Bookmarked

 Earlier, I have thought that I resort to certain online communication because I can channel my anger. I found myself visiting my Goodreads & my Tripadvisor repeatedly. Earlier, I had taken to answering on Quora.Built-up frustration about the "human condition" or more specifically the "current situation in the country" (which is hardly very specific, but lately I have been feeling very antagonistic towards philosophers, who have "thought" only about human males, (& this is second hand information, as I have read none of the "masters", & do not intend to either, which is a sort of self-fulfilling prophesy, which I acknowledge, but I am content in it. Life is too short to read ancient old bearded man's self-righteous whining) & in this context, it does specify what I am talking about, & the men who studied "the human condition" certainly did not even consider women human, 

let alone a woman from a non-European country, which brings us to the chest-thumping about how India is a Godess-worshiping culture...) the futile & losing battle against the social media, (which is so conspicuously designed to hook & addict, that even kids know the features which are dumb & senseless, but so effectively hooking & addicting that the child is actually gone, I have lost my child to Zuckerberg & Spiegel. I cannot compete with them. I lose the only thing I have - the relationship with my child, & I am so ill-equipped against the multi-billionaires.) & my own ADD, which has, since my teenage, prevented me from fulfilling the potential of my intelligence & "talent". That I retort to certain agents who just would not send complete information, that I pull up TPA employees who would not pick their calls to the extent that they might lose their job, that I spiff the questions on Quora which seem sarcastic or insincere, to vent my rant, my bottled up annoyance, so that I do not burst out on my already strained relationships, & do not implode. That this was my need, to air out my "negative" emotions.

I was bitter & restless this morning. Recently, I have been thinking about the practical -social- implications of the decision to get a piece of  agricultural land. It is still nascent, we have not received the registration documents of any single land that we have seen, & already, "tradition" has entered this. A "token amount" of Rs 11000/- will have to be given to the farmer for him to give the documents which we will then get verified by a lawyer in the vicinity. I am wondering how I will interact with the neighbours. They will invariably be completely casteist. Part of them from the oppressor castes will want us to join them in despising the so-called "lower" castes, & everyone who will be less fortunate than us financially will automatically consider himself (or herself, though perps are hardly women) to be the oppressed & will also automatically consider us oppressors, even, have added animosity for Mitthu & me as he sees us as undeserving "princesses", pampered in luxuries. The horrible, rape-porn "Disgrace" gets me so worked up...

Now I am realizing that the need may have been to listen to my own voice. Maybe I am one of those persons in love with the sound of my own voice. I will take that condemnation. Today morning, I was thinking, it is astonishing how small a man I am, & I just refuse to be controlled. There is nothing & nobody that is influenced by me, my opinion, my approval or disapproval. Yet, I refuse to be content in the popular opinion, to "accept" my "place" in the social hierarchy as a conduit to funnel my thinking process, to understand that "we cannot change anything" implies that it is a folly to try to make that change. I am proud of that, & I know that even my being proud makes no difference to anyone. However, if I am the opposite of proud, if I am doubtful to believe in equality simply because the populace does not practise it, if I am "contrite" that I am "contrary" to the established caste-system & politico-economic pecking order), if I agree to participate in caste-based gatherings simply because they are taking place around me, then I stand to significantly lose. My conscience & feel of justice will hurt, my pride & self-concept will be damaged & my self-confidence will suffer. 

Those who choose to agree to be mute spectators "for the greater good" have a different value system. I know that those who claim "for the greater good"have vested & staggeringly disparate interests in the status quo. When I realised that I need to revisit my own opinions, I came back here. I could have visited Substack, or made an account on Medium, but really, this is not for outreach, it is for me. I will need to visit this write-up repeatedly, I have a feel of this.

Appreciating : the mother

I wish my mother had aspired for me to be President of the USA!

Just kidding! Well, actually, a little less than kidding.

'Coz, I became what my mother aspired for me - financially self-dependent, mentally independent, valued, sometimes despised, maybe noticed - maybe ignored, but never swept aside.

So, I wish my mother had aspired more for me, like, for me to have my own business, or for me to travel the world - paid ... nah, now I'm really kidding.

Since a very very young age - say 6 or 7 years, I have considered my mother as a fragile being, a thing to take care of, for me to take care of. To protect, to stand up for, to fight for. Fight her mother-in-law, nasty neighbours, inconsiderate co-passengers ... whoever dares wrong my mother.

I am slowly opening my eyes to the fact that she fought for me much more, much more than I fought for her. 

Yes, she has her flaws. Biggest of them being, she could never believe in herself. She never thought anything of herself, she had needs, but never a "being", an "astitv". She could stand up for me, but not for herself. Maybe these are in-born flaws, maybe the result of how she was raised, maybe, in context, in her generation, she ought have had someone to stand up FOR her. There were "auntie"s, where the "uncles" stood up for their wives, but that is not the point of this post.

My mother's greatest quality is her sense of duty. In India, we have this analogy of "bhav saagar taarnaa", which means "sail across the mortal world", as the mortal world is an ocean. My mother has, with help from paid help, of course, & some help from my father, "taar"-ed 2 sets of parents. As long as I have been conscious, I have had a grandparent on deathbed. My paternal grandfather, 5 years bedridden from paralysis, which started from the legs & consumed his entire body. My paternal grandmother, completely blind for the last 11 years of her life, & senile dementia for the last 3. My maternal grandfather ( my maternal grandmother helped in this) Parkinson's disease, & for 2 years, a broken femur, & never got up. Finally my maternal grandmother, (I helped in this. I was adult & living with my mother). She nursed each of these, bedpans & bedsores, till their last breaths.

People who write mushy lovey lines about family, will  be at their wits' ends. I learnt what FAMILY IS.

My mother's best quality is that she is unpretentious. She never presents herself as a "positive", bubbly, happy person. She is not. She is a serious, intense, melancholic person. & such persons have a right to exist in the world. Just because you are "positive" & refuse to look at the news of child abuse happening everyday, does not mean that the evil in the world ceases to exist, nor does it mean that everyone has to similarly turn a blind eye, only someone who sees a problem can do something to solve it.

My mother's most important quality is that she is a survivor. People look upon persons suffering from depression as "of weak mental strength". While the truth is, depression is a disease, as diabetes is a disease, & it happens to anyone, AND, only the STRONGEST SURVIVE DEPRESSION, & keep on functioning, while feeling worse than dead inside. My mother is what strong is.

I have learnt to empathize. I empathize with those who keep all their problems to themselves. I also empathize with those who need an outlet. I empathize with the stoic. I empathize with the needy, weepy, clingy.

I have not only learnt the importance of being able to see the wrong in the world, but also to embrace myself for what I am.

& she raised two women to value themselves, & find their place in the sun, & still have a sense of duty despite having a sense of self, & to know the difference between "your" & "you're", & to still respect people who didn't know this difference, because there is a reason that they don't know, & to call bullshit "bullshit", & to know when to offer a silent shoulder. 

I know she is a difficult person to be around, but she has been around way more difficult, nasty, toxic persons, shunned by a mentality which says 'a woman's "ardhi" - death procession - leaves her in-laws' house, not a woman herself', yet fulfilled her duties towards the people who wrong her so ...

I think she is one heck of a woman, & a very valuable person, & the world is bettered by her existence.

You weren't thinking of THIS effect of screentime

There is enough general concern about the (general consensus - bad) effects of screentime on children.

First off, there is the effect on eyes. It is generally accepted in the ophthalmological fraternity that continuous exposure to luminous screens is harmful, & screentime should be as limited as possible, for adults & more so for children.

Then, there is the concern that it "dulls down" children. Well, not necessarily. In fact, some research shows that using gadgets indeed helps academic development. There is the matter of exposure to inappropriate material. That, frankly, is everywhere, & is basically a parental/guardianal duty to prevent. Granted, electronic media is more difficult to "parental monitor" than the physical world.

