Sahil Sood's Blog, page 2

Anil’s Ghost

I am a shepherd. The children who mock my gait tell me that I have grown old. Their fevered voices make a shrewd assessment of my age. I am a shepherd—I persist. I tend to my instincts. Step after step, the walk tires me. The vegetable basket hangs limply by my arm. There are days I cannot put up with it. Put up with anything. I am growing old—I relent. I groan. The glare is too bright for my eyes. I evade the glances that walk beside me and hasten inside the shadowy basement. Sanjay, the board outside my apartment welcomes me.

The silence lingers on to every crevice. The upholstery needs mending—I remind myself. I chug a swill of tonic water and put the vegetable basket down. The tendons in my arm relax. I am still—I confirm. My mind wanders—I lament. I make noise by tapping my feet against the wooden floor. The infantile sound confirms my presence. There is not much to do. I walk around the room and take a book out from the bookshelf. Tolstoy. Anil would have reprimanded. Anil. He would rather have me read Dostoevsky. He complains by making splashing noises in the bathtub. The water runs smooth and white. It foams near the edges. I tighten the noose around his neck. He needs to stop screaming. The pages float in the bathtub. I close the tap.

Once there were two people who lived together. I am forgetting their names. I run my fingers nimbly on the paper. It used to have an address. My memory fails me. The bedding is soft and padded. I press my hips and arch my back comfortably against the bed-support. Some other day, I remind myself. I keep the paper alongside the mattress and think of my day. Silence greets me once again. I live alone. The creases on the mattress belie a second presence. Once there were two people who lived together—it screams. I close my mind to it.

I look at my face with delight. I used to be charming once. The remnants of my youth are intact in the tightness around my nose. I was a boy once. I am a man now. A man from my former self gives an approving nod. He stands behind me. I see his face in the mirror. Stop looking now. He chides me for my narcissism. I concede. I am blood, bone, and marrow. Fresh semen flows inside me. I flash a wide smile. Anil chides me again. He reminds me of the time. I need to get dressed. I have to go somewhere. I turn around and find him gone.

My sister tells me she is worried for me. Her face is animated with tears and sighs. She leans against me and rubs my shoulder affectionately. Her voice sounds assuring. She makes indecipherable noises with her mouth and nose. She is grieving—I remember now. She mourns spaciously with her arms occupying every corner of my back. I find her touch comforting. There is not much I can feel. I feel nothing. I give her a perfunctory nod and get up from the table. Phantoms surround me. They offer words of commiseration. I know nothing. Fine voices. Their equilibrium disorients me. I am jolted from my self. I shrink back. I must.

The night appears hollow and dark. I crest my arm against the window frame and light up a cigarette. A woman from across the building smiles at me. Her long, slender back makes a silhouette behind her dressing curtain. I smile back. The smoke tendrils and reaches my nostril. I cough violently. Anil looks at me reprovingly. Sorry. He resumes reading in the bed. I think of going to the bed. I press the burning stub against the windowsill and throw the cigarette away. I take off my shirt and step into the bed. The sheets bemoan the absence of another body. I let the lights on. Fleeting sounds run at a distance. They snuggle up to me like a faithful lover. I remain intact.

I must move on. I get off the couch and step in the balcony. The static on the cable makes jarring noises behind me. The wintry sun casts its pallor in dim shades. The railing feels cold and obsolete. Anil holds a cup of tea for me. I take the cup from him and warm my hands with it. I thank him for that. He looks away into the horizon. I push him down from the balcony. He falls on the pavement and sinks beneath it. There is not a sound of discomfort in his voice.

I leave my apartment again. I cannot keep up with the walk. My bones creak. I carry too much weight. My burden both shocks and amuses me. I must let some weight down—I remind myself. The air is rancid with the smell of burnt wood and freshly washed vegetables. I take a detour around the grocers’ building and go to a park instead. Here the air is sweet with the sound of chirping and drunken laughter. I nestle my body on a bench. I am growing too old. The thought scares me. People from all walks of life walk down my path. Hand in hand. I feel alone.

I come back to my apartment. I find Anil lying down on the sofa. He asks me where I had been. I walk past him and climb the stairs to my bedroom. Once there were two people who lived together. I pick up the paper lying on the bedside and give it a thorough, searching look. My mind fails me again. I fold it and keep it inside the inner pocket of my coat. There is not much I can do. I am getting weary of my persistence. Yet I persist. I perspire.

I am afraid of the space around me. There are times I think it is too much. I must look for a smaller apartment. I must revive my old contacts. I hate the sight of my body. Nausea starts wringing inside me. I let it grow and reach my chest. It pains me. I must hold myself. I try shrinking back. I cannot. My hands start to tremble and shake. I feel the urge to open my mouth and emit a long muted howl. I fall down on my knees and press my hands against my mouth. The bile tastes like acid. It rushes along my throat with an aggressive impulse. I let it reach my mouth and flow out.

I look at my face in the mirror again. Anil calls me from the shower. I remove a piece of pipe from the plumbing and thrash him with it. He makes no sound. The water gushes at me. It roars. I try to staunch it. It keeps festering. It splashes against my face and washes my whole body. It punishes me for my wrongdoing. I howl in vain. I run outside the room and find Anil waiting in the lobby area. He reminds me of a party we had to attend. We are already late. He checks his watch and signals me to hurry up. I resign. I wear my coat and walk beside him. Hand in hand. I am no longer a shepherd.

