Pressing for Freedom

On June 8^th, two plain-clothed police officers entered the house of Delhi-based freelance journalist Prashant Kanojia and whisked him away. No questions were asked, no explanations given...His offence? Sharing a video on social media on which a woman claimed to be in a relationship with U.P.’s chief minister Yogi Adityanath, and expressing her candid desire to marry him.

The same day as Kanojia was picked up from the capital city, the U.P. Police detained two more journalists, Ishita Singh and Anuj Shukla. Even though India’s journalistic fraternity protested against the arrests, and Anant Bagaitkar, the President of the Press Club of India  also strongly condemned them, these three cases are reflective of a disturbing trend in India. `It is an authoritarian misuse of law’.

It should come as no surprise, that India’s global standing vis-a-vis freedom of the press has slipped by two more points in the span of one year, bringing it down to rank 140 amongst 180 countries according to an annual survey carried out by RSF, Reporters Sans Frontieres (RSF), or Reporters Without Borders. Within a span of one year, with at least 6 journalists killed and several beaten up,  many removed from their jobs at the behest of the bureaucrats, and many others detained for posting things not favorable towards the ruling party and its entourage, it is no brainer that our status dropped below that of Morocco, UAE, Qatar, Bhutan, Gambia and 135 other such countries. In reference to India, what caught the attention of the RSF staff was the alarming rate of hate-campaigns and threats waged on social media against journalists who dare to bring to light the failures of the government, or expose the Hindutva slant of its staunch supporters.

Over the years a steady decline in some of the most prestigious media-houses has been observed as editorial content is compromised to accommodate the political preferences of the sponsors. At the end of the day, it is the integrity of the written word that is made the sacrificial lamb, as more and more of our communication channels are reduced to becoming the mouthpiece of the government, where voices of dissent are quickly quashed. Be it the untimely egress of popular editor-in-chief Bobby Ghosh of Hindustan Times, or ABP’s premature termination of the Masterstroke anchor Prasun Bajpai’s contract, or the dismissal of Aakash Banerjee as a Times of India blogger, they were all elicited directly by orders either from the I&B ministry or the PMO. For something uncomplimentary to PM’s golden-boy image was shared with the public by the respective media.

Bobby Ghosh, who in a matter was 14 months galvanised Hindustan Times, and took it to a new height by his visioneering skills, was asked to resign following a behind-the-door meeting Mr Modi himself held with Shobha Bharthia, the chairperson of HT. As for Bajpai, exposing the official diktat which preceded his departure, he writes, “From being told not to take Narendra Modi’s name or show his picture on any of the my shows, critical of the government, to a sinister blacking out of Masterstroke, was nothing short of censorship...” And Aakash Banerjee, the blogger with the Times of India, after his controversial remarks on Modi, was asked to discontinue. A senior official from the organisation, not wanting to be named, confided, “The company had eight crores of advertising money at stake...so, naturally, they wrote several letters of apology to the ministry, and dropped the blogger.”

The noted French journalist and author, Albert Camus once said, “A free press can be good or bad, but, most certainly, without freedom, the press will never be anything but bad.”

Holy Cow!

A while back, when Subramaniam, our gardener-turned-dairyman with a cow and a-year-old calf, did not deliver the milk, we took him to task the next day. He smiled his toothless smile and said that the cow had kicked the bucket.

"Oh I am sorry. Was it an accident?" My concern for his sudden loss was genuine. 

"Of course it was an accident, you silly girl! What do you think, my gentle cow-sy will  spill  the milk on purpose?"

While Subramaniam sounded quite offended, I was relieved to hear that the cow, fondly called Sundari, was alive and kicking, and had not kicked the bucket yet.

A few days later, Sundari was invited as the chief guest by the village headman to the inauguration of his new mansion. She was expected to be the first one to saunter into the building and bless it with her divine presence. Instead of feeling honoured, she was horrified by the prospects of stepping into a confined space.  Used to roaming around in green pastures and soft wet ground,  concrete floors and plastered walls seemed to terrify her. The headman determined to get her blessings, pushed, nudged, poked and bumped her, trying to thrust her forward, past the vestibule into the main living room, where oblations were being offered.

So traumatic was this experience for Sundari, that from that day onwards, she stopped giving milk and had to be sold off.

