Crowd ....incomplete.

Every time the picture of a crowd comes up anywhere; I go on an auto scan mode. Eyes search for the women in the multitude. Strangely, many a times “the crowd” means men, and men alone [in this part of the world]. So where are the women? Are they not part of the crowd?

Recently my eyes spot a pic in the morning paper. A group of people had gathered to witness an elephant in must being sedated and captured. Scanner on; sadly fails to spot a woman in the snapshot.

Few days ago, a bus terminal was inaugurated in Trivandrum. As I read the news report about the terminal and the crowd that had come to view it, again my eyes fail me. Did I see a woman somewhere in the photograph? I re-check - again and again and...

A film awards ceremony on TV: The reporter says “ and we see the crowd shaking their legs to the latest tunes..”. The camera spans to show boys and men thoroughly benefiting from the roaring jazzy music, no qualms attached. No lass en masse though. I felt incomplete.

Clearly there is a pattern. This is no coincidence. When we try to break a norm, we pay. Shwetha Menon appeared on the President’s trophy boat race as a special guest and she was groped. Period. Many years back when I wished to see the boat race, I was told “that crowd is not fit for girls.”

Bored, I flick through the channels on TV. I land on “His highness Adbulla” – a grosser movie of the 90s.  Mohanlal asks his heroine “ആരും കാണാതെ എങ്ങന്യാ ഇങ്ങനെ മറഞ്ഞു നിക്കണേ?”!!  I nearly threw up, smeared wicks on my forehead and consoled myself saying that the movie in about 20 years old. 

മലയാളത്തില്‍ ഒരു വാക്കുണ്ട്. പുരുഷാരം meaning multitude of people. ‘Have always thought the word was incorrect. So I recently rechecked a dictionary and found one more word that’s quite debatable. പുത്രവാത്സല്യം = motherly love!! I check for a similar പുത്രിവാത്സല്യം and it does not exist!! Ha!

Skewed, aren’t we? I mean check any  horde,  mob,  rabble,  mass,  multitude,  host, army,  herd,  flock,  drove, swarm, sea, stream, troupe, pack, press, crush, flood, collection, company, gathering, assembly, assemblage,  array,  congregation,  convention of people in the developed world to find men and women in almost equal numbers. So what’s missing here? Why is the crowd incomplete?

A few good men (and women)

As I stand watching kids play, I also see the bored, indifferent watchman. His day dawns and dies with the monotony of opening and closing gates. What is interesting as an audience is the marked difference in his enthusiasm depending on the size of the wagon for which he operates the gate. The more expensive the wagon, the more fast his strides are. If it happens to be a luxury brand, he zooms to the gate, salutes the driver and lets it pass, sometimes even in the middle of his lunch break. If you happen to arrive in an economy car, he would walk to you miserably, peek inside the car as if to make sure that you are human indeed.  The fellow’s performance reaches its peak when he spots the apartment association’s president’s red BMW. Once this vitaliser of a car is out of his sight, he returns to his normal self. One would wonder how it is possible to have such quick mood swings.

This man to me is a cross section of our society. A cross section that makes me shudder; makes me want to run away and seriously shakes my belief in humanity. Sort of how discovering a rotten portion inside a cut tomato makes you want to chuck the whole of it.

Somehow we have managed to tune the display of emotions to be strictly based on benefits.

Lately the poor heart has become too very vulnerable. Even a little shuffle sets off a cascade of tremors and aftershocks lasting days. The self centered nature of society feels nauseating. Freestanding souls are rare. One comes across people who maintain an aura of refinement while hosting a complicated, high –maintenance, insecure self, corroded with layers of complexes underneath. I have had to reaffirm and convince myself repeatedly that the rest of the tomato is still palatable.  I attribute this hope to a few good men (and women) in daily life.

Annotations as below:

The milk man - The fellow also supplies mineral water on call. A gentle knock on the door generally announces his arrival. Once I asked him why he doesn’t ring the bell like everyone else does. The answer I got was “I thought the boy might be sleeping. I did not want to disturb you”. Thoughtfulness in a situation totally uncalled for. Without being asked to, he always walks into the kitchen and hosts the big tub of water onto its dispenser, every single time. And walks out with a “Ha !” (which translates to “Hey you!”) to Achu. Achu responds with a “Ha !” in return and/or goes berserk kicking around empty water tubs.

