Are adults messed up?

My friend’s five-year-old spotted a lady in a burqa the other day and said, “Mom, that is such a cool Ninja outfit!” My friend, who is an awesome mother, was relieved to find out that the woman hadn’t heard her little one’s comments.

I was amazed when I heard the story. The kid’s observation wasn’t tainted by time, politics, or society. He made sense of the garb, from his individual perspective, and came up with an astute remark. He held no prejudice. Every single person I have shared this story with has laughed aloud and said, “Wow, smart kid. I can see why he would say that.”

In December of 2010, when I visited Singapore to do a reading and spend time with the family, my younger niece, Sana, upon seeing my slightly off-shoulder blouse said to me, “I can see your shoulders. Cover yourself up.” I know, brat! But a darling one too!:-) I told several of my friends in NYC about Sana’s wardrobe-modesty when it came to my clothes. I laughed every time she commented, but would I have responded the same way if an adult had made those passing remarks?

If adults can see why a child would draw comparison between a burqa and a Ninja outfit, why can’t they believe that a grown up could mean no harm if they said something similar? If adults can enjoy Sana’s enforced doctrine and call it "super-cute," why can’t they deal with the same criticism from their mother or mother-in-law?

Is it because the older we get the more convoluted our thoughts become? We over think everything. We expect prejudice. The obsession with making our individual point of view clear while sipping from the cup of political correctness, or not, becomes our focus. And those who are straightforward are often sent to hell.

It seems the adult brain has no empathy for simplicity. Not when it comes from anyone who is not a child. We work with the assumption that people have hidden agendas.

When I was doing research for my first fiction novel, “Perfectly Untraditional,” I needed information on a certain sect of the society. Gosh, even someone like me, who deals with mostly shades of white and black, faltered around words. I wasn't sure how to approach them without offending anybody. I wondered if I was patronizing people or hurting their sentiments. I toyed around with questions, never wanting to assume or misrepresent anyone. I wanted my information to be authentic. So, I did tons of research for months.

When I explained my predicament to a dear friend, a part of that sect of the society I had done my research on, he said, “If the intention is good, it comes across in the query. If people get upset with your questions, even when you mean well, then it’s their problem.”

I pondered over what my friend had said. I agree that adulthood comes with responsibility—saying things that don’t hurt others. But what about curiosity? What if our intent is not malicious? What if we are mere knowledge seekers? What if we are wells that want to be replenished?

More until next time,

Xoxo

Copyright © 06.21.2011

“Adults are just obsolete children and the hell with them.” Dr. Seuss

Living on borrowed time

Sorry, I have been absconding for over a month now. My husband and I were on a literary, artsy tour in Europe followed by a wonderful trip to Wisconsin. Both the visits were incredibly special in their own way. While Europe was a revelation on an emotional level and a treat to the exhausted mind, Wisconsin was brilliant for meeting our deadlines, spending quality time with the family, and engaging in stimulating conversations.

As we visited cemeteries, cafes, and galleries in London, Paris, and Prague where famous writers and artists spent their personal and professional lives, it dawned on to me that majority of them didn’t live past forty-five. Caught in the clutches of either alcohol or suicide or a disease, their expedition came to an untimely halt.

I haven’t been able to shake off that feeling. To die before fifty is a bit premature, no? What drove these creative folks to end their lives or drink themselves to death? How miserable can misery get?

As a writer, I know writing takes me to a lot of dark places. The questions I ask and the answers I seek, very often, shake people out of their comfort zones. I am no exception; most of my writer and artist friends feel the same way. Our profession ensures we are in touch with our inner selves. But a heightened sense of awareness introduces us to tastes and shades that aren’t always appeasing. The dissatisfaction, which a common man might categorize as a fleeting thought and shrug off, doesn’t go unnoticed by us. Society trains humans to follow protocol. And mankind is sufficiently selfish to not raise an eyebrow unless an issue affects them personally. But the creative types are generally idealists, not realists, which makes the world a difficult place for them.

