B for Bollywood

B for Bollywood

I do not take well, to the question where I am from. We have moved so many times that there is no 'permanent' home. Just a string of homes which were inhabited for three years each. If you persist I will let you know that I am Indian. Back in Malaysia no one would believe me when I told them I am from India. It's the headscarf that threw them off. See, they can't believe that there are Muslims in India. The first time I went to the 'International' (my foot) café in my Uni, the Bangladeshi server at the counter started speaking to me Arabic. It's highly possible that I ran away that time, leaving his 'ahlan wa sahlan' hanging in the air. Since then I've had loads of people come up to me and play the guessing game with my nationality. 'Are you Yemeni? No? Omani? Saudi? Sudanese I know! Pakistani? ' They almost never get it right. And I love to see the game draw to an end as I reveal to them my real origin. 'What? NO WAY! So you are Hindu?'.

Sigh. Better than the time someone asked me if I 'speak Hindu'.

I can't really blame them though, to an international audience, Bollywood and curry blind all other diversity that exists within the great subcontinent.

I have never been able to escape the glittery shadow of Bollywood which follows Indians around wherever they go. I have had taxi drivers in Malaysia exclaim ' Amita Baccha! Sharoook Kaan!' when they discover I am Indian. Then there was a student (who went on to become a very close friend) who asked me if we actually dance on the streets in India. Thank you, Bollywood, for making us look like a bunch of loonies who just need a whisper of an excuse to bring out all the bling and bhangra on the streets. *slow clap*

Since going abroad and seeing everyone's fascination with Bollywood, I've really begun to hate it. And I mean some serious hate here. I hated Bollywood so much that I made sexist gender portrayals in Hindi films my dissertation topic. This is probably my second biggest regret in life (the first being getting talked into getting side bangs when I went for my last haircut). I now had to watch four Hindi films a million and one times. And I kid you not, this is some major mind numbing stuff. The last semester of my degree saw me in the library with my laptop, willing my eyes not to bleed as Salman Khan did yet another Physics defying, gag inducing stunt, hoping all the while I don't get caught with this.

Dabangg poster. Not my property bro!

This was when my other friends were rocking themselves to sleep with Marx and Foucault. They were courting all the theories and here I was, with the most ridiculous lyrics stuck in my head in a loop accompanied with all that screeching which passed off as singing... I really earned my degree, dear reader. This dissertation tested my endurance to the limit. There were moments when I thought I'd rather jump into the campus lake and let myself be consumed by the zombie ducks than watch Salman Khan kill yet another villain with his nostrils WHILE wooing his lady love who has an IQ in the negative. Then there was the constant teasing from my friends who went 'Oh, your thesis is so easy! You just have to watch movies!!'.  If I hadn't loved them so much I might have pushed them into the above mentioned lake.

What I realised, when travelling abroad and while bluffing my way through the thesis, was that Bollywood's reach is really unprecedented. In India and outside. And it doesn't make me proud one bit. It is embarrassing, in fact, because I feel it has just made caricatures out of us. In the international playground we are that weird kid who runs around screaming and finally falls off the slide head first making all the normal kids laugh. No, sir, I do not like it one bit.

I don't want the first thing people think when they hear 'India' to be 'Slumdog Millionaire'. ( I am not kidding when I say I have had people tell me "Oh, you are Indian? I LOVE Slumdog Millionaire!"  Oh really? that's weird, 'cause I don't remember producing, directing, or acting in that movie). We already have enough stereotypes to be mocked with till the end of time, so we don't really need a couple of hundred more each year (Fun Fact: Did you know that Bollywood releases 800+ films EVERY YEAR?).

You might be thinking 'now this is one angry woman!'. Well, I am angry! I had to watch Salman Khan kill people with his armpits for three bloody months!

A for Airplanes

Note: Since graduating I have at hand so much time that I've tried to sleep off most of it. Since sleep has the potential to become a mind numbing activity which can stifle creativity, I decided to get back to writing. However, excess sleep has already done some damage so I need to look for some prompts. Inspired by my cousin and fellow blogger Zainab's successful attempt, I've decided to embark on the A-Z blogger challenge. 
Every day I am going to select one letter of the alphabet and blog about it. Hopefully, this will stimulate my brain enough to come up with something good!

