Book-lovers beware

The scene: A beyond crowded CG Road, one of Ahmedabad's only so-called high streets, at 9:00pm on Sunday evening. Roads choc-a-block with traffic, haphazardly parked cars, commuters in Sunday slow-driving mode, benign chaos, and the like.

The characters: A hungry Nino, Nino's Mum on a mission, An irritated with traffic maneuvering Nino's Dad and a very entertained Geetaben, Nino's care-giver.

The premise: A book fair.

Ahmedabad suffers from a frightening paucity of book stores and book fairs. So when a really good book fair came along, I was not going to be one to miss it. I'd wanted to have a go at it alone, so I could pour over the books without Nino's patience wearing out or for that matter of Nino's Dad's as well. Somehow I couldn't work that out and we ended up going to the book fair, all of us together.

The unity of the Nino family however, was doomed given the timing and the various moods of the characters. So eventually I stayed at the book fair and Nino's Dad drove Nino and Geetaben to a takeaway place where they grabbed some food and decided to pick me up on the way back. Unfortunately, I wasn't done. So they parked the car and fed themselves, arguing over spilt food, traffic rules and why three-year-olds-cant-have-chewing-gum. Atleast five irritated and abrupt phone calls from Nino's Dad later, I emerged from the book fair at around 10:30pm, sweaty but grinning at the lot I'd managed to pick up for Nino.

(Nino's Mum, walking towards car, struggling with jhola, and two very heavy plastic bags, phone ringing in her butt pocket): Hi! I'm back.

Nino's Dad: (to no one in particular) She's back.

Nino's Mum: Sorry, it was just too good to be true, I picked some great books for Nino, lots of Eric Carle...

Nino (interrupting): Mama, why can't three year old's have chewing gum?

Nino's Dad (before Nino's Mum can answer her budding 20questions champ): Did you remember to take the credit card back?

Nino's Mum: Yes, of course, what do you mean, the last time was an accident. All right and then I spent....

Nino (interrupting): Why is it called chewing gum, mama, can we really eat gum?

Nino's Dad: Why don't both of you get settled so we can get going?

Nino's Mum, who is quite dejected at the lack of interest in the books she's picked up, turns to Geetaben and says, with big smile: I got lots of books Geetaben, some 80 per cent off! 14 books for Nino. Some to keep for later... some I ....

Geetaben: You din't pick up his shampoo and soap?

Summer Camp for kids in Ahmedabad

CEE, the Centre of Environment Education, is one of Ahmedabad's most cherished institutions. I've had several chances of working with the people there, and the campus, designed by the delightful Professor Neelkanth, is a treat to explore. With its ramps and dense foilage, the campus can transform into an oasis of quiet. Its easy for me to believe I'm trekking the Amazon here, so I assume Nino's imagination runs riot here. I take Nino there very often: they've a pond full of mouth-breeders, and Nino can stand and marvel at them for hours together. 'They really bring up their babies in their mouth?,' he asks everytime we go there, subconsciously lingering his gaze at my mouth.

CEE runs some fantastic camps for kids in the summer, and for all my enthusiasm and Nino's as well about the trees and the birds and the bees, the camps are for kids aged 6 years and older. Filled with hours exploring flora and art, there can't be a more satisfying pursuit in the city's notoriously hot summer afternoons.

If you're going, do let us know what it was like!

Turn off the lights

OJ Masi first turned the light on, here.

--

March 28, 2009, 8:30pm to 9:30pm. Try it. Turn off your lights at home for an hour. It should be particularly interesting and of importance for those of us with children. It's their future at stake, right? Ahmedabad has almost no powercuts, so the idea of a blackout, even if for an hour, should be fascinating for Nino. He knows he's got to save 'elecktricity', but well, does he know how different life would be for him without it?

Have a candle-light conversation with you kid. Sing aloud. Make shadows on the walls. Step out on the terrace and hear the sounds of the neighbourhood. Make dinosaur shapes from star constellations. Listen to heart beats. Whisper. Say a big thank-you to the lightbulb in the sky. Use a handmade fan. Blow on tiny curls that bounce back with such joy. And may be, if you're this side, you can watch a flock of egrets soar high above our high-rise, white lines of beauty and power, of white light amid a tar-grey sky.

Genes versus Gender

So we were driving down to an exhibition gallery in the outskirts of the city, run by parents of Nino's friend at school. The path was dust-battered and bumpy, with lots of village nativity scenes thrown it for good measure. The perfect way to spend a Sunday evening.

Somewhere between a bump and the changing of the radio station, Nino goes, and I quote verbatim, 'Aww, mama, look, a baby buffalo. So sweet!'.

I'm about to agree when there's a screech of tyres and the normally reticent husband turns in his seat to give me a venomous stare.

'What?' I say.

'Look what you've made my son into,' he says. 'So sweet?'

'He could have said anything in the world. How tiny it is. How brown. How delicious it would be if we had it for food. But awww, how sweet?' Nino's Dad rants.

I'm tempted to reply, but am too shocked and humoured by the insinuation that I've turned my son into a 'not boy' kind of a boy. Good thing I din't tell him about what Nino said on Saturday, I thought.

--

On Saturday, a whole jhing bang of us travelled to my city, Gandhinagar, where a spring festival held amidst the valley banks of the barren Sabarmati showcased some of Gujarat's and India's tribal life and art.

There were a lot of tribal weapons on display, including the famed bow and arrow, slingbacks and some really fancy swords. Nino and Karanbhai were totally awed by all the fine display of swordsmanship and they both took turns at using a proper bow with iron-tipped arrows. Surprisingly, Nino hit bulls eye, and the old uncle who was manning the shop was mighty happy.

He'd persuaded Karanbhai to buy a nasty looking dagger (quite like the one Arnold Schwarzenegger carries in the eminently re-watchable Commando), a fake, not-sharp one with a maliciously curved blade, and Nino was adamant that he wanted one too.

I'm not one for buying them 'weapons' and I admonished both Karanbhai and the shopkeeper, but Nino was growing more vocal and I wanted to see the remaining half of the exhibition without a cranky child tugging at my already loose pants. So I gave in and bought it for Nino.

'Is it really sharp?' Nino asked me, the gleam of having being handed something forbidden shining through his beady eyes.

