Horcrux

The city you grew up in is no different from an old shirt. You grow out of the city. You groan, squeeze and sweat your way back into its confined structure but there is no longer a sense of belonging. It’s bursting at its seams just like you are. It has changed just like you have and the equation is- however hard you try and convince yourself- no longer right.
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The problem of growing up in one city all your life is that there are too many memories. I don’t believe people when they say you carry your memories with you. Sometimes they stay back in the house you grew up in, under the beds where you hid, in the courtyard where you played, the coffee shops you’ve visited, the spots that you sat at- fighting, laughing, cuddling or crying. They haunt those spots like little ghosts, waiting to mob you, their creator. When you go to those spots, the ghost enters you and then swishes its way into your mind before you realise it. It can lurk anywhere- near a chat stall, in a noisy classroom, in a box in the cupboard, in gifts and letters, on beaches and terraces... anywhere unprecedented, unexpected and even unnatural. Once it sweeps your present out of the way, you are flung back to the memory of that day and moment. No one likes living in a memory.

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Happy memories do not stay happy. They are never as they were.  They either snowball into happier memories or they just fade away. I don’t know which one is worse honestly. I have to tell you-sometimes when a very cheery remark or gesture comes back to my head, I push it away. Sometimes when moments are gone, the memory should also go. Sometimes. I wish I had a box in my head called ‘happy memories’. (Yeah, I know, very original!) I’d retrieve only the one that I wished to see at that moment and no other. I hate the way they’re all tied in my head always scrambling together from beneath the iceberg to the tip.
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Cities are made by people. Atleast the metropolitan ones are. Ironically, where I see people supposedly bustling around, I don’t believe they know how to occupy themselves. They do so with machines or with other people. When both are missing in their lives, silence is an assassin.  Their own voice becomes grating, their own presence frightening and their own company unendurable.  

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My childhood was shaped by many people. Most of them no longer live in this city. Their little ghosts lurk in those corners I mentioned and when they pounce on me, I want to flee. I had moved on once with excitement and anticipation. It was a good idea, I later found out. Returning was perhaps not the best idea. When you have a horcrux, you must hide it somewhere, not try to thrust it back into your soul.

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Leaving however is the most painful thing to do. Especially when you have a perked up ear, beady nose and hanging tongue staring at you with the utmost adoration. This city may not have everything but it has a few things that are irreplaceable. And that’s what keeps the debate raging on...

My high and I.

I am not ready and I don’t think I will ever be.  It’s like an exam really, you prepare yourself for it until you’re irritable and sick with anxiety but you never know the questions until doomsday. Why is that every time you’re really happy, someone comes to prick you and squeeze it out? It’s as though happiness is a crime.  Highs are rare but the downfall is so cruel and rapid. This was not even a temporary high, the kind that is induced by alcohol or drugs. This was a high that was seemingly permanent, the kind that kept my spirits perked up day after day, and comfortably curled up in me as a permanent resident. I don’t know where it began, I don’t know when it grew. That’s the funny thing. I just grew accustomed to it like a happy foot snuggling up to sleep in a shoe. I don’t know if it wrapped itself around me or if I wove myself around it. In any case, we were inseparable, the high and I. I lived in that endless moment never stopping to think of its absence in life. And now, when it seems to be slipping out of my fingers, unwillingly and painfully, my senses are filling up with dread and fear. It’s a fear of the unknown, a fear of the unaccustomed, a fear of potential discomfort and unhappiness, a fear of a new, unwanted beginning, a fear of diving into a crevasse that will hold me trapped forever. A fear of being naked , exposed and cold. An obligatory social ‘celebration’ that is going to prick me.

The high that is you kept me flying for years and I am so terrified to take that plunge. 

I like going for walks and dunking my head in cheese.

If you keep nagging

About my weight

Your rapier tongue

May seal your fate.