Love and other utopias

“There are betrayals in war that are childlike compared with our human betrayals during peace. The new lovers enter the habits of the other. Things are smashed, revealed in a new light. This is done with nervous or tender sentences, although the heart is an organ of fire.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

While reading Milan Kundera’s ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being’, I was reminded of a science lecture that I once attended in my early school days. The thought of sun burning out and getting self annihilated some time in the distant future, is one that has terrified many, and for some it has been one of their earliest brushes with apparent meaninglessness or futility of life. It was also the time when I first learnt about fusion.

The book, set against the backdrop of Russian invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968, chronicles and novelizes the everyday life of four people, who play with their own romantic ideals of love and sex, in desperate attempts to achieve freedom from the burden of existence—the utopian lightness of being.

The reason I draw a parallel of nuclear fusion is because Kundera’s characters are elemental in nature. Until their paths converge, they exist in isolated spheres of thoughts and ideals, only to be set off into elemental turbulence of activity, coalition, and gradual decline.

Tomas, a surgeon, philanders from one woman to another, taking great relish in examining their characteristic oddities by using an imaginary scalpel, while retaining his coldness and solitude. For him romantic love and physical love are two irreconcilable desires—the former being his idea of burden, since it entails attachment and responsibility, and latter his idea of achieving lightness.

Tereza, his wife, follows her romantic pursuits in the form of achieving her husband’s loyalty. She is repulsed by the sight of her body and regards it shameful; and grows increasingly burdened and insecure by her husband’s need to find intimacy out of their marital union. Her struggle for lightness is reflected in her acts of humiliation—working as a barmaid, having sex with a stranger, engaging in dissident photojournalism, and defecating in the open.

Franz, who spends his life in rarified scholarly pursuits, in academia, falls in love with the free-spirited Sabina. He responds to her indifference and strong individualism with amorous display of affection and vows of eternal love. He grows increasingly despondent of being reduced to an intellectual tool-head and wishes to feel the rush of joy and belongingness by participating in protests and struggles, along with the general public.

Sabina, a free-spirited artist, is Franz’s and Tomas’s mistress. She celebrates her rebellion against her puritanical ancestry by painting erotic images and participating in sexual acts with a reckless abandon. She prefers to keep herself intact in her own element, aloof from the teeming multitudes and their collective tastes. Like Tomas, she is stifled by romantic attachments and finds lightness in her repeat acts of betrayal.

The heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground. But in love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man’s body. The heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously an image of life’s most intense fulfillment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real; his movements are as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?

Kundera’s work mirrors life. One can picture him with a sly smile and a bemused look on his face, sketching his characters with deep empathy and part mockery. His characters, in their attempts to soar and become lighter than air, become so oppressed by their lightness that they sink quicker than a diving bell. They become victims of their ideals–their own element. But is it possible to drown in your own element?

We read later in the book that Tomas, burdened by his lightness, moves to the countryside with Tereza, in order to make amends with her and lead a solitary lifestyle, filled with simple pleasures. Tereza recognizes her anima and becomes a recluse, finding solace in the company of domestic animals. Sabina, tired by her own betrayals, finds admirers of her art in the USA and settles there permanently. Franz, weary of his intellectual detachment and fear of inviting Sabina’s derision, sheds his inhibitions and joins the Grand March, as a protestor playing an active role and seeking comfort in the company of his fellow men.

Life demands surrender. It is said the Sun will burn out in a few billion years from now. The scientists claim that it will lose its life source—the hydrogen fuel—and will annihilate itself. In nuclear fusion, heavier elements are formed from lighter ones. The hydrogen nuclei combine to form a larger nucleus, helium, releasing massive amounts of energy. But what is often overlooked is the fact that for the nuclei to combine, energy is first needed to bring them together, since they carry the same charge. This occurs naturally in stars, through heat and gravitational forces, but it is also possible to do it on earth, between two people who carry the same longing—to combine and perpetuate. They only have to give up resistance. Perhaps then their lightness will no longer be unbearable.

A Curious Case of Hatred: Book Review of ‘Hatred in the belly’

Hatred is not a self-perpetuating mechanism. It’s a seed planted, with careful deliberation and thought, in the evolving quarters of education, economy, society, and politics, and nourished with sunshine and water of the hands and minds of those who intend to spread its poisoned abundance, with an aim to establish a hegemony by the few, over the riches of others. The vectors that aid in pollination carry it in blind faith, or sometimes under the burden to maintain the stronghold established by their predecessors. Thus, hatred is constantly taught, fed, and perpetuated.

When asked what the book ‘Hatred in the belly’ is about, I’m often confused what to reply. To say that it is a scathing critique of the Arundhati Roy-Navayana project to publish Babasaheb Ambedkar’s founding text on caste-based practices in India, ‘Annihilation of Caste’, with a weightier, self-aggrandizing introduction that seeks to delegitimize Ambedkar’s philosophy, would be taking a reductionist stance. The book is not a mere critique, for neither the word ‘scathing’ nor ‘critique’ intensify the sense of disquiet and urgency behind every word of the text.

‘Hatred in the belly’ is a dossier on caste politics in India; a treatise on how the casteist thought is embedded and kept alive in our collective psyche. Keeping in view the criticism of the Roy-Navayana project—in response to which the collection emerged– it offers a variety of perspectives on how, wittingly or unwittingly, the Brahminic society—the class at the highest rung of caste hierarchy in India– does grave injustice to the Dalits—a community considered to be at the lowest rung of caste hierarchy in India–, and how the age-old Brahminic hegemony is preserved and perpetuated through the established knowledge systems.

