The Barren Woman

The Barren Woman

They called her “baanjh”

The barren earth

Who couldn’t bloom a little flower.

A beloved grandson

Who would help them

Cross “Vaitarni” after death.

Putting her eggs under scanner,

While the test for their virile son proscribed.

They dragged her to the Guru’s cave

for the grant of their heart’s desire.

With greasy dirty hands,

He felt her all over

And said that he would cleanse her

of her previous birth’s sins.

As the evening chants grew louder

and the twilight deepened,

the Guru repeatedly raped her

and her cries drowned in the din.

At dawn, shutters were opened

And the acolytes dressed her up.

With “blessings” planted,

She was handed over at once.

Now cleansed by Guru

She should hopefully conceive

And put an end to the shame

of being a barren womb.

- Neha Bansal

Urmila

Urmila

While feminists sing Sita’s blues

Decrying Rama’s spineless back,

The traditionalists try to justify

Keeping Rama in his times and context.

The little sister of Janaki

is never talked about.

The languishing wife of Laxmana

who for fourteen years was left behind.

Honouring his fraternal ties,

when he followed Rama,

the world extolled his supreme devotion

and relinquishing the princely charms.

But no one cares for his lonely wife

who embraced sleep at his command.

For fourteen years, Urmila slept

And dreamt dutifully his share of dreams

While he stood wide awake

To guard outside Rama’s hermitage.

Her tender dreams of honeyed love

Turned sour by his departure

Even the sweet embrace of sleep

Couldn’t provide any succour.

The long unloved fourteen years

brought fine wrinkles and grey hair.

Urmila sleeps on her palatial bed,

her nuptial dreams sacrificed at duty’s altar.

                                                    - Neha Bansal

Flaming June (1895) by Lord Leighton

Love song of Hidimbi, the forest-dwelling wife of Bhima

Love song  of Hidimbi, the forest-dwelling wife of Bhima

I saw him by the Parijat tree

fragrant and wild eyed,

As he walked to and fro

by the sleeping shades of five.

Asked to lure the humans,

the delectable meat.

my cannibal brother,

relished with great appetite.

But one look at him

on the Asvin poornima night,

I was heady with love

in the bower of milky light.

Forgetting my sororal bonds,

the stranger I approached.

My gait coy, eyes downcast

this feeling hitherto, totally unknown.

Gazing at my swarthy face,

his dark eyes gleamed.

he eyed me head to toe

appreciatively, or so, it seemed.

True to my tribal blood,

I couldn’t hold myself back.

And, declared by unabashed love,

to the amusement of brothers now awake.

He blushed like a girl,

this mighty son of God

and went to stand by his mother,

who to her son’s rescue, came to the fore.

With a regal bearing, this fair woman

asked me my name.

To what lineage I belonged?

And, what was my claim to fame.

I was irritated by her scrutiny,

her gaze mocking my Non-Aryan blood.

I could see her cold condescending eyes

But his gentle smile warmed me up.

“ I am the princess of this vana,

Hidimbi my name.

Sister to the mighty king Hidimb,

whose bravery will put most men to shame.

We ride tigers, tame elephants

And hunt humans for meat.

But, will forgo my cannibalistic ways

O, mother! If your customs so insist.”

Before Kunti could open her mouth,

I saw Bheema quickly move.

He fought with my mighty sibling,

my loyalties torn asunder.

Betraying my flesh and blood,

I prayed for the man I had just met.

And, as my brother laid dying

A single tear was shed.

“Was this the brother thou boasted about

Who had sent thee?

Look, I have killed him with my bare hands.”

How Bheema taunted me.

But, Kunti intervened this time

The most unexpected ally,

She chided her beloved son

and hugged me tightly.

“O daughter, thanks for warning us,

Thou may return to thy tribe.

My son, here will escort thee back,

to thine home’s safety”.

I looked at him entreatingly

as he walked with me.

Silent now but with a tender gaze,

his face changed totally.

No more the fierceness of battle,

no more that sardonic gleam,

He clasped my hand in his large ones,

and confessed his love for me.

By the river, in the grotto

we bowed our heads in my family shrine.

Outside, in dawn’s honeyed light,

He vowed to be forever mine.

My modest hut with Asoka scarlet flowers,

gave us the conjugal bliss.

We heard the cooing of doves,

my fragrant body entwined with his.

