The Next Big Thing

Tag! You're it. Or at least, I'm it. Yep, after many a moon and many seasons I am (a) blogging again and after even more moons and more seasons I am (b) doing a tag. There has been much excitement in my personal life chez nous which I will not be blogging about. If you are in my life and a Facebook friend you would have hardly missed this momentous event. So, since this is the Writing Life, this post is to do with writing. I'l raise a toast (or three) to more blogging in 2013.

My wonderful writer friend, Daniela Norris has asked me to participate in 'The Next Big Thing,' 'The Next Big Thing' is an internet project in which authors from different countries with different ways of live and diverse writing backgrounds respond to the same ten questions about their current work in progress. Daniela was tagged by Gwyneth Box and she discusses her own upcoming book of poetry, Around the corner from Hope Street here.

So, here are my responses to ten questions about one of my works in progress ("one?" you ask? Yep, because I got two. So there!) 

What is the title of your book?

I'm currently working on my first book-length non-fiction project tentatively titled The Warrior Queens of India. It is part history, part memoir and travelogue.

What genre does your book fall under?

I really have a beef about genres in writing because I believe there is good writing and bad. I'm glad this question wasn't asked when I was in the middle of writing fiction because my response would have been longer. So, technically for this book the genre would be non-fiction--which is a true genre (unlike the dissected-to-death genres within fiction for instance).

Where did the idea come from for your book?

You could say it was an idea that was right under my nose. I had read about some of the warrior queens in history books but they were so much a part of the historical tradition in India that they hid in plain sight. And then, one day, when I was still in Geneva, I thought about the most famous one (Lakshmi Bai of Jhansi) and discovered a hankering to read about some of the lesser known ones. I came back and did some web research and found out a singular lack of information about these amazing women--amazing historical people. How was it possible? I decided then to combine them together into a book. The world--especially women--needed to know about these historical role models. The added bonus is that their stories are full of high adventure and intrigue which makes them a great read for everyone. 

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

All I can say is no glossy, pretty Hollywood or Bollywood types. I would like to scout and find intense, obscure stage actors for the queens but I think I can find spots for Irrfan Khan and Naseeruddin Shah and Shabana Azmi. There is probably no role for Gerard Butler or Colin Firth but I am sure I can find roles for both of them *wink*

What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

Even crushed under the weight of empire, a strong woman can be a mighty warrior.

Will your book be self published or represented by an agency?

I am represented by The Rights Factory. 

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

Since it is non-fiction I am still working on it. I made two month-long trips to India for research and travel and I've spent a lot of time on writing and research. Writing might end up being the most relaxed and relaxing part of this journey,

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Wow! Hmm. I really don't know. Some books by Antonia Frasier. Perhaps White Mughals by William Dalrymple?

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

The dichotomy of being an Indian woman inspired me. It's something that has always inspired me. The strongest and most inspirational women I've met, seen or read about have been Indian. And, of course, some of the most atrocious things that happen to women have been Indian. I always say I was shocked when I came to the US and other young women bemoaned the lack of strong female role models. There was no dearth of them in India. There were historical role models who were warriors, mythological strong women, and of course, I grew up in the age of Indira Gandhi. I wanted to highlight this often overlooked (in the West at least) aspect of Indian womanhood.

What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?

India--and Indian women especially--are seen as objects of pity, something exacerbated by the highlighting of atrocities against women in India. However, I believe people--even those in India who might have overlooked this--need to be aware that Indian womanhood is not analogous to victimhood. Our major role models are not just warriors and other fierce women. 

Apart from the historical aspects of the book readers might also be interested in reading about the travels of a woman traveling alone all around India. If the reader likes travelogues memoirs and history and feminism or any or all of these this book will appeal to her/him.

Thank you for reading my blog. Here are the links to the blogs of five wonderful writers four of whom will be answering the same ten questions about their work-in-progress or upcoming book. The fifth, Judy Bussey writes about growing up in the hills of Kentucky and is just fascinating. Just click on their names and read on!

Paula Read

Katie Hayoz

Susan Tiberghien

Daniela Norris

Judy Bussey

A Manifesto for Indian Males

I feel like I've lived these past few days with alternating bouts of frenzied activity and a rage-filled grief about the situation in India. First the news of the teen rape victim who committed suicide because she was being pressured by the cops to marry her rapist. Then the brave fighter who only wanted to live, died despite that will, in a strange land.

