Eggplant roast and lizards made of dough...

In a rare cooking spree, I made baingan bharta, tomato chutney and veggie-chapati today. The thunderstorms and rain in the background, and the smell of roasted eggplant rising up in the air, took me back to my childhood, where, in a similar setting, Ma instructs our "rannar mashi" (cook):  "Shoni Mongol  baar e begun porano bhalo. Aji begun ta redhe felo, Mashi". (Tranlates to: It's considered good omen to roast eggplants on Tuesdays and Saturdays. So let's roast that eggplant today.)

In a strange coincidence, today is Tuesday too...and although I have no idea which of the gods I have pleased with a roasted eggplant on Tuesday, I feel so grown up! I made chapatis for the first time...and a special mini one for the little girl in the house, just like our "rannar mashi" used to make for me.

We don't realise how we're creating memories everyday. Even an ordinary day can come back to us, years later...to make us feel extraordinary! Here's hoping that I am able to create a childhood for my little girl, which will continue to make her smile...decades later...

Superheros don’t always wear masks

Sitting next to my semi-conscious baby inside an ambulance is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Just like you cannot describe the joy you feel when you hold your baby for the first time, the horror of seeing your baby lie on an ambulance bed cannot be described. You feel your heart throbbing in your mouth, and your very life force being sucked away. Gathering the thin shreds of strength that’s still left in you, you try to focus…on her, on her eyes, on her breathing. “My precious little bundle, this can’t be happening to you”. But it did. And it does.

She had a febrile seizure, which is “a convulsion associated with a significant rise in body temperature. Turns out, both A and I had this when we were babies. They most commonly occur in children between the ages of 6 months and 5 years of age.” Approximately one in every 25 children will have at least one febrile seizure, I was told. But if you are one in that 25, statistics does not really help. What helps is being trained in first-aid and promptly calling triple zero.

All medical emergencies are scary to watch and sometimes there’s nothing you can do to help. Standing in the middle of nowhere, we were shocked to the core and panic stricken. Even common sense had deserted us. We were lucky that we were with friends who dialled triple zero. We were lucky because a stranger opened their home to us, held our baby the way she should have been held and rocked her to comfort until the ambulance arrived.

Thankfully, she is okay now. The good news is, although these seizures can be frightening to parents, the vast majority of febrile seizures are short and harmless. The bad news is, if you have been in an ambulance with your little bub, you never quite recover from that shock.
This was my second time in an ambulance. And it didn’t get any easier. The first time, I was in it with my father, after he had two massive heart attacks. We lost him shortly after we reached the hospital. It was too late. The night before, he kept insisting that his chest pain was due to a gastric problem (a chronic condition that he suffered from for years). We shouldn’t have listened to him. We should have rushed him to the hospital much earlier.

If you have ever been in an ambulance with a loved one either sick or hurt, you would know this. Your life changes forever. You split it in half - life before the incident, and life after (whatever be the outcome of the incident, good or bad). The feelings and thoughts that flood your body during that helpless journey to the hospital, haunt you often.  You replay the chain of events over and over in your head, think of a million things you could have done differently to save the situation. But sometimes, it’s too late. And most of the times, it’s not your fault.

I always thought ambulances were for other people. Triple zero was just a number, until I needed to dial it one day. After that fateful day with my father, every time I saw an ambulance speed through the roads with its red lights flashing, my heart said a secret prayer….for those on the ambulance bed, and those by their side. I forget to breathe for a second, as I remember the cold touch of the metallic rails on the ambulance bed. On the other side of the cold rails was someone I loved. Someone who is no more. But after this recent episode with my little one, every time I see an ambulance, I say a secret prayer and a silent “thank you” for all the kindness there is in this world, which often comes from the most unexpected corners.

