Space (Micro fiction 2)

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Sartaj did not commit. He liked to keep an exit route free. Was this fence sitting of his out of concern for any disappointment to the negotiating partner should the proposed plan fall through? Or was it just self-preservation, honed to a craft! Ira could never tell considering she was a study in contrast, with her arms held wide open to all that life could bring her. She said yes to plans, projects, ideas, trips, requests, tasks; quite a ‘bring it on’ woman. His mantra was, “Count me in, ninety nine percent”, while she was in the habit of declaring, “Let’s do this!”

“Darling, the Fernandez’s are inviting us over for Christmas cake, shall I say yes?” Ira would begin tentatively and pat would come the response, “Tell them, we will try our level best!” This shadow committing peppered the mundane of their lives together too. Ira had lost count of the days Sartaj would first give his word about an evening walk together or a movie over the weekend only to take it right back as the hour drew close. The reasons could be anything from, “I have work to catch up with” to “I have to wash my hair” or just plain “I feel like taking a nap.”

“Sartaj, we should forewarn the family we are reaching in a week’s

time so that they can make their plans”, Ira was uncomfortable with the surprises they routinely sprung on their kith and kin. “I don’t like disappointing them. What if our plans change at the last minute for some reason? You know what my work is like!” Sartaj would defend his maddening method. It could be frustrating at times. Ira came from a family that flirted with plans freely and had no trouble keeping schedules and coming clean with commitments. It bothered her that she could not confirm to her mother any vacation plans until they were actually on their way. “You know how it is Mum, we will let you know as the trip evolves. But you should go right ahead with your calendar, don’t miss out on anything just waiting for us to firm up,” she habitually kept her folks in a limbo.

Their couple dialogue followed a map of maybes and perhaps. Ira knew better than to get her hopes up or look forward to anything too much. Their friendship had taught her a certain equanimity of excitement. She had also started to break away from the socially prescribed couple theme to assume responsibility for her own fun and pleasure. They had begun to settle into a rhythm of an easy and unfettered individuality. It was not unusual for her to watch a movie alone when he perceived a threat to his pressures. She did not seek his approval for every action of hers, at times he learnt of her adventures after they had been had!

“When do you two meet at home guys? You always seem to be at two different places! I see you walking alone too,” their friends were fond of observing. They might even have suspected a fault line somewhere. The two would joke about it, “Sartaj, we should occasionally act lovey dovey in public, the next you know there will be talk of our divorce eligibility!” and “How about you seeing me off to work lovingly and being home when I return so the neighbors get the right message!” The pair had trimmed their togetherness to an optimum functionality. What had begun as varying energy levels for living had ended up giving each the permission to plug into their personal selves in a safe space.

Ira discovered a hidden talent for linguistics; Sartaj found he had

the notes for some stunning vocals. They used their time and energy away from each other to expand and grow. It added rich and authentic nuances to their hours together. “I have to wait for my husband. He hates going anywhere without me. I so love lazing in my bed first thing in the morning but he insists I come out and have bed tea with him in the lawn!” Ira had several awe struck friends, they marveled at the autonomy she had found in her marriage. “You are so lucky Ira to have such an understanding and accommodating husband,” they were fond of reminding her.

Ira would nod with the same vigor as she would use to reach behind and pat her own back, “Hats off to me! Rather than bemoan the perfect dancer, I did good to learn the dance!”

Jealousy (Nano Fiction)

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His voice dipped to a pianissimo when directed at Coco. “Hey baby, you are such a cutie, look at those ears, so, so very soft!”

The man and his beast thrived thus in their mutual bubble of dependence and acceptance. Their needs were well met and their bond, toxin free. Their moments together were of pure joy. She would charge, bounding at him as he stood at the door, dangling the leash. Their connection showed even when she flashed the whites of her eyes if he ever said, “Sorry, busy. Your mistress will walk you today!”

Sukriti would respond with mock annoyance, “She gets more affection from you than I do! This makes me jealous.”  Blithe would come the master’s reply, “Well, if you looked at me with that same adoration, I would treat you special too.”

It was their silver wedding anniversary a week later. Both sides of the families were attending the large party the couple was hosting for their friends. Euphoric on the effervescence of champagne and good will, when the clan returned home, their chatter fell into a shocked silence. Coco was sprawled in an untidy heap of Sukriti’s belongings. There was a mauled blue velvet box, two damaged lip gels, some torn fabric and a silver heel chewed through.

