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.

What's Your Verdict?

In December 2009 I had written about the 1984 Bhopal gas tragedy that remains till date the worst industrial accident in history. And I was surprised by the number of people who did not remember it at all.

So, things changed. Union Carbide received a face-lift over the years and became Dow Chemicals. Oh yeah, Warren Anderson continues to live the good life in the Hamptons after skipping out on bail from India during the 1980's. Hypocrisy and self-interest and politicking are still very much alive. And U.S. double standards. They're alive and well too. I'm sorry...did I say things have changed? I meant nothing has changed.

Except of course for the verdict? Yes, didn't you hear? All eight Indians accused in the case have been sentenced to two years in prison (yes you read that right too). But this is a lower court verdict so let's not put people in cells right now. Now the case goes onto higher courts.

Twenty-five, almost 26 years later we have this verdict with the main accused still absconding. While through the years people have died agonizing deaths, babies have been born with severe birth defects and none of the poor affected people have received much in terms of true compensation, adequate medical let alone vindication.

But President Obama hopes the verdict brings "closure" to the families. Really, President Obama? What happened to the honest, open, erudite *real* human being I voted for? When did he become a clone? To be honest I kind of expected that...the nature of the presidency and all...but still it hurts.

What else did the U.S. do to commemorate this event?

1. It ruled out the reopening of any new enquiries against Union Carbide (now Dow).

2. It continued to ignore extradition requests for Warren Anderson and refused to even discuss it.



What else?

3. Oh yes, it expressed its hope that this verdict (long enough coming) wouldn't inhibit the political and economic ties between India and the U.S. and that it wouldn't impact the passage of the Civil Nuclear Liability Bill.

You know what's sadder? India too will walk away from the 25,000 dead who died that night and the hundreds of thousands (yes you read that right) of others who have died because of the leak in the almost twenty six years it took to reach this verdict.

Because ultimately what matters is trade and gaining a place among nations of note. In the meantime the Gulf of Mexico continues being over-run with oil. Who will be the losers? The people of the area, the unfortunate living creatures who call the waters and the coast home, and the environment.

Who will escape unscathed? BP and the U.S. Admininstration. But you can bet that if the U.S. tries to charge some BP head honcho he ain't going to be living it up in the Hamptons. Like I said....hypocrisy and double standards are still alive. As is the proven notion that some lives are more precious than others.

These are the things I know to be true. What do you think?

I'm not a Bollywood Blogger But... I

I pre-date Bollywood. In fact I detest the word. First, my pet peeves:

1. While to most people outside India, all Indian movies are Bollywood, the word refers *only* to the Mumbai-based Hindi film industry. This leaves out the rich (though dying in some cases) regional cinema, as well as artsy, small films that don't have blaring songs, a million costume changes and OTT melodrama. And now the monster that is Bollywood is gobbling up these little and little-known movies created by India's other film industries. A shame!

2.The word itself was coined by some smart-mouth BBC guy in a totally pejorative way, making fun of the Hindi film industry. It was, as we know, a combo of Bombay + Hollywood. So, shouldn't it now be Mollywood to reflect the name change? The Shiv Sena needs to get on this ASAP.

3. To die-hard fans (and even not so die-hard ones) this makes the largest film industry in the world (at one point it made 900 odd movies a year!) a poor reflection, an even poorer cousin and a totally destitute hanger-on of Hollywood. Whereas, of course, the hindi film indstury developed almost simultaneously with its Western counterpart and is almost as old. Plus, even as Hollywood has almost decimated film industries in other countries, hindi film fans have held strong and so has the industry. The movies are so different from Hollywood, that its world-wide fans (not just Indians and diaspora but in the middle-east, other parts of Asia, etc.) remain loyal and growing, making it *still* the largest, though not the richest film industry in the world.

4. A few months ago, during the episode of the pink sari and the holy cows, one of the people who later went on to bemoan her lost freedom of speech aka being able to get away with stereotyped racism complimented me. So, why am I bitching? All will be made clear now. I was wearing a turquoise skirt.
"You look so pretty in that color."
"Thanks," I mumble always uncomfortable with compliments and perhaps sensing what was to come.
"You know you remind me of this Bollywood movie I saw."
"Really?" I cringe.
"Yes...oh what was it? Yes...Bride and Prejudice."

