Book Review: Kari

 Kari’s smouldering black eyes drilled into my soul from the stark cover of Amruta Patil’s graphic novel for almost a month before I finally gathered the courage to dive into the turgid dark waters of her Soul. Kari, the protagonist, inhabits the same time and space that I called home for several years- we might even have taken the same local train to work or back- yet, superficially, we couldn’t be more different.

Brooding, melancholy, drawn to the dark, Kari introspects on the urban lifestyle, on sexuality and people’s reaction of fidelity, on lesbian relationships and how the heterosexual society often sees it as a temporary deviant, on paternal expectations and the guilt of children, on domestic violence and the studied silence of society when it encounters it. As Kari navigates the labyrinth of ‘Smog City’, collecting symbols like we collect ticket stubs, you start seeing glimpses of yourself in Kari and of Kari in you.

The book is in sombre colours. Like the world Kari inhabits- 

“Smog city looks even more anaemic in the sun. Left to itself long enough, everything in the world withers, wastes, fades away to brown and grey. Tarpaulin and trash. Cinders and ash. Vegetables turn to potty. Red curtains colourless, add to this, streams of women and women, like rotos and slaves, in equally tired colours. We are scared of too much colour.”

But when you least expect it, that monochromatic world gets drenched in colour. Sometimes, it is the colour of the magical, sometimes of the mundane. But colour it is.

Some of her musings are spot on-

“There are settling girls, and there are unsettling girls. The ones who seem to have it in them to be flyers are the ones who want to snuggle into settling. The ones who look as settled as old housedogs want to twist their way into flying. Necessarily, you must be defensive about being a settling sort of girl.”

“The Airlines lady who travels in the same compartment as us day after day, has bruises on her arms and face today and her eyes keep welling, but no one asks her why. Our eyes dart towards her, but we go back to travelling in too much proximity. Two inches from one another and expressionless.”

“I wait to watch their train leave just as I waited to watch their train pull in. I wait till they have disappeared. Until the next train pulls in. I have temporarily regressed to being a guilt ridden and miserable child.”

Amruta Patil’s ‘Kari’, for all practical purposes, is the first graphic novel for adults that I read, so I wasn’t sure exactly what to expect. Having read it, I now wonder if the bar is set too high.

Enjoying My Race- Day 17 of #100happydays

I trained hard with a time target in mind. Dragged myself out of bed so I could do my long runs. Dodged speeding cricket balls while doing my speed-work. I did everything I could. And yet, 5 miles into the race, I knew it was not my day. Things should have fallen into place, but didn’t.

So, I stopped looking at my stopwatch and started enjoying the run. Started high-fiving the people who had gathered to cheer. Paced other runners who were close to giving up.

Happiness is in enjoying what you have, not mourning what you feel you should.

 

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I took a picture of the iconic Bandra-Worli Sealink during the course of the run. This is the only time you get to traverse it on foot.

Can you be happy for 100 days in a row. Sign up for #100happydaysFollow me on Instagram- nuts246
 

Ghar, a home

The ultimate aspiration of any Indian- four walls and a roof. And rightly so- in a land where the population is high and land is scarce, real-estate prices are unrealistically high. 


Those shelters made by stretching tarpaulin sheets over bamboo poles might look like makeshift accommodation, but families have often been living in them for years. 


Slum housing is little better. A labyrinth of open drains, no running water or sanitation facilities, illegal electricity. Precisely enough floor-space for the eight family members to lie down at night. A plasma TV on the wall. 
It is their own Ghar, Sweet Ghar. 
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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.

Missing the real story

It was the old-fashioned porch that caught my eye. The rosewood blinds, the wrought-iron latticework, the window panes in primary colours. The house, unlike many others in the locality, looked in good repair- clearly the family hadn’t yet fallen into bad days.

‘Saba Heritage’, I mused. The name sounds Persian, but the locality has been almost entirely Catholic for generations. Why would a well-to-do Islamic family have settled there?

It was only when I looked at the picture at home that I noticed the coffin popped up against the wall. How many other big stories do we end up missing?
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A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

The best we can be

“How do you find the answer so fast”, asked my son in wonder when I mentally calculated the long division he had been struggling with for the last several minutes.

“Practice. Nothing but practice”, I replied.

“But you still did it so fast”, he said. “Did you know the answer from before.”

“No, I calculated it right now.”

“But how could you do it so fas?”, he asked. “Are you the best in the world?”

“No, Sweetheart, I am not.  But I do try to be the best that I can be.”

Isn’t that what we should strive for, always?

