Encounters of an Everyday Kind

Saraswati Puja

2012-01-28T09:36:00.000-08:00

Today is Basant Panchmi, or Saraswati Puja, or the day that heralds the coming of spring. It also pays homage to the Goddess of letters and knowledge, Saraswati, wife of Brahma The Creator. It is a special day for me, for it fills my mind with memories of a childhood spent in Kolkata, where this Goddess is truly revered on this day. I do not think if I had had my early education in Delhi, I would look upon this day as so meaningful, nor would nostalgia fill my being with happiness. I actually see the huge white marble statue of Saraswati, that adorned the entrance hall of my school in Kolkata, in front of my eyes, with all of us schoolgirls gathered there. We joined in the puja or prayer, and sang Bengali songs in homage to her. I can never forget her, she is linked to my school and childhood in Kolkata.

We wear something yellow on this day, it is the colour of Spring. My mother says that my grandmother would dye their hankies and ribbons yellow for that day and they would wear them to school. And she would make sweet saffron rice (for the orange yellow colour in food) with cashew and raisins. My mother herself made pulao for us on that day , with the turmeric lending the yellow to the rice. Since it is Panchami, my Bengali maid tells me that they prepare five (pancham means five) vegetables today, and also a sweet kheer.

I feel really happy that we have this festival honouring letters and learning, for to me, education is the most important weapon to fight darkness. And as the strong yellow sunlight bathes the world around me, and the mustard fields sway in the breeze somewhere in my land, I know that winter is disappearing. I feel the joy of Spring and song, both in my mind and in my step.

Assumptions of a Culture

2012-01-20T08:49:00.000-08:00

The class had a brief. They had to prepare a story where a parent disapproves of his/her teenager’s dress, but when s/he sees the brand, s/he suddenly changes his/her view in favour of the outfit. This brief was the way it was because this was no simple creative writing class. It was creative writing geared to students who belonged to the advertizing and marketing stream, and we had been talking of brand loyalty and brand obsessiveness etc.

The stories that emerged were of course, as usual, unusual and wonderful, some more so than others, but creative nonetheless. Reading out her response to the brief, one student talked of how Sita wondered what Ram would wear for the evening party he was to go to, and it was half-way through the rendition of the story that another student piped up, “Oh, Ram is Sita’s son?” and the incredulity was evident in her voice. “Yes,” shrugged the story maker and teller of this tale, and continued.

And so we come to what struck me as the assumptions of a culture. Since we are so steeped in or aware of the Ramayana, we automatically assume that to every Ram, every Sita can only be a wife. Of course, a modern Sita can name her son Ram, and maybe her husband is called Ravinder or Manoj or some other name. The point is that for a long while into the story, some of the students had to make a mind shift to think of Sita addressing her son Ram, and scolding him for not dressing in appropriate clothes for a party, and later saying, “Oh, it’s a …….shirt, then wow! I adore this brand, why didn’t you tell me this was their latest…” etc. J

So changing what is ingrained in our minds takes time, even if it is a simple story that shows this. And of course, to a non-Indian, or one unfamiliar with the Ramayana, Sita and Ram as mother and son would not have a question attached to it. Or an incredulous response.

Heart on Fire

2011-12-24T03:28:00.000-08:00

One cold winter morning, this experience set my heart on fire, and the flame will burn within me as long as I live.

It happened just around this time, the time of Christmas and good cheer, when people are lighting fires and drinking warm things to banish the cold of the world outside and some of the darkness that visits everyone inside their hearts on lonely winter nights.

I was in Berlin in a hospital, and recovering slowly from an illness that had almost taken my life. The room was white and stark, well ordered and clean, gleaming like only hospital rooms can, since everything has to be germ-free. Outside the room the world gleamed under a weak winter sun and there was no snow. It was a surprising winter in Berlin when there was no snow, the first of its kind for many years. For the first time in many years too, there was sadness and loneliness in my heart. I was alone in a strange country, away from my loved ones, and my husband had yet to come, to be with me and hold my hand.

Any given day consisted of thermometers inserted under the arm to take temperature, injections pricked into skin for blood samples, the swallowing of prescribed pills, and the continuous visits of doctors and nurses. It was a non-stop if well-meant invasion of me and my time. I had to lie on my back and accept it all with good grace. I had just enough energy to be thankful for the care and attention being showered on me, the best of Indian hospitals lack this degree of concern. But the view outside was bleak, and though I am pretty spunky, I was feeling rather tearful, wondering when I would be home and enveloped in familiar warmth.

It was Christmas Eve, just like it is today, when early in the morning, my doctor walked in. She was a package deal in herself, but I found out all that much later when I got to know her better. On this day, she was just my doctor, dressed for Christmas with red lipstick on, black eyes snapping and her short hair gleaming. She smiled as she looked at me and said, “’ello, Abba.” That is how all of them pronounced my name and I had given up on the ‘h’ factor soon enough.

I smiled wanly. “Hi,” I said.

“And how are ‘du’ today?” she asked. She said the German ‘du’ instead of ‘you’, still it was close enough for me to understand. She was learning English and it embarrassed her no end to flail in front of me. So I did not correct her. Anyway, I was not up to it.

“Um…uh,” I said, not wanting to make a big deal of how I was feeling in front of her cheerfulness. She walked over to the window and ran a finger along the ledge to check. These doctors are finicky, very finicky. A smile almost crept along my mouth, they needed to come to India and smell the dust. And then my heart wrenched a bit more at the thought of my country.

She had a bright red coat on under her white doctor’s coat. I did tell you she was a package. She put her hands inside one of the pockets of the coat and took out a little white plastic flowerpot, the size of a tea cup. It was ridged. And in its centre there bloomed a single red star-shaped flower. I recognized this flower, but did not know its name. I found out later that it is called a poinsettia. She placed this flower pot on the window ledge.

“Merry Christmas, Abba,” she said, and her eyes crinkled.

Suddenly there was fire and warmth in the room, love and the sharing of it. I have not forgotten that flower, and it burns like a flame in my heart. It set my heart on fire that day and every time I looked at it, I knew I would return home.

*****

Encounter: A Different Set of Students

2011-12-23T00:55:00.000-08:00

It is not all about fiction…

I am teaching a group of students who are studying marketing and advertizing as their main subject. This batch belongs more or less to the age group I usually teach, i.e. post-graduate students aiming to hone their writing skills. The difference here is that their aim is not to become 'writers’, but to have such a skill as an added advantage when they sally forth into the business world.

Well, I geared my talks keeping their interests in view, and as they learn from me, I also learn that each group of students is a different kettle of fish altogether. Delightful, yes, but quite different in their selection of waters for swimming.

For example, there is great bonding in this group because they are exactly the same age, give a year here and there. They are interested in marketing, advertizing and public relations. Creativity and writing is a part and parcel of their greater pursuits. Despite the bonding, they come from different backgrounds, some have studied literature and some have studied commerce. They are dead serious about the classes, and almost everyone is present.

As we sit in the sun in the ampitheatre (the cold chill of the class had prompted us to move out and it has been a good decision), the sound of the airplanes that fly overhead often disturbs us. So does the carol singing of the young kids, preparing for the Christmas show, in the garden above the sunken ampitheatre. Despite the constant noise of some kind on the other, we manage to communicate and are happy in the warmth.

So we discuss books. What kind of books do they like to read? The feedback is revealing. One does not read at all, another watches 'only' movies, a couple of them read 'only' biographies and autobiographies. One of them says she does not like fiction at all, and then says she enjoys reading books by Amitav Ghosh! Turns out she is mixing fiction with fantasy. So she likes reading fiction but not fantasy. Not one of them like any kind of fantasy, and all of them hate Harry Potter (especially the books). Now that is shockingly revealing! There is one book-worm amongst them who reads everything from Chetan Bhagat (all the novels) to the new breed of young Indian English writers (“ I Hate to Love You” and “I Too Have a Love story” types) to Sidney Sheldon and more. But she is the only one. A couple of them like ‘Sybil’ and recommend I read it, and one of them mentions "Love Story" and how passe it is. Someone asks me about "Catcher in the Rye" and what it is about.

In totality, the impression I got was of students who do not read a lot. And they acknowledge it with grinning nods. And ask me about the books I read. Hopefully, and I can see the hope reflected in their eyes, they will read some more now. At the moment,they are aware but not absorbed…regarding books. But ask them about advertizements and they will roll them off their tongue. We like the “daag achey hain” and “get lost” and “jid karo, duniya badlo,”advetizements but we can’t understand the logic of this one and hate that one and so on. They are pretty vociferous about advertizements, so I guess they are in the right program. The ‘Creative Writing’ student groups (and there have been several) were into creative writing and reading and mentioned books they had read like flipping coins one after the other…non-stop. Much like this batch does regarding advertizements.

I love their smiles, enthusiasm and willingness to absorb and learn. They pay attention despite the distractions. They are a close-knit set with pen drives and netbooks and tight jeans and a certain degree of cockiness. And I just love to connect with them as they talk after class about a game called ‘sun’, ‘moon’ and ‘home’ and jump up and down the steps of the ampitheatre, playing the game and laughing like a bunch of school kids. Books are the furthest from their mind as they begin talking about a marketing survey they need to do.

I head out to lunch with my mom where the sarson-ka-saag, makki-ki-roti and adrak-chai is waiting along with more of this sun and laughter.

*****

Indiblogger Meet …an Encounter worth the time!

2011-12-13T11:42:00.000-08:00

I decided to attend the Indibloggers meet at the Park Hotel on Sunday, the 11th December, for several reasons. One was to connect with some of the bloggers whom I knew online and second to connect with some I did not know at all. It was also the convenience of both the time (afternoon) and venue (Connaught Place) for me.

I can say that I was rather apprehensive about the meet, since I had not attended any before, and also because I could get lost and lonely in the milieu. So it was more of an impulsive whim and a desire to meet fellow bloggers that propelled me there. The Park is a familiar venue for me, so that offered a level of comfort.

The welcome was warm. Introductions were in full swing among the women at least and I soon joined in, introduced myself, and found that there were all kinds of bloggers. I blog on ‘encounters’, and this covers a gamut of situations. Two popular bloggers whose blog names were being thrown around were Cyber Nag and Indian Home Maker. Cyber Nag was gentle and friendly and Indian Home Maker was smart and camera-wielding. So the titles did not ‘really’ fit in real life, but must be doing so in their blog avatars. I have yet to find out, for I have many blogs to visit now. I met a quiet Anshuman who blogs about ‘random resistance’ , Sangeeta Khanna who has 4 blogposts on desi food, Santosh Bangar who blogs on simple healthy cooking, Purba Ray, Pallavi, Rachit, Vineet, and a host of others. Someone intorduced himself as “not from Jalandar” (to refute his introduction on- screen as being from Jalandar). I met Dr. Maurice Ryder who writes on Himalayan adventure and action, on animals and on…many things. Ritu Lalit and Aabha Midha I met in person for the first time, and it was great to do this eventually. Hiren Gogoi, a young student from Amity, obliged by clicking several of our photos from the several cameras handed to him!

