Of Building Words and Worlds

It must have started with a story. Probably about a foolish lion or a wily jackal, or a particularly resourceful crow, written in a book with scant text and brightly coloured pictures. Of course I was old enough to know that animals couldn’t talk and that it wasn’t quite possible to turn pumpkins into carriages. But none of that mattered as long as the book was open and I was in it.

I must have discovered, after turning the last page, that I wanted more. That one book multiplied, and over time, I became a book-eating monster. I would read in between and during classes, and while I ate, and under the blanket at night, lighting up the stories with my baby torch while everybody else slept. As a result, I lived in parallel worlds. In one, I was the average kid with the occasional freckle who was known for always doing her homework on time and never giving her parents any trouble at all. In the other, I spent my afternoons in a treehouse, feeding baby sparrows and ruling over Very Secret societies, and finding mysterious passageways that led out of school. As I grew older, my mastery over language increased, and I realised that the second world wasn’t created out of magic, but really just out of a few well-strung words. And at some point, I decided that I wanted to be a creator too. Frankly, I write because I don’t talk . . . much, that is.  I have always been a quiet person. It’s like a birthmark or something. It identifies me- my silentness. And I keep telling people that I am not silent. It’s just that I’ve just found an alternative to speaking out loud.

Writing is what sustains me. While other kids fretted over spelling and grammar, I found that I actually liked all that stuff. I liked how words out of my mind arranged themselves coherently on a page. And there was a peculiar feeling of satisfaction that I got once that page became a mirror. My writing gives me access to a private Zembla where I turn all my air-castles into real objects and where I think, dream, doodle, and plan extensively. But I often find that my writing is disorganized and directionless, and they mostly appear to be in the form of furtive notebook entries that are meant to be understood only by the writer and maybe a few other people with a similar thought process. I don’t want my writing to remain just as an outlet. I want to be part of the communication process that has the power to change the world for the better. I want to be part of the medium that has the ability to build worlds. Which is why I feel the Masters in Writing for Performance and Publication at the University of Leeds is the perfect course for me. Now a degree in Creative Writing is something that a lot of universities in the UK offer, and no doubt, many of the courses are taught by top-notch authors and poets. But the programme at Leeds is spectacularly different. It doesn’t limit you to just prose or poetry writing. There is emphasis on a whole bunch of things from writing for radio to films to even plays. One can only imagine the kind of opportunities such a course opens up.

It also helps that the university is located in one of the most vibrant, multicultural cities in the UK. Leeds is a charming city teeming with people of delightfully different ethnicities. And as far as I’m concerned, writing flourishes in a place like that, where you’re constantly coloured by the people you meet and the experiences you encounter as a result. It may not have the verve of a London, but it doesn’t have the clutter either. It’s a quintessential old English town with plenty of history, but it is also very much a city in its own right in so many ways. Leeds seems like a home away from home, where a biriyani place is right next to a fish and chips stall, where the old and the familiar blend with the new and exciting with ease. Writing is all about finding the balance between comfort and thrill, and I think Leeds is just the place for that.

http://knowledgeisgreat.in/

In which we bash the daylights out of the horror that is Sur Kshetra

Okay, so I think we’re all pretty much agreed on the fact that Indian television is terrible. Ghastly, in fact. It’s boring, repetitive, regressive, unimaginative and just really, really bad. And there are very, very few exceptions. We’ll talk about them some other time.

Today we are going to dwell on a fresh new horror that has been unleashed in the reality show scene. Now the concept of the reality show itself deserves a separate post, so for the moment we are just going to focus one particular show that’s so cringe-worthy it makes you want to pull at your hair.

Sur Kshetra is supposed to be a musical battle between India and Pakistan. The team of singers from India is headed by Himesh Reshammiya (gasp) and the Pakistani team is headed by Atif (gasp, again). Then there’s a jury of three very revered singers, one from Pakistan, one from India, and one of Bangladesh (to provide balance and harmony, literally and figuratively, of course).

I’ll tell you what I like about the show first. The singers are actually pretty good. In fact, there’s nobody I dislike. And they seem pretty sweet, despite the whole Oh-I’m-here-to-fight-for-my-country-nonsense.  I sincerely feel they’re better off elsewhere.

Let’s count the cons now.

First of all, musical battle between India and Pakistan? My god, really? How sickeningly manipulative can you get? And you’re using music, of all the things! The one thing that’s actually worked out to be a unifying factor all these year …

Atif is annoying. ANNOYING. He disses all the Indian contestants ruthlessly, picks non-existent flaws in their singing, and argues with the jury over the results each time. Himesh, believe it or not, is surprisingly less annoying that way.

