Desicritics Category: Culture: Urban

Alone, White, and Female in India

Deepa Krishnan — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 10:53:23 EDT

On a travel forum recently, a young Polish woman asked: "I am planning to go to India and would be grateful if you could tell me whether it is safe for me to go there alone. If someone has any experience in travelling on his/her own, please post your comments"

Lots of people offered her advice; most of which centered around dressing modestly (preferably in a salwar kameez!), not getting too familiar with strangers, avoiding isolated areas and dark alleys, and so on. Among the many people who offered advice, there was one gentleman who suggested she carry pepper-spray. This led to a protest by some others - What?? Pepper spray!!?? Why are you scaring tourists away from India??

Co-incidentally, I had just been reading a city magazine, a 'Women's Special', with a whole page devoted to staying safe in cities - and among the five things they listed was pepper spray!

So what's the right advice for this lady? Should she stick to big cities? Are they safer, or are they more dangerous than smaller towns? Are some states safer than others? As I heard various points of view, I felt obliged to conclude that there is no single truth when it comes to female safety in India.

But that doesn't mean there are no conclusions to be drawn! I travel alone, frequently, to different parts of the country, and from my own interactions with men, I find that some parts of the country are disconcertingly hostile to women and disparaging of their bodies, whereas other places are a delight.

I was in Orissa recently, and I have to say I did not encounter one single lecherous man; it was a fantastic experience. I have spent two years in Calcutta, again, without so much as a single nasty incident in spite of late nights and odd hours.

I would rank Uttar Pradesh, Haryana, Rajasthan and Delhi among my list of difficult places for solo women travellers. (I have not been to Bihar, but I confess I have no great expectations from the state that produced Laloo Prasad Yadav). Other than Orissa and Bengal, I would rank Kerala among my nicest travel experiences, followed by Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, Maharashtra and Goa (in no particular order). I have no experience of the north-eastern states.

Of course, this is all based on personal and anecdotal stuff, and is therefore open to bias, but I suspect many Indian women would agree with me. If you don't agree, that's fine too. There is no necessity for consensus here. Irrespective of which state is better and which is worse, what I'm trying to say is that there seem to be some regional trends in the behaviour of men towards women.

I am puzzled by these differences. Surely we are all not that different from each other? Maybe it’s just that places which are more hidebound and stuck in the dark ages are more difficult for women? With a social structure that does not value women, it is that much more difficult to get the basic respect you deserve. But Tamil Nadu with its high female foeticide doesn't value women either...so it's hard to explain why I feel safer in Chennai than in Delhi. Again, this is also a sweeping generalisation. Some parts of Delhi (and I am writing this sitting in Delhi) are extremely safe and very nice to be, and some very nice guys I know are from Delhi. But I don't feel the same "body freedom" in the crowded lanes of Chandni Chowk as I do in the equally crowded Pondy Bazaar or Bhuleshwar or Gariahaat markets. Why? I wish I knew.

Sigh - so - going back to the young Polish woman - while there is no single truth about the Indian men she will encounter, the fact remains that she is likely to go through some not-so-pleasant experiences if she is travelling solo. Let's face it, this is a difficult country for single white women to travel. The average Indian man assumes that white women are alley cats and are potentially available - why else would they flaunt their bodies in public places, right? To add to this is the depressingly common lesson which most young men receive at the hands of their older friends - that's it's perfectly alright to ogle and whistle and grope and treat women badly. Indeed, it is very *masculine* to do so, as Hindi movies so brilliantly illustrate. It's not just white women who get the lecherous idiocy - the same disgusting treatment is accorded to very modestly dressed local women as well. It's a grim story, and one that always makes me want to decimate the entire male race :)

To the lady who asked the original question, I say, pack that pepper spray, girl! You may not need it, but you'll feel better with it in your purse.

