My husband has been excommunicated from the Bengali community.
He does not have the typical Bengali traits and hates everything the community loves.
In the current football crazy Bengali world, he is showing utter apathy towards the game. He does not know how many teams are playing in the FIFA World Cup, he does not know the names of the players, he has no inkling as to who Ronaldo is and what colour jerseys the Brazilians (the eternal favourites of the Bongs) wear. His sins do not stop there. He hates fish, the Bengali's staple diet and has not touched the creature in the last 20 years. He hates Rabindrasangeet, every self respecting Bengali's pride and joy and he absolutely abhors eating rice before going to work. Naturally the community took major offence and finally kicked him out.
But my mother, the most loyal supporter my husband ever had, of course is not giving up. She uses every trick in the book to convert him back. And the most lethal weapon that she ruthlessly uses for this noble cause is the Jamai Shashthi.
For the uninitiated, Jamai Shashthi is celebrated all over Bengal on the sixth day of the Shukla Paksha of the month of Jyeshtha. (Translated into English, it means every year in June, around this time.) On this day, the mothers-in law prepare mouth watering delicacies and invite the jamais, or the sons in law to their homes. It goes without saying the food prepared by the moms-in-law happen to be the favourite of the jamais. Bengalis love to eat and on this day, tradition demands a grand feast. The more exotic the food, the better. Since my husband hates the traditional Bengali food, my mom actually serves him Chinese. Then there are the sweets. There are at least 5 varieties of them. And yes, in between the sweets and the fries and the lunch and the dinner and elaborate tea, there are also huge plates full of fruits. After this, a lot of jamais simply collapse and are unable to attend office the next day. Most bosses in Kolkata also suffer from the same condition and hence fully sympathize. The leaves are granted without any hesitation. They later on compare notes on whose mother in law prepared the best fare and who got the best gifts. (Did I tell you the jamais get gifts also? Shirts, trousers, wallets, books, watches...whatever they fancy) The daughters, though lament the fact that there is no special day assigned to them, do not really complain very loudly. Along with the jamais, they are also invited to their parents' homes for the feast.
Today happens to be Jamai Shashthi. My mother has been calling me for the last 2 weeks, nagging me to take my husband shopping to buy him whatever he wants. My husband asked if he could buy a BMW but my mom said she only had the money to buy him a cycle. So he had to be content with some clothing. She again called me last night, and then this morning to check if I had prepared his favourite stuff. Not satisfied with the food cooked at home, she demanded I take him out for, you guessed it, Chinese.
This has been going on for the last 17 years. Since my mother and I stay in different cities, she sends me some money every year and coaxes me to take my husband out for dinner. Next day she calls me again to know what all we ate. As he loves sweets and fruits with passion, she expects me to fill up my refrigerator with his favourite stuff and feed him all that periodically.
Today Kolkata would be wearing a festive look. Over too much food, the jamais and the rest of the gang would be discussing the rising prices of the fish, Brazil's not so charming display of football this year and the latest spat between Mamata and Budhdhadev. There would be a smattering of jokes that only the Bengalis could come up with, there would be some Rabindrasangeet and of course there would be enough food to feed the entire country. My husband, who is going over to Delhi on work, would be missing out on all that fun. In the morning he surreptitiously tried to find out what all my cousins would be eating today at their sasural and seemed a bit unhappy for missing out on all those jamai shashthi sweets.
BTW, the other day I said, "Did you see Messi? Absolutely dazzling foot work!"
He replied, "Your masi came? When? How is she? And since when has she dazzled with her foot work? She can hardly walk...."
And then he said, " Your Kaka, Masi are all in South Africa to watch football? How come I did not know?
So guys, do you think the Bengalis were wrong to throw him out of the community?
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
No Country Like Home
I have some memories of that year. Vague sketchy memories. I was too young, but I do remember the blackouts, the siren, the impassioned "Jai Bangla" cry. For those of us who were in Kolkata at that time, the war had entered our doorsteps. Millions had entered our country as refugees and the air was thick with tension.
The year was 1971. The Bangladeshis were fighting for liberation. Indira Gandhi was pledging full support. And India's Sam Manekshaw was masterminding strategies to win the war. Unlike the author of The Golden Age, children in India did not grow up listening to war stories. That perhaps is the reason why I found this particular book so fascinating and engrossing. The war was so near to me, yet I knew nothing of it.
