tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35793350551334163372024-03-13T07:03:35.382+05:30whynotblogitout"The time has come," this woman said,
"To talk of many things:
Of news,and books, and working moms,
Of cabbages - and kings -
And how life's full of ups and downs -
And whether dreams have wings."
(With apologies to Lewis Carroll)Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.comBlogger179125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-30277186653948548572012-11-22T22:01:00.003+05:302012-11-22T22:01:55.435+05:30COLOURS OF CRIME<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Kasab's hanging has got me rather down in the dumps...I remember hating his snarling face as he shot down the unwary hapless passengers waiting at the CST station. I remember how close a shave it was for the spouse, whose office is bang opposite CST and who was in the office as their windows were shot at by the terrorists as they rampaged over Mumbai. I remember him wearing something in blue and black, something incongruously normal when everything they did was so out of the normal. I remember sitting in front of the television transfixed for hours and days, poring over every detail in the newspaper...hungry not for sensation but for something to erase the sense of churning and violation and anger and horror and, yes, sheer fear. I remember this unease fading gradually as days, months, years passed....as Kasab became a bewildered, misguided, even pathetic youth living on borrowed time. Did he deserve to die? I don't know....but then, it would have simply incomprehensible if he did not....how could India have allowed him to live on after what he had done to India, to us, in that one crazy, scary night? But he is a scapegoat....the masterminds are laughing, scot-free and out-of-range. They will twist even this punishment...they will say it was martyrdom. Maybe it was....Instead of wishing Kasab dead, I wish that no more such Kasabs are born at all....<br />
<br />
Actually I had wanted to post something different...a poem written years ago:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Colours of Crime</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Red,
of course, the victim's blood, the culprit's curse,</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">(It's
always the red that leaves a trail).</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Red
for passion and danger and flash of the ambulance.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><script></script></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Green,
for lust and envy, for the jealous snake</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">That
crouches and watches, striking in passion.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Green
for the knife-stabs, and the 'throttled to death'.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Yellow
for gold, glinting, tempting, dazzling,</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Money
makes the world go round and round in the criminal's head.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Yellow
for the pre-mediated poison, the bespoke bullet.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Blue
for the loneliness which crimes can erase</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">The
flashbulbs and the grainy pictures in the papers.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Blue
for the attention-seeking lonelyheart machine-gunner.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Grey
for the victims under the never-more-to-be-seen skies</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><script></script></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">The
blood-drained corpse lying on stained steel postmortem tables.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Grey
for the flaccid-rigid body-map the detective must decode.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Black
for death, and the dark-room of suspense where the criminal lives</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Always
alert, groping, looking behind, pre-empting with the next murder.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Black
for the nightmare imploding the murderer's mind.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">And,
then, if it is a book, white for the day of reckoning</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">The
Judge's wig, the blindfolded marble, the courtroom walls.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">White
for the widow's peace as she closes the curtains.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Crime's
an art, painted in sordid-lurid paperback shades;</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><script></script></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Cross
the threshold and pick up the brush.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: center; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">What's
your palette?</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-67341535438413316722012-04-20T12:13:00.000+05:302012-04-20T12:13:41.950+05:30I KNOW WHAT YOU (WILL DO) THIS SUMMER<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If you belong to the age group of 5-15 years, that is.<br />
<br />
You will wake up late (no early morning schools for a month or more), eat a lazy breakfast, slump over the TV half-watching Cartoon Network (or some such). And then Mummy will take you to any or all of the following, in any sequence:<br />
<br />
Shiamak Davar's dance classes<br />
Swimming classes at the club<br />
Kathak/Bharatnatyam classes<br />
Art/Craft/Drama/Acting workshops for Little Stars and their starry-eyed parents <br />
Football practice (in proper Nike/Reebok/Adidas/Puma boots, please)<br />
Tennis classes<br />
Karate classes<br />
<br />
<br />
Piano/Keyboard/Guitar/Drums/Vuvuzela classes<br />
Summer camps where you will be summarily regimented.<br />
<br />
ALL IN ONE DAY!!!!! ALL EVERY DAY, 5 DAYS A WEEK.<br />
<br />
I might have missed out a few. <br />
<br />
I ALSO KNOW WHAT YOU WILL (PROBABLY) NOT DO THIS SUMMER:<br />
<br />
Pick up unripe/overripe mangoes fallen under a tree<br />
Stroll barefoot on the grass<br />
Spring-clean your own room <br />
Help mummy to make papad, pickles, chutneys, cakes and stuff <br />
Curl up on the sofa and read books, books, books.<br />
<br />
IT'S <span style="font-size: large;"><b>SUMMER</b></span> ALL RIGHT, BUT IS IT A<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> HOLIDAY??</b></span><br />
</div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-63168398585611006272012-04-04T09:12:00.002+05:302012-04-04T09:15:55.074+05:30APRIL IS (NOT) THE CRUELLEST MONTH...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is just such a relief...<br />
<br />
...to finally wind up my two-year-old Minor Research Project on Blogging in India. Yes, the monkey's off my back, off my laptop, off my pen-drive and has gone ahead to be printed and is soon going on to be submitted to the University Grants Commission. Yes, the long tail of bureaucracy is still wagging - reports have to be written, bills audited, expenses calculated and accounts made and sent. BUT RIGHT NOW, I AM WAKING UP FREE AND WALKING ON AIR. In the past two years, I have (admittedly intermittently) delved deep into blogs, blogs and more blogs, critical writings about blogs and books on blogs (and blogs on books). Totally neglecting my own blogs for quite some time. As always with me, the pressure mounted as the deadline approached. And the last two weeks has been a flurry of worry, work, writing, war-zones,waking up all night, and more...After drowning in blogs, I've finally re-surfaced in the free and airy space of my own blog. THANKS TO ALL YOU WONDERFUL BLOGGERS OUT THERE, BECAUSE YOU RESPONDED TO THE QUESTIONNAIRE I SENT. The survey I conducted with your support and was primary research that was very important, not least because it added gravitas and academic weight to my project....<br />
<br />
Talking of weight....<br />
<br />
It is just such a relief...<br />
<br />
....to finally see Kareena Kapoor fattening up from Size Zero to her recent plump-arms-and-oh-is-that-a-paunch avataar, yet looking as haughty and glamorous as ever. Vidya Balan has done it, I know, but the more of our hopelessly slim stars join them, the better. Kareena's April pictures come as a breath of fresh air to all women struggling-to-retain-weight-loss-and-succumbing-to-Snickers-and-Twix-and-lemon-tart-and-icecream-temptations. You know who I am talking about. If Kareena can, we can...give in to weight gain.<br />
<br />
What a relief!!! <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-65845471099919379282012-03-15T16:16:00.001+05:302012-03-15T16:16:28.205+05:30WHAT'S IN A NAME..ER..PACKAGING?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A lot, actually.<br />
<br />
Especially if first impressions have a way of lingering...as they do with me.<br />
<br />
I have this favourite skincare brand, <a href="http://www.forestessentialsindia.com/">Forest Essentials</a>. They are made with natural ingredients, they are made in India. Open a jar or uncap a bottle and delicious smells of jasmine and rose, sandalwood and orange neroli waft out to seduce your senses. And their creams, gels, oils, pure waters and lotions are light as air and soft as flowers on your skin. <span style="color: #38761d;">And they come in this aesthetically minimalistic natural packaging. Clear bottles and jars with stark black caps, small, neat brown and green lettering, and the whole delicious elixir packed in a classily unobtrusive brown-paper colour packaging. I'm getting carried away. But they are really really good and lust-worthy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Till they changed their packaging</span></b>. Today, I stepped into a nearby Forest Essentials outlet, only to have my eyes assaulted by the brightest assortment of "Indian" colours outside a Sabyasaachi show - magenta, purple, and oodles of gold. </span><br />
<br />
It's true that the earlier packaging was so blend-into-the-background kind that although I have had my Forest Essentials stuff right arranged on my bathroom shelves, my inquisitive mom and mom-in-law never noticed them. Or disapprovingly frowned at their printed prices.<br />
