Reflections: The Help

Skeeter (as she is called) is an aspiring writer in the small town of Jackson, Mississippi. It is the early 1960s, a time of much social awakenings and upheaval in the United States. Skeeter agrees with the socialist movements, in principle. Everyday she witnesses her clique of snooty white friends settle deeper and deeper into their rigid and narrow ways - insulting, segregating, and oppressing their African-American maids, focusing their time and effort to scale social ladders through superficial parties, and perpetuating the notion that women, that too white women, are too precious to do any hard work. Skeeter finally picks up the courage and determination to write a book from the perspective of African-American maids, with the hope that the book shall bring to light the pitiable lives of such maids and the dynamics between them and the white families they serve. With sharp characters and engrossing writing, this is an honest, simple, and heart-warming story of racial prejudices and social pressures that affect sincere, innocent lives.

Racism is the main subject of exploration in the book. But the parallel exploration that interested me was the relationship dynamics between a maid and the family that she serves. Maids, or rather Domestic Helps, are still part of most households in India. In many families, the Help is an indispensable part of everyday functioning. From cleaning the house, to helping in the kitchen, to running errands, to taking care of children, they are part of all the core elements of the household. In my own family, our Help has been with us for close to 20 years. She has grown to be one of my mother’s closest friends and support systems. Having seen me grow, I am more like a granddaughter to her. Despite such heartwarming closeness, I am aware that there is still a boundary that is drawn on either sides - define it with whatever term, color it with whatever emotion - I can’t articulate the right words for it. The dynamics is dotted with hiccups - of social hierarchy, financial status, educational differences, and overall differences in lifestyle. Perhaps it is unrealistic, given natural work boundaries, for a Help to be fully integrated into a family, but the book makes you wonder and give it more thought. Why doesn’t she ever sit with you at the same table to share a meal - nobody prevents her, there are no official rules or contract - but an implicit set of antiquated rules always hangs in the air. It is sad that in many households this is still a matter of deep-seated prejudice - the rules are imbued very seriously, with the upholders presenting thin, but vehement justifications.

As much as I hate to say this, most times the justification is presented in the name of hygiene. The book brings up this same “justification” and revolves a story around it. It shows that such rationalization is a blow to basic dignity, especially in these times. The characters in the book make an appeal to adopt more progressive attitudes.

The characters themselves are starkly black or white - good or bad. Except for Skeeter’s mom, many of the characters lacked complexity - they were simple, but beautifully portrayed. Despite the wealth of characters, each has their unique voice. Sometimes, it is nice to read stories with such simple characters that tell a basic story of injustice; a refreshing break from the world of greys we live in. The bad pay their dues, the good get blessed with a break. But life is not an ideal fairy tale, even in the most simplest of stories. The characters’ lives fork, twist, and turn, and some renew their faith and goodness to carry on, while some contently resort to their old, rusty ways. In that sense, there is a lot of realism in the story.

The wide array of memorable characters, the thread of suspense, the bristling injustices and prejudices, the rooting feminism and social liberation, make the book a straightforward success. I couldn’t put the book down, despite its length. No wonder a movie was promptly made!

Belonging

Marriage seems to have given me a new perspective on several things, but most specifically, it has widened my understanding of family ties and dynamics. I now find myself perfectly comprehending the internal family dynamics that pushed and pulled and confused my own mother, way back in the past. Having begun to walk my own path in her shoes, I have a new sense of revelation of everything related to family. The shoes that I am walking in, are the shoes that every bride and wife walks in. But, a few years earlier, I would have never guessed that these shoes held so much in them to define my feelings towards family units.

They have taught me how immeasurably significant my own family clan is to me. Having taken my own family and extended family for granted for decades, I have now come to this place of such intense longing for my own people, that it surprises me immensely. A recent family reunion has left me homesick or rather family-sick, for perhaps the very first time. Even though my own parents were not part of the gathering, I felt, so very very much, at home. It felt so overwhelmingly good to BELONG, so very unconditionally, just implicitly. Despite the petty differences and the inevitable trivialities  simmering in the background, I reveled in the certainty that I am implicitly accepted for who I am, and just the way I am. I will remain inextricably a part of them, and the feeling was so heady, so comforting, so peaceful. The feeling screamed - "Your are one of the daughters of the clan". Period. I carry in my veins the unique legacy and history that everybody around me shares and identifies with. Uncles, aunts, and cousins mirror me - myself, something strong within my core. And that moves me, refreshes me, in a way I never imagined possible. I could grasp that common thread that binds us and that transmits love, no matter what. For it assures me that I don't have to guard myself every minute; that I don't have to think twice, thrice, before uttering every single sentence; that I don't have to replay my responses in my head and worry if I did alright; that I don't have to be cautious of my every action; that I don't have to EVER wonder if I'm being judged, evaluated, scanned, or scrutinized; that I don't have to fret over whether I'm being accepted, and if I would be allowed to belong.

It felt exhilarating to not wonder about my acceptance and place. Acceptance embraced me from every nook. The sense of belonging that pervaded me is a precious tonic, a loving shoulder to lean on. I have never smiled so much, and so openly and happily in a very long time. I never thought I would be moved by meeting second cousins for the very first time.

I'm grateful for these ties that always hold me tight, no matter where I go. And I'm grateful for the joy that my primordial sense of belonging gives me. I can now understand the fierce protectiveness that people cultivate towards their place of belonging. I know, it's the motivation of our selfish genes, but nonetheless, I am grateful.

