Concrete Rose: A Book That Acknowledges The Confusion Of Young Men

 Angie Thomas is probably the most powerful voice of her generation, and with ‘Concrete Rose’, the prequel to The Hate U Give (THUG), she has yet again set standards which even she will struggle to beat. This is the story of Maverick Carter- of what made him the man we came to love and admire in THUG.

One afternoon, he is a seventeen year slinging dope, old playing basketball and buying gifts for his girlfriend. A few hours later, a DNA test comes out positive and he realises that he had impregnated his best friend’s girlfriend during a one night stand when his condom slipped. The mother of the child disappears and he is stuck with a three month old baby he had no idea was his. His mother insists that he ‘man up’ and shoulder his responsibilities. He learns to change diapers and burp the baby. He moves out his music collection to make place for the crib, and sells his recorder to buy essentials for the baby. He even gives up slinging dope and takes up a minimum wage job. His girlfriend breaks up with him, the baby keeps him awake at night, he is exhausted working in the grocery store and school becomes the one place where he can catch up on his sleep.

Normally a teen pregnancy turns the mother’s life upside down, but here it is the father who bears the brunt of it (though he had no say in whether or not the pregnancy should be continued). Though he had never been particularly ambitious, Maverick sees even the few dreams he had disappear. He sees no escape from a deary future where he will be bagging groceries all his life. Angie Thomas does a remarkable job of getting into the psyche of the teenage father, and talking about how much damage the ‘men don’t cry’ myth does to young black men.

The book also talks about how few options are available to young black men growing up in black communities. Of how they are forced to align with the gangs in order to survive and of how they lack positive role models who might inspire them to do better. Maverick believes that “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree”; since his father was an important member of a gang, he will have to join it too. It is only at the end of the book that he understands what his employer and mentor meant when he said that “while an apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, it can roll away if kicked at the appropriate time.”

One wonders how realistic Maverick’s mother’s character is. You admire how she teaches her son to be primary parent, but you also wonder how many women would have compelled their son to take on the responsibility instead of trying to return the child to the mother. Clearly she wants her son to be a better father than her husband had been, and this creates interesting dynamics between the two. There is another emotional part where she admits to her son that she is in a lesbian relationship with someone her son thought was her ‘friend’. He wonders why he feels betrayed by his mother, and also thinks of how his jailbird father is the only one to lose out completely.

Apart from his relationship with his mother, Maverick is in two other important and complex parent- child relationships- with his father who he starts to question, and with his baby son who he loves unconditionally. Each of the relationships is deeply nuanced, making the entire book a delight to read.

While there are many fabulous books written for young adults, there are not many that address the issues faced by young men. ‘Concrete Rose’ does a wonderful job of acknowledging the confusion faced by young men, especially those arising due to changing gender dynamics, and this book will certainly provide a counter to the toxicity spewed by Andrew Tate and other such proponents of the manosphere. While Maverick’s situation may not be universal, his confusion certainly is, which makes this a must read for young men.

'She & I': A Tale Of Male Victimhood, Entitlement And Obsession

[First published in YouthKiAwaaz]

“This is my story- a story spanning ten years. A story of my blood; my tears. I was thirty-three when it all began. I was forty-three when it ended. This is not my story alone. It is also Kamala’s. And, I feel as if I’ve just woken up and the dream has drifted away.”

With these opening words, the narrator of ‘She & I’ pulls you into his story of victimhood and obsession. He is, a 33-year-old man from a family that is neither too rich, nor entirely poor. He believes he is too educated to work in the fields like the rest of his family, yet is unwilling or unable to get a job befitting his perceived stature.

So he spends his day “eating thrice a day, sitting in empty places, getting money from my parents on the pretext of applying for jobs, smoking.” While he is manning his cousin’s telephone booth, he sees Kamala for the first time and falls in lust with her.

Kamala, is a beautiful, self-possessed and fiercely independent widow with twin daughters who has been offered a clerk’s job on compassionate grounds after the death of her husband. For the next ten years, the narrator remains obsessed with Kamala. He is always around; doing odd jobs for her, eating the food she prepares for him, making demands on her time, never spending any money on her, but complaining that she doesn’t give her anything in return for his loyalty. They gradually get into a physical relationship, but neither of them initiates anything more permanent.

While the narrator is a wastrel who clearly runs away from a commitment of any kind (he even refuses to get married giving the most flimsy reasons for not doing so), Kamala comes across as someone true to her name. Like the lotus after which she is named, she thrives even in muddy water and doesn’t let any of the muck stick to her.

She has a full time job, she brings up her daughters single-handedly, she manages a estates of her parents and parents-in-law and is a source of support to the women in the village, particularly those who do not have any other support. Since the story is told from his perspective- you do not really question what she sees in him and why she remains in a relationship with him- surely it is not because he runs errands for her?!

Things change for the pair when Kamala gets transferred to the district headquarters. There are many more people in her life now. The narrator suspects her of having an affair, though she denies it. He is torn apart by jealousy and insecurity, and when he sees that she is unaffected by his hurtful words, his love turns into obsession. He stops eating, he stops talking to people, and lets himself be consumed by the imaginary wrongs she did to her.

Here, we are offered a very accurate portrait of society. Since he is male, and therefore can do no wrong, his mother and sisters are quick to blame Kamala for his moods, to the point of accusing her of bewitching him. Without pausing to think of why Kamala may not want to formalise a relationship which gives her very little, they put the blame on the fact that she is of a higher caste and that she will have to give up her widow’s pension if she remarries.

