I have never been a Cricket fan. Still am not. But it would be a lie if I said that I am not super happy and insanely proud that India won the World Cup. It's a well known reality that Cricket in India is no less than religion, maybe even more than religion, for it is easy to find an atheist in India, but to find someone who is anti-Cricket would be a task insurmountable. That said, you can find plenty of agnostics in the world of Cricket... and an agnostic is usually more open to becoming a believer than otherwise.
And such is Cricket in India... omnipresent, most love it, some stay indifferent, but no one can ignore it. Of course not, when over 50% of advertising is based on Cricket, when Bollywood makes movies on Cricket, when kids learn who Sachin Tendulkar is before they know the name of the President of India, when offices expect their employees to not show up for work when there is a match... the examples are endless. Yes, Cricket in India is more than religion. And a match between India and Pakistan is battleground. War.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G7v3vFexeSM
So not surprisingly then, it was the semi-final between India and Pakistan that finally shook me out of my slumber in a foreign land. Before then, I was aware of the absence of Cricket from my environment like I was aware of the absence of the smell of rain, or cars honking, or cows on streets, or street dogs... a mild generalized dysphoria, for the absence of these things could be somehow rationalized and lived with. But day of the semi final, I realized that's certainly not true for Cricket. The air in Delhi smells different when there's a match between India and Pakistan, God I could only imagine just how heated it must be if that match was a semi-final for the World Cup Championship. And then of course, I see facebook updates of people playing hookie from work, or even better... officially getting the day off! Well, of course, it was the most epic match. Nothing could replace the semi-paralyzed state the country entered that day.
Well, maybe winning the World Cup. Due twenty eight years, that cup made the men in blue cry! And I am certain they weren't the only men who cried. It is marvelous how maniacally in love with Cricket India is! No, it's not the game in itself. What then, is so powerful about Cricket that it transcends all of the nation's differences, issues and concerns?
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Friday, December 10, 2010
I had a thought... I had a million thoughts. And no conclusions. A potpourri of misplaced rants. My fascination with words seems seamless after all. Misleading as it is, I often find myself pouring out chains of alphabets that don't neccesarily mean anything. Perhaps then, I should add some meaning too.
Beethoven on the TV, sun streaming into the parlor, a big fat couch and my over-charged gray matter splattered on the walls. Endless brooding over a lost cause, caught in a game of power...
We all desire power, one way or another. Like anything else, there are gradations, there is the lower class of power, there is the upper class, and everything inbetween. I call it the horizontal heirarchy. But of course, not everyone will agree with my heirarchy, the one that places power through money on the lowest rung! This is where the vertical cuts through... making a Daedalean maze out of something that could be simple! But that's what makes life what it is. Complications, puzzles, and unanswered questions give meaning to life!
Two weeks later, the above doesn't make sense. That is why I don't believe in drafts.
Beethoven on the TV, sun streaming into the parlor, a big fat couch and my over-charged gray matter splattered on the walls. Endless brooding over a lost cause, caught in a game of power...
We all desire power, one way or another. Like anything else, there are gradations, there is the lower class of power, there is the upper class, and everything inbetween. I call it the horizontal heirarchy. But of course, not everyone will agree with my heirarchy, the one that places power through money on the lowest rung! This is where the vertical cuts through... making a Daedalean maze out of something that could be simple! But that's what makes life what it is. Complications, puzzles, and unanswered questions give meaning to life!
Two weeks later, the above doesn't make sense. That is why I don't believe in drafts.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
What I am about to say might infuriate the feminists here. But be patient and stay with me awhile.
Sympathy is easy. Empathy is hard. Harder it is to empathise with someone who has suffered from things too atrocious for one's imagination. Harder still is to empathise with the perpetrator. And it is this that I ask of you.
Before you conclude that it is a futile task, understand that the reason I say this is because violence can not be abated by a revolution unless the true nature of it is understood. This is not an attempt to condone violence or absolve the perpetrator. This is rather an attempt to understand the cause of violence so that appropriate measures may be developed to stop it.
That said, the subject of this post is going to be men. What goes on inside the mind of a man who exhibits aggressive behavior? Barring sociopaths, it is conceivable that no one really wants violence. Yes, we have an innately aggressive side to our human nature. Yes, love and hate are more often than not inseparable. But when this aggressive instict takes the form of destructive violence, there is something more going on.
Culturally, we do not accept display of vulnerability by men. We live in a patriarchal society where the man is still desired to be the protector. Even when a woman is financially and emotionally independent, she wants her man to protect her. If not protect her, then at least pay for dinner and open the car door for her. The origin of this becomes irrelavent when we deal with the problems that are thus manifested.
