The Hypocrisy of Indian Food-Loving

'Anybody know of a good Italian place near Brigade, preferably pizza?' I'm not sure this guy even knew what he wanted. Pizza is a broad term that in this country usually has nothing to do with Italian cuisine. And I won't complain; have you ever tried the local ketchup version? Anyway, I didn't have a suggestion for him. Looking for something specific in India in terms of dining out, unless you're not broke, is literally rocket science. I mean, have you been to the food courts in our malls? You think for a second that you've finally found a cheap quesadilla stall, when boom! Out pops a paneer tikka-naan combo. You know, for the faint-hearted. You could even have fries with that. The point is, our restaurants refuse to commit to a specialty. In fact we will go far enough to Indianize the few dishes we do attempt. Ketchup pizzas ain't got nothing on tandoori sauce in a burger drowning in God knows what they put in that white thing they call mayo. Or tartar or ranch.

And that's perfectly okay. Unless you try to make it work the other way around. Take a deprived-of-Calcutta-rolls Bengali to the Kaati Zone here and watch with diabolical glee as he spits out his first bite while he yells 'Jogonno!' Observe the aunty at a kitty party recounting the horrors of her last night's dinner invitation nightmare at a south Indian home as she swears she tasted tamarind in the dal makhani. All this while they enjoy a bowl of chips and, oh wait, that's not salsa, is it?

We are very traditional people, okay, we take our cuisines seriously. Unless, you know, it's a cuisine we know nothing about. In that case, what the hell, throw in a little garam masala. I think it's just that we try too hard to please. Well, at least we're overt hypocrites about all of it. Now shut up and try this homemade cake already. It's eggless.

Republic Day 2013

What is different about today?

Well, for starters, it's the 26th of January and for the first time I am not in a patriotic mood. I haven't done my usual routines: finding an ethnic outfit of the colors of the flag, wake up early to watch the parade, watch Border or 1942 A Love Story... You know, all the usual things that I've grown up doing on this day of the year. My alarm did ring this morning, trying to wake me up to catch the live parade, but I shut it off mournfully and went back to sleep. I am dressed in purple. And no movies for me; I have to scrub the house clean all day so my mother, who is arriving early tomorrow morning, is not given a chance to find fault with my very first solo apartment setup. 

Today is different because I do not find a reason to celebrate. Today is different because I cannot watch the telecast that I normally love watching because I want to kick in the teeth of the smiling faces of the men and women in power who mock us everyday with their indifference. Today is different because while the troops make a big show of their artillery, the unjustified deaths of tortured soldiers go unnoticed. Because while sweet little girls dance and display our beautiful culture, rapists go unpunished. Today is different because for the first time in my rather country-loving life, I am a skeptic.

Frustration

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon, much like all Saturday afternoons. Not like weekends meant anything to her. She looked for a fitting spot for herself. 

I've got to find myself a better street, she thought to herself. The college street she frequented on most days was barricaded for some sort of a fest this weekend. What lives these kids have, she'd often muse as she watched them go by, their brightness lighting up the streets as they purposefully strutted down the familiar promenade towards each of their dream worlds in the future. They either seemed to know what they want or did not really care enough to want anything yet, she thought. They'll get there soon enough, she scoffed.

She turned her attention towards the street she was on right now, on this uneventful afternoon. She looked at the few men and women in suits who walked around with the look of temporary relief on their faces. Why weren't these people at home, I mean who works on Saturdays? She guessed at what each of these lost beings might be trying to escape from at home in the middle of a weekend. 

She wondered about her own situation as she began to set up outside the entrance to a near-empty cafe. The struggle she was going through didn't seem so different than those of others. She replayed her mother's words in her head and wondered if she really was the failure her mother said she was. Was wanting to do what makes you happy a crime? Did she not deserve to leave a mark in this world as somebody of her choice? Were these people with steady jobs any less confused than her?

She snapped out of it. She will have a real audience one day. But no path was complete without thorns, and she would do whatever it takes to get there. But for now, she must get out her pick and start strumming this guitar if she wants to get a head start. If nothing else maybe she would entertain these handful of depressed souls and leave a mark in their memory of this quiet Saturday. That is what musicians do, isn't it?

The Birth of Venus

My white walls of imprisonment slowly opened to the noisy world of anticipated hope. As I rose powerfully from their dreams, they yearningly looked to me, drinking me in like a rich velvety wine of the gods, with the bitter-sweetness of salvation. I heard their eyes cry out to me for help, and I smiled cruelly. The dark skies, unnoticed by the unsuspecting fools, resonated the sound of my vile thoughts. I longed for the smoke off their burning souls when they would taste the wrath of my vengeance. For love, they would find out soon, is the wreath of poison ivy that I would adorn on their vulnerable hearts, one from which they would never truly wake.

