No Child's Play

Rosie Andersen, eight, was due to attend a Cuboree with her fellow scouts at the end of this month. Just like a child who loves to celebrate life would. In an unfortunate turn of events, Rosie perished to a bout of flu, leaving a gaping hole in many a heart.

I was on the train to work when this piece of news flashed on my phone. As a father myself of a three-year old, I am not surprised I was tongue-tied and anguished on reading about Rosie. In a weak emotional reflex I hoped she at least went in peace. How daft of me. There is no peaceful way for a child to go, and there is no platitude comforting enough to offer to its family when this happens, least of all when the cause is something as unlikely as a common cold. Then again, the cause almost loses relevance to the grieving parent who would have known of, but not in the least have been prepared for, the mathematical probability of its happy parenting universe to be shaken thus.

There is a stark difference between ‘knowing’ and ‘understanding’ the pain of losing a child. We know this pain when we read about Rosie, or about the inexplicable tragedy in a hospital of Gorakhpur, India, or more recently the murder of a schoolboy in Gurugram, India. We cluck our tongues in protest, endorse hashtags in solidarity, and by nightfall we slink into the comfort that our children are safe today. It does not matter, then, that the deaths of 61 children in a hospital are politicised, or the murder of the boy in the premises of a reputed school is used to conduct debates on the religious affiliation propounded by the school. If I were to ask a person who has understood this pain first-hand, I am likely to be astonished at the vacuity in these debates.

Surely as parents we are ticking all the right boxes to mitigate any risk towards the well being of our children. We offer them the best nutrition, afford them medical care, admit them to the best educational systems, provide them a wonderfully social environment, and read all the parenting manuals that matter. And we will still be on the edge, forever worrying ourselves sick about a slip through an unseen crack. Which brings me to the rejoinder that a number of us would have heard from our own parents when we were younger:

“When you will have children, you will understand.”

It wasn’t until I became a father that I appreciated the truth in those words. Between my protests and tantrums against various impositions I faced as an adolescent, to the littlest of fusses I make towards my toddler’s daily routine, I dare say I have matured. I couldn’t have seen it then, but I now see my father’s hesitation in sending me to that school picnic because the bus was to make its journey at an odd hour. Or my mother asking me why I no longer shared stories of what transpired that day at school. Or that I must always eat broccoli. (OK, I don’t admit I entirely understand that.) I continue to share a laugh with them about all of these (except the broccoli), but the intent in their actions is not lost on me.

There is tremendous effort, resolve and sacrifice that goes into nurturing a child. In saying that, by no stretch do I suggest that one must wear one’s parenting skills as a badge of honour. It blends into your being — bliss, stress and sleepless nights packaged seamlessly. If you are a parent, you know this already. But more importantly, if you are not, reach out to your parents if you can. Thank them for the good times, for the guidance, for their obsession with your well being. Your stay in that warm cocoon may be temporary, but the reassurance you gain from their obsession stays with you forever.

An Open Letter To Shashank Khaitan

Hello Shashank,

I read you are riding high on the success of Badrinath Ki Dulhaniya. Did I misspell the title of your film?

It does not matter. Your film was far from perfect too, therefore the error seems acceptable.

So, has your film minted an insane number of crores already?

That does not matter either. You will anyway claim that it has.

I only want to take this opportunity to let you know that your supposed entertainer left me with a bad taste like few mainstream, posh-banner-supported films have in as long as I can recall. You started well: your disclaimer told us your team is anti-dowry. You neatly described how the average Indian girl is a liability to her family. Wow, your female lead actually had a career she aspired to; that in itself was a near revolution. Further, you had what an average movie-goer like me looks for in a film: rib tickling comedy, well built up romance, and a stage nicely set for heartbreak.

