The many uses of a younger sister

‘I hate cricket,’ Laila proclaims.

Ishaan doesn’t mind. He’s too busy playing with his rowdy friends to care. Then one summer, all the friends vanish. Some have gone away on holiday, some are visiting grandparents, others are busy with various camps. I encourage brother and sister to play together: it’s high time they learn to play with one another.

That night we are watching the IPL.

‘Why don’t you both play cricket?’ I suggest.

Daddy objects. The rules of the house prohibit flying objects. But for once, I plead for leniency. Ishaan promises not to hit any sixes.

Laila picks up a red plastic bat that, if you believed her brother, belonged to him a few decades ago. Ishaan finds a yellow plastic ball. He promises to bowl ‘softly’.  We use the doll’s pink pram as wickets.

Ishaan bowls. Laila gives the ball a whack and it hits the french windows at the other end of the room. Ishaan’s eyes widen and he begins to laugh: he’s impressed. Sister doesn’t take her eyes off the ball. Sixes and fours fly off the old bat. Brother keeps laughing. I can’t help but laugh as well. At last, Sister is bowled – but not without some friction.

Three times Ishaan claims he’s got her ‘leg before wicket!’ Three times the umpire turns down his appeal. The batsman remains stoic through these ups and downs. At last though, she’s out.

Now she bowls. The ball flies through the air: steady and true. He’s clean-bowled on the third ball.

The whole of the next day is spent at my in laws house and is devoted to cricket. I speak to Ishaan on the phone that evening.

‘No Mama,’ he says, ‘we didn’t watch any TV. We played in the compound all day. And Mama…you know…I made 200 runs today!’

‘Wow Ishaan,’ I smile into the phone. ‘You must be really tired.’

‘Ya,’ he says proudly.

‘And what about Laila? How many runs did she make?’ I ask, my voice casual.

‘None,’ he answers. ‘She only bowled.’

 

One of Life’s great mysteries: What To Pack?!

So what do you pack for the Bornean Rainforest? I trawled through a million websites, agonised over where to buy leech socks, packed 6 long-sleeved shirts (as against my regular lightweight t-shirt/tops) and gloated over my Kindle – no more packing heavy books (and their many back-ups).

I landed in KL, hooked up with Rohaan who had gone ahead on work, and we spent a happy day mall-hopping. We even managed to catch the latest movie, John Carter – that our doorman at the hotel insisted (after the Mayan apocalypse), was the most awaited event of 2012. Our holiday was off and running.

Two days later, we were headed toTurtle Island – but not without some gentle argument about whether we really need to carry along my big black suitcase. Rohaan suggested we pack our stuff into smaller bags as we were spending just one night at the island and  two nights at a resort on the legendary Kinabatangan river. He already had one very heavy backpack full of his toys camera equipment.

‘We can leave the suitcase at the hotel,’ he begged. We were spending a night there after the tour was over.

‘Nonsense’, I insisted. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’

I mean this was Asia after all. Someone would help us with the bags.

‘Trust me. You won’t have to carry it.’

If only I hadn’t said that. The fun began even before we reached the jetty. The doorman of the hotel (and the cabbie) took one look at the big fat bag resting at our feet and politely stepped aside. Rohaan hauled it into the boot of the car.

‘Let them do it!’ I hissed. As usual I was ignored.

We reached the jetty. It was a small shed with a few boats bobbing about outside on the sea. Our fellow passengers began to trickle in. My blood began to boil. How can you spend even one night at a strange place – miles away from home – and still manage to pack everything into such ridiculously small bags? I looked around for support. Someone must be carrying something bigger.

An Asian couple had a small purple suitcase sitting primly at their feet. It was about the size of the basket that my mum’s Persian cat sleeps in. I looked away. Four friends from Luxembourg were laughing and joking. They were all carrying backpacks that looked smaller than the one Ishaan carries to school. A darling elderly British couple walked in. Ann had hurt her hand (it was a minor fracture). Her arm was in a sling. She carried a smart blue and white handbag on her shoulder. John had a backpack strapped to his back. That was it. Our suitcase meanwhile, stood tall, black, and proud.

