Poornima Manco

Author

thought piece

What’s the point?

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Every author, regardless of the genre they write in, has some kind of message in their writing. Whether that is good overcomes evil, soulmates exist, happily ever afters are possible, crime doesn’t pay, etc, etc. You get my drift. Now, these messages aren’t necessarily emblazoned on their covers or blurbs. In fact, sometimes, the messages are so deeply buried within the writing that a reader would be hard pressed to vocalise them if asked. But they are there, even in the fluffiest romcom, the bloodiest crime caper, the most nerve-tingling thriller. Search and you will find.

However, sometimes, there is a disconnect between the message sent and the message received. What an author may be trying to say is open to hundreds of interpretations and misinterpretations. It depends on the reader, their mood, their provenance, their cultural history, their upbringing, their exposure to the world and many such factors. That can make for a jarring experience, both for the reader, and also for the author when they read a scathing review of their work. “That wasn’t what I was saying!” An author might cry out in the privacy of their home.

Whose fault is the misunderstanding? The author’s or the reader’s?

Now, having been both, I can tell you that the answer is complex and nuanced. As an author who is trying to put a point across, I want to be subtle. I want to layer my message within the story, the dialogues, the actions of the protagonists and the consequences of those actions. Do I want to beat the reader over the head with my message repeatedly? No! That is the most basic and worst kind of didactic writing there is. Yet, within all of this lies the risk of being misunderstood.

Let’s take the last novel I wrote and released back in 2022: Intersections. Most of the reviews I received were wonderful. Haunting, complex, emotional and compelling were some adjectives used to describe the story. So far, so good. But any writer worth their salt knows that it’s the negative reviews that stick in one’s head. I know of many authors who refuse to read their reviews, content if their works have a high star rating. I, sadly, am not amongst those. I enjoy reading my reviews because I see it as a learning ground. Somewhere I can find out firsthand what my readers are thinking, what I did well and what I could do better.

This one review had me baffled. The reviewer said she found the book was very well written, that I, as the author, had tackled an intricate plot with four alternating viewpoints and kept her engaged throughout. She then went on to talk about the story and finally ended with saying that the reason she wasn’t giving the novel a full five stars, despite having enjoyed it, was because the book didn’t seem to have a point or a higher message. Therefore, she felt it would not endure.

Picture a knife to the heart. That is how gutted I was to read this review. You see, my point had escaped her completely. This novel about four young women from very different walks of life who become friends in childhood, only for their friendship to splinter in their teenage years, for them to go their separate ways and reunite in their forties, had a point and a higher message. I wanted to show how random life can be. How those we perceive to be more fortunate and more blessed than us are subject to the same vagaries of fate as anyone else. Being born into a higher social and economic strata does not ensure happiness nor is it a guarantee of success, while conversely, coming from the lower end of society is not a predictor of misery and failure. Life is messy and unpredictable. Our spheres of control are limited and the sooner we accept that, the quicker we will adapt to and thrive in changed circumstances.

Perhaps it was my fault that my message wasn’t clear enough. Maybe the novel, which begins with an accident, and ends with the reason the accident occurred and the consequences of that fateful evening, felt jarring to this reader because it was too arbitrary to come to terms with. Unfortunately, many a time, life is that way, too.

As I’m working on my next novel, this criticism keeps me wondering whether I’m doing enough to convey my point. This book deals with the circularity of life, of how what goes around comes right back around. Do I keep it understated as I would like to? Or will that be too obscure and unfathomable to a potential reader? I could choose to ignore this reviewer and write what I want to write. That would be at my peril. You see, every reader is precious to me, and their criticism is a part of my growth as a writer.

Therefore, it is incumbent upon me to work on my craft and deliver a reading experience that is consistent with my philosophy, my convictions, and my worldview. Hoping these will be understood and will align with those of the reader, too.

That, after all, is the point.

