Poornima Manco

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Public meltdowns and all such beasts

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A while ago I had occasion to witness a very public rant by a lady I had hitherto considered a sensible,level headed and mature individual. The provocation was slight and the incident a little spat between school girls. As the mother of one, she took her rage to a social media platform, and proceeded to vilify the other. Needless to say, there were plenty of supportive messages, with people giving her the sort of feedback she desired. That it ultimately led to a breakdown of friendship between the two girls, and a loss of face and private dressing down for her, seemed to almost be an aside to the main story.

Which got me wondering about the nature of public meltdowns.

In recent years, we have seen plenty of celebrity debacles played out in the public domain. Be it an Amanda Bynes on Twitter to a Tom Cruise on Oprah to a Britney in the tabloids, there has been a train wreck fascination in watching them destroy their reputations. More often than not “exhaustion” (read drugs/overwork/tipping into insanity/failing careers) is blamed and they are whisked into a facility, and the PR machine has gone into overdrive.

But what propels the ordinary person to follow suit?

Social media is a relatively new phenomenon. Our Warholesque 15 minutes of fame is nearly always guaranteed through the platform of Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and all such avatars.Where previously, we would have raved and ranted and blown off steam within the privacy of our homes, or amongst our group of friends, we can now take it to a wider audience. From a previous Facebook poster (who is now MIA) who played out the breakdown of her marriage- “I think he’s having an affair”, “I am going to hire a private detective”, “She was sitting at the next table, and exchanging looks with my husband”, “That’s it! I’m filing for divorce” to the achingly, boringly mundane postings of another- “I think I’ll have Weetabix for breakfast today”, “Green dress or blue dress peeps?”, “What a sunny day! I love my life!!”, “Off to Malaga. Woo Hoo!” – Facebook is privy to all sorts, and by extension, so are we.

The above may still be read and dismissed, but the underbelly is harder to ignore. The new breed of Internet bullies that hide behind their screens and take potshots at unsuspecting victims. The Internet trolls who have taken hectoring and intimidation to another level. Much like the lady I first mentioned, these people are too lily livered to confront someone face to face and air their grievances. So they choose to attack guerrilla style, safe from any valid justifications or arguments that may counter their narrow view of the world.

So, what is the etiquette of social media? Where does one draw the line? What is appropriate and what’s not? And who deems which is which?

A simple rule of the thumb applies here. If you wouldn’t do it in person, do not do it electronically either.

As an inveterate social media user, it’s a lesson I have learnt the hard way. I now choose to keep my private life private. It is nobody’s business, and quite frankly, no one is that interested either. Let’s enjoy Facebook, Twitter etc for what they are. A frivolous distraction. They are not for airing our dirty laundry. And they are certainly not launch pads for silly vendettas.

India’s progeny

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Two nights ago I finally managed to sit and watch, ‘India’s Daughter’- the hard hitting BBC documentary that examined the events leading up to and following the brutal rape of the 23 year old medical student, Jyoti Singh in Delhi. I was in the US at the time, and it took me an hour to locate a dodgy website that I could view the programme on. Youtube, and most other kosher sites had taken it down, following the ban in India. It made for some pretty gut churning viewing.

On the 16th of December, 2012, Jyoti Singh and a male friend were returning home from watching a film. Unable to find transportation, they took a ride in a private bus that was supposedly headed the same way as them. The male companion was taunted, beaten and knocked unconscious, and Jyoti was dragged to the back of the bus, raped repeatedly by six men, beaten and bitten viciously, and had an iron rod inserted in her, as punishment for retaliating. Jyoti and her friend were then thrown off the bus. She died as a result of her injuries, a few weeks later.

That is the plain, unvarnished truth of what happened. The BBC documentary examined the why.

Growing up in Delhi, I was always aware of how unsafe it was outdoors for girls, after a certain hour of the evening. We were restricted to our homes, or if we ventured out, it was always with family, escorted by at least one male member.

Nonetheless, at the age of nine, I was propositioned by an old man on a bicycle. A few years later, a respectable, middle aged man on a Bajaj scooter, saw fit to stop and expose his genitals to me, as I walked home after school. I had men rub up against me in temples, old ‘uncles’ let their hands wander down my back, a family ‘friend’ lasciviously suggest that I call him on his bedroom line. I learnt early to toughen up. To walk on the street with a heightened awareness of my surroundings, elbows out, ready to dodge or charge- whatever the situation required.

At the time I never sought to question why it was the way it was. I would listen to my cousin recount tales of staying out late in Mumbai (Bombay then), come home in a cab alone at midnight with no concerns, and feel a mild curiosity that two cities within the same country could be so different.

