The Miseducation of Miss Kamal

Yes I've attended colleges and universities and have some sheets of papers that have some names of degrees printed on them, gathering dust somewhere in some cupboard that defies a kingdom of termites out of sheer fear of my mother.

But I'm not talking about that education. I'm talking about my miseducation. The one that I could have almost missed. The one that's cleverly hidden away until we look in the unlikeliest of places. It's really like finding a lion in a teacup.

Miseducation Number 1.

Theatre. Had I not been involved with it since an early age, I wouldn't have understood words the way I continue to. I would have been literate but not truly educated. Thank you script, stage, sound, lights and costume. You have been my toys and my weapons and I owe you much.

Miseducation Number 2.

Manooghi Hi. Music is looked upon as entertainment. As a hobby. As a passion. Rarely a job. Never a miseducation. But this band is miseducation at its best. It seduced me, in the last few years to re-examine old theories, concepts, even distorted words, corrupted ideas, birthed sound with a screech that left me cross-eyed between desire and disgust. This band of crazy, wonderful, miraculous, hopeful losers, taught me things about my own job, my beliefs and then rattled every part of my brain into unlearning it. I don't know how and why they do it and how the hell they find the strength and drive that allows them not just to be fabulous musicians but to really educate, teach, impart and colour the world they touch, in the most brilliant paroxysms of sound and word. Thank you Mehnaz, Todd, Ava, Hollis, Jimmy, Jarrod, Kent. You are the actual spelling of Hope and Joy.

Miseducation Number 3.

Teaching India. From a tiny volunteering teaching job to being a guest lecturer at the National Institute of Fashion Technology in Hyderabad, teaching is the biggest miseducation of all. We know nothing is a phrase that pops out in particular. The youth, the biggest know-it-all group in the world is a hungry predator and if you're not practising the kill, they'll chew you up and spit you out with their thousands of questions and why nots. I owe them all a debt of gratitude for re-educating me about education and teaching and the courage, discipline and fun that are prerequisites. Degrees are for sale. Those are not. Thank you, Nishrin and all the students. Even the ones who dozed in class or texted behind a book. Yup, I knew. I just need to teach better.

Miseducation Number 4.

Kristin Pedroja. Yes, that's right. One person. When we met. 2003. Number of times we've met since then. Zero. Number of times we've collaborated on ideas, taught, critiqued, cajoled, helped, exposed, trashed, praised and assisted in nothing less than a PhD in 'The Thankless Pains Of Writing.' 987,654,321. A tiny woman who's so tall, it's hard for me to imagine not walking with that shadow by my side as I toil over each sentence, punctuation and character. She is proof that no publisher, no literary agent, no appointed editor can do for your writing what a writer who really loves to write, read and selflessly share her brain, can. Thank you, Kristin. You're really one of my Tall Women.

And thus continues the Miseducation of Miss Kamal for which she's truly grateful. These are not paper degrees nor are they merit badges. They are simply what allow me to find and refine my unique expression. And then try to find a word that's not as un-unique as unique.

Like or Unlike

This is the first posting in 2012 and it's strange that I'd opt for a topic related to technology rather than the things I love - books, art, music. But I observe that the things I love are somewhat reluctant hostages to technology in many ways and so I find myself unable to live in a world where the two are separated. Coming from a generation that was truly transitionary - we went from the rotary dial telephone to the mobile communication devices we use today- it's been a wild ride from simplicity to sleek sophistication. In other words, user friendly gadgets designed to make our lives easier and faster. 

Frankly I'm a bit of a luddite and a bit lost. I know how to use a telephone, a television and a computer. I know the various brand names and the various formats and the various uses. I know I know I know. Do I care? I apparently don't. Sure, this blog wouldn't be happening if someone named Gates or Wozniak or Jobs hadn't done what they did and I'm probably grateful to them in some sort of begrudging way. But did they put the thoughts into my head? I'd like to shout out a resounding NO. We've learned to do everything faster and in more colours than we can pronounce, but haven't learnt how to be more creative, more thoughtful, more patient, more kind or more responsible. We've just learned how to spin the wheels faster and change them every nine and a half days. Upgrades we call them. But we upgrade things. Not ourselves. Updates we call them. But we update things, Not our deeds. 

