Why I Wrote "Never Mind Yaar"

'Yaar' - colloquial Indian for 'friend'.

When the kids were four and one, I gave up my job, happily, I might add, to look after them. We were in a new country. Before I knew it, the kids were off to school and kindergarten. 

That is when I had time on my hands and that is when I first started writing. It was 1992. I wrote every day. Time flew. Before I knew it, it was time to stop and get some housework done before picking up the kids. I wrote about my childhood and teens – stories where nothing untoward happened except, they brought smiles to my face. To remember the things my siblings and I used to get up to was therapeutic as I missed those days. After reading what I'd written, my husband suggested I write to get published. I was flattered. 

I started researching writing to publish. In those days PCs were just beginning to make an appearance and here, in NZ, we had excellent (and free) libraries. I kept dreaming of plots and characters, but it was all nebulous in my mind. From being bored and having time on my hands I was on a constant adrenaline fix.

I chanced upon a book by William Pfaff - “The Wrath of Nations”. One thing he said stuck with me. He said people of different nationalities instinctively feel proud of their own cultures. There's no reason or logic to it. They just do.

I made the connection. After the Bombay riots of the seventies I'd wondered why secularism, or a different way of doing things, was such a threat for some. To my mind the riots had always seemed illogical. To witness the blind hate against people of different communities for no apparent reason was scary. These were the very people who we'd dealt with everyday, perhaps even joked with, on occasion. I did not know at the time but the riots affected me badly. I felt disturbed and uneasy in the once familiar and fun neighbourhood I'd spent my childhood in. 

It might seem contrary but having understood at last, (after reading The Wrath of Nations), why perfectly decent people become hardened towards other communities, I felt strangely at peace. I remember sleeping well that night. 

The riots I'd witnessed had to be part of the book I was planning. 

Several years later and picking up vibes from international news, I noticed, whenever they spoke of the Indians (to my mind, Indians like me), it was always the “huge, burgeoning” Indian middle class. I didn’t like that term. It made me feel like ordinary Indians were being lumped together as one huge seething and crawling mass of humanity. We weren’t individuals. 

Besides, in those days, so many Indian authors wrote about Indians on the edge of society, extreme poverty, degradation, male chauvinism, rampant corruption, bribery, superstition, religious extremism and courage in the face of all the above, that I was determined not to.

I felt the world wasn't seeing India in all her true colours. It was the nineties. Not many had written about, to my mind, ordinary Indians. I would dare to be different.

I’d write about the ordinary, mainstream, middle-class Indians.

The plot began taking shape. I also wanted characters who were idealistic and not jaded by experience. Breezy youngsters, amusing, out to make a life for themselves – that’s who I planned to write about. Normal, ordinary kids who weren’t living at the edge of society but who came from secure homes. 

I’d write about the carefree and lighthearted years of college, friendship and young love.

I completed my novel in 1993. I loved my manuscript. In 1997, we moved overseas for a three-year stint and just for safety, I printed out a hard copy of the manuscript as it was then, and had it attested by a JP in NZ. 

The book does have stories from my childhood, but not my college or university days. [I grew up with Grimms Fairy Tales as well as Indian folklore, like Babhuti, The Barber, Discovers The King Has Only One Ear It is a delightful tale - Rajasthani folklore. 

I wanted it in the book.

The characters and plot are pure invention. Today, almost twenty years later, it is published in India. Why it took so long is another story. Part of it was the fact that, in those days, Indian publishing (and reviews by Indians) hadn't really taken off. Authors depended on westerners (with a western outlook) for such services. (Unbelievable now, when it is such a huge industry in India) 

One thing I should make clear is that I had no idea when I wrote it, that some events in the book would actually come to pass. Fact, sadly, followed fiction. Before the book was published in India in 2013, for example, Indians had already lived through the formation of a new political party that gave many Indians hope. On the other hand, we had witnessed a horrendous rape. (both in 2012). I immediately realised, if I had the book published, my ideas wouldn't seem original. It didn't matter that I had a hard copy of the manuscript attested by a JP in 1997. Since there was more to the book than those two instances mirrored in real life, and since I discovered in 2013 that publishing was now a thriving industry in India, I decided to go ahead and get it published anyway.

My feelings now: The “never mind yaar” attitude is changing. 

• I don’t know whether youngsters would accept substandard fare from the college canteen, as most of the college students did at Gyan Shakti until Bhagu (the main protagonist) was beaten up. 
• I don’t know whether ordinary Indians would accept a building come up, slap bang in their faces – a building that flouts every regulation about the minimum distance between buildings, as Louella’s family did in the book. 
• I don’t know if a time will come when rape victims and their families will be able to trust the police and the justice system; if they will report the rapists, or continue trusting no one, either taking matters into their own hands and meting out their version of justice, or preferring to quash the incident and let the perpetrators off scot free.

