Princess Dreams

All her life, people told her to rise above her circumstances and work at achieving everything she went without while growing up - security, self sufficiency, confidence, happiness, the education she wanted, but over and above all, a stable home of her own. She owned these dreams with every fibre of her being but without a trusty mentor or a manual for life, what she missed was the path.

She was just 11 when her world came crashing down. One sultry night, she awoke to the screams of her brother begging her to wake up because "daddy was killing mummy". Rushing down the stairway of their plush mansion, she faced a sight which, with minor variations, was to become an integral part of her existence for the next 8 years.

Her mother lay curled on the ground, arms pressed against her mouth to muffle the cries of pain as she was beaten and kicked mercilessly. She ran down with tears of shock streaming down her cheeks and tried to wedge herself between her parents, all the while begging her father to stop. Eventually, her father did stop and lurched away to sleep off the noxious fumes that enveloped his brains, oblivious to the tears and terror of his family.

With daylight came the realisation that the life she had hitherto taken for granted was nothing but a farce. Despite his fortune, her father was fast becoming a notorious drunk who evoked sneers and ridicule behind polite masks and her genteel mother, an object of contempt, speculation and pity suppressed behind a facade of solicitiousness.

The carpet had been rudely pulled from beneath her feet and as she struggled to regain her balance in a crumbling home marked by a temperamental drunk and domestic violence, society reared its ugly head. First came the hushed whispers,sniggers and giggles at school, for little ears stretch a long way and children are often not well versed in the art of deception as their parents are. It seemed that, all at once, the teachers were a wee bit more watchful of her work and horror of horrors, she began to recognise pity in the indulgent tones of elders. Emotionally bereft and bewildered, she sought refuge behind the only weapon in her armour - indifference, reserving her tears for private.

As the years went by, the violence progressed from bad to worse. Money was in short supply. Friends & relatives came to help - some sympathised & berated her father, some viciously watched the fun, further fuelling the hyperactive rumour mills. And she withdrew more into herself, allowing none to look past the carefully cultivated mask. People marvelled at the strength of this teenager...pushed her...judged her...but never saw the pain within or offered her a lifeline to cling to.

When her father pushed their family beyond the boundaries of safety and sanity, her mother did the unthinkable and filed for divorce. The society feigned shock. Her father played the role of a martyr to the hilt. And what ensued was a filthy free-for-all, with her mother being subject to crude speculation and allegations. She longed to run away from it all, but couldn't bring herself to abandon the sinking ship like her sibling who went away under the pretext of higher studies.

When the court finally granted her parents their divorce, she packed her bags and left for the big city, determined to put the past behind her and make a new life for herself. Life was tough for the lone single girl but she gritted her teeth and slogged. And then one day, suddenly, it seemed that life took a turn for the better. A boy she knew professed romantic interest in her, wooed her with roses and sweet nothings, offered kleenex as she sobbed her woes out and even better..his family readily took her into its bosom treating her as royalty. It was a dream come true. She hungrily lapped up the affection they offered and greedily wanting more, accepted his family's proposal of marriage.

In a fairy tale, this is where the 'And They Lived Happily Ever After' comes in. But, life does not always take after fairy tales and in a matter of time, our Princess came back with earth with a rude bump.

In her new life, she discovered that her Prince Charming was not the person she thought him to be...he was a college drop out, seemed to think that marriage entitled him to live off her money and was all too willing to leave the handling of life's greater responsibilities to her. As she struggled to make the best of her circumstances, she also realised that Prince Charming nursed a strong oedipus complex, never having cut the emotional umbilical chord from his mother. And how did mommy dearest take to the new entrant in their lives? When the song, dance and festivities ended, she woke up to the fact that there was competition at hand and had age to her advantage. It was the mother's nightmare come true and she rose to the occassion, becomming a psychotic virago while fiercely defending her rights. So began a life of emotional abuse from the mother and son, which thankfully for her was short lived. Why you may ask? Well, it wasn't because the mother or son had a very bollywoodesque change of heart. Her husband, egged by his mother, walked out on her one morning and before she knew it, she was back in the divorce courts with the shards of her dreams around her.

For some time, she was angry at the raw deal life dealt. At other times,anger gave way to sorrow as she wondered if she was jinxed. She probably would have gone through life, alternating between anger and sadness, if her friend hadn't suggested that she meet a psychoanalyst.

The demons she exorcised through therapy are not important, but what is, is that all of us who are units in this almighty society never seem to really see or understand the pain, trauma and loneliness of such victims of abuse. But instead, there are those of us who seem to find perverse pleasure in harassing these desperate souls.

No matter what the abuse is - abandonment, domestic violence,rape,sexual harassment or a dysfunctional parent- the emotional trauma caused is not easy to surmount. Every victim of abuse has a closet full of skeletons clamouring to be let out. Their souls bear painful scars which throb and fester, infecting their present and future with anger, hatred, sorrow, despair, resignation and hopelessness. And all the while, we the society watch with indifference or malicious amusement, not realising that our love, patience and the generous giving of our strength would make a difference to these lives.

As for the Princess of our story, well, she kicked the impostor prince out and embraced life with a better understanding of herself and her emotions. The blue spells haven't entirely vanished but she is at peace.

Fun At Games....Why Not?

The cricket fever is back and India is, once again, a nation possessed!!!

