teach your children well....

teach your children well, 

don't ever ask them why, if they told you, you would cry

 ~ Crosby Stills Nash Young

Friday night I went to see a play at Prithvi. The acting was sort of okay. But Iexpected that. Somehow English theatre in India seems reluctant to adapt. The accents are put on, the names are firang and it all looks hammy.

Why not just adapt it to the way we are? Talk normally, use hinglish, change the names, adapt the dialogue a bit... just make it more about us, rather than some text book american/british play.

Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to write about. You see, the subject of the play interested me. It was about child abuse. A child abused at 12, confronts her abuser much later in life.

And it got me thinking, and talking to Z, who also went for the play with me. Why do most child abusers get away with it? Of course, one reason is that the victim often feels guilty. You’re confused, did I bring it on, what will everyone say... there is so much shame associated with it, that kids often pick that up and suppress it.

The other reason is when you’re about 12; you don’t even know what’s happening. You often feel like the person is showing you so much love, like you’re special and by the time your subconscious starts picking up the shame, you’re trapped by guilt.

What were my reasons?

 When I was in class eight, I was terrible at math. Actually I still am. And this person, very sweet, family man with two sons, who worked under my dad, and lived five houses away from us decided to volunteer to teach me.

And this is what I remember. I remember going to his house, saying hello to his wife and then sitting down on their dining table to study. Uncle came and sat down, and opened my books. He asked aunty to make tea.

She went into the kitchen. He started to explain some math to me. And then put his hand on my thigh. I still remember I was wearing a brick coloured dress, only because I never wore it again. And I remember his hand on my thigh. I knew it was wrong. I knew this was not supposed to happen. And I just kept hoping he’d take his hand away.

His hand didn’t move, it just stayed there. His fingers spread across. I couldn’t hear anything he was saying; neither could I understand what to do. Then we heard his wife coming in to the room, and his hand moved. He laughed, took the tea ... and I moved my body so he could not reach my legs.

The rest I don’t remember. But I never went back. My mom tried everything, begged, threatened, cajoled me... but I never budged.

I wonder why I didn’t tell her. Probably the same reasons. Guilt, fear, shame. Everything I shouldn’t have felt, but did feel at 13.

Years later, we’re sitting around and chatting, and my mom suddenly asks me why I never wanted to go back there. She asks me if there was something he did or said, and I just said no. Still guilty, still ashamed.

Then couple of years back, I’m out with my folks in Delhi. And they decide to go to his house. He’s lost a son. I can’t say no. I want to go. To see this person. To see if he’ll react to me. If he’ll fall at my feet and beg forgiveness. If he’ll be able to look me in the eye.

He does neither of that. He’s just a broken, old man. And I sit quietly, say nothing. Still guilty, still ashamed.

Now I think it’s too late. Telling my parents will only make them upset. And they’ll blame themselves for being careless, for being irresponsible. But I don’t blame them and now more importantly, I don’t blame myself.

It’s gone. The only scar I probably still carry it that I’m still pathetic at math!

But if you have a daughter, pay more attention. Teach her about good touch and bad touch. And more importantly, about the fact that she’ll never be the one who needs to feel guilty or ashamed. She just needs to tell you, and you’ll set it right.

goodbye my love

I just heard that Jonty died.

It’s like a phase in my life got over. Jonty was my youth, my courtship, my love affair with Calcutta.

He was the dog who jumped between us when we snuggled up on the sofa. He was the one who stole my rubber bands from the window sill while we slept under the quilt. He was the dog who modelled for my first big shoot. He stayed the night with me when A was out of town, and I was scared. He knew we were at the door, ten minutes before we got to the door.

He loved taxi rides, silly games with the sheet and all of us.

Rest in peace Jonty. And I’ll miss seeing you at the door when I walk into that lane.

taking off on a crab attack

Hello.
Sorry for being AWOL. But I was having such a great time. Going out. Hanging out. Working. Watching movies. It’s been a good couple of weeks.

And now I have the crab attack. So I turned to writing. Really, I must try and write when I’m happy. Instead of just using this as my cyber therapy.

However, it is one of those days. When I wanted to cry in the morning. And before you curl your lip and smirk, no I’m not PMSing.

It’s just that I know what the reason is as well. And I’m so frustrated by my own ability to get over the damn reason, that I hate myself, and feel sorry for my self all at the same time. Net result, weepy face.

So here’s the thing. You all know it. But I am shit scared, mortally afraid of flying. I had a bad incident on a flight some years back, and since then I am a goner. I have palpitations, stomach aches, the sweats everything under the sun when I even think of flying.

However, with all that, I have flown. Like a mass of quivering jelly, I have caught flights and been all across the world. USA, Europe (twice), Singapore, Bangkok....the works.

The only problem is the damn fear refuses to go. And if I have the slightest chance I will not catch a flight. Only because I hate putting myself through all the trauma. It ruins my holiday, or rather the days leading up to it. I feel sick, nervous, upset, angry, sometimes all of this at the same time!

So I try and catch a train. Within the country.

So what’s the problem with that? Well, the Man I’m Mad About, who henceforth will be referred to as the man I’m Mad At, doesn’t get it. He just tolerates my problem. We don’t go on holidays together because he hates catching a train. Even within the country. And when he does, it’s with such reluctance, that I feel scared to ever ask him again. I just can’t get through to him that I’m trying. And I have flown around the world only because I don’t want to let him down. But it is hard for me.

Fucking shit.

I hate this. I hate being vulnerable. Especially to those I love. Because when they don’t get it. It hurts. More than your fear does.

