T.V.V

I had planned an elaborate post to mark the death of my most beloved grandfather, T. V. Venkataraman. Now I find, I don't know how. 

I had planned to say: The T in T.V stands for Thiruvaroor, the town where he was born on 6 October 1924 and where his ancestors were from. The V stands for the name of his father, Veerasami Iyer. I would have mentioned that my grandfather was the oldest of six (surviving) children. He was a brilliant and gifted young man, who was offered a scholarship to go a fine University in South India. He had to decline as his father had died, and the responsibility of his entire family had fallen on his young shoulders. He then raised, educated and married off all of his 5 siblings (3 sisters and 2 brothers) while slowly working his way up the Southern Railways. He married my grandmother, Alamelu (born Rajalakshmi), some 10 years his junior. They went on to have 4 children of their own, including their only daughter, my mother. Together, they raised this entire brood of siblings and children till each was able to stand on their own. Till the day he died, all his siblings, each grown old, with children and grandchildren of their own, considered my grandfather to be the head of the family. 

At his funeral, for a particular ceremony, the priest mentioned that anyone not going to the funeral home could perform this last rite: that of giving the dead a symbolic handful of rice for their journey into the afterlife. He mentioned specifically that anybody could do it, adding, anyone younger than him and anybody older than him. At that moment, his younger sister, almost weeping, said out loud in Tamil, "There is no one older than him. He was the oldest of us." 

Like many men of his time, my grandfather could be severe on his children. He was not the warm, cuddly helicopter parent that we see today. He believed strongly that his greatest duty was to provide for his family. And in his mind, he did so to the best of his ability. As a grandfather, he was warm, affectionate and sentimental. As a young man, his poverty led him to live off the generosity of others for a while. The saddest story my mother ever told me about my grandfather was about his time as a young bachelor, when he had to depend on his uncle for food. His uncle, not being a man of great means himself, would offer him the water that had been used to soak the rice before it was cooked. It was not a real meal, but was full of starch and some nutrients, and would have to be enough for a poor young boy with no other options. That's all my grandfather had to eat, water. As a result, his feelings towards food were understandably complicated. Due to this, he took great pleasure in feeding us and taking us on food related excursions. 

My grandfather could read and speak Sanskrit fluently. He was a devout Hindu Brahmin. He took great pains and care to perform his daily rituals. He was a meticulous man; there was a place for everything. He always made time to slowly take out every item used for his prayers and then put them back after he was done, just as slowly. His lower middle class upbringing meant that he did not like to waste things. He was a frugal man in most respects. He did, however, like to spend money on gadgets (TV and computer) and on his grandchildren. He saved as much as he could, as often as he could, as long as he could. Still, I believe he may have greatly regretted that it was never enough to buy him a house. He died without ever owning property. 

He was an immensely proud man. Many believed this to be a fatal flaw, even some of his children. I saw a different side of it. He was immensely proud of me. Of my brother. Of my mother. He saw the hardships we faced and he was proud of the fact that we overcame them without much help. 

My grandfather only ever raised his hand to me once, when I was careless in playing and managed to hurt myself very badly. He felt so guilty for having hit me that he cried. 

He loved guavas. Sometime after the death of his parents, he went to Kashi (Varanasi) and, as is the custom, gave up eating them.

Although I believe he loved all his grandchildren, he had special affection for the 3 oldest. My brother was his first grandchild. Pictures of him holding my brother as a baby convey one thing very clearly, that he adored my brother without an ounce of reservation. Unfortunately, there are no pictures I can find with my grandfather holding me as a baby. But he loved me. He loved me completely. My cousin, the older son of my grandfather's oldest son, the legitimate heir, so to speak, of the bloodline, was similarly adored. The three of us spent the most time with him as children. My two youngest cousins lived away from my grandparents for most of their childhood, and as a result, spent only a few weeks every summer with them. This was to their detriment, I firmly believe. 

My favourite memories of my grandfather involve him taking the three of us to a fair, where he bought us food and candy. He bought me a little cup of soap water which I used to blow bubbles. He bought me books of Russian fairytales, which I still have.

He read everything I gave him that I had published. He was so very proud of them. 

