Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Turning over a new leaf!
"Many people look forward to the new year for a new start on old habits."
~Author Unknown
Once again, it's that time of the year when we all decide to turn a new leaf. When we leave behind an amazing experience of three hundred and sixty five days. Over the last fifty two weeks, we've all tasted success, confronted failure- we've laughed-cried, perhaps lied. We've hurt and have been hurt. But most importantly- we've all learnt something to take with us into another wonderful opportunity called the New Year.
Its it funny how we resolve each year to be better, nicer, kinder or stronger. Because I've tried it all- resolving to take out time to exercise, to work harder, wake up early, submit assignments on time or just help mum in the kitchen more often! But as you probably would have guessed- I got caught up with my routine all over again - and all these wonderful promises naturally took a back seat. I guess that's one of the reasons I stopped making resolutions a long time ago. Besides, it sounded ridiculous to wait for the end of the year to make amends.
But when I do think over it, the beginning of each new year gives a lot of us a chance to reassess ourselves and our lives- despite it being just another ordinary day on the calendar.
Either way- this year's been great with all those ups and downs, tears and smiles and much, much more! Because one thing's for sure, I'm all set to battle another year now and make the most of it too.
Happy New Year All!
Happy New Year !
If it didn't bring you joy
Just leave it behind
Let's ring in the New Year
With good things in mind
Let every bad memory
That brought heartache and pain
And let's turn a new leaf
With the smell of new rain
Let's forget past mistakes
Making amends for this year
Sending you these greetings
To bring you hope and cheer
Happy New Year!
Just leave it behind
Let's ring in the New Year
With good things in mind
Let every bad memory
That brought heartache and pain
And let's turn a new leaf
With the smell of new rain
Let's forget past mistakes
Making amends for this year
Sending you these greetings
To bring you hope and cheer
Happy New Year!
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Answer that!
“You know that children are growing up when they start asking questions that have answers.” –John Plomp
I swear it’s true. I’ve seen it during my babysitting days, when I watched over my niece, Aparna.
When she was six, she was closer to an automated machine gun than an ordinary human: questions would shoot out of her mouth in all directions, and before you can answer the first bullet, you see a volley of ‘em raining on you and you have no choice but to retreat.
“Tom died in the last cartoon, how come he’s alive now?”
“Why can’t I touch Jerry on the screen?”
“What are those black and white dots?”
“Why are they dancing like that?”
“Why’s the sofa softer than my bed?”
“Can’t God change that?”
“Why is Arvind younger than me?”
“Why can’t I grow backwards?”
“Can YOU grow backwards?”
“Can Mumma grow backwards?”
“Can plants grow backwards?”
Enough said.
Honestly, I love inquisitive kids: they’re a sign that creativity and imagination still thrive in this crazily sane world. When you’re faced with a downpour like that, however, you’d sooner shoot yourself than face them all.
But what’s worse is that sooner or later they’ll stop asking questions like that. As she grew older, Aparna’s questions were more knowledgeable; true, but they lacked any depth, wonder or curiosity. It was just another thing to be known, not absorbed or admired.
“What’s the capital of Cuba?”
“Why do we water plants early in the morning?”
“What’s f***?” (Goodness, she scared the hell out of me with that! And I don’t even remember my answer!)
Soon enough, she stopped asking questions altogether, as she preferred to Google them up.
“Yeah, I read that on Uselessfacts.com”
“Oh yeah, there was this blog on that…”
Well, at least she has questions, I tell myself. But I miss the “Why’s the sky blue?” and “Where is God?” that every little child utters at some point or the other. I wonder what he/she thinks when they get their answers…
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Care for a drive in Hyderabad?
I consider myself a safe driver-honestly. In the very beginning, just to be sure I wouldn't run into anyone I drove consistently at 20kmph. That was until my mother told me, "Darling, I really don’t see the use of driving a car when you're going to go at that speed." Hmmm...she did have a point there…so I moved on to about 40kmph. Of course it's getting much faster now that I’m getting the hang of it (Dad, please don't read this!) .