 

 

Wrung out

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“I don’t know how you do it!” is a refrain I hear often. The ‘it’ being – working which involves a lot of travel, taking care of home which involves cleaning, cooking, doing the chores while also parenting and trying to be a supportive partner, while keeping up with my exercise and friends, TV shows, movies, reading and writing. All of this is in no particular order as depending on the day and the need, the hierarchy gets moved around a fair bit.

Now, if I were to be honest, while I may look swan-like getting it all done, there is some furious paddling going on beneath the water, and often times tasks are either hurriedly done or left completely by the wayside. Neither of which are desirable outcomes. My story is no different to any other working mother, some of whom don’t even have the kind of super supportive husband that I do.

The month of June was meant to be the month I took off social media to focus on work and writing. I have done both, but life does have a funny old way of throwing a spanner in the works.

My daughter’s A levels are going on, and rather than being that nagging mother who is on her back 24/7 haranguing her to study, I thought, this would be the perfect month to work to my max, and stay out of her hair. After all, at this late stage, it’s better for her to have a relaxed state of mind to sit her exams. What I couldn’t possibly have foreseen is the ill health of my second daughter. An ear infection that has her screaming in agony, sleepless nights, an allergic reaction to the antibiotics, another rushed visit to the doctor’s, being given an unsigned prescription on a Friday evening making it near impossible to procure the medication, husband running from pillar to post and finally, miraculously, through some fortuitous messaging, getting a hold of the meds.

While the medicines do their work, I am at work again. This time, however, I find I have a short fuse, am completely exhausted and totally unable to string a coherent sentence together. Writing? Once again on the back burner.

Sometimes I despair that I’ll never become the sort of serious writer I aspire to be. The one who gets up each morning and in a very disciplined manner, trots out a couple of thousand words before serenely taking out the garbage and getting the rest of her chores done.

Me – I write when I can, where I can. Sometimes, not for weeks. And when I do, it’s not always the best quality. What hope is there for me?

My mother always said that I could be a bulldog about the things that I wanted. I really want… no, I really need to write. I guess its sheer tenacity that keeps me going. That, and a sense of catharsis and peace. Each time I sit down to write, I feel like I’m coming home. This is where I’m meant to be, this is what I’m meant to do.

So, in answer to the oft repeated question, how do I do it? I do it. Badly, haphazardly, intermittently. Still, I keep going. Tired and wrung out as I am, it’s the only way I know how to live. All those multiple balls in the air… some will fall, some will roll away, but I’ll keep juggling them till I have breath left in me.

Now, I’ll go take a nap.

 

A TALE OF TWO BEARDS/ SILENCE OF SOUND / CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE VIPASSANA KIND – Bharat Shekhar

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A few days ago, searching for skeletons in my cupboard, I came across this pinkish red, rectangular piece of paper. One side had serrated edges, as though it had been torn out of a larger piece. The paper read – 

NAME : Bharat Shekhar

ACCOMMODATION : MA-2A. 

I stared blankly at it, no recollection whatsoever of what it was about. But as they say, sometimes you just have a gut feeling that you are looking at something important. In this case, it was more a butt feeling. My butt was trying to tell me something.

I turned the paper over, and memory came flooding in. On the other side was printed, “Please tear this portion and insert it in the plastic tag attached to your cushion, which will be allotted to you in the meditation hall.”

Aah! No wonder I had a butt feeling. This paper was proof that for ten days my butt and the aforementioned ‘cushion’ had almost become a continuation of each other for ten plus hours a day – a torture that slowly turned to acceptance and then into a feeling of quiet (and quite numb) achievement. 

OK. So, let me get to what this is all about. Last year, I attended a ten day Vipassana course July 1-10, Jaipur, bang in the middle of a heatwave. Not the most clement of time to be without any air conditioning, that too, in close confines with 150 other profusely sweating bodies, trying to stay absolutely quiet and still and observe one’s breathing and/or sensations. To add to it, outside, in the surrounding Aravali hills,  the peacocks and peahens would be screaming their heads off pleading to the rain gods. To mere mortals, their cries sounded like petulant, ‘Mein hu! Mein hun! (I am! I am!)’, a reminder of our egos, just when we were trying to forget them.  

