-laughed-at. Going by Hari Bhanot's example, 90 percent of India should be busy suing film-makers and ad-makers.
And all those of you who want to challenge me and say that "No, no, movies and ads do not influence people and make them laugh at 'different' people" can take a trip. I know what I am talking about.
And no, I absolutely do NOT subscribe to what these ad-makers do. I think ads which ridicule somebody are in terribly bad taste. I do not buy products that demean a trait or a character or looks. But the naukri.com ad was making fun of just one particularly obnoxious Hari, and so, it did not fall under my category of bad ads. Well, apparently some people do think otherwise!
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Subtle brainwashing.
My first reaction to Rang De Basanti was that the movie gives out a dangerous message. Just because our freedom fighters avenged a wrong by employing extreme means of retaliation, it does not make it okay to do the same thing now. Yes, the protagonists in the movie did not get anywhere by doing what they did. But it did portray them as heroes. Martyred heroes.
But I think this movie might not really encourage such extreme behaviour, as some fear, because I think that the average viewer is rather discerning, and knows that what they did in the movie was quite idiotic. But that is because it is a direct, in-your-face message. Compared to this, far more alarming are the subtle messages that movies and television serials send across every day. Nothing as dramatic and controversial as Rang De Basanti. But far more dangerous. Slow poison. You will not even realize that your brain is receiving those signals. It seeps into your sub-conscious when you are not looking, and corrodes the collective psyches of the entire nation.
Everybody can see what Rang De Basanti seems to be telling us. But nobody realizes what serials are doing to us.
Take the saas-bahu serials. Repeatedly, they send across the message that the place of the woman is at home, looking after the affairs of the house. All the protagonists are paragons of virtue. They look after their husbands and in-laws, cook and feed them, and act as the wall of the family. They are traditional, have a lot of respect for "sanskaar"(culture) - how I have started hating that word! On the other hand, there is the scheming woman who is invariably highly professional, or ambitious. She is bold, confident and always wants to have her own way. Her husband is either her partner in crime, or a weakling. Watch this serial for a year, and you will develop an inherent bias towards the bold, ambitious woman.
Consider any ordinary soap. There are no grey characters. Everything is either black or white. All emotions are extreme. Rivalry, jealousy, quarrels, infidelity, backstabbing, and what have you. Relationships are never straightforward. No word spoken can be taken at face value. Every word, every look, every action has to be analyzed to ensure that there is no scheme behind it. A harmless sentence spoken by a mother-in-law is contrived by the daughter-in-law to mean something entirely different. I wonder how many perfectly fine MIL-DIL are going down the drain due to "maybe this is her actual intention" thoughts.
There are hundreds of situations which give the same message again and again in every serial, every language.
A guy molested a girl? How will she get married now that her "good name" has gone? So get her married to that very molester.
Did you get married? Give up your dreams and goals, cross over from jeans to a aaree, wear your hair in a bun, and make the kitchen your home.
No matter how much of an ugly spoilt brat the guy is, the girl should be "beautiful, virtuous and from a good family".
Observe fasts for the long life of your husband. No matter if he is a first class crook. After all, being a "Suhagan"(woman whose husband is alive, to put it crudely) is the supreme state.
Send your harrassed daughter back to her wife-beating, womanizing husband, because a "woman's place is in her husband's home".
Got a child? Make sure that he always comes first in the class in studies. Any other talent can go to the dustbin.
Your mother-in-law, sister-in-law, or daughter-in-law, or any damn female in-law can never have your good at heart. All she says is just a farce, and her real "face" will come out sometime very soon.
Any problem or bad phase can be overcome by appeasing the Gods by having an expensive pooja, homa or havan.
If a character is afflicted with a life-threatening disease, he/she is most likely to die. All medical breakthroughs are coolly ignored.
Utter rubbish.
Such conservative beliefs, superstitions and myths, are being continuously drilled into our somnambulent brains each time we watch a crappy movie or a serial.
You and I are "educated, broad-minded", and we know that these serials are "rubbish", and we are "superior" and do not get affected by any such "stupid" serials. But you and I do not make up India. You and I are not the sole bearers of Indian culture. We are just two among a billion and more. There are millions of people who watch these serials everyday. Millions who are still steeped in ignorance and backwardness. These people need a positive example, they need to be brought out of the darkness.
Instead, these serials are just reiterating and reaffirming the blind beliefs of yore and pushing the masses backwards into the eighteenth century.
Subtle brainwashing, working beautifully.
But I think this movie might not really encourage such extreme behaviour, as some fear, because I think that the average viewer is rather discerning, and knows that what they did in the movie was quite idiotic. But that is because it is a direct, in-your-face message. Compared to this, far more alarming are the subtle messages that movies and television serials send across every day. Nothing as dramatic and controversial as Rang De Basanti. But far more dangerous. Slow poison. You will not even realize that your brain is receiving those signals. It seeps into your sub-conscious when you are not looking, and corrodes the collective psyches of the entire nation.
Everybody can see what Rang De Basanti seems to be telling us. But nobody realizes what serials are doing to us.
Take the saas-bahu serials. Repeatedly, they send across the message that the place of the woman is at home, looking after the affairs of the house. All the protagonists are paragons of virtue. They look after their husbands and in-laws, cook and feed them, and act as the wall of the family. They are traditional, have a lot of respect for "sanskaar"(culture) - how I have started hating that word! On the other hand, there is the scheming woman who is invariably highly professional, or ambitious. She is bold, confident and always wants to have her own way. Her husband is either her partner in crime, or a weakling. Watch this serial for a year, and you will develop an inherent bias towards the bold, ambitious woman.
Consider any ordinary soap. There are no grey characters. Everything is either black or white. All emotions are extreme. Rivalry, jealousy, quarrels, infidelity, backstabbing, and what have you. Relationships are never straightforward. No word spoken can be taken at face value. Every word, every look, every action has to be analyzed to ensure that there is no scheme behind it. A harmless sentence spoken by a mother-in-law is contrived by the daughter-in-law to mean something entirely different. I wonder how many perfectly fine MIL-DIL are going down the drain due to "maybe this is her actual intention" thoughts.
There are hundreds of situations which give the same message again and again in every serial, every language.
A guy molested a girl? How will she get married now that her "good name" has gone? So get her married to that very molester.
Did you get married? Give up your dreams and goals, cross over from jeans to a aaree, wear your hair in a bun, and make the kitchen your home.
No matter how much of an ugly spoilt brat the guy is, the girl should be "beautiful, virtuous and from a good family".
Observe fasts for the long life of your husband. No matter if he is a first class crook. After all, being a "Suhagan"(woman whose husband is alive, to put it crudely) is the supreme state.