The Golden Age by the Bangladeshi author Tahmima Anam won the Commonwealth Writers Prize in 2008. It is the story of a woman, Rehana Haque and her two children Sohail and Maya during the Bangladesh war. It is the story of a mother who held on to her two children with all her strength and never gave them up. It is the story of a country, battered and bruised but never giving up hope and it is the story of an obscene war, tearing apart ordinary lives and ordinary families. This was one stunning novel I hated to put down,
To be honest, the novel's first half did not impress me so much. I found some discrepancies in the initial pages. A Hindu neighbour of Rehana, called Supriya Sengupta wears a heavy gold mangalsutra to show she is married. Bengali women wear the mangalsutra as a fashion statement and not as a sign of marriage. We wear the 'loha' an iron bangle for that. We also wear the the traditional shankha-paula or the red and white bangles. Mangalsutra was never a part of bridal jewellery. It is only now, seeing women of other regions proudly flaunting this sacred thread, we have started wearing it. But we have no hesitation in taking this off when the saree or the outfit that we are wearing does not match with this accessory. To think that a woman in 1971 Bangladesh would wear one to indicate she was married seemed a bit unlikely to me. My mother's generation never wore the mangalsutra.
The story also mentions how Rehana took her children to see Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra in 1959. The reference of the movie is important here as this is one of the reasons Rehana lost custody of her children. I feel the author should have researched a bit more on this as the movie in question was released in 1963. A little bit imperfect history, but still the novel is powerfully written.
The other book I read in my quest to go round the world's libraries was Cry, The Beloved Country by Alan Paton. If the earlier book was gritty, this one was taut with emotions. This is the story of Stephen Kumalo, a black priest in a tiny village of South Africa who went to the big, bad city of Johannesburg to find his son. The book takes us through the black and white South Africa, the prosperity of the whites and the abject poverty of the blacks, the Shanty Town of the blacks and the beautiful houses of the whites. It explores the racial injustice in a country where the whites controlled the blacks and completely destroyed their tribal culture.
The book is remarkable. This is what I would call a true classic. Each word, carefully chosen is full of beauty, wisdom and despair. You have to read it. There is no other way to describe it. Grab your copy today.
One book set in Bangladesh. Another in far away South Africa. One place where heavy monsoon rains mercilessly destroy the lives of the people but make the land lush, green and fertile. Another, where there are continuous droughts and the land is almost always parched. Two different cultures, two different races. And two authors deeply in love with their land, their despair and their hope of renewal for their own countries.
So these were the books I read last week. I have already finished another book this week. But that is of course for my next post. Some of the books that I've shortlisted are as follows:
1. Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage by Alice Munro, a Canadian author. I fell in love with the name!
2. South Of The Border,West Of The Sun by Haruki Murakami, a Japanese. Again I loved the name and that is why I picked this up.
3. The Bookseller of Kabul by Asne Seierstad, a Norwegian journalist.
4. In The Pond by Ha Jin, a Chinese author, settled in USA.
I have been unable to decide on books from Australia and New Zealand. If you have a suggestion, then let me know. Till then I will be reading the ones listed above...
The other book I read in my quest to go round the world's libraries was Cry, The Beloved Country by Alan Paton. If the earlier book was gritty, this one was taut with emotions. This is the story of Stephen Kumalo, a black priest in a tiny village of South Africa who went to the big, bad city of Johannesburg to find his son. The book takes us through the black and white South Africa, the prosperity of the whites and the abject poverty of the blacks, the Shanty Town of the blacks and the beautiful houses of the whites. It explores the racial injustice in a country where the whites controlled the blacks and completely destroyed their tribal culture.
The book is remarkable. This is what I would call a true classic. Each word, carefully chosen is full of beauty, wisdom and despair. You have to read it. There is no other way to describe it. Grab your copy today.
One book set in Bangladesh. Another in far away South Africa. One place where heavy monsoon rains mercilessly destroy the lives of the people but make the land lush, green and fertile. Another, where there are continuous droughts and the land is almost always parched. Two different cultures, two different races. And two authors deeply in love with their land, their despair and their hope of renewal for their own countries.
So these were the books I read last week. I have already finished another book this week. But that is of course for my next post. Some of the books that I've shortlisted are as follows:
1. Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage by Alice Munro, a Canadian author. I fell in love with the name!
2. South Of The Border,West Of The Sun by Haruki Murakami, a Japanese. Again I loved the name and that is why I picked this up.
3. The Bookseller of Kabul by Asne Seierstad, a Norwegian journalist.
4. In The Pond by Ha Jin, a Chinese author, settled in USA.
I have been unable to decide on books from Australia and New Zealand. If you have a suggestion, then let me know. Till then I will be reading the ones listed above...
Friday, June 4, 2010
The World And The Lover
What does the word 'World' mean to you? Earth? Human population? Civilization? Countries which have borders created by people? Geographical landmarks?
