Rat Stories

This morning there was a rat in my kitchen. Until last night s/he was free to roam and break my 'Thought For The Day' coffee cups with impunity but now s/he was occupying a well ventilated 1 BHK trap in a corner. We both waited for release.
But, wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.

The first time a rat visited a house I was solely in charge of, was in 2014. At the time, I was flush with the privileges of my birth and didn't want to engage with the rat issue (the way some people "just don't believe in politics"). But when there is no one else to prevent your home from becoming a cesspool of vermin, one grows up well before their time (or right on time, if you, like me, are in your mid to late thirties). The rat was in my house and so was I. We were alone together.

Back then, it seems like a lifetime ago, I opted for bars of sweet-smelling rat poison. "Ghar ke baahar martey hain" seemed like the ideal final situation. I didn't stop to think about the violence of it all (someone once told me, "You eat meat. Don't pretend to be against murder" so I shrugged in agreement and from that day on, became a dangerous assassin). The poison worked well that first year and I didn't stress about rats anymore.

In the second year, I found a rodent skeleton in the nether regions of a cabinet that I'd just removed from storage after 3 months. The skeleton and I stared back in horror at each other. I couldn't believe I had to deal it with myself. So I got myself a boyfriend (well, ok, the boyfriend already existed. He just happened to be in the house when the body was discovered). He came from a chaste upper-caste family and I could tell that extracting rat skeletons didn't jive with his vibe. So I wrapped a plastic bag around my hand and went in. And I mean all in. Because even though its little ratty soul had left its body, the body refused to unstick itself from the bottom of the drawer. Ladies and gentlemen, I tugged.

Have you ever tugged at the mortal remains of a once-alive-with-hopes-&-dreams thing? I don't recommend it one bit. It puts you off your grub forever (yet somehow your weight keeps increasing). Once the body was disposed of, the boyfriend decided to overcome his yukkies and helped me clean the cabinet. He received a medal of valour that day. Then we broke up. Despite this, the rodents kept visiting.

By now, social media had grown me a conscience and I decided that I could no longer kill rats, who bore no ill will towards me. I had to trap and release them like a compassionate Buddha (who ate meat by the way so shut up). This went against every ethic held by the entitled shit that lived inside me. She argued - why do I have to be brave all the time? Why do I have to be the one who cleans the toilet every single time? Why do I have to put all my hard earned money into house rent? The answer came swiftly from the annoyingly-smart-lady in my head - because you live alone and get to eat whole blocks of cheese without sharing.

2017 was a new dawn. The monsoons arrived and with it, a new rodent. This time it was caught not by the noise it made in the kitchen, but was felled by its unfortunate taste in pop music. One morning I was listening to whatever Apple Music tells me I like and Ed Sheeran came on. As he warbled about loving the shape of me (stay tuned for the remix version 'Shape Of You - Time To Go On A Diet') a tiny rat nose peeked from behind the speakers. I saw it but didn't scream. I mean, how can you get scared by a rat who's clearly gettin' its groove on (or, if it's like the ex, getting off on vibrating surfaces). We waited for Sheeran to fade out and then I yelled. It ran. I set a trap that very evening before I left for my walk.

One of the most under-reported benefits of cardio exercise is the courage it gives you to deal with vermin. When I returned from my jaunt I was practically reeking of irrational bravado. I opened the front door, saw the president of Sheeran's fan club trapped in my aluminium cage and right there decided that I was Sparta. I invoked the memory of my father (he's not dead, he just lives in a different house) as he'd set out on muggy evenings like this, trap in tow, off to look for shrubbery at a safe enough distance so the rat couldn't return.

The rat and I went for a walk. Along the way, we met folks from the building who cheered me on with "Oh. Rat?" and "Ohohoho." Many gave us wide berth as they saw us approach (was it the rat or was it my unmarried-at-38 status? We will never know). I made it to a barren spot of land outside the colony. I opened the cage door and waited. The rat refused to leave. It didn't trust me and I couldn't blame it. It sat in the trap as I made hrrummpphing noises. Then I begged "Please rat, please go. I'm trying to be nice." Never underestimate the power of good manners. The rat bid me adieu and scampered off.

Which brings me to this morning. I woke at 4.30 am knowing there was a rat in a cage in the kitchen, where my breakfast also lives. But I felt none of the bravado of last time. It must be PMS I thought, sorely disappointed with myself. Stop being an ass that rat is more terrified than you you've done this before imagine people who kill rats with their bare hands your privilege (or is it patriarchy?) has ruined you you can't even carry out the basic acts of survival. For some strange reason, I put on an oven mitt and changed from my shorts into a salwar. That didn't help. I still didn't want to engage. Meanwhile the rat was getting restless. It must have been tired and scared and was probably regretting taking that gap year to go see the world. I had to make a decision.

I decided to wait for the young man who collects the garbage. No, how could I? Wasn't that terribly exploitative? I will pay him. Yeah still doesn't make it better. I will request him nicely and if he refuses I will be okay with it. Acceptable, you phuddu. From 5am till 8.30 I hung by the door like never before (wondering when I will stop waiting for men like this and just get on with my life). At last, he appeared with his sunshiny happy face.
'Psst'
'Hello?'
'Hello hello. Kaise hain?'
'Good?'
'Accha aapse kucch kaam thha. Aap manaa kar sakte ho. Mai pehle bhi kar chuki hoon lekin aaj bahut darr lag raha hai. Matlab pataa nahi kyun wohi cheez jo pehle daraati nahi thhi aaj dara rahi hai. Kabhi aapke saath aisa hua hai?'

'...... kooda hai?'
'Hahn. Lekin, ek second andar aiye...?'

In an instant he went from sunshiny happy to 'am I going to be murdered by a dangerous assassin?' and I realised I needed to get to the point quickly. I confessed about the rat. I confessed my inadequacy. His face relaxed and the smile returned. Show me the rat, he said and strode into my kitchen. With a gallant sweep of un-mittened hand he scooped up the trap and exited the premises, my grateful cries of 'ghar se door chhodna....' trailing behind him.

