Desicritics Category: Culture: Family

What Do You Do For A Living?

Deepti Lamba — Sun, 20 Jul 2008 05:57:43 EDT

So, what do you do for a living?

Ah!! you're a homemaker...

Yeah, that's the end of the conversation with me.

Back in Delhi when I bumped into an old school acquaintance I decided to tell the truth that I was a writer and quite a lot of my stuff was published. Where? Skin mags!!

The babe looked flustered and shocked and I was smug. It sounded better than stating a flaky - I am a homemaker

Recently I blurted out the truth in a more creative fashion - I am retired and since I am a woman of means I don't need to work. Thanks to my husband I am lucky enough to be able to devote time to my passion and my family.

The individual who asked me What do you do for a living? spluttered and was left speechless .

Most people are unable to earn money from their passion. Most people are unable to devote time to their passion. Come to think of it, a majority of people don't even know what they are good at. They work because they have to, not because they want to.

Few people are eager to go to work on a Monday morning. The few who do look forward to their work are generally self employed or enjoy great deal of autonomy at their work, others crib about their work environment , their bosses, colleagues and the list goes on.

All that is discussed after I am politely ignored for leading an 'idle life' and I find myself wondering time and again whether my 'stress free life' ( yeah, even I had a boss yelling at me at one point) isn't better than dealing with the egoistical bosses and bitchy colleagues.

When they compare their stressful lives with each others I remain quiet. My stress is different from theirs- I go sleepless at night because I write late into the night not because I have a presentation or assignment to finish. I get up at crack of dawn because I have tiffins to pack and chores to do and not because I have to drive from one end of the city to get another to work. Basically I am the mistress of my own time and of my mind.

Sure, I have to deal with people who think I am a lazy babe without an identity; some even called me a doormat. Doormat and me? Just because I don't get a pay cheque at the end of the month?

I'm already working but I don't have to prove my worth to anyone.

The way I see it- when I am on my death bed I am not going to regret that I didn't have a nine to five job but reminisce more about relationships gone sour or dreams left unfulfilled.

The Benefits of Joblessness

Dr Bhaskar Dasgupta — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 08:56:40 EDT

Now here's a surprise for you. I quote:

The proportion of 16- to 24-year-olds without a job is higher than when Labour came to power in spite of government efforts to reduce unemployment among the young.......blamed the rise on the failure to raise the skills of many youngsters. The New Deal scheme to reduce youth unemployment by providing training, subsidised employment and voluntary work had also failed to maintain its initial success.

What are the solutions? And this is where I disagree:

The OECD said policies such as raising the age to which youngsters must remain training to 18 needed “fine tuning”. It called for increased support for free nursery education; a three-month limit for 16- and 17-year-olds to find work with part-time learning, after which they must return to full-time education or training; more involvement for trade unions in development of apprenticeship schemes; and an expectation that youngsters working under New Deal stay in a job for at least 26 weeks.

See, this is an issue of taking a horse to water but cannot or being unable to make it drink. And here's the actual problem, and I further quote:

One in five youngsters who found work under New Deal held a job for less than 13 weeks, leading to “short employment spells with benefit dependency”.

What these gits do not understand is that for entry level jobs and basic jobs, the difference between the salary and benefits enjoyed is marginal, and in many cases, negative. So what's the point of me dressing up, going to work for a boss who treats me like a coprolite, doing soul destroying work and then ending up after working 10 hours with an amount which is lesser than what my friends earned by sitting at home smoking and drinking and bonking?

Benefit dependency is the issue, link the continued employment to the continued benefit and you will see that economic incentives do work. If you do not work, you do not get the money. And all the kings horses and men, like this whiney article, says, will not make humpty dumpty go back to work again.

Take a look at what Polly is celebrating. She is looking at an estate of 7300 people, and I quote: This vast estate, in much disrepair, had 7,300 residents but virtually no community life, voluntary or council-run. It did have crack houses, prostitution, rubbish tips and violent crime. It did have exceptional numbers of the old, the sick and single mothers.

This is the problem, it was the state's mistakes, the centralised planning, the benefit dependency, the bad public service delivery and the like which landed the estate of Clapham Park in this mess. So Polly is basically saying that the state mucked up, and then the state tried to fix it, and then it again failed. Erm. yes, obviously it will fail, you silly girl, because it was not done by the residents, but to and for the residents by people who never stayed in there. And she is asking for more public money to fix it, keep it going and worse of all, to extend it to other estates and counties where the state has spectacularly failed. Dont you think you should stand back and let the citizens do it themselves?

But here is the problem which goes back to the benefits issue. This state has made a vast swathe of the populace dependent upon benefits and is therefore unable to shift them off it. Take a look at this by-election coming up in Glasgow East. Trace the history of the constituency back and you will see that it has been managed by Labour going back to 1922. Ok? Now let me bring some interesting statistics to bear.