I was struck by the variety and breadth of thought process. The essays help one sharpen his/her intellect while offering curious insights on the topic in discussion. The writing is astute and succinct, accompanied by passages from ‘Annihilation of Caste’, and a series of short poems and caricatures. Sample how K K Baburaj, a notable cultural critic and political commentator based in Kerala, challenges Roy’s romantic affiliation towards Maoism in light of people’s movements and class struggles in India:

The critical difference here is that the theme of the politics of the marginalized is ‘survival’, while a Marxist agenda is determined by ‘class struggle’. […] In short, a political and military revolution that is arrived at by drawing a straight line from Marxism will not consider marginalized sections or other religio-socio diversities, or sexual minorities, as political agents. […] To be beyond the state, to detest urbanism, to urbanism, to understand class domination ahistorically, to fail to recognize emerging social subjectivities, and above all, to have no trust in democracy—are not these merely the natural convictions arising from her belief in a simplistic modernism?

One pertinent question remains to be addressed, though: Who are these people? A casual glance at the back-pages will reveal a list of writers, academics, students, and activists who refer to themselves as ‘Ambedkar Age Collective’. To call them ‘romantics’ would be a misnomer in terms of terminology, as they don’t strive for a poet’s utopia; their discourses aren’t ‘polemics’; their protests are not ‘mob outrage’; they’re all humanists who have—and still do—unstintingly, vehemently struggled to bring out the truth buried under the irrational prejudices and indoctrinated teachings that have led to the condensed hostility of the Brahminic India towards the Dalits, and in the process hold a clean mirror to the present-day ugly Bharat (India). They attempt to rid our minds of the carefully planted and nurtured ‘seed of hatred’, whose vegetation has been infesting for generations. Thus, ‘Hatred in the belly’ is a necessary, sanitizing experience of our times.

Wonderful, Wonderful Times: Book Review

“In reality I am revolted by my desires. But the desires are stronger than I am.”

Music annihilates distinction: The indistinct chords promise the fine-tune of harmony, of melody, of strings, flutes, clarinets, and voices working in perfect order; while the distinct chords, forever straining under the musician’s adept fingers, revolt against the oppressive order; their harsh, inconsonant sounds in the milieu of musical grandiosity, struggle to remain stiff and alone, but alas, they must give away, the musician argues; the musician beats one more time, and the chords, both distinct and indistinct, sounding the beat of pleasure and pain, reach a crescendo; the musician smiles, the crowd applauses, the violence of annihilation fills them with ecstasy.

Elfriede Jelinek’s “Wonderful, Wonderful Times”, set in the post-war Austria (late 1950s), which is struggling to get on its feet after a failed Socialist uprising and suffering the wounds of defeat in the Second World War, charts the story of four teenagers and how they spend their everyday lives engaging in wanton acts of cold-blooded violence. The novelization is haunting, for part it mostly focuses on the internal thoughts of characters, and the characters are an unlikeable lot. “People should not be beaten up for the reasons of hatred but for no reason at all, it should be an end in itself, admonishes her brother, Rainer.” The forewarning appears in the beginning of the novel, where the four teenagers assault an unguarded foreigner. While describing the attack, Jelinek makes every attempt to normalize it. The attack is seen as a direct result of the baggage of hatred the people of her country carry after the war. It’s important to keep the context in perspective while reading her novel.

The events are described in astonishing fluidity. All sorts of perversions take place. The one-legged father beats up his wife and kids to make up for loss of his masculinity- possibly resulting from seeing the carnage of naked women and a failed Nazi uprising; he ogles in public, takes naked pictures of his wife, and uses every tool to inflict violence upon her. His son, Rainer, sworn to a life of an artist, which he sees as full of opportunities to assert one-self and create a cult of own, dabbles in existential literature and uses it to exhort others to rationalize their deviant urges. The teenagers, tired by the misery, drudgery, and squalor of the country, find refuge and freedom in their wanton acts. They steal, assault, and even kill. “We need the universally valid norm to get a kick out of our own extremeness.”

Jelinek’s tone is hateful and repugnant. Be it an artist or a philistine, no one is spared. The acrid stench issues out of every word and pore of this book, till the bile is clogged in the reader’s throat. Yet she sustains it by her passion of reading into human behavior in times of desperation. She sees ‘filth’ as a natural phenomenon, if one is left to one’s wild, untamed instincts. “Every child is instinctively drawn towards filth, till you pull it back.”

“Wonderful, Wonderful Times” is intensely harrowing. The final act of the book left me running for the covers. It’s steeped in decadence, violence, and sexual depravity and treats these as natural processes for understanding human mind and behavior. There are times when the book goes overboard and become a parody of it-self; but such instances are rare and are overshadowed by the brute force of Jelinek’s literary power. The teenagers are sexually voracious, self-willed, angry individuals who threaten and demonize the stifling order that enfolds them. This is the angriest and scariest book that I’ve ever read. Her work reverberates like chamber music. It doesn’t attempt to challenge anything. It only shows. In that way, it’s a spectacle: take it or leave it.