The Raddi** woman –She comes with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye once in every two months or so to recycle old news papers. A smile pleasant enough to light up any dull day. A smile that actually means “I am happy to see you”. The commendable part of it is her silence through it all. Her self is not what you see, but an aura of positivity. I suppose it always works that way. The day the self is discarded, its replaced by something more divine. I always think of her as a fully lit up Christmas tree with 2 bright stars for her eyes. A case of superficial being absent and supreme being present.

The nanny – So you would have thought that God impersonated was visible in the 4th batting order of Indian cricket team. To see God in action, one simply watched cricket?? I disagree. God was the one who walked into my world as Achu’s nanny when he was 4 months of age. She deserves no description for the simple fact that there are no words to describe her. Just a miracle cocktail of workmanship, sophistication, sanity, humor and love. Nothing more, nothing less. Simply divine.

And the world goes around…..

Raddi** - Scrap picker.

Pandora’s box.

So my son started school. He had a reasonably smooth transition. Few teething pains here and there, easily disregarded.

This story however begins few months before he started school.  I had a hurdle to cross. Given the fact that I am a relatively short person with average limb lengths, the hurdle seemed massive.  I had a simple task to master –“the art of packing the perfect lunchbox”. When you think about it, it seems trivial. When you actually do it, you cry. Period.

Checkpoints to this task are:

1.     

•   It It has to be non messy. You cannot expect a four and half year old not to spill. Kids are spill-monsters. So it needs to be compact and dry. I zoom in on wraps (roti, chappathi, falafel bread) and sandwiches.

• 2.       It has to appeal to the child. Thankfully, here’s a trick I inherited from my mom. The moment the food is ready, start modelling for it. Trot along singing praises about it. Kids are easily impressionable you see. By the time the child opens his lunchbox in school, all he remembers is the aura you have created. Needless to say, this depends upon your modelling skills!

• 3.       It has to be healthy. Ok. So here is the catch. How many of this healthy stuff actually appeal to our senses- I mean, be honest! Sometimes the so called good food makes me wish I was born without the sense of smell and taste. Quite an irresponsible thing to say. But at the end of the day, the truth is - what appeals to your tongue does not appeal to the rest of your body. A major design flaw, I say! Thankfully, there is a way out here. I tend to “Indianise” everything. Spice it up, people..  Jai ho!!

• 4.       And then, last but not the least- the new ghost in town, food allergies. I did a “round” of research. Could not complete the “round” though. Left it mid way. The interim reports gave me nightmares. For a sneak peak, current food –turned- toxins are nuts (all kinds), eggs, gluten, kiwi fruit (I’m not kidding), milk, dairy products.  One mother even told me that chicken is banned in schools.  This made me think – correction – stopped my thinking. What was the point, there was no solution to this puzzle. Well, why should this bother you if your child is not allergic to any of these, Correct? Incorrect! Little children tend to pick from their friends’ lunchboxes.  Now look at the picture again. See the difference?  **

On the first day of school, I went in with no presumptions at all. I had made up my mind – if nothing else works, I pack bread –jam sandwich, so he eats something. After school, when he is home, I would give him a proper meal!  

And then my guardian angel appeared. She came in a red and black dress, hair neatly done, sweet smile on her face – one of his teachers. I casually ask her – “Is there any food that is not allowed?”.  She says “No, none at all. You can send him anything for lunch.” [Implying – none of the kids in his class have any food allergies].

I cried – nearly.

** When we were kids, these allergies were practically unheard of.  Now, it is gaining epidemic proportions. Why does this happen? That is a topic outside the scope of this story.

The long limbed axe

I needed a tool, and so I asked for it. And what you know, without much ado, I was granted one. Viola!

Smooth, polished and shiny on the outside. N...i...ce.... so far so good!

Held it in my hand to have a feel. It weighed me down. Man, heavy it was! And cold! Very cold – for me. I was raised in one of the warmest lands, you see! Told my friend, it’s too cold for me. And my friend said – “ Its metal inside, would tend to be cold.” And so I said “Never judge a book by its cover. The smooth and shiny axe is metal after all.”

