The Pran of Indian Toons

This piece first appeared in The Hindu. 

Long before I set foot in Delhi — a city I now call home — I had seen it through the strokes of his brush. Not only Delhi, I had also seen Jupiter, an alien and a computer much before I had actually seen any of them, and I was not the only one, there was an entire generation of children who did.

As a young girl of six, who had just learnt to read, my motivation to visit my uncle’s place in Allahabad would be the many books that I got to read there. I would often ride pillion on his assistant’s bicycle and go to Civil Lines to pick colourful comics, which kept me entertained and engaged for hours. All these comics — Billoo, Pinki and Chacha Chaudhary — bore a similar signature on them, which, at that time, I read as Prap (I was too young to understand arty fonts). It was much later that I realised that the man was called Pran, a name well-suited for someone who infused life into mundane, everyday incidents and characters, and made them immortal. 

Pran Kumar Sharma, fondly known as cartoonist Pran, can easily be called the pioneer of comics in India. In the 1960s, when he started drawing Daabu for a Delhi-based newspaper, there were hardly any comic strips around. Most comics available at the time were reprints or imported versions of Phantom, Mandrake and Superman. In 1969, he created Chacha Chaudhary for a magazine called Lotpot. A character that later became his trademark, and found itself a permanent place in the International Museum of Cartoon Art, USA.

An extraordinarily intelligent old man, Chacha Chaudhary, is always impeccably dressed in a white shirt, black waistcoat and a red turban. Armed with just a charming smile and a small wooden stick, he can, in no time, make the fiercest of dacoits and strongest of villains bite the dust. His mind is faster than a computer and sharper than a needle, which he uses to tackle the toughest of situations with élan, when he needs strength; he has Sabu, an alien from Jupiter and his dog Rocket. The endearing old man, not only overpowers the rogues but also teaches lessons in honesty, goodwill and brotherhood — all this while entertaining you.

While, on the one hand, you have the larger-than-life, fantasy-driven adventures of Chacha Chaudhary and Sabu, on the other, you have the very real boy – and girl – next door in Billoo and Pinki, the other two most famous characters of Pran. 

Billoo is our very own version of Archie Andrews — an average school-going teenager, who loves watching TV and hates studies, he tries hard to woo his classmate Jozi, and is often chased away by her rifle-wielding father, Colonel 3-0-3. He also has his run-ins with the neighbourhood wrestler, Bajrangi Pahalwan, whose windowpanes are often a subjected to the wrath of his cricket ball. 

If Billoo is your average teenager, getting into trouble with his teachers and parents, Pinki is a cute little five-year-old. The apple of everyone’s eyes, she lives with her grandfather called dadaji, an elder sister called didi and a squirrel called tuk-tuk. A hyperactive child, Pinki tries her best to help her family and friends — whether they need it or not — and invariably ends up creating bigger problems for them. Her goofy moments, cute mannerism and disarming smile are not only delightful but also relatable. 

Together they — Chacha Chaudhary, Billoo and Pinki — transport you to a land of fantasy, happiness and joy, a land where I, and many more of my generation, have not been in a long, long time; the land where Pran, the Walt Disney of India, in his passing, seems to have escaped to, to become immortal like his characters.

Men, Women, Sex and Other Bitter Truths

Discovering your old writing is quite interesting. It not only tells you about how you wrote back then, but also reveals who you were and how you have changed since. I happened to discover something I wrote as a comment/response to someone's blog post about women & sex. This was written even before I had started writing here, for this blog. Interesting to see how bold my writing was back then. Maybe because I knew no one was reading it. 

Here's a sneak peek.

What a co-incidence! Just on our way back from Amritsar, my husband & I were discussing the same thing.

Its funny that if a woman goes out wearing modern clothes and much make up, has a drink or puffs a cigarette, talks to men, it is considered as a visible sign of her being fast & immoral. It's the other women who label her so. Perhaps they are just plain jealous that they can not do the same; the men, in all probability, usually silently appreciate her. Some might bed her too. Nothing wrong in that as long as the woman is happy, right ?? But then, the same men, when want to get married, want a virgin for a wife. Why are men not chauvinistic then ? 

A man can go out, have sex, come home & sleep like nothing happened. Even if his wife finds out, there's not much that will happen -- some emotional drama, some false promises and life will get back to normal. 