1. From the Spectator:

Nick Clegg drew gasps at a reception in Westminster by observing that there are parts of Glasgow where life expectancy is the same as the Gaza Strip and North Korea. If only this were so. Glasgow City, as a whole, has a male life expectancy of 71 years which is actually lower than the 72 years of both Gaza and Pyongyang. But this includes its lush suburbs. Those in the welfare ghettoes of Glasgow East can only dream of such longevity. The life expectancy of its sink estates is worth recording here. A boy born in Camlachie is expected to live to 64.5 — the same as in Uzbekistan. In Parkhead it is 62, the same as Bangladesh. Just outside its boundaries lies Dalmarnock where the figure is 58 — lower than Sudan, Cambodia or Ghana. The lowest is Carlton, where the figure of 54 is lower than even Gambia’s equivalent.

2. BBC:

Figures for unemployment are also higher, with the rate for men over 25 about 10%, rising to 25% for women.

This year, NHS statistics showed that the east end of Glasgow had Scotland's highest rate of alcohol-related hospital admissions.

3. Blog:

Look beneath the lies, damned lies and statistics, and factor in the number of people on incapacity benefits, and we discover that around 50% of the adult 'working' population is unemployed.

4. Spectator again:

When you look at Scotland on any statistical dataset, it is one big horror story. Welfarism, health deprivation, drugs, drink – there are reams of data about what a socioeconomic nightmare the country is.

5. Financial Times:

Male life expectancy is 63, which is 14 years below the UK average. Unemployment runs at 25 per cent and about 40 per cent of the constituents live on benefits. About 40 per cent of the children live in workless households. Sadly, "household" is not always the most appropriate term. The teenage pregnancy rate is 40 per cent above the national average.

And this is from a city which, and I quote: Yet just a few generations ago Glasgow was the greatest industrial city of the British empire. At one time it produced half the world's ships and a third of its railway locomotives. It could be argued that many people in the UK enjoyed a prosperity that was in part built on the gargantuan efforts of industrial Glasgow.

6. The Times: male life expectancy is 14 years below the national average, 38% of constituents are welfare-dependent, 46% live in social housing, 60% of households have no access to a car, and deaths from heart disease among the under 75s are 83% above the national average.

Now yes, I agree that you cannot be up all the time, just look at Detroit, but hey, look at California, it reinvented it. And it did not do it by handing out benefits by the ton. The problem is that people are now accustomed to living by the state. So now why would you be surprised that the people will keep on voting Labour? As the quote goes, a government which promises to rob peter to pay Paul will always count on the support of Paul.

If you want to get people employed and productive members of the staff, you need to help them but just like pain killers, do not make them addicted to it, otherwise you will end up with estates like Clapham or Glasgow East. (Incidentally, the SNP and the Labour party are both the same, whosoever wins in this by election will do sweet sod all. Here's a prediction, 5 years time and the statistics will be worse! and I am very happy to be proven wrong).

Technorati Tags: Unemployment, United Kingdom, Welfare, Scotland

Stubborn As A Mule

Diya S. — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 10:28:15 EDT

Last Durga Puja, my father organized a musical show where all my family members took part; albeit me missing as usual. My father played the violin, my mother sang and my brother played the synthesizer. When someone asked me why I wasn’t a part of the concert, I proudly declared myself to be the black sheep of the family, with no musical talent what so ever.

But later when I reflected upon my answer, I came to realize a very important aspect of my personality, which was that I am as stubborn as a mule! Even though it is not that I can’t sing (a friend of mine who is a professional guitarist even asked me to sing with him in one of his gigs) I have abstained from being properly trained in music.

This is mainly because as a child I had grown quite tired of hearing things like, “Bengali girls who can sing get good husbands” and thus had promised to myself never to sing in front of people.

My husband should love me despite the fact that I don’t sing, I had stubbornly thought. Today I am 21 and having matured considerably, I have come to realize that this obstinately behavior has had a very paradoxical effect on me.

Even though I love singing, the only reason I didn’t do so was just to vex others. And in the end it is I was the one who got hurt because, every thing said and done, I do love singing. I have now finally realized that I should learn to sing properly and nothing should stop me from doing so.

Book Review: The Islamist by Ed Husain

Vinod Joseph — Sun, 6 Jul 2008 02:33:44 EDT

Unlike The Reluctant Fundamentalist, The Islamist is a true story, the story of Muhammad Mahbub Husain, who became an Islamic fundamentalist, saw the light and then went back to civil society.

Husain's main thesis which runs through the entire book as he tells his story is very simple. There are two types of religious Muslims. The ones like his father who are extremely religious, but have the sense to keep their religion private and never let it influence their political views and outlook. And there are others – the fanatics – who believe that Islam is a complete solution which teaches men how to pray, govern themselves, conduct wars, dress, interact with others etc. The second group is much smaller than first group, but is a lot more vicious and has been spoilt by democratic and tolerant Britain.

