Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan's Blog, page 85
September 21, 2017
Today in Photo
The countdown has begun of my last five books to finish my #150in2017 Goodreads reading challenge! This is book number 146 and part of my goal to read more 1) Indian fiction 2)classic myth lit to see what other people have done in the space I'm working in currently and 3) books in translation. Yajnaseni has been recommended to me by practically everyone who has read it and I'm lucky there's a great English translation of the original Oriya classic. #bookstagram #mrmbookclub #nowreading
via Instagram
Today in Photo
After a long break, getting back into my comic drawings! Today's is all about my relationship with food. Sorta. :) experimenting with some typographic styles which makes me sound much better at this than I am. Let me know what you think though! #comic #sketch #wacom
via Instagram
September 20, 2017
Tsundoku: Domestic Violence, Twitter Shaming And Alibaugh Memories
(This appeared as my book recommendation column in BLInk in June.)
Thinking about these great words by Nora Ephron (author of, among other things, Heartburn, a book that will make you hungry andmake you want to read it all in one go, so read with a snack): “Reading is everything. Reading makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something, learned something, become a better person. Reading makes me smarter. Reading gives me something to talk about later on.” The complaint I hear most often is “I don't have time to read!” Which is not true, the correct statement is: “I don't make time to read.” You should. It'll fix (almost) anything. Welcome to Tsundoku, a weekly books recommendation column, where I break down books into the three parts that really matter: what everyone's talking about, what's happening in the world, and what old book you should read (or re-read) next.
[image error]
Water cooler: Nope, not Arundhati Roy's Ministry Of Utmost Happinessbecause I presume by now you've read enough reviews of that to make up your own mind whether or not you're going to read it. I? I'm still on the fence. A quieter buzz this month formed around a surprising fictional memoir, Meena Kandasamy's When I Hit You: Or, A Portrait Of The Writer As A Young Wife. It's thinly veiled fiction, so thin, in fact, it was only later that I realised it was a novel. Kandasamy is a poet, so her prose sings in places where you'd expect a story like this to sag. The unnamed protagonist of Kandasamy's book takes a lot of abuse from her communist-leaning husband, he beats her with whatever he has on hand, he rapes her and refuses to let her moan or make any noises at all, but worst, he cuts her off from everyone she knows by forcing her to give up her phone, her social media and replying to all her email himself, signing it with both their names. I read the entire thing on my phone with one hand over my mouth, it's gripping, you can't look away and by the end of it, I was slightly breathless, as though I had escaped this man myself. What is compelling is how you feel the narrator grow slowly more and more isolated, her whole world is reduced to just her flat, just her husband, this juxtaposed with flashbacks to the life she used to lead, the lovers, the travel makes for a claustrophobic and terrifying read. When I Hit You: Or, A Portrait Of The Writer As A Young Wife by MeenaKandasamy, Juggernaut, Rs 499.
Watchlist: Speaking of Arundhati Roy,remember when Paresh Rawal suggested we tie her to a jeep so that people could throw stones at her? He then deeply regretted making that remark (one assumes) and tried to erase everyone's memory of it by deleting the same tweet. More recently pictures of the Spain-Morocco border passed off as India's by the Home Ministry had several people asking questions. The internet has a long memory as far as some things are concerned, and all of the above would know that too if they read British journalist and author Jon Ronson's book So You've Been Publicly Shamed.From the PR executive who tweeted “Going to Africa. Hope I don't get AIDS. Just kidding. I'm white!” before she got on a flight, only to get off at the other end with her name trending and her job gone, to the charity worker who mimed shouting and a middle finger in front of a sign saying “Silence and Respect” at a war cemetery, there are people out there who know what it's like to be on the other side of a baying Twitter mob. Ronson talks to the people behind the tweets, and tries to understand what made them say what they said. It's worth a read when there's a different thing to outrage about each day: pick your battles. SoYou've Been Publicly Shamed by Jon Ronson, Pan Macmillan, Rs 140
Wayback: In keeping with the environmental theme of this week's paper, a story as relevant today as it was when it was first published in 1982, Anita Desai's Village By The Seais the story of a little village in Alibaugh, due to get a new factory. Besides that, it's also the story of Hari and Lila, siblings and children to a drunk father and a sick mother. Hari goes off to Bombay to seek his fortune at twelve, Lila stays behind, and gets some help from a local naturalist who is bemoaning the loss of biodiversity that will inevitably happen when the factory goes up. But, we're made to understand that the factory also signifies hope and jobs, and while you're rooting for Hari and Lila and their family, you also feel a little sad for the world they will lose. Isn't that always the way? Village By The Sea by Anita Desai, Penguin, Rs 299.