Donating blood, helping a stranger in a roadside emergency, saying a kind word to someone in crisis, opening your heart or home to someone in need, donating money/clothes/food for a natural disaster appeal, sponsoring a child’s education, funding a water pump in a remote village, spreading awareness for a noble cause, volunteering your time at an old age home or an animal rescue shelter…whatever be our cause, whatever be our limitations…we can all be a blessing to someone, just like those strangers were to me that day. Superheros don’t always wear masks. Sometimes, they just rock your baby to comfort, when you can’t.
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Dedicated to the kind family in Hammond Park, Western Australia, who helped us out that day.

For ideas on how you can help, visit:

https://www.worldvision.in/

http://www.unicef.org.au/

https://www.donateblood.com.au/contact-us

http://www.rspca.org.au/

http://telethonkids.org.au/
 

For more details on first-aid training in Perth, visit:

http://www.stjohnambulance.com.au/st-john/first-aid-training/first-aid-courses

Finally, remember that calling triple zero promptly can save lives. Don’t take a chance.

15 Things No One Told Me I Could Do To Prepare for Motherhood

 

When people told me there was nothing I could do to prepare myself for motherhood, I believed them. Biggest mistake! I continued reading pregnancy books and mommy blogs, religiously went to the antenatal classes, googled almost a hundred questions everyday related to pregnancy or motherhood… all while naively believing that nothing could prepare me for the real thing. One year into motherhood, I think I have a pretty good understanding of what I could do as preparation. So here’s a list I put together for pregnant women or any woman who plans to have babies at some point in their lives.

Things you will need:

• A box of nappies
• A feeding bottle
• Some baby clothing
• A human volunteer who has the capacity to be annoying on demand. Husbands are a good choice as it comes to them naturally. If not, a friend will do. In this list, am assuming that the husband will oblige.
• A lifelike doll
• A friend's baby on loan (if not, a live octopus will do just fine)
• An audio recording of a baby crying. Ask your mommy friends to record one. They can do it at really short notice.
• Patience

Preparation time 

9 months (if you do at least 5 things on this list every day for the 9 months)

1. Make yourself a cup of coffee at least an hour before you plan to have it. Get used to the flat, cold, taste.
2. Play the audio of the baby crying every evening for a couple of hours. Try getting some important work done (like making an important phone call) while the audio plays.
3. Take the live octopus and place it on a flat surface. Put a nappy around its body (whichever part you can access while it wriggles). Play the audio of the baby crying while you do this. Ask the husband to hold a bag of organic fertiliser very close to your nose during this exercise.
4. Dress the octopus up in layers of clothing. Make sure you include a beanie and a pair of socks. Play the audio of the baby crying while you do this. Spill some milk on the fully-dressed octopus two minutes after you have dressed it up. Repeat this step.
5. Place the doll on your lap in the middle of the night. Put a bottle of milk in its mouth. Sit still for 45 minutes watching how the level of milk in the bottle remains the same. Do not move during this exercise as it might upset the doll. (Optional) - Play the audio of the baby crying while you do this.
6. Identify one valuable and irreplaceable item in your house that you are emotionally attached to, for whatever reason (family treasure, special gift, travel memento bringing back lovely memories…whatever). Break it.
7. Strip your house of all accessories and decor items…and a few utility items like the coffee table and theatre speakers. Get used to the blank, sterile look. You will later learn that this is called “child proofing”.
8. Spend 30 minutes researching a recipe that you think a child may enjoy eating. Spend the next 30 minutes cooking it. Now, take the wok and throw all that you have cooked straight into the bin.  (Optional) – Ask the husband to take a spoonful and spit it out straight away. Make sure he spills most of the food on the chair so that you can spend the next 30 minutes cleaning it.
9. Let the husband bathe in pasta sauce. Spend the next 30 minutes cleaning him, while he screams. Make sure you both have zero fun while doing this.
10.  Dress up for a special work or social event. Just before stepping out of the door, spill a tiny amount of milk on your shoulder, taking care that it trickles down slightly towards your chest. DO NOT change into fresh clothes, as you don’t have the time for it. Try enjoying the event while trying not to get irritated by the white smudge on your black dress or when people (involuntarily) stare at your chest.
11. On a day that you are extremely tired and sleepy, pour some cold water on your bed just when you thought you were ready to retire. Spend the next 30 minutes changing the sheets. Play the audio of the baby crying while you do this. For best results, try this on a winter night.
12. Walk into a restaurant with the live octopus and the audio of the baby crying. Put the octopus on a high chair and give him small pieces of food from your plate. Watch the look on the waiter’s face when the octopus spits the food out and throws most of it on the floor. Next, play the audio of the baby crying and watch the look on the faces of the other people in the restaurant. Now, leave your food unfinished, pay the bill and a big tip for the inconvenience you have caused, and rush out of the restaurant apologising to every person you meet on your way out. Do not go to any restaurant for the next hundred years.
13. Rock your doll and sing lullabies to it for 30 minutes. When it falls asleep, put it in the cot and quietly close the door. Walk to the living room feeling happy that you can now enjoy a much-needed glass of wine after a tiring day. Just when you have poured yourself a glass, ask the husband to play the audio of the baby crying. Leave the wine on the bench top and run back to the cot and repeat this step 5 times. The last time, fall asleep with the doll (forgetting all about the wine or dinner).
14. Identify the most popular kid’s show at the time. (These days it’s Peppa Pig). Watch it every day at least 60 times. Make sure you watch the exact same episode on a loop. Remember, there is no such thing as too many times...
15. Send at least one email to your boss with the word (and just this word) "fffccckkkkuuuuuu". Apologise a hundred times, explaining that your baby dived onto your keyboard when you were trying to write an email to him. Pray that he believes you.

