Vegetarianism is not Synonymous with Virtue

I have nothing against vegetarians. A lot of them are friends who invite me home for meals where I cheerfully stuff my face with pulao (just don’t call it veg. biriyani), stuffed chapathis, papads, gobi manchurian and carrot halwa.  When I return the favour, they are content to tuck into my veggie fried rice, chilli paneer, mushroom au gratin and chocolate fudge without gagging at the sight of the non – vegetarian spread. More importantly, they have never judged me for my carnivorous ways nor, I them their culinary choices since these have their roots in culture, tradition, religion or personal preference. That ought to be that, but unfortunately it isn’t. 

In recent times, many from the growing ranks of vegetarians who may prefer terms like vegan, lacto vegetarian, ovo vegetarian, pollotarian, pescatarian or flexitarian have taken a militant stand against eaters of meat seemingly determined to convert those they believe don’t know better with missionary zeal and extreme shaming tactics. Herbivores seek to condemn and criticize those who are partial to their deluxe bacon burgers and mutton biriyani or simply cannot pay the criminal prices charged for kale, aubergine, quinoa and salads made with 75 environment friendly ingredients. Surely that is obscene in a land where too many are unable to afford one square meal let alone an expensive, organically sourced vegan one? If a fattened goat feeds a family for a week why begrudge anybody that?

Almost as bad is the attempt to impose cardinal culinary principles on others by those who are sanguine in the mistaken belief that vegetarianism is synonymous with virtue which makes them morally superior beings and the offspring of dharma and ahimsa. When those of the phytophagous variety (foes of flora, I like to call them), insist that it is not possible for those who can’t do without roasted chicken to love or care for animals, that those who feed their children meat are guilty of abuse (never mind that courts in various parts of the world have pulled up parents who forced their dietary ‘principles’ on their children with the result that they wound up malnourished) and meat eaters are destroying the planet, the overblown rhetoric stripped of nuance leaves me convinced that all this is little more than superficial posturing and hollow outraging, designed to dictate what others eat and police personal menus.

Studies by Nicoletta Pellegrini have shown that while consumption of animal products have a high environmental impact, vegans with their excessive reliance on processed substitutes for meat and dairy don’t necessarily show a significantly smaller carbon footprint. Besides bland purely vegan dishes are not half as fortifying or fulfilling as meat based cuisine which leads to a higher food intake which in turn defeats the purpose, herbivores keep harping about. It is why experts feel an ovo – vegetarian or flexitarian diet is more likely to produce environmental benefits.

I am not advocating indiscriminate consumption but it is easier to make healthier choices when one is not pressured or forced into it. After all, you are what you eat, and if your dietary decisions make you smug, sanctimonious and superior, perhaps a change in the menu might be in order.

This article was originally published in The New Indian Express.

A CHILLING BLAST FROM THE PAST

Benjamin Kingsbury’s An Imperial Disaster: The Bengal Cyclone of 1876 is about a natural disaster of near apocalyptic proportions which claimed 215,000 lives by drowning and at least another 100,000 lost to cholera and famine. While the extreme forces of nature that led to this catastrophe are meticulously documented, Kingsbury insists and rightfully so, on placing the focus on the ‘all – too human patterns of exploitation and inequality – by divisions within Bengali society, and by the great disparities of political and economic power that characterised British rule in India’ that shaped this natural disaster which exacerbated a horrendous situation to inhuman levels of suffering and loss of life. 

Told with an unflinching and unsparing gaze, Kingsbury’s comprehensive and compelling account serves the dual purpose of transporting the reader back to the horrors of imperial rule with its callous disregard for the natives, particularly the poor, while holding a mirror to problems such as ‘overpopulation, unemployment, landlessness, corruption, illiteracy, indebtedness, official indifference’ which though prevalent during British rule, remain rampant to this very day. This narrative is scathing in its condemnation of ruthless colonial greed pointing out how the people of India were left impoverished, with their manufacturers and industrialists systematically driven out of business, farmers and peasants buckling under the weight of taxation, and a massive chunk of revenue being siphoned away to England.

It also shines a light on the stunning indifference of the authorities towards the victims who having suffered untold losses were left to fend for themselves even as cholera and famine continued to take a toll. The higher ups among the imperial powers made it clear that the more niggardly and pecuniary the efforts expended on relief works, the higher the opportunity for career advancement would be. In fact, relief officers were appointed solely ‘to prove that there was no need for relief.’ In the meantime, officials saw fit to spend beaucoup sums on imperial durbars, feasting, fireworks and idle festivities.

The great majority of the public were uncaring too, not bothering to lift a finger to help fellow Indians. Regional publications like the Amrita Bazar Patrika, rued the callousness of the professional, landowning classes who were ignoring the disaster, refusing to help raise money or donate for a cause. Greed and corruption were not limited to the British alone and the landlords and middlemen saw no reason not to refrain from enriching themselves at the expense of the others. Worse, no preventive measures were implemented in the aftermath.

A brilliant read, this book should be mandatory reading for Indians just so they can learn from the past, wise up in the present and prevent the future from being reduced to a disaster waiting to happen.

This review originally appeared in The New Indian Express.  

A Tribute to Forgotten Heroes

History is oftentimes an unjust mistress often choosing to forget or ignore those who deserve to be cherished or at the very least remembered. The First World War fought between imperialist powers anxious to annexe more chunks of the planet for themselves irrespective of whether they called themselves the Central or Allied Powers, truly upped the ante when it came to large – scale carnage. By the time the unmitigated horror of it all, came to an end more than 16 million were dead. Many a tome or movie have been devoted to the heroics of the Allied forces for having successfully held on to their ill – gotten gains and having put themselves in a prime position to satiate their gluttonous appetite for more land and power but not much is known about the contribution of the 1.5 million (not counting those who volunteered or were coerced into serving) Indian soldiers who fought in the Great War and left their own indelible prints in the sands of time.

            George Morton – Jack in his ‘The Indian Empire at War’ puts in painstaking effort into piecing together the lives of these intrepid warriors who lived in a tumultuous, topsy-turvy age where they were asked to fight for democratic ideals by their masters who had denied them and their countrymen the same. The book focuses not only on the nitty-gritty of an Indian soldier’s personal reality and the cultural as well as practical factors which motivated him to pick up arms on behalf of the loathed imperial overlords but also beyond and into the decision making processes of higher forces at play in a deadly game of bloody conflict.

