Eyes

Eyes

Monday 31 December 2012

Stupid India.

The farther back in time one goes, the better a woman's position in India seems to have been - relatively anyway. In the period of the Rigveda, about 1500 B.C, we were among the first to allocate a fairly respectable position to women in society. Although always subordinate to their husbands, women were allowed to attend tribal assemblies, their presence was essential in religious ceremonies, they could choose their own spouses and could remarry if their husband died or disappeared. Practices like child marriage were unknown. Greatly learned and highly intelligent women sages or ‘Brahmavadinis’ like Vac, Ambhrni, Romasa, Gargi, Khona came from this era. The very influential Indian female philosopher Ghosha, whom part of the Rigvedas have been attributed to, was a result of this ancient period. The ancient Hindu philosophical concept of 'shakti' the feminine principle of energy, came about as a product of this age.

During the later Vedic period the status of women was already on the decline, with the interpretation of the Manusmrtis[1], the Islamic invasion of Babar and the Mughal empire and later Christianity curtailing women's freedom. Men welcomed the 'Purdah' practice (veil for concealing women from men) that came with the Muslim conquests in the subcontinent. Nicely hidden, her face remained shrouded. Uncovered only for the perusal of her owner. By the medieval period, Sati was in place, child marriages were rampant, a ban on widow remarriage was enforced, Devdasis[2] were being sexually exploited in temples, Rajputs practiced Jauhar - honorary self-immolations of their wives and families to end their lives with 'respect' before the men marched off to the battlefield. A variety of influences were happily in play for the Indian man to state and maintain his control on women. Systematically building a system around it to enhance and preserve his grip. A grip that tightens, further restraining with every sign of revolt. Designed to painfully remind and reprimand.

We have expressed shock at the brutal gangrape of 23 year old Damini. Confused and pained about ourselves. Questioning our culture, our values, our morals. What have we become? Look what we have done! Why all the surprise though? How different have we ever been since say, 500 B.C? The bigger question is, are we ever going to change? We have grown into a culture that have lost practice with questioning and reflecting and reacting through reflection. Prone more to an obedient stupor. We are formed rather by influences and impulses, flowing with the tide rather than directing the tide. We celebrate the Smrtis[3] and it's verses, some of which are full of prejudice, hatred and discrimination against women, rather than question them. The Moguls showed us how to control and restrain our women, and we learnt how to with glee. Then went ahead and imaginatively improvised with our own additions. The Christians came with their restraints for women and we applied those too.
Damini could be one of the countless nameless and faceless women of modern India. A culture that we have nurtured over the centuries is now augmented with the given socioeconomic conditions. She's holding a mirror to us. How many Indian men can claim to respect their wives, sisters, mothers? I'm not talking about equality, much of the industrialised world is still struggling with that one. I'm talking about respect! How many of our fathers or brothers see and accept their women as individuals? That is where the learning starts - at home. Like Arundhathi Roy said 'We are having a very unexceptional reaction to an event that isn't very exceptional'. And she is right, how sad is it that such a tragic event isn't exceptional? Sure there exists a whole lower financial layer of Daminis whose lives comprise of such incidents. That's why a meaningful trigger is important, one that has been pulled now and hasn't fired into the air. That's why it is exceptional this time around, because we have reacted. It is exceptional because we are reaching a tipping point as a people. We are not nodding in the usual ‘Kay kare?’ - ‘What to do?’, defeatism. We are saying we object! 
We are stirring out of a numbed apathy. Like we did for Shaheen Dhada and her friend, the Facebook girls, and now again for Damini. This is the second time in a few months that a woman has unleashed a rage for change that will be multiplied a thousand times in the coming days and weeks and months. There is a resounding call for action across the country. A call for accountability and change that cannot be suppressed. We are standing up for what is right, fighting for it, protesting, getting beaten for it. We are thinking beyond what we have known, beyond what we have been taught. We are thinking. 
Author Chetan Bhagat famously wrote about the Great Indian Stupidity in ridiculous routines and bureaucracies of every day life and why we accept them. Because we are too stupid to think beyond what we know? The honorable Justice Katju frustratedly said that 90% of Indians (not all) are fools. Obviously not meant as an accurate statistic (phew!) - he Intended in his comment to awaken people to the realities of widespread communalism, superstitions, and other backward traits. I might disagree this time. I think there is an awakening in the process. There are reasons for more optimism in India. In the face of despair and the horror of this incident, hope has emerged. Hope in the people. Hope that we will soon also care enough about female infanticide, about brides burnt, about brides bought, about 'honour killings' of women and rape.
According to Malcolm Gladwell “In the end, tipping points are a reaffirmation of the potential for change and the power of intelligent action. Look at the world around you. It may seem like an immovable, implacable place. It is not. With the slightest push — in just the right place — it can be tipped.". 
We are on the verge of tipping. We, not-so-stupid India.




