A free pass to harass

 When I was a kid, Holi was fun. We would run around the colony with our pichkaris, ambushing people and squirting coloured water on them. The colours were mostly gulal, which washed off easily.

When we were slightly older, we graduated to chemical colours, which were slightly harder to scrub off. But the fun of emptying buckets of water (or having it emptied on you) made up for the inconvenience.

And then, we entered adolescence.

One of us matured faster than the rest and became object of everyone's passion. To curry favour with his friends, one from our gang invited them over to play Holi in our apartment block.

That year, Holi changed for me.

It was the first time I had someone pull my shirt and shove colour into it. It was the first time someone held me tight by the waist while languidly smearing colour on my arms. It was the first time I was forced to put colour on someone I didn't know.

For the first time, angry tears mixed with soap while I scrubbed off the top layer of epidermis. I felt dirty long after I the last molecule of colour was washed off.

I didn't know it then, but it was the last time I would play Holi.

The next year, I gave the annual exams as an excuse for not playing Holi. It reinforced my reputation as a nerd, but I couldn't care. I did not want to put myself through that experience ever again.

At some stage, the excuse changed from "I have my exams" to "I have sensitive skin". But I could neither bring myself to play Holi, nor to talk about the experience.

Like every other victim of sexual harassment, I made excuses. Maybe I was over reacting. Maybe I misunderstood the signals and unwittingly led them on. Maybe…..

But it is not the victim's fault. Though she blames herself.

Despite having extremely supportive parents, I could never bring myself to report it either. Had he heard, my father would have let those boys have it. My mother would have ensured their mothers punished them.

I would certainly have been believed. Yet, I didn't speak out.

I just stopped playing Holi.

I hid away when people came to call me.

I made excuses to not play.

I never stepped out of home during those days.

I stayed away from public spaces.

And I am not the only one who does so.

Holi does give an opportunity for men to harass women. They hide behind the veil of "social sanction" and "culture", and unleash their sexual frustration on unwilling women.

This is certainly not what the festival was supposed to be. But sadly, that is what it has become.

Gratitude

 

‘It is the height of hypocrisy to celebrate a Harvest Festival when the milk comes out of a plastic pouch, and the rest of the ingredients are picked up from the grocer’, I would rail during my rebellious teenage years.

But gradually, I came to realize that Pongal wasn’t just a Harvest Festival. It was a chance to acknowledge the things you take for granted, to be appreciative of what life has thrown your way, and to hope that you will continue to be that way.

In Gratitude for all I have. In Hope that I will always have enough.

شکر

Our Cultural Diversity

 

To me, Navratri has always been associated with Maa Durga. Though born in a Tamilian household, my childhood and youth was spent in communities with a predominantly Bengali population, so Durga Puja is a part of my cultural heritage, not Navratri golu.

The frenzied beat of the dakis. The sound of conch shells being blown. The smell of camphor and flowers, mingling with the tantalizing aroma of street food. New clothes and conversations. And reigning above it all the benign face of Maa Durga, who’s come on a visit with her four children.

Dashami was the day when all the excitement came to an end. Ma Durga would leave her earthly home, and return to her heavenly abode. For us, the excitement would come to an end, and we would be left with three words on our lips, আবার এসো মা/ come back soon, Ma.

If you asked me my family’s traditions for Vijaya Dashami, I wouldn’t be able to answer. Perhaps even my parents didn’t know; they had both grown up in other states and had most certainly picked up traditions from the places where they lived.

Dussehra assumed significance after I married into a North Indian family. But I was never comfortable with interpreting the epic battle between Rama and Ravana as one where Good triumphs over Evil. Rama spoke about the moral code when it came to others, but he was not above breaking them if it suited his purpose and Ravana often conducted himself with more honour than did his antagonist. As I saw it, in that particular battle, good and evil were labels reserved for the victor and the vanquished.

I am not the only one who thinks that way. There are communities which mourn the death of Ravana, just as there are communities that celebrate the victory of Rama.