<b><span style="color: #b45f06;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #b45f06;">But that discretion in packaging was half the charm of Forest Essentials. Right down to the discreet and intricate Tree of Life logo in an antique gold colour.</span></b> And now they look like a tacky gold-bedecked cousin of Shahnaz Hussein products.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #cc0000;">CONFESSION</span></b>: I have never been able to buy a <a href="http://www.shahnaz.in/">Shahnaz Hussein product </a>because I get completely put off by the heavily-red-henna-haired, heavy-duty-diamond-beringed, heavy-kohl-lined visage of Shahnaz herself. If this is the way one looks after using the products, then I'd rather use <a href="http://www.biotique.com/">Biotique</a>, which is also in the same price brackets but which are eye-pleasingly packaged in subdued green and sober white.<br />
<br />
So, there I was - ready and eager to pick up a Forest Essentials aloe vera day gel and a Forest Essentials jasmine and patchouli night cream. But so disappointed was I with the too-bright too-new too-glossy packaging that I walked out, saving myself a couple of thousand bucks. I know that it is all the same INSIDE, but it just does not seem the same. The drool quotient has gone, for me at least.<br />
<br />
Maybe later, when my eyes have got better adjusted to this gracious-lady-turned-circus-performer change.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Have you hated it when a favourite product suddenly underwent a change of appearance/packaging?</span></b></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-18435778523882259542012-03-06T17:17:00.002+05:302012-03-06T17:17:23.165+05:30OPEN LETTER TO GOVERNMENT "BOSS"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Respected Sir,</span></b><br />
<br />
<i><b>(or would you like to be addressed in the colonial-hangover manner as 'Sahib'?)</b></i><br />
<br />
This is to bring to your notice a very typical scenario in any government office:<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: red;">Distraught Employee </span>(</b>usually a working mom with some looming/happening domestic crisis): "<i>Sir, please will you allow me to come in late/go away early/ take extra leave/work the same as everyone else but at a more convenient timing? I am really having a major problem at home...(explains problem), and I would be so glad if you could help me with this just for a week/month/off-season!"</i><br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: red;">Boss:</span></b> (without so much as inquiring into the heart of the problem) "S<i>orry, madam, not possible. We cannot change the rules/change the system/change our thick skins</i>."<br />
<br />
Sounds familiar? Sounds just like those pesky female employees who come crying for your pity and begging for your favours every time their child gets sick/maid goes away/school has an open-house? Such a nuisance, aren't they? If they want to work in the government sector, they should follow the rules, no? After all. rules are sacrosanct and written on stone by the Vedic samrats/Mughal emperors/Britsh masters, no?<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: blue;">I humbly beg to state that I think you are looking at the whole thing from the wrong end of the telescope.</span></b> I mean, I know that you sit for long stretches of time on that swivel-chair (with the suspiciously greasy-looking towel hanging over the back - all the better to absorb the generous doses of flattery you swallow with impunity everyday), doing nothing much but signing files and passing them down to your minions. But it is really quite laughable to see how that swivel chair seems to have swivelled your brains. In your mind,<b><span style="color: blue;"> I am sure you feel you are a RULER, as in not just lording over your dusty, file-bound, hidebound, hardly-moving universe of mediocrity, but also as in THE KEEPER OF RULES, the guardian of discipline and the guard-dog of punctuality. And in this HOLY DUTY, you have the assistance of the trusted BIOMETRIC MACHINE or the swipe card, and other such stuff.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">WHY CAN'T THE RULES BE CHANGED? </span></b><br />
<br />
If one employee is reasonably hard-working, sincere and honest, then why can't the rules be re-interpreted to benefit one deserving person with a genuine problem?<br />
<br />
Because if one person is granted some special leave/benefit, others will come and ask for the same, no? Because everybody has be equal in the eyes of the rule-book (except you, but we will not mention that), no?<br />
<br />
<b>WHY?</b><br />
<br />
Why should the employees be a generalized bunch of faceless robots, expected to swipe in (or thumb-impressed-in or sign-in) at a fixed time and swipe out at a fixed time six days a week without fail? Why can't you treat them as individuals with ups and downs in their lives away from their office? Why won't you recognise that some employees may deserve special treatment in special cases? <br />
<br />
But of course, <b><span style="color: blue;">honesty and hard work are of no value to you - indeed, they may be unrecognisable: mired as you are in boot-licking flattery and fossilizing inefficiency</span></b>. That's what you have done unto others, and that's what is being done unto you.<br />
<br />
In my humble opinion, you deserve our pity as much as we do. It must be mind-numbingly, brain-addlingly, soul-fryingly dull to sink into this quagmire of mediocrity year after year, although you do it in a creaky swivel-chair and light-flashing car.<br />
<br />
That EXTREME INERTIA explains the EXTREME DISCONNECT between you and your employees, between you and real life; and also the EXTREME DISPLEASURE you feel when people request leniency. Because CHANGING SOMETHING means THINKING AND DOING NEW THINGS. And thought and action are alien to you.<br />
<br />
For you '<b><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">TIME' WILL ALWAYS BE MORE IMPORTANT THAN 'TEAM'. </span></b>The team can go to hell, but the time (of entry and exit) must always be maintained.<br />
<br />
So what if the employees come in and leave at the 'proper' times but do no work in between? So what if the staff at the Banking teller counters sip tea and gossip while snaking queues wait impatiently? So what if all the L.I.C employees go for an hour-long lunch simultaneously closing down all the counters when the customers might have other important things to do elsewhere? So what if Government clerks take diarrhea-like long loo-breaks and tea breaks every hour while files pile up and gather dust on their desks? So what if College teachers twiddle their thumbs in hollow staff-rooms even when 'teaching days' are over and the class rooms are vacant till the next session? HOW DOES WORK MATTER TO YOU? Work, productivity, flexibility, accountability are foreign concepts, found in the illegitimate and immoral private sector, the big, bad 'corporate world'. There, people are judged on merit. There, system-shaking concepts like flexitime and work-from-home have taken root. There, efficiency and out-of-the-box creativity is usually valued more than sycophancy and seniority. There, Human Resources Management is more about ENCOURAGING PRODUCTIVITY than about ENFORCING RULES. There, happy employees are the norm, not hapless employees. How utterly scandalous, no?<br />
<b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: red;">IN THE SANCTIMONIOUS, TRADITION-CRIPPLED, HOLIER-THAN-THOU, AND SPECTACULARLY INEFFICIENT 'GOVERNMENT SECTOR, IT IS NOT IMPORTANT TO WORK AT ALL, AS LONG AS ONE IS COMING AND GOING OUT PUNCTUALLY.</span></b><br />
<br />
IN THIS ANACHRONISTIC, UNACCOUNTABLE, ILLOGICAL AND SOULLESS WORLD OF THE GOVERNMENT SECTOR, it is actually sad that you feel that you have employees working UNDER you, rather than colleagues working WITH you. Which is why you get so swollen-headed, and behave in a lord-of-the-manner fashion, unwilling to dole out 'favours' to those who do not do the requisite amount of boot-licking. After all. being a BIGGGG BOSS in an moribund, stultifying, claustrophobic and very small and insignificant office can give you the illusion of TOTAL CONTROL and SUPREME POWER.<br />
<br />
So, you will perhaps ask, why do we join THIS DEADENING FOSSILIZED SECTOR at all? And if we are frustrated, why don't we quit?<br />
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Security, my dear sir, security. The assurance of a steady (although very slowly increasing) income, the assurance of of a 'permanent' job, the assurance of a post retirement pension. And assurance has a way of cancelling out aggression. So, though we crib and rant, rest assured we won't throw our resignation letters at your face, or plunge that knife into your back (dearly as we like to do it). At the best, we will take out ineffective <i>morchas </i>and shout slogans. Or just decide to give up doing any constructive work whatsoever. Except following the rules, of course.<br />
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<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b> Yours humbly (lying at your feet)</b><br />
<b> </b><br />
<b> A disgruntled-but-not-disobedient employee</b><br />
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<br /></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-36066995880456602472011-12-19T16:32:00.000+05:302011-12-19T16:32:02.695+05:30CATCH A FISH; CATCH UP WITH THE PAST<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If it's a joint serving fish dishes at middle-class-pocket-friendly rates, what are the chances that there will be a lot of Bengalis in the clientele?<br />
<br />
Yesterday, we went to <a href="http://www.prataplunchhome.com/">Pratap Lunch Home</a> for, not lunch, but Sunday evening dinner. Now, Pratap, near the Fountain, is an old favourite of the spouse and his press-wallah friends, as they serve really delicious seafood and booze. Also, unlike the more-famous Mahesh Lunch Home, the crab claws and lobster claws not really pinch the pocket. Even I have come here, travelling by train all the way from the suburbs lured by their Crab Mongolian and Seafood Fried Rice and Squid Butter Garlic. The only grouse was that they made you sweat for your food, as they eschewed air-conditioning even as you chewed on the tasty secrets of the sea and kitchen.<br />
Now, in the new AC-avataar, that grouse is gone. So we went en family, kids and maid included. And we were surrounded by AC-chill, the wafting-inviting aromas from the kitchen, and by Bengali noises and Bengali voices!<br />