Funny, speaking of death, ever since we have returned, every friend that I have met or spoken with has admitted to one thing: Time is running out. Okay, I paraphrased what they confessed. And I am definitely sharing things out of context. But I do not exaggerate when I say that every single one of them realized that half of their life was over. Healthy, sane life, anyways.

Most of my friends are either in their early to mid-thirties or have just turned a new leaf in their life: Turned thirty. All of a sudden, influenced and concerned by our parents’ or relatives’ frail health, we recognize that in thirty plus years, we’ll be like them. Same age, similar issues, similar challenges, similar attitudes. Our thirty years on this planet passed by in the blink of an eye. And now we have thirty to maximum forty hearty years to really do what we want.

The first three decades of our lives were spent being who others wanted us to be. Be it education, career, or marriage, most of us were dream-fulfillers. That’s why twenties were so awkward, because you played roles and morphed into entities you didn’t always recognize. A mere puppet in the hands of society, dancing to various tunes. Pettiness, angst, competitiveness, insecurities, and uncertainties—well, you get the drift—easily found a home in hearts and minds. There were signs of unhappiness with who we really were. But at that age, one lacked the courage and maturity to recognize incongruousness. The desire to be approved and liked by everyone was so high; people went to insane extents to make themselves wretched.

Somehow, God knows what chemical synthesis happens in our cerebrum closer to thirties, a voice begins to nudge. This voice brings a sense of comfort. It works as a soothing balm, carving out individual personalities. We make peace with who we are. All of a sudden, it feels okay to say out aloud, “I matter.” And the biggest reality sinks in: People have to find their own happiness. You aren’t responsible for it.

A very good friend of mine recently relocated to Paris. I am beyond thrilled for her, but a few others said to me, “Ah, she could move because she is single.” Hell, no! Give the woman some credit! She is a smart girl who has worked hard and paid her dues. She deserves the best and that's why she went after her calling!

I pity miserable, small-hearted people with only their sole point of view. No amount of designer brands, fancy outings, and exotic vacations can fill holes in them left behind by complexes and unhealthy competitiveness. When they act like jerks and bully, it's because they are immensely dissatisfied with their own existence. They think they can scare people into listening to them. The minute someone does better than him or her, they take it as a sign of personal failure. Instead of admiring or aspiring to be like the dreamers, such folks open the doors to jealousy and make it their agenda to criticize.

I asked my friend what prompted her move to Paris, which by the way is everyone’s dream—in my world, at least. She wrote back saying, “I think at our age you just realize that you’re on borrowed time and you have to make all there is out of life. And for now it's Paris!”

What a deep thought! Following your bliss is important. If you aren’t happy, you can’t impart happiness. I raise a toast to my friend for answering her calling. I wish her only the best. Knowing that I too am living on borrowed time, I have decided to follow my bliss. To quote someone I love and admire a lot, “Aside from your conscience, you don’t need a certificate to justify your actions to anyone.”

More until next time,

Xoxo

Copyright © 06.09.2011

“Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending.” Maria Robinson

Introducing "Perfectly Untraditional": My first, fiction novel

Some prayers go unanswered. Some carve a path and make wishes come true.

Indescribable amount of hard work, frustrations, tears, fears, smiles, heartaches, and perseverance went into turning my dream into reality.

Ladies and gentleman, I present to you: Perfectly Untraditional (Niyogi Books)—my first fiction novel.

I am ecstatic, delirious, and extremely humbled. I wouldn’t be holding a copy of the book in my hands had it not been for the support, encouragement, and love of many folks. A big thanks to all those people—you know who you are.

The book is available in select bookstores in India and London at this time. That said, in a few weeks, it will be seen across all of India. And if the love continues, other places too.

You can order a copy online: Flipkart (Folks in India) & Booksvista (People outside of India).

Here's the synopsis:

"New York City-based writer, Shaili Kapoor, is shocked to find out about her mother, Meena Kapoor’s death. Meena had drowned her- self in Pashan Lake in Shaili’s hometown Pune, in India. When she was younger, Shaili and her mother would often spend time at the lake, without the knowledge of her father, Suresh Kapoor and younger sister, Tanisha.

