They boarded the bus together. A few seats were empty. Kamala settled down near the window. Vinay sat next to her.
She opened her handbag. The red, yellow and orange strands hanging from the bag were yet fresh after two years of use. Slipping her hand inside, she took out some coins. They felt cold against her palm. She glanced at Vinay. He was staring straight ahead.
Beep. The bus avoided a dog on the road. “These stray animals on the roads are a nuisance”, she thought. “They should be kept away. They’ll kill themselves and us too. Foolish dog.” The conductor, swaying along with the moving bus, came up to them. She gave him the coins. Flicking open the ticket book, he tore two tickets and handed them to her. Vinay hadn’t moved.
The bus stopped. “Get out, get out. Hurry man. You wait there. Wait. Ok now climb in. Hurry up.” The women muttered, pushing their fish baskets, holding babies and tugging at the children. The men got on from the other gate, folding their lungis[1]. The seats were occupied. “Get in, get in. Go on. There’s place there. Move” The women pushed in, crowding the aisle, holding on to the bars above their heads. The conductor tapped a young girl’s shoulder. “Move”, he said, his face dark and angry. The women standing beside defended her. “There’s no place man. Where do you want us to go?” The bus moved off again.
The woman standing next to Vinay handed him her baby. His nose was streaming. The mother leaned over and wiped his nose. Kamala looked fondly at the baby and made a chuckling noise. She glanced at Vinay. He was still looking ahead. The baby looked at Kamala then at his mother and started crying. The bus jolted. The women and men on the aisle almost fell over each other. People got down at the stop and more climbed in. The driver switched on the music.
As the bus picked up speed Kamala felt the breeze against her cheek. Her hair flew loose from the clip and tickled Vinay’s face. He removed it. Kamala looked at him again. The smooth cheek, the well-curved lips, the sharp jaw, she knew it all too well. His lashes were long, just like her’s. Her fingers itched to caress his hair, thick and unruly. But he was fiddling with the bag’s zip.
“Vinay,” she said softly. “Listen.” He looked at her. His look was empty. “Oh dear, please don’t do this to me and to yourself.” She pleaded. He looked away. She hesitantly held his hand. It was limp and damp. His shoulders were pressed into her. There was no place even on the seats in the crowded bus.
She removed her hand after a while. She sighed. It was no use.
A few men got in at the next stop. They stank of cheap liquor. Some others had sprayed a strong deodorant. Kamala held her hand to her nose. The mixture of liquor and deodorant smelt awful. But it didn’t touch Vinay. Kamala’s patience was waning. “He’s so moody and gets angry so easily. At least it makes him immune to these smells, jolts and the rough travel.”
Their stop was two minutes away. Kamala combed and retied her hair. Lifting the bag from her lap, she smoothed her dress. She had now given up on coaxing Vinay. “Let him do what he wants. I’ve had enough with him and his temper. His hair is unruly. Let it be. I won’t say a thing. He never listens anyway.” Hardly anyone was standing on the aisles now. Most had got down at the previous stops. As the bus halted, they made their way out.
They walked along the road silently. Vinay was staring into the traffic. They reached a yellow building. Kamala rang the doorbell. There was a pause. Vinay lowered his head. “Sorry. I’m sorry Ma. It was my fault. Please forgive me.” Kamala’s anger vanished. She smiled and kissed her son.
The door opened.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
DECODING 20 PROFILES ON SHAADI.COM
A RESEARCH PAPER FOR MEDIA STUDIES CLASS.
INTRODUCTION
Matrimonial ads in the Classifieds section of a newspaper generally read like this: “Alliance invited for tall, handsome, 5’10/26 yrs, Agarwal guy, well settled in New Delhi, earning in 6 figures. Only Agarwal girls may mail him at madhav23@hotmail.com.” You are allowed approximately 40 words and the payment is around Rs. 900. It is like marketing yourself in forty words to all readers of the Sunday Classifieds, especially the fathers of prospective brides/grooms who will spend their Sunday mornings in their pyjamas perusing the column for suitable matches.
Since the last decade, you can do the same thing for free (there are paid memberships also, which have more offers) and have the leisure of marketing yourself in 5 pages with a photo album to boot. The audience you reach now won’t be the anxious Bennett-like parent, but the prospective brides/grooms themselves who are internet savvy and willing to take the marriage process into their hands. There are parents/guardians/friends that create profiles for others and manage it for them, and do the indirect marketing of the future bride/groom. Most profiles though are created by the women and men themselves.
There are various online matrimonial sites in India. Shaadi.com, The World's Largest Matrimonial Service, founded in 1997 by Anupam Mittal CMD, claims to be the oldest and most successful matrimonial site. It caters to all Asians, and its objective is “to provide a superior matchmaking experience by expanding the opportunities available to meet potential life partners.”
The site is interactive and professional, with a vast array of communities: Assamese, Bengali, Gujarati, Hindi, Kannada, Malayalam, Marathi, Marwari, Oriya, Parsi, Punjabi, Sindhi, Tamil, Telegu and Urdu. There is the Religion Matrimonial Site also comprising of Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Christian, Jain, Parsi, Buddhist, Jewish and Catholic. Success stories keep flashing, with people thanking shaadi.com for having found their ‘soul mate’. How long this ‘soul mate’ business will last is another matter. The look of the site is fresh, using bright green, red as in ‘shaadi’ and a white background allowing the rest of the information to remain prominent.
The site is user-friendly with the tab ‘my shaadi’ helping one to access and edit one’s profile and ‘partner search’ to search for prospective partners. The search has the options of groom/bride, age, religion and country. There are other specific search options too, namely city search, keyword search, astro search, special cases, who is online, professional search and so on.
The profiles are detailed. There are categories such as ‘about myself’ which includes the basic information along with blood group, Manglik, special cases etc. Then there is the section of ‘Personality, Long-Term Goals, Partner Expectations, etc’, religious, social and cultural background, astrological details, education and career, lifestyle, location, hobbies, interests, family details and partner preference.
A non-member of shaadi.com can visit up to four profiles, and one has to sign in to visit further profiles. To gain access to more profiles and to understand the profile making process, I created my account in shaadi.com on 18/10/2008 in the afternoon.
THE INFORMANTS
The profiles I checked were men from the age group 23 to 27, from India, with the religious category ‘spiritual-not religious’, marital status as ‘never married’, and mother tongue and caste as ‘doesn’t matter’. I picked 20 profiles in that category, quite at random, sometimes going by the profile photo or lines like- “I’m looking for my dream girl” or “I want a good house wife”.
All the profiles carry photographs. 19 of the men have created the profiles themselves while 1 is created by a sibling.
Most of them are professionals, in the IT industry, law, medicine, software engineering, creative field, economics, engineering, fashion designing, real estate, defence, media, and one of them is not working and is looking for a ‘good house wife’. Most of the men are active and visit their profiles often.
The annual income bracket for all is between 2lakh rupees to 10lakh rupees and above. The only person who has a lower income is the one who is not working. Thus most of the informants belong to the middle class to upper middle class category.
Out of the 20 men, 4 are currently situated in Bangalore, 3 in New Delhi, 3 in Pune, 2 in Gaziabad, and 1 in Kanpur, Silvassa, Lucknow, Jaipur, Chennai and Amritsar. 19 of the men are from India, and there is one person from Iran, who is situated in Pune and looking for an Indian girl.
The mother tongue divisions are not as diverse. Hindi dominates, with 10, which is 50%, of them speaking it as their mother tongue. Three are Punjabis, and there is only 1 Tamil, Chattisgarhi, Persian, Kannada, Marathi, Bengali and one from the ‘others’ category.
The profiles once copied into a Word document run into 4 to 5 pages each, since the 20 profiles took up 75 pages. The category I chose has yielded men from middle to upper middle class backgrounds who are located in a metro and who are mostly north Indians.
ANALYSIS
I will not analyse the photographs, but look instead at just the verbal message and what it conveys. I’ll treat the profiles as advertisements, where the product is the profiler himself.
QUESTIONS
Partner Preference
The ads in the newspaper mention the profession, the pay, physical looks, education, family, caste and religion of the boy and make specific demands from the girls- be it caste, religion, profession and looks. Most matrimonial ads in newspapers want the girl to be slim, tall, fair and good looking, even if the boy might look like a demented gorilla. The Indian fixation with fair complexion is in performance in these matrimonial ads. Is the case the same in the profiles online?
Marketing portals
The ads in the newspapers don’t have the leisure to describe the men themselves, their interests, hobbies etc. What strategies then do the men use to market themselves and what are the ‘rewards’ they are offering? Are these ‘rewards’ convincing enough?
FINDINGS
Partner Preference
Four men haven’t mentioned their partner preference at all. Seven say that the complexion and body type (that is slim, average, athletic etc.) doesn’t matter, which makes a fairly large number. Two want a wheatish to very fair girl with slim, average or athletic build. Two just specify an average built, one wants a wheatish, fair of dark girl with average or athletic built, while only one 24 year old has mentioned a slim built specifically. It is interesting to note that this young man is from Bangalore describes his family as broadminded but doesn’t seem as broadminded when it comes to a partner preference. There are only two who categorically mention that they want their partner to be fair and the rest doesn’t matter. One of them is from Kanpur and the other from Jaipur. The 25 year old from Jaipur has mentioned in his “about myself section’ that “I’m here looking for a dream girl”. His dream girl has to fulfil only two criteria, she has to be fair and 162-170 centimetres tall. The rest of the categories don’t matter. He doesn’t seem very exacting, and he has a high probability of finding his dream girl. Another person has mentioned that he wants his partner to be fair or of wheat complexion. This very fair Punjabi is looking at complexion compatibility. One person who has mentioned that he is looking for a good house wife wants her only to be 167-180 centimetres tall, while the rest of the categories do not matter.
