Art of the Matter

Reflections of an Author at Work

Tag: India

Not Without Conditions

A Love Story by Arpita Bhawal

The scheduled holidays were getting tiresome for Amaya when all she got from Hridhaan were thoughtfully purchased souvenirs from wherever he went with his family. She didn’t want to burst the bubble of gratitude or remembrance, which made these tiny pieces of metal or plaster or porcelain and at times large pieces of silk materialize in her life. The relationship, after all, was not without conditions.

Hridhaan was married, which was the biggest of all unstated conditions; so she had to be patient. His wife was a hard-nosed bitch and she had no beauty to boast of, so Amaya could never question Hridhaan’s suspect surrender to the coital routine. The third and final condition which was by far the most difficult to live with was Hridhaan’s daughter. She, Trina, always appeared to be the navigator of all such fantastic holidays that Hridhaan, according to his clarifications to Amaya, was forced to take. Amaya was curious at first about the sleeping arrangements among other things. It would be downright illogical for a couple to book two rooms during a family holiday, of course. Did his wife covertly express her wish to visit those places so that she could post them on Facebook?

How would Trina, who was just about ten, know of all those places on the map – Cambodia, Egypt, China, and Bali – that Amaya desperately wanted to visit someday with Hridhaan? Could she ever dismiss Trina’s sneaky roster of her favourite holiday destinations as a miraculous coincidence? Or was Hridhaan working too hard to portray the holidays as compulsory and life-changing to his office staff (of which she was a part) and his wife’s best friends from the Super Wives’ Club of Woodstock Villas where they lived?

Amaya didn’t remember the day or the month when she started to date Hridhaan. She also didn’t care to ask about the details or extent of his voluntary and somewhat energetic involvement in his married life with his wife. She knew all about the brown-eyed Trina who floated in and out of the office on an occasional school holiday. But the horror, the wife…she was always missing. Amaya hadn’t ever laid eyes on the elusive Latika, Hridhaan’s wife.

At the time, when she started dating Hridhaan, it appeared so insignificant, this little girl in a pink polka dress called Trina, who appeared to be as cute as a Barbie. There were no reservations in Amaya’s mind about the love Hridhaan had for his plastic daughter, because fathers loved their daughters, no matter how plain or boring they turned out to be. But Latika was rumoured to be manly, with a moustache and un-waxed arms. It annoyed her to imagine Hridhaan would continue to prolong his own agony despite living in a sham of a marriage, just to be a good man. It was ironical that he had spent a larger part of his life in France, mainly Paris, where he was surrounded by beautiful women.

Hridhaan never offered any explanations for anything during the first year of their affair. He didn’t exactly promise a life-long relationship or a love marriage, but nor did he dismiss Amaya’s day dreams of setting up their home together. Amaya’s restlessness grew bit by bit, soon after Trina’s ninth birthday, and then his subsequent, infamous, holiday to Angor Vat in Cambodia with his family broke the reservoirs of patience that she had solemnly held to her chest. Amaya outburst crackled with rage and humiliation. The practiced calm and courage flew out of the window and for the first time since her affair, she felt naked, used, abused and cheapened by her own hands, for not having given the whole married life routine of her man any attention or importance until now. She kept saying, “How could he do this to me?” over and over again to herself, her reflection in the mirror an alien image of humiliation and disbelief.

After two years, she was certain that her relationship with Hridhaan could never be without conditions, until and unless he found the courage or the will to walk out on Latika and ask for joint custody of Trina. Her illusions shattered like frail glass, dashed on a black marble floor, invisible yet crunching below her feet, mocking her mercilessly and reminding her that the fine education and high position she held in a top job didn’t compare with plain old common sense, like her grandmother’s, which she clearly lacked.

Amaya would have let the matters remain as they were until that fateful day when she walked into Hridhaan’s living room and found an electronic photo frame, shuffling happy pictures of his wife and daughter. There was a pan-faced hussy from work whom Amaya detested with good reason. She had accompanied them, no doubt! That was the Cambodia holiday that Hridhaan had painted as a stress-relieving act of a hardworking man, who was trying to keep his sanity intact in the face of his tyrant wife.

