I'm Safe

A crazed mob is at my gate
They want me 
They wave their torches, tridents ferociously 
We will burn down this house
If she doesn’t come out
My family weeps and tries to stop me
But I know I have to go
Draining myself of my fear
 Face of stone
 I step out alone

 I wake up
 Shivering
 My pillow soaked in sweat
 I’m safe
 This won’t happen to me
 I reassure myself
 I have married a Hindu
 I live behind strong gates
 I have money, pull, influence, education
 The police will come if I need them
 The army will come if I need them
 Right?

So what if my very Muslim name Is etched in voter rolls
 They won’t look up these lists
 And come for me
 Right? 

So what if another Muslim somewhere
 Has done an awful thing
 They won’t seek me out
 To vent their fury
 To teach us a lesson 
To assert their manhood

So what
 I’m safe
 Go back to sleep

10 Things I Learned from my 3-Year-Old

1. Cry when you’re hurt. Get it all out, there and then. And then completely forget about it and move on to the next interesting thing.
2. Dance, often and freely. If there’s no music, sing and dance. Or dance to the music in your head. Either way, dance.
3. Yearn to fly.
4. Pay attention to the unusual. Bulldozers, horses, cows, trains, cement mixer trucks, pigs, airplanes – these are all supercool things to be seeing on your daily commute.
5. Move. All the time.
6. Enjoy being tickled. Beg the tickler to stop, and then ask for more. Repeat.
7. Eat your fill. Then stop abruptly and completely.
8. Experiences are only real after they have been reported to the person you love.
9. Anything that is spilt, stained, torn or broken can be wiped, cleaned, taped or fixed. 
10. Insist on doing what you want to do. If you insist forcefully enough, the universe will make it happen.

Book Review: Soulful Symphony by Meenaxi Singh

Just got my hands on Soulful Symphony, a collection of poems by Meenaxi Singh. In her maiden work, Meenaxi reveals herself. She pours every feeling, thought and idea she has had into her poems and you are in there, in her heart, experiencing each one of them with her. Since I've had this book, I read it through once, and then spent some time just opening a random page and soaking in the sentiment. Some poems, like her ode to her mother, brought tears to my eyes. Some, like her poem to her daughters, had me nodding thoughtfully in agreement. Her poems on love are just lovely to sink into an armchair with. Overall, a powerful synthesis of womanhood, with all the glory, love, sacrifices and melancholy it entails.

Pounding the Pavement 2

"I have never voted before, but I will go cast my vote this time."
(A 70 year old grandmother)

"I know all about Arvindji, so I did not hesitate to let you in when I saw the hats"
(A 30 yr old lady)

The feedback we are getting from our door-to-door campaign is incredible. People know that this time things are different. They are comfortable opening their houses to us, offering us water, apples, and love to chat about politics.

Before I embarked on this campaign, I had done a google search on effective door-to-door campaigns. One thing I had noted (these were all US based sites) was that they had all said to spend not more than a minute per household. During our campaign though, we were sitting and listening and expounding on politics. I mentioned to the group that 15 minutes per household may be a bit excessive. They shrugged, "that's what it takes..."

I've thought about it some more since then. One thing we found very amusing was that when we pulled out voter lists, there would be upto 25-30 registered voters in a single house! This was because most houses had either large joint families or had made flats above their existing bungalow. So we may have spent extra time, but we had also garnered the vote of the entire clan!

Some anecdotes from today...

- A Sikh family we visited had guests over. We spent a lot of time discussing as a group why the perpetrators of the '84 Sikh massacre were still holding positions of power in the local Congress body instead of being in jail. How many other rapists, murderers, thieves and dacoits hold positions of power? (Answer: A lot)

- A highly irate Bengali lady answered our doorbell. "Too many people have written down my cell number only to bother me with SMSes all day and night!" We promised we wouldn't and explained who we were. "Oh, I'm done with politics! I did so much work first for the Congress, then the BJP, but we have nothing to show for it." She talked for a while about how exasperated she was with security, water quality, cow dung, and many other issues. We listened and tried to provide explanations of why things would be different with AAP. At the end she conceded, "My family was discussing politics last night and we all decided to vote for AAP anyhow."

