Desicritics Category: Culture: Relationships

Poessay: Rosary 21: KhamOshi - Wordless

temporal — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 11:01:14 EST

(photo by Brian Mayeux)

khamOshi
sukoot
qayam rakhtay hu`aye
oos nay raaz e dil a`yaaN kya
jaanay kis haal maiN hoga woh aaj
lafzON ka yeh ehtraam
jo oos nay sikhaya
qaim hay

wordlessly
inaudibly
she conveyed her
dreams, doubts, aches
don't know where she is now
this respect for speech
she inculcated
lingers
Earlier:
Poessay: Rosary 1 - Pink Sand Beach
Poessay: Rosary 2 - Fishing
Poessay: Rosary 3 - Adam and Eve Limited - I
Poessay: Rosary 4 - Adam and Eve Limited - II
Poessay: Rosary 5 - Descending
Poessay: Rosary 6 - Dinner In The Park
Poessay: Rosary 7 - Under the Jamun Tree
Poessay: Rosary 8 - Voices In The Air
Poessay: Rosary 9 - Life Rosary I
Poessay: Rosary 10 - Life Rosary II
Poessay: Rosary 11 - Creating In Isolation
Poessay: Rosary 12 - Kohled Eyes
Poessay: Rosary 13 - By the Lake
Poessay: Rosary 14 - Snow Flakes
Poessay: Rosary 15 - The Drop
Poessay: Rosary 16 - Ageless Quest - tishnagi
Poessay: Rosary 17 - Hemashree
Poessay: Rosary 18 - burning blazing fire rages
Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwur LafzouN Ka
Poessay: Rosary 20 - Thanksgiving I

Chick Lit

IdeaSmith — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 10:21:51 EST

My new literary obsession is Chick Lit. Helen Fielding, Sophie Kinsella and Marian Keyes keep me in chocolate-box mood while Meera Syal and Advaita Kala add the desi tadka. Why, even fellow-blogger/'I-know-this-girl-friend-acquaintance' Compulsive Confessor flashes her characteristic grin at me from my bedside bookstack.

I found this rather interesting piece on the internet, describing Chick Lit:

"Chick lit" is a term used to denote genre fiction written for and marketed to young women, especially single, working women in their twenties and thirties.

Now, I know I'm doing an about-face, especially after such rabid commmentary. I'm coming to this acceptance with much prior reluctance. I still have trouble accepting the term 'chick' to describe me or any woman I know. It's degrading. However, I'm willing to lay down my shackles and admit that I've been reading (and enjoying) the genre called Chick Lit.

Chick Lit is the new Romance Novel. And it isn't. As a genre it certainly is finding as much favour and spawning as many writers (and books) as the ubiquitous M&Bs. On the other hand, one may argue that romantic fiction was a genre built on common women's fantasies while Chick Lit inter-twines what we consider our ideal life along with the proverbial gang-cribbing that each of us indulges in with our galpals over men, weight loss problems, career concerns and PMS.

Chick Lit, as most of the definitions state, is usually about twenty-something women, career-minded or not, married or not, successful or not. One thing they all are, is discontent with their lot. The careerwoman struggles with loneliness and jerky boyfriends, the beauty queen is slapped around and paraded as a sex toy/trophy partner and the housewife is wistful about missed opportunities. The Chick Lit heroine is Superwoman who survives on a steady dose of gal/pal advice, gay friends, alcohol-and-career swings and roller-coaster relationships. Friends are family, chocolate is the manna for all evils and the root of all evils can be summed up into one word - MEN.

Bosses, colleagues, friends, lovers, ex-boyfriends, flings, husbands of friends, partner's buddies, friends' partners, gardeners, milkmen, grumpy old men, uncles, teachers, fathers, cheery grocers, lecherous neighbors....men in every possible shape, size and relationship are examined back and forth. It is the Chick Lit'ter's favorite hobby - Men.

If the Indian versions are different, it is only in that they're usually set in Mumbai/Delhi instead of London/New York. The protagonists gorge on chicken tikkas and grab their capuccinos from Barista instead of M&S or Starbucks. Their mothers want to see them 'well-settled' instead of 'settled down'. The men are just as committment-phobic, the careers just as unsatisfying, their bosses are just as demanding, their married neighbors consider them just as flighty and sluttish and their credit card bills are equally long.