And that is what makes Hinduism unique. There is no common ‘Hindu’ culture or tradition. There is no single version of Hinduism. There is no one God all Hindus worship. There is no one way in which all Hindus worship a particular God.

In the last few years, there has been a strong attempt to homogenize Hinduism. One deity has been given prominence over the others. A deity that in my part of the country is worshipped in a benign form has metamorphosed into one who is ready for battle. A singular narrative is being thrust on the country.

The essence of Hinduism has always been its plurality. It has been the ability to assimilate and cherish different cultures and traditions. To cherish our differences, and to take pride in our collective tradition. It would be a shame if that is lost.

In my tiny home, we cling to the plurality. Though none of us is a practicing Hindu, and only my husband even identifies himself as one, we carry forward parts of the traditions of our families. On Ashtami, I make kala chana, sooji halwa and poori for lunch because my mother-in-law always did so, and requested me to keep the tradition going. But I soak a larger quantity of kala chana than required, and keep some of it aside to make shundal and payasam the next day because my mother wants that I celebrate Saraswati Puja on Navami. And I am hoping that neither of the kids comes to know about the tradition of smashing a pumpkin on Dashami day, because they will most certainly want to adopt that tradition, and I don’t particularly want to clean up after them!

Celebrating Festivals- Day 12 of #100happy days

Festivals are always a hit or miss thing in our household. When I am in a mood, I go all out; if not, I look the other way. When I woke up on Sankranti Day, I hadn’t decided whether to celebrate the festival or not. After first deciding to ignore it, I changed my mind, and spent the next two hours in the kitchen cooking the traditional dishes you make on that day.

The kids aren’t sure if they like it, and I might end up having to eat it all. But who cares- I’m happy and everything smells divine!

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There is still Hope

Her father works as a security guard- a job he has clung onto for over a decade. Her mother is barely literate- a woman who’s personal horizons end at the walls of her home. She is a Certified Public Accountant, working for one of the “Big Four” Public Auditing Firms. Her younger sister is doing a Masters in Science in the United States- she went there on a full-scholarship.

Her’s is the kind of story that gives us hope. The kind of story that reminds us that with hard work and a supportive family, you can open almost all doors.

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A Drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

Tomorrow marks the 63rd Anniversary of the day on which India proclaimed herself a Republic. Though there is a lot that is wrong in the country, stories like this give me Hope.

Isn't that how festivals should be?

“Please, Mamma, may be do Ganapathi at home?”, my kids asked me.

“No way. I am not killing myself any more”, I replied. “You want to celebrate, you celebrate. Leave me out of it.”

Last year, I had sworn not to celebrate any festivals at home. All the hard work wore me out, nobody appreciated the effort, and I ended up snapping at everyone in frustration. Life became much easier after I started ignoring festivals.

And then the kids wanted to celebrate. I let them take charge; helped when they asked. We have fun.

Isn’t that how festivals should be?

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We haven't yet got to a stage where we celebrate obscure festivals like this one where images of the Mother Goddess seem to be worshipped at home, but we have celebrated at least three major and many minor festivals, and had fun. Taken at the local market, in December, this forms a part of my Pictorial Flashback of 2012.

The purpose of festivals

Sharad Poornima.

The full moon night when the moon is closest to the Earth. People believe that if they offer a milk based dessert to the moon before consuming it, they will be blessed with good health in the coming year. In the days before high-rises and pollution, many families would have, what amounts to, a moonlight picnic dinner on Sharad Poornima. Whether the moon actually blessed the food or not, we do not know, but everyone sure had fun.

And shouldn’t that be the whole purpose of festivals?

I did my bit, and make something sweet for the kids.

“The easy confidence with which I know another man's religion is folly teaches me to suspect that my own is also.”
― Mark Twain

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This is the fourth year that I am going to be a part of NaBloWriM. The Plan is to elaborate on a quote that touched my heart- let's see how far this takes me. If I can tie it in with the writing prompt, so much the better!

So fast?

