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? 

   

All for a cause

All my life I've felt life has to have a purpose, a meaning. And that believing in a cause, any cause gives it meaning. Not anymore. Not since that shocking attack on Army Public school children in Pakistan. Much has already been said on the issue and I'm too late to add anything to the outrage such an attack provoked. But I can say this much - this is what it finally leads to. Believing in causes. What fight for freedom, what cause can justify this massacre of innocents? What promised land do you inherit with their blood staining your hands? Which Allah Or God Or Maker can justify taking the lives of these innocents? Taliban claimed this attack was in retaliation of what the Army did to their families. So why target children? Why not attack the Army? Why take the coward's way out? The easy way out? 

I am beginning to intensely dislike causes. Any cause. Every cause. Good or bad. Because from what I can see it is turning men into rabid, foaming at the mouth fanatics incapable of thinking or reasoning. Either you want a separate state or piece of territory, or you want freedom, or some such crap you feel justifies all the bloodshed and chaos you leave in your wake. The crimes committed in the name  of freedom are legion. All the bombings, the violence, the murder of innocent people are unleashed by terrorists because of this shining cause they believe in. Wars are fought because men believe in some cause or other. Shias fight Sunnis because they believe in some cause dictated by their Allah(?). Men divide break destroy kill maim because they think some cause justifies it all. 

"We are fighting for a cause" they say unable to see what it is doing to them. 

So I say do away with all causes but one- humanity. First be human before you can be free. Before you stake your piece of promised land on this earth learn to be of this earth. Learn that you cannot be truly free until you know what freedom really is. The ability to be humane. And any cause that invites the destruction of millions of innocents cannot lead anywhere but to one place alone. To hell. Only in this case it is of your own making. The one you have fashioned with your hands. 

Is it science- or karma- every action has an equal and opposite reaction? 

So next time before you destroy in the name of any cause think.

Busy bee

Normally I am the laziest person around. I spent the greater part of Sunday snuggled under my warm razai reading a book. And...I'm not gong to recount episodes to demonstrate my laziness. Just that this blog is the result of lot of discussions and hearing people claim that they hate activity. After thinking on it I realized I could not for the life of me imagine a world without activity of any sort. Most inactive people claim they are doing nothing: Just watching TV, reading a book, or sleeping. But those, mark you, are activities too. They are all verbs or action words. 

Even when you are sleeping your brain is active. Hence the dreams. Take activity away from us and you take away life. It is a comatose state. Where you are nothing more than a vegetable.

Try for a second. Close your eyes and imagine a world without any activity of any sort. Successful? No? I couldn't either. Life demands action. Passive action but action nevertheless. You might sit in a chair and think. But thinking is an activity too. 

See? Everything you think is not an action actually is. 

I know people are stressed today. We are dealing with a scenario where so many things are happening simultaneously that each moment we live brings its share of stress. Wellness gurus cannot emphasize enough the need to chill out and reduce stress levels through various mediums- exercise, yoga, social interaction, hobbies, music. The list is endless. But activity is a therapy too. Try it sometime. Next time you are stressed or feeling as if your world has ended do something.  Watch a nice movie, go for a walk, talk to your friend, clean out your cupboard, bake a cake, plant a tree, write a diary entry. Something. Anything. In my opinion action has a lot to recommend it. A lot of our ills exist because we scoff at active people. But the old school of thought has something there. I know we can't be jumping around all the time. But it is absolutely imperative to have something to do. Otherwise we all dissolve into nothingness. We stop being alive. 

Being a busy bee has its upside too. If you are not a busy bee but a lazy one(like me) it is still good to have bouts of activity - even if it is walking in the park or reading a book. Don't you think so?  

My Winter Rhapsody

I don't know about you but I spend the better part of the year looking forward to those 3 months of winter.(It has shrunk to 1 month actually.) I cannot for the life of me write either prose or poems about the sun or the summer living in a country where its unrelenting blaze scorches everything in sight. That's why the thought of those months or month(!) of reprieve from its glare is enough to make me write this. If you haven't already guessed I love the winter. It is the best time of the year. The only time when I can match my western counterparts in waxing lyrical about the sun and its warmth. The only time when I actively seek its warmth and light. Having lived all over India I've lived in places like Chennai and Guwahati where there are no winters. That's why I appreciate it all the more. 

Winter for me brings lots of images: Breath frosting on the air, the smell of wood smoke from burning roadside fires, the carts of roasting groundnuts( mumfali) by the roadside with wisps of smoke curling from it, and the air itself. Cold, smelling of flowers, brushing the tip of your nose making your eyes water with its bite, the early morning fog outside your window. It is the time when you snuggle into your woolens and take long brisk walks to keep yourself warm. 

Winter is also the time of indulgence for me. When you can gorge on sweet vegetables and fruits, eat rich gravies and get away with it, munch on chocolate and chikkis. Not to mention hot fried chaat. It means outings, picnics and generally an air of suppressed bonhomie. With Christmas holidays and New Year around the corner and Diwali just past it introduces a cheer that carries you along on a tide irrespective of your own mood. I cannot but feel an uplift of my spirits as this season begins no matter in what doldrums I might find myself. No matter how much life sucks I cannot help the smile that flits across my face with the cold wind brushing it. Even power cuts don't matter much because it's winter for god's sake!! 

Like all things short lived it is incredibly sweet. Even the groan that leaves your lips when discarding the warmth of your razai in the morning is welcome. Those cold blustery days when the mercury dips and the sun plays hide and seek are welcome. The blue blue skies above are welcome. The fog curling outside my window and bringing the smell of wildflowers at night is welcome. Winter you are welcome.

With the global warming changing our climate winters are shortening, becoming hotter. One day this season might just become a memory. A thing of the past. And summers will continue unabated. What a pity that will be!