Flicker

There are a lot of things - inexplicable things - that escape all forms of logic and rationality. And that's when you start to wonder.

So, I don’t believe in religion. I don’t think I believe in God. I sure as hell don’t believe in heaven and hell, swarg and narak, jannat and jahannum.

People often ask – so what do I believe in, if anything?

I believe in humanity. I believe in compassion, kindness, empathy; I believe in the gut feeling inside me that tells me what’s right and what’s wrong.

But that’s not what this blog is about.

There’s a reason (one of many) why I don’t believe in God. In the words of Landon Carter, “there’s just too much bad shit in this world,” and if there is a God, I can’t understand how he would let this happen. People say what goes around comes around. You reap what you sow. But then how does that explain the fate of a small child who dies from maltnutrition a few months after being born – what exactly did the little guy do to deserve a miserable and short life?

Karma, they say. But Karma doesn’t explain the fate of that child – not unless you want to get into the possibility of multiple lives and reincarnation. Surprisingly enough, I don’t believe in either of those. I believe in what I know, what my senses tell me, of what I’m sure. But nothing in my life has ever suggested that there is any reason to believe in past lives or reincarnation.

Nothing, except for a book I just read.

It’s called “Many Lives, Many Masters,” and is written by a well-established psychotherapist in USA, Dr. Brian Weiss. In this book, he recounts the case of a patient who he treated using hypnosis (a common technique), but who ended up regressing into several past lives, and slowly, through this regression, healed.

This guy, Dr. Weiss, is a man of science. Like me, he never believed in past lives or supernatural elements. He believed in what he saw or heard. And he saw and heard some rather unnerving things through the case of this patient, and later on, several others. Past lives. The process of death. The masters. Like I said, unnerving things.

When I picked up this book to read, I knew what it was about. I knew I was going to read about something that goes completely against my own perception. Still, I was curious.  So I read it. And throughout the whole process, I could feel something changing. No, I didn't suddenly started believing in reincarnation and past lives, but I did start to open up my mind a little.

There are a lot of things - inexplicable things - that escape all forms of logic and rationality. And that's when you start to wonder.

What if there really is something out there, that’s beyond this level of consciousness and understanding? There are certain wavelengths that we can’t see or hear – what is there’s a lot more that we can’t sense? How do we explain all those inexplicable moments of déjà vu when certain events feel like they have happened before? How do I explain my own inexplicable health that was my bane for four years in Canada but improved the day I landed in India?

I can't - not in any way that I am familiar with.

This book didn’t change my perception by 180 degrees, but it did manage to do something else:

For just a moment – a flicker of a moment – it made me wonder about what’s out there.

Of Chauffeur-driven cars...

Disclaimer: For the purpose of my satisfaction, a taxi does not count as a chauffeured car in this blog.
Disclaimer 2: In case it's not evident, I don't drive.

Well, holiday season is over. No more waking up on my own time. No more demanding breakfast. And no more chauffeur-driven cars.

Because that's literally how I spent my vacation. Surrounded by now-affluent family members, I was lucky enough to have 17 days of complete relaxation, both in Kuwait and Bangalore. And now, I'm back in my house, wondering when to call the landlady to pay the rent, setting an alarm to get to work on time, and trying to put this house back in a a live-able condition.

It sucks to be back.

Then again, there's something that's been nagging me for the past few days, something that just didn't feel right. I've boiled it down to chauffeur-driven cars.

Before I begin my rant, let me put out this disclaimer that I have utmost respect for anyone who lives in Bangalore and survives that horrendous traffic. For those who can afford it, these chauffeured cars are life-savers. Even for me, having family members spread out in all possible corners of the city, these cars were a blessing. I didn't have to think about traffic, directions  or potential brain-damage from navigating those roads.

In fact, I didn't have to do anything.

Having gotten used to catching buses, hailing taxis, daringly entering local trains or unashamedly hitching rides with friends, the process of just sitting in that backseat was rather wonderful. And unnerving.

I didn't know what I was supposed to do.

I was comfortable and idle. And that can be a troublesome combo, because as much as I was put off by the idleness, I was easily getting used to the comfort. The comfort of not having to do anything. It's easy to get sucked into that lifestyle. After all, who doesn't want comfort? Why would anyone take public transport when they have this amazing facility available?

Because it can get addictive, and I don't think that's an addiction someone my age should have.

And hassling as it might be, I feel like there's something liberating about discovering the routes of a city and getting around on your own. In fact, I couldn't keep the smile off my face as I sped past the roads of Mumbai in a pre-paid (by me) taxi, breathing in the lovely, garbage-filled air of the city, heading towards a house where I have to pay an exorbitant amount in rent every month out of my salary.