(I've used affiliate links here so if you buy through the links above, I might get some money.)
Thinking about these great words by Nora Ephron (author of, among other things, Heartburn, a book that will make you hungry andmake you want to read it all in one go, so read with a snack): “Reading is everything. Reading makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something, learned something, become a better person. Reading makes me smarter. Reading gives me something to talk about later on.” The complaint I hear most often is “I don't have time to read!” Which is not true, the correct statement is: “I don't make time to read.” You should. It'll fix (almost) anything. Welcome to Tsundoku, a weekly books recommendation column, where I break down books into the three parts that really matter: what everyone's talking about, what's happening in the world, and what old book you should read (or re-read) next.
[image error]
Water cooler: Nope, not Arundhati Roy's Ministry Of Utmost Happinessbecause I presume by now you've read enough reviews of that to make up your own mind whether or not you're going to read it. I? I'm still on the fence. A quieter buzz this month formed around a surprising fictional memoir, Meena Kandasamy's When I Hit You: Or, A Portrait Of The Writer As A Young Wife. It's thinly veiled fiction, so thin, in fact, it was only later that I realised it was a novel. Kandasamy is a poet, so her prose sings in places where you'd expect a story like this to sag. The unnamed protagonist of Kandasamy's book takes a lot of abuse from her communist-leaning husband, he beats her with whatever he has on hand, he rapes her and refuses to let her moan or make any noises at all, but worst, he cuts her off from everyone she knows by forcing her to give up her phone, her social media and replying to all her email himself, signing it with both their names. I read the entire thing on my phone with one hand over my mouth, it's gripping, you can't look away and by the end of it, I was slightly breathless, as though I had escaped this man myself. What is compelling is how you feel the narrator grow slowly more and more isolated, her whole world is reduced to just her flat, just her husband, this juxtaposed with flashbacks to the life she used to lead, the lovers, the travel makes for a claustrophobic and terrifying read. When I Hit You: Or, A Portrait Of The Writer As A Young Wife by MeenaKandasamy, Juggernaut, Rs 499.
Watchlist: Speaking of Arundhati Roy,remember when Paresh Rawal suggested we tie her to a jeep so that people could throw stones at her? He then deeply regretted making that remark (one assumes) and tried to erase everyone's memory of it by deleting the same tweet. More recently pictures of the Spain-Morocco border passed off as India's by the Home Ministry had several people asking questions. The internet has a long memory as far as some things are concerned, and all of the above would know that too if they read British journalist and author Jon Ronson's book So You've Been Publicly Shamed.From the PR executive who tweeted “Going to Africa. Hope I don't get AIDS. Just kidding. I'm white!” before she got on a flight, only to get off at the other end with her name trending and her job gone, to the charity worker who mimed shouting and a middle finger in front of a sign saying “Silence and Respect” at a war cemetery, there are people out there who know what it's like to be on the other side of a baying Twitter mob. Ronson talks to the people behind the tweets, and tries to understand what made them say what they said. It's worth a read when there's a different thing to outrage about each day: pick your battles. SoYou've Been Publicly Shamed by Jon Ronson, Pan Macmillan, Rs 140
Wayback: In keeping with the environmental theme of this week's paper, a story as relevant today as it was when it was first published in 1982, Anita Desai's Village By The Seais the story of a little village in Alibaugh, due to get a new factory. Besides that, it's also the story of Hari and Lila, siblings and children to a drunk father and a sick mother. Hari goes off to Bombay to seek his fortune at twelve, Lila stays behind, and gets some help from a local naturalist who is bemoaning the loss of biodiversity that will inevitably happen when the factory goes up. But, we're made to understand that the factory also signifies hope and jobs, and while you're rooting for Hari and Lila and their family, you also feel a little sad for the world they will lose. Isn't that always the way? Village By The Sea by Anita Desai, Penguin, Rs 299.