My beloved told me of their travails,

about their Lakshagraha flight,

running from their scheming kin,

denied their legitimate right.

Kunti came searching for him

with her other mighty sons.

Arjuna with his Gandiva ready

to rescue his dada from the cannibals.

We welcomed them with folded hands,

my lord and I.

As the queen of this verdant forest,

gave asylum to the mother of five.

Thus, the kshatriyas settled with us,

with royal sophistications at bay.

But, atleast they were safe here,

my mother-in-law mulled each day.

A year of unadulterated joy was this,

the foresters loved their guests

and then little Ghatotkacha arrived

to everyone’s sheer delight.

He had big almond eyes,

on the full moon face.

The stoic grandma also beamed,

singing lullaby with great tenderness.

Wearing, the tribal feathers,

the ten month old  moon-faced baby

was fed with the first morsel,

as per the tradition of his dad’s family.

Why, then Bheema looked so sad

As he came to me that night,

His favourite Mahua untouched

he just held me tight.

The following day, they were to leave,

the mother and the brothers five.

And clearly the tribal mother-son duo

didn’t belong to Hastinapur’s high life.

I wasn’t the kshatriya queen

who would be so admired.

My dusky looks and curly mops

would jeopardize all that was desired.

The five were a unit,

like a closed fist.

And, like a self effacing wife,

I must not resist.

Wails of Ghatotkacha, my silent sobs

and the wetness of Bheema’s red eyes.

None could move the steely determination,

and minute by minute all hope dies.

And, then they left us,

on the cold amavasya night.

As my husband gave us one last glance

in the earthen lamp’s flickering light.
                                             - Neha Bansal

(Painting by: Neha Bansal and Dhruw Singh)

Hiraeth : mint chutney made by my mother

Hiraeth : mint chutney made by my mother

Mornings are no longer

those languorous times,

when the sweet dreams of the night

gave way to trays of breakfast in bed.

Aalu Parantha and white butter

with mint chutney so heartily prepared

on “Sil batta” my mother received in dowry.

Juliennes of ginger, minced garlic

bunches of mint with a hint of chilly

crushed together under the ancient stone

with just enough pressure,

a skill perfected over years.

So different from the one I make-

the homogenous paste

prepared in haste

in the mixer grinder

to spread on a hurried toast

gulped down with an insipid green tea.
                                            - Neha Bansal

Bangles

Bangles 

Turquoise green, they come in the box,

made of Lac and studded with pearls.

Oh! Look at those purple glass ones,

so proud of their beady swirls.

These in their silvery metal sheen,

compete, for attention, with their sequined sisters.

The royal elephants on pink enamelled beds

bring out collective gasps of desire.

As the choodiwala displays his ware,

women in our street, line up for the treat.

Vermillion red or golden hued,

their jingling sound so sweet.

While, Mothers and daughters, sisters and wives

exult with their treasure in pure delight,

We, the shaven headed widows,

with unadorned wrists, cry

silently at our plight.
                               - Neha Bansal

Ahalya

Ahalya

 Why does her husband feel different, tonight

with passions galore?

The stony gaze has given way

to the roving admiration.

The embrace is warm and comforting

as sitting by a bonfire.

The silken eager touch so different

from the ennui of a bored lover.

The sweet nothings he whispers tonight

are nothing like the hitherto silent rituals.

Who, then stands at the door, with ashen face,

When he loves her so??

The fury of the Rishi knew no bounds

as he eyed both.

While the defiled wife cringed with horror,

Her beguiler tried to flee.

Covering her nakedness,

Ahalya stammered to explain.

Silenced as she turned to stone

and cursed to remain so.

Summers baked, winters froze

And rains washed her rigid self

as she stood rooted

to the very same spot.

Who did her greater harm

Her stony self wondered.

Was it the shape shifter

Who gave her the night of bliss

Or her lord of many wedded years

Whose rage made her Still.
                                        - Neha Bansal

(The poem is a voice of Ahalya, the beautiful wife cursed to be a stone, by her "saint-husband", Gautama Rishi as he found in her bed with Indra, disguised as Rishi himself. While lord Indra was punished in a very humiliating manner, Ahalya was given no chances to explain. She was just shut up!! muted!! Her original form could only be revived by the touch of Lotus feet of Lord Rama. )

a flower crushed..