Independence sucks, but it's totally worth it.

An Ode to Boredom

Silence

Except for the steady sound of the fan

Which surprisingly does not manage to do its job too well

Because it is hot

Stifling

I ought to change

But that would mean getting up

This couch is comfortable

But not enough to make the clock move faster

Has it even moved?

I’m shocked

At the clock

At myself

At this couch

Today was supposed to be the day

The much awaited one

The one with no expectations

The one where I could do what I wanted

The one some call a holiday

So why is it that I’m lying down on my couch

Dissatisfied

Longing to do something

Anything

But not alone

There is a need for company

Male or female

One or many

Drinking or talking

But doing something

Anything

That would be able to get me off this couch

And stop staring at the clock

And listening to that fan

They really ought to be moving faster

Both of them

I could sleep

But I want to do something

I could read

There’s a big book staring at my face

I could watch a movie

But even Lord of the Rings doesn’t sound tempting right now

I could work

*

*

*

*

*

Did I mention that the fan is noisy?

The Sangh - Part 2

Traditions are funny things. They tend to overburden you with norms and expectations, without ever having to explain the reason behind the actions. But strangely enough, they always do have a purpose. It's just that the purpose gets lost somewhere along the way. 

************

 After that first meeting in Chail, the Sangh eventually evolved into a tradition. It became a part of their yearly calendars, and there was no two ways about it. Traveling not only from different parts of the country, but soon from different parts of the world, the family converged at locations ranging from Ooty to Gangtok to Kumbalgarh to the deeper parts of the Himalayas. Resorts were blocked well in advance, applications for leaves submitted to work, travel arrangements made in meticulous detail, and bags packed to last an entire week.

To outsiders, it might have often appeared a little bizarre – the idea of 20 family members dropping everything for a week every year and traveling to a remote location to be with family. Maybe it is. I certainly haven’t met anyone else who has such a tradition. It can be difficult for someone who has never been a part of the Sangh to understand this particular tradition.

Or perhaps it can be really easy to understand it, if they consider a simple premise: maybe all the family members really do want to meet and spend time with each other.

Granted, they all had different reasons. For some, it meant spiritual guidance. For some, a chance to walk down memory lane. For some, a chance to build new memories. For some, a chance to learn. For some, a chance to share. For some, a chance to unwind, allowing everything else in their lives to fade into the background. In the end, it didn't matter whether their reasons were same or different, as long as they were there. 

Like I said, traditions do have a purpose. It may not be obvious, but it's there.

Sometimes, you just need to dig deep enough to uncover it. 

**********************************************************************

In two days, the family will begin their journey to a new location, marking the beginning of the 16th Sangh Meet. 

The Sangh - Part 1

I think we all have moments in our lives which stand out in our memory. 

The Sangh Meets have always been a part of mine. 

It started off as six. Four brothers, and two sisters. Growing up together, they moved from a small town in Punjab to a suburb in Dehradun. One by one, the six children passed into adulthood, and began to move out. They separated, not out of want, but from the need to pave their own way in life.

Soon, each one was caught up in the struggles and events of life. They began to spread, both in distance, and in numbers. Six eventually became 20, reaching out into distant corners of the country. They tried hard to keep in touch in an age where phone calls were expensive, and internet non-existent. That was, until, one of them decided to take matters into his own hands, and to stop waiting for an occasion to bring them all together.

In the year 1992, five siblings received a simple message from the eldest brother – “Let’s meet.”

And so they did.

Packing up their bags for a week, a caravan of 20 adults and children converged at the small town of Chail near Shimla. Their agenda was simple – to spend a week with family.

At that point, I doubt any of them knew what they had actually embarked upon. They hadn’t just come together – they had started a tradition, one that would continue for years to come. Their lives would continue to evolve, and they would soon find themselves spread across different parts of the world, but one thing would remain constant in their lives: the desire to be with family.

The Sangh had come alive.

******************************************************************* 

Two weeks from now, the family will converge yet again at a new location, marking the beginning of 16^th Sangh Meet. 

The Immigration Line

They’re treated like animals. 

Okay, maybe that’s a little strong. 

But they’re definitely not treated like humans.

They are different. Set apart from the crowd. You can spot them easily, waiting in the lines of the flights going to the Middle East. Their hardened hands clench their passport and ticket, holding on to them dearer than life. Maybe they are.

