Curator cruelty

“Don't limit a child to your own learning, for he was born in another time.” –

Rabindranath Tagore

All generations have one thing in common – their struggle to find common grounds with preceding and succeeding generations. We’ve come to identify this struggle as ‘generation gap’. In the wake of the recent Mangalore resort incident many are trying to analyse in vain as to who is guilty - the partying youngsters or the self proclaimed curators who man handled them? Well, it’s a conundrum easier debated than resolved.

The idea of recreation has evolved over the years and like everything else that undergoes change it too has its pros and cons. The New Indian Economic Policy of 1991 exposed Gen Y (usually those born somewhere from the late 1970s or early 1980s to the early 2000s) to a life style totally different from that followed by those who came before them. We not only started using global products and services but also consequently began imbibing global ideas and aping global culture. Overtime the threads of this ‘new way of life’ were inevitably sewn into the fabric of Indian culture; for better or for worse. Today, we follow a blend of various cultures; not just those since LPG (Liberalisation Privatisation Globalisation) but even long before that. A classic example of unity in diversity, India has tasted many a foreign rule and is the melting pot of a plethora of traditions, customs and cultures that these foreigners brought with them. How then can one individual or institution decide what ‘Indian culture’ is? One could only state inclusive definitions and not exhaustive ideas of the same.

The lifestyle change ushered in by global exposure trickled down to the minutest of aspects – food, clothes, language…Wearing baggy jeans or donning a tank top doesn’t spell indecency; it’s mere evidence of ‘the change’. In the past decade or so we have witnessed an alteration in the male-female rapport paradigm. This can be attributed to many factors like increasing number of co-ed schools, cumulative effects of gender equality initiatives and portrayal of the new male-female equation by media. It’s not surprising that the youth today enjoy a higher comfort level with members of the opposite gender as opposed to those in the past. Again, enjoying recreational activities with the opposite gender doesn’t spell indecency; it’s mere evidence of ‘the change’. So were these youngsters who were allegedly ‘partying’ at fault?

Well, sadly one only posseses control over one’s own actions and so it’s best if the youth today finds safer or alternative recreational zones. Small precautions like trying to get home early, avoiding hard drinks especially during late night parties and avoiding regular late night parties with a mixed gender group wouldn’t cost our generation much. After all, all we want to do is have fun! That doesn’t mean one stops living life by one’s own rules; it only means that ‘tis a bad bad world out there and a certain degree of compromise is demanded from each one of us unless we plan on migrating to mars. No, we cannot go about trying to change world and the sooner we realise this the better it will be for us and for those around us.

Now assuming that the group of boys and girls at the resort in Mangalore were ‘wrongly partying’, is the reaction of the self proclaimed curators justified? Was the violence exhibited by the ‘keepers of our culture’ the only solution – slapping and trashing the girls and man handling the boys? Who gave you right to discern right and wrong for these youngsters? And if you assumed the authority to safe guard your idea of Indian culture wasn’t it your responsibility not to resort to such preposterous behaviour?

The question here is not about who is guilty. Rather, we need to focus on how we ought to deal with what may be a social vice. One wrong thought, word or action doesn’t have the power to correct another wrong thought, word or action. No, we can not make two negatives a positive; this is not mathematics, this is life!

Kargil Vijay Divas

"..and if it pleases you my Lord, do not place my heart
In the hands of a man with a riffle and grenade."

I've always loved a man in uniform. There is, I believe, an unparalleled air around them that commands respect and admiration. If beholding such a man gives me a high I can only imagine the feeling of walking beside one; but I won't because I don't think that I am brave enough. I vividly remember sitting in the chapel when I was younger, praying that I should never fall in love with a soldier. Why? I am selfish and I can't give my country the people I love. That brings me to another breed of people that I admire. The woman beside the man in uniform; someone I could never be. What courage!

It's been twelve years since we won the Kargil war. Browsing through the gory details I shudder to think of what we lost that day! The figures are appalling; over 500 Indian soldiers took to martyrdom, more than a thousand were rendered wounded and allegedly one was a POW. Did we really win? The loss on the other side was as bad, may be worse; allegedly 4,000 died, 800 were wounded and 8 were POWs. They say a war has no winners and the sacrifice that these soldiers, both Indian and Pakistani, and their loved ones made in the 1999 war advocates the same. Marking the anniversary of Vijay Divas Harsha Bhogle aptly tweeted, "Anniversary of Kargil: An event that was wasteful, unnecessary and utterly sad. May it never need to happen again." Does this mean that there is a school of thought which undermines the sacrifices that our jawans made for us. Of course not! What they did for us is priceless. That said, will there ever be a way to avoid a similar loss in the future?

