Life took over

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I first saw him in jeans and a white shirt, an orange knapsack over one shoulder.

He never forgave me for asking if he was a good pilot, that first encounter.

He claimed he stood on his toes to get picked for the Republic Day parade, so we could get to know each other in Delhi.

While out on our first cup of coffee with a friend of his, he borrowed money from her to see us through the rest of the day.

He was quick to confirm and was relieved to be told I did not expect flowers during courtship.

He courted me in my Dad’s car on some days; on other occasions it was his Yezdi “ABU”.

He looked sideways at me with that calm expression when I warned him I would make life hell for him.

Of the forty odd days he was in Delhi on temporary duty, he stayed away only on two days, for reasons of maintenance, he said.

He spent a major chunk of those familiarization days, keeping my Dad company over drinks.

He was prompt in allaying any misconceptions my friends may have had over the ‘Top Gun’ quotient of his profession.

He declined my poetry reading, admitting he did not understand poems.

As I climbed the steps tentatively with my friend Sadhana, he stood looking down from the landing above. He had a henna orange blob on one palm and was holding out a book, “The Little Prince”.

He led my 'Baraat', dancing into our wedding venue. 

I found a tea cup stain on my picture when we first moved in together. He explained it by saying he had kept it under his table top cover for daily reference. 

During our first month as a couple, I was a regular recipient of chocolate bars.

On way out to the first temporary duty, he rushed back in with a shrub rose, picked off the bush by the road.

He made a last minute dash from work, driving a long way to get me my birthday cake.

There were several cards, tucked away in nooks, waiting to be discovered during the day.

He called my bluff during my first royal sulk and packed me off to my parental home.

When I simmered, he whistled.

He saved me from the consequences of my social ineptness more than once.

He handed me a single red rose through the rail bogey window as I transited through Delhi once.

He did not recognize me on the Ahmedabad railway station where he had come carrying a bunch of lilies to pick me up.

He was there, besides me, on all my confinement and other hospital tenures.

He ensured I made it to my University exams on time, going to Amritsar to get my admit card and mark lists.

It’s been twenty five years since. When I turn and look, it is these memories that blink like beacons on our couple road map. A lot more followed, there were zings, tings and blings but most of it had to do with life taking over! 

Lord Byron

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I have never been more disturbed by a TV program.

http://ibnlive.in.com/videos/218167/ftn-are-women-still-treated-as-sex-objects.html

What made the episode more distressing was its timing. It was aired right at the heels of this:

http://www.youtube.com/verify_age?next_url=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DQNNszU-KpqQ

One would have thought that the inexcusable grabbing of a fully clad young girl, accompanied by a young man, on a public road would have outraged the media enough to immediately begin condemning it in strong words. Instead, my favourite channel strung up several rancid, flighty and apologetic notions together to present a high pitched Face the Nation episode flying a poorly framed mast, “Are women still treated as sex objects?” 


Of the panellists, the less said the better. Sangram was barely permitted a word in sideways; Pramila Nesargi swung from one irrelevant extreme to another and the only reasonable voice of Shefalee Vasudev couldn’t rise above the anchor’s shrill pitch. Distressingly, the anchor dismissed Sangram's genuine attempt at analysis as "being politically correct". No man, on the national TV would admit the truth, she declared, proving again the dictum that women are their own worst enemies.

In addition to talking about the role of media and our societal make up, the 

program blamed parents for not guiding their daughters properly. There was no talk of aiding boys in understanding the volatile debate.

Since I am such a sucker for good parenting talk, I listened hard and gathered that I should tell my young daughters the following:

For your own good, you have to dress up properly.

In the 21^st century, YOU- the “so called modern woman"are still viewed as a sex object.

If you are properly dressed, why will the boys tease you?

Are you confusing liberation with being a sex symbol?

If you think of yourself as a modern woman, you are on a collision course with the Indian culture.

Don’t indulge in fashion. Fashion is in conflict with Indian reality.

Don’t use your sexuality ever!

You are urban women, living in warm rooms.Your problems are negligible because the rural women face far worse.

To add insult to injury, there was blatant misrepresentation of the phenomenon of Slutwalk. It was described as “young women wanting to come out on the streets to assert their right to wear what they pleased”.