Under the amaltas tree

The yellow blossoms

Adorned a little bride

In an innocent childhood game

of marrying the boy next door.

She clasped his pudgy fingers

amidst marigold confetti,

simulated the sacred satapadi

around the flaming pile

of deep gulmohar fire.

Now lying by his side,

Watching the sky turn red

And lilac and indigo,

She weaved her dreams

In floral patterns

of cherished hopes and

joyous future.

Night now and reluctantly

giving up her playmate’s company

she walked back home

chasing the glow worms

when those rapine hands

snatched away her childhood

crushed the petals

pilfered her dreams

outraged her modesty

violated the flower

of her being...

- Neha Bansal

In Praise of Right To Education (RTE)

Raju can’t go to school

because there are barriers.

A  mental  barrier of prejudice

which only see those polio stricken legs

and a physical barrier of

a steep flight of stairs.

But no one knows

the song in his soul and

the magic in his heart

which makes him wonder at the

green grass and the phases of the moon.

And then came the RTE

which cleared away all the barriers,

walls of prejudice and steep steps of exclusion.

Now,  Raju  goes to school

and his teacher tells him

about the colours of the rainbow

which make Raju’s paintings vibrant

and his songs dulcet. 
-Neha Bansal

The acid attack

Hers was not the “face that launched

A thousand ships” but certainly could singe

envious hearts of the dusky damsels,

though prettier, eclipsed against her

“Fair and lovely” charm in a country crazed

by the porcelain pale skin and light eyes.

A darling of all neighbourhood aunties

And secretly of uncles as well,

 She walked with a bounce

of youth and smug confidence.

She walked on a rose-petalled path,

discouraging lovelorn offers

With the ice perfected over precocious years,

Happily ignorant of the bitterness

Of unrequited love and the

Smouldering murderous rage

Being carried in a vial every day.

- Neha Bansal

Arranged Marriage: the old fashioned way

He went there with his five aunts

and three brothers-in-law.

The banarasi-clad aunts spoke a lot,

the co-brothers a little

and the groom not at all.

He sat almost broodingly,

the branch manager of a sarkari bank,

with your average Indian moustaches.

Kachoris  with tangy tamarind chutney

from back-street Natthu halwai served,

whose laurels  along  with bhua’s 

cross-stitched table cloth 

shamelessly ascribed to the bride.

The aunts nodded approval when she

brought forth the tea tray,

with bowed head and bashful eyes,

 tutored by her omniscient mausi.

Gulping down the elaichi tea

and eyeing her surreptitiously,

the groom quickly noticed her

besan-cured complexion;

her long snaky braid, pliant

 yet promisingly passionate.

No questions were ever asked

about bride’s aspirations.

Topic of dowry hushed up but

Traditions were to be respected.

Leave taking now, the groom afforded

a lingering glance on his bride-to-be,

definitely not lost on chuckling aunts

and the beaming parents of the bride.

Honour Killing

The sun bled red at the horror

and the footfalls of human night

when he hacked his only daughter

into nineteen pieces, a gift

for each spring she enjoyed on

the courtyard swing enrapturing

the family with her glee and picking up

yellow and pink wildflowers to weave

them in to her ecstatic pigtails...H
-Neha Bansal

The agony and the ecstasy of staging a play: the experience in Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy of Administration, mussoorie

The creative hiatus that had struck me in phase 1 finally left me and I promised Joyoshi that if she takes the onerous task of becoming the fine arts society secretary, I’d definitely help her stage a play. The fact that many of us wanted to stage a play was definitely a welcoming one but the  first point of contention was what play it would be. The suggestions ranged from practically “un-doable” plays like “waiting for Godot” to very “doable ones” like “mouse trap”. Some of us wanted light hearted humour and some wanted intense play showing modern man’s predicament and travails. There were debates about “art for art sake” and  art for other “not so arty” reasons and finally I had my way by bullying others (chiefly Cyril) to accept my idea of doing an adaptation of a german play (friedrich duerenmatt’s “der besuch der alten dame”) which I stumbled upon as a student of the language during the university days. I had also seen a very interesting but very bold hindi adaptation of the same play which left an indelible mark on me.