'Yes,' I said. 'It's sharp, and mighty and very dangerous.'

Karanbhai was already showing his 'moves' with the dagger and talking in his 'dhish, dhish, dhishum' language about the thieves he's going to beat up and the bad people, and all that ilk. The shopkeeper asked Nino what he would do with his dagger.

Nino swayed his dagger with a flourish of his hand, the kind that would have made his dad proud, and said, 'I'm going to chop some gajar.'

What if God was one of us...

I see him often, walking purposefully in the flat compound, a smile ready to show up under the thin moustache.

I smile and say kem cho, a generic greeting that means little but just hello. He smiles back, making me smile wider and more honestly in return.

Three times a week I meet him in the lift, at 6:00am, as I head out for a workout, a broom and a plastic bag in hand. He collects garbage from the flats, picking up the those remains of our lives that we've thoughtlessly discarded.

Sometime back I was at a mall close to where we live, struggling with bags of groceries, a very cranky Nino refusing to walk unless carried. I was flustered, tired and hoping for a miracle.

Bhabhi, Bhabhi, he yelled, running towards me in a clean yellow and green tee-shirt and cap, the logo of a shop on the tee, worn like a tag of acceptance. He helped me towards the car, God-sent in his timing and enthusiasm. You work here, I asked him, and he smiled and said, here and four more places.

This Friday, I opened the door to a lobby littered with garbage - street dogs had come looking for their food and the dustbins are an easy prey. There's dog shit on the door mat. Cursing, I get a plastic bag and wear in my hand, intending to pick up the crap, unaware that he's already at work in the dark corner of the lobby.

Rehva do, bhabhi, ae to maru kaam che, he says.
Leave it, bhabhi, its my work.

He smiles and gets back to picking up the litter, the shit, scrubbing the gravy stains, pushing the vegetable peels into his bag. Thank you, I say. Tamaru naam shu che? What's your name? Bhagwan, he says. God.

Later that morning, in the parking, I see a middle-aged neighbour screaming, 'Bhangi, bhangi'. I'm a little shocked at the use of the word, shocked more to see Bhagwan running towards the man. Sweepers and garbage-pickers are always a particular caste here, a vocation that is thrust upon them by destiny.

Bhangi's have been India's worst-kept tradition since the medieval times. 'Untouchables' delegated to cleaning toilets, collecting garbage and handling dead bodies. It's a malaise that cannot be cured - it's a caste you're born into, that no amount of prayers or education can wish away or change.

Mahatma Gandhi coined a term for them, Harijan, people of Hari, or God, but the words did little to dilute the stigma, the vicious racism that they live with everyday.

I wonder what his parents thought of when they named him Bhagwan. Generations of people who had accepted or given in or were forced into their fate of being the keepers of India's dirt, tangible and that of our minds. Was it hope for a better future, faith in a God who treats them no better than society does?

It's an irony that is more cruel than beautiful, and I wonder if he hated the name growing up, in municipal schools with classmates who were perhaps only reiterating the jokes and the slurs they picked up from their parents. He's a young man, less than 30 I guess, and I wonder if he's married, has children of his own. I wonder what he tells them, segregated so deeply from society, with a sense of submission so subconscious that they probably know no other way of life, have never had the freedom, the undeniable right of a human to 'choose', to make a choice. What has he named them, they who have a future that has been pre-determined before they were born?

Slumdog Millionaire: Freida Pinto's red carpet reign - Also Footloose Fridays - I

Okay, *confession coming up* the the words in the post title are a perfect way to tell you I've an OCD with alliteration.

I haven't' seen Slumdog Millionaire yet. So if you're looking for a review, I'll be able to point out to some really good ones. Here, Here and Here. Whatever your rationale is on what should be depicted as India's reality, you're likely to find some provoking thoughts at these blogs.

I'm not likely to see the movie in the near future either. Considering that the only nights free for movies are no-school nights aka Friday and Saturday, considering that all the goddamn night shows in Ahmedabad for the movie are called Slumdog Crorepati, aka, Hindi version, and considering that the husband would rather not spend Sunday afternoon locked up in a auditorium filled with Gujjus who're talking nineteen-to-a-dozen, I'm very likely to be the only person who gets to watch the movie next year, when it goes on DVD.

So what am I doing here? Try this for a mix. Throw in an inclination to climb onto the Slumdog blog bandwagon that's in full force right now. Then stir in some serious reading time spent on following leading lady's fashionable antics, thanks to the delightful High Heel Confidential and the formidably informed Catherine at Red Carpet Fashion Awards (Both links show the complete fashion evolution of Freida since Slumdog started garnering eyeballs). And then, garnish, with an idea picked up from Sujatha's blog: 'Fridays are those kinds of days, footloose and fancy free, deserving of total timepass posts'.

I've always cringed seeing Indian actresses on red carpets abroad. Even Aishwarya Rai, who could have the world's best stylists fighting over her, has always looked a tad uncomfortable in western wear - though I must say her recent appearances have shown a new confidence with low necks and drapes. Preity Zinta gets it right sometimes with the glamour quotient, but she insists on dressing down and wearing off-the-rack pret too often. The other set includes the likes of Nandita Das who, admirably wear traditional stuff and come off looking gorgeous most of the time, but for a dowdy moment here or there. There's no experimentation, no tease, no awe, no thankgod-no-Dior/no Channel/no Versace/ no Manish Malhotra moment.

That's why pretty Fredia Pinto warms the cockles of my fashion-loving heart: From the predictable classic brands to new emerging hot names, from simple silhouettes to draping ones, to a bold move with a Christian Lacroix that looked like a bomb but got her kudos for her bravado - she's made the clothes work for her, wearing them, instead of the other way round. Unlike the Indian press, the western press can be quite unforgiving, splashing errand-running-outfits on front page, sealing the epitaph on most actresses. But even here, she's managed to emerge fairly unscathed, bucking the diktat here and there, wearing the trends instead of just following them. Maybe it helps to have a good stylist, but there are plenty of examples around of people who've had the best and come off looking like prom queens.

This girl is comfortable in her skin. She doesn't do makeup that's shades lighter or ages her up too much. She's 23 and looks like it. There's no gauche-ness with western wear, and hair piled up, left down, or pulled up in a ponytail, her smile wins more fans than critics.