There was a blogger who blogged on liver transplants, and another who did the same on finance. Jaspal said he made lakhs from his blogging, I think we all need to know the secret of his success. There were blogs on the mundane and the unusual, but blogs galore, take your pick!

HPoriginals emphasized the value of the original over the copy. We talked on plagiarism, and I spoke of how some of my poems had been pasted once without attribution to me. A young lady, who spoke about her blog on liver transpant being completely copied by someone, won an HP Printer.

The introductions over, the games began. Team work, treasure hunt. So the team with the most number of ‘original’ (guess what) finds, won! And individuals who found an ‘original’ also won…a printer!

High tea. Chole-bhaturey and pakoras and other mouth-watering goodies.

The Discussion is On !

Another game of writing comments on flat boards carried by the participants on their back (I got a couple of really sweet commentsJ), and some lucky ones won again. The last event was where a mock panel of Kapil Sibal, Mark Z., Sonia Gandhi, Digvijay Singh, Suhel Seth, a Yahoo and Google rep. etc., faced the audience. With the bloggers’ own version of Rajdeep S. manning the show, we had a humourous and enlightening time. Someone in the audience said that Sonia Gandhi should not be mocked, and he was asked whether Veena Malik should? Touche. Thank god for freedom of speech, that is all I can say. Each one of us can speak and be heard.

Well, the cars and autos and buses were waiting. We took our T shirts (yes, that too!) and bid our goodbyes to new friends made and old friendships strengthened.

Thank you Indiblogger and HPoriginals for a really good time. Oh yes, I learnt how to use the QR App. too!That is an added attribute.

**********************************************************************************

FLASH BITES : A collection of Flash Fiction by Abha Iyengar

2011-10-18T05:37:00.000-07:00

Available as an e-book on smashwords

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/59782

Review by: BishalThapa on Aug. 29, 2011 :

Ever stood under an Indian Monsoon after a hot, sunny day? Flash Bites might let you experience that sensation.

Each raindrop is unique. Some are big heavy drops that hurt you when it lands. Some are small light drops that tickle you when it lands. Yet others are just illusionary drops that disappear somewhere on the way down. Some drops hurtle straight down; some sideways; yet others have no idea which way it wants to go. A rain shower contains many such drops.

Taking in Ms. Iyengar’s book is like standing under an Indian Monsoon after a hot, sunny day. Each drop has its unique character. But it is the rain shower that drenches you.

I would recommend not bringing an umbrella.

(Bishal Thapa is Vice President with global consultancy firm works on energy and environmental issues, though he would rather be reviewing books than climate policies.)

With Due Respect to Those Who Eventually Find Their Way

2011-10-02T23:07:00.000-07:00

Streets, Signs, Directions…

I am known as one who reads the signs. That is the only way I know where to go. I am the quintessential ‘wanderer’ in the sense that I will wander very often because I do not know the direction that I need to take. It embarrases me to admit this, but I may have traversed a road often enough and still not know whether I need to turn right or wrong, sorry, left , from there. And this is not a case of senility taking over, I have been like this from the day I began to venture out on my own.

I mean, there are all kinds of travellers in the world, aren’t there? Do note here that despite this apparent lack of direction, I am one gung-ho traveller. There is a place to see in the world…just lead me to it. I am a taster of strange waters and listener of stranger talks and I just love it like nothing else. There is a sense of wonder in travelling and seeing a new place. The fact that I may not find my way home is very far from my mind when I venture out. Foolish? I would say not. I have an enquiring nature and am willing to stop every furlong and ask for directions. Thank god I can read the signs. Sometimes I just have to read them, remember them, and then move on.

But I know the reasons for this lack of street sense. I can enumerate them and perhaps will find a few who will sympathise and empathise. As a child I travelled in a chauffeur-driven car, and in the point to point travelling, I never looked out of the window. Even when I did look out, I never noticed anything, least of all directions. I was either day dreaming, or had my nose in a book. I never felt the need or desire to watch the world go by. Strange,for now I see and look and watch. Then, after marrriage, I travelled with my husband, and once again, I moved blindly, in complete faith and trust, not bothering about directions. It is only when I began travelling on my own for work that the issues got raised. Left or right or straight ahead began to be big questions that loomed on the horizon for me. If I wanted to reach that horizon, I had to know how to get there.

I agree that I cannot hold the exterior environment as totally responsible, I did say that I am a day dreamer and a reader. I had to change all that when I began to travel alone. It has made me become aware like never before of streets and signs and landmarks for destinations. I also know that many people who daydream or read while travelling will still know how to reach a place. Alas, I am not so gifted. I have to din the directions into my head. And of course, I can read signs, and thank god for them popping up everywhere.

I once gave directions to a friend who was pick me up from my mother’s house. We were a group of writers from all over India who were meeting after a long time and all of us were looking forward to this meeting. My friend arriving safely at my mom’s place to pick me up in time. I patted myself on giving him good directions, you could just see me beaming as I hugged my fellow writers. Imagine my chagrin when he said, “Abha, I just went in the opposite direction of your instructions. That is why I have reached here.” The fact was that he lived in New Delhi and had soon figured out that whatever directions I had given him would not land him at my mom’s doorstep, but in the market behind it. Now how could I react to this? I could be upset in his proclamation of this in front of my other writer friends, or just be happy that he had arrived. I swallowed my pride and took his remark with grace, got into the car and pretended I was not smarting at all. I was, though. It is difficult to admit to one self that one is not purr-fect. Especially when people usually tell you that you are quite a cat. Such statements help you see you for what you are. Okay, so cats have their quirks.

And at least I can read signs and behave smart in front of certain auto drivers who insist on stopping at every traffic light and asking questions like, “Madam, do you want to go right from here or left?” with complete innocence. As if Madam knows. Yet, at any such driver query, I nod sagely and tell him to take the fastest route, since I want to get to the place in time, and surely he knows the way, being an auto driver and all that? And I hate him forever for trying to see whether I do. Delhi auto drivers can give you a good merry-go-round of the city if they get a whiff of uncertainty from you.

What happens in places where the signs are in a different language? Or the people speak a different tongue? I look helpless and throw words around, go through the guide book, accost a stranger and see if s/he knows the languages I do. Someone always come as an answer to the silent prayers I send out. Like in Ponidcherry, where they only speak Tamil or French and I I didn’t know either language, I was often in a fix. However, I would always find some auto driver who spoke English, what with so many foreigners visiting Pondicherry. And, I even found one who spoke Hindi whose mobile number I took immedaitely, so that I could call him for my expeditions into the city. In Bangalore, I found it very tough, though, for Kannada (the local language) stumped me and my languages stumped the drivers there. So then it was just clear enunciation of the destination street name, and then trusting the signs and the gods.

I wartch carefully now, spot and remember landmarks. I also guage distances and directions of movement. I note which side of the road I got off on, so that I cross to the other side for the return ride. I have found that I am not so helpless when I am on my own, I do find my way back everytime, whether on the tram in Paris or the autobahn in Berlin. Or on the Metro in New Delhi, my hometown. So I do know that the Metro blue line goes from East to West Delhi, the yellow line from Central Delhi to Gurgaon, and so on. There is also a purple line, and that is so exciting, since the colour purple makes me go green with delight.

I may be dumb with directions, but then, ask me where Rykjavik is, and I can tell you on the map. How many can? And if I know where it is , rest assured I can get there, for I know all about streets, directions and tell tale signs. I also have a woman’s instinct and am loaded with intuition. More than enough to get by on any street I choose to make mine at any time in my life.

As for finding my way back from my adventurous outings…I did mention I am a kind of a cat, and cats always find their way home. Purr-fect.

Return Encounters of the Class Kind

2011-09-02T22:44:00.000-07:00

I am writing this after a long time, have had several classes in between but somehow had not felt like putting it all down, maybe it was just that I was so busy completing my novel. It is done. I am happy, and taking a breather, not thinking about the next stepping stone yet: you got it, the publsihing of the novel!

Meanwhile, to saner things.

The class was back again to being interesting. Good turnout, and the airconditioning on full to kill all hot and humid feelings from the flesh. What was hot and churning was the brain. The topic for the day was dialogue writing, and there was much to be discussed here. The initial exercise was of a mother telling her 14 year old son or daughter to change his/her clothes which she considered unsuitable and the child’s reaction. This was to be in the form of a dialogue. Some responses were more narration than dialogue, one lady misunderstood it to be a father telling the child off, but apart from such gaffes the exercise had its high points. There was a story of how a girl refuses to take her dupatta to cover her head in the gurdwara, saying she will pick up a scarf at the place instead(a compromise of sorts but also getting her way), another one where the child accepts being left behind at home rather than change her clothes. In another tale, the child is told that even though he thinks he looks like Farhan Akhtar dressed for the Tomatino Fair in Spain, such an outfit would not go down well for a grandparent’s birthday party. Here,the mother tells the son he looks like a Holocaust Survivor while he thinks he looks like a film star. She also says that his outfit would not go well with her kanjeevaram saree, so it was a funny one, this one. In four out of ten stories, there was talk of ‘banging doors’ in anger as people stomped out or into their rooms. So we had a discussion on the banging of doors and someone said that in her house they cannot bang doors, and someone said his dog bangs the door for them, another said if the door banged, the walls would fall, and so on. ;)

We then did an exercise where one of the girls, a 9th class student , wearing tight jeans and strappy purple sandals, braces and spectacles, and hair in pony tails, was made to stand in a Shringar Mudra pose (which she learnt as a student of kathak), and 2 of the paritcipants were asked to walk in the garden (imaginative), and chance upon this sculpture. They had to comment on this ‘sculpture’ supposedly placed in the middle of the garden. The comments were funny to say the least, they were astounded at this post-modernist piece of art with the girl dressed in jeans and adopting a 'shingar' pose.(one hand holding a mirror in front of the face, the other hand putting a mark on her forehead, one leg bent behind the other and a hip stuck out). Then each one wrote the dialogue down as their version, as they thought it would happen, and once again we had some good pieces. There was a conversation between a hip- hop dancer guy in the US who found the statue yuck and funny and not dressed as it should be. He was with and Indian girl named Shakuntala, called ‘Shat ‘for short , (I squirmed at this),who thought that the hip-hop guy should appreciate a dance form since he was a dancer, even though the dance form (kathak) is not known to him.

We then went into the nitty grity of dialogue writing, the punctuations etc., and this the class found to be a real learning experience. They were busy noting down the points and getting their doubts clarified.

The next class was equally interesting, but that is another story!

