Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Ever since I read “Bangalore: Swinging in the 70s” by cartoonist and brilliant recounter Paul Fernandes, I’ve been wanting to visit the places mentioned in the book like the Bangalore Turf Club, Bangalore Palace, Oorgaum House (which gets an entire chapter devoted to its memories in his friend Peter Colaco’s book “Bangalore; A century of tales from City & Cantonment) and of course Taj West End.

So I finally got to go to the 130-year-old hotel today…And to quote Paul Fernandes, “People of discrimination and breeding would agree that the Bangalore of the 60s and 70s was “A Temple to Finer Things,” and its inner sanctum was the West End.”

“West End raised the bar to impossible heights; next to it all; all other hotels seemed mere pretenders to the throne. On entering these gates to paradise, you would walk into a rarefied atmosphere and be transported back to a more gracious time. Its twenty acre campus, in the very heart of the city, formed a compact cosmos that exemplified all that was good about Bangalore. It has a forest of lush foliage, green avenues, gracious walkways, fountains, manicured lawns and elegant accommodation filled with exquisite furniture. Even the bird calls heard at West End seemed more melodious than those heard elsewhere.”

Though the one missing factor was I hadn’t spent my whole day at the races next door. Paul Fernandes in his reminiscences talks of how hardened betters, race bookies, trainers, jockeys and horse owners would recoup the day’s losses or winnings at the Banglore Turf Club with generous in-roads at the bar. Started by one Ms Bronson in 1887, the West End was initially an exclusive (read-white only) boarding place for the stiff-necked British. After the Spencers bought it, it became a place for Brit civil servants, Indian royalty and the heavily-loaded. Apparently, the West End has also played host to quite a few celebrities like Prince Charles, actress Devika Rani and the man — who most opposed the idea of a free India – British PM Winston Churchill.

I wished sauntering in five-star hotels was a permitted hobby like jaywalking on Churchstreet. I was like Dorothy-following the yellow-brick road of old black-and-white photographs on the hotel’s halls; only to find myself being stopped every 10 metres by friendly hotel staff who kept asking if I was wanting to find the conference room or coffee shop. I gave it up after a point as idle-curiosity isn’t really a doable thing in a place of commerce. #WestEnd #TajWestEnd#PaulFernandes

Advertisements

Was pleasantly surprised to find the Canara Bank headquarters in Bangalore chalk-full of history and memorabilia on the bank. As soon as you step into the head office on Jayachamaraja Road what greets you is a replica of their very first branch in Mangalore.

Now known as the founder’s branch, this building was acquired by the bank in 1906 by the bank’s founder Ammembal Subba Rao Pai. One of the leading philanthropists in the region, he was apparently a lawyer by profession and built the Canara Girls High School in Kodialbali, Mangalore (still functioning as on date). Being concerned about the exorbitant rates charged by money lenders to poor people he started this as a fund, which later morphed into Canara Bank.

And next to the replica of the founder’s branch is a large depiction of how bank managers did business a century ago. Apparently, the office routine back then was to hail a bullock cart or tonga, get in and keep hopping smartly in and out of it – as one provided door-to-door service by collecting deposits and handing out monthly interests’ accrued to the bank’s valued customers in Mangalore.

The bank’s boardroom also depicts this transition of the bank from the bullock cart era to the Candi branch robot era. I unfortunately did not get to see that (something to look forward to during my next visit).

And to add to the place’s charm, the bank has also created a vertical garden in the centre of the building. Every night, the headquarters’ is lit up in blue and yellow flash lights, complementing the colours of their logo. I unfortunately didn’t get to witness that too. #CanaraBank #Charm #history

Manathakkali

Growing today in the balcony, the sight of these berries can take me back to my misspent or maybe well-spent childhood. The berries are absolutely scrumpicilicious; more tangy than sweet and used to grow in large clumps in Vandalur. We children used to eat them whole and unwashed, while some of our enterprising neighbours would pick the berries, soak them in curd and dry them out in the sun for “manathakalli vathal.” Also used to make every bite flavourful, when used in vatha kulzahmbu.
Its been many years since I ate mannathakalli, and it made me hanker after other childhood favourites, which I find difficult to source in urban Bangalore like — water chestnuts, gorkapulli, berrica, roasted bamboo shoots, lotus roots.#berries #mannathakalli

 

 

Midway through their partnership, Husky and Maximus realised that while their paws were inadequate to opening my fridge door, Indra (all of 2 years) was capable of getting the door open and even getting down the vessel, filled with beef broth and bones. And I’d find a week’s store of meat gone within the half hour it had taken me to get the laundry done. Their raids on the fridge also extended to eggs, cheese, butter, chocolates and anything else they found was within Indra’s reach. And no amount of berating my toddler, made her realise the iniquities of her action on a slender household budget. I soon took to locking the fridge.

