The many faces of rain...

Its wonderful that one can write about rain in endless ways. One can also experience rain in endless ways. Growing up in arid Kuwait, rain was an unprecedented gift. Continuing my childhood in Kerala, I found rain to be a real pain to live with – clothes never laundered well and the splashes of dirty water ending up on one’s clothes when too-fast buses headed self-importantly to their regular destinations, was far from poetic. In college, we danced unselfconsciously in the rain portraying a liberation of spirit not felt previously or indulged in since. Rain could be beauty, misery or liberty – reflecting the state of one’s mind for of course only we change – the rain stays the same.

Rain in California was a very sanitized version of rain in Kerala. It was not only milder but also did not bring with it the aroma of newly moistened soil. Every visible bed was mulched to perfection, so no smells assailed you when you walked in the rain along streets lined with pretty houses. Flowers were huge and picture perfect but their fragrance was either non-existent or a pale version of the lusty fragrances of the tropical flowers from back home.

Bangalore rain is civilized without being deprived of its soul. So for the most part it rains only in the evenings and nights with the days being sunny or merely slightly overcast. At nights, all restraint is left to the winds and the rain pours down in torrents saturating the earth and then overflowing every which way.

Last night I sat outside on the portico steps watching the downpour as it lashed the trees and bushes. Sipping my nightly cup of hot milk and feeling the spray of water on my face, I sat for a long time just breathing in the beauty of the scene. The drumming of the rain on the roof of the car shelter was in sync with the vibrations of my thoughts. For a few moments, there was that pure harmony and nothing else. For me today, rain means a rejuvenation of the spirit – tomorrow of course it could mean something else entirely :-)

Ex-Indians

One topic that has been pushing its way into my mind is that of the ex-Indian. The ex-Indian is a curious creature who has spent the majority of his life in India ( having been born and educated here) and the rest elsewhere usually the US or UK for Indians in the Gulf are never awarded citizenship of their country of residence so they remain essentially Indians. The ex-Indian looks like a regular Indian but for the accent and the dependence on faded t-shirts and shorts as a lifestyle statement. Of course there is another important thing that sets these exalted creatures apart – a piece of paper that says they are now officially a citizen of the country of their choice. In other words if one had no idea that they possessed said piece of paper, it was easy enough to mistake them for er..locals.

I have no issues with ex-Indians or pseudo-Indians or even fair-weather Indians. However I do have a problem with someone criticizing my country after they have chosen to leave it for greener pastures. Everyone has the right to choose where they want to live and raise their kids and I respect that. I do not respect their newfound ridicule for the country of their birth however. Not only is that akin to ridiculing your own mother, its also patently forgetting your road to whatever level of success you are convinced you have attained.

In college I had met all sorts of rabidly political guys – extreme in their views both to the left and the right. Now I see them embracing the very things they scoffed – mostly they (be they former RSS supporters or ardent Communists) argue about Obama’s policies and make sure they tell everyone back here that they voted for him. Afflicted with an increasing loss of memory they now laugh at everything Indian but do not forget to remind the world of their ‘Indianness’ when we win the World Cup in cricket. Human nature, you say? Well of course it is – animals rarely have this conflict in their soul.

The pseudo-Indian is an ex-Indian in soul but due to the exigencies of circumstance has been forced to live in India. This includes the newly-rich who suddenly don’t think the country is good enough for them and make sure their kids poop only in imported potties as well as the ex-Indian who has not managed to survive something traumatic like a job loss in their beloved new country and comes back to the country that he hates but acknowledges to be more viable economically.

The fair-weather Indian supports India when the going gets good and criticizes it remorselessly when the going gets bad. These guys are also ex-Indians but have chosen to return to India permanently with the rider that “if things get too bad, we can always go back”. This particular set of people although tending to be boastful, still make some attempt at integrating with the society around them.

Then there are those who call themselves neither Indians nor Americans – they have the coveted US passport but do not act like that its a God-given gift. They live simply and contribute meaningfully to the society. They don’t go overboard one way or the other and can find things to celebrate in the country of their birth as well as the land of their choosing. They are a pleasure to interact with because they do not go on endlessly about life in the good old wherever. They don’t shy away from responsibility and they are open to change whenever possible. Their children can move back and forth between worlds seamlessly and can be as passionate about cricket as they can about baseball. To me they represent a nice balance which is not really all that difficult to achieve.

To all ex-Indians I have but one thing to say – pick a side and stick to it. Do not use your country of birth as a safety net. Above all respect your route to your present, forgetting your roots makes for a very shallow existence.

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.