I have been thinking about it a lot ever since I read the book 'Around the world in 80 days' to my child. As most of you know, this classic book tells us how an English man Phileas Fogg and his French valet Passespartout travel around the world in 80 days to win a wager.
While reading the story, my daughter Ayushi, who is passionate about books, said,''Imagine how wonderful it would be to go to the different book stores of this world! Imagine how many books we could then read! I would call this adventure Around the world's libraries in 80 days''...
The child's imagination has set me up on a journey. I have decided to read as many books as possible from across the world in 80 days. There are many wonderful authors all across the globe. Some we have read, some we haven't. Many books are not available in Indian bookstores. But today, who really cares for such trivial difficulties? Books are available online. So I decided to read books set in various parts of our world. This would be my way of circumventing the world in 80 days. By doing this, I hope to learn more about the terrain, the culture, the people of this wonderful planet we call home. This would be my tribute to the world of literature.
My reading list as of now, is a bit sketchy. I have not decided still what all books to read. A lot depends upon the availability of a particular book. All I know is that I would like to read as many international authors as possible.
My 80 days started on June 1. I finished reading The Lover by Marguerite Duras. She was born in Saigon, a French colony which is now in Southern Vietnam. At the age of 70, she wrote L'amante, or The Lover which won her the Goncourt Prize (Le Prix Goncourt). She was an avant garde writer, and her writing style can be a bit ambiguous. But her words stay with you for a long time. And it's only later, once you have finished the book and put it down, her story starts to make sense.
The Lover is a gritty story of a poor French girl and her forbidden love affair with a rich Chinese man. When the story starts, the girl is fifteen and half. The man is twenty seven. Their troubled affair continues for one and a half years. Her manic-depressive mother encourages the girl to continue this affair for money. Her family feels this affair is a favour granted to the man as the girl is white and hence superior. Set in Saigon and Sa Dec during the French rule, this is a story with veiled references to racism, colonialism, poverty and lust.
The book is autobiographical. The girl in the story is the author herself. The novel's narration is in the first person but it often jumps to the third person. This can create a bit of ambiguity but as I said, slowly this starts to make sense.
I wish the book showcased more of the Indochina culture and way of life in the '30s. But it only talks about the love affair and very rarely discusses the cultural issues of those times.
Did I love the book? I can not say. I felt disturbed by it. I felt a little sad but I loved the ending, I thought it was a bit like a Bengali book I'd read many years ago called Na Hanyate (It does not die) by Maitreyi Devi. Those of you who have read that one can perhaps understand.
The book has only 120 pages, so I managed to finish this in 2 days.
The next one on my list is 'Cry, the beloved country' by Alan Paton. I have already finished about 100 pages of it. As this is a very famous book, a lot of you would have already read it. I hope to finish it in another 2 days.
I can not write book reviews, I do not think I am qualified to do so. Moreover, reading habits are rather personal and what appeals to me may not appeal to you. I only hope by reading about different people on the earth, I can understand our world a little better.
Those of you, who would like to join me in my quest can feel free to do so. You can either read the book that I am currently reading or pick up any other book that you would like. If you recommend it, I may include it in my reading list. I hope, after 80 days, I will be a little more literate. And don't forget to hold my hand, I will need a lot of support to finish my journey...
I have been thinking about it a lot ever since I read the book 'Around the world in 80 days' to my child. As most of you know, this classic book tells us how an English man Phileas Fogg and his French valet Passespartout travel around the world in 80 days to win a wager.
While reading the story, my daughter Ayushi, who is passionate about books, said,''Imagine how wonderful it would be to go to the different book stores of this world! Imagine how many books we could then read! I would call this adventure Around the world's libraries in 80 days''...
The child's imagination has set me up on a journey. I have decided to read as many books as possible from across the world in 80 days. There are many wonderful authors all across the globe. Some we have read, some we haven't. Many books are not available in Indian bookstores. But today, who really cares for such trivial difficulties? Books are available online. So I decided to read books set in various parts of our world. This would be my way of circumventing the world in 80 days. By doing this, I hope to learn more about the terrain, the culture, the people of this wonderful planet we call home. This would be my tribute to the world of literature.
My reading list as of now, is a bit sketchy. I have not decided still what all books to read. A lot depends upon the availability of a particular book. All I know is that I would like to read as many international authors as possible.
My 80 days started on June 1. I finished reading The Lover by Marguerite Duras. She was born in Saigon, a French colony which is now in Southern Vietnam. At the age of 70, she wrote L'amante, or The Lover which won her the Goncourt Prize (Le Prix Goncourt). She was an avant garde writer, and her writing style can be a bit ambiguous. But her words stay with you for a long time. And it's only later, once you have finished the book and put it down, her story starts to make sense.
