Poornima Manco

Author

behaviour

Filling the well

by

 

Exhaustion is a common complaint amongst writers. We are inveterate over-thinkers, tinkering with ideas, analysing themes, past failures and successes, grappling with the imposter syndrome, and never giving our minds the rest they deserve.

This month has been particularly trying for me. Having just released my novel, I’ve worried over it like a fledgling. Will it survive? Will it be well received? What if all that time and effort was for nothing? What if everyone just hates it? Needless to say, it’s doing fine. But I’m so wrung out, I just can’t seem to move forward. Deadlines are looming, but I’m languishing in a state of motionless ennui.

Not all of it is book related. Covid is rampaging through India once again, and I agonize over the state of the country and my near and dear ones. My father, who is still a practicing GP, is older and vulnerable and not very well right now. I think the worst, then check myself. No amount of doom-scrolling or imagining the worst-case-scenario will help, so I try to think positively, praying for the best possible outcome. As do so many of us at a time like this.

Another thing that gnaws at me is book related. It’s silly, but sometimes the people you expect to get whole-hearted support from (friends or family members) are indifferent to your efforts. Aside from a breezy “Oh, good job!” they have barely acknowledged that for me, this is a big deal! But hey ho. On the flip side, I’ve had the most unexpected people step forward and celebrate me. Makes me realise the adage is true – when a door closes, a window opens elsewhere.

In all of this, I’ve felt very depleted… unable to focus on writing with my mind gnawing over all sorts. I feel like giving myself a kick up the a**e! However, I know also that once I’ve finished wallowing, I’ll get back up and get back to the writing. From listening to many writer podcasts, I’ve realised that I’m not alone in feeling alone on this journey. At least I have a handful of people who have supported me through thick and thin. They may not be the ones I expected, but I’m so grateful they exist! So many writers carry on in the face of opposition and indifference and barely any support. My little family, my small group of avid readers and the few friends who have stood like rocks by my side, are more than most people get.

Yet, this listlessness overpowers me.

I’m unable to concentrate on reading, picking up and abandoning books carelessly. To refill that well of inspiration, I’ve watched many movies. One that caught my fancy was ‘Ajeeb Daastaans’. Four vignettes, four stories that show the various aspects of India, each of these tales had a little twist at the end. To me, it felt like I was watching one of my stories on screen. The response they evoked in me was the very response I’ve wanted from my reader. A sense of awe, of disbelief, of “how did I not see that coming?”

Yes, watching this on Netflix has lit a tiny spark within me. I need to get back to writing, just for the pure joy of it. What does it matter if no one reads it? Who cares if they think this a passing fancy, or I’m some kind of fraud parading around as an author? I know how much I love creating these worlds and these characters, and surely that’s all the recompense I need?

Last week I was invited to judge a poetry competition at my school in India via a Zoom call. Reticent to begin with, I finally agreed, remembering what I was like at age 16, and how, back then, I dreamt I would one day be sitting in a judge’s seat. To a teenager, that seemed like an immense honour. Naturally, age and experience have taught me that judging someone’s work is an incredibly arduous task. I tried to be fair and comprehensive. These young teens had poured so much of themselves into their poems, that it seemed almost cruel having to grade them. When I read out the results online the following day, I resorted to that old chestnut – “To me, you are all winners”. In truth, they all were. Perceptive, evocative and compelling, their creativity shamed me into acknowledging my own lack of drive. In my analysis of their work, I hope they took away some valuable lessons. But I took away far more.

Finally, even as I contended with my unproductive and spent state, a conversation about aging produced an incredibly poignant poem from my daughter. The context was how we view aging in physical terms – the wrinkles, the grey hair, the slowing down of the body. But a lot of it is about losing that vibrancy of youth, of the light within us slowly dimming until it eventually flickers out.

Surrounded by all this creativity, I have no excuses to fall back upon. I need to get back to my writing.

Here is the poem. I hope you enjoy it.

FLOWERS

I love you so much, I’m

so scared to see you grow

watch my vision of you

fade away, the petals

of your personality

starting to wilt

the vibrancy in your

eyes, dim

it’s all beautiful, but

that doesn’t make it

easy

call me selfish, I want

you to stay as you are,

always

with me

(MM)

 

What’s in a name?

by

Shakespeare once asked this question through the young heroine of his tragedy, ‘Romeo and Juliet’.

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.”

Indeed, a person’s worth cannot be measured by a name alone. In his tale of star-crossed lovers, Shakespeare was highlighting the ridiculousness of a generations-old feud between the Montagues and the Capulets. Juliet loved Romeo for who he was, and if not for his name, they could have lived happily ever after.

