Posted on by nikita

Rumbling democracy

inside a train

‘Hello! Please lower the volume or use earphones,’ I asked the man on the train, watching a YouTube video. The discussion on the financial upheaval in the Indian share market by the panellists in the video reached the aisle seat, where I was seated, from the window seat, just like the line moving sideways on a line chart, indicating a sideways trend of a stock.

Apparently, my words didn’t register in his preoccupied ears. So I gesticulated like a flight attendant, synchronizing my hand movements with the words I repeated in my head. Eventually, the window-seat man noticed it and instantly complied, though unapologetically. 

But… but my request was met only to be discarded 10-12 minutes later. A display of sheer entitlement! Annoyed by his inconsiderate demeanour, I decided to start a protest on the train, since sadad pe faisla wasn’t possible then. I put aside my book and unlocked my phone to play a YouTube video. 

But before deciding, I wanted to ask the elderly lady in the middle seat for consent. Perturbed by her neighbour, I shared her frustration at the disregard for her democratic right. After agreeing upon the issue at hand, I watched the news loud enough to disrupt the window-seat man’s attention. I even leaned forward to amplify the effect. 

Lo and behold! The window-seat man was as dismissive of me as the BJP government was toward the CJP and its first-ever protest. 

Having failed as a pressure group, unlike the CJP, which allegedly succeeded in its first protest, I ended my protest, feeling dejected and resumed reading. My YouTube protest, supported only by the elderly lady, fizzled out as soon as it began, much like the E20 fuel protest; even so, I didn’t have enough fuel in my body to fight for my democratic right to peaceful travelling. And how many could I fight against? 

Because it wasn’t just the window-seat man;  another man, who had moved to a vacant window seat with an unoccupied aisle chair, tangentially from me, was watching one of those viral videos with a wheezing laugh track like the whistle of a kettle. Even his raspy laughter, which shook his whole body, matched the artificial wheeze so well. 

Interestingly, every time he watched a reel, he seemed to follow a particular pattern: first, he roared with laughter; then he called out to his wife; and lastly, he confirmed with her whether she had watched the reel he was watching. 

Changing a seat, I realized, can sometimes be as challenging as attempting a regime change

Irked, I shifted my focus to the little child in the front seat who behaved as little children are expected to behave — talkative and playful. Her constant chatter seemed more pleasant amidst the undemocratic chaos all around. 

*****

Friend: ‘Rumbling’ or ‘Crumbling’ democracy?
Me: Suit yourself.

Posted on by nikita

In Love… 

Neither did I hear any violins in the background nor did I feel any magic in the air. My chiffon dupatta didn’t float in the gentle breeze. But I still experienced love. 

Because my love was different and distinct; it was my love for the word ‘vivacious’. I love the vibration and rhythmic energy the word brings with it when you say ‘vivacious’, true to its meaning. That’s why I instantly fell in love with the word when I first heard it in my Social Studies class in grade 7.

The word belonged to Mrs Mulberry, my SS teacher. For me, she is the OG of the word; I don’t need to look for its Latin, Greek, or French origins. 

While my love for words began unknowingly in my formative years, my love for the violin was stirred by the invisible violins that played in the background of some Shah Rukh Khan movies, inspiring me to take violin lessons in my younger days, without considering the challenges of choosing it over other instruments. For almost 2 years, I learned violin only to give it up; I couldn’t cultivate the patience to take me further beyond the famous bhajan Vaishnav jan to tene kahiye… 

For want of more patience, I soon realised I had good ears for the music that flowed through the violin, sailing like a chiffon dupatta, even if I couldn’t play it myself. Since then, the instrument has stayed with me as a relic of my past, which I recently dislodged from its resting place, hoping to give myself one more chance at playing it. But after almost 25 years, even after changing the strings, all I could produce was a screeching sound when the bow passed across the instrument’s strings. 

I learnt two things: 1. Changing the strings, obviously, cannot change me into a good violinist. 2. I need to change the bow also. 

Wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead with my non-chiffon dupatta, I bowed to my violin; I let it return to the case from whence it came, much like a living being returning to the place it originated from. 

‘Deep indeed’! I told myself, indulging in some self-praise. How else could I develop the ability and panache to praise others? 

