Trickle Down Feminism

This article of mine, is a sort of continuation to a previous article published last month, titled, ‘Trickle Down Development’.

‘Feminism’, the word, I first heard probably towards the end of my final year in college. I graduated from an engineering college of national repute where the sex ratio was somewhere around 5:1, i.e., 5 boys for 1 girl. The ratio changed depending on the branch you chose (or ended up in). I can write a Chetan Bhagat kind of book on that, but that’s not my purpose (nor do I wish to preach Chetan Bhagat brand of feminism). When a friend of mine called me a ‘chauvinist’ I had to google the word up to understand what should I reply to her. Now we both discuss women issues across different time zones and in a way I’m glad she no longer calls me a ‘chauvinist’. When I joined Ashoka University after graduation, the tables had turned. I was in a class where around 60% junta were women, and a large part of my fellowship experience was shaped primarily due to that. I remember, three terms into the fellowship I asked a classmate of mine the difference between sex and gender. I was judged, but she also patiently answered my question. A lot of my thoughts and opinions have been shaped largely due to the wonderful peer group I had at Young India Fellowship. Some wonderful women have shaped my thoughts, patiently answered my questions, and also pointed out my mistakes. I make a point to read more books authored by women now, but I’m still far off the halfway mark I should honour them.

This is a photo from a Government School in Visakhapatnam, Andhra Pradesh. We distributed a month of sanitary napkins for all girls in the school.

When #metoo movement happened last year, a lot of men were astounded to see the number of women coming out. The closest of friends posted #metoo on Facebook to give an indication of how normalized things are. I also know men who made fun of it privately, and I also know men who were quick to brandish it as ‘elitist’, calling it social media activism. I, on the other hand, felt it was a start in a good direction. A lot of men at least came to realize the issue at hand. There will also be men in positions of power who will want to do something about it, read about gender issues, tackle them head on.

A lot of issues related to women, at least in India, were left unaddressed because the people in power were men, who necessarily didn’t think of them as an issue. Reading articles, research papers, etc. made me realize how every issue in public policy is also a gender issue from water scarcity to sanitation. Water Scarcity directly affects women first, then men; because it, sadly, is primarily a woman’s responsibility to fetch water. Swachh Bharat movement changed the game for rural women because they didn’t have to walk for miles in darkness. We still have miles to go, but thanks to more women in development and policy sector, gender issues are being addressed at a larger scale than before.

As I go to rural hinterlands of this country, away from the metros and the cities, I realize that problem is still so deep rooted and we are just scratching the surface and hailing it. Feminism, hasn’t yet trickled down. It has entered the urban consciousness, but rural India is at least a generation away. In last three months or so, I have scratched my head around the gender issues plaguing the area I am in, only to realize it’s a long battle. In our country, family is sacrosanct, which by default is patriarchal in nature. The Supreme Court, refused to recognize marital rape as a law because it will disturb ‘the family, the very basis of India’s social structure’.  The women, over centuries, have internalized this and a woman’s honour has become family’s honour. Tragedy is that the very family which is so concerned about woman’s honour abuses that woman. The family has the ultimate control over a woman’s sexuality. Therefore, then, honour killings become normal, sati was normal (because what is a woman without her dead husband?).

A woman in the village has to first look after her family, feed her husband, her children, her in-laws, wash their clothes, do the dishes, fetch water, and then if time permits come to attend the meeting of local Self Help Group (which by the way is divided across caste, class and religious lines). A rural woman, also sometimes, becomes the Sarpanch of the village thanks to reservations, but she has no agency. A man (husband or son) roams around calling himself the Sarpanch of the village, and everyone gladly addresses him so. A lot of girls get married by the time they are 22-23 (and child marriage is pretty common, by the way, no one minds it). In such a scenario, I often end up confused as to where should I start, how do we really empower the women, make them realize that they have agency beyond their family. People who have tried to rake up revolutions in the village society, are often thrown out, because it disturbs the ‘family structure’.

