Mouma

There is so much of hers I should’ve asked to keep. Her vibhooti-smelling blouses, her saris smelling of her, her creams and powder, her flowers.

I don’t know where I’ll find it in me to continue writing, as if nothing’s happened.

I’ll remember her for many, many things.

But today, I am only thinking of how she clung to me and wept, when she said bye and when she said hi – strongly, and weakly. Her arms – always smelling of vibhooti.

Give a Dalit man a pair of scissors, and he’ll show you what freedom is

This essay was first published on Huff Post India (30 Oct 2020). Temporarily posting it here until it finds a new home.

When we first moved to Basavanagudi in Bangalore, a relative told Appa he should chop the top half of the Tabebuia tree growing in front of our house. He said that a tree growing taller than your house was bad luck, it would stunt your prosperity. Of course, that same person also told Appa not to let daughters sleep under vaulted ceilings because it made them ambitious and they would never get married. Appa studied the ceiling and the tree with caution. Amma made a fuss, not on behalf of my ambitions but because she had put her life on hold to build this house. The vaulted ceiling was her final touch. I have now spent 13 years under it and for 13 years no matter where I was in life and how many ambitions I had and how often they cut me, the Tabebuia tree dropped pink flowers every February.

During the pandemic, I took to spending hours on the terrace under the shade of the Tabebuia tree, reading, watering plants, and listening to short stories by women. Over Jamaica Kincaid’s words (‘Figures in the Distance’) in Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s voice one evening, I discovered rows of sugary dust left behind by ants on a pear leaf. I scraped some out, surprised when they made my fingers sticky. Kincaid’s narrator was saying that as a child, she was convinced that only people she didn’t know died. I think back to the time my grandfather died; how his body had grown smaller in death and was being bathed under the Tabebuia tree even as Brahmin neighbors retreated into their homes, repulsed by the sight of bare-chested, thread-less Dalit men walking around. I think back more recently to the time my oldest uncle died, looking just as his father had, his small body cradled by the man bathing him.

I was brought back to the story when Adichie whispered “We were afraid of the dead because we never could tell when they might show up again” Her dipping voice both covering and revealing the child narrator’s goosebumps. I tightened my grip on the water pipe to manage the urge to highlight that line, as if I was reading it off a kindle, off a mobile screen, copying those lines to later paste and post on twitter, an invitation for others to read, for me to remember weeks or months later when I’m senselessly scrolling down to see if there’s anything I’ve said in excess, anything that must be uncurated. There are 60 potted plants on the terrace although Appa says 58 because two are succulents and he doesn’t think of them as real plants. I stopped arguing with him after he began using them as weights for the plate of bird grain. Two weeks into the lockdown, Appa began coming up to the terrace only to feed the birds. For a while, he used to stop at the plants, considering them, cursing them when they weren’t growing, and then ignoring them entirely when he discovered birds because they showed him they remembered him.

At home, there were varying opinions about how often plants must be watered. Appa said weekly, my sister said once in three days. I saw logic
in both but selfishly continued watering them every day because in the 30 minutes that it took to water the plants, I could listen to stories without interruption, where even I couldn’t interrupt myself. And what is a short story if not an interruption, a sudden, smallish hole to free-fall into? My hands were tied, so were my ears. All I could do was shut up, water the plants, and listen to the story.  One morning, Appa played a YouTube tutorial video for the confused koel sitting on the Tabebuia tree. He was teaching it how to sing, not croak. “Listen to how the birds do it here, you are not doing it properly,” he was instructing it. We told him not to birdsplain but neither the koel nor he was interested in our opinion. Amma left him alone and took to watching the parrots that came in clouds, sat a while, and then fluttered away, early in the mornings. “I saw 50 parrots today,” she told anyone who called her on the phone.

Every year during Hiriyar Habba, we remember our dead elders. There’s mutton, egg, and chicken on a plantain leaf, a bundle of beedis sticking
out of a small glass, and bottles of cheap whiskey, all arranged neatly in front of stern, black and white pictures of Ajja and Doddappa. The meat
on the plantain leaf is then eaten by the oldest members of the family. This year though, instead of eating them, Appa stood on the terrace holding mutton pieces, waving them at the hawks that swooped down and grabbed what they could. One of the hawks lost its grip on a piece and it fell right into our neighbors’ compound. Appa’s eyes widened with delight, although a familiar, muted fear crept in between his eyebrows. Later that day, there was outrage in the neighbor’s house, and curses that fell on our caste while Appa snorted lazily and Amma glared at no one.

