The Importance of Reality

Ever since I bought my DSLR camera, I've been trying to justify why I find certain things worthy of seat in my 16GB memory card and why I don't give certain other things a chance. In other words, I have been wondering - often cursing myself for not being able to generate a reasonable answer - what I find beautiful and what I do not. Are only beautiful things worthy of being captured through the lens? Or is everything that one chooses to capture through the lens beautiful?

Such questions, when left unanswered, become bothersome indeed. This one in particular grew so loud over the past few months that I dreaded the moment I'd have to pull the camera out of its black leather bag. Sometimes, intimidated by the question and confused by the implications of the answer that it would elicit, I have chosen not to act, letting the shot go and forgetting the moment forever. The past few days have serendipitously provided answers and somehow eased the pressure on my right index finger just before the click. But before I talk about answers, I must first explain the question itself.

When I first moved to Delhi a few months ago, an eager friend dragged me by the arm into what he believed was one of the finest spots to unleash the potential of a 18mm-55mm lens: Akshardham. Fine weather and a clear sky embraced us that day as I watched hundreds of men and women committing, through a click, the pink sandstone to memory forever. Then I looked at the monument through the Viewfinder and realized that it was all that I had imagined it to be - aesthetically appeasing, symettrical and clean. But it was nothing more.

I remember standing there for a while, then shifting positions uneasily, surreptitiously sneaking into the grassed area and then returning to my original spot, hoping to get the right click. I adjusted every single setting on the device, until it became obvious that there would be no magical camera-moment that day. So I clicked the picture anyway, more to please my friend than anything else. That was when the question - What is beautiful? - intensified.

To complicate things further, when I visited Chandni Chowk on the subsequent weekend, I found it intensely photogenic. Grime, dust and heaps of garbage notwithstanding, this place was far more interesting through the lens than Akshardham or the Lotus Temple could ever be. I found it almost as beautiful as Kurla Station on a busy Monday morning, Ranganathan Street just before Karthikai Deepam or, for that matter, the narrow gullies in Mathura for which no one cared. Perhaps I should speak of how much more I thought of the rickety ferry between Al Ras and Al Ghubaiba in Dubai than I did of Burj Khalifa, the world's tallest tower. Or why the messiest port on the Ganga is just as memorable as the Golden Gate Bridge.

Perhaps you will come to the same conclusion that I arrived upon a few days ago - that I am deliberately being nonconformist, that I'm rejecting socially accepted standards of beauty just because they're the accepted norms. Perhaps you think that I'm being a dissenter for the sake of being branded as one. I will not blame you for reaching such a conclusion for I was unable to come up with a much better explanation myself until recently. Everytime somebody told me "But Europe is the most beautiful place!", I found myself cringing. I felt the desperate urge to ask them what it was particularly that they found so beautiful and why they found it more beautiful than another exceptional place (the world will never be short of exceptional places).

For a long while I hated myself not for being critical of people who could make superficial, all-encompassing judgements (such as New York > Paris or Delhi > Kolkata) but for not being able to explain why I disagreed with them. Perhaps you might well argue your case if you were required to live in such a place and make a living there, but I think it is quite strange that travellers make such statements. Well yes, if you compare the number of malls or if you use the width of the roads as a numerical parameter to pass such a judgement, you can use all these logical operators ('<', '>', '='). But only a fool would compare Bangladesh's roads to New York's or Dhaka's almighty history with that of The Big Apple's 200 year version.

I think human endeavour is beautiful, perhaps even more beautiful than nature's boons. Cultures evolve out of this endeavour, languages are composed through human effort and architecture develops from collective creativity and sweat. Every second of the minute, every minute of the hour and hour of the day, these efforts are being made. Some are reinforced, a few are cancelled out and some just hang in there. So it is safe to say that styles which have developed over hundreds of years aren't born out of chance. They are organic to the place; in other words, they are real.

Reality is, if not beautiful (I will contest that it always is), very important. Reality is when you don't have to wear a mask or put up boards on either side of a bridge to hide the houses of the poor or when you can be proud of yourself for what you are. Reality is the consequence of a multitude of forces, human and natural, which is so difficult to duplicate that any attempt to do so manifests itself as contrivance. There was something unnatural about Akshardham which, even though splendid in architectural design, left it bereft of the magic that other 'real' monuments conjure. Perhaps, over time, it will become as real as everything else, but that day is not today.

This concept of reality is also what prevents me from accepting blank statements which say that a sparsely populated town in the US or in Scandinavia is any more beautiful in the eyes of a traveller than Baghdad or Lagos. If you find one place intensely more attractive, it is because of the tinted lenses that you wear. Take them off, learn about the place and you will find magic in the place you are visiting. When you realize what is real, it is hard not to find that beautiful.