Mumbai - The Core of India

Pratyush Khaitan — Thu, 4 Mar 2010 22:52:01 EST

I am in Mumbai for a business trip and though I am a frequent visitor, I notice a change. It is a religious exuberance by a few like I have never seen before. There are saffrons and symbolisms of religion every where to be seen. It is a perfect setting for me to be staying in a hotel opposite recently renamed Chatrapati Shivaji Terminus from the old Grand name VT or Victoria Terminus.

At first, I feel alarmed. Why are these people showing off their religions so vibrantly, so intrudingly as a procession stops the traffic on my way to the hotel from the city. I am agitated, alarmed at the situation we face ourselves.

Then, when I think over it, I find that this really is the core of India. In India, every one has a right to express himself or herself, whether right or wrong and no one can stop you from doing that. That's what freedom is. That's what democracy is.

It is the same democracy which allowed Bapu to fast and churn a nation and more. It is the same fast which allows a Shiv Sanik to talk about partitioning Mumbai from India. In India, they can both co-exist.

India is a great, great nation and more strength will come to it as time goes on because of India's strength of absorbing the rebellious in the liberal.

PS - This is not a movie post but if you get a chance, watch Mumbai Meri Jaan which captures the spirit of Mumbai and essentially India very aptly.

Lahore: Rants and Raves Unrelenting

Halima Khan — Thu, 4 Mar 2010 00:12:51 EST

While I rant to prove how passionately Lahori believe in preserving their taste buds it will be unfair of me to neglect the cultural activity and the entertainment this city is bursting with. But then of course no denying that it all does end up on food! The wedding season which seems to be in season all year round but reaches the climax around November and December and lasts till February? Wedding can be considered the most elaborate occasion on the family event calendar with 'dholkis' 'mayo' 'mehndi' etc spanning over months before the eventual day. Fun and frivolities mark the celebration all through. The preparations involve shopping and the dowry for the bride, which is a traditional gift of clothes, furniture etc to the newly weds. The exquisiteness of the lavish food is the real delight of this whole affair.

To add to this traditional and religious celebration of matrimony Lahore hosts people from worldwide to welcome spring annually and to boost its festivity of Basant. Kite-flying and dance and music mark the occasion, giving people an opportunity of entertainment. These opportunities of entertainment are definitely not rare in Lahore. Independence Day in August shows the same fervor and free spirit that Punjabis boost of.

However every year what really puts Lahore on the international platform is the World Performing Arts Festival; where the only language that binds everyone is art. To add to this ritual of promoting peace and inter-cultural exchange another event that is gaining momentum is the Annual Marathon.

While there is no dearth of opportunities to kick off your boots and enjoy good food and have good fun, Lahore also offers the best shopping experience. So if you decide to keep your boots on and want to gear up for an unforgettable spree that's exactly what this city has in store for you. International brands and local chains to retail outlets; Liberty, Anarkali, Shahlmee, there's everything of every sort! Hafeez Center is the biggest computer market, and the prices you'll find here can't get better.

As the population in Lahore has increased from estimated 6 million to estimated 10 million the city has expanded and the suburban population is constantly moving outwards. The previous residential areas are being turned into commercial centers. All this development has resulted in development of the upbeat Liberty Market, MM Alam Road, Jail Road with the finest office buildings and the Main Boulevard with the largest shopping centers.

If I could sum up Lahore I'll do it like everyone else does - this city doesn't sleep. Even late at night or even earliest in the morning there is sense of continuous on-going activity. It makes you feel alive, the raw energy that runs in its streets and boulevards. The tradition and culture so rich that it has even seeped into the westernization attempts; do don't worry if the Big Mac here tastes a wee bit different. Lahore may have spiced it up a little!!

Lahore: Rants and Raves

Halima Khan — Wed, 3 Mar 2010 08:13:09 EST

Sights and sounds. Distinctive! Setting one piece of land apart from one another; thus the world has it all a Lahore, a London, an Amsterdam too. What all these cities share is the keen-ness to preserve culture most predictably. But then this is where this masterpiece of a city, Lahore really stands out. Here we emphasize on preserving our taste buds; the real essence of survival. Or so they are considered here. So if live to eat is your business don't miss out on why 'Lahore Lahore hai!' (Lahore is Lahore.)