Lots of such stories. Construction workers, cycle rickshaw drivers, domestic help, small shopkeepers called out to us as we walked through the street to tell us their stories of why they already support AAP. Incredible energy around it all.

Pounding the Pavement

This has been an action-packed couple of days in an otherwise leisurely life. Yesterday I went to the Aam Aadmi Party's office. I had volunteered my services, and they told me to join a volunteer meeting that day. So I got there, thinking I'd meet a few people, pick up some pamphlets, ask how I could help. Little did I foresee the two-day adrenalin ride I had embarked on.

"You have a car? Good" said the lady that greeted me. Three people hopped in, we picked up another along the way and they told me to keep driving. We reached a slum. "Your car should be safe right outside".  I nodded.

We walked in through the tiny streets of the slum and came to railway tracks. Lots of people everywhere, ladies chatting, children playing. I waited for instructions. Would we now go to the designated meeting spot? There was an open sewer next to where we were standing, mosquitoes and flies buzzing everywhere. I tried not to swat them, not wanting to appear as uncomfortable as I felt. That didn't work too well, and I noticed that everyone was swatting too, so no problem. A few minutes passed, people in AAP hats were walking around looking busy. Then a man brought out a few straw mats. This was the meeting spot. We were having a neighbourhood meeting and ladies were being rounded up to attend.

As the lady who had first met me, Pushpa Singh, started talking, a substantial crowd gathered around out of sheer curiosity. She looked at me pointedly. "You're going to have to speak too" she said. She spoke, then another lady. I didn't hear a word they said. I spent the next 15 minutes trying to figure out what I would say, and more importantly, how I would say it in Hindi. Not my first language. A distant second. Not to mention, I had never ever given a political speech before.

I started. [translating to English] I come from Bombay, so my Hindi is er.. different. But I shall make sure that I am loud and that you will understand. [giggles from the crowd]. Some of you mentioned earlier that you had concerns about ration cards. Let me inform you, that's where Arvind Kejriwal started. He left a high-paying job at the income tax office and spent the next few years working in slums to help people get ration cards and utilize them. In the process, his people were attacked, his office was attacked. That's where he started. Ration cards. Now he is famous, and has formed a party and is asking for your votes. One of you mentioned, How is this party going to be any different? They will say good things until they get power, then it will all be the same. Let me tell you. Each paisa received is made public. Who gives money to the big parties? Nobody knows and for a reason. Very rich people give them money to get elected, and then they want something in return. Where do the politicians find money to give them? From looting us. Aam Aadmi Party has accounted for each small donation and we know exactly who donated it. They do not owe anything to anybody. That's where the difference lies.

I don't know how the speech went over. I got a few pats on the back afterwards. People had stayed really quiet and seemed engaged. I was shaking. A woman came over from the crowd. "My son has been trying to take the entrance test to the Railways. He gave the exam twice but hasn't gotten through. Anything you can do to help?" she said. I smiled weakly and shook my head. She shrugged and walked off.

The next day I met the volunteers again for a door-to-door campaigning session. The veteran campaigners arrived with voter lists and we got started. One of the ladies I had met the previous day, a tough 60-year old yoga teacher was leading us through her immediate neighbourhood, so everyone knew her and was welcoming. Of course we will vote for the jhadoo was the gist of the meetings. One person, an old man who had seen much, said that he would vote for AAP, but didn't think they would be able to resist the compromises and corruption that comes with power. I listened with interest, didn't talk much. We got most people to sign up to be members of the party, even got a little donation from one person.

From these conversations and others, I am getting the sense that the elderly are hearing a lot about Aam Aadmi Party from their children, most of whom are living far away. People are excited, but a little hesitant. Rightly so, I'm sure. But they also know that this is the only glimmer of hope. And this is the only small window of opportunity (elections for Delhi Vidhan Sabha are on December 4th).

Time for a New Religion

The problem with the grand old religions is that they are, well, old. They were wise and progressive, even revolutionary, for their era. And now they're not.

I was born a Muslim, so let me start there. Islam is based on the life of the prophet Mohammed and the words dictated to him by an angel of Allah. It was a remarkably rational, scientific framework for its time. Problem is, that time was 1300 years ago. It was a radically revolutionary feminist religion. No no, don't scoff, it really was. Women getting equal inheritance was huge at a time when women were trophies at best, but mostly just considered property. Restricting wives to four was a relief to women who were part of enormous harems of tribal lords. This kind of thinking must have (and did) generate a lot of opposition to Mohammed, and to his credit he stuck to his guns (swords, actually). But that was a very different world. A world where a 50 year old man could marry an 8 year old child (Mohammed did). We live in a better world today. Thank God.