And then, the morality of your film tanked like the substance in your story, and I will try not to talk about the latter. When your hero was shown pursuing the lady he was hell bent upon marrying, I presumed the story was going to be about how a man who did not understand the difference between proposing and stalking would ultimately be taught a thing or two about respecting a lady’s right to refuse. Therefore, I waited. I waited whilst he badgered her in a crowded bus one scene after she threatened him with molestation charges in a video. I waited whilst he landed in Singapore, abducted her, drove her to a riverbank and lunged at her throat. Even after she challenged him with the task of taking on his father for her sake, after which he instead went ahead and made another sorry mess of himself by picking a fight with a guy on the street (and dragged her to the police station yet again), I waited.

Frankly by this time, a common man who needed a ‘hero’ as a shield to justify his everyday misogyny had got enough handy material for Harassing Women – The Badri Way. It would be foolhardy to imagine this common man would selectively commit the film’s final message to memory where the hero makes a measly attempt to say a thing or two about gender equity. But let us grant you this foolhardiness too. Let us get to the most important point.

What were you thinking, Shashank, when you inserted an absolutely meaningless – but more pertinently – an extremely distasteful scene where the said man was being molested on the streets, a comic instrumental theme playing in the background? What were the other characters in your film thinking when they giggled on arriving at the scene? You made a lame attempt at defending yourself by giving some razzmatazz about your character being stripped of his izzat. If this was important, you would rather have robbed him of his dignity by taking him through the journey of his lady’s dedication towards her dream, which would have granted him some screen time for some much needed self-introspection. Even if a line of argument were to tell me the scene afforded him the realization of a woman’s izzat, I still see you on a sticky wicket: because the comic angle accorded to the sequence only goes to show you know nothing about izzat.

A more believable explanation instead is that you had fallen short of substantial storytelling in the second half. Where the first half had some legitimate scenes and one-liners to crack us up, the latter half was threatening to fall flat on its face. Ergo, desperate measures made way for this horrendous scene, with no links to preceding or following parts of the script. And you thought it would be funny.

Male rape is a reality, Shashank. Educate yourself. Just because it does not call for candlelight vigils, television debates and short films where members of your fraternity stick their heads out to express solidarity, does not mean it is worth any trivialization at your hands. Twenty years ago, scenes showing women being raped and molested were normalized and accepted. Today, such a scene in one of your films will get people to have a go at you, for good reason. I sincerely hope we do not need to wait another twenty years before a certain Badri being molested in a film sparks similar outrage.

I am all for masala entertainment, I really am. But then, I would appreciate such filmmakers not taking a moral high ground in the very film where women are stalked, heroes are violent in their pursuit, and the molestation of a man is considered to provide comic relief. Because when you do so, you are being a do-gooder who is at risk of failing to explain a narrative that tries to shed light on women’s rights without first understanding the meaning of human dignity.

What a pity, really, that this film was sanctioned under the banner of this flamboyant producer who is at every conclave representing New India, whose chat show resonates with the rich and the elite, and who claims he is ready to stand inthe front row to cure an epidemic as grave as rape. 

MOVED

We recently shifted out of a house we had been leasing for the last eight months. In the days and months leading up to the event, we debated the pros and cons of the decision heavily using cost-benefit theories, emotionally charged arguments, and when we were in a mood to tick each other off – excel sheets and bar graphs too. Finally the call to move to a new apartment was made, not because the pros outweighed the cons but because we had to justify all that time we had spent even contemplating the idea.

We are not new to the concept of packing bags, my wife and I. Apart from the hollow threats we have made to each other occasionally, we have actually packed bags between properties eight times in the last five years. Some of these were necessitated by circumstances relating to work and comfort in commute, while a few pertained to general betterment of lifestyle and other intangible benefits. One common factor across all of them, besides the laundry list of to-dos they have entailed, has been the emotional conflict they have effected – between the memories of the past and the promises of the future.

