We, the Racists

You told me stories

Of Dark forces and Dark Lords

And all the while I thought

But…

You told them to avoid the sun

For fear of becoming dark

And all the while I thought

But…

You sang songs

Praising the fair skin of women

And all the while I thought

But…

You came to me for marriage

And looking at my skin, turned away

And all the while I thought

But…

You said fair is beautiful

You said fair is lovely

And all the while I thought

But…

You told me they were racists

Enslaving those of darker skins

And all the while I thought

But…

We, the Racists

I’ve been trying to think of a more creative and subtle title for this post, but, really, nothing seemed to sum up my opinion as well as this phrase. In case it’s still not clear enough though, I’m just going to come out and say it directly:

I think Indians are the most racist group of people I know.

The last time I mentioned this in a class discussion, I was met by some horrified, angry remarks. I get that they’re not easy to digest, but before you lash out in retaliation, take a few minutes to process the words.

No, I’m not saying Indians are the only racist people in the world. I grew up on stories from the west of the dark evil queens and the fair innocent princesses. Even some of my favourite sagas have built their entire plots on the basis of the dark side of the force and the dark lord (though, to be fair, Harry Potter does also have an extremely evil character that prefers pink and frills).

But Indians take this obsession with fairness to such a great level that it’s ridiculous.

From the moment we’re born, we’re judged on the basis of our skin colour (amongst various other things). We’re told again and again to ensure that we either don’t become darker, or else do everything within our power (and often beyond) to lighten the skin. We spend half our lives watching celebrities sell us fairness creams, and the other half applying said creams.

Why? Because fair is lovely.

And this doesn’t end in childhood. In their long list of “wanted qualities” in marriage advertisements, the need for a “fair girl” will surely be in the top three requirements – possibly competing with a particular caste and an intact hymen. People who come to the wedding will often congratulate the groom’s family for getting “a beautiful and fair bride.”

Why? Because fair is lovely.

One argument that these advertisers and fairness cream manufacturers make is that they’re not creating the racist attitude – it already exists. They’re just responding to the need of the masses and helping out the people who need such products.

It’s not like they have the power to affect or shape minds.

It’s not like people will care when their favourite celebrities endorse fairness as a better way of life.

It’s not like anyone will ever make the subtle connection from “fair and lovely” to “dark and…?”

On the brighter side, it's not just "fair and lovely" anymore. Thanks to our extremely sensitive and considerate media and manufacturers, we now also have a ""fair and handsome"! After all, "mard ho toh mardon wali cream lagao!" [a whole other issue that I'll stay out of for now].

Granted, we don’t exactly put people into slavery for having darker skin, but that doesn't mean we're not guilty of racism. Were just less overt about it. In India, the racist sentiments have been so subtly (and often not-so-subtly) embedded in our minds since birth that we don’t even feel the need to question them. It becomes a way of life, such that we can comfortably watch advertisements on how using a fairness cream will ensure that everything falls into place in our lives, while we condemn and criticize “those racist American bastards” for their oppression of the blacks.

Hypocrisy, anyone?

It’s amazing how far we can go to convince ourselves that “we” are such a great nation who are above  all that.

We, the people.

We, the Indians.

We, the racists.

Would You Care?

If the world was ending today

Would you care

If the person standing next to you

Was dark or fair

Or fat or thin

Or tall or short

Or had a curved or a straight nose

Was a he or a she

Or somewhere in between.

If you found out

That these were the last few moments left

Would you care

If the hand holding yours

Was born within different borders

Danced in a different manner

Spoke a different tongue

Prayed a different way

Or didn’t pray at all.

If your fearful eyes found solace

In another offering warmth

Would you care if those eyes

Had seen different things

Cried on different occasions

Smiled at different worlds

Had had different hopes

Or if those eyes

Couldn’t see at all.

If these moments were the last

Would you carry banners

Denouncing those of a different race

Or region

Or country

Or religion

Or skin

Or sexuality

Or customs

Or clothes

Or weight

Or height

Or hair

Or nose

Or eyes

Or the shape of that speck of dirt on their cheek?

Or would you

Grab the first hand

Hold on to it tightly

Comfort and be comforted

And savour your last breath?

*

*

*

*

*

Would you care?

On Shit

Yes yes, you read the title correctly, and it isn’t a typo either. It does, in fact, say ‘on shit’ and not ‘oh shit’, because this post is neither a result of momentary fear nor an ode. It’s more of…a pondering, you might say, on the lovely topic of shit. So for those queasy readers, I’d suggest stopping here.

