Desicritics Category: Culture: Family

Ishq-Mohabbat-Pyaar-Vyaar: A Tribute to Filmy Love

Seema Dhindaw — Sun, 8 Mar 2009 03:42:39 EDT

Now that the controversies surrounding Valentine’s Day are in the past, I thought it would be fun to have a glimpse at the strange, comic and unusual things that love compels us to do. Catchy toe-tapping Bollywood tunes, the occasional romantic comedy, and sometimes corny poetic expressions have encouraged many of us to perform otherwise unthinkable, highly embarrassing acts of love. We can look back and laugh at spectacles that love or the illusion of it has inspired. The influence of the film industry, particularly Bollywood, hasn’t made matters any easier for those who have been pierced by Cupid’s arrow. In fact, many a times it is the sole culprit for implanting those bizarre and unrealistic ideas about love during those vulnerable, young growing years.

I grew up listening to Hindi film songs and religiously watched one Hindi movie a week with my family. When we were too young to know the implications of romance or love, my brother and I would act out the parts of hero and heroine, using trees at the park to play hide and seek which was followed by a high speed chase. We would eventually find ourselves running towards each other only to end the charade in a playful sibling fight instead of breaking into a song. When we didn’t know lyrics we would make them up. If we didn’t know the steps to a dance, we would choreograph our own crazy moves and our parents would watch sometimes in shock and at other times in dismay.

At home, it often felt like our parents were either villains in our lives or the stars of an ongoing Hrishikesh Mukherji film about complex marriages. When mom got upset over something, dad would sing and dance in a comical attempt to cheer her up. My brother and I would laugh in amusement, squeal in embarrassment or even play along. On Saturday mornings, mom made delicious parathas while melodious tunes played on the weekly Indian radio program. We anxiously counted the minutes, our eyes on the clock for the parathas and for the eagerly awaited weekly Namaste America television program that aired with previews of latest Bollywood movies, top ten songs and sometimes a special treat: an interview with one of the stars. Every week, I had a new crush depending on who was being interviewed and my brother had a new fight scene or dance move to play out. When Prabhudeva came on the screen we lost quite a few porcelain items. One of my first crushes was Salman Khan. I had a shirtless poster of his on the wall of my bedroom. That poster made a long journey with me from a small back alley in Rourkee, India and lived through my teen years in L.A. I remember my cousins hollering at me then for picking Salman over Shah Rukh. Today, if I make it back to Rourkee, I know for sure I will bring back a Shah Rukh poster instead. Tastes have changed.

In my teens, thoughts of how I would meet my knight in shining armor and what he would be like were always at the back of my mind. When I looked at Bollywood films for answers, the romances and love stories were fun and exciting, full of song and dance sequences, offering me hope but none or little practical advice. Hollywood portrayed a completely different perspective. Issues surrounding religion, career, premarital sex and race were at the forefront. Titanic, Father of the Bride, Sliding Doors, Sleepless in Seattle and many of Woody Allen’s films made things either too simple, fairytale-like or way too complex for me to grasp. Movies like Silsila, Lamhe and Chandni gave me hope that even if my soul mate was much older, married, missing after an accident or suffering from a predictable bout of amnesia, somehow miraculously and by defying every righteous principle, moral value and perhaps by way of nothing short of a miracle, he would end up being with me.

After watching Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, the prospect that I could have a guy best friend who would suddenly start to develop feelings for me years later when I grew my hair out, lost some weight and played basketball in a saree was extremely exciting. After a few years of shooting hoops, it didn’t take me long to realize that wasn’t happening. You’ve Got Mail offered hope of a promising fairytale romance which began after meeting a faceless stranger in an internet chat room. Thereafter began my brief and dangerous love affair with virtual chat rooms. I had my share of terrible experiences and realized that in the online world everything wasn’t as perfect or safe as the movies portrayed. As an adult, when I watch my nieces online, I feel a protective urgency come over me.

I slowly began to lose hope of finding my Prince Charming when one day I watched Dil to Pagal Hai. It suddenly all became crystal clear to me. Learning how to dance would lead me to the love of my life. I had to become just like Madhuri Dixit. A famous Kathak teacher was coming to Southern California for two months and taking her class was my only hope. I begged and pleaded with my parents. My dad made a few ill-timed jokes about California being earthquake prone and my mother politely suggested alternate hobbies that did not require much grace or rhythm. But they finally gave in to my childish whims and soon I was practicing tapping my feet to “tha thayi thayi” and undulating hand movements.

I observed in dismay that the Kathak classes were going too slow and I wondered if all this foot-tapping would break into a full-fledged dance any time soon. I figured I would have to be dancing to a song and not just these random beats in order for the love story to proceed smoothly. Nothing of the sort happened of course and the lessons were aborted within six months. I was left dolefully massaging the blisters on my soles.

After watching Maine Pyar Kiya, I turned to my amused parents and asked them if we had family friends that I could visit for a vacation in India. They did! And they even had a son. But as luck would have it, before my flight even took off, their beloved son had announced that he was in love with the girl next door and by then I wasn’t into love triangles any more. So I spent my vacation falling in love….with India and its people.

Recently, Hollywood, after years of criticizing the blatant escapism showcased by the Hindi film industry, finally caved and embraced the rags-to-riches, love story of Slumdog Millionaire. While controversies over the depiction of poverty in Slumdog continue, as an American, I was more taken by the moving story which spans several years and brings us a saga where tragedy, separation, loss and hardship, are all conquered by the one relentless pursuit of love. In India, love trumps all and I felt like this film captured that spirit.

