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 :)

The Poison of Patriarchy

Why do we teach our girls to be accepting? Why do we teach our girls to be obedient? Why do we teach our girls that they have to do it all? Most of all, why do we teach our girls that marriage or finding a partner is something that is non-negotiable. You have to get married. And you have to procreate but then that can at least not be enforced. Marriage has been and in many cases continues to be enforced in our country. The pressure is applied either physically or mentally or may be even both ways. If you were the product of a certain age when obedience was the most sought-after characteristic in a girl, you would be doomed to be married to literally anyone on the damn road who fit the bill the family decided on.

The future of such a marriage most often follows a given pattern. It does not matter if the girl was educated or not. After marriage, she has to be the one to do all the cooking. The newly besotted husband might help but then again many don’t. She cannot actually express a wish that her husband were more able to give her pleasure in bed because hey, which virtuous woman wants pleasure? Every true Indian woman should have sex only with her husband and only for the purpose of child bearing. Her pleasure is immaterial. But his, is important. If you aren’t accommodating enough, he could leave you and go to another woman and you know what, its all your fault! You are the frigid one. My son has needs after all.

In addition to the cooking, she has to do the laundry, oversee the cleaning if there are maids or be the maid herself when there aren’t any (as is most often the case in Kerala, much vaunted for its literacy but of late so steeped in patriarchy, one cannot wish for any girl to be born there) and take care of the children. She should also go out and work. If the children are ill, she has to sit at home. If you have a child with disability then as the mother, you are solely responsible because it was your bad karma that brought it about and everyone knows these things happen because the mother has done a lousy job of raising the kids.

At the end of all this prepare to not be thanked once, to be vilified at every opportunity and to be belittled or told you are not good enough for that wonderful piece of manhood that you are married to. Tell me, what sane woman would want to be married in this freaking country? Why would you sacrifice your life, your dreams, your every chance of happiness to be chained to an institution that even now only believes in the rights of men to be served, cared for and fawned upon. Even some of the most educated women that I have met either fall into the trap or believe in this system when they should be fighting it.

I am not saying every marriage is like this but the majority are. I am not saying that it happened to me but something similar happens to nearly everyone or at least aspects of it do. Look around you. How many men had to give up promising careers because they had kids? How many men are there who are doing things you could do better but you cannot now because you are pulling the whole weight at home? How many men do you know who can just walk out saying they have to travel on work or work through the night with no thought of whether their spouse has something more important to do than juggle the million things which need to be juggled to keep things going smoothly? Of course the two spouses could just forget the kids and place them in front of gadgets and do whatever they want but that would come back to bite them badly in due time.

There is patriarchy of all kinds. The bland assumption from a spouse that you will take care of the kids even if you are on fire. The implied criticism from in-laws that you aren’t doing enough and are living off your hardworking husband. The constant tears from your own parents who bemoan the fact that they gave off a smart daughter in marriage who eventually became the unhappiest version of herself within a few years – trapped by an inability to leave and unable to pursue what gives her joy, never helped by the family who owns her and always made to feel less than a human being because god forbid she starts feeling capable and confident – for then how can things go on smoothly? The unquestioned right of the man to dictate things like how his wife should dress or wear her hair.  The ridiculous need to feed the said husband’s ego and fragile sense of self by constantly reassuring him that he is smarter even when you know its not true. Isn’t all of this patriarchy? 

For me patriarchy is a silent toxin that imbues every aspect of life in this country. It will not change anytime soon. So I tell my daughter – Please don’t get married unless its something that you want to do. Don’t listen to anyone – family or friends. Its your life and if at least you are able to live your dreams, then I can feel empowered by association. That is the only thing I can teach my little girl – it would break me to see her going through her life trying to make others happy and ending up miserable. Far better for her to live anywhere except here – in the land where they worship the image of a woman while destroying her very soul.

Mothers

Who is a mother? It’s a question that bears asking. We all know the conventional definition of a mother. Someone who gave birth to a baby. Even if they don’t raise them, they are still, by definition, a mother. But there are also mothers who become mothers by choosing someone else’s baby and raising that baby with all the love in their hearts. That would be another kind of mother – one that is not defined as such, but in my mind, every bit or more of a mother than one who is biologically a mother.

Then there are women who neither have children nor adopt but who care so much for children that one wonders why they aren’t called mothers. Like my friend who doesn’t want children of her own. She is more of a mother than anyone else I have seen. She runs the school with me. She hugs and comforts boys who are literally gigantic in size but little children in their minds and hearts. She keeps problem children in her home when their parents are incapable of handling them firmly. She feeds children whatever she is eating because for some of our kids, food is the only means to calm down. She is a mother.