How did I come about this topic? Well, it really comes down to a conversation with a cousin of mine last night, an extremely understanding one who called me to check up on his poor sister who had been having four days of constant and extreme diarrhoea. When he got time between his maniacal laughter, he asked me why I had stopped blogging, and I told him that I didn’t have anything to blog about. His response: “blog about shit”. And being the oh-so-ever obedient person that I am, I decided to follow his suggestion after he assured me that he for one would definitely want to read this post. And so we reach here.

Let’s begin with the philosophy of shit. No, I don’t mean a ponderous curiosity on “what is shit?” If you do want to begin there, Wikipedia has an extremely detailed and explicit article answering that question, along with several others. Neither do I wish to adopt a Descartes-like stance and blurt statements like “I shit, therefore I am.” Though it might actually be true, but four days of doing only that might definitely make you question the reason of your existence rather than validate it.

But really, the question I am more interested is – why does the subject of shit make us so squeamish? Dogs shit all over the place without a care for who is looking. Fine, so for humans it’s a private act, but why is it such a taboo subject? We all do it [revert to the Descartes-inspired-phrase above]. How come we can talk about bloody gory murders and whatnot but not about shit? How come every time one of my little kids would run up to me asking permission to go to the toilet for this, I would cringe thinking “too much information.” On a side note, I have often wondered what is the socially respectable way of saying shit? Take a dump? Crap? Do number 2 [I really want to know who came up with this one]? Excrete faeces?

See, the reason I find this topic quite fascinating is that for all the squeamishness surrounding it, I have bonded with a lot of friends over this subject. Whether it’s empathizing with each other over “loosies” or discussing with utmost reverence the importance of shit in our lives, and with even more reverence debating the “toilet paper versus mugga” issue – it’s all been done. And what I recall from all those conversations is not flinching and awkwardness, but rather, a sense of comfort that automatically dumps itself on you when you know you can have such conversations. It’s like crossing a barrier – a rather shitty one.

As much as I would love to go on about the subject, I am afraid diarrhoea calls, and I must go validate my existence, again.

May the force be with you [not applicable to those having loose motions].

The Green Sofa

It first caught our attention several years ago, seeming a little out of place in its environment. It sat there, royally, ignorant to all the hustle-bustle around it. The green was not bright enough to be flashy, yet its dullness was somewhat dimmed by the largely duller surroundings. Its seat looked really soft; the kind that tempted you to want to jump down heavily on it. Of course, we didn’t know at the time that the sofa was a mascot for the ‘appearances can be deceiving’ slogan. It was one of those things you had to find out for yourself, apparently, as you massaged your rather disappointed behind.

Okay, I don’t know why I’m talking like this. I mean, let me say it straight up – I hate this green sofa. It’s a sofa situated in the departure terminal of Kuwait’s airport, and is the sofa that my family tends to sit on and have a last chat before the final farewell. What started as a pleasant surprise soon turned into a tradition, and I found myself, with every departure, grudgingly making my way to this sofa. Why grudgingly? That’s a little hard to explain. I think it has something with not liking those final conversations; there’s an air of the looming departure hanging over your head, so ever little bit of talk seems really forced. It’s as though you are suddenly sitting there to have a few more minutes with each other, but the price of those few minutes is awkward conversation. I’m not a big fan of long drawn-out goodbyes, so I found myself hating that particular sofa with a vengeance.

That green sofa is long gone from the airport, and here I am, sitting by myself at my departure gate in Kuwait for the last time, writing what sounds to me almost an ode to that bloody sofa. Who would have thunk?

It’s weird. Kuwait’s not my home. It stopped being my home 9 years ago. The country is alien to me. Every time I visited, I was much happier inside the house than outside. If anything, that house where my parents live, where I used to live, is my home. And I’ve just spent the last few days packing up every little piece of that house as my parents prepared to leave. Yesterday, we were staring at a house filled with cartons packed to the brim. Today, it was nothing but empty walls (and the stuff that wouldn’t fit in the container). That’s 13 years’ worth of our lives stuffed into a container, or dispersed around. 13 years. That’s more than half my life. See, now that is what I should be writing an ode to. The house. My home. That sense of belonging.