They huddle together, looking for a familiar face, or at least, someone from the same state, speaking the same language. Someone to share their fear. Their nervous eyes continuously scan the counters ahead, as they know those counters represent a gateway to a new life. Whether a better one, they’re not sure. As they watch in dread, one of their own gets pulled aside by the staff. There’s a problem with his ticket. He is told he needs a new one. As the hyperventilating man tries to reason and grovel, the others clench harder to their documents. Praying. Hoping. Worrying.

They approach the counter slowly. Told by the guard which counter to join. Pushed forward. Pulled back. Shoved around like cattle. While the girl standing next to them, wearing markedly different clothes, looking calm and relaxed with her earphones, is told respectfully, “Madam, line number 3.”

As they finish up at the counter, wondering if it is time to relax yet, they’re handed a new document with their boarding pass: a form they are expected to ‘fill out.’ A form in English. A form that requires reading and writing. A skill that had they already learnt, they wouldn’t be leaving their families and homes for Jeddah and Bahrain. Did these officers think they didn’t know that already? Looking up in confusion and expectation, they are met with a politely distant smile, as the person at the counter is already looking at the next customer.

Dejectedly, they look around, trying to find someone to help. Should they ask that family traveling with kids? Or those men in the business suits? Or the young college girl? They hesitantly approach one, holding up their passport and form in a silent plea for help. The airport staff say they are too busy. The passengers have a flight to catch. Ignored. Refused. Waved off. With each failed attempt, their insides get clammier. They had come too far to back off now. Too much was at stake.

Trying not to think of that poor man who was turned away at the ticket counter, they continue to ask for help. And the moment one of them gets a positive response, they swarm like bees. It’s their one chance; there’ s no way they can let it pass. Especially if their jackpot is too polite to refuse. But what that miserable person filling out a dozen forms does not realize is that he really is their jackpot. To him, they’re a bunch of illiterates hovering around for whom he’s doing a favour. To them, he’s their ticket to a new life.

Besides the one they’re already clenching in their hands.

The search for......something

Some people go to temples. Some to mosques. Others to churches.

I go to Worli Sea Face.

I’ve never understood religion. I’ve especially not understood people’s desire to pray, to fast, to perform rituals, to seek God in certain pre- authorized places. I wanted to understand what solace people found in visiting these places.

And so I searched – sometimes grumbling, sometimes willing, sometimes in desperation. I wasn't entirely sure what I was looking for: I think I was just hoping to see and feel what everyone around me seemed to see and feel.

It’s been quite a journey.

***

I don’t exactly remember my first visit to a temple, but I’ve had enough over my childhood years to be able to sum up my experience: creepy. I’m not sure if it’s because of the nauseating smell of overflowing milk that permeates the air, or the damp dirty floors that you’re expected to walk barefoot on, or the forced-down-your-throat prasad, or my own personal pet-peeve of hating anything put on my face.

Or maybe it’s because it’s the last place on earth I would go to when looking for peace.

The chaos, the venders, the money-making, and the dirt somehow don’t manage to add up to an inviting setting.

But still, a 10-year-old child has little say in such matters, and so I would trudge along behind my family as we occasionally went to temples – both local and national (Vaishnadevi). I’m not sure what went through their minds as they dragged me along: perhaps they hoped I would eventually begin to see what they saw; perhaps they thought it was a matter of duty on my part to follow the religion that was stamped against my name; or perhaps they just didn’t want to leave me alone at home.

Whatever the case, I went. And each time, I grew more and more disgruntled. By the time of my final visit at the age of 19 [See: A Surge of Faith], I had made up my mind: I officially hated going to a temple.

***

My house in Bombay is 2 minutes away from a famous church. I pass by it every day, and quite often, I would find myself wanting to walk in. But somehow my previous experience with religious institutions held me back.

One afternoon, returning from an extremely stressful and depressing day at school, I caved in. I carefully stepped inside, sighing in relief as I took in the clean surroundings. I sat down at a pew and felt the silence around me. I could feel the calm spreading around me, as the stress slowly passed out with my tears. Now this I could get used to.

Relaxing, I picked up the book lying in front of me and began browsing through its pages. And the clamminess started to kick in again. Words flew out about submitting and believing and praying, making me extremely uncomfortable. I felt like they were pointing at me, silently screaming: Disbeliever! Disbeliever!

The place no longer felt as soothing and welcoming as before. And so, disappointed, I made my way out.

***

From the moment I set my eyes upon it a year ago, it’s been a burning desire for me to visit Haji Ali. Maybe it was because the song “Piya Haji Ali” brought a smile to my face every time I heard it; maybe the idea of a mosque in the middle of the sea excited me; or maybe I was just hoping that the third time would be the charm.

After one year of wanting, I finally visited Haji Ali with a friend a few weeks ago.