It is not OK for boys to cry. Neither is it OK for them to feel scared or out of control. Much has been said about female oppression. And rightly so. But the lack of acknowledgement of the vulnerability of men does not prove its absence. However, societally it is not acceptable to talk about it.
A very basic cause of anxiety for most, if not all, men in a patriarchal society is the amount of responsibility that is inadvertently felt by them. There is an expectation of being in control. True, now with the changing gender roles, this responsibility is no longer material. Still, there is an expectation of being in control over one's emotions; to 'be a man.' A man who contantly worries about things is not charming. Any display of sensitivity by a man is immediately thwarted by not only other men, but also women. A man with vanity is told he's 'such a girl.' There is no tolerance for anything less than macho in a man among men and women alike. Contrary to this, a relatively masculine woman can easily fit in as a tomboy. And a guy who likes watching the sunset is teased by being called queer.
Men live with stronger stereotypes and expectations from society than women. Given that, society controls men more than they control society. Violence then, may be conceived of as a desperate attempt to re-claim this lost control. There is also an innate fear of otherness among humans. And of accepting the aloneness of oneself. In intimate relationships, this otherness often becomes unavoidable. And we strive to maintain co-dependence.
An intimate relationship is a hotbed for emotions. Is it OK for a man to be sad that his wife is working late? No, that's too childish. Is it OK for a man to fear losing his wife when he sees her talking to other men? No, insecurity is a bad word in the dictionary of Indian men. Is it OK for a man to feel stressed or overburdened? No, a man must be made of steel! What does that leave a man with? Anger. But this anger is most often not a primary emotion. It is a secondary emotion, a distortion of vulnerability, a cry for control.
We, as women value emotional sensitivity and strength as our biggest asset. It is an ardous task to be sensitive to our aggresor. But perhaps, we can use this sensitivity as a preventive tool rather than corrective, by recognising that the men in our lives are not warriors thirsty for blood, who attack us because the society is too civilized for them to go hunting, but merely human.
Sympathy is easy. Empathy is hard. Harder it is to empathise with someone who has suffered from things too atrocious for one's imagination. Harder still is to empathise with the perpetrator. And it is this that I ask of you.
Before you conclude that it is a futile task, understand that the reason I say this is because violence can not be abated by a revolution unless the true nature of it is understood. This is not an attempt to condone violence or absolve the perpetrator. This is rather an attempt to understand the cause of violence so that appropriate measures may be developed to stop it.
That said, the subject of this post is going to be men. What goes on inside the mind of a man who exhibits aggressive behavior? Barring sociopaths, it is conceivable that no one really wants violence. Yes, we have an innately aggressive side to our human nature. Yes, love and hate are more often than not inseparable. But when this aggressive instict takes the form of destructive violence, there is something more going on.
Culturally, we do not accept display of vulnerability by men. We live in a patriarchal society where the man is still desired to be the protector. Even when a woman is financially and emotionally independent, she wants her man to protect her. If not protect her, then at least pay for dinner and open the car door for her. The origin of this becomes irrelavent when we deal with the problems that are thus manifested.
It is not OK for boys to cry. Neither is it OK for them to feel scared or out of control. Much has been said about female oppression. And rightly so. But the lack of acknowledgement of the vulnerability of men does not prove its absence. However, societally it is not acceptable to talk about it.
A very basic cause of anxiety for most, if not all, men in a patriarchal society is the amount of responsibility that is inadvertently felt by them. There is an expectation of being in control. True, now with the changing gender roles, this responsibility is no longer material. Still, there is an expectation of being in control over one's emotions; to 'be a man.' A man who contantly worries about things is not charming. Any display of sensitivity by a man is immediately thwarted by not only other men, but also women. A man with vanity is told he's 'such a girl.' There is no tolerance for anything less than macho in a man among men and women alike. Contrary to this, a relatively masculine woman can easily fit in as a tomboy. And a guy who likes watching the sunset is teased by being called queer.
Men live with stronger stereotypes and expectations from society than women. Given that, society controls men more than they control society. Violence then, may be conceived of as a desperate attempt to re-claim this lost control. There is also an innate fear of otherness among humans. And of accepting the aloneness of oneself. In intimate relationships, this otherness often becomes unavoidable. And we strive to maintain co-dependence.
An intimate relationship is a hotbed for emotions. Is it OK for a man to be sad that his wife is working late? No, that's too childish. Is it OK for a man to fear losing his wife when he sees her talking to other men? No, insecurity is a bad word in the dictionary of Indian men. Is it OK for a man to feel stressed or overburdened? No, a man must be made of steel! What does that leave a man with? Anger. But this anger is most often not a primary emotion. It is a secondary emotion, a distortion of vulnerability, a cry for control.