Imayam is one of the finest Tamil writers today and his books normally bring out the startling inequities of society. The scope of this book is less panaromic than that of the others, but it is still a stunning portrait of patriarchy works to create entitled men who expect their women to perform exactly as they expect them to, and of the constraints within which society expects women to behave. While the end was slightly predictable, what cannot be denied is that the book is a brilliant study into the mind of an obsessed man, and of how the intersectionality of caste and gender work at the individual level. The book is unsettling, but so is the message it conveys.

The story is set in Tamil Nadu, but the emotions are universal. If you like stories set in small town India, if you like reading stories that have strong emotions, and if you enjoy stories told from the perspective of an unreliable narrator, this book is for you. The book reminded me of Vivek Shanbhag’s ‘Sakina’s Kiss’, which too was told from a perspective of a man who considers himself a victim, even though he is not one.

I received an ARC of the book. The views expressed in this review are my own. This book has been published by Speaking Tiger. 

'2024: India In Free Fall' Is A Must Read For Those Concerned About India

 [First published in YouthKiAwaaz]

In ‘2024: India in Free Fall’ former Congress spokesperson Sanjay Jha talks about some of the urgent issues that the nation should be concerned about — ‘from the othering of Muslims minorities and the bulldozing of citizen’ rights and even homes, to the surreptitious dismantling of the judiciary and the unfettered growth of crony capitalism and plutocracy that has aggravated income inequality.’ In an ideal democracy, with General Elections just a few months away, these issues should be discussed on prime time debated every night. Since mainstream media seems to have abdicated it’s role of a watchdog, it is left for books like this to ensure that these issues do not fade from public memory.

Sanjay Jha, who describes himself as the person who has the dubious distinction of remaining suspended from the Congress Party for the longest period of time, still describes himself as “a Congressi by DNA”. He grew up in the India that many of us thought we grew up in — an India that was loyal to the Nehruvian ideas of secularism, liberalism and scientific temperament.

He believed, as most of us did at that time, that in a democracy people have the fundamental right to question those in power. In today’s India, however, being a secular liberal has almost become an insult. Nehruvian idealism is not something anybody claims to follow, and if they do, they are relegated to being part of the fringe minority. Yet, Sanjay Jha remains true to those ideals, and it is that which comes through in this entire book.

2024 provides an analysis of many of the issues which might have destabilised a government in the past, but which far from being doing that have not only not been adequately discussed, they have been ignored to a point where they have completely faded from public memory. Throughout the book, which discussing everything from the handling of the Covid epidemic, to the state of the economy and the level of unemployment, the author keeps reiterating his stance that if the 2024 elections are fought on the basis of performance, it is extremely unlikely that the current government would come back. However, he also points to the fact that the election is more likely to be fought on emotions than on facts.

While holding the BJP government responsible for ignoring the promises on which it was elected in the first place, the author does not give the Congress Party a free pass either. Despite being a former Congress spokesperson, or maybe because of it, calls out the largest opposition party for resisting (or delaying) taking a stand on certain issues, and for not facilitating a grassroots protest. He also questions the leadership style, and talks of the importance of access and managing perceptions. Given how long and intimately the author has known the party, and how he remains loyal to its values, it might be good for the party in question to introspect on these issues.

When I was talking to someone the other day they said that it is ‘the job of politicians to lie’ and that I should not get agitated about the fact that election promises have not been kept. What the person failed to understand was that even if one concedes that politicians make election promises which they perhaps have no intention of keeping, in a functioning democracy the media is supposed to question them relentlessly and hold them accountable for the promises they made. In India, as the author reminds us in the book, the mainstream media often ends up defending the government even more than the official party spokespersons do!

The predominant emotion running through the book is not anger, but disappointment tinged with bitterness. The book is a silent lament for the values that an entire generation grew up with but which have now been eroded. There is bitterness about lost opportunity, and sadness that a country which was poised to take its place among the best in the world is today slipping down on many of the global indices that matter.

Above all, this book serves as a reminder of the many issues which we have allowed to slide from our memories after the initial outrage- incidents of communal violence, issues of gender oppression, and the gradual erosion of the values on which the nation was built. Ideally, these issues should have been kept alive by the opposition and by the media, but after a few days of hashtags, they have now disappeared from all of our consciousness. The book serves to remind even those who genuinely care for the idea of India of the number of incidents that we have now completely forgotten.

2024, as the author says, is an important year for the world. Three of the largest democracies (USA, UK and India) go to polls this year. All three nations are facing extremely challenging times. All three have deviated from the principles on which the respective nations were founded, and in two of those countries, the government seems to be out of touch with what the population wants. The book does not make any predictions about what might happen in 2024, but it does remind us of how we got to this point in history.

This book is a must read for everybody who is concerned about where the nation is heading.

The book has been published by Harper Collins India. I received an ARC of the book. The views are my own.

This Book Debunks The “Hindu Khatre Mein Hai” Conspiracy Theory

 [First published in YouthKiAwaaz]

Love jihad. Population jihad. Forced conversions. Muslim appeasement.

