Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan's Blog, page 78
December 19, 2017
Sofa, So Good
(Wrote this in April 2016. I've grown to like our sofa since.)
It has been nearly a month since we shifted into our new home and still, I haven't been able to have a party of more than four or five people over at a time. The reason? We have no sofa.
The eventual sofa plan
This may sound petty to you—certainly it's reading a little petty to me as I'm writing it—but being now of the age where folding oneself onto the floor for longer than an hour or two leads to creaky hips and aching backs (blame our sedentary lifestyles), I cannot, in all good conscience force my guests to discomfort. Once, we had about ten people over, and like a good hostess, I stayed standing while everyone got dining chairs, and by the end of the night, my knees ached with the effort of holding me up for so long. And I do yoga regularly.
After many weeks scouring online websites and finding nothing exactly perfect—eg: great shape, but too-delicate fabric, which wouldn't last a week around our cats; nice colour, but a bit boxy looking; prohibitively expensive for all its style—we decided to go the Indian way and have the sofa commissioned and made from scratch. A craftsman came recommended from a friend, we bought the yards of plain black (apparently cat-proof) fabric, handed it over to him with an advance and picked a design from his coffee table book catalogue. It was a deceptively simple looking sofa, sleek and stylish with rounded arms and comfortable enough for two people to lie, feet facing each other at the end of a long day. We imagined narratives around it, eventually we will acquire a projector and this will be the sofa on which we watch movies. I imagined my stylish friends, in pretty shift dresses standing out against the black fabric. I imagined the winter to come, how the sun would hit it in just the right spot, me and a cat curled up for an afternoon nap.
There are things in our new home I've never owned before: a dining table that seats six, and now a three-seater sofa, all indicating our couple-d lives, a “we” instead of an “I.” I put furniture into terms I can understand—like a set for a stage or a blank page of a Word document. What scene are we setting? This is a house that will be full of people we love. This is a house that will see us entertaining effortlessly. This is a house where there is a comfortable nook in each room for two readers to be alone together.
Unfortunately, the sofa maker didn't see it that way. Proud as we were of supporting local businesses and not going online (plus saving some money), it seems to be an uphill task. His first photos (sent weeks after the commission, despite my urging) were of a boxy black sofa. Comfortable? Maybe. But not our original design. We edited, I wailed down the phone, he sent back draft two: still not what we were waiting for.
Finally, we sent him a drawing marking out exactly what needed fixing. He claimed to understand, but also told me categorically that he wasn't a photographer. “Just come and sit on it, madam,” he said on the phone, “You'll see how comfortable it is.” Unfortunately, my Hindi does not extend to the point where I can convey that comfort is all very well, but it's not the original sofa that we chose from his catalogue, one he promised us he could make with no problems at all.
And that's why small businesses in India seldom do very well to an outside audience. For me, it's par for the course, having grown up in this country, I'm used to not having exactly what I want when I have something made, but for my European partner, it's sacrilege to pay someone for a service he considers unrendered. And probably, if this sofa ever gets made, and we use it and then in five or ten years time, we consider replacing it, it'll be the online route for us, just because this was such a time-consuming project, all the calls and all the photos and all the driving we have to do to his far away workshop, just to explain to a professional that the sofa he made for us was not the sofa he promised. (It's not like his labour was cheap either.)
And therein lies the problem: he sees it as “good enough,” we see it as “not what we wanted.” Will there always be this culture clash? And will online and factory shopping eventually give the customers what they want, so all these enterprising men will someday be history?
It has been nearly a month since we shifted into our new home and still, I haven't been able to have a party of more than four or five people over at a time. The reason? We have no sofa.
The eventual sofa planThis may sound petty to you—certainly it's reading a little petty to me as I'm writing it—but being now of the age where folding oneself onto the floor for longer than an hour or two leads to creaky hips and aching backs (blame our sedentary lifestyles), I cannot, in all good conscience force my guests to discomfort. Once, we had about ten people over, and like a good hostess, I stayed standing while everyone got dining chairs, and by the end of the night, my knees ached with the effort of holding me up for so long. And I do yoga regularly.
After many weeks scouring online websites and finding nothing exactly perfect—eg: great shape, but too-delicate fabric, which wouldn't last a week around our cats; nice colour, but a bit boxy looking; prohibitively expensive for all its style—we decided to go the Indian way and have the sofa commissioned and made from scratch. A craftsman came recommended from a friend, we bought the yards of plain black (apparently cat-proof) fabric, handed it over to him with an advance and picked a design from his coffee table book catalogue. It was a deceptively simple looking sofa, sleek and stylish with rounded arms and comfortable enough for two people to lie, feet facing each other at the end of a long day. We imagined narratives around it, eventually we will acquire a projector and this will be the sofa on which we watch movies. I imagined my stylish friends, in pretty shift dresses standing out against the black fabric. I imagined the winter to come, how the sun would hit it in just the right spot, me and a cat curled up for an afternoon nap.
There are things in our new home I've never owned before: a dining table that seats six, and now a three-seater sofa, all indicating our couple-d lives, a “we” instead of an “I.” I put furniture into terms I can understand—like a set for a stage or a blank page of a Word document. What scene are we setting? This is a house that will be full of people we love. This is a house that will see us entertaining effortlessly. This is a house where there is a comfortable nook in each room for two readers to be alone together.
Unfortunately, the sofa maker didn't see it that way. Proud as we were of supporting local businesses and not going online (plus saving some money), it seems to be an uphill task. His first photos (sent weeks after the commission, despite my urging) were of a boxy black sofa. Comfortable? Maybe. But not our original design. We edited, I wailed down the phone, he sent back draft two: still not what we were waiting for.
Finally, we sent him a drawing marking out exactly what needed fixing. He claimed to understand, but also told me categorically that he wasn't a photographer. “Just come and sit on it, madam,” he said on the phone, “You'll see how comfortable it is.” Unfortunately, my Hindi does not extend to the point where I can convey that comfort is all very well, but it's not the original sofa that we chose from his catalogue, one he promised us he could make with no problems at all.