I know women like me too. I am a pretty good mother. I don’t mollycoddle. I let my kids talk about whatever they want to me so they know they aren’t being judged. I tell my son to be whatever he can. I tell my daughter to stand up to every voice that tells her to be a lesser person – even if that voice comes from someone she loves. And I have lived and dealt with autism for an incredibly long time while still being able to smile. So I am one of the tough ones. And I am proud of that.

And lastly there are those women who keep claiming superiority over the rest of the world because they believe they have birthed wonders. They not only bring up their children with warped notions of their own greatness but they also cannot, even for a second, pretend someone else can be treated like their child. If you cannot even hug another child or see their pain and feel it in your mind, you are not a mother. If you cannot stop putting your ego forward for the benefit of a child, then you are not a mother. If you sit on your throne and demand favours and paeans of glory merely because you reproduced, then you are no mother. You are just one of the millions of women who can do that. Go stand in line.

Mothers are powerful. Mothers are compassionate. Mothers can love without distinction. All other ‘mothers’ are just accidents. Earn your right to be called Mother. Its not about a womb – its all about heart.

Never going home

At a certain point in your life you can never go home again. I am not speaking of the home you created for yourself and your family as an adult. I am speaking of the home where you were a girl. Its not about growing up – its more like growing away. Distances of the heart can be quite daunting to traverse. In my case I lost my home when my father passed away sixteen years ago.

My father was a very warm person. He loved being a parent. It was not foisted upon him. His family was his greatest joy. He was not a successful man in terms of monetary savings. His success was that of being a good human being. Caring came so naturally to him that people were drawn to him because they were always assured of love, a hot meal and some good advice or sometimes just a listening ear. I wish my father were around for many reasons but one of the strongest is that if he were here I would still have a home to go to.

Keeping down two jobs – both of different passions – while taking care of two children, one of whom has needs that keep varying and sometimes escalating, is not easy. For many years my husband travelled for more days than he spent at home and so I was the single parent, the one my children knew would be with them no matter want. I was there for their school work. I was there to take them to the doctor when they were sick. I was there to make dinners for them that they looked forward to and were excited by. I was the one to fill the house with laughter and friends so my children would know how important it was to be open-hearted. It is not that my husband did not help. It was just that if I didn’t teach the children about caring, they would simply not know. It is my father’s legacy that I give to his grandchildren. He would’ve been proud at their good-heartedness. That is best gift I can lay at his feet.

I love taking care of others but there are times when I want to be taken care of. And I have no one who would do it unasked. That’s when I remember my father the most. Acha knew before I did when I was hungry. He knew when I needed to hear a certain story to give me guidance. He knew the depth of the inner fire in me that leads me to tackle the toughest challenges. Now, I have no one to go home to. No matter how tired I am, I can’t just pack up and take a break at my home. For in place of that home stands a derelict house – cobwebbed and dusty beyond measure. Even the memories seem to be submerged under layers of neglect. And so I go nowhere.

My husband’s family too is in Kerala but there I feel like a freak – always told by my mother-in-law how unfit I am to be her son’s wife. I can do no right. I do not speak to her on the phone. The reason is simple. One New Year’s day when I bent to touch her feet, she pushed me away and with a look of supreme disgust on her face she said “Its about time you stopped this stupid habit.” I stepped back stung and my eyes filled with tears. This was a habit my father had ingrained in me – to touch the feet of elders when I leave a house or when I greet them. Her pushing me away symbolized her disrespecting my father and for me there was no recovering from that.

In all the years since my father’s death, no one has called me “Moley” the way he did. For the family I married into, I was never “Moley” – I was just Anima. For everyone I was just Anima. There are certain things I can never get again. That is why I feel irrevocably lost when I think of a home to go back to.

The reason I am writing this though is that there was an incident some days ago when I called a favourite elderly friend of mine. He is a wonderful theatre personality and an excellent raconteur. I called to wish him on his birthday. And his delighted “Moley” made my eyes tear up. After so long, someone called me “Moley” in a tone so infused with affection that my throat closed up. For a fraction of a second, I felt very much loved. It was as if Acha had known how badly I wanted to hear it. I felt incredibly blessed. Maybe you can’t go home again but then maybe there may be a new home in hearts that are willing to love and care – with Acha’s blessing, I will always have that.

Straddling Expectations

There is a fine line between expectations and not letting disbelief mar your relationship, be it with anyone. There are those who don’t promise anything and have a very steady, sort of on-the-fringes connection with you. There are those who promise and deliver – they are obviously the ones you trust. I try to be one of those myself because fairly early on I was taught that it was important to keep my word. With my children, I wouldn’t promise anything I couldn’t fulfil. Especially with children, it is important to foster trust because when they are very little, you are the centre of their world.