So, there we were again, reluctantly buying homogenised milk, packed in polythene bags. It did not even have the thick,  dark yellow layer of delectable cream which adorned the surface of Sundari's milk. Moreover, buying packets of milk translated into contributing our fair share of plastic to the landfills. So, we started getting powdered milk in a cardboard box. Even though it could not equal the fresh one from the cow, our eco- conscience was  guilt-free.

One day, I saw a woman, on her way back from work, trying to load her Vespa with a pile of fresh grass. "What are you going to do with this?" I asked, while helping her secure the bundle to the extra career she had attached to the back seat. 

"Oh, it's for the cow we just bought last week," she answered matter-of-factly. Her answer must have inadvertently brought a quizzical look on my face. For, who in the cities, buys a cow? We  hear of people buying TVs, washing machines, cars...but a cow? Sensing my puzzlement, she continued, "Our two children don't like the store-bought stuff, so my husband and I decided to buy a cow. They love both, the cow and the milk she gives!" Perplexed, but happy to learn of the great lengths some parents go to,  in order to ensure that their children receive the nutrition they need, I muttered, "hats off to a great mom" as she sped off.

Subramaniam soon bought another cow. This one, he named Lakshmi. She was all brown, with great compassionate eyes and a white trident shining on her forehead. And the whole neighborhood rejoiced. Subramaniam's wife Shanti cooked pal khoa with the first fruitage, and distributed it around,  a very spontaneous gesture which reinforced our customer loyalty towards her. And just like before, we were back on the track, with fresh milk from Lakshmi being delivered to our doorstep. We felt pampered and grateful. The quality of milk was excellent and yielded enough cream to make our own butter. Time flew past, and fresh milk from Lakshmi became part of the mechanical clockwork a day tends to fall prey to. And just as we began to take this great privilege for granted, Subramaniam announced he was selling Lakshmi. Shanti, his wife was not well, and could no longer milk the cow. "How about you, or any of your three sons? Isn't anyone up to the job?" My mother asked, implying that the boys just needed to work harder.

"I wish..." sighed the gardener-turned-dairyman, adding, "she is partial to Shanti, when it comes to milking, and wouldn't let anyone of us near her during the process". 

Now, that was an eye-opener. And it was with some irony did I realise that while most all politicians can milk the cow,  it needs a different set of hands for the simple yet graceful act of milking a cow. Holy cow, indeed!

The Insomniacs Amongst Us...

The western world is always fighting: fighting against depression, both economic and mental, fighting against injustice, racism, gender inequality, obesity, and now insomnia. A 2001 movie, `Prozac Nation’ poignantly captured the dilemma of teenagers, desperate to bring some kind of balance to their otherwise chaotic lives through potent drugs (25% of zero to seventeen-year-old of American Youth is either on anti-anxiety, or anti-psychiatric, or anti-depressant or ADHD drugs). In the same vein, an earlier movie, `You’ve got Mail’ brought to attention the world of insomniacs. And to think, that was only the beginning of cyberspace communication! Now, with people hustling to grab attention on social media, the world of cyber communication has taken up new dimensions. And, so has insomnia. Yes, believe it or not, the insomniacs’ guild has grown disproportionately in the last decade or so, owing not only to a demanding lifestyle, single parenting, workplace blues, but also to an individual’s need to keep up with social networking.

According to the Woolcock Institute of Medical Research, 34% of Australians experience episodes of insomnia at some point in their lives. On the other hand, Herbal Daily, an online magazine, states that approximately 25% of the adult population suffers from sleep disorder. Yet, another study conducted by the U.S. Institute of Sleep claims that people nowadays sleep 20% less than they did a hundred years ago. More than 30% of Americans are diagnosed with insomnia, and more than half of them lose sleep due to stress and anxiety. What’s more, approximately ten million people in the U.S. use prescription sleeping pills.

While the pharmaceutical companies are reaping in profits, insomnia is donning on the form of an epidemic. It is no wonder that one of the issues of the Time magazine came up with a list of hi-tech gadgets to help the `Sleepless in Seattle’ kind hit the hay. There is, for example, something called `Muse headband’, for $250, which trains the brain to cope with stress, and learn to relax. Smart earbuds are yet another device, available for $300 to drown out the sounds of one’s immediate environment, and envelope the insomniac in something called the `white noise’. Apple’s I-Phone too has a Night Shift feature to reduce the blue light, and have the display colours look warmer by contrast. Add a musical alarm to this feature, and you could be a step closer to developing a healthier sleeping pattern.