Why do I like the genre so much? Simple. Because it is about me. That's my life, my friends, my mistakes and my victories that are getting written about. Every page brings a, "Don't I know it!", an "Aha! You got 'im there, girl!" and a "Bullshit, I heard the same thing from my second boyfriend when he was cheating on me." It's almost like having a new set of friends with every book.

You might even say it's the modern, literary woman's Soap Opera in a book format. If the women of yore wanted fantasy to keep them entertained, at least this I can say for my generation - we're thriving on reality...or some warped version of it. Who needs a perfect fairytale when our own messed-up, vodka-spiked, overstressed lives are so much more interesting?

Chick Lit is empowering in a very strange way. It tells me that other women are having a hell of it too. That having a zero social life at twenty, in favour of slogging away at work was not a mistake. That getting married at twenty-three would not have spelt 'happily ever after' either. That my smug married, whiz-in-the-kitchen housewife friend acts superior to me but also thinks I'm living the glamourous, carefree life she only reads about in magazines.

It tells me that it's okay to not feel diva-like at all times, to nurse worries over weight gain and cellulite. That it's even okay to worry more about these than a missed deadline. That bad temper, unreasonableness and pukey-head-feeling are permissible once a month.

Chick Lit tells me life isn't perfect (yes, I know someone said that long ago but catch me listening?). I mean look at the titles - The Undomestic Goddess, Life isn't all Hahaheehee, Shopaholic, Almost Single. It also tells me that each of us is figuring out a new way of perfect. And who knows? Maybe Perfect will be the way I do it - My perfect!

Not One Of The Family

IdeaSmith — Mon, 15 Dec 2008 00:24:38 EST

Friend and openly gay writer, Parmesh Shahani in his book Gay Bombay says that being gay isn't just a sexual preference, it's a lifestyle.

My sexuality was something that I had compartmentalized as something that was surreptitious and all about the sexual act, not about an identity.

Yes, perhaps. I guess I can't claim to understand fully since my choices go by what society sees as the norm and anything else is forced to be defined starkly, clearly as separate.

I was recently at a party and ended up sitting next two friends who both happened to be gay, one guy and one girl. I've known each of them independently for years now. Till a few months ago, I didn't even know that they knew each other and from what I can tell, they've only recently become friends. That they get along so well suits me just fine since they're both such lovely people and besides I understand for each of them, considering the staggering enormity of the cause they each champion, it is good to meet a kindred soul. Add to that the fact that they're both such rollicking fun that getting together with both of them is usually a blast.

I turned away from the conversation on my other side to get back to them and found I had moved into a private guy/girl-watching session. He was checking out the geeky looking dude on my left while she had her eyes on a fiery femme fatale at the other end of the room. Chuckling and commenting on each other's choices. I was about to join in with an elbow-nudge and a side-joke when he said,

How about an introduction? You know him?

I hesitated for a minute, because I really didn't but also because I wondered if bespectacled eye-candy in question was gay as well. I shook my head and told my friend that I didn't think so. Both of them exchanged meaningful glances and almost in unison said,

She wouldn't know. She's not one of the family.

I'm not sure exactly what happened in that one remark but I suddenly felt cut out of the discussion. I've examined it over and over in my head. Is that really true? As a straight person, do I also not feel attraction, ponder on it, act on it? Do I not run through similar thoughts of whether the object of my affection reciprocates? And does it really matter that I'm crushing on the opposite sex while my friends are ODing on the same sex?

What's with the family bit anyway? That part really annoyed me. I've never judged either of them or been anything other than respectful of their choices, their opinions and feelings. Each of them is a real, live person to me, not a body bearing a tag that says 'Gay'. Then why do they hang the tag of 'Straight' on me and behave like it makes me less kin to them than to each other? I felt excluded. And I felt betrayed, that's what.