Reflections: The Secret Life of Bees

I’m bereft of words to describe or share all the beauty of this book. Being so popular, this book needs little introduction. It’s the story of Lily Owens - a teenager yearning for forgiveness, closure, and motherly love. Lily’s earliest memories as a child is the tragic accident of her mom’s death. Her mother’s death leaves her shattered in more than one way. Living with her unkind, embittered dad and being “raised” by an African-American woman, Rosaleen, Lily is a complete misfit at school and in her neighborhood. She embalms her hurt and yearning by slipping into a carefully constructed fantasy in which she is forgiven, and loved, and loved, and loved till the end of eternity. When Rosaleen gets into trouble and is threatened to be killed, Lily finally snaps her thread of connection with her father and runs away from home along with Rosaline. One of the very few precious memorabilia she has of her mom is a statue of a Black Mary with her mom’s inscription -- “Tiburon, South Carolina”. So, that’s where she goes; in a blind, crazed, desperate need to find any bits of her mother’s past. As if she was meant to be on this journey, she finds August Boatwright - the warm, wise, beekeeper and entrepreneur of Black Madonna Honey. Lily convinces August to take her and Rosaline into her home for a while. Along with August and her two sisters, Lily begins a renewed life - a life where her fears are slowly put to rest, she learns to exorcise the ghosts of her past and reach a state of forgiveness, acceptance, and love.

From start to finish, this is a thoroughly poignant and beautiful story. The tale is set during the time of the Civil Rights movement in the United States. Despite the newly passed law that racial discrimination is illegal, there is still tension, violence, and nonacceptance by rigid members of the society. Being white, Lily Owens lives within a safe brood of kind African-American women and wonders why there is so much fuss surrounding skin color. With this societal tension in the background and Lily’s personal turmoil at the forefront, the story weaves in and out of these two parallel threads to knit a beautiful and memorable set of characters. I can’t find a better adjective other than “beautiful”.

The characters are so effortlessly developed with so much nuance that I wanted to pack my toothbrush and go in search of a pink house in Tiburon, South Carolina, and live with all of them. August Boatwright infuses so much calmness, strength, wisdom and faith, I didn’t want to be reminded that she was fictional. It’s been a long time since I came across fictional characters with so much realism and appeal that I was sad to finish the book. It was also refreshing that Lily’s growth wasn’t shown in the regular “coming-of-age” light; her growth was more spiritual and all-rounded. Lily evoked a strong gush of emotions in me through her simple, deep, and touching narration. The author, Sue Monk Kidd needs to be credited for all of this, of course. I loved her writing. It’s very easy to go overboard with the multitude of emotions throbbing in this story, but her writing (in Lily’s voice) is neither overdone with superfluous emotions and insights, nor is it understated through a crude, matter-of-fact approach. She treads a beautiful balance here, bringing about just the right amounts of emotion, insight, and even casual humor!

I savored reading every line of this memorable story. The bond between a mother and child is one of the most unique, joyous, loving yet painful, and complicated relationships that Nature has devised. It’s ironic that there’s always as much joy as pain in this relationship. Lily’s story deals with all the complexities that make people stray from their ideal selves. But despite the world abounding with so many less-than-ideal people and relationships, all one can count on is one’s own inner-strength and faith to forgive, forget, and accept.

Reflections: Les Miserables

After serving his time in prison for stealing bread, Jean Valjean steps out in anticipation of freedom and a new life, but what he is met with is repugnance, hatred and prejudice in 19th century France. Thanks to Providence, with a touch of kindness and a determined steely will he rises up in life, but only to be hounded by the beast of justice that steadfastly remains blinded to the purity of his conscience. Amid haranguing circumstances, Jean Valjean continues to orient the purpose of his life to serving those in need, and in remaining immaculately clean in spirit. He leads his entire life being morally and spiritually pure. Les Miserables is a moving, immortal classic that explores deep social and philosophical questions on our existence.

Although I’ve read only two books of Victor Hugo’s so far, he is one author whose prose is so emotionally intense and powerful, it affects me deeply. There is so much wisdom, insight, truth, beauty, and simplicity to his writing. His use of metaphors is astounding. Every sentence is loaded with them in unimaginably articulate ways. As if to prove the point, I randomly opened a page from this 600-paged book, glanced at a paragraph and reread this:
“It is society buying a slave. From whom? From misery. From hunger, from privation. Melancholy barter. A soul for a bit of bread. Misery makes the offer, society accepts.”

In a nutshell, it describes one of the themes of the book. Society drives misery to breed and mutate with man-made rules that are often divorced from humanity or compassion. How does one escape the vicious cycle of poverty and misery if there is no way to break out of it? How is morality serving its purpose if it only results in the oppression of the already downtrodden and abused section?

The themes intersect with my most favorite and insistent thoughts on morality. Hugo brilliantly addresses the philosophy of morality (and justice) through the moral dilemmas that Jean Valjean struggles to resolve. Almost always, the question of what is good is murky. There are no clear, straight answers. The deed alone doesn’t explain the answer. The intention and consequences complete the picture. One needs a higher faculty of thought and emotion to truly comprehend good from wrong. And sometimes, one requires a deeper realization to understand when and whom to forgive. Hugo convincingly stresses on the immense power of mercy, empathy, and compassion.

Similar to books of those times (such as Crime and Punishment, and The Brothers Karamazov), the human conscience is treated as the voice of God, or higher awakening. When words, thoughts, and rationality fail to provide us with answers, the conscience does.

I relished every bit of the book. I could read Victor Hugo’s words a million times and emerge with a new insight every single time. The only part of the book that detracted my interest was the description of the internal rebellion in Paris. But through the civil war, Hugo indicates both internal and external awakening of a change, of a reformation, of a struggle for equality, and of a perception of higher truths.

It’s a beautiful and powerful book that both satisfies the idealistic and pragmatic viewpoints on morality.

Reflections: How I Became a Human Being

Mark O’Brien fell victim to Polio at a very young age. Since then, his condition only kept worsening, despite his lingering childlike hopes. His spine curved, the muscles in his limbs atrophied, and his lungs deteriorated, making him dependent on an unwieldy iron lung (a respirator of sorts) to breathe. Mark was shuttled between hospitals and his home for the predominant part of his childhood and teenage years. But his burning ambition to be independent and to make a living on his own, drove him to pursue admission into University of California, Berkeley’s Undergraduate Disabled Students’ Program. After much struggle, he got in and successfully graduated as an English Major. Having a penchant for literature and writing since his early years, he converted his interest into his livelihood. He worked hard to establish himself as a freelance writer and journalist. More importantly, he toiled all his life to establish himself as a human-being - a person worthy of love, respect and regard. Mark’s memoir is much more than inspirational to me - it is a touching account of what Independence, acceptance, and respect in society means.