Democracy, or people's rule, is anathema to fundamentalist Muslims since only Allah should govern (and the Koran contains Allah's words and will). Using the democratic institutions they seek to subvert, Fundamentalist Muslims have wreaked havoc within Britain, especially within the Islamic community in their quest for a global Islamic state. Husain calls upon the British authorities to crush the fundamentalists, for the fundamentalists cannot be reformed. Fundamentalists Muslims will always try to subvert democracy and civil society, even if they are allowed to preach and practice their version of Islam. It is incorrect to say that past injustices against Muslims have given rise to Islamic Fundamentalism of the type preached by Omar Bakri, the erstwhile leader of the Hizb-ut-Tahir.

Husain's book was released in May 2007 at a time when the British government was facing a great of criticism for having invaded Iraq and fuelled the growth of Islamic fundamentalism in Iraq and elsewhere. This book was gratefully seized upon by prominent commentators and journalists in the UK as proof that growth in Islamic fundamentalism is not the result of the Iraqi invasion or any British foreign policy mistake.

Husain has a straightforward style which makes his book easy to read. However, Husain's story is not as straightforward as his style.

Husain claims to have had a happy childhood, surrounded by his doting family and caring teachers. His father came to the UK in 1961 and is an ex-restaurateur. Husain doesn't tell us what his father did after he stopped running a restaurant. Husain's family lives in a three storied Victorian terraced house at Limehouse. Young Husain spends a lot of his time with his father's spiritual guru, Shaik Abdel al Latif, who hailed from Fultholy (is it a place in Bangladesh?) and preached a benign version of Islam. Husain addresses the Shaik as ‘Grandpa’ and learns a lot about Islam from him, an Islam based entirely on piety, devotion to God, love for the Prophet, and which does not try to influence an individual's politics.

Later his parents move him to the boys-only Stepney Green School, contrary to the advice given by his primary school teachers. He is in a classroom full of boys from Bangladesh who watch Bollywood movies, indulge in gang warfare and have little in common with mainstream Britain. On his own initiative, Husain starts taking extra lessons in religious studies along with another student Falik. It is not very clear why Husain would want to do that. I assume not many 15 and 16 year olds would opt to spend a few extra hours at school learning about religion. But Husain and his friend do exactly that. They start with Gulam Sarwar's book on Islam which apparently is taught in British schools even now. Gulam Sarwar talks of the political system of Islam. An impressionable Husain is led to believe that religion and politics are one and the same. Islam is a complete way of life. Sarwar tells his readers that currently there is no pure Islamic state, but wants his readers to try and create one.

Husain’s study-mate Falik is a member of the Young Muslims Organisation, the YMO and very soon, before you realise what’s happening, Husain is a YMO member. The YMO is a front organisation for the Jamat-e-Islami, a fundamentalist outfit started by one Abdul Ala Mawdudi. Mawdudi is a man who wanted to create a global Islamic state. The tactic advocated by Mawdudi for doing this is the gradual infiltration of political systems and the takeover of sovereign states, especially in the middle-east.

So, by the age of sixteen, Husain is a full-fledged member of YMO, distributing pamphlets and sticking posters on walls. Husain takes great pains to explain how he had to hide his ideology from his parents, especially his father, who never approved of Mawdudi. Later when his father finds out about Husain's work for the YMO, he is very angry. Husain actually leaves his parents and lives in a mosque for three nights before his father takes him back, such is his pious father's hatred for political Islam!

But Husain does not stay with the YMO for long. He switches to the Hizb-ut-Tahir, an even more virulent organisation run by the notorious Omar Bakir. Unlike the Jamat-e-Islami, the Hizb-ut-Tahir advocates a violent overthrow of governments for the establishment of a global Islamic state. By now, Husain is a student at the Tower Hamlets College. They persuade women to wear the hijab, convert non-Muslims to Islam, break up meetings of rivals and aggressively promote their brand of political Islam. Husain's parents are very upset with Husain, but there is little they can do about his activities. Husain is slightly troubled by the fact that Hizb activists are not spiritual at all. They spend little time in prayer. And when they do, they pray bare-headed. Ordinary rules of Islam don't seem to apply to them. Husain is troubled with all that, but he stays on as a member, mainly because he likes the idea of a global Islamic state.

Husain meets Faye at the Tower Hamlets College. Husain does not detail the courtship, but we are given to understand that after a period of cold-shouldering by Faye, Husain manages to win her heart. Faye accepts Husain’s marriage proposal, but tells him that the nuptials can take place once after they complete their studies.

One day, things change all of a sudden in Husain’s life. There is a knifing inside the college campus and a Christian Nigerian is murdered by a Hizb activist. In Husain's own words, 'that murder – the direct result of the Hizb-ut-Tahir's ideas, served as a wake-up call for me.' This is very interesting in that, till then Husain has been working for a global Islamic state, to be achieved by the violent overthrow of sovereign states by military coups and the like. And then, when blood is spilt for the first time, he is distraught. Husain is all of 20 years old when this happens.