I returned to the kitchen to sweep up the debris of nibbled bread and rat poop. There was an air of lingering rodent in the air (Not literally. Like relationships, rats don't stink until they're dead). There was this feeling of having shared this space with an unwelcome roommate, now gone. The relief was yet to set in, I knew it would take some time. I felt nauseous and defeated, most un-spartan. I was grateful for the young man who helped me but also ashamed of my cowardice.

Then the phone rang. It was the rat. Calling to tell me, in a hissing voice, "you can't get rid of me so easily...you know I'll be backkkk....sssss".
No it wasn't. It was my mother. When I told her this story she got impatient and said, "Shut up. You think too much. We used to get rid of rats all the time. Besides, rats don't hiss."

We Are All A Little Yo Yo

So this happened on Twitter last night:

Nothing more beautiful than a woman who doesn't care if she's looking beautiful.
— Oculus (@daddy_san) January 24, 2014

Following which the gentleman tweeter faced a fair bit of ire from a section of the Indian female population on Twitter.

And that's where the politically correct part of this post ends.
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My first impression when I read the tweet was discomfort, like an itch you can't track the source of, that has you scratching the back of your left leg when the itchiness is being felt in your right ear.

So I stared at the tweet some more. This came to me:

We all know how problematic this is. I mean, I wish they'd just COMB THEIR HAIR!

So anyway, I thought some more.

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I have never been 'beautiful' (except in a Maya Angelou/ My Mama Thinks I'm Beautiful kinda way). Therefore, I have pretty much always cared.

I have always cared because I have seen the more beautiful girls get advantages I never could, in spite of my sparkling personality and dazzling wit.

(Sidebar: Conversly, because of my sparkling personality and dazzling wit, I have had advantages that beautiful girls haven't - like a chance for someone to get to know me, a chance to be appreciated for who I am rather than what I look like.)

Inside me, live two people (well...more...but I'm only bringing two to the table).
There is a 13yr old fat girl who is trying SO hard to be validated by men because everything she's ever been surrounded by has informed her that men have the final word in how she measures her worth. Sure, she will also learn that getting a good job and having her own independent thoughts makes her valuable, but by and large she's figured out that she is not quite 'right' unless a guy tells her so.

Sucks coz guys never really end up telling her so.

What they do say is: she's too fat, she's too dark, they wish she'd dress up better, show her cleavage off more, trim her eyebrows, show her cleavage off less, grow her hair, wax her moustache, join a gym, smoke less, be cool and share a smoke.

Of course, they are stating a preference and what kind of a world do we want to live in if we can't let a human being state a preference? Besides, us women appreciate beauty too, don't we?

  This Guy Vs. That Guy

I digress.

Point is, I wish this preference would be just that: a preference in a world of infinite choices. Just an opinion. Unfortunately, the 13yr old fat girl living inside has come to understand it as a form of 'quality control'. In fact, it's all so messed up that she can no longer tell the difference between a preference and QC.

Now, this pisses the 34yr old woman off. She thinks: I'm not an object dammit. I'm not on some assembly line! My whole is bigger and more complex than the sum of my parts. And 'preference'? Like seriously? There's no such thing as a preference anymore. You can sugarcoat the opinions all you like, boys & girls, but it will always be a bit like saying: "It's just that I don't like when a Dalit drinks from my well. Am I stopping her from going to Venkatachallapthyrajulu's watering hole? Hell no! Am I telling her not to hydrate herself? Hell-er no!"

Here's my politics (which, as we all know, is always personal): A 13yr old confused fat girl, who's been dealt with cruelly a LOT. And a pissed off 34yr old who has no patience for anyone telling her what constitutes 'beautiful'.

Even if that definition of beautiful implies not caring about being beautiful: like piling on truckloads of 'natural' makeup to look like you just fell out of bed.

So here's my two cents, fellas. Perhaps there will be a time in the future where we will not be asked to take a magnifying glass to each definition of female beauty. But today is not that day.

And I know it sucks, but if you could, just take a hit. Take one for the team.

******

Also read: Dark Spots and Confessions for a more nuanced explanation of the itch I was trying to scratch.

Doses of Reality

'Lincoln' is Steven Spielberg's take on the weeks preceding the passing of the 13th Amendment in 1865. It's not really about Abraham Lincoln. At least it wasn't for me. 

After following & participating in the recent wave of women's rights protests that have taken over India (especially in my hometown, Delhi), I was taking furious mental notes as I watched.

 

The film traces that magical climactic moment (well, one of them - no social change happens in one fell swoop) in a movement where idealism, popular(ish) opinion, doggedness, strategy, corruption and plain blind luck converge and allow society to take a historic leap forward. 'Lincoln' does a superb job of laying out the nuances of a freedom struggle taken to its logical conclusion and it's not all romantic.

It's long-drawn out, confusing and makes men & women do things that are surprisingly proper and improper. People die. Not everyone who contributes to social change necessarily believes in it or understands it wholly. Not everyone backs it for the 'right' reasons. Yet, there is an unyielding thread of noble intention that runs through it all, tying it together.

Strangely though, in 'Lincoln' there's precious little screen time spent on the oppressed themselves. There's no mention of the Black abolitionist movement and in a story that's about emancipation from slavery, there are barely any African American faces through the nearly 3 hour film. It's an intriguing choice for a filmmaker whose earlier work includes the hard-hitting & uplifting 'Amistad'.

Which, for me, drives home the point that social change doesn't happen simply because the oppressed are ready to rise up and demand better. It happens when they become loud & persistent enough to turn the minds of the powerful majority and it happens when the oppressive institution becomes outdated or irrelevant. In that sense, 'Lincoln' really is about that point in history when the most powerful (white) men in America decided that slavery was something they were now willing to do without. It's about their moment of transcendence, not the African Americans'.

(And while we're at it: Am I allowed to use the word 'black'? Is it PC?)

(Also, Tommy Lee Jones as Thaddeus Stevens is pure genius.)

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Earlier this week, on a cold & miserable Monday there was a call for protesters to collect at Jantar Mantar in Delhi to oppose the Anti Rape Ordinance signed that morning by the president. It was a hastily organized, last minute gathering and presumably because it had been raining all night & was a Monday, attendance was very low. It was a crowd of usual suspects from the two universities that have so far driven much of the protests.

