The End- Of -Term Cleaning

It's that time of the year again.

New books have to be bought. The old ones have to be either given away or disposed off. New notebooks have to be covered with brown paper. There will be new pencils and pens. Erasers and sharpeners. Paints and crayons.

There is plenty of anticipation in the air. There is also some consternation. The untutored mind looks at the new syllabus and proclaims, "We can never do this, this looks too tough for eight year olds."  Of course with time, the same syllabus becomes "So easy that even a six year old can do this."

The house is always a mess. Too many books. Way too many notebooks. Reams and reams of brown paper. Scissors that get lost at the most inappropriate moments. Bottles of gum that inadvertently topple over and create a mess on the table top. The screaming father. Someone always takes his pen to write on the labels but does not return it. Kids scream equally hard. It is just a pen after all. Grandma never screams. But her TV does. And the mother screams the most. She after all has to do most of the covering and labeling  and writing part.

The mother also has another tough job to do. Her little one is an artist of sorts. She draws all over her books, notebooks and all the other unimportant papers that need to be thrown away. Which work of art  is to be preserved? Which one is to be thrown away? It is a difficult decision. Some sketches are mere scribbles. Some are hurriedly drawn doodles on her text books. Most of them are in the class work notebooks. "Why did you draw in your class work books?" " Because I finished early. And because I wanted ma'am to know I really understood the lessons very well. And because I felt like drawing."

So anything connected to sunshine has a picture of a resplendent sun. The lesson on festivals has Ravana burning and Santa beaming. There are pictures of flowers, children flying kites, man feeding a cow. The budding artist never lets go of an opportunity. Or for that matter a lesson. But sadly, everything is on notebooks that have an expiry date.

Of course apart from these, there are those loose sheets of papers where she has drawn. One can of course preserve them. But the trouble is she has been drawing and painting since she was a three year old. And now there are too many such sheets.

So over the years the heartless mother has learned what to do. Keep the finished sketches. Throw the unfinished ones. And always throw the ones she has drawn in the notebooks. There is only so much storage space in the flat she calls home.

The story has begun again this year. Make place for the new. Throw away the old. Clean, arrange, stack, store. There is a slight difference however. The mother now has a blog. And she can now share some of these paintings with her friends.

Technology can sometimes be handy.

The heart need not ache so much this time.

Saddi Dilli And Aamchi Mumbai

Every time I open my mouth to say I grew up in Delhi, most Mumbaikars exclaim with horror, "But isn't that an awful city to live in?" That  question is generally followed by," Didn't you feel horribly unsafe there?"  then, " Were you ever, you know, molested on the roads?" And then, "Aren't you glad you stay in Mumbai now?" And of course the icing on the cake," So which city do you think is better?"

 I used to answer them pretty honestly once. No. I didn't find the city awful, in fact I loved it. Yes I did, but very rarely.  No I did not have my butt pinched or anything like that every time I went out.(It did happen once in a bus, but I pinched back. Hard) Yes I am glad I stay in Mumbai. And well, to the last one, that question is so stupid it does not even deserve an answer.

For some reason, people tend to think that you can not love two cities equally. That you must prefer one over the other. That the preference better be Mumbai because no sane person will ever prefer a city known for the Punjabi culture of over the top display of show-sha  and name dropping. And what about the danger lurking at every corner? A testosterone laden Jat male just might grab you, rape you and then leave you to die. It is pathetic that some of the people I know, all well educated, well read and fairly well balanced, tend to be so biased. Earlier I used to get angry. Now I just laugh.

Because there is humour to be found in every corner of both these Indian cities. When I came to Mumbai as a young bride in the early nineties, the city's breakneck pace amazed me. No one had time for anything superfluous. When I went for veggie shopping, I invariably asked the wrong question. What's more, I took too long to ask it. Now of course I have become wise. "Bhai-saab, pyaaz kya bhao de rahen hain?" has been replaced by " Kanda kitne ka?" Short and crisp. And you get the same answer. Amazing.

It took me some time to get used to the city's brash language. I used to cringe every time I heard the Bombaiyya version of Hindi. Once, while selecting some footwear from a particular hawker at Linking Road, I was told, " Leneka hai toh loh nahi to jao, khali-peeli apunka bheja mat kharab karo. Apun ke paas itna time nahi". Coming from the land of the traders who always said, "Dekh lijiye behenji, dekhne ka koi paisa nahi lagta," it was a rude culture shock. My traumatised self almost needed therapy to go back to Linking Road. Now when I venture out there, I make my purchases and quickly get away. Honestly, who really has the patience to deal with fussy customers?

