Out of the Woods

(c) Shubhrata Prakash

Conventional wisdom talks about not being able to see the wood for the trees. 

When you have Depression, it is just the other way round - you are not able to see the trees for the wood. The wood looks too dense. Too suffocating. It comes closing in on you. Everything appears dark, and there seems to be no way out. You can't see anything except the trees and more trees and then some more - all around. And you are totally lost. In the woods.

It is time, now, to turn conventional wisdom on its head.

The trick to beating depression lies in seeing the trees for exactly what they are - Trees. Compartmentalize. Try to see each individual tree. It is just that - one tree. Place a mark there. Then move on to the next one - another tree. Place another mark there. Just go on like this. Don't look back. Don't let depression trick you into second guessing yourself. Keep away from the what-ifs. Just keep marking tree after tree, and go on till you reach a clearing. Pause. Take a few deep breaths. Then go on till you come out of the woods.

This book may just help you see the trees for the trees. And even help you find a way out of the woods.

Please place your order here

My Second Book : 'The D Word'

The D Word

(c) Shubhrata Prakash

To hell and back is a long way – to go and live to tell the tale.

That is exactly what Depression feels like. Like falling down a black hell hole. Like the rabbit hole in ‘Alice in Wonderland’: nothing is what it seems to be, nothing is what it was.

By Depression, I mean Major Depression, or Major Depressive Disorder, as it is technically called. And to set the record straight, Depression is NOT sadness. Major Depressive Disorder, or MDD, is a mood disorder, a mental illness. It is accompanied by changes in brain structure and chemistry. Low moods or sadness is just one of its many manifestations. MDD has physical symptoms as well as psychological symptoms. There is no catastrophic life event that brings on MDD. And……

……it can happen to ANYBODY!

When I was felled by Depression, I had no clue what it was all about. When I was floundering through the mental and physical swamps and sinkholes that Depression brought to my life, I tried desperately to understand what this illness is, how I could help myself fight it and how I could get to the other side. I looked around me for stories of people who had made it through and how they had done it. I did come across many success stories, but not one of them Indian.

Considering the fact that one out of every ten persons in the world suffers from a depressive episode some time in their lives, this should have been surprising. But, then, it was not. Actually, it would have been a wonder if I had found one, for we don’t talk about the ‘D’- word, even if we suffer from it. There is much of social stigma attached to the ‘D’ – word. And that’s a double whammy – first, surviving the illness, and then, surviving the social stigma.

That is when I decided that the ‘D’ needs to be brought out into the open – we need to talk about it. We need to fight the social stigma, and that can happen only when there is more awareness about it. People like me, who struggle with Depression for years and years, should have more access to information and knowledge about their condition. They need to know that it’s ok to be afflicted with a mental illness, which is not in their hands, much like any physical illness. The why’s and how’s of getting MDD do not matter. What matters is how to manage the condition and how to get better.

I have been to hell, and back – such a long journey. And I have lived to tell the tale.

Please help me get the word on ‘The D Word’ out there. People who suffer from Depression and their families, as well as society in general, would benefit tremendously, if we opened up about – ‘The D Word’.

Siam Diary: Books and Coffee

Bangkok, in May, is quite hot. And the high-rises, which dot the city in some places, and dominate the skyline in some others, do not do much to help dissipate the heat.

In the midst of all the heat and the hustle-bustle of a city always on the move, I was introduced to the Nielsen Hays Library by a dear friend. I am an avid reader, and when, on a sabbatical, I have often been hitting my head against the wall trying to think of something to do, this Library has begun to occupy a very special place in my partially vacant life.

An outside view of Library building and the adjacent cafe
(c) Shubhrata Prakash

The Nielsen Hays Library was started in 1869 by a small group of American and British women. What began on a very small scale turned into an institution by the turn of the century. The building, which currently houses the Library, was built by Dr. Thomas Heywood Hays in 1921, in loving memory of his late wife, Jennie Nielsen Hays. Jennie Nielsen Hays was a powerful force behind the Library in the early 20th century, and served as President of the Library thrice, until her untimely death in 1920.

The Library building up close
(c) Shubhrata Prakash

The Library is situated on Surawong Road in Silom. The beautiful white building is surrounded by an abundance of greenery. The building was designed by Italian architect Mario Tamagno. In 1986, the building was awarded the status of "Historic Landmark" by the Association of Siamese Architects. While from the outside it looks serene, with its white walls set against a natural green backdrop, on the inside, it is indeed majestic. The high vaulted domed ceiling and arched columns add to the beauty, while book cases and other architectural details, in polished Burma teak, add the right dose of class and sophistication.

The Library houses a huge collection of books, many of them donated by readers and patrons. There are old books and new books. Fiction and non-fiction. Hardbacks and paperbacks. The books are mostly in English, though there is a small section for Thai books too. There is also a small bookcase shelving books which focus on South-East Asia. There is a children's section as well where small children can sit and thumb through their kind of books.

A green chicken salad and a latte
(c) Shubhrata Prakash

In addition to the Library, and abutting the main building, is a small white glasshouse which is the Library cafe. It offers simple fare like salads, sandwiches, wraps, and of course, many varieties of coffee and iced drinks. Sitting inside the cafe, one has the feeling of sitting in a garden, albeit a really cool one, especially considering the temperature outside! There is ample space for parking.

Me @ the Library
(c) Shubhrata Prakash

Besides housing books for lending, the Library is also associated with several other literary and related activities.  The Library runs a book club which meets monthly to discuss and deliberate on the works of a chosen author. Craft activities for children, sale of paintings and handicrafts, book sales and a host of musical and cultural events are also associated with the Library.