Some more traditional methods to induce sleep include a glass of warm milk, a homeopathic chamomile-based supplement called `Calms Forte’, or half a tea-spoon of magnesium in lukewarm water. If you are not averse to fowl smells, a supplement made with Valerian root has been used since medieval times to help the cause. A glass of beer/whisky, a common prescription to beat sleeplessness in the sixties has now taken a back seat due to its addictive properties.

I can’t help but smile as my mind races back to the construction site of our house some two years ago. I think of the laborers, snatching a power-nap, having their acupressure points pressed by a pile of pebbles, which served as their makeshift bed, and helped them switch to a `relax mode’. I wonder if hard physical labour and a pile of pebbles are ever going to make it to Time’s list.

Welcome to the Rat-Race ....

“Rinku, hands out of the pocket…”

“Rinku! Hands out!”

“Rinku!”

During our brief visit to the Sharmas, I couldn’t help but notice as to how many times the parents had chided their 14-year-old son, ordering him to take his hands off the pockets. With the early years of puberty, clinging awkwardly on to him, he would obey…only to forget the very next minute, and push them deeper into the lanky pockets of his long khakis. For my husband and I, the situation was not only becoming embarrassing, but also taking up proportions of a Sherlock Holmes mystery. As the parents’ voices grew sterner and sterner, the boy seemed to withdraw further into himself. There was a growing sense of displeasure in the very air we breathed, sitting on the leather sofa of their fine living room in the suburban sprawl of upstate New York.

I thought it was to do with puberty, and the fact that almost sub-consciously some boys tend to play with their genitals. In their partial innocence, they seem unaware of the simple fact that even if their hands remain hidden inside the pockets, the fabric of the shorts registers the movements. So, not wanting to aggravate the state of affairs, or create any kind of embarrassment, I remained quiet. Anyway, I had known the Sharmas to have very strict parenting norms. But my husband, too curious for his own good, could not resist himself, “ By the way, what is wrong with shoving one’s hands in the pocket? A lot of kids do that…even grown ups.”

“But, it is bad body language,” Mrs Sharma spoke matter-of-factly, adding, “It shows lack of confidence. Just like arms crossed over one’s chest also has negative connotations, signalling defensiveness and resistance. It can also imply that one is trying to hide something.”

A famous half-length portrait of Abraham Lincoln, with his arms folded flashed across my mind, and I wondered what was this great leader trying to hide. Perhaps, his own greatness.

“Oh, you should meet my colleague Eric. He is always slouching at the meetings. I don’t think he will ever get a promotion. Imagine, he has been in the same grade for the last eight years,” It was Mr Sharma’s turn to speak now.

Blasphemous.

I could elaborate on the above conversation, and fill up pages, but the point they were trying to make was that if we don’t train our kids now for Ivy Leagues and Presidencies, they might miss the boat. They even dwelt on the importance of having good even teeth, and a nice smile. Rinku, Mrs Sharma proudly announced, had just joined a fleet of 3.6 million American kids who wore braces. In a way, I admired the Sharmas and their tenacity to drill the young mind into entrenched thinking, to sacrifice the spontaneity of growing up at the altar of a remotely-viewed `glorious’ future.

I guess most of us Indians are generally born with a double edge: we are both driven, and pushed. As kids, we are pushed by our family in order to become something and someone when we grow old enough to join the rat-race. Once in the rat-race, we are driven to perform, to get ahead of others, to have better remunerations, to have a bigger house, and a more updated car than the next-door neighbour. It is in-built in our DNA. It is not by accident that a great percentage of Indian diaspora is amongst the most affluent section of any society/country. They are not only smart, but also hardworking, and they save so that their children can go to good universities. Needless to add, they thrust a great amount of expectations on their kids to justify the sacrifices they have made, to be where they are. A lot of these kids will definitely land up in Ivy League Colleges, and maybe go on to become CEOs of several Fortune 500 Companies. We, in India, would revel in their success, and pat our backs, proud of the fact that our country cousins made it big in the outside world. But, somewhere along the way, maybe they would have been snatched the right to walk with their hands tucked deep inside the pockets, or to have a little swing in their gait and whistle melodies of popular songs...just maybe…