But, then while sweeping the house I found they’d got around that too. Under her crib, I found moldy bits of banana, apple, and some egg yolk crumbled beyond doggy reach. The next time I gave babyma her dinner, I realised their technique. They’d just sit in front of her mouth-drooling, eyes pleading and she’d quietly fish out the boiled eggs, cheese bits from her meal and drop it through the bars of her crib. And I’d have been ignorant of smarty pants way of finishing off her dinner, had it not been for the telltale bits of broccoli, apple — that the dogs had left untouched. #Flashback #cutiepies

It was easier for me to write about sexual abuse when I was 11-year-old; as a minor I was not to blame, I had no agency. But would the same empathy be extended to the 18-year-old who faced sexual assault or the 27-year-old, who faced domestic violence? I don’t know. But I want to tell my tale, only as a cautionary tale. For someone to leave before they end up dead.

 

I can still remember my sister-in-law, steadfast in her love for her brother, telling the policeman, “She must have provoked him. It’s her fault.” I was silent, I let my bleeding forehead, my injured arm, my bruises tell my story. The habit of silence I’d inherited from childhood was too deeply ingrained; my police complaint of one A4 sheet was brief in its description of 14 months of unrelenting physical and mental abuse.

Also, in cases of sexual assault when its the boyfriend or husband, the case becomes even more complicated. The person time and again isn’t believed. Or if believed, asked why did they let it go on for so long? Why did they stay? Why did they not complain earlier? Why did they not leave? Assault from a stranger is easier to process than assault from someone trusted — easier for the victim and the family to condemn an unknown stranger, a faceless, voiceless evil entity. But a friend? Then we’ve opened a Pandora’s box. It would be dragging everyone’s name through mud, rupture of family ties and forcing people to take sides – yours or his.

I faced that dilemma, when my childhood friend of nearly 16 years visited my house that summer vacation, I was recovering. If you’ve read the first part of what I wrote, at 18 I’d had surgery to get a tumour removed from my left breast. The left side of my chest was swathed in bandages – glued onto the skin — to prevent possible rupture of the stitches. Wearing a bra felt like a torture exercise. I was wearing a brown pyjama with red stripes and had overslept when the bell rang.

He had come over as his dad promised my parents a good price for our Bajaj Kawasaki. Now, my friend was one of those tall, good-looking chaps, who frequented the gym; and just had the right amount of muscle beneath his t-shirt and half-buttoned formal shirt. I hadn’t seen him in months, but I felt butterflies in my stomach as he impishly grinned at me; his dimples making one want to reach out and pat his cheeks. But the code was too strong within me – so we continued talking as usual. The code was I was a Christian and he was a Hindu; and we knew it was out of question for us to date; we lived in the shadow of our family’s value systems.

But, once he got the vehicle details, he still hovered around. Obviously reluctant to go, he asked for a glass of water to prolong the visit. He said it was seeing me without my school uniform. I went to the kitchen only to find he had followed me. And as he drew closer, it struck me that I was 18 and never had my first kiss. All my friends had experienced that by age 16. And he moved closer and it felt sweet, tender and magical. It was like what the books and Disney movies had promised.

But then it seemed to go on and he was touching my waist – and now I started getting uncomfortable. As I tried to break free, he got more forceful. Then he encircled and pinned my hands down and I started getting annoyed. I asked him what the hell he was playing it. He said “Please, I only want to see you. I won’t hurt you I promise.” I was hissing back furiously, “You take your hands off. I’ll tell your dad and you’ll get beaten black and blue.” And somehow — just like the first code, another code was not to make noise — me screaming and all the neighbours landing up when we were in a compromising position given our parents’ standing in the locality– was something instinctively we knew we had to avoid. So I kept hissing furiously back at him, while he kept pleading with me.