Perhaps you will disagree with much of what I have said about beauty and reality today, but I am satisfied that I have been able to articulate what  has avoided me for quite some time now. So the next time when I think that the scene at 10 a.m. underneath the Delhi-Gurgaon expressway just outside DLF Cybercity is worthier of being captured by the lens than the haute-couture within DLF's swanky CyberHub, my finger won't tremble with doubt.

Chapter II: Normandy

Part 3 & 4 of 4 (Yes, I'm abysmal at counting): The boy suffers serious attrition damage. After Parts 1 and 2, Ashwin is thrown into the post-exam black hole. Is there a way back from here? Read on, folks. 

And do share if you like what you read! Hope you enjoy the beginning of "The Steadfast Tin Soldier?", which is now making rounds in newspapers around the country. Twenty-five hundred people have read the book so far, and I hope you do too. Cheers!

D-Day H-Hour: 26th of May’s ill-fate dawned upon me. Judgement day had come too quickly and I empathized with the Allied soldiers who had landed on the beaches of Juno and Omaha, Normandy (at least they had had a victory) during World War Two. The alarm rang when it read half past six.

And a person who is seldom conscious before the bell tolls 9:00 during the holidays will definitely have troubles waking-up at six-thirty. But today was special – rather, I knew it would be eventful but had I known what was in store for me on 26-05 of that year, I’d never have left the safety of the blanket.

But, as the story goes, I not only managed to get out of my bed, I completed my morning routines and ablutions (which were slightly hindered due to fear and anxiety) and even managed to feel a bit confident. Nevertheless, I convinced myself that there was absolutely nothing to feel positive about and then the strange feelings of self-belief quickly disappeared. I only hoped one thing – the examiners shouldn’t have screwed my marks. The Board exam results were here.

7:20 a.m. and I switched on the ancient Pentium processor and observed the Windows XP booting while the subconscious tried to invoke all the gods and goddesses of Hindu mythology. I begged the deity to forgive my sins; even if he did not and could not completely do that, for I was sure I had sinned a lot, I tried convincing him that today was not the day of punishment. My board results shouldn’t suffer.

7:30 a.m.: Yes, the computer completed booting. Dad was leaving for office; he wished me before he left and told me not to worry. It was more of those talks which felt like – Don’t worry about anything. You would have done well, but just in case you don’t, I want you to remember that I will still be your father and as your father, it is my duty to THRASH THE LIVING DAYLIGHTS OUT OF YOU!

Well, anyway, it was one less person watching over my shoulder while the results were displayed on the hallowed portals of cbse.nic.in. I thanked god for the small mercies, but I pledged to be more grateful for the bigger ones. The minutes seemed to crawl by and, being a believer in the supernatural and beyond, I began to look for perhaps a man who could stop time. Anyway, by 7:40, I decided that the only way to calm my jumpy nerves was to play a good game of football on the computer.

Soon Drogba and Lampard scored and I went 2-0 up over AC Milan. But my success had died away when mom came blasting into the room. “WHAT IN THE WORLD? Is this the time to play? I thought you were checking out your results. Absolutely no sense of responsibility… Blah Blah.” When she’d finished, I told her that the results won’t be up till 8:00 and until then, I had nothing to do.

“But how does young Khanna here have his results?” she said as she left the room, to attend to something burning on the stove which had begun to smell like a mix of paint and old cheese.

I was baffled by this statement and would have denounced her mean practical-joke, as that’s what I thought it was until I saw the lad for myself.

Rohit Khanna was standing in front of me and in his hand seemed to be a printout of some sort. As he waved the sheet at me, his face showed, what I believe was a mixture of contentment and respite. That could be only one thing… The one thing to rule them all…

“Ninety-one,” he said flatly.

“Ninety-one whats?”

“Percent.”

“Ninety-one percent?!”

“That’s what I believe I said.” He looked smug.

“But the results aren’t out till 8:00,” I protested.

Mom’s voice wafted in from the kitchen – “If only you had opened the website and didn’t play that blasted game of yours.”

There was a lot of venom in that ‘blasted.’

“Mom… they said they won’t put it up till 8:00!”

“Well, they did, didn’t they?” Rohit said unequivocally.

I had hurriedly switched off the game which was going so well with Lampard about to score his second goal. Why is he here? I never called him. He may be a friend, but that doesn’t mean he invites himself over. I typed out the roll number and glanced nervously over my shoulder.

“Rohit, thanks for telling me that the results are out. I’ll tell you my results as soon as I get them,” I said.