(I've used affiliate links here so if you buy through the links above, I might get some money.)
Today in Photo
Little Saigon, it's been far too long. The best iced coffee in this city bar none. The ONLY Vietnamese food in the city but excellent for all that. We go whenever we can, but book a table in advance because they're closed on random days and since everyone loves it and it's a teeny space, it's very full. Always run into someone I know so have started dressing nice and actually wearing a bra before I leave the house. #lunchtimeisbesttime #delhidiary
via Instagram
September 19, 2017
How Do You Solve A Problem Like Salman Khan?
(A version of this appeared as my F Word column ages ago.)
Are you as bored as I am about hearing about Salman Khan? I'm definitely late to the party with this—my hot take—which is more like lukewarm take at this point. And yet, we keep circling back to the question of Salman Khan: is he a good man? Is he a terrible one? Why does everyone love him so much when all he does and says implies a basic lack of respect for other people? Perhaps India's biggest superstar, his fans forgive him everything. Not only do they forgive, they attack like piranhas in a feeding frenzy if you say anything bad about him in their presence. “Bhai” is their guru, their idol, their everything and if you attack him, you're basically attacking their sense of self.
Portrait of a Salman fan
It's easy to write off the Salman supporters as the lowest common denominator, to put a little elite angle on the whole thing, “how could they know any better?” but doing that is dangerous as we see from Trump's success in the US, the people who support him are probably the same sort of people who would—if Indian—be Salman Khan fans. Never dismiss a large group of fans. They're worshipful and their worship is dangerous.
Khan's popularity boils down to this—he is an Indian male role model. How many do we have? Not that many, to be honest. Oh sure, you could want to be a top businessman, or an author or a newscaster, but none of them have the sex appeal, the way of looking into your soul and saying, “I am you” that Khan does. I'm thinking of some of the boys I went to school with, how when end of term report cards came in, some of them spent the entire day in a funk because their fathers would give them a hard time when they went home. Some fathers—I knew this from playmates' houses-- existed only to arrive at the dinner table, when all conversation ceased, when the air grew a bit more tense, when I began to regret accepting the dinner invitation in the first place. These men grunted their acceptance of hot rotis, they looked grimly at their offspring, stroking their mustaches, they nodded politely at my “hello Uncle” but for a moment, they looked a bit pissed off that there was a stranger in their house who they'd have to make conversation with. You spoke in hushed voices around these men, you made a speedy exit, and your friend understood, because they were equally dying to go into their rooms and not make eye contact with this man at all.
The Indian father of the 1990s, in fact, was much like Kevin Arnold's father in The Wonder Years, a show set in the 1960s. Taciturn, sometimes prone to violence, a man who seldom laughed, a man who worked hard for his family, but who didn't show that he loved them in any other way than financial. I was fascinated by these families, even though I had friends with the sort of fathers who remembered your name and asked what you were reading. I was fascinated by the home dynamics, by the fact that these men literally never apologised. Their word was law, and the people it was law for worshipped them for it.
My (very unscientific) theory is that Salman Khan fans come from these sort of homes. Where their fathers laid down the law with a heavy hand. Where the mothers blended into the background. To ask a mortal household god to explain his actions would be as unreasonable as expecting your Ganesha statue to suddenly start talking. Their fathers expressed their distrust of feminism and other “high faluting” words by flared nostrils. I remember watching a video where a son “pranks” his father by telling him he's gay, explaining the joke gleefully to the viewers before telling his dad, who is watching TV with a stone cold face, dressed in a vest and a lungi. Before he can explain it's a joke, this man rises up and starts slapping him with an open palm, hitting his son on every part of his body that he can reach. “No, wait, Papa,” the son keeps saying, and finally manages to get out, “It's a joke! See, there's the camera.” The father lowers his hand, glares at us and his son and walks out.
Trying to figure it out
Maybe I'm wrong, maybe Salman Khan is not their father, but themselves. “It's a joke,” says Salman Khan when he compares himself to a raped woman. “The driver did it,” says Salman Khan, when defending himself against a hit and run charge. You can't slap him, because it's all so terribly funny, the things we get ourselves into while trying to please our fathers. So terribly, terribly funny.