I recently read a book about the assassination of former Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhakh Rabin; a human being who put man before the sabbath. A man who walked the talk putting peace before piece (of land) Laws are put in place to protect man and not to render him vulnerable and helpless. As rational and thinking individuals we need to revisit our beliefs often enough to ensure that we haven't deviated from the core purpose. Many a time, even on a micro level we get so engrossed in an argument that we loose track of what we are arguing about. Arguments, debates, discussions all aim at progress and betterment. It's never about proving someone wrong but trying to see the bigger picture and accommodating the larger good.

There are arguments that could justify war - self defense and survival instinct. You could get back at me saying, "If you think Rabin's giving up that stretch of land was justified are you willing to give up Kashmir?" I really don't know. All I'd say is that we got to start somewhere; and that is possible if each one of us thinks anti-war, if each one of us thinks peace. Well, you may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope some day you'll join us . And the world will be as one.

"...sarhadein insaano ke liye hain; socho tumne aur maine kya paya insaan hoke!" - Javed Akhtar

"..and the realisation is that we are all born the same." - Aswad

Short Story

---Ruth---

Part 1

The lamp post light, at the turning kept flickering. Ruth watched as two-wheelers zoomed past her in the busy Pune-street. The street light lit the bus stop she was sitting at, in between spurts of cold darkness. December in Pune was unbearable.

Ruth got into the red Maruti 800. “Hi mom,” she said dispassionately as she gently closed the door after her. She stifled a yawn as she pulled her safety belt across her and locked it with a click. An awkward silence ensued and no one uttered a word until they got home. Even at the dinner table conversation was kept to a minimum; just a question or two about the day at college followed by a yes and a no.

Ruth got into bed and stayed there until the lights went out. She avoided conversations with her mother. It had been six months since the fateful incident though Ruth had vivid memories of that afternoon. She had been reading The Holy Bible when she heard a loud noise in the driveway. Eyes widened she had run across the hall way only to open the door and freeze for what seemed like an eternity. Ruth had loved her father even though he had been a heavy drinker and beat her mother every other night. She loved her mother too but may be she just loved her father more. Sometimes she wondered if she really loved him or was it just her reaction to his lack of attention toward her. May be she just craved for his love and approval.

It was dark now and Ruth heard her mother’s bed room door shut close. She smiled as she pulled out her red bound Bible from her bag and turned the pages to the Book of Ruth, her favourite. She felt an inexplicable affinity towards this book in the Bible; as if she’d read it somewhere else before. This was Ruth’s favourite time of the day. She loved the silence that the tinkling chimes hanging at her bedroom window occasionally broke. The lacy white curtains danced to the tunes of the cool night breeze and crickets in the garden outside serenaded the beautiful black night.

Ruth 1:16&17

“Do not press me to leave you or to turn back from following you! Where you go, I will go, your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die, I will die – there will I be buried. May the Lord do thus and so to me, and more as well, if even death parts me from you!”

******

The sun was beating down on them and they could barely inch forward. “We must stop to drink some water,” said Naomi to her daughter-in-law and so they halted at a near by well. A clay pot lay beside the well and Ruth used it to draw some water. After Naomi and Ruth had refreshed themselves they continued their journey. Bethlehem was still a few miles away and they had to reach there before sun-set.

“Let me go to the field and glean among the ears of grain, behind someone in whose sight I may find favour,” said Ruth to Naomi the following morning. Ruth and her mother-in-law had reached Bethlehem in time for the barely harvest.

As Ruth was busy gathering the grain a tall man with skin as white as milk and rusty-brown eyes spoke to her. “Now listen, my daughter,” he said. Wide-eyed and startled Ruth turned back to face Boaz, a kinsman on Naomi’s husband’s side. Boaz was a prominent God-fearing rich man in the community. Ruth thought that Boaz had a mysterious face; the thick skin furrowed on his forehead and his unkempt beard suggested that he was aggressive, though the rugged look had undertones of kindness that were clearly reflected in his eyes. “Do not glean in another field or leave this one, but keep close to my young women. Keep your eyes on the field that is being reaped, and follow behind them. I have ordered the young men not to bother you. If you get thirsty, go to the vessels and drink from what the young men have drawn.”  