            This historian’s account is thorough and painfully blunt which is readily apparent when he discusses the mind-set of the Indian soldiers who pulled their triggers against peaceful protestors in the infamous Amritsar Massacre simply because General Dyer and ‘the British told them to.’ It is a chilling example of men who are trained to obey and kill because they have been taught to put aside principles and feelings when in uniform. The puzzle of Indians who fought and killed other Indians is hard to unravel despite the divided identity of the nation and an even harder reality to stomach.

            The indictment of British rule in India is readily apparent given that few practised what they preached when it came to denouncing tyranny. For all their high – flown rhetoric of fighting the Great War for all the right reasons, the British to ‘ensure their primacy over Indians as their racial inferiors’ subjected them to constant belittlement and abuse while practising segregation and denying the Indian troops their basic rights such as forcing them to live in hovels, depriving them of decent medical care and rations, while of course their British counterparts were living it up in style and given double their wages. Of course, the Indian troops despite years of loyal service could not expect to be promoted to a rank that meant anything or given their own command. Worse, they were not allowed to fight white armies in case they got new-fangled ideas about their place in the racial hierarchy.

            There is a balance to the narrative which includes anecdotes about the bravery as well as cowardice evidenced by Indian troops and a fascinating tale of two brothers - Mir Dast and Mir Mast, brothers one of whom remained loyal, while the other, who had won a medal for bravery was persuaded to desert when a holy – Jihad was declared by the Turkish Sultan makes for compelling reading. Even among the British officials, care has been taken to document actions that were fair, decent as well as disgraceful. Ultimately it is a stirring tribute to those troops whose ‘achievement was bearing their humiliations at the hands of the British with such strength in the face of adversity and not letting go of their humanity’. 

This book review originally appeared here.

New Year Resolutions for Pongal

Pic courtesy: Mash Kolams

New Year resolutions are damnable things. Mostly they are social media worthy which means it involves all things supercilious bedecked in the paraphernalia of the profound. Folks are always resolving to eat healthy, stop and smell the farts roses, go with the flow, get away from the rat race, travel and see the world, quit smoking, tweet less, smile more, pay it forward, help the needy, and make the world a better place. Needless to say these resolutions are burdensome creatures and make you feel like Frodo Baggins crushed and overwhelmed under the onerous weight of the One Ring. Which probably explains why most of us feel a pressing obligation to break them as quickly as we can so that we can go back to being flawed human beings who are conceited and callous enough not to care about self – improvement or improving the lot of the less fortunate.

            How do I know these things? From personal experience of course. I had resolved to eat right, stop allowing my insecurities to become an obsession and cease revealing embarrassing details about myself when I write up these columns. But hardly two weeks into the New Year, I have failed to convince my body that it doesn’t need desserts after every meal, haven’t managed a full night’s sleep because I am trying to figure out how to become a more successful author or a self – actualized individual and you know…

When confronted with definitive evidence of a weak will and an inability to resist temptation, guilt kicks in and claws at your underbelly making you feel lower than a worm’s belly button. All too soon, one is trapped in a vicious cycle of resolutions made only to be broken and on and on it goes. Perhaps we have gotten the methodology all wrong.

            The problem is we are making resolutions to do things we have been taught to think we ought to be doing instead of the things we really want to do. Which is why we end up like those god-awful souls who judge us when we order a double chocolate chip cookie milkshake with whipped cream and ice cream to go with the garden salad with the add - on meat and insist on viewing entire areas of a perfectly decent life as inadequate. Why not simply admit that ‘I’m not okay, you’re not okay and that’s okay!’? I first heard that in the Ben Stiller, Vince Vaughn classic, Dodgeball and that is not at all an embarrassing thing to admit because I am owning it now see?

            Perhaps your New Year resolution made just in time for Pongal ought to be not to make any, except that would qualify as a bona – fide resolution so what now? I know exactly what I will be doing. Now that I have made the word count for my column, I am just going to drop the whole thing and go grab a cupcake. Then I’ll probably stay up all night wondering what it is that Twinkle Khanna has and I don’t which ensures that she manages astronomical sales figures for her yarns on pads, Prasad and pyjamas while looking so damn good.

This article originally appeared in The Sunday Standard.

Have Selfies made us Sad?

The other day, somebody clicked a pic of me and to my horror, I heard myself shrieking, ‘Don’t make me look fat!’ As somebody who has battled fat shaming all her life (a potbellied music instructor used to call me fatty boomalatty) and insists that as long as you are fit, the f in fat, stands for fabulous, it was hard to acknowledge that despite my politically correct fundas it is important for me to be magically photographed into looking thinner than I am. Strangely enough, though the voice of reason in my head upbraids me for having become a narcissist who doctors her image for a handful of followers on Facebook , Instagram and Twitter, the fact is my secret obsession with how I look online, (despite being someone whose idea of dressing up is losing the pyjamas for jeans) seems to be everyone else’s as well. After all everybody loathes pics that make them look groggy, grotesquely constipated, gross or anything less than immaculately perfect. In fact for too many it could be a life ruining issue!

The fact that this narcissism has wriggled its way into our admittedly vain and vacuous lifestyles is hardly surprising given the fact that we are bombarded by flawlessly captured selfies of folks, airbrushed and meticulously tweaked to make them look social media worthy. New mummies have never looked yummier, gym rats look smoking hot as opposed to sweaty while pumping iron, and even all those home bakers with their divine sugary creations look impossibly skinny, glossy and good enough to eat! Which means the pressure to glam up is mounting and we worry more than we should about whether our butts look big, if our greys or pimples are showing, or if there is tell-tale evidence of sleepless nights or signs of ageing. Heaven forbid!

In extreme cases, people risk or actually lose their lives while trying to click that perfect selfie which just might go viral and give them their five seconds. The rest of us wind up devoting time and money we can’t afford to spare on looking good despite knowing it might be better to shift the focus to simply feeling good.

