A life less equal

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Does an Indian girl spend her life trying to make up for not having been born a boy?

‘You are not my daughter, you are my son’….is this the highest compliment her father/grandfather can pay her?

Is there a sense of loss when she abdicates her family name to her brother?

Does she chafe against the social diktat that acknowledges the greater right of her husband’s family on her unit?

Is there some amount of humiliation in being viewed as a “responsibility”, to be offloaded by her parents onto her family-in-law?

Is there a dip in her family status if she is not able to “give” her husband a son?

Must she take care not to seem too close to her biological family lest her commitment to her acquired family become suspect?

Is an eternal gratitude expected of her towards a husband who lets her be?

Will her middle name continue to be “adjustment”, ever and mostly?

How long is the pussyfooting to stay her monopoly?

Would you say if food, shelter, clothing and security are a good enough price for a lifetime’s devotion to one man and his family?

Should the children go off track, would that primarily be her fault?

A global survey recently ranked countries most hazardous in which to be born a woman.

Top five were Afghanistan, Congo, Pakistan, India and Somalia.

An emerging super-power, India has female infanticide and sex trafficking to answer for.

The dangerous, gender stereotypes are too deeply ingrained.

When my second daughter came, someone offered condolences to my husband.

“Two Marutis down,” his colleagues told him.

I didn’t find it funny at all.

It is this terrible air that brings tears to the eyes of a new mother who is told, "You delivered a baby girl!"”

To give or not to give

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Pic by Aqseer

If you are a woman and a mother at that, you are never really and truly alone. Even when the man is busy and the children have flown the coop, you are not solo in your solitude. There is a constant companion nipping at the heels. Guilt! And the conspiracy is universal, not restricted to the familial alone. It is as though the world at large, with its social mores, the religious diktats, and incessant media commentary plus random elements from the environment share an on-going connivance to heighten that ever present sense of guilt.

Beggars are a major flag on this guilt ridden, emotional landscape. What can I really do about this? Having spent a lifetime, chauffeuring the kids to and from sundry classes, I have participated in this tense, threesome, roadside drama a whole lot, far more than I would have cared to….girls in the back seat, the beggar at my driving window and the byplay invading the car interiors. There were often shades of disapproval, unexpressed accusations of an unfeeling callousness, reproach for lack of sympathy and a youthful impatience with the jaded attitude of a woman past her prime washing up from the rear seat!

I don’t think my young and compassionate daughters have ever, really come to terms with my refusal to give alms. They would have suffered waves of frustration, even anger at the inhuman condition of the seeker, his needs and their mother’s stubborn resistance to alleviating it somewhat. 


Alas! That it were a policy that had been well thought through, aided by a rational and extensive debate. As a matter of fact, if pushed, I would be hard put to explain away the thoughts reeling in my head while I stared at the extended hand. A defensive wave would overpower my senses, a clamming up of any access to the self, a shame filled choking, a helplessness at being cornered, even a subdued anger at being shown up in the presence of Aqseer and Asawari. 

There was invariably loose change, lying within reach on the right of the dashboard. The mind would make feeble motions but my arm would stay glued to the steering. There was only one courtesy I allowed myself. I looked the beggar in the eye and slowly shook my head. It compounded my self-inflicted misery at not even acknowledging the person.

Yes, I know the sociological statistics. I am familiar with the arguments for and against encouraging beggars. I am aware of the NGOs working for them. Aqseer not only carried out a project study on the phenomenon, she did the route of gifting away her T-shirt parka on X-Mas to a shivering child, compelling me to buy pencils I did not need because of the size and condition of the seller, buying milk packets for an emaciated babe on Janpath and more……

I feel a sense of pride at their young and empathetic hearts. And there have been times I have suspected that nature conspired to punish me for my tight fistedness in this regard by arranging a clean sweep of my wallet or jewellery! 


But as a rule, there is something indefinable, an elemental instinct almost,that does not permit me the arrogance, of sparing my otiose coins for another human being. 

Same to same

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Three rows of anxiety ridden faces lined one side of the wall at the American Embassy Interview Lobby. Will they, won’t they, get their US Visa approval today? 