All I know is, we are beginning to understand once more what we knew during India’s struggle for independence - there is immense strength and safety in unity. A billion lone individuals aren’t as effective as a billion-strong force.

From the book: 

Dreams That Blunt Our Humanity.

Excerpts (Chapter 1 and 2. And the chapter on Mumbai's Psyche)

A Reading from the book: The story is old Rajasthani folklore - Bhabuti Naaie, Bhabuti the Barber  discovers the king has only one ear.

Shalini, the main protagonist, goes back to her childhood home and comes upon her Daadi telling a story to her younger cousins. The story is old Rajasthani folklore - Bhabuti Naaie, Bhabuti the Barber  discovers the king has only one ear.

Writing is addictive. I am completely absorbed. Love it, love it, love it!

Muslims Afraid to Speak Out Against Jihadis? Not these Muslims

Courtesy "The Daily Telegraph"

We all know how the Middle East is full of people who call themselves jihadis. We all know the word simply means a 'terrorist' to many. When jihadis (to some) or terrorists (to others) attacked shoppers at Nairobi's Westgate mall we heard about the Muslim man who saved many shoppers' lives.

This is what he thinks about those jihadis.

Tariq Ali, another Muslim, a famous writer and film-maker isn't afraid to speak his mind either. He speaks on many issues. Worth reading some of his words at the end of this post by Matheikal.

pic from https://www.facebook.com/amnestyusa/photos_stream

And finally, Malala. Very few people openly defy the Taliban. Her interview with CNN's Amanpour shows her courage.

Why speak about these people? Fighting fundamentalism - religious, cultural or whatever, is effective when people who are most affected speak out against the fundamentalists. Muslims unafraid to speak their minds are worth celebrating. May their tribe increase.

Are Indian Men Sleazy?

To protect people's identities names are fictitious. 

On a lovely summer's day, Yasmin called up out of the blue. I don't know what it is about her but I always feel cheered when I hear her voice. I might even add that she is the glue that holds our group - a disparate lot - together.

After dispensing with the hi-s, hellos and how are yous she wanted to know if we'd like to join the group for a spur of the moment picnic. She and Vijay were bringing the beers, someone else the soft drinks and the rest were bringing eats. The venue was the beach and agreeing it had to be soon, before the unpredictable NZ weather changed, we rang off. The kids, barely in their teens, were super excited as was my husband. The kids packed a frisbie, a ball, towels, their water bottles, wore their rubber chappals and were ready. The hubby packed a picnic blanket to sit on, hats and cream to protect us from the sun's uv rays (as NZ has a hole in its ozone layer), and he was ready. I packed, unpacked and repacked some stuff to eat. Knowing the others would bring delicious fare I finally decided to take along the meal I'd prepared for dinner. Oh, I thought, mustn't forget hot water, milk and teabags. I love a cup of tea after lunch and quickly packing it, rushed to the car. Realising I don't take sugar but some of the others might I jumped out aware that I was dampening the family excitement, and rushed back in to get some sugar. Feeling a bit guilty that I'd kept the rest waiting but satisfied I had packed everything, including Equal (sugar substitute) for Nimmi and Kokila, I hurried back to the car.

We drove up to the beach where the kids ran off to join their friends. We were all meeting after ages and there was a huge melee of greetings. The grown ups spread out the seating but let the goodies remain packed for later. After a lot of catching up, some of us women went off for a long walk on the beach while the men stayed back to keep an eye on the kids and probably to behave like kids themselves while the women were away.

The beach was crowded, mostly with families. Parents were everywhere, helping kids build castles in the sand or splash about in the water, determined to make the most of the lovely weather. We walked idly, chatting and absorbing the sights. There was much to see, not least the clearest of blue skies and a cobalt blue sea. A mum sat serenely watching her toddler take a few faltering steps and fall. The little girl's face underwent a rapid change from utter surprise to monumental misery, eyes tightly shut, forehead creased like scrunched paper and lower lip trembling piteously. She looked utterly adorable and we all winced, feeling her pain and waiting for her bottled  breath to explode.

She was seconds away from a fiesty bawl when, "that's all right," said mum mildly, adding brightly, "Up you get." We stood there, watching in suspense. It worked like magic. The little girl forgot to cry, got up, took a few faltering steps, fell again and to our utter surprise this time, smiled at mum.

