Diwali...deepavali....concern

When serial bulbs hang down the window of an apartment out there, when plastic buckets and floor-mops hanging in the facade of a shop suddenly give way to ever-so-inviting colourful lamp-shades, when the sky outside my window comes alive with a lone cracker once in a while, I know it's time for diwali. Diwali season out here in Mumbai seems more colourful than Bangalore, at least when it comes to products on display.

What irks me though, is that none of the newspapers run campaigns on eco-friendly diwali, although social consciousness about crackers causing pollution has risen a great deal over the decades. It's not done at least on a scale like during the Ganesha festival.

Cracker making firms have on the contrary worked around to selling the `eco-friendly' tag by claiming to adhere to pollution norms. Safety is spoken about when it comes to children, yeah. In spite of it we have children and sometimes adults who fall prey to the erratic show of light and noise in the name of prosperity.

The legends about the festival are so sound and so full of meaning. The purpose is all the more meaningful - victory of good over evil, celebration of such victory with holding light, spreading light and joy, to conquer darkness. Invoking prosperity - symbolised by Goddess Lakshmi. Lighting lamps alone moved from the original tradition I was shocked the other day when a friend said some neighbours of hers were getting together to celebrate diwali with a few pegs of beer, not just by playing cards! Losing money to a game of cards is no prosperity! Beer....is that not a guaranteed way of throwing money...thereby disrespecting it!

Am lost for words when my husband's argument for crackers goes thus: bursting crackers is one of the biggest joys a child could have. Depriving him/her of this joy would be hurting.

 Maybe the whole stereotype of ``the more crackers you burst, the more prosperous you are'' that's been imposed on the society, has led to such thought, and in turn to more cracker sales.

It's time we explained the real meaning of diwali to our children. I would say throw crackers to wind. Light a few lamps that emit more light. Get creative...make a rangoli. Think of decorating your home by recycling home junk...it would make diwali more meaningful. 

As for me, being back in Bangalore for the festival is in itself joy. I don't need crackers to express it! When I say this, am praying no one thrusts a sparkler into my hand!

I love this in Mumbai

A few slices of cucumber, some carrot, beetroot, radish, tomato, some lemon, spices...and lo, a colourful salad's ready by the roadside. All for Rs 10! Wow! Such a relief from five-star salad bars and their loads of mayonnaise! Spotted this entrepreneur on Bandra's Linking Road and loved the salad! Value for money: 100%

Aarey Sunset

I had posted about my not-so-pleasurable boat ride at Aarey Colony's Chota Kashmir. Here is a picture of one of those stolen moments. Just hope such visuals remain in Mumbai's landscape longer! The super-speed with which its realtors are killing it, only shows these are views that may end up in the museum soon.

A journey and a worry

Am heading to Bangalore starting tomorrow. Fear in my head and longing in my heart. There's nothing like home. But when going home means a 24 hour train journey, a two hour journey by local train, and the quarter of an hour by anautorickshaw or taxi to the local station, it does bring about uneasiness. 
God knows if things will be fine en route. Or if the goons will get at us somewhere, somehow.

Fear of a certain Raj Thackeray who has managed to make us Indians feel unsafe. Raj Thackeray and his rioters hold the city to ransom at their whim. They talk of a pro-Marathi agenda. But it is really not that. It's just about how they get a few goons to go about destroying vehicles...buses of their own state, shops of their own state, kill people of their own state, to make their pro-Marathi point.
That Raj Thackeray wants to become another Modi is in itself one should fear. The danger with Modi is not just about him using his hate-and-murder politics in his state. It's also about inspiring thousands of other Modis. Ditto with the Raj, who does not mind sending his offspring to an English medium school, but preaches a pro-Marathi policy to the rest of the world. He must be smiling inwardly. After all, his hate-campaign has paid off!
By his logic, all people of particular states should belong where they are, and not dare to venture out. To add to the hurt, Shiv Sena gives the example of DMK for its pro-Tamil stand.
Move back to Bangalore where I have grown up, and it seems like familiar turf. Pro-Kannadaactivists (I cringe at calling them that) arm themselves with red and yellow flags, hit out at any one who is an `outsider' given a chance. Violence in the name of love.
Violence in the name of language.
The root purpose of languages evolving in humankind, was to communicate. To unite. To help love each other better. That language should be turned around and manipulated to manufacture hate shows there is something seriously wrong with the society.
At a personal level, I find it very nice when someone lauds me for being able to speak in six languages. As an Indian I feel that's far less. My target is 14, although it remains a dream for now.
I've been eager to learn Marathi all these months. Where I find glossy pamphlets to advertise filmy dance classes and art classes that mint money, I haven't found a single board with anyone offering to teach Marathi, in this part ofMumbai. 
With the hate and hurt campaign terrorising people out here, am only wondering if I may run into anti-outsiders, in the bargain. 
The bottomline is that they want to elicit votes out of gullible commoners by making them feel unsafe rather than safe. A friend told me the other day, that real Maharashtrians are gems at heart, that what we are witnessing now, is just the handiwork of selfish elements. I have met a couple of them too - my maid who leads a life of dignity. A cop's wife who welcomed me and my husband into her home for the dandiya raas in their colony, with love that seemed a whiff of fresh air. A neighbour downstairs who is reserved, but reciprocates affection just as much.
It's about time the real locals came into limelight and spoke about their own great qualities. 
We're living in times of Raj. Is it by any chance, echoing the times of the other Raj India was crushed of centuries under? The British Raj? 
I have reason to believe so. For now, I am hoping my train journey to Bangalore goes without incident.

