P.S

A few inches shorter...

2007-07-03T00:00:00.000-07:00

At times I wish I were a few inches shorter...When everyone around me is trying to be taller, my decently tall, 5ft 7 something frame sometimes proves to be cumbersome.It started when I was 6.
In our English reader, there was a chapter on Health at the end of which we had to measure each others' heights and fill in the name of the tallest girl in the class.I was proudly hoping to see my name in every girl's book (I studied in a girls' convent) .But it turned out that Shivani, another tall girl was a few centimetres taller than I was.Not to mention, her name and height received the honours that were due.I went home howling because I wanted to be taller.
A few days later, our class IA was performing the 'penguin dance' at the annual function.We had to wear black and white costumes with pillows around our tummies, powder on our faces and beaks on our heads and follow a pattern of steps moving like penguins.All students were placed in a height wise order with the best students on center front position.And I was there, the tallest penguin right in front, enjoying my dance, overshadowing all the shorter ones behind.Then came Sr. Fulgentia, our principal. She loved the dance, appreciated my pereformance and then asked Mrs. Maggie, my class teacher to shift me to the fag-end because I was too tall! I was aghast. "What about my performance?" Mrs. Maggie insisted. Sr. Fulgentia persisted. They finally arrived at a solution.
On the day of the final performance, there were 60 penguins dancing in height wise order with the exception of one awkward penguin who kept bobbing it's beak from the 3rd row and the 3rd column of the entire formation.Not to mention, I cried again because I wanted to be shorter.
My grandmother tells me I was born tall. My dad tells me that at one and a half years of age I looked like a school going kid.My elder brother's friends used to call me 'didi' by mistake.My granddad was always worried how I would find a groom for myself if I kept growing taller and my mom used to call me a giant whenever I slipped on water at home and fell on the ground with a thud, no, a very loud thud.

Sometimes I pity the tallest man and woman in the world.Or maybe not. At least they will stand out wherever they choose to stand.At least, they won't have to cry to see their names in a book.

P.S I wrote this on a train journey from Mumbai to Ahmedabad where I could not fit into the seat properly while a big man sitting next to me had taken half of my seat.I met Shivani on orkut the other day. She is 5ft8inches, still a few centimetres taller than I am!

2007-01-03T05:01:00.000-08:00

Saas, Bahu and Gulabi Talkies

I remember very well that as kids when we watched Malgudi Days, we were so mesmerized by the story itself that we did not miss the so called special effects that today’s television series for children boast of- ‘Sonpari’, ‘Shaktimaan’ etc. Swami’s antics and the virginal innocence of Malgudi were sufficient for us to await the weekly episode and then to be glued to the television for the next half an hour.

Maybe life was much simpler then. But I still believe that a simple story, well told, works much better with the viewers (of any age) than any extra zing (read special effects, hi-fi gizmos, decked-up women, zoom-in, zoom-out shots and weepy, Machiavellian plots where the ultimate aim is to get a husband or better still get the entire property of so and so Khaandaan.

Agreed that the majority of prime time television viewers are women; but to show them what is being shown on Indian National TV today is an insult to the intelligence of any average Indian woman. You may think that what I am starting to say here is an age-old debate on a revamp needed for Indian television. Yes, I am saying that and a little more. I want to suggest a solution to the menace.

On Monday, I went to Crossword to pick up a book. There were racks and racks of Indian writers in English- Amitava Ghosh, Rohinton Mistry, Kiran Desai and the list was endless. I was tempted to pick up one of them because sadly even my Literature background has opened a world which is unfortunately still colonized by the Western mind. While my hand hovered indecisively over these books, my eyes caught a glimpse of a cover titled Gulabi Talkies. I was immediately attracted to it. It is a book of short stories by Vaidehi (pen name of a Kannada writer Janaki Srinivasa Murthy). The stories are a witness to the inner experiences of women-the inner physical space like the inner courtyard of the house which separated the women from the men outside, the kitchen which was completely a woman’s space and the likes. How these external spaces are internalized by these women only to strengthen their positions in their limited world.

Why I started with Malgudi Days was because these stories also provide a peek into the life of a village and its inhabitants which seem so real that you can almost feel them.