I must ask whether the gay community hopes to ever get the respect due to it, considering what a tremendous backlash they are and will continue to face in years to come? And whether in the process of defining themselves clearly, they aren't drawing boundaries between straight people and gay people in a 'them' versus 'us' scenario. If the gay community wants to enjoy the same rights as others, on the premise that they are no different from anyone else, I think they should start thinking of themselves as the same as everyone else. And family is people who love and accept you, not necessarily people who like the same things you do. But that's just me.

Missing InSomnia

Chaitanya S — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 11:14:20 EST

“We are having a blast at the Taj tonight…remember to bring your camera along…it is going to be an all nighter”.

As I sat glued to CNN, I realized what words like “Taj”, “tonight”, “blast”, “camera” and “all night” meant to me. As I sat through the night watching the footage, the brain screamed of fatigue but the eyes remained wide. My roommate passed by at 5:00 am and sniggered, “Still up? Are you suffering from insomnia tonight?”. “No. InSomnia is suffering tonight”.

I knew InSomnia had shut down a year or so ago. But all my best memories (only memories?) of the Taj revolved round that night club. We’d make it a point to party there whenever possible. For us living in the suburbs, the 30 minute drive to reach our destination was more than worth the effort. The slow moving traffic gave us an opportunity to actually “talk” and catch up with each others' lives. The moment we’d cross Worli, the traffic would give way and the road was there for the taking. Marine Drive, was where I’d roll down the windows. The cool sea breeze hitting our faces added to the thrill of going to party. The screams of “put the windows up, you idiot, it’s ruining our hair” couldn’t dampen our ecstasy.

On 26/11, the absence of cars round the Taj was an antithesis to my experience. I recollect the plush automobiles snaking round the grand building. I remember being caught up in that long queue for valet parking on every occasion. On such occasions, comments from my beloved backseat drivers ranged from, “this is taking us longer than our drive” to “I told you to leave early, numbskull”.

I’ve frequented all the best nightclubs in Mumbai city. Anyone would tend to do that if they’d party at least twice at week. But InSomnia always had an X factor to it which I could never actually put my finger on. Maybe it was the architectural splendor of the Taj on entry. Or maybe it was the element of mystery I felt as I approached the club for the first time. It was through a narrow corridor which was flanked by designer stores on either side. All the shops were closed by the time we’d go to the club, but it was my secret ambition to shop there someday. I no longer nurse that ambition, but you tend to have crazy aspirations when you are younger. I remember entering the darkness of the club down a flight of stairs and immersing myself into the loud music and flashing lights.

Back then, the only shots inside were either at the bar or through my camera. The blasts were our youthful emotions exploding on the dance floor. Every ounce of fatigue which had accumulated due to the 60 hour work week went up in smoke. We made sure to uphold Mumbai’s reputation as “the city which never sleeps”.

On the way home, I remember the “nakabanis” or roadblocks at which I’d stop at. Police would speak in their stern but polite Marathi and screen the car. Far from being a nuisance, it would be reiterate the fact that I was safe in my beloved city. The police were just making sure that we citizens drove home safely.

I will always feel safe in Mumbai. It is my home. I know I am being protected. Fear will not give me sleepless nights. Now even InSomnia can’t give me sleepless nights in Mumbai. I really do miss InSomnia.

My Clandestine Reading and Other Literary Habits

Deepti Lamba — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 10:14:36 EST

"Dee, shit! you've got me into massive trouble!"

"Bhav, sorry yaar, ma decided to clean my cupboard. She never touches my stuff usually."

I still remember the hoopla caused in my house over a Mills & Boon. The book was called Counterfeit Bride.

I still have the book.

Ma had discovered the book wedged between my jumbled up clothes. I was eleven at the time and the book had been given to me by my best friend. Bhav had got it free with some shampoo.

She didn't like to read; I did and so the book was given to me.

Ma confiscated the book. I continued to have counterfeit reading habits; Classics in front of ma and romantic novels in the loo. My reading habits remained clandestine till I turned 15 and one day I gathered courage and told Ma point blank "Everyone reads them at school"

She gave me a disapproving frown and gave a reluctant nod.

I promptly asked for my confiscated book.

"You remembered it after all these years?" She was surprised.