In the final count however, the physical discomfort, the mental distractions, the vow of silence, the abstinence, all added to and became a part of that experience that was far greater than its parts, that gestalt called Vipassana. 

But again I get ahead of myself. So let me describe the movement step by step. Ever since I had heard about Vipassana’s rigorous meditation regime from a practicing, enthusiast friend, more than a decade and a half ago, I had been instinctively drawn towards it. When I found out that it was entirely non-denominational, non religious and rationalist, that longing to attend a course and experience it myself became an itch. 

However, laziness and other circumstances intervened and it was only last year that I finally got to fill out the online form. I realised the true magnitude of that operation when I saw there that there were over 165 Vipassana centres  dotted all over the world. All were run entirely by volunteers, did not charge anything from the participants (not even for board and lodging), and depended entirely on donations. They did not want to spread, or propagate any religion or ideology apart from the meditation practice itself. For more details, you can check out https://thali.dhamma.org/ 

So it came to pass that I packed my rucksack, and found myself at the Jaipur Vipassana Thali (centre), on a hot afternoon on the first of July 2018. Looking at the other people registering (average age mid twenties), it was clear that I was in the ‘Uncleji’ category. The Centre (Thali) was tucked away in a verdant bowl of the Aravalis, the haunt of langoors, peacocks, peahens, and (allegedly) a leopard too. It covered several acres of prime property with a few large buildings that included the dining halls (two), the prayer halls (four) and a grand pagoda. Apart from these, the property was dotted with small structures, which turned out to be double rooms that would be the participants’ homes for the next ten days. 

Clearly a well oiled operation, it was run entirely by volunteers or Sevaks, who looked after all the activities and needs of the participants, which were many and varied. They ranged from answering queries to serving food, collecting laundry to be cleaned to running the projector for the daily hour long pravachans (talks) by SN Goenka, the person who had popularised Vipassana. The teacher who led the meditations was also a volunteer.

So what was the whole hullabaloo about? Let me quote from the horse’s mouth, their site https://thali.dhamma.org/vipassana.shtml :

“To learn Vipassana it is necessary to take a ten-day residential course under the guidance of a qualified teacher. The courses are conducted at established Vipassana Centres and other places. For the duration of the retreat, students remain within the course site, having no contact with the outside world. They refrain from reading and writing, and suspend any religious practices or other disciplines. They follow a demanding daily schedule which includes about ten hours of sitting meditation. They also observe silence, not communicating with fellow students; however, they are free to discuss meditation questions with the teacher and material problems with the management.

There are three steps to the training. First, the students practice abstinence from actions which cause harm. They undertake five moral precepts, practicing abstention from killing, stealing, lying, sexual misconduct and the use of intoxicants. The observation of these precepts allows the mind to calm down sufficiently to proceed with the task at hand. Second, for the first three-and-a-half days, students practice Anapana meditation, focusing attention on the breath. This practice helps to develop control over the unruly mind.

These first two steps of living a wholesome life and developing control of the mind are necessary and beneficial, but are incomplete unless the third step is taken: purifying the mind of underlying negativities. The third step, undertaken for the last six-and-a-half days, is the practice of Vipassana: one penetrates one’s entire physical and mental structure with the clarity of insight.” 

And thus it came to be, that I found myself in room MA2, a tiny unit with two beds, a ceiling fan and an attached bathroom. In complete silence. The only thing that made a noise was the fan, or the bed creaking occasionally, or the peacocks and peahens mournfully but unsuccessfully calling out for rain.

Every morning, at about 3.45 am a volunteer went around the rooms, gently tinkling a hand held bell, which served as a bell to wake up the volunteers. From then onwards till 9.30 pm, it was (with three short breaks for food and rest), meditation, meditation and meditation, totalling to about ten hours. 

