Trunk Calls from Trigarta

 

The War Elephants of Trigarta by Sarita Mandanna, is part of the Bold Chronicles series which seeks to awaken a love of history and stories in gen next. Inspired by fascinating moments in India’s rich, varied and layered past as well as world history, the idea seems to be to use turbocharged storytelling skills to capture the attention of youngsters addicted to their gadgets and attendant unwillingness to engage with anything that is not a reel or an app. Despite it being an uphill task, Mandanna pulls it off with dexterity and humour to spare, providing a sumptuous treat which will serve to sow the seeds of interest in a glorious past while also offering insights towards navigating the treacherous present.

At the heart of the story is the delightful Mili, daughter of Raja Puru’s general charged with the training and upkeep of the war elephants that are the pride and joy of Trigarta. Having formed a bond with a rare white elephant, she names Nathu, Mili will go on to become an unlikely key player in the looming war spearheaded by that most unconquerable of foes, Alexander the Great, in the legendary Battle of Hydaspes. After all, as the general likes to say often with his daughter echoing the words as frequently, “Never too old, and never too young!”

Fragrant and flavourful with delicious nuggets from history and mythology, the reader is left sobered and entranced with the fate that overcame beautiful Parsa or modern day Persepolis,  a beloved anecdote about how Alexander managed to tame the feral steed – Bucephalus that would go on to become his beloved brother – in – arms, and Supratika as well as Sangram, the elephant heroes from mythology and history among others. Unlike the aforementioned pachyderms, Nathu is notoriously difficult to train and is the bane of his trainer and even the general cannot refrain from calling him a “donkey of a stubborn elephant” much to Mili’s chagrin. There is an uproariously hilarious incident featuring Nathu, a basket load of turnips consumed without permission and a protracted bout of flatulence at the most inopportune of moments. At its culmination, Mili asks the all – important question to her father, “The royal family. Do they fart – I mean, do they pass wind too?’

Given the subject matter and Alexander’s proclivity for raw savagery when thwarted even slightly, it is not all about levity, lullabies crooned to curmudgeonly creatures and the cutesy bond formed between humans and animals. Mandanna does a fine job of presenting the chaotic events from history in a youth – friendly manner without losing any of the gravitas in the narration of dark deeds that were passed off as great ones. As news of Alexander sacking yet another rebel city or hideout trickles back to Trigarta, Mili persistently asks her father, “What happened to the children in the mercenary camp, Baba?”

The danger and horrors of war are painfully real for Mili and her loved ones with Macedonia’s finest on the rampage, but her bravery is no less than those of the mighty stalwarts history remembers as she uses her own wits and resilience to make a tangible difference in a world torn apart by war and greed. This is an irresistible tale that will be gobbled up with gusto not just by younger readers but by anyone who can’t resist a ripping good yarn.

An edited version of this book review originally appeared in TNIE Magazine.

The Rajput Jewel in Akbar's Crown

 

Rima Hooja’s The Emperor’s General: The Life and Times of Raja Man Singh of Amber is a carefully sketched portrait of an extraordinary statesman. Writing about towering personas who shaped the course of history without deifying or caricaturing them is a tricky business, but the author manages this balancing feat. Born into a Rajput ruling family, the Kachhwahas of the Dhoondhar kingdom with their capital, Amber in present-day Rajasthan, Man Singh would become one of the most important players in 16^th century India. Counted among the nine jewels of Akbar’s court, he would go on to win fame in battle, establish himself as a capable administrator, demonstrate uncanny political acumen, build temples, mosques, forts, palaces, and cities, patronise art, literature and leave behind a shining legacy.

Hooja skilfully guides the reader across the terrain of Man Singh’s life and times, adroitly providing the historical and complex geo – political context of a bygone age, so that scholars as well as laymen can enjoy the journey. An alliance with Akbar, forged by Man Singh’s grandfather – Raja Bharmal who gave his daughter, incorrectly (according to the author) known as Jodha Bai in marriage to the emperor propelled this branch of the Kachhwahas to prominence in the imperial court. Over the next few generations, the alliance proved mutually beneficial - “Kachhwaha martial prowess, administrative skill and loyalty served the Mughal Empire well, just as the recognition, high honours, territorial stability and economic prosperity that followed sustained the kingdom of Amber.”

Man Singh grew to manhood, assimilating the best of two worlds embodying both his native Rajput culture as well as the influences of the Mughal court. While shedding light on evidence supporting Akbar’s tolerant approach towards other religions, stating unequivocally, that he “…respected the religious beliefs and sentiments of all communities, particularly those of his Rajput allies and vassals”, Hooja does not romanticise the emperor or shy away from depicting the harsh realities of the heavy toll exacted in exchange for building and keeping an empire together. This is particularly true of her narration of the events leading up to the battle of Haldighati and beyond which entwined the lives of Akbar, Maharana Pratap of Mewar and the emperor’s commander Prince Man Singh.

As the grandson of Rana Sangha who had defied Babur, Akbar’s grandfather, Maharana Pratap emerged as a fierce and resilient symbol of Rajput resistance. Chittoor, the ancient capital of Mewar had fallen during the reign of Udai Singh, Pratap’s father, who following the advice of his nobles entrusted its defence to a garrison led by Jaimal and then, Patta who fought valiantly to their last breath. Akbar ordered the erection of two memorials in memory of these two valiant heroes but was less generous when it came to the survivors. “The fall was followed by a massacre of some 30,000 surviving non – combatants – many of them peasants from surrounding villages who had sought refuge within the fort. The slaughter remains an indelible stain on Akbar’s reign.”

Following the undecisive battle of Haldighati, Man Singh’s loyalty to Akbar was called into question as he had given the order not to pursue the Maharana or the troops but the emperor himself continued to use him in other parts of his empire having chastised him by debarring Man Singh from presenting himself at court. As for Pratap, he continued his guerrilla warfare resistance as well as employed a scorched earth policy, imposing the death penalty on those who cultivated their fields to remain a thorn in the side of the Mughals till his passing. One can’t help but feel sympathetic towards his followers who must have sacrificed much and more in the cause of their hero in contrast to Man Singh’s subjects who prospered thanks to their ruler’s pragmatism.