Moving and living abroad, opened my eyes to a different world. A world in which a woman could and did safely venture out at all hours. Where, what she wore, the hours she worked or the job she did, did not make her the cynosure of all eyes. Where there was no patriarchal tut tutting, no judgements on her gender, no restrictions on her movements.

In my twenty years living away from India, I heard of and saw plenty of change there as well. India was making great strides economically, and the new generations were benefitting from this globalisation. The youth of India were smart, aware, proud, savvy and not cowed by anything. And yet.

Every twenty minutes a woman is raped somewhere in India.

A silence shrouds these attacks. A silence that relies on the shame of the victims. It is shameful to be raped, it brings dishonour upon the family name, it begs the question what did she do/wear to ask for it?

Jyoti Singh was raped not just because she happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but also because she was with a male friend after socially acceptable hours, and because she dared to fight back. A woman’s place in this trenchantly patriarchal society is seven steps behind a male member of her family, be that her father, her husband, or her son. The child bride of one of the rapists illustrates this in her protestations of her husband’s innocence, despite all evidence to the contrary. The defence lawyer, argues it with his statement that “women are like diamonds” and if thrown on the street, “Certainly the dog will take it”.

The “dogs” in this instance, took with such barbarity, such savagery that it tore through the shroud of silence. It led people to the streets, to agitate, to call upon the law makers, to question why, in the 21st century, were women still not guaranteed safety on the streets of India?

Even as India cobbles together laws and fast track courts on the one hand, it bans documentaries such as these on the other. In a hasty white washing of its image, it forgets that while the rot eats away at its foundations, it will never rightfully or proudly be able to take its place at the forefront of the international arena.

It’s time to turn that gaze inward. Time to examine those attitudes, and those platitudes. It’s time to retire statements like advocate ML Sharma’s : India has the best culture. In our culture, there is no place for a woman.

Watch ‘India’s Daughter’. Make your sons watch it too.

Dealing with disappointment

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In the past week, three of my writing submissions were rejected. To one, there was no response. One made it to the long list but failed the next hurdle. The third (of which I had high hopes) came with a rejection email that complained about font size.

To say I was dejected would be a massive understatement. I considered that perhaps I just don’t have what it takes. Whatever the elusive ‘it’ maybe. I thought about giving it up altogether. Or, at the very least, taking a break from all my frenetic short story writing. Yet, with a deadline looming, I had a decision to make. Either to bypass this particular competition again, or to knuckle down, sod the odds, and submit submit submit.

Then I happened to stumble across an article that spoke to me directly.

It outlined the many bestsellers that had multiple rejection letters behind them. That, but for the writer’s persistence and self belief, would never have seen the light of day.

Consider this: Margaret Mitchell got 38 rejections before Gone with the Wind found a publisher. Kathryn Stockett’s The Help was rejected 60 times! J.K. Rowling received 12 publishing rejections in a row.

Yet, if there is one thing that binds these authors together, it is their determination, their refusal to take no for an answer.

I understand that all judging is subjective.What one particular competition may disregard, another may commend.That does not, however, let me off the hook either. My job is to refine whatever I am writing, so that, if it is rejected, then it’s not for trivial matters like font size.

So, with this in mind, I am back to writing. The other stories will languish on my laptop for a while, till time and distance lends me the perspective to go back to them, and edit,tweak and polish.

Ultimately, it is better to live with rejection than with regret.

Appeasing the palate at the Palace

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“You must try the haleem”, my friend had urged, and after a few unsuccessful forays into local restaurants, where the waiters looked at me askance, I had finally struck gold. It was in the sumptuous surroundings of the Falaknuma Palace, that I finally got to sample the rich, wheat, barley, lentils and meat stew.

It had been a bit of a tussle getting my husband to agree to this rather expensive lunch. Unless you are resident in the hotel, the only way to gain entry is to book a meal at either of it’s two restaurants. Boy, were we glad we had! A visit to Hyderabad, India, could not be complete without visiting one of the finest palaces the state of Telengana boasted of.

Falak-numa or Mirror of the Sky in Urdu, was the grand residence of the Nizam of Hyderabad up until the 1950’s, when it was closed up, and left untouched till a lease agreement with Taj hotels, and a major restoration by them, breathed new life into this elegant old building. The original owner, the erstwhile Prime Minister of Hyderabad, had built the palace for his own use. In the process, he ran out of funds, and ended up selling the palace to the then Nizam, Mehboob Ali Pasha.

As the present Nizam dwelled in Turkey, we were getting to savour a slice of royal living. With the haleem and its accompanying victuals safely lodged in our stomachs, we waddled obligingly to the foyer, where a man built like an ox waited for us.

“Myself, bodyguard of Nizam”, he introduced himself proudly. “Today, guide.”

