One Evening

A couple of evenings ago, I sat in the company of a couple of kick-ass women and three brawny beef eating thug cats. We women in that room were in our forties and each one of us led unusual lives in an Indian context. The nibbles offered up with the absinthe were a study in geometric shapes and the evening was memorable because of the subjects we discussed, predominantly: The large amount of intuition, intelligence and mental fortitude constantly required on our parts to break through the walls of cultural conditioning.

If I chose to write about some of the things we discussed that evening, then there are women who articulate the complexities of what I want to say so much better than I ever would. Therefore I’d like to take this as a reason to link to an excellent interview given by Sharanya Manivannan on what it means to think and live as an independent woman in today’s society.

I’ve deliberately chosen to place this particular interview for a reason. Over the years I’ve had one too many of my married friends, seemingly modern but conservative enough to constantly do what is expected of them, tell me how independent they are: They drive alone to pick up their kid from school, they return from French class by bus all alone, they visit a mall alone...Their definition of their independence surprises me. Independence isn’t about doing something alone. It is a mindset you cultivate over time from questioning the status quo over and over again and deciding not to confirm because you have your own agenda for yourself and you know what you want, irrespective of whether you are within a partnership or not.

Single women too come into my life and almost invariably set up a competitive dynamic within the conversation. Their justification isn’t about their independence however, theirs is a desperation to cover up the inadequacy they feel about their solitary status by telling me how active, busy and social their lives are compared to mine, in other words, how much they are a part of society and how much they in turn are accepted by it. I wonder how much their need to justify is due to an ingrained almost unconscious belief that if you live alone, then something must be ‘wrong’ with you because presumably you don’t want to ‘grow up’ and accept the responsibility of marriage and motherhood.

Here is the link to Sharanya Manivannan’s interview >>>

And some extracts below:

Why should only one kind of relationship be the most vital? There are so many kinds of relationships you can have, as you pursue what society thinks of as solitude. But before that, you need to sit with yourself and hone that relationship first.

Personally, I’ve always had some kind of allergy towards marriage. Even when I was a kid, something about it, the way I saw it transform women, particularly in Tamil cinema, intuitively made me understand that it was not good for women.

You make active decisions to be better and kinder to yourself and more respectful. And what that means in real terms, you accept. For instance, you may go long periods without a partner, and that’s okay. Because why should the natural state of an adult be partnership? The feeling of being inadequate is something one needs to leave behind early on in this journey. You have the realisation that you’re not inadequate because you’re not partnered: in many ways you’re much more capable. So you build things for yourself in a way that you may not be able to if you have a partner.

Oil and Water

The last time I was compelled to work closely with an author was a few years ago while designing a book. The author told me that she had experience in designing. She told me that she had sat on a carpet with a couple of her friends and decided, ‘Let’s put this here!’ and ‘Let’s put that there!’ She thought it amusing to relate this to me. I won't even waste my words mentioning what the book looked like. The printed book deluded the author into thinking she could design, after all that was what designing was all about - Sitting on a carpet and deciding let’s put this here and that there.Eventually the author overrode my work with her suggestions since she was the experienced designer.People love that, waving their arms at a person sitting in front of a comp and saying: 'Change the font! Move this that side!' It gives them a sense of power and control. Needless to say we parted ways very soon. No self-respecting illustrator can work with a control freak.

Now once more I have to deal with an author and ‘his baby'. While most authors and illustrators are kept apart by editors and art-directors, this one managed to ferret his way in to give me ‘his vision’ for the illustrations. This consisted of first complimenting me on my portfolio and then systematically shooting down how I said I would be going about illustrating the book and then bombarding me with a barrage of his suggestions and reference material, none of which work for my style, the subject at hand or the composition space (43 emails and 4 phone calls lasting at least an hour, all in the space of 3 weeks for one illustration). Like the author who tried her hand at designing on the carpet, illustration is considered easy, as easy as all creative work is usually considered to be, as easy as: ‘Why don’t you show it from this angle like this other illustrator has done this in this picture here?' and the grand decision, 'Don't show the faces of any of the characters!' Then at the end of it all incredulously, the magnanimous permission: Please feel free to do what you like! 
Oh thank you, thank you,if you would please f*** off, let go and allow me to do just that it would save us all a lot of time not to mention the acute stress of having to justify every single thing within the illustration to you. 

