Poornima Manco

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What next?

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Two deaths have shaken me enormously in the last fortnight. It has led me to once again question why humanity is plumbing new depths. Why life is not sacred and death can spawn such vitriol.

 

(i)

I was away on holiday when the Florida school shooting happened. It was just another news item, and I read through it quickly, consigning it to the pile of mass shootings that have become too passé to even comment on. Tragic, preventable and a waste of life are thoughts that flitted through my mind as I moved on to the next news item.

It’s only when I returned home to discover that one of the girls murdered that day was a colleague’s daughter that it really hit home.

Let me explain: It’s all too easy to become inured to tragedy. After all, tragedy surrounds us everyday in so many guises. If we let everything get to us, we would be emotional wrecks unable to function. Therefore, as a coping mechanism, we start to build walls around our hearts, allowing few things to truly penetrate and hurt. This way, we function and also help where we can, in whatever way possible, without any emotional entanglement with the cause.

However, now and again, when something like this happens, one is shaken to the core. Gina Montalto was not just a colleague’s daughter, she was also the same age as my daughter. Suddenly I was one with her parents. Feeling their earth shattering grief as my own, asking the same question as them, “Why?!!”

How is it that a nineteen year old teenager cannot buy alcohol in America, and yet is able to go out and buy a semi-automatic weapon with the sole purpose of killing and maiming? Is life really so cheap that to this day the NRA (National Rifle Association) refuses to allow the law to be changed in any way, to make procurement of these weapons more difficult? Is it easier to arm the teachers than to disarm the potential killers? Are thoughts and prayers the only feeble platitudes we can offer?

It is laughable that providing teachers with weapons is seen as an effective strategy. As an interesting meme pointed out, if your child hits another with a stick, would you take the stick away or provide the other child with a stick too?

Boycotts and protests notwithstanding, real change can only come if the inherent ideology is challenged. For most Americans, ‘the right to bear arms’ is enshrined in the Constitution. As per the Second Amendment, this right allows any citizen to challenge the State if their freedom is threatened. Yet, look at the times this Constitution was written in. Could the Founding Fathers have foreseen how this right has mutated and violated the very freedoms they were trying to protect? How about the right to be able to receive an education without the threat of death looming over children? How about the right to a carefree childhood that does not involve lockdown drills and active shooter awareness in five year olds?

Constitutions are formulated by people. Human, fallible and mortal people. It is for the people of these times to decide what needs retaining, what needs amending and what needs eliminating.

As children all over America start to join the movement, holding up placards that read #MENEXT? , we have to examine our consciences and decide which freedom matters more.

If you would like to donate to the Gina Rose Montalto scholarship fund, please follow the link below:

https://www.gofundme.com/ginamontalto

 

(ii)

On Saturday last week came the devastating news of a young, beautiful and fabulously talented actress Sridevi’s death. First reports indicated that she had died of a cardiac arrest in her hotel bathroom. She was in Dubai to attend her nephew’s wedding, and had seemingly collapsed whilst getting ready for a dinner date with her husband.

At 54, Sridevi was still in her prime. After a hiatus of fifteen years, she had returned to Indian cinema in a triumphant comeback vehicle, ‘English Vinglish’. She was very selective about the films she was choosing in her second innings, and was coming up trumps each time.

Having started her film career at the tender age of 4, she had acted in over 300 films. Straddling South Indian cinema as well as Hindi films successfully, she was widely acknowledged as the first female Superstar of Indian cinema.

Her untimely death came as a huge shock to everyone.

Almost instantaneously the rumour mill went into overdrive. ‘She was too thin’, ‘it was all that plastic surgery’, ‘her heart must have been affected by the number of times she was administered general anaesthetic’, ‘she took far too many diet pills’, ‘she was anorexic’, ‘she exercised too much’, ‘her lip surgery had gone wrong’, ‘she was trying too hard to turn back the clock’ etc etc etc.

Now understandably, people were trying to find a cause that could explain away why a seemingly healthy woman would suddenly die in this manner. Admittedly, a celebrity’s life is public fodder. Yet, this rush to attack, accuse and cast her as the poster girl of vanity was already verging on poor taste. Worse was to come.

The following day it emerged that the cause of death was ‘accidental drowning’.  Traces of alcohol were discovered in her bloodstream. No crime there. Yet, once again, conflicting news stories jostled with each other for top slot. ‘She didn’t drink’, ‘she was an alcoholic’, ‘it was murder’, ‘it was suicide’, ‘she had money troubles’, ‘her husband was in financial ruin’ – gossip, rumours, innuendos, falsehoods and fabrications that not once took into account the feelings of her family, least of all her young, teenage daughters.

Morphed pictures of her in a bathtub were circulated on social media. Overflowing tubs were shown on the news. This was the respect accorded to a woman who had contributed almost her entire life to the film industry?

