The night is not ours (yet)

The night. It is not ours, ladies, and it is not because of the lack of street lights. 

Rather, it is not ours because of the men who feel that they may call out to us on the streets, that our asses look nice or that our breasts look juicy. Only of course, in the comfort of darkness, where they can hide their cowardice in the shadows.

Because of the men in cars who pull up by the sidewalk hoping that maybe it's their lucky night. A girl on her own. She might actually want to get in. 

Because of the men who walk up to us on a lonely street in the very safe neighbourhoods we live in and ask if we want to look at their 'thing'. Hey, it's late and it's worth a try.

Hear me out. Hear me out. Hear me out. 

These men. They count on the fact that you will never turn around/talk back/call out, because frankly, you are 'afraid' of them - of their size, of their number, of their insipid existence. Because anyway you aren't supposed to be here. You are out late. And look at the way you are dressed. And as it's been said so many times lately, you're asking for it. 

Maybe yes, your quick judgement of 'I should just walk, I'm so close to home' was in hindsight, wrong. This experience was a necessary reality check to remind you of the true freedom that you really have. That we really have. As women. 

But ladies, please.

Turn around

Talk back

Call out

Because whatever our judgements, however wrong our instincts were, and however difficult it was, we will not run home and bolt the door. We will say things out loud and though we may be screaming inside and flashing pictures of scenarios we are reminded too often of in the newspapers/TVs of our country, we have agency. In that very moment, we have the power to remind those men that we are part of that experience, and not victims of it. And that we do it with every voice that ever existed inside of us. Tomorrow someone might say, 'Thank God it wasn't anything worse'. But we know that it was bad. It was enough to blow the wind out of us and make us feel completely powerless.

I once used to think that the night is ours. That we are in control. But it is not ours yet, and it won't become ours completely when the street lights come on. Or once a year during a public march. Or through coffee table conversations. It will begin being ours when we start to challenge and push back every day. And till then, we must be smart and aware and aloud.

Filler

It's the last day of the month, and it ended with a downpour. 

This month I've been thinking occasionally about places that I'd see myself living in. Like, for more than two years.  

Wondering if I'm becoming a bit boring. Is that a bad thing?

In The Neighbourhood

It is evening time, and the neighbourhood is buzzing. 

There are little whirlpools of activities: all self-contained but occasionally colliding with each other. 

Next door, the slum dwellers sit under the streetlight and chat, to escape the dingy insides of their dwellings. Incidentally, they are squatting in a tiny little property under legal dispute- four brothers claiming ownership. They don't look like they're moving any time soon.

Across the road, a huge office looks out of place in my leafy neighbourhood. Advantage: They have a power back-up so even during power outages my street remains lit. 

Around the corner, new apartment buildings are under construction. Obviously violating construction norms, spilling on to the streets, bringing with them migrant workers speaking multiple languages. I can see smoke emerging from the temporary hutments, where women are cooking the evening meal and men are sitting around chatting.

Down the street, bachelors inhabiting the many 'bachelor pads' in the area crowd around the corner store, smoking ciggies and drinking chai. Not a woman in sight. 

As I return from my shopping run, I walk down the streets thinking what this neighbourhood might have looked like twenty years ago. Quiet homes for retirees- not dusty backstreets of one of the most popular neighbourhoods in the city- pubs, restaurants and shops replacing the bungalows that once characterised the area. 

And as I'm thinking of these things, a car speeds past me and from it I hear a cat-call, a whistle and a guy screaming 'Hey, darrrling'. As I lift up my middle finger and mumble a curse under my breath, it's long gone. Another normal day for a woman on the streets of my country, in this neighbourhood, and many others.

Inside Outside(r)

I looked up at the sky, and the thin slice of a new moon showed itself amongst a sea of stars. Hesitantly and nervously, I slinked into the water. We were told that if we swished our arms around a little, we'd see glowing plankton, and we did. And so, on a quiet beach in Gokarna, I squealed like a child as I watched shots of flourescent light appear all around me.

Two days earlier, we had arrived at Namaste Cafe on Om Beach. Yes I know, it could not sound more Lonely Planet-esque. But placing my cynicism in a little black box, I embraced Gokarna with open arms. The blazing May sun had kept many people away. But Om Beach still contained an eclectic mix of fully clothed families, bachelor parties, shy young couples and a few red-faced backpackers. 