Every city needs an oasis like this....and I am so glad that I have found this one in Bangkok. Hopefully, with so much of reading material on my hands (and in the bag which I carry to the Library!), time would be whizzing past soon. Who knows, the books may even add to my knowledge of the world and its ways....and my crass whodunit-taste in books may reach slightly elevated, if not all out exalted, levels!!!

Now a cache of books reposes on my desk
(c) Shubhrata Prakash

The Circle - by Dave Eggers: A book review

Recently, I chanced upon this book titled "The Circle" by Dave Eggers. Though it is not a recently published book, having first seen the book shelves in 2013, it is a good read as it provides a satirical commentary on these times of social media and 24/7 connectivity. 

The Circle is a software giant - with its headquarters called "The Campus", somewhere in the San Francisco Bay Area, California, USA. It is something of a combination of Google, YouTube, CNN, PayPal, Facebook, Twitter and other social media platforms. It operates on providing a single window for all the daily internet needs. One account, one password. Once you have set up the account, you post messages, comments, "smiles and frowns", pictures and videos; you send and receive email; you shop online; you make all payments - whether to e-commerce sites or not; you have live webcast of all and sundry things from all over the world. The company has offices all over the world. It was founded by the "Three Wise Men", six years before the book begins, who still run it and decide its fortunes. The company aggressively tries to get more and more information about people's lives, even the very private aspects, and goes by the motto "Privacy is Theft"! 

The book traces the journey of the protagonist, Mae Holland, who joins the company in Customer Experience (CE) at the recommendation of a college friend, and thus, of the company itself as it grows aggressively and tries to make people telecast their lives 24/7 on the net by going "Transparent". In terms of being a thriller, as it is positioned, it is not much of one. It lacks the spine-chilling finesse and plotting of Michael Crichton, despite the scope being there. The climax is actually a three-page anti-climax, which is quite expected and really inane. There is no build up to the climax. Nor is there any build-up of nail-biting page-turning anywhere in the book. However, the book shocks in its own ways. One is shocked at how social media and recognition empowers, and how the empowerment intoxicates, to the extent that people are willing to enslave themselves to round-the-clock scrutiny of their lives, including their most private moments. It also a poses a very relevant question - is it going to become reality someday?

On the whole, it is, as I said before, a satirical commentary of these times of social media. The Campus is littered with sculptures and engravings of psycho-babble-cum-new-age-spiel like "Breathe", "Dream", "Sharing is caring", "The sky is not the limit - there is no limit". The book also takes a look at how "Democracy" and "Protection of Human Rights" are being used with impunity and almost criminally to deprive people of their right to privacy and their opinion. The ultra-leftist dream being enabled and almost foisted on the world by the Capitalists who look at nothing but the bottomline. Most characters in the book are caricatures, whether it is the young 20-something founder of the company who may have Asperger's, the smooth-talking, suave but ruthless CEO, and the all-for-transparency-democracy-and-human-rights third wise man. You see a lot of spouting of the words, "Everyone is valuable", "Every situation has a teaching in it", "You are precious and valued", "We believe every employee is important and deserves the best"- done to death cliches in most corporate set-ups and on the social media. 

Several times during the book, one can identify so many of our own social media experiences. We can identify people and characters from our own social networks. And all in the name of goodness, humanity, democracy, and god-knows what other things which promise democratic and transparent Utopia, but end up painting the picture of the worst-kind of exhibitionist and mob-rule Dystopia, where one cannot even breathe without people looking, liking and commenting!

Good Bye 2015

Hey Friends!!

"Talk Talk mein" completes two years today.

And it is also time to say good bye to another year.

One often wonders what is so great about a year ending . Or a year beginning, for that matter. True enough. Any day to the same day of the next year is one year. So every day is a new year day. Every day is a year-end. Every night is new year's eve. Every dawn is the first sunrise of a new year. Nice thought, isn't that?!!

So, going by this logic, let us enjoy every day of our lives as if it were the new years' day. Let us look forward to new beginnings, new joys.........a brand new life......

........just like every evening is new year's eve -  a time to collect, recollect and reflect. Be grateful for all blessings in life. Express grief and process it so that it doesn't hurt so much.

In 2015, I saw my brightest days.... and I saw my darkest days. I spent hours of darkness lying in bed, fighting the pain and the emptiness gnawing within. I spent time in the spotlight when my first book was released. I relocated to a new country, trying to find my way through its winding lanes. I left loved ones behind....I found new friends. The pain sometimes dimmed, the pain sometimes crippled.

Yet here I am. I survived another year. And how does it matter whether it is new year's eve or new year's day.......after all every day is the end of a year and every day is also the beginning of a new one! Thank you all for being a part of this year of my life!!

So, here's to sugar and spice (cinnamon roll with raisins)......and everything nice.....and cafe au lait !!

(c) Shubhrata Prakash

The so-Uncomical Nights of Bittu Sharma

While on the subject of TV, my rejection of all things "Saas-Bahu" was known to many. Some implored me to watch "Comedy Nights with Kapil" for "clean wholesome family entertainment". And I committed the sin of believing them. Life came back a full circle. Bittu Sharma and his inanity failed to impress me : the purist in me, as well as the feminist in me. It made me wince, it made me cringe and it made me feel grateful that I had retained some common sense in not asking my kids to watch it in the name of "clean, wholesome, family entertainment".