I will not bore you with chronological details, just a few brief impressions, about how it went for me. I can broadly divide it into three phases, death of the idyllic and idealised picture, stare into the void, and rebirth.

In the first phase, all those idealised notions of miraculous, heavenly meditation that would cure one of all past life baggage and ills, solve lifelong existential questions and so on,  got peremptorily and rudely thrown out of the first available window of the meditation hall. A few fans desultorily whirled above. It was awfully hot to be enclosed in a hall with 100 other profusely sweating bodies (all male as there was strict segregation). Sitting in the lotus position, the back drooped like a limp lettuce. Without any back support, the spine arched into an aching curve. The legs fell sleep, while the rest of you only wished that it could. After a while, all these discomforts were dwarfed by the pins and needles (which in time, assumed the size of scimitars and knives)  that were seemingly being driven into the backside by some invisible but malevolent meditation devil. 

This was only the physical part. The mental disintegration was even more extreme. It was almost impossible to stay in the present and focus calmly on the breath for more than a few seconds, before every useless, negative thought, worry and fear came flooding in. This was the second phase, ‘the dark night of the soul’, and one tossed and turned both mentally and physically, wishing one was anywhere else but(t) here. 

However, we had been warned in advance (by the teacher and the nightly videos of SN Goenka) about this phenomenon. It was normal, and one had to cross these stages to reach the third. After the third day, which was the worst for most people, the negativity soon eased. There was a calm(er) acceptance of discomforts, both mental and physical, and greater ability to focus on breath and sensations. There were moments of euphoria, when the whole body and soul combined in one unity and soared high above in the heavens. New solutions suddenly presented themselves to ancient problems. There was a feeling of sudden camaraderie and love for all humanity. Sigh. We had been warned against this opposite extreme. The aim of Vipassana was not to get a ‘high’, but to aspire for equanimity, and achieve an equipoise which accepted both good and bad sensations with equal detachment. Tough task, but over the course of these ten days of simple living, one began to be aware that this was a worthy ideal to aspire for. As an aside here, it is easy to want to be detached from ones negatives – all those fears and worries, but it is much more difficult to not be attached to ones feel good factors. There were moments of that calmness (tip of the iceberg), and a feeling if the benefits were to attach, it would have to be a lifelong practice, not just a one off, but a daily  one. To really get the feel, you have to experience it. As they keep emphasising: Vipassana is entirely experiential. Words cannot do it justice. You have to sit through it, breathe and feel it in your pores, in your senses to even begin to get it.

Oh, and before I end (somewhat hurriedly, as one could go on and on and on), you may not have noticed but a part of the title of the piece was ‘A tale of two beards’. So let me throw some light on that mystery. One of the beards was mine, a rapidly whitening French beard, sometimes sported by the English speaking ‘elite’ of this country. 

The second beard belonged to my roommate, the one I shared the room with for those ten days. He came in somewhat late on the first day and I groaned mentally, partly because by then I had been hoping that I would have a single occupancy, and partly because of his appearance. If I was of uncleji age, he belonged to the granduncleji phase of his life. In his mid 70s, the man was very short (below five feet), and so bowlegged that he swayed from side to side with every step he took. He was clad in a saffron robe and carried a tattered thaila (bag) from which I could see another garua vastra peeping out. He gave off such strong emanations of Amla tel and Dant Manjan that they almost surrounded him like an aura. He had thick bristling eyebrows, white hair tied in a topknot, a Sadhu’s flowing beard, which he also tied in a knot, and an expression of the sort that reminded me of Durvasa, the perpetually displeased sage.