Even as I write this, I have received three pictures of her dead body, with cotton wool stuck up her nostrils. Enough already!

It’s patently obvious, that we have no respect for human life. Can we not, at the very least, show some respect after death?

An acquaintance of mine who loves Instagram, once posted a blow by blow account of his father’s funeral on there. From the dead body being carried to the pyre, to him setting his father alight, there was no privacy allowed to the departed one. Everything was grist to the mill of his public persona. Was stooping that low really necessary? Were a few hundred likes more important than giving his father the respect he deserved?

Indian media is facing a backlash from the public that has finally woken up to the fact that there is news, and then there is yellow journalism. Screeching tabloids, eyeball grabbing headlines have no place in decent society.

However Sridevi died, the sadness lies in her untimely demise. She had so much more to offer to celluloid, as also to her family.  Instead of ghoulish conspiracy theories, character assassinations and mud slinging, let us celebrate her rich and varied legacy in films. Let her, for goodness’ sake, rest in peace.

For the rest of us, who remain mystified by her death;  remember death is not a mystery. It is a destination. Who knows when our stop arrives?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Imposter syndrome

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Lately there’s been a lot of  “Who, me?” going on in my mind. It has not even been an entire month since I published my book, and the response has been very positive. Much more so than I expected. Particularly as this book was only a proverbial dipping of my toe into publishing waters.

Consequently I have had people asking for the book to be autographed, been called an ‘author’ on a public platform, been asked to hold a book signing event, to donate copies of my books for a charitable cause, to attend a book club meeting to speak about my book, and also an invitation to enter it into an International Book awards competition.

Who, me?????

Now, don’t get me wrong; I have semi-enjoyed all the attention. Secretly, however, I have been unable to shake off the feeling that I am not deserving of it. After all, this slim volume of six short stories is no ‘War and Peace’. Nor is it Shakespeare. A lot of these stories are from very early on in my writing journey, and I know that I have come a fair way since then.

Therefore, I have to wonder if this is some kind of a Tsunami of goodwill that I am witnessing. Colleagues, friends and acquaintances that like me and therefore like my book?

Indie publishing is not an easy task to undertake. It is terribly labour intensive, and for a perfectionist like myself, it means many many sleepless nights. The worst part however, is the marketing side of things. Writers are by nature fairly reclusive people. Even though my friends can vouch for my gregarious and sociable side, they very rarely see the side that just wants to hole up and read or write. So, to actively go out there and promote and advertise my work, has been a very distasteful task.

When the fruits of that labour have started to come in, why am I so meh about it?

I can only put my apathetic response down to the Imposter Syndrome. Defined as a concept describing individuals who are marked by an inability to internalise their accomplishments, and a persistent fear of being exposed as a ‘fraud’.

Yes, me.

The stories are good. I know that. I also know that they are not brilliant. I am not there yet. Hence, all this attention seems overblown and undeserving. That’s the predominant thought in my mind.

On the flip side, I know that this momentum can’t and won’t last. So, why not enjoy it while it does? What’s holding me back?

I dedicated this book to my mother who was my biggest critic and my staunchest advocate while she lived. I often wonder what she would have said, and invariably, this is what I come up with:

Bouquets and Brickbats are par for the course. If you love something, keep on doing it. Give it your best, have no regrets and keep on moving forward, not looking back.

Thank you mummy. That’s exactly what I will do.

 

 

Parvathy’s Well & other stories

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Well- this is it! The BIG announcement.

My very first book of short stories. A taster/tester of sorts.  A book that’s been in the planning for ummmm, let’s see, nearly 10 years! Actually, a lot longer. As a school friend just reminded me, I had dreams of being an author at age 16. So, those dreams have finally come to fruition.

Now, launching this baby has been a whole other ball game. Social media is always a good place to begin. I have an author page set up, and beside a tonne of my friends joining, I’ve also noticed some very suspect people adding themselves to the list. I went and checked one out. When I noticed he couldn’t even spell ‘frend’ right, I did a mental eye roll. It’s very unlikely that these people are actually going to download/buy and read my book. Sigh!

My Instagram author page is no better. When you have a page dedicated to pugs following you, you have to wonder what kind of publicity you are generating!

Never mind.

My hope is that those who DO buy and read my book are not disappointed. It is a serious read, and it may well be for a very niche group. A group that likes literary fiction, and doesn’t mind that the stories are exploratory of the dark side of life.

I hope, that you my dear followers and readers of this blog, are amongst those.

I will post links to finding my book on Amazon. If none of these apply to you, just look for the title of my book or my name on Amazon worldwide. Once you have read the book, please leave a review on Amazon and Goodreads. I am hungry for feedback and honest criticism. I promise to take it on the chin.

