soft creativity from last weekend

I have finally got down to putting this up here only now. Being technologically unsavvy is such a mighty handicap. I am learning, but the pace, unfortunately, is tediously slow.
These granny squares were super simple to crochet and I made this tiny baby scarf in one day. Considering that this is my first crochet project, I am extremely thrilled. The next mission is to figure out pattern 8 'soft waves' from Jan Eaton's 200 Ripple Stitch Patterns. Everyone seems to be making it in all kinds of wonderful colours - why am I still not being able to figure out dc2tog? :-(

Fear not, I shall work it out, even if I have to sacrifice an entire weekend towards the acquisition of this critical knowledge. Only problem is, A is already sulking.

Exploring, but only just

How socially mobile are immigrants? What is the 'immigrant's penalty'? How long does it take for an immigrant to become the social and economic equal of a native? What is education's role in promoting equality? Some very interesting questions of this kind were raised and discussed during a recent seminar. While no happy answers were available for the 1st generation of immigrants (it takes them about 20-25 years or a full generation to become the 'equals' of natives), the news was much more positive for the 2nd generation. Although it could be said that the research findings are in line with common sense, I think it is about time that issues of social justice with reference to the rights of immigrants are debated more openly and without the ever present sense of 'controversy'. Clearly, if there is an 'immigrant's penalty', there needs to be a debate as to what constitutes it in the British society. Is it a matter of cultural differences or is it discrimination disguised as market selection? More importantly, why on earth are we not talking about these issues?

To highlight the dismal situation of this end of the human rights debate in the British context, the organisation that presented its research findings was a US-based migration think tank. There is no such similar organisation in the UK. Over a more general discussion about community cohesion in Britain, some of my friends strongly believed that racism does not exist in the UK and that it is a more American phenomenon to talk of social integration. How can we say, when we haven't even made the effort to find out? Research may validate your hypothesis or throw up surprising results, but is it not important to explore?

Dilli ki sardi

Talking about winter, we have had the most lovely sunshine lately. Reminds me of the hazy, lazy winter afternoons in Delhi in a friend's backyard on a charpai, knitting, chatting, discussing political theory and consuming mind-boggling quantities of oranges. I do believe those are some of the most beautiful memories in my mind's warehouse.

Too many times now I have exclaimed to those around how familiar this weather is to Dilli ki sardi. It is obvious that I miss Delhi, but I am unsure exactly what it is that I miss - the people, the friends, the family, the familiar air, the ability to merge in the crowd unnoticed, or just the fact that it is home.

Walking with shadows

Baby J, At and I have fallen into a bit of a habit. Every Thursday, we go walking in the garden by the river behind our apartment complex. There is something lovely about this bit of the riverside - it is frequented by small children followed by their ever-excited dogs, enthusiastic babies who want to experiment with slides in the most innovative ways, and young people enjoying a pint and a half by the quiet river. This particular evening was made a shade more beautiful by the haunting shadows. Change is visible everywhere, the trees are changing colours, children heading back home from the play area by five in the evening, and the grass is covered by reddish-brown leaves that go 'crunch' under your shoes. Yet there is a positive warmth to the setting sun, the promise of a hot cup of tea and a welcoming, cosy bed. There is the promise of warmth in the severity of the cold winter.

Joyful flutters

The economy is in shambles, there is fear on the escalators and an eerie silence on the City roads. I am, however, conspicuous by the big smile on my face and the song on my lips.

You see, apart from the twinges of sorrow that I feel for the global financial system and its resultant crisis, and the dent that it has made in everyone's finances, including mine, I really couldn't care much for it right now. I know, I know, how politically incorrect of me, but please allow me to explain. My life has been taken over by some very exciting flutters! I can feel the baby move!

I sat through a conference yesterday, wondering what on earth was the point of seven different speakers all extolling the virtues of handheld learning - oh get on with it, we know it's great, tell us who's gonna fund the damn thing. As one of the speakers ended her rather unending session, soft music filled the room and it was interesting how silent everything was, except for the gentle music (I firmly stand by my belief that the audience had gone to sleep though my colleague thinks they were deep in personal reverie - what's the difference?) Anyways, just then, something like a big butterfly decided to move about in my growing belly! It was like someone nudging from inside, saying hello (I'd like to think!) and perhaps even dancing to the music! What a fantastic experience!