While I completely endorse Shakespeare’s line of thought, I must add my own two pennies’ worth here. You see, a name might not be everything, but it certainly is something.

Take the example of the actress Thandiwe Newton. After thirty years of being credited as Thandie Newton in her films, thanks to an erroneous acting credit that dropped the ‘w’ from her name, anglicising it in the process, she has reclaimed her name. Yes, she wants to be known as Thandiwe henceforth, and more power to her!

You see, names are deeply personal things. They have the weight of history and identity, of familial love and cultural coherence behind them. And as such, it is nearly impossible to divorce the self from the name. Unless you really, really hate it. Then you can have it changed by deed poll.

Take my name: Poornima.

When my mother chose this name for me, there was a lot of love, but there was also a significance there. She was from the South of India, from Kerala, to be precise. Hence, my name has the South Indian spelling of the two ‘o’s. In the North of India, my name would have been spelt as Purnima. The meaning is also one that connects me to her in a beautifully intimate way. Her name was Chandra, which meant the moon. Mine means ‘a full-moon night’. I love my name. It’s a tough one to pronounce, and an even tougher one to abbreviate, but it’s my name!

For nearly half my life, I’ve heard my name mangled beyond belief. From Purneema, to Poormeena, from Pooh to Poo, I’ve heard it all. I refuse to let it upset me. In fact, I find it laughable, because in the West, no one really bothers to ask – “Am I pronouncing this correctly?” Laziness and a comfortable sense of superiority allow them to anglicise anything unfamiliar. But woe betide anyone who can’t pronounce a ‘Sarah’ or a ‘Genevieve’!

Indian names aren’t the easiest to pronounce, I’ll accept that happily. But did you know just how much a name can reveal about a person? For instance, a name can tell you which part of India the person belongs to, drilling it down to state, religion and sometimes, even caste. Not always a good thing, but there you have it.

I can’t claim to understand every type of name that exists, or the connotations that go along with it, but I always try. Just making the effort is enough for the other person to cut you some slack if you get it wrong.

Which is why I insisted upon the constant mispronunciation of my protagonist’s name in my latest book, ‘A Quiet Dissonance’. Anu is short for Anupama, but everyone except her Indian family and friends call her ‘Anoo’. There is no emphasis on the ‘u’, but the ‘oo’ elongation of her name is just a symptom of the many tiny little misunderstandings that make up her story.

My editor and beta readers asked me why I insisted on keeping this little, seemingly irrelevant, detail in the book. But how could I not? To me it was symptomatic of a larger issue. One in which a compromise of identity takes place at every juncture in the character’s life. She accepts that to belong; she needs to let them pronounce her name in whichever way they deem easy.

You could accuse me of the same.

 

Trust

by

Val stumbled through the labyrinthine lanes, partially blinded by her tears. Mid-afternoon light filtered through the roof slats of the souk, lighting up the odd piece of jewelled glassware. Hamsas glinted everywhere, open palms offering benediction; the aroma of heavy spices lingered in the air; tourists and locals jostled through the scrum while a cat licked its hind paw. A man ejected a stream of red spittle into a spittoon, and a group of abaya-clad women watched as she blundered past them.

Why had she come here? What had made her rush to this chaotic market when the last thing she needed was noise and confusion? Yet, she walked on unseeing, as voices called out to her, extolling the virtues of their wares.

“Come, come. I give good price, lady.”

“Some babouches for your pretty feet?”

“Cactus flowers, hammam soap, argan oil…”

Shukran and Marhaba hung in the air like two scythes. Streets turned into lanes, packed with tiny shops that seemed to tilt inwards, as though conspiring to collapse on her, burying her alive under stacks of leather goods, lanterns and tagine pots.

Her breath came out in shallow little gasps, and a shiver ran through her. It was hot – a thirty degrees day – but she felt cold, goosebumps lining her arms like little sentinels.

A sudden thirst took hold of her, tears receding as a more elemental want asserted itself. Water, she needed water. But where could she find it here, in this maze of colour and commotion?

She halted, generating a few exclamations as the family trailing behind bumped into her. Apologising, she stepped aside, letting them pass.

Where was she? How long had she been wandering? Would she ever find her way out of this place?

A young man came up to her. Acid-washed jeans and a stubbled face.

“You want carpet?”

“Water.”

“I take you best place. Orange juice. Best in Morocco.”

“Just water.”

“Come, come. I take you.”

She followed him as he snaked his way through the crowds and tangled alleys, whistling a cheery tune.

He brought her to a stall stacked with oranges, grapefruits and lemons, bunches of bananas hanging on either side. The stall owner and her self-appointed guide had a brief chat and a laugh. She spotted a bottle of water behind the owner and pointed to it, but he was already preparing her juice. The guide took a tip larger than the cost of the orange juice. Bemused, she handed over the dirhams, which he pocketed as he disappeared back into the throng.