Freida is one of the most watched, clicked, google-ed actresses today, and there are more reports and forecasts about what she'll be wearing to the Oscars, than there are about Hollywood's mainstream actresses.

Red Carpet's Catherine sums up the western press reaction towards Freida's fashion choices pretty well: 'How this new kid on the block is getting couture for her first red carpet season, is nothing short of outstanding.'

And the last word in fashion in blogworld, the Fug girls, have this to say about her: 'We love Slumdog's meteoric rise for giving us Freida Pinto. Six months ago, we hadn't even heard of her; now she's dominating the industry's highest-stress period of endless junkets and red-carpet appearances. And instead of cracking under pressure Pinto is delivering a master class on how to step into the spotlight with grace, an infectious smile'.

Here are some of my favourite dresses on her:
(Pictures courtesy: High Heel confidential - in some pictures the pic on the right compares the dress as worn on runway/designer's website. Click to enlarge pic)










And the only time I've absolutely hated what she was wearing, is when, unfortunately, she was in traditional wear.


I doubt she's going to be wearing any Indian designer to the Oscars or the BAFTAs (this Sunday), but I will join the world in scouring for her face on the red carpet melee. Shine on Freida! And then perhaps I could raid your closet.

Merry Christmas!

May there be lots of sweet memories to savour...

May wishes, said and unsaid come true... and may the good man with the jolly laugh and endless generosity bring peace and goodwill to us all.

And if you're this side of the world, on the 27th, please join us for Nino's 3rd budday!

A weekend of wisdom

He lies in bed, curled up, seeking comfort from the primordial foetal position he knew not so far back. Racked with cramps, he groans intermittently, his favourite snake show on tv not enough to block the pain. Now and then, he props himself up, smiling as he sees the Black Mamba swallow her rodent prey, flopping down again as it slithers away.

I lie down next to him, sighing, lacing my fingers into his, breathing his sick-baby smell. He reaches out to caress my forehead, lingering in the bunch of wild hair.

'My tummy hurts,' he says.

I don't know what to say. I've finished saying 'I know', 'I'm sorry', 'It'll get better', so I just sigh and clutch his fingers tighter.

'It's okay Mama,' he says. 'It'll get better.'

--

We're on our weekly Saturday gallivanting trip, and I've brought him to a marvelous piece of architecture known as Amdavad Ni Gufa. A sub-terrain cave structure, it looks like a mammoth turtle peeping out, and its cavernous interiors are painted with animals, people and trees by MF Hussain.

It's the first time Nino's seen a cave, and he's a little frightened by the lack of light - and the 'funny things that happen to his voice'. We sit on the floor, chatting, and my normally boisterous child is quiet, looking around.

'Are you frightened?' I ask him.

'Are you sure there are no bears in this cave?' he asks me.

'Of course. This cave is for people.'

We move to the the pathway that circles the cave and I peel an orange for Nino to eat. He carefully gathers the peels and seeds and puts them back in the plastic bag I'd brought the fruit in.

'That was a good thing you did,' I tell him.

'I know,' he says, 'Littering is a bad idea, no?'

We're returning from an organic fair on Sunday afternoon, and I've a pretty cactus pot in one hand, warm sun on my back and Nino's hand in the other hand, holding me tight.

'You make me so happy, my heart will burst,' I tell him.

'I'll go home and fix it,' he says.

--

We've been doing phonetics on the laptop all evening, and Nino's Dad calls him out on the terrace for some rough tumble, boys style.

'No, papa,' he says.

'My battery is low.'

Because unity in diversity, strength in numbers, and anything similarly hopeful will do

I'm wearing black today.

Just because I overheard a stranger's dinner-time conversation at a restaurant last night: 'Show your solidarity with Mumbai. Everyone wear black tomorrow.' It's the only way I can.

It's a bleak Monday morning in Ahmedabad - rainy, chilly, and grey - just the kind that wraps your soul and takes it one notch lower. What do we believe in anymore? Or who? Is this the kind of world we want to bring our children into - or are children who are raised into sane adults the need of the hour. Tales of terror on the tv, over the phone, over international calls, over drinks, at the basin as Nino asks me, 'Ma, what's a terrorist?' What is safe anymore?

I wait for routine to salvage this part pain-part numbness state, deadlines are most welcome today. I've already said so much in my brain, that it refuses to take the shape of sentences any more. Let someone else say it for me today:

'In sympathy with those whose pain so hurts my own heart but whose tears I cannot touch, whose wounds I cannot heal, and whose grief I cannot relieve.'
A 'Pakistani Mumbaikar' mourns the city he loved here:
http://pakistaniat.com/2008/11/28/mumbaikar-mumbai-terror-pakistani-view/

'So I’m booking flights to Mumbai. I’m going to go get a beer at the Leopold, stroll over to the Taj for samosas at the Sea Lounge, and watch a Bollywood movie at the Metro. Stimulus doesn't have to be just economic.'
Suketu Mehta talks about why India's megalopolis is plundered, again and again and again:
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/29/opinion/29mehta.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=why%20they%20hate%20mumbai%20New%20york%20times&st=cse

And because a city can sometimes be a memory so intimate, you are embarrassed that you stumbled upon it.
' And I’d smile smugly knowing that piece of gorgeousness was born and bred mine. ' Orange Jammies talks about her home here:
http://wisdomwearsneonpyjamas.wordpress.com/2008/11/29/of-home-heart-and-horror/

Of milestones and thanksgiving

I've been wanting to do this post for two days now, but I've held on to my joy like a miser, savouring it, content in holding it out till it's but about to fade in the jungle of everyday images, and then I promised myself, I'd write it out, live it all over again.

Something changed that joy today, made me shiver at my inability to fully enjoy a moment in hand instead of storing it away, not acknowledging that this too shall pass, that I've this now and for now alone. I'll come back to this cause, but first, the joy.

Nino saw his first movie (and his first movie in a theater) over the weekend, a choice that I fought hard over - with myself ofcourse - even as the other me reiterated the decision to keep him away from mass marketing as much as I could. But the decision was easy - I'd settled for a go-between. We took Nino to see a 3D film on the awe inspiring creatures that call the oceans their home. And while I was totally split on whether he was old enough to watch 3D - the 24/7 shrink that is the world wide web said it was okay, my dad was livid and said NO as loudly as possible over the phone line, my m-i-l recounted her nauseous state while a relative (come on, opinions are free!) spoke about how her daughter, almost 4 when she saw the movie, had gotten very disturbed with the experience and had sleepwalked - what finally did it for me was a nice and quick chat with the guys who run the damn theater.