Of course shopping in Delhi could be equally mind numbing, specially for those lost souls who are not used to the North Indian twang. Like my husband. He was more at home in Mumbai, where the strictly vegetarian Gujarati shopkeepers did not stock anything even remotely connected to animals, except milk. He was used to asking the grocers whether they kept eggs. He did the same in Delhi once. " Kya aap ande dete hain?"  The grocer without blinking said " Sirji main toh nahi deta par murgi deti hain. Aapko chahiye?" He was speechless but he bravely went ahead and chose what he had to buy. While making the payment, the grocer said " Aap ji chaliye, saaman ghar bhijwata hoon. Bas yehi kafi hain ki aapke ghar mein kuch whore bhi bhejoon?" This time it was my husband who needed the therapy.

Now, you tell me, when they ask me which city I love more, what do I reply? Both cities have made me what I am today. Delhi is beautiful, gracious, old world charm and wide open spaces. Mumbai is spunky, funky, glitzy and modern. In both cities I have a home. And I love both of them unconditionally. It is unfair when people compare these two cities and find one lacking.

So when I am asked which team I am cheering for this IPL, I say unabashedly the Kolkata Knight Riders. Because sadly, some people, even those who are well educated, well read and fairly well balanced, tend to be biased about their home state.

 Disgraceful, isn't it?

I did not translate the Hindi sentences into English as I thought the humour would  perhaps be lost in translation. If some one wants it translated, I will do it.

Dude, Have You Seen My Humour?

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My precious cousin let me know over a cup of coffee and a computer screen that she was missing my funny posts. I thought she wanted to say that I was a silly, intellectually superficial, ditzy female and I had no business writing on grave matters and that I totally sucked at serious writing. Big time. But I guess she chose to be diplomatic. Our family is rather big on 'Respect- your- elders- and- hold- your- wayward- tongue' stuff. So there.

She was not the only one. Some of you had subtly let me know the same thing. So since then I'd been searching for my long lost sense of humour. I have actually forgotten when I saw it last. Probably it was when I inadvertently caught a few scenes of Rahul Dulhaniya Blah Blah Blah. But later I realized the show had actually made me angry. Or perhaps it was when I watched the Parliament in action and some goons tore the papers and tried to uproot the mics in the Rajya Sabha. It was straight out of a badly written hilarious soap opera but wait, it was more disgusting than funny. Was it when my 14 year old daughter let me know that she wanted to have a tattoo? Uh-huh. That time I was trying to save myself from a cardiac arrest and some trauma to the  brain. Who cared about the elusive sense of humour? Wait,  I got it. I saw it last just two nights back. It was  when my husband brought home a friend for dinner and let me know our guest would be staying the night. Wasn't the situation outrageously funny? Here I was, dashing around the house trying to clean it up, changing the sheets and cleaning the pot, making dinner, helping my daughter prepare for her Hindi exam the next day (God help) and teaching the other one some much needed table manners. The situation decidedly smacked of hilarity. But then I lost it.

I really valued my sense of humour. It was one of the few things my father gave me. Apart from a good education of course. He gave my brother his house and his car, he gave my mother happiness and exasperation and he gave me his sense of humour. A fair man, my dad. So you see, my humour is practically a family heirloom. In the good old days of no television, my family would sit in one room and my father would crack us up with his pathetic puns. We did not have much money, but we had a lot of fun. Of course my daughters these days enjoy the fun as well as the money...sigh, what can I say, the world is foolish at times. 

But currently I am desperate. So desperate that I have started reading romance novels and watching a serial named  Bidai- babul -ke ghar -se- tere -ghar- tak- par -pyar- to- ho- gaya- kam-do-hanso-ke jode- mein. Or whatever. I am yet to figure out who is getting married to whom and what do the men do in the serial but I know I will eventually solve all the mysteries. And in the process find my  humour again. About the serial, I have already figured out the more outlandish the bindi, the more chances of the female to be the vamp. Now I just have to figure out where my funny bone disappeared.

So, if any of you happen to find my humour wandering about on the streets of Mumbai, hold on to it tight and inform me immediately. If not for mine than for my friends' and cousin's sake.

 I think they need my father's gift more than  than I do.

What Price Freedom?

When my elder daughter was in class VI, the school had organized a seminar on Mythology for the students. She was asked to submit a painting of any Hindu god. My daughter had painstakingly drawn a huge portrait of Lord Shiva. She had spent hours on the painting, doing it a little by little. She, who never cared for drawing; sketched, rubbed and sketched again to draw a God we were so familiar with. She had experimented with colours to get the best effect. Embellished the final art work with gold and silver paint. Done the detailing with the finest of brushes. Her blood, tears, toil and sweat. The painting had them all. The day of the submission, an angry and spiteful classmate, for no reason, poured water all over the painting, stamped on it and tore a corner.