So then: are women still treated as sex objects?! What a profound query!

Of course they are. Women and men have always been sexual creatures. The species did not create sex; it was the other way round. The catastrophe has been in the lopsided view of their sexualities, represented tellingly in Lord Byron’s words, “Man’s love is of man’s life, a thing apart; ‘Tis a woman’s whole existence”.

In other words, women are primarily ‘sexual’ beings while men can be said to have a life! 

The Giver

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With the festive season just past, wrapping papers and satin bows are still waiting to be smoothened out and put away for recycling! There have been gifts and more gifts, their exchanges following an established pattern of give and take, no questions asked. But, what about gifts of another nature? Gifts that are not entirely evened out, not always sanctioned and not even wholly needed or welcomed.

The teacher who makes a gift of her old scrap books to a favoured pupil. The mother who gifts away her wedding sari to a loved daughter. The student who wants to honour his teacher with a pen. The grandmother who makes a gift of table covers she embroidered in senior school. The aunt who will have you keep a coverlet she wove with her own hands. The father who passes on a frayed book entitled “Great Masters”. The friend who hands over her favourite fruit cover as a spring cleaning hand me down. The domestic who returns from his village, carrying a jar of rustic and pungent pickle. The great grandma who wishes to win over a processed food weary palate with homemade snacks.

We know the feeling. We extend our hand out, wondering where in the cluttered home are we going to put this gift down. There might even take place a domestic discussion on the wisdom of accepting the souvenir. It might be suggested that the largess be declined, it is not something we need after all. Who is going to maintain a rag-bag-tag of objects that have no practical value?

But, that is where the catch is! The value lies in the sentiment involved. The givers have invested precious bits of themselves in these seemingly ‘useless’ gifts. In those battle weary objects are woven the giver’s emotions, their desire to stay connected at a deeper level, their energy and effort, their affection for and faith in the recipient. It is the very human story of continuation, connection, legacy and carrying forward.

I have a broken fan for instance, lying in my cupboard. The rib is snapped, there is a hand tacked blue, chequered cover holding it together. It is lifeless trash for all purposes. But I am going to pass it on! It was Beeji’s constant companion. In my head, it was a witness to her violent end. It was with her in those hours of aloneness. It has heard all her conversations. The stem has the feel of her palm.

I have taken it out on occasions, spinning it around, turning it over and up, thinking about her. It is a reminder that we were not with her when she needed us the most; that she lived for our letters; that she counted the days to our arrival; that we made up the largest chunk of her thoughts and words and actions; that she dreamt for us and cheered us on; that she was very proud of us.


The day I hand it over, I dread having my daughter say, “But I don’t need it Mom!” 

2012

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With Asawari home on New Year’s evening, it felt right to herald 2012 with people who really and truly cared about us. So we packed up and got into the car to drive to Mohali to be with Dad and Mom on the 31^st Dec 2011.

It felt right. It felt right to just cut a small Chocolate cake to mark the over hyped event and call it a day. We did nothing special other than eat dinner together and talk and laugh before switching on the electric blankets! Dad got up and went on his usual morning walk the next day and a few hours later, we too were driving back to Delhi.

Oh yes, there was all the razzmatazz on TV and sounds of distant firecrackers going off in celebration.

Celebration of what, I wondered. That we have one year less to live? The fact that at least for that split moment when the lights dip at 11.59 pm, there is an ephemeral and self-delusionary notion of a new beginning, of another chance, of a clean opportunity. Or is it that we are congratulating ourselves on having survived yet another year of life’s turbulent and menopausal swings?

The frenzied glassiness of high decibel evenings, the courtesy hand pumps and revellers stamping two left feet, I have lived through several of those. I have danced till the wee and beyond sore feet, I have smiled until split weary, I have been high on the company of friends and the benevolent daffy air, I have invariably left New Years’ venues with extreme reluctance but there has been over and above the digital din that little voice, “What am I doing here?”

We cling to repetitive rituals, we repeat confetti charades, and we set up a raucous racket…..all in an effort to dull the pain of living. The New Year’s party is our annual analgesic! It is essentially a glamorous exercise in self-deception. It is our yearly lie to ourselves. It is an obstinate reluctance to see the truth that time is slipping like sand through our fingers and that 2012 is going to be no different from 2011 unless we turn Trojan.

