What Was I Saying?

So I am at this book launch in an up market bookstore in Delhi. Considering most other invitees are young, I opt for trousers and a red top. The pretence convinces nobody. I look like a red dinosaur. Just when I focus on the adage, ‘Live your life, forget your age,’ and try to ignore the fact that I belong to a handful of ‘above forty’ present in the room, Rickie, a friend remarks, “Did you notice the average age of this gathering?”
 Grrr…why did he have to rub it in?

Age is a matter of mind, they say. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter. Bah! Given a chance, I wouldn’t move beyond thirty. Who wants wisdom if it comes with increasing weight and diminishing eye sight? I’d rather be Alia Bhatt – confused and impulsive than Barkha Dutt – opinionated and wise. In a world where Housefull is a hit, and Yo Yo is a youth icon, wisdom is an unwanted entity anyway. Look, what we did to wise old MMS.

Needless to say, I am not a fan of the aging malarkey. It’s not that I’m vain or I miss my youthful looks, heavens no. I have embraced the fine lines and grey hair, but it’s about the other things that come marinated with age. Like, I walk towards the kitchen to get a glass of water, but return with a glass of juice. Oftentimes I open the refrigerator and wonder why I opened it in the first place!

The problem compounds if you are a writer and a social media addict. Your mind is fogged with a million thoughts that come and go like the monsoon clouds. Whoever disagrees never faced the embarrassment of, “What was his name damit?” The proper nouns go missing like a story in a Sajid Khan movie.
That said, forgetting names is a great way to destroy friendship. Forgetting the kid’s name is equally effective. As is forgetting that you met the person before.

Optimists say that our brain dismisses negative memories and retains the positive ones as we get older. For all I know, or care, ‘good-old-days’ could well be nothing but a farce created by those who forgot all about them. Then they also say that the mature don’t agonize over losing bets. And that they are less likely to try to redeem their loss by taking a bigger risk. Big deal! I am not into betting anyway.
And all the talk about the elderly being wise and better at managing emotions is baloney. Shouldn’t wisdom be a natural outcome of surviving stupidity? Why should it come along with diminishing eyesight?

This year, the ophthalmologist declared I needed spectacles for reading.
“But I can see. Except that I struggle to read the menu card in a restaurant.”
“Mam, that is because most people need reading glasses after forty.”
“No,” I persisted. “That is because the restaurants are dimly lit.”
He smiled and gave a card. “Please read this.”
Was it a donkey or a monkey? I couldn’t read. Time was when I won a first prize in the ‘needle and thread’ race.
“Can’t you increase the font size?”
He shook his head and smiled.
It hurt. The way it hurt when Sharapova refused to recognize Sachin.

If you are a woman, it’s all good till forty. Then you are on a slippery slope. The estrogen level begins to act like sensex on a day of volatile trading. The hormonal swings leave you as devastated as Tornado Alley in the United States. Your face begins to expand like a bhatura in hot oil. You can, of course find solace in the fact that Salman has a double chin.
If any, the good news is that with advancing age, the anxiety levels have settled for the better. I have negotiated pain, lived through loss, emerged stronger after illness and survived periods of uncertainty. I know things do change. And time does heal.

But again, what was I saying? Ah, forgetfulness. Truly. So much for aging.

Good Is Bacterial, Great Is Viral

On this Independence Day, AIB (All India Bakchod) managed to do what our respective governments couldn’t do in decades. They made a video of Indians and Pakistanis talking to each other in an attempt to find why we hesitate to talk to each other. There is something about this video that convinces most that web videos hold the potential of conveying powerful messages on a range of emotive issues.
When it comes to marketing ideas, tapping trends or breaking stereotypes, a web video is a powerful medium. You relate to the topic. You like it. And you share it.

The video shared by the Facebook page of ‘Humans of Karachi, a community that follows the model of, ‘Humans of New York’ begins by asking Indians, "What comes to mind when you hear the word, 'Pakistan'?" Malala, Jihad, Ali Zafar, Coke Studio and terrorism were some of the answers. The makers of this video matched the profiles of those talking to each other, making the conversation interesting. It is endearing when a Pakistani Chelsea fan congratulates an Indian Arsenal fan. The video negotiates the uneasiness with the deftness of a narrative that is engaging. I am not sure how realistic the video is, but according to a comment, ‘it left a lump in the throat and a smile on the face'.

Read the entire article  on The Hoot.

Book Bombs

In Archeology, they say, you uncover the unknown. And in politics you cover the known. But once you are away from the limelight of politics, you become an ‘archeopoligist’ - someone who loves to uncover the known. A great way to uncover the known is to publish a memoir. With the regime change, the disgruntled loyalists have gathered enough courage to come up with such memoirs. 

