The first time I moved out of my parents' home to start living independently was when I got a job in Chandigarh. As far as I was concerned, this was a big step. I had just quit working as an editor in a publishing house that believed in paying peanuts but producing close to 65 books a month. Compare it to most other publishing houses in India, this number is about 13 times the normal, industry output. I had worked there for a year and realized that although fun, the insane workload and the exploitative boss were not worth it.
Chandigarh looked exciting because I was joining a big, multinational corporation, where I would be only one among the 2000+ employees they already had. I was going to earn nearly twice of what I had been making. I was moving in to a new city, where I knew no one, I would have to start to learn how to cook, keep house, pay all my bills, etc. etc. Exciting as this, it was also nerve-wracking, and scary.
But most importantly, it was intimidating. Even the thought that I wouldn't walk home and see my parents and my brother everyday was enough to depress me. Add to that the fact that I would have to leave nearly all my friends behind. I wanted to include them all in my life, as I previously had.
Blogging hadn't captured the imagination of the world back then. So I decided to use the then time-honored practice of writing one good, solid email, and then sending it to nearly all my friends. I would like to think that the emails were detailed and chatty, that they were interesting and not sleep-inducing, and that they hinted, subtly, that the sender was desperate for responses. Because she was lonely and homesick.
Some friends replied fairly frequently. Others once in a while. Yet others, never. It was the last group that baffled me. What happened? Didn't they like me any more? Was it the classic out of sight out of mind syndrome? Or didn't they get my email? Or did my email offend them in some way?
Finally, curiosity got the better of me. So, one day, I picked up the telephone and called one of these inscrutable folks. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, I asked the question I had been dying to ask.
"Oh, yes, " my friend said, "I got all your emails."
"But I never heard back from you."
"I didn't think it was that important."
"Why not?"
"Well, these were all mass emails, right? Sent to everyone? These aren't something you had composed or sent just to me. So, I thought it was okay to not respond."
I got such a "mass email" today. I am going to reply to it as soon as this post is up. At the same time, I know for a fact that forget mass emails, I have been fairly infrequent in the recent past vis-a-vis personal emails.
In the complex pantheon of gods that is Hinduism, we need one for email etiquette. And I want Her to bless me with fingers that can type faster, a mind that can think of perfect responses every single time, and a conscience that does not forgive slacking.
I am waiting for an email with the subject line "Tathastu!" to reach me at sayan10e@gmail.com. ASAP.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
She Asked For It
I am currently reading the first of the four books that the Bangladeshi feminist author, Taslima Nasreen, wrote about her life. The title of the book is Aamar Meyebela or My Girlhood.
It's interesting that Bengali, my mother tongue, and also Nasreen's, has no actual word to denote girlhood. The word for childhood is chhelebela, or boyhood. So no matter whether you are a girl or a boy, your experience of childhood cannot be the uni-gender "childhood." It has to be "boyhood." So in naming her memoir, Nasreen actually made up a new word.
But a common language is all that we share. I grew up in a prejudice-free family, Nasreen did not. I lived for the most part in the capital city of India and got away with almost everything I wanted to say or do. Now I live in a country, where I have had to give up a few freedoms because I am not a citizen here, but most basic civic freedoms are granted to me. Not in Nasreen's case.
In her memoir, she candidly talks about all the times when if female children were born to any family, the parents openly wailed. Or they sent their girls to schools for a limited number of years, if at all, simply because in their point of view, women didn't require higher education. Just as they didn't need to learn how to climb trees, fly kites, run in the fields, or read for pleasure.
At present, several of Nasreen's books are banned in her own country. But her citizenship was canceled and she became a political refugee post the publication of her notorious book titled Shame, a novel that didn't portray her countrymen in an appropriate light.
As someone trying to write something worthwhile, I feel deep compassion for Nasreen. She hasn't been to her motherland in years because there is a price on her head over there. She splits her time between Europe and India and in spite of her scores of awards, bold words, intriguing stories, and obvious love for the land she grew up in, she is not welcome in her own home. There could be few things more tragic than that.
But then, like most women in most parts of the world, Nasreen got this treatment because "she asked for it," didn't she?
It's interesting that Bengali, my mother tongue, and also Nasreen's, has no actual word to denote girlhood. The word for childhood is chhelebela, or boyhood. So no matter whether you are a girl or a boy, your experience of childhood cannot be the uni-gender "childhood." It has to be "boyhood." So in naming her memoir, Nasreen actually made up a new word.