You cannot live in India or be in contact with Indians without hearing these words multiple times every week. Whether it be your family or school WhatsApp group, discussions in the office cafeteria, dinner party conversations or debates on news channels — when you hear people go on and on about these topics, you almost start to believe that “Hindu khatre mein hai/ Hindus are in danger” and that ‘something’ should be done immediately to ‘safeguard’ the religion and those who practice it. Maybe not everyone genuinely thinks that Hindus will be reduced to being a religious minority in the country, but many certainly believe that they have got a raw deal and that it is a disadvantage to be born a Hindu in India.

Many of us intuitively or anecdotally realise that these conspiracy theories are just that — conspiracy theories. However, these falsehoods have been repeated so often by high ranking politicians, government functionaries and mainstream media that they have almost become the truth.

Moreover, in the absence of hard facts, it is almost impossible to counter any of the claims. That is where the book, “Love Jihad and Other Fictions” comes in. The trio of journalists, Sreenivasan Jain, Mariyam Alavi, and Supriya Sharma brought hard-nosed journalistic scrutiny to these viral claims, and in this book have laid out the ‘simple facts to counter the viral falsehoods.’

They used a combination of looking at publicly available data, seeking information through RTIs, contacting the leaders who make/ made these claims, and did on the ground reportage to arrive at the truth behind each of the issues.

The book follows a simple format. The falsehoods are grouped into four broad classifications — love jihad, population jihad, conversions and Muslim appeasement. Each individual issue is compressed into a heading, the claims are described in detail, depending on the nature of the claim either the data is analysed (or lack of supporting data noted) or the story is investigated through on-ground reporting, and a single line conclusion states if the issue is fact or fiction.

While some of the claims are debunked by analysing data, but you don’t need a background in statistics to understand the simple graphs which are completely self-explanatory. Other stories which deal with specific individuals or events are subject to proper investigative journalism, including reading available information and interviewing the various stakeholders before arriving at the conclusion.

The four main sections covered in the book are:

Love Jihad:
Love Jihad is apparently a conspiracy whereby Muslim men get women of other religions to fall in love with them with the objective of converting them to Islam prior to marriage. The book examines the prominent instances of “love jihad” before establishing that in each of those cases, the intent behind the inter-religious relationship was not to convert the woman to Islam. The authors also analysed the complete list of cases of “love jihad” before arriving at the conclusion that the numbers are too low to be considered a ‘conspiracy’.

Population Jihad:
The proponents of this conspiracy cite government records to claim that Muslims are waging a holy war by producing more children, and that the population of Muslims will exceed that of Hindus in a few decades. Many, including high ranking politicians have also alleged that there is large scale migration of Muslims from neighbouring countries, which is responsible for changing the religious demographics of border districts. The book analyses the available data behind each of these claims, and concludes conclusively that there is no basis for making any of the claims.

Forced Conversions:
According to this conspiracy, Christians plan to take over India through mass forced conversions, and the proponents of the theory allege that many who undergo conversion continue to hide the fact in official records. The book analyses existing government data to show that the percentage of Christians has not gone up. They also investigate the allegations of forced conversions to prove that those who did convert did so out of their own volition.

However, through the same on ground interviews they also establish that while there are some people who self-identify as Christian and go to church regularly, they continue showing their original religion in their official records in order to enjoy the benefit of reservations and other affirmative action.

Since affirmative action is intended to compensate for generations of oppression, the book makes a strong case for extending reservations to Dalit Christians and Dalit Muslims also. This section also discusses whether or not the anti-conversion laws enacted by several states is compatible with the provisions of the Constitution which give the right to “propagate” your religion.

Appeasement of Muslims:
Hindutava parties accuse other political parties of “Muslim appeasement”, and claim that haj subsidy, funding of madrassas, and the fact that Muslim men can practice polygamy prove that Muslims are mollycoddled to the detriment of other religions. The book examines each of these issues separately and explains exactly how none of them offers any special privileges to Muslims. In fact, the authors argue, if a Universal Civil Code is implemented, people belonging to the majority religion will stand to lose the most.

The Epilogue is the most heart wrenching section of the book, because it uses publicly available data to show how violence against religious minorities have gone up exponentially in the last nine years. Which some of the violence may have been directly orchestrated by those who enjoy political patronage, all the violence took place only because the dominant political climate allows hate and hate crimes to be normalised.

The book ‘Love Jihad and Other Fictions’ debunks many of the myths we hear every day, and provides facts to counter the falsehoods. Anyone who wants to know the truth behind the claims, should read the book, because it ensures that we are aware of the facts and are no longer acting through ignorance.

As is the case with Kunal Purohit’s ‘H Pop: The Secretive World of Hindutva Pop Stars‘, having read the book, it will be up to us to either choose to counter the narrative and challenge falsehoods with facts, or to choose to be silent. Whatever we choose, the choice will be ours.

The book is published by Aleph Book Company. I received a review copy, but the views are my own.

‘Swallowing The Sun’: A Family Saga Set In Pre-Independence India

 [First published in YouthKiAwaaz]

We have we have this pre-conceived notion that the women in pre-independence India were meek and docile. That they were largely confined to the house and that they did not have any opinions of their own. Yet, if we look at history, we see that there were very many women who participated in a very meaningful way both in the freedom struggle and in various battles to achieve social and economic equality. These were not just privileged women from westernised families, but women from the working class and the oppressed class; women who you would not expect to be out there protesting or even having (much less expressing) an opinion of their own.

