THE DIVERSE RESPONSES TO THE CORONA THREAT

Sometimes the response to a crisis is a lot worse than the crisis itself!

A devastating crisis is the truest test of character. And we all know that the C in Crisis stands for Corona (the virus, not the beer in case anybody is still confused). Isolating oneself during an enforced lockdown can make you painfully aware of uncomfortable truths about said self. The sneaking sense of relief when CDC news bulletins reveal that it is the elderly, infants, health care providers, first responders, the mentally ill, substance abusers, those with compromised immune systems/chronic illnesses who are the ones at a higher risk of getting infected and succumbing to the virus. The realization that you are unhealthily dependent on your maid and are composing epic odes professing your fondness for her even though you discovered dust balls aplenty and countless carcasses of lizards beneath the corner sofa not to mention the chip on the delicate porcelain figurine you proudly display in the hall. The secret fear that cabin fever will get you before Corona will. The realization that you care less about those who are infected or at risk and more about the personal inconvenience caused by a global pandemic…

At times, like this as my Guru Shri Sadhyanandha who my imaginary shrink (the real ones are too pricey or too reminiscent of Hannibal Lecter) tells me is merely one among the voices in my head, says, it is best to turn your gaze outward to better unearth the secrets of the Universe and coerce the cosmic forces to work in your favour. Thus comfortably ensconced in your armchair, you can turn a judgemental gaze on everybody else and feel better about the deficiencies in your own character as well as find a refuge from your deepest, darkest fear of dying alone from unspeakably gross symptoms in a hospital bed, a victim of a viral apocalypse.

It is interesting to note the diverse responses elicited by the Corona threat. Some have become obsessive neat freaks and compulsive hand washers who would bathe in sanitizer if only the idiotic panic buyers had not brought out the entire stock. Now that is not a bad thing in a country like India where most play hard and fast with hygiene, personal or otherwise. But the flip side is that people who are buying masks like it is going out of style also toss them out miles away from the nearest overflowing bin which has not been emptied let alone cleaned out in decades, along with used tissues, and other objects redolent with assorted disease carrying germs. But even the litterbugs are not as bad as the recklessly slovenly who lick toilets, and other objects in public spaces as part of a Corona challenge on Tik Tok. It makes one wonder why so many fear Corona when it is the supreme human capacity for being moronic that will be the death of us all.

Social media is a storehouse of information into the human psyche and it is most revealing if you have the time to waste. Some use hashtags like #perfectlyimperfect to show off their greys and burgeoning love handles as they stress eat their way through a global catastrophe while cussing out a government that does not include beauticians and stylists under essential services. Does the Supreme Leader not realize that our good looks aren’t the bounty of Mother Nature but may be solely attributed to oodles of cash and countless hours sunk into beauty salons? As for those who think a trip to the bathroom merits a fresh shade of lipstick and a blow out, they are bingeing too but on steamed broccoli and extra portions of quinoa but only after they have crushed a six hour plyometric burn session. Some clearly choose to let themselves go when death may potentially be around the corner while others are just as determined to look their best.

Newsfeeds, timelines and whatsapp forwards are unbeatable when it comes to highlighting the contradictory nature of humans. Many are determinedly positive as they post life – affirming messages, inspiring quotes, videos of cats cuddling up against patients when not nursing them back to health and countless pics of people helping each other out with a smile rendering yeoman service to society. These are convinced that all one needs in life threatening situations is the right attitude and even the most virulent of contagions can be wished away by the power of a positive outlook.

The negative Nellies will have no truck with them though. Dwellers in darkness, the morbidly cynical grapple endlessly with the hopelessness of the situation. They look for and find all things oppressive, losing no time to acquaint their followers with graphic images of police brutality, mobs on rampage in grocery stores with magnificent disdain for social distancing, fat cat politicians getting stinking drunk at noisy parties organized smack dab in the middle of a lockdown and old folks dying alone on pavements having been turned out of hospitals already filled to bursting with the sick, dying and chronic hypochondriacs.

Some are scared silly and spend their days praying to forgotten deities to keep them safe from unknown terrors, lurking monsters and killer diseases. Others are reckless, eating, drinking, dancing and dreaming with abandon committed to ‘sucking the marrow out of life’ even if it kills them. 

Some are so obsessed with Corona, they can't seem to function without being overwhelmed by endless anxiety and tormented by graphic visions of being trapped in a sea of infected phlegm as the virus gets its grasping paws on them. Not everyone can be bothered with Corona though. Not when there are countless unwatched movies on Netflix, toenails to be painted, books to immerse oneself in, kids to cuddle and scold, instant noodles to be consumed, chores to be palmed off on reluctant spouses, and the latest Tik Tok challenge to be taken on. As for me, it is time for me to make my way to the bottom of a gallon of ice cream (malted chocolate fudge) before the husband and kids discover my secret stash and demand their share.

SURVIVING CORONA

Dos and Don'ts during the great Corona Scare

Corona or not, it sucks to be cooped up like chickens with our loved ones without the comfortable distance required to make the heart grow fonder. In a bid to do my part to save the world from this crippling pandemic without actually moving my backside for fear of stepping over the Lakshman Rekha, I decided to draw up a survival guide of Dos and Don’ts to weather the Tsunami of trouble stirred up by this nasty critter. Trust me, preliminary studies conducted by the reputed folks at Whatsapp University have confirmed their efficacy beyond a shadow of doubt.

The first step is to make soap and water your most intimate acquaintances. They have proven themselves good friends to humanity long before diamonds and dogs usurped their rightful spot and will continue to prove their worth long after Corona has shrunk back into the bowels of hell from which it has erupted like a particularly foul effluent. It would also help if one were to make personal hygiene a priority and public hygiene an even bigger one if only as a preventive measure against the spread of communicable diseases and related hazards that could prove to have epic stakes in the survival game. Roughly translated, that means not ever dumping your trash outside the sparkling interiors of your home onto the streets, using the great outdoors as a spittoon or latrine, defacing public property by scratching your lover’s name, throwing up pornographic sketches on every available surface or blowing your nose and allowing the discharge to fly every which way.

Steer clear of social media if you value your sanity or at least use it in moderation especially if you lack the balancing power of a monkey on stilts to take the better while leaving out the bitter, barf – inducing garbage out there. Ever since some wiseacre got word out that democracy works best when your voice is heard out loud, people have been screaming themselves hoarse to make sure that their endless torrent of nonsense is amplified to the furthest reaches of the internet, bolstered by twitchy fingers compulsively hitting like and share in the desperate hope that they will be rewarded in kind.