"Oh, well done, mum," said Yasmin softly to our group, breaking the spell. I couldn't help agreeing.

"Who's coming jogging," said Kokila, turning around to face us, walking backwards. "Might as well build up an appetite." Kokila was a fitness freak and it showed in every inch of her superb, supple body.

"How about a race," said Shahnaaz, a bit plump and out of condition, stepping forward. "Okay," said Koki and in one fluid, graceful movement, turned around and shot off, giving herself a good head start. Shahnaaz yelled out, "back," and bolted in the opposite direction. We all turned, watching her run for dear life, laughing. Koki let out a wail of protest, "you tricked me," but sure she could beat Shahnaz, ran after her. We watched with wicked satisfaction as Shahnaaz reached our group of men a second before her.

We continued our walk. Koki caught up with us, exhilaration and perhaps triumph on her face and pointed to Shahnaz huffing and panting half way between the men and us. We stood around, waiting for her to catch up. We heard the chug-chug of an engine and turned to watch a boat with a man ski-ing expertly behind it. As he became aware of us watching he gave a little twist and a wave leaving a wonderful pattern in his wake. Shahnaaz soon caught up and gamely faced all our ribbing although we did manage to slip in, to Koki's chagrin, that she had definitely won the first round. We continued on our way. Finally, our faces red with the heat of the sun and the fresh sea breeze, we decided to turn back. The slow walk had warmed us up nicely and as one, we walked back at a nice clip with little conversation.

As we reached our group we saw that Vijay had wasted no time handing out a second round of chilled beers. The men looked content, laughing uproariously at some incident one of them was recounting. The kids had wandered back from their games and were sipping cold drinks. One of the men was throwing out brain teasers which some kids were happily trying to solve. Another was whirling one of the kids around. "me, my turn," yelled some of the others. One of the men had rummaged in the bags and discovered savoury stuff to go with their beers. The kids were making inroads into the namkeen. Before they lost their apetites to junk food we decided it was time to eat. One of the men fired up the barby. Soon delicious smells of frying meats and onion assailed us. We laid out quite a spread and everyone tucked in. It was, in true Indian style, a long, varied, chatpat and satisfying meal. We were finally done and cleared away the dishes.

I could tell the ladies were beginning to feel drowsy. The men were huddled together talking in low murmurs. They seemed to be hatching a plan. We watched the kids troop off to have more fun by the water. Suddenly, the men jumped up and whipped off their shirts. They ran in a group towards the sea. Some had paunches and some knobly knees but each and everyone of them wore shorts and a slight, self conscious blush. We sat up, smiles splitting our faces and watched. Then, leaving them to their fun we decided to have tea to help us keep awake.

I felt happy. This particular group of friends were out for a laugh and a good time in the nicest of ways. The men took a lot of ribbing and dished it out as generously. They were friendly and relaxed. Nobody knows what goes on in an individual's mind but this much I can say with certainty.  I enjoyed being with them. Thank goodness they were 'Normal' Indian men unlike those louts who've been in the news for forcing their offensive and unwanted attentions on our women.

Perhaps I'm lucky. Although, hang on a minute. I've come across tons of the other kind. Only, I've never thought of them as men - Indian or otherwise. Even as a young girl of twelve I remember creeps on the road trying to cop a crude feel or stare hungrily, giving me a sense of loathing and revulsion at their unwanted attentions. Walking on the road was stressful to say the least. I learnt to have eyes in the back of my head - to anticipate the moves some of those animals would make so I could side step them. Very often they succeeded, making me feel violated and angry. In those days decent men and women didn't know how to react when faced with this ugly behaviour. We felt helpless and tried not to make a scene, to ignore these louts and wish they would disappear. Unfortunately, that simply made the low lives bolder. Their behaviour worsened.

Most decent Indians are really angry. Enough is enough. Many have written on how to protect ourselves as individuals and on learning self defence skills. That still means we are on the defensive and the monsters are going scott free.

Enough is enough. We want to see them punished. With a united action plan, even if the police are hesitant to record rape cases and even if many politicians are made from the same, lewd mould, we are determined not to tolerate this kind of uncivilised behaviour a moment longer. Everyone wants these monsters to suffer the consequences of their actions. Where we all differ is the degree of punishemnt. Some advocate capital punishment and others, life imprisonment. Here's one of many such discussions on the issue.

Sadly, nobody seems to have faith in our justice system - another topic for another day. Yet we all seem to agree that this problem has to be attacked on many fronts. To my mind the challenge is this. All of a sudden, although we are not the louts and it isn't our fault, the onus is upon us to work at trying to cure something terrible that ails our society. We've definitely started writing about it openly where previously, we preferred to whisper about it angrily.