This needless act of violence devastated my daughter. She was angry, hurt and shocked. She did not understand why a boy would deliberately try to destroy a painting that she had so carefully and diligently drawn. She was inconsolable. The others in the class had rallied around her.They tried to salvage the painting by re-doing portions of it. They taped the torn corner with utmost care and went with her to the class teacher to complain against the bully. The class teacher dismissed their complaint with a " Boys will be boys and just get on with your lives" admonition. She was told not to be so "juvenile" and to learn how to deal with bullies. Though I did not really agree with the teacher at that time, I thought she indeed needed to learn how never to let the bullies win.

My daughter was no M.F Hussein.Though the people who destroyed his precious paintings and drove him out of the country were exactly like my daughter's classmate. Bull headed and prejudiced. And I can't help thinking that by choosing to accept the citizenship of Qatar, Mr. Hussein just gave in to the bullies.

Hussein has decided to be a citizen of a country which is not exactly known for freedom of expressions. We may have our share of fanatics and fundamentalists,we may still have a flawed system, but we definitely have a better track record than the Arab world. Specially when it comes to 'artistic freedom'. He of course would  have the freedom to draw as many nude figures of Hindu gods and goddesses, if that was what Hussein meant by the term.

In India, his homeland, he was considered a living legend, a hero, a national treasure.  In a country of one billion people, which struggles to produce a true icon, he was the free spirited, flamboyant artist many considered a role model. A struggler who made it big. A dreamer who found the rainbow. An inspiration to many. To leave now, at the age of 95, to another place for artistic freedom, just does not make any sense to me.

M.F. Hussein says that 90% of the people in this country love him and want him. And at the same time he claims his country rejected him. I would like to know his interpretation of rejection, just as I would like to know his interpretation of freedom. I do know however that by not staying here and taking on the bullies, he did a great disservice to the people of his own country who admired him. By fighting for his right to express himself here, on his home turf, he could have become a greater hero in my eyes.

Violence and vandalism have no place in a civilized country. Specially when that vandalism is directed towards art. But neither does hurting other people's religious sentiments have any place in a secular nation. We all have our views and we all have the right to express ourselves. In a civilized world, that expression also comes with a price.

At the age of 95, by settling down in a nation not really famous for respecting the fundamental rights, away from home, from family, away from the city that nurtured him...I wonder what price Mr. Hussein paid for his freedom.

Technology-Disconnect

My computer went on a self-imposed exile.

Two weeks ago, it sighed, coughed, sputtered and then became completely inert.

I can not really blame it. My chats on gtalk and my comments on Facebook have been on the rise lately. The chats, specially the ones I have with her, lean on the scorching side. Plus, all that unrestrained use of the web to search for school projects, recipes, craft ideas, blog ideas, music download... the poor thing could not handle the pressure and simply burnt itself down.

So, I experienced what my daughter's friends call a total ' Techno-Disco' for a fortnight.  For the uninitiated, that is Technology Disconnect. A space where there are no World Wide Web, Facebook or gmail. Can't say I enjoyed my hibernation, but it had its moments. Like when I started watching the saas-bahu serials out of sheer desperation. My journey into the Indian television world almost made me want to hit the escape and the F1 keys. But that's another blog post.

We women, tend to use our social networking sites as family chat sessions. We build relationships here, we nurture them here and we make our voices heard over here. Here, we offer advice, seek help and generally have a good time, with plenty of laughter thrown in. Men on the other hand, do not seem to be so emotionally connected here. They use the internet perhaps as a transactional tool. They book tickets online, pay for their bills online, and do their banking online. No relationship building over the net for them. Even the games they play here are the solitary kind. They tend to be objective and analytical in the cyberspace. We, I guess, tend to be more creative and emotional.

 I read somewhere that there were more women users of Facebook and other networking sites than men. I can not speak for other men, but I know my husband looks at these sites with utter disdain. He thinks moments spent on Facebook is a total waste of time. He would rather pick up the phone and call someone up if he wanted to connect. I on the other hand, thrive on the comments that my status updates get on Facebook. I love the witty one liners, the cheesy replies and the juicy gossip. I absolutely adore my 10 minutes- a-day Facebook interactions. It is a huge stress buster for me. The same goes for blogging. More than my love for writing, it is my love for social interaction that draws me to it. My readers are more like friends who come over for a chat. And that is why, when I can not blog, I tend to miss it so intensely. More than the technology, it is the emotional disconnect with my friends that gets to me.