I politely made my escape after thanking her again. Yes, I'm a coward but I try to be a polite one. Bride and fucking Prejudice is *not* a Bollywood movie. Correction, it's not an Indian/Hindi movie. It's made by a British woman of Indian origin. . Perhaps it's a diaporic tale or a story about immigrants. While we are on this topic, Gandhi, Bend it Like Beckham, or Slumdog Millionaire are not Bollywood movies either though I have sometimes seen them classifed as such. They are British movies, made by British film-makers that happen to have Indian stories and/or actors. This doesn't mean these movies are not great. Despite its problems Gandhi is one of my favorite movies and so is Bend it, but they are *not* Indian movies.

Calling any of these movies Bollywood is like saying Captain Corelli's Mandolin was an Italian film or The Da Vinci Code was a French-Vatican City-Scotland production. Perhaps all those movies supposedly in NYC but filmed in Vancouver are Canadian? Putting in a few shimmery costumes in a movie alongwith pretty ladies and dashes of tragic things like poverty and the proper behavior of girls in immigrant families do not an Indian movie make.

Indian movies (Hindi or not) have their own sensibility, their way of being and more than that they are Indian because they are made in India by other Indians for Indians inside the country and the diaspora. This doesn't make them better or worse...for we know they regularly still churn out dreck. It's just what they are and what they are not.

And even as a diasporic Indian who has not lived in India for a couple of decades there are evenings during which only an Indian movie will do, some emotions that are only plumbed when Amitabh speaks and Vinod twirls his moustache and SRK trembles his voice. It's part of me, in my blood and even as I despise certain aspects of Bollywoodism I cannot escape it.

So...I am not a Bollywood writer but in the spirit of Bollywood Blogging about the best movies of the 1970's, put into my motion by a wonderful blogger called bethlovesbollywood.blogspot.com...I will write I'm Not a Bollywood Blogger But...II tomorrow. And yes, it will be about the 1970's.

Death Came By One Night

Twenty-five years ago today, December 3, 1984, death came to Bhopal as it slept. The nearby Union Carbide (now Dow Chemicals) plant leaked methyl isocyanate (MIC) and other toxins in the air, exposing half a million people to deadly gases. About 4000 people died instantly. A few days later it was estimated that double that number died. In the years after the tragedy, babies were born with an inordinate number of birth defects, and survivors suffered a host of exposure-related illnesses. It is now estimated that 20,000 have died since the accident of gas-related reasons. An additional 100,000 to 200,000 battle the ill-effects of the leak even now.

I remember, as a young teenager, waking up to the news of the gas leak. And in the days that followed, I had nightmares about the dead. One photograph in particular has stuck in my mind even after all these years, and I believe it might be one that most people still think of when they think of Bhopal. A hand, palm down is caught in the process of burying a child. All you can see are the staring dead eyes, the mouth slightly open. And that the greyness of the ground and the skin of the child are virtually the same.



Twenty-five years have passed and those who lived through the gas leak and those who lost someone are still without any recompense. Not a recompense as much as money to help with their considerable medical expenses. It's sad really when we have frivolous lawsuits in the U.S. (hot McDonald's coffee anyone?) and when the Erin Brokovich's of the world have movies made about them.

There are no movies about Bhopal perhaps because there are no heroes. Perhaps because the only true heroes are the ones who survived that night when death crept in slowly and soundlessly. They went on, and despite poverty and the lack of wherewithal to fight against a powerful nexus of corporate greed and government laxity...they live on. But we don't venerate quiet power do we? We want our heroes to smash down barriers to live an arc of cinematic grandeur. And no one in Bhopal did that.

Twenty-five years later this is what we know:

1. Even now there are some 390 tons of toxic chemicals abandoned at the Union Carbide site, slowly leaching into the ground, continuing to poison those who live in the area.

2. There are currently civil and criminal cases pending at the District Court of Bhopal and at the US District Court of Manhattan. There is even a warrant out for the CEO of Union Carbide at the time, Warren Anderson. Yet no one, that's right no one has been arrested, let alone prosecuted for neglilence leading to essentually,
mass murder. Warren Anderson has never been extradided to face charges and lives in luxury in Bridgehampton, NY.