Enough to keep me entertained. 

Over two days, I 

...lay on my back in the sea, 

...listened to a white sadhu explain his meditative journey around India for twenty five years,

...caught a glimpse of two dolphins,

..ate chilli chicken and nutella soaked banana fritters,

before I hitched a ride with a truly lovely new-found friend, back to Bangalore.

I sometimes wonder what it is about exploring new places in India that makes me feel so centred. After all, the stories that people tell me of travelling here rarely go without mention of the chaos and confusion that is such an inherent part of discovering this land. And of course its not that different for me- things are never straightforward and easy. 

But I think part of the ease that I feel comes from the fact that the sights that I see seem so new, yet so familiar. There is a sense of knowing- about the people, the culture, the food - but also a curiosity about the unknown. 

On my travels, I'm very rarely one of the families/bachelor parties/couples. And that's when I can happily play anthropologist, and imagine stories of the people and the places that embrace me during my journeys.

M'aidez

It's the first of May. The day to highlight workers' rights. The day when labour rests or rises. 

In Bangalore, things remain quiet, but the roads are not without hustle and bustle. Local grocery stores take a break. All the big corporate chains are open without apology; their employees sulkily looking out beyond the window displays. I walked past the cobbler sitting on the side of the road, busy at work. KFC was serving its May Day customers. 

Getting home with my new curry leaf plant, I looked up at the sky - the clouds are threatening to split wide open. Seasons are a-changing here, and so its time to leave this seething city for a few days. To escape and breathe some sea air. To help and inspire me.

Looking Back is Looking Forward

Summer in Bangalore is here. It's hot, but not as unforgiving as those Dilli summers. In the evenings, under the moonlight, I can sit on the cane chairs on my balcony and feel some relief as a little breeze rustles through my fledgling plants. The season's begun on a tough note: changes and uncertainty, but somewhere inside me is an understanding that I can take things in my stride. 

Last week I travelled to Vellore - ironically it was work that took me back after over twenty years to this dusty Indian city where I was born. As we pulled into the station, an unforgiving heat radiated up from the ground. This is the place my parents built their little world for over ten years- a place where they began to experiment on how to bring up two crazy little girls. I didn't have an opportunity to visit the place where we lived, but when I looked around, I realised how unrecognisable that life must seem to them now. Their hot and sticky train journeys to Kerala, the once-a-month visit to the (now dilapidated) sole 'fancy' restaurant in Vellore, birthday parties arranged without fancy party planners or digital cameras. It makes me think of how unrecognisable this life of mine might seem to me thirty years from now, if I make it that far. 

What I do realise though is that however different my life may be, and how it takes its twists and turns, I know for sure that the things that make me happy and keep me grounded will remain the same: the blooming mint in my garden, the aromas of freshly cooked food, the joy of discovering new places,challenging people's mindsets, writing down my thoughts... And wherever this journey takes me and whoever I meet on the way, the things that make me who I am will constantly help refine and redefine my paths. And for that, I'm grateful for those two people who let me discover these things about myself, who encouraged me to understand who I am and my value in this world- and who continue to do so. I think they know that that little fiery girl from Vellore will be ok. They trust that. 

So as I'm faced now with challenges, I have to believe that all of these little pieces can push me along in my journey. With this realisation, then looking forward becomes a fantastic exercise- full of possibilities: of adventure and discovery and much, much, more. I guess summer may not be that hard after all. 

Through a Tinted Lens

I have a car now. Yes, it's true. I have taken to seeing the city on many occasions through the frustrated eyes and the foul mouth (as my occasional co-passengers will testify) of a Bangalore driver. I can roll the windows down to save fuel and hear the hustle and bustle of this mad city; and I can just as easily shut it all out with one press of a button. I can also feign that I'm running late for work and take the car instead of my usual walk, cutting my travel time down from twenty five minutes to five. Groovy.

But wait. What's happened? My senses are completely absorbed in the mayhem that is Indian roads. I find myself unable to capture the snapshots of life I so easily catch on my daily route to work. 

Watch out for that cow on the left 

Watch out for that lady crossing the road 

Watch out for that bike about to ride off with your rearview mirror 

WATCH OUT!