Now imagine the other situation. The wife goes out, makes love -- I use this term because, I think, women mostly make love and not have sex -- comes home, gets back to normal life. Only this time guilt hounds her, especially, if she's a "good girl". In time the husband gets a whiff hell breaks lose. I needn't explain what all can happen here.

Coming back to women vs women.

In school, I was the only one who wore short skirts and dresses, as most of the other girls had switched to suits by the time they were fifteen; I remember what a scandal it used to be. How all other girls stared at my legs, some even suggested that it was inappropriate way of dressing: what will people think?

Many years later, when I had moved onto suits, a few close friends at work were discussing men & sex when I joined in. I will spare you the details, but, what came out most significantly, was the horror when I readily participated in the conversation -- nine out of ten did not expected me to talk about it. Reason? I wore Indian clothes and looked like a good girl. If you wear indian clothes, don't use makeup, don't look "hot", you can't have or want sex, you see. Quite amusing!

Nobody imagined that someone who's dressed in a suit, hates make-up and is good at her work, can have or even want sex. So sex is a bad thing for bad girls. Maybe that is why, I too used lovemaking rather than sex. Conditioning you see!

That also reminds me, I used this topic in the first ever job interview I gave. I still remember the horror on the face of the interviewer. I think it was more to do with my being a girl, that too from a small town & not so much to do with the topic.

I think, I will write a post on that someday.

Of Muddy Boots & New Beginnings

Best things in life happen by chance. Or maybe they happen by design that seems more like chance. 

I started writing by chance too -- or maybe design that seemed like chance -- some three years ago. It is strange how I had always wanted to write but, until then, had never picked up the pen to actually write. I mean, if you want to do something, you do not take twenty years to do that, do you? Well, I somehow did. 

I began writing for no one in particular. My words at the time were only an expression of my loneliness, and sometimes, frustration. I had no one to talk to, and, if I did have someone to talk to, I did not have anything to talk about. Writing therefore came in handy.

The other thing is that I have always been poor with the spoken word. I fumble and stumble, and often end up putting my foot in my mouth, when I do not do that, I end up putting another persons foot in his mouth. Staying quiet therefore is usually the best thing to do. Writing, the second best.

And so I wrote. Sometimes purposefully, mostly purposelessly.

It was another stroke of chance, (or design?) when I got the opportunity to write for the paper. This was also something I had always wanted to do, but hadn't done anything about it before. Probably the time was now. 

Writing for others gave me confidence. It was reassuring to know that there are people, other than me, who want to read what I write. Like all writers, the obvious next step was to dream of my own book - to travel the world alone, to go where no one else has ever gone, to be where no on else has ever been. And to write about it.

But the bigger the dream is, the longer it takes for it to come true. 

A book therefore may be sometime away. I really need to feel that I am ready for that, or, as a friend puts it, I need to do enough riyaaz before I get on to the stage; but what I am surely working on is the first step towards to book -- my own travel page.

I intent to make That Girl In Muddy Boots my practice ground for all my travel work until I am confident of having enough riyaaz to back me up on the stage.

Although my travel work now moves to That Girl In Muddy Boots, New Beginning remains my first love and the place where I will continue to laugh, cry, rejoice, rant, and love. 

I hope you continue to love both.

If you do not mourn

They say you die everyday, if yo do not mourn those who have gone away
That with every one who leaves you, a part of you is also gone,
That you lend some of your soul to the dead if you do not mourn;

They say you begin to lose your hopes, happiness and joy
That you start living in a world that will never come by
They say never again are you your own, if you decide not to mourn;

But you don't listen to what they say, for you have always been the one to have your way

So you cling on - to the people, the dreams, the relationships - in your heart and in your head
You hold on to the ghosts of the past and expect life to come back from the dead

You hope that your uncle with return someday, and your child will come back from her grave to play
You wait for the relationships to thrive, you look forward to the slightest of reprieve
You live in hope each day, for mourning the dead has never been your way;

And one day you realise, what they said was perhaps the truth and not lies

With every loss you haven't mourn, a large part of yourself you have torn
With all those who have died - people, relationships, dreams and hope, some of you has also gone
So much so that from where you stand today, apart from skeletons you can see no other way.

 

Of Madness & Writing

You know you have finally got off the dry spell when you get off the computer after hours only to realise that your house looks more like a battlefield and less like a home.

