Gun-nesh puja

Everytime I think our leaders couldn't get more vulgar or politically incorrect in their behaviour, they promptly go out and prove me wrong. When I saw a front page picture this morning of Gujarat Chief Minister Narendra Modi praying to assault rifles and guns on the occasion of Dussehra, I thought my still sleepy eyes and brain were playing tricks on me. I blinked and took another look. Same picture. I rubbed my eyes and looked yet again. Nothing had changed. There he was, reverentially worshipping a huge display of modern firearms and medieval weapons.

I read up a little bit about this bizarre ritual and was horrified to learn that this is something Modi has been doing for some years in his home to mark Dussehra, a festival that celebrates the triumph of good over evil. Apparently it is an old custom called Shastra Puja, or worship of weapons, that was popular among Rajputs and other warrior classes. That I can understand, because it was a ceremony where these warriors were paying their respects to the tools of their trade. It is something people in many professions do even today, praying to whatever helps them earn their living. Policemen often perform Shastra Puja, but then they use these weapons in the defence of innocents like you and I.

But Modi is the chief minister of a state. He sits in an office, administers, signs papers, works the phones, canvasses votes, shakes hands, poses for photos, pontificates, and rubs people like me the wrong way. I don't agree with a lot of what he believes in - that's okay. This is a democracy after all. But him sitting with folded hands in front of the tools of death - Kalashnikov rifles, guns, cartridges, tridents, swords - just seems WRONG. He is a public figure. Surely he considers how something like this would look?

Modi has a large fan following among hardline Hindus because of his tough posturing on some sensitive religious disputes. But more moderate Hindus who believe we Indians should just try to get along view him with a degree of suspicion, especially after the 2002 religious violence in his state that led to the deaths of many Hindus and thousands of Muslims. There were allegations that the administration turned a blind eye while Hindu mobs went about killing Muslims across Gujarat in retaliation for the burning of a train carrying Hindu pilgrims.

Let me state clearly here that I have nothing against Shastra Puja. It's just that it looks bad when a public figure holding a job that has nothing to do with weapons sits and worships them. Bad PR is what it is. Is Modi's Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) too myopic to see how bad this is for its image among millions of liberal middle class Indians that it is so desperately trying to woo?

Deflating the airbrush

The airbrushing secret to picture perfect models has been out for many years. But even now, despite knowing about this highly underhanded tactic for making gorgeous models look even more alluring, us lesser mortals gaze at magazine covers and wonder how they manage to look that bloody good!

So when I read in this morning's papers that French politicians want a health warning on airbrushed glamour photographs, I couldn't help but applaud. A group of about 50 French leaders want the health warning law to fight eating disorders that ordinary women develop in their quest for the impossible figures they see in commercials and glossies. They have proposed a hefty fine of 37,500 euros or 50 percent of the cost of the advertisement if the law is broken.

Whether or not their efforts succeed, I believe these French politicians are fighting for a good cause. Coming a few years after the ban of size zero models on runways in some of the world's fashion capitals, it will advance the struggle for a world of women without serious body image issues.

No matter what we say, images of lissome women with curves in all the right places, flawless skin, legs that go on forever and sparkling pearlies do affect us. Take me, for instance. I have never been obsessed with physical appearance, but I do try to look presentable. I've fought a looooong battle against weight since my two pregnancies. After years of consistent exercise, I am approaching a respectable size and feeling good about myself. But when I see pictures of actresses and models my age, who are also young mothers, looking just as luminous, taut and perky as they did a decade ago, I can't help but get a little disheartened. And this is even though I am fully aware of airbrushing! So I can't even imagine the effect these pictures have on impressionable young girls who don't know of this cunning method of hiding flaws.

I get seriously worried when I see little girls these days. Firstly, the lack of physical exercise (which has become a common problem in most cities) has made many of them tubby. Then, they come to parties dressed in sequin-covered cutaway blouses or dresses and caked with make-up. Unfortunately, most of them end up looking like tarts-in-the-making. I know it isn't a nice thing to say, but it's absolutely true! I suppose it's only to be expected because they live on a daily diet of MTV and Channel V that play non-stop Hindi music videos showing full-size versions of what they're trying to look like.