Such excessive love of the self far from being satisfying is strangely depressing. How many of us have noticed that fun occasions like family weddings, parties or vacationing with friends feel flat because everybody is too keen on capturing the awesomeness of the moment instead of actually living it? Too many wind up missing out on stuff because of the unholy devotion to perpetual preening, posing and posting that gives the impression that one is having a rollicking time, though the reality of it is usually different.

Handwringing about virtual vanity aside, the incessant dolling up of digital avatars makes it seem as if everybody’s life is better than our mundane ones which has led to all of us moping about with a wicked case of envy and dissatisfaction. No wonder people smile only for the camera and not for real. And even worse, not even this impassioned piece is going to stop me from sucking in my gut when I pose for a pic. Help!

This post originally appeared in The Sunday Standard.

An Exhausting but occasionally Engaging Uphill Trek

Pulitzer Prize - shortlisted Deborah Baker’s ‘The Last Englishmen: Love, War and the End of Empire’ is a sprawling biographical saga that is a post – mortem of the last days of the British Empire in India. The author narrates the stories of pioneering geologist, John Auden and surveyor, Michael Spender who was the first to draw a detailed map of the north face of Everest, using his skills in photogrammetry. Both men, in addition to having famous poet brothers in W.H. Auden and Stephen Spender, vied for the hand of the same woman, Nancy Sharp, the English painter and sought to be included in an Everest expedition which had become “…an issue of National and Imperial importance” with diehards of colonialism seeing it as a means to reassert and consolidate their power over India.

In a surprising move, Baker is not content to chart their lives and measure the successes of these two extraordinary men, though she does do that while opting to shift focus without warning to a dizzying array of colourful characters, who are an eclectic mix of writers, artists, freedom fighters, politicians, communists and even double agents all of whom made their own mark on history and left valuable impressions behind of the cultural, political and moral landscape of a crumbling empire. Louis MacNeice (who interestingly carried a torch for the redoubtable Nancy Sharp as well) invited to cover the Partition with a view of writing a series of radio plays for BBC, Christopher Isherwood who co – wrote a play with W.H. Auden entitled, ‘The Ascent of F6’about a climber who mounts an expedition to Everest and battles the elements as well as rival nations in a race to the peak, Michael John Carritt, Indian Civil Service Officer and communist sympathizer, and Sudhin Datta, a Bengali intellectual who founded a literary journal, ‘Parichay’ and was deeply conflicted by his love of English literature and hatred of heavy – handed imperialists, sashay into the narrative at will.

Their stories have mixed results in that they do shed light on a veritable avalanche of complex historical facts which manage to occasionally engage the reader while also leaving him or her disconcerted with the sheer density of information conveyed detachedly in opaque prose and a penchant for dogged descriptiveness that is not always flavoursome enough to be savoured. The frequent meandering detours and a surfeit of material crammed into an overcrowded stage with too much happening at all levels can be most vexing. Oftentimes, the process of perusing this excellent material feels as laborious and cumbersome as scaling an unforgiving peak under extremely unfavourable conditions which makes one want to give up in abject despair. However, in the unlikely event that the modern reader afflicted with ADHD manages to persist, the rewards are not entirely non – existent.

Baker is determined to perform a delicate balancing act between the opposing viewpoints of the conqueror and conquered and is even-handed to the point of being exasperating. However her unflinching portrayal of the likes of Winston Churchill who felt the Indians were a ‘foul race’ that ‘breed like rabbits’ and needed to be bombed into submission if necessary as well as her exposure of his role in the Bengal famine strip away the glittering façade of the so – called ‘greatest Briton ever’ and reveal him to be the unabashed racist and white supremacist he most certainly was. The chequered career of Huseyn Shaheed Suhrawardy, the ‘Butcher of Bengal’ and fifth prime minister of Pakistan, particularly his interaction with Gandhi makes for interesting reading.

Some of the most harrowing portions of the book are Baker’s final chapters, reconstructing the terrible Bengal famine and the communal riots during the partition. Her decision not to make it unduly melodramatic but rather keep it simple and clinical even, succeeds in making the horror all the more stomach turning. If only Baker had managed to hit her stride sooner!

This book review originally appeared here.

THE PERILS OF BEING PELTED WITH POOP

We humans consider ourselves evolved beings, however, I have a sneaking suspicion that at heart, we are little more than the Apes (no offense intended to that noble species) we descended from especially since on any given day we are one bad judgement away from hurling poop at each other. If you are inclined to laugh, scoff or return to your fuzzy YouTube video of candid moments from the #DeepVeer wedding, I urge you to give me a chance to explain. After all, the impending crisis is a real one, and it makes sense to figure out how best to avert it under my expert tutelage. For otherwise the threat may snowball out of all control and culminate with people throwing poop or worse, bombs at each other (for the selfie – obsessed, I am not discussing photo bombs). 

Everybody has a short fuse nowadays. I know, because the other day folks shouted at me for cycling on the wrong side of the road (In my defence, I thought it was a shortcut). Some even wanted to know if I had informed my folks about my intention to die like a dog. Such meanies! But that was only the tip of the iceberg. On any given day, I am trolled and accused of being a gender traitor by feminists and am branded a feminazi by chauvinists. The left scolds me for being a ‘bhakt’ while the right threaten to have me arrested for being ‘anti – national’. It is almost as if I am incorrect about my own awesomeness!

There are so many angry folks out there, you would think it is a fad that refuses to fade. Which means you get dry humped while standing in those slow – moving queues irrespective of whether it is at the airport, temple, theme park, or toilet. If you protest, you are certain to get a full blast of rudeness with a side of spittle. People get pissed off while you count out the correct change and make certain you know they think you are a moron because you don’t believe in the suspicious notion of a cash free society. You can’t even allow yourself to drown your sorrows in a triple scoop ice cream sundae because some wiseacre will stare judgementally at your ample waistline or lecture you about the evils of sugar.

It is even worse, if you are a denizen of social media. Even if you are the sort of person who posts nothing but cute pics of pups and bunnies, it is only a matter of time before you manage to give offense to the army of social justice warriors out there who live to get outraged at the moral discrepancies of others (if not their own). That is enough, of that!