That evening Ruth returned home to her mother-in-law. A cool breeze rustled the leaves of the palm tree in their front yard. Naomi sat on a jute cot puffing on a hookah as Ruth massaged her feet sitting on the cool mud-parapet next to her. The sound of air-bubbles in the hookah jar embellished the silence of the night. “The name of the man with whom I worked today is Boaz,” said Ruth. Naomi stopped puffing.

For Writing's Sake

As children we all have that one favourite place that we love going too; may be that's because it makes us feel secure. I believe it's every child's way of recreating the 'womb experience' where no one or nothing can harm it; a comfort zone of sorts.

 

I'm a single child with working parents and I didn't really have many friends to play with before I started going to school, just one to be precise. I vividly remember the long walks with dad, mom and my childhood bestie which more often than not ended with chocobar ice cream; bliss! The walk was preceded by a heart-pumping session at 'horsy' garden; the only garden in the vicinity - a big open space with lots of sand, a slide, two pairs of swings, a seesaw and yes a magnificent white horse that stood in the middle of the garden.

Though the sands of time have pretty much blurred the memories of the fun times my friend and I had in this garden there are a few things that I will never forget. Sometimes we'd spend hours among the creeky swings, the yellow slide with blue stairs that took us all the way up, the blue see saw.. and not even realise when it'd be time to leave! Childhood was defined very differently then. The 80's-kids were the last generation that grew up smelling the roses if I may, the last generation that managed to strike a balance between life and everything else; most 80-borns would agree with me. School was more than grades, football was larger than laying the foundation for future sports scholarships, dance classes went beyond competing with other aspirant dancers and there was a life beyond computer games and hi-tech gadgets.

We hear today about so many cases where young children succumbing to peer pressure and materialism resort to satisfy their wants immorally and antisocially. Of course we cannot blame them for they are born in a different time. That said we as the past need to keep the present grounded in their roots no matter how much they grow toward the future. for progress doesn't spell annihilation of origin and modernity doesn't lead to doom for tradition. Yes, change is inevitable and definitely good alright but somethings, somethings are best unchanged!

For Writing's Sake

There are sights waiting to render their beholders breathless
If only one were open enough to look out for them...

Just the other day I was whiling away my time on Facebook when I bumped into a  really thought provoking photo-share; it spoke of how there aren't just seven wonders in the world but that in the eyes of a child everything is no less than a wonder. I couldn't help but think of whether the innocence in us is still untouched enough to spot the extraordinary in the most ordinary.

A few years back I was on a holiday in Bahrain and my mom and I went for a stroll in morning. We were just wandering away from no where when we walked across one of the most beautiful things that I'd ever seen. I stopped in my tracks visually gorging on the beauty of this non-wonder of nature. Nature is a strange woman and has an uncanny knack of doing the unexpected. She creates beauty out of nothing and that's what best describes this haven of sorts that I beheld in front of me. Was mother nature trying to teach me something? May be we too as her children can bring out the best from the worst of situations; create something worthwhile out of naught. On second thoughts is naught just an illusion?

As I stood under the sun admiring the 'climber haven' my first thought was what a fabulous wedding tent it would make! I've always nurtured a fascination for beach weddings with flower-arches..the works. The climber veins so beautifully entwined the fragile structure beneath them and in doing so supported each other so well. How symbolic I thought! After all a man and woman come together in marriage pledging to be each others' support.

As I'm typing this post I'm reminded of a beautiful quote that I'd written for one of my closest friends, a soul sister I'd say. One evening we unexpectedly had this intense conversation and realised that we had more in common than we knew. Listening to each others' inner most feelings made us stronger as individuals.

In life we are faced with so many opportunities to be a shoulder to someone. How many of us are willing to take a cue from these feeble climber veins and be that support for another? After all service to others is a platform for self actualisation; we never do it for others, we do it for ourselves.

"Two climbers inching on a common wooden beam; some how they are destined to entwine. And now, though dependent climbers, they are stronger in each other, in each other they are rendered independent..."

Shadows In The Closet

Part 1

‘Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new…’ Mikhail read as he scrolled down his smart phone screen. Quotes transported Mikhail Eli into a completely different world; he loved reading those written by others and he loved writing his own. He smiled to himself as he remembered a quote by Oprah Winfrey, ‘Here’s what my love affair with quotations has taught me: the more you focus on words that uplift you, the more you embody the ideas contained in those words.’