Kapil Sharma and his comedy nights thrive on misogyny. It is unbearable to watch the way he makes fun of his wife and in-laws. Is that why he is so popular? Because making fun of their wives and their in-laws is considered the favourite past-time of most Indian men? It seems most likely. Fifty percent of the jokes circulated on social media are about wives. Most of this fifty percent is also about in-laws. And the phenomenon is not uncommon in the West either. Jokes about men fearing their mother-in-law visiting them are quite common but funny too. Why men in the West get away with mother-in-law jokes is because of their social and family structure, and hence the jokes are, well, actually just jokes. 

However. in India, where women and their parents are always looked down by the husband and his parents, such a situation is given social sanction by such widely watched shows. In real life Indian society, the groom's parents consider it their divine right to demand and get the right dowry (read price) for their son. Brides are burnt for not fulfilling the never-ending demands of their in-laws. Bittu Sharma repeats ad nauseum the theme of his wife being bad-looking and not bringing any dowry. This is socially irresponsible to say the least. That it leads to further degradation of the social status of women is the greater harm such shows bring.What is disgusting about Bittu Sharma's treatment of his wife and in-laws is his male arrogance which is reflected in his absolutely condescending behaviour towards them. He doesn't dislike his wife because she is better looking or better read than him. He dislikes her because he thinks she is too bad to look at and didn't bring anything as dowry. He looks down on her as if she were something the cat-brought-in. The same goes for the in-laws too. And that's not all. His wife puts up with it. She may protest but she stays on the show. So, the message being sent out is even if the husband ill-treats the wife and her family, they may protest, but they must put up with it, because they don't matter. Their feelings don't matter. They better be used to it.

Many may defend him saying it is just a comedy show. Oh really? Crack a joke at someone's religion and see how riots spring up. Here you are demeaning an entire gender, which comprises about 45 % of the population, when ideally it should be 50 %. This skewed population ratio has a direct relationship with kind of ideology Bittu Sharma represents: women are to be made fun of, women are second class citizens. They are supposed to look good and bring sufficient dowry with them. Good looks and dowry. Nothing else matters. Not their education. Not their personality. Not their emotions and feelings. Not their economic or social productivity.

Hence, it is difficult and humiliating being parents of a woman, or girl child. And riots don't happen because such shows reinforce the social mores which say that women are inferior to men and it doesn't matter how they are treated. Most women's parents too believe the same, and hence keep quiet though their hearts may be bleeding within. Just like the wife and her family on the show.

As for "clean, wholesome family entertainment", even "some" is not clean, what to say of the "whole". And as for "family", well, have a look at Bittu's family.The married but flirtatious Bittu, the horny Dadi with her corny dialogues, cross-dressed men with crassly-dressed double entendres, the embarrased guests, the beautiful "temptations" visiting Bittu............they make one sit up and say, "Kya hai yeh?!"

So much for "clean, wholesome entertainment". Those who love it may continue to do so, but beware of the harm you are bringing to society, and especially your children, by giving them a crass, skewed view of society in general, and women in particular. And tomorrow when your daughter is treated like Bittu's wife.......don't say you weren't warned.

Gilded Mornings

(c) Shubhrata Prakash

Hi folks!

Greetings from Bangkok!!

 After a long time, I'm back to the blog. Well, I shifted, in the meantime, from India to Thailand. And due to some mean times, I could not post anything for a very long time. Shifting was a pain, but after seeing the beautiful Siam, it became a sweet pain.

Indeed, Bangkok is wonderful. One of the best things about Thailand is how the Thai people have managed to embrace modernity without giving up on their traditions and ancient culture. Moreover, they welcome people from all over the world with open arms and a warm embrace.

I haven't seen much of the country yet, but be assured, I shall often be writing about this wonderful country, and an equally wonderful city, again and again.

Meanwhile, Gen-Nex is safely ensconced in school. The school time makes it imperative to wake up at 5 am each school day. And it is still dark at 5. But after they leave, I see the beautiful sun rising every morning and casting a golden glow, which glints off the glass of the semi-skyscrapers opposite me. The dark glassed ones look more copper-gilded than golden. Here are pictures of the same.

On another note, my book of poems titled "Ink on Water" is available in select Crossword stores. It is also available on Amazon and Flipkart. Do remember to order your copy and enjoy reading the book with a cup of chai...or coffee....or whatever...!

So, the recently converted expat's ink shall continue to flow. Or should we say, the keys shall continue to tap?

(c) Shubhrata Prakash

My First Book of Poetry : Ink On Water

(C) Shubhrata Prakash

Releasing on May 10, 2015 at Ahmedabad Management Association, Ahmedabad.

The Sea

(c) Shubhrata Prakash

They say I am the sea

I get pulled by my father, the Sun

I get pulled by my lover, the Moon

I keep oscillating between the two.

They say I have no will of my own.

They say that’s the law of nature.

I can never be free.

I shall always be bound by the Sun and Moon

The churning rod in my own churning

Between the two loves of my life.

They say I am the sea

Always fickle, always whimsical

Always even hormonal

Sometimes I wax

Sometimes I wane

Am I really sane?

They say I don’t know my own mind

They say I can’t be left alone

That is why I am kept chained

To all my sea sisters

All kept linked together

Bound by the Sun and the Moon.

Of course, they are men.

They know their minds.

They know how to keep waves of women under control

Waves of infinite water….some of it even our briny tears

We - the sisterhood of the seas.

They say I am the sea

Okay that’s what I am.

But have they forgotten my depths?

Have they succeeded in binding me?

Can they ever capture my fist in theirs?

Ha..ha..ha..all they will have is sand

They can have some shells too

Crabs maybe?

But they can never have me.