Husain’s grades suffer as a result of his Hizb activities. But after he becomes disillusioned with the Hizb-ut-Tahir, he works hard and manages to clear his A levels. Faye and Husain join the University of North London. Husain cuts himself off from the Hizb. But Husain is still not ready for a purely spiritual Islam even though he wants to 'flush out the Hizb within him'. He joins the Islamic Society of Britain and starts learning Arabic. He hopes that reading the Koran in original Arabic will teach him more about spiritual Islam. But he does not last very long at the ISB which has ties to Hamas and the Muslim Brotherhood.

Husain wants to lead a normal life. He votes in the 1997 general elections (for Labour and Tony Blair) despite a Hizb injunction that democratic elections are haram. At the age of 22, he applies to HSBC and gets a job. Within two years, he is managing portfolios worth half a million pounds. But Husain is not very happy with the way the Bank makes its money. Though HSBC does nothing illegal, Husain finds it to be too greedy, not always acting in its clients interests. Money making is given priority, something Husain cannot stomach.

In August 2000, Husain and Faye get married. They go to Turkey for their honeymoon. Husain admires the Sufism he finds in Turkey, but describes Kemal Ataturk a ‘secular fundamentalist’. Clearly, Husain is not in favour of a situation where religion is kept totally private and the separation between the Mosque and the State is absolute.

In the middle of 2001, Husain quits HSBC and downgrades to a clerical job in local government so that he can focus on his Koranic studies. In early 2002, Husain and Faye register themselves for part-time Arabic studies at the School of Oriental and African Studies at London University. They make plans to go to Syria to study Arabic. After 2 years in Syria, they move on and go to Saudi Arabia where Husain’s disillusionment with Islamism is complete. Between the time Husain arrives in Damascus and the time he leaves Saudi Arabia to return to England, he is totally transformed. It is as if a genie from Arabian Nights decides to make over Husain so that he is acceptable to mainstream British society. Husain talks of how in Damascus he and Faye start to prefer the company of non-Muslim Britons to other Muslims. Islam can only be a spiritual community, never a political bloc, Husain declares. Husain speaks approvingly of Tony Blair in a couple of places. He is happy when in August 2005, the government prosecutes an array of Islamic organisations. He cannot understand why Arabs hate Jews. The distinction between Zionism and Jews, which many Arabs make, is dismissed. Suicide bombings have only brought misery in Israel and Palestine, Husain emphasises. The flaws and injustices in Arab society, especially in Saudi Arabia, makes Husain open his eyes and realise how wrong he has been all along.

At Damascus, Husain and Faye teach English at the British council, which helps them support themselves. Syria is full of surprises. Husain is shocked to find Syrians travelling to Iraq to fight the coalition troops. Why should there be a Jihad in favour of a military dictator such as Saddam? Husain wonders The Islam practised in Syria is to Husain's liking. Women have a lot of freedom. Christianity is tolerated. Sufism is widely practised. When Husain spots a couple of Hizb activists at Damascus university, he actually tips off Syrian intelligence. The biggest surprise for Husain is when he realises that there is nothing like a global Muslim community. Regionalism dominates. People question his about his origin. He is brown skinned and can't be an European. He is not Arab. So what is he? He can't be just a Muslim. The Syrian's hate the Turks who once ruled over Syria. Syria and Egypt had once formed a single country – the United Arab Republic, which hadn't lasted very long.

In Saudi Arabia, racism is rampant, but luckily, Husain is able to pass for an Arab since he can speak good Arabic. Black Muslims are treated like dirt. Foreigners can never become Saudi citizens. Most Saudi men are lecherous and nasty towards women. Students at the British Council download pornography from the computers there, something not possible outside the British council. Many Saudis support Osama bin Laden, condone attacks on western targets and hate Israel. Husain quite rightly blames the policy of segregation practiced in Saudi Arabia for this state of Saudi society. At Mecca, the Wahhabi guards are abusive. They are unable to make a distinction between worshipping the Prophet (which is forbidden) and showing love for the Prophet, as a result of which they kick anyone who as much as bows at the Prophet's tomb.

When Husain returns to the UK, he starts missing Arab society. He is not entirely happy with the state of British society. How does one integrate into a society where the pub is the centre of all social life? Husain wonders. Not for Husain a society where he is forced to hide all traces of his religion as is done in Turkey or one where, even an iota of spirituality is treated with contempt, as in the UK.

Husain ends on a positive note. Each country has its version of Islam. Husain definitely approves of the milder versions practised in Malaysia and Syria and hopes that a British version of Islam will evolve soon.

It is hard not to feel some sympathy for Husain when one finishes the book. However, I will not be surprised if Husain writes another book where he talks of how disenchanted he is with a writer's life, how the publishing world is full of hypocrites and how he looks forward to a world where writers get published and sell their books without any hype or unnecessary marketing and publicity.

