Cartoons, Kala Pani and Me

http://www.time.com/time/cartoonsoftheweek/0,29489,2098747,00.html?xid=newsletter-cartoons-weekly

 

What a mad week it has been with the EU decisions and protests in Russia. It is amazing how the Occupy movements have gathered momentum yet the inequities persist: the protestors tweeting and blogging every minute while millions still starve, are eye openers.

 

I wonder, how Tiannenman Square would have played out in this time. 22 years later, I wonder what happened to the lone man standing in front of a tank. My hero remains unnamed and unsung. 

 

In all the countries of all the lands, there exist  ' le tombeau de soldat inconnu' (my written francais is better than my spoken). We do not see them as no camera crews go there, no one places a wreath. These unsung soldiers live on in the hearts of those who love them.

 

Where are the young men who followed Netaji? Where the names of the people whose sepia prints decorate the walls of the Cellular Jail, those walls freshly whitewashed to welcome politicians as we, young minds in 1986 had stood transfixed at the people who fought for the freedom that we took for granted. Surely that is when my heart cried too: Rang De Basanti and has not stopped since.

 

Here I am at the tail end of my 4th decade (Amma had explained the meaning to me in her teachable moment of collective nouns), wondering about all those stories, all those cries and all those dreams.

 

My voice is one of many that take those dreams forward. I am not alone. John Lennon reminded me of that.

Doors open when there is kindness.

Yesterday was my last class and I was in a rush. I had prepared a presentation with a colleague, I was laden with my computer and my bag of snacks, my purse and my twisted, therefore wobbly knee. It was already dark when I got to the campus and it was quite cold. I walked through the indoor parking lot and got to the entrance of the building that leads through labyrinthine corridors to the room that has been my Tuesday evening haunt since September. 

I did not have a free hand to reach for the door know even and would have had to put down my bags...

and then a young woman walked through the doors and before they closed behind her, she reached over to the wall and pressed the automatic door button. She walked past me and magically, thanks to the touch of her spirit more than the push of the button, the heavy double doors swung open and I walked through them with a smile and a warm glow that the future is safe in the hands of people such as these.

I called out over my shoulder: " Thanks. And you are going straight into my blog".

And here she is, as promised.

Chain reactions

My niece, wise girl-woman, commented on my post. I discovered her blog through this and was drawn into her world. I read about cricket and memories, posted a few comments. I admired her wit and intuitive ability to take her readers to heights and plunge them to the depths intense feeling. Thankful.

In one of her posts,she wondered aloud if she should have a theme for the blog and if that was the reason for her sparse posts. I started to write back and in doing so answered my own question, identical as it was.

This is my 5th blog: there is one for my little girls in Andheri, one for my students to revive, one in memory of Amma, one for my activist avatar and now, this one.

Why so many? Because I am many things to myself and to the people in my life. Therefore my lens changes, my perspective changes as does my voice.

I used to struggle with this thought of themes and audience and purpose. Labelled boxes that formal writing packs my thoughts into, make me think of this before I start.

Then I remember a cold winter evening that I spent sifting through my 25 journals. I had found myself in the pages. The me who would have otherwise have been lost. Each and every Rashmee was there from 1991 until now.

The Rashmee I knew and loved then has become the Rashmee I know and love now. I cannot be this without also being that. It is because I was that then is why I am this not.

“The social world is accumulatedhistory.” Pierre Bourdieu reminds us.
And all the bits and pieces of me are here right now. And some of them have to get back to that presentation.

Look, little one, look what you started. Keep writing.

On being wired

Another Saturday morning and I am wired. Literally. Have been since yesterday, which was Friday. As the term comes to a close and the hectic activity of submissions, searches and sighs takes over, (this alliteration bug is brutal, folks), I had to go get a procedure for my eye. Now or never, so I went.

And rested on Thursday. But Friday came and I had to work, so bravely, with antibiotic drops in my eye, I sat at the table sifting through my slides.

The previous night, my presentation partner and I had come to the conclusion to work offsite: she at the West end, me in the East. The twain did meet.

Thanks to Skype and the iPhone and having a 2nd laptop to browse while I still worked on the slides on the first.

All at once, I am acutely aware of the affluence, the decadence and the privilege of all this. Long awaited, yes. But there are others who have waited longer and have nothing, or at least not as much as I do.

So we discussed, debated and decided until lunch time and are now working on the final stretch so that we can conference again tomorrow. I am hoping to Skype in my sister on Tuesday for a segment of the presentation and the world gets smaller with the thought.

Now what am I going do next with this learning? How am I going to use this privilege to pay it forward?

That, is the truest test.

Stay well and watch this space.

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