While I do agree that every baby is different and therefore every mum’s experience is different, I strongly feel that this is a pretty generic list that every woman will find useful. If any of your mommy friends tell you that this list is rubbish and it’s not this bad….shoot them. They are lying and secretly waiting to watch the fun when you dive into the motherhood experience totally clueless.

I am also fully aware that despite the shocking nature of this list, motherhood is the best thing that happened to me (and many like me).  And no list in the world can prepare you for what you feel when you cuddle your little bundle of joy at the end of a very tiring day.

Valentine's Day 2014

Valentine’s Day this year started off on a really high note. He got me a single-stem rose…and served me coffee in bed. I put on our favourite playlist on my phone and brought out an old photo album. And then we cuddled up in bed, looking at some old photographs...of our most romantic days.

One was taken at my home in Kolkata, when we were planning the wedding guest list. I was in familiar surroundings...sitting on my bed in my PJs, looking happy….and smiling at the camera. He was on a chair, in his favourite brown jacket, poring over a sheet of paper (the guest list), unaware of the camera. It was a simple, candid snap …but there was something magical about it. It almost took us back to that moment…the excitement, the nervousness, the joy and the promise of a future together.

Another one was taken at a temple (in Dakshineswar) where we had gone with our families, just days before the wedding. I was in a white salwar-kameez, looking coy and innocent. He was in a faded kurta, squinting at the sunlight that fell on his face. We stood at a distance from each other (although there was no one else in the photograph), mindful of the presence of the elders. But we had never felt so close.

Then there was one taken at our first home together, in Bangalore. I think it was taken on the New Year’s eve of 2008 (by a dear friend who had just moved to Bangalore too). He rested his head on my shoulders and we both looked slightly drunk….and VERY happy (was probably just the drink).

As I was about to turn over the page in the photo album, I felt a kick. First a light one….and then a strong, purposeful one.

And there ended my dream.

There was no rose…or coffee…or music…or photographs.  But there SHE was….our little bundle of joy, kicking us away for her morning feed. No photograph could capture that moment, where two individuals, longing for a few more minutes of sleep, force their eyes open….only to see a wide-eyed ball of cuteness looking at them from under her sheets. And that’s how Valentine’s Day started off this year….and I hope that’s how it starts for us every day of our lives (minus the kicking perhaps).

