Cricket brings out the bigot in all of us!

Wednesday, March 30, 2011 was a nail biting day for Indians and Pakistanis across the world. Some of our friends made it to Mohali, India to watch this legendary match. Legendary: umm, this was probably Cricket God Sachin Tendulkar’s last world cup. So, yeah. Legendary! The saying, “Cricket and cinema are India’s religion,” isn’t an exaggeration!

When we woke up on the day of the match, the first thing I did was log onto Facebook. Best place for news, statistics, or any kind of updates. I noticed people had posted doom and gloom. You could tell India wasn’t doing too well. Honestly, It was disheartening to watch her get beat up. Most of us were betting on a 300+ score. But the Indian team ended with 260.

I called up my father in India to whine about the country’s poor score. He told me that on the streets back home, people had started praying and reading from religious texts. Some were even burning effigies. I told him I wasn’t very different; I had pledged to give up wine for two weeks if India won the semi finals. See, not that I don’t care about the outcome of the finals. But the India-Pak game is sacred. It brings out a dark side in citizens of both the countries.

I had a reading last night, at one of the oldest reading venues in New York City. I had informed my event organizer ahead of time that if India lost, I would wear the defeat on my face. Not deliberately, but I couldn’t help it. C’mon, the day before, I went and got my nails painted saffron. I had my outfit ready to flaunt the tri-color of the Indian flag. All in support of team India. But fortunately, we kicked ass. Pakistan played well. No doubt. But we won.

I went dressed in saffron, green, white, and blue: colors of the Indian flag. In fact, I announced to the audience: "The reason I look like someone who sipped from the rainbow is because India won." It was such a proud moment.

When one of my friends said that he hoped both the countries would be happy irrespective of the outcome until such time the game was good, I told him that he’d lost it. Perhaps, he was smoking something. I was irked when I heard Indians say that they wanted Pakistan to play Sri Lanka in the finals.

In know it’s a free world. And people are entitled to their opinions. But when it comes to cricket, an inexplicable surge of patriotism takes over me. I might not always watch it, but if I do, I won’t root for any other country playing against India. I get thirsty for loyalty.

I am not bragging, but I would like to think of myself as a religiously tolerant, open-minded, and empathetic human being. Writing, especially poetry, will do that to any one. Art teaches humanity. It preaches non-violence, questions archaic doctrines, focuses on global peace. I felt solemn when Pakistan faced floods or the time when their Punjab Province's Governor, Salman Taseer, was assassinated. But even the balm of poetry can’t touch the India-Pak animosity when it comes to cricket. Like the billion of us, I wanted one thing: An Indian victory.

‎I read on a friend’s status update: “1 billion people. 1 billion prayers. 2 billion chappals...!”:-) Did the fear of assault turn the game around? I hardly think so. But that’s what is so ridiculously awesome about Indians. We love fiercely, revere incredibly, and admonish equally when it comes to cricket and cinema.

My writer friends from Pakistan feel the same way about their country whenever there is an India-Pak match. All our ethos of “One world, one love” goes out the window when the two countries compete:-) After all, our roots are the same.

More until next time,

Xoxo

Copyright © 03.31.2011

“Cricket to us was more than play, it was a worship in the summer sun.”

Edmund Blunden

"Not All Birds Sing"

The world is trembling.

A lot has happened in the past couple of weeks: massacre in Libya; earthquake in Japan; bomb blast in Jerusalem. The legendary Elizabeth Taylor is dead. I have endured a few personal losses too. And so have others close to me. But let's not talk about the chaos and my thoughts on the mayhem until next week. It's Thursday morning. Another day closer to the weekend. Time to get a little less morose.

Nietzsche said, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." Like the rest of the human race, I too am hanging in there, waiting for this March madness to dissipate. And few bright clouds to shine over us. It's the hope that keeps us all going, right?

Here comes some good news on an otherwise ordinary day: my first, cross-genre, collaborative collection of poetry is now available for purchase. The book, "Not All Birds Sing," contains a unique blend of art and poems.

Claire Watson, a visual artist, and I met at a writers' residency in Europe. We instantly clicked. And became good friends. Aside from our common taste in humor, wine, long walks, and sightseeing, we bonded over our respect for the creative life. And that's how the book was conceptualized. We trusted each other's strengths and compensated for the weakness.

Take a look, you won't be disappointed!