Once again, there were powerful speeches made, mostly clearing up confusion about why the ordinance was objectionable and how the government had (mis)used the JVC recommendations to offer an attractive but empty package to appease the public. Even more terrifying was the prospect of how easily the ordinance might be used against women. It was a spectacular betrayal by the government I'd voted into power & whose salaries I paid with my taxes.

This was an important moment in my fledgling career as the angry oppressed. 

It made me truly empathise with the millions of Indians who live in the shadow of injustice and aren't guaranteed their rights just because they demand it. It was a necessary wake-up call: We were now firmly tangled in the web of politics. What we'd imagined were basic inalienable human rights were playthings in a bizarre political game. The whole affair was like having ones head shoved into a bucket of ice-cold water and being shocked out of a naive stupor.

It is one thing to know injustice exists, quite another to experience it. I recommend everyone try it at least once in their lives.

(In other news, I can't be sure but I may have become a 'comrade'.)

This guy (holding the mic) had been at Jantar Mantar for 42 days (and counting). He was more distressed than any woman at any protest there. And while many were distancing themselves from his loud rants, his message was unique: "We are all unsafe," he kept repeating, "It's not just the women, even the men are unsafe!!"

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This past week I also experimented with a different kind of campaign for gender justice. It was at a gathering for the spiritually inclined (I'm a bewildered fence-sitter). The group leaders were 'seers' who would help us collectively heal the community through visualization techniques (I had to imagine my brain was caught up in a rainbow-coloured inferno).

They explained how the sorry state of affairs in the country represented a spiritual breakdown, where we had become disconnected with the Source - the energy that connects us all as one. By reconnecting with this source, we could not only maximize our potential but in effect, transform society. So far, so good.

Then they explained how science had proven it by locating the God Particle i.e. the Higgs boson, inside each human cell, where it was busy connecting us to God, like a divine SIM card. (They also implied that science had proven we could change our DNA in our lifetime. Has it? If you got the memo, do pass it along.)

After that, pretty much all my chakras shut shop and I gave up on trying to spiritually heal my nation.

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Tonight, I've returned from the book launch of 'Seeing Like A Feminist' by Nivedita Menon.

 

When I was 19, I took Menon's Pol Sci class in college and she'd rocked my world. 

None of us had elected to specifically take her class. We were all majoring in other subjects and required this to pass our exams. But once there, many of us were rivetted. 

Before her, I'd never known what a feminist was. I'd never realized there was a better world to aspire for: one in which my being a female was synonymous with freedom.

She had a light (no, not 'light', as someone at tonight's launch said: 'weightless') way of explaining the most complex ideas in feminism, ideas that challenged the status quo and also, us. 

She'd routinely find ways to nudge us outside our comfort zones. She had a laconic sense of humour and could spot bullshit from a mile away.

From what I gathered today, her book is the same. 'Oddly cheerful' as she described herself and her writing. If that's the case, I can't wait to get started.

(The book launch started with a few words marking the execution of Afzal Guru. Thus I learnt that feminism is fundamentally opposed to the idea of capital punishment. What a relief.)

State of The Union

I have Jonny Lee Miller on my TV as Eli Stone.
During commercial break I have Jonny Lee Miller on my computer as Sherlock Holmes.
In between, I google Jonny Lee Miller to see who Jonny Lee Miller is.
And somewhere Jonny Lee Miller weeps for the best years of his adult life he spent honing his craft.

The Business of Acting: Serious Bloody Thing

Kya Picchar Hai, Baap!

Disclaimer: I am currently in the process of educating myself on the subject of social responsibility & the artist by googling 'Social Responsibility & The Artist'. Until then, below are my thoughts.

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A couple of years ago, I joined Bollywood in its outrage against then health minister, A. Ramadoss, who tried valiantly to get Indian courts to uphold a ban against showing smoking & drinking in films and on TV. I believed wholeheartedly in the idea that art's 'job' (if there is such a thing) is to reflect the world we live in, not tell the world how it should be. (I'm very allergic to the word 'should' and am currently on steroids to deal with the matter). A. Ramadoss became a joke, an object of revulsion even. He was The Man and we had to band together and fight against The Man.

Perhaps the fact that I enjoyed my whiskey & occassional smoke had something to do with this.

Then in the last few weeks, two film experiences made me do a full BJP-style, double-standard turnaround. Both films also came closely timed with horrible incidents of criminality that have outraged & horrified the general public. One film made me plain mad. The other made me confused.

The first was Cocktail, over which I have expressed great anguish on Twitter and this blog. First, and importantly, purely as a cinema goer, I was thoroughly bored by it. At one point in the film, someone got hit by a car, making it the only redeeming moment in a dull screenplay (that the victim did not die, was a severe disappointment). This complete disdain, then, facilitated my righteous rage about the stereotypes it perpetuated. At first, these stereotypes were simply annoying (read: Spot The Slut if you haven't already). But after the Guwahati incident, they went from being simply annoying to dangerous.

What took me from a state of being offended to scared was this: The film is marketed and packaged as a hip, young, cool & progressive story of love and friendship that is actually built on highly regressive values. Dressed up all nice and fancy, it's difficult to notice what a sexist, lecherous & frustrated douchebag Saif Ali Khan's character is or what a potentially powerful and moving character, Deepika Padukone's could've been in spite of being scantily clad. I saw an instant connect between the values exhibited in the film and the terrible acts committed in Guwahati. I'll admit, I wished the film had never been made.

Perhaps the fact that I hated the movie and not just its politics had something to do with this.

Last evening I watched 'The Dark Knight Rises' and from the first frame I was hooked. Purely, as a cinema goer, I thought the grammar & symmetry of how its characters, technology, writing, cinematography & editing came together made it a fantastic experience I wouldn't have wanted to miss. Then came the first big shootout scene and I looked away from the screen, towards the exit doors of the cinema hall. "Was this the scene, where Holmes came in on those unsuspecting people in Aurora?" I thought. I quickly banished the idea and turned back to the movie. But how does one turn back from that? How does one disregard the glamorously brandished automatic weapons in the scene, the sexiness of the deranged bad guy? Or not wonder if one is losing ones mind? 