Man Singh served Akbar loyally in military as well as administrative matters in Punjab, Kabul, Bihar and Bengal till the emperor breathed his last. Jahangir was less trusting of him owing to the general throwing his support behind a rival claimant for the throne but there appears to have been no lasting ill will towards the veteran, who continued to serve the Mughals to the end of his life. Hooja’s book would have pleased him!

An edited version of this book review originally appeared in TNIE magazine.

VACCINE NATION: A TERRIFIC TRUE STORY OF TRIUMPH AND TRAGEDY

 

The development of vaccines has proved to be revolutionary and transformed our approach to eradicating life – threatening diseases and enhancing human health. In Vaccine Nation: How Immunization Shaped India, Ameer Shahul chronicles the highly underappreciated story of how India emerged as a global vaccine powerhouse, one of the largest producers of high-quality, cost -effective vaccines, supplying effective immunizations to over a hundred countries and blazing fresh trails innovation wise  from having languished on the sidelines during the colonial era, held back by British apathy and a non – existent infrastructure for healthcare.   

Shahul offers a meticulous and sweeping account of India’s immunization journey. The story has its genesis during the early twentieth century when the British established vaccine institutions in cool hill stations, designed to serve the colonial officers rather than the colonized masses, indicative of a civilizational gulf exacerbated by racism, poverty and illiteracy. Though the seeds had been sown albeit reluctantly, Independent India had little to go on, emerging bruised and battered after centuries of oppression and the fresh wounds inflicted by a bloody partition, guided solely by a vision for self – reliance.

With a sound grasp on the science, Shahul is also a compelling storyteller drawing up colourful portraits of giants in the field like Waldemar Haffkine, Sahib Singh Sokhey, Shanti Swarup Bhatnagar, John Jacob, Gursaran Talwar, Varaprasad Reddy, Cyrus Poonawala among others and peppering the narrative with anecdotes like how if a carefully held secret about Muhammad Ali Jinnah’s health had been spilled, the partition might have been prevented. His account of the development and production of the 1957 influenza vaccine in less than four months which remains a record and triumph in India is particularly thrilling.

Even more interesting is his narration of the desi David vs Goliath true story when Varaprasad and his Shantha team inspired by the likes of Salk and Sabin (who had refused to patent their groundbreaking techniques in the fight against polio) had the audacity to launch Shanvac – B, an effective hepatitis B vaccine at about $1 and despite dire predictions, managed healthy profits, forcing market prices to drop dramatically, a slap in the face of greedy big pharma. According to the author, “Shantha had held a mirror to the true face of foreign vaccine companies operating in India. Indian health administers and regulators were stunned to discover that a company claiming to ‘exist to save lives’ had been selling a life – saving vaccine at 150 times its cost!”

While generously celebrating the success stories and unlikely heroes in this epic tale of vaccination, Shahul does not shy away from harsh criticism of those within and without the system who contributed to corruption and profiteering which led to human rights violations and rampant breaches in medical ethics where innovation was undermined by exploitation. Pulling no punches, the author outlines the sordid saga of the excesses of the Patali Makkal Katchi (PMK) leader, Ramadoss when he was allocated the Health Ministry after the 2004 elections as part of the United Progressive Alliance (UPA). Undoing decades of good work with unsavoury manoeuvring, the Health Ministry unjustly suspended the licenses of three reputed government – supported vaccine makers for personal gain leading to a largely preventable and manmade vaccine catastrophe and shortage, aggravated to unthinkable levels directly leading to the unaccounted deaths of too many infants. Despite mounting pressure and censure, the key players were not brought to justice. The fallout was near nuclear: “The vaccine sector had by now morphed into a theatre of political influence, with pharma giants currying favour with their political benefactors through opaque instruments like electoral bonds.”

Narrating India’s successes and setbacks during the Covid pandemic, he makes it clear that vaccine equity remains a dream especially since the wealthy nations in the West are unwilling to help out or share technological knowhow and in India itself an alarming trend has emerged where science is being twisted to fit ideological narratives and political optics. In conclusion, Shahul urges, “Let India not just remain the vaccine capital of the world but also become its conscience – advancing science not merely for prestige, but for purpose.” The nation and its citizens would do well to pay heed to this gem of a book.

This book review was originally published in TNIE Magazine.

Are we Raising a Generation of Jerks?

 

The world is a horrifying place that can beat the goriest and most grotesque of horror movies hollow on any given day. There are terrors and monsters, frights and chills lurking around every other corner in the spectral forms of war, crime and calculated acts of evil. Most individuals encounter the seven deadly sins – pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath and sloth, on a daily basis and when they aren’t the victims, invariably they are the perps. But one of the most jump – scare inducing phenomena witnessed in recent times, is the behaviour of kids which is often so abhorrent they make the creepy children depicted to chilling effect in scary films with their translucent skin, lank hair, and blank but knowing eyes, seem like cuddly cherubs.

For those who have grown up screaming themselves hoarse after watching Samara from The Ring crawl out of the television to kill her victims in puke-worthy ways, seeing pint – sized brats plonked in front of handheld gadgets in public spaces looking somewhat like Rosemary’s Baby can be deeply unsettling. Similarly, the sight of temper – tantrum throwing tykes rolling on the floor, attacking their caregivers with lethal little fists when denied a third helping of ice cream can be reminiscent of Chucky – the serial killer doll, and can loosen the most turgid of bowels. Snotty adolescents and young adults with their rudeness and entitled ways seem to herald a doomed future where Damien from The Omen is in charge of the planet and his mini acolytes feed the adults to sharks and crocs because they can no longer be entertained by the vacuous content on streaming platforms or porn. 

