Poornima Manco

Author

life

What next?

by

Two deaths have shaken me enormously in the last fortnight. It has led me to once again question why humanity is plumbing new depths. Why life is not sacred and death can spawn such vitriol.

 

(i)

I was away on holiday when the Florida school shooting happened. It was just another news item, and I read through it quickly, consigning it to the pile of mass shootings that have become too passé to even comment on. Tragic, preventable and a waste of life are thoughts that flitted through my mind as I moved on to the next news item.

It’s only when I returned home to discover that one of the girls murdered that day was a colleague’s daughter that it really hit home.

Let me explain: It’s all too easy to become inured to tragedy. After all, tragedy surrounds us everyday in so many guises. If we let everything get to us, we would be emotional wrecks unable to function. Therefore, as a coping mechanism, we start to build walls around our hearts, allowing few things to truly penetrate and hurt. This way, we function and also help where we can, in whatever way possible, without any emotional entanglement with the cause.

However, now and again, when something like this happens, one is shaken to the core. Gina Montalto was not just a colleague’s daughter, she was also the same age as my daughter. Suddenly I was one with her parents. Feeling their earth shattering grief as my own, asking the same question as them, “Why?!!”

How is it that a nineteen year old teenager cannot buy alcohol in America, and yet is able to go out and buy a semi-automatic weapon with the sole purpose of killing and maiming? Is life really so cheap that to this day the NRA (National Rifle Association) refuses to allow the law to be changed in any way, to make procurement of these weapons more difficult? Is it easier to arm the teachers than to disarm the potential killers? Are thoughts and prayers the only feeble platitudes we can offer?

It is laughable that providing teachers with weapons is seen as an effective strategy. As an interesting meme pointed out, if your child hits another with a stick, would you take the stick away or provide the other child with a stick too?

Boycotts and protests notwithstanding, real change can only come if the inherent ideology is challenged. For most Americans, ‘the right to bear arms’ is enshrined in the Constitution. As per the Second Amendment, this right allows any citizen to challenge the State if their freedom is threatened. Yet, look at the times this Constitution was written in. Could the Founding Fathers have foreseen how this right has mutated and violated the very freedoms they were trying to protect? How about the right to be able to receive an education without the threat of death looming over children? How about the right to a carefree childhood that does not involve lockdown drills and active shooter awareness in five year olds?

Constitutions are formulated by people. Human, fallible and mortal people. It is for the people of these times to decide what needs retaining, what needs amending and what needs eliminating.

As children all over America start to join the movement, holding up placards that read #MENEXT? , we have to examine our consciences and decide which freedom matters more.

If you would like to donate to the Gina Rose Montalto scholarship fund, please follow the link below:

https://www.gofundme.com/ginamontalto

 

(ii)

On Saturday last week came the devastating news of a young, beautiful and fabulously talented actress Sridevi’s death. First reports indicated that she had died of a cardiac arrest in her hotel bathroom. She was in Dubai to attend her nephew’s wedding, and had seemingly collapsed whilst getting ready for a dinner date with her husband.

At 54, Sridevi was still in her prime. After a hiatus of fifteen years, she had returned to Indian cinema in a triumphant comeback vehicle, ‘English Vinglish’. She was very selective about the films she was choosing in her second innings, and was coming up trumps each time.

Having started her film career at the tender age of 4, she had acted in over 300 films. Straddling South Indian cinema as well as Hindi films successfully, she was widely acknowledged as the first female Superstar of Indian cinema.

Her untimely death came as a huge shock to everyone.

Almost instantaneously the rumour mill went into overdrive. ‘She was too thin’, ‘it was all that plastic surgery’, ‘her heart must have been affected by the number of times she was administered general anaesthetic’, ‘she took far too many diet pills’, ‘she was anorexic’, ‘she exercised too much’, ‘her lip surgery had gone wrong’, ‘she was trying too hard to turn back the clock’ etc etc etc.

Now understandably, people were trying to find a cause that could explain away why a seemingly healthy woman would suddenly die in this manner. Admittedly, a celebrity’s life is public fodder. Yet, this rush to attack, accuse and cast her as the poster girl of vanity was already verging on poor taste. Worse was to come.

The following day it emerged that the cause of death was ‘accidental drowning’.  Traces of alcohol were discovered in her bloodstream. No crime there. Yet, once again, conflicting news stories jostled with each other for top slot. ‘She didn’t drink’, ‘she was an alcoholic’, ‘it was murder’, ‘it was suicide’, ‘she had money troubles’, ‘her husband was in financial ruin’ – gossip, rumours, innuendos, falsehoods and fabrications that not once took into account the feelings of her family, least of all her young, teenage daughters.