I do not overtake, because I was specifically instructed not to when I was taught and I do not shift lanes randomly (except for a rare now and then perhaps ;-) ). Moreover, my fastest reflex is braking- I can brake anytime, anyhow and anywhere. I've learnt a little bit of swearing along the way too (it helps in the slightly tight situations). So I really do believe my driving to be rather safe. However, I cannot assure you either a completely safe or happy journey- only because I drive in Hyderabad.
Right from the parking to the navigating, driving in Hyderabad is a unique experience- one of a kind! To begin with, because of the utter lack of space and the slightly inconsiderate parking of the bigger cars, my poor blue little car has to be parked at an awkward 45° between a concrete pillar and the bumper of another car. After a right, left and another right reverse, we're finally out. Out of the gate, and into a bus stop that is. A lot of arduous honking later, you finally make your presence felt to the great many people who, oblivious to the perils that you may pose to them, slowly and reluctantly disperse.
Then comes the tricky part- multitasking between the bumpy roads, whizzing autowalas and the buswalas who forget- intentionally- their huge size, and compete with the autowalas at whizzing between the cars. I strongly suspect that the autowalas fancy themselves as some kind of heroes or Formula One champs, hence, the rules of the road obviously don't apply to them. (Sigh)
The motorists try playing smart by utilizing every direction they find available. And the pedestrians, well of course, they don’t fear for their lives-"Police toh carwale ko hi pakadh ti hai na!" So they prance- literally- across the streets. And there I am- in the middle of them all- still trying to learn and appreciate the art of navigating in Hyderabadi traffic- and pondering on one of life's greatest mysteries - "Whoever would have issued licenses to All these people !?"
I do not overtake, because I was specifically instructed not to when I was taught and I do not shift lanes randomly (except for a rare now and then perhaps ;-) ). Moreover, my fastest reflex is braking- I can brake anytime, anyhow and anywhere. I've learnt a little bit of swearing along the way too (it helps in the slightly tight situations). So I really do believe my driving to be rather safe. However, I cannot assure you either a completely safe or happy journey- only because I drive in Hyderabad.
Right from the parking to the navigating, driving in Hyderabad is a unique experience- one of a kind! To begin with, because of the utter lack of space and the slightly inconsiderate parking of the bigger cars, my poor blue little car has to be parked at an awkward 45° between a concrete pillar and the bumper of another car. After a right, left and another right reverse, we're finally out. Out of the gate, and into a bus stop that is. A lot of arduous honking later, you finally make your presence felt to the great many people who, oblivious to the perils that you may pose to them, slowly and reluctantly disperse.
Then comes the tricky part- multitasking between the bumpy roads, whizzing autowalas and the buswalas who forget- intentionally- their huge size, and compete with the autowalas at whizzing between the cars. I strongly suspect that the autowalas fancy themselves as some kind of heroes or Formula One champs, hence, the rules of the road obviously don't apply to them. (Sigh)
The motorists try playing smart by utilizing every direction they find available. And the pedestrians, well of course, they don’t fear for their lives-"Police toh carwale ko hi pakadh ti hai na!" So they prance- literally- across the streets. And there I am- in the middle of them all- still trying to learn and appreciate the art of navigating in Hyderabadi traffic- and pondering on one of life's greatest mysteries - "Whoever would have issued licenses to All these people !?"
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Intent vs. Deed
I would say the reason behind this post is this particular time in the year that Muslims around the world are observing. I wanted to keep my post for this week on the lighter side and not turn into one of those soul searches. Yet as I searched my mind today about what I wanted to say I found that there was a certain conclusion that I had come to which I wanted to share.
What I want to say has, I suspect nothing really to do with religion, neither mine nor yours. It only helped me discover a simple fact and what impact it can have on our lives.
The thing is that Muslims around the world are observing the 10 days of Moharram. These are days marked in tribute to the great sorrow and the terrible times that befell those we hold in high respect in our hearts and minds. The event's significance is hard too describe and even fathom many a times. As the tradition has built up we observe these days with special reverence and indulge in religious activities or devote more time to learning about our histories and our faith.