But no. Instead, all I can write about right now is a bloody green sofa. No, I don’t miss it. I don’t even like it. But I can’t stop thinking about it. Maybe because the last 9 years, every time I have come to Kuwait, it was with a sense that I would soon be leaving it. And every time I sat on that sofa, it was with a sense that I would soon be back. But this time, there’s no going back. That’s a weird thought. It’s not happy or sad. It’s just different. Weird.

I tell you, these departure lounges have a weird effect on me. They make me introspective in a way similar to sunsets and all that. Of course, by the time I post this, I would be too far away from this gate to actually care, so I thought it would be best that I wrote this while the sofa was still hovering around my mind.

Adios Kuwait.

न जाने क्यों

जब सुनसान एक पहाड़ पर बैठो
तब ज़िन्दगी याद आती है

जब उभरते डूबते सूरज को देखो
तब ज़िन्दगी याद आती है

जब नदियों को पत्थरों से टकराते सुनो
तब ज़िन्दगी याद आती है

जब हवा में पत्तियों को झूलते देखो
तब ज़िन्दगी याद आती है

लेकिन जब ज़िन्दगी जीने की दौड़ में घुसो
तब न जाने, ज़िन्दगी कहाँ खो जाती है

*******

Written, standing on a hill top, gazing out, with nothing but silence all around.
Like I've said before, there's something about New Year's, Sunsets and Birthdays that make you so reflective.

तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

Because sometimes, I need to convince myself to do the things I want...

माना घर में अपनों के होने का एहसास है
बचपन से लेकर अब तक हर लम्हे कि छाँव है
तू उस छाँव की आड़ से बाहर देख तो सही
फ़ाटक के दरवाज़े को ज़रा खोल तो सही
तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

माना रास्तों में पत्थर भी हैं, कंकड़ भी
पैरों में काँटों के घुसने के आसार भी
तू उन काँटों को सहने की कोशिश कर तो सही
उबलती रेत को कदमों से महसूस कर तो सही
तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

माना रास्ते अक्सर टेढ़े हैं, सीधे नहीं
पलख झपकते योंही कहीं खो जाते कभी
तू खुद रास्ते से भटककर देख तो सही
पहाड़ों में कोई नयी दिशा बना तो सही
तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

 माना सफर अकेला है, डरावना भी
चेहरा हर एक नया है, अंजाना भी
तू उस अन्जान से दोस्ती कर के देख तो सही
अपने आप में ज़रा खुद को ढूंढ तो सही
तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

माना दूर तक मंज़िल का कोई निशान  नहीं
निशान  क्या, मंज़िल की ना कोई पहचान भी
तू मंज़िल को छोड़, रास्ते में जी कर देख तो सही
घाँस की ठंडी ओंस पर लेटे, तारों को देख तो सही
समुन्दर की लेहरों में कूद तो सही
खुली हवा में साँस ले तो सही
तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

*****

Inspired by the man who loves pyjamas, the fellow poet, and a recent trip.

"I want to travel. You know, the kind where there's no planning, or too much thinking."
"That's the best kind of travel. The only kind, I think. Otherwise, it's a vacation."

The Man who Dared to Fly

Every once in a while, you come across someone who inspires you. I lucked out. This person never stops inspiring me. This post is dedicated wholeheartedly, completely, unabashedly to that person.

There once was a man

Who dared to say I can

My dreams I will fulfil

I refuse to sit down still

A second I won’t waste

And every colour I will taste

Why walk when I can dance

Why not grab every chance

Why keep waiting for a plan

Why not when I can

But wait, said the world

Its wings dusty and curled

We have certain rules

To keep in line you fools

You can’t just burst into song

In a group if you belong

You’ll stumble, you will fall

You won’t fly, you’ll have to crawl

This isn’t the time yet to fly

So don’t even bother to try

But his dance had already begun

And his song couldn’t be unsung

The canvas and brush had met

The paint had started to spread

His flight they could not stop

His wings they could not crop

Flying up towards the sky

He soared, he soared high

Peace filled his mind

He had left the herd behind

He won’t last, they all said

As they slowly continued to tread

For now, he can flutter about

But soon the excitement will fade out

He’ll realize he’s all alone

And then he’ll sit and moan

He’ll beg for a place to land

Then we’ll make our stand

We’ll show him we were right

He was wrong to make his flight

But the words were hollow, not true

As every second, his passion grew

They worried about him going astray

While all along, he made friends on the way

Together, they danced and sang

And all around, their echoes rang

Caring not, what the future would give

This was one life they meant to live

Appreciating every second of the beauty passing by

This was the group that dared to fly.