And then came the issue of non-availability of script. The copy we ordered through library was to take at least 15 days for arrival and hence we decided to write a script based on the basic story of the play but incorporating the consummate Indian ethos along with certain aspects of western philosophy. So while there were allusions to Draupadi from hindu mythology, there were also references to “infernal pools” and purgatorial fires” (inspired from Dante himself), making the play instantaneously Indian and yet universal in its appeal.

The play explores the themes of the man’s most primordial instincts of greed and revenge. It presented us a Mephistophelian choice where Prem (Cyril) barters his soul (unlike faust’s 25 years of absolute power) for mere earthly trifles like land, cows and buffalos and this barter haunts him at the end of his life, when the Frankenstein monster of his own making in the form a vengeful Hemvati (suman rawat) comes to claim his soul. She epitomises the saying, “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” as she laughs neurotically and forewarns him of being hell herself when Prem hoping to revive an old romance, innocently says that he knows she has gone through hell.

I, however, think that the hallmark of the play is its townspeople (played by ashutosh niranjan, bhaskar lakshkar, kartikeya goel, arjun, neha Sharma, sonika and garima mittal) who perceptibly succumb to their greed, selling their souls in little degrees and do what they had hitherto called impossible. We see them coveting hemvati’s money while assassinating her character, singing her praises as she decides to bequeath an astronomical sum for revamping the town’s economy, being scandalised as hemvati asks for prem’s head in lieu of her help and then slowly but knowingly drifting towards being exactly what they claim not to be when they say “hum bikau nahi hai”. The townspeople are directed by a hypocrite mayor and his even more hypocrite wife (played beautifully by shah faesal and joyoshi respectively) who claim to be friends of prem and yet not only connive but also partake in this macabre dance of greed and murder. The only voice of reason being professor shekhar(Praveen), who after many failed efforts of trying to reason with the blood thirsty crowd, stands as a helpless spectator as prem is lynched by the mob and his wife’s (played by me) screams are muffled. 

Staging this play presented us with many difficulties. But in-between interaction with seniors, excursions with friends, visits by spouses and a myriad other pre-occupations, we did manage to rehearse and practise the play to put up a fairly decent show against all odds. I would like to extend my sincere gratitude to nakul, safi and ashutosh salil for their help with background sound, lighting and narration and also the handful of audience including the esteemed faculty and some faithful friends who made our evening with their presence and encouraged us.

- Neha Bansal

The Witch Hunt

When they paraded her naked,

jeering at her, condemning her to be the "dayan"

her ancient breasts on her wrinkled body

were wounded by the stones pelted.

Her stoic eyes surveyed the scene

refusing to shed a single tear,

rested for a flickering moment on me

and i averted mine in cowardice.

Refusing to acknowledge those years of affection,

she showered on her neighbor's children.

Denying the tangy taste of raw mango candy

that she hid in our pockets magically

and wearing of those hibiscus and frangipani flowers

with which she tidied our unruly hair.

Abnegating those myriad times when her timely interruption

saved us from our mothers' beatings

and also forgetting her "knowing teasing" look as

I eyed, courted and eventually married her only niece.

And I let them burn her at stake

for the sickness of village children

and deaths of three cows and one half-blind dog,

knowing well it to be the pretext

to grab her half an acre land.

- Neha Bansal

Requiem for the Earth

seasons changed, years passed

but the cycle of Life continued

what died yesterday, bequeathed an inheritance on today

and Death was won over.

the bountiful mother nurtured us,

fulfilled our every need....

But, today, slowly writhing in agony,

the terminal patient waits for her death,

surrounded by her sons

whose eyes twinkle in insatiable greed...

- Neha Bansal

photo courtesy : Deepak Rao

pawns

No, I am not Scheherazade,

nor was meant to be,
and i don't know a thousand stories
that would salvage me.

He would certainly behead me tomorrow,

a promise sealed with kiss.

The dawn would soon break

and end the briefest bliss.

The hunter would prey again,

renew his vows in confetti shower,

and i enslaved to an indifferent him,

would pray for his heightened power.

I want her to suffer my fate

No, she must not win him over.

No, this bloody rite must never end

and he must find a newer lover...
- Neha Bansal

devi

It was Chaitra Ashtami..

and he called the little goddesses home,

washed their feet, served them meals

and considered himself lucky

on accomplishing yet again the biannual feat.

He praised Durga and on sandal rosary beads

chanted her hundred and eight names.

