Speaking with the Heart and Listening with the Mind

 

‘The art of conversation’ might be an old phrase, almost cliched but time-tested. At its simplest, a conversation requires at least two people to speak and listen in turn. But it becomes an art when the two are interested in what the other has to say and wish to come away enriched at the end of the conversation.

While speaking and listening are two integral parts of a conversation, listening somehow takes precedence for a conversation to be truly enjoyable. More than a skill, it is, in fact, an art that is honed with time. But one needs to stop and observe this art before desiring to master it.

We live in times when we want to become performers, vying for those 30 seconds of attention as it were. And we rarely come across people who can listen. This scarcity of listeners perhaps stems from the fact that many of us are lonely, stuck in a hamster’s wheel of routines. As a living, breathing, thinking species, we have so much to say, with barely anyone having the mindspace to listen. Of course, most of us have been both listeners and speakers depending on where we were in life… times when we longed to be heard and times when we listened with patience.

Oftentimes, those who struggle to listen do not have the vile intention of hogging the limelight but a hunger to be heard. Now, this hunger creates what I would call the ‘speed talker’. We’ve all met one. You meet them at the coffee machine and ask them how they’re doing, and by the time you’ve stirred your coffee, they’ve already stirred up three chapters of their life, and only then ask how you’ve been—if at all.

A speed talker, as only a patient listener would know, is always in a race. What if the listener loses attention? What if there is no second chance? The anxiety is perhaps less about being heard and more about not being heard. The talkers somehow manage to pull a thread out of the listener’s muslin inputs and spin a tarpaulin of their own. The listener’s thoughts get folded and tucked away unnoticed. The listener says, “I’m learning to play the ukulele,” and the speaker takes off, “Really? Do you know the Ukulele originated in Hawaii? I’ll never forget my trip to Hawaii. What a disaster it was! But then we travelled back via Japan…!” By now, the circumnavigation is well underway.

The listener eventually sits back and gives up participating in this phantom conversation—sometimes out of genuine interest in the speaker, sometimes out of self-doubt and often out of weariness. The self-doubt comes when the listener begins to believe that their thoughts and ideas can never be as important or colourful as the speaker’s own.              

The speakers, be it the boastful or the mournful kind, always have a way to make the conversation about themselves. Picture this. A small group of friends meet up after years, each with several years of a rich life behind them. But one of them becomes a self-appointed TedX speaker and makes the evening all about what they do, how life has shaped them, their criticisms, their opinions and so on. The listeners at the end of the meeting come away often feeling tired and empty, wondering if they were even required for the conversation to happen.

What is required for a conversation to be rich is perhaps not words but pauses. Pauses to listen, to ask each other questions. These pauses breathe life into the conversation and show that one cares. A good listener grants dignity to another’s story; a mindful speaker offers a thread worth holding. When both meet, conversation ceases to be a mere exchange but becomes meaningful time spent.

Pic Courtesy: La Conversación by Étienne Pirot (Etienne), Plaza de San Francisco by Havana Abderrahman Ait Ali, via Wikimedia Commons

A Master's Degree finally

Happy to share that I've completed my Master's in English from EFLU, Hyderabad.

Ironically, academics drew me in when I was a little too old to be a collegiate—first the Diploma at 31, and now this Master’s degree at 51. (. (I think I did well with a Gold Medal in the former and a 7.88 GPA in the latter.)

Barely 21 years old, I was restless and raring to go; I jumped into a job within months of my undergrad Exams. I stood my ground despite my father's requests and assurances that I really didn't need to work. Then, from one job to another, I went where life took me.

The decision to pursue postgraduate studies was neither an impulsive decision nor a pandemic-lockdown hobby. It was more than a bucket list item. I’d been bothered about missing an opportunity to study further for many years now.

So, after some research into different syllabi and wise guidance from a trusted few, I zeroed in on the English and Foreign Languages University, Hyderabad—a decision I’m glad I took for various reasons. Even before I signed up, I felt this course was brilliantly structured, extremely interesting and relevant.

The entire experience was as enriching as the course itself. I had to spend 15 days away from home every semester—something that I wasn’t aware of when I enrolled. This was probably the hardest part of the whole deal. Every semester exam would either coincide with or fall very close to my husband's or my child’s birthday or a work deadline. Prioritising work and family, I decided to skip two semesters, but I came back with gusto to complete the course. A few people in my circle believed I would drop off at that point, and many made fun of this "unnecessary" stress I had taken upon myself.

Getting away was the biggest challenge, but thanks to my employers and family, I managed to do it. And once I got there, I lived a story-like parallel life that felt surreal.

I roomed with girls less than half of my age and lived like a 24-year-old. All I had to do was take care of myself and study all day. The days were very long, with me waking up to chilly sunrises and hitting the bed a couple of hours before sunrise. My day involved attending six to seven hours of classes, and the only time I stepped out of my room was to drag my feet to the Hostel Mess (dining area), without bothering to change out of the PJs and flip-flops. A good day would have me doing the laundry or taking walks around the sprawling, gorgeous, green campus, smiling at lovebirds, the feathered and unfeathered kind.

Of course, there would be the remote handling of my own home thousands of kilometres away, be it ordering groceries or firefighting a teen’s emotional outbursts.

My batch was an interesting bunch of students: the mind-bogglingly hardworking, already armed with multiple degrees, aiming for more, driven by undeterred focus; some studying only to make their families happy, and a few, using the time to do something productive while waiting for the right job.

Especially interesting was a group of youngsters who had orchestrated a fine balance between the chaotic clamour of the head and the heart. I met students who pursued their academics and professions with the same passion as their other interests, like music, writing and stand-up comedy—interests that were more than just a ‘hobby’. This probably wouldn’t have worked during my younger days. My generation was predominantly driven by the head, always ready to drop their dreams at the whisper of a demotivating word or thought. As an aside, I want to say at the cost of repeating myself that now is a great time for youngsters willing to pursue multiple interests simultaneously, without being pigeonholed into one job.

Though I was one of the oldest in my batch and the other batches as well, I was glad that I wasn’t the only one. There were senior and retired professionals who were there just out of a passion for the language or a desire to learn something.