Shaili is devastated; apart from her childhood friend Supriya, her mother was the only connection she had with India or her past over the past fifteen years. Even as a young adult, Shaili had estranged relations with her old-fashioned, alcoholic father, but when he found out about Shaili’s divorce and about the new love in her life, he was livid. Both he and Tanisha ostracized her. But Shaili was always astonished at how accepting her mother was of her decision.

Between the time Shaili finds out about her mother’s death and reaches India for the last rites, she discovers a deep secret about the mother she worshipped and the father she grew up to loathe. Nothing is as it seems. Shaili knows the time has come for her to make peace with her father.

Will Shaili find peace in knowing the mystique behind every occurence associated with Pashan Lake and the reason for her mother’s suicide? More importantly, will Shaili and her father ever accept each other’s personal choices? Perfectly Untraditional unravels unconventional and untold tales of families, friendships, love, loyalty, relationships, and tradition."

Advance praise for Perfectly Untraditional

A powerful, riveting, perfectly unique exploration of the tangle of relationships that is the modern Indian family.”

-Swati Kaushal, bestselling author of Piece of Cake and A Girl Like Me

For your convenience, here are the links, again:

Purchase in India, go to: http://bit.ly/lRVw4q

Purchase outside of India, go to : http://bit.ly/iviHSo

Grab a copy. Spread the word. Show some love.

More until next time,

Xoxo

Copyright © 05.04.2011

"You cannot open a book without learning something." ~ Confucius

Their graves will not be unknown

We were in Maryland this past weekend, celebrating my aunt-in-law’s surprise 60^th birthday. As always, it was amazing meeting all the cousins and partaking in regular family fun: food, chitchat, cackle, and stories.

We all got talking. The family in the room knew that I was a writer. But they didn’t know about my deadlines or forthcoming books. I, personally, don’t fancy discussing my projects until they are ready. Of course there are a handful of people who are privy to the rodent crawling inside my brain. But that’s the extent of it. What’s to say? Everyone has a job. Almost. Everyone keeps busy during the day. One can hope. Why should my profession be given a special treatment? Why should I receive the limelight when every job is equally important?

Anyhoo, I told the lovelies in the room about my upcoming fiction novel, “Perfectly Untraditional.” I couldn’t have asked for a better audience. They were so attentive, encouraging, and supportive. Be it the aunts and uncle or cousins my age, everyone was beyond generous with their words. No double standards. No passive-aggressiveness. I was one of them—their child or cousin—not a daughter-in-law. I felt blessed. Believe me, that’s not an experience most South Asian women are always privy to. Are you surprised I cherished every minute of our stay in MD? Or why I love visiting them?

Speaking of novel, my husband manages to sneak in the author copy of it everywhere he goes. It’s really funny. He took it to his office. He’s taken it to our friends’ houses. Apparently, he packed it, hid it, and carried it to Maryland too. He, not so subtly, suggests that I show the author copy to my peers and friends. No kidding! I don’t because I see some benefits in humility. But we’ll keep that “success-goes-to-people’s-head” discussion for another time. J

I’ll confess: Deep down somewhere my upcoming novel makes me miss a few people. Relatives who passed away prematurely. People who would have been as happy as my parents and husband upon seeing my novel. People who influenced my life.

• My Dada (paternal grandfather) - My Dada, a sweetheart, was an idealist who judged the deed, not the doer. He was a big believer in the truth and doing the right thing. My father is the same way, and I seemed to have inherited those impractical qualities too.:-) But I am ever so grateful for those genes. It makes for a tough but content life. My Dada died of throat cancer, but he urged me to never forfeit my voice. He never once mentioned medicine or law when he spoke with me. That’s almost unheard of for a South Asian grandparent (or parent for that matter). I was five when he passed away. But it seems he had me figured out before anyone else.

• Baba (My husband’s paternal grandfather) - The first time I visited my husband’s ancestral home, Baba made me sit right next to him at the dining table. I was a daughter to him. He wasn’t concerned about my culinary abilities or crotchet collection. He asked me to sit-in when he was talking to his clients (He was a lawyer). Did he think I would get stories in my head from that interaction? I don’t know. But what I do know is that I have a picture of him on my writing desk. And that he would have been so proud to see my book.