I wonder what impression he formed about me. From his expression, it certainly could not have been very favourable. Anyhow, that’s how far our communication went for the next nine days, as we were not meant to talk or even look at each other. Before we wound up very night, there was a recorded video talk by SN Goenka (the man who popularised this practice the world over). In these talks, using popular idiom and language, he often tore apart the superstitions of religious beliefs, especially things like blind faith in rituals and the harm they did to true spirituality. Post these, when we returned to the room to sleep, I thought I could espy a troubled expression on my roommate’s face. “Ah,” I conjectured smugly, “his traditional beliefs are being challenged and he does not like it. Good.” On the sixth night, I woke up to find him feverishly reading (though we had been told to keep no reading or writing material)  in torchlight from a pamphlet titled ‘Tarak Mantra’ and reciting something over and over, under his breath. In my mind, this confirmed the ‘fact’ that he was a traditional, reactionary sadhu who was getting his comeuppance by having to reexamine his precious casteist beliefs rather late in life. 

On the tenth day we broke the silence and participants were allowed to talk to each other. That’s when the walls of misconceptions that we had formed about each other came crashing down. For instance, (due to my bulk and the cut of my beard), he had thought I was either a businessman (aka gold smuggler) from Dubai, or an actor who did ‘negative’ roles in TV serials. Haha. Then he introduced himself as a Mahant or temple keeper from a small hamlet called Ravat Bhata near Kota. Far from being hurt by Shri Goenka challenging traditional beliefs, he waxed eloquent about how much sense he had disseminated in his videos, and how important it was to have a ‘modern’ view in life. At this point, he simpered a bit and said that he also used to give weekly talks (pravachans) in his temple, talks that he blushingly admitted were largely attended by ‘ladies’. Now, he was running out of material for them, and part of his reason for attending this course was to get inspiration from Goenka’s speaking technique and ‘borrow’ some of his style and content. His parting request to me was to procure some joke books and send them to him, so that he could deliver better punchlines in his pravachans to the ladies.

So much for those impressions that we form about each other. This apart from the Vipassana technique was the other valuable life lesson I learnt. We are so much in haste to form opinions about, judge, and put each other in prefabricated moulds of appearances that we forget each one of us is far more, and far different in reality.  Each and every one. 

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Bharat Shekhar lives in New Delhi.He tries to write when he can, and doodles when he can’t. When in doubt, he gazes at his navel.

Friendship and Politics

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I have two female friends, who will remain nameless for the purposes of this article, that hold diametrically opposite views from me, politically. They are both feisty, outspoken, bolshy and fearless. Qualities that I admire immensely. However, our politics differ and how!

How have I circumvented this divide and still stayed friends with them? And why do I bring it up here and now?

Well, firstly, I knew them much before I knew their allegiances. So, our friendship was untainted by politics. As I got to know them better, I realised that I liked them very much as people. I liked the fact that they were gutsy, I liked that they stood up for themselves and that they didn’t mince their words. I liked that they were always honest with me, even if it meant not sparing my feelings. I also realised that women like these are rare finds, and I wanted to have them in my life, regardless of how they felt about which political party governed their countries or whether Britain should stay in or out of Europe.

Now, lately, there has been much chatter here and across the pond. Politically everything is in a stage of upheaval. It is but natural that people will be vociferous about their own standpoints. Sometimes that takes the shape of defending the indefensible. Cruel laws that bypass humanity, turning a blind eye to the economics of a situation, or siding with a well known hate mongerer are all symptoms of these standpoints.

I have reasoned and combatted all of this, to the best of my ability. But the question stands, can I still call these people my friends?

I had an interesting conversation with a colleague once. She told me, in no uncertain terms, that if a friend or a partner had a different political stance to hers, there was no way she would associate with them. It meant, that at the very heart of it, they had contrary fundamental values. How could one align oneself with someone who saw the world so differently?

How can I?

Yet, political landscapes change all the time. Parties come and go, Presidents and Prime Ministers lose elections on a regular basis, and allegiances shift. Can I sacrifice two perfectly good friendships at the altar of politics? Should I?