Screentime also promotes Bad posture with a capital b, eats into family time, free-play time, & face-to-face social interactions.

However, the most dangerous effect of thrusting a screen in every hand is that children are growing used to CONSTANT ENTERTAINMENT. They consider this as the normal. Even 10 years ago, "waiting" was a concept. When you took a child to the dentist, to the bank (because there was nowhere to leave him/her, even then), to any place which involved waiting for one's turn, one had to wait. Adult & child. It did not make us nervous & fidgety to the point of snapping. Sure, it made the child restless & whiny.

We, & the child, did two things. First, invent a way to entertain ourselves/ each other. Though my mother always carried enough magazines in train journeys, even she wasn't enlightened enough to carry entertainment for the dentist's appointment. We struck up a conversation with other people in the queue (& we called it "line", remember?)

The kids started playing impromptu tag or hide & seek with other kids, if the administration allowed. One could spin the glass paper weight (another extinct little tool) TILL the administration caught one with her piercing eye, one could leaf the pages of a calendar, one could ask scientific & philosophical questions of one's parents, one could hop down the steps to the clinic, count if the steps were many, slide down if there was a slope for a scooter (with MY kind of parents cursing the day I was born, of course!) one could be a smartass with the administration.

In train, not all parents remembered magazines or playing cards. Antaakshari was played, often with strangers (In my generation, we were already NOT EATING anything strangers offered. That doesn't mean we couldn't sing with them!!). Clapping games, chit games like Raja wazeer (in which, absurdly, the wazeer has to discern the chor & sipahi!!!), book cricket on the pages of a railway time-table, trying to catch the names of the minor stations whizzed past ... Parents actually talked to their own children. & the children of those parents who were simply too adult for their own children ... ran about, hung from the ladders for climbing their upper berths, jumped down, cut & bled from their lips, basically made life hell for the rest of the passengers.

The second thing we did in the pre-pocket electronics days, was, wonder of wonders, sit & wait!!!! We accepted waiting as a part of life, we considered it good manners to sit in a place & not trouble others, our parents tried to inculcate it in us. Waiting was not a 'waste'. It was part of the process. Boredom was an irritation, not a misery. & we had inner worlds, & inner processes. We THOUGHT. To ourselves. We did not need a computer program to engage us.

(We did have walkmans, but music, I think, should be considered separately from screentime. Indeed, I've read in some "reduce screentime advice" to actually use voice commands more)

Both these skills - tolerating boredom - without sulking - & entertaining oneself, are rapidly getting lost.

Now consider, long term life is not so different today as it was 10 or even 50 years earlier. Life makes one wait. Life makes one miss legitimate turns, & wait more. Life brings periods of self-doubt & lulls, unemployment & adversity, & sometimes such standstill in one's career or personal life, that It is truly painful.

How will our children cope? They have never learnt to withstand boredom, how will they deal with stalled progress in job or business? They have never had a still moment, forever been filled with false activity, illusion of movement, how will they heal from the emptiness of a broken affair?

Please. Let your children get bored. & DEAL with it. Trust me, they'd survive it, & so will you, & they will fare better for it in life.

Moral story - Why?

Nothing against teaching children morals, or morality, & nothing against moral stories personally … okay … maybe a teeny bit.

Recently came across some attempts to get kids to read, but the feel of the queries was all wrong. The reasons for getting the kids to read …

Like ‘improving vocabulary’, like ‘enhancing personality/ confidence’, like ‘imparting morals’ … I assume, dear Ma/ Pa, that you yourself have a completely different hobby?

Ah!

See, on behalf of reader Mas & Pas, lemme tell you, it’s not gonna work. When one, anyone, tries to do one thing to a child (read ‘improve/enhance/ market-ready’ them) in the guise of another thing ( say, reading/craft/ volunteering), dude, it does not work. These are “side effects”, not the “desired effect”. If that be your goal, AND there is nothing WRONG in that goal – sincerely- then please go about it with honesty. Trust me, your child will respond.

I mean it. These things need to be taught. Want your child to be street smart? Send her to the street, watch her fend off the bullies, where you can see her, but she knows she’s on her own. Want your child to be able to outstare everyone in negotiation skills? Tell him that. Give him practice. Or, want your child to be God-conscious, to not tell lies? Talk the talk. Explain the consequences, better still, show them live examples. Take them to vocabulary class. Take them to speech & public speaking circles. These exist. (Although the will generally ask you to get your child to read…)

IMHO, Do not  give your child (esp., very young child) books for the purpose of – personality development – Vocabulary/Grammar/Reading skills/Writing skills development – Morals!!! What is going to come of this is, a lot of unnecessary tussle, tears, disappointment, ultimately, you saying “Aajkal ke bachchhe books padhte kahaan hain!” Spare yourself & your kid the drama & the unpleasantness, & just say – right away “Aajkal ke bachchhe books padhte kahaan hain!” … I promise we will smile & nod knowingly!

Reading is a hobby. We, who do it, do it for its own sake. I can add n no. of images here explaining why readers read. However, let’s take other examples. Someone who loves to cook. Why do they love to cook? Because cooking nourishes people? Because eating cooked food makes people feel happy & stay alive? Because Good cooking methods are good economy for the family? No. They cook because they love to cook.

Let’s approach this topic from another direction. We all know the advantages of sports. Discipline, teamwork, strategising, physical health, being a good loser … & so on & so forth. Let’s agree that some of us send our kids to play a sport because we want to inculcate these skills. Still. Just consider how this training starts. Does a little bit of ‘strategising’ be expected to be learnt by the 2.5 year old? No. The 2.5 year old is taught the skill of throwing the ball.

When your child is 2.5 years old, morals are a far, far, distant thing that they need. They need to ‘experience a book’. A 2.5 year old reads with her/his hands. Give them a book to manipulate. Give them a book easy to feel, & hard to destroy. Give them a book the tail of which can be pulled, which can be chewed on. Just let them TURN PAGES.

Ironically, considering the situation of readership declining, the Children’s books publishing is in the pink of its health in India RIGHT NOW. Now we proudly have culture-appropriate books for even extremely small, young beginners. Do you know why Julia Donaldson books rhyme? Well, that young a child enjoys rhyme! S/he also enjoys endless repetition, to the sooner-or-later boredom of the storyteller, they also enjoy to ‘complete’ the story, the familiar story that they are requesting the nth time, & you know what they also enjoy? Silliness. Morals can wait.

Sometimes, it backfires. I remember a story from a book which was a story for kids by Sri Ramkrishna. It involved a teenage gwaalin (milkmaid) & an established pandit, who was also a guru. The gwaalin has such faith that she literally walks on water, while the guru, who had only meant it metaphorically, is unable to muster literal faith on his own metaphorical words. I had an epephanous take-away from this story. For my entire life, whenever one has asked me why I am an atheist, I’ve humbly & genuinely told them, “Bhakti andar se aati hai” – faith comes from within. & I sincerely mean it. (If & ) When faith calls me, I will respond to it.

Anyway, moral of above story is … don’t push morals!

Don’t look for morals in books. Look for a take-away. If that take-away is 30 seconds of laughter, but if it was genuine laughter, & your kid enjoyed it, the book served its purpose. Don’t feel squeamish reading books to your child/ giving them books which do not have an obvious & pious moral. There really is no book that will teach nothing. Trust me, it’s difficult to even write that bad a book, & even though there are numerous enthusiastic publishers, nobody has the time & money to publish trash.

That said, I definitely recommend you to COMPLETELY READ what you are giving your child. Even within good books, there are personal opinions as to what you would like your child to imbibe, & at what point. There is considerable debate regarding certain books, ironically, those which actually have strong morals, for example, ‘The Giving Tree’ & ‘The Rainbow Fish’ (check here : https://bookriot.com/2018/11/30/the-rainbow-fish/). I’ve also found books like ‘The Susu Pals’ & BGF objectionable, while other parents (& readers) have heaped praises. Some have found ‘Good night stories for Rebel Girls’ world-changing, while others have found it wanting.

