Deep Ties

Have you ever, while reading a newspaper, or standing in a line in a store, had that eerie feeling that a curious face is peering over your shoulder, so uncomfortably close that you can almost feel its breath wafting across your shrinking body? Guess what? Your personal space has just been invaded by bad breath and body odour, and that too by an entity that is not even aware that it is trespassing! The queue system can be quite harrowing. You stand in a line along with myriad others, holding a basket filled with the bare necessities, and just as you get to the front of the line, comes a cheeky arm over your shoulder, and hey presto, there appears a basket on the counter, as cheeky as its owner. I always object, but often, a sheepish smile with a “Please, Madam, only two items!” accompanied by the aforesaid body odour makes me retreat in haste. A moving queue is even worse, especially when you are going into a movie theatre, or climbing up a flight of stairs. The swell of the cr

God and I share this wonderful relationship. When I was born, He said, “Let there be light!” And my parents named me Deepti, meaning ‘light’ in Sanskrit. My grandparents were very religious, and they had this enormous pooja room filled with idols of all sizes and shapes.  My favourites were the pot bellied Elephant God, who was always a ally in arms, and a tall blue Krishna who stood in a glass cabinet with a friendly smile on His face. My parents were never temple-goers, but they made sure they never even harmed a fly, a philosophy which implied that God was in every creature. This, maybe, made me love all creatures, dogs in particular. When my daughter was five, we were out for a walk one day. As we stopped at a traffic signal, by a temple, I suddenly noticed her making the sign of the cross. That was a huge moment for me... here was my little one acknowledging in her own way that all religions were the same; God was one, whether Rama, Allah or Christ, such a profound philoso

Being an Army kid does have its advantages! I remember mom admonishing me when I was a little more than a toddler for not wishing an uncle good morning. “You do not look through people, or act coy and peep out at them from behind me!” she warned. “You must wish them properly!” And so I did, and the habit has stayed with me for decades now. I would sometimes even startle folks by jumping out at them from behind a tree, chirping cheerily, “Good afternoon, auntie, uncle!” It came to a point when they started looking over their shoulders any time they passed my house, for fear that they would suddenly be waylaid by my beaming little face and squeaky voice. Not surprisingly, at a certain event my name was called out and I was given a little medal for being the best behaved child in the cantonment, a feat mom was rather proud of. My daughter too began lisping ‘Goomoning!” even when she was toddling about on her chubby legs. However, it is distressful that this habit of wishing peop

Dante’s Inferno could not be more chaotic, I muse! Our car crawls along on a surface, choc-o-bloc with vehicles, bumper to bumper in four wavy lanes, originally meant to house two orderly lines, ‘orderly’ being a misnomer, of course! The signal glints red, and before it turns ochre, buses start blowing their horns frantically, noisily revving their engines. The car ahead moves forward tentatively, not wanting to ram into a scooter that is a miracle in itself, with five people clinging on to one another - a father, a mother and three children of varying sizes, all pasted together like a club sandwich! The bus behind complains incessantly, ignoring dirty looks, as the signal turns green with reluctance, and a cacophony of horns break out, as at the start of an ancient battle. As the vehicles begin to move, two jay walkers dart across the road, holding up their hands in supplication, causing curses to add to the confusion. An auto rickshaw driver, hardly the most polite homo sapie

Beauty, it is said, lies in the eyes of the beholder! As I behold my mother, Nalini Chandran, the beauty of the universe comes together, even as she lives life, queen-size, even at the age of 76. Do I feel this way because I fell in love with her, the day I opened my eyes for the first time, only to see her smiling down at me in wonder? Life was more vibrant when she was around, getting me ready for school, taking a history lesson where I was part of a rapt class, or moulding my nature to mirror hers as she made friends, with the ease of a butterfly drawing out honey from a willing flower! She never preached, just led by example. Her home was always filled with friends who drew inspiration from her joie-de-vivre. A teacher all her life, she honed her skills, only to create a wonderful school, which started with six students and went on to take her home town by storm, as it took on her wonderful personality and made it its own. She loved being with children, as she turned into a