My father and my lover may try to keep me in check

But when we sisters turn to our Mother Earth

She cannot see our plight

She quakes with anger and cries tears of lava

Can you quell the curse of a mother ?

No.

A mother gives her daughters so much power

That the energy scares all men.

Free of the Sun, free of the Moon

The sisters rise in rebellion

The sister seas rise so high that no man can control them

For they all run for their lives

To escape the tsunami of waves of our anger.

And when the anger dissipates

Man rues the day

When he called woman the sea

Ye men

Who think they control the seas

Through men like themselves

The Sun and the Moon

Never ye forget

That there’s Mother Earth too

Who sets her daughters free

So, when ye go mad with thy powers

Think of the Earth

And her free daughters.

(c) Shubhrata Prakash


(From "Ink On Water"......coming soon)

The River

The River

(c) Shubhrata Prakash

I am not a river

Bound by the corsets of muddy, sandy banks

I am not a river

Forced and confined to stay within the flanks

I am not a river

Admired in my babyhood for sprouting out of the earth’s womb

I am not a river

Fulfilling romantic fantasies when I fall in a spray like fresh blooms

I am not a river

People lusting after my youthful curves winding along valleys

I am not a river

When mature giving water, power– people their needs daily

I am not a river

When ripe just used by men for breeding

I am not a river

Trout and hilsa and rohu; and for crop feeding

I am not a river

Used and exploited; often bound and dammed

I am not a river

Often dirtied with garbage and sewage and shamed

I am not a river

Weighed down with bridges, tanks, steel; and with fear I shudder

I am not a river

My heart speared with boat oars and ruthless mechanical rudders

I am not a river

A burning place for rotting human flesh and even waste molasses

I am not a river

Where my lungs and breath are choked with consuming pyres’ ashes

I am not a river

Which is admired in youth and exploited in maturity

I am not a river

In old age distributed and thrown into the sea in obscurity

*******************************************************************************

I am not a river

I am a real woman

Yet why do I feel that

Our lives seem so common?

Everything a river faces, mostly I too face

So am I too a river, though a different race?

  

(c) Shubhrata Prakash

(From "Ink On Water".....coming soon)

R-Day Parade, Dummies and Others

Image courtesy : republicdaysms.in

On Monday, after a long gap of not watching stilted polity, I sat down to watch the Republic Day parade. There were rains. There was the POTUS, the FLOTUS and the Lotus on our PM's head (gear). So generally something fresh all around. And an ideal time to introduce the R-day parade to the younger generation.

But do you think it is easy to move our Gen-Nex when there is a parade of Doraemon, Pokemon, Motu-Patlu and Ninja Hattori marching down the Rajpath of the TV screen? Well, in case you do, please visit our home. I can promise you a free dinner!

So, our best efforts bore some small fruit and the kids' TV got tuned to the National Channel "Door-se-Darshan". But sitting with their parents? Beneath their standard. So undignified. So what if one is in primary school and another in pre-school?! Even if they are not teenagers yet, one day they will be. And teenagers, even future ones, should never be caught doing anything below their royal standards. Like watching TV with parents. Or spending time with parents.

One departure from the usual protocol is when we go out shopping. To correct that a little - when "I" go shopping and my husband and kids tow after me. To kill time they have devised a game whereby my husband has made the kids believe that all the mannequins, whom my kids call "dummies", are part of a family. Often, time is spent working out family trees of the dummies. And the kids also believe that at night, when the shops close down, the dummies come alive and move about. This is how "smart" parents keep their kids from running all over the store and may be toppling over a dummy or two. So the time Mummy spends shopping is spent happily playing hide-n-seek behind the dummies.

Back to the R-day parade. With scowling faces and ill-concealed grace, Gen-Nex was watching the parade. Satisfied about having done our patriotic deed for the day by making two future citizens see the light-and-might of our great Republic, we walked away.

In a while two pairs of footsteps were running up the stairs to the lounge. Before I could ask what happened, our elder one piped up. "We were watching TV. There was a dummy in a jeep. Mummy, suddenly the dummy came alive and put his hands to his head like a salute!"

I was in splits when I realized that the absolutely still Lt Gen standing to attention in an open jeep seemed like a mannequin to the first time R-day parade watchers. And, like they expect the dummies in stores to come alive and are perpetually scared imagining the scene, they were quite scared when the "dummy" on TV came alive too.......

So what helps keep boisterous kids occupied in shops and sometimes even helps not-so-sleepy kids immediately get under the covers and sleep soundly, turned out to be quite a laugh on R-day.

And what dummy did you think I was talking about on R-day?! Well he was there......this R-Day too...!

Coming Alive

Copyright (C) Shubhrata V Prakash

It’s been a while and I haven’t written.

Anything.

Not put pen to paper.

Not put fingers to keyboard.

Not thought.

Not felt.

******************************************************************

No.

It’s not that I haven’t thought or felt.

I have been tutored by times, by circumstances, by people to keep quiet.

See, but not speak.

See, but not feel.

See, think, but still……not express.

I’m trying hard to break free.

I’m straining against the chains.

I’m fighting to keep alive.

Keep my senses alive.

Keep my spirit alive.

Keep my soul ….alive.

But, can I? will I? dare I?

Succeed?

For I feel dead.

Already.

*****************************************************************

I’ve felt a wisp of wind over me lately.

Wisp of wind and spray of water.

Of elixir.

Felt or wanted to feel.

It’s worked.

I’m waking up.

My spirit is getting stronger.

I’m feeding my soul now.

No past hurt is going to change me.

No one or nothing is going to change me.

I’ve kept quiet too long.

Not anymore.