3. This was not merely an accident. it was pure negligence. Union Carbide used hazardous chemicals like MIC despite the availability of less dangerous ones. The chemicals weres stored in large tanks instead of in steel drums. There was corrosion in the pipelines and there was multiple failure of several systems due to poor maintenance and regulations. In fact, safety systems were shut down to save money. There had also been previous warnings and accidents. In fact in 1981 American experts had warned of the possibility of a disaster in the MIC tank, and local authorities had warned Union Carbide on several occasions from 1979 onwards.

Did Union Carbide ignore these warnings due to pure hubris or because it was situated among the poor of Bhopal and their lives truly had no value?

4. There was some compensation paid. Widows of the tragedy received Rs 150 (later raised to Rs 750) a month. Yes, that's about USD 3-15. About Rs. 200 was given to everyone who was born before the tragedy. That's about USD 10. A one-time payment of Rs 1,500 (about USD 38) was paid to all families with a monthly income of less than Rs 5000 (USD 100). Other payments are of equally ludicrous amounts.

The final payment by Union Carbide (for over 20,000 deaths and about 200,000+) affected was $470 million. That sounds like a huge amount until you compare it to the $333 million paid out to the plaintiffs of Hinckley, CA for the contamination of their ground water by Pacific Gas and Electric (Erin Brokovich)....and this was an issue that affected 40...yes 40 homes!

As if the sum decided upon by the Government of India and Union Carbide was not bad enough, the local and state government corruption in the state of Madhya Pradesh, has done its bit to victimize those who had already lost so much on that cold December night 25 years ago. This has taken the form of lost paperwork, paying out more money to richer people with connections, not acknowledging that birth defects or deformities were directly caused by the gas leak, delayed payments, etc.

Did I mention there were and are no heroes in Bhopal? There are some unsung ones, those without panache or sex appeal. There are NGOs in Bhopal working for the victims and for the cause of justice but not much is happening. And isn't true heroism striving even when the results are unknown?

But it is up to us to not forget, to remember the horrors of that night, to continue to support NGOs and others working for the victims of Bhopal. I know I can't ever forget because those dead eyes will haunt me no matter where I am. Those eyes and the question I see in their sightless gaze.

Of Winds and Poets and Me

I have a confession. I wasn't always in love with Lord Byron. There was a time, brief though it was, when another poet ruled my heart and still comes a close second to Byron. Initially, there was something repulsive about Byron, what with his debauchery, his lusty affairs...the incest. All the things that would later make him fascinating were a bit much for a child. Okay, maybe I was still fascinating but in an icky way. I needed to be a little older (13? 14?) to swoon for Byron's dark moodiness.

But my first dead poetic crush was someone close to Byron, their lives intertwined. Yes, Shelley. I know, I know. He was a bit icky (open marriage anyone?) too but he did have that delicious renegade quality, the romance of the exile, the tangled life...and all by the time he was 26 when he drowned. Most tragic!

A few weeks ago the Bise was whipping around Geneva, pushing me from the back as I walked, tangling my hair into a bird's nest around me. And it started me thinking of all things wind-related.

How the wind becomes part of our literary selves? How we ascribe certain attributes to the winds we experience.

In my childhood in India, there was the loo (no...not a toilet). The loo is a hot, dry wind that blows during the height of summer in the Indo-Gangetic Plains. Rather than doubling my efforts, here is how I describe the loo in my novel The Burden of Foreknowledge (2007).

"When the loo blows, it brings with it the heat of the desert and its gritty sand, driving people indoors for refuge. I go out to feed our cows and it slithers up my nostrils until I choke. I gasp for breath trying to suck in the thin, super-heated air. It is as if a fiery serpent is trying to make its home inside me.

Just as I think I cannot bear it any more, I stumble back inside. The wind haunts us for days, whistling and whining like an angry, vengeful ghost. If I venture outside I wind a wet cloth around my head...."

But it was also the loo that made watermelons and melons ripen to perfect sweetness, as the dryness sucked out the excess water and concentrated the sugars. It makes Indian mangoes into the almost mythical fruit that they are.

