The power of failure

Failure gets a bad rap. Each time. Have you ever wondered why we, singularly as well as collectively, deride failure the way we do? Why do we only respect success? Is it humanly possible to be successful always? Is perennial success sought after because of the belief that it transforms man into superman?

All my life I believed it was important to be successful, to make money, to get for myself all those things that I did not have as a child.  By that scale I was not unsuccessful. Things changed drastically years later when I first heard my son's diagnosis. When autism entered my life, I felt like I had failed spectacularly – as a mother, as a woman, as a human being. All my banked insecurities roared into life in the form of a fierce fire that burned every ounce of confidence from my very soul.

I have had more failures than successes and my husband’s chequered career too lays testimony to the same truth. Having said this, I now say that each of my failures have taught me something so invaluable that today, as of now, I totally rock.

I have been through hell and survived. Each day still holds challenges that could break the backs of most but I get up and face them. When I failed to find a school for my son, I started one. When I failed to create a career for myself, I tried many and enjoyed them all. I have been an engineer, a  writer, a columnist, a teacher, a fundraiser, a translator - and I still run my house and make dinners that my children are excited to eat. I don’t think I would’ve learnt these many things or tried so many options if I had a regular successful life. So I am grateful for having failed. I wish I had started teaching my children the importance of failing when they were very little but at least now I tell them about it.

Respect failure. Don't fear it. Take it in your stride. Don’t equate yourself with your worst failure. Equate yourself with the strength you have shown in picking yourself up and moving on. No one ever walked the first time they tried. No one ever learnt to ride a bike without falling off at least once. No one ever got through life without one single instance of failure because no one can be good at everything they try.

Recently when I saw a lot of my friends on FB almost revelling in the failure of the Vikram lander even as the majority of Indians sat teary eyed watching the ISRO team frantically trying to re-establish connection with it, I felt terrible. Imagine the amount of effort behind such a mission. Imagine the number of people whose ingenuity helped the space program evolve into what it is today. Imagine the brilliance that designed a lunar orbiter plus lander at a cost that was a fraction of what other countries spend on such a program. And yet the failure of the lander was what was ridiculed. Not the success of the orbiter. Not the stellar work done.

It is only when we learn to respect failure as much as we idolise success that we acknowledge the power of learning. Without learning there is no evolving. So celebrate the failures and don’t put down those who try all their lives to do what others do not dare to do. They are the ones who make all the  difference.

The story of the handle-less sieve

I have a lot of sieves in my kitchen. A small one that is perfect for a single cup of tea. A few bigger ones for sieving copious amounts of tea. One for pouring tamarind juice through so that sambars, rasams and fish curries are sufficiently tangy but have no bits of tamarind seeds for unwary teeth to encounter. One for pouring golden ghee so that the burnt bits stay arrested in the sieve and don’t sully its beautiful perfection. And really big ones for flour and so on. I also have a small handle-less sieve. It wasn’t handle-less to start with and that is the story I choose to tell you today – the story of the handle-less sieve.

This particular sieve that I am talking about was a disaster. It looked great. It was shiny and bright. It had an amusing conical shape with a rather heavy handle. Now while it looked good, the handle was too big for the head which made it a really bad sieve. You couldn’t put it on a cup without risking it falling and tea leaves spattering everywhere. I never liked it, but like many other things (and people) in my life, I put up with it.

Then one day, my maid dropped it and its handle fell off. She then hid it and left. Many days later I found it and asked her about it. She blamed the fall on the sieve. I didn’t care in any case and left the conical sieve in the kitchen drawer and forgot all about it.

Last month, I was trying to skim cream off cold milk to make into butter. It’s a messy process at the best of times and I was struggling that morning. My husband came into the kitchen and told me to use the old handle-less sieve instead of the flat spoons. I tried it and lo and behold, in a few minutes I had rich cream sitting contentedly in a dabba in the freezer. After that, the sieve was used exclusively for skimming milk. It made me think.