<br />
Our waiter was a Bengali. The table behind us had a few Bengalis in their cosmopolitan mix. And the table next to us had three young Bongs chatting away in Bengali, on whom we shamelessly and smilingly eavesdropped. Till the Lil Kitten gave the game away by stridently demanding for something in loud, unmistakable BENGALI!<br />
<br />
In the ensuing inter-table conversation, we found out that two of the Bright Young Bongs at the next table were Presidency College Physics Department alumni currently working at Tata Institute of Fundamental Research, and the other young man was also certifiably brilliant, having passed out of the incredibly tough-to-get-in Indian Statistical Institute. And we bonded a bit over fried Machh-Bhaja (Fish Fry) and frightful Mumbai and, of course, "Do you know X/Y/Z who passed out in so-and-so-year?", although we were separated by more than a decade.<br />
<br />
The spouse loves his <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Presidency_University,_Kolkata">alma mater</a>, and, by extension, is willing and ready to love all the alumni of this hoary and honourable instutution.And so we went home, replete with good food, and the good news that Presidency is still churning out bright brains that can make a mark (and eat a fish) anywhere in the world.<br />
<br /></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-65672649321233595202011-11-24T17:26:00.003+05:302011-11-24T17:47:54.143+05:30CALORIES AND MEMORIESBack in Mumbai...the annual Kolkata visit on Diwali holidays was the usual blur of eat, meet, laze, daze, ....you know the drill.<div><br /></div><div>If last year's indulgence was <b><i>Sarbhajas</i></b> (a sweet where the '<b>sar</b>' or cream atop the milk is deep-fried and soaked in sugar syrup...gruesome gluttony, eh?), this year it was the humbler, but no less horrific, <b><i>Gujiya</i></b> (the Bengali version is a ring-shaped sweet made of dried milk and sugar) and <b><i>Danadar</i></b> (which is unredeemingly made of only and only sugar drenched in even more sugar syrup).</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I am back after eating enough of the above to last me till next year. In fact, am back in stride as well, with school and work and home and all such other busy-making stuff that life is made up of.</div><div><br /></div><div>But time-outs are there, and they pull at the heart-strings, and also pull the facial muscles into a smile...sometimes.</div><div><br /></div><div>There was this bottle of <b><i>Dalimer Hajmi</i></b> ( anardana churan...a sweet-sour digestive) that I had bought and ate in Kolkata, and had then stuffed a lot of other things in as well, from cookies to jeera golis to <b><i>Narkel Naaru</i></b> (coconut and jaggery laddus) made by my Mom (who was coincidentally in Kolkata during this time as well). I had taken out this bottle after unpacking to wash and reuse it as a spice jar. Before washing it, I was putting my finger inside and licking the remnants.</div><div><br /></div><div>And my taste-buds got a surprise when after a lot of hajmi/churan/salty-sourness I suddenly bit into a small chunk of sweet jaggery-infused-coconut. A tiny bit of <b><i>Ma-made naaru,</i></b> travelling all the way from Kolkata. To make me all teary-eyed and wry-smiling in Mumbai.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >Calories and memories...funny how closely they weave together.</span></b></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-69295033013148313602011-10-20T16:45:00.003+05:302011-10-20T17:12:15.651+05:30HOME ALONEThis past week, I have been home alone.<div><br /></div><div>The spouse and the kittens have all gone to Kolkata, and I'll be joining them in a few days, when my College will deign to give us our Diwali Holidays.</div><div><br /></div><div>The first few days were miserable.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was buried under an avalanche of semester-end exam papers to be corrected. Correcting bad exam papers, paper-after-paper, for nearly 500 papers always give me a feeling similar to a bad bout of influenza. I feel feverish, my neck and back ache, my eyes feel dry and blinky, and in my sleep I toss and turn in nightmares.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then I really had a flu onset and a stomach upset.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then I had a cleaning frenzy, fighting against every particle of dust that dared to enter the flat.</div><div><br /></div><div>Gradually, I settled down. Watched back-to-back-back movies all evening-night, slept way past afternoon, curled up on the sofa eating lemon tarts and drinking jaljira-spiked (Diet) Cokes, dipped my feet in warm water-with-lavender-bath-salts. </div><div><br /></div><div>And, of course, I went out. </div><div>To work, boringly. </div><div>To other places, excitingly. </div><div>Shopped at my favourite stores like <a href="http://www.fabindia.com/">Fabindia</a> and <a href="http://www.crossword.in/">Crossword</a>. </div><div>Strolled at Carter Road and window-shopped at Linking Road. </div><div>Discovered a tiny shop called <a href="http://www.facebook.com/shimmerfashion">Shimmer</a> at Atria Mall that sells tops and tunics in the most lovely understated shades. </div><div>Picked up vintage maps and posters from <a href="http://phillipsimages.in/">Philips Images</a> in SoBo. </div><div>Grabbed, at <a href="http://www.satgurus.com/">Satguru's</a>, a vintage <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sholay">Sholay</a> poster and a tiny brass table fan that actually works.</div><div>Chatted with an old, smiley-bearded painter outside Jehangir Art Gallery and bought some tiny sea-scape watercolours. </div><div>Browsed through the <a href="http://www.bombaymuseum.org/">Museum </a>and Museum Shop and marvelled at our handicrafts.</div><div><br /></div><div>Just as I was warming up to the experience, it is nearing its end. And really, I am so looking forward to being with them all again. And being back in Kolkata for my annual nostalgia pilgrimage.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ah well, time flies...</div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-79177435345997668862011-09-30T15:22:00.003+05:302011-09-30T15:53:23.483+05:30STORIES AROUND US<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjER_Gef1fJiEI0EKyJuZRlzDrt33lntxJ6dNu5kQKhI3N8e5pzUKA-hvUs0QXJYsJgCeD24M8TNkC1VTJKI_m9iAwtDnlJ-l0YzAms8XjhZfBpwCM90LWAyi0w0BhAg-Xrx9ZgmKu_CQ/s1600/wowie.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 120px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjER_Gef1fJiEI0EKyJuZRlzDrt33lntxJ6dNu5kQKhI3N8e5pzUKA-hvUs0QXJYsJgCeD24M8TNkC1VTJKI_m9iAwtDnlJ-l0YzAms8XjhZfBpwCM90LWAyi0w0BhAg-Xrx9ZgmKu_CQ/s320/wowie.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658095584684078066" /></a><br /><div>When I'm out of my home, I'm usually very un-observant. Too engrossed in my mental cobwebs.</div><div><br /></div>Sometimes, though, I look around with eyes open. And see some person at some particular moment which gives me a glimpse of a back-story. A history. A lifestory.<div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >Let me explain. </span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>The other day I was at the neighbouring <b><a href="http://mumbai.justdial.com/sahakari-bhandar-bandra-w-(hill-road)_bandra-west_Mumbai_qpoevpePrsq.htm">Sahakari Bhandar, </a></b>a local departmental store where you can get groceries and other stuff at reasonable rates. I always go with a list (rice, wheat, oil, sugar...) but I always overshoot the list (adding 'Buy 1 Get 1 Free' and '30% Off' and 'Offer of the Day' stuff to my cart).</div><div><br /></div><div>As I was standing in the queue at the cash counter an elderly gentleman, rather doddery and dressed in a manner that novelists usually describe as 'shabby gentility', came up to stand behind me. He had a shopping basket, not a trolley, to hold his meagre purchases - a bunch of 'palak', some brinjals, a broom and a (very economical) tooth-paste. </div><div><br /></div><div>I saw him looking wistfully at the nearby rack stacked with chocolates. Hesitating, as the queue inched forward, looking away, and then yearningly looking again. Finally, he made up his mind. And reached out with a slightly shaking hand to put <b><span class="Apple-style-span" >TWO SMALL DAIRY MILK WOWIE BARS</span></b> in his basket. With a happy smile that made my day.</div><div><br /></div><div>Immediately, sentimentally, I imagined his story. <span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>He was a loving grandfather buying treats for his grandchildren on their weekly/monthly visit to his home. </b></span></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Or maybe it was a treat to be shared at with his fluffy white-haired plump-cheeked wife.</b></span></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Or maybe he was a diabetic...and this was a pure self-loving indulgence in a forbidden pleasure.</b></span></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Or maybe... <span class="Apple-style-span" >HOW WOULD YOU END THIS STORY?</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Image Courtesy: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 136, 34); font-family: arial; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">thehindubusinessline.in (Google Images)</span></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-34792610936144220722011-08-29T16:31:00.002+05:302011-08-29T16:55:38.875+05:30THE UNBEARABLE WETNESS OF BEINGIt's been raining pretty much continuously over the week end. Overcast skies have been shedding their watery burdens on us. <div>
