What happened to them?

Why did they send you away?

Back in school, the other children were naturally curious and wanted to know why I was living at my aunt’s home, and not with my parents.

I had been told by the elders that I was here in Bangalore so that I could go to a good school which our village lacked. Beyond my family’s narrative, those arrow-like questions from my peers were helping me to make sense of that life situation in my 8-year-old way.

In the recent past, while reading about Science Education, I came upon the concept of Naive Science. This term explains how children use their intuition to figure out complex scientific ideas - be it any natural phenomena, or how machines work. Children are always observing their surroundings, applying the concepts they know, and using their limited cognitive abilities to interpret a phenomenon for themselves. For example, if you ask a child - where does rain come from? Or, how does a water purifier work? - they are likely to give a clear answer on how they think it works. Even if the answers are far from accurate, this is how they have understood it. There is nothing that is beyond the reach of children. Telling themselves a story that is more agreeable helps them cope with the world.

*

In the Japanese film Like Father, Like Son (2013), when 6-year-old Keita is told by his father that he will leave home and start living with another family, Keita has to use all his worldly knowledge to make sense of that strange request.

‘Is it like a mission?’ he asks, wondering if his life is turning into a simulation game.

It all starts when Mr and Mrs Nonomiya are given the shocking news by the hospital that their biological child may have been switched with someone else’s baby soon after birth. The DNA tests go on to prove that Keita is indeed not their own child. They are informed that their actual son is being raised as Ryusei in the home of the Saiki family.

The families start socializing to get to know one another. At first, they only meet as couples, and later, they start hanging out along with the children.

One time, Mr Nonomiya tries to cajole Keita saying, ‘Don’t you see how much they (the Saikis) love you?’

‘Do they love me more than you do?’, asks a puzzled Keita.

Along with Science, children also learn about human relationships and family dynamics in similarly naive ways. The unusual situation that Keita finds himself in, he picks up clues from what his parents tell him, from the conversations he overhears, and uses all that he has learnt at school and from the media, to join dots and draw a picture that seems reasonable to his young mind.

*

On a recent long haul flight, when I glanced upon the title Like Father, Like Son, I expected it to be a comedy. The case of children switched at birth is a bit too dramatic but could be suitably entertaining to wile away time on a flight. And only then did I notice that this film was directed by Hirokazu Kore-eda. I was introduced to Kore-eda through his excellent Still Walking (2008). He recently made headlines when his film Shoplifters (2018) won the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival. Even though I realized Like Father, Like Son wouldn’t be a light-hearted watch, I could not resist but press play on a Kore-eda film.

The larger theme of Like Father, Like Son is the interaction of nature and nurture in children’s development. Once it is confirmed that Keita is not his own child, Mr Nonomiya starts seeing all the ways in which the child is different from him. And later, as he gets to know his biological son Ryusei better, he begins to spot the similarities between himself and Ryusei. However, for the past six years, Keita and Ryusei have been brought up in starkly different households. So, there are many ways in which Keita is more similar to Mr Nonomiya than he realizes.

Despite the far-fetched premise of switched babies, it is the filmmaker’s deep empathy for each character that makes it such a moving film. Everyone in the story is trying their best to salvage a horrendous mistake that has upended the lives of the two children and their families.

Literature is said to be both a window and a mirror. A window to peak into the lives of others in a culture far removed from ours; And a mirror to see our own selves reflected on screen.

At 47 years, it still helps when a film reassures me that despite my unusual childhood circumstances, things worked out in my favour in some ways, even while it did not work out in some others.

*

Every time I watch a good film in foreign language, I start wishing I could understand that language better. No matter how good the subtitles are, it will never be able to capture all the nuances of the spoken word. Luckily for us, there are no lengthy monologues in this film, and instead, it has many silent moments between dialogues making it a convenient for watching with subtitles.

Although I grew up watching mainstream Indian and American films, I find them tiring now. Whenever I do indulge myself for old times’ sake, I notice how the filmmakers use background music (and songs), along with camera angles to double down on an emotion that they want the audience to feel. Whereas in Japanese/Iranian/European films, so much depends on the writing and the performances of actors to drive home the feeling. It is not that one filmmaking style is better than the other, but an appreciation of all the hard work that goes into making a film like this work.

This film is currently not available on any of the OTT platforms in India. But you could watch Kore-eda’s other acclaimed film, Shoplifters on the Bookmyshow streaming service.

His father, the patriarch of the family has built his estate to be inherited by two sons. The eldest son has been groomed to run the farm, while the younger one is to take care of their shop in the nearby town.

Joji being the youngest of three brothers does not see any future for himself in this setup. Forever dressed in round neck t-shirts and knee-length shorts, he lies around all day in his room trying to read those thick books that might help him emigrate to a foreign country.