The rest earned after the struggle is sweet, but I will miss the moments of losing myself in the world of language and literature, the hours of focused study, the excitement of learning something new, the thrill of being able to memorise something, and the days of ‘me-time’ without much guilt. And yes, like I always say, success is a kick that drives you to more rounds of the fight. God knows what the coming years have in store for me, but I wait with a twinkle in my eye, with or without the cataracts.

Much like catching up with an old friend

This song popped on the Jatin-Lalit playlist that I pick up on those rare days when I’m feeling a little relaxed.

I’ve loved this song ever since I first heard it on CIBACA GEETMALA and it gives me a similar kind of joy each time. Listening to the song yesterday felt like I was meeting an old friend after years.

What strikes me this time is that this song is rather basic. We have a series of electronic beats supporting a lilting melody, beautifully sung (Kavita Krishnamurthy and Udit Narayan) about a sweet romance.

The arrangement is so simple that it seems innocent. It is this innocence that makes this song still endearing—an innocence that we can relate to...innocent hearts enchanted by the fast, yet steady change in the world of the 90s, much like the tempo and beats of this song.

I can actually imagine the young Jatin and Lalit experimenting with their Roland or Casio keyboard in their home studio. I’m sure many kids in the 90s, fascinated by the preset beats and sounds of the electronic keyboard, tried at least once to put those sounds together and imagined for a few minutes that they had a gift!

While saying all this, I don't mean to take away J & L’s talent. They poured romance right into our hearts for many, many years and we all know it.

In Bin Tere Sanam, they combine the fast homemade beats with strong “catchy-matchy” vocals and that’s what made this song stand out then and keeps it fresh even today. If you know this song well, you exactly know where the beats change and will wait for it! Of course, the loop of this song is its signature and makes it instantly recognisable even years later.

I was recently chatting with a good old friend. Growing up together, we had shared our love of Bollywood music and a whole of other things. The feeling this song gives me is just like those chats. 

Lingering Thoughts

Like I shared on my WA status last Saturday morning, for some strange reason, "Edhedho Ennam" from Punnagai Mannan was ringing in my ears and I just had to listen to it. Enjoyed this Chitra's song immensely. It has a very one-sided-crush feel (if you what I mean); brimming over with love but a tad clingy... needy. The situation in the story was such, no?
So, one thing led to another (as it happens in love), and I found myself listening to "Vaan Megam"". I always loved this song but I now realise what a departure it is from "Edhedho Ennam"! Just like the two characters (Rekha and Revathi), these two songs have a completely different personality. Apart from the fact that it is chirpy and sprightly, it sends across the effect of a "full fruition". Isn't it what the storyline is all about? I have neither the knowledge nor the courage to analyze or applaud the genius of Raja sir. Everything lays out the mood so clearly--the words, the young synthesizer music and of course, the vocal dynamics of Chitra, who sang both of these songs---one of longing and the of attainment.
Listening to "Vaan Megam" brought a tinge of rose to my sullen face.
1. As I closed my eyes while listening, I remembered most of the words and most of the choreography, including Sundaram master's little ditty. As a teenager, I had often imagined myself in those rain-soaked canvas shoes of Revathi for more reasons than one.
2. The nimble fingers playing all those bubble-like keyboard notes, might be those of this young boy with a mop of curly hair who would go on to steal my heart a few years later. He is also known as the Mozart of Madras.
Here's the song.  https://youtu.be/2oHNn37iRn8

Functioning Without Labels

 

I recently came across these terms: hetero-romantic-asexual, ethical polygamy, polyromantic, graysexual, demisexual… I was quite fascinated by this new-world jargon. Broadly put, these terms are for people who look at relationships differently, away from the formula. This is like a make-your-own-salad counter. There’s the salad leaf—you can add just tomato and zucchini; choose feta or cheddar or no cheese at all, and maybe throw in some egg if you really are up to it. Google up these terms to know what I mean. (No, not the salad recipes!)

So, you may ask, “Why complicate things?” I may say, “On the contrary, it is a step to simplify our complicated lives.” The above-listed thought patterns aren’t new. It’s just that the labels are. People have always tried to force-fit themselves into prescribed social notions, believing that is how they ought to live—almost like a sombre fictional dystopian society, the members on autopilot, blindly traversing from one role to another, unable to escape the loop out of fear of punishment.

I have always believed that humans are like butterflies—a million varieties, with two million hues, some frail, some monarchs, but each with its beauty. Of course, humans are famed to categorize everything but fortunately admire aberration in nature. The same aberration among themselves has never been understood, appreciated or acknowledged.

This is because of the generations of conditioning that frightens even those with strong personalities to step away from. 

Why label a pupa even before it hatches? We, humans, are programmed to follow notions of milestones, religion, gender, sexuality, and more, right from birth. These notions end up shaping us like wet clay in the hands of the potter-society. Every little break from the preset mould is tied with anxiety. Anxious to get the best education, the best job, the best possible partner, the best possible children and the wheel continues. This anxiety leads to panic, leaving us with no time to introspect. Who are you? Do you want to learn this? Do you want to do this job? Do you want to get married? What kind of relationship do you want? What is best for you? These questions never get asked or answered. Sometimes the mundane aspects can be worked around, like switching streams of education and careers, of course after a lot of heartache, confusion and misgivings. But sadly, no attention is paid to matters of the heart. This leaves us often in a maze of unmet and unresolved emotions, with rarely a workaround solution. Any expression of individual choices gets labelled as weird, selfish, amoral and illegal.

This brings me back to the question, “Why complicate things?” Yes, we have complicated our lives due to assumptions—“If Tom and Jane are happy with this arrangement, Harry and Joan should be happy too. If they aren’t, they must try harder.”

What if we step out of the societal and moral matrix? Chaos and anarchy, you fear? I don’t think so.

Wouldn’t the world be more like a large, peaceful garden of butterflies if we are allowed to pursue the flower that we like? And not pursue any flower at all, if we don’t want to. Tom, Harry, Jane and Joan should have the courage to find their own little gardens. 

We have brought ourselves to a position where we need to invent new labels for what is already safely ensconced in the hearts of thousands. One might think these labels will only help a small fraction of elitist urbanites in finding themselves. The rest of the world still struggles and will continue so for a few generations.