Thank you to each one of you for all your support and encouragement. After all, artists and writers are nothing without the love and acceptance of their audience.

A side note: if you are in the Kew Gardens area on Sunday, March 27 send me an email. I will be reading FICTION at an incredible cafe along with Jay Neugeboren that afternoon.

More until next time,

Xoxo

Copyright © 03.24.2011

"To have great poets there must be great audiences too." Walt Whitman

It’s okay to shut up

At the beginning of this week, I received a few emails from some wonderful readers. They wanted to know about my “missing” blog. Since I didn’t post anything last week, folks asked if all was well.

I know, it’s hard to believe that someone as opinionated as me had nothing to say for an entire week. :-) Hardly the case, I promise. :-)

I had plenty of thoughts racing through my mind. Some simmering, eagerly waiting to pour over the page. Turn into words. Poetry. Prose. Blog posts. Hit the heart. Piss off the mind. Condemn hypocrisy. Applaud democracy. Expose the sham.

A few others hoped to never see the light of life. Their birth would mean the end of some beginnings.

I wondered if the contemplation was worth my time. If the care was worth the seconds, minutes, or hours wasted. Does recognition of the problem lead to acknowledgement? Is denial the path to choose to traverse through the travesty of modern civilization?

Who knows? Some questions have no answers. Some questions lead to complicated questions.

I could share every passing thought. But I don’t think the world is ready. I concede it isn’t a haven for idealists. I am learning each day. And I am able to learn because I take time from my life to shun voices. I make an attempt to find my bearings. Recharge.

Writers and artists are often stereotyped as the group who need silence and seclusion to connect with their inner selves.

I am not refuting the postulation. If anything, I personally believe it should be incumbent upon all of mankind to temporarily detach themselves.

Detachment is a loaded word. I am not saying give up on your family and friends and meditate on Mt. Everest. What I mean is that all of us should take some time out to become more human. Grow as an individual. Learn to be nice. That can successfully happen only if we shut up, literally. Ponder. Rejuvenate. Cleanse. And then strike back.

Remember, just because you have a mouth, you don’t have to speak. Just because you are in a position to intimidate others, you don’t have to use threats. Just because you don’t have a life, you don’t have to feel entitled to mess around with someone else’s. Just because someone is nice, don’t take it as their weakness and abuse it.

Many people don’t even give enough thought to their actions. Often the unwanted chaos is because of the silence we try to fill with words. You don’t have to own the last word. Sometimes you will break hearts; other times, make a fool of yourself.

Leave words alone. Let them be. When the time is right, the shell will break. The larva will wriggle. Fly into the world like a beautiful butterfly. And bring happiness.

More until next time,

Xoxo

Copyright © 03.10.2011

“It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.” Mark Twain

Childhood memories replaced with nightmares

I have had a transient life growing up. Different schools, different friends, different, countries, different cities.

One of those countries where my parents lived and I visited for fifteen years was Libya. I studied in the Indian International School in Libya for a few years. That is until my parents realized that school was a piece of cake, and all my teachers were their friends. So, on one hand they gave my peers and me homework; on the other, they partied with my parents over the weekend. Perhaps, it was difficult to take their role seriously. For all of us.

I joined a boarding school in Mussoorie, India. But my brother and I continued to visit Libya during our vacations.

I don’t think my brother bears any attachment to the country. He didn’t go to school there. None of the kids were his age. If anything, my friends would ask him to do things for us: lay out the tent, accompany us, play silly games. It was understandable why he felt nothing when my parents decided to move back to India. I still remember I was so upset. I had bawled my eyes out. I couldn’t believe my parents would want to leave the place where I had spent the most precious years of my life. My childhood home.

Back in the days, India wasn’t what it is today. And Libya was an amazing place for foreigners (unlike today) until you didn’t mess around with the local people. Libyan leader Muammar Gaddafi kept the country safe. Moreover, none of the stringent rules and regulations applied to foreigners. No burqa, no restrictions on beach wear. My parents’ generation is so guilt feeling and God-fearing that they were the best immigrants, ever! They kept to their South Asian community mostly and mingled with few European and other Asian communities.

I would have to say life in Libya was a mad party. Best food, best music, best movies, best company, best beaches, and ultimately best vacations. Mankind, as we know, is so inventive. Because there weren’t too many restaurants or tourist destinations or movie theatres within our city, we created fun. Literally manufactured magic: beach house rentals, mouth-watering BBQs, home-brewed liquor (strictly for the elders), swim in the Mediterranean Sea, never-ending picnics, crazy dance parties etc. etc. Most women were incredible, inventive cooks.