Hey world, do you hear?

Not anymore.

I’m coming alive.

I’m coming alive again.

Copyright (C) Shubhrata V Prakash

Book Review of "Pashu" written by Dr. Devdutt Pattanaik

Copyright (c) Shubhrata V Prakash

Mythology is in. Has been "In" since Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code" recorded phenomenal success and sales. In fact, Brown's own "Angels and Demons", which preceeded "The Da Vinci Code", gained recognition only after the latter's success. Mythology in India was a theme just waiting to be exploited. Except for the Amar Chitra Katha series, there were few takers for mythological books, especially in English. Truth be told, there were very few Indian writers in English in the decades prior to the 2000s. 

What opened the floodgates for mythology post 2000s were two unrelated and serendipitous happenings -  The Da Vinci Code and Chetan Bhagat. And both happened around the same time. So we have many successful Indian authors who have written on books around mythology. Ashwin Sanghi, Shatrujeet Nath, Amish Tripathy are some very successful writers in the genre. Even Ajay Pandey has used mythology in his debut book, "Resonance". However, the works of these authors is in the genre of thrillers based on Indian Mythology.

One Indian author, who has been writing books on mythology only as a form of story-telling of mythological tales, is Dr Devdutt Pattanaik. Yes, he is an actual physician, who later, turned leadership consultant and mythologist. And he is the one credited with writing on Shiva, which inspired the much-watched and much-appreciated TV series "Devon ke Dev: Mahadev". One of his latest offerings comes in the form of "Pashu - Animal Tales from Hindu Mythology". I first laid my eyes on this book with its lime-green jacket, covered with beautiful indigenous-style (mostly tribal) illustrations, when I was "haunting" my favourite haunt - Crossword. I picked it up and realized what a treasure it was for making my children acquainted with animals in mythology.

My children are still at the beginners' level when it comes to reading. In this day and age, I find Amar Chitra Katha losing out to the Chhota Bheems and Doraemons. And I find it difficult to "read out" from an illustrated comic. So "Pashu" was an ideal solution to the problem of making my children familiar with some mythology. The book hasn't failed me. The children are deeply into it. We read a few pages every night. The font type and style are ideal for reading, even by 7-8 year olds. The language is simple enough to be understood by the same age group. The illustrations are simply breath-taking. All animals - snakes, birds, fish, cows- have tribal motifs on their bodies. Females are adorned with bindis, jewellery and even plaited hair. Even the occasional human form one encounters in the book, is similarly motif-ed. And the illustrations have been credited to the author himself.

There are tales about Timi,Vinata, Kadru, Surabhi, Sarama and Surasa, and their respective children - fish, birds, snakes, cows, tigers and demon-forms. There is Nandi, Naga-loka, Deva-loka and so much happening all over. Long and winding tales have been simplified. Since much of mythology has references to sex, and the conception of various species of animals, it is interesting to see how such concepts have been de-sensationalized, and simplified, for children to read and understand. The same treatment has been administered to violence and blood-shed as well.

Overall, a very interesting read for both children and adults. There are so many mythological stories and characters in it, which I had never heard of, and I have been an Amar-Chitra-Katha-guzzling kid, if there was any! Highly recommended to all parents of children between 5-15 years of age.

2015 AD : Another "Happy" "New" Year

Copyright (C) Shubhrata V Prakash

Hey folks!

A very happy 2015 to everyone!!

A new year brings with it lots of new hope and new cheer. But, ultimately, it is only an adjustment in date.....so I don't take it too seriously....and of course, nothing much has changed so far. 

The first terror attack of the year has already happened. Debates about cartoons, tolerance, freedom of speech and expression, how much satire is too much satire, comparisons with the movie PK, then more debate, more discussion.....it is all the same. So what's new about the new year? Nothing, I would say.

North India is reeling under a severe cold wave. Here I am sipping my adrak-chai (ginger tea) in the sun and giving my Facebook friends a virtual sunny wave. Again nothing new.

Sanjay Dutt was granted a furlough to celebrate the new year and its eve. Of course, the rich are privileged, even if they are convicted felons. The poor spend new year's eve on the pavements under freezing skies, wondering how to keep themselves alive to see the light of the new year. Again, that's not something new.

The Indian cricket team, or Team India as we have become used to calling it (the assumption being that no other sport has a Team India), is doing miserably at an away series. What's new?

This blog, like all of Indian media - print, electronic, social or any other - is incomplete without the above references to Bollywood and Cricket. Nothing new again.

Time for Uttarayan. A little boy has already fallen prey to the deadly Manjha. People have got wire frames fitted on two-wheelers to escape the manjha and the deathly curse it brings. Emergency measures are being taken to treat injuries to humans and birds. And yet, we are not ready to think of a safer way of celebrating our festivals. We are not ready to "sacrifice" even a teeny-weeny bit of fun from our festivals, even if it is at the cost of other human beings. Who says that fun is more important than the life of a five-year-old boy? And those of other victims? Again, nothing new.

After Uttarayan, the marriage season will be back. Nobody wants to "sacrifice" on fun, loud music and dancing. Ok. But no one wants to pay for the use of a party place for the song-and-dance either. So the poor neighbours must suffer the assault of deafening music, and the inconvenience of road-blocks and traffic jams. After all, we are guaranteed freedom as a fundamental right. So who cares what is right? Nothing new again. 