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And now for the part that the censor board cut out so that the romance in this story wasn't tainted:

The first light kick that I felt was from the above-mentioned bundle of joy. The second one…stronger and more purposeful, was from the bundle’s dad, who was trying to wake me up so that I could feed the bundle and let him sleep in peace.

When I grow up...

Much has been said about the latest Clooney-Bullock space-drama, Gravity. Mostly good things.  No one doubts that it will be a big name at the 86^th Academy Awards, in almost every category. I have nothing more to say than what has already been said. Except that it left me feeling inadequate and like a total loser.

Don’t get me wrong. I LOVED the movie. Loved it so much that I wanted to be “in” it.  And although no one asks a 30-something old “What do you want to become when you grow up?” (assuming that all the “growing up” would have been done by then….or in some cases,  there is no more “growing up” possible or advisable after you reach a certain kilogram in weight), I think I finally have the answer. I would love to be an astronaut. 

I mean, hey, if your profession is not worth making a movie about, or at least a documentary, what’s it worth? Whoever made (or even thought of making) a movie on a technical writer (like me)? Actually, there is a movie called “The Technical Writer”, but one of its reviews say “The Technical Writer is a numbingly bad movie and a glorious inspiration to every wannabe filmmaker with a 'deeply personal' script wasting away in the bottom drawer of his or her desk.”. So am not vouching for it.

Astronaut, on the other hand, …..smells of glory. These people are so smart that even the whole earth couldn’t hold their interest! They had to venture out….for bigger, better, brighter things. Things that don’t walk or crawl or swim or fly….but revolve and rotate. Things that don’t breathe….but spit fire. Things that glow and sparkle in the night sky…stuff that dreams are made of. 

And so, the more I watched the movie…the more I couldn’t focus on it. My mind kept drifting to my numbingly ordinary life. While I sit at my desk writing about software (scintillating, isn’t it?), somebody from NASA makes a round trip from the Earth to Mars! While I research the latest authoring tool, somebody has found traces of life in some other planet! While I struggle to assemble Ikea furniture, somebody has built an entire spaceship! 

Bottom line….if the answer to the question “Honey, how was your day at work today”, is anything less than the plot of a movie or a book, you could do better. If you think you need at least two coffees to survive a day at work, you could do better. Because there are professions out there where there is no time/need for coffee…the adrenaline is enough to keep one going (apart from the fact that there is no office- kitchen in space where you could make yourself a cuppa).

At least I know what I want to be in my next life. Mars, here I come….

The weed with the yellow flowers....

Our first rental home in Perth was a small blue cottage on a busy road. While most people here would find the noise from the street annoying, I quite enjoyed it. It reminded me of India. Of course there was no pile of foul-smelling garbage, rickshaws in all their bright-coloured glory, cows crossing the road in snail pace, the all-too-familiar cycle honk, roadside vendors selling tea and deep fried pakodas, kids (who should be in school) running around shirt-less to sell flower garlands, street dogs happily mating in the middle of the street and finally, grey smoke from the cars to cast its spell over all the hustle bustle. None of that. So, I settled for the noise and decided that I loved it.

At home for a month without internet or a phone connection was like solitary confinement. Worse, actually....because at least they serve food in the prisons. Here, I had to cook it myself. At one point, I decided to send back all the hired furniture.....because buying them would cost us less. But we could only go out and buy new furniture over a weekend, as A would be away at work on week days. Unfortunately, the hire-furniture company picked everything up on a Thursday. So, I spent two days at home with no furniture. I had one pillow, one bed sheet set (probably a wedding gift), some basic utensils and plastic cutlery, my clothes and The Namesake. I sat on the floor, resting against the wall  for hours, gazing out of the window at the busy road. When the backache was too much to bear, I walked up to the street and sat on a bench at the bus stop. At least these benches had back rests and I could sit there undisturbed for hours. But the bus drivers would pull over, thinking I had somewhere to go. I smiled and waved, to indicate that I wasn't going anywhere. I had had no human interaction for days, except with A when he got back from work or the phone calls I made to India, every alternate day. So waving at bus drivers was turning out to be quite exciting! But when the same bus drivers came back on their next trip, they looked at me with suspicion (thinking I was up to no good). So I decided to stay at home, on the floor with my pillow and read The Namesake for the third time.