With a high 35% saying complexion and body type doesn’t matter, one can say that the profiles in the chosen category are not as fixated with the ‘fair’ girl as before.
It is interesting to note that not a single person wants a special case or an HIV positive partner and all categorically put a ‘no’ in that column. None of the men seem to specify a woman with a heavy built probably because none of them are heavily built themselves. Most of these men from the metros and small towns, who are internet savvy, seem to have got over the fair, slim complex, but have not got around to accepting a handicapped or HIV positive woman.
Most of the men are also open to women being well-educated, having any kind of post and don’t categorically mention any profession. In fact a few prefer working women, while most stick to the ‘caring, loving’ persona of women.
Marketing portals
The profiles read like any other in a social networking site, the only difference being that here the aim is not to network or keep in touch with friends, but to find prospective spouses. The categories of hobbies and interests which include hobbies, interests, favourite music, favourite reads, preferred movies, sports fitness activities, favourite cuisine and preferred dress style are similar to those in social networking sites. At first glance the filled up column seems impressive, but actually the members have not written it themselves but are choosing from an array of pre-given options. After knowing this, the lists become increasingly meaningless and even redundant since most include 7 to 10 choices in each category. Thus the ‘hobbies, interests and more’ category does not yield interesting information and is of hardly any use in analysing how the men market themselves. The most interesting category is the ‘about myself’ and in that, the one on ‘Personality, Long-Term Goals, Partner Expectations, etc’.
There are age old ways of selling grooms in India- through their financial status and educational/professional qualifications. These tactics die hard and are well marketed in these profiles. By quoting the annual income, the men are selling financial security. While most quotations seem realistic, and are between 2 to 5 lakhs per annum, a few need to be taken with a pinch of salt. Take the case of a 24 year old in the Advertising/ Marketing sector in Pune and earning 7 to 10 lakhs/ annum; or the 26 year old computer professional in Bangalore with an annual income of 10-15 lakhs. Thus the ‘rewards’ of financial security are not convincing all the time.
The educational qualifications play a big role in the profiles online too. 70% of the men have a bachelor’s degree while only 30% have a master’s. None have a doctorate. Yet most sell their educational qualifications while describing themselves. For example, the software engineer says he has a BTech from IIT Kanpur, the doctors don’t fail to acknowledge their hard-earned MBBS, the fashion designer is proud to be from NIFT Chandigarh and the lawyer shows off his years at the law faculty of Delhi University. While informing others about themselves, they seem to be screaming, “If you ‘buy’ me, you’ll move up the ladder socially. I am well placed, well educated; I have a fat salary, and by marrying me you’ll be the proud wife of an engineer/doctor/business man.” The profiles are thus selling upward social mobility.
At the same time, the men are selling their family, for often Indians look at the family background more than the boy himself. After all, in India, if you marry a man, you marry his family, especially his mother. Most describe their families as broadminded, liberal, supportive, open minded, tolerant, cultured, small and loving. They thus seem to emphasise on the nuclear family which is modern, and are thus selling their family’s modernity. Along with that, they also aim at showing their siblings and parents as educated and well placed thus further constructing the modernity notion. One profile put up by a sibling describes the family at length while not saying a single word about the young man himself. “Ours is a Hindi speaking, highly educated, service class family believing in truly secular & humanist values”. The family description further boasts of an inter-caste marriage with the parents being both readers in a college. The details even include the number of publications, and awards! The description of the families also seems to sell upward social mobility along with culture and modernity.
The young men sell their own modernity and progressive thinking and market it as a quality while describing themselves. They state that they don’t believe in, caste, religion, colour, superstitions, rituals, don’t except dowry and that they are liberal and broad minded. They seem to be saying: “If you marry me, you won’t be oppressed since I am open-minded. I’m progressive and not the traditional type. You’ll be happy with me.” The marketing of this intangible ‘reward’ of modernity and progressiveness is new to matrimonial ads. This type of constructing is not seen in the newspaper ads.
The men are also selling an emotional need by writing: I am a loving, passionate, caring and affectionate person. I want an intimate relationship. I want to share everything with my partner. We should be able to relate to each other. Along with companionship, they seem to be selling the gratification of sexual desires. The underlying statement is of emotional security and tries to also show that ‘caring’ needn’t only be a feminine trait. Men can be caring too. This is the marketing strategy of the new Indian man.
Selling one’s personality is also affective, and here the men do just that. They state that they are funny, optimistic, fun-loving, an A type personality, like a child (and thus need pampering), like travelling, creative, simple, have a good sense of humour and a positive attitude. By doing this, they seem to say that they are popular. It is surprising that that they don’t mention any typical masculine traits of physical strength, or protectiveness. They do seem to imply that they intelligent though. They are thus marketing their popularity and easy-going nature. Basically, they are selling a happier and better future to prospective brides who will marry them.
Do the men set one standard for themselves and demand another of their partner? To analyse this I chose to look at the lifestyle of the men, which includes drinking and smoking habits. It was surprising to see that those who smoked or drank did not mind if their partners indulged in it and filled the category with a ‘doesn’t matter’. None had a double standard. Those who said that they didn’t smoke or drink mentioned that they preferred their partners also don’t. There was only one person, who was open enough to say that though he didn’t indulge in smoking or drinking, he wouldn’t mind if his partner did.
Who are the addressees of these profiles? Clearly they are the internet-savvy, middle class, educated women who belong to the same category as the men: aged 23 to 27, from India, with the religious category ‘spiritual-not religious’, marital status as ‘never married’, and having any mother tongue and belonging to any caste.
CONCLUSION
The matrimonial profiles of the 20 men on shaadi.com show that though the importance accorded to educational qualifications and monetary status hasn’t changed, other categories such as ‘slim and fair girl’, the double standards, have taken a backseat. The men seem to be more open-minded and liberal, though often not stating what they mean by it. The rewards offered are mostly intangible ones, such as emotional need, modernity, upward social mobility, and tangible ones such as financial and familial security. The self-construction that these men make is pre-determined through the set categories of ‘about myself’, ‘about family’ and ‘partner preference’. Had these categories not been there, the profilers would not be conditioned and would probably paint a different picture. Would they then still continue selling their family values and achievements, their education and salary? This can be only answered when one has a matrimonial site styled that way. Till then, this is the present situation on India’s matrimonial front.
REFERENCES
http://www.shaadi.com/introduction/letter-from-cmd.php
http://www.shaadi.com/
INTRODUCTION
Matrimonial ads in the Classifieds section of a newspaper generally read like this: “Alliance invited for tall, handsome, 5’10/26 yrs, Agarwal guy, well settled in New Delhi, earning in 6 figures. Only Agarwal girls may mail him at madhav23@hotmail.com.” You are allowed approximately 40 words and the payment is around Rs. 900. It is like marketing yourself in forty words to all readers of the Sunday Classifieds, especially the fathers of prospective brides/grooms who will spend their Sunday mornings in their pyjamas perusing the column for suitable matches.
Since the last decade, you can do the same thing for free (there are paid memberships also, which have more offers) and have the leisure of marketing yourself in 5 pages with a photo album to boot. The audience you reach now won’t be the anxious Bennett-like parent, but the prospective brides/grooms themselves who are internet savvy and willing to take the marriage process into their hands. There are parents/guardians/friends that create profiles for others and manage it for them, and do the indirect marketing of the future bride/groom. Most profiles though are created by the women and men themselves.
There are various online matrimonial sites in India. Shaadi.com, The World's Largest Matrimonial Service, founded in 1997 by Anupam Mittal CMD, claims to be the oldest and most successful matrimonial site. It caters to all Asians, and its objective is “to provide a superior matchmaking experience by expanding the opportunities available to meet potential life partners.”
The site is interactive and professional, with a vast array of communities: Assamese, Bengali, Gujarati, Hindi, Kannada, Malayalam, Marathi, Marwari, Oriya, Parsi, Punjabi, Sindhi, Tamil, Telegu and Urdu. There is the Religion Matrimonial Site also comprising of Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Christian, Jain, Parsi, Buddhist, Jewish and Catholic. Success stories keep flashing, with people thanking shaadi.com for having found their ‘soul mate’. How long this ‘soul mate’ business will last is another matter. The look of the site is fresh, using bright green, red as in ‘shaadi’ and a white background allowing the rest of the information to remain prominent.
The site is user-friendly with the tab ‘my shaadi’ helping one to access and edit one’s profile and ‘partner search’ to search for prospective partners. The search has the options of groom/bride, age, religion and country. There are other specific search options too, namely city search, keyword search, astro search, special cases, who is online, professional search and so on.
The profiles are detailed. There are categories such as ‘about myself’ which includes the basic information along with blood group, Manglik, special cases etc. Then there is the section of ‘Personality, Long-Term Goals, Partner Expectations, etc’, religious, social and cultural background, astrological details, education and career, lifestyle, location, hobbies, interests, family details and partner preference.
A non-member of shaadi.com can visit up to four profiles, and one has to sign in to visit further profiles. To gain access to more profiles and to understand the profile making process, I created my account in shaadi.com on 18/10/2008 in the afternoon.