The dog whimpered as her mistress lashed out at the bewildered husband, “Treat your dog like a human and she will treat you like a dog!”

Love Martyr (Micro Fiction)

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Minnie pressed the receiver down on her ear, it sounded like dry heaving at the other end, “Who is this, please speak up!” Concern began to nip at her as darkness flowed in over the wires. Something was amiss.

She called up the exchange, “Can you get me the last incoming call?” The number was familiar. It was barely a week ago she had sat with Anu in her artistic balcony, chatting over the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. “These kids call themselves the millennial generation Minnie, I feel such disconnect with their life style.” The two had talked into the twilight, exchanging notes on their growing children. “I feel deeply concerned at the relationships they enter so early in life, multiple ones at times.”

Minnie took a deep breath. She knew Anu’s son Kabir to be a bit of a love martyr; he suffered a chronic heartache over his high school date. Attempts to wipe the rose off his besotted eyes had famously failed. “Karen is the woman in my life, the world will find out soon what true love is,” the youngster was unhealthily attached.  At an age that was best served working on his own growth, he had taken on the onus of another young life.

Minnie redialed the number nervously. Anu had spoken of their

volatile young equation,“Karen is rapidly outgrowing Kabir and he is struggling with her pace.” The two had begun to fight a lot, going back and forth like the Yo-yo.  It was distressing for the adults to see promising young lives drain thus. “He cannot stand her sprouting wings and coming into her own; and she is rediscovering the joys of personal autonomy,” the words haunted Minnie as she gave up on the phone and clambered down the steps to the garage.

There was an ambulance idling outside, ready to pull away. Minnie switched off in haste and climbed in besides Anu, pulling her close. They rode in grim grief, a soul deep helplessness gnawing at their innards. Kabir lay unconscious on the creaking stretcher, the paramedics busy over him. In a matter of minutes, they were surging into the hospital and the waiting arms of emergency wing.

“It is my fault, I was supposed to put away all the sharp objects at home,” Anu was inconsolable. She sat up all of a sudden, rummaging in her familiar rust tote. “Here, read this, it escaped me completely!” The paper was covered with Kabir’s words in black ink. Minnie flipped the green sheet over by its spiral rib. In the right bottom corner, there was a signature in red:  Karen, TL; DR!

Fraught with despair only a parent can fathom, she enveloped Anu protectively before translating in her ear, “Karen, Too long; did not read!”

Shell (Micro Fiction)

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“My brothers are perfect fathers and husbands,” Kanta willed herself to stay calm through this routine idealization, briefly locking eyes with Vani, the younger and only other daughter-in-law in the family.

“What is our karma that has brought us into the same clan,” the two would often wonder aloud to each other. They shared the bond of alterity, of being the other, outsiders in a way. But for now, it was self-glorification time for the biological band. “We had a wonderful childhood, everyone is blessed…the two brothers in particular are saints for nurturing their families in so complete a manner,” and so on it would go.

Having heard the aggressive praise once too often, Kanta tuned it out, the exaggerated words becoming a static behind the raw flashes in her mind. Her healer had warned against entering a circular thought pattern of pain with its mortal effect on her cells and tissues but the violent images would not abate.

Kanta’s eye caught a movement. Vani was plucking at her sari fold, caught under Nawab, their golden retriever. The tug intensified, drawing Kanta’s attention to a purple bruise on her pale forearm. “We can help you budget your finances and manage living expenditure smarter so that our brothers are less stressed,” the sister was intoning, as the sari discreetly crept up over what was quite certainly a marital night’s fruit.

“We are a very close knit family, our parents could not have done us any better, our mother stayed alone for our education, our father was a thoroughbred professional,” the folklore continued relentlessly. While the family beamed patronizingly, in a self-conscious bubble of smugness, the two outsiders struggled with force smiles. Centuries of conditioning and a lifetime of Bollywood viewing had rendered them incapable of recognizing abuse.

“Oh, it is nearly four thirty, time for tea and snacks,” the two got up as though on cue, dropping their masks once safely inside the kitchen. Vani held out the bruised arm for Kanta’s inspection, “Last night, there was an argument over house repairs. This building needs constant maintenance……you are fortunate, at least Bhaiyya Ji does not hit.”