I'm not against technology, certainly. In fact, I do embrace it. I like my fancy new phone and my fancy new iPad and what have you. I like I like I like. I even like the Like button. But I keep circling back to the same thought in my uncomputerised brain. What about me? What about you? What about the people I interact with or hate or love? What about them? There seems to be an inverse ratio between technological upgradation and human upgradation. The more buttons we play with, the less human we seem to become. 

In the last year, there have been incredible upheavals of man and nature. The humanity of man has seen a sharp and direct drop just as technological advancement has reached new peaks. Isn't there something wrong with this picture? I would rather have one less version of Apple or BlackBerry or Android or whatever and one more version of charity, kindness, justice and peace. Would you?

The race towards the smallest chip, the thinnest computer, the fastest car and the biggest building is unstoppable. But in the midst of all this demonic speed, our humanity is still wrapped somewhere around the cord of the rotary dial telephone. 

Q & A

Since May, an odd number of questions have surfaced again, in the international context as well as the Indian one. They're not all related but perhaps they are and somehow we- the hoi polloi, the great unwashed, the plebeians- have failed to hone in on the connection. Perhaps, because we're unaware of the intricacy it takes for a foraging eagle to swoop under the surface of murky waters and snatch the fish. 

There are a few questions that bear thinking about.


1) Why is Europe bankrupt and continues to be so? Do they really have less money so they're forced to eat stale food? Or does it just look like the governments are shuffling around the money from table to table and don't actually understand the simple formula of Earn 10 quid, Spend 8  quid, Save 2 quid in the bank (or under the mattress really, these days)
Answer: Umm, yes, they are rather broke. But not that broke that they can't have fancy meetings in Switzerland and Belgium over cases of Cristal to talk about how broke they are. And no, they can't spend 8 quid because it takes 10 quid to make 10 quid. Rubbish old-fashioned theory really.

2) Why are the Asian economies flourishing? Or are they really? Don't they have beggars and dirt and injustice and homelessness anymore?
Answer: The GNP and GDP are up. The complicated figures on complicated charts are showing upward trends. The markets and media are all terribly excited and talk all at once. The postman has a BlackBerry. But the beggars on the street, the dowry deaths and the squalor that causes fatal malaria, are still there to remind us that we're in Asia.

3) Why is the man, who's been in jail after the deadly 2008 terror attacks in Bombay, still in jail? Why isn't he dead? How much more evidence do you need?
Answer: Umm, yeah, it's sub-judice. The law takes its course. Meanwhile, you can keep paying the government taxes to build an ultimate security prison for this chap, while he laughs his head off at India.

4) Why is Rupert Murdoch suddenly a villain? What's the big deal about phone-hacking and why did News of the World have to shut down?
Answer: Rupert Murdoch is evil, of course. Phone hacking is wrong, of course. The media is overstepping its limits and must pay of course; hence the closure of NOTW and the arrest of Rebekah Brooks. Everything that isn't done with the express or implied permission of a holier-than-thou government is wrong and illegal. Got it?

5) And what happened to the intelligence machinery in Bombay? Why were there three bomb blasts across the city again in July 2011?
Answer: That's not an intelligence failure, really. More like absence. More like complacency. More like internal corruption. More like a cancer that's metastasized. Don't worry, we've got listless, overworked coppers patrolling random streets and even though they look completely inept at fighting crime, you should feel reassured.

6) Is all the crime and misery in the world inter-connected somehow?
Answer: Yup. When you join the dots, let me know what it looks like.

And now, I'm going to that grand bastion of all crimes, misdemeanours and torts. The supermarket.