I find consolation in knowing that I wasn’t alone in my filmi craze. Cousins, friends and siblings were also influenced by the love stories in the popular movies of the time. Unrealistic expectations and dreamy romantic ideas had infiltrated their minds as well. They too have sung in the shower, practiced pick up lines in front of a mirror and danced around the room in a towel like Kajol. I remember watching as my cousins practiced the famous pose of Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic, standing on the edge of a balcony above a sea of busy city traffic amidst the beautiful symphony of random honks. Much to my delight, on one trip to India, I helped a cousin plan many a secret rendezvous with her lover. Objections of their being together by their parents didn’t stop them from eventually eloping. The rage and tragic aftermath they faced from their families caused them much grief but their ambitious first steps together set off a trend in the family. Five other elopements followed in quick succesion within the next three years. Inter-cultural, inter-religious and inter-racial marriages were becoming more common. Old barriers fell away over the years. Thanks to inspiration from the popular films of the time, stale prejudices began to dissolve, bringing together soul mates across these divisive lines.

So all in all, these filmi influences have had the power to unite, bring positive change and offer hope to all of us who wait patiently to find that one true love. In addition to the cute, comic and sometimes foolish things that films have inspired all of us to do without their influence, life, both in love and looking for love, would not be as much fun.

Lonely at Sixty

Shantanu Dutta — Sat, 7 Mar 2009 10:01:12 EST

A couple of days ago, I opened up the newspaper to read that an elderly couple living in an upper middle class locality had committed suicide suddenly. There was no ostensible reason for this, but the newspaper reported that they were desperately lonely and a point came when they felt that they could not endure it any longer. They had several children; their youngest lived with them, but the others; married and with families of their own lived within a couple of hundred miles away from Delhi.

This one of course was not the first suicide occurring among the elderly in Delhi, and neither will it be the last. Although the government in Delhi has tried to be responsive to the needs of him elderly in much way – it has a helpline for access by senior citizens, increased policing, free medical aid, bus travel and what not. But all the help that government and civil society organizations can and do provide does not alleviate the pain of loneliness and abandonment that our senior citizens go through.

But this is not just a Delhi thing, though this could well be an urban thing. Last year, BBC had covered the story of Laxmibai Laxmidas Paleja in Mumbai, whose grandson and daughter in law were abusing her and speaks of Laxmi bai’s hapless condition “"I'm old. I couldn't defend myself. I was bleeding all over. I've got bruises all over my body. Then they just bundled me in a car and dumped me here at my daughter's house."

There has been a steady rise recently in reports of cases of elderly being abused, harassed and abandoned in India and it does not need the BBC to tell us that Joint family systems - where three or more generations lived under one roof - were a strong support network for the elderly and they have more or less disappeared – at least in the cities.

But more children are now leaving their parental homes to set up their own. Sociologists say the pressures of modern life and the more individualistic aspirations of the young are among reasons why the elderly are being abandoned or, in some cases, abused.

Delhi University professor Kum Kum Srivastava makes a telling comment when she says that "I think this a child-oriented society, not a parent-oriented one anymore." Meanwhile, demographically, India is getting younger as a nation and the problems and aspirations of the youth alone are increasingly getting centre stage. But even so, India has more 60m men and women older than 65 and the problems of the elderly are multiplying, and with societal trends going the way they are, the problems of the elderly are likely to get more and more sidelined.

Although organizations like Helpage have long been around, typically NGOs and other organizations have a bias towards the poor and the marginalized. This is a bit irrelevant hee considering that many of the emotional deprivation that the elderly suffer are likely to more accentuated in the isolation that upper or middle class living brings. Despite there being a National Policy on Older Persons and several schemes for the physical welfare of our senior citizens, the emotional gap and loneliness is a need that looks set to grow at a much faster pace than can typically be met.

A Journey That Continues

Kishore — Thu, 5 Mar 2009 13:04:24 EST

He was a nice looking gentleman wearing an oversize coat and thick mufflers around his neck, who acceded to taking a picture of me and V standing on the edge of Dolphin’s Nose. “So where are you from?” he asked me handing over the camera to V. “I... Er... I’m from...”, I fumbled. V did better. She smiled, as she secured the camera into its case.

It was an incredible moment in our lives. A moment when we realized, we didn’t have an answer to the most rudimentary question of existence – “Where are you from?” Well, let me see. We have moved three cities in two countries in four months, have our belongings lying in five cities across the two countries and have no idea where we would be four weeks from this minute.

Things weren’t supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be happy days ahead. Family, elders and all that, you know? A fairy tale of the prince and princess living happily ever after. It sure was a fairy tale of sorts, until the day we called bitter-gourd bitter. Ever wondered calling bitter-gourd bitter could bring you trouble for the rest of your life?

Many months after that ignominious moment of getting reprimanded for stating the obvious, troubles continued. “Elementary my dear Watson.”, a well wisher suggested, “Everyone has troubles. Just deal with it.” Deal with it, huh? At what price? A few hundred dollars of happiness would do? Heard they started selling that thing in Wal-mart these days. So I could’ve helped myself, you know, with a few capsules whenever there was trouble.

We are dealing with it alright. But not like the Goody two shoes that we used to be. Although no one knows it that way. Life is simple. People are not. They are high on illusion or hung over on reality. So much so that any attempts at talking them out of their ridiculous assumptions or psychic outbursts only falls into deaf years. We became weary of our condemned routine and decided to find our own way.

We are on the move, although no one knows the real reasons of what we are doing or where we are moving. "Family" thinks we are happy. The indicators are there – we travel, we do the vacations, we shop, we laugh, what else one needs to know if someone is actually happy? For them, we are the good kids who do a lot of traveling on business. To ourselves, we are lost rowing in a sea without a compass and the shore is nowhere in sight.

May be we could still have waited for more time, until the day when the deaf ears would open up. May be, if we could’ve drugged ourselves with a few capsules of Solvomycin from Wal-mart, everything would’ve been solved and life would’ve been back to being a fairy tale. Life is a honey moon. Except that the honey doesn’t taste good at some times, and the moon is hidden by clouds at other times.