In this lyrical work of fiction set in the first half of the 20th century, Lakshmi Murdeshwar Puri has chosen to debunk the myths of the silent Indian women by writing about a family that defies the norms set by a patriarchal society.

At a time when child marriage was rampant, one man fought society to give both his younger daughters an education and forced them to pursue careers. In the society of his day, on the demise of his wife at childbirth, the Maratha farmer would have married a second wife who would have taken care of the girls and the newborn son, but he defied society to put the girls in an Ashram school, where they lived and learnt with other orphan girls. He encouraged them to go to college and trusted them enough to live on their own in Bombay and study in a co-educational institution. What makes the story even more powerful is the fact that it is clearly inspired by the author’s own mother, who was herself a postgraduate in the same pre-Independence period.

The story spans one generation- roughly 50 years of Malati’s life- the time span may not be enough to call it an intergenerational saga, but the story does follow people from multiple generations of the family long enough to see how perceptions and prevailing attitudes change, and how certain things which were not even considered early on in the story become normalised towards the end. Malati herself evolves from an intelligent and headstrong young girl to an empathetic and accomplished woman forged by love, loss and life.

The book’s greatest strength is the powerful characters, especially the women characters. Yes, the pioneering women students, Malati and her sister Kamala, are the protagonists, but the subsidiary characters are equally strong. Their Aiyee, for instance, seems like a silent housewife, but she put her foot down whenever needed, taught her daughters to carry themselves with pride and dignity, and supported her husband when he dreamt crazy dreams for the girls. Their older sister Surekha was allowed to decide whether or not she wanted to be the second wife of an extremely rich and powerful man and did so on condition that he would never emotionally or physically abuse her. Maa Saheba, the first wife of the man whom Surekha married, was called crazy by society, but was she really crazy- she was one in the long tradition of bhakti saints who only wanted union with a Lord Krishna and asserted her agency whenever she could. Sarla and Veena, the two daughters of Surekha’s husband, were both high-spirited young women who craved romantic and sexual gratification. As you encounter each of these characters, you start to realise how much you stereotype a particular time, but that even in those days, women did assert themselves within their limitations.

There are many layers to each of the main characters. For instance, we feel quite indignant when a particular character shows his misogynistic nature by trying to clip the wings of his wife. But soon we realise that the couple hide a secret which both are determined to protect, and his controlling nature is just to ensure that his wife is protected.

Of particular importance throughout the book is, of course, the battle for independence- the different ways in which people participated in the freedom struggle, the different choices available to them, and how some people chose to become lawyers or teachers, thereby providing a continuation of intellectual leadership, of how some people joined the nonviolence struggle, and others joined the revolutionary struggle. People were very different from each other, but each was driven by a love for the motherland and a desire to do whatever it takes to free India from the clutches of the British.

The most stunning part of the book, however, is the lyrical language. Sometimes, it seems a little over the top, but it never ceases to be beautiful. The author quotes abhangs from Marathi bhakti saints, Marathi and English poetry from the period, and verses from Kalidassa’s Meghadoota. The same kind of lyrical beauty permeates the book, and her gorgeous prose ensures you can almost visualise what is happening in front of your eyes. This is clearly a book that will make it many shortlists when literary awards are announced, and rightly so. Few debut novels tackle social themes in as enchanting a way as this one does.

Time takes on very different meanings in this book- sometimes, short periods of time are described in vivid detail over many chapters, and at other times, years flip by in a sentence or two. In the last quarter of the book, timelines get a little confusing when, in an attempt to close certain subplots, the author jumps forward several years before returning to pick up the main narrative where she left off.

Swallowing the Sun, a title taken from an abhang of Muktabai– “the ant flies into the sky and swallows the sun”, is a book about individuals. Still, through their story, we also get a deeper understanding of the socio-economic and political world of the first half of the previous century. A word about the exquisitely beautiful cover- flowers, birds and fruits are painted against a muted gold sky, with the ghats of Banaras in the background, creating a scene as evocative as the book itself.

I received a review copy of the book, but the views are my own. The book has been published by Aleph Book Company.

Condemning An Abuser Should Be Easy… But Why Does It Sometimes Become So Difficult?

 [First published in Women’s Web]

Trigger Warning: This speaks of sexual abuse and grooming by someone in a position of power and may be triggering for survivors.

The noted Kathak exponent Pandit Birju Maharaj passed away two years back. His death affected me greatly because I had just become a student of kathak and the composition we were learning then was one of his. For the next couple of days, I let his baritone voice comfort me while I mourned the fact that I would never see him teach or perform live.

Then the allegations of sexual harassment started coming out, which left me stunned. There was no question of not believing the victims/ survivors. Anyone who understands how power dynamics work knows that the classical music and dance space offers immense scope for sexual abuse. As a woman and as a feminist, I offered nothing less than unconditional support to the women speaking up.

However, a large part of me was shattered
Shattered because realised I would never again be able to truly appreciate a phenomenal talent like him. The almost divine voice which took me to undreamt levels- how could that voice belong to a man who preyed on defenceless women? To me it seemed almost unfair that just when I had learnt to be truly mesmerised by someone, he was taken away twice- once through the death of his physical body, and then through learning about how he acted with women.

I struggled to reconcile the two aspects- the formidable talent who literally moulded kathak into its modern form and the man who took advantage of women in his charge. Separate the Art from the Artist, I repeatedly told myself. But it is so much easier to say it than to actually do it.