In Switzerland, I encoutered the Bise, French for "a light kiss." Let me tell you, there is nothing light about it. It should be French for a "kick in the ass." It is fierce, is generally dry and attacks us from northern climes. The only upside is that it is accompanies blue, clear skies. It creates beautiful days but, as the loo can kill a human being through almost instant dehydration (within hours, even minutes), the Bise acts on the nervous system. How I don't know. It sounds pleasant but I need to research it some more.

Victor Hugo wrote a poem, Le Bise about it.
"Le bise le bruit d'un geant qui soupire;
La fenetre palpite et la port respire;
Le vent d'hiver glapit sous les tuile des toits;
Le feu fait a mon atre une pale dorure;

Le trou de ma serrure
Me souffle sur les doigts."

(Bad translation but here goes:
The Bise is a brutish giant who sighs
The window flutters and the harbor breathes
The winter wind yelps under the roof tiles
The fire has been guilding my atre (??) blade.

Through the hole of the lock
I feel the wind's breath on my fingers)



That's me 'enjoying' a windy evening by the lake. Freezing! Note the hair whipping around, the scrunched eyes, and the frantic waves on our usually calm lake.

We are also lucky(?) in Switzerland to sometimes be treated to the Mistral, arguably the wind with the most beautiful name. Isn't it a lovely name for a girl? The Mistral too is strong, cold and usually dry and passes through the Rhone valleys. It can cause Mediterranean storms. In the Provencal Christmas crib there is usually always a shepherd who holds his hat, his cloak billowing around him because of the Mistral. Sadly, but appropriately, a French missile has been named Mistral.

Interesting isn't it, that we are rarely moved by gentle breezes. Winds are elemental. They create weather systems and born because of them. They have well-worn paths and we can trace the seasons through the winds that are part of our lives.

And, why was it, when I lived in the land of the hot loo, when we looked forward to winter for relief from summer, that the one poem I loved was about a wind. Yes, for it was his lovely Ode to the West Wing that made me fall in love with Shelley. It's a little bit dark, even macabre, it's fanciful, it talks about the power of the wind, its twin roles as destroyer and preserver, and touches on the circle of seasons and that of life. It leaves the reader with hope. Here it is:

Ode to the West Wind by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1803-1882)

I
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: 0 thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave,until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear!

II

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like Earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!

III

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

IV

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O Uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

V

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened Earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

What to do? We're like this only

There are stereotypes and then there are stereotypes. And, if they're intelligently or funnily done....I like 'em. :-)

Here we are. Find out about Indians in 90 seconds. Enjoy!

Mumps in the Time of Dussehra

As Rama fitted an arrow to his bow and sent it winging across to the giant effigy of Ravana setting it aflame, I felt a tide of heat spreading between my skin and my flesh. I sidled over to my mother and rested my forehead against her arm. A lot must have happened after that but that's all I remember of the Dussehra when I was nine. My super-heated skin was only the first symptom. I woke up the next morning with a jawline that would've made a bull-frog jealous.

The mumps lasted for about ten days and was forever linked in my mind with Dussehra. This ten-day holiday builds to a crescendo. Rama, the son of Dashratha, was the crown prince of Ayodhya was sentened to exile for 14 years because of the machinations of Kaikeyi, the king's third wife. She wanted her own son Bharata to rule. Following Rama into exile was his brother Lakshmana and his wife Sita, the daughter of the earth goddess. Bharata disappointed his mother by refusing to rule in stead of his brother, that most perfect of men, and in fact an avatar of Lord Vishnu, the Preserver. He dealt with the affairs of state but the pride of place, the actual ruler of Ayodhya was Rama himself, represented by his humble slippers that his brother kept on the throne.

The Ramayana, an ancient epic was written by the sage Valmiki and follows the various events in Rama's life. During the exile Sita was kidnapped by Ravana, the king of Lanka, setting in motion a war that was staggering in its magnitude. Helped by the monkey-god Hanuman and his army, Rama's troops built a bridge of rocks to cross over to the golden isle of Lanka.

Typified as the ultimate victory of good over evil, Rama decimated Ravana, his brothers and his army.