Nah…no amount of sophomoric jollification will drown out the indifference of a son, the non-acknowledgement from bosses, the outgrowing of friends, the death of romance, the bitterness of a daughter, the blaming by a husband, the disappointment of a parent, the whimsy of servants, the greying hair and sagging tone, that heart-breaking final burst over the hill to suddenly come face to face with mortality and the realization that this thing called life, that was so special and in the rosy future at 20 is already past us….when did that happen?


Of course not, all is right with the world. We are here until eternity! Let us continue our obsession with the non-essentials.

A HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

Dance Doctor

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Class V was doing a lesson on “Healthy Body” today and we were listing out all the medical specialists. I found one glaring blank. Where was the Performing Arts Medicine Specialist? I had to stop and take a deep breath. Memories began to rush in of fruitless and frustrating medical sessions with doctors who did not understand performing arts related injuries. And I remembered the essay Asawari wrote for a proposed conference project in her application to Sarah Lawrence College where she was offered a Presidential scholarship.

I recalled her research and thought process during the writing of the essay.

Her basic premise was that an elite performer is quite akin to a champion athlete. Both fields call for years of consistent training and constant practise. But they are treated differently when it comes to their healthcare. While sports are viewed as a necessity, the arts are considered a luxury.

At a time when Asawari was both a national sports medallist as also a pre-professional inter-disciplinary performing artist, her body was taking a beating and despite being injury free for the most part, there were the occasional medical visits. The doctor’s reaction depended on whether she said a State Championship was coming up or it was a Recital that stood endangered by her ailment.

It was a given that there would be a lot of explaining to do. On one such visit I remember, she had to carry her Pointe shoes along to show how exactly the foot was positioned in one. The doctor had no clue whatsoever as to the kind of injuries a ballet dancer could sustain and how to treat them without injuring her further.As a matter of fact, I have not heard of a Performing Arts Medical Specialist. The common refrain to an artist seeking medical attention is, ‘Rest it or give it up!' Nothing could be more disastrous and impractical to an artist who has poured hours and hours of herself in pushing the creative envelope. Asking them to rest or give up is like suggesting professional suicide. 

There is a real need for an accessible, affordable and professional performing arts science.

A performer needs to be at the peak of fitness, both physically and psychologically. Her art depends entirely on physical dexterity and mental acuity. Why then is performing arts not seen as a needy profession? Unlike sports medicine, why is there no formal training available in performing arts medicine? What is the reason for this undervaluation?

So much hoopla over life and none over what makes it worth living?!

Caramel bask

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They are brave little things, those shafts of yellow, breaking through the heavy, frigid air. They are courageous to retain their warmth despite the chill they penetrate. They are invaluable for their transient and fleeting presence. They are heartbreakingly beautiful, shimmery, twinkling paths for merry little specks of earth. They are faithful in their assured, daily appearance. They are carriers of energy, of soothing warmth and a hope for the next session of the mellow yellow.

No radiator, no convector, no blower can match the flaxen warmth of a wintery sun. The sunbeams are delicious in how they toast and warm, stealing up the limbs in thin waves, defrosting and freeing up the numbed cells. The incandescence can be mesmeric, hypnotic in its pull, dragging people along as it shadows around a backyard patch or a sunny front lawn.

The waves of radiance teach and remind in as much as they lull and tranquilize. 

In that brief, tawny blaze is the truth that “this too shall pass”, like everything else in life. It can be safely construed from the flickering caramel bake that “life flows and changes and nothing will last” The dusty straws of glow radiate the words, “only you can bring peace to yourself”.The honeyed flash takes the edge off humdrum fatigue, hinting at “a source of vitality somewhere in the world that man can connect to.” The sparkling scintilla console as though reiterating that, “a single life can make a huge difference.”

If I were to choose one thing I would wish to do more of in 2012, it would be this: a bask in the glimmering freeze!

