The art of saying NO

One would think these were the easiest and the simplest words in English vocabulary- YES and NO. Ah! But the amount of complexity these two words carry is incredible. They have the ability to build empires, strike down nations, create history. Rifle through the pages of history and you'll easily see the important role these words played in each and every decision that was monumental. "Yes' opened doors to nuclear weapons, to the world war, to terrorism as we know it today in its frightening and myriad forms. Just as No played its role too. Today I'm exploring essentially the role this two letter word plays. 

It's amazing just how easy it is to say Yes, to knuckle down to pressure in any form, in any guise, to give in, to surrender your will. And just as hard to say No, to take a stand, to refuse to give in, to continue to oppose when your entire being screams out to simply give in and say Yes. It's hard for a teenager in a peer group to stand up and say No to drugs and alcohol; to face ridicule in the many ways only teenagers know how to mete out to the deviants from the group code and do the right thing. 

Most of our lives we try to circumvent using this word too often. Because let's face it - it carries lots of negative baggage. It is a negative word. It might mean hurting someone by your refusal. It might mean asserting yourself at the cost of someone else's ego. And more often than not it invites displeasure. Saying no to your superiors is especially hard. Saying no to a friend or a near and dear one is worse. But sometimes it's all that's standing between you and self- annihilation. Sorry to be melodramatic but sometimes saying no might just be your ticket to freedom, to self expression, to space. To breathe. Be yourself. If only it could be done without hurting or displeasing! And therein lies the art. The ability to say No without denting the ego of the recipient of that refusal. To smile and make others smile while you demarcate boundaries. Yes. It's an art that few possess. Are you among those few? Then I must say you've mastered one of the most difficult tasks known to mankind- the art of saying NO when required.  

house and home

House. Home. I've always used both these words interchangeably. But once I got to thinking about it I realized what a vast difference lies between these two supposedly interchangeable words: House. Home. 

My dictionary tells me the house is a "structure serving as an abode of human beings." Okay. So what then is the definition of home? Is it the same? The answer comes to me instantly. No. I don't need a dictionary to understand the difference between the two. For "home" carries with it all the resonance of emotion attachment. 

A house is just that- an architectural edifice. It becomes a ''home" when we begin to associate emotions with it. A home is a sanctuary, a refuge. The place where you belong, which belongs to you. The transition from making a house into a home is a psychological one. It is the one place which you can step into and leave the world outside. Where so much of your identity resides. And a house is just a structure, a building till you make it a home. When you step into your home you expect to leave your cares behind, to drop that shield you wear through the day; to close the door on the outside world. 

Since time immemorial both humans and animals alike have craved a nesting place, a lair, a den, a place to call their own. It is this nesting instinct that makes us turn houses into homes, to fill inanimate structures with ourselves, to bring to it the peculiar essence we call personality. And it is precisely when houses become imbued with our personalities that they become our homes.  Our hidey- holes. 

So the next time you say house, think. Is it your house or your home? A structure you inhabit or a place you belong? A concrete shell or an extension of your self? Your sanctuary your refuge or a four walled structure you occupy? For therein lies the world of difference. And that is the difference you bring to bricks and mortar.  

The windup- bird chronicle and beyond

Hi! Writing after a long gap. Writing about what little I know, what has largely figured in my life so far-books. So far I've been reading quite a few different authors and when I mean different I mean hugely different. I've breezed through Steig Larsson ( all three books) read almost all the novels of Nicholas Sparks (barring a few) and just finished reading Murakami a few hours ago. So you have a fair idea when I say different. Romance, thriller and what? I find Murakami defies classification. His work is not quite allegory, not quite symbolic, has a mystery at the heart of it, a plethora of strange characters peopling its world of alternate reality. Out of these three, two are translations.

