Alice Munro's daughter and the loneliness of abuse

Alice Munro's daughter, Andrea Robin Skinner, narrates the ordeal of being raped in her childhood in this disturbing piece. Munro is a Canadian author who won the Nobel Prize for literature in 2013. The author's complicity in her daughter's abuse has sent shock waves among the literary community. 

When she was only nine, Andrea was sexually assaulted by her stepfather, Gerald Fremlin. While this disgusting act itself is enough to shock anyone, I was more pained to read that no one came forward to help the child. While her mother, Alice Munro, responded with astonishing narcissism, her father and stepmother too kept mum. A defenceless child was left at the mercy of a monster. She started suffering from bulimia, insomnia and migraines. "By the time I was 25, I couldn’t picture a future for myself," she wrote.

When Andrea finally mustered the courage to tell her mother, Alice Munro, about the abuse, the author had said that "Our misogynistic culture is to blame if you expect me to deny my own needs, sacrifice for my children, and make up for the failings of men." She not only refused to be held accountable in any way, but also remained with the abuser till he died.

Can you imagine Andrea's feeling of isolation when she was abandoned by both her primary caregivers? The well-being of a child is the foremost and the most sacred duty of parents. It means that the parents have to make it their life's mission to ensure the mental, emotional and physical safety of the child they have brought into this world. 

Abuse survivors are often asked why they did not reach out to people earlier, or why they did not seek help. In most of the cases, the truth is that the survivor does try to speak about her/his ordeal, but it's never heard. Even if Alice Munro had not responded the way she did, the very action of her remaining quiet and choosing to go back to her husband would have convinced the survivor that she had been abandoned.

Abuse is a very isolating experience. The survivor is not only expected to keep quiet, but also expected to resign to her fate accepting that the burden is only hers to bear. In Alice Munro's case, her fame brought her immunity to being held accountable. People often take the side of the rich and influential, even if it means snuffing out the voice of a victim of a heinous crime. While the stepfather was the abuser, Andrea's mother, father and her stepmother were the enablers. The child was left to figure out the unfairness of it all alone.

Why businesses should diversify like Niloufer Cafe

As a self-proclaimed tea expert, I am not stingy when it comes to expressing love for my favourite tea cafes. A good cup of tea needs to be admired and written about, just as the old poets waxed eloquent about daffodils and the moon. One of my favourite places to have tea in Hyderabad is Niloufer Cafe. I do not know how they do it, but they get it right every time. My trips to Lakdikapul have always included a quick 10-min pit stop at their roadside cafe that spills over with people even at 12 am. However, besides their consistency at brewing their fare, I have been admiring their business expansion skills lately. My admiration went up a notch after I visited their premium lounge in Banjara Hills. 

One of my most boring fantasies in life is to visit a tea room in England. There is something about tea cafes which makes me feel sanguine about life. I dream of going to one of those place with Victorian aesthetics where tea is served in bone china sets, beside a three-tiered tray filled with cakes and scones.

I got a faint whiff of this dream on the third floor of Niloufer Lounge. The aesthetics of the place were not similar to my dream, but it did make me feel sanguine about life. The seating arrangement creates a sense of privacy through the way the furniture are arranged. The sofas are plush and comfortable, and soft instrumentals play in the background. A buzzer is provided to call the waiting staff, and of course, there is their trademark Irani tea. This lounge is the costliest among their offerings.

I think it's brilliant how they have priced the same tea in different brackets to tap the various economic segments. While the roadside cafe at Lakdikapul sells a cup at Rs 20, the one located further down the road sells it at around Rs 40 because the ambience is better. They sell it at a similar price range in Himayatnagar and Banjara Hills too. 

At the premium lounge, the tea costs around Rs 200. Depending on your cash flow, mood and disposable time, you can decide which offering you would go for.  (Please note that the prices are approximate).

PS: This vintage short movie is set around a tea room at a railway station. The story is great too!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LguRis_h1qc&t=243s

PSS: Niloufer Cafe did not pay me to write this post. 

Nostalgia: First Lancer Road

Today, I discovered that my hair clutcher is a memory object. A regular glance at this mundane, plastic accessory drowned me into a vortex of memories so strong, that the streets, the people and the sights appeared in a tumble of PowerPoint slides. 

