Gotham needs a hero...as do the rest of us!

The final scene from Christopher Nolan's Dark Knight has resonated in me over the past week, as I watched Lance Armstrong being sullied over doping allegations. I am not here to contest his innocence or guilt. (Though, I cannot help but wonder at why the USADA would rather believe the testimony of group of people and Armstrong’s competitors at that, instead of the dozen anti-doping tests which proved that he was clean.) What has bothered me is that the USADA has chosen to target a man who is something of an icon for the millions who battle cancer each day. Even if we were to believe that Armstrong the doper exists, why don’t we have it in us to let it pass so that Armstrong the hero can live on? Is the truth really worth that much?

As the music reaches a crescendo, the Knight concludes in a way that is possible only for a hero in a movie:

“Sometimes truth isn’t good enough. Sometimes people deserve more. Sometimes people deserve to have their faith rewarded.”

Independence Day Special

It's Independence Day. I watch on with interest at the splashes of tri-colour in every social media site, the lovely peacock doodle on the Google page, the sardonic status updates that stand testimony to the arm chair cynicism of my generation. Everybody seems to be scurrying to express delight and disgust alike on the world wide web. Social media has, unwittingly perhaps, urged urban middle class Indians to spare a thought (forgive me the cliché) for a nation that turns 66 today.

So here's my contribution. I will try and spare you the jai hind brand of patriotism as I will keep out the cynicism...I think there's been a fair bit of an overdose both ways. The momentary thought that I spare is to reflect on what growing up in a free, democratic India has meant to me, with the privileges that I tend to take for granted and the shortcomings that often seem larger than what they really are.

I am 26 years old and enjoy good health.

I had a happy childhood.

My parents were delighted and proud to have two girls and no boys.

I studied in some of the top institutions in the country. 

I can speak English fluently. 

Higher studies and a career of my choice were a given.

But it makes me sad to know that I may not have been 'allowed' to make the same choices if I was a boy.

I am employed in a large multinational company and make enough to pay my bills, rent a comfortable apartment, eat out often and go on an occasional holiday.

I  have traveled abroad twice...alone.

And yet I am scared to be out alone after 10 pm in any Indian city.

I have the space to choose my life partner when I am ready for it.

But I know there are rules to exercising that choice. Rules that govern who can be loved and how.

I belong to the 'majority', in terms of my faith.

I have rarely felt the need to justify my identity as a Tamilian Hindu Woman.

I have lived in the south all my life and grew up in Chennai-easily the most peaceful metro in the country.

I have never seen a riot, never missed school because of a terrorist attack.

When I look back on my list, I feel rather thrilled, almost smug perhaps about the privileged life that I lead. But even in the rosy hue something seems amiss in seeing my life as a privilege rather than the norm. After all, in the global scheme of things, I lead a regular life. Not one of extreme luxury or happiness. Perhaps what I or anyone else can realistically expect is to be (slightly?) better off than our parents. I suppose rags to riches wouldn't be much of a story if it happened to everybody. We are a large nation and for every one of us to slowly make that climb and reach a reasonable standard of living is going to take more...much more than 66 years.

A Sepia Moment

To (Aji) Thata...who introduced me to the delights of Haleem

It’s the holy month of Ramzan. Every evening as my cab drives past Thilak Nagar, I am assaulted by the scent of meat cooking in rich, spicy gravies. The little stalls that dot the area are preparing to serve the Muslim families who will break their fast in the evening. Inevitably, I am transported to my days in Hyderabad, when Ramzan, for those of us who aren’t Muslim that is, was synonymous with Haleem. At first sight, a plate of Haleem looks anything but appetising-mutton cooked slowly in lentils to a gooey consistency, with a layer of ghee floating at the top. But give it a couple of mouthfuls and you will realise that the dish is truly the stuff of the gods.

Come Ramzan, and each week I would sample Haleem from a different restaurant. My partner in this weekly culinary expedition? My Eighty something grandfather. Every Friday evening it was something of a ritual. He would pick up the packet of Haleem and have it ready for me by the time I returned from work. After a hurried shower I would carefully open up the packet-typically an inconvenient foil wrap which was liable to a ghee spill if the edge wasn’t snipped close to the top, warm it to just the right temperature-a tad bit too hot and the smell of super-heated ghee could be a turn off, and serve it in three brown melamine bowls that lay waiting in my grandmother’s crockery shelf. I would tuck in, pausing occasionally to comment on how it compared with the Haleem that we had sampled the last time around. Thata, always the connoisseur with all the fine things in life, would wait till he had eaten the last spoonful to give his verdict.

Cut to my last weeks in Hyderabad. Fittingly enough, it coincided with Ramzan. But this time around, thoughts of Haleem were pushed to some remote corner of my mind. In a month’s time I was to head out of the country. There was work to wrap up, shopping to be done and a visa to process. Our little ritual became sporadic, sometimes because I was delayed at work, but mostly because my enthusiasm was channelled in a different direction. It was not until the very last day, as I had lunch with Thata that I mentioned in passing about barely having sampled the Haleem that season. I can still remember the day vividly. The monsoon had set in and I was worried about finding my way to the railway station through the heavy down pour.

A few hours before I boarded the train, my grandmother and I realised that Thata was not in the house. A quiet man, it’s easy to miss his absence in my grandparent’s sprawling old bungalow. It was pouring outside and my grandfather’s car was not in the garage. I instantly sensed a hint of panic in my grandmother’s otherwise confident bearing. But before we could evaluate our options, we heard the car pulling in and stepping gingerly out of it was my frail grandfather, a little package of foil wrap in his hands. Amidst disapproving looks from my grandmother, Thata quietly handed over the package to me, cautioning me to snip it carefully to avoid a spill.