Gawalmandi and Anarkali, part of the older city, and the real hub of passionate eaters and other activity too of course. But since the government has renovated these places as food streets, the dhabas and restaurants our parents so fondly referred to have us hooked to the exquisite 'desi' cuisine too. These places have undergone major restoration work which hasn't just made food more accessible but has made it possible to enjoy tradition at its best in the magnanimity of 'havilis' as well.

Data Darbar, a spiritual sanctity and a recluse for the lost souls and the restless is the highlight of the day for many for its 'langar'; after all there is always enough food for everyone there! With 'qawalis' ringing out of it all the time it builds up the atmosphere for a breath-taking experience at 'Coocoo's Den', located just behind Badshahi Mosque near the Darbar. The Den is a 300 year old 'kothi' which gives a beautiful view of the city from its sitting area, which is mostly located in the outdoors.
Another landmark which is a treat to the creative instincts is the Pak Tea House in Anarkali; it is famed as a ' long favored haunt of intellectuals and artists.'

Talking about doing justice to your creative instincts Lahore with its faded elegance of wide variety of Islamic and British architecture sets the stage perfectly with its contrast and surprise. Lahore is the second largest city of Pakistan, with fragrance of gardens spread around and the aroma of cultural heritage echoing in the Old Walled City.

Shalimar means the purest of human pleasure; during Shah Jahan's reign this romantic Shalimar Garden was built with its triple-terraces, marble pavilions, ornamental pools, water falls and fountains. Purity indeed!

World's largest existing historical mosque is also hosted by this city of old tales. Blend of white marble and red stone and beautifully engraved Quranic verses Badshahi Mosque stands tall as a symbol of Mughal religious zeal. The neighboring Lahore Fort was founded way back in the B.C era. However it got its present face by the infamous architects aka Mughals. The Sheesh Mahal (The Palace of Mirrors), Moti Masjid (Pearl Mosque), Diwan-e-Aam (Court for the Commons), Hathi Per (Elephant Steps are masterpieces in themselves and best preserved too. The Fort also has a museum covering the Mughal and Sikh periods.

The Lahore Museum established during British Raj displays the evolution of culture in this region with rare and best collection of the Buddhist art from the Gandhara Period, Islamic artifacts, Calligraphy, Old Manuscripts, Arms, Costumes and Jewelry.

Lahore seems to have always favored tales of lost love and has preserved legends in its bazaars and 'galis' and gardens and tombs too. 'Jahangir ka maqbara', where lies the most romantic soul of the Mughal era, and ironically his final resting place is still an alcove for the romantic souls of today. Like Jehangir there is a beautifully constructed tomb of his beautiful and much doted wife Noor-Jehan.

The history of the Old City of Lahore is a thriving one, accessible by 12 gates it's a multiple bazaar and the hub of oriental culture with its distinctive flair and aroma.

This city of extreme weather conditions shows great traces of westernization now, to cater to the more modern needs of the young generation. MM Alam Road is the result of the great demand of restaurants and cafes. From KFC to Pizza Hut and Subway almost all international food chains have their outlets in Lahore. Another upcoming trend that has hit this city is the 'sheesha'; Iranian face of our local huqa. It is all the rage amidst teenagers! While there are no bars as such, smoky cafes and hangouts don't make their absence felt.

The Filth That We Are Comfortable With

Priyank Chandra — Wed, 3 Mar 2010 02:43:27 EST

There is beauty in all things. What could be filth and garbage to me could be beautiful to others. I concede this point and therefore I try my best to not judge the world. So without delay, I present to you two photographs I took this morning.

The readers are now invited to share their analysis of the aesthetic beauty inherent in these photographs. And do not pretend that you fail to see it. Why else would this be allowed to exist in the midst of one of the most active IT hubs of Bangalore.