I never enjoyed cooking. I still don’t. So I lived on Maggie, or dal/rice or ghee/rice or sandwiches. When A came back from work, we would cook dinner together and eat on our plastic plates, sitting on the floor. He would tell me about work, his colleagues, his trips to the city at lunch time, the food court and the car showrooms he had stopped at. I’d tell him about the bus drivers and how my backache was getting worse. Then, we would sleep on our bed sheet and share the pillow.

I realised I could make myself a little more useful until we got internet connection at home (and I started looking for jobs). So, I focused on our backyard. It had plants …some in pots and others in the garden beds. They were nothing like the ones we have in India, except that they were green too. Some had bright yellow flowers, and these were my favourites. I watered them and trimmed them occasionally. Our landlady would be delighted to see how well I had maintained them, I thought.

But when the landlady did come for an inspection, she nodded her head in disapproval. “You have to keep the garden weed free. Look at all this mess!” I was confused. Mess? I thought it was beautiful. Apparently, my favourite plant with the yellow flowers was a weed. I had been nurturing a weed with such care….for so long! Clearly, I had a lot to learn. So I decided to go back to The Namesake for the fourth time.

It’s been five years since then. We no longer live on a busy road. I don’t have to leave home for a comfortable seat. I have a job and 10 pillows. I don’t rely on bus drivers for human interaction. I have a few friends and acquaintances, and more stories to share than that of my backache. I still don’t enjoy cooking….but I can tell the difference between a weed and a plant.

On completing my fifth year in this country, I realise that Australia has been no less than a university to me…and it taught me the most important lesson in life..."One person's weed is another person's flower".

The weed with the yellow flowers....

Valentine's Day 2013

“And where is my gift?” I ask A.  We are both still in bed… the morning sun trying desperately to throw darts at our eyes through the gaps in the window blinds. Having snoozed the alarm clock a good four times, we know we are getting late for work. But the thought of squeezing in another 10 minutes of precious sleep, is too tempting.

Minutes before, I gave him a Valentine’s Day card and a massage voucher (a couple’s massage, actually). Knowing well that he wouldn’t worry about VDay gifts, I thought a couple’s massage would cover us both. To be honest, we don’t really celebrate VDay. We are too old for it, we say….although, we said that six years back too. But I really wanted a massage…and I knew A would enjoy one too. So I just timed it around VDay. Simple.

Surprised at my new-found love for VDay celebrations (that’s what he thought), the poor guy was a little embarrassed. He had nothing to give me, in return. In fact, the look on his face was like “now-come-on-this-is-cheating-we-never-do-VDay”. And it gave me immense pleasure to see his discomfort! Yes, I am nice, like that.

So he thanked me and finally got out of bed and went straight into the shower, while I decided to laze for another 10 minutes. Out from the shower, he looked like a man on a mission. Clearly, he had utilised the shower time to think (strategise/plan…to be more precise).

Clearing his throat…he makes an announcement.

“I’ll go out at lunch time and buy you a BIG gift”.

And what made this extremely scary was the tone. The tone was like “Wait and watch. I’ll have my revenge.”

To my ears, this sounded like a threat. I usually don’t appreciate surprises, especially if they haven’t been thought out and involve a lot of money. My theory is, if you want to give me a gift…ask me what I would like before spending a huge amount. Don’t get me wrong. I like little surprises like flowers, breakfast in bed, a dinner date, a home-cooked meal, a book, a card with a lovely note placed at my desk, a fragrant bath with scented candles lit in the bathroom. But buy me an iPad or a mobile phone or diamonds without consulting me…and I won’t like it a bit.

