The Sin of Wastage

(The following post was written for Scroll 360 on the occasion of World Environment Day, celebrated each year on June 5th. I wanted to share it with the readers of my blog here because of the issues it raises and the awareness it attempts to create)

Ouch! That much of waste is sure to hurt. It does. No, it does not hurt you. It did not hurt me till sometime back, but now, each time I see a morsel of food being fed to the bin, my heart screams out in protest. Do you know whom all that perfectly-eatable-passed-of-as-trash food hurt? Those significant millions languishing in Asia, Sub-Sahara Africa, and even in otherwise prosperous nations, whose skin is just clinging desperately to the bones as a last ditch attempt to stay alive. They have nothing called flesh on their body. All they have is an ignominious stripping off of basic human rights of living. Even as someone begins broaching the topic of food scarcity and food security, it is impossible to not recall to mind the simple words of the Mahatma – Nature has enough for everyone’s need, but not for everyone’s greed.  

            I am a foodie – a big one, mind you! There is a favourite anecdote my mother often relates in front of family gatherings, much to my absolute mortification. As a child, a really small one, I had once gone for a wedding where I was too short to be able to reach the extravagant culinary displays. What was in my reach, was however, a bin, where people were dumping their food-laden plates. Next thing my parents discover, I am not just eating out of it, but relishing the food too! I was rescued, mildly rebuked for a minute, and then I found myself amid loud guffaws. What was amusing, however, for a gathering with no crease of remorse on their faces for wasting criminal quantities of food is actually a way of life for an unreal number of people out there in the world. We all have that one moment where we see a significant change in the way we perceive the world, that makes us look within, that moment when something breaks inside us only to give way to something better. My moment came while reading an old case study, where acute food scarcity in southern India had driven a man to consume his own faeces. Try as hard as I might, I can never shake off that image – and I would love to impose it on the minds of those who throw away eatables as a routine.

            Why is today a good day to talk about food wastage and the need to put curbs on it? Well, that is because today is the World Environment Day, as declared and observed by United Nations Environment Programme (UNEP). The WED was conceptualized in 1970s. Besides carrying the intrinsic message of saving the environment, it also observes distinct themes each year to address agendas of pressing concern. This year, UNEP has declared ‘Think. Eat. Save.’ as the theme to be followed for WED across the globe. Ian Somerhalder, the hot and irresistible Damon Salvatore of Vampire Diaries fame, is the celebrity face of the ‘Think. Eat. Save’ campaign. He also runs a foundation the aims of which, as he puts it, are as diverse as the plants, humans and creatures of earth face. In a UNEP release, Somerhalder quotes, “It is absolutely nuts that 30 per cent of all food is thrown away. That translates into $48.3 billion. Can you imagine what we could do with $48 billion. Can you imagine the decrease in pesticides, water and land use if we no longer needed to produce that 30 per cent that is just ending up in the bin?”

            Now, do not take these statistics lightly. What is being implied above is that almost one third of the food production of the world goes waste. Waste! And in measures big and small, we all contribute to it. Now, try reading the last few lines of the second paragraph of this article all over again, and think how criminal it is to be a party to something which is avoidable by little, conscious efforts on our part. Especially being inhabitants of India, that instance could not have dwindled in our memory where large-scale rotting of grains in India was reported against a backdrop of repeated dismal performances on indices of child health, nutrition and mortality.

Blame it all on the government if you please, but check the next time you head out to splurge money on junk, part of which contributes to unhealthy fats in your body, and the other part of which contributes to overflowing trash cans. Go out to buy fresh veggies every once in a few days – make sure you buy only as much as you can guarantee will not rot in your latest refrigerators. You could also call up your mother or grandmother for interesting recipes on how to use leftover food from fridge to make interesting delicacies. I was glad to see an entire episode of MasterChef India dedicated to reusing leftover food in unimaginable ways, a method even Sanjeev Kapoor endorses in the many recipes he prescribes for his followers. If there is no one else to guide you, contact me. My mother, recently, churned up yummy masala fritters made with nothing more than boiled rice and vegetables which were left from a day earlier. Interestingly, there is a day observed by my grandmother, called ‘Basoda’, where she eats only food from a day before. I might not know the myth, but the thought behind observing the day is both, cool and rational.          

In my understanding, even waste is not waste. What is the most common image of waste in our heads is the best source of nutrients for soil when used as manure. I hope everyone understands that technically, you cannot throw waste ‘out’, because there is no ‘out’, unless you know some technique of launching it in space, that too, not without consequences. Using kitchen waste to make compost is an age-old technique – only we’re too busy to follow it. May I ask why? Is it because you are sure that a cataclysm will skip your generation and strike the next, from which you snap all ties of kinship?

This is what UNEP website says – ‘According to the UN Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO), every year 1.3 billion tonnes of food is wasted. This is equivalent to the same amount produced in the whole of sub-Saharan Africa. At the same time, 1 in every 7 people in the world go to bed hungry and more than 20,000 children under the age of 5 die daily from hunger.’

I wish you all a very happy World Environment Day, and exhort you all to take some decisions which is retrospect, you are all very proud of. Days like this remind us that time to act cannot be postponed indefinitely. Perhaps time to act is now.

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Catharsis or Cyber Bullying? Try Confessing!