I live in India and have married a Hindu (well, a Jain). Now that is truly an ancient religion. Perhaps too ancient? Yes yes, the point of scriptures is that they are timeless, and some are. Some. A small minority. Well, maybe just the Bhagvad Gita. Can we change the rest please? We already have, here and there. No thinking person would justify the caste system, sutti, dowry. But there's too damn many non-thinkers out there.

And we can dissect all major religions and come up with the same critiques. The world has evolved in thought, but religions simply cannot. So here we are, defending our own religions, bickering within and without, going nowhere. No messiah in sight, all we have is our texts. So we read them, discard the embarrassing parts, cherry picking the rituals and beliefs that we like. We can do better.

Look around. There are values that we all believe in. Gender equality. Equality of opportunity. Environmental protection. Peace and nonviolence. Scientific thought.

Now look around again. Does the world we live in reflect these? If like me, you are chuckling morosely, then you disagree. Alright, so how do we go from here to there? Yes you guessed it... A new religion. New texts, new prophets, a few miracles thrown in, some great stories to raise the kids on, and boom! Now we're all on the same page and we're all moving together to create a fantastic world!

And a hundred years down the line, when values evolve, I sure as hell hope someone gracefully discards this religion and comes up with something better

The problem with the grand old religions is that they are, well, old. They were wise and progressive, even revolutionary, for their era. And now they're not.

I was born a Muslim, so let me start there. Islam is based on the life of the prophet Mohammed and the words dictated to him by an angel of Allah. It was a remarkably rational, scientific framework for its time. Problem is, that time was 1300 years ago. It was a radically revolutionary feminist religion. No no, don't scoff, it really was. Women getting equal inheritance was huge at a time when women were trophies at best, but mostly just considered property. Restricting wives to four was a relief to women who were part of enormous harems of tribal lords. This kind of thinking must have (and did) generate a lot of opposition to Mohammed, and to his credit he stuck to his guns (swords, actually). But that was a very different world. A world where a 50 year old man could marry an 8 year old child (Mohammed did). We live in a better world today. Thank God.

I live in India and have married a Hindu (well, a Jain). Now that is truly an ancient religion. Perhaps too ancient? Yes yes, the point of scriptures is that they are timeless, and some are. Some. A small minority. Well, maybe just the Bhagvad Gita. Can we change the rest please? We already have, here and there. No thinking person would justify the caste system, sutti, dowry. But there's too damn many non-thinkers out there.

And we can dissect all major religions and come up with the same critiques. The world has evolved in thought, but religions simply cannot. So here we are, defending our own religions, bickering within and without, going nowhere. No messiah in sight, all we have is our texts. So we read them, discard the embarrassing parts, cherry picking the rituals and beliefs that we like. We can do better.

Look around. There are values that we all believe in. Gender equality. Equality of opportunity. Environmental protection. Peace and nonviolence. Scientific thought.

Now look around again. Does the world we live in reflect these? If like me, you are chuckling morosely, then you disagree. Alright, so how do we go from here to there? Yes you guessed it... A new religion. New texts, new prophets, a few miracles thrown in, some great stories to raise the kids on, and boom! Now we're all on the same page and we're all moving together to create a fantastic world!

And a hundred years down the line, when values evolve, I sure as hell hope someone gracefully discards this religion and comes up with something better

Capital Sincerity

Yesterday I met a particular breed of Delhi-ite at a bar. He came and sat down – introductions all around. Then he started talking.

“I’m rich,” he said, “very very rich.” Or words to that effect (disclaimer, I didn’t take notes, so a lot of this conversation is vague - from memories making their way out of the fog of this damned hangover). Anyhow, we were suitably impressed. Then he went on to tell us how he got to be this way.