<br /></div><div>Trains are either running late or not at all. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Auto-rickshaws are either refusing to ply or over-charging diabolically. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Buses are either stuck full of people or stuck in potholes-disguised-as-puddles.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Clothes are not drying.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Courier services are not delivering on time. When I had a spat with Pafex couriers (a branch of the famed Fedex) about a parcel that was supposed to reach me a week back, the rain was blamed. But when I saw the poor drenched delivery person, clutching my bubble-wrapped parcel in his wet, wet hands, I hadn't the heart to rant at him.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>If this was Kolkata drowning under non-stop rains, people would have woken up on Monday, peeped through the window pane, yawned, dived under the bedsheet, and curled up for another snooze till mid-morning and a cup of tea beckoned.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>But this is Mumbai. </div><div>So we wake up. </div><div>See the rain (in fact, can't see too far out of the window because of the rain). </div><div>Heat water in the geyser, take a warm/hot/boiling bath (WHY? WHY? WHY TAKE A WARM BATH 365 DAYS A YEAR, IRRESPECTIVE OF HEAT AND SUMMER AND SEASONS????AND WHY TAKE A HOT BATH WHEN YOU ARE GOING TO STAY WET AND MISERABLE FOR THE REST OF THE DAY ANYWAY?)</div><div>Gobble down breakfast, wrap up in raincoats, unfurl our umbrellas (all the better to poke other people in crowded buses and trains).</div><div>And step out into the friendly neighbourhood ankle/knee/waist-deep puddle.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>That's Mumbai for you!!! The city that never sleeps. Also, the city that never stays dry.</div><div>
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<br /></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-46213324326307498462011-08-18T17:58:00.002+05:302011-08-18T18:11:10.901+05:30BEWITCHING BANDRABlame it on the Bandstand.<div>
<br /></div><div>Blame it on the breezy sea.
<br /><div>
<br /></div><div>Blame it on the bylanes.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Blame it on the bazaars.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Blame it on Bandra.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I am so bewitched by Bandra that I have neglected a lot of things. Blog-writing. Weight-watching. Researching...</div></div><div>
<br /></div><div>The intricate, intersecting lanes that get clogged up with traffic at rush-hours. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>The intriguing mix of fashion-savvy folks, laid-back lads, and crotchety crones.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>The melting pot of religions and cultures that serve up a great variety of food fit for all pockets and palates. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>The streets wide enough for REAL FOOTPATHS WIDE ENOUGH AND CLEAN ENOUGH AND FLAT ENOUGH TO WALK ON (which deserves a Hallelujah in suburban Mumbai), and which also houses stalls eager to sell everything from clothes, bags and shoes to trinkets, kitchenware and books.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Ah Bandra of the old-world charm and the nouveau riche fashion and the ...</div><div>
<br /></div><div>...sea.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I'm bewitched. I've succumbed to its charms.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>It's hard not to.</div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-45589357408822656522011-06-23T17:51:00.004+05:302011-06-23T18:16:02.374+05:30I KNOW WHAT I DID THIS SUMMERI know that I have been off blogging for nearly two months this summer.<div><br /></div><div>And I know the reason for it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Shifting from one rented flat in Mumbai to another.</div><div><br /></div><div>First, it was the decision to shift.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then, it was a round of seeking admission to new schools in the chosen area. As a school Principal said, "If you had one child, it wouldn't have been a problem. But...". Since no one had informed us of such future problems when pushing the 'two-children-happy-family-theory', we had to make double the effort now. Finally, though, we got both daughters enrolled in Arya Vidya Mandir, which, from all accounts, is a good school to grow up in.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then, it was a search for the right flat. Oh, there are flats and flats, but a suitable match between a likeable residence and an affordable budget is really tough to find. You see, you shortlist, you negotiate, you wait...the negotiations fail...and then you go through this over and over again. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then, it was a matter of waiting for the right approvals from the right authorities, for legalities, and contracts and verifications. I AM NOT TALKING OF BUYING, BUT SIMPLY OF RENTING PROPERTY ON A COMPANY LEASE. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then, it was getting in touch with Movers and Packers, and watching all your beloved stuff being ruthlessly stuffed into bubble-wraps, cartons and cardboards, dragged into wet trucks (it was raining heavily that day), and dumped carelessly in new, strange rooms.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tiring.</div><div><br /></div><div>Traumatic.</div><div><br /></div><div>And also rather exciting, actually ;)</div><div><br /></div><div>Suffice to say, we have shifted to a new flat with kids, clothes, books and utensils in tow. This flat is still being done up by the owner, so we will be living a very public life amidst carpenters, masons, plumbers and electricians for a few more weeks. The house in a mess, there is a huge amount of unpacking still to be done, the kitchen is a work-in-progress, one bathroom looks as if it has been bombed...</div><div><br /></div><div>Still, we can see the sea in the distance from some of the windows, and there are a lot of quaint churches and little lanes with sloping-roof houses to be explored. When the sundry people banging away around the flat finally leave...</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank God for Maa, but that's another post!</div><div><br /></div><div>All in all, a summer spent in fretting and fuming and sweating and waiting, and a monsoon beginning in a shifting.</div><div><br /></div><div>What a waste of a lovely summer vacation!</div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-26660528048377692052011-04-14T16:18:00.003+05:302011-04-14T16:48:47.989+05:30THE BAG THAT CAME BACK<b><span class="Apple-style-span" >It is an unassuming black net bag,</span></b> the kind we call <b><i>'tholee' </i></b>in Bengali. That's the bag you carry to the local vegetable (and/or fish) market. <div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >It's weightless</span></b>, although it can carry enormous amounts of weight. Kilos of apples, bhindis, cauliflower, beets, gourds, pumpkins, cabbages, dozens of bananas, bunches of palak, methi and kothmir, quantities of fish and fowl, have all nestled in happy weekly harmony in the confines of the bag, with a not-so-happy effect on my shoulder and wrist.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >It's rather tatty and holey </span></b>- precisely because of the above-mentioned weekly habit for working with heavy-weights.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >It's got a heavy drinking habit,</span></b> too - my husband often uses it for bringing home dozens of cans of Budweiser or bottles of Tuborg or...you get the drift?</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >It's recycled</span></b> - in fact, it has been recycled ad infinitum, in all kinds of environments. It is as comfortable in grubby street-side markets as it is in air-conditioned restaurants where you have to pay through your nose. Because we always take it out of my much-more-expensive shoulder-bag if we have take any leftovers home.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >It owes it's arrival in our household to an environmental crisis</span></b> - after the humongous and horrendous rains of July, 2005, when drains blocked with plastic bags contributed greatly to the tragedy that ensued and prompted the Government to declare a ban on use of paper-thin plastic bags (isn't that contradictory?). I went to Big Bazaar and bought this net bag for Rs. 65/-</div><div><br /></div><div>The ban was soon flouted, but the bag has stayed with us, loyal for nearly six years.</div><div><br /></div><div>Until two weeks back. It had been carelessly pushed into my shoulder-bag (which is its usual resting place until it is called out for action). And it fell out while the spouse and I were on the way to, where else, the vegetable market. Its disappearance caused us a lot of grief and regret.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then, like a miracle,<b><span class="Apple-style-span" > it came back</span></b>. My maid called me at work to say that another maid had found it hanging on a hook above the security-guard's desk in another wing of the building. It had apparently been lying there, unclaimed and unloved for a fortnight. I returned home with a happy spring in my step, the cheerfulness bubbling over in my voice when I called up the spuse with the good news. </div><div><br /></div><div>And the very next day, my faithful <b><span class="Apple-style-span" >bag-that-came-back was back in action</span></b>.</div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >For some reason, a tatty old 65-rupee bag has taught me a lesson in values beyond money.</span></b></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-18000710589592687392011-03-08T10:43:00.004+05:302011-03-08T10:52:38.009+05:30WOMEN'S DAY: A PRIZED POSSESSIONHere's the essay I wrote that won the First Prize at the Essay Competition for Lecturers by Hinduja College. It's rather long (they had a word limit of 1500) and rather dry and pontificating at places (academics are notorious for their incomprehensibility and verbosity), so feel free to skip as much or all of it if you want.<div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><u><span style="font-size:16.0pt">WOMEN’S EMPOWERMENT: MYTH OR REALITY?<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:3.0in"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><u>Miles to Go</u></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">“<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black">The race must be saved<st1:personname st="on">,</st1:personname> and it can only be saved through the emancipation of women.”