An illustrator who has had award after award after award showered on him for his extraordinary illustrations and writing is far more scathing with his criticism of authors who want to interfere in every aspect of making a book. He had this to say about my predicament:

The author’s suggestions are in fact expressions of his dissatisfaction with an illustration which is not what he wants and which by the way can’t be because he doesn’t really know what he wants. And for that very reason you can comply with the punctilious cretin's suggestions until the cows come home and he will still not be satisfied.

*

Indian Summer

Be still my beating heart, these great trees are prayers.
~ R.Tagore

In Montreal, there are always a few days during the chilly autumn season when the sun suddenly shines and everything becomes unseasonably warm. Montrealers get very excited about it. I remember their eyes shone when they divulged that this was called an 'Indian Summer'. I have to admit I was rather bewildered both by the term and the excitement, but in retrospect, I understand why. 

Here of course, the Indian summer is endless as a Montreal winter and the blooming trees are like a continuous, spectacular firework display, one after the other, splashing the skies with orange,purple, yellow, pink and now bright red. The same time the flowers bloom is when the old leaves fall and almost immediately new light green ones grow. Spring,summer and autumn are all rolled into one grand, continuous Indian summer in this part of the world.

Montrealers truly appreciate the small slice of beautiful, intense summer handed to them, and they appreciate even more, the tidbit of Indian summer rationed out during autumn.Here we Benglureans partake in a gigantic endless banquet for the senses every year. We are overindulged by nature. For me, it took just one year of denial to come back and hurl myself at this feast with renewed enthusiasm.

Fearless Matters

Yesterday, a friend took me to listen to an illustrated talk about old carpets along the Silk route. The speaker, not an intellectual thankfully, but a carpet dealer, told us the meanings of some of the symbols woven into the carpets- fertile goddesses, dragons, pomegranates, vases; why they were made and the thought and work that goes into each of these exquisite old pieces. The carpets, I learned, were made by women. Not women with an art education, not professional artists, but just ordinary women - housewives, mothers, daughters on the threshold of marriage.

I returned home that night and scrolled through Facebook. The ‘I am Fearless’ campaign had blasted itself all over my Facebook wall. 180 women had made posters with images of women. They had ‘I am Fearless’ written over them. A gallery abroad is showcasing these posters and having storytelling sessions. Proceeds from the sale of posters are going to some women’s organization or the other.

I open the latest issue of Tehelka that I had bought earlier that morning and read two of the stories about women who have survived horrific odds before I had to put it down and catch my breath. One of them is a victim of an acid attack. Another defied the army by stripping and shouting in front of them. I had to marvel at their courage. These women are fearless indeed and so should we, the rest of us be too.

But there is something jarring in the ‘I am Fearless’ campaign. The answer is more than apparent. It is the lack of dignity in the way the creativity has unfolded itself onto the posters. Apart from perhaps one, I do not remember any picture that really stands out and which I can carry within me like the symbolism in the carpets I had seen a few hours ago. All I carry in me instead is a sense of shame about the silliness this ‘creative outpouring’ or whatever it is supposed to be. One woman lives her life with a burnt face, partially blinded by an acid attack, another defies an army. We express solidarity with the likes of them by creating pastiche –  images of women juxtaposed with flowers, pink umbrellas and balloons and a wolf. Then we eat cupcakes at a gallery in Singapore. Oh we are justified indeed. The proceeds after all are going to a women’s organization.

Whatever your experience as an Indian woman, it is hardly an excuse to infantilize the art that you have created ( One quick collage! Find a picture of a woman! Muck it around with Photoshop! Scrawl I am Fearless over it! Send it off!).  Nirbhaya’s rape resulted in a torrent of trite slogans on Facebook, all posted by other women – Stop Rape Now! (hell yes, hear that men? Zip up your pants!) Women Rock! (Yes, sure, tell that to someone who has had kerosene poured on her and lit up). Just as one breathed a sigh of relief when these stupid slogans started abating there comes the ‘I am Fearless’ campaign with its posters. We express anger and indignation at the actions of our men, but look at the way we trivialize ourselves. This should be a time for introspection, and if creativity results, it should be a byproduct of that.