So, his words naturally scared me. Especially the word “BIG”, which I knew he had carefully chosen, just to irk me.

What followed next was a series of “No, please don’t” and “Oh yes, you wait and watch”! I think I even said “Sorry, I shouldn’t have bought you anything for VDay”. Imagine….apologising for buying someone a gift, which he clearly liked!

Out from my shower, I run to the breakfast table because I could smell something. And this time, it did not smell like trouble. It was the smell of “anda-bhurji-pau” (an Indian version of spicy scrambled eggs cooked with onion and tomatoes and herbs, served on a thick slice of toasted bread…a popular street food in Maharashtra). It was my favourite, and he knew it.

And while I cleaned my plate, he smiled the smile of victory. His revenge was taken.

 

Pain(t)

Our kitchen wall needed some art work. Without it, our recent renovation wasn’t quite complete. How that renovation could have led to a divorce, is another story. Two people painting tiles together, especially grout, isn’t a happy scene. Especially if one is low in patience and the other is clinically panic-prone.  I am in a good mind to sue all the paint brands whose advertisements show a happy-looking couple painting walls with smiles on their faces….music in the background…wine and take-away pizza on the messy floor, casually splashing paint on each other just for fun. We tried all of that (except the deliberate splashing of paint; ours was totally accidental and the worst part of the project)…and trust me, it was a hundred miles from fun land.

Anyway, the tiles and the marriage were somehow intact at the end of the two-weekend long battle of paint, sweat and tears. But one of the walls looked naked without something on it.

It had to be a single piece (not a set of canvases) as I was reluctant to drill more than one hole on a newly-painted wall. It had to be somehow related to the kitchen theme.  And it had to be red, to match the rest of the décor. Needless to say, with such criteria, I was very restricted. Because I wanted it to be unique too, Ikea and the other popular homeware stores were out. What I was left with was expensive boutique stuff, way beyond our budget.

If I couldn’t buy one…surely, I could make one. So many of my friends paint, sew, knit, draw, and do all sorts of creative things. How hard can it be? With new-found confidence in my creativity, I walked into an art-and-craft store. I would need some paper, paint, brushes…easy. But nobody told me there were 342 varieties of brushes and 216 types of paint! Feeling like a complete idiot, I made my way through the different aisles. Yes, there were shop assistants around…but what would I ask them? “Hello, I want to paint something for my kitchen wall. I don’t know what and how. Can you help?” So I avoided that route altogether.

After a good couple of hours of browsing, I had practically read the instructions on all the different varieties of paint and brushes. Finally, I picked up some acrylic paint and some “normal" looking brushes (the kind I remember from my art classes back in kindergarten). Teeming with pride and the hope of creating something marvellous, I headed home. "A" was away on work that weekend; so I could have a quiet afternoon of creativity.

I had decided to paint a fork and a knife (see image above). Red ones, of course. Best to start with something simple, I thought. If I could find a decent frame for it, it would look nice on the wall.

I drew on the canvas with a pencil first, not trusting my shaky hands with the paint yet. Thank the Lord for erasers! I rubbed off my scribbles a dozen times until there was a hole in the paper. For god’s sake…it was just a fork and a knife! How hard can it be?

Pretty hard, it turns out. So I took a break….made myself a cup of coffee…and listened to some relaxing music. Back to the table…this time, I would nail it, I knew!

After four hours, I had something on the paper. It did look like a fork and knife. And it was red. I had nailed my brief. Now, all I had to do was to wait for A. I imagined the look of awe on his face when he saw this…and I was pretty damn happy with myself!

When he got home, there was a look on his face. But not quite of awe. More like a mix of horror and amusement. And all he said was “Let’s hang it on our wardrobe wall.”

Just so you know…that’s the only wall in our house that’s totally hidden from the public eye. In fact, even we don’t have a full view because of the way the clothes hang.