For those in our party who only spoke English, the rest of the tour was largely unintelligible. Our guide had an interesting way with the English language, which consisted of spouting random words together in the hope that they would translate into something meaningful. Case in point: “Building scorpion. This-tail. That stained glass.” A shame, as his Urdu tour was so much more enlightening.

Unable to take photos inside, we chose instead to take away impressions. From the beautiful mirrored ballroom, to the famed dining hall that can seat a 100 guests, to the impressive carved walnut roof of the library, the scorpion shaped palace left us feeling steeped in the history and culture of a bygone era. Our guide’s parting shot was a bit of Urdu poetry, loosely translating as: “There is the sky, and there is the palace that mirrors the sky. It is only the fortunate that get to see the latter before they are returned to the former”

Feeling like I was about to return to the former, I politely declined the offer of a second helping of biryani at another friend’s that evening.

“You ate what? Haleem is only consumed during Ramadan, when the Muslims eat before daybreak. It sustains them the entire day!”

No wonder I felt like I’d swallowed a palace!

Needless to say, Falaknuma lodged itself inside of me, in more ways than one.

Burp.

falaknuma

His- story?

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Walking up the 380 uneven stone steps of the Golconda fort in Hyderabad, I heard frequent complaints from my eleven year old, who insisted on pausing every ten minutes. I pointed out all the old folk, who’d made the journey up, and were now returning.

One toothless old lady passed us by, and I said, “Look- just look at her. She must be at least seventy!”

“And she has no teeth”, added my husband.

“Well, she doesn’t exactly walk on her teeth”, daughter reparteed grumpily.

Fair point.

The sweltering heat of the afternoon sun was receding somewhat, and a cooler breeze started to reach us as we climbed higher. It had been an afternoon filled with sightseeing. We had seen the rather magnificent Qutub Shahi tombs, and then made our way back through the narrow streets of the old city towards the fort.

The history of the fort is interesting. Shepherd’s Hill or “Golla Konda” as it’s known in Telegu, was christened thus because of a shepherd boy who came across an idol. A mud fort was constructed around the holy spot by the then ruler. Over the years, and under the generous administration of the Qutub Shahi kings, this was expanded into a massive granite fort. However, when the fort was conquered by the Mughal ruler Aurangzeb, he saw fit to destroy the impressive structure, leaving little but rubble behind. It was the remnants of this structure that we were picking our way through, amongst several hundred other tourists.

As we climbed and paused, and took photos I couldn’t help but notice the litter that was casually thrown about. There were plastic bags caught in bushes, empty water bottles carelessly strewn, ice cream wrappers discarded cavalierly. Amongst History there was muck.

Litter can be picked.

But what of the graffiti I saw every corner that I turned? A loved B, and declared it on the wall for the world to see. Names scrawled, pictures drawn, defacing monuments that should be respected, preserved, restored even.

This got me wondering about the nature of graffiti.

Was I looking at this all wrong?

I have seen graffiti on bridges in Budapest. Wild, wonderful art, full of colour and mayhem. An expression of youth and of irreverence. And Banksy, the elusive street artist and activist, who even as I write this, is making waves with his art on the walls of Gaza. Why admire this and denigrate the other?

Rather than ascribing all these random scribblings on the walls of Golconda as markings of ignorance, I tried looking at it differently. Was this not just another attempt by man to make a mark, however trivial, however insignificant it may seem? If Ravi loved Savitha, he wanted not just to shout it from roof tops, but he wanted the multitudes who visited the fort, to see his love, and register, even if it was for a brief moment, his existence.

Some make forts. Some reduce them to rubble. Others make political statements on that rubble. While others still, just draw a heart and write that they love someone.

Thousands of years later, if this planet still exists, perhaps someone somewhere will try and make sense of it all, just as historians try and make sense of the early man cave paintings. I wonder which message will resonate the loudest then.

The pet sagas- Et finalement- A very fishy affair (ii)

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A week or so after the mysterious disappearance of Lotus, I decided that the tank needed a clean. Being a complete novice, I watched a few youtube videos. They seemed unnecessarily complicated, with funnels and pipes, and what-have-you’s and whatachamacallits going in and out of the tank. Some good old fashioned scrubbing would do the trick I reckoned.

The two remaining fish were deposited in a bowl with some of the aquarium water, and I enlisted my husband to pick up and carry the half filled aquarium to the kitchen sink. As he placed it down, I heard a small clink. “Did you knock it?”, I asked him, concerned. “No, no. Not at all”, he replied airily. So, I pulled out all the ornaments, and gave them a right old scouring. The pebbles were dashed with water time and again to clear all the muck off them. When all my OCD tendencies were suitably satisfied, I replaced the fish in their sparkling new home. Job done.

Then I noticed the drip.