Years ago, I went to an art exhibition on the theme of Female Foeticide. The young artist had created drawings and an installation. She used the Pitcher Plant as a symbol to create an analogy with the mother’s womb. What is supposed to nurture ends up killing that which it is supposed to nurture. I don’t remember the name of the artist, but her art and its meaning are something I have carried with me all these years. Like the symbols in the Silk Route carpets created by women, that have carried their message over time, so too the haunting symbolism in her imagery. As women, perhaps it is not enough to be Fearless, perhaps we need to make a choice about how responsibly we choose to express ourselves as well.

*

Note: This post is an opinion, my opinion on my blog about the content (or lack of content) in the ‘I am Fearless’ campaign. This is based on what I’ve seen on my Facebook wall. It is not a criticism about the organizer in any way.

Why have I not participated and made a difference in spite of being graciously asked by the organizer?  I think we are just looking for a cause to get excited about. First it was that anti-corruption stuff that was all over FB, the signing of petitions and what not, now it is this. By the time the next cause arrives, the name Nirbhaya will have been forgotten. Positive growth and improvement is always slow and happens by  a series of small sustained acts which bring about change and shifts in perspective.

I am not interested in unnecessary justifications or debates regarding this matter in my comment section unless you really have something worthwhile to say.  If you are a participant whose sensibilities have been injured by this post and you want to get indignant with me, perhaps your time would be better spent improving the quality of the content in your poster.

Added on 26th of May 2014 -

Blooms of Nigeria

vs

Fearless Campaign
It is not difficult to create thoughtful art but it is very easy to make crass images.

Walrus Tea. Version 2

One Sunday morning, while having my instant fix of Masala Dosa at Shiv Sagar, I noticed before me, two enormous men partaking their morning Chai. The scene grew misty before my eyes and when the mist cleared I saw two Walrus dwarfing the table at which they were seated while delicately sipping from tiny cups of Shiv Sagar Chai.

Version-1 of Walrus Tea was done on a small sheet of Canson paper very carefully trying to stuff two enormous Walrus into a tiny space. The effort shows in those tight lines. 

This one, Version-2, was done on an enormous sheet of Sultanpet paper. The space allowed me to use Chunky Charcoal the way it should be used - with plenty of strength and loose arm movements.

At the end of it all, I felt I'd run a marathon.

Encounter among the Melons

Sometime last year, while buying Melons, I had an encounter with a man wearing many colourful rings.
The story of the encounter can be found in an older post by clicking here>> 
I'd always wanted to redraw the Ring man with his glorious rings and finally managed to do so only yesterday. Here he is in improved Black and White - dark, shiny and magnificently South Indian, buying melons and wearing his rings.

Being a Friend

What a moving sight. 200 000 Norwegians at Oslo City Hall raising Red Roses.

Both 9/11 and 22/7 are days when unique acts of evil were carried out, but what a difference in the reactions between the two countries. America reeled in paranoia and distrust while Norway stood together in steely determination refusing to succumb to revenge.

Here is George Bush’s reaction to 9/11: “Let’s hunt them down”.
In retrospect that didn’t really help matters did it?

This is Jens Stoltenberg’s principle for dealing with 22/7: "Violence must be met with greater transparency. Terror should be met with more democracy. Now we have to take care of each other." 

The thoughts in his speech were refreshingly simple and straightforward >>

I am tired of dramatic rhetoric.  I am tired of this desperation by priests and leaders to force attention on themselves through their verbal pyrotechnics.  I am sickened by audiences who are carried away by extravagant sermons trumpeted out by our grand religious and political pundits from their gilded pulpits. I am tired of loud, barbaric and insensitive journalism. And most of all, I am tired of people turning a blind eye to the rather obvious fact that religion, any religion if taken too seriously results in a massive shrinking of the brain.

Finally, heroism is the action of kindness you extend when no one is looking. That's what really matters.