Lady of Shalott

I look around resignedly for last remnants of the hope that has betrayed me a million lives ago and left me for dead. The pristine calm of the river cuts violently into my sanity with its deafening stillness. My eyes, in midst of long, wild, unrestrained strands of flowing hair, slowly comb the banks for company amongst the suspicious cloaks of the trees that imprison my soul.  I could be saved by the slightest signs of movement, but even my boat, which lies still in the arms of death in its exasperating grandeur, has now abandoned its oars. The white of my gown laughs unaffectedly in the face of the imperfection that is my solitude. Time ceases to matter, for I am alone, and have perhaps always been so.

The relativity of the Absolute.

Three anxious pairs of eyes peered across the savannah from the wooden platform safely tucked into invisibility at a fierce masterpiece of nature as she stealthily slowed down to a crouched stop behind the tall grass. Beyond the grass, her own yellow eyes focused on the buffalo grazing at a distance that was large but oh, so temptingly attainable, that saliva formed at the edges of her mouth. Two hundred meters away, the buffalo meditated on chewing its greens pensively, oblivious to what the next two minutes had in store. 

Her muscles tensed up. Then, as if a silent gong of an inner auspicious timekeeper had gone off within her, the lioness sprung into action. The buffalo turned around to find clouds of dust rising as she went into full sprint, headed straight towards it. The buffalo made its move. The mouth of the lioness curled in anticipation as she went for her kill. Within seconds, the hunt was over.

Tucked away in the trees after having witnessed the kill, the first man uttered a silent prayer in his mind for the victim. He thought of the many crimes of morality that man commits, and of how salvation was nowhere to be found for those taking pleasure in the pain of others. The second man, fascinated by nature in action, wondered about the hunting abilities of the early homo sapiens, and if they could ever had met the grandeur with which this queen of the food chain did the task. The third triumphantly flexed his fingers, which were tired from rapidly catching the entire sequence on his camera, and thought gleefully, as he changed the lens, that he would make a killing with these gorgeous photographs. 

None of the reactions can be judged by another or considered either natural or unnatural. But perhaps the act of hunting by the lioness was the most natural thing in that moment. Whilst humans go to war about whose religion has the higher moral ground, animals thrive in nature with their simplistic goals. 

Change is inevitable, and has to be accepted eventually. In our world of complete, overwhelming relativity, our perpetual goal is to strive towards the Absolute, and until our own personal Absolutes tire of being relative, that goal will remain unattainable.

Post-Apocalypse

A glass of water to my lips
Clasped tightly, taking a toll,
My eyes closed, as I sip;
Yet, for the first time, in control.

Blocked from the fire that I've caused,
Guarded from the city ablaze,
I embrace support, my life a pause.
I pray it's just a phase.

They tell me of the empathy,
They congratulate me on my fight.
They search for those blameworthy,
Seeking justice for my plight.

But I don't think of those in hiding,
Or the passion of those who care.
I strive to shut out the horrors residing;
Myself I must repair.

The glass of water I have withdrawn
And as they celebrate my progress,
I know I must live, and move on,
For what choice do I possess?

Punya Mati

In light of the excitement surrounding the upcoming pujo season, I was recently asked about why the punya mati, or ‘virtuous soil’, that is included in the making of the idols of Maa Durga, must be taken from nishhidho pali (forbidden territories) – in other words, begged for at a courtesan’s doorstep. I’ve never really paid attention to that ritual. I was first exposed to it when I watched the movie Devdas, and it didn’t strike any curiosity chords in me then. Being asked and not knowing the answer got me inquisitive. 

As I do with anything and everything that I don’t know enough about, I looked it up on the internet. It turns out that no one seems to know for sure. One of the common explanations I got was that when men entered such places with sin on their minds, they left their virtues at the door; hence, the soil from a courtesan’s doorstep contains the purest of virtue. Now I don’t know if you see what I think is so wrong about this explanation. Firstly, such men probably left their homes with sinful intentions, thereby having left their virtues behind in their own houses. Secondly, I don’t like or identify with the idea of discrete locations of purity and virtue. 

An alternatively offered explanation was that this is done to include the even most excluded types of women in the making of the ultimate divine feminine figure. Now, if that were true, at least on that superficial level, I should think that part of the punya mati would be taken from leper communities as well. They’re equally excluded in our society. 