"I remember all my books, ma. And its called Counterfeit Bride. Want to know the storyline? I remember that too." I replied cheekily, flipped through the book and walked off to my room.

Whatever be Ma's reasons for not letting me read romance novels I outgrew them by the end of college years. Some of my 'intellectual khadi' wearing friends found romance novels to be beneath their feminist dignity.

One of them had raised an eyebrow and remarked "You till read Mills & Boon? How quaint!"

What was quaint about it I could never understand but I did respond with that it was a 'time pass' habit. More like a mental chewing gum to deaden the mind.

Why did I defend my reading tastes back then?

Of course now I have more 'adult' tastes. I stopped reading romantic novels back when I was in my twenties. Reading sex never interested me. It was all the same kind of shit- bells ringing, blood surging, penetration, gasping, trembling and all very unbelievable.

Even the virgin in me recognized the shit that was printed pages after pages. I knew I could write better sex scenes even without much practice and post marriage I did.

I wrote erotica and unfortunately I found myself suffering a similar predicament for writing sex instead of reading it.

The reactions were the same except instead of 'do you have to read it'? the words were- do you have to write it? Can you not write something more productive, more intellectual type? Can you not write something that will not embarrass us?

I tried my best to explain- They are just words. Reading or writing them doesn't make me an immoral person.

"Rape scenes? How could you?"

"It was fan fiction and the criminals did suffer for their actions."

"I didn't finish it. It was too gruesome."

I sighed

"The criminals did suffer-"

"I don't want to know. You have to stop writing such drivel."

"I have written more stuff-"

"No! this must stop immediately!"

I gently banged my head against the wall as the long distance call came to end. I was a kid again facing ultimatums.

Weaving stories had become an addiction for me. I could write other stuff; well, I was writing other stuff - book reviews, memories from past, movie reviews blah blah blah but I was also playing naughty on my site and got rapped on my knuckles for it.

There was no more clandestine writing for a while. In fact after all the exasperation and my prema donna reactions I came to realize my fight for freedom of speech in the jack off section was not all that worthwhile.

I could still write erotica but more along the lines of Mills & Boon; boy meets girl, boy has soft porn sex with girl, they fight, they make up and live happily ever after- Yuck! I flipped through the tattered pages of Counterfeit Bride and bid that part of my life a quiet adieu, at least not under my real name;)

Terrorism - What's Under The Surface?

Uma Ranganathan — Fri, 5 Dec 2008 01:45:43 EST

There is a good and a bad side to almost everything, when you think about it. Maybe this is part of life’s complexity, it occurs to me, especially in times of adversity. However, given the incalculable loss in human lives, destruction of property, and other resources could there be anything good about the fiesta of destruction on which ten young men from across the seas recently embarked, in which over 200 lives were lost and so much havoc was caused?

I look at this way. These are events, no matter how horrible, which give the rest of us a chance to think things over, to start life afresh, to wake up to changes that are crying out to be made. When you look at it in this light, at least you get the feeling that the lives which were snuffed out were not lost in vain. That the people who died, did so in order to give the survivors a chance to live differently, to improve their circumstances. One wishes there could have been another, less painful way but since we are so slow and so unwilling to open our eyes to reality perhaps this is the only way left to jolt us into waking up.

So what is it we really need to wake up to? Is it to the need to subject our already restricted lives to even more control? More policing? A huge announcement by one of our daily papers asks us to serve as the “eyes and ears of the nation” by reporting suspicious happenings wherever we go, pertaining not only to terrorist activities but to any “ills that plague society”. Just think of some of the possible repercussions if such a movement were to come into effect! Should we emulate countries like Israel (whose young visitors to India are so unpopular on account of their aggressive and crass behavior) - or the U.S. which so many of our fellow citizens have been citing as a prime example of a country which has fended off terrorist attacks since 9/11? Really? We should invade and destroy countries which we have convinced ourselves are the source of our problems and even risk the danger of nuclear war to make a point? Do we really think that military might or that turning India into a quasi police state is going to ensure us the health, wealth, safety and happiness we are all looking for?