The Devil is Dead

Or is he? I must confess the title of this blog comes from my cousin who aptly captured what we all surely feel upon hearing of the death of Bin Laden. This should indeed be a day of rejoicing. Except that I have a small problem. I usually have troubling believing governments. Any government. Especially one that blatantly lied about so many things and so many wars. It was wonderful to watch Obama as he proudly declared that Osama bin Laden had been captured. I experienced a small hiccup when I heard he was 'buried at sea.' Sleeping with the fishes? Really? I wondered idly, at first, then rather vehemently, why this man, hated by one and all, hailed as the Unholy Grail of all captures, would be buried without any of us, the common public, being given a chance to rejoice at the fall of Lucifer. I remember Saddam's capture. His humiliation and his death. Every detail captured on camera for posterity. A dance of victory by the Allies so to speak. And here we are. An enemy that shook the world. It's just announced to us, he's dead. Captured in a military compound in Pakistan. Dead. Buried at sea. Why weren't we given the satisfaction of seeing the remains? Of blood and gore which for once would be a great feeling of victory to watch? To perhaps test for DNA? You can call this a conspiracy theory if you like but can you state with certainty, that you absolutely believe he's dead? Should I believe a government that has a fantastic history of lying? And Pakistan has been strangely quiet. Are they embarrassed? Worried that now the world will surely know they harbour terrorists like old women hoard plastic bags? I see no proud statements coming forth from them, about how they helped the US intelligence forces to capture the modern day Satan.

I mean it IS 2011. It IS a modern age with technology and ability and supercommunication. Really, was it that hard to perhaps document a little proof that he really is dead and that the brave, heroic men who brought him to his final end have done the world the biggest favour since the man who photographed Hitler's remains?

Just asking, you know.

Ten Similarities between London and Bombay

There are probably more than ten similarities but these are the ones I find excruciatingly funny and probably ironic and no, you can't argue with me about it. 

1) Everyone has a bloody pet name. Mostly an irritating one that's not remotely connected to their real name. And since it seems there are more Asians on the streets of London than white folk, statistically speaking, you know I'm right

2) The weather sucks. For various reasons but suck it does, at such a level that one immediately wants to one's their knickers and run up and down the street exclaiming 'it's the end of the world!'

3) Curry pervades. It doesn't matter what colour or intensity or flavour. Curry is omnipresent, whether at an Indian store or a fancy restaurant or the stain on your shirt you're trying to hide. Curry curry, everywhere. And no, I do not care for it. 

4) Politicians will make long speeches, clever speeches, democratic speeches and then do bugger all about it while the common man lights candles and marches about for whatever latest cause there is.

5) The much-touted heart of either country has very little heart and a very troubled soul and you will be pickpocketed at the most inconvenient time. 

6) There is always some 'breaking news' that often ends up being about someone's skirt blowing in the wind a la Marilyn Monroe or some really rich bastard who inaugurates yet another Louis Vuitton store. 

7) Everybody has a scheme. Get rich, get laid, get elected, get back, get out, get more, get get get. No giving. You, with the self-righteous conscience, shut up. 

8) Everyone's looking over their shoulder. Whether it's a fundamentalist mob, teenage punks, rapists, terrorists or spycams, people carry their fears around like a bad odour. 

9)  Bankers, lawyers and doctors are always rich and always out to get richer at your expense. Even the good ones. 

10) Everyone dreams of their 15 minutes of fame and a lot of them achieve it by being nothing but famous for being famous. And people are still fascinated by the ultimate fame- the monarchy.

I know this should make me smile and feel more at home in either city and it does, in many ways. It just makes me realise rather sharply that no matter what, it's not people who shape a city. It's a city that shapes people. 

Actions speak louder than words

I'm not a big fan of heavy traffic. Something about bleeping horns and cussing drivers- it upsets my delicate artistic sensibilities. Oh all right, it's not so much that, as it is the being bullied into inconvenience, that grates on my nerves. A combination of Diwali in India and the Obamas visiting, had perched me on a near-Prozac like edge.

He's gone, the traffic's almost back to normal and the heightened chatter that preceded his visit has dwindled to a useless whisper. Apparently it was a great honour that he visited India and skipped the old enemy Pakistan. Apparently it warranted all kinds of cleaning sprees in the city and Bombay was made to resemble a little urchin child, whose face was washed clean, hair spit-pressed down to the sides and shorts tightened with a borrowed belt. Then he smartly snapped a salute to the American president. who patted it kindly on the head and moved on.