The Lover is a gritty story of a poor French girl and her forbidden love affair with a rich Chinese man. When the story starts, the girl is fifteen and half. The man is twenty seven. Their troubled affair continues for one and a half years. Her manic-depressive mother encourages the girl to continue this affair for money. Her family feels this affair is a favour granted to the man as the girl is white and hence superior. Set in Saigon and Sa Dec during the French rule, this is a story with veiled references to racism, colonialism, poverty and lust.
The book is autobiographical. The girl in the story is the author herself. The novel's narration is in the first person but it often jumps to the third person. This can create a bit of ambiguity but as I said, slowly this starts to make sense.
I wish the book showcased more of the Indochina culture and way of life in the '30s. But it only talks about the love affair and very rarely discusses the cultural issues of those times.
Did I love the book? I can not say. I felt disturbed by it. I felt a little sad but I loved the ending, I thought it was a bit like a Bengali book I'd read many years ago called Na Hanyate (It does not die) by Maitreyi Devi. Those of you who have read that one can perhaps understand.
The book has only 120 pages, so I managed to finish this in 2 days.
The next one on my list is 'Cry, the beloved country' by Alan Paton. I have already finished about 100 pages of it. As this is a very famous book, a lot of you would have already read it. I hope to finish it in another 2 days.
I can not write book reviews, I do not think I am qualified to do so. Moreover, reading habits are rather personal and what appeals to me may not appeal to you. I only hope by reading about different people on the earth, I can understand our world a little better.
Those of you, who would like to join me in my quest can feel free to do so. You can either read the book that I am currently reading or pick up any other book that you would like. If you recommend it, I may include it in my reading list. I hope, after 80 days, I will be a little more literate. And don't forget to hold my hand, I will need a lot of support to finish my journey...
Friday, May 28, 2010
Where's Your Body, Woman?
As a raw, completely wet behind the ears 22 year old, I had joined the big bad world of advertising. Man, was it a shock to my system? There was no respect for age, gender, race, creed, religion or whatever. People used four letter words as punctuations. They came in late and worked till early mornings. Men talked about various body parts without any shame or inhibition and women did the same. To top it all, I was the only female in my creative team. And I loved it.
I loved the energy, the fun, the excitement. I loved the challenges and the camaraderie. I loved the whole creative process and most of all, I loved my team and my creative head. It was another story that my copies always ended up in the garbage bin. My boss would often scream at me, "Aparna, don't write a press release, write a copy. Write better, shorter, crisper.Write sexier."
Derik, my boss, was always trying to teach me to write better ads. Write an attention grabbing, riveting headline. Write a mind boggling, jaw dropping body copy. Most important, write a hard hitting punch line. The ad should make the readers salivate. It should make the poor guys or gals want to jump up and buy the product then and there. Unfortunately, my attempts were almost always the non-salivating types and ended up as paper planes flying towards the bin.
The first product I handled was a lingerie brand. Lacy and sinful looking underthings used to be strewn all over the office. The creative and the client servicing team discussed the merits of the straps, the hooks, the designs of the inner wear so clinically that soon my initial embarrassment disappeared. I felt absolutely no hesitation in discussing the product with the boys. The final ad had no eye ball grabbing headline. It had no body copy describing the various merits of the undergarment. There was no tag line urging the reader to buy the brand. It had a visual of a beautiful woman sitting on a beach, looking at the sea. A four line poetry described the inner beauty of the woman. The result was a beautiful, subtle ad that our entire agency fell in love with. The client promptly rejected our effort. He wanted a woman posing half naked looking lasciviously at the camera. All efforts at trying to tell him this kind of ad may appeal to the baser instincts of a man but would put women off completely, went down the drain. He just would not accept the ad. Derik lambasted the client, raged against such sexist behaviour and tried his best to convince him. Nothing worked. He finally accepted his wish and asked us to create a crass and tasteless ad for him. We were heart broken but finally got around to accept that not all clients were as intelligent as us. And the fact that Derik loved our ad meant more than the client's approval.
Our team of four, 3 boys and 1 girl, loved him fiercely. He was our mentor, our support. He was a father figure to all of us and we went to him for advice even when the problems were personal. He shaped our thinking and helped us to hone our raw talent. He was the best boss I've ever worked for.
Our superiors influence us for lives. When you work for a boss you love, the results show.The work becomes more exciting. It is not a chore to go to work every day and slave over tough projects. The men and women who mentor budding talents, I wonder if they realise that how important their roles are. Their mentoring ultimately affects the whole industry.
Even now, when I write a blog post, I keep thinking, would Derik approve? Would he find my head line captivating? Would he like the body? The last line? Or would he say, "What happened to your head woman? And where's your body?"