“Deal with it, kid”, an elder told me. “It’s the same with everyone”, a veteran confided. “You can’t run away from troubles. You’ll have to come back to it someday”, told a peer. I agree with everyone. Except that they are not me, and they haven’t seen what I’ve seen. But how do you tell the world you don’t bother about it anymore? I guess you just don’t. And that’s what we’ve done. Kept quiet, and moved. “Cheeky, but you did the right thing”, a friend smiled when he heard our story, “Life finds a way”.

We’ve set out to do what we think is our pursuit of happiness. We are moving places, driving in near-zero visibility. We don’t know where our next turn is, or how long until we stop again. We don’t know if we’ll run out of gas, or reach our hitherto unknown destination soon enough. We don’t know if we are alone, or there are other cars beside us. But we do know that we’ll keep driving.

Beyond Love

Kavita Chhibber — Mon, 2 Mar 2009 09:42:51 EST

My life has been a sonata of myriad colors and memories, the notes filled with resonance and beauty, and the emotion that fills me, is so far beyond just love. When I invited people to go beyond romantic love and honor special moments and special people for my emag last month, no matter how fleeting their presence in our lives I wondered if a special day was enough capture a few of those gems from the story of my life; a life so interlinked with that of so many loving souls? And yet every moment-is as good a time to recognize some of those special people and special moments.

They were both so distinctly different. One the diplomat, the patient one, the other blunt, hot headed and dominant. And they both left a lasting imprint on my heart, my mind, my intellect-and my soul.

Can I capture again, in the palm of my hand, their faces, the lines deepening not just with laughter, but the years that gently embraced them. Those lines that recreated the past, the present and the future for me.

Can I again stop and remember, believing that the memories that come flooding back won’t find a reason to escape through the tears in my eyes?

They were not famous, and yet celebrating their lives today makes me realize the immeasurable wealth they poured into mine-years of unconditional love, of laughter, creating a world of magical stories, transporting me to worlds I never knew existed.

Savitri and Saraswati-my two grandmothers. They taught me so much about sacrifice, generosity of heart, immeasurable patience, their pride in being women of substance. One faced adversities at a young age, and raised six sons single handedly, in a way that would put many authorities on child rearing to shame. What Saraswati, my paternal grand mother, a young widow, brought to the table was, to never let her sons forget to always be proud of themselves, to remember that they were lesser to none, and that the true measure of their worth would be only when they stood in front of the mirror and liked what they saw. She taught them to be honorable, upright, disciplined, to not take injustice either for themselves or others lying down, and to give everything their best shot, Above all, she taught her six sons to love each other more than anything else-and they do-to this day. There were days when she and her sons lived in a one room tenement after partition of India and Pakistan surviving on barley soup for days.

My grandmother, lived to see all of her sons excel and do well. Two of her sons became military generals; one the Governor of the State she lived in for the longest time. For her the wheel came a full circle when that son, the youngest child, came to the same spot where he sat so many years ago, as a little boy on a steel trunk outside a refugee camp not knowing what his fate would be-to cut a ribbon as the Governor of that very State and it was her picture that the major newspaper chose to splash across its front page. She lived to be a 104, lucid and alert and engaged in everything around her till the end.

Savitri, my maternal grandmother, was born in the lap of luxury, married a man who was brilliant and well to do but became a young widow like the other one. She was the greatest influence in my life. I spent all my summer vacations with her and when my father, a military man stayed away in remote areas, where his family could not be with him, my mom would come and stay with her. From her, I learnt to love books, from her I learnt to sing hymns, and pray to her favorite Gods. She loved Rama because to her he epitomized the perfect man. She frowned on Krishna, calling him a playboy. There was not a single picture of him in our house, though funnily she named one of her son Krishna and none Rama! Go figure.

She taught me to be proud of myself in a country that considered women second rate citizens. She was fearless, independent, hot headed and incredibly well read and sharp. She refused to live with any of her sons, preferring her own family home, where two of her sons decided to come and live with her. Every night, she would tell me stories from Indian mythology, go watch Bollywood films with me that she didn’t like much, encourage me to read as many books as I could and told me I was her most special grandchild. I still remember how she would come running out, her long hair flowing on her back, when we would come to visit and spend our summer vacations in her home to give me the biggest hug. I remember the nights she stayed up scratching my back when I had measles and chicken pox and was itchy all over. I remember the fragrance of the many jasmine plants that enveloped us as we all pulled our beds outside on her huge lawn and all the grandkids slept around her as she regaled us with stories under a full moon.

She died when she was only 62 and I a young teenager, who wasn’t told about her death for days until after she was cremated. Years have passed and I still don’t have closure. I miss them both to this day and I hope some day I will be as cool a grandmother as they were.

My hero has always been my dad. I strive to be as classy, as smart, as honorable, and as giving as him-and I wish I was half as good looking, but I fall short by miles. Almost all my memories of my father are either of him spoiling me or of telling amazing stories to us, as my sister and I lay next to him completely riveted. Little did we know he would make them up on the spot. He is a man of few words, but each word has its weight in gold. He is one of the most perceptive, far sighted people I know. He has always been right about everything and while mom and I and others have grumbled when he has put his foot down about something, we have had to eat humble pie soon after because he was right-yet again!

Strangely all my memories of my father, a tough military man are that of being Mr. Mom. If I was sick, it was dad who stayed up all night and took my temperature, paced the floor till the fever broke, took time off from work, to play board games or cards with me, while mom was much more relaxed. He has such tremendous respect for women because his biggest role model was his mother and as a result he pampered my mother to the hilt as well, nurturing her talents and finding something to appreciate even in her flaws. And he is a tough act to follow.

My mom was and is a spoilt brat! She is the youngest of six siblings, so her dad spoilt her and then did her older brothers and sisters. She then got married into a family of six boys and my dad spoilt her. She does what she wants but has supported my dad and his going overboard with helping others, giving both time and money ( even when there wasn’t enough for us, and mom had to go to work), with resigned disbelief at times, with pride at others;, but even when they disagree they kinda like each other. Theirs is one of the best marriages that I have seen and I find it funny how when they complain about each other they start laughing and then forget what it was.