Send your harrassed daughter back to her wife-beating, womanizing husband, because a "woman's place is in her husband's home".
Got a child? Make sure that he always comes first in the class in studies. Any other talent can go to the dustbin.
Your mother-in-law, sister-in-law, or daughter-in-law, or any damn female in-law can never have your good at heart. All she says is just a farce, and her real "face" will come out sometime very soon.
Any problem or bad phase can be overcome by appeasing the Gods by having an expensive pooja, homa or havan.
If a character is afflicted with a life-threatening disease, he/she is most likely to die. All medical breakthroughs are coolly ignored.
Utter rubbish.
Such conservative beliefs, superstitions and myths, are being continuously drilled into our somnambulent brains each time we watch a crappy movie or a serial.
You and I are "educated, broad-minded", and we know that these serials are "rubbish", and we are "superior" and do not get affected by any such "stupid" serials. But you and I do not make up India. You and I are not the sole bearers of Indian culture. We are just two among a billion and more. There are millions of people who watch these serials everyday. Millions who are still steeped in ignorance and backwardness. These people need a positive example, they need to be brought out of the darkness.
Instead, these serials are just reiterating and reaffirming the blind beliefs of yore and pushing the masses backwards into the eighteenth century.
Subtle brainwashing, working beautifully.
Monday, March 20, 2006
The results are out!
A colleague just walked by, and he had in his hand a sheaf of papers. When I saw him, he was smiling and rustling the papers at some person behind me, and his gesture was one of "Look, here it is!"
I suddenly froze, and a familiar, yet forgotten feeling crept over me. That was the same gesture that "Pyjama Tata" used to make when he brought the examination results to the department! That feeling of dread, of foreboding, of excitement, all mixed with the smell of suspense in the air!
The four years of engineering were just a blur of exams and results. We wrote eight exams and had to go through the ordeal of receiving the results eight times. Bangalore University was notorious for churning out unexpected results. You could be confident of having fared beautifully in an exam, but you could be certain that you have cleared it only after you had seen the results. So the results were much more than just a reflection of how you wrote your exam. It also told you how much luck had favoured you.
Little wonder then, that the results were awaited with so much anxiety. Even the battle-hardened veterans had to cope with increased pulse rates. Bangalore University was also very infamous for not being prompt with the results. The most common rumour in the campus was "I heard the results will be put up today!" This rumour could go on for two months, and yet we students would believe it every time!
On the day the results finally arrived, there would be a hush in the college. Urgent whispers could be heard. Someone would say that he saw Nagendra, the main office-guy, bring a huge folder and take it to the Administration building. On protests of "It could have been anything!", the informer would say, "No, no, Nagendra had a knowing look in his eyes". This bit of information would be repeated and reiterated until some guys went up to the admin building and nailed Nagendra and got him to confess that what he had brought were indeed the results and he had indeed gone to the University to get them. When this information reached the rest of the waiting populace, blood pressures would soar, barrels of water would be downed, and there would be a queue outside the toilets.
Even the seemingly unconcerned hostelites would get the message, tumble out of their beds, and come to the department, hair tousled, and eyes anxious. There The Wait would commence. Any office person coming towards the department from the direction of the Admin Department would be examined. Any person with a sheaf of papers in his hand would be scrutinized.
Many red herrings later, someone would think of Pyjama Tata. He was an ancient little man with no teeth, no cheeks, no hair, but with a jutting out jaw and an uncommonly loud voice. His role in the department was indefinite. His identifying feature was a loose, flapping pair of pyjamas. Nobody knew his name. Everybody called him Pyjama Tata.[Tata - Grandfather]. It was to him that we would finally go. He would cackle loudly and say, "I was just about to go to the Principal's office and get the results".
It would be half an hour more of drinking water and going to the loo until we saw Pyjama Tata's dirty white pyjamas flapping from far off. We would watch every step of his until he approached the department. It was then that he would smile and shake the papers at us and make that gesture of "here it is!". The excitement would reach a painful peak. As he climbed the stairs of the department, we would flock about him and beg to be shown "just one page". He would resolutely shake his head and take it straight to the Head Of Dept's office. We would watch the door of HOD's office for the next ten minutes, shifting our weights from one foot to another.
Finally, Pyjama Tata would appear from inside, pick up some board pins and with deliberate sluggishness, he would proceed to the notice board and start pinning up each page. That was one of the times I wished my name started with "A". He used to put it up alphabetically and all the As and the Bs would flock around and start calling out to each other. Then I would wait with my teeth gritted. D, J, L-M, N-P, R, and then S, finally! I would rush forward, only to be pushed and pulled, and someone would shove their elbow into my nose and I would hang on to somebody's plait for balance and then crane my neck and look at the board. And invariably, read the result of the person before or after me. My heart would plunge to my feet and my head would buzz and my vision would get blurred, and then suddenly, someone would be patting my shoulder and saying "Hey Shruthi, great results!".. and I would say, "What the..".. and would look at the board again in renewed hope, and this time read my own result. I would put out my finger and trace a straight line between my name and the new result, confirm it, and would come away from the board in whoops of joy.
I would quickly look at the faces of my friends, to verify that it went well for them. Coz if hadn't for even one, then my own success would seem insipid. Then after a series of palm-burning high-fives, we would run to the nearest phone booth to call our parents[It was the era when only a privileged few owned cells]. After that, it was time for celebration, until it was time for the next results!
By the time we reached the final year, Bangalore University had become very tech-savvy, and the results of the final two semesters were put up online. This was anxiety of a different sort. Sitting up at midnight and refreshing the web page repeatedly until we read the golden words "Results announced for 7th sem - Click here". But nope, nothing compared to the collective tension of the mass of perspiring students, waiting for the bits of paper that contained their "passports to a good life".
It seems so funny now, to think back on it. I can hardly remember the marks I scored or the percentage I got in any of those semesters. Yet, at that time, it seemed to us like a matter of life and death! :D
I suddenly froze, and a familiar, yet forgotten feeling crept over me. That was the same gesture that "Pyjama Tata" used to make when he brought the examination results to the department! That feeling of dread, of foreboding, of excitement, all mixed with the smell of suspense in the air!
The four years of engineering were just a blur of exams and results. We wrote eight exams and had to go through the ordeal of receiving the results eight times. Bangalore University was notorious for churning out unexpected results. You could be confident of having fared beautifully in an exam, but you could be certain that you have cleared it only after you had seen the results. So the results were much more than just a reflection of how you wrote your exam. It also told you how much luck had favoured you.