As a student of kathak, his name came up in almost every class. The compositions he wrote and sang, the innovative techniques he devised for teaching the basics, the simple descriptions which helped us get the right posture. It is almost impossible to stay in love with the dance form without encountering him everyday.

I recognised that he was not untainted, yet…
More than once, when I finally mastered something I was struggling with, I would glance up at his portrait seeking approval. Yet, whenever I did that, it would be with a twinge of guilt- was I complicit in the conspiracy of silence that protects sexual abusers?

I have pondered on this for two years and I still don’t have an answer.

At an intellectual level, I continue to stand by all I said two years back. Sexual abuse is rarely about sex, it is about power. When power dynamics are not equal, even a consensual relationship between two adults may not strictly be consensual. The victims deserve our nothing less than our unconditional support, and as a woman and a feminist I will not deny them that.

Yet, as a student of a classical art form of which he was the undisputed master, how can I ignore or deny the contribution he made?

Perhaps the best I can do is to continue to respect and be grateful for the immense body of work that Pandit Birju Maharaj left behind, while at the same time recognising that despite his almost divine talent, he too was human. And human beings are often flawed. As a friend reminded me, the artist and the human being are often two very different people.

Dear Men, Do you have any idea what women go through everyday?

 [Based on a twitter thread, and published in Women’s Web]

Yet another horrific sexual assault has been committed against a woman in India. As always, men are advising women on how they should take adequate precautions. Adequate precautions? Do men have any idea what women go through everyday?

Let’s ask a couple of questions to understand how women and men navigate the world differently, shall we?

What do you do when your 2-wheeler stalls on a highway at 9 pm?

If you are male, you walk to the nearest toll booth and try to find someone who can help you fix it the bike. Or you stand on the road, thumb a lift, and return the next day with a mechanic.

If you are female, you wonder how to save yourself from rape. [Disha, a veterinary doctor from Hyderabad couldn’t save herself].

When you are booking a hotel room in a place you are unfamiliar with what do you look for?

If you are male, you look at photographs of the rooms. You check if there is a pool or a gymnasium. You read reviews of the food. You check out the view and the location.

If you are female, you go through reviews from other women to see if the place is safe.

When you want to go for a run, what do you do?

If you are male, you wear your running clothes, lace up your shoes, turn on the Garmin and go.

If you are female, you check if there are people about, you send a quick WA message to your friends to see if anyone wants to run with you, you pull up an emergency contact number on your phone, you hold your housekey in your fist so you can use that as a weapon if needed. And then you decide running on a treadmill is safer than running on the road.

No, men have no idea how much women need to think before doing things that they take for granted. Yet, women know it is never enough.

Women are always scared.

When we wave goodbye to a friend at the metro station, we say, “text me when you get home.” And if she doesn’t, we start worrying and call to check if she reached home safe. And the moment she picks up the phone we say, “next time you forget to text after reaching home, I will kill you.”

When we take cab from the airport late at night, we pretend to take a photograph of the licence plate and send it to a friend, so the driver knows there is a record of us being in his cab. When we find the driver checking the mirror too often, we often dial a number and have imaginary conversations with people. Sometimes, we even carry a hot beverage with us, so we can throw it on the face of the driver if things get out of hand.

Our family is scared for us.

The last time I visited my father in law, he yelled at me because I chose to walk home from the metro station at 8:30 pm. “If you had called me, I would have driven down and picked you up”, he told me. He was nearing 80 then, but he was willing to get out of his warm home in a Delhi winter because he was terrified of what could happen to a woman walking 600 meters through a residential area.

We worry for our colleagues.

When my female colleagues travelled alone by overnight train, I would call them before going to bed so my phone number would be at the top of the call list in case something happened to them. I never even thought of doing that for my male colleagues.

Women choose not to do things that men take for granted.

We never step out alone for a smoke. We take someone with us because we are scared.

We are terrified of being the only female on a train or bus. Paradoxically, we are even more scared of being the only woman in a ladies compartment because what if a man jumps on at the last moment and does something to us?

Men never know the fear we constantly live with. They can never understand what we go through every day while just going about our daily life. They will never know that we are constantly in fight or flight mode, and the toll it takes on our physical and mental health.

So, dear men, please don’t tell us to “take precautions”- we already do. If you want to help, be better allies. Listen to women when they articulate their concerns regarding women’s safety. Explain to other men why they should change certain behaviours. Don’t be a silent observer when a woman is in trouble and is appealing for help. Teach your sons and nephews, brothers and cousins, father and uncles the meaning of consent. Understand consent yourself. Thank you.

Reimagining the Ramayana in Troubled Times

[Review of Lindsay Pereira’s “The Memoirs of Valmiki Rao”]

Valmiki Rao is a 70 something retired postmaster who lives in a Ganga Niwas chawl in Mumbai, the same house he grew up in. Never married and with no dependents, he is the quintessential observer. He sees all that happens in his chawl, he empathises with the struggles of people, and he offers no judgement. During his life, he witnessed multi-generational family dynamics among the residents of the chawl. A chawl which had only Hindus families- no Muslims, no Christians, no Parsis- most of them lower caste families from the same area in Ratnagiri. Most of the original inhabitants of the chawl were mill workers who had migrated to Bombay, and without going into the history, the author tells the story of how the influence of the largely communist trade unions on the political landscape of the city was gradually replaced by that of the more militant Shiva Sena.