Alas, if only the new year actually brought something new with it - like a new way of thinking? Caring about the rights and comforts of other people, e.g.,? Celebrations in non-threatening, non-intrusive ways? Traditions modified to suit modern, urban living? Marriages that get over in a few hours, instead of days, and with less "conspicuous consumption"? We are not in the starving pre-independence India, after all (at least those who read this blog!). People actually DOING something, instead of arm-chair activism on Facebook and WhatsApp? "Awareness" is not brought about by adopting a symbol but by actually talking to people about whatever you want to make them aware of.

Or actual "World Peace"? Instead of the parodies in various international events, including the Nobel Prize ceremony. 

Who knows? Perhaps, the old is familiar, and hence, comforting. And people seldom like to move away from their comfort zones. 

So, I hope, at least 2015 is happy, if not new. That would be more than what many can hope for.

Amen.

(The picture shows the flower of a pomegranate tree, taken in a friend's garden)

Book Review : Resonance written by Ajay Pandey

Image courtesy Ajay Pandey

Thrillers have been my favourite genre of books ever since I could read. After all,  the "Secret Seven" and the "Famous Five" series of Enid Blyton were thrillers too, in their own ways. And so were all the other adventure books of Enid Blyton, including "The Enchanted Wood", "The Magic Faraway Tree", "The Adventures of the Wishing Chair" etc.  With age and time, the adventures got transformed to the present day ones of Lee Child's Jack Reacher fighting all "single-handedly"; and those of spies and secret agents created by authors like Frederick Forsythe, David Baldacci, Clive Cussler and scores of others like Mary Higgins Clark, Michael Connelly, Harlan Coben and Christopher Reich.

And this, my love for thrillers, is what led me to seek out this enticing book jacket peering out from book shelves. A pair of icy blue eyes, belonging to a face hidden behind a keffiyeh, promised a lot of thrills, and so with gusto I sat down to read it. Resonance : the work of first-time author, Ajay Pandey.

The thriller is based around the time the unfortunate Mumbai terror attacks of 26/11 happened. The plot centres around an ex-ISI General, Imran Shah Malik, who is unable to forget the defeat of the Pakistani army at the hands of the Indian armed forces in the Bangladesh war of 1971. Revenge is foremost on his mind and he starts dreaming of it, till one day he simply disappears and then a video surfaces showing him being thrown into the white waters of the Swat river from a mountainous height no human can survive. His son, Aban Malik, studying in the US, is suddenly arrested and then deported to Pakistan. He becomes a rebel and a poster-boy for Jehadist groups.

In the meantime, Siddharth Rana, a Joint Director in the IB, starts investigating into a possible terror attack on India, which is being plotted with the active participation of some traitorous Indians. He goes on from clue to clue trying to figure out what is "To Pak To", which were the last words of a dying CISF officer. And what he uncovers points to a chilling terror plot which, if executed as planned, would bring death and destruction to the country - a catastrophe of such proportions that its after-effects would destroy India forever. 

The book is a thrilling read from the beginning to the end. There is terror, of course. But what sets this book apart from the other stylish and taut thrillers of the West, is that the book does not indulge in demonizing any religion. The author has borrowed heavily from the Sufi traditions of India. Sufism itself evolved as a soothing and soulful blend of the best of Hindu and Islamic beliefs, and hence, the same soulful touch is found in many places in the story. Amidst all the plotting and terror, there is also the tender love story of Aban and Juhi. There are the beliefs of Nausheen Malik, Aban's mother and Imran Shah Malik's wife. There is symbology in terms of the use of Hindu gods like Brahma. There are the beautifully described landscapes of  the rugged mountains of the Af-Pak region and the scenic Swat valley. And of course, there is use of technology and of the force of nature itself, in the planned terror attack.

The author, Ajay Pandey, is an officer of the Indian Revenue Service (IRS). During his long and successful career with the IRS, he has had several occasions to work closely with law enforcement. Other than taxation laws, which, of course, are his bread-and-butter work. This kind of exposure has given him a ring-side view of the world of terrorism, terror financing and economic offences, and that exposure has come into play quite evidently in this book. 

Over all, a wonderful read. A book which is special because it is written by an Indian in the Indian context. The locations, agencies and agent-prototypes are known and familiar. This is Indian Writing in a different genre, a different class. A good read for this holiday season? Definitely, yes.

First-time author Ajay Pandey

Battle the Gun; Not People

Today is December 17, 2014. The whole world, especially South Asia, is still numb with shock. Yesterday, hundreds of school children aged 4-16 yrs, left home for school in the town of Peshawar, in Pakistan, in the morning. Some of them never made it home. Some are still hanging between the state of living and the state of non-being. The ones who made it back safe will never be the same again. Their childhood, innocence, sense of security and the way of viewing the world, have changed forever. Of course, some teachers lost their lives too, leaving their families shattered too.

There has been a spontaneous outpouring of grief the world over. This massacre was preceded by the killing of two innocent persons in Sydney the day before. The world is waiting in dread : who, what, where and how will be the next.

Whenever a terror attack or a massacre occurs, people are first shocked. Then voices speak out against terror. There are some chases and arrests. There are some token memorial services. And then all goes quiet. Till the next attack. Every attack is measured against the previous one for severity and heinousness. As if such immeasurables could be measured! There is jingoism. There are vows of revenge and avenging. There is finger pointing. There is even denial. Like the Pakistani officials denying India having offered help. And then, it is business as usual.

What no one ever does is go to the very root of the problem. Of course, questions like who helped create and nurture these armies of terror, who used them towards what geo-political game, and who is still creating one horror to counter another horror, are too complex and convoluted to be discussed on this humble blog. I have seen Indians living in those same countries outcry the outcomes, but never question the global policies and practices of their adopted "homelands".