“No probs man. I’ll wait right here and see them,” said he.

“No dude. This will take some time. With a 256kbps internet connection, it’ll take a long time.”

“I have all the time in the world. I have no problems.”

But you are my problem. I didn’t want anyone peeping over my shoulders when my grades popped up on screen, complicating things that were already bad. I decided to put it straight to him, through his thick skull.

“Actually, I want to be alone, you know. I’ll see my grades and tell ya.”

He laughed, god knows why.

“Anyway you are going to tell me. I may as well see it!”

“I don’t want you around…”

“Look here. You have seen mine, so it’s only fair that I see yours.”

“Mine ain’t gonna be a ummm…” I said glancing at his sheet, “91-85-97-89-91, you know! Why the hell can’t you…”

I was getting livid with the guy when – “Have you seen it yet?”

Mom cried out from the kitchen.

“No, no. Just doing that!” What the hell. I’ll do it. I reluctantly clicked the ‘Check Result Now’ button. I prayed to the lord that my math grade, the subject I had done the worst in, was not too bad.

The judgement popped out instantly. Where’s Maths? Where’s Maths? Ahh there…

MATHEMATICS 86

‘Whoa!’ Not only had I passed, I had done better than the 70 I had expected. I knew there had to be something wrong, seeing that I had attempted for 80 marks only! Well, such things are better left unanswered. Never look a gift horse in its mouth…

Gaining heart, seeing that lady luck was with me, I went on to inspect the other results.

SOCIAL SCIENCE 95 - I rock!

COMM. SANSKRIT 75 - Hmmm…

SCIENCE 92 - This was better than I had ever expected.

I had aced everything (by my standards anyway). English? That - I’d have topped yet again… After all, it was the subject I had consecutively topped the past 5 tests. A smile crept upon my face. Was it 94 or 96? 92 would do actually…

COMM. ENGLISH 82

What in the world? This can’t be… Mom was beside me, now. She patted me on the back and congratulated me for my ‘good’ performance. Couldn’t she read?! My subject! I had fallen in my

own territory.

I refreshed the page twice and checked the grades of fellow classmates. Every other bloke seemed to have an 85 or more… Then why? I hadn’t asked for an exchange deal with the almighty; I definitely did not remember saying, “Give me extra marks in Maths and take them away in English!” No, I had wanted an

outright grant – “Give me marks in maths; period”. Somewhere along the line, someone had gobbled up some of my marks.

I recovered my nerve just in time to see mom leave the room and head towards the phone to probably tell my dad how ‘well’ I had done. Actually, I was indeed beginning to feel happy about the results when Rohit decided to speak again.

“Hey, you know what… You’ve done pretty well. Just think… You’ve got round about 86% man! Exactly 86, in fact…” He could have left it at that. “Just 5 percent less than me… Not bad at all.”

“Why you!” I began. But then I realized that he couldn’t help being the insufferable show-off that he was. It was just him. Just like sugar had to be sweet. Just like a fish was born with gills - to breathe underwater; this guy was born insolent, impudent and supercilious. If he wasn’t that, then maybe he wouldn’t have

been the Rohit Khanna who people knew; maybe people might

have even liked him!

I realized that what he had said was probably meant as a compliment of some sort. He didn’t often compare people with himself. I ended up saying ‘Thank you’ to which he smiled. I had been right.

The next 10 minutes went with me listening to how unfair the invigilator had been to him during the exam as she had taken his answer sheet away from him before the others and how he would so easily have got 10 more marks….

All’s well that ends well – I firmly believe in that.

And so, the English disaster notwithstanding, I felt that more good had come than I had expected. Actually, I had done pretty well. This was Tamil Nadu; No. This was Chennai – otherwise I would (and so would everyone else) have considered my performance par-excellence. Here was a city where students seemed to be born geniuses – India’s best results in the CBSE boards I was told. But surprisingly, Abhi had told me that the state’s performance in competitive exams after 12th like the JEE and AIEEE was pretty bad. After all he should know; he did make it through and so he’d probably know better than anyone else how the crowd was inside.

I was drifting away into this reverie when I remembered that I must talk with my brother and tell him about the results at once. After all, he was the one person who had kept faith in me all this while even when others didn’t. He should have been home during that time of the year actually but he had that ‘intern’

thing.

I picked up the phone – my ancient transistor type Motorola telephone, a vintage piece which would have gone for a fortune if only it had had its entire set of buttons intact. ‘Abhinav’ - I chose and pressed call. A few seconds later, a grunt from the other side indicated that he was on the line.

“Hey guess what!” I said.