Kanta turned away quickly, placing the pan on the gas range, grabbing for the makings of tea. Her wounds were invisible but she carried a chronic sore from her own marital space. Her husband hid so well under the family mantle, his position as the paragon of virtue set in stone. To all appearances he was gentle and thoughtful.  She alone knew his secret armour.

He practiced his sabotage from behind a brick wall, unavailable and distant. Her family would have called her crazy if she ever admitted to feeling alone, unimportant and rejected.  Who would believe how invisible it felt to be among such a mutual admiration society? 

Affection (Micro Fiction)

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“My generation is commitment phobic Auntie, just look at us! No one wants to marry.”

Simmar gave Guncha a thoughtful look, taking in her merry wise youth, tinged with that faintly fatigued resignation. Driving always relaxed her; put her in a meditative trance. She guided the car, thoughts in tandem with its smooth turns. There was no panic, she told herself, the Kathak performance they were attending was nearly an hour away and there was Olivia to pick up from the Instituto Hispania. She enjoyed engaging with her daughter’s group of diverse friends.

The Honda flowed seamlessly with the traffic until their next stop. “Tell us about Spain Olivia”, she queried of the newest entrant in the car. There was the slightest pause as the Latino leaned back, having made herself comfortable in the rear seat! “Well, it is the women who are ready to set up house and raise families in Spain but the men will not bite. It is as though they do not want to grow up. There are all these rovers, well into their middle years, chasing and winning teenage girls. They see no incentive in committing to one person for life?!”

Guncha was quick to retort, “In India, it is an institution still, in the slow process of becoming elective of course. Most people my age are questioning it big time. More and more, they will not marry just for the sake of marrying or because it is the next stage in life. ”

Marvelling at her luck in finding a vacant parking slot, Simmar eased the vehicle in and the trio was soon enough settled on the red ply chairs over Paneer Kulchas at the Auditorium canteen. “We have a half hour before the curtain rises, let’s wait here for Sonal.” For a while, silence reigned, punctuated by appreciative sounds of gastronomical delight. Simmar resumed the conversation, patting an extra Kulcha down for her daughter Sonal, “So what do today’s young expect of marriage?”

“I think the men in my country are able to meet all their needs outside of marriage. Either that or the unrealistically high expectations of marriage that appear to call for too much effort,” Olivia prised the Kulcha open to peer into the filling. Guncha sighed, turning at the sound of Sonal approaching, “There are times I think arranged marriages were so much simpler.” 

Plaintive strains of the Sarangi began to pluck and nudge from inside the hall at this pensive band.

They waited for Sonal to settle in; she wanted chocolate powder on her coffee. “Ten more minutes,” Simmar announced with that typical parental inflection. “Maslow’s hierarchy of needs,” Sonal leaned forward, warming up to the subject and the reheated Kulcha, “Mum, your parents were happy enough to pool in resources; for you and Dad, it was companionship of sorts but for us matrimony is nothing short of self-actualization. It is about self-expression, personal fulfilment, core growth.”

“There are these endless check boxes Auntie, chemistry, looks, books, music….almost as though…well, let’s put it this way….we either want it all or none at all!”

Simmar sighed, pushing back her chair. Her mind spun in sync with the dancer’s pirouettes on stage. She turned in the dark to gaze over the three young heads aligned next to her. Her heart quaked for them. She bit back the words, chewing them down the oesophagus, “Girls, chuck the actualization, where are you going to find the time for it, will you settle then for plain affection and respect!!”

Reminiscence (Micro Fiction)

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Lovely was your typical Punjabi bride; audible from metres off. Her bells and baubles bespoke of life’s promises. The one discordant note in her squeaky new life was her mother-in-law. “I think your Mum may be a latent hypochondriac,” she had begun to make tentative sounds around her groom. 

Mummy Ji regularly updated her list of ailments. If it was, “The smoke from the sheller is burning my throat,” one day, it would be, “The pesticide on the okra has upset my stomach,” on another. Her irksome aches and pains were rivalled only by an intense distrust of the medical fraternity. She refused to present herself to what she called a “plain MBBS.” Her physician had to be a specialist with published research and an award or two.

Fatigued with this on-going saga of ailments, the family had all but tuned her out. Lovely was Mummy Ji’s uninitiated and obligated listener. This one way monologue formed the basis of their flaky familiarity over the next decade or so. Lovely learned to mask a growing impatience with courtesy and silence. “I think her mind plays tricks,” she would tell herself.