Recent Review of 'Flash Bites' e book

2011-08-23T00:17:00.000-07:00

"Relationships seem to be the basic theme that weaves into most all of yor stories. Poignant are stories of broken relationships. But the most beautiful part of your stories are the IMAGERY. It is rich, graphic and all pervasive. It makes the reading not only powerful but also pretty and oh, so touching."

~Vasudha Gupta (Ph.D.)
Licensed Psychologist, USA

Link to Flash Bites:
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/59782

My film Parwaaz can be viewed on youtube

2011-07-13T23:48:00.000-07:00

My poem film, Parwaaz, means Flight. It showed successfully at several international film festivals in Germany, India, Zimbabwe, and won the Special Jury Prize at Patras Film Festival, Greece. With subtitles in English, it has been directed by Biju Viswanath. The Urdu poem is written by me and translated into English by me. I also act in the film and the voice is mine.

This film is now available for your viewing pleasure online on you tube.

Do watch and comment here.

My Presentation on The Story teller and Imaginative Spaces

2011-06-29T03:31:00.000-07:00

A talk I had given earlier this year at CeC 2011, the Carnival of e-Creativity.I was one of the Primary Participants here.

I spoke on the Storyteller and his contribution to society. How, as a writer I consider myself a storyteller and my awakening as a writer to the various aspects of existence through the path of writing.

I speak also of Imaginative Spaces, what they mean to me as writer, and how collaboration is so important for synergy to take place.

It is an introduction to the process of writing, story telling, and through it, realization.

It is available on you tube and you can watch it and comment upon it here.

On my story ,'The Gourd Seller'

2011-06-22T11:42:00.000-07:00

"While all the short stories in this anthology are viable narratives, the two
that stand out from the lot, to my mind, are “Seiji” by George Polley and “The
Gourd Seller” by Abha Iyengar. Polley’s story is about an artist who grew up
and spent his life in the Asakusa district of Tokyo, Japan. With his intimate and
persistent grasp of the devastating violence in the aftermath of the Second
World War, the artist responds creatively to the given reality and looks beyond
the ravaged remains around him for light and life. Along another track of
violence, Iyengar’s story, set in the Indian city of Kanpur, depicts a Hindu
widow, Reena’s strange fascination for Altaf, the gourd seller, who falls victim
to communal violence. The story exudes the local aroma and ambience and the
literal translation of Reena’s outbursts has unmistakable Indian flavour."

~ Murari Prasad
B.N. Mandal University, India
on my story in this collection: A Rainbow Feast: New Asian Short
Stories.Mohammad A. Quayum, ed. Singapore: Marshall Cavendish International, 2010. 328 pp.
ISBN 978-981-4302-71-5.

The link here:

http://asiatic.iium.edu.my/asiatic/article/Asiatic%204.2%20pdf%20files/Murari.review.pdf

Beauty from Within

2011-05-20T23:59:00.000-07:00

Real beauty is something which stems from within a person, it is internal beauty. It lies in the heartfelt smile, the gentle touch, the welcome in the voice. It is the shine in the eyes and the enthusiasm in the walk of the spirit which greets the dawn of each day with hope. Real beauty is honesty and truth that shows on the face of a person who strives to live by a certain set of ideals and beliefs.

It is often believed that by colouring the lips, outlining eyes, sporting a designer haircut, or wearing branded clothes, a person begins to look beautiful. However, beneath the makeup if the skin is unhealthy, or if beneath the designer clothes the body is unfit, then this kind of attempt at beauty is artificial. It comes off when the make up and designer clothes are removed. Beauty of the skin and body lies in being clean and fit. It requires regular cleansing and exercising, so that the skin is vibrant and the body agile.

Real beauty also means that we remain intelligent and aware and participate in the everyday human endeavour to live a wholesome and fulfilling life. We do not have to be a film star or a public persona to do this. Leading our life based on our convictions and working with our strengths to create a meaninful existence makes us beautiful.

Very often, there is a loss of physical beauty, or there is a lack of what the world defines as beautiful. Yet we call that person beautiful. Mother Teresa is a well cited example of this. It is the beauty of her spirit and her love that has remained with us well after she is gone from the world.

A really beautiful person is constantly learning, evolving and is happy to be alive. She is one who pays attention to her diet and exercise and keeps active and vibrant, attempting to face each day as it comes and tries to contribute in whatever small way she can to the Universe to which she belongs.

Real beauty from within will colour our lives for much longer beyond our years. It is also important to acknowledge the beauty of the world around us, the beauty of being alive. ‘Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.’

Real beauty lies in taking care of our health, both mental and physical. It means having confidence in ourselves and being thoughtful towards others. Such beauty is never faked, it will show through the sparkling eyes, the glowing skin and the happy smile. Whether we are young or old, when we are really beautiful, no one, with all the made-up perfection in the world, will be able to match our looks. For we will possess the gentle, lasting beauty if a Dove.

*****

My Flash Fiction collection available online

2011-05-18T00:18:00.000-07:00

FLASH BITES by Abha Iyengar is a collection of flash and micro fiction, telling stories in a few words,letting the reader in into a world and allowing her to fill in the gaps to arrive at her own interpretations. The stories are sometimes down- to -earth and sometimes surreal. They open a different door to let the light in on what may seem to be the mundane and ordinary. They give an insight into what lies beneath the surface of things, people and places.

You can read more about Flash Bites, sample a few excerpts, or buy the book online by visitng this link

To know more about Abha Iyengar and her writing, visit here.

Happy reading...

Abha

Child Sexual Abuse Awareness Month -Parents Should Open Communication Channels with Kids

2011-04-21T05:33:00.000-07:00

Child sexual abuse takes place because the child has no protection, no one to turn to. A child is trusting and innocent. When something like this happens, the child would not know what it is that is happening to him/her. The terror, the agony, and then the guilt, coupled with the threats of the molester, all of these would add up to silencing the child.

So it is very important that parents keep the channels of communication open between themselves and their children. Parents often drill so much of morality and what is right and wrong into the minds of their children, in order to teach them to tread the straight and narrow path. Yet, they fail to warn their children about those who may have no morals at all as far as children are concerned. Parents have to teach their children about the ‘right kind of touch’ by others, and the wrong kind of touch. And in the ‘others’ , the rest of the family members should also be included, the brothers, cousins, uncles and grandparents. Servants should also be included in this list of ‘others’ , even old, trustable, family servants.

Many parents fight shy of talking to their children, because they do not know how to talk to their kids regarding such matters. Some parents also feel that such talk is ‘dirty’. They first have to teach themselves that creating awareness of sexual matters, and also making their children aware of the dangers of sexual molestation is not ‘dirty’ nor ‘shameful’, nor something to be embarrassed about.

Very often it has come to my notice that children are scared of their mother and father, and do not want to discuss anything with either of them, whether it be their dreams or their terrors. Parents, please have an open mind towards your children, you do want the best for them, and you do want them to be safe and sound , especially within the four walls that they call ‘home’. Be open to their thoughts and ideas, be understanding and compassionate, and try not to be judgmental. Children need to have someone to turn to and trust with their deepest feelings, and parents need to have the time and ability to understand those feelings.

Parents who teach their children about sex, and about what the right or wrong touch is, guide their children well. Parents who tell their children that they must be informed if someone ‘wrongly ‘touches them, even if this is done by a much loved uncle of the family, or a visiting friend of their father’s, are saving their children from a lot of pain. For this, parents have to keep their channels of communication open.

It can happen that the molester is the father himself. In which case, the mother has to be the strong one and the one who supports the child and listens to him/her and takes action. A mother who turns a blind eye or refuses to listen to her child is as much a perpetrator. Mothers cannot claim to be helpless. They have to support the child and get in touch with help from an NGO like RAHI ,or any other, which helps them deal with such traumatic experiences. Anything to do with the family becomes a touchy, sensitive and complex issue, so outside help is required, which works in the form of support and guidance and action to be taken.

However, the first step begins from home, it is important to show love to the child by making him/her aware of the existence of child sexual abuse and incest. If guidance is required regarding the right age and how to do this kind of awareness creation, once again concerned parents can turn to books on the subject, and to the help and guidance offered by NGO s who work on such issues, like RAHI.

RAHI is Delhi based, but other NGOs are working with such issues all over India and abroad. The bottom line is that Child Sexual Abuse exists, and parents must make their children aware about it, in a gentle and educated manner.

*****

Child Sexual Abuse Awareness Month

2011-04-12T00:11:00.000-07:00

When I first starting talking about CSA to people I knew, I got several responses. These responses came from people who were considered educated and aware. These were working women who went out in the world, interacted with an outside world, knew what was going on in the world around them and were not ignorant to say the least. They held well paid jobs. One of these women was a 28 year old (can’t call a today’s urban working 28 year old naïve, can you?) who said , when she first learnt of the existence of CSA, that she could not believe such a thing existed. I looked at her in shocked surprise, surely she could not be so impervious to what went on in the world? Surely she must have heard some stories, some whiff of all this must have reached her ears at some point in her 28 year old life? Anyways, better late than never, be aware and know that CSA exists everywhere, and is often to be found happening within the confines of family life.

The other response was from an Indian lady who lives abroad and is middle aged. She has seen and experienced a lot of life. She is a working woman, holds a very important job, has grown up children. She is aware and alert about several issues. When I mentioned the prevalence of CSA in India, especially that it often takes place in families and that the abuse is done by someone who is either trusted or held in high regard by the victim, she gave an unbelievable response. She said that she did not think that CSA could happen in India, since our religion (sic) would prevent people from doing such shameful things. According to her, it was a malaise of the West. I was so dumbfounded that for a long time I could not speak. Well, now she has become aware that CSA exists wherever there are people, and it is as rampant in India as it is anywhere else.

That is why CSA awareness becomes important. So that people know that CSA exists, that it exists within families, and what to look out for to know if it is taking place within your own family, or happening to someone you know. CSA awareness makes you understand that these issues have to be dealt with, otherwise the implications are great. CSA is hushed, ignore, not made much of, because of the stigma attached to it. So the more people become aware, the more they talk about these issues and bring them out into the open, the more it becomes something that the perpetrators know they cannot get away with without being punished. CSA is a crime against the vulnerable, the tender, the innocent. Awareness is the first step towards action.

Those of you who do want to discuss anything related to CSA, please get in touch with Anuja Gupta of RAHI Foundation. She is there to counsel and help.

Talk today, April 12th, with Anuja of RAHI between 4.30 and 5.30 on Twitter: @CSAawareness

For more on CSA Awareness, another site : www.karmickids.blogspot.com

stories connect and reconnect

2011-04-10T11:04:00.000-07:00

Rasana writes : Hi Abha,

I read an absolutely brilliant short story recently in the Unison collection. The characterization, the pacing, the execution - everything was superb. I flipped over to check the name of the author and saw that you'd written it.

Congratulations! It is, by far, the best short story I've read in a long time.

