RED INK

The first time I got applauded for writing, I was six years old, maybe almost seven. It was at my paternal grandparents’ home in Calcutta. My parents and I had come down for a vacation from New Delhi. My first story, a suspicious blend of two or more fairy tales, was one they had already heard. This time though they asked me to read it out loud to my grandparents as well.

In spite of the many decades that have passed since that moment, I still remember how it felt to have a captive audience and how much the four of them clapped after I finished reading my story. I had written it in red ink, by then established in my mind as the ink of choice of all my teachers at school, and so, undoubtedly, powerful. Why wouldn’t I channel that? Why would I write with anything but that?

That applause has stayed with me all these years. It’s what’s buoyed me up during all those years and years of my books coming close to getting a contract with a publishing house and then not. That applause and the encouraging words I received that day, convinced me to no end that my words were valuable, that there was an audience for it, that they needed it.

Ha!

I don’t have that epic level of confidence in my writing any longer. It’s hard to maintain that level of confidence when my writing has been rejected as often as it has. But I write because it’s more important to me than anyone’s approval or any book contract. I write because I love it more than anything else. I write because that’s how I make sense of the world and hold on to what I need to. That applause in my grandparents’ drawing room also makes me want to rush out to all the six-year-olds in the world, and tell them they and their dreams and their passions, likes, and loves matter.

Some things haven’t changed. Red is still my favorite color. It still reminds me of my school teachers. Most of them nice. Some not so. But all of them, powerful. Why the hell wouldn’t I channel that?

Photo courtesy: Jenn.jpeg @jenn_jpeg

‘Cause Cauliflower

Wikipedia tells me I need to thank the British for the cauliflower, one of my top three favorite vegetables, because apparently they introduced us to it in 1822. Without their good work, I wouldn’t have known the joys of my Ma’s turmeric-cumin, peas-potatoes-cauliflower dish, a staple of many Delhi-winter meals. I wouldn’t have known my grandmother’s cauliflower and prawn awesomeness during every visit to Calcutta. Or the stuffed-to-the-edge cauliflower paranthas, served slathered with ghee in the many dhabas en route from Delhi to Chandigarh, my home for nearly two years.

I wouldn’t have then acquired the cauliflower-loving palate that I have that’s made me seek recipes here. Not for me cheesy cauliflower soups. Nor the deathly-dull and unimaginative boil, steam, or eating raw options.

I’ll roast them, please, until the browned-crisped edges sing. Or I will pan fry them, maybe with cubed sweet potatoes or boiled or canned chickpeas, and add walnuts, and raisins in the last five minutes, and let them all get to know each other well.

And then finally, I wouldn’t have known to seek them at my local nursery with my husband, and at his encouragement, bring a few, tiny plantlings home, and then erupted with joy on seeing the first but unmistakable sign of my “own” cauliflower. So, here’s to tiny container gardens, to the fabulous good-food people who have nourished me, and to whichever white guy brought them to India’s shores back in 1822, incidentally the birth year of Harriet Tubman and Louis Pasteur and also when the last public whipping was held in Edinburgh, and pressed them into the hands of a brown guy.

My Grandfather & Our Pipe-Smoking Fish

It was my grandfather who showed me that fish could smoke a pipe, wear a hat, dangle glasses from around their necks (?), and just be very un-fish-like. I must have been three or four years old, and this nonsense did not sit well with me, especially given his wife, my grandmother, was such a repository of good, strong, “normal” stories. I argued with him until I turned purple, “Fish don’t smoke pipes or wear hats.”

That didn’t change a thing. A couple of years later, when my parents and I moved from Calcutta to New Delhi, and my grandfather began writing postcards to me, they were always accompanied by drawings—mostly of fish. Sometimes, they would wear pants or lungis, they would have pens tucked behind their ears (another body part like the neck that they may or may not possess, they would be on their way to the store, so on and so forth.

Two evenings ago, exhausted with the weight of the news playing on TV, I picked up my sketchbook to spend time with what’s become my most cherished pastime these days. I drew fish upon fish, then when the page filled up, I began adding details. When I showed them to my husband, he burst out laughing. “Where are they all going?”

I said something like, “Morning commute.” In that moment, it dawned on me that while this drawing itself was original, the idea behind it wasn’t. It was something that had lived inside me for years and years, and that’s why, that’s how, I knew to outfit each fish.