Well, it was mine and I needed it. Got working with it. Trained it, toned it, so it would be the best in the world. The axe did its work, pretty well indeed! Peace on earth! Amen!

And then – I took a break. I needed one. Relaxing it was – the break that is!

I came back and what do I see? - The axe is no more mine. It was someone else’s. That’s alright, what can an axe do? Its purpose of life is fulfilled only in the hands of a powerful master. An axe has no courtesy, I say! Not even a good bye!! Well, an axe is an axe. I hadn’t labelled it, so guess anyone could grab it in my absence.

Outraged was I -The axe had used all the tricks in the book that it had learnt from me to bring my house down. Axed my house, it did! Can understand that. It did its job with the new master. What annoys me is shouldn’t it have mentioned the task at hand to me earlier? Opportunistic, to have done it and move allegiance to a new master without a word, I feel. Ouch! That hurt. Not the loss of my house (for I knew a more pretty home could be built again and I already have), but the brutal callousness of the whole episode.

The axe was soulless, you see...

[DISCLAIMER: The above write up bears no implied or intended resemblance to any person living or dead. Any similarities that you may feel are purely coincidental. ]

What’s in a name?

I have lived with this in my country. I have been asked time and again whether I am a Muslim.

Teachers, friends, auto/ taxi drivers, librarians, beauticians, grocers, bakers and absolute strangers – have all thrown this at me. Not that I am bothered, nor am I offended. My answer has always been an emotionless “No”. A “No” with a full stop at its end implying it’s not an open –ended answer and no further questions are invited in this regard. After the “No”, I generally flash a smile (from the heart of course) at the person to spare any embarrassment they would have felt for bringing it up. I mean we are all pretentious aren’t we? We all have been taught not to probe at one’s religion, caste, monitory status, private life. Yet, basic instincts do override the acquired refinement. And curiosity is a basic instinct – a hard one to tame. 

That was my Indian experience.  Indians are generally tolerant. We claim ourselves to be a sovereign, socialist, secular, democratic republic. As for me, it’s not a claim. It is a belief, so deeply ingrained within, that every time I take an international flight, my mind undergoes panic attacks. It is my comfort zone and I would never leave it behind!  And in this vast conundrum called India, belonging to any religion is not a crime. People are just overly interested in other’s lives and a lot of peeking and probing takes place into your private space. But they generally stop at that. A question asked, a question answered, we smile at each other and go our separate ways. Well, I am not talking about the fanatics. This observation is only about the urban, educated India.

Now, a change of scene. I get asked the same question here too, in Melbourne. That’s where I am currently. The question is the same, but the emotion behind it is different.  It is not curiosity, something much more intense.  Pain, suffering, need for consolation? The question sort of equates to “Whose side are you on?” [Back at home, it equates to “It is an unusual name for a Hindu”].  Again, this may not be true at all. May be it is the perception of my overactive, emotional mind.

Yet, the feeling has been strong enough to make me jot it down.  Let me elucidate. I regularly take a cab to work and have come across cabbies from all over the world.  Some people just walk into your life for a few minutes and leave a mark for a life time. The cabbie that drove me to work on this particular day was black, a person of African descent. After the usual pleasantries, he says “You Selma?” [I have booked a regular pick up - drop off schedule with the cab company, so the drivers generally know the passenger’s name]. I reply “Yes”.  He did not ask me the usual question, just went on to infer that I would be a Muslim as I carry the name.  And he says “Hard days!”.  I tally along “Yes, it’s hard when the family is not around and it’s not your native country.”  To this he replies “I know Sister, it is hard for us Muslims to get ourselves accepted, and make a life when everything and everyone are suspicious about us. But in a way, I am happy to live with that as I have moved here from my country raged by unrest and poverty.” I was stunned. I have heard this on TV before, but on my face. I did not react, no, I could not react. I am a young woman with a little family (husband and young child). Most of my thoughts revolve around my son, my home and my little interests  ;). A conversation of this sort was alien, totally. I had in front of me a man who was looking at me for consolation of some form. I had to say something. And I said “There is a God above!!”.