(This article had been originally written for  Scroll360.in, when the trend of 'Confessions' on facebook was still going strong. Thankfully, that madness has abated. However, while going through the contents of this article, I found ideas and issues still pertinent. I am hence sharing it again on Nascent Emissions. Hope you have a nice time reading it) 

Let me begin this article with a caveat. If you are looking for an objective view on the topic, then understand that you are interacting with an author who is struggling with herself to arrive at objective analysis and later deductions on this debate. However, as someone having suffered the negative side of a recent social media phenomenon, it is obvious that bias will be inherent in words that follow – passion just might overrule the possibility of a rational discourse.

I am here to confess – no, I will desist from using that word unless absolutely necessary, because for me, it has come to acquire irksome connotations. Confessions are the latest fad to have announced their grand arrival on the virtual stage and to have caught the attention of all – the old, the young, the teenaged and the infant-minded. These confessions, which opulently display themselves out on dedicated pages, identified by school, college, department or organizations, are being pursued – whether secretly or in open – by all and sundry. In very little time, they have come to be characterized by the idiom – love them or hate them, but you cannot ignore them. These confession pages are capable of giving you all entertainment you seek in the world – they excite you, they intrigue you, they might make you feel elevated, or they may cause your spirits to plummet. They are increasingly acquiring a weed-like tendency – you uproot (ban) a few of these pages, and a few more than before will sprout instantaneously in its place. So ubiquitous is their presence, that I felt no need to introduce the dynamics and mechanics of this page anywhere in the beginning of this article. These pages, in fact, are not just confined to their virtual domains, but have come to be the ultimate spring of normal day gossip and discussions among students and office-mates. The speed and ease of posting, and then the skill of facebook at spreading the written word have lent these, if I may say, unscrupulous ramblings, the power to make and break images – a sad reality in our world which thrives by feeding on gossip.

My introduction to a confession page was, interestingly, not on Facebook, but via a leading national daily. In an article, a reporter had sought the opinion of a leading psychologist about the then new trend of confessions which involve a large mass of teens and young adults. The psychologist, even more interestingly, was very positive about this whole phenomenon. According to him, the frustrations which are a natural by-product of urban lifestyles, compulsions and tensions, find a helpful and healthy vent through these anonymous online confessions. So far so good. I was happy to read about something which is working to add comfort, optimism and calm to the lives of thousands of youngsters out there. A month later, I am not so sure. If anything, I reckon that anyone who still holds this phenomenon to be positive is perhaps talking without laying on eye on the content which these so-called confessions entail.

As per my understanding, the concept of confessions finds it origin in the Catholic culture, wherein, a man, conscious of his wrongdoings, guilt-ridden, walks into a confession chamber to unburden his heart and purge his soul. It is one aspect of Christianity which I have always admired. Not only does it make one confront his weak moments, where wantonly or unwantonly, he might have indulged in a sinful act, but this one act of confession also strengthens the faith of that man in the infinite mercy of Almighty, in whose forgiveness lies his salvation. Now, one can always trust social media to cash on something so pure and noble, and transform it into a crass and cacophonous nonsense. I might be strong and extremely prejudiced in terms of my expressions, but I have peers who have spent days layered in anxiety and low self-esteem only because of some expletives directed at them from anonymous mouths. I, despite maintaining a steadfast and deliberate distance from any page with ‘confessions’ in its title, have also been embroiled in invectives reeking of misogyny and hurtful envy, if not more insidious tendencies.

Anything said above is not to discard altogether the cathartic aspects of nameless online confessions. Not in my vicinity, but on some confession pages of distant universities, students have posted genuine problems which are difficult to verbalise and have met with encouraging comments and helpful links from their peers. There are youngsters sharing their insecurities and even honest angst against institutional policies, which have led to fruitful discussions and understanding of multiple opinions. However, these instances are exceptions rather than being the rule. Most often, the confessions pages I have seen invariably contain the following – a deluge of expletives, proposals of ‘I like you’ and ‘I love you’ kind, misogynistic diatribes, demeaning explicit comments and obtuse tales of bravado. Now, which one of them can you remotely associate with the word confession? Most will agree on the fact that confessions are meant to purge or unburden oneself, and not to malign someone else. I would never even be able to understand a statement like ‘I made out in the college library’ as a confession. What is the confessioner trying to achieve by posting this? He, clearly, is not guilty of his act, rather proud in fact. What goes down in the process in the name of the institution and often necessitates a disciplinary action by authorities, especially where defamatory comments are concerned. I have personally known an admin threatened of legal action, and another relieved of his professional duties because of careless posts on his confessions page.

So, catharsis or cyber-bullying? My vote is with the latter. At the core of the appeal of such pages lies their anonymity. You can post whatever you wish. The more outrageous the content of your post, the more reactions it elicits. Responses – in the form of likes and comments – isn’t it because of them that we are all so hooked onto Facebook? Earlier, the debate was around the perils of leaving your privacy at the mercy of social platforms like Facebook. Now, via phenomena like confessions, unscrupulous elements go one step further to jeopardize the privacy, as well as the public image of others and not just themselves. With an increasing number of parents and teachers becoming a part of their ward/student’s social network, the harm caused by hurtful and malicious confessions increases manifold. I recently read on a blog that Facebook is being pressurized from many corners to shut the confession pages. I hope earnestly that the concerned people pay heed. 