I say, label or no label we are who we are/what we are.

So what do we do? Basically, let people be who they are. Don’t change a thing. Simple, no?

All of us must stop for a while and breathe. Think for ourselves who we are and what we want. Sadly, it might be a little late for adults already caught in the wheel but I think we should be very conscious about passing down unnecessary mindsets. Time-sheets and log-books are for factories; formulae are for laboratories. Not our hearts. Let’s not force our lambs into herds and make more lambs. Let’s not trample the beauty of relationships with our presumptions and anxieties. All it takes is a bit of maturity, a bit of trust and oodles of respect. As long as we teach them to love themselves and not hurt another living being, our children are sure to discover the earth, on their own beautiful wings, without having to struggle with labels.           

Images: 

Fujishima Takeji (1867-1943), Butterflies (1904), Wikimedia Commons

colorful butterfly PNG Designed By 大洋 from Pngtree.com

𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬

The pandemic didn't have an adverse effect on Neil's career, but the changing trends were appearing, like silent patches of seepage on the wall. An upgrade seemed inevitable.
And then, there was Natasha. Texts had progressed to video chats. There was still a starchy newness to the relationship. Neil hoped they would soon break through the two cold, glass screens that separated them.

 
"What next? How soon? What does the future have in store for us... for me?" A syncopated rhythm of questions rang in Neil's head.

 
That winter evening, Neil sat down with his favourite drink, neat, the way he preferred and began browsing the internet for music. He always loved exploring new artistes and new genres, but, suddenly, he wanted to listen to songs he knew, songs he could sing along with. Neil sank into the wrinkly sofa and into the playlists comfortably. In a while, his duet with Bryan Adams came with familiar ease as they chorused, "It isn't too hard to see we're in heaven."

Is this how we mine our joys from the tiniest of crevices?

Song: Heaven - Bryan Adams https://youtu.be/s6TtwR2Dbjg
Pc: Saatchi Art (Moreaux, 2014)

99 Songs!

 Just finished watching 99 Songs and I wonder why I didn’t watch it earlier.

                                                 

Since the story has been written by A R Rahman himself, it obviously ought to be about music, but this film has got so much more. Simply put, it is about Jay's quest for a song that leads him to many other revelations. Just like the fugue that is referred to in the film, the one-note story opens out to touch art, surrealism and different forms of relationships. I’d perhaps call it a fairy tale of sorts with fairy godmothers included. I could see beauty across every inch of the film. A beauty that only an artist is capable of imagining.

 

I know writing a story is no mean effort. A R Rahman, the musician, has poured every bit of himself into writing this story and with absolute honesty. He has put in everything that’s touched him, everything he feels passionately about. Though it was a film, it felt as though I was reading a book with audio and special visual effects playing in front of me. 

 

Many years ago, when I read Vikram Seth’s An Equal Music, I wished there was some way the prose and the music could be played together. And I somehow managed to make my own arrangements. 99 Songs gives almost that kind of a delight. A character's physical challenge in this film also brought to mind a parallel to An Equal Music. 

I tip my hat to Vishwesh Krishnamoorthy. He has done his best to put several abstract ideas into a visual medium with much grace and beauty, through his screenplay and direction. Maybe there aren’t grand dialogues or nuanced characters, but I would let that go because we are looking at people who are not bona fide story writers. We have someone who has just written a story and another who has transformed it visually. Having grown up on a staple of K Vishwanath’s films, I found this a completely different approach. Strangely, it always seems easier to make films about the struggles of a gangster than making films about the struggles of an artist. 99 Songs might not earn the appreciation of a film aficionado or a critic. Thankfully, I am neither! 

 

Like I said earlier, I did not find anything pretentious about this film. Casting would be an example. Ehan Bhat mirrors the simplicity and sincerity of the character that’s been written. Tenzing Dalha is such a pleasure to watch. Unable to forget him after Axone, I was happy to see him in almost every frame of 99 Songs. And then there are the surprising appearances of musicians in the cast that makes one exclaim in delight. 

 

(Still sticking to the book analogy) There is a tiny chapter on Jazz music that Rahman had to definitely write about and I am so thankful he did it. Like I have said in another post, Rahman has been exploring Jazz music like no one else in the film industry. And I’d love to sing the Jazzy lullaby chorus to an infant if I ever get a chance! I am not saying anything about the music in the film because that is what it is. I’m unable to split one from the other. The OST has much more variety than that featured in the film. 

 

Maybe I am dreamy-eyed, maybe I’m biased towards Rahman but I would say it was a Saturday afternoon well-spent. Ha! 

Image Courtesy: https://www.moviecrow.com

 

Schedules

Schedules

The buzz of the household, the whirr of the appliances, the clockwork of chores.

A quiet home. A quieter home-office.

The boss of everything. Everything under control.

And then a startling rush of loneliness.

A loneliness never felt, even as just a speck,

amidst tall trees, the mighty ocean and the wide blue sky. 

My parents didn’t send me to school to fold a man’s socks!

'My parents didn’t send me to school to fold a man’s socks!'

This is not a clickbait title, but a line that actually flashed in my head while putting away my husband’s washed socks at the end of a tiring day. This led me to a train of thoughts. I have fortunately never been in a predicament where I didn’t have a choice—folding socks or otherwise. Putting away laundry or setting the house in order comes out of my need for order and nothing else.

What I’m going to say now might raise some difficult questions but I’ve been wanting to speak about this for a while, for at least a year, actually.

I took a break from work soon after I got married, just to see what it is like to take care of a home and tend to a family. In less than a year, I took up studies and a full-time job soon after. Throughout a difficult pregnancy, childbirth, bringing up the child, I have been in some employment or the other, battling judgements, from within and from outside. I enjoyed every moment of my child’s growing up as much as I enjoyed every project I had taken up.

My love, respect and admiration for all the women who get to choose what they want to do, with complete conviction—either taking up a job or staying at home. Once there is a vocalised choice with conviction, there might not be room for pain. I will get back to this in a bit.