It was almost amusing to see the city and indeed the country fall over its bureaucratic self trying to please the man of the moment. He must have felt great too, considering the drubbing he had just taken in DC. You're welcome Mr. Obama; anytime you need an ego boost, fly towards India.

I was idly wondering- in between feverish tirades of the media moguls on the telly and the traffic police holding up 'road closed' signs everywhere- what the average man in Bombay thought of this visit. I got my answer from two rather surprising places.

One cabbie - the chatty variety I hate- said: Madam what's he come for? To beg for money? They've emptied their treasury with their stupidity and greed, so now do they have their eye on ours?

One postman- yes, we still have the old-fashioned ones in India- said: My son saw him address students at the college. He admired the way Mr. Obama spoke; with courage and dignity. But when you say many things which mean nothing, it still means you've said nothing.

A cabbie and a postman- not the higher tax echelon of this city- were both left wondering, why, in the scheme of things in India with its multitudinal problems, this visit was such a big deal.

Why didn't anyone come when Bhopal lost its people to a leaking poisonous gas?

Why is everyone here when India's winning the economic jackpot?

How long before India gets a seat at the Security Council?

How long do we have to bite down on our lips while Michelle Obama dances like an uncoordinated, condescending one-woman circus act, instead of actually spending time observing what Indian women teach their children, since she places such a high value on children's education?

How long can vagueness and empty promises be gaily cloaked in diplomacy?

Thanks Mr. and Mrs. Obama for visiting. We hope you enjoyed it. The rest of us will hold our judgement on that until such time, when we see more evidence of that 'special relationship' you all are so fond of referring to.

In Mr. Obama's own words: India is not a rising country. It has already risen.

Someone should remind politicians on both sides of the ocean, of that keen observation.

In the land of contradiction

India was once known as the land of milk and honey. Then it was known as the land of the corrupt and the poor. Then it was known as the land of Slumdog Millionaire. Now it's oft known as the Land of Plenty. I don't argue with any of this. All of it is true and sometimes untrue as well. I've realised that to try and give India any kind of singularity, whether in name or deed or verse is a futile task. So I'd like to add another name. The Land of Contradiction. Perhaps you've heard this one before as well.

It was a Friday evening. I was out with my friend M, shopping, drinking, eating. Doing the things that the idle upper middle class do. An indulgence that neither of us begrudged ourselves because we know ourselves. Until we came upon this sight. If Henri Cartier-Bresson were still alive, he might have turned this into an iconic image in his own inimitable style. As it happened, there were only two women, laden with shopping bags and a throbbing conscience, debating if they should take a photograph of this cruel slice of life. The throbbing conscience won and they decided not to.

But let me describe it for you. There was a mall. With a hideous McDonald's fronting it. There was a wooden bench upon which sat the life-size figure of Ronald the Clown with his arms spreadeagled across the back of the bench. Pressed to the left side of old Ronald, as if sheltered by a father figure, was a little urchin boy. Fast asleep. His very real, child's palm pressed against Ronald's wooden ribcage, his mouth half-open in deep, innocent sleep, unresponsive to the noise and din of a busy Bombay street.

We stood there for a long time, not knowing whether to wake him up and feed him or take a picture of the unbelievable cruelty of urban life or to inform the security guard that he shouldn't wake him up and shoo him away like an errant pigeon soiling their pristine doorstep.

So we continued to stand there, an internal debate marring our faces. Then a lady emerged with a doggy bag from inside and tried to shake him awake and give him a burger. He moved but his eyes didn't open. He changed positions, snuggled further into the hard clown's side and continued to emit sounds of deep sleep. She shook her head helplessly and looked at us. We shook our heads too. Helplessness and lack of true wisdom speak the same universal language.

Finally, life intruded. We went our way and the kind lady went hers. The clown looked on. Unaware in his wooden heart of how truly unfunny the situation was.

And the child slept on. Unperturbed. The peaceful sleep that still weighs on my conscience.