I would love to know. Unfortunately my all time favourite boss, Derik Fernandes Prabhu, an award winning advertising guru,died suddenly around fifteen years ago. He was in his fifties. And I never got to tell him how much his mentoring meant to me.
But if he is up there somewhere, drinking wine with the angels and looking at my head or body, then "Thank you Derik, you were the best and I loved you. Now, how's that for a punchline?"
I loved the energy, the fun, the excitement. I loved the challenges and the camaraderie. I loved the whole creative process and most of all, I loved my team and my creative head. It was another story that my copies always ended up in the garbage bin. My boss would often scream at me, "Aparna, don't write a press release, write a copy. Write better, shorter, crisper.Write sexier."
Derik, my boss, was always trying to teach me to write better ads. Write an attention grabbing, riveting headline. Write a mind boggling, jaw dropping body copy. Most important, write a hard hitting punch line. The ad should make the readers salivate. It should make the poor guys or gals want to jump up and buy the product then and there. Unfortunately, my attempts were almost always the non-salivating types and ended up as paper planes flying towards the bin.
The first product I handled was a lingerie brand. Lacy and sinful looking underthings used to be strewn all over the office. The creative and the client servicing team discussed the merits of the straps, the hooks, the designs of the inner wear so clinically that soon my initial embarrassment disappeared. I felt absolutely no hesitation in discussing the product with the boys. The final ad had no eye ball grabbing headline. It had no body copy describing the various merits of the undergarment. There was no tag line urging the reader to buy the brand. It had a visual of a beautiful woman sitting on a beach, looking at the sea. A four line poetry described the inner beauty of the woman. The result was a beautiful, subtle ad that our entire agency fell in love with. The client promptly rejected our effort. He wanted a woman posing half naked looking lasciviously at the camera. All efforts at trying to tell him this kind of ad may appeal to the baser instincts of a man but would put women off completely, went down the drain. He just would not accept the ad. Derik lambasted the client, raged against such sexist behaviour and tried his best to convince him. Nothing worked. He finally accepted his wish and asked us to create a crass and tasteless ad for him. We were heart broken but finally got around to accept that not all clients were as intelligent as us. And the fact that Derik loved our ad meant more than the client's approval.
Our team of four, 3 boys and 1 girl, loved him fiercely. He was our mentor, our support. He was a father figure to all of us and we went to him for advice even when the problems were personal. He shaped our thinking and helped us to hone our raw talent. He was the best boss I've ever worked for.
Our superiors influence us for lives. When you work for a boss you love, the results show.The work becomes more exciting. It is not a chore to go to work every day and slave over tough projects. The men and women who mentor budding talents, I wonder if they realise that how important their roles are. Their mentoring ultimately affects the whole industry.
Even now, when I write a blog post, I keep thinking, would Derik approve? Would he find my head line captivating? Would he like the body? The last line? Or would he say, "What happened to your head woman? And where's your body?"
I would love to know. Unfortunately my all time favourite boss, Derik Fernandes Prabhu, an award winning advertising guru,died suddenly around fifteen years ago. He was in his fifties. And I never got to tell him how much his mentoring meant to me.
But if he is up there somewhere, drinking wine with the angels and looking at my head or body, then "Thank you Derik, you were the best and I loved you. Now, how's that for a punchline?"
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Aap Ka Naam? Baap Ka Naam?
I have been officially counted as a citizen of India.
Yesterday a lady came for census at my house. Like all courier boys, plumbers and electricians, she also came in the afternoon, when most people in India take a siesta. Though I was not taking a nap, I was engrossed in a thriller and resented the interruption. But remember those good old Doordarshan days? How the government ads urged us to never lie to the census officials and give them the right facts and figures? I was suddenly bombarded with those long forgotten images.
"Jan ganana," she said and I invited her in.
" Aap ka naam? " Was her first query. And then the whole conversation went like this.
" Aapka naam? " (Your name?)
" Aparna "
" Pita ka naam? " (Father's name?)
" Arun Dasgupta "
" Do you own this flat? "
" My husband and I jointly own the house "
" Whats his name? Whats his qualification? "
I mumbled he was a B.Tech. She looked unhappy.
" What's that? "
" It means he is a graduate engineer. "
" And what else? "
" Pardon? "
" I mean what happened after he became an engineer. MBA? CA? LLB? "
I had to apologetically murmur that he was only an engineer and nothing else.
She looked at me with pity. Already I'm sure the government has classified me under the category Women Married To Lesser Mortals.
After duly noting down my children's and my educational background (she did not raise her eye-brow, thank god) she pounced on my poor mother in law.
" What's her education? "
" She was a B.Ed."