</span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">(<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">Emmeline Pankhurst<st1:personname st="on">,</st1:personname> British suffragette<st1:personname st="on">,</st1:personname> in her <u>Freedom or Death</u> speech at Connecticut<st1:personname st="on">,</st1:personname> USA<st1:personname st="on">,</st1:personname> 1913. Source: Wikipedia</b>)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black"><o:p> </o:p></span></span>‘Empowerment’ means ‘to vest with authority, to authorize’. As men have been the ‘authors’ of most texts since time immemorial, it’s not surprising that women have always got a bad deal in the division of power.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Look at <u>The Holy Bible</u>. Naomi Wolf explains in <u>The Beauty Myth</u> (1991, Vintage, <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>, pp.93), “Though God made Adam from clay, in his own image, Eve is an expendable rib.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Look at the etymology of the word ‘woman’. This Old English word is a compound of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">wif + man</i>. A part of man, and not much apart from man – that was the woman’s lot. Till the first glimmers of change in the 18<sup>th</sup> century, notwithstanding a few Cleopatras and Catherine the Greats and Joans of Arc dotting the intervening centuries.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And then there came the three waves of the Women’s Liberation Movement, from the 18<sup>th</sup> century to the present day. The movement varied in its aims and achievements in different nations and distinct cultures, from opposing female genital mutilation in <st1:country-region st="on">Sudan</st1:country-region> to breaking the glass-ceiling in Western countries to abolishing the practice of Satidaha (burning of widows) in pre-Independence <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black"><o:p>A</o:p></span></span>nd, no, female empowerment is not a mythical struggle like the symbolically-laden fight between Judith and Holofernes (where Judith cut off her assailant’s head). The achievements are very much real and hard-won – one of the most noteworthy being women’s suffrage. From <st1:country-region st="on">New Zealand</st1:country-region> in 1893, <st1:country-region st="on">Great Britain</st1:country-region> in 1918, the <st1:country-region st="on">USA</st1:country-region> in 1920, and <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> since its tryst with destiny in 1947, women today have the right to vote. Such a long journey from the ideal state of Aristotle’s <u>Politics</u>, where women, infants and lunatics were denied citizenship rights.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Beyond politics, other struggles have been played out across the globe, on issues such as reproductive rights, domestic violence, equal pay, sexual violence and gendered language. The manifestations of male power are so insidious and entrenched, that we have a long way to go before women’s empowerment becomes as much of a ‘given’ as men’s empowerment has always been.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><u><span style="color:black">Protest through Silence</span></u></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="color:black">“Silence can be a plan</span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="color:black">rigorously executed<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="color:black">the blueprint to a life</span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="color:black">It is a presence</span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="color:black">it has a history <span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>a form<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="color:black">do not confuse it</span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="color:black">with any kind of absence”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="color:black">(from Adrienne Rich, <u>Cartographies of Silence</u>, 1975)</span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto"><span class="apple-style-span">To know the real status of women’s empowerment in <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place>, we can do a number of things. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto"><span class="apple-style-span">We can look at the figures. <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> has always performed poorly in gender-related indices. <a href="http://www.nasscomm.in/">www.nasscomm.in</a> informs us that </span>The Human development report<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="qmatch">of</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>the UNDP ranks India 98<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="qmatch">in</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>its Gender related Development Index.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>While 85% o<span class="qmatch">f</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>the total girl children attend primary school<st1:personname st="on">,</st1:personname> less than 12% still carry on to the tertiary level. These women who drop out, as well as those who go on to have a job, do not sit idle at home. Indian women<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>typically spend 35 hours per week on household tasks and caring for family-members, as against 4 hours per week for men.</p> <p>We can look at the faces. Women in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> have had their poster-girls and role models. From Indira Gandhi (“the only man in her Cabinet”) to today’s Mayawati-Mamata-Jayalalitha in politics, from Indra Nooyi abroad to Naina Lal Kidwai and Chandra Kochhar here in the corporate jungle, from Arundhati Roy and Medha Patkar in the jungles of injustice, from Sonia Gandhi, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">de facto </i>leader of the nation, to Pratibha Patil, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">de jure</i> head of the state, famous Indian women achievers make a long list. </p> <p>Or we can look at the total picture. In a country of 496.4 million women (2001 census figures, source: <a href="http://www.merinews.com/">www.merinews.com</a>), pulling out a few hundred names from the conjuror’s hat is mere tokenism. Remember, <st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region> is also the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">land</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename st="on">Roop Kanwar</st1:placename></st1:place>, the 18-year old<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>who committed <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sati_(practice)" title="Sati (practice)"><i><span style="color:windowtext;text-decoration:none;text-underline:none">sati</span></i></a><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>on 4 September 1987 at<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deorala" title="Deorala"><span style="color:windowtext;text-decoration:none;text-underline:none">Deorala</span></a><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>in Rajasthan. We shall never know her real story, forever silenced on her husband’s pyre.</p> <p>We can listen to the many silences around us – the silences of the women away from the limelight, away from our own educated, privileged world. Let me share with you my maid’s ‘herstory’. She is seventh-standard pass, abandoned by her husband even though she has two children, and she works from dawn to dusk washing-cleaning-sweeping-mopping to bring up her two children and to look after her mother and sister, who share her destiny of abandonment and subsequent self-sustenance through hard labour. She does not know about any charter of women’s rights, but her gut-instinct makes her refuse to take back her husband when he comes inebriated and wheedling to her door.</p> <p>This is the power of silence, the real story of those who cannot voice their protest.</p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 4.8pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0in; "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><u><span style="color:black">Power and Violence<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p> <p style="margin-top:4.8pt;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:6.0pt;margin-left: 0in"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="color:black">“Girls never mean it when they say stop…<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p> <p style="margin-top:4.8pt;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:6.0pt;margin-left: 0in"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="color:black">Was it rape, then?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p> <p style="margin-top:4.8pt;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:6.0pt;margin-left: 0in"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="color:black">(from <u>Rape</u>, Joan Larkin, 1986)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p style="margin-top:4.8pt;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:6.0pt;margin-left: 0in"><span style="color:black">Many a times, though, silence is at a disadvantage. Especially since violence is an inescapable ingredient in any struggle for power. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin-top:4.8pt;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:6.0pt;margin-left: 0in"><span style="color:black">One of the most disturbing obstacles to women’s empowerment is the growing trend of violence against women. This violence takes many forms – dowry harassment, bride-burning, eve-teasing, sexual harassment at the workplace, honour-killing, marital violence and rape. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><u>The Times of India</u>, 27 November, 2010, reports that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">“<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black">statistics on rapes in the country shows how more than two women are raped every hour….The number of rapes across the country has increased manifold from only 2<st1:personname st="on">,</st1:personname>487 in 1971 to 21<st1:personname st="on">,</st1:personname>176 in 2008.</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color:black">”</span></span><span style="color:black"> </span></i><span style="color:black">To each of these victims, women’s empowerment may just be an empty, broken promise.