Ayesha Takia really gets on your nerves. She giggles a lot and unnecessarily, and interrupts people when they’re talking. The show would be slightly better if she didn’t talk at all. But only slightly.

It’s such a pity that this show has so many good singers but they’ve been pitted against each other in some kind of weird Indo-Pak war. Music should be about collaboration and consonance. And if it has to be a competition, then let it be based on talent and skill.  Don’t let music be a cricket match.

 

PS: Why are there only two female contestants in the show? So weird.

Blue is that vast ocean of loneliness I’m forever afraid of falling into.

Blue is the colour of the music that I listen to night after night.

Blue is the taste of your thoughts in my mind.

Blue is what I imagine our love to be.

Blue is me.

The Addiction

It all started with a teeny, tiny glass. Only 30 ml, so it went down real fast

Tasted so nasty at the time; but the salt made it better, and so did the lime

The second time, it was whisky that I drank, and god, that thing really stank

The third’s a blur, the fourth too. I really don’t remember, I swear it’s true.

Anyway, how does it matter? For Nyx the Shy had finally learnt to chatter!

With a drink in my hand, and a high in my head, I was always free of all dread

Oh Nyx, you’re such a soak, they’d giggle, as I reached for a third rum & coke

What did I care, as long as I was the life of the party everywhere?

So what if sometimes the lights bled, and I could only see red?

So what if I slurred a bit, and in the morning, felt like shit?

Oh Nyx, you’re such a soak, they now smirked

When I reached for my sixth rum & coke

I never realised, I was so hooked

I was well and truly soaked

I knew I had to get out

before I drowned

Soak no more

Soak no

more

I think to myself

But then my hands automatically reach

For yet another cocktail, this time a ‘Sex on the Beach’.

Written for the Indiblogger ‘Soak No More’ contest.

The Kitchen-Deity

You were a goddess once, placed on a pedestal, worshipped with flowers and incense, with fear and awe … with love and reverence. You were resplendent, and radiant as the sun.  As a mother, you offered succour to your children, wiping their tears and healing their wounds. As an avenger, you rode a tiger, slaying monsters with your glittering sword, wearing the skulls of your enemies as a necklace around your proud neck, while the whole world cowered under your war-cry. As a lover, you razed the skies with the heat of your passion. And as the earth … you gave life.

Your pedestal’s gone now. They tore it down long ago – those same worshippers. Your children. And they locked you in a different kind of sanctum sanctorum – what they call a kitchen, where you were left to preside over spices and pickles and mete out justice to the bacteria on vegetables. Oh they left your arms intact – the first to wield a broom, the second to clutch a brush, the third to hold a spoon, the fourth to seize a mop. I see your arms working tirelessly, like clockwork, soaking up dirt, dust, sorrow, disease … anything that plagues your masters, until everything’s dry and clean and nice as sugar and spice. Until your own brow is soaked in gallons of sweat.

When you tried to escape from the kitchen-temple, they quietly locked you in yet another sanctum sanctorum – a larger place of confinement, the one they call society. And they laid little traps for you, like landmines. Landmines made of groping arms, and stiff male organs, and domestic violence and dowry demands, and many many others you could step on at any moment. They waited till you cried out and begged for mercy, for nothing pleases them more than to see your eyes soaked in tears.

Sometimes I catch a flash of that old fire in your eyes, but it dies down so quickly that I always dismiss it as an illusion, birthed by wishful thinking. I have no songs of praise for you, no words of consolation, no sighs of sympathy, but just a little piece of advice. Soak no more. I hope someday you will listen.

 

 

Post written for the Indiblogger-Surf Excel ‘Soak No More’ contest.

The Wedding

‘And this is Keya. I’ve told you about her.’ 

The bride smiled automatically in my direction. The same flashy one that she had given the six hundred odd people who had been introduced to her before me. 

‘Really? He’s mentioned me?’ I raised an eyebrow. 

‘Oh yes!’ 

She was exhausted. I could tell, even though the hundred pins in her hair had stuck on steadfastly and her kohl and lipstick were still immaculate. The poor girl had been up since four in the morning, I found out later, getting her hair and face made up to look bride-worthy. And the journey to the wedding hall from her house had taken almost three hours, after which I’m sure, she would’ve had no time to breathe.

‘Miss, do you want to be in the picture?’

‘No, no …’ I inched away. The bride and groom turned back to the cameras. I was already forgotten. 