Mere Piya Gaye Rangoon...

A lot of us remember Deepal Shaw gyrating her hips in an insult of a school uniform skirt, thrusting her bosom into the camera and making all sorts of raunchy gestures to the beat of ‘Kabhi aar kabhi paar’. A lot of us will also remember the entire lyrics of the peppy ‘Saiyaan dil mein aana re’, made extremely popular in its remix avatar, and at all parties, we would’ve have chorused its ‘Chham chhama chham chham’ beat. Some of us might even remember Kajol trying her best to sing ‘Kahin pe nigaahein kahin pe nishana’ in the iconic Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge, when Shahrukh Khan eases his hand on top of Mandira Bedi’s shy fingers, assuming her to be his lady love. This song then, I feel, became an idiom to tease every person whose targets skipped away from in front of his eyes. Oh, and it is a staple at all wedding antakshari contests too!

Why these songs? Well, that’s because they are united by a voice full of life, which, ironically is being remembered at the time when it has transcended the mortal world. It is even more ironic that while we remember each word of these very hummable songs, only a minority of us will be able to recall the name behind the voice which gave character to these songs. I am talking of the inimitable Shamshad Begum, whose singing was not made up of the velvety, soft, soothing or sugary voice we so admire in our modern day singers. Her voice was husky, unconventional, bold, full of zest and conveyed a sort of mischief, which could be found in each of her renditions. Yesterday, at the age of 94, and much after she left an indelible mark on the Indian music industry, she passed away at her Mumbai residence.

Shamshad Begum forms an important part of my childhood memories. Summer vacations were spent at my maternal grandmother’s house, where, all of her six children (my mother included) were great fans of old Indian music. By old, I do not mean the R. D. Burman numbers, which are as far back as the younger generation’s imagination goes when we utter the word ‘retro’. My family was keen to dig out retro from its very roots, from before the time giants like Mohd. Rafi or Lata Mangeshkar marked their presence. I used to sulk and make faces at the ancient melodies which came out the tape recorder, and it was not until much later that I could briefly remember names of Noorjehan, Uma Devi, Zohra Bai Ambalewali, and then, Shamshad Begum.

It was my eldest mamaji, who left for his heavenly abode last year in a heartbreakingly unexpected manner, who was instrumental in making me develop a taste for old, golden music. This taste has flowered to such an extent that today, I have lyrics of an endless number of classic melodies at the tip of my tongue, and a noticeable share of those melodies belong to Shamshad Begum’s corpus. She was one of the earliest female singers to have become a part of Indian music industry, and was its reigning queen for quite long, well into the fifties, when O. P. Nayyar made her sing immortal melodies in Aar Paar and CID. Along with Geeta Dutt, she is among my favourite singers of all time. What was strikingly unique about her was that in a period where classical values were staunchly adhered to even in film music, her voice brought a rustic and folk touch, which was fresh and lively. Try listening to her songs. They will make you happy, and induce a springy feeling inside you. I do not know which was the first of her songs I heard, but one of the first which caught on my tongue was ‘Mere Piya Gaye Rangoon’. I might not have understood the meaning of the lyrics, but the song seemed funny and entertaining enough to make me enjoy singing it. Simple, with no complicated musical notes, I think songs like these are a triumph on the part of the composer, singer and the lyricists, because they so easily appeal to the audience and in some time, become a part of their culture.

Yes, Shamshad Begum’s songs are a part of our culture now. I have kept saying that she had a lively touch to her voice, but this does not mean she shied away from singing poignant melodies, one of the most memorable being ‘Chhod Babul Ka Ghar’, composed by Naushad. She was born in Amritsar in 1919, and her contributions to Punjabi music are also immense. She has sung romantic songs, wedding songs, bidaai songs, folk songs, solos, duets – there is nothing that can be said enough to effectively eulogise her music career. It can, however, be safely stated that her songs are a touchstone to judge good music. She spent her last days living with her daughter in Mumbai, and as a very delayed recognition of her talent and contributions, was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 2009 by the Government of India. Khayyam, in an interview quoted on her official website, had stated about “Her voice was one of its kind and her enunciation was wonderfully clear. She commanded a lot of respect both at the personal and professional level.”

I know many of you would not have ever heard her songs, or at least, not in her voice. It is a little different, or unconventional, from the kind of music all of us are used to hearing. But if you can find some time, here are five recommendations from me to gain an introduction to her world. These are my favourites – songs I can hear over and over again, throughout my life.

Boojh mera kya naam re from CID

Meri neendon mein tum from Naya Andaaz, a duet with Kishore Kumar

Kajra Muhabbat Wala from Kismet, a very entertaining duet with Asha Bhonsle

Yeh duniya roop ki chor from Shabnam, a cute, funny and bubbly song

Saiyaan dil mein aana re from Bahaar – I could not have left out this song at all!

A statistic states, that 70 per cent of remixed songs had originally been sung by Shamshad Begum. That says something about the kind of appeal her melodies have till date.

Another star has set on Indian music industry. May her soul rest in peace. 