[1] Manusmrtis, The Manusmrtis also known as Manav Dharam Shastra, is the earliest metrical work on Brahminical Dharma in Hinduism. According to Hindu mythology, the Manusmriti is the word of Brahma, and it is classified as the most authoritative statement on Dharma .The scripture consists of 2690 verses, divided into 12 chapters. It is presumed that the actual human author of this compilation used the eponym ‘Manu’, which has led the text to be associated by Hindus with the first human being and the first king in the Indian tradition. 
Some of the comments on women in the Manusmrtis (Source: http://nirmukta.com/2011/08/27/the-status-of-women-as-depicted-by-manu-in-the-manusmriti/),
  • “Balye pitorvashay…….” – 5/151. Girls are supposed to be in the custody of their father when they are children, women must be under the custody of their husband when married and under the custody of her son as widows. In no circumstances is she allowed to assert herself independently.
  • “Na ast strinam………..” – 5/158. Women have no divine right to perform any religious ritual, nor make vows or observe a fast. Her only duty is to obey and please her husband and she will for that reason alone be exalted in heaven.
  • “Imam hi sarw………..” – 9/6. It is the duty of all husbands to exert total control over their wives. Even physically weak husbands must strive to control their wives.
[2] Devdasis, In Hinduism, the Devadasi traditionwas a religious tradition in which girls are “married” and dedicated to a deityor to a temple. Originally, in addition to this and taking care of the temple and performing rituals, these women learned and practiced Sadir (Bharatanaty), Odissi and other classical Indian artistic traditions and enjoyed a high social status.
[3] Smrtis, Smriti literally "that which is remembered," refers to a specific body of Hindu religious scriptures and is a codified component of Hindu customary law. The literature which comprises the Smrti was composed after the Vedas around 500 BCE. Smrti also denotes tradition in the sense that it portrays the traditions of the rules on dharma especially those of lawful virtuous persons. 

Thursday 15 November 2012

Next, please!

There he is again, perched on the window ledge with his beak poked into the yogurt cup. He pulls it out, yogurt-lipsticked white in complete contrast to the rest of his blackness. Eyeing me sideways, oblivious of his comical appearance. Clever guy, undoubtedly. He not only figured out my window ledge refrigeration system, but also worked out how to get to the contents of a foil-sealed cup. I feed him as a reward, still he can't be too sure of me - instincts. It was November, the leaves and temperature were falling. He won't be migrating any place warmer, Raven's never do. Enough of yogurt cups set out on hospital room windows to keep them going. His buddies in the chestnut tree across must have a good laugh at his new Black&White look. He found food though, so he's having the last laugh.