It is time to break away from the herd, now that it is a raging mob and embrace the contrarian within. If everybody has an informed opinion and is frothing at the mouth over it, be the one who refuses to get drawn into a fight. So what is everyone if shouting at the top of their lungs? You can maintain a dignified silence till civility is restored. So what if the entire species is reduced to mush-brained junkies glued to their phones? Read a book instead or go for a walk. Soon your sanity will spread like a contagion and more and more people will throw in their lot with you, till we have a new and improved herd!

All that remains is for you dear reader to go forth and spread the pearls of my wisdom so none of us have to worry about aggressive primates pelting us with poop. Or worse.

This article originally appeared in The Sunday Standard

Petta is a treat for lovers of Rajini the Superstar and Actor Extrordinaire

I really really loved Petta. And it has been too long since I said this about a Rajni film. As a lapsed Rajni fan (when even a superstar of Rajni's caliber acts in one Shankar film too many it happens), it was nice to go right back to the Annamalai, Baasha phase when I was a proper Rajni fanatic. Guess, you have to be that person to truly appreciate Petta. The first half was absolutely rocking and I love how 'Marana mass' it was. Not since Dhil, Dhool and Ghilli has a Tamil filmmaker made such a sumptuous, masala feast of a film. So kudos to Karthik Subbaraj for that. In the theatre where I was watching Petta, we were all infected with Rajni fever and were cheering, screaming ourselves hoarse for every single scene. It was such an amazing cinematic experience and an incredibly special one. Rajni is one actor who has always made me laugh and cry along with his characters and this time was no exception. I became completely nuts about Kaali (Petta Velan). Bless you Karthik Subbaraj for giving us this vintage version of Thalaivar.

I find it so annoying when people go on and on about his style which is dazzling of course, and forget that the man is one of the greatest actors of all time. I don't think there is an actor who is as sublimely effervescent and effective as he is in any film industry. Examine just about any scene in Petta and you will see what I mean.

The second half worked very well for me but on a different level. It was great to see Subbaraj's unique little quirks, eccentricities and flair on full display. There is a funeral scene which was insanely good, strangely moving and deliriously wicked as well! Loved every scene with Rajini and the terrific VJS. I thought Nawazuddin did a fantastic job as well and was a really intriguing character. What a treat it is to see Rajni cross swords with behemoths like VJS and Nawazuddin, chew them up and spit em out! In retrospect, the editing could have been tighter but with Rajni in such amazing form, we fans aren't complaining. Hope he does more films like this!

I am on such a Petta high and can hardly wait to watch the film again and again. And again.
PS: Did I mention that I really really loved Petta?

How my First Wheels Built my Character

Nobody forgets their first wheels even if it isn’t particularly sexy or ever likely to adorn fancy billboards with John Abraham straddling it. I was about four when it came into my possession. A beautiful red Raleigh bicycle which had been gifted to my Dad by my Grandfather in the 60s. The pater is a hoarder if there ever was one and had guarded it with his life. So it was a proud day, when he bequeathed it to his firstborn. 

            Learning to ride a bicycle can be a traumatic experience, especially if you are averse to falling. But I carry no scars or emotional baggage thanks to Dad’s foresight in hanging on to the training wheels as well. They made the learning process a beautiful, bruise – free one. I am happy to report that my four year old self mastered the art fairly quickly. Soon I was spending every waking moment on my lovely bicycle, fancying myself an intrepid explorer like Magellan or Vasco Da Gama. Of course in reality Mum who had this irrational fear that her daughter would get hit by a truck expressly forbade me from riding outside our ancestral home. She even had paid enforcers to execute her rules. Not that it stopped me from embarking on daring adventures.

            One involved an expedition to verify if there were ghouls suspended from the hidden branches of the large mango tree in Grandmum’s garden (I had it on good authority from our cook who may or may not have been trying to get rid of a pesky child). In hair – raising ventures of a blood – curdling nature, one finds that self – confidence is boosted if a quick getaway vehicle is available. Thanks to my trusty steed, I felt brave enough to undertake many perilous missions in search of buried treasure and fabled monsters. We never returned empty handed – our cup runneth over with discarded marbles, the odd chocolate wrapper, dead frogs and on one magnificent occasion – lizard (basilisk?) eggs in a forgotten switch board.

            The thrills were too many to be described and the dangers were real. On that terror – fraught day, I was cycling along briskly, when my unusually sharp eyes caught sight of a tiny bee – hive in the making. Convinced it was a fairy’s cottage, I abandoned my customary caution and blundered in for a closer look (damn you Enid Blyton!) only to see the winged monster, a heartbeat before it stung me on the nose. In my haste to get away from the abomination, I fell off my faithful cycle for the very first time. It was painful alright but what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger right?

            Besides, my horrific accident prepared me for what happens when obnoxious adults overrule the protests of your Mother and make you lose the training wheels. What followed is too heart – rending to relate but it did teach me the importance of never allowing your fears to get the better of you. My first wheels were truly character building and all that jazz!

            My Raleigh bike had a glorious reign but succumbed to extreme old age. I now own a pink BSA Ladybird cycle with a basket plus bell and have taken the kids and puppies for many awesome rides. Then and now, I believe in eco – friendly ways to see the world. The fact that I flunked my driving exam on account of the fact that I get panicky behind a wheel and feel like I am going to crash into the sound barrier while doing 15mph has nothing at all to do with it.

This tale of thrills and chills was originally published in The Hindu Metroplus. 

Feasting on the Feminine

Anita Nair is a remarkable writer and a compelling storyteller. In her latest novel, ‘Eating Wasps’ she charts the tale of Sreelakshmi, a thirty – five year old writer who takes her own life and the women who touch her restless spirit, half a century after her demise, when her trapped soul is given release to wander in search of the stories that sustained her in life. It is a juicy premise, and in Nair’s hands it becomes something extraordinary, grabbing readers by the throat, plunging them into the depths of the feminine psyche with its myriad hues that run the gamut from the sublimely beautiful and inspiring to the sordid and shocking. 