Time to go. Rohaan gave me a despairing look. He suggested leaving some of our things behind at the office at the jetty.

‘In what? Plastic bags?’ I sneered. ‘Don’t bother,’ I added. ‘We’ll do what suits us.’

Suffice to say, it was all downhill from there. Rohaan had to carry the suitcase into the boat (where it occupied a full seat) and then off the boat. We lugged it across acres of sandy beach to get to the resort – then lugged it back to the boat the next morning.

I did some deep breathing. Once we’re done with all these damn boats, I thought, we’re home and running. Just one smallish car journey stood between us and the resort at Kinabatangan. Silly me.

Half-way through the drive we were bundled out of the car and made to cross a bridge – ‘So sorry…bridge is repair…’ – that consisted of three planks of wood. We got back into the car, but not before the driver respectfully stood aside and let Rohaan do his thing.

Ok. It has to end now, I thought.

The car stopped soon after. At a jetty. It was the Kinabatangan River resort, you see. So Rohaan carried the bag into one more boat and then out of it – and then we pulled it across many miles of pretty wooden bridges and uneven stone pathways to get to our room.

Oh well. You win some you lose some. But what really hurt (no, I’m not talking about our knees), was the teeny-tiny fact that I had forgotten to pack my swimsuit and cap – I really missed my cap at the Gomantong caves where the bats are freely shitting all over the place. In case you’re wondering, I used an umbrella.

I did carry my sack of beads though (about half-a kgs worth). After all, who knows when you’d need something to trade with the head-hunters, right?

p.s. In my defence, it has been a long time since this old, much-married, mother-of-two has stepped out backpacking, island-hopping or generally doing anything remotely adventurous. The price of motherhood? Naah. I just like to blame the kids.

Can you spot it?

Over the bridge...

And down. Did I forget to mention I carried my purse as well?

And finally...into the boat. The boatman took pity on Rohaan and carried my very own little 'haathi' aka elephant into the boat.

 

Tuition travails

Ishaan has Hindi tuition twice a week. ‘Miss’ Vasanthi is his tuition teacher. She is an old lady, slim and grey-haired, and extremely serious about the progress of her wards. She is the only teacher I know who has chosen to take on just one child for each class (they last about half-an-hour). She says the kids fool around when they have company. She likes to concentrate on each child for only then can she see results. All of this attention and dedication comes for a princely sum of 300 rupees per month. Suffice to say I adore Miss Vasanthi – though she has expressed her dissatisfaction at my apparent indifference to the methods of teaching at Ishaan’s school.

‘What do you mean they don’t have exams?’ she gasps. ‘How will we know what they’re learning! And what about knowing where he stands compared to the rest of his classmates? And where are his textbooks and notebooks – doesn’t he bring them home? What! No homework! WHY?’

Good point, I murmur, not daring to admit that it’s for this very reason that I decided to put him in this school in the first place. Anyway, Miss Vasanthi (for that’s what we call her – tried Aunty, Ma’am, simple old ‘Miss’ – but nothing else suits her as much), has made amends for this by going out and buying Hindi textbooks and workbooks and notebooks and doling out weekly spelling tests. And of course – she sends back homework.

Now the object of all this devotion, is strangely enough, not as gung-ho as one would imagine. He’s got a minor tendency to avoid as much work as possible, and so, Miss Vasanthi’s homework was being dealt with in his own special way.

Miss Vasanthi called me. ‘He’s not doing his homework,’ she complains. ‘But you don’t keep at him – let him take responsibility and do it himself.’

So I dutifully took him to task, but did not ‘remind’ him to do his homework (ok, I did, but not as much as I would have otherwise) and he began finishing it on time. Or at least that’s what I thought.

Regina, my maid, who in our home is the equivalent of Mammy, accompanies Ishaan to tuition. She tells me a different story. So one time Ishaan decided to bunk class when I was away in Jaipur, and of course, no one thought of informing Miss Vasanthi about this (which is a sure-fire way to piss her off).

Anyway, come next class, and Ishaan’s begging ‘Amma’ as he calls Regina – who is his nanny, friend, foe, and confidant – to tell Miss Vasanthi that he was ill (‘I did have fever that day, no Amma?’).