All my brothers and sisters, are incredibly special people. They have protected me, encouraged me, and watched over me. They have appreciated my achievements and lifted me up when I was down, but letting me make my own mistakes. I realized how lucky I was much later when I saw even siblings by blood squabbling over property and money, with envy and jealousy rearing their ugly head. I always go home to my amazing family and extended family, and they put everything on the back burner to create a magical world of incessant laughter, amazing food, endless love, filling my suitcases with generous gifts till they creak at the seams.

With the exception of one amazing woman, Anees Jung, an amazing writer and human being- all my mentors have been outstanding men, starting with my brother Parvez. The rest have adopted me as their daughter, or kid sister, or close friend, showed me the way to excel and opened doors for me to walk in and prove myself and taken immense pride when I delivered without any expectations, that I would live up to the potential they saw in me and wanted to nurture.

Most of the celebrities I have interviewed through the years have been very generous with their time, and sharing of themselves. Many have become close friends, and I have been inspired by their achievements, touched by their humility and their continued affection whenever we meet or interact.
But its some of the people like you and me, who I have interviewed, who have taught me some amazing lessons. That would be mean many blogs in the future.

My close friends have been there for me for more than 2 decades and more. I’m still in touch with many who I have known since I was a toddler. They have been there with me through the best of times and the worst of times and the one thing that has been constant is their constancy. They know who they are and they know I cherish everyone of them.

I wrote this earlier, but I think it’s the greatest truth in my life and so I will say this again in the end.

Every experience in my life has taught me something. The good ones that there are so many miracles at every step, and so much goodness all around-and that it’s not just a matter of perception.

The bad ones have taught me that it is all a matter of perception. People are never bad, its circumstances, their own insecurities and issues that make them react in a negative way. I have never seen a happy person act mean or unkind.

My work transports me to a world that changes on a daily basis and I learn something new every single day. And I have met innumerable people that have inspired me and amazed me. I have learned that the human spirit at its best, can soar to heights you cannot even begin to imagine. It has taught me that the possibilities remain endless.
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BBB Inc. - With Bare Hands If Necessary

temporal — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 07:33:38 EST

Rehan Ansari's lament is passionately articulated. It exposes the growing sub-continental fault line. He writes about the subversive elements, the interest groups, the politicians, leaders and government honchos who may not be in collusion but who certainly appear to favour lack of detente:

Partition has resulted in nationalism, borders, and visa regimes that make sure that people know even less about each other. As a result, they are more likely to be taken for a ride by the agendas of lashkars , fascists, and the realpolitik of Islamabad and New Delhi. A United India – or even an India and Pakistan that were friendly states, much like contemporary France and Germany – would never have been vulnerable to an American agenda of jihad in Afghanistan and Pakistan against the Soviets. Better relations would also have negated this ‘problem’ of Kashmir.

On those (now increasingly rare) occasions, when individuals and groups from one country visit the other, they invariably follow up with glowing praises. They discover the commonness ignored by the government and media in their respective countries. They instinctively discover the common ground and find the warmth and friendliness in the other not revealed and expressed openly in their home country.

And this causes dismay and consternation in the groups and lobbies in both India and Pakistan who want the enmity, suspicion and hostility maintained. That such efforts are nudged and aided from other powers in the region and the world can be argued another time.

While the extremist fringes in India and Pakistan can be identified, there are many others that are harder to identify. But their maneuverings are easily discernible. It is good for business - their business. Hatred, intolerance and suspicion must be kept brewing. Peace and amity must be kept at bay.

BBB

These three have a common interest to ferment and instigate the chasm between India and Pakistan:

Big Business: They see profit big ticket defense expenditure. Peace is bad business. If only they realise that peace has its own dividends, and can add more to their bottom line than selling instruments of death and destruction.

Big Beards: The religious fringe do not want amity and friendship between people. Bad for their business - these Babas in green and saffron revel in hatred and enmity.

Bureaucratic Babus: The bureaucrats have lost their sheen and magic and are now in cahoots with big business and MNCs.

The irony is each one of these three think of the other two as their puppets.

Each time the two countries try to come close by, a force generated by the BBB Inc. pulls them away. The past sixty years are rife with such examples. Three generations have grown apart. The unstated goal of nourishing and maintaining a wall of suspicion, enmity and intolerance towards each other is growing taller, wider and deeper.

In India, amidst a plethora of cable TV channels available, there is no Pakistani channel available for subscribers. Likewise, in Pakistan there is a ban on Indian channels, naach-gaana channels are surreptitiously allowed though.

What is good for BBB Inc. is bad business for the majority of middle classes on both sides of the divide. And it is not only middle class that suffers as Rehan argues, but the common person is victimised too.

Barring past six decades, for centuries they drank the water from the same well, participated in each others religious and cultural celebrations, fought against the colonizers and invaders.

This wall is an artificial construct that needs to be brought down - with bare hands if necessary - one brick at a time.

POGO, Kellogg's Special K, and Body Image Issues

Deepti Lamba — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 14:11:46 EST

Yesterday just as we sat down at Coffee Day my seven year old eyed me and told me with twinkling eyes "Ma, You are fat." I gasped for breath. I asked him where he had heard about fat. He shook his head and gave me his usual - Don't know and dug into his Black Forest Cake.

I wasn't about to give him an explanation about fitting into a size 12 jeans after 4 months of rigorous work outs or that giving birth to him, his sister and taking care of them had made me 'fat'. I wasn't going down the defensive mode with a 7 year old child.

I was more interested in knowing where he had come across the concept of body image. And it didn't take me long. Today while the kids watched toons on POGO the Special K ad rolled in. And before my horrified eyes I heard a small girl talking about her mom looking like Aishwarya Rai and her mom laughed and said she had lost two kilos by being on Special K. The little angel ranted about her mom looking the prettiest in the school and my mouth hung open.