But a common language is all that we share. I grew up in a prejudice-free family, Nasreen did not. I lived for the most part in the capital city of India and got away with almost everything I wanted to say or do. Now I live in a country, where I have had to give up a few freedoms because I am not a citizen here, but most basic civic freedoms are granted to me. Not in Nasreen's case.
In her memoir, she candidly talks about all the times when if female children were born to any family, the parents openly wailed. Or they sent their girls to schools for a limited number of years, if at all, simply because in their point of view, women didn't require higher education. Just as they didn't need to learn how to climb trees, fly kites, run in the fields, or read for pleasure.
At present, several of Nasreen's books are banned in her own country. But her citizenship was canceled and she became a political refugee post the publication of her notorious book titled Shame, a novel that didn't portray her countrymen in an appropriate light.
As someone trying to write something worthwhile, I feel deep compassion for Nasreen. She hasn't been to her motherland in years because there is a price on her head over there. She splits her time between Europe and India and in spite of her scores of awards, bold words, intriguing stories, and obvious love for the land she grew up in, she is not welcome in her own home. There could be few things more tragic than that.
But then, like most women in most parts of the world, Nasreen got this treatment because "she asked for it," didn't she?
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Best Laid Plans
And so, I am back.
I guess I love words and the freedom to jot them down online too much to stay away for too long.
But there is something that happened to trigger me into resuscitating this blog this morning. What was going to be another regular trip to the farmers market today turned out to be a little more than that.
There I was strolling around, taking in the sights and smells of yet another sunshine-soaked Saturday. Bouquets of sunflowers and lavender, the meaty steam of freshly cooked chorizo, the lovely softness of fresh peaches, and the casual pace of all of us who had gathered at Moscow's Friendship Square to buy from local artists and farmers.
My red backpack was firmly on my shoulders, its weight evenly distributed. I held a cup of hot, bitter coffee in my right hand, a bag of freshly-baked jalapeno focaccia--that wonderfully flavorful Italian bread--in my left hand, when I noticed her, perhaps the youngest craftsman at the market.
Her long brown hair came down almost to her waist and her head bobbed over the many earrings she was selling. Beaded and handmade, they looked pretty and irresistible. She was busy talking to another customer, who glanced over at me and exclaimed,
"Can you believe this? She is nine years old and all this jewelry, she has made herself!"
"Really?" I asked, stepping a little closer.
"Yes," the girl replied.
"And is this a hobby? A class project?" I asked, fishing for the right response.
"No. I just want to earn enough money, save, and go to Paris."
"Wow! That's an incredible plan. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life when I was nine."
"Neither did I! I still don't and I am fifty-two!" My co-customer laughed.
Ten minutes later, we both left the little girl's shop, having purchased a couple of pairs of bead earrings ourselves. Even if those few dollars go into helping the little traveler buy just one bottle of water in super-expensive Paris, I would think I helped feed her wanderlust.
Good luck to you, dear friend. May Paris come to you soon.
I guess I love words and the freedom to jot them down online too much to stay away for too long.
But there is something that happened to trigger me into resuscitating this blog this morning. What was going to be another regular trip to the farmers market today turned out to be a little more than that.
There I was strolling around, taking in the sights and smells of yet another sunshine-soaked Saturday. Bouquets of sunflowers and lavender, the meaty steam of freshly cooked chorizo, the lovely softness of fresh peaches, and the casual pace of all of us who had gathered at Moscow's Friendship Square to buy from local artists and farmers.
My red backpack was firmly on my shoulders, its weight evenly distributed. I held a cup of hot, bitter coffee in my right hand, a bag of freshly-baked jalapeno focaccia--that wonderfully flavorful Italian bread--in my left hand, when I noticed her, perhaps the youngest craftsman at the market.
Her long brown hair came down almost to her waist and her head bobbed over the many earrings she was selling. Beaded and handmade, they looked pretty and irresistible. She was busy talking to another customer, who glanced over at me and exclaimed,
"Can you believe this? She is nine years old and all this jewelry, she has made herself!"
"Really?" I asked, stepping a little closer.
"Yes," the girl replied.
"And is this a hobby? A class project?" I asked, fishing for the right response.
"No. I just want to earn enough money, save, and go to Paris."
"Wow! That's an incredible plan. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life when I was nine."
"Neither did I! I still don't and I am fifty-two!" My co-customer laughed.
Ten minutes later, we both left the little girl's shop, having purchased a couple of pairs of bead earrings ourselves. Even if those few dollars go into helping the little traveler buy just one bottle of water in super-expensive Paris, I would think I helped feed her wanderlust.
Good luck to you, dear friend. May Paris come to you soon.
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