“My parents are rich,” he said, “very very rich.” He’d been doing his MBA in America, when a call came from home – the family business needed him. He came back. Then the opinion at home was that he should get married. Alright, done. Subsequently two sons. He thought he’d start his own side business, but his father insisted that he would not give our man a single penny to start it up – so he built it from scratch. Working long, stressful hours, six days a week he’s built it up. He enumerated all his big clients – again, we nodded our heads, widening our eyes enough to indicate that note had been taken. “But Saturday afternoon,” he said, “I make it a point to get home by 4 pm to play with my two young sons. They’re at that age, you know, where you have to cherish every moment.”

I was loving it. A bit drunk, a bit depressed (we had just come to the bar after a book reading – where I hung at the fringes convinced that nothing I’d ever write would be interesting enough to be anything but mocked by this crowd). And here is this guy, on a long soliloquy about his life, and it was absolutely delightful.

“I’m a BJP man,” he said, “not particularly because I like BJP, but because I absolutely hate the Congress. And the Left! – come on – only idiots could vote for the Left.” Uh-huh, I said to myself. Of course he’s a BJP man.

Then he said something that made me sit up from the leaning-back-on-barseat-clutching-mojito-for-dear-dear-life stance that I had adopted. “Now Mayawati,” he said, “I could see her as our next PM.”

Really?

“You see,” he said, “the BSP and the BJP are very complementary. The BSP starts at the bottom of the caste system and works its way up, and the BJP starts from the top and can potentially work down. They are both forward-thinking, very constructive…”

Constructive! BJP! “Now hold it there cowboy!” I said (again, perhaps not in those exact words). “What about the nasty communalism?” He gave me a pitying look. “Yes, the VHP et al. are making a mess of things,” he said “but communalism is not what the BJP stands for at the core. And it’s a truly democratic party – people have worked their way up to the top – not simply landing there because they happen to be descended in some way from Nehru.”

True, I grudgingly agreed. I had gone to the Congress website to register as a supporter, but got turned off when I was asked to tick a box pledging undying fealty to Sonia Gandhi. (Sidebar: What’s up with that?! How would Nehru have felt about that?!)

But I quickly gathered myself together. I was agreeing with a BJP man?! It must be the alcohol (not really – only one mojito, that too on a full stomach, does not a drunk Sherry make).

Alright, so on to the litmus test. “Modi as PM, or not?” He pursed his lips, settling in for a fight. “Absolutely,” he said, “I don’t see why not.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I cannot continue this conversation.”

“Yes, yes, a massacre happened,” he said, “and it shouldn’t have. Modi would have to ‘regret’ it in some form or the other before taking the national stage. But keep things in perspective – people are being massacred all over India – Naxalites, policemen, tribals, Christians – it’s a tough country. But look at all the good things Modi has done.”

“Is it so hard,” I asked, “for someone to be an honest and effective politician and NOT be a mass murderer? I mean, Modi was doing fine along the career track when 2002 happened. He didn’t Need to do it.” Our man shook his head and said - “the way the constitution of this country is written, it’s almost impossible…”

“Sheila Dikshit!” I yelled triumphantly, interrupting him. “Honest, effective, and hasn’t yet overseen any genocides.” He graciously gave me the point.

“And of course bad things happen all over the country,” I said. “The point is that ALL the perpetrators should be imprisoned. Jagdish Tytler should be in jail for the ’84 Sikh massacres.”

“Yes,” he nodded eagerly, “and so should Rajiv Gandhi.”

“Well…” I said, “I’m not sure about that one… but sure, he should’ve been investigated like anyone else. The Salwa Judum should be incarcerated, so should any Naxalites that have committed murders, and here’s the kicker: SO SHOULD MODI!!”

Was that a hint of acquiescence I detected in his eyes?

He changed the subject – “so what would you think of Mayawati as PM?”

My turn to purse the lips. “She would be an embarrassment to the country,” I said.

“Oh, because she doesn’t speak English!” he sputtered.

“No,” I said, “because she steals money from her very impoverished state. To build big elephants, big monuments to herself; throw the infamously big birthday parties, stuff the party coffers.”

“I deal with big projects in Noida,” he puffed, “and she’s very effective at getting things done.”

“That’s because she personally owns a large share of each of the companies that get these big projects!” I exclaimed. “A bit of a conflict of interest, no?”

A pause.

“The important thing,” he said, “is to stay open to these arguments. Keep your mind open. For example, I myself was an atheist till ten years ago,” (again, a pricking up of interest – this was another little departure from the box that I had inserted his stereotyped character into), “but now I think, how can I be so sure there is no God?”

