Finding The Light

    All through our life, we’ve been told that if you give your 100% to something, you’ll be rewarded in return. If you work hard, you’ll see success. If the night is dark, it means the dawn is arriving soon.

    So when I decided to join Teach for India, I prepared myself for the challenge that lay ahead. “There will be times when you will want to pull your hair out”, said an Alumnus. Yeah, big deal, don’t we all want to at some point of time? “You’ll go months without seeing success in your classroom”, said another one. Not me, I’m going to give it my all and I will see success. “There’ll be days when you’ll come home and cry”, said a third. Cry because some kids are not learning? I don’t think so.

            

           Armed with, what we, at Teach for India, call ‘uninformed optimism’ (1), I geared up to make a change in the lives of the 35 children that I would be in charge of. I had hopes and dreams for them – they’d be disciplined, they’d be the change-makers of tomorrow, they’d be grateful for the new learning that I was imparting them with, they’d respect and love me. And I, in turn, would give everything I had to make sure that they could be the leaders that our country needs and deserves.

            

            Geared up with the will to conquer the world, I entered my class on Day 1 to see 70 kids (yes 70!) sitting almost silently and listening to the municipal teacher teaching Math. Oh wow, my kids are great, I’m going to put them on a transformational life path really soon! I can’t wait to start!

Division A - 35 kids

                                                                                   *******         

Six months down the line, it is impossible for me to even teach in my classroom, in spite of the fact that the class has been split into two sections. Strategy after strategy has failed. The minute I enter the classroom, the kids are unruly and badly behaved. They run around, beating each other, whacking their friends playfully and their ‘enemies’ with vengeance. Making them sit for even a minute is a task. The little academic growth that they showed in the first three months has stagnated.

          

         More often than not, there are times when I want to pull my hair out and just bang my head against a wall. More often than not, I come home and sob, wondering if I am in the right place; won’t they better off with a teacher who can control them and who can make them study?

There are moments of self-doubt and self-criticism. If my 35 kids cannot be ‘tamed’, then how is it possible that “one day, all kids will receive an excellent education”? Why do they not respect me when all I do is shower them with love? Is my presence even needed in the class? The kids don’t seem to miss me when I am gone. They know what the class values are, but do not show them at all. They can recite verbatim what teamwork is, but if I ask them to work in groups with people they do not like, there is rebellion.

There are times when the emotional stress is so great that all I can see is a deep, dark abyss with no light at the end. I try to keep my hopes up that today will be different. Today my kids will be better behaved and will listen to me. I go into my classroom armed with optimism every day, only to fail. I go into my classroom armed with belief in my work, only to be reminded that that “one day” might never arrive. I go into my classroom with hope, only to return with despair. I research, I talk to others, I read, I try new things, I adhere to all the deadlines, attend all the meetings, I give my 200%. And yet…. I fall. I fall down day after day. I see no output or impact. I see no return on that 200%.

And that, is the bitterest pill to swallow. That is what hurts the most, because we’ve always been told that hard work leads to success. That dedication brings reward. That perseverance pays dividends. It goes against everything that I have ever been taught or learnt or read about. And therein, lies the challenge.

I would love to end this by saying that my kids are behaving and are on the track. But they aren’t. I have to still struggle to wake myself up in the morning. I have to still learn not to cringe when I see that one disruptive child enter the school gates and smile devilishly at me. I have to still learn to be consistent with rewards and consequences. I have to still learn not to be too harsh on myself. I have to still learn the value of patience.

Most of all, I have to learn how to identify that oyster that contains the pearl, amidst the millions of those that don’t. I have to learn how to see every small success amidst the sea of failures. I have to learn to appreciate the fact that though 30 of my kids are ungrateful, there are those five who are happy that didi (that is what they call me) is in the class. I have to learn to feel proud knowing that that one child that was initially unruly and defiant in class now asks me every single day, “Didi, was I naughty today?” I have to learn to be grateful for that one child who comes up and voluntarily gives me all the toffees he has in his pocket and keeps just one for himself because “didi has told me that eating so many chocolates is bad for health”. I have to learn to feel glad for that one kid who said “I hate you didi, please don’t come to school tomorrow”, but who was the only kid who called multiple times when I was on leave, asking if I had reached my destination safely.

Omkar - One of my most disruptive, but most loving students. He called me at 10.30 pm when I was on leave, asking if I had reached my destination.

It is easy to overlook these tiny successes, these minute stories. It is easy to get buried into the mire of depression and failure and to slowly start sinking deeper and deeper into the marshlands of self-pity and loathing. It is easy to say, “I don’t think I can do this anymore”. When life faces you with two choices, it is always easier to take the simpler road, the road where you externalise your failures on your surroundings and situation. It is easier to lose faith and motivation and just listlessly move ahead with the process, hoping for some miracle.

What is not easy is to pick yourself up when you fall and come back, willing to give it one more shot, with the same passion as the first time. What is not easy is to go and talk to that one child you loathe, that one child who you wish did not come to school so that the classroom would be quieter. What is not easy is to find that inner strength and motivation even after you’ve failed a hundred times. What is not easy is not giving up even when you cannot see any tangible success of the culmination of your hard work. What is not easy is to plod through the winter, even though the summer seems to be light years away.

You need to realise that you are dealing with tiny human beings. Small packages of flesh and bones that have been neglected and told they are not worthy enough. Understanding that the child you want to sometimes throw out of the class because he bullies others is beaten and bullied at home. Being sympathetic to the fact that kids are sleeping in class because they were awake all night seeing their father beat their mother. Realising that kids running around in an unruly manner in the classroom is testament to the fact that they trust you enough to express themselves and be their most vulnerable around you.