Rasana

She just made my day! The Unison collection is titled "Two Is Company" and available for order online at Flipkart . My story is called "Marked Territories".

She has a very helpful blog for writers right here! Go check.

http://rasanaatreya.wordpress.com

Another class: another encounter of the fun kind

2011-04-05T07:49:00.000-07:00

This was a fresh batch of students and I was getting better at it. I went with a more relaxed approach but of course the underlying excitement was there, of meeting a new bunch. This bunch had students, a civil servant, a businessman, writers, hairstylist, a yoga enthusiast, a sportsperson, a couple of dancers, a sci- fic lover, and a lot of enthusiasm. Winter was setting out and spring was on its way in, yet the air did have the element of chill in it. I was early for the first class and as I sat nursing my tea, two of the students walked up to me and we talked before we left for the formal class interactions. They later joked about it, saying they were making sure they got to know me before the others did. J

In class, the ice-breaker was a laugh, with Ramesh and Rama as two characters who were married for thirty years and had grandchildren before a small act of Ramesh’s made Rama decide she could not live with him any longer. He broke the ice and put it in his red wine, and she thought, yuck, how could she possibly put up with someone like this. So she left him and found another guy but the best was that Ramesh was very happy with this separation for finally he could drink the wine as he liked it (with ice) and he also could show his interest in Rama’s lover since he could now proclaim that he was gay and not have any problems about it.

We then worked with an image which threw up all kinds of story ideas from mother earth to performing lemons to a sadhu within the central green pod who was out to mislead the world. I liked the idea of the performing lemon the most. The other tales were of how the blue squiggles were the common man who was non- descript and shallow, the ones on the balconies above were likened to noblemen or controllers of the pod or even jalebis (by one of the students who said she could not think beyond food).

One of the other exercises also produced some very interesting tales. There was a tale of a man buying a lettuce and wondering why the seller asked for hard cash as change and why he could not ask for liquid change instead, as he sat under a lamplight in the gathering dusk. There was another fantasy tale of how a lettuce could only live so long and then change into a liquid form which could impart its life to another being but become liquid as it did so and be held within a lamp after that. These were very interesting tales, and then one of them brought out a tale of a dancing lamp. So we had homework to do with a dancing lamp or a performing lemon since the photo had a performing central piece that resembled a lemon to one of the participants.

It was a good experience, full of fun and laughter. And work done.

Dream, Destination, Destiny!

2011-02-09T22:48:00.001-08:00

I was in Trivandrum to make a film. I did not know anything about film making, I was a poet, I knew how to write and recite. I was also a risk taker, an entrepreneur of a kind, or why should I be there for making the film? Or, and I think this could be the real reason, maybe it was just that I had always wanted to go to Kerala and my desire was finally taking shape. It was materializing, but in a totally different way from what I had envisaged. I had always thought I would holiday in Kerala with my family when my children were young. The desire to see Kerala had been fuelled a long time ago by my next- door neighbour. She was from Kerala. My children had breakfast every Sunday morning at her home. Her dishes were delicious and I learnt a lot from her, like not wasting anything. When she transferred rice from one dish to the other, not a grain of rice was left behind. I stopped being so careless about food after watching her. But what I learnt more from her was of Kerala, which till then had been just a part of the nebulous, hazy South for me. I had never gone beyond Hyderabad. Andhra Pradesh and Kerala are poles apart in more ways than one, and Hyderabad cannot be really considered as geographically ‘South’ as Trivandrum.

As the years passed and the children grew into teenagers, I began to believe that I would never get to see God’s Own Country, despite my fervent wish to do so. But as they say, “there is delay in God’s house, not darkness”. And, “when He gives, He breaks rooftops”. So finally, many years later, I was whisked away to Trivandrum not to holiday but to make a film there.

This experience was a mixed blessing. It was raining every time we tried to shoot the film. I realized the degree of hard work the making of a film requires. It meant crew, co-ordination, timing, jugaad panaa by the minute. Each day cost money in terms of camera, crew and actors. The weather and luck play a big part in the whole thing if you are shooting outside like we were. I realized that making a movie is not a cakewalk because everyone and everything has to work for each of those perfect shots that seem to flow so easy on the screen. The high-voltage tension involved has to be experienced to be realized.

I learnt a lot in Trivandrum during the process of film making. Of how a fire is lit for a film and kept going on the beach despite rain. How you can be blessed by a sudden shot of crows flying low, which when filmed there and then, add to the film’s depth.

With all this, I experienced the sheer beauty of Nature with all its bounty. The grey beaches, the deep blue waters, the dark green coconut trees, the sweet yellow bananas, Nature just gave of itself freely and willingly. The film could not have been made anywhere else but here, against this backdrop of lyrical natural bounty.

Trivandrum is different in so many ways from Delhi, the city where I live. In Delhi, we get the beginning nips of cold in October. In Trivandrum, it is humid, and it rains, even in October. Yet it is a part of India, and beautiful in so many ways.

The trip to Trivandrum seemed to have opened up the South for me, for after shooting this film, I have gone to Pondicherry and Chennai in subsequent years. I love to travel, and I am so happy that my dream of going to Kerala finally materialized in the most stupendously exciting and remarkable way. Two dreams came true, Trivandrum and a film. Three dreams, actually, for the dream to travel also got fresh wings.

The bey blade : encounter with a high tech toy

2011-01-25T00:07:00.000-08:00

On the way up to my flat in the lift I met a young boy. He held in his hand a green coloured plastic object which I could identify as a bey blade, since I was still somehow in the loop and was not so alienated from what moves the ages between 8 to 12. Bey blades have many names and types, but only those who play with them, or their mothers who are forced to purchase them, would know the variegated names of these.

I am wont to make conversation with young things, who may or may not be sweet. So I opened my conversation with what would be of interest to him, and to me as well. Bey blades are strange and unfamiliar objects in my eyes and I could get to know them better.

“What do you have in your hand? Some kind of new fangled gun?”

It could be, it could be.

Amazed, he looked at me. I did not know? ‘This… is a bey blade.” Then his face put on once again a dead pan expression. He just wanted to get on with his life.

I did know. but I wanted more.

“So what is this one called?” I knew they had names.

He mumbled something, I could not catch the name.

“I have many ,” he said. He rattled off the names now, and I caught a few. Not so sure I heard these right…Dragoon? Pegasus?

“This one has ‘stamina’,” he said. He was referring to the one he held.

Stamina?

It seems the bey blades have characteristics like stamina.

He had begun to talk. The lift had gone all the way up to the 7^th floor. Impatiently, he pressed the button for his floor again.

“Yes,” he said, “stamina. It can go on a lot longer than others.”

“There are other characteristics too?”

“Oh, yes.”

This was a whole new ball game, no, lattoo game.

“So this is a lattoo,” I said, knowingly.

He was shocked. “No. this is not a lattoo. I told you, this is a beyblade.”

Lattoo. In the streets of Karolbagh many years ago, was played this game. Young boys played it and me, the tomboy for a while, often tried my hand at it. Though I never got interested enough to master the craft, I did love the way the lattoo spun on the mud or the tarmac or the grass, its pointed end sharp and cutting, a one- legged ballerina spinning on her own. One spinning wooden top would be joined by several others, and I would watch to see whose lasted it out the most, who won, which lattoo fell first. The guy whose lattoo lasted it all was the hero of course. He would most probably be taken to the corner shop and fed a samosa to acknowledge his victory for the day. If he was lucky and his friends had some money in the pockets of their cotton shorts or pale blue school pants.

The spinning top of those days was a red and yellow toy with a fat centre, a little cap on top and a tapered iron pointed leg. You would wind a thin twine round and round from its top to its fat stomach and right down below, catch the end of the twine in your hand, balanced the lattoo between your index finger and thumb, and then release it by pulling hard the twine. So much balance and art, premeditation and control required for the lattoo to spin and not fall flat on its face. Much like today’s bey blade but here, the control and preparation is of a different type. And the feel is all plastic, no wood, no twine, no bright red and green painted colours. I am nostalgic. I do not care much for bey blades, I did care for lattoos then. Not too much, but enough, enough to write about it now.

His sister stood next to him with a ‘scooter’, those one- legged things you trundle along.

I asked him whether he had one.

“No, I have my bey blades,” he said.

I know he spoke in the plural, because kids don’t have one, they have many. They are expensive, the price range is from 150 to 400 rupees. And then they have spare parts, the more fun add-ons to the basics, which again cost some more, say another rupees 50/- for each spare. Welcome to the world of money makes the top spin more. The old wooden top is a cheap, forgotten hero of another era.

“Do you ride this sometime?” I asked him as I looked at his sister’s scooter.

“No, it’s hers, it’s a girl thing, a girl model, I would never ride it.” He gave me a look from under his eyes as if he was talking to a strange creature.

I was strange to his world, a world of bey blades, a world where stuff was not shared. These are the times of specializations, and what does for one will never do for the other.

The lift doors opened, he walked out. His sister walked out. He looked back. We, of two different worlds, were travelling in the same lift, the lift a time machine.

A bey blade which would never be a lattoo again, in any avatar. In the future, it may be something else, a ‘funky-toss’, a ‘snake-slide’, or a gutter-snipe’, who knows?

Is my nostalgia tinged with regret? A trifle, yes, for who does not want to be that kid again, the one who ran down stairs and watched the tops spin in the galli late into the evening? But otherwise, no, for it is pure nostalgia of my childhood time, just like this young one will have of his. The bey blade is a product of this time, where games have to be specialized and high-tech, the spin instantaneous. What is not lost is the spirit of competition, game play and the human endeavour to make sure that kids have toys.

*****

Life Today, Just Mobile

2010-10-13T10:27:00.000-07:00

Life today. Just mobile. Even if you are in bed, you are mobile. Your thoughts and ideas dart and so do your fingers. In this day and age, the one thing that translates all this energy into action is the mobile. Life is on your fingertips, allowing you to share your brain and heart through this small and wonderful piece of technological art. It not only allows you to talk, but you can share your life through photographs, through words and song, making cameras, laptops and radios available in one device with which you can move. Tata’s new phone, the One Touch Net Phone offers all this and more to savvy mobile people of today…like me. And services like Yahoo are free. And call rates come to you timed per second, not per minute. Could anyone ask for more?

Yes, of course. Smart matters, but good looks count.

The phone looks beautiful with its colours of purple and silver, and purple and black. It attracts attention. Then, it is simple and familiar to use, the QWERTY keys ensure that, the one touch ensures that too.

So it is smart, good looking and comfortable. What else? I love to click photos on the go, you say. I am passionate about instant photography, street photography, candid camera, you say.

With this phone and its 2 MP camera, it is easy to click photos - and share it instantly with Bluetooth.

And?

Okay, more and more. Dive in WAP means that you can let your eyes swim while you access everything with a single soft touch. No complicated keys or buttons to remember and press. It has customized keys for several things. Yahoo and rejoice all you want. This is the one touch wonder with all of Yahoo available: mail, surf and sail through conversations. And Yahoo M&M (mail and messenger) comes free!