The rest of the conference, as you might guess, was a blur. Amongst the many videos and presentations, all I could think of was - the baby is moving! I would only like to be able to share it with A, I wish he could feel what I can, but for the moment, this delightful experience is only for me to savour! :-)

Western parochialism

Last night I made a big mistake. I am talking BIG. After a long hard day of work, I wanted to unwind and relax. Instead I saw Paul Merton's Journey through India. I have since successfully begun to doubt my ability to make good TV-programme-viewing decisions.

Why are people in the West so keen to look at India as the land of snake charmers? And when they can't find any, they will go to any lengths to locate one and then broadcast to the world their single-minded view of a country whose cultural and civilizational dimensions are perhaps beyond the comprehension of its own natives. By all means talk to the very interesting naked sadhus and innovative entrepreneurs - but do not claim that that is the 'real' India you are showing to the world. That is just one tiny screenshot of the mega-movie called India. How does a pot-smoking sadhu become a 'real' Indian and not a busy housewife juggling different chores in the streets of Karol Bagh? Just because the West wants to see exoticism, it does not imply that its particular view of a country is the real / authentic one.

On the other hand, it amazes me to find that Indians themselves fuel this voracious western appetite for exoticism. The finishing school's teacher telling our chap Merton that he should burp noisily through his meal as a compliment to his hosts, the journalist from nowhere imparting factually incorrect knowledge about Hinduism on television, where do these people come from? What makes them authorities on Indian culture and lifestyle when clearly they have got things all wrong? Or are they only playing to the audience, modifying chicken curry to make it chicken tikka masala for the British palette? Oh! the incorrectness of it all just gets to me.

Please remove your post-colonial spectacles Mr Merton and look at the country you claim to be enchanted with in its actual 'real' glory. You will find that the monkey-chasers and ever-burping guests may be real enough, but are a tiny microscopic handful of the panorama that comprises India, and that the real India is busy slogging in farms, offices, schools, playgrounds and other workplaces, trying, as people everywhere in the world, to live a happy and contented reality.

A string of flops

I knew my luck with reading material and movies was going to run out soon enough. I didn't think it was going to be so soon. Lately, precious time has been spent on disappointing books and movies - instead of lamenting about each one, I thought one might bundle them all together.

It is true that just as no good books or movies are alike in their 'brilliance', similarly, no two are identical in their inability to live up to expectations. Starting with Ms Woolfe, Night and Day was left half way. On my way back home from work one evening, with a clarity that is seldom experienced, I realised that life was too short to be wasted on clearly purposeless ramblings with neither sense nor direction. I dropped it promptly.

Since then, I have drifted disconnectedly through Marquez's Memoirs of my meloncholy whores and Maugham's Cakes and Ales. Memoirs... a bitter disappointment. It has left nothing whatsoever behind, neither pleasant memory nor agitated questions. Nothing. Maugham on the other hand redeemed himself partially by the end of the novel in Cakes... The end was worth waiting for indeed. I still wish he had kept to the tightness throughout the novel - it gives the appearance of being crisp, but is in places rather woolly.

On the movies front, I recently saw Banaras and Bachna Aae Haseeno. BAH was a mighty waste of breathe. Why do people not realise that if you want to do something different, you must do it differently? Oh well, I disliked it thoroughly and the only thought I remember gripped me throughout the movie was - how do these women survive when they are so thin?!
Banaras I am a little hesitant to trash outright because it was such a genuinely novel attempt. Treatising on spiritualism is never easy, making a film on it, highlighting its links with the hindu traditions and culture in the backdrop of the life of a holy city is a clear challenge. And while the makers of this particular movie did not pull it off entirely, in bits it was exceptional. I have never been a huge fan of Urmila - she, in my opinion, is just a shade above average. And she was good in this movie. I can't for the world figure out what prompted the film makers to cast the absolutely useless Ashmit Patel in the lead role, nor why Himesh's music was so much rubbish, but I am willing to forgive these mistakes for the attempt itself - a commendable attempt this one.

The speed of time

Can time even have a speed? Given that speed is distance by time, can the speed of time itself ever be measured? I know my good friends the physicists and engineers will probably find a solution. My non-scientific mind, on the other hand, finds time to be a complete enigma.

It is October already- colours are changing all around and the gas holders nearby are full and standing tall. Change is visible in the tiny details of dry leaves flying aimlessly with the wind and focussed commuters rushing to get back home. Winter preparations are on in full swing. Wasn't it a carefree bright summer day just yesterday?

And yet, things aren't moving fast enough. I am itching for the next phase. What a painful wait it is to slowly observe time plod along, in no hurry whatsoever. Especially when I can barely contain my excitement and eagerness to know more. Timepieces are by far the most inconsiderate objects.

Always too fast or too slow - never just right.