Naturally, most parents would disagree. In their eyes, their precious boos are perfect little Princesses and Princes who deserve nothing less than everything served up on a platinum platter. Many mommies and daddies are committed to raising their beloved babies in a cocoon of love and indulgence minus discipline which will maximise their chances of becoming a popstar, superstar or sports - star or fast – track their way to an M.D/Ph.D or Noble Prize. Naturally, this means insulating the child from any semblance of normalcy and ensuring they retain the spoilt – brattishness that is being inculcated into their Peter Pan personas so that they never ever grow up to become useful human beings who are not a menace to society.

Since a majority of parents have proved incapable of modelling kindness, decency and generosity in front of their kids, it might be best if parenting were entrusted to trained professionals. We seek expert help when the AC needs to be fixed, when diagnosed with cancer, or if a murder has been committed. Why then do we not do the same when faced with raising children which is the toughest task of all? Since the future depends on gen next, it might be best if we employ radical means and conventional wisdom to make sure they don’t all grow up to be hardened jerks. Like us.

Disclaimer: No brats were harmed in the writing of this article and not all children are ruffians in the making.

This article was originally published in TNIE magazine

Interview with Shinie Antony

Shinie Antony - writer, editor, novelist, and columnist, is the winner of the Commonwealth Short Story Asia Prize, co – founder of the Bangalore Literature Festival and has the dubious distinction of inflicting Chetan Bhagat on India. Her latest novels, Can’t and Eden Abandoned: The Story of Lilith were released this year. In a freewheeling chat, this wordsmith is every bit as witty and wicked as the fierce ‘fallen woman’ from her tales.

1. Most authors hereabouts are jealous that you have managed the incredible feat of releasing two exquisitely crafted novels back-to-back, especially since AI has prompted many a writer to throw in the towel. How did you pull this off?

It was emotional crafting vs. ‘thinking up’. With Lilith I had readymade texts to refer from: Gilgamesh to Talmud, Ben Sira, Genesis 1, Hebrew Bible, George MacDonald… Lilith told her own story, I was like a stenographer taking it down. With Can't I was on my own. I thought both Nena and Tata up, what they wore, what they spoke, their quirks, eccentricities, back stories. Writing Can't was a more complex and conscious process. Lilith happened on its own.

2. Can’t features a woman in her seventies traipsing off into the unknown with a seventeen-year-old, on a quest to track down her husband’s illicit bed mates. What is it about straying spouses and incompetent lovers that unleashes the rabid beast within?

Gender equations are lopsided. We are all going by that one old sepia portrait of womanhood hanging on a peeling wall in a mouldy haveli somewhere. In The Girl Who Couldn’t Love, Rudrakshi looks on from the other side. She will dump a man before he dumps her.

3. In your subversive take on Lilith, the original witch and ‘something which rhymes with it’ from the Bible, lasciviousness is rendered luscious while depravity is downright delicious. What drew you to Lilith, reimagining her as an indomitable force of nature, who refused to surrender, not even on pain of spiritual death and worse?

Like all mythological vamps, Lilith is bold. She has this dangerous beauty that lures men to their doom, and she snacks on little babies. Middle-aged women are proverbially considered invisible. After forty, they say, poof, you’re gone, you no longer exist. Male anger is celebrated, made much of. It is macho and presumed protective. ‘Angry woman’ is supposed to be an oxymoron – even the way we laugh is prescribed in the syllabus: softly, without noise, into your fist etc. if you must be so vulgar as to laugh at all. But this is the thing, ageing is a superpower. Being single is a superpower. Not having kids is a superpower. Female anger is a thing of beauty. An articulate woman in a temper is a work of art.

4. Nena from Can’t as well as Lilith are dealing with the nuclear fallout of a failed relationship. Previously, you wrote about the Girl Who Couldn’t Love. Have you declared war on coupling since most swear by marriage and love despite the damning evidence on hand?

Both books are about female resurrection. Women resurrect all the time. Life leaves them for dead – and each time they are like I’m here, still here. Female foeticide, infanticide by midwives with salt in their fists, honour killing, dowry deaths, widows thrown wherever. As a nation we don't know where to dump our garbage, but we always knew where to dump widows... The planet is divided not into men and women – we are the animal kingdom, after all – but into the powerful and the powerless, predator and prey. If women go take a nap the sati system will be back.

5. What do you think is stopping women from channelling feminine rage and agency to live life on their own terms without having to live in mortal terror of consequences?

Women stop themselves, because they buy into the rumours about themselves. They want to conform and toe the line, do the done thing, say the said thing. But one day they get it. And then heaven help Earth!

An edited version of this interview was published in TNIE magazine.

FRUSTRATING FOMO AND FINDING FULFILLMENT

 

There is only one thing worse than being inundated with invitations to an endless array of ‘happening’ events I feel compelled to attend even though I would rather be chilling in bed with a show and cheese popcorn on the side and that is not being inundated with invitations to the aforementioned shindigs. That is when I find myself staring morosely at the Pringles, I am going to hate myself for scarfing down while watching Mike Flanagan’s latest attempt at elevated horror on Netflix, liking him a lot and hating him a little for having such a happening career, forcing me to contemplate the many boxes left unticked on the achievement front. Between episodes, I scroll aimlessly through social media feeds where everyone seems to be doing something that could pass for exciting, aggravating the ever-present FOMO. For the uninformed, that is the ‘fear of missing out.’

Some of us are preoccupied with ageing and the terrifying inevitability of it prompts us to counter this by packing every single moment with momentous activity, because nobody wants to confront death, filled to the brim with regret. As some tiresome wiseacre unwisely said, once upon a time, you only ever regret the things you didn’t do. Which is why I am forever trying to push myself out of comfort zones with the intention to broaden the horizon a bit just so I can feel that I am doing something worthwhile with life’s finite supply of time. This commitment to future me who is on the brink of kicking the bucket and needs to be comforted by a barrage of memories celebrating glowing achievements and epic milestones is exhausting and endlessly frustrating. What is the point of berating myself for not doing enough when it ends up feeling like it is all too much?