It certainly comes to your discretion. But, please! Do not insult the intellect of your own offspring! Please do not buy her/him a book full of stories from each of which a moral is to be derived!

If you are not a reader yourself, then take your kid to an adult/ teen who is. Generally, your nearest librarian will be the perfect person, as, now in 2019, being a children’s librarian in India is almost 100% a labour of love. Then again, there are such groups on Facebook. They will know which book will help your child start off. & get them hooked. Again a word of caution, not all are born readers, & if you do not personally enjoy reading, chances are, your kid will need some persuation. Please, not just reading – any activity – please do it ONLY in a way that you & your child both enjoy it, in short & long term. Happy Children’s Literature to you!

To tip or not to tip that is the question

Almost an year back, my sister & I visited Prague. It was a sisters' holiday in the middle of a double date/ family holiday - the child's father & uncle went home to Amsterdam with the child. I had read a question in Quora - "If you could visit just one city in Europe, which will it be" - & Prague had featured multiple answers, of course behind Paris, & alongwith Amsterdam.

Prague was dream-like. It was so compact - after Paris - disorientingly rich - Prague was sunny in August, coulourful in Pride, cobbled beneath our feet. It was ours to discover & get lost in. Google Maps told us we  were somewhere, & we were not. Prague was scattered with small artists. People publishing postcards of their own art, people manufacturing jewellery from their own design; on Charles bridge, there were registered vendors, & each stall had something handmade totally unique. A girl in her early twenties was playing a marionette, & she was SO good, & she was a street artist too, accepting coins in her cap - Prague was warm & jovial & full of life force which doesn't reveal economic 'situation'. The guards at the Palace were so cool, almost comical, they were ALL in shades, & that is how the change of guards took place - with all guards in shades 😎

In Prague we first faced the question of 'tip'. It is in Prague that we took guided tours. How much does one tip? Exactly when does one tip? Tipping etiquette is different in different cities. Foreigners tip all around in Indian tourist destinations - domestic tourists in India never tip, tips are reserved for the festivals, & for 'faithful' servants.

The first guided tour we took was of the underground nuclear bunkers. It was only accessible as part of the ' Communism tour'. Our vivacious tour guide Zuzanne took us around city, on foot, tram & bus, her English clear, her passion real, & at the end told us, we could ask something in general about the city. Suddenly others in our group started to thrust tips in her hands. I & my sister looked at each other. Panic. If this was the norm, if this was even the good manners, we had to do this. But how much? We were unable to guess from looking at our group members, & the moment had passed. or so we felt. It could not be done graciously any more. I still wonder if there is a moment to tip, which passes!

That same night, there was the 'Ghost Stories Walk'. Oh, YES. It lived up to our expectations. Born after urban India was well electrified, we have hardly, if ever, known true darkness. The darkness in which ghosts might feel actually comfortable. But walking with Scot, even in brightly lit nighttim e Prague, his lantern actually smelling of Kerosene ... listening to the stories some of which featured ghosts, some supernatural happenings, & some tragedies, it was like being inside one of Dicken's stories ... the others in the group,the other rambunctious groups, the Beer-bikes (if you don't know these, look up!), all faded out ... the simple experience of listening to a story told by a compelling teller drowned everything. It's a pity the Astronomical clock was closed for repair, & so was a  park where Scot sometimes takes one of the halts. Even with two places minus, it was well worth the fees & the tip, well worth TWO walks around the city the same day, it was worth itself. This time I was ready with the money in my hand, when others in my group were.

In Prague, I didn't have any traditional Czech (or Slovak) food at all. One of the afternoons, we had an amazing Burrito bowl at some sort of a chain eatery. One of the afternoons, we had a wonderful guacamole quesadilla at the farmers' market. The guy who was making it was chatting with us, & told us about his recently ex-boyfriend. If felt like he was still not quite over it. I felt bad for him. Suddenly I realized that he thought us a couple - my sister & I. Nothing wrong with that - expect that I felt that my 'sisters' vacay' got a tiny bit less glam - faded - definitely - in comparison to a lesbian couple holiday -anyone's. Is it that way? Are some holidays less or more glam than others, just by being? I also bought a tiny witch-on-broom corn-husk figurine at the farmers' market, btw.

In the nights, we dined daily at the restaurant of an Indian hotel a few buildings from our hotel. Consistently good Biryani & Alu paratha. We didn't even vary the choice from that. The boisterous owner/manager sat around. One day attending to some guests, one day lecturing one of his staff on how he should be 'always prepared for a party'. For some reason, it was hilarious for the boyscout motto 'be prepared' to be applied to the context of an 'impending party'. Our server was a young guy Pradeep. He was Bengali, whether from India or Bangladesh, we didn't ask. He chatted us up. On the last day, I consulted my sister whether he was chatting us up for a good tip. She was of the opinion that he was 'bonding' over language, & might be offended that we patronised him. So, we didn't.

The confounding experience happened the first afternoon, we were back from the Communism walk, & it was 4 in the afternoon, & I was ravenous. Surprisingly, my sister was not. I was really tempted by an eatery in the shape of train compartments somewhere in front of the Jan Hus memorial. I was going to try The Trdelnik, which I had already read was a sweet misidentified as Czech traditional, but nevertheless, the name chimney cake amused me. I thought it will not be enough, so I looked for a simple Pasta. Here, the owner-manager came & stood on my head. He had huge objection that I was ordering just one main course & just one dessert for two people. Anyway, I was unable to get up & walk away. & then, he asked me, in these exact words "How much are you going to tip?" This was right after I had failed to tip the admirable Zuzanne, see, so I asked him "so how much to people gebnerally tip?" So, he says "10 to 20%". So, I give him not 20%, but 10%. I tip him for standing on my head, annoying me, & for demanding a tip, & I hadn't tipped Zuzanna for my first peek into the personality & background of Prague, & the revelation that we should do this sort of tour in every city we visit!

क्या पाया बिटिया होके

इन दिनों मन कुछ विचलित है।  पढ़नेवाले विचलित समझते हैं न? Disturbed. आज पुराने roomies से बात हुई।  WhatsApp पर . Roomies का हिंदी क्या है? सहवासी? कमरा-सखी?

बहरहाल हम तीनों disturbed हैं।  ज़िन्दगी उलझी हुई है।  किंकर्तव्यविमूढ़। बात चली की क्या SAHM - गृहवधू ज़्यादा खुश हैं? क्या वो सुलझे हुए हैं?

बात यह भी चली क्या  पुरुष होना ज़्यादा खुशहाल होता है? होता होगा। पर मुझे अपनी ज़िन्दगी का एक भी दिन, एक भी पल याद नहीं जब मैंने मादा होने की जगह पुरुष होना चाहा हो।

इसका मातृत्व से कुछ भी लेना देना नहीं है। Parent होने के लिए शरीर में धरना ज़रूरी नहीं, और ये सिर्फ गोद  लेने वाले माता-पिता की बात नहीं , कहीं बुआ माँ होती  है, कहीं नानी , तो कहीं कोई headmaster पिता -  बस होते हैं , कोई उन्हें बनाता नहीं।

 नहीं, बिटिया होना ज़्यादा है। ज़्यादा क्या? ज़्यादा सबकुछ। ज़्यादा विद्रोही। ज़्यादा रंगीन। ज़्यादा गंभीर। ज़्यादा चपल। ज़्यादा गहरा। ज़्यादा भंगुर। (भंगुर means fragile) कौन कम गहरा होना चाहेगा? कम  रंगीन, कम  दिलचस्प ? कम ज़िम्मेदार , उथला? हाँ , कम भंगुर  होना अच्छा रहता।

कल्पना कीजिये वो ज़िन्दगी के जब ऑंखें भर आएं तो कोई टोके - "क्या लड़कियों की तरह रोते  हो"
अगर माँ  की, पत्नी  की, दोस्त की  मदद रसोई में कर दें , तो दयापात्र, जोरू का गुलाम, और लड़की -पटाऊ कहलाएं।

कल्पना कीजिये वो ज़िन्दगी जहां बच्चे  को Science Fairs, School Fetes में, ... Park में football खेलने, कीचड में खेलने,... Music class, Karate Class, pottery class में, Mall में, Water Park में , ... कोई और लेकर जाता है - कोई भी और, पर आप नहीं, क्योंकि , अगर आप office से यों  जब-तब छुट्टी लें, जल्दी निकल लें , तो नौकरी से ही हाथ धो बैठें!