-          -Joyce Guy

Have you ever sat around women without hearing the words ‘fat’, ‘thin’, ‘perfect’ and ‘beautiful’? If you are thinking about it right now, then all I can say is ‘Ha!’  If you sit at a coffee shop with friends,  the conversation will eventually steer towards the supposed imperfections that we all have. If you go for a wedding, you will be greeted by older women  commenting on your loss or gain of weight; a subtle indication of how many gulab jamoons you should or should not be eating at the wedding. I dread going to parlours the most. The idea of going to a place where I am told by total strangers that I require (urgently at that) a hair spa, a wine facial, a pedicure or the new aloe vera wax (that costs more than a Hersheys chocolate syrup) angers me. The women at the parlours who give me unsolicited advice get cold looks in return. From their puzzled faces, I gather that they just cannot understand why. After all, they are only helping me look better, right? It upsets me even more when I realise that their words have had an impact on me, proud and unaffected  as I believe myself to be, when I realise that I am standing in front of a mirror and wondering if I really should get that facial or hair spa someday. Ah, I’m also falling into the trap of those evil marketing strategies that have lowered my self-esteem and successfully made me a more conscious and less confident human being.

 The body of a woman, constantly under scrutiny and forever being shaped to societal preferences is not a personal body. It is not a body that belongs to the woman for the simple reason that she does not take care of it the way she may want to. She may just want to keep eating her chocolates and cheese. She may like those curls on her head or that little spot on her chin. She may not care about those broad shoulders. However if you look around you, you will find that women are’ too fat’ or ‘too skinny’, their broad shoulders need to be hidden or they must wear clothes that accentuate their shoulder bones, they are ‘too tall’ and ‘man-like’, or ‘too short', 'too fair’ (not so likely) or too dark (very likely). The list goes on and on. The ‘perfect body’ does not exist. In fact, it never did. At every stage of evolution, the definition of that perfection has itself been subject to constant change and we find hundreds of women at that stage moving towards an idea and not a reality of perfection. We all seem to exist in a particular way not because we want to but because we have to. In fact, expectations are even larger for women who are ‘perfect’- a tiny pimple or a discernable stomach will cause a panic attack and send them fleeing to the skin doctor/ gym. We are an unsatisfied group because we are conditioned to be unsatisfied. Even if a woman is satisfied and happy with herself and the way she looks, someone will come along to cruelly burst that bubble. I have stood in front of that mirror many times and smiled at the reflection there only to critically assess it later because of something someone said. And this is what this note is all about. 

For a scrawny teenager who never grew, I can tell you that the number of comments I’ve received about my weight and looks could challenge the total amount of entries on a twitter account. I have been a thin person all my life. I was a chubby little kid until three and then miraculously I became thin. I never put on weight after that and no one knows why. While some people think it’s a blessing, others always taken it upon themselves to self-righteously give me advice on how to gain those extra kilos. The second lot (most people I know) unfortunately start with my family and friends. The beauty parlour ladies enter a little later into the picture. Exchanging ‘pleasantries’ during a family function means hearing ‘Goodness, WHY have you lost so much weight?’, ‘You HAVE to put on weight, eat properly!’, ‘Oh, I remember you were healthy earlier...ha ha ha!’, etc.  It’s amazing that once people are done with their personal observations, they have nothing more interesting to ask! When I try explaining to them that I have not lost weight and that I am perfectly healthy (I thought that was important?) they beg to disagree. They take it upon themselves to fatten me up just that night by heaping my plate with enough food to feed about 10 starving children. When I stare helplessly at the mountain of rice on my plate, I become audience to another lecture. (Once someone even went to the extent of telling me how it was important for me to put on weight so that I won’t have problems when I bear children!) I only wish that I had enough guts to tell them that they resemble The Hulk.

If families are like that, friends are no better. Friends insist on hearing ‘diet tricks’ when I have none. They turn a deaf ear when I talk about my superwoman metabolism and insist on knowing The Secret that never existed.  While I smile out of sheer frustration and often laugh it off, they also go on to admonish me for the things that I love doing.  ‘Why are you on a walk? How do you expect to gain weight if you keep walking?’, ‘Why do you dance?’ ‘Just sleep and eat cheese’, etc. It’s almost as though people have to feel apologetic to want to exercise!