Soaked yellow in dust

It's the year's second summer in Mumbai - heat, dust and sweat. The green on my hill is turning golden yellow, slowly. Suddenly I long for those cloudy days and rainy evenings just gone by.The sky changes hues everyday of the year, when I look out of my windows. This pic is a view from the window on one of those rare evenings in September (have written a short post about it), when the suburb got soaked dry in winds. Cloudy, yet with a lovely yellow glow...golden yellow despite no sun...almost like someone fixed a yellow translucent sheet over it.

Thank God! I was not `given away'

For all the feminist thinking I grew up with, the very thought of kanyadaan (giving a girl away, rather donating her) that is so synonymous to Indian weddings, perplexed me like nothing else did. So it was only natural I grew more and more tense as weeks passed by before I tied the knot.

I still question the traditional notion of having to `give the girl' away. What right does a man, woman or a human have to give away another human being? By doing so, are we humans, not playing God!

I still have a problem with the fact that somehow it becomes the woman's prerogative to wear a sign of being married. Be it the toe-ring, the taali or mangalsutra. It still irks me when `tradition-bound' women look out for that string of black beads on your neck to assess your character, if you are married.

I have watched friends and colleagues being carried in baskets by their uncles to the altar. I have seen how the minute the yellow thread is tied, fathers and mothers of the bride feel their world is lost. It happened in my case too. Incidentally, it happened to my husband too.

So why should the girl who parents have raised with as much love and care, if not more concern as the boy, be lost to another family?

What business do we human beings have in giving away another human being? Or deciding that human being's fate, even if in the name of human good and social welfare? 

It is this very thought that dowry takes its root in. It's this belief that leads to the whole race of women being considered property. Property that `should' become the goddess Lakshmi of another home, not Saraswati. Men, mostly grooms explain the whole thing away in the name of obedience to their parents and parents of the bride.

The Christian wedding ritual of exchanging rings, seems more equal. But even churches have introduced taali as part of the ceremony! The Telugu wedding `moment' of bride and groom placing cumin seeds and jaggery across a white screen, over each others' head. One of my distant uncles told me during a cousin's wedding, that the ritual symbolises Parvati's and Shiva's unbreakable union. Cumin seeds and jaggery bond that well, and that's why the ritual. Goddess Shakti who symbolises energy, and Lord Shiva - the destroyer...the logic behind this symbol makes sense.

Minus the women there and men here aspect, and the veil's-a-must bit of a Muslim wedding, the fact that the bride and groom sign in a register, is also equal. 

I still have problems with the parents of the bride having to bear marriage expenses. The thought of being `given away', naturally brought about an eerie feeling of being `unwanted' -- something I still cried about to my brother when he called up that night after I was `sent' to my husband's home. I left my home crying too, when relatives popped up from nowhere to inflict customs in the name of mutual respect for my parents.

Coming back to the daan bit, I had argued a great deal about it with friends and my father, even my school principal who I had visited to give the wedding invitation, in the time preceding the wedding. 

I wondered and still wonder why the just-married husband is made to look at the sky and show the star Arundhati and tell her to be as devoted as her. Arundhati, was the wife of sage Vashishta and an example of devotion. Wish there was such a story for the husband too, integral to the wedding ceremony!

Ideally the wedding should happen at night if such a ritual needs to be held. But then, many auspicious moments (muhurats) occur in the day! In my case, nature did it. The priest seemed to ask us, to look at the Sunday morning Sun, as Arundhati was not visible. If it was Sun worship, it was great! But then, even the sun hid him/herself behind clouds. So in effect, husband pointed towards....clouds! Or was it the worship of Sky - one of the five elements of nature, that the ritual pointed out? People around me still do not have answers.

They did not have answers to the kanyadaan bit too, which gets so glorified in our tradition and almost gets equated with Go daan (donating a cow). But providence and interestingly, prejudice against inter-caste marriages worked in my favour!

The logic that went unspoken: `She's from a different caste. And he is from a different caste. Why should she be `given away' to him? 

The priest skipped the ritual, by choice or chance, I know not. 

I....was not `donated', and that's so soothing to feel!

Unravelling the puzzle called `my wedding'

It's been over 10 months since I got married. Something that overwhelmed me so much with its complexities, futility and madness, that I stayed off writing for a whole three quarters of the year! Save for a couple of pieces I wrote when asked to, by friends, I could not get past a few words every time I tried to write.

 

What is it about the whole thing that created such a huge word-block? When I did start writing a few weeks back, I took to it like fish to water. After the initial months of daze, loneliness, depression and at times even nothingness, am making some sense of it now. Before my memory fades out, I plan to write whatever flashes in my head. In bits and pieces. Individual feelings that got so so rooted in social mindscape. A mindscape that's often dented with ill-will, casteism, and the mutual sense of `me-and-my people are better than you and your people' . 

What's left today? The woman in me? The housewife? The journalist who does not get paid for writing and working from home? The motormouth bahu? A bindaas girl who's got stuck in the many walls of a home, and loves the silence within those walls? I still cannot figure out. Maybe writing about the experience will help.

I don't want to come back here

Crying for attention. Stuck in time. Boats that make you sweat and sweat...and sweat. Boats at Chota Kashmir, Aarey Colony, Mumbai.

Boating? No, it's gymming

Last weekend, hubby and I decided to take a break from boredom. Aarey Colony's Chota Kashmir. Wonder who named the place so. It's green. Grimy green being marauded...by the ever-so hellish traffic that passes through towards Thane, Kurla, Powai and Mulund. If that's not enough, visiting tourists do their bit by dumping waste.

The real experience however was the pedal-boat we hired. My first date before my hubby proposed, was such a boat ride on Sankey Tank in Bangalore three and a half years back (guess boating is shut now out there).