The Science City is one of the many institutions that Ahmedabad is proud to be home to, and I added my self to its fan-list after experiencing a kind of service and ambiance that we don't expect from public institutions in India. When I called the IMAX theater at the City on Sunday morning, I never really expected that the phone would get answered. It was answered by a polite, Hindi-speaking gent, who patiently listened to the various theories I'd heard about children and 3D, venturing an opinion once I'd done ranting. Well, its perfectly fine for your kid's age, he said, you might want him to sit with you though, sometimes they get scared with the sound effects.

Okay, I thought. This I can handle. So Nino, very excited, dressed in a shirt and jeans and wearing his 'big boys' shoes that he usually hates, along with his parents, drove down to see this beautiful place filled with huge geometric shapes, a windmill, a massive globe-shaped planetarium and the movie, ofcourse. 'I'm going to a movie', he kept chanting all through the ride, following it up with 'Can three-year-olds see this movie?' (we usually tell him he can't accompany us on our once-a-month multiplex trip because he's not eighteen yet).

The movie required us to wear special glasses to be able to experience the 3D images, and Nino's swallowed quite a bit of his cheeks as well. He loved the whole experience - the huge screen (and IMAX screen is nearly 10 times larger than a regular multiplex screen), the 30 minutes movie, the fishes and the sharks. And like the friendly guy on the telephone said, he was slightly uncomfortable only when the sound effects came on as a pair of nasty predator fishes came on screen. Nino was an angel - spoke softly when he wanted to ask a question, held his own ticket, waited patiently in the long queue for the exit. It was the kind of behaviour that wants you to promptly start breeding again, but for the wise dame of wisdom who sits in my head.

We walked around the fantastic campus for a bit, running down massive ramps and playing hop-scotch on squares and circles. It's a place that makes you feel free and child-like again, and curious too, which is why I think its planning has been such a success. We also caught a musical fountain show - said to the biggest in India - and while Nino eventually tired of the 20 minute show, I sobbed unabashedly during the finale as water jets soared high to AR Rahman's Maa tujhe salaam. No country like this to raise our children, and I mean that even more today.

It was such a beautiful evening - we had so much fun, and I was able to enjoy Nino experiencing a 'new', a 'first' - something I've become obsessed with because I missed many firsts of his when I started working. He talked non-stop on the way back, describing the movie and exclaiming how the fishes 'came right here' (showing the space near his face) when he wore the 3D glasses. This was the first time Nino's Dad was seeing a 3D film too, and for a few minutes, it was like having two boys, all excited and yakkity, sharing their me-too's, bonding the way only experiences allow. And I was so nervous before we left that I forgot to take the camera - but in a way, it was good, because I could not have gone hands-free with all the hand clutching the three of us did in joy. It was a major milestone - and it went picture perfect.

Then on Tuesday we crossed another big milestone. Nino chose not to wear his diapers to school, after some prompting from this teacher. And he was fine - even used the loo by himself - and totally confident when he walked out after school. It's a big deal - this diaper weaning affair - and I can go on about it, but instead will say that pride filled my chest and I smiled my way through a deadlines-filled day. He got ice-cream after lunch, and I got a round of claps at work from a team that had overhead my joy over the phone as I shared the news with an equally proud extended family.

And then today I found this heart-wrenching story of a little girl in Congo, her journey to find her missing mother, even as she carries her infant niece along. It's a common tale all around us - this opportunity cost. In our protective Indian family system it often crops up as the sibling syndrome: elder siblings bearing the brunt of novice parents, before the systems are perfected for the younger one. 'The cost of an alternative that must be forgone in order to pursue a certain action'. And increasingly, children are becoming the world's opportunity cost in our attempt for political or religious freedom, racial expression or just pure capitalism.

Eleven-year-old Protegee cries while she carries her sobbing niece Reponse, 3, on her back as they searched for relatives in a sea of people in eastern Congo. Photo credit: Jerome Delay, AP

"Hundreds of children have been separated from their families since fighting flared in eastern Congo in August and more than 1,600 children in the province were seeking their parents last week alone, according to UNICEF. The children's young ages and inability to give detailed information — plus the lack of official records in the Congolese countryside — make it even more difficult to track down their families," AP said.

Those who will read that story in full will have to face the same questions the photographer, who is a father of two daughters, faces - accepting the fact that Protegee was willfully abandoned by her mother driven by despair and poverty. It's a thought that seems so alien to us - giving up our children - we who are fed on the heroic tales of mothers who lay their lives down for their children. Did Protegee's mother really have no option? Is there a state of 'no options' when it comes to children? What are we trying to make/achieve/strive for/survive for, if we have no children to share it with?

But today there are no tears, just a growing resolve to say thanks. I'm glad I live in a country, in circumstances that protect my son, albeit currently, from Protegee's fate. I'm glad his tears are only about a nick on the knee, about force-fed breakfast, about an itchy sweater, about a book not being re-read, of granparents who visit only on weekends.

Civic rage

I'm seething with rage - the trembling-body, tears-threatening-to-spill-out kind of rage.

We moved to these flats that we currently live in a year back, uprooting ourselves from what was home and familiar to a new place where we're yet to make acquaintances, forget friends.

This morning, as I walked into the compound after my morning workout at 7, I saw a bunch of men mercilessly beating a young boy, who was surprisingly not wearing any pants. I enquired and nobody bothered to answer. So I walked ahead and saw a few women standing, silent spectators to the on-goings. What happened, I asked them. Two gutter covers (sort of like a manhole covering) - those non-descript dark grey metal rectangles that we drive/walk over without a second thought - had gone missing. It was the first time something has been stolen in our flats in 15 years, the lady said, stressing 15 years. This young kid was on duty as the security guard the previous night. And because of this, he was stripped, and beaten repeatedly.

I walked on to home and getting Nino ready for school, that young boy's face like a silent intrusion that crept in everytime I gave up my guard of routine. Eventually, routine gave way, and anger started to build up, at that particular bunch of men - most of whom are semi-retired, who sit on the benches in the compound gossiping, with whom Nino's Dad and I have individually had a few run-ins about those mundane issues that are the small print of living in a flat - lift etiquette, leaking water pipes, unaccounted for maintenance money, etc.