Sounds good. Expensive in toto?

It’s a TATA product. Less than six grand. With all these features, it’s like a gift.

Wow. I can save my poems on it too?

Of course, that’s understood.

Today’s world includes constant change, innovation, connectivity, mobility. Instant access and sharing is the order of the day. No time to lose and everything to gain from each second. I need to do so much more, connect with friends who matter, embrace life on the move, listen to music on FM, sport a trendy looking phone as I walk and talk and smile. I make every second count in this age of information, communication and connectivity. I use my mobile for photos, emails, music, and oh yes, for talking!

Seems like the Smart (and Lovely) phone, the Tata DOCOMO One Touch Net Phone has all this and more. Life is wonderful and gets better all the time if you are mobile with the right mobile.

I am sure to share my life and give it more meaning with a mobile like the Tata DOCOMO One Touch Net Phone. And do more, be more with Tata DOCOMO.

Here is where you can check it out. Go check here:

http://onetouchnet.tatadocomo.com/

****

Radio Parul: By The Water Cooler Contest

2010-10-13T03:33:00.000-07:00

Radio Parul: By The Water Cooler Contest

By The Water Cooler

2010-10-13T03:29:00.000-07:00

I have entered the premises of my new office and sat on my desk. I am feeling a bit out of place, everything is spanking new and unfamiliar. I look across and hope someone walks through the glass door so that I can connect in person. My nervousness stems from re-entering the work force after a gap of many years. We shall not count the decades, since they age me unnecessarily.

I look across to the other side. Through the glass paneled doors I see a pair of feet under a desk and for a moment mistake them to be a reflection of mine. I am used to offices of the olden days, where office doors were made of teak, or polished to look like miserable copies of teak. And tables were of solid wood, not glass and steel contraptions. In other words, in those days, my feet would not have shown on the other side of the table, let alone be reflected on the other side. In these days of transparency, however, everything has to show as much as it can, to ensure that there is nothing hidden.

I move my feet back to tuck them in a bit more so that they are not so visible, but the reflected ones don’t move. I look at those feet. They are brown skinned, the nails buffed and polished to a high gloss in bright red and encased in high heeled black . How the hell did I think they were mine, I only wear very pale pink polish. The only thing in common is the brown skin and the colour of the heels. I cringe a bit and withdraw my feet a bit more. The ones on the other side do a little tap dance.

I open the glass door of my office and step out to explore or find someone. Before I go across to the other side of the passage which houses the general office staff, where the feet which did not belong to me belonged, I glance at the passage.

Standing there, rather nonchalantly, as though he owns the place, is a young man in beige pants, pink button down shirt and tan shoes. My tone is clipped. “Could you get the air-conditioning started in my office?” I point towards the door I have emerged from.

Before he can answer, a plump girl made plumper by her pregnancy and her round face made rounder by the halo of squiggly hair around it rushes out of the office door, the one on the other side, in her white heels (I noticed all this) and almost careens into him. As she steadies herself, mumbling, ‘Sorry, Rahul..”, I repeat my question, this time addressing it to her. She says, “Yes, of course, I’ll check,’’ and runs back into the office.

The girl rushes out again, this time ensuring that she does not bump into Rahul, and looks at me, “It’s being attended to, sorry, Ma’am , we thought you were coming in tomorrow. Sir will be meeting you in five minutes. I have to rush, please excuse…” I barely nod before she rushes out with Rahul behind her, a bit crushed now, mumbling, “ Ma’am,” but also pushing his thick hair off his forehead in a gesture of defiance.

I hear the hum of the air-conditioner start behind me, open the glass door and walk in. I plonk myself on my chair unceremoniously and try not to look at the feet on the opposite side.

This is going to be very distracting to me. I will have to do something about this. Change the orientation a bit.

Meanwhile, ‘Sir’ arrives to find that he is looking at my back.

“Honey,” he says, “why are you doing this? This is no way to receive anyone.”

On hearing his voice, I swivel around. ‘Dear husbandji,” I say, “I refuse to look through the door at other people’s feet. I’d rather look at the blank wall. Please take a seat.”

He has to walk around to the other side to sit opposite me. He faces the glass door.

“What’s the problem?” he says.

“My office needs real brick and mortar walls, and I need a teak door.”

“Honey, you are joking.”

“No I am not, I refuse to look at feet. “

“Don’t let your gaze wander. Concentrate on your work. That’s the idea.”

So he did know what I was talking about.

“This is bad design,” I said.

“Glass takes less space and is more elegant.”

“Sorry, my table will stay facing this way then. It is as per Feng Shui.”

I can be obstinate.

The next day, my office was moved to an old part of the building, where the walls were of brick, the doors of wood. It was air-conditioned and sound proof. When I looked up from my table, I saw a teak paneled door with a brass knob. It creaked a bit, but at least I did not have to look at feet or wonder whom they belonged to. I was happy in my little cubicle, comfortable in office spaces as I knew them to be. Thick, solid and dependable. If these attributes were there, transparency and ‘see-thru-isms’ could take a hike.

My husband knows how to keep me happy. Even in his office, I am the boss.

© ABHA IYENGAR, 2010
This post is a shot at something.
Parul Sharma’s latest book ‘By The Water Cooler’ is going to be launched soon, and she is running a mouth watering contest (okay, we will limit this water bit). This post is shooting for the contest. You can do it too.Read the details here, just follow the link to the orange ice candy...

http://orangeicecandy.blogspot.com/2010/10/by-water-cooler-contest.html

Happy writing.

Encounters of a Soft Kind continue...

2010-09-08T06:15:00.000-07:00

CW4

Another day of interaction and I was now quite comfortable in the space created through our interactions on the previous days.

This time we concentrated on techniques like POV. I gave example of a story and using it , indicated what POV was and how shifting POV should be avoided.

We also talked of different genres, there are so many of them, and then each genre has its subgenres as well. I just like to stick to the principal genres , and let the subgenres take care of themselves. For example, speculative fiction has so many subgenres, and when one writes, one will know whether the story is horror, fantasy or hard sci-fi and that should be enough. Otherwise, sections like gothic-horror, steampunk, and so on and so forth can blow your mind. It is something like medical specialization. There are bifurcations and bifurcations, so it is better to stick to some basic railroad tracks.

We discussed what ‘foreshadowing’ means, and how Chekov had stated that if you mention a gun on the wall in your story then the gun has to become a part of your story later on, otherwise it is a useless inclusion.

How ‘flashback ‘works as a technique was also discussed, and most of them understood what flashback was, since movies use a lot of this.

We then focused on our written stories.

This was a reading out and critiquing of the stories with Gangadhar as the main character, or Ganju i.e. the man in the yellow pants. This was the character we had developed in the earlier class and had had a lot of fun in doing so. Someone had also sketched him out, and had done a good job of it.

The class was interested in reading out their stories more than doing exercises and felt it was helping them in figuring out how things work.

The stories were different and the language and approach was different, some very good and some okay, but the main thing was that each one had attempted to write a story.

I distributed the feedback forms and the response was excellent. All of them came up to me and thanked me and said they hoped I was holding more classes.

This has been a very fulfilling experience for me. I too look forward to more workshops.

Encounters of the Soft Kind

2010-08-22T02:07:00.000-07:00

CW 3.

It was a cool and rainy day and I was wearing, once again, a crisp cotton sari hoping it would not wilt in the damp weather. It would have wilted in the hot weather, so I consoled myself. Either ways wilt, what? Did not take along my umbrella so kind of prayed that the weather clear, which it did soon enough.

We first had a discussion on a story written by Satyajit Ray, titled, “The Promise” , which was brought to the class by one of the participants as a story he liked. It was supposed to be a practical story writing class and I made them do more in-depth exercises than before, using background, dialogue and imagery.

It was amazing the kind of stories people developed. There was an image of a young man with a young boy on his shoulders with a background of a boat on a river. The two people became many characters: friends, father and son, brother and younger brother… in one story, the boy asks the young man to come to his school as his father at the parent teacher meeting because he is ashamed of his own father, for his real father is not young and good looking and tall but is short and fat and he wants to show off the young man as his handsome father. Another story was of how a young boy wants to be explained why his sister is all dressed up and sitting next to a man on the boat and holding his hand. Another story is where the boy does not want to be lifted on the shoulders because he feels he will burden his crippled father and is surprised when his father manages to lift him up. Another wrote that the young boy was not happy for he was being separated from his real sister in an orphan home, so he could not accept a new sister in a new home with a new father, so even if his name was Joy, he could not live up to that name. Fantastic, on- the -spot tales.

It was a learning process for me too as to which parts of an image people notice and pay attention to and put focus on. In another image, someone talks of the dog, another of the single sprouting plant, another of wet walls, another of the lone bicycle rider…

Also, a story line with the second character and conflict development was constructed to be developed further in the next class. On the whole it was a very satisfying session. Some of them wanted to purchase autographed copies of my book of poems, a request which I gladly complied with. There were also requests for my book of fiction, alas, that is something I still have to put together and then get published. But the impetus is there.

No wilting here, the class blossomed in front of my eyes.

***

No Letting Go of the Past

2010-07-31T10:25:00.000-07:00

There are some topics that may be debatable, some issues that may be open to discussion. But something like ‘Do all relationships come with a past or the past, well, that’s a given in any language. Soch lo. Soch lo? Nothing to think about here. It is like saying, does breath come with life, soch lo.

If you have a life, then you have a past, and if you have a past, it will come into the relationship. Each individual in that relationship will bring his or her baggage. The past may have been great, rocking, bitter, sweet, gooey, gritty, serious, ridiculous, yucky, mucky, sucky, kinky whatever! Too many ‘ky’ words there, but they hold the key to what happens in the present relationship.

So this girl, Namita, may tell off her present heart-throb, “You know, Rahul never behaved like this. He never forgot like you do, Sunil. He always bought flowers for me on my birthday.” Rahul of course is her ex, whom she broke up with, a thing of the past, should have been shattered and shuttered out of her life, but she won’t forget that easy. And she won’t let poor present day hero, no longer the hero, our dear Sunil boy, forget him too. If Sunil’s beaky nose has suddenly reddened to the nth degree, it is because Namita is making him burn.

You may say, this happens in urban metros. What about the innocents of the village? Young Amar of Bilaspur gaon may have left his love for his chammakh-chhalo Sarika at the behest of his powerful grandfather who gets him married off to the moneylender’s daughter, Rupaiya. If he sits and howls at the moon every night even as Rupaiya cooks bajrey ki roti for him and ladles it with the butter of her love for him, it is because of his past. He cannot let go of Sarika that easy.

