Latest Event Updates
I had never thought that there’d be a day when I would blog about a book I have read. For an overthinker like yours truly, I surely never articulated the power of literature to change things. Well, unless I decided to seriously pursue writing. I think that’s maybe because I asked myself why I wanted to write besides the momentary joy of it.
As a reader I believe that books come to you when you are ready for them. The seemingly inanimate pages displaying strings of characters and words collectively carry something palpable, something so intimate that the reader lives the words. Isn’t that the singularly most awe inspiring and powerful thing about the written word? Starting with simpler books for young adults, I read a varied set of books, each of which leave me with something new. Of course, there have been occasional instances of a few books that don’t sit well or put me to sleep within a few pages. Those, I leave.
Until 2017, I had never been the one to actively aspire to read a certain number of books through the year. In 2017, I decided to keep track of my reading, if not have targets. I am reading 3 wonderful books while the ones that I have read lie happily with slightly worn off pages in my bookshelf. Of these, the one that compelled me to write this is Perumal Murugan’s ‘One Part Woman’.
I stumbled upon this book through an artist who recommended the read. Her work and her style continues to inspire me and I decided to give this book a shot since the basic plot type has seldom seemed inviting to me. When reading up about the writer after reading it, I realised that Murugan was in fact, the writer who somewhere stirred the desire of writing professionally, in me. I was pursuing my Masters when I had read extensively about him as a writer who was harassed for his work. I remembered being in awe of the offense taken at a work of fiction by a mass of people and the subsequent responses of the writer to not write anymore. I had decided that I want to be such a writer, who would however, continue dissent.
When I started reading the book, I fell in love with the imagery created by Murugan – the portia tree, the farm, the forest and the mountains, Kali’s drowsy body staring at the canopy, Ponna’s beauty – all of it made me feel like I was a voyeur in the most tender and intimate lives of the two. So, Ponna’s pain and anger made me sad and want to reason with her that being childless is no sin, Kali’s listless personality and eventual mistrust of Ponna made me weep wanting to reach out and tell him the truth.
Once the emotions faded, the crucial importance of this book is what stayed with me making me want to write this. Through the narration of the life, love and loss of Ponna and Kali, Murugan very intelligently displays everything that feminism speaks against, everything that is wrong with the patriarchal world view. For Indian feminists, I think the book serves as the go to book to identify and work through typically Indian realities in a discourse dominated by non-Indian writing.
That patriarchal mindsets are poisonous for every individual, became the truth for me through an independent research project that had cleared the picture. ‘One Part Woman’ further makes the damages of patriarchy so simple, bringing it in rural Indian context sharing thereby, how the rigidity of these ideas and rituals destroys human happiness of a daily basis.
Kali and Ponna, the two protagonists in the story, through the eventual destruction of their love, display the seemingly micro yet key impact of patriarchal beliefs. Ponna is unable to bear a child which is a cause of much shame and sorrow. To an urban mind, this would of course feel exaggerated. One would want to say to the woman and her kin in such a case, that they need to just shake off the worry and adopt of maybe just understand that giving birth to a child is not the be all and end all of a woman’s existence. However, the writer is able to share just how painfully real these beliefs are and how what is required is a larger, cultural thought revolution. I have, through various tools, shared the hypocrisy of Indian society when it comes to honour engendered in the female body. On one side here, adoption does not seem like a possibility (which is the case even for urban Indians), the other side has the family contemplating getting Ponna impregnated (after all pleas and fasts to god fail) by taking her to a religious festival where for a day “gods” descend from the hills to bless women with children. Note, these gods are men, penis-bearing male bodies, intoxicated and let lose for a day to sleep with any woman that comes their way. Also note, that on this day, any woman is allowed to sleep with the man who becomes god for a night.
The two are tricked by her parents and brother wherein Kali isn’t told about Ponna’s going to the festival while Ponna is told that Kali approves. What then happens is where the intelligent storytelling comes in. True to expectation, while Kali, who had become aggressive as a husband often raping his wife every other night in a state of drunkenness and anger at her even asking him if they should consider the festival as the way to have their child, is heartbroken eventually and directs all his anger towards his wife; Ponna, on the other hand, is childlike and enjoying the new sense of adventure that her life seemed to have brought in through this desire to seek a god to help her. It is in this sequence when the narrative tone changes from Ponna’s true identity, her likes, dislike, sorrows, disappointments, all brought to the fore while Kali’s constant benevolence at being okay without a child yet still craving fatherhood, sling away into the shadows of his sorrow.