Feminism, to those who have issue with the word, is nothing but a gender equality movement. We can debate on the semantics later, that as of now, is not my point. I personally feel, coupled with class and caste, looking at development issues through a lens of gender can help solve lot of our issues. The question is how. We need to sensitize more men, especially development professionals, to take up the baton. Coupled with more women working in the rural hinterlands of our country. Development with respect to gender in rural India is trapped in a vicious circle. We need more women volunteers to work in rural India, but the environment is not exactly conducive for a woman. But at the same time, unless a woman enters the chakravyuh, it can’t be broken. I, as a man, have my own limitations. A woman, on the other hand, if she decides can do wonders on rural level with respect to gender issues. All the talk of feminism in cities and on social media, will remain trapped in the same space, unless women visit rural India and help feminism trickle down. I see more and more women run NGOs in urban spaces, that sadly isn’t the case when it comes to rural India. Lot of NGOs are run by men with focus on education, sanitation, agriculture, water, health, etc. but not necessarily gender. I have limited view as to how do we change this scenario. For a start, I think we need fellowships sponsoring women in particular to work in rural India, with focus on gender. It is also the collective responsibility of all those in development space to ensure that this becomes a good model, to ensure it succeeds.

Feminism, the talk of it, the movement needs to trickle down. It needs to break its predominantly urban and linguistic shackles and enter the realm of common tongue. And we need to educate not only girls but also boys in this country about it. The question is how soon.

Ending with sharing a video of a TED talk by award winning American writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, on why ‘we should all be feminists’.




Into The WIld

I like to read books for a varied reasons – they add knowledge, they add value, it’s meditation for me, it’s travel for me, and I take liking to fellow bibliophiles, especially, if they like the books I like. Also, what motivates me to keep reading is the fact that every book changes something in me, adds a new perspective, the way I live, the way I see life, society, country, etc. I really picked up reading couple of years back, as I discovered gem after gem, and I couldn’t think of not reading books since. I am guilty of having a ‘book debt’, where I have books which I have purchased, but never read. It’s a good debt to have I guess. I happily pay off my EMIs for it. One such book I wanted to read since quite some time and ended up reading is Jon Krakauer’s ‘Into The Wild’. The story about Christopher McCandless, who called himself as ‘Alexander Supertramp’.
When I talk about the book or the film, or read the reviews, there are people quick to dismiss Chris as an idiot, a fool who left his family on a self-discovering journey, a la Buddha. As I started reading the book, I was hooked to it. Chris when he died, was around the age I am now. Therefore, perhaps, I could relate to him and his story, his journey. I read the book partly with a sense of envy wishing if I could do what he did, only to realize I tread a different path, moderate and sober. If I had ever met Chris, I would have took an instant liking to him, an introverted sort of guy, who liked reading books, traveling around, philosophizing about life. The letters he wrote, the postcards he sent, really struck a chord with me. He was a good writer, a matured writer, a depth which only comes from reading books.
Self Portrait of Chris at his Alaska Base Station.
Chris initially did come across as a smug, who didn’t care about his family, donated all his savings to charity, burnt the money he had, left his car and walked into the wild. But what really moved me were the relationships he had with people he came across, especially the one with Ron Franz, an eighty year old man, who gets inspired from Chris to live a life outside his comfort zone.
“make a radical change in your lifestyle and begin to boldly do things which you may previously never have thought of doing, or been too hesitant to attempt. So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservation, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man’s living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun. If you want to get more out of life, you must lose your inclination for monotonous security and adopt a helter-skelter style of life that will at first appear to you to be crazy. But once you become accustomed to such a life you will see its full meaning and its incredible beauty.”
– Chris’ letter to Ron Franz
In a way, I felt like I was traveling with Chris, talking to those people, seeing how it shaped Chris and how Chris shaped others. But the real transformative experience for Chris was what he called his ultimate quest- living into the wild, in Alaska. The experience that ultimately took his life, in the most unfortunate way possible. After spending two years away from family,running away from cities, detesting civilization, reading books, traveling and talking to people, a realization dawned on Chris – “HAPPINESS IS REAL ONLY WHEN SHARED.” He writes this down in his weakest final moments. He dies lonely, when he was yearning to go back to the civilization. But in his death, he became a shining light, an inspiration. Chris really moved me, and I know will stay with me forever, urging me to look within my own wilderness, asking me to live out of my comfort zone, nudging me to get into the wild.