Mr. and Mrs. Godbole look like any other couple, quiet acceptance a regular feature on both their faces. Mr. Godbole will never reveal to his wife why he does not allow her to bring jasmine flowers into the house or wear them in her hair. But when she sees him turn his face away with sadness every time he passes a jasmine flower-seller, she can guess. Mrs. Godbole will never tell him of how she had wild sex with the neighbourhood boy for one year before he went away. She will not let Mr. Godbole know that she married him on the rebound. But her abandonment in bed will surprise and delight him. And also raise some questions in his mind which he will quell. He will wonder at how this placid woman hides a tigress under it all. And Mrs. Godbole will think of her wild young nights and feel alive only in bed.

Individuals are a sum total of their life experiences, and this becomes all the more evident in intimate relationships. The past is a part of the person and cannot be shed like a snake sheds his skin. We are humans, not snakes. We bear the marks of previous experiences, proudly or with sorrow, but the marks are there. And they affect our present relationships. Just like whatever relationship we are experiencing now, will cast its shadow on any other we may have in the future. Even if we remain in the current relationship, its own past will be present, journeying with us as we move forward with each other.

Read the annals of history and read the stories written over time. Hear the poetry sung by the balladeers and the modern heart-bleeders. If we pay attention to the tales of loving and living, we will know that from the moment we begin to breathe, from that moment, our past becomes a part of our present. All relationships have the past featuring as a background actor.

Shochein kya ab, yaaron? Janntey hain hum.

***

Soft Encounter: Creativity writing workshop

2010-07-26T02:34:00.000-07:00

The weather was very hot, it seems all weekends this month are hotter than the rest of the days of the week. I was less apprehensive this time, yet wanted the workshop to go well.

There were two more students today, so I have a class of 17, one a young girl who is an Economics student at Stephen’s and another is a cardiologist who may be in his forties. Today, the CD did not work and I was thankful that I had taken my pen drive as a back- up. Always have a back-up. The air conditioning went for a while and the generator came on. The fan above me rotated at a very high speed and that was the only speed at which the fan worked. We could not communicate over the din. I gave up and made them do a writing exercise while we waited for the mains to return.

The retired gentleman was more interactive today and also got up to change the fan regulator cover from one point to the other in the hope that the fan speed could be regulated, he had seen the electrician do that in one of the other lectures. This did not help. We had to wait for the mains to return and give us back the silent airconditioning . However, I was very happy to see him interacting and contributing and he looked more relaxed and happy.

The process was again pretty smooth. Among the things which came up was whether we had a Pegasus in Indian mythology and one girl said that there was a flying horse that emerged from the ‘samudra manthan’ (sea- churning) that had occurred between the gods and the demons, and she would find out if it had had wings.

One of the participants mentioned how he wrote while a boring lecture was going on as part of his work schedule and managed to make one of the ladies present into one of the characters of his story. We had been talking about how to take out time for writing.

Another young girl talked of how she liked a story because it outlined race and gender differences in a particular country as being different from that in another, and we discussed this. There was also a story we did on how a gentleman lies to a very young girl and we discussed whether the girl was too mature for her age, whether it was okay for the man to put in reference to the chaos theory in the middle of a very personal incident, whether the story worked on the whole or not. We also worked on ‘impermanence’ and how it may be brought into a story.

What I noticed that there was a preponderance of yellow t -shirts and one of the girls wore yellow capris , another carried a yellow flask and someone else had a yellow file. The general colour in prominence was yellow which someone said was a symbol of energy. It was very much present in the room. We had fun, and one character of our emerging story, brought forward to participate from our earlier imaginings, was a gentleman who wore yellow pants! As usual the lecture overshot the scheduled time but no one was cribbing.

The older gentleman came up to me at the end and told me that he had enjoyed the class. Another young girl wanted to get a list of the books which I had given to the organizer for photocopying and she made my day by saying she loved the class and I had such a ‘vibrant’ personality.

I carry that compliment with me for it is very uplifting for my spirits. It energizes me.

2010-07-21T01:16:00.000-07:00

SOFT ENCOUNTERS: Writing Workshop

ONE

The first day is full of excitement and apprehension. It is a hot day but I wear a new cotton sari, a beautiful purple print with a thin gold border, the kind I love to wear, crisp and fresh and cracking to go. Like me, not purple, no gold border, but crisp and cracking to go.

I look out of the car window and I find an advertisement that says , “Blunt and Sharp” and I think yes, that is how writings have to be, blunt and sharp. And then I think of these words that are ‘janus words’, words with multiple meanings and contrary meanings. Obviously my mind is on overdrive, getting geared up for what is coming.

The place is easy to find since I had asked for directions. I sign in the guest book at the gate and look around me. The place is beautiful, with trees and gravel and it is open and inviting. It is a sprawling complex. I am greeted by the organizer of the workshop and I feel instantly at home.

I walk with him a little distance to the classroom in one corner of the complex, after passing well laid out lawns and trees that shade the hot sunlight. The classroom is air-conditioned, which is a blessing. My CD works in their in house computer and that’s good too, first time technology goof ups may sometimes happen.

15 eager faces turn to me. They are aged from 16 to 60, some are students, some housewives, some professionals, a couple of them retired. The binding interest is the need to be creative and to express that creativity through words.

This first class is a workshop on Creativity. We talk of unblocking, stepping out of comfort zones, and I tell them why I believe that writers stand at a threshold, looking in and looking out, tapping inner resources and outer interactions for their writings. Both are essential, a writer is not a hermit, though he may choose to be one as he sits to write. We talked of how important it is to dream but also have the discipline to realize the dreams.

The responses to some of the images and exercises I worked with were phenomenal in their variety and the imagination was easily exercised during the presentation. The three hours with a ten minute break went quickly by, in fact we did continue a half hour beyond the allotted time till one of the girls had to leave to be with her eighteen month old daughter.

I am on a complete high, the high that comes from work well done and the connectivity made and sustained. I am now excited and confident about the next class. The students are responsive and engaged.

Tough encounter: Unexpected Deaths

2010-07-03T01:46:00.000-07:00

Some things happen and there is no explanation at all.

Our dog, Leo, a Golden Retriever, had come to us in 2004 as a small ball of white fluff. I was resentful of his coming because I was dealing with my daughter’s 12th standard blues. If you do not know of such blues, be a parent and find out. He just seemed like an unwanted and uncalled for responsibility. Not long before I fell in love with him.

Love conquers all, and a dog’s love, well, he was beautiful, soulful, licky-waggy, the works. And jumpy and fun. He was the one who greeted you and was all over you, totally expressive about how much he missed you while you went shopping or dining or movie-ing or travelling without him. He moved up and down the room around you at the time for his walk, came and thumped his tail and wanted ‘out’ with you. When you sobbed in a quiet corner, he put his head in your lap and shed his doggy tears with you, licked your face and said he was yours forever and that should matter.

But he did not remain forever. In our hearts yes, but physically he left us on the 18th of June this year. Such an unexpected death, he had not been eating too well, and the vet, whom we had full faith in, gave some antibiotics, saying it may be stomach infection. We thought it was the heat, he was being fussy, gave him more frequent baths etc. My daughter arrived from Mumbai and noticed his darker stools and urine. She read up on it and told the vet to check for liver problem. Turned out he had jaundice. By now Leo had begun vomiting everyday, whatever he ate. The vet gave him antibiotics and put him on a drip. It was too late, Leo was not taking in anything but these injections. This was just for two days before Leo, our sweet lovable and trusting six year old doggy, left us. He had begun to vomit blood. My daughter and husband sat up the two nights with him, massaging him to sleep. But on the 17th night, my daughter, unable to sleep, and she was there with us in the bedroom for Leo slept in our room, woke both of us and pointed out his heavy breathing. We called the vet and tried to follow his late minute instructions but it was too late. He died of internal haemorrhage caused by the liver failure.
He was loving and full of energy. He was big, blond, beautiful. He was regal and sphinx like. He had the eyes of an Egyptian dancer, kohl rimmed. He was gentle and soft and all the kids of the colony loved him, he was one dog they were not scared of.

Leo, we love you. We miss your running circles around us and your gentle licks of love. May you rest in peace.

Lesson: For all of us with loved ones, please keep a watch on anything that is abnormal, not eating well is one of the first signs of sickness.

A Different Kind of Encounter-Of Life and a Death

2010-06-11T10:36:00.000-07:00

‘What is truer than the truth? The story.’ ~Old Jewish saying.

I have to write this.
It was triggered off by the news of the death of the 15 year old niece of my Bengali cook, Jharna, who comes every morning to make lunch for my family and departs. A few days ago, she told me that her 15 years old niece died suddenly. Naturally, I needed to know how.
These are the sordid details. The girl was the fifth of six sisters. Four before her were married, out of which, one had died in childbirth at the age of thirteen. Yes, thirteen. One of them is beaten every day. The family knows it but can/will do nothing. One of them is ‘alright’, so I was told. The fourth one, they don’t know about because she is not living anywhere close by and they get no news of her. Perhaps no news is good news in this case. So this niece was the fifth. What follows is the story of her death, in short.
She, let us call her Sonali, was married six months ago to a forty year old alcoholic rickshaw puller. When asked, I am told that they did not ‘know’ that he was alcoholic. The girl was fifteen, but considered quite grown up by their village standards (they live in Delhi but village rules apply here ), and needed to be married off. The man was forty, very eligible by village standards?
Two months after her marriage, she swallows acid. She says it was by mistake, in the hospital when she is questioned. She can talk, but cannot take in food. She cannot swallow her spit. She goes back to her parents place, and she is fed through a pipe. The doctors say that after four months, they will operate again. She survives in this way and is with her parents.
After four months, they take her to the hospital. The doctors say they cannot operate. She has become like a dry stick, no blood in her body. This is what my maid, Jharna, Sonali’s aunt, tells me, when I asked her why the doctors did not operate. She says that perhaps they realized that it would not help. The girl and parents return home.
A few days after this, the girl slips in the bath and dies. That is the story of Sonali. And of her sisters.
And of women in our world.
One of them is still in line, waiting for marriage or a scaffold around the neck?
I learn later from Jharna that she herself was married at the age of 12. Died almost at childbirth at the age of 13! She is perhaps 24 now. She is married to a sickly fellow who cannot work and is double her age. Looking at her and the way she goes about her work, you would not know it. She survived. Shall we say she is lucky because her husband is not an alcoholic and does not beat her, though he earns nothing and is sick most of the time? She has not left him, like a man would have done a woman in the same condition…
I have been intensely disturbed by this. I know, we read about these things, but I have been affected by this particular happening.
And on that very day, I read a response to someone‘s blog of a 16 year old Bihari girl who used to run when her forty year old or so husband approached her. Why? Because he would ask her to become a ‘murga’ (chicken) for his pleasure or for her punishment, one does not know. Becoming a ‘murga’ is an uncomfortable and demeaning position in which one crouches, puts one’s hands under from behind the legs and brings them out forward to hold the ears.
Correspondence with that writer revealed that she knew that the man had a wife and two daughters of the same age who had left him and gone away. This 16 year old girl was his second ‘wife’. Another true story.
It made my stomach churn.
I watched Isabelle Allende speak on creativity and writing and she, being a feminist, also spoke of the rape of young women in Africa. So whether I liked it or not, once again I was, during this period of agitation, made aware of the condition of women, nay, girl children, in another part of the world.
I am trying to learn how to write plays properly. Towards that end, I read ‘Kanyaadaan’ yesterday (Vijay Tendulkar’s famous play), and there again, the girl, Jyoti’s, life is put on stake, as an ‘experiment’ by her socialist father who is very proud of her to have married a dalit, a proof of his having brought her up with the right values of not differentiating between castes, and when that experiment fails, it costs him his beliefs and his daughter her existence(almost). She sorrows at having been blinded by her father’s values about finding the ‘goodness’ in man/men and bringing it forth. She said the beastliness was a part of man and he would never leave it. These were among other issues that Tendulkar brings out in this seminal work, and I speak of this particular one because I read it yesterday and it seems to be just another thorn that is scratching my skin, making me bleed.
I had a discussion with a friend and he said that men are closer to nature and beastliness and education helps in making them less so. I do not agree. I think education has nothing to do with this. It is only the person’s willingness to respect another human being. And this respect seems to be lacking in men, even the ‘educated’ ones. So are we to admit that given a free reign, men will loot, plunder, violate and abuse? And that they do it more often than not, that there is only a very fine line that keeps them in check.
And young girls will be the ones who will suffer in some way or the other at the hand of the beast. We may say, what about the mother here? The mother is just another such victim, surviving and trying to keep her home together, perhaps her being there prevents her husband from raping his own children?
Yes, those stories are also there.
The cynics will shake their heads and say, so what’s new? What’s new is that despite our so called progress, these are the times we live in. What’s new is that we need to awaken the world to this with voices that do not merely want to get the eyeballs for their media channel. What’s new is that we need not be so blasé about it. What’s new is that everyday we have to fight such injustice. One way to do it is to speak out if you are hurting. I am hurting right now.

