TO MAKE ROOM FOR A VIEW OTHER THAN OURS

 

A quick scan of trending news feels like deja - vu. Those of us not over the moon with joy with the successful landing of Chandrayaan – 3 and taken off to the weird new world of Elon Musk’s mysterious X to celebrate the heroics of chess prodigy, Praggnanandhaa as well as Neeraj Chopra’s gold at the World Athletics Championships are busy lamenting the state of a country where a teacher egged on her students to beat up one of their own while harping on unforgivably about his Muslim identity.

In fair Madhya Pradesh, a Dalit woman was stripped, and her son killed by a mob, hellbent on pressuring her daughter to withdraw a sexual assault case she had filled. Those who had tuned out the news preferring to binge watch season 2 of the hit Amazon Prime series – Made In Heaven could not help notice the very public feud provoked by a controversial episode featuring a Dalit wedding where the protagonist played by a fiery Radhika Apte asserts her rights to have a ceremony that reflects her roots. The kerfuffle was between the Dalit director of the episode – Neeraj Ghaywan, Dalit author Yashica Dutt, who argued that her life and works had been appropriated without recognition or renumeration and Dalit legal scholar, Sumit Baudh who claimed in a tweet that Dutt herself had not given him credit for an idea she had appropriated from his article.

In all these instances, one can see the familiar pattern of charged encounters along the divides of national pride, caste identity, political affiliations and religious sentiment which has led to escalating conflict in a divided society where nobody gives an inch, and everybody spews out volcanic rage. Worse, there seems to be no resolution in sight but that doesn’t seem to deter anyone because these public altercations ensures that the people involved get some much-desired visibility and an army of like – minded followers, which appears to be a somewhat self – defeating and morally dubious end goal which nevertheless has the potential to be leveraged for big bucks.

The mainstream news media has long been playing its part in generating chaos and pandering to a simplistic, tidy narrative where in the interests of coherence and brevity, complexity and compassion has been severely compromised, creating a warped reality where one side is purely good and the other is entirely evil. We seem to have deliberately forgotten that all human beings are complex, contradictory creatures with varying views and moral ambiguities. This Us versus Them mentality has sucked the oxygen out of every heated discourse leaving us gasping for air, in a perpetual state of agitation with its ugly sister, aggression for company and our brains deprived of good sense.

In this era of slavish devotion to a politically correct narrative formulated by self – serving activists more committed to looking good rather than doing good, it is not surprising that we all have leaned into an innate confirmation bias where we increasingly choose to believe news and Whatsapp forwards that confirm our personal beliefs while dismissing all evidence to the contrary. Many no longer trust formerly respected news outlets because they are tired of being afraid and have had it up to the gills with the endless cycle of rage, rebuke, and recriminations that leads nowhere and does little to empower the downtrodden while bringing about the betterment of society at large.

If we wish to excavate deeper, life affirming truths instead of grappling in the dirt at a very superficial level, where core issues are concerned, it is necessary to make room for complexity and nuance with the view to listen and understand the motivations of those whose views are not necessarily aligned to our own. It won’t change the world, but we can hope that this might lead to a future where we are all polite to each other, choose to be nice rather than nasty and make room for real conversations on dicey subjects where everybody feels listened to and understood rather than condemned and scorned. 

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.

Dazzling Damayanti Redeems Toxic Tale of Love

 

Nala Damayanti is a timeless tale of love from the Mahabharata that seeks to impress upon impressionable young girls, that they must love their spouses unconditionally. Even/especially if, said spouse is a whiny, weak loser who irresponsibly gambles away his entire Kingdom before abandoning her in the forest, to fend for herself. Husband dearest might be a rapist, murderer, and afflicted with every kind of awful trait there is but the wife must put up with his crap not just with superhuman stoicism but with a loving heart and devote every waking moment of her existence to pandering to his unworthy whims, enduring his gross embrace, and bringing forth sons by the dozen. She must also refuse to entertain even the thought of another man let alone his advances, because according to the ancient incels who wrote the scriptures while under the influence, a woman’s chastity must be safeguarded at all costs even if it entails eking out a miserable existence without an orgasm in sight, leave alone happiness or fulfillment.