The next time a friend who was studying at IIT Powai, his wife and we two did a pedal-boat ride at Sanjay Gandhi National Park after an exhausting trip to Kanheri caves. The Park authorites had built a barrier over a moving stream, converted it into a boating-worthy water pool and got the pool dotted with boats. Sad. That was peak summer. But our boat ride was so refreshing!

We were no doubt eager to do it this time. Hopping on to the boat, a hunch told me something was amiss. The boats looked like they were at least over a decade or two old. 

The pedals were so hard to move! It gave us a feeling we would topple if we did not put all our energy to cycle the boat pedals. I was struggling, so my husband took over. In five minutes, he was soaking in sweat. The lever behind was proving tough too. The instructor told us that the boat would turn right if we pushed it left and left if we turned it rightwards. 

It wasn't necessarily behaving the way we wanted it to! His hand on the boat lever, legs on the pedal and another hand to get the right balance while holding on to the boat, it was anything but pleasure for my husband. The boat's pedals squeaking and screeching with every moment only added to the tension.

Add to it the possible chaos of other boats with families and couples moving in practically every direction! My heart would skip a bit every time I saw a boat moving in our direction even if about 15 feet away. My husband was obviously pushing hard, trying everything possible to steer clear of them. 

It was sunset time, but with so many boats jostling for movement in a tiny little water-body, we had to make best we did not crash into another boat! Heavy traffic is not limited to Mumbai's highways and suburban routes alone!                                                                        

We did steal some visual delights in the 20 minute madness. The sheer contentment of being there in the water and feel surrounded by trees! The sun turning pink from its golden yellow in a matter of minutes! Flower-laden plants dotting the artificial banks....and white ducks paddling away unmindful of us intruders gawking at them... 

Nevertheless, when our 20 minutes ended, we were relieved. ``I will never come back here,'' my husband declared.

Once back, we were more shocked to look at how loaded with dust the toy train area was. Bangalore's Cubbon Park toy train is any day better!

Three days before this, my co-sister with her baby, my brother-in-law, my husband and I had made a desperate dash before it grew dark, hoping to catch up with the boat ride. It did not work.

We left the club, glad that it did not work earlier! I still find it a mystery who named the place Chota Kashmir.

Emancipator

Starting Oct 2, the day of Gandhi Jayanti, Hulugappa Kattimani and his bunch of actors kicked off their theatrical journey to four cities in their state, at Bangalore. It went less noticed by the local press, but struck a chord with the audience. The first play, in sync with the day's own significance, was Kasturba. The second was Girish Karnad'sTaledanda and the third, Bhishma Sahni's Madhavi. The last one I like the best, for many reasons.

 The play is set in Indian mythology, but relevant to the times we live in. To this very moment.

 To quote from The Hindu's Sunday literary review in July 2002 that explains the plot and storyline,

 In his play, "Madhavi", Sahni draws upon a story from Mahabharata, but gives it a fine ideological spin. Munikumar Galav, arrogant disciple of sage Vishwamitra, insists on giving him gurudakshina, even though the sage wants nothing. In exasperation Vishwamitra asks for 800 white ashwamedhi horses with black ears to boot. Only 600 such horses exist in Aryavarta, three kings owning 200 each. People advise Galav to go to King Yayati, who now lives in an ashram, but has a prodigious reputation for generosity. Yayati gives him his daughter Madhavi who is blessed with two boons: she can renew her virginity and youth whenever she wants and each son she bears will be achakravarti. So Galav gives her away to one horse-owning king after another for just one year in return for the 200 ashwamedhi horses they possess. She in turn gives them each a son. Still they are 200 short. So Madhavi goes and offers herself to Vishwamitra for a year and he dispenses with the last 200 horses.The males, full of themselves, preserve their "reputations" — Yayati for generosity, Galav for his gurudakshina pledge. He will end up as aRishi, no doubt about that. He is insensitive to her moving from harem to harem, leaving a son behind each time. In the end Yayati holds a massive swayamvar in which the three kings attend with their sons by Madhavi, hoping to attract her favour. But Galav again becomes a bit uptight (she has lived with his guru, so how can he take her now?) and Madhavi walks out on the swayamvar in the end.

Architecturally and ideologically the play is well honed and deserves its considerable renown. Yayati gives away his daughter as if she is an inanimate object. Queens who bear daughters are sidelined. By the very nature of the myth, the characters turn wooden. The three kings are just anonymous characters pining for male heirs. Galav, Vishwamitra and Yayati are wooden. But unlike as in the myth, Madhavi is not just a male-bearing womb. She is well portrayed and humanised. The dialogues never scintillate. A fire-spitting Madhavi would have been more interesting. Someone needed to shout at Vishwamitra and Yayati, but they end up unscathed. Rather sad.

Madhavi is certainly not fire-spitting. She may not have shouted from roof-tops unlike today's women. But she quite reminds you of the hundreds of stories you and I come across every day, in the women we meet, in how the system shamelessly allows exploiting them in the name of religion, caste, sex, body, lust...just about everything. 

Among prison circles in Karnataka and especially at Mysore and Bangalore, Kattimani is adored as the messiah who can give jailbirds a new lease of life, infuse some self-esteem in their otherwise shamed personality. I first met him and his actors during a press interaction ahead of Madhavi's being staged at Ravindra Kalakshetra, about five years back.  

The difference he brought about for Madhavi, was that he managed to bring women prisoners who would actually ``wear masks'' (masks of shame, ego, suppression or whatever one could call it), out of the closet named jail. Not an easy task, considering Muttappa Rai was being housed at the high security jail then, and jail officials were all the more apprehensive about letting women act. And so was Karim Lala Telgi, and this was even before the multi-crore stamp paper scam shook the nation.