What kind of shit was this? I looked at my son and then back at the TV. It was bad enough that cable channels were feeding shit to our kids about junk food but now we had cereals sneaking in body image neurosis to our underage children.

Where is the protest from parents about these sorts of ads? Maybe its time Kellogg's was taken to court for propagating unhealthy habits to our kids. Can you imagine a kid asking just for sugary cereals for 2 meals to be skinny?

Anyone who has tasted Special K would tell you that its like sugary wood shavings. And to be on a cereal diet is the worst thing one can do to their body. Eating right and exercising is the best way to leading a healthy life.

Once the ad finished I spoke to my son and told him that not everything that is seen on TV is the truth. And that having a fat or skinny mother doesn't make the child happy, what makes a child happy is having a mommy who loves him.

And that if I ever heard him say those words to anyone I would personally come and teach him the meaning of respect.

He looked at me with big saucer eyes and asked 'Why?"

I replied that it was the meanest and most hurtful thing to say and he wasn't a mean boy.

His mind switched gears when he realized his mother was done lecturing and asked if he could go out and play. I nodded absentmindedly, still upset about the kind of bogeymen we were letting into our homes via kiddie channels.

The Most Important Moment of My Life

Anurag Dixit — Wed, 18 Feb 2009 12:53:06 EST

In the year 1994...No, that's not working. Once upon a time in India an angel of hope was born. It was 1994 and all the clouds of despair went away, leaving behind the winds of happiness. It was the year of Prime Minister P.V. Narasimha Rao and Mr. Manmohan Singh, who, in future would be the Prime Minister of India was the Finance Minister. On the republic day of the year, India launched Prithvi missile successfully, for which Dr. Kalam(who, in future, would be the president of India) had been working for a long time, India signed North American Free Trade Agreement and on 25th of January, Bill Clinton, the then president of U.S.A., delivered his first State of the Union address calling for healthcare reform and a ban on assault weapons, and the most wonderful thing happened to me.

It was the month of June and the city was heating like an oven. My mother had had three lines on her forehead for almost all the month, she usually had (and still has) those lines on serious occasions, the size of her tummy grew and I was told that there was a baby in her tummy. I wondered what was the baby doing in her tummy and sometimes I wondered how many babies Mr. Bhushan and Mr. Sharma must be having because of the very big size of their tummies. I always thought why women went to the hospitals, when any family had a new baby? My grandmother was living with us those days, and we had to eat the food made by her only which was not easy for me so my summer vacations were being affected and we couldn't even go fro our routine outings.

On this day, daddy went to work as usual; grandma (who I call naany) was a little worried due to mom's illness. Me and my sister were playing and trying not to get bored. Suddenly I noticed some uneasiness on my mom's face.

"Ammy, do you need some water?" I inquired, offering water to mom. She was looking tired and she asked me to call grandma, I called her and after that I could not understand their talk but I knew something was wrong or something big was to happen. Grandma called and he came very fast. Now everybody, except me and my sister, had those lines on their foreheads. Grandma and daddy were taking mom somewhere.

"Daddy, what happened? Where are you going?" I asked holding his finger. He looked at me very seriously, the way he used to look at me before my exams.
"Listen beta, you have to take care of your little sister today. We have to take your mom to the hospital, she is ill. You are the eldest person now so don't tease your kid sister." He said, putting his hands on my shoulders.

"Daddy, I want to come with you and mommy."

"It can't happen. Try to understand."

"Please daddy." I said, and now those lines were on my forehead too.

"Hmmm..." He thought for some moments and said "OK, but you have to be a good boy and take care of your sister there."

"Yes, I will." I hastened and smiled.

All of us went to the hospital quickly, mom was feeling very uneasy and on the way told daddy to call Dr. Nirmala as soon as we reached. My sister started crying, like always, and I was trying to convince her & divert her mind.

When we reached the hospital, dad called Dr. Nirmala and mom was taken into a room where we were not allowed to go. Daddy was tensed and was walking here and there, I was still talking about stupid things to my sister, grandma was praying and suddenly a doctor came to daddy and said "Mr. Dixit, we need your signature on this form for the operation."

"Is everything all right?" Dad asked with a lot of tension on his face.

"Yes Mr. Dixit, everything is fine and if there is something, we are here for that only. You please fill the form so that we can start the procedure soon."

Daddy completed all the formalities and the doctor went again, grandma was still praying and now I didn't have to convince my sister because she was also watching everything silently like me.

Finally it happened. At Dr. Nirmala's nursing home, before the stroke of midnight, my little sister took her first breath in this world and clocks opened their arms to welcome the most beautiful girl of my life. The doctors came out of the room and told daddy that he, now, had a lovely daughter and she was very week to survive so we had to take extra care of her, grandma stopped praying and went to mommy, daddy came to us and told us that we had a little sister . My sister was happy because of the fact that she, now, had somebody younger than her.

The very next day I was allowed to meet mom. Grandma was in the hospital, daddy and I went to take some clothes and milk when we returned, and mum was awake but could not sit. I was scared because of mom's condition and then...huh then the moment came, they put her in my lap, she was covered with clothes and I was seeing and feeling the most wonderful thing of my life. It was so gorgeous; I had life in my hands, god, nature itself in my own hands. The feeling is unexplainable; I had butterflies in my stomach. That was the moment I first experienced life in my hands, I first felt responsible and I didn't want to leave her. Everything else just stopped and my sweet little sister, who shares her birth year with our country's powerful missile and Dr. Kalam's baby: Prithvi, was with me.

You Cannot Adopt, You Are Too Fat

Dr Bhaskar Dasgupta — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 12:34:54 EST

One of the things which I deeply regret in my life (and there aren't many of those, I promise), is the fact that I was not able to adopt here in the UK, and all because of those interfering busybodies in the social services. The range of exclusions and factors were very bizarre. You are a Hindu so you cannot adopt a Christian or Muslim baby! You already have a child so its not fair on others. You are of a brown race so you cannot adopt a white child or a black one and so on and so forth. Thank god they didn't say that I was too fat or too tall.