What had seemed like the most passionate love for Ponna with vivid descriptions of Kali’s sight, his expression of love for her by nuzzling his face between her breasts; turns out to be yet another story where the woman’s voice was stifled. Ponna had been in love with someone else but, it was custom for her to not fight for it and give in to the family’s decision to marry Kali. Ponna was Kali’s first love but, not the first one to be made love with.
One Part Woman therefore, becomes an essential read for Indian readers to share the key reason for feminism – the culture of silence breeding a continuous quiet among its women. As far as one can think, whether physically same or not, a woman is a human being first. Why silence her voice then?
This piece is something that has been brewing for a while and while I tried for it to be published somewhere where it doesn’t feel like a rant as well as gets a greater audience (twin win eh?), it is indeed a “controversial” piece and hence, I could not find any buyers for this. Sigh. I am not one to write lengthy Facebook statuses as well because well, I prefer writing in my notebook more. However, after an evening briefly spent visiting and checking out installations under the Story of Space, I am compelled to barf it out here.
But, before that, lets set a little context.
Those who know me or have maybe known me earlier when I was in school, seem to be surprised at my choice to work as an independent writer and artist – both, self taught. That’s mostly because everyone felt that my brains deserved to be embodied by an IAS officer or maybe, a number crunching CEO or economist. However, this professional choice was inevitable as far as I am concerned since this is exactly what I have known myself to be, since as far back in time as I can remember.
Like most amateurs (if you may), I have believed that art is for all. Of course, there are people who might not “get it” but, that is the purpose of art – for the artist to express herself and for the viewer / consumer of art, to experience it in her own way. Of course, the downside of all this is also the very difficult opinion that people who do not earn a living off making art, believing that they ought to get it for free. But then, that’s another story altogether.
However, as much as I love (f)artsy environs and galleries and conversations and events, I find myself slinking away in a corner at the sight of certain herds of hipsters or whatever the tribe is called today. Till yesterday, I had believed this opinion to merely be a personal prejudice or judgment hence, the need to not proclaim it on my blog earlier on. However, this evening, I found the same sentiments being echoed by a friend who isn’t an art enthusiast nor an artist but, simply keen to see and learn new things.
The Story of Space is a fascinating project that was held between 10th and 19th November in and around Panjim, Goa. The project, broadly speaking, explored the concept of space through an intersection of science and art. While for me, through whatever little I could catch, it pointed towards thoughts of us being made of ‘star stuff’ and the inter-relatedness of science and art, in relation to everything in life / nature.
Most of my sojourns into such shows or art spaces have been alone. I like experiencing the artists’ expression by myself, without the distractions of any familiarity. However, I also enjoy an occasional shaking of the mix, a new thread of thought and opinion to add to my own thought bubble.
On the last leg of my run to check out a couple of installations at Sukerkar House, a decrepit looking old building minus the usual charm, I found myself uncertain to walk in. I paused and looked around and sensed a strange vibe of discomfort, rushing towards me in waves as if the frequency of the throngs of carefully recklessly dressed artists, volunteers, curators and art and design students / enthusiasts. I suddenly felt an air of being an outsider, if you know what I mean, when you seemingly don’t belong somewhere. I wondered if it was my careless lack of the carefully casual outfit or my missing hipster glasses that did not fit the wannabe winds that blew at that moment in Altinho. Mustering my amateur, self-taught guts I walked in, passing over two and then, a third installation; my thumping headache adding to my misery of not seeing much beyond the already well explored idea of space in them.
And then, we entered a fourth room, into something that was called the Escape Room and that sounded very cool. Much to the chagrin the curator, I did not know about there being batches to enter the Escape Room that lay behind a door at the end of this room. I ended up walking into a room full of men and women with large glasses and long, unkempt hair in buns or braids, wearing lose t-shirts that looked like they came from the same factory in the glare of the single bulb that hung from the ceiling, shadowing their awkward gazes. Each pair of eyes stared at me in that longest moment as I squinted back, questioningly. My attention hating side screamed at them for screening me so intensely and then, my voice finally broke the silence that was pressing on my ears. Upon asking what was happening with raised eyebrows, I was then informed about the groups and that I would have to wait for the next one. Relieved that it was just strange speed of communication and not anything to do with perhaps my scrunched up nose as I tried to focus in light’s glare, I walked out heaving a sigh of relief.