The kindly young intern took her time with the initial check-up, was comforting and confident. We were gently warned that surgery maybe unavoidable. Quite the reception to hope for at a hospital actually. We were in good hands. Until, that is, the gel slicked goldilocks resident Doc sailed in to veto her diagnosis. In his presence, our nice Intern morphed into a pat seeking eager puppy dog. Goldilocks had all of 30 seconds to spare for the check-up, looked right through us anxious parents, and left with the same haughty air that he sailed in with. The pecking order, at first, seems no different here than in any other medical food chain, with the nurses at the bottom, then come the interns, followed by residents, attending docs and the heads of departments. The hierarchy is set cuttingly deep though. A few days in hospital and I was almost curtsying before his Highness, Mr. Head of Department myself! The differentiating factor to note here though, in no uncertain terms was, that patient is down, down, down, right at the very bottom of the pecking order. Wonder what my yogurt eating winged friend would think of that! He IS having the last laugh!
We are in the medical factory, body-fixes get churned out here. Here you are a number amongst many. If you're not the last number, you're lucky. Plato said the physician should never separate the soul from the body in treatment. The nurse came by to check vitals and hook up the drip. My daughters catheter squirted out blood on the sheets in the process. 'Oops, the sheets will be changed' she said, into the little one's big worried eyes. So the leaky vein got plugged, sheets would get changed, hence terrified child should be fine as well. Plato, tell them something! Inevitably one starts to rankle at the cold, indifferent, inconsideration. A question, any question, was one too much and prompted an irate bark.
'...umm, those fresh sheets you spoke about?'
'grrrrrr....'
When is the Doctor expected?'
'GRRRRRR'
'Could we have some more hot water for tea?'
'Grrrr, Woof'
'Will she have surgery today, she's been on an empty stomach for 5 hours?'
'Grrr...Snap!'
'It's past 12 in the night, could you pipe it down in the nurse's room please?'
'SNARL!'

I am not the gracious kind. Sonner than I should have, I was roped into becoming bellicose rather than diplomatic. We were systematically winding each other up and I was developing quite a reputation for it, I could tell by the even further deteriorating treatment. In turn, I was walking around like a ticking time bomb, reaching the end of my tether myself. I had ample time to tick too, my child was asleep, at 7:30 in the evening which left me staring at the ceiling in a dark room, stroking her and ticking away. I must state at this point, my daughter thankfully wasn't suffering from any grave illness. She had an abscess in her tonsils, which although terribly painful, is relatively minor. Nevertheless, almost one week later with absolutely no change in her condition and the pain unabatedly forging on despite a cocktail of meds, the anxiety builds. At one of those rare Doctor's appearances I said 'She says she tastes blood in her throat'. He goes 'Yes, So?' Did he just say YES, SO?????.....tick tick tick! Me, 'and by that you mean....?' I have had more meaningful conversations with Siri on my iPhone.

The next morning I forced on renewed optimism, something's gotta give here. There is a scratchy landing sound of his claws at the window, would he appreciate a change in flavour maybe? Although he's some company, he's not a big listener. For that I'm very glad for my trusted human visitors who faithfully come by drop off food, hugs, and hold my hand while I freely throw up all my frustrations and exasperations. These friends, they willingly do this to themselves. Gracious people - unlike me. Half way into the story of the midnight Nurses' party in the ward, we hear a loud clanging, clunking sound, steady and slow. Approaching louder now, and louder. We look at each other quizzically and turn to the direction of the sound. The source is right beside us and going right past us, a bunch of prison officers escorting a man chained at the feet and arms turn into the room right beside us! A prisoner patient, right out of the jailhouse to be my neighbour! This isn't exactly 'something giving'!! 'Just what we need', we both chorused! The last time I heard of a convict in hospital it was a murderer, involved in 4 killings. I don't even want to know what this one is being held for. The armed officers will be posted inside and out of his room at all times, we were assured. Well then, we're good. Sleep tight.