The ping of the token meters made rhythmic music. The usher staff nudged along, snaky files of nervous looking applicants. Despite the professional courtesy on display, Anne Frank’s diary stole into my head intermittently. We were the Jews and the Visa officers were the Aryans. They were the precipice that lay between us and our Everest.

There was every shade of humanity present; students, entrepreneurs, business men, artists, mendicants, professionals. And their stories were on display. The interview format being what it is, the applicant’s replies to questions posed by the Visa Officer bounced back into quivering ears of the waiting mass. When one of the officers broke into accented Hindi, there was a wave of community mirth. It was not difficult to predict the outcome of the interview in progress from the waiting gallery. The tone of the explanations, the tilt of the interviewer’s head and in one case, the two lethal words, “Take care!” were a dead giveaway.

We sat clutching our document and passport folders, knowing that if the curtain came down on this act, there was no parting the folds, no appealing, no one on the other side to listen. The power of a nation’s state machinery was there for anyone to see. There may have been a hundred myths about the said recovery of the US economy; a whole lot of people, nearly 800 or so, still wanted to go there in that instant and quite badly at that.

In those few hours inside the Chanakyapuri Embassy of the United States of America, with the bravado gone, the need all too clearly on display, the cracks showed. Under the dressed up exterior, there was the same concern, the same anxiety, the same insecurity and self-doubt. Will I get that strict looking officer to interview me? What if they reject my application? Have I covered everything so far as the documents are concerned? Where do I say I shall be staying? Might they ask to see the itinerary? I think I have it all but everyone says, you can never be sure. Why is this particular applicant walking away in dejection? Ought not they to be fingerprinting only the approved passport holders? Will they shut down for lunch?

When I was “young, merry and very very wise”, I used to feel unique, alone in my internal world. It was as though no one had experienced what I was going through , ever before. There was a sense of exclusivity that was not always and not entirely comfortable. A big part of growing up was the realization that 

we are all more similar than we give ourselves credit for!

Sitting today with the compatriots, it showed. Same to same! We are same to same......

Note: Pics by Aqseer

Lemon of life

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Life really is akin to a lemon. To get your value’s worth, you need to squeeze it real hard but take it beyond that point and it becomes bitter like the rind. Yet, if you grated in moderation, it would reward you with a light and fresh and piquant flavor.

Quite in the manner of the citrus, life is neither all sweet, nor all sour nor through and through bitter. The effort to mix it all right, that magic acerbic lemonade recipe will have to come from you.

Like the yellow fruit, life will cause you to grimace, smile or pucker up the face. It will tantalize with just a tangy whiff. It will promise a whole lot of potential. It will tease, it will delight, it will reward but only when taken right, precisely in the manner of the lutescent.

Use life right, like you would, your last solo lime for that elusive, uplifting, floating flavour called " a happiness alive". Sometimes, a dash is all you need. 

Nada

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Nada, First Home-stay Mom

Asawari moved in with Nada, her Serb homestay Mom in Novi Sad, Serbia on the 10^th Sep 2010, about a week after reaching Belgrade from Princeton. Half of her nine month long, Bridge Year Program in Serbia was spent, in operation, from Nada’s place. Nada was her introduction to daily life in Serbia. There was a comfortable easing into it, aided by Ceca, Princeton’s BYP Serbia Co-ordinator. They began with an introductory meeting, a meal out and finally the move in. It was on the 11^th Sep that I received Asawari’s reassuring email with pictures of her new home and the first lunch with Nada, Iskara, Milica and Nada’s daughter-in-law. There was also a brief description of her room and the historical wooden study table placed on one side, a gift to Nada from her parents in the high school year.

First Lunch

The pictures and her chatty, upbeat tone in the mail reassured me completely. Some apprehension had been expressed here in India that Asawari was jumping too fast and far ahead. Going to Princeton would have been a mission enough and to move up ahead from there, to a third country, with a name that was easy to confuse with Siberia, was being projected as a mission within a mission, calling for a whole lot of nerve. I recall now, the initial anxiety and the feeling of relief when a month passed  successfully in Serbia and I sent her a message, wishing her on the first Serbian monthly anniversary ! The second month went by without the ceremony and before we knew it, the concluding capsule of her program was being held on 1^st June 2011 at Split, the largest Dalmatian city in Croatia and also the place Ceca grew up in. 