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Flashback 2011 - December 

I would probably call this the "Best" Sunrise I witnessed during the year, but there have been other memorable sunrises too. In fact, truth be told, Every Sunrise IS the Best, in its own unique way. Taken in December during our holiday in Goa, this photograph forms a part of my Pictoral Flashback of 2011.

Shades of grey

When we think back on the year, we remember supreme successes and frustrating failures. We remember events that made us giggle, and things that made us cry. We remember the people who went out of their way to be nice to us, and the ones who were nasty.

But is that what the year was? Ups and downs? Crests and Troughs? Wasn’t most of the year, just normal? One day merging into another. Chores performed, hugs exchanged, deadlines met. Survival from day to day.

Why do we focus always on the black and white. Isn’t life mostly shades of grey?
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Flashback 2011- November

This monochromatic photograph was taken in November when I was visiting my mother. Crappy camera phone, no editing, yet, it was my unanimous choice for the month of November, when I was working on my Pictoral Flashback of 2011.

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.

A livelihood at home

Over 20 million people squeezed into a tiny city. Extended families living in houses smaller than a garage- every inch of floor space covered with sleeping bodies at night. No running water, nor dedicated sanitary blocks. A road network so inadequate it takes hours to commute 20 miles to work. The most overloaded public transportation system in the world- it is a miracle how so many people squeeze into so little space. And yet, people keep migrating to Bombay.

Will a time ever come when people from rural India aren’t forced to migrate to cities to earn enough to survive?

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The Bandra-Worli Sealink is an architectural delight. But the toll is so high, and the approach so crowded, few people even think of taking it. Couldn't the money have been used better? This picture forms a part of my Pictoral Flashback of 2011.

You can't do both

“But it’s raining”, is the excuse we hear constantly during the monsoons. Everything is put on hold because you presumably can’t step outdoors in the rain.

And yet, few things beat the pleasure of running in the rain. Raindrops falling on your head. Feet splashing through puddles. Newly washed leaves on trees. Wildflowers that bloom only for weeks. The smell of fresh earth. The cool air hitting your face, caressing your bare arms. Bliss.

This year, I’ve learnt. You can either make excuses, or you can do what you want to do. You can’t do both. The choice is yours.

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Flashback 2011- August 

The photograph was taken in August at a colonial bungalow where we stayed during an outstation run, and forms a part of my Pictoral Flashback of 2011.

What a child wants

“Don’t tell anyone, but you know what happened today…”. Every night, thus start my son’s everlasting tales.

But a year back, it wasn’t so. A year back, he was withdrawn, defensive and unhappy. His grades were poor, he was clearly not happy in school and I had no way of reaching out to him. All I could do was wonder what went wrong….. till that day when the dam broke, and he articulated his fears.

My son’s far from perfect, but he’s friendly, happy and confident.

Sometimes, all a child needs is for his mother to be there for him.

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Flashback 2011- July

A rolling stone gathers no moss. Moss, to me, is symbolic of parents who are there for their kids. Of parents who give their all for their children. Of my parents. And of the parent I wish I could be. This photograph, taken in July, forms a part of my Pictoral Flashback of 2011.

Courage is....

The eye-surgeon with a flourishing practice, who returned to his village and set up an eye-hospital for the poor. The retired bureaucrat who runs a school exclusively for boys from a community that has been shunned for generations. The articulate woman who’s dedicated her life to rescuing and rehabilitating victims of the sex trade.

They could have led comfortable lives, but chose to do something meaningful. They may not flaunt the material trappings of success, but they are the richest people I know.

Gandhi said it best. “Seek not greater wealth, but simpler pleasure; not higher fortune, but deeper felicity.”_____

Flashback 2011- June 

When it rains, the dry bed turns into a gurgling stream. In the dry months, it could be mistaken for a trail. Water comes and goes, but the rocks stay on forever. This photograph, taken during a trek in June forms a part of my Pictoral Flashback of 2011.

Not the real India

The treasured only child of her parents. Someone who was encouraged to soar as high as her wings could take her. A person who held her own even in a not entirely equitable world. All these years, I genuinely believed that India allowed a woman to attain her potential.

The country I grew up in is not the real India.

In India, girls are killed before they are born; they are allowed to starve through neglect; they sold into sexual slavery; they are denied a voice at home; they are invisible in the community.

How long can such extremes co-exist?

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I visited rural Maharashtra in May. Saw women struggling to assert themselves, to claim their position in society. Change has to come- but how long will it take? This photograph forms a part of my Pictoral Flashback of 2011.

Giving it my best shot

Three summers ago, I had the crazy dream of registering for a marathon. Fate took over, and I landed up at the start-line untrained and unsure. I couldn’t do it, walked the distance, and swore never to attempt it again.