I walked back down purposefully from my 10th floor home - the security guards having stopped the lift till the flat's committee members apologized for the beating - and walked down to see one particularly rude man who'd been involved in the beating, bellowing. Next to him stood the police, hands on their hips, their expressions plainly stating that they'd seen this before, and couldn't wait to get it over and done with. The kid - now clothed - was crying, and was eventually manhandled into the waiting police jeep. 'Wait', I said. 'You do know that he was mercilessly beaten, right? That he was stripped and robbed of his dignity? That people here took the law into their own hands?' Everyone froze, and then, the cop nonchalantly stepped into the jeep and drove away. The same group of men who had participated in the beating stood around, watching me. 'Savages,' I said, breaking my resolve to use foul language. 'He was a kid'. A committee member came up to me and asked me to calm down. 'I'm a journalist,' I said. 'I'll have you hauled up for beating up that kid black and blue.' I asked them what police station the kid had been taken to - and I received silence as an answer. 'You're not the only ones who know how to beat up people,' I said, willing my words to shame them, willing them to try me.

It's the first time in my seven years as a journalist that I've used the press as a threat. And while it seemed like a great idea when we horsed around about wielding the power of the pen, it dint work in real life. There was no fear of me or my opinions - the bullies won in the end. I've no illusions about must have happened at the police station - the kid must have been beaten some more, the cops and the flat guys must have sat together and talked about how 'outsiders' are ruining Gujarat's 'safe state' image - most of the security guards in Ahmedabad are migrant workers from Bihar and Uttar Pradesh, sometimes Rajasthan - and the actual perpetrators of the violence must have driven back home, feeling all ballsy about their adventure-for-the-day.

Was it that I thought the beating was undeserved considering the petty nature of the alleged crime? Maybe. I remember watching a friend beat up another teenager - this time a lift boy - because he had fondled his four-year-old daughter and kissed her on the lips. At that time I felt none of these feelings. How different am I then from the bunch I condemn?

What is it that prompts us to resort to physical violence? Are we merely frustrated individuals, passing the rage on, like some psychological variant of Darwin's chain of evolution? What satisfaction does whacking someone, repeatedly, give - there must be something to it, so many people seem to enjoy indulging in it these days. And are we, who watch, sometimes speak, but give it up after venting a few emotions, any different? A perpetrator is one who indulges physically in the act of terror, as also the one who has the power to stop it, but doesn't. And also the one who may not have the power to stop it, but refuses to speak up, attempt to stop the crime. What deserves to be addressed with violence - and what does not?

Fists have become a language everywhere in my once-secular city - from traffic snarls to sectarian issues. Are we angrier as a city/state/country? Half a dozen people have been greviously injured or murdered in the city in the last year, in arguments over parking-lots.

I now no longer come from Gandhi's non-violent Gujarat, and instead hail from a state that, to use a friend's words, annihilated its own. I wrote on generalisations attached to a region sometime back - does this now mean that instead of Gujaratis being entrepreneurial but docile banias, our future generations will be referred to as a violent race whose rage boils over periodically? Historical monuments have disappeared overnight here - their cultural significance diminished in face of religious sentiment. We're the new Mahmud of Ghazni - a historical figure who children in the state have come to abhor after countless folktales about how he repeatedly plundered and butchered the state and its people. It's like the Crusades all over again - just that this time we're fighting for and against a bunch of self-perpetuated misconceptions instead of a single one.

I sit here, typing this, tears pooling on my chin, ashamed of myself. Of my inability to having taken up the cudgels for this kid. This is not what my parents, righteous government servants who seemed like a misfit in a world that worked on the power of money, raised me for. This is not what my son will look up to me for. This is not what you, my unseen friends, have to come to read me for.

Towards sweeter mouths and hearts

I went to Nino's school today to share a small chat with the children about Eid-ul-Fitr. Years of winning inter-school and then inter-college debates have left me with a laid back attitude about speaking in front of a crowd, a very matter-of-fact confidence that comes from having bellowed your opinions on stage (then) and on paper (now).

I was surprised therefore to feel actual qualms that kept me up at night, had me hyperventilating in the morning and generally made paisa-vasool of my deo. It was not just because I wondered how to explain the significance of the festival to kids between two and six years - it was also because of the various hyperboles this festival has come to be associated with.

When Nino's teacher had asked if any parent wanted to speak about Eid to the kids - I saw grown women shuffling feet and looking at each other. I volunteered, and one mother remarked that maybe I could teach them about the festival as well. Unlike its currently socio-political image, Ahmedabad was founded by a Muslim king, and his dynasty ruled over it for generations. Most of the city's famous landmarks are Islamic in nature or design or origin, and old city was once home to the kind of diversity that inspirational books are made of.

Today, Ahmedabad is a twin-city. Majority-dominated and economically-affluent western suburbs and Minority-dominated eastern suburbs. Deepening the divide is the Sabarmati that splits the two suburbs - the same river, on the banks of which, Mahatma Gandhi launched his satyagraha movement for a free, but united India. Most schools in the western suburbs are dominated by Hindu students, and our children have fewer, and more often none, Muslim friends. It's a sharp cry from my own childhood - my best friend in the early years was Nazia who later migrated to Saudi Arabia. Eid in college was marked by sharing yummy biryani from one massive plate at friends' homes. It was even better when Eid and Diwali were celebrated almost together - the lights, the smiles, the joy, the hopes - all were the same.

As I walked into the class area, armed with sewaiyan, I hoped to talk about a festival that's also called Methi Eid, where hearts and stomachs are made sweeter by the joys of bonding with family and friends. Nino was pleasantly surprised, but all grown up, and he let me talk with all his friends, smiling smugly as they called out my name and told me their favourite sweets: strawberry ice-cream topping the list.