Images from Google Search.

Click here for  Rose procession at Oslo

Hold Hands

Ring Man

Benglurians and Kannada speakers will probably better appreciate the nuances and humour that took place in this little conversation:

Some days ago, I was driving down the road perpendicular to Comm’s (whatever it is called) and among the rows of carts selling fruit I saw a cart filled with unusual melons which were striped reddish brown and sienna. Already buying these beautiful melons was an enormous very dark skinned man. What immediately caught my eye was the array of bright shiny gold rings on each of his fingers. Each ring had a stone of a different colour and all together they clamoured loudly for attention. I was naturally transfixed. 

Meanwhile the Ring man was telling the melon seller in Tamil that his melons had better be good,  but then he turned to me and spoke in Benglur Kannada instead:

Idhu illi nodak chennagiruthe. Manege thagondhodhmele yengirutthe gothilla! (These fruit look good here but one never knows how they taste when they are cut at home)

I agreed with the Ring man wholeheartedly. Then I too sternly told the melon seller that he should give me a good fruit.

Then the Ring man looked at the melon seller:
Gandsru baidhre parvagilla! he said dramatically. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper, Aadre hengsru baidre thumba kashta!

(If a man scolds it doesn’t matter much, but if a woman scolds it is so hard to bear!)

Fairing avec Charcoal

So I learned it is a law of nature in my life that everytime my head blows up to twice its size there is always an occurrence to bring it back to normal size once more.

In French class I learnt that the French ‘faire’ everything. Faire = do. So the French, they ‘faire la cuisine’, they ‘faire du velo’,  they faire un drame, they ‘faire de la natation’ in their ‘piscines’, they ‘faire’ every blessed thing. One day we were asked by our teacher what we ‘faire’ at work so that the rest of us could guess each other’s professions. In a class full of software engineers everyone said they faired with their blessed computers so there wasn’t any guessing to do; except in my case, having chosen this dratted profession as my life’s calling, I always stick out like a cabbage in a hardware store. I rather smugly said that I faire avec charcoal. Whereupon the French teacher screeched 

“You work with charcoal? You are a chef!!!!”

M****!

Non madame, je suis illustrateuse…

A Favorite Subject

Red Rice and Fish

I love drawing fish. This one, red rice and fish, is my favourite meal.

Just for the info of some of the readers: This picture took about 8 hours to do. 6 hours non-stop last night starting at 10.30 pm and two hours this morning. That is why I work at night, no need to stop to eat lunch, wash dishes, answer the doorbell etc.
But I ate other things before drawing this picture: One package of salted peanuts, Diet Coke,  premium chocolate...all ingredients absolutely necessary to get charcoal to do my bidding.
Now I must go eat some Ritchie's biriyani to replenish my energy...and then get some sleep.

MOTHER’S TEETH

Apparently these false teeth hampered the free flow of black bile regurgitating out of her, so when I sat pinned down on order in front of mother listening aghast once again to yet another story embellished with her twisted lies, mother would put her fingers inside her mouth, grimace and katak, she would remove a set of false teeth and casually chuck it beside the sleeping cat on the side table. The cat’s fur would jam itself to wet teeth resulting in hairy teeth. Appalled, my hand would instinctively search for car keys to scoot out of the house where upon my fingers would touch something wet. Looking down I would see four teeth snarling up at me beside an ash tray. Screaming! Commotion! Indignation! I would flee out of her house with my own curly hair standing on end. Then one day on a visit, I picked a chakkli from a plate on the table to find yet another set of teeth menacingly lying in wait for me. I stopped visiting mother.

~ Extract from a story called Mother's Teeth

Mirrors

It is a pity we don’t sort and discard our beliefs and values periodically like we do most other things in our lives – old clothes, stale friendships, annoying spouses, junk in the spare room, mouldy food in the fridge...But however ill fitting it may be most of us still wear beliefs we have been taught by parents and teachers, lugging throughout our lives our minds stuffed with outdated musty programming like useless software in a computer.