Sometimes we find ourselves at a stage in life where we don’t fit. We don’t feel accomplished enough. We don’t feel loved enough. We don’t feel good enough. And then by some miracle or by the grace of God, along comes a purpose that fits us perfectly. Whatever characteristics kept us from being good at what we thought we were meant to do, made us perfect for something that we had never even imagined. That is the beauty of life. If we believe that there is something that each of us is exceptional at, we would wait patiently till we find that something and not settle for whatever our family or society or partner tells us we are supposed to do. So find that one thing. And go for it. Your self-doubt and awkwardness will fall by the wayside. And finally, you will be a creature of perfect balance. Just like my little sieve.

Standing by me

Working and living with autism has not been an easy journey. There have been so many challenges along the way that sometimes I wonder why I do it at all or why my partner and I keep the school going against all odds when we are financially, intellectually and emotionally worn out from all the adversity we run into. There is no rational answer to it. It could be that we both hate giving in to defeat. It could be that there is no one else doing what we do and so we owe it to the children. It could be that we are gluttons for punishment. Hard to say really. Maybe its all of it.

The other day a man from the house opposite the one where we run our school came to the gate when neither my partner nor I were present and proceeded to demand entry. On being denied it he grew abusive and hit one of my teachers who promptly locked the front door to get away from his tirade. The man then threatened to get the school closed. He had seen one of the children throwing a tantrum and wanted to see for himself what the child was up to. We don’t allow strangers to come into the school for obvious reasons. My partner went to speak to him only to be lectured to for half an hour. He claimed that she seemed highly qualified but how could such an uncouth guy be our staff – someone who couldn’t respect a government employee enough to let him in. He demanded to see the child and his parent. He wanted to know what was going on.

So today morning a whole host of parents came to our support as I walked up to the man and introduced myself. Immediately he sounded humble and apologetic. He claimed he did not need to be convinced. He was just concerned when he heard the child throwing a tantrum. He sounded like a completely different person. He averred that he had no issues with us. The tantrum-throwing child’s father came forward to explain to him why the child was going through a bad phase. Other parents stood by and declared that ours was the best, most caring organization for autism in Bangalore. I stood there and smiled. To see our parents come together and be right by my side when things mattered was a wonderful experience.

I walked back to the school with them. It was like being part of a family. Every parent supported us. Every parent was happy to take time to come and spend time with us to tell us that our work mattered. Today showed me how worthwhile our work is, how appreciated it is by those whose lives we have changed, how important it is for us to help more such children and their families. We aren’t alone. We never will be alone. Our work can go on. Such reassurance brings forth my warmest gratitude. Today, was a good day…

Golden Caramel Memories

My Caramel was taken from me almost 3 months ago. He was my golden boy, the cat who was a part of my heart, the one whom I remember every day. I try to forget that the lady next door had him taken to a place that she refuses to this date to reveal the address of. I try to forget that she was abusive to my daughter. I tried to forget that her husband messaged me that I better not go in search of my cat and that my children and I had no right to even see pictures of Caramel. But I cannot. I know that the better way to handle this is to let things be. And yet somehow I simply cannot.

The only reason I manage to get by without him is that I have his two daughters Caju (caramel jr) and Ponnu. They look so much like him that it eases my heart. Caju is a miniature version of her dad whereas Ponnu has his voice, his adorable trot and his naughtiness. They both like ghee dosas like their dad. They both climb the window meshes with the same alacrity that their dad used to show. And they both are as cute as their dad was. But what they are not, is friendly. They are 5 months old and while occasionally they allow me to cuddle with them, for the most part, they are independent. They don’t come and lie down on my laptop when I am working. They don’t follow me around and give me special attention when I am ill. They don’t curl up in any little gap they can find as long as its close to me. That was all Caramel. And its so hard to forget all of that.

I wonder what it is in a human heart that can make a person so selfish that they think its okay to hurt others with impunity. I wonder why the lady is continually lauded while my children and I are ostracized for fighting for our cat. Don’t animals have rights? Or do only certain animals belonging to certain people have rights while the rest of us have to hope and pray that their eyes don’t turn upon our pets in anger?

Anger and hatred are corrosive emotions. I know that. I cannot help feeling both of them towards the lady who knowingly hurt my children so callously. I don’t believe in fairness or justice. I know that there is no right and no wrong in this world as it is today. A world where a cat has no right to live and where children are made to cry in their sleep because they do not know how else to cope with the pain of a lost pet.