" WHAT? "
" She had done her teacher's training after her graduation."
" What? How old is she? "
" 75 "
" WHAT? 75 and she was so well educated? Can't be possible "
I felt apologetic once more.
" Sorry she studied so much. I hear she was rather good at it so her parents encouraged her to be a teacher."
" OK. Now tell me, where was your husband born? "
" Patna."
" No, no tell me the village."
" Well I know decades of misrule has ruined the place but last time I checked, Patna was still a city. He was not born in any village."
The woman looked suspicious again.
" Which state is Patna in?"
" Er, Bihar?" (Will she get angry and tell us leave Maha Land and go back to 'North India?' These days I have become a bit anxious.). She thankfully let that pass.
" And where were you born?"
" Kolkata."
No geography lessons this time. She knew where Kolkata was.
" And your mother-in law?"
" Dhaka" I mumbled, waiting for the 'WHAT?" I knew was coming my way.
" WHAT?" (See, I told you.)
" Dhaka where? Which state?"
" Dhaka as in the capital of Bangladesh. When she was born, India was undivided."
"OK, OK. But are you sure none of you were born in any villages? Where were your daughters born?"
I apologized once again. "Both my daughters were born in New Delhi. We all are rather suave and urbane Indians. Our families ceased to have the right to go back to the family village the day our country was partitioned.
She was disgusted to know we had no village connections. Rightfully so, the real India lives in its villages.
"But tell me then what should I write as your native place?"
Now that's a dilemma. Mumbai, where we own a place surely can not be a 'native place'. Neither can be Patna or Kolkata where we do not own any property. Apparently she had to write down the address of the house in the 'native place'. After almost 15 minutes of trying to convince her that we were rootless Indians without any native place, she finally gave up.
When she started winding up I became a bit rattled. What happened to the question of my 'caste'? The whole of India was debating that issue and the lady here did not even ask me about this. I felt rather cheated.
" Wait a minute ma'am. You did not ask me about my caste."
" WHAT?" She seemed to have an apoplectic fit. "But you do not live in the jhopad-patti.(slums). You live in a building!"
It was my turn to say WHAT this time. I obviously did not get the connection between slums and caste.
" But the government wants to know our caste. It came in the papers". I was sure it would soon be incorporated in our Fundamental Duties. The Government of India hereby directs all the citizens to reveal their castes to the census officials, or else...
" Madam, are you a SC/ST? Building people can not be SC/ST. We have been instructed to take down the castes of those residing in slums only."
That left me a little confused. Certainly some' Building people' can be members of a schedule caste. And not all jhopad-patti dwellers would be dalits. So what exactly was the purpose of this caste based census then? For whose benefit? I asked the lady about this. She ranted and raved about the ill-effects of reservation, job quota, caste politics and the corrupt politicians exploiting the caste issue. I almost felt sorry for asking the question. I had touched a raw nerve.
After she ran out of steam, she prepared to leave.
" Don't you have to mark my house door or something? "
" Sorry madam, I forgot to get the special ink. But why worry? You have been counted, right? "
So I had. A family of 5, counted and accounted for in the city of Mumbai. What about you? Have you been asked,'Aap ka nam? Baap ka naam?' yet?
Yesterday a lady came for census at my house. Like all courier boys, plumbers and electricians, she also came in the afternoon, when most people in India take a siesta. Though I was not taking a nap, I was engrossed in a thriller and resented the interruption. But remember those good old Doordarshan days? How the government ads urged us to never lie to the census officials and give them the right facts and figures? I was suddenly bombarded with those long forgotten images.
"Jan ganana," she said and I invited her in.
" Aap ka naam? " Was her first query. And then the whole conversation went like this.
" Aapka naam? " (Your name?)
" Aparna "
" Pita ka naam? " (Father's name?)
" Arun Dasgupta "
" Do you own this flat? "
" My husband and I jointly own the house "
" Whats his name? Whats his qualification? "
I mumbled he was a B.Tech. She looked unhappy.
" What's that? "
" It means he is a graduate engineer. "
" And what else? "
" Pardon? "
" I mean what happened after he became an engineer. MBA? CA? LLB? "
I had to apologetically murmur that he was only an engineer and nothing else.
She looked at me with pity. Already I'm sure the government has classified me under the category Women Married To Lesser Mortals.
After duly noting down my children's and my educational background (she did not raise her eye-brow, thank god) she pounced on my poor mother in law.
" What's her education? "
" She was a B.Ed."
" WHAT? "
" She had done her teacher's training after her graduation."
" What? How old is she? "
" 75 "
" WHAT? 75 and she was so well educated? Can't be possible "
I felt apologetic once more.