However, another issue which never is discussed, involves the instruments of terror - the guns and the bombs. Who manufactures them? Who markets and sells them? Who buys them and how? How do they procure money for buying the human-killing machinery? What happens to the money which the sellers receive? Which economy does this money finally get invested or channeled into? 

Surely guns and bombs do not manufacture themselves. Yet, why does no one ever raise these questions? The answers to these questions are vital if we are going to keep our promise to the slain children that their deaths are going to be avenged. Or the promises to our own terror victims and their families. Because the only way to stop weeds from growing is to uproot them. Promising flowers that we will fight weeds does nothing. And these questions can easily be answered if the right pressure is put on the right Banks in the right countries. But that requires geo-political clout. And if countries with that kind of clout are not doing it, there is something that they intend to keep away from the eyes of the world.

Food for thought. Why not strike where it really hurts rather than just beat about the bush and engage in tokenism, which will mean something to the victims and their families of this massacre, but will do nothing to stop the next one? If you take out one terrorist, a hundred will take their place. But if they don't have the instruments - the guns- what will they kill with? And the same logic can be applied to the frequent gunning in schools and community centres in the US. People cry hoarse about gun control, but I have never seen a single discussion on stopping production of arms. We call terrorists all kinds of names, but what about people who put the gun in their hands? Is their liability any less?   

So amidst the mourning, which people will forget in less than a week, when they go on to Christmas and New Year bashes, here is something to think about.....

Lingua Indica

Copyright (C) Shubhrata V Prakash

I am no scholar of linguistics. My knowledge of languages is limited to two - Hindi, being my mother tongue, and English, being my tongue. Yes my tongue, thanks to a convent education. And so the entire German-Sanskrit, three-language formula, four-language formula, five-language formula etc have left me quite amused and huff-puff.....breathless too. Counting the number of languages in the formula is no less of an effort than actually learning them.

My proficiency in German consists of..ahem...knowing the meaning of all of TWO words - Achtung ("Attention" - who can forget the U2 song Achtung Baby?!) and Das (meaning "the"). My understanding of "Das" is courtesy Karl Marx - Das Kapital, and Volkswagen - Das Auto. Of course, I thought Volkswagen was pronounced as it was written in English, till I saw the Hindi signboards. And actually, when I first came across "Das Kapital", while mugging up 'Books and Authors' in General Knowledge books as a child, I thought it meant Ten Capitals (of maybe ten countries in the world! Das means ten in Hindi, you see).

Sanskrit is another story. Shabd Roops and Dhatu Roops kept getting complicated. The difficult level was an upward rising curve, from 5th standard to 8th standard. Needless to say that the marks were situated on a downward sloping curve. One positive aspect of Sanskrit education was that finally, after 6 years of formal schooling, I could understand why the last consonant of the Devanagari script अः (Ahh) existed - of course, to be used in Sanskrit! It is said that Sanskrit is the mother of Hindi. So, like all rebellious daughters, Hindi used her mom's favourite Ahh sparingly and most spitefully. And so we have Ahh appearing in horrible words like प्रातः "praatahh", meaning early morning. Who loves early mornings, pray? But how was a small, primary school girl to understand that? I was still hanging on to my mother's pallu then.

A new language came into my life when I went to reside in the "only one of its kind" linguistically divided state - Tamil Nadu. Tamil...! No தமிழ்  Thamizh. Anyways, from not knowing a single word of it, I can now speak a few words. My early experience of living in தமிழ் நாடு Thamizh Nadu helped improve my acting skills. You see, I was communicating wholly and solely through mime. I guess the same happens when Tamil students come to Pusa Institute, Delhi, for studying agriculture. They have perfected the art of mime and so, no cultural programme in any Civil Services academy is complete without a brilliant mime by Tamil civil servants, mostly from the Pusa Institute! 

Anyways, the mime soon changed into some pigdin Tamil (not Thamizh). Whenever I speak Tamil in front of my North Indian friends, and family, they are so impressed! They look at me in amazement and compliment me on my "fluent" Tamil. I enjoy all the compliments and strut about with my chest all puffed out. Why do they need to know that if my Thamizh friends had heard what I had said, they would have had to take some anti-spasmodic to stop the stomach-ache they would have got from laughing. May be they would have given their maids a day off as the house would be clean because of their rolling on the floor laughing (ROFL in Internet-ese), and they couldn't possibly eat because of the stomach-ache explained before. So no cooking required either.

However, I have had my share of Tamil-shocks too. A few months in TN and someone asked me if I would like to eat Sholay for lunch. I was shocked. How could anyone eat a movie? A little more use of my bird brain horrified me further. What if "Sholay" is code or short for "Kalia : Sardar maine aapka namak khaya hai...Gabbar : Toh ab goli kha!" ?!  Mercifully, what appeared at the lunch table was the good old innocuous "chholey"..........and I learnt that in Tamil, 'sa' , 'sha', 'cha' and 'chha' are all interchangeably used. In fact, in Thamizh, there is only ச  'cha'. Still, this concept took a while to take roots in my mind. And so, during my first posting in Madurai, when someone brought a file concerning a "church" case, I kept looking for a church in it. Alas, I could only find a tax-evading financial company, which had been searched under Section 132 of the Income Tax Act, 1961 : hence a "search" case! And in the next few months, I did see a lot more of these "church" cases.

Every language and dialect has its own peculiarities. In Bihar, my home state, there is no difference between "pen"and "pain". Probably, someone in the early days of English education, during the British Raj, did not like to write; and so termed the "pen" as a big "pain" in his life, and the pronunciation stuck. In the Hadauti region of Rajasthan, "sa" is pronounced as "ha", much like in Asom (Ahom). So "Bachche So rahe hain" (kids are sleeping) becomes "Bachche Ho rahe hain" (kids are being born)!