You know you are finally coming back to your element when you realise that you have burnt the lunch, left the clothes in the dryer too long, almost forgotten to pick the child, and haven't seen a human in hours, if not days. That you have unanswered call & messages; that your half drunk coffee cup is on the chair since morning; that your children are wandering in the house, wondering what to eat with no sign of dinner on the table or kitchen.

You know you are a force to reckon with when you have spent a large part of the day, or night, messaging friends incessantly with your passages & ideas seeking feedback, not bothered about their work or time.

And if you are a struggling writer, who has been carrying the load of a dry pen for weeks at end, you profusely thank god for the mess you are into.

The Dosas of My Home-Town-In-Law

A version of this piece appeared in The Hindu.

Every year, when I head to my home-town-in-law, I have just one thing on mind – food. While the cosmopolitan nature of the town ensures you have access to the best of food from all over the country – Litti-Choka from Bihar, Puri-Aloo from UP, Rolls, Noodles, Puchka, Rasgulla & Sandesh from Bengal – it is the Dosa here that is closest to my heart, and something I long for all through the year. 

  

And so, hungry & tired after a 24-hour journey, the husband & I stop by at our favourite dosa cart even before we get home.

At 8:30 in the morning, the shop is overflowing with people buying Idli, Upma, Vadas, and a special variety of Dosa that is stuffed with Upma instead of the usual potato mixture (it supposedly keeps you full for longer). We park ourselves on the narrow wooden benches & look longingly at the griddle.

The griddle that is at the centre of all the action is thick & round and totally coated with batter, over which the man spreads a generous helping of onion, carrot, and beetroot mixture. He then goes on to spread the potato mix, and pours a huge ladle of oil over it. The result is a triangular dose of crispy heaven, served on a battered steel plate.

As we dig into the watery yet flavourful Sambar, the runny Dal Chutney & the perfectly golden Dosa, every minute of the year long wait for it seems worth it. 

"The Dosa arrived in Tata Nagar back in the 19^th century along with its workforce from the southern states. In the last 100 years however, it has acquired a character of its own. The Dosas here are triangular & stuffed with salad apart from the potato mix, the Chutney is made with dal, not coconut; the Sambar is watery, with barely any vegetables. But one thing hasn’t changed: it still feeds the large, hungry workforce of the Steel City every morning."

What Stanford University Case Has Taught Me

This post appeared in The Huffington Post. 

The first thing I noticed on my tour of Europe last week was the women. Not only were they drop-dead gorgeous, most of them -- from 16-year-olds to 66-year-olds -- could be seen strutting around in tiny skirts or shorts and tops that were barely there. They wore make-up and heels with poise and élan that could put a model on the ramp to shame. To say that I fell in love with their confidence would be an understatement.

But more important than the women, how they looked and what they wore, was the fact that no one, and I mean no one, looked at them with awe, disgust, lust or desire. In fact, no one even turned around to give them another look. Not in the day, not in the evening, not even late at night, or in the wee hours of the morning. Having grown up in a country where not only men but even the women find it impossible to keep their eyes to themselves, it was quite difficult to believe something like this was possible. I will not be exaggerating if I say I envied those women.

I came back happy and hopeful. Happy to know that it is possible to be a woman and yet not be noticed, and hopeful that someday my girls might also live in a world where they will not be treated like beings from another world and be stared at.

And then I read about the Stanford University Case.

Turns out that I was wrong. That nothing changes with geography, country, culture. Boys are raised the same way throughout the world. That clothes, appearance, race, colour, religion, do not make a difference. That as long as you are a woman, you can be violated. 

Much has been written and said about the issue. There are clearly two sides. The judge unfortunately seems to have been on the alleged rapist's side. Just as his father, and his ex-girlfriend. Not that it surprised me. One is almost used to people who let something as heinous as rape sound acceptable. 

What stood out in this whole incident, however, was the grit of the girl. The fact that she decided to let her ordeal be known to the public. That she had the support of her family and society in doing so. It also made me wonder if we, in our society, will ever let our girls and women talk about their suffering without labelling them as loose or immoral. After all a woman who goes out at night to drink and dance is inviting trouble, isn't she? What right then does she have to complain?

The most unfortunate part is that we, even as women, teach our girls to stay quiet. We tell them to ignore people who make passes at them, to look away if someone stares at them. To cover their body, arms, even face so that they do not attract attention. To stay indoors so that they are not vulnerable.