Flitting like a butterfly from one story to the other, Sreelakshmi and the reader get to know an array of memorable women. There is Urvashi who is a writer too and trapped within the confines of convention, struggling to find release for her nameless yearning, which prompts her to navigate the perils of a dating app that far from nourishing her with the fulfilment she seeks leaves her floundering in disappointment and worse. Little Megha is a precious ‘bommakutty’, doomed to discover that the monsters are real. When her tormentor after pulling her into the back of a truck “pulled down the tarpaulin flap rolled up to the roof of the truck” it is hard to choke down the scream building at the back of the throat. Najma’s tale is a harrowing one as a stalker dashes her dreams with a horrifying acid attack, leaving her with little more than her embattled spirit and the steely will not to give in to her fears.

There are others who face the conundrum Sreelakshmi herself did that of being damaged goods and the girl who ate a wasp, especially when life serves up unhappy experiences to compound an already miserable existence – “Would you spit or swallow? Would you crumple or fight?” The characters deal with the many headed hydra that is the internet which can label and shame one  as ‘Pussy – Mouth’ for a moment’s silly indiscretion, online stalking, body shaming, terrorism and the constant, grinding pressure to conform to societal norms be they ever so suffocating.

Nair has a gift for telling stories that boast of the robust prose, muscle and sinew favoured by the author in this tale as well. Her characters are delicately sketched out and pulse with life as they leap off the pages into the consciousness of those who have gotten to know them so intimately. Whether it is a hate – filled, nightmare of a blind sister who feeds on her younger sister like a parasite or even, the long suffering mother of a disabled child, who is dangerously close to following through on her intention to take his life, these are folks who leave indelible imprints.

Ultimately though is it Sreelakshmi, who burrows into the head and heart with her tragic tale of discovery that “Ghosts and writers are more alike than you think.”

This review was originally published by The New Indian Express.

A Bonafide Feminist Classic

I’ll go right ahead and write this down: Khadija Mastur’s “The Women’s Courtyard” is one of the most satisfying novels I have ever read. It is elegant, poignant and utterly unputdownable. There is much to be said about Mastur’s simple, frills and frippery free style of storytelling and Daisy Rockwell deserves a shout out for doing justice to this manuscript which has been translated from Urdu (Aangan). 

Aliya finds herself securely sealed within the suffocating confines of her home, relatively safe from the troubles of a world in turmoil with the final stages of India’s struggle for freedom playing out and the partition looming ahead. But she is all but cut off from an outside world with its endless possibility for one who dreams of self – sufficiency, and left to keep her hopes alive amidst the broken dreams and carnage of conflicting ideologies evidenced by her extended family.

The protected environment she has grown up in proves insufficient to the task of shielding her from the trauma of losing her beloved elder sister Tehmina and dear friend, Kusum to suicide when they invest too heavily in the possibility of heady love and romance in the otherwise arid landscape of their lives only to be left utterly devastated. These episodes leave her with no faith where romance is concerned, especially since she is also an appalled witness to the marriages of her mother and aunt, to men who are more wedded to their politics. Aliya is horrified by both the anger and pettiness of her mother as well as the emotional ruin her aunt is. Yet, with a wisdom that belies her years, she is filled with compassion, has a reservoir of good sense and never ceases to care for her tormented loved ones, choosing to learn from their mistakes while teaching herself to shield herself from the pain wrought by irredeemably bad judgement.

Interestingly enough in this cloistered space, reserved for women, men who are related by blood seem to have right of access and given a surprisingly free hand to romance, stalk, molest or manipulate their cousins. There is Safdar, who loved Tehmina to death, Shakeel who has little qualms about stealing from his cousins, and Jameel who refuses to take no for an answer. Aliya is adamant when it comes to rejecting Jameel’s love for her, despite a certain physical attraction, fully aware that he has wronged another cousin Chammi, writes middling poetry, hasn’t distinguished himself in the professional sphere and is a little too much like the other men in her life given to sacrificing their women and children on the altar of their politics.

Love triangles are usually tedious affairs but the prickly one between Aliya, Chammi and Jameel is beautifully realized. The book is radically ahead of its time in giving us a heroine who adamantly sticks to her guns when it comes to resisting patriarchy even when enforcers pressure her with the prospects of love and marriage, which Aliya realizes are both likely to entrap her more surely than the chains she has been struggling against all her life. Mastur doesn’t spare the women who enable sexism either. Aliya’s mother in particular is a gut wrenching example of a gender traitor. A magnificent book that depicts the bitter battles women fight, far from the battlefield.

Hogging in Hyderabad

Most folks are aware that Hyderabad is awesome for a number of reasons. But let us leave aside for a moment the Charminar, Golkonda fort, Taj Faluknama palace, Ramoji film city and the Telugu film industry hotties like Prabhas, Allu Arjun and Vijay Deverakonda, though they must by no means be forgotten and certainly checked out. After all, it is the incredible array of culinary choices which is absolutely to die for that makes Hyderabad the ideal place for all who love to hog without worrying about silly things like burgeoning waistlines and way too much junk in the trunk. After all you live only once and what is life without a decent meal right? 

The foodies with Varsoo! 

Traditionally, Hyderabad is famed for the opulent culinary offerings of the Nizams, particularly the mildly spiced yet intensely flavoursome biriyani and with good reason. This is a biriyani lover’s paradise. The savoury meat and rice dish guarantees a foodgasm and is so good all who have tried it will most certainly choose it for a last meal. I kid you not! The discerning foodie and biriyani aficionados will do well not to google the best biriyani places in Hyderabad and head there directly though these establishments are usually deserving of their reputation. It is far more fun to wander around, taking in the sights and sounds of the city and allowing it to guide you to charming, lesser known joints that lure you in with their quaint décor and tantalizing aromas. And trust me, in Hyderabad, they all seem to know how to make heavenly biriyani.

I recommend Ulavucharu, Jubilee Hills for those who can boast of a cast iron stomach and like their food hot and spicy. The hospitality of the serving staff makes you feel like you are being feasted by a particularly benevolent monarch and the flavours are unbeatable. Be sure to try the scrumptious vepudula (starters) particularly the bamboo kodi (chicken) and chilli prawns. If you are with friends, guard your portion because those seated next to you may not be able to resist the temptation to steal some succulent morsels off your plate. They have a smorgasbord of biriyani and pulao options to choose from whether you favour the milder Hyderabadi version or the spicy Andhra style. Irrespective of your choice be prepared to enter foodie heaven. The Gongura kodi vepudu and grilled tandoori fish are smart choices as well. 