We, as women value emotional sensitivity and strength as our biggest asset. It is an ardous task to be sensitive to our aggresor. But perhaps, we can use this sensitivity as a preventive tool rather than corrective, by recognising that the men in our lives are not warriors thirsty for blood, who attack us because the society is too civilized for them to go hunting, but merely human.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
The Youtube Generation
I love watching funny baby videos on youtube. There are few things more refreshing than to find a new video every now and then of babies laughing relentlessly, or cringing at the taste of their first lemon or pickle, or just being plain clumsy. No matter how sad or tired or grumpy I may be, this video never fails to make me laugh. And let me add that I have seen it perhaps fifty times, and this baby's laugh is still contagious to me.
I will, however, not deny that I do feel voyeuristic everytime I run a youtube search for 'funny baby videos.' So today, while indulging my voyeuristic cravings, I found a playlist of baby videos, of one particular baby, with the voice of one woman in all the videos. Eventually I found out that the woman was the baby's mother. As I watched a few of the videos she had put on, my thought process progressed from the omnipresent pride that parents take in every single breath that their child takes, to the narcissism of this woman to think that her child is so important that she thought it reasonable to document every living second of her life... but what stuck with me was the realization that these parents who invest so much time and energy in creating video blogs of their children are exhibiting by proxy, with heavy costs.
This video, in particular, made me kind of mad at the mother. Before I begin my rant on it, let me just say that I did not have the patience to sit through the entire video. My unchecked, emotional response to this is, 'really, give the kid some food.' My intellectual response to this is... are we breeding pathology here? Perhaps forty seconds into the video, I had an urge to tell the mom to put the camera away and create some real bond with the kid(s). The camera seemed like a tool of distancing herself from her child, as opposed to validating the child's existence. Children are not sophisticated enough in their thought to be able to appreciate the apparent validation one gets from being videotaped. So in the child's psychological reality, the message the mother gives leads to a sense of confusion. The mother hears the child, but does not really listen to her. The mother sees that the child is hungry, but does nothing to fulfil that need.
I wonder then, how would this emotional and physical distancing, disguised as involvement and validation, impact the psychological growth of a child? It almost seems like a cosmopolitan rendition of uninvolved parenting. Basic needs of the child are fulfilled, but any time spent with the child beyond that is really a narcissistic feeding to self. 'Let me keep my kid at arm's length, and video tape her while she begs for food, so that I can show off to the world what I have created.' I wonder how the kids of the youtube generation will be in their adolescence. Will the exhibitionism get internalized? Or will they act out by taking on to schizoid mannerisms? Will their sense of agency develop given that they perhaps feel no sense of control over the ambivalent involvement of their parents? Or will they learn to manipulate others in order to get some attention? This could manifest in many ways, but whichever way it does, I find it hard to concieve that these children will develop healthy attachment and relational patterns when they reach adulthood. But then perhaps, that will be the new face of normalcy.
I understand that parents want to preserve memories of their precious children, and that these parents who are video-bloggers are, in fact well-intentioned. However, perhaps in dousing their children with all this sugar and honey, they are inadvertently making them diabetic.
I will, however, not deny that I do feel voyeuristic everytime I run a youtube search for 'funny baby videos.' So today, while indulging my voyeuristic cravings, I found a playlist of baby videos, of one particular baby, with the voice of one woman in all the videos. Eventually I found out that the woman was the baby's mother. As I watched a few of the videos she had put on, my thought process progressed from the omnipresent pride that parents take in every single breath that their child takes, to the narcissism of this woman to think that her child is so important that she thought it reasonable to document every living second of her life... but what stuck with me was the realization that these parents who invest so much time and energy in creating video blogs of their children are exhibiting by proxy, with heavy costs.
This video, in particular, made me kind of mad at the mother. Before I begin my rant on it, let me just say that I did not have the patience to sit through the entire video. My unchecked, emotional response to this is, 'really, give the kid some food.' My intellectual response to this is... are we breeding pathology here? Perhaps forty seconds into the video, I had an urge to tell the mom to put the camera away and create some real bond with the kid(s). The camera seemed like a tool of distancing herself from her child, as opposed to validating the child's existence. Children are not sophisticated enough in their thought to be able to appreciate the apparent validation one gets from being videotaped. So in the child's psychological reality, the message the mother gives leads to a sense of confusion. The mother hears the child, but does not really listen to her. The mother sees that the child is hungry, but does nothing to fulfil that need.