The younger

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They are both home and I am on high alert. When I am hugging one, I am watching the other in the peripheral vision. They appear nonchalant, not to have noticed, even deliberate in their concentration on what they are doing that very moment but my biological radar picks up emotional tremors. There is a fleeting, deceptive dip in the facial tone. Many a times, I imagine that I have imagined it. What strengthens my belief is that I have experienced it too, growing up with a younger sister who more often than not, wore the halo.

It is in our culture that the older will love and the younger will obey. Right or wrong, we burden the senior sibling with the magnanimous role and the junior with an obedient position. They struggle with the onuses at a time when they are at their vulnerable most. Out of these dynamics, perceptions evolve over which of the two is the favoured one. And nothing can be more unsettling for a parent.

I have often wondered if there is any creature other than a mother or father who faces as many occasions for self-abasement. The act of parenting is like a reality check. It is a lesson, a long and deliberate one. Saddled with a disproportionate amount of power over growing lives, mothers and fathers raise their children with nil training in the art. The role models that define their parenting are not always exemplary themselves. And so they bumble along, overdoing it at times, underplaying on other days. One hopes that at the end of all these zealous mistakes, the child survives with at least a dusting of “well-meaning love”.

The care of another life on a daily basis is heavily loaded in favour of the child who is easier to rear! The one, who rises on time, comes to the table quickly, clears up after herself, and contributes to the routine wear and tear with thoughtfully alert plugging. By default, and I don’t know why, this invariably happens to be the younger one.

A parent’s challenge is therefore, to strike a balance within this daily scramble in which, each feels free to be herself and loved and appreciated. 

Delhi cold

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With Asawari at Princeton, the cold there was a constant concern until she arrived two days ago to say, “It is reeaally coold in Delhi!” 

She has since, barely moved from her spot next to the radiator while back in New Jersey where she was comfortable enough, the temperature is touching sub-zero on the low.

The Delhi cold slices. It peels, stings and reflects off the bones with a metallic zing. There is something paralyzing about the dark, foggy mornings. Every Delhite knows what it is to peek out the tightly drawn curtains and dive back into the bed, “Five more minutes!”  The daily bath is an exercise in self-discipline; one’s will lasting only so long as the hot water does. It is that time of the year when home leavers take more time getting ready. There is the body lotion ritual, the additional articles to be donned on person, the vehicle takes a while kicking in from the night’s freeze. And come destination, the icy air is waiting again to gash at you as you emerge and scurry into safe space.

It is the great snuggle up month. A time for the piping hot happiness; searing soups, boiling tea and stewing food. The crackling corn beckons, the steaming momos invite, and the mink blanket spurs all attempts to fling it off. All this layering and oral intake is rivalled only by the omnipresent thermoregulation as people work to stamp, rub and blow the cold out. Around now, bonfires in all shapes and sizes spring up to dot the urban, suburban nooks. And there is on the Capital roads, a population in a tearing hurry to get indoors.

Along with the dense fog and breaking news of dipping mercury, this season also brings a paradox. The more you stay home, the colder you feel. The harder you follow the weather forecast, the more restricted you get. The keener you are about winter bashing everyday talk, the more unbearable will the air seem. Auto-suggestion is what fuels this season buzz.  It is also what makes the winter afternoon such a magical chunk of warm, drowsy moments, stolen from the swiftly dipping sun. 

Oh for that third degree of icy sheets when you first slip into the comforter! Oh for the heart-warming feel of the hot water bottle in bed! Oh for the masala, ginger tea five times a day!  Oh for the chikki and the revadi and the peanuts! Oh for the sparks rising over the fires! Oh for Delhi and all the life, throbbing in the still dark night. Oh for all things toasty on a dead, frigid day! 

Protest please

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The junior wing Science Exhibition is one of my school babies. Two days prior is usually when we finish up since it is mounted the day before the final event and some of us happened to be hard at it that day.


We make a good team; there is Asha with her ideas and vivid visualization, Chhaya with her terrifically neat and spirited handiwork and Sulekha with her calm, consistent execution. 

While we fixed panels, pored over the projects with the children and worked out the peripherals, a senior student appeared at the door, trailing a Class IV child, quite obviously a sibling. It is true that I took time to register her and did not at first understand the words. We were a terribly pre-occupied bunch of teachers with an eye on the clock and the usual din in the background. All I saw was a mouth opening and closing, no sound emanating. She had begun speaking from the door without waiting to come in or be prompted. It did sink that she had come to canvass for her baby brother's inclusion in the event.