What made me feel torn between the two states of exhiliration & morbid terror was this: The film skirted dangerously between fantasy & psycho-social reality (in fact all Nolan-directed Batman films do). I am used to comic superheroes being exaggerated characters in exaggerated situations (perhaps created as a reaction to prevalent social issues of their time...Who knows? That's my next topic to google.). When I walk away from George Clooney's Batman, it's simple for me to distinguish between him and the real people I meet in the world. 

But the Nolan films aren't content to remain in fantasy land - at least not psychologically, socially or politically. For me, the lines often got too blurry, too rapidly. Maniacal characters like Bane (and the Joker) weren't just comic villains - but people with subtexts & stories I could relate to all too easily. If I were just that much more insane than I am, would I have wanted to emulate them? So I'll admit, even though I enjoyed the film thoroughly, I wish it had never been made.

I still don't know where I stand on holding art responsible for triggering society's ills. Through all my ire at Cocktail or discomfort with The Dark Knight Rises, I have never called for curtailing the rights of either filmmaker to create what they want. If I have a serious issue with them, I would rather bitch, moan, blog, tweet and text all my friends not to see the films. The idea of blanket bans makes me uncomfortable, because so much of who I am today is informed by art that's considered dangerous by someone else. At the same time, I've experienced the double-standards of my own subjective impulses to accept one artistic piece as admirable and the other, not.

So am I looking to unleash my inner A. Ramadoss on anyone? Not any time soon.

But here's what niggles at me: Perhaps the fact that I'm neither that girl in Guwahati, nor an unfortunate victim trapped in a cinema hall in Aurora, has something to do with it. 

http://missioneuropakmartell.wordpress.com/2010/09/10/hate-crime-vs-art/

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Read also: Stupid For Art by Mark Mann

Scientists Say The Darndest Things

In my few interactions with science folk across India, I've come to have deep respect for their work...and for their kinky sense of humour. Not all scientists are funny, but when they are, they can be delightfully dark.

I met up with a biomedical engineer whose artificial heart pump is designed to assist the left ventricle in doing its business. Unlike the heart, which is a pulsating pump, this one is centrifugal & continuous in nature. It's a nifty little titanium rotor device that ensures a steady flow of blood at all times.

Very seriously, the engineer tells us about extensive studies that suggest that continuous flow of blood through the body does not create any major differences in physiology as compared to a pulsating flow.

Suddenly his face softens, his eyes crinkle and his mouth widens into a spectacular grin.

"Wonly wone thing izzzthere...vether sleepingor DEDD, vee vill naat know. No pulse izzzthere wonly! Hahahahaa..."

I can't tell if she's alive. Quick, someone check her Facebook.

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There was also the case of the delightful elevator music at ISRO's headquarters.

On Serious Pursuits Like Science And Such

Over the last 3 weeks, I've had the most amazing, life-altering experiences that I can't possibly encapsulate in this space. My work has taken me across some of India's most exciting science labs and research facilities. I've met dynamic scientists, engineers and thinkers - many at the top of their game not just in India but globally - who have generously shared their time, energy and wisdom dumbing down their science for me to understand. It is an unparalleled privilege and I'm still recovering.

The following are my observations from these visits & encounters.

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The Story We Forgot To Tell 

I'm old enough to remember a time when our list of national heroes included people of science like S. Chandrasekhar, Homi Bhabha and even Rakesh Sharma. Somewhere along the way the number of heroes began to dwindle until we were left with our standard go-to-guy, A.P.J. Abdul Kalam, whom we'd summon every time we wanted to prove we were an intellectual race. Today's newspapers are filled with articles from The Guardian and the New York Times extolling the latest advances made in Western science and it would appear that Indian science has flatlined.

When did we stop doing any science of worth? Turns out, not ever.

Did you know that we have one of the world's most sophisticated and sensitive radio telescopes in our own backyard, which our astronomers are using to understand how galaxies are formed? (One PhD student I met was using it to hunt for aliens. For real.) 

Did you know that Indians are an integral part of the LHC experiments at CERN? (Wanna hunt for the Higgs-Boson particle? Good luck doing it without Indian-made detectors.)

Did you know that Indians were the first to detect atmospheric neutrinos way back in the 1960's and that the world's largest magnet will be used in an underground observatory being built just to study neutrinos? (Did you also know you could 'Like' its page on Facebook?)

Did you know that Indian biomedical engineers have created a low cost cardiac device that's brought down global prices hiked by international biotech corporations, allowing the poorest of the poor to have access to life-saving heart valves?

Did you know that in a few years, we'll be setting up our own observatory in space to study the Sun's corona?

Did you know that it is now possible for Indians to make a good living researching the flight mechanisms of insects or discovering how memories are made?

Did you know that in the last 5-10 years, various Indian governments have pumped good money into science and technology research, the results of which are now beginning to show?

Did you know that as the West protected its own interests by keeping some of its most sensitive science & engineering methodologies under wraps, our chaps went about developing their own funky instruments and techniques (and not just to build missiles either).

Did you? Because I sure as heck didn't. If anything, my ignorance was astounding - and as tremendous as the excitement I was sensing as I traveled from one research institute to another. These were not grumpy, snobbish or cynical scientists I was meeting. This was a whole other breed...

Indian Science Is Sexy

Yes, you heard me. Indian science is sexy. First, the best of it is being done in places that look like this:

This used to be, like, a palace. For, like, a king.

....and this:

Those white things in the water aren't polythene junk, they're ducks

Second, Indian scientists seem happy. They look well-fed and well-clothed. Some of them even work out. They have cars and smartphones and a childlike enthusiasm of those who're in love with their jobs and can't believe they get paid for it. Their (extremely fancy & very well-equipped) labs are their playgrounds and they're using them to build some pretty snazzy sand castles.