Little wonder then, that the results were awaited with so much anxiety. Even the battle-hardened veterans had to cope with increased pulse rates. Bangalore University was also very infamous for not being prompt with the results. The most common rumour in the campus was "I heard the results will be put up today!" This rumour could go on for two months, and yet we students would believe it every time!
On the day the results finally arrived, there would be a hush in the college. Urgent whispers could be heard. Someone would say that he saw Nagendra, the main office-guy, bring a huge folder and take it to the Administration building. On protests of "It could have been anything!", the informer would say, "No, no, Nagendra had a knowing look in his eyes". This bit of information would be repeated and reiterated until some guys went up to the admin building and nailed Nagendra and got him to confess that what he had brought were indeed the results and he had indeed gone to the University to get them. When this information reached the rest of the waiting populace, blood pressures would soar, barrels of water would be downed, and there would be a queue outside the toilets.
Even the seemingly unconcerned hostelites would get the message, tumble out of their beds, and come to the department, hair tousled, and eyes anxious. There The Wait would commence. Any office person coming towards the department from the direction of the Admin Department would be examined. Any person with a sheaf of papers in his hand would be scrutinized.
Many red herrings later, someone would think of Pyjama Tata. He was an ancient little man with no teeth, no cheeks, no hair, but with a jutting out jaw and an uncommonly loud voice. His role in the department was indefinite. His identifying feature was a loose, flapping pair of pyjamas. Nobody knew his name. Everybody called him Pyjama Tata.[Tata - Grandfather]. It was to him that we would finally go. He would cackle loudly and say, "I was just about to go to the Principal's office and get the results".
It would be half an hour more of drinking water and going to the loo until we saw Pyjama Tata's dirty white pyjamas flapping from far off. We would watch every step of his until he approached the department. It was then that he would smile and shake the papers at us and make that gesture of "here it is!". The excitement would reach a painful peak. As he climbed the stairs of the department, we would flock about him and beg to be shown "just one page". He would resolutely shake his head and take it straight to the Head Of Dept's office. We would watch the door of HOD's office for the next ten minutes, shifting our weights from one foot to another.
Finally, Pyjama Tata would appear from inside, pick up some board pins and with deliberate sluggishness, he would proceed to the notice board and start pinning up each page. That was one of the times I wished my name started with "A". He used to put it up alphabetically and all the As and the Bs would flock around and start calling out to each other. Then I would wait with my teeth gritted. D, J, L-M, N-P, R, and then S, finally! I would rush forward, only to be pushed and pulled, and someone would shove their elbow into my nose and I would hang on to somebody's plait for balance and then crane my neck and look at the board. And invariably, read the result of the person before or after me. My heart would plunge to my feet and my head would buzz and my vision would get blurred, and then suddenly, someone would be patting my shoulder and saying "Hey Shruthi, great results!".. and I would say, "What the..".. and would look at the board again in renewed hope, and this time read my own result. I would put out my finger and trace a straight line between my name and the new result, confirm it, and would come away from the board in whoops of joy.
I would quickly look at the faces of my friends, to verify that it went well for them. Coz if hadn't for even one, then my own success would seem insipid. Then after a series of palm-burning high-fives, we would run to the nearest phone booth to call our parents[It was the era when only a privileged few owned cells]. After that, it was time for celebration, until it was time for the next results!
By the time we reached the final year, Bangalore University had become very tech-savvy, and the results of the final two semesters were put up online. This was anxiety of a different sort. Sitting up at midnight and refreshing the web page repeatedly until we read the golden words "Results announced for 7th sem - Click here". But nope, nothing compared to the collective tension of the mass of perspiring students, waiting for the bits of paper that contained their "passports to a good life".
It seems so funny now, to think back on it. I can hardly remember the marks I scored or the percentage I got in any of those semesters. Yet, at that time, it seemed to us like a matter of life and death! :D
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
I just HAVE to do it!
The remarkable match between South Africa and Australia got me thinking. Australia had set a seemingly unattainable target, a score that looked like it would stay in the record books for years to come. Yet, just hours later, South Africa went ahead and surpassed that figure in style. It was unthinkable, unimaginable. If Australia had set a target of say, 350, which by itself is a respectable total, then how many runs would South Africa have scored? Would they have reached 350 with the same nail-biting finish? Or would they have reached 350 with many more wickets and overs to spare?
My knowledge of cricket is woefully inadequate to comment on the whys and hows of this incredible feat. But I tend to think that this impossible target spurred the South Africans to such an extent that they exerted their complete potential to attain this goal. Why else, with so many thousands of matches being played, with so many fantastic players, hadn't the figure of 400 ever been reached? Then on one single day, that figure is reached and surpassed by both the playing teams?
The point of this post is not to go into raptures at the will and grit of the South African team, nor is it to debate on whether it was the greatness of the batsmen or the failure of the bowlers. That I leave to the expert. This is to explore what it is that drives a person to succeed.
Probably a lesser team would have looked at that figure of 434 and said, "Ok, lets just go out there and get it over with, now this is one target that is unreachable". What is it it that causes the same situation to motivate one person so highly, and discourage the other person equally effectively?
I have observed some common situations that inspire people, or discourage them, and I always wonder what brings about that attitude in them.
Motivated by example: There are many people who look at a successful person and think, "Yes, I want to be like him. He is my idol. I will not stop until I achieve what he has". Then there is another kind of person who looks at a famous person and says, "What shoddy work! What ignorance! How on earth has he attained such heights? I am definitely better than him. If he can do it, so can I!". Both of them seem to work equally well.
Motivated by Acknowledgement: Then there are those who get motivated by praise, or the lack of it. After a long hard day's work, or after struggling for hours at a job, if faults are found with your work, it ignites some people. "I have to do it better! I will show him next time!", they think, and forge ahead. But there are also some who need appreciation. If the work they do is met with criticism, they immediately withdraw and say, "Fine, if you do not like what I do, then don't ask me to do it for you." If these people are first praised, or thanked, and then the flaws in the work are then pointed out, they might be able accept it with grace and make sure to incorporate the corrections the next time they do the work.
Motivated by results: Then there are those who get motivated by failures. They firmly believe in "Failures are the stepping stones to success" and plod on until they prove the adage right. And then there are those who get disheartened at the first sign of failure. If their first attempt ends in success, then they have the ability to take future failures in their stride. But if the first attempt itself is a failure, you can be sure that they will immediately shut shop.
Motivated by the urge to be one-up: If a rival, or a person you hate happens to become successful, then you tend to work hard to prove to that person (or prove it more to yourself, maybe), that you can do it too. Or if you have been insulted by somebody, and called incapable, there is the feeling of "I'll show her!". Very strong motivators, these.
