Poornima Manco

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Love and Light (with a little bit of bite)

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Recently I had a minor run in with a colleague at work. It really was a silly misunderstanding that we resolved pretty quickly and drew a line under it by hugging and making up. The interesting thing was that neither of us was wrong in our stance, but neither of us was completely right either. Ten years ago, I would have buckled as she is senior to me in age and years of service. However, time and advancing years have taught me to stand my ground and put forth my point of view, but also be willing to listen and give the other person the benefit of the doubt.

I had never been a fan of confrontations. My fallback position had always been to retreat, isolate myself and lick my wounds. Yet, more often than not, that led to a festering resentment inside of me. A feeling of being taken for granted and walked all over.

So, in the last few years I have learned to develop what I call a ‘bite’. It’s not a sharp bite, more like a ‘nip’, but enough to convey the message that although I may be nice and willing to put myself out for you, I will NOT bend over backwards to accommodate your needs, nor will I let you use me as your personal rug.

Believe me, it hasn’t been easy. People get used to ‘you’ being a certain you, so they don’t respond well to a change that alters this version of ‘you’ that they have been used to. Yet, what a world of a difference it has made to my life. No more going to bed rehashing versions of responses I should have given. No more feeling like I have been used once again. It is really quite liberating.

Case in point: the gym that I go to has an ad hoc instructor pop in occasionally to cover the classes of the regular instructors when they are on leave or ill. She has never been overtly hostile towards me, yet instinct has always told me that we will never be best friends. And that’s alright with me. However, recently, she crossed a line during class and I had the age old dilemma of letting it go or speaking my mind. Guess what I chose to do?

So, picture this- A class of mixed abilities and varied age groups gets together to work on their abdomens, posteriors and thigh muscles. This is not a high intensity class. Everyone works to their level. This is also a class with various ethnicities with the majority being white English, but with a few people of colour, including Indians.

The instructor has half the class doing wall squats and the other half doing planks. With every switchover she increases the time from 15 to 30 to 45 seconds. With every 15 second increment, people start to struggle. Like a drill sergeant she commands, “Keep going! No one stops! This is your body…this is how you will change it!!” So far, so bearable. Just about.

Then, she comes out with the piece-de-resistance. “Just imagine yourselves squatting over a filthy toilet in India. You don’t want to sit on that, do you?” This to the group of women struggling to complete their squats circuit.

I am in the middle of doing my plank and my mind goes into overdrive. My gut is telling me that she is bang out of order. My mind is telling me let it go. She’s not worth my time or energy.

Well, I guess the gut won out.

Straight after the exercise I marched over to her and said, “I think what you said was inappropriate and offensive, particularly as you know that there are several Indian ladies in this class.”

She spluttered out an incoherent explanation about having gone backpacking in India in her teens and her experience there and how she could have mentioned China or Brazil but instead this was the example that had occurred to her. I stayed calm and said that really she shouldn’t have mentioned any country at all. There are other ways to inspire and motivate without resorting to tactics such as these.

The class carried on as normal. I was glad to have said what I did, knowing instinctually that I had done the right thing and my conscience was at peace with me. What surprised me however, was the number of people who came up to me after the class to say how shocked they were with what she’d said and how glad they were that I had addressed it.

My takeaway from this entire episode was that confrontations need not be ugly affairs with accusations, anger, tears and strife. They should really be about addressing the issue at hand, speaking your mind in a respectful manner and walking away if your reasoning falls on deaf ears.

Meekness and humility have been touted as virtues over the years, and no doubt they are. However, in the world we live in, they can also be seen as signs of weakness and be taken advantage of. Therefore, by all means, radiate all the love and light that you possess. Be grateful, be humble, be kind, be approachable but keep those canines sharpened for the rare times you might need them. Trust me, no one will ever walk all over you again.

A cautionary tale

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A colleague mentioned that she wanted to binge watch ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ and I had to advise her that it wasn’t the best approach to watching this series. As gut wrenching and traumatic as it is, I do advise people, particularly women, that they MUST watch it. Just not watch more than one episode at a time.