For those who can’t stand the heat, it may be a good idea to order their yummy lassi to wash it down with. The dessert options are pretty decent too, and I am partial to junnu, a delicate and delectable milk pudding made with colostrum, produced by lactating cows just after birthing their calves. If you haven’t tried it before, prepare yourself for a treat!

You may be tempted to bury yourself in biriyani, but if you need a breather there is a quaint bakery named Labonel at Banjara hills, that serves the most decadent chocolate cake in the world. And trust me that is hardly an exaggeration and more of an understatement. It is one of those charming places that makes you feel like you have stepped out of the real world and into an Enid Blyton eatery where you can expect to be served google buns, pop biscuits and shock toffee. And you will not be disappointed because the yumminess quotient of the goodies served at this place is through the roof.

It is hard to choose from an array of classics like red velvet cake, chocolate Victoria sponge, midnight fudge and chocolate walnut since they all taste amazing but do close your eyes and blindly opt for Labonel’s signature chocolate cake, a marvel in dark chocolate, semi – sweet ganache and chocolate flakes.  It is the definitive cake that put the chocolate in death by chocolate. Incidentally they have death by chocolate too! How incredible is this place? Some nights I dream of this cake, and wake up with hunger pangs so great, I am tempted to move to Hyderabad and spend my days at Labonel. Sighs! Oh and did I mention that the little cupcakes melt in your mouth, the brownies are something special and while you wait, you can sample bite – sized treats? I insist you try this place, dear reader. Thank me later! 

Labonel's sinful signature chocolate cake! 

            Doing the clichéd thing in Hyderabad is a lot of fun. Therefore, it makes sense to hit the streets if only to try tasty treats like keema (minced meat) samosas, lukhmi (deep fried maida squares with a meat filling), chaat and idlis with paaya (spicy goat trotters gravy). For those with a sweet tooth, regional delicacies include ariselu made with rice flour and jaggery (they are particularly good in temples during festivals!), payasams, sheer kurma and shahi tukdas.

            If like me, you are the sort of person who develops a hankering for continental food, even while on Indian shores, never fear, you are likely to be spoilt for choice. Do yourself a favour though and steer clear of those ubiquitous fast food chains and head towards, La Vantage Café in Jubilee hills. They have tasty short eats like quesadillas, buffalo chicken wings, bruschetta, garlic loaves, and nachos. The steaks, burgers, sandwiches, pizzas, and pastas are yummy too. The chilled out ambience of the place is its USP. It is a great place to relax and unwind with friends.

            For travellers who would like to dress up and check out fine dining options, needless to say there are a number of choices. I daresay, all the five star establishments in Hyderabad can cook up a storm but the Thai pavilion at Vivanta by Taj, Begumpet, the Dining and Living room at the Park Hyatt are personal favourites.

            Each time, I head out to Hyderabad, I make a mental note to try the famous haleem but am yet to do so. But this is just another reason to visit the city asap. And I can hear the siren call of Labonel! I can hardly wait to visit Hyderabad again!

Really enjoyed writing this piece for AirAsia's Travel360. 

Horror for the Head and Heart

A searing look into the bare bones of a dysfunctional marriage, played out against the backdrop of encroaching madness, Kiran Manral’s “Missing Presumed Dead” makes for a troubling read. The author is too smart a storyteller to provide convenient or contrived answers to the questions that pile up with dizzying momentum. Yet the reader is not left hanging or frustrated. It is a satisfying yarn that is meaty, evocative and likely to keep you mulling over it, long after the last page has been reluctantly turned. Manral knows how to give her readers what they want while leaving them asking for more. 

Aisha Thakur finds herself in the unenviable position of being fully aware that her marriage is dead but decides to stick to the corpse no thanks to the recalcitrant remnants of a once powerful passion that refuses to kick the bucket. And of course, there are tedious things like duty and parental obligations to her son and daughter to be considered. If that were not bad enough, Aisha lives in constant terror knowing that the lurking chemicals in her cranium may unloose the same demons that claimed her mother’s life which if left unchecked will take her and everything she loves and once loved as well. Then a stranger shows up at her remote mountain abode in the middle of a vile storm, claiming to be her half – sister, and suddenly Aisha life stands poised to take the plunge into the doom that was inevitably going to be her lot.

The protagonist’s long drawn out defeat to the monsters both within and without plays out painfully and with profound pathos, leaving the reader sick to death with anxiety and fighting back tears at various junctures during the course of her downward spiral. Aisha’s innate insecurity and vulnerability are exacerbated by both her condition as well as circumstances. Prithvi, her better half originally comes across as a bit of a cad with rage issues and designs on her ancestral property but by choosing to tell his side of the story as well, Manral casts him in a more sympathetic light. The harsh truth is that even the best of us are ill – equipped to deal with disability and for flawed souls just trying to get by, it can turn out to be the wrecking ball that leaves nothing but devastation in its wake.

In the end, Aisha as well as Prithvi are sitting ducks for predators who seek to prey on the weaknesses of others, having zeroed in on the scent of blood. Having made her way into town on an errand, Aisha is trapped in more ways than one and is left to the mercy of a charming stranger who offers her hospitality and a way out for better or worse. It is hardly surprising that she takes him up on the offer, given that she holds her wellbeing so cheap. Therein lies the true horror in this moving saga that will leave your head and heart reeling.

This review originally appeared in The New Indian Express.

AN INEXPERT REACTION TO MOMENTOUS MATTERS

Forget Vicky Kaushal, everybody seems to be crushing on the Supreme Court nowadays thanks to landmark judgements which will no doubt have a major impact on the great Indian future. Some of us who don’t believe in invoking love laws made famous by Arundhati Roy which dictate who should be loved, how and how much had barely recovered from the happiness engendered by the verdict decriminalising homosexuality when the Men in Black Robes put the pedal to the metal and authenticated aadhar with a few caveats, ruled that adultery is not a crime and women of all ages irrespective of their menstruating age must not be denied entry into Sabarimala. People considered smarter than me on account of being actual experts have written at length on the significance of these monumental matters, but that is hardly reason enough to keep my opinions to myself is it? 