 

Gender Issues in India

Introduction

Several researchers over the years have failed to distinguish between ‘sex’ and ‘gender’ correctly. While a person’s ‘sex’ refers to his/her physiological structure, ‘gender’ on the other hand is dictated by a person’s individual choices- or in most cases, societal order. Thus, male/female conforms to the biological stratum, while man/woman conforms to the societal/individual stratum of classification. This commonly practiced nomenclature needs revision since it holds dubious relevance in the current scenario where the ‘third sex population’, i.e. people with transgendered and asexual identities, has started recognizing itself as such. However, in India, sex and gender are used interchangeably. Textbooks on gender studies define primary sex as ‘male’ and secondary sex as ‘female’. Since the topic of my essay is ‘gender issues in India’, I’d like to present keeping the Indian context of classification in perspective.

In India, gender norms are governed by the various social categories in which a particular sex operates. If one understands ‘gender’ as a relationship of power between a man and a woman, gender discrimination would mean discrimination against women on the basis of their sex, since female sex is considered to be weaker in comparison. This ideology is perpetuated by the patriarchal order of society that grants men special privileges in social and economic sphere, over women. It is interesting to note that the same system has been criticized for forcing men, who continued to be largely oppressed in the framework, to re-allocate their gender identities over time.

As a result of gender biases operating in favor of men, women in India continue to face discrimination in terms of schooling, job opportunity, healthcare, and nutrition. Casual sexism, cultural stereotyping, and media objectification in everyday life have further led women to unquestioningly accept their subordinate position in society.

According to the 2011 Census, female literacy in India was 65.46% as against 82.14% of male literacy. Educating girl child is seen as bad investment as she is bound to get married and leave her paternal home someday to assume the role of a housewife. Thus, women who lack basic secondary education (10+2) find difficulty in sustaining in the highly demanding job market. Moreover, the work done by a woman, mainly household duties, is not accorded a quantifiable monetary value while estimating a country’s Gross Domestic Product, which is an overall index of growth in an economy.

Not only in education, in case of family food habits, too, it is a male child who is accorded primary preference in terms of nutritious food. Poor food habits in childhood often result in anemia and difficult births at subsequent stages of womanhood. As per the last recorded census, maternal mortality rate was at 178 deaths per 1-lakh live births.

In some parts of India, women don’t even own their names: Custom demands that they change their last name, -and in some cases, first name- after marriage. Most of the laws in India hark back to the colonial era when a wife’s chastity was a man’s property. The adultery law in India is explicit about the fact that it is a crime committed by one man in respect of other man’s wife, and the law is there to solely punish such a man. Thus, most laws in India straitjacket men and women into strict gender roles.

Gender Based Violence

Gender inequality manifests itself in manifold forms. Earlier in my essay, I talked about the power schism that separates gender identities. Perhaps the same schism is responsible for increase in the number of incidents of violence against women. Before proceeding ahead, I’d like to clear the misconception attached to the word ‘violence’ that limits its understanding to a strict physical sense, by saying that violence against women means and has always included physical, sexual, or psychological harm or suffering, including threats of such acts, coercion, or arbitration of liberty, whether occurring in public or in private life.

In a survey conducted by World Health Organization in 2013 on Gender Based Violence (GBV), it was found that partners are the primary perpetrators of physical and sexual abuse. Among ever-partnered women, almost one third (30%) of all women experienced physical and/or sexual violence by their partner. Intimate Partner Violence (IPV), or ‘Domestic Violence’, as it is understood in Indian context, is any behavior within an intimate relationship that causes physical, psychological, or sexual harm to those in the relationship. Such behavior includes physical aggression (slapping, hitting, kicking, or beating); psychological abuse (intimidation, constant belittling, and humiliating); sexual coercion (forced intercourse and other forms); controlling behaviors (isolating, monitoring, restricting); and battering (when abuse occurs constantly in the same relationship).

Domestic violence is considered to be the most prevalent and practiced form of violence against women in India. Despite the enactment of Prevention of Women from Domestic Violence Act, 2005, women find it hard to avail legal succor because there is fear of retribution, shame, or disbelief, in asking for aid. Thus, most cases of domestic violence remain largely unreported.

Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) is a traditional custom that is practiced in many religious communities in the world. In India, -especially in the Bohra community-it’s still openly practiced in some pockets but finds little mention anywhere. FGM is a cultural practice involving the excision of various parts of genitalia of girls and young women. In their book, ‘Overcoming Violence Against Women and Girls: The International Campaign to Eradicate a Worldwide Problem’, Dr. Michael L. Penn and Dr. Rahel Nardos write: “A reason commonly given for female circumcision is the preservation of female chastity by making sex physically impossible. Both men and women thus see the practice as an important means of maintaining morality and preserving family and cultural honor. It also meets men’s demands for wives who come as virgins and who remain faithful. Other commonly invoked functions of female circumcision include elevating the sexual pleasure of men; rendering women ‘clean’ by removing those parts of the female sexual organs that are considered dirty and impure; and exposing young women to the preparatory pain that serves as a metaphor for the pain of childbirth.”

Legislative Measures

Indian Constitution provides for positive safeguards to eliminate gender inequality; the Preamble to the Constitution talks about goals of achieving social, economic, and political justice for everyone and to provide equality of status and of opportunity to all its citizens. Further, women have equal right to vote in our political system. Article 15 of the Constitution provides for prohibition of discrimination on grounds of sex, apart from other grounds such as religion, race, caste, or place of birth. Article 15(3) authorizes the State to make any special provision for women and children. Moreover, the Directive Principles of State Policy also provide various provisions, which are for the benefit of women, and provide safeguards against discrimination.