Or could it be that events like the one we’ve recently witnessed are a call for us to wake up to, and address the gross inequalities in the world. Is not the violence which we are subjected to so often, ranging from city murders to wars, to acts of terrorism, inviting us desperately to redress the injustice and crazy distribution of wealth and the fact that there is a serious breakdown of values wherever we look, a dissolving of whatever it is that holds the community of human beings together? The horror which is unfolding before us everywhere, is it not begging us, among other things, to give back to the people who are slogging their ass off for the country, at a very concrete level, their dignity? Among others, our farmers, without whom we would not survive more than a few weeks at the most, the workers who put up our buildings, bridges and other constructions, or the coal miners who risk their lives to keep our electrical circuits running?

The lone terrorist to be caught alive following the recent onslaught – Mohammed Ajmal Kasab - according to newspaper reports, comes from a poor family in Pakistan. There are two reasons that seem to have motivated him to become a terrorist. One is, that his best friend Fayaz Ahmad who he believed was innocent, was killed in an encounter three years ago, by the Jammu and Kashmir Police. The other is that his father persuaded him to join the LeT in return for money, in order that the family back home might survive.

As long as there are people starving in the world, as long as a large number of deprived human beings continues to be not only confronted with existential problems but is simultaneously forced to watch crass indulgence by sections of the population, who ignore the basic needs of the poor, we can be sure of by being plagued by rebellion in various destructive forms since that is the only way apparently, in which the poor can make themselves heard. It is not enough to blame the criminal minds making use of the poor – be they slimy, mealy mouthed, manipulative politicians or hate filled, power hungry maniacs who brainwash and train frustrated youngsters to blow up public facilities and kill large numbers of people wherever it may be, leaving a trail of blood and gore behind them.

As far back as 1972 the disastrous consequences of our consumerist attitude and crazy way of life, was documented in a book called “Limits to growth”, published by the Club of Rome. Sadly, over thirty years later, when wars are actually being fought over oil, over water, and other natural resources in short supply, when the effects of the lopsided growth around the world is known to be leading to violence and destruction, we are still thinking in terms of the sort of growth which can only lead to further destruction and are hardly giving a thought to measures we need to take to save our resources and to use them in a way that benefits the maximum number of human beings in the world.

What is scarier than the terrorists is the fact that not enough people even now, seem likely to wake up to the urgent need for us to change the way we relate to each other in the world – politically, economically, and most significantly in the realm of personal relationships, which is where all transformation really begins. The fact that so many of us go through life like self satisfied zombies, indicates that by and large we are not leading happy lives, that we lack genuine fulfillment – because otherwise we would be longing to share our joy and to extend the sense of fulfillment to others – not to cut ourselves off from the world as we have done and to live in our own separate cocoons without caring about the rest.

Today I am wondering, who are the real terrorists? The people we think of as terrorists? Or is it all those who hold the world to ransom with their greed, their hunger for power, their exploitative attitudes? Are the real terrorists the men and women who have been seduced into joining criminal organizations in order to feed themselves or their families, or is it people who have unfairly amassed wealth and power and who now refuse to use it for the common good, to bring about a society which is peaceful and democratic in the true sense of the word?

Movie Review: Rachel Getting Married

Amodini Sharma — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 07:45:44 EST

Rachel Getting Married is about Kym, Rachel's sister, and her complicated relationship with her family. It's about mental baggage; the stuff we carry around in our heads. Kym's elder sister Rachel is getting married, and Kym is a recovering drug addict, out from her rehab center for a few days to attend the wedding. It is a pretty complicated family structure - Rachel and Kym's parents are divorced and now married to different people, Rachel is marrying an African-American musician, who comes with lots of family, culture and music, and Kym, an ex-model is an outwardly snaky, inwardly insecure woman, at the center of a deep, dark family tragedy, which no-one can forget.

This film often feels like a personal movie video, with all the family huddled together, making toasts - some polished, some awkward, and dragging over the familial bits. But there is also a lot of family drama, because guess what - Kym is not the only one with hurt feelings. And while the characters are not saintly at all; all of them have nasty streaks like the rest of us mortal folks, you feel for each one of them - they get under your skin. It's not about who's right or who's wrong, it's about life.