While it is nice of the Supreme Court to uphold the noble principles of democracy that our freedom fighter ancestors fought and died for, the battle is far from over. After all, as citizens we have seldom felt obliged to honour either the letter or the spirit of the law and every one of us is guilty of a range of minor and major offenses ranging from bribery, traffic violations, littering, discriminating on the basis of caste, colour, gender or if you are a Bollywood star, stashing weapons for terrorists, killing endangered species, running over pavement dwellers and getting away with it not entirely  scot-free since concerned officials have to be paid off first.   

Therefore, it is one thing to declare that it is okay to be LGBTQ by the highest judicial authority in the land but entirely another for a dude to be able to openly date another dude or a transgendered person to run either for public office or represent India at the Olympics. Even the celebs don’t seem to be in a tearing hurry to come out of the closet as yet. And you can hardly blame them, after all this is the land where anti – Romeo squads run rampant and straight couples who marry outside of their caste are hounded or murdered in broad daylight even as the guardians of the law turn a blind eye to the plight of victims.

It cannot be denied that steps have been taken in the right direction with regard to women’s rights. But of course, there is a but... It is all well and good for the wise men to declare that “husband is not the master of the wife” or “To treat women as children of a lesser god is to blink at the constitution itself” but make no mistake words are wind without proper action to back them up. Dowry harassment, rape, trafficking of little girls, workplace abuse, stalking are very real evils plaguing women that aren’t just going to disappear in a puff of smoke, just because women can now visit a famous temple in Kerala.

We need to work harder than ever before if the daughters as well as sons of India, irrespective of their sexual orientation and feelings towards Aadhar are to feel safe and cherished. Otherwise, even the Supreme Court is just a toothless tiger.  

This article was originally carried by The New Indian Express.

Messy History of Desire

Infinite Variety: A History of Desire in India by Madhavi Menon is just what it says it is and so much more. Frog – leaping between a history of impurity, dargahs, the zero, suicides, law, make – up, psychoanalysis, sambandham, paan and sexology, with verve and gleeful abandon Menon takes the reader on a rip-roaring ride across the variegated landscape of love, lust and longing in this land where paradoxically sexual progressiveness and repression have thrived side by side, with neither yielding an inch to the other. When it comes to all things Indian, a strictly scholarly approach seldom works which is why Menon’s writing which is a combination of academia and practicality stemming from her keen awareness of ground reality is refreshing.

As Menon rightly points out much of India’s obsession with high – flown notions of purity and morality believed to have its roots in ancient wisdom and a glorious heritage is in reality the result of a cultural imposition of colonial puritanism and Victorian prudery. She also emphasizes that sexual practices considered taboo in many parts of the world including but not limited to homosexuality, adultery, cross - dressing and transsexual relationships have long been treated with a degree of acceptance in these parts that puts present day moral policing and the draconian section 377 to shame.

Bolstering her case with anecdotal evidence and factoids culled from popular folklore, mythology, classical texts, songs and even, Bollywood, Menon succeeds in capturing the essence of the messy history of desire that has long defied attempts to classify it into neat little categories with labels. In her own words, “Today, the public assertion of identity by sexual minorities is considered a victory, but it also signals the defeat of a history of desire that was resistant to, and flourished by not, being named. Not because it did not dare be named for fear of god or the law, but because it participated in too many pleasures to be able to count them all.”

In choosing to look for desire in unlikely places such as in the love lives of queer grandparents, boarding schools, poetry of Sufi mystics, forgotten tombs, Sabarimala, hair salons and even calendar art, Menon manages to broaden the horizons of our own understanding of it. Dashes of humour spice the narrative with its salubrious take on all things sexual and makes for delightful reading. The puerile obsession with bhabhis, canoodling in parks and porn evidenced by Indians is hilarious especially when juxtaposed against Yoga and grammar. In a similar vein, Menon highlights the opposing faces of sexuality by hearkening back to Vatsayana’s Kamasutra and the notorious Manusmriti. Like her one can’t help but wonder how things would have turned out for all of us, if our British conquerors had based the legal system on the former manuscript rather than the latter.

Regrets aside, Menon’s tome is ultimately hopeful because it asserts authoritatively that when it comes to desire, which is ever fluid and constantly evolving, “rigid distinctions cannot hold.”

This book review was originally published in The New Indian Express.

Harem Pants maketh the Liberated Woman

When it comes to what women wear, everybody has an opinion. There is always somebody seeking to enforce some weird dress code, making it an issue in social as well as professional spheres. Recently, there was an almighty hullabaloo over Serena Williams’ sensational cat suit which was banned at the French Open (not that her sponsors would ever allow her to repeat an outfit for a fresh season! Quelle horreur!) and a whole lot of chatter over her tulle tutu at the US Open. Elsewhere in the world people debate the right to wear burkas and burkinis. Closer home, one can recall instances where celebs were pulled up for their fashion choices that failed to respect our glorious Indian traditions and culture. Priyanka Chopra was excoriated for wearing an ‘insensitive shirt’ that offended refugees, Jhanvi Kapoor and Sahana Khan are kept in the news for wearing bikinis at pool parties and the twittererati work themselves into a tizzy defending or denigrating their sartorial choices. 

Of course, for those of us who don’t have to deal with the hardships of being one among the glitterati, there is still a permanent dress code to contend with or the perennial pressure to look as good as Anushka Sharma does. Schools are forever enforcing rules, insisting that their female students wear longer skirts or restrictive salwar kameez sets with attached dupattas. There was even an institution in Pune that tried to regulate the colour of underwear worn by students! In social settings women are slut shamed for being too hot, showing too much skin or wearing outfits that embrace their curves a little too lovingly though one can never be certain about how much is too much. And there is worse to come.

If you are someone like me who firmly believes that life would be far more fun if we were allowed to sail through it wearing nothing but plus – sized tees, shorts, tracks and harem pants then there is the definite risk of being prude/behenji shamed for not being hot enough in addition to dealing with not entirely unfounded accusations of being fugly, frumpy or a fuddy duddy. It is a cruel world out there for those of us who choose to liberate our inner dowdy diva by stepping out wearing flip flops having opted for comfort over couture.

