Pray for her sister...

November 12^th, 2010:

Ray was a gloriously tall, slender, and beautiful girl. Round eyes, ready smile, and a thick, long plait, that I used to ogle every time we had a common class.

Ray was mostly shy, a “ooru ponnu” (the girl from the town), and spoke chaste tamil with a southern lilt. She mostly complained about her hostels and the pollution in Madras.

We fell out of touch very quickly, and the last I heard, she had stayed in the city against all odds to join a top MNC.

That was the Ray I knew from university, forwards and facebook.

Three days back, I brought Ray to stay overnight. I rarely bring friends home, let alone for a night stay… but after hearing her on email and phone, after seeing her in person after so many years, and after hearing her speak to the therapist, there was no way I could walk away.

I rushed her to my room before my parents could ask any awkward questions. And a shrunken and red-eyed Ray began to speak…

~~

Like millions of Indian daughters Ray was brought up with a single-point agenda: study hard, get a good job, and don’t speak with boys along the way.

Like lakhs of Indian girls, Ray wore these blinkers to school, college, university and work.

And like thousands of other Indian women, Ray trusted her parents to bring her the knight she wanted.

But just like so many of us, she was in for a rude shock. For at the question of marriage, her education, job and career were quickly forgotten. She was expected to live in a small town and cook without complaints.

Amidst dowry seekers and horoscope matchers, there came one lone guy who was okay with her working. And within two meetings in the drawing room, and halting conversations over the phone, Ray was head-long in love. With the innocence of a teen, and the intensity of a 29-year old.

But alliances arranged by others are broken by them as well. And suddenly Ray was left mailing and calling to no reply.

Quickly forced into another engagement, beaten for honour, and blackmailed for love, the usual routine of depression, pills, hospital and therapy had followed. ~~

We are seeing a new therapist now. A therapist who speaks her tamil. A therapist who has patiently listened to her for hours at a stretch. And a therapist who understands the business of temple soothsayers and meddling match-fixers.

So Ray now gets some sleep on the thin mattress on the floor. Her eyes are no longer red and I see resolve in her, when she sits next to me today morning:

“I’m breaking this forced engagement myself. I will face the drama. I am going to meet the person I liked and clear the mess. If it fails, I will focus on my career, and adopt a child, and live well.”

As I look into her face, I know that Ray is just like you and me, she is just one of the millions of Indian women caught in the same space. Between the world of MNCs and masters degrees, and family honour and dowry-seekers.

I don’t know if Ray understands that she is breaking from her family cast. I don’t know if she realises that she will become responsible for her life. I don’t know if she can handle it all. All I can do is pray… why don’t you as well.

10 things about Ra:

1. For every one sequence we edit, her phone will ring 10 times.
2. And she has to help, solve an issue, or counsel for the next 15 minutes.
   
3. If it is not a friend or relative, it is a daughter.
4. She has 50 daughters and a few sons.
5. She makes sure they finish school and go to work.
6. She then puts up their profiles on bharat matrimony.
7. There is one wedding coming up now.
8. She loves cooking.
9. She loves bells.
10. And she stays up to put together the sequence that was interrupted so many times, and surprises me every morning.

when life feels like geometry

A walk, a bus or two, a train, a walk, a share auto, a walk down a deserted stretch (an auto if I am lucky)…. All to meet Ra, who lets me fumble around her, and who doesn’t shout when I log the wrong tape.

I come back, I do the laundry, eyes drooping, I set the alarm for 4.30. It goes off for half an hour, before I can even hear it. Very little, or no money. Nano money. :-) A crazy client. A no-budget documentary.

Day-dreams of a project on water. Endless proposal writing. A shadow of my life with Stick and Egg.

But I call my grandmother every day. I don’t waste a minute. I pick up groceries. I help a cousin. I dance. I don’t obsess. I play with Chintoo like never before.

I may leave it all, yet again. I could decide that medicine is the only way to make a difference. Eventually, I may do corporate communications, to take care of mum and dad. I may become a loser-daughter.

I don’t know anything. I don’t have any answers. “Where will it lead me?” “What am I doing?”