A litte background about these photographs. These were taken right next to Bagmane Tech Park, C V Raman Nagar, Bangalore. The lake is adjacent to the tech park and used to be beautiful a long time ago. This tech park is "an eco-friendly tech park". How these mammoth air conditioned buildings, bereft of vegetation, generating massive amounts of wastes and energy needs are eco-friendly is beyond me but that point is irrelevant at the moment. I want to direct the attention of the reader to the plastic that decorates the lake.

This tech park houses some of the biggest companies in the world - HP, Oracle, Samsung and a lot more. So the people working here are extremely well-educated folks - the engineers and the MBAs. Most drive their air-conditioned cars to the offices and then cocoon themselves in the air-conditioned sanitized worlds of cubicles and work. At regular intervals they take breaks to litter the outside world with tea-cups and cigarette buds, before returning to the cocoons of bliss and indifference.

I work in this tech park. I am a part of the indifference. I see the massive amounts of time and resources invested by every company to keep the workplace hygienic. Corporate responsibility dictates that the companies publicly invest money in a lot of noble causes. And yet the surroundings have remained this dirty for many years now. The foreign clients arrive in tinted cars and leave in them, and the employees walk past the garbage without any notice.

This is why I claim that what I see every morning as filth and garbage MUST be beautiful. How else could we the educated and well-off people bear to be pass by it everyday and not feel a sense of repulsion. And kudos to the corporations in playing their part in the indifference that defines the new Bangalore.

Fiction: Bitter Coffee

IdeaSmith — Tue, 2 Mar 2010 06:22:51 EST

The Corner Coffeeshop was open for business but its traffic was at a lull. It was too early in the evening for the post-work crowd, too late for the students and AC-enjoying unemployed to be hanging around.

Outside, the sun had gone down but that curious combination of atmospheric density and light's acrobatic bending made it seem like daylight was still around.

Such were his thoughts, where another person would have called it twilight. He grimly thought to himself that she would have referred to Van Gogh's 'Starry Nights' while all along he'd be thinking of the diagrams in the physics textbooks about light refraction.

He was already seated on the bar-stool near the window, his bag on the seat next to his, to save it for her. In front of him was a cappuccino. With deliberate precision, he emptied two sachets of sugar into the cup and tossed the empty packets into the dustbin near the end of the table. She preferred espresso shots but he couldn't stand their acrid taste. But he didn't want another lecture on calorie count either.

Outside, the object of his ruminations had just neared the door and was standing but not entering. Then she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and walked in.

He saw her from the corner of his eye and put down his coffee mid-sip to receive her kiss. To his surprise, she turned, picked his bag off the seat and sat down with it in her lap. A second later, she seemed to have second thoughts and put it on the table.

Then she turned and said in a rush.

I need to tell you something and I need you to not interrupt. I’m going back to Delhi tomorrow.

But…

She held up her hand.

Don’t say anything. I’m going. The ticket is booked. And it’s one-way.

Her face was set in an immovable mask. She looked beautiful. But unrecognizable. Like a cold, marble statue that was displayed in someone else's house.

When you called me here for coffee, I thought you were trying to rekindle the romance in our relationship.

Her stiff expression didn’t change. She hadn’t even put her bag on the table. He tried again.

I know we’ve been arguing. But we’ve been through worse stuff. It’s…what are we doing?

She wavered and in a slightly watery voice said,

You’re having coffee. I’m leaving.

Come on, you don’t have to do this. Let’s talk about this.

Let's not.

she said. And those were her last words to him. He would think about that often. For such a talkative person, she was leaving him with so little. As if she didn't want to spend another precious minute or word on him.

Across the street, she plugged her earphones into her ears and switched on the iPod. It wasn't serendipitous, the song that came up.

Why she had to go, I don't know, she wouldn't say
I said something wrong, I long for yesterday
Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play.

