Solemn Deals, Scripted Lives, & other stories

Considering reported rapes as a ratio of population will actually portray India as quite safe. The feeling fails the reality test, however, because only a tiny minority is actually reported. Rapes in wedlock fail the definition itself and those within families sometimes remain unknown even within the family. Even others will be hushed up to protect the victim’s chances of marriage, and family ‘honor’. More than three quarters of Indians are Hindus like me, and some of our customs indirectly sustain this horror. Dowry is the most prolific of them.

Dowry is not just greed – it is the most glamorous celebration of misogyny. Some kill to earn it, and the rest kill to avoid it. Though the custom was made illegal  more than half a century back, it is proudly practiced by Hindus in most parts of India.

I recall a meeting in the past with some (male) friends where we ended up discussing marriage. When someone claimed that Eastern and North Eastern India has lower instances of dowry, in came a remark: “Saale kanjoos“.  Don’t be amused – these are also the same regions which show some of the highest sex ratio, and lowest rates of rape (… and least religious fanaticism too).

Another instance I’d once overheard women discuss (chuckle) : A woman was explaining how her marriage was special. Her in-laws were nice enough to convert all the dowry into jewellery and present back to her within a week. The bragging of dowry was required during marriage. Or else the clan would have doubted the worthiness of the groom; or if she was already pregnant!

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Matrimonials give an idea of how a vast majority of marriages take place. There is a prevailing rate for every type of groom – from a petty Government servant to Ivy League graduates. Grooms will vaunt their education or work in the caste classifieds, and brides their money. The strength of the new bonding will be solemnized by matching all the magical parameters of gotra, gan, rashi, numerology and most importantly potential for a  unidirectional transfer of wealth. And somehow the magic will start, after the deal takes place. A generation back it was compulsory too, but not as obnoxious as it is now. People throw down even their last retirals hoping to tame this bottomless greed. The extortion often continues even after marriage, sometimes till the hostage is alive.

For a man who has earned this easy money, it is a no brainer to loathe a liability when he can choose the sex of his own child, so cheaply, in the private of a clinic.  Though, I will be surprised if a ‘hormonally active’ female (which do not  include Saasu-maa-s) will ever support killing of a foetus, just for greed.

“With all due respect, sir, if you still like that dreamy deal your parents and relatives struck for you, you should have allowed them to sleep with your bride first!”

Arranged marriages leave more holes for dowry; though not all arranged marriages will involve it. Choosing a partner leaves very little option for the family to perpetrate this greed. Why can’t we convince our parents that it is neither their marriage, nor their lives, nor their times ? Why not just marry the girl I love ? Live in a new home ? Where does mideaval voodoo come into picture at all ?

Candle lights have protested a ghastly rape. But how many of those male flames will choose to burn down the dowry deal struck by their parents ?

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Religion (unfortunatey) is one of the first piece of learning which gets imprinted in the mind. The roots of this custom lie in the deep male chauvinism seething in some of Hinduism’s holiest texts. Puranas and Epics slaughter the character of the Vedas and the Upanishads. Women, even godesses curl up around the feet of their husbands; polygamy, and rapes run abound. Honor is protected and liability disposed.  The religion has become a confused mess – women are objects of desire and worshipped as mythical magicians at the same time. And there are still some who will ‘explain’ all that for you. A half literate society fed with these from childhood, and rehearsing these everyday can hardly be expected to think straight. Dowry is not even perceived as a problem. So is rape seen as a disgrace and not as a crime. And the birth of a girl child casts a gloom.

When it comes to greed, inspiration cuts across communities. Others have been learning fom us.

Government control of ultrasound machines will never improve sex ratio. People will kill a newborn by packing salt into her mouth, or simply dumping the live baby in a garbage bin for dogs to eat. They do these already. Or they will burn brides.

It is high time we, those raised as Hindus, introspect. Conscience must supercede outlandish beliefs. Let us fix ourselves first and not point at what others, say, Muslims do. Look in the mirror dude. And look yourself in the eye!