Mikhail couldn’t wait to get home. The local train was barely crawling and after what had seemed like ages the familiar feminine voice blared out of the compartment speaker, ‘Malad’; music to his ears.

He closed his eyes and breathed in the air as it ruffled his hair and caressed his face. The serpentine Mumbai local slowed down at the station. Keeping one foot on board and tightly clenching the metal rod he looked ahead contemplating his next move. He squinted and contorted his face breathing deeply as he sensed the soles of his red Converse shoes grate against the granular finish of the station platform. Placing his left palm on his sling bag he let go of the metal rod jogging for a few seconds before coming to a halt which synchronised with that of the rusted gents’ compartment.

It was ten in the night and life had just begun; that is Mumbai; a city that never sleeps. Mikhail fell in love with the place within a month of staying in it and had never looked back since. He believed that love was a one way road with out any U-turns. Even with Maya it was the same. They weren’t dating but they both knew they weren’t ‘just friends’.

He turned the big silver key to the right as he pushed the veneered door ahead. The silence cushioned within the four walls of the living room was broken by a ring tone. He threw his bag on the couch and hit the green key on the key pad. “Hey you,” said Mikhail. She loved the baritone voice that greeted her each night. “How you sugar?” she inquired endearingly. “Stop calling me that,” he fought back. “Long long days yaar. I’m dead tired.” Plonking himself onto the grey couch he stretched to drive away his fatigue in vain. A short spell of silence ensued and Maya sensed what was coming. “Want to talk tomorrow,” she asked dreading the reply. “Hm-mm no it’s fine,” he said but she knew she’d lost him for yet another night.

Maya still remembered the first time she had spoken to him. It had been a bizarre online type chat. She had added him on Facebook thinking he was the brother of one of her college friends. “What!” he had exclaimed. “I’m Mikhail, we were together in high school remember?” Maya’s stomach had churned; it had been scary to realise that she had been talking to someone she apparently knew but couldn’t remember knowing. “Bloody chipku despo,” she had thought to herself. “I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve any more and I’m not going to let some random jerk woo me, sway my heart and then turn around and say Maya it’s not going to work.” She believed all men were the same or at least she hadn’t met someone who was different. After a week of random type chats he had asked her for her number. Being relatively new to the city Maya had preferred to remain apprehensive of his intentions and so had thought it wise not to ask for his. That said she had given Mikhail hers; strange, but that was Maya, an emotional fool and advocate of benefit of doubt. Surprisingly the subsequent weekend call had been magical from the moment he had said hey. She had sensed a deep connection in their first serious type-chat but hadn’t paid much attention to it. Talking to Mikhail was like looking into a mirror. They were different on quite a few levels, like mirror images are different in terms of right and left; but then they are mirror images, they did have a common ground.

“Why so quiet?” Mikhail asked stifling a yawn. “Nothing, just,” she replied coldly. “Chalo, I’ll get back to my book. Bye.” Maya hung up as she picked the blue book near her pillow. An indulgent reader, Maya loved her books. She read anything that she could relate to given her life circumstances and this book had come to her at such a right time. ‘A Woman’s Worth’, a self help title of sorts having feminist undertones and Maya, a bra-burning feminist lapped up every letter in the book. She turned a leaf and stopped as she reached the end of the page. Taking a deep breath she thought of how her experiences in life had transformed her from the girl that she was to the woman that she had now become; at least was in the process of becoming. The emotional journey in the recent past had been instrumental in this metamorphosis of her character and her eyes gleamed as she stared at nothing thinking of all that this experience had been worth.

‘A princess is a girl who knows that she will get there, who is on her way perhaps but is not there yet. She has power but she does not yet wield it responsibly. She is indulgent and frivolous. She cries but not yet noble tears. She stomps her feet and does not know how to contain her pain or use it creatively.

A queen is wise. She has earned her serenity, not having it bestowed on her but having passed her tests. She has suffered and grown more beautiful because of it. She has proven she can hold her kingdom together. She has become its vision. She cares deeply about something bigger than herself. She rules with authentic power.’