I am always interested in issues surrounding one’s identity - how identity is felt and worn by an individual, how this gets perceived by society, how society’s perception feeds back and tinges one’s awareness of their identity, and then the ways in which one chooses to project it. Mark’s words are full of these identity feedback loops, and the title of the memoir fittingly describes his angst. In an Utilitarian sense, a disabled body screams of “low-utility” in every segment of society - professional and personal. Mark’s battle, and that of several others, is to go against this stream of thought in a society that is Utilitarian at its core. It is shameful that people who can’t contribute to society in the same ways as able-bodied people, are indeed regarded a little less human, and are afforded less humane treatment. Starting from the ways in which one looks at such a person, to the conversations (if at all) they have with the person, they are made to feel so different as to not even think of belonging to the same class of species. Mark’s memoir is a plea to correct political policies that doom the lives of disabled people suffering such indignities to their identity, wasting away their lives and minds in institutions and hospitals. The US has come a long way with its Disability Act, but many other societies still live in the dark.

There are three other aspects of this memoir that really touched me (some of which I have already stressed before)

1. The misconception surrounding independence and incompetence
When physically challenged people talk of their desire to be independent, they are often misconstrued as being in denial, and not facing reality. True, the extent of independence and privacy that they can hope for is different from what an able-bodied person can experience. But by independence, they mean the right and freedom to express themselves, choose between options, decide for themselves, and control the directions of their life as much as they can. The unfortunate misconception that a crippled person faces is that of mental incompetence. People hardly want to ask permission, or provide choices to a person in a wheelchair, who projects the image of helplessness and physical incompetence. Our animalistic brain assumes that a physical challenge equals low brain power. To break such stereotypical molds, we have several highly accomplished scientists and artists who repeatedly assert that the physical state is no reflection of the agility of the mental state. It is a fatalistic approach to keep dictating the lives of those with a severe physical disability, using the insensitive argument that they anyway have far too few choices in life to contend with, and heaven forbid, they shouldn’t be hoping for more.

2. Bravery versus fearlessness
Mark’s memoir is extremely honest. He cringes when people call him brave, probably because the word discounts his struggles, fears, and frustrations, and seems to put him in an uncomfortable spotlight that emphasizes that he is not “normal”. But, I liked a definition of bravery that he eventually comes to accept. Bravery doesn’t mean fearlessness. Bravery is when you decide to do something, despite the fear it causes you. This applies to everybody and to most of our actions. We constantly fight against our fears, to rise above it, and accomplish that which we really want.

3. The Disability spectrum
Everyone is “disabled” to some extent, in some form or the other. No one is perfectly able-bodied or able-minded. But all of us crave for love and acceptance regardless of the condition of our body or mind - acceptance is vital in the basic hierarchy of human needs. It helps to connect with this primal need for acceptance when we consider people who are shunned due to their physical state.

I will end with one of Mark’s poems about his breathing through an iron lung:

Grasping through straws is easier;
You can see the straws.
“This most excellent canopy, the air, look you,”
Presses down upon me
At fifteen pounds per square inch,
A dense, heavy, blue-glowing ocean,
Supporting the weight of condors
That swim its churning currents.
All I get is a thin stream of it,
A finger’s width of the rope that ties me to life
As I labor like a stevedore to keep the connection.
Water wouldn’t be so circumspect;
Water would crash in like a drunken sailor,
But air is prissy and genteel,
Teasing me with its nearness and pervading intensity.
The vast, circumambient atmosphere
Allows me but ninety cubic centimeters
Of its billions of gallons and miles of sky.
I inhale it anyway,
Knowing that it will hurt
In the weary ends of my crumpled paper bag lungs.

It is remarkable that Mark kept breathing and living despite his numerous existential questions and frustrations, until his lungs finally gave in. Jessica Ju’s interesting documentary on Mark’s colorful life won an Oscar in 1997. It is heartening that Mark did eventually get recognized as an interesting human-being worthy of getting to know.

Reflections: Rainbow Valley

Rainbow Valley is the seventh book in the Anne of Green Gables series. Just mentioning this should be suffice to acknowledge that the book is a sweet children’s classic delivered in Montgomery’s exquisite prose. In this book, Anne Shirley is married to Gilbert Blythe and is the mother of six lovely children. Hard to imagine Anne as a mother of six kids, right? But Anne doesn’t feature much in the book. The story revolves around her children, the new neighbor’s neglected children (the Merediths, whose father is a widowed  minister), and an orphaned waif, Mary Vance. Befitting a children’s story, the children get into mischief due to a few comedies of errors, and end up getting chided by the adults. So they decide to teach themselves to be in good conduct. Of course, they need to first figure out what “good conduct” really means. What is good, what is bad, what is heaven, what is hell, what is moral, what is a sin? Ooh, a whole lot of  heavy questions for kids to decipher. Montgomery shows the perplexities faced by a child when the world ceases to be black and white, even if one lives in a seemingly perfect and peaceful community such as Avonlea.

Avonlea, much like most communities in the early 20th century, was a conservative society honoring Victorian virtues. Social etiquette, decorous behavior, religious fervor, and codes of moral propriety were strictly defined. Without the discipline of a mother, and enough concern from the father, the Meredith children lacked fine grooming. They were frowned upon for not knowing the “right” things to say, or how to conduct themselves in social gatherings and in church, much to their father’s humiliation. But, although they were free-spirited kids who didn’t mind waving their arms in glee than sit still in church, they had good, kind hearts. They took pity on Mary Vance, a girl who ran away from a tormenting employer, gave her a place to stay, food to eat, and above all kindness and friendship. When these kids were constantly rebuked for their frivolous behavior, they set out to punish themselves to redeem and reform their ways to be socially and morally acceptable. The innocence and earnestness tugs your heart. I really liked the fact that Montgomery explores a heavy subject from the simple perspective of children. There’s an instance where Mary and Una try to sort out the moral predicament of lying. Would telling lies always get you down to Hell? Mary innocently states that she had to tell multiple lies to save herself from getting beaten by her unfair and mean employer, while Una wonders if God would be so unkind to banish such girls who lied, to Hell. God was surely much more fair and merciful in his judgments, right? It reminded me of the time I had such a mini-revelation and wondered how God would decide whom to punish. And to this day, I continue to ponder, along with several other intelligent adults.