The feast had started. I could see someone conjuring roomali rotis in a corner before a fascinated audience of five-year-olds. A dozen waiters had appeared out of nowhere, delivering fluffy appams and pork chops and beef curry to the endless row of tables. I suddenly lost the little appetite I had gathered during the boring wedding mass.

They looked so happy- the new couple. I watched them for a few seconds, a little wistfully, before running away.

—

‘Are you absolutely, positively SURE about this?’ I had asked Shawn the previous night. 

‘Of course! She’s a sweetheart.’

‘But … you barely know her!’ I protested.

‘That’s not true. We’ve been talking on the phone.’

‘Um … you’ve met her only thrice. How can you possibly tell what she’s like? What if she has horrible secrets? You’re going to be stuck with her your entire life!’ 

‘That’s how arranged marriages are,’ he replied, falling back on his pillow.

‘I also have horrible secrets, don’t I?’ he added, quietly. ‘It’ll be fun discovering each other.’

I stared at him incredulously, not knowing what to say.

He yawned. ‘It’s past 2. I have to get up early, you know. I’m the groom and all.’

‘Are you asking me to get out of your room?’

He smiled sheepishly. ‘Well.’

I closed the door behind me with a bang. Late nights had never bothered him before. Don’t be silly, I told myself. He’s getting married tomorrow. Obviously, things are different now. 

—

Shawn and I had never spoken to each other as kids. I was painfully shy, and he did not think it necessary to even attempt to talk to me. He had many other cousins he was on better terms with, and saw much more of. 

All I knew about him was that he was my dad’s older brother’s son, and that he liked Michael Jackson.  

Years passed, and I did not learn more. Until I went to college in a city ten hours away from Kerala. Visits became more frequent. Instead of once in every two or three years, it was now twice a year.

Shawn and I started talking chiefly because of our other cousins- a garrulous lot, unlike us. We started to build our relationship through card games and carrom tournaments. Small talk turned into conversations. Conversations turned into arguments. Arguments became scuffles. And we suddenly found that we had started considering each other siblings and best friends. 

We would spend night after night in the balcony, sometimes with the others, playing games and laughing our hearts out till dawn, and sometimes by ourselves, sharing stories or singing along to the music on his laptop, until somebody came and asked us to shut up and sleep. 

It never occurred to me that we wouldn’t be able to spend all our lives singing in harmony under the moonlight with stolen glasses of vodka in our hands, a half-abandoned pack of Uno cards lying on a plastic table near us. 

It wasn’t such a big deal, in retrospect. Marriages were arranged all the time. Babies were produced all the time. Regardless of whether you were ready or not. These things come naturally; there is no need for preparation.

At least, it wasn’t a big deal for my cousins, who had grown up knowing that they would be thrust into a relationship with a stranger for life by their parents. My cousin Neetu was younger than me when she got married. I couldn’t attend her wedding because I was studying abroad. When I returned home three months after, I was shocked to see that she was already pregnant. My infantile cousin had a baby inside her! What was equally strange was that her husband was this strangely reticent chap who’d hide in a corner at all gatherings. (Heck, even I wasn’t as bad as that, even though I’m famous for my unsocial-ness!) And he was married to a girl who … well, finds it really difficult to shut her mouth even while sleeping. Eighteen months after her wedding, Neetu was back at her parents’ house, with her baby daughter and a huge bruise on her cheek, and welts on both arms. Oh it was no dowry case. She was just attacked by her whole household because she didn’t have the meekness of a model daughter-in-law.

Shawn knew right from the start that there would be no future with his college girlfriend. She was a Hindu and a North Indian, and the daughter of a retired army office. Her parents were more conservative than his Syrian Catholic ones. Yet they had gone out for four years, fiercely in love with each other. It didn’t end well, of course. The affair was found out and the girl was quickly married off to a North Indian Hindu. And Shawn – my smart, level-headed cousin turned to the world’s favourite refuge. Disgusted to see his son do a Devdas, my uncle left him to his devices. It took a couple of years for Shawn to pull himself together. He still smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish, but at least, he wasn’t in mourning anymore. By the time we started talking, he was only a little too nonchalant and cynical for a 26-year-old.

—

‘That’s it? You’re not going to eat any more?’ asked Mum worriedly as I brooded over how the presence of the New Wife was going to change everything.

‘Yeah, I’m done. I’m going to find Neetu.’