Asawari is back with Nada, having done the full circle of Novi Sad, Nis and now Novi Sad again. Tomorrow in fact, she will be travelling to Belgrade to receive Aqseer who is flying out of Delhi to spend ten days at what has been Asawari’s home away from home, these past nine months. I am quite ridiculously happy that someone in the family will soon be meeting the wonderful people who have taken care of Asawari, this year gone by.

Asawari by the Danube

The first time Asawari told me on the phone that she was at ‘home’, something tugged at me. It was odd to hear her call any place other than home, ‘home’. But that is exactly what Nada and the Cirics, her Nis family gave her, a home in Serbia.

The sisters are planning to split their time between Novi Sad and Nis, Asawari’s second home in the country for four and a half months.

Not now, nor in the immediate future but in the years to come, Asawari will find that these two families have become an invaluable part of her conscious/subconscious life stream.

Thank you Srbija. Thank you Cirics. Thank you Ceca. 


Thank you Nada. 

Lodhi Garden

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This was the name of my Gurudwara for sixty six months, no less. Located strategically on the stretch of the Chinmayya Mission and Mausam Bhavan, its outer track took me twenty minutes to cover with a slow jog. Three rounds was my regular diet, more or less. It was the most liberating hour of my day while it lasted. There, along the verdant path, below the bougainvillea inhabited cover, I held my own private conversation. With myself !

It was like sitting across my mirror image. My reflection and I. We agreed on some things, disagreed on most. There were declarations of resolve, expressions of solidarity and support, voicing of agonizing self-doubt, berating the self for words said or unsaid, silent prayers and pacts with the Supreme Executive above and by the time I was done, there was that stubborn gathering up of the self, “I am going to see this through.”

I did break step occasionally, startled at the thought that my face may have given away, the intense conversation going on in the head, but a quick glance around was enough to reassure me that everyone else was also deep in their personal hells and heavens.
I loved Lodhi Garden. At any given time you would be sure to come upon an artist, a musician, a cooing couple, a sportsperson limbering, a photographer going berserk and the regular dog walkers. Of course, there were the picnickers, the loiterers, the gardeners and the celebrities. Jairam Ramesh walked late in the evening. I would get this strong urge to confront him and say, “Keep up the good work, Minister!” Swami Agnivesh ambled leisurely. Robert Wadra ran in camouflage, the track dotted with his security. The Chief of Army Staff and his lady wife made for a very handsome couple. Quite a human panorama on display there. I had the fortune of hearing some fascinating tit bits over the shoulder, of amazing travels, phenomenal deals and the regular daily wear and tear of lives in the metro.

On weekends there would be these “tea pools” a la “car pools”; a bunch of people getting together for a steaming cup of masala chai on a Delhi wintery day. You had to just rest a moment on a bench there and a lazy peace would descend. There would steal up, this feeling of being in a cocoon, isolated from the hurly burly of the capital’s traffic. More than once, the hot aloo puri being doled out by one religious organization or the other, challenged my weight loss agenda.

Oh the Frisbees, the tag game, the laughing clubs and the yoga demonstrations. There was an easy, benevolent, unspoken camaraderie in the garden air. Asawari would accompany me at times, to stretch her limbs on some days and the lungs on others. A small crowd would gather around her, watching her turn, twist and split. They would converge again some other day, to listen to her play the flute.

Come what may, I kept my date with the Lodhi Garden those few years.

At the end of that hour, as I made to exit, one way or another, I would have made my peace.

Note: All pictures by N P Jayan
http://www.malabarphoto.com/html/contact.htm

Sexualizing school kids

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Asawari

The judge’s chair during a junior wing dance competition gets increasingly uncomfortable. I sit there fiddling with my pen and staring at the score sheet. The costume is authentic, the synchrony is great, the stage has been used well but the lyrics of the song are age inappropriate and so are the expressions and the accompanying body thrusts. There is, “Darling aankho se aankhe chaar hone do” and “Desi girl” and “Jhumka gaira re” and “Chad gayo papi bicchua” even “Atharra baras ki main hone ko aayee.”