Gone are the days when heroes in Hindi films ran after buxom heroines with coquettish pouts, dragging them down forcibly, and wooing them with typical caveman techniques, singing songs to kindle sparks in their fluttering hearts. Today’s macho man prefers to show off his six packs, and handle wicked villains with one flick of his arm, along with dialogues on orifices in the body. These men are unreal heroes, meant only for celluloid. Who is a real man in today’s world? So much depends on upbringing. A man who abuses his wife, strikes and enslaves her will have sons made from the same mould. On the other hand, a man who adores his wife and does little things to keep her happy, and treats her with respect and love will father sons who grow up with the same values. The child is the father of the man, after all! Real men do not think they are God’s gift to women. They appreciate their womenfolk, treat the elderly with reverence and love their fellow human beings, which b

 New Indian Express By Deepti Menon 28th July 2013 12:00 AM Before becoming a household name, Sachin Dev Burman had become synonymous at the start of his journey with the Tippera flute, Tripura’s own instrument. So much so that for those who knew him “the haunting tunes of the flute in the dead of the night would convey the message far and wide: Sachin-karta was in town”! Khagesh Dev Burman’s biography, translated from the Bengali version by the author and S K Chaudhuri, is filled with such delightful anecdotes and rich details of the legendary composer. It begins with a twist of circumstances, establishing S D Burman’s royal antecedents, and of how in the succession struggle that ensued, his father, Nabadwip Chandra, was deprived of his rightful due, the kingship of Tripura. As a result, he moved to his palatial home in Chartha, Comilla, where Sachin was born on October 1, 1906, the youngest of nine siblings. From the start he was surrounded by music.

Feminism is not being part of an organisation; rather it takes inspiration from past heroines, aiding women to feel a continued responsibility, explains Nivedita Menon’s Seeing Like a Feminist. The title is inspired by James Scott’s Seeing Like a State, where the state “seeing” is all powerful, compared to the marginal position of the feminist. This is a book about women and patriarchy , and about how the feminist views the operation of gendered modes of power. It is divided into six chapters, which deal with vital, interrelated themes. Efforts have always been made to shield the institution of the patriarchal heterosexual family. Couples who choose inappropriate marriage partners come under the scanner. Women have been relegated to domestic work , which is less valued and unpaid, despite the Equal Remuneration Act of 1976. Domestic work is more demeaning and exhausting than that of a sex worker, probably why 71% of ‘servants’ have moved voluntarily to sex work.

The love story of Lt General Prem Bhagat and his wife Mohini has now been preserved for posterity by their adoring daughter, Ashali Varma, whose life was transformed by the people who worshipped her charismatic parents. The much-admired Mohini from cosmopolitan Poona, was “mesmerised by... the kindliest and most compelling eyes she had ever seen.” Commissioned in 1939, Prem joined the Bombay Sappers and was assigned to 21 Field Company—an event that would catapult him to fame as an expert in explosives and building bridges and roads. From North Africa in 1940, Prem wrote long and chatty letters to Mohini, peppered with humour. When he witnessed the horrors of war, with lives snuffed out in seconds, he felt guilt and sorrow, emotions that he hid from her. On January 31, 1941, the retreating Italians booby-trapped the roads with mines. Prem, leading from the front, had two close shaves with death. He ran into an ambush. The powerful blast shattered his eardrum. Yet he continued wh

A new son has just risen, one who earlier refused to be coerced into taking up a position of power, preferring to start as a mere worker. He made sure that he was visible, as he went around the villages, and sat down with the aam aadmi, having meals with them and making himself quite at home. However, D day is here! The young man has been taken into the bosom of his party, and is all set to take up the reins. As expected, the party members are thrilled, and have already begun suggesting that he is meant for higher, much higher things. Whoever said a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, was obviously not talking about our political scenario. A canny old man named Polonius in Shakespeare’s Hamlet is best known for having given some shrewd and practical advice to his son Laertes. Surprisingly, if one shaves the Bard’s language of its extra fittings and trims off the lard, the advice would be just perfect for the heir apparent, advice which his mother could offer to him, in the

Somehow one grew up with the idea that only Sagittarians, like me, suffered from foot-in-mouthitis, an ailment almost as dangerous as the mad cow disease. The disease has now gone viral with prominent people, irrespective of their star signs, shooting their mouths off with nary a qualm. Makes for great entertainment, provided one does not take their remarks too seriously. Like the minister who scoffed at the idea that a senior minister would touch a scam for ‘an amount like Rs 70 lakh’. Or the son-in-law who proclaimed that ‘we are a mango people in a banana republic’, fully aware that he was part of a family in charge of the said republic. Or the suave ex-CM who spoke of the day when there would be ‘no girls to marry and we’ll all become gays’. Then came the dig by an irreverent MP, who was astounded that a woman in politics who had ‘been doing jigs on TV for money’ had now turned into ‘a political analyst’. Followed by a Union minister who claimed that ‘as time passes by, a wife get

