Dear Shri Advani by Mallika Sarabhai

This is an article from OUTLOOK INDIA written by Mallika Sarabhai.

I was asked to write about whether it was a daunting experience for me, an independent, to contest against you, a mighty prime ministerial candidate. I choose to write a letter to you instead. By the time you read this, the election results will be out. You will either have lost or won. Either way, what I have to say to you will stand.

I am a post-Independence Indian. I was brought up to value and treasure my unique Indianness, to value our Constitution, which gives equal rights to all Indians, irrespective of belief, culture, practice or language. I learnt to revel in the differences that made us a rainbow country. We are a salad-like melange of cultures and not a soup where all variations get reduced to a homogeneous pulp—this, to me, is our greatest strength.

Instead of the hunger, thirst and soul-chilling deprivations that our people still suffer, you talk of swords and trishuls. Instead of the lynching of Dalits and the rape of thousands of women and girls, you speak of building temples and destroying mosques. Instead of propagating the Hindu thought of vasudhaiva kutumbakam (the world is my family), you split our family into religions and tell all “others” to get out or live as minions in their own country.

As a proud Hindu and a proud Indian, I feel vilified by you. You have reduced the great Sanatana philosophy to a Taliban-style Hindutva. As an Indian, you have tried to reduce my identity to a single factor—Hindu or not. You let your goons, saffron-clad terror units wielding lathis and worse, terrorise us and live above the laws of this country. And above all, you claim that the rath yatra, the starting point of all terrorism in this country and the fountainhead of blood-spilling in recent years, is your greatest achievement.

Every Monday, throughout the campaign, I asked you some questions. Neither you nor your public relations people nor the hip netizens on your team acknowledged or answered them. So let me list some of them again:

1 What efforts have you made towards opportunities for education and livelihood generation in the rural areas of Gandhinagar constituency?

2 Have you used your funds under the MPLAD scheme to benefit the deprived and underprivileged in your constituency?

3 What has the BJP done to make available affordable housing to the citizens of Gandhinagar constituency in the last two decades?

4 Several lakh depositors lost their savings in the cooperative bank scams of 2003. At least three BJP candidates who contested the election this year were involved in the scams. What have you done for the depositors?

5 How would you ensure that particular communities are not victimised with the anti-terror laws that you are proposing?

6 Did the money accepted by your party’s then president Bangaru Laxman come from a Swiss bank account, or was it swadeshi black money?

7 Some 35,000 families live in Ramapir No Tekro, where there are 10 toilets each for men and women, which open at 8 am and close at 6 pm. But as they are ragpickers, they go to work at 4 am. Are they, and some nine lakh similar citizens in your constituency, who lack drinking water, roads and social security, partners in your Vibrant Gujarat?

No, Mr Advani, I am not daunted by you. I may have lost this election, but I will continue to work for the disadvantaged and dispossessed, and to ensure that their voice shall be silenced no more.

Sincerely,

Mallika

(The writer is a dancer and social activist who contested from Gandhinagar.)

Good thing that I know my cartoons!!

The signs are all there….Glugging water like a parched elephant followed a few minutes later by a mad dash to the nearest restroom, Looking like a beeched whale by evening or more or less all the time, forgetting things at the drop of a um….What was it. Having the family call me with panic in their voices when I tell them I am going on a long drive. Having my grandmother pray every time I talk to her, people looking at me with an uncomfortable silence wondering how to ask about the increase in body mass since I saw them the last time which was a couple of weeks back.

The funny part is, I keep hearing stories about how different women feel, and how their life changed in the eight and something months and more later on. The truth is, I don’t feel any different from how I felt the same time last year, Well! that is if you don’t count the crying and laughing at the same time, random mumbling, and going ballistic once every few days. Maybe it hasn’t sunk in yet, inspite of the fact that I often feel like the wheel the little hamster keeps running on, and my bladder has turned into a trampoline. Maybe it will hit me with the force of a frying pan later on. I don’t know. I am just trying to live in the moment. All I know is that I am due around mid to end of JULY. I cannot for the life of me remember which week I am in, all the calculations are incredibly puzzling. All I know is I am at the point where I am thinking ‘Huh! well, it is not that exhausting” to “Holy Crap! The House is dirty, I haven’t bought a thing, Where the hell will this go and why the hell do I need that”

The awesome news is MY MOTHER WILL BE COMING! YEYE!!! I do miss my family and friends though. It can occasionally get mind numbingly boring here and there are times when I wish to have lots of people around.
I guess there are somethings I will have to get used to. Blogging is fun though. There are times when I feel I can do this, just because I have read so many people pulling it off without trying to be perfect or knowing fully well that the occasional screw ups are part of the equation. I realize that I can come here for know-hows, how-to’s, OMG’s, No-No’s, and They say the darnedest thing moments. I know I will be alright.

The child is the father of the man!