But the real reason I found the scientists I met sexy is because they're fun and they want to hang out with us. It may not have been so a few decades ago ("Indian science used to be very Brahminical..." I was told) but today it's different. Many want to talk about their science and tell us how they're spending our tax money to discover and create wonderful things. They want to let us into fascinating worlds where brain cells switch on & off like LEDs and things are present & absent at the same time. They're throwing open their doors to us - regardless of who we are, where we come from, how much money we have or what caste/ religion we are.

In short: It's a great time to be a nerd. What we need now is for the nerd to be heard.

Make Some Noise For Indian Science

As a card carrying member of the media, I am drawn into many discussions about the state of science communication in the country in the course of my travel. Each tale carries untold horror: from misrepresentation (in one misguided article in a popular current affairs magazine, a cell biologist working on how cell membranes work was celebrated as the man who'd found the cure to AIDS) to being outright ignored. While Arnab is busy yelling down Suhel Seth, these folks are left wondering why we couldn't sneak a single 3-minute science story into a 24 hr news cycle. 

I tell them I hold them equally responsible for this complete breakdown in communication. I cite examples of Carl Sagan and Richard Feynman who did more for mainstreaming scientific thought than anyone from the press. They nod their heads in agreement and pledge co-operation if we could just give them the platform. We conclude that both the scientific community and the Indian media need an attitude adjustment. After a particularly energetic exchange with an astronomer, we both slump back into our seats, destroyed by the irony of an Arts major (me) being the only person left in TV, who gives a damn about this man's work. We speak in idealist tongues but the truth is more complex than we have courage to accept or ability to comprehend.

The Afterglow

Back from this most epic trip, I find my world view changing. Every new thought is now visualized as a string of neural fairy-lights in my hippocampus. When I look up at the night sky, I'm thinking of how I'm looking not just into the distance but also into the past. Even that ridiculous ad for Sunsilk Shampoo thrills me because I now understand how its nanoparticles are great for my hair. Knowing how things work hasn't taken away the romance, it's enhanced it. Everything is magic now and I'm completely sold.

The GMRT outside Pune: Standing beneath these beautiful antennae, wondering which galaxy, star or planet they're currently eavesdropping on, is pure, distilled joy.

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I strongly recommend that you read the comments section of this blog, which provides deeper insight into the Indian science community in a way this post cannot.

Here's To The Asshole In All Of Us

...or maybe just the one in me.

December's not been very kind. I've had one health related mishap after another. First my back gave out on me. Then, a mysterious illness that had my mom sticking needles in my bum (it's ok, she's a doctor), a Masterchef-inspired finger massacre with a butcher's knife and finally a sprained wrist caused due to incorrect techniques employed in hooking a bra. I tried gaining perspective on my troubles by reading Christopher Reeve's autobiography 'Still Me' but since physical setbacks don't frequently occur in my life, suffice it to say, I was not a happy camper.

Of course there was the discomfort. But I was also frustrated because every evening I spent in bed was an evening not spent outside. I'm not a terribly physical person (by which I mean, I'm a sloth) but I do love walking. Summers, terrible as they are in Delhi, aren't feasible for long walks. So each winter day is extremely precious.

(The above is a prologue that, I'm hoping, will justify the upcoming telling of my assholey-ness.)

I didn't wait for the back to heal. I did a pilates class with a friend, experienced temporary relief and decided I was cured. A few evenings ago, I hobbled across to the colony's walking track and began a gentle round. Within minutes an elderly gentleman caught up from behind. He must've been in his 80's and was quite sprightly. As we walked shoulder to shoulder, he smiled at me. I smiled back but inside I was seething. The old guy hadn't just caught up, but would soon overtake me. What was that? A pity smile?! I pressed my aching bones into action and made a few feeble attempts to increase my pace. It was tragic, really.

For about five minutes, I pretended to be in a race with the gentleman, who by now had decoded my insanity. He wasn't looking for competition, he was just out for a walk. Now here was this crazy lady trying to out-walk him. There was a bit of a dance, a dialogue without words as our respective speeds did the talking. At some point the wiser one (not me) prevailed and he began peeling off to the right as I veered left. Unfortunately for him, in order to successfully complete this maneuver we'd both have to cross each other.

I should've let him pass but I was still raging in my mind. So I decided to turn left before he could turn right and cut him off sharply. In trying to avoid a collision, he stumbled slightly, then regained his step. As I sped away, like a renegade Salman Khan after mowing down innocents, I looked back shamefaced & mouthed an apology. The octogenarian, who'd reverted to his nimble stride, gave me the kindest 'It's ok, don't worry about it' grin.

This was hardly the first time I'd been an asshole. This summer something weird happened. Something shifted the value system I'd built carefully over the years. A situation presented itself & I wanted to be an asshole. I wanted to be selfish & uncaring. I no longer wished to see the larger picture. I was in full control of my mental faculties. I made a decision to be bad.
The joke was - I did unto others as I'd had done unto me (which had then undone me for a long time). I did the same thing. It was a decision, cold & calculated.

What made me do it? A sense of entitlement that I'd earned the right to be bad after years of being good. Or maybe, I got too impatient with internal debates. Perhaps I thought - 'If I could survive that, others would survive this.' I was definitely greedy.
I deluded myself into thinking that the past justified my present. It was a scary moment and in many ways it burst my little bubble of moral uprightness. Once the bubble burst, I had to question everything I'd been so sure about. If I wasn't good then what was I really? Suddenly words like 'sensible', 'silly', 'intelligent', 'dimwitted', 'honest', 'cruel', & 'thoughtful' seemed too lofty. They needed to be broken down into terms that were less loaded.

So in the spirit of keeping things simple and hoping I don't go rogue again, it's important to say this: I'm a woman who likes to trip up old men to feel better about her trivial problems.
I'm an asshole but I promise I'm trying not to be.