But unfinished business rankles. I decided to try one more time. I have trained many months for it. I am as ready as I’ll ever be.

Whether I achieve my dream or not, I would have given it my best shot. I am satisfied.

“Courage is not absence of fear, but the judgment that something is more important than fear.” 

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Flashback 2011- April

A former treadmill junkie, I had to start running on the road if I wanted to pile up the kind of mileages that I needed to attempt a marathon. Luckily, I found a place I fell in love with, and this photograph, taken during my first ever training run in April forms a part of my Pictoral Flashback of 2011.

I had savoured the beauty

“DOOONNNN’TTttttt….”, the word was still in my mouth, when it happened. My son’s hand swung out, knocking the stem off my plumeria plant. A moment earlier, I had been gazing proudly at 17 buds poised to spread their perfume and beauty outside my bedroom window. Now all there was to see was the stump of a stem, bleeding milky white discharge.

These would have been my first flowers in four years. I would have seen their perfection first thing in the morning on waking up. I wept.

And then I stopped weeping. In my mind, I had savoured the beauty.
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Flashback 2011- March

These flowers bloomed on the same plant, but not as easily visible as the other ones would have been. Would I have even seen them had the other lot not been tragically lost? This photograph taken in March forms a part of my Pictoral Flashback of 2011.

Turning Forty

If I meet my 30 year old self, what would I tell her?

Would I tell her that 2 children and 10 years later, she will be fitter, stronger and slimmer than she dreams possible? Would I tell her that every difficult choice she makes will only lead her to yet another one, but that the journey will be well worth it? Would I tell her that she’ll not recognise who she will eventually become?

I would tell her all that. And one more thing I would tell her- to cherish who she is, because she is worth being cherished.

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 Flashback 2011- February

The photograph, taken on Valentine's Day never fails to remind me that while diamonds may add to a girl's charms, nothing makes a woman as beautiful as experience. This photograph forms a part of my Pictoral Flashback of 2011.

If I had the year over....

If I had the year over, would I have done things differently? Would I have put my foot down earlier and more firmly? Suffered fools a lot less? Would I have spent less time with that person who proved a false friend, and been more sympathetic to the one who genuinely needed me? 

Would I have abstained from ordering that takeaway that gave all of us an upset stomach?

With the benefit of hindsight, one can always do things better. But I wouldn’t really want to change too much; I am happy with the way things turned out this year. 

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Flashback 2011- January

On a cold winter morning in one of the most inaccessible parts of rural India, I watched the sun go down behind a temple. As the colours faded into black and white, for a moment, I could see my entire life in stunning clarity. This photograph taken in January forms a part of my Pictoral Flashback of 2011.

On Nature

With a population of 21 million people, and a population density of over sixty-four thousand people per square miles, Bombay is one city which needs all the green spaces that it has. Aarey Milk Colony is one of those places. We complain about the badly maintained roads and the lack of drinking water sources, but it is an untamed patch of green that we can enjoy.

But, even that is now being parceled out for "development". Soon housing colonies and commercially developed "picnic spots" will claim the place we go to for our weekly runs.

Why can't we respect Nature?
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A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

Last year, it was N for Networking

At Mount Mary Church

Mount Mary. The oldest and most popular church in Bomaby. One of the most famous basilicas in India. A gem of English architecture.

Tacked to the main entrance is the sign-

Talk about embracing local traditions!

Youth- the Future of India?

When a friend from America visited me, one of the first things she said was, "I can never get over how young India is. I have seen barely a handful of older people all week."

Her statement seemed strange because, of course, there are older people in India too. But the numbers prove her right- almost a third of the billion people in India are between 10 and 24 years old. And because it is primarily the youth who migrate to cities to escape rural poverty, almost half of urban India falls in that age range.

Imagine the latent productivity.
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A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.



Once a month, I contribute to my organisation's blog- do check out my latest post on Youth in urban-India.

Random Musings

Around midnight, last night, after I got off a telecon with two of my collegues in the US, ironed the school uniform of the older one, and hunted down the missing white sock of the younger one, I realised a Random Wednesday post was due at Burrowers, Books & Balderdash. Since we post at noon GMT, technically, I had 17 1/2 hours to dash out a post, but today promised to be yet another day which could be called rhythmic only if cacophony is a rhythm, and I did not trust myself to find time to write anything reasonably coherent.

I then thought I would get away by posting a couple of truly random photographs. But the very first one set in motion a train of really random thoughts, which I penned down in the 'compose post' window. So head across to Burrowers, Books & Balderdash to see if the post does justice to this photograph.