And that's why small businesses in India seldom do very well to an outside audience. For me, it's par for the course, having grown up in this country, I'm used to not having exactly what I want when I have something made, but for my European partner, it's sacrilege to pay someone for a service he considers unrendered. And probably, if this sofa ever gets made, and we use it and then in five or ten years time, we consider replacing it, it'll be the online route for us, just because this was such a time-consuming project, all the calls and all the photos and all the driving we have to do to his far away workshop, just to explain to a professional that the sofa he made for us was not the sofa he promised. (It's not like his labour was cheap either.)
And therein lies the problem: he sees it as “good enough,” we see it as “not what we wanted.” Will there always be this culture clash? And will online and factory shopping eventually give the customers what they want, so all these enterprising men will someday be history?
December 18, 2017
Booze, Bihar and the middle of the country
(Written in April 2016 just after the Bihar liquor ban)
Our yoga teacher, who hails from Bihar, always has an item of the news he'd like to discuss with us during class. Often, he gets so carried away, that he winds up talking animatedly about it, and I have to provide rejoinders from huffing and puffing on the floor. This is how I heard about the whole JNU anti-nationalist incident, how I realised what odd-even meant to most folks, and most recently, how I heard about the effect of the liquor ban was having in Bihar.
It's quite nice for someone like me, who doesn't really keep up that much with the news, to have this Talking Head, so to speak, in my living room thrice a week. His political views are almost diametrically opposed to ours, so there's often a lively debate during the stretches, while we all argue about whose way is the best.
My house help is also from Bihar, and when the yoga teacher said the liquor ban was making everyone in Bihar “dizzy,” she came out of the kitchen, clutching a dustcloth, looking anxious. “What's happened in Bihar?” she asked, and he said, “Why, they've banned alcohol,” and she looked relieved and left, but not before he had engaged her in a Whose District Is Best conversation. (I'm tempted to side with her, only because she's from Madhubani, and I've always been partial to their art.)
Not a problem anymore in Bihar!
Despite my father being posted in that state for much of my childhood and adolescence, I don't know very much about it. I have stray, scattering memories: once of a playhouse with a thatched roof, once of his collector's bungalow in Gaya which had two tortoises in the pond outside who I called Napoleon and Josephine. Of Gaya, my memories are strong—I remember being taken to see the famous Boddhisatva tree and that large garden, and a kitten we acquired for the winter holidays which died tragically of pneumonia. I had been allowed to ask a friend to stay for the holidays, and the two of us ran in and out all day, reading and bathing in the British era bathroom complete with porcelain tub, and ending the whole vacation with a play we put on for my parents.
But then, even though my father stayed on, he preferred to come to Delhi, where my mother worked and I studied, and as I grew older, the idea of a summer with nothing to occupy me except my own fantasies grew less charming. He had been back in Delhi for two years—very important two years, because this is when cable TV and the internet first came to India—and when he was posted back there again, those two things were greater than anything Patna could offer.
Anyway, so I didn't really think about Bihar beyond the occasional reminder that it existed. My father loved his time there, but I only remember it from some long ago summers, when I was too young to consider it as a whole. But the two people who I see the most often are from that state—so obviously Bihar is tied up more with my life than I think. What do I know about it now? Not a whole lot more. Thanks to these two people—I have a bit of representation—how that state votes for instance or how long it takes to travel to your far-off district from the state capital, which gives me an idea of the geography of it.
I think it may be time for me to pay Bihar another visit—this time as someone who was reluctantly linked to it her whole life—even though I may not get a good glass of wine (let alone any kind of glass of wine). If our fates are entwined—Bihar's and mine, then it's time to get to know her a little bit.
Our yoga teacher, who hails from Bihar, always has an item of the news he'd like to discuss with us during class. Often, he gets so carried away, that he winds up talking animatedly about it, and I have to provide rejoinders from huffing and puffing on the floor. This is how I heard about the whole JNU anti-nationalist incident, how I realised what odd-even meant to most folks, and most recently, how I heard about the effect of the liquor ban was having in Bihar.
It's quite nice for someone like me, who doesn't really keep up that much with the news, to have this Talking Head, so to speak, in my living room thrice a week. His political views are almost diametrically opposed to ours, so there's often a lively debate during the stretches, while we all argue about whose way is the best.
My house help is also from Bihar, and when the yoga teacher said the liquor ban was making everyone in Bihar “dizzy,” she came out of the kitchen, clutching a dustcloth, looking anxious. “What's happened in Bihar?” she asked, and he said, “Why, they've banned alcohol,” and she looked relieved and left, but not before he had engaged her in a Whose District Is Best conversation. (I'm tempted to side with her, only because she's from Madhubani, and I've always been partial to their art.)
Not a problem anymore in Bihar!Despite my father being posted in that state for much of my childhood and adolescence, I don't know very much about it. I have stray, scattering memories: once of a playhouse with a thatched roof, once of his collector's bungalow in Gaya which had two tortoises in the pond outside who I called Napoleon and Josephine. Of Gaya, my memories are strong—I remember being taken to see the famous Boddhisatva tree and that large garden, and a kitten we acquired for the winter holidays which died tragically of pneumonia. I had been allowed to ask a friend to stay for the holidays, and the two of us ran in and out all day, reading and bathing in the British era bathroom complete with porcelain tub, and ending the whole vacation with a play we put on for my parents.
But then, even though my father stayed on, he preferred to come to Delhi, where my mother worked and I studied, and as I grew older, the idea of a summer with nothing to occupy me except my own fantasies grew less charming. He had been back in Delhi for two years—very important two years, because this is when cable TV and the internet first came to India—and when he was posted back there again, those two things were greater than anything Patna could offer.
