Just Cricket

The cup runneth over – in this case probably with champagne since after 28 years, India has won the World Cup in cricket. The joy of a nation was tremendous to behold. Celebrations were on a scale that is difficult to describe. The country rejoiced as one – millions of throats grew hoarse chanting “Indiaaa” and of course “Sachin”.

It is hard to explain to a non-Indian why this sport is followed with so much fervour in this country. I don’t claim to understand all the nuances myself. I like watching cricket and I love cheering for my country – its as simple as that when all is said and done. But why only cricket? And why do we not love cricket itself as a sport but tend to love only our team playing and winning? Again I am far from qualified to answer that. I can only guess at a few factors based on the way I comprehend the manic frenzy of the Indian cricket-lover.

In no other field do we feel like we have a chance to succeed and impress the rest of the world. Its almost as if beating England in cricket makes up for three hundred years of colonization and beating Australia is a way to get back our pride after too many bouts of humiliation. Against Pakistan, let no one even attempt to dissemble – its an outright war. There’s no grace or dignity that comes into play – we want to decimate them. So for most purposes cricket is our weapon to get back at the world or rather a tool to carve a place for ourselves in the world that is right out there in the sun.

Another interesting aspect is that for us our current Indian captain shows true leadership. The kind of leadership we don’t get from our politicians. We are embarrassed by our silly President and fed up with our ineffective Prime Minister. We are not interested in hearing about yet another scam or sleazy scandal. When we have nowhere to turn for inspiration, we look to our cricket team to lift us out of the mundane and elevate our life to the sublime even if it is only for a few brief moments.

We get inspired – we believe we can fly when we see Dhoni hit that final six with a flourish. We cry out loud with sheer happiness. This is why we burden Sachin with a billion expectations. This is why we think he is God – in a country where very often one wonders whether there really is a God watching out for us, only a manifestation of almost poetic sporting ability seems to be true divinity. This isn’t mere cricket – for the majority it is a religion.

Words

Words have immense power. A friend tells you that you are looking lovely and you find yourself walking just that bit taller the rest of the day. Someone says they love you and you bloom. A child tells you that he loves his yummy dinner and it makes you glad. Actions may speak louder than words but words have the power to transform even over a distance.

Many a time when I have felt low and depressed, a phone call from someone who cares enough to check up on me changes my mood drastically. Sometimes it is my children who tell me the most beautiful things. Who hasn’t felt the impact of harsh words? Have you seen how a child visibly wilts under the angry lash of words you didn’t manage to control in time? I have regretted most the words I have spoken in anger to many – they may have been justified or not – but they could never be taken back. Indeed it took nearly six years for me to undo the mistake of one impassioned speech. That relationship is still not fully mended and I doubt if it will ever be unless the right words of love are spoken to heal things but the ego intervenes and messes matters up.

Words to lift up and words to let down. Words to entrance and words to distract. Words to fulfill and words to deny. There are all sorts of words and their power is simply astonishing. Try thinking different words and saying different words than is your wont. No matter how irritated you are, try to substitute words of anger for words that are soothing or at least quieter. The transformation in you and around you will be beautiful.

Justice is a joke...

The lovely young girl stared back at me from the front page of the newspaper. She is forever fourteen and unavenged. No one cares for her anymore. No one asks for justice for that forgotten piece of humanity who would be almost seventeen had she been alive. Only her parents are perennially haunted by her pleading eyes. How can such a brutal murder be so easily wiped from our collective memories?

Aarushi was found with her throat slit in her bedroom in May 2008. The domestic help was found dead on the terrace a day later. Her parents were asleep in the next room at the time of her murder. Three people were arrested and then released due to lack of evidence. The premier Indian investigative agency, the CBI, has announced that they cannot solve the case and that it would be closed. The level of incompetency is baffling – was there not even trace evidence left behind? Or is the CBI so technologically regressive that basic crime-solving aids are not in place?

The media did its part as well. First the character of the girl was called to question – she might have been found in a compromising state with the domestic help and therefore killed to protect the family ‘honour’. Then the character of the girl’s father was suspect – he was jailed and tormented with questions and baseless allegations. In what kind of a country is the victim’s family torn apart mercilessly in the media with no evidence? If her probable killers can walk away scot free because the CBI bungled the case, why are they not being investigated by the media?