(Originally written for and published on Scroll 360)

When Colours Turn Muddy

Is Holi really the festival of colours? Well, in some imaginative, idealistic notions, it must be. However, as a non-participant on Holi festivities, yesterday I saw less of an iridescent display of colours, and more of black faces, muddy water and police patrol-plus-barricading, enough to give a feel of an imminent curfew. Is that what the festival of Holi has come to mean and symbolise?

Within the comfort of my house, I smeared colours on the faces of a handful of neighbours. Not for once did I feel like stepping out. Not alone, at any cost. Why? Because Holi has come to mean a threat to me and my body. I am sure a lot of girls would agree with what I am trying to convey here. There are so many outstation girl students I know, who, if devoid of a large and protective friends’ circle, lock themselves up in their rooms, too scared to venture out till late afternoon, when the Holi festivities have subsided. What kind of a festival is it which restricts a girl’s mobility or makes her feel unsafe ?

It doesn’t start (or end) on the Holi day. It begins much before. A week in advance, suddenly, the guys of your city get a free licence to accost your bodies with water-balloons, often also filled with colour dyes. Now, I am not saying that girls are their only target, but perhaps my exposure has only been limited to that aspect of their festive mischiefs. An innovation I recently came to know off, via troubled rantings of a college friend is stuffing water balloons with eggs and then using them as a harmless Holi weapon. How cool? Right? No. It is not. It is harassment, to say the least. On our way from college to an all-girl’s market trip, I and two other friends of mine were hit by two water balloons in a moving auto. I know the pain and the impact it created on my arm, and can only imagine how my other friend, who was hit on the cheek, would have felt. All this in the name of festival fun. Needlessly said, the girl’s day out had to be cut short, for who would want to roam around in market places with wet clothes, clinging to one’s body. The world is not short of ogling men now, is it? Oh, and it was not some innocent five year-olds who had played Holi with us in their own twisted way, but lanky teenaged lads. I wonder where do they adopt this tradition from, if it can be called that. One more water-balloon assault later, I decided to stay away from travelling to college till Holi gets over.

What perhaps I have dictated is a minor ordeal, if one may even call it that. The pain my arm experienced subsided in no time. There are, however, many hideous tales of Holi molestations I have heard from here and there, which stay on to pain girls till years later. Holi is a licence for men to touch, run and even maul a female body. Have you ever felt a male hand touching you at inappropriate places under the pretext of colouring you up because that is what the tradition demands? Have you ever seen men, ostensibly your family members, first drench you in front of a crowd, and then admire the shape of your body as the intoxication of bhang strengthens? I am not claiming this is the rule. I am only saying that this happens too. I have been lucky it never did with me. But many of my acquaintances have not been so fortunate. Even worse, many, I am sure, are not aware how an excuse of Holi is used by men to intrude into what is their space, the threshold of which should only be crossed upon gaining consent.

All these thoughts came running to my head after I saw a large gang fight break out in a slum dwelling visible from my house. All faces were painted black, the only difference perceivable being in the shape of bodies distinguishing men from women. Intoxication and loud music perhaps gave a fillip to whatever the argument was about and fight of the muddied faces kept on getting stronger. What caught my attention in this madness was a woman caught in the exchange of blows, who could only manage to wriggle free when she was thrown outside the fighting group to land on her haunches on the wet ground. The next I noticed was a police van hauling up the ruffians (that’s how they all looked) and dead silence returning to the field of frenzied celebrations.

May be this is not the way the civil classes celebrate Holi. They have their other civil ways of making this a festival of fun, amusement and entertainment. Holi is said to be the festival which is a great leveller. All faces, coloured in similar hues, are made free of distinctions of caste and class. The one distinction that does remain, however is that of gender. Perhaps that is the reason why a DU girls’ hostel had to seek a ban on a Holi procession, alleging obscenity in the all-male parade taken out in Delhi University’s North Campus every year. The girl residents claim that crude remarks and indecent gestures made by those boys amount to harassment, and this despite being accompanied by police each year. This is the condition of our education eden, infiltrated, of course, by some who are labelled ‘anti-social elements’.

Amid all these harrowing feelings about Holi, what gives me pleasure is the soft touch of my ten-year old nephew’s fingers applying variegated hues of gulal on my face. It gives me pleasure to see sweet gujias being exchanged among neighbours and relatives who scarce find an opportunity to meet in their otherwise hectic schedules. It also gives me pleasure to see the sweet playfulness dissolve and dissipate, for one day, hierarchies within families. And the best piece of news I heard was from Benaras, where the widows this year celebrated a floral Holi. Radha and Krishna, whose Holi celebrations shade our legends and folk songs, would be happy to see a dash of colour in the lives of those consigned to colourlessness. It were the sufi peers who saw Holi as the coming together of communities and smearing on each other not just gulal, but love. I wonder where the spirit of Radha Krishna, of the sufi traditions of Holi is lost.

Still, I do hope you all had a wonderful Holi, which was safe, vibrant and full of mirth!

Image Source - Photographs by the hugely talented Snigdha Manoli Menda. Used with permission. 

A Month Down The Line

            In her brief tryst with the world, she acquired many sobriquets. Some called her Damini, some Amanat and others Nirbhaya. As was revealed by her grieving father, her name, actually, was Jyoti. Well, more apt. While receding into eternal darkness, while being embraced by death, she lit a flame which illuminated many.