I want to hit something, someone. And I realize that these events reminded me of how close I've come to Damini's fate. I will call her this because that's what she was--lightning that flashed for a brilliant second and died away. But her name is immaterial. She is me. She is all Indian women.

I too was a twenty-something in Delhi. It was an unfamiliar city and I was brash, cocky, young, living in that state the young live in--infallibility. I got on to the wrong bus and there I was at night heading towards the U.P. border instead of to Delhi University. I had no idea where I was but I got down with a bunch of other people. It was pitch-dark and I managed to find an auto-rikshaw. Another woman got down with me and begged me to give her a ride because she was scared.

The area looked dodgy, seedy. She tried convincing me to stay the night at her place. I couldn't trust auto-wallahs. Why did I want to wake up my sister late at night when I could go home early in the morning?

Some instinct kicked in and I made her get off way before the place she wanted to go. I still don't know. Was she a procurer? Something worse?

I trusted the auto-wallah. Not because he was great but I had no choice. I could either be stranded somewhere unfamiliar late at night, be sold into something unsavory or risk being in a vehicle with a stranger. I made the right choice by chance that night. Damini did not. Could not. There was no right choice to make.

I know that feeling of desperation, of fear, of the million what-ifs. I felt it that night and many other times...but I was lucky. That's all. Luck!

Women can do nothing more in India but be lucky. This problem--this culture of violence and rape--is on the heads of Indian men. And perhaps on the shoulders of the mothers who bring up these little princes by telling them that all other women are fair game and if they are out there they are sluts anyway.

This is what men need to realize:

1. Women are are human. Take a minute, and think about this. Is the blood rushing to your head? Sit down then, and think. We are not exotic creatures no matter the books that proclaim our Venus heritage. And as humans we have the same emotions and feelings and dreams and aspirations as you do. And each unwelcome touch, each crude comment, each assault, each anything done without our consent grossly violates our human rights.

2. Not only are we human but we are fully equal to you. Whoa! Did that blow your mind? It's true. We have the same rights as you do. The right to walk the streets and go to any public place without hindrance. We have the rights to employment and life and liberty and the right to live our lives. Just as you do.

3. Any right of yours that infringes on ours is not a right. Is this a hard concept too? Let me explain. You too have the right to pursuit your happiness. But if your happiness comes only by molesting or touching someone without their consent it is not a right. Your rights (and mine) stop at the edge of our respective noses. Your pursuit of happiness stops being a pursuit when it only comes at my expense. See two equals cancel each other out and we are equal.

4. Rape is not sex: Rape is a sexual manifestation of many things. At the very least it is a lack of impulse control. At worst it is about violence, rage, control, domination and a deviant desire to hurt. There are actually women who will have sex with you...willingly. But for those who fail to see your charms? Just move on. Really, you might discover that sex is actually more enjoyable than rape. Sex is about pleasure--mutual pleasure. Rape is about stealing something--sometimes violently--that is not yours and is not about anything mutual.

5. You can change. Trust me on this. First of all, there many, many wonderful sensitive non-rapy men out there. They manage to live and love and prosper and do all the things they need to do without it being at the expense of women. Some of these men stood shoulder-to-shoulder with women in Delhi protesting the hideous crime in Delhi. If you too think of us people (not goddesses or princesses or any other label that diminishes our humanness) who are kind of like you then you can change. And it might even be fun. You might even make female friends. We're fun and stodgy and irreverent and stuck-up and funny and bitchy and nice and not nice: human. Judge us on our individual merits or de-merits, not just because we are women.

And mothers of Indian men? Stop making your sons into female-hating assholes. Just because women are not their mothers, sisters or wives and are out there in public does not make them whores ready for the taking. In fact--even they are whores they still have the rights to their own bodies. They still have the right to make their own choices about who can touch them and who cannot.

You are fond of bleating on about India being poised to be in the first world. Guess what? That is not going to happen unless and until this problem is addressed. It's a human rights issue stupid!

These are not radical rights. Most of these rights in some way or the other are already enshrined in the Indian constitution. Don't believe me? Read it. Nowhere does it say in that document that women are second class or that we do not have the same rights as men.