Here I present to you-  

A: Airplanes

As a scrawny defence kid who grew up near air bases in different parts of India, the sound of a fighter jet shooting through the sky brings with it a flood of fond memories. I remember wistful dreams of becoming a pilot who'll one day trail-blaze the same skies, looking down upon the minions still on earth. Okay, I made up the last bit.

But flying was always a dream. A wishful dream until my 7th grade when we moved from Pune to Bangalore. What happens when a 12yr old, a 9 yr old and 6 yr old get on a plane for the first time? They embarrass their parents. I remember the three of us being super hyped while getting into the plane and then fighting over who would get the window seat. Finally I got one such seat, with my parents sitting next to me. Bilal and Shereef agreed to share the other window seat and ended up alternating every few minutes. When the air-hostess served us candies I took one, shyly, mentally kicking myself for not taking a few more. My brothers, on the other hand, decided to abandon all shame and grabbed four hands full of toffees and stuffed them into their pockets. The two hour flight was like a dream for the three of us (and an embarrassing nightmare for our parents). Floating above the clouds, glancing down at the outlines of cities, we sipped on (what we thought was) free coke, we really felt on top of the world.

courtesy- www.abcteach.com

We have come a long way since then. Since my dad left Air Force, we have been on the go. At first it was Saudi, then Italy, then Malaysia. Slowly one trip merged into the other and it didn't matter anymore whether we were in the sky or seated in the airport terminal as long as we could sleep comfortably. Of course the flying experience is different with different airlines. Trips to Italy are usually comfortable, except for the time I got a seat near the emergency exit and was left sitting awkwardly, envisioning in my mind scenes of the plane crash-landing and pictures of me splattered across front page of all newspapers next day- "Young woman saves lives with quick thinking", "Girl presented with bravery award for opening emergency door".... Ah well, haven't had many 'brave experiences' so far, you see...

Malaysia has always been with a budget airlines. And boy is it uncomfortable! Of course it's a great way to fly on a shoe string budget, but it sucks that I have to pay 100 rupees for 4 drops of water and  some bread crumbs. It also doesn't help that I have 0 leg space. The 4.5 hours in the flight are spent contorting my very inflexible body into positions which would put a Russian gymnast to shame. By the time I find that prefect pose which would let me sleep without breaking a few ribs, the seatbelt sign turns on: It's time to land. RAGE.

My prayer before flying is always that I get good co-passengers. I have been stranded next to newly married couples who are so lovey-dovey and gooey that they are at a serious risk of melting off the seat.I have also witnessed countless crying babies, a few grumpy old people, and snotty children running up and down the impossibly narrow aisle and between the legs of exhausted-yet-smiling airhostesses who tried not run them over with their carts (is that what it's called?)

Talking about aisles- I absolutely hate them. Why, you ask? Well, because I cannot walk without stumbling, falling on people, or breaking things in a football field. So how can you expect me to walk with my laptop (stuffed with excess luggage), my eight kilo cabin bag AND my handbag, without hitting a few people in the head with my elbow and maybe stepping on a few toes on the way. At trying times likes this my tongue sets itself on an automatic loop, playing 'sorry' till I reach my seat and plop myself down very gracelessly. Yes, I am that person you hate. Don't judge me

Illustration: Andrew Joyner. Courtesy- www.smh.com.au

Stuffing your pregnant bag into the overhead compartment without it falling and cracking the crying baby's skull deserves another post in itself..some other day, some other day.

My other nightmares include- sitting next to gassy people (or being that person myself), snoring and drooling on the shoulders of my co-passengers, burping or emitting any such questionable sounds, smells or substances which might jeopardize my standing as a model traveller of the world. I also dislike passing through the security checks because I becomes really self conscious and end up behaving in a very suspicious way. I give furtive glances at the exit, avoid eye contact with the security personnel and in general emulate everything a perfect terrorist would do (as observed in movies). Clearing customs is like a load of my shoulders as can be seen in the huge sigh of relief. I am sure those analysing the security cameras are keeping tabs on when I'll get stopped eventually.

Not all is bad though, there are some perks of flying too. I am one of the few people who likes airplane food (not the budget airline one, mind you). It's not just the food, I like the whole process. Peeling off the foil covering, tearing the tiny sachets for my coffee and finally digging for the tiny piece of chocolate hidden in plain sight. The mess afterwords doesn't really make it to the list of my favourite things. But, yeah, whatever.

