Kartikey Sehgal

I walk to the theatre and think that it’s not too much to ask for any man. Some security and movie-watching with your family.

“Tell me”, says Bhupinder while manoeuvring his auto-rickshaw through the police barricade, “won’t the terrorist simply take the bus?” A set of three policemen, huddled together, ask for the vehicles to slow down; the bus and heavy transport is let through without scrutiny. “The Police simply adds to traffic woes. In the morning they are on one side of the road and in the evening they are on the other side. That’s duty for them”.

At some distance there’s more traffic and Bhupinder points out to a boy sitting in the adjoining rickshaw. “People like them should be checked”. The boy is clad in shirt and jeans and is wearing several tattoos and chains. It is discriminatory, he agrees, but adds that that is how it should be for state security.

The rickshaw breezes through a Juhu road for some seconds and the change in speed prefaces change in our conversation.

“It’s a very popular theatre of Mumbai. As a child I saw several films there with my family”. We are talking about Chandan Cinema, a popular single screen theatre that has survived the onslaught of multiplexes.

“Those were the days when the ticket was priced at rupee one”. The roads have given way to Bhupinder and he presses on the pedal. “I have also seen films for barah anna. We went to the movies as a family. But the films of the sixties and seventies are not made these days.”

We slither through the turns while avoiding potholes. Bhupinder is close to his favourite theatre.

“Now-a-days we don’t go to theatres to watch films. There’s too much skin show. And we can watch any film on cable. It saves money”. A sigh and then he adds, “taking your family out can set you back by many days. There’s not just that amount of money”.

As I pay the fare, Bhupinder tells me about his son who is set to join the police force. That’s how he keeps tab on the policewallas and security. He invites me to meet him sometime and hang out with him.

I walk to the theatre and think that it’s not too much to ask for any man. Some security and movie-watching with your family.

Share This Story

More »

Kartikey Sehgal

Everyday, around 10 people die on Mumbai local train tracks. But that is not ‘The Taj’. No foreign national comes and kills them. Their death is standard legitimate death. And not sufficient to make headlines.

If a man/woman falls from a train and dies, then the event is deserving of our apathy and disinterest. If a foreigner pushes a man out of the train, then it is an attack worth some media coverage.

The recent terror attack is also India’s way of getting attention and importance. The National Security Guard (NSG) should not have been given the chance to carry out such an operation. The intelligence agencies and the Police should have done their job well.

The commandos are being feted for their bravery and risk taking abilities. However,  Indian security personnel die daily during border fights and their toughness is hardly given any political importance.

Of course, Mumbai is the epicentre of India’s importance and the borders don’t have proper electricity poles and English speaking gentry. Hence the importance in dying in Mumbai instead of, say, Kathua or Pathankot.

Did Indian people shout slogans or stand in support for Army/Navy/Air Force when they wanted a better pay and better ration? That commando whom you are applauding has been fighting with the polity for better ration and good pay for a long time. The people, the democracy, the ‘united front’ has been apathetic to their cause. That was not an international issue so it won’t be exciting for people to shout patriotism on the streets. But this is an international issue. CNN and BBC are involved.

Families of individuals killed in the attack have no reason to accept sympathies from Indian people and politicians. It is their personal loss and they must grieve it alone. The Mumbai resident won’t flinch if your family member is killed in an overloaded train compartment. Blow the member into pieces and Mumbai will show solidarity. Why accept anything at all from such people?

Peace and faith are instruments that would be used to ward off public anger in the coming days. Don’t fall for it. Grieve alone and be silent till you have the chance to act. Learn this tactic from the terrorist and use it to your advantage.