He’s also scribbling away into a notebook, as they’re been driven to class in an old beat-up jeep by our gardener.

‘Then why were you cycling that evening? And is that your homework?’

‘Yes. But leave all that Amma…just tell her I wasn’t well. Please!’

Amma takes a deep breath. ‘Ok’, she says, ‘But just this once’.

They enter.

‘Why didn’t he come that day?’ Miss Vasanthi asks.

Regina steps forward. ‘Err…he was not feeling well…had fever,’ she says.

Something sprints past them. It’s Ishaan. He’s heading for the bathroom.

Miss Vasanthi and Regina look at each other. They burst out laughing.

‘He’s quite a khiladi, eh?’ Miss Vasanthi says looking amused. Then, she drops the subject.

Amma goes down to wait, and Ishaan saunters out half-an-hour later: the worst behind him. He’s free as a bird, and is now looking forward to an evening of much cycling, fighting and general merry-making, that all little boys of seven live for.

 

Lekhana: What’s it all about?

The Lekhana literary weekend promised to be interesting. The venue for one, the NGMA, is stunning. The NGMA is currently hosting an exhibition of paintings by Rumale, that in itself is worth a visit. But back to the literary event. Well, it’s no Jaipur. But, having said that, it has many things going for it.

To begin with, it’s more focused on writers, though anyone who loves to read will find it equally enjoyable. It’s also more local: there were many talks and readings in Kannada and some in Urdu. It’s obviously much smaller, which makes it a lot more personal: sort of like attending a talk at a public library. NGMA also has a small canteen that serves up some nice coffee, herbal green tea with honey, and some yummy vada pavs. That’s a big plus

The discussions were erratic though – some were great (like the panel on translations, the panel on the short story), while others were very average. They had a few author readings (which I bunked), but a nice surprise were the short 5 minute plays that were staged in the courtyard. They were funny, irreverent and well-acted by a skeletal cast of  2 – 3 actors (and put me in a spot when my seven-year old son, who was watching along with me, wanted to know what ‘homophobic’ was).

The best part for me was all the learning. I have added so many more books to my reading list – not least the many translations of classical Kannada and Tamil texts, which just seem so damn interesting! I also discovered the online magazine Outofprint.com which focuses exclusively on short stories – and they’re really good. In a fit of enthusiasm, I have subscribed to a delicious bi-monthly magazine called Books & More (for the princely sum of Rs 180 per year). I have been exposed to the world of self-publishing and e-books (which, btw, with my new Kindle – thank you Rohaan!) I can now download and read. All in all a good weekend, wouldn’t you say?

Brother & sister posing @ the NGMA.

 

“but for my own part, if a book is well written, I always find it too short.” – Jane Austen

Pride and Prejudice was published 200 years ago on this day. Congratulations Ms Austen. That’s a big one

Couldn’t resist listing a few more – this is the woman who inspired me to write!

“Give a girl an education and introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the means of settling well, without further expense to anybody. ”

― Jane Austen

“I always deserve the best treatment because I never put up with any other.”

― Jane Austen, Emma

“It is only a novel… or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language”

― Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

Nothing ever fatigues me, but doing what I do not like.”

― Jane Austen

“A woman, especially if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.”

― Jane Austen

Love you Jane. RIP.

 

JLF – The End.

Today is the last day of the Jaipur Literary festival. And I don’t feel so good. It’s cold, I’ve got a cold, I’m tired. But James Shapiro, an expert on Shakespeare (Contested Will: Who Wrote Shakespeare?) is talking to William Dalrymple and I want to hear him, so I rush through breakfast and sit through the talk. It’s lovely. But I’m still tired – and cold.

I leave the Mughal tent, the venue for another promising talk, and wander around.  First of all, I find a patch of sun and sit down to bask in it (I swear I’ll never again snigger at sun-crazed whites lying out all day in the blazing sun!) I drink two cups of boiling tea, my lips kissing the small mud pots, and feel new strength flow into my tired body. I head up to the room and sit around, doing nothing. Nothing. I don’t read, work on the laptop or even think.