Women we met there wore sarees of the same colour, and certainly not the stereotyped white sarees with blue border, for their rehearsals. Their sarees in a different hue seemed to set them apart from the rest of the prison crowd, which in itself was a world of difference.

Kattimani told us then that the whole exercise of bringing the actor in them to light, was a tough one. ``They would not open themselves up at all. Blank expressions, lifeless. They were indeed wearing masks,'' he said. Some of them were at the jail on charges of murder, some on theft, some were co-prisoners who turned convicts by providence.

So like his three month camps earlier with the jailed men, here too, he spent most of his time during the three months, with the prisoners, taught them pottery, painting, making masks, clay-modelling, making props, etc to break open the walls in their mind. 

The result showed in the sheer confidence these women displayed when they sang folk songs and danced in amazing synchrony to beats, in their layered acting skills, and more importantly ease with which they spoke to men in the prison, post the period. An hour's chat with them proved they had grown to discover themselves and their own purpose in life over the period. Many wondered how only the poor who commit crimes ended in prisons, how politicians and the rich were never around. Some even thought of pursuing theatre after they finished their jail terms.

Staging of the play a day or two later in the city was a success, despite the sleepless nights it gave to the constables manning them behind the stage. These prisoners put on a show like pros.

More so, it gave the women a reason to smile. Sadly, I had to leave the show midway to rush to Express and file a quick copy for the night's edition. The other play I watched was Taledanda, that again is a classic by Karnad, held three years ago. In fact, I had to do a whirlwind train journey and leave my brother's wedding celebrations aside so I could get back to Bangalore and watch the play.

This time round, women prisoners were not allowed to take part, by the ever-apprehensive jail authorities. So Kattimani got women employees from a bank to volunteer as co-actors. 

One had to be on the dais to see the adulation Kattimani got ...from the prisoners and police after the play. The actors actually lifted him in joy. 

He has been around in the prisoners' play scene for about 10 years, and in spite of all the hurdles he faces in schooling them in acting. But he has brought in a whole new dimension to the word `reform' - in real sense.

It's about time our prison policy changed for good -- by bringing in the positive into their lives.

 

Famila: a leader gone too early

It's been four years since she died. But Famila remains special in my memory. For many reasons. To me, the woman who walked into Indian Express those many years ago to speak about their Hijra Habba, opened my eyes to the third gender. Complexities, victimisation, their cries for help in an insensitive system...she spoke it all as a matter-of-fact. Not as an activist, although she was one. For someone who did not complete her degree and grew up in a conservative home, she was leader material. I remember how I became conscious in their presence...how the other staffers who passed by would give her and her friends curious looks.

She broke traditions within the hijra community. A difficult thing, considering that in our part of South India, they took quite a while to open up and assert themselves in a positive sort of way. She bore hostility from her peers and places of work in the bargain.

Her friend Kajal, the chirpy one who too died several months later, was equally endearing. ``When girls from rich families wear skimpy clothes and walk around on MG Road, people hardly talk against them. But when we stand on the same road for our bread and butter, police arrests us in the name of soliciting? Are those girls not soliciting too?'' These were Kajal's words at a conglomerate on women's issues held about six years back.

Am pasting below a feature about Famila, Kajal and a friend of theirs -- my first story for Tehelka, way back in 2004. In the picture, the first from right is Famila...Kajal is beside her. At the time of this interview, Famila had attempted suicide once. But had decided to put it behind her and start life afresh. She did not certainly know that there would be mayhem after her death. But that people would forget her soon and get on with creating more transgender stars.

``Call us Women''