I couldn’t believe my parents wanted to abandon all that and move to India where only special guests were fed “chicken.” With me, it's all about food ultimately.:-)

But that was fifteen years ago. Slowly, I started to miss the place lesser and lesser. These days I barely think of Libya. But the past week has reignited feelings. Here is a poem that I wrote on Libya: Libyan memory; Libyan nightmare. It was published earlier this morning.

Today when I see what’s happening in Libya, my heart aches. Gaddafi, who once defended his people against foreign rule, has vowed to suppress a mounting revolt against his 42-year rule. He is killing his own people?! His forces have cracked down fiercely on demonstrators. Ruthless murders, innocent lives taken. Brutality galore!

The army, apparently, is firing random people on the streets of Tripoli (the capital). Many fear collecting corpses, lest they be shot. And tomorrow, there will be a general protest in Tripoli. Here is a video of a mass burial site in the city. Human Rights Watch said at least 233 people had been killed in five days of violence in Libya, opposition groups put the figure much higher.

Someone asked me why I am so bothered by what’s happening in Libya. I said, “Perhaps, this time it’s more personal. This past week of uproar has stained the pages of my childhood memories with nightmares.”

More until next time,

Xoxo

Copyright © 02.24.2011

"Politicians are like diapers. They both need changing regularly and for the same reason.” ~Author Unknown

Do a good deed and save the life of a three-year old

For those of you who watch the ABC sitcom, “Cougar Town,” starring Courteney Cox, you might remember an episode from a week or so ago. It was based on the concept of “Pay it forward.” You do something nice for someone or say a few generous words, and they in turn do the same for another person—friend or a stranger. In the end, a chain of good deeds gets manufactured.

But this was a small town in Florida. City living, though I love it, has made me skeptical and distrustful to an extent. New Yorkers, overall, are often labeled as apathetic. Be it the paucity of time or the every day struggle, everybody is always in a hurry. And often engrossed in their own world.

Many years ago, one of my professors at Columbia University thought I was upset with him over a grade or something and that’s why I had not acknowledged his “hellos.” Apparently, this one time his family too was with him. He called out to me thinking he could introduce me to his wife.

I felt terrible. I am not the kind of person who would ignore or ever get passive-aggressive. If I have an issue, believe me, you will hear about it one-on-one—that is if I believe you are mature enough to comprehend the intent of the conversation. And if I think you are an adult with the emotional maturity of a three-year old, I will watch my distance.

I finally realized what had occurred. I always have music blaring in my ears. And when I step out of my house, I wear my coat of cautiousness with words floating in my head. You could say I switch off the world. City cacophony can enter spaces you don’t want it to. Someone needs to literally tap my shoulder to catch my attention.

Long story short, I reached out to my professor, apologized again, and asked him to make eye-to-eye contact the next time he saw me.

My example wasn’t an exception. Several of my friends have been in similar, awkward situations. And no, not all of them are artists and writers. I know, we, creative types have our own reputation.:-)

Anyway, my husband lacks the New York trait. He helps the randomest of folks at the weirdest of hours in the strangest of places. I don’t think it’s very smart, and he’s paid heavily, a few times, for his credulous attitude. I shudder as I think about those incidents. But he doesn’t give up. I think we are all wired differently. I trust people I know and get burnt while he relies on strangers to do the damage:-)

A week ago, over a cup of weekend-tea, my husband said to me, “You bend backwards for family and friends. So what if I help people without even knowing them? And yes, I especially assist women with carriages or the elderly with heavy bags on subway stairs because I know what you go you have to go through with your injured-neck. And maybe, when I do this for others, when you need help, a stranger might come to your rescue.”

He got me thinking. I too have always believed in doing the right thing. But as mentioned above, I choose a different route. Munificent gestures get limited to the people from my own universe. As in, I am there for the people I know. And though I might offer my seat in the subway to a pregnant woman or an elderly, I am wary of random conversations with unfamiliar humans. If I see someone hurt, my first reaction would be to call 911 as opposed to helping directly. You never know who the person next to you is. And is it worth finding out?

Though not fully convinced, I decided to try my husband’s method of going out of the way for strangers. Of course, I hid my wallet in the deepest crevasses of my handbag.