Division B - 35 students

Nothing prepares you to deal with this situation. All the rules go flying out the window, all logic disintegrates into dust and all you can see is darkness and more darkness. Why then do I continue here, you ask. It’s a question I’ve asked myself multiple times. Why don’t I just quit? It’ll be less emotional stress. The pay will be better elsewhere. I won’t have to deal with ungrateful whiny children.

But then I remember that one boy who confides in me about his family problems. I remember that one girl who comes and gives me a hug every day. I remember that one child whose eyes light up when I am about to give a weekly test. I remember that one kid who groans aloud about the fact that tomorrow is a holiday. And that gives me hope. That fans the dying embers of dejection in my heart and gets the fire burning again. That fills me with optimism that maybe somewhere, in the not-so-distant future, they will, for a fleeting moment, think about that didi who made them smile and made their time in class a safe and happy experience. The didi who did not judge them or beat them or tell them they were useless children who were bound to fail at life.

This is what makes me do what I do, every day or, as they call it at Teach for India, helps me find my why. Trying to find that light in every child in my class, and then making it shine brighter than it ever has.

---

(1) Read about the five transition stages here: http://www.cameronherold.com/blog/emotional-roller-coaster/5-stages-of-the-entrepreneurs-transition-curve/

Woman: Sex object or free spirit?

When Marlon Brando said, “Privacy is not something that I’m merely entitled to, it’s an absolute prerequisite,” he probably did not foresee how true his words would appear in the current Indian scenario. On the one hand, social media has been abuzz with praises and laurels for young actress Emma Watson, who as UN Women Goodwill Ambassador, gave an impassioned speech on feminism and gender to launch the HeForShe campaign which aims to encourage men and boys as advocates for feminism and to end the inequalities that women face every day, globally. On the other hand, closer home, The Times of India has faced harsh criticism for circulating a picture of actress Deepika Padukone’s cleavage, with a headline that said OMG Deepika’s cleavage show.

While Watson’s speech is inspiring, electric and absolutely relevant in the current scenario, where women all over the world are being abused, molested and raped, the newspaper has, many feel, stooped to a new low. When Deepika wrote an open letter clarifying her stance on the topic, she hit the nail on the head by saying “Digging out an old article and headlining it OMG: Deepika’s Cleavage Show! to attract readers is using the power of influence to proliferate recessive thought.” All that the The Times of India, which calls itself the ‘leading daily’ in the country, had to do, was publish a public apology, especially when they knew how much traction the issue had received on social media and other platforms. But instead of accepting their error, the TOI chose to take the high moral ground and ‘hit back’, justifying their use of the picture with regressive statements such as “Deepika, who began her career as a ‘calendar girl’ for a liquor brand…” (Referring to her stint as a model who posed for the Kingfisher calendar). So? Does that means you can objectify her? This seems to be a vindictive and personal attack by the TOI who, obviously, does not seem to have any strong justification on the issue. As the saying goes, the best defence is a good offence, and TOI seems to be following this strategy to the T.

As if that was not enough, the article goes on to take a ‘holier-than-thou’ attitude, saying that Deepika has, in the past, posed for many magazine cover shoots that show her cleavage and much more, so it does not really matter if the TOI showed it, too. What the TOI seems to forget is that the magazine cover shoots were done with Deepika’s consent. She posed for them voluntarily, while the zoomed-in, top-angle shot of her cleavage was done without her consent. The TOI, who championed the cause of the victims of the recent phone tapping scam, stating that it was a violation of their privacy, have no qualms about the violation of privacy that occurs in this case. It is the TOI that is being hypocritical here, not Deepika!

(Read TOI's response here: http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/entertainment/hindi/bollywood/news/Dear-Deepika-our-point-of-view/articleshow/43084705.cms) 

While the TOI has gone to town with story packages on women’s safety and how the rape victim does not ‘deserve it’ irrespective of what she is wearing, they seem, in this case, to be following the same mentality that khap panchayats do when they say the rape victim is at fault; or the Taliban, who stone women who commit adultery, but spare the man. By saying that Deepika posed as a ‘calendar girl’, the unwritten, hidden implication is that ‘she asked for it’ and that ‘if she poses as a calendar girl, she should not object to our picture showing her cleavage’. The analogy the TOI seems to be drawing here is similar to the rhetoric that sex workers can be raped, because selling their bodies is, after all, their profession. Of course, let’s not even get into the insinuations that the phrase ‘a liquor brand’ makes on Deepika’s morality.

However, what is most appalling, disturbing and disappointing is that the article is written by a woman. This does not go to say that it would have been alright had it been written by a man (absolutely not!), but the fact that even a woman cannot understand that another woman’s body is her own and she can do what she chooses to do with it, is to say the very least, shameful!

The TOI’s justification that “the online world… is chaotic and cluttered — and sensational headlines are far from uncommon,” is shallow and base, so is the line that says other publications should not have carried Deepika’s picture while reporting about the issue. 

What the TOI fails to (or has deliberately decided not to) understand is that Deepika had absolutely no problem with the picture of her cleavage being shown. She says as much in her response to TOI, where she writes, “It is not about breasts, penises or any other body part being reported. It is a matter of context and how out-of-context the reportage is just to sell a headline.”