Are you as bored as I am about hearing about Salman Khan? I'm definitely late to the party with this—my hot take—which is more like lukewarm take at this point. And yet, we keep circling back to the question of Salman Khan: is he a good man? Is he a terrible one? Why does everyone love him so much when all he does and says implies a basic lack of respect for other people? Perhaps India's biggest superstar, his fans forgive him everything. Not only do they forgive, they attack like piranhas in a feeding frenzy if you say anything bad about him in their presence. “Bhai” is their guru, their idol, their everything and if you attack him, you're basically attacking their sense of self.
Portrait of a Salman fanIt's easy to write off the Salman supporters as the lowest common denominator, to put a little elite angle on the whole thing, “how could they know any better?” but doing that is dangerous as we see from Trump's success in the US, the people who support him are probably the same sort of people who would—if Indian—be Salman Khan fans. Never dismiss a large group of fans. They're worshipful and their worship is dangerous.
Khan's popularity boils down to this—he is an Indian male role model. How many do we have? Not that many, to be honest. Oh sure, you could want to be a top businessman, or an author or a newscaster, but none of them have the sex appeal, the way of looking into your soul and saying, “I am you” that Khan does. I'm thinking of some of the boys I went to school with, how when end of term report cards came in, some of them spent the entire day in a funk because their fathers would give them a hard time when they went home. Some fathers—I knew this from playmates' houses-- existed only to arrive at the dinner table, when all conversation ceased, when the air grew a bit more tense, when I began to regret accepting the dinner invitation in the first place. These men grunted their acceptance of hot rotis, they looked grimly at their offspring, stroking their mustaches, they nodded politely at my “hello Uncle” but for a moment, they looked a bit pissed off that there was a stranger in their house who they'd have to make conversation with. You spoke in hushed voices around these men, you made a speedy exit, and your friend understood, because they were equally dying to go into their rooms and not make eye contact with this man at all.
The Indian father of the 1990s, in fact, was much like Kevin Arnold's father in The Wonder Years, a show set in the 1960s. Taciturn, sometimes prone to violence, a man who seldom laughed, a man who worked hard for his family, but who didn't show that he loved them in any other way than financial. I was fascinated by these families, even though I had friends with the sort of fathers who remembered your name and asked what you were reading. I was fascinated by the home dynamics, by the fact that these men literally never apologised. Their word was law, and the people it was law for worshipped them for it.
My (very unscientific) theory is that Salman Khan fans come from these sort of homes. Where their fathers laid down the law with a heavy hand. Where the mothers blended into the background. To ask a mortal household god to explain his actions would be as unreasonable as expecting your Ganesha statue to suddenly start talking. Their fathers expressed their distrust of feminism and other “high faluting” words by flared nostrils. I remember watching a video where a son “pranks” his father by telling him he's gay, explaining the joke gleefully to the viewers before telling his dad, who is watching TV with a stone cold face, dressed in a vest and a lungi. Before he can explain it's a joke, this man rises up and starts slapping him with an open palm, hitting his son on every part of his body that he can reach. “No, wait, Papa,” the son keeps saying, and finally manages to get out, “It's a joke! See, there's the camera.” The father lowers his hand, glares at us and his son and walks out.
Trying to figure it outMaybe I'm wrong, maybe Salman Khan is not their father, but themselves. “It's a joke,” says Salman Khan when he compares himself to a raped woman. “The driver did it,” says Salman Khan, when defending himself against a hit and run charge. You can't slap him, because it's all so terribly funny, the things we get ourselves into while trying to please our fathers. So terribly, terribly funny.