Trickle Down Development

One of the critiques of Capitalism remains it’s famed ‘trickle down effect’.  Trickle-down economics is a theory that says benefits for the wealthy trickle down to everyone else. These benefits are usually tax cuts on businesses, high-income earners, capital gains, and dividends. This article explains briefly about the trickle down theory. The economic inequality in India has continued to rise post liberalization. The wealthy are accumulating more and more wealth. According to Oxfam 2018 report, India’s top 1% pocketed 73% of the total wealth generated in 2017!
During our intense classes as part of Young India Fellowship at Ashoka University, Dr. Mihir Shah used to severely criticize trickle down theory. This was followed by some intense discussions with my classmates about top to bottom approach in policy making. How India is run from Delhi and other cities, how policies are made without ever visiting a village, with a hope that things will eventually ‘trickle down’. This approach, clearly, has not worked and ,sadly, things have not changed much. Policy and Development sector is pretty much still a top to bottom game. With funds and policies trickling down from the top, and taking their own time to reach a poor woman in a remote village.
Villagers working under Paani Foundation’s Water Cup in a village in Maharashtra.
The first thing I realized after graduating was what I learnt in classes will only help me 10% of the times, rest is all on the job. Post graduation, over the last two years the dissonance I felt was huge. It was very easy to sit in AC classrooms and discuss why farmers are committing suicides, why we need Feminism, or what is the future of Indian democracy? But when I went, saw and experienced the reality I realized that our classrooms live in their own different reality, what in Ashoka we famously called, ‘a bubble’. I have realized India’s social, economic, and political issues discussed in India’s universities, are only partly true. The knowledge is in shackles and it needs to break out. The talks on gender, caste, and class sound good in cities but are seldom heard in villages. Things will take their own time to trickle down, hopefully.
People romanticize our villages, films like Swades are responsible for that. Things are not so rosy. I am always conscious of looking at our villages through an urban lens. But even from rural perspective, situation is grim. Our villages face issues of caste, gender, class on a daily basis. Therefore, I feel it as my responsibility to correct people, when they say caste doesn’t exist, women now have a lot of freedom in our country, etc. I care a lot about gender as an issue, but I feel helpless sometimes in villages. I see villages with Sarpanch as a woman, but being run by that woman’s husband or woman’s son. I see women getting married before they even turn 18, I see Dalits and other marginalized communities still living as landless and laboring hard to earn their two hundred rupees daily wage. I often wonder what more can I do, but then end up firefighting lazy bureaucrats and people full of apathy.
Government has consistently abdicated it’s responsibility of a public school system. The result is a large number of NGOs working for primary and secondary education. The gap between public schools and private schools only widening. The situation indeed is grim. The solution though has been more and more private schooling, Where’s the trickle down?
Two years since graduating I have worked with a political party, with a Member of Parliament, and now working out of an NGO. The learnings have been different in all these cases. Till recently I thought I had good knowledge of India’s problems until I visited our villages, spoke with farmers, saw the rural politics. Farmers are growing sugarcane in a drought prone area, despite knowing well that it is very harmful. Because it’s kind of easy money, requires less effort. No academic article I came across pointed to this fact. I always wondered why are they growing sugarcane, only to find a treacherous cycle that exists designed by the sugar lobby. Farmers resort to chemical fertilizers, the way we consume junk food. It’s easy and avoids the efforts of making a compost. Our Government is gladly giving subsidies worth of Rs. 70,000 crores to Fertilizer industry! Farm loan waivers are promised by our politicians for every elections, which end up benefiting the rich farmers, never the poor or the landless. Every time, there is some crop loss due to weather, farmer bodies are fast to take it up with Government. Farmers being a huge vote bank, Government duly obliges.
We have one of the best Constitutions in the world, and we have been successful to take democracy to our villages. A lot of our policies are good in theory, but really shoddy in implementation. Policies get lost and bruised by the time they trickle down. Pratap Bhanu Mehta in this moving article has called India, ‘the too late nation’. We suddenly realize that Government has done nothing when 22 people die in a stampede in a Mumbai station, yet we elect MPs who don’t attend Parliament, or only go there to protest and walk out. We realize our healthcare is shoddy when kids die in a Government Hospital in Gorakhpur, yet we continue to elect people who only care about identity politics. The only time we hold our Government accountable is once in five years, the rest of the time, live in our own bubbles, divorced from the reality. We are proud to be ‘apolitical’, which in my opinion is a way of saying ‘I don’t care’. We are indeed a too late nation,we only wake up when we realize things have not trickled down. Only if the taxpayers were as angry about their taxes going to potholes, as they were about their taxes going to JNU, India would have been a different nation. We wait, wait for the rich to realize that they need to trickle down what they earned, and wait for the Government to trickle down the development.
And despite all this there’s some good in this world. And it’s worth fighting for.  🙂