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style="color:black">Violence can take other forms, too. It can be self-inflicted, brought upon oneself by peer pressure and social expectations. The notion of ‘beauty’ can be fiercely competitive and mercilessly cruel. Isabelle Caro, the French actress and model who died on 1<sup>st</sup> January, 2011, aged 28 and weighing under 30 kilograms, exemplifies the violence of beauty.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style="color:black"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Naomi Wolf in <u>The Beauty Myth</u> (1990) analyses the ‘Walking Wounded’ – women who undergo cosmetic surgery, who become victims of anorexia and bulimia, to attain or maintain the ideal of ‘beauty’- beauty which always lies in the eyes of the observer, usually male.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><u>The Bondage to Stereotypes<o:p></o:p></u></b></p> <p><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">“The real trouble about women is that they must always go on trying to adapt themselves to men’s theories of women.”<o:p></o:p></i></b></p> <p><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">(D H Lawrence, quoted in Erica Jong’s <u>Fear of Flying</u>, 1973)<span class="apple-style-span"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p style="margin-top:4.8pt;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:6.0pt;margin-left: 0in"><span style="color:black">Down centuries and across cultures, one of the most debilitating bondage that women have had to face is the bondage to stereotypes. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin-top:4.8pt;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:6.0pt;margin-left: 0in"><span style="color:black">As Eve the eternal temptress, or as Mary, the selfless nurturer, as Durga, the ten-armed super-force, or as Savitri, the unquestioningly devoted wife, men have created the image of their perfect woman. In religion and literature, from the epics to the romantics, women have always been the ‘object’ – of possession (Draupadi and the game of dice in<u> The Mahabharata</u>), of adoration (read any romantic poem by Shelley), of suspicion (Sita in <u>The Ramayana</u>). Women have always been expected to conform to this straitjacketed stereotype constructed by men.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin-top:4.8pt;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:6.0pt;margin-left: 0in"><span style="color:black">And they still do. Look at the popular television serials, with their docile/domineering saas-bahu (daughters and mothers in law) in aspirational finery and patriarchal set-ups. Most advertisements sell cars and deodorants through Eve-like femme fatales, or peddle noodles and spice powders with the help of supermoms and yummy mummies. Feminine cosmetic products glorify the most fantastic stereotype of them all – the ‘fair and lovely’ lady, impossibly beautiful, unattainably fair-skinned, dangerously slender centre of male attention. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin-top:4.8pt;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:6.0pt;margin-left: 0in"><span style="color:black">As long as popular culture continues to endorse these stereotypes, women will continue to be enslaved by them. And women will liberate themselves financially and politically, only to be disempowered by subtler socio-psychological forces.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 4.8pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-left: 0in; "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><u><span style="color:black">Break Free, Fly, Choose<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">“<span class="apple-style-span">Hope is the thing with feathers</span><br /><span class="apple-style-span">That perches in the soul<st1:personname st="on">,</st1:personname></span><o:p></o:p></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">And sings the tune without the words<st1:personname st="on">,</st1:personname></i></b></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><br /><span class="apple-style-span">And never stops at all.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal">(from <u>Hope</u>, Emily Dickinson<st1:personname st="on">,</st1:personname> 1861)</b><span class="apple-style-span">However, there are encouraging signs. </span>According to the Registrar General<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="qmatch">of</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region><st1:personname st="on">,</st1:personname> the proportion<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="qmatch">of</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="qmatch">women</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="qmatch">in</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>the workforce<span class="apple-converted-space"> rose from 19.7% in 1981 to </span>25.7 %<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="qmatch">in</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>2001. Currently<st1:personname st="on">,</st1:personname><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="qmatch">in</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>the Indian IT industry<st1:personname st="on">,</st1:personname><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="qmatch">women</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> form </span>45% of the toal workforce. (source: <a href="http://www.nasscomm.in/">www.nasscomm.in</a>). More women are stepping out and speaking up, demanding and getting education and employment and some semblance of equality. Women earn outside and also slog inside their homes. But it is a choice many of us willingly make.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, women’s empowerment is neither a myth, nor a fully-achieved reality, but a work in progress. A process that started long ago and far away, but carried forward each time any woman asserts her rights. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My mother had to quit her job to bring up her children. I am managing to balance work and home. Maybe my daughters will have an easier choice, a smoother flight, a safer freedom, and a more equal empowerment. For the betterment of the entire human race – man, woman, transgender – we can all hope.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-67884118632260576342011-02-24T14:37:00.003+05:302011-02-24T14:56:46.794+05:30EARLY MORNING PATRIOTISM PILLI take it every morning, six days a week. Dropping whatever I was doing at the moment. Standing to attention. No talking or fidgeting allowed. <div><br /></div><div>I may fudge my taxable income figures, or curse the government, buy goods from sellers avoiding customs duty, or apply for a Green Card at the first opportunity. But I must never fail to stand up whenever the national anthem plays. Because in our topsy-turvy, show-and-yell society, I must always flaunt my patriotism.</div><div><br /></div><div>In our college, "Jana Gana Mana" plays every morning, Mon-Sat, before lectures start. We stop in our tracks and stand immobile, while the Nightingale of India melodiously - and rather lengthily - sings the well-known words.</div><div><br /></div><div>Words written by a favourite poet sitting down at his favourite desk in his long gown, a faraway look in his eyes, white hair and long beard and serene smile creating an almost-divine image of creation. Words springing from a creative mind, overflowing in doodles and squiggles on the pages where he scribbled. The creative mind that penned, not one but two national anthems for two bordering nations - India and Bangladesh.</div><div><br /></div><div>You see, posture has got nothing to do with patriotism at all. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is the thrill you feel in your veins when the tempo in the song increases at "Jana gana MANGALADAYAK jai he" and the trumpets and drums unite in harmony to accelerate the blood in your veins. It is the little goosbumps on your skin and the prickle of sudden tears in your eyes at a nameless pride that swells up during the song.</div><div><br /></div><div>Patriotism can be felt sitting down also. </div><div><br /></div><div>If we can pray sitting down, why cannot we love our country sitting down?</div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-63923716992234032152011-01-13T14:23:00.003+05:302011-01-13T14:36:45.152+05:30NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS - OLD HAT, ANYWAY!Now that the euphoria has died down (<i><b>and well-buried under the debris of deadlines and approaching exams, inspections</b></i>), let me make a few resolutions that I make every year anyway:<div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >SLIMMER WAISTLINE</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >FATTER WALLET</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>(<i>how? how? is a hope and a prayer enough?)</i></div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >LESS SHOPPING</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >MORE READING</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>(<i>Not just Sale notices in the papers that make me rush out frenetically to the shops)</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>(Not just detective fiction and chick lit. Get down to the classics!</i>)</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >FREQUENTER POSTS</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >INFREQUENTER VISITS TO FASHION BLOGS</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>(<i>Not even HighHeelConfidential and GoFugYourself?)</i></div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >SAY NO TO SNICKERS BARS!</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >SAY YES TO LOW-CAL, FIBRE RICH NUTRI BARS!</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>(<i>Do I have to eat them, too? Can't I just stash them in my bag, feel virtuous and then throw them after the expiry date passes?</i>)</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >DO THE RESEARCH PROJECT ON BLOGGERS IN INDIA THAT HAS BEEN PENDING SINCE LAST YEAR!</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>For this last one, <b><span class="Apple-style-span" >I need your help.</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Do send me your e-mail IDs and I will forward you a questionnaire about your blog that I desperately need for data collection.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>My e-mail ID is <i><b>sarkarsucharita@gmail.com</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-28393749805337056732010-12-14T15:40:00.003+05:302010-12-14T15:51:18.575+05:30NIP AND TUCKYesss! There is very definitely a NIP in the air.