The major part of the book is set in 1992–93, the period where India in general witnessed religious frenzy of the kind not seen since Partition. Most people in Bombay would have struggled to place Ayodhya on the map, they knew that it was unlikely they would ever visit Ayodhya and pray at the Ram Mandir, yet so many of them was invested in ensuring that the Babri Masjid came down and the temple came up. You see how the Shiv Sena was able to capture the loyalty of the youth, not by offering them anything tangible, but merely by letting them know that they and their frustrations were visible to the party. The book offers a sociological background to the growing radicalisation of youth, and of how they were manipulated into considering people with whom they have no personal interaction as the ‘enemy’.

The Memoirs of Valmiki Rao, is not as much a retelling of India’s favourite epic, as much as it is a re-imagining of the same. The characters can be easily identified. Ramu is a promising young lad born to parents who doted on him. He remains the ‘golden boy’ even after his mother passes away, and his father brings home a younger second wife who is determined to ensure that her step children are cut off. He falls in love with Janaki, the daughter of a (relatively) wealthy shopkeeper, who reciprocates his advances. Ravi Anna, from the ‘enemy’ chawl also falls in love with Janaki and with the help of his sister plots to kidnap her. Sundar is the quintessential boy who lives and works in a roadside chai stall- he has little idea about his family, but he is fiercely loyal to Ramu. The story plays out against the backdrop of the riots that erupt in the city. The story of Ramu and Janaki could be the story of countless others- pawns in a larger political game over which they have no control.

Without it being the central theme, the book speaks of how women are often silenced in society. A woman might do no wrong, yet she is blamed. And she is the one expected to suffer in silence because of decisions made by ‘her’ men. In one of the most poignant scenes of the book, Janaki confronts Ramu who has gone visibly cold, and when he turns around accuses her, in sheer distress, she rushes out into a rioting city. Her’s is the story of many women, caught between the whims of fathers, brothers, and lovers each of whom act as if their honour rests in her vagina.

Like Rohinton Mistry’s “A Fine Balance”, the book is an ode to the city of Bombay. It is full of small details which bring the city to life. He talks of how life would come to a standstill on Sundays when entire families would gather around the TV to watch Ramayana. He describes how Govindas would make a human pyramid to break the matka on Gokulashtami, and how families would throw water on them from windows. He talks of carrom tournaments conducted under naked blubs, and chai tapris with unnamed and unseen young boys rushing around. He describes how chawls gradually give way to co-operative housing societies, but how nothing else really changes. The book is set in the past, but it remains a cautionary tale for the present. It clearly articulates how no matter who wins or loses the political battles, it is the common man who pays the price.

This is definitely one of the best books I read this year.

‘Maria, Just Maria’ Makes Us Question Why Some People Are Called ‘Mad’

 [Book review first published in YouthKiAwaaz]

“Madness is often an easy solution for writers to conclude a story, especially stories with a hero or heroine in the grip of an existential crisis. This in short is the world’s relationship with madness. In real life, though, madness is boring. No, actually real life is boring and madness might add a touch of interest to it.”

Thus muses Maria, the protagonist of Sandhya Mary’s “Maria, Just Maria”, a 30 something woman who is being treated in a psychiatric hospital. Most of the story is told from the perspective of Maria as a child- a perspective which is not every common, but which works every effectively in this story.

The book is full of an assortment of characters

Maria, the fourth and not wanted child of her parents, is left at Kottarathil Veedu, her mother’s ancestral home, to be brought up by an assortment of relatives. Her grandfather, Geevarghese, who is considered “mad” by the rest of his family is her best friend who “spends most of his time in toddy shops and gallivanting around the village taking his granddaughter along.”

But the ‘respectable’ members of the family are an equally quirky bunch- a great-grandfather over ninety years old and at death’s door, a great aunt who was in the grip of dementia, a grandmother with few feelings for her husband but who bore him 15 children of which a dozen survived, a great uncle who worshipped his sister in law, an unmarried aunt who was a Communist and in love with a much older man, an uncle who would treat all the villagers even when he was still studying to be a doctor. Each of these characters is sketched with warmth- you love their oddities, you empathise with their fears and feelings. You wonder what is normal and what is not.

To the mix, add Chandipaati the talking dog with an attitude who is more philosopher than mutt, and Ammini a parrot with an almost enviable vocabulary. The village statue of Geevarghese Sahada/ St. George who is bored stiff of sitting still on his horse and protecting chickens when called to do so decides to enliven his existence by entering the dreams of the villagers. Even Karthav Eesho Mishiha / Jesus Christ makes an appearance as a dark man with a darker beard with whom Maria plots a revolution which will give power back to the people.

As the story proceeds from one incident to the next in a non linear fashion, you start to question a world which tries to slot people into convenient moulds. What do you say about the spinster great aunt who knows how to pleasure herself, or the newly married aunt who accidentally locks her husband out of their bridal suite?

The book holds a mirror to society

The book holds up a mirror to society, and forces us to look beyond binaries. People contain multitudes and cannot be put into convenient slots. Life is rarely tragic or comic, it is just life- unexpected, yet deeply expected. The book also questions our political and religious systems. In a passage where Maria is talking to Karthav Eesho Mishiha, she asks-

“Tell me, do you gods really have the kind of power that humans believe you have?’
Maria genuinely hopes that gods exist, desires it with all her heart, except that they should be gods who know how to do their jobs properly. What is the point in having gods who can’t even stop humans killing each other.”