Forget patriarchy, it is about time women addressed their enslavement by the fashion police and custodians of overpriced couture who bully us into squeezing ourselves into stilettos and flesh coloured thongs (wedgie alert!), insisting that it is the empowered thing to do. As is ridding ourselves of unsightly bodily hair, frizzy tresses, natural curls, meat on the bones, and the occasional blemish using pricey products foisted on us by the cosmetic industry. That way, we spent more time and money than we can afford prettying up to meet the impossible standards of conventional beauty when we could be doing something far more constructive, instructive, edifying or enjoyable such as working on our ahem, inner beauty or lazing on a couch, and stuffing our faces with nutella cheesecake.

Ladies, it is time to wake up to your rights! And that goes double for you Serena Williams, I recommend shorts. It is the champion’s choice!

This article originally appeared in The New Indian Express.

A Frustrating Exercise in Feminism

The Buddha is one of the most beloved and revered figures in the realms of history, mythology and legend with his teachings resonating to this very day. The luminescence of the enlightened one is such that it is hardly surprising that he wound up eclipsing the rest of his contemporaries. With Yasodhara: A Novel About the Buddha’s Wife, Vanessa R. Sasson makes a commendable effort to give voice to a character who has been given short shrift in the numerous accounts of the life and times of Gautama Buddha. 

            Attempting the resurrection of such a character is a thankless task given that historians, storytellers, and scholars have traditionally been so taken with the Buddha and his marvellous achievements, they have been shockingly lapse when it comes to providing information about his consort barring vague nuggets. These lamentable holes often prove impossible to plug. Which of course means, researchers will have to content themselves with a whole lot of speculation and work their way through oceans of material on the Buddha in the remote hope of catching a glimpse of Yasodhara, and somehow find a way to use artistic license coupled with a febrile imagination to flesh out such an ephemeral presence and somehow capture her essence while bringing to life the times she lived in and the momentous events which illuminated that period.

            Sasson makes a game attempt but the result is far from satisfactory. The author is keen to illuminate her narrative with feminist approved principles and she is well within her rights to do so, but the effect feels downright jarring in parts and entirely anachronistic in others. Barring the well – known names, the yarn may well be about an implausible modern – day dysfunctional couple with an overdose of melodrama. Within the fictional framework, one can forgive the occasional strain on credibility provided it is convincing but it is hard to buy that a Princess of the Sakya clan would pound unrestrainedly on the charioteer’s chest in a hysterical fit of grief or argue heatedly with the royal priest and her king in the presence of the gathered assembly on a formal occasion.

            Even worse is an overwrought scene where Yasodhara is assaulted (while she is arranging flowers in a guest room!) by Devadatta who is portrayed as a villain in many Buddhist texts and fights back, using her mother – in – law’s help to throw him out of the window. Even if one were inclined to suspend disbelief at the depiction of a man casually sauntering into the seraglio, the hallowed space traditionally reserved exclusively for the ladies and misbehaving with his prince’s consort, this contrived bit of rah – rah feminism leaves a bad taste in the mouth.

            Clearly a lot of painstaking research has gone into the making of this novel going by the copious notes and detailed bibliography supplied, which makes Sasson’s decision to leave out Yasodhara’s own journey towards enlightenment as well as the miracles she was supposed to have performed, all the more flummoxing. Yasodhara is often exalted as an arhat, belonging to the highest order of saints, credited with spiritual powers that may have been comparable with Buddha’s since she was the one who was aware of their many past lives where she was always his constant companion and faithful consort even when they were born as animals. It is a pity this aspect hasn’t been explored.

            The pieces of the story are too carefully assembled to be organic and clumsily greased together with stilted dialogue that desperately seeks to inspire and elucidate but in the end is merely stultifying in the extreme.

This book review was originally published in The New Indian Express.

WHEN CIVIC SENSE WENT DOWN THE CRAPPER

Missing in action :( 

I have a confession to make. While it is true that I can be mawkish when it comes to national identity, feel a personal sense of pride when Hima Das rocks on the track or Manoj Night Shyamlan makes a film that isn’t ripped to shreds by critics and even get teary eyed during the odd Independence day celebration, the fact remains that I am my country’s harshest critic. The sheer rudeness and uncouth conduct of brothers and sisters from other mothers and fathers can always be counted on to ruin my day. 

            All of us can admit to having been at the receiving end of shockingly uncouth behaviour from our countrymen. Nowadays, nobody believes it is nice to be nice. Forget offering a seat to the elderly in a crowded bus, old folks and pregnant women can count themselves lucky if they are not jostled, pushed or kicked out. All of us are litterers who have forgotten moral science lessons stressing that cleanliness is next to godliness but don’t hesitate to assault waiters who routinely serve us food mixed with the contents of their nostrils and dirt beneath their fingernails. The great majority of the public is guilty of being a public nuisance. Garbled ‘news’ reports widely disseminated across social media randomly point fingers accusing innocent folks of child trafficking or beef consumption resulting in them getting lynched.

In another shocking incident, a man died during a Kerala mall inauguration by popular star, Dulquer Salman and the police, denying reports that he was killed in a stampede have registered a case against the organizers for bad planning and crowd control. Somehow, one cannot help but think that this sort of thing is allowed to happen only in India. It is a matter of national shame that the average Indian is guilty of god-awful behaviour, has zero civic sense and cares less than nothing for the lives of those who don’t have anything to do with him or her. We are the sort of people who hawk, spit, relieve ourselves in public, swear at and mow down folks on the road, treat any place outside our home as a trash receptacle, dry hump the mildly protesting if resigned person ahead of us in the queue and allow our kids to run wild in restaurants and public transportation while cussing out the government for allowing this deplorable state of affairs to continue. Pointing out that the PM failed to make Swach Bharat a reality with the aid of droll memes is hilarious but hardly helpful.

Of course, our government needs to get its pants on and get cracking on a dozen different things to make this country a better place, but the responsibility rests with us, the honourable citizens as well. We need to not only start showing a modicum of civic sense ourselves but ingrain this priceless commodity in our children too. What is the point of waxing eloquent about the neatness of the Japanese or the lovely folks in the USA who not only refrain from pooping in public but pick up their dog’s poo as well, if we are not going to bother to emulate the same decent behaviour? It is high time we cleaned up our act and begin cleaning up after ourselves. Perhaps then we really will have a shot at making India incredible.