Morphed pictures of her in a bathtub were circulated on social media. Overflowing tubs were shown on the news. This was the respect accorded to a woman who had contributed almost her entire life to the film industry?

Even as I write this, I have received three pictures of her dead body, with cotton wool stuck up her nostrils. Enough already!

It’s patently obvious, that we have no respect for human life. Can we not, at the very least, show some respect after death?

An acquaintance of mine who loves Instagram, once posted a blow by blow account of his father’s funeral on there. From the dead body being carried to the pyre, to him setting his father alight, there was no privacy allowed to the departed one. Everything was grist to the mill of his public persona. Was stooping that low really necessary? Were a few hundred likes more important than giving his father the respect he deserved?

Indian media is facing a backlash from the public that has finally woken up to the fact that there is news, and then there is yellow journalism. Screeching tabloids, eyeball grabbing headlines have no place in decent society.

However Sridevi died, the sadness lies in her untimely demise. She had so much more to offer to celluloid, as also to her family.  Instead of ghoulish conspiracy theories, character assassinations and mud slinging, let us celebrate her rich and varied legacy in films. Let her, for goodness’ sake, rest in peace.

For the rest of us, who remain mystified by her death;  remember death is not a mystery. It is a destination. Who knows when our stop arrives?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Imposter syndrome

by

Lately there’s been a lot of  “Who, me?” going on in my mind. It has not even been an entire month since I published my book, and the response has been very positive. Much more so than I expected. Particularly as this book was only a proverbial dipping of my toe into publishing waters.

Consequently I have had people asking for the book to be autographed, been called an ‘author’ on a public platform, been asked to hold a book signing event, to donate copies of my books for a charitable cause, to attend a book club meeting to speak about my book, and also an invitation to enter it into an International Book awards competition.

Who, me?????

Now, don’t get me wrong; I have semi-enjoyed all the attention. Secretly, however, I have been unable to shake off the feeling that I am not deserving of it. After all, this slim volume of six short stories is no ‘War and Peace’. Nor is it Shakespeare. A lot of these stories are from very early on in my writing journey, and I know that I have come a fair way since then.

Therefore, I have to wonder if this is some kind of a Tsunami of goodwill that I am witnessing. Colleagues, friends and acquaintances that like me and therefore like my book?

Indie publishing is not an easy task to undertake. It is terribly labour intensive, and for a perfectionist like myself, it means many many sleepless nights. The worst part however, is the marketing side of things. Writers are by nature fairly reclusive people. Even though my friends can vouch for my gregarious and sociable side, they very rarely see the side that just wants to hole up and read or write. So, to actively go out there and promote and advertise my work, has been a very distasteful task.

When the fruits of that labour have started to come in, why am I so meh about it?

I can only put my apathetic response down to the Imposter Syndrome. Defined as a concept describing individuals who are marked by an inability to internalise their accomplishments, and a persistent fear of being exposed as a ‘fraud’.

Yes, me.

The stories are good. I know that. I also know that they are not brilliant. I am not there yet. Hence, all this attention seems overblown and undeserving. That’s the predominant thought in my mind.

On the flip side, I know that this momentum can’t and won’t last. So, why not enjoy it while it does? What’s holding me back?

I dedicated this book to my mother who was my biggest critic and my staunchest advocate while she lived. I often wonder what she would have said, and invariably, this is what I come up with:

Bouquets and Brickbats are par for the course. If you love something, keep on doing it. Give it your best, have no regrets and keep on moving forward, not looking back.

Thank you mummy. That’s exactly what I will do.

 

 

Dog and Parrot

by

Chotu or Montu or Monster had just recently died. He, of the angelic face, and the devilish temperament. Even though Delhi was relatively safe in those days, and we rarely locked the front door in the day, with the kind of reputation he had garnered, there were unlikely to be any burglars foolhardy enough to risk breaking into the house.

The worst hit was Papa. Chotu had been his baby. The little pup that he had brought into the house, and spoilt and petted till the dog became the Alpha, and the rest of us trailed behind – the Betas, the Gammas and in my case, the Omega. His reign of terror notwithstanding, all in the family missed him desperately.

So, after several months of pining, we finally invested in another Himalayan Terrier. Where Chotu had been black, Chiku was white. Where Chotu had had a fearsome temper and a bite worse than his bark, Chiku only ventured out if one of us preceded him, and that too, with his tail tucked between his legs. One was a lion, and the other…well…just a ‘fraidy dog. They were like chalk and cheese, and it could not have been more of a relief. Chiku became my baby, and I played all sorts of silly tricks on him, things I wouldn’t have dared with Chotu. While he slept, I would tickle his paws by gently pulling on his paw hair, or I would tie all colours of hair bands in his hair till he resembled a canine hippie rastafarian. He bore it all with a gentle fortitude, and my moniker of ‘dumb dog’ was more of an endearment than an admonishment.