The nurses' midnight parties came to an end. I got over my initial paranoia and gave him a name - Mr. Con. It is an unsettling feeling walking past fully armed men through the day. The door to Mr. Con's room was always wide open. I could see his chained feet every time I passed by. I never did get a look at his face. My daughter's condition remained unchanged in the meantime and I went back to the business of worrying and hurting over her. Finally, more than a week later the initial diagnoses made by the Intern was pulled out and dusted again. She was going to have surgery, she was well practised at the empty stomach routine by now. It was a relief of sorts. Relief at the conception of an action plan, as opposed to wait and watch. We've got to go through all of it, to get to the end of it.
Restless and sleepless, 2 nights before the surgery I managed to slink past my sleeping angel to pace the length of the corridor - up and down and up and down. I could tell I was driving the cops mad. Generally disgruntled by the nature of their job, they sat parked in front of my neighbours room in apparent discontentment. Now there was me the psycho pacer too. The nurses were huddled at the other end talking in hushed voices. I overheard the bit about the TV. The system in most hospitals here, is to pre-pay for the use of TV and telephones in a hospital room. We don't own a TV at home, so we didn't miss one here either. I never bothered activating either gadget in our hospital room. Mr. Con apparently would have liked to watch TV. Given that money is a requirement for that process, for him it was an impossibility. He wasn't allowed any visitors and I know for a fact no one spoke to him - least of all his grumpy watch dogs. I'm pretty sure not even Raven visits him. Was he a murderer too like the other hospitalised con I had heard of? Maybe he's a drug peddler or a bank robber. Or maybe a rapist? A child molester? Perhaps...'just' a tax evader? I had tired myself out enough to crash. But I didn't quite get it out of my mind. I have winged friends and two legged friends and all sorts of Gadget-y entertainment, still hospitals suck and everything about it sucks and I'm not even sick. Why shouldn't Mr. Con have some entertainment? The nurse was a little perplexed at first when I asked her to activate Mr. Con's telephone and TV and charge the costs to my room. She, unlike the Raven who only ever looks at me sideways, give a long hard stare. Then she agreed and explained to me that it's actually against policy so she'd have to lie about the room occupancy. Since it was just the central telephone board, they shouldn't care much, she shrugged. I could hear her in Mr. Con's room, awkwardly executing the crooked billing scheme....and then spelling out my full name and room number loud and clear so that the telephone central and Mr. Con could make a careful note of it! AAAAAARRRRRRGH! What was she thinking??!! I'm already imagining myself and my daughter being held hostage at gun-point - paranoia back in full relapse!
Mr. Con got his TV. Now every time I passed his room I could see his toes, chains and the flickering colours of the TV tube fill the room. He watched a LOT of TV. Sometimes a confused sour-faced police guard came by my room at shift change wagging the TV bill, asking why my name and Mr. Con's room number were on it. Each time I tried feebly to explain, not really wanting them to understand. I often succeeded in sending them back more confused. My daughter was getting prepped for surgery and I was only partially taking in the repeated requests Mr. Con was passing through the nurses to meet and thank me. I was, however, very much taking in the total change in the nurses behaviour towards me and my daughter. Their smiles, and touch, how they spoke to us, how they looked at us. They had gained nothing by an entertained Mr. Con. But they were unmistakably transformed because of it. I never had to change the sheets again! We all seemed, relieved and happily surprised to have discovered human sides in each other.

The surgery went off well, she was finally rid of the damn thing. I haven't ever seen anything like it, a drugged out, ecstatic, post op 7 year old. What a difference also, to experience medical care in the hospital factory. Gentle, tender, care for the sick. The requests kept coming from Mr. Con, he wanted so badly to thank me. Part of me was embarrassed at the fuss being made about a small gesture, part of me didn't want to insult him by refusing the meeting, part of me was just plain uneasy at the whole prospect of being introduced, exposed. I was at sixes and sevens about going over. I wanted to be able to see him as a person, meet him without knowing what he did or why he's in chains. I wanted to be able to look beyond the shackles. It took me a while to get my head around it, to ease my mind of some of it's prejudices. Judgement had already been passed, he is already being punished. I don't need to run my own little trial. I awoke the next morning resolved to go over. His room door was closed. I knew then that he was gone. I'd like to believe that I was too preoccupied with my daughter to go over and meet Mr. Con. I'd like to believe it, although it's not true. He had been discharged and was back in the Jug. I tried to drop him a postcard, to tell him he was welcome, that it was nothing. But they had no trace of him. He only existed as a convict from the city jailhouse. A number.