In his living room which was full of people, in the thick of Trina’s tenth birthday party, it was a horrific discovery. If she had been on the Titanic, she wouldn’t have been more alarmed or afraid. Hridhaan, in distinct contrast to her, looked blissed out in his party, flanked by fawning colleagues and their bored wives, cracking jokes which everyone laughed at; Amaya started to feel like a traitor, a disguised whore dressed to play house. She felt betrayed and foolish in her act of bravery; bravery at having been tolerant of all the three conditions that ruled her relationship, which could for societal and decent reasons, not be given an acceptable ever. Certainly, she didn’t dare call it Love. For Hridhaan’s sake.

The meltdown that followed Trina’s affluent birthday bash came fast and furiously with accusations hurled by her at a meek and self-suffering Hridhaan. He apologized, expressed anguish more than shame she thought, at having been caught red-handed. Amaya believed that it would now get fixed for good, because she threatened to walk out on him. But that impression which was as comforting as her old nightdress, lasted only until the next holiday that Hridhaan took with his family.

This time, the reason was different. It started out as a working trip to Hong Kong which Hridhaan was scheduled to make, but ended up being Trina’s desire to see Disneyland. Not until Hridhaan had left her to wallow in a sea of pity that would eventually turn into her peril, did Amaya have the courage to look at all the souvenirs that adorned her glass display cupboard in the living room. Then there was that beautiful Georgette scarf that Hridhaan had brought for her from Thailand, which now hung from a hanger in her wardrobe.

Amaya imagined the scarf around her neck. She was repulsed by the beauty of the gift, the thoughtfulness with which he may have selected the colour, admired the artistic motifs of landscape and exotic women on it, and worse, tried to imagine her wearing it. She felt guilty about hating Hridhaan for filling her home with such proclamations of admiration and Love; she forced herself to believe that these were nothing, but mere elements from those carefully planned and scheduled family holidays that stole her sanity. And yet, a small inner voice screamed in the hollow shell of her heart…wouldn’t it be deemed insane to condone a lover’s indiscretions with his legally wedded wife?

How was one to react to such remembrances of a lover that were born of deceit for one and appreciation of another? Amaya was so angry after Hridhaan’s Hong Kong trip that for a long while, she stashed away the scarf from obvious view in the wardrobe drawer and hoped it would crumble to dust and vanish someday.

Amaya’s confusion was reaching its penultimate peak in her daily life. On most days, she forgave herself for being amoral and coveting another woman’s husband. Then there were days when she was seething with discontent at having been dealt an unfair hand by God.

The unspoken conditions had always been there in the topography of their affair – infallible conditions nurtured by the living truth of a marriage. Each of those three conditions had manifested into incidents and events that she feared were designed to take Hridhaan farther away from her than he already was, ensconced in his villa at Woodstock with all those ever-changing pictures of his real life in that electronic frame, and all of which were acknowledged and viewed by the sea of people who visited them. Endorsement of what really exists?

It seemed, the more Amaya tried to put the pictures and the holidays out of her mind in an effort to remain loving and centred towards Hridhaan, the worse her disgust became towards those souvenirs he had given her.

A row of spoons with logos, motifs and names from a variety of countries stood upright; golden, silver, shining and bold, against the teak back of the cupboard. Hridhaan’s quiet observance of her likes and dislikes annoyed her now. The way he had gone about selecting such appropriate gifts for Amaya made her now suspect his motives about their love affair. She lay awake on those nights of Hridhaan’s family holidays thinking of what they were doing – Latika with her prickly, sunburned, hairy, skin and cunning eyes, and Trina with her shrill voice and short legs. Were Hridhaan and Latika making up the wide chasm that he insisted they had between them with wine and sex? Or were they using Trina as a cushion to soften the verbose blows between dinners and shopping sprees?

Amaya imagined Trina was the primary culprit, twisting her father around her little brown finger like cute children always manage to do – first instill pity, then deep love into the parent’s unsuspecting heart as a penance for creating them without Love or Desire. Amaya couldn’t understand the need for the fake family routine as everything that she knew about Hridhaan’s celluloid marriage appeared to be the exact opposite of satisfaction or happiness. Yet, there he was, off again on another ‘sudden’ jaunt with Trina to Egypt.

“Is your wife going with you?” she asked.

He turned on her with burning eyes. “What kind of a question is that? Who would care for Trina? I can’t look after her.”