At the end of the day flying has become a part of my life. Sometimes inconvenient, but it's still there, so might as well try to enjoy it. When I am up there, it's like everything else has been suspend. I am just a tired body cruising through the sky with others whose names I might never know, but with whom I share the excitement of resting eyes on loved ones, soon. As I get out of the terminal, my body all sore, my tattered passport in sweaty hands and my exhausted eyes finally find my parents faces smiling at me (of course it's the more energetic and vigorous, exclusively Indian, 'I am here!' hand wave that makes them stand out in a crowd of sober firangs), nothing else really matters. 

Where's your colour?

My grandma has a new hobby. A very amusing one. She likes to browse through old albums, pause at my baby pictures and say "Molku enthu nirram endayirinnu, ippo adokke pozhi". Literal translation: You had so much colour, everything's gone now. What She really means: You are not fair any more. You are...*cue dramatic music*...dark!
This obsession with fairness is not exclusive to my grandma, though I am sure a lot of it lies with her. I can't count the number of times I have heard people comment about the 'colour' of the babies and brides. "Did you see [insert baby/bride's name]? Theere nirram illa. Paavam. (She has no colour. Poor thing). Westerners might be amused with the Indian metonym of 'colour' for 'fairness', 'cause there it's the non-whites who were referred to as coloured!

To cater to these Colour Crazies (As they shall be referred to from now on), there is a HUGE market, providing different shades of whiteness, in different forms. Soaps, scrubs, facepacks, creams, lotions- all compete on the shelf to land on the under confident, desperately-looking-for-a-husbad/job. brown girl's vanity bag. All promising her better jobs, more suitors and general well being. Because, obviously it's the shade of your skin that will win over an interviewer, not your education, your skills or your confidence.

We have actors who have dusky complexion promoting such creams and it is SO obvious that it's photoshop and not the cream working its magic and yet we have millions throwing away their money at these products. For many it has become a ritual of sort. I remember a house help who used to live with us, along with her husband and son. Come rain or shine, every morning the entire family would religiously apply 'Fair and lovely', probably dreaming of the much coveted 'Fair' title.

A new Vaseline advert of an Instant Fairness lotion begins - "There is a reason why 4 out of 5 Indian women are getting fairer skins". It guarantees the user '4 times fairer skin. Instantly'. Leave alone the fact that 4 out 5 Indian women have much graver problems than the shade of their skin, like- I don't know: hunger,poverty, domestic abuse-can't those who rush to buy this just stop to think HOW this cream will give them instantly fairer skin? I would run the other way if something can change my appearance so drastically.

This ongoing Indian romance with fair skin is also shared by other Asian countries. I was surprised by the number of fairness products in the Malaysian market. It just makes me think that this is probably a manifestation of an inferiority complex by post colonial nations. All this screams- Strive to be like the white man (while he sits under the sun, desperately trying to get a tan)!

Indian people- we are meant to be brown- maybe of different shades, but that's who we are. We don't need companies telling us that we NEED to put this cream on to impress mothers-in-law, make our spouses 'lucky', or to ace at interviews.

Just chill and Be Brown. 

Key Board Warriors

Coffee cruises free
As keyboard warriors 
type away
fearless, spearing words
into sentences
till the topic cedes
and sense infiltrates 
what was just mindless mumble.
Until the elusive end 
makes it appearance
with an unceremonious 'Full stop',
We subsist.
Nay, we persist.

An Apology

I’d like to apologize
For a crime so great
That it demands punishment severe
I am sorry
For being born
With the wrong chromosomes
In my defense, I wasn’t asked to choose
‘Would you like an XY or XX?’
‘My personal recommendation is XY,
It’s hot in the streets I hear!’
I apologize that my chest isn’t flat
And that my hips form curves
I do understand that my body
Invites attention,
In fact demands it!
So sorry if I didn’t take your crude passes
With a demure smile
But I know better now.
I apologize for my presence
In the public space
It must take a lot
Not to pounce on me.
So sorry that I provoke
The caveman in you
Every time I step outside.
I apologize for demanding
That my sister gets rights
‘cause, in the end she asked for it.
After all, it was her fault
That she was born a girl.

On my brother turning 18....

 My brother, Shereef (chepsy), turned 18 two days back. This is a letter/poem-ish thing I wrote for him...

Dear chepsy

When did you grow up?Just yesterday you were my 6 yr old annoying younger brother following me around,sometimes pulling at my pig tails and now, here you stand, a foot taller than me, telling me you are a grown up!