    

Teen Behenein: A Review of the Reviewers

Last evening I attended a film screening at the School of Arts & Aesthetics at the Jawaharlal Nehru University in Delhi. The film was Kundan Shah's 'Teen Behenein' (completed in 2005, not seen in theatres till date) travelling the country in its DVD avatar with Chief Associate Director Shekhar Hattangadi. It is thematically rooted in the dowry-related triple suicides in 1988 Kanpur, when three sisters decided to end their lives to save their parents the burden of getting them married off. (The filmmakers are at pains to clarify that this is not a biographical representation of the tragedy. The incident only serves as a take-off point for what is most certainly fiction.)
Cinematically, it's a simply treated film with its share of flaws that other reviewers have described better than I could. As for me, I found it extremely well researched and nuanced in terms of the characters' dilemma, their inner workings and the societal pressures they eventually succumb to.

It wasn't an easy film to watch. I'm one of two sisters fortunate to have been born to people who were excited to have us. (My doctor mother would tell us stories of her patients asking, "Only two daughters? No sons?" Then she'd proudly re-enact the feminist lectures she'd give them.) Growing up, my parents were focused on us getting degrees, building a profession and being financially independent. At no point was marriage the sole purpose of our existence, at no point was getting us married, theirs. Still, the film made me uncomfortable - but for a twist of fate, my sister & I could just as well been the siblings in Teen Behenein.

I was riveted. It brought back memories from when I was 9 yrs old and saw the front-page photograph of three hanging girls - such young girls too - and thinking: what would make you so miserable that you'd want to do that? The film laid it all bare in stunning and painful detail.

Then someone in the audience giggled. Her laughter caught on and soon her friends were giggling too. I can't claim to know what they found so funny but was taken aback by how different our viewing experiences were. Once the screening was over, the floor opened up to questions & comments. No one was curious about the characters or the story (or even the process of arriving at that particular cinematic treatment) but there were plenty of comments - some felt the film had a 'narrow' perspective because the girls had no aspirations besides marriage & that dowry was too trivial a matter to elicit suicidal decisions.  Some commented on how showing the sisters deriving strength from praying to Krishna was too 'romantic' and 'took away from the seriousness of the issue'. Other commenters, Shekhar told me later, took offense at the portrayal of educated young women, who 'gave in so easily'. 'Feminists', Shekhar said, were amongst the least impressed with Teen Behenein's story.

To me, their comments indicated a fundamental disconnect with the reality that countless Indian women live out every single day. It is a hard fact that, like in the film, many women are brought up to think they are mistakes, that they are the sole cause of their parents' unhappiness. (Like in the film, it is also hard fact that these women are often highly educated.) It's fact that these women derive their sense of belonging from their marriage-worthiness. Fact that they don't see education as a stepping stone to emancipation. Fact that they do not define emancipation the way I do. Fact that some of them subvert their identities to such an extent that, like the eldest sister in the film, they believe even their dreams don't belong to them.

Earlier this year, while researching reproductive health issues I interviewed a bunch of young married girls, ironically, in Kanpur. Many were college graduates yet couldn't speak to me directly. Every time they tried, their mothers in law would answer on their behalf.
They were all aware of the contraception options available (even the newly introduced 'injection' method that I'd been blissfully unaware of until I took on the project), the risks involved and the procedures they could get done. Most of them had no desire for more children, yet were unwilling to practice anything besides the most traditional (and largely ineffective) methods.
"Why?" I asked incredulously.
"Because." They answered. Just that - because.
Their mothers-in-law glared at me for asking such questions. I knew then that these girls had handed over complete control of their bodies to someone else. When I asked one 21 yr old girl with 3 children, what she was hoping would prevent another conception, she said: "Krishan bhagwan hai na."

Of course, I'm fortunate to have this perspective largely thanks to where my job takes me and I can't speak for the experiences viewers in yesterday's audience have had. But it upsets me that they refused to validate the Teen Behenein sisters' story as plausible (or that they accused the filmmakers of projecting an inaccurate picture of reality). It upsets me that some of the most privileged members of the audience thought the story was either so unreal that it was funny, or told so badly told that it misrepresented Indian women. Most of all, it scares me how blind our privileges have made us to how close we've all come to being one of the Teen Behenein.

But for a twist of fate it could have all been so different.

Boating in Kanpur

It is early morning and we find ourselves in the middle of the Ganga. We haven't had breakfast yet and our stomachs churn with every inch we gain rowing upstream.
Tiwariji, whose oil-slick of a hairdo violates my nostrils, sits two inches away from me. He has been sure to take a sip of the holy water before getting on.
We pass temple after temple along the ghats. Turn up the volume on your amplified bhajans. I don't think the gods can hear you yet. 
The stench gets worse.
"Chaliyega wahaan?" the boatman asks.
"Le chaliye, na."

With every slap of the oar, we are splashed by the Ganga; a putrid mess of untreated sewage. Organic waste, decomposed human & animal remains, chromium, arsenic and the always-in-ample-supply human excreta.
There is a man on the banks angling for fish. And now we can hear sounds of a waterfall...

Kanpur is taking a massive dump in the river Ganga and we have front row tickets to the show. The crows in the box seats are having a field day. The smell of human waste is unbearable and it's all one can do to not gag.
"Yehaan pehle bahut saara soos rahta thha..." says our boatman. 'Soos' or the Gangetic River Dolphin.
"Aur paas chalein?"
"Nahi, theek hai."

We're making bad jokes now:
Holy crap. We're in deep shit. We're up shit creek with shitty paddles.
Ganga hamaari maata hai/ Mooth humaari khaata hai.
The boat turns and the boatman stops rowing. The current will carry us back to Parmat Ghat. It will then courier the toxic sludge downstream to Allahabad and beyond.
"Don't ever drink anything but bottled mineral water in Kanpur," someone says from the back.
Tiwariji points to the floodplains on the other bank. They're growing watermelons there. Reminder to self: Don't ever eat the watermelons in Kanpur."
Try not to go to the bathroom in Kanpur. Try not to die here either.

At Bangla Ghat, we breathe in the heavy air of our colonial past. The British drainage system in Kanpur was visionary, yes, but we've taken it from strength to strength, getting creative in adding newer effluents to this poisonous legacy.
Oh look, a decaying calf floats by. Baby cow, not human.

Time to head back.
Tiwariji disembarks first. He bends down, scoops up the river water, takes a sip and pours the remaining liquid over his head.
We drive back to the hotel in silence. Breakfast is waiting.