“Sure,” I said, relaxing back to my mojito, “I’m all about open minds.”

I’m not sure why I’m reporting this conversation. Part of my general warming-up to middle-class Delhi, I think. I’ve been reading a lot of the popular Delhi-walla blog and I do resent, a little bit, the way it, and the literati class, dismiss suburban Delhi as being uncouth, unread, uninteresting. It just seems wrong to be so contemptuous of this huge class of people – they are hard working after all, they do love their families as much as anyone. They weren’t brought up to read tomes about the profound ironies of meaningless Russian lives, or the absurd cruelties inflicted on Prague after its famed spring. But, or maybe because of this, they have a sweet sincerity, a generosity, a lack of sarcasm and cynicism that is refreshing to someone like me, who is constantly inflicting more jadedness on what is, really, a perfectly lovely life.

I didn’t win points on all aspects of our conversation. A lot of times, there weren’t any to win.

“We have extensive garment businesses,” he said, “and I went to the government to ask for a tax break.” (The government had increased the minimum wage, hitting their bottom line hard). The guy in charge basically said that he’d give their business an exception (for a fee, needless to say). The garment industry could keep the minimum wages low. Our man protested, saying that he didn’t mind increasing the wages; he just wanted some help on other aspects of the tax code. The babu said, “Saab, isn’t getting more money all you want?” “No,” our man protested vehemently, “it’s giving employment, creating a good business.”

“For nine years,” he said (unsolicited, again, and in no context that I can remember), “I have ensured that no matter what, we get our employees their salaries on the first of the month. That is the top priority, the thing I’d never compromise on.”

Now, in a land cringing beneath the jadedness inflicted by Satyam, that’s kind of sweet.

My Irrationality

We have several superstitions in our community. Some of which I internalized, and still follow stubbornly, despite the scorn and jibes of the rational; the rest I mock for their utter stupidity.

There’s one where, if you’re lying down, and somebody steps over you, they have to step back. Or… well no one is quite sure of the specifics, but some kind of misfortune will be invited in. I follow that a bit halfheartedly, where I ask that the steppers-over step over again, but I don’t push it if they refuse. Its just a preference on my part. I heard a story of a distant cousin who refused to move for an entire day until he was restepped-on, but that’s just ridiculous. I wouldn’t, um, do that. 

Another one, which is more universal, and which I adhere to more strictly is touching wood when I allude to my good fortune, or that of anyone else that I care about.

There’s also a little Arabic prayer that was taught to me, whose meaning I never knew (and most of my very religious family doesn’t either, which is OK because now I almost don’t want to know). But I will swear on anything that saying it puts up a protective shield around me, and it has calmed me in the face of numerous dark nights, would-be ghosts, interviews and dates. 

I learned a Spanish custom that I use quite often. Its very specific. If you hit your elbow hard against something, it is very important that you do not touch it or cry out in pain until you say the following: “If its good let it come, if its bad let it go”. Three times. Then yell out in pain or rub your elbow or whatever. At which point you’ll find that it doesn’t hurt anymore. So it works.

And then there are all the superstitions I mock. Which I’m not going to list, because they seem alarmingly similar to the (rather more numerous than I had previously thought) ones of my own. 

Wishes are strange things. They are perhaps the only reason I believe in the supernatural, the unknowable. Yet so much of Eastern philosophy talks about giving up wishes, desires, fears. Then, what would we be left with?

My Eternal Lover

The police mill around, trying to look busy, like they have something to do, like they may actually find my murderer. What a joke. Though, to be fair, they are doing what they can. One of them took a photograph of me and made several copies. A couple of constables went around the park and posted pictures of me, bloodied neck and all, with a handwritten note asking for information. 

Joggers and walkers and strollers in the park pass my neatly zipped up body. They wrinkle their nose, shake their heads, strike up conversations with perfect strangers using me as an excuse. A young lady, interrupted her jog to stare at my photo, looked quite disturbed for a while afterwards, which pleased me. Not that anything would be done. What could be done that would matter to me anyhow? Another life had passed, another heartbreak, another awful end at the hands of he who loved me the most. And I don’t want him to be caught, or punished, or even feel guilty. After all, I loved him too. I still do, and will for all eternity. No, this is not a declaration, merely a statement of fact. More precisely, a statement of condemnation.