Motivation by association: Scott Adams of Dilbert fame touches upon this on his very funny blog. I think that is the secret of two siblings making it big in their own fields. RK Laxman - RK Narayan, Lata-Asha, IK Gujral - Satish Gujral, lots, lots more.
These are, of course, external motivating factors. True motivation or determination comes from within. Sometimes I wonder if it is a built-in feature, that comes with only some selected fortunate "models"! Or maybe childhood circumstances, or extreme situations in life shape and model a person into being determined.
You cannot alter the inherent motivation of the person you are dealing with. But you have control on exercising external motivating factors on him. You really need to know what it is that turns off the person you are dealing with. Then you can use your words accordingly and turn the situation to your advantage.
Easier said than done! But it helps to know that maybe, just maybe, you have the power to control people! ;)
My knowledge of cricket is woefully inadequate to comment on the whys and hows of this incredible feat. But I tend to think that this impossible target spurred the South Africans to such an extent that they exerted their complete potential to attain this goal. Why else, with so many thousands of matches being played, with so many fantastic players, hadn't the figure of 400 ever been reached? Then on one single day, that figure is reached and surpassed by both the playing teams?
The point of this post is not to go into raptures at the will and grit of the South African team, nor is it to debate on whether it was the greatness of the batsmen or the failure of the bowlers. That I leave to the expert. This is to explore what it is that drives a person to succeed.
Probably a lesser team would have looked at that figure of 434 and said, "Ok, lets just go out there and get it over with, now this is one target that is unreachable". What is it it that causes the same situation to motivate one person so highly, and discourage the other person equally effectively?
I have observed some common situations that inspire people, or discourage them, and I always wonder what brings about that attitude in them.
Motivated by example: There are many people who look at a successful person and think, "Yes, I want to be like him. He is my idol. I will not stop until I achieve what he has". Then there is another kind of person who looks at a famous person and says, "What shoddy work! What ignorance! How on earth has he attained such heights? I am definitely better than him. If he can do it, so can I!". Both of them seem to work equally well.
Motivated by Acknowledgement: Then there are those who get motivated by praise, or the lack of it. After a long hard day's work, or after struggling for hours at a job, if faults are found with your work, it ignites some people. "I have to do it better! I will show him next time!", they think, and forge ahead. But there are also some who need appreciation. If the work they do is met with criticism, they immediately withdraw and say, "Fine, if you do not like what I do, then don't ask me to do it for you." If these people are first praised, or thanked, and then the flaws in the work are then pointed out, they might be able accept it with grace and make sure to incorporate the corrections the next time they do the work.
Motivated by results: Then there are those who get motivated by failures. They firmly believe in "Failures are the stepping stones to success" and plod on until they prove the adage right. And then there are those who get disheartened at the first sign of failure. If their first attempt ends in success, then they have the ability to take future failures in their stride. But if the first attempt itself is a failure, you can be sure that they will immediately shut shop.
Motivated by the urge to be one-up: If a rival, or a person you hate happens to become successful, then you tend to work hard to prove to that person (or prove it more to yourself, maybe), that you can do it too. Or if you have been insulted by somebody, and called incapable, there is the feeling of "I'll show her!". Very strong motivators, these.
Motivation by association: Scott Adams of Dilbert fame touches upon this on his very funny blog. I think that is the secret of two siblings making it big in their own fields. RK Laxman - RK Narayan, Lata-Asha, IK Gujral - Satish Gujral, lots, lots more.
These are, of course, external motivating factors. True motivation or determination comes from within. Sometimes I wonder if it is a built-in feature, that comes with only some selected fortunate "models"! Or maybe childhood circumstances, or extreme situations in life shape and model a person into being determined.
You cannot alter the inherent motivation of the person you are dealing with. But you have control on exercising external motivating factors on him. You really need to know what it is that turns off the person you are dealing with. Then you can use your words accordingly and turn the situation to your advantage.
Easier said than done! But it helps to know that maybe, just maybe, you have the power to control people! ;)
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Pearls of Wisdom from Oliver Hardy!
There are some pieces of logic which are so simple, yet absolutely irrefutable.
I got one of them from, hold your breath, a Laurel and Hardy comic. Laurel and Hardy are planning to go to the circus the next day. Laurel is so excited that he cannot sleep.
He says, "Ollie, I cannot wait for tomorrow!" and he is all fidgety.
Hardy tells him, "Go to sleep, Stan. Tomorrow always comes sooner once you are asleep."
I was delighted. What wonderful reasoning! I have relied on this astute bit of acumen ever since. Whenever I am looking forward to something, and when I cannot wait for "Tomorrow" to become "Today", what do I do? Have an early dinner and go to bed. The next thing I know, I am waking up, and its "Today"!
[It works the other way too. If I do not want Today to end, or if Tomorrow is going to bring with it something very unpleasant, then I avoid going to bed Today. I put it off as much as possible in the vain hope that Today will go on forever. Now you know why I look hungover every Monday morning!]
Hardy's tip is priceless. It saves you a lot of the agony of waiting, and it saves other people the irritation of seeing you jumping around, saying, "I just can't wait for tomorrow!"
[If you could guess why I wrote about this today, please keep it to yourself!! :)]
Do you have any such pearls of wisdom, that you found in a totally unlikely place?
I got one of them from, hold your breath, a Laurel and Hardy comic. Laurel and Hardy are planning to go to the circus the next day. Laurel is so excited that he cannot sleep.
He says, "Ollie, I cannot wait for tomorrow!" and he is all fidgety.
Hardy tells him, "Go to sleep, Stan. Tomorrow always comes sooner once you are asleep."
I was delighted. What wonderful reasoning! I have relied on this astute bit of acumen ever since. Whenever I am looking forward to something, and when I cannot wait for "Tomorrow" to become "Today", what do I do? Have an early dinner and go to bed. The next thing I know, I am waking up, and its "Today"!
[It works the other way too. If I do not want Today to end, or if Tomorrow is going to bring with it something very unpleasant, then I avoid going to bed Today. I put it off as much as possible in the vain hope that Today will go on forever. Now you know why I look hungover every Monday morning!]
Hardy's tip is priceless. It saves you a lot of the agony of waiting, and it saves other people the irritation of seeing you jumping around, saying, "I just can't wait for tomorrow!"
[If you could guess why I wrote about this today, please keep it to yourself!! :)]
Do you have any such pearls of wisdom, that you found in a totally unlikely place?
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Why?
In my previous post, I fleetingly touched upon why men indulge in eve-teasing. I propose to explore the reasons slightly more.