First Lancer Road, Masab Tank. My friend and I had bought a few trinkets at a shop there after a heritage walk conducted by Haseeb Jafferi. The shop, with the shimmery bangles, neon blouse pieces and mannequins with stylish wigs, had rubbed some of its garish sparkle on me too. That is why, instead of going for the plain ones which I usually wear, I chose this. The shiny flowers of stone on the clutcher had my heart. "I will wear it when I feel fancy, " I told my friend. 

But the story doesn't start here. It started many many years ago when I used to live as a 'paying guest' in one of the houses there. How do I describe First Lancer? In the initial days, it was an assault on the senses with the prayers from the multiple temples and mosques, the narrow roads on which sewer water ran most of the year, the perpetually crowded A1 Stationery Shop. Humans, vehicles and the occasional cows moved in no particular direction, and as if, to compensate for the mess, jewelry shops displayed their finest glittery faux items at their entrances. Harassment on the streets was a regular affair, and my friend (another one) and I would hold hands and walk after sunset. 

I was more adventurous in daylight though. I remember sitting gingerly on the bench in Nasheman Hotel and having my tea leisurely. The absence of solo women and the stares used to trouble me initially, but slowly, the area and I fell into the comfortable silence that only strangers can enjoy. Threading sessions at the beauty parlour were always followed by grilled chicken from the hole-in-the-wall Dine Hill. 

It was on these streets that I had practised driving my scooter, before going all-out into the bad, mad world of main roads. I remember waiting at a traffic signal for the first time in my life, near Balaji Grand Bazaar. As I turned left with trembling hands, I was almost sure that was my last day on Mother Earth. And then, I became one with the traffic. 

There was a flower seller who used to sit opposite Agra Sweets. He used to have a wicker basket full of red roses, and a few handfuls of jasmine flowers. Every day, I used to buy one rose from him for Re 1. On some days, he used to press some 3-4 roses into my hands, and refused to take extra money. This little, daily exchange used to bring me so much joy. The flowers were fragrant and the seller chacha so kind. Today, after I have failed to spot him for several years, I regret never asking his name. 

I am filled with a strange sense of gratitude for the people who lent me space cheap because I had left a cushy job to become a journalist, or the elderly flower seller who thought I deserved more flowers. All those years, on these streets, I have dreamt, worked, drunk numerous cups of tea, walked kilometers. 

And all through these years in this city, on a street called First Lancer, I hustled and lived. 

Being an adult orphan amid pandemic

A few days ago, a friend sent me a video on loneliness, which showed the number of connections people usually make in their lives. The smallest circle was with family members where there were five connections. After I realised that I do not have those five connections, something clicked in my mind. Is this the reason behind my anxiety attacks? Right now, when the whole world is enveloped in pandemic anxiety, mental health issues are being discussed openly. One of the frequent pieces of advice you come across is : “Talk to friends and family.” However, there might be people who, like me, have lost their parents. There might be people who have to be a caregiver for a sibling.

There might also be others who have been depressed for so long that reaching out and making friends can look like an indomitable task. During this pandemic, where death hangs like the Sword of Damocles, people who have seen death multiple times might re-live the experiences once more, undoing all the hard work they might have put to restore themselves after the tragedies. There are multiple layers of fear - of death, of losing another loved one, of being seen as a weak person, of losing job, of being stuck in a medical emergency, and of returning to the same, old abyss. But yet, as Emily Dickinson had said, ‘hope sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all.’

Even if you have hit the rock bottom and then some more, a dekko at the gibbous moon can tell you that there are a few things which are functioning on their own. Maybe, we can too. Even on a bad day, you can fill your mind your music and shut it for a while. You will also notice that the fragrance of cinnamon tea is still registered by your brain, and a cat’s insistent nudges force you to respond. In these small ways, you will live, and on some days, that is enough. And the best part is you will find kindness - loads of it, and you will find friends, too. Being an adult orphan and living alone during a pandemic is tough. However, there are a few things that have helped me. Hope it helps you too. 

Forgive yourself: On a few days, you might not achieve much. The food you prepared might not turn out the way you expected, or you might have missed a doctor’s appointment. Turn off the pesky critical voice in your head and rest. You can attempt again the next day.