The point is that instead of the so-called women’s stories which are being shown on prime time television, if we revive these regional stories and if needed, adapt them to suit the needs of the market, won’t it work?
By working, I don’t mean the TRPs. I am assured of the TRPs. By working, I mean that these stories would not put an entire generation to regress into a world which is nothing but eye candy. It will revolutionize (maybe in a very small manner) the minds of the viewers at the same time providing wholesome entertainment.

Let me specify that these stories are feminist stories. And before you react to that word let me also specify that feminism is not anti-men! Just as men will be men, women will be women. And it is with this simple recognition that these stories are told. They are entertaining, spicy, at times gossipy, at times factual but never frivolous. They are told as they are.

The first step that I will take is to translate these stories into Hindi and give them to my mom to read and see if she likes them. Maybe you could join the process and answer back by telling me whether you would like to watch it on television or not. I know, I would!

Siraj Ahmed

2006-12-23T00:20:00.000-08:00

Every day from office, I have to change two buses to go home. From my office to Majestic (the main bus stop) and from there to home. I reached Majestic yesterday. But from then on, I didn’t feel like waiting for the bus and then pushing and jostling in that crowd again. I decided on a luxurious auto ride back home. It would cost me a bomb, considering how fast the auto meter moves in this part of India...but that didn’t deter me. It was still worth it.

Just as I crossed the road, I found an auto waiting. He started his meter. Thankfully, it was an electronic one...I have heard, those are more difficult to tamper with. Now all that I had to worry about was the road which he was taking. Bangalore auto drivers are as notorious cheats as Dilliwalahs especially if they know you don’t belong to that part of the country. Recently, there were many cases where the auto drivers had also fleeced their passengers by taking them to some dark, lonely lanes and robbing them of all their money. I wasn’t really worried about the money because I don’t normally carry that much but as a female, one has to be wary of a lot of other things. And knowing my superb geography skills, I am always doubly wary to sit in an auto. Still, I thought it was worth it!

The autowallah adjusted his rear view mirror. I cursed him under my breath. The mirror seemed to be adjusted more to see me than the traffic behind. He started singing, surprisingly a Hindi song from the movie Jaan-e-mann. One after the other, he kept whistling, singing the latest tunes. He had understood by now that I was not from these parts. At a traffic signal, he adjusted his thickly oiled hair and leched at a girl across the road. I was already put off. Then he took an unfamiliar turn. “You should have taken it the other way.” I told him in Hindi. “Madam, there is lot of traffic that side. We can avoid it on this road.” He replied in Hindi. The route was longer than the other one. We moved on.

I felt that he had sensed my fear somewhere and I didn’t want him to believe that. I started talking to him. “Are you from here only?” “Yes madam!” “How come you speak such good Hindi?” He smiled. “Madam! I was a driver for a Bengali family before this. I learnt from them only.” The idea of a Kannadiga learning Hindi from a Bengali family amused me and I smiled. “How long have you been driving this auto?” “Two years madam...but this job is not respectable...” “Why so?” “Just...everybody feels that auto driving is not good...they are notorious no?” I almost felt guilty. “Why do you say so?” But ignoring my question, he continued. “But it gives me enough money...I earn about 9-10,000 every month and after all the expenditure on food and clothes I still have 300 rupees left as savings...but it’s still less. I live with my mother and siblings...it’s not enough.” Before I could ask another question, he continued. “Earlier it was not like this...when the dance bars were open...I used to earn some 2000 rupees every night...had to drop all the girls back home...and each one gave me at least 200 rupees...night rate...they trusted me also.” He said proudly. “ But they shut down all the bars...even in Bombay...I can’t earn that much now...government says, it’s bad for people...but what about us...people are anyway still doing it...” “Hmm...” I replied. “It’s all about money madam! If you earn enough, people listen to you...otherwise you are not respected.” “But why do you say that the autowallahs are notorious?” I brought him back to his earlier comment. “Madam, a lot of them drink, abuse people, eve-teasing, fighting on roads...all that...you are still talking to us madam...but no body does that because they are scared...I tell you madam, if 80% of autowallahs are bad, then there are 20% who are good also.” “Just 20%?” I asked surprised with his honesty. “I am sure there is more number of good autowallahs” I said. “No madam! I have been in the field for two years...I know the inside story...most of them are like that.” My house was nearing and by now I had completely lost my fear.