I wonder then, how would this emotional and physical distancing, disguised as involvement and validation, impact the psychological growth of a child? It almost seems like a cosmopolitan rendition of uninvolved parenting. Basic needs of the child are fulfilled, but any time spent with the child beyond that is really a narcissistic feeding to self. 'Let me keep my kid at arm's length, and video tape her while she begs for food, so that I can show off to the world what I have created.' I wonder how the kids of the youtube generation will be in their adolescence. Will the exhibitionism get internalized? Or will they act out by taking on to schizoid mannerisms? Will their sense of agency develop given that they perhaps feel no sense of control over the ambivalent involvement of their parents? Or will they learn to manipulate others in order to get some attention? This could manifest in many ways, but whichever way it does, I find it hard to concieve that these children will develop healthy attachment and relational patterns when they reach adulthood. But then perhaps, that will be the new face of normalcy.
I understand that parents want to preserve memories of their precious children, and that these parents who are video-bloggers are, in fact well-intentioned. However, perhaps in dousing their children with all this sugar and honey, they are inadvertently making them diabetic.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Illusion
This happens to everyone, or so they say. You jump into a pool of waterlilies and lotuses, the pretty flowers floating on a silver film full of mysteries. Walking through the dense forest of your life, you spot the pink purple flowers reflecting back the sunlight that you don't see coming in. You wonder if it really is as it seems. You turn around and look back at the deep dark forest you have trodden. 'Salvation!,' you think to yourself. 'How can it be?,' you ask yourself the next minute. A step forward, two steps backward... three forward, four backward... Just then, a waterlily bud blooms as you watch in rapture. 'This can't be real,' you tell yourself. 'Let me go closer and touch it!'
And then you run... you run toward this mystical pond so fast that when you reach it, you are out of breath. Right at the edge, you fall on your knees, still looking at the shiny surface of the fresh flower in awe. It looks like velvet. You yearn to touch it. Still short of breath, but high on the adrenalin rush, you get up and walk closer. You pinch a petal of the flower between your fingers. You close your eyes, and drop your head back in ecstasy. With your eyes still shut tight, you step into the pond... you magically hop from one waterlily leaf to another... shaky, it still holds you up. You tremble inside with fear... it's almost a dual consciousness that you have entered. All too aware that the delicate leaves beneath your feet may crumble at any minute, but at the same time, you have surrendered to this rescue that came your way from nowhere... at the same time, a strange faith in something that you can't name emerges and rushes through your blood. And the faith takes over. You stop hopping, and settle yourself on the top of a rock in the middle of the pond. Surrounded by the heavenly silver and pick and purple...
And then it drops. The rock, steady as it looked, it sinks into the pond and disappears. Underneath, you are soaked in mud. 'Of course!,' you tell yourself. You struggle to get out, and of course you do. But as you walk past the muddy waters, you can't help but look back every now and then... to figure out if you made a mistake, to see if the waterlilies were real, or if the mud was, maybe you took a wrong step... but most of all, you want to know if you will still be allured by the illusion.
And so, you retrace your steps...
And no, the sunshine doesn't allure her anymore... she sees the hollow beneath the promises it shines!
And then you run... you run toward this mystical pond so fast that when you reach it, you are out of breath. Right at the edge, you fall on your knees, still looking at the shiny surface of the fresh flower in awe. It looks like velvet. You yearn to touch it. Still short of breath, but high on the adrenalin rush, you get up and walk closer. You pinch a petal of the flower between your fingers. You close your eyes, and drop your head back in ecstasy. With your eyes still shut tight, you step into the pond... you magically hop from one waterlily leaf to another... shaky, it still holds you up. You tremble inside with fear... it's almost a dual consciousness that you have entered. All too aware that the delicate leaves beneath your feet may crumble at any minute, but at the same time, you have surrendered to this rescue that came your way from nowhere... at the same time, a strange faith in something that you can't name emerges and rushes through your blood. And the faith takes over. You stop hopping, and settle yourself on the top of a rock in the middle of the pond. Surrounded by the heavenly silver and pick and purple...
And then it drops. The rock, steady as it looked, it sinks into the pond and disappears. Underneath, you are soaked in mud. 'Of course!,' you tell yourself. You struggle to get out, and of course you do. But as you walk past the muddy waters, you can't help but look back every now and then... to figure out if you made a mistake, to see if the waterlilies were real, or if the mud was, maybe you took a wrong step... but most of all, you want to know if you will still be allured by the illusion.
And so, you retrace your steps...