Apparently the female brain has 11% more cells in the area of the brain called Planum Temporale. That is the area that perceives and processes language and music. Women tend to be better communicators and that is why the networking sites are popular amongst them. So all you men who accuse us women of talking too much, it is simply because we know more words than you do.

No wonder the poor chap burnt down. Women outnumber men pretty substantially in my family.

But this techno-disco thing was not all bad. Once I got over the initial despair, I quite enjoyed chatting and catching up with some of my long lost friends over the phone. Facebook and gmail may be great, but nothing like letting your voice do the talking. Try it sometimes, I bet you will not be disappointed. Your voice will be a little rusty from lack of use but soon you will get it back.

And that, after all, has been our intention all along, right?  To make our voices heard?

I wish all of you a very colourful Holi. The header picture was taken by my daughter, Ishita.

My Name Is Aparna And I am An Indian

There were some Pakistani Television serials in the '80s that I loved. Dhoop Kinare. Ankahee. Tanhaiyan. I loved the leading actors and actresses. Now, every time I see the regressive, third rated TV serials made here, I yearn for a good quality Dhoop Kinare kind of a series. There are Pakistani poets like Faiz I admire. I admire his composition, his ethos. His ability to create an impact with very simple language was brilliant. I love Ghulam Ali's ghazals. I also love listening to Rahat Fateh Ali Khan. I guess that makes me a traitor.

I am hurt that a tolerant Indian society is becoming  rigid day by day. Our country is diverse. There are many faiths, many languages, many communities. There are different food habits and different clothes. We still exist as one. My ideology may be different from yours but we have no right to verbally or physically abuse each other. We certainly do not have the right to damage public property just because our points of view vary.

I am disappointed that I will not be able to see a movie just because the leading actor according to some is not Indian enough. Just because he said he wanted to have some Pakistanis play in his IPL team. I am disappointed that 2 different political ideologies do not co-exist peacefully here.I am disappointed that people have decided to keep quiet on this issue. There have not been people lining up to buy tickets for the movie just to protest against the lawlessness. The people who terrorized Mumbai were not cricketers or singers or actors. So why brand every one alike?

I hope every one realizes that all Indians have a lot of love in them. That India stands for harmony and not hatred. That Indians may love all things foreign but still deeply remain patriotic. That one can appreciate a Pakisitani cricketer but still love Indian cricket. That one can not take our patriotism away just because we say something we believe in.

My heartfelt Valentine's Day wishes to all of you, though I know it is not an Indian custom. But all our numerous gods and saints preached love, didn't they? So have a beautiful time with your loved ones this weekend. And those of you who do manage to see My Name Is Khan, let me know how it was.

I guess till better sense prevails in Mumbai, I will have to do with your reviews.

I know the title of my post is a bit corny, but could not help it.

The Cringe Factor

I am old fashioned. Horribly so.

I can not see a movie that has some steamy scenes with my 14 year old daughter. The other day, I saw a   movie highly recommended by a close friend. “Can we see this with Ishita?" I specifically remember asking. “Oh yes" was the reply.

 Within a few moments of the movie starting, the hero and the heroine were unabashedly romancing each other. I spent half the movie looking at the floor and the other half surreptitiously looking at my daughter. She was of course all wide eyed eagerness. I on the other hand was cringing and squirming on the seat. Apart from having the heroine in various states of undress, the movie also had some extremely violent scenes. I definitely did not think the movie was appropriate for a 14 year old. Angry, I questioned my friend's judgement. “What? You found it inappropriate? Have you seen the clothes girls wear on MTV? And have you seen how violent the cartoons are these days? Trust me; she did not see anything that she hasn't seen before."

May be, but I am the kind of a mother who left her 14 year old behind to see Love Aaj Kal. Hilarious but true What was the harm in watching a hero and heroine having a few flings before and after marriage? Living together is no big deal in today’s world. So why not watch it on screen? But while watching the movie, there were several moments I felt glad our daughter had not accompanied us.

Innocence is slowly being lost in our world these days as more and more children are growing up on American TV shows. And the internet is certainly not helping. In Mumbai at least, I see my daughter's classmates aping the film heroines and wearing tank tops and mini skirts. I hear the boys her age using words I did not even know existed in the English language. I know some of her friends write on Facebook that they are in a 'relationship'. I see that and I feel awkward. I do not know whether having an old fashioned mother helps or harms my child. But I grew up in a different world and it is tough to let your values go, even for the sake of your own children.

Few months back my daughter Ayushi, who was not yet 8 at that time, came back from school all excited.  "Mamma, I learned a new word today."

“Wow! That's great! What was the word?"

"Gay. Supriya learned that from Dostana. It means a man loving and kissing another man."

I cringed.