Posted on by nikita

From Rags to Ragi: Stories of marginalization 

Do you remember mothers of the 90s packing one or two pieces of cotton cloth in her duffel bag on her journey by train, plane or by road?

That piece of cloth with frayed ends, which was once a part of your soft towel or a smooth bedsheet. That rectangular or square piece put to varied uses – wiping spilt food and liquid; dusting the microorganisms (visible only to the moms) off the seats; cleaning the pickle oil that had eventually trickled onto the other contents in the bag; or simply wiping messy hands after eating. That piece of cloth we call a rag.

Generally, when travelling, people carry scraps of cloth that look presentable, reflecting their status. Who would want to appear as ragged as their rags? 

And yet, at home, the same people may use a worn-out vest — once used to soak sweat like a sponge, silently soaking soap water — in their spacious kitchen.

What I’m driving at is, despite being deprived of the respect they deserve, rags have never stopped providing their service to the users. For example, in many Indian homes, an ostracized t-shirt from a wardrobe, mutilated with precision, and tied to a wooden stick, is used for dusting furniture; a worn-out single sock brings glow to the footwear it is rubbed against, even when it is left to grieve the loss of its partner; demoted pillow covers move from under the mighty head on a mattress to the dirty feet at the doorstep. 

Yet, quietly and silently, despite their substantial contribution in saving the environment, these worn-out pieces never expect any form of acknowledgement, much like generally unacknowledged maa ke haath ka khana. 

Like these rags, some foods too have lived quietly on the margins. Ragi or finger millet is one of them. One of the most sought-after superfoods in today’s health-conscious world.

Ignored for years, the grain, which was once considered poor man’s food, has moved from rags to riches.

Nutritionally rich, Ragi has won hearts (through social media and YouTube videos) before reaching stomachs. Suddenly, supermarket racks display myriad Ragi products – Ragi chakli, Ragi mamra, Ragi sticks, chips, cookies, Ragi this, Ragi that. It’s Ragi rage. 

The coarse grain was relegated to the corners of society, like an average student of the 90s who wasn’t academically strong enough to make it to the top ranks. The same reddish-brown grain that was deemed inferior to rice and wheat in India during the 1960s & 70s has surprisingly made a dhurandhar comeback.

Excluded from the company of the elite grains, much like a rag, it has eventually found its way into urban homes, now contributing, in its own modest way, quietly wiping away obesity and sedentary lifestyles from society. 

*****

Interviewer: Ma’am, how did you maintain your place amidst unwelcoming Bollywood stars?
Yami Gautam: Haq se.

Posted on by nikita

Age is just a number. Is it?

a group of people in uniform holding paper board with a text same as you

‘Inki umar kitni hai?’ inquired the female co-passenger on the train, scrutinizing my round face for a wrinkle or two.

‘Pachas (50),’ my bhabhi replied in a matter-of-fact tone, increasing my age by one number. 

Because age is just a number. 

No sooner did the lady in a blue salwar kameez and a dupatta covering her head hear the number than she went silent, like a MIL caught bitching her DIL and vice versa. Seemingly, her interest in me and my singlehood lasted even less than the reel time on IG once my age was revealed. (Thankfully, what my appearance can’t, my blogs do — sustain interest). 

Certainly, the lady didn’t subscribe to the cliché that age is just a number. Immediately, she scrolled and changed to another interesting topic, much like a toddler’s shifting interest in toys.

Of course, as a stranger, she wasn’t obliged to ‘like’ the content that was served to her, unlike many people who feel compelled to click on the ‘heart’ icon for various reasons: to trigger the release of dopamine; herd mentality; saving oneself from the fear of missing out; to initiate a conversation or a new relationship; and so on. 

Such an attitude makes me wonder — Does an individual’s passive submission to social media norms stem from the real-world notion of conforming to social norms, even at the cost of losing one’s individuality? And is the online pressure stronger than the offline ones?

I can’t say for sure, but one thing I can be certain about is the non-conformist attitude of the US President Mr.Trump. Breaking all presidential norms through his words and actions, he exemplifies that irate child who wakes up every morning with fresh new demands. 

One day, he commands to capture the Venezuelan leader Nicolás Maduro. The next day, he asks for Greenland. Insatiable that his appetite is, yet another day, he would demand for the Chagos Islands too. Before you can scroll through and analyze his demands, he’s ready with a new directive. And mind you, it’s for real, starkly different from the social media reels. 

At 79, Trump is apparently sending out a message that age is just a number for him. He can be as cranky as a small kid, demanding attention and praise at all times, even if it doesn’t materialize in the form of a Nobel Peace Prize.

While Trump is busy blowing his trumpet of individuality without a second thought, a thoughtful observation about his life and work by the musical maestro A.R. Rahman — globally renowned and for the right reasons — seems to have opened a Pandora’s box of various interpretations around his subtle remark on the ‘communal thing’, despite receiving accolades and awards, irrespective of his otherwise identity. A man of few words and more music, he has struck a wrong chord in many Indian hearts, thereby inviting a cacophony of backlash.