I talked about the crescent moon, celebrating Chand Raat with mehendi and shopping, and warm hugs to be shared. Eid Mubaarak, I said, and the words echoed back, dented in a few places by small tongues using new syllables. I smiled, hopeful that I had managed to give them a peek into a religion that many of them are likely to grow up to fear or hate. Someday, I hope to read to Nino Faiz and Ghalib, as we soak in the setting sun on Sarkhej Roza, stop by the Siddi Syed Jali with the words of Iqbal echoing... Mazhab nahin sikhata apas men bair rakhna, Hindi hain ham, watan hai Hindustan hamara! (Faith does not teach us hatered, we are all the people of the Indus valley, and our nation is the land of the Indus, India!)

Sweetened mouths and fuller tummies later, we parted ways at the gate as the kids streamed out to greet mothers/grandmothers/fathers. 'Why are you here?' one mother asked. 'To talk about Eid.' 'But you are not Muslim, are you?' she said. 'No,' I said. 'Eid Mubaarak to you as well.'

--

I've just come to know that Nino has reportedly embarked on a hugging-spree. Frantic calls from the mother-in-law, whose concern over sewaiyan-stained tapestry has reached Valium-prescription levels, say Nino has hugged the living room furniture, the plants in the balcony and the puritan brahmin cook with single-minded dedication: 'Eid Mudaarak - kheer aapone' (Eid Mubarak, give me kheer!)

A season of hate

It's the NRI (non-resident Indian, or non-reliable Indian or non-required Indian: take your pick) season in Ahmedabad, when far-flung sons and daughters of the soil return for weddings, family meets, looking up on loved ones, or just a bit of shopping.

It's a mixed bag of feelings - as a couple, Nino's Dad and I have pretty much lost most of our friends to foreign lands, so we relish having our favourite adult company back and around, so much so that even school-nights have a party feel to them. But with these dear friends, comes the attitude that some expats are famous for: a right towards India, but no responsibility.

All these years, we had to grapple with the that's-what's-stopping-India kinda comments. They cribbed about not being allowed to vote, when I know for a fact most of them were too tied up personally/professionally when they were Indian citizens and had to exercise their vote. At times like these, we'd politely point out the positive changes, pull them up when they broke traffic rules, or pee-ed in the open, only because, well, you can't do it abroad.

This year, unnervingly, it's all been about religion. It could be because of the recent bombings in the country and this city and it definitely is because all of the expats we know belong to one religion. Removed from what the citizens are going through, or the people of India are going through, are these sons and daughters who believe in exercising their opinion on racial discord loudly, and repeatedly. Needless to say, Islam has taken a beating here - the recent activities of the so-called Indian Mujahideen being to blame.

And increasingly, I find myself side-lined as I look at friends I bonded with years ago. The words drip with hate, the verdicts are extreme, the judgement severe and unashamed. And as they turn to me, mouthing the now-famous phrase every right-winged person uses, 'pseudo-secularist', I wonder what happened to my friends who loved Mughali cuisine, spent hours listening to Sufi music, admired Mughal architecture, and adored artists/singers/painters/poets who all happened to be Muslim.

It was pointless reiterating the Muslims who've lived and loved India in a far more fitting manner than us. It was pointless quoting statistics that the world's fascination with Islamic militancy has managed to cloak the other terror acts in the world, and in India, that kill and maim more people and homes than Muslim extremists do. My voice struggles to be heard over the verbal gherao - and I wonder who these people are, who don't live here, but who come, to divide and help someone like them rule.

And then, I found this picture. And as the tears began to flow, I realised my friends could no longer look at this picture and marvel at its detail, the peace on the face of the subjects, the sharpness of the the camera. They wouldn't see the resplendent colours of the Indian flag, the child's curiosity, the father's loving glance. They would see a cap and a beard, and no more.



I remember my mother telling me a few days back that she had walked into my grandmother's room in the evening, to find her bowing her head, hands clasped to the forehead to the sound of the prayers read in the Mecca, on tv. Amma, 90, Tam-Bhram, had said, verbatim, 'I love the way they pray. It sounds so good. This tv channel is very nice, it shows all Gods.' Amma passed away a few days ago, and my uncle, one who's labelled 'pseudo-secularist' much more often than I am, had said that Amma was a 'true Hindu'. One who believed in the powers of the almighty, no matter what his/her name. One who believed in the power of spirituality to heal, no matter what the name, the method, or the requirement. One who believed in believing in the best in people. Just like the scriptures said - just as Hinduism, quintessentially a philosophy not a religion, urged. I hope to be a Hindu like her too.

--

For those, who are willing to listen and see, let's start with this. And then write to me, we'll talk it out.

--

pic courtesy: Reuters

A parent's nightmare

I opened my inbox today to see the name of a dear friend in the mail. 'This happened to my brother' the mail said, and for a second I wondered how she too had fallen prey to the mass-guilt-inducing mails that spam our lives. Not like her.

Then I read the mail, and sat at my desk, shocked. It wasn't a forward from an obscure part of the continent that promised to send 60p to an obscure couple in the Philippines. This was her little cousin brother, all of six years, who almost did not make it home because of his school's policies.

This six-year-old child, and I cannot repeat it enough, six-year-old, was dropped by his school bus, on the wrong stop - a good kilometre away from his usual drop. The child walked home by himself, even as his frantic parents got no answers from the teachers/staff on board the bus. It was raining, and today's times are filled with people who constitute every mother's worst nightmare. I can only imagine how anxious, angry and vulnerable his parents must have felt, not knowing where to find the child. I shudder when I place myself in their position - and rage rises fast.

It gets worse. The school - a respectable one, considered among the better schools in our city - refuses to acknowledge that a mistake was made. Even more infuriatingly, the parents queries are not being entertained. Over the years - and I know more than a few parents who send their children to this particular school - no head counts are done in the buses, there is no way to ensure you child does not get lost.

I remember when I was kid, if there was a problem at school, parents could just walk in to the Principal's office - they'd share a cup of tea/coffee, and things would be sorted. Because back then, the 'management' cared as much about students as the parents themselves. Because back then, a school represented a window to the world, not an abandonment in the world.

This is a shocking incident - for parents, even more so. The child's father has come up with a unique way of expressing his angst, of getting through to the school's management. You can read more about it here.

This doesn't happen to all of us - but what if it did? Nino's Dad and I have so far avoided thinking about the school-buses that Nino will probably have to use to get to school. There are a few schools were using the school bus is compulsory. Who will watch over him there, if the teachers are too busy chatting and the driver doesn't give a damn? I know I'm going to loose sleep over this one.