Anyway, so I didn't really think about Bihar beyond the occasional reminder that it existed. My father loved his time there, but I only remember it from some long ago summers, when I was too young to consider it as a whole. But the two people who I see the most often are from that state—so obviously Bihar is tied up more with my life than I think. What do I know about it now? Not a whole lot more. Thanks to these two people—I have a bit of representation—how that state votes for instance or how long it takes to travel to your far-off district from the state capital, which gives me an idea of the geography of it.
I think it may be time for me to pay Bihar another visit—this time as someone who was reluctantly linked to it her whole life—even though I may not get a good glass of wine (let alone any kind of glass of wine). If our fates are entwined—Bihar's and mine, then it's time to get to know her a little bit.
December 17, 2017
Smoking and the "cool girl" myth
(This appeared as my F Word column in December 2015.)
I haven't always been a smoker, of course. There was a time when my young lungs were disgusted by the idea of it. I picked it up, as people do, when I was in college—a bad decision I've wanted to take back hundreds of times since—and have been a slave to the cancer sticks ever since. Oh, sure, I've tried to quit. I've tried to quit so many times—and sometimes succeeded even, but here we are, my last column for 2015, and I'm still a failed smoker. (ETA: And now at the end of 2017 even.)
But look how cool she looks!
For many years, I think the problem was that they went with my image of cool, rebellious writer chick. Whips out her cigarette and delivers bon mots at parties. A man I dated even confirmed it once: he was a non-smoker himself, and when I said, wistfully, “Do I smell like an ashtray?” he said, “But you look so cool when you do it!” And it's true, I do look cool. I look cool like all the ladies in films before me. Uma Thurman, on her stomach on the Pulp Fictionposter, legs up and crossed behind her, holding a cigarette in her hand. Sandy, from Grease, in the last song where she reinvents herself from virginal girl to a sassy leather-wearing diva who sings about how he's the one that she wants—all the while holding a cigarette which she lights with penultimate coolness. Even in Bollywood, in the early days, the bad girls, the exciting ones, the ones the heroes all wanted in the beginner were smokers. (Fun fact I just noticed: if you Google image search “Bollywood women smoking,” there's actually a picture of me from back in the day embracing a male friend's back, holding a cigarette.) Smoking is shorthand for signalling you're a certain kind of woman, the kind that is the Cool Girl that is mentioned in the book Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn. A confident, self-assured woman who drinks Old Monk instead of white wine, who can drive a car faster than you can, who doesn't give a damn what the world thinks of her.
There's an episode of Friends, where Rachel suddenly takes up smoking. Smoking is no-no in Friends-land, Chandler is the only one who occasionally slips, and even then he is castigated so much by his wife and friends, that he promptly stops. But in this particular episode, Rachel wants so badly to fit in with her colleagues and be party to the certain intimacy that only a smoker's room provides, that she takes up the habit just to belong. Anyone who has ever worked as a journalist will attest to that fact: if you want face-time with a boss, a one-to-one interview with someone else, or just to know what's going on, there's nothing like a shared cigarette or lighter to make you feel like one of the boys.
Maybe that's why a recent article I read in The Quintmentioned that while overall cigarette consumption in India is falling, the rise in women smokers has been quite considerable. From 5.3 million women smokers in 1980, the number is now more than double now, second only to the US. In a male-dominated world, sometimes you have to send signals out that you're not some weak thing, some delicate damsel, that you're as willing to work your hardest as your male colleagues, and smoking sometimes indicates that.
But to be a “modern woman” has its own perils. Back in the day, when my own personal blog was very personal indeed, the most number of angry comments I got was when I mentioned that I smoked. It was also the biggest criticism people had about my first book: why was my main character drinking and smoking all the time? Was this any way for an Indian woman to behave? When I smoke in public—which I totally do less and less, in these health-concious times I'm always trying to quit—I have to find a corner to huddle in, or face stares that are even worse than normal. Smoking on the streets indicates that you're a fallen woman, a harlot, a shameless trollop who should be open to pretty much anything that men throw at her. (Surprisingly, this might be just an urban thing. In rural India, many women—a lot of them older---smoke as a matter of course. If it's not a communal hookah, they smoke beedis, and no one looks at them strangely either.)
Maybe women's attitudes to smoking will change when mens' do. When it's no longer so much about rebellion but just a nasty habit that we should all kick. When there's a way to belong that doesn't involve changing who you are, and when people take you seriously without “accessories.” Until then, I'm afraid we'll have to live with our rising number of female smokers— but I'm signing out. Again. Hopefully this time for good.
I haven't always been a smoker, of course. There was a time when my young lungs were disgusted by the idea of it. I picked it up, as people do, when I was in college—a bad decision I've wanted to take back hundreds of times since—and have been a slave to the cancer sticks ever since. Oh, sure, I've tried to quit. I've tried to quit so many times—and sometimes succeeded even, but here we are, my last column for 2015, and I'm still a failed smoker. (ETA: And now at the end of 2017 even.)
But look how cool she looks!For many years, I think the problem was that they went with my image of cool, rebellious writer chick. Whips out her cigarette and delivers bon mots at parties. A man I dated even confirmed it once: he was a non-smoker himself, and when I said, wistfully, “Do I smell like an ashtray?” he said, “But you look so cool when you do it!” And it's true, I do look cool. I look cool like all the ladies in films before me. Uma Thurman, on her stomach on the Pulp Fictionposter, legs up and crossed behind her, holding a cigarette in her hand. Sandy, from Grease, in the last song where she reinvents herself from virginal girl to a sassy leather-wearing diva who sings about how he's the one that she wants—all the while holding a cigarette which she lights with penultimate coolness. Even in Bollywood, in the early days, the bad girls, the exciting ones, the ones the heroes all wanted in the beginner were smokers. (Fun fact I just noticed: if you Google image search “Bollywood women smoking,” there's actually a picture of me from back in the day embracing a male friend's back, holding a cigarette.) Smoking is shorthand for signalling you're a certain kind of woman, the kind that is the Cool Girl that is mentioned in the book Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn. A confident, self-assured woman who drinks Old Monk instead of white wine, who can drive a car faster than you can, who doesn't give a damn what the world thinks of her.