This is in memory of that unknown Sonali. May her young soul rest in peace.
**********************************************************************************
(C) ABHA IYENGAR, 2010

2010-04-10T23:44:00.001-07:00

An Ambassador Mercedes in Pondicherry

2010-02-12T00:14:00.000-08:00

I am at Pondicherry at a Writing Residency as the Lavanya Sankaran fellow for 2009-10. So proud and happy to be here the way I am. I have the proverbial room with a view. Beautiful, calm, serene, woody and squirrelly. I can spend time with myself and my writing.

But I also get restless with this at times. I want to recharge my batteries, go out and see something new, read: visit a place. And so many places abound around here, it becomes tough to pick. I tell my friend, I plan to go to Kumbhakonnam (a number of Chola temples there) for the day. It is Sunday, a good day to be out. This friend is a well known Tamil writer who knows his part of the land well, and he gives me sound advice. He sips his morning coffee as he sits on the black polished granite ledge of the central courtyard of the premises at AdiShakti (the building is on the lines of the Nalukettu design of old architecture in Kerala, but this is Tamilnadu ).

He says, “Kumbhakonam is too much to do in a day, go to Sidambaram (he has a soft accent and means Chidambaram) instead , there is a big Shiva temple there, the Tellai Natraja.“

“Yes,” I say, very excited now, "that’s where I will go.” So I pick up my mobile and call for my pumpkin carriage, Cinderella is ready for her outing.

By 10 am I leave with taxi driver of Ambassador car, with a Mercedes sign up front, for Chidambaram. I sit in the front, but the seat is tough and a bit uncomfortable and the day is hot. We cross Pondicherry (going past Thathachevadi village) and then go right past a river which has an island in the centre and boats to row to it which is a part of the Pondicherry area. We are going on to the Cuddalore district of Tamilnadu (10.45 am). We are on national highway 45A.

The driver stops for 5 minutes at a repair shop to get his car horn checked. His horn is very irritating, it speaks in short sharp blasts which sound horrible to the ear. After the repair, it still works the same way. “Toot-toot, toot-toot” no break there, nor any music in the rendering. But the Ambassador is cheaper than the Indicas and the driver knows a smattering of English and he is a good man. I had paid him two 500/- rupee notes on an evening outing before (fumbling in the gathering dusk in my purse)and he returned them so I could pay him the two 100/- rupee notes due instead. So I kind of liked him for that.

After a while I hear him say something to me. It sounds like “Dee sell”. Dee sell? I have a problem understanding what he is trying to say till he stops at a petrol pump. Then I figure it out, he wants to buy Diesel.

Since I am in a new place and curious, I ask general questions, like how far to Chidambram etc. Chidambaram is 90 kms, and it would take us about two and half hours to get there.

I get then, an education. Never let it be said that education belongs to classrooms.

Tamilnadu has 24 districts. One of them is Cuddalore. Kanchipuram is another. Adi Shakti, where I was staying, is in Kanchipuram. Chidambaram,where we were going, is in Cuddalore. Cuddalore district has six villages, of which Chidambram is one village-town. Each such district has an IAS officer and an IPS officer. All this information comes my way courtesy the taxi driver, Mr. Selvan.

I ask about a statue I see on the way. That’s MGR, he says, now dead. He also informs me that now it is the ‘rule’ of Karunanidhi of DMK in Tamilnadu. AnnaDMK chief was MGR. Jayalalitha is also of AnnaDMK. She is no longer ruling. I am introduced to the basic politics of the place.

We cross a river at Cuddalore by a bridge, and then we see a road leading to the right to Kumbhakonam (Cuddalore to Kumbhakonam one way is 120 kms). We get onto the East Coast Road now and a good breeze blows, cooling after the hot sun. We are now 26 kms into Cuddalore and there are rice fields everywhere. “After Cuddalore town we will pass Bhavnagiri and reach Chidambaram,” he says. At 11.45 we are at Bhavnagiri which is 10 kms from Chidambaram.

5 kms from Chidambaram the driver stops. “One minute, one minute,” he says and gets off. He is a master of repetition, helps him make his point, I guess. He checks the tires and gets in again. We carry on after that, and 4 kms from Chidambaram we are at Silvaipuram which has the Kali temple. Here we witness an accident of two vans. A number of people, dressed in red , mainly women, are standing around. The red colour is over powering. They are the Adi Parashakti devotees, travelling in one of the vans. Mr. Selvan, my taxi driver, keeps saying, “accident, accident,” then “over speeding, over-speeding, over-speeding,” as if I had not understood the first time. Maybe he is trying to convince himself that this is an accident caused by over speeding. He himself is a slow and careful driver.

He always talks to me in spurts, there are periods of silence and then he holds forth on something in his broken English. I look at him as he talks to me now, suddenly voluble again. He is slim and tall and dark with regular features. He works in Tindivaanam as some govt officer. He lost his first wife 5 years ago in a bus accident . Maybe that is why he is a careful driver. He is giving me all this information as we drive along. He has a son studying in Trichy. Trichy? Trichy is a town in Tamil Nadu. He has married again and has another child, a 3 year old son.

I ask him if he has any other cars. This particular one is not too comfortable, I think, maybe he can get another one for the drive to the airport at Chennai, when I leave for Delhi in a few weeks time. Or for any other intermittent outings I may undertake.

He says, “I had other cars, but the drivers were not good. They got drunk and had accidents. I got rid of all of them. Now I have only this one car, and I drive it. I have one car, one office, one house and one wife...” I stop my smile from forming. He knows how to count for sure. Something of the nature of the guy comes through, he is polite and cautious and very careful to the point of being nervous. I think this could be because of his loss of his first wife in the accident. He is also deeply religious. His dashboard is overcrowded with photos of gods and goddesses.

He suddenly spots a car ahead in which the driver is talking on the mobile phone. He gets all excited and begins to talk in Tamil to me. He is cursing the driver, I get a sense of that. I look at him, astounded, taken aback at his sudden Tamilian burst. This happens once more at another place, he begins to talk Tamil to me, in his anger, as someone almost bangs into his car. I learn two new Tamil words, “karp” for black and “naayi” for dog. It is with us humans, we fall into our language in times of emotional communication.

The Tellaai Nataraj temple is huge. I did not expect it to be so big. And it reminded me of the Padmanabhaswamy temple in Trivandrum, though this is the temple of Shiva and that temple is of Vishnu. It has a water body in the front like that of the Padmanabha . I just make it in time to see the dancing God before the curtains close for puja. They open again after half hour. A woman standing close to me calls him ‘shivan’, which sounds so beautiful to me. They all call ‘shiv’ as ‘shivan’ here, and to me it sounds more close and intimate a term.

There are four huge gateways, a water body in front and some fantastic friezes and statues all along the wall surfaces. There was one with Durga with a yellow golden sari draped on it and her face was very beautiful which caught my absolute attention.

I bought some prasadam, walked out to the small market common outside each temple, spotted a handicrafts store there and bought an elephant and a bull (tribal work in a mix of metals) and a very small dancing Parvati (yes, Parvati) in brass which I just love.

Little raindrops had begun to fall and I made my way to the taxi, pretty happy and satisfied, content in a way. Also I was looking forward to stopping at the small kali temple on the way. As the taxi wound its way back to Adi Shakti, I was happy to have made this unplanned trip to Chidambaram. I promised myself I would see Kumbhakonam too some day. I had a couple of toffees in my purse, and offered the driver, Mr. Selvan one. He took it . I had another of these. We had struck a strange friendship along the way. I looked out of the window and he concentrated on is driving.

He remembered to stop the taxi at the Kali temple. I had requested for this on the way to the Tellaai Nataraj. I was really tired by now, all the walking within the temple and the hot sun had sapped my strength. But seeing the statue of the lady near a tree, surrounded by snake forms, was enough to jolt me into awareness and I felt a surge of woman power. I had a sense of something very primal here. Inside the temple, the pujari had begun the aarti, I could see the dancing flames from outside.

I returned to Adishakti, tired but totally full of the temple, its architecture and space, the thronging devotees, the women in red, kali, dancing parvatis, politics and a countryside of dark colour and blinding sunlight.

****

Indigenous Intelligence

2009-02-23T04:34:00.000-08:00

The other day, on a ride to Panchsheel Park [which is in South Delhi and considered a posher place than others] in an auto, the auto driver said to me, “Madam, I only drive in South Delhi.” He was being posh.
I said, “Oo…kay,” and he said, “Thank you, Welcome,” both words together to me in English.He was being more posh.

Yes, driving in South Delhi and only in South Delhi and speaking English are claims to poshness/snootiness. It is another matter that I had hired his auto from East Delhi. He must have strayed there somehow(?).