Famila is in her 20s, speaks excellent English, and dresses well. Famila is aware of her legal rights and is a clear thinker. She represents the new generation of eunuchs, popularly known as hijras. They have a singular demand: "Call us women. Give us that status." Their appeal is justifiable. They are as vulnerable to violence and exploitation as women, but are seen as members of a 'third gender', which means belonging to an obscure sexual minority. But now, their demand is slowly and steadily gaining momentum. Famila talks easily about her occupation: 'voluntary sex work' (as she and her friends call it). "It is our choice. We are not trafficked or forced into it,'' they say. Unlike many of her peers who are confined to hamams or bathhouses and live in groups, she and her friends live independently. Famila used to work with an NGO for the welfare of sexual minorities, Sangama. "I had joined it as I thought it was a space for me to grow as an individual, with a lot of security,'' she says. She continued as a sex worker while she was employed by the NGO. "There was constant police harassment. Sangama did not like our (hijras) dressing up there in the evening to go out for sex work. They were afraid of the police,'' she says. "I was made to resign as I refused to give up sex work.'' A frustrated Famila attempted suicide in late December, 2003. She slit her wrist and had to be forced to seek medical help. She had a long-time affair with an unemployed married man who "was lazy, not willing to work. I had to support him. He did not like my paying attention to other men," she explains. A common thread links Famila and hundreds of women who attempt suicide every year. While many women go through depression because they are suffering, here it gets compounded because people like Famila 'choose' to be women. It is their in-built desire. What society forgets is that while social acceptability of hijras is dismal, they are as vulnerable to violence as women, be it rape, torture in police custody, gang rapes on streets that go unreported and even harassment within families. "Their depression is related to social stigma and sadism by males, or by wives of men who are attracted to them. These wives could make their life miserable,'' says the head of the Department of Psychiatry at St Martha's Hospital, Dr Ajit Bhide, who has counselled hijras. "Hijras are a variation of bisexuality. It is a disorder of sexual disorientation. Some of them are hermaphrodites with physical characteristics of women. But we need to destigmatise it,'' says Dr Bhide, comparing it to 'disability'. "If you do not have a hand you are disabled. But that does not mean you should be discriminated against,'' he says. Arvind Narrain, of the Alternative Law Forum, an NGO that contests cases for sexual minorities, echoes Bhide's opinion. "Medical curricula in medical colleges should be reformed to move beyond seeing transgenderism as a disease and a deviance,'' he says, adding that sex reassignment surgeries should be made available in government hospitals. Thanks to the ambiguity of gender, hijras are denied basic citizens' rights like a ration card, a driving license and passport by the government. In terms of employment, jobs are nil, as organisations do not employ them. "We have just four options-begging, sex work, cooking or being a fortune teller in a temple,'' says Famila. Most hijras prefer sex work as it does not require any special skill, she says. Hijra in Arabic means holy, and could have been derived from the Urdu word ezra meaning a wanderer or nomad, says a study conducted by The People's Union for Civil Liberties. Hijras claim a sacred place due to their third gender status. Most hijras in India live in groups that are organised into seven gharanas or houses in Pune, Mumbai and Hyderabad. "We have nayaks who appoint the spiritual gurus. The system is matriarchal. For example, Sneha is my daughter,'' says Famila, pointing towards Sneha. Sneha had to go to Hyderabad to take permission from the spiritual leaders, to accept Famila as her 'mother'. "The structure is flexible and if some day she does not want to be my daughter, she can opt out,'' she says. Famila is also Sneha's 'husband' symbolically, since no outsider would marry her. Sneha wears the black-bead chain, a symbol of 'matrimony'. Hijras go through a castration ceremony for acceptance into the community (bisexual hijras or kothis do not get castrated). Most hijras are born males, but a few are born hermaphrodites or inter-sexed. Taking that giant step towards castration is like moving a mountain for hijras. Famila says the sex reassignment surgery (SRS) is a pain. "I went to a place in Tamil Nadu. It is an open secret that some doctors do it. But while the surgical instruments were clean enough, I was made to sleep on benches in unhygienic conditions after that and bled in pain constantly. I suffered there for 20 days and was sent to Bangalore. Doctors refused to treat me here,'' she remembers. Famila then went to her family who got her hospitalised. Few lawyers take up hijras' cases. Giving hijras the status of women instead of talking about rights for the 'third gender' would help them in many ways, says Arvind Narrain. "The judiciary is not educated on this issue. It does not understand the deep psychological roots. Even women's movements have not taken note of it,'' he says. "It will be difficult to include that 'third gender', to amend every law. It is easier instead to call them women and say hijras in brackets through an amendment Act,'' he says. Famila's friend Kajol explains how this would make their lives easier. "At present, we have reservation of seats for women in buses. If we were to demand reservation, it would become difficult for everyone," she says. "But if we are given the status of women with 'hijra' referred to in brackets, it would help.'' Photographer K Venkatesh, who covered the Koovagam festival in Tamil Nadu and held an exhibition over a year ago, feels their demand is justified. "At that annual festival, there is a fashion show and then a religious ceremony for their 'marriage' to Lord Koothandavar. I have seen models at other fashion shows. But here, their involvement in spending on clothes, walking the ramp and the time for dressing up is so immense!'' he says. "They are as professional as other models. You can hardly make out the difference,'' says Venkatesh. His book of photographs on the festival is testimony to this. Famila and her friends organised the Hijra Habba last year, through Vividha, their collective forum. "We did not have the money. We had to start from scratch by manki, our tradition of begging,'' she says. The Hijra Habba 2003 (Festival of Eunuchs) brought its share of attention to the problems of eunuchs. "But after all the hard work, my own friends started accusing us organisers of 'eating up the money' and demanded explanations,'' Famila says. Some hijras in north India have entered politics, contested elections and become mayors of cities. But this is still a dream for their southern counterparts. Violence on sexual minorities has come down in recent years in Bangalore because of extensive work by NGOs and their awareness programmes. Though the violence still continues, there is hope. Famila found solace from her depression at the World Social Forum in Mumbai last month, where she met people like her. Today, she's raring to raise awareness for her brethren. THE LEGAL WEAPONS • "If I am into sex work, I only have to walk on the road and I will be charged with being a public nuisance." • The Criminal Tribes Act 1871 used by the British was one of the first steps towards violence against hijras • Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code criminalises any 'carnal intercourse against the order of nature' • Immoral Trafficking Prevention Act, 1986 is most often used against hijras though they say they are neither traffickers, nor are trafficked • Civil laws that deprive them of several rights such as the right to own property, right to marry, right to identity through passport, ration card, driver's license, education, employment and health

Butterfly

Butterfly on a wall! What a shape! Brown melting into peacock blue-green and a shiny textured wall for background! The truth: It's a shell on the sea-shore. 

First impressions of a mega city

My baby guest and his parents have gone back to Bangalore, leaving my home and home office quiet. It is as if suddenly, my husband and me are left only with the memory of his antics to keep us occupied.

My home was not so noisy in all the months that I have lived here. Am still amazed at how anything moving made the little guy watch in rapt attention and enjoy it, while stillness around bored him like crazy. I even joked about it with his mother, my co-sister and my name-sake (yeah, we share the same name - quite a treat on the ears when the two of us are at the same spot and someone calls either of us by name). I told her the baby is gone on me -- who loves to travel and go places, meet people, read stories realtime...

That's what made me fall in love with Mumbai the first time I travelled around. Fascination. Fear. Its huge roads and highways. Its sheer size and magnitude. Early Jan 2004, I visited Mumbai to attend two events. One of them was the World Social Forum that this city hosted. My friend, then a student at Indira Gandhi Institute of Development Research, had even fixed up a guest room for me so I could move in once my first event was over.