Nowadays, I am teaching myself to do little things that generate fulfilment even if it does not qualify as useful or productive enough to be featured on my resume or Insta post. I might be missing out on doing something awesome by saying no to an invitation because my gut registered a protest but that no longer feels awful. Nor does it seem like a catastrophe of earth – shattering proportions because invitations aren’t forthcoming, except when it does. But that is nothing a soul – satisfying activity like an extra hour of yoga, playing with my pups, or a long conversation with a good friend can’t fix.

As a society we have become fixated with using time efficiently to rack up economic as well as experiential gains, that will allow us to fully flourish. We are expected to maximise not just work but leisure time, because our value is calculated by the things we do or at least seem to be doing. All the damn time. This ‘let us live life to the fullest’ and ‘make every moment the best one yet’ business is a crock of crap guaranteed to kill us quicker via hypertension. There is nothing wrong with ambition and aspiration, but it is also okay to simply survive without feeling the need to thrive all the time.

This article was published in TNIE Magazine

Mom Myths and Murder

 

Few things can shake us out of our collective apathy, but the death of a 4-year-old, murdered by his mother has done the job. Public fury continues to mount as gruesome details are dutifully doled out by the media around the clock. People find it impossible to process the fact that a mother could do this to her child. After all, in India, we firmly believe that all mothers are miracle workers capable of juggling a billion demands, candidates for goddesshood, and master chefs who can whip up mouthwatering feasts in seconds. We turn a blind eye to the fact that it is a thankless, gruelling job which requires superpowers that no woman is blessed with or that few if any can do it without breaking down on a daily basis or plotting desperately to open a portal into an alternate dimension where newborns become fully – functioning, toilet - trained adults within seconds of birth so that their moms can get back to having a real life.

Yet, murderous mothers are not as rare a phenomenon as we conveniently like to think. A quick Google search reveals that there are too many cases where children have been murdered by their not so loving mums. In 2023 alone, an unmarried teen mother from Navi Mumbai allegedly killed her newborn by throwing the baby from her bathroom window; an 8-year-old was poisoned and killed by his mother, for having seen her in a compromising position with their neighbour; in Uttar Pradesh’s Shamli, a mother poisoned three of her children, following a domestic dispute; at Halvi village near Kurnool, a 3-year-old and 6-month-old were  killed by their mother following a domestic dispute. If one has the stomach to go back further in time, there are many such harrowing cases featuring killer moms. Some like Indrani Mukerjea (who allegedly had her daughter, Sheena Bora, murdered by throttling) are famous and far from languishing in prison may be spotted at literary festivals while others don’t quite manage to capture public fancy but may have also eluded the less than exacting arm of the law.

Murder by mom, is not the only issue plaguing our poor kids. Different forms of child abuse are prevalent with child pornography and sexual exploitation of minors for commercial purposes on the rise. Millions of children across India are denied access to education, healthcare, clean water, or a home that is not a biohazard. The issue of childcare and child rights hereabouts is lamentable at best and the situation gets grimmer by the day.

In the meantime, we are content to pretend that it is mainly a mother’s job to ensure the safety of her child and that ‘natural’ maternal instincts will suffice to work miracles and keep the forces of evil at bay. If that were not bad enough, we will also pressure people to bring forth babies by the dozen irrespective of whether they have the emotional or economic resources to do the hardest job in the world, uncaring that the stakes are too high, and we cannot carry on allowing children to pay the price for adult folly.

This column was originally published in The New Indian Express.

Before Breaking News Breaks

 

Thanks to false modesty, I did not show off. But that is no longer an excuse because it is finally acceptable to brag about mediocrity across every available platform. In fact, if you are willing to embrace the holiday spirit, and discard the wise teachings of Scrooge pertaining to parsimony, you can Tom-tom the fact that you won an award (that you paid for) declaring you the International Human of the Year, and make sure it reaches the furthest reaches of the galaxy. My talent on the other hand is tremendous news. And it is related to the news. I can predict the news with pinpoint accuracy, long before it happens or supposedly happened. Feel free to share this news with everyone, so that I can get the recognition I richly deserve.

For sticklers who demand proof, I am happy to provide the same, provided you are willing to set aside disbelief, scepticism, and the tendency to think the worst of human beings just because most are fraudulent tricksters who will shove their kids or pets off the roof to make a viral video.

The breaking news tomorrow and in the days to come will be outrageous and defy all belief, which is precisely why people will believe it implicitly. Especially since they are not going to read anything beyond the headline. Readers are a critically endangered species, and nobody reads anything longer than 280 characters without the liberal use of emojis to hasten comprehension. Believable or not, this news will be forwarded on WhatsApp where more will hit forward, without reading it first.

You might already be gobsmacked, but I have more to ensure that your head is dangerously close to exploding unable to withstand my brilliance… In future, news will be bad. Much worse than today’s and yesterday’s news which was also bad, but since we have become immune to bad news, we will only respond to worse news which is on the way to becoming horrifying. If that is not exactly good news for people praying for peace in Gaza and an end to the war between Russia and Ukraine, it can’t be helped.

This is all true, because as a columnist for a major news publication, I cannot lie. Unless I am paid to. Which I am not, because the truth is, writers were paid peanuts long before they agreed to work for less since AI types don’t demand salaries or benefits. It is a good thing I am gifted. Now, I know. And thanks to me, you do too. It will rain again in Chennai and there will be flooding because politicians are too busy playing the blame game and siphoning away funds allotted for damage control and preventive measures. Tennis fans will argue over who is the GOAT and things will get ugly when Thalapathy Vijay and SRK fans jump into the fray. Bollywood will continue to make movies featuring nepo babies with less and less to recommend them by way of talent. I could go on… but what is the point? It is bound to get worse from here. Just like I predicted.

This column was published in The New Indian Express.

Sweep and Swab more for a Swachher India!

