Monday, April 21, 2014

Goa........

I always write when i am in Goa! Goa brings out words that I thought I never knew! The red earth, blue sky and the rusticity appeals to the creative in me.I am happy that the twins LOVE Goa too!!! Another one.......


The silver fish wriggled for life,
The scales shone too bright,
the gills beat with vigor,
The hook was firmly in place,
bleeding the fish,
Brown rice cooked in an earthen vessel in a thatched home,
Paulo had a catch and a smile!

Monday, January 16, 2012

Sreeja of St Xavier's College, Mumbai

Sreeja Ravindranathan, a bright final year student of Arts at Mumbai's prestigious college St Xavier's interviewed me. The interview was a part of her application to Universities that would let her study journalism.

I enjoyed meeting her and being interviewed by her. Below is the extract. And all the best Sreeja!
THE INTERVIEW
Seated in the snug settings of the staffroom at St. Xavier’s college, clad in a turtleneck and trousers, Mini Nair looks more like one of the students waiting around than a mother of two.
“Let’s begin!” she says, her enthusiasm beating that of any teenager around the premises.
Mini Nair is a first-time author of the recently published novel ‘The Fourth Passenger’ that delves into the sensitive topic of the ’92 Bombay communal riots, religious fundamentalism and the omnipresent fear used to control an entire populace. She has also authored a children’s book and the biography of a noted pharmaceutical scientist. A postgraduate in chemistry she always had an abiding love for literature and writing. She currently works for a German MNC and resides with her family in Mumbai: a city she is passionate about.
Her carefree air and candid demeanour belies the intense themes that thread through the fabric of her narrative. Set against the background of the religious and political unrest and riots that pervaded the city of Mumbai in the 1992 after the demolition of the Babri Masjid Mosque, ‘The Fourth Passenger’ portrays the lives of four women who have made the city their home and their discovery of their true selves as well as that of a city and Nation torn by religious fundamentalism.
These women have been denied a voice both within the family and society at large. However, the four friends decide to steer the course of their lives and extend their friendship that supplies them with emotional support into a business partnership by setting up a food stall/restaurant thus securing them financially. The rest of the novel traverses their triumphs over the multitude of hurdles in the form of corruption, religious extremism and blatant sexism that impede their progress and test their friendship’s mettle.
“At the end of the day, no matter what kind of crisis a community faces it’s the women who bear the brunt of it all.” says Nair emphasising the position of women within the Indian society. Whether inflation due to economic crisis or a curfew due to a strike the women have to keep their households running and despite such a pivotal influence have no right to dissent.
She highlights how subjugation is a direct product of social conditioning, “It begins at home and since most know no other way of life we accept the one we’re served with.”
She also drives home the fact that in times of social turmoil the women of any community, considered to represent the honour and dignity of their clan are the first to be assaulted and end up being pawns in the power play of an inherently patriarchal society.
“Take for example the genocides in Rwanda or in Mumbai”, she says “women were raped and murdered brutally to bring shame to their community.” She talks about this systematic objectification of women both in media, history and culture which is ironical in a nation where women are revered as the mother, Bharat Mata (the mother land),Stree Shakti (the Goddess).

Did these ideas guide her to intentionally name their establishment ‘Stree’, the Sanskrit word for woman with its many empowering connotations?
“The protagonists in my book are just regular women who lead too much of a prosaic existence to come up with such an inspired name.” Nonetheless as an author she admits to have subconsciously implied the dichotomy between the doctrine about women we maintain and the treatment meted out to them.
So has the scenario changed today?
“Has it?” she questions playfully. “We’re still fighting for an equal footing with men on numerous avenues. As a country we’re still developing. We’ll reach the zenith of progress when we have an egalitarian society.”
Despite being a staunch advocate of female empowerment, she is quick to reject the label of a feminist.
“I’m not a man hating radical”, she says with a wry smile. “I celebrate and revel in my femininity.” This is why Nair, an avid cook herself, subverts cooking; traditionally viewed as a woman’s chore in her novel to function as a source of empowerment. She feels that every woman should be allowed to do so and this is where education according to her plays a crucial role. Her views regarding education are lucidly outlined through her characters who deem it as a form of social escape.
“Awareness is the solution to most of these problems. Education, I feel, is the doorway to awareness and self sufficiency.”
And is it the function of artists and authors to open up such doors?
She smiles thoughtfully, “It is. Since, we can reach out to a large section of the populace than most can, we should exert our influence positively.”
But didacticism isn’t the sole purpose of art and literature, she feels. At the end of the day it’s narrating an aesthetically rich story that she finds satisfying.