• My mausi (My mother’s older sister) - My mausi and I were extremely different individuals. The other week my cousins from California were over—mausi’s son and his family. We were all out to dinner at a fancy Mediterranean place, having a fantabulous time. Towards the end of the meal, as we glanced at the dessert menu, I saw it. Stared at it. Smiled at it. It had rice pudding as one of the options. On a regular day, I can eat rice pudding by the gallon. I don’t (because of the dumb calories and all), but if I could, I would. That evening too I had a glint in my eyes but didn’t order it. Instead, I told everyone a story.

My parents relocated to North Africa in the 80s. The first time we visited India on vacation, we spent a big chunk of our vacation at my mausi’s place. On one of the evenings, we all went out to a 5-star hotel for dinner. Upon seeing the menu, my mausi’s older daughter happily declared that she wanted to eat malai kofta with pulao for dinner. I was too young to own a spine or mind, so I asked for the same dish my older cousin had ordered. My mausi turned to us and said in an annoyed tone, “Try something new when you go to a restaurant. What is the point in ordering a dish which gets cooked at home?” That was it. I quietly ordered, “Chicken ala king.” Man, I loved it. I cook it at home. It is one of my husband’s favorite entrees cooked at home by me!

After that day I have never been able to order myself anything ordinary at a fancy restaurant. I learnt my lesson: Never follow the mob. Create my own identity. Strive for extraordinary.

My mausi expressed interest in my writing process and writerly life more than I could have ever imagined. My last conversation with her was about my book.

• Saroj bua (My father’s older sister) - Saroj bua, whom I never met (She died before I was born), was a writer herself. A pure hearted poet, if I may brag. On my recent trip to India, my father gave me her journal. It will be the most treasured diary I will ever own! I translated her works (It’s now published in a Chicago-based publication. Click here if you’d like to read) from Hindi to English. As far as I am concerned, her journal of poetry gave me a sneak peak at what occupied her mind. Poetry was her therapy. Poetry was her escape route from reality. Words gave her the choices that life didn’t offer. I felt attached to her. I empathized with her. A connection. A revelation. I often choose to write poetry because it's healing. It's calming. It gives me the strength to deal with actuality.

Ironically, it’s not that I was super-close to anyone of the above-mentioned people in particular. For a woman growing up across three continents, boarding school, and hostel life, there is only so much time I had with them individually; however, I feel their absence. I guess it is the quality of time spent versus quantity. They each taught me a valuable lesson.

Actually, my unconventional attachment to my deceased relatives doesn’t surprise me at all. Maybe I am romanticizing the dead. Or maybe these were the people who very early on interpreted my dreams in their own, unique way. They encouraged me, the writer, to be myself. Be it through their journals or actions, they supported the perfectly untraditional me.

Here is a toast to them. I bow my head down in humble silence and thank them for their love. I promise, every time I look at my upcoming novel, I will mentally salute them. I know they are smiling at me. And perhaps, muttering, "You did it, girl!":-)

More until next time,

Xoxo

Copyright © 04.29.2011

“It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died. Rather we should thank God that such men lived.” ~ George S. Patton

Gay or straight, doesn’t matter. It’s the Y chromosome!

It’s my husband’s birthday today. A friend suggested that I write a post about him—my husband. Initially I found the idea odd only because I rarely plan my posts. The ideas come to me. I have to be consumed with a topic to blog about it. But as I sat down with my laptop earlier today, I had an epiphany. After all, Mr. Frost said, “Writing is discovery.”