There's an episode of Friends, where Rachel suddenly takes up smoking. Smoking is no-no in Friends-land, Chandler is the only one who occasionally slips, and even then he is castigated so much by his wife and friends, that he promptly stops. But in this particular episode, Rachel wants so badly to fit in with her colleagues and be party to the certain intimacy that only a smoker's room provides, that she takes up the habit just to belong. Anyone who has ever worked as a journalist will attest to that fact: if you want face-time with a boss, a one-to-one interview with someone else, or just to know what's going on, there's nothing like a shared cigarette or lighter to make you feel like one of the boys.
Maybe that's why a recent article I read in The Quintmentioned that while overall cigarette consumption in India is falling, the rise in women smokers has been quite considerable. From 5.3 million women smokers in 1980, the number is now more than double now, second only to the US. In a male-dominated world, sometimes you have to send signals out that you're not some weak thing, some delicate damsel, that you're as willing to work your hardest as your male colleagues, and smoking sometimes indicates that.
But to be a “modern woman” has its own perils. Back in the day, when my own personal blog was very personal indeed, the most number of angry comments I got was when I mentioned that I smoked. It was also the biggest criticism people had about my first book: why was my main character drinking and smoking all the time? Was this any way for an Indian woman to behave? When I smoke in public—which I totally do less and less, in these health-concious times I'm always trying to quit—I have to find a corner to huddle in, or face stares that are even worse than normal. Smoking on the streets indicates that you're a fallen woman, a harlot, a shameless trollop who should be open to pretty much anything that men throw at her. (Surprisingly, this might be just an urban thing. In rural India, many women—a lot of them older---smoke as a matter of course. If it's not a communal hookah, they smoke beedis, and no one looks at them strangely either.)
Maybe women's attitudes to smoking will change when mens' do. When it's no longer so much about rebellion but just a nasty habit that we should all kick. When there's a way to belong that doesn't involve changing who you are, and when people take you seriously without “accessories.” Until then, I'm afraid we'll have to live with our rising number of female smokers— but I'm signing out. Again. Hopefully this time for good.
Today in Photo
Why yes we DO have matching raccoon sweaters thank you for asking. Photo stolen from @samitbasu #delhidiary
via Instagram
December 16, 2017
Tsundoku: Three books around a vague "history" theme that I recommend
(This appeared as my column in BLInk in September)
Early September as I write this: Booker month and hurricanes. It's always feels a bit like a month of farewells, and poets felt the same way as I do (read, for instance, Wilfrid Owen's Elegy In April And September), there's a whole rash of poetry about the end of summer and the beginning of fall for the Western world, and for us, the upcoming festive season, just around the corner. But I feel time marching on just about now, the Great Hot is nearly over and party season is starting in Delhi, but, as always, I'd rather be home with a good book. This column's inadvertent theme is history—what has happened and what might have happened --- which I suppose is only appropriate for such a ruminating sort of month.
Water cooler: Though it is, as I've mentioned, Booker month, when longlists are analysed, people place bets and novels are celebrated, there was another book that created a more underground buzz this month. A hardback children's book called Excavating History: India Through Archaeology by Devika Cariapa. It's not often that a children's book gets taken seriously, but this one deserves all the attention it has been getting. Excavating History is a history of India, but a scientific and comprehensive volume, using archaeological finds to do a quick run down of what's been going on the subcontinent from the Stone Age downwards. I don't mind admitting that I learned a lot of things, and added several new sites to my future travel list. With fun illustrations to appeal to kids and dense enough for the amateur historian adult, I'm recommending it to everyone with even a slight interest in what happened before the stories began. Excavating History: India Through Archaeology by Devika Cariapa, Tulika Publishers, Rs 625.
Watchlist: Every day on my news feed there's more about the Rohingya refugees. It's all terrible news and very sad to watch, and it does make one curious about Myanmar. Look no further than Amy Tan's Saving Fish From Drowning, an excellent immersive novel that works both as a fable as well as a critique of Myanmar's political situation. You may know Tan from her books about Chinese American mothers and daughters (The Joy Luck Club, The Kitchen God's Wife) and this book has nothing in common with those, but shows off Tan's chops in writing about a politically fraught situation with gentle humour as well as insight. In the book, twelve American tourists are travelling to Myanmar, on a trip organised by their friend Bibi Chen, who has since died. Bibi is the omniscient narrator, haunting the whole trip with her beyond-the-grave observations and watching as the travellers get themselves into predicaments she could have saved them from. There's also a kidnapping staged by a tribe who feel like they have been forgotten and sidelined by the current political regime, but frankly, I felt that plotline stood second to the glorious travelogues and descriptions of this country that litter the book. Read it, if only to understand what Burma has been up to all these years. Saving Fish From Drowning by Amy Tan, Harper Perennial, Rs 187.
Wayback: More recent than Excavating Indiaand also much less scientific is Rajby Gita Mehta. The book is an elegy to the lost royal kingdoms of India, the struggles those landed people had with their subjects asking for their own rights and so on, how terrible the British were, and how they were stuck between a rock and a hard place with the nationalists on one side and the Brits on the other. Despite the eye-rolling at all the privileged royalty of India crying about no longer being royal, this book was the first time I ever felt a slight twinge of sympathy for them. The heroine is a passive woman tossed about by fate, forever needing a man to sort things out for her, and yet, and yet, I think you should read it. Rajis meticulously researched, a thrilling fly on the wall view into the zenanas and India's erstwhile royal families, and how they had to interact with Queen Victoria and how the more Indian ones resisted adopting English ways, it's all very well told, even if you do feel like giving the protagonist a good hard shake every now and then. Raj by Gita Mehta, Penguin Random House, Rs 499.
