So much to read, so little time

I usually enjoy the cliché of making resolutions at the start of a new year; and I have to say, I’m not entirely useless at sticking to them (this could also be because I make resolutions that are vaguely worded and therefore, easy to convince myself of having kept).

This time, apart from the more personal resolutions, I have decided to make a reading list for the year. There are so many genres and regions to explore, so many authors I keep putting aside for later, authors I haven’t read enough of, classics I have forgotten or stopped reading halfway, books that I should at least try once. Also, I love making lists. So here, in all its itemized glory, is my Booket List For 2013:

Genres to read more of:

1. Fantasy
2. History and historical fiction (especially, but not only, about World War II, the American Civil War and subsequent Reconstruction, the Opium Wars)
3. Sports/outdoor adventure writing

 Regions to read more from:

1. Africa
2. Latin America
3. Turkey
4. Israel

 Ambitious attempts (including second attempts):

1. Robert Jordan’s The Wheel of Time series
2. Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series
3. Ulysses – James Joyce
4. My Name Is Red and Snow – Orhan Pamuk

 Authors to try at least once:

1. Georgette Heyer
2. Philippa Gregory
3. Ernest Hemingway
4. Kazuo Ishiguro
5. Naguib Mahfouz

 Re-reads (individual books and series) and author marathons:

1. Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy
2. Salman Rushdie – Midnight’s Children and Haroun and The Sea of Stories
3. PG Wodehouse’s Jeeves series
4. Alexander McCall Smith – The Sunday Philosophy Club series and/or The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series
5. Zadie Smith
6. Rohinton Mistry
7. Margaret Atwood
8. Julian Barnes
9. Ian McEwan
10. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
11. Toni Morrison
12. Michael Ondaatje
13. Elif Shafak

 My year’s looking good already. Of course, since it is an ambitious list and doesn't account for my book club or the Sophie Kinsellas and Lauren Weisbergers I know I will read as soon as they hit the market, it'll definitely carry on well into 2014. So next year’s looking pretty good too.

Don't sleep

She died. The girl who was gangraped in Delhi earlier this month. It’s a bit of a mouthful, but something in me balks at calling her Amanat or Nirbhaya or whatever name the media has chosen over the last few days. I don’t need to know her name and I don’t need a nickname. If one is too lazy to spell out who she is, one shouldn’t even be talking about her. I also can’t bear the hollow thoughtlessness of calling her India’s Daughter – if at all we must be viewed as someone's daughters or sisters, should that not apply to all of us equally? And Delhi’s Braveheart – isn’t the city full of brave people – men and women – who have faced crime, cruelty, injustice, terror? Frankly, isn’t every citizen of this country brave simply by virtue of living in it and dealing with its sometimes amusing but often cruel insanity? The people of Jammu and Kashmir, Manipur, Chhattisgarh, who see violence every single day; the people who live on the streets, who try so hard to make some kind of a living - are they less brave because they’re not on the news or trending on Twitter? Since this girl's story, we know of five or six more girls across India who were raped, even gangraped, and not one of them has been called a braveheart or been so readily "adopted" by the country – why? 

Yes, something about this girl’s story touched all of us. It could be the sheer brutality of the attack on her, the fact that it was not that late at night and she was not alone, the fact that the bus was going through South Delhi and past several police checkposts. But it could also be the fact that the media chose to highlight this story and so it seemed worse than any of the others. We don’t know what finally pushed us over the edge but we’ve been badly shaken and we all hope that this horrifying incident and its aftermath will lead to social and legal changes that will prevent such monstrous crimes from ever being committed again. Yes, it's a good thing that we were shaken. But again, I hesitate to subscribe to the popular media-sponsored laziness of calling this girl a hero, a martyr, a shaheed. She did not die for a cause; she died because she was so badly injured that she could not be saved. I also don’t think calls for a state funeral, the national flag flying at half-mast, or a bravery award are at all rational. Because by falling for such tokenism, we will be mistaking her trauma for bravery and patriotism, and we will be helping those in power absolve themselves of any further responsibility.

No, we don’t need to know her name or any personal details about her. We don't need to know anecdotes about her as a daughter, sister, granddaughter, niece, or friend. Let’s give her family and friends space and privacy to mourn their loss. For us, her story has been a wake-up call, and the best way to fight – for her, for those who’ve felt violated in any way, for those who feel the fear of being violated – is to not be lazy and not go back to sleep.