If you look around you and envy that woman with larger breasts, that woman with the perfect  height, hair or eyebrows, think once more. Every woman out there in my experience has been told to change the way she looks by someone-known or unknown. The unsatisfied lot go about advising the rest of the unsatisfied lot so there really is no winner. If you really want to know how you feel about yourself, it’s perhaps best to ignore those comments. Look at that mirror, it will never lie.

‘I believe only in a God that knows how to dance’

(Friedrich Neitzsche)

I placed my feet together first, toes huddled up like little children on a dormitory bed. Then I spread my feet out slowly until they formed a perfect V. I gingerly spread them out even further to form a straight line like I used to when I was a child- flexible, unafraid and agile. My knees immediately screamed in protest, their anger resonating through my entire leg. I hurriedly brought my feet back together, an incident from college rudely reminding me that I could injure myself in this experiment. My knees calmed down and went back to sleep. I carefully spread my feet out again. With crooked knees and hands gently placed on hips, I squatted and stared at nothingness with rising determination. It was a test after so long that I was sure that I would topple over like I had once before, sure that I was cringing while awaiting the pain. Instead, sheer practice and habit made the corners of my mouth automatically break out into a wide smile. The smile, now fixated on my face, grew more and more ghastly as the pain reverberated through my entire body. I closed my eyes. Flashes of inner joy, varied expression, heavy make-up, elaborate jewellery and costume, sweat-soaked bodies, the simple and yet powerful thattu kazhi, song and anger, light and shadow rushed to my head. But the sound that struck out uniquely most was the rhythmic thudding of feet on ground in sync with the thattu kazhi.

It has been three long years since I was in that environment. It was a routine in my life, much like eating and sleeping. I grew accustomed to it and let it flow in my blood. I was a child thudding my delicate feet on the ground, trying to impress; I was a teenager awkward and ugly, doing everything wrong; I was an adult, passionate and energetic, striving to improve. I remember days when I gawked at my Gurus, their display of emotions not a lesson but a wonderful awakening of the senses.  They evoked joy and sorrow in the audience as they did in their characters. They were stern with us, and then sterner, and then exasperated, and then angry, and we shook like terrified chickens waiting for slaughter. I remember days when we did nothing but just walked when they instructed us to. Yes, just walked-like ducks do, bobbing up and down a river in a graceful manner. We went round and round the classroom until the shadow of the window panes started to accompany us and the number of rounds being walked multiplied themselves. We walked around until our legs remained in that manner and we even walked back home like ducks!

I remember those days when we learnt to do wondrous things with our fingers, stretching them out to form beautiful patterns that symbolised everything in the world and then used them to accompany our legs and bodies in geometrical movements. I remember those days when we begged for the fan to be switched on during water breaks and then rushed to find the coolest spot under it. We would settle down, rigidity and posture crumbling, as we sloppily lay against the wall.

 I remember the days when the momentum kept increasing until we swerved around like dervishes in tenth speed, pains of the world and pains of the body both forgotten. Speed brings an unimaginable thrill but the wonderful transition to a slow, graceful movement was even more exhilarating. With beads of sweat tickling our eyes, arms glistening and insides groaning, we would still have this smile plastered on our faces. The smile that is on my face right now. The smile represented the joy of movement and expression but it slowly functioned to hide our pain and would slowly cease to look pleasant as the hours passed; we’d soon be looking maniacal.

I’m sure I looked maniacal now and I suddenly stood up. The images disappeared and my legs, startled and shivering, did not seem like they belonged to me. I don’t know what I expected to see or imagine when I closed my eyes. However, the aesthetic images that seem to have firmly planted themselves in my memory brought back more than just the joy of dance; they made me realise what I have been missing all these years and what that void was all about.

Of all the steamy days! (Tut tut...What are you thinking?)

It’s a hot day. Summer has washed over a brief and unprecedented pleasant patch. It makes its tiresome presence felt through the dry dust that now whirls around me. The garden looks thirsty, the plants are coated with dust. Workmen are pounding away at the ground, and at regular intervals they throw up wet mud. Little mounds of mud form the fence for a dirt track. Roots of the earth stick out at all directions below, exposed suddenly to the wrath of the sun.