The Hunt for Weapons of Mass Destruction

Agent P had been happy living the semi-retired life: waking up late in the morning, having leisurely cups of coffee, reading the horoscope and closely studying her stretch marks. She had reached a stage in her career where the days were mostly hers except for the rare occasions when Command Centre called her in for a special consult.
Like today.
"Agent P. We have information."
"Awesomeness."
"Information about the missing weapons of mass destruction."
"Really! You mean they're real?"
"We (cough, cough) don't really have that information."
"Then what information do you have?"
"There are rumours that the WMDs might be in your sector."
"What? How is that possible? I thought their elimination was virtually complete."
"Heh. That's what we thought too. Not the case."
"Well. What do you want me to do?"
"Find them. Smoke them out. And Agent P?..."
"Yes?"
"We're counting on you."

******

Agent P set out. The streets were eerily calm. 
"If they're anywhere, they'd be here." she thought, recalling how earlier, WMD's had been openly brandished at traffic crossings, "...pulling at my clothing, asking for a rupee."
But no need to worry anymore. There was nothing left here.

Nothing left, that is, except the Horses

    

Agent P knew she'd have to conduct a thorough sweep of her sector but she was confident that it was clean. Sure, this place had seen some dark times. But those days were gone now. The city had been sanitized overnight. "Oh that lovable lion!" Agent P thought fondly. No WMDs here for sure. The good Agent plodded on.

Behind the Panels: What the Drone Attacks Left Behind

"Hmmmm...what about that biological WMD, from down the road?" she thought, "Wait, I have some images of it from the last reconnaissance mission!"
She scurried to unearth them.

The Sabziwala: Or is He?

With lightening speed, Agent P sprinted to the secret location where the above WMD had often liked to sit & hum sad Bollywood tunes (the coordinates of which she'd secured, not with a little arm twisting of the local Aunty Brigade's head honcho).
Now when she returned to the spot, she found: NOTHING.

Nothing, that is, besides the Dog

Agent P was beginning to doubt Command Centre's suspicions. She was surprised at how little faith they had in their own ability to eliminate those pesky warheads. "Maybe, they've been misled by the fake WMDs - decoys, red herrings and all that. Heheheh. "

This may look like a WMD but don't be fooled. The presence of the Quadriped makes all the difference.

At some point Agent P realised that it was creepy to laugh alone in a crowd so she decided to move on. It was time to take the Metro.
"I really don't understand how any WMDs can get through THESE many personnel," Agent P murmured to herself. Of course, she was referring to the Red Brigade. And unlike the WMD's they were friggin everywhere.

Blotches of Red Everywhere

But ooh look! So shiny & new everything was. So clean. So airconditioned.

We love this, so shut up

"Aah, with better-than-phoren trains like this, who would want to bother with WMD's?" exclaimed Agent P as she confidently strode into the Women Only coach. As her body swayed with the gentle motion of the train, she began to feel sleepy...sooooo.....suhleeeeeppppyyyy. 

And then - snap! 

"What the faarck! I believe someone has attempted to hypnotize me into abondoning my mission.... NEVER!"

She proclaimed: "I will proceed by bus. For that is the best way to find WMDs - and see the sights."

So she did - but not on the famed HOHOs that everyone was talking about. Partly for investigative reasons and partly because, well, she didn't think the term HOHO would be appropriate to use in mission reports.

Turns out, it was great decision, because look! A real WMD!!

"But I was just going back to my village!" HA! A likely story

Agent P got off and followed the WMD (because they can walk - shut up). Past the thick foliage of the urban jungle...

Past the cutely-plump-now-but-prime-candidate-for-cardiac-arrest-later young boy....

Dodging the perilous traps that the captain of the Red Brigade had promised would be taken care of.

Yo Kalmadi, you missed a spot

Vietcong-inspired Installation Art

And finally stumbled upon this:

Long shot of Terror Groups determined to ruin the CWG

"Dang! I have them in my grip," exulted Agent P as she got ready to speed dial the Command Centre. "Crafty little buggers eh? The perfect disguise: construction workers. Respect."
Within minutes (well, half an hour to be precise) the cops were on the scene.Within minutes after that, the WMDs were dispatched to the railway station & put on trains to nowhere.

All Izz Well. Kinda, Sorta...We..eee..lll

Agent P smiled contentedly as she looked upon the scene. Order had been restored.  Her sector was now clean. (Except for that dirty police fellow digging his nose & leering at her from a distance.)

What could possibly go wrong now?

******
For more adventures of Agent P (well, just one more) click here

The Greater Good (or What's Your Point Sister?)

'Nuff said about shit writing I think.

Truth be told there's been a lot bothering me lately. My over-eager participation in all things Twitter, the need to up the Twitter Gods (oh, there's a club...) and be the wittiest chick on the 140-character long block. The need to be snappy, sensitive, brazen yet not short-sighted, politically aware yet not an activist, to shock without offending, to offend without alienating.
The urge to regurgitate whatever comes to ones mind, no matter how inane, how irrelevant and how selfish. I have succumbed to it all.
I've jumped in the deep end and found - it's way more shallow than I thought.

Forget the psychological difficulty I'm having coming to terms with my alter-ego on Twitter/ FB or even this blog sometimes. This, for once, is not about my head.

My chief discomfort with what's happening to me online comes from what I believe to be good writing.
I have been clever on Twitter, even had a minor celebrity quote me once. Strangers have wanted to connect with me and read about my day. I like my writing online. It's forced me to stretch myself (I never ever thought I was funny. Now with all these virtual opportunities, I am pushing my own limits). My language skills and confidence have improved. But is my writing great? Not by a long, long shot.

I am, in fact, suffering as a writer. I'm getting lost in the crowd. The more lost in it I get, the more I want to be part of it. I am trying to stand out by submerging myself, hair curlers and all. I'm getting scared of writing the way I really want to. I'm scared shitless to confront the truth that I have nothing to write about.