I've been lucky...so far

I’m a woman who lives in Delhi, who uses public transport on a daily basis. Who, till 2008, commuted between Delhi and Gurgaon for 5 years – at a time when public transport to and from Gurgaon consisted mainly of Haryana Roadways buses that were usually so crowded that one worried about falling out and the more frequent but very shady call-centre vans driven illegally and rashly. There was no metro and regular DTC buses were few and far between. So it was a choice between standing with people pressing in on all sides (and me approximately at the height of their armpits) and sitting in the world’s most terrifying contraption. In desperate moments, I have stupidly taken these buses and vans as late as 11 pm, when I should have just called my mother and braved her panicked yelling.  I remember being huddled in my tiny amount of space with my arms folded tightly across my chest, bag pulled up to my chin, staring straight ahead, not making eye contact with anyone. I remember being felt up, groped, "innocently" brushed past, stared at almost daily. I remember telling off the men in question, and their argument that it was a crowded bus, not my private car, so I should not expect space. I remember insincere apologies delivered with a leer. I do also remember many nice, helpful people (women and men) who gave me their seat, who held my bag for me, who argued for the women’s seats to actually be used by women. And today, I think I have been lucky.

Once I moved out of Gurgaon, I swore never to take those buses or vans again, and I haven’t. But the fear has not gone away. I still hesitate to argue with an auto-rickshaw driver who asks for more money at the end of my journey – because he has dropped me home and knows where I live. I think twice before telling my office cab driver to drive a bit more carefully – because I am the last person to be dropped back on my route. Even when I do argue, as is my instinct, I later regret it and thank someone up there that nothing happened. I have been lucky. But I am constantly afraid that my luck will run out. And that fear, that gnawing, ever-present fear, is what makes India no country for women. 

Farewell, magician

When I heard that Yash Chopra had died, among the many thoughts in my head was a line from the title song of Om Shanti Om – "Roya tha pyaar uski maut par". It came to me so suddenly and so clearly that I felt like it could have been written for him. Love wept when he died.

And so did I. I don’t think I’ve ever cried about the death of a movie director before; movies, especially in Bollywood, are usually spoken of in terms of the actors, so our association with directors is never as strong. But this man changed that. He became a brand, he changed the way we see human relationships, and he did it in such style. Busting the stereotype that sweeping romance and beautiful chiffon-clad women dancing in the Alps could only mean superficial, feel-good candyfloss, Yash Chopra dared, in the 1990s, to make Lamhe, with its shades of incest; and Darr, which had us all simultaneously repulsed by, and somehow, sympathetic to, an obsessive psychopathic lover. He made Veer-Zaara (one of my favourite movies), about the quietly selfless love between a Hindu Indian Air Force officer and a Pakistani Muslim – and he made it with no jingoism and a genuine appreciation of both countries and the similarities between their cultures. And these are just movies from my generation. For decades before, he’d been taking risks, making movies about illegitimacy, infidelity, bigamy, communal riots, economic disparity. He used every mainstream Bollywood cliché in the book to tell us the most non-clichéd stories about human nature. About what that one emotion, love, can do to us, what it can make us do. Not just the king of romance, then, but a progressive, unconventional film-maker.

As a producer too, Yash Chopra was a visionary who constantly encouraged new talent, whether in front of the camera or behind it. Yes there were many insufferable disasters from Yash Raj Films, such as Neal n Nikki, Pyaar Impossible, Jhoom Barabar Jhoom, Ishaqzaade. But there were also Chak De! India, Band Baaja Baaraat, Rocket Singh: Salesman of the Year, Saathiya, Hum Tum. And no superlative will ever be enough to describe Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge, a movie that released 17 years ago and is still running at a theatre in Mumbai. But whether the films worked or not, no one could accuse Yash Chopra of not trying to do different things and work with different people. No one could accuse this 80-year-old of not moving with the times.

By the time I write this, every paper, every news channel will have said it all – an era, an icon, an institution, a legend. But for me, for anyone who loves movies and believes that they make the world a better place, he was, above all, a guy with a lot of love to give.

Movie Review: English Vinglish is heartwarming

You can teach a person anything except to be sensitive to other people’s feelings.