If I were to still believe all that was taught and told to me in childhood and youth then I would still believe that all that was cultured, polite and genteel was always British, all that was great and successful could only be made in America and that Australia was some sort of wild bush country teeming with descendants of criminals who threw boomerangs at each other. I would still believe that elders had to be unquestioningly believed since they were the ultimate authority on whichever subject they chose to gas about and that priests and royalty were known to have special mystical powers handed specially to them directly from God since they were chosen from heaven above to do whatever they do...heck I’d believe pigs could fly if I were to still accept all that was doled out to me. Come to think of it, most of us believe some really, really strange things still.

When I was recommended the book ‘ Mirrors’, I couldn’t find it on bookshelves anywhere in Bangalore. [Ms. Virkar of Strand, yet another pompous Mumbikar living in Bangalore told me that Bangalore readership was not ‘eclectic’ but I’d definitely find the book in Mumbai where the readership was so very eclectic].  Since the book was suggested to me by the same person who recommended The Red Tree and 100 Years of Solitude, I did what most Bangaloreans do, I determinedly ordered it from the utterly super Flipkart  service (with their wonderful Cash on Delivery option). If I could I would recommend this as compulsory reading to every student at school. Only the lyricism of Galeano’s prose would probably be marred by unimaginative teachers droning on on hot afternoons desperately trying to finish study portions and the colour of his words would be leeched out if students had to cram and reproduce canned answers to trite questions such as those asked at board exams here.

From the start, the beauty of Galeano’s sentences grabbed me and drew me into world after world within his short precise narratives where I either delighted in the pleasure of a new discovery or gasped in horror at the brutal reality of cruelty. I got to know a very different point of view – that which is not usually articulated.  

I got to know stories about countries apart from the two universes shown to me at school - UK and US. Like floating over a world on a Google map and suddenly homing onto my desired destination, I got to know instead Paraguay, Dublin, Nicaragua, Rhodesia...and I learnt what happens to countries who dared show a finger to imperial powers.

We hear a great deal through the media about the successful. We are told to believe that success can be ours through the simple acts of thinking positive and working hard. What we don’t get to hear about is of people who did what it takes and did not succeed.  Galeano writes about the people who tried and perhaps succeeded (if you equate success with a result rather than wealth) but who are virtually unheard of now or in their times – Suzanne Valadon, Tesla, Van Gogh...He writes what happened to to some of those after their success – Bebel Garcia, Patrice Lumumba...

It is easier to accept and please than to question and create unrest. It is easier to believe what has been told to you than to think for yourself since thinking for yourself leads you to frightening places like the truth. Truth involves battle, questioning, challenging, holding a mirror at uncouth behaviour, confronting evil, articulating the uncomfortable and transgressing norms, all of which don’t necessarily always lead to trumpets and victory. Eduardo Galeano shows us the truth about ourselves in this book by reflecting to us what we really are.

I leave you here with an extract so that you can appreciate for yourself the chilling truth that Galeano writes about in his powerful and eloquent voice:

HERE LAY INDIA:

Pierre Loti, a writer who sold tales of an exotic Asia to the French public, visited India in 1899.

He travelled by train.

At each station, a chorus of hunger awaited him.

More penetrating than the roar of the locomotive was the pleading of children, or rather the skeletons of children, their lips purple and eyes out of orbit, peppered by flies, beseeching alms. Two or three years previous, a girl or boy cost a rupee, but now no one wanted them even for free.

The train carried more than passengers. In the back several freight cars were filled with rice and millet for export. Guards watched over them, finger on the trigger. No one came near those cars. Only the pigeons that picked at the sacks and flew off.

                     

                         ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Why Don't You Have An Exhibition?

Portrait of a Refugee

To those well wishers who persist in doling out this suggestion to me, I would like to thank you but I would also like to clarify that my job as an artist is to draw and paint. If an exhibition happens it is incidental - a by product of my generated work, [like the joy of getting this teensy image of my work on a CNN site ]. I don’t exist as an artist to exhibit my work. I exist to draw. 

I would also like you who give me this suggestion to consider this:

Would you ask a doctor (any doctor), “Why don’t you perform a brain surgery?”

Would you ask a lawyer, “Why don’t you do a cross examination?”

Would you ask a software engineer, “Why don’t you go work in Infosys?”