Margaret Atwood’s dystopic novel written in 1984 has been adapted into a movie before, but this Television series has gone much further than the source material, and filled in the very many blanks between Offred’s departure in the novel to the epilogue of the scholars’ study of the rise and fall of Gilead. Needless to say, the blanks are filled with horrifying details that seem almost designed to shock or manipulate the viewers’ emotions. From the legalised rape, to the forced illiteracy of women, to the subjugation of the wombs of the handmaids and the horror of the colonies, none of the women in this story escape unscathed in the state of Gilead. Yet, as Atwood has repeated in many of her interviews, none of these atrocities are of her imaginings alone. She just had to look at History and  the various forms of torture against women in various ages and various nations, and bring it all together under the umbrella of Gilead.

To those who are unfamiliar with the premise of ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’, simply put, it is the rising of a theocratic state within the United States of America. In a land where population levels have fallen to scarily low levels, a Christian group referring to the Bible as their saviour, plot and overthrow the government, establishing the Commanders as the supreme rulers of the land. The Commanders are all male, their wives the blue robed aristocracy reduced to playing the role of consorts, yearning for the fulfilment of the biological destiny that has been denied to their wombs. The handmaids are the fertile women indentured to the different commanders and raped in a ritual ceremony, held down by the wives and penetrated by the husbands. All other women are either Marthas (cooks/cleaners/general dogsbodies) or eco wives, married to the men in the lower echelons of power.

Why, you might ask me, should one watch something this horrifying or depressing? Well, aside of the fact that it is brilliant television- the writing, the casting, the acting- it also serves as a cautionary tale to those of us who are complacent in the face of all that is wrong today.

Only a hundred years ago, women suffragettes were fighting for votes in Britain. Over two hundred years ago, women in the West were still considered mens’ chattel and had no rights to their own lands or property. Women in Saudi Arabia have only just begun to drive legally, and women and children in Afghanistan are still denied an education. Child marriage is rampant in many parts of the world and human trafficking, particularly of young women and girls is at epidemic proportions.

Can we, as women, really take our freedoms for granted?

The inherent irony within ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ is that one of the visionaries at the helm, a lead architect of Gilead is herself a woman. A woman who is so convinced of her mission, so immersed in the teachings of the Bible that she constructs the downfall of a state that has enabled her education and her sedition. As soon as Gilead comes into being, she pales into insignificance and gets relegated to the background. Her intelligence is forgotten and/or deliberately ignored. She is a prisoner of her own making.

It is hard not to see the parallels in today’s world. Governments and leaders that are openly misogynistic are propped up by women who feel they are doing the right and moral thing. Women eroding other women’s rights, supporting laws and lawmakers that are threatened by a woman’s civil liberties, her intelligence, her rights over her womb. But to what end?

‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ might be fiction, but it is fiction rooted in reality. The best kind of fiction always is. It also serves as a warning to those of us who are passive in the face of  the misery of others, secure in our belief that none of it will touch us. We are safe and we are protected. But for how long?

Watch ‘The Handmaids Tale’ and learn how quickly everything can be lost. Watch and learn and absorb the messages within. Watch and learn to fight for not just your own, but others’ rights as well. Or else, in the words of the German Lutheran pastor Martin Niemoller, there will be no one left to speak for you….

 

First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—

      Because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

 

A numbers game

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How do you judge a book? More precisely, how do you assign a number to that judgement? Goodreads asks for a book to be rated between a 1 and a 5 star. But is your 3 star rating the same as mine?

Rating books is so subjective. After all, one man’s meat may very well be another man’s poison. Take Tolstoy’s ‘War and Peace’, a classic by any reckoning. Well, it has 218,196 ratings out of which 6070 people rate it at a 1. A measly 1!! Their reasons being it is bloated, didactic, over long and quite simply boring. I wouldn’t know as I’ve never been brave enough to read it myself.

Let’s take a modern classic- ‘To kill a Mockingbird’ (one of my favourites but admittedly one I read too many years ago) and look at its ratings. It has 3,657,329 ratings out of which 65484 rate it at a 1. Wow! Reading through the 1 star reviews I see racism, white privilege and a skewed view of segregation in the 60’s. One dimensional, poor prose and a lack of self awareness are the other criticisms levelled at it.

