Expandable memory

The deepest sorrows are those that stay with you, always, all the way.

Does growing up mean you understand you’ll never be the same again… and you sport a cynical line here and there?

How we think we will or we have forgotten, and move… only to remember it first thing in the morning, or after a long long day at office, when the only things you should be thinking about are food and sleep or a quickie, you know …

My cousin V keeps coming back to me, so does a lost love. Unshakeable in their absence, both. But V vaccums out something in the centre of me. I have cried before too, but these tears aren’t drying up. Each time, it’s vigorous. What could you lose at 18? when you haven’t even got much…

I grow more reckless by the day… live it now-types… and want to tell a client that ‘zilch’ is not slang because that’s her middle name. Will, will… soon.

Have strange nightmares nowadays… of daughters dying… daughters whom I know. Makes me guilty, but it came to me… not the other way round. When I wake up, it’s even worse though: I try to imagine the father’s face…

Don’t make babies: the future will hold them hostage.

Mukesh, appa, my first article, etc

The earliest music I remember listening to is Mukesh, Mohammed Rafi, and Manna Dey with my dad while he downed his drinks in the evening. The smattering of Urdu that he’d learnt was through these songs, so was to be mine. Through the years, we listened to the same songs with dad explaining the meaning of particularly beautiful phrases. He wanted to make sure I understood the lyrics.

Dil jalta hai, to jalne de

Aasoo na baha, fariyad na kar

Dil jalta hai, to jalne de

Tu parada nasheen ka aashiq hai 

Yoon naam-e-wafa barabaad na kar 

Dil jalata hai to jalane de ….

This was Mukesh’s first song and our favourite. It’s also a very niche song,
I realize as I have never, in all these years, heard this played anywhere. 

Big time nostalgia today, coz I found this suddenly in my Yahoo briefcase.

I'd written a most amateurish piece on a ballet in a village. JS replied:

Vijaya: You pushed me into a corner. Do I tell you of defects before I explain them to you, or do I pat your back now (only to thump it later)?

I limit my comments to a few striking flaws that I shall be talking about. I’ve inked red what I don’t like in your piece, and you’ll find my comments in blue.

But don’t let my comments discourage you. The defects that I’ve marked aren’t peculiar to you. Nor are you to blame. You’ve unconsciously absorbed all these and more from the Indlish-language papers and magazines you’ve been reading.

That’s what you’ll have to purge out of your system. And I’ll help you to purge them. I’ll give you lots of notes. They’ll give you short-cuts how to replace Indlish with English. I hope you’ll read them.

Only, there’s no short-cut to writing. Except maybe one: write, then re-write, then re-write what you’ve re-written.

We’ll have many interesting sessions on writing. Till then and after, keep writing. JS

The sessions continue... never seem to learn enough.

Nostalgia fuelled also by a photo of myself that I found. The pic's at least 4 years old. Cant recognise myself!

Six rupees

That's how much Baby Naaz's family of five earns in a good day, cutting about 240 rubber slipper straps.

Six rupees for three meals for five people.

If it weren't so tragic, it would have made for a brain-racking puzzle.

(Part of ongoing work for a local NGO here. With luck, should be able to post all the stories here in the coming weeks.)

Why even try?

Sick sight for lovely lady

.

My cousin died yesterday night. She jumped in front of a rushing train. I heard of it today morning at 7.

She was 18. I first saw her when she was about a week old, very roly-poly healthy baby. I still remember how big a baby she was. She loved to eat fruits, raw vegetables, anything that came her way actually. And she slept very well.

Somehow, as I keep thinking of her now, it’s her baby face that comes to my mind, not her as a teenager. Particularly one day, when I was waiting for her to wake up so I could cuddle her. She took her time, and I almost forced her awake. She turned her little black eyes on me, and gave me the sweetest smile. I even remember the colour of the little T-shirt she wore: light chocolate.

One other image is her Madhuri Dixit smile. She was a charming teenager, shy, and quiet with strangers, bubbly and talkative with her friends and family. Sometimes, she would flash this dazzling smile, unconscious of how beautiful she looked.