E-essentials: Try to find digital p l a t f o r m s which you can use to buy groceries, consult doctors, receive payments etc. Once you get these out of the way, you can be assured about getting help without a n y h u m a n intervention.

Maintain a routine: This is really tough, but doing this helped me tide over my earlier crises. Eating food and sleeping on time go a long way in assuring good mental health. Celebrate progress, however small.

Find what brings you joy: Books? Food? Music? Movies? Find things which help take your mind off the things around you.

Be your own cheerleader: Being in a vulnerable spot can attract a lot of pity, attention and advice. Though you might be looking for words of comfort, a lot of things that people (including therapists) say might not resonate with you. At such times, you must stick by your own side, and recognise that you are allowed to tread a different path.

Crying: It is a great way to let out pent-up stress. Do not see it as a sign of weakness. Grieve when you need to.

Be careful about sharing your story: Not having a family will leave you in a constant state of vulnerability, seeking connection. You might open up to a person who does not care about your story, or can even take advantage of you. A good friend will give you a safe space to vent out. She will support you through actions, not merely through words.

Patience: There will be periods when there will be a lot of pain, and there will be no one to turn to. On such days (and nights), you accept your situation and wait for the tide to change.

Seek help: In the midst of this gloom, there are people who will help you. Follow your gut and seek out people who do not judge or pity you. You will be surprised by how you will always find the person you need.

Restrict social media: Cannot stress this enough. You will immediately start feeling better once you detach from the virtual world, and muster the courage to be alone with your thoughts. 

(Published in Hyderabad Express on June 1) https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.newindianexpress.com/cities/hyderabad/2020/jun/01/being-an-adult-orphan-amid-pandemic-2150932.amp

The patch of dying light

It was just a patch of sunlight, quite ordinary in fact. The light streamed in through the upper part of the window, went through the filter of the ochre yellow curtains and projected the final patch above the clunky, cream wall clock. 

The room lit up in the warmest orange, the one that reminded you of cold orange squash on hot afternoons. There was a bit of melted butter too in it, golden white, a couple of shades shy of yellow. The time was 4:30 pm. 

The mosquito net still hung over the bed. The mattress, covered with a cream sheet with orange and green tendrils, was something mattress companies had been trying to sell, but had never quite delivered. That mattress summoned peaceful sleep. It was not a fancy one; one of those many which is filled with cotton that had to be fluffed every two years. After the inhabitants of the house died, no one had fluffed the cotton, or even given it a thorough dusting. However, the mattress retained its sleep-conjuring capacities. For years, a mother had lain there, thinking about her children who were far away. She wanted them to build lives of their own. Sometimes, while she would read a book, she would pause and think if the son had taken medicines for the nasty cough she heard on the phone. 

For years, a father would read the newspaper there, wearing glasses which would never fit him. Sometimes, they slid down his nose, and at other times, one of the temples would be missing. But he did not pay attention to such technicalities in a pair he needed only when he would read the paper. He scoured the paper for items he could dramatise and tell his daughter who was studying to be a journalist. He skipped the news pieces about rape and murder. Those would make him nervous. 

Both of them had devised ways to crane their necks at an angle which gave them a partial view of the TV in the next room. If you upped the volume of the TV, you could claim that you had watched a movie (which was not worth watching anyway) and slept at the same time. Though they did not admit it, there was a slight tension between the two as to who would occupy the spot after a soporific meal of mutton and rice. However, time decided the winner with the wife having a definite edge. She had a longer neck. 

They are not there any more. The impressions that their bodies made on the bed has long ironed out. Years later, I stood transfixed at the bedroom door, overwhelmed by the grandeur of the dying light. The rays which made the patch over the wall clock, squeezed in through the perforations of the mosquito net, and set the bedsheet on joyous luminance. The bed looked inviting and cozy, much similar to the embraces and kisses I had received there. Do you know what I miss most about them? Their hands. 

That day, however, I was not overcome by the dread I usually felt at that house. The objects which could ignite my anxiety earlier had lost their abrasiveness. I was, in fact, feeling something I hadn't felt in a long time - peace. I savoured slowly the blank slate of my mind, which was, for once, not tip-toing around the world, ashamed of the burden of pain it carried. It had, for a few moments, crossed over to the side which had not seen death or loss. The absence of anxiety was so alien that I could not remember the last time I had felt that way. 