Let’s move on.  Yet another day, another interesting character – an Arab, possibly of Turkish descent.

Again “You Selma?”. I said “Yes”.

Arab: Muslim?

I: No.

Arab: which country are you from?

I: India

Arab: Oh , I thought you were from Italy. Selma is not an Indian name. Its Arabic.

I: Ok.

Arab: I wonder why you have such a name. It’s not Indian.

I: [In my mind] We have lot of Muslims in India, it’s just a name. [Silent outward]

Arab: But you are not a Muslim.

I: Please take the next left into Essex St and right to Sussex. We have to go to Coburg North.

And then again, a Pakistani.

Cabbie: Good morning Madam.

I: Good morning, how are you today.

Cabbie: very well, thanks and yourself?

I:  Not bad thank you.

Cabbie: Your name Selma?

I: Yes

Cabbie: Muslim?

I: No.

Cabbie:  oh OK! It’s a Muslim name. Where are you from?

I: India

Silence, pregnant silence.

We walk away in our daily lives with so many such experiences.  Thankfully most of them are forgotten after a span of time. But again - Are Muslims around the world looking for a mate , a shoulder to cry on? Are we being fair? It is hard to look beyond prejudices, but can you make an attempt?

Aluvapuzhakkappuram (Beyond river Aluva)

Does geography play a part in genetics? I think it does.

Who I am to talk in such broad sense about most complicated things? Nobody. Let’s tone it down. Let’s talk about Aluvapuzha and life beyond it towards Kanyakumari (the deprived virgin!!) . Ignore my lack of “sense of urgency”. Beating about the bush and not driving the point home.  Yes, do have this dilemma. While trying to make a point, I search for suitable openings and then end up moving way away from the topic itself!!

 Well, what I am trying to say is, there is a marked genetic difference between the people who belong to either side of Aluvapuzha. The river is devilish to such a degree, the moment you cross her, she infuses venom into your blood. And your warm blooded mammalian physiology imbibes cold blooded reptilian nature.  How can I make such a callous statement, ask you would.  Chance (not choice) has given me enough exposure to study the same. Let me enumerate marked characteristics of the vast populace between aluvapuzha and kanyakumari – the travancorians, let’s call them T for short.

1.       Whenever T meets a person (T/nonT), the greeting would be a negative statement. Common statements I have encountered are –“You look so tired; You have lost so much weight; You have gained weight and need to control”. A T never says anything positive in the first instance.

2.        T typically lacks a sense of empathy.  Any problem other than their own seem too small for a T. So do not try and share. Chances are you will be met with ridicule or inconsideration.

3.       T never fails to have a laugh at another’s expense. However, self deprecating humour is markedly absent.

4.       “Practise what you preach” has no stand in a T’s life. What a T does is simply not said, and what a T says is simply not done.

5.       T has perfected the art of smirking. Unfortunately, the smirk has taken away the smile from the heart.

6.       T has too many expectations from everyone else. The concepts of mental freedom and mental space are generally unknown to a T. Hence a T is often known to sulk about someone not calling them, not talking to them, not inviting them in person, not returning a gift, not being available and so on. The list is never ending. Sulking , like smirking , has been perfected into an art  by a T. The most offensive being the easily offended, a T is too touchy and very offensive.

7.       A T is born into this world with a definite purpose. If the T is a male, T’s parents would educate him so as to marry him off to a girl who fetches the most dowry (citation – till 10 years ago, the popular standard was a Maruti car or equivalent and 100 sovereigns in gold and a house).  Lately, with the advent of dollars to T’s territory, the demand has been raised suitably. On the other hand, if T is a female, T’s parents would save from the day of T’s birth to meet the above said demands. It forms a vicious, yet hilarious circle.  I have seen a case where a male T’s parents have sought a house as dowry from his bride so they can move in there and give their own house as dowry to T’s sister. Tad confused, huh? Please read again till it gains clarity. The situation is unfortunately too pungent to elucidate. The hilarious part apart, the vicious side has choking side effects. As this purpose takes the centre stage of a T’s life, all other talents or passions a T might possess are on the back burner. Secondly, as the romance in the marriage is replaced with trade, relationships turn out to be null and void. Hence it is not an uncommon practise for a girl T’s parents to move in with her so as to hold her marriage together, presumably it is too much to ask the girl T and her partner to build a life of their own and raise their kids by themselves. Here we see precipitating a big error in human design – sex makes babies, not love. God went wrong there, didn’t he?