My grandfather has been gone seven long years now, and not a day goes by when I don’t think of him. And I think I now have a better grasp of why he continues to mean so much to me than I did before. Beyond the incredible amount of love and attention he gave me, beyond the many ways he showed me he was listening, really listening, to everything I had to say, he made me realize that you should never let go of the things that make you happy. He was a very busy man right until the very end of his life. He was a bureaucrat; he wrote books and op-eds; edited journals; participated in his neighborhood’s welfare; he guest lectured at colleges and universities; and miraculously, he still always had time for everyone in his life.

Of the many things he taught me, the one I value the most these days is, don’t let your work or profession come in the way of your play—be it writing postcards to friends (he wrote something like 500 a year), singing and listening to music, playing card games (whenever my grandmother won too many games in a row, we made sure to cheat to defeat her), or cartooning or writing nonsense rhymes. Another of our favorite things to do was read obituaries and give the departed fantastic, impossible, often hilarious lives. It wasn’t the most politically correct thing to do but it was a lot of fun.

My grandpa lived a fantastic, playful life. I hope you do too.

Another Morning, Another Story

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I almost got gang-raped when I was 22. The setting was a bus, and the conductor had tricked me into thinking the last stop would suit me better than the one I had in mind. I didn’t know that he, the remaining handful of passengers, and the driver, were all in this together. I have written about this here, and I have neither the energy nor the desire to revisit it.

Of course, my saying that I don’t want to revisit it does nothing. I revisit it every day. I cannot hear a specific accent on TV and films without recoiling. I cannot attend any event without knowing exactly where the exits are, and how and when and with whom I am getting home. I have lived by myself many times, and I have traveled to heaps of places by myself too, but I am always careful, always watchful of people around me, and when I return home or to the hotel, I check behind every curtain, every door, and stay on the phone with someone, always, always, always. Because it just takes one time for your world to shift completely, and it doesn’t matter what you are wearing, what you look like, what you say or do or eat or drink or inhale.

Yesterday morning, I woke up to yet another story of unimaginable violence against a young woman. I have stopped reading the specifics of such cases. For the sake of my own sanity and functionality, I cannot stomach them because they play in a continuous loop inside my head. Is my attitude escapist? Am I being a coward? Am I running away without confronting the news? Am I dishonoring the human being to whom this was done?

For the longest time, I thought so too. So, I read, and read, and processed. No more. If my reading of fiction and nonfiction, and subsequent teaching of creative writing has taught me anything it is this…there is no end to what we are capable of doing to each other. We can’t bring back the life lost, but we can tell their stories, all their stories, and not just the one of how they were pulled apart at the seams and ended.

And that’s why we need to keep telling our stories as well, all of them, the good, the bad, the hopeless, and the hopeful.

Last year, in my Writing Horror class, on the first day, I asked my students, what horror could they see themselves capable of perpetrating. Nearly everyone said, if their friends and family were in danger, or if they saw vulnerable people under attack. That’s probably true for all of us. But I also don’t think the answer is that simple or straightforward. I ask myself this question often, what is the worst I can imagine doing to another human being. I don’t know the answer.

An A to Z List

I wanted to update my blog but couldn’t think of a specific topic. So I responded to every letter of the alphabet with the first thought that came to my head.

1.       Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves: the first story I learned to read in English. It was the day after my sixth birthday. It was the Ladybird edition, and I felt very proud, accomplished, and independent in the moment. It kills me that there are 773 million illiterate adults in the world today, most of whom are women.

2.       Baba: what I call my dad. Easily, one of the best, most reliable, and trustworthy sounds in my life.

3.       Chhaya: my maternal grandmother’s name. It means “shadow” or “reflection” in Sanskrit. In Hindu mythology, Chhaya and Sanjana are the two consorts of Surya, the Sun God.

4.       Dilli: Delhi. Home.

5.       Equinox: such a cool word though I don’t think I quite know how it’s different from “solstice.” Yes, you may tell me. I will forget. That’s okay. No one needs to know everything. I bet you don’t know the name of Amrita Singh’s character in Suryavanshi. It’s Suryalekha. Fine, I didn’t know it either and had to Google it.    

6.       Falak: a word for “sky” in Urdu. When used in writing or speech, I believe it’s to imply immensity or enormity. Urdu isn’t a language I know but it would be neat to learn.