I shook my head. The exhibition traditionally drew upon Class V resources, although under a wider, looser format, the occasional Class IV student had exhibited in the past. But just a day short and in a theme specific presentation with a flaky in-house rehearsal nipping at us, there was no way. I turned back to my group of reciting students. But we were interrupted this time by a loud and demanding, "Why?" I remember turning to Asha for help. I also recall the sharpness in that, "Why?" It was forceful. I had expected the pair to walk off; they stood their ground instead. And even though I chafed a bit at the whiff of insolence, we dealt with their enthusiasm and went back to building the exhibits.

Later, driving home from work, over lunch, even while huffing over the treadmill, the sister's miffed face and belligerent voice nagged at me. Protest is such an anti-Indian emotion. We are brought up to revere, to acquiesce, and to count our blessings. It is in our legacy to put ourselves after the group and community. So we grow up neither knowing how to object nor knowing how to deal with one when it strikes. And here was this young person asking a simple, "Why?" The more I thought about it, the more I saw her courage and openness. It suddenly sounded like a great word. Why didn't we use it a bit more?

Why is India's growth story slowing down, for instance? Why have I found it so difficult to get a voter's card all these years? Why does the VIP cavalcade security, all but push me off the road in the rudest ever manner? Why are India's best and brightest so dissociated and distant from her Parliament? Why is there so much govt. contempt for the country's educated middle class? Why do you not get good service despite full payment in our nation? Why does the opposition hold up work under the barest of excuses? Why do we continue to tolerate the 'chalta hai' attitude? Why don't we speak up more? Why don't we protest a bit more? 


Why this, why that, why not Kolaaveri jeee.....

Clay

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Clay! Brown, chocolaty, glistening with promise; inviting, beckoning, begging to be kneaded, pummelled, and egged into that one specific form of fantasy. There is something sensuous about clay; it incites sensations a mere whisker short of lust. 

I have never been able to stop myself poking it, patting it, rolling it. Break a bit off, squeeze it down, push it up, turn it around and voila, a beauty. Deceptively easy looking and seemingly fun filled, pottery requires tremendous dexterity and skill. Those gleaming, baked, finished curvatures, soothing to the eye and sedating to the heart, call forth a very personal strife from the potter. Every piece is like a signature in fired clayware, a culmination of painstaking, persistent and optimistic application.

The potter’s wheel has always stood for an earthly, manly appeal….close to the fulcrum, elemental in nature, reminiscent of simpler times when in all probability, it sat emanating a radius of security, settlement, domesticity. A wheel meant progress, industry, plenty; it meant life and leisure. With the wheel began the story of storage, cartage, homage. But for the wheel, we would still be hunters and desperados, rootless and roving. The wheel stabilized mankind, gave it a loci around which to grow and evolve and forge ahead.

My personal addiction to these pottery products began after the conjugal. It had to have been the domestic space that I suddenly found myself in, crying to be filled and adorned. Every drive, every amble past a ceramics warehouse would have me limp with desire. How I coveted and caressed those pots and pans with my eyes and hands, an impatient husband barely holding on to a hoot in the background. I couldn’t tear my gaze away. Those vessels held and hypnotized, quite akin to fire flames and water waves. The brightly muted colours, the forcefully subdued gloss, the cleverly translucent patterns…I would want to bring them all home for my own. 

So there I was on the 13^th Dec, a distant fan and a potential fanatic walking into an exhibition of paintings and ceramics, hosted by a sister brother pair: Manisha Kumar and Rahul Kumar, curiously and interestingly titled “Parallel Intersection”.

I was struck by the name. A mathematical improbability disproved through multiple forces at play. The intersection had to be the veneer of professional business receding in an artist’s quest for self-expression. And of course, the rigidity of a man-made exterior offset by the soul’s flight towards liberty. Right there, before me were laid out the landmarks of Rahul Kumar's journey from a “craft to an art”. 

I stood at the centre of the gallery, registering the studio potter and ceramist’s push and persistence in creating the contemporary, tasteful and classy pieces of ceramic art on display. An hour and a half later, I was tripping away, sated and light with an echo in my mind and heart of affirmation and a sense of life.

