Desicritics Category: Culture: Women

Poessay: Rosary 23: Musings

temporal — Mon, 5 Jan 2009 06:48:44 EST

Edge of precipice. Cliff?
Diving board. Looking down into water.
Water?

Of hope.
What hope? Mirage. Shimmer. Illusion. Belief in the unseen. Acceptance.
Acceptance? With conviction.
Conviction of what? Faith or reasoning?

Of reason.
Rationality. Two plus...Cause and...Things not...
Self-existential illusions. Illusions or hoaxes? Certifiable?

Of faith.
Belief of unfathomed power. Recognizant of the unrecognised.
Unresolved nothingness. Ensconced nothingness. Transference.

Back to hope, reason, faith. Nothing.
What if nothing is the vacuum cementing life to death.

Oh death? The final dot. -30- Kaput. Kapitsh. End.

End, another beginning. Movement towards another dot. To other
unresolved queries. To other needs and desires. To know or to give
in.

Again.
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 Poessay:
Rosary 21: KhamOshi - Wordless Poessay:
Rosary 22 - A Simple Poem

The Facebook Breast Feeding Controversy

Aditi Nadkarni — Sat, 3 Jan 2009 22:56:34 EST

In present times, freedom of speech and expression have turned into somewhat of a joke. Unfortunately, while freedom is universal, intelligence, a sense of responsibility and propriety are not. Time and again, debates have been stirred up by this constant struggle to define and balance freedom of expression especially in America where one can find ample examples of abused freedom in both the real world and the virtual world. A recent debate involves protests against Facebook taking down pictures of mothers breastfeeding.

Facebook says it has clearly outlined on its website what the terms of acceptability are for profile and album pictures on the website and has duly taken down pictures after complaints from members. Orkut is comparatively lax I have noticed and so are Orkut (desi) users. Although Orkut explicitly states that pictures of celebrities and copyrighted images are not to be used, so many Orkut users have pictures of movie stars up as profile pictures. A third of the girls on Orkut are Aishwaryas, Kajols and Ranis.

That is just plain annoying and despite of how much we all want annoyances pronounced illegal, it cannot be done. However, I wonder what I would think if someone on my friend's list uploaded a picture of themselves breastfeeding. I wouldn't find it obscene but maybe it is a cultural thing that it would make me pause to wonder why a mom would put up a baby-feeding activity involving her bare breast up on such a public forum. I must admit, I would speculate on the intentions of the woman and I would worry about who may be looking at such pictures. I am not a mother but I am a woman. My personal opinion is that breastfeeding is a personal time between a mother and a baby. Having pictures of that taken and put up on such a public forum is confusing to me.

I watched on Yahoo's video section, an interview with the woman who started a community on Facebook protesting their taking down breastfeeding pictures. The community is called: "Hey Facebook, breastfeeding is not obscene". I agree with the title of the community but I personally do not believe Facebook's actions suggest that that breastfeeding itself is obscene. Putting up pictures of breastfeeding on a public community, though, is another story. There are teens on Facebook who won't exactly look at the pictures and go "Aww, look how cute. Mom feeding baby! That is so beautiful."

No. A more likely scenario would involve teen boys, high-fiving, giggling and taking unhealthy pleasure in ogling at a partially exposed breast. During her interview, the creator of this community launched into a detailed explanation of how even with proper "latching on" by the baby, parts of the nipple and the aureole are visible and women whose aureole is visible should still be allowed to put up their breastfeeding pictures. I kid you not. She actually said all this much to my discomfort. Mind you, my embarrassment was not at the subject matter of discussion but at how far away from the point this woman was drifting in her far fetched rationalizations. She then explained how breastfeeding is normal and therefore pictures of the activity should not be deemed as vulgar content. I agree. The problem is I can almost imagine another girl in some other part of the world using this very logic to justify why pictures of masturbation too should be allowed on Facebook. After all, masturbation too is a normal activity.

What about breast exams? And childbirth? All these are normal activities that one should not look at as vulgar or shameful. Should pictures of all these be allowed on public forums? Where does the freedom end and the violation begin? Where is the line? I want to ask these mothers a question: My friend's thirteen year old son is on Facebook. As moms you must know that just a picture on Facebook is not an appropriate introduction to breast feeding for a 13 year old boy. So how does Facebook protect your right to put up pictures of yourself breastfeeding and his fragile psyche all at once?