 Inside, Pepper is sprawled on all fours under the sofa, resembling as usual a black carpet of velvet. It’s her afternoon siesta and she barks lazily from underneath every time someone opens the gate. The road is empty. A lone car passes by and then there’s silence again. There is no other sound. The trees look forlorn, the sky is still, the leaves are motionless, and there is no wind. If I whispered, my message would reach the roots of the earth.

It is one of those days when there is no motivation to move, work, smile even. You just observe the mundane and then write about all the images that your mind conjures up irrationally. You know that none will understand what you write, you probably don’t yourself. But it’s just one of those days. One of those days that is perfect to write under the shade of a terracotta roof with a glass of juice by your side. One of those days that is perfect to scribble anything that your mind throws up:  a sad thought here, a happy thought there. The heart burns with longing for those moments and every moment is connected to a day like this- dry, dusty, blazing and lethargic.

I think of lip gloss. The sheer sweetness of it makes me smile.

I think jokes made over bad pronunciations. Those really never fail to make you laugh. Unlike other jokes, the more you think about it and the more often you say it, the funnier it gets.  

 I think of a conversation about galaxies. That was one night, long long ago. Nothing to do with forlorn trees but such an enduring thought! It seems like it happened yesterday. The sheer randomness of it and the naivety of the rest that followed make me want to go back to that day.

 I think of petrol. The absurdity of its price and the way I flared up at an auto driver two days back when he tried to cheat me. Auto drivers ignite tempers like no one else can on days like these.  

 I think of cup-o-noodles. I think of one brand that I love- that we made every other day at hostel and slurped and relished every thread of it. And then I think of the brand that I do not like. Ugh. I remember boiling water on another such lazy afternoon, pouring it into the cup and tasting it. I grimaced and scolded and kept it back on the table till it turned cold. Cold enough to be thrown away. Food didn’t matter to me that day. That day was another beginning- a door to a storehouse of joyous memories.  

I remember sitting by the pavement of the beach. The beach is important in my life. It guards a chapter of my life, many chapters in fact, all close to my heart. The sands know my secret, the waves have heard my stories and rants. I also remember sitting on the beach-far away from the road and close to the water. I was getting baked in the May heat but I still sat there. I remember leaning forward and then backward and looking at the sea from all angles. Then I walked back in silence.

 I remember fishing for a painting and postcard from my jhola the day I sat on the pavement and I remember the joy of giving these. The smile and gratitude that followed and the unsure hug.  

I think of Udaan. What a brilliant movie that was! I remember the third time I watched it sprawled across the bed, growing a little bored as I saw the next scene before it came.  I drummed my fingers on the laptop, shifted here and there in boredom and then shut it down. Udaan meant something else.

I remember pictures of smiling people. One on a wall to my right, the other to my left and the last next to my ear. They were all witnesses, encased in frames like the memory of that day is encased in my head. I realised their presence only later, what a fright I got!

I remember sitting in class and pretending to take notes. Shutting out voices and listening to the ones in my head. I secretly had my phone on my lap. Texting everyone to entertain me, free me from the torturous lecture.

I remember the Madhavan movie. I’ve forgotten what it was called. I also remember the old man by my side- his stern face for some reason etched in my memory. I remember the large eyes and I remember nibbling fingers. What yummy popcorn that was!

I remember the evening when I suddenly discovered something small and beautiful in my pocket. I love those days when you discover things in your pocket, even if it’s just a 5 rupee note. I have it tucked away somewhere, safe from prying and judgemental eyes.

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My mind races on and there are many more. But the one that saddens me the most is that evening when I turned my head to say good bye at the beach. I was given assurance of a wonderful future and was given the nod- not grudgingly but willingly and happily. I was ordered and not merely told to hold on. I’ll never forget that day not because of the words but the person who said them- my beanstalk and best friend.

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I have successfully confounded you, patient reader. In my defence, I warned you in the beginning. The heat lingers on and the memories make my head both a pleasant place and a distressed one. I no longer know what I’m saying. Tata. 