But we do not teach our boys to respect girls. We do not tell them that the girl on the road is not your property. That any girl, young or old, rich or poor, known or unknown, has the right to her body and what she does with it. 

I cannot even count how many times I have ignored the prying eyes and the so called accidental brush of a stranger. I cannot even remember how many times people around me, who I have known, have made me uncomfortable. And I cannot deny the fact that I have been quiet throughout the 37 years of my life because every time I thought it was my fault. 

But things need to change. Someone needs to change it. And as a mother of two young girls, it is my responsibility to change what I can for them. And I urge each mother to do that. 

It is high time we tell our daughters that their body is theirs. That no one, not even the people closest to them, have a right to look at it, feel it, touch it, or violate it. That if something like that occurs, it is not their fault. That there is no shame in talking about it. That there is no loss of dignity or honour in shouting from the rooftop and shaming the man or woman who makes you feel uncomfortable.
Most importantly, we need to tell our sons to respect women. To remember they are humans with a heart and a mind and not only a body. 

And maybe, just maybe, slowly and steadily, we can make this bad world a better place.

Finding Peace in the Kalinga Valley

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This piece first appeared in The Hindu. 

After winning the fierce battle of Kalinga, the land none of his predecessors could capture, a satisfied & content Ashoka stood atop Dhauli Hill to survey his newly acquired kingdom. He had expected to see lush green farms flanked by the pious Daya River and rich coconut groves, what he witnessed instead was death & devastation. The river, clean and pure until some weeks before, had turned red with blood; the farms no longer had crops, just dead, decomposed bodies. The sight transformed the ruthless emperor forever and he embraced Buddhism then & there.

I reach Dhauli on a bright, warm Sunday Morning expecting it to be full of tourists & travelers, but am pleasantly surprised at the emptiness of the place. Other than a few shops selling locally packed food, I see no trappings of a tourist centre either. 

A small flight of stairs leads me to a landing. Flat & large, it looks like just another temple courtyard, not a hilltop. On one side of the courtyard is a small enclosure with a Buddhist temple. The large blue board outside the temple declares the connection between the temple and Buddha’s predictions from 2,500 years ago. The temple doors however are shut, but I find the window open and peep in. 

Inside the compact room, banners of Na-Myo-Ho-Ren-Ge-Kyu hang between two pillars, and the ceiling is festooned with red, blue, and yellow buntings. Numerous idols of Buddha are placed on a high platform along with prayer books, bells, candles; a drum stands on the side. I want to ask someone when will the temple open but can find no one around. Disappointed I walk towards the Stupa.

Located just off the Bhubneswar-Puri highway, the imposing white Pagoda is visible from afar. While the hill, and the history associated with it, dates back to 261 BC and even has relics from Ashoka’s time, the Stupa is fairly recent – it was built in 1972 by the Japanese Buddhist Sangha and is the current face of Dhauli. The same foundation has also built the temple in the courtyard.

By now, the hitherto quiet surroundings of the hill have started to stir. Some tourists have arrived in a mini bus and a few local couples on bikes. While the tourists soon start doing touristy things – lighting incense sticks, clicking pictures with the family, talking in high pitched voices – the couples get busy doing couple things. I spot one sheepish pair trying to steal a kiss under a golden lion, in no mood to spoil their reverie I look away.

It is evident that the place has had a glorious past. The Stupa, adorned with murals depicting scenes from Ashoka’s life, idols of Buddha, and large golden lions perched atop tall columns, must have looked resplendent in its hay days, presently though it is in shambles. The plaster is coming off from places, idols are defaced with graffiti, and paint is peeling off at several places from the walls. The golden lions have turned pale too as if mourning the neglect.

What strikes me though is the peace and quiet of the place – despite the crowd & clamour there is a sense of serenity here that is hard to miss. 

As more and more people fill the narrow corridor of the Stupa up, I retreat into a corner and look at the panoramic view of the Kalinga valley. From where I am I can only see shades of green and blue, and a silver Daya river winding across the fluorescent expanse. Some stray clouds meanwhile float in the deep blue sky even as soothing breeze fills the place up. I try to imagine how Ashoka would have felt when he looked at the river of blood & the carpet of bodies from the same spot, but fail. The positivity here overpowers every negative emotion. I am reminded that it is this peace & tranquility that both Buddha and Ashoka had intended to achieve by spreading the faith; they certainly seem to have succeeded in doing that.

Of Anxiety, Worthlessness & Lost Friends.