While she dreaded the coming days,

singing lullaby to her never-to-be-born 'Devi'
- Neha Bansal

the infinite charms of motleyed india: a journey and many discoveries...

“Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale

Her infinite variety”

- “Antony and Cleopatra” (W. Shakespeare)

India, with her infinite kaleidoscopic variety, is a land of myriad charms and beckons us to experience it in all its grandeur and sumptuosity. For long, I have been making these never-ending lists of places to visit… and high on my itinerary was a trip to Karnataka, which perhaps becomes an impeccable smaller model of India herself, in terms of the variety she offers..

So when the opportunity presented itself, I seized it with both hands and soon I found myself flying amidst bales and bales of cottony clouds, which tempted me, not just once, to step out of the plane and take them for mattresses to laze about. Well, of course, commonsense and my dad (sitting next to me) kept me tied to my seat. Soon the view changed to those of patches of land tinctured in subtly different shades, perhaps straight out a Nerolac shade card. We got off at the new Greenfield airport in Bangalore to meet my mamaji, who on the way, talked a great deal about his grandiose plans of showing us all the places, which were mainly either religious in nature , or, part and parcel of a typical metropolitan culture.

On the first day, I certainly didn’t want to be a nettlesome guest and decided to play along. He took us to the famous Tirupati shrine (in Andhra Pradesh), where I wondered for the “nth” time that how even “darsana” of the deity depended upon a person’s social standing or paying capacity. While we could manage it with in half an hour, I saw these long serpentine queues moving at a painfully slow pace, if , at all.

Day 2 was relaxed, with my mamaji making plans to visit yet more “mandirs” and malls and I knew it was time, I put my foot down and remind him that I would rather have an eclectic variety of things. He was clearly annoyed but was magnanimous enough to offer me a chauffer driven car and his wife as a winsome companion. With her, I explored the architecture of Bangalore stopping at places like Summer palace of the Wodeyars ( built to look like a smaller replica of Windsor castle in England), Vidhan Soudha, the seat of state legislature, built in what is often described as “neo-dravidian” style and High courts. I was amazed to see people talking in almost impeccable hindi and women sporting salwar kameez (when I had expected them to wear nothing but sarees). The ubiquitous gold jewellery minus any stone or enamel work also captured my attention but it was the love for good food, ranging from dosa , dal vada and gobi Manchurian on street food carts to the seven course meal, in the most opulent (read expensive) restaurants that made me explore Bangalore even more keenly.

The next day, we started for Mysore, where apart from the obvious places of interests like mysore palace, St. Philomena’s church, brindavan gardens and mysore zoo, the thing that most elated me was this rare opportunity of seeing paintings of Raja Ravi varma, exhibited in Jaganmohan palace. I moved mesmerized from the scenes depicting Sita, cringing away in fear as Ravana slices Jatayu , to the wild and untamed beauty of Kalidasa’s Sakuntala, before she met Dushyanta. Another memorable adventure (or, rather, misadventure) was the travails of trying to climb this mammoth Nandi bull statue on Chamundi hills. It is believed that if you whisper your fondest wish in his ear, he would take it to straight to lord Siva. See! The “sifarish” seems to work with Gods too, or so we mortals like to believe.

Eating “medu vada”, a delicacy of mysore in a small dilapidated shop with tea while the rains poured cats and dogs was yet another delight whose memory and almost lingering taste wouldn’t wash off for years to come.

Day 4 promised a good weather and I decided to stay in Bangalore itself and explore the state’s emporium for handicrafts and handloom. Under the brand name of “Cauvery crafts”, it offered me a gamut of objects to buy and covet (for many were clearly out of my range). I bought many papier-mache masks of kathakali dancers and a couple of silk sarees from there. A visit to Bannerghatta National park made me exclaim with joy as I beheld for the first time white tigers, who apparently were in the “mood for love” and definitely not very happy with our lack of discretion and audacious curiosity.

Traveling in and around Bangalore and often in the country side, I marveled at the abundance of small ponds filled with lotus and water lilies, which later made me appreciate Monet’s impressionist paintings all the more. Another thing that stuck me was the symmetry and colour of “mysore tiles”, varying in hue again with the subtletly present in colour “shade cards” alone, decking the roofs of so many homes. With the succulent verdant green background these red roofed homes were really inviting in their basic simplicity.