Wonder if we'll rise to the challenge of hammering out action plans. Whether we'll confront the problem as team players. Wonder if we'll make a determined effort to unite in action to send all this obscene, unbriddled and alarming lewdness permanently underground.

And as for the question - are Indian men sleazy? Try keying in the phrase in your Google search bar and see what it throws up. One of the reasons our men have gained that reputation is because the slimebags on our roads are beginning to outnumber the decent kind. Another, to my mind, is because many of our men have grown up believing that socialising with women isn't right. Hence they lack the skills to behave normally with half the population.

To balance the equation, having travelled extensively and having met a huge variety of men,  I can say with authority that all Indian men aren't sleazes nor are all non Indian men perfect gentlemen.

Beach Photograph courtesy Taranaki Daily News Online
Woman kneeing man courtesy Health India 

Inspiration from Failure

Two facts about me:

• Whenever I'm waiting for something to happen (that is completely out of my hands) the best strategy is to get involved in feverish activity. The other option is to go quietly crazy as I wait.
• I love DIY. I've never really attempted it except to wander around the isles of a DIY shop lost in wonder, awe and admiration. 

Combining the two, can you guess what I've been up to these past two weeks? I've been waiting for something (completely out of my hands) to happen. I admit I haven't stopped there. I've chewed up all my nails.

And I've made an attempt at DIY. It involved a lot of thought, planning and a barrel (or should I say vege container) full of mistakes. But I've enjoyed the process.

Here's how it began. I spotted these "ends" in the gardening section of our local DIY shop. They are clever little slotting devices to connect planks of wood and make them into containers. With these I thought it would be easy to make myself a veggie-container.

Ends

I picked the sunniest spot in our garden. It was covered in lawn but I was happy to sacrifice the lawn for my vege patch. After measuring out the length and breadth I'd require I went to the DIY shop. Feeling secretly thrilled with myself and refusing to let the slightly bored attendant get my spirits down, I had him cut four planks of untreated wood of the thickness that would comfortably slip into the ends.

I thought a single 12" plank height would do and merrily hammered a plank into the slotted ends.

After minor adjustments of the slotted ends on the other three planks my vege container was ready. But our dogs could, and did, jump in. "Nooooooooooo," I yelled which made them think it was a game. They rushed from the muddy container straight into the house leaving muddy paw marks all over the beige carpet.

I decided to increase the height to two planks. That meant emptying the container and starting from scratch. Prying out the ends from each plank - not easy - I hammered it in across two.

One end across two planks

That seemed like a good height. Only, there was one problem. Whatever I did to the side at right angles to the doubled up planks - joined them together or left them seperate - they ended up with gaps either at the bottom of the container or between planks. Gaps in a container I meant to fill with soil simply wouldn't do.

After studying the sample diagram and going crazy wondering how it had no gaps, I realised (finally) that there were slimmer planks (of the same width as the end bits) in between the wider ones. Eureka! I went to our local DIY shop and with a lot of help from the shop assistent (thank you Rodney of Mitre10) bought some the right length, width and thickness.

That didn't work either. The gaps were still there. On close inspection of the sample diagram and after much @#%$^-ing I realised that the planks adjacent to each other needed to be of uneven heights. If I started with a thin one, the one adjacent and at right angles needed to be the thicker one and so on. Finally, I had a container with no gaps. With help (which I reluctantly accepted as I wanted this to be my project) I fixed a trellis behind it for our tomatoes and other climbers.

coming right

To complete the job I layered it, for reasons I've explained in a previous post, with cardboard, grass clippings, dried leaves and hay, moistened it and topped it all off with our own home grown compost.

Grass layer peeping through the hay

After all that effort, wouldn't you know :), our dogs are still able to jump in. I'm adding a strong net to cover the container, not only to keep birds out but to prevent the dogs from jumping in. Will let you know if that works.

Half stitched net

Voila, the end product.

My only grouse - making the box was so much easier than filling it and stitching the net. Nearly there on both counts.


Here's a wise cartoon story by J.K.Rowling about the fringe benefits of failure. After completing my vege box I can vouch that the message, besides being thoughtful, courageous, deeply felt and wonderfully honest, is a hundred percent true.

Will my vege harvest be successful? I don't know but I'm willing to give it my best shot. For starters the seedlings have produced healthy little saplings. If I'm successful I'll proudly display photos of the harvest at the end of summer (April in NZ).

The thing I've been trying NOT to think about, which started the whole project off? Hopefully, I won't have long to wait to find out. Hint - read why I wrote the book.