कल्पना कीजिये वो ज़िन्दगी कि  जब भी किसी की समस्या सुनें, तो बस दो ही विकल्प हों - हल प्रदान करना, या झेंप जाना। हल न दे पाने खुद ही असमर्थ महसूस करना। यह कभी न जानना - कि  सुनना - और समझना ही एक मदद है

कल्पना कीजिये ज़िन्दगी भर  पैंट-शर्ट या कुर्ता-जीन्स में बिताना ... कभी, ज़िन्दगी में एक बार भी, साड़ी न पहनना

वो ज़िन्दगी कम है। कम से काम नहीं चलता।

Worst terror strike in the history of Kashmir

Quite the epitome of human inhumanity.

A terror strike is considered highest form of crime  by many, as "the many" consider humans highest organisms, & thus the killing of humans, in multitude is a crime of magnitude. Also, the many consider that humans, while killing, should have considered a kind of solidarity, or brotherhood with other humans ( those these same many snub their noses at many kinds of "inferior" humans in their time) & thus are shocked as to how humans kill humans.

However, terror strikes are truly heinous. This is because terrorists work on the principle of terror, of ruling by terror, of getting for themselves what they want, by killing, destroying, & controlling the minds of the living, by terror. How much worse can a goal be? To live for no other purpose than to be the most comfortable being, by deliberately & systematically making others suffer. To live for a length of time, with the sole agenda to increase that length of time.

Or perhaps, to die in a glory. The glory of killing multitudes. What a futile life. The very opposite of touching lives for betterment, destroying & annihilating, tearing apart, & laying waste, waste which does not feed nature, destruction which does not beget new creation. For some kind of "Greater Good". Legacy of land conquested & rule established left behind for living "relatives". To one's clan, which is in the mind of the suicide killer, the worthiest, the most entitled, the rightful owners of every privilege. & he is facilitating it.

How does one really stop terror? Is it at all possible to stop or prevent any kind of human negativity, or human-made destruction? Is it not simply a part of human character to assert superiority over nature, other organisms, other people, other ideologies? By destruction, of course, how else.

Hello my place!

Where I belong!
Where are you?
Or rather, since you are a place, which are you?
You with my trees -
Neem & Jamun, Amaltaas & Palaash, Kachnaar & Shareefa ...
Squirrels & sparrows, Neelkanths & mongoose ...
A little pool? At the base of the handpump,
& the base of the earth furrows.
Surrounded only by wire mesh fence.
Grashoppers, "Sui"s, frogs.
Perhaps snakes?
Sunshine.
AND MONSOONS.
& my ampersands.
How do I find you?
You, With my ivory tower
My vertical abode with just one room per floor,
& the rest of you covered by those trees ...
How old are the trees now?
What?
Oh! Sorry!
I didn't plant them yet?
How do I buy you, my place?
& who are my neighbours?
Your neighbours, OUR neighbours?
Are they human?
Humans are always hungry.
Hungry for more land.
Hungry for more rooms.
More cars, which need more parking.
Never mind me, my place,
My home, my heart, my soul,
If I find you,
You will no longer be safe.

When did we become humane - or did we yet?

Whatever I know, I read it in fiction. I am a big ignoramus regarding actual news.

Someone said, there are only two classes, the exploiter & the exploited. Really? Do we - You & I, not live to disprove that? That we neither exploit, not get exploited? That we are rational, reasonable?

In "Aztec Autumn", I read about how women were "spoils of war" (& also later in Iliad), how certain kinds of rape were a sin, but not rape of the women of the conquered land by the victorious army. Also, how a woman was "sacrificed" for "good luck" in a hunt. Reading this kind of fiction turns the insides out, as in vomit. Of course, compare nausea, to rape. Conclusion - I am living in the best of times. These things had disillusioned me as to the nature of war, & the ethics of military.

In "American Gods", I read about how a God was created. Amazingly disturbing. It's not for the faint-hearted "self-improvement reader". The book was also awesome in the aspect that nothing is sacrosanct. The unravelling is complete. Neil Gaiman confirms my understanding that "Gods" esp. in the plural, are simply super-powered beings, impulsive in the extreme, cruel beyond human capacity, & super-viced in every human vice.

Now "Confessions of the Fox". It's a really anti-capitalism novel, & surprisingly (for me), calls for abolition of prisons. Yes, the events narrated all are innocent people being thrown into prison on absurd pretexts, hated by the elite simply for being poor, paraded, lampooned, broken, starved, abused in every way, & being treated "not as human", at least by modern sensibilities, all in the name of law! Disturbs us, brings us a tear & a low-grade headache. But should the procedure of law itself be done away with? Go back to the times ... times of what? The trussed-up sacrifice? The murdered-child God?

But we are not living in those times, right? Is that true? In my time, on my watch, is it guaranteed that nobody is being broken like that? 

"Confessions of the Fox" also put to my mind the "must have been" process through which medical ignorance turned into a body of medical knowledge. What perversions must have been through the minds of the "humans" who actually accumulated it. God made man in his image, & man made devil in his image. I would also quote from Kartar Singh Duggal, but ... how anti-national can one be? You know we are the great Indians, right? The tricolour has displayed in Dubai. Our military is descended from the Gods. They only protect & save, never harass nor oppress. & our ancient physicians ... well! they knew everything already. They never needed to experiment on live humans. They had knowledge divine.

So, I revel in being a great Indian of the great India. I shrink in horror in the shared guilt of 17500 generations of being the plague of the planet. I can' decide which era was innocent enough for me. I can't be natural enough  - the dilemma of the environment-friendly in the bathroom - use more water, or use more paper? - to be truly natural is to die of disease & rot into the earth, but I personally crave a sanitary house, a huge library of fiction, & sunrises. Out of this self-conflict of being good to the earth & being comfortable in my skin, I want to not exist, to never have existed.

I lost the horizon.

Only the act of writing aimlessly keeps the pain of not being understood out.

I grew up in a township. The land was acquired by the Company, & they planned the township. The township was upwind from the plant. So, whoever the smoke from the plant affected, it did not affect the employees & their families. The planner of the township planned it in  colonial fashion. The way the colonizers built bungalows in the colonies. The houses had gardens. Even the smallest of the houses. The non-executive quarters. The non-executive quarters had small rooms, less rooms. The non-executive families had more members. The non-executive inhabitants built additional rooms in the gardens. They needed the living space more than the garden.

Still, the small non-executive houses, even after extensions, still had gardens. A neem tree, a mango tree, a drumstick (moringa) tree, or at the very least, a guava tree. And flowers in winter. Regal dahlias, lush chrysanthemums, abundant marigolds graced the scrubby frontyards as benevolently as the manicured lawns. Some of the non-executive families even had a little shed in their little garden for one cow or buffalo & her calf. They wanted fresh milk, & they had carried their ways with them, the "house cow". Regardless of the size or interiors of the house, the garden was a matter of unadulterated pride. It was a gender-neutral hobby. In some families, it was the uncle who was the gardening enthusiast, in others, it was the aunty. It was also the topic of discussion which cut through the gender divide & the executive divide, & made a different classification - the green-thumbs & the green-dumbs.