8.       T generally is crafty. Many of us are too in many situations. The difference is T is nice to only people to matter to T and nasty to all or any people who do not matter to T.

9.       T  feels attachment / appreciation only for things owned by T. There will be a tinge of sarcasm whenever T refers to anything other than T’s own.

10.   T shows emotional restraint to a high degree. Loud laughs and screams of anguish will be absent. Everything is subtle and smile is plastered. T is generally placid, freaking placid.

11.   T follows social obligations without fail. This is possibly a side effect of too many expectations (refer 6).

12.   T follows a set pattern of life.- be born, schooling, job, marry at right age, make 2 kids - oh yes, an unplanned third one is embarrassing- at right time spans , prepare for the dowry trade of the offspring, get kids married, move in with them (mostly because the trade they have done has fallen apart and they are fighting tooth and nail to hold together their offspring’s marital sanctity), die.

Hmmmm...This write up has drained me emotionally. So I will give you tips on how to cope with a T sometime later. All said and done, let me assure you, there are exceptions in Ts as well. Yes, there are humane Ts. Probably few factors do act as antidotes to the general behavioral distortions exhibited by T. Example: a high intellect (and the wisdom that comes with it which tells you walls are to be broken down), considerable exposure to nonT, or beyond comprehension and reason –“Lotus blooms in mudpits”.

An excerpt from Thattathin Marayathu –“vadakkan keralathil maathram veeshunna oru paathirakkattundu (There is a night breeze that sometimes blows over North Kerala...)”. The breeze seems to be blowing towards the south a bit now and that breeze would bring a change. A geographical anomaly put right by another geographical paradox. All is well, all is well!

The case of the missing cabbie

Cab call services. Call a cab, make a booking and we will be there in no time at all, or so it says.
I did the same thing early on; made a booking in the afternoon for a trip in the evening. Well, one needs to give leverage to human error. Shouldn't one?

The time was nearing. Clicked "Enquire" on the web site and out popped google maps. It showed the cab was on my street. My trusting mind was taken in, here he is, it said, on time. And again, my mind was tad confused when no one rang the bell 10 minutes later. I clicked Enquire again. And google maps said he is going away, and off he went to the next suburb without picking me up!! I wished to pull him back to my pick up location, drag him down the streets with my mouse through google.

Mind you, this is not the first time. It has happened before and I was at my nerves end. Even after giving enough lead time, even after industrially creating an account on the company's website, this is what is being provided. And then I called the service centre. As expected, the girl who picked the call took no responsibility for what happened, "I have no idea why the driver did not come". I felt sorry for her!! but sorrier for me. I was angry, I was late. I asked for escalation. The bloke who picked up said the same thing "I do not know why the driver did not come, alright??!!" Its not alright, not alright at all.
And he said, we are busy at this time around that area. I tell him "Mate, the cab was here on my street earlier, I could see him on the map and then he drove away!". He made some illogical, lame excuse ( may be it was logical, but I was in no state to reason with that). I wanted to place a formal complaint, and then I did not. Live and let live, after all.

And finally somehow, "heaven-sent" or "cab call sent", it did arrive, 30 minutes late. My one hour appointment at the destination was cut short to half an hour one.  That's that.

As I sit back and rethink, this is what dawns:
A thing that hit me hard when I moved out of India was the absence of auto rickshaws. I missed the freedom of walking out onto the street (any street) and hailing one of those little buggies to go anywhere, anytime. The city that I am currently in offers public transport, yes, but takes away that anywhere anytime freedom!! And to me that seemed a big bargain. To survive in these parts of the world, you ought to drive a car, else you are done for. You car = your freedom, when in Melbourne. Fair enough, for the resident population.

What about the floating population, people who are in transit, people who are on foreign assignments for limited time-spans? As someone said, in the midst of all the chaos, there is an unsurpassable grace that India offers, unfound elsewhere. Period. A frustrated, open ended period.