Having established his credentials with me,he set forth.There was no stopping him. He told me that he did not know how to read and write, was an “agoontha chaap” (one who uses a thumbprint instead of signature) but considered himself as good as anyone else. He was in his late fifties perhaps, and said he used to be a chauffeur earlier. He worked for the American Embassy.

Then he began to drop names of the people he had worked for, and what kind of life they lived— their ways and their world. He was the fund of funds as far as these tales went. I listened with a bemused smile.

He continued. Before being a driver, he had worked in a factory, then an export house and then a…The list was endless. However, the point was that he claimed that he could teach anyone anything, because though he was not literate, he was more intelligent than most. I would go along with this claim, for I have seen it in people. So what if one has not had a formal education, many have a great degree of native intelligence that far surpasses that of those who have been ‘educated’.

I have an immediate example to prove this. As a part of an experiment for some work they were doing, my father- in- law and husband went to shops all over town with a two types of jaali and a prototype of what they wanted made, but there was no one willing/or who understood what was required. Eventually, our servant, who is a landed farmer in his village in Bihar, understood and constructed what was required, at home. Well, he can read and write but its limited to basics, yet he can understand and remember and do many things which you and I will fail at. He has intelligence far worthy of appreciation.

The auto rickshaw man, content that he had seen the high life through borrowed space, as a driver on the sides, and proud to have been a part of high society, took a long drag on his bidi. He said to me, “Anyone wants to know how to get a visa made (yes), or how to set up an export house (sure thing!), or undertake any kind of entrepreneurship (believe it!), he could tell them how do it.

There was no waver in his voice, the conviction was heartening.

*****

Taxi Driver 1

2009-02-13T02:03:00.000-08:00

The flight lands at 8 pm. Something about the time, but the queue is long, oh so long, so I finally get my prepaid taxi cab number at 9.30 pm. It s 6, and I have to run with my baggage to a demarcated area on the road with 6 on it! I stand there, and all around me people are running into taxis and doors are slamming and the taxis are moving on and no one is heeding me waving the ticket with 6 in the air and shouting it out now, running, I am number 6, I am number 6, but the 9s and 12s or whatever are getting their rides. I decide to turn from harried customer to belligerent taxpayer. I stride up to the guy who is in charge of all this and wave my ticket in his face, and he says, madam, I will arrange the taxi for you immediately, and a Maruti van cruises up, he opens its door deftly, lifts up my baggage in a split second into it and I lift myself up behind it, the door slamming shut and I am on my way. Then and only then do I see what is all around me, my mind has been so concentrated on getting that taxi for getting home.

Well, the taxi guy is a young man, with a black cap on, [is there something about my being that all my vahan (chariot) drivers wear a black cap, whether they be young or old?]. He asks me my name and address as a matter of protocol, to shout it out to the guy at the checking point, and then I ask him his number to tell my people at home, so that they know I am travelling in a particular vehicle. He shouts out the taxi no., and then his name too, he says—tell them my name too…P…K…M…! Just to be truly safe, he says. I am a bit taken aback by this and mouth his name into my cell phone.

I don’t know how the conversation begins. But it does. And its about safety and cities. P (initial of name of taxi driver, and henceforth denoting him) tells me he used to be working in Karnataka, and there were forests and it was safe, despite that. I tell him about Mumbai, the city I am returning from, and tell him about how its so wonderful that a woman can be out at night and the lights are on in the streets and other women are out and about as well for meetings and outings. Mumbai spells a kind of security for me that I have never experienced in Delhi. He says, yes, Delhi is pretty unsafe, and not too friendly a city as well. He says even cab drivers in Delhi get hauled up by aggressive customers, and he recounts experiences that he has had. He is also unhappy over the fact that customers don’t offer a welcome drink like tea to cab drivers that wait outside their homes in the cold for long periods of time. Such lack of hospitality only to be found among the well-heeled in Delhi, P says. Uh-huh. The other side of the coin.

He then says that taxis can be unsafe too. Even DL1T ones, like his taxi is. A small shiver runs up my spine, but I put it down to the cold night air. He asks me if I remember the gruesome murder of a young NRI a few months ago. I say no. He does not let it go. He says there were three very young taxi drivers of a low caste (he emphasized that, as if that made a difference!) who were driving this NRI around and about Delhi.

“Why three taxi drivers?” I ask, but he shrugs that off with a “You know how it is.” Do I? I am trying to comprehend this, but his voice rises now. “They killed him and threw his body in the forest near Gurgaon, took his cell phone, put in a new SIM, and went off to Kullu Manali.” He says, I may not know something, but he is enlightening me about this. “In the new expensive cell phones, putting a new SIM card will spell doom for the guy who puts it in, since that is how the police traced them.”

I don’t know about this, but that is what P says with absolute certainty. He also knows that with the dead man’s ATM card, those people took out a lot of money, and he says, “You know, you can withdraw only upto Rs. 24,000/- at a time from an ATM, so they had to do this repeatedly to get more money out.”

Very aware, this taxi driver of mine.

He then shouts, “These people should be hanged,” (very vehemently), “I will be happy if they are hanged. You know, one of these guys, poor guy, was a good guy (seems to have known him personally?), but he got into the bad company of the other two, and this was his death sentence.” How apt. He says, “The parents of the convicted drives are moving heaven and earth to save them. Don’t know what bad mahurat (time) it was that these boys were conceived, that the parents have to suffer like this!”

So I have a commentary into justice and karma and sin and murder and caste and city culture.
And I have dread that is seeping into my bones, as to “Why is he telling me all this?” I have become very alert, watching my surroundings and his driving. Things seem to be all right. But you never know. Another shiver runs up my spine, but I have no choice but to stay put. I try to change the topic, but he comes back to it, like a dog chasing a runaway tail.

At a red light, a motorcycle driver, young and hooded against the cold, signals to P for a light with his hands, and P deftly throws him one. The lights change and we move on.

Desperate to change the topic, I ask P how the motorcycle guy knew he had a light. “Of course, he knows,” say P. “All taxi drivers carry a matchbox for their customers who come out of airports dying for a smoke— they have been in the non-smoking zone for so long,” he gives a low laugh. “And then, most taxi drivers smoke a bidi.” End of explanation, but now I am watching the road, for I can see the motor cycle man driving close to the taxi and I am wondering, “Are they together? Are they upto something?” but he comes close to the taxi and throws the match box right back, salutes, and whizzes off, much to my relief. P promptly puts the matchbox back and looks back at me to see how I am faring. I pretend to jab a message into my cell, ignoring his stare.

I tell myself, “Nothing will happen to me, God is with me,” and begin chanting “Om, Om,” under my breath, stopping only when we turn into my apartment gates and the familiar smile of the guard greets me. Whew. Home in one piece. Thank you, God. Yes, everything helps, and the chanting did calm my frayed nerves and flying thoughts.

The driver gets off, I get off, he hauls my luggage down, I give him his slip, and then look at him. He is very tall and thin. I wonder if something sinister lurked there behind his talk, so I look at his eyes.

They look a bit crazed, but it may only be my heightened imagination playing tricks. His tale had spooked me.

I am thankful that the ride is over. Maybe he spoke thus to exorcise his own ghosts, or to tell me that I was safe with him for he wished that such people were hanged to pay for their sins and also teach a lesson to other taxi drivers, but I don’t think that message came across that clearly! All I know is that I called up my family and friends while I travelled in this taxi to keep them posted that I was alive. And now I survive to tell the tale.

2009-02-10T05:18:00.000-08:00

Rickshaw man

He is thin, a parallel line, and I wonder what kind of body he packs in such a degree of slimness. The t shirt clings to him, a deep orange sleeveless! This is teamed with black cotton pants and a black cap [to ward off the sun, so he tells me later]. Yes, this is the cycle rickshaw guy whom I have flagged at noon to go about my work. He rushes through the crowd and the traffic and then , when I arrive at my destination, since he does not have change for Rs. 100/-, he says its his bohni , (first business of the morning), and he could wait if I was to return and I said it would take 15-20 minutes and he said he could wait upto half-hour, and so I said fine and hurried off.

Harried by the end of the hour, but finished with the business at hand, I hurried out to spot him in the afternoon sun, the bright orange of his t shirt an easily recognizable sizzler/beacon. In the strong sun a combination of orange and black! And yet he did not appear to be uncomfortable at all.

He said he refused 20 sawaris (clients), and expected me to believe that, but I shrugged it off, and said, let’s go! And then on the way back, an auto grazed the mudcap of his left cycle wheel, and then I notice it— that it is a strange peach colour!

The traffic is a snail so we strike up a conversation.

I tell him that once the Nano is here, a car for a lakh of rupees, the motorcycles etc. will disappear and we will have traffic that will not move at all. We will return to the bullock cart stage only this time the carts will be motorized and the bullocks will be men. He laughs and says yes, and the first things to go will by cycle rickshaws. I tell him they have already been banned from Chandni Chowk, the old delhi area, and he then says, the advantage of rickshaws is that they can go in any gali, any narrow alley. Don’t we know that, I say.

He smiles and I see that his teeth are stained with orange— tobacco stains. But the smile is sweet and I smile back. Encouraged by my smile, perhaps [!], he gets off the cycle and gives a piece of his mind to the auto driver who had earlier grazed his cycle and had now accidentally come up beside his cycle once again. He tells him to come ahead and have a talk.

I look at the dented mud cap…I point it out to him.

He says, it is a small thing, can be okayed, no problem. Then he asks me, “Should I give him a piece of my mind up ahead. There is a policeman there. I can complain to him. This guy will have a tough time then.

Instantly, I say, “No, no, leave it.” more to save my skin, than anything else, from burning some more in the midday sun. All around its traffic and heat and crowd and impatience and this guy wants to stop and have an altercation for half fun and half vindication of his rights.

So he smiles and deigns to let this opportunity for asserting his self go. We trudge on till the traffic clears as we turn left. On the way I spot once again the trees laden with polythene and old clothes on the side of the bridge that we are crossing. For once I give in to my need to photograph these and tell this guy to stop as I click pictures. He does not understand why in the beginning, thinking I am just clicking trees and then when I point it out to him then he starts pointing them out to me himself, all over the place, like an excited child. He actually wants me to get down from the richkshaw and click away but I tell him its okay, I can do it from my seat.

We are on our way after ten minutes of clicking and then he says, oh so you will put this in a newspaper, sudden comprehension dawning on him. “The land is not dirty, we people are making it so,” he says wisely.

On the way, he also haggles with me about his payment and though I pretend to argue, I have already decided o pay him the extra ten rupees for waiting for me to return from my work. The mudguard of his left wheel has begun to make an infernal noise and I mention it to him. This I do when I have reached home and am paying him. He removes the mudguard with a flourish, and twists it to attach it like a tight necklace to the rod at the back of his rickshaw!

Problem solved for the moment. He grins, and I say thank you and we part our ways.