Can a brick and mortar structure be called home? Traditional wisdom says 'no'. You need people to make a house home, they say. Yet there I was, on a dying day, the room illuminated shades of fire, experiencing peace only a home could bring. 

Burimai (Old woman)

People refer to her by the names of burimai, buri or thakuma. She occupies the same corner of the make-shift vegetable market everyday by the filthy culvert. Her sparse white hair is gathered in a small bun at the nape of her neck, and a shroud-like sari wraps her reed-thin frame. 

She sits with her wicker basket of   vegetables with a tattered umbrella over her head as a shield from the sun or the rain, the latter being aplenty in Guwahati.  Old age is etched over her Mongoloid features, and her sun-burnt skin stretches like a shriveled, dried parchment over her body.  She comes every morning with a sparse supply of odd mix of vegetables and fruits, and leaves in the evening by the tracker cars that go towards Lokhra.

Bent double by age and with limbs that trembled always, she waits patiently whole day till the last of her drumsticks or bananas has been brought. Though her fare does not match up to the quality of the stock available with the other vegetable vendors, kind buyers who have seen her by the culvert for years, buy her garden’s produce.

Sometimes, burimai’s patrons try to engage her in a conversation and ask about her whereabouts. They ask her about her family and why she works at such an old age. Burimai gives different replies to everyone, as if she takes pleasure in spinning a new story around herself every day. She was a loving, lone grandmother on certain days burdened with the responsibility of half a dozen grandchildren on her frail shoulders.

On a few other days, she was all alone in the world with only a patch of vegetable garden as her own. Sometimes, she was a bereaved mother whose son worked as a security guard in Hyderabad and never came to visit her. Burimai tells these stories with equal enthusiasm to all her listeners, conveniently ignoring the fact that she has told a different story to another listener the same day. Her face undergoes varying emotions as she speaks, and sometimes lights up with a smile revealing a few tobacco-stained teeth.

People have assumed that she is senile, and very often talk about the day when they would find her dead by her wicker basket , her umbrella shading her lifeless body. However, burimai continues to occupy her place by the culvert day by day, occasionally shooing away the stray dog that might take her place at night.  She is now immune to the stench that emanates from the filthy culvert, or the army of mosquitoes that feed on her famished body all day. On certain days, a few urchins run away with her money, or a cow blissfully munches away on her vegetables when she inadvertently closes her eyes due to fatigue and old age.

On such days, burimai’s fellow vendors and patrons offer her money or food, but she stoically declines them all. She comes with a fresh stock the next day, and accepts money only in exchange of her goods. When one of her patrons asked her the reason for her impractical obtuseness when she was plainly in need of money, she replied, “I am a hero, you see! Heroes are not those people alone who are praised in textbooks and whose busts are installed in city squares. Heroes are those who rise above the daily grind of lives, and those who preserve dignity in their tattered clothes. I will make my only granddaughter a hero, too. She is very pretty and has such a melodious voice…”

Cleaning A Wardrobe on A Lazy Afternoon

Why, it's just a wardrobe, I tell myself

And yank open the doors fighting my long-time inertia

I close my eyes, so as not to see the things I have long avoided

The sarees, the photo albums and the meaningless bric-a- brac of a housewife.

I guard myself against the memories that wrap its tentacles around my resisting brain

I try to conduct it in a business-like manner, sorting out the junk

Only to realise I do not know which is the junk, which the useful ones

In my own house, there is a wardrobe that belongs to no one.

Why had you kept this scrap book of mine, I want to ask her

Or why had you stocked up these woollens that I wore when I was seven?

I realise I have to decide about them now, this personal memorabilia preserved for so many years,

For reasons known only to her.

I find that she had already bought dresses for pooja

She had carefully stored all the trinkets gifted by me in an ornate box

She had book-marked recipes in a magazine, her children were coming home the next month

Apparently, she  had not envisioned what lay in store.

I turn a philosopher, my best weapon in times of crisis

And reflect on the transitoriness of life

I spread mothballs on her beautiful sarees, keep a couple more in the empty purses

All the time imagining her doing the same thing over the years.

I close the doors of the steel keeper of memories with a loud clang

It's legacy too difficult for me to take over

I had been always been admonished by her for my messy wardrobe

But again, I realised, a few wardrobes are better kept untouched and disorganized.