Wednesday 3 October 2012

Prost!

"Where are my Oktoberfest shoes?" he called. Oktoberfest shoes? If that means nothing to you, then you are thankfully not among the 7 million who flock to Munich this time of year, sporting the standard ensemble worn by Americans and Australians alike at the 200 year old folk-festival turned Beer craze. The Oktoberfest, a.k.a as the Wiesn put little Munich on the map. The quintessence of the festival being Beer, it's ceremonious entry and unceremonious exit from the human body. An event at which people from all over the world converge eagerly, bent upon repeatedly testing their (in)ability to handle large amounts of alcohol. Lederhosen clad tourists coat the streets of Munich or lie around in undignified human piles.
Munich is bursting at the seams. Had it not been for the meticulous German measures and controls, the city would be catapulted into total drunken chaos. The strain of handling 5 to 6 times it's native population, most of which are in the form of intoxicated beer corpses, shows in everything from public transport and paramedics to the overloaded police force. It's all they do can to keep the security and sanity of the city. Even so, it is not uncommon that rape and even death are noted within the Oktoberfest premises or in its immediate proximity. Neither the obvious danger nor the already exorbitant and steadily rising prices at the Fest are a deterrent. The hordes of people keep flowing, as does the beer.
The Oktoberfest is an important part of the Bavarian culture, having been around so long. Still, one can't imagine they are completely comfortable watching their local costumes and traditional clothes reduce to something of a drunken uniform. How would it look if Indians only wore their Saris to eat rice and curry? Then have masses of toursits adorn Saris, as they consume bushels full of rice and curry! Germans are wearing their traditional alpine costumes like the Dirndl less and less - before and after the Oktoberfest that is - thereby not only supporting but also promoting their Oktoberfest image.

Ok, let's try another angle here. It's easy to hate the whole Wiesn Meshugaas and to vilify its faithful. It's harder to understand it's attraction though. Why people travel from all the corners of the earth and spend ridiculous amounts of money, recession or no recession, to drink themselves senseless at this one place? Unreasonable amounts of alcohol can be consumed in several, easier accessible locations. The economic motivators for the breweries and the city are obvious. According to some statistics each time the band in a beer tent encourages guests to clink their mugs, 1000 Litres of beer is consumed, which happens several times hourly, in 15 tents. 7,5 Million Mass (1 Liter beer mugs) are sold at the Wiesn, that's more than 1 Liter of beer per person on an average. Not even taking into account the hundreds and thousands of roasted chicken and other sorts of grease oozing goodies downed to counter the alcohol. The stats are mind-boggling, the Wiesn is ALWAYS a smashing success. More every year.
What's in it for it's patrons though? What brings them and keeps them? Viktor E. Frankl claims man is constantly in search for meaning in his life. Does the Oktoberfest celebrate the ones that have found it or console the ones that are still looking? Did Viktor get it all wrong, maybe all we are looking for is a pair of Lederhosen to drink the next Mass in. Prost!