Amaya wasn’t one to back down so she replied, “You, of course, especially since your daughter doesn’t care much about her mother. That’s what you told me.”

“How can you say such things?” Hridhaan could have burst a blood vessel right then if his cell phone hadn’t rung.

Amaya was stunned with the simplicity of it all in Hridhaan’s view. Her Love now was clearly nothing more elaborate than an affair of the heart that Hridhaan enjoyed, but didn’t want to give any more to it than he already had, a momentary nod from time to time, limited naturally by the short spans of availability between multitudinous commitments. Amaya prided herself in unconditional Love and the practice of following her heart, but lately it was beginning to turn into a chaotic series of misguided self-beliefs that she believed would never pass the test of loyalty and commitment. Latika would win. That thought filled her with an all-consuming hate.

Amaya was also terrified of the future, where there would be more unscheduled vacations, coinciding with Trina’s whims and fancies and regular school holidays, and someday, Hridhaan would get tired of trying to keep up and drop that whole ‘I miss you’ routine starting with the visits. Those lovely notes he mailed her from exotic locales would definitely become scarce. The emails with long proclamations of Love, typed hastily on his Blackberry from airports, would also eventually stop one day, and the virtual link to dream destinations would naturally cease. Amaya recalled the previous year, December, when Hridhaan had gone on that historic, annual, whole-family-holiday with twenty members (his wife’s parents, sister’s family, his parents, cousins, aunts and uncles).

Hridhaan had said that in the continuous act of coming together perennially: boarding together, checking in together, sightseeing together, dining together and shopping together (with ten adults and ten children), he hadn’t had a moment’s solitude to write to her, but he had missed her. Amaya was muted by the truth of his statement, watching the scene unfold in her mind’s eye as he spoke earnestly. Proof of his dedication lay in front of her on the coffee-table: several souvenirs bearing first-hand testimony of his constant Love. A silk purse, a fake gold key chain and a sheer wrap…all again so perfect and personal to her taste.

Often Amaya wondered what would happen if those three conditions vanished from her life. She didn’t imagine that they would overnight, but without warning, what if they did one day? And one day, it did.

When Hridhaan said, ‘I can’t do it anymore’ and walked out of the door, Amaya’s world crashed at her feet. She had stood where he left her for a long while before she started to cry. By then she had no doubt that he had chosen others over her. Latika and Trina. She had planned for every contingency with Hridhaan, but not this one. The abrupt closure from his side left her with a vacuum so great that she could hear her heart thumping with fear for days. That was the only proof of her life. The other was the elaborate body of souvenirs that she dusted and rearranged regularly with unchanging attention.

The first year got spent on tears: angry tears, hopeful tears and then resigned tears. By the end of the excruciating period of loss, the term where there wasn’t any hope left in her life except the natural one (which dictated that she had to live, and thus move on with her life), she noticed the cupboard full of souvenirs one more. The first thought was to sell them online at a used-goods auction site. For that a list had to be compiled and put up with adequate pricing. But, if she really wanted that to happen, she had to see what she could sell.

At first it was hard to look at the souvenirs. They were reminiscent of the conditions that had kept her from liking them or observing them closely earlier. Amaya began to feel bereft at the thought of an empty cupboard in the future. There were more vacant spaces, which could have been filled with more souvenirs. She hadn’t realized the significance of any of those items until then. They had filled the large hole of anonymity in her relationship. They showed that she had existed for Hridhaan at all times.

For the first time, Amaya felt a strange connection to them – as if they had been created to embark on this magical journey of self-discovery with her. The souvenirs glowed with pride and touched her with gratitude for having embraced them under the adverse conditions she had lived through.

Amaya’s eyes filled with tears as she began to mentally make a note of the description she would put for each one of them on the online auction site. She began to touch them tenderly, afraid to destroy the Love energy they possessed. They had arrived to teach her about Love, an unconditional, unselfish Love that Hridhaan said she possessed for him. Gifting her souvenirs was perhaps his only way of expressing his guilt and helplessness, but even much more than that, his Love for her.

Then it struck her like a ray of heavenly light: For the sake of her lost love, she would have to keep these souvenirs forever. Hridhaan was a stranger now, but not these souvenirs. They were still standing strong as symbols of their eternal Love that was so easily swept away in the face of a togetherness, a convenience called marriage.