There is good reason to believe that Joji has tried and not succeeded in cracking those tests before. He does not have the drive or any plan chalked out to get the job done. He reminds me of my summer vacation after 9^th grade when the boarding school had withheld my exam results because we had broken some silly rules. During those weeks, I did my best to stay out of father’s way. My Papa was a busy man preoccupied with many commitments. But my fear was that seeing me upto no good might remind him of my trouble at school which could only mean even more trouble for me.

Joji has worked out his entire daily life in a way that he does not cross paths with his father - despite them both living under the same roof. Thankfully for Joji, they live in a large bungalow that is also occupied by other family members - his two elder brothers, one sister-in-law and a nephew. Which makes it quite easy for him to stay hidden even while living right under his father’s master bedroom. Every morning, Joji steps out after the others have left for work, smokes a cigarette in the backyard, eats his breakfast inside the kitchen, and goes back to his room to lie down with a book by his side.

Joji’s room is not really a bedroom – not like the ones his brothers occupy. This is an irregularly shaped area next to the dining hall which could have been turned into anything else too – a storeroom, a library or even a balcony if they could remove the walls. But it is only this corner of the house that is witness to all the pent up rage and frustration that he cannot express anywhere outside, not even to his brothers.

The only person who sees him is the other person down in the trenches - his sister-in-law Bincy. She is mostly toiling away in the kitchen - another oddly shaped area on the other side of the dining hall, and right across from Joji’s room. All it takes are six words in Bincy’s weary but undefeated voice - ‘Is this not your home too?’ - that sets Joji off on a quest to claim his rightful place in the family.

Joji begins to move like a housecat from room to room claiming new territory with an instinct unknown to him. At the peak of his (evil) power, he lights up a cigarette from the kitchen stove and blows smoke everywhere.

The stink of his repressed anger and newfound greed spreads to all corners of the bungalow.

Back in the village, we rarely ever lock the house and go away altogether. One of us always stays back since there are cattle and dogs to care for, apart from overseeing work at the farm. Ever since I was a teenager, I would gladly volunteer to be the one staying back. And after all these years, I still feel a sense of calm when I am by myself at our family home.

One of those home-alone days, I stepped into the dining room with my lunch plate and realised that I could choose to sit anywhere on table rather than my usual seat.

Our dining table here is perfectly round with five chairs equally spaced around it. Unlike a rectangular table, there is no marked place for the head of the table. But, when I sit at my father’s seat, I realize the power it holds. This is the only place from which I can see all the other rooms surrounding the dining hall. Sitting on any of the other chairs will mean having our back to either the kitchen, the living room or the bedrooms.

My mother’s chair is to my father’s left and it’s (obviously) the closest to the kitchen so that she can quickly go in and bring a fresh rotti for us. Our Thatha (grandfather) used to sit on the chair that was closest to his room. He had his meals way before the rest of us and mostly ate by himself. Even now, my brother and I are not sure about our seats. We often switch places and are okay with sitting anywhere that’s convenient.

Our Ajji (grandmother) usually ate in the kitchen - which has a small table and a chair. After the rush of the family meal hour, when everyone had moved on and the kitchen was cleaned, she would sit with a book and eat at her own sweet pace while birds chirped outside the kitchen windows.

Now that I have discovered her safe haven, this is where I choose to sit when I am here by myself. And I just can’t stop marveling at how thoughtfully she had found her solitude in this busy house.

The kind of space a person occupies depends a lot on their personality and upbringing. In a shared environment, it is only natural that some of us occupy more space than the others. But not everyone is able to claim their fair share of space. So, it is up to the bigger personalities to be mindful and make sure that the others also feel equally at home.

Having a space of one’s own is often the biggest motivator for young people to start earning and move out of their parents’ homes.

Sometimes when a person falls out with the family but are not able to go elsewhere, they build a wall in between to make space for themselves.

And then, there are the meek ones who continue living in their own homes as if they are guests at someone else’s.

The wisest are those like my grandmother – who make a sanctuary for themselves. It could be the corner of a shared room with a personalised wall by the side, a balcony with a single chair to sit among plants, or the terrace with a sky for every season.

‘Oh’

‘Well…’

‘Hmmm…’

I did not need complete words to sense the disappointment in the room. It took all of us a few bites to fully realize that those juicy red cubes had turned out to be a sham – the melon had no taste whatsoever.

Finally, my father spoke up - ‘You must pick round melons and not the oblong ones’, he said.

‘It should have a small green circle’, someone else added.

My aunt served us more bowls of that fruit during the weekend. And each of those times was a reminder for me to scold myself for not making an informed choice. One time, I even wondered if I should have asked AI for some buying tips.

