It was cancer.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
How far I would go to get closer to someone I love
It was cancer.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
A Hindu's conversation with St. Peter
I am condemned. Or so I’ve been told. I was perfectly unmindful of my condemnation until, when on my way to a spa to be massaged into a blissful state of contentment (Oh how I love spas), I saw certain signage, raised high above a Bangalore traffic signal, informing me about the sad state of my soul.
Now I grew up in Christian country. By that, I mean to say, I grew up in a country where Christianity was the predominant belief system (I hate the word religion). It never bothered me much what people thought about their God, until they told me there was something wrong with mine. I remember a certain conversation in Mr. Machiya’s chemistry class that made me especially uncomfortable.
Classmate 1: What do you people believe in anyway? Don’t you have like a million Gods?
Classmate 2 (laughing): Yeah, I heard you guys think that you could’ve been like a dog in a previous life?
Quite a few people joined in that laughter. I not going to lie, it was especially painful for me to hear it. Because nobody likes to be made to feel that the belief systems of their people are some sort of a joke. Nor do they wish to be made to feel that somehow, their strange thinking needs to be ‘corrected’. I think their reactions might have been different had I informed them that Pythagoras, one of the great Greek philosophers of western civilization, believed in that very concept of the transmigration of souls. I daresay, that I had informed them, their laughter may have been muted. I dare to say it because it was probably true.
Adding to this constant, almost subliminal, messaging that sprung from the subconscious belief of the superiority of western culture over everyone and everything else, were the occasional philanthropists coming to
One particular graduate of Harvard came to us to save our souls in a different way: by telling us about the importance of abstinence. And she began, very humbly, with the following statement (again, I paraphrase): “I know that as Americans, we need to set the example for women around the world, because the world looks to us…”
Not patronizing at all. Or annoying. But just an FYI, we didn’t follow the Americans over in that part of
We followed the British. Humph.
After one of these soul-saving, 45 minute sessions, I was confused about something and wanted to clarify with an acquaintance. “They said that you have to be Chrisitian to go to heaven. Is that true?” I asked. If I remember correctly, she said, “Yes.” But she would have to confirm it.
I have to tell you, that this confused me for a very, very long time. Especially because of its total and complete finality. If I were to dig deep, and truthfully search into myself, I have to say that I felt as though I was not enough. I had to change, and become something else and then I would be accepted. Not just by the society in which I found myself so painfully placed, a veritable fish out of water that tried to evolve into an amphibian in the course of a single human lifetime, but also by God himself. I was born into a certain belief system, in a certain way. And it was not enough. Therefore, I must change.
I wonder if anyone else feels that way, who has had their belief-systems shattered and their minds imposed upon by a vastly different ideology? I wonder, do you question yourself and your existence and wonder if you got it wrong and must therefore change? I have. So many, many times.
In my continued efforts to understand the world, an initiative recently taken up on account of certain unexpected circumstances that brought forth to me the painful question of the purpose of my life, I have decided to share my thoughts, my ideas and my questions with world. There are certain things that I no longer wish to be quiet about. Because silence, though necessary at times, and often the better part of valor, is not always the answer. I wanted to talk about my experiences with everyone just because I can. Not to judge or be judged, but rather to fulfill a basic human desire to share and connect. People who know me will realize what a big step this is for me. I tend to go off the radar and become extremely private at times. I’ve thought a hundred times before posting each and every post on the blog, which is why I hardly ever post anything (they usually don’t make the cut). I have to tell you, I thought a lot before posting this one.
And now for the conversation with St. Peter. I stumbled across the following verse yesterday:
“Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe stands condemned already…”
- John 3:18
My overactive imagination imagined, in the course of a few minutes, the following conversation with St. Peter, (who is said to stand guardian to the gates of heaven), which I shall now recount.
St. Peter (upon reading my application to heaven): Child, a necessary prerequisite for your application to heaven, where the Fresh Springs of Eternal Youth await you, is that you must be a Christian. Therefore you are condemned. Now kindly move to the next lane, where you will be rerouted to the
Me:
Me: But St. Peter sir, how is that possible? He was a good man. People traveled far to seek his advice. He was a good man, who lived an honest life and saw so many, many things in his 90 years on Earth.
Me: Please sir, I seek my grandfather.
Me (without hesitation): No thank you sir. Show me to my grandfather.
Me: No thank you sir. I seek my grandfather. Point me to him, and gladly shall I go.