She'd been listening to the Beatles all evening on her way to the coffeeshop. It helped her relax and focus.

He hadn't said anything wrong. How do you tell someone that they had never said anything right in the first place? How do you explain that after three years? And how do you erase the memory of your own wrong choices?

You don't. You just stop and turn away.

She turned the corner and stopped under the street lamp. She asked herself, shall I reconsider? and turned to look in the direction of the coffeeshop.

It was dark now and the bright lights of The Corner Coffeeshop were attracting their clientele in now. She couldn't see him anymore, there were too many people around. Night had fallen.

Should I?

And in the same breath, the thought crystallized into realisation.

Let me not.

She took a deep breath and walked away.

Coffee was never going to be anything but bitter after this.

Twitter Fiction: Twocial Etiquette

IdeaSmith — Sat, 27 Feb 2010 02:28:40 EST

“And this is Kunal.”

“Are you on Twitter?”

“Yes, I’m @c00nal.”

“I don’t think I FOLLOW you.”

“I don’t follow you either.”

Kunal frowns as he turns to the Hot Dog stand.

“I think I hurt his ego a bit.”

“You just met!”

“Social boo-boo, telling someone you don’t follow them on Twitter.”

“What rubbish, nobody cares about these things.”

“Some people do. Maybe he’s one of them. Shit, I blew it.”

“Shh, he’s back. Ice-creams? Isn’t that too…I don’t know…something?”

“Ice-cream is cool.”

“Or maybe it’s c00nal.”

“No, this is c00nal.”

He says, holding out a spoon with a bit of ice-cream stuck to it. It’s green, not an appealing shade for food, she thinks.

“Ooh, you got her an ice-cream, c00nal?”

“A bite-sized version.”

He grins.

“A twitterized ice-cream.”

She replies, smiling back as she takes the spoon.

From Ashes

IdeaSmith — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 09:11:32 EST

This is for Dee, the editor I'd like to have, who quite literally showed me the way.

~O~O~O~O~O~Where do stories come from? she wondered. Her editor had told her that her writing had a quality of finesse in it. But, he said, the spark was missing. She wanted to protest, it had been such an effort to get to here after all. But anticipating just that, he had moved his hand in a wiping gesture, as if trying to clear away a fog around her.

“It’s that madness, that raw energy that used to make one want to read. Bring that back. It’s you. Unleash it in your writing.”

She brooded over it for a long time, all through the book-browsing date and the high tea that followed. Then she decided to take a walk. Taking long walks and watching people and noting down what one saw seemed to be the right things for a writer to do. The sea had always held appeal. But somehow, the effort of crossing the road, dodging bratty rich kids in their oversized cars only to scrounge a garbage pile of people on the other side, for seating space…wasn’t an appealing thought at all.

The city is no place for an artist, she told herself. How was one supposed to be inspired by this relentless struggle? It didn’t even have the elements of drama like a war or a revolution or an uprising, a famine or a flood. It was just everyday, niggling grievances. Who would want to read about those? Who would want to write about those, she retorted inside her head. Then she shook herself. Arguing with oneself is the first step into insanity and she’d be damned if she was going to live up to that pathetic stereotype of a writer-gone-crazy before she was even published.

The girl hopped off the last bogey, the one that she had just managed to jump into as the train pulled out of the station. In one hand she clutched a little notepad and a magenta pen, her chosen colour for the day. She did have one thought that should be captured before it vanished into that abyss of forgotten inspiration. One hand holding down the page, she expertly popped off its lid with her mouth and twirled it around to cap its end with practiced efficiency. Rapidly she wove a messy magenta web over the ideas that had caused her to almost miss her train.

Mumbai Metaphors

I stood on the opposite side of the road that runs along the seaface. It was the wrong side, not the one that had the seating parapet along its entire length but the junction of the seaface road and the arterial conduit to the station terminus.