River of Sorrow

The floods in Bihar are the worst floods India has seen in 50 years. Millions have been displaced due to the Kosi - called Bihar's River of Sorrow for its frequent flooding - the actual number of the dead will be clear once the waters recede.

One of the poorest states in the country is facing the brunt of nature and government apathy. One of the many individuals/organisations doing their bit towards Bihar in Ahmedabad, Shvaas has a number of options for you to contribute/help with. Their sister organisation, that's overlooking the relief efforts, Goonj, is based in Delhi and has tie-ups with numerous agencies across India. You're likely to find such a group in your city as well. Please help.



Items needed:

Material support- Dry ration, Medicines, candles & matchbox, torch & batteries, utensils, tarpaulin, feeding bottles, buckets, ropes, bedsheets, all kind of usable clothing & footwear.

Logistical support-* Transport support to reach the material to effected areas. * Space for collection centers* Facilities for local pickups, * Transportation of material from Ahmedabad to GOONJ processing centers in Delhi, Chennai & Mumbai* Volunteers for sorting, packing in Ahmedabad, Shvaas

Large quantities of- Rice, Chiwra, biscuits, packed eatables, Water purifier tablets, Basic medicines, Sarees and children clothing, Tarpaulins or thick polythene, Bedsheets, Export surplus/ Cotton cloth for making sanitary napkins, Mosquito nets, Stoves, cooking and water storage utensils/buckets

If you're in Ahmedabad and can contribute, kindly call up Nirali at this number: 0999 893 7680. Alternatively, you can drop off the items/walk in to volunteer at Punjabi Sewa Samaj, Next to Navrangpura bus-stop. Timings: 10am to 6pm.

A prescription for reality

I'm a little bummed after the bomb attacks in Ahmedabad - and even as I file my stories on the whodunit, I can't help wonder why. I mean, ofcourse, I know the socio-religious-economic conditions that ferment such hate - but why? Why people who had no role to play? A fruit-vendor who barely makes a living selling expensive fruit that his children never get to eat - a woman buying a few apples: was she fasting, was it for her child, an aged parent at home? Why the hospitals? Why people who had the decency to stand up and do something - offer a helping hand, a pint of blood, a few words of courage?

Last night, Nino's Dad and I watched M. Night Shyamalan's The Happening - It's not a great movie - the critics were right and not racially motivated as some of the press in the US suggested - and it's solution to the way we lead our lives and affect our planet is no better than the terror strikes that happen. Who decided than man can be held responsible for perpetrating a crime and nature can't? And if everything is quid pro quo, as in nature is just paying us back in our own coin, who made nature the magnanimous divinity she is?

Anyways, so I was totally bummed, and then I saw this picture:

'A woman kisses her child as they make their way through the flooded village of Godadhar in Faridpur July 27, 2008. Several areas in north and northeastern Bangladesh remain inundated with floodwaters after the embankments of the rivers Jamuna and Padma collapsed due to heavy rainfall earlier this week.'

She's got no roof, no food, no money, but she's got love. And she's got the time to show it. Something we all need to learn.

pic courtsey: Reuters

The answer to 'What does he do after school?'

I've just enrolled Nino for his first 'class'. Yes, Nino, the two-and-half-year old. Before you gasp and faint, the classes will start only when he is four. Yes, one-and-half-years later. And I was told I am late for the registration, but my number was duly noted and I will be informed when it is time. 'Do I need to follow this up?' I asked, worried about my lack of networking skills in a city that runs on the word-of-mouth. 'You can, if you want to, but you don't need to.' Aah, polite slap in the face. Ofcourse you silly woman, you must call. But don't dare suggest that calling frequently is what gets you admission in the first place. Sigh.

There was a time when I protested loudly against mothers who sent their kids to 'classes' - drawing, reading, science, puppetry, phonetics, music, applied math - not tuitions, but extra-curricular stuff. Most of them do it out of herd mentality - last year, mental maths was all the rage in small-town Ahmedabad, and every kid I knew was at some of the other Hawaiian-name sounding classes. (This year I'm split between chess and art. I'll let you know the poll results soon.) There are also classes that let children do as many puzzles as they want, and for every sport under the sun or done by the neighbour - tennis, swimming, cricket, football. For the girls, there's kathak and bharatnatyam. Most of the time, it's because, heaven help us, if the kids are at home and have to be entertained, we'll go nuts.

My parents never entertained me and my sister. Though we never got bored, I believe there's a higher meaning to boredom. It's the space that allows you to innovate (ketchup and rice becomes bloody rice and you become the monster set loose), to create (ever wondered if the person who made sheep out of cotton stuck on a toilet roll really intended to make wooly sheep), to explore (cobwebs, forbidden magazines, the ant-hill below Mum's favourite pot of greens), to find out what we truly enjoy. There's a point to some idle time - and that point is not education.

Moreover, do the kids really like the classes? I doubt the parents have asked that question. So and so has sent her son/daughter and he/she is cracking math like a calculator. Or all his/her friends are going. Or it's a great way to break into that social circle that we haven't managed to so far. Some, like my sister-in-law, enrol kids because they believe such courses can be enriching. There's drawing, cursive writing, science and chess. And yes, he's five, going-on-six. Just some months back there was swimming as well. My mother-in-law rants and raves, in her quiet voice. Stop, she says, let him be. The sister-in-law's arguments are that the son not being the outdoor-sy kind, she'd rather that he go to these classes than watch tv or play with his PSP. And then the fact that the kid really enjoys all that he learns. Point heard. Our civic infrastructure has left us with no open grounds to play - no thick neem trees to climb. To discover the joys of swinging on a swing made from deflated rubber tyre tubes. Children can't be left by themselves in public areas. Every other person could be a potent pervert, a child molestor. We were literally kicked out of our homes in the evening. 'Go get some fresh air.' We don't even have that today.