I tell my children that Caramel is safe and he is plump and he is happy. I tell them many lies so that they hurt less than I do. My golden boy is living the life of his dreams, I tell them. I so wish I had someone to tell me that too…

Second chances

‘The Shawshank Redemption’ is a movie that I had the opportunity to watch many times but that I managed to actually watch only last week. I know it sounds unbelievable that I would miss out on a movie like this especially when it came on TV countless times but maybe the time wasn’t right. So Mahi and I sat down together or rather I lay down and she sat in the sofa close by and we watched it. She had already watched it and decided to record it when I mentioned that I had not. She was eating snacks, sipping her lime tea and stealing looks at my expressions as I watched the story unfold.

Needless to say, I loved the movie. Who wouldn’t? It is the ending one would have wished for the Count of Monte Cristo. It is the sort of revenge that is not based on hatred and in that sense it resembled Tolstoy’s story ‘God sees the truth, but waits’ more than Dumas’s. You see on the screen an entire macrocosm of human foibles and virtues in a compressed time frame. The story of Andy is so well told that we forget that he isn’t real. We forget that he is a wisp of someone’s imagination. We forget that there is a distance between Andy in prison and us over here, watching.

Mahi, my 15-year-old, loved it to bits. And I, 45 years old, loved it to bits too. For different reasons perhaps. She loved the story. I loved its compassion. It is steeped in human kindness even among all the instances of greed, selfishness and cruelty. It shows us how it is not incarceration that is a man’s worst fear, it is loneliness. A man who has been institutionalised for so long, penned in and regulated, cannot be on his own in a world that doesn’t forgive or believe in second chances. And that is perhaps the message I took from the movie – the power and the blessing of a second chance in life.

Too often we believe our lives must go through paths that are already existent. We are born, we go to school, we take pains to follow rules, we study some more, we get married, we have babies, we think if we are financially successful we have made it but more often than not we get bored. Sometimes we don’t get the great jobs and that makes us feel even worse. Sometimes life throws us curveballs like a failed marriage, an accident that changes our status to dependent, terminal disease – anything that isn’t part of the above plan. And we have to find the resources to deal with it.

That’s where we give ourselves that second chance. The chance to conquer situations that we find daunting. The chance to forgive mistakes that we made for whatever reason. The chance to value ourselves or believe in ourselves. And therein lies our true redemption.

Of golden pooris and sunny aloo

Today is one of those days. Anything that can go wrong, has gone wrong. Today is my new beginning – the day I re-commit myself to my writing. I woke up excited. Started breakfast. Went on to the chores. My son’s fever was not abating so we had it checked and he tested positive for dengue. I was expecting it since I just got over a bout of dengue myself but it still is hard to watch him in this condition. I settled him in his room with plenty of juices and went upstairs to get into my writing zone. Lots of calls and interruptions followed. Lunch happened. The maid came in 2 hours early. I sighed to myself. When would I have the little window of alone time I needed, to write?

And then I decided. It didn’t matter. I would just write in the middle of all of this. Life is messy and whatever avenues we need to pursue; we need to do so while still immersed in life. Few of us have the luxury to escape to some beautiful deserted spot and write or paint or do whatever it is we want to do. So right here, right now, in the midst of the messiness, I write.

When I was lying in my room for more than a week, I let my mind roam over old memories. I remembered the oddest things from my childhood. I was constantly hungry but everything tasted like sawdust so I couldn’t eat. I had cravings for the food I ate as a child but who would make it for me? So I sat eating dry toast and drinking loads of juice that my patient husband and son kept making.

And one day when I was able to sit up for longer periods, I remembered something my dad used to do. He was not fond of visiting my maternal grandmother’s home so on the rare occasions that my mother and the three of us kids would go there, he stayed back home. When we returned after a not-too-long bus journey, he would be at the door waiting for us. And on the table would be a huge bowl piled high with pooris and a dish of aloo (potatoes) to go with it. We would dive in. And it tasted so good.

I could imagine my father carefully kneading the dough and trying to flatten it out into perfect circles (I was picky enough to point out if they weren’t just so) and then frying them up. I could imagine my father mashing the potatoes just so, so that the flavour would seep into each and every bit of the dish. I could imagine him setting the table and waiting for us in the days before we had a telephone and when he would have just guessed and hoped he got the timing right.