Oh, Mama, can this really be the end...

Oh, Mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of Mobile
With the Memphis blues again.
Bob Dylan

Today I don’t want to talk about terror attacks. And outrage. And anger.

Instead I want to talk about Mumbai.

You see, I first came to Mumbai when it was Bombay. And I was eight months old.

My grandparents lived here and my mother had grown up here. This was her home. And for me Bombay was always summer vacations. So for two months, every year, till I was 15 and till my grandmother died, here’s what I remember of Bombay.

Lovely empty streets with grand buildings on either side. Fiat Padminis (with fans inside) that seemed so posh compared to the large ambassadors you saw in other parts of the country. The curve of the road, when you were about to reach juhu beach. My father and I catching a bus to go to Regal to watch Superman. We never got tickets, so my dad and I made the long trip, from Sion to town, again the next day.

I also remember at least one evening in those two months, when my grandmother never cooked, and instead we ate sev batata puri from the man who walked past our house at 6 pm every day. I remember the lady who came with the cow at 12 noon. For ten paisa you could feed the cow grass. I remember learning to say “kem cho?” from the Gujarati neighbours, and then progressing to “ ramu che? (wanna play?) from their kids.

I remember the film producer who lived in the last house down the lane. Because every evening at eight, all the kids in the neighbourhood would grab their seats on his living room floor. He was the only guy with a VCR, so every evening we watched a movie. Every amitabh movie, every jitendra-sridevi-jaya pradha movie, every mithun movie, I would have seen in his house.

I remember my mother and father holding hands. This was the city of their courtship. I remember the Anglo Indian kids, all five of them. Who lived with their mother in the fourth house from us. Preeti, Pravesh, Praveen, Pramodh and Prabha. I remember them talking about school socials and dances, while I watched wide eyed and madly besotted, with all five.

I remember playing dabba eye’s spy. Langdi tang, lock and key, crows and cranes, seven tiles. All on the main road in front of the houses. The bus stop that came up in front. The thrill of the double decker bus. Chocobar ice cream. Taking the night bus from my aunt’s house in Mazgoan, and passing the drive in theatre. First you smelt the creek, then you heard the distorted voices of the actors, and finally as the bus went down that long road, you saw disjointed images on a large screen.

I remember Bombay. Young, carefree. Filled with laughter, bell bottoms and endless optimism.

My memories are sepia toned. But now this city is mine. And I hope someday my kids, or your kids will remember it the same way.

patterns on the wall

when you lie

i see

blank walls

with marks

where pictures hung

a matteress

resting against

the walls of moving van

plastic packets

old newspapers

empty bottles

scruffy door mats

all left in the landing

i see

silence

wet eyelashes

a tap that drips

a clothesline that's empty.

when you lie i see

my life without you

and i make myself believe you.

scary shit

why is it love so difficult? when does it turn in to a habit? when does it release you? when does it drag you down?

when do you say enough? when do you say sorry? when do you ask for another chance? when do you decide there will be no other chance?

when do you think you can give it all up? when do you think you have the strength to walk alone? when do you think you still have the love to have another go?

they're sharing a drink called loneliness, but it's better than drinking alone

Mumbai. Crowded. Teeming. Packed with possibilities. People. Things to do. Pubs. Theatre. Work hard, play hard.

And then the other Mumbai. Lonely. A vacant seat beside you. An empty apartment. Distances. Pressure. Keep smiling. Look bright all the while.

It’s scary. At eleven thirty on Saturday night my friend, let’s call her X, called me. She sounded like her voice was coming from far away. And all she said was, “ I think...it’ll be nice if you could come home...now.”

My heart sank. All the guilt I felt came rushing back. I had seen X spiral down and down for the last few months. And I had been so wrapped up in my own life that I had hoped it was just a phase.

There have been times when I’ve known this is not looking good. But I just haven’t been able make that connection. You see X and I used to be every close. We’ve been together through many ups and downs. Some times we’ve held on to each other. And sometimes we’ve been in the background, but always there.

Then something happened. And it wasn’t the same again. I knew things were not okay with her. But I couldn’t figure why she would not tell me. Or why she’d just try and brush it off, even when her eyes told me she was lying. I thought about talking to her, but then thought no, she needs her space...give it to her.

But sometimes people don’t need space. They need you to barge in on them and pull them out. Just grab them by the armpits and drag them out of the darkness.

So that night I knew it was my only chance. Not just to get X out of there. But also prove to myself that I wouldn’t let her down.

Anyway, that night I got X home. And this morning when I woke up and walked in to see her in the living room, bright eyed, tea on the gas, pottering about – I knew she’d be okay.

So I’m wondering. Sometimes you just need to talk. To tell someone what you’re feeling. But then we’re so pressurised – if you are not happy, you are a loser. So sometimes you’d rather lie, and try and pretend all is okay. In the bargain, getting more and more isolated.

And then sometimes you just want someone to hug you, to hold you, to tell you it’ll all go away. But then again you think, I’m a grown up adult. I can’t ask for that. The pressure to be strong, independent – sometimes does it get too much?

Finally as friends. You know when I was younger I never though about things like breathing space, barging in, not intruding. So why do I do it now? You are my friend, I think you need help...to hell with politeness...let me just help you, whether you like it or not.

Anyway I know X will come through. We made lists yesterday. And she’s already recognised how she’s feeling, and started taking the first steps to doing something about it.

I’m glad. Because I’ll be watching her closely. Ready to barge in this time.