Here are the links:

Ebooks at: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B079DGS78P
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B079DGS78P
http://www.amazon.in/dp/B079DGS78P
Paperbacks: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1973299917
http://www.amazon.com/dp/1973299917

Now, don’t all rush out at once…….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patience

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For those of you wondering where I’ve disappeared to, I am still very much around! I have been working on a project that I hope to announce soon, so watch this space….

Needless to say, I am quite nervous about how this will be received. Aside of the time and work I’ve put into it, there is also the apprehension of being in uncharted territory. Without giving too much away, I would like to enlist all you loyal followers to help me out a bit. The hows and the whys I will detail in a later blog post.

Till then, let me reassure you that I am still going to keep blogging about all kinds of things. Just bear with me, till I find my bearings.

 

From Nine to Nought?

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So, as I shared a table at an over crowded gay bar in San Francisco, the German man who had struck up a conversation with my friend, leaned over to me and said, “That is a beautiful colour on you”. He was admiring the tomato red top I had on that evening. I thanked him, and then the conversation veered to where I was from originally. When I said India, he sat back and exclaimed delightedly, “Ah India! Such a beautiful country”. I felt my heart swell with pride till he leaned over once more and asked, “So why don’t Indian women wear sarees anymore?”

Don’t we? I mulled this one over. When was the last time I’d worn a saree? That would be Diwali 2017. That was also the only time in the year I’d worn a saree. I could plead a dozen excuses. After all, the climate in the U.K. doesn’t allow a lot of saree wearing. I lead a very busy life. I travel a lot. The saree is not the most convenient outfit for everyday use. Yet, the sad truth is, I really don’t wear a lot of sarees. Nor do most of my contemporaries.

Trawling through Facebook pictures of some New Year’s Eve party, I was struck by how many overweight Indian women insisted on squeezing themselves into unflattering dresses, when a saree could have covered a multitude of sins, and allowed them to look elegant and beautiful. Instead, there they were, mutton dressed as lamb, wearing mini skirts that displayed wobbly thighs, or halter necks that did little to camouflage their back fat.

Since when did sarees get relegated to fashion oblivion?

Bollywood that sets fashion trends has all its starlets parading on the red carpet in the latest sequinned number from Elie Saab or some such designer. If a mainstream actress decides to wear a saree, she is immediately consigned to the ‘Amma’ (mother) heap. Sarees are passé. They are for the elderly or the behenji (read boring) types. The trendy, modern, fashion forward diva  wouldn’t be caught dead in one. More is the pity.

With a history that dates back to pre BC Indus Valley civilisation, the saree- a single piece of cloth measuring between 5 and 9 yards, has had a rich, varied and symbiotic relationship with the subcontinent. From the multiplicity of its drapes, to its fabrics and designs, it has adorned the female form much longer than most other vestments. Why then, is it so under threat now?

Growing up, all I ever saw my mother wear, were the most exquisite sarees. From Chanderi cottons to Kanjeevaram silks, her wardrobe consisted of a riot of colours, weaves, fabrics and patterns. Her collection of sarees was legendary amongst her peers, and I was constantly reminded how lucky I would be one day to inherit all this. Yet today, those sarees languish in unopened cases, her legacy ignored, if not forgotten entirely.

Is the Indian Saree going the same way as the Japanese Kimono- only to be worn at weddings and special occasions?

My fervent hope is that never happens. The beauty, the elegance and the grace of the traditional attire, the cultural weight it carries, the exoticism it bestows upon its wearer can never be replaced by its western counterpart. There are some incredibly stunning couture dresses out there, but put an Indian woman in a simple khadi saree and watch the transformation.

Designers like Sabyasachi and Ritu Kumar are reinventing the saree for the Millennials. Fashionistas like Sonam Kapoor are donning them with flair at places like Cannes. So, perhaps, the saree isn’t entirely dead? If reinvention is the name of the game, then so be it. Let the saree evolve, but let it survive.

For my part, I intend to dig my mother’s sarees out, and wear them with pride. And as I fold and drape the luxurious silk over me, in some small way I will keep her alive as well.

#MeToo and why this hashtag matters

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Year 2017 saw the birth of a new movement called #MeToo. Right on the heels of the sexual misconduct charges against Weinstein, a feeling of kinship and a need to tell their own stories led to the emergence of this hashtag. #MeToo spoke for women who had buried, suppressed, hidden and suffered their own indignities at the hands of men over the years. A sisterhood that had been bound in chains of silence because of the shame associated with their experiences or the powers that muffled their voices. Not any more.