We reached the street outside my house. “Stop here only...the road is not good inside. I will walk down.” I said. The meter had really run high because of the longer route. But then, I had reached home in no time at all. On the other route, I would have been still stuck in the traffic and if by bus, then only God save me! I gave him five rupees extra and the smile on his face was indescribable. “What’s your name?” I asked him. “Siraj...Siraj Ahmed.” “What’s your name madam?” He asked in English. I remembered the Bengali family. “Roopal” I said. “It was nice meeting you!” I said. “Thank you madam!” He sped off with his auto again and I walked the last stretch home.

P.S This is second in the line of bus stories. Why bus stories? Had it not been for the bus, I wouldn’t have taken the auto back home...

...

2006-12-08T04:37:00.000-08:00

Her dark, kohl-lined eyes sparkled with excitement when she told me, “I tried modelling.” There was a smile on her face as she narrated the entire experience. “I saw this ad in the newspaper and went to a studio in Rajajinagar. They selected me. All I needed were some three thousand rupees so that they could make my portfolio. I asked my mom for the money and she slapped me hard in the face.” She laughed. “Do you think you are Aishwarya Rai? You will wear those small clothes in front of all the men?” “And that was the end of my dreams.” She didn’t really look sad or dejected. She was happy that at least she was selected. I looked at her clothes. A cheap sleeveless black cotton kurta and a red salwar with the dupatta just kept as a formality. She was very slim, dark in complexion and plain features except for her eyes. Not that her eyes were very arresting but you had to look at the eyes long enough to find a naughty sparkle in them. “How old are you?” I asked. “I am twenty one.” I had thought so. The eyes had belied a maturity that was otherwise present in her demeanour.

We tugged along on the road as the lights outside flashed on her face on and off and I could catch glimpses of passing shadows.

“Aah! The day was tiring...I have to move around a lot.” Before I could ask, she replied, “I am into sales. MBA...I am doing my training in this company. But I like it here.”

We stopped for a while. The lights were now changing from red to green and we pushed ourselves along with thousand others. This day too was drawing to an end.

“So when do you plan to get married?” The question took me by surprise. First because it was out of turn and second that it was coming from a stranger. I mean, I practically knew half of her life by now but I still hadn’t opened up before her. I wanted to listen to her and not speak at all. “A...I don’t know...let’s see. What about you?” “Well! When I am the General Manager of my company or the chairperson and when I have lakhs and crores of rupees...maybe then!” She burst out laughing again in the same fashion. I could not make out what kind of laughter it was. It was ambiguous to say the least. Right then it was more of a self-assured laughter maybe mocking at the world around and saying, “You wait, I will show you all.” I was jealous for a nanosecond. I was jealous of her ambition and the self assurance with which she talked about it. I wanted to be her at that moment; for that split second. She said again, “I told my Manager. “Sir! I will break your record. I will become a manager in three months.””

We halted again...this time to add more people in our caravan and to leave off some on the way.

“I make friends everyday. It’s such a long way.” She said this getting out of her seat. Her stop was next. “I will take your autograph someday. Do let me know when you make your first film. I will tell everyone that it’s my friend up there.” I smiled at her and wished her luck. “Maybe I will take your autograph when you become a big model.” The naughty sparkle in her eyes returned and she said, “Thanks!”

She got down at the next stop while I still heaved along with thousand others in the caravan waiting for my destination.

P.S There is someone or the other I meet everyday on my bus journeys back home from office. There was this woman suffering in a bad marriage, a high school teacher who had just shifted to Bangalore with her husband, a Keralite college girl, studying here who had apparently also applied to NID, a British girl, who was looking for a research assistant in Karnataka and many many more...I guess I will eventually write about all of them. this is the first in the series of Bus Stories.

my article on the web

2006-11-17T01:30:00.000-08:00

http://www.nid.edu/download/cuthere4nov05.pdf Pg 20
Slipping through: the woman as a protagonist in Hindi Cinema

P.S Cut Here is an in-house magazine of the Film and Video Communication Department, National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad.