But I feel, like a better daughter, sister, granddaughter, niece and aunt. And life feels like a geometric diagram. Simple. Clean. Good.

That is all I know, at the moment.

An equal music

It is said, "even in the most perfect love, you are not equals. And to meet in a kiss, one has to look down and the other up."

But friends meet as equals~

a special wish from Mad:

I wish you lots of birthday bliss,
I wish you many things at once.

And here are some examples:
an amaltas tree in full bloom,
sprigs of dainty bougainvilleas,
a swing under a sturdy neem,
chubby sparrows on a windowsill.

Peacocks with a hundred eyes,
juicy mangoes and pomegranates.

These things I wish for you,
And several more unnamed,
Dreams be dreams no more!

It is not easy to give a friend away...

It is not easy to know that you are no longer her best confidant,
It is not easy for there won't be those nights of non-stop talking,
It is not easy to see her go, all the way around the world,

But when you know that he is worth it, you are so happy as I feel now.
And you begin to love him too... :D

the days are packed

Most times when a friend falls in love or gets hitched, you get the feeling that the guy isn't really good enough for your friend.

Does he know how she never speaks about herself?
Does he know how she will weep for the beggar boy at the signal?
Does he realise just how lucky he is??

But rarely, very rarely, you get the feeling that he knows all this. And two such weddings are coming up... There are blouses to be stitched, mehendis to be organised. Scrap-books to be made and pictures to be clicked.

For its my best friends weddings, two in a row. :-) :-)

the beast that loves potato chips & other stories

The last two days have been bliss: the recreated forest, bird calls, brilliant stars, lots of A & N, and waking up to the beast licking your hand.

Yes, mine! And she eats out of them too. God bless Pepsi Co., Saif Ali Khan and all the GM potatoes. For Zoye and I have made peace. She will also drool for Hajmola-like candies and get very upset if you pretend to eat her food.

Egg arrives a day late, but determined; climbs a tree and clicks pictures. And I see her laugh, shoulders shaking, after I-don't-know-when. And hogging food at the solar kitchen.

We are like sunflowers, soaking in energy for the next six months: to tackle pressures, answer doubts, and learning every moment.

This is Pongal people, I tell you. This is. Celebrating the earth and sowing new seeds.

~~
But when Egg and I sit in an empty train, legs stretched and eyes fixed on the window ahead, we don't see villages painted black, but a scene from our first ride back home.

There is Stick, Spidey, Egg and me. Sparring jibes, clamouring for window seats, fighting over sanitizer, and laughing all the way home.

Sometimes, I wish I had never met them. Because travel is not the same anymore. Without Stick to ogle at the stars with, without Spidey to rattle for fun, and without Egg to do a “Sajna-di vari vari…”.

And when lost in the forest, cheated by an autowallah, to plod on foot singing resolutely "Chhod aaye hum vo galiyaan...", off-key of course.

Pilgrimage

I am marooned on the window sill, for the beast doesn't like me to move. Hours later, she gets tired of our unending stream of chatter and turns her head.

I grab the moment to stretch my limbs. But when one knee grazes the couch, the beast roars with a voice that leaves me trembling inside and out.

Meet Zoye - A & N's pampered baby girl and ferocious Dobberman. I am keen to win her approval, almost K-serial bahu like, for this is my pilgrimage.

I came here for answers, but I don't remember the questions anymore. And I simply sit soaking in stories: of clean energy technologies, eco-restoration projects, stories of forests across the world, and where religion is a passion for work.

And I had shut myself out of all this for a year.

N makes me noodles hashed of anything that she can throw in. And N, slouching on the jhoola, becomes an impish little brat talking of her siblings, eyes sparkling.

A patiently shows me around the house and explains electronics to a science retard.

And when asked to stay for the night, I lap the offer like Zoye her milk. Even the threat of my mum raising into alarm everyone she knows in this district fails to scare me today.

Later, walking down the beach with the wind in my hair, I tell A & N how the last rite of our usual pilgrimage would be to meet Mango Tree.

But when Mango Tree invites us for a nutty dessert, I get really scared. Mortally scared of Stick and Egg, for I am having all this to myself.

The beast is of course not pleased that I am sleeping on its couch. But Zoye, you don't have any choice now, you have to get used to me. And your scent on the couch isn't too bad either.