<div><br /></div><div>Mumbai - sultry, humid, sweltering-round-the-year Mumbai - is actually having the onset of what-appears-to-be a Winter.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's the only thing that Delhi had (apart from better roads and worse manners) that Mumbai didn't.</div><div><br /></div><div>So The Times of India puns "KYA KOOL HAI MUM!".</div><div>So my friend writes on FaceBook, "I told you, Mumbai has always been a cool place!"</div><div>So the fans are having a rest, while the geysers work overtime.</div><div>So the kids have dug out all their woollens and are insisting on going down to play dressed for a Himalayan trek.</div><div><br /></div><div>And me? I just want to TUCK my feet inside a warm duvet and sleep all morning.</div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-32472569125075180862010-11-25T16:22:00.002+05:302010-11-25T16:43:18.808+05:30KOLKATA LINGERS...<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The annual visit to Kolkata ended a week back.</span></b><div><br /></div><div>Work/school has begun and we are back in the swing of things.</div><div><br /></div><div>The lazy mornings watching the world go by from our balcony, and the hectic evenings of catching up with friends and family have already retreated to the silent shots in the camera.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But Kolkata lingers...</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >In the 'panchphoron' and 'radhuni' - spices peculiar to the Bengali cuisine - that my in-laws have packed for me.</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >In the Cookme 'mustard paste' that is adding tartness and the sharp tang of memory to fish curries cooked in Borivili.</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >In the Bori (dried balls of ground lentils) that is adding crunch and the bite of nostalgia to Maharashtra-bred vegetables.</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >In the Jaljeera (a sweet-salty-tangy powder) from Tasty, which is being dissolved in water (and a bit of tears) to make glass after glass of cooling drink in manic Mumbai.</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >In the sarees from Dakshinapan and the books from College Street. When we open and use, we breathe in deeply and remember.</span></b></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-9623127014424432902010-10-15T15:26:00.003+05:302010-10-15T16:15:38.646+05:30DURGA'S JOURNEY<b>Today is Ashtami</b>, and I assume that <b><i>Maa Durga</i></b> has already started to feel a little sad hollow in the pit of her stomach, because the end - of her longed-for visit to her <i><b>baaper bari</b></i> (maiden home) - is slowly drawing to a close.<div><br /></div><div>I always feel a similar hollow in my (somewhat more rotund) tummy when I am in the midst of a holiday, because <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">THE MIDDLE IS THE BEGINNING OF THE END</span></b>, if you know what I mean.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >And the really fun part of any holiday is the first part, just as the most maddening part is the packing before the journey.</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>Because our annual Diwali sojourn to Kolkata is drawing near, it was really quite easy to visualize this.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>PLACE</i></span></span></b><i>:</i><b> Shiva's mountain-top villa/palace/cave in Kailash.</b></div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>CAST OF CHARACTERS:</i></span></span></b></div><div><ul><li><b>A flurried ten-handed goddess-wife-mother</b></li><li><b>A spaced-out, always-high husband</b></li><li><b>Four squabbling children</b></li><li><b>Sundry hapless assistants</b></li></ul></div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Durga</i></b> is packing suitcases. Ten hands help, but then, she has top carry a lot of weapons and other paraphernalia that'll be hanging on these arms for the stage-show. Plus, there is a hell of lot of pet-food to carry. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Durga</i></b>: "Laxmi, you don't need so many gold biscuits and silver coins, just take the credit card. Saraswati, can't you swap those heavy tomes for an e-book reader? Ganesh, go on a diet, at least for the sake of your mouse! And Kartik, it is all right to be vain and metrosexual, but do you have to take so many boxes of pancake? Or your nasal hair trimmer? It is only five days, you know! Can we get things moving here? Nandi (Shiva's assistant, who is known to puff on his boss's chillum on the sly) have you booked our boat/elephant/horse/Meru Cab yet? Why does nothing here happen on time?</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Shiva:</i></b> "That's because we live out of time...in eternity... (<i>seeing Durga's frown</i>)...At least look at me, I am such a light packer, taking only my tiger-skin toga."</div><div><br /></div><div>The be-spectacled <b><i>Saraswati</i></b> (<i>she wears contact lenses during the five days</i>) looks up from her copy of Lonely Planet: </div><div>"Yeah, and PETA is after you for that. Can't you wear something more eco-friendly?"</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Shiva</i></b>: "What, like those Naga sanyasis. You'd prefer me to be a nude-dude, then?"</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Laxmi</i></b>: "Baba!! Don't shock Ma's suburban sensibilities."</div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>Durga</b></i>, distracted from her packing:</div><div>"Hah! I was always a metro miss till your father married me and dragged me to the jungles and hills. What a place! No network signal on my mobile, and no work from any of you!! Just look at me, I've been packing since days, and there's still so much left."</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Ganesh</i></b>, chewing the edge of his trunk (<i>which means he's hungry)</i>: </div><div>"Don't forget to pack enough food for me. You never bother to cook food during holidays, and I get jolly tired to pecking on fruits and sweets given to us. These humans are too clever by half, they polish off the really tasty <i><b>bhog</b></i> pretty darn fast!"</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Laxmi</i></b>: "You've taken my jewelry box, haven't you? And don't try to filch my bangles. Please wear your own...having ten arms is no excuse for taking my bangles and bracelets."</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Saraswati</i></b>: "Have you taken my I-pod? That loud <b><i>dhaaker</i></b> music makes my head ache!"</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Kartik</i></b>: "Can we stay near a salon this year? Five days of smoke and fumes from the <i><b>dhunuchi</b></i> and my skin cries out for a facial. And I think I'd like to have my navel pierced, it'd look cool with my <b><i>dhoti </i></b>and <b><i>angvastram</i></b>."</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Shiva</i></b>: "Yeah, let's swap our<i><b> mandap</b></i> for a mall this year. Some of them have really good booze shops..."</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Durga </i></b>(frustrated, exhausted, exasperated) challenges: </div><div>"Fine. Just take care of the reservations. It's so not fair having to take you along every single time. What about some ME-TIME for poor old me? Any more back chat from you and I'm flying solo. It's <b><span class="Apple-style-span" >MY HOLIDAY</span></b> and I'm going to chill."</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-39248424451038883642010-09-09T16:01:00.002+05:302010-09-09T16:19:01.525+05:30WATCHING SERIALS, SERIOUSLY<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Serial watching is serious business.</span></b><div><br /></div><div>Just ask my Ma.</div><div><br /></div><div>It needs </div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">multi-tasking </span></b>(switching between channels and also doing other work at the same time),</div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#009900;">time-management</span></b> (between the same),</div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993399;">dexterity</span></b> (with the remote), </div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF6600;">hand-eye co-ordination</span></b> (knitting and watching TV simultaneously), </div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#6600CC;">an understanding of melodrama and human psychology</span></b> (rightly guessing who will do what next, and also guessing what had happened in case she misses one/more episodes),</div><div>and, of course, <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">an elephantine memory</span></b>.</div><div><br /></div><div>My Ma manages efficiently to keep abreast of all the prime-time serials in all the channels. And her 'Prime-time' extends from 7 p.m to midnight. And she manages to simultaneously cook uo delicious fish-curries for us. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I asked her what was the secret behind her being such a <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;">SUPER SUCCESSFUL SERIAL-WATCHER</span></b>, she placidly said:</div><div><br /></div><div>"Ad breaks help a lot. When ads come on Star Plus, just switch to Zee. Then to Imagine. Then to Colors...</div><div>And, if you miss out for some reason, watch the rerun very late at night or next afternoon."</div><div><br /></div><div>WOW!!! At least, serial-watching has a well-planned technique. Unfortunately, the never-ending serials themselves do not seem to have any such science or strategy.</div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-19493376769003357372010-08-20T14:42:00.003+05:302010-08-20T15:12:01.907+05:30CAN YOU FLIRT?There I go, that's <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;">absolutely the wrong question to ask.</span></b><div><br /></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC33CC;">Flirting is a delicate art.