            A month since the heinous incident, and it makes sense to ask where is it that we have arrived. Protesting multitudes have gone hoarse shouting slogans. The injuries incurred during an unwarranted state response have now been healed. Perpetrators have been nabbed and shunned not just by the public, but by their co-inmates. A deluge of insensitive comments by people in power have been issued to make a mockery of the composite, vibrant culture we show off to the world. Debates on death penalty and chemical castration have mellowed down, but not before they acquired a more nuanced character. Some parents have gone paranoid with safety concerns; others have opened themselves up more to the world and refused to bow down to fear. A committee has been constituted to suggest reforms for greater gender parity and safety. Fast track courts have been established. In the backdrop of all this, a family has been silently weeping for the loss of that brave child, who loved buying new clothes, and who was the promise of light in their life.

            A few days into the protest, a gentle female friend of mine left me a text. She had a concern. While she thought that the protests were okay, she wanted to convince me that it was, after all, the girl’s mistake that she was in that circumstance. It took me a nano second to take umbrage. Callous, barbaric, incredible, pathetic and downright preposterous comments about rape, adequately reflective of our incorrigible patriarchal mind-set, had been emanating from the mouths of almost all in whose face a microphone was thrust. These were the high and the mighty of our society. However, behind closed doors of humble, nondescript houses, in our very generation which has catalysed this movement against rape, there did exist similar ideologies. My friend was but one example. I wanted to shout at her. I was at pain to understand how does a woman not understand the pain, the agony, and the rights of another woman. A moment more, and I did realize, that all this is reflective of the very disease which has conditioned us. Women, before they challenge men to grant them equality, have to liberate themselves from their own subjugated psyches, their own complexes when pitted against the perceived superior males.

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            This article was intended to evaluate how a month of protesting, debating and displaying our anger has altered our environment. The sceptics shall be quick to guffaw and dismiss this collective anger as frivolous, transitory and inconsequential. The believers shall offer a version in absolute contradiction. However, what happened in Delhi on that fateful night has not left anyone of us untouched. We have our takes on it, and it is important that we accommodate the perspectives of each other in a collective understanding of the incident and its aftermath. That is the only way we truly learn.

            So, have these protests stopped rapes? No. They did not. They couldn’t have; because, no matter how motivated a group of young protesters, it is still not sufficient to weed out what has been a part of our society since centuries. Yes, rape has been a part of our society. There have been Kings known for their penchant for ‘deflowering’ maidens. Why? Because a woman’s body has been seen as something to be conquered, controlled. So, when not fighting wars, these Maharajas would love sorting out virgins and violating their honour, and, interestingly, even keeping souvenirs from their conquests – which could be a stained bedsheet or a nose-ring (worn primarily by virgins). It is understood by most now, that there is nothing sexual about rape. It is more of a measure for ‘disciplining’ the weaker sex, of showing them their place. Yes, the rapes have not stopped, but this understanding has been put their in the open. A month down the line, we have grown up a little.

            The most instant response to this incident of rape were deafening cries of a quick and definitive death penalty for the convicts. Did that happen? No. It did not. I do not know if it will, and I don’t care if it does. The government, the media and the judiciary took note. Emotions and rationalities collided. And today, even though the debate rages on, it is perfectly understood that perhaps death penalty is not the solution to this problem. If anything, it will worsen the situation at hand. A rapist might be tempted to kill his prey, in an attempt to dispose off evidence and the conviction rate for rapes, which is an abysmal 26% now, might fall to as low as 2%.

            There is no clear cut solution to the problem at hand, but if any, our only chance lies in working at the very roots. The feeling of superiority is infused in the male since his early childhood, when he is treated preferentially over his deprived sister. He knows he can shout at his mother and get away. The same treatment, unfortunately, is carried forward to schools. Girls are singled out in schools to ‘behave’ themselves when seen in male company. The feeling of being exclusive of each other’s environment is inculcated at the step when a teacher attempts to segregate the sitting pattern to create a clear line between girls and boys. Sex education is still a far fetched dream in most educational set ups. The chapter on reproduction is taught like a forbidden secret – to be heard and forgotten – no questions asked. I do not know how can it be done, but boys and girls are not taught to be comfortable with their bodies at the very age when it is changing and is perhaps the single biggest source of anxiety for them. Many of you might have had parents who shed light on these topics, but trust me, most girls discover the meaning of word ‘periods’ in hauntingly embarrassing situations in schools.

            How is all this relevant to the rape talk? Well, if not this, then what is? When a passing car stopped by me, passed comments at me and wanted give me lift lest my ‘gora badan’ be tired of walking the distance at home, I knew I would not tell my parents about it. The reason is simple enough. It is ‘my’ freedom that would have been curtailed, while that car would have roamed free. ‘I’ would have been the person bearing the brunt of someone else’s perversion. These are ideas ingrained in us. A girl in class fourth was being inappropriately touched by her classmate, and she felt not anger, but guilt at his invasion. Why? Who taught her to be guilty? She suffered in silence till she fell sick. Why could she not talk to anyone about it? She knew something was wrong, but what, she had no clue. Perhaps if her teachers or parents had been better sensitized by counselling, or whatever means, it might not have been a dent for life on her psyche. Sensitization. Of parents, peers, police, judiciary, of everyone. It is a long term solution, but perhaps our only bet. What has to be weeded out lies deep within the mind like a tumour. A noose around the neck will just not do the trick.