Poessay: I'm Not Dev Das and You're Not Anarkali

temporal — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 12:20:07 EST

painting - Gulgee

Permanence is a Utopian illusion. It is nurtured by groups that ferment a vested interest - popes, padres, rabbis, maulvis, pundits, financiers - purveyors of permanence.

Insomniac Dream Sellers of
Truth, Beauty, Wisdom, Courage, Love, Anger, Hatred

Sea
and Mountain
Enslaved and encircled with smile.

Then the smile melted
His?
Her's?
His smile melted her? Her smile melted him?
0r like the shivering polar ice
Melting under the rape of environment
Euphemism for global warming

Sea - the mother of transmogrification
-clouds, snow, rain, lakes, rivers
And completing the circle - sea

The circular reverberation
Womb - grave - womb
Is the tale of drops
spermatozoa
"Read, read in the names of thy Lord..."

***

for believers it is Him
for others some grand design
that would finally still
                           the drop
the last meltdown
when neither love
                           nor hate
will deter, defer, persuade or play
                         when the smile
will last for ever sans flesh

we, who indulge in super hate
we, who miss not an opportunity
to throw barbs, grenades
and uranium tipped mines and bombs
we, who excel at malevolence
- when will love conquer us?

yaadOn ka guldasta thamay*
sar-saratay sukoon maiN ghar'q
jub saa'yay hum aa ghosh hotay haiN
tou mudhoshi ki devi bhee
khud hee muskurati hogi
hosh apnay kho bethti hogi

ab tou yaad ki baiRiyouN maiN qaid
dabay qadmON t'ra tasawwur
youN chala aata hay kay
khood faraibi ka shaiba
bhee choo ker nahiN guzarta
choti ki is joostujoo maiN
khaai maiN girnay ka ehsaas kisay

said the bluebird to the bulbul
the simpleton is unaware
and the curmudgeon unconcerned
love has been cremated
in hiroshima

Man shorn of humanity is hurting and hurtling down the precipice, brakes worn, singling gaily, oblivious of the rushing winds of time, aware but not cognizant of the abyss.

_________________________________________________
* translation:

clutching the bouquet of memories
and drowned in the whispering quiet
as the shadows embrace
the goddess of intoxication
would smile at herself
while letting go of sobriety

bounded in memory-chains
your thoughts tiptoe
swirling and cascading
around whims and doubts

in the strive to conquer the peak
who thinks of a fall into the abyss

Action Sociology: Human Rights with Sanitation

Somik Raha — Sat, 27 Dec 2008 16:34:43 EST

Ever since independence (and from a long time before that), people in India have been appalled with the abuse of the caste system, especially the poor treatment meted out to "untouchables." As usual, well-meaning people think they can change attitudes by passing laws. And so, India has The Protection of Civil Rights Act, 1955, which punishes the preaching and practice of untouchability. Needless to say, the act made little difference on the ground in terms of changing people's attitudes.

There is no dearth of angry activism on this issue in India and outside, and as is the nature of all angry activism, the message is so loud that people close their ears and ignore it. Meanwhile, India's politicians are more interested in maintaining the status quo and milking caste divisions for votes instead of working for the welfare of the "untouchables." In this hopeless scenario, one man is running a silent revolution with a lot of success.

This is the story of Bindeshwar Pathak, whose life transformed as a young man in the 60s, when he was told by the General Secretary of a Gandhian organization that it was Gandhi's unfinished work to remove the profession of manual scavenging from India and liberate the untouchables. The General Secretary told the young Pathak that he had to finish Gandhi's mission and added, "I see light in you." The young man had no clue what this meant, but he read a few books published by the WHO on sanitation, and decided to live in a scavenger's colony for two months to understand them and their problems. People thought he was crazy. He survived, and came back with an understanding that was different from any social activist in this field.

He felt that the discrimination of the untouchables was due to technical reasons. The untouchables, or manual scavengers of toilets, were considered dirty as they dealt with human excreta while cleaning "bucket toilets." Human excreta would be pulled out of such toilets into buckets and then, scavengers would carry buckets on their heads to a location for disposal. If there could be an alternate toilet designed to be self-cleaning, then it would be cheaper for the consumer as they wouldn't need to hire people to clean it. It would also eliminate the need for the scavenging profession.