Lonely in the times of Navratri

Past week has been less of religious significance for me, as compared to preceding several years of Navratri. Not that I am religious, but when you have grown up in an environment where almost everyone in the family is religious, these days add some sense of significance, in an otherwise banal life in this city. Staying away from home, I have been getting used to forgetting different festivals where we, under the pretext of fasting, ate lot of sabudana stuff. Whether it was Ekadashi, Mahashivratri or just some random day upwas. Monsoon season was my favorite in school days, because lots of festivals, and lots of holidays. The vacation mode continues till Diwali holidays. My mother being a teacher, sometimes used to complain that she is not finding time to complete syllabus and term exams are nearing. For me and my brother, it was one extra day of playing cricket on the street, on the ground or sometimes even in the small one meter wide balcony.

Waking up at around 7.30 A.M, doing some random exercises as it was raining and I was lazy to go out and run. Went out to savour my usual breakfast of Mysore Bonda followed by a cup of tea. The chaiwallah and the thelawallah both know me by now. I don’t have to utter a single word of Telugu or Hindi and unless I ask for a wada, instead of bonda, I am served with four hot pieces of Mysore Bonda with four different types of chutney. By the time I’m done with that, my tea is ready. Then I come home and usually read something, a book or daily dose of news articles. Today, office was closed and I had no enthusiasm of going and being there alone watching videos on YouTube or Amazon Prime like a purposeless zombie. So, instead I decided to read a book after customary ‘Happy Dussehra’ calls from home. Lunch when not at home is a huge task for me. My dinner place is open only in the evenings, and streets are otherwise lazy to serve me anything hot in the afternoon. So, today I instead settled for dry fruit lassi, which was more about dry fruits and less of a lassi, which is fine by me. In a bid to complete four books this month, today being the last day, I decided to read the last hundred pages of Calvino’s If on a winter’s night a traveller. That novel has become an ordeal for me, as I get lost in the book, and then need to find my way out. As I write this, I am still fifty pages away and I do not know if I will complete them today, and my Goodreads will have only three books finished in September. I can manipulate, stay up till late to finish, and convince myself that unless I sleep it is still September 30 for my body. Meanwhile, I also have to figure out my dinner.

Living alone, is a different challenge altogether. I told my friends who are living independently in cities that they have friends there. Yet they reply, “I know.I have been through it.” I don’t try to reason with them that this is not the same. I feel like, they don’t have the right to deny me my novelty, my unique existence in this city of Vizag, where most of the people speak Telugu and I end up playing dumb charades with them. I had the option of flying out of this place for the long weekend, but here I am, choosing to stay with my desolate misery. The only solace is internet and social media, which is also depressing by the day. But then, social media and WhatsApp has kept me going here, as I have become enslaved by the modern means of communication. I need them, more than they need me. I have still not broadcasted customary Happy Dussehra messages over WhatsApp to my contacts. I don’t know if I will today.

Over different posts and pictures over Instagram, Facebook, and Whatsapp, I know what different people, some of whom I have not met in over two years are doing over the long weekend. This makes me feel a bit lonelier, as I drown in self-pity. But I also reach out to fellow loners, in cities across the world. Some are busy swimming in self-pity, some are watching Ravana burn, and some are working. I know more lonely souls, but I decide not to message them. Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle is at work here. What if I message them and I come to know that they are enjoying the evening on some random beach, or on top of a mountain, or with their families. I will loathe myself for denying myself the opportunity. But then there’s also a possibility that I will have a virtual conversation with another loathing soul. But I decide to stay away from the effort and instead focus on writing this piece.