Early September as I write this: Booker month and hurricanes. It's always feels a bit like a month of farewells, and poets felt the same way as I do (read, for instance, Wilfrid Owen's Elegy In April And September), there's a whole rash of poetry about the end of summer and the beginning of fall for the Western world, and for us, the upcoming festive season, just around the corner. But I feel time marching on just about now, the Great Hot is nearly over and party season is starting in Delhi, but, as always, I'd rather be home with a good book. This column's inadvertent theme is history—what has happened and what might have happened --- which I suppose is only appropriate for such a ruminating sort of month.
Water cooler: Though it is, as I've mentioned, Booker month, when longlists are analysed, people place bets and novels are celebrated, there was another book that created a more underground buzz this month. A hardback children's book called Excavating History: India Through Archaeology by Devika Cariapa. It's not often that a children's book gets taken seriously, but this one deserves all the attention it has been getting. Excavating History is a history of India, but a scientific and comprehensive volume, using archaeological finds to do a quick run down of what's been going on the subcontinent from the Stone Age downwards. I don't mind admitting that I learned a lot of things, and added several new sites to my future travel list. With fun illustrations to appeal to kids and dense enough for the amateur historian adult, I'm recommending it to everyone with even a slight interest in what happened before the stories began. Excavating History: India Through Archaeology by Devika Cariapa, Tulika Publishers, Rs 625.
Watchlist: Every day on my news feed there's more about the Rohingya refugees. It's all terrible news and very sad to watch, and it does make one curious about Myanmar. Look no further than Amy Tan's Saving Fish From Drowning, an excellent immersive novel that works both as a fable as well as a critique of Myanmar's political situation. You may know Tan from her books about Chinese American mothers and daughters (The Joy Luck Club, The Kitchen God's Wife) and this book has nothing in common with those, but shows off Tan's chops in writing about a politically fraught situation with gentle humour as well as insight. In the book, twelve American tourists are travelling to Myanmar, on a trip organised by their friend Bibi Chen, who has since died. Bibi is the omniscient narrator, haunting the whole trip with her beyond-the-grave observations and watching as the travellers get themselves into predicaments she could have saved them from. There's also a kidnapping staged by a tribe who feel like they have been forgotten and sidelined by the current political regime, but frankly, I felt that plotline stood second to the glorious travelogues and descriptions of this country that litter the book. Read it, if only to understand what Burma has been up to all these years. Saving Fish From Drowning by Amy Tan, Harper Perennial, Rs 187.
Wayback: More recent than Excavating Indiaand also much less scientific is Rajby Gita Mehta. The book is an elegy to the lost royal kingdoms of India, the struggles those landed people had with their subjects asking for their own rights and so on, how terrible the British were, and how they were stuck between a rock and a hard place with the nationalists on one side and the Brits on the other. Despite the eye-rolling at all the privileged royalty of India crying about no longer being royal, this book was the first time I ever felt a slight twinge of sympathy for them. The heroine is a passive woman tossed about by fate, forever needing a man to sort things out for her, and yet, and yet, I think you should read it. Rajis meticulously researched, a thrilling fly on the wall view into the zenanas and India's erstwhile royal families, and how they had to interact with Queen Victoria and how the more Indian ones resisted adopting English ways, it's all very well told, even if you do feel like giving the protagonist a good hard shake every now and then. Raj by Gita Mehta, Penguin Random House, Rs 499.
Today in Photo
Such a social whirl! Lovely birthday dinner treat at Indian Accent last night which continues to hit it out of the park. Plus a delightful date night with this one, perhaps my only friend who refuses to join Instagram. (ok ok maybe one of three.) it's been birthdayish for a week now and I feel so lucky and loved. #delhidiary #birthdayletters
via Instagram
December 15, 2017
On women who say "I only get along with men"
(This appeared as my F Word column in The Week)
Recently, someone proclaimed to me that she hated women. “I'm a man inside a woman's body,” she told me, “I don't get women.” I began to protest, but it was that time of the night, two drinks too many, no other sound apart from our conversation drifting off the balcony and across the park. Later, I recapped this, and my partner said I took things too literally. “Obviously #NotAllWomen,” he said, in a reasoned, reasonable tone, which made me feel about five years old and sulky. But the more I think about her statement, the more I wonder what it is like to not like women. It seems so strange, so alien, especially if you are a woman yourself.
For me, women have always been a sort-of safe zone. My eyes automatically scan a crowded room for other women, and when I see them, I am able to settle in more easily. If I'm walking somewhere, I like to walk behind a group of women, they may not know they're escorting me, but they are. Sometimes, when I am in a mixed group, and there is a single female walking in front of us, I see her glance back, apprehensively, take me in and then relax just a little bit. I am her ally, even if she doesn't know me at all, because it's the Woman Code, we make spaces a little bit safer just by existing in them.
I read this article once on serial killer couples, and it struck me as even more of a betrayal that the women were helping the men abduct other women. It wasn't the code! How could they let us all down like that? We are wary of lone men, and a woman adds legitimacy and security to them and if the woman herself is out to get us, what else can we hold on to?
Of course, this could be just me. I've always liked other girls growing up, other women now in my thirties. I used to think I was a guy's girl, preferring the company of men, but truth be told, very few of my friendships with men turned into something deep and meaningful, whereas I have a whole tribe of soul-sister-female-friends with whom I have remained close—some for over decades. I'm good with women, as I grow into my thirties, I may not have entirely stopped competing, but I now step back and examine the reason I'm feeling competitive in the first place.
Speaking of friends, I have this Whatsapp group with three other women, where I am the only non-corporate, non-commuting-to-Gurgaon person on it. We try to meet every other week, usually for loud and raucous drinks on a weekend, which inevitably ends with group messages the next day groaning about drinking too much. Our conversation lingers briefly on the subject of men—three of us are married or “as good as”--but swiftly moves on to jobs, advice, things we're doing, travel and more and more and morethan just our relationships, that we not only pass the Bechdel test, we ace it, we hit a home run, we arethe shining example the Bechdel test should be holding up. Not to brag or anything, but female friendships can be pretty darn perfect.