Note: All pictures feature Rahul Kumar's work.

http://www.rahulclaystudio.com/

Manu Smriti to Madonna

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We are a culture suffering schizophrenia, in our journey from Manu Smriti to Madonna! There has been a triple jump, literally; a hop, skip and leap of values in the short span of one generation. Our kids are increasingly returning home from colleges in the west. They are bringing with them the ethos of an individualistic world. An entire civilization seems a-sway under the onslaught of what is being celebrated as a global outlook. The omnipresence, omniscience and omnipotence of the media are by now a cliché. And look at us; we have found ourselves two very convenient scapegoats, the west and the media. It is quite de rigueur to bemoan the idyllic past and blame it’s oblivion on these two bogeys.

The truth is that our “Ram Rajya” was a long, very long time ago and there has since been a very slippery slide downhill. In living memory, we have always struggled with a horrendous number of socio-economic issues. And to these, have been added cultural concerns now. While liberalization did douse some of the socio-economic fires, there is the growing challenge of maintaining and sustaining a national identity in the face of huge divides within. It is a marvel how Indians forget their Punjabihood, Gujaratihood, Tamilhood and Nagahood when abroad, thumping their chests over how richly diverse their country is; when in fact they cannot stand each other back home. Sample http://raagshahana.blogspot.com/2011/09/open-letter-to-delhi-boy.html  and this is an atom on the iceberg, forget the tip.

A Delhi girl living among Kannadigas, a Punjabi in Pune, a Tamilian in Mohali, a Manipuri in Mumbai, a Hyderabadi in Gandhinagar…these are all the check points of potential hernia. There is such fierce regional pride and resistance to the “intra-foreign”, one wants to scoff on hearing the platitude of unity in diversity. There is no unity, only heart- burn and bitterness at perceived slights, unhealthy stereotypes and provincial insecurities. From this choleric pot comes forth the magic spell and solution of blaming the outsider. It is a national fetish. Blame the regional for the state’s ills, the international for the national shortcomings and the planetary for the world’s woes. Anything to avoid assuming responsibility for ourselves.

It is dispiriting to live with so much of regional chauvinism. Perhaps, the time has come to begin teaching cultural class in our Primary Schools. This challenge of appreciating our own unique nuances will have to be met. Forget multicultural studies across nations, how about our inland identities and attendant hues? Stop negating and begin affirming our famed diversity, shall we?! 

Eaglet

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I doubt there is any creature as scared as a middle class parent in India. The reason?! This species has a lot to lose, a whole lot at stake.

Now let’s see. They do not own any great physical assets. One home or two, a singular car and ten year old consumer durables. But their children! Their children are their heaviest investments, the focus of their daily lives, and their reason for being. They pour their energies, their money, and their concern into bringing up their kids. They dream for them, plan for them, save for them. Their sense of pride, their feeling of accomplishment, their will to keep going comes from their offspring.

It used to be customary for my Dad to push all the high protein food at us, he would take the most unappetising portion of the chicken roast and that too after the kids had thrown in the towel. Mom would put our comfort first, always and without fail. We did the same for our children. Their needs were met on a priority. Their time was more significant; we adjusted our lives around their calendars. Nothing else mattered so long as they were cared for and progressing.

So there you had them: regular, humdrum, law abiding, god fearing Uncles and Aunties, making a mission of getting their progeny the best possible education, equipping them with all the requisite gear and keeping them in the pink of health and wealth, to the extent it could all be stretched, never mind the personal price they would need to pay. Life moved forward on an even keel, until the kids grew up. Now began the nightmare. The spectre of them being out on streets alone, driving home from college or work, travelling in public transport, at the mercy of not just goons and thugs but also the law enforcement authorities.

It became scary to have those heavy duty investments of theirs out on the ruthless roads, adrift in an environment of corruption and physical violence. What do you tell them apart from sending you “reached safely” messages all the time? Do you tell them to live like cockroaches, scuttling home in the dark for fear of eve teasing or a mugging? Do you warn them of the pitfalls of being in any limelight? Do you advise them to shut down all their faculties like Bapu’s monkeys?