And I meant it. Now I’ve never questioned my Christian friends about this (except maybe some of my closest, so please know that I do not mean to offend), because Mum has drilled it into my head that God is good no matter what. God is good Anu, and He will take care of you and us and everyone.
If there is a God, and a logical progression of thought leads me to believe there is, then it occurs to me that I don’t even know his name. It’s been suggested to me, albeit strongly, by many people and many sources, but never by Him. Strange to think, then, that this Entity created me, made me who I am, is the silent Force that may have shaped my life, and still, I don’t even know His name.
I suspect, it matters little to Him what name He is called. I suspect it so, because as the great Bard put it, ‘What’s in a name? It’s neither hand, nor arm nor foot nor any other part belonging to a man’.
Whatever be His name then, He must be an omnipotent, omniscient being who knows us all. I hope He can see into me, and realize that though I have my doubts about Him, I stumble across divinity every once in a while. And I am continually in awe of it. I saw it in that cute little St. Bernard puppy down the street. I will be good, thanks to the influence of my mother, and not puppy-nap the cute little thing.
Above all, I know now that you should always go to a good spa. Because when you go to a bad spa, you think about the signage you saw on the way to the spa, you will think about it after the spa, it will stay with during other spa sessions and then you will end up writing a blog post about it. I leave you now, with the following beautiful song, as sung by a little known artist, Mathai.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
What it means to have curly hair
Sunday, March 27, 2011
India doesn't need a sexual revolution
Did you know that according to a recent survey female foeticide was highest among women with university degrees?
They give them to street sweepers to be disposed of like garbage. They tell them to catch rickshaws that go by riversides and throw them into the water. The doctors tell them this.
Of course there will be a skewed sex ratio! And when there aren’t enough child girls for them to marry as brides they traffic them from other states. Yes folks! We have brides for sale in India. All you need is RS. 10,000 or $222. So if I go Sunday shopping twice, I could buy a bride. And so could you!
I want to rattle the bars of those caged minds and scream! Whatever happened to our ‘lovely Indian culture’? Are we all insane?
People turn blind eyes to this. WE INDIANS turn blind eyes to this. Because if it doesn’t affect you, why should you be bothered right? Why should you be bothered at all?
Maybe if you have ten minutes to spare, you’ll find the time to educate yourself about this: http://www.buzzle.com/articles/129103.html (Guardian News & media, published '07).
But wait, don’t you have that cricket match to worry about? Isn’t that the most important thing in the world? So what if in some state of your country they’re mashing a baby foetus' bones (some of them developed enough to be legally called babies by Indian law)? As for me, I don’t give a damn about the cricket match. And I’m angry as hell.
I'm not even going to apologize for my harsh tone. Like I said, I’m angry as hell. And if you're not after reading that article, then you're just plain weird. Oh but wait, maybe you're just turning a blind eye. I'm so sorry...didn't mean to make you see. Carry on. Turn that blind eye.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
A lady I met in my travels
When I first saw Huliamma, she’d come to a school I was visiting to collect a transfer certificate for Lakshmi, her 16 year old daughter, who’d dropped out of the education system a year before in order to get married. She didn’t know her own age or how old she might have been when she herself had an arranged married. If she had to guess, Huliamma said, she was probably around 35 years. But then I asked her the age of her eldest child, and she said with fair certainty that her son, Hulgappa, was around 25.
Now, taking into account the average age that women of her generation and social class were married in Bellary District of the State of Karnataka, India, it was possible to make an educated guess as to her real age. Many of the women I’ve spoken to were married around the age of 14 or 15. They usually had their first child when they were 16 going on 17 and they were almost always uneducated, without any basic literacy or arithmetic skills. Not surprising. Adults in South Asia have, on average, completed only 4.5 years of schooling according to a UN report. If Huliamma’s eldest child, Hulgappa, was around 25, then that would place her age between 40 and 45 years.
Only 40 years and she was the mother of 6 children and the grandmother of one baby girl. Both her daughters were already married. Hulggiamma, her eldest daughter, was only 20 years old. And she was pregnant with her second child.
“Girls still marry at a very early age around here. We try and tell them not to marry them off so soon, but they won’t listen. That’s how it’s always been,” says Renuka, a teacher in the village.