Not too keen on waiting any longer (and keener to get myself a croissant or a coffee…or both), I walked out of the venue checking with my friend if he wanted to wait after. With a frown, he responded that he didn’t want to stick around that place even for a minute. Intrigued that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t just my prejudice I decided to dig further, asking him what, in particular, was the cause of displeasure for him there while he did seem to enjoy the other installations and artworks.
His reply, to summarise, was simply the pretentious energy, the cold, raised-eyebrowed and hooded eyed looks that he saw there. He felt that the people present there seemed to exist is a slightly darker art bubble than at the other places, uninterested in allowing anyone else in.
I was stunned. I have felt similarly about litfests and major art galleries and art show openings, despite admiring a lot of the artists’ works on display. I presumed that it was my own misplaced intellectual arrogance that I thought I sometimes suffered from. Who doesn’t want exclusivity after all, isn’t it?
Turns out, I really have grown up!
What I felt was something to do with my untrained artist / writer status, simply was the tendency of the herd mentality that exists within all but, only a certain chunk of the world manifest it. I think I have a problem with it largely because while knowing that creation is an act of selfishness because it gives the artist a much needed release or sense of purpose, I also believe that as a way of life, art also is something that is universal even if someone is seemingly artistically challenged in the eyes of the most fascinating artists.
Art, for me, is a way of communication, an expression of the heart or one’s soul (mind, if you don’t believe in soul). Sometimes, these expressions are very simple and speak of broad emotions that humanity deals with. Other time, they can be very complicated that maybe only a few understand. However, the intention of any art form essentially is not to exclude because the act of creation in itself becomes a way of the artist opening up and sharing a part of themselves.
A part of my brain, the one that fears judgment from the world, the one that refuses to be vulnerable in front of humanity; that part of my brain is cringing as I type this. However, I must go on despite its warnings against this being a complete bomb and unnecessary cry for attention. If, as a reader, you feel the same, I urge you to go ahead and close the window. Sorry, I do not have a dislike or hate button here for you. I am sure someday soon, we will have them.
I have only once in the past written about my father and yes maybe briefly mentioned him in a recent post on Instagram.
Today, however, I write from the point of view of grief, especially after the death of a loved one. My father left his physical form 8 years, 6 months and 20 days ago. It was sudden, right 5 weeks after I turned 18, the birthday I was most excited about. 16 was never an interest.
Very interestingly, this year, I have been thinking of him often. Much to my surprise. I had presumed that I have grieved and accepted and taken his death in my stride. When Chester Bennington passed away, I found myself weeping almost as badly as I did when papa was close to the last moments of his life. My head went back to the time Robin Williams’ death made me feel on similar lines. I wasnt sure why I felt so deeply sad at this. I remembered all the times when I have been happy with my father, the times when I thought he was not right or made me angry. :) I learnt of what all he intentionally or unintentionally taught me during the time that we spent together. I learnt of why some of my favourite memories with him remained my favourite till date despite having made a considerably good number of memories since then.
Today, I have come to terms with his death in a way much deeper and intensely happy and peaceful than I had ever imagined possible. I have goosepimples as I type this line, in particular.
To him, I would say, I am happy that I met you, happy that I was born to you. I am happy where we are today and I hope you are happy and peaceful where you are.
I love you and today, very strongly, I understand what J.K. Rowling meant by those who you love never leaving you since they can always be found in your heart. I know you are always in mine.
Been a while since I wrote in here. Have sort of determined to be a little more less reluctant to type a blog post. Thankfully, I have been writing a lot but on paper. This world demands virtual media, however. And, need to succumb to it once in a while.
October brings along Inktober with itself and I have been creating more detailed artworks this year. Sign of progress, for sure.