In Bihar, the words "Kaahe ka" mean "why?". In UP, "Kaahe ka" means "made of what?". So, when my mother-in-law, from Lucknow, first came to visit my husband and me, she would sit at the dining table and ask me "Kaahe ki Sabzi hai?" (What is this vegetable curry made of?) Poor, foolish me kept thinking "Doesn't she know why vegetable curries are made? To eat, of course!" But in India, the Saas-Bahu game is always on, and I thought maybe it was a quiz she took to examine my philosophy with respect to food, poverty, hunger, healthy eating etc. I guess the UPSC hangover is hard to get rid off!

So, with all this experience under my belt, my relationship with the latest language in my life,  ગુજરાતી Gujarati, has so far been quite amicable. Except in the beginning, when a shopkeeper called me મોટી બેન  Moti Ben. OMG, was the shopkeeper rude and impudent! How dare he call me fat! (Moti means fat in Hindi). Had he ever looked in the mirror and seen his own pot belly? Or was he delusional, thinking that it was actually a pot that covered his six-pack abs?! (Happy New Year had not been released by then and a six-pack, not an eight-pack, was the gold standard for male figures). I didn't want to create a scene, and so, I managed to keep all my knives, daggers, swords, drones, RPGs and IEDs, and even Sunny Deol's hand-pump, inside my imagination. The next day, I started on a vigourous diet-and-exercise regime. Two days later, I was back to snacking on potato chips slumped on the couch before the TV. I had, by then, discovered, that "moti" in Gujarati means "big"or "elder". Hence, "Moti Ben" meant "big sister" or "elder sister" !

Anyways, whatever the outcome of the present German-Sanskrit debate - doesn't matter to me. What matters is that I'm way past school and don't have to learn either !! Language was made for communication and for creating understanding among people. But all I've seen languages creating is confusion. Maybe the cavemen's pictorial script was the real language. My kids have been practicing it quite a bit as evident from the walls of our home. Who knows, before they reach the stage when the German-Sanskrit debate becomes real for them, the pictorial script may have become a game-changer...?!!

Image courtesy : Sharang Prakash and Aadyant Prakash
Copyright (C) Shubhrata V Prakash

The Enlightenment

Copyright (C) Shubhrata V Prakash

The night was dark, my spirits low. I sat on the pavement, near the seashore, musing. I had tried sleeping without success. My restlessness had forced me out of the house - into the darkness of the night. It was dark and humid. Not a leaf stirred anywhere. The air was still. Sultry. The present state of my mind was in harmony with the night, both blending into each other. And this wasn't the first time either.

For weeks together I had stalked the seashore, trying to find some meaning to life, in the rhythm of the tide breaking on the sands. Only tonight, it was darker and more sultry. Even the little pieces of silver, sewn on the black satin overhead, seemed to be shrouded. No breeze. My mind - too weak and dull, after weeks of brooding. Still I had no clue as to why I was a living being. Why life at all? Why my life?

A kaleidoscope of images whirred past me. Images from the past. The future? Life had always been comfortable. But why life at all? What would have happened if I hadn't been? Probably nothing different from what was happening now. What if I don't live till tomorrow? Nothing different again. I had heard arguments. Life is enjoy. to create, to revel and to be happy. To establish yourself as "somebody". To be different from the ordinary. I was not convinced. Why be different? What is so great about greatness? What is happiness? Why to be happy? Why life at all? Why?

So there I was. Back to square one. Back to that night. The dark, airless night. There were few people around me - some on the pavement, some down below on the sand. Yet, I hardly noticed them. Neither did I care for the few headlights, which used to appear suddenly from the dark and vanish again into the darkness, with amazing speed, blinding me for a few seconds - disturbing my communion with the night. So it was hardly surprising that I missed a dark shadow that crossed me for a second maybe. But the trailing hysterical scream was too loud to be missed. The source of this high decibel scream was a half-bent, frail kind of figure. The light from the street lamp was not sufficient to make out his features. Yet, the urgency of his manner was too obvious.

"What's the matter?"  I asked in a calm and steady voice.

The reply was hardly coherent. Yet, I could make out something about someone running away with money he had saved all day to buy medicines for his sick wife. The unfairness of it all struck me full force. The coordination between my mind and the night was phenomenal. The roar within me was answered by a rumble in the canopy above. In a moment, I was off in the direction towards which a crooked and shaking finger of his was pointed. Soon I could make out a medium-sized figure steadily gathering speed. But his speed was no match for mine. To come out of it the best way, he dropped a small and dirty cloth purse and sped away into the night. I waited to catch my breath. Then, slowly, I picked up the dirty object from the pavement and headed back towards its owner. As I handed it over to him, amidst the rumble, lightening flashed. Just for an instant. But that instant was enough. Enough to see his face. Enough to read the expression on it.

And even after that instant was gone, I remembered it only too well. It was like Prince Siddhartha becoming The Buddha. I had this strange feeling of elation within me. Pit-pat-pat. Big drops had started falling on the pavement. The latter, having weathered the sun for days, devoured the rain with a vehement hiss. The few people, who were still out on the street, started running for cover. But I walked on at a leisurely pace. 

It was pouring now. I couldn't have welcomed it more - yet I couldn't have cared less. For I had known, just for that instant, what life was. What happiness was. And, for that moment, I did not bother to add 'why'.

(First published in Vibes '97. The blogger was a 1st year MBA student then.)