Short Story Review: A Brown Man by Prasenjit Gupta

Shantanu Dutta — Sat, 5 Jul 2008 03:52:05 EDT

Vijay teaches in the English department in a small American town in Prasenjit Gupta’s short story “A Brown Man”. He is single. His mother in India wants him to marry an Indian girl; no foreigners were to be trusted. So Vijay found Asha his girl friend for three years until her – more liberal in her ways than even the white girls his mother worried about, left Vijay for a hippie.

Vijay is single and lonely and his departmental senior Philip and wife Sharon are good friends and they are trying to act match maker; but that is not going to work for Vijay is very conscious of parental authority and won’t do any thing that will offend his mother, but then Philip and Sharon do not know that of course. So they introduce to Vijay, a distant cousin by the name of Amy who is on a short vocation and staying with them. Vijay is not too interested; remember his mother is wary of white girls out to seduce her son, but out of courtesy to Philip and Sharon who are good people, he agrees to spend some time with Amy and “show her around” the town.

Amy is a good enough girl but Vijay is not interested; he has already been hurt once and remember; his mother has warned him to wary of the white girls. “Don’t bring home a foreigner” was the unambiguous message. Though they go out several times and though they get along well enough, there is no trace of romance. He shares about the Indian girl who left him and she in turn tells him about the boy who left her. Slowly he is falling in love with a white woman despite all the warnings that he has received. On one of his monthly phone calls to his mother, he crosses the Rubicon by telling his mother that he has been seeing a white girl. She sighs into the phone. A sigh of hopelessness.

It is the end of Amy’s vacation and they are going out for their last outing. Amy has never looked more beautiful and Vijay knows that if he must propose, this has to be the night. As they are settling into their meal, a white man comes and sits down opposite their seat and looks disdainfully at him and admiringly at Amy. Vijay shrinks within himself as he remembers the many times he has been snubbed at by white people over the years. The dinner ends with the proposal never uttered and Vijay drives a very visibly low Amy back home. The next day, as Vijay drops Amy to the airport, she casually mentions that her old boy friend wants reconciliation and she was open. Vijay shrivels further inwards as he bids her good bye … for the last time and heads back home.

Is racism for real or is it an imagined shadow that Vijay seems to see every where, often without any substantial basis. His colleague Philip and his wife Sharon cared enough about him to notice his loneliness and try and do some match making and Amy as she went out with him, evening after evening dared to hope that the man she had come to love and to admire would one day propose to her. But though he skirted edgily around the subject, he never did. He was haunted by his own mother’s demons – that white American girl was bad though Vijay’s own experience was to have been let down by an Indian girl trying hard to be “Western”.

Now that racism is no longer institutionalized, it is obviously that much more difficult to track down and identify. And how much of it is real and how much of it is magnified by past experiences, mental imagery, perceptions –true and imagined that we end up interpreting wrongly and often with tragic consequences as happened with Vijay? Vijay’s interpretation of what a white woman would be like was largely conditioned by what his mother whispered on the phone as they talked every month and indeed in India, even before he had left the country’s shores to go to America. Although he had enough caring white people in his life, he still could not bring himself to trust himself and trust them when it came to the defining moment of his life and that moment eventually passed him by.

We talk often of stereotyping – racial and ethnic and religious and others and imagine that these flawed judgments that we make of others harm them, discriminate against them, and deny them opportunities….. But stereotyping is actually like a boomerang it comes back and denies us the very same joys that we imagine others are losing out on.

Original Fiction : Daddy

Deepti Lamba — Fri, 4 Jul 2008 15:03:48 EDT

“Daddy” She tried to get his attention.

“Hmmmm?” He did not turn to look at his daughter who knelt down on the grass along with him.

“Daddy?” She reached over and touched his bent waist.

He sighed and stopped pulling the weeds. Brushed his hands against his jean clad thighs and turned to look at his daughter.

“What is it, Kelly?” Tendrils of her hair waved gently in the Mid Western wind. It had been a cool day and the winds had yet to pick up pace. A bird sang above their heads on the maple tree. Her song was sweet and it caused much melancholy in his heart.

He reached over and tucked the hair behind his daughter’s ear. A smudge of dirt marred the perfect skin of her ear. He looked at it and remembered his wife kissing Kelly’s ears when she was barely a few minutes old.

“Daddy?” she gently held his hand. Her eight year old hand was engulfed in his strong grasp. She missed her mother.

“Daddy?”

He smiled at her whimsically “What is it pumpkin?”

She bit her lip and tried to hold the tears back from her eyes. She didn’t want to hurt him. But she had to ask him.

“Daddy, is Ma really in heaven?”

He closed his eyes and bowed his head. His gentle Melissa was gone forever. He tried to be patient with their daughter just as Melissa had taught him to be.