Amaya knew she had to honor the souvenirs. And for once, there were no conditions attached.

Be A Tall Tree

be-tall-tree-stand-within-yourselfThe New Year began with a bang.  Since I didn’t bring it in with pink champagne or a string of ‘Page 3’ parties or nuzzling at a man’s neck, one could say I haven’t yet woken up to the fact that it is a new year – 2012.  As if it was not morbid enough for me to lose my pet, Ginger, on January 5, I hear now that we all must prepare for the rightful end of our world on December 2012.

So, what does that mean?  Should we buckle up and sashay down the path of our dreams and ambitions, aim for that high-paying job, and continue to hold grudges against traitor friends?  Or should we quietly retire with whatever savings we have (strictly cash!) to the Himalayas?

But hasn’t the world ended several times for many of us when we have lost our lovers, jobs, parents, partners, siblings, pets, dreams and dignity?  In that measure, if Mother Earth wants to explode by December, we can’t really fault that.  We might as well put that thought aside until December 1, and live the way we want to, because by suddenly altering our natures or desperately seeking a role model in order to redeem ourselves over the next 11-odd months is a sheer waste of time.

To stay alive, we just need to live.  Too simple?  Not really.  There are many ways to stay alive.  New Year resolutions is a great and time tested way – that is, if you can focus on following them for a month or two, and then not.  That will sort of fill you with guilt and all sorts of other useless emotions, guaranteed to remind you that you are human, and alive.

The other way, the bar-headed geese’s way, is worth considering.  Bar-headed geese are one of God’s most special creations.  Lily Whiteman writes in Audubon Birds about the impossibly daunting landscape where these surreal creatures survive.  As Lily says, imagine this: At 29, 028 feet, where the tallest peak Mount Everest reigns supreme, oxygen is scare (about a third of that available at sea level), and life is rare.  Mount Everest is tall enough to poke into the ‘jet stream’ – which is a high-altitude river of wind that blows at speeds of more than 200 miles an hour.

If we were at that height, our exposed flesh would freeze instantly.  Kerosene can’t burn here, helicopters can’t fly here.  Yet, flocks of bar-headed geese – the world’s highest altitude migrants – fly from their winter feeding grounds in the lowlands of India through the Himalayan Range, directly above Everest, on their way to the nesting grounds in Tibet.  Then, every fall, these magnificently brave birds retrace their route to India.  What’s more, it is believed that with just a little help from the tailwinds, they may be able to cover the one-way trip – more than 1,000 miles – in a single day.  Wow!  If a 5-pounds, 2-feet-high bird with the ability to fly over 50 miles an hour can show that kind of spunk, we don’t need to wait for December 2012 to justify our lack of life or ‘flight’ this year.

The bar-headed geese’s awesome engineering defies logic, but then, so does our existence.  We don’t do much to keep our world alive.  Our natural instincts have been practically scraped off our souls through the years, and our intrinsic oneness with nature leaves us bashful at best.  Only when our materialistic existence is threatened by a trauma or loss, or if we perceive that our life with all its New Year resolutions continues to remain imperfect, we worry about other ‘bigger ideas’ like World Hunger, Doomsday, and Big Boss Season 5 being rigged.

So, here’s to 2012, whether it is ending or not with a cosmic bang, live the high life. Take flight!

Dazed And Confused In Search of Our Dreams

dazed-and-confusedTake a page out of your Life’s book today. Is it legitimate? Or are you aping a journey that is based on the reality or illusion (trust me, it could be either) of another person’s whom you envy or admire? Sometimes we confuse our deepest desires and electric dreams with someone else’s, because we can’t really see ourselves being original and unique.

We want their fame and glory, their money and power, if possible, their bodies and souls. Take Dirty Picture — it set tongues wagging and hearts pounding. People are outraged, seduced, stumped and awed by the sensuality of the idea of a movie which is so bold and raw. Why are we talking about this? Because Milan Lutheria, the director, had the audacity to trust his own journey leaving half of Bollywood to slap their foreheads. “Sheesh! Why didn’t we think of that one?”

Originality does not necessarily mean you have to try and fit into your teenage daughter’s clothes even if you feel young at heart; it does not permit that you go to work looking like a skunk either, without make-up and slippers, because you think you look cool; and if you are a man, it does not warrant that you buy a Harley Davidson at 57 out of your retirement fund because that’s what successful men do.