            At the end, I cannot help but quote Dushyant Kumar in what seems like the most perfect context –

“Sirf hungama khada karna mera maqsad nahi
Meri koshish hai ke soorat badalni chahiye
Mere seene mein nahi toh tere seene mein sahi
Ho kaheen bhi aag lekin aag jalni chahiye.”

Best Of The Written Word from 2012

The world of books has always had a fantastical appeal for me. It is rich, wide, effervescent, dynamic, real, imaginative and so much more. Books are a panacea for troubled souls like me. They are constant companions – on journeys, in college and in bed too. For me, books are also a way to look back at a great year and relive fond periods by remembering the books I read then and how they affected and enriched my thought process. Here, I share with you the best picks of the written word from the year 2012, in two sections. The first of these two sections comprises of my pick of the critically acclaimed books from the past year, and the second section has my favourite five from the popular fiction category. If you missed out on any of these this year, worry not! Procure them still, for the written word does never lose its charm.

Critical Recommendations

Breakout Nations by Ruchir Sharma

In this record-making bestseller, Ruchir Sharma takes his readers on a tour of more than two dozen emerging market economies. Weighing in on economic and political factors, Mr. Sharma addresses the timeless question of what is it that makes some states succeed and others fall. In a very methodical narrative, this book tracks the basic data of these countries to suggest if these states are likely to sustain growth momentum or lose it gradually. It is an intensive book, thoroughly engaging for those with an interest in economics and geopolitics and one of the most read books of this year.

Publisher – Penguin

Price – Rs. 599

Narcopolis by Jeet Thayil

Though criticised for lack of a coherent plot from more than one corner, this book is still high on my list of recommendations. This book not only managed to catch ample amount of international attention, but also realistically took its readers to the darkened alleyways of the drug-culture of Bombay, in a whirlwind commentary of abuse, sex, violence, love and death. There are many who were outright disgusted by the book, others left with mixed feelings. However, there is a great section of literary critics who paint this part cacophony, part symphony – Narcopolis – in glorious words. Not a must buy book, but a must notice book for all.

Publisher – Faber and Faber

Price – Rs. 499

           Joseph Anton by Salman Rushdie

Besides his deft writing, another thing which has given a definitive spurt to Rushdie’s image (and perhaps credibility) as a writer is his infamous tryst with a fatwa. Of all his works, The Satanic Verses is perhaps the most popular – not because people have read it, but because of the controversy which hijacked the literary merit of the book. In Joseph Anton, a biographical account, Rushdie shares his version of the story. And this attempt at telling an honest story is more gripping than most thrillers you would come across.

Publisher – Jonathan Cape

Price – Rs. 799

 Behind The Beautiful Forevers by Katherine Boo

Slumdog Millionaire opened the international audience to the dirt and squalor rampant in India. In her book, the Pulitzer Award winning author, Katherine Boo takes her readers on a microscopic expedition through the same decrepit world. This book centres on a slum called Annawadi, languishing somewhere in the underbelly of Mumbai and narrates the story of Abdul, who has a heart full of hopes and hands full of recyclable trash.

Publisher – Penguin India

Price – Rs. 499

             Return of A King by William Dalrymple

To be honest, I have not read this one. But Dalrymple is the kind of author whose works create buzz even before they hit the market. From the little I have read about the book, via tweets and reviews, this saga of the first Anglo-Afghan war is sure to keep you riveted. It also promises to provide you parallels in the contemporary world of an anachronistic event. Dalrymple has based this book on extensive research and facts gathered from all corners of the world. I am definitely going to lay my hands on this one as soon as I can!

Publisher – Bloomsbury

Price – Rs. 699

The next set of books is my favourite five from among those I received for review in my capacity as a book blogger. I must admit, the kind of talented writers being unearthed by publishing houses in India is incredible. The reading culture is on a high trajectory and so is the publishing industry. Yes, a lot of crap gets churned out in the process, but hey, I am here to pick out few of the better ones for you!

      The Taj Conspiracy by Manreet Sodhi Someshwar

Even before I thought of making this list of the best, I knew this book would be on it! Manreet, a writer of tremendous reckoning, created an indigenous, gender variant of Robert Langdon – named Mehrunisa Khosa – who sets out to unravel a mystery woven around the Taj Mahal. Mehrunisa is a renaissance expert, and is well versed with the legends, facts, and myths surrounding this great monument of love. Find a hint of Ludlum, and sprinkling of Dan Brown, but a thoroughly enjoyable and fresh script of death, deceit, mystery and thrill in this book by Manreet.

Publisher – Westland

Price – Rs. 250

Roll of Honour by Amandeep Sandhu

This is the second novel of author Amandeep Sandhu, and it takes a reader through the rough terrain of perhaps the most violent decade in India’s history since independence. Set against the backdrop of a decade which witnessed gory events including Mrs. Gandhi’s assassination and the consequent anti-Sikh riots, Sandhu narrates the story of Appu, a school prefect entering the senior most year of his military school, and his attempt to come face to face with his identity, his battle to preserve his friendships with friends from other religions amid venomous, vehement and provocative speeches made by his fellows influenced by the ideology of Khalistan. Vivid and hard hitting – the message of this book stays strong with me, months after reading it.