Forgive my morbidity. I usually have quite a sunny disposition. Pair that with unusually good looks and I have been called quite attractive in each of my lives. Its just this part, this post-traumatic death part. The stark contrast between my cherubic life and the last days always leaves me a bit shaken, pulls me down into this gloomy mood. 

In this last life, he was, unusually, my brother. Three years older than me, and absolutely devoted to me. On my last birthday, he single-handedly threw a surprise party for me. Invited all my friends and his as well, made a painstakingly-complete video collage of my life. There I was, giggling as a baby. There, a four-year-old fussing over her lehenga for a cousin’s wedding party. Me reading, me performing at a school dance festival, me winning awards at swimming meets, athletic events (I was particularly good at the long jump), even a beauty pageant. At almost all of these, I turn to the camera and wave lovingly, for at almost all the events that shaped my life, I remember him being there, holding the camera. At the party, I was feted by all my friends for having such a close, loving relationship with my brother. In my neighborhood, we were already legion, the sibling pair that were pointed out by other parents, frustrated with their fighting offspring - “see how close they are? See how well he protects her? Why can’t the two of you be more like that?!?!”

In some ways, my behavior in the weeks following was his fault (isn’t it always?). Cocooned by so much love, I already had a sense of infallibility. I could do anything, and my big brother would be there to defend me, to make it all right, to give me what I wanted. Perhaps I took it a step too far falling in love with my college professor. Well, the words “falling in love” are bandied about too casually, it really was just an innocent crush of an impressionable young girl for her more-powerful superior. If it had gone unnoticed, it would have played itself out, ending with the shattering of the illusion of his grandeur, and I would have walked away no longer a spoilt child, but a wiser, more thoughtful woman. But it wasn’t to be. We were caught, his wife filed for divorce, it was all over college, and then our neighborhood. My brother stopped talking to me, though sometimes I would see him from the corner of my eyes, as he alternated between glowering at me and shutting his eyes tightly as if to wish me away, far away.

That gesture, those looks. Within a week of it, I find myself in this position. Looking over my body, hurting for my abruptly ended blessed-life, and even more, hurting for him and the hell that I put him through. It started several centuries ago, when I asked him to fetch me an enchanting golden deer. After all this time, I will never forget the horror in his eyes as I went up in flames. And then there was my most painful death, walled in alive for the sin of letting him, the heir to the Moghul throne, fall in love with a common dancer. I have burned with him in his funeral pyre several times, his express wish to prevent me from falling into the hands of another. 

It is now time to move on to my next life. I am to come back as his daughter in that one. But it will be a very short life. His wife, unloved and mistreated, will abort me when she finds out it is a girl - she thinks, poor woman, that his horrid nature is due to his hatred of all things female. She doesn’t know that he was eagerly waiting for me, and when he finds out, something dies in him, to be followed shortly by his actual death due to heart failure. And then we shall be reborn again in this same land. As lovers this time I would think. To love, to hurt, to kill and to die.

This blog is dedicated to the as-yet-unidentified body of a young woman that was found in my joggers park (Delhi's Northern Ridge). I cannot get her out of my mind. May she rest in peace. article here.

Dog Dayz in Delhi

Delhi summer afternoons, for those not in the know (adapted to the current day from Ahmed Ali's Twilight in Delhi)

"As the heat becomes intense and a hot wind begins to blow, the sky becomes bronzed and grey, dirty with the dust and sand that floats in the air. The kites shrilly cry, and the grating noise of the honking far away sounds more dreary. A heart-rending monotony and a blinding glare creep over the earth. People go inside the rooms and close the door. Drowsiness comes upon every living thing. The dogs hide in cool corners, and the sparrows find shelter in the shade of trees or inside their nests in the walls. Only now and then the wild pigeons fly in and out of the veranda, coo awhile, and add to the feeling of monotony."

Amazing how so little changes in 70 years.

Today I watched three traffic policemen huddled humbly in the shade of a tree, surrounding a nimbupaani wala (fresh lemon juice vendor), as the frenzied traffic at the intersection broke every rule in the book. Not that they wouldn't do this otherwise, but today they all had my utmost sympathy. 

Uff the heats-a-got-to-go!