Underneath all the merriment and innocence of childhood, is the question of what constitutes as mere social propriety and what truly is morality. Of course, Montgomery doesn’t delve deep, but gives a nice enough introduction to the beginning of the end of childhood.

With a happy ending, a little contemplation and the naivety of childhood suffusing the book, which child wouldn’t like this book?

Reflections: The Scarlet Letter

Hester Pryne is accused of infidelity, which was considered an egregious sin among puritans who lived in New England in the late 19th century. Hester’s sin is just short of murder, or selling one’s soul to the evil and turning into a witch. She is sentenced to prison for a short-time, where she gives birth to her daughter - the baby crowns the glaring symbol of her misstep. The town and the chief priest decide to painfully reinforce the consequences of her sin to the public, to teach a lesson on morality. She is made to take a public stand with her baby and is condemned to wear the scarlet letter “A” on her chest for the rest of her life, to bear a constant symbol of reminder of her shame, her sin and her punishment. Despite her humiliation and cruel social-isolation and repugnance, Hester doesn’t reveal the name of the man who sinned with her, nor do the people of the town know who her husband is. As Hester bravely lives her life, trying to put away her sorrow and hurt, the men torment themselves - the husband hungry for revenge and the lover suffering with guilt. Hawthorne’s story discusses the prejudiced definition of “sin”, the different depths of morality, and the power of human conscience, while sensitively bringing out one woman’s resilience and agony.

This story and its themes are quite Crime and Punishment-esque, especially in the context of the slow and torturous ways in which the lover gets haunted and plagued with guilt. By following the lives of the condemned and the aggrieved, books such as these, offer a detailed and honest discussion of whether the original act can really be called a sin. And if the act were really a mistake, is the punishment justified in its severity? Is one single act enough to nullify all the other thousands of virtuous deeds and a righteous life led? In cases of infidelity, the lines are not quite clear as to who the victim and sinner are, and it was especially true in a cloistered era when individual feelings were brushed aside to doggedly conform to standards of societal-acceptance. All of these questions coalesce to get to the roots of the definition of morality itself.

Such stories also bring to light the dangers of a blind-folded view towards morality, right and wrong. Devoid of empathy, understanding and a basic touch of humanity, any framework of religion or morality is meaningless to the humankind. They don’t achieve their purpose of reformation - they only deepen the scars and extinguish the human spirit. Open-mindedness, rational thought and humane feelings need to be used as combined tools to assess a situation and think about reformation. In most cases, the “sinner” is usually the one with an unsoiled spirit and mind, and it’s the other officious judges of sins who lack integrity and purity of spirit.
Such books discuss my favorite themes on morality and I find that my views remain the same no matter how many different authors explore the topic. This book definitely deserves its stature as a literary classic.

Reflections: The Inheritance Of Loss

In the quaint town of Kalimpong, overlooking the magnificent Kanchenjunga mountains, lives a retired misanthropic judge, his precious dog, his teenage, lonely, grand-daughter Sai, and a garrulous cook in hopes of a better life. The cook’s hopes rest on his son Biju’s shoulders, to be the valiant US employed NRI, who would amass dollars and pack suitcases full of  panaceas to rid his family’s penury. The cook shared the same naive and ignorant dream that most of the world’s poverty driven sections dream. Little do they realize the implications of immigration, and the pitiable states in which their kins live in the developed lands of wealth, only to bury their dignity and identity to scrape a few dollars and earn the esteemed status of living abroad.

Each character in this book has a story of their own, which unearths their inner conflicts of who they were, and who they were striving to be in the eyes of the world. The judge, his grand-daughter and other friends in the neighborhood are still in the clutches of the colonial hang-over. They have been molded to deride everything that is crudely Indian - culture, habits, thoughts, and way of life. But deep down their identities are muddled - they are Indians, but not really Indians. They are foreigners in their own land, yet treated like stray dogs in the western world, whose elite culture they thought they imbibed and were part of. This identity crisis is faced by most Indians, living abroad and within India. Biju’s life in New York, as a lowly illegal immigrant paints the stereotype of the confused immigrant, fumbling to fit in, frustrated by the shoddy treatment, yet reluctant to head back home. All these characters are strangers to themselves, foreigners everywhere, until they sort out their conflicts and priorities.

Since culture is so tightly coupled with identity and acceptance, there is an eternal dilemma of what exactly constitutes as culture, and how to attain that optimal balance of both adapting to and being accepted by a new country, while staying true to one’s core principles and ways of life. As globalization opens the world market wide and invites people of different cultures to work together and coexist, this problem affects almost every family in developing nations that reach out for a brighter future with illusions on “better standards of living.”

The common misconception is that one’s own culture has to be forsaken at the altar of the Immigration counter, burying one’s identity and turning into a chameleon with no sense of self, meaninglessly camouflaging with the western ideals, just to be accepted and granted a stint at their luxury, without being shunned. On the other extreme are those who feel terrified and lost without their cultural anchors, that they crudely assert their misguided ideas about culture, only to attract negative attention and revulsion. Both sets of people lose their dignity in the process, yet they cling onto the dream of a better life, even if they are assured of an equally better life back home. No, it is unpardonable to let go of the opportunity to reside in a better country, a more refined society, and a sophisticated community.