As Watson says, “I think it is right that I should be able to make decisions about my own body… I think it is right that socially I am afforded the same respect as men. But sadly, I can say that there is no one country in the world where all women can expect to receive these rights.”

Emma Watson would shake her head in disgust at TOI’s antics. As so many of us are doing.

Once bitten, twice shy: Why cyclists will always be accused of doping

"If you shut up truth and bury it under the ground, it will but grow, and gather to
itself such explosive power that the day it bursts through it will blow up everything
in its way..."

- Emile Zola

Sports journalists and cycling experts have converged on British cyclist Chris Froome, alleging he is doping in this year’s Tour de France. Froome, however, denies the allegations: “Lance [Armstrong] cheated. I'm not cheating. End of story.”

Is he telling the truth? Probably. However, I would not blame the melee of voices that claim Froome is doping. After Armstrong’s fall from grace and his confession to TV show host Oprah Winfrey, cycling seems destined to be tainted with doping allegations forever.

I recently read Tyler Hamilton’s book, ‘The Secret Race’ *, where he takes readers behind the veil of bike racing, which is, unarguably, the toughest sport in the world. Hamilton’s book not only indicts Armstrong and himself, but also blows the lid off what the United States Anti-Doping Agency called “the most sophisticated, professionalised and successful doping program that sport has ever seen.”

Lance Armstrong confessed to doping in an interview with TV show host Oprah Winfrey in January this year

Armstrong was a control-freak obsessed with winning. For him, winning wasn’t the most important thing: it was the ONLY thing. And he would go to any lengths to ensure he got out there and won. Hamilton claims that Armstrong, ironically, called up the anti-doping authorities in 2004 and told them that Hamilton and his team were doping, only because he felt threatened by Hamilton, who had finished before him in one of the races leading up to the Tour. Hamilton said Armstrong was “…Donald Trump. He might own all of Manhattan, but if there’s one tiny corner grocery store out there without his name on it, it drives him crazy.”

Not only did Armstrong constantly deny that he doped, but he did it with shocking arrogance and defiance. His believed ‘attack is the best form of defence’. Whenever anyone attacked him, he hit back: attacking their credibility and their sources, convincing the masses that there was a huge conspiracy against him.

His recent statement to French magazine Le Monde, where he claims it was impossible to win the Tour de France without doping, is laughable, to say the least. I agree that cycling during Armstrong’s era was extremely dirty, but instead of trying to stop or tame it, he was in the forefront of the corruption plaguing the sport, not a ‘passive victim’. He is also, as he himself acknowledged, “not the most believable guy in the world right now”, and a lot of what he says must be taken with a pinch of salt.

He claimed he did not “force, pressure or encourage” anyone to dope during his era, and that it was a ‘level playing field’. However, scientists claim it can never be a level playing field, because each cyclist’s body is different, and thus reacts differently to drugs.

His confession has not assuaged the anger of his detractors or earned him the redemption he may have been seeking. They claim he only admitted to convenient truths, omitting and glossing over the grisly details, in an attempt to avoid going to prison.

The damage that Armstrong has caused not only to the sport, but also to all those connected with him, is too much to repair. As all the hullabaloo surrounding Froome’s victories has shown, no one who henceforth wins a Tour de France will be above suspicion; no sport lover will trust the purity of the sport; no cancer victim will believe he can surmount the odds and return to a normal life. 

Armstrong has let down his fans and his sponsors, but what hurts most of all is his betrayal. He betrayed those hundreds of millions who bought the yellow Livestrong (the cancer-fighting charity he founded in 1997) wrist bands, the thousands who supported him and lashed out against his detractors (his 13-year-old son included), the journalists who burnt the midnight oil trying to gather proof against him, only to be called liars, the teammates who came out against him and were threatened and shadowed, and the anti-doping agencies that worked tirelessly to try to keep the sport clean.

Most of all, though, he deprived those few genuine riders who rode clean, who wanted to win the Tour but never got the opportunity, thanks to his doping and ‘bullying’ tactics. Armstrong was stripped of his seven titles, but the Tour de France annals where Armstrong’s seven wins were recorded now lie vacant. No other cyclist was deemed to have won, which is perhaps the saddest part of this sordid drama.

A list of Tour de France cycling winners including the notation that disgraced cyclist Lance Armstrong lost his titles, is displayed inside the Notre-Dame des Cyclistes (Our Lady of Cyclists) chapel near the village of Labastide-d'Armagnac in Landes, southwestern France.

Pictures courtesy: 
http://www.guardian.co.uk/sport/2013/jan/15/lance-armstrong-comes-clean-oprah
http://www.nydailynews.com/sports/more-sports/reasons-ignore-lance-latest-comments-article-1.1385191

*The Secret Race: Inside the Hidden World of the Tour de France, Tyler Hamilton and Daniel Coyle, 2012.

Paradise on Earth

When my parents told me that we were going to Kashmir, I was a little sceptical. Most of us had only heard about terrorism and militancy in that remote state . Why should we risk going there? After all, there are so many beautiful places we could visit - London, France, Germany, or even places in our very own India, such as Kerala, Rajasthan or Ooty. Why Kashmir? A lot of people had told us that Kashmir is beautiful, but how beautiful can it be? 

Well, one has to see it to believe it. Kashmir is prettier than (or at least equally pretty as), most foreign tourist destinations in the world, such as Switzerland, Venice and Austria. The acres and acres of green meadows with sheep grazing by the thousands, is sure to make you wonder whether you have stepped onto the sets of Robert Wise’s legendary movie. Here, the hills are truly alive with the sounds of music.