Whatever his faults, this is what I believe, absolutely, irrevocably and firmly. He was as good a father as he knew how to be. He raised so many people, and did it the only way he knew how, by providing for them. He made many mistakes. He was the best grandfather I could have ever had. He loved me. And he was loved by me. My most beloved Thatha. He lived a full life. And now he is gone. And nothing will ever be the same again.

So, here's the thing, it appears I had something to say after all.

When We Were Young, We Were Wild Warriors

I sit here now, in the last hours of my time in the Forever 27 club, never to visit again. I mentioned to Gooseberrie today that I am shocked that we both made it. Indeed I am. 

This is a time of year that I am often pensive. It seems to me that I have not done enough, or lived enough, or loved enough. Most of all, I worry that I haven't been happy as I should be. How does that make sense; to worry constantly about not being happy? What is happy? And what on earth is 'happy enough'?

I find that I am not ashamed to say that I do not know. Not at all. 

As I now enter this new, cursed year, I am filled with determination. I know that the time to worry about being happy must pass. I will probably never be happy. And that is okay. And the loneliness that surrounds me day in and day out, as I live and breathe and die with every living, breathing, dying breath is not a thing to fight anymore. It is my way of life. If that sounds morbid, then it is against my intention. This is not sorrow, but acceptance. And with it comes a strange sense of calm, one that I fear may soon be replaced with a sense of panic. 

For tonight, I am alone, as I wish to be. And I hope tomorrow passes without pomp, ceremony or celebration. Quiet. That is what I want. 

Happy almost Birthday to Good Old Me. Not many more of these left in me.

Remember Me; I’m the One Who Loves You

Jennifer Egan’s novelistic anthology of interconnected short stories (I’m not through yet; this is what I think it is so far) has a line in its first few pages that resonated so deeply with me that I went back and read, and re-read, it several times.

“In fact the whole apartment, which six years ago had seemed like a way station to some better place, had ended up solidifying around Sasha, gathering mass and weight, until she felt both mired in it and lucky to have it – as if she not only couldn’t move, but didn’t want to.”

Living in a city like Bombay, for years now, in the same job, with the same friends, in the same apartment: this is how I feel now. Like the girl in the story in New York, I live in this big anonymous city, where people bounce off each other in myriad ways, just ducking their heads and trying to get through the day without making too many waves. We all end up finding these refuges, or building them; sanctuaries made out four walls and a bed. Some simple way to escape the frantic energy of this seemingly ceaseless urban jungle, that’s all I seem to want.

Like Sasha, I thought that this life was just a way station to something else. Now, I look around to see it solidifying around me against my will. If I don’t make a break for it and run, I might, very comfortably, never leave. 

Still, Stupid

It's a still, stupid moment. And you realize that he is not him anymore. Not just yours anymore. In a photo, smiling, far away, with someone else. Maybe not for a long time. Then a quick pinch of regret. For that still, stupid moment all those years ago, and for that still, stupid decision. It's okay. Right? It's okay and will be.

A Better Rest

It is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done, it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.

My Bookywooks

In recent years, increasingly, I'm never happier than when I am creating my book lists: a list of books (obviously) that I plan to acquire to add to my collection, whether it is the next day, next week, or next month. The pleasure I derive in this activity, and the somewhat pathetic ways in which I attempt to convince myself that I can afford just one more book on the list, or maybe two more, or perhaps even three more, is nothing short of amusing to friends and co-workers, all of whom have to sit through lengthy monologues on my part about why exactly I have picked each book. 

If you, my dear reader, have had a chance to peruse my blog, you will have gathered the immense love I feel for the written word. This I have to attribute to both parents. People tell me that my love of books was inherited from my father, who apart from being a vociferous reader, was also an excellent writer. However, it is my mother who cultivated my reading habit. I think the biggest reason I keep buying books at this stage in my life is because when I was younger, we were too poor to be able to do so. Let me quickly add, we weren't characters in a Dickens novel. We simply did not have the disposable income that many families do, to spend on buying books. Instead, my mother took pains to enrol us at the local neighbourhood library wherever we lived. My memories of my childhood are filled to the brim with instances of my mother walking my brother and I to the library to borrow books for the upcoming week. My mother would pick romance novels, thrillers and the occasional management tome. My brother, who my mother hoped would also become a prolific consumer of literature, would pick up as many comics as he was allowed. And I would gather all the Enid Blytons, Sweet Valley Highs and R.L Stines I could. I would also be allowed input on the comics, as I read them alongside my own books. And after about half an hour, the three of us would gather at the checkout counter while my mother rationed out how many we could afford to have each week. As we got older, we were allowed to cycle there without my mother's supervision.