Ladies' Seat-an anecdote

2006-11-17T01:21:00.000-08:00

When I was in college studying literature, feminism was a major influence. To the extent, that I was against reservations of any kind for women, be it in the parliament, or in the DTC buses which clearly said mahilaayen, that’s Hindi for Ladies. Whenever I was travelling in a bus, if a person of the opposite gender was sitting on the Ladies’ seat, I would never ask him to get up and voice my rights. I felt I was strong enough like any other man to stand on my feet and travel. Nobody had to give me a seat just because I belonged to the “weaker” sex. This was in early years of college when my feminism was at a very nascent stage.

As time passed, we came to study a lot of feminist writers each with his/her own sense of feminism. One such theory stuck to me-that of fighting the system from within which simply means use the rights given to you to fight and get more rights. This should go on until you are on an equal footing with whoever you are fighting against. I started asking men to get up from the Ladies’ seat.

It’s been five years since college now and I land here in Bangalore for my diploma film. And I realized that to fight is easy when you know the language of the enemy. Even Gandhi knew English. But if you don’t then you can go on abusing the person for the rest of your life and it would be merely like a menacing fly hovering around your ear. I thought I will learn or at least understand Kannada by the end of my stay in Bangalore. I overestimated my linguistic skills or rather I did not find a suitable teacher. At the moment I can count from one to ten in Kannada and barely speak five other words beyond that. In my hope of deciphering the language, I landed, or rather crash landed into a situation in one of Bangalore buses.

Like every morning at 8.30 a.m. bus number 171, plying from Koramangala bus depot to Majestic bus depot, was jam-packed, for lack of a better word. I was frantically looking around for a seat, when I noticed these two men sitting on a ladies’ seat. “Aah! I must reach there before anyone else does.” I thought to myself.

If you have travelled by Bangalore buses, you would notice that practically everything is written in Kannada. If you are lucky, then maybe you will see a sign of a woman’s face with a bindi on her forehead, over a ladies’ seat and if Gods are happy with you, then you might see this written even in English. But I guess, in Bangalore even the Gods speak Kannada. Anyway, I noticed the sign above these two gentlemens’ seats and thanked my stars for my Visual Memory IQ, which helped me decipher the sign over their seats as similar to the one above the first seat which is definitely reserved for the ladies. I checked twice, nervously and when I was confident, I stepped forward.

All my feminism classes in college came to my mind - the heated discussions about fighting for one’s own rights, about voicing one’s opinions and for starting a revolution. Armed with a degree in literature and a tired tag of a woman student filmmaker, I marched forward towards the two men in question. All men around me started staring because the hard lines on my face spoke of a determined purpose in life. I looked down at the man sitting on the outer side of the seat and pointed to the LADIES sign above. “Ladies seat!” I said. The man looked at the sign and then looked at me, confused. He moved in his seat slightly raising my hopes higher.

And then the blow came. The man standing next to me instantly pointed out. “Not ladies madam! Handicap!” I looked at them for two whole seconds and trust me they were the longest two seconds of my life. I quickly moved away from there, my face pink with embarassment and anger. The men started talking and laughing in Kannada and that was the only time I thanked my stars that I didn’t know the language.

For the rest of the journey which lasted two full hours, I did not dare to look that side for fear of mocking glances. All my feminism melted away with the pink of my cheek.

Even today, whenever I ask a man to get up from a ladies’ seat, I remember the echo of those lines, “Not ladies madam! Handicap!”

P.S I am still at it...

2006-11-10T03:03:00.000-08:00

Her face smeared with red,
Echoing calls of the revolution,
And then, a shriek of silence,
Up in the air, victory beckons...

P.S Durga K C, 22, a college student, photographed by Min Bajracharya became an icon of the Chhiyallis ko Jan Andolan (2046 - according to the Nepali calendar - People's Movement) - which forced the king to lift the ban on political parties and hand over power.

hEadliNeS tOdaY

2006-11-06T03:00:00.000-08:00

a 23 yeaR oLd IT proFessiOnal MurRDered;

17000 POlicemEn-tO-bE oN a raMpaGe of lOOt and moLestaTion iN gHaZiabaD;

ShIA womEn cAn nOw iniTiate diVoRCE PROcEEDings;

a WomAn PanchAYat leAder iN bIKAner (raJASthaN) is dUly FightIng fOR woMen IN a Man's wOrlD;

A 75 YEar Old woMan dies In kArNATAkA as she Waits FOR goDot hUNgry fOR thE Last 25 yeArs;

P.S somehow the newspaper today was very eventful for me...