THE INFORMANTS
The profiles I checked were men from the age group 23 to 27, from India, with the religious category ‘spiritual-not religious’, marital status as ‘never married’, and mother tongue and caste as ‘doesn’t matter’. I picked 20 profiles in that category, quite at random, sometimes going by the profile photo or lines like- “I’m looking for my dream girl” or “I want a good house wife”.
All the profiles carry photographs. 19 of the men have created the profiles themselves while 1 is created by a sibling.
Most of them are professionals, in the IT industry, law, medicine, software engineering, creative field, economics, engineering, fashion designing, real estate, defence, media, and one of them is not working and is looking for a ‘good house wife’. Most of the men are active and visit their profiles often.
The annual income bracket for all is between 2lakh rupees to 10lakh rupees and above. The only person who has a lower income is the one who is not working. Thus most of the informants belong to the middle class to upper middle class category.
Out of the 20 men, 4 are currently situated in Bangalore, 3 in New Delhi, 3 in Pune, 2 in Gaziabad, and 1 in Kanpur, Silvassa, Lucknow, Jaipur, Chennai and Amritsar. 19 of the men are from India, and there is one person from Iran, who is situated in Pune and looking for an Indian girl.
The mother tongue divisions are not as diverse. Hindi dominates, with 10, which is 50%, of them speaking it as their mother tongue. Three are Punjabis, and there is only 1 Tamil, Chattisgarhi, Persian, Kannada, Marathi, Bengali and one from the ‘others’ category.
The profiles once copied into a Word document run into 4 to 5 pages each, since the 20 profiles took up 75 pages. The category I chose has yielded men from middle to upper middle class backgrounds who are located in a metro and who are mostly north Indians.
ANALYSIS
I will not analyse the photographs, but look instead at just the verbal message and what it conveys. I’ll treat the profiles as advertisements, where the product is the profiler himself.
QUESTIONS
Partner Preference
The ads in the newspaper mention the profession, the pay, physical looks, education, family, caste and religion of the boy and make specific demands from the girls- be it caste, religion, profession and looks. Most matrimonial ads in newspapers want the girl to be slim, tall, fair and good looking, even if the boy might look like a demented gorilla. The Indian fixation with fair complexion is in performance in these matrimonial ads. Is the case the same in the profiles online?
Marketing portals
The ads in the newspapers don’t have the leisure to describe the men themselves, their interests, hobbies etc. What strategies then do the men use to market themselves and what are the ‘rewards’ they are offering? Are these ‘rewards’ convincing enough?
FINDINGS
Partner Preference
Four men haven’t mentioned their partner preference at all. Seven say that the complexion and body type (that is slim, average, athletic etc.) doesn’t matter, which makes a fairly large number. Two want a wheatish to very fair girl with slim, average or athletic build. Two just specify an average built, one wants a wheatish, fair of dark girl with average or athletic built, while only one 24 year old has mentioned a slim built specifically. It is interesting to note that this young man is from Bangalore describes his family as broadminded but doesn’t seem as broadminded when it comes to a partner preference. There are only two who categorically mention that they want their partner to be fair and the rest doesn’t matter. One of them is from Kanpur and the other from Jaipur. The 25 year old from Jaipur has mentioned in his “about myself section’ that “I’m here looking for a dream girl”. His dream girl has to fulfil only two criteria, she has to be fair and 162-170 centimetres tall. The rest of the categories don’t matter. He doesn’t seem very exacting, and he has a high probability of finding his dream girl. Another person has mentioned that he wants his partner to be fair or of wheat complexion. This very fair Punjabi is looking at complexion compatibility. One person who has mentioned that he is looking for a good house wife wants her only to be 167-180 centimetres tall, while the rest of the categories do not matter.
With a high 35% saying complexion and body type doesn’t matter, one can say that the profiles in the chosen category are not as fixated with the ‘fair’ girl as before.
It is interesting to note that not a single person wants a special case or an HIV positive partner and all categorically put a ‘no’ in that column. None of the men seem to specify a woman with a heavy built probably because none of them are heavily built themselves. Most of these men from the metros and small towns, who are internet savvy, seem to have got over the fair, slim complex, but have not got around to accepting a handicapped or HIV positive woman.
Most of the men are also open to women being well-educated, having any kind of post and don’t categorically mention any profession. In fact a few prefer working women, while most stick to the ‘caring, loving’ persona of women.
Marketing portals
The profiles read like any other in a social networking site, the only difference being that here the aim is not to network or keep in touch with friends, but to find prospective spouses. The categories of hobbies and interests which include hobbies, interests, favourite music, favourite reads, preferred movies, sports fitness activities, favourite cuisine and preferred dress style are similar to those in social networking sites. At first glance the filled up column seems impressive, but actually the members have not written it themselves but are choosing from an array of pre-given options. After knowing this, the lists become increasingly meaningless and even redundant since most include 7 to 10 choices in each category. Thus the ‘hobbies, interests and more’ category does not yield interesting information and is of hardly any use in analysing how the men market themselves. The most interesting category is the ‘about myself’ and in that, the one on ‘Personality, Long-Term Goals, Partner Expectations, etc’.
There are age old ways of selling grooms in India- through their financial status and educational/professional qualifications. These tactics die hard and are well marketed in these profiles. By quoting the annual income, the men are selling financial security. While most quotations seem realistic, and are between 2 to 5 lakhs per annum, a few need to be taken with a pinch of salt. Take the case of a 24 year old in the Advertising/ Marketing sector in Pune and earning 7 to 10 lakhs/ annum; or the 26 year old computer professional in Bangalore with an annual income of 10-15 lakhs. Thus the ‘rewards’ of financial security are not convincing all the time.
The educational qualifications play a big role in the profiles online too. 70% of the men have a bachelor’s degree while only 30% have a master’s. None have a doctorate. Yet most sell their educational qualifications while describing themselves. For example, the software engineer says he has a BTech from IIT Kanpur, the doctors don’t fail to acknowledge their hard-earned MBBS, the fashion designer is proud to be from NIFT Chandigarh and the lawyer shows off his years at the law faculty of Delhi University. While informing others about themselves, they seem to be screaming, “If you ‘buy’ me, you’ll move up the ladder socially. I am well placed, well educated; I have a fat salary, and by marrying me you’ll be the proud wife of an engineer/doctor/business man.” The profiles are thus selling upward social mobility.
At the same time, the men are selling their family, for often Indians look at the family background more than the boy himself. After all, in India, if you marry a man, you marry his family, especially his mother. Most describe their families as broadminded, liberal, supportive, open minded, tolerant, cultured, small and loving. They thus seem to emphasise on the nuclear family which is modern, and are thus selling their family’s modernity. Along with that, they also aim at showing their siblings and parents as educated and well placed thus further constructing the modernity notion. One profile put up by a sibling describes the family at length while not saying a single word about the young man himself. “Ours is a Hindi speaking, highly educated, service class family believing in truly secular & humanist values”. The family description further boasts of an inter-caste marriage with the parents being both readers in a college. The details even include the number of publications, and awards! The description of the families also seems to sell upward social mobility along with culture and modernity.
The young men sell their own modernity and progressive thinking and market it as a quality while describing themselves. They state that they don’t believe in, caste, religion, colour, superstitions, rituals, don’t except dowry and that they are liberal and broad minded. They seem to be saying: “If you marry me, you won’t be oppressed since I am open-minded. I’m progressive and not the traditional type. You’ll be happy with me.” The marketing of this intangible ‘reward’ of modernity and progressiveness is new to matrimonial ads. This type of constructing is not seen in the newspaper ads.
The men are also selling an emotional need by writing: I am a loving, passionate, caring and affectionate person. I want an intimate relationship. I want to share everything with my partner. We should be able to relate to each other. Along with companionship, they seem to be selling the gratification of sexual desires. The underlying statement is of emotional security and tries to also show that ‘caring’ needn’t only be a feminine trait. Men can be caring too. This is the marketing strategy of the new Indian man.
Selling one’s personality is also affective, and here the men do just that. They state that they are funny, optimistic, fun-loving, an A type personality, like a child (and thus need pampering), like travelling, creative, simple, have a good sense of humour and a positive attitude. By doing this, they seem to say that they are popular. It is surprising that that they don’t mention any typical masculine traits of physical strength, or protectiveness. They do seem to imply that they intelligent though. They are thus marketing their popularity and easy-going nature. Basically, they are selling a happier and better future to prospective brides who will marry them.
Do the men set one standard for themselves and demand another of their partner? To analyse this I chose to look at the lifestyle of the men, which includes drinking and smoking habits. It was surprising to see that those who smoked or drank did not mind if their partners indulged in it and filled the category with a ‘doesn’t matter’. None had a double standard. Those who said that they didn’t smoke or drink mentioned that they preferred their partners also don’t. There was only one person, who was open enough to say that though he didn’t indulge in smoking or drinking, he wouldn’t mind if his partner did.
Who are the addressees of these profiles? Clearly they are the internet-savvy, middle class, educated women who belong to the same category as the men: aged 23 to 27, from India, with the religious category ‘spiritual-not religious’, marital status as ‘never married’, and having any mother tongue and belonging to any caste.
CONCLUSION
The matrimonial profiles of the 20 men on shaadi.com show that though the importance accorded to educational qualifications and monetary status hasn’t changed, other categories such as ‘slim and fair girl’, the double standards, have taken a backseat. The men seem to be more open-minded and liberal, though often not stating what they mean by it. The rewards offered are mostly intangible ones, such as emotional need, modernity, upward social mobility, and tangible ones such as financial and familial security. The self-construction that these men make is pre-determined through the set categories of ‘about myself’, ‘about family’ and ‘partner preference’. Had these categories not been there, the profilers would not be conditioned and would probably paint a different picture. Would they then still continue selling their family values and achievements, their education and salary? This can be only answered when one has a matrimonial site styled that way. Till then, this is the present situation on India’s matrimonial front.