A National Security Guard commando rests during a lull in action after firing at suspected militants holed up at Nariman House in Colaba, Mumbai, India, Friday, Nov. 28, 2008. Commandos ended a siege of the luxury Oberoi Trident Hotel on Friday while other forces rappelled from helicopters to storm a besieged Jewish center, two days after a chain of militant attacks across India’s financial center left people dead and the city in panic. (AP Photo/Saurabh Das) Source

 

Tomorrow: ‘Ananth Venkatesh’ on the Mumbai carnage 

Share This Story

More »

Crimson

The youngest aunt descended upon me as soon as I entered the room. “Oh my God, your hair is so short,” she said. “And you’ve lost weight.” She looked to my grandmother for confirmation while I forced a smile and prepared myself for the barrage to come. “Is it asking too much to see a young girl eat well?”

“They pick up all the wrong habits,” interjected another aunt. “Look. The shoes she is wearing are so inappropriate for her age.”

There were no greetings, no words of welcome, just a cold assessment of my appearance. I was eight years old. Even now, at 22, it’s impossible to imagine how I was supposed to defend the choice of one shoe over another, much less withstand the onslaught of judgement that took place every time I was in the company of my large extended family. It was always the same, even though the focus might shift. It could be the growth of my fingernails, and whether or not I’d chosen to apply polish. If I had, the shade would be debated. Or my grandmother would step forward to feel the fabric of my T-shirt or comment on my use of accessories or, more pointedly, the lack thereof. No matter what needed looking into–dinner half-prepared, grandfather’s requests for more tea, my youngest cousin screams for attention–the spotlight seemed to zero in on me as I stood like a mannequin in front of the women in my family. Finally, having had their fill, they would turn away, leaving me to my tears and the feeling that I would never measure up.

Even now, I am not sure why I was the focus of so much negative attention. I was not unloved, and surely I was not the only cousin with grievances. Family dynamics played a part in why I was singled out, but I was also; then and now, someone who did not fit the mould of the ideal daughter, especially in my traditional, patriarchal family. I chose jeans over feminine pastel dresses. I said what I thought. And there was more: in many Indian homes, beauty is a virtue possessed by the fair-complexioned. I was dark. And so the most stinging comments were reserved for my dark skin, over which I had no control. I was never told directly, but I got the message: it would be difficult to arrange a match for me when I became of age.

My parents, for their part, chose not to make of spectacle of the situation. My father, in particular, believed the scenes to be womanly indulgences from which I should step aside. He hoped I would learn to defend myself, rather than he doing it for me. My mother made a conscious effort to shield me from the scrutiny whenever she could. When that was impossible, she advised me to be low-key, to avoid attracting attention– which was one thing in theory and another in practice. My mother, to her credit, believed (and taught me) that true beauty lay not in the curve of an eyebrow or the bridge of a nose, but within, and that an individual was worth far more than her physical appearance. But her reassurances were not enough to turn the negative tide. I began to perceive myself through third-person eyes. It pricked me that I didn’t ‘belong’ in my family. And if belonging meant negating your personal choices, then I was almost prepared to do that.

When I was ten, my parents decided to enroll me in a residential school several hours from my home in Mumbai. I reacted with mixed feelings, but the looks on my parents’ faces when they told me were enough to let me that I wasn’t just being sent away because they did not love me. To the contrary, I knew it was the right thing. However, the prospect of boarding school did not go down well with the extended family. My grandparents questioned my mother’s maternal instincts, conveniently ignoring the fact that my father was backing her. My parents stood firm, and I went off to school.

There, away from critical eyes, I slowly started to accept myself. I began to understand how to actively defend my choices, which was a good thing because when I went home for breaks, things still were not easy. As time went on, the gist of the comments shifted from my physical appearance to less tangible matters. There was concern as to what my next step would be. Amid the warm smells and otherwise hospitable conditions of family gatherings, I would be peppered with questions: If I insisted on a career, then why not a traditional one? Why not an engineer, a doctor, a lawyer? As for my personal life, nothing would have pleased them more than to see me turn into a meek, dutiful homemaker. In marriage; to a man of their own choosing, I still had the chance to become an ideal daughter and granddaughter.