Pathak started "Sulabh" (which means "easy") to address this. He came up with the two-pit pour-flush toilet which would work in the Indian context. One pit would be in use at a time. Once the pit was full, it would would be closed and the other would be in operation. Over a year, the first pit's contents would turn into manure and could be used as fertilizer in the field. Thus, there would be no need to scavenge and clean these toilets. Sulabh's toilet product turned out to be a great hit, with over a million pieces already sold. Sulabh then channeled their profits toward retraining the untouchables to enter mainstream society - as cooks, beauticians, electricians, etc. Today, Sulabh has a whole array of toilet products to suit your budget.

Pathak also felt strongly about the problem of open defecation. Unlike those who faulted the "Indian civic sense," he recognized that the problem was that we didn't have enough public toilets. This is also a question of human dignity, especially for women, as they would suppress the call of nature the whole day and only go very early in the morning or in the night. Even so, such trips would make them a target of sexual predators, snakebites, diseases due to defecating in unhygienic environs, etc., not to speak of the health problems that come from suppressing the call of nature the entire day. Again, this was a technical problem waiting to be solved. So, he started the first public toilet in (hold your breath) Arrah, Bihar, a state where people would rather travel on top of trains than buy tickets. Pathak believed people would pay for a clean toilet experience, and he was proved right. The people of Bihar paid and sustained the public toilets. Today, Sulabh has built over 5000 public toilets all over India, including the largest toilet in the world at Shirdi for pilgrims.

Not only do these toilets generate local employment, they also collect raw material for Sulabh's energy innovation - bio-gas and electricity production. You have to see it with your own eyes - yes, your excreta can now be used to produce cooking gas and electricity.

Pathakji also understood that he needed to help the children of the scavengers get the same opportunity as others. Sulabh uses its profits to run a school where children of the scavengers get free education, books and uniforms. They also eat together with children of other communities, and learn Sanskrit, a language they were earlier denied access to. The children in this school are taught all religions so they can celebrate all of India's traditions.

And the story does not end here. Sulabh also has a toilet museum which is now on the tourist maps of New Delhi. They have expanded to eco-sanitation projects that help with pisciculture, among other things. Throughout these projects, Pathakji continued his education to go on for a Phd and a D.Litt, and has coined a new term, "Action Sociology," which he advocates as a way to solve social problems.

Behind all of these efforts is a deep-rooted spirituality. Pathakji's day begins with the entire Sulabh community praying (they sing a universal prayer) and filling their hearts with positive vibrations. When I interviewed him, not once did I sense anger against society for discrimination of the untouchables. At the same time, there was no acceptance of the injustice. Like Krishnammal and Sandhya, and in a completely unique manner, Pathakji has transcended anger and hatred to make a difference, a big difference, through social entrepreneurship. He is indeed a bright light in India who has illuminated our conscience and given us great hope for the future.

You can meet him by going to the Palam Vihar (New Delhi) office of Sulabh International Social Service Organization (although he travels often, he is generally accessible). You can also meet the other heroes of Sulabh and see their toilet museum and a demonstration of bio-gas and electricity from human excreta in the same complex. There are several volunteering and internship opportunities with this organization, if you have the time.

And if you can't visit them, here is a film I made on Sulabh in 2006. I recommend watching it in full-screen mode (press the TV icon) and using headphones.

In case the full screen feature does not work below, you can watch it directly on Blip TV.

Errata: the film says Sulabh has built over 500 toilets, when in fact, the number is ab

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!

The Dividing Roots Of Religions

Deepti Lamba — Mon, 8 Dec 2008 10:19:07 EST

She came over to ask for Neem leaves. We started talking about the death of my Neem tree due to the Jamun tree pushing at it. We talked about gardening, snakes crawling into our homes, children and somewhere in between we got talking about religion.

It wasn't a topic I wanted to talk about. It makes me impatient. She told me she was a Muslim and asked about my religion. I replied- Buddhist. She smiled, nodded and said that I was a Hindu.

I didn't get into the semantics and merely shrugged. She became more chatty and continued talking about her Hindu friends and I stared at the bamboo rhizomes that were growing under my cracked cemented walk path.