Therefore we have internet idiots and savants with interchangeable attributes raving and ranting fit to burst. The insufferably self – righteous and superior types tend to drip scorn for everyone and everything from the admitted showmanship of the supreme leader and inadequacy of the ruling party to the extreme foolishness of the folks who tentatively stepped out of their homes to find a bite to eat or medicine for an ailing grandmother only to be sneakily photographed or recorded so that they may be viciously trolled, endlessly abused and publicly shamed for putting millions at risk. Then there are the fanatical religious nuts who swear that India need not be subjected to a lockdown because Indians practise the downward facing dog regularly on their balconies with their rear ends strategically raised towards the benign sun which unleashes the Kundalini Shakti with all its serpentine strength which is more than sufficient to slay Corona, Sharona and whatever else have you or something equally ludicrous about the virus killing power of pots and pans banged in unison.

Relatively innocuous Instagram must also be avoided at all costs too. According to the illustrious professors of Whatsapp University, those pretty pictures have great envy – inducing powers which can corrupt the best and brightest till they are reduced to gibbering, glass – eyed, cyber stalkers who can spend years staring at pics and videos of Jhanvi Kapoor sexily pretending to eat a slice of pizza, giving her puppy a bath or showing you the correct technique for applying lipstick to the exclusion of all things useful or worthy.

Avoid fake news like the plague. Fear and panic cause a lot more damage than pandemics. Be sure to verify the credentials and reliability of all purveyors of information and check the facts. Even if you can’t be bothered, be sure to think thrice before you join hands with the mob to tear apart the hapless medical personnel getting off a gruelling nightshift because they are suspected of being carriers of COVID 16 (or is it COVID17?). And believing self-proclaimed experts who have declared that the only country in the world that is currently Corona free is Kailasa, if you are considering applying for permanent citizenship under the benevolent rule of HDH Nithyananda even if you run a far higher risk of contracting HIV, do yourself a favour and check yourself into the nearest hospital for a lobotomy. 

While many endorse vegetating in front of Netflix, it is advisable to take time out to work out, read a book, cook a meal, take the dog for a walk, play with the kids or teach them something useful that does not involve staring at a screen, converse with the spouse about something other than whose turn it is to do the dishes or swab the floors and do whatever it takes to tough things out as long as it is legal and non - fattening. Do all the things you always wished you had the time to do, even if it is something impracticable like working on a script that will be picked up by Leornardo diCaprio at an exorbitant price or perfecting the pincha mayurasana in the hopes that a video of you executing the same or at least the blooper version will go viral on the internet.

If you are inclined to feel that this survival guide is lacking in scientific detail, didn’t once mention social distancing, testing, gaumutra, masks, sanitizer and is somewhat on the rambling side not unlike the Supreme leaders impassioned addresses to the nation, allow me to stress that if the buzz on Whatsapp is to be believed I am a shoo – in for the Noble Prize thanks to this priceless contribution towards the greater good, entirely free of cost. If that doesn’t convince you to take every word put down here as the gospel truth which deserves to be liked and shared till it has spread to the furthest corners of civilized society like a contagion, I don’t know what will. 

This article was originally carried in The News Minute.

BECOMING THE JOKER IS NO JOKE

I finally managed to squeeze in the time to watch Joaquin Phoenix’s Academy award winning turn in the ‘Joker’. For those who are wondering why I am bringing up ancient history, all I can say is that I will not apologize for the snail’s pace at which I roll. It was a bravura performance with Phoenix losing his shirt literally (and figuratively) at various points in the movie, not to show off rippling muscles but to artfully display a painfully emaciated frame with protruding ribs and bony joints. No wonder the jury was impressed!

While I enjoyed the wildly entertaining performance, the film itself was a colossal disappointment. It was one of those movies, where a character from a comic book is given a backstory that unnecessarily strives to be epic, insists on taking itself far too seriously and is stuffed to the gills with ‘serious social commentary’. Phoenix plays Arthur Fleck who occupies the cramped space beneath the bottom most rung on the social ladder. If that were not bad enough he is afflicted with a deliberately vague mental condition, is a failed comedian who is the butt of everybody else’s jokes, gets regularly beaten up by ruffians, lives with his sickly mum in something similar to the cupboard Harry Potter spent his childhood in, has no friends and sombrely declares that he has not been happy for one miserable minute in his entire effing life. And apparently anybody who has it better which is probably everybody is to blame for all this excessive misery and Fleck becomes the clown Prince of crime with a singular talent for violence.

I am not sure if the intention was to garner sympathy for this character as well as the poor and disenfranchised who are left to fend for themselves by a callous society but this sort of thing  fills me with just enough irritation to prompt me into writing a column about it. When did we morph into such pathetically needy folks who feel entitled to all the good things life has to offer without actually working hard for any of it? Why is there so much resentment and hatred for those who are beautiful, rich, powerful, famous, fortunate, and capable of garnering millions of likes on social media? When did so many decide that it is nice to be pitied and it is okay to justify the ugliness within? Whatever happened to things like a stiff upper lip and picking your butt up by the bootstraps when life kicks you in the nuts?

There is so much written about privilege, especially if you are white, rich, or male. But I doubt life is easy for anybody. I envy Deepika Padukone for many reasons with only one being the husband’s deep appreciation for her hotness, but clearly her bed of roses has its share of thorns what with her candid confessions of having wrestled with depression, dealing with fanboys, fanatics who threaten to chop off her nose, and being married to a dude who insists on wearing clothes that clash with hers. The simple truth is that everybody has issues and it is never okay to become a mass murdering maniac or wallow endlessly in misery. It is far cooler to stop the pity party, get a grip on the rage, roll up your sleeves and get cracking on improving the quality of your life. Trust me, you might not get box office returns but you will feel marginally less crappy and for all the times you want to punch the object of your envy in the teeth, I recommend Yoga. Or chocolate. 

This article originally appeared in The New Indian Express.

An Inglorious Battle Steeped in Ignominy

Sudeep Chakravarti’s book, Plassey: The Battle that Changed the Course of Indian History is a meticulous work of exemplary research that painstakingly assembles together the many pieces of the convoluted series of events that marked a turning point which placed the East Company at an advantageous position in a power surge that would eventually lead to the ascent of the British Raj. And to think that it all began when the Mughal ruler, Farrukhsiyar was successfully treated for a swelling in the groin by an East India Company doctor, William Hamilton! As a direct result, the delegation he was a part of was rewarded with a ‘phirmaun’ allowing the white men a firm toehold in the power corridors of ‘Indostan’ which lay trapped in the rotting remains of the formerly great Mughal Empire.

