Aarushi…Rays of the Dawn…

Years ago, while on the drive to Poona, we were playing our favourite game: spotting ‘Truck Graffiti’. ‘Horn – Okay – Please’ was a common rear-end request but, occasionally, one would come across a gem like this one: God spare me from the clutches of a doctor, a lawyer and a scheming woman.  Being a woman, I would change that last to ‘a scheming man’.  And who wants to invite ill-health? But lawyer? You would have to experience an encounter to relate to that one!

 

When Mumbai Mirror published an extract from Aarushi by Avirook Sen (Penguin), I read through it avidly – I’ll admit to the voyeur in me.  But it was more than that.  It was a tragedy that had unfolded in real time with no sense of closure, even though a conviction was reached - too many questions, too many ‘whys?’, too many loose ends.  I picked up the book during a lunch break and delved into it post dinner.  I didn’t stop till the last page was turned.

Gripping narrative? No! But it was a fluid read through a journalist’s meticulously reported journey through the case.  Objective for the most part, it is not entirely dispassionate. But comment, inference and opinion are supported by illustrative and damning fact. Take the text of the judgement, for example: “The cynosure of judicial determination is the fluctuating fortunes of the….who have been arraigned for committing and secreting as also deracinating the evidence of commission of the murder of  their own adolescent daughter – a beaut damsel…”. There is more! The judge in question is apparently in the habit of reiterating, “I have command in English.” This was one of the lighter moments.

For the most part, the book takes us through the very sordid environment that is the Indian legal and law and order system, no holds barred. The scarred and the inured would probably retort, ‘So what’s new?’ There is, on the other hand, a new and rising generation who could make a difference, even if it is one person at a time. Which is why I make this my fervent recommendation: every college of every university in India should make this book compulsory reading.  This is no work of fiction. It is pure fact.

The book closes at the end of yet another ‘ordinary’ day.  For Aarushi, the rays of dawn are forever an altered reality. And I fervently paraphrase that driver’s prayer – from the clutches of the law, O God, spare me!

OPINIONATED

That’s me! 

This incident, from the early days in my new family, somehow comes forcefully to mind: my sister-in-law was throwing a party and there were a few first-time invitees.  She called me up and assigned me to one of them!  What for? To make the guest feel comfortable, at home, ‘not neglected’ – she would not know any of the others and it was my duty to break the ice!!  Well, that was certainly novel.  I had and have been - many times over – a first timer at many parties, but beyond a few introductions no one has ever looked after me in that kind of a special way.  One just sort of floated around till one either connected with a familiar face or a sympathetic group.  I was not too happy with the idea at the time, but looking back now, I realise what a lovely idea it was.  My sister-in-law was the perfect host and a caring one too.

Back to the present:  We have many first time visitors to our parish, either for their nuptials, funerals, particular events or choirs who are invited to participate in special liturgies.  They are ‘first-timers’ in an unfamiliar environment.  It would be so nice if one person, from the parish, were assigned to them, took care of them and made them feel ‘at home’.  It would also ensure that they become a part of who we are – the way we do things, what is acceptable and what is not.  I find the ‘outsider’ culture very prevalent in a parish, as it is in the corporate world.  We either cold shoulder or bark out instructions!

There is a quid pro quo involved too.  The welcomed should be accepting of the welcome!  Some visitors can be quite dismissive of any assistance; some even consider it interference!  Graciousness is both an art and a culture and no, it is not old fashioned!

Postscript: It is distressing, at least for me, that we sometimes come to know our ‘community’ members only in death.  I have played for quite a few funerals for members of the parish who are total strangers and not just to me!  It would be a good thing if community membership found invitation and acceptance among the living, in  gladness and not just in grief. 

The funeral I am playing for today, brought all this to mind.

A QUESTION OF ANONYMITY

Blogs should be bright and breezy.  Entertaining. Easy to read.  And serious ones, like medicine, should be honey coated to make them palatable.

 

Not this one.