As #MeToo gained momentum, more stories emerged. Stories of workplace sexual harassment. Stories of sexual assault on women too young to fight back, too scared to speak up, too powerless to defend themselves. Stories of careers sabotaged of those who refused to succumb. From celebrity origins it spread like wildfire with the quotidian accounts of the everywoman. It made news because it shone a light on a disease that a largely patriarchal society had accepted and condoned. ‘Boys will be boys’ no longer washed, and women were fighting their corner with every ounce of outrage they possessed. Hashtag after hashtag proclaimed ‘Me too’. Some simply whispered it, while others detailed the hows, the whens and the ignominy of their experiences being repeatedly ignored.

From someone who has suffered sexual harassment at the hands of men starting from the tender age of eight, I added my voice to the hashtag. It has been many years since the last incident occurred, but I cannot forget the feelings of shame, helplessness and disgust that I felt back then. Why did it stop? Because I moved continents, and started a career path that had women on an equal platform as men. Yet those early incidents left an indelible mark on my psyche.

Being propositioned by a roadside hawker when I was young enough to be his grand daughter. A passerby stopping his vehicle and exposing his genitals as I walked home from school. Being groped in a temple by a stranger. Heavy breathing and threats of rape over the phone by a male classmate. A forty year old friend of my father asking an eighteen year old me to call him directly on his ‘bedroom line’. A superior at work taking advantage of my naiveté and planting an uncalled for kiss on me. Incident after incident that left me feeling violated in a billion different ways.

Each time I wondered why? Had I done something to lead them on? Had I dressed provocatively? Did I come across as sexually uninhibited? Little did I know back then, that women the world over were facing these humiliations and asking themselves the same questions.

Sexual assault or sexual harassment has very little to do with sexual gratification. It is power play, pure and simple. Men, whether they are superior in rank, age, strength or because society deems it so, wield that power over women in every arena, including the sexual one. Not all men, but I’ll come to that later. If a sexual encounter is to be a pleasurable one, it needs to be consensual. Yet consent is something that these men trample all over. They get their kicks through the fear and vulnerability of their victims.

How does one fight back? After all, not only is sexism institutionalised, it is practically an institution in itself. If #MeToo is anything to go by, then joining hands, exposing the perpetrators and standing up for what is right, can be a start. Easier said than done however. Education is the foundation of everything. Education that begins at home and is carried on throughout life. Education that portrays women as equals not to be preyed upon or ill used. Education that is subliminal, ideological, conscious and subconscious. Education in the messages that are given and received from various platforms, be it entertainment or media. Education that emphasises that women aren’t just baby machines or primary caregivers, Madonnas or whores. Education.

Criticisms of #MeToo have been that its ubiquity diluted its message, or that the LGBTQ communities found little or no representation, or that minor misdemeanours were categorised alongside major assaults, and that all men were tarred with the same brush. While there is merit in these accusations, it is important to recognise the spirit behind the movement. For the first time, in a long time, perhaps even since the Suffragette movement of the 1900’s or the feminist movement hitting its stride in 1960’s, were women banding together and calling attention to their respective stories. Change has to begin somewhere and in 2017, it began with one woman saying to another, “Me too”.

Nearing the end of the second decade of the 21st century, one can only hope that more voices chime in to stamp out behaviour that is absolutely abhorrent and unacceptable. Men, good men, who were equally horrified to see the extent of the problem, become a part of the solution. Shut down the locker room talk, stop viewing the female sex as commodities, take responsibility for your actions, and speak up when you see an injustice. Not too much to ask for.

As a mother to two teenage girls, I hope I have planted the seeds of self worth and self respect in them. They have watched the dynamic between my husband and I all their lives. Our roles have been fluid, flexible even, with each of us happy to take on traditional and non traditional parts. We are equals, we are partners and we are immensely lucky to think the same way about gender and equality. Moving forward, I hope my girls and countless others step into a world that is less skewed in favour of men. I hope they never have to encounter abuse or power play, and if they do, they are equipped to fight back and stand their ground.

#MeToo may not be a perfect movement, but it is an important one. By highlighting the extent of the problem, it has called attention to the behaviours that support and perpetrate abuse of power. Important people have lost their jobs and livelihoods because zero tolerance has kicked in. Companies are recognising that this sort of behaviour is unsupportable. Individuals who thought they were above the law, are finding themselves out in the cold.

Just as we take our voting rights or birth control rights for granted today, I hope a day in the not-too-distant future, will see us take our safety in the workplace, our rights over our bodies and swift and immediate punishment for anyone who violates us, for granted as well. Then and only then, can #MeToo die a quiet, acceptable death.

Until then, keep chiming in, keep telling your stories, keep supporting one another. For in numbers lies our strength, and in unity lies our success.

For those who are willing to go a step further to ensure that all voices are heard and there is accountability for all perpetrators, read and contribute to the #TIMESUP movement:

www.timesupnow.com

In solidarity and with respect, #MeToo.