It meant, a ride from Bandra's Mount Mary (close to Shah Rukh Khan's bungalow) to Goregaon. For the die-hard Bangalore-bred that I was, I had no clue what distance in Mumbai meant. I had to skip a quick visit to Band Stand and hire an auto-rickshaw from there. 

The ride through Western Express Highway left me baffled. Huge. Really Huge. Mumbai. Its size. Its people everywhere - in the towers, in the shanties, in those hutments along the highway.What makes this city stand by itself and not collapse under its own weight - weight of its teeming millions. Weight of its forever moving heads that pop out of locals, buses, cars, just about anywhere! The whole ride from Bandra to Goregaon's Film City Road cost me only about Rs 120 - a world of difference by Bangalore standards.

The auto-driver was surely lost for words when I made him drive into the IGIDR campus. `Yeh to jungal hai memsaab,' he said. It did not prompt him to overcharge me. Wow! What a delight! A Bangalore auto-driver would have looted me by now! 

A quick trip to Shirdi and back scared me out completely. Those swarming crowds at Sion, outside Bandra and practically everywhere during the peak hour - no room between any two heads. Still those thousands (I would say thousands though they would have been hundreds in a minute) would move constantly. Mechanically. As if going nowhere.

Those images surely frightened a visitor from another planet (me), but the campus where my friend studied and lived, was a breather. I remember the view of these Goregaon hills from the students' hostel there. How refreshing to see hills in a city of concrete and dust! How I wish I had a home here! Nestled in this very green stretch! But hey, who knows, with sharks out there to grab every bit of land available, this green stretch could be lost soon.

I was not all that wrong, much to my own distress. 

When my fiance' broke the news to me last year that he had found a home for us to move in post-wedding, my first query was: where? `Gokuldham', he replied. Eeks! He read out the address to me later and lo! Geographically my would-be home was very much behind the IGIDR campus! And in those very hills that I saw, loved and wished for a home at!

Still, a gap of four years did its work on my fading memory. I forgot that the stretch between Goregaon station and Western Express Highway was actually a big one, and so was the distance between the highway and home. At least half an hour by bus and not less then 10-15 minutes by other modes. By Mumbai standards, we live in the interiors.

I was happy I moved into a new home, even newly built and hardly a couple of years old. But the hills sure had been mauled at, with all the concrete and asphalt. Those guilt-pangs continue. It is better they do.

Babies have their choices

Babies have something that makes your day without you spending money. Their toothless smiles. Their eager eyes that talk to you minus the words. Their superb ability to make you chuck your inhibitions and dance. My three and half month old nephew has come visiting.

While he can do all of this, he surprised us a little more. His mother casually told him `Up' after the hourly feed and held his tiny hands. The toothless wonder actually put all of his weight on his tummy and managed to sit up. Am told it's something babies don't do before they turn four months.

He has his choice of filmy numbers that play on TV too. A Tamil dappaangoothu we elders would otherwise cringe at for its cheap lyrics is actually his anthem. Mr Baby cries and cries when he is irritated. Play the song on the mobile and he turns silent. Switch it off and he bawls again. 

He has not taken a liking yet to soft music. Dance numbers are his choice.

For all our fears of what he would do on travel, he loves it, by bus, train, autorickshaw, taxi...not even the deafening sound of a passing train scares him much. The only minute I saw him break into a wail was when the local train stopped. All of us came home and dropped dead, while the guy continued playing between his spells of sleep.

Hugh! Today's babies did they say! 

Terror and trash tubs

Aside from bloodbath, fright and TV TRPs, blasts have contributed to something India would rather produce more in number than do away with - trash bins.

Agreed police have the best intentions - security, when they do away with the trash bins. But then how much trash can cities take in their absence? Just walk across to the monuments and you'll understand. Had been to Gateway yesterday. Night view.

Its conservation project seems like eternity to get over. And makes less sense, with more concrete and less green.

As for trash, people just find a great reason now to throw it around. Coffee cups, channa covers, newspapers used for chaats...we Indians score least on civic sense. No trash cans at public places means another excuse to have lesser, if not no civic sense. So I was not surprised by what I saw.

Two things are primary here. That the touristing crowd does not carry litter bags or anything they can tuck away trash in. Secondly, the police and municipality are either caught in an unwanted tiff or just don't care.

A pity that this city of zillions does not have a big campaign save for a movie on its safaiwallahs. It is time though, that we citizens decide to step in.

Not a big problem. Just tuck in a plastic cover you picked up from the super-market, into your pocket or handbag. When you do use that pack of wafers or potato chips, or even a plastic container of packaged drinking water, stash it off in your cover before you get tempted to throw it. 

And don't give a damn to passersby if you get stared at for it. You're not doing anything wrong. You are in fact doing the right thing. But yeah, if you're lucky to find a trash can - may be in a restaurant or chaat shop, do drop it by. You'll risk a nasty look by the concerned keepers. Never mind. Else, just carry it, all the way home. It's a trouble. True. But you could still pat yourself for not littering public places.

Wear the clean halo now. Doesn't it feel good! 

 

Journeys that matter

On Friday, Ms Lakshmi touched base with her old student in Mumbai. And when the student pressed her to visit her home, she did not hesitate much. Even if that meant a long bus ride from Thane to Borivali, and from there southwards to Goregaon.

She had her college-going son and school-going nephew for company. And made sure she bought a box of sweets and some spiced mixture for her student. A bus ride from Thane to Borivali takes about 45 minutes. The route from Borivali to Goregaon by Western Express Highway is shorter, but not easy when traffic stops, stopping everything that moves on the road.