Always he made this dish when we were away and he was waiting. Always it tasted of love and homecoming. Always the sight of pooris reminds me of Acha.

So that is what I wanted to eat when I started to recover from the fever. For just one moment, I wanted to be a child again. A child who could rest easy in the fact that her parents knew her mind so well that even before she needed to ask, they would be ready with the answer to her cravings. I take care of my twosome in the same way but oh, to just be little once more and stay happily taken care of with so much love and indulgence – that is a gift we are never entitled to after childhood. At least I have my memories of golden pooris and sunny yellow aloo to keep me going…

In pieces

I have been woefully unproductive of late. Pursuing half-baked opportunities. Trying to get too many irons in the fire. Overthinking in order to find a quick solution for my major woes but ending up with none at all. And I could not even write. Writing is my one way of staying sane and even that was denied me. I was not a happy camper.

After days of this, I have now reached an oddly detached state. I see no solutions. The problems plague me but cease to hurt me with the intensity that they have exercised over the years. I decide to just be. I don’t ever know if I will ever find solutions. I don’t know what the future will be like. I don’t know if I can ever dream or long for the life I want. But I know that right now, at this very moment, none of it bothers me.

I study my detachment like it’s a new toy. I turn it over. I poke and prod it. I shake it a bit. It’s still in one piece. It hasn’t shattered. It hasn’t collapsed either. So what is this detachment? As I examine it, I realize it isn’t an absence of pain – it is a compartmentalization of it. The pain is there, securely bubble-wrapped. I can see it but I don’t feel it as intensely. I don’t feel the need to talk much either. I sit on my own, feeling slightly annoyed when my silence is imposed upon.

Maybe it’s a survival mechanism – a sign that if I don’t step back, my system will shut down. Maybe its an evolution of sorts. If the need to interact is not there, perhaps dependency and expectations cease as well. Its almost like you’ve been running frantically for ages. You have no breath left. Your body explodes with pain. Panic fills your system. Acid seeps through every cell. And you hit a wall. Now you turn back. Face whatever it is that had you running. And then you let go. Like you split into two. One part of you is the observer. The other part goes through the motions. Compartments of existence.

Its not a bad state to be in. There are a few issues though. One being, you can never feel happy. Or excited. There is no space for it. If you compartmentalize pain, you also compartmentalize happiness so that you can only feel happy in fractions, if at all. Interesting, isn’t it?

At least I can write. Without fervour or passion perhaps. But without tears, angst, joy either. Detachment is also part of life. Maybe it’s the price one pays for growing older. Maybe it is just easier to live in between spaces.

My train protector

It was one of those train journeys. I was heading back from Madras (it wasn’t called Chennai then). I must’ve been 19 or 20. I was used to train journeys because I had been living in hostels in Calicut since I was 15. I was happy in hostels. I had friends. I could read. More importantly I didn’t have to clean the house, do the dishes or do tons of laundry. I only had to take care of myself. I got good at that fairly early. I also instinctively knew that since I could take care of myself, I was allowed to so I just went ahead and did things on my own. I miss that. I wonder what happened in the intervening years to take that spirit out of me. But anyway, that’s not the story I wanted to tell.

So here I was, rumpled and sweat-stained from spending the night on the train. My house was in Kanhangad way up north in Kerala. It took 18 or 20 hours to get to Chennai from home. I went with family friends to write an exam at the IIT in Adyar for a PG course. My friend and her husband’s family treated me with so much love that the trip was fun. The exam was terrible but I didn’t mind. I was quite pampered. I was also fascinated by the IIT campus where I met my classmate from college. Her father was with her. She had come to write the same exam. Neither of us got through but then back then we didn’t quite mind all that. We chatted over lunch – hers was some pitiful leaf-wrapped store bought lunch. Mine was a feast because my sweet friend had carried a huge tiffin carrier with five dishes and piping hot rice. We gorged ourselves. I probably dozed off in the exam hall but like I said I didn’t care that much – I was very unlike my current anxious self.

My friend and her family sent me off on the train. They were concerned because I travelled alone. I pooh poohed them and thanked them heartily. Aunty had even packed some yummy pickles for me to eat and I was so touched – for me pickles equal a very special kind of love.