In the midst of all these issues, Desai inserts the violent revolutions of the GNLF (Gorkha National Liberation Front) tearing Kalimpong. Nepali-Indians demand their rightful place in India, when every family in Kalimpong dreams of immigrating to the West, of casting away their threads of connections to India, and feels slighted at being treated like a nuisance when badgered for a green-card. However, in their own country, they are prejudiced against the Nepalis who have served them for generations. The hypocrisy towards the dichotomous views on immigration is nicely brought out.

The effects of insurgency on young minds, and the corruption it brings forth in confusing patriotism and heroism with terrorism, are deftly brought out through Sai’s Nepali tutor, Gyan. As always, the real cause blends into the background, and the violence marks the external manifestation of  troubled and confused minds.

Desai’s writing was a little aloof for me, yet I connected with the story, for I’m far too familiar with the issues. It made me strangely guilty, and left me assessing my motivations and the reasons for my decisions. I felt her writing was exceptionally acrid towards the legal, comfortably established immigrants. Some parts of her writing were beautiful, but they fizzled away soon, only to be replaced by the aloof and cold tone.

On the whole, while the issues of immigration and globalization have been honestly and expertly addressed, the writing failed to pack in the full punch. The story is a mirror image of lives that immigrants are only too familiar with, and leaves us vaguely disturbed.

Reflections: The God Of Small Things

Sometimes, books that I revisit help me understand how much I’ve changed, grown, or fallen back over the years. When I first attempted to read this book, several years back, I was a wide-eyed teenager who lived in her bubble of idealism. I found the writing to be choppy, and the story to be disturbing. It bothered my world-view of moral-idealism, and I abandoned the book. Last week, years later, the book had stared at me from an abandoned bookshelf. On a whim, I decided to read it again till the very end, only to discover how much I have changed, and how much I haven’t.

Rahel and Estha are fraternal twins snared in a web of complications weaved expertly by the big strong adults of their world. Their childhood is ruthlessly entangled in society’s biggest issues, the most vociferous debates, when all they tried to do was indulge themselves in the small pleasures of childhood. It is this perspective - how the small and big issues of life coalesce and drastically alter the course of small things, while hardly creating a ripple in the big things, that puts this book in its special place. It is the age-old discussion of individual versus community, and how the individuals always lose out, unwittingly, innocently.

The twins are born out of the unfortunate union of a Malayali Syrian Christian mom, and a Bengali dad, both of whom have their own personal scars and misgivings. Their intentions were masked by impulse and rash hope, only to soon wither away as reality shined through. The twins and their mom, Ammu, are forced to seek refuge in Ammu’s home in Ayemenem, Kerala. An eloped daughter, divorced, with two children, returning home in disgrace, forms the exemplar of ridicule and forced-humiliation for the Ayemenem household members, who view themselves as staunch upholders of morality. Ammu and the children struggle to find their place in the household and in the community, but in vain. They hunger for love and acceptance. Each is caught in their own suffocating insecurity of their bleak future. Like a pile of dried leaves, their insecurities slowly mount from little incidents, which by themselves might seem insignificant. However, driven to the edge, they take a daring little step to reach out for love, only to dearly pay an incredibly torturous price.

Roy fiercely brings to life the hypocrisies of the Indian society, especially, in the 60s, when Communism was at its incipient, boisterous stages in Kerala. Notions of equality and freedom did not fit with the community’s model of a moral society. Morality was a vacuous term, muddled by people’s distorted beliefs and bloated egos. Each person was tainted by his own selfish agendas, rationalizing them as being moral and for the greater good. Such a society, clouded by prejudice, deems who can be touched, and who cannot be. And what their role in society ought to be.  Even as communism burgeons, there is a double-standard on who is worthy of its principles, and how much of it. This becomes the moral-mantra to base all their rational and irrational deeds.

I never expected this book to leave such an intense emotional impact on me. The mix of heady emotions overwhelmed me so much, that I had to wait for a few days to write this post. In some ways, I still am that wide-eyed girl, hoping for harmony and kindness in every path that humanity takes. It still pains me to see the remnants of colonialism and caste-distinctions wreaking havoc in personal lives, and individual happiness. It pains me even more when children are mercilessly involved in cruel, complicated, moral dilemmas. It isn’t fair that their lives are scarred irreparably due to moral implications beyond their grasp of understanding. From a child’s lens, everything is simplified and seen for what it truly is. If only adults could simplify, and experience the smaller, delicate things in life that build up to the bigger causes. What a refreshing objective it would provide.

This time, I found the writing to be deeply moving, and incredibly imaginative. It a took me awhile to connect with the writing style, but when I did, I was hypnotized by it. I marvel at Roy’s ability to pick out the most subtle, yet the most deepest of emotions and thoughts and convey them through metaphors that are both ingeniously creative and simple. She brilliantly defines each character with their unique personality. The writing cuts through with sarcasm and insight, and tender descriptions. Her descriptions are intensely vivid, sometimes cruelly vivid. I think it was her writing that really brought the story closer to my heart.

Some parts of the book - especially how the twins resolve their hollowed emotional angst, was a little hard for me to accept. I could empathize with their scars and the need to fill their void with love, but the Freudian theories of repression that Roy unravels, somehow didn’t hold water with me.

Except for that quibble, the book has endeared itself nicely. The characters and the intense emotions pulsing through the book have been etched into my heart and memory.

The Sphere Of Acceptance

On the fringes of the ostracized circle, where people’s merciless gazes are the scorching, penetrating lashes of the sun, she tiptoes into the polka dots of shades. Ah, but the shades are none other than the swooping shadows of the vultures above. Hovering close, eyes leering, beaks clicking with mirth, thrilled at the look of confusion and shame on her. Dare not she rest her weary eyes. Dare not she find comfort in the unintentional breeze flapping out of their wings. The old birds are here to feast on her misery, to cackle at her misfortune, to meticulously pick apart pieces of fleshy gossip and rumor, and relish them down with the satisfaction of being on the safe side of the circle. The legal, accepted, side.