A friend has been targeted by that all too frequently used weapon – the anonymous letter. My friend is not all sweetness and light.  She is no angel singing to tuneful accompaniment upon the harp.  And she knows that getting the job done does make enemies.  She takes that in her stride. But I do not. I am appalled by the cowardice that can accuse and allege but will not acknowledge ownership of such accusation.  I am even more appalled to discover that authority takes cognizance of such content. It is considered ‘feedback’. No smoke without a fire?

Not too long ago, I had the privilege of working with a very pragmatic boss.  If someone approached him with a grievance against a colleague or superior, he would bring accuser and accused together and ask for an open discussion where he served as mediator.  While this invariably sorted out matters, the method caused quite a bit of discomfort!  The anonymous letters commenced.  The boss made a very public announcement.  ‘I have received a number of complaints, all of them unsigned.  Since I am unable to acknowledge these directly, I am pleased to make a general announcement that all said complaints have been seriously, thoroughly and immediately addressed.  They have been consigned to the paper shredder.’  Now, that’s treating the anonymous letter with the contempt it deserves.

There is anonymity and anonymity.  And there is need to understand the difference.  There was a time when women authors would never have been published and so took on male pseudonyms; others did not want to be identified with their published work because of their public persona and used the pen name route, cloaking their own name with another.  Media knows all too well about sources that ‘do not wish to be quoted’.  A classic of its time – All the President’s Men – relied on ‘Deep Throat’ as informant.  But each lead was meticulously followed and checked.  Truth was the objective.  We have seen how courageous whistle blowers are dealt with, making the anonymous route even more desirable.  So, am I making a case for the anonymous complaint or not?

There is a fine line which divides the ethical from the dishonourable and we need to understand the difference. Anonymous letters are written by real people who presumably like to think that they have a conscience.  It would be well to remember that conscience and courage go hand in hand.

It would be a good thing, too, to call to mind yet another breed of people who prefer to remain unnamed: the numerous secret benefactors who do much to make this world better. 

The best time and place to be anonymous is when giving with a generous heart.

Knee Jerk!

How quickly we react, how easily we see in black and white only, and how easily we pass judgment. But is it really that simple? I’m going out on a limb here with what would be considered as outrageous by practically everyone who has lapped up the media reports that have appeared over the past two weeks.

Let’s take the first.  A prank call, a lot of smug laughter, some chaffing, some backslapping (for those that pulled it off) and wide media coverage.  At that point it was still a prank to top all pranks! And then the laughter turned to censure. Just like that.  What an awful thing to do! How irresponsible! The pranksters are now considered criminals.  Irresponsible, certainly. But, criminal?

Let’s look at the picture a little more closely.  Two people impersonate public figures and make a prank call.  They do not know who will take the call and they probably expect to be sent off with the proverbial flea in the ear.  The nurse on duty makes an error of judgment, and the prank goes viral.  The unintended ‘victim’ becomes a joke.  Suicide follows. 

Now look at a mother who has to choose between remaining a national joke for probably a very long while (certainly among colleagues and friends) and being there for two children whom she is raising and loves very much.  Hard choice?  Probably, but only if you are already close to the edge.  A nurse’s life is not easy: graveyard shifts, the responsibility for life, taking tough calls, dealing with extreme illness, dealing with death. And, in this particular case, a duty that allowed a mother to connect with family only once in the week: the kind of life that would take its toll on the strongest of persons, physically, mentally and emotionally.  So, was the prank the cause of suicide? Or was it the last straw? Think about it. Then, whom would you hold responsible? 

Soon, the headlines change dramatically. We hear about the massacre of the innocents.  The one thing that should be a certainty is that children should always be safe: at home, in school, on the playground – everywhere. A while ago I read a novel titled ‘We need to talk about Kevin’ which has so many parallels that, in hindsight, it is almost predictive in its content: an exclusive affluent environment, a child that is different and who prefers to be excluded, the murder of a parent (and a sibling) and the massacre of a class in a truly gruesome way.  