 Loving your country is a lot like loving your spouse. It is complicated. You get mad at him for responding honestly to your query about whether your grey hair is noticeable. But you wouldn’t be too pleased if he flattered to deceive. Honesty is a damnable thing because you are damned if you do and doubly damned if you don’t but according to some famous white and therefore indubitably wise dude, honesty is the best policy especially if money and the future is at stake. Which means, you have to be truthful, even if it makes people accuse you of being anti – national and ask you to remove yourself to a hostile neighbouring nation we play the occasional cricket match with and make a killing via jacked – up ticket prices but not before inundating you with death threats. Of course, I am spared all this because barring a few bots who can’t be bothered to bicker with me, nobody cares about my carping.

Therefore, I can complain about an oft ignored issue that has rendered our country grotesque. India is not just an EYESORE but an EXCRESCENCE upon the face of this planet. Of course, this nation is blessed with an abundance of natural beauty, but we have only Indians to blame for literally crapping over it and begriming the bounties of Mother Earth with our disgraceful tendency to prioritize godliness and just about everything else over cleanliness and making a godawful mess.

Of the millions of tonnes of garbage India generates, precious little is segregated, treated, and responsibly disposed. Carelessly discarded trash that does not choke up every inch of available public space ends up in hastily erected dumps conveniently close to slums where they become the problem of the poor. The responsibility for dealing with detritus rests on rag pickers who receive no formal training and no safety equipment to protect themselves from hazardous wastes and safeguard their health. Indiscriminate burning in these sites causes pollution and the cancer – causing smoke which lingers thickly in the vicinity for days is a menace. A lot of the debris is discharged into sewers, drains and rivers poisoning our water and food.

A majority of the populace has no concept of waste management that requires you to reduce, reuse and recycle. There are too few dustbins for public use and even these are always overflowing. Worst of all, are the citizens who are forever littering, spitting, pissing, and defecating wherever they please. Our government has introduced solid waste management rules and apparently there is improvement in door – to - door collection of garbage, measures have been implemented to install waste processing and recycling plants, convert landfills to parks and preserve our water bodies but there is a lot more that needs to be done for stricter enforcement of hygiene measures over and above the nattering about Swachh Bharat by celeb types on social media. Otherwise, it is only a matter of time before India is submerged in a sea of sewage.

This article was originally published in The New Indian Express.

Bewitching Barbie and Bread Pudding for Brains

The feminist dream of a world where women and men work together to reduce and gradually topple unequal social structures to ensure equal rights and social justice for all is an improbable fantasy. Too many men and women are too committed to the existing status quo where the benefits are manifold for those who sell their souls and silence their conscience to better kowtow to entrenched patriarchy. It is also the reason crimes against women and minorities persist with alarming regularity with no hope of justice for victims; wars continue to be fought in the interest of preserving the interests of the oligarchy; global warming and its implications for humanity will be brushed aside, because plastic needs to be used and sold so that fat cats can grow fatter and so on and so forth. 

It takes gut wrenching effort and soul crushing sacrifice to bring about lasting change. Who the hell can be bothered with all that when it is so much easier to be a part of the problem in a benign way? Where you can bow down before the Gods of capitalism in exchange for their benevolent assurance that you remain ever wrapped in the cold embrace of materialistic excess. When it is okay to lean into your inbuilt narcissistic tendencies and call it individualistic altruism because PC lingo is everything. Where it is perfectly acceptable to allow your brains to become bread pudding from the constant bombardment of exquisite imagery on your preferred screen crafted by those who have been paid to tell you what to think.

In this climate, of course Barbie – the movie would be a humongous blockbuster. Even though the explosion of pink, which despite being my favourite colour makes me feel like I have been chained and imprisoned in Dolores Umbridge’s basement. For the uninformed, she is a character in Harry Potter who uses pops of poisonous pink and a sickly sweet manner to disguise the extent of the hatred, intolerance and cruelty that actually defines her. While I have no intention of watching the movie, thanks to Greta Gerwig, who made the extraordinary Lady Bird, I have no doubt that Barbie is now funny, smart and endearing but pernicious as ever. 

After all, the truth is women, like Barbie herself, can be whatever they want to be as long as they expend all they have to be pretty and perfect as a doll. It is the surest way to guarantee success and be valued. Talent, intelligence, and aspirations count only if it is wrapped up in a glittering package that includes a gorgeous smile, great hair, glowing skin, a hot bod and overall compliance. It is only to be expected in a world where the feminist dream has been traded in to sell IP for Mattel and the rest of their ilk. Now if you will excuse me, I am off to buy a pink dress, shoes and accessories. Later, I’ll watch La La Land and let Ryan Gosling do his thing, so I can just stop thinking about impossible dreams. 

This column was originally published in TNIE magazine.

Book Review: Mandodari

 

Koral Dasgupta’s, Mandodari, fourth of the Pancha kanyas in her highly acclaimed Sati series attempts to rescue from obscurity, one of the most fascinating characters in the Ramayana who has traditionally been eclipsed, by her infamous husband, the mighty Ravana. Born to Maya, the architect of the Asuras and Hema, a celebrated apsara, Mandodari went on to become, the Queen of Lanka and the mother of the invincible Indrajith. Not much space is allotted to this enigmatic character in Valmiki’s Ramayana or the umpteen versions that followed and Dasgupta does a tremendous job of making up for this oversight. In her deft hands, Mandodari reemerges as a force to be reckoned with, blessed with extraordinary powers of her own and a fierce will, committed to bringing to life her husband’s impossible but unimaginably daring vision.

Narrated with insight and imagination, Mandodari’s tale is captivating. Forced into a union with the magnetic, masterful, and magnificent Asura King, though all it would have taken is persuasion, Mandodari is not without agency. For Ravana knows that his dreams would remain just that without her creative powers, architectural genius, and inspired innovations to see them take shape as the impeccably sculpted and Golden Lanka. Theirs is a caring relationship but also a fraught one, which is gradually pulled apart by conflicting ideologies, which come to a head, when Ravana makes the ill – fated decision to kidnap the wife of another man, who just happens to be an avatara of Vishnu, born for the express purpose of slaying a Rakshasa King with colossal ambitions and the reckless skills and preternatural talent to realise them.