There was more; an obsessive preoccupation with cleanliness and an ever present insecurity over religion and rituals. “There is so much to be grateful for, why can’t Mummy Ji be happier?” Lovely had graduated in her communication with the husband. But there was no insight forthcoming from the family other than a hurt withdrawal.

Until one day.

The house shot into an overdrive. Beeji was coming home from the hospice. With her terminal prognosis and a life expectancy of three months, she had expressed a desire for reunion and reminiscence. Lovely did not know what to expect. She had never heard anyone speak of Beeji. A mute spectator, she watched the bed ridden elder wheeled and settled in.

It was one of those lazy summer mornings when a lone hawker’s cry wends around tree lined lanes. Lovely sat playing cards with her nieces and nephews. Mummy Ji was hovering over Beeji, concluding the diaper drill. The patient lunged suddenly, the room going still. Everyone turned to the bed. Beeji was holding Mummy Ji’s hands, tears rolling down withered flesh, “I am sorry, so so sorry.”

She had carried the bitterness of her son marrying below him half her life. “I would not acknowledge your mother-in-law while we lived together,” she looked at Lovely. “My hurt ego preferred hospice care to being dependent on a daughter-in-law I did not consider fair, cultured and religious enough for my son. I was wrong.”

Lovely turned to her Mummy Ji, suddenly seeing it all. “Do you see how Beeji’s dismissal affected your DNA, your cells? It made you compulsive and obsessive. How can you bear now to change Beeji’s diaper after a lifetime of painful rejection?”

“That was her karma; this is mine,” the smile was wan. 

Person (Micro Fiction)

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Keerat’s own osteoporosis or her daughter in law’s supposed ailment, it was hard to tell which nettled more.

The two storeys high “Sekhon Farm” with its five watchdogs and twenty Jersey cows had begun to ring hollow ever since her Ajaib Singh’s marriage to the Chief Justice’s daughter. “I feel I have lost my son,” it was a refrain Keerat’s septuagenarian husband liked to ignore. He was tempted more than once to suggest she take a leaf out of his own mother’s note book on freeing one’s son so he may bond better with his life partner but he was a wise man and kept his counsel.

The genteel couple had brought up their son with the time worn values of hard work, enterprise and discipline. It had taken blood and sweat to raise him to be a productive young man. “We did all the tough part and I am now supposed to just hand him over meekly to a strange girl he happens to be married to,” Keerat had turned acutely possessive of her son. “Well, that’s a new! It wasn’t all that while ago I remember you decrying his being insensitive, laid back, careless and forgetful. Now that his loyalties are divided, you hold him up as a shining symbol of his industrious and sterling lineage,” she resented her husband keeping her grounded in this manner. 

But they were one in their concern over this unexpected and bothersome new challenge in Ajaib’s life. His bride had taken ill with a rare and expensive disease. It bothered them no end to see their son bowed down with work and worry. Keerat’s reaction was tinted with annoyance at her daughter-in-law, “Are you sure she is sick? She looks just fine; I think she is just plain lazy. Her parents should have told us of her illness. I believe multiple sclerosis is hereditary.”

“It has been called the invisible disease Mother, the symptoms can disappear completely between attacks. And who is to say about the point of onset, she has been diagnosed with its progressive form, very hard to predict the direction her condition will take.”

Ajaib sat his mother down in front of his laptop, “It is important for us to understand what is happening to her. Multiple sclerosis affects the central nervous system and there is as yet, no cure available for this disease. The more you deny her suffering from it, the greater her stress and worse the MS symptoms.”

Keerat fell silent, struggling with her mixed emotions. “Not many of our friends and family know about it Mum because I was myself uncertain as to what we were dealing with. But we are approaching decision point soon. I am afraid she may be slipping into depression. Her epileptic seizure last week shook her up real bad.”

“A fit, did you say a fit?” Keerat’s voice went up an octave.

“She was alone at home. Everything was fine when I left her for the airport. Some two hours later, she just keeled over. I cannot risk it again.”

The mother broke out of her stunned trance, “How can I help?”

“She is more than my wife, your daughter-in-law or Sunny’s mother Mum. She is a person, a very proud, self-respecting and right now, a deeply grieving person. She is gradually losing her independence and that is very painful. We have a very tough time ahead. Help me to help her.”