There is simply no answer to any of these questions. There is not the least bit of humanity involved in the way the whole case was handled. Mysterious disappearances of swab results from the Noida hospital entrusted with the post mortem remain completely unexplained. It is not a simple oversight but a long list of compounded errors that led to the premature closure of this horrific case. Maybe we should just get rid of the CBI – an overly expensive institution that has more failures to its credit than can be justified. Meanwhile the case must be kept open. This cannot be a country where we fear to leave our children in their rooms at night. Whenever women are attacked on the streets, its always their morality or manner of dressing that is believed to be the cause – can the same be said of a girl sleeping at home?

What a happy and joyous new year for the Talwars! To be informed that the little line of hope that they had been clinging on to had disappeared – to be told that they must now forget that they had a daughter who was killed while sleeping in her own bed – to be reminded that they had failed to protect their own child and paid for it in the harshest way possible – these are the gifts with which they ring in the new year.

Place Value

What is it that keeps generations of people rooted in one particular place? Is it the love the parents feel for their land, the deeply held belief that their piece of the earth is the best ever or the inability to feel at home anywhere else? I do not have that rooted feeling – I think I need to be in my own country but beyond that I feel I would survive anywhere. I have no memories of being violently attached to any particular place and that is perhaps understandable given my background.

My father had lost his mother when he was around five years old. He was number nine in a family of twelve children, four of whom died in childhood due to causes unknown. There was literally no one to care for them as his father took care of his nieces and nephews as was the wont in a matriarchal system and so they went hungry more often than not. The local village weddings and temple festivals were possibly the only occasions when they had full bellies. Having a really difficult childhood made my father determined to be a good provider when he had his family. He was willing to do any sort of work and travel to any godforsaken place to earn enough for his family. Therefore there was no sense of belonging to a particular patch of earth that I inherited from his side. He loved his hometown but rarely returned and yet he married off my sister to a family from that very place – so perhaps there was some longing for a connection to his birthplace that I wasn’t very aware of.

My mother only wanted to leave her place of birth – she had no prospects of a better life there and was unable to realize her dreams of studying in a college. Since she had no means to study, the only other option was to agree to be married off and yet since my father was away on ships for ten years, she had to stay in the village of her birth far longer than she ever wanted. So her aversion to returning there for more than a few hours saw me unable develop a lifelong attachment either. The home my parents made together in Kasargod was home for me for a few years after which I went my own way – again no lasting ties to what I saw as a fleeting landing point. Perhaps eight years of living in hostels added to the detachment.

My husband was born and raised in the same place and had an idyllic village childhood. He remembers those times with nostalgia but has no desire to go back now. For him the place while appearing essentially the same has lost its soul and he feels like a stranger in his hometown. I find that very difficult to believe – that someone with such a fairytale childhood loaded with memories still feels no attachment to his hometown. His parents have very strong feeling of rootedness – so much so that they will never spend a night away from their own home – their land has a tangible presence, it is a living entity for them and my mother-in-law has feelings for her coconut palms that she seldom displays to her grandchildren.

My children will feel even less of a bond to their birthplaces. Perhaps the notion of the land as a delimiter will vanish completely with their generation and again perhaps in the perverse way of tendencies skipping a generation, they might have a stronger bond with their birthplace than their parents ever had. Does the strength of that bond influence the manner in which their personality develops? I don’t know really. All I know is that for me at least it makes me feel like a bit of an outsider just about anywhere ...

Integrity

I save the frivolous stuff for my columns and let loose on my blog . Perhaps its easier since there doesn’t seem to be many people reading my posts and I almost feel like I am thinking aloud. It lets me speak about things and feelings I would normally not put forth in public.

My latest point to ponder is that of integrity. I have doubts as to what it means – I know the literal meaning of course but how exactly can one explain it? Is it the adherence of an individual to consistently held beliefs and values? Or is it to be confused with morality? I cannot make it out. Is doing something which seems wrong to you a violation of your integrity? Is then one man’s integrity completely different from another’s? How can one answer these questions?

I do not lie, steal or maim but I do lose my temper more often than I should. Is my integrity comparable with that of say a serial killer who believes in the purity of his actions? So to define integrity as following consistently one inner system of principles or core values doesn’t really make sense. Apparently the word itself follows from ‘integer’ and is associated with wholeness. It is also considered to be the opposite of hypocrisy. And yet all these together still make it hard to define integrity the way I understand it.