There are so many women with no such choice. Their lives are studded with rhinestones of duty and sacrifice. Neither do they speak up, nor are they asked. Everything happens on assumption. Be it childbirth or accommodating the husband’s career, she is made to volunteer. If you notice, she is not solely responsible for either of these. In today’s times, these decisions are not forced explicitly. A responsibility card is thrust in their faces, ever so gently that no one notices it.

                                             

Let’s talk about a semi-urban to urban woman. A woman who is educated and has the skills to be employed well. What happens when she, by her own choice or otherwise, decides to give up her profession and stay back at home? She takes on much more than she had expected to. It rarely ends with cooking and caring for children. More often than not, she feels guilty about taking on domestic help of any kind. There is absolutely nothing to quantify the amount of work that goes on in a home. And if the woman is knowledgeable and independent, she is expected to take on more—driving children to classes or paying bills.

Housework is like quicksand that keeps sucking you in. With no one, in particular, to be blamed, it becomes a vicious cycle. First, the stay-at-home mother/wife takes on more work to assuage her feeling that she’s at home all day and therefore piles up her plate with more chores. It grows to a point when the rest of the family borders on becoming lazy or insensitive. It comes to a point when the lady’s presence at home is not enjoyed but demanded. Mind you, I am not drawing a fibre out of feminism or even sexism. My concerns are practical. I am only talking about fair play. Setting aside someone's clothes to be ironed or getting up to make a cup of coffee for someone when I have a minute does not make me any less but at the same time, it becomes a problem when these tasks are demanded or if the lady is questioned when they aren’t done.

Gone are those days when we glorified our mothers and grandmothers who were supposedly the fulcrum of the entire household. We were hardly familiar with the core of that person. Let bygones be bygones. With time, circumstances have changed. The household does not belong to one person. The man cannot shirk his responsibilities with the excuse of being ignorant or too busy. This effect is sure to trickle down to the children.

 

                                                    

The biggest fallout of all this is IDENTITY. Caught in this whirlpool of chores, the woman loses her sense of identity and forgets her passions and herself. Her individuality is camouflaged in the garb of the family’s interests. Over the years, this has been pointed out a million times already and at the risk of sounding clichéd, let me say that nothing is permanent. Nobody is indispensable. The home won’t need the mother/wife all the time. What happens then? She is suspended in a meaningless vacuum. Where is she to find her purpose? Does she get a break from the chores, even then?

Moving away from employment to take care of the home and children are most welcome if the decision is conscious and carefully thought of.

a. Who will take the decision? The lady and no one else. No one can evaluate the value of her employment except herself. There is a lot more to a woman being employed. Money is just one reason.

b. When will she get back to work? Is this a permanent arrangement or a temporary one? Can she take up anything flexible if she desires to? Will she have added a skill or enhanced her knowledge during this period?

c. Where do her personal interests and passions fit amidst all this? That must never be the last priority.

d. What is the ambit of the work she is going to be doing at home? It must come with its boundaries of capacity and time.

e. Where is the money going to come from? Is she going to have autonomy of finances? Is there going to be an operative bank account for household expenses? What happens to her own finances that she has already earned and saved out of prior employment?

f. What happens in case of an eventuality? Will either of the spouses be able to pick up from where the other has left off?

g. What about a sudden, additional responsibility of extended families, in-laws?

Maybe all this sounds like the cold fine print in a contract. Like it or not, these are things to be thought of to avoid any assumptions and heartache. Ultimately, everything about this decision must be collective, with no room for compulsion or benevolence. Everyone involved must understand the purpose of this decision so that there is neither a cry of martyrdom nor a sense of disrespect.

After all, every human being is born with a purpose that's more glorious than laundry. 

Images: 

Xanthe Bouma, source: theatlantic.com

Lost Identity by Hoda Esmaeilian, source: fineartamerica.com

 

Puddles of Memories

 

It came like a sudden summer rain.

UNEXPECTED.

He and she.

Just like children.

They soaked up every drop of the rain.

IGNORING Mum’s warning.

“Summer rain is no good at all!”

They loved, laughed, lived.

As if for the first time ever.

They played, praying it would never stop, but

KNOWING all the time that it would.

Summer rain it was, after all.

***

He and She.

They slid back to their jejune lives.

REMEMBERING.

How as children, they trudged back to school

After a bout of cold. Strangely

SAD that they were cured.

The puddles remained.

GLAD.

To float their paper boats, to watch their reflection.

It made them happy. It brought no storms.

Summer rain it was, after all.

All that Jazz

I've always been enamoured by Jazz music. 

To start from home, I've loved  A R Rahman's lovely jazz numbers.

• Vennila Vennila & Hello Mr Edhikatchi  both from Iruvar 
• Jillendru Oru Kaadhal - Just love this one!
• Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na  - I think this is the song where I realised that ARR has a unique talent for Jazz  
• The latest addition  Mera Naam Kizie ...an earworm I wouldn't mind.

And it's a blessing when he chooses to sing them himself with his accordion or piano.  (Side note: I'm making a list of songs where he's played the accordion.)  

Coming back to Jazz, I've heard this genre as the BG score in so many films. Recently, Marvellous Mrs. Maisel and La La Land. I always listen to Jazz on the site, AccuRadio when I'm working. I'm familiar with Louis Armstrong, Nat King Cole, John Coltrane, Miles Davis and Frank Sinatra (his music is also a kind of jazz, I understand). I've loved Madonna do her Jazz in the album Dick Tracy. If I remember right, Indian fusion artistes have also touched upon Jazz (L Shankar, Zakir Hussain with John McLaughlin?). I want to learn more about it.

I've always wondered why I'm so attracted to Jazz music. It evokes a sense of freedom, leisure (not just of hotel lounges), happiness, a sense of living the moment and pleasure (not just of bedrooms, though Jazz cringingly features as a BG for so many seduction scenes [eyeoll] in films.)

So while working today, as always I was listening to music and this playlist popped up. It has some lovely jazzy numbers. Interesting, it's called Wandering around the Parisian Streets! This playlist evokes so many thoughts, dreams and memories...thoughts of lengthy meaningful conversations, dreams of sitting in a nightclub and listening to live jazz, memories of my trip to Paris - one of the best memories of my life. I still can't put my finger down on one thing that made me fall in love with the city. Sometimes, you just fall in love without knowing why - Paris and Jazz are just a few examples. 