So, if one were to rely only on reviews, and if, as most readers do, you only read the 5 star and the 1 star reviews, would you still read these books?

Upon publishing my book, I was so excited to receive my first 5 star rating. Yes, it was from a friend and no doubt there was an inherent bias there, but that did not stop me from savouring the moment. Conversely, my first 3 star rating immediately had me doubting my abilities. It took quite a few ratings to stop me see sawing between joy and despair. I was lucky enough that I did not get any 2’s or 1’s or I might have become suicidal! (Just kidding).

I have to admit to being a generous reviewer. I happily dole out 4 star and 5 star reviews to most books. My reasoning being that I only pick up good books to read. Books that have come to me through recommendation or have won some major awards. However, somewhere behind this also lies the fact that I am aware of how much sweat, blood and tears goes into writing and publishing a book. Therefore, I am naturally inclined to err on the side of generosity. I have only ever rated one book with a 1 star, and that was because it was truly abysmal.

I was approached not too long ago by a self published author who wanted me to read and review his book of short stories. As this is my preferred genre, I agreed happily, only to discover that the entire book was riddled with bloopers. From grammatical errors to idiomatic faux pas to gender anomalies, it was as though it had been through no editing process at all, and had been presented to me in its first draft avatar. I still gave it 3 stars and a subtle nudge to the writer to ahem, make some amendments to his manuscript.

Interestingly enough, I stumbled upon a conversation between a few writers on a forum, who were trying to decide on the protocol of reviewing other people’s work.

Writer 1: “So, what rating do you give them? I mean, I don’t think it’s worth a 5, but maybe a 2 will be too disappointing….”

Writer 2: “Why not a 4 then? That is a good enough compromise. It’s not too low but it’s not the highest.”

Writer 3: “I reserve my 4’s for reeealllly good books. If the book is decent I give it a 3.”

They ultimately decided, in all their wisdom, that fellow writers could be given a 4 as a sign of encouragement and kinship.

This made me look at my own 3’s and think that maybe someone’s 3 was worth my 5, or maybe someone’s 3 was actually worth a 1. Aaaaarrrghhhh!

In the end, does it really matter? What matters is that people read, and they read extensively enough to be able to distinguish between the good, the great, the bad and the truly awful.

As for the ratings, take them all with a pinch of salt. It is only a numbers game after all.

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If you’d like to read my reviews and my book (Parvathy’s Well & other stories) follow the link:

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/38231415-parvathy-s-well-other-stories?ac=1&from_search=true#other_reviews

Can we talk about the R word?

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I was asked recently whether I thought racism had increased post Brexit. That’s a difficult one to answer. You see, one person’s experience cannot comprehensively cover every person’s experience. Yet one person’s experience can provide valuable insight into uncovering a wider, more insidious problem.

Racism is a troublesome word to associate oneself with, whether as a victim or as a perpetrator. I am not talking about the in-your-face skinhead trolls that wear their bigotry like a badge. I am talking about the more common, run-of-the-mill, ordinary, everyday, pedestrian racism that a foreigner is likely to encounter. The one that is impossible to articulate without sounding as though you have a chip the size of a boulder, on your shoulder. Yes, that one.

Let’s begin with the more virulent kind. The kind where hijabs are ripped off women’s heads, where men are beaten up for being the wrong colour, where a child is bullied for his accent… Has that increased? I cannot say for sure, but someone added me to a Facebook group called ‘Worrying signs’ and a skim through its page revealed enough racial hatred to get my stomach heaving.

I guess the question then needs rephrasing to- did it ever go away?

For someone like myself, who grew up in India, I had only known of racism in an academic way, as something that happened to other people in other countries. When I moved to the UK, and lived in an Asian area, I didn’t encounter it for obvious reasons. In my job, there was such a mix of backgrounds, ethnicities, religions and colours, that discrimination really had zero chance of flourishing.

My first encounter with racism came when I moved to a predominantly white area. At that time, I would have been hard pressed to describe it exactly so. One time, I was sat in a pew in the church, waiting for an Easter performance featuring the school my daughter attended. Not a single person came and sat next to me, despite it getting quite busy in there. Not one person. All sorts of thoughts went through my head. Did I smell? Was I difficult to converse with? Was there something wrong with me?