It was in these circumstances that I learnt about the importance of intention over the deed. Its the feeling that counts and not the actions. If we are doing anything that does not come from within then it may serve the purpose for the time being but it does not amount to anything of consequence at all.
Both the intent and the deed have to dwell together for intent and no deed serves no purpose and does no good. While the deed without the intent is just a sham.
It sounds like a simple rule. But its not so simple to implement. The clean conscience and a firm mind are hard things to cultivate and I am still struggling with the journey.
What I want to say has, I suspect nothing really to do with religion, neither mine nor yours. It only helped me discover a simple fact and what impact it can have on our lives.
The thing is that Muslims around the world are observing the 10 days of Moharram. These are days marked in tribute to the great sorrow and the terrible times that befell those we hold in high respect in our hearts and minds. The event's significance is hard too describe and even fathom many a times. As the tradition has built up we observe these days with special reverence and indulge in religious activities or devote more time to learning about our histories and our faith.
It was in these circumstances that I learnt about the importance of intention over the deed. Its the feeling that counts and not the actions. If we are doing anything that does not come from within then it may serve the purpose for the time being but it does not amount to anything of consequence at all.
Both the intent and the deed have to dwell together for intent and no deed serves no purpose and does no good. While the deed without the intent is just a sham.
It sounds like a simple rule. But its not so simple to implement. The clean conscience and a firm mind are hard things to cultivate and I am still struggling with the journey.
Monday, December 21, 2009
The vicious (?) circle of the scarcity of “Indian” Literature for children in English and the lack of “Indian” Literature in English.
“I remember reading Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart when I was nine. I didn’t realize at the time but I know now it made me understand that I didn’t have to write about white people”- Chimamanda Adichie, Nigerian novelist [1]
The excerpt is from an interview I read this August in The Hindu Magazine and it somehow stuck in my mind because it furthered some of the ideas I had regarding the impact of children’s literature in the English language, particularly in former British colonies, on the kind of literature the country produced.
Like most middle class children growing up in the 90’s in India I went to a school where the medium of instruction was English. Beginning with nursery rhymes and fairytales I moved on to Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl & Dr.Seuss followed in quick succession by Judy Blume, Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys. I remember R. L. Stine’s Goosebumps being quite the rage before J. K. Rowling finally made her entry. Looking back, Anita Desai’s, A Village by the Sea which we did in the 8th was probably our only encounter with Indian literature in English and one we actually enjoyed (even then it took us all of seven minutes to figure out that “crystallized chunks of marrow” was nothing other than “petha”). Somehow we all managed to elude any significant exposure to Indian literature for children.
Incidentally standard “Indian” literature for children including Panchatantra and the Jataka tales among others was featured in the “Amar Chitra Katha” which we avoided like the plague because our teachers vehemently disapproved of its shockingly awful English whereas Indian books in English like Malgudi schooldays, approved of by all involved, belonged to a rare category, so much for Indian literature for children in English. As for the non-English Indian literature, we found it boring because the textbooks in our mother tongue were outdated and no match for the kind of reading we were doing in English at the same level. Moreover nuclear families deprived us of grandma storytelling sessions and the rich oral tradition of Indian literature in vernacular.
The story of my generation and the successive ones is important because of the link between reading and writing. If you were to read a story written by the average Indian child there is an overwhelming possibility that the protagonist, the plot and the setting will have nothing to do with India. The fact was brought home at a Young Authors contest I participated in where a ruffled jury pointed out our unconscious exclusion of all things Indian. Of the sixteen national finalists only one had set her story in India, two had used Indian names and the rest of us had a rather eclectic choice of locale ranging from Africa to Mexico to Palestine and the list of names included Alice, Ryan, Mark and Iris to name a few.
While I don’t think there is anything wrong about writing about other places and people there is something troubling about the fact that we are unable to express what it means to live in India. We did try to consciously write about India or even use Indian names but there was an air of artificiality about the whole exercise and ultimately the writing seemed rather forced and trying too hard to be Indian, much like our English grammar textbooks which after decades of using names like Jane and John made the odd attempt to use Raj, Sita and Ahmed much to our amusement, being rather ridiculously in your face.