And no, the sunshine doesn't allure her anymore... she sees the hollow beneath the promises it shines!
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Rant
One day, you wake up and your face feels different. The smile lines are gone, the tension of a repressed laughter in your mouth disappears, and you don't feel the urge to even yawn anymore. You don't rub your eyes, the light of the morning doesn't seem overwhelming or welcoming anymore. It feels like nothing... just light coming in through the chinks of your curtain. You get up from your bed, widen the chink, look at the endearing sky of the dawn, and your body doesn't urge you to stretch. You don't even feel the desire to take a breath of the fresh smell of the morning.
You walk into the kitchen, make your cup of morning coffee... nothing... the aroma doesn't make you feel any different anymore. You open the door to your front porch, pick up the newspaper, leaf through it like you've become too used to the everyday blood and gore... it doesn't disgust you or frighten you or shock you anymore. You finish your cup of coffee.. and you still feel as morose as you did when you first woke up. A faint voice inside your head tells you that the shower might help... but you find yourself involuntarily, almost automatically, shaking your head to the invisible voice. Of course, actions speak louder than words... especially words that noone can hear. You dress up, wear you favorite perfume, paint your eyes... but the kohl that once made you feel exotic only highlights the darkness in your eyes... A sigh, a deep breath and you're off to work.
Nothing much changes. It's your friend's birthday. You go to the party because he had been there at yours. The only thing that you still believe in - the karmic cycle. The stillness of your face overwhelms you, but not enough... The party's over now. You sit in a cab... plug in your ipod and listen to the song that screams the despair of your life, that circles the stains on your innocence that never was. You roll down the window because the wind in your hair makes the drama of your life more real. You're home now. You open the front door, the staircase is too intimidating. Ten steps up seem like ten morbid lives to endure. You take one step and your body gives in to the fatigue of your mind. The tears still don't come out... if only they would, you would be happy.
Life.
You walk into the kitchen, make your cup of morning coffee... nothing... the aroma doesn't make you feel any different anymore. You open the door to your front porch, pick up the newspaper, leaf through it like you've become too used to the everyday blood and gore... it doesn't disgust you or frighten you or shock you anymore. You finish your cup of coffee.. and you still feel as morose as you did when you first woke up. A faint voice inside your head tells you that the shower might help... but you find yourself involuntarily, almost automatically, shaking your head to the invisible voice. Of course, actions speak louder than words... especially words that noone can hear. You dress up, wear you favorite perfume, paint your eyes... but the kohl that once made you feel exotic only highlights the darkness in your eyes... A sigh, a deep breath and you're off to work.
Nothing much changes. It's your friend's birthday. You go to the party because he had been there at yours. The only thing that you still believe in - the karmic cycle. The stillness of your face overwhelms you, but not enough... The party's over now. You sit in a cab... plug in your ipod and listen to the song that screams the despair of your life, that circles the stains on your innocence that never was. You roll down the window because the wind in your hair makes the drama of your life more real. You're home now. You open the front door, the staircase is too intimidating. Ten steps up seem like ten morbid lives to endure. You take one step and your body gives in to the fatigue of your mind. The tears still don't come out... if only they would, you would be happy.
Life.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Fear
A lifetime of bittersweet numbness, of swirls and whirls, a hyperalert body, a comatose soul... puffy eyes, from the endless sleepless nights... blood rushing through the arms, too high?
The faint nausea makes you feel real... the dull heartache makes you feel alive. True, there is no happiness without unhappiness... but if there's too much bad, do we recognise the good when we see it? Or do we seek out the bad because it's too comfortable. Dysfunctional patterns. The comfort of pain, of solitude and everything that makes you cry inside. But the tears never come out. They always turn around and retrace right at the brink! The quiver in your lips battles with your fears of falling apart. That is what it is. The utter fear of falling apart... the fear that if you jump off the ledge, you'll crash right at the bottom and die, even though you have the parachute tied to your back, you don't trust yourself enough to be able to open it in time. Fear.
The faint nausea makes you feel real... the dull heartache makes you feel alive. True, there is no happiness without unhappiness... but if there's too much bad, do we recognise the good when we see it? Or do we seek out the bad because it's too comfortable. Dysfunctional patterns. The comfort of pain, of solitude and everything that makes you cry inside. But the tears never come out. They always turn around and retrace right at the brink! The quiver in your lips battles with your fears of falling apart. That is what it is. The utter fear of falling apart... the fear that if you jump off the ledge, you'll crash right at the bottom and die, even though you have the parachute tied to your back, you don't trust yourself enough to be able to open it in time. Fear.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)