This one line, spoken in Hindi to a Frenchman who didn’t understand a word but still understood everything, is the central idea of English Vinglish. Debutante director Gauri Shinde uses a light, gently humorous touch to deliver a feel-good tearjerker that also happens to mark Sridevi’s return to films after 15 years. And what a classy return. As Pune-based Shashi Godbole - sheltered wife, mother of two, and maker/caterer of fantastic laddoos - Sridevi is graceful, dignified, and so, so endearing. It is impossible not to feel for Shashi when her husband and children repeatedly make fun of her for not knowing English. When her daughter says she doesn’t want Shashi to come to her school to pick up her report card because it would be embarrassing. When, on her first visit abroad (she travels alone to New York for her niece’s wedding; the husband and kids join her later), she needs to show the immigration officer a letter stating the purpose of her visit because she can’t remember the answer her husband taught her. When she breaks down after being yelled at by the Starbucks staff because she has trouble placing her order and is completely flustered by the unknown choices flung at her: still or sparkling water? Americano, cappuccino, latte? Bagel, wrap, sandwich?

Every time her husband belittles her and her work, every time her daughter snorts derisively at something she says, even when it makes perfect sense, it raises the question – why this obsession with English? Why is it necessary for everyone to speak English in order to be respected? Sure, if Shashi had the kind of job that required her to speak English, it would be a different story. But she doesn’t. And she is clearly an intelligent woman with the ability to make a go of things, she has her own thriving business - however little it may earn compared to her husband’s job - and she is a good, kind person who showers everyone around her with love. I’d call that pretty damn successful, wouldn’t you?

But years of ridicule from her husband and kids have chipped away at her sense of self-worth, and, bruised by the Starbucks incident, she decides to secretly sign up for English language classes in NY (her younger niece does find out, but keeps the secret and helps Shashi however she can). And here, special mention must be made of the script and direction - there is such good humour in the classroom scenes that one can’t help but smile even though her classmates are exactly the stereotypes expected in an American English language class – including a Paki cabbie (named Salman Khan, no less) who’s all about the bhai-bhai spirit and hitting on the pretty, single Chinese hairstylist; a Tam techie who misses idlis and his mother in that order and thinks the AIEOU written on the blackboard is Aiyyo; and a soulful French chef, Laurent. Through these classes, with the help of her new and very supportive friends and the romantic attentions of Laurent, Shashi learns to feel good about herself, to love herself again. Because the problem is not just the dismissive belittling of her job and her lack of English skills, it’s her feeling unloved, unappreciated, and unequal in her marriage. And again, the direction is so deft that one doesn’t even hate the husband. He is insensitive to how his barbs hurt her, but it somehow never feels intentional. He’s too busy to chat when she excitedly calls him at work to tell him about her massive number of laddoo orders for the day, but he will proudly tell everyone that she makes the best laddoos in India. When she tells him that people in the US call her an entrepreneur (a word she has proudly practised all the way home from class), his gentle teasing may not be what's called for right then, but it is clearly without malice.

For me, then, English Vinglish is not about Shashi learning English at all. The language part is just the backdrop to a larger, more universal story about how we treat people, even those we love; how we don’t realize that everyone has something to offer; and how we see ourselves through the eyes of those we love and whose love we crave, instead of just being comfortable with who we are. Shashi’s emotional speech at her niece’s wedding had me in tears because even though I’m not married and I've never had her language problems, I could still relate to how she did not feel loved, respected, or equal in her marriage.

Yes, the plot is a tad thin and stretches towards the end, moving along a predictable path. Yes, there are some amusingly jingoistic one-liners that seem solely meant to generate audience applause (which they did successfully) - especially at the visa interview and the airport (Amitabh Bachchan's hilarious special appearance is an absolute treat). Even the camerawork is a bit shaky at times, taking away from key moments that set up the conflict. And yes, the conclusion is a tad too warm and fuzzy to feel realistic. But ultimately, English Vinglish is a quietly strong statement about love, respect, and self-respect. And one that'll stay with you.

Don't mock, they'll block

Dear Indian Government,

I’m a little confused by your recent behaviour. The riots in Assam, the attacks on northeastern Indians in other parts of the country, the rumours of more planned attacks, the fear and panic among the people – all really disturbing and horrible. But your response? Myopic at best, dictatorial at worst. Blocking online content that is genuinely incendiary and arresting the people behind it is perfectly justified – democracy is not code for anarchy, after all. But restricting communication in general? Hello again, 1975.