It would be many more decades, before the British fed up with haggling with nawabs who were rebelling against imperial authority and not above disregarding royal edicts especially when it clashed with their own interests, opted for more aggressive policies and direct warfare to ensure that the  Company’s financial interests were protected. And it all went down at the battle of Plassey fought in 1757 between Robert Clive and the reviled nawab Siraj – ud – Daula.

Chakravarti takes his time to introduce the intriguing cast of characters which reads like a who’s who of human folly. There is a begum who was partial to the livers of young men and enforcers who placed erring officials in pits filled with human wastes or forced them to wear leather long drawers filled with live cats. The powerful bankers – Jagat Seths who were so fabulously wealthy and influential, that the nawabs and representatives of the EIC alike kowtowed to them. Yet another begum was so filled with hatred for her nephew who had the lover she shared with her husband killed, she conspired with his enemies to bring about his downfall and was eventually drowned for her trouble. Then there is the general Mir Jafar who betrayed the successor of his benefactor who himself had come to power after deposing his patron’s heir. It is a riveting merry – go – round of misdeeds!

The colourful characters aside, this book offers an in – depth analysis of all the events leading up to and after Plassey with its far ranging consequences. Chakravarti has done a masterly job of sifting through the deluge of extant, diverse records and presenting it in copious detail for the discernment of the reader. This is a plus since it presents a balanced outlook as well as a minus given that the frequent detours into the nature of the sources as well as the credibility of the assorted historians makes for laborious reading. This coupled with the slow pace as well as dense prose devoted to academic arcana detracts from pacing as well as the juiciness of the material itself and can be hard on the extremely limited attention span of  modern readers who are not above tossing such voluminous tomes aside in favour of Netflix. This is a pity because Plassey is a treasure trove for lovers of history with truly tasty titbits for those with the patience to sit tight and sift through the admittedly tedious scholarly chaff for the good stuff.

Plassey happened when greed, corruption, treachery and violence was allowed to rule the day. And as always, it is amazing how the pettiness and spite in human nature gave the impetus to momentous events that changed the course of history. Chakravarti makes it clear that the winner and loser in this saga – Robert Clive and Siraj – ud – Daula were both flawed individuals who were tools of destiny. The latter’s mangled remains were displayed on the back of an elephant while the former amassed a fortune and was feted as a hero but died anyway by his own hand. It makes one wonder… at the very least.

This book review originally appeared in The New Indian Express.

The Charming Chronicles of an Amoral Avian

Malay Chatterjee’s ‘The Drunk Bird Chronicles’ is a strange book. Allegro Armstrong Braganza, the eponymous narrator literally gives the reader a bird’s eye view of a sprawling family saga spanning five generations and hundred years across at least three continents, featuring the oddest medley of colourful characters. The great white raven who is determinedly immortal was originally the friend and companion of Gareth Armstrong an inventor and brothel – owner turned missionary who leaves vice laden Victorian England for India, his beautiful daughter, Rachel in tow. Later, Allegro, becomes the guardian, friend and advisor of the many descendants of the Braganzas, a Goan family Rachel has married into.

Allegro is the anchor, and only constant in the lives of the assorted offspring and the folks who will impact their lives. Chatterjee is a spiffy storyteller and despite stiff competition offered by smartphones, Netflix, etc. manages to keep the reader thoroughly engrossed and entranced by the lives and fortunes of his vast array of characters. It is nothing short of a miracle in this day and age, when a book commands one’s sole attention given our willingness to be distracted by all and sundry.

It is hard not to be charmed by a narrator who insists on being drunk most of the time while also willing to share the benefit of his wisdom, experience and especially the sharp edge of his tongue. Allegro guides the reader across familiar pages of history and through the ups and downs of the tempestuous lives of the Armstrong – Braganza family. There is Emilio, the talented piano tuner and Rachel’s husband who is made to pay the devil’s due of four stitches in the arse to keep his tryst with an otherwise favourable destiny; Orlando and Blotto, the twins whose libidos threaten to derail their lives; Verna the nag, a Maharani who has been cast aside but continues to lord over all in her shrinking domain; the unfortunate maid, Marcelena who dares to dream of a better life; Marco the cop with the nebulous past; fiercely independent Laila who chooses to live and love on her own terms; Julio, whose life is marked by sordid deeds and beautiful art, brilliant Bella who studies to be a translator in Portugal and Maria, the dancer and struggling artiste.

There is wit, irreverence and compassion aplenty for the travails of these characters even as skeletons tumble out of the closet and tragedy as well as triumph wait around corners as these individuals trundle pell-mell across the landscape of their lives, reckless and filled with boundless ambition, hope, lust, longing and avarice. Even traditionally taboo topics such as incest, the question of consent when individuals are under the influence, the responsibility of a mother towards her child, sodomizing clergy, suicide, gang rape, are dealt with a surprisingly deft and light touch that nevertheless does not rob any of these touchy subjects of depth nor is any of it insensitive.

Instead by laying bare the secrets of so many lives lived so richly, fully and so replete with mistakes that are every bit as hilarious as they are heart-breaking, Chatterjee succeeds in spinning a thought – provoking saga that engages on many levels and leaves the reader thoroughly enchanted and asking for more when the last page has been savoured and turned.

This book review originally appeared in The New Indian Express.

THE MESSY LEGEND OF THE MAMBA

The man, his mamba mentality and the legend!

Kobe Bryant (41), basketball legend died last month in a helicopter crash which also claimed the life of his daughter, Gianna (13) and seven other passengers. In the aftermath of this tragedy, there was a torrential outpouring of grief, love and affectionate tributes. Many basketball players, celebs and fans shared their favourite Kobe story, which were touching, funny and inspirational for the man was a giant and one of the all-time greats in his chosen sport. Kobe was cheered for his fanatical commitment, willingness to work harder than everyone else and undiminished love for the game to the very end. His daughter had showed promise as a basketball player too and Kobe had been coaching her team in addition to investing himself towards improving conditions in the WNBA. For this and more, he was revered and rightly so, but his legacy is not free of complications.