7.       Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne: a beloved story, and subsequently, movie for children in Bangla, although its multiple layers make it like Shrek, in that it has enough complexity to make it riveting for adults. However, unlike Shrek, GGBB has no feisty Fiona. In this adventure story of a musician and a singer, women are completely absent. Is it still a good story for children if it excludes 50% of them?

8.       Huckleberry Finn: what a cool kid! My first literary crush. He is “lawless,” independent, and doesn’t go to school. When you are a kid yourself, why wouldn’t such a badass be your role model?

9.       Ikrimikri: the first word of a children’s rhyme in Bangla. The word itself doesn’t mean anything as far as I know. It’s been adopted into my Bengali-Sikh household though, as the go-to term for itchy fabrics and textiles.  

10.   Juniper Tree: a Brothers Grimm fairy tale replete with evil stepmother, children “as white as snow,” stew seasoned by tears, a song that starts with the words, my mother, she killed me, my father, he ate me….What more does a story need?

11.   Kanishka: one of ancient India’s greatest emperors. A staunch upholder of religious syncretism. Funny that nearly 2,000 years since he was around, we need his beliefs more than ever before.

12.   Laura Lyons: a key character in the best Sherlock Holmes novel The Hound of the Baskervilles.

13.   Ma: self-explanatory. How I wish I was eating her mutton curry for dinner tonight.  

14.   Nabanipa: the name of my Pishi, or paternal aunt. She is my buddy, my pal, my partner in eating ice cream, the BEST person when it comes to reading stories out loud. She is funny and generous. Being in her world means being surrounded by love, affection, great shopping, and good food.   

15.   Obstinate: one time in a weeklong-writing workshop, the instructor told us to choose a word that best represents us. This was mine.

16.   Pomegranate: I love the word. I love how the fruit resembles tiny, gleaming rubies; that it makes you work hard to taste it; and that it’s been a staple in so many ancient myths and folk tales. 

17.   Quetzalcoatl: one of the words I learned after coming to the Western Hemisphere. I still don’t pronounce it right, but I love how it looks and sounds, and I know it’s the name of a Meso-American deity.  

18.   Rajasthan: good food, terrific silver jewelry, history everywhere your gaze lands, plus the site of memorable vacations for my family and I, given that this is our neighboring state. In the golden city of Jaisalmer, I remember we stayed at one of the original homes inside the ramparts of the 12th century fort. Also, I am not calling Jaisalmer “golden” out of sentimentality. It’s called so for the yellow sand and sandstone used extensively in the city’s architecture.  

19.   Serendipity: I love how this sounds, but it took me forever to remember its meaning.

20.   Thai food: if someone forces me to give up Indian food and choose something else that I would happily eat for every meal.

21.   Umbrella Man: One of Roald Dahl’s many, many amazing stories for children. His short stories for adults remain among my favorites. They are so creepy and delicious.

22.   Vlad’s Castle: Granted, history and fiction aren’t the same, but I couldn’t have imagined the intro video would have such soothing music.

23.   Willow: I think every Enid Blyton book had a willow tree somewhere.

24.   Xi: one of the most useful words to know for Scrabble purposes.

25.   Yellow: oddly showing up in a lot of my home décor these days.

26.   Zed: Not zee. No, if I haven’t changed my pronunciation in 14 years, I will not be doing so now.  

Beloved Enemy, Snakes on a Plane, and Other Weaknesses

I know it’s rude to gloat and I shouldn’t, but I really was born the same year as Jaani Dushman, or Beloved Enemy, a Hindi sex-horror film. Soon after its release, it became one of the highest grossing films of India. If you haven’t watched it recently (or ever), here’s how it begins. First shot: a pair of headlights beaming down a long road. It’s a taxi, with a young, newly-married couple on the backseat. The husband can barely keep his hands off his wife. She giggles and swats away his greedy hands, cast as she is in the authentic mold of Hindi film heroines. She doesn’t want the driver to see them through the rear view mirror, although it is nighttime, and they are (predictably) on an empty road.

The husband light up three cigarettes.

The wife widens her eyes, “Three at once?” she asks.  

“It’s for the smoke, so it will conceal us.”

She titters, and flashes him a naughty-come-hither smile.

But the taxi—following the blueprint of horror movies in every language everywhere—breaks down. Thunder, lightning, and rain crack open the sky. The driver tells them they should seek shelter. He points to a nearby mansion that somehow exists here, right in the middle of nowhere, and he says he will get the car fixed and return.