My husband, a man of way above–average intelligence, has an embarrassingly forgetful memory when it comes to doing anything around the house. Okay, “embarrassing” is not the right word. But I have people from the older generation reading my blog posts too, so I figured I’d refrain from using anything non PG-13 to nickname his “laziness.”:-)

Just the other day, for the millionth time, it slipped his mind to bring the heavy-duty grocery—items that any sane woman shouldn’t carry. A few weeks ago, he forgot to tell me about a package his aunt had sent. Thanks for the embarrassment, dear. More often than not, I need to remind him to call his own family. Yes, the list goes on. But since it’s his birthday, let’s cut him some slack.:-)

Not too long ago in the past, I got mad and asked him how he could forget, again and again. He gave me that patented “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” I believed him. Ah, the foolish me. I neglected to see that his head was tilted at an angle, which I assumed exuded sincere apology. (That’s how Shahrukh Khan apologizes in Hindi movies). Apparently not. There was golf on the television, and the man was trying to get a sneak peak. He wanted me to shut up. He knew the “Deer-caught-in-the-headlights-act” would work on me. And it did!

When a friend of mine tried asking her husband about his forgetfulness, he pretended to watch television. It was his, “Honey, I-need-some-space, time.” When she insisted on having a discussion, he tried convincing my friend that they should talk later since he was watching TV. He started flipping through channels. Rapidly. Abruptly. Without breathing. Like she was a sniper from the enemy side, and he was trying to survive. His fingertips worked faster than his thoughts when he finally said, “Babe, there is something important that I have to watch.” She said, “What?” None of the games were on. She was well aware. She waited for him. But her husband was determined. He found a crappy channel showing……. POKER and settled with it.

My friend thought that she could totally call his bluff. Like, totally. C’mon, seriously. Who watches poker? For how long? And that too on television? That’s sick!

She waited, he watched. She waited some more, he watched more. And that was the day poker became a part of his sports viewing ritual.

It didn’t end there; during a commercial break, he pointed to a random model’s washboard abs and said, “Babe, you should do what she does. Doesn’t look all that difficult.” I am not sure why he is still alive!

Another friend of ours said that he wanted to get an iPad because in his neighborhood all the dads are expected to show up to kiddie birthdays. Oh, those poor men, “wasting” their sacred Sunday on their child. And those wives. Sloths, who don’t consult their hubbies sports-schedule before planning a celebration that comes only once a year. How could they imagine organizing an event that was convenient for all, just inconvenient for the men folk?

I hope you can smell the sarcasm and visualize me rolling my eyes.

Tired from negotiating channel flipping and living with monologues, my girlfriends and I believed that gay guys would make perfect husbands. They compliment, comment, care, commend, and never hit on women. They are friends, fashionistas, fervent, feisty. Every “Sheila ki jawaani” is safe in their hands. No Munni will ever become badnaam in their company. They are everything that your straight man won’t do or won’t be.

I wish I could stick to my postulation. Prove I am right. Alas.

Sometime back, I had the opportunity to spend a couple of wonderful weeks with a gay couple. I knew them both pre and post their wedding. All was going great until the marriage happened. The Y-chromosome kicked in, big time.

The husband in their relationship FORGOT what he wasn’t supposed to. He made the same mistakes, like straight guys. Maybe he didn’t squabble over Sunday afternoon football, but he did forget to bring the grocery. And then wine. Then it got worse; he didn’t remember to compliment his partner or appreciate dinner.

As I watched the two men turn into stereotypical, married mutts, I realized: Orientation doesn’t matter. Straight or gay isn’t the point; men transform when they become husbands. Perhaps, they assume, the legal paper somehow tells them it’s okay to be irresponsible. After all, they make great boyfriends, but the minute the “H-word” (Husband) comes in, mental deterioration seeps in. And there is no turning back.

I guess, on this birthday, my husband gets a free pass. I am taking him out to dinner at one of the most talked about restaurants in town. So excited to try it! And I won’t be offended if he decides to discuss sports and/or work or glances at his BlackBerry to check scores. I won’t hold his “straightness” as a reason for his inattentiveness. Not today! You got saved, birthday boy! :-)

More until next time,

Xoxo

Copyright © 04.21.2011

“In a husband there is only a man; in a married woman there is a man, a father, and mother, and a woman.” ~ Honore de Balzac

Are we ready to clean, India?

When I was growing up, I didn’t know of anyone who wanted to enter politics in India. None of my friends, peers, or acquaintances. We might not have had official “Career Day” in school, but every time youngsters discussed their career aspirations, politics didn’t appear in the list.