And then panic and terror truly hit. As he swiftly unbuttoned my pyjama top and started unhooking my bra, for the first time I realised how strong he was. I couldn’t move an inch; my hands were held fast beneath me with just his right hand; while both my legs were pinioned down on the sofa with just his left knee. Now the tears started, I was alternatively pleading and muttering threats and dire repercussions. The minutes kept ticking by. But he wasn’t touching me, true to his promise he was just looking at me topless, one half of my chest bandaged. When he made a move towards unknotting my pyjama bottom, I noticed the scar on his forehead, it was when he had hit his head on the monkey bars as a 5-year-old. And then anger coursed through my body — that this snotty-nosed kid, whom I had seen from kindergarten, who couldn’t say his A,B,Cs right, who cribbed from me and copied my answer sheets during exams — should be terrorising me. Anger gave clarity, and with one twist, I’d jerked my knee into his groin, and my left hand snaked out caught the table lamp next to the sofa and brought it crashing down on his head. He crumpled.

I swiftly dressed up. Drank a glass of water and turned around to see he was bleeding profusely and unconscious. “Oh, holy mother of God. I had killed the boy.” I jerked out the ice tray from the fridge and tried to staunch the bleeding. It just wouldn’t stop. There was blood everywhere, on the sofa, on the floor, on his clothes, on the ice tray. I dumped all the ice on a tea towel and held it up against his head. It didn’t stop the bleeding and his face was acquiring a death-like pallor. I put my ear to his chest and my fingers to his nose – his heart was still beating and his breath was warming my fingers.

The minutes crawled by, a quarter of an hour passed before he groggily woke up. I instructed him to keep the motley ice pack against his head and went upstairs to change into a salwar kameez to take him to the hospital. When I went down, I realised he couldn’t walk without help, his head was swimming and he found my help inadequate. We barely made it past a few steps; he was too heavy for me and I lowered him back onto the sofa. He whispered for me to call for another classmate. I called from the landline. It seemed till eternity, before he arrived on a bike. I hissed at the fool to get an auto. We got him into one and I hoped none of my neighbours were watching behind their lace-curtained windows. I swiftly, cleaned, scrubbed and wiped out every trace of blood.

He did survive, but had to miss two weeks of college. For months after that, I had nightmares of blood, blood everywhere, blood soaking my clothes; and in the nightmares he was dead, dead beyond revival — the sickly-sweet odour of his imagined blood – making me wake up in a sweat.

Likewise, the domestic violence I faced with Indra’s father is something I find very difficult to talk about. I should have walked out the first time he hit me. I didn’t. I was supposed to be a feminist. What was wrong with me?

I was crippled with inaction.

For starters, are you stupid? If the guy was hitting you and hitting you when you were pregnant, are you a moron not to have left? Well, I can only say it is gradual. The process of alienating you from your friends and family; the process of constantly humiliating you, belittling you, making you doubt your own senses; the process of engaging in outrageous behaviour to ensure your instant and immediate obedience to their bizarre wishes; the process of trying to cut off your financial ties so that you are entirely at their mercy; at their whimsical fancies and caprices.

It would be so gradual and steady their cutting off all your emotional anchors and support systems – that you might not even notice it till you are left high and dry and all alone. And as emotional vampires — your violent and abusive partner — would be able to sense out your deepest and darkest fears and use them to club you on the head; club you back into obedience. In my case, my deepest fear was the thought of a second divorce; how it would affect my family; how much it would hurt them. And he used that as the whip to hold me fast to my place.

Some of their simplest tricks to alienate you – are when they start huge fights, land up drunk or in someway embarass and humiliate visitors — so that you never make the mistake again of inviting friends and family to your home. Their way of getting access to your financials would be to demand your bank account details; when you don’t, then accuse you of not trusting them; berate you and pile abuse till you finally give in.

So then why did I stay? I did not entirely hate him. There were parts of me that empathised with him; that wished I could wipe out all his years of abuse. He’d been anally raped as a 7-year-old by three of his father’s friends at their pigeon loft. Forced to perform oral sex as startled pigeons fluttered around him. His parents — whom he also acccused of neglect, physical and mental abuse– noticed nothing wrong, when he came back tear-stained, with torn shorts and a lifelong dislike for curd rice (given its mental associations for him).

