Poornima Manco

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Je suis…..

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Je pense donc je suis (I think therefore I am)- the philosophical statement by René Descartes which has been a fundamental part of Western philosophy, was never more evident than yesterday, with mass vigils held all over in France. People held up placards in support of the slain Charlie Hebdo editor and cartoonists, placards that said ‘Je suis Charlie’ (I am Charlie). As indeed we all are. For if we are not allowed our opinions, our own peculiar devices of reasoning, our ability to rationalise, to satirise, to argue, to lampoon, then how far removed are we from amoebae?

The brutal attack brought into focus the freedom that the Press enjoys. Should this freedom be curtailed? Should fundamentalists be allowed to take away the power of reportage? As cartoonists the Charlie Hebdo journalists had a long convention of dissing authority. In fact, to quote BBC news “Charlie Hebdo is part of a venerable tradition in French journalism going back to the scandal sheets that denounced Marie-Antoinette in the run-up to the French Revolution.” So, all these people were doing was their job. Something that these homegrown fanatics did not find palatable.

Listening to the various debates on the radio and Television, I was struck by the immense courage and resolve shown by the French. This was not just an attack on the Press, it was an attack on their national character. A character that has the tripartite motto- Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité. It made them resolute to never give up on these. They were, in effect, cocking a snook at these terrorists, showing them that they stood in support of their fallen brothers, and the principles they died defending.

But what of the rest of the world?

Will there still be cartoonists brave enough to take on the ire of the radicals? Will there still be journalists willing to be unbiased about Islam? Will this (and all other similar attacks) unleash a different kind of monster, vilifying all Muslims, or will better sense prevail, and people see this for what it is? An ugly, horrific off shoot that has no basis in reality or religion?

That remains to be seen. In the meantime, for each of these murdered journalists, may another hundred stand up and take their place. To send the vermin scurrying back to their holes, reaching for cover, scared of exposure, of public ridicule, of the destruction of their jihad against innocents. For, after all, the pen is mightier than the sword.

🎶 It’s the most wonderful time of the year 🎶

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It’s the most wonderful time of the year
With the kids all-a-yelling
And everyone telling you “Buy another beer”
It’s the most wonderful time of the year

It’s the snap-snappiest season of all
With those holiday greetings and fraught, last minute meetings
that make your skin crawl,
It’s the snap-snappiest season of all

There’ll be parties for hosting
Where friends will be boasting
of their latest gear
There’ll be scary split stories
and a taste of past glories
Of Ex-es long long ago

It’s the most wonderful time of the year
There’ll be much mistletoeing
And smooching and pawing
With colleagues that you mostly ignore
It’s the most wonderful time of the year

With the shops all a-heaving
And pushing and shoving
As old ladies that steer
Those shopping trollies into your rear

It’s the most wonderful time of the year
Credit cards are a-jumping
As wallets are bumping
To buy more good cheer
It’s the most wonderful time of the year

Yes, it’s the most wonderful time of the yearrrrr………

🎶🎶🎶

The mood in Delhi

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This is another short piece I had written a few years ago. Strangely I think it still holds true.

The Mood in Delhi

Delhi, as I knew it, has changed so much in the two decades that I have been away. Yet it never fails to astound me every time I return. This time is no different.

I am a tad worried as we deplane at nearly midnight. “Is it safe to take a taxi?”, I asked my father over the phone. “Yes, as long as it is pre paid”. Strange that I should worry so, considering I have my rather strapping husband and young children with me and am not travelling alone. We have taken taxis from the airport as long as I can remember. However, things have altered dramatically in the last six months. Crime rates have shot up, particularly after the horrific rape of the 23 year old medical student, and the mood is sombre as well as cautious in the city.

We drive home in our luggage laden taxi, encountering a few desultory police check posts along the way. There is still a fair bit of traffic at that hour of the morning. I feel relatively safe, constantly assessing the young driver to see if we could take him on, if the need arose. I have always felt rather churlish on previous occasions refusing to let the driver’s mate ride with us. In hindsight, I am glad. This time, we weren’t asked and I know I would have refused again.

The driver is rather put out that he has to take the longer route to get to our house. The gates leading in are all locked at night, and there is just one way to get in and out. My husband points out that if there was a medical emergency, there is no way an ambulance would make it in.

Our taxi parks outside, and immediately the watchman comes over. He sees us and smiles and nods. Familiar faces that pose no threat. My daughter giggles. At 12 she is taller than him. We find out later that there was a break in next door while he was ostensibly on duty. So much for security.

All night, the locality’s stray dogs bark in a chorus, allowing us very little sleep. My father says this is quite normal. The local stray dogs association has provided them with collars and feeds them regularly. They are rather like the street gangs of East London. No one messes with them.