Steig Larsson (or Reg Keeland) gives us three nail biting, edge of the seat novels which hold the reader enthralled. A heroine who is radical, unconventional, a rebel defying all norms. Lisbeth Salander inhabits a murky world of deceit, violence and abuse; wrongly condemned to an asylum, she is subjected to the worst kind of mental torture which later takes on a physical form in her loathsome guardian who rapes her. I cannot deny that I was completely and utterly revolted by the world she moves in, yet utterly gripped by the racy plot in the first novel as it hurtles towards its surprising climax. ( If you haven't read it I won't spoil your suspense). The plot is not the first of its kind; Larsson's heroine is. He seems to want to give her a freedom normally enjoyed by men- namely sleeping around with impunity, being possessed of a photographic memory(Eidetic is the word I think), existing between ambiguous sexual territories ( bisexual). In other words, it is probably his way of liberating women.(?) But while reading the text I found myself wondering how authentic a translation can really be. Had the translator achieved exactly what the author had intended or is a translation a mere approximation of the author's works? If Larsson had written in English would he have chosen those very words, that terminology to express himself or would it have been different? The characters and plot remain his without doubt but the words? I wondered if I wasn't enjoying Reg Keeland more than Larsson. The same thought kept running through my mind while reading Murakami. Of the three Murakami took me the longest time to get through. It was difficult to orient myself to his writing, not his style mind you, which is pretty lucid and modern ( again might be due to the translator Jay Rubin). But the novel itself is very strange; its message not clear( if there is one at all), and to my understanding slightly obscure. Evil, as Murakami, defines it, is not a quality, an abstract; neither is the self. Both possess bodies, are physical manifestations. The dream world/ alternate reality collides and merges with this world. The rapidity with which Okada the protagonist shuttles between these two worlds is bewildering at first, then dizzying as he descends into the bottom of a well to think and connect with his alternate self. He gives us a procession of women characters- Malta Kano, Creta Kano, Kumiko, May Kasahara, Nutmeg,the woman with the sexy telephone voice and each character is decidedly peculiar. Each woman aids Okada in solving the mystery of his wife Kumiko who supposedly leaves him for another man. Even Kumiko herself. Evil is manifested in the person of Noboru Wataya, Kumiko's brother, and his much hated brother-in-law. To be absolutely honest it was much too vague and convoluted for me. It lacked what I always call a center. The novel has a rather episodic quality where there are stories within stories( Honda, Lieutenant Mamiya, Cinnamon, Nutmeg. Malta Kano, Creta Kano, Kumiko, Okada, May Kasahara) and the effort to maintain such a vast canvas shows. The connections between these stories are lost though the author takes great pains to tell us and show us those connections. Murakami's characters are incredibly detailed, lively and well etched but he fails to integrate them skillfully into the central theme- which is the windup bird singing its song and winding the spring of the world- a song which leads anyone who hears it to ruin. And significantly it is the name Okada chooses to introduce himself to May Kasahara. Somewhere I feel Murakami stops short of clarity. His portrayal of the other reality, the shadow world, the demon self if you like, lacks potency precisely because he clothes it in flesh by actually giving it a slippery slimy form. Evil tangible scores less than evil intangible. Evil which cannot be seen but felt is more frightening than what you can witness and feel and touch. But that is just my opinion. Murakami disagrees with me. He makes it physical. That is why I cannot read his novel as allegory only. 

Having said this much I can laud both Murakami and Sparks for portrayals of men who are comfortable doing feminine tasks and do not feel emasculated by them. Okada looks after the house, cooks, does laundry after chucking up his job; Sparks' men are old fashionably honorable, strong and comfortable in the female domain- the kitchen. Kudos to both for that! If you do decide to read any of these writers you have to take different attitudes towards each. What that is, you decide. Just as you decide how much a translation can achieve in terms of authenticity. Or will it be an approximation only? 