Ambrosia-like, the liquid quenched her thirst and brought her to her senses. A prayer call from the mosque rang out, and she looked up at the stall owner, who shrugged and made her another fresh juice.

This time she ambled with purpose, stopping now and then to examine a lamp or a piece of jewellery. There was no rush to return, no one to return to. Twenty-four hours had robbed her of certitude and replaced it with the bitterness of betrayal.

She watched the henna lady painting an intricate pattern on the Dutch woman’s hand as her husband commented in guttural tones.

“You want?” The eager young assistant offered to paint her hand, but Val demurred, moving on. A street urchin slammed into her before racing off into a narrow by-lane. The sun had lost its glare, and the air took on a cooler aspect.

Val tried retracing her steps.

Where had she gone wrong? Why hadn’t she seen it coming? How could she have been so naïve, so trusting?

Fatima’s hands beckoned to her from a shop wall. Ward off the evil eye and repel bad luck. Maybe she needed a hamsa now more than ever.

The grizzled old man hunched over in the shop barely glanced up as she stopped to examine his vendibles. There were so many varieties of the talisman: from metallic to ceramic, coloured to camel-bone.

“Which… uh… is best?” She spoke haltingly, unsure of how much English he understood.

He stared at her from under his bushy eyebrows and wiggled his forefinger at the wall.

“All good. Hand of Fatima protect the innocent. Allah eye watch over the pure.”

Val picked out a simple carved camel-bone necklace.

“I’ll take this one.”

She reached into her pocket for the wallet, only to find nothing.

“Oh.”

Colour drained from her face at the realisation of her loss.

The old man shuffled over to her and took the talisman out of her hand, replacing it with a silver one, a turquoise stone in its centre.

“Bismillah.”

She looked at it in wonder.

“May Allah keep you,” he mouthed before sitting back down on his haunches.

Her feet took her home of their own accord.

The value of self-esteem

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I’ve often talked about the ill effects of social media – the addiction, the need for outside validation, the mental health issues, the ‘all that glitters isn’t gold’ aspect etc. But recently I stumbled upon yet another disturbing trend. Young girls filming/photographing themselves in their underwear/bikinis purportedly to support a body-positive movement.

Now, I’m a strong advocate of women of all ages and sizes being comfortable in their own skin, and I will shout it from rooftops if need be. I believe that every woman should have the right to wear what she wants, as long as she is comfortable with the sort of attention it attracts. However, flaunting one’s body on a public platform to elicit the approval of strangers, is where I draw the line.

Firstly, there is the safety aspect of it. How can one monitor who is watching/downloading these pictures? Where are these pictures being circulated? How are they being perceived? Secondly, there is the sleaze factor. To a young woman, body acceptance by way of photographing herself may seem to be progressive and life-enhancing, to the two-bit scumbag salivating over them, it’s just another way to jerk off. Sorry about the imagery! But there is no other way to spell it out clearly.

What has happened to our social fabric where it has become perfectly acceptable to derive one’s self-worth from the most shallow of sources? Yes, it’s wonderful to be young and beautiful and to enjoy the spring of one’s lifetime. But if acceptance of one’s self hinges on what other people think, then what happens when that body changes through life, childbirth, disease, accident or ageing?

Isn’t it time that we taught our children that self-worth and self-esteem need stronger roots than just body acceptance? Values such as humility, charity, empathy and forgiveness, character traits such as determination, resilience, patience and fortitude, are purer sources of self-love than any amount of pouting and preening before a camera lens can be.

Healthy self-esteem needs a healthy wellspring, and that can only come from working upon what lies inside. Yes, outside packaging matters, but only up to a point. If you unwrap a beautiful parcel and find it filled with junk, what are you likely to do?

The pitfalls of social media are well documented, but the insidious nature of its erosion of our children’s values and self-worth will have far-reaching consequences unless we start to combat it now. But first, we need to turn that mirror towards ourselves and look at where we are investing our time and teachings. It isn’t too late to steer our children away from conversations about their bodies, to conversations about their minds and souls. Perhaps then, they will realise that the value of self-esteem is far greater than the cost of self-doubt.

Invisible

by

Am I invisible

Because I am old?

Does my grey hair, my wrinkles, my painful joints

Deny me the wisdom of my years?