Other than these Constitutional safeguards, various protective legislations have also been passed by the Parliament to eliminate exploitation of women and to give them equal status in society. For instance, the Sati (Prevention) Act, 1987, was enacted to abolish and make punishable the inhuman custom of Sati; the Dowry Prohibition Act, 1961, to eliminate the practice of dowry; the Special Marriage Act, 1954, to give rightful status to married couples who marry inter-caste or inter-religion; the Pre-Natal Diagnostic Techniques (Regulation and Prevention of Misuse) Bill (introduced in Parliament in 1991, passed in 1994) to stop female infanticide and many more such Acts. Furthermore, the Parliament brings out timely amendments to existing laws in order to give protection to women according to the changing needs of the society. For instance, Section 304-B was added to the Indian Penal Code, 1860, to make dowry-death or bride burning a specific offence punishable with maximum punishment of life imprisonment.

True, there are various legislative safeguards and protection mechanisms for women but the ground reality is very different. Despite all these provisions women are still being treated as second-rate citizens in our country and continue to be the victim of several atrocities committed on the grounds of gender discrimination. Also, few existing laws explicitly protect the rights of, say, the transgendered community or the gay and lesbian community—the laws do not have much room for gender ambiguity.

Achieving Gender Equality- The Role of Arts

How can we achieve gender equality and stop the increasing violence? Education was thought to be an effective measure until the first domestic violence case was reported in Kerala, the Indian state with the highest literacy rate and female to male sex ratio. It was then realized that perhaps there was something more potentially harmful than illiteracy, which was responsible for gender-based violence in general.

Overtime, it has been realized that it’s the terribly simplistic boundaries of gender roles drawn by the societal order that is more harmful than any recorded cause. Everything else shares a cause and effect relationship with it. Our flawed approach towards achieving a theoretical anatomic commonality while practicing anatomic differentiation has resulted in an upsurge of violence and intolerance against any sex that practices a norm deviant from the set order.

The need of the hour is to bring a radical change in our everyday sexist attitudes and become more tolerant and empathetic. One way in which empathy can be achieved is through reading literature and viewing artistic/dramatic presentations. Quoting from my independent thesis on society and relationships, ‘Saaransh (summary)’: “Reading and viewing are essential because we know that surface notations are the cheat. That it’s the surface depiction of things what locks us out of the teeming, throbbing, libidinous and emotional world that we inhabit, and that relationship is precisely the arena where all of it comes to the fore.

Human brain is pernicious. It muddles things up. The very project of order that we pride ourselves on is also a way of distorting reality. Reality itself is intermixed, fresh except that ordinarily we don’t have a clue of it.

Literature and cinema provide a language for all the bouts of effect, anger and desire that punctuate life, and escape our observation most of the times. They remind us of what a spectacle our real world is- both inside and outside.

Measures that are appropriate to and through art are radically different from the kind of empirical measures that we can find in the sciences and in the social sciences and in computer science, kinds of things that are measurable. But the measure of the human, the moral, the imaginative, the emotional, the neural, are measures, it seems to me, find their privileged site in art. And these literary texts and films describe, make visible to us, and allow us to share stories where we either connect with or collide with each other and our world.”

Conclusion

In the beginning I talked about how the existing nomenclature needed revision in light of third sex population. The current order has led to many men and women re-allocate their gender and sexual identities overtime. In India, the third sex population faces legal and social difficulties not experienced by other genders. Not only they’re stigmatized but the legal framework also denies them the fundamental right to dignity and to form a legitimate marriage union. Article 377 of Indian Penal Code criminalizes same sex union and mating.

Thus, ‘gender’ is an ever-evolving phenomenon; it’s a socio-political umbrella term for all issues that do not fit into any commonly practiced nomenclature and find their voice with changing times. Gender issues in India need a thorough and thoughtful revision, which should start by ‘gender sensitization’ and ‘gender awareness’.

Of Excellence, and Longing

I often find narrating experiences a daunting task. It pre-supposes a certain degree of awareness of one’s condition and of the people one meets. To form a cohesive narrative, one has to bring in line every action and nuance with the general as well as individual ambition. And before we reach a cohesive whole, we are all individual stories- some waiting to be discovered, other waiting to be told.

Our journey at CoE (Centre of Excellence) began with a single, unanimous gasp: some were struck by its stately granite-and-marble built, the green open spaces, sports and cafeteria rooms; while others were just excited to spend 4 weeks with people from different parts of the country. It was hailed as a celebration after a long period of draining studies, taxing work-life and nerve-wracking exams.

The first day began with much enthusiasm. After a nervous, formal introduction, everyone got over his initial hesitancy to some extent. Team activities further helped people bond better. In a simulated corporate-like set-up with people dressed in best of suits and ties, the whole classroom with its young, bright future professionals buzzed with energy and cheerful optimism.

Sessions on public speaking enabled people to self-examine their lives and articulate about their golden memories, greatest achievement, and turning points. Often in the hard-grained corporate world, and the anxiety-ridden prevalent work culture, one may not feel liberated at times. Talking liberates people; it provides catharsis for those who’ve long yearned for empathetic ears to listen to their suppressed thoughts. Though the primary focus of the sessions was on building effective public speaking skills, it witnessed people trespassing the areas of mental conflict and speaking with passion, courage and enviable confidence. In the process, we not only got to know each other better, but also learnt that our failings can only cripple us to an extent we allow them; and the moment we decide to take a stand is when we empower ourselves.