Till I was in school, in my Bhilai, I had not even known that there can be houses, where the compound wall opens into the living room, without a porch or any width, & the 2-wheelers are stowed in the rooms itself. I did not know that houses may stand directly on main roads & truckways. Only the streets held houses. The first street after the main road was separated from it by an open field, or a plantation of Teak.  We used to play on the streets, but not always, because there were so many open spaces unused, enough for a decent badminton court, & even a children's street cricket ground. The teak plantations were later additions, "reforestation" efforts. Can rectangles of 60 teaks at 50 places inside an industrial township do the planet good? I do not know.

What I know is that it was my way. My way of life, my way of town, my way of roads, streets. I learnt to ride the bicycle on the streets. I learnt to roller skate on the streets. When I roller skated down the main road, 2 neighbour uncles complained to my parents about my unsafe play in the traffic. The traffic which was a scooter every 2 minutes, a 3-wheeler every 5 minutes, & a car in an hour. Sometimes, we won't feel like playing, we would sit down & chat. There were some weird cement structures jutting out of the open spaces. Then there was the old rusted "stage" which had, at some point, used for a speech by Indira Gandhi. I remember stomping all over it, listening to the gong of vibrations with every step. I remember sitting on those low rails discussing "secrets" with Renu. And, once, I was below the stage, with Kiran, with a watch, we were timing  & counting heartbeats. Kiran was one of the brats who climbed the supporting pillars rather than the stairs. It made my skin crawl to just think of scraping myself on the fully surface rusted pillars!!

Chasing dragon flies with Amit in the monsoon. I knew he was going to kill them, impale them, use them as bookmarks, I knew that was unspeakably cruel, but I just went along. Now that I reminisce, I am completely lost as to why I needed so bad to camaredize with him? Was I trying to check whether I was a tomboy? I was in serious identity crisis around age 8. As far as I remember, he hardly managed to catch any insects, his technique was to hand-catch their wings, & even if he did, I made him leave them. But I remember Red, Green AND Blue insects with crystal wings ... they were beautiful ... & he probably only needed to assert that he was quick & silent enough for them.

In the monsoon, the open spaces turned green. So green, it would hurt your eyes if you weren't a crazy green-lover like me. When we were older, & the boys played only cricket, I took Renu to one of the triangular patches, the one between the last two streets & the main road on the hospital side. The one beside an abandoned bus stop. I've seen enough snakes in my time. With Amit, as well as with Renu. Wonder what my parents thought about that! But , we were brought up in "benign neglect", as specified by Sarita Talwai. Besides, in my family, snakes were never killed, only chased away. Not due religious beliefs, but my mother simply believed that "every organism has a right to live. Don't hamper it till it is impossible not to". Yes, we do kill bacteria with antibiotics.

& there was the horizon. It was all around. I saw a few sunsets in my time. I saw a few sunrises. I can't anymore. There is no horizon. The city is all around me. The city of opportunities. Where can I go? Where is the horizon? Where will the horizon not be built up on by "development"? Where should I take a "transfer"?

Randomizer randomized random personal essay

I am so sad today, I decided to seek help in the form of a "random writing prompt". Google is still my search engine of choice. This phrase returned some results, the first of which I clicked.

Good topic. In the sense, a mood lifter, because my feet are a part of my body that I like. My feet are beautiful. For my height, my feet are smaller than people expect. People meaning those people who need to rush out from somewhere grabbing any which footwear available. My feet are also narrow. I'd say dainty, but it reminds me of the foot-binding process that I read in the "Golden Mountain Chronicles" series' first novel. 

My feet are great shaped. Nothing is crooked about them. My toes are long. There is space between all of my toes. My arches are terrific. The opposite of flat foot. In fact, I even have an arch each on the outside of my feet. A thin sliver of space/gap can visible from under my feet. Of course, why would one want to look there? Weirdly weird. Or perhaps foot fetish. Mr Deeds.

I have two left feet. It's as if all my dexterity is in my fingers. Not only can I not dance, I fall down. I slip on wet ground, I skid on the edges of narrow stairs, I stumble on stuff that should have been a foot (pun intended) to the left or right of where I'm walking through. I stub my toes where I'm consciously aware that there is furniture. I've taken 3 nasty falls, which has led to Chondromalacia Patella in left knee. This means I will get (some variety of ) arthritis, sooner than if I had not fallen.

I'm uncomfortable in heels higher than 2 inches. My lower legs bend forward if I wear such. I do not have a hobby of shoes as I have a hobby of handbags or earrings. I do like sensible shoes better. I hate wearing socks year-round. I was so happy when school ended & college started, because, there would be no more Uniform. Yet, I find socks comfortable in winter.

When I was in Class 9, when I was just developing breasts, When dressing for school, I would put on my brassiere & panty, & my school socks (cotton, white), & lie down on my bed ... facing the wrong side, & put my feet up on the pillows, & just enjoy having a nice body for a minute, before I continued wearing the rest of the items of my uniform (which, by the way, was a Salwar-Kameez). 

Feels good, feels reassuring to realize that I had a positive body image ( though a rotten "face image")

as a teenager. 

A wave from my sooty window (Angsty post about my current location)

Kanpur is a large industrial city on the banks of the Ganges River, in the north Indian state of Uttar Pradesh. The city is famous for its leather and textile industries. Kanpur was an important British garrison town until 1947 when India gained independence. East of the city, along the Ganges, the Massacre Ghat riverside steps were the site of an 1857 massacre during a rebellion against British rule. In the suburb of Jajmau is an ancient mound and archaeological site. According to 2011 Indian census, it is the eleventh most populous city while the population of city and its suburb were around 4 million making it the ninth-most populous metropolitan area in India.

Kanpur is a peculiar . It has a violent, gory history, and a rowdy, lawless present. Kanpurias are proud of their roughness (not just around the edges, all through), their bad habits, their filthiness, and indulge in political unrest, community-based contempt and institutionalized corruption. Moharram juloos * evenings and days are tense periods, when “ordinary citizens” wait with bated breath for the unsavoury demonstrations to be over, the demonstrators themselves revel in their self-flagellation, and undoubtedly, certain individuals lament and salivate at a lost opportunity for “communal riots”. Yes, I'm myself judgemental.

Everything that is lamentable and disagreeable about India, is present, and magnified and focussed in Kanpur, like a fantastic and formidable concentrate drink. The character of a place can, to an extent, be estimated from its dialect. Take, for example, Mumbabiya Hindi - Beedu (pal) and Maamu (duffer, actual meaning "uncle") are terms of endearment, and the exaggerated attempt to display oneself as crooks, and street-smart, and badass ... Hyderabadi Hindi - with the nasalized plurals, and "Parson" meaning any damn time in the past year, instead of "day before yesterday" in standard Hindi !!! Personally, I dislike urban dialects - this is because it is used by people who identify themselves particularly with a city - while I am all-Indian, ... although I have nothing against rural dialects, they exist for natural reasons. The Hindi of Kanpur sounds like a tongue of the slums. “It's a dog-eat-dog world”, and Kanpuria is the language of the Dogeater-dog.

Once upon a time Kanpur was called “Manchester of the East”. I am not sure what it means. What Manchester was, at the time when Kanpur was so known, I do not know. The silent and massive witness of that era is the red Lal Imli Building. There's nothing so futile, nor so difficult to let go, as a glorious past. It is said, that in that glorious past of Kanpur, nobody slept hungry. This, of course, is said of every town or city by its inhabitants, and is completely unverifiable. There used to be prestigious houses of Vehicle manufacturing, and textiles. In the 1970s, the trade union was the thing in India, even the hero in the Hindi movies was mostly a hardworking, morose labourer. I once read in an essay that Florence Nightingale is attributed to have said "whatever a hospital ought do, it ought not spread a disease" and the author of the essay had stated, "whatever a trade union ought do, it ought not close down factories". Well, in Kanpur they did. and the vehicle manufacturing and textile industry never recovered.