REFERENCES
http://www.shaadi.com/introduction/letter-from-cmd.php
http://www.shaadi.com/
Saturday, October 25, 2008
SILENT SCREAM
The two screams clashed
exchanged swords.
Looking straight ahead,
Quiet, hollow-eyed.
The black and white gymnasts
Jumped, tumbled,
Got mixed up,
Till it became a deathless lull.
Escape, run-
The feet were rooted,
The chair was floored,
Thirty five prisoners.
The familiar, back to
The familiar.
A panting, an urge,
Wanting to get inside:
Inside, inside- outside.
The quiet eyes longed,
Hollow, behind the retina
The longing, the reaching,
Miles away.
23-10-2008
exchanged swords.
Looking straight ahead,
Quiet, hollow-eyed.
The black and white gymnasts
Jumped, tumbled,
Got mixed up,
Till it became a deathless lull.
Escape, run-
The feet were rooted,
The chair was floored,
Thirty five prisoners.
The familiar, back to
The familiar.
A panting, an urge,
Wanting to get inside:
Inside, inside- outside.
The quiet eyes longed,
Hollow, behind the retina
The longing, the reaching,
Miles away.
23-10-2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
DEATH OF A COCKROACH
Women act when men are asleep. I killed a big cockroach when the household slept.
He (according to me all cockroaches are male, there’s no logic to it) was waiting for me at my bedside as I prepared to retire for the day. He is the guy who waits until dark to spread his little legs and scuffle around, antennas quivering in the air and scaring the daylights out of any woman.
The moment I spotted him, I climbed onto the safety of my bed, while my mind raced for a solution. But there was only one, kill the little ‘devil’ myself. Courage comes not from protection but from being alone in a dire situation. I stealthily removed my slippers, keeping an eye on him. Raising a slipper high above my head I attacked, throwing the footwear hard on the unsuspecting cockroach’s back. That was a moment of pure guerrilla warfare. Not sure whether the enemy was dead or not, I hit again. Eureka. His life had flown.
The dead body had to be removed from the scene of crime. Picking him up on a sheet of newspaper was an option. But I hesitated. The antennae seemed to quiver. Was I being delusional? Had a leg moved? Maybe keeping the chap at an arm’s length might do the trick. I stole down to the back of the kitchen to fetch the broom. The cockroach was in the same position as I had left him. Keeping a safe distance I pushed him out of my room into the corridor. Should I leave him there for the others to discover in the morning? It was not a particularly bright idea.
I decided to play a game. Using the broom as a hockey stick and the dead insect as a ball, I dribbled him down the corridor, into my parents’ room till the French window. What joy to play the national game after so long! But my delight was short lived. My little game had breathed life into that blasted demon.
Uttering a war cry I beat on him with the broom repeatedly, each time gaining more strength and courage. And I had a cheerleader. My mother awoke and was encouraging from the rings. Shouting to keep up my morale, I finally flung him out of the balcony and onto the street. Triumph was written all over my face.
But my father slept soundly throughout the battle. I guess I would have never murdered that cockroach had he been awake.
21-09-08
He (according to me all cockroaches are male, there’s no logic to it) was waiting for me at my bedside as I prepared to retire for the day. He is the guy who waits until dark to spread his little legs and scuffle around, antennas quivering in the air and scaring the daylights out of any woman.
The moment I spotted him, I climbed onto the safety of my bed, while my mind raced for a solution. But there was only one, kill the little ‘devil’ myself. Courage comes not from protection but from being alone in a dire situation. I stealthily removed my slippers, keeping an eye on him. Raising a slipper high above my head I attacked, throwing the footwear hard on the unsuspecting cockroach’s back. That was a moment of pure guerrilla warfare. Not sure whether the enemy was dead or not, I hit again. Eureka. His life had flown.
The dead body had to be removed from the scene of crime. Picking him up on a sheet of newspaper was an option. But I hesitated. The antennae seemed to quiver. Was I being delusional? Had a leg moved? Maybe keeping the chap at an arm’s length might do the trick. I stole down to the back of the kitchen to fetch the broom. The cockroach was in the same position as I had left him. Keeping a safe distance I pushed him out of my room into the corridor. Should I leave him there for the others to discover in the morning? It was not a particularly bright idea.
I decided to play a game. Using the broom as a hockey stick and the dead insect as a ball, I dribbled him down the corridor, into my parents’ room till the French window. What joy to play the national game after so long! But my delight was short lived. My little game had breathed life into that blasted demon.
Uttering a war cry I beat on him with the broom repeatedly, each time gaining more strength and courage. And I had a cheerleader. My mother awoke and was encouraging from the rings. Shouting to keep up my morale, I finally flung him out of the balcony and onto the street. Triumph was written all over my face.
But my father slept soundly throughout the battle. I guess I would have never murdered that cockroach had he been awake.
21-09-08
Sunday, August 24, 2008
THE CLOSING CEREMONY AT BEIJING 2008
The Dragon breathes fire and flies
The sixteen day Olympic extravaganza has finally come to an end, and what an end that was! China, the host country put up an excellent show this time, bagging a hundred medals, with the highest total of 51 gold medals, defeating the hot contestant the United States. The closing ceremony though beat all records with a magnificent show of Chinese skill, colours, and foremost their discipline and unity. The thousands of Chinese men and women in yellow, red and grey costumes with tiny lights attached, swayed together to the music. The flying men, the elevated silk strips, the Beijing Olympics logo on the tower, it was all choreographed to perfection. The flag bearers of 204 participating countries marched in, while the athletes poured in from all sides in jubilation. What was remarkable was that the volunteers too were acknowledged with their twelve representatives receiving a bouquet each. The Olympic spirit of higher, faster and stronger was evident, with over thirty world records broken and 85 new Olympics records set.
India’s absence and presence
For those watching the show at home, it was saddening not to be able to spot the Indian flag bearer Vijendar Kumar, the boxing bronze medallist. Nor were any members of the 56 strong Indian contingency to be seen anywhere in the crowd. The Indian presence was felt though through the little girl of Indian origin who received the football from her Chinese counterpart, symbolising the handover of the Olympic Games to UK, to be held in London in 2012. Though the Olympic flag was handed over to London’s Mayor, the exchange which took place in front of the double-decker bus seemed much more important, indicating the strong Indian presence in the UK. With a large minority of Indians, especially Gujarati and Punjabi expatriates, can we expect an Indian presence in the opening and closing ceremonies in London, maybe a bhangra or Bollywood number? In fact Bollywood surprisingly featured in the women’s team rhythmic gymnastics, when the Israelis pirouetted to a song from Om Shanti Om.
UK’s turn
UK showcased their plans for 2012 towards the end of the ceremony. After the exquisite Chinese show, UK’s urban-centric performance seemed a rude shock. It was post-modern, with London’s roads, red double-decker buses, and diverse populace dancing in front. The dark green townscape which emerged from the bus seemed bleak in contrast to the Chinese vibrant red and yellow, while the pop singer and guitarist dishevelled in comparison to the neat, slim Chinese women. London’s logo, showcasing the British flag, had harsh straight lines while the Chinese logo seems drawn with a single stroke. But maybe it’s too early to judge. Let us give the British their four years to prove themselves. Till then, let us rejoice in the Asian domination of the Beijing Olympics 2008.
The sixteen day Olympic extravaganza has finally come to an end, and what an end that was! China, the host country put up an excellent show this time, bagging a hundred medals, with the highest total of 51 gold medals, defeating the hot contestant the United States. The closing ceremony though beat all records with a magnificent show of Chinese skill, colours, and foremost their discipline and unity. The thousands of Chinese men and women in yellow, red and grey costumes with tiny lights attached, swayed together to the music. The flying men, the elevated silk strips, the Beijing Olympics logo on the tower, it was all choreographed to perfection. The flag bearers of 204 participating countries marched in, while the athletes poured in from all sides in jubilation. What was remarkable was that the volunteers too were acknowledged with their twelve representatives receiving a bouquet each. The Olympic spirit of higher, faster and stronger was evident, with over thirty world records broken and 85 new Olympics records set.
India’s absence and presence
For those watching the show at home, it was saddening not to be able to spot the Indian flag bearer Vijendar Kumar, the boxing bronze medallist. Nor were any members of the 56 strong Indian contingency to be seen anywhere in the crowd. The Indian presence was felt though through the little girl of Indian origin who received the football from her Chinese counterpart, symbolising the handover of the Olympic Games to UK, to be held in London in 2012. Though the Olympic flag was handed over to London’s Mayor, the exchange which took place in front of the double-decker bus seemed much more important, indicating the strong Indian presence in the UK. With a large minority of Indians, especially Gujarati and Punjabi expatriates, can we expect an Indian presence in the opening and closing ceremonies in London, maybe a bhangra or Bollywood number? In fact Bollywood surprisingly featured in the women’s team rhythmic gymnastics, when the Israelis pirouetted to a song from Om Shanti Om.