And this is the playlist that popped up on YouTube, unasked. 

https://youtu.be/4WLiUSqNcak

While I'm still halfway through, I like Music Of The Sea - Fishing Secrets Jeremy Moyer and Je Ne T'aime Plus.

Tell me about your love story with jazz or a genre you are inexplicably attracted to. 

A little time off

Just stole a glance, though I wished to linger.
The lake and the moon need their time together too.

Labels

 

Adventurers

We are always warned about "thin lines" between this and that.

But some people always like balancing on those lines. Adventurers.

pc: kolyan.net

A Suitable Boy TV Series - Almost there

A Suitable Boy - a book that I loved immensely. And so was looking forward to catching the series. Two episodes down and I had mixed feelings about it before Meera Nair's hand appeared to save the series.

The first thing that struck me was that the setting, language and body-language didn't quite look like the 1950s. A lot of it felt more contemporary, at least in the initial episodes. Well, there might have been a set of highly educated, affluent families trying to fill the vacuum of the British snobbery. I need to do my research, though.

Coming back to language, you find certain characters easily shifting between Urdu/Hindi and English, which sounded a little unnatural. Maybe they should have stuck to English all through. A very difficult decision I'd say. Also, the diction in the initial episodes felt like a college-play and it did get smoothed out later.

The series takes off somewhere around episode 3. That is when we feel Mira Nair's presence perhaps for the first time. The visualisation of Lata's dilemma and agony was beautiful.

I guess that is where one has to appreciate the writers of the series. It is extremely difficult to encapsulate a novel of these proportions into 6 episodes of about an hour each. You need to pick and choose very carefully between what is absolutely essential and what is not, how to throw in a reference, how to weave in sub-texts and so on. What intrigues me every time I watch the adaptation of a book is how the director visualises the unspoken. I guess there lies their strength. However, I felt certain subtleties that Vikram Seth used in the book should have just been left as such. For having skipped the character of Veena Kapoor entirely, I felt Meenakshi's character was unnecessarily detailed only to be dropped off suddenly.

One thing that helped in piecing together all of this is the brilliant casting. I think this was one reason that kept me hooked on to the series. Right through, I kept sitting up and exclaiming "Hey him... hey..it's her!" Even the actors I haven't seen before are quite nicely cast and are have done a great job. The lady who played Mrs Kapoor is a natural. Okay, I had imagined Adil Hussain for Mahesh Kapoor's character but I love Ram Kapoor. So, I'm happy either way. Oh! Danesh Razvi as Kabir Durrani is so charming! Would love to see him more often in films. And Namit Das as Haresh! Maybe I like the character better now. He played the character to perfection (You are caught with mixed feelings between the actor that you like and the character that you, well...!)

I really can't say if I'd like to recommend this series to those who have not yet read the book because the series undoubtedly lacks the depth and the entire intent of the book. It has captured Lata Mehra's story to the fullest. It has tried its best to get the mood of the political strife, sadly there isn't much time. Like I have said in my review of the book, the phrase "Suitable Boy" is much more than just a marriage match. Here's my review of the book.

 

Surgical Strike

"Just imagine", they said, "how free you are going to be." Everybody pep-talked me. "You are not sick. You are only going to get better. You are not a patient," they said. So I went and got an expensive mani-pedi, finished it off with red nail polish.

The first thing as soon as I check-in: (note: my usage of the term check-in shows my state of mind at that time) "Madam, please cut nails and remove nail polish." The earth shattered around me. There were thunder and lightning. I turned around three times in slow-mo "Aakhir kyon?"

The angel in white boomed amidst the thunder, "Patient-ku, no nail polish allowed meydem." Disillusionment #374 of my life. I tried to make a joke out of it, "Patient-aa? Naana? Chey" etc. "You only meydem patient"

I begged. I tried reasoning. Nothing worked. Finally, making impatient clucking noises, I obeyed the nurse's orders. And she sweetly patted me and said "Thank you for being patient with us" (Don't you pun on me, woman!)

The surgery: I was lying there, watching the (literally) cold operation theatre being prepared for the surgery. I don't know if they were preparing to fell a tree or work on a human body. Such was the size of the tools they were laying out.

I meekly asked them, "Do you have to really do this in front of me?" Here I was, going through the most unattractive and unattracted day and there was this anaesthetist trying to make flirtatious small talk, comparing the nightlife of Hyderabad, Chennai and Bangalore. The conversation did put me to ease but I was too proud to accept that Chennai has a boring nightlife. Hmpfff...

Soon they bundled up my spine like an old, unstarched Bengal cotton saree and punctured several times. The nurses were so excited as if they were pinning sequins on the old Bengal cotton saree.

I could hear exclamations of "Ah! Now it's good. Ah! Super." In a few moments, I was in a daze. The anaesthetist came close and asked me, "How do you feel?" I could hear myself drawl, "As if I have downed six pegs of whiskey neat" Hangover of all that nightlife banter I guess.

I was wheeled out of the OT, grinning like a Cheshire cat, waving like a gallant Olympic medallist, all thanks to the whiskey..err.. the anaesthesia. Unsavoury display of discarded body parts almost made visiting relatives faint in fright. Thank God, nothing untoward happened, else I would have ended up paying the room rent x 2.

Post-Op: Anyway, I managed to sneak home within a few days and then started the trouble. Sat up all night because of heartburn (arrey, I mean the real physical heartburn yaar), sprained my neck because of that. So for the next few days, I was a robotic Frankenstein who had to do a complete turn around when the peripheral vision gave up. Then there was this no-bending rule. Being a rebel, I always like to bend the rules. But when they ask the rebel herself not to bend, that's when you realise life has its way of taking its revenge. That's when your brat will toss her jeans on the floor; your cook will leave onion peels on the floor. And you must refrain yourself from bending down, just like Bhagyashree in the final act of the Dil Deewana song. Label me a control freak if you want to. Fine, but what will you do when the bar of soap slips off your hand in the middle of a bath? You get creative and resourceful. You learn to use your toes to pick up anything ranging from clothes to hair to bottle caps, you name it (remind me to enlist myself for the next season of India's Got Talent). If the toes fail you, you learn to use shampoo instead of soap.