The rest of the evening was sombre.
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Edited to add:
This is what finally hangs on that wall. When everything else fails....one turns to Ikea.

 

Mahalaya 2012

Contrary to last year, there were no major dramas this Mahalaya.

The Man-Who-Doesn’t-Get-Mahalaya actually made an effort this year and was surprisingly nice.

Not only did he not put up any fight when I told him I wanted to listen to the CD at 5am today morning, he actually downloaded Mahisasura Mardini (lost my CD again) for me last night! Believe it or not, I also convinced him to place the laptop on his side of the bed (saying that my bedside table was too cluttered already), which meant that he would have to hit the Play button at 5am. He agreed to that too (I am quite suspicious of the angelic behaviour).

Maybe I’m being evil. Maybe he was just too happy that I bought him a body pillow as a Mahalaya gift (and bought one for myself too). These are as tall as me and are just the right balance of firm and soft (not so soft that you feel like you’re hugging a squishy lizard…nor hard enough to remind you of a tree trunk). I would highly recommend it to anyone with back problems or partners who hate to be hugged when sleeping. I think body pillows make perfect Mahalaya gifts too. If you have a comfortable night’s sleep, you are more likely to be less reluctant to wake up in the morning. No?

Anyway, we went to bed last night hugging our new body pillows. And when the alarm went off, I nudged him lightly to see if a kick was to follow (like last year). Nothing. He actually turned to the other side and turned the computer on.

Suddenly, a horrible scary thought gripped my lungs. What if he had downloaded something else by accident? You know the weird things people post on the web these days with deceptive names! Damn, I should have checked. What if it wasn’t Mahisasura Mardini at all but yet another version of Gangnam Style? Can you imagine how scarred I would be for life if that was the case?

My misery did not last for long. The familiar voice sounded loud and clear and filled our room with the “pujo-pujo-gondho”.  Except that he had put it in a loop and the chandipath started again, just when it had ended.  

Would the goddess be angry for being invoked again, right after she has taken all that trouble to kill the evil forces? Does anyone know?

Stuff that heroes are made of...

Now, I am the kind of person who carries a box of tissues even to a comedy movie…just in case there is some mush or teary moment. Been told a thousand times by embarrassed friends and family who have to listen to my sniffs and sobs “It’s just a movie…it’s not true. STOP crying!”

With Satyamev Jayate, it’s all true! The kind of truth that's stranger than fiction. But while I shuddered at the sight of dowry deaths and medical malpractices …..wept profusely at horrifying stories of ill-treated aged parents and female foeticides….shook my head in disbelief at the way we were treating our natural resources and some communities, I was mainly overwhelmed by the greatness and the goodness that still exist in our society. To me, the show was a celebration of people who have taken compassion to a whole new level…and have lived by the only thing that makes us different from other forms of life - our conscience.

This post is not about the epidemic of malpractices that seems to have crippled our nation. The show has covered that well enough. It’s about trying to analyse the how and the why behind those who are able to look beyond their immediate selves. In short, I am curious to know what heroes are made of….
 

While I haven’t personally come across female foeticide, I have seen/heard real instances (in varying degrees) of  dowry claims, untouchability, alcoholism, medical malpractices, domestic violence, resistance to inter-caste/religion marriages and sexual abuse. I am myself guilty of three things shown in the show – not conserving water as well as I should; not buying organic food (an indirect way of raising my voice against toxics in our food); not being able to support my Ma in her old age, as much as I would have liked to (being in different continents does not help). I have worked with children with disabilities….so it’s another subject close to my heart. That sums up my involvement with the 12 issues that were highlighted.

 Needless to say, I have mostly come across people who live privileged lives. That includes people from various socio-economic backgrounds. Mashi, an elderly lady who helps my Ma with her chores, has battled with poverty all her life…but I think even she is more privileged, when compared to most people interviewed on the show.