</span></span></i> Like the art of making the fluffiest and lightest pastry or cupcake or gelatto, flirting requires a light hand. Make that a light heart. And a glad eye. And a lightly raised eyebrow. And the lightest, most coquettish fluttering of eyelashes. Accomplished flirts can flit - like <b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993399;">butterflies</span></span></i></b> - from here to there, bestowing a smile, a wink, a flattering comparison, a risque compliment, even a suggestive proposition. All this without getting enmeshed or entangled in anything heavy or sordid like a relationship. Flirting is like those 100% fat-free gelattos, they are frothy, dainty, gossamer, and <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33CCFF;">100% commitment-free</span></span></b>. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993399;">Flirting is the art of the indirect.</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>Unfortunately, <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I am</span></b> a rather direct sort of person. <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A bumblebee</span></b> who blunders straight into trees, rather than a butterfly. </div><div><br /></div><div>If somebody pays me a compliment, I always wonder, "Really?" and often say aloud, "Why?". I raise my eyebrows rather than flutter my eyelashes. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe because of my contact lenses, it is easier to raise eyebrows than it is to flutter eyelashes. Whatever, I am really really heavy-handed and get all hot and bothered by any kind of flirtatious contact.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which is a pity, because flirting can make your life really easy. You can jump queues, get small favours done, get the best products on offer, get extra discounts, get better service, get away with late-coming/bunking/shirking-work/not-meeting-deadlines/making-1001-mistakes/murder. Anything, actually. </div><div><br /></div><div>Flirts can pirouette and escape the consequences of their inaction. Whereas blunderbusses like me have to prove myself with every action.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, let me be direct, and ask you, "Can you flirt?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Because, to my ever-lasting regret, <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#990000;">I CAN NOT</span></span></b>.</div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-75966754569910749842010-07-27T14:24:00.002+05:302010-07-27T14:38:22.079+05:30TUNNEL VISIONI hate tunnels.<div><br /></div><div>Especially the under-passes built near railway stations or under flyovers, for teeming millions to cross over from one side to another. There is one near Sealdah station in Kolkata, and one under the Western Express Highway in Malad, Mumbai, which I had/have to familiar on a daily basis. And, in this case at least, familiarity breeds contempt. Ugh!</div><div><br /></div><div>They are dank, dirty, musty and crowded. There's water dripping down walls and from cracks in the ceiling, and I shudder each time a cold drop falls on me. There are rodents and cockroaches scurrying along the drains at the side. There are pushing, groping crowds hurrying past in the permanent semi-darkness.</div><div><br /></div><div>And what amazes me most are the tenacity of the vendors who have made these tunnels their workplace, staying in these claustrophobic surroundings for hours on end, like denizens of a nightmarish nocturnal hell.</div><div><br /></div><div>And they sell spinach and bananas, garlic (to ward off vampires?) and knick-knacks. I always feel too suffocated to buy. The walls seem to close in, the ceiling seems to press down upon me. I rush as fast as I can, tripping on the uneven tunnel floor, ducking the leaking water, holding my breath to avoid inhaling the stale air. </div><div><br /></div><div>The sunlight at the end of the tunnel always seems a bit too far away for my liking.</div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-24374176086269431492010-07-01T17:32:00.003+05:302010-07-01T17:54:13.693+05:30OF GRAND SLAMS AND SOUR GRAPESGrand Slams look unfamiliar these days.<div><br /></div><div>Because Federer is exiting so early. No, not the first-round, but even the quarter-final is such an unexpected result from my favourite player. In fact, I usually do not watch the early rounds in Grand Slams at all, catching up with Roger when he strode into the quarters and beyond, mostly winning, sometimes losing, but always, always immensely, delightfully watchable. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, without Federer, the courts seems emptied of artistry, bereft of magic. The red clay of Roland Garros is harsher, bloodier with the grunting, lunging, gutsy, athletic Nadal and his power-tennis. Wimbledon's grass is no longer that shade of brilliant green it was for the past so many years.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, watching the finals of a Grand Slam is no longer a matter of biting fingernails, knotting-up stomach and clenching fingers together in prayer. Where I would jump from point to point, game to game, set to set, swinging between hope and despair. Where I could cry unabashedly when Federer's subtle charms would self-destruct or be mauled by the hard-hitting determination of his opponent, usually Nadal. Where I could watch, enraptured by the mastery of a man who could transform a movement into a masterpiece with his timing, touch, grace and fluidity. Where I would rejoice at witnessing magic and history weaving together a unique spectacle.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, I can relax during a Grand Slam final. It's just two men slugging it out - with the stronger one, in mind and body, the one who seizes the moment, winning. Tennis has become a battle of power once again. A game for gritty warriors, not the magic of the artist.</div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-6663584560782935662010-06-24T17:48:00.004+05:302010-06-24T18:16:52.016+05:30RAIN DICTIONARY<strong><span style="font-size:130%;">DEPRESSION</span></strong><br />Not just the low-pressure zones in the sky that invite the heavy rain-clouds and the monsoon, but <strong>the hollow feeling in my stomach when I look at the still-wet washing </strong>hanging on sagging lnes inside rooms where they have no business to be. Wet clothes should dry fast and smell fresh and sunny, not go on hanging for ever.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">DEBRIS</span></strong><br />Is the muck that rises up to greet your feet (or ankles, or knees, or waist - depending on the water level) when you wade from job to home, or anywhere to anywhere.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">DECISION</span></strong><br />To take the raincoat or the umbrella? The foldable brolly or the huge one with the hook-like handle that always gets stuck in other people's bags? Whatever I decide is ineffectual anyway, because the monsoon has a mind of its own. And a heavy downpour can throw cold water on all my decisions.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">DEVILRY</span></strong><br />The <strong>sheer cussedness of auto-richshaw drivers</strong> who are always zipping up and down, but never where you want to go. In monsoon, along with dengue and malaria, auto-rickshaw refusals reach epidemic proportions. Even if you have tons of grocery bags on your arms, or wet-and-wailing children in your arms. They'll never go where you ask them to, but always stop and pick up the next person.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">DESPERATION</span></strong><br /><strong>Personified by me when I am standing in the pouring rain</strong>, trying to flag down an auto, with an ineffectual umbrella in one hand and the aforesaid tons of grocery bags on the other hand, getting horribly late for home.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">DELINQUENCY</span></strong><br /><strong>Personified by monsoon-mad Mumbaikars</strong> who seem to be in love with this misery-pouring season. As Obelix would say, "These Mumbaikars are crazy!"<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">DEFIANCE</span></strong><br /><strong>Me arguing with the above-mentioned mad phalanx</strong> and saying, "Monsoon, huh? The sooner it is over, the better. And anyway, why doesn't it just go and rain on the lakes, instead of messing up my life?"<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">DELIGHT</span></strong><br />Is a fast-forward to a future when the lakes are full and the sun is shining.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Care to add some more words to the list?</span></strong>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579335055133416337.post-17146005099350246252010-06-03T17:06:00.002+05:302010-06-03T17:27:21.869+05:30FLIPPING OVERProbably I'm late, as usual. Probably everyone of you have already been there and done that.<br /><br />But I'm just so, so excited about about this on-line bookshop I've just found out about - <a href="http://www.flipkart.com/">FLIPKART.COM</a>.<br /><br />They have the most amazing collection of books that most other bookshops (<em>even my favourite haunts like <strong>Landmark</strong> and <strong>Crossword</strong> everywhere</em>) do not have in stock. And they offer you pretty decent discounts! <strong>And they'll deliver it home, if home is in India, without any shipping charges! </strong><br /><br />I managed to track down a whole lot of completely delicious and completely unavailable-elsewhere <strong>women detective fiction authors from the 1940s-1960s</strong>. Everybody's heard/read/seen/bought/trashed/loved <strong>Agatha Christie</strong>. Her contemporary, <strong>Dorothy Sayers</strong>, - more erudite, and, ergo, less popular - graces <strong>Crossword/Landmark</strong> shelves in her shiny reprinted avatars. But I totally flipped over when I found rows and rows of juicy murder mysteries by <strong>Margery Allingham, Ngaio Marsh</strong> (<em>Christie, Sayers, Allingham and Marsh are together revered as the <strong>Queens of British Golden Age Crime Fiction</strong></em>), <strong>Josephine Tey</strong> and <strong>Patricia Wentworth</strong>! <em>Virtually </em>close enough for me to reach out and touch! Now I can't wait to bite into them!!! And it's great fun just browsing along and adding random favourites to my wishlist!<br /><br />But if you are completely unmoved by Miss Marple and Miss Silver, Lord Peter Wimsey, Roderick Alleyn, Inspector Grant or Albert Campion and the rest of those ancient genteel-detectives, you can always search and find your own poison!<br /><br />A site for all bibliophiles to flip over!! I have!Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com25