While I was recovering, people pampered me with cinnamon rolls and baadhushaas. The goodies have now neatly arranged themselves like a kid's stacking rings around my waist. I don't know how many more months I will have to walk around with this jiggly-jelly-belly. (Why the hell do good things have to be so fattening?)

When I rapidly lost a lot of weight soon after the surgery, I was thrilled. The lady at the hospital knowingly nodded her head and gave out the dark prophecy "You will gain as quickly as you have lost" Oh Oracle, how I ignored your warning!

Now after two months, the stacking rings follow with me to the office desk, threatening to get larger, but that's okay. I am happy that it's all behind me now or on my behind.

Reference material for the uninitiated

* Stacking rings: Illustrated above

* Bhagyashree's urges: https://youtu.be/7IHTdSc3WTw?t=239

The Longest Month of my Life

This is a long read, more like a note to myself for remembering the learning and filtering out the pain. If you are in a hurry, I would ask you to skip right to end of this post where I have shared some of my learning.

 15 October: It all started as what we thought was husband’s annual bout of fever. The doctors began trying antibiotics and paracetamol. I was hopeful because the cough wasn’t dry.  He, however, began isolating himself. Our concern was his aged parents and our daughter. With increasing temperature and a loss of smell, the inevitable test was done. In the meanwhile, I was trying to get his parents to move back to their flat. The result came out by the afternoon. It was the dreaded COVID positive result, with a medium viral load. After a few phone calls, he decided to drive up to the hospital and get himself admitted. It pained me to send him off that way, all alone with a few essentials packed. But given the circumstances, it seemed the best thing to do.

My story in the meanwhile:  My head was filled with questions and confusion and starting from Sunday night... “Could it be the C-word?”. “But we’ve been so careful!” and so on. Additionally, I started developing chills and tiresomeness from the morning of 13 October. I thought it was stress. I had no choice but to take charge of the house and the family. I got in touch with my ever-dependable Homeopathy practitioner who gave my husband some medicines and preventive medication for all of us too; I stocked the kitchen with supplies, began making suitable food for my husband, hoping the fever would be okay in a couple of days. I felt like doing the test for myself too because of feverishness and body pain. But we decided to wait for his result to come out. By the afternoon of 15th, I got a strange cramp in my belly, much like a period cramp. After my husband got admitted at the hospital and my in-laws back at their flat, there was a strange eerie silence at home. I was getting sick too but had to put up a brave face for the sake of our little one. Wonderful friends were on video call that night, trying to cheer us up. The moment I broke the news about my husband to my apartment Whatsapp Group, a neighbour with whom I had hardly interacted in two years, sprung into action. She was there on phone and Whatsapp all the time, checking on us. More about the angel later.

The husband at the hospital: Blood tests and CT scans were done. 5% lung infection seen, with the CRP (infection levels) showing 28. He was taken good care of with medication and a good diet. He was cheerful and looked fine.

16 October:  I arranged to have home-testing done for myself and our daughter. By evening, the inevitable happened. I turned out positive with a low viral load and by the grace of the Universe, our little one was spared. Now, this is where the real stress started. I broke down into shameless tears. Clueless. What do I do? How do I isolate myself? Some people suggested I isolate myself and let her take charge of the house. We could always get food from outside. She just needs to place the food outside my room. Doctors at my husband’s hospital suggested she be sent off to my parents’ house as a 12-year old cannot be a transmitter. A few more medical opinions sought, we decided that it was best to keep her at home and not to expose my parents or in-laws to her. In the meantime, I walked up to a lab to get a CT scan and other tests done. The kindly neighbour I mentioned earlier asked us to place bowls outside the door and filled it with fresh, hot food. Something she did on almost every day of our quarantine—a miracle I will never forget.

Miracle number two was the amazing calmness and composure shown by our little one, who had never slept alone ever, forget managing the house by herself. With her elder cousin’s supervision on a video call, she sanitised her room which was shared by the two of us for the past 4 days, threw out all bedding, lugged in fresh mattresses and sheets from another room. Before that, she placed food outside my room. We then connected on Google Hangouts video call, she wept a little but soon collected herself. Catching up on day’s events, storytime and prayers on video call would become a bedtime routine for the rest of the 14 days.

However, since running the household would be too much for her, we decided to “reverse quarantine” her. She would stay in her room for the next two weeks and I would have access to the kitchen.

17 October: Thankfully, my husband got discharged from the hospital in the evening. That morning, Corporation staff disinfected the house and surprisingly reassured us that everything will be alright soon.

18 October onwards: With the approval of doctors, I began cooking, whatever little I could. There were a zillion precautions to be taken—wash hands, wear mask, wash hands again, use gloves when needed; use one set of utensils for us, one set for the daughter, one set for serving ourselves, one set for cooking. I would wash my daughter's utensils, put them outside her room and at mealtimes, she would wash them again. The rest of my quarantine was spent in washing hands, washing utensils, disinfecting the kitchen, washing clothes, disinfecting the washing machine...you get the drift. There were a lot of medicines and steaming to be taken. I focussed on cooking salads and soups and shamelessly accepted any food anyone offered to give. For the first five days or so, apart from extreme fatigue, we felt unusually hungry, though we’d lost all sense of taste and smell. Since it was Navaratri, the angel neighbour kept sending us delicious and healthy prasadam as well. Every time I thanked her all she said was that she was blessed to be able to cook for us at this time and I just needed to pass on the kindness to someone else in need.