Why do girls like barfi?

Because it is sweet, you fool.

Albeit this fondness is subjective, overdose will invariably make anyone nauseated.

At first sight the fresh lead female reminded me of that great British football club based in Old Trafford – may be because of the brilliant red dresses she will wear later. She is obsessed with the sweetness of this Barfi lad. Ya ya, umang, tarang, jeena sikhaya, life is beautiful, that itching sensation, we know all that. Daughter to the new-age two-husbanded Draupadi, she dares to equal her mom. Her chance gone, thanks to her mom, she remains the eternal haddi to the kabab of a happy couple. She lied about not having any photograph of her crush, which even inspires the very first scene of the movie. But later she reveals a whole album of folded photographs. You should know how I hate liars, or for that matter inconsistent scripts. No amount of penance, not even managing a children’s home, or making sweet origami to a child with Down’s syndrome can earn you forgiveness for that.

We all agree, acting as an autistic girl is tough. More so if the actor is a glamorous Miss World. But just because she is playing an autistic, does not necessarily make the rendering lovable. With all sympathies to the character and apologies all autistic people in the world, I did not like it. Though I liked the well researched laterally inverted B she writes. She successfully clears the Barfi Heart Entrance test, which everyone else had failed earlier. I will bet on anything my dear Barfi: she did not even notice that falling log! She was dreaming of the damn Filmfare award Oscars, holding your God knows what.

This Barfi guy himself is a really sweet entertainer, rendered with utter perfection by the actor – no satire in that. He measures his affinity to an individual with the controvertial log test, sometimes putting his orientation in question. You did your part. Let others do theirs.

For a setting in the ’70s, anachronisms are there, but comparatively rare. A transistor radio, Murphy or otherwise, on  a bicycle basket in 1972? I doubt if there were any, if at all affordable, available anywhere in India – let alone Darjeeling.  Number plates could not have started with WB 20 in the 70’s, neither could so many the cable lines crowd the lampposts, nor did Calcutta trams and buses sport those fluorescent schizophrenic non-Red color. Can’t complain, as even Hollywood classics get along with bigger goofs. The persistence of the filmmaker on avoiding scenes, locales, and angles which hint at the present is commendable. This includes finding a vintage location right next to the Howrah Bridge, old cars with left hand drive and cycles without mud-guards – I loved it all. Or Keventer’s for that matter – you should have a cup of Second Flush there. But my real crib remains that cheap jute wig which the British football club was wearing as an oldie. The half-bald mother of my granny’s maid uses a better one.

Stretching the storyline is the moral of this story. It is rumored that the script writer was inspired by a popcorn machine, and the producer had thrown a champagne party when the team announced that the film would span more than two hours, to hold you and someone else at ransom, twice. Using a shaky camera may make you look Hollywoodish, but please don’t hire a butcher to edit that film. The editor minced the film in a fashion that to follow the story – you will need to keep track of a dozen frames of reference, all presented in a intertwined spaghetti. And to seal the end with real senti, desi style, two handicapped lovers die in each other’s arms. I sobbed. All my expectations generated till the intermission were raped in the darkness of the theater that night.

Back to the topic. To quote Penny, “Handicapped people are nice, Leonard, everyone knows that!” Now that’s sweet!

The Affair

I am married for about three years now … And my wife often says, I have transformed over the last year.

I have loved twice, may be thrice in my life – but never so deeply, so madly. For her, I have learned to sing. Watched videos I’ve never seen before ! Performed caricatures which even my wife has missed. I have cut down on my sleep, worked late at night, and again woken up early. Just for her. To steal just one more sweet moment with her.

People have asked me: Is it worth it?

My daughter, Mehuli just turned a year.

Unlike motherhood, which is felt in flesh & blood (my wife once told me) from the moment one comes to expect, fatherhood (I know) grows up: softly, from the awe of that little pink thing, to the joy in seeing her smile at me, to the wonder in seeing her walk, the charm of hearing her call, to the love I feel today.