“Look up a service dog on that computer of yours. We should consider getting her a pet soon, trained to assist her with the daily chores,” Ajainb’s father had come in quietly and had been listening in with increasing concern.

Keerat sat up with a new sense of purpose, “A pet that could fetch her cell phone, open the door, switch off the lights or keep her company at night when she is in pain. You are so right, she needs her own team on this.”

 “That and an unconditional love,” Ajaib’s voice grew softer.

The Execution

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Like a plump seed, rich with promise

Of growth and flush branching

Springs the idea of a friendship

That will endure life and ravaging

There is hope shy, timorously tender

A twenty four carat witnessing?!

Of you that is more than their reflection

In that moment begins the dying

One day you do not water the bond

Then ease out on the weeding

A veto on mulch is bound to bring

Whispering wheeze from sapling

Rooted in that yawning pain

Bothered at the blighting

Combating blast and howl and canker

The cusp comes into sighting

And yet it weathers the life force hardy

Through night and day yet smiling

For ties do not make us

We execute the tying!

Whole

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If there is anything more criminal, more crushing than injustice; it is a denial of its existence. 

I look at the dark clouds hovering over her head, sensing the talons that are tearing apart her sense of reality. The world outside is smiling benignly at her anguish, telling her what a sunny day it is and how wonderful the people who surround her. She is terrifyingly confused. Her voice is weary, there are endless rewinds and forwards in her narration and I sense, in her deeply drawn breaths, the vortex of desperation, down under.

She could be any woman, slowly losing her battle to fit or flee a mould.

I want to shake her and tell her a few things.

They can chip at you, if you let them, are you paying heed?

Humans are like that. They are incomplete entities, in the forever quest of that elusive and final conclusion. In their bodily tissues run the primeval neurons that cry out for constant affirmation.

No one is alone, everyone needs it. They all crave recognition that they are somehow special; an acknowledgement that they are making a difference. The variations are in the mode that they find their reasons in, to go on living.  

Yes, the succour differs. For some, it is meeting serial challenges at work. For others there is the delicious daze of the arts. And who can deny the drugged delight of an hour spent pushing the body. People get high on the company they keep, the things they buy, the stuff they eat. There are the adrenalin fans, the movie buffs, the gourmets, the geeks, the family fanatics, the devotees…they are all good.

But beware!

Beware of the domination junkies. Those who would sink their hooks into your spirits, oh yes believe it or not, they exist. Their fuel is control over others. They like to direct, to shame, to induce guilt, to belittle, to dismiss, and to denigrate. A consistent abuse of life around is a diehard habit. They are the Suns of their systems, in centrifugal command of lives tied to theirs. One might spend years denying the existence of this brand of human transaction; so disarming are these sugar glazed bullies; why, one may find it too offensive to believe it to be true but the phenomenon exists and how!

Who do you think you are? You are going too fast, you will fall! Your clothes or your hair or your colour is not right. Be very very careful, you might fail. You are not good enough for this. You are not worth the money at stake. You may be imagining your pain. Your primary duty is to people around you. You are not beautiful enough, not clean enough, not demure enough, not tolerant enough, not strong enough, not tall enough, and in fact, not human enough! You are imagining the craters; it is all beatific and beautiful. 

These are the signature words of the vampires of the soul, gnawing at your sense of self. Given a chance, they would suck the energy out of you, snapping with one click the will to live. Begin therefore, by acknowledging their existence. Read up, gather information and arm yourself with the knowledge of what you are facing. Banish the self-doubts, the self-effacing fear and step back. Once you have a view of the threat, disconnect it from your aura in one ruthless lance.

That you live is reason enough for you to exist with dignity. You deserve to keep yourself whole, to speak up, to disagree, to be pro-active over your needs, to seek personal fulfilment. You need to realize how remarkable you are and what your true worth is beyond the culture that fails you time and again.

Note: All pics by Aqseer at Hongkong. 

The privacy hype

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In my book, privacy is a feature of youth. There is vulnerability when you are young that demands some kind of a protective filter around the young life. Privacy might also be critical to the professions of stealing, spying, politics or the building of a financial empire. Celebrities certainly need to guard their personal spaces with ferocity, considering its commercial potential. It can also happen that an exclusive family culture will presuppose a very private closeness.

But it has stopped bothering me as much, this paranoia for privacy.