Enter Misty.

Chiku must have been about two, and just past the jean ripping, Kolhapuri chappal tearing stage, when Papa found the parrot. It was about to become a cat’s dinner, except that fortuitously, my father scooped it out of the gutter it had fallen into. Wings clipped by previous owners, it was obviously trying to make its escape via foot before it had encountered the feline. Papa brought it home and found a dusty old cage he deposited it into.

Clint Eastwood was my favourite actor at the time, and I had just finished watching ‘Play Misty for me’. The parrot was duly christened Misty.

The first two days it clung to the top of the cage, refusing to be lured down by grain or water. Terrified for its life, and obviously traumatised by its treatment by the former owners, Misty’s chequered past blighted its slightly sunnier present. On the third day, finally realising that we meant him no harm, he cautiously lowered himself down, and ate and drank his fill. Then he let out a most delightful little whistle, signalling his happiness.

At first Chiku wasn’t sure what to make of this feathered interloper. After all, birds resided in trees, not in his home. So who was this funny looking thing, getting all the attention? Yet where Chotu would have undoubtedly demolished any unwelcome guests in his fiefdom, Chiku was more tolerant, and more than a little curious.

Misty on his part was having none of it, in the beginning. All large, furry things reminded him of his close call with the Grim Reaper. A big, sniffing, snuffling nose near his cage sent him scuttling to the top again.

Slowly, tenuously, an unlikely friendship sprung up between the two.

We started to leave the cage door open, and Misty started to explore his surroundings. Chiku would follow him at a safe distance, sensing perhaps that it was wise not to rush things. Things finally thawed when Chiku allowed him to partake his food and his water. From then on, neither of them was far apart from one another for too long.

My childish pranks were soon taken over by Misty. When Chiku napped, Misty would tease him by pulling on his paw hair, or go right next to his ear and let out a shrill whistle that would make him jump. Chiku would let out a low growl that would do little to frighten the pesky parrot.

Both dog and parrot had their own mind altering experiences too.

Our ayah at the time had the unfortunate habit of chewing tobacco. One evening she forgot to stash it away safely, and Chiku decided to chomp down on it for dessert. By the time we returned from our evening out, our dog was decidedly worse for the wear. Barely able to walk straight, he kept bumping into the furniture. Misty’s perplexed whistles explained little. Just as we were about to rush him to the vet, he brought it all up in a huge, greyish brown lumpy vomit and all was well again.

Misty, on the other hand, had the habit of clambering up people’s clothes, and parking himself on the right shoulder. This not only gave him a vantage point, but also afforded him the opportunity of nibbling on whatever the person was eating, or sipping on whatever the person happened to be drinking. A particular favourite was Mummy’s early morning cuppa. Why a parrot would enjoy sweetened chai is anybody’s guess, but that was how it was.

On this particular occasion though, Misty got more than he had bargained for. Mummy had been suffering from kidney stones, and had been advised to drink beer to allow the stones to pass. She tried her best to keep the mug away from the greedy parrot, but each time she took a sip, he deposited a peck on her ear to remind her that he was waiting. Exasperated, she finally let him have his sip….s.

A drunk parrot is a funny sight. He swayed back into his cage, his whistle was slow and long, and dare I say it, slurred? With a glazed look upon his face, Misty proceeded to sleep the day away. I didn’t envy him his hangover either.

So it was that we were a happy family of assorted characters, human, animal and fowl, chugging along in a strange, discordant harmony.

All good things must come to an end.

Chiku died at the age of three. Parvovirus struck him down and took him within 24 hours.

Distraught, Misty would go from room to room, looking for his playmate. His whistle sounded melancholy now, and he was thinner and sadder in appearance. His wings had grown back, and we didn’t have the heart to clip them again. His attempts to fly away became more persistent and frequent. We worried that a bird that had been captive almost all its adult life would not be able to survive outside.

One day, upon spying a carelessly left open door, Misty took his chance and flew out into freedom.

Day after day, Mummy would stand on the balcony and call out, “Misty….Misty….”, in the vain hope that he would return. Of course he never did.

We had no more pets after Chiku and Misty. Life would change dramatically in the subsequent years. I would leave for a job abroad, and my mother’s health would fail till in a few years she would be no more.

Yet those crazy, sunny, love filled years would become an indelible part of the past I would look upon fondly. Chiku and Misty, and their unlikely friendship, a story I would tell my daughters every time we went back to Delhi.