To them, it was near blasphemy when I decide to pursue a Master’s degree abroad. But by the time I received my acceptance letter, I cared less about what they thought and more about what the future might hold for me. The move might strain my already difficult relations with them even further, but I wasn’t about not to go.

At this point in life more than ever, I have become conscious of what I want and how I want it. And now that I am half way across the world, I feel more removed from the negativity than ever. It no longer stings the way it did. To my extended family, no matter what I do, it won’t be right; not because they have impossibly high standards but because I happen to possess a mind of my own and choose to exercise my will.

The process hasn’t been easy. I’ve paid a price in the physical distance from the people I love, particularly in being far from my mother and father. Yet, as the tears dry and the sting of the barbs fade, I find myself a stronger person. To keep myself this way, I am cautious about sharing details of my personal life with family. The notion of detachment has been reinforced in graduate school less because I’m not sure how they will react and than because I am no longer all that hungry for their acceptance. I am no longer the small eight-year-old girl who stood frozen in front of them.

So when my grandmother calls me one icy winter morning to see how I am doing, I have no idea what to tell her. A piece of my heart warms upon seeing her number on my caller ID, but all that come out are superfluous utterances: I am fine, thankyou, I hope everyone at home is good.

“Have you eaten breakfast?” she asks. “With some hot milk, I hope.”

I reply yes, but she persists, “What will you be eating for lunch? What progress have you made with your culinary skills?”

I can fix edible food for myself. Not tasty, but edible. I mumble a response: “I’ll probably make some rice and soup.”

“Have you spoken to your parents lately?”

“I spoke to Mummy and Papa yesterday.”

An uncomfortable silence ensues at both ends. My grandmother is too removed from my present life to be able to ask questions, and I am too guarded to fill her in. In a hasty attempt to cut short the difficult conversation, I croak out an apology. “Ma, I am a little busy now,” I say.

She understands, she says. Her last words before she hangs up are, “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

I put the phone down, sad, but really not so sad. Is this what letting go means?

Note: The author has requested for her name to be withheld.

Share This Story

More »

Africa; I’ve heard many call it ‘a beautiful land’. These are people who’ve lived there for years; and yet don’t have a single black friend. It would be apt to brand them as hypocrites, maybe even racist. They dissociate the land from it’s people. “The safaris are amazing!”, one swooned. And in the same conversation added, “These blacks are all thugs. Refuse to work hard and then go around begging: look, we’re poor, give us aid.” His view was wholly echoed by many of the Indian expats I met.

I was in Tanzania, East Africa. My introduction to the country was disastrous. The airport customs crook wanted a bribe of 40 USD to let go of our baggage. It wasn’t clear on what ‘grounds’ was he asking for a bribe. After a lot of haggling we made it out at a cost of 25 USD. I kept telling myself not to be judgmental. Afterall, this happens everyday in India.

My host was an Indian living in the city of Dar-es-Salaam for about a decade now. He has a little kid, who I’ve come to pity immensely. The little boy is not allowed to venture out and play. He would stand near the windows and pine for the outside. His only outing is when his dad drives him around in a car; with windows rolled up.

My host explained that the security situation is extremely perilous. “These blacks are dangerous. Always out to rob and assault you. I can’t put my kid at risk.”

I fear the kid will be physically stunted. Isn’t it necessary for children to get a healthy dose of Vitamin D?

The host’s wife then began her laments. The milk is substandard. The shopkeepers are crooks. All of them. The tap water smells funny. The electricity supply is errant. The black doctors are incompetent. Hospitals are filthy. Their public transport is horrendous. The list goes on.

I wanted to yell at them to just come back to India. But wait; they can’t. That is because my diploma-holder-in-Chemistry Host would never be paid 6000 USD per month in India. Nor would he be given a palatial four bedroom apartment and a luxury sedan at his disposal. Tanzania’s given him a lifestyle. And so, I wanted to scream, “Just be grateful to the Africans, you insular beings.”