I used to be a fierce closet person, too proud to share my private world with anyone but those closest to me. In the Advertising Agency I worked at, they called me the “locked jaw”. I could talk about books, ideas, events but try and get me to admit to one original, emotional thought from the deep recesses and I would turn “touch me not”.

Some of this stemmed from a sense of loyalty to people in my immediate radius. Some came from diffidence at what people might think or say. A bit of it was born of my own basic sense of fair play and belief in positive thinking. Why vent or bitch or criticise, was my internal logic! It did not seem there was much to gain by reinforcing any conflicts or self-doubts. At some level in my mind, it was also an admission of personal failure to air difficulties or speed-breakers, thus.

Over the years though, all through the milestones of becoming a wife, a parent, a professional, a citizen, I have seen and experienced enough to begin to realize the authentic oneness of being. There really is, barely a soul out there, who has had it easy in her lifetime. A mixed blessing has been and will be the universal signature tune of all human melodies. Ups and downs, highs and lows, heartbreak and ecstasy, ebb and flow are the paths life pretty much follows for everyone.

Was there a weak phase in your life for instance, when you felt you needed someone the most and they abandoned you emotionally?  You are not alone.

Were you ever dropped off in a strange city to find your way back home by your new family? You are not alone.

Did you pour your life into a child who fixes you with an angry glare today so your blood feels it has turned white?  You are not alone.

Did your educated and outwardly progressive husband yank your hair before chasing you around the dining table? You are not alone.

Have you ever felt claustrophobic and friendless in your seemingly ordered, outwardly peaceful existence? You are not alone.

Do you yearn sometimes for someone to hold you by the hand, look into your eyes and say, “I see you? You make a difference. You matter!” You are not alone.

Are there moments in your life, when you sit down and imagine what it would be like to run away and hide someplace far off? You are not alone.

There is this common human legacy of pain and aloneness that is truly egalitarian in nature, sparing none, infecting equally. And once you have absorbed this immutable, the self-created, psychic, emotional and mental walls of privacy begin to peel off, one layer at a time. And it is just as well because there is help out there.

A recent college reunion comes to mind. There we were, the six of us, meeting for the first time as a group, after 1983. We travelled in cars, sat around dining tables, hung out in homes; there was no need for any pretence. Each of us had been through our private hells and heavens but in recalling those years, there was oneness, a sense of acceptance and belonging which was ultimately very empowering.

We live today in a world obsessed with privacy but the truth is it is not even practically feasible anymore. Picture for one moment, the airport body scans, the online personal data storage, the chat rooms, the social network sites….what privacy are we talking about?

So reach out and hold a hand, reach out and shake a shoulder, reach out and wipe a tear, reach out and belong! 

There is great liberty in the loss of privacy.

Pink bubble

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There is something palpable and alien, rearing and growing up in our schools.

It is the increasingly acknowledged phenomenon of dating.  An entirely new and unfamiliar frontier for all concerned, this high school culture is cocking a huge snook at the hitherto acceptable definitions and parameters of teen discipline, safety and security.  

What used to be spoken of in hushed undertones gets progressively audible as teachers, parents and staff members watch young people pushing the envelope, literally. Coming upon unexpected incidents of intimacy do not shock anymore and it is fairly de rigueur to have the educational spaces populated by dopey looking couples, shuffling in an invisible pink bubble, wearing school uniforms. It is as though the entire dynamics of the school system has swung from performance based self-worth to relationships oriented wellbeing. Watch that awkward spring to their steps and a shy voltage around them, you can’t miss it.

There used to be such a stigma attached to even a hint of these engagements in the past that one has to stop and wonder at the currently charged academic environment. What do these relationships signify in a time and space that is primarily earmarked for learning and value addition? How is this emotional maze impacting one of the most impressionable and vulnerable segments of our population? At a phase in life when they should be completely focused on their own development and growth, is it doing them any good to draw their self-esteem from amorous equations with other young people as wet behind the ears as they themselves?

I feel concern at this new-fangled world of relationships where closeness is illusory, based as it is on instant communication powered by text messaging and Google talk. There is no distance or breathing space to reflect on the friendship as the young lurch from one emotional strife to another, hanging out or hooking up. There is a real danger of jealous and controlling behavior being mistaken for love. And how about the other, gender based issues of unrealistic demands being made on either or partner?  With the adolescent's need for autonomy and high dependence on peers, dating violence and sexual assault go unreported for the most part. As of now, there seems to be nothing in the way of their first line of defense moreover. Truth be told, we are all in a blissful state of denial, shaking our heads and saying that this problem is exaggerated.