the killing

I rarely write about serials. At least I haven’t for quite some months. But the other weekend I was idly watching season 4 of the serial The Killing on Star World premiere and I decided I would mention this in my next blog. Catching up to a story, any story in Season 4 involves a lot of guesswork and I gathered from what I saw that both detectives have committed the murder of a corrupt partner. Running parallel to this back story is the new case they have been handed - an entire family massacred with the son, the lone survivor a suspect though wounded. The story, as stories go, is nothing great but what struck me is the treatment. Absolutely astonishing photography and extremely realistic performances! And the actress( Mereille Enos playing Sarah Linden) is marvelous. Her guilt, her conflicting emotions- betrayal, anger, hurt- above all her complete lack of make- up – camera picking up her frown lines, her cracked lips, her scanty brows, her pulled back hair. Kudos to her. To be a woman and not afraid to show up your physical flaws is a big thing in any race, culture and country. Everywhere women hide behind masks afraid to be what nature meant them to be. In real life don’t we have red eyes, cracked lips and bad skin when we are emotionally miserable? When we cannot and do not want to summon the energy to get on our war paint? When we become tired of seeing ourselves through the eyes of the others and grow comfortable in our skin? Then why in our serials and movies are we so afraid to show our flaws?

Why in our Hindi serials do our heroines look perfectly made up even when sick, asleep or grieving? It’s good to be glamorous if the role demands it but when it does not is it necessary to be picture perfect? What is wrong with acknowledging our flaws? Better still of accepting them. If romance demands picture perfect faces and hair and clothes then trash it and create something new. Where you can say like Congreve in the Way of the World: “Nay I love her for her flaws”. (Hope it’s not misquoted. Been a while. But you get the picture right?) 

Let fiction mimic life sometimes. Escape is good. But so is reality. And sometimes we can get real. Even if it’s just fiction!

  

Of dreams, housing societies and much more

Hey! So in my last blog I mentioned that I was busy getting my teeny new flat ready. And guess what? Five months later it’s still not ready. Today I’m going to share my experience with you regarding the entire rather convoluted process of getting the possession of my flat to getting it ready- to- move in.  I booked a flat in this society called Antriksh Kanball 3G(where signals are erratic and wifi nonexistent ironically) in Noida Sec-77 because it seemed like a good society which promised a club, swimming pool and a host of other things. The possession letter I received in Dec 2013 just before we were leaving for our vacation to Singapore. And every time we inquired about the progress of the flat we were told it would take another month to 15 days. Old story? Heard it before? Yeah. Finally in 2015 I decided to approach them directly and see. Went to see the flats which were almost complete. Almost. So I asked for possession. The marketing manager in charge looked at me blankly and said: “Your flat? But your husband was the one who came.” (Read- who the hell are you?) My first hurdle. A woman owning property –an absolute no-no. And if I go into the entire process of obtaining the keys of my flat it would take too long. Needless to say it taught me a lesson I was doomed to repeat again and again- to wait. Wait in the office to get an audience with the manager( Yeah definitely royal touch there- you being a lowly customer and so and so) wait to get your flat cleaned, bathroom fittings put in (the supervisor fell sick repeatedly) and most importantly, getting the keys.( One would think I was demanding illegal possession. Money paid in full and on time) Another few hours of wait. Finally I hired a designer- Saanvi Decor.(My dream flat and all that so why not go the whole hog?) Paid advance. And the designer cost me a sizeable chunk of my savings. Took a month to complete. In that month I found myself supervising the carpenters while the designer was totally absent from the scene (both his mother and wife being hospitalized) and the owner who had actually taken the contract unavailable. Then came the problem of putting frosted glass in the cabinets wherein the guy flatly denied having agreed to do it. A few arguments back and forth and finally the flat was completed- me having spent my time supervising, haggling, arguing and doing the work for which I was paying the designer. Whew! 