I pushed my plate away and walked out of the hall, returning perfunctory smiles from relatives, acquaintances and perfect strangers on the way. ‘You’re going to be on that stage soon too, you know,’ some old aunt cackled as I brushed past her. I tried not to gag.

Neetu was nowhere to be seen. I sat down on a chair and took out my camera.

‘Kay, where were you?’ I felt a hand on my shoulder.

‘Anju and I were getting so bored there … all those people! And the photographers just wouldn’t stop bothering us! I thought you’d keep us company,’ Shawn said. ‘Anyway, we’re leaving now. See you at home.’

He gave me a quick hug, and taking his wife’s hand, led her into the waiting car. The moment they were inside, Anju rested her head against Shawn’s shoulder.

Neetu came running, holding an abandoned bouquet in her hands. ‘Have they left?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘Oh, were you sitting here all alone? I’m so sorry, the baby was crying, so I had to …’

‘It’s okay, come let’s go get some ice cream,’ I said, suddenly feeling much better. My cousin had got a second shot at love.

 

Post written for the Indiblogger contest – Love Marriage or Arranged Marriage. www.facebook.com/LoveYaArrange

 

 

 

 

 

And they lived …

My mum was 20 when she first met my dad, who was six years older to her. They were opposites, in every way possible, and boy did they attract each other. Sighs were sighed (I presume), letters were exchanged (this I definitely know), promises were made and meetings were met (my granny swears) over a period of two rosy years, at the end of which my mother decided that she was ready to drop out of college and marry my dad. All hell broke loose, of course, because what kind of love story doesn’t involve parental opposition and much melodrama? My dad, though highly educated and decidedly charming, came from a poor family. Self-made men are awesome in novels (and awesome-r in movies), but they’re not the sort you wed your daughters to, my mum’s (filthy rich) family decreed. My mother simply locked herself up in her room and threatened to starve to death if she didn’t get her way. Needless to say, she got it (after her family gnashed their teeth to pulp).
And they lived happily ever after? Well, not so much.

Over the years, I’ve watched their marriage crumbling, bit by bit. Going into exactly why their marriage fell apart is tedious. They were too different, their families were too different and all the differences only grew with time. If any love remains, let’s just say it’s very well-hidden. I’m still trying to figure out how they fell in love in the first place.

My maternal grandparents had an arranged marriage. My grandmother saw my grandfather ONCE before she got married to him. In the twenty-four years of my existence, I have never witnessed them exchanging a single civil word. Everything (and I kid you not) about my gran irritates my grandpa, and vice versa. Yet they somehow stay together, because not being able to stand each other’s sight is not good enough reason for a divorce in India.

A few years ago, when I was less cynical about, well, the whole world and beyond, I would’ve said ‘OF COURSE I want a love marriage, I can’t even imagine my parents arranging a match for me, I’d rather die’. That’s when I was still in the ‘someday my prince will come’ mode, despite all the hullabaloo in my house. Even now, if I had to pick one of the two, for the sake of picking, I’d still tick Love Marriage. Only because I think Arranged Marriage involves a big-ger leap of faith and by the time you figure out if you’ve been very stupid or very brave, it’s too late. And of course, the very idea of Other People deciding what you should do is just repulsive. But then we’re all accustomed to that sort of system, aren’t we? We’re all so used to having other people do our stuff. Mama does the cooking, Dad takes care of all the bills, the Dhobi washes the clothes, the Maid cleans the utensils, and so on. We’ve developed a system in which none of us are allowed to do anything on our own, and that includes taking important life decisions.

Having said that, finding somebody you want to spend your life with, on your own, is not easy in this country.  Especially if you’re a girl. People are puzzled when I tell them that I’ve never dated anybody, that I’ve never been asked out. I’m tall and thin and I like to think that I’m not hideous. I may not be the brightest star in the galaxy, but I’m reasonably smart and occasionally funny. But I’ve been single all my life. I’ve only fallen for two people so far. Seriously, that is. The first one and I had a lot of things in common – we read the same kind of books, and liked the same movies, we both wrote a lot and liked to critique each other’s work, we even enjoyed the same kind of humour. We flirted a little, and suddenly I found myself head over heels in love, only to have my heart torn to shreds. Reason: he didn’t find me attractive enough. All right, fair enough. But I did spend two years of my life feeling all bitter and stuff. Then came another Boy, who was just the same! Man, what are the chances of that happening? Since then, I’ve tried my best to prevent history from repeating itself for the third time, because I honestly don’t have any self-esteem to spare.