Anand Neelakantan takes this material, and working within these crippling limitations does his utmost to redeem it. The fate of humanity, which is dangerously close to extinction, thanks to Brahma, the original dirty old deity, rests in the dainty hands of Damayanti, and her ability to love a man, who is hardly worth her toenails unconditionally, while fighting her way past the many barriers, that loom on their way to a doubtful happy ending. She is aided in her hopeless quest by Hemanga, a golden swan with a beak that just won’t quit jabbering. The lovers face untold hardships, thanks to the wily machinations of Kali, a God of darkness, who emerged from the sum of humankind’s fears and insecurities as well as Indra, Agni and Yama who toy with humans because they can and since immortality does not seem to have rendered them immune to boredom.

The story chugs along pleasantly enough. Here, as in the epic one wonders what Damayanti sees in Nala. We are told that the way to Damayanti’s heart is through her stomach and Nala as an amazing cook, manages the feat with a little help from Hemanga, in whose wake chaos usually unfolds. This isn’t quite convincing, but the reader goes along because of the charming mirth present though the proceedings. Nala is a self – made, irritatingly noble soul who has made a better life for his people but his achievements notwithstanding, he suffers from a severe inferiority complex on account of belonging to the Nishada tribe. He and his people are constantly dehumanized over their lower caste status. Neelakantan explores this recurring theme common to most of his books with the sensitivity and sharp wit he is known for, making Nala a sympathetic figure when he is not being an insufferable one.

In contrast to the self – pitying and almost ineffectual Nala, we have King Rituparna of Ayodhya who towers over the story with his brashness, bawdy tastes, and ferocious appetite for life. A truly memorable character, he appears to be a stand – in for the author himself with his irreverence and impatience for those who are so filled with fear about the torments of an afterlife that may see them in hell for their sins, that they forget to savor the joys of the single life allotted to them and fail to fill it with love and worthy deeds. He is the perfect answer to false Godmen and priests who play on the human penchant for being foolish for personal profit. Too bad, Damayanti doesn’t ditch Nala for Rituparna, but an epic tale can only go so far and thanks to Neelakantan, the modern reader will hopefully emulate Damayanti’s intelligence and gritty resolve to extricate herself from impossible situations in which she lands up thanks to idiot males without ever losing sight of the power of love to fix almost anything.

This book review originally appeared in The New Indian Express.

Hashing out the Harsh Truths behind Hashtags

 Hashtags that set social media ablaze tend to be ominous beings that mutate into somethingbigger and uglier in seconds. They lurch along in true monster style dividing people into opposing camps who shovel s**t at each other before piping down, since the creature that stirred up such divisive sentiment has simply vanished in a puff of digital smoke, having achieved its mission to divide without conquering or liberating. Besides being almost entirely useless, hashtags serve a sort of purpose. They reveal much about those of us who generate these thingamajigs and waste our lives watching them play out in virtual time, preferably in the form of easily consumed reels or tweets as per our personal penchant for prejudice.

Take the #TheKeralaStory for instance. It reveals that though we mindlessly consume content which has been hastily assembled with the view only to make a profit, without caring a crap for political or social consequences, folks will still argue about whether Bollywood and the patented brand of balderdash with a heavy helping of baloney it belts out, has the capacity to divide people along the lines of religion and endanger secular India and everything it stands for. In the meantime, most of us still in pocession of a semblance of sense have little patience for indifferent Gods and the more moronic of their followers because we'd rather watch #GuardiansoftheGalaxy3 since Superheroes are sexier and don't bore us with tedious talk of sin and shame.

Speaking of shame, #WrestlersProtest tells us that sexual harassment remains an inconvenient truth which we Indians insist on burying under the carpet because who amongst us has the bandwidth to deal with the whole He said She said hoo-ha which is destined to remain inconclusive though protestors carry on protesting till they are fit to burst? We prefer to wear them out with indifference and further abuse till they can protest no more. And when the issue persists and victims continue to be victimized by powerful predators giving rise to further hashtags, we merely shrug in exasperation or blame the victims for being falsely implicated in their victimhood before turning to #IPL2023 for more mindless entertainment. Like the #KohliGambhirFight. It confirms what we already knew. Most Delhites are angrier and more aggressive than most and think the rest of us are worth less than the dirt beneath their shoes. We bristle with outrage and feel better about ourselves by treating those we consider beneath us worse than dirt.