Isn’t expectation just our imagination at play?

Based on a lifetime’s experience of eating watermelons, in that moment between eyeing those juicy red cubes and putting them into our mouths, we all imagined it to be nothing but sweet.

In some instances, we actually start with low expectations and become pleasantly surprised when things work out for the better. But more often, we expect outcomes that suit us and that’s how we become prone to get disappointed when life doesn’t match up.

I heard about how Buddhist monks have a way of getting over expectations. These monks live in monasteries located within communities. Each morning, they go out into the village with an empty bowl asking for alms from every household. They start their days without any expectations – they might be served a tasty meal, or they could just get some raw vegetables; they might get a lot of food or way too little. Whatever they are given, they learn to accept with both hands.

Learning to accept the melon or the food in the bowl is a way of accepting our situation; And accepting the situation we find ourselves in, is the path towards accepting our bent and broken selves.

The self that has made all those disastrous life decisions. The self we don’t want to look in the mirror and completely avoid making eye contact with. The self that has never matched up to anyone’s expectations – and definitely not our own.

How can we accept the utter failure that has kept us stuck here in this life?

I recently found a simple and doable tip in the book ‘You Can Heal Your Life’ by Lousie Hay. The central theme of this book is that accepting and loving ourselves can transform our lives in profound ways.

She writes, ‘Loving the self begins with never ever criticizing ourselves for anything’.

Dwelling over this got me to observe myself and see how a downward spiral begins with the ordinary, everyday self-criticism, but, with some carelessness, it can easily lead to self-loathing, and could get worse and worse and end up in self-harm and even self-sabotage if I am not able to find a way out.

So catching myself at the very first step when I am criticizing myself over a silly melon is the quickest way out of unnecessary doom.

I owe my recent awareness to a close reading of Louise Hay’s book which I was fortunate enough to do with a group of friends. During our discussions about this very point, a question came up – ‘How will we make changes and improve our lives if we keep accepting ourselves as we are?’

Thinking over that question got me to realize that self-acceptance is an important first step towards any self-improvement project. This is the very reason a fitness coach asks us to stand in front of a mirror and take a picture of ourselves when we are getting started.

By accepting our present selves, we get clarity of what is it that we want to improve.

On the other hand, self-criticism locks us into that very pattern we are wanting to change. Once I finish berating myself over and over about something, I invariably end up feeling sorry for myself. And then to recover from it all, I treat myself with an ice-cream, a movie or maybe an outing. We all devise some such self-sustaining model to live with ourselves without ever having to change a thing.

The first milestone for someone suffering from alcohol or substance abuse is to accept that they are an addict. It’s not a label anyone would wear proudly, and that makes them work that much harder towards recovery.

Realizing that I am not so good at making financial decisions is making me think that I might be better off taking advise from friends who are being smart at it. This will be at the cost of sounding dumb in front of them, but in the long run, I know I will feel a lot more secure. At the local grocer, when I am around an experienced buyer carefully choosing their fruits and vegetables, I stop and watch to see which ones they pick and which ones they discard. When they catch me at it, some of them gladly offer tips – ‘The tender ones are good for making palya (sabji), while the bigger ones are only used in sambar’.

Accepting that bland melon was a chance for me to own up that I am a noob at this job. From being repeatedly disappointed with myself for lacking the courage, I now accept that I have challenges in speaking my mind. And such acceptance is opening up avenues for seeking help and doing better.

I learnt about the Buddhist monks from this poem - The Bowl by Jane Hirshfield. You could also listen to this episode of the On Being podcast to hear Jane Hirshfield speak about this poem.

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In the 1930s, Zubeda’s grandfather, a young man of Irish-Nepali-Muslim descent was stirred by the Independence movement to join the Indian National Congress. To build a patriotic spirit among the people of Kalimpong, he printed and distributed pamphlets in the streets. And that is where he met a fun-loving Catholic Christian girl he would go on to marry and raise children with.

Now Zubeda herself was to get married in Kalimpong and I was invited to finally see her hometown with my own eyes.

This being my first trip to the Northeast, I did not hesitate to pay the premium price for a window seat on the flight from Bengaluru to Bagdogra. After about two hours of flying, I was alerted by the pilot’s announcement to look outside for a clear view of the Kanchenjunga range. ‘This is also known as Sleeping Buddha because the outline of the peaks looks like Buddha lying down,’ he added. It is said that nothing can prepare a traveller for the first sight of the Himalayas and Kanchenjunga looked really stunning as it emerged from the white clouds.

At the Bagdogra airport, I met a mutual friend, Seela, who had flown in from Delhi. A cab had been sent to pick us up and we soon started the 3-hour drive to Kalimpong. This journey was longer than it ought to have been because the road was damaged due to flash floods along the Teesta River just the previous month. In many places, one side of the highway was blocked as they were repairing it and clearing up landslides. Our Nepalese driver, Milan, kept us engaged by candidly sharing crazy stories from his adventurous life.