It is a dilemma? After all that went into making them, you want them to live unafraid and fully. But their engagement with the environment is paralyzing you with fear. Foremost is fear for their well-being. There could be fear of losing face, fear of losing a prospective job, fear of losing in kind or cash. So you tell the young to stay focused on themselves, the injustice around be damned.

I am having a tough time doing this. I am afraid. I am conflicted. I am torn. What is a parent’s moral responsibility? Safety or autonomy for their child? What do we owe her to help her be, a soaring eaglet or a safe sparrow?!

Gejje Hejje

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Aqseer was taken into custody yesterday. Preventive custody but custody all right. When she called me up around 12.30 pm last noon while her Dad and I were at the German Christmas fair, German House, New Delhi, she was at pains to explain that no charges had been pressed nor an FIR lodged. My antenna quivered for any tone of distress. Her voice sounded leashed and taut; she spoke with deliberation, choosing crisp, economical words but there was also an undercurrent of excitement.

I was more concerned with the fact that I did not feel concerned in the “sick with worry” way. There was confidence in her ability to handle it, although it did make me wonder at us as parents! Here was our girl, calling us up to say she had been bundled into a van by the Bangalore Police with eight others, to be driven off on a city darshan, lurching from one police station to another, in an attempt to shake off the trail and all we had to say was, “Take care. Keep us informed! Let us know when you are out.”

After years of facilitating her study of ethics, history, empowerment, social development, justice, could we possibly tell Aqseer to back off and play safe at the first sight of a speed breaker ? Did we have the moral ground to ask her not to get involved and to lie low? Would we have been right in extolling her to mind her own business in the interest of her personal future and security? Ought we to stick our heads in the sand, now that she is in the line of fire and pretend nothing unusual is happening.

I wish to reclaim her instead. Yes Aqseer, we know you have taken up cudgels for a cause you believe in. You are confused and dazed and jolted and wrung dry at times but you are at it. You are dealing with a whole lot. Keep your faith up. We believe in you and your judgement. We are so very proud that you are out there with other courageous young people, placing your statement on record. 

Cheers to Gejje Hejje!

http://www.mumbaimirror.com/article/3/2011120520111205020712627c03217f0/Moral-brigade-cops-foil-Bangalore-slutwalk.html

http://bangalore.citizenmatters.in/articles/view/3618-police-stop-slut-walk-under-threat-of-backlash

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/life-style/people/Bangalore-SlutWalk-cancelled/articleshow/10980157.cms

Daily vitamin

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This quality is very dear to me. The grace of appreciation, the ability to always remember a good turn and ever be thankful for a path eased, a doubt erased, a conflict resolved. More than any other trait, I wish this upon Aqseer and Asawari. Let them, dear God, never forget all that they have received from others. And more important, please give them the words and the ability to express their gratitude.

The girls are tough. They can handle a whole lot alone. But in all these years of frenetic activity, they have had people touch their lives in a hundred and score ways. There have been instructors who taught them a whole lot more than mere skill. There have been friends who have looked out for them. There have been strangers who’ve thumped their backs. There have been the role models who inspired and drove them.  There have been those in the family who encouraged and supported their decisions. There were experiences that taught them what to stay clear of. They most certainly have a lot, a whole lot to be thankful for!

I feel a great sense of pride when they remember to call a teacher therefore, when they take time out to look up an instructor or when they are thoughtful enough to drop an email to someone who contributed to their area of work. I want them to understand that adults who have had something to do with their upbringing did so by investing in them of their person. I want them to appreciate that this nurture is something you can never validate with a straightforward cost benefit analysis. How can you calculate the value of a guru’s vision of your future? Can you possibly assess the worth of an instructor’s ambitious estimate of your ability? Would you be able to quantify the confidence placed in you by a coach who fields you against his name?

There are things and more to be indebted for girls! So send a little ‘owe you’ to Rey sir when in pool, to Galina ma’am and Fernando sir when you extend in dance, to Dey sir and D’Mello sir when following a music sheet, to Shaira, to Singh sir, to Malti Ji, to Nisha ma’am, Padma ma’am, Urvashi ma’am……..so many more of them. 

Say thank you. It is the one prayer I would wish upon you. It is the one vitamin I would want you both to imbibe daily!