“Yeah what…” my brother went. He seemed a bit distracted.

“I got my…”

“HEY cover me! Bomb site B… FRAGSTER GOT ME! What the fu… Oh sorry, HI. I almost forgot you were there. Tell me, what’s up?” Yeah, he was distracted all right.

“No nothing…. Just that I got my results.”

“Ok that! Ma told me about that. Heard you did well. Congrats keep it up.”

“But…”

“No! Don’t worry about English. They screwed my marks too!”

I knew that he would understand.

“Anyway, I’ll catch you later man. Gotta go now… GOT HIM! Headshot, Fragster! HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT? B…” Then, the click of the telephone.

The results were a thing of the past now. I was feeling pretty glad about them. I had never really liked studying. Bro seemed to enjoy whatever he did. He liked studying when he did. And when he played, he enjoyed that too. I enjoy playing though.

But ever since he had made it through the JEE into an IIT, my teachers openly and my parents discreetly started having not only hopes but great plans for my future. Come on now! I can’t help it if my brother was a frikkin’ genius! Though everyone did say that I was the smarter of the two siblings, I believe in destiny and at that point I felt that I was not destined to achieve things like IITs…. No! That was too much work for me. I liked the way I was, the life I lived. It was easy.

But they wouldn’t leave it at that. Their plans were made and I would achieve what I was ‘destined’ to attain in their views, come what may. So, on the twelfth of May, the year of the lord 2010, I had allowed myself to finally believe that it was a good idea to join evening coaching classes (my brother had – that’s why) to give myself a fair shot at those famed exams after Std XII. The professors (for the coaching classes) had told us to contact them as soon as the results were out. ‘Maybe I should remind mom!’ I had thought.

Just then, “ASHSHWIIIN!!” – went Mom’s sing-song voice which I probably would have appreciated a lot more if I didn’t invariably associate it with nagging and irritation. For some reason, I felt that she was piqued by something.

“YEAH MA,” I had said, “What now?!”

“What do you mean ‘What now’? I don’t appreciate that tone, young man! You are talking as though you’ve already done a lot of work!!”

I decided that she was definitely annoyed with me for some unknown reason.

“Yeah okay sorry…. What was it about?”

“I told you to get print-outs of your mark sheet…. We really must be off!” Mom said.

“Ohhh the profs! I was just going to remind you… I thought that you might have forgotten.”

“You really think?!” She almost scoffed. “Anyway, we must really be off right now! The place will be swarming with people already.”

“By the way ma…. Have you told grandma about the results yet?” I didn’t want her to miss out on informing anyone – especially someone like grandma who would shower me with presents even for a below average performance. This would call for a Five-Star treat in her views. And besides, it was a chance to prove my responsible nature. I was being called ‘callous’ all too often these days. Maybe if she hadn’t told someone and I reminded her, I would be able to regain some lost respect with family folk.

“Of course…. That’s why we are late in leaving. I just finished calling your grandmas and granddads. And of course, Sripriya and Bhuvan (Aunt and Uncle), and Raj (another uncle of mine). I even talked to Vishal (that was my cousin – a toddler, 2 years old he was). And of course I had to tell a couple of my colleagues in school. And I talked to your principal also. She wasn’t too happy though; knew you are capable of more. Then I talked to some more of your teachers…. (Oh that’s just great) I told Shruti too (my favourite cousin)… She herself has got 93 %; she has taken commerce!” The list went on for another couple of minutes.

So the world knew already.

Read the book now!

On Approaching Feminism The Wrong Way

The Caveat

Congratulations, ladies of the world: the Feminist Movement - the recognized part of it, at least - is nearly hundred and fifty years old, and while the mission is far from complete, only the unthinking man can overlook the progress it has made over the decades. And therefore we will successfully remove overt discrimination from another section of society, and push it away to some other place which is as yet invisible to us (because eradication of all forms of discrimination is not even theoretically possible), and make the world a better place.

A small caveat before I continue elaborating on this idyllic situation though (and this caveat might occupy the rest of this blog-post, beware!): we are doing it all wrong. The feminist movement, in its so-called 'third wave' especially, will soon reach its culminating phase, and when this happens, we may well destroy the soul of human society. The soul, of course, is the Human Family.

Okay, before you kill me - and I think you are quite in the mood - let me clarify this stance: No, I am not suggesting that the woman stays at home, cooks food thrice a day and changes babies' diapers while the 'man of the family' earns the bread, as is the conventionally accepted family. There is another way to maintain the most important elements of 'family' and 'home', while championing the cause of equality. I will explain, but in order to do so, I must digress and give you a snapshot of a modern family.