We, the audience, know his suggestion is not coming from a place of kindness or grace. For one, the role of the driver is being essayed by Mac Mohan, the skinny, rakish actor who appeared in every Hindi film of the 1970s and ‘80s. With his trademark black and white hair and beard, he always, always played one role and one role alone. He was always the villain’s right-hand man. In his five-minutes of screen time thus far, he has flashed a secret smile or two, and spoken in innuendos. We, the audience, don’t yet know what this film is about, but we know this much about the Hindi sex-horror world. No character has ever come out looking virtuous after exhibiting secret smiles and talking in innuendoes, especially if the character is being played by the notorious Mac Mohan.

Hesitantly, fearfully, the couple approaches the mansion. Of course, the doors swing open automatically. They reveal cobwebs and strange sounds. The very next minute, the resident ghost appears inside a picture frame. He is young, in his mid to late thirties, with thick hair, prominent eyes, and a sharp mustache. From his expensive Nehru coat and clutch of pearls, it’s clear he’s at home in this mansion.

The ghost tells the frightened couple his story. On his wedding night, just as he was about to consummate his marriage, his new wife brutally murdered him. She wanted all his money, and she wanted to be with her lover. The murdered man has been a restless, vengeful ghost since then. He kills every new bride that he comes across. 

A struggle ensues, but the couple manages to escape. So, on and so forth. Clocking at over two and a half hours, Jaani Dushman boasts of a massive ensemble cast, several interconnected love stories, hammy acting, chase sequences, at least one jarring accent, and a terrible monster costume. The film released two months before my birth, and yet I believe I forged a transcendental connection with it from inside my mother’s womb. What else explains my penchant for bad films?

Or that the first movie I watched in a theater shortly after arriving in the US in 2006 was Snakes on a Plane. It was not an easy decision to spend $6 on the movie. I, a brand new grad student, had only recently arrived from India. I had no money to spend on frivolities but then how do you say no to something whose greatness begins with the title itself?

I have fond memories of that day and viewing that I enjoyed in the company of my new friend Parul. But what cracked my heart open was the lack of an intermission. What kind of a world had I come to? When was I supposed to use the toilet, or inhale the buttery smell of popcorn and walk away knowing I had no money? But most importantly, when and how was I supposed to judge the people sitting around me?

My Other Mother: Tina Munim

When I was four years old, I desperately wanted Tina Munim to be my mother. For those of you not as well-versed with the Hindi cinema world of the 1980s as I might wish for you, let me introduce you to Ms. Munim. In the movie I had just watched of her, Souten (loosely translated asThe Other Woman), she carried more glamour on the ends of her shiny, glossy hair than even divinely possible. She wore stylish clothes including a shimmery blue dress with an edgy slit along not one but BOTH of her thighs, high heels of all colors including a shiny silver pair, which in turn inspired my first “high” heel pair, and she not only danced in said shiny, silver shoes, she also sang, and managed to accuse her husband of disloyalty through this song right in the middle of a crowded party. You can check out the video where I fell in love with this ethereal creature here.

I am going to guess here that at age four, I understood no bit of the loyalty angle, or why that had to be expressed through a song and dance number. But, this I understood. My sari-wearing, waist-length-hair-in-a-braid mother would never wear a shimmery blue number with slits down both legs. She would also never chop off her hair to her shoulders, and she would not style her locks so perfectly that a single curl would sit like a triumphant sun right in the middle of her forehead. Though I didn’t have any evidence to support or contradict this, I was also very sure that Ma would also probably never drip with sparkling jewels while singing-dancing-clapping in circles around my father to shame him the way Ms. Munim had to her husband in the movie.

What then was the point of life?

After the movie, I shared my hope with my parents. I told them I was keen on switching mothers, and that Tina Munim would be perfect. If I am remembering this correctly, I think I received a lot of encouraging words, so much so that this was shared with anyone who came to our home in the next few days. However, no adult, I repeat, no adult, provided me with the kind of directions I needed to make this happen.

You will be amazed to note that my instincts about Ms. Munim were 100% right. In 1991, she married into one of India’s wealthiest families. Now imagine if she’d known to adopt, right after the release of Souten. So many lives would be so different then. So many more of us could be wearing shimmery blue dresses and accusing people via songs and dances in crowded parties.