I can only tell you anecdotal evidence that the number of Asian foster and adoptive parents are significantly lower than white parents. While I can understand and know about cultural and religious factors (such as purity of bloodline, casteism, Islamic reasons and the lot), still, when one does want to adopt, they find it very difficult.

I am still furious about this situation. And that's something that really gets me going every time I read about this. These bloody awful social services people are simply too interfering. They actively force kids into fostering and force them into a horrible situation of not having loving parents. These people are seriously well meaning, but as they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

But hold on, the social services did say this to this couple.

The letter the couple were sent by Leeds City Council, signed by a team manager and seen by the BBC said: "I am writing to confirm that we are unable to progress an application from you at this time.

"This is due to the concerns that the medical advisers have expressed regarding Mr Hall's weight.

"I have discussed this with our medical adviser... who considers that it is important to alter lifestyle, diet and exercise in a sustainable way so that any weight reduction can be maintained in the long term.

It went on: "I understand that you would like to begin the assessment as soon as possible and while appreciating your reasons for this, I consider it would be more appropriate to begin the assessment once Mr Hall's BMI is below 40."

What on earth is this? This is bureaucracy gone mad. Who gives them the right to play god and prevent a child from having a good family home? Where is it written that fat people are not good parents? Both my parents have had pot bellies and look what I turned out to be (perhaps this is not such a good example…), but all joking aside, this is ridiculous.

While they will take decisive action on stopping kids from being adopted, they dither such as in the case of Victoria Climbié or Baby P. Makes me want to weep for the missed opportunities for the poor babies. Also see this brilliant take on this story.

Then comes news of the fact that a foster parent has been struck off the rolls just because a girl in her care has converted to Christianity. What did the council say?

But council officials allegedly accused her of failing to ‘respect and preserve’ the child’s faith and tried to persuade the girl to reconsider her decision.

So these council officials can literally be prosecuted (and will be, as I understand) for violating the fundamental rights of both the mother and the child. More I read about this and the more upset I get.

They said that she should have undergone counselling to ensure that she understood the implications, especially as such conversions are dealt with harshly in some Muslim countries. In April, council officials told the girl that she should not attend any church activity for six months, so that she could reconsider the wisdom of becoming a Christian. The carer was also instructed to discourage the girl from participating in any Christian activities, even social events. The council then told the carer there had been a breakdown of trust and in November removed her from the register.

Just because some countries have medieval and frankly stupid views on conversion (like India and many Muslim countries) does not mean that I am happy to let the UK also be ruled (in howsoever small a way in a council) by those intellectually vapid theories. Makes one’s blood boil to read about the social service care.

Then you read this interview of Sharon Shoesmith trying to excuse herself. Yes, there was a witch-hunt, but no hint of an apology. This is fast becoming the face of officialdom. Nothing, nobody is to blame, but yet, a baby has been tortured to death, the mother/father/lodger in prison, some people have been fired, but what is happening? Then this woman has the effrontery to try to defend against what the inspectors said

The inspectors' report into her department criticised everything from insufficient supervision by senior management to poor record-keeping and a failure to identify children at immediate risk of harm.

I know they are doing a good job under trying circumstances, but by God, some of these lot are hideously incompetent and by and large, the entire social services department is full of some very strange principles.

And at end of the day, there is an orphaned baby and two loving adoptive/foster parents who are not together. A tiny tragedy in the great wash of humanity, frequently overlooked in the big news about Israel-Palestine wars or the great Credit Crunch issue.

Technorati Tags: Welfare, United Kingdom

My Funny Valentine - Sweet Comic Valentine

Aditi Nadkarni — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 00:22:52 EST

There is something to be said about friends. I mean, they give us their all without expectation. At least mine do. I have friends who will listen to me yap about everything from completely transitory issues such as missing periods or acne to permanent problems that I suddenly have become aware of such as world peace and intolerance. They will never tell me that I am boring them and will loyally stifle yawns. None of them expect rings or a gift, much less a flower bouquet.

They will be completely fine if I don't call them for Valentine's Day or might even be slightly embarrassed if I do. I can just imagine my friend whisper a quick "Hmm, wish you the same but are you trying to murder my love life?" when I scream "Happy Valentine's Day!" through telephone lines while he is trying to chat up a cute girl who having heard my loud Valentine's Day wishes walked away quickly excusing herself.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love them dearly but my family can drive me nuts because, lets face it, that is their job. A year before turning thirty, I have come to accept that as a woman I will forever disappoint my mother. That's it. I feel better just having made that admission. Let me elaborate. My dad once told me of a doctor in his locality who they later discovered was somewhat of a quack. No matter what ailment one brought to Dr.Kamat, he would immediately ask them to stop drinking tea.

"But doctor I don't drink tea" the patient would sometimes respond.

"Ok so don't drink coffee" Dr.Kamat would tell him distractedly, filling out a generic prescription that everybody received unless they were having a heart attack in which case, Dr.Kamat's drunk compounder quickly shoved them into a taxi and sent them to the nearest hospital.

"Umm I don't drink coffee either doctor" the patient would tell him, hoping this information would give Dr.Kamat some brilliant insight into what was causing his affliction.

"You must drink something no....juice, cola, something. Stop drinking that" Dr.Kamat would snap at the confused patient. The poor man would nod and walk away with his prescription wondering why drinking his wife's nimbu sharbat had resulted in such a terrible case of butt-acne.

My mother is like Dr. Kamat.

"Are you drinking enough water?" she will ask without occasion

"Yes mom, I am drinking water all the friggin time" I respond in my high-pitched whiny "talkin-to-mom" voice

"Maybe you shouldn't drink too much water. You should drink a bit less. Too much water is also probably not good" she'll say.