Over time, it became apparent that this was not an isolated incident. I was often treated as a pariah in the school playground. If I made any attempt at socialising, I was tolerated but rarely welcomed. People were polite, but nearly always, I stayed on the peripheries. Marginalised and largely ignored.

Was this racism I asked myself? After all, no one was being abusive or horrid. No one had mentioned colour, or asked me to go back to where I came from. So, what was it then? Was it me?  Was there something fundamentally wrong with me?

When one is educated, fluent in the language and reasonably assimilated into the culture, it is doubly shocking to discover that none of that matters. All that matters is your colour.

I have heard it said that India is amongst the worst countries when it comes to discrimination. After all, we have the caste system. We have the huge inequities that exist between the rich and the poor. We also have the multiple languages, regions and religions and divisiveness is rife, in one way or another. I have heard this being used as a defence anytime racism emerges as a topic of conversation. Yet, can two wrongs really make a right?

‘Using the race card’ has become yet another weapon to subvert an honest discussion. Yes, the ‘race card’ has been misused and overused, but it is a legitimate concern, and dismissing it as the fall back position of the disgruntled is, once again, disservicing those who are unable to vocalise the sheer helplessness of being on the receiving end of discrimination.

Have you ever been treated like dirt? Have you ever been looked at as though you are something that’s crawled out from under a rock? Have you ever had your pronunciation or your accent mocked? Have your abilities ever been doubted because of your provenance? No? It’s quite illuminating, I can assure you. It makes you look at yourself in a completely different light.

Call it a chip, call it a boulder, call it being hyper-sensitive, the fact of the matter is that most foreigners will attest to feeling disliked and unwanted at some point in Britain. This, in a country, that is known the world over for its tolerance and inclusion. I shudder to think of what it maybe like elsewhere.

I get it. It’s nice to stay in your comfort zone. Surround yourself with people that look like you, speak like you, have the same norms and customs as you. It is so much harder to step out of that zone and extend a bit of kindness to those who don’t. So often I have wondered at those who go completely glassy eyed in my presence, if it would kill them to acknowledge me as another homosapien that shares this planet with them?

I have become quite adept at hiding the hurt. There are times that I react, there are times that I step back and re assess, but every single time, I smart from the unfairness and unkindness of it all.

I have been lucky enough to not have to face the overt discrimination and bigotry that my black friends tell me is their lot. A long conversation with my colleague left me reeling. This is something he has lived with from day dot! Yet, he is polite and gracious at every given turn. What right do I have to complain if a bunch of bored housewives close ranks on me? I have seen nowhere near the level of abuse or segregation that so many others have.

At this point it is important to clarify that I am talking about a small percentage of people who indulge in this kind of behaviour consciously. We have all been guilty of inadvertently ignoring or snubbing someone when in a rush or preoccupied. But to do it, fully aware of one’s own actions and the damage it may inflict, is quite simply unforgivable.

You see, because it is so very subtle, it is also extremely difficult to pinpoint or address. How can any reasonable person say “You were just smiling at the people in front of me. Why the dead pan expression with me?” It sounds churlish and unreasonable and slightly silly. Yet, both the perpetrator and the victim are well aware of what has just passed between them. A snide little put down that whispers- you are not one of us, you don’t belong, I don’t like you, I wish to have no interaction with you. All that subtext in a single exchange.

Now, multiply this exchange several times over, in several different versions and tell me that I am imagining things. Can you?

They say, to feel another man’s pain, you need to walk a mile in his shoes. A white person may face all other kinds of prejudice based on their gender, their class, their education, even their accents but no white person will ever understand what it’s like to be discriminated against on the basis of colour.

So, coming back to the question my friend asked me. Has racism increased post Brexit? No, I can’t say that it has, purely because I don’t think it ever decreased. It just hid behind the veils of politics, laws and economic requirements.

Now, what has changed is that the people in Britain feel freer to express their opinions against foreigners. They have had enough of ‘bending over backwards’ and ‘political correctness’. Now they have the carte blanche to tell an innocent check out girl that she should trip and break her head open. (A true exchange between an old lady and the Asian girl serving her). They have the carte blanche to vilify, demonise, insult, disparage and dehumanise. Brexit has given them permission to.