I wasn't interested in hearing about her secular inclinations, I wasn't interested in her exchange of gifts on Hindu Muslim festivals nor was I interested in hearing about her getting bored to tears in Gulf, her hating the burkha nor was I was interested in her horrified reactions against the Mumbai tragedy.

She was barking up the wrong tree. I was already on her side. I had already faced half her shit post 9/11 in America when people who recognized that I wasn't a Hispanic or 'Native American' decided I was a Muslim.

I had to wear my religion on my chest as if to ward off others 'righteous' anger. I told them at the airport security checks - "No, that lady in burkha isn't my mother in law. I am a Hindu. Are you done checking my six month old? Yes, I know its for safety that you have special checks. But why is it that whenever we travel we always get the special security checks?"

Things did get relatively easier a couple of years down. But there was always that fear in the back of our minds when we traveled. We didn't discuss politics when we stepped out, our phone calls were also censored and we maintained a polite front even when a jackass passed a racist comment or snubbed us in a queue.

We had friends who treated us no different whether they were Republicans or Democrats but fear had nestled deep within my heart. And the sense of insecurity plagued me constantly. We tried to keep a low profile. The attitude that if we kept our heads down and didn't stand out like sore thumbs things would be fine was ingrained in us.

By the end of our five year stint I was eager to return home. Between the yellow, orange, red alerts my poor heart had done enough palpitations wondering what shit would be dished out to us if terrorists did some shit on US soil.

I was ready to return home and feel like a majority upper class Hindu all over again.

After nearly three years of returning home I found myself trying to make a defensive Muslim lady comfortable in my garden. I didn't talk about the apprehensions I suffered while in US being similar to her feelings. There was one big difference between her and me.

To me, my country was a haven I willingly returned to but for her there was no sense of security in her own homeland; not that she said it to me but her loud proclamations of being a moderate secular Muslim made it clear to me.

She took some curry leaves and lemons, grumbled about the death of the Neem tree and politely declined my offer of tea.

I closed the gate behind her and wished we didn't talk about religion and politics. It made both of us pussyfoot around each other and maybe it kept us from becoming good friends.

Obituary: Sabina Sehgal Saikia

Kim — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 14:27:34 EST

Sabina Sehgal Saikia was a food writer who had been with the Times of India group for over 17 years who at the time of her untimely demise had risen to Consulting Editor at the publication. She died in the Terror attacks in Mumbai where she was staying on the 6th floor. She was in Mumbai for the wedding of Bachi Karkaria's son next week.

Sabina could make or break a Delhi restaurant based on her reviews. She initially wrote an extremely popular column called "Main Course" for the Saturday Times, which later moved to the Delhi Times.

I was first introduced to her, when I picked up the Times of India Restaurant Guide for Delhi, 8 years ago. My next 2 years in Delhi were made tolerable by this handy book. I tried out restaurants based on her recommendations and agreed with her judgment over 80% of the time. She was honest and direct.

The Times of India Restaurant Guides to Hyderabad and Bombay could never match up to the standard that Sabina had set. She had spoiled me against other guides with her perfection and accuracy.

I subscribed to the Times of India in Delhi, just to read her column, although the Hindustan Times gave much better news coverage in Delhi.

An excellent cook herself, she soon visited me in my living room on NDTV cooks demonstrating an especially fiery looking Green Chilli Pickle.

I never met her face-to-face, but I felt like I knew a part of her. The part of her that loved good food and in Saif Ali Khan's words "acha khaana khane ke liye, hum kahin pe bhi chalenge" (to eat good food, we will travel anywhere) and in a wierd way, I identified with this part of her.

Sabina will be sorely missed in the food writers world. Our sympathies go out to her husband Shantanu and her two young children who will feel her absence much more than her millions of devoted readers.

Sabina you brought joy into the lives of food lovers: May your Soul, Rest in Peace.

Fiction: An Office Incident

Vinod Joseph — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 12:59:56 EST

Armaan walked up to Kritika as she waited for the lift and tapped her lightly on her bum with the flat of his palm. Kritika ignored him, though a small hiss did escape her, raised her right shoulder a little in a defensive manner and summoned the lift yet again. Armaan did not bother to hide his lascivious intentions or his smirk when he repeated his action, his body language conveying a sense of anticipation rather than any fear of retaliation. Kritika lifted both her shoulders by an inch and stared straight into the closed lift doors.