Three months ago, the neighbors were flying kites and one morning I saw blue threads hanging uselessly from the Tabebuia tree. Some days later,
Appa rescued a pigeon struggling to free itself from one of those threads. Streaked with blood, it was caught in the pigeon’s wings and lodged deep inside the skin, making several cuts every time it tried to get away. Appa held the bird in his left hand in that gentle way that might look rudely firm to an untrained eye. I kept wondering if he’d hurt the pigeon more in the process or if the pigeon would turn around and bite him but Appa was deft with the scissors, making one quick cut after another. When the last loop had been cut, he freed the bird and it flew away with a flutter, making Appa laugh.

Our house and its Tabebuia tree are flanked by houses that wear threads of a different kind. In the 13 years that we’ve lived here, our neighbors have only remained neighbors, never becoming anything more, anything less. During the lockdown, I often see Appa standing by the window, watching the neighbors every time they gather near the katte in the morning to read newspapers, laugh, and talk. I wonder if he ever desired that kind of companionship but then I see him with his pigeons and his hawks and his crows and I have an answer. I think back to the time when our neighbor stopped stealing our milk packet after she discovered its Dalitness, and how since then, Appa stands defiantly by the door, publicly eavesdropping on every loud, private quarrel between her and her son. I think of the privacy he gives birds when they eat. How he stands behind the door discreetly, and watches them, smiling like a man who has just learnt how to fly. I am glad that the trees and birds here are more ours than Basavanagudi and its people. Give a Dalit man a pair of scissors, and he’ll show you what freedom is like no one else can, regardless of what colour the thread is or how long.

How to take it back

“Our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask him nothing about it” said Elizabeth Bennet to Caroline Bingley.

There is truth to this.

Don’t ask them questions

— any kind of questions, especially ones that make you feel most naked.

Especially if them is a him.

Take that affection and put it in plants.

At least, they will grow –

even fucking succulents – who are as dramatic

as dramatic can be

will return more affection.

then take that affection and put it into making a nice reading corner for yourself. Preferably where there is light and water to drink. Sit here every morning and think about life on this purple sofa next to the window and think, and ask — and really ask yourself – is there anywhere else you would rather be?

Anything can happen at Knowhere

Monday, 14 December 2020, Knowhere, 10:20 PM

After half a bottle of wine, some excellent chilli beef on potato, Goan sausages, crispy prawn wafers, and beef biriyani, I was happily eating carrot halwa from a glass bowl when Mr M whispered to me, ‘Vj, your dildaar is here.’ D and K looked equally puzzled. I thought he was talking about some student so I turned around to see a bunch of grown men walking by and lost interest. But then I peeked properly and it was Saad Khan so I squealed. After partially damaging K’s arms I screamed ‘Razzak is hereeee’. I wanted to walk up to him, pat him on the shoulder and ask ‘mere koftein khaati?’

I badgered Mr M to use his utmost teacher power, walk to him and say ‘Ey basturrd, what man? I gave you attendance so now you give me autograph’ – but he just rolled his eyes. After thinking of many such scenes in my head, I gave up and booked Ola auto. It said 3 minutes so I began walking towards the exit. Saad Khan looked very posh under the yellow light and pushed back hair and nothing like my Razzak so I said chalo theek hai. Hands were sticky from biriyani and I was too lazy to go to washroom. So I stopped by the sanitiser at exit and wrestled with the damn thing. It wasn’t giving sanitiser so I kept kicking the pedal. Behind me, I could hear an obnoxiously loud man on the phone and I was thinking why only men are so loud on the phone in public places. Mr M walked calmly and told me that the sanitiser stand at the other end worked better. Obnoxious loud man was standing close to it and I could only see his periphery so didn’t want to go there. I looked at my hands and thought chalo, no saad no sanitiser in my fuckall janma and called lift.