The weather-beaten contours of Huliamma’s face appeared much older than 40. They hinted at decades of hard labour in the unforgiving Bellary sun. She’d been working since she was 13, she said. They were field workers. Gaddi kelsa was their way of living. And life was tough. If it wasn’t the heavy rains, then it was the severe shortage of them during dry seasons that constantly added to their troubles. But agriculture was their only source of income and they had a lot of mouths to feed.
On average, field workers get paid between Rs. 150 to Rs. 200 per day around Bellary. That’s around US $3 to $4. The cost of a kilo of rice in Karnataka is around Rs. 40. Average cost of a kilo of dal: Rs. 60. It’s fair to say that it costs at least Rs.100 for a large family like Huliamma to eat a simple meal of rice and sambar three times a day. Where is there money left for anything else?
A few hundred meters from the main highway that threads through all the surrounding villages like a string to so many pearls, was Huliamma’s home. Five feet from her doorstep, in the cool shade of a thatched roof shed, buffalo lay resting.
Coming from the concrete jungle that is Bangalore, I was touched to see such civil pastoral simplicity. What was even more touching was the close knit sense of community that wrapped around me as I sat down at her doorstep. All her neighbours came out to see their new visitor, come all the way from the big City. And for a brief moment, I felt I was a part of her life and her village. In that moment, I also felt trapped and powerless. What would I do if I couldn’t write?
Huliamma was staying home these days, because of Shivappa, her 18 year old son. Shivappa was sitting in front of the family house, one swollen leg wrapped in a towel, his emaciated form showing clear signs of chronic distress. He’d been cycling when he fell into a ditch months ago. They weren’t sure what was wrong with his leg.
“We went everywhere, from Bellary, to Hospet to Bangalore, but nothing happened. We spent nearly Rs. 150, 000 but no one did anything,” said Huliamma.
When I asked her which hospital in Bangalore they took her son to, she responded, “I don’t know. I’m a woman, how will I know these things? Our work is just cooking and cleaning. The men will know,” she said. So Shivappa was still suffering, with his left leg swollen and bandaged in a towel. And as an uneducated mother, she was powerless to do anything about it.
I’ve read so many statistics about the need to educate and empower women. How an educated mother will improve the quality of life for her children. How an empowered woman will have the means to sustain her family through difficult times. I think this is the first time that it really hit home.
I know it won’t be the last time. There are hundreds of thousands in the world like her. I’ll read another article in the newspaper tomorrow on the plight of women the world over. It’ll be written with an ‘angle’ on human development and have oh so many facts and figures that show just what a shame it is no one’s doing anything about it. The story will be right next to the latest scam on Government corruption, after the all important news on the latest superstar gossip.
But for people like Huliamma, this is their life. She has to get up the next day and go about her household chores. She has to tend to her son and ease his suffering. She has to find a way to cook three meals a day on whatever can be afforded. At least her daughters can read and write. Maybe her granddaughters will do much more.
When I read about this competition by Dove on the beauty of a woman, I was so happy because it gave me the opportunity to show others how amazing we women are through Huliamma's story. I thought of her immediately. For me, this is the true beauty of a woman: our ability to face life head on, despite the trials we have faced, despite the pain we have suffered, just like Huliamma does everyday. We find a way to get up each day and deal with everything that comes our way with a quite fortitude unmatched in any man I've ever come across. I see it in my mother's eyes, I see it in my Ajji's careworn features. I saw it Huliamma. And one day, I hope to see it in myself.
Monday, March 29, 2010
restless souls
Why are you in the social sector R*?
because, she said (and i'm paraphrasing here), i got sick of my old job. I'm a little restless that way.
a restless soul. like me.
Some people in this world are lucky. they were born in just the right place, at the right time, and they never struggle with themselves. they were, are, and always will be exactly suited to their life and place in this world.
then there are others. others like me. restless souls. wandering through here and there, never fitting anywhere, not even in the skin of their own existence. i remember being 13 and looking in the mirror. first time i asked my eyes to explain the meaning of their look. first time that iris brown turned to mystery and confusion.
and i wandered and wandered through the days and found nothing but confusion everywhere i looked. sometimes in that iris brown shining through the mirror...sometimes in the iris brown of others..or iris blue or iris green.
i gave up at one point. that misty haze of life would never clear, the sun would never shine. darkness was all i had and i should get comfortable with it. or so i thought....so i beleived.
until someone came along who looked right through the iris brown and saw me.
just as i am. no putting on a pedestal. no seeing a me that doesn't exist.
through the meandering path we wander together.
i am restless no more.