The beauteous Cleopatra only bathed in ass’s milk because she believed that it enhanced her beauty. Age could not wither her, it is quoted. However, had her mother spoken of the goodness of coconut for the skin, as modern mamas do, her beauty would have been unsurpassed! For a nut that is hard to crack, the coconut has a rather tender heart. As a child, I remember standing alongside my grandma, as she cut up little slivers of coconut to cook, and grabbing handfuls and cramming them into my mouth before she could stop me. In revenge, she would haul me into the bathroom, and douse me liberally with coconut oil, made from coconut roasted on the stove. The aroma of that oil has stayed in my memory, longer than the oil stayed on my hair and my body. Winters in Delhi found us on the terrace, while Mum rubbed coconut oil on our shivering limbs and made us bask in the warm caresses of the sun. As a teenager, I discovered coconut milk which not only tasted delicious in curries, but, when mixe

Farhan Akhtar wrote an anguished poem on the heinous rape of a young 23 year old girl in a Delhi bus recently -“What is This Country that I Live in?” The girl, returning after a movie along with a male friend, was accosted by six drunken beasts, who decided to play judge and “teach her a lesson for being out at night with a man.” They gang-raped her, brutalized the duo with iron rods, hiding behind tinted windows, and finally hurled them, unconscious, on the road. The young girl lies in a coma, her internal organs in chaos, as a large part of her intestines have been removed to prevent gangrene. As she fights for her life, mammoth protests have been launched across the country by deeply moved citizens, shell-shocked at the tragedy. Three of the accused have been arrested and have confessed to their guilt. “Hang me!” says one fiend. The other pretends that he is ashamed as he has “committed a big crime.” Can they ever fathom the depth of the damage they have caused to a young girl wh

America has just emerged from a gruelling election, and once again, Barack Obama has come out on top. As Americans celebrated, Mitt Romney congratulated his rival, even as he spoke of having fought hard, and of working together with the president to take America ahead. When Obama appeared, the applause echoed around as people cheered for the man who was president again. Then the magic began, as Obama addressed his countrymen, in accents simple and moving, the beauty of his words competing with his sincerity. He spoke as if his speech could have no ending, about gratitude, progress and togetherness, every word clearly measured. His silver-tongued oratory left goose-bumps and teardrops in their wake. We Indians watched in envy. Where were the master politicians back home? History had Gandhiji, Jawaharlal Nehru, Patel, Rajendra Prasad, Tilak and Gokhale. Nehru’s ‘Tryst with Destiny’ speech equalled all great speeches made before. His daughter, Indira, rose above the epithet of ‘goongi gu

Some days I am up with the lark! Days that are rare, I concede, but once I am up, I go for an invigorating walk. The breeze blows gently and the world sparkles at that hour. I soon find myself surrounded by walkers of all sizes, shapes and ages. An Olympic- style walker whizzes around the block at the speed of light, arms akimbo, staring ahead in fierce concentration. There are no short cuts in his book, and by the end of his marathon, he is puffing like a chimney, sweat pouring profusely off his brow. A rotund old gentleman waddles ahead of me, with a strangely jerky walk. At one point he stops, looks around furtively, and takes out a plastic cover from within the recesses of his shirt. He proceeds to pluck flowers that grow strategically under a board that states baldly, 'Please do not pluck flowers!' A young girl jogs past, headphones and an attitude cutting her off from the rest of the world, as she goes by! She does not believe in niceties, not even deigning to wave to t

The nation has the right to be disgusted! How can the Chief Minister of a state stand up in front of a large crowd and talk disparagingly about the wife of a fellow minister, calling her a 50 crore girlfriend, the snide note in his voice and the sneer on his face giving out the same message... "I am invincible! Hence, I can talk rubbish and get away with impunity!" Maybe a new commandment needs to be tagged on within political circles - Thou shalt not insult thy fellow politician's wife! And this is not the first time the man has shot his mouth off. Earlier when a journalist asked him about why women in his state were malnourished, he aimed another salvo that bordered on idiocy, expounding on how girls were beauty conscious and not health conscious, and hence, resorted to dieting, by refusing to drink milk. What he forgot to add was the very same girls had no food to eat in the first place! Much akin to Marie Antoinette’s “Let them eat cake!” retort! The aforesaid lady&#