UK’s turn
UK showcased their plans for 2012 towards the end of the ceremony. After the exquisite Chinese show, UK’s urban-centric performance seemed a rude shock. It was post-modern, with London’s roads, red double-decker buses, and diverse populace dancing in front. The dark green townscape which emerged from the bus seemed bleak in contrast to the Chinese vibrant red and yellow, while the pop singer and guitarist dishevelled in comparison to the neat, slim Chinese women. London’s logo, showcasing the British flag, had harsh straight lines while the Chinese logo seems drawn with a single stroke. But maybe it’s too early to judge. Let us give the British their four years to prove themselves. Till then, let us rejoice in the Asian domination of the Beijing Olympics 2008.
Friday, August 15, 2008
CHASING MOMMA
Momma Sea is acting difficult nowadays. She’s getting more illusive by the day, and today, well, she took me for a nasty joyride.
Momma had always been there for me during my childhood. My best moments were spent frolicking in the salt water, swimming vigorously towards the large waves only to dive inside their belly, being tossed in the shallow side to end up with sand and salt in my eyes, nose, and inside my shorts pockets. The only time I cried in public was when I was denied a rendezvous with Momma Sea by our instructor who took us out for a swim. That was the worst imaginable punishment ever, worthy of shedding tears and of course undergoing the humiliation of being spotted in the act. Boys don’t cry, but I believed that I, a girl, should never ever be seen crying in public.
The shore slowly disappeared over the years. Soon, gentle Momma had become rough and even claimed a few lives. A board was put up in three languages saying that swimming in the sea was prohibited. The big ugly black rocks now stood between me and Momma and so did the law. I didn’t know what had hit me. Why was Momma no longer accessible? Some people told me it was some submarine tunnel responsible for it, others spoke about erosion. All I knew was that I couldn’t bob up and down with the gentle waves nor feel the thrill of discovering a shallow spot deep into the sea. It was like a large part of my life was unlived because I couldn’t meet Momma. I waited for the day to come when someone would tell me that it was all a bad dream, or that the shore would soon reappear and that I could swim again.
I couldn’t meet Momma for six to seven years. But strangely enough, I stopped missing her. The pain was only renewed when I later met her far from the usual spot where I used to swim as a little girl. Momma was waiting for me a few kilometers from town on the East Coast Road. But our meetings were annual, at the most bi-annual. This hurt more than during that long absence of six to seven years. Our reunions were also marred by the angst of growing up, the loneliness of being the only girl familiar with Momma. While the boys helped out the other whimpering girls, I was left alone with Momma. But I couldn’t do her justice. My heart was not in it.
A few months back I found Momma closer to home near the submarine tunnel area. It was just like the old times. Though I was alone with her for a short while, I did the justice of feeling the water around me, keeping me up, slapping against my sides, surging over my head and plastering my face with wet strands of hair. I enjoyed every moment of it. It felt like homecoming.
But since then the appetite has grown. I often dream of Momma in weird forms, with walls, with scary, mighty, unpredictable waves, with deep ends. But I can’t meet her alone. I need others with me, and to gather a bunch of Momma crazy boys and girls is a near impossible task.
The urgent hunger to feel salt water on my skin was too strong today. I decided to visit Momma with a most unlikely bunch- my parents. They agreed on the condition that I swim alone, which was fine with me. My destination was the submarine tunnel. But guess my luck, not a soul was present in or out of the waters. I can’t handle Momma all alone. Somebody has to be around. My heart began to sink. I had a feeling Momma would let me down. Then we spotted another strip of beach far to the right, with families strolling about. The sea was bluer on the other side.
The detour to the other side was through the dusty Cuddalore road to Veerampattinam. And since it was a national holiday, the vehicles seemed to be celebrating by being all there on the road and letting out toxic fumes. What made it worse was the angry face of my tired mother chasing my father and me on her bike, wanting to stop us and take us back home. And to my bitter disappointment, the road to the Veerampattinam beach was blocked by an unruly, drunken crowd. Vehicles could go no further. I was so angry I could kill somebody. Luckily I didn’t have a weapon in hand. We affected a U-turn. Instead of the eagerly dreamt wet, fresh feel, I was having a layer of dust on my face. On my way back all I could think of was my bad luck, the long ride which hurt my butt, my mother’s explosive anger and string of harsh words and the wild goose chase to meet up with Momma. I even weighed my chances of bumping into her in the future. The odds were against me.
I don’t know when I will be fortunate to meet Momma again. All that I can hope for is that the shore comes back or that I shift to a place where Momma is easily accessible with a bunch of Momma’s own kids like me. Till then the dark hours will be spent tackling big waves and coming up against a wall and the daylight hours in wishing I become a fish in my next life. 15-08-2008
Momma had always been there for me during my childhood. My best moments were spent frolicking in the salt water, swimming vigorously towards the large waves only to dive inside their belly, being tossed in the shallow side to end up with sand and salt in my eyes, nose, and inside my shorts pockets. The only time I cried in public was when I was denied a rendezvous with Momma Sea by our instructor who took us out for a swim. That was the worst imaginable punishment ever, worthy of shedding tears and of course undergoing the humiliation of being spotted in the act. Boys don’t cry, but I believed that I, a girl, should never ever be seen crying in public.
The shore slowly disappeared over the years. Soon, gentle Momma had become rough and even claimed a few lives. A board was put up in three languages saying that swimming in the sea was prohibited. The big ugly black rocks now stood between me and Momma and so did the law. I didn’t know what had hit me. Why was Momma no longer accessible? Some people told me it was some submarine tunnel responsible for it, others spoke about erosion. All I knew was that I couldn’t bob up and down with the gentle waves nor feel the thrill of discovering a shallow spot deep into the sea. It was like a large part of my life was unlived because I couldn’t meet Momma. I waited for the day to come when someone would tell me that it was all a bad dream, or that the shore would soon reappear and that I could swim again.
I couldn’t meet Momma for six to seven years. But strangely enough, I stopped missing her. The pain was only renewed when I later met her far from the usual spot where I used to swim as a little girl. Momma was waiting for me a few kilometers from town on the East Coast Road. But our meetings were annual, at the most bi-annual. This hurt more than during that long absence of six to seven years. Our reunions were also marred by the angst of growing up, the loneliness of being the only girl familiar with Momma. While the boys helped out the other whimpering girls, I was left alone with Momma. But I couldn’t do her justice. My heart was not in it.
A few months back I found Momma closer to home near the submarine tunnel area. It was just like the old times. Though I was alone with her for a short while, I did the justice of feeling the water around me, keeping me up, slapping against my sides, surging over my head and plastering my face with wet strands of hair. I enjoyed every moment of it. It felt like homecoming.
But since then the appetite has grown. I often dream of Momma in weird forms, with walls, with scary, mighty, unpredictable waves, with deep ends. But I can’t meet her alone. I need others with me, and to gather a bunch of Momma crazy boys and girls is a near impossible task.
The urgent hunger to feel salt water on my skin was too strong today. I decided to visit Momma with a most unlikely bunch- my parents. They agreed on the condition that I swim alone, which was fine with me. My destination was the submarine tunnel. But guess my luck, not a soul was present in or out of the waters. I can’t handle Momma all alone. Somebody has to be around. My heart began to sink. I had a feeling Momma would let me down. Then we spotted another strip of beach far to the right, with families strolling about. The sea was bluer on the other side.
The detour to the other side was through the dusty Cuddalore road to Veerampattinam. And since it was a national holiday, the vehicles seemed to be celebrating by being all there on the road and letting out toxic fumes. What made it worse was the angry face of my tired mother chasing my father and me on her bike, wanting to stop us and take us back home. And to my bitter disappointment, the road to the Veerampattinam beach was blocked by an unruly, drunken crowd. Vehicles could go no further. I was so angry I could kill somebody. Luckily I didn’t have a weapon in hand. We affected a U-turn. Instead of the eagerly dreamt wet, fresh feel, I was having a layer of dust on my face. On my way back all I could think of was my bad luck, the long ride which hurt my butt, my mother’s explosive anger and string of harsh words and the wild goose chase to meet up with Momma. I even weighed my chances of bumping into her in the future. The odds were against me.
I don’t know when I will be fortunate to meet Momma again. All that I can hope for is that the shore comes back or that I shift to a place where Momma is easily accessible with a bunch of Momma’s own kids like me. Till then the dark hours will be spent tackling big waves and coming up against a wall and the daylight hours in wishing I become a fish in my next life. 15-08-2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
LET'S BAN CRICKET
Today is a historic day for India. The 25 year old Abhinav Bindra won gold in the men’s 10metre air rifle in the Olympic Games at Beijing. India is winning a gold medal after 28 years, after the glorious period when our hockey team reigned supreme. What is more important is that this is India’s first individual gold ever. Bindra, who is an Arjun awardee, was pitted against the world champion and beat him, which is no mean feat. He also caught up by two points in the final round, with a total of 700 points.
India is ecstatic. Congratulations are pouring in from all quarters. The PM, the President have all congratulated the young shooter. People are celebrating on Chandigarh’s streets; TV channels are interviewing his parents who gracefully give their son all the credit for his hard work; state governments are offering him 5lakhs to 1crore rupees. I’m sure there are commercial endorsements and more awards from the Indian government on the way too.
This victory raises various questions regarding Indian sports. These questions have been asked a number of times before, but since the answers are yet to come, the disturbing queries remain. How can a large country like India not produce promising athletes and medals at the Olympics year after year? Hockey was lucky in the 70s; Leander Paes and Karnam Malleshwari gave us the Bronze, while Rathore made us proud with silver; and today we have Bindra with gold. That is it. For a country with 1 billion people we have only a handful who wins against the odds. And the odds are mostly at home.