The Dream of Living

I had a dreamless night that I’m making up for right now. It never hurts to dream.  Dreams make up for what reality does not offer, even if temporary. Dreams maybe foolish, they maybe a route to utopia but they keep you hopeful, alive and happy.

I first dream of a wonderful holiday. Currently my dream borrows from a past vacation. Rishikesh was and will be my destination. My mind is a kaleidoscope; it creates beautiful patterns from dispersed images. The colours that I see make me shiver with pleasure.

We raced down rickety slopes, posing in front of cameras with sunglasses and wind-swept hair. We looked at every tree and shrub and exclaimed with joy at the beauty of nature. We screamed with excitement whenever the car swerved and the mighty Ganges peeked at us from below. We sat on rocks and anticipated life for the next few hours. We crouched on soft sand and pretended to be people we were not. We created dramatic situations that ended as tragically as our minds could imagine...and then we laughed about them.

My heart was pounding with fear and eagerness through all this. I’m quite a hydrophobic person and the thought of a cascading down chilly waters in a small rubber boat sent panic waves through every organ in my body. I vividly recollect the ‘reassuring’ conversation with the river-rafting instructor. He explained to me that knowing swimming was always an advantage during times of trouble and in the unfortunate event of something going wrong leading to my death, well... Goodbye to me then. There was nothing that could be done. The next set of panic waves were triggered by his casual attitude. It made an enormous impact on my wild imagination. I thought of myself struggling to breathe, sinking to the depths of the river bed with water pouring into my lungs, and never being found. What a horrible way to perish! Even in death, we’d like to imagine ourselves being the centre of attraction; no one wants to sink into oblivion.

Anyway, reality offered me a completely different picture. We bounced down the river with unimaginable pleasure; the adrenaline rush was inexplicable. No one fell, we were all warriors! My friend echoed this sentiment to the water below:‘You are my kryptonite!’, she challenged. Later, our body temperatures plummeted as we divided into the icy water. Some of us clutched the rope in fear of drifting off while others swam away in gay abandon. With growing courage, we let go too and floated in the river with our backs resting on lifeboats.

The world had truly come to a standstill. Above we saw a vast blue sky, around we saw imposing hills and greenery. We heard the sound of the river below us, soothing in spite of its herculean force. We drifted away from reality, from stress, from worry and yes, from the boat. After what seemed like eternity, we were hauled up like confused fish and thrown back into the boat.  Later, I remember watching in awe as three of my friends pierced the same water from dizzying heights. It swallowed them whole and they emerged only seconds later.

We then walked up and down the Ram and Lakshman jhulas- staring at colourful hippies with matted hair, peering at orange robed sadhus, both real and fake ones, deep in meditation, petting dogs lingering in filthy corners, laughing at tourists marvelling at the chaos, passing ashrams embracing people into a world of silence and dreaming of floating in the Ganges, now below our feet. The evening rays of the sun were not blazing; they were warm and a dull yellow. They shone on our faces lighting up some features while others remained in the shadows. The water below sparkled and evening suddenly announced itself. It was time to return to another world.  

I dream now of the sacred water, I dream of the warm sun. I dream of the forbidding mountains and I dream of the slanting trees. I dream of the best of company and I dream of the delicious sponge cake. I dream of another such perfect day. In my dream, there are several constants, very few things change. But the joy of living, the joy of companionship, and the joy of freedom make the dream what it is: the dream of living itself.  

Tranquility

My toes tickle the water

It stirs. It is aroused.

And then ripples with laughter.

It embraces my feet

In a cold but gentle manner

To wipe away the accumulated filth of the world.

My hands clutch sand

Grains panic. They scamper.

Escaping hurriedly to their comforting heap

Leaving but a wonderful smell

Of beach. Of spray. And;

Of bygone whispers and encounters .

My eyes gaze at the stars

Old ones twinkle. New ones glow.

All reassuring me of the peace above

Ephemeral comfort

That soothes my mind

But fails to spread to the world below.