And it turned out to be the biggest disappointment till date. The chaos, the venders, the money-making, and the dirt felt a bit too familiar. That stifling feeling I associated with temples rushed back, and I found myself trudging along as the beautiful soulful image I had built up over the last twelve months suddenly shattered around me.

I found myself tugging at my friend’s hand, urging him to turn around and walk back.

Third time wasn’t the charm.

***

My hunt wasn’t about religion – I gave up on that a long time ago. It was a search for peace. I assumed that was the reason people were drawn to temples and mosques and churches – because they found solace over there.

Contrary to popular belief, I didn’t choose to be an atheist. It wasn’t as though I decided one random day that I choose not to believe in God – I tried hard to feel what everyone around me appeared to feel, to see what they saw, to believe what they believed. But it didn’t happen.

And so, here I am, sitting at my favourite place in the city, wondering what went wrong in my search. Why was it so difficult – if not impossible – for me to find this place of solace? A place where I could clear my head and think, a place where I could let go of my tensions and my stress, a place where I could ask questions and answer some – was that expecting too much?

Others seemed to have found that place. That place of spirituality. Of higher forces. Of energy. Of God.

A place of peace. Inner peace. The kind I’m feeling right now, as I watch the waves crash over the rocks, and hear the ripple of the water, and feel the wind in my face. It’s soothing, relaxing, comforting, inviting – everything I would ever need to bring a smile to my face. I come back here, again and again, just to feel that comfort, that sense of belonging, that feeling of being alive.

***

***

***

I think my search is over.

Musings of a 19-year-old Mind: A Surge of Faith

Some pray to Jesus. Some pray to Allah. Some to Ram. Some don’t pray at all. I’d probably fall into the last category. I don’t pray to anyone. Then again, perhaps ‘pray’ is the wrong word. Belief, or faith, might be more apt. I don’t believe in God – though not from a lack of trying; perhaps from a lack of conviction.

We have often heard stories of atheists who had an encounter that changed their lives forever – an encounter that turned them from strict non-believers to even stricter believers.

I’ve never had such an encounter.

But I did visit a temple.

Nathdwara, a remote pilgrimage site for Hindus, located about two hours from the city of Udaipur, Rajasthan. It holds the shrine of Shrinathji, an image of Krishna. People come from all over the country to pay homage to the shrine. It’s quite a tourist spot.

Tagging along grudgingly with friends who were anxious to visit this temple, tolerating two hours on a hilly road, I reached this destination. At least, that was what the driver told us. Once we got off the car, it was a ten-minute trek through a maze of small streets, bypassing the dozens of keen shopkeepers on the lookout for keener customers, and of course, avoiding the swish of the masters of the roads – the cows.

By the time we reached the entrance, I was even less sure of entering. But seeing the eager look on my friends’ faces, I trudged along.

There were two options – pay a special charge in order to by-pass the crowd and get ahead, or wait in line. Initially, we decided to brave it like everyone else, but the moment we saw the line waiting to go inside, our minds were changed. Trying to suppress the guilty conscious as we passed the waiting crowd, we followed our guide through a route confusing enough to lose each other and never meet again. We went ahead and entered a room filled with comparatively few people.

The guide saw our questioning gazes and told us to wait. So we waited. Then waited some more. It was quiet – very quiet. Suddenly, the doors opened.

And then we heard it.

Ever heard the sound of a dozen elephants charging full speed at a single target? Now imagine that same sound, only instead of elephants, there were people – hundreds of them. Even though we had passes that allowed us to walk beside them through a partitioned route, the sound and sight were, to say the least, frightening. But I calmed myself, thanking whoever it was that introduced the idea of special passes.

Of course, I forgot. This was India.

The partitioning rope was no match for the crowd. People crossed into our section before we even realized what was happening. And then, before I knew it, I was moving. Not by my own will. The crowd surged forward, pushing, squeezing, pulling, stamping, pushing again - I’m sure you understand the pattern. I was pushed in front of the shrine, and before I even had the chance to fold my hands, I was pushed away from the shrine – right up to the exit. And that was it.

That was my visit to the temple.

Enraged and bruised as I was, I decided never to go to a temple again. I found myself mocking this notion of faith, where a person is not even allowed the sanctity of a moment of prayer. It made no sense.

That incident happened a while ago, but I can’t seem to forget it. It still makes no sense. I still don’t understand this notion of faith. But I can’t help but wonder: wonder at this lot of people who travel across the country, weather rough terrains, bear annoying shopkeepers, easily side-step the cows, wait in line for hours, push and get pushed – all this for a single glance.

All this for faith.  

The Morality of Indian Sex

When we talk about consensual sex, whose consent are we talking about?