The wistfulness hits me in instalments. It begins when I bring out the first dusty suitcase from the attic, then a little more when I empty the first closet into that first suitcase. Over the next few days, the rooms begin to look bare. The safety gate that had been set up on the staircase to guard our baby against a fall is now taken off. Down with the wife’s paintings and the family photograph. The dents left in the walls are carefully sealed and painted so the owner is reassured the house is still his own. Then one day, the truck arrives. All our belongings are shoved into its belly within minutes; the truck rentals are at a premium and time is of essence. We cannot care less about the odd trinket left behind in a drawer that was not attended to. It could have been anything – a little gift from our friends at our housewarming party, the remnants of a paper plane we entertained our son with, or a valuable household tool that will no longer be ours. We will realize its value once we acknowledge its absence. The family stuffs itself into the car and drives out of the porch, leaving behind had given the very house that had given it a home.

As we settle into our new surroundings, listlessly pinching at layers of bubble wrap coming off our couch, we admit the new house has all we could ask for – friendly neighbours, quality amenities, a nearby convenience store. What does it have that the earlier one did not? Our minds churn out answers that are contentious if not entirely dismissible. Change is inevitable. So is the longing to snatch back the memories of the time we have just renounced on the dotted line. Our little boy who is busy parading around the house looking for that familiar sliding door he used to play with, does not understand what a dotted line is anyway. It does not matter. He will not grow up to remember what the previous place looked like. We will always remember though, that it was the place he had first learnt to walk, where we had hidden under a table to give him his first hearty laugh, the one with the carpet that had absorbed his first fall. That house did have a few features after all, that the new one never will.

Nostalgia has its ways of overpowering you, then wearing off you as does a fad, and then resurging when you need it the least. I suddenly realize there was more than just that tiny trinket we left behind. There are a few important things we must reclaim, and so I put in a request to the property agent to let me in one last time. I wait patiently for his approval so I can enter the premise that was once ours. He meets me at the appointed time. He turns in the key and lets me in, then puts up two open palms in the air indicating ten minutes are all I have.

I do not wish to give myself extra time either. The longer I stay, the emptier I shall feel. However I cannot help but notice the gloss on the otherwise bare walls, the carpet that has been steam-cleaned because of which my shoes must be left on the foyer, the autumn leaves that have been cleaned off the backyard, and most strikingly – the FOR LEASE pin-up on a standee in the front lawns. I stop to glance at the French window, of which our earliest opinion had been that we could have lived with a much better design.

It is still the same French window. Somehow it looks so much better now.

I return to the new house that is now home. The bags have been unpacked, the bubble wrap has been discarded, dinner is laid, and the television is on. It is business as usual, at merely a new address. We learn that change is inevitable, indeed, and that memories are best left vaulted in photo albums. It is decided that we will frequent our previous suburb occasionally, take walks in those old lanes, and certainly go to that cafe in the adjacent street that few others had chanced upon. We are a little fatigued from all the shifting business, but we will do this soon.

The soon comes much later than we had thought.              

But we go for sure. When we drive into that old lane that led to our house, we are overwhelmed by what we see. Look son, do you remember that brick house in the corner? Yes, the one opposite which was that park with a slope you used to roll over – hey, wait. The grass in the front lawns looks burnt. A basketball stand has been put up near the door. The French window is gone. Instead stands a less attractive wooden gate. A bowl that used to lie filled with water in the porch, so our son’s favourite parakeet could come sit for a while, is gone too. Some of its debris seems to stick out of the mud in the lawns. That is all there is to it.

As we retreat with a sigh, our former neighbours emerge on to the street and greet us with surprise. We ask them how they have been. Same old! Comes the reply. Everything in the neighbourhood really is the same old, as it always was.

It turns out we were the only transients in that sub-universe that stayed constant. We must leave now, for we feel like misfits. And we thought we had left that house.

A Letter To My Son

Hi Kayaan.