It was dark by the time we reached Kalimpong. That evening, we decided to stay in our hotel rooms and allow ourselves to slowly get used to the cold weather.

The next morning, I went downstairs for breakfast and took a table facing the window. Far away on the horizon, I noticed a snow-capped peak that seemed familiar to me. Just to be sure, I asked the waiter if that might be Kanchenjunga. He replied, ‘Indeed it is, and we are lucky today is a clear day.’ It appears that travellers don’t always get to see this splendid view because of the unpredictable weather in the mountains. I promptly took some pictures and sent them to my loved ones.

Share-taxis keep plying up and down the winding roads of Kalimpong throughout the day, making local transport very affordable. But choosing to walk got me to discover this town at my own pace. Like how I found out that one might instead take the narrow stairs between buildings that offer short-cuts to walkers. It was also easier to stop and take pictures of the pretty houses delicately perched on the slopes. Many of the verandas were adorned with flowering plants, adding cheery splashes of colour to this busy town.

Back at the venue, the Nikah ceremony was held in the lawns of a large hotel offering a panoramic view of the Kanchenjunga range. Since the groom Mubin’s family could not participate in large numbers, I volunteered to join their ranks. As we were welcomed and introduced to Zubeda’s family members, I noted that some of them had non-Muslim names. I was told that while her mother is a Tibetan Buddhist, one or two of her aunts are practicing Hindus. The hundred odd family and friends participating in the Islamic ceremony thus included Buddhists, Christians and Hindus.

Zubeda’s uncle, after I shared how thrilled I was to be part of such a vibrant gathering, gave me a short local-history-lesson, ‘It was the British who understood the value of Kalimpong’s proximity to Nepal, Tibet, Sikkim, Bhutan and Bengal. And they went on to develop this place into a trading hub. They also built schools, colleges and other institutions. All of this attracted people to migrate and settle here.’ He added that social events in Kalimpong are nearly always multi-cultural affairs.

On the invite cards, Zubeda had announced pastel pink as the theme for the ceremony and all of us complied. Both men and women had pink of different hues in the variety of attires they wore. The pink sari here, the pink dress there and the odd pink tie – it seemed to me that this colour held the diverse set together like a ribbon tied to a bouquet of assorted flowers.

After the ceremony, the bride and the groom cut the cake, and everyone danced to traditional wedding songs along with popular Bollywood and Nepali numbers. A multi-cuisine lunch followed with warming soup, steaming momos, piping hot roti-curry and lip smacking Indo-Chinese dishes. Later, the newly wedded couple continued to get their pictures taken under the soft afternoon light, while I sat and marvelled at the countless factors which had to fall in place for a ceremony like this to happen. I also felt pleased with myself for having travelled the distance and to have signed on the Nikah Nama as a Vakeel, a witness, and thus becoming a part of Zubeda’s rich family history.

An edited version of this essay was first published in Frontline

Here are links to my older related posts:

The wedding album

A photo essay on Kalimpong

The two heavily armoured soldiers from opposing armies stood on either side of the border. Once they were given the go-ahead, they both crossed into each other’s sides and stood with their backs to each other for a second before they picked up pace as they went deeper into enemy territory. Their mission was to use all their weapons and create destruction. If they shot down a civilian, they got 10 points; if they shot a soldier, they got 100 points; and if they blew up an Army truck, they got 1000 points. The points they were accumulating was showing up on their screens.

Aah like a game! This must be a videogame after all!

Along with their own scores - in large fonts - they could also see the opposite soldier’s score in the top right hand corner of the screen in a smaller font size.

The pressure on both these soldiers was to ensure their score stays higher. That is, they must continue to inflict more damage here than what was being done by the enemy soldier in their territory. Whenever they saw the score of the enemy soldier go up, it motivated them to find ways to increase their own scores. The means did not matter as much as the need to maintain a higher score.

How long can they go on? Will this conflict never end?

My thoughts grew louder as this horrifying dream dimmed away. There will be no dearth of soldiers and ammunition - I thought aloud. The weapons are becoming more and more advanced, and capable of causing immense damage. Does that mean there will be no end to wars?

*

It was at the boys-only boarding school that I got to see a fight for the first time. We were all walking from the dormitory towards the breakfast hall when two boys started pushing and shoving each other. It looked playful at first but it got serious because of one abusive word. That boy might have taken that abuse on most days, but that day, he got riled up and banged his steel plate on the other boy’s head. They immediately grabbed each other’s collars and kept hitting each other. They fell down and rolled all over the ground but they just wouldn’t let go. Very soon there was a circle of us boys standing around them. The two boys punched, kicked, spat and even tore each other’s shirts off. Someone’s lip was cut open and the blood had spilled onto his white banian turning it red. But the two of them did not seem be feeling any pain from those wounds. All they wanted was to pin the other boy down and go at him harder.