It would take the birth of Indra – before the realisation dawned on me that he was beyond any help I would render him. He needed professional help and I started viewing him as a rabid dog — one can see its suffering and empathise, but also realise the prudence of staying away for one’s own safety.

Months of nastiness followed, pure and mean nastiness. I filed for custody and divorce. Won both. And miraculously won custody with no visitation rights. But some trace of the human being he had the possibility of becoming, surfaced on the last day of court. To my surprise, he told the judge, “I know Rachel will take care of my daughter. I think it is better the child remains with her.”

And that’s when I realised there are greys to every relationship; nothing is in black and white. No one is wholly bad. But that shouldn’t make anyone stay on in an abusive relationship – in the perennial hope that their finer instincts will surface. That they will magically morph back into the person they fell in love with. Neat endings happen only in movies. In real life, I’d urge at the first instance of violence, just pack up and leave. As it will only get harder as the days, weeks, months lapse and you turn into a weaker version of yourself. As they suck out more of your life blood. Just leave, while you can!   #domesticviolence #assault #WhenIwas11

 

 

The recent case of the 11-year-old child being raped by multiple men in Chennai was deeply disturbing. It also made me realise if a 11-year-old child can speak up about the abuse and inform a concerned relative (her sister), then as a 33-year-old I should also be speaking up.

 

#WhenIwas11 I got molested by a 55-year-old drunk man on overnight train, heading back to Chennai. I was sleeping in the middle birth and he was sleeping on the top birth. I was travelling with an adult. I was deep in sleep, but was having nightmares; suddenly I was jerked into consciousness by pain. I woke up to find my skirt pulled up, my underpants rolled down and the creep groping me. I screamed and screamed and screamed till the lights came on and I dissolved in a weeping heap.
A crowd had gathered and the TTR came. The TTR, crowd wanted to beat him up and file a case at the next railway police station. The adult with me said No; they’d rather not report the matter. What was worse than the assault was what followed….That day, I remember kneeling down (as punishment) and a voice yelling, – “Do you know what she did today? She seduced a fat bald 50 year old man!”
I didn’t know what “seduced” meant. I didn’t know how babies were born. I only knew I felt cheap, dirty and untouchable. Someone, something gross, repulsive beyond words. The adult blamed me for choosing not to wear a petticoat that day. For me being an active kid, loving to run around, play games, I’d always hated restrictive garments ….but the comment stayed with me for years – I’d always wear petticoats, pin my duppatta on both sides – be the worst-dressed dork at MCC- then one of the most liberal colleges.
And this safe space of shabby dressing stayed with me through the college years, through my work life; only lately have I started making an effort to be more presentable; to atleast iron my work clothes. I told myself it didn’t matter how I dressed, it was who I was. To my puzzled friends, I played the part of a geek, too immersed in the world of books to care for clothes, perfume and makeup. I didn’t tell them it was my safe space.
I’ve faced other instances of more severe sexual assault as a teenager. But this time I’d learnt my lesson – I didn’t tell anyone. To speak about it was to invite blame. Meanwhile to my extreme suprise, I became an extremely popular student both in high school and college. I had enough and more boys asking me out on dates. Even, now (to my surprise) men ask me out – and it has acted as a balancer — my relative popularity and wide circle of friends — something that keeps at bay all the negative feelings and body loathing I’ve grown up with.
However, the after-effect of the sexual assault and the self-loathing that followed went deeper and had more serious consequences. When I was 18, I discovered when I was bathing that there was a huge lump on my left breast. I was aghast at the size and my heart kept thumping to this rhythm, “cancer, cancer, cancer.” I finally worked up the courage after a week to try and seek medical attention. The doctor was horrified. “Why did you keep quiet for so long? Why did you let it grow? How could you have not noticed earlier? If this lump had attched to the skin or bone it would have turned cancerous. What were you thinking?” How could I tell him I hadn’t noticed because I hated me, myself, my body – loathed it beyond measure.
And then I remember a voice telling, “She has been planning this. She wants to use this as an excuse to skip her final year exam.” I shrivelled up inside of me and wanted to die. The unfairness of the comment hit me hard. In the first place, as my MCC profs would attest I was an above average student; one of those intelligent, but lazy students who gets 85% at times; but also 45% because I couldn’t be bothered. But I’d always mananged to scrape through a 70-75% average by burning the midnight candle in the night. I’d never flunked an exam till then. But that time I did – I flunked 8 of my papers. What I hadn’t anticipated was my brain to stop working; for fever, flushes, high temperatures, headaches to plague me till the point of surgery.
Another aspect of child abuse victims is their silence; their total and complete silence and resilience. Physical pain is something we are used to. It’s the emotional pain that can be blinding, mind-numbing and send us down on a downward spiral of hopelessness and despair. So, when I had the breast surgery, I remember the doctors complimenting me on my cooperation. I didn’t flinch when they poked needles into me; or sucked out vials of blood. It was the same when doctors bound up my leg when I fractured it the second time. I didn’t cry out. I just gritted my teeth and clamped hard on a towel. And even worse, I didn’t cry out when the pathetic pretense of a human being — legally called my husband — was beating me to a pulp, when I was 7 months pregnant. Foolishness, bravery? It was the same, when Indra was born. It was a natural delivery and I cooperated to the utmost, despite the pain; despite local anaesthesia being administered just 5 minutes before she was born. The silence – I would say has become so much a part of me; a longstanding habit too hard to break; the ability to not let physical pain factor in your thinking process, your functioning.
When the doctor’s took out the lump, they put it in a jar of ether – a tennis-sized ball with tendrils of my pink flesh still clinging to it. They showed it to me and said by the size of it – it was probably growing since I turned 14. Something as simple, as easily detectable as a lump, I’d failed to spot because of my extreme body loathing. So when someone next tells you about their sexual abuse experience – you could just listen and not judge. You might end up saving them years of misery.