But then there’s that small matter of loneliness. Yes, that evil thing. I wish India was the sort of place where you can just walk into a bar and strike up a nice conversation with a nice guy (without him thinking that all you want to do is sleep with him). But it isn’t. Even admitting that you would like to have a boyfriend to your friends is considered ‘desperate’. I think I’m finally beginning to understand why even ‘modern’, city-bred people are willing to enter into arranged marriages. There aren’t enough opportunities for people to mingle and socialise and find somebody compatible. And then there’s the matter of ticking all the caste, creed, social standing, language, region, dialect (add a million more categories here) boxes. And god forbid, if the girl makes the first move!

Come to think of it, I don’t have much faith in the institution of marriage itself anymore, but I seriously think that the concept of arranged marriage (if marriage HAS to exist) should be done away with, because it reinforces religious, caste, class  and regional barriers in our country with a vengeance. I propose we add a new Fundamental Right to our Constitution – the right to live your own life.

— written for Indiblogger’s Love Marriage or Arranged Marriage contest (www.facebook.com/LoveYaArrange).

in which we pose a question to the Revered Guardians of the Indian Culture

A few days ago, I was walking back home from the neighbourhood library when a man riding pillion, whistled at me. Not content with that, he also blew me a kiss and pointed at his crotch. And then cackling wildly, they went out of sight.

Now half the people in my country would say, ‘Tch, you must have dressed provocatively and enticed those poor men’. The subtler ones would say, ‘You must have … cough, invited it upon yourself  … who asked you to walk alone at night?’

I was a full-sleeved red kurta with a high neck, and straight-cut jeans. I wasn’t wearing any flashy jewellery or makeup, and my hair was in a messy bun. By no standards was I looking attractive or alluring in any way. Heck, I couldn’t have attracted a cockroach. A sari, the most ‘respectable’ attire in our country, couldn’t have covered my body better. Only my face was unexposed. And you know what? When that man first whistled at me, he could only see my back. Which means, he could basically see that I was a woman. And that was enough for him.

Also, it was 4 in the afternoon, and I was walking through one of the posher areas — a locality with the most expensive restaurants, clubs and shops in the city.

So, Revered Guardians of the Indian Culture, when are you going to understand that you need to prosecute actual offenders, not Clothes?

Birth

Thakur Sahib’s household was in mourning. An uneasy silence enveloped the three-storied mansion – the largest in the village. It was the loudest silence she had ever heard, Choti Bahu thought, as she sat alone in the dark, her arms still wrapped tightly around her child. Her hold would not loosen for another four hours, at least.

Meanwhile, the deathly quiet had carried itself over to the large group of neighbours and well-wishers gathered in the outer courtyard, waiting for the sweets they had been promised. Thakur Sahib’s household had been preparing for this day for a long time. In the past week, the women of the house had done nothing but prepare all kinds of delicacies to welcome the newest member of the family. A few children from the village swore that they had seen hundreds of crisp, golden jalebis bubbling in sugary syrup in enormous frying pans with charred bottoms in Thakur Sahib’s kitchen.

‘Any moment now,’ little Shamu thought, his stomach rumbling. ‘Badi Malkin will come with a huge tray and I’ll have two crisp jalebis melting in my mouth.’

But the only person who came to greet him and the other villagers was one of Thakur Sahib’s snooty servants, who shut the door in their faces after muttering something.

‘Why did they turn us away, Baba? Wasn’t the baby born?’ Shamu asked, tugging at his father’s sleeve as they walked home.

‘Yes,’ his father replied. ‘But it was a girl.’

 

in which we analyse day and night

I think there just might be some truth in the whole early-to-bed-early-to-rise business.

I remember one of my friends telling me that it’s very easy to wallow in self-pity. It’s easy to curl up in the comfort of your depression. You know how you want to stay wrapped in your blankets in the winter even though it’s 10 in the morning and you have a long, long day ahead of you? Depression’s like that. It’s a snuggly blanket. It takes effort to get out of it.

I realise I love the night because it fuels my despondency. There’s something about darkness that throws you into delightful fits of despair. And you embrace the despair  with open arms, with absolute relief. And then there’s the small matter of the moon. Have you ever seen anything so beautifully melancholic?

But the most important thing about night? It’s inspiring. Come on, nobody writes poems on a sunny day. My English teacher once wisely said — uh, they (the great poets) had better things to do when they were happy.

So I went to bed at around 3 last night feeling unloved and alone, convinced that I was going to spend my whole life feeling just that. And then I woke up in the morning feeling … fine. Though nothing had changed.