I attended a workshop on Ekphrasis yesterday. According to the glossary on literature that I looked up to understand the term, I learnt that it is something that comes naturally to me. Ekphrasis is essentially writing something (mostly a poem), inspired by a visual, whether real or imaginary. I remember that I had started creative writing and poetry with imagined visuals, images that refused to leave my mind. Having never gone through the systemic teaching in literature and art, at times, I find myself doing a double take when I learn that there is a term for something I do! At other times, well, I learn something new. Feel like a student all over again. ;)
The workshop had a measly number of 4 people – one of whom ran away when we were left alone to write poems. We were presented with works by Monet and O’Keefe. I am a fan of impressionism and hence, Monet’s magic in seemingly simple, day to day scenes was quite captivating. However, I had pre-selected the artwork for my poem the minute I walked in. Poetically speaking, it felt like it chose me.
The artwork that I connected with instantly was O’Keefe’s Oriental Poppies (pictured below).
I have honestly, never really been a flower person. I mean I like flowers in flesh but, never as images. Apparently, the artist painted these and much of her work in abstraction following no real theme as such but, her work has been appropriated by many according to their own perceptions. Her work has particularly been labeled as feminist and has been interpreted accordingly.
For me, art comes from a personal space. Either its memory or emotion, it always stirs from an emotional part of the mind. While there was a gentleman who felt he doesn’t “get” art, he wrote a short poem which was so powerful and interpreted one of Monet’s works beautifully; thereby, bringing in the belief yet again that art is personal and that, many times what the artist would have intended would end up living with the artist alone.
Oriental poppies drew me in like a magnet. The fiery colours and shades emanated a kind of passionate power that I couldn’t think of any other work there. Sharing a poem that I wrote inspired by the work:
against the light.
Fire all around
emerging from the dark,
I see them in the evening
to the sounds of the lark.
As the night darkens
gathering her warm blanket over,
We huddle closer together
heads joint in a good night’s kiss.
Hand in hand
side by side, we traverse
every road, while
despite no light,
like those orange blossoms
in my garden.
One of my guilty pleasures is watching sitcoms on binge. The latest show that I watched on binge and even used Google to end my misery at times was The Mentalist (yes, yes, I am quite late to jump on the bandwagon but, better late than never right?)
While there are many tangents that I can go to in terms of what I loved as well as hated about the show, I will pick up on one broad trend that is a reality for media in most places. Sitcoms even in the Indian industry (can speak for Hindi shows alone since I haven’t watched any other Indian shows in other Indian languages), are the ordinary citizen’s access to a world far away from her daily reality. From TV sets in common rooms to Netflix and the likes on one’s bed, media as entertainment has access to the most private corners of one’s existence. Of course there is the business side to it as well that deems producing things that aren’t just liked but, also accepted by the viewers. It is crazy how the virtual production of the Game of Thrones made ‘winter is coming’ as a mark of cool and awe-inspiring minds.
What I have thought about time and again however, is the need to balance economic orientation behind soaps with creating things that add a new value to the viewers’ minds, makes them question and think. Media and storytelling has that immense power.
With such an orientation however, when one watches an acclaimed show and sees it fall flat on its face, it feels sad. Web series are definitely changing the way things go but, the downside of the trend yet again is the surge of multiple channels owned by a few big business houses that own the TV channels spreading mediocrity.
Why I am ranting about media here is to note one point that has come to mind time and again whether watching an Indian web series or reading a comic or watching The Mentalist. My basic issue is with all of it, especially the series in question, is the reaffirmation of stereotypes that deepen a sense of bias against people. This is a very subtle form of bias that exists in the modern world. One has opinions based on one’s race, class, sex and appearance…the least that storytelling can do, is to break through those typical narratives forcing the viewer to look beyond hearsay. Another classic fallacy in Western storytelling is building everything around one male protagonist (usually white) who is wronged by another man and with the help of a secondary female character who nurses his hurt ego and teaches him vulnerability after he disses her all through the plot, he gets justice and stands taller with his arm around the woman’s waist looking straight ahead. Remember Harvey Specter and Christian Grey? The typical protagonists?