But this category can be explored further. Perhaps the soil from these areas is taken to include one of the most potent forms of femininity in the making of a wholesome female entity. If there is a woman behind every successful man, there’s one behind every fallen one as well. Femininity is the most powerful weapon that a woman has. Important men have made big decisions based on their weakness in front of female potency. A wife cannot always be seen in this light; women living off their bodies might more accurately represent this side of womanhood. And who are we to judge another human being? Every form, every roop of a woman is to be celebrated. After all, Durga represents the pure, complete, omnipotent female.

While discussing this with a few of my family members, we came up with another possible explanation. It was suggested that perhaps this ritual is done to rid a man of his guilt. Keep your minds open for this one. Going by the old ways of society, a man could be unknowingly related to the courtesan he will get the holy soil from. When this man knocks on her door, he does not know how to address the woman – she could be like his mother, or like his sister, or his aunt, depending on how frivolous he or his male relatives have been – so he does not know how he may or may not be related to her. So when he pays his respects to her by begging for the mud, he respects her, not in respect to a relationship or any stereotypes of society, but as a woman, and a woman alone. In a patriarchal society where women are either someone’s daughter or someone’s wife, this unconditional veneration might be considered to be the purest form of respect anyone can have for a woman. 

I don’t know if people today even know the reason we have this ritual at all. I definitely don’t, and didn’t find any conclusive answers on ever-knowing Google either. If we start to demand the underlying reasons behind all the rituals we have for festivals these days, we will find a large percentage of them to be utterly irrelevant to the workings of society today. But, you know, who dares question?

Poetry update

Hey yall,
Just wanted to let you know that my poem 'Sanctity' has been published in a Blogspot e-magazine called The Brown Critique. Check out the August 2012 issue below (and my biodata at the bottom!). Yay more Google search results :)

http://thebrowncritique.blogspot.in/2012/09/august-2012.html

Death of a Salesman

Another slammed door snarls at him,
And he hurriedly embraces inevitable defeat
As now it is what seems to be second nature.
He hardens his face, unsmiling, grim,
and lugs his bag in the unrelenting heat
Seeking the next wound in his stature.

He finds a bench he wishes to rest upon,
loosens his tie and peers inside his bag
to evaluate the worth of its contents.
As he ponders his predicament, the thought spawns:
"Is it the appropriate method I lack,
or is it a delusion that my fate laments?"

Perhaps it is only a matter of choice
that will determine the man's future
As to whether he gives up at this umpteenth sore
to pursue another calling of his inner voice,
Or resumes his attempts to break this stupor
and be found selling himself at the next door.

The fine line

Ill-advised is the man
Who dwells in his past,
His progress hindered by the yesteryears.
At the unopened door of choices he stands,
His stance wavering, his eyes downcast,
Wishing back the lost glory he holds dear.

Delusional is the man
Who looks too far ahead,
Dreaming of a future yet to come.
He walks forward with an outstretched hand:
Eyes closed to the trail on which he treads.
A simple diversion will leave him stunned.

Yet, in the continuum of linear time
Whilst lost in the sea of regrets and dreams,
To open one’s mind to the ticking of today
And discover the present in that fine line
Takes exceptional effort, it seems.
But that is where the keys to life lay.

My mama's poetry (yea girl power!)

Makes me really annoyed

Statement which is now void

World has moved on so far

Even after proving themselves better than par

Whenever they succeed and support

Why to such a lame excuse do people resort?

“My daughter is like a son”

When will people grow up and stop this pun

Having a she child is such a blessing

It’s so obvious and doesn’t need any guessing

I have 2 and both make me proud

Would always stand apart in any crowd

Being happy having only sons is thing of past

Whatever might be your race, creed or cast!

Wake up now and accept

To this great change please adapt

Daughters are daughters for life

Even if they move on and become somebody’s wife

Aim to do something for parents for them always stay

Come what may!

What am I?

Sluggish as a lethal plague, but certain as the Inevitable,

Obscuring the lines and dithering the colors on its way,

Lathering up tears of rage as it melts through every shield

Is a mordant sentiment that will all laws of reason disobey,

With all rationale forsaken, and every logic repealed.

Dear Thama

As of today, it’s been a year since you left us. I remember being so shocked and in denial that I still went to the Maroon 5 concert that very evening and actually enjoyed it. I didn’t forgive myself for doing that for a long time. I guess I just couldn’t imagine a life without you, or anyone who matters to me as much as you did, in it. I still can’t.