·         Why is it immoral to teach children about sex, but moral to ostracize those affected by STDs?

·         Why is it immoral to show sex on camera, but moral to force people to take part in pornographic videos?

·         Why is it immoral to share breathing space with a prostitute, but moral to force others into the same profession? 

·     

·         Why is it immoral to celebrate Valentine’s day, but moral to beat up people in order to prevent this?

·         Why is it immoral to have consensual sex before marriage, but moral to be raped after marriage?

A few years ago, when I was doing a research paper in my third year of college, I spent a few days poring over archives related to South-Asian sex and rape. I think I can honestly say they were the some of the most depressing days of my life. The reason? I realized at that point that for a vast majority of Indian women, sex is not about making love or an act of pleasure: it’s a painful chore that they have to endure according to the whim of their husbands. Painful because it was often in the form of abuse and rape. Of course, the government would never call it rape, because once a woman is married, her husband apparently has full rights to do with her as he wishes. A study mentioned that people see marital abuse as “ethically permissible.”

Sometimes I think that in India, marriage is merely a stamp assuring society’s consent to sex. Funny, you’d think the consent of both people involved would be given some priority as well.

The Happiness Quotient

We spend much time berating others

Making judgments both prejudiced and snappy

Why not spend some time looking within

And figure out what truly makes us happy?

• For some people, happiness could mean becoming the CEO of a company.
• For some people, happiness could mean a loving marriage.
• For some people, happiness could mean making a difference in the world.
• For some people, happiness could mean having a lot of money.
• For some people, happiness could mean traveling across the world.
• For some people, happiness could mean working hard all day and coming home to family.
• For some people, happiness could mean partying with friends.
• For some people, happiness could mean spending time with one special person.
• For some people, happiness could mean freedom for their country.
• For some people, happiness could mean the freedom to openly express their sexuality.
• For some people, happiness could mean every child receives excellent education.
• For some people, happiness could mean the end of poverty.
• For some people, happiness could mean feeling the wind on their face.
• For some people, happiness could mean jumping the waves in the sea.
• For some people, happiness could mean looking beautiful.
• For some people, happiness could mean being popular among others.
• For some people, happiness could mean earning enough money to give their parents a comfortable life.
• For some people, happiness could mean playing with their dog.
• For some people, happiness could mean climbing mountains.
• For some people, happiness could mean gazing at the stars.
• For some people, happiness could mean getting their hands on the latest Harry Potter novel.
• For some people, happiness could mean starting a successful business on their own.
• For some people, happiness could mean coming back to their homeland.
• For some people, happiness could mean leaving their homeland.
• For some people, happiness could mean discovering spirituality.
• For some people, happiness could mean knowing their family and friends are safe.
• For some people, happiness could mean writing psychotic pieces of fiction.
• For some people, happiness could mean verbal acknowledgment of their talent or effort.
• For some people, happiness could mean falling off the bed while watching Andaz Apna Apna.
• For some people, happiness could mean eating maggi on the balcony while watching the rain.
• For some people, happiness could mean savouring every single bite of their chocolate cake.
• For some people, happiness could mean skyping with friends after a long time.
• For some people, happiness could mean writing a blog to express their feelings.

Musings of a 19-year-old Mind: Brown and Proud

Written by me a few years ago...

Are you proud to be an Indian?

This was the question posed to our 9^th grade class by a teacher on Independence Day. Clearly, she was expecting a unanimous roar of yes – which is what she got. But what she wasn’t expecting was to find a trickle of students here and there that stayed mutely silent. So when she asked these students to stand up and explain themselves, the class suddenly hushed down, staring at the standing figures in obvious disbelief.

Trying hard to ignore these blatant stares, I mentally began to search for an explanation. But I couldn’t find one – at least, not one that I could put into words. How do you explain something when you don’t quite understand it yourself? It’s not like I had anything against India – definitely not, and I made this quite clear to everyone. But that didn’t automatically mean that I was proud of it either. There was just…no feeling.

Would you feel undeniably proud if you were called an earthling? Does your heart stir up in passion and excitement every time you hear the word ‘Earth’ or ‘World’? Exactly. Mine didn’t either, because to me, India was my entire world. I don’t mean this in a cheesy sort of way, but that is literally how I felt about it. I had never lived out of India, or in a place where I wasn’t surrounded by Indians. To me, foreigners meant anyone who was not Indian. ‘South-Asian’ meant little to me, because my geography classes only covered the categories of continents, countries and cities, none of which include ‘South Asia’. Back then, if someone had called me ‘brown’, I would have been terribly offended. I mean, seriously, brown??? That’s how you would identify me?!?!