The advocates of #SameSexMarriage will certainly attest to being treated horrendously in the land where the Kamasutra which was light years ahead of its time in terms of addressing gender as well as sexual fluidity was written. We know that love can never tear apart the fabric of society but who wants to get involved in this farcical fracas when it is simpler to fixate on our own love lives and marital problems or Malaika Arora's vacation pics with Arjun Kapoor?

Hashtags themselves come and go too quickly to be too harmful but what is far more alarming is the hopelessness of the human condition they so clearly elucidate.

FLIGHT OF FANTASY FAILS TO SOAR

 

The Pledge: Adventures to Sada, co – written by Madhulika Liddle and Kannan Iyer, has lofty ambitions as it strives mightily to create an epic fantasy of Tolkienesque grandeur. The land of Mandala where this saga unfolds is a troubled one, with the empire having been split in two and the people being forced to weather the gale winds of hate, intolerance, and greed. In the midst of the tumult where everyone is suspicious about the activities of everyone else and people languish in prisons for no discernible reason, Jaadum, an aged prisoner and former magician who is also a chronic do – Gooder makes known his dying wish and sets in motion, the rickety plot.

Raibhu, the magician’s son, Afhash, his childhood buddy and Inosa, whose personal history is closely related to Jaadum’s secret activities for the greater good, find themselves facing down the forces of evil, led by the warlord, Umur Naash. This material calls for swashbuckling characters, rollicking pace and rip – roaring adventure. But all these requisite elements are sorely missing.

The characters are unbearably bland. Raibhu is noble, angst – ridden and supposedly talented but mostly he is commendably kind while also coming across as clueless and lacking in smarts. Some of his actions put the innocent in grave danger which makes it hard to root for him or his companions. Afhash is supposed to be the funny sidekick with a tortuous past, but this bromance is never convincing. Inosa is one of those jaw – droppingly gorgeous, tough yet tender women, favored by most novelists whose spectacular looks can be used to spark tantalizing romance as well as treachery. Umur Naash as the soulless, merciless ‘evil incarnate’, mass - murderer villain is straight out of a particularly bad Bollywood movie. Naturally, he has an eye for beauty and commits fully to destroying any semblance of it.

The plot plods along as the authors expend a lot of effort and words on world building. Some of the descriptive passages are not entirely lacking in charm. The co – authors explore the theme of religious intolerance and the people of Mandala occasionally find themselves at loggerheads over their right to worship either the land, sky, or water spirits, and one wonders why they don’t get their period underwear in a twist over the other two elements of nature as well. There are some ideas here that are intriguing, but the premise does not hold up thanks to the lackadaisical pace, clunky writing, and stilted dialogue. For people who have a monstrous war lord and his minions breathing down their necks, the protagonists follow a lumbering path through the wildlands, stopping once too often to eat, rest and tend to the superficial wounds inflicted on each of them at various points, when they can ill afford to.

There is a contrived twist in the epilogue which appears to have been hastily tacked on to whet the reader’s appetite for the inevitable sequel. This flight of fantasy is headed for a crash landing.

SHAH RUKH KHAN IS NOT THE ANSWER TO COMMUNAL BULLYING

 If I read, one more hyper-articulate article naming Pathaan as the definitive film of the millennium, that has struck a blow on behalf of the minorities and the oppressed against an India languishing in the stranglehold of Gau mutra drinkers, I am going to flip and throw up at the same time. As a former fan, I am happy enough that Shah Rukh Khan has delivered a blockbuster after a protracted dry spell at the box office but I am less enthused at the prospect of seeing more of this CGI – generated -sculpted-abs-wielding abomination in place of the brilliant actor who dared play the irresistible anti – hero in films like Baazigar, Darr and Anjaam.