Surprised by the depth of my thought, I wonder whether the source of its origin is the ultra-divine atmosphere around me these days — Oh-my-friend Ganesha days, with aartis and bhajans, loud enough for the lady on the 15th floor of the building, almost 150 mts away from my society, just like I hear aartis and bhajans played in her society. And these are played at a given decibel three times a day, presumably prescribed by the OG–Omnipresent Ganesha, I mean.

No one can match the devotion Indians have towards their gods and goddesses. After bidding adieu to Ganesha, preparations will begin to welcome Amba Ma. For nine days,  garba lovers will swirl, dance and make merry; for many, garba practice had already begun on the tarmac at the Vietnam Airport, at the Great Wall of China, and other tourist places. 

Enthusiasts like these proudly carry their immense love for culture wherever they go, even though many perceive them as uncultured. But isn’t appreciating one’s own culture better than misappropriating someone else’s culture?

This time, the case in point is yet another Italian luxury brand, Fendi. The brand used Indian—specifically, Gujarati—artisans’ traditional mirror, bead, and thread-work embroidery for its handbags. The modest embroidered jholas or handbags, that women carry during Navratri, became embroidered baguettes worth 9.5L each without proper credit, except for paying the craftsmen — the unacknowledged OGs. 

The foreign brand’s immense love for traditional Indian craftsmanship, obviously, swiftly gilded like a chiffon dupatta across millions of mobile screens in India; nothing can go unnoticed in the age of social media. Probably, the khaman-dhokla-thepla gang must have been hurt the most, and to avenge Fendi’s cultural appropriation, many would vow to visit famous tourist places in Italy like the Colosseum or the Vatican Museums, and play garba in vibrant chaniya cholis, and kediyas and dhotis embellished with beads, mirrors and embroidery. 

While their dance would reflect Indian culture, the ungrateful faces behind foreign brands like these will be reflected in 475 mirrors, recreating K. Asif’s set design for the memorable song, Jab pyaar kiya to darna kya.

*****

Student: The text states that Vasco da Gama discovered the sea route to India.
SS Teacher: Historical misinformation. 

Source of the image: https://sl1nk.com/gma9dzm


Posted on by nikita

The Dimaagi Naxals

row of soldiers with weapons

Disclaimer: I am a proud Indian, and I am not a ‘Dimaagi Naxal’.

In his address on the 80th Independence Day of India, the Prime Minister used the term dimaagi naxal, presumably referring to those intellectual minds and forces that work against the holistic growth of India. And obviously, as expected, repercussions followed. In no time, many across India fell into his rhetorical trap. Koi shak!

A Gujju at heart, we are told farti topi pehri nai levani, which figuratively means don’t let anyone trick you. Nevertheless, without naming anyone, many were tricked by the Gujju PM, and we had senior leaders like P. Chidambaram who proudly claimed to be a dimaagi naxal. 

Most of us know that Naxalism refers to a militant Maoist movement in India that advocates armed struggle to overthrow the state and establish a communist order. I am sure Mr Chidambaram is also well versed with its definition; after all, he served as the Home Minister of India when naxalites still existed in India.

And it’s not just him. Many politicians and non-supporters of the government had their own interpretations, eventually leading to political mudslinging. 

While everyone was pointing at the outside traitor, my mind immediately identified a traitor within my body—the rebellious hormones. 

Based on my research, in a woman’s body, hormones like estrogen, progesterone, testosterone, and many more work for years in harmony with her body, only to seemingly rebel against it as she ages, snailing towards perimenopause and menopause. 

These insurgent hormones start disrupting the body that seems to control them. They fluctuate within her, sometimes drastically, leading to severe anxiety and irritability, much like many in Gen Z. While they are, for obvious reasons, worried about their futures and irritated by the local and global upheaval, many women get irked by something as mundane as thinking about what to prepare for lunch or dinner. 

And I wonder, how come men don’t face such a backlash during andropause? Why don’t they have similar ‘pauses’ in their lives like women after a certain age? 

Disturbed by one more example of inequality, I did some research. Research says many men don’t even realize that their hormones—many of them the same as women’s—interfere in their everyday life. That’s because their hormones vary in amounts and patterns. Their irritation, anger, mood swings, and other symptoms are more about lifestyle than hormones.  

Once I was enlightened, the dimaagi naxal (the result of my fluctuating hormones) within me was struck with an idea. Right now in our country, protests are the new normal, popping up like mushrooms. Why not the women of India rise to a new protest, demanding equality of physical and mental pain for men?