The worst thing about anxiety, depression, polarity etc is the way it affects your relationships. It makes you do things to people you'd not normally do. It makes people do things to you the way they normally wouldn't.

I have, sometimes, for no valid reason, spewed venom on those closest to me. I have called, texted, even woken people up just to fight or have an argument with them. All this not because they have done anything to deserve it, but because I was in such a deep pit myself that all I could to do was to pull them down in the pit with me: I needed company!

Most people have understood & forgiven me. Some of them have pulled me up. But there have been those who have neither forgiven, nor helped me get back. Ironically they were the ones I relied on the most. Maybe I had hurt them beyond repair: you always take those closest to you for granted.

The thing about such feelings is that they isolate you from the world around you. You see the world as I and them. You look at them being happy and going about their lives while you continue to suffer. Often in silence.

Then there are times when you gather courage and seek help. You tell people about what you are going through, but mostly you suffer in silence: How do you explain to a normal person the knots in your stomach? Or the sinking of your heart? How do you convey the helplessness and dejection, the fear and the anxiety? How do you justify the highs and the lows?

Most of my highs have been followed by lows. The happier I have been, the more forlorn I have become. The feeling of being on top of the world, in no time, transforms into a feeling of uselessness and worthlessness. The transformation is so sudden that often I don't know what make of it. 

It is therefore quite understandable if others around me cannot. It's also possible that they consider me as moody and irresponsible especially in my behaviour. It is OK if they do so, after all they can only see the manifestation of my anguish. But what is not OK is the lack of empathy for the millions who suffer silently because no one understands.

But what does someone who doesn't know how it feels do to help?

It is fairly simple. If you ever come across a person who acts unlike himself, do not judge him/her. Do not try to solve the problem for the person either. All someone with anxiety needs is a friend, some one who can listen to him, someone who tells him he's not crazy or stupid or mad or irresponsible. Someone who reiterates that this too shall pass.

If you can, be that someone.

The Joy of The Jalebi

A version of this post first appeared in The Hindu

It is 11:30 in the morning and we are as famished as we are tired. We have been out since 4:00 AM, have driven over 250 kms, visited the tomb of Itmad-Ud-Daula and the Taj Mahal, and are on our way to the erstwhile capital of Akbar, where we also plan to catch up on breakfast. But there is a problem: we have taken a wrong turn and instead of being on the road to Fatehpur Sikri, we are stuck in a narrow lane in the heart of Agra’s Sadar Bazaar.

On a Sunday Morning, all of Agra seems to have descended on the street: hawkers, shoppers, cattle, cyclists, pedestrians. So we crawl on the street along with them hungry, angry, and frustrated praying no one hits our brand-new car.

It is then that we spot it. A corner shop with wok full of hot, juicy jalebis and fat, round asafetida laced kachauris. We forget all about our misery & stop the car in the middle of the road for a dose of UP-special breakfast.

Jalebi & kachauri happen to be the most coveted breakfast the Hindi heartland. Rich, flavourful, and wholesome it is almost a staple with the locals. Every Sunday morning, irrespective of which part of the state you are in, you can see a long queue of men & children in front of sweet shops waiting patiently for their Jalebis and kachauris. 

The flavours of the kachauri keep varying as per region – tangy in the eastern stretches, asafetida laced and spicy in the western parts; served with dry potato preparation in the east and with oily gravy in the west – but the form of the dish remains the same. These crusty, crispy, beautiful domes of flour, filled with lentil mixture fried to perfection and served with potatoes on the side can turn the biggest prudent foodie into a glutton. Jalebis on the other hand remain the universal favorite. Unlike most part of the country though, in UP they are eaten in the morning and are essential to complete your breakfast. They are also fatter, juicier and much more sinful than their counterparts in other parts of the country.

Together they are to UP what Fish & Chips are to a Brit – inseparable with each other and staple of the locals.

By the time I reach the stall, dreaming & salivating, there are only four Kachauris left in the shop and there are at least ten people in the queue ahead of me. I almost break down in frustration and anticipation. I don’t know if it is pity or awe that my expression induces in the shopkeeper, but he decides to hand over the last four pieces to me along with a bag full of piping hot jalebis. On another day, I’d have insisted on waiting for my turn, but today I shamelessly grab them and run back to the car.  Being a UPite there is nothing more precious to me than my Jalebi-Kachauri breakfast.