Performances are great all around - I especially felt for Kym and her father, played by Bill Irwin. The screenplay is nice with the details, feels a little "draggy" at times - but probably necessary to give the film the whole "it's a family spat" kind of a feel.

A point of interest in the film, for me, is that Rachel's wedding has an Indian theme. So the food is Indian, and the wedding cake looks like a Maharajah's Indian elephant. The bride and the bridesmaids wear beautiful silk saris (not very correctly though), and the younger men wear kurtas and sherwanis - the groom wearing a heavy brocade one. I didn't get why they would go for the desi scheme, and no one actually expresses any affinity to the Indian culture, so that sort of went unexplained.

Nice film. It ends on a high note, but it is a sad story - you'll shed a few tears.

My Friend, the Landlord

Somik Raha — Sun, 23 Nov 2008 02:40:24 EST

In Chapter 6 of the Bhagvad Gita, Krishna tells Arjuna, "O Arjuna, that yogi is considered the best who judges what is happiness and sorrow in all beings by the same standard as he would apply to himself. (32)" Further, in Chapter 14, Krishna expounds the qualities of those who are not deluded by their own nature. Among the many listed, here are a few, "one who is the same under honor and dishonor, who is equally disposed towards the friend and the foe; who has renounced all (selfish) enterprise - this one is said to have gone beyond nature. (25)"

While it is one thing to philosophically parse these words and ponder on its meaning, it is exhilarating to find a living example, without which such ideals would be relegated to the ivory towers of impractical high philosophy.

In this series, I will share stories of living examples, who can still be met by the interested reader with a little effort. But first, let us set up a contrast. We are all too familiar with the jholaawaala brigade that is ready for "andolan" any given time of the day. Such people take up worthy causes and often dedicate their lives to it. When they speak, they usually train their guns on an "enemy" and spew venom. No matter how noble the cause, readers are burned by the vitriol that comes out and are unable to move beyond the venom. The powers that be ridicule such activists and if they ever give in, it is usually out of frustration and irritation, without any sense of compassion or restitution.

The activists themselves have a career that looks like a bell curve. Their ego rises with their career, and after a certain point, they are so consumed by their self-importance that they cannot see beyond themselves and are blind to the good in those they oppose. And so begins their descent, as they get deluded by their own nature. Their co-workers end up parting ways, frustrated and dejected by the ego-centric leadership that manifests itself in many ways in their movement. At the end, we have a lot of angry people - angry at the "enemy," angry with each other, angry with themselves.

And then, right under our noses, we find the exact opposite - people who are terribly active for a cause, but are not consumed by it. Their intellect and intuition are synchronized, each guiding the other. They find divinity in those who others might call the "enemy." The laws of human nature as we know it collapse and we start witnessing changes in attitude of their opponents, some of which might be termed "miracles." Perhaps, Swami Vivekananda's observation that "what goes around comes around" is true after all.

It is time to meet Krishnammal Jagannathan, fondly referred to as Amma. Amma was born in a harijan community and was very rebellious during her childhood years. She remembers that if her brother hit her once, she would hit him back three times. As she grew older, she had the good fortune of meeting Mahatma Gandhi, and remembers being very deeply touched by that meeting. She noticed a young man who was controlling the crowds during that meeting. They met later and the young man was of Brahmin birth. Influenced by Gandhiji, he had determined that he would only marry a Harijan, and as she puts it, "In his eyes, I was that girl." She was not interested in marriage but finally, they both agreed to only get married in free India, which they did.

She completed her university education but did not wait to get her degree, she felt that the certificate was a useless piece of paper, and she would rather prefer service through Sarvodaya (which means "Welfare of All"), a movement started by Gandhiji. She and her husband walked with Vinoba Bhave in the Bhoodaan movement, a walk that should be in history textbooks all over the world. In 1968, 44 Dalit Christians were burned alive by the landlord over a land dispute. Heartbroken, she rushed to the spot and remembers that she couldn't stop crying for three days. She resolved to bring justice to these families. But not in the usual sense of litigation and punishment. Instead, she started a non-violent movement where she would plead with landlords to share their land with the less fortunate landless tillers, in the same style as the Bhoodan movement, under the banner of LAFTI (Land For Tiller's Freedom).

