Of questions and answers- part one

Recently a young girl visiting my flat to ask me for donations for SOS village and Helpage etc. asked me a question that sent me off on a tangent of thought which has been pickling in my mind for weeks. The question was simple enough: Where are you from? The answer ought to be simple enough. Only it wasn't. Because I didn't know. I thought long and hard after she left about it. The reason for my ambiguity was that I was an army officer's daughter and I had lived all over India at different times of my life. By birth I was Bengali but I had only lived in Kolkata for a couple of years. I had settled down In U.P. having spent my adult years in Delhi cantonment. We had lived in Assam, Jabalpur, Chennai, Jhansi before that. So to be completely honest I didn't know where I was from. I did not feel any special affinity to Kolkata as such, my few visits there over the years being more a form of duty than anything else. I did not belong there. No umbilical connection there. The only connection I felt was to army. To those green lush cantonments,  to order and discipline, to organization in its myriad forms. Apart from that where was I from? Would you think me an absolute douche bag if I said- India? Come to think of it I've never been unduly patriotic. Not the flags and banners kind. But I do have something to say about the recent trend( or has it always been so) of making little pockets where you lay claim to your piece of territory. Telangana. Kashmir. Everyone wants a piece for himself. Independence from independence. And the fighting. My god. Everyone wants to live free. Irony isn't it in a democracy? We are free. So why are we clamoring for our little pockets and hidey holes? Search me. I racked my brains and couldn't come up with an answer. If you do let me know. It's your country man. Why do you need a pocket to crawl into? Demarcate territories? Put up fences and barriers? Large signs saying: This is mine. Keep out. Why are we so threatened? 

I may speak Bengali eat Bengali food but may feel at home just about anywhere. Why do I have to limit myself to a region or state? So I gave her the only answer I could. "Everywhere." I said. "I'm from everywhere." It's how I feel. What about you? What do you feel? What do you think? A pocket to crawl into or the whole damn country? Where are you from? India or Assam, Chennai, Kolkata, Mumbai, Punjab? Hey only you have the answer to that question. 

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.