A World to Win

In lands where sunshine proudly gleams
She wanders with a striking ease
Her skin, a pecan pie of dreams	
Like a work of art, a masterpiece

Her roots blossom near and far
Her spirit dances bright as day
Rampant like the rainstorms are
In a restorative kind of way

She wears her heritage with pride
An orchestra of hues and weaves
Her skin gleams with every stride
In colours of the Autumn leaves

A guardian, a regal queen
A beauty that you’ve never seen
Embrace her curls and melanin
For a brown girl's soul is a world to win

Aansplaining – a stand up comedy on gender and privilege.

I walked into Karthik Kumar’s ‘Aansplaining’ with a naive hesitance. My problem wasn’t with Karthik of course but the very idea that a single man was going to be addressing hundreds of women about male privilege – something that’s already been heavily drilled into every aspect of our living and needs no explanation. Mansplaining at its finest.

Ten minutes into the show a lot changed in me. I realised KK was just another 8 year old boy who grew up being given privilege without explanation, trauma without comfort, and power without responsibility. It was a show about finally claiming what it feels like to be male, in just the most raw, unfashionable and touching way. 

The difference between male comedians talking about male privilege and female comedians talking about male privilege was seen so strikingly in my experience of this show. The scornful raise of eyebrows, the disapproving tongue clicks and the slow claps when important social issues are hung on the fragile thread of humour can break a stand up. And in the most natural human way, we take sides when it comes to gender.

That’s to say that it takes an enormous amount of courage and self control to produce gender-specific comedy that isn’t offensive and I think KK has done a fantastic job with that. Watching women lash out on men is a vibe but watching men lashing out on men was new and refreshing. KK however went a step ahead in offending other groups and sentiments, safely following the industry trend of weak religious humour.

What I loved the most about Aansplaining is that it tells a story. In a world where performers think the ultimate form of comedy is sabotage, KK’s skill of using what we already know about ourselves as a platter to lay down important social questions was inspiring. The laughter he arose was from the heart, one of togetherness and a happy cry for change.

KK’s humour was spontaneous, self driven and relevant. There were moments of the show that I wanted every little child growing up to hear because they felt like chocolate in a bun but his infamous swearing and adult content would come in the way of that. I personally enjoy the dirty humour but I know it’s not for everyone.

I’m in awe at this man because of the respect for the female community that he puts into his art. These acts of acknowledgement are what the world needs and KK has managed to make all of us look inwards for where and when gender privilege stems from and how easily it camouflages in everyday life.

By the time the show was over, I was grateful to have given Aansplaining a chance. Because in turn, I was giving myself a chance to connect with deeply ingrained belief systems, and mindfully disconnect. KK has the charm of a teenage boy and his ability to channel that charm towards turning grave conversations into comedy is what makes him stand out in the stand-up world.

It’s a Secret

You don’t expect magic from a cosmopolitan, but it comes to you in little surprises.

Ask a city Indian about home and he’ll tell you the name of his native village. It’s true. For most, home is in that place. Where the fields are. Where you wake up to the chirping birds and breathe freshness in the air. And it’s most certainly not a polluted metropolis with more IT offices than cattle.

But with me, it’s always been Chennai. This is home, the place I was born, the place I embraced after many muddled years in a foreign country.

I grew up despising that my family didn’t travel and that we couldn’t afford beautiful vacations outside the city. But in the last two years, something changed in me. I got to visit the inner parts of Chennai more often and see what my city really felt like in places that bustled with people and culture. They call it the ‘real’ Madras and if you’re a Madrasi yourself, you’d know exactly what I’m talking about.

I’m glad that it finally hit me – it’s not the same old spaces and the same old routines I’ve been trapped into. I used to be desperate for newness and the excitement of travel. Now I’m more desperate than I ever was, but this time, for the Madras that I still haven’t laid my feet on.

For it’s Madras that’s made me realize there’s so much – at home – I can’t get enough of. A huge part of who I am, was and is being influenced by my city. I cannot imagine living anywhere else, and I’d like for that to stay the way it is.