Unfortunately for Armaan, the Human Resources Director, a smart and snappy lady who had just moved back to India from Philadelphia, was just a few years behind him and saw everything. Shocked beyond words, it took her a few moments to express her indignation, by which time Armaan had repeated the outrageous act. Since it was obvious that Kritika was going to be a passive victim, the HR Director took it on herself to protect Kritika.

‘How dare you?’ she shouted, as both Kritika and Armaan spun around in stunned silence. They stood there in silence, which infuriated the HR Director since there was no reason for Kritika to remain silent now that someone had spoken up for her. ‘How dare you?’ the HR Director repeated yet again as the lift arrived and opened soundlessly. This time Kritika’s face actually paled as though she had done something wrong while Armaan’s face had the look of a naughty boy caught with his fingers in the jam jar. This made the HR Director angrier still. In fact, she was a lot more bugged with Kritika’s passivity than with Armaan’s behaviour. She knew that women put up a lot of shit without complaint in India, but it was nevertheless shocking to see it played out in front of her eyes.

‘Can I have your name please?’ the HR Director demanded of Armaan and immediately felt like a fool. Both Kritika and Armaan dangled around their necks their corporate identity cards which not only gave away their names, but also their employee numbers. The HR Director noted down Armaan’s name and employee number and then decided to take down Kritika’s details as well. If Kritika should decide to disappear in order to avoid the enquiry that would follow, as she might well do, being the timid creature that she was, she would find that the HR Director had other plans.

The HR Director made Armaan sit in a room all by himself (to stew) whilst she had a word with Kritika.

‘Do you know how important it is to report incidents like this? Why on earth do you take this shit lying down?’ the HR Director asked. Kritika was silent.

‘I just don’t believe it,’ she declared, more to herself than to Kritika.

‘Has this happened before?’ she demanded of Kritika.

‘No,’ Kritika said, speaking for the first time.

‘You are senior to him. Nine years senior!’ Kritika was a team leader despite her youthful looks while Armaan was a puppy, not more than a year old in the company.

‘Even if you don’t make a formal complaint, I intend to take action against that bbbass…...that guy,’ the HR Director grimly added. Kritika did not look particularly happy at that and so the HR Director added softly, ‘don’t worry. He’ll never enter this office again. Today is his last day here.’ It was so tragic; a team leader was scared of reporting a one year old programmer who had the audacity to sexually harass her at her workplace.

Armaan’s project leader had not sounded too pleased when the HR Director demanded that Armaan be fired, but the HR Director had reminded him that they were a subsidiary of HeptaCorp Inc. which prided itself on the highest standards in matters such as these.

‘Can’t we please drop the matter?’ Kritika asked the HR Director all of a sudden. By that time, the branch manager had joined them.

‘Why are you so scared?’ the HR Director asked Kritika, her voice dropping to a whisper.

‘If my husband hears of this, I won’t be allowed to work again,’ she said, close to tears. To the HR Director’s surprise, the branch manager seemed to be in empathy with Kritika. He looked at the HR Director with sad eyes, as though it was the most obvious thing to happen. As the HR Director racked her brains for a diplomatic response, instead of the ‘for Christ’s sake, which century are you living in?’ the branch manager to his credit said, ‘don’t worry, we’ll make sure not many people get to know of this. We’ll fire Armaan, but I’ll make sure he keeps his trap shut.’

The HR Director was tempted to ask how the branch manager planned to make sure Armaan kept his trap shut, but she decided not to. That was none of her business.

That evening Armaan sat on the sofa in his bachelor’s pad, nursing a glass of whiskey. His mobile rang.

‘Where are you?’ he asked the person at the other end.

‘Almost there. I’ll be there in five minutes.’

Armaan finished his whiskey in two gulps and kept the glass on the mantel piece.

The door bell rang and he opened the door. Kritika ran into his arms.

‘How was it?’ she asked him breathlessly without bothering to disentangle.

‘If only that bitch wasn’t around, this wouldn’t have happened.’

‘I warned you so many times to not to try that in office.’