 We spend our entire lives as though we were made out of a template. Myopic with personal aspirations and problems, generations have come and gone living their lives in a certain pattern – chasing good scores in schools/colleges,  pursuing certain professions, paying off mortgages/loans, buying that dream car, saving for the occasional vacations, providing the best care and facilities to kids…and the cycle goes on.

But how do some people manage to break free from this self-centred pattern? What gives them the strength to have different dreams…dreams that will benefit not just themselves and their immediate family, but society at large?  What gives them the optimism and courage to do something about a problem….instead of taking the easy option of blaming others/government/infrastructure and saying “India will never change” or “What can I do?” or worse still “Why should I do it…it’s not my problem.”?

How does a Subasini Mistry dream to build a hospital for the poor, when she has just lost her husband to poverty and sickness? Doesn’t she have other things on her mind…like how she’s going to get the next meal for her little boy? Isn’t she a bereaved widow left with the huge challenge of raising her kid on her own, on the mere earnings of a roadside vegetable seller? Why does she think she needs to make a difference? What makes her think she can make a difference? Why not leave it for the government or the NGOs or the rich people, who clearly have the resources to do so (if not the intention)? Isn’t that what most people in her situation would do?

 What makes a Sunitha Krishnan dream of rescuing other rape victims like her? Isn’t the little girl of 16 scarred for life by the brutality of a gang rape? Shouldn’t anger and hopelessness be the predominant feelings tormenting her for the rest of her life? How does she detach herself from those feelings...or channel them for doing something positive? How does she overcome the temptation to “give up”? What makes her think that anything positive can possibly come out of her experience?

Why does a Sanjeev Kumar leave a promising MBA career to fight for the rights of unknown people in a distant village? When his colleagues and friends are perhaps fleeing the country and relocating to foreign lands that hold a better promise for the “house-car-vacation” dream…what makes him relocate to a village and spend the crucial years of his life there? Untouchability and caste system were not even “his problems”. Why not just shut his eyes to the suffering of strangers and chase the next “onsite” opportunity at work? Why does he want to be involved?

What makes a Naseema Hurzuk see beyond the helplessness of being a paraplegic and dare to help others with similar problems? She confesses how at one point in her life, she just didn’t want to live anymore. From there, how does she get to a point where she inspires others with disabilities to live happy, self-sufficient lives? Her words at the end of the interview provide the answers to a certain degree, “When you don’t feel like living for yourself, you must learn to live for others”.

This concept of “living for others” is almost alien to us.

For most of us, “others” consist of our own immediate family. The biggest sacrifices we are capable of making are the ones for our own children (like not taking a promotion that comes with a transfer or giving up a career to spend more time with them).  Sometimes, even making small life adjustments for our own parents seem too hard! At the most, we’ll lend some money to a friend in need…or sponsor the education of a few kids through our preferred charity. And we think that’s enough work-out for our conscience. We go to bed feeling happy that we’ve done something good for “others”. But we take care not to do anything that puts us into any sort of inconvenience.  Nothing that disturbs the pattern of our lives. While any sort of good is good, as the saying goes “A bone to the dog is not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog, when you are just as hungry as the dog.”

For our heroes, “others” could mean total strangers... people who were far removed from their own lives. It does not matter that they are themselves often in worse situations than those they are trying to help! Yet nothing deters them from their mission…not personal benefits, not inconvenience, not even big threats to their own safety and well-being!

What gives them this peculiar empathy that negates all their personal aspirations? Is it the balance of chemicals in their brains? Something in their DNA? Something in the environment they were brought up in? Something their parents did differently than ours when raising them? A life-changing incident that shook them from their very core?

What exactly is this strange, strong, beautiful species of real-life heroes made of? Can it be taught? Transferred? Inspired into others?

I am not sure what studies and surveys say about this…but if it’s something that can be taught or transferred, I want it included in our school curriculums. And guess what, for this one thing…am ready to go back to school.

 P.S. Apologies  if I have hurt anyone by using "generalisations" like "most of us".