The family has a maid who’s a local African. She’s paid a paltry sum. She’s been given a separate set of utensils to eat and drink in. They’re plastic; the kind that kids play with. The maid’s not allowed to touch the little boy. And the little boy’s been brainwashed that the maid’s some kind of monster.

Now, I’m going to be judgmental. This is untouchability revisited. Their despicable behavior even seems to justify Idi Amin.

It is therefore no wonder that when you walk down the streets, none of the natives smile at you. Many refuse to even look you in the eye, and some mock. If you smile at them, they give back a blank expression. The maximum my smile managed to evoke was mild surprise; but nothing even remotely close to anything friendly.

I then travelled to Arusha, a quaint little town near Mt. Kilimanjaro. We were the only Indians on the bus. The woman sitting in the front seat was in her mid-twenties. She was beautiful with a voluptuous body, wearing a tight, semi-transparent pink top; with no bra underneath. I was a few feet away and I could still see her nipples.

But no one else seemed shocked. None of the other passengers even gave her a second glance. She flirted with the driver. He flirted back and then got back to his business. I wanted to tell Mr. Host, that if I walked around semi-naked back home, I would have been ravaged by now. I get pinched and harassed even when I’m in a salwar-kameez. In this matter, I envy Tanzanian women.

In Arusha, I tried some of the local food. Something my hosts warned me against. I’m glad I didn’t listen to them. The food was heavenly.

And then ofcourse there is the famed African safari. The safari guide was reticent at first. But when my mother asked him about his family, he lightened up. He has a lovely daughter, a wife and his mother stays with him. He dreams of owning his own house someday and wants his daughter to become a doctor who’ll serve the poor. He’s saving for her further studies and juggles two jobs. We insisted he have lunch with us. He was surprised and refused at first but then agreed. It’s no wonder that he refused to take a customary tip from us later. “I had much fun with you’ll, Maaegha”, he smiled.

We then visited a Goan woman, who’s been living there for many decades now and runs a flourishing travel agency. She has four daughters, all of who were born in Tanzania. The eldest daughter is 17, and speaks Hindi with a delightful Tanzanian accent.

As I roamed around the flea markets with her, she asked me about college life in India. She explained that her mother wants her to do her graduation in India and then settle down in Mumbai. It’s nice in Mumbai, I assured her. She replied, “But this is home Megha; this is home.”

As we strolled, she said things like, “You hear that; that’s our local music”, and “that’s our latest fashion.” She chatted with the vendors and hawkers and called them her friends. It was the most beautiful thing I saw in Africa.

She suggested I braid my hair like the African women do. I agreed. And with four women working on my hair and two hours later, I had a fully braided head with colourful clips on. It was a bit itchy, and it felt like the blood circulation to my scalp has ceased. But atleast now I know how my skull is shaped like. The parlour girls giggled and remarked in broken English, “You’re now Indian-African girl.”I loved it.

A few days later, I was at the airport for my flight back to India. At the immigration clearance, I handed over my passport and greeted the officer with ‘Jambo’, ‘Hello’ in Swahili. The officer was young, handsome and tall. The quintessential African man. He scanned me; looked at my braided hair and the Tanzanian style wrap-around skirt I was wearing; and started speaking in Swahili.

I interrupted him and denied knowing any Swahili. He smiled and replied, “If only you spoke Swahili. Men here would be lining up to date you.” He winked. Incredible. I don’t care if he was joking. An African man didn’t just smile at me, he even flirted! I couldn’t help but flirt back. Could I have asked for a better end to a trip?

Africa is incredible. Sure, the security situation is bad, even dangerous. And yes, armed robberies and rapes are frequent. But that is no excuse to deride an entire people, Mr. Host. Tanzanians are fun-loving, friendly people who love to talk to you. If only you could take a chance Mr. Host, for your child’s sake. Have some local food and ask your maid about her family. You could then make your life there a lot more pleasant.

And now if someone asks me about my trip, I reply, “Africa is a beautiful land; with even more beautiful people.”

Share This Story

More »