And so when a woman says she “just doesn't get other women,” (and the person I met the other night wasn't the first example of this—nor will she be the last), I wonder what it is she's missing from her fellow female interactions. Patriarchy can knock us all down and make us believe that there's only room for one great mother on the playground, one beautiful woman at a party, one top woman boss at a mostly male company, and this means women are sometimes nasty to one another, cold and cutting, or sly and passive aggressive. But then, so are some men, so why do we take it so personally when it's our own sex? I'll tell you why—because even the loudest advocate of Female Friendships Don't Exist, and Men Make Better Friends still, stilllean on the idea that there is solidarity to be found with other women. And when they are betrayed, they burn brighter with resentment than the rest of us, who shrug it off as the actions of one person as opposed to a basic gender trait.
I feel like I am richer for having close female friends my whole life. Well—that's not true. For a brief, dark moment of my life, I had girl bullies, who dealt in psychological twists of the knife that left me introverted and self-conscious for several years. One of the things that pulled me out, that made me strong and confident again, able to face a room without flinching or worrying that they were judging me has been the love I feel on all sides of me. Love that is (with the exception of my partner) purely female.
Recently, someone proclaimed to me that she hated women. “I'm a man inside a woman's body,” she told me, “I don't get women.” I began to protest, but it was that time of the night, two drinks too many, no other sound apart from our conversation drifting off the balcony and across the park. Later, I recapped this, and my partner said I took things too literally. “Obviously #NotAllWomen,” he said, in a reasoned, reasonable tone, which made me feel about five years old and sulky. But the more I think about her statement, the more I wonder what it is like to not like women. It seems so strange, so alien, especially if you are a woman yourself.
For me, women have always been a sort-of safe zone. My eyes automatically scan a crowded room for other women, and when I see them, I am able to settle in more easily. If I'm walking somewhere, I like to walk behind a group of women, they may not know they're escorting me, but they are. Sometimes, when I am in a mixed group, and there is a single female walking in front of us, I see her glance back, apprehensively, take me in and then relax just a little bit. I am her ally, even if she doesn't know me at all, because it's the Woman Code, we make spaces a little bit safer just by existing in them.
I read this article once on serial killer couples, and it struck me as even more of a betrayal that the women were helping the men abduct other women. It wasn't the code! How could they let us all down like that? We are wary of lone men, and a woman adds legitimacy and security to them and if the woman herself is out to get us, what else can we hold on to?
Of course, this could be just me. I've always liked other girls growing up, other women now in my thirties. I used to think I was a guy's girl, preferring the company of men, but truth be told, very few of my friendships with men turned into something deep and meaningful, whereas I have a whole tribe of soul-sister-female-friends with whom I have remained close—some for over decades. I'm good with women, as I grow into my thirties, I may not have entirely stopped competing, but I now step back and examine the reason I'm feeling competitive in the first place.
Speaking of friends, I have this Whatsapp group with three other women, where I am the only non-corporate, non-commuting-to-Gurgaon person on it. We try to meet every other week, usually for loud and raucous drinks on a weekend, which inevitably ends with group messages the next day groaning about drinking too much. Our conversation lingers briefly on the subject of men—three of us are married or “as good as”--but swiftly moves on to jobs, advice, things we're doing, travel and more and more and morethan just our relationships, that we not only pass the Bechdel test, we ace it, we hit a home run, we arethe shining example the Bechdel test should be holding up. Not to brag or anything, but female friendships can be pretty darn perfect.
And so when a woman says she “just doesn't get other women,” (and the person I met the other night wasn't the first example of this—nor will she be the last), I wonder what it is she's missing from her fellow female interactions. Patriarchy can knock us all down and make us believe that there's only room for one great mother on the playground, one beautiful woman at a party, one top woman boss at a mostly male company, and this means women are sometimes nasty to one another, cold and cutting, or sly and passive aggressive. But then, so are some men, so why do we take it so personally when it's our own sex? I'll tell you why—because even the loudest advocate of Female Friendships Don't Exist, and Men Make Better Friends still, stilllean on the idea that there is solidarity to be found with other women. And when they are betrayed, they burn brighter with resentment than the rest of us, who shrug it off as the actions of one person as opposed to a basic gender trait.
I feel like I am richer for having close female friends my whole life. Well—that's not true. For a brief, dark moment of my life, I had girl bullies, who dealt in psychological twists of the knife that left me introverted and self-conscious for several years. One of the things that pulled me out, that made me strong and confident again, able to face a room without flinching or worrying that they were judging me has been the love I feel on all sides of me. Love that is (with the exception of my partner) purely female.
December 14, 2017
Today in Photo
Thanks to kind friend @sruthijith for the gift of an Amazon voucher which I spent many happy hours figuring out what to buy with yesterday. Books obviously, birthday books are special and I chose these at random but now realise how much they reflect my state of mind. All right from top to bottom: a murder mystery series I want to get into set in Canada, an amazing collection of short stories, Daphne du Maurier's YA novel and travel writing on the American South. I've also just began a reading journal to keep track of my books. #bookstagram #mrmbookclub #nowreading #birthdayletters
via Instagram
If Only They Could Talk: On my favourite talking animal characters
(This appeared in Scroll)
Why is the Talking Beast so beloved as a character trope? I think partly because as children we long to connect with all of our world, not just the parts of it that look like us, and it makes perfect sense that a monkey or an elephant or a pig shouldn't have elaborate and long conversations as much as humans do.
For another, most of us who still believe—slightly sneakily—in magic, also believe that all the animals we see are secretly talking about us behind our backs. Even those people with a more scientific mind tend to anthromorphize animals and give them character traits: cats are independent, dogs are loyal, crows are sneaky and so on and so forth.