Wednesday 27 June 2012

R.I.P Triops

His craze for Dinosaurs has lasted 3 years now. Before that it was Airplanes, duration of craze - also 3 years. Throw in the first year of babyhood and the expanse of his life has been accounted for. Yes, he's nothing if he's not consistent, and yes, my little boy turned 7 this year. Months in advance he had picked out his birthday gift - a Jurassic Expedition set, 'with REAL fossils' it said on the box. On his birthday, he impatiently tore off the last separation of gift wrapping to finally be united with his much longed for gift. Along with excavation kits with bits of plastic bone packed into soft clay and Dinosaur jigsaw puzzles was a teeeny tiny pouch labeled 'Triops eggs' and another comparatively big box labeled 'feed'.
Triops, a kind of crustacean, are among the longest lived species earning them the title of 'living fossils'. Their fossil record reaches back to as far as 350 million years, remaining virtually unchanged since the Triassic period. In short an exceptionally hardy, resilient piece of nature. Apparently my 7 year old son, and because of him all of us, would be able to conveniently observe the birth and life of these remarkable species in the domestic comfort of our home. Indeed, how very convenient!
We set out in childlike excitement to find a home for the precious eggs to hatch and grow. Only the most elaborate aquarium was good enough for our new guests. we brought home an 80 x 40 cm tank, to hold about 130l of water all fitted with trappings of air pump, heater, illumination, filter, automatic feeding mechanism. We were ready! Imagine, we were going to have our very own fossil pets! Who needed dogs or cats or birds in cages or nimbly gnawing hamsters or guinea pigs when we could experience the magic of life unfold as it did (with some minor alterations) 350 million years ago! Then the sand was washed and poured in and an ensemble of hand picked rocks and stones adorned the Aquarium floor. At last the precious eggs were immersed into the water! Let the transportation back in time commence! From that point onwards, all eyes were kept peeled on the aquarium for the slightest signs of movement in the blankness of this uninhabited water world. Two chairs seating two gaping kids were permanently parked at the aquarium from where their noses stayed glued to the glass. Air bubbles rushed out from the vent in a constant steady, monotonously reliable stream, the bright white tube light shone down in the water, never waning, never waxing. We waited, and we waited....and Voila!! Amidst the lifelessly floating bubbles, and sediments was a shivering white speck! Microscopically throbbing, as only life can, clearly distinguishable in it's vigour from the inanimate specks. A natural ebullience shone through to us from within the glass enclosure. They were hatched and they were here! As the count went, more than a dozen dinosaur shrimps. The 7 year olds quickly assumed an officious sense of responsibility for the new borns, instructions to the feed cycles were carefully studied. Duties were distributed and responsibly accepted.

Humans and their children were amused and entertained by yet another successful domestication.

As the hours and the days passed on, the micro millimeter jerks and jitters that are their natural movement got ever increasingly nervous...or was it just my imagination?! Their sudden entry into this world of changing constants, of always bright or always dark, always bubbling or always not, seemed to be somewhat overwhelming. Instinctively they appeared to be searching for something, someone to protect them, teach them to eat, to swim....to survive. All that space made for so much emptiness. Save the bubbles batting them around, other life there was none. They fought off the currents, and searched till they tired. In a day the population had depleted, in two there was just one lone confused fighter to be spotted, last fish swimming. In three days there were none. All gone. The hardiest, most resilient creatures undermined.
Now the young spectators marvel poignantly from their prime seats at the emptiness of bubbly water. "They're just hiding in the rocks" said one. "Yes, they'll come out in another 350 million years" said the other. R.I.P Triops.

Wednesday 20 June 2012

Patriotism.

In the throes of Visa renewals again. If some could have their way, I would need a Visa to see the rest room at transit airports. The many delights of being the proud owner of an invaluable hand written Indian passport (Paradox?). Too bad the rest of the world can't appreciate the personal touches of cutely scribbled illegible Name, misspelt and hence non-existent address, random stranger's name for Husband, Mother's name swapped with Father's etc, on an official document of identity. Sloppiness and Cricket are our national sports. Facts that identity is defined by, become a matter of interpretation. In a way it is also a constant reminder of their ineffectiveness. I take no offense at the heaves and sighs of exasperation at passport control, at always slowing down the line. They will fumble, to my perverse pleasure, with my un-scannable passport and then resign begrudgingly to the primitiveness of manual entry.
I see this as a test. The more I travel, the more I am tested. Will I succumb to the ease of European citizenship? Will I submit to the convenience of sailing in and out of countries without any of the ritualistic drama ensuing when I produce proof of indecipherable identity? Oooooh the temptations of a scannable passport! What of National pride and Patriotism? Yes, What about Patriotism? Will I be letting down my country of 1.2 billion if one of me rejected my original Indian identity? I could flatter myself with my self-appointed importance.
Eventually it is not out of love for country and homeland that I cling on to my origins, rather something much more personal. Out of the need to believe in who I am, where I came from and what I am. It is not my nation I would defend and love with my last breath, it is myself.
Bring it on now, the demeaning interrogations and belittling processes, all aimed at determining if A.) I am going to plonk (save yourself the trouble, I already have!) or B.) I am a terrorist (investment here may well be worth the effort). For as long as there is self-mockery, I will be soothed and amused and my Indian handcrafted identity is alas the only one in it's sloppy uniqueness that truly represents me.