Publisher – Rupa Publications

Price – 275

           Marathon Baba by Girish Kohli

This is perhaps an unlikely entry on this list, but I cannot possibly ignore a book which began entertaining me from its first line and did not stop till the very end. Earmarking itself in the category of ‘kick-ass’ fiction, Marathon Baba, besides being a laugh riot, is an immensely witty and engaging book. What is it about? Well, it is about a man on the run, who has been warned that running is injurious to his health. Rest, I cannot possibly describe this awesome book by Kohli in any fitting words. This is the kind which has to simply be read and enjoyed!

Publisher – Fingerprint

Price – Rs. 150

Asura by Anand Neelkantan

This book is on my list of the best because of the skill, innovation and experimentation of the author, which lent a new hue to our ancient revered epic - Ramayana. Asura is the story of Ravana, his tails, travails, his failings, his ascent to power and his eventual defeat. This book should not be confused to be a mythological treatise – it is a light, intriguing read which fictionalises mythology to develop an easy narrative for entertaining a reader and making him empathise with the Ravana side of the story. I did think the concept of the book had more potential to be exploited. Having said that, this is definitely one of those books I will remember from this year.

Publisher – Leadstart

Price – Rs. 250

      Urban Shots Bright Lights (Edited by Paritosh Uttam)

This book is an anthology of short stories set against the urban landscape of India. It is one of the four books published under the “Urban Shots” series, giving a chance to several promising young writers to have their work published. The collection of stories in Bright Lights was the best of all the four, and I am bound to say it because one of the best short stories I have read in life – called Father of My Son – was its pick of the stories. The stories in this book cut across cultures, across feelings, faces, incidents, musings, recollections, realizations and much else. Few stories attempt to touch, few attempt to teach; but almost all attempt to give you a personalized glimpse into the life of a common, yet unique Indian inhabiting one little corner of the crazy cultural panorama that the Indian landscape is.

Publisher – Westland

Price – Rs. 199

As I always say, let’s make ours a book friendly world.

Have a great book-filled 2013!

Tweet to me at @Saumyakul

Read more of my articles at Scroll360.in

"I Am Ashamed To Be An Indian Today"

It is the first emotional response, but this is what it needs to be. What kind of madness has been put on display outside the Rashtrapati Bhawan in Delhi? The Delhi police is acting like hired goons of the party in power. Tear gas shells and water canons are being unleashed on thousands of young protesters. And what is it that they are demanding? Not money, not jobs, not the sun and moon, but something as basic as protection.

This issue has flared beyond just a sexual assault case. Its an eye opener for the kind of polity we live in. Did someone just call our state a 'mecca' of democracy? I am sorry, our democracy, if anything, is hitting the nadir. Those brutal rapists used rods, and our honorable police force uses lathis - is there any visible difference to boast of?  And yes, the government issues statements asking protesters to maintain peace - those very protesters whose are hurt, both physically and mentally, at the kind of insanity and idiocy the state is treating them with.

Why would Pranab babu not come out? Is he afraid of being lynched or raped? It was never about a rape in the first place. It was about the way we allow the authority figures to trample on the perceived secondary groups in the society. The male dominates and feeds off the female, whom he perceives is nothing but a secondary accessory to him, who is here to satiate his needs. The state walks all over its subjects, thinks of the public as mere roadways to power, whose importance is understood only every five years. For rest of the time, they may rot, cry, suffer - unless their plight can become a political agenda, nothing about them matters.

Mrs. Dixit cried two nights ago on tv. But how could she cry alone? So now, she and her friends in the elite circles of Delhi ensure that the whole city cries with them. Tear gas shells. How does this idea even enter the heads of the police force? Are anyone of the political bandhs treated this way? Will tomorrow parliamentarians who protest and upset the function of the prime organ of democracy be treated the same way? Does the police even know why it exists? To protect PEOPLE. Yes. People. Here, however, a new tamasha, a new definition of the police is being invented. This is a force which protects just the state, the authority figures, the political class against the most vicious threat that they could ever face in life - public out rage. Our police is not longer a civil force. It is a state force. And these are the ones from whom we expect promises of safety. We sure must be a mad lot.

There were no politicians, even from the opposition, who took an immediate stand on the theatre of lunacy being played out on the Rajpath. Now, that is understandable, isn't it? The sons and daughters of India need to be protected, but that can happen only after press statements are cut to perfection, political agendas perfected, game plans initiated and party high command consulted. I heard such authoritarian tactics were employed in the North east and Kashmir region of our country. As a resident of the National Capital Territory of India, who thought her city is capable of being called the best in the world, my heart goes out to all those people who dare to stand up for what is right. Solidarity is the least minimum we can show, and that we will. Tweets are coming in from people associated with the protest, urging people to get out and join them and not let the movement fizzle out. I reiterate, it is not about a single girl falling prey to sexual inclinations of few perverted animals. It is about an entire generation falling prey to delusions of power.

The rape infants. They rape our elders. Now they rape democracy.