"What's with your skin? Are you going out too much in the sun?" she'll comment, putting on her glasses, her keen stare making me squirm

"I rarely go out. I am always in the office or in lab. What are you talking about?" I answer with a shrug, rubbing my cheeks and forehead as if hoping for the tan to come off.

"Maybe that's what it is. If you stay cooped up at home, you don't get enough sun. You need some sunlight." And so on.

So basically no matter what I say, I'm screwed.

My dad is mostly neutral. But sometimes his neutrality is like that of Aishwarya Rai's where you just want to scream "Dude, say something!"

He once read my short story and I sat waiting in front of him, with baited breath to hear some feedback. He finished reading, took his glasses off and got up. I thought maybe he would walk over to me and pat my back. No such thing happened. I followed him inside until he walked into the bathroom. I stood outside only to hear him fart. That was my feedback.

Lets not even talk about extended family. They care so much for you that they have decidedly compartmentalized your life and now have inquiry committees set up for each section. Reproductivity, weight and marital status make up the three big departments and by the end of this concerned scrutiny, you are half the person you once were.

So that leaves us with friends. And it leaves our friends with this beaten down version of us, to deal with our woes, to lift our trampled self-esteem, to assuage our tested patience and soothe our hurt feelings.

Last year, I had to have surgery and just before they wheeled me into the OR, my friend's face loomed over my bed. She held a cell phone in her hand and was taking a picture.

"OMG, what are you doing?" I asked her, nervous in the anticipation of my first surgery ever, my face pink in embarrassment.

"Smile" she said loudly, as doctors and nurses looked on wondering whether or not to tell her that this was not allowed.

"Come on...just one picture, you look hot in that surgery robe and the blue cap" she told me as I smiled into the cell phone feeling like a complete moron.

When I woke up several hours later and suddenly threw up she was already holding the vomit-pan as if waiting for the puke to fly.

"Oh yeah baby!" she said victoriously as if she had caught a frisbee in the pan, "the doctor said you'd be nauseous from the anesthesia" she told me when I looked up confused wondering how she had managed to just be ready for such an unwarranted bout.

Men make amazing friends. They believe that disagreements or fights end when the phone call comes to an end. Can you imagine? One day we have a heated argument and so during the next conversation I try acting all aloof hoping he'll get the hint and apologize. He just chuckles and chortles while telling me about this colleague who was caught looking at some weird porn at work. A few minutes later, I sheepishly realize that he has completely forgotten about any fight whatsoever and even wonder if I had imagined the whole heated argument we'd had two days ago. Now I am starting to get the hang of it. This attitude keeps the friendship child-like and therefore stress-free.

A few years ago I received a V's Day card from a friend. I was surprised. He hated mushy V's day crap and had told me so, many times. I opened the e-card at work and a big blue cloud turned into a pink heart and floated around. And just as I wondered what the hell had happened to my perfectly wry friend, the large pink-heart balloon turned into a humongous, burly, pink, dimpled ass and whats more, it loudly farted. This time I turned pink and wanted to float away as colleagues looked on when the audible offensive rip came from the general direction of my desk area.

In his personalized note he wrote: "Had to show you this hilarious card. I knew you'd laugh". I did.

My roommate and I are the best of friends. I am a Harry Potter fan. She is not. One night, I read late into the night and wept when at roughly 3 am, I found out that Professor Dumbledore had died. That poor, poor, dear old man with his soft beard, I thought, crying into my pillow. I can get weird like that. I will have pent up sorrow that will suddenly be unleashed by stray occurrences, ranging from watching tragic films to hearing Talat Mehmood's ghazals. Anyways, so my roommate heard me weep and came over worried, her sleepy eyes trying to focus on my face in the dark.

"Whats the matter, why are you crying?" she asked me, blinking rapidly, her voice hoarse and heavy with sleep.

"Professor Dumbledore died" I told her mumbling. I don't know what she heard but she immediately put her arms around me

"Aww, how did he die....I'm so sorry to hear that" she cooed

"I don't know" I wept. I probably had been repressing some weird grief that Dumbledore's death had now released.

"Was it an accident? How did the professor die?" she asked her face a picture of concern

"No, that asshole murdered him" I told her as she brought me tissues and wiped my face.

"with his wand" I added, my lip still quivering and she frowned.

"Murder! With his wand? Wait, did you say wand? Wand?!" she stammered, her eyebrows knitted in confusion

"Yeah you know he used this curse and..."

"Which professor is this again? This isn't the professor who taught you Maths who you adored?" she asked, rubbing her eyes, her lips pursed, now fully awake and suddenly having spotted the Harry Potter book on my bed.

When she found out that she had been helping me mourn the death of a character, from a Harry Potter book, she could have fumed, rolled her eyes and walked away, back to bed.

"You are such a drama queen!" she could have told me and dismissed me. I expected her to do that.

Instead she sighed and sat down beside me.

"Don't worry. It's not the last book. He'll come back in the next one...just watch" she told me, with a grave philosophical expression, tucking me in and giving me hope. Professor Dumbledore's death had most likely just been a trigger for some other anguish I had suppressed and even though it found vent in the most odd fashion, she was still there for me.

Two of my very best friends are guys. I have known them since I was a tomboyish teenager. They are quintessential men who love sports, cars and beer. But for my sake, they spent a whole day at Butterfly World in Florida just because it made me happy and I had been feeling low. They had probably wanted to go the beach and watch beautiful, tanned bikini-clad beauties. Instead, they stood patiently in Butterfly World, their hands in their pockets, with tight, uncomfortable smiles, while I clicked pictures and annoying little kids ran around everywhere screaming. They tried very hard to not swat the pretty butterflies that settled down sometimes on their shoulders and hair and even gave me enthusiastic nods and a thumbs-up when I fed two parakeets on my palm.

"Please do not show these pictures to other people" they told me quietly, as we left Butterfly World and headed straight to a sports bar where macho-ism can be painlessly revived.