Moving on from author to audience one comes to the intriguing question of why we read. While the charm of reading largely lies in its ability to enable the reader to transcend his immediate surroundings, at some level the reader seeks comfort in identifying with what he reads. Incidentally it seems that young Indians as readers seek at some level in Indian literature in English the other with which whom they can identify. Having said this it is obvious that there is an immense void in Indian literature in English to which writers like Chetan Bhagat owe their success. That the quality of their work leaves much to be desired is itself further proof of the desperation of English speaking Indians.
Speaking of “Indian” literature in English I would like to define it by emphasizing literature that portrays the essence of being Indian or more appropriately literature that conveys the experience of living in India (as defining “being Indian” is in itself an endless debate). Coming to the existing corpus of “Indian” literature in English I must confess my ignorance about early Indian writers in English whose works I have hardly read such as Tagore. On the other hand, having read a lot of the work of “Indians writing in English” one realizes that most exclusively concern themselves with the immigrant experience and few, Amitav Ghosh, Arundhati Roy, Rohinton Mistry & Aravind Adiga for instance, actually write about living in India. While there is an ongoing debate about the label of “Indians” writing in English itself, which in no small part accrues to the fact that most writers tagged with the label don’t live in India at all, I would like to state that “Indian” literature in English has little to do with the “Indianness” of its author. In fact one of the few works that succeeds in its attempt to portray life in India is Englishman E.M. Forster’s brilliant novel, A Passage to India.
In conclusion I would like to go back to the title. Adding a question mark after the word vicious clarifies my opposition to the view that children’s literature in English westernizes and corrupts Indian culture and morality, whatever that is. I merely wish to draw attention to the fact that not having enough exposure to Indian writing as a child hampers one’s ability to effectively express as an adult what it means to live in India and in terms of identity and figuring out how one fits in, leaves one neither here nor there.
[1] Krithika, R. (2009, August 09). "I’m a happy feminist". The Hindu: Magazine, p. 2
The excerpt is from an interview I read this August in The Hindu Magazine and it somehow stuck in my mind because it furthered some of the ideas I had regarding the impact of children’s literature in the English language, particularly in former British colonies, on the kind of literature the country produced.
Like most middle class children growing up in the 90’s in India I went to a school where the medium of instruction was English. Beginning with nursery rhymes and fairytales I moved on to Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl & Dr.Seuss followed in quick succession by Judy Blume, Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys. I remember R. L. Stine’s Goosebumps being quite the rage before J. K. Rowling finally made her entry. Looking back, Anita Desai’s, A Village by the Sea which we did in the 8th was probably our only encounter with Indian literature in English and one we actually enjoyed (even then it took us all of seven minutes to figure out that “crystallized chunks of marrow” was nothing other than “petha”). Somehow we all managed to elude any significant exposure to Indian literature for children.
Incidentally standard “Indian” literature for children including Panchatantra and the Jataka tales among others was featured in the “Amar Chitra Katha” which we avoided like the plague because our teachers vehemently disapproved of its shockingly awful English whereas Indian books in English like Malgudi schooldays, approved of by all involved, belonged to a rare category, so much for Indian literature for children in English. As for the non-English Indian literature, we found it boring because the textbooks in our mother tongue were outdated and no match for the kind of reading we were doing in English at the same level. Moreover nuclear families deprived us of grandma storytelling sessions and the rich oral tradition of Indian literature in vernacular.
The story of my generation and the successive ones is important because of the link between reading and writing. If you were to read a story written by the average Indian child there is an overwhelming possibility that the protagonist, the plot and the setting will have nothing to do with India. The fact was brought home at a Young Authors contest I participated in where a ruffled jury pointed out our unconscious exclusion of all things Indian. Of the sixteen national finalists only one had set her story in India, two had used Indian names and the rest of us had a rather eclectic choice of locale ranging from Africa to Mexico to Palestine and the list of names included Alice, Ryan, Mark and Iris to name a few.