What is unique in her approach is that she believes there is a great light within her and in all beings. She considers the landlords who commit injustice as sick people, those who cannot see their own divine light. The language she uses to describe her encounters with the landlords is comic and tragic at the same time. She recalls, "I went to meet my friend, and he attacked me." A perplexed listener asked her, "Amma, why would a friend attack you?" And she replied, "Oh, the friend was a landlord." Another time, the moment she walked in, the landlord got so enraged that he went inside to find a stick to beat her with. Her response: instead of being angry or upset, she goes to the local temple and decides to pray for her sick friend without food and water. After three days, her friend is unable to take it anymore and comes to the temple to tell her, "Amma, please stop the fast. Let us eat together and we'll discuss this land issue." And invariably, she would get land to redistribute to the landless.

Another time, when she was on her regular morning walk, goons from her landlord friends surrounded her and poured kerosene all around. Her reaction: she sat down calmly and started singing her favorite bhajans, ready to die. This enraged the goons and they started abusing her loudly. The villagers woke up and came to her rescue. On seeing them, her attacker friends ran away.

While she walks through dangerous situations all the time, what makes the retelling so funny is the complete absence of any anger or hatred. Amma believes she lives in a world of friends and her experience confirms her belief. She also is in no hurry - she does not manage by objectives and annual performance. She says that this July (2008), a landlord involved in the massacre of 1968 told her that he was wrong and he wanted to give away his land to Amma for whatever purpose she had in mind. The indefatigable Amma is already making plans - she will start a school for Dalit children to help them come out of their condition.

Her focus has been on the empowerment of Dalit women. She claims to have an "army of women," whom she trains in non-violence. She finds that less people have, the more they have to give. She is often invited home by the women, and she will sleep on their bed, where a pillow is made for her comfort by tying the household clothes together. Lying down in that condition, she cries for these women - how hard they work, how much they sacrifice and how much they are willing to give. And yet, our society engages in exploiting them. She identifies so much with their suffering that their pain is her own. Her material needs are so few and she will be considered penniless for tax purposes, and yet she lives, walks and talks like a queen.

I met her two weeks back at Stanford and then in the Bay Area, before proceeding on to Seattle to receive the Opus Prize (as a finalist). She has also been awarded the 2008 Right Livelihood Award (also known as the Alternate Nobel Prize) in Stockholm. In her funny style, she told us that she tried to find Seattle on the map but was unsuccessful. When she went to the airport, they wouldn't let her board because she didn't know where she would stay in the US. She called up her daughter and finally got an address. Even after arriving, she was unsuccessful in locating Seattle on the map, but believed that she would be taken care of wherever she went, which is true for such human beings.

Here is a video made by Seattle University on her work.

You can also read about her on Wikipedia.

The interested reader should be able to meet Amma easily in Tamil Nadu.

When Is It The Right Time To Die?

Deepti Lamba — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 11:51:19 EST

An acquaintance of the family died at the age of 70 a few years back and my uncle said over the phone - So sad. He went young.

Young?!

I blinked and bit my tongue.

My uncle was three years shy of turning 70 himself. For him the death was early but for me the departed was closer to Santa Claus's age group.

On my recent post two commentators also talked about their grandparents leading active lives well into their eighties but I cannot comprehend vying with a Banyan tree. Good for them but I want to pop it when I am in my mid sixties.

Come to think of it my ma just turned sixty this year and she is a very active lady. And the only one in the family who still drives on her own to work while all others have drivers. I don't want my ma to go nor my uncle to leave us but if I was given a choice I'd like to depart at 70.

There, I increased my lifespan by another five years. After all, if I get to be a rich lady with my health and teeth intact a saggy butt and few wrinkles wouldn't hold me back.

Yet the idea of being a dotty old person doesn't particularly fill me with joy either. Frankly, those who turn that old also aren't quite happy about their bodies wearing out.

They are still young people trapped in old bodies. While reading Jane Juska's book - A Round Heeled Woman where she shared old aged dating scene (or in less polite terms- her sex escapades amongst other things ) I realized that even till one's dying breath one can remain young.