Nine days of festivities draw to a close today. Nine days of worshipping the Mother Goddess. Nine days of dancing through the night. Nine days of dressing up in nine special colours. Nine days of refraining from eating certain foods. Nine days of joyous celebrations. Nine days of mirth.

Seems like yesterday that everyone was counting down to the festival. Buying new clothes, accessorising them. Planning where to go on which day. And with whom. Planning what to cook, when.

And now, it is all over, until next year. Time flies doesn’t it? Both the good times and the bad.

“How did it get so late so soon?”
― Dr. Seuss

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This is the fourth year that I am going to be a part of NaBloWriM. The Plan is to elaborate on a quote that touched my heart- let's see how far this takes me. If I can tie it in with the writing prompt, so much the better!

Celebrate the inner goddess

Every day, you read about atrocities against girls and women. Major crimes grab the headlines, but it is the relatively smaller crimes that strike terror in our hearts. The girl who was assaulted when she dared protest when a ruffian stared at her. The woman paraded naked because she resisted a rape attempt. Small everyday crimes, that make you scared to assert your rights. That make you crow in fear.

And yet, come Navratri, the entire country steps out to worship the Mother Goddess. When will the Nation learn to celebrate the inner Goddess present in its Women and Girls?

While the real Goddess waits for a school bus, the cloth
that is offered to the Goddess hangs from a store.

The symbolism of the Goddess is not a parallel structure to the symbolism of God the Father. The Goddess does not rule the world. She is the world. Manifest in each of us, She can be known internally by every indivdual, in all her magnificent diversity.

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This is the fourth year that I am going to be a part of NaBloWriM. The Plan is to elaborate on a quote that touched my heart- let's see how far this takes me. If I can tie it in with the writing prompt, so much the better!

Our Elephant-headed One

Created by his Mother! Given the head of an Elephant by his Father!

In a contest with his brother, he could not be bothered to race around the world three times- he strode leisurely around his parents- they make up the world for him.

The Remover of Obstacles! The Scribe of the Mahabharata!

While other Gods compete with each other on their majestic mounts, he is happy pottering around on his trusty mouse. He is content, but when required, his physical bravery and intellectual powers surpass those of the other Gods.

Ganesha!

How can anyone not love our Elephant-headed God? 

Vasanth Ritu, the Season of Spring

Considering there is an entire festival devoted to commemorating the advent of "Vasanth Ritu". Considering there are over a dozen unique names for the Season. Considering "Vasanth Ritu" is much celebrated in music, dance and literature. Considering all that, it’s strange that for all practical purposes, India doesn’t have a "Vasanth Ritu".

The brief interlude between Winter and Summer is just that- an interlude. One day you notice it is getting too hot for sweaters, the next day, you are sweating in a sleeveless tee-shirt. That’s how short it is. And yet, we persist with the myth of "Vasanth Ritu". 
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There are words, and there are words. Some words can be easily translated, others need to be described.  In April, I’ll attempt to capture the Soul of 26 'Indian' words in a  drabble of exactly 100 words.

Sankranti- traditions endure

Sankranti; the Harvest Festival. One of our most important festivals. The day when you pray to the Sun God for a bountiful year. A festival which I never celebrate, because I did not see its relevance to a city-bred person like me.

And yet, on Sankranti day, dawn found me running on a bridge over an inlet of the sea. I caught the Sun playing hide and seek behind the skyscrapers. I saw its preening at its reflection in the placid waters. The Sun’s rays warmed my arms, lit up my heart.

Even if I deny my traditions, they endure.
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A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

Are Festivals worth it?

There was a time when I used to celebrate all the major festivals at home. Not necessarily because I believe in the rituals, but because I thought it was good for the kids to have a strong cultural foundation, so they could take their own decisions later on life. I would drive myself crazy putting up appropriate floral decorations, making sweets, dressing the kids in traditional wear.

Till I realized nobody really enjoyed it.