Let me begin by sharing an embarrassing memory of my childhood with you. I was a little boy relative to what I am today and a considerably grown-up lad relative to what you are today. I remember laying in bed, weeping softly. I was consumed by the thought of the responsibilities my unborn child was going to bring to my life. Chiefly, I was worried about how I would get a baby to learn words and languages. Six months ago, years after the passing of this awkward night, I received news of your arrival. I was on the road between cities, trying to get to the airport so I could fly home and welcome you. In the hours leading up to your birth, I was the least anxious member in the household. I remember licking the last layers off a chocolate sundae in the car when I received a phone call: “You are a father now.”

I looked at the molten remains of the sundae. The vision instantly took me back to my first ever visit to an ice-cream parlour – and a multitude of other firsts of childhood. That was arguably the first time in my life I understood how rapidly time fleets us by. The years between the night I worried about fatherhood as a boy of seven and the afternoon I finally became a father are a blur; I could paraphrase the description of that entire era in between to a single line: “That was fast.”I now also realized that many lessons beyond just the education of words and languages were in order. Now is as good a time as any other to talk about them. As someone who is still scaling the learning curve of wisdom, it is crucial I dispense advice as soon as I absorb it myself.

Understand that time is a raging beast. We can try running as fast as we want and we will still always remain two steps behind it. A better way to combat its speed is to slow down. We are going nowhere with all the haste and the stress. Time flies, but it also leaves for us various packets of lasting memories. If we can gracefully accept and make use of these packets in the present instead of brooding over them once they have been left behind, we will worry a lot lesser about regretting an underutilized past. Slow down. Don’t be in a hurry to grow up. Laze under a tree. Day-dream. Labour over your first craft project. Make friends. Make as many mistakes. Years later your fondest days will be found only in old photographs and in your nostalgic brooding. But there will also be the comfort that you did the best you could have done with them and that you will now be ready to face the next onslaught of time with a smile.

Speaking of smiles, I love the smile, no, the giggle you offer me when I give you a bath. I pour a stream of water on your belly from above your head. Do you giggle because it tickles you? Or are you just awed by the flow of the stream? I love how you try to hold that stream with one open palm while balling the other fist with determination. And every time, that stream escapes your open palm and lands right on your belly. You acknowledge the slippage every time and break into peals of laughter. I would like you to keep up this laughter for the many slippages and failures the universe has in store for us. Your pursuit of a goal must never cease. Go for the stream of water until your conviction in the ability to hold it lasts. If you cannot hold it, do break into those peals of laughter. We have only so much capacity to be excellent in a handful of things we do. For everything else, we must be gracious in acknowledgement of defeat or inability. Covering up our weaknesses is not just like chasing our tails, but it also takes away from us the joy of revelling in our strengths.

It would be a no-brainer to mention that I would like to see you a happy person. But happiness is difficult to acquire especially when we consider the costs of such acquisition. Happiness and guilt are both states of the mind, but they cannot co-exist. Hence we must note that while seeking happiness is our right, ensuring it is not sourced at the cost of another’s happiness is that other person’s right. We are all part of an ecosystem the balance of which cannot be disturbed. Hurting someone else to derive personal happiness will only return to haunt us later. Be gentle to others in order that others can be gentle to you. This does not mean we ought to be meek and submissive and resilient to injustice. It only means that we ought not to be the ones initiating any sort of injustice. It only means that we set ourselves as examples of fine human beings who understand the meaning of respecting others’ space, privacy, honour and sentiments. Everyone has one’s own demons to deal with, just as we do. If you ever have the urge to make a joke, try targeting yourself before taking a dig at someone whose backstory you know nothing about. It will be very satisfying.

Some sections of our society have disturbing notions regarding what makes a fine man. For various reasons it is believed that being a man is about exercising power and aggression over women. These reasons are rooted so deeply into our so-called values that it is difficult to convince our generations otherwise. But it is up to fine boys like you to turn these beliefs around and to reform our value system. Being a man is not about displaying brute force and false bravado. It is about showing the courage to tell right and wrong apart, it is about harnessing your strength to fight injustice rather than to perpetrate it, it is about showing compassion and respect over dominance. The love and attention of a woman is meant to be earned by her trust in a man’s strength of character and not by his overt display of manhood. I have faith that you will be the man a respectable society deserves. And I am sure you will always live up to its expectations.