English hypnotist and self-improvement author, Paul McKenna says, “The map is not the territory”. What he means is that we interpret situations based on what we feel and whom we are at that point of time. So how we interpret things affect our state of mind, expressions and behaviors. It keeps us away from being true to our most important dreams and realizing our potential.

If you are feeling ‘old’ or ‘unattractive’ or like a ‘loser’ lately, stop and think. Maybe you are vaulting down the road with someone else’s illustrious and affluent map, without having that person’s originality, intellect or talent. How can you succeed while trying to imitate someone else’s journey? Try to take your own path to success. If you don’t know the path yet, create one. The territory lays ahead – your territory – and you can make up the map as you go along.

Delhi’s Belly

India-Gate-DelhiThere’s something about New Delhi.

Besides the India Gate and the Red Fort, the greedy shopping experiences and gastronomic delights, there is something else: Prized Arrogance (PA). So, what is it about the capital city of India with its PA that awes and repels us in equal measure? For some, it is the lewd Punjabi aggression. For others, it is the scary tales of abusing women. For me, it is the fascinating greenery amidst which No.10 Racecourse Road turns its nose at the ghettos of Purani Dilli (Old Delhi).

For many of my southern friends, Delhi is about the so-called Prima Donnas of South-Ex, who may very well become totally irrelevant once they open their mouths to speak. Evidence of over-confidence without substance, perhaps – or simply, PA at its best!

Yet, PA or not, in winter, if you happen to be in Delhi, you are likely to be charmed. The crisp cold air is complemented by smartly dressed Delhites in their leather jackets, knee high boots and woolen berets. Very European! While you are dwelling on that pretty picture, throw in a driver who doubles up as a tour guide, giving a running commentary in Hindi. But, despite everything, the PA never really leaves the scene – and you can’t really ignore it.

Imagine this: We are returning to the hotel after a long day of meetings. The luxurious homeliness of The Lalit at Connaught Place beckons. All we’d like to do is really eat and sleep – and prepare for another long day of more meetings. Wazir Singh, our reluctant driver, is quiet, in keeping with our low energy levels. As we halt a few meters short of one of the traffic junctions, one of the many cars itching to get going, a white Maruti Swift on our left side wakes up. The car door opens, and a tall, fair, handsome man with spiky hair decides to step out. No harm done really, except his car’s door blatantly bangs against ours. As if for effect, he tests how far the door can open again, banging our car again, before he steps out.

Outraged, my colleague demands to know why the man was behaving this way. Wazir Singh gives the door-banger an equally outraged look, but remains mute. I chip in softly, saying the man was indeed shameless and must be told to behave, and also possibly taught not to step out between traffic lanes. Wazir Singh still remains silent. The door-banger lights a cigarette which he takes out of the boot of the Swift, and then he readies to hop back again into his car. While getting in, he opens his car door again, wide and hard, banging again against our car. Wazir Singh apparently has had enough this time, so he rolls down the window pane and says to the man: “Please watch out for the door.”

The man hurls the choicest of abuses and then, for effect, again bangs the car door against our Innova. The traffic lights turn to green and he speeds away. Wazir Singh sighs and says, “People are like this only in Delhi.”

Incredibly Invincible

Salman-RushieThere is something to be said about the written word. Apologies, letters, books or poetry. Once they are written and shared, they are no longer yours. They give new meaning to the critical mass theory. They refuse to die, staying alive in the minds and hearts of those who had the good fortune of chancing upon them. I can’t help but jump on to India Inc. Bandwagon where Salman Rushdie, author par excellence, aided by the erudite Hari Kunzru, and at least 25 million Indians across India, are today holding up the national flag in support of the written word.

So, the point of all the brouhaha over the-book-that-shall-not-be-named is that it raises a bunch of succulent questions that are not just palatable to politicians and activists alike, it is also relevant to ordinary mortals. In my world view, all the sentimental and outrage kind of questions point to one thing (not the same old ‘freedom of speech for writers’ thing) that is: The Indefatigable Point of Invincibility.