 

My heart still goes out to the 11-year-old me. Confused, bewildered, too shy and so exceeding vulnerable! The one who taught herself to smile no matter what, no matter who!

My first visit to Northern Karnataka proved immensly satisfying despite me having no working knowledge of Kannada or Hindi. And as to the Tulu or Konkani spoken in the region, I wouldn’t be able to make it out from Portugese or Spanish being particularly thick in the skull when it comes to languages.
The lack of literacy proved particularly daunting when I visited the Siddharudha Swami Madha and Nuggikeri temple. Because India has changed a lot in the last four years. As a child I remember regularly visiting the Mylapore Kapaleeshwarar Temple with friends, stuffing our faces with prasadam given by indulgent priests and letting our feet splash in the Mylapore temple tank as carp fish nibbled our feet, when we didn’t have money to buy them rice puffs. And sometimes the priests would ask about school, homework; and not once did my identity ever matter then. So it came as a somewhat slap in the face, when I took my friends to the temple recently and came across a board “Only Hindus permitted inside the sanctum sanctorum.” I, of course, had to respect religious sentiments and I stayed away.
But I couldn’t ignore the feeling of hurt – for years I had come to the temple, for years I’d watched the sun set against its silhouette as I took the bus back home, for years I’d munched on rice puffs outside the temple premises…. For my journalism college project, I took photographs of my favorite heritage buildings in the city like the St George’s Cathedral, Egmore Museum, St Mark’s, PWD headquarters, Madras University, Parthasarathy Temple and of course my beloved Kapaleeshwarer Temple. And while taking the pictures, I attracted interest and I found myself showing two priests all the photos on camera. They were interested and asked for copies. This was before the era of digital photography. So when I got the film developed at Moorthy’s at the exorbitant cost of Rs 6 a photo, I also set aside six for my new friends. And this was only 15 years ago. But today, the temple committee of the Kapaleeshwarar temple have obviously decided differently about things.
So, as I stood outside the Siddharudha Swami Madha I was wary. All the boards were in Kannada and I couldn’t ask anyone what was the done thing. Then I took a whimsical Dutch courage and in a spirit of fun, quoted RSS leader Mohan Bhagat to myself, “All people living in India are Hindus; even Muslims and Christians.” But to be on the safe side, I decided to stay away from the deity’s sanctum and started touring the outer precincts.
Now, there are multiple temples in the complex and since I saw a long queue at one end, I thought maybe that would lead to me to the most powerful deity and dutifully joined the line. The line was long, but patient and I was finally rewarded entry – only to find no God and instead a long row of people eating. It was the “Anadanam Hall.” I got out profusely apologising to the confused people in line and temple authorities who were welcoming and tried to get me to eat. I explained in broken Kannada that I wanted to know about the temple, and asked for directions to the main deity. They gave me and I set off, only to find myself at the temple book store.
I then decided I’d need google as my assistant before I do anything else absurd. And read up before entering the main hall. And that’s when I realised all my apprehensions were baseless. The Sadguru Siddharudha Swami-gal while he lived embraced people from all walks of life. He condemned caste practices and believed enlightenment/moksha was for all castes. Curious about the “rudha” in his name, I learnt that he believed himself to be a reincarnation of Shiva (Rudhrar). I sat for awhile in the hall, where the faithful recited prayers – the place seemed an oasis of peace and goodwill. While I am faithless, I can appreciate the faith of those who are deeply spiritual; who believe that all things happen for good for them that trust the Lord or who believe even evil happens as per a divine karmic plan.