Of Contrasts

Contrasts have always fascinated me. Blush-colored hibiscus flowers against dark green leaves, white wrought iron benches against sepia-hued rocks, or the radiant purple of a young jamun fruit against the backdrop of my wheatish, criss-crossed palm.  However, these were not the only contrasts that I witnessed in Shanti Bhavan today. 

As the children gathered for the assembly and extolled the virtues of truthfulness, honesty and friendliness, I suddenly realized that I used to be one of them years ago. It is not our age or our living conditions that make us very different, but it is the fact that I no longer share their easy faith. There is a stark contrast between the younger “me” and today’s “me”. Somewhere down the lane, I have learnt that truthfulness and honesty are mere embellishments in our moral science books. In the real world, they do nothing but handicap you.

I slowly learned the wonderful art of give and take. Accompany your friend to a place who might not really want to go so that she accompanies you when you have to go out.  Simper and smirk, and pay compliments to your professors/ bosses so that they remember you at the time of appraisal. Leave behind the book and engage in mindless chatting so that you are not considered “uncool”.  Use forks and knives to eat chicken even though you are comfortable eating with your hands, so that you are not found lacking in table manners. You lie, you hide and you become dishonest to yourself.

And then friends leave, bosses disappoint and the belief in all things good takes a beating. With adulterated faith and cynical eyes, we turn into people we really do not want to be. Slowly, the darkness of failures and unmet expectations permeate the lights of our hearts. We let ourselves be led my others’ reactions to us. We stop trusting, we stay guarded and we learn that in this “smart” world, this is the way to be.

But as I sat before the children today and caught glimpses of that untainted childhood again, something stirred deep within my heart. What if I unlearn my lessons and become one of them again? What if I become a worldly fool and let not my enthusiasm be marred by external events? I might fall into the same traps again, but what if I do not let that deter me?

At least, when I see children cocooned in their innocence again, I will not feel envious. Somewhere, in this mad-mad world, I will have a small corner in my heart where I can be myself.

Manipulation Of A Different Sort

Frankly, I was mildly flattered. 3-4 deliberate glances in my direction can’t be a coincidence, right?

I was in my somber, formal attire that evening, and my face wore a distinct layer of grime and dust that a 25 kms ride in the Hyderabad traffic can give you. As I made myself comfortable in the “retro-marries-gypsy” settings in Mocha and waited for my omelette, I eyed a bunch of guys throwing quick glances at me at frequent intervals. But then I looked around, and my inflating ego lost most of its fizz.

I had tough competition.

Neatly done-up (unlike me) and fresh-looking (unlike me) ladies were all over the place, blowing puffs of that sweet-smelling smoke from ‘sheeshas’. Also, there was a bevy of PYTs at the other end who had come to a friend’s birthday party and were dressed to the nines.

So, why were they looking at me?

As I glanced around my table, the sofa and even the innocuous-looking table lamp for possible clues, it suddenly struck me. They were after my table!

I suddenly realized that the place was teeming with people, and most of the tables were occupied by couples/ groups. I was the only one who had singly occupied a table and the whole expanse of a large sofa all by myself, and they wanted me out of there as soon as possible.

Strangely, I started feeling guilty. As I watched them standing by the door and inching towards me as a standing passenger in a bus inches towards a soon-to-be-vacated seat, I began to feel the need to hurry up. It was not that I could help myself. There was no smaller seat meant for a single person at that place, and the whole arrangement was done in the same manner. But, nevertheless, I began to gobble up my omelet, and tried to push the fries down my throat with copious amounts of cold coffee.

I watched as their body language transformed. It was no longer a tacit thing. They showed their impatience openly as they tapped their fingers on the wall, and exchanged short phrases with each other. We were communicating in a strange, psychological way, and my pace of ingestion became faster.

And then I realized how I was being pushed to bow to someone else’s demand! My yummy meal of omelet, fries, bread and cold coffee (Rs. 452+taxes) was passing just as a masticated lump. I was not even heeding to the music (which is a sacrilege for me).

So, I decided to turn the tables. I relaxed my mechanically-chewing jaw and leaned back on the cozy backrest of the sofa. It had the desired effect on the impatient bunch. A look of bewilderment crossed their faces and they started speaking animatedly.I had, by now, laid the fork and knife by the plate, and had starting tapping my feet to the jazzy Arabic tune that played in the background.