There are many ways to achieve invincibility, I am sure. My Chemistry teacher, Mrs. Matthews, made herself invincible by terrorizing us even before she actually stepped into the classroom. We waited for the inevitable decimation by her laser sharp tongue and encyclopedic mind every other day as we struggled to rattle off Chemistry formulas before saying ‘Good Morning’.

Coming back to my first love, the written word, it is truly the way to gain eyeballs, money, fame, and if you are lucky, invitations to literary festivals. But the only pre-condition to gaining invincibility for your work is that you must not make a big deal of it, but let others take it up and do what they will. Of course, your perspectives, feelings, opinions have to challenge the status-quo of Life. So, if it is about love or hate, sex or taboo, religion or politics, what you write with your alternate perspective could be the next target.

Also, if you want to take the international fraternity’s attention away from our national problems of corruption, polls and scams aside, it is perfect to find authors who presented these signs of invincibility decades ago. Many pundits have nodded their heads and said, “Is it worth the angst, the alienation, and the obvious defamation worldwide for a few words which the majority people on this planet will never read or understand?” That is a question that we have to ask ourselves, not political leaders, paid mobs or pundits. If words can stir up “India Spring”, thanks to the-book-that-shall-not-be-named, then let us hope that Harry Potter is preparing a new magic spell to increase our invincibility and decrease intolerance.


Liberating Freedom

Boat in KeralaFreedom is as freedom does: A wonderfully liberated world where thousands are marching towards their victory under the scorching sun with Anna Hazare. (Most of them, anyway, won’t for fear of getting a suntan); power of the media that put Niira Radia to shame and corporate leaders behind bars; end of dictatorship, sexism, and tyranny a la Gaddafi.

What does Freedom mean to you? Going the Roebuck way or the Tiger Wood’s way? Choosing the flavor of your Gelato or the color of your car? Breaking your silence after weeks of anger or holding your tongue for months to contemplate? Whatever it means to you, remember, Freedom brings the big fat peril of revealing the true Self. Sorry, but Freedom does strip you of lies and makes you truthful – sort of diving into a public bath naked.

Many years ago, my friend’s elder brother was given permission to explore his career options by their father. All the family members duly encouraged him to be himself. Guess what the young man became? A naxalite, which was kind of odd in their family of doctors and engineers.

Freedom demands cutting through the clutter. Cut the ruthless job that gives you more money and fame, but takes away your health and happiness. Cut that torturous duty that’s supposed to add value to your reputation and family’s image, but doesn’t. Cut candlelit dinners on T-stir-inspired-power-cut evenings, when they really leave you peeved. Cut speculating on Ash’s marriage and her reluctance to get pregnant when in truth you don’t read enough to have any other sane conversation. (AB’s baby is already born, and you weren’t even invited for the baby shower, remember?)

If you dare to cut, the true Self will emerge. It might horrify you because you might turn out to be different – perhaps meaner, crazier or dreadfully mundane. Or simply, magnificent. Then you can proudly look into the mirror and say: I am not in prison, nobody dictates my life, I don’t need to pretend, and I don’t have to prove anything. And I am free of people who don’t have the courage to be truthful about anything. Now that is Freedom worth raising a toast to…Cheers!

Of Bengalis And Brotherhood

Goddess DurgaIt is hard to be a Bengali during Durga Puja if like me one has left the warm cockles of Bengal’s heart 18 years ago.  Come Durga Puja, and one is forced to reincarnate one’s universally appealing persona into native Bengali’s.  Like Tenualosa Ilisha (Elish Fish), the stalwarts of Bengal expect the natives to abandon the sea of anonymity (meaning other States of residence), swim upstream to spawn the eggs of Bengali Brotherhood in Kolkata, and partake of the ‘real’ thing…resplendent pandals, goddesses, gluttony, and including strangers.

Outside Bengal, it is a Herculean task.  If you must imprint these un-replicable experiences, then start early.  Seek out all the Bengalis in your neighborhood; count the number of Chatterjees, Deys and Gangulis in your office; and, if you are the sort to take it a bit far, reconnect with estranged friends (non-Bengalis) who have friends (Bengalis) affiliated to one of the few Bengali clubs or committees in the city.  However, your diverse attempts to swim upstream and regain your ‘Bengaliness’ could leave you exhausted.