In 2003, Bryant was accused of sexual assault. The charges were later dropped when the victim refused to cooperate with the prosecutors. Bryant eventually settled out of court, the terms of which were never made public and he issued a public apology admitting that the victim had not considered their ‘encounter’ to be consensual. When this case was brought up amidst the glowing tributes, the backlash was immediate. A Washington Post reporter, Felicia Sonmez, who had tweeted the link to an article about the case, shortly after the news of his passing broke was suspended and then reinstated after massive public support in her favour. Anchor, Gayle King was buried under an avalanche of outrage, criticism, and death threats for bringing up the incident during the course of an interview. Actress Evan Rachel Wood was not spared either when she tweeted, “He was a sports hero. He was also a rapist. And all of these truths can exist simultaneously.”

All of this is proof if any is needed that conversation around sexual assault especially if dizzying levels of celebrity are involved are going to be polarizing and difficult. This is particularly true in the social media space where everything falls into binaries of good or bad, right or wrong and where everyone is expected to pick a side. But despite all this it is necessary to have these debates. We just need to focus on nuance and dial down the outrage considerably to prevent it from becoming a no holds barred fight unto death.

Many felt that Kobe Bryant had gotten away with a serious crime. That the loss of a few lucrative endorsements and his eviction from the jury at an animation festival in 2018 after a petition insisted on it in the wake of the #MeToo movement just did not cut it. His supporters however argued that he not be reduced to the sum of his worst deed, especially since in the intervening years he worked with his wife Vanessa to support various charities, address issues like homelessness and emerged as a champion to promote women’s sports. As always, people on either end of the spectrum make some valid points which deserve to be acknowledged. If we can do that without the ugliness of name – calling, trolling and threats to life and limb we can consider ourselves to be decent people who have done the right thing by a sexual assault survivor as well as a recently deceased, remarkable sportsman who also happened to be a flawed human being. And the last holds true for all of us. Which is why it is not our place to judge or condemn but to try and choose sensitivity and compassion over anger and hate.  

This article was originally published in The New Indian Express.

HANGING IS NOT THE SOLUTION

Nirbhaya gang rape case convicts (clockwise from top left) Akshay Thakur, Vinay Sharma, Pawan Gupta and Mukesh Singh. (File Photo | PTI)

‘Fresh’ death warrants have been issued for the four convicts in the Nirbhaya gang rape and murder case. Yet another date has been set aside in February for serving them. The Supreme Court has called it the ‘the rarest of rare, most brutal, barbaric and diabolical attack’ on a young paramedical student who stepped into a bus with a friend and lost her life but not before she was brutally assaulted in inhuman ways. Seven years later, her aggressors face the hangman. They have been awaiting the gallows for a while now even as their lawyers keep dipping into a seemingly inexhaustible bag of tricks, filing innumerable appeals, pleas for mercy, claims of minority, etc. Incidentally, of the six convicted, Ram Singh allegedly killed himself in Tihar jail while another was a juvenile who was sentenced by the court in its infinite wisdom to serve three years in a reform home.

A great majority are baying for blood. These are mostly the same folks who cheered the ‘encounter killing’ of the four alleged perpetrators in the recent and horrifying Hyderabad case where a vet was abducted, gang raped and burnt to death, never mind that the same cops had been grossly negligent in response to the frantic attempts made by her parents to find her and had failed to initiate search and rescue operations.The logic behind the bloodlust regarding the Nirbhaya case, of course is that such a move will deter future rapists and murderers while also providing justice for the victim and closure for her loved ones as well as a nation that had its jaded conscience painfully awakened. But knee – jerk responses aside, is hanging really the ideal solution?

Questions on the morality of state sponsored killing aside, is the death penalty truly going to put the fear of God or the Devil in potential rapists and scumbags? Will the world be magically transformed into a safer place where women won’t be groped, molested, raped or murdered with impunity? Will the victims in the Nirbhaya, Kathua, Unnao and countless other heinous cases get their lives back? Will a majority of the boys pay attention in moral science class and not grow up to be boors, jerks and lechers who think they are better than women simply because they can stand up and pee? Will society finally acknowledge that women are not the inferior sex and treat them accordingly without being collectively guilty of female infanticide, dowry harassment and acid throwing? The answer unfortunately is a resounding ‘NO!’ to all of the above.

As taxpaying citizens, we expect the government to prevent crime by having cops patrol the streets, responding immediately to emergencies, making the public transport system less of a shambles and if the worst were to happen, act quickly to nab offenders and bring them to task instead of allowing cases to languish for the rest of time. Having failed on all these counts, the government imposition of the death sentence rather like Ranveer Singh in a masala movie is a cruel joke. This is a broken system and by supporting its more farcical measures, we kid ourselves into thinking that we are doing the right thing. But all said and done, the Nirbhaya case is that rarest of rare cases that merits the death penalty. The government should just quit dithering, do the deed and make sure that such evil is never inflicted upon anyone else. 

This article was originally published in The New Indian Express.

A Monument to a Mother’s Love

Perumal Murugan’s collection of essays about his mother is a labour of love that captures beautifully the essence of a remarkable, resilient and resourceful woman. It is his first work of non – fiction to be published in English and it is every bit as superlative as his fiction. This is the work of an extraordinarily gifted writer in his prime.

Given that ‘Amma’, is a son’s attempt to pay homage to his deceased mother, while finding an outlet for his grief, it is surprising that this is not a sickly sweet sentimental portrait which attempts to deify the dear departed. Rather, it abounds with pithy descriptions of the agrarian way of life, code of conduct, prejudices and superstitious beliefs along with an inspiring work ethic which is sans greed or wastefulness. His treatment of someone who clearly has such a big place in his heart is honest to the point of brutality, while also being graced with infinite tenderness and Murugan’s trademark compassion for his characters.

It is easy enough to pity a woman like Amma who on the face of it, dealt with more than her fair share of hardship. Losing her mother at a very young age, dealing with a negligent father, having no access to an education, getting married at a young age and ceaselessly toiling till the end of her days, life had not been fair to her. If that were not enough, she also had to live with an alcoholic of a husband who was not above hitting her every time their arguments got out of hand, the loss of a child at birth, another to suicide and the crippling financial burden he left behind. Yet, this was a woman who cared nothing for pity and lived a full life with pride and honour.

Amma laboured endlessly because she believed honest labour even it were literally backbreaking was its own reward. She cared neither for riches, glory or possessions but lived with a quiet dignity, honour and pride. Of course, she was not without her flaws and clearly had a sharp tongue as well as a marked caste bias though that did not detract from an innate decency reflected in her courteous treatment of her daughter – in – law who belonged to another caste.