The group continued to watch me for some time and after sensing that I had no intention of leaving then, quietly made it downstairs to wait in the lounge area.

I was, in the meantime, discovering that my omelet had delish bits of cheese, chicken salami and olives stuffed inside.

Singles, couples or groups – we all have full rights to our restaurant tables.

Xeujiya ( "Green" in Assamese)

I am afraid most of my posts (or stories) are becoming Assam (or north-east) centric, but you will understand this obsession if you have ever once been to this part of the country, this totally enchanting panorama of cloud-capped hills and far stretching emerald fields. The first thing that has always struck me whenever I have landed in this magical place is the “color of the green” here. Yes, this particular shade of green which I have found nowhere, a green which is not dull green, but a virgin green that is yet to be touched by adulteration of any kind. This green exudes health and brilliance, the kind that has the power to make you stop in your tracks and spare some thoughts to the ingenuity of the Creator. If the green in our National flag stands for prosperity, they must have definitely thought about this “green”. As you travel from Guwahati (Assam) to Shillong (Meghalaya), you will see more and more of this green, in the trees that cover every available inch on the surface of the hills, this green reflected in the clear water of the streams. The green trees pushing out of the brownish-red soil present an interesting contrast, but again there are more breath-taking contrasts to greet your eyes. Fiery red gulmohrs standing tall against the velvet green and yellow laburnums that look like bunches of grapes, swaying slightly in the wind amidst the green background. As you move further into Meghalaya, you see cabbages and pineapples grown in terrace farming, the climate and soil lending a distinct taste to anything that is grown there. Sometimes, true to its name, Meghalaya ( Megh: cloud, alaya: abode) engulfs you in clouds as you see snowy clouds floating by your car window, with the wonderful green valley beneath you intercepted at places by small streams, you wonder if this could be the blueprint of the heavens above.
When you come down to the plains of Assam, a different vista welcomes you. Areca nut trees and bamboo bushes, banana plants and soft green paddy fields, speckled by mountains in the distant horizon. And yes, contrasts. Almost all the fields have small ponds and they are thickly populated by water lilies and water hyacinths. When the water hyacinths are in bloom, they sprout the most fantastic lavender color flowers. Besides them, not to be let down in any aspect, the water lilies spread their brilliantly pink arms, floating gaily on rafts of dark green leaves. Trust me, this spectacle of pink, lavender and green in the sparkling water of the ponds, with the green fields stretching beyond it, will not leave your mind for quiet sometime.
There are many such sights, and there are many such memories, which are not possible to be expressed through words, sights which are yet to be seen and discovered. When I come back from there, I only search for one thing-that shade of “green”. I heard that it’s found in Kerala too. Might be, but for now the memories are enough to revisit that place and soothe my heart with that enchanting green. I have never much liked green before, but now, it’s my color.
“Xeujiya “is my world!

My " Wordsworth Moment"

Frankly speaking, I had never appreciated Wordsworth’s “Daffodils” much. I had never understood much of the poet’s sentiments as he wove verses about a particular species of flowers. But, that day, something of that sort caught me as I came across these dark pink flowers in front of the Snacks Bar in our plant. It was not only the flowers, it was the surroundings in which they grew that made me stop in my track and look at the flowers. We live in a grey and blue Aluminium Plant, dust being a natural covering for everything here. Even the leaves here have taken a sad greyish-green hue. It was because of the dominance of these colours that I stood captured by the defiantly pink flowers, refusing to give in to the drabness around. They grew among thick foliage of small green leaves, happy and in the pink of health, catching the sun in each delicate petal. I had somehow given in to the grey-blue scale of life there, had hidden all my colours to blend in, but the dark pink flowers sent a silent signal to the colours sleeping within me and I could feel the warm glow of happiness spread in my body, as it touched my lips and I smiled. It baffled me how a mere bunch of pink flowers had made me feel so good, had shown me how to grow, pink and proud, irrespective of everything. I do not know the name of these flowers, and even if I knew, I could not have written verses about them, but they are the ones which made me experience my first “Wordsworth” moment, as I stood humbled and inspired there, by a mere species of flowers.