Our daughter was busy with her online classes. We tried to keep in touch with her as much as possible. Sometimes, she at her doorstep and we at ours; sometimes, on video calls. It pained me to have a little child touch-deprived for two weeks but I couldn’t afford to shed a tear even in solitude—it was from my spirit that she had to gain her confidence. How she handled her situation is still a wonder. Mornings, we resorted to a long stick to knock at her door and wake her up—couldn’t cross the line you see? ☺

21 October: The husband’s temperature began shooting up again, so did the cough. He would curl up and sleep almost all day. Things got a little worrisome. As against our fear of repeat hospitalisation, he was asked to come and get injections every day, which was also a lot of effort for him to drive up to an under-staffed hospital (an easy 3 to 4-hour process every day). The lung infection which was only around 5% initially, increased to 30% by the 7th day. Apparently, a 7-day spike is something to be expected, with a marked increase in temperature, cough or other symptoms. The hospital visits somehow kept his mind busy, which had begun playing around existential questions. He again got some fantastic support from our Homeopathy doctor, whose medication felt holistic. He managed to read up The Secret during those long hospital waiting hours.

26 October: The husband’s injections were completed and he felt a lot better. Rid of the sleepiness, we began looking forward to the end of the quarantine and so did our little one. All our moods began improving considerably. We arranged to have the house disinfected and deep-cleaned and asked doctors about how the quarantine should be ended.

30 October: The day of the big freedom. We woke up early and disinfected everything we could before the disinfecting could be done professionally. Our baby stepped out of her room, we all had our masks on and we only held her hands. The hugs had to wait. People from the Corporation visited to check on us. We ripped off the horrendous sticker and said a big prayer for having sailed safely through this most frightening experience.

Twist in the tale: So the Quarantine ended, we had the house deep-cleaned on 31 October and I realised that I was still a little tired, the back hurt and I couldn’t manage full-fledged cooking for another 10 days.  Though the husband felt better, he needed rest too. So I decided to order side dishes from outside and cook rice at home. Whether it was food poisoning or something else, I will never know. But on November 1, I fell extremely sick. Never been this sick in ages. I threw-up, don’t know how many times, had the most unbearable backache and when I passed out in the bathroom, my husband drove me straight up to the ER at the hospital. I spent almost the whole day there. A series of blood tests, brain and lung scans were done. Everything was clean but I was just unable to sit up straight. Saline and IV medication was given and I was sent home. That night and the next morning were hell.  My head was spinning, had terrible headaches, the vision was blurred (something that happened to both of us at different stages), I couldn’t walk straight without support. The doctors advised us to take the assistance of my parents as we could not transmit the virus anymore. So we landed at my parents’ place. My parents took care of me for almost two weeks. My mom, being a yoga practitioner, a Reiki and acupressure healer and more than anything, an effervescent personality, gave me a lot of strength apart from feeding me with nutritious meals several times a day. Additionally,  my Homeopathy doctor couriered me some great medicines. It was she who pointed out that the virus has probably affected my nerves with the effects manifesting a little late. I went on and off patches of fear, panic and sadness but tried to replace most negative thoughts with happy ones. My head still spins, I rejoice when I walk a straight line, my sense of taste and smell are a wee better, but I know for sure that I am on the right track. I couldn’t read but kept listening to music or watching feel-good shows on OTT. Don’t want to question my abilities but want to remind myself of the person that I used to be, of the things I was capable of. I have rejoined work this week and have been cooking with my husband's help. Feels good!         

Friends, like I said at the beginning, this has been a long post but I definitely do want to share these thoughts:

• COVID 19 is real. It is a virus. Not a fabrication of any healthcare company or organisation.
• You never know who, when and how it affects us. All one can do is to identify potentially unsafe situations and avoid them. We still don’t know how exactly we caught it. Our only guess is my husband’s workplace.
• If you must step out, use masks of good quality. Cotton bandanas or gamchas might not work the best at all times. Be very careful while meeting with people you don’t interact with every day. Outdoors or well-ventilated places are the safest bet. Be careful while dealing with paperwork and cash. Apart from the dangers, COVID 19 is an extremely inconvenient illness to have, the inconveniences of maintaining safety is nothing comparatively.
• If you don’t want to get admitted at a government hospital, this can cost quite a bit. Keep your insurance papers handy.
• Having said this, I would reiterate NOT to panic. Anxiety, in any illness, is bound to magnify the symptoms.
• Keep taking steaming, vitamins and zinc supplements without fail. Try native concoctions/kadhaas/kashaayams. They might taste bitter, cause heat in the body but see which kind works best for you. Keep eating fruits and fresh, hot food.
• While still on the above point, when we hear about someone being in trouble, it is only natural for us to be thankful about how safe we are. But please, let that be a silent prayer. There is no need to tell a sufferer how smartly you have been protecting yourself. If in doubt, go back to the second point. Please.
• Don’t hesitate to talk to people, ask for help. I don’t know what we would have done without the help of our doctor-friends who kept untiringly offering guidance, friends who dropped off food and medicines at our doorstep, neighbours who offered us food and did not shun us and our families who more than made up their lack of presence by offering constant cheer and moral support.
• Fill every inch of your life with gratitude, without which it would have been impossible for us to get through this difficult time.

  

When Talking Ain't Easy

I see a lot of well-intentioned posts that advise people to “talk to family and friends or anyone if they are feeling low or sad.” They say, “Why can’t people talk to family and friends when they are sad?”

The thing is, they can’t talk. That is the whole thing. With depression, it is extremely difficult to speak to anyone about it. It is a greyish-green cloud of low self-worth, loneliness, helplessness and related dark components. You just want to put an end to it.

Let me break this up for you. The symptoms of depression are never the same. The degrees, causes and triggers are as varied as the people suffering from depression are. Not all kinds of depression lead to suicidal thoughts. Most of the time, you feel isolated from the rest of the world. Sometimes you feel you are looking at yourself from the outside. You get to see an aerial view of yourself. You feel weird about your sadness. You are caught in a dark space between over-reaction and numbness, between over-working and idleness. You want to put an end to it. You are embarrassed about it. Now, this is what makes it extremely difficult to talk about even to the closest of your friends or siblings however patient and kind they might be. As listeners, we tend to give “solutions” or tell them “it’ll be alright”. Even if meant well, such words often seem superficial. Imagine this. You do talk to your friend, you feel better and even motivated. Cut to two-three days later. You are doing something mundane like brushing your teeth. This dark cloud suddenly seeps in from somewhere and makes you cry uncontrollably for several hours. You think of your losses and fears. In your head, you play out the conversation you had with your friend recently. You feel disappointed that nothing has changed—neither your situation nor yourself. Feelings of being betrayed (your friend said everything will be fine), having betrayed (you promised to cheer up) come rushing in, you are physically and emotionally alone, you want to put an end to it and then, snap! It is either temporarily over with a long crying session or it is permanently over. You wanted to put an end to it.