This is what you’d see in boxing and other combat sports as well. The boxers keep taking blows upon blows on their bodies but hardly even grimace. Maybe the pain signals don’t reach their brains - which is hyper-focused on knocking the opponent down. Just like that video game from my dream, the winner is the one who does more damage.

Back at school, the fight would end as soon as one of the boys stopped hitting back. It was usually because he could not carry on fighting - something would have gone into his eye or he probably got hit in the groin area. The other boy would feel victorious and that’s always the best reason to stop fighting. There is no fun in hitting someone who can’t hit back.

Another way such a fight could be brought to a stop was by applying a greater force. The warden would appear and whack both the boys and enforce his authority or sometimes a group of strong boys would pull these two warring parties away from each other and bring that stupid fight to an end.

*
Coming to the global conflict that is troubling our sleep in faraway corners of the world - there does not seem to be a hostel warden to grab these boys by their ears and pull them away from each other. And those other strong boys that could intervene do not want to risk it either.

So both the sides continue to rain punches with no decisive claim to victory. Neither side wants to let go despite all the damages they suffer every single day because they are both steadfast on knocking the other guy down. That moment of glory is what they seek no matter how badly they are bruised by then.

That other night, as I was still lying in my bed thinking of that dream but not fully out of it, I willed the soldiers to shift focus from their own score to the score of the opposite side. If only they become fully aware of the destruction being done to their own homes - their people, their lands and everything else which makes them feel they belong to it.

Maybe the war could stop, I wondered, if the soldiers realized that the conflict was destroying all that they were fighting to protect.

*

Karl Marlantes is a decorated former soldier of the United States Marine Corps who served in Vietnam and suffered from the aftermath of fighting the war. He later wrote both fiction and non-fiction books based on his experiences. I watched a book discussion where he spoke alongside Vietnamese writer Nguyen Phan Que Mai, the author of ‘The Mountains Sing’ – which traces three generations of a Vietnamese family under foreign occupation and the war. During that talk, these writers explored war through their books and their own lives. At one point during this discussion, Marlantes asks, ‘Who is responsible for war – the kid who shoots or everyone of us who is funding it?’

The soldier is performing his duty but there is an entire economy of war which has political leadership and the Manufacturing sector intertwined in a ghastly manner. And the flames of this union are being fanned by institutions like the Media – News, Films, Socials – which are eagerly promoting the language of revenge over reconciliation.

Marlantes is asking us to recognize this culture of war that we are all part of and sometimes participate in.

These are some questions for us to ponder over -

Is it okay to justify one armed struggle and oppose another?

How can we go beyond violence as a means to resolve conflicts?

Is there any way we can truly stop one war without ending all wars?

Image source: https://dataglossary.wyscout.com/interception/

Barbaad kare alfaaz mere

All that I want to say

I ruin with my words

Janardhan is a talented singer but the people around him say that having just talent is not enough. He gets pushed around everywhere - at home, in college, on the street. He is told that he needs to have a personality of some kind. But even that may not be enough.

‘How can you become an artist without pain, tragedy, illness... a broken heart at least?’

It surely seems extreme to go looking for a heartbreak, but Janardhan seems to be the kind of person capable of doing that. He sees the world only in black or white and does not understand political correctness or social etiquette. He simply does what he thinks is right and pushes back on what he feels is wrong - without working out the consequences in his head.

It is this trait of his that gets him in trouble at home. His elder brothers drag him out of the house – probably more as a threat so that he falls in line. Instead, Janardhan takes his bag, the guitar, and walks away.

In the podcast, The Seen and the Unseen hosted by Amit Varma, writer and stand-up comedian Varun Grover talks about how he has visualized that mysterious process of an artist finding their voice. Below is me paraphrasing him -

Imagine you are put in a pitch dark place, and you can only feel your way to move around. You keep stumbling and falling as you try to find a way out of the darkness. You turn desperate and start making your own tools to hit the walls with - hoping to break through. Something suddenly cracks and there is finally some sunlight coming in. So you do more of it to make the hole bigger and let more light in. Maybe one day, you will be able to climb out of that darkness and feel the sunshine on your face.

Having grown up in a protective joint family environment, this is probably the first time that Janardhan is living by himself. Sleeping on the cold floor of the dargah and living off the alms of worshippers, he calls out to the Almighty.