Why? Because it feels good to air all the ugliness that had been building up inside, in all those years of political correctness. It feels good to tell these foreigners to ‘eff off’, it feels good not to have to put on a mask of politeness because one has to, it feels good to dispense with the token multiculturalism, it feels good to indulge in the casual cruelties of mocking and insulting, it feels good not to have to make room at the table for someone else regardless of how much food may go to waste. It feels good and it feels liberating. Doesn’t it?

Tell me, how else will Britain become great again?

Tequila! (part 2)

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“Mezcal is Tequila’s big, beefy brother.” Promptly, little shots of Mezcal were sent out to everyone attending the cocktail masterclass. I declined mine just as promptly, sipping demurely on my non alcoholic beverage. If the little brother had done such a number on me all those years ago, I wanted very little to do with Big Bro!

Steve covered a lot of facts about Tequila. For instance, Tequila comes from the heart of the Blue Agave plant. The agave plant is not a cactus, even if it looks like one. Blue Agave plants can take 8 to 12 years to harvest. This can be a costly business as there is no predicting whether demand will equal supply. To get around this, a lot of Tequila can be mixed, with only half containing the Tequila from the piña (heart) of the Blue Agave, and the rest being liquor of unknown provenance. These are also the ones that leave you with the killer hangovers! The best Tequila is 100% agave, and aficionados drink theirs neat, without any help from salt and lime. As for the salt and lime, that’s used to mask the taste of bad tequila. So, guess what, if you were doing the salt and lime routine, you probably weren’t drinking good quality Tequila!

Of course, even as I sat and absorbed all this information like a sponge, the people around me were having a party. With every new bit of information he imparted, more shot glasses filled with a variety of Tequilas were sent out to everyone. Each one I politely declined, wondering if I could order a glass of wine instead. Who would hear me above this rambunctious crowd?

Then came time to start making the cocktails. Six random people were picked to go behind the bar and practice a bit of cocktail mixing. From icing, rimming, stirring and shaking, six lucky people got to demonstrate their skills under Steve’s watchful eye. He dealt with mishaps and clumsiness with good humour and jocularity. More drinks were sent out.

Steve caught my eye after one round and said “YOU I will get to soon!” Of course, everybody in the room now knew that I was the numpty with the Tequila allergy. A bit like being the only atheist in a room full of believers. Earth open, swallow me whole!

Amazing what a bit of alcohol, freely imbibed, can do to people’s inhibitions. This room full of strangers was now a room full of friends, ribbing each other, exchanging tips on drinks, war stories on hangovers and bonding over all things Tequila.

“Time to make a good Old Fashioned.” Steve pointed at me. “Come on over.”

With a bit of trepidation I walked behind the bar with five other selectees.

“Can you drink bourbon?”

Heck, yes! I nodded enthusiastically.

“Only the best for you sweetheart.” Steve gave me a bottle of his finest bourbon to add to my Old Fashioned. Who says patience doesn’t pay?

A cocktail broken down is really a mix of alcohol, sugar and bitters or citrus. My Old Fashioned had sugar syrup, two shots of bourbon, four dashes of Angostura bitters, lots and lots of ice, even more stirring and finally the oils from an orange rind to top off the exquisite taste of my very first cocktail of the evening. Boy, did I savour it!

From that point on, the evening got better, but the details got hazier.

I remember sniffing quite a few Tequilas. I remember Steve saying we have about 6000 taste buds in our nose! Who knew? I remember filming V doing her own bartender routine, and giving that shaker a good, almighty shake, whacking the glass on the side, upturning it and pouring the cocktail into the glass. All done with consummate ease (I think?). I remember Steve debunking the popular myth of the worm in the bottle. Legend has it that if a worm was added to a bottle of Tequila and it decomposed, then the liquor wasn’t good enough. The worm would stay preserved in high quality alcohol. But Steve said that was nonsense, and was it Tequila or Mezcal? I remember it getting noisier and friendlier. I remember Steve saying the most popular drink made with Tequila was named after a daisy.  A daisy?