I sat watching the scenery which was primarily a lot of factories and a terrifying dead brown. I slept off eventually to wake up to a verdant, impossibly green Kerala. It was early in the morning. I could smell the metal-tinted air that is peculiar to trains. I washed my face as best as I could and tamed my waist length hair that weighed almost as much as I did. I wrestled it into a plait and sat in my spot reading. I was feeling dreadfully hungry as well. But then at that age I was pretty much hungry all the time. And more skinny that anyone would’ve thought possible.

Just about then a corpulent ticket collector arrived. I pulled out my ticket and showed him. We had reached the last leg of the journey where there were maybe just two other people in the entire compartment. He looked at my ticket and then at my sorry self. He asked me where my parents were – more specifically my father. I was a bit confused. I said he was at home in Kanhangad. He sat down abruptly opposite me and enquired if I had eaten. He would get me some coffee if I wanted. I said no thank you. After all I didn’t know a thing about him. He kept urging me to drink something and when the coffee seller came by he got coffees for both of us. I still didn’t figure out why he was doing all of that but I was almost home so I wasn’t scared.

I told him about the exam when he asked why I was travelling. He made it a point to ask if I travelled alone then too. I said no, I had friends. He seemed relieved. He then launched a verbal attack on my absent father. How could he let a young girl travel alone? Didn’t he know how dangerous it was? The last stretch was especially so with no women to serve as company even. My mouth fell open. I mean I was so used to it that I never gave it a second thought. So I couldn’t understand the fuss.

My father got berated for a full forty-five minutes till the train stopped in our little station. I grabbed my bag plus the other stuff that a lot of friends had sent for the Ashram in Kanhangad where we were all devotees. He shooed me away and took everything down for me. And asked me if my father was on the platform. I pointed him out. He glowered at my father like he was the worst monster in the world. I’m pretty sure that he would have turned to ashes if this were the mythical age. I just grinned as the train left and waved goodbye. My father and his umbrella found me the next minute and he asked me who I was waving to. I replied cheekily “Your worst enemy I think – it’s a good thing he didn’t get you close enough to do any real damage!” A bewildered father followed me as I went to hail a rickshaw for home.

Out of nowhere this memory struck me. I have loved my train journeys because of the unexpected and frequent acts of kindness that had come my way. So many people have shared food, dreams and space with me. There was such sincerity and love in those encounters. Maybe seeing a skinny girl struggle standing in a crowd for hours or drag baggage by herself made people want to help. Maybe it was just because I was so innocent that like my son today, I had a light shining from within. Maybe it was because the times were simpler and you could help and be helped without worrying about consequences. I miss those journeys today. And you know what? I met the same ticket collector during another journey (yes I got coffee and baggage help) and then too my dad wasn’t around – not in the station either and I am pretty sure he must’ve felt my protector’s burning disapproval no matter where he was!

Farewell Caramel

 Tawny, striped and so very good-looking – that was my Caramel. He had the most musical of meows. He had this undefinable connection with me. He could almost read my mind. He suffered being carried by an overly-loving Appu. He adored Mahi so much that he would sleep at her feet most nights.

My lap misses the tangible warm weight of the furry body curled close to me. I will never again feel him cuddling against me when I work. I won’t ever see his crazy cat poses as he shows off his cute tummy and purrs away in ecstasy. I won’t ever hear that questioning meow first thing in the morning when he’s hungry and can’t wait for me to get up. My husband used to say that I was far more patient with Caru and his madness than I was with my own children. I replied saying - He is my youngest child – the one I had in my old age – so yes I am indulgent ;)

 I do not know now if he exists or not. My heart tells me that if he was alive, he would have found his way home to me some way or the other. So in all likelihood they have ended his life. But I still wait.

He was a dominant and utterly masculine chap. Three of the neighbours is this god-awful complex hosting a plenitude of brittle, selfish, arrogant characters decided that his depredations against their cats earned him the punishment of exile. After several months of trying everything from neutering to attempted lockdown, I gave up. I didn’t want to be hounded every day. They threatened to poison him. People stopped me while I was walking at night or going to the grocery shop or trying to deal with my usual difficult days. Why? Just to harangue me endlessly about Caru. And I am ashamed to admit – I gave up.