The short answer is NO. Human connections are far more valuable than outside forces. If I, who preach tolerance and understanding through this blog, cannot practice it in my own life, what good is all the wisdom in the world? It is not by surrounding ourselves with like minded individuals that we grow. It is by opening our minds to differences, debates and discussions. It is by realising that someone else’s passionately held views have just as much validity as our own. If their politics are abhorrent then initiate a dialogue with them. Cutting them off or insulating yourself against contradictory ideas is hardly the way forward.

As for my friends and I, we talk politics in jest. They know I don’t agree with them. I know they are not going to change their minds. Nevertheless, we stay friends. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

 

No country for women, girls, babies…

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Asifa and Unnao. Two names that are juxtaposed in the Indian media today. Two names that may or may not reveal anything to people the world over. But two names that reveal the disgusting socio-political, religiously perverted society that India has devolved into.

In the years that have followed the rape and murder of Jyoti Singh Pandey, Delhi’s ‘braveheart’ who resisted and fought her attackers to death, has anything changed? There was outrage and public outpouring of grief and demands for justice back then. There was an examination of how and why such incidents occurred. Yet little if anything did change. In actual fact, statistics show that instances of crime against women  increased! Naysayers can argue increased reportage but the fact remains that a largely indolent but frighteningly nationalist government, an increasingly patriarchal society and a lack of punitive measures has stealthily given rise to a culture that allows its womenfolk to be routinely harassed, attacked and sexually assaulted.

Yet Asifa was only a little girl. An eight year old child who was abducted, drugged and raped by a gang of men for days, till finally being killed by a blow to the head by a rock. Were they a paedophile ring targeting children? Vile as that maybe, the truth is even more chilling. Asifa was targeted because she was a Muslim girl belonging to a nomadic tribe that had the temerity to graze their flock in a Hindu area. This was an organised crime spearheaded by the custodian of a Hindu temple and involving lawmakers and law enforcers. Shockingly, when an attempt was made to register a case against them, a Hindu nationalist mob including government officials, lawyers and women protested in favour of the arrested men.

In a country that has become inured to violence, this was an eye opener.

The Unnao rape case occurred in June 2017. A seventeen year old girl was lured to the house of a MLA (Member of the Legislative Assembly) of Uttar Pradesh, by a woman on the pretext of securing her employment. There, she was sexually assaulted by the MLA. Despite repeated attempts to register a case against him, it was not till she threatened to immolate herself in front of the Chief Minister’s house nearly ten months later, was any attention given to her pleas. Meanwhile, her father having been threatened and beaten up by the MLA’s brother and other assorted goons, died in police custody the following day.

Asifa and Unnao. Two names that have become inextricably linked within the Indian consciousness. Two names that have once again led to nationwide protests demanding justice, a change in laws and culpability for criminals of all ilk and provenance.

Yet this is a malaise that has deep roots.

Power, Patriarchy and Religion. A malevolent triptych that holds an entire nation to ransom.

In a country that began its life promising to be secular, promising to house and respect all religions and faiths, India has seen some of the worst sectarian violence in its seventy odd years of Independence. Whether it is Hindus vs Muslims, Hindus vs Sikhs or even Hindus vs Hindu Dalits (the lowest caste), theistic fervour has given India the dubious distinction of being the fourth-worst country for religious violence, trailing only behind Syria, Nigeria and Iraq. In an increasingly nationalistic atmosphere that celebrates Hinduism and marginalises all other faiths, a Saffron Reich of zealots are police stating their way into people’s lives.

Those in command have risen through the ranks on the back of proselytising the youth to their agenda. Fanaticism is bred and encouraged. Bigotry, extremism and partisanship are the cornerstones of a government drunk on its own power and ideology. It is no wonder that in this atmosphere hostility and discrimination towards minority religions is alive and well.

Yet, a religion that ostensibly worships the feminine ‘Shakti’ (energy) as a Devi in her many avatars, has zero respect for the women or girls of its land. When an eight month old baby is raped by her twenty eight year old cousin in the Indian capital of New Delhi, does Hindutva proclaim him a criminal or turn a blind eye as it always does? When rape is viewed as consensual sex, does Hindutva hang its head in shame or turn its face the other way? When a girl is said to be tempting a boy by virtue of her femininity, does Hindutva defend her as a Devi, or let her be mauled by its minions?