While I don’t think there is anything wrong about writing about other places and people there is something troubling about the fact that we are unable to express what it means to live in India. We did try to consciously write about India or even use Indian names but there was an air of artificiality about the whole exercise and ultimately the writing seemed rather forced and trying too hard to be Indian, much like our English grammar textbooks which after decades of using names like Jane and John made the odd attempt to use Raj, Sita and Ahmed much to our amusement, being rather ridiculously in your face.
Moving on from author to audience one comes to the intriguing question of why we read. While the charm of reading largely lies in its ability to enable the reader to transcend his immediate surroundings, at some level the reader seeks comfort in identifying with what he reads. Incidentally it seems that young Indians as readers seek at some level in Indian literature in English the other with which whom they can identify. Having said this it is obvious that there is an immense void in Indian literature in English to which writers like Chetan Bhagat owe their success. That the quality of their work leaves much to be desired is itself further proof of the desperation of English speaking Indians.
Speaking of “Indian” literature in English I would like to define it by emphasizing literature that portrays the essence of being Indian or more appropriately literature that conveys the experience of living in India (as defining “being Indian” is in itself an endless debate). Coming to the existing corpus of “Indian” literature in English I must confess my ignorance about early Indian writers in English whose works I have hardly read such as Tagore. On the other hand, having read a lot of the work of “Indians writing in English” one realizes that most exclusively concern themselves with the immigrant experience and few, Amitav Ghosh, Arundhati Roy, Rohinton Mistry & Aravind Adiga for instance, actually write about living in India. While there is an ongoing debate about the label of “Indians” writing in English itself, which in no small part accrues to the fact that most writers tagged with the label don’t live in India at all, I would like to state that “Indian” literature in English has little to do with the “Indianness” of its author. In fact one of the few works that succeeds in its attempt to portray life in India is Englishman E.M. Forster’s brilliant novel, A Passage to India.
In conclusion I would like to go back to the title. Adding a question mark after the word vicious clarifies my opposition to the view that children’s literature in English westernizes and corrupts Indian culture and morality, whatever that is. I merely wish to draw attention to the fact that not having enough exposure to Indian writing as a child hampers one’s ability to effectively express as an adult what it means to live in India and in terms of identity and figuring out how one fits in, leaves one neither here nor there.
[1] Krithika, R. (2009, August 09). "I’m a happy feminist". The Hindu: Magazine, p. 2
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Nerd? Jock? Geek? WHAT?
Well, my Sem I marks came out a few days ago…and I’ve been officially branded a nerd. Or is that supposed to be a geek?
Fine, both. I never got the difference, anyway.
So that’s what I’ve been pondering about: stereotyping. It happens everywhere: school, college, at work…everywhere you’re labelled as a walking-talking specific brand of ‘human’.
It’s funny how quickly we classify people into these ‘categories’ when we first meet them…many times at first sight, even before talking to them! Flirty, muscle-bound hunks are dropped into the Jocks section for girls to drool over; pretty girls with three layers of make-up and expensive accessories are bound to hog the spotlight as the Popular Chicks; the socially-awkward science whizzes who top almost every class and are Presidents of language or chess clubs are dubbed the genius Nerds/Geeks; and everybody else who doesn’t fit into any of these categories is forced into a separate selection of categories in the observer’s mind.
Personally, I hate these tags. And by the word ‘hate’, I mean in the extreme.
Every person has a mixture of qualities and characteristics. One or two of these may be more dominant than the others, but that doesn’t mean that the person should be identified and classified (with crude taxonomic tags) as a specimen showing one particular characteristic feature.
Though some people enjoy having a tag on them, I feel that, in the end, the tag causes a negative effect on the individual. The popular girls are always considered academically weak and treated accordingly; soon enough, they begin to BELIEVE that they are no good with studies and don’t make an effort…even worse, they blame their stereotyping for their academic failure.