During the summer, when we would spend time with our father, we were able to buy as well as borrow. My mother would allow us to borrow a larger than customary number of books in order to keep us occupied during the day. My father, on the other hand, would buy us books, and comics in the case of my brother, though not too many. Over the years, I devotedly finished reading section after section at my local library, slowing graduating to more complex fare. I was aided by a well curated school library that took pains to collect intelligent and age-appropriate books that challenged a young reader rather than pander to them or patronise them. 

Most importantly, my love of reading is also a product of the time that I grew up in. Many, if not all, of my contemporaries and peers also love to read. They continue to do so assiduously, clearly having been converted in their youth. Meanwhile, my younger cousins and co-workers, can hardly be bothered. Most of their reading is restricted to the odd Harry Potter. Most of them believe the Lord of the Rings to be simply a film series. Hardly any of them would trek to South Bombay in the midst of monsoon under the spell and promise of new arrivals at an old-school second hand bookstore. Their loss entirely, I firmly believe. 

So here's the thing, I have my next list. I am excited by it. And although I cannot acquire my books (A Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion, A Visit From the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan and The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obreht or Bringing Up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel) until August, I can spend the next 3 weeks eagerly awaiting the paycheck that I will happily spend on these.

Another Number, This Time 12

As usual, the day holds nothing but unpleasantness. I know that should read deep sorrow, but I'm not sure I can access those emotions at this particular moment in my life. Why? Because I am all alone. For the first time, in a long time, there are more people in my everyday life than there have ever been. And of course, I am all alone. Those that I would allow myself to need have deserted me. I know that's not a fair thing to say, but that's exactly what it feels like. 

I was told that my friendship is pressure. My constant being there, my insistence on helping, my undying loyalty; these are all the same things that make my friendship pressure. And I guess it's true. I value this stupid thing so very much that I expect, almost demand the same from the other person. Two separate people have told me three separate times that it's too much. Maybe I should listen? I should listen. 

Which brings me back to this blighted day, and my blighted existence. I am here. Still fucking here. Twelve long years later, still here. I am sad. And deeply guilty. And then even more guilty because I don't think I'm as sad as I should be. I should be more shattered, right? But even the little shattered I am is inconvenient for all the people that require me. These people that need me to be funny, and cheerful, and present. And interested in what they are saying, ready with a silly response. And all the other people that need me to be good at my job; to show up and be responsible and answer their many questions. And also be funny while I am at it, and laughing. The people that need me to be rock-like, to stand up to be leaned on. I have to be all this, and then disappear when they want me to, ever the supporting player in the movie of their lives. 

If he had lived. I don't know. I honestly don't know. I feel like I might disappoint him. I am not healthy, or happy, or whole. I am successful, marginally. But none of those other things. Wouldn't he think that I am lesser than I should be? Apparently, I'm not even as good a friend as I thought I was. This stellar quality I had proudly pinned to my chest turned out to be a fabrication. 

I think I may be making more of this than I should be. I know I shouldn't. So I will stop. It's just been a bad few days. One after the other. And I can see that I am making this about myself, when it should be about him. I can't even seem to get this thing right, this mourning. I should be an expert after the number 12, right?

Twice and Again

I don't understand how this is happening again. I really, really don't get how I have managed to allow myself to be in this position twice in my lifetime. I have to be done with this, I have to have the strength to be done with this.