I stood under the tree that has survived attempts to build bigger and more buildings, broader roads and wider pedestrian walks. The same gnarled tree that stands on the side of the road like a senior citizen with memories of a slower, more human-paced city but no energy to brave the pace of today.

The sky was just turning that indefinable shade of evening like the colour of the last dregs of black tea in a chipped white saucer. Sepia, the colour of nostalgia, that one extra element that changes the picture of a dirty, overcrowded metropolis to the magical visage of home.

A rare wind was blowing all around me. February in the city picks you up as gently and playfully as the waves and takes you to the edge of the shore of winter. I felt like I was standing in the middle of a swimming pool, only it was filled with moving, insistent air around me instead of water.

When she looked up, she was standing at the threshold of light, surrounded by darkness. The very edge of a station, flowing slowly into light at the other end. A rusty carriage sat on incomplete tracks, a long discarded project of the metropolitan train network and peered at her through unpainted metal bars. On the other side, across the tracks and the other well-lit platform, high over their roofs rose the skeletal inner beams of discarded mills. Like a will being contested over the rotting body of a dead person, the future of the land they stood on was being dueled over, with no thought to the buildings that still were.

Places have memories, don’t they? Memories of lives that have passed, of habits that were housed under these roofs, hidden behind these walls. The paan-stains, the half-buried cigarette butts, sneaky but woeful reminders of escapes, of stolen glee. And then the finality of ashes that came from burning who knows what? Paper? Cloth? Oil? Human beings? There were stories that led to the ashes but there was no way to trace them back. This place had its endings but not all it was in ashes. Everything else was memories that could be traced by anyone who cared to listen, to pick up those strands and imagine where they led. They were stories to be told.

She looked down at her book again, an abrupt swooshing action. The white pages even with their magenta words glared back at her in defiance. Those words meant nothing and in her mind’s eye, she imagined the magenta whorls and lines slide off the pages. Blood, the only thing that would stick. Hold a pen to a nerve and write, he had said. So she turned a page and begun,

Something was burning.

The Children of India: A Volunteer Travel Experience

Shelley Seale — Tue, 23 Feb 2010 11:36:36 EST

The idea of volunteering in another country has long been considered the province of students and recent graduates; images of intrepid twenty-year-old Peace Corps workers in a remote Sierra Leone village might spring to mind. Today, however, the idea has reached far beyond that to become accessible, and highly popular, among travelers of all types and ages.

Even the Peace Corps itself has changed dramatically – from an average age of 24 in its beginning in the 1960s, to 28 as of 2002. Many early retirees and those seeking mid-life career changes are joining up – the oldest Peace Corps Volunteer ever was 86 when he completed his service. Volunteer travel has grown so popular that a term has even been coined for it: Voluntourism.

Companies and websites specializing in voluntourism have sprung up by the hundreds, and volunteer vacations can be found in all parts of the world, doing all kinds of activities – from digging wells for clean water in South America, to working with children living in orphanages. It was this last type of volunteer vacation that hooked me. In 2004, I became involved with a nonprofit based in Austin called The Miracle Foundation, which manages orphanages in India and recruits sponsors and donors to support the children living there. By 2005, I was traveling to India myself, to volunteer in the orphanage.

The children are everywhere in India. They fill the railway stations, the cities, the shanty villages. Some scrounge through trash for newspapers, rags or anything they can sell at traffic intersections. Others, often as young as two or three years old, beg. Many are homeless, overflowing the orphanages and other institutional homes to live on the streets. I had no way of knowing just how much they would change my life.

India was everything I had imagined it would be – only more so. More colors and smells, more noises and people, more everything. It was an assault on all the senses at once. The cacophony that greeted me was jarring after the peaceful countryside I had gazed down on from the airplane. There seemed no still or quiet space. Instead there were throngs of people everywhere, living and working and sleeping; hundreds of street vendors lined every available inch of sidewalk, while mangy dogs and cows nosed at piles of trash around them.