You were, to say the least, amazing. You were a strong, respected woman, a wonderful wife to my dadu, an incredible mother to your four children and an even more incredible mother-in-law. As a child I saw you and loved you through my parents’ eyes, because I was too young to know you personally and have an opinion of you as an individual. But I saw the tears in papa’s eyes when he sang that song Aamar Saadhna Mitilo and I couldn’t help but cry because I saw the emotion he must have felt for you every time he sang that song. I always thought of you when I heard that song, and I think no one sings it like him. I heard stories of mamma adjusting to a new household and a new family and she would always tell me how lucky she was to have you as a mother, and I looked up to you even more. You would also tell me stories of what papa did when he was young. It was as though you and dadu taught me how to love and appreciate my parents even more than I did already.

As I grew up, and developed a connection with you and dadu independent of my parents, I came to love you even more. I think the first time I spent time with you alone as a person who could form opinions independent of my parents was during the week I spent in Calcutta in one of the winters while I was at Woodstock. I remember going around the house in the afternoons while you and dadu slept, closing the windows to avoid the mosquitoes that came in the evening. At night we used to talk till we fell asleep, as I did with my pishis later. I think that’s when I picked up the habit of listening to music when I had trouble sleeping. I still do that, and I know you loved doing that. But for me, the most precious moments I’ve spent alone with you are the times you and I sat together to cut up your old saris and sew little diapers for Brishti. I have never felt closer to you than I did in those moments. It was also the last time I spent with you, and I wish I had had more time. At the same time, it was the first time I met my niece, and the first time in my life that I ever felt a maternal instinct towards a baby. I love her in a way I have never loved someone before, and it was because of the way you taught me to be around her. Also, watching you with her gave me an idea of what a wonderful and natural mother you must have been to the four amazing individuals of your creation.

I miss you so much. I miss your narkol nadu, nimki and pati shapta. I miss you feeding me bhaat-bhaat-maach, and sometimes maach-maach-bhaat, and getting all the fish bones out for me, and telling me stories of tia pakhi and rakhhosh at the same time. I miss wiping my wet hands on your soft, old cotton sari. I miss watching you use your Nivea and your talcum and comb your long hair and tie it with a black thread and put on sindoor and bindi with that cute little two-sided instrument that I’ve never seen anyone else use before. I miss watching you knit on the long rexine sofa, feet up, with ETV Bangla on full volume, while dadu reads his second or third newspaper. I miss taking all the nokul dana after your daily pujo. I miss the way you said hello on the phone; bodo pishi says it exactly like you used to. I even miss you yelling at papa when he forcefully made you stand up straight. I miss your childhood stories of when you lived in a big house in a jungle. I miss your smell and your voice. I miss you always being on the phone with your sisters and your daughters. I have such vivid sights and smells of your memories in my mind that couldn’t possibly ever go away.

You are my role model. You fought and overcame breast cancer. You were the wife, mother, mother-in-law, grandmother and great-grandmother that I someday hope to be. The entire family revolves around you and dadu. I guess you lived a full, hopefully happy and satisfied life, and you had to leave one day. But you were such a huge part of my life that it’s impossible, even after one year, to cope with your absence. I haven’t come to terms with the fact that everyone got to say goodbye to you except me. I haven’t been to Calcutta since before you left us and I can’t imagine that house without you in it. Maybe when I go there next I will get some closure. But just so you know, I’ll still be looking for you on the terrace, waving goodbye when I leave your shrine. I love you.

Crossroads

Through the tainted window of my eyes

I see in wait a hundred epic stories

Standing at the same corner of their lives,

All with the amity of their own quandaries,

Watching the movement of hurdles upon hurdles

Awaiting a sign to cross the road.

Often misinterpreted as merely the general masses

Seeking a sort of desperate conformity,

Each one endures the weight of matchless burdens

Secreted behind the smiles and colloquity;

They yearn to rid of the gratuitous anguish

But it is a secondary purpose to seek.

A change of signal encourages movement

And a pulse of hope propels the multitude forward

As they move on, despite their accompanying torment,

Toward their own primary destinations anchored

To their personal, exclusive characterizations

Of what one may call success.

My father's reply to Sanctity

You must actively perceive events with ease

Develop innate aplomb in matchless oscillation

While engaging in vibrant gust and breeze

Experience the serenity of stasis in dynamic manifestation.

Sanctity

A gust of wind; a fragrant breeze;

Practiced aplomb or carefree pirouette…

Do I passively perceive events with ease,

Or must I engage in a dynamic duet?

The black, the white, and everything in between

Characterize this ambiguous entity

Wherein two worlds struggle in a manner routine

To maintain an inimitable sanctity.

Sometimes a sacred covenant

But often a skirmish for justice,

It is one minute misread as ailment,

And the next as an alluring stasis.

Whether resulting in helplessness or exaltation,

Its existence will always be sure.

But perhaps we will forever long for an explanation

To these sentiments obscure.