Friday 12 September 2014

couch potato.not.

I have been writing and talking a lot about growing up, facing changes, handling situations, multiple epiphanies, et al. It’s probably just a curve everybody goes through, either fussing over it, or pragmatically. Some say we are the dreamers, and we can afford to do so only because our parents were being rational, when they were our age. Another oft handled phrase “ when I was your age…”. It could be the prefix to any number of annoying/amusing phrases, like, “ … I used to wake up at 5, do x y z, and then go to school, come back, and help mom/dad, study, and sleep early” or “ … I never depended on the idiot box to give me life” or “ … I was already working two jobs and paying my way through university”.

We have been the generation that went through sort of a sluggish transition in cultural values, ideologies, and such. The one before us were all up in arms for revolutions, fighting for their voices, fighting for their rights, fighting for the right to control their thoughts. They defied authority, they overturned hierarchy, and they openly expressed disgust at anybody’s attempt to control what shouldn’t be controlled. There were some changes that came as a result of it. A lot of us have been brought up with respect and concern, rather than a mere sense of duty. We were taught to think for ourselves, and for the most part, choose what our basis of life would be. A lot of us, not all of us. The freedom to do that, is often underestimated, and neglected.

I was recently asked, what is it that I live, or hope to live, upto? Frankly, I didn’t even know what that question meant. There are two connotations to this question. Both arising from a personal level, but one that would affect and determine, very directly put, the world. Sweeping statement, yes. The first one would be, the direct, what is it that I live upto? Do I confirm to any school of thought? Do I identify myself with any particular religion? Is there atleast a general rule of thumb that I go by? Well, my answer to all of them are – no. While acknowledging the fact that that’s scary, I must ask, is there a need to adhere to a rationale? That doesn’t mean that I think it is okay to go around doing anything I want because I don’t think anybody is watching over me, or because I don’t believe in karma. Neither am I somebody who lives without principles. I draw a line at lots of things, though most of them are criminal offenses.


And the next, what do I want for the world? All of us will immediately sprout the quintessential beauty pageant answer – world peace. Apart from that, what? Liberation of human beings. Gender equality. Poverty eradication. To be able to live without the looming fear of a nuclear d-day. Trying not to drown inch by inch in the melting glaciers. Patching up ozone holes. Figuring out a practical alternate source of energy.  A form of regime more apt and adequate than ‘democracy’. There are more. And there are some that don’t want any of these. Are we the kind that has our blood boiling at the thought of it? Or are we more inclined to overthrow superpowers by very slowly but efficiently devastating their economy? I think I fall under the latter category.  Rioting and revolting and rampant resistance worked then, still work in some places now. But I think it’s old game, old tactics, and people have learnt how to get past them. Maybe, not jumping up and demanding a strike in compensation for a wrong doing, or immediately having a dharna in front of the offending place, does not mean that we have given up, or that we don’t care. Maybe, we just have found smarter means to both get to, and justify, the ends. Atleast that’s what I’m choosing to believe in, for right now.

Sunday 8 June 2014

break their will if not their mind, or do both.