Still, she made the trip. It was a journey that mattered like nothing else did. To her, and more to her student who had married another student of hers. She was my teacher, who overwhelmed me on Friday with the sheer effort she put in to come home. She, was my teacher, Mrs Lakshmi Jayaraman (me prefers the more standardised Ms) , who taught my husband and me when wew were at school and whose painstaking efforts to pump in some creativity into our lessons, we remember to this day. 

My programme to go towards Thane did not work out thanks to visiting near ones and their three month old baby at home. She had come to visit her mother who underwent a surgery recently, and her brother with whom she was living this Dasara vacation. I insisted she make it and said I would be very happy to have her home. A minute later I did feel guilty too.  Who was I to make her do this? I mean what right did I have to? But she took time off to meet me and my husband. 

Not that my home was in great shape. As a homemaker I do not rate myself highly. Am more of the kind who gets hooked to reading online and writing. Blabbermouth me would talk non-stop with all that excitement. I even bombarded her with our wedding snaps viewing ritual.

Am sure I hardly left any room for her and the kids to talk. We touched her feet and she blessed us! Am still wondering how many teachers would do those extra miles to meet their students. The distance did matter as she could not stay longer. Returning to Thane meant a two hour journey again. 

Thanks to the north-bound traffic on the highway, they did get stuck for quite a while. But managed to reach home. Her gesture has still left me touched! Thank you ma'm! Thanks again.

It's Mumbai

It looks like a shot taken on a trek, or when you pass by that sleepy village by the highway.  It's in the heart of Mumbai. My sister and I took this pic close home. When you walk up the road we live on, you reach the point where our road descends into Film City, although it is not motorable. And that's where it looks so lovely in the evening. A picturesque view of Aarey Colony, Film City and lovely sunsets, if you don't mind the garbage strewn on ground.

Gender equal by design

My current home's layout floors me. I fell in love with it the minute I entered it. 

Minus the mandatory post-wedding ritual of pushing a kalash of rice, or leaving footprints behind or getting someone to do an aarti for us, my husband and I entered the rented home, tired after the journey by Udyan Express. And more so, exhausted by those endless bike rides on our Goa honeymoon just a few days prior. Its neatness was like fresh air.

A lovely floor, neatly tiled. The flat stands out like a long rectangular block, the window of every room facing a single direction - north. There is so much room for air to move and light to flow you can breathe easy. The windows are grilled, a pity. No balcony -- a disaster. But look out of the window and you get to see buildings popping up from other buildings, towers that speak of a tragedy that is Mumbai, some trees in between the buildings that envelope the skyline, the sleepy main road that comes to life when lights dot those numerous towers. 

On another side is a row of MHADA (Maharashtra Housing board) bungalows at a higher level. We're on a hill-slope. And these buildings were made after cutting the hill to suit these homes! Disaster.

The green hill-slope meandering itself over these homes paints a gloomy picture of the months to come. This was once a forest. And describing how and when it turned into lifeless concrete needs another story.

Back to the home layout however, you can shut the world out the minute you close its  door. Privacy unlimited. What impressed me more about the apartment was that it talks about sharing within the family in many ways with its layout.

The hall opens directly into a kitchen and its aisle does not have a door to clutter the space. If you want access to the bedrooms, better pass by the kitchen that's almost an open-kitchen. The kitchen window above the slab is a longish one, that outrides the need for an exhaust fan.

The slab should have been built better suited to Indian women. For my five feet something height, it certainly tires me a little when I feel like fixing a wooden plank beneath to adjust to the height. But the sink is fairly good in terms of design, and so is the location for a fridge and microwave. An L-shaped slab would have been a good option, but MHADA has obviously not given thought to it. 

It has an open feel to it, yet does not look pushy. It's small, though not suffocating. 

All through childhood and adult life I have believed the kitchen should be a shared space. A space that should help the family share, not confine it to gendered role-play that so pushes a woman to make it her world, that fiercely protects it from her own family.

Kitchens should be the last places in households to build barriers. They should help break them instead. After all, a good cook can win over many a heart. And a good cook need not be a woman. Men are great cooks too.

For a conservatively grown husband and rebellious me who would be at wits' end when my mother was so possessive about her kitchen, it took the two of us some time to evolve a system in this kitchen. My mother still holds on to her prayer room and kitchen as her world. The only other space I have seen her very comfortable in is the temple. 

In my current home though, among the two of us, either of us feels  guilty when the other is working alone in that 10 by 10 feet space. And we end up helping each other. When guests are home, they know what's happening out here and feel free to lend a helping hand or make suggestions.

It's very different from the kitchens I have gotten used to seeing. My Ammumma's kitchen at Chromepet, Chennai, was fairly big compared to pigeon holes that realtors cram into flats in the name of budget homes today. But it had the dark and eerie look too. An floor to roof open shelf for the many vessels, Maltova, coffee, tea and my favourite Bournvita cup among the many other steel glasses and cups, and a closed shelf etched into the wall with its wooden door and diamond-cuts mesh which housed pickles and chutneys among other durables. 

Some space beneath the cement slab that formed Ammumma's home for the Gods and Goddesses from across India. Another shelf-like space under the slab and next to this Gods' home was a mini-sink, that had an outlet for waste water. Some more shelves under the slab had other paraphernalia that formed her world to feed a family of eight children, a husband and teeming relatives. She even had a bowl-shaped chulha known as kumpeta/ kumpetu in Telugu.

Three people could work in her kitchen easily at once, chopping vegetables while they squatted on the floor, or using the gas stove placed on the slab, while another was busy with the morning prayer. 