Straight out of the meadows of 'The Sound of Music'!

If the hills are alive with music, then the narrow, winding mountain paths that you have to traverse on horseback are bubbling with the thrill of ‘Mackenna's Gold’. The eerie silence, broken only by the clip-clop of your horse’s hooves, is, for some, a discomfiting experience. On your left are tall stagnant mountains, while on your right are poker-straight trees standing like sentries and protecting you from becoming the river’s dinner.

The narrow path straight out of 'Mackenna's Gold'!

                                                       

Kashmir is the preferred choice for many Bollywood film makers and tons of films have been shot here, right from the Amitabh-Rekha starrer ‘Silsila’, to Sunny Deol’s debut movie ‘Betaab’; from the hilarious ‘Satte-pe-Satta’ to the poignant ‘Rockstar’, to name a few. Kashmir was the king of shooting locations until militant insurgency destroyed homes, tourism and lives.

Talking to a few local Kashmiris, and gauging the situation in and around Kashmir left us with quite a lot to ponder about. Kashmir may be extremely rich in natural resources, but it is woefully poor in terms of industries. No one wants to take the risk of putting up an industry that may be destroyed in one of the many terrorist attacks. Kashmir probably has the maximum number of people with Maruti 800 cars, a vehicle that is almost obsolete in other parts of India. Under-developed roads and corrupt officials who ask for bribes at every nook and cranny make you feel sorry for the inhabitants of this beautiful state. Army officials are present everywhere, as are huge convoys of jawans in trucks. Many of them sit alone in vast fields, bored, yet never wavering from their posts.
Most Kashmiris are not so well off, and yet, a local told me that ‘Koi bhi Kashmiri bhookha nahi sota’. Many locals, especially the more aged and experienced of the lot, recount the horrors of the time when Kashmir was torn apart. Ravaged by violence. Curfew was a regular feature in Srinagar and the streets were deserted. Kashmiris migrated in hoards to other states, taking with them only what they really needed. It was a harrowing experience and one that time will never heal.

Terror and innocence live together in Kashmir

“We have lost an entire generation of talented youngsters to terrorism. Now, we have decided that violence is not the way forward. It has been the decision of the Kashmiri people to stop this mindless terrorism that infiltrated our borders. We want a solution to our problems and a patient ear for our grievances, but above all, we want peace, for only peace brings prosperity,” a local told me.

Someone once told me that Kashmir is like the spoilt child of two divorced parents – India and Pakistan. Both these countries try and influence the locals to ‘come over to their side’. However, contrary to what many Indians think, only a skeletal minority of Kashmiris want to join Pakistan. The majority want to remain a part of India, but on one condition. They want autonomy.

However, their idea of autonomy seems a little far-fetched and rosy. They want to remain with India, want Indian soldiers to guard their borders, and want to retain everything Indian, but want their leaders to be one of their own, not from the government. Support for the current government seems to be ebbing, as more and more Kashmiris want to take up the cudgels themselves and free their people from poverty and depression. A bit utopian, right? Well, after all they have gone through, you cannot really blame them. 

Living with the memories of yesterday, hopeful of a better tomorrow...

The boom of tourists, especially this year, is a great sign for a state whose economy is sustained purely on tourism. With no industries and not enough fertile land to grow anything apart from fruits, Kashmir thrives on tourism. Which is why in towns like Pahalgam and Gulmarg, the only mode of transport is what the locals provide. You have to travel by horses to any place you want to reach in Gulmarg, and haggling with the horse-owners leaves you drained before the day has even begun. In Pahalgam, you have to use the local taxis available to reach places like Aru and Chandanwari. It doesn’t matter that they drive like maniacs and turn blind corners at 50km/hr. It’s all in a day’s work, but it does leave you with your heart in your mouth.

Srinagar, the capital, is a bustling city situated on Dal Lake. The public gardens are worth a visit and home to gorgeous manicured bushes and beautiful flowers such as pansies, lilies, roses and tulips. They are truly a treat for the eyes and a photographer’s joy, as are the many houseboats that dot the lake’s horizon. The shikara (a light, flat-bottomed boat) ride in the Dal Lake through the floating markets transports you straight to Venice, while expensive shops selling dry fruits and papier mache that line the streets remind you of Mumbai. 

The gorgeous pansies in various hues!

                                 
Travel a few hundred miles and you reach the pretty hill station of Gulmarg, home to the highest Gondola ride in the world. And by Gondola, I mean a cable car, not the boat that roams the waters of Venice. The Gondola takes you to a height of approximately 13,400 feet and all you see around you is snow, snow and more snow! Once you reach the top, if you are lucky and it is a clear day, you might be able to see vague outlines of Pakistani bunkers in a distant mountain – again hearsay, but technically believable. Afarwat, as this place is locally called, makes you bless the invention of digital cameras, as even 3 film rolls will not suffice in capturing the awe-inspiring beauty here.

The breath-taking view of the mountains from Afarwat

                                     

Pahalgam, one of the other popular tourist destinations in Kashmir, is again a few kilometres drive from Gulmarg. One must try out the white water rafting on the Lidder River. Though the rapids are not as strong as the ones in Hrishikesh (so I am told), the experience leaves you will lovely memories, not to mention numb feet and chattering teeth!