There is a touching simplicity to Murugan’s words and yet, make no mistake this is writing at its most profound, layered, and heart – breaking. It is not often that one is fortunate enough to pick up a book that is hugely entertaining and edifying at the same time. As you turn the pages, you will be surprised at how often you are left smiling or with a tear in your eye.

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

Bringing in the New Decade with a Bang!

There is something portentous about the changing of the decade. For those who are rolling their eyes and want to insist that the new decade doesn’t begin until 2021, I offer as evidence all the glitzy end of the decade parties I haven’t been invited to and beg you to just indulge me.  Everybody feels compelled to take stock of their lives which usually involves poring over social media memories. It is a totally worthwhile pursuit that is guaranteed to put a nostalgic smile on your face when you are not bemoaning the fact that you are no longer as young or effortlessly good looking (it is all relative!) as you were ten years ago. So you make a resolution to lose weight and take care of personal wellness, which means making the commitment to eat right, put in a big chunk of your time hitting the gym and frequenting beauty salons. The idea being that if you look like Anushka Sharma or Virat Kohli, you are more likely to emulate their success and hopefully big bucks and fame are just around the corner!

There is a need to engage in deep introspection which means you plonk yourself on a yoga mat to meditate but give up in 2 seconds flat to update yourself on which exotic and extravagant locale, the movers, shakers and richly compensated influencers are holidaying in to usher in the brand new decade, so that you can go green with envy and groan pathetically over the inadequate state of your bank account. Immediately thereafter you resolve to do whatever it takes to rake in the moolah, even if it means selling your soul/organs so you can vacation in Gstaad or Bora Bora next year instead of camping out in your room drinking soda and pretending it is champagne, while choking on your lone cupcake.

Having sworn to look your best and get rich asap, the next step is to assure yourself that you are no supercilious twit by setting goals for self - improvement. That means resolving to read more books even if it extends only to sneaking into bookstores to click a couple of pics with trending bestsellers at flattering angles to be used for your #greedtoread hashtag before making a speedy getaway. Picking up a new skill or hobby is a must. Obviously that means logging in to YouTube to look at all those ‘How To’ videos that promise to make you an expert in two minutes or attending those weekend classes and workshops that guarantee a new improved personality/lifestyle for a reasonable fee (coffee/tea/snacks included)!

Of course, one must learn a new language. Perhaps one of the romance languages, so you can communicate fluently with the locals since the plan is to become rich enough to spend the holidays gallivanting in style across Europe. Or Hindi if you are worried that its imposition across India is inevitable. I have made an encouraging start and now know more swear words in Hindi than my mother tongue.

Armed thus with the loftiest of aspirations, you can stride forth confidently into the decade and make it your own. Bring it on! 

This articles originally appeared in The New Indian Express.

Packing a Wallop

Seasoned writer and novelist Timeri N Murari sure knows how to pack a wallop. His latest work of fiction, Gunboat Jack, is set in the early years after India won her independence, loosely based on a real-life boxer from the annals of Bengaluru’s history. The British may have departed and monarchy done away with, but India was still trying to find its footing while ridding itself of the demons from the past which persisted in dying hard. The country was still trying to forge ahead into a brave new future shorn of the evils plaguing the present. 

It was in these trying times that Gunboat Jack, an American, homesick for the shores he left far behind, struggling to make enough for the passage back home both for himself and his Anglo-Indian lover, finds himself talked into coaching former Prince Natraj aka Nicky, who wants to take on a formidable English opponent to prove to himself and others that his is not an inferior race.

Nicky’s adversary also happens to be the son of the English governess, Miss Hobbs, who has inveighed herself into the Raja’s favour and is not above conspiring to put the lowly Indians in their place while doing all in her power to enrich herself. 

A simple enough tale with a rather predictable climax, but in Murari’s hands, it is hugely engrossing with sparse, elegant prose that makes it easy to savour and delight in. Seen through Gunboat’s unflinching eyes, the still prevalent British influences even after the empire has breathed its last are readily apparent. Also, the cushy lifestyles of the petty Maharajahs, who have been shorn of real power but nevertheless enjoy the perks of generous privy purses and business dealings which allow them to wield considerable power and influence over their fiefdoms, are laid bare.

As is the plight of the Anglo-Indian community whom he refers to as the ‘lost people’ who are too English and Indian to ever be either. Gunboat cannot look away from the grinding poverty and servility too many Indians have been reduced to, even if all around people insist on turning a Nelson’s eye to the suffering of the downtrodden playing out under their noses. 

Even as the reader is drawn along with Gunboat, Nicky and the assorted characters in their lives for a thoroughly engaging ride, the marked editorial snafus ranging from an unforgivably tiny font, spelling, grammatical and factual errors like the one about the location of Tirupati are a definite grievance. But that aside, Gunboat Jack is a first-rate yarn that yanks one back in time to a transitional period, where two pugilists slugged it out in a ring to make sense of themselves and their differences.

This review originally appeared in The New Indian Express.

Dark Deeds and Damaged Lives

Winner of the DSC Prize, 2014 for South Asian Literature, Cyrus Mistry’s latest novel, The Prospect of Miracles begins with the death of Pastor Pius Philipose. Remembered as a charismatic priest, fine orator and a noble soul who was ‘morally unblemished, upright, drenched – in – the – milk – of – human – kindness’ by his adoring small town parishioners, the Pastor is mourned, even regarded as a latter day saint. He is survived by his wife, Mary Agnes who has a starkly contrasting view of the not so dearly beloved departed. She is mostly relieved to be free of his overbearing, tyrannical and abusive presence though she has a dark suspicion that it would not be a simple matter to be well and truly rid of his toxic influence which has infected her life so deeply.

Mary Agnes reconstructs excruciating details for the benefit of the reader about her husband whose private persona was far removed from his carefully constructed public façade of a hardworking, dedicated, benevolent and beloved pastor who led by example and practised what he preached. Pius is not your typical, clichéd drunken, foul – mouthed, wife – beating spouse but he is definitely an abuser of the worst sort simply because he is crafty enough to conceal his villainy beneath a veneer of benevolence, misleading all around him. Even his wife who is at the receiving end of his behaviour doubts her very senses often feeling compelled to give him the benefit of doubt and exonerate her husband for his numerous misdeeds.

Carefully committed to using his wife to better his lot in life, determinedly chipping away at her sense of self – worth with a constant barrage of callous words and deeds, giving her regular glimpses of a vicious temper without ever using his fists, betraying her at every turn, the man is a monster with nary a redeeming quality. Worst of all he is a hypocrite with a gift for delivering fire and brimstone sermons warning his worshipful flock of the dangers inherent in indulging in the sins of alcoholism, fornication as well as assorted prurient pleasures of the flesh while forcing maids half his age into bed and imbibing freely of intoxicants, far away from prying eyes, taking care not to leave behind any damaging evidence.