(I'm going to make this family Indian, because of the obvious reasons.)

Meanwhile, in the 21st Century

Raj and Chitra got married a couple of years ago, and they have a six month old infant. Raj works in a high-paying Investment Banking job, often putting in ninety hours of work a week. He has few other interests in life, but he finds little time for them. Chitra works a busy shift in an IT firm, and took a month off as maternity leave. She has varied interests like her mother, but the pursuit of success is an obstacle for her multiple whims (in that way, she is a little like her husband).

Of the two people, only one of them managed to learn to cook - Chitra learned the fine culinary arts during her first job and she developed a penchant for it too, while Raj had always had a bai (maid) attend to his food-requirement (or he would eat outside, what the hell). The couple also has a servant maid to clean the house and do the laundry, and another lady who comes in to wash the vessels.

Three times a week, the couple is chauffeured out to fancy restaurants in the upcoming neighbourhood. Since the end of Chitra's maternity leave, the couple have asked Raj's parents to take care of the child during the day whenever possible. When it becomes too difficult, they have a nanny for the baby - she comes highly recommended by Raj's boss.

On Sundays, the three of them spend the afternoon together. That is always the best part of their week.

Where It Falls Apart

Okay, sorry - end of story. Let me get back to the caveat now: what people may end up having in the future are houses, but not homes. These are places where the food cooks itself, the place keeps itself tidy, and where the people manage their own needs independently; where the child learns to walk when his / her parents are not around, where schools become the only source of information and education; these are places where people are successful, independent and quite possibly disconnected. There are fancy holidays once a year, of course.

What went wrong and where? Or did it? If you are peace with a world obsessed with professional success alone, with a world where everything else falls into place as if through a black-box while you are unconcerned with the processes and efforts which go into them, then there is no issue to talk about today. You will accuse me of being short-sighted - probably even narrow-minded - when I explain to you the virtues of the modern family; when I talk about how we are destroying this 'soul' of human civilization.

With the traditional joint-family falling to pieces, the onus of carrying out all duties of the household while continuing to spearhead the cause of independence of the modern woman fell to the 20th century wife. These were people who didn't crib about the extraordinary task which was being asked of them, while they excelled in multiple spheres of life (ostensibly liking their tremendous roles). I have no doubt that they were the sole links between traditional values and modernism.

Now, we are past that. This is the final wave of feminism (i.e. drive towards equality on all fronts) and the modern woman shall have none of that multiple role-playing. And why should she? In my story, Chitra knows how to cook, but why should she carry that extra burden in a world where everything else is equal? Why should she alone be responsible for household tidiness; why must she carry most of the responsibility with the child?

Well, the solution most Indians have come up with is that she needn't be, and the husband can't be (I mean - he isn't adequately educated for the job). So outsource everything. Easy.

Have someone who will cook, another person who will tidy the home, someone who will drive the car, yet another who will mind the baby and tutor him / her; have someone who will take care of the finances, someone who will plan the holidays; call the guy who will bring in the weekly groceries. The man and the woman are busy with work, too busy to run a home...

Is There A Solution?

I think there is. It is funny that men aren't qualified enough to take over part of the responsibilities of the women of the house. Demand is bound to breed supply, you would imagine: but not when there is an easier solution. We'll call the guy (servant maid, in this case) instead! Or we'll just get a take-home meal.

This impersonalization of the household is because in the drive to create equality, we have developed the notion that certain tasks are inferior to others. Taking care of your own needs is not as important as your professional responsibilities; where you will perhaps contribute in a minuscule way to a picture bigger than you care to imagine. But cooking your own food; who does that? That's way too difficult, and quite demeaning too.

The not-so-surprising outcome of this notion is that women have vied for opportunities in spheres which were initially reserved for men, while the reverse process hasn't happened. In a way, everyone conceded to the fact that the erstwhile tasks performed by the women of this planet weren't important enough.

Soon, people won't require kitchens, and they may as well live in hotel rooms (the hotel has brilliant add-on services, of course) where we work from. There will be child-grooming facilities which will be entirely responsible for development of the child, and the concept of Parenting might go into the history-books.

So, unless people start viewing their various responsibilities differently, unless the new gender-fluidity goes both ways (as opposed to the single-direction flow presently), this is the world in which we will soon find ourselves. Perhaps I am wrong is suggesting that the Feminist Movement is largely responsible for this impending scenario, but I believe that there must be simultaneous education of the men to take up the vacant slots. Who will educate them? - that is a question which remains to be answered.

Maybe it is wishful thinking to see this aspect being integrated into the Feminist movement of the world, and wishful thinking is precisely what I will indulge in.