D and K came running towards the lift. Something had happened. D was red in the face and looked flushed. She was screaming oh my god that was Danish Sait oh my god oh my god. I turned to see the fastly moving appearance of obnoxious loud man entering Knowhere. I glared at Mr M and asked ‘THAT WAS FUCKING DANISH SAIT???’

Mr M stroked his beard and said ‘ya’ with an angelic smile.

I screamed and kicked, wanting to rip that beard out. All the while I was fighting with the stupid fucking sanitiser, and when he was also telling me to use that one instead of this, he knew it was fucking Danish Sait and wouldn’t tell me? If I’d have told you, you would have screamed and embarrassed me, he said. Even if it was true, I still wanted to know he was right there when I was wrestling with fucking hand sanitiser.

Razia Razzak at Knowhere, I thought sadly and cheerily before the lift closed and my world was back to desole as the French say.

D and K kept giggling. Mr M and his beard were romancing. I cursed them all and walked to my auto.

PS – Razzak ko next time I won’t leave.

Against self-pity and hate

Such a boss Toni Morrison is. She’s my shield against woke twitter rage.

Here she talks about writing with so much honesty and intimacy that whatever little hate and rage there is, she pats gently. Listening to her and reading her are both lessons in humility. My quick fall to self-pity is helpless in front of her kindness, her hard and clear logic.

Reading Walking December

On my way home from the walk today, I saw a tree with leaves that reminded me of the giant leaves we plucked in Belgaum to serve food while playing kitchen-kitchen with the neighbor girls. Their food looked much tastier and healthier. And they even thought of things like pappads to make from white leaves, and beeda from green leaves with red veins. The leaf I recognized was used to serve other leaf-food in.

Finished reading Makenna Goodman’s The Shame which I think I read at a good time in my life, guilty only occasionally about my snail-slow pace. I don’t know if there’s such a thing as anti-baby literature but I think I am accumulating it smilingly 🙂

Work is mad but I am only realizing it because classes are over and the non teaching part of academic life is dancing on my head. I am a happier person when I teach and what’s nice is that I am barely aware of it. Woke up at 3:30 one morning this week and read till 7:00. Best morning. It took revenge a couple of days later but what joy to be with yourself that early in the morning with cool, blue silence.

This quote by Hannah Arendt returned me to reading with a fever. Made me think WTF am I doing when I am not reading?

The mere reading of a book requires some degree of isolation, of being protected against the presence of others.

Hannah Arendt

Very grateful to have found twitter in my late 20s. There is so little I want to undo and unsay in my 30s. Also – problematic, toxic, traumatic, overrated, ew, contradictory, cringe, binge, thirst, political political monkey monkey underpants. No thank you.

I read in the park these days. Read Maile Maloy this morning. Felt cheerful. The weather is perfect to read outdoors.

I have money plants growing out of wine and chai point bottles in my room now. The two avocado pits I planted earlier this year are growing tall on the terrace. I smile everytime I see them. I am using the same water bottle I did three years ago before which I had a red bottle of same build.

Birthday month was strange. I spent a lot of time inside my head and felt very distant from me. Made myself miserable and blamed it on the world. When I had enough, I took myself out and read like mad. Realized it’s the only thing I must keep doing to stop from going further in.

Looking forward to Alexander Chee and another round of Toni Morrison. Watched Rebecca, loved it. Watched a lot of TV and loved it more. I seem to have grown warmer to the idea that if I am wearing great clothes, nothing can undo me. Fashion is an answer, and sometimes a solution.

Through all the miserable points in my life from school, college, and work – I wish I had paid more attention to what I was wearing. May have even helped me own myself a little bit. N got me the bestest birthday gift. I was asking for self-respect, she got me a vibrator.

I thereby conclude that an orgasm is the best kind of self-respect.

sleep

they don’t have to tell you when they leave

so don’t spend days waiting for them to wake you up before they leave

Or be prepared to run your warm hands on their side of the cold, empty bed

when this happens, look at your hands

like you so often have

You won’t know what to do.

But keep looking, and someday you might.

they won’t tell you when they leave

not because they don’t have to

not because they are bad and you are good

but because they already have.