There is so much more to see in this beautiful place. Small day-trips to Hazratbal Mosque and to Chandanwari, the birth of the Sheeshnag River and also the starting point of the Amarnath Yatra that thousands of Hindus make every year, is a good way to recharge your spiritual batteries. A stop at the glacier of Sonmarg, and the drive to Aru is a great way to exploit the fact that you have a digital camera.

Locals told us that this year saw the highest number of tourists till date, and the season was not yet over. Well, that can only be good news for all of us. It is great that people are visiting this ‘Heaven on earth’ and trying to alleviate it from the hellish chaos it was in a few years ago.

The origin of the Sheeshnag River

                                       

When the famous Persian poet Firdaus said the lines below, he was not exaggerating. Kashmir truly is paradise on earth!

"Agar Firdaus Ba-Roohe Zameenast
Hameenasto Hameenasto Hammenasto..."

(If there is heaven on earth,
it is here, it is here, it is here.)

The Mathematical Menace

A few of my cousins gave their ICSE exams a few days ago, and it brought back the anxieties and nervous moments of that one long month. The tension to do well and perform in what is becoming a ludicrously competitive world. While most students sail through most papers, there is one paper that makes even the most hard working student quake with fear. It gives you sleepless nights and ghastly nightmares! The stuff that horror movies are made of.

Did I exaggerate much? Well…. Maybe. But this subject has been the bane of my life and wrought havoc on my mental framework. 'I'm sure it cant be that bad', you think. But then again, only the wearer knows where the shoe pinches.

The subject I am talking about is It-That-Must-Not-Be-Named. ‘What’s in a name’ Shakespeare said. M-A-T-H-E-M-A-T-I-C-S. Whew! The name itself is so long and scary! How can any mortal that walks this earth like Maths, or think it fun and easy?

Well, to be honest, at first it was just fine. We had Addition and Subtraction. Easy enough. 5 + 3 = 8. All you had to do was take 5 fingers and then take 3 more. And the sum was done! Then they decided to include Multiplication and Division. Still okay. Then they taught you tables. 4 X 3 = 12. But once it went beyond 13 times tables, I was beginning to get a little lost. Even so, I thought I would manage. And life moved on.

For a few years we stuck to this. The sums became tougher, but then so did my comprehension ability and intelligence (I think!). Then they decided to start with this thing called Speed, Distance and Time. I actually enjoyed the topic. It was easy, all you had to do was use the formula, and voila! You could find the speed, distance or time of anything. Whoever said Maths was tough?

But then the syllabus and paper setters started getting cheeky. They no longer wanted to know the speed, distance and time of just one object. They wanted you to calculate it for two or more objects! I still remember this sum that stared me in the face in my 7th grade, while I sat with my head buried in my hands. (Remember I said that Maths gives you nightmares?)

Sum: Train A leaves from Mumbai at 12:37 (Yeah, the time had to be something weird, it couldn’t be straightforward like 8 or 9, because that would make the sum so much easier! And torture students that much less!) Train B leaves from Hyderabad at 15:42 (Bring in GMT time, it makes the sum simpler!) Train A is travelling at a speed of 123 miles/hour (Of course, the miles adds that much extra calculation. More chance of you getting the sum absolutely right! It surely couldn’t have been kilometres!) Train B is travelling at 231 kilometres/hour. (Yes, they don’t believe in uniformity, what's life without a bit of a challenge!) If the total distance is 235 kilometres, find the time at which train A and B will cross each other. (By this time I have already lost track of what is going on. The tears and burying of head in hands follows shortly!) Why would I even care to know the time? I would be dozing in the train, not anxiously sitting with my watch evaluating what time Train B crosses my train!

So many of you, (my father, brother, uncles included) are sitting there wondering what the fuss is about. Is this girl insane? The sum is supremely easy. So logical. Sigh! You will never understand the torture of those who do not understand this subject. (And let me warn you, there are quite a few of us.)

So it was about this time that Maths started fuzzing my brain. It kept trying to hammer home the fact that I was worse at it than most ‘normal’ people.

Now when you study History, there is no element of Geography or Science thrown in it, is there? Do Literature and Language have calculations? No. Each stream is pure, unadulterated and has its own charm. Why then, must Maths be any different? I was struggling with numbers, did they have to bring in the alphabet as well?

And so began my tryst with ‘A-L-G-E-BRA’. Oh on that note, what is it with these weird names that topics have in Mathematics? T-R-I-G-O-N-O-M-E-T-R-Y? L-O-G-A-R-I-T-H-I-M-S? However, nothing could beat the fits of laughter that broke out when we were introduced to MENSURATION! (I mean seriously? They were adding eerily-sounding-biological names too?)

So we dealt with Quadratic Equations, and then to encourage us to multitask, we were taught Simultaneous Equations. Then it went on to matrices, where numbers began to be superscripted on top and we were asked to apply bizarre formulae like a² + b² =? And that’s when the fear of Maths finally seeped into my consciousness. Nothing would go into my head. It would just come out from the other side. And slowly, a mental block was formed. "YOU CAN’T DO MATHS", my brain told me. And I obeyed.

I thought I would rely on the Arithmetic part. That was logical. But the mental barrier in my brain refused to tell me what the Compound Interest would be in 10 years of a particular sum of money. And frankly, why should you bother, it told me. Aren’t banks there for precisely this reason?

And then came the biggest bane of them all. G-E-O-M-E-T-R-Y! Which combined numbers, letters, lines, circles, quadrilaterals, etc. The only thing I could appreciate were the tangents; after all I could identify with them, everything about this subject was going tangential!