Written on October 2006: Reposted

My favourite haunt used to be a local library about 2 blocks from my father’s office. There used to be a little nook there where all the archie’s comics used to be kept. I used to forget the world around me when I was there. I would devour 2 archies double digest in 30 mins and I was only 12. The librarian had to come and pick me up and drop me off in another corner of the library every now and then. There was a reason why I read those comics like there was no tomorrow. My dad was reading one when I was born, infact I have never seen him without one. And from day one I have always wanted to do everything just like him. I guess it is the daughter-father thing, but there has never been anything in my life so far where I have strayed far from things that in someway or the other revolve around his world. and no I am not part of the blame game. He has never imposed anything on me his entire life, except maybe his exceptional math skills and I have two lost and confused shopkeepers near my house who can vouch for the fact that he never got anywhere. From my love of literature, to poetry,history, Politics, science, totally useless trivia which came in use during quiz comps, debates, essays, writing every single thing in my life is attributed to his genes and I forever boast that I am my father’s daughter. One of the single most important reason why I switched from science to Politics today is to walk my path and live my dreams. I needed to do that for two reasons one to not end up like my father, giving up on what he is good at and living someone else’s life and two to give him a chance to experience something he always wanted to. I am exceptionally proud of it. Some of the best conversations I have had with my dad were debating the who’s, how’s and what’s of the subject I am studying. Agreements turning into arguments, thoughts turning into potential thesis, it gives me a thrill to pick up that phone and dial that number.

Something happened which makes me feel a little lousy though. The other day when I called him, he didn’t seem to know the answer to something.we were discussing about it and I knew a little more than what he did. While it is not such a big deal, I felt my heart sink just a little within me. Truth be told I am scared. When a bird is reluctant to fly or when a flower hesitates to open and absorb the world around it, it is not just because of fear of the unknown, it is also the fear that it might end up seeing too much, that it would leave its kind behind. I know that my father will always be there for me and he will always know far more than I do. But it stills sends a chill down my spine to think that there might be a place and time where I might be treading alone. It brings up questions of fleeting time, moments and mortality. Maybe I am seeing too much into little things, but the fact that I am moving forward makes me want to stop. When I was just baby, my father used to lift me and throw me high up in the air till I almost reached the ceiling and grab me on my way back. I have always looked down to see him when I went up. I have a photo which shows that. I feel the strongest urge to keep looking down even now. My father’s genes, love, and unbridled thirst for knowledge have thrown me high up in the air. I can see the sky, the world around and the stars I am to reach, but I still want to look down and make sure that he is there to grab me when I come down. And somewhere deep down in my heart I know he will be around.

P.S: He just called to give me my answer…Whooopeee….Hope you can see me dance!!!

It’s all in my head!

Privacy, I think is completely overrated.  Not that I would know a whole lot about it. I mean when you grow up in a joint family with a minimum of 12-15 people around the house any given week, you grow completely unaware of a concept called privacy.  I grew up in the shadows of my elder cousins and completely shadowing the four who came after us. The only person I know who had some semblance of a private time was my grandmother who would, well shut herself up in her bathroom. No intruding there. My grandfather who had his own room had to put up with awkward grand kids who giggled at his nose when he was breathing or doing yoga and often trooped up behind him after dinner like a pack of hound dogs salivating at the smell of stories like “Akkama and the glass mountain” or “Detective Shambu” we sometimes left him alone after he had exhausted himself to sleep. The house was like this bright light that attracted moths – my relatives of all sizes, shapes, ages, colors, and languages often descending for days together. It was  fun to be tripping over people all the time especially because it meant all my cousins would come over and we could play hide and seek and four corners all day. Privacy?!?! what was that?? In a house where hiding and seeking was extremely popular, you had to be very careful going to the restroom when you needed to take a break or even sit for some quiet time.  It was scary the number of people who thought bathrooms made good hiding spots.  At one point, after an overload of Archie comics and Malory towers, I decided I needed some private space and wanted to keep a diary…. Like my grandmother often grumbles, I must have started the venture at Rahu Kaal for the simple reason that the diary kept turning up at the place I had not hid it. I once caught my brother reading it and giggling. Oh the fit I threw that day, my mother stared at him, my father stared at him and said Tsk! Tsk! and then they wanted to know what I had so secret that I wanted to write it in a diary!!! It was a long while before I wandered that path again. This time I thought I was clever and wrote it in a secret handwriting. Things I thought were going quite well, I mean I had my privacy, my thoughts and no one knew about it, until one day I discovered my brother’s diary written using the same “Secret” code. Uh! The indignation! Well! Of course I read his diary, the fellow had no clue how to hide it properly and what can I say, I wanted to know things…..