Sure, it is easy to indulgently dismiss the butterball reproduction of raunchy, Bollywood choreography. The tubbies do look cute in adult finery, although the eye pauses on the strings and lack of them. To make it tougher to protest, the audience are quick on the trigger, precisely on these dubious numbers, clapping and joining in with a hearty chorus. I have pinched myself and turned 360 degrees to try and catch the eyes of the other seniors sitting there. Some do shake their heads slowly but quite a few wear a mock stern expression, barely hiding the twinkle in the eye.

So the competition moves on, in the same gear. Year after year, grade after grade. The beginning is well intentioned. Class teachers are told to discourage their students from turning in performances based on suggestive music. One particularly concern filled year, a blanket ban was implemented on all filmy song and dance. The participation plunged to an alarming low. There were some protests from the parents! Many were not equipped to assist their children in the preparation; the TV eased the preparatory rehearsal somewhat. And so we had these little ones, stumbling up to the music table with their CDs of Lady Gaga and Rihanna. I twittered inwardly, wondering at the deadly music video images that had to be streaming through the tiny heads when the notes of these worthies came on. 

There has been a social turmoil lately over the increasing sexualisation of children on all forums and in the media. Aqseer sent me a gruesome link the other day http://dads.goodmenproject.com/2011/04/14/11-insanely-sexualized-childrens-products/

Aqseer

My concern is: have we, as a society become anaesthetized to age and grace inappropriate sexual messages? So desensitized is the prevalent social air that anything and everything seems to go. We are completely blind to what this irregular acceptance is doing to our children. In fact, we are joining in. I have to admit, that I swung to both the Sheila and Munni numbers with our Fifth graders, during a school camp.  I am certain that the volume the DJ was holding the songs at, was rendering the lyrics quite inconsequential; we mostly stayed with the beat. This is no justification, but naturally.

The question is not about sexuality per se but of a version that does not go well with a certain chronological, mental and emotional level of growth. Time then, to stop tapping that foot and instead, put it down loudly.

Ruby Singh

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Some human relations defy definition. There is no neat way to stick them a label. Their character is largely formed of unspoken words couching powerful emotions. Neither blood nor law nor social norms are equipped to paraphrase these bonds. But they exist.

Ruby

Of all the people in my life, he has had it rougher than most. It had gotten to a point where a ‘jinx’ had begun to find mention. If indeed there was such a phenomenon, it would have begun early all right, as early as the 20^th August 1965, the day of Janamashtami and in that year, towards the fag end of the Indo-Pak skirmishes of April to Sep 65. There was rain beating down with the occasional lightening. I have a sharp memory of the hospital room, a wooden cot facing the cheerful fireplace. I can recall not just the leaping fire and the cotton wrapped baby head but also the emotional texture of that day. I was only two years and nine months old but I can summon that sense of urgency and anxiety even as I write. 

Proud Dad and Mom

At the end of a forty eight hour long, excruciating wait on the labour table, followed by an abortive attempt at forceps delivery, he had finally arrived, a lacerated scalp for introduction. Col Chokshi and Maj Goyal, God bless them, had snatched Mom back from the edge. I have heard accounts of how Dad was driving back from work as the ambulance rolled out on way to the outsourced Operation Theatre. The Lambretta was hurriedly parked and abandoned by the roadside as he hopped onto the medical van.

Our childhood was regular. A few specifics do stand out. I have no memory of him ever receiving preferential treatment for having been born a male. If anything, us two, older sisters bore down on him. He was fair, he was chubby, he liked drinking Mangola and he did well at school. The teachers had only one complaint, “He does not speak in class.”

This attribute of his remained a constant. He grew up to be a man of few words. It was tantalizing to see the clouds gather on his face, melt away, a sunlit ray flash over only to darken again and if offered a penny for the thoughts, he would shake his head and get on with the moment. There was his friendship with UC and Padha, that time when he began going to the Ghorpadi pool, pre-NDA. We went horse riding a few times together. It was on my Hero Majestic moped that we rode to the station for him to board the train on way to his SSB interview.

With Niyamat, his second daughter

The leaves have since turned. We are approaching mid-life but to me, he will remain the eternal baby brother. Fairly or not, I am still quick to see his point of view. An adult man of choices that he is, I hear the wail of that Mangola drinking pudgy when he hits the occasional low. The nightmare of his near fatal road accident is always near the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest nudge. 