Well, I could go on and on. Whine about a zillion things. Like why we were expected to measure the surface area of a partially shaded ground that was covered by something called an I-S-O-S-C-E-L-E-S triangle. (Err WHAT?) Or find some angle according to the P-Y-T-H-A-G-O-R-A-S Theorem. (Oh I forgot to mention that they also included Greek in the subject. How diverse!) Or learn by rote the different formulae of a hollow and solid cylinder and cone. Just when I thought I had mastered them individually, they put the cone into the cylinder, and added some metal marbles in it for effect. And of course, the entire thing was suspended in water. I could tear my hair out!

So what kept me going? How did I pass my ICSE? Well, every dark cloud has a silver lining. Not the right metaphor to use at all, but you get my drift I hope. Maths also had a few topics that I could understand. These actually penetrated that wall in my brain. Statistics, average, mean, median, mode etc. I loved drawing bar graphs and ogives on the graph sheet (that almost made you squint due to the extreme proximity of those green lines.) I attempted each and every statistics question in my paper. And passed with a whopping (yes for me it was a huge achievement!) 86/100. I was ecstatic.

But more importantly, I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to do Maths anymore. After all, I was planning to take up Arts and then do a course in Journalism. Maths was behind me, it was my past. Never again would it stalk and shadow me, ready to pounce every time I opened the book.

A happy ending you would think. But no, remember the mixing I told you about? Apparently Maths is not the only subject that likes to mix genres nowadays. I had to recently take a test to prove my worth as a journalist for a reputed newspaper company. And what did the last page of the question paper have? Maths! As those numbers swam in front of me, all those nightmares came flooding back! Will I ever be free of it? I don’t know. I really don’t know.

The Indian Genocide

They say history repeats itself. And we never learn from our mistakes. Today, almost ten years after the brutal massacre of both Hindus and Muslims in Gujarat, what remains is nothing but memories. Haunting, painful, bitter memories. Memories of what could have been. What should have been; harried housewives, stressed office-goers, playful children. Instead of the streets being alive with the hustle and bustle of early morning commuters and the honk of vehicles, all that there is outside Gulberg Society is an eerie quiet. A chilling camaraderie of wind and silence.

While many of us were too young at the time of these riots, we have grown up hearing about the genocide in Gujarat. Our parents and Google have recounted to us the horrifying massacre that killed tens of thousands of innocent people. The perpetrators have not been brought to justice. Will they ever? That remains to be seen.

Today, according to newspaper reports, one lone Muslim continues to stay in Gulberg Society, refusing to vacate the ghost-society. Others, forever scarred by the deaths of their family, have chosen to re-locate.

What is startling to see is the amazing communalism that is still prevalent in so many places in India. Gujarat may be a model state for the Western region of India, but beneath its shiny exterior, its flyovers, its radical development and its commercialisation, lies a secret buried so deep, that many don’t even remember its existence.

It may have been a decade ago, but even today, the country sits on a dormant volcano, one that can become active anytime soon. Everything is said and done keeping the minority and majority happy. Developmental schemes are not implemented as it will lead to unrest. Reservation is given, unjustly, to maintain the vote bank. Hardened terrorists are not hung, for that will eat into the vote bank.

And the Godhra riots are not the first, nor will they be the last instance of communalism in India. Ever since pre-Partition, Hindus and Muslims have shared an acrimonious relationship, with neither side willing to hold out the olive branch. The shocking murders and rapes of thousands of Indians in Calcutta during the freedom struggle left the world wide-eyed with horror.

An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. The response to retaliation should not be counter-retaliation. It is high time we consider ourselves to be Indians first and Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, Christians later. India is called the melting pot of cultures. Let us ensure that it does not become a boiling pot of tempers and sentiments.

An Overdose of Love

In this fast-paced world, where everything is at the touch of a button, greetings and wishes have become monotonous and impersonal. The same Diwali or Christmas message is forwarded to a million people and your Facebook wall is full of birthday wishes from people you hardly know. But come Valentine's Day, Mother's Day or Father's Day, and suddenly, there is an overdose of love...

_________________________________________________

So it’s that day again! The day when everyone suddenly realizes that they need to show their love and affection to their near and dear ones. Yes, it’s Valentine’s Day, the 14^th of February, the day of love. The day when flower vendors make a killing and sales of Archies cards and gifts shoot up by almost 50%.

You leave your house and the town is painted red – literally! Red roses, girls dressed in red, women in red saris, the list is never-ending! Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for romanticism. In fact, I’m a die-hard romantic! I live on sappy romantic movies with their cheesy dialogues and clichéd happily-ever-after endings.

What I don’t get, and what irks me to no end, is why we need a specific day to show our love and gratitude to those special people. Wishing everyone, getting all romantic and mushy, and going all out and spending your last penny to get a gift for that someone only on that day, just doesn’t make sense.

And it isn’t limited to Valentine’s Day alone. It extends to days like Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Thanksgiving Day etc. In the USA, tables in restaurants are booked almost 3 months in advance for these special days. You will see dutiful daughters with their fathers or doting sons with their mothers sharing a heart-to-heart talk and acting like they haven’t met all year.

Wait a minute… Of course they haven’t…

They don’t bother to call or keep in touch during the course of the year, but come Mother’s or Father’s Day and suddenly your parents are super special, even if they have been languishing in one of those old age homes throughout the year.