Karde mujhe, mujhse hi riha

Ab mujhko bhi ho deedar mera

Release me from myself

So that I also see me

- As I am

That is the first time Janardhan is singing not to impress other people. The music flows from him as if that was the only way out for all those unspeakable truths he was holding inside.

Not everyone is capable of love

By now I understand that a very small percentage of people can actually love another. Some are able to love at a younger age, and there are those who start giving love only when they have grandchildren. It is already so rare to fall in love, and even rarer to be loved back. Oh, and to be loved back the way you like it is much rarer still.

Now you see the absurd miracle of Jordan (formerly Janardhan) finding Heer and the utter tragedy of losing her to marriage first, and then to illness. It is said that we could turn our life’s disappointments into art. To an extent, Jordan is able to channel his angst into songs and charged musical performances. His frustration even spills over into trouble seeking off-stage behaviour giving him a bad boy image - a persona he had once craved for.

Is that his voice though? The one that sets him free?

Recently, my mentor noted that I have two writing voices. She said that the voice of my film essays is distinct from my other writings. I wasn’t aware of this myself and it took a while to realize what she had meant.

I recalled the time when I invented this tool for myself – writing a personal essay in response to films.

It started with a film which had moved me so much that I began writing about it. And as I was putting down my thoughts on the film, I slipped into writing something from my own life. Only later did I realize that I was not ready to put all that out in public as yet. So, I found ways to hide my stories in between those paragraphs where I wrote about the characters from these films - their struggles, their joys, their wins, their losses, and their songs.

But of course, I relate to these characters through my own experiences. Writing about them is allowing me to open up in newer ways. It’s like, I have made a small crack that is letting the sunlight in for while.

Sadly, Jordan is not careful with Heer and she gets pregnant – which turns fatal for her. By accidentally causing the death of a loved one, the artist finds his greatest tragedy. In the end, all that he can do is scream into the microphone.

Screaming can be healthy, and even necessary at times. People do scream at each other, some of us can only scream into our pillows, there are those who scream while working out in the gym, and many of us here scream by writing furiously in our journals.

Ironically, Jordan’s despair finds resonance among his fans and he seems well on his way towards the stardom he once craved.

But the tragedy that he went looking for… might just end up consuming him.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
There is a field. I’ll meet you there.

- Rumi

Join OSC | Ochre Sky Writing Circle - a 2 month online Writing Circle, facilitated by Natasha Badhwar and other creative and wise guest co-facilitators.
*Exclusively for writers from the Ochre Sky Workshops!*

Join OSW | Ochre Sky Memoir Workshop - a creative writing workshop facilitated by Natasha Badhwar. Book your seat in the next cohorts in September 2026.
*Open to all!*

When I first signed up for the Ochre Sky Memoir Writing workshop, I was asked to send a writing sample, preferably a personal essay of about 500-1000 words. I had been writing since my school days - poems, haikus, essays, long WhatsApp messages, and even longer emails and letters. They were mostly written for friends and family who all loved my writing. But then, how do I know for sure if I am good?

Even after paying the fees and booking my slot for the workshop, I began to feel uneasy as I got closer to the date. ‘Maybe I could opt out now, and join the next cohort?’, I wondered for while. Knowing that it was my pattern to procrastinate and wait for the ‘right time’, I had to plead with myself not to once again slink away at the last moment.

As the Zoom windows came to life one by one, I was still wondering if this was indeed the right space for me. In the following minutes, I wrote my first sentence at the workshop - ‘I am here because…I was three years old when I had to leave my parents’ home in the village, to grow up at my aunt’s place in the city’. Only I know the churn I felt within me as I read out my words.

Many sessions later, it was probably Natasha who said - ‘Just like all children can draw, all grownups can write’.

I did not have to be good. I only had to show up.

*

You do not have to walk on your knees

For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

I soon realized that the virtual meeting was safe and accepting of all voices. The facilitators set the tone and the quick ones amongst the attendees learnt their ways of bearing witness and offering comfort. At the end of every session, I would feel more ready for the next one. And my writing was also turning more vulnerable as we progressed.

I wrote about my childhood scars, those crumbling dreams, and losing myself to darkness. Essays - I later realized - that were decades in the making. For once, I was fed up of holding back and decided to let go.

Each time I wrote, each time I read, each time I spoke, and each time I listened - I realized I was only human.

As human as everyone else.

*

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

There is a reason why we are asked to keep our cameras on at the workshop. There is a reason we have to read our essays aloud. And there is a reason why the others respond to us in their own voices.

The experience of reading my piece on camera felt as if I had taken the Ice Bucket Challenge in a public place. At first, I would be stunned - Did I really just do that?! WTF! And a moment later, I would feel completely exposed and icky. But right away, the group would surround me with warm towels and pat me on the head. Well done champ! Shabbaash!