Most athletes come from poor backgrounds. Though they have talent, the training, the equipment all requires professional grounds and coaches. Most of all it requires money. We are not a poor nation. Yet we do not have the money to spend on sports. The old adage of all work and no play is deeply entrenched in people’s minds. It seems especially so in the Indian Parent’s and the Indian Government’s mind. A good example is the movie Chak De where girls are discouraged to play hockey both by their families and the Sports Committee. But as in all Bollywood movies, the girls’ team wins in the end. The case is very different in real life.
But India is willing to spend crores in sports, which is in cricket. That is where the hitch lies. Cricket is not a sport in India, it is akin to religion. If the Beatles said they are bigger than Jesus, well, cricket is greater than the God of the thousands of Gods worshipped in India. Twenty-twenty, IPL, one day matches, test matches, all this ‘bogus’ is not sport, it is entertainment. This fact seems especially controversial and debated since IPL.
Cricket is also a slow, meandering, boring, colonial game. As John Abraham’s character in the movie Kabul Express aptly puts it, cricket is nothing but 22 men scratching their crotches on the field. Cricket occupies prime time in the Indian media and the Indian psyche. And the harm it does to India and Indian sports seems almost beyond repair. It is a hegemonic game, enchanting and hypnotizing people. It swallows up people’s time, energy, and money. Worse, it is the main cause for India’s repeated poor performance in the Olympic Games or any other International Sports event. If the money and energy spent on cricket and its hyped and highly publicized players were spent on spotting and training talent in other sports, India would have many more Abhinav Bindras.
But will this really happen? Will the ‘Indian crowd’ ever tire of cricket? Will the sports authorities and sponsors want to invest in less popular and glamorous sports like rowing, boxing or swimming? Will Indians appreciate a synchronized dive as much as a ‘fixed’ game of cricket? Well, these questions will take time to be answered. Till then, let’s ban cricket.
11-08-2008
India is ecstatic. Congratulations are pouring in from all quarters. The PM, the President have all congratulated the young shooter. People are celebrating on Chandigarh’s streets; TV channels are interviewing his parents who gracefully give their son all the credit for his hard work; state governments are offering him 5lakhs to 1crore rupees. I’m sure there are commercial endorsements and more awards from the Indian government on the way too.
This victory raises various questions regarding Indian sports. These questions have been asked a number of times before, but since the answers are yet to come, the disturbing queries remain. How can a large country like India not produce promising athletes and medals at the Olympics year after year? Hockey was lucky in the 70s; Leander Paes and Karnam Malleshwari gave us the Bronze, while Rathore made us proud with silver; and today we have Bindra with gold. That is it. For a country with 1 billion people we have only a handful who wins against the odds. And the odds are mostly at home.
Most athletes come from poor backgrounds. Though they have talent, the training, the equipment all requires professional grounds and coaches. Most of all it requires money. We are not a poor nation. Yet we do not have the money to spend on sports. The old adage of all work and no play is deeply entrenched in people’s minds. It seems especially so in the Indian Parent’s and the Indian Government’s mind. A good example is the movie Chak De where girls are discouraged to play hockey both by their families and the Sports Committee. But as in all Bollywood movies, the girls’ team wins in the end. The case is very different in real life.
But India is willing to spend crores in sports, which is in cricket. That is where the hitch lies. Cricket is not a sport in India, it is akin to religion. If the Beatles said they are bigger than Jesus, well, cricket is greater than the God of the thousands of Gods worshipped in India. Twenty-twenty, IPL, one day matches, test matches, all this ‘bogus’ is not sport, it is entertainment. This fact seems especially controversial and debated since IPL.
Cricket is also a slow, meandering, boring, colonial game. As John Abraham’s character in the movie Kabul Express aptly puts it, cricket is nothing but 22 men scratching their crotches on the field. Cricket occupies prime time in the Indian media and the Indian psyche. And the harm it does to India and Indian sports seems almost beyond repair. It is a hegemonic game, enchanting and hypnotizing people. It swallows up people’s time, energy, and money. Worse, it is the main cause for India’s repeated poor performance in the Olympic Games or any other International Sports event. If the money and energy spent on cricket and its hyped and highly publicized players were spent on spotting and training talent in other sports, India would have many more Abhinav Bindras.
But will this really happen? Will the ‘Indian crowd’ ever tire of cricket? Will the sports authorities and sponsors want to invest in less popular and glamorous sports like rowing, boxing or swimming? Will Indians appreciate a synchronized dive as much as a ‘fixed’ game of cricket? Well, these questions will take time to be answered. Till then, let’s ban cricket.
11-08-2008
Friday, August 8, 2008
THE TEA CEREMONY
“Chotu, ek cup chai.” Chotu nodded and disappeared behind the dirty curtain. I put behind my ear a strand of hair which had strayed out of my small pony tail. Sweat glistened on my forehead; I was looking for a hanky. “Shit, I forgot it”. I used my hand instead and wiped it on the side of my T-shirt.
The small eatery had a few customers. It was past rush hour. The men on the other table were eating samosas and red chutney which reminded me of Agastya Sen’s chutney which said I’m diarrhea, or something of that sort. “I forget the exact statement; will have to check out the novel. It was a pretty quotable quote. There I go again, me and my pathetic puns.”
I looked up. The painting hung on the newly white washed wall was like a student’s first water color attempt. Actually the wall seemed to speak more. It said: profit, renovation, newly painted walls, and maybe extension and more profit? Where would the next branch be, nearer to home? “No use speculating. Stop doing that.”
The men had finished their samosas. The red chutney had also disappeared down their throats. “Diarrhea, diarrhea! Oh, shut up.”
Chotu, who was going up and down clearing the table and serving the next customer, finally brought my tea, a small, hot, steel glass. “Tumbler, how can you call a glass a tumbler? It’s a glass.” I raised my eyebrows and breathed deeply. Why do people never learn? “Linguistic differences, cultural differences, social differences. Wow that sounds so impressive.” I smiled a self-satisfied, self-righteous smile. For a moment the grass was very dull and brown on the other side.
Malai was floating on the surface of the brown liquid just like it used to in my mother’s cup. I felt the urge to dip my finger in, scoop up the malai and lick it. It just stayed an urge, a small one with a very short life span. Kshanbhangur was the word. Right, it was a kshanbhangur urge. My Hindi teacher would die satisfied. Hindi classes meant unripe mangoes with salt and chilly. My mouth watered. My friend had learnt to cut mangoes at the age of 15. Ten years down the line I was still knife-paranoid. “What are restaurants for?”
I gingerly touched the hot glass. I’m never good at handling hot stuff. No pun intended. I withdrew my hand and kept it on my lap. I suddenly realized I was sitting slouched. “No wonder I get a budi.” I straightened. My father sits straight, so straight that people think he was in the army and fought in the Second World War. “I should repeat that joke to someone otherwise this tea will remain undigested.”
I blew gently into the cup. Ripples formed on the surface and the malai moved to one side. Ripples just like in the physics class experiment in the dark, hot, crowded room; ripples in the bac a ondes. Ripples means physics, uncertainty, boredom. Ripples mean that over-smart teacher whom few like.
I finally tasted the tea. It was perfect, the amount of sugar, tea leaves, milk. Was there masala in it? My mother would know. She would probably make a face and say this tea doesn’t taste good. I don’t remember a single instance when she liked her tea. She should have been a tea taster. Maybe I’ll suggest it today and get the usual negative reply. I’ll yet do it, I believe in nishkama karma. That felt just like Calvin.
Then I burnt my tongue. I always do that when I drink tea or coffee. My tongue would remain sore for the next few days, but the taste buds would be intact. Nevertheless I drained down the glass. How much tea can a small, steel glass contain? “Why is tea not served in bigger glasses? They can charge a bit extra. This is not fair. Or maybe it is a trick of the trade. Maybe the unsatisfied customer will want another cup. Then the shopwalla will make more profit than a single, slightly more expensive cup pf tea. Instead of buying one big cup of tea costing 6 Rupees, the customer will pay for two small cups costing 4 rupees each. I didn’t know I could be good at business and profit making.” I would bore some friend today with that argument.
I got up to pay. Out came my black wallet. “Kitna hua?”
“Six rupees.”
“Not chaar?”
“No, chota cup four. Big cup six. You take big cup.”
I vowed never to drink tea again. It would only burn my ego.
The small eatery had a few customers. It was past rush hour. The men on the other table were eating samosas and red chutney which reminded me of Agastya Sen’s chutney which said I’m diarrhea, or something of that sort. “I forget the exact statement; will have to check out the novel. It was a pretty quotable quote. There I go again, me and my pathetic puns.”
I looked up. The painting hung on the newly white washed wall was like a student’s first water color attempt. Actually the wall seemed to speak more. It said: profit, renovation, newly painted walls, and maybe extension and more profit? Where would the next branch be, nearer to home? “No use speculating. Stop doing that.”
The men had finished their samosas. The red chutney had also disappeared down their throats. “Diarrhea, diarrhea! Oh, shut up.”
Chotu, who was going up and down clearing the table and serving the next customer, finally brought my tea, a small, hot, steel glass. “Tumbler, how can you call a glass a tumbler? It’s a glass.” I raised my eyebrows and breathed deeply. Why do people never learn? “Linguistic differences, cultural differences, social differences. Wow that sounds so impressive.” I smiled a self-satisfied, self-righteous smile. For a moment the grass was very dull and brown on the other side.