Your boyfriend and girlfriend is the centre of your world, even if the two of you just can’t get along the whole year. Friendship Day is a day to exchange expensive friendship bands and gifts, even if you bitch about the very same friend the next day. Women’s Day is a day to show how special, yet marginalized, women actually are. The many rapes and dowry deaths every day are immaterial.

Why do you need a day to show love? Why do you need a date on a calendar to fill your heart with warmth for those who have sacrificed so much for you? The mother who denied herself a new sari so that you could buy that toy you wanted. The father who worked overtime to make sure that your school and college fees could be paid on time. The lover who forgave those malicious personal remarks you made in a bout of anger.

However, man is a social animal and it is such events and celebrations that make life worth living. Enjoy Valentine’s Day, dress up, go out, and make sure you have a great time. Buy that little pendent you want for your mother, or that black tie you just knew you had to buy your father. There is nothing wrong in that. Contradicting myself am I? Well not really. By all means celebrate, but make sure you don’t go overboard. Make sure that the same love and affection is present every day. Say ‘I Love You’, smile, hug and do something to make that person know that his/her world truly revolves around you. Not just on one day of the year, but on every day of every month of every year.

After all, I believe that it’s not money, but love, that makes the world go round!

What the !@#! happened to free speech?

I'm sure you all have a favourite book – one that is your beacon of light and your best friend in times of distress.  Now imagine if it was torn to shreds and thrown into the fire. How would you react?

I’m sure you all remember the senseless banning of reputed author Rohinton Mistry’s book – 'Such a Long Journey', by Aditya Thackerey, the 20-year-old grandson of Bal Thackeray. Dissatisfied with a few paragraphs wherein Rohinton Mistry had portrayed them as a party that uses violent tactics, Thackerey asked the Vice Chancellor to revoke the book from the syllabus and the  Vice Chancellor did so, without consulting the Academic Council, which is the usual procedure.

Don’t you think this is a form of intellectual terrorism? No one can dictate what we should or shouldn’t read. This kind of “Talibanisation” of literature is just shocking!

Today it is this book, tomorrow another, where will this end? Literature that is internationally recognized and applauded cannot be banned on the whim of a 20 year old who himself admits that he has not even read the entire book, only the so-called ‘objectionable’ passages.

Bookshops pulled the novel of their shelves. The repercussions of this were that people showed even more curiosity to read the book and since it was not available officially, pirated copies made a killing for the unscrupulous black marketers.

This ban is not imposed by the government but by a petty regional political party not even in power. This is not the 1st time this has happened. In the past also, books have been banned. Remember the whole Salman Rushdie controversy?  His book ‘The Satanic Verses’ was banned in India because Muslims were infuriated by Rushdie’s portrayal of the prophet Mohammed.  Ayatollah Khomeini of Iran pronounced a fatwa against Rushdie, who had to live under police protection provided by the British Government for ten years. His Japanese translator was murdered. His Italian one was stabbed and his Norwegian publisher, was shot but thankfully survived. Bookshops stocking the novel were bombed and stone-pelted, and the book was burned in public places.

And it hasn’t ended there. Almost a quarter of a century after Rushdie published 'The Satanic Verses', people were still gunning for him at the recent Jaipur literary fest. Rushdie was denied entry at the literary fest and was even given death threats.

Joseph Lelyveld's distinguished book on Gandhi, 'Great Soul: Mahatma Gandhi and His Struggle With India',  had been banned in the state of Gujarat,  AK Ramanujan's great study of the Ramayana has been removed from the syllabus of Delhi university, and the country's most revered modern artist, MF Husain, died in exile after Hindu fundamentalists hounded him out of the country because they found his paintings of nude gods and goddesses too offensive.

Censorship is not limited only to print, but has now also entered digital media. A few months ago, Telecom Minister Kapil Sibal suggested that social networking sites such as Twitter and Facebook should monitor content written by its users and remove offensive material from their sites.

Monitoring such huge volumes of content is not possible physically. Besides, Facebook already has policies and on-site features that allow other users to report content as abusive or defamatory. Clamping down on social networking sites, whose very aim is to provide a platform where people can share their thoughts and emotions freely, is a ridiculous proposition.

However, I do not advocate full and uncensored freedom.  There is always a balance to be struck between freedom to speak your mind and the good sense to know when to keep silent, i.e. what many would call ‘self-censorship’. Nevertheless, the right to express opinion freely is fundamental in a democratic society.

We may detest certain opinions, but we should resist attempts to suppress them. If certain sections of society do not like something that someone says or writes, the response should not be a fatwa, book-burning or banning, attacks on publishers or death threats to the author.  It should be argument. The response to words should be words. It should be discussion. Debate.

We live in one of the largest democracies in the world, and our Constitution clearly says that prohibiting a newspaper /author from publishing his own views about a topic has been held to be a serious violation of the freedom of speech and expression.

I would like to end with a quote by ‎Evelyn Beatrice Hall that sums up the essence of freedom of speech. She said and I quote, "I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it".

Die and Let Die - Part III

The story finally concludes. What happens to the terrorist? Is he repentant? Does the blindfold of hatred and anger lift from his eyes? Or does he die defiant and brainwashed? Lets find out...

_________________________________________________

 

The world is slowly blurring. It’s so tough to breathe. I can’t see anything or anyone. Death is close at hand, I know. I can hear his footsteps in the corridors of my mind. I can see him approaching, with his wide-arched scythe. Forming a question mark, yet hardly leaving me with a choice as to whether or not I want to go. I don’t. For all my bravado, I must accept that I am scared. I am scared to leave Ammi alone with the two girls. In my ‘brash exuberance of youth’, as Professor Herring might put it, I did not even bid them goodbye. So cocky was I of the success of our plan, that it never occurred to me that it might be the last time I ever saw them.