I cannot imagine a life without my filter coffee and chai and Pondy Bazaar and Mylapore. I cannot imagine not walking past a kadaiveethi with its sarees elaborately decorating the makeshift entrances.

And then there are things I haven’t been doing as often as I would like. The beach, for instance. I want to visit the Marina every single weekend, but I don’t even remember the last time I did. I want to do so much more kacheri-hopping this December. I don’t know why that wasn’t my thing. I want to randomly walk down the streets of Besant Nagar, spot a rack of books on sale and pick something up. I want to visit Dakshin Chitra whenever I please, and feel like a true connoisseur.

Madras may not hold the allure of a little Indian village. Or the glamour of New York City.

It thrives on in-betweens and the utterly confused culture of a mixed population. But the imperfection only adds to its charm.

And most of all, I’d like to soak in all that the city has to give. I’d like to dress like a Madrasi. Eat like a Madrasi. Live like a Madrasi.

It’s a humid Thursday evening and I’m at a coffee stand finishing a phone call, when a girl wearing an office ID card turns around to face me.

“So,” she says, “why do you still call it that?”.

“Call it what?” I respond, confused.

“Madras. Why do you still call it Madras?”

I think to myself for a heroic explanation but there weren’t any.

“It’s a secret.” I end up saying. I couldn’t understand why she cared about what I called my city.

“You know,” she smiles only slightly, “I still call it that too.” Her eyes gleam as she tells me so, and I find myself giggling.

Just another one of those little connections people make over a cup of coffee.

But here’s the deal- there’s something about the word ‘Madras’ that truly is a secret. To us all. And I don’t think we’d ever be able to explain it, this secret.

This little Madrasi secret.

Give me all the colour

My taste in clothes don’t match the 2018 aesthetic. You’ll see me walking down the streets in a chilly red palazzo and kalamkari blouse, a bindi, my black nerdy glasses. You’ll think to yourself – oh, there goes a misfit. You’re right. Perhaps I am a misfit.

My wardrobe must be severely malfunctioned. I don’t own the staples – black jeans, pastel tank top. You’d wonder where I get all my gaudy dupattas. And I’d wonder if I could ever fill my closet with elevated basics so I could finally look “put together”.

You should come visit my home one day. We’re not an organized household. Our cupboards cannot possibly hold the number of things we own. We’ve quite always been the opposite of minimalists. We clearly have too many things, not that our middle-class selves could afford so much, but that we rarely give away things we’ve been given.

And the colours – they could blind you if you’re into the pastel aesthetic. Our bed sheets are Rajastani printed, and our curtains don’t match the furniture in the rooms. The walls are covered in sloppy Kerala murals of peacocks and Krishnas attempted by yours truly. And you guys, our pillow covers look like vegetable salad.

But our home glows. We’re a loud, vibrant and emotive bunch. There’s happiness and sorrow and panic and peace all within those walls. Remember the family you were so amused by in My Big Fat Greek Wedding? We are that family.

Having grown up this way, I find myself attached to the abundance of things. I’ve been given gifts I can no longer use- but I’d keep them all.

Besides, I could never get rid of colours and mismatches and everything in between.

Give me all the colour there is in the world. I want to see so much more of it.

Not just in me, but in you, and in you. In everything that is beautiful. In the temples. In play schools. In the flowers sold on the street. In saree shops that we could never get enough of. In bindis and sindoor and baskets and jewellery.

In homes- yours and mine and hers and his.

Give me all the colour there is.

We who ask the ‘uncool’ questions

Like any other child of the 2000s, I too have always felt the natural impulse to ask questions. No, I don’t mean the “Why should I believe in God when I don’t see Him?” kind. I’m talking about questions that are conveniently dismissed on the grounds of being too frivolous or orthodox to fit into context today.

For instance, I who would actually wonder if some saints could walk on water like they claim to, if River Saraswati would really break through the ground one day, and if parallel universes were really a thing.

But what if the beliefs we so dearly hold because they’re backed by scientific evidence, are actually a miscalculation? And what if ideas grounded in religion and tradition are not just blind faith, but remarkably accurate?

In this world of endless possibility, there is uncertainty both in being wrong and being right. As humans, our very essence lies in asking questions and seeking answers.