Like Mary Agnes, the reader begins to feel lacerated under the onslaught of this disturbing account of dark deeds which the Pastor seems to have gotten away with. Except perhaps he hasn’t. Feminine fury and righteous indignation can be powerful weapons that often lead to deadly consequences. Having had a hand in his come-uppance even if it was mostly on a subconscious level, his wife struggles to come to terms with the damage that has been done to her spirit and very soul.

Their only son, Mark was one of the casualties of their dysfunctional marriage and has run away from home. Left utterly alone with only her dismal memories, guilt, and hopelessness for company, Mary is more vulnerable than ever and slowly starts to unravel as she suffers further betrayal with the spectre of madness looming threateningly from the abyss that stretches ahead of her. Soon, she begins to question herself. Perhaps Pius was right all along and she is not quite right in the head the way he always insisted.

Mistry’s skilled pen brings to life, not only the sights, smells and very essence of beautiful Kerala with its scenic beauty and aromatic spice plantations but the less savoury underbelly of Naxalite activity, oppression of scheduled castes and tribes by the landowning classes, plus conflicting religious ideologies. Mercilessly revealing the ugliest side of a marriage gone hopelessly wrong with a trapped wife, unable to extricate herself from the tentacles of her tormentor even after he is long gone, this is a dark tale that weaves a disturbing spell which clings to the reader long after the last page has been turned.

This review originally appeared in The New Indian Express.

Cleaning up the #MeToo Mess

When the #MeToo movement exploded, most of us were pumped up with pent up anger, pleased as punch that predators were being pounded into the dirt and optimistic that in future mayhap, women will finally be treated with respect, listened to, cherished and allowed to breathe easier in a world that has been made safer. Thousands upon thousands of stories of abuse, harassment, gross misconduct and violation of rights have spilled forth prompting us to take a hard look at the tragic legacy of patriarchy. Formerly taboo topics pertaining to sex, sexuality, consent, appropriate behaviour, hostile work environment, abuse of power are being openly discussed. We have finally acknowledged that it is all too common for crimes perpetrated against women to go unpunished because more often than not, these cases are complicated, intimate, messy and hard to prove with the frequent result that serial offenders are let off the hook while their victims pay a heavy price by losing their jobs, credibility and even lives.

Real change, however, has proven to be a painstakingly slow process and not many have the patience for boring things like due process or the justice system (who can blame them given the abysmal track record of both!) or the fuddy-duddies who urge caution and state that in a democracy, the accused is considered to be innocent until proven otherwise. #BelieveAllWomen has become the war cry of the woke, new wave feminists who are tired of being relentlessly trolled and receiving unsolicited pics of male genitalia every time they raise their voices to express solidarity with their sisters.

In the subsequent shitstorm, a sense of balance, proportion, and nuance have all but vanished. The movement has devolved from denouncing sex offenders to criminalizing flirts, boors, and creeps. By clubbing together a wide range of misbehaviour some of which are merely silly, stupid or sleazy with serious offences like stalking, rape or paedophilia, #MeToo has lost steam and is becoming increasingly asinine as evidenced recently by the senseless shenanigans played out on social media by self – serving, wannabe stand – up clowns.

In this supercharged circus, people are forever being pulled up and derided for false claims and fake news. Men who denounce other men for sexual misconduct, demanding that they be hanged without a fair trial backtrack when they are the ones accused of the same foul deeds. Women who insist that all women be believed change their stance if it is their son, husband, brother or friend who has been accused by some ‘floozy’. Everyone seems to be enjoying the sordid revelations and mudslinging while deriving inordinate pleasure from witnessing the public humiliation of others.

I am all for the #MeToo movement but as someone who studied in an all-girls boarding school, I can confidently assert that you have to be every kind of moron to #BelieveAllWomen. Everybody lies and those who claim otherwise are lying. How ironic that while fighting patriarchal stereotypes of the chaste, pure, virtuous and non-existent woman as being the only one worthy of protection and exaltation we wind up perpetuating the same myth by casting all women as incorruptible champions of truth! Surely it is high time, we realized that wanting to verify claims and vet stories does not necessarily mean one is against women but merely on the side of fairness and justice?

The time has come for us to say Time’s up! To sexual harassment as well as social – media dispensed justice and punishment. To the mob mentality that sees us revel in the destruction of careers and lives. To hashtag activism. And to the dumdum in all of us.

This article originally appeared in The New Indian Express.

FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION AND ITS REAL FOE

Freedom of expression is sacrosanct and I have always taken issue with those who would seek to curb it. It is the inviolate right of the people to give voice to their thoughts and speak their minds (never mind that we would all be better off if we kept out traps shut more often and refrained from spewing stuff and nonsense) without the fear of being clapped in chains, thrown in jail, slapped with a lawsuit or assorted repercussions. Yet, there are too many painful examples of journalists, activists, writers, artists and outspoken people in general being muzzled, sued, harassed or killed outright.

Ever since we won freedom in India, FOE seems to be the first casualty every time the ruling party wishes to pull the wool over our eyes when it comes to their more dubious dealings and unscrupulous activities given their commitment to only disseminating information designed to make it look like the sun shines out their nether ends. Which is why it is bloody awful when a British born Indian columnist who wrote an incendiary piece about the “Divider – in – Chief” for a foreign publication, has his status as an Overseas Citizen of India revoked. Not only is it unsurprising but a stark reminder that India may not quite qualify as the largest democracy in the world unless we are referring solely to its burgeoning population.

While this is the sort of thing that prompts one to make like Greta Thunberg and call for revolution, bristling with righteous wrath, I can’t help but concede, that we have only ourselves to blame for the gradual erosion of the basic rights we have taken for granted. Knowing as we do, that every single one of the freedoms we enjoy today has been won after long, excruciating and often bloody struggle we nevertheless feel free to squander it all away on inanity, frippery and selfish self - indulgence without ever pausing to consider the sacrifice made by those who gave their lives for this land.

Even something as sacred as FOE is forever being misused. It is not just the trolls who are practically expected to abuse and provoke by sending vulgar messages pertaining to lewd and lascivious acts or vicious threats outlined with unforgivably bad grammar and worse spelling, but the militant progressives as well with their fanatical commitment to wokeness and an unwillingness to listen to dissenting points of view. Together, these extreme factions have drowned civil discourse almost entirely. Everybody seems to feel entitled to be as obnoxious as they please not bothering to even hesitate before pulling out all stops to annihilate the lives and careers of those who dare to contradict whatever ideology is currently in fashion.