They took him away when I wasn’t there. I couldn’t say goodbye. I understand that these people are incapable of love towards anyone other than their own but how can they hate an animal with such vehemence? How can a cat fighting with a cat be equated with a so-called human being making a conscious choice to hurt a defenceless animal? Writing to CUPA, asking an animal welfare oriented neighbour to intervene, messaging the ‘courageous’ husband  next door (an animal lover apparently)  who accused Caru of hurting him when he hurt himself running away from a cat (yeah and they sent me pics showing a scratch – such a manly man!) – nothing worked even though all I asked for was a photograph to show my children that Caru was ok.

 I tried all these mediations because the lady in question was abusive beyond limits – to me of course but also to my daughter who went with sobs locked in her throat to ask angrily for the address of the farmhouse where he was supposedly sent. She refused to give it to her. While talking to the lady myself, I put her on speaker and a friend who heard it all asked me in palpable shock – how can she be as cruel as this – I didn’t know she had such a side to her? I gave her a wry smile.

For some reason I am the litmus paper – the one who sees through fake smiles and lies, the one who cannot understand why superficial people seem to do so well in life, the one who bears the burden of truth.

But there is karma. Hurting an animal, much like hurting a child, will bring its own consequences. The power to hurt frequently goes side by side with the power of money. Instead of making a small change for the better, people who can afford it prefer to make things better only for themselves. There is no tolerance, no patience, no empathy in this place. One day, they will know what it is like to feel as if a piece of your heart has been torn away. I won’t forget. Or forgive.

 My children cried themselves to sleep for a week. Mahi still can’t talk about it. And I have never forgiven myself for not fighting more. I have wished more than once that I had the support to fight harder but I don’t. And that taught me one valuable lesson – your battles are your own and so is your journey. Being alone is just one more thing to get used to. Maybe that is why I miss my cat so very much. He loved me unconditionally. I won't get that again.

Of short films and thinking

After days of not writing, of being cut off voluntarily from most things, of swimming around in my own glass bowl of stale water, I feel the need to write again or rather to be part of something again.

So today I thought of writing about a few short films I saw in the weekend as part of Clone’s initiative to showcase women directors. I missed the controversial first film ‘Catharsis’ which I hope to catch sometime. I also missed a lot of the really well-made examples of short films which came later because I had a prior meeting I couldn’t ignore. Of the ones that I saw, I really liked ‘Indu’ – a simple, poignant story told in the most lyrical way possible.

Indu is a young girl who falls in love with her teacher. He is married. He lends her books and feeds her love for reading. She writes beautifully of her feelings in missives that she hides among the pages of the different books they exchange. He makes paper objects like planes and keeps it in the books as he lends them to her. It is clear that he enjoys the girl’s artless adoration. His ego revels in the kind of attention and devotion only the very young can bestow on you. One day, in class, when he announces that his wife is pregnant and distributes sweets in celebration, he cannot meet her eyes. She stares at him accusingly. She shows her anger in childish ways and he is annoyed. He makes it clear that he doesn’t like her behaviour and doesn’t understand why she cannot fathom the ways of the world – a married man is always out of bounds.

Indu walks away hurt. There is no drama. Her pain is clear to us – to anyone who has every fallen in love actually. And her deliberate unfolding of the teacher’s paper plane and refolding into a boat that floats away in the water is beautifully symbolic. The next scene shows a one-line discussion between her parents and another couple where all is ‘arranged’. A wedding with sombre overtones is clearly unfolding. It’s a simple affair. A small temple. A handful of guests. The bride’s bother walks grimly with a pot covered in red cloth and some jasmine flowers adorning it. The groom’s mother does the same. The lamps are lit. The ‘para’ is full as is the wont in any auspicious occasion. But there is no joyous music. There is no colour. The two pots sit side by side as the ceremony continues to its unremarkable end.

I loved this portrayal of a young heart’s ability to lose itself intensely. The protagonists are ordinary, everyday people – unremarkable in every way on the outside – just like us. The subtle underlying thread of suicide does not push one away from finding the story beautiful. The idea that a girl whose love is unfulfilled yet finds herself tied to some stranger in the afterlife so that her ‘soul’ can find peace fills you with despair – for she is not allowed to love even after death. It’s a must watch for anyone who wants to experience a different piece of film-making.