The Opposite of Entitlement

I like to complain loudly, profanely, vociferously about entitled Americans. I do it all the time. I am the obnoxious asshole at the party that will tell everyone within earshot about my deep and abiding issues with entitled Americans, paying little heed to the fact that I might quite possibly be surrounded by Americans. (In case you're wondering, I have several, wonderful American friends and colleagues, who have all been nothing but lovely to me. Plus, Bombay is full of expats from the States, so the last scenario I described has happened to me many, many times.) Let me hasten to add, this phenomenon has very quickly seeped into Indian culture as well, especially in a day and age of 24×7 news and reality television. Everyone feels entitled to an answer, to rights, to services, to luxury, to the spotlight, to external validation, to being anointed as special. From a culture that was 'chalta hai, ho jayega' to a culture of 'I am special', the shift has been pronounced. 

A blogger I read frequently, who comments on celebrity culture, wrote in one of her columns about the movement that is visible in North America to constantly validate every single child about his or her specialness. You are special, they are all told. You deserve everything, they are told. Your hopes and dreams are the most important thing in the world, they are told. She was confounded by this constant pressure on parents, teachers, relatives, and the media to keep convincing themselves and their children of the inherent specialness of their offspring. Heaven forbid anyone tell their precious little angels that they might grow up to be ordinary, average, plumbers and electricians! Each of them is a little star! There are just so very many things wrong with this entire thought process. To begin with, if everyone is special, then logically, no one is. Second, this culture breeds the most spoiled, entitled brats who believe that every small action on their part must be met with applause and every single step they take is an achievement all in itself. Hard work, dedication and learning from failure are disincentivized. Third, and perhaps most important, what happens when the little darlings leave the nest and are thrust harshly into an unforgiving world? The parents of these children do not equip them to deal with a world where nobody gives a fuck how special mummy and daddy think you are, and the only thing that matters is results. 

One of the corollary (my Math is showing) impacts of a culture of entitlement is the demand for accountability. I work in politics and government; accountability is a big deal in the world I inhabit. I want to make that clear, just in case what I am about to say is misconstrued as callousness or an interest in protecting the elite from responsibility. The trouble is, we live in an imperfect world. There is no such thing as 100% accountability. Often, perhaps too often, no one is to blame. Bad things just happen. Sometimes, bad things happened, and no one was held accountable. And then years passed and the person responsible died. This particular situation has happened countless times in the history of the world. It used to be, that we understood that this is simply the way of the world. Awful things happen. It's always been the way of the world. In India, this attitude can in some ways been traced to the deep-seated concept of karma that is prevalent in our culture. 

Today, however, there is a hunger to demand accountability. This is mostly a good thing. Unfortunately, it frequently slips into the demand for accountability from someone, anyone, for the trouble that a person goes through. The word 'anyone' is important in that last sentence. The desire for this accountability is so rabid, the idea that one is entitled to this 'justice' is so ingrained, that simply anyone is better than no one. It's becoming hard for people, actually impossible for people to accept that sometimes, there is no one that can be led to the firing squad for the bad thing that has happened to us. 

I recently had the opportunity to read an New York Times Magazine article about the Horace Mann Prep School in New York and the decades long instances of child sexual abuse that took place there that were subsequently not investigated fully. The story is disturbing and awful. The pain that children suffered at the hands of adults who were supposed to care for them and guide them is hard to read about. But the thing that really struck me was that the author was asking for justice, for more to have been done about what happened around him. Normally, this is the type of issue I would jump on the bandwagon for. However, the instances he cited took place mostly in the 1960s and 70s. The statute of limitations has run out completely in most cases. And given that the decades he is talking about is well before there was freedom to discuss these issues, before there were protocols in institutions to figure out what to do, before there were even proper laws that addressed crimes of a sexual nature against children, what exactly would the author have wanted done? Practically and realistically speaking, there is no actual justice to be done here. Most of the accused are long dead. Most of those molested are in the 50s and 60s. The desire for justice is noble. It is also misguided. That somebody, anybody should be held accountable is not only erroneous, but also dangerous. That is not justice, it is blind revenge.