Night after night, people remain glued to their television sets cheering their favourite teams on and devoting great chunks of their time to an analysis of past games and what one can expect in the next. Be it the on-field drama or the emotional histrionics of Sreesanth and Harbajan, the titilating cheerleaders or the glamorous SRK & Zinta shaking a leg to urge their teams to victory..IPL has, with quite a bit of help from Bollywood and the corporate world, glamorised and reinvigorated cricket as never before, seducing even the not so avid fans like me!!

I personally think the IPL is a brilliant concept. And when I say this, I am looking past the glitz, the drama and referring to the idea of mixing nationalities to creating racially diverse, multi-cultural heterogeneous teams.

There comes a time in any entity's growth when, to avoid stagnation, it has to heed the cry for departure from the tried and tested and infuse fresh blood, ideas and energy into its existence. And how better to achieve this, than to wed the known with the relative unknown? Of course, such a marriage can result in utter disaster but then, as long as survival remains a basic tenet of life, there often emerges a new, stronger order. I suspect this will be the case with our cricketers. After all, strength does lie in differences rather than in similarities. Playing as a single team, alongside professionals from all over the world hitherto viewed as opponents, should raise the learning curve of our cricketers.

And it should have taught us, as a country, a little more about the spirit of sportsmanship. While our cricketers hone their skills, it appears that the IPL has done very little to infuse a change in the sportive spirit of our viewing public.

Let's face it. Indians generally make rather fanatic cricket fans, with successes and failures being taken very personally. While these sentiments are understandable to an extent in an inter-nation or an inter-state tournament, I have been struggling to come to terms with the empty stadiums in the wake of a "home team's" loss and the rather fierce expressions of joy and sorrow churned up by the victories and losses of Chennai or Bangalore or Punjab. Surely, all of us know that there is no way that teams like the Deccan Chargers or the Rajasthan Royals which boast of names like Warne, Afridi, Gilchrist,Symonds, Vaas, Smith, etc. can be representative of Indian cities or regions, regardless of the ownership. So how is it that these matches, which are played by mixed medley of players from all over, are internalised by the viewers and metamorphosise into much fiercer battles with regional overtones like Chennai vs. Bangalore and Delhi vs. Mumbai?

To my mind, the IPL matches need to be viewed for what they are: Fun, Games, Glamour,A lot of Noise and almost zilch sentimental baggage. After all, its not the glitz of the uniform that matters, but the spirit that shines within it.

Festive Magic

Vishu is right round the corner and apart from channeling all my energies into recreating a little bit of the Kerala magic and spirit in our home, it is also time for one of my nostalgic trips.

Having spent most of my childhood in the arid desserts of the Middle East, my first real experience of Vishu celebrations occurred when I was well into my adolescence. Not that it diminished my enthusiasm for a festival, which was to prove to be the biggest revenue grosser in an entire year.

I remember as a kid, I would first carefully draw up a list of potential victims and then, in the days leading up to Vishu, would drop carefully considered hints about my monetary expectations. There would also be prolonged and heart wrenching discussions with my friends about the right amount to be bequeathed to my younger brother and cousins.

It was only recently that I realised how much of our wonderful festivals I had taken for granted as a child...The excitement of stumbling forward with my eyes shut tight in the wee hours of the morning to start my day with the sight of my face in the Vishu Kani....The thrill of the chase as we determinedly stalked our quarries and dove unceremoniously for their feet to claim our Kai Neetam....The fun and camaraderie shared with our families and extended families...And the delicious food which we would stuff ourselves with till we lay about helplessly gasping for breath...Oh, Vishu was so much fun!!! And back then, I thought it would never change.

Looking back, I realise that Vishu was one occasion which brought the extended family together and helped them bond better. It taught us the invaluable lesson of Give and Take, which are two faces of the same coin and without which, our lives would remain incomplete. We also learned to reach out to each other spontaneusly and across distances, without inhibitions, preconceived notions or envy, and with this bonding, we enjoyed the day better.

Unfortunately, the fun and spontaneity went out of the window as we grew up and life took us our separate ways.

Today, all of us in our corners of the world try celebrating Vishu to the best of our abilities. But often, all that remains of the camaraderie of the past is a succinct 'Happy Vishu' mail to the whole family. Some phone calls. And a few stolen moments on chat for a quick update.

I don't know how the rest of my loved ones fare, but for me in a strange land, far far away from the people who matter, Vishu has become more of a forced experience. -something that I do, year after year, with the vain hope of recapturing the lost magic of the Vishus of my youth. Despite the careful planning and the best of efforts, the food is never as good...There aren't too many people to plague or for that matter, very many diving for my feet and hounding me for kai neetams...There is less laughter and bonding....And with many hotels and malayali associations getting into the act, Vishu seems to have become more of a commercial experience than a family one.

Even so, there are many of us who religiously maintain, if not the festivities, then atleast the Vishu Kani in our homes. Is it a habit which has waned in strength, but continues to live nevertheless? Or is it an conscious attempt to preserve tradition in a world beset with change and speed?

I, for one, believe it to be an effort to keep the happy memories going and to draw strength from it in the current day. For when 14th April dawns and I open my eyes to the sight of my face surrounded by bounty, bathed by the golden glow of the flame of the Lakshmi Lamp, I feel peaceful, calm and aware of a sense of well being which pervades my entire being and the space around me. And in that moment, I know the magic, though weak, is not entirely gone.