Even today, Kanpur is a land of entrepreneurs. In 2014, there was a fair held, called “Kanpur Brand Festival”, with lines of true brands, however small, big, or in-between, originating in Kanpur. It was fascinating. Probably, it was not a commercial success for the brands involved, for, it did not get repeated. Even now, Kanpur is a busy industrial centre, especially in the category of "Fast Moving Consumer Goods" including processed and packaged foods, and home cleaning products. The leather industry is a big thing too, and is majorly responsible for the pollution of the Ganga in Kanpur.

Sometimes, people ask me, where I'm "from". (5 seconds pause and) I'm from all over. I grew up and went to school in Bhilai, in central India, a small town and a township for the employees of the "Bhilai Steel Plant", and their families. I went to college in Hyderabad, the city formerly of Nizams, and presently of the IT industry. and then, I've worked, for a few months each, in various locations in the NCR, the south, Mumbai and Pune. So, how did I end up here? I married a homing pigeon, and it is his hometown. People used to (comparatively) civilized environs of Delhi and Mumbai dare not settle here, and there was a window of opportunity to be seized. Also, no need to pay house rent or office rent, at least initially, since the parental house is here, and it can accommodate a small office. “Cheap labour” would have been another plus point, as the employees too are local, and are saving house-rent on their part, which they would need to pay in the Metro cities! I have a “transferable” job, with a semi-Government company with branches all over India, and took a “request transfer” here, on "family grounds".

40% of all middle-class women here are teachers of some or the other qualification. It is true that the population is very high, there are many schools and ample kids in all of them, but it seems that somehow the college-going girls here were brainwashed to believe that becoming a teacher will fetch them a good husband, or perhaps better still, fair complexion!! As these two are the most coveted blessings in these young girls' lives. Of course there are many professionals, engineers and doctors and “MBA”s originating in Kanpur, but the IT industry is in a handful of Metro cities, and that is where the “engineer daughters” (and sons) are.

There are also huge no. of lawyers. The lawyers, if you believe the talk of my office, are the true "goonda"s, I have been told that the police (who are goondas in uniform) too are afraid of the lawyers - because, after all, the hearing will be at the court, and outside it, they will round up whoever they are dissatisfied with, and beat them up, including persons in Police force. Yes, of course, one can file a "writ petition" if one fears this, but the writ hearing will also take place inside a court , right? ... Oh! there are a handful of women lawyers, and, as is true of every rowdy profession, the women are the rowdiest ;)

Recently, the Bar Council elections took place. The traffic of half the town was jammed for two days :D This is nothing new. During Chhath pooja, conducted by Bihari  Hindus, the traffic of half the town is jammed for two days, During “Light Festival” of the Sikhs, the traffic of half the town is jammed for two days, and indeed, during the various political “events” and visitations, the traffic of half the town is jammed for two days. The traffic consists of n number of two-wheelers, three- wheelers of 3 kinds - the 7-seater, the auto-rickshaw, and the e-rickshaw, (and oh! the cycle rickshaw too), minibuses, actual buses, trucks (these are less, as trucks plying inter-city have a bypass outside the city), mini trucks carrying construction material, cars - hatchbacks and SUVs, and a few sedans, and then  hand-pushed carts and horse Tongas (these , as well as cycle-rickshaws have much reduced), AND pedestrians. If Traffic Jams generated  revenue in some form, Kanpur would be richer. And it is certain that it is not possible, due to the simple fact that it has not been done. Kanpur is not a city to let a business opportunity slip through its fingers.

So, why do I live on? Two reasons. Firstly, any place, which is not creeping with humans and Indians today, as Kanpur is, can easily become so, in a matter of mere months. And secondly, resilience, though the virtue of the virus, is still a virtue. I found life, and beauty, in the midst of all the filth and ugliness of Kanpur. Since I can afford a paid driver, I can afford to look out of the window. First I found the trees. Appearing from inside the monochrome grey dust, and the heaps of illegally-mined sand, rise the drumstick trees. It is not easy to guess who planted them, but it is easy to see the attacks on them.

Let me introduce you to the Drumstick. It is a vegetable, long pods (which are really soft when tender, and get really woody and need to be skinned when mature) with interestingly three-sided, eye-shaped seeds, cooked in various cuisines in India. Some love it, others hate it. The flowers, white smalls blossoms, are also edible, they have a slightly bitter, very specific taste, my sister loves it. Recently, it has emerged in studies that the leaves of the Drumstick tree are an awesome source of many vitamins and minerals, and some projects are encouraging poor people to plant a tree and use its leaves as "greens" in their meals. I do not know if this is the reason why random people decimate the roadside Drumstick trees.

Half-naked, rotten-toothed humanity aged 11 to 90 hacks away at them. Not only are the drumsticks reaped, but the tree is reduced to a stump. I used to, initially, seriously feel bad. Then, I saw the shoots. Rising vertically, like so many middle fingers pointed at the heaven. Humans will perish, and with them, the idea of “heaven”. But drumstick trees will remain. Right now, in January, their “bowers” as I am tempted to call them, are laden with greenish white blossoms, literally bowing. I remember my sister, in Amsterdam, she can't have access to any of these!

There are massive Gulmohars and Palaashs, perhaps 80 or hundred year old, and yet, youth visits them every year, and proudly they display their blood-red prime against the blueness above. There are Rangoon creepers and railway vines and Glorybower covering private and Government walls in ice-cream pink and wine red. And the Amaltas - Laburnum. It thinks it is in Europe! For the Laburnum, spring comes not in late February, but in Early May!

Then, I found the humans. What ultimately matters, in the passing of the day is not what the facilities and the amenities are, but who I see when I have the time to look around. I found those who take unpaid leaves from their paying jobs to carry food to and ensure the changing of dressing of injured animals at the SPCA – my informal Animal Welfare group. I found those who have to give up the city's last private children's library, because they have to rent out the space, but come back with a smaller one, because they just cannot not have a library for kids. I found my tribe. It is not close knit, it does not reside in one clan. It is spread over the city. Those, who, upon finding out that special kids are in need of entry to “normal school”, themselves went for a short course on Early Childhood Special Education. Those who itch for and crave books, and a bookish and literary atmosphere. Who dream up, chalk out, fundraise, and actually hold a LitFest. So, yes. I'm not planning on retiring in Kanpur, but as of now, I am working, staying, and living here.

*The Mourning of Muharram is a set of rituals associated with mainly Shia Islam. The event marks the anniversary of the Battle of Karbala, when Imam Hussein ibn Ali, the grandson of Muhammad, was killed by the forces of the second Umayyad caliph. In India, processions(juloos) are taken out, in which young men are showing their mettle (and their sadness) by drawing their own blood by various means

Open letter to to the WhatsApp forwards - rebellion of the "overparenting" parent

“Why I am pushing my child”

1. A child is not a mini adult. A child is not a weaker, “fragile” adult. A child is not a dumb adult. A child is a learning machine. A child is a faulty-logic-ed (classic Piaget), limited-knowlegde (they don't know that gas from gas oven kills you, heck, they don't know what “killed” really means), vulnerable (did you miss the latest rape news?) learning machine.
2. If I don't teach my child, the world will teach. It will teach her that Pakistanis & Chinese are evil, & should be killed off as whole populations. It will teach her that boys cannot wear pink. It will teach her that women are annoying beings that prevent men from enjoying their lives. It will teach her that “talking about death” is an unlucky thing, but wearing a seatbelt is stupid-elite.
3. I am not pushing her to do things that she hates. (In fact, I do not know of anything that she really hates). One must “try” something before developing a taste. An art, any art, can only be practised by discipline, & “pushing” one's own limts. I am exposing my child to books & crafts because I love reading & craft-ing (which is a word now). I don't say you are “pushing your child” when you send them to “BrainyBaby” or teach them to fold their hands upon spotting a religious building, do I?
4. Habits are learnt by – habit! As a child grows, “learning manchine-ness” decreases, it is more & more difficult to pick up new skills. It is immensly more difficult for anybody, child or adult, to break an existing habit, than to pick up a new one.
5. Good habits save time. When you know where your keys are, it saves 5 minutes of searching. If you routinely wash your socks & keep them in the same corner of the cupboard, you always have fresh socks when you need them. Time already is, & will continue to be the most valuable thing. Time saved can be utilised in making money, spending money, with one's family, practising a hobby, sleeping, or gazing at the cows in the meadow, whichever is the most valuable to us.
6. Said child is not complaining. She is unhappy why I am issuing so many instructions, but NOT unhappy about ANY of the activities that she is being pushed into.
7. I am not making her into a robot. She does not just “receive & follow instructions”. She jots down her own to-do list, & asks me for suggestions or availaibility. Sure, I do “disapprove” some of the stuff she plans, & add some others, but that, directing one's child, molding their priorities, is parenting.