You wouldn't would you? These questions would show up the fact that you know nothing about the profession that you are advising the professional about with your well meaning suggestion. Well, it is the same when you suggest to an artist.

Somehow when it comes to artists, everyone knows exactly what it means to be a painter. Anyone can do it. And anyone can offer advice on how to be one. Just whip up a dozen paintings and have an exhibition! Once a month if possible! Of course you know somebody who does that and you too would do it if you just had the time to do more of those pencil shadings and watercolours that you used to be so good at in Art class.

Recently a neighbour dropped by and noticed some of my paintings hanging on my wall.

Who did this?

I did

You? But this is professional! I thought you painted as a recreation. Did you copy it from a magazine or book or something? 

No.

Did you photocopy and trace it from a greeting card?

No

You did it entirely yourself?

Yes.

My! Why don’t you have an exhibition?

Ah hah! I knew you'd say that !

I don’t understand the connection between appreciating  my work (albeit with those strange questions about them) and ‘having an exhibition’. If you like some paintings it seems logical to ask if one could see more of them or perhaps inquire where they are sold. But to almost immediately ‘mentor’ me and tell me how I should run my professional life...

 -----------------------

And of course if I did have an exhibition, the immediate and predictable question asked would be,

“So how many paintings did you sell?”

Now why would you want to know?

The Magic Potion

…and then the evil witch handed the painter a bottle filled with the lurid green concoction. “Take this!” she commanded. “It’ll change your life!”

The painter took the bottle cautiously. She opened the lid, sniffed the contents inside and gasped in horror. “This?” she asked incredulously, staggering back and shielding her nose with her hands, “This smells insane! What is it?”

“Freshly caught green frogs and forty day old grasshoppers pureed together” cackled the witch, rubbing her hands in glee.

“Well I can’t eat it then, I’m vegetarian” said the painter, hastily handing back the bottle.

“Listen to me you Arty creature” hissed the witch defiantly, her breath smelling faintly of spring onions, “If it is green it’s vegetarian! One teaspoon of this and you will never go hungry again!” She defiantly thrust the bottle back into the painter’s hands once more.

The painter tentatively dipped her little finger into the green goo, lifted a teeny weeny smidgen of the stuff, licked it and screamed. She clutched her throat, coughed and writhed in agony, “Koff…koff…gaakkkk! This tastes terrible. I think I’m turning green!!!!”

“You are supposed to MIX it with your food!” screeched Evil Witch finally losing her patience. “Just listen to me and DO AS I SAY!”

Shaken and stirred by the screeching witch and the foul smelling chutney, the painter retreated into her kitchen with the bottle. There, she made herself some hot white rice and with trembling hands tentatively stirred a teaspoon of green stuff into the freshly cooked rice.

Then she ate a spoonful.

And it was at that precise moment that her entire life changed forever. For the better.

To learn more about The Magic Potion, click here>>

I Shot a Tiger!

Yes! I shot a Tiger. Here’s how I did it –

I filled a large bowl with chopped chicken liver and took it into the jungle. And then I loaded my Black and White bullets and lay in wait as quietly as possible, pretending to read a book. I wasn’t disappointed. Slowly at the far end of the jungle, there was a rustle amid a thick clump of ferns. The fronds parted and a Tiger emerged. She stealthily made her way towards the chicken liver and quick as a flash gobbled it down. Then she lay down, stretched herself and closed her eyes. And that’s when I shot her!

But here is the terrifying part!  

When I least expected it, the Tiger opened her eyes and snaaaarrrrled!

 I scooted from the scene within seconds of being mauled! You see how dangerous it is to shoot Tigers? But I risked it just for you, my dear blog readers. I bravely risked my life and shot a Tiger to bring you yet another adventure under The Plum Tree!

Seeds

My grandmother always carried Cosmos seeds on her person like she did her snuff box. Where ever she went, who ever she met, if there was some earth present in the scene, even in a pot, then the Cosmos seeds were doled out with the same solemnity  used to take a pinch of snuff before it went up the nose – a careful drawing together of the thumb and  forefinger so that just the right amount was gathered between them. When grandmother gave, recipients did as instructed so that plants would shoot up and flowers would splash out their myriad hues of glorious colour.  Thus my grandmother left a trail of colourful Cosmos behind her the way some women leave a whiff of memorable perfume as they drift out of a room. 