Note 1: If you are sick and tired of hearing about eve-teasing, please feel free to skip this post :)
Note 2: This is not a Feminist Woman's Day post :)
In this post, I had written:
My uncle and I had a discussion on this. He posed a question to me.
"If that is one of the main reasons for eve-teasing", he said, "then consider your grandfather's generation. Contact between men and women, not of the same family, was even more scarce at that time. Was there any eve-teasing then?"
I was almost amused. "No", I said emphatically.
"Why? It is because of urbanization, and hence anonymity. In those days, there were smaller towns, and everybody knew everybody else. You could never hope to go unnoticed if you as much as looked at another girl. Now, you are just one in a crowd. You can do anything and get away with it. With that confidence, men go ahead and do anything."
He had a point. But one more reason could be that women rarely went out unescorted in my grandfather's generation. But this got me thinking. If this was one of the
reasons, then why has eve-teasing reduced, from the time I was in my teens, to now? Bangalore is bigger, anonymity is greater - then why? If I consider eve-teasing as something which men do just coz they think women are inferior and hence their property, with whom they can do anything they want to, then there is an explanation. I tend to think that men have finally recognized that women are as good as, if not better than men. Or if not anything else, that women are educated, confident, and can stand up for themselves. They probably do not want to take a risk with getting on the wrong side of a woman, coz there is no saying what she might do. Can this be a reason?
Next reason, movies. I think this is the greatest culprit. Movie-makers claim that art imitates life. Then what instance in real life inspired the first idiot to put in an eve-teasing scene in his film? Boy teases girl, girl gets horrified, boy persists, girl resists, boys sings to girl in public, girl melts into boy's arms, and they live happily ever after. How many movies stand on this theme? Within a span of one silly song, the boy and girl move from being strangers to being married. If this does not inspire men, then what will?
They must naturally think that if they tease a random girl on the street and compliment different parts of her body, she will get all flattered and fall for him, and all's well that ends well. Utter rubbish. Show me a single instance where eve-teasing has led to marriage in real life, and I will eat my words.
Then, once again, why has eve-teasing reduced now? I do not really have an answer. Maybe the boy-teasing-girl-on-street kind of movies have reduced. Maybe men have realized that it doesn't work after all. But behind all this comes one more question. Why do married men indulge in this activity? What is the reason for all the groping and touching? The first answer that comes to my mind is JFK - Just For Kicks. He feels like a hero. He feels superior. He feels like a "man", a word that has a perverted meaning in his stunted intelligence.
[Sidenote: Am I the only one who thinks that eve-teasing has reduced in Bangalore? Please note, I am not saying its not there at all. I am just saying that it seems to be much less from what my teenage memories tell me. Or is it that I do not notice it any longer? Or is it that I have become too old to get eve-teased? :)]
Also, reading all the experiences of other bloggers, I realized one thing. Those from the north have faced even more severe instances of eve-teasing. My experiences sound like mosquito bites compared to their snake-bites. But why? From what I have read, I gather that over the centuries, a woman's place in society has been much higher in the south, than in the north of India. Probably men take women for granted even more in the north. Maybe that is why eve-teasing is more rampant there. [I might be wrong, I am open to correction.]
Well, I don't really know. I can just take refuge in the fact that eve-teasing is not the outcome of just one or two reasons. It is a combination of complex social and psychological issues. Also, I would love it if somebody comes out with a small-town perspective. I haven't seen much of that. Maybe we can get a clearer idea.
Why am I looking for reasons? In the hope that if we are able to put our finger on it [Sigh! Wrong expression!], there might be hope for our daughters. I would not want my daughter to avoid doing something she wants to do, just out of fear of men, as I have very often found myself doing. I want my daughter to live the life that I haven't.
I would really appreciate your thoughts on this. Of both men and women.
[Note: My apologies to all the wonderful men I know, for using the generic "men" in this post, instead of "some men". Out of every 10 men I know, 9 are absolutely beyond censure, but the horrible 1 man brings disrepute to the entire male populace.]
Update: Please read the comments too.
Note 1: If you are sick and tired of hearing about eve-teasing, please feel free to skip this post :)
Note 2: This is not a Feminist Woman's Day post :)
In this post, I had written:
My mother tells me that eve-teasing was rampant in her younger days. Her reasoning is that it was the only way the poor males could establish contact with the girls, because the times were such that males and females did not talk to each other, even in college. Now, it is much more open, youngsters go out in mixed groups all the time, so males are not really frustrated, and thus eve-teasing has reduced.
My uncle and I had a discussion on this. He posed a question to me.
"If that is one of the main reasons for eve-teasing", he said, "then consider your grandfather's generation. Contact between men and women, not of the same family, was even more scarce at that time. Was there any eve-teasing then?"
I was almost amused. "No", I said emphatically.
"Why? It is because of urbanization, and hence anonymity. In those days, there were smaller towns, and everybody knew everybody else. You could never hope to go unnoticed if you as much as looked at another girl. Now, you are just one in a crowd. You can do anything and get away with it. With that confidence, men go ahead and do anything."
He had a point. But one more reason could be that women rarely went out unescorted in my grandfather's generation. But this got me thinking. If this was one of the
reasons, then why has eve-teasing reduced, from the time I was in my teens, to now? Bangalore is bigger, anonymity is greater - then why? If I consider eve-teasing as something which men do just coz they think women are inferior and hence their property, with whom they can do anything they want to, then there is an explanation. I tend to think that men have finally recognized that women are as good as, if not better than men. Or if not anything else, that women are educated, confident, and can stand up for themselves. They probably do not want to take a risk with getting on the wrong side of a woman, coz there is no saying what she might do. Can this be a reason?
Next reason, movies. I think this is the greatest culprit. Movie-makers claim that art imitates life. Then what instance in real life inspired the first idiot to put in an eve-teasing scene in his film? Boy teases girl, girl gets horrified, boy persists, girl resists, boys sings to girl in public, girl melts into boy's arms, and they live happily ever after. How many movies stand on this theme? Within a span of one silly song, the boy and girl move from being strangers to being married. If this does not inspire men, then what will?
They must naturally think that if they tease a random girl on the street and compliment different parts of her body, she will get all flattered and fall for him, and all's well that ends well. Utter rubbish. Show me a single instance where eve-teasing has led to marriage in real life, and I will eat my words.
Then, once again, why has eve-teasing reduced now? I do not really have an answer. Maybe the boy-teasing-girl-on-street kind of movies have reduced. Maybe men have realized that it doesn't work after all. But behind all this comes one more question. Why do married men indulge in this activity? What is the reason for all the groping and touching? The first answer that comes to my mind is JFK - Just For Kicks. He feels like a hero. He feels superior. He feels like a "man", a word that has a perverted meaning in his stunted intelligence.