Politics was meant for certain people. People who were not only okay with adorning saris and kurta pajamas 24/7 but also okay with being under-handed and salacious. In a nutshell, if you weren’t corrupt, you couldn’t make it in politics. If you weren’t slimy, you couldn’t survive a day. Maybe these were exaggerated impressions my generation grew up with, but after all, it’s all about perception, isn’t it?

Life went on. Politicians came and went. Corruption increased manifolds. I grew older. My questions became bolder. And hopefully, a lot wiser. My curiosity became unbiased.

A simple thought began to occupy my mind. Sure, corruption has eaten away the foundation of Indian politics and governance like termites in a New York building. However, for corruption to exist and grow, someone has to be encouraging it. All things, be it good or bad, are a two-way street.

It’s so easy to blame politicians. Much easier to call them sick and dishonest. Thieves robbing the morale and hope of the country. But at the end of the day, who is exacerbating the problem? Who is letting them get away with all the filth? Who has given them the power to ruin our lives? It’s the PUBLIC!

Corruption shouldn’t go unpunished. But along with politicians, people are equally to blame. Every one of us has resorted to “unofficial” methods in India to get something done. It could be something as trivial as bribing a traffic cop to avoid a DUI ticket to getting a ration card to a driver’s license to paying a bill to obtaining a passport. If parents refused to bribe the admissions committee at engineering and medical colleges, all kids would stand a fair chance. But when it comes down to survival, the thinking becomes inward. People think only about their individual needs and benefits.

Recently, Anna Hazare, a 73-year-old-man Padma Bhushan winner, decided to bring a change in India. He went on a crusade against corruption: a 97-hour fast until government agreed to almost all of his demands. Film stars like Aamir Khan and Rajnikant endorsed Anna Hazare’s mission. Soon, the common man followed.

It’s in our Indian blood to do “dharna.” To build and burn effigies. To follow the mob, often without understanding the crux of the issue. It’s considered elitist to attend processions and marches. Burn candles for “causes.” Then make others believe you believe in a cause. Doing so is associated with being “liberal.” And being “liberal” makes you appear hip and cool.

How many people really know what the The Jan Lokpal Bill is about? Literally, it means an independent body would investigate corruption cases, complete the investigation within a year, and envisage trial in the case getting over in the next one year. How many of them are willing to deal or comprehend the repercussions of it?

When I was in my 10^th grade, the Mandal Commission chaos happened right before my board exams. Innumerable youngsters burnt themselves, gave up their lives for justice. I ask: How many of these people really knew what they were doing? What would their sacrifice bring? Who received justice? Not the mourning family members of those deceased.

Reactionary mobs, comprising of a large group of BJP Mahila Morcha activists, attacked writer and activist Arundhati Roy’s house, in New Delhi, in October 2010. About a hundred people vandalized her property. They were protesting Arundhati Roy’s remarks on Kashmir. My question again: How many of these protestors were there because they were truly offended by Ms. Roy’s statement and how many of them became a part of the brouhaha because they had nothing better to do?

An average Indian is angry today. It takes nothing much for a person with low self-esteem to be egged on. It takes very little for someone with no direction in life to follow any path available. It’s no surprise that the Indian youth is using social media to sway and be swayed. I have lost count of the number of Facebook status updates and Twitter tweets urging people to join Anna Hazare in his cause. I choose to not keep track of the number of “cause” requests I received to join Anna Hazare in his crusade.

The same people evade fines when caught speaking on the phone while driving. The same people tell tales when stopped for drunk driving. The same people send “gifts” to obtain a voter card. How many of these people even vote?

Believe me, I am all for Anna Hazare and the other society cleansers. I am an idealist and would like nothing more than India and the world to be corruption and crime-free.

I pose a bigger question: Is the average Indian prepared to live in a transparent system? Let go and get things done the right way, not the easy way? Get off their lazy butt and take responsibility for their actions!

A nation so crippled by corruption can come out clean when the changes start at home.

More until next time,

Xoxo

Copyright © 04.14.2011

“Instead of giving a politician the keys to the city, it might be better to change the locks.” ~Doug Larson

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