It’s the time for the school pass outs and their parents to freak out, worry about admissions, colleges, quality of courses, cutoff marks, quotas, and the huge question of what will I, or he or she, become, at the end of 3 / 4 years.
There was a time, not long ago, when 18 year olds at the turning points of their lives, were pretty much given no choice regarding their careers. They had obligations; their parents had to face a multitude of fears. They immediately hit for engineering or medicine, or the next closest thing, in accordance with their pre university performances. My parents, and their generation, belonged to this category. I’m going to ignore the privileged, for a bit.
Then came the time, when people started feeling more comfortable in their skins, they started delving deeper into, and boldly choosing to study, fields they actually wanted to know more about, or excel in. This also pushed for avenues of better education in non-mainstream subjects, at least in India. Parents were more inclined to letting their kids experiment a little bit, as long as they did well.
And now, almost as if completing some crazy cycle, we have come back to the stage where parents are once again pushing for the ‘mainstream’. The only difference is that they are now pushing for quality education, as well. Ask them why, the response is, there is job security;  he/she will be assured a pay.
To add fuel to fire, or maybe they are the ones that started the recent fire, there are coaching centers. Ones that think of all students as clay, and have a particular shape in mind that this clay needs to be tortured and molded into, no matter what. Somehow, the more strict, inhuman, stringent, cruel, punishing,  and torturing they are, the more they appeal to the public! The more they are capable of pushing their students to breaking points, the more fame they receive. Their success rates count as well, but only so much.
Privileged now, and privileged then (around 40 years ago), have been different things. Privileged then were rich people, who didn’t have to count on their kids to set them free from the suffering, by adding their pay to the income of the household.  Privileged now, are the kids lucky enough to have parents who think and realize that aptitude and interest matter. The ones who know that pushing them to do something they don’t want to do, or worse, are not capable of doing, would eventually break the person, or atleast turn them into something unrecognizable.
There are a million arguments of success rates of these torture institutions, or of other people choosing for their kids, etcetera. But why is it that we never think about the person they want to become?  I am one amongst those privileged ones, whose parents completely left the choosing to me. I study in a prestigious institution, but not in the field it has gained the name for. The difference between us, and the others who come there to study what the institute is famous for, after almost a lifetime of torture, is palpable.
One of the students who just got shortlisted for the course I pursue, doesn’t know how to convince his parents to let him do this, and not what they think would secure his future. He requested me to talk to his mother, to try and convince her. She has two questions. What will he become after 5 years, and how much will he be earning. I have no answer to these questions.
 As much as the prospective of an assured income, which is on the decline, irrespective of what you study, is an issue, is that all we think about? Doesn’t even the joy of seeing your child excel in something he/she loves, matter to you? Or is there no joy in that anymore?

 I think that’s too damn scary a place to be in.

home is where the heart is? or where my ancestors are?

We’ve all grown up watching that dreamy look, and a small, indescribable smile on our parents faces, as they told us stories of their childhood homes. The mountains or the seas, the trees, their pets, their grandparents, and a million other relatives formed an inseparable part of their lives, and their stories.  They have told us far too many tales of how they celebrated festivals and occasions. I was always awed by these recollections, and have always yearned to meet these people, visit these places.

Vacations, for us who have been brought up outside India, have always been about visiting our parents’ homes, and relatives. When I was small, it never struck me that my parents called these places our home. Oblivious to everything, I enjoyed the sights, the smells, and the sheer joy of visiting new places. But as I grew older, and started taking lots of other things like availability of facilities, the general demeanor of people, cleanliness, and company, into consideration, I realized that these places have never felt like home. They were plain vacation spots to me. Recently, I’ve started making a huge fuss about having to go to Kerala again, for my vacation. My parents’ response: we can’t not go home. Home? What are they talking about? My home is right here.

I was born in this country, I was brought up in this country. I made friends here. I love the food here. I have all my memories here. Bahrain has always been my platform. As much as I’ve never climbed trees or never bathed in brooks, it’s here that I had my first birthday party, it’s here that I love going to the sea. The sea, again, has been a bone of contention, always. My parents have never failed to ask, every single time, how I could like this dead, unmoving sea. Well, this is the sea that I remember seeing, this the sea where I swim, this the sea beside which I’ve spent nights singing, and sitting around fires. My paternal home address is what has been given in my passport. That, and the few memories from vacations, are the only things that tie me to that place. I’m a Malayali in the way that I primarily speak in Malayalam, eat authentic kerala cuisine at home, and am more or less familiar with the culture. But Bahrain, is my home.