And now, on the final and tenth day, Ravana (ten-headed and awe-inspiring) is set ablaze, along with this two brothers. The nights preceding Dussehra are celebrations in themselves.

I remember the floats that would wind their way around the city. Bedecked with thousands of lights, would be Hanuman, tearing open his heart to show the image within...Rama and Sita. There's Sita stepping across the Lakshman rekha...the line drawn by Lakshman when he left to search for his missing brother in the forest. And Ravana, dressed as a sage, mocking and angry with Sita's refusal to step over the magical line, until she did and was captured. Each float a diorama of some famous scene from the Ramayana.

In smaller cities and in separate localities in larger ones, was the Ram Leela. I remember, going to see the Ram Leela in a village. I forget which village, how old I was or even when this was. But I remember watching the beautiful Sita's five o'clock shadow, her voice intermittently masculine...and yet my disbelief was suspended, for she was Sita. Sita the long-suffering, faithful wife, who was later cast aside because of aspersions cast on her character by a washerman.

And, years later, when her husband repented and arrived at her ashram refuge to take her back, she handed him his twin sons Luv and Kush, and praying for her mother to take her to her bosom. Whereupon the earth opened up and gathered her daughter to her, leaving Rama, the ideal man, confused by this silent subversion.

But that would be later.

A few weeks after Dussehra will be Diwali. The Indian festival of lights, when a triumphant Rama returned to his kingdom. And each and every home celebrated the return of their King Rama, their queen Sita, and their Prince Lakshman by lighting lamps. Now people use little fairy lights or even candles to light their homes for Diwali.


But even that is later.

Today is Dussehra, when long ago, my body succumbed to germs, but for an instant, I could believe that a scrawny, balding man actually shot an arrow to bring down a demon. And as Ravana and his brothers burned, the sparks lit up the skies, and even as my head hurt and my fever rose, I could not get away from the magic that is Dussehra.

In other parts of India, during this same time is celebrated Durga Puja, where the goddess Durga (the consort of Shiva, and source of shakti, or power) triumphed over another demon.



The message, of course is that this is the time of year when we cleanse ourselves of all evil, thought and deed, celebrate what is good. We celebrate our campaign towards ridding ourselves of evil. And at least for an instant, we are pure. Before the coming year takes its toll, we have conquered evil, even if the victory will not last.

Happy Dusshra! Shubho Bijoya!

India...you're fabulous!

...and now your throw pillows will like totally coordinate with the drapes. And oh, that darling set of candles. Amaaazing! And oh yeah, Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code? Soooo yesterday.

Ok, ok, that was me giving a shout out (can you believe I used "shout out") to India. And yes, throwing in some rather obvious stereotypes just for the heck of it.

Because, in a landmark ruling the Delhi High Court, has struck at of the most archaic and discriminatory laws. Homosexuality in India is no longer a crime. A major step forward.

I'm sure some conservative, religious group is going to appeal this, but it does show we're headed in the right direction. I will read more about it but I'm hoping the Supreme Court and the Legislature put this into law.

Hold Half an Ounce in Your Hand

What is the best way to rule? The British did it in India and every colonial power has used some variation of this effective ruling strategy. Every child's history book in India has the answer, and it routinely showed up in quizzes. Divide and Rule. A simple idea really. Divide up the populace into at least two groups. You don't care who's who, you just know you're superior to both of them.

Then give one group just a little bit more than the other. Simple! The group getting the fewer more benefits is not just grateful to you, they become loyal to you. They don't want to lose those few benefits, the little scraps. And here's the bonus, this group will work perhaps even harder than you to keep the status quo. Because if the equilibrium falters they might lose whatever little advantage they have. And deeper than that, they start to believe, to truly believe, that they are inferior, less than human, less than you. And since we all need some self-esteem...they also have one group that they can feel better than. Brilliant, isn't it?

The Belgians did it effectively with Hutus and Tutsis in Rwanda. Imagine the horror if a family had a Tutsi wife and a Hutu husband or vice versa. And yes, during the killings in Rwanda, there are documented cases of husbands and/or wives killing the Hutu partner. Sometimes the difference was only as superficial as a skin that was a few shades lighter or darker. These were not seperate races mind you. Frightening! In India it was the Muslims and the Hindus, of course. And then, there was the added complexity of Anglo-Indians and the various types of Indian Christians.