Loneliness is an island, and only the person can ultimately rescue themselves from it. One can keep swimming in the ocean of self-pity around the island, but ultimately there will come a time when the person will stop swimming, tired and disgusted. What option the person chooses then? The idea of solitude, I feel, is romanticized by movies, by books and what not. Humans, like any other animals, were designed to be social. But then here we are, in increasingly populating cities, loneliness is also increasing. Different individuals look at the same problem differently. Friends will advise me to go out, date women, make friends. But it’s not as if I never tried and will not try. But sometimes circumstances do not allow a person to do that. What is the choice then, go back to same solitude. Reading a book alone, drinking alone, or watching FRIENDS and wondering if I ever will have such life, despite knowing well that I won’t.

Clamdigger by Edward Hopper. Hopper managed to capture loneliness the way probably no painter could.

It was my birthday a few weeks ago. It was the loneliest birthday I ever celebrated. I thought I never cared much about birthdays, but I realized deep down, societal conditioning has made me care about it. Celebrating birthday alone, going out and drinking a beer alone, was unacceptable to myself. Lot of friends called to wish, and wondered how I celebrated the day. In the age of social media, birthdays have become a medium of PDA. Remove the birthday from Facebook, and you’ll realize beyond a certain group no one will care, no PDA nothing, nada. Try it, you’ll find yourself lonelier. We are a generation who have achieved nothing, yet we demand everything. We see people posting how happy they are on social media, and start aspiring for those lives, without wondering ever are they really happy? More and more people I know flock to US, Europe every year to study, posting picturesque autumn pictures and describing snowfalls. I know, some of them are lonely, living in a land away from their home, wondering if this will even make them happy than they were before.

We choose loneliness, and we are lonely. Social media is just an illusion that we are not. We seek continuous validation, ensuring friends will like and comment on a photo of sunset, or like and comment on a meme one just shared. This particular article is also a result of that. I cannot be away from social media, because it gets too depressing without it and even with it, I’m only slightly better off. I don’t know what really prompted me to write this. But it was largely a result of Rana Dasgupta’s essay on teenagers performing live suicides over social media. It’s an increasingly worrying scenario we are living in. Internet and social media has given us the option to connect with people in any corner of the world. Yet, some people are instead withdrawing themselves, only getting lonelier and ultimately rejecting life by choosing suicide. Albert Camus’ seminal essay, ‘The myth of Sisyphus’, begins with the line-  “There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy.
Illustration from a Medium Post about the essay, ‘The Myth of Sisyphus’.
I do not know why I felt like writing all this, but I thought I should. To all the lonely souls out there, #YNWA – You Never Walk Alone. We are in this together. It’s time for dinner, and I need to venture out like a rat to scout for my food.

Sanitary Napkin donation in a local school

I am working with Hon’ble Member of Parliament, Dr. Kambhampati Haribabu, in Visakhapatnam, Andhra Pradesh. As a part of my efforts to generate awareness regarding sanitation in local schools, I have launched a small fundraiser to donate one month supply of sanitary napkins to a Govt. School here in Vizag. The napkins will be manufactured by a local NGO which employs physically challenged women, giving them livelihood to support hem and their families.

Sanitation, an important and essential aspect, of our daily lives has largely been overlooked in India until recent times. With Swachh Bharat and awareness generation, various issues which were earlier not thought of or overlooked upon have come to light. In case of schools, it is the need for a proper, functional girls’ toilet and the lack of protection against menstruation.


As per a survey done by AC Nielsen in 2010, lack of adequate menstrual protection leads to girls missing out on average about 5 days a month of school. Around 23% of girls drop out altogether after they start menstruating. About 80% women in India cannot afford sanitary napkins. Menstruation, something natural and physiological for women, is largely seen as a taboo in Indian society and not talked about openly.

So, to generate awareness on the issue, not just in the school but also among the local administration, I decided to take up this initiative. I am collaborating with fellow alumni friends from VNIT, who run Donatekart. You’ll be able to donate in kind to the NGO, post which napkins will be manufactured and donated to the school girls. In association with Rotary Club of Vizag Central, we will also conduct awareness camp by psychologists and gynecologists in the school. We plan to donate 700 packets and I’m hopeful that this campaign would be a success.

This is just a small drop in ocean, but then Rome was not built in a day. Do contribute by clicking on this link and share among your circles.

Thanks a lot!


Pink skies and wide roads,
solitary love and unrequited souls
In search of meaning and purpose,
Lost in fallow crowd,
and discovering rusty cities.
Exhumed passions and this incessant boredom.
Listening to slumbered songs,
and reading moribund books.
Oh! The ruined poets,
and their mutilated poems.
Just like these wretched words,
by a cowardly hand,
Amidst this feeble life.