I've spent the day watching Dexter. It is brilliant. Brilliant like Californication, MASH and some of my favourite documentary films have been (my references for good writing tend to come from TV, since I work in it). All day long, I've compulsively gone from episode to episode like an addict.The idea is brilliant, the acting superb, the direction exceptional. That's not what has me hooked though.

It's the writing, which is great. By great, I don't just mean snappy lines, ironic plot twists or complex characters, although it has all that. What makes it great is its courage. The writing has the guts to not remain in the realm of the superficial (which it could quite easily do since its premise is strong enough to base a series on). It digs deeper, it goes into uncomfortable spaces, it crosses the line - but not simply to create a stir.  It could have been a TV show about a cop-by-day, killer-by-night. Each episode could've been a cat-and-mouse tale with the appropriate car chases and I have no doubt, it would have been successful enough. But that the writers chose to go into Dexter's mind, play with his unique psychology, use it as a comment on who we are as people, use it to jog our ideas of right & wrong....that just blows me away. There's something in the writing that connects with the most primal part of me and makes me hunger for more. They could've taken the easy route like so many of us do with our catchy tweets and cynical blog posts. They went for it instead.

Most of my favourite books and films have been products of brave writing, where writers have pushed themselves beyond language, story, narrative, rules and the need to be 'successful' & popular (and nothing seems to get more success online than irreverance & cynicism).
They've pushed to dig for something more. They've not been driven by the need to impress at all costs. They've not simply relied on their ability to twist grammar to their needs. And they've realised that if they don't have anything of value to say, it's best not to say it at all.
(One may argue that the definition of 'value' may differ from person to person. Here's where I drew the line for myself this evening: I tweeted about a zit on my forehead. It wasn't a clever haiku about a zit, I was not using my zit as a metaphor for anything. I just needed to tell the world I had a zit. Any 'value' in that? I think not. And yet, that's the kind of horse-shit that I see all around me, including on news channels etc...but that's another rant)

I salute these writers because it's not easy to dodge all the potholes and pitfalls on the route to ensuring that ones work is experienced by society at large. To maintain your own voice in the din, to not sway when one half the room loves you and the other half ignores you. To know when to hit that Publish button and when to log off without a word.
To understand that the opportunity to write is a profound privilege and that the one of being read is a greater one still.

I guess my point is, I don't want to be just another wooden puppet out there, churning out words and sentences chosen to elicit a specific reaction. Ideally, I want to stop caring about the reaction completely (ya right, a voice inside me says, delete your comments section then). That may not happen immediately. But I eagerly await that day.
Who knows, by then I just might have something to say .

Slim Pickins

31 and single. And here is a brief history, in dialogue, of why that might be:

2009
Me: I believe that marriage can be a beautiful thing, where two individuals come together because they are destined to teach each other karmic lessons of love...
Man: Yeah I know what you mean...I've noticed couples start looking like each other after a few years of marriage.
*****
2001
Me: Why can't we go out for dinners and movies in public like normal couples do?
Man: Because I'm your boss and I say so. And listen, I want that 'How Cement Mixers Work' script on my desk by five.
*****
1996
Me: My favourite part of a man's body? His eyes.
Man (Well...boy, really. He was 16): What colour?
*****
2009
Man: A writer for TV, huh?
Me: Yup!
Man: Saas-bahu serials?
Me: Err...no. Non fiction.
Man: But why not? I watch those serials all the time, they're great.
*****
2010
Me: Remember that awesome conversation we had about life, love, feelings, emotions and puppies?
Man: Yeaahhhh...
Me: So...when I told you how I felt, what did you think about it?
Man: Dunno man, don't remember. Had some brilliant maal man...
Me: But I told you important stuff about me and you!!!
Man: Sorry man...drag?
*****
2003
Me: Hullo?
Man: Hey!!! Where you at?
Me: Ummm...I'm with AnotherMan.
Man: Faaaccck!!!
Me: Are you drunk?
Man: Fuck man, I love you man. I just love you. But I tell you, man...I gotta tell you this...
Me: Yes?
Man: Don't ever fall in love with me, ok? It'll ruin everything.
*****
2005
Man: Gotta light?
Me: Nope.
Man: Go ask that other dude for a light, no. Here, take the cigarette. Go light it.
Me: Ok.
(Cigarette lit, triumphant return)
Man: Fuck! That guy didn't even look at you once.
*****
2003
Man: Writer for TV, huh?
Me: Yup!
Man: You know, you should do an MBA.
*****
2004
Me: If you want us to have a future then I don't want to hear about other women ever again.
Man: You mean you don't want me to tell you?
Me: No, I mean NO OTHER WOMEN if you want to continue with me.
Man: Yeah...about that...I don't think so.
*****
2009
Man: How much money you got in your account?
Me: Errr...don't remember...
Man: Let's go to the ATM and check it out.
*****

(Doomed to a life with cats or bullets dodged? - who knows....)

Goodbye

Look at our house.
There's water seeping in through the concrete. The paint is peeling off. The flowers in the wallpaper are falling to the floor, shriveling up into a dry heap.
The windows are caked with greybrown grime. No one can look out, no one can look in. The bolts have long since fallen off, the hinges have rusted into paralysis. Can't push them open, can't pull them shut.
The air is dust. Every breath we take is punishment. We can't see for the haze all around us.
We had a cat once. Or was it a fish? I know we had flowers, maybe even a garden. Big, yellow chrysanthemums. Can't find them anymore. What are we tending to then?
Sometimes I think we might be hamsters in a cage. Running on that darned ferris wheel, endlessly, thinking we're covering vast expanses of land. Thinking we're getting somewhere. Except we're in a tiny cage, barred in - going nowhere, playing the same song again and again and again. And it's the worst song you've ever heard. Cacophony in syncopated time.
Remember when we danced standing still? When we cooked without heat? We smiled crooked smiles at each other - or was it our teeth chattering in the cold?
Remember when we closed our eyes tight shut and tried to wish each other away? Only to frantically unwish it in the fraction of a second before we reopened our eyes?
Remember how we waited for each other? Seemingly forever. At the time.

Right, so. I've done a load of laundry. The pantry's full. The bills have all been paid.
Now I have to go.