I realize that is how we end up accepting our unlikeable selves - because we are held by the others.

Telling our story makes us okay with ourselves.

*

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Someone in our group remarked on how, in these sessions, courage passes from one writer to another like a flame lighting up candle after candle. And just like that, we have a room full of light and warmth.

*

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Writing about myself got me to sit with a life event for a little while - giving it my attention, and consider each word carefully. Do I really mean this? Is there a better (truer) word for it? As I wrote my pieces, something that was hard and rigid within me turned softer and became more malleable.

*

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

Writing is of course cumbersome at the start. And writing personal pieces is both cumbersome and cringe. The Memoir Writing workshop provides a structure to get started on this journey along with the comfort of a group to write with and to be read by.

At the last session, I announced that I was ready to start writing on Substack. What was terrifying earlier felt a lot more doable at the end of those four weeks. I am so glad I used the momentum of the workshop to start posting regularly here.

But one fine day, for no good reason, I began to compare my pieces with some of the more experienced writers and a doubt kicked in - ‘Are my essays fully cooked? Are they even ready to be put out on a public platform?’ And as it happens, I stopped trying for a while.

After more than two years on Substack, let me tell you that I have been through such phases a few times already. And every time, the ones who rescued me are the wild geese - the community of writers who keep telling their stories - of falling and rising, of hurting and healing, of resting and flapping. Watching them noisily glide through their writings got me to see the greater purpose of writing personal essays.

Far beyond engagement numbers and wider recognition, is the rush of telling our side of the story, and the serene lightness of being oneself. Reading their essays and witnessing them breaking through sounded like an urgent call saying - You too can do it! You too can be free!

And just like that, it has been two years and now we are the wild geese. Now, we see the potential of every fumble, we realize the power of that pause, and we can feel the melody in every little shriek.

We know that is how one takes flight.

Sign up for the upcoming Memoir Writing workshop with and change your narrative:

Apply here: https://tinyurl.com/OchreSkyWriting

Stories can take us places.

My friend Zubeda would often share stories about her hometown and her people.

Even though they would conjure in my mind alluring images of the hills, her stories were also deeply humane and struck a chord with me.

I knew about her family home on the slopes, her school in the woods, and the Momo shop in the market - without ever having set foot in Kalimpong.

When her wedding invitation came, I did not overthink and procrastinate as I usually do. But sometime during the weeks after booking my tickets, I suffered a back injury which set me back at work. Whenever I got overwhelmed by doubt about being able to go on this trip, it was Zubeda’s stories that kept me motivated to make a quick recovery. I had to see Kalimpong with my own eyes.

Stories also lead us to places.

I wrote a travel essay about my visit to Kalimpong and it got published in Frontline - you can read it here.

This photo essay is a companion piece that completes the story.

You can find the wedding album in my previous post.

There are many ways to travel. We can read books before visiting a place and see much more than an average traveler. On the other hand, we could go with no prior knowledge and experience the place as only we see it.

I went to Kalimpong holding just a bunch of stories. And I now understand that attending a social event at a new place can be an immersive experience like no other.

But still, I had not expected Kalimpong to open up to me like this.

Here are the essays by my fellow writers from the Bangalore Substack Group:

• The window that looks back, by Vaibhav Gupta, Thorough and Unkempt

• A window into the vegetable market by Rakhi Kurup , Rakhi’s Substack

• A window into permission for freedom: The FIRE Number by Shruti Soumya, Same Here

• A window into the fixity and flux by Amit Charles, AC Notes

• A window into a person who shivers on stage by Mihir Chate, Mihir’s Substack

• A window into a life on a sabbatical by Ritika Arora, Ritika Arora – Medium

• A window into bendy morals by Amit Kumar, EarlyNotes

• A window into what makes a great Quiz Question by Rajat Gururaj, I came, I saw, I floundered

• Still Looking By Spandana, Spandana’s Substack

• Three Windows in a Week By Nidhi, General In Her Labyrinth

• A window into a screen-less day by Saniya Zehra Saniya’s Substack

The essay I wrote about attending my friend Zubeda’s wedding got published in Frontline - a magazine that I respect. You can read it here.

Since the article did not carry pictures, I have created this album as a companion piece.

All Photographs by Shahbaz Khan from Weddings by Serenity unless otherwise mentioned

Is she being nice to me? Of course, she wants to encourage me. Is she mistaking me for someone else?

It is taking a lot of conscious effort to keep track of my inner voice, and watch myself freeze for a second, and then fumble to find suitable words in response.

‘Praise and what it does to us’ was a prompt given by a fellow writer at the Ochre Sky Writing Circle. While contemplating my odd behaviour when confronted with a compliment, I began to dig and dig until I reached the place where I think it all began.