Rickshaw drivers pedaled through traffic alongside schoolgirls with their braided hair and backpacks. The smell of curry and incense hung thick in the air along with soft chanting from nearby temples. The dusty roads peppered with potholes were filled with a constant stream of buses, bicycles, rickshaws, cars and cows and rising over it all was the constant, blaring beep-beep of the horns. It was the most alive place I had ever been. India is too big to describe adequately, too big perhaps to absorb in a single lifetime. The country simply wrapped itself around me and refused to let go.

There was also what everyone, including myself, expected of India – despair, filth, destitution. The trash that lined the roads and the beggars that tapped at car windows. The deteriorating buildings, the ragged street hawkers, the shanty village along the river banks. The frantic poverty that would not let me rest.

At home, these things are hidden neatly away as much as it is possible to do so. But in India, everything is in full view; nothing is hidden. Its rawness of life strips away the unnecessary - distractions, superficial attachments, trivial worries. Without this safety net life becomes fundamental, only the essentials of being, and causes you to be fully present in your own existence. You become lost, in order to find.

And even still, there was beauty in the midst of it. The vitality of life teeming all around, the jangling of bangles and ankle bracelets, the colorful saris, the carved temples with swaying trees surrounding it all. The tremendous scale of the monuments, palaces and art from one of the first great civilizations left me stunned, as did the strange way there was a deep-seated peace even in the midst of tumultuous movement and clamor. The wonderful and the abject co-exist side by side. Though the country struggles with the indigence of large numbers of its population, it is far from a poor place.

And in the children this beauty seemed to come alive, almost making me believe it was a living entity I could capture in my hands. I arrived at the orphanage expecting it to be a sad place, an emotionally wrenching experience. But those expectations were turned on their head. Yes, there were stories behind each of the children – many of them painful and tragic. Stories of death, abandonment, abuse, poverty. They all had a past.

Yet the couple who ran the home, the house mothers and teachers there, the other volunteers, all made these kids their own in a community of sharing and acceptance. They were poor in wealth but not in spirit; limited in resources but not in joy and laughter. An interior peace shown from inside them that was unknown – unsought even – by many people rich in resources. Their hope and resilience amazed me time and time again; the ability of their spirits to overcome crippling challenges inspired me.

Even in the most deprived circumstances they are still kids – they laugh and play, perhaps far less frequently than others; they develop strong bonds and relationships to create family where none exists; and most of all they have an enormous amount of love to give - for nothing more than showing up. The very existence of these children forever altered both the person I was and my view of the world. India shows us where our suffering lies, and in this way becomes more than anything else a teacher, if only we are open to learn from her.

Confessions of a Facebook Addict

Purba — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 12:49:46 EST

I blame the Aggarwala brothers. Had they not created the eminently buzz worthy Scrabulous on FB, they wouldn’t have featured prominently in the papers, and my interest would not have been aroused.

It was two years back that I read about this exciting new word game on the block that had taken the cyber world by storm. Am not much into gaming, the dexterity required eludes me. But I am hopelessly hooked on to word games. The joy of discovering new words (khi, titi, dado, apod) is unmatched. The game can get ruthless at times, but showing off your vocabulary has never been this fun. I wasted no time in creating an account on FB. Thus began my dalliance with the world of social networking.

So far I had successfully (well almost) managed to evade the lure of such sites. I had joined Orkut briefly. But the lack of privacy always rankled. My mailbox was inundated with enquires from strange males curious to know whether I was the elusive Purba they had been looking for years. All these years I was under the mistaken impression that mine was a unique name, until now. Within a few weeks I had managed a few stalkers and men desperate to have an affair. Disgusted I deleted my account.