– Shantanu



Fandry – The lived experience of caste

Pigs are controversial species to humankind. Muslims don’t eat pork and so do most of the upper caste Hindus. Personally speaking, I haven’t made peace yet with the idea of eating pork, a dead pig nor a dead cow or a dead buffalo. It’s something deeply entrenched in my own Brahminical conscience. I remember an experience from my childhood, I was napping in the afternoon and I heard a pig squealing. I rushed to the terrace and saw two men chasing a pig and finally catching it, and tying it. I was distressed by the sight at that time. I asked my father later, as to what would they do with it. He calmly replied, “They’ll kill and eat it.” I was aghast, “Eat a pig? How? Why?” He replied, “Well people eat cows, dogs, and snakes as well.” I was astounded by that reply.


The movie, Fandry, is about a boy, Jabya, who is reluctant to chase pigs like his father does. They belong to a marginalized nomad group called Kaikadi. Fandry means a pig in Kaikadi language. The movie in its subtle ways builds up how Jabya is ashamed of his caste, reluctant to work like his parents – chase pigs, labour to build houses, dig trenches, cut wood, etc. He is smitten by Shalu, an upper caste girl in his class and dreams about her, while increasingly becoming conscious of his own identity, his looks, his skin colour, his poverty, and his caste. In a sequence, Patil family (upper caste land-owning community) asks Jabya to rescue a piglet stuck in a trench in front of their house. Jabya denies it, which surprises Patils, who then call his father (Kachru Mane) to take out the piglet.  The last half an hour of the movie is a sequence where the whole Mane family is chasing pigs in a wasteland outside Jabya’s school. Jabya is shown reluctant to catch pigs while his old father, out of compulsion to arrange money for daughter’s wedding, is relentlessly doing so. Kachru, tired and angry, that Jabya is busy hiding, beats up Jabya in front of all school kids. Jabya and Kachru, are ultimately successful, in catching the pig. While going back to their house, carrying the pig, Jabya is crying, ashamed and insulted in front of his friends. Meanwhile, upper caste boys tease Jabya and his sisters, call them ‘Fandry’. Jabya, sad and agonized, pelts stone at them, resorting to violence ultimately, to overcome his caste, to protest the discrimination.

The movie is a reflection on Nagraj Manjule’s (Director of the film) own life. Films like Fandry, are a rarity in India, a country obsessed about caste and religion, yet watches movies that are far away from reality. Artists like Manjule (who also directed Sairat) are perhaps rarer. Film artists publicly speaking against caste oppression, participating in protests is something unheard of for Indian film audience. Manjule not only does that, but has chosen a powerful medium like films to voice against that discrimination. One of my favourite sequence of the film is where Mane family is chasing pigs, and the national anthem starts. The pig is within the hold of Kachru and Jabya but both stand still for the anthem while the pig runs away. The film starkly showcases the absurdity of the whole endeavour. In a powerful imagery, Jabya and his family, is seen taking the pig amidst the backdrop of a wall with paintings of Dr. Ambedkar, Jyotiba Phule, Savitribai Phule, etc.

The film shakes you from within. This film is a story of the lived experience of caste, the experience of marginalization, the dent to self-confidence of a person. This article by Mint, gives glimpses of Manjule’s childhood struggle and loneliness growing up. I have previously written a blog article titled, Kanjar, where I have narrated an incident of how we came across children whose parents were perceived to be drunkards and cannibals. In another blog article, I have narrated how language we know and speak, also can lead to alienation. Dr. Ambedkar wrote a landmark essay titled, ‘Annihilation of Caste’, where he argues and viciously attacks the caste practices in sub-continent. The essay has been published on Columbia University’s website, click here.

Cow terror in Una, Gujarat.

I first heard of the movie four years back, in 2013, when it was released. A friend told me that ‘Fandry’ means pig. And we both laughed. A movie about chasing pigs won the national award! A movie about chasing pigs, sounds absurd, at first. Yet we are normalized to caste, people chasing people over religion. Yet we are normalized to lynchings and deaths.  Only if I had lived chasing wild pigs, cleaning toilets, disposing off cows, I wouldn’t have laughed. I would have watched that movie back then. or probably never, for it would have reminded me of the insults, the humiliation. But I have not lived that experience, and it took me four years to watch a landmark movie. I did not laugh during the movie. I was sad, aghast, and agonized just like Jabya.