It is not. There is a real, clear and present world of sexual hostility out there in our schools. It ought to be addressed with a stated policy on gender discrimination and sexual assault by individual institutions. We are not talking statistics and case histories here, these are real people, our friends, students, acquaintances and family members who are struggling with overwhelming emotions and pressures.  The first thing to do is to call attention to it, to report it so that it does not go unpunished or unnoticed.

Too many young people are thrashing about in whirlpools of confusing signals with no clear roadmaps from adults who refuse to look their way from their spots in the sand. Schools have an obligation to promulgate policy, related handling procedures and necessary disciplinary action to deal with such incidents. Mere standing guard and physical vigilance is not good enough just as it does not help to call parents and engage in mutual blaming. These are civil rights we are talking about, the right of a student to receive instruction in a safe, comfortable and non-threatening space. Adults in charge of the young cannot use the excuse of having no knowledge of their adventurism to escape accountability.  

Sexual harassment starts with standing in the basket ball grounds and rating the other gender on a scale of ten. Let’s acknowledge its existence and educate students on what is healthy and what is not;what is safe and what is not; what is empowering and what will damage them for life. 

We have a new epidemic on our hands: the MYDS or the Modern Young’s Dating Syndrome!! 

Sonic nought

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Not enough has been said about the power of silence.

Silence can speak more and louder than mere words. Words only hurt, silence can annihilate. Words may, at times, heal; silence embalms. Words have been known to persuade; silence can virtually seal.

Silence is a killer, decimating soundlessly. It can withhold and show largesse, all at once. Very much the Cheshire cat, watch it lend itself to innumerable interpretations. Crafted and wielded right, it can work where expansive verbosity fails. Delivered and timed well, it deflates egos, douses anger and poignantly so, break hearts. An unexplored, unchartered territory, the sound of the sonic nought has to be heard to be believed. It can be deafening, way beyond the decibel levels of the daily chatter.

There is so much ballyhoo over the verbal skills, has anyone flirted with the idea of coaching lessons in the use of silence? One wonders if it is indeed an aptitude that can be acquired or is it an innate ability, a gift; an inborn skill in the use of a human tool not many stop to think about, a talent I am completely in awe of, having none of it myself!

Watch it at work. Someone is lashing out at you in a no holds barred offensive; treat them to the shattering noise of silence. You are at the cusp of uncertainty and self-doubt, and your emotional upheaval is met with a dose of non-committal silence, you will grow to be the tougher, believe me! There are human expressions of fear, love, and envy, magnanimity, guilt, bitterness crashing into and falling around the wall of silence, all the time.

Is it any wonder that silence strikes such terror in human hearts? We do not like silence; it conveys anger, hostility, timidity, menace, disconnectedness, disagreement, danger, indifference, prompting us to rush in with our ceaseless small talk .The only time we will shut up is in spiritual confines that aim to achieve an inner silence, barring of course,  the audibly challenged  who live in a sound proof cocoon.

There are silences galore; the tautness of the hospital wards; the hush of the library; the still of the graveyard; the calm of the church, the echo atop a mountain peak, the desolateness of the desert and the deadliest of all, the silence of a loved one

Perhaps that is life, the occasional silence and an ability to judge the time for withholding and the time for letting go so that others can weather out their internal storms and pick up the pieces to move on. 

"Saying nothing....sometimes says the most", Emily Dickinson. 

Pics credited to Asawari

Heal thyself

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No race in the world can beat us at evading personal responsibility.

Floundering businesses, failed relationships, rocky domesticity, social disasters, unfortunate accidents, professional misadventures, follies of the heart and tongue….’kismet’ is always on hand to shoulder the blame. There is one issue though; missing in the list and more often than not, credited to people around instead of fate, for a change.

Have you noticed how ailing Indians seem powerless over their ailments? Of course there is old age, a genuine physiological malfunction and God forbid, even accidents but there is a remarkable disconnect between the sick and the management of their sickness. It is as though, their diseases have to do with everyone else around them other than themselves. Rather than take personal charge of their physical malaise, they will have the entire clan aligned alongside, one way or the other, fretting, fuming and fulminating in their morbid miasma.