In addition I incurred the astronomical expense of an electrician because of a few concealed lights which in the end did not end up concealed. You laughing? Quite funny I agree. Only I didn’t think so because I saw my life’s savings draining out and not receiving the service I was paying for. Then I couldn’t find anyone ready to put up a couple of glass headboards and a shower partition. The person I spoke to sent a guy who turned up in another part of Antriksh called Forest. Reason? This society, being low end, (1 BHK) hasn’t the money to put up a hoarding( only a tiny sign- practically invisible) outside telling people its name or maybe they are plainly ashamed of what they’ve built and are building. In between I discovered there were no roads, not even a leveled entrance to the flats, because agitating farmers would not let laborers work. My blood ran cold. I had taken such care not to invest my life’s savings in a disputed land. Was it disputed? An enquiry elicited a vehement denial (Noida Authority and farmers at loggerheads not the society) but work did not continue. After spending several abortive attempts waiting for the glass supplier to turn up I finally found the only professional. For that reason alone he merits a mention in this blog. Mr. Waseem from Super glass Sec-9 was a pleasure to work with. A man who valued time, (he turned up before time), a man who gave me everything in writing and never deviated from his word unlike others, a man who took my money and gave me my money’s worth. A rare specimen in India indeed. Because I found that watches are totally redundant here and no-one values time. (They either have too much of it or too little).When they say 12 they might mean any time between 12 in the noon to 12 at night. After that I’ve learnt a big lesson – get a signed agreement for everything because word of mouth is no longer good. You’re sure to get cheated. And today I’m sitting in my new flat on the mattress because the bed hasn’t been delivered yet though the advance was given 4 months back and order on 29^th April. I’ve finally canceled the order and now have to look for another furniture supplier and it’s very likely I’m going to lose the advance I’ve paid because the fellow is refusing a give a refund.

This new society does not even have a sweeper or maid( my rubbish still parked near door after a week)- at least I haven’t seen one around- and when I asked for one I was told all of them had run away and could not be procured even on payment. I spent a night in this concrete wilderness on the floor( because there’s no bed) and realized this was my dream turned into a nightmare- where you pay but you don’t get your money’s worth, where you are promised the moon and given the floor, where you are cheated of everything you had- money, ideals, time, faith. A bitter bitter lesson indeed. My reason for writing this? So that you don’t make the mistakes I did. Invest in a society that is already developed. Check them out thoroughly. Get everything but everything even the tiniest detail in writing or use voice recording to record conversation- proof -because no-one is to be trusted. Get ready to wait and have inexhaustible patience because in our country no-one has any concept of time. I wonder why they wear watches. No laborer works before 11 or 12 in the morning. Above all, do not expect any professional behavior from anyone. They have no idea what that word means. Salutory lessons indeed. And while you digest these and avoid the trap I fell into, I’ll go bed hunting once again! And oh this flat is still not registered because registrations are still not open here yet! In two years prices will go up. Yeah. More expense. Sigh! 

What has changed?

Whoeee! It's been ages, practically ages since I wrote my last blog. Well, that's because things have been happening. I've been getting my dream flat, a teeny tiny flat ready. And that's quite a story. For another time. What an education it has been. It's an ongoing education happening every day. What it means to arrange finance, do the math, haggle, endure and WAIT. Yes. Quite a story. 

But today I'm dealing with a topic close to my heart. I'm a heart and gut person. Less of brain. Have you noticed the monumental strides we've made and are making everyday in technology? New gadgets, new machines, new inventions. Very progressive. I for one appreciate all the help technology gives me in finishing up my chores. The food processors, the microwaves, the OTGs, the rice cookers, the electric kettles and what -have -you. But our perception hasn't altered one bit, sad to say. Take a look at every advert of an kitchen appliance. It is a woman wielding it. The perception of a woman as a homemaker hasn't shifted at all. We are bent upon our pigeon holing. Of course a woman can be financially independent. But she cannot free herself of the burdens of a home. Don't get me wrong. Nothing wrong with being a homemaker. But what happens when a woman works twice as hard at her job as a man? Okay. Maybe just works outside the home. Is she free of housework, the kitchen chores, kids' responsibilities? Do we say - honestly- no, she works outside so she needn't work at home? Is the co-operation that is automatically extended to the man holding a high pressure job extended to her? Will the man in her life step forward and actually do the kitchen chores without feeling emasculated? Will our adverts feature men using kitchen appliances? Mostly importantly will those adverts sell? Will they be accepted? Will we ever be able to change our mindsets? 

My grandmother used to cook for a large family through the day. She had no gadgets to make her work easy. I do. I cook for a small family. I finish in 15 mins. But I cook. So what has changed? Duration of cooking? Ease of process? But in reality nothing has changed. The underlying perception of women as being confined to home and hearth hasn't changed one bit no matter what high powered corporate or executive positions they might occupy. Most women I know take pride in what they call their"efficiency"in managing both the home and office. But what I see is the underlying truth. Over the centuries nothing has changed. Women are expected to conform to a mold. And they are stuck in their little pigeon holes. 