So where lie the answers? Because, surely, there are questions that need to be addressed; issues that need to be confronted and assurances obtained that such an abomination will not happen again. 

Could we find it possible to look at the perpetrator as a victim? Or is it just too convenient to write him off as a psycho – someone monstrously evil?

Look again at the child who was different.  A broken family (the school had a Psychiatrist that had to help children with issues ‘that they were unprepared to handle’ and these were children in the age group 5 – 10!); a father who left; a mother who seems to be the tough cop’s daughter and who taught her boys how to handle a gun (the choice of guns sounds more like a male statement than an option for security) and there is nothing more powerful than the feel of a gun in the hand – alone you are vulnerable, with a gun you are invincible; a closed neighbourhood that sent out a message that they were perfect in an imperfect world.  

To me, this is the story not of individuals but of a society that demands more – much more – in terms of who you should be, what you should deliver and the image you have to maintain.  It is the story not of individual crime but of collective error. We need to turn the mirror on ourselves and face the truth.  We need to retrace our steps and find the wrong turns. We need to ask ourselves the tough questions and accept the tougher answers.

When it comes to being as we believe God meant us to be, we need to stand tall and call the shots.  Without using a gun.

Hairspray!

It should have been a happy recall of those bouffant times, when we teased and sprayed our hair into impossible ‘beehives’ to stay in fashion, until brittle hair and threatening baldness made us realise that natural fall and bounce was the right way to go.  Instead, it was an evening of muffed lines, flat voices, a mike system that copped out more than once and a storyline that was robbed of its punch because of all that.  ‘Hairspray’, the musical, may not be among the better known or as sing-a-long as the Lloyd-Weber offerings, but it does have catchy tunes and chirpy lyrics.  Despite being set in the sixties, it still has a young flavour and the message is still valid.  Though black/white segregation is mostly a thing of the past, discrimination is not, and even ‘impossible’ dreams can be realised. 

After two hours, my immediate reaction was ‘what a waste of an evening!’ And then I overheard the director and teachers telling the children how well they had performed and there were congratulations offered all round. That’s when I did a reality check.

Here were school kids who had never ever done something like this: acting in a Musical and essaying parts that were as alien to them as the Man in the Moon. Okay, so they did stumble at times, but the one thing that came through was their one hundred percent commitment to the performance and their total enjoyment – they were onstage, in the moment and lovin’ it! And every child in the school had their spot in the limelight.  How cool was that?

Those schoolchildren may never ever sing or dance onstage again (or they may – who knows?), but they will carry the joy of this moment with them for the rest of their lives and probably hand it down to a future generation.

So, what’s more important: a flawless, professional performance or the happiest school time memory?

Taking myself for ‘Grant’ed…

Ethnic classification is a big deal.  “Where are you from?’ will always be part of a first conversation, directly or indirectly, sooner or later.  Or, enquiries will be directed at the colour of your skin, your accent, the way you dress, your attitudes and, since these are all characteristic of who you are, they define you not just as a person but define your background as well!

For very long, I moved in familiar environments – everyone knew me well and so I did not have to answer questions of ethnicity. Now, once again, I move in different circles and the questions are floated afresh: ‘Are you a foreigner? Are you really an Indian? What do you do to stay so fair? How come you do things the way you do? Where does your accent come from?’ Everything is under the scanner, up for scrutiny and fair game for analysis.

I love to throw in a few personal definitions for good measure. I tell them I’m a little bit of this and a little bit of that, a patchwork bedspread, neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring, a mini-UN, a peace front for what used to be inimical nations (British, German, Indian!), a three part harmony.  