All it takes for her is a meaningless little step, a mere hop, to get into the sphere of legal acceptance. An entry given as a reluctant compromise for having eventually conformed to their rules. But the gap between that hop is wider than eternity. The vital difference between disdain and approval, between treating her like a person and a smelly mouse. Yet,  having come from that mid-line, of being neither here nor there, she loses her worth, the esteemed merit of joining the niche. She can step into the circle, but should remain at a safe distance from the crowd. The past hangs over her like the dead albatross on the mariner’s neck. A constant, heavy reminder that she is inexcusably different, ineligible to fit in.

Then, the boundaries cease to make a difference. She wouldn’t have fit in the disapproved circle, neither did she find her place tip-toeing on its edges, nor will she snugly attach to the elite circle of legal and social acceptance.

Does it matter then, where she stands, or is pushed to stand? Why fuss over those arbitrary lines? Who defined them? What reasoning went behind those sharp, cruel distinctions? I thus try to distill her muddy thoughts, to filter the sludge of feelings choking her.

Thank those hands that try to pull you into the circle. Accept gracefully that their forces can’t hope to overpower the forces of repulsion. Seek your little radius to root yourself. Remember to always travel with yourself, lean on yourself, for you are the only one that matters. You are the only one who can be your best companion.

Reflections: I Raise My Eyes To Say Yes

Ruth Sienkiewicz-Mercer was diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy when she was a toddler. Since that tender age, all she could muster with her body consisted of three things - she could raise her eyes to say "yes", frown and crumple her lips to say "no", and do both the actions in quick succession to indicate "maybe". As Ruth's family grew and finances became tight, her parents were confronted with the tough choice of sending her away to a residential school. However, when her parents entered her into a State Infirmary for the physically and mentally challenged, little did they know how much their ignorance and stoicism resulted in the sacrifice of Ruth's emotional growth and physical development. Ruth was unfairly categorized as being mentally retarded because of her extremely limited expression of intelligence and comprehension. It is ridiculous and highly atrocious that she was made to go through IQ tests, when she was given no tool or support to communicate her answers. She was shuttled between wards housing mentally unstable patients, where she was made to lie on her back all day long, was stuffed with unpalatable food through a watering can, and was left to stare at nothingness all day long, every day, for years together. In short, she was treated like a vegetable which was kept alive and breathing. If there is any other form of cruel punishment to surpass solitary confinement, this would be it. A young girl with an intelligent and curious mind, shackled in a useless body, torn away from friends and family, made to stare at the same things and hear the same disturbing noises, would have lost her sanity. But not Ruth. She braved the ordeal for thirteen years, with her sanity intact, her thoughts lucid, her ambitions high. With the help of many empathetic friends, she eventually moved out of the Infirmary and started a new life in her own apartment. She also undertook the project of putting her story and her thoughts into words. Through communication devices and sophisticated alphabet boards, her thoughts were painstakingly conveyed, and her story has been meticulously written as a book, by Steven Kaplan.

Ruth's story is not just the run of the mill heart-breaking, inspirational memoir. It is a person's plea for recognition as a human being. The book steers away from self-pity, and it doesn't weigh down with emotional intensity. It is a realistic, honest narration of a severely disabled woman with an incredibly robust mind, and an even greater will power. I can't even begin to imagine how anyone could preserve their sanity when subjected to the circumstances that Ruth went through. Not only did this woman, who was branded as useless and mentally retarded, brave the tragic circumstances with a healthy spirit, she also developed a wonderful personality through the whole experience! She never ever gave up trying to assert herself as a person who deserved basic respect. She was astute and intelligent to adapt what little gestures and vocal abilities she had to communicate and let her thoughts be known. When she was introduced to technology which could expand her vocabulary, she worked herself to the bone to somehow use words other than "yes", "no" and "maybe" to express her self. This whole book yet again painfully explicates how priceless words are to establish ourselves as normal, competent individuals. Communication and expression are fundamental to human beings, for we are social animals.

Ruth was "helped" to survive, if survival means just staying alive. But she rebelled for something even more basic - dignity and acceptance. Her life serves as a lesson for bettering the treatment of the physically challenged.

It is a sad realization that even those who aren't limited by any physical challenges face a jungle everyday, that it seems almost unrealistic to expect constant empathy and perfect consideration towards those who unfortunately can't contribute much to society. Ruth's hurt and frustration can be put off as denial to face reality. But with the advent of technology, physical limitations can be erased, skills can be virtually augmented, and the horizon of opportunities through which people like Ruth can contribute to society can be widened. Yet, it still requires empathy, patience and a consideration of these people as fellow human beings to be able to execute these ideals. Ruth's story will demand all of these.

Reflections: Meaning Of A Disability

Until now, I've never felt any urge to write about books that I read  for my academic interests. With ample discussions, term papers and academic book reviews mandated of such books, there's been scarcely any energy or motivation to write about them here. But yesterday, I finished reading two exceptional books that I'm quite eager to share and write about; a rare emotion that accompanies academic prescription.

The first book is by Dr. Robillard, a sociology professor from University of Hawaii. In the mid 1980s, Dr. Robillard was diagnosed with ALS, a motor neuron disease that leads to slow degeneration of motor neurons, muscle atrophy and paralysis of the whole body. Dr. Stephen Hawking is another well-acclaimed professor and scientist afflicted with ALS. The prognosis is usually death within a few years of the onset of the disease. However, Dr. Robillard lives after more than 20 years of being diagnosed with ALS, and continues to teach at the University of Hawaii. He strives to lead a normal life, and his strong-willed spirit keeps him extremely productive and creative. This book is an autobiographical account of his life with ALS, and what it truly means to be physically disabled.

More than the debilitating effects of paralysis, those with ALS acutely miss their ability to speak and communicate. This would be especially true for someone as accomplished, intelligent and articulate as Dr. Robillard. The focus of this book has been to bring to light the significance of simple talk and face-face communication in our social structure, and its intricacy in defining us as individuals who are socially competent and intelligent. Using his own experiences, Dr. Robillard critically analyzes the shift in social structure when a person is struck with a disability to talk and be heard. The method of analysis he has employed is called ethnomethodology.