Where Time Stands Still

From the plum tree

From the plum tree

From the plum tree

The Cupcake Award

So The Plum Tree Volume-2 has gotten its first award. Thank you Chetana.
I would like to leave it at that, but the award says that I should say THREE things I like about myself. I dread this. Who wants to know strange little likey likey details about me anyway? What does it matter to the rest of the world that I like the fact that I get up at 3 am every morning and eat exactly 62 salted peanuts? I hate divulging private details. Reminds me a bit of the lurid testimony services that used to take place on Sunday evenings in the church I used to go to and into which I stumbled into one Sunday long ago, to shelter from the rain. Horrified paralysis kept me from running down the aisle and out of church screaming while one by one, those who wanted to give a testimony crawled forth and told and made their private agonies public: rebellious children, nasty spouses, abortions, suicides, mental distresses, low grades, strange diseases… and how they prayed and God just swooped down like Superman and set everything right.
One of the women, I’ll call her Usha, spoke about how she was diagnosed with Breast Cancer and how she ‘just fasted and prayed’ and was miraculously cured. Her dramatic and tearful testimony was perhaps the most convincing of all. Afterwards the rest of the congregation milled around her and hugged and kissed her while I scooted home.
Subsequently, I mentioned this to a well known doctor also from that church and asked him, ‘so was what she said true?’
He said, ‘you are daft if you believe that! Usha’s cancer was diagnosed at a very early stage and she took all the medication and chemotherapy required to cure it.’
‘Then why did Usha say what she did?’ I asked indignantly, ‘and so movingly and poignantly too!’
The Doc looked me directly in the eye, ‘she did it for attention’, he said, ‘just like every one of those who stood up and spoke in the testimony service that evening. If their problems have been solved, it is a pity they don’t give themselves enough credit for their efforts to solve it. But then of course, there is always more attention to be received if the name of God is articulated’.


Anyway, having said what I wanted to say, I must now add that saying 3 teeny weeny little titbits about why I like myself is hardly the same as falling on my knees and beating my breast while delivering a tearful testimony in church. So let me indulge you:
1) Yes, as I already mentioned, I eat 62 salted peanuts at 3am every morning.
2) Every full moon night, at the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world is asleep, I prowl the neighbourhood while occasionally letting out a yowl.
3) All my work, every single piece is done while balancing on my right leg only, which is how I get those powerful strokes with charcoal.
Yup, love all these things about myself.
There! Not quite as dramatic as Usha’s testimony, but if you believed any of those three things above, or in Usha’s testimony, well……

Coffins

When the 76 CRPF jawans who sacrificed their lives in the Dantewada massacre were housed in horrific conditions while alive, couldn’t we at least give each of them a decent coffin at their burial? Their coffins look like they have been pieced together with cardboard. The manufacturer’s marks are still visible on the cheap plywood with which they have been made…

Before a movie at a cinema hall, we have to stand while the national anthem is being played and watch glorious, idealized shots of soldiers at the Siachen glacier. Apparently their bodies return in cheap plywood coffins too. How many of us know that? Perhaps the film makers should include a clip of the condition in which these soldiers’ bodies are packaged for burial in our country once they are killed, so that we can see for ourselves how 'Mahan' mera Bharath treats its martyrs  while we stand to attention, 120 rupees popcorn in hand, impatiently waiting for the movie to start.


Please take some time to see this>>>

Hair Myth

I was told my grandmother had hair so long it reached her knees. I was told her hair was so thick and curly that after it was washed it took two women to detangle it and spread it out to dry. I was told that when it was tied up my grandmother’s head would tilt backwards due to the weight of her hair which is why I envisioned my grandmother spending most of her long haired youth staring at the ceiling. Each time I was told the story of my grandmother’s hair, the hair grew longer and longer within the story until it touched the ground and the last time I heard the story I remember I was told that it trailed behind her on the floor.