My driver — the brave Hindi-speaking soul who tried to explain places of interest despite my blank uncomprehending stare — next took me to Indira Gandhi glasshouse. While the park was lovely enough, it seemed another extension of the Guindy Children’s Park, which has unofficially been dubbed “lovers’ park.” The thing about India is privacy is a luxury few can afford, so the braver of our romantic souls prefer to do their cuddling in public parks, while the rest of the populace tries to find non-lover-haunted places in the same parks.
Our next stop was Nuggikeri temple in Hubli. This temple is along the banks of Unkal lake and was lovely and serene in its lush, emerald green settings. However, boating on the lake had been stopped because of an overgrowth of invasive hyacinths. And the minute I saw the weed, I was like the British must have got here too. And my hunch was true. Apparently in 1880, the British set up a railway workshop and line from here to Bangalore. Where again, the notorious hyacinths — thanks to the British’s brilliant idea of introducing them in the Ulsoor lake — by 1930s had completely taken over the lake; choked and killed all native plants like lilies, lotuses, water chestnuts. At regular intervals, the Army does try to clean up the Ulsoor lake, but to no avail. The green devils come back!
But as we toured the city, I was feeling unsettled by the number of Chatrapati Shivaji statues I was seeing. They dot the city’s landscape and can be seen at every nook and corner. As a child I had loved hearing my mother read to me the tales of Shivaji. But with lately him becoming a symbol of Maratha aggression and anti-Tipu Sultan history revisionist sentiments – I could no longer feel the same way about him. And it left me wondering — how many more things will change – now that India gets more divisive? Ganesh Chathurthi has already become a festival of unease and closed doors for me in Bangalore. As a child in Madras, Christmas was a time to exchange pallaharams like rose cookies, Christmas cake, adhirasam, rava ladu, boondi laddu, besan laddu, kala kala, diamond cuts, burfi, thenga mittai, sweet puffs, with our neighbours. And for Diwali, Ramzan, Id we’d get delicacies in return — murukku, pal payasam, biriyani, chicken kebab. Every household used to celebrate Diwali back then and my parents would also buy fire crackers, sangu sakaram, mathapu, rockets for us, so we could take our pile and burst along with the other kids on our block. We’d compete as to who could best terrorise passing motorists. And Ganesh Chathurthi was another such a lovely festival we would eagerly take part in. Till I was in Bombay in 1992, and Ganesh Chathurthi was the mask behind which thugs defaced mosques and broke Church glass windows to tear apart Bibles. And the fear persisted, amplified by what I saw in Bangalore in 2013, when so called “revellers” on Ganesh Chathurthi wrote hate graffiti on the walls of the mosque adjoining my apartment.
To end on a lighter note….I also got to spot the famed Dharwad buffaloes and Murrah buffaloes — who are so different from their cousins in Tamil Nadu. While the Murrah buffaloes are massive in build, height and horn girth; the Dharwad buffaloes are a daintier lot — with horns that curve in, out, upward, in any direction. It was pouring so I was disappointed I couldn’t get nice photos of them; as some of my friends are cattle affindoes and breed Puliyakulam, Kangeyam, Umbalacheri, Tiruchengodu, Bargur, etc (some of them are the famed jallikattu breeds). I had to contend myself with buying boxes of super-yum Dharwad peda made from said buffalo milk and a bagful of sunset-orange Hubli pineapples!