However, nowhere was superiority/inferiority so firmly coded into law in recent times as it was in apartheid South Africa. But there were those pesky anti-apartheid activists to deal with. You could put them all in prison, on Robben Island, but they couldn't all be in isolation. A better plan might be to divide them. How?
That part was easy. South African society was already divided. There were at least three distinct groups: Blacks, Indians and/or Asiactics, and coloureds (I hate using this term but it is used in S. Africa for people of mixed white-black heritage and does not yet have the same connotations as it does in North America). The division between black and colored was so arbitrary (again shades of skin color) that sometimes families were placed in different categories. And yes, this being South Africa, this category was solidified as part of your identity, especially since all non-Whites had to carry their ID card with them. Not doing so was an offence punishable by considerable jail time.

In prison, the division happened at the most basic levels. Black prisoners only got prison-issue short pants, while Indians and coloureds got long pants. Dignity and self-worth measured by half a yard of cloth. And then there was the food. Not enough food to keep a gnat alive either way. But look at this menu card for blacks (Bantus) versus Coloured/Asiatics (which included Indians, of course).



Sometimes this is what it comes down to then. Whether you got 6 oz of mealie meal or 12. Whether you get 6 oz of meat or 5. One oz, that's the privilege you get. Whether you get 2 oz of sugar or 1.5. That is your worth, half an ounce here, one ounce there. Hold an ounce of something in your hand. You can barely tell it's there. Almost like true differences between human beings. Not really there.

Then those pesky coloured and asiatics had to do something unthinkable. They shared their half ounces, they gave away their 1 oz of jam or syrup with their Bantu friends. And in the process they strengthened their ties and their movement.

Perhaps some of those who lived those dark days at Robben Island never lived to see the light of freedom. But, the death of apartheid surely began there somewhere, in those inhuman cells that bore the wounds of deprivation and torture. It surely began when one human being gave another human being a few drops of syrup. And in so giving, he sweetened by just a little bit, the bitterness that was apartheid, the policy that was divide and rule, and the human toll it extracted from all of us. For none of us can truly be unaffected.

Making a deal with the devil

"The agreement between Pakistan's government and the growing Taliban forces in the country's northwest region cemented a truce between the two sides and gave the insurgents dominance in the Swat region by installing a strict regimen of Islamic law amenable to the militants' authority. The pact was spearheaded by a hard-line cleric sent to the region to negotiate with the Taliban and persuade them to give up their arms."

Read the rest of this story here.

When it was first announced a few days ago, this story about the Pakistani government making a deal with the Taliban struck a chill inside me.

So scary and full of potential for unfolding disaster that I can barely blog about it. The schoolgirls in Swat whose schools were shut down and the women who are now entering a dark phase of life under the Taliban will pay for this decision taken in Islamabad. Two sides: one a resurgent and powerful Taliban that never really went away, the other an embattled government losing control of swathes of its country. And in between the millions who are trapped between these two powers. A government that cannot even hold on to its territory but hands it over to a renegade power should be ashamed of itself. Is this why the Pakistani people elected these folks?

This deal was supposedly struck for peace. Was it? Or was it to shove the lives of millions into darkness so the rest of us don't have to look at them any more? Like putting bandaid on a gangrenous limb. Ultimately this will poison the rest of the country and perhaps the world.


And once the Taliban again becomes the de-facto rulers of a place, will they be content? Will they not want to grow their influence, the cleanse the remaining parts of Pakistan? What will they do its female intellectuals and writers and poets, to its schoolgirls and its college students? Since all is Allah's domain and they are the self-appointed arbiters of religion and conduct, will they recognize geographical borders? How will this impact India in the long run?

India and Pakistan have a blow hot-blow cold relationship anyway but for a while we were at least talking. Our leaders at least made a charade of meeting, of keeping to the stated objective of peace. But the Taliban? If America is the great Satan to them, what is India? India, with its Hindu majority, its secular constitution, and its large Muslim minority....what special demonic significance does India have in their eyes?