My senses capture magic

Of stillness. Of motion.

Of ceaseless and yet altering forces

They percolate my thoughts

Seep into my broken dreams

And yet fail to heal my tired soul.

     

Namma Sampradhayam

Abhistoo!

Long time ago, my cousin and I were sitting at a restaurant with two of our relatives. We chatted and giggled amongst ourselves for a while before tuning into the conversation taking place in front of us. Just then the ever popular topic of marriage had cropped up and we perked up our ears at the very sound of the word. We both had boyfriends then (my cousin was dating someone who was not Tamilian or Brahmin) and we were not enjoying contemplating the different reactions we might have received if we had told our parents about it. We did come up with a few plausible reactions though:

 Reaction 1: ‘They won’t get along with our family. Period. Ellarun enna cholluva?’ (voice quivering).

If you ever want to become a lawyer, I can assure you that this is one argument you cannot win, however hard you try. If you take the defensive ‘Why won’t they suit us?’, you will be thrown an icy glare followed by a long lecture on food habits, vegetarianism, respect, dignity, culture, clothes, behaviour and what not. And if you try arguing with each of those -‘No, but the guy I like IS vegetarian, religious and is perfectly dignified and respectable, thank you very much!’, they will retort  ‘How dare you argue with me? You’re too young. Kids these days know nothing at all’. It won’t stop there. There will some other general points thrown in about this generation being spoilt and ignorant, how they do not care about anybody and how love marriages have resulted in divorces. Now that’s another interesting point. While your parents pick out all the worst cases in history to illustrate their point about love marriages (‘Do you know this friend of mine in office? Her sister’s son married this Gujarati girl and everything was fine until they got married. The girl then showed her true colours’, they’ll declare triumphantly. Or ‘Do you not know what happened with that boy whose parents were distraught when he announced that he was in love with a Japanese girl? Flushed and yet intrigued you’ll ask- ‘What?’ ‘The girl ran away with her childhood sweetheart’). You can come up with a few cases of arranged marriages not working out and they will again shoot you down with: ‘You only pick up cases that suit you. The chances of a marriage working are higher when the parents choose’. And if you say that universally that’s what people do during an arguement, i.e. pick up cases that prove their point, they will adopt the emotional route and plunge down that route in all gusto until you feel miserable. 

Reaction 2: ‘How on earth did you think that would be suitable?!’

Refer to the above argument. They all follow the same lines eventually.

Reaction 3: ‘Break up with him right now!’

THE threat. Threat because what followed would make you feel like you had proposed to marry Osama Bin Laden’s 40^th son. The threat need not always be overt, the subtle threats are the worst. Trust me.

Reaction 4:  ‘Abhistoo!!’

Honestly, I’ve not heard too many people saying that these days but that one word conveys all the disbelief and horror that they experience at that particular moment. Oh, well I just threw that in for good measure.

Entry of the ubiquitous Mylapore maami:

If the matter had passed on to some bored maami complete with the bright kancheevaram saree and mukkuthi  sitting at a wedding, eager to hear any gossip about her brother’s children or her grandfather’s brother’s great grandchildren , the maami would have had a mild/ not-so-mild/intense heart attack on hearing about this. (The degrees of heart attack depend of course on which caste/community the boy belongs to). Slowly a group of maamis will gather together to discuss this preposterous idea and tear the boy, his family and the community apart. Are you wondering why people hate Brahmins? :P Please do note: We love ourselves very much and yes, we do think we’re God’s gift to mankind. Atleast 80% of the community still thinks so. The younger generation however, more often than not, do not give a damn.