Speaking of history, whom/what did you blame in 1947, 1984, 1992-3? Or did the entire world collectively hallucinate about those riots?

I think it all boils down to one simple fact – debate does not equal sedition. And if users want to discuss political issues on Twitter, then they should be encouraged to (I know I’d rather read that than what Amitabh’s grandkid ate last night, but maybe that’s just me). And blocking hashtags of relevant words amounts to online dictatorship, whichever way you slice it. Not exactly the reputation you want if you’re trying to portray yourself as the next superpower.

Technology is not the enemy (and if you knew me, you’d know that I must feel really strongly about this whole thing to say that). The people who misuse it are. Technology is just the medium to spread ideas, and it is up to us what ideas we choose to spread. I know this is very basic and any 5 year old knows this, but sometimes, I’m not sure about you guys. Instead of blaming technology and restricting its use, why not use it yourselves? To spread facts, dispel rumours, and prevent panic from going viral? Send texts to tell users what’s really going on, and give helpline information in case they witness something unlawful. Set up official social networking accounts that don’t just give image-building trivia like which random school/employment programme/power plant the PM inaugurated today, or whose death he condoled (which is what the official account of PMOIndia on Twitter does), but actually engage with users on issues that matter. If you did that, maybe you wouldn’t have to worry about blocking so many parody accounts, as you’re currently busy doing, because people would respect you without being forced to.

Oh, and while on banning lampoons, please stop using the excuse of “trying to prevent riots” when basically you’re just upset that you’re made fun of in public. Apart from the fact that such childishness doesn’t befit India's 65 years, your excuse is unconvincing and makes us want to make more fun. And really, with all the riots (and rumours thereof), rape, murder, poverty, lack of education, and so much else that’s wrong with this country, do you really want to be that bad cop who takes away a teeny bit of fun from your citizens?

Sincerely,

Swivelchair Critic (since my office doesn't have the nice, big, squishy armchairs).

But the fighter still remains

Born to poor fieldworkers in Manipur, a state in northeastern India that is ridden with insurgency. Married, mother of two. In a country that treats its women like dirt, and whose love of sport really only extends to men’s cricket. Men’s hockey and football come a distant second and third. Everything else can go to hell. And yet, despite ticking off pretty much every minority box (heh) possible, MC Mary Kom has fought and fought, all the way to an Olympic quarterfinal in boxing. This is the first time women’s boxing has been included in the Olympics, and Mary Kom is the only Indian in the ring. That’s a hell of a lot to have achieved already. And a hell of a lot of labels. Ordinarily I would balk at calling someone a woman boxer and not just a boxer. Ordinarily, I would hesitate to mention someone’s personal life or family background when talking about their sporting achievements. But Mary Kom’s achievements are far from ordinary, especially when seen in the context of her circumstances.

This is not a biography of the boxer – for that there’s Wikipedia. This is more about the shackles that bind women and what Mary Kom’s achievements could mean for Manipur, for India, for its sporting culture (or lack thereof), and for its women – should India choose to let it make a difference. Because we are famous for showering our champions with monetary gifts when they return from a tournament – and promptly forgetting they exist. And forgetting that with the right opportunity, encouragement, facilities, and incentive, we could have many more champions, and many of them women. I read somewhere that in terms of the population to gold medal ratio, India is the worst-ranked country in the world. Not exactly a record to be proud of. And given all that Mary Kom has done for her country (despite the fact that many better-educated Indians think her home state is part of China, and the way northeastern Indians are treated elsewhere in the country, it may as well be), it shouldn’t be so hard for her to get help from her government to acquire land for the boxing institute she wants to set up. But darling, yeh hai India. And so she puts her own money into it. And because it’s in Manipur, who cares?

Look, I’m not an athlete of any kind. I know only the barest basics of boxing. Nor am I in a position to step in and fill the government’s shoes in terms of doing what needs to be done. I’m just a layperson who happens to care, with an opinion and the means to air it. And I know that the people who read my blog are the kind of people who already know all this stuff, but maybe, just maybe, some random readers will get interested and tune in this evening (6:30 pm IST) to watch the quarterfinal. And maybe, if more bloggers (with a wider audience) can get more readers to watch, and if the viewership numbers go up, it will make a difference. Naively optimistic, but what else can I do? Meanwhile, Kom on Mary!