I feel like the world has moved on from this news, shrugging it off as a South Asian oddity. But I fear this was a defining momment in history. Who would have thought that a hijacking Indian Airlines plane in Qandahar would have ultimately led to 9/11 and then on to the wars in Afghanistan and the under-false-pretences occupation of Iraq. But it did.

And, this no mere hijacked plane. This is much bigger and I fear for the world. I fear for myself. And I wonder where we are headed. I hope I am wrong. I fear I might not be.

They Call It Poverty Porn

Slumdog Millionaire is sweeping awards and audiences. And yet, in India, specifically Mumbai, where it is set, there are rumblings of discontent. Okay, more than rumblings. Many are calling it poverty porn, graphic images of disturbing poverty opened up as entertainment for a predominantly Western gaze. Others are protesting the use of the word "dog," a huge insult for Indians. One of the biggest protests was in Dharavi, Asia's largest slum where the screenwriter lived for six months. Do they feel a sense of betrayal by someone they welcomed into their midst? Despite the fim-makers' intentions do they feel insulted by being called 'dogs?' Judge for yourself.



Here's a caveat: I have not watched the movie.

I can't bring myself to watch it. It's not because I am unaware of poverty in India. It exists, of course it does. It does so in horrifying, mind-numbing ways. And while I think some of the criticism is a bit over the top, I do understand it. India as presented to Western eyes is always a source of some discomfort to me. It's not that situations or events are necessarily fabricated...much of it is factual. It is the discomfort of an alien gaze, dissecting us from a rather lordly distance. And more than that, that these are the only images of India on film that make it into the consciousness of most Western film-goers.

We watched the Raj films in the 1980's, where dashing British officers rescued lily-white maidens from India's ubiquitous heat and dust. Is India hot and dusty? Yes! But it is also cold and snowy and mild and temperate. It is also the land of eternal snows and coastal waterways. In the Raj films India and its life under the British fell away beneath the weight of English nostalgia for the jewel in its crown.

Then, for a while we were ignored by film-makers, except for an occasional Merchant-Ivory film. But that was not wholly foreign, for Ismail Merchant was a Bombay boy. Then there were the splutters of 'Fire,' or 'Salaam Bombay.' The latter was also set in Bombay's slums and was made by Meera Nair and was a truly intimate look at life in a slum.

Here's another caveat: I have read Vikas Swarup's Q & A, upon which Slumdog Millionaire is based.



So I know the story and I don't remember as much violence and distress as I hear about in the movie (the opening torture scene, the acid blinding, etc.). Perhaps they were there but they melded into the book so much that I don't remember them three years later. I remember, while reading the book thinking that it was written almost as a screenplay. It's not a well-written book, but the concept is interesting and it was executed well. And there are definite changes from the story.

Even the central character's name has been changed. Ram Mohammad Thomas. An evocative Indianness, reminiscent of Amar, Akbar, Anthony. Those three names, markers of three religions, are stories within themselves in the book. Ram, therefore, typifies all of India and none of it. He symbolizes its three major religions and because he has all three names, none of them. He is in effect, India.

Slumdog's Jamal, on the other hand, becomes an easily graspable entity, a slumdog with a Muslim name.

I watched Danny Boyle on The Daily Show. He called it a love story, that Jamal wanted to sit in the gameshow chair long enough to be sure Latika saw him and so that they could find each other again. No matter how much he calls it a love story, the predominant images that most viewers seem to carry away are the images of violence and poverty. Those seem to be its predominant images from what I've heard about it.

And perhaps that is what its Indian detractors are responding to. Perhaps that is why, depsite all the great press (and the fact that despite all this I am sure it's a great movie) that I cannot make myself watch it. Perhaps when it is out on video I might watch it. But I can't right now amid all its hype.

Is it over-sensitivity, or is it a country cringing to watch itself yet again through alien eyes and feel its complexities being stripped away? Yes, there are movies about the Paris riots for instance, but there are also dozens of movies on its beauty and its romance.

Is it the discomfort of being measured against just one truth by a movie-watching world that will move on to the next big thing soon, and all it will remember about India are its slums and its human miserty and not much else?

I am not sure but I am thinking. And wondering.