Let me be clear: I am a Hindu by birth and by upbringing. To me, being Hindu has never meant kowtowing to rules created by a patriarchal priesthood that tells me what to eat, when to eat, what to wear or who to worship. These man made rules do not govern me. For me Hinduism has always meant being inclusive, respectful and considerate towards all. I do not recognise or associate with this brand of Hinduism that is a weapon in the hands of the powerful and the corrupt.

Ultimately, no amount of slogan shouting or banner holding can even begin to address the root of the problem. A country that is steeped in religion, tradition and dogma is held with a leash to its collar by ruthless demagogues.

What hope can the women of this land have?

Crushing

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My 14 year old has introduced me to K pop. For those not in the know, that is Korean pop. More specifically to a group called BTS, a bunch of androgynous pop stars that jump around singing incomprehensible lyrics and looking girlishly cute despite being young men in their 20’s. She and her 17 year old sister have already picked out their crushes. How they can tell them apart is a mystery to me. All I see is a blur of neon colours, toothy smiles, hyperactive bodies and mops of hair.

I guess I should feel fortunate that my girls have no problem sharing their various crushes with me. Whether these are remote celebrities or boys they like at school, they insist on inflicting these videos or pointing them out at Parents’ evenings. I try my best to look interested in the former, and not look like a pervy Cougar at the latter. I stay non committal most times, knowing full well that the shelf life of these crushes is 6 months to a year, tops.

My own teenage crushes, which were very many, started with a black and white film that was made in the 50’s. I guess my hormones had just started their teenage dance when I saw this movie and promptly fell in love with the hero, who at the time of my watching this film must have been in his dotage. I would make up time travel scenarios in which I would travel back to his time and he would sweep me off my feet singing a melodious number, and we’d skip into a (black and white) sunset. That lasted all of a month.

Oddly, the next crush was as result of this very hero. When a senior boy at school stood behind me singing a song from this actor’s movie and looking pointedly at me, the transference of affection was a natural consequence. The song, roughly translated went, “Give me your heart, give me your heart, give me your heart honey (dil deke dekho, dil deke dekho, dil deke dekhoji)”. Subtle it was not, effective very much so.

I nursed this  school crush a lot longer. It never came to more than looking at each other in assembly, or deliberately hanging out in the same place at lunch times. He was too scared to make the first move, and I was too shy. One day he found a proper girl friend, and I a slightly bruised heart.

At any rate, I discovered the delicious joy of crushing on a boy that realistically could never be mine. From Morten Harket of A-Ha fame to the boy in the neighbourhood who wore high waisted jeans and turned up his collars, I was a sucker for a good crush.

Having a crush had a distinct advantage over being in a romantic relationship. For one thing, I never got into trouble with my parents for not focussing enough on my studies. To them, my sitting at the study table meant I was studying, not whiling away hours dreaming of these various boys/young men. Secondly, there was no chance of discovering that my idols had clay feet. Exchanging looks or sighing over posters gave me no insight into their personalities or characters. Which was just as well, because then I could use my over active imagination and make them into whatever I wanted. And finally, I could pick and choose whoever I wanted, whatever colour or nationality or geographical location, without having to worry about any kind of reciprocity.

Of course, as I grew out of my teenage years, I also outgrew these crushes. But what a wonderful time it was, while it lasted.

Therefore, as obscure as K pop seems to me, and as alien as these pop stars appear, I am heartened by the healthy response my girls have to them. If the price I have to pay is listening to an unfamiliar brand of music, it is no more than what I subjected my poor parents to.

With ‘Take on Me’ playing on a loop, and me staring moonily at Morten’s picture in a magazine, my mother did the only sensible thing she could. She shut the door on me.