Most of us connect with atleast one parent perfectly, these days. Their views and feelings about their homes, perfectly fine. It is their incapability in understanding that these feelings, in the same intensity, are the ones that we have about their homes, that baffles me. And we are not the only ones that are baffled. They have no clue either, as to why we wouldn’t see their homes  the same way that they do. Infact, it’s not their home, but ours! One issue all of us second generation children from countries outside India face would be the question of true identity. We are all, technically, Indians. Not only officially, but also by practice. And yet, our hearts belong to another nation. A place that we call home, but we don’t really belong to. We all go off to other countries to continue our education, and slowly, we get acclimatized to those places. That infinitely strong bond that our parents have with their homes, we miss out on that. There is no knowing if we will ever come back to these countries that we grew up in. I’ve always wondered if I’ll be able to show my children the place I think I belong to. 

Friday 29 March 2013

20.

Yes, I know. I'm back after 5 months. Following in the footsteps of most of the 20-something-ers of this generation, I've realised that I too am inconsistent. Another bullet point in the long list of vices. I've been meaning to write here, since that fateful morning. Oh! no no! I didn't win the lottery or anything. I woke up, and realised I am 20. What's the big deal, you may ask. I don't remember being older than 15, I would say. I'm here not to complain about how old I am, by means of the colour of my hair, but about how old I am, in the sense of how confused this sudden revelation has made me.

I don't know. Three words that seem to be my constant reply to all sorts of questions. On one hand, I still live with the knowledge, and faith, that I've trusted and loved ones to ask, no matter what the question is. But on the other hand, I've been newly introduced to the concept, that unless I place the final seal, the post will lie around uselessly, like one of those red taped files in the Indian government offices. I have now become a complete cent percent responsible for my choices. Even when you can feel the hand, of the influential people in your lives, on yours, you know, that in that one tiny moment, you are alone. In that one tiny moment, when I would have more than happily hidden under my blanket, while my parents made the choice, I'm alone. And I need to choose. I need to decide. I need to. I don't want to.

As a child who grew up around large groups of older kids, I always envied them for the different levels of independence they enjoyed. I ardently wished that I would suddenly grow up, so that my mother could no longer ask me to put down my R.K.Narayan that I hid within my textbooks, and do math instead. And now, when I've reached the point where I get to choose my career path, I want to go back to being a kid. I wish I hadn't grown up so fast. I wish I didn't have to leave the cozy comfort of home so fast.

People always talk about how you grow wiser as you grow older. You grow wiser as a result of experiences, interactions, and accumulation of knowledge both practical and theoretical. But have we ever stopped to think if this was necessarily a good phenomenon? Where is that joy that used to overwhelm me at the sight of a new pencilpouch, a new waterbottle, new textbooks,  2 pieces of broken magnets, a sticky note, marbles, balls that have cartoon figures on them, cartoons in itself, a trip to the movie theatre, the excitement of receiving a kid's packet while on the plane? Where did it go? When did a colouring book stop making me jump around with glee? Is that a result of me having become wiser? Then I don't like it. How do we become 'wiser' if we stop realising the joy of small things in life?

Questions. I have more questions. And then some more. I think I'll get used to being 20 by the time I'm thirty. Or maybe, just maybe, I don't want to get used to it. Maybe, I don't want to be performing rituals that are dictated by my biological age. I wonder. Will we ever reach the stage where we are allowed to be as old as we feel? I doubt it. The world would be a more fun place to live in, then, though. 

Friday 19 October 2012

just a drop of ...?



I look outside through the window. The trees look unnaturally beautiful, the flowers look unusually bright, there is a sudden burst of life in it all. And yet, it seems like I'm dreaming. All because I see it through a mist, a dreamy layer  that sends a shiver of pure joy through me. The beauty continues to surprise and mesmerize me.

People walk in wet and happy and laughing. There is a current of joy that envelopes all. There is a smile on every  face.

The trees form a canopy over our heads. The magic envelopes us in it's moist folds. And as I amble through with loved ones, I feel like the princess I've always dreamt of being.

The roads are all flooded, the roofs are all leaking, and yet, it's considered a blessing from the heavens.