Lost Stories

This is a quote from a wonderful book I recently stumbled upon.

“A happy love is a single story, a disintegrating one is two or more competing, conflicting versions, and a disintegrated one lies at your feet like a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting a different story, that it was wonderful, that it was terrible, if only this had, if only that hadn’t.

The stories don’t fit back together, and it’s the end of stories, those devices we carry like shells and shields and blinkers and occasionally maps and compasses. The people close to you become mirrors and journals in which you record your history, the instruments that help you know yourself and remember yourself, and you do the same for them. When they vanish so does the use, the appreciation, the understanding of those small anecdotes, catchphrases, jokes: they become a book slammed shut or burnt.

The stories shatter. Or you wear them out or leave them behind. Over time the story or the memory loses its power. Over time you become someone else.”

– Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost

Postcard from Vizag

Today instead of sending a poem,
Sending you a postcard.
Just to let you know,
That I am fine,
Away from home,
Away from the world I know,
I am fine.
I won’t ask, ‘How you doin?’
The reply I know is ‘fine’.
Vizag is beautiful,
Not that you’ll be jealous.
Just thought of letting you know.
Silenced, among the strange voices.
Confused and bemused.
Just to let you know.
Doing my part like the ocean does,
Rages from miles,
Promising to meet the land.
Promise is eternal,
And the meet ephemeral.
Hope it reaches you,
It won’t be in any wrap.
Open and bare,
Like your wounds and mine.
Would you read this time?
Smell it, see it.
Does it feel different?
– Shantanu


Immortality, is a typical Kundera read, about a few characters. One is not just reading a story, where things happen sequentially, here Kundera is in conversation with you.  Kundera dissects the characters, explaining what they are thinking, the philosophy, his usual digressions.

“To be mortal is the most basic human experience, and yet man has never been able to accept it, grasp it, and behave accordingly. Man doesn’t know how to be mortal. And when he dies, he doesn’t even know how to be dead.”

Kundera writes about minor immortality, where a person is immortal in the memory of those who knew the person, and the great immortality, where a person is alive even in the memory of those who did not know him personally. The novel was written in 1990, before the advent of the Internet. I am curious to know what’d Kundera think now?  Taking a selfie with some actor or a politician and uploading it on social media, is our way to feel a part of that great immortality and in turn aspiring for it as well. Most of us are in search of that immortality, and social media gives an outlet for us, a chance to continuously let people know that we exist. But when the time comes, when we know that we will die at certain point in our lives, what will happen to all the updates, photos, and selfies posted on our social media account? Do we delete the accounts and wither off? Or do we die and let our comments, likes, and dislikes, linger in the virtual world, achieving immortality somewhere. Ensuring that we do not die with the memories. The memories exist on Internet, a proof that we lived.

While reading the book, I came across a fascinating word, which probably Kundera has coined, ‘imagologue’. Kundera writes, “Public opinion polls are the critical instrument of imagology’s power, because they enable imagology to live in absolute harmony with the people. The imagologue bombards people with questions: how is the French economy prospering? is there racism in France? is racism good or bad? who is the greatest writer of all time? is Hungary in Europe or Polynesia? which world politician is the sexiest? And since for contemporary man reality is a continent visited less and less often and, besides, justifiably disliked, the findings of polls have become the truth. Public opinion polls are a parliament in permanent session, whose function it is to create truth, the most democratic truth that has ever existed.” Opinion polls about Trump losing, or Hilary winning, all create truth, because that is what the public believes.

Kundera further writes, “The politician is dependent on the journalist. On whom are the journalists dependent? On imagologues. The imagologue is a person of conviction and principle: he demands of the journalist that his newspaper (or TV channel, radio station) reflect the imagological system of a given moment. And this is what imagologues check from time to time when they are trying to decide which newspaper to support.” What Kundera has written is eerily similar to the times we live in. Where a famous journalist from India caters to the imagologue, and declares that, ‘if one has to be a journalist, one needs to be a nationalist first.’ Everyone wants their slice of the great immortality perhaps, journalists are no exception.