Jane Juska, in my mind, became an epitome of old age. She broke away from the norms set for old people by society. She decided she wasn't going to die a lonely old woman. Obviously, she went through heartbreak (when it comes to love who doesn't?) but she forged ahead through the senior years with optimism, she saw different parts of America, fell in love with New York and most of all found strength within herself to stand by her conviction.

Self-evolution for Juska didn't come with age but through the experiences she went through. She bumbled, lost her dignity and then found herself again.

Jane Juska despite her advanced age became young in my mind. Someone I could identify with.

Frankly putting old people on pedestal is an old Indian tradition that should be done away with. Many of my friends are way older than me and it isn't as if we have to search for subjects to talk about.

Conversation flows naturally. Its the meeting of the hearts that is important and that's exactly what Jane and her young lover realized.

But sadly in India we venerate the old and sometimes this veneration leads to isolation and loneliness. They become gods with clay feet, breathing in some corner of the house, absentmindedly revered and conveniently forgotten.

Some grow to be wise, generous old souls with gentle hearts and some merely sugar coat their meanness with great expertise.

We continue to be ourselves despite the advancing years. Its like the maturing of the wine. Only the good grapes make great wine centuries past. So why venerate the passing years that not all individuals use to become wise hermits the young could turn to?

I wouldn't mind living on well into my seventies if I get to have the iron will of Jane Juska; to have that inquisitive, courageous heart and continue to believe that love can still be found no matter how old or young.

Maybe this is why my uncle seemed shocked on hearing of the acquaintance's death. Maybe he felt that old gentleman could still have achieved much more in his life. Maybe my uncle still feels there are new experiences awaiting him.

I can only speculate like I did when I was ten and wondered what I would be like when I get to be in my thirties. Now I speculate what I will be in my twilight years.

But one thing is for sure if health betrays me during my advancing years I would happily want to kick the bucket.

Poessay: Rosary 18 - burning blazing fire rages

temporal — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 00:54:01 EST

credit tanay behera

burning blazing fire rages
combusting, charring fire rages
kehti hay
jalo, jalao,
jalo aur jalao

fire bowing to clay, we're told
created conflagration
that continues to blaze in clay's belly
the satans of fire twirl their moustaches
and smile diabolically at the lost ones
(can the lost and wandering be misled?)

this is not the fire of old
nor the fluid fire
that left noah dry

beware for He is father
of all fires, fury and furor
merciful, compassionate, graceful

maloom hay humaiN
yeh aag nahiN bajooz oos aag kay
jo kisi aanay walay lumhay maiN
sub aalamouN ko chupa laigi
apnay shikanja e zeest maiN
(laikin maiN yeh bhee souchta hooN
kay ger tu paida kernay wala hay
tou hum tabah kernay walay kum nahiN
yeh da'wa nahiN khudai ka
taqaza hay t'ray ak's ka)
tum jalatay raho, thako mut
hum jaltay rahaiNgay bila thakawat

a glimpse of the promised inferno
an ending, another big bang
and yet another beginning
your rage is creative, consuming
and enraged we can only bow down
and continue the destructive forays

burning blazing fire rages
combusting, charring fire rages
kehti hay
jalo, jalao,
jalo aur jalao

Earlier:
Poessay: Rosary 1 - Pink Sand Beach
Poessay: Rosary 2 - Fishing
Poessay: Rosary 3 - Adam and Eve Limited - I
Poessay: Rosary 4 - Adam and Eve Limited - II
Poessay: Rosary 5 - Descending
Poessay: Rosary 6 - Dinner In The Park
Poessay: Rosary 7 - Under the Jamun Tree
Poessay: Rosary 8 - Voices In The Air
Poessay: Rosary 9 - Life Rosary I
Poessay: Rosary 10 - Life Rosary II
Poessay: Rosary 11 - Creating In Isolation
Poessay: Rosary 12 - Kohled Eyes
Poessay: Rosary 13 - By the Lake
Poessay: Rosary 14 - Snow Flakes
Poessay: Rosary 15 - The Drop
Poessay: Rosary 16 - Ageless Quest - tishnagi
Poessay: Rosary 17 - Hemashree