Not one to pamper the male ego and enable rapacious conduct, Mandodari is a clarion voice who doesn’t hesitate to call out her husband when he breaches the code of Dharma. She speaks up for the rights of women in general and Sita as well, becoming an unlikely ally for the beleaguered Princess. It is thanks to her efforts, veering between the compassionate and conniving that the worst excesses of her husband are undone, ultimately preserving his legacy as a fatally flawed but innately admirable soul.

Dasgupta’s treatment of Surpanakha is far from sympathetic though. This much – maligned and often misunderstood character is further villainized as a spoilt, savage creature with an outsize appetite for lust and deceit without a single redeeming trait. Though the Princess of Lanka was treated abominably and horribly mutilated by the Princes of Ayodhya, when she frankly declared her desire for Rama, Surpanakha is subjected to a bit of victim – shaming here. This is a pity, and it feels unfair to cast poor Surpanakha as the evil antagonist to Mandodari.

This complaint notwithstanding there is much to recommend Mandodari with its lyrical prose and philosophical moorings that conjures up visions of a mesmerizing world where so much is made possible by a lone woman’s resilience and unswerving commitment to do the right thing not just in the interests of her loved ones but the greater good.

This book review was originally carried in TNIE Magazine

Good, Bad and Ugly News

 

I like receiving notifications from News apps. This way, I can pretend I know exactly what is happening in the world. Thanks to these timely alerts, I know that Meghan Markle is no longer as loved as she used to be, because too many have taken on her brand of self - pity politics, grievance – hawking and aggressive self – marketing to ensure that her success exceeds her meagre talents and made it their own. I have also been made aware, despite repeated hints that ‘news’ of this nature does not really rock my boat that Vijay Varma and Tamannaah Bhatia are dating post their ill – advised forays in Lust Story 2. Cricket lovers are gung-ho about whatever is happening at the Ashes series. While I myself have no idea about what constitutes the difference between white, red and blue balls, (although I think Kookaburras, a bird that may or may not be mythical is involved), I do know that Virat Kohli thinks that Ben Stokes is the most competitive bloke he has played against. I have also been informed, that political players across the world continue to generate all kinds of drama. But I’ll be damned if I know exactly what that is all about.

One such notification, informed me that a Jo Lindner - Bodybuilder and influencer had died at 30, from a sudden aneurysm. His many fans have compared him to Arnold Schwarzenegger while his critics hated on him, insisting that he was a steroid user. Jo himself had admitted as much in a candid YouTube video.

In a sea of negative news cycles, which reiterate our secret fear that we are all doomed, something like the passing of a good – looking, gym – ripped hunk of youth is deemed newsworthy because the tragedy is strangely comforting to a great majority who can’t be influenced into working out and eating right, just so they can get skinny, post pics of themselves sipping green smoothies and flaunting washboard abs to gain a devoted fanbase on Instagram. Most of us would rather tsk at Jo’s untimely demise because it is reinforcement of our preferred belief that the societal standard of physical beauty is hardly ideal and certainly does not mean that the fit and fabulous are healthier than their chubby counterparts even if the latter may be committed couch potatoes with a partiality for the guilty pleasures of Nutella and Lotus Biscoff.

Let’s face it. The benefits are many for those who wake up at 5 am, meditate, practise hot yoga and intermittent fasting, derive satisfaction from small pleasures, embrace positivity and appreciate sunsets and the many phases of the moon. But it might not be the worst thing in the world to work out by reading a hefty book, eating ice cream and making peace with your choices even if they are perceived to be imperfect. Who knows it might just prolong your life. Or cut it short. But it might not matter, just as long as you are happy and comfortable in your own skin. And avoid the news in favour of discerning, topical columns written by yours truly.

An edited version of this piece was published in The New Indian Express.

Having a Cow about the Canine and Bovine Crisis

 

Infected by the Indian proclivity for procreation and rapid proliferation, the stray dogs hereabouts find their population has soared to a dangerous level posing a threat to themselves and public safety. We all know this. Eyes goggling with horror, we watch CCTV footage of a 4-year-old in Hyderabad who was mauled to death by stray dogs in the parking lot of a housing society. Tutting in outrage, we read about the infant in a Rajasthan Hospital, who was carried away by strays of the canine persuasion. We all know these news stories represent a mere fraction of incidents pertaining to dog attacks. Because, it is routine, for lean and mean street dogs to chase or bite the unwary in India, the rabies capital of the world. Even so, none of us can be bothered with addressing this very preventable menace. Instead, we are content to express our dissatisfaction of social media before stepping out of our homes for a bracing walk, with a vague prayer on our lips and hope in our hearts, that we won’t be the ones who are attacked by a stray, hit by a truck, raped, robbed, or shat on by winged terrors like crows and pigeons. These things always happen to someone else, the unfortunates who wind up as sordid statistics, splashed across the news.

It is why we look the other way, when stray cattle prowl our roads causing road accidents and claiming the lives of hundreds, when they are not loading up on carelessly disposed plastic and garbage. Of course, we explain away this unacceptable scenario by telling ourselves that cows are sacred to Hindus, although we know that there is nothing in the Shastras explicitly telling us to let all things bovine traipse boisterously across the highways in a manner that can only be described as criminally negligent. Besides cows and drunk drivers are not the only dangerous things on the roads. We have stray dogs, runaway pigs, and the odd hobbled horse too! Why are we not doing anything about this?

The Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (PCA) and Animal Birth Control (ABC) Acts don’t do much to prevent cruelty to animals or curb untrammelled breeding among strays. Similarly the increasing instances of Cow Vigilantism and rigidly enforced Cattle Protection laws which have criminalized Cow slaughter have only served to exacerbate the problem. It is high time this crisis in addition to being merely acknowledged needs to be tackled using a more practical approach.

Animal birth control measures need to be properly managed. Pet owners who abandon their pets and those guilty of mistreating animals must be pulled up and made to pay hefty fines. More animals and gaushalas need to be established, staffed with vets, volunteers and trained personnel committed to the job so that strays may be gathered up, fed, cared for if they are sick or crippled and spayed. Perhaps this way, our roads and public spaces will be marginally safer, and we might even successfully eliminate rabies.