[Sidenote: Am I the only one who thinks that eve-teasing has reduced in Bangalore? Please note, I am not saying its not there at all. I am just saying that it seems to be much less from what my teenage memories tell me. Or is it that I do not notice it any longer? Or is it that I have become too old to get eve-teased? :)]
Also, reading all the experiences of other bloggers, I realized one thing. Those from the north have faced even more severe instances of eve-teasing. My experiences sound like mosquito bites compared to their snake-bites. But why? From what I have read, I gather that over the centuries, a woman's place in society has been much higher in the south, than in the north of India. Probably men take women for granted even more in the north. Maybe that is why eve-teasing is more rampant there. [I might be wrong, I am open to correction.]
Well, I don't really know. I can just take refuge in the fact that eve-teasing is not the outcome of just one or two reasons. It is a combination of complex social and psychological issues. Also, I would love it if somebody comes out with a small-town perspective. I haven't seen much of that. Maybe we can get a clearer idea.
Why am I looking for reasons? In the hope that if we are able to put our finger on it [Sigh! Wrong expression!], there might be hope for our daughters. I would not want my daughter to avoid doing something she wants to do, just out of fear of men, as I have very often found myself doing. I want my daughter to live the life that I haven't.
I would really appreciate your thoughts on this. Of both men and women.
[Note: My apologies to all the wonderful men I know, for using the generic "men" in this post, instead of "some men". Out of every 10 men I know, 9 are absolutely beyond censure, but the horrible 1 man brings disrepute to the entire male populace.]
Update: Please read the comments too.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Can you hear it?
Many many years ago. A hot summer's day. First day of the academic year. I was walking back from school with a new friend. We reached an intersection, and she and I had to go different ways.
"Bye! It was good to meet you!" I called out to her.
There were a group of guys in a car parked close to us.
"Bye to her... now meet ussssss", they called out, with wolf-whistles.
I was being eve-teased. For the first time in my life. I was horrified, and nearly struck dumb. But I desperately wanted to impress my new friend.
"Mind your own business, Mister, or I will tell the police", I hollered, in true Bollywood style.
"Oye!" said one, and opened one door of the car.
That was it. All my bravado vanished and I ran home as fast as my skinny ten-year-old legs could carry me. I reached home and half-proud, half-scared, poured it all out to my mother. She listened, eyes widening.
"Where was that car parked?"
"In front of the bar!", said I, nonchalantly.
"Shruthi! Those guys could have been drunk! They could have done anything! Do not, I repeat, DO NOT answer back to them! Just ignore them!"
So I obediently ignored all subsequent eve-teasers until I was in my mid-teens. That age when you want to rebel against everything. That age when your blood starts getting heated up. And also that age, when eve-teasing really takes root in a girl's life. I started retaliating. I began with glares. I considered answering back. But I heard from my friends' experiences, that answering back just encourages them, and that many of the girls ended up being followed all the way home. So I gave up on that. If anybody "accidentally" brushed passed me, I would lash out with all my strength. Soon, I became street-smart. I could identify potential eve-teasers, and when they walked towards me, arms swinging, fingers poised to make contact with me, I would just swerve at the last moment and walk away coolly.
But after some time, verbal harassment became so commonplace that it did not even register in my head. Or probably I just pretended that nothing ever happened, in concern for my own sanity and mood. I wonder at what point we give up. At what point we give it up as a lost case. At what point we become immune.
But what is unfair for the men, is that just because of a few obnoxious specimens, we tend to look at every man with suspicion. But that does not mean we loosen up and start giving the men the benefit of doubt. We cannot afford that luxury.
My mother tells me that eve-teasing was rampant in her younger days. Her reasoning is that it was the only way the poor males could establish contact with the girls, because the times were such that males and females did not talk to each other, even in college. My mother had not talked to any of the guys in her class. Now, it is much more open, youngsters go out in mixed groups all the time, so males are not really frustrated, and thus eve-teasing has reduced. I see sense in her logic.
Probably that is why I find that eve-teasing has reduced drastically here in Bangalore. I can now walk on the roads with ease, without worrying about being bothered. I think men are definitely better-behaved nowadays, at least in Bangalore.
Even Mumbai, of which I had heard so much, was kind to me. Ok, granted, I did not travel too often in the local trains, but I personally found that the men kept to themselves. I was actually surprised. What a sad state of affairs! Being surprised when a man behaves decently! Anyway, I have heard lots of stories of Mumbai, but luckily, I was spared of all the degradation.
In stark contrast was Delhi. I spent just four days there, and I felt terribly violated, just by the way the men looked at me. In fact, the first day, I had worn jeans and a short top, and so the next day, I came out with baggy trousers and a loose shirt (hadn't carried Indian clothes with me, else would have worn that). But still it did not get better. I realized it was not my clothes, but it was just that I was a female. Harassment need not be just verbal or physical, I realized. The lewd look, eyes glazed, mouth open, saliva almost dripping.... to say the least, I was disgusted. Good I do not live in Delhi. How do the women there put up with it?
Once bitten, twice shy. Even now, when I see suspicious would-be perpetuators on the street, automatically my shoulders straighten up, my chin goes up, my stride becomes longer, my arms swing faster, and every muscle of the body is poised - for what? For ignoring them? For that is what happens usually!
Written in support of Blank Noise Project Blog-a-thon 2006. I am not sure how much this write-up will help in improving the situation. Maybe enough testimonials might cause a snowballing effect, and result in a law being passed against eve-teasers that recognizes eve-teasing as the heinous offence that it is. Or maybe someone, somewhere, will read this and think twice before stooping low. Unlikely? But is there a law against hoping?
Exploring the reasons behind eve-teasing..
"Bye! It was good to meet you!" I called out to her.
There were a group of guys in a car parked close to us.
"Bye to her... now meet ussssss", they called out, with wolf-whistles.
I was being eve-teased. For the first time in my life. I was horrified, and nearly struck dumb. But I desperately wanted to impress my new friend.
"Mind your own business, Mister, or I will tell the police", I hollered, in true Bollywood style.
"Oye!" said one, and opened one door of the car.
That was it. All my bravado vanished and I ran home as fast as my skinny ten-year-old legs could carry me. I reached home and half-proud, half-scared, poured it all out to my mother. She listened, eyes widening.
"Where was that car parked?"
"In front of the bar!", said I, nonchalantly.
"Shruthi! Those guys could have been drunk! They could have done anything! Do not, I repeat, DO NOT answer back to them! Just ignore them!"