Then, as I begin to relax, to slow down, I  give thanks for this wonderful (and warm) moment that I am privileged to experience. I’m surrounded by literature, books, inspirational words, clever authors, my friends; all is well in my world, I am indeed blessed.

And on another note

Muslim hardliner groups objected to Salman Rushdie’s teleconference. The book is banned, but obviously they want the author to be banned too. Not a happy day for a moderate Muslim like me. But then, thankfully, there were some delightful discussions on how this whole freedom of speech issue should be taken forward – and what was better, one of the hardliners himself, was included in the panel. He, of course, was unable to defend his ridiculous position about not even wanting to ‘see’ Mr Rushdie on a TV screen, but it was important to have him up there and hear his side of the story, rather than shut him out and alienate him further. It is important that we give everyone a voice – and listen to this voice respectfully – as discussions, talks, an exchange of ideas and concepts seem to be one of the best ways forward.

The festival ended with a debate on ‘Has Man replaced God?’ which had us in splits, as Javed Akhtar, Suhel Seth and a bunch of others tore into the arguments of Swami Agnivesh, Salim Engineer (leader of a conservative Jamaat), and another lady. It was good fun, but not really fair to pitch a bunch of fairly straight-forward godmen against some of the cleverest poets and writers that we have. Most of us came away with the feeling that the idea of God as we see it, was not represented at all. Now if only Oprah had been on that panel, the discussion might have turned out differently.

 

JLF – Day 4

Fatima Bhutto is gorgeous, intelligent, and was, by far, the best moderator at the festival. The morning session had her moderating a panel of writers representing Palestine, Kashmir and Burma. The writer from Palestine, Raja Shahadeh, a small old man with a thoughtful smile, touched out hearts when he said ‘It is a privilege to be part of a struggle, a resistance, as it helps us empathise with other suffering in this world.’ I have been depressed about the Palestinian-Jewish problem for the longest time and have resisted being drawn into even more hopelessness and despair. But now he has inspired me to read ‘Palestinian Walks’, a book that Raja put together about the history of his country, while on many long walks in the Palestinian mountains. I think it will help me understand – in a hopeful manner – the issues of a country and a people, that is so much a part of our collective angst.

Iftikhar Gilani, a journalist from Kashmir, told some tragic-comic stories of prisoners in Tihar Jail and how on being acquitted just before the finals of the ‘Tihar Olympic Cricket Matches’, one prisoner actually begged the judge to send him back so that he might captain his team (Ward 3) to victory! The judge was so incensed that he ordered that the prisoner be released straight from the court, not even be sent back to complete the usual formalities in jail, as he was convinced the man meant to go back and start up a gang war or some equally sinister thing. Of course the tragic bit about all this is that Tihar Jail is a time portal straight back to medievalism:  where the wardens own and terrorise the hapless occupants, where being hung upside down for three days and beaten through it all is commonplace, where men prefer a 2-hour beating to being sent to  ‘special’ solitary confinement cells. Gilani had been released after 8 months, as the government couldn’t find charges that would stick; he had been threatened with a term of 14 years. He is one of the lucky ones. And his book ‘My Days in Prison’, tell his story.

We went shopping next. Riddhi Siddhi is an old favourite and has the prettiest bedspreads, jackets and cushion covers. Everyone kicked back and enjoyed the next two hours and then hurried back to listen to the new flavour (hopefully, not of the moment) – Ben Okri. The session was about Afropolitans, a new term coined by the gorgeous Taiye Selasi, in an essay she wrote for the Granta magazine. Later, Ben Okri signed a copy of his book for me, and on that happy note, the day ended.

Riddhi Siddhi is on Amber Palace Road and is a must-visit for any tourist.

They serve some nice tea as well

I could eat those colours!

 

JLF ’12 – Day 3

I saw Oprah today. Heard her talk, felt her spirit. The lawn was soaked in a green and gold energy that softly wrapped its arms around us and told us to hush up and listen to one of the world’s most influential women. And we – a few thousand people – did.

Oprah talked about vision boards – how she had one up for Obama when he was fighting his presidential campaign; how she had one up for India – a woman on a camel – and how that dream came through three years later.