At times such as these, I thank my stars for being the mother of boys. I can't imagine what these girls' moms live through. (I heard a hair straightener appeared on a seven-year-old's Christmas wishlist last year. This isn't hearsay, it's someone I know!) When misguided little girls hit adolescence, they take to all the new fad diets in an effort to starve themselves into shape. If a parent doesn't catch on, the child can end up with serious and lifelong health problems.

The problem of body image issues is very real. Especially for young girls, but even for older women. I think this health warning idea is a good one.

Please pass the low-calorie butter substitute

Oi, what happened to the butter? There isn't any available anywhere! Not in Thane, where I live. I believe not even in Gurgaon. And is apparently very hard to come by even in Mumbai. Don't know about the rest of the nation, but I suspect it's much the same.

So where did it all go? Have the cows and buffalos imposed a ban on the production of butter, all other dairy produce being spared the same fate. You get plenty of cheese, buttermilk, cream, yogurt. But not butter. Not the scrumptious, golden, creamy spread that can transform an ordinary piece of morning toast into a bite of bliss, inject magic into a baked dish. My older son loves the stuff, as does my husband. They're missing it sorely. And the baked goodies coming out of my kitchen are missing a little bit of their magic.

What's even more strange is the fact that the shortage is across the board - all manufacturers. Amul, Mother Dairy, Britannia. I didn't even know of the scarcity till about a fortnight ago when we finished the last half-kilo slab of butter in our fridge. The shops told us they hadn't had any fresh stock in for more than a month! You do get some unsalted, white butter from Parsi Dairy (and I now stock that for baking emergencies), but it isn't quite the same thing.

This mysterious shortage is good news for some. Zydus-Cadila is making a killing! Its low-calorie table spread Nutralite, which it positions as a healthier alternative to butter, is flying off the shelves. So high is the demand that the company is finding it hard to keep up. Now Nutralite ain't bad, but it isn't a patch on the real stuff.

I remain baffled. Will someone please tell me what's going on? Where's the butter? And howcome no one has written about this? Is no one else curious? I'm not a big eater of the stuff, but butter is a constant in our fridge and is consumed in fair quantities in our home. It is missed.

Missing the clouds

Oh, how I miss them! Those fluffy, wispy, grey tufts in the sky that make my world look so much more beautiful for a quarter of the year. This morning we have blue skies above, the unrelenting sun bleaching everything out. I keep checking the south, which is where the rain-bearing clouds roll in from in these parts. But it's just a blue haze today, holding out very little hope for an overcast day.

Just yesterday I read my father's blog complaining about a week of rain in Delhi and realised how much living away from the city of my birth has changed me. While I was in Delhi, I too enjoyed the rain for a couple of days but began to grow restless and frustrated if it lingered for any longer than that. I loved the rain in short, sharp spells. But not when an incessant pitter-patter stretched for days.

Living in Mumbai and Thane for half a decade has changed how I feel about the monsoon. The buildup to the season of rain is absolutely spectacular. I can't quite put it in words. After months of sticky, icky weather, you can't describe the ecstasy on spotting the first bank of monsoon clouds rolling in, the first burst of cool breeze caressing your face. Everyone starts to smile. It's infectious. This buildup sometimes lasts for over a week, the anticipation growing every second. People keep peering out, extending their hands out of apartment windows to check if the heavens have finally decided to be charitable.

We've been extremely lucky in living throughout in apartments with beautiful views of hills and water bodies. We could see Powai Lake from all the rooms in our home in Mumbai. In Thane we face the hills of a wildlife sanctuary and the river Ulhas. And these views are the most breathtaking in the monsoon. On lazy weekends my husband and I at times spend hours sitting in the balcony, sipping coffee and gazing at the scenery. And we keep wondering how we'll adjust back to a life with no views to speak of when we move back to Delhi!