Just so you know, that was five years ago. And five years can be a long time.

People often say that it’s easy to criticize something from the outside; you need to actually get involved in it to truly understand it. I worked in the opposite direction. While I was in India, I never understood it. Sure, I understood the population, pollution and poverty crises, but I never actually understood what was there to be proud of. The cows sleeping in the middle of a busy road, oblivious to the traffic jam they had caused?

Not likely.

But stepping away from it all, I missed it – all of it. And it was in those moments of home-sickness that I started to realize what India meant to me. It’s the only place where you find more people walking on the roads than driving on them. It’s where you can eat pav bhaji and pani puri from the street without a care about hygiene issues. It’s where you can spend two days playing cards in a jam-packed train that has already been delayed by ten hours because it chose to stop in the middle of nowhere. It’s where you can switch between Hindi and English in any random conversation without having to think about it.

Basically, it’s home. And that makes all the difference in the world.

Realizing what India means to me, I now feel like I actually have a sense of identity in this world. I can proudly say that I am an Indian, and that pride comes not from ‘culture and heritage’, but from those small insignificant moments that I could have only experienced in India. Call it pride, call it what you will.

I call it being brown. 

Musings of a 19-year-old Mind: A Classy Conversation

A piece of fiction I wrote during the 2nd year of college

**** 

Scene: A hot summer evening in Toronto. A girl (G) comfily sitting with her mother (M). A simple statement…and that’s all it takes.

G: So mom, I was thinking of taking up a job at the gas station around the corner.

M: What?

G: I said, I was thinking of taking a…

M: I heard you. I meant…what?!?! Are you joking?

G: No, I’m quite serious.

M: …

G: Mum? Okay, look. It’s the summer holidays, none of my friends are here in Toronto, I have nothing better to do, might as well earn some money.

M: Oh my God, you really are serious.

G: …

M: Fine. If you really want to work, why not apply to some company? The pay would be much better…

G: Just the pay huh? Nah…I don’t want such serious work; something part-time and laid-back.

M: Okay…so how about a restaurant? There are some really nice ones you could try.

G: I know, but I’ve already done that. I want something different.

 M: Then why not help your father out with his business?

G: Business is really not my thing. Besides, I really want to do something on my own.

M: But it’s a gas station!!!

G: So…?

M: So don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about!

G: Oh please don’t tell me it’s that whole ‘you’re a girl’ thing again?!

M: Don’t take that tone with me.

G: Sorry ma…

M:*Exhaling sharply* Alright. No, it’s not because you’re a girl, although that’s definitely a major part of the reason.

G: What’s the remaining part?

M: Don’t you think that working there would be…a little…you know…I mean, there are so many other better jobs out there.

G: Ahh…so that’s the problem. So I’d basically be embarrassing all of you if I worked there?

M: Look. All I’m saying is, what’s the point of studying so much if you’re going to land up in a gas station?

G: It’s just part-time! Plus it’ll be a different experience.

M: What experience could you possibly get from working there?!

G: You think this job would be…too low? Like it’s beneath us in some way?

M: Things aren’t always so black and white. You live in a society, don’t forget that. This isn’t about you or me. People talk!

G: I don’t care about people ma!

M: Well you better start caring if you want to be a part of this society.

G: What happened to dignity of labour?! No one here cares what jobs people do!

M: Maybe the Canadians don’t, but back home where we come from, they still care. You’re an Indian, don’t forget that.

G: I know I am! But…Okay. Do me a favour. Please explain to me what exactly is the problem with me working at a gas station? The fact that I’m a girl, that I have a university degree, or that I’m Indian?

M: It’s not that simple. Maybe it’s one of them, maybe it’s all. I don’t know. Look, I know class isn’t something you agree with, but the reality is that class exists.

G: So that’s it? They can just change dignity of labour into…into…division of labour? That’s no excuse for it!

M: I know it isn’t, but I suppose our society isn’t ready to accept that as yet.

G: Well then they need to be! They can’t just discriminate people based on what job they do! They want to work in high-rise companies yet can’t pick up their own trash or fill their own petrol! And they look down on those that do it for them!

M: Look, you’re over-reacting. It’s not such a big deal.

G: Of course it’s a big deal! How can you-?

M: Okay!!! Enough! Calm down. I know how you feel, and I agree with you. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you start your own revolution out here.

G: I’m not-

M: No more arguing. You’re not working at a gas station. That’s it.

G: But mom-

M: I said that’s it! Just take some other job.

G: …

M: …

G: Mom…?

M: Yes?

G: So can I drive a cab?