September 18, 2017
Today in Photo
The first thing I did after I got my debit card back (after the old one was the victim of a burglary) was buy myself a new wallet and tote bag to replace the ones that were taken. My old wallet was Nappa Dori and a birthday present from K and it made me so angry and sad to think of all those memories (plus cards! Plus id!) that was taken away from me. The new wallet is this cheerful super indestructible eco friendly Tintin one and while my dad surprised me with a new Shakespeare and Co tote (which could be a clue if I see the old one floating about?) I got this one anyway because who does love a good bookish pun on a bag that can carry a lot of books, right? #delhidiary #whatibought #bookstagram
via Instagram
September 17, 2017
Today in Photo
Watching the corn ripen like a present. The most exciting thing on our terrace garden right now, until broccoli season that is. #eatwhatyougrow #balconytotable
via Instagram
September 16, 2017
Sorry, Sunny Leone, Your Erotic Fiction Left Me Cold
(A version of this appeared in Scroll when the book was first launched)
Even though I read Sunny Leone's collection of stories Sweet Dreams quite rapidly a few days ago, it has taken me this long to figure out what I want to say about them. Normally, I have a visceral reaction to a book—either love or hate or even cool indifference---and that reaction helps me write a review, but Leone's stories are thin, paper cut-outs that resemblea story, but are as weakly sketched out as though they were a writing assignment for a high school.
Of course, Leone's reputation precedes her. I was curious to read an adult film star's erotica, because come on, who wouldn't be? I expected it to be informed, layered with nuance and meaning and deft in catering to her audience, who she knew so well already. Instead I am treated to clunky sentences like this one: “Tears of joy flooded the home – but Rajesh and Kamana heard nothing, cared for no one. They clung to each other, together forever.” That's an erotic story? At least there's a happy ending, I suppose.
As a writer; and more importantly, as a reader, I am far more turned on by the written word than images. While sex scenes on film—even the long drawn out ones—leave me cold as a fish, a delicately phrased sentence can make my insides melt. I've been in not one but two long-term long distance relationships, and one of the only things that made it bearable was my collection of smutty literature by my bedside. Anais Nin for the nights I felt like being seduced and just plain old Literotica for when I wanted a quickie. When someone recommended 50 Shades Of Greyto me, I found that it “worked” as well, for despite the bad writing, the sex scenes were evocative and steamy.
Now back to Leone. The women ask things like, ‘Have you ever been with a woman before, in a sexual manner?’The men often gently squeeze breasts or “give three final thrusts.” Most people, when they're having sex “move in a circular motion.” Worse, she tends to exoticise Indians (and considering her stories only star Indians, it's a bit disconcerting.) There's a lot about skin tone, such as: Her skin so creamy and brown was like a delicious piece of caramel candy his mouth longed to taste. Or: his lips tasted like the sweet saltiness of a mango that I couldn’t get enough of. And this paragraph from a story about an exotic dancer: No one in the room could appreciate the true beauty of an Indian woman like I could. The appeal of an Indian woman is not just in her bare skin, it’s her spiritual aura, her loyalty to her family, her warmth. This girl may have looked like a goddess, she may barely have had any clothes on, but I could immediately sense there was something more special about her.
“I didn't want any of the characters to seem like total dirtbags,” Leone said in an interview with Hindustan Times. Yes, well, sometimes a little bad boy in your literature makes your heart beat a little faster. I think that might be the problem with these stories—they're too safe, even the sex is safe, and so, far from being sexy, they're a bit—to use that old Delhi colloquialism—of a KLPD. Take these two descriptive sentences about a man the heroine meets (and has sex with on a plane):
I could see his defined biceps tightening as he tried to shove his luggage into the bin. Something about his strength and determination made my heart race.
He pulled out his laptop and started working instantly. His firm hands and fingers tapped the keyboard forcefully as he answered emails.
Who among us has not struggled to push a bag into an overhead compartment or answered emails on a plane (maybe not forcefully since that might damage your machine)? But are these really the things Leone thinks we're fantasising about? “Oh my god, check out the way he tersely pays for his Starbucks coffee, so hot!” Or, “The firm thrust of his hand and twist of his wrist as he opens that jar of pickles makes my knees weak.” Although she has said in a column for The Daily O that she expects her first audience to be predominately male. Maybe that's why most of her characters are female and lead the way sexually. In a way, I shouldn't be too surprised. It's an adult film trope, the innocent but ready to be deviant girl, the man either being led or leading and the unrelenting heteronormative penetration. These are porn films, distilled down and with a first-person narrative added, a quick bang and the end.
Even though I read Sunny Leone's collection of stories Sweet Dreams quite rapidly a few days ago, it has taken me this long to figure out what I want to say about them. Normally, I have a visceral reaction to a book—either love or hate or even cool indifference---and that reaction helps me write a review, but Leone's stories are thin, paper cut-outs that resemblea story, but are as weakly sketched out as though they were a writing assignment for a high school.