The only thing we can do is to check on our friends regularly. Gently, very subtly, make them feel good, make them feel important. Show them they are needed instead of making them feel needy. The shoulders might ache a little with all the leaning but it’s well worth the effort. Do anything but sound condescending or harsh. Most important, handhold them into seeking professional help. It is NOT easy but important. If possible, talk to the nearest, trusted person in that friend's circle. Work as a team. Don’t wait. It might be too late.

Picture Credits: curatedeclectics.com

Mind the Language

Not just during the lockdown but I've always had a challenge selecting good films for my daughter to watch on OTT platforms. Friends reading this might recognise my favourite question following a film recommendation. "Is it PG?" I keep doing extensive research on the internet. She rolls her pre-teen eyes at films that are 'twee'. I have to agree. The films are really dumbed down and painted in pastel shades. Unless it appeals to her classics are always a risk. So what does she want? She looks for depths of character, a storyline that makes her think, comedies that are not slapstick or perhaps stories that have a shade of darkness.
So what do I do? I gingerly inch towards the 16+ films with trepidation. Luckily for me, over time, I did find some fantastic films like Sudani From Nigeria (Malayalam), Jojo Rabbit (English), Yeh Ballet (Hindi), Killa (Marathi), Okja (Koren-English), Brain on Fire (English), KD Engira Karuppudurai (Tamil) and a few more.
Many of these films would be perfect for the 12-16 age group. Then why are they rated 16+? The only reason given is 'strong language'.
Take the case of the recent film that we saw and liked very much. Okja, directed by the celebrated, Bong Joon Ho. It is a heartwrenching tale of a young girl who raises a genetically modified giant pig and her relationship with the animal. It talks about emotions, animal rights and commercial interests. Just perfect for the 12-14 year group. But the dialogues which are a mix of Korean and English are laden with expletives. Totally unnecessary, out of place and cringe-worthy. The adult characters use cuss words when they are frustrated, angry and helpless.



I have seen this in regional films that are subtitled too. The cuss words are often sincerely translated! Example, Killa, one of the best films I have watched this season. Visually breathtaking and loaded with a soulful storyline and impeccable performances. Pre-teens experimenting with cuss words might sound funny for an adult but not when you are watching it with your own pre-teen.





Be it in real life, written work, song lyrics and movie dialogues, it has become commonplace to use expletives. English pop-songs even come in two versions- regular and explicit! I have always felt that using an expletive is the laziest form of self-expression. It reduces the opportunity to explore vocabulary. Especially when used in films, books and songs, I think it is a disservice to the audience because these are supposed to be written by professionals. We already know that the majority of learning happens outside classrooms. Right?


Coming back to my lament, it is sad that filmmakers are shutting out a chunk of their audience by resorting to strong language. A case of wasted opportunity. Though I don't completely agree, stories solely meant for adults can have some strong language but my problem is for cases where the story 'deserves' a larger audience. Especially these days when there is a dearth of quality content for this age group. My child and I might have missed some the gems if I was weary of the rating. So what is the way out? Since a lot of children read subtitles even in case of known languages, maybe those can be written carefully. Or the operators can mute the words without the annoying beep sound.

For now, I will choose to watch good, relevant stories ignoring the bad language. All I can do is, pre and post the film, I will take up a short moral science and English language lesson.

What do you think about this predicament? What would you do?

The Rozabal Line - Blurry

The Rozabal Line by Ashwin Sanghi. I wish this heavily researched book was non-fiction. It would have earned more credibility that way.

When I picked it from a friend's home-library, I was quite excited that this would give me an opportunity to move out of my comfort zone and I grabbed it. The first sixty-odd pages lead me into an exciting path on the thriller zone but what happens after that had my head spinning. I was thrown from AD to BC, 5 BC to 2012 so rapidly that I could hear the swish-swash sound effects given in films when they have to show a rapid scene cut. 

The line between real events and fiction is so thin that I was left feeling quite confused. And to have to keep turning back to references at the end of the book often left me tired (swish-shwash sounds again). I stopped reading the references after #18 or so. (there are a total of 209).  References work well in research material and non-fiction but not so well in fiction, especially when there are so many. It cuts down the pace of reading and the story as well. Also, the references were more from the internet than actual books. Credibility factor again.    

Truth be told, conspiracy theories are my guilty pleasure. I wolf up anything that comes on the internet from Elvis's death to Kennedy's assassination to the MH-370 disappearance. But this one somehow didn't have me hooked. Many portions seem extremely contrived. I've read The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown and found it quite intriguing and interesting. Maybe because it was all unfamiliar territory. I knew nothing of this theory at that time but The Rozabal Line seems to be following the same template, though going far, a bit too far from where TDVC left off.  Also, there is the Indian scenario, parts of which seemed implausible and convoluted (short of treading the path of some very sincere sounding Whatsapp forwards).  Politically and theologically, I wonder how it didn't cause any ripples. 

For it being fiction, there is absolutely no depth to the characters. They are just props for a larger theory. The ending seems very convenient and even preachy. 

While reading this book, Interestingly, I happened to stumble upon The Accidental Further Adventures of the Hundred-Year-Old Man by Jonas Jonasson. I grabbed it since I loved the earlier book, The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared, both parts of this story also have fact intertwined cleverly with fiction. Now, this did not confound me. I found myself laughing at the implausibility of it all.

Now, doesn't Rozabal Line also entwine fact and fiction? Though the path taken is similar, the effect is completely different. Of course, the genres are themselves different. While The Hundred-Year-Old Man is political-humour, The Rozabal Line is theological action-thriller, and a very serious one at that. Maybe it's my own knowledge (of religion) or the lack of it that makes me uncomfortable.

All that is said in The Rozabal Line is the author's own theological interpretation based on very extensive research and I completely respect him for that. I apply this to every book I read. If a writer has an idea and has the courage and means to put it in print, that by itself is an achievement. I only wish writers made better use of this privilege.