On the penultimate day, after my strong (read stubborn) insistence, my mamji finally allowed us to travel to see what I had been dreaming for days- the temple art and architecture of hoyasala dynasty, about whose splendour I had been reading for many many years in my history textbooks. These temples in Halebidu and Beluru , built in black schist stone, based on a stellate ground plan, filled with intricate sculptures and friezes were rapturously exquisite. Those yakshas and yakshinis, sensuous dancers, not to forget the menagerie of elephants, lions, horses almost came to life and I moved enthralled, admiring the hands that chiseled these and yet claimed no glory in terms of their authorship. On our way to these temples, we also stopped at Sravana Belagola, where these never-seem-to-be-ending stairs finally took us to this 57m tall monolithic stone statue of Bahubali, claimed to be the tallest in the world. Right opposite to this was Chandragiri hills, named after the famous mauryan king, Chandragupta. Its claimed that it was here, he after converting to Jainism, meditated and breathed his last.

My trip was coming to an end and I wanted to make peace with my much antagonized manaji. So as a reconciliatory gesture I proposed a short trip to Bangalore ISKCON temple, which had the desired effect and my deeply religious uncle was smiling once more, even sharing many jokes and anecdotes. I ended my tip with the most sincere and heartfelt apology for all my obduracy and the inconvenience I had caused them and also an equally earnest gratitude for their being such hospitable and gracious hosts and helping me take one step further in discovering my myriad faceted India.

prithvi bana: an apotheosis of shakespearian fool

'That, of course, is the great secret of the successful fool - that he is no fool at all.'

-Isaac Asimov, Guide to Shakespeare.

A discerning reader of Shakespeare can't help but draw parallels between Shakespearian dramatic world and the phantasmagoric hindi cinema. However, our traditional fools (read comedians), much unlike those of shakespeare, have rarely risen above slapstick comedy, horseplay and bawdy language.

In recent years, however, this one-dimensional, monochromatic "flat" character has not only gained dimensions but also colours. The apotheosis of which could be seen in Anurag Kashyap's "Gulaal", where we encounter subversive songs and sarcasm dripping tirades of Prithvi Bana, perhaps the lone voice of conscience in the general melee of 'blood and mire', underneath whose apparently foolish and meaningless acts, we discover acerbic wisdom, the efforts and travails of a man forced to be relegated to the background by the people racing to fulfill their vested interests, ventilating their angst or satisfying their bruised ego.

Much like Shakespearian fool, he comments incessantly on the events, unremittingly trying to change them... but, much like Shakespearian fool, he is also rendered incapable of altering the course of events and 'restoring the wasteland'..

slumdog millionaire: confessions of a movie addict :-)

my first reaction to the movie was of extreme uneasiness and revulsion... and an overwhelming desire to escape once again to the world of "twilight" (the movie i watched a few hours before), to savour the sweet slow romance, to be oblivious to the stench, squalor, sordidness of slums... infact to be the oblivious of their very existence and to the fact that the world is not a very nice place to be in, if one is left all by herself to fend for... in the movie we follow the protagonist jamaal and "his two fellow musketeers" in their travails and vicissitudes, almost in a picaresque manner... imagine a life where even survival becomes a fight and only the fittest survive...others are blinded to gain alms or raised to satisfy others' lusts....

infact i concur with an excellent observation of a friend of mine when he said that had it not been for his older pragmatic (though often deceiving ) brother, jamaal may have also been preyed upon.The initial revulsion at the grossness of jamaal's passion for amitabh bachchan and the deluge of expletives wore off gradually as we travel back and forth in time to discover and marvel at each anecdote which comes along with his each correct answer... the stories gory and incredible, tear jerking and goosebumps raising!! the demonism of maman, the goon who blinded little kids seemed no different to me from the spohisticated malice of the host of the show. infact the entire world seemed to be such a wrong place to be in. And amidst all this The thing that touched me the most in the movie was jamal's unceasing love for latika, the hindu girl, for whom he walked many many extra miles..the girl for whom he dared to trespass the red light areas and even the house of a local DON.. It was very heart warming to see such lambent love  even if it exists merely in literature and cinema. 