I believe integrity can be defined as sticking to a higher standard and doing so consistently and not only when someone is watching. It means trying to go above ourselves to do what may be difficult but somehow right. Its no use saying my right is someone’s wrong – there are certainly some universal rights that have the same meaning the world over. If it is difficult for me to refrain from stealing (or violence or whatever), that cannot justify my indulging in it when I know I am wrong. So integrity has to be cultivated, it needs work – some of us may have grown up with the right attitude but have left that by the wayside in order to make our way forward in life just that little bit sooner. Some of us have never had anyone teach us right from wrong but know innately what feels right and follow that path no matter how onerous.

If you find yourself making inane excuses in order to follow a particular course of action, then it stands to reason that the action will violate your integrity as you perceive it. And that perhaps is the only way to measure one’s integrity level. Do you succumb or stand back and refuse to give in? It is ultimately the measure of one’s true worth.

Alone

There are a few moments in life when one is well and truly alone. You are born alone. You die alone. In between, people come in and go out of your life. But whenever you are truly happy, can another be part of that pleasure in the same measure? And when you feel that gut-wrenching pain, can anyone else feel it the same way? Certainly not. And yet we crave the presence of others in our life not believing or perhaps not wanting to believe that loneliness is the truest part of our existence. Even when embarking on a journey to realize the true self, one must walk alone. You may have a guide for a while but you must go on alone if the ultimate is to be realized.

Somehow one tends to forget all that in the hustle and bustle of a daily existence. There is so much to do that is routine maintenance for a family, for children, for a marriage, for the house, for a career – it is endless and time-consuming. In the midst of it all we quite conveniently forget that the whole thing is merely an illusion and we are in fact alone. Entanglements are necessary for survival in a society but attachments bring with them their own misery.

For years I have lived with a spiritual atmosphere around me. I can safely say that I was born into it. It is a part of my being and though I have tried to fit in with my environment all those years I lived away from home, I find that a part of me is unalterably spiritual. I do not know whether that has made me more of a freak - I suspect so – in any case it has certainly made me different or rather given me a different view of most things.

Knowing all this I yet feel sadness, anger, misery, love, lust, excitement, contentment and whatever other emotion is capable of being felt. And yet a part of me sits aloof and wonders whether it is really me who feels all of it. Perhaps if I build on that, this terrible pain will not overcome me when I am faced with my worst fears. I do not know when I will have the answers but I do know one thing, my anger is never a solution…

Unwanted

Life in Bangalore for techies and their families means mainly one thing – everything takes a back seat to careers. The hours that the software guys and gals keep are almost insanely ridiculous. No one has time to eat healthy, exercise, have a meaningful relationship, have kids or if they do have kids, even do more than make sure they are fed and paid for. The kind of incentives offered, the determination to elevate one’s standard of existence to match the gloss that is advertised, the chance to travel abroad and see new sights and make the family back home even more proud of one’s achievements are all factors that make a high-level software job irresistible. All fine and dandy – my only objection is the sad fate of the children of some of the more imbalanced of these marriages.

I have known families that make everything work together beautifully and I appreciate them for it takes a lot of effort to keep things sailing smoothly when careers and home life have to be balanced. I also know of a few where the children are so neglected that it makes me want to shake their parents and ask them why they chose to have these poor creatures at all. There is this little girl who lives nearby. She is a year older than my six-year old daughter and they are friends. She gets no attention from her busy father and her housewife mother is too preoccupied with jewellery and beautification to even walk with her to the gate and put her in the school bus. The child is so starved for affection that she is whiny and lies terribly – all in a vain attempt to get noticed. Sometimes she tells me “Mahi is so lucky Aunty – her dad is always home early!” Her mother never reads stories to her. She never walks out with her. She is left to her own devices and frequently left alone to sit with the guards at the gate in the security cubicle. What sort of mother would leave a pretty child like that alone at eight in the night with a bunch of men? Sometimes I feel that God is terribly unjust to inflict a child with a parent who does not deserve her.

I have attempted to speak to the mother only to be abused myself. Her thin sheen of politeness gives way to a market-stall manner when provoked. And I leave well enough alone knowing that I shall always feel guilty for not pushing more. I try to get my daughter to play with others too so that she doesn’t pay for my interference. And yet the image of the girl’s face full of yearning does not leave me.

Perhaps the neglect of some affluent children by indifferent parents has nothing to do with careers and everything to do with the single-mindedness with which they pursue increasing wealth or maybe just a good time. The only ones who really suffer are the children who are ignored and left unwanted.