On asking what motivated her to revisit the long forgotten gory episode from Mumbai’s past almost 2 decades later, she talks about how it took her all that time to garner the courage to put in words the horrors every Mumbaikar experienced and accept the magnitude of what occurred.
“It took me time like everyone else. But now, I can confidently say I’m much braver.” she says assertively. Nair opines that we have conveniently buried an unwelcome memory which is a counterproductive exercise.
“Are we allowed to forget the holocaust? We shouldn’t, because in forgetting history we are condemned to repeat its follies”, the fervour evident in her eyes. Her science background she feels has helped her adopt a practical approach in her search for truth about the communal riots of 92. “What is science? But a search for truth” she adds reflectively.
Like any regular Mumbaikar she feared political opposition and backlash. Especially, since she was mindful of the perverse right-wing political interests that fuelled the riots and berates the same in her novel. The result is hate mails that slam her as a Muslim aficionado flooding her inbox.
“Thankfully, no death threats so far”, she bursts out laughing, making light of the malice people generate.
Nair feels that religious extremism manifesting in the form of internal terrorism is proportional to the decreasing levels of our tolerance as a city. Freedom is curbed in artistic expression as well as the right to choose a way of life. She cites examples of public burning of the works of Rohinton Mistry and M.F Hussain . And as such she defies all forms of intolerance in her novel, even homophobia. She rues over the fact that such intolerance thrives in Mumbai- a city of perpetual adjustment, a theme she picks up from the local trains and employ as the title.
“We always make space for a 4th passenger on a seat meant for 3. It’s sad that this allowance doesn’t extend to other aspects of life in Mumbai.”
The city she mentions features as the 5th character in the novel. The eternal magic of Mumbai and its indestructible spirit of survival and humanity is what she reveals despite accentuating the ugly undercurrents of violence it harbours.
“This city is a victim at the hands of the hideous side of its populace. I portray it in a sympathetic tone.”
Just like Mumbai recovers every time it’s dealt a debilitating blow she believes that the people of the city too can recuperate from the bitter memories they live with.
She confesses, “I am eternal optimist”,

Sunday, November 27, 2011

God had better plans for you!

Yesterday was the reunion of our Standard 10 batch of our school St Sebastian's. There were some with whom we had spent fourteen years of our life. That is from nursery to standard ten. From the time we were toddler's to the time we were hormone-raring teens!

From all walks we gathered. Balding, pot bellied,C-section paunch, colored hair,reading glasses but the gleam in the eye was still present. There was a connect.

I often used to wonder about all of them......where did they vanish? Can people fall off earth? No they are all there. the axis shifts.

Unrequited romances, awkward holding hands flash in front of your eyes.....What if...? the question remains.....

I remembered so many events that I thought I had forgotten. But no they were in the depths of the recesses of my brains.

A friend I met after nearly three decades told me,' God had better plans for you'. I looked around and saw all us .......
Yes, I would like to believe that God had better plans for all of us.....

Thursday, September 15, 2011

A deserted house

Moss on the walls,
Windows that are holes,
The red tiles on the roof,
Have lived days with the sun and the rain,
The walls are fiercely silent
May have been a sanatorium or a lunatic asylum
Does the green tree know about the house?
I looked for doors
Strangely, there were none,
It stood mute,
Cold unaware,
The bricks may have sound entrapped in them,
But the house refused to let anyone hear the rhythm,
It may have stood there for ages,
And may stand like this for ages,
Ensnared in time,
Wrapped in silence,
Sadly,
I stay in this house.

Saturday, August 20, 2011

A hymn

A hymn
Song of prayer
Not to God
To you
Don’t play God
Leave the game to him.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

The Urchin


As I waited at the bus stand,
Shielding my eyes from the wind blown sand,
and felt the earth rotate by,
echoes of human being’s anguished wails and cries,

The sun in a scathing rage,
Disallowing the entry of the rain,
Destiny turning life’s every page,
And man carrying his cross of pain,

Then I saw this little girl
with a toothy grin,
I realized she was a price of some adult’s sin,
Her hair brown,tied up to a pig tail,
Walked up to me,confident of making a sale.

She stood wih aplomb,clanked her bowl in front of me,
and suddenly life’s irony laughed for me to see,
Her bowl was a Budweisser beer can,
Here she was standing naked feet and hungry,
and asking for alms in a premium product can.

I stuffed my hands deep down in my pocket,
and saw her eyes gleam in their dark socket,
Took out a five rupee coin
and heard it clink in her beer tin.

Oh god!why did you give me a rupee more and her a less,
I thought equal was our share in this cosmic mess,
Your wisdom I can’t understand,
or is it that the lines were simply strong in my hand.

Other passerbys rebuked me,
maybe right in their view,
and prophesised she would my rupee squander,
but I never let my thought wander.

Proving their prophecy true,
buying ribbons of differant hue,
saw her at the peddler,
she was nothing but a mere toddler.

Well,I shrugged my hands,
who am I to challenge life’s command,
maybe that is why I am here,
to bring back a smile and cheer.

But now bereft of my rupee,
It was very simple for me to see,
I had to walk back home,
The sky a reminder of a ribbon flying somewhere alone.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

11th July 2006

She sat on her haunches and wailed,
A wail that was heard above the din of Mumbai,
Black clouds like mourners gathered and looked down,
A dismembered hand lay near her feet,
She could identify his hand from the many others that lay there,
Not by the Titan, that he had purchased with his Diwali bonus,
Nor by the sleeve of the shirt that refused to leave his hand,
And not even by the nails that were still pearly white,
And not by the fingers that had curled up like a baby’s,
Strangely, by the familiarity of the sensations that the hand had given her,
The hand that fed and loved her,
A few hours ago, this hand was clutching the handle in the train,
And returning home,
Midst the Mumbai rush hour.
She cried out even louder impotently,
Her screams nearly tearing the black sky apart,
Red blood still oozed from the hand,
Redder than the vermillion on her head,
Fresher than the tears from her eyes,
She knew not who and why,
Nor did she understand the politics,
All she saw was mangled remains in a twisted train.
The school fees, milkman’s bills, house rent,
Little Munni’s dreams,
All exploded
With the bomb that detonated in the 6.11 local,
that snaked its way through Mumbai, the land of dreams.


Post note

She knitted two purls and one knit,
One knit and two purls
For Munni’s daughter.
When dusk fell,
She often thought,
Did they get what they want by killing him?
The dismembered hand,
Was the only identification that it was him.