Supported by a very powerful background score, this movie lived upto the expectations that were built around it. However i didn't find the usual mellifluence of Rehman in the songs of the movie. but then again, to give the devil his due, i think the songs were commensurate with the social strata it was depicting.... which brings me to yet another very disturbing question. Is it a mere coincidence that the west loves all those movie which either show india as a land of mysticism or as that of abject poverty? or are we being the victim to yet another kind of "orientalism"?? The image of the seamy side of india is being endorsed deliberately or unwittingly?? its almost like most indians believing every pakistani wearing pathani suit, chanting anti-india slogans, sitting amidst rubble and Ak-47S in dilapidated squalid buildings which have a crescent made rising from their dome. As the suave charm of islamabad is very much a reality, so is the rising middle class of india, something consipicously absent in the film. Then why is it that the west appreciates only such images which present india in a very unprepossessing light. Many of us would argue about the truth of these images and would tell me that they are a fact and not fiction....something i can't deny in even my rose-coloured image of india. my only problem is why only such images are endorsed and appreciated... all in name of realism...

All in all, the movie makes one think a number of things which one has probably shirked for so long.. it takes you right in to the middle of squalor, the poverty, the ugliness and all those things that makes a common man and not to mention the government uncomfortable. And yet the feel-good element which takes jamal from rags to riches inspite of all his travails and troubles,  manages to warm us up as we join the throngs of crowd to cheer him and the invincible spirit of man. i hail the movie with both thumbs up!! 

the multi-tasking indian women

An eight armed Goddess!!  With a ladle in one hand, while a laptop adorns the other, a diaper blooming on her open palm as she cradles her little child in the crook of her other arm. A watering can dangles from those deft fingers, as she balances the tray of cookies and other goodies, and tries answering the phone call of her boss, with one gloved hand making its way for the cake baking in the oven. 

No, its not an animated movie with special effects, nor has Goddess Durga, the primeval feminine "shakti" condescended to grace thee with her presence!! Its the image that conjures up in my mind almost magically, the minute the phrase "multi tasking indian woman" is mentioned.

Being a woman in India is as challenging if not more than being one in another country with tons of laundry to be done, shopping to be shopped, that delectable sumptuous platter to be presented as per the preferance of pizza loving billu and pinki, "dal roti" sasu maa, "mughlai" hubby, and thai curry- ardent  guest who had chosen to make himself "atithi deva" that very day and would very much like to encroach upon bhabhi ji's hospitality.. :-)

and to top it all, imagine those incessant calls from the boss  ( even when the leave has been duly taken), for this and that and this!! while the little "slice of her heart" clamours for attention and the darling husband playing romantic by losing all his shirt buttons!! 

India, a society in transition, still has to wake up to the idea of fair divison of labour as with the educational and economic advancement of the woman, the "best" of both the worlds is "blessing"  her with the windfall.

Therefore, the multi-tasking "superwoman" goes round and round, using all her wits and not to mention every ounce of her energy to complete her Sisyphus- tasks only to find many more springing up as from the little droplets of evil blood in ancient lores,  many headed Hydras gestate!! the demons which need a goddess with her eight arms to combat and to be finished!!

Having proven their mettle in ever field, Indain women have to crusade  against a more formidable foe. Having conquered prejudices, which doubted her capabilities, she now has to conquer "heightened expectations" which prove a more arduous task than any of those given to Herakles himself..

The expectation of being an exemplary leader or a helpful team mate at the work place, along with being an equally dexterous housewife on the domestic front... the expectation of being an understanding peer and following the ideals of being a perfect wife, which as per indian tradition are  "to counsel her man like a judicious magus, to run errands for him like a slave girl, to feed him like his mother would and to pleasure him like a courtesan"

But the question that arises is whether any human being - especially the one that has been called "the weaker sex" for such a long time, really capable of accompolishing all these tasks, while maintaining her cheery benignity and not to forget her makeup- those waxed arms with french manicured nails??

Is it humanly possible for her,   "the weaker vessel" to swim among the sharks just like her man does at her work place and yet must come home all smiling to do a sink full of dirty dishes and basket full of laundry clothes?? Is it humanly possible for her to bring out of her cornucopian horn (or akshayapatra if u prefer), toothsome food which would please the varying palates??

If its not humanly possible and yet she accompolishes these herculean tasks, then the epithet - "eight armed durga" is hardly a misnomer!! :-)

p.s.  i started this one as a serious essay but its just that i feel too blithe right now to add a didactic note to it :-)