Of course, there's a downside to the monsoon. You wage a constant battle against mould and mildew in every nook and cranny of your home. This year I realised to my horror that textured lampshades with grooves in the fabric are mould magnets! Drying clothes is a nightmare. It can take up to three days for clothes to dry, longer for thicker fabric like denim or linen. But this monsoon has been much better for me because my husband bought me a 100% clothes drier that makes life so much simpler. So no more musty smell in clothes and no rooms taken over by drying laundry.

There are also several waves of viral and gastric infections in this season. If there are children in the house, you'll all fall ill at least two or three times each monsoon. There are also mounds of rotting refuse here and there, slush on the streets, clogged drains on days when the rain is heavier than usual. Yet I love the season.

A good monsoon here lasts about three months. You adjust to a quality of daylight that is gentle on the eyes. So when the clouds disappear, it takes quite a while to get used to the glare again. Something I am struggling to do today, which is why I am missing the clouds. The monsoon arrived late this year and it hasn't rained as much as it should in a good season. So I haven't had my fill quite yet.

The silent agents of change

Sitting ensconced in our upper middle class worlds, we all like to believe that we are in some little way making a difference in the world. Somewhere out there, things are better because of a little charitable deed we did. That could well be so. But what we don't recognise is that the real, silent and potent agents of social reform inhabit our everyday lives but remain invisible to most of us sahibs and memsahibs

Take the time to get to know the team of women who clean and cook for you and you’ll be amazed. While we were living in Mumbai a few years ago, we had three ladies coming in to help us. One used to clean, one used to cook and a third babysat my younger son, who was then less than a year old. Their life stories, on the surface, were just the same as those of millions of other women occupying the less glamorous part of the urban Indian landscape. But dig a little deeper and you’d be blown away by their individual initiative, ambition and fortitude.

All of these women had three children each, coincidentally two girls and a boy in each case. The cook was a widow and the other two had been deserted by their husbands soon after the third child was born. None of these women had studied beyond primary school. And all of them had been married off while they were girls, in their early or middle teen years.

Now these ladies led very hard lives. The cook and cleaner worked three or four part-time jobs in middle class homes to make ends meet. Money was always short. Yet all of them – and this is what impressed me most – had promised themselves that they would educate their daughters and not marry them off before the age of 18. This wasn’t because of advice from social activists or from fear of being punished for breaking the anti- child marriage law. This came from within.

People like you and I cannot understand just how much it takes for such women to stick to this resolve. First, money is a constant challenge. Even public schools for the poor cost some money. Second, there is no supportive spouse to share the responsibility. Then there is always pressure from peers less evolved in their thinking to pull the kids out of school and put them to work. And when it comes to the daughters, the constant advice from the peers is to get them married and pass the “burden” on to another family. Yet none of these three ladies caved. The cook, who was older and had grown children, even made sure that her younger daughter got the vocational training she wanted in order to get a good job.

We’ve now moved to another city and the women who keep our current home running are more fortunate as they are in good marriages. But they too were child brides. Yet they don’t wish the same fate for their daughters, all of whom are in schools.

Through my life I have encountered scores of such examples of admirable courage among the invisible members of home after home. The majority of maids had alcoholic and abusive husbands. The women kept the home fires burning. The cleaning lady in my mother’s home in Delhi has single-handedly put five children through school. Her husband, a gifted embroiderer, wasted his earnings, talent and life on drink. Yet all their kids completed school, thanks entirely to the mother. One of the sons now runs an Internet cafe and computer repair store.

Think about it. This is a gigantic leap, accomplished in a single generation. I can’t think of a parallel in the lives of us, more advantaged, people. We are born into means, giving us automatic access to the education we want to make something of ourselves. We get all the right opportunities, know all the right people. Some of us have probably done a little bit better than our parents managed to at our age, but nothing life-altering.

And then look closely at the lives I have written about. Don’t ever look down on these women. Don’t ever be condescending towards them. They’ve moved mountains while we’ve probably just piled our sand dunes a little bit higher.