Oh how I long to meet them! Just once. I want to feel Zubeidaa’s long wavy hair on my cheeks, see Shamma blushing on her wedding day. I want to taste Ammi’s gajar ka halwa. There is so much left to do. Will Huzoor give Ammi the cash he promised? He told me he would. And I trust Huzoor. But in this final hour- with Death looking into my face, sickle poised in the air, waiting for the right moment to strike - nothing seems clear. What if Huzoor goes back on his word? How will Ammi repay my loans? How will she gather enough money for Shamma’s wedding? Zubeidaa wants to study Politics in France. How will Ammi cough up the cash? The money from Grandpa’s inheritance is now almost gone…

No no, Huzoor will pay them. Wait, even if the mission fails? We had never discussed this in great detail. It had always remained a nagging doubt, confined to the shadows, hovering around the periphery, living in a lonely tent outside each one’s mind. No no… ouch! My wound throbs with the pain of a hundred steely daggers. The bastard who shot me in the arm, may he rot in Hell! If not for him, I wouldn’t have fallen down and been pumped with bullets in my legs and arms. I would have escaped.

Wait! Did I hear gunshots? The movement of feet? Yes, yes, more gunshots! They sound like AK 47s. Silence. More gunshots. Silence. What is going on? Are we winning? God is on our side, of course we will win. And I will die a martyr. And mothers will set me up as an example for their boys.

But… What if Heaven is not the enticing Garden of Eden that Huzoor told us about? What if there are no 72 virgins waiting for me with their arms wide open? What if Heaven is not as Hitler said it would be? Eternal glory? What if I go to Hell? What if there are Jews all over and it is my destiny to live with them forever? Will Death hurt? Can it hurt more than my pain right now? Oh Lord, is that my blood? Gushing out like red wine from the tap of a barrel. I feel weak. Light-headed. Are those stars there? How can they be? This is a building. It should have a ceiling.

Am I writhing in agony? Am I screaming and thrashing around? I can hear some screams but I don’t even know if they’re mine anymore. Can’t even see, nothing is clear… What are all these lights for? Doctor’s operating table? What about that dark tunnel that everyone says you pass through? Am I dead? Am I alive? Where am I? Why aren’t my eyes opening? There is stabbing pain somewhere but I can’t place it. Where is my wrist? What’s the time? I want this agony to stop. I think I should just bite off the cyanide. I can’t even turn my head. It’s whirling. Can’t think straight. Ammi. Is that Ammi there? Where is my wrist, why can’t I feel it? Why am I so numb?

What is this noise? Why is it whirring? Sounds like the church bells from that movie. Hunchback of something it was. I hope the girl with the brooding black eyes is safe. I wanted a daughter like her. Maybe with that woman who caught my eye. She was a real beauty, I have to admit. Will I meet Abba in heaven? No, he will surely go… to Hell...  With that bitch of his… Zubeidaa? Who will teach her how to use the DSLR camera now? Where will the money for her wedding come from? Huzoor will pay them won’t he? The others will complete the mission and return home na? I’ll be the martyr and they will sing praises and put my picture up. The boy who sacrificed everything, including his life, for the cause of Jihad. The atheist that turned believer.

Will they? Put my photo up? Or will I be forgotten? What if they forget me here and go home? What will the Indian government do to me? Will I be just another name in the pages of a newspaper? Will Shamma ’s kids just know me by name? Will I just remain a mere memory in the minds of my sisters? One that fades and disappears over time?

No, no… I shall go to Heaven. What does the Koran say? “The smallest reward for the people of Heaven is an abode where there are eighty thousand servants and seventy-two houri, over which stands a dome decorated with pearls, aquamarine and ruby, as wide as the distance from al-Jabiyyah to San'a.”

Maybe it will look like Baba Tahrir Mosque. I feel Life slipping away from me, trickling like sand in an hourglass. Mein Leben ist vorbei. My life is over. It has been worthwhile, yes, I don’t regret anything... Except not meeting my family. And not being able to pursue my PhD. And not having the time to date a nice girl and set up a family with her. And not giving away my sisters’ hands in marriage. And not being able to spend my old age in Berlin, under the shadow of the cherry tree. Oh, there is so much I wanted to do, so much I took for granted.

Huzoor will pay them the princely sum won’t he? He said he would. But what if he doesn’t? Who will pay for Shamma’s wedding trousseau? Where will Ammi get all the money from? What will happen to Zubeidaa’s Politics course?

The throbbing refuses to stop. I am paralysed. My arm has become a slithering river of fire. The pain is coursing through my veins like deadly poison, determined to seep through the little cogs of my heart and jam them.  I can almost feel it. Tick-tock goes the clock. How much longer? Wie viel Zeit habe ich?

Will nothing stop this excruciating pain? Nothing? Let me think of the wonderful Baba Tahrir Mosque. Let me die with God’s name on my lips. Intricate sea-green mosaic tiles covered the walls that sparkled like a mermaid’s tail. The magnificent arches towered high above the Square and offered shade and sanctuary to weary travellers. Travellers like me. I am indeed weary… Weary of this life and all its complexities, weary of this deception, weary of unfulfilled promises and dashed hopes. Weary of everyth…