Cut to the kitchen mother moved into in her initial years after marriage, and it was a heart-break. Hardly any room for one person to be comfortable, less ventilated and crying out in confusion -- its design was a desperation to get out of old-world kitchens with no idea what a modern kitchen meant.

The kitchens back at the DRDO quarters were fairly better. One person could comfortable work in them, although movement was a constraint. The saddest part of all these kitchens has been that they got tucked away in a corner of the household. More private, with hardly any scope for sharing. They were culprits by design.

The present kitchen my mother uses is far better in terms of its positioning in the house design. But by now, she got so used to having her kitchen her way, that the scope for sharing has become zero unless she decides to leave the space to one of us.

Not even a remote sprinkling  of commune-like existence could survive such a design that influenced a household culture so much.

Which is why, the kitchen my husband and I use is such a far cry. Kitchens have been debated about extensively in feminism for some time now. And the trend of open island kitchens will take some time to catch up in India, unlike in the US of A where it is a hot favourite now. But steps like these by state housing boards would help further such a culture in a more effective sort of way. I feel empowered by this kitchen.

Hope designs like these pave way for an enhanced culture of sharing. 

Dasara: Mysuru magic

Never came across a Mysore picture that captivates as much as this one. Enchanting, ethereal. The palace lit up so well looks like it is standing out of trees. A marked irregularity adds that magic touch to the picture. Shot by Narayan Yadav of Karnataka Photo News (KPN). It has appeared in http://churumuri.wordpress.com too, a few days back. It's a view from somewhere atop the Chamundi Hills. I had been to Mysore in June, but missed out on the visit to Chamundi Hills. I missed the visit last year too, when I travelled there for a Tehelka story about the city.

Gombe Habba, Danda Habba

Navratri back home in Bangalore has always been about kolu, gombe habba. 

For once in the whole twelve months of a year, our gods and goddesses, and their duplicates, get a chance to breathe fresh air, far from their suffocating interiors in the trunks, old suitcases and cardboard boxes.

Carefully unwrapping the old dresses that cushion the dolls in boxes, my mother and sister place them first on the floor. My father is busy fixing the steps made roughly out of a table, an old stool, and one of the trunks that later get wrapped with white cloth. An old suitcase makes up for a step too. `Only odd number of steps, no even numbers.' That's the thumb-rule I have not understood the logic behind yet.

As kids, once the steps project was over, my sister and I would immediately busy ourselves spreading some mud on the floor for our park. A little hut, a road, some plastic animals, a temple gopuram that my grandma gave us some years ago, a compound for the animals made with broom-sticks and thread, some green powder made with Holi colours and flour...sometimes a little pond that took shape on a plate we'd sink on the soil, even saw-dust from old chalk-boxes that made up for a road, or black velvet paper that we'd use for a clean road effect, and ...our park, our signature for the festival was ready. 

We'd show off the park to other kids in our block with so much enthusiasm that they would want to help us the next year too.

Our home celebration was not as grand as in some other homes of south Bangalore, but brought some spice into our lives. Everyday it was about a new delicacy and some neighbours visiting. A chance for gossip, chatter about school life, teachers, and that vague mention of holiday homework.

During dasara vacations in Chennai (then Madras) I remember accompanying my grandma to many households in our street and the adjoining one, where the best of Kolu displays left me in awe. Steps that would begin at the floor and go all the way up to the ceiling. Dolls of Gods, goddesses, soldiers, elephants, sometimes Mysore dasara procession...each home was a treat.

I would notice while walking those streets holding Ammumma's hand, how girls of my age would be dressed up in their best paavadai and blouse, their hair done up with ornaments and braids looking all the more pretty with kutchu (hair ornament woven into the plait, to hang at its bottom). And wish for them too.

The gombe habba excitement has faded over the years, only to re-emerge in some pockets of the city. But Bangalore's tradition has only grown a little richer, with the sizeable Bengali crowd celebrating Durga pooja, in close to 30 pandals across the city. One of the oldest Bengali associations is on Assaye Road and each year it's crowd only grows bigger. I remember covering an event there when Jyoti Basu presided and we journos could understand nothing -- the whole speech was in Bengali.

All along news of dandiya raas the Gujarati version of our Kolattam/ Kolatta that is so hyped in Mumbai and Gujarat would be played up by the news channels, despite Mysore and Kolkata being the main centres of Dasara festivities.

Out here in Mumbai, my curiosity about dandiya only grew stronger. I thought the ethnic best of Gujarat would play out itself in these nine days, colourful and energetic! Sad end.

Dandiya nights in Goregaon blare with their Bollywoodised versions, minus anything traditional save for the aarti songs. Am sure it has a little less to do with Film City being right here, near home. 

Housing societies here limit their commitment to as far as fixing good lights, microphones and some chairs. Even those socieities in South Bombay that hired traditional dancers no longer do so, says a news report today. True such a celebration gives a chance for the otherwise home-bound neighbours, especially women bored by their household chores and children, to come out, dance and have fun...but come to think of it, Pappu can't dance saala finding its way before a traditionally decorated Durga picture! And for kids growing up in an environment of Bollywood music onslaught, it makes them prance about with that much more energy! 

It kind of struck me that over the years, these celebrations have been going a few steps closer to discos up-town. 

Very  party-like, minus the DJ. So much that post 10 pm, society heads stand at their gates watching out for the police jeep. Arrival of the police means all dancing must stop. At 10.30 pm sharp. Thought that was only for discos!

And I thought dandiya raas was all about turning ethnic in traditional style and going upbeat about folk music! Someone please give me traditional fare in this part of Mumbai!