Malai was floating on the surface of the brown liquid just like it used to in my mother’s cup. I felt the urge to dip my finger in, scoop up the malai and lick it. It just stayed an urge, a small one with a very short life span. Kshanbhangur was the word. Right, it was a kshanbhangur urge. My Hindi teacher would die satisfied. Hindi classes meant unripe mangoes with salt and chilly. My mouth watered. My friend had learnt to cut mangoes at the age of 15. Ten years down the line I was still knife-paranoid. “What are restaurants for?”
I gingerly touched the hot glass. I’m never good at handling hot stuff. No pun intended. I withdrew my hand and kept it on my lap. I suddenly realized I was sitting slouched. “No wonder I get a budi.” I straightened. My father sits straight, so straight that people think he was in the army and fought in the Second World War. “I should repeat that joke to someone otherwise this tea will remain undigested.”
I blew gently into the cup. Ripples formed on the surface and the malai moved to one side. Ripples just like in the physics class experiment in the dark, hot, crowded room; ripples in the bac a ondes. Ripples means physics, uncertainty, boredom. Ripples mean that over-smart teacher whom few like.
I finally tasted the tea. It was perfect, the amount of sugar, tea leaves, milk. Was there masala in it? My mother would know. She would probably make a face and say this tea doesn’t taste good. I don’t remember a single instance when she liked her tea. She should have been a tea taster. Maybe I’ll suggest it today and get the usual negative reply. I’ll yet do it, I believe in nishkama karma. That felt just like Calvin.
Then I burnt my tongue. I always do that when I drink tea or coffee. My tongue would remain sore for the next few days, but the taste buds would be intact. Nevertheless I drained down the glass. How much tea can a small, steel glass contain? “Why is tea not served in bigger glasses? They can charge a bit extra. This is not fair. Or maybe it is a trick of the trade. Maybe the unsatisfied customer will want another cup. Then the shopwalla will make more profit than a single, slightly more expensive cup pf tea. Instead of buying one big cup of tea costing 6 Rupees, the customer will pay for two small cups costing 4 rupees each. I didn’t know I could be good at business and profit making.” I would bore some friend today with that argument.
I got up to pay. Out came my black wallet. “Kitna hua?”
“Six rupees.”
“Not chaar?”
“No, chota cup four. Big cup six. You take big cup.”
I vowed never to drink tea again. It would only burn my ego.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
THE LONELINESS OF THE FEMALE RUNNER
The red Puma head-band is plastered on my forehead. Hair tied back, I feel free and fresh. The shoes are soft and comfortable, the arm band tightly tied round my bicep. My feet start moving on the road. The same rhythmic movement repeated thousands of times over the past decade: the movement of freedom, pain, tiredness; the movement of loneliness in a crowd.
Why did school hours not spent studying seem so painful? Shakespeare was a special pal in high school. He was better than the puny boys in class or the alien seniors. At least he didn’t speak; he was just there to be read. He let me be alone. Mostly, he didn’t force me to speak, joke or be giggly. He let me be silent. Heathcliff was more real than my friends. Georgette Heyer’s world was far better. At least the heroine got the hero in the end. There were no heroes in the ‘real’ world. Actually I didn’t belong to the ‘real’ world. I wore little shorts or divided skirts on the outside, but inside I wore gowns and danced at balls and spoke with Victorian humor. It was all so confusing. Was I really living? I later came to know of the Bovary syndrome. Flaubert did have insight after all. The evening breeze changes parties. It seems to be mostly against me. Sweat drips from my hair onto my neck. It rolls down my back and into my shorts’ elastic.
My friend chatted more than usual with our senior. They had exchanged some music. I heard of their wooing. Another told me of the caresses of her partner. I was surprised. They were fast. My juniors followed suit. I heard of the great ‘love stories’ of my seniors, the elders, the teachers, almost everyone had a story, except me. It was ‘love story’ saturation. Then I seemed to hear no more. I only saw: how my friends all left single hood and me far behind. It felt lonely. Of course, I had Gandhi, Renoir and Satyajit Ray, the praise of my teachers and the proud look in my parents’ eyes.
Then I saw the young man with the big biceps, the charismatic one and the one who always looked irascible. They made me want the impossible. I dreamt in vain. I didn’t feel lonely for a while. But it actually worsened. Soon Desirafe was born, so was Angus.
Shakespeare wasn’t a friend anymore. The ‘real’ world seemed to strike back with a vengeance, a lonely fish out of bookish water. It was Guilome’s birth. The boys selling shiny flying toys on the road get in the way. The men and women out on a stroll gape open-mouthed. The dogs are unaffected. My calves tighten.
Guilome and Desirafe were fed by silence and more of Guilome and Desirafe. It was like a dumping ground, an endless landfill which threatened to explode one day. The assigned project lay untouched. The TV was blaring, the women dancing and the men singing. The couple was talking sweet nothings, the camera on a soft-focus mode. The ants crawled to a presenter’s voice, it was some exotic island. A pact was signed amidst much controversy and heated discussion. Then it all went blank and silent, or rather blue. Nothing seemed interesting anymore. What a sheer waste of fifty minutes. Desirafe sighed, grumbled. Guilome screamed. Nothing can be done now, it’s too late. My feet keep moving. My mind keeps racing.
Wednesday’s newspaper had an article on relationships. Young couples, changing trends in society: ignorance, precociousness, the influence of the media, the ever-alluring West. Also, Saif Ali Khan had changed his girl friend, so had some cricketer. My friend gave me a call. She was going out with her boyfriend. She wouldn’t be free this weekend to hang out with. I called another friend. She seemed to have the same story. I cycled down to the coffee joint. It was yet hot in August and the traffic hadn’t changed one bit. The coffee prices had increased by 5 rupees. Damn the inflation. And why did they keep a table for two when I was alone? Why not for singletons? What’s wrong with the world? What’s wrong with me? I moved out of there before I beat up someone or show a finger. Desirafe was hungry, growling and ready to taste blood. Instead I taste my sweat which runs down my nose into my open mouth. I’m gasping for breath. My stomach is cramped. I need air. My legs are yet moving.
Loser was a household word for me. Angus ruled my life. Guilome and Desirafe fed off me. I felt Desirafe on my lips, on my stomach, sliding down my back. He was all over me. The attacks were worst at night. I woke up feeling tired and helpless. “Desirafe, Desirafe” that’s all I could hear, think of, want and feel. I wanted to kill Desirafe. Then probably Guilome and Angus would also die a natural death. I needed to find Desirafe outside me to destroy him. I can see the end. The rounds are over. I stop and double up. My t-shirt is drenched.
I’ve to pay the tuition fees. The bank loves to torture people in the afternoon, making them stand in long queues at 2pm. The fan near the main counter is out of service. The windows are small and the panes are broken. This is the side effect of higher education. I look around for familiar faces. I’m too early as usual. My friends are a lazy lot. They love the thrill of the last moment. I spot a tall guy with a goatee. I don’t know him, maybe he’s new.
The next week I see the goatee chap again. Our eyes meet. He smiles and I respond. A few days later I know him as Alberto. Months pass. I know the time has come when at last I taste blood. It is the blood of Desirafe. A great relief courses through my entire body. I’ve found Desirafe outside me in Alberto.
Why did school hours not spent studying seem so painful? Shakespeare was a special pal in high school. He was better than the puny boys in class or the alien seniors. At least he didn’t speak; he was just there to be read. He let me be alone. Mostly, he didn’t force me to speak, joke or be giggly. He let me be silent. Heathcliff was more real than my friends. Georgette Heyer’s world was far better. At least the heroine got the hero in the end. There were no heroes in the ‘real’ world. Actually I didn’t belong to the ‘real’ world. I wore little shorts or divided skirts on the outside, but inside I wore gowns and danced at balls and spoke with Victorian humor. It was all so confusing. Was I really living? I later came to know of the Bovary syndrome. Flaubert did have insight after all. The evening breeze changes parties. It seems to be mostly against me. Sweat drips from my hair onto my neck. It rolls down my back and into my shorts’ elastic.
My friend chatted more than usual with our senior. They had exchanged some music. I heard of their wooing. Another told me of the caresses of her partner. I was surprised. They were fast. My juniors followed suit. I heard of the great ‘love stories’ of my seniors, the elders, the teachers, almost everyone had a story, except me. It was ‘love story’ saturation. Then I seemed to hear no more. I only saw: how my friends all left single hood and me far behind. It felt lonely. Of course, I had Gandhi, Renoir and Satyajit Ray, the praise of my teachers and the proud look in my parents’ eyes.
Then I saw the young man with the big biceps, the charismatic one and the one who always looked irascible. They made me want the impossible. I dreamt in vain. I didn’t feel lonely for a while. But it actually worsened. Soon Desirafe was born, so was Angus.
Shakespeare wasn’t a friend anymore. The ‘real’ world seemed to strike back with a vengeance, a lonely fish out of bookish water. It was Guilome’s birth. The boys selling shiny flying toys on the road get in the way. The men and women out on a stroll gape open-mouthed. The dogs are unaffected. My calves tighten.
Guilome and Desirafe were fed by silence and more of Guilome and Desirafe. It was like a dumping ground, an endless landfill which threatened to explode one day. The assigned project lay untouched. The TV was blaring, the women dancing and the men singing. The couple was talking sweet nothings, the camera on a soft-focus mode. The ants crawled to a presenter’s voice, it was some exotic island. A pact was signed amidst much controversy and heated discussion. Then it all went blank and silent, or rather blue. Nothing seemed interesting anymore. What a sheer waste of fifty minutes. Desirafe sighed, grumbled. Guilome screamed. Nothing can be done now, it’s too late. My feet keep moving. My mind keeps racing.