At 18, you

now feel at the top of the world. 'Man, I can do shit now!' I was you
a few years ago and boy was it exciting! Knowing that I'm 'no longer a kid'
You can drive, You can vote. You can tell mom and dad 'Don't tell me what to do, I'm an adult now'' (Which will be received with a rolling of eyes and a cut in pocket money)

But let me tell you, chepsy, being 18 is more than that
much much more
While a driving license in the pocket is awesome and waiting to vote is cool too
18 is not just the year of 'Being legal'
18 is the year when you just wanna know
everything and everyone
whatever moves under the sun!

On freshly pressed dreams
you will set out to conquer the world
Bring changes galore
Cause a revolution,
Make a BANG!

But 18 has other plans for you my boy!
'Cause 18 will also be the year
when you realize that revolutions aren't easy
And Big Bangs might just end up as Small Thuds
18 will let you know
that even though you can vote
You don't see the point
'Do I choose evil 1 or evil 2?'
You will ask yourself.

18 will be the year you discover,
with each day you will unravel yourself.
Your opinions will be stronger
your decisions more deliberate.
You will choose what you stand for,
'Cause you know you wanna be heard.

18 will be exciting, fun and all the things you wished it would be. But it's up to you to choose which way you take to make it worthwhile.

I won't wish you a 'Happy Birthday'.
'Cause I wish for you, my annoying, not so little, 'chappal' A 'Happy Every Single Day of Your Life'
I wish for you luck in finding your way through this messy place.
I wish for your resilience, to stand up and dust yourself after each fall, just to try again.
I wish for you wisdom in choosing the right friends and hope you won't take too many chances before realizing that a true friend is not the one who will join you in doing something wrong, he is the one who'll smack your head before telling you 'Dude, You need to get a life.'
Today, I wish for you Love. Love for the goodness in yourself and others.
I wish for you gratitude for letting God get you to the place you are in now.
I wish for all your dreams to come true (because, believe it or not, that's one of my dreams too)

And to wrap it all up, I wish that even if you grow gazillion inches taller, turn green and sprout purple horns , you will know that I'll still be here, ready to give you a hug.

Love,

Naz 

Just Stop

When you ask a question long enough it ceases to be one and just plays itself out in a loop like a broken record :

How? How? How? How. How. How.

Why?

Why? Why?  I keep asking myself. ‘Why?’ Why are we doing this to ourselves?  What’s so incredibly messed up in the brains of the ‘smartest living beings on the planet’ that makes us want to kill each other. To take down the ‘other’ and build a super market on his grave?

Bill Watterson said it right, the surest sign that intelligent life exists elsewhere in the universe is that it hasn't contacted us. If they do we’d probably shake their hands and stab them in the back when they sleep. Take their resources and pollute it till their kids starve into nothingness.

Sometimes I wish I weren't born. I wish I were the ocean or the sky...anything to stay away from this madness. But then I realize, this madness would still find its way to me. If I were the ocean they’d stain me with their blood; believe themselves purged by letting me bleed with their sins. If I were the sky they’d dissect me and make boundaries of me in the air, forgetting that I was never meant to be contained.

Sometimes I pray, really hard. You know that prayer when you just shut your eyes and forget about everything else around you? That prayer when you so desperately want something to happen that every atom, every cell in your body wishes for the same. I pray that we just stop.

Stop. Keep the guns down, loosen your grip on the enemy’s throat and just stay still.

Stop. Take a step back. Breathe.

And get out of your highly opinionated,  propaganda fed, socially conditioned mind and go over to the other side. I don’t care who you are- Hindu, Muslim, Jew, Christian, Pagan, Atheist.... Just get out of those self imposed shackles and learn to think, Feel and live the other person’s life.

Be him. Be her. Be them.

Be Jihad Misharawi who lost his 11 month old baby boy to a deadly strike. Be Mira Scharf who died, leaving 3 young kids, when commemorating the death of another. 

Be the people who live in fear every single second of every single day.

Just stop being you for a second.

Do you see it now? Do you feel it? His mother, your sister, their sons, Our daughters- Isn't loss still the same? Doesn't it still hurt as much?

So stop making pills of pain and feeding it to the ‘other’ because in the end the side effects will show on you more than anyone else.

Some links: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-middle-east-20354681
http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/inpictures/2012/11/20121111152558908105.html