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.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
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 ...
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 ...
Friday, November 12, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
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…
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…
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Creativity
There are only two things I do with any degree of creativity – one is writing and the other, cooking. I love both and I can technically do both every day though the result is far better if I feel inspired or am simply in the mood for it.
When I write, it is with a feeling of pleasure that I am among my friends, the words that are all about me. When I cook, it is with a feeling of anticipation that those I love would enjoy eating it and then their pleasure becomes mine. I would infinitely prefer to watch someone enjoy that which I have created than consume it myself. Both require a degree of skill in the sense that one cannot simply throw either words or ingredients together randomly and hope for a favourable result. Both are very sensual experiences for me. If the words are strung correctly, they fall in place like the pearls on a necklace – perfect and lacking nothing. If they are put in haphazardly, they look like the Lego blocks in my kids’ room after a riotous bout of playing.
When I cook, I know beforehand that I would not mix certain spices together but I never try to anticipate where the ingredients will take me. Each step should be done with love from the artful chopping of onions to their perfect saut̩ing to the addition of roasted and hand-ground spices and the final garnish. Friends and family look at me askance when I only serve dishes with colours that complement each other РI am no perfectionist by a long shot but I do long to be one. Of course there are days when I cook just to finish a chore but even then I refuse to compromise on the basics.
It can be very de-stressing to let oneself go and give free rein to the emotions and ideas within – the only problem with cooking like that is that I can never recreate a dish that I myself have prepared well since my moods vary. The words that I put down have a part of me in them forever. The food that I create also reflects the person that I am – a bit of zing, plenty of passion and lots of colour. Perhaps that is why I always choose to show my affection for my family by giving them their favourite foods when I know they are down and do not have the words to comfort them. Food is celebration, comfort and adventure all in one. Just like a well put-together piece of writing.
When I write, it is with a feeling of pleasure that I am among my friends, the words that are all about me. When I cook, it is with a feeling of anticipation that those I love would enjoy eating it and then their pleasure becomes mine. I would infinitely prefer to watch someone enjoy that which I have created than consume it myself. Both require a degree of skill in the sense that one cannot simply throw either words or ingredients together randomly and hope for a favourable result. Both are very sensual experiences for me. If the words are strung correctly, they fall in place like the pearls on a necklace – perfect and lacking nothing. If they are put in haphazardly, they look like the Lego blocks in my kids’ room after a riotous bout of playing.
When I cook, I know beforehand that I would not mix certain spices together but I never try to anticipate where the ingredients will take me. Each step should be done with love from the artful chopping of onions to their perfect saut̩ing to the addition of roasted and hand-ground spices and the final garnish. Friends and family look at me askance when I only serve dishes with colours that complement each other РI am no perfectionist by a long shot but I do long to be one. Of course there are days when I cook just to finish a chore but even then I refuse to compromise on the basics.
It can be very de-stressing to let oneself go and give free rein to the emotions and ideas within – the only problem with cooking like that is that I can never recreate a dish that I myself have prepared well since my moods vary. The words that I put down have a part of me in them forever. The food that I create also reflects the person that I am – a bit of zing, plenty of passion and lots of colour. Perhaps that is why I always choose to show my affection for my family by giving them their favourite foods when I know they are down and do not have the words to comfort them. Food is celebration, comfort and adventure all in one. Just like a well put-together piece of writing.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
The Pattern
I have often tried to figure out why certain people come into our lives. We have our parents, siblings, spouses, children and friends of course. Most of our friends we gather as we grow from child to adult solely on account of proximity – neighbours, fellow students or co-workers. Yet there are people who sometimes cross our paths briefly who may be neither former acquaintance nor current friend.
I believe that anyone who crosses our path does so for a reason that may or may not be clear eventually. It is hard to see the pattern of our relationships and the intricate crisscrossing of our lives with others and the eventual winding away on the road to fulfillment of destiny while we are right in the middle of the pattern. If we could lift ourselves above our mundane existence, we might be able to discern the meaning behind seemingly random choices or meetings. Since that is nearly impossible we are often left confused when the outcomes of meeting certain people lead us along unexpected paths.
I have the unenviable ability to attract weirdos. It is not a comforting thought. I mean, isn’t like supposed to attract like? Do I actually possess some sort of hitherto hidden weirdness that calls out to these kooks? Maybe, but I do hope fervently that it was to teach me valuable lessons and not a case of birds of a feather flocking together.
In the recent past, I have had a woman I thought was a friend harass me repeatedly with malicious mail and even stalk me. Then there was this ‘friend’ from college who tried to cloak hateful sentiments that she directed at me and displayed on a social networking site, as merely funny. There are more stories from school and college which are rather disheartening on re-examination.
Why was I the one to cross paths with these strange people? I have no idea. The larger pattern is not clear to me. I do know that sometimes when I am pondering a problem or longing for a mind to share a sentiment with, someone does come along and bring in a breath of sea-laden breeze with him/her. I know that when I am looking hardest for a way, someone comes and holds my hand to a point where the choice seems easier. I know that sometimes my most secret yearnings mirror another’s and then life seems that much more liveable. The pattern keeps building like an intricate pookalam where the masterplan is only in the creator’s mind and I, the tiny white thumba flower lost in a crowd of my companions am unable to see or discern the full glory of the design.
I believe that anyone who crosses our path does so for a reason that may or may not be clear eventually. It is hard to see the pattern of our relationships and the intricate crisscrossing of our lives with others and the eventual winding away on the road to fulfillment of destiny while we are right in the middle of the pattern. If we could lift ourselves above our mundane existence, we might be able to discern the meaning behind seemingly random choices or meetings. Since that is nearly impossible we are often left confused when the outcomes of meeting certain people lead us along unexpected paths.
I have the unenviable ability to attract weirdos. It is not a comforting thought. I mean, isn’t like supposed to attract like? Do I actually possess some sort of hitherto hidden weirdness that calls out to these kooks? Maybe, but I do hope fervently that it was to teach me valuable lessons and not a case of birds of a feather flocking together.
In the recent past, I have had a woman I thought was a friend harass me repeatedly with malicious mail and even stalk me. Then there was this ‘friend’ from college who tried to cloak hateful sentiments that she directed at me and displayed on a social networking site, as merely funny. There are more stories from school and college which are rather disheartening on re-examination.
Why was I the one to cross paths with these strange people? I have no idea. The larger pattern is not clear to me. I do know that sometimes when I am pondering a problem or longing for a mind to share a sentiment with, someone does come along and bring in a breath of sea-laden breeze with him/her. I know that when I am looking hardest for a way, someone comes and holds my hand to a point where the choice seems easier. I know that sometimes my most secret yearnings mirror another’s and then life seems that much more liveable. The pattern keeps building like an intricate pookalam where the masterplan is only in the creator’s mind and I, the tiny white thumba flower lost in a crowd of my companions am unable to see or discern the full glory of the design.
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