Of the other two I watched, ‘Mambazha Pulissery’ was most unremarkable. The camera was lazy – no effort had been put into framing the scenes. The content is nothing unusual and neither was the writing so I am not sure why the curator chose to add this short film in the set. Two sisters arguing about the younger’s choice to live in with her partner and viewed by their mother on Skype unbeknownst to them is hardly an interesting theme. Particularly when there is no denouement of any sort. They argue. They cook. They eat. Parallels are drawn between their disagreements and the need to work together despite differences by comparing the different flavours that go into the making of a pullissery. The mother attempts to show her daughters that she is conversant with live-in relationships by hinting that in older times their grandmother had several lovers as well. The film is neither here nor there. And unlike a well made mambazha pullissery (which by the way is really easy to make), there is nothing here that entices one’s taste buds. A film that could have been left out, in my opinion.

‘Njaval Pazhangal’ was halfway between these two for me. Named after the tongue-purpling jamun fruit, this film sets out to highlight the way skin colour is still a major issue in everyday lives. There is no clear story here. The protagonist revisits his childhood after biting into a juicy jamun on his way back home after years abroad. An idyllic childhood filled with picking jamuns, running around with his sister and being cherished by his parents and grandmother is shown. Throughout the narrative, casual statements that show the mindset against dark skin colour pop up almost as afterthoughts. The grandmother commenting that a bride in a wedding album was inferior because she was dark, the little girl not getting to play Bharathmatha in a play because she was dark, the colour of her favourite doll seeming to portent ill for her father because that too was black – all of them portray how insidious the prejudice against dark skin is. Most people are prejudiced without even knowing it. I liked the concept but I thought the execution needed work. The acting was contrived in many places. The sound was out of balance so the mixing and editing needed work. The ending was open. And while I normally like open endings there is such a thing as too open. The concept however is something that more directors need to address. I just wish the method of expression was more refined.

All in all the films did their work I believe – which was to make me think of things other than my daily woes and interests. And it got me writing again – how can I not be happy about that !

The year past

The past year has been as most years have been in my life – a mix of ups and downs. Of course the tough periods outnumbered the easy ones but then I think I have been made for challenges. I learnt to respect the aspect of the fighter in me. I learnt that after the ranting and the railing and the seething frustration, I move on to an odd kind of peace. That teaches me an important fact – most things pass and if they don’t, then you just learn to ride them.

It isn’t challenges that get you down, it is the way you respond to them. I used to wonder why my life was especially difficult – the autism, the financial worries, the personal friction with extended family that plagued my relationship with them for years. And then I realised that comparisons were the worst way to deal with problems. You have yours, others have theirs. If you can find the strength to lift yourself and go on, it is a victory in itself. Whether someone else acknowledges it or not. Whether you reap the benefit of courage or not. Whether it makes you tougher or not.

Another bad way to deal with challenges is pondering the ‘what ifs’. What if I was allowed to take the job I was offered in college instead of being married off? What if I never married at all? What if autism hadn’t been in my life and I had only normal problems? What if I had believed in myself more? What if I had support? These questions are as futile as the answers themselves. The fact that I can handle most anything alone is because of what I had to go through. The fact that I have less fear and more confidence is because I beat my own path. The fact that I have accepted that I have let people’s expectations down and don’t let it bother me is because I believe that I am making a difference with my autism work. So there are always gains that you forget to note in your hurry to wallow in the loss of perceived blessings. Maybe in another life, things will be easier. Again maybe not.

One aspect of facing down hurdles is that you begin to respect the genuine in everything. Genuine words, genuine people and genuine feelings. And all that is fake becomes abhorrent. So this year I have decided to do away with all that is fake – fake relationships that have ceased to give me anything and took me for granted, fake words that are exchanged in order to fulfil a contract, fake engagements that cater to the ego. I believe with all my heart that we are put on this earth for a short length of time and if all we can do is put up a show, then what is the point of life?

So Happy New Year folks – celebrate the genuine in you and the world this year and always :)