The fact of the matter is, with changing times and taste, A.R.Rahman may no longer be the only choice of an individual or a particular film industry, but his identity as an eminent music composer will remain intact for years to come. 

After all, a number is just an arithmetic concept. Music produced with Dil Se will still be hummed and sung, transcending cultures, communities, and countries. Jai Ho!

*****

Friend: What are you reading about?
Me: Anti-ageing tips by Bryan Johnson. 

Posted on by nikita

To be or not to be

woman walking on desert sand dunes at sunrise

With sincere apologies to Roxette.

Lay a wisp of hair
On my pillow
In the blanket
On the ground
I wake up lonely
This (h)air of silence
In the bedroom
And all around 

My latest pet peeve is finding strands of hair on my mattress, pillow and on every glistening white tile of my modest flat. In the morning, when I try to focus on inhaling and exhaling microbial air in different postures of Surya Namaskar, my unspectacled eyes fall on those valuable assets, strewn all around like the petals of flowers for the mehboob who won’t arrive. 

Some prefer to remain isolated as a single strand, seemingly enjoying solitude. In contrast, others tango in pairs, evoking envious looks from the watchers, and still others crowd and coil in groups, experiencing existential crises.

While Hastapadasan-ing and making a painful effort to touch the palms on the floor, I trap a strand or two under my square palm, forbidding them to escape into the thin air. I walk to the window in between my poses and discard them with a heavy heart and a lighter head. 

Mourning their departure till they disappear in the Brahmand they birthed from, I resume from where I left off. Moving ahead, the Dandasana pose helps me to have a bird’s-eye view of my surroundings, much like a hawk, trying to spot its prey. As soon as I can locate the tiny, silky bits, I go down to the floor in the Ashtanga pose and exhale vigorously through my mouth instead of my routinely used nostrils, driving them away for the time being. 

Since yoga has a reputation for bringing calmness to the body and mind, I would not want to tarnish its well-established local and global reputation. So, I have learnt to find a sliver of positivity in such a dire state of the thing of beauty, despite being stripped of the joy I once had. I happily tell myself that at least my hair hasn’t turned into fifty shades of grey yet, even when I’m pacing towards 50. 

With age, if I’m losing something, I’m also gaining something in return — experience and wisdom, validating Carl Jung’s idea of ‘individuation’. Of course, there are some visible and invisible (to others) changes in me, such as thinning hair, drier skin, weaker bone density, foggy memory, mood swings, hot flashes, and many other irritating symptoms. But I still feel excited like the batswoman who is one run short of getting a 50. The reason for this excitement is that I’m in the age slot (and I’m banking on my mom’s and nani’s genetics) when one can finally say tata bye-bye to the monthly trauma, which begins as early as adolescence.

From adolescence, willingly or unwillingly,  women prepare themselves to handle their periods and the cramps that never fail to accompany them. While some cultures celebrate menstruation, marking a girl’s first menstruation and her transitioning to womanhood, I would like to celebrate the end of it. Just because I feel it’s enough. Enough of the pain. Because hair is not the only thing I wait to lose with age. 

*****

He: I can’t feel, but I can see that you’re in pain.
She: Finally. Ty. 

To all the men
Happy International Men’s Day

Posted on by nikita

The pop-up power

It was a Sunday morning. My mom was reading a newspaper as part of her daily ritual after a typical guju breakfast. I sat beside her and started reading an online news article. While she was calmly leafing through the pages, without being distracted by the unanimated ads that filled most of the space in the paper, I was annoyingly busy hitting the little cross sign on the pop-up ads.

Pop-ups intrude on every nanosecond of your reading. The moment you try to read an article with the newly practiced concentration on your phone, a pesky ad, like the Jack in the box, suppressed for a long time, pops out, not frightening you as its job demands, but leaving you irritated. 

And the more frustrating aspect is the futile attempts to get rid of them, as they are interspersed throughout the article, much like eternal potholes on the roads, regardless of their size. The article text and the ads keep shifting since the browser, over-stuffed with other dynamic elements like images and video clips, takes time to complete loading, thereby disrupting your reading experience. In the bid to aim for the cross, when you click on the ad in utter exasperation, you are immediately transported to a new world with more information. 

Most of the time, these ads are none other than the ‘chosen ones’ by the new man-made God — the AI. Man proposes, AI exposes. He is the modern omniscient who knows your likes and dislikes. He is cognizant of your wants. He listens to you without you being aware of his presence. His intrusion into your life has almost become uncontrollable. 

Never summon a power you can’t control.

                                                              Yuval Noah Harari, in one of his interviews

Such unbridled power of technology reminds me of the celestial tree mentioned in the ancient India scriptures, though its symbolic significance varies in different religions. What AI is to the modern world, the Kalpavriksha — a wish-fulfilling tree — was to the people in ancient times. Their desires were granted at the snap of a finger — much like a click on your phone today. Who knows, those who developed AI may have drawn inspiration from yet another Indian belief and tradition —  just like many other Indian religious and cultural practices from the primordial world, which are often presented as scientific discoveries or inventions by the West, such as intermittent fasting and meditation.