“What’s it called folks?”

And everyone shouting in unison- “Margarita!!”

The two hour masterclass came to an end much too soon. I stood in awe of this man who had not just held our attention but also kept his head having drunk alongside the class the entire time. This was his second cocktail masterclass of the day. Hollow legs or what!

As far as Birthday experiences went, this was right up there with the best. Maybe doing a class with a spirit I could actually drink would push it to the top slot?

V & I talked about our next planned experience, my birthday pressie of a Segway ride. I wondered if we could practice our new found cocktail making skills afterwards. A nice Old Fashioned after trundling through the forests would do very nicely indeed.

And this time, with all due respect to Tequila, I would stick to a spirit of my choice. This worm would turn and how!

 

 

Tequila! (part 1)

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In the ‘spirit’ of all things adventurous, I decided to gift my BFF a cocktail making class. We had long ago agreed, that in our frenetic lives we had to try and make time at least twice a year to experience something together. Having known and loved each other since the age of seven, we pretty much had a handle on what sorts of things the other person liked or disliked. Since neither of us had any dislike for alcohol whatsoever, a cocktail making class seemed an inspired choice.

Goat, in Chelsea, runs these classes every Wednesday and Thursday. As the voucher had been delivered to V (my BFF) back in March, I abdicated all responsibility for booking the evening to her. A few hurried whatsapp messages confirmed that we’d meet and eat at the restaurant downstairs first before heading upstairs to the class that began at 7pm.

Both of us were running late, and as I grabbed an Uber at Clapham Junction, my very sweet Turkish driver informed me that Goat was a very au courant restaurant. Brain child of Steve Manktelow and partners, it is a restaurant cum speakeasy-style bar, where twice a week he conducts cocktail masterclasses. So far, so good.

I arrived earlier than V, and requested a table outside in the evening sunshine. Skimming through the menu my eye was immediately drawn to the pulled goat pizza. Coupled with goat’s cheese, grilled tenderstem, caremalised onions and fresh oregano, it seemed the perfect palate pleaser. V arrived, and after our customary hugs and breathless ‘how are yous’, we ordered our drinks and meals.

The trouble with trying to catch up over a meal is that there is never sufficient time to eat, drink, talk, complain, moan about our lives or set the world to rights. How we miss our school days where we spent weeks in each other’s company, and still never ran out of conversation!

Cocktail making hour arrived much too soon, and as we made our way upstairs, we promised each other another day of catching up very very soon. Promises we make each time we meet, and then the usual happens: Life takes over.

Parking ourselves at a little table, we were greeted by Steve and a welcome drink. V took herself off to the Ladies while I tentatively enquired what was in the white, frothy looking mixture. He reeled off a list of ingredients out of which two jumped out at me- Coconut (yummmm) and Tequila (Nooooooo!).

“Ummm, I’m sorry, is there anyway I could get this as a mocktail? You see, I’m allergic to Tequila.”

“Allergic to Tequila?”, he goggled at me, “You do know this is a Tequila cocktail making class?!”

Actually, I did not. In all fairness, neither did V. When she had booked, she had assumed, as had I, that we’d learn to make a variety of cocktails. Of course, logic dictates that only one spirit would be demonstrated in all its avatars, so that we wouldn’t literally be mixing spirits while mixing cocktails. Duhhhh!

“I’ll see what I can do.” he informed me brusquely.

“No, no, no…..please don’t worry on my account!” I implored. “It’s my friend’s birthday pressie, and I’m quite happy to just watch. I’ll just sip on a mocktail.”

“Hmmmm”, he looked at me assessingly and walked away.

The bar was filling up pretty rapidly, and it looked like nearly thirty people had turned up to watch, learn and drink some fancy tequila cocktails.

V looked at me sadly. “I had no idea!”

“I know. Don’t worry, it’ll be fun anyway.”

Many moons ago, when I was still a novice drinker, I had had an encounter with a jug of Margarita which hadn’t ended well. Consequently, I had stayed far away from Tequila and all its permutations ever since. Fate had conspired to bring me cheek to jowl with it once more. Only this time, I would be an observer, not an imbiber.

…..to be continued……