We have forgotten that human beings are complicated creatures who are definitely more than the sum of their worst tweets. That purveying fake news on Whatsapp because it validates our biases is doing a disservice to fellow citizens. Of course, the government needs to clean up its act, but it is still wise to look within and ask ourselves if we are worthy of the rights we are losing. Now more than ever it is important to reinforce our commitment to honesty, integrity, decency and kindness before the chickens come home to roost and crap all over us. 

This column was originally published in The New Indian Express.

Hateful Ode to Mommy Dearest

Mothers are traditionally revered and with good reason. They bring forth life into this overcrowded world after all. It is also believed that it is only a mother’s love which is pure and entirely selfless. Most mums will be happy to assert that it is all codswallop. Few of that extremely disgruntled and overworked lot would appreciate being placed on a token pedestal given that they are not paid or appreciated enough for the gazillion chores they are expected to shoulder on a daily basis. Sometimes, the very nature of the job with its attendant stressors can make the mommies depressed, resentful, and mean.

Avni Doshi’s ‘Girl in White Cotton’ is a delicate, yet powerfully rendered sketch of a dysfunctional mother – daughter relationship and an evocative read. Told in spare and elegant prose from Antara, the daughter’s perspective, Tara, tends to come across as something of a mommy from hell. She is a loose cannon and a rebel without a cause, choosing to walk away from an admittedly ill – suited marriage, straight into the arms of a charismatic Casanova/Guru with her young daughter in tow. Tara is not the sort to comfort her little one who suffers from nightmares and is unable to acclimatize to a strange new place, where her mom has no time for her and tends to disappear with her Guru into his boudoir, leaving her to get by as best as she can. If Antara insists on acting up to get some attention, odds are she is going to be physically or verbally abused.

Later when the reprobate Godman replaces Tara with someone younger, she leaves in a huff and is infuriated when the husband and parents she walked out on are not exactly falling over themselves to help her out of the hole she dug for herself. Probably with the view to cut off her nose to spite her face, Tara decides to become a beggar before eventually returning home in disgrace and hooking up with an unsuitable artist type.

Antara regales the reader with an account of her mother’s shenanigans and the privations she endured on her account. She talks about befriending a stray dog while living on the street, attending a boarding school run by a sadistic nun who takes corporal punishment to extreme levels and dealing with weight issues because she is always tempted to fill the emptiness and angst gnawing away at her insides with food.

Eventually though, the shoe is on the other foot. It is Tara who enters her second childhood as she begins to lose her memory and finds herself at the mercy of a daughter whom she has wronged. Antara clearly takes after her mother as she discovers her own propensity for cruelty and vindictiveness. Though Antara is married to a wonderful man, the demons from her past hold her down and she flails about in the depths of misery with only her mother, turbulent memories and dreadful secrets for company.

It is terrifying how well – equipped mother and daughter are to tear each other down, though they continue to need the other desperately. In the end, when Antara brings new life to inhabit the sticky web of betrayal, hurt and resentment she has woven with her own mother, one can’t help but shudder in grim anticipation.

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

Feminism in Myth, Non – fiction and a Historical Romance

In Bhumika: A Story of Sita, Aditya Iyengar envisions a life for his protagonist without the Man – God who has come to define her in the collective consciousness. In the twilight of her life, a somewhat embittered Sita is given an opportunity by Sage Vishwamitra to find out what could have been if a certain someone hadn’t prevailed at her swayamwara, won her heart and spirited her away to fulfil the dictates of his destiny. What if she had never married Rama or been abducted or cast aside because her purity had been called into question? What if in an alternate life, Sita had been Bhumika, a Queen who will defy convention and fight to live life on her own terms?

Bhumika, is a feminist reinterpretation of Sita, who has long been held up as the ideal woman given her perceived docility, innate goodness and submissiveness although there are those who would argue that like other strong women in mythology, it is only the jaundiced lens of patriarchy that has rendered her thus, since this remarkable character has always been more complicated and strong than most believe likely. Be that as it may, Bhumika cleaves to more contemporary views of the feminist ideal. She can lift and string the mighty bow, Pinyaka and is more than capable of ruling her Kingdom without a man’s help, thank you very much.

This Queen is determined to include women in the workforce and free others from restrictive gender expectations. Bhumika’s crusade is a lonely one though and she has neither close friends nor lovers but only strife for company. Sita later wonders if it had all been worthwhile. Iyengar leaves the reader in no doubt that both their choices were valid and ultimately it is all about making your peace with the decisions made for better or worse. 

Shanta Gokhale’s One Foot on the Ground: A Life told through the Body has its feet planted firmly on the ground with all things earthy, profound, and practical. It is a remarkable autobiography of a life lived fully, unapologetically, and narrated with oodles of grace and humour to spare. The feminist perspective on display in these memoirs is subtle, matter – of – fact and entirely effective.

Gokhale bares intimate details about her life through her body never shying away from discussing her tonsils, misaligned teeth, adipose tissue, breasts, buttocks, menstruation, childbirth, menopause, glaucoma, cancer, and bunions. While navigating the topography of her body, she takes the reader on an arresting journey across the landscape of her life that includes badminton, idyllic childhood vacations, dance lessons, a stint in cold England for her education, young love, failed marriages, disappointing relationships, children and a varied career as an author, translator, journalist, critic and an executive at Glaxo, the pharmaceutical company, amongst among things.

The most inspiring takeaway from the book, is Gokhale’s cheerful acceptance, boundless optimism and ever present equanimity even in the face of the trials and tribulations that cropped up at regular intervals the way that terrible two is wont to. Whether it is a relationship gone wrong, the ineptness of doctors who almost certainly exacerbated severe health issues she faced in her later years like failing eyesight and cancer, or even the household help who molested her, Gokhale has the refreshing air of one who has made her peace with the past and is free of resentment or anger. Her independence, free spirit and absolute refusal to point fingers at anyone for the little and big things that went wrong along the course of her existence is a valuable lesson for everyone in this age where it is fashionable to play the name, blame and shame game with impunity.