And sometimes just sometimes it sucks. When I'm in the middle of writing and the maid doesn't turn up, or the microwave goes kaput when I'm a tearing hurry to finish up so I can get to my writing quickly, or.....Yeah. You get the picture. Then I wish, just wish that for once it won't be taken for granted that I'm the sole in charge of the household and everything that happens in it- from leaking taps, kaput machines, absentee maids isn't my headache alone. That the space given to my husband is extended to me too and I'm not expected to cook or clean just because I'm a woman. 

What do YOU think? This is what I think. 

  

Language down the ages

Hi! So we don't meet as frequently as we did. But I think it's better to meet when I have anything to say rather than saying something because I have to. Compulsion is a killer. It does things to one's psyche that one cannot even begin to imagine. It drains away all the joy and makes for tedium. But you'll agree there's a vast difference between saying something because you have to (weekly or monthly column) and saying it because you really want to. 

What I'm looking at today is the way language has been used down the ages. The main purpose of language is to communicate. It originated in sounds before it was built into the complex network that it is today. 

The classics we read show us that language was not only a means to an end but an end in itself. There was a time when authors took as much pleasure in fashioning ornate sentences, painting characters in words and sentences which ran to four or more pages. Each description was exhaustive detailed and riddled with similes and metaphors. They took as much joy in writing out these exhaustive descriptions as the reader took pleasure in reading them. For instance our own Tagore. To my shame I must confess that I cannot read Bengali fluently (having learnt it only because Assamese was compulsory in school). So my mother read it aloud to me as a child. Hearing excerpts from Khudito Pashan ( the Hungry Stone) I had a hard time understanding most of what I heard. It had little or no resemblance to Bengali as we speak it or hear it. It was not till Sarat Chandra Chatterjee that we come to a phase where language became more comprehensible and the language of the common man. I don't know much about Bengali Literature. My only purpose in citing these references was my memory of that afternoon when I began to comprehend the role that language played in determining its readership. Even Shakespeare despite his universal appeal has us reaching for a dictionary or a glossary ever so often.  There are still writers who hark back to tradition taking immense pleasure in language itself. It is not a mere tool for them to convey; a vehicle to convey their ideas but an end in itself. They take as much pleasure in crafting sentences in playing with words, thinking of new ways to string sentences as they do in determining the plot and character. 

I must confess as I grow older I lean towards plainer prose, use fewer words. Use language as a tool rather than an end. Of course I still remember the pleasure I got from using new words, big ornate sentences as a child. It made me feel so important. Now as I read my childhood pieces I'm not ashamed of them, no, because they have something I lack today- a freshness of perspective, a novelty, lack of jadedness but I would change the medium of expression to a much plainer pared down version of the former. 

The new generation is impatient. Give them a convoluted exhaustive description and you are sure to be interrupted: But what do you want to say dude? They will ask you. And I must say I find myself echoing the same impatience sometimes reading pages and pages of sentences saying nothing much. Get to the point, I find myself saying. Which coming from a literature student is considerably myopic and reprehensible. Because language is a thing of beauty forever, to misquote Keats. 

Today the English language has several versions- English, American, Indian to mention the ones I'm acquainted with. Now English writers still use what we term "good" language as compared to their American counterparts who are decidedly more colloquial. It is largely thanks to Americans that we now have words spelled the way they are pronounced- the "aes" knocked off to "es" the "ou"knocked off to "o" and a profusion of slang. They made the language functional. The English prose is far more formal less colloquial. Indian English has incorporated its own changes to the language. Read Chetan Bhagat who uses the quintessential language of the new generation Indian. 

But since language is meant to communicate, as long as the author fulfills this purpose adequately I'd say all's well that ends well. Right?   