Nerds and geeks are always the centre of ridicule, and hence tend to stay away from social arrangements for most of their lives…they lose their self-confidence, and are under the belief that they are boring and ugly individuals, incapable of attracting anybody’s attention. They were unable to explore their other interests or likes, since even a mention of taking dance classes or the like would cause an instant onslaught of jokes, making them embarrassed. And they would eventually drop the idea and stick to their circle.
People don’t often break the stereotype barrier; it usually takes a lot of determination, courage…and cotton plugs to stuff the ears with. But most of all, it takes a different environment, where he/she’d like to start over with new people and with a clearer view of their own identity. Then they’d be allowed to indulge in other activities without having the pressure to stick within their ‘limits’.
Speaking of which, I NEED to shake off this geek image everyone’s got of me right now. Perhaps a dance contest would do the trick…
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
A Glass of Sprite- it's all a matter of perspective!
One man's meat is another's poison- it's all a matter of perspective. While that jumble of lines and random brush strokes may be 'contemporary modern art' for some, for others it will remain a jumble of lines and random brush strokes- an attempt by the artist to con them. So if you do look forward to thanksgiving each year, try looking at it from a turkey's point of view too.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
When I shot this image a while ago, people asked me, "Errr…what is it?"
"A glass of Sprite, " I replied, eagerly waiting for an appreciative response.
"Ummm…it doesn't look it. Why did you shoot it this way?"
Well, I didn't have much to say to that because I believe it is possible for a hundred different people to find a hundred different ways of looking at the same thing. Art, music, literature- these are just a few examples that prove it. How many great masters have painted, composed or written about love or nature? Yet each painting, each composition and each piece of writing seems so unique- each one making us look at an entirely new aspect of the subject.
For me, perspective is a rather complex topic. Because a man is, the way he looks at things. Be it an optimistic, broadminded outlook, or a not so optimistic, perhaps a limited one. Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder after all! A person's way of looking at things probably explains why some of us overcome the hurdles that life throws at us, while the rest of us succumb to them. Or why one man is more creative or successful than another- it is probably his ability to visualise things differently. But here again, I'd like to contradict myself- no man is more creative than another- its only our perception that he is.
Very often, in class, we're told- 'Perspective is a vast, complex topic; it takes years to completely understand and master it'- Of course, we were being told about perspective in the context of art, but nevertheless, it can be applied to our perspective on life, and people too…then again- this is just my perspective ;-)
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Pondering the way ahead...
I had scribbled these lines in class on one of those really long mornings when I was stuck in class. The thought that comforted me was the fact that they were nearly on end.
It's nearly time now to say my goodbye,
To leave this place with a releived sigh,
Remembering those long long mornings past,
Who knew three hours could so long last.
Cursed clocks, and too little sleep
Awake minds, an effort to keep.
Will this labour or our bear fruit or not?
Hardly questioned, once thrown in your lot.
Its all to become the persons we want to be,
All to acheive that goal, only we can see
Its not anout what the others see or say,
Its to try and do justice to myself, if I may.
When the way gets hard and the going gets tough,
When my vision blurs and things get rough,
To find the path again and rise to the task,
For strenght, dedication and foucus, I now ask.
I shall look within to find for a start,
A resolute mind and a passionate heart,
If given a wish you are given power too,
For dreams do come true, for dreams do come true.
It's nearly time now to say my goodbye,
To leave this place with a releived sigh,
Remembering those long long mornings past,
Who knew three hours could so long last.
Cursed clocks, and too little sleep
Awake minds, an effort to keep.
Will this labour or our bear fruit or not?
Hardly questioned, once thrown in your lot.
Its all to become the persons we want to be,
All to acheive that goal, only we can see
Its not anout what the others see or say,
Its to try and do justice to myself, if I may.
When the way gets hard and the going gets tough,
When my vision blurs and things get rough,
To find the path again and rise to the task,
For strenght, dedication and foucus, I now ask.
I shall look within to find for a start,
A resolute mind and a passionate heart,
If given a wish you are given power too,
For dreams do come true, for dreams do come true.
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