As students, we receive knowledge in its distilled forms. True education means empowering people, internalizing the broad concepts, and learning happens when one first learns humility. There were speakers who highlighted the same with pathos: speakers with years of unmatched experience, strong profiles, and idealism that had survived the blows of agonizing reality. They presented their topics in unusual fashion; the conversations were candid, revelatory and insightful.

To avoid begin swept away by tedium, we organized various events from time to time. One such event was the 6-day Sports Tournament that kept everyone busy and excited. The winners were presented with medals, bought from contribution money collected from all participants. There was never a dull evening. The garden area always crackled with activity: there would be people doing yoga, intellectuals brain-storming in the pavilion, body-builders reveling in the physical democracy of the gym, active swimmers splashing in the pool, thinkers taking long-walks in the shade, disenchanted folks seeking consolation, and others just running around in amusement, or engaging in frivolous chatter.

Then there were days when we went out and explored the city. We eagerly looked forward to this day. It would bring the much-needed zest to the entire atmosphere in the campus. Further, the prospect of having authentic Hyderabad food added extra delight to the trips- and provided respite to the grumbling guts!

The day at Ram Math Mandir shall remain stamped in our memories forever. The director of the Mandir not only introduced us to the concept of meditation and taught about mental well being, but also made a fervent appeal to the patriot within each of us. By sharing anecdotes from Swami Vivekananda’s and Kargil War heroes’ lives, and presenting a pitiable picture of the less privileged section of the society, he drove home the message that one’s character is measured by the resilience of his/her spirit, and duty to the nation supersedes all other duties. Genuine applause and tears of admiration and respect followed it.

So, when did we become a cohesive whole? Sometime at night, in the glimmer of the moonlight, shapeless thoughts of moments lived, moments cherished, floating around in open space, from every dreaming head in the campus, coalesced and settled onto the soft, wet grass. Tomorrow, Centre of Excellence (CoE) shall prepare itself for another batch, but the dreamers and warriors of yesterday shall remain intact, impressed into the soil that forms the foundation of this body of excellence.

A New Republic

hort f

“But you must go out, once in a while,” her mother said. “People are celebrating in the streets. It’s a great day to be alive.”

She carefully hung up the receiver, letting her mother try in vain to persuade her to leave her apartment. Out there, a great tumult had broken out since yesterday. The new government was due to be appointed at midnight. People had taken to the streets, celebrating their freedom from a decade long military oppression. The press heralded it as the beginning of a new era. The air buzzed with the sound of local policemen; ambulance siren; loud megaphones; children running down the streets in mock amusement; and men and women drunk with laughter, happy to witness the history in making.

She let the window blinds down, shrouding the room in a half-lit darkness. It was safe inside, she thought. Anything can happen outside. Over the years she had cultivated a reclusive life for herself: Waking up at 6 a.m. in the morning; washing her dishes from last night; reading to herself in the afternoon, sunk into the heavy armchair– where she would doze off occasionally–; and preparing her dinner from the supplies that her mother would drop off every weekend. “Dear, I am worried for you. It’s about time you stepped out of the house. I can take you along with me. People have been asking after you. What do I say?” No, mother.

Children, she thought. Every once a week she permitted herself to watch them play in the local playground. The window-view provided little scope to get noticed. She watched them as they quarreled, fought, laughed and ran. For a brief moment she would forget the touch of loose cloth flitting over her unyielding breasts. She was part of a civilization that permitted itself to decay.

I am alive, she would say, letting the warmth of urine spread across her inner thigh. Today, I am here. Here, more than anywhere. The cold bath cut her skin with uncalled savagery. She let it. The saliva floating at the base of her mouth bubbled into thin air, impregnating it with the moisture of her dense fluids. She was trapped in her scent, living in and out into herself.

She placed the telephone receiver back onto the base, the voice of her mother now long died out. It’s a great day to be alive. Advancing to the door, she took a long sigh and gently propped it open. The damp air in the hallway greeted her with casual indifference.

Is that the lady who lives across the hall? The lobby woman expressed confusion. No, it can’t be. She hadn’t seen her since the day the police came.

 The morning light revealed her shrouded persona; naked sweat danced along her earlobes. She let out an exasperated sigh and chose to walk along the side-ways, narrowly escaping the touch and smell of the public that amassed every corner.

“Look, they are going to plant that right in the middle of the park tonight.”

“That doesn’t look grand. I’m only glad we are getting paid work. There are not many people who understand the true value of freedom.”

There was an air of excitement and confusion that made her feel desolate. To her it was a continuum of actively congregating genitals; both limp and firm, with their gaping gashes and stout bodies, vigorously engaging in commerce of perspiring hopes and shared delusions. Trampling the slogans beneath her feet, she kept her pace and continued walking.

“Murderers! This is what they are! Sons killing their fathers! Such an ungodly mess! They shall never be forgiven.” The daft figure spit at the ongoing procession. He caught a glimpse of a woman walking along the path who seemed unperturbed by his outbursts. He tried to scare her off, but in vain. The woman responded to his gimmicks with unnatural passivity. The daft figure, now retreating from his labor, realized that perhaps it was best if he didn’t scream at her. The woman nevertheless continued her gait.