Even if not that: you can think the way you do...but you do not (and moms teach this to your potentially rapy sons)....touch anyone if they don't want you to. I don't believe in thought policing. I do believe in freedom of speech. But actions...they are another thing altogether. You say something crude to a woman in the streets or touch her or assault her...that is a crime!

See? That wasn't so hard right? Think of all the rights you legally enjoy and take as your birthright. We, as Indian women, have those exact same rights. You can think we are sluts, whores or whatever else. You *cannot* act on that. Just the same way that many Indian women might think most of the males around her are sex-obsessed, crude, assaulting assholes. But if we become vigilantes and start pre-emptively kicking random men in the balls or castrating them...that is a crime.

Did that make you cringe? Good. That was one-thousandth of what it takes for an Indian woman to go about her daily life, being prepared for a constant barrage of invasion and criminal assaults to various degrees.

Feel free to pass this along. And feel even freer to change and help others to do the same.

Crime and Punishment: A Rape in Delhi

Today the Delhi police arrested and blasted with water cannons those protesting the brutal gang-rape that sparked protests and social-media outrage. There are pictures too—of a young jean-clad woman being dragged away by cops. And of signs exhorting the death penalty for rape. And multitudes of young people protesting apathy or outright police and politician collusion with criminals in India’s capital.

This has been a media and social media sensation: the awful terrifying details of the rape, the petitions to make death penalty the punishment for the crime, the updates on the condition of the ICU-bound victim. No…not victim. The survivor. She was left for dead. She survived. She is no victim. A victim does not fight. She fought to live.

And that is why I am against the death penalty for rape crowd. Rape is an awful, terrible, horrific crime but it is not the same as murder. Anyone who is raped, , anyone who has been brutalized and lives is a survivor. If they do not, then by all means apply the penalty for murder. First figure out what rape is, what it really means before you start applying penalties. Penalties, which seem to equate rape with death. Rape is one of the most horrific things to happen to a woman. But it is not the worst. Not surviving a rape is the worst. No matter how much she suffers, dying is still worse. Because until there is life there is a promise of a future. And women do not need to be told that being raped is the end of everything good in their lives. That is giving too much power to the rapist, the men who feel like men only when they take by force what was not theirs to take. Equating rape to death makes women eternally suffering victims.

For too long has rape been akin to murder and to do so is to diminish the survivor. It feeds into the motivations between honor killings, as in the destruction and besmirching of some man's property.As if the one raped is forever tainted by being forced to have something that mimics sex. Being raped is not the burden of the survivor. The only one dishonored is the perpetrator. Being raped does not make a woman less a woman. It does not make her less alive. It does not make her less in control of her future.

Remember those old movies where the raped woman had only two options: to kill herself or to become a prostitute? That is how Indian society has viewed raped women. If you are a good girl, recognize your dishonor and kill yourself. If not, then recognize that the forced violation of your body has left you with only one recourse, to become a slut and a vehicle for men’s lust. 

Bullshit!

The best revenge a survivor has is to go on with her life. The only way is to go forward, to testify, to face her assailants and gain the courage to take her life back. Rape is a crime and it needs to be punished. But is death penalty the solution? Why?

The severity of the punishment is not the solution. Some kind of punishment is the solution. India has the lowest conviction rates around. Where is the outrage against that? Why is there no outrage that there are really no forensics or scientific evidence given in Indian courts? Even rape cases become a he said-she said scenario with eyewitness accounts and other archaic tools. So then if a survivor is left paralyzed or unable to speak how do her assailants get prosecuted?

If a rapist (as in this case) is from a lower socio-economic class he might get sentenced. This is still the Indian justice system right? Where the police catch a hold of the first poor person, beat the hell out of him and force him to confess to a crime even if the perpetrator was someone else—especially if that someone is rich of well-connected. This is also the India where cops believe that a woman who drinks or who has consensual sex has no business complaining about rape. It is also the India where the “what was she wearing to bring it on,” is still used successfully in court an where judges take moralistic stances against those who are raped and advise them to get married to their rapists.

So it doesn’t matter if rape gets the death penalty. Or if at the point of death we cut the man down, whip him and string him up again ten times. It doesn’t matter because the conviction rates for any crime are so low. It doesn’t matter because as a nation we still don’t agree on what rape is.

I’ll tell you what it’s not. Rape is not about sex. What is it about? It is about control. And violence. And rage. And domination. It is about inflicting physical, emotional and psychological damage. The fact that it takes on the parody of a sex act is incidental. Sex is about pleasure. And it is about mutual choice and consent. Rape is about pain and the lack of choice and the steamrolling of consent.