Next morning, as I was crossing the street (mind you the roads were snowy and slushy), I saw a young, blind lady trying to walk over this pile of slush from the other side of the road. Normally, I would have informed her that the “walk signal” wasn’t on and that she probably wanted to wait a few minutes. Don’t judge; all New Yorkers partake in jaywalking. But this time I waited with her. I told her that I would help her cross the street and only then go about my business. She was surprised but thanked me immensely. A minute later, this man emerged out of his car and said, “I will take it from here.” He blocked the street with his car such that no other vehicles could drive by and hurt this lady. It was like the sets of a Broadway Show. Seeing this guy, another dude stepped outside his car and offered to help. In front of my eyes, on a chaotic winter morning, New Yorkers proved that good deed is infectious.

I called up my husband and told him what had happened. Needless to say, he gloated.J

A few days later, I saw several postings on Facebook about this three-year-old boy, Rayan, who was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (ALL), a form of blood cancer. It was heart wrenching. One particular update caught my eye; my friend had posted it. Her son and Rayan are classmates. And I have met her son on several occasions. This story at that very moment became personal for me. I hate the C-word.

I have decided to get myself tested for bone marrow compatibility. I hope and pray it matches, so I can help out Rayan. And if you are a South Asian, may I urge you to get tested as well? It would could be that much more helpful for a match. Click here for details.

When I told my husband of my decision, he said, “You know the transplant itself is very painful.” I said to him, “Much more than what the parents of a three-year-old are going through? Or the kid himself?”

I don’t know if winter brings out the nice in people. Or we all find our own causes that we believe and support in. Whatever might be the case, do a good deed and pass it on. Like laughter, it’s contagious. And God knows this chaotic world could use some positive energy.

More until next time,

Xoxo

Copyright © 02.10.2011

“For even in dreams a good deed is not lost” ~ Pedro Calderon de la Barca

Cinema in India—sign of the changing times?

The only reason I can smile around this time of the year (Well, the cold and snow freezes every happy emotion) is because of movie and television awards. Though I have to say my favorite de-stressor is watching innumerable Bollywood award ceremonies, especially in the recent years. C’mon, there is music, dancing, celebrities, and fashion galore. And loads of sharp and sometimes strange humor.

Bollywood has come a long way. Remember those rose buds and suggestive sitar tunes every time an actor and actress held hands? Or the fake “bhishum” sound when a fight scene happened? There was an ugly villain and at least one person with some sort of mental or physical disability. I don’t know why a goon couldn’t be good-looking. The heroine was vulnerable, danced in the rain, and drank potions of pretentious shyness. There was almost always a widowed mother or a one-eyed, mean mother-in-law. And the male protagonist was stronger than Superman. Of course, there was always “art” cinema, which was often positioned as a documentary for intellectual snoots. And none of the “hot” and commercial actors ever worked in them.

Not too long ago, the producers and directors clumped the tastes, needs, and want of the entire Indian audience inside one bucket (Not very different from how the western world envisioned India). Diversity didn't matter! I don’t think there was a target audience in mind for every movie. The grandma, mother, the teenaged daughter, the maid, and the sweepers were perceived to own similar intellectual and emotional capabilities. Perhaps, that’s why cinema never seemed about people. Regular, common, normal human beings like any of us. Movies were far-fetched, distant, and monopolistic.

But thanks to the newer crop of storywriters, actors, producers, and directors, Bollywood has reached newer heights. Actors are making an effort, like Hollywood stars, and experimenting with roles and looks. For instance, Ajay Devgan had a small-town guise in Rajneeti; a 70s safari suit and long hair in Once Upon a Time in Mumbai; but short, cropped hair, and tattooed & chiseled body in Golmaal 3.

While watching Apsara Awards 2011, I noticed that most of the movies nominated for an award this year were unusual in their storyline and characterization: “Udaan,” “Band Baaja Baaraat,” “My Name Is Khan,” “Dabangg,” “Peepli Live”etc. But here is the interesting bit: debut directors filmed them all. The producers might have been an old mogul or a big banner, but not the director. And lot of unknown and first timer-names worked in the aforementioned films.

These newer and maybe younger folks might have found mentors in the industry. But the ideas and vision are still theirs. And it’s obvious in the variety of small and big films we watch. The flavors are unique. The characters have become more believable. There is a movie for every demographic and socio-economic group. In fact, cinema is available for every mood.