Of course, Leone's reputation precedes her. I was curious to read an adult film star's erotica, because come on, who wouldn't be? I expected it to be informed, layered with nuance and meaning and deft in catering to her audience, who she knew so well already. Instead I am treated to clunky sentences like this one: “Tears of joy flooded the home – but Rajesh and Kamana heard nothing, cared for no one. They clung to each other, together forever.” That's an erotic story? At least there's a happy ending, I suppose.
As a writer; and more importantly, as a reader, I am far more turned on by the written word than images. While sex scenes on film—even the long drawn out ones—leave me cold as a fish, a delicately phrased sentence can make my insides melt. I've been in not one but two long-term long distance relationships, and one of the only things that made it bearable was my collection of smutty literature by my bedside. Anais Nin for the nights I felt like being seduced and just plain old Literotica for when I wanted a quickie. When someone recommended 50 Shades Of Greyto me, I found that it “worked” as well, for despite the bad writing, the sex scenes were evocative and steamy.
Now back to Leone. The women ask things like, ‘Have you ever been with a woman before, in a sexual manner?’The men often gently squeeze breasts or “give three final thrusts.” Most people, when they're having sex “move in a circular motion.” Worse, she tends to exoticise Indians (and considering her stories only star Indians, it's a bit disconcerting.) There's a lot about skin tone, such as: Her skin so creamy and brown was like a delicious piece of caramel candy his mouth longed to taste. Or: his lips tasted like the sweet saltiness of a mango that I couldn’t get enough of. And this paragraph from a story about an exotic dancer: No one in the room could appreciate the true beauty of an Indian woman like I could. The appeal of an Indian woman is not just in her bare skin, it’s her spiritual aura, her loyalty to her family, her warmth. This girl may have looked like a goddess, she may barely have had any clothes on, but I could immediately sense there was something more special about her.
“I didn't want any of the characters to seem like total dirtbags,” Leone said in an interview with Hindustan Times. Yes, well, sometimes a little bad boy in your literature makes your heart beat a little faster. I think that might be the problem with these stories—they're too safe, even the sex is safe, and so, far from being sexy, they're a bit—to use that old Delhi colloquialism—of a KLPD. Take these two descriptive sentences about a man the heroine meets (and has sex with on a plane):
I could see his defined biceps tightening as he tried to shove his luggage into the bin. Something about his strength and determination made my heart race.
He pulled out his laptop and started working instantly. His firm hands and fingers tapped the keyboard forcefully as he answered emails.
Who among us has not struggled to push a bag into an overhead compartment or answered emails on a plane (maybe not forcefully since that might damage your machine)? But are these really the things Leone thinks we're fantasising about? “Oh my god, check out the way he tersely pays for his Starbucks coffee, so hot!” Or, “The firm thrust of his hand and twist of his wrist as he opens that jar of pickles makes my knees weak.” Although she has said in a column for The Daily O that she expects her first audience to be predominately male. Maybe that's why most of her characters are female and lead the way sexually. In a way, I shouldn't be too surprised. It's an adult film trope, the innocent but ready to be deviant girl, the man either being led or leading and the unrelenting heteronormative penetration. These are porn films, distilled down and with a first-person narrative added, a quick bang and the end.
September 15, 2017
Today in Photo
Friday night kitty party with @nailajung. Can you spot them both? Former foster to whom I sing "you used to call me on my way cellphone" because the Hobgoblin is now Rooey and all sniffy around her old friends. The other is Kokum who loves me so take that Rooey, I'm totally a cat person ok? #catsagram #kittensofinstagram #friendsonasaturday
via Instagram
September 14, 2017
Today in Photo
Trying to settle in and feel less anxious about being at home after a break in yesterday. The best thing to do is to curl up in bed with cat and a good book and WOW is this a good book. Best collection of short stories I've read in a long time, the descriptions so vivid, the plot and language so simple. Go get yourself a copy of The Adivasi Will Not Dance and I guarantee you'll agree with me. #bookstagram #150in2017#mrmbookclub #nowreading
via Instagram
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