In a pan-Indian, national trend, every Indian adult’s health and fitness is someone else’s designated portfolio. A wife is completely answerable for her husband’s physical wellbeing. The daughter-in-law better account for her parents’-in-law state of health. Every soul under the same roof will have the family senior’s health needs marked well within their purview. Indian sons are known to chart their destinies around their mother’s aching joints and daughters have spent endless hours caring for fathers who stubbornly refuse to follow the doctor’s orders.

It is understood and presumed that the diabetic will not himself watch his sugar intake. The asthmatic cannot be expected to watch her tolerance level for the out of doors. Who can blame the rheumatoid for not regularly exercising their joints? Instead, the immediate brood around have to take the blame and carry the guilt for actions or inactions of the suffering. As a matter of fact, in many families, the disease becomes a lifelong presence, cultivated and stoked and at times, even used to manipulate family dynamics.

We will be a healthier, happier and more hopeful nation if we worked on the premise that one’s health is primarily, one’s own personal responsibility. If you have a urinary tract infection, the onus is on you to drink more water, not on your family to keep pushing aqua at you. If you are diabetic, please watch your sugar intake and don’t keep others on tenterhooks over having served a sugary concoction at dinner. If you are obese, stop blaming the wife for not serving enough salad as appetizer so you could stuff your face a shade less with the deadly stuff that you do, as a matter of routine.

Not for a moment am I recommending that we abdicate care of the indisposed at home. But they certainly need to drop the martyr mantle and actively start sharing the major portion of the load. The greatest love we can show our families is to take charge of our own pneumonias, bronchial issues, nasal allergies and fungal growths.

It is time to take the necessary precautions, exercise the required self-discipline and follow the prescribed medical schedules to the T. The great Indian family is always on hand for terrible and terminal sicknesses but how about shouldering some genuine, self-directed and concrete responsibility for getting well! How about emerging from the convenient, comfortable, cosy couch of helplessness with a new resolve to get whole, healthy and healed? 

The new Valentines

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Within the Convent library I did my pre-senior school in, there used to be a shelf of romantic fiction books. I cycled home with one under the arm, every day. There would be maternal advice on how enough and more time would be available later in life to read up thus but the ravenous reading steam rolled ahead, no holds barred. The catalyst in this voracity was our friendly neighbour, Auntie Malviya! She had a son my age, was obviously married, must have been about 40 years or so but to my amazed bafflement, owned one fully stacked, wooden cupboard of row upon row of neatly arranged romantic novels, all beckoning with their brightly coloured ribs and drowsy, dewy, dreamy covers. I would wonder naively, “But she is married!”

Needless to say therefore, my early teens were a gluttonous haze in memory of all the Barbara Cartlands and Mills and Boons I gobbled up. Auntie Malviya, in fact, made me a birthday gift of my first ever, personally owned copy of one Barbara Cartland and one Mills and Boon. How was I to know back then that with every rapid read, I was digging my own private trench of future dissatisfaction and unhappiness at the real world of romance?! I had no way of knowing I was advancing towards an era that would, in time, be in dissonance with the world of those mushy books.

Without exception, the hero of those mischievous missives would be tall, dark and handsome. Cleft chinned and hoe shouldered, he would be sure of himself to the point of being arrogant.  Smouldering eyes, barely concealed impatience and the man about town air snapped but once in the story, well…when he pulled her close roughly and groaned with a harsh intake of breath at how small and soft she was!!  He did not speak much, but always managed to stay on hand for the grand rescue overtures.

She on the other hand, was designed as a packet of red haired obstinacy, kept together with an odd, wild streak. It made her a perfect foil for establishing his superior ability at eventually getting her to love, honour and obey him! Her financial security, sense of accomplishment and social status came from him. She was just that teeny weeny bit nervous of his power, almost in awe of him. The romance lay in his sense of authority and her dependent, attractively vulnerable status.

I do believe I grew up with this particular brand of romantic indigestion. 

Today, all those years later, with my daughters on way to becoming more educated than I was at their age, I wonder if  their Valentines will  be more equal; real partners in other words, men who will pitch in with their mates over housework and home and hearth, paying heed to their emotional cues, not threatened by their self-sufficiency,dependability and emotional stability.  

More Peter Benjamin Parker than Spiderman, if you will! More Clark Kent than the flighty Superman if you must. The new Valentines!


PS: My favorite romantic novel remained "Jonquil" by Denise Robins, notwithstanding all the mush guzzling!