My first few months on Facebook were uneventful. I had ventured into this unchartered territory with a gaggle of my friends. We were a close knit circle of thirty, playing Scrabble with passion. New terms baffled me: a wall to scribble messages on, status updates, notifications, getting poked. There was an exciting new world on my desktop waiting to be explored. What a convenient and novel way to keep in touch with your many friends and relatives scattered around the globe, I would often muse. I even managed to unearth my brother under a Jim Morrison inspired pseudonym. Here was a forum where everyone was sharing their opinions, sentiments and even trivial details of their lives. It was through FB I saw my nephew grow up from a cuddly baby to a cherubic angel in far off Baton Rouge. Shared my friend’s excitement as she traversed the East Coast on a solo trip to the US through her many pics and posts. A lyrical ode here, a scene captured there, the seduction was gradual but irreversible. Whenever I could manage some free time I would plonk myself in front of the system, gleefully share links, leave comments or just play my turns on Scrabulous.

On FB you cannot remain anonymous for long. My many ex-students sniffed out my trail and I was bombarded with friend requests. I did accept a few and was now privy to the psyche of the young Indian mind. I am in lurvvvv...teehee....Luv is nyc... Noooo...Yess?? (Subject to interpretation) My powers of deduction were getting severely tested and I was experiencing mild trauma. My news feeds were definitely getting spicier. X took a quiz “How good are you in a bed” Result: Man, you are a nympho. Y just downloaded the Lady Timer. Z just tagged you as “The one with the best body”. I had a choice between squirming and sighing in relief. It could have been worse (the indomitable optimist speaks) - “Best Hag” would have certainly incurred my wrath. To preserve my sanity I now use the hide function to protect me from unsavoury truths of life.

It never ceases to amaze me how even perfectly sane adults are capable of taking the most inane quizzes and add insult to injury by having the results published. Which shoe do I resemble the most?? Which female superhero are you? Which musical are you? A bunch of retarded questions masquerading as a quiz with even more retarded results.

And the status messages some of us write. Agreed the name Facebook stems from the colloquial name of books given to grad students at the start of academic year with the intention of getting to know each other. But posting details about your breakfast or your latest splurge at Bodyshop is definitely not welcome. Some people can write the dullest status messages. “Waiting for the flight to Dallas at Newark airport” “Have a toothache” “The avocados just gave me a rash”. To me it sounds more like an exchange between a husband and wife. CNN went to the extent of listing the “The 12 most annoying types of facebookers” “The-let-me-fill-you-on-every-detail-of-my-life bore” “The self promoter” (is that me?) “The friend-padder”, “The lurker” to name just a few.

They forgot to add the Farmville enthusiast. You can spot this individual from a mile. Farmville, Mafia Wars, Hatchlings or any new fangled application is their raison-d’être. Their wall is chock-a- block with gargoyles acquired, warehouse eggs hatched and fertilizer collected. Their status messages read more like Oscar acceptance speeches where they often thank their friends for helping them build the barn or some such thing. I admit I had joined this strange breed albeit briefly. For a few weeks my routine centred on the endless cycle of ploughing, sowing and harvesting crops. I was saving lost kitties, collecting eggs and tending to my cows. On my trip to Jaisalmer I actually logged in just to save my dying crops. Thankfully my fascination did not last long. I was becoming the butt of jokes of my family members and one fine day I bid adieu to the fascinating world of virtual farming.

But I have been fiercely loyal to FB. There have been temptations galore - Twitter, Myspace and now Google buzz. But I am content with my hundred odd friends on FB. I still play Scrabulous, now in its new avatar Lexulous. I owe my interest in blogging to a note I shared with my friends on this network. The overwhelming feedback made me think of taking writing seriously. Yes, I have this obsessive compulsion of checking my account every few hours and on days I can’t I end up feeling restless. My husband has a new term of endearment for me.....addict. Of late I have been reading about a new movement called virtual suicide i.e deleting all your social networking accounts in one go. Has that thought ever entered my mind? Not even for a fraction of a second. The kind of trash they now show on television I’d rather be the addict I am made out to be. And isn’t Internet one of the nominees for the Nobel prize for peace. So here I am logging in yet again for the sake of world peace.