We acclimatise slowly to the time zone. Delhi is heaving, buzzing, pulsating. People go about their business as usual. Yet I feel there is a definite change in the air. Friends we meet for dinner confirm this. “We rarely travel alone at night anymore”, Manoj volunteers. “It’s just not safe.” There are reports every day of girls being attacked, abducted, raped. The Government makes all the right noises, but very little is being done. The laws are outdated and offer more protection to the perpetrators than the victims.

I am rather sad to see the city of my birth thus reduced. I cannot wait to leave. Albeit, a piece of my heart stays behind.

Pondicheri vs Puducherry

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When I first displayed an interest in writing, my father tried to steer me towards travel writing, a genre I was not very interested in. Later in life, with the amount of travelling I had done, he once again exhorted me to try my hand at it. A couple of years ago I did. This is the outcome:

Pondichéri vs Puducherry

The stench of the fish market assails one’s senses immediately. My twelve year old gags and steps back. My nine year old is fascinated and wanders curiously through the stalls displaying a variety of raw, freshly caught fish, all ready to be filleted to the customer’s satisfaction. The fisherwomen plying their wares chat, happily oblivious to the heat or the smell. It is 38c and we are in the Tamil quarter of Puducherry, India.

What a contrast this is to the French quarter by the sea front. There, the wide boulevards, the mediterranean structures, and the freely spoken French harken back to a different era, when Pondichéri was governed by the French. We are staying at a small boutique hotel in the heart of the French quarter. Last night’s dinner was rounded off by the best creme brûlée we have eaten outside of France.

Right now, we are being urged forward by my intrepid husband. We are in the fruit market, and I stop to watch a man cut open a jackfruit the size of a mammoth baseball. He holds it between his legs and plunges the knife in swiftly, yanking back, cleaving through the hard skin to reveal the soft fleshy fruit inside. He offers me some. I look at the all flies swarming over the fruit, but take a piece nonetheless. It is as sweet as last night’s dessert, and brings back a whole host of childhood memories.

We weave our way into a flower market. My daughters ask for flowers to put in their hair, as they have seen the local women do. The flower seller shakes her head vigorously to signal no. “Sami”, she says, grinning toothlessly. After a lot of gesticulating, we figure she means that these flowers are only to be offered to the Gods at the temple. The more common place jasmine flowers are for mere mortals. As a peace offering, she gives two little pink buds to my daughters, who accept it cheerfully.

We walk everywhere in Pondy, as it fondly known. Most tourists hire motorbikes or cycles. Hawkers don’t pester you here.They are far too used to seeing foreigners in their midst, and people are happy to let you mind your own business.

We deposit our shoes, and walk barefoot into Aurobindo Ashram. Almost immediately, a sense of calm envelops us. People sit around the flower bedecked samadhi or tomb of Sri Aurobindo, the great yogi philosopher, and his disciple, the Mother, in silence. A wander through the Ashram reveals an impressive array of memorabilia. This is the very soul of Pondicherry, and people flock here from different parts of the world, in search of spirituality. At Auroshikha, we stock up on scented candles and incense sticks.

Once more, however, we are lured back to the hustle and bustle of the street stalls. I want to take some photos to show friends back home. My daughter yanks my arm, and leads me to the fish market. “Mummy”, she says, “I’m hungry. Can we get some smoked salmon please?”, expecting a Waitrose fish counter to fulfil her innocent request. I laugh and hug her close. The fisherwomen smile at us in tacit understanding.

The thing about the thong

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Once upon a time, in a village far far away, there lived a lady with a predilection for thongs. For the uninitiated, these are triangular scraps of material held together with bits of string, that barely cover an interesting bit of anatomy, that we shall call the vajayjay. They are also loosely known as bottom flossers. However, their main attraction is the avoidance of the dreaded VPL.

The aforementioned lady loved her tight white jeans much too much, to wear anything but these under them. She would buy multi packs of them in Marcus and Spartacus, her friendly neighbourhood lingerie store. All was right in the world.

Till, one day, her friend enquired whether she wouldn’t mind loaning her a pair. Loaning? Oh horrors! Who loans bits that cover bits? Particularly her lady garden! No, no. She had spares. She would donate. After all, charity begins at home. And her friend’s home was but two doors away, so technically, it was still home.

Airily, she unfolded one out of the pack. With a benevolent air, she granted them to said friend.

All was right in the world.

A week later, shamefaced friend returned them. Unfolded, unused. Lady was bemused.

“I tried them on”, the friend explained, “But my daughter walked in on me”

“Oh?”, queried the lady.

“She burst into tears”, said friend.

“Whatever for?”

“She said she didn’t think I was one of those women!”

Which left the lady pondering the deeper meaning of the thong.

She concluded: A thong of beauty is a joy forever, but in the end, beauty lies in the eye of the beholder.