 

Judged by WhatsApp Forwards

Lately, I've felt judged.

Yes, I am a “helicopter parent”. Better a helicopter parent, than a dead child, maimed child or raped child, what say?

"Benign neglect". Hmmmmmmm. Let's see. I'm a product of that. How did I fare? The children of "pushy parents" from when I was a kid have by now established a world for themselves. While I, of intelligence without ambition (which, by the way, is like a bird without wings, did You know?) am still "in process" ... So, no. I do not buy this one either.

Yes, it's true that "parenting" is a new word. It did not exist before our generation. But how about us? Do we exist in our generation? Or before our generation? Last I know, the "Ancient Indians knew Time-travel"- machine had not yet been dug up from our stupendous past! & even if it had been, I'm not much a fan of being a child bride, a 3rd wife , a Sati ... 

No, thank you. I am gonna live in this generation. & I'm gonna prepare my child for what is my assumption of the coming generation.I do not KNOW what it will be, I am not Alvin Tofler, am I?

All around, I felt judged. Which was weird. Because, I have a very, (VERY), co-operating husband, awesome in-laws, amazing parents, incredibly cool colleagues(touchwood), friends when I need them! (actually, touchwood all around!!!) So who the hell is judging me? Why do I feel constantly judged? It's an uneasy feeling, which brings out the “rebel-without-a-cause” in me!!!

Beauty & harmony. Let go. Transcendence. ... advice, & preachvertisements. Analogies, & allegories. True stories, & ancient fables. To help me be “a better me”. Why? Do you ever stop & reflect? Why do random strangers need me to be a better me? Why am I not enough? Why all this “lifestyle education”?

After puzzling for a long time, I realized that !!!!!! Yesssssss!!! (Read the title to this write-up!) Keep it coming, guys & babes! Daadis & Taus!! Self-styled spiritual gurus & one-book psychoanalysts!!! Now that I know WHO I am facing, I am prepared. I need to have my financial independence. I also need “Mumma-baby time”, “couple-time”, time for the needs of the 2 sides of my family, & then, yes, I need some “me-time”,  some crafting, some activism.

A spic-n-span house ? ? ??? It's a luxury for "other people. An uncluttered Zen mind-space? ..... Umm! It's me you're talking to?

In my me-time I read & re-read Agatha Christie. THAT is my meditation.

Rasoi

“The Kitchen”, speaks intimacy. Even in today's modern design, where the kitchen is as sleek as the sitting room, & does actually open into the lounge/ living room, still, if you are joining someone at the cooktop, if you are operating someone's blender – you are close to them. Kitchens are the centre from which the business of living a good life is conducted. They are the control room of house parties, the board room of school projects – preparing the “ghost fluorescent slime”, sprouting seeds for “plants need light” experiments. Kitchens are where pre-teen gangs with little to do on scorching summer noons, but heads bubbling with new mischief, hang out, with endless pop-corn.

Those persons, that you let into your kitchen without feeling that your personal space has been invaded, are those who you are ready to take a bit of constructive criticism from, to expose a bit of your vulnerability to! Since childhood, I've been inside the kitchens of “Aunties”, who were mothers of close friends. Ramen cooked with a tempering of Cumin & Mustard, Idlis smeared with Milk-fat & sprinkled with sugar ... fattening food for never-still school-children. Upon growing up a bit, on becoming teenagers, it was considered good manners to offer to help the hostess whom our family was visiting. This included entering her kitchen & carrying the tray of cups of Chai, that she had prepared, & later, carrying back the used cups & plates to the sink. However, any shy & adult-interaction-averse teenager would only bestow this special favour upon really special Aunties!

The kitchen window is where the heart is opened to the world at large - where the sparrows flock to peck at rice flakes, where the mangy runt cat comes to claim its share of milk & love, & meow its world philosophy to those who care to lend an ear. Kitchens also stand for traditions, & belief systems. We lived in identical apartments which were company quarters, & inside the kitchen was a store room made entirely of shelves. Many families had their mini temple/ worship place in the Store room. Floor decorations & wall decorations with traditional rice powder & rice paste often adorned the Kitchen.

I remember getting offended by “No entering kitchen during menstruation” rule in the house of an orthodox religious family. I simply decided to never let them know I had my periods. My own mother's kitchen was the place of her sorrow. She did not, & does not enjoy cooking, it is very rarely that she cooks willingly. Still, one has to cook. & cook she did, dutifully, punctually, measuring every nutrient, instilling in me a deep-seated “need” for “veggies” & lentils. But that was not her sorrow. The sorrow was my grandmother, my father's mother. In India, it is common for aged parents to live with their sons. However, my grandmother was extraordinarily interfering, immature, & basically a pest to my parents' relationship. Somehow, the kitchen represented to my mother, the entire injustice of her life ...

Thankfully, I have not inherited my mother's luck in Mothers-in-law, nor her disdain for cooking. My husband & I belong together in many places, also the kitchen. I discovered my life partner quite early in life, in Undergrad. At that time, we were quite inseparable. Going to the same places, seeing the same sights, experiencing the same events, eating the same food, we developed similar taste. We were often present in the same kitchens apprenticing with the person who was cooking for us non-hostel-mess food. It was delicacy for us - hostel-dwellers, & that person a master chef! Now, we assist each other, & prep for each other, & share our kitchen duties naturally. If a family that cooks together stays together, then we can definitely hope to.

The Kitchen, also, is the reflection of the time of one's life. Out of necessity, whoever moves out on their own, first sets up their kitchen. Purchasing one's first set of “Tea, Coffee, Sugar” jars, is not the general matter of poetry. Yet, it is one of the enthusiastic rites-of-transition from a protected life in the fold, to youth, where every little chore has to be hand-performed. I remember preparing our first Besan Chilla on our single-burner LPG stove. My roommate & I, though we knew that Besan Chillas are a beginner level recipe, were unsure that the chilla will “hold together” in itself, we added an egg to the batter. The memory never fails to make either of us smile, as we soon discovered that Besan is very sticky, & is indeed used to bind together other loose ingredients.

Living in a country which has two seasons - hot & unbearably hot - the Winter wonderland has been conceptualized by story-book illustrations - "blanket" of snow with sparkly blue magic outdoors, & contrasting yellow-red fire inside! I imagine aromas which I have not personally experienced! Remember the  kitchens in fairy tales? In the gruesome killing of the evil witch by the abandoned Hansel & Gretel, the scalding of Big Bad wolf as he comes down the kitchen chimney … climaxes happen in kitchens. Then there are the Russian fairy tales, where Baba Yaga meets her seekers by the hearth, Masha cooks pies for the bear, & the most atrocious - Yemela travels by his kitchen by the blessing of the fish!