We have hopped and skipped life's pages but I have not lost my uncanny sense for his emotional highs and lows. It feels light and liberating to hear a charged up voice on the phone. Equally, a strained note is enough to bring the climate crashing down.

Of late, my protective sisterly concern has acquired shades of awe and admiration for a man who does not complain, does not accuse, does not bemoan but simply moves on. This one runs!

That’s my brother, Ruby Singh !

Saluting cynicism

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Disenchanted but engaged !

I used to wonder at cynicism. Could it possibly be a defense mechanism, engineered and fitted into the species by the life force? Surely it is not a product and monopoly of 2011. Man has been cynical a while. In fact, the Cynic philosophy is credited to Diogenes of Sinope (in present day Turkey). It is said that he was prone to tearing down the government with his rude, opinionated and independent views. But he was also committed to improvement in public life. What we have today is the former attribute of his personality with not a trace of the latter.

The political and social air of the country is thick with disbelief, lies and shenanigans. One capsule of national news is enough to neutralize all the endorphins I gain at my Zumba class. The political theatre is like a shot of anaesthesia, star cast being self-interest, power pangs and exploitation of public apathy.

How then does one find any sense or value in political activity that seems bent upon stamping out public discussion or autonomous thought? It is cynicism that comes flooding into this disenchanted space as a corollary.

But is cynicism any use or is it merely an unaffordable negative? Is it true that a cynical attitude forces us to re-examine our fundamental assumptions? On the other hand, does it not bring about a form of disempowerment, thanks to the anger, the fatigue and the resultant alienation it causes? One thing is certain and immutable, we cannot move forward in any meaningful way without productive, collective action. But the crorepati question: who is going to persuade us and get us around to it?

The cynical bog makes me weep. Will this flow chart of embitterment ever veer? The moral of the story perhaps is, "Lets be cynical but engaged." 

Punjabi by spirit

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Asawari 'Balle'

It has been a while since I visited Moga last, not counting the quick drive throughs. But for twenty conscious summers of my life, at the very least, I spent twenty two days at the ‘Sangha Farm’ on the Grand Trunk road every year. That dirt drive from the main road, the hand pump on the right of the huge metallic gates, the heavy smell of buffaloes, the red Massey Ferguson tractor parked ahead as you entered and the hot beating sun….they are all in my mitochondrial record. I rue the fact that I did not wield a handy-cam in the 1970s. Perhaps it is best this way, the memories are gilded in recall.

I would have kept records of Kalu, Bhalu, Bhutto, Lalli and Tiger, the big sized, five farm dogs. And how we fought as kids for the privilege of feeding them, six ‘rotis’ each. Tiger was the handsomest and the best behaved. The rest were trigger happy brats, barrelling towards the main road to chase off hapless cyclists. It was the morning hour roadside entertainment for us to watch the pedalling humanity build up a furious momentum so they could sail past the farm hounds safely, their feet pulled up and out of harm’s way.

Aqseer 'Hadippa'

Even though we made feeble noises about our friends visiting the cooler climes of Nainital and Mussourie during the summer holidays, while we made our dazed way across the simmering country to the farm, I am not sure I would have reminisced about the hill stations with as much nostalgia. 

What could possibly compare with the ‘dudh soda’ and ‘jalebi’ of Moga; with the lazy meander following Bebeji into the vaporous fields, plucking ‘chappan kaddu’ for dinner; with a dip in the forceful water of the tube well; with the languid nap under the ‘talli’; with the ‘haare di daal’and tandoori roti; with Papa ji’s  bedtime tales under the starlit sky; with the scalding dust storms; with a ride to the grain ‘mandi’ sitting in a trolley full of wheat…….I see the truck crystal clear in my mind’s eye, emblazoned across the sides,’S Dalip Singh Sangha s/o S Inder Singh Sangha s/o S Bhara Singh Sangha’…..a living genealogy on wheels !

A trifle wonky might describe well, some of the-er-adaptive practices on the farm. The milk was churned for butter in the washing machine! The refrigerator doubled up as Bebeji’s wardrobe during the all too frequent, low voltage phases. Everyone stuffed their slippers under the mattresses at night, Lalli had a taste for leather and Bhallu was addicted to rubber. The cord woven cots substituted for bath screens occasionally . Wedding invites functioned well as hand held fans. Slabs of ice would last long when stuffed deep into the stacks of husk. Onions were stored, carpet like on the garage floor. Sugar came in sacks. Everything, from oil to cotton to ghee to pulses came off the soil of that land.