In four days, Natwar Singh’s autobiography has sold 50,000 copies. With sales kissing the sky, the publisher is going in for re-prints. Wonder who is buying the book. I doubt if the aam janta is really interested in knowing about Sonia’s tumultuous inner conscience. People know that politics is not for saints. In public memory, the halo of her renunciation faded with the tightening grip of the remote control. That her word was the last word in the party is known. That she was cold towards Narasimha Rao is also known. Revelations about US interference, ally anger and power equations hold journalistic interest, but the common man remains unconcerned.

However, a scandalous political memoir provides enough fodder for the television channels. If interviewing Natwar was not enough, Karan Thapar grilled Mani Shankar to confirm whether Sonia is actually stern or ruthless. Perhaps it is the enigma surrounding her that intrigues journalists. Sometimes I feel that a book is of little importance unless it is dissected on television. Since most channels were dissecting the memoir, Natwar Singh realized that ‘One Life Is Not Enough’. God bless his intellect, he now plans to write a spicier sequel ‘My Irregular Diary’ with ‘more disclosures’. After drinking copious power pegs, political ignominy can be nerve racking. On the other hand, the media spotlight coupled with sales can be truly inspiring.

Now that the Mrs. Gandhi plans to write a memoir, the media is salivating at the prospect. The television journalists can froth at the mouth, but I doubt if Sonia, unlike Baru or Natwar will take the television route. The family has paid a huge price for that one historic Times Now interview.
Needless to say, a personal diary is not personal anymore. Sharmistha Mukherjee, the President’s daughter told a news channel that her father would not reveal the details of his forty year old diary. My daddy will not do a Natwar, she says. Which means that her father has something to say but he won’t? Why so? Wink. Wink. Forget it, we know. It may also mean that she is issuing a veiled warning! We don’t know.
Meanwhile Manmohan Singh’s daughter, Daman Singh, defends her father in, ‘Strictly Personal, Manmohan & Gursharan’. When Karan Thapar interviewed the lady in, 'Nothing But The Truth' on Headlines Today, she gave away nothing. Not a word about Dr. Singhs working relationship with Sonia Gandhi. The book is unlikely to create a buzz, given that it is an innocuous biography minus the scandals.
The truth is that when an author views his own life from a high perch, the ego is likely to overshadow reason. The temptation of self indulgence is so overpowering that you tend to highlight your own triumphs. And when you do so, you are likely to step on neighboring toes. Finally, all these political memoirs will end in ‘my word against yours’.
 Revenge, a Bollywood motif, is being played via memoirs, albeit with a twist. Unlike the producers, it is the publishers who are making the moolah.

August Again

When I was growing up, I remember enjoying solitary activities like writing and reading. Acutely aware of my thoughts and feelings I was in search of a platform to think aloud.

 As it happens, people used to ask me, “So what do you do?”
“I read and I write.”
“We all read and write. What do you do?”

I had no answers. I was not a ‘working woman’. Unable to complete my doctorate, I used to wonder whether having grey cells was an exclusive preserve of working women. The prospect of being a writer was so distant, and the idea so farfetched, that I never gave it a serious thought. And being a science student, I couldn’t be a writer of any acceptable denomination. After all, a writer’s language they say - like Caesar's wife, should not only be pure, but above suspicion of impurity.

Regardless, I wrote. And I read a lot. A decade ago, publications had no interest in what I wrote. They discouraged me by restraining my pen with words and deadlines. In August 2010, blogging provided wings for me to soar as a free bird. The desire to soar beyond word limits and deadlines was so strong that I named my blog ‘Freebird’. Each time I wrote a post, I felt lighter, happier.

As luck would have it, the editor of a city based newspaper was looking for writers. He read my blog and sent me a mail asking me to meet him. It was my birthday. And I was on board. An otherwise small step was noteworthy on two accounts. First, I was able to see my articles in print, and second, I was able to tap my major in Plant Physiology by writing articles based on plants and their health benefits. One thing led to another, and generic writing paved way for media critique and political commentary. The attempt was not to condemn or pass judgment, but to hold a mirror to the way the media was behaving.

Today, after four years into serious blogging, people recognize me as a writer. The regular,“What do you do?” has paved way for, “So, how’s the writer doing?”
Apart from social recognition, I notice phenomenal personal growth. We can win an argument inside our head but when we write for readers across continents, we try to put in our best. While this awareness is stimulating, it is also empowering. Blogging for me is like thinking aloud.
As far as I remember, my mind was always flooded with little thoughts pulling me in different directions. However, I am pretty focused when I write. Hours pass in minutes, minutes in seconds. It is as if I am centered on one thought. Who would have thought that blogging can also be meditative?

This August, I'll complete four years of active blogging. Despite the peaks and troughs, nothing is more joyous than being able to press the publish button to find that your words resonate with others. There is something about articulating thoughts on a public platform and comparing them with others that can be liberating. Moreover, there is an addictive kick in knowing that people across continents are reading what you write. Nothing is more exciting than writing being a soul mate for your solitude. I might not blog frequently, but  this space remains special. The passion endures.