When I finish a good book, I call them. When I am depressed, I call them and I later find out that they had walked out of a movie theater to talk me out of my blues. When I see a great movie, I talk them into watching it and argue with them when they tell me they hated it. St.Valentine has blessed the celebration of love with his name. Similarly, Plato has blessed friendships between the genders with his name but nobody seems too keen on celebrating Plato's Day. Maybe my post will start a new wave for Plato's Day and annoy those angry Senas even more.

Sadly, in case of Platonic friendships, sometimes I feel like I am on this long wait until the guy's wife comes into his life one day and refuses to see how this friendship of his could be "proper". I spend my days fearing that one day, my best friend will turn into somebody's husband, that one day his wife will claim that him and I are just too close for her comfort. It scares me that this one whim might decide the future of a friendship that I have cherished since I was a teenager. These people are the only witnesses who knew the original me. They knew the person before the cynicism of age and experience set in and they heard the laughter that grew inhibited with every passing year. I once told one of them about this recurring nightmare where he and his wife meet me at the mall years later and he refuses to acknowledge me because she might get offended. At the end of my narration, I waited for his reaction. I waited for him to tell me that I was panicking for no reason and this it was a thoroughly stupid paranoia. And instead he giggled.

"Was she hot...my wife in your nightmare?" he asked me cackling at his own joke as I groaned and protested his ill-timed humor. I was secretly glad that he had made light of the situation; how else could I have ever laughed in the face of such credible fear.

Come to think of it, it is even harder for two girls to stay friends through all the numerous life changes. Two women who are such good friends that they are more than sisters, in the United States, are either pronounced gay or are Gayle...and Oprah.

Marriages, romance, children, jobs, geography and in the face of all the chaos, change and exhaustion is the steady, scaffold, the pillar of a good strong friendship that keeps us all going. So I have decided that I won't wait for Friendship Day to come along and pass by unnoticed. This Valentine's Day, I raise a toast and a cupcake with pink frosting to the ones that keep me sane through all the insanity and yet manage to bring in ample craziness when things get more serious than they should. This Valentine's Day I celebrate this one love that hardly ever gets celebrated and the deep affection we have for the unsung heroes of our busy lives.

Here's to you, my friend, my funny, crazy Valentine.

Valentine's Day 2006

smallsquirrel — Thu, 12 Feb 2009 15:49:35 EST

I knew it wasn't going to be easy. In fact, I was terrified in a way that I had never felt before. I was all dressed up in my brand new salwaar suit, hair neatly pulled back into a clip, with barely a shred of makeup on my face. My fiance was recounting the plot of some Bollywood film he'd seen years ago just so he could keep himself from thinking. I was staring out the window looking at the shops with my thoughts flying past and then coming to a dead halt. This could be the beginning of my new life, or it could be a colossal disaster.

We were in a taxi on the way to his parents' home. We were hoping to get their blessings for our marriage. A firang and the good baby son of every-day, working, middle-class Kannadigas. Who would have thought? Well, certainly not his parents when he told them less than a month before my arrival. They bargained, they argued, they ignored. They persuaded, they cried, they stonewalled. But the day had arrived. I was real, and I was coming for tea at 3 PM sharp.

Everyone knew it wasn't really a friendly kind of visit. There would be no friendly banter, no cheerful "getting to know you" banter. It was an audition. It was a chess game. Both sides felt they had a lot to lose, and no one knew exactly what to expect.

The taxi arrived at the compound gate. I wiped the sweat from my upper lip, got out of the car and adjusted my dupatta. I saw heads pop out from terraces all down the block, and I felt the humid air grow still. The door opened and we were invited inside. I stepped over some faded rangoli and entered a darkened hallway.

I wanted to look around, take in the childhood home of the man I was in love with. I had pictured this place in my mind so often, and it was nothing like I had imagined. There were pictures in the showcase, and I wanted to see them desperately, but this was not the time to get up and explore. My fiance spoke in Kannada asking his mom to come out from the kitchen. His father sat at the table with perfect posture in his shirt and dhoti. He looked kind enough, but he was not smiling. I sat in a small but comfortable chair, and my fiance sat in an identical one. We were separated by an end table that held two old phones and a bronze Nataraja.

The mother came out with tea, and she would not meet my eyes. We all held our metal tumblers and sipped in silence. I was almost overcome with a desire to run right out the door, past the small but neatly kept garden and back out to the main road where I could surely find an auto.

Finally the father spoke, and the interrogation began. He asked about divorce in my family, and my education. He asked about my views on marriage, how I argue, my religion, my flexibility with change, my work history. He asked about my ability to cook and my views on non-veg food in the home. He never once moved from his position at the table except to cross and uncross his legs, and his expression never changed.

He asked about our plans for children, so my fiance and I spoke about how we planned to raise children while honoring both cultures. I explained that I was already from a multi-cultural background, and so while there were certainly things to take into consideration, it was not impossible. The mother remained silent, and looked out the window, the pallu of her sari folded neatly around her like a shield. She asked me nothing, and seemed to not even be paying attention. Then the father asked "How do you think this will work?"

"I am going to move here." I said resolutely. This was solution that clearly neither parent had considered. There was a very heavy pause. The mother seemed to hold her breath while the father breathed a long sigh, stood up and held out both hands with his palms turned upward.

"OK then!" he said, smiling. "You seem to have thought this through. Anything you need, you let us know. We will help to pay for the wedding if you require it." The mother's eyes darted at him in disbelief. I could tell that she had not counted on this turn of events. And now it was done, he had given his blessings. It could not be undone. He said namaskara, and excused himself. It was time for pooja. There was nothing more to discuss.

The mother walked us to the door. I thanked her for her hospitality, and told her I would see her soon. She said something to her mystified son as I walked into the garden, head spinning. I watched the people on the terraces lean back out to watch us go. The maid, who had been silently listening from the back of the house, ran off through the gate to go spread the amazing news.

It was done. I was getting married. I looked up at the hazy Bangalore sky and smirked a quick thank you at God.