Laughable, of course.

The idea was immediately followed by the realization that such a protest might not gain traction across India. But women can do one thing for sure—begin with creating awareness about male menopause and its symptoms akin to sowing a seed. Scare them with some medical jargon. Hyper-aware them. Podcasts after podcasts on male menopause or late-onset hypogonadism, making them more anxious. Let normal ageing signs worry them. Make them feel that they are victims of some unique changes in their body, thereby putting men and women on an equal pedestal. Dimaagi naxal, of course, because of hormones.

If this kind of protest doesn’t work, women can initiate a fifth wave of feminism, taking inspiration from RaGa’s slogan ‘Smash the patriarchy’ that reverberated at the Chhatron Ki Goonj event in Pune. Surprisingly, the event was exclusively for young women! Why wasn’t it considered relevant for young men?  

Those who got an opportunity to speak from the stage voiced their anger against patriarchy, but no one questioned Mr Gandhi, “Sir, why don’t you begin with smashing the patriarchy by supporting a 33% seat quota for women in Parliament?”

We know the dimaagi kidaa of patriarchy cannot be wiped completely from any society, since the conditioning goes back to eras. Today, in the so-called progressive world, patriarchy is like a sloth; it often stays completely still for long periods to conserve energy, waiting for a predatory moment akin to naxal-like guerrilla attacks. They may not always leave visible physical harm, but they do create a mental dent. True for women and men both. 

Even today, many men in Indian society have not been able to smash the patriarchal concept of mard ko kabhi dard nahi hota—an irony in itself for a manly man. It is this mindset that refrains them from exhibiting their vulnerable, feminine qualities, eventually leading to depression and suicides.

According to the latest official data from the National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB) report, 73.5% of men commit suicide across the age spectrum. And the most common recorded reason is family problems. 

It’s okay to be called sissy sometimes, man. We are all born with masculine and feminine qualities. Explore them like women. Smash the patriarchy.

BTW, shouldn’t women bear a grudge against ‘sissy’ being used as an insult for men?

*****

Brother: Who, according to you, is a dimaagi naxal?
Sister: Let’s leave that question for today. It’s Raksha Bandhan.

HAPPY RAKSHA BANDHAN

Posted on by nikita

Protests, Poribortan, and Paltu Rams

As much as I would like to avoid processed food, I can’t be completely off it. Recently, when I went to buy a packet of puffed lemon rice from a nearby general store I frequently visit, the shopkeeper asked me whether I would be willing to change my preference to the new food time introduced by the famous company. He asked me to try a jhalmuri snack instead. 

‘Oh! Jhalmuri! The one Modiji tasted before paltifying the TMC rule in Bengal?’ I confirmed. But I wasn’t ready for a sudden change in my identity — from a Gujarati surti to a Bengali maanus. Poribortan takes time.  

Walking home, I tumbled into the metaphorical rabbit hole of fantastic thoughts. 

First, I came across a group of angry chameleons. They appeared really upset with humankind, especially the recent Paltu Rams in politics — the ones who defected from their political party for paisa, power and position. How willingly would they change their narrative to suit their political career! 

The reptiles were surprised at humankind’s ability to change colours just as naturally as they did, making it difficult for them to classify them as humans.

Unanimously, the chameleons decided to file a defamation case against the ministers, specifically those who defected from their party. They felt that in the name of freedom, these Paltu Rams are maligning their biological and evolutionary identity. So, the famous chameleon Trumpy, known for its agility to change colours, shouted, Are you with me or with me?, and the sound of cheerful ‘Yay’ reverberated in the hole. 

When I fell deeper into the hole, I saw a small group of cockroaches. They had also gathered for some sort of protest. Eavesdropping on some conversations made me realise that they were discussing India’s current education system. A genuine concern, though. A much-needed poriborton after the NEET paper leak and CBSE controversy.

Suddenly, there was a loud announcement by their leader, who stood on a mound and called himself Tipke. Oh! The same cockroach guy who claimed to have a million followers. But I was surprised to see that only a small percentage of them had turned up for the protest. 

Tipke began with his address to his fellow cockroaches gathered there. ‘Friends, Indians, Gen Z, we demand educational reforms and accountability from our government.’

Mm-hmm.

I could see many cockroaches swiftly running here and there as if they weren’t even aware of what was being said. They seemed unaware of the agenda. Not a fan or follower of cockroaches, I decided to interview a few of them.