Anyway, so this class that Nino's been enrolled for, is for phonetics. You know, a says aaa, b says baa, and so on and so forth. So that Nino learns to pronounce his mother's mother-tongue properly and drops his father's mother-tongue influences somewhere in between. No, no, the real reason I've fallen for it is that phonics is proven to help children be able to read faster - not read fast as per kmph speed, but read from books at an early age. Being able to read my own story book was such a huge high for me, that I still remember when I started to read. No one taught me phonics - in fact, my first brush with the Queen's Language was through my granddad who only reprimanded me in Shakespearean quotes while he showered affection in Tamil. But I remember my mother taking me to book-fairs when I was six or seven, leaving me in the children's section while she went looking for her books. And when she's come back, hours later (she's as crazy about books as I am, maybe more) - I'd have a single book in my hand. 'That's all you picked?' she'd asked, miserable that I had been able to choose only a single book. 'No ma,' I'd say. 'I've finished reading the rest.'

It's true, even if I do say it, glancing around furtively: I read fast. How fast? Very fast. My parents never sent me to a speed-reading class. I just started reading very quickly because I wanted to read more. I was allotted maybe an hour of extra reading, so I wanted to finish more than one book. I'd take books to the dining table, to the loo, hide under the covering with a torch-light. Even hide them in the school textbooks, since I'd already read that science chapter as well. When I was to be punished, they took my books away. So I read labels, social studies notebooks, even my elder sister's science textbooks. My hunger for reading drove me to do what I do now for a living - editing. I read. And then I chop, clean, and layout. Like I would want to have found it. I remember being told very politely but firmly, in a book-fair again, that I needed to pick a book and leave. 'This is not a library,' they said.

Nino loves books. I've been reading to him since he was six months old. And he's really taken to it. From touch and feel books to picture books to story books to alphabet books to I spy books to wildlife magazines - he loves looking and hearing me/Nino's Dad read everything. Sometimes even the newspaper. These days, he's been showing an interest in the alphabet. When I read something, he asks me, 'where is it written?' 'Is that a g?' (somehow, he always wants to find out a 'g'). I know very soon, he'll be ready to learn his a, b, c. And I want him to be able to enjoy the high of reading his own book, inbetween Mumma and Dadda as we read at bedtime. To be astonished at how the written word is as magical as the picture that depicts it. The grace of the curves in the alphabet. The majestic strokes. The welcoming punctuations. Because I know he wants to. He picks his books and 'reads' them, the words memorised after having read them over and over again, to his teddy and the caregiver. And he begs to buy books. Always, books.

That's why the phonics class. There are very few in Ahmedabad, this is the only one this side of town. And the waiting list is a good couple-of-years. Will he like it? I don't know. I do know that if he does not, he will not be forced to live this dream of mine - because I am secure in the knowledge that he will eventually take to reading the way I did. I never went to a phonics class and my pronunciations are perfect because of the many ruler-raps the nuns at school administered on my knuckles. Also because I love the feel of words in my mouth, the way my tongue teases them out. The high of a good, long word, pronounced in a particular way. Creating beauty, everytime you speak or read.

The sister-in-law called to inform me about these classes. She had missed out for her son, and thought I shouldn't let my opinion on classes, hamper Nino's chances. 'I've already enrolled,' I said, waiting to hear a jab about how I've given in to the 'vice of education' like I often claim she and other parents have. She merely smiled. 'Good.'

A Bag story

Nino's Dad and I went to a brand new pre-school/day boarding programme's orientation session on Sunday. It's a new concept in Ahmedabad: a large majority of women here don't work full time, or live in joint families, so day-boarding has never really taken off. But the new school offers a variety of programmes, from regular pre-school hours to day boarding to evening activity hours. I for one know atleast half a dozen journalist friends who work crazy hours, are not bonafide gujaratis and have no family support system in the city, who'd grab the chance: a curriculum that combines the best of montessori and its critics, a campus that's full of trees (such a rarity these days) and lots of outdoor activites such as a swimming pool (we've been wanting to get a club membership for us so Nino can swim, but the fees - well, that's a story for another post!). Though we don't know if we are signing up Nino for it, (because we're really happy with his current montessori pre-school), I do know the school has its heart in the right place.

Anyways, the real reason for the post's title. Well the orientation also served to bring together some friends of the couple that's promoting the school. We sort of fit in that definition as well: we know through a relative the couple's siblings. A six-degree sepration sort of thing that would wear anyone down, but in aapnu (which mean hamaara, ours) Ahmedabad, it's what we call 'family friends'.

So when the orientation wrapped up and we were all standing in groups drinking coffee/having icecream (at 11:00am on Sunday morning!), I saw a lady with a Bottega Veneta Cabat . Okay. Exhaling slowly. For those in the know, exhale slowly as well. For those not in the know, the Bottega is a premium and exclusive leather goods brand, and it's bags are exquisite and very expensive. The reason I love the brand so much is that there are no monograms on display (remember the LVs that airports are stuffed with these days?), and no one who's not read about the bag will say much about it, other than, 'it's a beautiful bag.' No bling, no show, just pure choclate brown, soft leather, woven similar to the warp and weft on a cane basket. It retails for around $4000 (Rs1,60,000).

Now Ahmedabad is a rich city. A generation back, it was known for its textile mills and old industrial families, many of whom have lost the firms, but still retain the money. Unlike the north, old money (even if the money's not currently there!) commands a fair bit of respect here, and the feudal system of old money marries old money still works. Many of these families don't even have a surname, the names of their forefathers serving as second names, as in the Hindi saying naam hi kaafi hai (the name is enough). There is a certain genteel-ness about this - a certain charm that makes them carry a cloth zari batua with more ease than a Channel. The nouveau riche on the other hand, and there are loads of them, the state being the hotbed for all things entrepreneurial, love their monograms, so much so that local grocers, pre-school gates and saloons see more than their share of Coach, Gucci, Channel and ahem, the ugliest of them all, Louis Vuitton.

The best part about these bags, monogrammed or otherwise, is that most of these are fakes. Bought from New York City's famous China Town when visiting friends and relatives in the US. Because no true blue Gujarati would spend a ridiculous amount of money on a bag. A sentiment to cheer, considering that some of the price tags are enough to get someone a roof over their heads.

Unfortunately, bags such as the Bottega, or the even more exclusive (and beautiful, may I add) Birkin, don't have fakes. If they do, the fakes cost nearly as much as the originals themselves. So seeing this lady with the bag sort of took my breath away, making me happy (about her good taste, ofcourse) and sad (so much money, for a bag?) at the same time. This is when our host rescued me. 'It's got to be a fake,' she said. 'She's just returned from Hong Kong.'

God bless the Chinese.