23rd Birthday Musings

What is it with new years, sunsets and birthdays that make you so reflective…

Well, I’m officially 23. And as anti-climactic as that statement is (can you have a climax if there’s no build-up?), I can’t keep the smile off my face, which makes me wonder: am I deranged?

Isn’t it supposed to be scary moving up the twenties decade? Aren’t there so many big life-changing decisions that need to be made? Isn’t there a big possibility of messing everything up, for myself, my kids, my family? Shouldn’t I be fast asleep at 1:30am considering I have to wake up in four hours and go to work?

The simple answer is: yes.

Then again, I suppose that’s also going to be true for every coming year of my life. So I figured I might as well focus on the good stuff.

I learnt recently that one of the simplest ways to be happy is to show gratitude: for the big stuff and the small things. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do (in order of how they come across my head).

I’m thankful:

• For getting a chance to re-connect with family and friends who had faded away in the last few years of my life
• For being part of a mission that I genuinely believe in
• For being surrounded by a group of talented individuals who have that same passion
• For having the chance to make a difference in the lives of so many kids
• For living in India, the only place that really feels like home
• For learning how to cross roads in Mumbai, and appreciating the importance of hands in this process
• For being able to wander the roads of Mumbai on my own
• For partly overcoming my fear of Dadar station
• For having survived one year on my own in India – a feat I was told several times I would not be able to do
• For being fine health-wise. I no longer have to think before sitting
• For getting the green signal from my parents to visit Pakistan
• For bhai getting engaged to the most awesome person ever
• For visiting New Zealand – one of the genuinely most peaceful places I’ve seen
• For getting to meet my parents so often
• For getting to meet the entire khandaan at Gaurav bhaiya’s wedding
• For spending the first ever mommy-daughter alone time in Bombay, and having a ball throughout
• For Marine Drive and Worli Sea-face
• For the wind
• For feeling close to my Toronto friends despite speaking sparingly
• For the Long Island Iced Teas
• For meeting the mind-blowing team of 3.2.1
• For starting to understand the essence of education
• For my fellow Harry Potter geeks (Heeks)
• For my umbrella
• For Bahadur – the guy who cleans up our house
• For having low tolerance of alcohol – keeps the pockets a little fuller
• For the hugs
• For my currently lice-free hair
• For the Nescafe 3in1 coffee
• For Maggie
• For my friend’s baking skills
• For my co-teacher’s ability to draw straight lines
• For the look of recognition I get every time I see my grocery guy, ironing guy and the Xerox guys
• For seeing the flags of Kuwait, Canada and India at TFI’s presentation today
• For the feeling of belongingness I surprisingly felt for all three flags
• For my nickname, Toronto
• For the (rarely) empty train rides
• For having my blog tweeted around by strangers
• For my cousin’s blog having the ability to instantly cheer-me-up
• For having friends with cars
• For the awesome cabbies in Mumbai
• For the sporadic star sighting (the Bollywood ones)
• For the once-in-my-life star gazing (the sky ones)
• For the trip to Panchgani with an entirely different set of friends
• For all the possibilities awaiting me this year
• For spending midnight at home with a cake, close friend and roomies
• For all the wishes and hugs I’m going to get today

Don’t be a Man: Do the right thing

I was teaching opposites in class today, and one student gave an example of table and chair. I explained to her that they were not opposites, but rather, different types of the same category. A few minutes later, I showed them a flashcard: boy x girl, ‘Boy’ being the opposite of ‘girl’. There was something misleading about that card, but not wanting to digress back then, I went on with the lesson.

I’m going to digress now.

Is boy really the opposite of girl, or like a table and chair, are they just two types within the broader category called humans? They are different, yes, but does that make them opposites?

Logically, I can’t be both a boy and a girl at the same time. But what does it really mean to be a boy or a girl? If we’re talking in terms of sex organs, then yes (exceptions are there). But we’re also talking about living beings, displaying characteristics and personalities. Are these also opposite?

Society seems to be arguing yes.

Tony Porter in his TED Talk brought out this point really well.

“I asked a boy, how would you feel if in front of all the players, your coach told you that you play like a girl.

I expected him to say something like I’ll be sad I’ll be mad I’ll be angry or something. No. The boy said to me: it would destroy me.

And I said to myself – if it would destroy him to be called a girl, what are we then teaching him about girls?”

Seriously.

What are we teaching boys? What are we teaching men?

That to be a real man, you have to be the opposite of a girl?

That you have to choose cars and G.I. Joes over dolls?

That as a man, you have to keep your emotions in check?

That tears are for girls, not humans?

That being a girl is beneath our dignity?