One of the youth members told me he was there to demand the resignation of Amit Pradhan, the Minister of Education.

Huh! Amit Pradhan? 

The other cockroach, flaunting his black coat (he said he had come directly from the High Court), told me his bhai, standing next to him in a black coat, would answer the question since he wasn’t aware of the issue at hand. 

Woowww!!! 

Like an enthusiastic young Indian, I approached a group of Gen Z, probably discussing something important. On questioning, one of them belligerently complained about the hacking of EVM machines by the current government in particular states. And the best part was that he even prophesied about the hacking that would happen in Kerala and Tamil Nadu in the next election. 

Uhhm!! 

Finally, I went to a baby cockroach and inquired about the reason for her attending the meeting. Confused, with a fluttering voice, she said she was there to ask the government to stop the war between America and Israel. 

Whaaaattt?? 

Baffled by such responses and the engulfing darkness, I opened the door at the other side of the hole and entered my house. Finally, it was all light and radiant. 

*****

Friend: Be the change you wish to …
Me: Ahha!

Posted on by nikita

Upcycling Recycling Downcycling
         

Suddenly the concept of upcycling has come to the forefront. Reels on upcycling your mom’s saree, your dupatta, or a pair of denim are on the surge. A wonderful idea but not at all new.

Upcycling is a unique concept if one thinks from the point of view of sustainability in clothing. Less dumping, fewer landfills. Indeed, upcycling provides an opportunity to see the same saree or dupatta in a different light. A better light. Philosophical ha!

I still remember transforming my mom’s jamevaram and pethani sarees, and even my embroidered dupattas, into beautiful dresses. I do it even today. It allows me to explore and expand my creative realm.

Back then, we didn’t use the technical term ‘upcycling’. That’s the only difference. And  neither social media was available to make the concept popular.

Like we didn’t use the psychological or medical terms like ‘anxiety’ and ‘depression’. Most of us must have experienced emotions like fear, anger, sadness, restlessness, shame, nervousness, and many more that drained our happiness from within, like a lamprey fish that feeds off its prey and sucks its life. Either such emotions were considered natural while growing up or for most of us they weren’t worth an intervention. Maybe, we never realized how these emotions would shape an individual if unchecked and unattended.

Like we hardly realize (or we pretend not to realize) that the constant flood of motivational thoughts and beliefs in the modern era are nothing but the ‘recycled’ thoughts and beliefs of ancient wisdom. Of ancient philosophers and thinkers. It’s just that these learnings have become more accessible and fascinating because of technology and the way they are presented. Or represented?

I’m not sure if any learning is happening though.

But, surely, Ms. Atishi has learned the art of being a politician. In a press conference, before taking oath as the Chief Minister of Delhi, she analogized her situation with Bharat, the younger brother of Shri Ram. Akin to Bharat, in the epic The Ramayana, who had declared not to occupy the throne of Ayodhya since he considered Ram as the rightful heir, she announced that the Chief Minister’s seat would be occupied only by her brother Mr. Kejriwal. She was seen sitting in a chair next to Mr. Kejriwal’s throne-like red-coloured chair in the office with pictures of Bhagat Singh and Babasaheb Ambedkar on the wall in the background.

No sooner did this self-proclaimed-morally-superior analogy leave the premises of her mouth than there was an uproar on every news channel. Ms. Atishi had cleverly employed an ancient thought in the modern context, considering herself and Mr. Kejriwal to be the Bharat and the Ram respectively of the kalyug. Of course, she couldn’t replicate the part where Bharat placed Ram’s padukas on the throne. Mr. Kejriwal might be having only one pair of  footwear since he is an Aam aadmi. 

Wondering if the comparison is even fitting in the first place! Instead, isn’t it ‘downcycling’ a religious event?

Ram gave up his claim to kingship when he was exiled for 14 years. Shouldn’t Mr. Kejriwal have relinquished his chief ministership when he was jailed for around 6 months, setting the right example for future political leaders, especially if he aimed to emulate the principles of Ram? Also, are the citizens of Delhi eagerly awaiting Mr. Kejriwal’s return to power, just as the people of Ayodhya awaited Ram?

Difficult to say. India’s 2024 general elections  resulted in a surprising paradigm shift. So, let’s wait for February 2025.

*****

Me: Give me another word for ‘religious doctrines’.
Friend: Chinese whispers.