Aqseer Asawari in Moga

I was not born in Punjab nor did I study at Moga but there is more than a dash of its spirit in my being. The raw and warm taste of milk, straight from the udders; the stinging raspy sand on the toes; the thundering of Punjab Roadways buses; the waft of ‘kadha parshad’; the oppressive heat hanging over wet paddy fields; the full hearted beat of Punjabi folk music and the tight hugs from Bebeji…..Papaji's signature moves involved making a mess of our hair and thumping us violently on the back. He also snapped our fingers and toes out of affection and made up rhymes with mutilated forms of our names.

Not by birth, not by education nor by residence, I am certainly Punjabi by spirit. 

Searing rivalry

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One of the most searing in my list of parental experiences is that of sibling rivalry.

It is natural yes; most times it is aggravated by unfair comparisons; it is not the children’s fault but the corrosion it causes on hearts all around can be lethal. With a desire for greater freedom and space, a generic unwillingness to compromise, insistence on individuality and ambition…have familial relations merely become a sleight of the mind? As more siblings leave home for colleges earlier and younger, it is hard to say if absence indeed is making the heart grow fonder. For Dad and Mom, the concern is primeval in nature, “They have only each other when we are gone.”

In the scrapbook of the Tsunami 2004 devastation at the Indian Air Force Base, Car Nicobar, there are haunting recounts of unbearable choices faced by the victims. Pilots, who flew the machines to safety but watched their families washed away from the air. It was also perhaps the only occasion when the Chief of the Indian Air Force was received by a base commander in his vest, pyjamas and chappals. And the one that twisted my gut….a mother struggling to keep her two children afloat, tiring out and having to make the impossible choice of which one to let go of.

Only a parent of two or more will even begin to fathom the heart rending conflict that would have passed her mind. Parents pour the same life force into all their children. They cry in equal measure for each; singing the same note when glad and stinging as bad when they fight and compeer each other. Is the answer therefore to keep it minimal? One couple, one child, less damage. There is this beautiful young lady I knew once who thought nothing of announcing to the world at large that she was glad she was an only child, at least she was secure in the knowledge that everything would come her way!

What does our history say on sibling rivalry? As far as tradition goes, Yamaraj and Yamuna are credited with the practice of Raksha Bandhan. It is believed that Shurpanakha was the reason Ravana abducted Sita. And Hindu mythology can’t seem to stop singing of the sibling affection between Krishna and Subhadra. To cover the gamut though, of course there was Kansa as well, who decided to kill all the children of his sister Devaki.

In psychological and theoretical terms, the competitive pattern is supposed to teach siblings critical life skills such as negotiation, valuing another’s perspective, toning down aggressive impulses and reaching compromises. By all accounts, it is a healthy, normal and natural aspect of growing up together. But it can hurt everyone involved less to remember two things: one, that kin have a tremendous power to make each other feel happy, low, confused, lonely or whole and two, effort and attitude matter.

Parenting peril

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If the technological revolution has transformed man’s outer world, the metamorphosis of parental ideology has completely dyed his inner milieu. Parenting may have been far more fun than it is today.  It was less burdened with high expectations and the endless modern, psychological analysis. The period of childhood has come to be viewed as such a favoured time that kids are virtually lording over their parents today.

There was a time when they functioned as an extra pair of hands in the household, contributing in some manner to the family assets. That may still be the case in the hinterland but in the urban jungle, the ‘me’ factor is here to stay. The reason: it is far more significant in aspiring, middle class families (like mine) to stay focused on how well the children are doing rather than on who or what they are.

I am not surprised therefore when Aqseer and Asawari ask me with an obvious and genuine bafflement, “WHY on earth would anyone ever want to raise kids?!!” I am not sure. I do know that my parents never gave it too much of a thought; it was just the done thing to marry and make that leap of faith right away. I remember as a teenager, wondering if they did not lead slightly dull and uninteresting lives, vowing to myself to guard against it in future! I did not realize back then, the extent to which they had given up their personal selves for me.