Put the anger and grief on the back burner. She would have said. He could actually hear her say the words in his mind.

How he missed her sweet warmth.

He looked at his daughter and tried to smile.

“Yes, sweetie she is in heaven.”

“But daddy!” She chewed her lip just like her mother used to do when she was under tremendous stress; the same gentle chewing of the lip between the upper and lower teeth when the biopsy reports said she’d live less than six months. His brave Melissa was gone leaving behind a grieving husband and a confused daughter.

He shook his head and went back to weeding the earth with renewed vigor.

Tears fell from his eyes, tears he didn’t want his daughter to see.

She sat back on her haunches and watched a little ladybird crawl up her arm.

The beautiful black spots on its red shell reminded her of the times she had gone ladybird hunting with her mother in the fields, she remembered the times when they had sat together and eaten berries freshly plucked and slept under the same maple tree.

Her chest tightened and she could breathe. She was swept up in a maelstrom of grief but couldn’t reach out to her father. He no longer smiled; he couldn’t look at her in the eye. Grandma told her to give him time. He will come around she had said as she hugged her little body against her ample bosom till she couldn’t breathe.

Grandma hugged her too tightly nowadays but her father couldn’t bring himself to touch her.

“Daddy!” She tried again, a little more hesitant this time. Had she done something wrong?

He brushed a hand across his eyes. Jesus, he didn’t know how to comfort his daughter.

Throwing the weeds aside he decided to take a breather and talk to the only precious thing he was left with.

“Tell me honey.”

“Daddy if mama is in heaven why are we here?” She blurted out. Apprehension made her shiver. She had finally asked her father the question that had been plaguing her for a while.

“Here? Because this is your mother’s grave.” He told her trying to keep the impatience out of his voice.

The harshness of his tone made tears spill from her eyes. He cursed himself; she was so fragile.

She brushed her tears away just like he had a few minutes ago. So much pain, how were they to deal with it?

He tried again

“Honey, I come here because it makes me feel close to your mom.”
She crawled up to him and snuggled in his lap. She was again a five year old wanting comfort from her father. He hugged her close to his chest while his heart broke.

“But daddy it saddens me to come here. I miss mama even more.”

He rocked her silently and watched the sun go down. So many memories lay under the maple tree. The leaves of the tree whispered gently along with the breeze. The sky turned molten giving the few fluffy clouds a silvery- gold sheen.

The lights in the farm came on. Melissa’s mother must have made lasagna. She was trying to fill in a gap she never could but bless her heart she was a rock of Gibraltar he and his daughter had leaned on. She had held the family together.

He buried his face in his daughter’s hair and drew in the clean fragrance. His mother in law had given Kelly a bath. He had been neglecting his daughter. His grief had made him selfish. He hadn’t been there to comfort Melissa’s mother either.

He gathered his daughter up firmly in his arms and tried to speak in a lighter tone “Tell you what we will talk to your mom during Grace before dinner what do you say?”

“Will mommy hear us Daddy?” She looked up at the gaunt face of her father.

He gave her a reassuring smile

“Sure she will honey.”

She laid her head against his shoulder and he walked towards the porch of the farm house where Melissa’s mother waited for them.

No Pride But Gay - India's Gay Parades

Sakshi Juneja — Tue, 1 Jul 2008 11:55:23 EDT

While the three other metropolitan cities of India had the Gay Pride, Mumbai’s non participation was definitely a subject of much debate and bewilderment.

I mean, if Delhi could have it, then how come the most recognized city on the Indian map, the city of dreams, the fabled city of chill and chic, didn’t?

‘Hypocrisy’ is the one-word answer I got when I posed this question to a Gay friend. Apparently, there is much infighting and lack of unity among the various Gay groups and NGOs in the city. The divides runs deep between the classes and the masses, and never the twain shall meet - or so he said.

The white-collared lot happily goes about its business without caring about ‘burning’ issues like rights or laws, said another Gay friend. In Mumbai, it seems, not many can be bothered enough to dress up and walk the streets the way they did in Delhi, Bangalore and Kolkata. But the same does not hold true for parties, I recently discovered.

Boy do they dress up there, and boy, do they party.

In snooty South Mumbai, I experienced my first of such parties. As a straight person, one doesn’t often get to see this side of Mumbai, and my Gay friend was only happy to take me along to one of the dos. Us three straight chics and five strapping Gay lads.

They say that first impressions are the lasting ones. Well I had more than my share of first impressions:

I often wondered where all the cute men have gone. Now I know.
Indian men can dance. Rephrase that – Gay Indian men can dance – the pelvic thrust being an extremely popular move.
Swapping partners, a common thing.
Several men. Five women. Not one got a second look. (I’m talking about the women.)
The ladies toilet isn’t just for the ladies. If you know what I mean.
Makeshift bedrooms, the restrooms.
Celebrity spotting. No Karan Johar though. Or his better half.
And… the best bit… all of the above happening on top of a family restaurant.

