Thursday, December 18, 2008
taking a cue from the man who would throw shoes
(i wrote this email to close friends, but i think it belongs here too.)
sometimes, what looks like a gun in his pocket is just that: a gun in his pocket and not a sign of he loves you so much.
the terrorist attack in mumbai, was just that. a terrorist attack in mumbai. my fried, addled, synapse losing brain says, no, this was not a clever ploy to undo some rambling neighbour's governement and thus deviously unleash the real baddies onto the great nuclear stuff out there. no, this was not a good versus evil morality play acted out as a real life supper theatre. no, this was not anything but what it was.
at least, if i mean to handle it that is the only way i can look at it. past all clever analysis and giving of millions of dollars to mopey governments, is this thing that happened.
to a place, a people, in a time. to my place, my people, in my time.
everyone keeps asking me if anyone i knew was out there, did i lose any of my friends. what can i say? i knew everyone out there, everyone was in a way mine. even the ones who were not perfect, not so innocent, not perhaps the best. my memories were out there, my trust was out there, the whole night i spent in the lobby of the taj was there, my fear of crowds at v.t. was there too, my whole country was out there. well in a way, madam/sir question asker, i was out there and yes, they did manage to get me.
i can't get the thought of this whole thing into a quiet comfortable place. i know something must be done. i know i have to be a part of that something. just still don't know what.
does that make me feel useless, helpless? at nearly fifty, after seeing all that one has seen, after being through life, love, death, common cold, no, there's no space for helpless. just a matter of time. then it will come.
my shoe will suggest itself to me.
every feeling i've ever felt for india, home, love, family go through me when i really look at the facts.
to truth, to the peace that only truth brings, to an idea called india, to being what we keep saying we are: human.
sometimes, what looks like a gun in his pocket is just that: a gun in his pocket and not a sign of he loves you so much.
the terrorist attack in mumbai, was just that. a terrorist attack in mumbai. my fried, addled, synapse losing brain says, no, this was not a clever ploy to undo some rambling neighbour's governement and thus deviously unleash the real baddies onto the great nuclear stuff out there. no, this was not a good versus evil morality play acted out as a real life supper theatre. no, this was not anything but what it was.
at least, if i mean to handle it that is the only way i can look at it. past all clever analysis and giving of millions of dollars to mopey governments, is this thing that happened.
to a place, a people, in a time. to my place, my people, in my time.
everyone keeps asking me if anyone i knew was out there, did i lose any of my friends. what can i say? i knew everyone out there, everyone was in a way mine. even the ones who were not perfect, not so innocent, not perhaps the best. my memories were out there, my trust was out there, the whole night i spent in the lobby of the taj was there, my fear of crowds at v.t. was there too, my whole country was out there. well in a way, madam/sir question asker, i was out there and yes, they did manage to get me.
i can't get the thought of this whole thing into a quiet comfortable place. i know something must be done. i know i have to be a part of that something. just still don't know what.
does that make me feel useless, helpless? at nearly fifty, after seeing all that one has seen, after being through life, love, death, common cold, no, there's no space for helpless. just a matter of time. then it will come.
my shoe will suggest itself to me.
every feeling i've ever felt for india, home, love, family go through me when i really look at the facts.
to truth, to the peace that only truth brings, to an idea called india, to being what we keep saying we are: human.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
hundred and seventy/eighty/whatever, not counting me
my first thought was, "kill the _______." obviously, one had to wait for the second thought.
many many words then raced through the mind.
about india, about pakistan, bangladesh, our blood soaked entry into independence again.
the drawing of lines across maps, the dividing of people, the denial of history. it seems the number of muslim people who decided to stay back in india was larger than those who chose to leave. hindustan belonged to us all. lovely.
the growth of the middle class in india. despite the politicians, the caste system, the sifarish cadres, the "minority" issues, our complex past, our fiscally challeged present, and all that stands against the ordinary person every single day of life.
the non growth of the middle class in pakistan and bangladesh. the feudal ways that don't let you cross your limits. and the fall outs of that.
what if these 10 (or 15 if all brushed their teeth, or 20 if all didn't) young chaps had school, college, job, romance, opportunity to focus their unbridled energy on? what if does not exist.
to jump: have you seen bonnie and clyde or dog day afternoon? why did i get a feeling that i was watching a new take on that as i looked into a young smiling face, a cool bent of the body, a casually held ak47? i remember being riveted by the dark straight hair of one of them, it seemed to me therein lay the clue to the country they came from. bizarre.
so so bizarre.
"mama, what does the blue chakra on the indian flag mean?" my seven year old daughter has been riveted in her own way, since her uniting nations day celebrations, by 24 spokes in blue, the colour not even considered in the tricolour. "it's the wheel, baby, the wheel of progress, it stands for the 24 hours of the day, it is about never stopping. actually, it's the dharma chakra."
"dharma," i hear my uncle's voice, "is not 'religion'. dharma comes from 'dhri dhatu', the root word for earth (dharitri, dharti), that which holds us, that by which we live."
arjuna's dharma was different from judhishthir's and bhim's was uniquely his own.
dharma. i am looking for mine.
in the meantime, my mother's red benarasi has been replicated in benares by zubair ahmad ansari; the not so rich mrs karkare has thrown a crore and more of rupees back at a shallow smiling monster; america is chasing its leadership mirage; little moshe is missing his parents; lo hwei yen, where are you.
namaste.
many many words then raced through the mind.
about india, about pakistan, bangladesh, our blood soaked entry into independence again.
the drawing of lines across maps, the dividing of people, the denial of history. it seems the number of muslim people who decided to stay back in india was larger than those who chose to leave. hindustan belonged to us all. lovely.
the growth of the middle class in india. despite the politicians, the caste system, the sifarish cadres, the "minority" issues, our complex past, our fiscally challeged present, and all that stands against the ordinary person every single day of life.
the non growth of the middle class in pakistan and bangladesh. the feudal ways that don't let you cross your limits. and the fall outs of that.
what if these 10 (or 15 if all brushed their teeth, or 20 if all didn't) young chaps had school, college, job, romance, opportunity to focus their unbridled energy on? what if does not exist.
to jump: have you seen bonnie and clyde or dog day afternoon? why did i get a feeling that i was watching a new take on that as i looked into a young smiling face, a cool bent of the body, a casually held ak47? i remember being riveted by the dark straight hair of one of them, it seemed to me therein lay the clue to the country they came from. bizarre.
so so bizarre.
"mama, what does the blue chakra on the indian flag mean?" my seven year old daughter has been riveted in her own way, since her uniting nations day celebrations, by 24 spokes in blue, the colour not even considered in the tricolour. "it's the wheel, baby, the wheel of progress, it stands for the 24 hours of the day, it is about never stopping. actually, it's the dharma chakra."
"dharma," i hear my uncle's voice, "is not 'religion'. dharma comes from 'dhri dhatu', the root word for earth (dharitri, dharti), that which holds us, that by which we live."
arjuna's dharma was different from judhishthir's and bhim's was uniquely his own.
dharma. i am looking for mine.
in the meantime, my mother's red benarasi has been replicated in benares by zubair ahmad ansari; the not so rich mrs karkare has thrown a crore and more of rupees back at a shallow smiling monster; america is chasing its leadership mirage; little moshe is missing his parents; lo hwei yen, where are you.
namaste.