Monday 28 May 2012

The invitation.

'Come in' he said, when my husband was home.
'Come in and sit down, you look tired and worn'.
The table was set for him and one more, and no other.
Vanilla Sauce, apple pie. Laid out on a lace cover.

'Sit you down then' he said, to my befuddled husband.
'tis a somewhat odd story, so breathe in deep. It's all a little muddled'
The pie smelt delicious, the coffe was steaming
'That's my first Vanilla sauce', he said almost beaming!

'I am weary these days' said this man to my husband.
'I was glad for sociability, being so much on my own.
"Oh don't mope!" said your wife when we met at the store.
"Come by for some coffee and apple pie at Four".

'They are all away now, both your kids and their mother'.
'For you see when I came by, total mayhem was the order!
little girls in tutus were slipping on their ballet shoes,
"Watch my son! Stir the sauce! I'm running late", was her excuse.

The pie was in the oven, the timer would ring,
"Stick around" she called out "I'll be back before you blink".
'She was gone in a flash, amidst the smell of browning apples',
'And there was me in your home, the oven timer was my shackle'.

'As I gathered back my bearings, came a sense of foreboding,
your son, he was not helping. His suspicion kept on mounting.
I concentrated on the stirring, though that feeling kept recurring.
Then suddenly he was whisked off too, by a unknown lady in a whirring Subaru'.

As my husband heard him out, patient with his nervous recount.
How he got here, why he stayed, lost control and well-obeyed.
His thrifty wife had struck again, yet another will was slain.
He smiled and kicked his legs up. Leaning back, sipping his coffee cup.
'I'll be damned!' he beamed, with wicked satisfaction.
There ARE more fools than I to be had!
It's reassuring to know I'm not the only one thats mad!

Thursday 29 March 2012

Real stars.

The world of celebrities has lately seen a trail of wasteful deaths: Michael Jackson, Amy Winehouse and most recently Whitney Houston. People of phenomenal abilities, gifted with remarkable skills and good fortune with the power to draw and keep the attention of enraptured fans for decades...and then get knocked-out by the blow of stardom. Towering personalities, shrunken. Weakness overshadowed accomplishments, checked off easily in numbers, strings of consecutive no 1's, Grammy's, sold records. In the end, they couldn't be saved from themselves. Pure God-given wealth, trashed. Conveniently, there is always someone or something to blame. Whitney Houston's ill-fated marriage to Bobby Brown and descent into drugs, Amy Winehouse's hapless addiction to alcohol and drugs, Michael Jackson's...can't even a keep track of his apologies, and drugs.

It is enviable that some people are born to be effortlessly good at things. Born with the gift of beauty, unusual intelligence or skill. The especially genetically favoured! Are the rest sitting on their hands waiting for brilliance to kick in? Are cliffs being blocked off in a rush, to keep them from jumping off when they realise it won't? I'm referring to the stars of average existences that find a preternatural ability to forge on, the real stars of life.
The kind who hold the trusting hands of their dying child through the last year of her life. Knowing she will never go to school, never learn to swim, never fall in love, never feel a first kiss. Knowing she can never know. So they keep her smiling, playing, singing, while they watch her fade. Doing their crying in the rain.
Of the kind who throw on their business suits and stilettos, splash on the mascara, slap on the smile and head right back to the corporate grind, only hours after being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. The show goes on, the living continues while there is life. You feel your way along an unfamiliar path. Improvising, adapting because there are children to raise and bills to be paid.
And of the kind who left home on a happy holiday, to return as only half the couple and person they were. Ashes in place of what should be a person. Picking up the pieces and dropping them again, practicing till you learn to hold it together. Because you go on. Not out of a lack of options. Out of choice.