Connections

Have you ever thought what role the arts(very very loosely termed)- books, music, painting, movies- play in our lives? Do they even have a role to play? These are what we can term (again very loosely) fringe benefits. They are not integral to our survival. Food, clothing, shelter is. These supply our basic demands. Our very human animal needs. It is only after our bellies are full and we sleep securely in warm soft beds at night and our banks are stuffed with notes that we even contemplate the existence of  these arts. To most they are peripheral. To some, only a few, they are integral to survival. But they do have a role to play in all our lives. The role maybe marginal but a role it is. Having established that, I'd like to proceed with that role they play. 

Why is it that a book written by an unknown author from an unknown country I might never have visited reaches deep inside and touches me? Why is it that a painting by a painter I've never met and whose existence I've never been aware of speaks to me in ways I cannot even begin to enumerate? A song by some unknown singer moves me to tears? A movie by some director makes me sit up and think? These might be people I've never heard of or met before in my life. But through their work they speak to me. Establish connections that are so intimate that they reach inside me. Inside my head. Inside my soul- if you believe in its existence. (We believe in so little these days. Can you blame us?) 

What is this connection between individuals who have never met each other and who might never meet ever in their lives? A book that gives you solace when you most need it, which makes you feel you are not alone in this wide world or even one that makes you smile at a time when you have nothing to smile about- isn't that a connection? The connections between family and you, between friends and you, are ones which are voluntary. Blood ties. Friendship ties. What ties are these that touch your soul and leave you the more enriched for it and ask for nothing in return? Because before that day you might never have heard of that author or artist, or director or musician. The person in question might not be aware of your existence or of the change his or her work wrought in your life. He or she might not even connect if you meet in real life. But inside that other world where all art takes you the connection exists. So the next time you feel inclined to look down and sneer upon art because it cannot be equated to the work that an engineer, doctor or businessman does stop to think. Of all those times when you laughed at something written by another, when you paused and stared at a painting marveling at the artist's dexterity, when you shut out the world to listen to the voice crooning in your ears, when a book spoke to you. Then you might acknowledge what you've always known but not admitted that arts are not marginal. That connections can be formed between strangers. And these connections make us human. 

The Good and The Strong

Hi folks! Happy New Year and all that. My first blog this year- 2015. Sorry to be a damp squib but this new year feels old and soiled already. To quote somebody(?): Same old, same old. The same religious disputes, the same problems, the same life. Sigh! The same humankind. Rabid, tearing each other to pieces, gunning each other down. Humor is also becoming costly. Might cost you your life. Ask the French. Anyway today I've a question for you. Have you noticed how we always prefix "poor" before addressing anyone we deem good? Why do you think that is? I had a lesson in Hindi once. It was titled" Bechara Bhala Aadmi" which literally translated into English means "poor good man." It is a lesson which I will never forget. The writer raised the same question I've asked you. Why does goodness only evoke our contempt and sympathy while evil become synonymous with strength? Why does the good man never get a pat on his back and even if he does he also secretly invites our sympathy because he's weak? You don't believe me? You think this is not the case? Tell me what would you call a person who has been through hell and back because one of a particular person and when is in a position to retaliate desists from doing so? What do you call him- a hero? Do you revere him? Do you admire him? Do you look up to him? No! You call him a fool! All you feel is contempt. You think he is weak. You don't think he is strong to resist retaliation. See? 

There are two categories which are mutually exclusive. The Good and the Strong. The good cannot be strong. They can be pitied. Never admired. The saint who turns the other cheek is a fool who has no place in our world; the man who has the power to strike a blow does. The saint maybe right but it does not matter. Because strength as we know and revere it has nothing to do rightness. Intellectually we might admit that it takes far more strength to stand up and do the right thing but emotionally and secretly we admire the strength of the man who strikes back. Our heroes are not the persons who turn the other cheek; they are people who are not afraid to do the wrong thing to right a wrong. Our perception of strength then comes not from forbearance and tolerance but a show of power. We may hold up Gandhiji to the world and to ourselves as an example but none of us are prepared to go down the same path. Tolerance is only a word in the dictionary; ahimsa the language of the fools. Strength is synonymous with power and always will be. Sad but true. The right and the good have no place in our psyches. For therein lies another dispute. Who decides what is right and who is good? Yes. It takes so little start a dispute doesn't it? This is what I think. What do You think?