This article originally appeared in The New Indian Express Magazine.

'Queersapien' book review: Memoir of Identity

 

Sharif D Rangnekar’s Queersapien is a tall drink of tender coconut water on days when the entire world seems to have been hard baked in intolerance and hatred.

It is a candidly narrated tale of the author’s quest to shed his own fears and insecurities after coming out of the closet, braving the hostility of a landscape where, on one hand, the Supreme Court has decriminalised ‘gay sex’, reading down Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, but on the other, acceptance is still hard to come by for the LGBTQIA+ community, in order to find love and live his best life.

Written with heart and sensitivity, the book is a journey which extends both inwards and outwards, gently nudging the reader towards finding a means to make the collective spaces inhabited by human beings, one where individuals can thrive without being judged, shamed and brutally punished, simply for being true to themselves and allowing their sexuality to blossom unimpeded.

The author’s emphasis is on building bridges across differences and making a break from the established order not to descend into the darkness of disorder but to emerge into the light of diversity. Rangnekar’s freestyle mode of writing may be discomfiting for the unwary as he leapfrogs from the subtleties of the Indian legal system, data and expert opinions to personal reflections and raunchy anecdotes from the heart of the sin cities in Thailand, but it works if you surrender to the flow and get into the spirit of things.

The author’s revelations from his stints in Thailand are particularly moving as it clearly takes a lot of strength and confidence to be this vulnerable. He dwells at length on some of the spiritual as well as sexual connections made

in a land where attitudes are far more progressive with regard to sex and fluid sexuality but also addresses the scarier aspects of going in pursuit of carnal nirvana as it comes with the risk of sexual assault and battery.

A charming touch is Rangnekar’s tendency to recognise the privileges of his gender, class and caste while remaining sensitive to women’s rights, sex work and the struggles faced by the minorities and marginalised who have so much more to lose. Particularly touching is his description of the obstacles bravely overcome by his widowed mother, who raised three sons and made the effort to open her home and heart in order to provide a safe space, not just for her children but for all who sought it. Veena Rangnekar is a legend and the world desperately needs people like her.

Making peace with your own identity is an arduous, lonesome journey. Too many are terrified to even attempt it. Very few make it to the destination that is an oasis of calm empowerment and even fewer manage to remain there. But every story like Queersapien serves as a much-needed beacon of light to guide those who wander––lost and far too frightened to come to terms with who they really are.

This book review originally appeared in The New Indian Express.

Naatu Not to seek White Validation

 

It is always lovely when Indians win recognition on the global stage and athletes, scientists, artists et al. hailing from this land receive their fair share of accolades. Our homegrown achievers deserve this hard earned recognition especially since our motherland does not exactly have a reputation for nurturing talent or creating a conducive and hospitable terrain for the meritorious to survive and thrive. Which is why it is pretty cool when an Arundhati Roy or Geethanjali Shree wins the Booker Prize,  AR Rahman wins an Academy Award, a PV Sindhu wins a silver medal at the Olympics, or when Naatu Naatu takes home the Golden Globe.

It is easy enough to understand the need to celebrate these wins with boisterous gusto as the more honest among us Indians will admit that on most days, life in India is hardly cause for celebration. There is simply too much evidence of corruption, incompetence and criminal negligence every which way you turn... A mother and her 2 – year old were killed when a Metro pillar collapsed. A young software engineer lost her life following an accident on a pothole riddled road while dropping her brother on the way to work. Pee – Gate is one of the most cringe – worthy news stories of all time and these are only the more recent examples of India when it isn't quite as incredible as it is purported to be. 

Thanks to the despicable behaviour of our countrymen /women/ children there comes a point when  we want to disown our Indian brothers and sisters so that we can adopt Japanese siblings who always clean up after themselves, are frightfully competent, painfully polite and wouldn’t dream of peeing on anyone or anywhere other than a urinal. I daresay, it is thanks to these unpatriotic thoughts that we dare not admit to, that we feel the need to go absolutely bonkers with pride and joy every time an Indian receives White validation. Because deep down we know that most of us respect each other even less than the white folks do. Racism is only part of the problem. The truth is we don't do much to be worthy of approbation.  

It is sad that the excessive display of National pride on these occasions masks a loathing for so much of what India has become. The solution for this sorry state of affairs simply cannot be to rest on the laurels of random Indian victories and putter along on potholed roads with chests puffed up with vacuous pride. Now is the time to get off our keisters and get to work mending the many broken things that need fixing if we are to hold up our heads and take our rightful place on the global stage. It means confronting the painful truth about  being Indian rather than disappearing into a footstomping song where two Telugu Superstars school the White man while owning their regional identities, without desperately seeking his approval to feel better about their own shortcomings. 

This article was originally published in The New Indian Express Magazine.

NO COUNTRY FOR LOVE

 

Last Sunday, I read a news article about two Bengaluru cops who were suspended after they extorted money from a couple returning home from a party, insisting that according to the rules, they were not allowed to walk on the streets after 11 pm. The married duo had their phones confiscated, were put through a gruelling interrogation and threatened with imprisonment if they didn’t pay up. The frazzled husband revealed the details about his ordeal on Twitter and after his tweet went viral, the Deputy Commissioner of Police, clarified that there was no rule preventing people from walking on the road at any time of the night before taking action against the errant constables.

Now, this qualifies as a happy ending since too often, justice is delayed and denied in India. It is also a heartening reminder that occasionally, social media can be a useful tool to redress a wrong. However, I couldn’t help thinking that this ugly incident is so typical in modern India. For some reason, so many get outraged and there is a lot of finger – wagging as well as outright condemnation when couples are spotted doing something as innocuous as holding hands and walking on the road. Practically everybody wants to throw the book at lovers if they so much as kiss in darkened theatres or parks. The backlash is instantaneous and often ugly, forcing smitten youngsters to sneak around and seek out isolated places far from prying eyes with the result that they often put themselves at heightened risk for harassment, blackmail, and further violence.