We’ve heard “anything is possible” too many times now, and yet we scorn those who hold onto seemingly mythical ideas that defy scientific explanation. Why do we reject questions simply because they’ve been answered before?

Does the very idea of scientific proof comfort us so much that we stopped imagining? Or are we intimidated by the fact that there’s so much out there we do not know- not now, not ever?

Remember that we all once believed that the Earth was flat, before someone proved it was a sphere. And then we all believed that the Earth was a sphere, before someone proved that it’s actually an oblate spheroid. How many times did they remake the periodic table to finally agree on the one we use today? A century ago, people would have never believed that one day we wouldn’t have to walk miles and miles to talk to someone. Science will always have something new to tell us.

But the problem is not about what’s right and wrong. It’s about people who silence the youth of today from asking these very vital questions. It’s about those who hide behind science and lead the world with a single vision, inducing the social boycott of anyone looking the other way.

We are the children of today, and we’re here to change this broken narrative. We refuse to be brainwashed by those who do not dare to question.

We won’t just question the things that have no scientific evidence, but also the things that do.

Because that’s the beauty of science. It will keep changing, it will keep evolving, it will keep telling us newer things every day. Science grows with us. Science is everything that is human- it is a dynamic, fast-paced and complex institution. But it’s definitely not the absolute answer to every question.

Nothing is the absolute answer to every question- not science, not religion, not history. And when we understand that, there’s so much more that we can do. As the youth of today, we most certainly do not have all the answers. But you’re doing the world more good than harm by allowing us to ask the question.

There is still sunshine

How many times have you been told to trust no one and that the world is full of evil? For me, that’s precisely the number of times I’ve tied my shoelaces and walked out the door. The constant reminders come in various forms and tones, from people who’ve been warned many times themselves. Oh and what a coincidence, all these people are women.

At one point, I really believed that every stranger I saw on the street could kidnap me. I still carry that belief wherever I go, because old habits die hard. Who am I kidding. It can’t possibly die when the newspapers remind us of it every single day.

But I refuse to keep expecting the worst from strangers because if someone does kidnap me, it would be a stranger that comes to my rescue like a blessing in disguise.

It’s so simple. I’ve just seen too much good in people to believe it any longer. I’ve met too many strangers that comfort you like a loved one could never. And as easy as it is to say that we live in the worst of times, what good did it do me replaying those warnings constantly in my head?

Yet, I might be totally mistaken. The world might be just everything that I’ve been told – a hidden hell yet to reveal itself. But for now, I’m grateful I haven’t experienced the dark side.

And when I do, I’ll remember all the advice that people have given me. I’ll be ready to embrace change and accept the harsh reality of the world we live in.

But till then, I’d like to believe in goodness.

I would like to believe that every child born today would grow up with so much to look forward to, so much love and joy that the world has to offer.

I would like to believe that I was born in a time and place that has so much to give me and that I have so much to give back to.

So let the world move on in fear and suspicion. For me, I’ll take the road less traveled – one filled with kindness and humanity.

I will continue to hope for goodness, that there is still sunshine left to see.

Jyestha

Sonakshi closed the door behind him, climbed over the bed and crossed her legs.

She was tired of trying to get Saathvik to talk to her. He would come home, well, room actually, and spread out a dozen different maps all over his bed. Then he would study them, although Sonakshi felt like he was eyeing her the whole time, watching her shift uncomfortably on her bed and clearing her throat a million different ways to get his attention. But that might just have been her imagination.

Surely, he cared enough to leave her notes on the coffee table, about where he was going in the mornings when she was still asleep. Even that day, he’d let her know that he would be at a colleague’s house, but that was quite all. Their talking these days was only through notes, although Sonakshi felt ridiculous leaving notes to someone who probably didn’t even read them. But she still put so much thought and sincerity into every note she ever wrote to him.

Saathvik was still reading maps, and she was still shifting uncomfortably and clearing her throat.

“What?” he barked.

Okay, she thought, we’re making progress.

“That was a question. What do you want?”

To her, that didn’t sound like a question. He probably would go back to his work even she actually spoke, and that would be nothing short of embarrassing.