 “Grandma's tips” all originate in the kitchen. Turmeric is an anti-inflammatory, Water boiled with carom seeds will soothe an aching tummy ... I came across the term “Hearth Witch” as my horizons broadened globally. You come to realize the the respect of the elderly & experienced woman as the healer. Where these women were content to perform their functions, with satisfaction simply from happy family members, & recognition only in the form of being taken for granted, we are more vocal about our needs & position. Still, the bond with the kitchen remains. The bond of the kitchen & the kitchen garden surfaces, & with awe you proceed to search for  the point where a herb becomes a medicine. Just a bit of mystique is invoked! There is magic all about the kitchen!

Kitchens are also the first to be neglected in the face of adversity. The living room is “maintained”, pretence of well-to-do-ness is kept up as long as possible. The kitchen's exhaust fan whose motor has burnt-out is not sent for rewinding. The sunmica of the dining table, the tiles of the platform get chipped, & remain so ... It does not affect the smells and aromas, the warmth of the flames, or the warmth of the provider, the mother figure. & so, in partial neglect lie the appliances, in disrepair, but lovingly cleaned with soap-water & scrub. & when the mother figure is ill, is taking a holiday elsewhere, or is, sadly, dead, the kitchen shouts aloud its complaint & lament, cockroaches rear their heads, coffee stains become the very pattern of the surfaces. Even as political debates gather storms around eating habits, & gender roles transform, get confused, & transform again constantly, the actual, physical kitchen welcomes all, continues to be a woman's kingdom, yet yields to whoever will take over with love.

As of every animal, food is a human need. However, "eating" does not seem to be getting "digitalized" in the near future. The Kitchen will continue to be a real, tangible, fragile, impermanent fixture in an increasingly virtual world!

Damnation

We are all aware of the heinous crime against Damini.
We are also all more/less aware of the various statements isued in negative spirit, ranging from naive to misogynistic. Case in point : minister
The statement which hits me hardest in the gut, or should I say, in my"woman parts", is one or the other form of the proclamation
"She must have been provocating.
She was acting in a way (more specifically, wearing clothes) that are not befitting "Indian Culture".
I shall not HERE, enter into a dialogue on Indian Culture.
May i register my own feelings on the topic, which reflect the (much quoted on FB) words by

However, I am setting aside the question of "Right to dignity & protection from gender crime".
Here,
I request of you a particular help.
I request You to help me prove, statistically, that risk of getting raped is not inversely proportional to clothing coverage.
The Null Hypothesis here, is :
Women wearing shorter/Western clothes have a higher probability of getting raped in India.
&Working Hypothesis is
Probability of getting raped is independent of victim's clothing.
This is where I need data, that you can provide.
Kindly tell the nation :
In each case of rape reported in India
1) What was the victim wearing at the time of attack
2) What was the victim used to wearing (in case our Victim-Blamer-fellow citizens want to imply (baselessly) that the victim had been "provocating" "long term")
It would also be interesting to know how many have male colleagues, let alone boyfriends, & how many have ever seen the inside of a disco. But I have the sense to realize that you are more than enough busy in your work, & hardly have the opportunity, even if inclination, to humour my whim.

Learning & forgetting

Vicky is enjoying reading the primers that I have. It is sad that the school is taking such a mechanical approach, & the other kids have no benefit of the joy of "have learnt to read", the sense of achievement. Besides, a primer at school would have meant one more primer for Vicky :D My current resources are certainly running out. I have been visiting the website Homeschool Freebie of the Day since a few years, in fact I had been looking for primers online, for another child, when I stumbled upon it, & now it is certainly time to dig out those awesome vintage primers & print them out ... who says You have to be homeschooling, or American, to need these resources? You just have to be an involved parent.

In Hindi, the school is simply rushing on with the written alphabet. In fact, Vicky has forgotten not only the writing movement, but also the "look" of many of the alphabets that came (& went) in between. & oh! she has also developed some wrong writing patterns. She is writing "d" by taking her pencil from beneath & making the circle twice. "a" by making a circle first, & then "adding a tail". Likewise, she is also writing p wrong ... I am having to teach her the correct movements again. This is the result of not enough practice of the earlier learning, before moving on.
By the way, Vicky cannot write a cursive "k". & I do not insist.

She is getting better with the sight words. She is finding "the" everywhere now, for example in the English newspaper. I have always been told to "guide the child to put reading in context" ... I had to make no efforts towards it. She is also really bent upon phonics. She tries to read whatever she can. The other day, we were in the car, & she asked "Mumma, what does "The Pan" mean?", I thought that it must be the name of some restaurant, but my husband said that it was "The Panacea", a hospital, & marveled for 5 minutes at the fact that Vicky had read so much from the moving car ... :)

My mother has sent the Bengali Primers. I am starting on the Bengali consonants with Vicky.

Led by the child

It is difficult to explain the meaning of "the" to a Hindi-speaker. Thankfully, in Baanglaa, " টা " is much more frequently used than "ठो ".
The first set of sight words was the most difficult to teach. Vicky kept forgetting the look of each word, as well as the meaning, & I kept losing patience. After 3 weeks, I decided that it was time for the next set. Somehow, perhaps because "it" "is" & "in" are actually phonetic, or of only two letters,she picked them up quite fast, even though she still kept forgetting the words of the first set.
At school, after the small letters in running hand, the class started with 3-letter words. "at" words. I was quite astonished. Why not "a" sound words as a whole? "an", "ag", "at" all those words? But Vicky is quite proud of her school, & the activities at school, so I went with the flow. 
I had a few resources with me. One was a book from my own pre-school days, that I found in a used-book market in my college days.
It has this "lesson" about Mohan, & when I was in  pre-school, we had a steel tub just like that, & a red mug just like that, & my Mom too used to warm the water in the tub in the Sun in our company-quarter varandah ... I "related" with Mohan!!!Well, nostalgia was paying off. I also had a set of "Songs letters sing" from ANOTHER generation before. (Yes, we are children's book-preservers.) These provided a set of "reading material".
Luckily, I found a cluster of sentences, with primarily "at" words. About a cat & a rat, who have a nap on the mat & in a hat, respectively :D I had to interject with the words "on " & "in", as they were not yet on her "syllabus" ... but at the end of the session, she was able to tell herself " बिल्ली ठो बैठा ऊपर एक चटाई ...के " Vicky did 3 sentences that day, & the whole of the same lesson the next day. Thankfully, she found it very amusing that "The cat is fat". She was literally ROFL. Thus, Vicky is now reading for pleasure. For real.

About spoken

In ordinary, middle-class India, anyone with a good "spoken English" is treated with great regard, bordering on awe. lamentably, the country's school system is merely a "certification system", rather than an "education system". & it is exams which produce the certification. Therefore, it is the emphasis on "spoken English" which distinguishes a great school from an average school.
In Vicky's school, certain instructions are given in English, like "take out your Diary" etc, & then explained in Hindi, but this is not the case with all communication. Moreover, the teacher's aide is simply a poor woman in a menial job, she is plain non-conversant in English. On the other hand, the school expects the kids to mug up a set of  questions & answers on different topics every week, for example fruit, or water animals, etc, which is called elocution. I do not know how it is "delivered" in school, as I have not seen it. When we start practising these at home, I call it "playing quiz", & I try to explain the question, as well as the individual words that make up the question. I encourage Vicky (& Vibhu) to answer in a sentence, where they know the words of the sentence, & is repetitive.
In this context, I am thinking that I'll add the words "some" & "are" to the list of sight words, as most questions start "name some ...", & I might as well show Vicky the looks of these two words she is commonly using.
Vicky is excited about the colouring game. We modified it to make shapes around the words too ...
I have to remind Vicky every few minutes to "hold the pencil correct". She says it hurts, & I sometimes doubt if I am doing the correct thing.
On the contrary, when Nutan teaches sight words to her child, she completely emphasises on the recognition & recall only, & totally sidesteps meaning. It's okay for her, as her child is already quite conversant in English , & watches cartoons in English.