She grew up in Shrsi, my hometown, and in Bhattaguttige, my mother’s village. She loved the outdoors, and could always be found perched on guava trees. She knew exactly which part of a hill had a particular wild berry.

It’s more than 12 hours now since I heard. There’s just one image in my eyes: that of a train rushing towards me in the dark. What would it take for me to stand there, rooted? What did it take for her?

She was cremated half an hour ago.

Would you report it if you were raped?

"....the landlord and his son tried to rape me. Somehow I managed to get away. I didn't report the incident to the police because, back in 1980, it was widely recognised that women who reported a sexual assault were usually seen as liars.

....In 1982, a fly-on-the-wall documentary, Police: A Complaint of Rape, showed a rape complainant being interviewed by police. The police officers were shown bullying a woman into discontinuing her complaint against three men.

...Despite improvements, there remains a culture within the police that assumes that women who report rape are lying. One study found that a third of police assumed that at least a quarter of all reports were false. Research actually suggests, though, that numbers of false allegations of rape are no higher than for any other crime. Assumptions of false allegations are plainly dangerous. One case discontinued by police as a "false allegation" involved a man who turned out to be a serial sex attacker."

Guess which country's police system are we talkin about?

Gujarat - Another country

Bajrangi’s Navchetan works to prevent inter-religious love marriages, and if such a wedding has already taken place, it works to break the union. When a marriage between a Hindu woman and Muslim man gets registered in a court, within a few days the marriage documents generally end up on Bajrangi’s desk, ferreted out by functionaries in the lower judiciary. The girl is subsequently kidnapped and sent back home; the boy is taught a lesson. “We beat him in a way that no Muslim will dare to look at Hindu women again. Only last week, we made a Muslim eat his own waste – thrice, in a spoon,” he reveals with barely concealed pride. All this is illegal, Bajrangi concedes, but it is moral. “And anyway, the government is ours,” he continues, turning to look at the clock. “See, I am meeting Modi in a while today.”

Got this on the National Highway.

My family and other animals

Pure delight - that's Gerald Durrel's My family and other animals. Durrel's description is exquisite. He paints very vivid pictures, and his sense of humour is unique. You never know when a laugh is creeping up on you, and then you cant stop. It's not the loud ha-ha, hee-hee kind. It's the kind that has you in knots, and you keep smiling to yourself. Of course, this was another kind of entertainment for my co-passengers in the Metro, but I said, laugh and let see.

Discovered Durrel pretty late in life, but he's marked now. Here's one of my favourite passages from My family...

"… The wedding night – or rather day – of a tortoise is not exactly inspiring…

…The incredibly heavy-handed and inexpert way the male [tortoise] would attempt to hoist himself on to the female’s shell, slipping and slithering, clawing desperately for a foothold on the shiny shields, overbalancing and almost overturning, was extremely painful to watch; the urge to go and assist the poor creature was almost overwhelming, and I had the greatest difficulty in restraining myself from interference.

Once a male was infinitely more bungling than usual, and fell down three times during the mounting, and generally behaved in such an imbecile manner I was beginning to wonder if he were going to take all summer about it… At last, more by luck than skill, he hoisted himself up… when the female obviously bored by the male’s inadequacy, moved a few steps towards a dandelion leaf. Her husband clawed wildly at her moving shell, but could get no foothold; he slipped off, teetered for a minute, and then rolled ignominiously over on to his back. This final blow seemed to be too much for him, because, instead of trying to right himself, he simple folded up in his shell and lay there mournfully. The female, meanwhile, ate the dandelion leaf."

I want to go home

Yaava mohana murali kareyitu doora teerake ninnanu

Yaava Brindavanavu seleyitu ninna mannina kannanu

..................

Iruvdaellava bittu iradudaredege tudivude jeevana

Hello

No, I wasn't swearing all the while. Was quite my angelic self ;)

Loads of work right now, as if a punishment for the carefree week that whizzed by.

Have loads to write about, God willing.