So I obediently ignored all subsequent eve-teasers until I was in my mid-teens. That age when you want to rebel against everything. That age when your blood starts getting heated up. And also that age, when eve-teasing really takes root in a girl's life. I started retaliating. I began with glares. I considered answering back. But I heard from my friends' experiences, that answering back just encourages them, and that many of the girls ended up being followed all the way home. So I gave up on that. If anybody "accidentally" brushed passed me, I would lash out with all my strength. Soon, I became street-smart. I could identify potential eve-teasers, and when they walked towards me, arms swinging, fingers poised to make contact with me, I would just swerve at the last moment and walk away coolly.
But after some time, verbal harassment became so commonplace that it did not even register in my head. Or probably I just pretended that nothing ever happened, in concern for my own sanity and mood. I wonder at what point we give up. At what point we give it up as a lost case. At what point we become immune.
But what is unfair for the men, is that just because of a few obnoxious specimens, we tend to look at every man with suspicion. But that does not mean we loosen up and start giving the men the benefit of doubt. We cannot afford that luxury.
My mother tells me that eve-teasing was rampant in her younger days. Her reasoning is that it was the only way the poor males could establish contact with the girls, because the times were such that males and females did not talk to each other, even in college. My mother had not talked to any of the guys in her class. Now, it is much more open, youngsters go out in mixed groups all the time, so males are not really frustrated, and thus eve-teasing has reduced. I see sense in her logic.
Probably that is why I find that eve-teasing has reduced drastically here in Bangalore. I can now walk on the roads with ease, without worrying about being bothered. I think men are definitely better-behaved nowadays, at least in Bangalore.
Even Mumbai, of which I had heard so much, was kind to me. Ok, granted, I did not travel too often in the local trains, but I personally found that the men kept to themselves. I was actually surprised. What a sad state of affairs! Being surprised when a man behaves decently! Anyway, I have heard lots of stories of Mumbai, but luckily, I was spared of all the degradation.
In stark contrast was Delhi. I spent just four days there, and I felt terribly violated, just by the way the men looked at me. In fact, the first day, I had worn jeans and a short top, and so the next day, I came out with baggy trousers and a loose shirt (hadn't carried Indian clothes with me, else would have worn that). But still it did not get better. I realized it was not my clothes, but it was just that I was a female. Harassment need not be just verbal or physical, I realized. The lewd look, eyes glazed, mouth open, saliva almost dripping.... to say the least, I was disgusted. Good I do not live in Delhi. How do the women there put up with it?
Once bitten, twice shy. Even now, when I see suspicious would-be perpetuators on the street, automatically my shoulders straighten up, my chin goes up, my stride becomes longer, my arms swing faster, and every muscle of the body is poised - for what? For ignoring them? For that is what happens usually!
Written in support of Blank Noise Project Blog-a-thon 2006. I am not sure how much this write-up will help in improving the situation. Maybe enough testimonials might cause a snowballing effect, and result in a law being passed against eve-teasers that recognizes eve-teasing as the heinous offence that it is. Or maybe someone, somewhere, will read this and think twice before stooping low. Unlikely? But is there a law against hoping?
Exploring the reasons behind eve-teasing..
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Kya Jaadu Dala...
More than twenty years ago, a hassled mother wanted to attend a concert by Smt. Girija Devi. But she had no idea what to do with her restless three-year old brat. She finally hit upon the solution. There was only one way in which her little daughter could be kept engaged. Food. She took a bag of seedless grapes to the concert, and proceeded to feed the kid. But the little one did not like the skin on the grapes. So the mom actually spent three hours, skinning each grape, and shoving the soft sweet pulp of the grape into the kid's waiting mouth. The little girl was totally occupied, and the mom got to listen to three hours of wonderful music.
If you have not already guessed, the harassed lady was my mom and the brat was, well, yours truly.
Actually I am surprised that my mom had to resort to this to keep me silent, because she tells me that I was a great fan of Girija Devi even then. If my mom hummed or sang as she moved about the house, I would order her to stop, and play a tape of Girija Devi instead.
Well, that was a long long time ago. Yesterday, I listened to Girija Devi again. Live. At the Chowdaiah Memorial Hall, Bangalore. And before you ask, no, this time, I did not need grapes to keep me occupied.
I was a little hesitant at first, to actually go and listen to her sing. I knew that she was far into her seventies. I writhe uncomfortably listening to Lata Mangeshkar, who is around the same age as Girija Devi. Lately, even Asha Bhonsle makes me want to clap my palms on my ears and run for my life. And she is younger. Then how would I be able to sit and listen to this seventy-six year old sing?
[Disclaimer: I am a big fan of both Lata and Asha, and mean no disrespect to them. I have spent many happy hours listening to Lata's unbelievably sweet voice and Asha's tantalizing, versatile music. But they should know when to stop. Or, music directors should stop asking them to sing for them. I have lost count of the number of beautiful songs that would have sounded far better if sung by singers who did not sound like they had marbles stuck in their throats].
Before Girija Devi began, she spoke to the audience in a soft, quavering voice. I was now almost sure that it was going to be an evening of respectful squirming in my seat.
Then she began. The first few notes of the beautiful and plaintive Raag Jog. The hall fell silent. My mouth fell open. Her voice filled the auditorium. Rich. Clear. Vibrant. Resonant. Like the tinkle of a rich brass bell. Effortless. Powerful. She sang like the stage was her domain, and the Raag was her playground. The magic in her voice was undiminished. The lady sitting on the stage was no longer seventy-six years old. The power in her voice belied her age. Her range, her effortless movement from note to note, her absolute ease while singing the high notes, the total command over her voice - it was a captivating performance.
I wished she would never stop. I was hungry and tired and it was very late in the night, but I would have gladly stayed on if she had continued. But everything has to come to an end! At the end, of course, she received a standing ovation, and after the concert, the crowd back-stage was unmanageable. But still, my sister and I pushed through the crowd and paid our respects to her.
One of the pieces she sang was a Thumri, the first line of which goes "Kya Jaadu Dala, Deewana kiye Shyaam" [What magic have you played upon me? You have driven me crazy, O Krishna]. Actually, I could sing that about her. She was the one who wrought magic upon the audience. And how!
May her tribe increase.
If you have not already guessed, the harassed lady was my mom and the brat was, well, yours truly.
Actually I am surprised that my mom had to resort to this to keep me silent, because she tells me that I was a great fan of Girija Devi even then. If my mom hummed or sang as she moved about the house, I would order her to stop, and play a tape of Girija Devi instead.