Manchurian Paratha for the documentary soul

November 2009:

Dish in question: Manchurian Paratha
Chef: Maggie alias Egg
Sous chef : Window Siller
Agenda: To make something special, which will get us started on a film proposal.

Ingredients: Atta, one little carrot, four onions, vinegar, tomato ketchup, soya sauce, ginger, garlic, chilli powder, oil and lots and lots of ghee.

The dough for the paratha is made a little harder than what we make for rotis. We use a lot of oil and Egg makes them perfectly triangular. She was trained to make perfect geometric figures with the belan, pure math and no geography here.

Then we fry it until they become golden brown and all crispy. With loads of ghee of course. And cut them into square bits. Perfect squares again.

Now we dice the onions, add a teaspoon of vinegar and set them aside for 30 mins. In the meanwhile, we grate ginger and garlic and saute them in oil.

In a while, we add the onions, the thin slices of carrot, and a big spoon of soya sauce. Egg insists on adding 5-6 spoons of tomato ketchup. I would have preferred plain puree.

Now we add 1 tsp of chilli powder, 1/2 tsp of salt, and 1/2 a tumbler of water to the mixture and let the mixture boil.

When it is almost done, we add the paratha bits to the sabji, let it simmer for five seconds and serve ourselves to eat.

Some onion raitha, I suppose, will be good to go along. But we are done cooking.

Monsoon memory

It was vacation time, when six school friends ganged up one evening. Hopping homes on new bikes, sharing college notes on a terrace... when it rained. poured.

With no one to check us, we played with vengeance in the rain. for all the times we were bundled up for a drizzle, for all the times we were shouted at for having got wet in the rain, for all the times we did not dare to jump into a puddle.

dancing, laughing, with music from somewhere... teasing, and then one friend broke down.

I had unwittingly reminded her of her boyfriend. they had just broken up, I did not know. but the rain cheered her up soon and we played again, though a little subdued.

as we rode back home that night, speeding on the airforce lane, much later than we were allowed, cold and carefree, wet and without a care about odd glances... it struck me at a crossing:

we were grown-up, past caring, independent and yet it was not all that I had imagined.

Adulthood brought with it, its own share of worries and pains.

Stick, Kaliveli and I

Stick:
Stick and I go back ages, okay at least back to first year of college and that is seven bloody years ago!

We are poles apart - she is a pole and I am a monstrous gothic column - but we still get along on green issues and make films together. Pitifully low-budget documentaries, but still, something of a cause.

Okay, now why the name? Obvious. Why even on our recent Kaliveli trip, she had me panicked yet again thinking that I had lost sight of her. Watching out for each is an unspoken code that we have on shoots and recces. And my B.P. kept shooting up in no-signal zone until I realised that one of the poles in the distance was her.

Kaliveli:
In the meanwhile, the road to the Kaliveli (Kalu-veli in Tamil) was a slushy delight though I could see how much the wetland has shrunk. Earlier, it used to be visible from the East Coast Road, now shrimp hatcheries and paddy fields are ruining its delicate fresh-brackish water mix.

Imagine these wetlands, estuaries, lagoons and lakes and ponds all at once on a map - don't they make a fascinating hydrological system? Someday, I want to make an illustration of these water bodies, at least the ones in Madras and Pondy.

Though the paddy fields are part of Kaliveli's problems, it looked beautifully green, and we spent ages talking to the locals. The fresh air did us passive smokers wonders - we have an editor who can work only with a tobacco I.V.

and I:
And I have realised that my kurta-trousers, socks-floaters, hat-sun glasses attire works against good conversation with these locals, many of them were wearing only a komanam. Next time, I am gonna do a Tamil-films village-teacher routine. Must-remember accessory - the umbrella.


Back home, we holed in at the editor's studio to fast-track some of our work and I had my first red-bull. It tasted like cough syrup and I gulped it down likewise. But nothing could stop me from sleeping like sloshed, and Stick and the editor slitting each other's throats. Sue, sue red bull.


And Stick's jaw drop at first encounter with the species Universitias professorius was hilarious. But that warrants a separate post.