So, what does it mean to be Anglo Indian? For one, I am not tied to customs and traditions. While I love to observe from the sidelines the various rites and rituals that define a community - the links in the chain of generations – I am at the same time relieved that I am not bound by such observance (or, certain rules and regulations!)  I confess that I am sometimes the cause of anarchy.  Take for example my school classroom (a very new and learning experience).  Schoolgirls, it seems, need permission for everything.  This results in a lesson being punctuated every now and then with, ‘Miss, please may I drink water?’  Accustomed to adult postgraduate class where everyone, including the lecturer, can sip quietly from glass or bottle without interrupting the flow and concentration, I was fazed – thrown completely off balance.  At the back of my mind was an irritated, ‘Do you have to ask?’ Now, I tell them, ‘In my class, if you need to drink water, just go ahead and do so.  Just do not interrupt me.’ The girls will soon have to manage a balancing act to remember what they can and cannot do in which teacher’s classroom!  

It is typically Anglo Indian to be different and to be highly individual.  This may not have been so with the first generation of AIs who would have tried to fit in with either or all of the cultures they represented, but strong rejection led to the very distinctive identity that evolved – standalone and devil may care! If there is anything that is ‘customary’ it is that we exist in the moment, live for the day, carry no baggage and are totally spontaneous.  But we break no laws. And, yes, we are thick skinned considering the criticisms that we invite for the way we are. 

We have often been termed butterflies in the derogatory sense, and I find this amusing.  Butterflies live for just one day, but in that day they fill the air with colour and motion that are enchanting to behold.  And they infuse every moment with the useful contribution of their whole self.  One does not forget an encounter with butterflies.  Butterflies are God’s gift. And butterflies are free.

P.S. The title is a pun on my maiden name ‘Grant’!

PPS: Someone asked me, recently, what diet I observed to stay fair!  I was tempted to say, ‘Lots and lots of potatoes – eat white to stay white!”  Now that’s an AI response for you!!

Where should the line be drawn?

The newspapers are suddenly full of it. People are full of it. The very air is full of it! Corruption, that is a way of life, is under verbal assault. Will words give way to action? I am by nature a pessimist. That way, if good results, I can be pleasantly surprised!

One newspaper announced, “If you have never paid a bribe, influenced a decision, paid black money towards purchase of a flat … write to us about your experience.” I thought back to my one experience of holding out in order to obtain a ‘bribe free’ ration card – my right as a domiciled national. That one incident cured me of expectation. That is how bad it is.

My father, a stern individual who tolerated no grey between right and wrong, also learnt this lesson the hard way. A pensioner of the Indian Army, he would walk the half hour distance to the Pay& Accounts office only be told by the peon that the necessary forms were not available. Father would diligently walk to and fro each day, only to be given the same reply. When he found out that others had obtained the forms by the simple expedient of greasing the peon’s palm, he was furious. He rebuked the organization but to no avail. Lethargy and corruption are two sides of the same coin. Father needed his pension to survive. Reluctantly he succumbed. But not without a sarcastic comment about ‘chai pani’ to the peon, who smirked in response. Considering the number of government pensioners at any given time, that peon must have raked in the moolah. This was thirty-five years ago.

Yes, I have paid a bribe for an out of turn gas cylinder (six months of cooking on a kerosene stove cured me of holding out), I have paid a bribe for an out of turn telephone connection (that was in the time before mobile phones and considering that all my neighbours treated my home as a public call booth, I more than paid for that ‘crime’) and yes, I paid a cash component towards the purchase of a flat – I needed a roof over my head and no builder, then, ever sold a flat on ‘cheque only’ payments. The tax component made the final price prohibitive. And that tax component was actually ‘fixed’ by the dealing officer who deliberately set a higher penalty in order to receive something under the table for a considerable reduction. You learnt to subvert the law in order to avoid a bribe! When I spoke to an officer of the Income Tax about it, he replied. “Madam, even I have paid cash for my flat. I cannot say so openly but everyone knows.”

Even when all is in order, the powers that be hold out and harass till they get what they want. So deep-rooted is corruption that one is suspicious of anything that comes without a price.

And as long as there is need, as long as there is greed, as long as there are those who can sniff opportunity and exploit it, there will always be those who take from givers willing and reluctant, able and unable.

Only those who have nothing or want nothing could ever be free from corruption. Given our vulnerability to need, would that ever be possible?

A President Visits

"Pussy cat, pussy cat where have you been?"