Well, that was a long long time ago. Yesterday, I listened to Girija Devi again. Live. At the Chowdaiah Memorial Hall, Bangalore. And before you ask, no, this time, I did not need grapes to keep me occupied.
I was a little hesitant at first, to actually go and listen to her sing. I knew that she was far into her seventies. I writhe uncomfortably listening to Lata Mangeshkar, who is around the same age as Girija Devi. Lately, even Asha Bhonsle makes me want to clap my palms on my ears and run for my life. And she is younger. Then how would I be able to sit and listen to this seventy-six year old sing?
[Disclaimer: I am a big fan of both Lata and Asha, and mean no disrespect to them. I have spent many happy hours listening to Lata's unbelievably sweet voice and Asha's tantalizing, versatile music. But they should know when to stop. Or, music directors should stop asking them to sing for them. I have lost count of the number of beautiful songs that would have sounded far better if sung by singers who did not sound like they had marbles stuck in their throats].
Before Girija Devi began, she spoke to the audience in a soft, quavering voice. I was now almost sure that it was going to be an evening of respectful squirming in my seat.
Then she began. The first few notes of the beautiful and plaintive Raag Jog. The hall fell silent. My mouth fell open. Her voice filled the auditorium. Rich. Clear. Vibrant. Resonant. Like the tinkle of a rich brass bell. Effortless. Powerful. She sang like the stage was her domain, and the Raag was her playground. The magic in her voice was undiminished. The lady sitting on the stage was no longer seventy-six years old. The power in her voice belied her age. Her range, her effortless movement from note to note, her absolute ease while singing the high notes, the total command over her voice - it was a captivating performance.
I wished she would never stop. I was hungry and tired and it was very late in the night, but I would have gladly stayed on if she had continued. But everything has to come to an end! At the end, of course, she received a standing ovation, and after the concert, the crowd back-stage was unmanageable. But still, my sister and I pushed through the crowd and paid our respects to her.
One of the pieces she sang was a Thumri, the first line of which goes "Kya Jaadu Dala, Deewana kiye Shyaam" [What magic have you played upon me? You have driven me crazy, O Krishna]. Actually, I could sing that about her. She was the one who wrought magic upon the audience. And how!
May her tribe increase.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
KISS
This is a word-to-word conversation I had with someone, lets call him A. He buzzed me on the office chat program. This is how it went.
[Me pretending to work very hard, eyebrows knitted, staring at the screen, while all I am doing is counting the number of lines of email that can fit into the preview pane window of Outlook]
A: Hi Shruthi, how are you? How is work? I hope it is piling up now.
[Duh! Who's this guy? And what kind of a person would say "I hope your work is piling up"... what exactly did he mean to say? And why is he asking me that? And that brings me to the first question - who is this guy?]
Me: Hi.. I am sorry I don't recognize you.
[Long silence]
A: Hi, please permit me to inquire if I am interacting with Shruthi of XYZ dept?
[Permit? Inquire? Interact?]
Me: No.
[Short silence]
A: I'm sorry for botheration, I was in the impression of speaking to the right person.
[Check out the formality, dude!]
Me: No problem.
A: Bye.
[Thank God he did not say "permit me to take your leave"]
Me: Bye.
This conversation could have gone as follows:
A: Hi Shruthi, how are you? How's work?
Me: I'm sorry, I don't recognize you.
A: Oh, aren't you Shruthi of XYZ dept?
Me: No, I'm not.
A: Sorry to bother you.
Me: No problem
Then the goodbyes.
Short and sweet. No excessive pressure on the keyboard. No extra brain signals required to decipher the meaning of the formal and long words.
Why do people strive to make their words so ceremonial and ponderous? This is especially obvious in mails and chats. Is it to give the impression that they know more English than they do? Whatever it is, it never ceases to amuse me.
In all the courses on email etiquette, we are taught to keep our communication simple. Indians have a tendency to sound too formal and use complex sentences in official correspondence. Just lighten up, use short and simple sentences. Use the active voice, run a spell-check, and avoid sms language (ur, gr8, etc). Go easy on the formality, steer clear of clichés, and be wary of Indianisms - they just slip into our writing every now and then. These tips should help for any kind of written communication, including blogging! Very often, a beautiful piece of writing is marred by such slip-ups, which can easily be avoided with a little awareness.
To sum up, I will take refuge in a cliché, so please forgive me. :) Just remember to K.I.S.S - Keep It Short and Simple!
Happy writing! :) And yes, if anybody knows the meaning of "Hope your work is piling up", please let me know! :)
[Me pretending to work very hard, eyebrows knitted, staring at the screen, while all I am doing is counting the number of lines of email that can fit into the preview pane window of Outlook]
A: Hi Shruthi, how are you? How is work? I hope it is piling up now.
[Duh! Who's this guy? And what kind of a person would say "I hope your work is piling up"... what exactly did he mean to say? And why is he asking me that? And that brings me to the first question - who is this guy?]
Me: Hi.. I am sorry I don't recognize you.
[Long silence]
A: Hi, please permit me to inquire if I am interacting with Shruthi of XYZ dept?
[Permit? Inquire? Interact?]
Me: No.
[Short silence]
A: I'm sorry for botheration, I was in the impression of speaking to the right person.
[Check out the formality, dude!]
Me: No problem.
A: Bye.
[Thank God he did not say "permit me to take your leave"]
Me: Bye.
This conversation could have gone as follows:
A: Hi Shruthi, how are you? How's work?
Me: I'm sorry, I don't recognize you.
A: Oh, aren't you Shruthi of XYZ dept?
Me: No, I'm not.
A: Sorry to bother you.
Me: No problem
Then the goodbyes.
Short and sweet. No excessive pressure on the keyboard. No extra brain signals required to decipher the meaning of the formal and long words.
Why do people strive to make their words so ceremonial and ponderous? This is especially obvious in mails and chats. Is it to give the impression that they know more English than they do? Whatever it is, it never ceases to amuse me.
In all the courses on email etiquette, we are taught to keep our communication simple. Indians have a tendency to sound too formal and use complex sentences in official correspondence. Just lighten up, use short and simple sentences. Use the active voice, run a spell-check, and avoid sms language (ur, gr8, etc). Go easy on the formality, steer clear of clichés, and be wary of Indianisms - they just slip into our writing every now and then. These tips should help for any kind of written communication, including blogging! Very often, a beautiful piece of writing is marred by such slip-ups, which can easily be avoided with a little awareness.
To sum up, I will take refuge in a cliché, so please forgive me. :) Just remember to K.I.S.S - Keep It Short and Simple!
Happy writing! :) And yes, if anybody knows the meaning of "Hope your work is piling up", please let me know! :)
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