We might ask why Indian men have so much anger against Indian women? So much anger that makes them leer and touch and molest and assault openly. Rage that makes them rape and attack? What lets them worship a goddess and kill his female fetus or his already born daughter? There is something, something that is making our male-female ratio plunge to alarming numbers. Something that makes them want to annihilate women. Not all men and not all women but enough to make me wonder. Why? And how can we reverse this trend. Can we? Can Indian women get justice? True justice, not reactionary, bandaid justice.

So the Delhi Police might blast away protestors—men and women—but they cannot blast away the truth. Rape is an act of violence. And it needs an appropriate punishment. What that punishment is can be debated later. What we need are profound changes so that survivors can live with their heads held high and perpetrators get appropriate sentences and the justice system is indeed about that most elusive thing of all—justice.

Battle of the Bandh

I grew up in small-town North India. I was part of the people derisively called the cow-belt (because we were the most fervent cow-worshippers around), doodh walas (milkmen from U.P. delivered milk in what was then known as Bombay), bhaiyyas (brothers, but really used in the context of rural hicks.

To be fair we lived up to all the stereotypes. We were cow-worshipping, milk delivering hicks though I personally did none of these activities. But each time I come up against snobby Bombayites I wear my rural Allahabad mantle proudly. There is not much to be proud of. The most populous state of India (in which my hometown sits) is also the least educated, the most sectarian, stuck in place and sliding backward.

Yes, we are all of these but there is so much more. Those of us who grew up in the Allahabad of the 70's and even the 80's knew it as the home of poets, writers and nation-builders and the birthplace of the only Indian superstar who matters, the most recognized star in the world by sheer number: Amitabh Bachchan.

I remember hearing about Bal Thackeray of Bombay before it became Bombay. Bom=good, bahia = bay, two Portuguese words that came together to create Bombay, given in dowry to a British king. And then, sometime in the 70's the cosmopolitan nature of India's melting pot city began to curdle.

A little-known regional goddess Mumba devi was deigned the patron goddess of the city and so Bombay became Mumbai. And the ills of Marathi society, all its problems were laid at the door of the others. At first the others were all non-Maharashtrians, then South Indians.

Thackeray (once a mediocre cartoonist) re-imagined Marathis as proud and free. All well and good until you understand that the only thing keeping them from being so were others. So his Shiv Sena (army of Shiva) goons beat up Tamils and Malayalees and other assorted South Indian denizens of India's largest, most diverse and richest city.

In the 80's and 90's, the ire of the Marathai manooos (Marathi people) became focused on Muslims. At the height of the Ram Janambhoomi movement, poor Muslims became the target and India's most cosmopolitan city was victimized by waves upon waves of riots.

It was a cause to rally even past victims. South Indians and other newcomers could be relied upon to conjure up hatred for a common and reviled enemy: Muslims.

But not all Muslims. For there were the rich Muslims, the movie-star Muslims who danced attendance on the man now known as Balasaheb. The targets were poor, they lived in ghettoes and slums. Over the years Balasaheb became a kind of godfather figure for the film industry.

Growing up, especially in Allahabad, Amitabh Bachchan was ours. He was our shining star. We defeated Bahugana, a respected politician when Amitabh Bachchan stood against him in his one and only election. And when he left amid scandal just a few years later we were hurt. Young boys ran away from home to Bombay to become the next Amitabh Bachchan. He was god. And even, as Shiv Sainiks rained vitriol on the poor of U.P. who tried to make a living in Bombay, the most famous U.Pite of our times bowed in front of Balasaheb, who in turn put aside his animosity for U.P. to fawn over Mr. Bachchan. But was it truly respect or fear that made the glitterati of Bombay flock to Balasaheb.

His Shiv Sena infiltrated the ranks of the police so they could be relied upon during religious riots and Balasaheb held court at his home.

He held no elected office for politics corrupts but elections forces divisive figures to make some concessions to the center. He remained extra judicial, beyond the reach of the law.

Then, at 86, he died, two days ago. Mumbai (now firmly Mumbai, not Bombay) was equal parts grief and fear. Then the Shiv Sena 'decided' not to use violence to mourn their loss and, apart from forced closures of businesses and the emptying of streets...there was no violence. Closing down all functions in  a city (or nationally for that matter) is called a bandh, which essentially means 'closed,' exactly what it is.