The Post-election Trauma

On 23^rd of May,  in the wake of the election results, when my world lay shattered, then alone did I realize how brittle it was, and how precariously it was placed twixt unfounded idealism and gross reality. No, not for a moment, all along this election frenzy, did I ever doubt Modi’s victory. I had foreseen the direction towards which the whole campaign machinery was set in motion. Targeted at the masses, there was a sinister deliberateness to it, as it groaned, and clanked, and whirred....and when one had least expected it, took off like the controversial, yet-to-manifest Rafale itself, riding on Pulwama, Balakot and Wing Commander Abhinandan. The country echoed with the shouts of Vande Mataram, and Bharat Mata ki Jai. There was no looking back. Having stirred the patriotic hearts of the unemployed, the down-trodden, the day-labourers with anti-Pakistan sentiments, Modi had succeeded in flexing his muscle power, and thrusting himself as the pragmatic leader India needs.

It wasn’t the sober, reasonable Modi we had seen in 2014, who had consistently fought on a platform of `sustainable development’, but a maniac, whose incoherent spastic speeches were randomly punctuated with nationalistic slogans, which the crowd reiterated with bigoted fervour. So, while I was more than prepared for the results of the 2019 elections leaning in his favour, it was the unrealistic landslide by which the PM swept the nation that came as a shock wave. The results did not just translate into `pro’ and `anti’, but were a frightening reflection of the national consciousness.

The forgiving children of Bharat Mata did not judge the sitting incumbent  based on the unsuccessful implementation of demonetisation, nor on the shaky outcome of the GST bill, nor on the helpless cries of the distressed farmers...nor on his silence which followed the many lynchings of innocent people. Against a weak and crumbling opposition, they applauded his 56” wide chest, and exclaimed, ‘Lo, and behold, Our Saviour has arrived! Our Deliverer from Foes!”

It is definitely not skin-deep...

Confidence is an inner attribute. It doesn't come from having a fair skin colour, as claimed by Fair and Lovely and other such product ads, or from having a lush, voluminous turf, as conveyed by Parachute and several hair oil publicity campaigns, or even from being impressively tall, as the Growth On advertisement on TV likes to insist. It comes from being yourself, and in believing in yourself. 

"Be yourself and be proud of it at every age", thus goes the famous idiom.

It is when we choose 'becoming' over 'being', we are building our confidence on shifting grounds.

Yuri  Gagarin, a 5"2' tall Russian astronaut, hitched his wagon to the stars and became the first man to  travel in  space. In the literary world, few can reach the heights that  Voltaire did, even though he too was only 5"2'. A French writer and philosopher, whose thoughts on civil liberties fuelled the French  revolution, Voltaire is considered one of the most influential figures of all times. 

In contemporary India, the actor/singer/composer/director Raghubir Yadav, who ran away from home at the age of fifteen to follow his dreams, went on to become one of the most multifaceted personality in the theatre and cinema industry.  At 5"3',  he attained heights that only a few can aspire for. To cite a parallel example of an individual on the other side of the hemisphere, also known for her versatility, is the actor/producer/comedian Melissa McCarthy. At 5"2', she stands tall amongst her peers, with her list of nominations and awards ever accruing. As of late, acutely dissatisfied with the choice available for Plus size women, she has even launched her own successful fashion-line to cater to this segment of women, including herself.

 It is said that the famous author Hans Christian Andersen's "Ugly Duckling" was meant as a statement on his own ungainly looks and humble origins. 

Yet, his inner genius eclipsed his outer appearance, while expressing itself through some of the most luminous fairytales of all time, such as, "The Princess and the Pea",  "The Little Mermaid", "The Emperor's New Clothes",  "The Snow Queen", "The Steadfast Tin Soldier",  "Thumbelina", and "The Little Match Girl".  His stories, both earthly and symbolic in their content, have left an indelible mark on the Western culture with themes that transcend age and nationality. Of course,  the example closest to home is Mahatma Gandhi, for whom Churchill seemed to have said "it is alarming and nauseating to see Mr Gandhi". Yet, this very man, thus described, was one of the most charismatic  leaders the twentieth century produced. 