Author Marianne Williamson was Maya’s newfound diva and she smiled as she found herself getting lost in her world of words for yet another night. After what had seemed like ages she jolted forward half asleep. Her foot hit the laptop next to her and she woke up with a start. It had been that dream again. Maya always dreamed that she was falling down; falling down a flight of stairs because she missed a step or falling down a mountain or just tripping and falling down. Nothing really explained those dreams despite her constant efforts to remember them, analyse them and try and link them to any memory in her conscious or subconscious mind.

‘She was walking with him, hand in hand, and he had slid his right foot in her path on purpose. Playful that he was he had intended for her to trip but not fall down; he had held her as she jolted forward.’

Maya’s eyes welled up as she remembered her dream which brought back memories so painfull and yet so beautiful. Life had moved on ever since the episode though it had been more of a ‘force quit’ situation. Maya believed that she had made her side of the effort, though passive to progress but there was always a swarm of thoughts that tortured her soul. It was as though she was swimming upstream. She was trying to move at her best pace but the strong currents were moving at the same pace rendering her stationary. She always found herself at the starting line and the very thought of it had begun to frustrate her; rather scare her. Would things ever change?

******

“Strange how we make our choices,” said Philamea sipping on her cuppa. Philamea was Maya’s soul mate. They weren’t sisters by birth though both of them believed that destiny had caused their paths to intercept making them sisters by heart. “On the one hand there is a man who is willing to give you the world. It may take a while, nevertheless you know for a fact that he cares. On the other hand there is a man who doesn’t really care. What are you doing Maya?” The rain was pouring outside and Maya’s gaze was fixed on a tiny water droplet that slid from top to bottom on the glass wall that they were sitting next to. Coffee shops were a haven for Maya especially the one below her home. Maya turned her head to face a couple, in the corner of the shop, fighting over cappuccino and croissants. A tall and lanky girl passed by their table holding her red umbrella close to her as she tried to rid her hair of the rain water with her right hand. Philamea picked up the silver spoon on the saucer and tinkled it against her broad mouthed coffee cup. Maya smiled as she looked at her. “What are you doing Maya?” she repeated her question. “If it’s right then it’s right Phil,” said Maya. “I need to be convinced about what I’m doing and nothing is going to happen until then. After all every purpose under heaven has a time doesn’t it?” A phone ring interrupted their conversation. Bold and blinking, the name flashed across the 4.3 inch screen of the smart phone on their table, ‘Mikhail’.

Let It Be...

"Memories are like mulligatawny soup in a cheap restaurant, it's best not to stir them." - P. G. 
 Wodehouse

I've lost count of the number of times that I've used this quote by the synonymous to humour Wodehouse. Perhaps it's because of the priority that memories enjoy in my life. I once asked one of my close friends if there was anything that he loved collecting and he had replied saying books. I'd love to see his collection someday. That reminds me of another of my friends who owes me a session with his collection as well. Anyway, when the former asked me the same question I replied saying memories; I collect memories!

The Bible verse that I read this evening (Romans 12:21) led me to associate it with memories. St. Paul advises the early Christians not be overcome by evil, but to overcome evil with good. The undertones of the verse point towards building a tenacity of sorts. One needs to be able to endure in order to live in this world; after all 'tis a bad bad world. One cannot allow evil, a bad experience to overcome one. Rather, one needs to, through prayer create goodness enough to help one overcome the trauma.

It's been over a year now and like many of you I too am dealing with a broken heart. I wake up each day to put the pieces together in vain. The bitter memories have an uncanny knack of blending into our happy thoughts. I wonder if St. Paul is trying to tell us what he told the early believers in Christ. Are we exercising the choice that God has given us? The choice to put the bitter memories behind us rather than be over come by them and stop dreaming. I'm reminded of what Patrick Swayze said in his autobiography 'Time of my Life'. Swayze was a national icon and we've seen his red carpet moments. The book though takes us through his worst experiences and despite them all he is a believer that the most unfortunate of persons in the world is one with a broken dream who cannot dream again. Dreams break and Swayze advocates that one needs to find another dream to replace it in order to continue to live. How profound!

Overcoming is a process and nothing is going to change overnight. That said we need to make a start somewhere. The first step is realising that we're hurting and that there is something we need to overcome. The next step is realising that we cannot hold onto certain things or people in our life and that as the Beatles so beautifully put it we need to 'Let it be'. Lastly, being patient enough to endure the process no matter how long it takes and believing through it all that He will come and so we must wait for Him.

Lord, give me the grace to accept the things that I cannot change and the courage to change what I can..