I’ve now decided not to celebrate any more festivals at home. At least I no longer wear myself out, and them scream because I am tired.
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Flashback 2011- October

The photograph was taken on Diwali, the Festival of Lights- maybe the last time I celebrate any festival at home. The picture, taken in October, forms a part of my Pictoral Flashback of 2011.

What price Celebrations?

The last thing you expect at midnight is for someone to set-off a fire-cracker with an ear-shattering bang right under your window. And yet, that is exactly what happened last night. And if that wasn’t bad enough, a second cracker with an equally loud bang was set off just as we were about to drop back to sleep.

It wasn’t that the people doing it didn’t know it was illegal- they just couldn’t care. After all, which of their neighbours would do something as un-neighbourly as summon the police?

What is the purpose of celebrations, if they inconvenience others so?

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A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

Traditions that drive you mad

Is it only in my house that festivals end up becoming so stressful? Whether it is strictly necessary or not, you create your own traditions, and drive yourself crazy trying to maintain them even when you have barely enough time to breathe. You expect people to co-operate, but nobody seems to want to do anything except on their terms. And just when decide you will do everything yourself, instead of staying out of the way, people end up creating new problems. “Never again”, you swear. And at that point of time you mean it.

But come next year, you capitulate.
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A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

Are people dishonest?

It’s that time of the year again where every pavement stall in the market starts selling paper lanterns.
You expect to see paper lanterns everywhere, but not early in the morning when there is not a soul in sight. Not shoppers, not salesman, not guards. Just paper lanterns with streamers fluttering enticingly in the breeze.
The salesmen had obviously not wanted to cart the lanterns to whichever street corner they call home. But were they not afraid the lanterns would be stolen?
You and I choose to think of people as dishonest, but they who know, seem to know otherwise.
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A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

Vatapoornima- a truncated ritual

Vatapoornima is another of the long list of Hindu festivals where women pray for the long life of their husbands. Whether I agree with it or not, tying a sacred thread around a living growing banyan tree, to symbolise the long and happy life they want for their husbands does make a certain kind of sense.
But to carry out the same ritual on a twig of the tree seems almost counter intuitive. Is it only the long life of an amputated body part that the women are praying for?
Adapting customs is great, but shouldn't they also make sense?

Braving the rain to sell banyan twigs- brisk business he had!

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A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

Sixty-one years of the Republic

[When I was a kid, I used to really look forward to Republic Day. But as I grow older, I increasingly find myself getting depressed every time the day rolls around.] 


Sixty-one years back, the People of India gave to themselves a Constitution, and proclaimed themselves a Republic.

One day back, a senior government official was burnt alive in broad daylight when he tried to alert officials about the pilferage of government property.

Is this the freedom and independence that the people of India fought so hard for? The freedom to steal what can be purchased openly. The independence to offer and accept bribes where things should work without them.

Corruption is the cause of all evil in the country. Remove it, and all problems are solved.

But remove it how?

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A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

The news article that horrified.

The Tree is Up, or was

"Are you sure you want the tree up today? Can't we do it tomorrow when you are less sleepy."
"How do you expect me to string the lights if you keep pushing my elbows?"
"The tree is not very steady. Can't we wait till tomorrow and get a better base?"
"Don't load all the ornaments on one side. The tree may collapse."
"The youngest in the family gets to place the star. Who's the youngest?" "Well, never mind. Papa's not helped. He can place the star."
"Stand back while I turn on the lights."

"Please don't touch...." CRASH "...the tree."

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A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

Reindeers in Curry Land

One minute we were flying over continents so swiftly we could barely register the landscapes we passed over. The next minute we found ourselves stranded on this narrow ledge overlooking a busy street. It is nice to rest for a bit, to stand silently and watch more people pass beneath than are reindeer in my entire country. Where once I barely survived on tundra grass, it is the curry fumes from the Indian restaurant that now satiate me.


The people here love me. But I want to go back home. These twinkling lights are pretty, but I miss the snow.
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This Drabble and many more are a part of the Annual Advent Calendar at the Burrow.  

A drabble a day, everyday to provide some respite from the madness that is December. Do check it out