To come back to the question, why does mankind even bother?! Children are a source of joy yes, but they are also massive, gigantic stressors. In their teens and young adulthood, they can even be nonchalantly brutal; reminding the anguished parent the exact number of times they had voiced during the clamorous years the thought, “I wish I had not had you!” As for the dampening effect on the couple’s friendship, well it’s no secret that a great percentage of marital discord is centred over progeny issues.

And yet the population clock only ticks faster! There is this whole media and culture based huge deal, built around parenting that all good people subscribe to. So even while modern parents lament the fact, “We have just become ATM cards”, the truth is they would not have it any other way. That is parenting for you and there is no way of knowing its bittersweet joys without going through the associated labour. It’s like learning to play the violin. There are mind numbing moments of frustration and fatigue with brief snatches of wonder at the potential but once the latency sets in, the notes prepare to flow. As the music surfs to a crescendo, well, that is the moment when retrospective reminiscence and an enchanted gratification set in.

So every minute is not happy girls but there is this gleaming, silver edge to the occasional cloud born of love, believe it or not, that casts a spell and keeps the Homo sapiens going. 

Parenthood is a phenomenon you may get to relish only in snatches while it is underway but the day you are way up enough to be able to look back, you will be glad you kept your date with it !

Color and contrast !

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.....and.......

Copyright. Woof and warp

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Aqseer. Meelaard mode.

Aqseer put a brake on my blogging last night. I learnt two important lessons that kept me researching up late. One, that there most certainly is a future litigator emerging in the fold and two that I have been a bit of an ignoramus incarnate. The point, a most valid one and something that did not strike me until now, was my use of google images to embellish the posts. With the night’s reading behind me, I am the wiser on copyright infringement, on the courtesy of quoting sources, on blogging etiquette, the ‘fair use’ claim as also screening images variously  ‘labelled for reuse’, ‘labelled for commercial reuse with modifications’ and more. Also, that there are sites offering free image-ware to the web-based cocktail shaker.

I shuddered as I recalled all the projects we do in school, involving massive fishing on the worldwide web. Guess that has cover under ‘fair use’. As for random images adorning Facebook pages, those colourful PowerPoint slides and one greeting card after another, not to mention banners and buntings…….the guiding principle is pretty much clear now. It is all there on Google, alongside the images! The popular perception, just the same, is that content fetching up on hitting the search button is all in the public domain. When the thumbnail is called forth, all that the executor is focused on is the “save image as” link. I looked more closely some hours ago, trying to trace it back to the origin. I also wondered at Google in this newly comprehended avatar of a spider scourer and exhibitor with no apparent accountability to the source or the end user, and no visible warning on the homepage of Google either that might say, “Use the contents at your own risk”. Google’s stated mission incidentally: organize the world’s information and make it universally accessible and useful. A case of reading the fine print.....it is just a search engine and hence absolved.

Without entering the principle of intellectual property law and its emerging nuances, some random, lay thoughts come knocking at me. Matt Haig in his “The Seven Stories that rule the world”, agrees with the principle that there are only seven original plots in the world, all else being derivatives. He says, “Every story has been told……the originality comes from style and voice and the imagination that brings language and characters and settings to life. Shakespeare, for instance, never bothered himself with inventing plots. The story of Hamlet had already been told, in more prosaic form several times before”.

I know I know, it is the commercial aspect of human endeavor that gives the current copyright theory its bark and bite. The debate is a tunnel with varying light at the end. Who owns traditional knowledge for instance? Ought the Indian government to go into the fifth gear, digitally recording our “nazar ka totkas”; “good luck charms” and “jaadu ki puppi jhuppis”. I recently read an article forwarded by a friend entitled “It’s a Turban, It’s a Dress (It’s a Scarf)" by Ruth La Ferla. Briefly, the piece captured the New Yorker’s growing degree of comfort with a meter of magic. Well, stretch the metre to five and you have the sari under the international market stroboscope. 

In the movie ‘Dum maro dum’, ACP Vishnu Kamath holds his gun to one of Barbosa’s henchman, “Where is Barbosa? I can find the rest I need to know on Google!”

Is Google the newest addition to our occupant rich pantheon of gods ?