Dust under Her Feet, Sharbari Zohra Ahmed’s confident debut novel is a historical romance set in 1940s Calcutta, when American troops set up an army base in India to beat back the Japanese from Burma. Yasmine Khan is the unlikely proprietor of a night club – The Bombay Duck, which exists as a utopian zone, where the rigid boundaries separating people on the basis of caste and race are supposedly blurred, except they aren’t actually. Soldiers roped into a war that is in truth being played out by pig - headed politicos in the interests of imperial greed with no expectations of anything but that of getting slaughtered find some respite when they watch Yasmine’s girls sing and dance, helping them forget their troubles however briefly.

Yasmine’s motley family include her childhood friend, the gorgeous and talented Patience as well as people from all walks of life and she looks out for them while running the business with an iron hand. She doesn’t expect to fall in love but naturally she allows herself to be swept off her feet by the much married American Lieutenant Edward Lafaver. What follows is a tale of love, lust, and betrayal while the Second World War and famine rages all around them.

Ahmed dapples with burning issues like discrimination on the basis of race, caste and gender but it mostly feels superficial and half – hearted, given the author’s preoccupation with the ultimately undercooked romance and a friendship gone awry. A horrendous incident of rape and its repercussions are dealt with in a particularly ham – fisted manner, existing mainly as an area of contention between the lovers. Dust under Her Feet strives to be epic but succeeds only in being occasionally engaging.

This review was originally published in The New Indian Express.

DEALING WITH THE CLIMATE CHANGE CRISIS WITHOUT FREAKING OUT

I have nothing at all against precocious children determined to save the world and draw our attention to catastrophic climate change. The boundless idealism of students is charming even if their simplistic solutions to everything is irritating in its impracticality. Even the eternal willingness to play truant from school (or life) is understandable and on some days, I am tempted to bunk the endless monotony of chores that await on a daily basis and join the global climate strikes.

However, doomsday prophets are another matter altogether. They all have lots in common - messianic zeal, self – righteous wrath, magnetic charisma, tend to advocate extreme courses of action and enjoy a rabid cult following who accept every impassioned word they utter to be the gospel truth. The seeds of panic and fear are sown and it spreads like a contagion, leading to a worldwide pandemic and epic upheavals which if history is any indication seldom leads to desirable outcomes. Damn it, now I am the one sounding like a panic monger and anxiety attack inducer. See what I mean about these things being infectious?

Greta Thunberg, the freshly minted, iconic climate – change activist’s passion and sincerity is compelling. However, I find it exasperating when she thunders that “We are in the beginning of a mass extinction” using her reach to convince children that they have no future unless world leaders along with the rest of the entire populace act immediately to avert the impending doom. “We have to focus every inch of our being on climate change… unprecedented change in all aspects of society need to have taken place within this coming decade.” Come on! I think we can all agree that neither we, the people nor those we have chosen to lead us are going to do anything of the sort.

All of us like our creature comforts too much to give it up. We find it convenient to fly, leave the air – conditioner on, take long showers, eat meat, and use every single technological advancement ever made to make our lives easier. If anybody suggests we give up our refrigerators, washing machines, microwaves, fancy cars, become vegan and revert to a simpler time/pre – industrial age, we are going to ignore them. Hard. However, to assuage the guilt, we might whip up a social media storm to express our support for eco – warriors and helpfully suggest that everybody else and the government do their utmost to combat climate change, deal with that stupid hole in the ozone layer, those melting glaciers, endangered species etc.

Still, the hopelessness of it all is hardly reason enough to give up hope. Children need not live in fear. The truth is that none of us can possibly know what tomorrow holds. What we do know is that we are living in a golden age of prosperity and scientific advances. Alternate sources of energy are being explored and with time, there is reason to believe there will be positive change. And even if the worst were to happen, odds are we will find a way to live in a post – apocalyptic world and use the pieces to build an even better one. In the end, like the cockroach, we will endure even if we don’t overcome, and find a way to blunder on the way we always have.

This articles was originally published in The New Indian Express.

The Right and Righteous Way to Celebrate Diwali

Every year, when Diwali comes around, the Indian thing to do seems to be to get into a vehement argument about how best to celebrate it. Firstly, there are those who insist that bursting fireworks in an already dangerously polluted world is an irresponsible and reckless thing to do, and call for a blanket ban of the material which is literally explosive (Greta Thunberg would approve). These ostensibly environment conscious folks who belong to all walks of life, would be making an excellent point, if not for the fact that most are not quite ready to give up flying, driving, using animal products and the rest of the things that usually give Greta Thunberg and her fellow ecowarriors conniptions.

Then we have the Hindutva types, who insist that Hindu festivals, traditions, rites and rituals are unnecessarily being targeted by Godless folks and foolish intellectuals. Since ancient times Diwali has been celebrated with ritual oil baths, the consumption of delicious sweets and savouries guaranteed not to rot the teeth or clog the arteries provided they are cooked with the right dose of religious fervour, the adornment of the self with new clothes and ornaments, prayer and the all – important fireworks. Those who claim that fireworks were invented by vested commercial interests in China to blow up the world are liars who are woefully ignorant of the power of our venerable sages and rishis who could put up dazzling pyrotechnical marvels that lit up the heavens by merely twitching their eyebrows. How dare anyone question the wisdom of the ages? It is all these modern ideas that have prevented India from becoming a super – power and taking over the world.

They insist that the Gods in the pantheon will be mollified only if crackers are burst with gay abandon during Diwali celebrations and all who say otherwise especially the celebs who gripe about crackers exacerbating lung – related ailments but feel free to splurge on spectacular fireworks displays to impress their firangi husbands are anti – nationals, who are working hand in glove with ISIS. To hell with them! As every sensible person blessed with true faith is aware, appeasing the Gods in the traditionally approved manner will see the divinities rid the world of all its evils. And surely that includes those dratted carbon footprints, holes in the ozone layers, melting glaciers, and the rest of the ominous stuff that climate change nuts, sorry activists are always harping about?

Others can’t really be bothered with political correctness, theological debates, and environmental issues. It is the Instagram feeds that matter at the end of the day. Thanks to the television and the internet where all those ads keep popping up with unwanted diligence, it is well known that Diwali isn’t Diwali unless one is photographed while togged out in expensive designer outfits and magnificent pieces of jewellery not unlike those flaunted by heroines in those extravagant historical epics and earned at least a few thousand likes across social media platforms. If followers aren’t made sick with envy and left contemplating the futility of an existence without similar baubles, then Diwali celebrations are incomplete.

In the meantime, nobody cares about the most important thing. Diwali has fallen on a Sunday this year depriving us of the chance to holiday on a weekday. How can one celebrate this catastrophe?

This article was originally published in The New Indian Express.