‘Not my fault. You were irresistible. Your butt, that is.’ Kritika bit Armaan on his neck by way of a response.

They were silent for a minute. Then Kritika said, ‘you’ve been drinking.’

‘Just a small one.’

‘Tell me what happened. Have you been fired?’

‘Yes. Immediate termination! Not even a month’s notice. But I will get a reference, provided I keep my mouth shut.’

‘Thank God for that!’ It must be the branch manager who arranged for that, Kritika thought.

‘Why don’t you ditch your husband and come and live with me?’

‘Especially now that you are jobless,’ Kritika teased Armaan.

‘Of course. I’ll get a job soon, just a matter of time.’

‘Fine, get a job and I’ll come over with both my kids. You will enjoy looking after them, won’t you?’

‘Why don’t you bring over your husband as well? We’ll make him look after the kids while we have fun.’

‘You bastard, you,’ Kritika said as she kissed Armaan and they both laughed out aloud.

Saving India's Missing Girls

Somik Raha — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 14:10:15 EST

In the second piece of the Gems of the Planet series (the first was My Friend, the Landlord), we continue with the same criteria for our gems:

Feel the suffering of others as their own and cannot rest until they've done something to alleviate it
Have compassion for all, especially those they seek to transform

I found this gem in an unexpected place - a film screening at Stanford of India's Missing Girls, a documentary made by Ashok Prasad of the BBC. The documentary portrayed a grim picture and dispelled several myths:

Several women interviewed preferred male babies and would prefer to terminate female foetuses of their own accord.
Educated women too do this, especially in business families to ensure that the fortune remains in the family
In some cases, when the woman is unwilling, the family puts a lot of pressure, and sometimes forces the mother to abort
The director presented statistics after the film screening. The highest number of female abortions are done by Jains, followed by Sikhs, followed by either Buddhists or Hindus (I forget which). I remember being shocked by this statistic, because I expected Hindus to be at the top. Nothing can prepare one to accept that Jains are the #1 offender as Jain philosophy is the pinnacle of non-violence. I guess I am too naive to believe that people follow the philosophy they were born into.
The fact that women were electing to abort foetuses confounded the pro-choice people in the audience (should they say: we want women to have choice, but not that much choice?)

However, in the middle of all these depressing facts was a shining gem. The film revolves around a remarkable woman, Sandhya Puchalapalli, who founded the Arti Home in Cuddappah, to save female foetuses from abortion. Sandhya studied the circumstances that lead people to abort their female children, and she tackled several problems. First, she has a crib outside the nursing home that allows families to anonymously place babies whom they'd otherwise kill or abandon (with the same outcome). This takes care of the fear of legal repercussions, and saves the life of the baby who is then raised in the home in a loving environment with a focus on nutrition and education. Second, she keeps a strong connection with the community around her and knows who is pregnant. She then connects with them to talk about their aspirations for their baby. When they tell her that they will abort if it is a girl, she reasons with them in a remarkably non-judgmental way. I know many who'd hit the parents if they heard something like this. Not Sandhya. She goes back on a regular basis, explaining that a girl child is not useless and deserves a lot of love, the same as a boy child. The film follows the interaction with one couple and how the mother comes around from a position of fear to one of joy where she eagerly waits for her daughter and does not abort.

What makes Sandhya stand out from all the other activists I know is that, time after time in the film, she has only compassionate words for parents who decide to abort, particularly to avoid dowry. She says, "Just imagine what the parents must be going through to have come to this decision?" Even when she is face-to-face with the parents, she has no anger or hatred, but understanding and compassion. A poignant moment of the film is when Sandhya receives a baby who is born premature. After getting the baby medical help, Sandhya goes to the local temple to pray for the child's life. When the child does not make it, she is heartbroken. Even then, she has no harsh words for the parents who abandoned the baby.

Caring for unwanted children, feeling their pain and doing something to save their lives beyond yelling and criticizing in media platforms is rare. Generating compassion for the parents who feel compelled to abort their children and not seeing them as the "other" is rarer still. While one miracle is documented in the film (the change of heart of one family), I am sure she works many such miracles with her attitude. I sincerely hope I get to meet this remarkable lady in person.

If you are in Cuddappah and meet her, do share your stories with me. Arti Home is supported by the Vijay Foundation Trust.

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.