To me, the growth and the rise of India are visible in Bollywood. For a nation to succeed, it has to be open to bolder, braver, and newer notions. Fair to say India is on the right track?

More until next time,

Xoxo

Copyright © 02.03.2011

“Although for some people cinema means something superficial and glamorous, it is something else. I think it is the mirror of the world.” Jeanne Moreau

HOT news on yet another cold day

I was saying to a friend the other day, we make fun of the English for starting their conversations (or at least sneaking excerpts of it) with weather, but we all have been doing the same off late. I don’t even need to browse through Weather Channel's website; Facebook has people sharing their temperature-plight.

This other friend, she and I were at the same workshop last weekend, said to me, “Have you realized, it’s only desis who use weather as an excuse?”

“How do you mean?” I asked as I rubbed my hands to keep them from turning blue.

“If it’s too hot, desis switch on their air-condition and drink lassis or juices. If it gets too cold, we rely on heat, friends, and food for warmth. And monsoon means pakodas and chai. But the Americans are different.”

“How so?”

“Whatever be the weather, they enjoy life: On a hot day, they sunbathe and partake in water sports and when the mercury dips, they go skiing,” she responded.

Well, we said goodbyes and got our frozen toes inside our respective subways. But I thought about what she’d said. She had a point. But this winter is different. Irrespective of ethnicity and skin color or background, people are dealing with the weather in similar ways.

The winter has been harsh and vindictive. And because NYC demands that you walk, the pain gets exacerbated. Innumerable cups of herbal teas can perhaps thaw you for sometime. But that’s about it.

New Yorkers are used to snow-teasers a.k.a. snowstorms twice or thrice over winter. But not three snowstorms a week. I don’t think most New Yorkers are prepared (in terms of clothing or gears) to deal with what we have this season.

My weather-venting aside, the raging optimist in me (whatever bit isn’t hibernating) likes to believe that there is a good side to the worst of situations. And well, there is.

Thanks to the weather, the day-to-day distractions are fewer. I am still meeting friends or peers after work but at a coffee shop or for meals at home. In my world of writing, where we have readings and drinks/dinners more often than the real world (An artist’s life can be that of solitude when he or she is in the creative process, so social hour is quintessential for maintaining traces of sanity), people have been scaling back. The last thing you want is to be stranded at a restaurant or salon—be it your own or a new neighborhood.

So, all of this sub-zero chaos has resulted in higher productivity: I was offered the cool (okay, try suicidal since honestitis is my forte and most people don't have an appetite for blunt words) opportunity to be a columnist for UK-based magazine VISNOMY. My first column was accepted by the editor, and the magazine will be launched towards the end of first quarter of 2011.

I did two readings, where I was invited as a featured poet, this month. One was at Terraza Café in Elmhurst and the other was on my birthday at Brownstone Poets, Brooklyn. It meant a lot to see family and friends at both these events. They braved the nasty temperatures to support my dreams. Thank you.

Aside from the readings, I have had a few pieces out too this month:

• Five of my poems appeared in an anthology published by Unisun Publications in Bangalore, India: Timescapes.
• U.K.-based Skylark Publications published my poem, "The riddle of Draupadi" in their first anthology: Word Masala. This poem makes you wonder if Mahabharata was a strategic arrangement between Krishna and Druapadi.
• My poem, "Crossing Over," inspired by a true story (I met with a clairvoyant in Ireland who told me stuff about my deceased, paternal grandfather), was published in Recovering The Self: Volume III, Number1. Also, check out the cover of this magazine. The picture was taken by my husband. Super-proud moment in the Srivastava-Vikram house!
• Danse Macabre, an online literary magazine, published "A Sea of Curse." This poem is part of a new collection that I am working on.

But the BIGGER NEWS: I signed a NEW book contract for a POETRY COLLECTION. I am excited about this project, a lot, for many reasons. The theme is very close to my heart and so is the location where I conceived the idea for it. Like most artists, I too would like to believe that one-day words and art would change humanity for the better. Increase tolerance and help people empathize. But more on the project as the time comes closer.

Thanks for all your warmth and generosity. If you'd like to stay updated on news at my end or just stay in touch, I invite you to connect with me on Twitter or join my author page on Facebook. It’s true: A writer is, after all, only half his book. The other half is the reader and from the reader the writer learns.

Stay warm! More until next time,

Xoxo

Copyright © 01.27.2011

“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.” ~Ray Bradbury