Whoever is the controller — the Divine or the (divine:)) data — currently, India, Bharata, seems to be rejoicing in reclaiming its power as the guardian of the sone ki chidiya by attracting foreign investors through the Free Trade Agreement (FTA) with various countries, the latest being with the UK. (By the time my blog is published, there could be more on the list.) 

To the uninitiated, India’s economy had surpassed the UK in 2022 to become the world’s fifth-largest economy. Currently, in 2025, it has surpassed Japan, positioning itself as the fourth-largest economy, according to IMF.

See the irony of it all. The British people, who once almost caged the sone ki chidiya, are now seeking India’s help to boost their sluggish economy. 

The colonizers, who left their imprint on India’s social and cultural identity, are today impressed by India’s digital identity — the Aadhaar system. Prime Minister Starmer has shown interest in emulating such a model, modifying it to suit his country’s needs.

And the irony doesn’t end here. The Indian Air Force will soon be training fighter pilots in the UK. 

Undoubtedly, life is a full circle.

***

Click, click, click …poof, poof, poof … Mom, can I borrow the newspaper if you are done reading?

***

Me: What’s all this Gen Z protest about?
Friend: AI. American Interference. 

HAPPY DIWALI and A WONDERFUL NEW YEAR

Source of the image – https://shorturl.at/bv1XQ



Posted on by nikita

Chai pe charcha

street vendor making traditional indian chai

It wasn’t simply a conversation over a cup of tea, but the charcha was all about the amusing variety of ways people consume a cup of tea. 

For example, let me tell you about a friend of my cousin: he would arrange seven saucers on the dining table and pour tea into each of them. Then he would slurp it from every saucer, starting from 1 through 7. 

Instantly, this anecdote conjured up the image of Tom from my favourite Tom & Jerry cartoon in front of my unblinking eyes. Tom lapping his tongue, relishing what’s on a plate, before getting instigated by his all-time friend and foe, Jerry.

Just as their friendship is full of twists and turns, the real-world alliance of President Trump and his one-time dear friend, the Indian chaiwala, is also not immune to twists and turns. Lately, all his frequent taarif in honour of Mr. Modi seems to have turned into a virulent tariff. 

*****

Taarif karu kya uski jisne tumhe banaya…— an acquaintance who would empty the contents of the cup, the tea, into a thali and let the heat dissipate, thereby cooling it. By this time, she would get her daughter ready for school — dressing her in the school uniform, combing her hair, and preparing her lunchbox. Of course, she would know the difference between a tea that’s gone cold and iced tea. 

Just wondering, what she did with the tea scum? Would she just let it slip down her deprived throat, akin to kids who let bitter medicines glide down their resistant throat, or would she pinch it with her index finger and thumb, a neat pincer grasp, and discard the scum?

Surely, many of us must have come across people who remove tea scum and place it on the rim of a cup or on the side of a saucer. The sight of this waxy residue, stuck to the surface, is quite grotesque, like a ghostly skin on something once appealing. And if the vessels aren’t soaked or washed immediately, the scum gets as stubborn as it can, eventually bearing the brunt of the soapy scrub that is rubbed to and fro over it. 

*****

Scum. 

Sounds so derogatory. Like — ‘Hey! You scum! How dare you float on the surface of my tea! You thin, brown, good-for-nothing!’ 

Take a chill pill! I’m neither being racist nor disparaging. It’s just a vituperative outrage. Nowadays, the tu tadak and offensive language is considered normal, whether it’s satta, samaj, series, or cinema. Swearing seems to be the new vibe. 

Consciously or subconsciously, pejoratives are interwoven into many people’s day-to-day communication just like their staple food. It’s like daal-chawal for some, the absence of which is considered an incomplete meal; while, for others, it could be as soothing as an adruk ki chai.

*****

Chai adrukwali ho ya elaichiwali, no one dared to compete with a person I knew from my adolescent days when it came to drinking piping hot tea. For clarity’s sake, let’s assume that there were four people in a room who were to be served tea. This person would finish his tea before you reach the third person. We felt pity for the tender tissues of his mouth and tongue, and offered our condolences to them. But that’s how he enjoyed having his tea. 

And why just him? My aunt, who would always prefer things that are hot and happening, would cover her cup of tea with a tea coaster after pouring the first installment of tea into a saucer. Once she sips it, relishing every drop of it, she would pour the second portion into the saucer. That’s her style. 

It’s difficult to break the atomic habits she has built over the years, and why would anyone expect her to revise her preferences? After all, she doesn’t have to pay any GST on sipping the tea the way she wants. And, just as I decide what goes into my blog and what doesn’t, she also holds the fundamental right to determine what comes out of her cup.

*****

Journalist: SIR, how did you feel having tea with the ‘dead’ voters from Bihar?
Rahul: As dead as the Indian economy.