The pride may not have happened in Mumbai. And it’s probably more than just lack of unity between Gay groups. After all how can we forget our political mai-baap also play moral police at the drop of a hat.

But, who says the pride in their identity isn’t there?

(* Pic : Times of India)

Check out the YouTube Video Footage. Some powerful stuff.

Short Story Review : "Supriya at Fifty" by Prasenjit Gupta

Shantanu Dutta — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 12:38:28 EDT

Supriya Moitro is a girl born in a well to do Bengali civil servant family in Gorakhpur in 1935. She grows up in Moradabad and then goes to college in Allahabad. Against mild parental unease she then moves to Delhi to study for her MA in Hindi. Their unease is partly because of the daughter leaving home and partly that she should have chosen to study Hindi, a language generally looked down upon by the Bengali educated classes. From there Supriya moves to Aligarh where she joins as a lecturer in Hindi and where the first bend in the river occurs. Supriya falls in love with Ashok Dixit, a colleague and a non Bengali. Her parents come rushing down mortified at the thought of their daughter’s cross cultural marriage but return with a reluctant blessing.

Shortly after they get married, they move to the United Sates and effectively settle down there, though they will never admit that truth to themselves. Their only son Subodh knows no other home but the US and on their increasingly infrequent visits to Kolkata, he is distinctly uncomfortable. Not that Supriya herself is very comfortable. Each visit to Kolkata finds her retired parents, older, greyer and frailer and less able to cope for themselves. Though Supriya has a sister and other family, each visit leaves her groping with guilt about the choices she and her husband have made.

Time goes on, Subodh finishes high school and goes on to University. On one of his phone calls, he announces that he is bringing his fiancée Janet home (Oh mom, we met at grad school!). Supriya and her husband with the same perplexity and unease they had gifted their parents all those years ago. Supriya at fifty is the semi autobiographical reminiscence of Prasenjit Gupta masking as a short story through the persona of Supriya looking back on her life on her fiftieth birthday. Gupta is a Delhi University graduate now living and writing from Iowa. Through the character of Supriya, he asks many questions about identity that continually confronts people who have left their roots behind and attempts some answers.

The results for third culture people are mixed. As Supriya would recall, as a Bengali brought up in UP and later settled in the US, she was well versed in three languages: Bengali, Hindi and English: she was as comfortable reading Tagore as with Premchand or later Shakespeare or Wilt Whitman. Quite an accomplishment considering most of her erudite friends and those of her husband knew one language only – English and nothing more. It is possible for her to be equally at home in different parts of the globe without any discomfort in her campus apartment in the American university as in the gullys of Uttar Pradesh or the decaying bungalow of her father in Kolkata and that was more than could be said of her son, who had never been to the small towns of UP and found even a week in his grand parent’s house too suffocating.

Yet Supriya realized, she truly fitted nowhere. She lived in the US and yet she was not quite American. In the early years, her husband had encouraged her to switch from saree to skirt but she had demurred. She spoke English fluently and yet taught Hindi in the local university and cooked Bengali food like Doi Mach at home. She and her husband had so wanted to find a nice Bengali girl for their son before he surprised them so. Christmas meant nothing to her and yet she felt so nostalgic at the time of Pujo, the Bengali festival corresponding to Dusshera when the whole of Kolkata would dance with delight.

There is a certain intangible part of humanity that is associated with one’s own soil, culture and norms that is irretrievably lost as one moves to be a citizen of the world from being the native of a town. The process is enriching, yet the loss of what might have been, the friendships that might have been cultivated that have been lost, the bonds that have shrunk because distance and geography played their part, the opportunities that have been gained and the opportunities that have been lost all come together in one giddy cocktail. As Supriya would put it “ …her experiences, her culture, her traditions have dissipated themselves in three different ponds, whereas if all her life had been spent in one language, think how large a lake it would be, how deep, how profound ,with all the consecrated wisdom of her ancestors…”.

On the whole, life has been good to her. She has had a good husband, a good son and is on her way to have a good daughter in law for after the initial misgivings, they have grown to be fond of the girl their son would marry and who has gone to great length to accommodate and adjust to her fiancée’s parents. But in reverse, she has been away in the pivotal moments of her family’s happenings in Kolkata, there is a very obvious disconnect that she experiences as soon as she lands in Kolkata. People have married, have had children, the children have in turn married, the older uncles and aunts whom she knew and loved have gradually passed on and to the new generation, she is just another aunty from far away who comes now and then but will never be in any sense be ever a part of their lives.

So much has been gained because of the choices that she has made and yet so much has also been irretrievably lost that Supriya at fifty. Half a century into her life she can no longer draw any conclusions. She decides that she will live that for posterity to judge and hopes that she will not be found wanting.