Whatever the case is, the Talking Beast is usually a much-loved character in whatever book they're in. Here are some favourites—both mine, and crowd sourced from Twitter and Facebook—broken up into categories for helpful reference.
Animals That Can Only Talk To One Human
Ralph S Mouse from The Mouse And The Motorcycle and Ralph S. Mouseby Beverly Cleary: In these books, Ralph, a smarter-than-average mouse can talk to boys who are “like him,” slightly shy and lonely and obsessed with toy cars and motorcycles.
Dr Dolittle's animalsfrom the Dr Dolittlebooks by Hugh Lofting: Here, the idea is that Dr Dolittle—who loves animals—has taken it upon himself to learn all the animal languages in the world. It means that the books are peppered with conversations he has with his dog Jip, his parrot and teacher, Polynesia, and my favourite, the green canary, who tells him her life story in Dr Dolittle And The Green Canary, which he turns into an animal opera, complete with singing parts for each creature.
Pet Animals That Talk (Non-Magic In Human World)
Kiki from the Adventureseries by Enid Blyton: Most beloved of all Enid Blyton's mystery books featuring kid detectives, pimarily because the others featured just a dog (albeit a very smart one) and these series had a whole lot of animals from badgers to mice. But foremost amongst them was an extremely smart parrot called Kiki who added her nonsense to the beginning and end of these books and helped lighten up the slightly darker tone of these Blyton books (compared to other cozy mysteries.)
Pet Animals That Talk (Magic in Human World)
Archimedes from The Once And Future King by T.H White: Pre-Hedwig, perhaps even the inspiration for Hedwig was the very wise Archimedes, a sarcastic owl who claimed lineage from Athena. In the books, he's Merlin's familiar and pet, but he'd never deliver mail or do anything below his dignity.
The movie is not AS fun as the book but underrated Disney classic nonetheless
Porterhouse Majorfrom Porterhouse Majorby Margaret Baker: I had to include Porterhouse Major, who starts out a normal kitten but thanks to a spell put on him by a little boy called Rory, turns into almost a tiger-sized animal. Porterhouse then can talk and solve problems, and is very wise as well as very selfish, as is expected from a cat. (If any of you can name the other magic cat book whose name eludes me: of a girl who lives with her grandparents and befriends a local cat who also has magic powers and helps her get what she wants, there's a prize in it for you.)Magic Animals In Magic Worlds
Bree from The Horse And His Boy by C.S Lewis: Perhaps you're surprised I don't name Aslan the lion from the same books, but I have no patience for Aslan. The Horse And His Boystand out in the Chronicles Of Narnia because it is the only book set entirely in Narnia with no children arriving from outside to rescue the country. And chief to it all is Bree, a war stallion who is vain and strong and a good friend in the end—almost human and not at all a goody-goody like some lions I could mention.
Iorek Byrnisonfrom the His Dark Materialstrilogy by Philip Pullman: The armoured bear had a way with words, and a strong sense of right and wrong, and was perhaps my favourite character from the books. Think of him as a sort of Yoda-meets-father-figure.
Toy Animals That Come To Life For Their Owners
Hobbes from the comic strip Calvin And Hobbes by Bill Watterson: Everyone knows Hobbes, right? And yet, the first time you realise he's just a stuffed toy is a moment of sadness for you. The strips zoom in and out of Calvin's perspective—showing Hobbes both as wise mentor and best friend as well as Hobbes lying on the floor, as a stuffed animal.
Eeyorefrom Winnie-The-Poohand The House At Pooh Cornerby A.A. Milne: I was going to put Tigger in here, but let's be honest—Tigger would wear us out in the first five minutes of making his acquaintance. Instead, it's gloomy Eeyore, the sad donkey that captured everyone's attention, making him one of the most suggested names on my social media posts asking for favourite talking animals. They're all stuffed animals though, who belong to Christopher Robin, but who have their own lives when he's not there.
Animals That Only Talk To Each Other
Charlotte from Charlotte's Webby E.B White: Again, a popular pick among my Twitter and Facebook friends, Charlotte is the motherly spider who is the mastermind behind saving her piggy best friend, Wilbur, from being turned into bacon. While she can write English words into her web, Charlotte only talks to her fellow barnyard animals, and not to humans, who can't understand her, except for Fern who stays so quiet the animals are comfortable talking around her.
Hazelfrom Watership Down by Richard Adams: Fiver may be the hero in this book about rabbits travelling from one warren to another to save their skins, but Hazel turns out to be the best (rabbit) hero after all. You probably don't spend that much time thinking about rabbits, but after a while inside Hazel's head, you'll pay more attention to their inner lives next time. No humans at all, except for a looming outside threat.
Kotickfrom The White Seal, a story in The Jungle Booksby Rudyard Kipling: Nope, not all Mowgli fighting tigers. Interestingly, The Jungle Bookscontains a number of non-Mowgli animal stories, where all the creatures talk to each other. It was a toss-up between Kotick the albino seal, who—much like Hazel—has to find a newer, safer breeding ground for his tribe and Rikki Tikki Tavi the mongoose, but Kotick wins in the end, for being a better hero. Again, people are perceived vaguely as a threat, but not spoken to.
Animals That Can Talk To Humans But Are Not Perceived As Unusual
Paddington Bear from the Paddingtonbooks by Michael Bond: Was there ever a more loved bear than Paddington? This adorable bear from “darkest Peru” makes himself very much a part of his human family, but interestingly, no one questions why he can talk (and sleep in a bed or eat human food) and why the other animals can't. It's just one of those things.
Special thanks to people who responded to my question on Twitter and Facebook.
Why is the Talking Beast so beloved as a character trope? I think partly because as children we long to connect with all of our world, not just the parts of it that look like us, and it makes perfect sense that a monkey or an elephant or a pig shouldn't have elaborate and long conversations as much as humans do.