By the time, I was in high school and on my way to college, the moths no longer came that often. The house had quietened down to say about 6-9 people on a bad day. Not that it made much difference. I had a tiny little brother who was determined to follow in all of our footsteps, literally. The kid was everywhere. It was so much fun that none of us realized that the concept of privacy still remained a tad elusive. I would often get little breaks, when the sun was at its highest and the whole house fell into this post lunch slumber, with my father on the couch snoring, my grandmother on the diwan snoring, my little brother entertaining his toes and my mother half asleep on the chair. I could peacefully step into a room and read quietly without much disturbance atleast for 15 minutes, until the doorbell rang, or the telephone rang or the little one came in wanting to watch Popeye. And then my elder cousin found college friends, oh God the torture. I would usually come home from school a little early and would be watching TV, when he would burst through the doors, drag me into the kitchen, make me stay there and then head out, tip toe in, herd his friends into a room making sure they didn’t glance around and quickly shut the door. It was like this whole swat operation and it was painfully hilarious. I figured for about 5 mins that either I was very pretty and he did not want his hunky college men with pencil thin mustaches eyeing me, or thought so highly of his friends that I would end up ogling them. Well, 5 mins later, my cousin sister came trooping in grumbling and then my grandmother!!!! MY GRANDMOTHER!!!!! well, she had to make coffee and pakoras. So much for private kitchen time or TV time. Growing up like this…solitude, privacy, alone time, they were all in my head if and when I wanted it and I didn’t even realize how nice it was for a very very long time. And then I moved to the US.

I was alright for the first few weeks. The geek was at home, we talked, did the usual things and then came a Monday. I was actually good for the first few weeks actually. The Messenger kept me in touch with family for atleast an hour or so, I cleaned, read, went through photos, and wandered around. I has a deluge of thoughts and whatnot and extremely crowded conversations inside my head….and then they started slowing down. I usually  spoke to my parents for hours together, or even spoke to myself, anything to fill the silence. When I went home, I spoke non stop. When my mother went to her siesta, I would sit in front of her with an old reader’s digest, looking at her till she woke up. ” Honey! I can’t sleep if you are staring at me!” “Oh that’s okay Ma! You can sleep in the night, sleeping in the afternoon will make you fat either way.” or “No..Appa you are playing Solitaire all wrong, move a bit, let me help you” or “What are you writing, kiddo…Oh My God! Your handwriting is all over the place, let me write it for you.” What can I say, I was determined to make things seem old again

In spite of all this I love my private times. The ones at 9.30 in the night driving my car down the highway listening to Kishore Kumar, A.R.R or the Beatles or the Eagles. The moments at home when I can sit outside or inside with a book and a cup of tea and just the world humming around. For most part I have my privacy in my imagination, when I do make them real, I lap up every drop of it.

A belly full of laughs.

You know how during weddings, engagements, random gathering of family for XYZ’s poonal, seemandham, no intentional gathering….people often get together and share these rib breakingly funny stories. I love those moments. It is that moment when your nine yard wearing grandmother, chewing betal leaves in her toothless mouth breaks into this story about some ancestor that seems so preposterous and funny, it has to be true. All the ladies lying around as if they were in some beach in Paris and the men in some corner room fully fed, watered and guffawing. I am far away from home, and father away from any gathering, but here are some fun facts and funnier stories from my side.

My cousin once jumped from the first floor onto a concrete floor because someone dared him to!

My mother once drove our 35 year old jeep onto a farmland claiming she was learning to drive.

Another time she was going around on a two wheeler and froze when a bus came in front of her. She went and eased the vehicle onto a wall. Needless to say she has never driven one since.

I once borrowed a scooty from my neighbour to test drive it around the neighbourhood and was made to write “I will not drive another’s vehicle again” a 100 times. I never let my father forget that one.

When all 6 of us cousins got together our favourite games were hide and seek and 6 corners. Once while playing hide and seek, my brother the seeker went missing. So we went in to drink our milk and continue the game. The dude was sitting on the table, smile on his mouth and 6 tall empty glasses of milk in front of him.

I was once mistaken for a boy in ooty and ogled at. Unfortunately my friend saw that one and has never let me forget it.

I have another cousin who is a walking disaster. He is 21 and so far he has been nicked by an angry bull, pecked by a cock, beaten by a mad women, fallen off a guava tree, broken his wrist on a wash basin, fallen while playing shuttle and broken his arm in two places, broken his leg, broken his other arm, fallen of a couch scared when the light went off and nicked his head, broken his foot. Security personnel have nightmares when he walks into an airport.

I have two cousins who fed one piano master white vinegar thinking it was lemonade scaring him away and perhaps scarring him for life. I have never seen a face go greener faster.

All of us were on a trip once in Calcutta when the driver of our minivan persisted in playing bengali songs loudly inspite of our pleas. Our defense, sing louder everytime. Wonder if he stopped having nightmares of six braying voices braying loudly in Tamil and Hindi.

My brother is responsible for me not eating brinjal. He told me they were fish.

I once convinced my father “Urvasi Urvasi” from the movie Kadhalan was a very meaningful song. I sang him the lyrics of a few lines and he often quotes it to people

I was nicknamed “Pickle” for whatever weird reason in school. The most embarrassing moment was when the school principal used to yell “PICKLE” in front of a full ground of students.

My father and his father are crafty. The former has a big mustache which either earns him a salute wherever he goes or has people mistaking him for one famous movie star. He is more famous for his mustache and jeep than anything else. My grandfather usually gets his way with his beard and yellowish kurtas. He has had people coming in the middle of shops, streets, railway stations, hotels and do namaskaram and ask for kumkum or something or worse, he was once sitting in Rishikesh when two men came and did full namaskaram with my grandmother standing nearby and watching this. he just blessed them and kept chuckling.

What are some of your stories?