As being dark-skinned, it is a matter of pigmentation, and should not determine the level of one's confidence level. In 2014, the People magazine nominated Lupita Nyong'o , a black Kenyan-Mexican Oscar-winning actor as the most beautiful person of the world. Unfortunately, the award came as a much-needed declaration to this race-and-colour impregnated world, that black is beautiful. 

Yet, it is alarming to note that in a country like ours, where a great majority of the population worships  Krishna and Kali, two  dark-hued gods, should be aversed to having a tawny well-sunned skin. Thankfully, with accomplished actors, such  as Nana Patekar,  Nandita Das, Nawazuddin, and Adil Hussain, blazening up the silver screen, the intensely earthy look is becoming all the rage.

Remember, all these people and a thousand others who made a difference to the world, did not rely on the beauty industry to help them succeed, but on their inner strength. Theirs was a self-confidence, which stemmed not from being fair and lovely, or tall and slim, but from a deep conviction in one's individual self and its unique raison-d'être in this vast creation.

So, while the beauty product industry is trying to establish the new 'us', to become just another face in the crowd,  it is imperative that we cling to our 'real' self, and explore the unending vistas of our own inner beauty, and true potential.

Swachh Intentions go a long way...

 l would like to say that today is symbolic of people's triumph over adversity. But, no. However dramatic that sounds, I think today represents a day when the power of a community  and that of the authorities collaborated to bring about positive  change.

 It has been more than a month since I published my blog, "Garbage, garbage everywhere", and had it not been for a genuine desire of the people to find a workable solution to the problem, all those words would have amounted to nothing. I, who is known to be overly critical of most forms of digital-technology, was awed by the way one individual's capable networking brought everyone concerned under one umbrella, not to mount an attack on the  authorities, but to genuinely find a solution.

If a growing garbage problem can bring communities together, like it did ours, imagine the possibilities! People who were estranged from each other for the last five years are now united in their cause. Not only are they on the first name basis, they even stop by each other's houses for a cuppa and an update on the garage problem. Suddenly, we are not just a community, but a family, with one common objective: to ensure not only that our neighborhood stays clean, but also that the water catchment area along the newly-paved road doesn't become a convenient dumpyard, with all the unsegregated garbage nicely hidden under a handful of soil and dried coconut leaves. 

All along this exercise, it was wonderful to see involvement of the residents, ready to allocate top priority to this issue and arrive  on time for the meetings.The co-operation and the immediate follow-up from the Tahaseeldar's office was also very encouraging. We were excited, not only because our collective voice was being heard, but also because it was being acted upon in a manner which would be conducive to the environment. And, when the authorities agreed to do their job by sending in a crew to re-bag and haul away the garage dumped by the roadside, the beaming residents did their share by catering to the best of their capacity to the needs of  a workforce of 22 women, who began work at 6 a.m., May 9th. While some people brought biscuits and a thermos filled with tea, someone else cruised in with apples, oranges and moong dal mix, while yet some other individual cooked up a pot-ful of delicious upma to feed the team. Recycled bottles filled with potable water were brought in from homes to quench the thirst of these hardy women working in the sun. A couple of young  residents even joined in the back-breaking effort to bag all that tons and tons of garbage...It was a true expression of team-work, and as my mom always like to say, "if someone advances one step towards us in a gesture of goodwill, we will advance two"... Today, as a neighborhood, we proved just that. 

Lesson learnt: just last week, while talking to Céline, a visiting sociologist from France, promoting digital support groups and forming e-communities, I was desperately trying to wrap my head around the benefits and importance of digital networking...but, now I am beginning to understand and appreciate its place in the society.

The celebrity moment: In our country, nothing is complete without its celebrity moment. And so, to highlight the import of such an endeavour, in cruises Amla Paul, the actress from Kerala, who happens to be a rare sighting in our neighborhood, even though she has been a part of it for a few months. Out she steps off her chauffeur-driven car, clad in a sexy, red summer dress. Click, click goes the selfie with the crew, all desperately trying to fit in the tiny frame. Each seeking their own triumphant moment...