On the other hand, the average Indian doesn’t get hot and bothered when folks piss and poop in public uncaring about the strain they are subjecting unwary eyeballs to. Those who are critical about such unacceptable behaviour are themselves criticized for not checking their privilege and told that there are more temples than toilets in India, as if this somehow makes public defecation acceptable. Most are similarly unconcerned when gross uncles burp/fart loudly or dig their nostrils in full view of all and sundry. However, the same people insist that all things remotely related to love and sex be treated as filthy (chee!) to be confined to dark, dingy rooms, preferably beneath suffocating sheets if you are married and strictly forbidden if you are not.

After all, this is our culture, never mind that the Kamasutra was written in India and temples at Konark and Khajuraho reveal that in the distant past, Indians had a more enlightened view on intimacy and erotica. No wonder so many of us are incapable of healthy relationships and hopelessly ignorant about reproductive health or practising safe sex. We would do well to go for an attitude transplant as a nation, instead of persecuting lovers and blaming films like Arjun Reddy, Pushpa and Kantara for the prevalent toxicity or there will be more news stories about couples getting killed or gruesomely punished in a land where hatred and intolerance has prevailed over love and acceptance.

This article was originally published in The New Indian Express Magazine.

Toxicity of the Blue Tick Twitterati

 

Twitter is a fascinating place. It is always good for entertainment, if nothing else. People are forever attacking one another over principles and personal preferences. It is usually a scream to view the shouting matches between the senseless trolls on either side of the ideological divide as they attack each other over trending topics pertaining to politics, religion, human rights, Virat Kohli's form, Kim Kardashian's butt and Alia Bhatt's baby name preferences.

The insufferable opinions of the obnoxious and the offensive are always available for your viewing pleasure. The  humble Tweeple get to be schooled by the Twitterati, the blue-blooded wielders of the coveted blue tick on all things inane, irrational and irritating. Ostensibly, these are the 'verified' accounts that authenticate identity and establish holders such as politicians, film/sports stars, media personnel, big business types and influencers with an insane follower count as 'trustworthy'.

In short, the chosen ones are the powerful and popular folks who have been selected as the manipulators of public opinion to further agendas that can be counted on to do absolutely nothing to bring about the greater good, even if they vociferously claim otherwise. The violent, vitriol-filled rhetoric against JK Rowling, which is less of an attempt to uphold trans rights and more of a concentrated attack against a powerful woman not afraid to fight for women’s safety, is a case in point. 

Recently, Twitter experienced extreme turmoil when the newly anointed Chief Twit, Elon Musk, upended the status quo by rolling out the Blue subscription  service, allowing users to pay a monthly fee for the privilege of becoming the proud owner of a blue tick. Naturally, the Twitterati have their innards in a twist, claiming that such a move would lead to a proliferation of fake accounts leading to misinformation, which could weaponise the platform and jeopardise world peace.  Apparently that is not at all how things stood in the fairy land that was Twitter before Musk made his move.

Of course, I am one of those who have chosen not to cough up the fee, since by miraculous happenstance, I have a blue tick on Instagram, which has caused my stock to skyrocket with my daughters and nephews. In this economy, it is my advise that others follow my lead guided by parsimony, not principles. After all, the beauty of Twitter is that it will always remain the anarchic hellhole it was engineered to be.  

Even if you get a grip on the deep-seated desire to wile away the good years in your life by endlessly scrolling through Twitter feeds with breaks for Instagram until death does you in, you walk away with the empty yet satisfying knowledge that you have done nothing at all that might be construed as useful or enriching. And you will definitely be back for more.  

#MeToo: Missing justice in hashtag activism

The #MeToo movement, a volcanic eruption of long-suppressed pain and rage from victims of abuse, was a global revolution that sought to smoke out offenders, expose their deeds and mete out punishment. Many survivors found the courage to come forward, name and shame offenders, shed the baggage 

of trauma, and facilitate healing. Some of the perpetrators were prosecuted or cancelled outright, victims received financial aid, workplace and educational institutions framed policies to safeguard women, the statute of limitation for reporting abuse became elasticised and some of us dared to dream of a world where women were not treated as sexual toys. But that was always a foolish hope.

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For, in the real world, far away from social media, consequences were far more severe for victims. They won in the court of public opinion, but mostly lost in actual courts, where decisions in these sensitive cases are based on hard-to-prove facts and near-nonexistent evidence. Consequently, many bravehearts have been countersued for defamation, slut-shamed, and suffered professional setbacks. Meanwhile, the likes of Sajid Khan find themselves in the news, having capitalised on their notoriety. 

This is hardly surprising since hashtag activism inevitably putters to a standstill. All it takes is celebs dropping pics of their weddings, baby showers, unclothed selves or funny videos of pampered pets to divert public attention. Moreover, social media trials often generate sympathy for aggressors since folks who haven’t had their brains woke-washed invariably feel that justice was not served as due process was ignored, never mind that the lame-duck legal system has repeatedly let down the injured party. 

The upshot is that #MeToo seems committed to fanning public outrage and populist pandering, which saw it accused of diluting the menace of sex crimes by lumping everything from flirtation in the workplace to sexual assault together, resulting in the doling out of punishment that is both disproportionate as well as inadequate, enabling some to manipulate it for their own ends. Meanwhile, the movement did not do enough to change deeply entrenched patriarchal mindsets and cultural beliefs that expect women to shut up and put up.

The solution, thus, lies not in vigilante-style justice meted out by a moralistic mob on internet forums, but in fixing a broken justice system and prioritising the rights of women. Prevention is still key. We need to implement rules that guarantee safe spaces for women. Mostly, the battle for gender equality, sensitisation and inclusion of LGBTQ is going to be a long-drawn-out, painful process, which demands that we fight the good fight with dedication, humanity and mindfulness rather than twiddling our thumbs, Twitterati style. 

This article originally appeared in The New Indian Express Magazine.