She talked about the chaos that is India. She also talked about the river of calm that runs beneath all this confusion – about a ‘lack of rage’ that makes you feel secure and safe. She talked about how she was horrified by the widows of Benares, locked away simply because their husbands died. And then, how she suddenly realised that this discrimination exists everywhere, more subtly maybe, but it does. Widows are simply not as welcome as wives are. Things change imperceptibly after one’s husbands dies, and all women, everywhere, experience this. Of course, Oprah being Oprah, wants to help alleviate the plight of the widows of Benaras, and Oprah being Oprah, may actually be able to do so.

She talked about her book club; apologised for her brutal attack on James Frey, author of ‘A Million Little Pieces’ when she discovered that some of the stuff he had written was not true, and explained that she ‘demolished’ him because her ego had been hurt. ‘I should have shown him more compassion,’ she said.

But it was her unabashed belief in the power of God that did it for me. She’s a believer, and so am I. She believed quite simply, and blindly, that he would work things out for her (and we all know how that’s turned out). So I love the fact that she is talking about Him – loud and clear.

Oprah being interviewed by a very star-struck Barkha.

These girls came down from Mumbai just for this! They were super cute and Oprah waved to them and said a deep-throated "thank you".

Deepak Chopra was on next. He talked about metaphysical worlds, atoms, neurons, the universe, and our role in it. He didn’t quite cut it for me. However, I did like his take on stress, which he believes, is a result of seeing yourself through someone else’s eyes. Know yourself, he said. Damn the world.

Deepak Chopra waved hello to his friend Shekhar Kapur in the audience, who is looking a lot older, but is still quite dishy.

The session on Kabir was also interesting. Arvind Mehrotra’s translations of Kabir’s dohas into contemporary English reach out and grab you by the balls. The panelists called Kabir a poet of love – and hatred. He hated the autocracy of all religions equally. He was also a poet of death, and this leitmotif recurs again in again in all his poems. We all have to go, he says. What’s the use of hanging onto your bag of gold coins? Chant the lord’s name; carry him with you to your grave.

And so, on that note, let me just say again that it was a lovely day. The power of O is alive and well people. More power to Ms Winfrey.

Vishwa Mohan Bhatt played up a storm at the concert that night.

Old Willie at the concert, chilling with his little boy.

 

JLF ’12 – Day 2

It was a nice day. Busy, but nice. Made a late start and got to hear the last 10 minutes of Chetan Bhagat’s session, as he tried to mollify sections of the (jam packed) audience that wanted him to stop writing ‘love stories’ and write something more ‘serious’. Poor Bhagat tried to explain that the serious stuff bored him! That while he supported Anna Hazare, he also believed in being associated with Mercedes. And what was wrong with that? What indeed?

Amy (far left) & her daughter Sophia (look at her! she's skinnier than her daughter!) Photo courtesy: Susan Fernandes.

Amy Chua of ‘Tiger Mom’ fame was on next, and she turned out to be quite a pussycat after all – her older daughter who was there as well, promised us that her mom wasn’t as bad as she’s made out to be – and though the moderator, Madhu Trehan, confronted her with all the awful stuff she’s done to her kids – called her daughter ‘garbage’, made her children practise the piano for hours a day, didn’t ‘believe’ in sleep-overs, didn’t let her children try out for the school play – Amy rose to the moment and defended herself quite ably. Chua’s biggest strength though, is her absolute honesty – you can’t help but like the woman, especially when she confesses that she just can’t ‘live in the moment’ and drink a good cup of coffee and enjoy it or when she says that ‘it’s no fun doing something unless you’re really good at it’ – and you know she means it.

Arshia Sattar was back with Amish Tripathi (The Immortals of Meluha) and Gurcharan Das, discussing mythology and the role it plays in our lives. Sattar has some really good one-liners and ‘A myth is a lie that tells us the truth’ was my clear favourite. Amish told us two stories, one Hindu, one Islamic, that proved the same thing: that Indians believe that worship that is innocent, that springs unalloyed from the heart, is superior to worship that stems from knowledge. Moses taught a man to say his prayers the ‘right way’. The Hindu hunter offered the bloody carcass of his kill to the shivling. Allah preferred the man’s ‘sweet blasphemy’ to his newly learnt ‘correct’ prayers. Shiva blessed the hunter and not the temple’s pundit. Simple. Then why do we keep getting it wrong?