Our ability to carry on a conversation is often taken for granted. It is a mundane routine. But it's fascinating to learn about the the extent of skill and subtlety involved in simple social interaction. Conversations are highly bound by temporal parameters. A slight miss in the rhythm, an averted gaze, a shift in body posture, an incorrect intonation, a careless gesture, and meaning is lost. Thoughts remain stagnant, and are never transmitted. The person is never understood for what they are and what they want to share. It goes to show how much our identity is tied with these social building blocks. Shatter the blocks, and our individuality as a person in society drastically gets altered. Our personality is shaped through our expressions. Without the ability to express, especially spontaneous expression of thoughts through words, our personality is trapped within our body. This was a very interesting take-away from the book, although it might sound very intuitive. Dr. Robillard's experiences go beyond just common-sense perception.

In addition, the book emphasizes something very fundamental - that the body by itself is a very crucial component of the social comprehension of how competent a person is. It is sad that most of us fall into the notion that a dysfunctional body and dependence due to it, is a sign of incompetence. An active, alert mind, imprisoned inside that body is often ignored. Respect to an individual diminishes with the regression of the body's functionality. Basic dignity is overlooked, and empathy is misdirected through patronizing talk, actions and behavior. Dr. Robillard's accounts have given me a very realistic understanding of the attitudes, angst and expectations of a person with a physical disability. And for primarily this reason, I would recommend this book to those who want to learn how to understand and treat people with physical challenges.

The book is well-written, precise, analytical and grounded in empiricism. Some of his words carry the inevitable marks of hurt and frustration. Dr. Robillard composed the entire book by lip-signing (a method of communication he devised with the help of his wife and students), every word to his students, who typed the manuscript, while his daughter helped with editing. I want to say that I'm inspired by his perseverance, his ambition, motivation and his strength of will, but he resents such statements. To say so is putting him outside the circle of normalcy. He is a normal man, a thoughtful and analytical professor, who is a prolific writer of  remarkable books and papers, teaches courses, and conducts research, befitting his intelligence and personality. And that inspires me.

Reflections: Anna Karenina

As a gift from my father, Anna Karenina has been longingly sitting on my shelf for quite a while now, with Anna's piercing portrait throwing accusing and pleading glances at me to pick her up and read her story. I attribute my delayed reading to the only deterrent - the monstrous size of the book, threatening to seriously injure my wrists if I were to so much as lift it nonchalantly. But, as part of my resolutions, I slogged like a diligent student burning the midnight oil in preparation for a serious exam, and now I bear the same sweet exhaustion that one has after accomplishing a strenuous feat. This is in no way to imply that my read was tedious. It was pleasantly intense - heavy with emotions, saturated with thoughts.

It's hard to assimilate my thoughts on a book of such high ranks. It's a book not just on the life of Anna, but represents a chunk of time that reflects life in late 19th century Russia. Tolstoy, as was Dostoevsky, was not merely an author to have created this masterpiece in literature. His astute perspicacity in so many fields - philosophy, psychology, sociology, and religion, is the reason why his name and this book still reside in esteemed hallmarks.

Tolstoy probes into the fundamental facets that plague our existence - love, marriage, children, infidelity, hypocrisy, societal duty, religion, spirituality, morality, philosophy, existentialism, birth and death. With a book so exhaustive, I;m trying to comb for meaningful words in a tangle of thoughts. Anna's story is legendary. A bewitchingly charming lady, she is a mother of a young boy, and a devout, albeit forlorn wife of a stately diplomat. To many, the term "loveless marriage" produces the sensation of grating nails on a wall. At large, a conservative society cannot fathom or produce an iota of empathy or sympathy for such a situation. But Tolstoy's words drive home the meaning of being unhappy, cold and isolated in a societal charade called marriage. When she unexpectedly gets caught in the talons of passionate love, Anna's soul awakens anew and longs to live its life. She heedlessly follows her heart and her passions, and leaves behind a bitter and fiery trail of misery and torment. Anna's act doubtlessly surfaces as a thoughtless debasement of her crude passions, but when we journey into her deepest inner turmoil, the hardest of hearts will find a trace of sympathy for her.

So far, I have been able to clearly demarcate infidelity as something to be censured. But for the first time, my feelings and thoughts fluctuated between reproach, sympathy, censure and pity for Anna. Despite Tolstoy's subtle exposition that being a slave to our passions is bound to lead one to a fractured and peace-less state, his portrayal of Anna, of the characters and her life, cannot be more objective and immersed in reality. He never thrusts an overpowering message of right or wrong. He brings out the black and white in each of us, the true dilemmas, and the true demons that haunt us. When society ostracizes Anna, he fires anger at our constrained and tightly bound rules, when Anna's son is abandoned and is traumatized, he brings in admonition tainted with helpless pity towards Anna, and when Anna spirals down with her inane and irrational emotions when her life with her lover gets arduous, he creates plentiful abhorrence towards the very lady whose plight the reader would have amply sympathized with in the previous page. Only an adroit writer can achieve such realistic evocations. Anna stands pitiful and helpless, despite her foibles, which try as we might, cannot be subject to harsh judgment.

With Anna's story forming the heart of the novel, Tolstoy culls out the meaning of marriage and the ironical way in which our society is framed with hypocritical importance paid to the legalized branding of a husband and a wife. Anna's life with her lover is cast in comparison with her former married life with her husband, and the fake life of another woman, who is legally bound to her husband, despite his salacious activities. The age old question - is it much worthier to please the unknown eyes of the society, by remaining in a sham called marriage, wherein both people have drifted apart, retain no love or companionship for each other, but stick together for the sake of children and security in society? How is a non-legalized relationship that epitomizes the true spirit of matrimony, immoral? Anna's marriage was arranged by her family. So should the perils of one such a mistake be undergone all through one's life? Many are bound to see Anna's emotions as immature and profane, but I truthfully don't know how to evaluate such a situation. In my simpleton view, when children are involved, one has to consider them as important factors in the equation. There is no excuse to evade such a responsibility. My view of morality encompasses only the sphere of children, nothing more. Society and religion dissolve for me. Yet I can't rebuke Anna, for the reason for her tragedy and incessant torture was because of her guilt and pangs for her son. It's like watching a car that accidentally veered into a slippery turn, slide down hill with very little control to revoke that single impulse of a mistake. Precisely the reason why I feel it's unfair that the rules in our society have to be so unrealistically and mercilessly tight, that they fail to embody any realm of forgiveness, empathy or compassion.