“I’m tired. I’m going to bed. You have a minute.”

That was enough to get her started.

“I-”

“You’re pregnant?”

“What? No! Why would you-”

“Then it isn’t relevant to me.”

“And you just assumed me being pregnant would be relevant to you.”

The words just plunged out of her mouth before she could stop them. She almost thought she saw shock in Saathvik’s eyes, but she blinked and it was gone.

“We’re done then. Remember to lock the front door.”

She wanted to yell that that’s what she’d been doing every single night that he went to bed early, leaving her watching him through the darkness and hoping that someday things would go back to how it had been.

But she didn’t. Because he didn’t care.

“Saathvik, listen to me just this once. I can’t keep paying your bills. I need to send money home. To India.”

This she knew, was as important to him as it was to her. He nodded rapidly and turned away.

“There’s something else too…”

Saathvik refused to budge but she spoke anyway.

“I’m leaving.”

Saathvik sprang from the bed so fiercely, she jerked backwards in surprise. He pushed his head forward questioningly and for a moment, Sonakshi thought he looked like a really small dinosaur.

“I’m moving out. I’m going to New York.”

“Excuse me?”

“I just wanted to tell you that. You can go to sleep now.”

They didn’t speak for the rest of the night. But this time, it was Saathvik who laid awake in the darkness watching his Sona’s face glow with relief.

The next day, like any other day, Sonakshi slid out of her bed and zombie-walked to the coffee table. This time, he hadn’t left her any information of his whereabouts.

“You actually read my notes?”

She gasped and turned to face him.

“What are you doing here?” she mumbled.

“Don’t go.”

“I have to. Don’t stop me. Work would be so much better there.”

“You’re just running away.”

“From what? From hurt? From heartache?”

“The guy you’ve been trying to kill for three years now but couldn’t?”

Sonakshi raised a shivering eyebrow.

“You’re running away from that guy.”

Sembaruthi

I love how you are gentle and caring and compassionate. I love how you give so much when I have nothing to give back. I love how you look me in the eye and say- I’m here. Worry not. We’ll figure things out. I love the way you do the dishes everyday humming to old melodies, the way you knit sweaters so patiently for some baby next door, the way you always have a lopsided smile hanging from the corner of your lips, as though there’s a secret behind your strange tranquility. I love your voice when you call my name, like cinnamon sprinkled in the bitterest of coffee. I love how you ask how my day went. And I know when I ask you about yours, you will lie to me that it was wonderful. That Mother and Father came over to see you. That they treated you nicely and told you that you were a good daughter-in-law.

I wish things didn’t have to be this way. I wish I could protect you like you protect me. I wish I could love you like you love me. But if nothing else, I’ve given you one thing. Resilience. Not that I’m proud of it. I am ashamed. But I’m proud of you. I’m proud of you for that fire in your eyes. I’m proud of you for that strength in your heart. I’m proud of everything in you, as much as I’m ashamed of everything in me. In your palms lie the energy that keeps us together till this day. The energy I was never able to provide like I should have.

And when my head falls in shame, I know yours is held up high, always ready for the monsters of our lives, for both of us together.

Power looks so good on you.

RED

Slowly, slowly, she tiptoed into the backyard. It looked like it was going to rain. How she used to love the rain. How she used to play in the puddles, and come back home drenched and hungry, but glowing with joy.

A gush of air hit her tired face. The baby’s cry blasted in her ears. She was confused. The baby was never this loud. And yet, she stood still. Her feet rooted to the grass. The wind blew on.

Her red dupatta stuck onto her clothes, the ends of it fluttering backwards, almost as if they wanted to rip off her and go somewhere far far away.

She closed her eyes, and took the deepest breathe she’d taken in a long time. It came out rather broken and difficult. But it felt so good to breathe like that.

And then, she grabbed the dupatta off her shoulders and hurled it in the wind.

She watched it fly onwards, dancing the same way she always did when she tried in front of the bathroom mirror, back at home. Slow, awkward and rather funny. She sighed. And then she laughed.

And then she cried.

She cried because she saw so many dupattas flying beside hers, and even more being hurled into the sky from all around her. Red. So much of it. And then, peace.