 

When I was young

You saw me

My hair was like spun gold

My body agile, fertile

 

But my mind was impetuous

Uninformed

Feckless

Reckless

 

Yet, housed as it was

In that body

You listened

You heard

 

Now I know

So much more

Life has taught me

Patience, gratitude, forbearance

 

I could tell you to

Slow down

Take a breath

Think a bit

 

That life is

Accumulated

Through moments that pass

Much too quickly

 

That being present

For yourself

For those you love

Is the most important task

 

That sometimes difficult days

Are given to us as an exam

To teach and test

And pass we will

 

That boredom is

The providence

Of the very fortunate

As is leisure

 

That failure

Is far better

More virtuous

Than regret

 

Would you listen though?

Or, would my words

Pass through you

Like milk through a sieve

 

Has age no meaning

Years no gravitas

Experience no value

Sagacity no usefulness?

 

Because here I sit

In a crowd

Of young ones

And no one hears my voice.

Parasite

by

Last night I sat and watched ‘Parasite’ again. Yes, the same Korean film that won the Oscar this year and what a fitting winner it was too. The first time I’d seen this movie on a plane headed to India, and been shaken to the core by it. This multi-genre marvel with themes that intersected and overlapped, left me awed by its sheer complexity, by how black humour segued seamlessly into social commentary and the inevitable tragedy at the end. How, at the very heart of it and despite all indications to the contrary, Bong Joon-ho’s film was about hope. Hope itself being a double-edged sword with its capacity to wound and destroy.

Before you proceed any further, please be warned that this blog post contains many spoilers. So, if you haven’t seen the film yet and don’t want any details revealed in advance, go ahead and surf away.

As a writer, I am an avid consumer of content from various media. It enriches and informs my own work in many many ways. However, a particular quirk of mine is the inability to shut off the analytical side of my brain which sifts through everything to understand themes and patterns, their usage towards building a story and achieving the desired climax. Bong’s extraordinary talent lies in the layering of multiple ideas with a single motif as the objective.

Layers of society are portrayed in the three families depicted in the film. The Parks are representative of the wealthy upper classes, living in airy open-space mansions with chauffeurs and housekeepers at their disposal, the ability to hire tutors or buy foreign goods and toys for their children and organise picnics and parties on a whim. They are the aspirational top tier of society. Nice and naive – both because of the advantages that wealth affords them.

The Kim family, on the other hand, live in a small semi-basement apartment typical of the poorer sections of the Korean suburbs. They drift from job to job, subsisting on minimum wage, eager to grasp at any opportunity that comes their way. It is no wonder then that they have no compunctions about worming their way into the employment of the Parks, using underhand means, replacing the previous employees through a combination of lies, fraud and deceit.

Bong’s treatment of the two families is even-handed. Each is a victim of their circumstances, each believes themselves to be functioning in exactly the way they should be given their station in life.

It’s when a third family is added to the mix that things begin to get muddier. If it is at all possible, there is a tier that lies even below that of the poverty inhabited by the Kims. It is that of the previous housekeeper Moon-gwang’s husband, Geun-sae, who has lived in an underground bunker beneath the Parks’ house, not having seen sunlight in four years.

When the bottom two tiers clash, there is no honour amongst thieves. Each is capable and more than willing to destroy the other in a race for survival, while the top tier remains oblivious to the internecine wars beneath them. This fundamental disconnect is once again underlined in the conversation that Mrs Park has with a friend inviting her over for an impromptu party on their lawns, commenting on how lush and green it is after a night of unprecedented rainfall that (unknown to her) has flooded the Kims’ semi-basement with sewage, making it completely uninhabitable.

The differences are little and large, setting each group apart from the other. From housing to food to body odour, each signifies a societal placement several rungs afar. Can these distances be traversed? Can the scholar’s rock presented to the Kim family bring them the wealth it promises?

Hope drives the film to its conclusion, even as tragedy unfolds on the lawns of the beautiful Parks’ home. In an unexpected twist, Mr Kim drives a knife into Mr Park, a knee-jerk reaction to the lack of respect that has underscored every perfectly civil interaction of theirs. A fundamental disrespect for those that lie below, even while they serve, accommodate and aim to please. Mr Kim’s escape into the bunker previously inhabited by Geun-sae is his falling even deeper into the squalor and ignominy that he has tried so hard to climb out of. His son, Ki-woo’s dreams of being wealthy enough to someday buy the same house and rescue his father from its depths, are a painful reminder that while hope can fuel a fantasy, the daily grind of poverty will irrevocably douse those flames.

The ultimate question is: who is the parasite? Geun-sae who survives on the food secreted to him by his housekeeper wife, the Kim family who aspire to a larger share of the proverbial pie, or the Parks who cannot live without the labours of those who wait upon them?

In the end, we are all parasites in one way or another. But hope is the largest parasite of all, for it feeds upon so much, offering so little in return.

Watch this wonderful film, if you haven’t already! If you have, let me know what you thought in the comments below.