Last week when I decided to take that walk, I realised it's been over a month since I had chosen to be a pedestrian. The bus stop had transformed from an over-crowded corner with a few tea stalls to a spanking new covered bus stand. I'll give it a month before the tea stalls reappear. Yesterday, there was already a man selling chai from his bicycle. 

And then there is the dhobi on one of the quiet, side streets with his pile of fancy clothes from the fancy apartments that I walk past. I often see him firing up his old-school iron with hot charcoal, and I can smell that familiar smokey aroma.

Also, I pass the construction workers working on the many new apartments that are spilling on to the sidewalks of Indira nagar. My heart aches as I watch a little snotty-nosed girl cry as her mother carries a pile of sand on her head. Her mother probably has nowhere to keep her. And I am instantly depressed.

My car helps me stay away from many things. I am wrapped in my Indigo FM (today's topic of discussion: how bad are women drivers, really?) and my occasional blow of air from the air conditioning (summer is approaching, you see). I am instantly privileged. And I am instantly shielded. 

I really need to stop cursing one of these days...

quote, end quote

I'm mostly frustrated that I haven't had much to say recently, but Anu Kumar helps me today..

quote

City Conversations

Anu Kumar

I

Crowded coffee shops

The chaos of other conversations

I found you in places like these

Anonymous hideaway worlds

With rushed waiters, and the

Stained menu we knew by heart

Where every overheard voice

Told us life was interesting

Elsewhere

Your murmur low in my ears and I

Lost the words you said.

Crowded coffee shops still crop up

On every clogged street

In every new city I visit

I hear you now, your low murmur

Caught in moments of sudden silence.

Every city has these.

II

Hello city

And you say, You’re talking to cities now.

Only the one I miss

If I can’t walk on its streets no more

Look out of its windows, measure its rain

While a hello could go anywhere.

You sit coffee in hand, I almost tell you…

A city needs words, never for itself

You can’t miss a city like you do a friend

When words do not matter

And there’s your unchanging smile.

Then you ask, are you all right.

And our lives trapped by the very words

That give it meaning.

III

Losing a City

To a friend visiting a favourite city:

When you walk down roads I once did

Take some steps for me

Stamp your feet on asphalt

Let my footprints remain

Touch the walls a second more

From gaps in tall buildings

Hold the sky; count the stars

Till you can’t any more

The city will perhaps remember

Your way could work better than mine.

Let me think I’m only missing this city

That I haven’t lost it forever.

end quote

For this and other stuff from various good people, read thebchmag.com

Home

As the countryside whizzed passed me, I tried to close my eyes and fall asleep. But it was too loud. It was the first day of 2014 and the train compartment was packed with hyper-energetic children hopped up on holiday cheer, enjoying their last few hours of freedom before being packed off to school. I looked around at the young families - obviously returning to Bangalore after the end-of-year holiday season. Young mothers blissfully ignoring their kids as they asked a thousand questions. Young fathers thinking about the weeks ahead (at least that's what I imagined), each with a different company's name on their t-shirt: Google, IBM, Dell, CTS etc etc.

I myself was on my way back to Bangalore after a week of love and laughter in Chennai. The home I craved so much every time I touched down in Chennai from London/Brighton/Uttaranchal/Delhi over the past nine years, is so much closer now, it's almost strange. I have to admit though, that it is amazing not to have to consume that experience of home in a short amount of time once every six months or one year. I no longer feel that I have to fit everything in. Home is now spread across space for me- how lucky I am.

As I stood up to get off the train, tired and grumpy, I looked around at the exhausted-looking families, gathering up their things. A little girl clinging to her father, as he patiently explained to her that they would reach soon. A mother desperately trying to keep her son awake as he kept flopping over in his seat. How different my life is.

I pushed through the crowd and headed out into the crisp Bangalore night, and I took a deep breath, before I piled into a taxi to get home. After I lugged my suitcase up the stairs in the dark, poured water in my dying plants and checked on my growing pile of compost, I sat down and smiled. It was good to be back. Strangely, but surely, Bangalore is almost completely home now.

Independence, courage, strength, freedom, resilience. I carry these with me into the new year, and I'm grateful.

Happy New Year.