It was only one corner, and ever so slight. But a leak there was, in the supposedly not knocked edge. I glared at my husband, who decided to examine the floor. At 8pm, we were hardly likely to find a replacement tank. If left overnight, I was concerned I’d come downstairs to a puddle on the floor and two very dead fish in the tank.

“I promise I’ll buy a tank tomorrow!”

“But what do I do now?”

We hit upon the ingenious solution of putting them back in the large bowl overnight, with the heater, and the the filter for company. Now, a filter in a 14 litre tank, does its job suitably well. Put it in a bowl, and what have you got? A whirlpool is what.

The poor confused fish went whirling around the water, chasing their own tails literally. If not of fright, they would surely die of exhaustion.

“Turn off the ruddy filter!!”, I shrieked.

The girls hurried to the task. We watched the fish settle into a more placid swim, and crossed all crossable parts that they would survive the night.

What they didn’t survive was the months ahead.

Having established that the tank was toxic, I bought anti-ammonia solutions and biological supplements to re calibrate the tank’s habitable environment. Finally it seemed that we were on the road to recovery. The few remaining fish started to thrive. With great trepidation we added a few more. Those seemed to be doing fine too. At long last, I felt I could breathe.

Even as I mourned the loss of our initial guppies and rasboras, my friend reassured me. “It’s not like you’re making a huge dent in the guppy population. They are not exactly an endangered species.” Quite the contrary. Guppies were the the rabbits of the sea world, prone to rapid population expansion, given half a chance. Which is why, I only housed males, trying to redress the female heavy ratio of our household.

At this point, with all the dramas and upheavals of our fishy friends, the girls had effectively left me to manage the tank and its inhabitants. I wasn’t complaining. I found the weekly ritual of cleaning (had finally mastered that less is more in the tank cleaning department), quite relaxing. We had around six happy fish that swum around in amiable congeniality.

***

As neighbours go, we had better than the best. They were more like family. They had been there in our times of sorrow and need. They had also been there in our times of drink, and mis deeds. So, it was but natural that the kids traipsed in and out of each others houses. When we were on vacations, they fed our pets, and vice versa.

This one particular day, our friendly neighbourhood ginger haired four year old ninja deduced that the fish were looking decidedly undernourished. He took the container of fish food, and proceeded to empty the contents into the tank. In place of their usual two or three flakes, they were only given a few thousand more. When it rains it pours. The fish were in fish heaven, theoretically then, and literally after. I was caught in an Edvard Munch Scream, and the poor mother couldn’t stop apologising.

A few more flushes after, there were new fish in the tank, bought with the gift certificates said neighbour insisted we have as compensation. I tried pointing out that at least they died happy this time. Gluttony over disease any day. She was having none of it. So off we trooped to the Fisheries again, and bought another batch.

***

Practice makes perfect, they say. In all the months of cleaning, I had realised that as long as one changed a third of the water regularly, cleaned the filter sponge in the same discarded water, to keep the biological balance intact, and fed the fish intermittently, one could potentially have a hazard free aquarium and fish to enjoy.

Then one day the filter began to cough and splutter. Nine months in, I thought I was getting pretty good at this cleaning malarkey. So I took the filter out to use my investigative skills on it. The bottom bit came off easily. That’s where the sponge lived. The top bit took a bit of grunting and pulling till it came apart. And therein lay the problem. The problem called Lotus.

I was sad, but also relieved to discover the fishy remains of our missing Rasbora, who had obviously been sucked into the filter in our absence. This also explained why most of our dead fish seemed to be near the filter, partially in, partially out. It’s powerful suction must have pulled their weak bodies towards it. I sent up a silent apology to its similarly deceased mates. Having cleaned all the parts, I reassembled the filter, and replaced it in the tank. It purred softly like a newly serviced BMW.

If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.

On a work trip, I suffered an injury. In my absence, all but one of the fish died. Why are the two related? They are not. Except for the sense of gloom that enveloped us. I had thought we were doing fine. I had even planned to take the resident level of the tank to the max of twelve that it could house. A dead filter put paid to those plans. Even as I lay in ER, the girls described how the poor fish kept coming to the surface of the water, gasping for breath. An emergency visit to the Fisheries, with the filter, confirmed the diagnosis. A new filter was purchased immediately, but the damage had been done.

Banana was the only fish that survived. Named so because of his colour, he had also exhibited signs of being completely bananas. Reassuringly, his madcap tendencies went hand in hand with a strong will to survive.

He is the oldest resident in the tank now. He has San Diego, Plum and Big Boy for company. Big Boy has been looking rather under the weather lately. I’m guessing he doesn’t have long to go.

So the circle of life and death carries on in our aquarium, like it does in the world at large. The only lesson to take away from it all is an old one : Detachment is not that you should own nothing. But that nothing should own you.

Amen to that.