" Sorry she studied so much. I hear she was rather good at it so her parents encouraged her to be a teacher."
" OK. Now tell me, where was your husband born? "
" Patna."
" No, no tell me the village."
" Well I know decades of misrule has ruined the place but last time I checked, Patna was still a city. He was not born in any village."
The woman looked suspicious again.
" Which state is Patna in?"
" Er, Bihar?" (Will she get angry and tell us leave Maha Land and go back to 'North India?' These days I have become a bit anxious.). She thankfully let that pass.
" And where were you born?"
" Kolkata."
No geography lessons this time. She knew where Kolkata was.
" And your mother-in law?"
" Dhaka" I mumbled, waiting for the 'WHAT?" I knew was coming my way.
" WHAT?" (See, I told you.)
" Dhaka where? Which state?"
" Dhaka as in the capital of Bangladesh. When she was born, India was undivided."
"OK, OK. But are you sure none of you were born in any villages? Where were your daughters born?"
I apologized once again. "Both my daughters were born in New Delhi. We all are rather suave and urbane Indians. Our families ceased to have the right to go back to the family village the day our country was partitioned.
She was disgusted to know we had no village connections. Rightfully so, the real India lives in its villages.
"But tell me then what should I write as your native place?"
Now that's a dilemma. Mumbai, where we own a place surely can not be a 'native place'. Neither can be Patna or Kolkata where we do not own any property. Apparently she had to write down the address of the house in the 'native place'. After almost 15 minutes of trying to convince her that we were rootless Indians without any native place, she finally gave up.
When she started winding up I became a bit rattled. What happened to the question of my 'caste'? The whole of India was debating that issue and the lady here did not even ask me about this. I felt rather cheated.
" Wait a minute ma'am. You did not ask me about my caste."
" WHAT?" She seemed to have an apoplectic fit. "But you do not live in the jhopad-patti.(slums). You live in a building!"
It was my turn to say WHAT this time. I obviously did not get the connection between slums and caste.
" But the government wants to know our caste. It came in the papers". I was sure it would soon be incorporated in our Fundamental Duties. The Government of India hereby directs all the citizens to reveal their castes to the census officials, or else...
" Madam, are you a SC/ST? Building people can not be SC/ST. We have been instructed to take down the castes of those residing in slums only."
That left me a little confused. Certainly some' Building people' can be members of a schedule caste. And not all jhopad-patti dwellers would be dalits. So what exactly was the purpose of this caste based census then? For whose benefit? I asked the lady about this. She ranted and raved about the ill-effects of reservation, job quota, caste politics and the corrupt politicians exploiting the caste issue. I almost felt sorry for asking the question. I had touched a raw nerve.
After she ran out of steam, she prepared to leave.
" Don't you have to mark my house door or something? "
" Sorry madam, I forgot to get the special ink. But why worry? You have been counted, right? "
So I had. A family of 5, counted and accounted for in the city of Mumbai. What about you? Have you been asked,'Aap ka nam? Baap ka naam?' yet?
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Surviving Mother's Day
Another Mother's Day came and went. There was no breakfast in bed. No 'Happy Mother's Day, mom!' shriek in unison. No cards. No gifts. No flowers. Not even a damn 'Happy Mother's Day' sms from Airtel. Instead,the habitual chaos prevailed. The usual grumbling before every meal, "Why can't we have anything different, ever?" One daughter had to be forced to do her home work. The other had to be literally pushed into the bathroom to take a shower. The hubby had to be gently reminded that it was NOT Mother Teresa's birthday the world was celebrating. The menu had to be planned, the laundry had to be done, the clothes had to be folded. Well, life is unfair to start with. And then you become a mother.
I have two daughters, and let me tell you, every time I see my friends with sons, I feel envious. No, it has nothing to do with my archaic Indian mentality. Just that mothering sons seems to be so easy. They eat without counting calories. They have short hair that need no combing. They do not spend hours on the phone talking. They do not have to be told to go down and play instead of watching TV. They never look at gangly, gawky 16 year old boys and burst into giggles and most important, they never talk about waxing their legs or plucking their eyebrows. The mothers only have to cook enough food to feed an army and the boys seem rather happy. The sons also seem to dote on their mothers. My elder daughter on the other hand thinks I'm her public enemy number one. In a few years,the younger one I am sure will start feeling the same. Though I would never exchange my daughters for sons, I really could do with some doting.
My mother perhaps would not have agreed with me on this one. The moment my brother turned 16, she turned into a deranged woman. She regularly checked his bag to find out if there was a love letter hidden somewhere. She sniffed for cigarette smoke every time he entered the house. She kept a check of how he was spending his pocket money and constantly worried about him getting into bad company. From a perfectly normal happy woman, she turned int a spy with an obsessive compulsive disorder. This went on till he finally married at the ripe old age of 33. Honestly, I do not know how my brother survived those maddening years.