The other types of people, those who overpromise and under-deliver, come in two variations. One, where they are uncaring of anyone else other than themselves and their ability to gain whatever they need to in that moment. So they will promise the world, if they get breathing space or some benefit or the other. They don’t believe that they are lying because at that moment, they convince themselves as much as they convince the other. Stay clear of those types. I knew a few whom I have cut off from my life completely – they are quite toxic.

Then there is the type I choose to write about today – the fourth type – the type who will overpromise and under-deliver because though they want to give you everything they can, they simply are unable to do it. They promise everything to everyone and then find themselves stretched so thin that they are completely transparent. These are the folks who are difficult to stay away from because they truly want to do everything for you. Their genuineness is their biggest friend and your biggest enemy. They mean so well that they can actually do things for you that make your heart well up for in these times of abject selfishness, caring is not something you come by easily. 

Unfortunately, within a very short time, you feel the ill-effects of letting yourself trust someone like that. With the best of intentions, they fail you time and again. You are left with more cynicism than you started out with. You begin to withdraw your trust slowly till you are left with just a façade -  the façade of being trusting when in reality, you will never trust this person again. It is too tiring to believe and then disbelieve so what you do is go directly to the disbelieving bit and stay there. If you, like me, have been raised to be polite, you will try not to show it and simply distance yourself steadily so that you do not get hurt anymore.

Expectations are best left for yourself – meaning you can expect yourself to do a certain thing or behave in a particular way so that at least in your mind, you are progressing towards a certain state. The moment your expectations turn outwards, you are asking for trouble. Yet every relationship has the other wanting you to trust their words, their actions, their desire to make you happy – it all amounts to the fact that they want you to have expectations of them. They want you to look forward to meeting them. They want you to allow them to care for you the way you care for them. How lovely everything sounds till the ugly expectations raise their heads again! I think we need to revisit our very definition of what a relationship means.

The fine line you need to walk here is actually quite difficult – trust without expecting anything – if something is given, accept it with gratitude and if it isn’t, let it be – detachment is necessary if you want to maintain any kind of relationship. Continue to give if it is in your nature and if it isn’t, try and cultivate the kindness that is necessary to even think of the act of giving. In short, expect nothing, be grateful for what you receive and be happy when you are able to give. That, in my mind, is the secret to making and keeping friends in your life.

Sunday Evenings

Sunday evenings are a relentless blue in my mind. They never bring me any joy and it takes a lot of effort on my part to get through them. I try everything I can think of to distract myself. I sip a glass of wine, I listen to music, I laugh with my kids, I go for a walk with my husband. Nothing helps. I know that the feeling will not abate till it is Monday morning.

The funny thing is that Sunday mornings are my favourite time of the week. Sunday afternoons have a delicious sated yet sensual feel to them so that I always look forward to relaxing and feeling myself sinking into the impossibly warm delight of doing nothing at all. Then comes the evening with its ominous undertones of grey that then turn to a deep dark blue. No activity can make me get through the feeling of loss that pervades me on Sunday evenings. What is it that I mourn? Why is sadness so imbued in the air of Sunday evenings? Why can’t I shrug it off like I can on other days? Its hard to answer these questions. Sometimes writing helps. But today even my words seem stilted and do not flow with easy assurance. Still I write.

The clock ticks ever so slowly as I watch it. I don’t feel sleepy though it is almost 11. I sit in front of my laptop wondering how it is that Sundays can be such a curious mix of pleasure, relaxation and blueness. I wonder why I cannot escape into my words for a few hours so that the night doesn’t feel so heavy around me. And then I think I will give it up and go to bed. Perhaps if I lie still and close my eyes very tight, the night will go by easily and the morning will get here really fast. But no. When I do lie down after my nightly shower, all I hear is the amplified sounds of the fan whirring, the whining of the one mosquito that has escaped the window mesh, assorted cat noises and the snoring of my sleeping husband. I can feel every fibre of my pillow case. I can feel the weight of the quilt on my body. I pull my arms out in an effort to cool them and then the goosebumps start forming because it’s a rainy chilly night. I find no comfort in any pose – even in my favourite shrimp-like curl that I have perfected over the years. So in anticipation of a restless night, I tarry behind downstairs. I don’t want to try to sleep. I should just write.

I envy anyone who can get through days as if they didn’t matter – as if each day did not have its own character that you had to adjust to and then let go of. I envy anyone who can hit the pillow and go to sleep, snoring and blissfully unaware of the person who tosses and turns in annoyance just a few inches away. For me sleep is never to be taken for granted. There were many years when it was elusive. Now it is less so but it still takes work. I cannot assume I will sleep every night. I can only try.

Sundays need to stop in the afternoons. They shouldn’t be allowed to meander into depressing evenings and sleepless nights. Much like relationships that are so full of promise and pleasure initially and then taper into ordinary soul-numbing routine that leaches the life out of them ever so slowly. Maybe that is why I dislike Sunday evenings. They remind me too much of real mundane life.