She reached the end of the street when she heard a man moaning loudly. She doubled back on her steps and peered into the guarded space from which the din escaped with furious rhythm. There, she saw a woman, possibly in her 20s, sprawled on the greasy floor, and a man who stoked her with all his might. The woman, who clasped her sweaty hands behind the man’s neck, displayed an emotion of raw surrender- jealous of her invader’s strength and dismayed at her fragile mechanism; yet at the same time they both exuded a warmth unmatched by the stench of sweat and semen that permeated the space. She reached for her organ, her fingers untwining over its slippery walls, and caressed her shrunken orb until..Darling, did you to-touch that child? Answer me! The police are going to be here any moment. Did you?… Madam, we are here to arrest you. You must accompany us… She shrank back with a paralyzing force. Choked with terror, she slipped her fingers back inside and left the scene without a sound.

 

“Lay that down next to the fountain. Do you hear me?” The construction activity that had stopped during the Cold War resumed its regular operations. The dust clouded onlookers’ vision. The procession had to halt mid-way and take a detour round the canal road that had been abandoned since the military operations a year ago.

Can truth remain locked within one’s interior? Murk clouded her thoughts. She imagined a time during her pre-teens when she would lie on the bathroom floor, rubbing herself against the soapy mix after a bath. Truth set her free then; her entrails aligned with her thoughts in which she could summon unspeakable desires, and flow with mellow viscosity. The scent and sight of the sticky mess that would curdle her fingers formed part of much of the lively years she spent hiding behind the duality of her thoughts, her truth, her singular truth.

Walking towards the dust-laden air and occasionally slipping on the wet path, she found herself in an unfamiliar territory. The noises ran from shrill laughter to wails of help.

“I want to kick him once more in the balls. Here, hold this.” A man whimpered.

“Do you feel any better? Let’s tie his tongue to these pliers.” The same voice protested pleadingly.

“You see, we’re free now! Free to do anything we want. Freedom is our new God. Freedom is our duty. Say it! FREEDOM! FREEDOM!”

“Open his mouth so that he says it. Say, ‘Freedom’! FREEDOM!”

There was a sharp sound of a metal object breaking against something solid, and another wail issued- this one more blood chilling than before.

“What do we do with him now? He won’t shut his trap!”

“I say let’s crush him! My truck is parked just a block away. It’ll not be difficult to bring it in this dust without anyone seeing us.”

“Should we remove his tongue first? What if he survives? That way he won’t tell anyone anything, ever.”

“I say we crush him and no more.”

“I agree. Let’s do away with him.”

“Wait. I think there’s someone looking from behind that wall.”

“Fast! It just ran away!”

A figure reached the end of the builders’ block; with lumbering gait and borrowed breaths it rested itself against the stone cold earth. With rolling eyes it saw a group of children squatting on the ground. It saw their nubile bodies, defecating their sordid mess onto the earth upon which it laid its head. A movement like that of truth escaping sound, escaped from within its walls– like release of a prisoner handcuffed to her desires, her singular sin. The figure spread its legs evenly, rolled back its eyes, and smiled with its broken jaws; the voice reverberating in its ears: It’s a great day to be alive.

The procession reached the end of the park. There was noise of mirth and victory. It was beginning of a new republic- their republic, each one’s republic.

Indira: The Life of Indira Nehru Gandhi – Katherine Frank (A Book Review)

In her letter to Dorothy Norman, a female American photographer, writer and social activist, and also Indira’s closest friend and confidante, Indira expressed what it meant to grow up in the Nehru household, in the midst of political turmoil and unrest spreading throughout India, a country on the brink of achieving independence from the bicentennial rule of British Empire:

Since earliest childhood I have been surrounded by exceptional people and have participated in exceptional events…The circumstances in which I passed my girlhood- both domestic and public spheres- were not easy. The world is a cruel place for the best of us and specially so for the sensitive.

Indira Gandhi, or as people fondly called her ‘The Empress of India’, was India’s second longest serving Prime Minister, and inarguably the most controversial and infamous figure of Indian politics.

Katherine Frank’s biography is the closest and the most endearing account of her remarkably eventful life. Instead of plainly and chronologically charting events that shaped her life, she tries to bring out Indira as a person- both as a sum of political and personal events.

Diagnosed at an early age, with rare pulmonary tuberculosis in the lungs, Indira, along with her mother, Kamala Nehru, who also suffered from severe ailments, spent most of her time on medical treatments that required her to travel back and forth between India and Europe. Not only she received disrupted formal education, but the political turbulence in the country further kept her from leading a normal, regulated life. This tense, emotional, and often revelatory phase is investigated through her correspondence with her father, Pandit Jawahar Lal Nehru, India’s first and longest serving Prime Minister, and also Indira’s guiding figure during her childhood. Given the limited (almost no) poetic license, Frank sustains Indira, and keeps her voice alive page after page, so much so that the entire narration reads and sounds like Indira’s intimate self.

As a highly observant and perceptive writer, Frank discovers many vantage points to look at Indira’s several life and political decisions. Long periods of inactivity, illness, and a relentless urge to be of worth in Indian freedom struggle, in early childhood; frequent bouts of depression and melancholia, trigged by solitude and loss of dear ones; estranged relationship with her philandering husband, Feroze Gandhi; perpetual emotional harassment by her younger son, Sanjay Gandhi; petty domestic squabbles and frequent clashes with her daughter-in-law, Maneka Gandhi; and above all, increasing insecurity of being stripped of power in the political scene inherently dominated by men, all contributed to her taking some erroneous decisions.