In the heat of such traumatic revelations, Tolstoy deftly shows how the strength garnered from religion and spirituality can guide a man into noble and virtuous directions. He shows how forgiveness can envelope the soul with the much needed peace and clarity, and how hatred and harbored negativity lacerates our presonality, awakening an embittered, cruel side of us. As much as he emphasizes the glory of spiritual strength, he also takes an unbiased view of how religion, when applied without thought or meaning can be used as a double-edged sword to bring out the worst in a person. A staunchly religious person who merely conforms to the external decorum of rules and society and doesn't look into the integrity and purity of his thoughts and actions, is probably much more of a sinner. Through an array of characters in this novel, Tolstoy analyzes the thought process of a spiritual and religious skeptic. Agnostics teem aplenty amongst us, keen on using reason and science to deduce the meaning of life and everything around us. But Tolstoy shows how even a skeptic is rooted with an inherent need to grasp onto some form of higher faith when he confronts the many uncontrollable forces of our lives. The meaning of life is shown to be something imbibed deep within each of us, which cannot be attempted to be explained with reason, and articulated with words. We are all aware of a deep need to live true to our inner souls, and to work in the way of goodness; probably these are the only real purposes of our existence. To live, learn and follow our ingrained intuition of doing good. Perhaps it is our disappointment and denial that our purpose in life could be so simple and trite, that makes us delve into finding the meaning behind everything that exists around us. While I partially agree with this view, I guess I still have a long way to go to realize such a truth, and understand the design of our lives and the universe.

Finally, Tolstoy also threads in discussions on socialism and communism in connotation with Russia's social upheavals. Despite such heavy themes packed into this gigantic book, the prose is fluid, florid and deeply meaningful. The translation could not have been better. As with all classics, the characters in the book leave a lasting impression of having lived with you. It is truly incredible that Tolstoy can expertly and accurately articulate the emotions and thoughts of different kinds of people - a protective father, a controlling yet loving mother, an obedient daughter, an abandoned son, a lonely wife, a jilted husband, an anguished woman caught up in insecurity and jealousy, an unconditional friend, a relentless intellectual, and a passionate lover. It is astonishing that Tolstoy could verbalize those very unique and deep emotions that make us women ambiguous and capricious to understand. Here are a man's words spilling out those very evasive secrets on how a woman's mind and heart work.

Anna Karenina's haunting life is sure to live fresh in my memory for a long time to come.

Reflections: All Under Heaven

In addition to bombarding this space with my sudden splurge of thoughts on books, what's with this marathon on Coelho's and Buck's? Lets just call it Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and going by esteemed recommendations :)

All Under Heaven is a book that deals with the acceptance of human beings as belonging to just one kind - Humankind, under the all encompassing and loving heavens. A distinguished American diplomat, having served in China for twenty five years, returns home to America with his loving Russian wife and two children. The family's sudden return was due to the imminent Communist Revolution that threatened to destroy many such foreign and noble families, merely because of their social standing. The McNeil family loved China and was integrated in it's rich culture. Except for Mr. McNeil, the rest of the family were as much Chinese as they were not Americans. Even Mr. McNeil, despite his American descent, felt more of a stranger after all his years away from the country. Added to this, was Mrs. McNeil's Russian heritage, intermingling a culture into the family that was founded out of love and the energy to bring forth peace and harmony. The book is a realistic recount of this "mixed" family's struggles and challenges to integrate into America, and their lessons on what it takes to be accepted as true Americans.

Our identities have their roots in the land in which we are nurtured. Our ways of thinking, cultural orientations, and ways of living get tainted by the experiences of the people and traditions of the land. When we enter a new land, our identities are forced to be reformed, to desperately fit in. There ensues a very familiar conflict between our torn personalities - one apprehensive of losing our essence and roots, and the other eager to fit in, to be accepted. In the process, some parts of us get subdued, dormant, fading away into a corner of the soul; some we integrate to form a clarified version of east and west, as a consolation of the best of two worlds, while some parts of our identities grow afresh, sprouting entirely as children of the new land and culture. Pearl Buck brings out these aspects in the book, as the diverse family struggles to be part of America, while fearful of not losing their true self. The adolescent children of the family find it more easier to grow into Americans and are eager to shed away their prejudiced associations, while the parents fear the integrity of such a growth.

Most of us have faced the challenges of entering a new country, a new culture and way of living. America as it is today, is seen as reasonably welcoming, speckled with diverse culture, cuisines and acceptance of liberal and independent ways of living. The transition has been made almost seamless. But more than five decades before, when revolutions were at their hilt and the world kept breaking and patching up, entering a new country that was wary of foreigners from Communist countries, did not promise such a welcoming experience. The book introduces the America of the yesteryear's - conservative and closed. Pearl Buck delicately brings out the prejudices towards communists, and ignorant beliefs towards them. She openly laments on how America shielded itself from world affairs and history, and people led their quick judgments to isolate anyone with a remote association with China or Russia. Warm hearted young men wanted to bomb, without wanting to think, reason, or find a harmonious solution, while the white peasants were complacent to not worry about what was happening across the oceans.

The book touches upon Communism's impact on those intellectuals like the McNeil's family who desired harmonious existence, but were branded and discriminated due to their social class and heritage. In addition to the misunderstood concepts on Communism, the family's struggle to culturally fit in, forms a realistic and insightful tale.