And the next day, a 21-year old young woman from Mumbai tweeted that people like Bal Thackeray died every other day and there was no need for the forcible shut-down of an entire city. A friend of hers pressed like. They were both arrested for hurting the (religious) sentiments of others. Oh, by the way, India is a democracy with promises the freedom of speech. Except, of course if you hurt someone's sentiments.

The sentiments of true secularism, rationality and sanity don't count by the way, just religious ones do and sectarian and region-based sentiments do.

And then there is Markanday Katju, chair of the Press Council of India who wrote a letter to the Chief Minister of Maharastra protesting these arrests.

“To my mind it is absurd to say that protesting against a bandh hurts religious sentiments. Under Article 19(1) (a) of our Constitution, freedom of speech is a guaranteed fundamental right. We are living in a democracy, not a fascist dictatorship. In fact this arrest itself appears to be a criminal act, since under Sections 341 and 342 it is a crime to wrongfully arrest or wrongfully confine someone who has committed no crime,”

Here is the full story.

He is a bit of eccentric but an eccentric who believes in the idea of India, the breath of life that knit together a diverse group of states into one nation. He believes in the constitution and rationality and sanity. And yes, he too is an Allahabadi and he makes us proud for standing up to fascist ideas. He asks questions and takes power-holders to task.

Yes, we gave India two prime ministers (Nehru and Indira Gandhi), many literary figures (Nirala, Harivanshrai Bachchan, Mahadevi Varma and Subhadra Kumari Chauhan, etc.) and one mega-star (Amitabh Bachchan)...but today as an Allahabadi I am most proud of Markanday Katju. He gives me hope for my dying city and hope for India...that it might one day become the realized dream that so many disparate voices created together.

It is so good to be here...today

I used concepts that can be encapsulated in numbers: four seasons (fall, winter, spring, summer), the elements (earth, wind, fire, water) as writing prompts. Starting from the broad and drilling down helps in narrowing down to yourself. After all, a journal is a safe, exclusive place where the only person important is you.

"How do you spell, Fall?"

"Earth?"

"Sight?"

I wondered if she had wandered into this class by mistake and hoped she was not uncomfortable there. I even wondered if English was a language she was comfortable with. But this is not a class about learning as such, there is no goal in mind, just a space to be, to think, to write, to relax and get in touch with yourself. So I say nothing. Her voice was soft at first, so low that I could barely make out a single word...even though I sat within touching distance. Each time she asked me to spell something out she winced, seemed to curl up inside.

Her first sentence tended to be the same, "Summer is good." "The sense of sight is so good."

Then came the final focus on you exercise. I asked them to write a truth about themselves they did not mind sharing with others. The take-home would be to write a truth that is exclusively theirs, that no one would ever see.

"I am so happy," she said, "to be sitting in this classroom, to write and to be heard."

She was a little girl when her parents died. Some people took her in but they could not afford to feed *and* educate her. She never learned to read and write. Then, after a lot of struggle, and living on her own from her teens, she arrived in the U.S. Somehow she learned to read and write...but not well."

"I can't spell," she said mournfully, "I don't know the right way to write."

Her voice, still soft, was audible at last.

"I am 57 years old," she said, "and I am embarrassed but today I am happy, so happy to be here. It is so good."

I didn't know when I first saw this quiet, shrinking woman walk in that she had magical powers. She could do more to reach a deep, sacred place, and unlock goodness than I ever could with all my babbling about how wonderful writing is. The prickly, disabled woman in the corner who declared that she never told anything to anyone because people used it to hurt her unfroze, just like that.

"I don't really know you" she said to the quiet one, "but you are the only person who always offer to help me with my walker and you don't stare at me. Do you know how many people just stare and they never talk to me? I am taking my GED and I am older than you. I would be honored to study with you."

She talked also about her mother throwing her out when she was 13, with a few rolls of pennies and a few clothes in a bag.

Time was up and we all looked at each other and smiled. It's a cliche to say that I learned more than I taught but it's true. Each time in this little community of homeless, battered and destitute women I find humbling truths that bring me to my knees.

It is so good...so good to be here, in this basement, where the light filters in softly, it is good to be here with all of you.