How have we managed to convince an entire half of our population that their ability to ‘be a man’ depends on their ability to ‘not be a girl’?

Watch this video. The ending in particular rings a bell, because it reminds me of a stand-up comedy show that I’ve laughed at numerous times. Russell Peters made several phrases infamous, and one of them is “Be a man. Do the right thing.”

Unfortunately, Porter shows that these two don’t often work synonymously. It often becomes a choice:

Be a man. OR. Do the right thing.

Good luck with that.

Patriarchy: more than just a word

"The opposite of patriarchy is not matriarchy, because they’re both wrong."

Patriarchy is when

   -          A girl is asked numerous times while growing up: have you learnt to cook yet? (Not yet?! What will you do when you get married?!)

-          A boy is told repeatedly while growing up: real men don’t cry. (That’s a women-only club)

-          The sewing class at my school is reserved for girls (delicate work = femininity)

-          The carpentry class at my school is reserved for boys (brute strength = manliness)

-          A lone woman sits in a physics class. (It requires brains)

-          A lone man sits in a design class. (It’s a soft subject)

-          ‘Real women’ are taught to be dependent to the extent that it is beneath them to exert their strength (how dare you look straight in the eyes of a man?)

-          ‘Real men’ are taught to be independent to the extent that is beneath them to show weakness (haathon mein chudiyaan peheni hai kya?)

-          Boys are encouraged to fight back (Maa ka doodh piya hai toh saamne aa)

-          A family refuses to allow the daughter to have a live-in relationship (We don’t want the society gossiping about our daughter’s morals…)

-          A family accepts their son’s live-in relationship, but looks down at his partner (because clearly, she’s the one with the loose morals)

-          A promiscuous man is called a Casanova (ooooh!!!)

-          A promiscuous woman is called a slut (ouch)

-          The princess is always rescued by the prince (kiss me and save me)

-          The heroine is always rescued by the hero (bachaao!)

-          A son is seen as a true heir, and a daughter a burden (beta hua toh laddoo batenge)

-          Marriage is seen as the end goal for women (It's the sole purpose of our lives)

-          Marriage is seen as a nuisance for men (It’s something I have to put up with)

-          A family spends more time ensuring the prospective bride’s ‘purity’ than compatibility (can they really check beforehand???)

-          The parents are eager to get the daughter married off (syaapa mukaao)

-          Women have to physically disclaim that they are married through a mangal sutra and whatnot (Why don’t men get something in return?)

-          A woman touches the feet of her husband. (I thought blessings were supposed to be the work of Gods and elders)

-          Women continue to fast for ‘the long life’ of their husbands every year under the ruse of tradition. (If it’s superstition, then let it go. Or if you genuinely believe in the power of a fast, then why don’t men fast for their wives too?)

-          A woman has to leave her house after marriage to go to the man’s (Yehi riwaaz hai; sadiyon se chala aa raha hai. Hum kaun hotein hain parampara ko todne wale?)

-          A man who lives with his in-laws (aka the ‘ghar jamai’) is no longer considered a ‘real man’ (Uski khuddari kahan hai?)

-          A man gives up his passion for writing to get a ‘real job’ because he is expected to be the ‘bread-earner’ of the family (If you were a woman then it would be okay, but…)

-          A family is considered dysfunctional is the man takes care of the home and kids while the woman earns the income (It’s clear who wears the balls in this family)

-          The family name is automatically assumed to be the husband’s surname (Mr. and Mrs….?)

-          Women cease to exist on family trees (because the children just popped out of the men)

-          A woman ensures that every part of her body is ‘appropriately’ covered before stepping outdoors. (Otherwise, she’s clearly asking for it)

-          Sexual harassment is called ‘eve-teasing’ (apparently making fun of someone and groping their ass in a crowded bus are the same thing)

-          The choiciest gaali is always based off your mother or sister (you’re already thinking of them)

-          Horny-ness becomes an excuse for rape (so much for the theory of evolution…)

-          Women are afraid to report rape because of the shame it might bring to the family (samaaj kya kahega)

-          A man hits his wife, because, well, she’s his wife now (It’s his birthright as a male)

-          Men are told it’s okay to hit other men, but to never raise their hand on women (because they are the weaker sex, not because it’s wrong to hit)

-          Men are asked to respect women (Why not respect men too?)

-          Women are asked to submit to men (Oh, that’s why…)

It’s clearly a sucky world, for both men and women (I’m making a big assumption here, so guys, feel free to disagree).

In closing, I’m going to paraphrase a line from the show Satyamev Jayate: “The opposite of patriarchy is not matriarchy, because they’re both wrong. The opposite is equality – a balance.”