Hah. They are protecting themselves against the people who put them there. Theek hai. Galti toh hamaari hi hai.

And Innocence Cried

“Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.” -  Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

            There are subjectivities in life. Subjectivities are not distortions, but beauties which the Creator has lent to this world so that we may enjoy it in myriad ways, with no scope of monotony. Our great misfortune, however, lies in the fact that we standardize life. We think our way of thinking supreme. And once convinced, we seek to impose our way on the rest of the world. One category which always emerges at the receiving end of this order is that of minors. Their innocence breaks our heart, but more often than not, we come across cases where the same innocence, or lack of worldly knowledge and etiquettes, becomes a reason for them being subjected to rigorous and cruel castigation. Corporal punishment, of which we have gotten used to reading in papers, is perhaps the worst way employed to shape a child’s psyche or to do the so called good deed of disciplining him.

            In a leading national daily, I recently read a horrifying account of what the cane-approach to disciplining a child can do. It can lead to his death. Yes. And the death of a child is an enormously saddening loss of potential and possibilities. A stray incident of callousness enraged a hapless child’s father so much that he dealt a quick blow at the back of the child’s tender head. The father, of course, by being a stickler and allowing no room for inconsistencies, was in his way, ‘disciplining’ his child. The only loophole which emerged in the whole exercise was that the child died. At this is the kind of incident which does not gain media mileage like instances of corporal punishment inflicted on students in large public schools do. Mass memory is short lived, yes, but can we really forget those many cases in which a teacher’s short temper led him to physically abuse a child and in the process severely dent his psychological well-being as well?

            Our educational set up follows the dogma of in loco parentis, whereby the school authorities have the same rights over a child as their parents. In a bid to mentor and shape future of children with similar zeal, teachers have been known to use infliction of pain as a tool to make them follow rules absolutely. A slap on the cheek and cane-blows on fists are thought to be miraculous devices which can, with minimum effort, reform a minor and make him a good student all of a sudden. These physical assaults are many a times reflexes of a teacher who prides himself for his no-nonsense attitude. At other times, public shaming is also employed as a pre-meditated and rationalized method to set right what could have in actuality been simple acts of naughtiness. The effects of ignominy are not entirely unknown to school or parental authorities. Rather than reform, they cause a child to withdraw, to be distrustful and to lose faith in himself. Incomplete homework, talking while lecture, inability to answer in class, low scores or committing mischief – any of these can invite severe retributions, disproportionately higher than the supposed ‘crime’. Yes, plain naughtiness or intrinsic incapabilities are crime for today’s students who are expected to ace the break-neck competition with their peers. Besides inflicting obvious punishments, I personally feel it is a great folly on the part of teachers when they establish gradations in their batch of students. Yes, it is good to set examples from within students, but not to the extent that it fosters disharmony and ill-will. There is some talent inherently present in each student; a teacher (and even parents) are responsible for helping their pupil realize and nurture it.

            I was lucky to have studied in one of the best public schools in Delhi, which honored tradition as much as it endeavored to keep pace with the racing times. I, personally, have not witnessed any incident where my teachers resorted to corporal punishment of any sort to ensure compliance. In fact, my school was the kind where talents were given a fecund climate to prosper and each child identified for his merit. However, I have known friends whose teachers have left no stone unturned to make them feel like they are a liability on this planet. I also know parents for whom red chilli paste is the formula for ensuring highest grades. At other places, in the name of tradition, students/minors are not allowed to embrace changing weather of the day. They are curbed, controlled, shamed and two firm deductions which I can draw from all the above is –

1.       Using reprimands, coercion, imposition, control, etc as devices to curb students from treading down the road deemed harmful for them is almost like making sure they go there. Nascent brains are supple and obdurate at the same time. Yes, they can be and should be molded, but putting them under sudden pressure just makes them go on the defensive, eventually closing them to any contradictory (and right) opinions.

2.       Even when he indulges in a wrongful deed, for once trying to understand why a child did it, using forgiveness in place of rebukes opens up an opportunity for an elder to mentor him for better actions in the future. When he sees concern and not anger, a young adult would feel secure, and then not just listen to your advice, but may be seek it too.

            This is not to say that elders are always right, but as far as I go, I feel they have an exclusive responsibility towards understanding the psyche of the generation they are nurturing towards maturity. A child can do wrong. He will do wrong. He has to do wrong – otherwise, how will he learn, grow and mature? 

Are you all aware of a helpline (1098) dedicated to protecting children against abuse, which includes harassment by his teacher? And here I was thinking that it is school is supposed to be that protective environment in which a child may explore his infinite possibilities. Ironical, isn’t it?

A child has often been likened to clay. He is like putty which bears and impression of everything it comes in touch with. He sees and observes and derives conclusions for himself. He trusts easily; but when chastised without explanation he can be confused and disoriented and can end up hating the very forces which are in a position to shape his future. The impressions a child’s mind forms in his early years of life are carried on throughout life. They go on to shape the person he eventually becomes. The responsibility on the shoulders of parents, thus, is superlative. This responsibility is not to control – which is what it is mostly misconstrued as – but to allow blossoming of a child’s potential. Given the present scenario, I do not think it is a child, but his mentors who need to be set right. 

(Originally written for Scroll360.in )