Movie Review: Laaga Chunari Mein Daag - The Figurative Womb

heartcrossings — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 00:57:58 EDT

It's not very often that I am able to take away a meaningful message from a Bollywood flick so I had to write about it. The movie in question is Laaga Chunari Mein Daag.

The story is an old chestnut overdone Bollywood-style. A family of four in a decaying mansion - the mother spinning the years away Arachne-like on the sewing machine, the idle father hoping the next lottery ticket will reverse the tide of his fortune and the two pretty daughter unequipped to seek a better future.

Desperate to help her struggling family, she goes to Bombay to find work and runs into a man who promises her a job in return for spending the night with him. She calls her mother defeated and ready to abandon her quest for employment. She is frightened by the proposition and wants to come home to Benares right away.

The mother's response to this SOS is tinged by her precarious circumstances, she does not rush to embrace her child and snatch her out of harm's way. In her daughter's most desperate hour she is not able to be her mother. The girl begins her new life as an escort. The mother is consumed by guilt even as the family benefits tremendously from the first-born's lucrative profession.

What I found most compelling about the story was the older daughter's cry for help, the mother's response to it and finally the consequences. I think our children cry out for help in big and small ways many times in their lives. When we are attentive, we hear clearly and respond decisively. In doing so we are able to prevent harm being done to them.

Yet there are times, when we are not able to hear quite as well. In hindsight, we blame our inaction on preoccupation, inattention or worse expediency because too much was at stake. The cry subsides into a low whimper and there is a deathly silence. We want to believe that the crisis has blown over - that our lack of intervention helped our child become stronger and more self-reliant. But the truth is, a child turned away from her last refuge of hope will often go down a path of self-destruction even while keeping up pretenses of all being well.

As unlikely as it may seem, this movie made me think about a mother's lifelong responsibility towards her children. She must have a figurative womb that they can return to in their darkest hour ; she must always be able to discern their cries for help amid the overpowering noise and chaos of her own life.

We see mothers around us who do everything else right and wonder why their children turned out the way they did - wonder where they went wrong. It is no easy feat to execute flawlessly on such huge responsibilities all one's life. More likely than not, a mother will make some mistakes and the child's life will be a testament of its consequences.

Infected by Inflation

Shantanu Dutta — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 10:39:06 EDT

One can sure meet some strange people these days at weddings and funerals. A couple of months ago, attending the wedding of a niece, I heard the story about one of my aunts. She had been invited to the wedding but was unwell. So she had sent her two sons to attend the wedding on her behalf –with a letter. The letter came with an intriguing stipulation – that it had to be handed to the bride’s mother – her sister-in-law or to the bride herself and no one else. The two sons who made a somewhat hurried exit from the wedding left the letter with the bride’s mother as they hurried out. They stayed quite a distance from the wedding venue and had to return.

In the busyness of the wedding, the letter remained unopened. The wedding guests departed slowly one by one and the letter remained buried in the purse where it was randomly tucked in on the wedding night. There it remained until the news arrived a few weeks later of the death of the aunt in question. At that point, memories were juggled and someone remembered the forgotten letter and after a lengthy search, the letter was finally found and read.

To say that the contents of the letter shell shocked my middle class family is to put it relatively mildly. For in that final letter, my departed aunt, unable to come herself to the wedding and meet anyone had poured her heart out in a letter which she had obviously hoped would be read in her lifetime.

My aunt’s letter described the effects of inflation far better than an economist would be able to, for if inflation is a pandemic, a contagion, then my aunt was one of those felled by it, much as dengue or cerebral malaria or cholera might claim its victims. She described in detail how the modest poultry business her two sons were running for a few years was ruined, first by the onset of bird flu and then the subsequent panic leading to reduced demand in the city. Just when they were beginning to recover and get back on their feet again, inflation began rising and once again the demand failed.

The only steady income in the family was a meager family pension due to my aunt on account of her late husband’s government service. Of late, it was not just the only steady income; it was the only income with her sons’ business in liquidation. The family was faced with a Hobson’s choice - was the pension money to be used to buy provisions and groceries for the family or to buy medicines for my aunt’s several age related ailments.

The decision was made more complex by the fact that the meager family pension would continue only as long as she lived but she finally cast the die and decided that she would wither away so that her sons could live as the little pension money would not allow her to buy any medicines after the groceries were bought. A couple of months later, she was dead. Unlike the many farmers in Maharashtra and else where who need to commit suicide when life becomes unlivable, she was spared that expense. Crude oil prices set somewhere in the New York Stock Exchange and the spiraling inflation took care of that.

Inflation has always been presented to us in newspapers and business media as an economic phenomenon. All the inflation-related fire fighting has been done by macro-economic bodies like the Reserve Bank whose tools are graphs, tables, prediction and politically-laced policy inputs. But these erudite economists need to know that while globally, inflation may be studied as an economic phenomenon, in India’s huts and homes, it is a rapidly spreading infection and potentially fatal among the particularly vulnerable.

In the absence of a prescription, the casualties are rising.