While the entire plot line and appearance of the show is clean, minus heavy words displaying hyper-masculinity and full of humour and love. The characters are all shown to possess their own pasts and like all of us are products of their environments who have evolved a lot with time. All of this is what makes this show very likeable. However, as the series progresses, slowly all the mature writing falls through the cracks. Lisbon then becomes the female cop who was no nonsense and super professional not because she is good at her work and prefers to keep things that way. Rather, she was so because her dark past made her display a tough exterior to protect herself until love comes knocking. The same love that makes her throw away everything that she defined herself by and reduce her existence to anonymity. Jane is a funny, con man turned righteous hero who spends all his energies trying to salvage the murders of his family caused due to his irresponsibility. From the hurt and grief stricken man looking to avenge his loss, he slowly becomes the egoistic narcissist ought to display a sense of superiority especially against the woman he loves, without any care when the same woman loses everything in order to help him. Their story is the typical story, only with a little addition of Lisbon’s past. On the side are 3 more characters – Rigsby (tall, athletic, dumb white male aka jock in the dictionary of stereotypes), Cho (short, pokerface Asian guy with the focus of a horse with blinders because you know, he’s Korean with a gang past) and Van Pelt (red head with the perfect body that is objectified immensely, also a farm girl with the belief in horses, unicorns (not really) and rainbows, she is shown all business unless of course, love grabs her heart).
I would end with just one thought – while adding a background story to the lives of the characters does add a more humane touch giving life to these stereotypes, it still reaffirms every bit of it keeping narratives stale and predictable. Stories, while of course need to be a sort of business to sustain storytellers, are however, more powerful that dumbing down generations by affirmation of stereotypes. They can change the destiny of the world, if only, a little more courage is shown in telling them.
I haven’t really blogged with my thoughts on here in a long time. There is an anon blog for that and also, I am a little old school with my pen and paper for things that I need not share on the internet. Yes, even those who know me, don’t really want to believe that I might have a whole lot of private and personal stuff in my heart. I cannot blame them ’cause I always do have a lot of stories to share.
Anyway, I felt like rekindling this blog to a more personal one as opposed to regular thoughts on the difficult realities in the world that we have created. I started reading a book called Remnants of a Separation by Aanchal Malhotra who is a Delhi based artist and explores the partition through personal stories and reminders in terms of objects that people carried as they fled across the newly created borders back then.
As I go through the endearing accounts and stories (yes this isn’t a book review!), my head swims in a different space altogether. From what I have known, I had been a sucker for nostalgia and continue to spin stories and memories as if they were right in front of my eyes. I don’t know if it happens with everyone but, when I remember certain magical parts of my life so far, my mind actually plays a very mellow sound and I feel the same warmth and happiness that was felt when I was younger and would soak in the warmth of the winter sun with a copy of Harry Potter, undisturbed for hours. That is the thing about nostalgia, you start once and it plays an entire film in front of your eyes.
When I started working, I realised that my obsession with nostalgia was maybe keeping me somewhere close to a part of the past that was safe and warm, trying to keep me sane in the reality of my present or the clouds of the future. I clung to the toasty warmth of my memory blanket as I walked on ahead into what seemed like a long, dark tunnel with the only light that was there, within. There came a point that I had to drop the blanket midway, squaring my shoulders to walk straight into the abyss, without a care of what would happen. I kept going with my mind protecting the warmth for contingency expecting darker demons to confront me as I walked on. Then, finally, I found myself on the other end.
This time around, however, I chose my stories carefully, making sure that none of them had father in them. I was afraid of being labelled as the girl without a father, the poor soul that was still in remembrance of him, even after all these years ’cause maybe she has never gotten better. Maybe, she was still there. I shut my father away from all my memories and continued to remember the sunny afternoons from a decade ago. Only, this time, the sun seemed a little cooler and the blanket, a little thinner. Discovering the artist in me taught me how to isolate my mind that remembers from all the naysayers that whispered in my head. And finally, after 8.5 years of his passing, my mind has healed itself and the sun is warmer again.
These thoughts were churned as I entered the give – away contest for Aanchal Malhotra’s book where I had to write about my favourite object. Among many tokens from the past, I immediately had my answer ready. Only the reason was that the act of writing about it told me. Here is what I wrote (and got the book! :D) –
It is quite difficult for me to pick one favourite object. I have many tokens of memory from many stories in the life that I have lived so far. There are bus tickets, shells and stones and even paper bags that tell stories from my past.