THE BOY:

 Anyway, we, i.e.my cousin and I (in case my tangential flow of thought distracted you) had decided to keep our secrets to ourselves and wait for the elders to solemnly give us strict instructions on whom to fall in love with. Tam-Brahms are brilliant at that, by the way. They probably have a rule book tucked away somewhere that gives you a twelve point bulleted table on ‘How to find the Right Brahmin Boy’. He is THE BOY. Now a little needs to be said about THE BOY. He will have to be well-educated (and by that I mean have a PhD from an Ivy League or be earning enough to be the next Ambani of the State. No less.) He will have to be from a ‘good’ family ( someone please tell me who marries people from ‘bad’ families?) THE BOY will have to be of ‘good build’, fair and tall (with the average weight, height and complexion all specified, mind you. For example: 5 ‘9’ is a strict no-no but 5 ‘10’ might be passable.) He will have to be a ‘nice, chammathu piyan’ and not have any ‘bad habits’ (read: no smoking or drinking. Drugs and pre marital sex are not mentioned here as they are akin to incest, murder or homicide.) You will find 80% of this lot sitting in the US pursuing some computer-related job in a large company and having several other interests. Tam- Brahms are known to be very competitive so this guy would probably have won a Spelling Bee contest, a badminton championship, a shloka competition, a music competition, be a part of the State basketball team... the list will be endless and can give anyone an inferiority complex. Or it can make them plain suspicious about his superman-like qualities. The girls will be no less qualified, I can assure you. She will be THE GIRL- sweet and mild natured, pretty, fair, slim, name followed by 5 degrees from Ivy Leagues too, a Bharatanatyam dancer or Carnatic singer and a good cook. THE BOY and THE GIRL will then get married and produce THE CHILDREN. They will be brought up in the US but recite verses from the Bhagvad Gita as monotonously as other children recite Robert Frost or Wordsworth, speak heavily accented Tamil that only they can understand and later go to Ivy Leagues too. And so on and so forth...

Liberal-aa?

Anyway, I’m digressing a lot. I was speaking about my two relatives. The two of them were having a conversation about how liberal they were. We were overjoyed on hearing that word- ‘LIBERAL, did you say’? The first aunt said that she was okay with her daughter marrying an Indian, that was after all the most important criterion. ‘Hey, that’s not bad’, we thought! We were quite impressed. We exchanged pleased looks before the second interjected and said ‘Indian but has to be Hindu, of course’. That didn’t surprise us much. Christians and Muslims are considered beings from another planet when it comes to marriage anyway. And this means that we could date about 80% of the population? Not that we would but one always likes to have the option. The first aunt then said ‘But he has to be South Indian. These North Indians are not trustworthy and are terribly patriarchal’.  Now that erases our chance with more than 3/4^th of the population, we thought. But still... not too bad, that’s a lot of people to choose from. The second decided to be even more specific now- ‘Indian, Hindu, South Indian and Tamilian’, she declared. The first aunt applauded her ‘liberal outlook’ and added ‘But he has to be Brahmin, illaya? Illata seri varathu’. The second aunt looked shocked. ‘Of course!’ she said as though it were the most obvious given in the whole world. My cousin and I looked at them quizzically. ‘How did you start this conversation again?’, we asked sarcastically. They both laughed too and said ‘But we’re alright with him being either an Iyer or Iyengar’. ‘See? We’re very liberal’.

Bitter sweet symphony   

This is not to say that Brahmins are not liberal. If you ever bring up that topic with them, they’ll tell you about a hundred things that they let you do that others may not allow. (North Indian men do not allow the women to work, we give education so much importance! Women cannot  talk back to their husbands, have you ever seen a submissive Brahmin woman?, etc.) Of course it’s all relative and therefore a lot of it is true so you can’t really disagree. However, when it comes to marriage and choosing a partner, few are willing to be more acceptable of inter-caste marriages. The poor person whom you’re arguing for could be the sixth avatar of Lord Vishnu but he won’t be good enough. He might have a mole on his cheek that will be reason enough to reject him, it’s true. We’re an endogamous, proud lot who carry the baggage of our ancestors on our shoulders and worship their beliefs even if we don’t entirely know what they are or where they came from! We chant mantras in languages we do not understand and follow rituals whose meanings we have long forgotten but we believe that it is good for us. Reason does not exist in our dictionary, it was long defeated by beliefs made stronger with generations. You can study philosophy or sociology to broaden your outlook and question such ethnocentric beliefs but you just cannot win. Or rather you can win but it’ll be a bitter sweet symphony.