For another, most of us who still believe—slightly sneakily—in magic, also believe that all the animals we see are secretly talking about us behind our backs. Even those people with a more scientific mind tend to anthromorphize animals and give them character traits: cats are independent, dogs are loyal, crows are sneaky and so on and so forth.
Whatever the case is, the Talking Beast is usually a much-loved character in whatever book they're in. Here are some favourites—both mine, and crowd sourced from Twitter and Facebook—broken up into categories for helpful reference.
Animals That Can Only Talk To One Human
Ralph S Mouse from The Mouse And The Motorcycle and Ralph S. Mouseby Beverly Cleary: In these books, Ralph, a smarter-than-average mouse can talk to boys who are “like him,” slightly shy and lonely and obsessed with toy cars and motorcycles.
Dr Dolittle's animalsfrom the Dr Dolittlebooks by Hugh Lofting: Here, the idea is that Dr Dolittle—who loves animals—has taken it upon himself to learn all the animal languages in the world. It means that the books are peppered with conversations he has with his dog Jip, his parrot and teacher, Polynesia, and my favourite, the green canary, who tells him her life story in Dr Dolittle And The Green Canary, which he turns into an animal opera, complete with singing parts for each creature.
Pet Animals That Talk (Non-Magic In Human World)
Kiki from the Adventureseries by Enid Blyton: Most beloved of all Enid Blyton's mystery books featuring kid detectives, pimarily because the others featured just a dog (albeit a very smart one) and these series had a whole lot of animals from badgers to mice. But foremost amongst them was an extremely smart parrot called Kiki who added her nonsense to the beginning and end of these books and helped lighten up the slightly darker tone of these Blyton books (compared to other cozy mysteries.)
Pet Animals That Talk (Magic in Human World)
Archimedes from The Once And Future King by T.H White: Pre-Hedwig, perhaps even the inspiration for Hedwig was the very wise Archimedes, a sarcastic owl who claimed lineage from Athena. In the books, he's Merlin's familiar and pet, but he'd never deliver mail or do anything below his dignity.
The movie is not AS fun as the book but underrated Disney classic nonetheless Porterhouse Majorfrom Porterhouse Majorby Margaret Baker: I had to include Porterhouse Major, who starts out a normal kitten but thanks to a spell put on him by a little boy called Rory, turns into almost a tiger-sized animal. Porterhouse then can talk and solve problems, and is very wise as well as very selfish, as is expected from a cat. (If any of you can name the other magic cat book whose name eludes me: of a girl who lives with her grandparents and befriends a local cat who also has magic powers and helps her get what she wants, there's a prize in it for you.)Magic Animals In Magic Worlds
Bree from The Horse And His Boy by C.S Lewis: Perhaps you're surprised I don't name Aslan the lion from the same books, but I have no patience for Aslan. The Horse And His Boystand out in the Chronicles Of Narnia because it is the only book set entirely in Narnia with no children arriving from outside to rescue the country. And chief to it all is Bree, a war stallion who is vain and strong and a good friend in the end—almost human and not at all a goody-goody like some lions I could mention.
Iorek Byrnisonfrom the His Dark Materialstrilogy by Philip Pullman: The armoured bear had a way with words, and a strong sense of right and wrong, and was perhaps my favourite character from the books. Think of him as a sort of Yoda-meets-father-figure.
Toy Animals That Come To Life For Their Owners
Hobbes from the comic strip Calvin And Hobbes by Bill Watterson: Everyone knows Hobbes, right? And yet, the first time you realise he's just a stuffed toy is a moment of sadness for you. The strips zoom in and out of Calvin's perspective—showing Hobbes both as wise mentor and best friend as well as Hobbes lying on the floor, as a stuffed animal.
Eeyorefrom Winnie-The-Poohand The House At Pooh Cornerby A.A. Milne: I was going to put Tigger in here, but let's be honest—Tigger would wear us out in the first five minutes of making his acquaintance. Instead, it's gloomy Eeyore, the sad donkey that captured everyone's attention, making him one of the most suggested names on my social media posts asking for favourite talking animals. They're all stuffed animals though, who belong to Christopher Robin, but who have their own lives when he's not there.
Animals That Only Talk To Each Other
Charlotte from Charlotte's Webby E.B White: Again, a popular pick among my Twitter and Facebook friends, Charlotte is the motherly spider who is the mastermind behind saving her piggy best friend, Wilbur, from being turned into bacon. While she can write English words into her web, Charlotte only talks to her fellow barnyard animals, and not to humans, who can't understand her, except for Fern who stays so quiet the animals are comfortable talking around her.
Hazelfrom Watership Down by Richard Adams: Fiver may be the hero in this book about rabbits travelling from one warren to another to save their skins, but Hazel turns out to be the best (rabbit) hero after all. You probably don't spend that much time thinking about rabbits, but after a while inside Hazel's head, you'll pay more attention to their inner lives next time. No humans at all, except for a looming outside threat.
Kotickfrom The White Seal, a story in The Jungle Booksby Rudyard Kipling: Nope, not all Mowgli fighting tigers. Interestingly, The Jungle Bookscontains a number of non-Mowgli animal stories, where all the creatures talk to each other. It was a toss-up between Kotick the albino seal, who—much like Hazel—has to find a newer, safer breeding ground for his tribe and Rikki Tikki Tavi the mongoose, but Kotick wins in the end, for being a better hero. Again, people are perceived vaguely as a threat, but not spoken to.
Animals That Can Talk To Humans But Are Not Perceived As Unusual
Paddington Bear from the Paddingtonbooks by Michael Bond: Was there ever a more loved bear than Paddington? This adorable bear from “darkest Peru” makes himself very much a part of his human family, but interestingly, no one questions why he can talk (and sleep in a bed or eat human food) and why the other animals can't. It's just one of those things.
Special thanks to people who responded to my question on Twitter and Facebook.