The issue I come back is that we are being taught that we are entitled to all these things, and then we feel failed when things do not magically fall into place for us. Perhaps it is the cynic and depressive in me. I was taught that you work very hard, for very little reward. I was taught that it is possible to slave for years and years, and have little to no recognition. I was taught that you do what you do not because you deserve plaudits and applause, but because you must feed and clothe yourselves and your family. And I was taught that if you are very, very lucky, the biggest reward you will receive is pride in yourself for a job well done. So, here's the thing, why aren't the children of today being taught this?

Death in Slow Motion

In the course of one of my many sleepless nights recently, I did what I usually do when I can’t sleep: I watched television shows and movies, I read (or tried to read one of my books), I snacked periodically and I read the internet on relay. I don’t quite know how to explain the last one. When I’ve not slept for days at a time, I find myself reading something, an article in the news, a piece of analysis, something that links me to something else, which then links me to something else, and so on. Before I know it, I’m somewhere, lost in the recesses of the world wide web, reading something that I would normally never have stumbled upon. In just such a way, I had the chance to read the interview of a Hollywood celebrity, an extremely well respected actor, given a few years after the death of his equally famous wife. The actor, who, it should be noted, is several years older than I am, gives a devastatingly mundane account of reaching the hospital and trying to convince busy nurses, security guards and orderlies to allow him to see his wife. He also talks about receiving the worst possible news about his wife’s condition, all the while wondering just how young the doctors were. Something in the entire account, which is incredibly raw in his grief, moved me. A tragedy like the sudden death of a person is also an incredibly quotidian one for a million reasons: everybody dies, there are tons of tiny, silly details to take care of, everybody will want your attention so they can express their sorrow over your grief to you, someone will wear something inappropriate, people who perform services at the funeral have to be paid, there will be at least a dozen relatives who will ask about the inheritance at the most inopportune moment. At the time of someone’s dying, you expect the world to stop, as if it too has been stunned. In the movies, this always happens. There is slow motion, people step back in reverence, instrumental music plays as you walk alone in your grief and heartbreak. In the real world, none of this happens. When someone dies, they just die. Everybody else is still alive.

I remember clearly being told about the deaths of all three of the people who I have lost. (Those I considered close) This is bizarre to me. I can barely remember what I ate yesterday. I often joke that I would forget my own mother’s name if it wasn’t tattooed on me. I have no memory whatsoever. And yet, these memories are clear to me. Maybe not all the details, but enough to surprise me. I was 13 when my great grandmother died. The year before, someone I had been very close to lost his father. I remember being a bystander and being deeply, deeply sad. When it happened in my home… well there was quite a bit of comedy. In the final months of her life, my great-grandmother had to be institutionalized as we at home no longer had the tools to take care of her well; she needed full time medical intervention. When my uncle walked into our home that morning he spoke in whispers to my mother. I imagine they hugged, maybe cried, I can’t remember. He then said to me in my mother tongue that she had died. In that language, the phrase for she has died is very close to she has become well. My uncle and mother then proceeded to stare at me dumbfounded as I whooped and hollered in celebration. At her funeral, which was a very Hindu affair (despite my complete and utterly irreligious nature and militant atheism, I do come from a somewhat religious background), more hijinks ensued. It might seem to the casual reader that I am being disrespectful and irreverent. That is not my intention, but the behaviour of rather a large number of my relatives was nothing short of absurd. Screaming, crying women, who barely knew my great-grandmother, flung themselves on the ground and beat their chests with ‘grief’, while the immediate family of the deceased looked on in stunned silence. My great-grandmother was in her 90s. She had lived a full life, seen all her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She was a dignified old lady, the kind of person they simply don’t make anymore. Seeing her bed-ridden in the last few months of her life, had been all the more painful, because of the majestic way she had lived her life. Her passing, though awful for us, was also comforting; because she was no longer in pain and we could remember her the way she would want to be remembered. And yet, here was this strange relative of ours screaming in ‘shock’ at the sight of her body.

I have more fascinating, thoroughly unexciting storied like that one about the funerals of my father and grandmother. Perhaps at another time, I will share them. So, here’s the thing, this lengthy blog post was about making a point: there is usually very little poetry in tragedy.