The book makes us question why we can’t be more empathetic, kind and inclusive. It asks why we should want everyone to conform and punish those who do not. It also questions the traditional expectations that society has from women-

“Besides, where is the fairness in what you say? If a man has a good job, he is considered accomplished, even if he doesn’t have any children. But for a woman to be considered accomplished, she just has to produce some children. She can go to Pluto and back, and still you won’t acknowledge her accomplishment unless she has popped out a few children. Truly, Ammachi, I don’t understand your world or its standards!”

“Maria, Just Maria” is set in Kerala- the characters, settings and situations would not work anywhere else, yet there are no sweeping descriptions of any of the elements that we have come to associate with the literary depiction of Kerala.

“Maria, Just Maria” is translated from the Malayalam by Jayasree Kalathil who in addition to being a writer and translator is also a mental hearth professional. Interestingly, the book, according to Sandhya Mary, did not set out to be a novel. It was a series of notes she wrote to herself, mostly in English.

It was only when she decided to make it a novel that the stories were rewritten in Malayalam- so the translation is almost a homecoming for the book. The translator quotes Edith Grossman who said “A translation can be faithful to tone and intention, to meaning. It can rarely be faithful to words or syntax, for these are peculiar to specific languages and are not transferable.” Jayasree Kalathil’s translation certainly feels seamless.

The book ends with the line “Poor Maria.” But who is really “poor”? Should a person be branded crazy because they live life differently from what is considered normal? If a person is happy, who are we to brand them as crazy? Why should success be unidimensional?

What if someone like Maria doesn’t have great ambitions; what if she is content being ‘verum Maria- just Maria’. Should she be judged for that? The book is a plea for a more inclusive world. And it is that plea that remains with us long after we finish the book and stop chuckling over the antics people get into.

The book is published by Harper Collins. I received a review copy. All views expressed in the review are my own.

‘Swallowing The Sun’: A Family Saga Set In Pre-Independence India

[First published in YouthKiAwaaz]

We have we have this pre-conceived notion that the women in pre-independence India were meek and docile. That they were largely confined to the house and that they did not have any opinions of their own. Yet, if we look at history, we see that there were very many women who participated in a very meaningful way both in the freedom struggle and in various battles to achieve social and economic equality. These were not just privileged women from westernised families, but women from the working class and the oppressed class; women who you would not expect to be out there protesting or even having (much less expressing) an opinion of their own.

In this lyrical work of fiction set in the first half of the 20th century, Lakshmi Murdeshwar Puri has chosen to debunk the myths of the silent Indian women by writing about a family that defies the norms set by a patriarchal society.

At a time when child marriage was rampant, one man fought society to give both his younger daughters an education and forced them to pursue careers. In the society of his day, on the demise of his wife at childbirth, the Maratha farmer would have married a second wife who would have taken care of the girls and the newborn son, but he defied society to put the girls in an Ashram school, where they lived and learnt with other orphan girls. He encouraged them to go to college and trusted them enough to live on their own in Bombay and study in a co-educational institution. What makes the story even more powerful is the fact that it is clearly inspired by the author’s own mother, who was herself a postgraduate in the same pre-Independence period.

The story spans one generation- roughly 50 years of Malati’s life- the time span may not be enough to call it an intergenerational saga, but the story does follow people from multiple generations of the family long enough to see how perceptions and prevailing attitudes change, and how certain things which were not even considered early on in the story become normalised towards the end. Malati herself evolves from an intelligent and headstrong young girl to an empathetic and accomplished woman forged by love, loss and life.

The book’s greatest strength is the powerful characters, especially the women characters. Yes, the pioneering women students, Malati and her sister Kamala, are the protagonists, but the subsidiary characters are equally strong. Their Aiyee, for instance, seems like a silent housewife, but she put her foot down whenever needed, taught her daughters to carry themselves with pride and dignity, and supported her husband when he dreamt crazy dreams for the girls. Their older sister Surekha was allowed to decide whether or not she wanted to be the second wife of an extremely rich and powerful man and did so on condition that he would never emotionally or physically abuse her. Maa Saheba, the first wife of the man whom Surekha married, was called crazy by society, but was she really crazy- she was one in the long tradition of bhakti saints who only wanted union with a Lord Krishna and asserted her agency whenever she could. Sarla and Veena, the two daughters of Surekha’s husband, were both high-spirited young women who craved romantic and sexual gratification. As you encounter each of these characters, you start to realise how much you stereotype a particular time, but that even in those days, women did assert themselves within their limitations.

There are many layers to each of the main characters. For instance, we feel quite indignant when a particular character shows his misogynistic nature by trying to clip the wings of his wife. But soon we realise that the couple hide a secret which both are determined to protect, and his controlling nature is just to ensure that his wife is protected.

Of particular importance throughout the book is, of course, the battle for independence- the different ways in which people participated in the freedom struggle, the different choices available to them, and how some people chose to become lawyers or teachers, thereby providing a continuation of intellectual leadership, of how some people joined the nonviolence struggle, and others joined the revolutionary struggle. People were very different from each other, but each was driven by a love for the motherland and a desire to do whatever it takes to free India from the clutches of the British.