Frank’s book is by no means a conventional biography, for she richly portrays the complexities and struggles of various other characters who aid Indira’s struggle into politics: Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, through his correspondence serves as the perfect father and supreme companion, who with his towering intellect and vast experience guides Indira’s every step; Kamala Nehru, keeping her head high in the times of adversary, shows Indira the power of courage and persistence; Mahatama Gandhi, Feroze Gandhi, Motilal Nehru, Indira’s sons and others, whose life stories are intelligently woven into the narrative framework; and Kashmir, the heaven’s abode, a place whose beauty and healing powers become the fuel of sustenance for Indira’s spiritual and physical recovery, in times of repair and need.

I have felt like a bird in a very small cage, my wings hitting against the bars whichever way I move. The time has come for me to live my own life. What will it be? I don’t know at all. For the moment, I just want to be free…and find my own direction. The experience of being President of the Congress has been exhilarating at times, depressing at times, but certainly worthwhile. But…..I can only be warped & unhappy if I have to continue.

In her late-night heartfelt confession to Dorothy Norman, Indira, shortly before assuming power, predicts how increasingly lonely and depressing she would become if forced to continue. And it proved true. Born into the Nehru family, her life was never her choice, and thus, she was slated for a life of public service.

Indira’s tenure was dotted with some remarkable achievements that brought out her assertive, domineering, forthright and often ruthless persona: India’s extended support and huge involvement in the creation of Bangladesh (East Pakistan); launching of India’s first successful nuclear test; the annexation of Sikkim with India; the successful culmination of The Green Revolution Movement transforming India from a nation heavily reliant on imported grains and prone to famine to being largely able to feed itself, and become successful in achieving its goal of food security; drawing up of Line of Control along the Jammu and Kashmir and Pakistan border, to settle the territorial dispute; and improved foreign relations with USSR and other countries. Thus, she transformed a crippled economy into a thriving, full blooded nation. But several of her decisions like centralizing power, imposing the state of emergency, raiding the Golden Temple (the holy place of Sikhs) etc. met with severe criticism, and the latter cost her life.

With each phase Indira became more insecure and reclusive; the loneliness haunted her, increasingly so after the death of her son, Sanjay. Frank’s writing achieves in making the reader empathetic with her condition. In her final moments, shortly before her assassination, Indira recounted many efforts that had been made to assassinate her, and asserted that each drop of her blood spilled shall continue to strengthen India. Thus, “India is Indira; Indira is India”, became the slogan of the millions. Indira acknowledged that India was much larger than a single family or a single person, and insisted that it would always endure.

Today, Indira Gandhi is no more; debates rage on whether the emergent actions taken were necessary; but her story is one great story of a highly flawed individual, a story born out of great solitude and courage. Frank’s book is a compelling character study, and a stunning account of one of the most equally beloved and reviled persons to have lived.

“Life Itself”, and the ongoing predicament.

flections

I woke up this morning with the same heavy thought of repeating a day-long dull exercise of classes, home-study etc. I checked the clock- it was 5:30 A.M. ; I had been sleeping for the past 14 hours. I was immediately disgusted with myself. What am I doing with my life? I thought it over while relieving my bowels. It was an unpleasant question that I asked myself twice everyday, in a serious self-reflecting mode. I’d complete 21 this year (hell, yeah!). Until now, this is all what I’ve done: 1) completed my schooling; 2) graduated with a bachelors degree in Commerce; 3) worked a job which I hated, despised, rubbished, rejected and swore to never return back;  5) completed the two step process of becoming a Chartered Accountant, one of the top most posts in Finance- something about which I’m now more unsure than ever; 6) started writing a book, which I abandoned in utter despair after realising how shockingly pointless and absurd the whole thing read; 7) dabbled in some serious literature reading; wrote an unpublished thesis; and started a blog to give a kick-boost to my latent writing talent.

This is my story. Of course, one would argue that documenting academic success and career disappointments hardly qualifies as someone’s life story, and I agree, but I’ve reached a point where I have nothing further to say and discuss, besides what I’ve written above. I am perpetually at a loss to define myself other than by weighing on such props. I desperately want to write something. I know I’ve started rambling. Ughh! See? This is what happens when I go beyond a point.

So, the point is that after serious reflection I decided to give my morning class a miss- there goes all motivation down the drain. I decided to watch “Life Itself”, a documentary on the life of Roger Ebert, a noted American film critic. If you are not aware of his works, I urge you to read them. There’s an uncommon simplicity, elegance, crisp perceptiveness and geeky love-worship with the way he writes about films. His review of Yasujiro Ozu’s, 1953 film “Tokyo Story”, a humane drama in which old parents come to city to spend time with their children who seem to have no time to spare, is a classic in its own right. The film struck me on multiple levels, but Roger’s review struck on a more deeper level; it opened a whole new window to understanding films and life in general. The movie, “Life Itself”, is a eulogy for Roger’s eventful life, his philosophy and his love of films; an honest narrative of his bitter struggle with alcoholism, cancer, and his ultimate spiritual recovery. If anything, it augmented my disappointment with myself. Here’s a person who started writing at an early age -same as mine- and went on to become one of the most celebrated persons in the history of cinema, and look at me. This blog entry could be a response to my disappointment, to start writing and find a direction, or be perpetually lost and continue to be defined by mark sheets, CV’s etc.

Hoping to find a direction,

Sahil Sood.

P.S. : Here’s Roger’s review of “Tokyo Story”. This could be the best thing you read today.

http://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/great-movie-tokyo-story-1953