What If

What if you're just this kind of person? What if this is all you know how to be, and this is all you know how to do? What if when you wake up every morning, despite yourself, you just fall into being this person and doing this thing? And what if you don't mind at all that one day it will all end in a hail of absolute monotony and little fanfare? What if you go to sleep at night loathing the little that you are and the little that you do, wishing, almost praying, for that hail to come and whisk you away into nothingness? Most of all...

UI

Do you know why I only watch movies which I know will end happily? It's because my mood is almost immediately altered by what I see on screen. The reason behind it, according to my diagnosis at least, is investment. I feel an almost unhealthy level of investment in the lives of the people I watch in movies and TV shows. Don't ask me why the same doesn't apply to books; I simply do not know. 

When I watch a TV show, say for example Parks and Recreation (which I absolutely adore), I get very deeply invested in the idea that Leslie Knope (if you don't know who that is, you need to get on google, and then go and watch every episode of P&R available in your country. Seriously.) will succeed, and will end up happily ever after with Ben Wyatt. If Jim and Pam hadn't gotten together at the end of the 3rd season of The Office, I might have thrown something at my television. 

This unhealthy investment, or UI for short, extends even more so into the romantic lives of the characters I watch, especially on TV. After I have spent years tracking the progression of a fake relationship on TV, I am super pissed if it doesn't pay off, I feel real sorrow when TV characters don't get together. Perhaps it's the lack of any real drama in my own life (a condition I work very, very, very hard towards achieving, BTW) and the complete vacuum where a love life should be, but I feel real feelings for the fake couples on my television set.

Before you rush to the comments section to tell my how crazy I am, believe me, I know. I don't sleep. Which means countless days and nights are spent getting UIed in the lives of people invented by nerdy, bespectacled writers sitting somewhere in an office in Los Angeles or London. And since there is no great love story waiting in the wings for me, I think there is an even more pressing reason I need for these fake loves to work out, in some way, shape or form. 

So, here's the thing, the sleeplessness and emotional unhealthiness have combined to make me care more deeply in whether Meredith and Derek on Grey's Anatomy will end up together, than in the real issues of people I actually know. And I'm not quite sure how I feel about that. 

The Domino Effect

I have had a weird, and oddly uplifting week. Certain movement has been made on the professional front, that has led to some movement on a long-cherished personal plan as well. Emboldened by this, and resulting from some weird emotional domino effect, I have taken an enormous chance. This is a giant Hail Mary. It's a penalty kick in over time with the scores tied. I have taken it, and I am really rather certain of failure. However, I am pleased with the fact that I have taken the shot at all. 2012 has been uneven so far, and it seems appropriate that some success should be tempered with failure, but I am gratified by the following truth: Success or failure, both will lead to personal growth. That is nothing to scoff at.

Crashing Into Reality

All that uncharacteristic optimism I was raving about just a couple of days ago? Gone. Dead and gone. 

I mean, I don't know what else I was expecting. This is me, after all. How long could I possibly sustain a good mood? And how would it even work, when I am constantly surrounded by human beings, with their infinite capacity to irritate, disappoint and fail? In the past two days, I have gone back on a decision to tell someone how I feel about them (due, in part, to their behaviour towards me), I have become deeply annoyed with two close friends, and I have felt slighted by one of the aforementioned two in favour of someone I don't really like anymore. 

So, here's the thing about things, however high you jump, however much you soar, you will always come back down, crashing into reality. Here endeth my self-pitying rant.

All Will Be Well

I understand that title is uncharacteristically optimistic. That's how I feel this morning, uncharacteristically optimistic. It's the start of another year. 2011 was an interesting year for me. Professionally, there were numerous highs. There was a new confidence in my abilities and my chosen career path. Personally, there have been many new journeys that were undertaken. Some of those journeys are yet to be completed. 2011 was the year many of my personal relationships were reaffirmed, and I was able to find joy and completion in the love I feel for many people. And in 2011, I resolved to do a few things in 2012. That's as good or bad a year in the life of an average human can get, I'm thinking. So with that, I leave you with the words of the Gabe Dixon Band, and their song 'All Will Be Well':

All will be well, 

Even after all the promises you've broken to yourself,
All will be well.
You can ask me how but only time will tell.