"I’ve been to London to see the Queen!"

When Clinton came to Mumbai, he walked among the people, smiled and waved. He even visited a local hostelry. And even though he came with a tarnished image, everyone wanted a glimpse of this goriya phirang and his very pretty daughter and, what is more, they got it.

Hubby had taken Bonnie, our collie, for a walk and it so happened that Clinton was on the opposite side of the road. Hubby was thrilled. When he returned, he remarked, “Bonnie saw Clinton!” She got to woof at him too. Such was the time, such was the tenor.

This weekend, another American President visits. Sanitisation, unprecedented security and a whole lot of dos and don’ts. A cohort of 500, two truckloads of weapons and a 900 tonne armoured automobile. All this for just a few minutes at select venues over two days. The city is in a tizzy! This morning, I noticed that the manhole covers had all been taped over. Every monsoon, these manholes invariably lack covers and the swirling waters suck people into their murky depths. In all my sixty years I have never seen a taped manhole cover in Mumbai. We are, it seems, expendable.

The roads have been swept clean, the kerbs painted and the pavements barricaded. The hawkers have been spirited away and people are discouraged from the casual stroll or shop-front sightseeing – a very Colaba occupation. The visiting President will see a ghost town and not this bustling, busy, noisy, smelly, larger than life, in your face, sometimes hostile but mostly welcoming city of mine. Pity.

Once a cat could look at a Queen and a collie could woof at a President. But this is a different time, this is a different tenor. And we must be neither seen nor heard.

Childhood yesterday, today, tomorrow?

Thunder and lightning greeted daybreak and looking up at the stormy skies, I waited for the deluge with anticipation. Sure enough, the rain came bucketing down, thrumming on the weather shades and splashing off the sills and panes. I revel in the noisy fanfare that heralds a goodly shower, thanks to remembered childhood tales of the Norse gods who threw thunderbolts or hammered enthusiastically on heavenly drums. The rain, of course, was the result of heaven’s floors receiving their annual wash down! There is a lovely anecdote which tells of a child looking up and smiling at every flash of lightning because ‘God was taking her picture’. It is incidents like these which recall a childhood filled with magical moments. And it is these moments that we carry through to adulthood even though we also belonged to the ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ generation.

Over the last few days, the newspapers have spoken to us of the death of a child – a little boy who committed suicide because he was caned by his headmaster. And as part of the media focus, a prominent columnist, a ‘bad girl’ by her own admission, has stated her point of view. No stranger to the Principal’s office, I too received my share of whacks: smarting palms, stinging calves and strident scolding were battle scars - of skin and ear - to be endured. And we are certainly here today to tell the tale with, perhaps, a hint of bravado? Suicide was definitely not on the agenda and despite the ignominy of the label and the cane, life was for living and living to the full.

So, why would a little boy want to throw away his life? Are today’s children more sensitive, more vulnerable? He brought stink bombs to the classroom which, in my time, would have been paid for by a good long kneel, on a very hard floor, hands to ears and copious tears. An additional whack from a parent for good measure reinforced the message that stink bombs were a no-no. Perhaps caning is also a no-no. But the trigger for suicide? Surely, there must be more than that.

Childhood begins in the home. That place where attitudes and abilities are formed and the armour to face the world is built up bit by bit. And home is where we need to look. Tragically, the life that has been lost cannot be brought back, but other parents can open up to the heartfelt message – cherish your child. A child that is well grounded and secure can communicate and be reassured in return. A child that is loved in a stable home environment will not blow out of proportion the anger, or punishment, meted out by an ‘outsider’. A child which can interact with its parents does not need to internalize fear. And a child that knows the rough and tumble of the real world, rather than the virtual one of television and video games, can face up to almost anything this nasty old world will certainly deliver.

Blame and shame are deterrents but not the solution. The solution lies in truth. A child is dead and with him the truth of the situation has also died. But there are other children with lives to be lived. And care and counseling of both child and caregiver will help them realise that wonderful truth.