However, my favourite, that comes to mind right now, is a bundle of pages that together form the photocopy of a Thai cookbook. My father was a writer and reader and so am I and that, and a love for food and history was what was common between us. Well that, and curiosity about everything related to culture. From an afternoon when I was 13 years old and browsing through cookbooks since I had started experimenting with food, I remember picking up a Thai cookbook that taught the basics of Thai cuisine – tricks and tips and tools needed for these.
My frugal father’s response was a flat no. I remember being surprised at the no since no matter what, I was never denied a book. I have never bought anything much in life as opposed to books and for the first time, he said no. I didn’t protest because I believed that he saw reason in not buying it and internet had slowly come into our small town by then hence, he suggested we find these tricks on the web. I agreed and we moved on.
Within a week, as I headed towards my study table – my study and his table were in the same room – I find a black and white picture of the same Thai cookbook’s cover! It was a bundle of pages all tied together. I flipped through it and realised that he had found the book and taken a copy of it. I have changed 5 cities till now and it still is with me safe in a plastic folder with all my important documents.
I had lost him 5 years later and this book lives with me as a reminder of the millions of stories that he has taught me through his actions.
I write this post as a prelude to another which I shall write soon. The type of post that the sequel to this one is something that I have vehemently avoided for a while to avoid certain labels as a writer. However, certain things cannot be avoided and must not be silently witnessed.
I have started a Facebook page called Genderlise with a friend. The reason? No, we don’t aim to make it a forum for men bashing or any sort of hate propagation at all. From my frustrations with reality, I realised how privileged I am when it comes to fighting against any and every prejudice against my sex. I have met and observed many women and men who do not realise when prejudice and bias leaks into their random thoughts and actions.
Take for example a scene from a petrol pump. I had blogged about this one instance where I had bumped into a rather impatient man when refuelling my bike. The other day, I however, witnessed another sight. In the line of maybe 11-12 bikes queuing up to refuel, I saw one woman. Great sex ratio again! She was right in line after my bike until another impatient human barged in. I was assertive enough to not let him break the queue while she didn’t protest. Now, for a second, I did think that this is sexist, this guy is an asshole, in my head. Then, I brushed it away because I saw him try the tricks with another guy, who did not let him. What I observed however, was the anxiety of this other woman. She was preparing in advance by not switching off the engine,2 unlocking the seat, taking out her wallet and balancing herself on the edge to jump off ninja-like when the time comes. The thing that I realised was something along the lines of MLK’s quote that goes, “For evil to succeed, all it needs is for good (wo)men to do nothing.”
The fact that not only did this woman allow the impatient man to break the “queue code” but also, and more importantly, she didn’t seem to even consider that as an unfair act is where the root of the problem with acts of injustice and also the possible solution for the same lie. I couldn’t imagine myself allowing to be pushed over unless the person was genuinely in a rush for unavoidable reasons nor would I silently and rather calmly tolerate any injustice.
Wondering if the reason for my being perturbed by such things was my generic trait of impatience, I realised in one eureka moment that the problem was that I was aware. I had the knowledge and can think about such things and hence, I could see the wrong when it happened. The thing about that woman was that she wasn’t even aware. For her, perhaps, it was the way of the world and she maybe had to deal with it without inviting harm towards her. That made it all clear for me when thinking about how patriarchy pitches woman against woman. It usually is an unaware woman who would ensure curbing of agency for another woman, if she does. It isn’t that she becomes the enemy, she is simply playing by the book that she has been handed over, even when in situations she might not be the typical woman imagined by the same book.
As a conclusion to this post, I would end with this thought. Gender equality is what feminism fights for and that, in effect, are rights entitled to women as human beings. Hence, feminists demanding equal treatment isn’t something dictatorial or “totalitarian” in nature (read: feminazi). There isn’t anything unjust in demanding to be treated as humans without any prejudice. When thinking like that, without the labels of one’s sex or gender roles defining one’s identity, it then becomes crucial to identify that a) the awareness of the limitedness of traditional gender roles is highly variable across cultures, cities, even the same households and b) as people privileged enough to know more (if not necessarily, know better), it is important to communicate necessary thoughts and ideas keeping in mind the cognitive levels of your audience.
It could start with a family member, an elder, a friend or a young child. It is important to communicate ideals of equality, in manners best known to them.