Ben Okri and his luminous smile. Photo courtesy: Susan Fernandes.

And finally, Ben Okri, that beautiful beautiful man, who I could have listened to forever. ‘The Famished Road’ is an ode to suffering and pain, to poverty and hope, to life and death. Here are some of the things he said (sort of).

Reading is like life, because you are in a total state of consciousness when you read, and hence that is when you’re most alive.

Universities need to teach The Art of Reading, as reading is never as innocent as it seems. Reading is a meeting of consciousness of the reader and what exists between the pages of a book. And to understand what one reads, one must first understand onself.

I like to take my sentences for a walk.

Great books change you.
Really great books change nations.

p.s. Prasoon Joshi sang a lovely Hindi song for the audience (he has a nice voice). I heard only the last stanza which was about a young girl asking her father  to marry her to an ironsmith, so that he might break her chains and set her free. Sigh.

Gulzar reciting his poems to a packed audience. Photo courtesy: Susan Fernandes.

The audience - this is only about one third. And Oprah's on tomorrow. God help us! Photo courtesy: Susan Fernandes.

 

Jaipur Literature Festival 2012

Day 1

Jaipur feels good in the morning. The air is as clean and fresh as I remember. The ‘kulhad’ chai (tea that is served in tiny terracotta pots) is piping hot and much-needed after a 5-hour flight from Bangalore, for which I left home at 3am. The tea is chargeable now though – 10 bucks.

It’s 11am and I’m racing from the airport to make it in time for Michael Ondaatje’s session, who is the author of the magnificent ‘The English Patient’. I manage to make the last 15 minutes. Ondaatje spoke about how he wants his books to be ‘montages’, about how he is influenced by Japanese art – to ‘follow the brush’ and see what comes of it – and how this frees his pen from the dictates of plot, storylines and structures. Made me want to pick up my pen and start writing right away!

Managed to also hear Rosamund Bartlett, a biographer, speak about Leo Tolstoy, who is one of my favourite authors. Learnt that he was a vegetarian pacifist, who gave up his copyrights (and subsequent earnings from them) on moral grounds, even though he had 13 children and a wife, who were all but starving! But that’s the worse of it (I think). He redeemed himself in many ways, as a socialist and a reformer, not least when he spearheaded a movement against a famine, that went on to kill millions of people and would have probably killed many more if it were not for his efforts. Today depressingly, Tolstoy is redundant in Russia. They don’t get him anymore. Putin and his bare bodied machismo is in. Vegan pacifists are out.

After these sessions I took it easy, wandered about a bit, let it all soak in. There are more restaurants this time, more people of course, more foreigners, more Louis Vuittons. No complaints though, it’s all good.

I can’t end without talking about Mohammed Hanif, Pakistani author of A Case of Exploding Mangoes and Our Lady of Alice Bhatti (whose name I confused with our very own Jaspal Bhatti!). Hanif is unassuming, witty, and prone to rambling, and was visibly disturbed when a man stood up in the audience and explained, in halting English, that he was a Hindu from Pakistan, now in exile in India, and wanted to know when Hanif thought things would be well enough for him to go home? It breaks one’s heart, this business of living.

And of course, Salman Rushdie has confirmed that he is not coming to Jaipur and will probably talk to us via a tele-conference or some such thing.

In one of the sessions, Hari Kunzru read a few lines of the banned Satanic verses in protest – and then was promptly told to stop reading that as well! He went on to read an excerpt from his book, Gods Without Men – which was not such a bad idea actually, as he’s a super writer (and very pleasant on the eye!) My only complaint was that the moderator insisted on calling Kunzru ‘”bro” at least three times. Eeks! Get a life “bro”.

This brave young neurologist from New York has brought her three little girls down to Jaipur for 4 days - armed with three strollers and a song in her heart. It doesn't get any sweeter than this.

Though we do have a contender here This fiesty lady is down from Queensland with four of her (grown-up) daughters, and turns out she is quite the serial Literary Festival Goer. I think I'll grow up to be her.