We strive to give you the same love and care we have received from our parents. We have experienced it and we know it is what has made us who we are. Now while you go through your highs and your lows and your adolescence and its pressures, always remember that we will be around, rooting for your success. We might crave your love but we are not likely to demand it. I can say that at least for myself. I will continue to be your jester, your entertainer I am today – trying every trick in his bag to make his son laugh. I will lend you an ear when you want me to. I will be your raft that will help you tide through your challenges. And that will make me happy. But I would very much like you to reciprocate the love your mother gives you. There is no form of unconditional giving that will ever amaze you more. She is a strong-willed woman and she will guard you with all her care. Treasure her love like you mean it, for this is the one truth in your life that will never fail you.

Roamer

I somehow mustered the courage to wake up early this morning and go for my run. During the run I deliberated a little over the decision, but before I could come to a conclusion I had completed the run anyway. This was followed by a glass of protein shake that tasted awful as I had expected - because it was made in lukewarm water thanks to what Domino's had done to my throat yesterday. I have my suspicions regarding the wonders this product is supposed to work. I try feeling my abs every time I drink it, but my finger still simply sinks into my skin.
I then set a new record of sorts by packing my bags in six minutes before heading out to meet a friend at the only cafe I used to frequent in Mysore. One final Americano from the friendly staff and some nice things spoken about my book, and I had almost forgotten about my sore throat. But only until I made that infamous journey from Mysore to wherever-you-go-because-it-will-take-forever anyway. For a change, the drive was scenic, not riddled with traffic jams, and there was good music. I wanted to sing. But today I cannot so much as caw. By the time the raindrops had started making fine music on the windshield, I was only praying for this journey to end.
In three hours, I will be back in Pune, a city I have always loved. If I hold up a little better tomorrow, I will try and be excited about it.

Foghorn

I have been done in today by the worst recipe of baked chicken that has ever existed. Aargh. I hate you, Domino's, for selling me two chicken legs swimming in some sort of oil that looked more like a car coolant. My tonsils are now on fire and I sound like a foghorn. Nothing less than a complimentary cheese burst pizza (with free Coke) will make up for what you have put me through.
On the brighter side, I watched Transformers-4 today. The popcorn was nice. I mean, the movie could have been great too if it were not arduously long and if the mall had not turned off the air-conditioning because "We don't know please speak to the management on Monday" and if the guy sitting on my side had been able to digest the pork chops he had had for lunch earlier today.
On an even brighter side, I have been getting some emails from readers that contain good things written about Chaos Down Under. If I could garner some sympathy with every instance I recount of the struggles I go through everyday to get you guys to read my book, I will probably not have to struggle so much to get you guys to read my book. Well, a good start is the one that starts some day, I guess.

Unsettled

It has been the kind of day that keeps you on your toes even as the world thinks you have a lot of time to kill. News came in that I am expected to be on the move once again. Another city, another house, the same, familiar restlessness.
Well, to be honest, I am being crabby. Because I had been waiting for this move for eons. But that's the problem of being made to wait too long. You get used to not getting what you had been longing for, and just when you make peace with what you have got, you are taken by surprise.
I love surprises, as long as they make me comfortable. All the time. Know what is really uncomfortable? Packing. The average time I take to pack my bags, as many as there might be, is ten minutes. The average time I spend worrying that I have left an important valuable or two behind ranges from anything between a week and a year. Most often, my worries are not unfounded.
There is immense pain in realizing you have let go of a valuable - which, sometimes, can be a little trinket. For example, the two wristbands I won at the mock awards night of my college farewell. I had treasured them for years, and later lost them just as effortlessly while shifting houses.
I hope I can be a little more careful tonight. Because as I grow older, I am getting increasingly more sensitive about latching on to every association of a more youthful past.