I think this motherhood thing does not come easy to me. I wish along with the babies, God had also sent me an instruction manual to handle them. I would not have stumbled so many times on the way then. This Mother's Day, when I saw some lovely e-mails that my friends sent me, I started thinking, what was the fuss all about? Wasn't it like any other day? We cooked, we fed, we cleaned, we took care, we loved fiercely and we tumbled into beds that night too tired to even straighten out the bed sheets. That has been my routine for the last 14 years. That day was no different. And I know I was not the only one who felt like this. A lot of mothers all over the globe dealt with tears and sicknesses, tempers and tantrums, scraped knees and heart breaks on Mother's Day. And they all survived.
So why just celebrate it on a second Sunday of May each year? Why not every day? After all every day we are mothers, and every day we survive.
Some days with difficulty and the others with some cuss words...
I have two daughters, and let me tell you, every time I see my friends with sons, I feel envious. No, it has nothing to do with my archaic Indian mentality. Just that mothering sons seems to be so easy. They eat without counting calories. They have short hair that need no combing. They do not spend hours on the phone talking. They do not have to be told to go down and play instead of watching TV. They never look at gangly, gawky 16 year old boys and burst into giggles and most important, they never talk about waxing their legs or plucking their eyebrows. The mothers only have to cook enough food to feed an army and the boys seem rather happy. The sons also seem to dote on their mothers. My elder daughter on the other hand thinks I'm her public enemy number one. In a few years,the younger one I am sure will start feeling the same. Though I would never exchange my daughters for sons, I really could do with some doting.
My mother perhaps would not have agreed with me on this one. The moment my brother turned 16, she turned into a deranged woman. She regularly checked his bag to find out if there was a love letter hidden somewhere. She sniffed for cigarette smoke every time he entered the house. She kept a check of how he was spending his pocket money and constantly worried about him getting into bad company. From a perfectly normal happy woman, she turned int a spy with an obsessive compulsive disorder. This went on till he finally married at the ripe old age of 33. Honestly, I do not know how my brother survived those maddening years.
I think this motherhood thing does not come easy to me. I wish along with the babies, God had also sent me an instruction manual to handle them. I would not have stumbled so many times on the way then. This Mother's Day, when I saw some lovely e-mails that my friends sent me, I started thinking, what was the fuss all about? Wasn't it like any other day? We cooked, we fed, we cleaned, we took care, we loved fiercely and we tumbled into beds that night too tired to even straighten out the bed sheets. That has been my routine for the last 14 years. That day was no different. And I know I was not the only one who felt like this. A lot of mothers all over the globe dealt with tears and sicknesses, tempers and tantrums, scraped knees and heart breaks on Mother's Day. And they all survived.
So why just celebrate it on a second Sunday of May each year? Why not every day? After all every day we are mothers, and every day we survive.
Some days with difficulty and the others with some cuss words...
Monday, May 3, 2010
The Young And The Wise
Once a week I go to a nearby commercial complex and wait.
My daughter attends a coaching class there and has a class till 9 pm. Sometimes the class goes on almost till 9.30. Although the complex is pretty close to home there is a slum in the area and I do not feel very comfortable letting her walk home alone.
The complex has a few eateries. There are some coaching centres. There are also some other shops and the place is generally very vibrant and alive at that time. It is a nice place to watch people. Last week when I was waiting for my daughter to finish her class a very interesting episode happened. A street
Just then, a young boy and his girl friend, perhaps in their late teens spotted the urchin and called him. They took him to a tea stall and bought him a vada-pav, Mumbai's favourite all time snack. Looking at the young couple, my heart filled with joy. I forgot all about my earlier ruminations. See the young people of India India
What do you think happened next? The moment the young couple turned away, the small boy without any hesitation, fed the vada pav to a street dog. He was not hungry, he just wanted some money... perhaps to gamble, perhaps to smoke. May be even to buy drugs. He definitely was not impressed with the young couple's generosity. A few minutes later, he started begging again.
So tell me, was the man in the swanky car heartless or was he just wise? Were the teenage boy and the girl naive? If they knew the young boy made a fool of them, would they ever give anything to any body again? And what about the boy? Did he even care?
The incident upset me, I do not know why. May be because it reminded me that I live in a metro where a lot of people do not care how the other half lives. That I live in a metro where a lot of people tend to think it is all right to con others. Or may be because I was reminded that I live in a metro where a lot of caring people stop giving just because they can not tell whether they are being taken for a ride...
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