The most stunning part of the book, however, is the lyrical language. Sometimes, it seems a little over the top, but it never ceases to be beautiful. The author quotes abhangs from Marathi bhakti saints, Marathi and English poetry from the period, and verses from Kalidassa’s Meghadoota. The same kind of lyrical beauty permeates the book, and her gorgeous prose ensures you can almost visualise what is happening in front of your eyes. This is clearly a book that will make it many shortlists when literary awards are announced, and rightly so. Few debut novels tackle social themes in as enchanting a way as this one does.

Time takes on very different meanings in this book- sometimes, short periods of time are described in vivid detail over many chapters, and at other times, years flip by in a sentence or two. In the last quarter of the book, timelines get a little confusing when, in an attempt to close certain subplots, the author jumps forward several years before returning to pick up the main narrative where she left off.

Swallowing the Sun, a title taken from an abhang of Muktabai– “the ant flies into the sky and swallows the sun”, is a book about individuals. Still, through their story, we also get a deeper understanding of the socio-economic and political world of the first half of the previous century. A word about the exquisitely beautiful cover- flowers, birds and fruits are painted against a muted gold sky, with the ghats of Banaras in the background, creating a scene as evocative as the book itself.

I received a review copy of the book, but the views are my own. The book has been published by Aleph Book Company 

How Does India Mourn? A Book On Last Rites In Different Religions

 [Book Review of Minakshi Dewan’s ‘The Final Farewell: Understanding the Last Rites and Rituals of India’s Major Faiths’ first published in YouthKiAwaaz]

Death is the only certainty of life, and yet that is the one thing we do not prepare for.

When my father passed away after a protracted illness, without even discussing it with each other, my mother and I knew we would not be conducting any elaborate last rites. We chose the electric crematorium because it was the least polluting option, and then immersed his ashes in the Cauvery. It was all over in one and a half days, and we sought closure however we could. My father was a deeply religious person, and we do not know what he might have thought of it, but that is the case with most people. We plan our weddings, our birthdays, and other assorted celebrations, but most people do not even think about their death, much less plan it.

They don’t need to because all religions have prescribed funeral and mourning rituals, which are often both elaborate and expensive. Minakshi Dewan’s The Final Farewell does a fantastic job of describing the last rites and rituals prescribed in each of the major religions in India- Hinduism, Islam, Sikhism, Christianity and Parsis.

“How does India mourn?” was a question that struck the author while she was performing the last rites of her own father, and this book is a culmination of the many interviews she had with people associated with performing the last rites of the deceased.

What struck me most while going through the narratives was how similar funeral and mourning rites are in each of the religions- of how, in almost all religions, there are specialists without whose assistance the last rites cannot be performed, and of how across religions, the period of mourning ends with an elaborate feast which tests the means of the family of the deceased. The other common factor across religions is how women are excluded from all displays of public mourning, though they continue to perform a role at home.

In the section on Hindu funeral and mourning rites, the author examines the caste hierarchy in performing Hindu funeral and mourning rituals. The task of directly assisting with the cremation in burning ghats is left to the Doms, who are considered the lowest even among the Dalits- for the rest of the world, they are “Untouchables”, yet ironically, the soul cannot attain release. Through her research, the author also found out that there is a separate category of “funeral priests” who only assist in the 11 days of rituals. Once the “mrithyu ka kaam” is over on the 12th day, they are supposed to disappear from sight and let the regular priests take over.

The author also digs deep into how much people spend on funeral and mourning rites. It is not cheap, and we have all heard stories of families which did not have enough money to treat the dying but go into debt to ensure the last rites are performed.

Death during COVID

While all of this is interesting from a sociological perspective, it is the second part of the book which is deeply engaging. The author examines how funeral and mourning rituals changed during the Pandemic. During the first wave, bodies were taken straight from hospitals in body bags, and any ritual that involved touching the deceased person had to be suspended.

While reading her descriptions, which were based on countless interviews, I was reminded of a friend of the family who lost her nonagrian mother to COVID- it was not the death she mourned as much as she did the fact that they couldn’t give their mother a proper funeral- “we did everything so well for our father”, she’d cried. “All we could do was watch Amma being cremated in the electric crematorium over video. We couldn’t even say goodbye”. The massive number of deaths during the second wave also saw many women get involved in conducting the last rites of people whose families were not able to give them a fitting funeral. Though women are traditionally excluded from participating in mourning, many came to the forefront, and it is hoped that now funeral rites will adapt to enable the participation of women.

The book also describes communities at the margins. The sub-cultures of funeral performers who flourish in the margins of funeral and mourning rites- rudhalis, mirasans and opparis, who are professional mourners and parai and gaana, who provide musical performances. The challenges faced by the kinnar community while performing last rites. The lack of access to burial spaces for Dalits in many rural and even urban communities sometimes results in people burying their dead under roads or below their own huts.

The book also provides hope when it describes a few organizations which provide an empathetic and inclusive space for people to conduct the last rites of their loved ones. Lastly, the book examines the environmental impact of traditional funeral rites and throws open questions about whether these practices can continue or not.

I enjoyed reading Minakshi Dewan’s The Final Farewell: Understanding the Last Rites and Rituals of India’s Major Faiths both for the descriptions of the funeral and mourning rites followed by different communities and because it challenged me to think about how caste, gender and social-economic status permeates everything in life, including death.

The book is available wherever books are sold. I received a review copy of the book, but the views are entirely my own.