Choosing not to succumb to the temptation of self-pitying weakness. Choosing to generate outstanding grit.
I hereby declare myself an ardent fan, of real stars.





Thursday 8 March 2012

My James Bond moment.

(Surely!) Everyone has one such weakness. A faculty so underdeveloped, it borders on retardation. Since that's the case, I feel ok to reveal mine. With me it's my sense of direction, actually the non-existence of orientation in my case. Incidentally, I have been compensated, like with my ability to multi-task, which vastly surpasses that of average humans. Or so I believed. In any case, weaknesses, borderline retardation, exceptional abilities - all of these lead me to my James Bond moment.

It was her Birthday and I wanted my piece of the cake that morning, which was that she was fine. She was fine, and it hadn't been that way for weeks. The dark cloud had cleared for today, it was a party in my mind. I rushed through my morning routine to catch her before she left. Dashed out, jumped into the car and drove out. Phew, in comfortably good time! Can cruise along at ease. My familiar route to work. Roads I know like the back of my palm. The car is my least preferred mode of transport and I do avoid it as far as I can. Still I must have driven this route at least, what, 20 times in the last 5 years? Listening to uninterrupted radio is one of the few treats of driving. "Pa pa poker face, pa pa poker face", can't.. quite.. check out my Lady Gaga face in the rear view mirror.. bummer! "Can't read my, Can't read my, N'bdy can read my poker face" maybe if I stretch over a little bit more...seriously do I see another pimple?! What the..! Is there no other part of my youth that my body is capable of preserving, other than the sprouting of pimples? Hey, I wonder if the German's realise that the the radio churns out the same 5 songs ALL through the day, cyclically, in good German order, over and over and over again. The audience must particularly like just these 5 songs, how very peculiar they can be! There goes song #3 again, "Never mind I'll find someone like you-oo..". Huh? Did that board just say 'Unterhaching', crap! Where the hell is that, i.e, where the hell am I?? Must have overshot the exit! No matter, no worry, will just flip on the Sat nav and type in destination...was never very good at single handed steering. Should take me to the next escape hatch.....Song #2. Searching, searching, no GPS...still no FRIGGIN GPS!! Not too bad, hasn't got any worse. I didn't know where I was, still don't know where I am. Of all the things in all the world that we own, a functioning Sat nav isn't one of them! No matter, have myself a very savvy iphone, HA! Don't need no lousy SEARCHING Sat nav! My cellularly occupied schizophrenic eyes go from road....to Sat nav....to iphone. Running out of hands here, will just have to stay on this gear.........blinking red lights, did I just drive past blinking red lights? Much too low for traffic lights, blinking with a tourettic kind of insistence. 'Nbdy can read my poker face', song #2. I see a gate barrier coming down on me, I am driving on tracks. Help...another gate barrier in front of me, almost all the way down...almost home. I missed the bells, that's what level crossings with trains approaching do in India, they have bells that go 'Ding, Ding, Ding', you can't miss it. 'I wish nothing but the best for you'. I stood on the accelerator, not stepped, but literally stood on it, so help me God! I felt the barrier shave the back bumper, angry for missing the kill. The traffic across the barrier stood, as I did, in a daze, disoriented now more than ever before. I heard the train whizz past. Chaka chu chu, chaka chu chu. My 007 moment, James Bond of the day.

The sun shone warm for the first time since winter, not just bright providing light, but warm. The first day in the year that you shed the impediments of the cold, of coat and scarf and gloves and hat....and feel the sun. Nothing more between the sun and your skin. And you feel alive. When I hugged her I knew she was fine, and so was I. And so was I.