The sea, like one who has lost his love, continues to thrash and crash, and frighten. It's all consuming fury, a warning. Suddenly, it's no more fury that we hear. It's passion. The sound of love so pure, so violent, that the sky catches fire.

We sit, our bodies confined within the four walls of mackiavelli, five year plans, caste discrimination, environmental ethics and what not. Our souls float outside, free, in the rain, dreaming of Shakespeare and Wordsworth.

Welcome home, monsoon. I'm glad you finally decided to visit us.


Thursday 4 October 2012

a tale of the monkeys and the girls

07:15 am

Trrringgg! Ah! The alarm! Another enchanting morning. I looked around to see a couple of beautiful smiles and hear warm greetings and then did a quick mind scan of the schedule for the day and smiled to myself. Humming as I picked up necessary stuff, I danced my way to the door.  I let the door wide open to let in the breeze. BANG! That was me slamming the door and cowering in fright in my room. The monkey was patiently lying in wait.

x-x-x-x

This is how we begin our day. Hostel life, more than anything else, is a constant battle against the monkeys. A fight over rights of pathway, rights to use the washroom, rights to drink water from the dispenser, right to eat food without having to share it with them, rights to reclaim our clothes from the clotheslines, rights to the use of our cupboards and dustbins, rights to our bags, rights to our phones, spectacles and watches,  rights to our dupattas and what not. As evolved as humans are said to be, the monkeys appear to be the constant victors. All our mail boxes are flooded with complaints on one side and brainwaves regarding monkey control on the other side. They form an intricate part of our lives, as much as we hate it.
I always think back to those innocent days when I would stand outside the monkey cage in the Thiruvananthapuram zoo and admire the smart monkeys. As a kid, there were a million stories that I heard and told about the clever nature of the monkeys. Every single one of those stories mocked the other animal/human involved in it. Being on the receiving end of that is not exactly the greatest prospect in the world. The stories we've heard about Hanuman! The way the Indian society glorifies that one character and the vanar sena that helped Lord Ram! It's shocking to realize  that these ones I fight over my food with, are the successors of those ones who are worshipped! Never did I imagine that there would be one day when I would be compelled to think of genocide, just for mental peace. The same smartness that awed me, when I was small, disgusts me now. All hysterical screams ringing through the hostel set me thinking about the so called power that we, as humans, have over this world. Every single resident in here is as susceptible to these 'less intelligent' beings as is a tick.
"Monkeys!!Arggghhhhh!!!". That is what all of us have been reduced to. There have been times when I've spotted a monkey sitting on the parapet, listening intently to my conversation. As I look at a new born monkey, it surprises me that I have become absolutely incapable of recognizing the beauty I saw in it eons ago. Oh! There! A monkey is clawing at my window sill. Given circumstances, I'm pretty sure it knows I was writing about it. Time for me to fight over rights to the stationery on my table! Adios.

Friday 28 September 2012

alpha

The thought of vacation has always conjured up the image of 'India'. Forests and mountains; rains and the waves; grandparents who pamper me, aunts, uncles and cousins; festivals and functions and oh so much catching up to do; the sight of animals crossing the roads with us; the rickshaws and the best of the lot - no school. It had never crossed my mind that some day,  that same world would force me to stand on my own shaky feet. 

Leaving home was an inevitable step, but that fact never completely hit me or was understood by me till the day I actually left home. In the eyes of the world, I was 18 by then, and should have been ready to fend for myself. But I felt like a newborn. The fact that, if I didn't go for dinner before the mess closed, no one would even realize it  and that there wasn't a mom to save me food for later may sound simple but definitely didn't feel so. Having to wash my own clothes, maintain money in my wallet, see that I don't run out of supplies, find transportation every time I wanted to go somewhere and just the plain, simple task of maintaining records and papers, all seemed so big. All so new. All so different. All so cold. 

The completely different surroundings that I have been thrown into makes me look at everything as a brand new phenomenon. These little happenings have prompted me to put it down on paper. Which is what I intend to do here. This blog contains just the overflowing thoughts of a freewheeling mind.