Wednesday’s newspaper had an article on relationships. Young couples, changing trends in society: ignorance, precociousness, the influence of the media, the ever-alluring West. Also, Saif Ali Khan had changed his girl friend, so had some cricketer. My friend gave me a call. She was going out with her boyfriend. She wouldn’t be free this weekend to hang out with. I called another friend. She seemed to have the same story. I cycled down to the coffee joint. It was yet hot in August and the traffic hadn’t changed one bit. The coffee prices had increased by 5 rupees. Damn the inflation. And why did they keep a table for two when I was alone? Why not for singletons? What’s wrong with the world? What’s wrong with me? I moved out of there before I beat up someone or show a finger. Desirafe was hungry, growling and ready to taste blood. Instead I taste my sweat which runs down my nose into my open mouth. I’m gasping for breath. My stomach is cramped. I need air. My legs are yet moving.
Loser was a household word for me. Angus ruled my life. Guilome and Desirafe fed off me. I felt Desirafe on my lips, on my stomach, sliding down my back. He was all over me. The attacks were worst at night. I woke up feeling tired and helpless. “Desirafe, Desirafe” that’s all I could hear, think of, want and feel. I wanted to kill Desirafe. Then probably Guilome and Angus would also die a natural death. I needed to find Desirafe outside me to destroy him. I can see the end. The rounds are over. I stop and double up. My t-shirt is drenched.
I’ve to pay the tuition fees. The bank loves to torture people in the afternoon, making them stand in long queues at 2pm. The fan near the main counter is out of service. The windows are small and the panes are broken. This is the side effect of higher education. I look around for familiar faces. I’m too early as usual. My friends are a lazy lot. They love the thrill of the last moment. I spot a tall guy with a goatee. I don’t know him, maybe he’s new.
The next week I see the goatee chap again. Our eyes meet. He smiles and I respond. A few days later I know him as Alberto. Months pass. I know the time has come when at last I taste blood. It is the blood of Desirafe. A great relief courses through my entire body. I’ve found Desirafe outside me in Alberto.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
MAKING ROBOTS OUT OF CHILDREN
The latest quiz show to come up in India after Kaun Banega Crorepati (KBC) is Kya Aap Paanchvi Paas Se Tej Hain? Its savvy, well marketed, has the desirable Shah Rukh Khan at the helm as host and a bunch of smart kids. The entertainment factor is undoubtedly strong; Khan is doing a good job, adding warmth and fun to the show. His charm is unmistakable: the Don act, the Om Shanti Om references. It seems all in place. Five crores is the winner’s booty, and though most loose, they at least get to take home a few thousands or lakhs, which is commendable. The show poses as an effort to increase general knowledge and encourage children to study. Many are hooked to their TV sets like couch potatoes and in return they get entertained by Khan and learn a few things like Brihaspati is the largest planet in our solar system. But is the show really about learning and education? Doesn’t it seem to be doing more harm to the viewer than good, especially to children?
The questions asked in the show seem meaningless general knowledge; more than that it seems to encourage rote learning by placing five children who seem to have mugged up their whole syllabus in school like good parrots. It is known that TV programs and the elitist position it holds in Indian society is worshipped by most middle class Indians. Children seem to be the worst affected. Advertisements only add to their greed and consumerist urges. What this new game show seems to be doing is encouraging children to be walking memory boxes, replete with unnecessary information like who was the ruler of England when the Capital of India was shifted from Delhi to Calcutta. Is it necessary for children to know this kind of meaningless information, or is it more important to inculcate in them from grade one itself the ability to think independently, originally and ask questions. Shouldn’t creativity be given more importance over empty GK? This show will spark off many encyclopedias in our country, many wannabe quiz masters without a mind of their own. The young ones will mug and memorize because it will be cool to know more, and not because of an urge to know more. Children will want to ape the role models- the five kids on the show- placed before them. What more, it will give more reason to old-fashion teachers and educational institutions to impose rote learning, to cram more for exams, fatiguing and killing the inquiring mind of the child. Indian parents who seem endlessly after their kids to excel academically will also get a chance to push their children further, at times with dire consequences.
By bringing in five fifth graders, the show seems to be committing one more faux pas. The children on the show are perceptibly grown-up, far beyond their age. Their behavior seems artificial, a construct of the self. They are not themselves- natural, spontaneous, innocent children. They speak like grown ups, their actions and body language is that of an adult. One has to just watch their hand movements and their answers to their hobbies to be shocked and pitiful towards them. The children have lost their innocence and childhood. It is true that in all reality shows, the self is always constructed. It is natural to build an image of oneself when in front of the camera. Everyone does it from stars to actors to politicians. Very few are free from the trappings of projecting the other rather than the self to the world. Why blame these children then? The reason is that again, the children who are watching the show will be under the illusion that this is the way to be. They will take artificiality to be the order of the day. Their role models will be children who have been taught to act grown up, to give smart answers, to reject spontaneity. A normal child uncorrupted by the crooked ways of the adult world will enjoy her/his play, her/his creative pursuits and her /his mischief. She/he will not think of impressing others by dancing Dard-E-Disco like Shah Rukh Khan. We might be adversely affecting a whole generation of children through this construction of the desirable Indian Child.
What Taare Zameen Par strove to do for children and education is continuously being undone by this game show and by most advertisements featuring children. The culture of superficial success and behavior is hegemonic. It is infiltrating slowly, almost unperceived through mass culture. Now, it has become so natural that anything other than that seems queer, weird, out of place. Resistance to this hegemony is weakened because of the worship of the elite in India. A critical approach to all mass culture products has now become necessary. Resistance from the yet uncorrupted is required, without which mindless superficial robots will rule.
The questions asked in the show seem meaningless general knowledge; more than that it seems to encourage rote learning by placing five children who seem to have mugged up their whole syllabus in school like good parrots. It is known that TV programs and the elitist position it holds in Indian society is worshipped by most middle class Indians. Children seem to be the worst affected. Advertisements only add to their greed and consumerist urges. What this new game show seems to be doing is encouraging children to be walking memory boxes, replete with unnecessary information like who was the ruler of England when the Capital of India was shifted from Delhi to Calcutta. Is it necessary for children to know this kind of meaningless information, or is it more important to inculcate in them from grade one itself the ability to think independently, originally and ask questions. Shouldn’t creativity be given more importance over empty GK? This show will spark off many encyclopedias in our country, many wannabe quiz masters without a mind of their own. The young ones will mug and memorize because it will be cool to know more, and not because of an urge to know more. Children will want to ape the role models- the five kids on the show- placed before them. What more, it will give more reason to old-fashion teachers and educational institutions to impose rote learning, to cram more for exams, fatiguing and killing the inquiring mind of the child. Indian parents who seem endlessly after their kids to excel academically will also get a chance to push their children further, at times with dire consequences.
By bringing in five fifth graders, the show seems to be committing one more faux pas. The children on the show are perceptibly grown-up, far beyond their age. Their behavior seems artificial, a construct of the self. They are not themselves- natural, spontaneous, innocent children. They speak like grown ups, their actions and body language is that of an adult. One has to just watch their hand movements and their answers to their hobbies to be shocked and pitiful towards them. The children have lost their innocence and childhood. It is true that in all reality shows, the self is always constructed. It is natural to build an image of oneself when in front of the camera. Everyone does it from stars to actors to politicians. Very few are free from the trappings of projecting the other rather than the self to the world. Why blame these children then? The reason is that again, the children who are watching the show will be under the illusion that this is the way to be. They will take artificiality to be the order of the day. Their role models will be children who have been taught to act grown up, to give smart answers, to reject spontaneity. A normal child uncorrupted by the crooked ways of the adult world will enjoy her/his play, her/his creative pursuits and her /his mischief. She/he will not think of impressing others by dancing Dard-E-Disco like Shah Rukh Khan. We might be adversely affecting a whole generation of children through this construction of the desirable Indian Child.
What Taare Zameen Par strove to do for children and education is continuously being undone by this game show and by most advertisements featuring children. The culture of superficial success and behavior is hegemonic. It is infiltrating slowly, almost unperceived through mass culture. Now, it has become so natural that anything other than that seems queer, weird, out of place. Resistance to this hegemony is weakened because of the worship of the elite in India. A critical approach to all mass culture products has now become necessary. Resistance from the yet uncorrupted is required, without which mindless superficial robots will rule.
DROWNED
Two leaves marooned at sea,
Old, jaundiced, crispy,
Cradled by waves, and with
Lullabies by gulls and sea birds.
Awoke.
“Hey you, how did you get here?”
“Huh?!”
“Silly old fool, right in the middle of the ocean
What do you think of yourself?”
“???”
“I say…”
Words swallowed by oil spill, fishing net.
One leaf marooned at sea,
Alone, old, jaundiced, crispy,
Silent.
Lullabies by gulls and sea birds,
Slept.
Old, jaundiced, crispy,
Cradled by waves, and with
Lullabies by gulls and sea birds.
Awoke.
“Hey you, how did you get here?”
“Huh?!”
“Silly old fool, right in the middle of the ocean
What do you think of yourself?”
“???”
“I say…”
Words swallowed by oil spill, fishing net.
One leaf marooned at sea,
Alone, old, jaundiced, crispy,
Silent.
Lullabies by gulls and sea birds,
Slept.
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