The Key Witness

2006-11-06T02:47:00.000-08:00

I opened the morning newspaper nervously today. I was hoping to see the news not on the front page but perhaps on the third or the fourth page. But then I was also hoping not to see the news in the paper. Perhaps, by not being in the newspaper, the news would have lost it’s immediacy and importance in the everyday scheme of things of thousands of readers across the country and especially for me. But then, it was not even nation wide news. It was just something you and me would talk about for a few days and then it would vanish into oblivion in the stacks of newspapers that lie at your home and are ultimately given to the nearest kabadiwala.

On Sunday, 5th November, 2006, at around 7.30 p.m, I was witness to a murder right next to the street where I am currently living in Bangalore. I was what you could call a posthumous witness i.e. I didn’t even know I was witnessing a murder until much after it happened and it was too late to turn back time.

I was returning home. On the last street after which I take a turn, I saw three guys. I was at quite a distance from them and I could only see their figures. It was already quite dark and the street in question is almost always poorly lit. I heard one guy shouting. Trust me, it wasn’t something you hear everyday in Hindi cinema- the call for help. It was very different. In fact, it was so ordinary that I did not even interpret it as a call for help or even of pain. From afar, it just seemed like three boys fooling around. I geared myself up just as any girl would and was wary of the guys from a distance. As I approached the corner, I could smell the strong stench of liquor hanging morosely in the air. The two guys saw me approaching and ran away. I still did not smell a rat. I kept moving without paying any attention to the happenings on the other side of the street. Just as I turned the corner, I heard a loud thud behind me. I turned to look and was shocked to see the guy falling flat on his face right in front of my eyes. And that’s when I noticed it. I had just crossed a pool of blood. The victim was drenched in blood downwards from the lower half of his body. Apparently, he had been stabbed and had already lost a lot of blood.

Suddenly a lot of people gathered from nowhere. For a whole ten minutes, we kept thinking whether to approach this guy, pick him up, take him to the hospital or just leave him on the road. It was certain that nobody was leaving. But we were all waiting for the next person to take responsibility. After ten minutes, a group of six girls, who stayed in the vicinity, decided to take this boy to the hospital in their car. I rushed home to inform my neighbour who is a policeman. He called the police station immediately and the “matter was taken care of.”

A 23 year old IT professional was murdered by unidentified victims last evening, said the newspaper.This morning, I shuddered as I crossed the same street to reach the bus stop. Although the road had been washed, the night before, I could still see the stains prominently there. I smelled the cold air and with it came, the same stench. I realized then...it was not the stench of liquor...it was the stench of blood.

P.S there is always a false relief when you tell and retell the same incident over and over again. By repeating it too many times, one feels that it is one's own story-a figment of one's imagination...that by retelling it, the reality of it would somehow diminish and eventually disappear.

P.S musings on the title...

2006-11-02T00:21:00.000-08:00

i think the most interesting part of a letter is always in it's P.S which fully reads as a Post Script. a post script is always an after thought but it's is not just any add-on. it is one of the few important things that one misssed out in one's letters...hence it is interesting. Moreover, even when we say so much, theer is always something left to say...

for me, although the idea of creating a blog of my own had been there for quite some time now but the act of actually creating it was almost like an afterthought. i did it just by chance...while I was on the move...without really thinking about it...and so I thought of P.S...

EK TASVEER

2006-10-31T03:00:00.000-08:00

Neeli deewaron ka utra hua rang
Ek pankha puraana mitti odhe huye
Jhoolti rassi pe sookhte kapde,
Sab bahut pehchaane se lagte hain;

Shaayad mera hi ek khwab ho;

Wo aankhen jo tasveer ko dekhti ektak,
Aur tasveer mujhe,
Beedi ka jo dhuan nikla, pahuncha mujh tak
Kuch thehre huye;

Khwaab nahin haqeeqat si lage...

Shaayad ye khwaab hi ho
Yaa khwaabon ki tasveer ho,
Na jaane kab ye neend khule,
Yaa kab ye tasveer mujhse mile...

P.S This is the picture of Nikheel Aphale, my senior at NID. He had posted this picture on his orkut profile and I sent this poem to him as his testimonial.