Moreover, I draw the line at proclaiming him as a beleaguered victim just because he istrolled on occasion for his half – assed not – quite political proclamations on social media and had to deal with his son being arrested on trumped up drug possession charges, who has risen from the ashes to emerge as a triumphant champion of secular India struggling to assert itself against divisive politics. Given the extent of his wealth, fame, and power, he is better equipped than most to weather a storm so let us hold back on the pity already and save it for the more deserving. Like those unfortunate Indians who can’t afford three square meals a day, a roof over their heads or a potty beneath their bums and are about to lose their hard – earned LIC retirement funds thanks to the murky machinations of Mr. Adani.

Let’s face it, while there is much to love about King Khan, a small – time television actor  who bucked the odds to emerge as the undisputed Badshah of Bollywood before Aditya Chopra, Karan Johar and Manish Malhotra got their claws into him and remade him as an overly styled lover boy who became increasingly risk – averse when it came to taking up meaty roles worthy of his considerable talent, it is nevertheless confusing as to why he is being projected as some sort of saint by all those starstruck journalists who are otherwise constantly crowing about fact – checking. Are they just going to ignore the Dawood controlled influence of the underworld in the 90s which saw the emergence of the Khan triumvirate or the fact that the IPL itself is a monster money – laundering scheme and anyone who is as closely associated with this enterprise as SRK is, cannot reasonably be viewed as Mr. Squeaky Clean?

Most importantly, why are so many insisting that a middling Bollywood film heralds the beginning of a new World order where love and acceptance has overpowered hate and intolerance? That is every bit as stupid as saying that the marriage of Siddharth Malhotra and Kiara Advani has reaffirmed our collective commitment to love and peace or that hugging a Cow is going to magically transform our lives, filling it with positive energy and untold benefits. Be smarter, people and free your befuddled brain from Bollywood machinations.

This article originally appeared in The New Indian Express Magazine.

#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.

Bloody Birthdays!

 

I am mildly envious of people who are into celebrating the little things in their lives, particularly birthdays. They seem so happy swirling around in a candy – coloured Tim Burtonesque fantasy land apparently feeling blessed, blissed out and filled to the brim with the love and laughter in their lives. When my birthday rolls around with clockwork like precision despite my vehement efforts to freeze time using a telekinetic chokehold, I become so cantankerous, I make the Grinch seem like little Miss Sunshine hopped up on happy pills.

All I can see in the mirror is the awkward, pimply adolescent I once was in a belligerent biddy’s body. Taking note of increasingly creaky joints, I brood over the process of aging while counting the rapidly proliferating grey strands and bemoaning my lack of success in establishing a diplomatic relationship with my weighing scale. Politely responding to all the sweet people who send birthday wishes, I make myself feel worse by dwelling on the things I was supposed to have achieved by now but haven’t.

Despite my plan to see the world and explore its wonders Ibn Battuta style, I spend most days pottering around the house with all the zip of a zombie while wishing I could sleep all day. Then when it is beddy – bye time, I stay up late adding weight to the bags beneath my eyes, trying to master the formula for instant success and land a big fat book deal or create a cutting-edge app that will allow me to buy the Chennai Super Kings and outbid Elon Musk to takeover Twitter.

While drowning my sorrows in Nutella milkshake between bites of birthday cake, I wish I had taken better care of my teeth. It is no fun to spend hours in a dentist’s chair while he wields terrifying implements no doubt lovingly envisioned and first employed by the Marquis de Sade. Sugar may rot your teeth, but it does induce a sickly-sweet high that lulls you into believing that it is not too late to turn your life around.

I resolve to invest in Bitcoin, oil and gold which seems like the sort of thing smart people would do. Going forward, I promise myself that I will nurture and cherish the bonds with all those who truly matter, especially the ones who had made it a point to call me, patiently listened to my endless whining and assured me that I was not a complete waste of space instead of devoting time and attention to accruing an army of followers on Instagram. I shall make a commitment to fitness and begin the odyssey to find a better version of myself.

Feeling revitalized, I tell myself that the year is off to a great start though the sugar – rush is giving way to inevitable despondency. As I toss and turn wrestling with unresolved sleep issues, I spend the time trying to figure out how best to trap treacherous time in a bottle before my next birthday.

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