To retain visibility like a fish out of water, float between Indira Park, Keyes High School, Banjara Hills and Kalibari in your finery at Hyderabad. Make a fat donation to the biggest samiti. Use colloquial phrases – “Dada, ektoo jaagaa deben?”  meaning “Sir, could you give me some space?” Greet grim Bengali brothers and sisters. You want to be ‘one’ with the community. Still, you go unnoticed, unappreciated and unanswered.  Self-doubts…Is this a Chinese New Year celebration and am I deciphering the riddles on lanterns in Beijing?

Suddenly, after hours in the cue for a splattering of afternoon bhog, an epiphany occurs.  Surprise, surprise! Every Bengali becomes an ‘outsider’ in local Bengali communities when out of Bengal. It is Bijoya Dashami.  Good triumphs over evil?  Involuntarily, you peer into the mirror.  At least, you still resemble an arty Bengali.

Uncle Sam’s Tongue

Statue-of-LibertyEnglish language, from England, is embarrassed to death in India. What’s official now is a hotchpotch of English, and what I call, “Americanese”. In 1994, the Indian telecom policy launched the ‘American Corn’ era. A slew of BPOs and KPOs started to cash in on fine English accents of educated Indians like you and me. And, lo and behold, Amerlish got conceived.

My tryst with pure Americanese began in 2004 at an American KPO called OfficeTiger. Until then, my world had been simple. I wrote perfectly crafted, grammatically correct, complete sentences in English. During childhood, I had even excelled in elocution contests at school (testimony to my penchant for perfect English diction). Americanese altered that – and even tampered with my value systems. Instead of saying, “I am fine”, I responded, “I am good” – whether I had been morally good or not that week.

As English speaking natives, we have become inarticulate in our efforts to adopt the fashionable Americanese twang, while preserving our English education. Star World soaps can’t help us get it right like Active English on Tata Sky can for British English. Now, Americans comment on our “interesting” accent, when actually they might be doubling up with laughter. Our expressions are bedazzled with American idioms, which our childhood friends (now settled in America) don’t approve. But, who are we to debate whether Amerlish is to be our new Indian-International standard of communication or not?

When I visited Kolkata last year, I half expected the Howrah Bridge to metamorphose right before my eyes into the Golden Gate Bridge that spans the San Francisco Bay. Having visited San Francisco a couple of times, I meekly acknowledge how ridiculous that expectation is. Now, if only all of us could also Americanize our skin-tones with fairness creams to match our accents. But we aren’t too far behind. The whole of India is keener to adopt fairness than a new accent.

Empowered, We


2016 is here.

It’s a whole New Year with many new dreams. Writers are excited to embark on their next writing project. Readers look forward to reading something ‘new’.

It’s the same old story. But, is it really?

Writing takes away everything. Energy, time, passion. It also brings along other things. Fatigue, panic and uncertainty. But, it’s not the same thing, not the same story and not even the same way of doing things. Each year, a writer grows and changes, thus.

Reading becomes critical with each passing day. It produces feelings of ineptness and want. It forces us to accept that we know next to nothing. Each year, it gets harder to read ‘difficult’ stuff, which is usually referred to as Literary Writing.

If writing is still a very hard job for writers and readers still feel guilty of buying books they exhibit in their personal one-shelf home-libraries, there must be something to this whole business of writing and reading books, isn’t it?

In 2016, I don’t know about you, but I am ready to write some awesome love stories for you, straight from the heart. If you’ve read my first collection of short stories, Vices of Eden, you would possibly enjoy the new collection as well. But, unlike Vices of Eden, this one will be just five longish stories.

Recently, a man asked me, ‘Why are your stories only focused on women?’

I said, ‘Because I am a woman.’

The man was quizzical, but he didn’t pursue the discussion. I thought about it later. My answer was silly. It’s true that I enjoy writing from a woman’s perspective, but only because I’m a woman and I believe women all over the world today are more empowered and able to make themselves heard. I hear more of their stories. My stories tend to reflect that in the context of our daily life.

It doesn’t mean, I don’t want to write with male protagonists. I just haven’t found an outstanding male character in my imaginary or real world. But, just to be clear, I’m excited about exploring one in my first novel, which is in the development stage.

So, more power to 2016! Let’s dazzle ourselves and the rest of the world together…one writer and one reader, at a time.

And the men are welcome to join in the fun.