*

When I was still in Kindergarten, my older cousins took me to Chitrakala Parishath - a college of fine arts in our neighborhood - for a drawing and painting competition open to all children. I don’t have any recollection of that, but I ended up winning a Consolation Prize!

The following year, all of us cousins went back to the competition feeling we had a realistic chance at winning more prizes. I was competing in the 3-5 years age group while my cousins were in the senior categories as per their age. We were allowed to sit anywhere across the campus which had many trees and rock boulders. All of us settled down with our things under the shade of a tree and started to make our paintings.

Back at my aunt’s house where I was growing up, there was a landscape painting of the Sun setting over the river with a red hued sky in the background. That was the most beautiful painting I had seen and during my free time, I could be found attempting to make my own versions of it. Here too, I started out wanting to paint a whole landscape with additional elements in the foreground - like a whole bridge over that river. But somewhere in the middle of it, my cousins must have realized that my ambition had gotten the better of me. During the final hour of the competition, they secretively helped me here and there to finish the painting in time. Of course, we never told this to anyone at home.

Some weeks later, my aunt took us children for a walk up to Kumara Krupa Guest House and on the way back, we stopped by at Chitrakala Parishath to see if there was any announcement. There indeed was a list of winners pasted on the stone wall of the building. My aunt went from age group to age group looking for familiar names. And we found my name right at the bottom. I had once again won a Consolation Prize in my category. They asked us to attend the award ceremony on the following Sunday to collect the certificate.

That Sunday morning, I was made to get ready and my elder cousin brother took me to Chitrakala Parishath at 9 am. I had never been to such a formal event before that and I remember being in awe of the proceedings. We sat in one of the back rows and waited. All of a sudden, they announced ‘BJ Karthik’ for the first prize. I was startled and wondered, ‘Oh wow! There’s another boy with the same name who has won the first prize?’. And they called out my name again and that’s when my cousin realized that it was indeed me they were calling for, and so he took me by the arm to the end of the row and asked me to go up on stage and collect the trophy. I was not at all sure about what was happening but I still walked all by myself between the rows of people clapping, went up on the dias and accepted the prize from an old man with a silver beard. I was just not ready to hold such a big trophy and the certificate in my little hands and really wanted to disappear from there.

The Russian painter Svetoslav Roerich, who was married to Indian film legend Devika Rani (also in the picture) and based in Bangalore, was a huge patron of Chitrakala Parishath and this painting competition was being held in memory of his late father - Nicholas Roerich, also a renowned painter. The story goes that when Mr Roerich was shown the prize-winning paintings, he felt that my painting deserved to win the first prize and hence they had to make changes at the last moment to award me the joint first prize along with the other winner.

I have completely blanked out on what followed. Maybe we went home and there was a celebration but I don’t have a single recollection of anything after collecting the prize.

Dr Gabor Mate, renowned physician and bestselling author who has done extensive research on childhood trauma, points out that the word trauma comes from the Greek word meaning ‘wound’. Over the years, this word has become associated more with psychological wounds than with physiological wounds.

Within psychological wounds, the word trauma is usually applied for highly distressing childhood events like abuse, violence and poverty. Dr Mate categorizes them as Trauma - with a capital ‘T’. He adds that trauma is not what happened to us, but what happened within us because of what happened to us. So, he has put forward a second category of trauma - which he calls trauma with a small ‘t’. He says that this usually happens when a child’s emotional needs like being held at a time of distress, or being loved unconditionally are not fulfilled. And just like Trauma, these wounds also show up later in adult life.

Dr Mate shares that just like when we suffer a physical wound, a thin layer of skin grows over this childhood wound which makes that place more sensitive. And as a grown adult, an incident can trigger that wound which ends up making the grown person react in the exact same way they had reacted when the wound was first inflicted in childhood.

Returning to the story I shared at the start of this essay, when my writer friend complimented me saying, ‘You write well’, one of the thoughts that came rushing to me was, ‘Has she mistaken my Substack for someone else’s?’ - This is such a bizarre thought because my friend and I were sitting face-to-face and conversing in a private area with no one else around. She was not distracted by anything, and we were not at all making small talk. So, I don’t find any reason for her to mistake my writings for someone else’s. This is an example of what Dr Mate was saying about how in that instant, a grown adult ends up reacting like the 5 year-old child - the age when the wound was first inflicted.

Unexpectedly winning the first prize should have been a moment of great joy for me, but it turned out to be so nerve-wracking that I must have been completely exhausted by it. This is probably the reason why I don’t have any recollection of anything that happened when we returned home with that gorgeous shiny trophy. This event was not supposed to hurt me but it was my own reaction that caused the distress.

As Dr Mate says, ‘trauma is not what happened to you, but what happened inside of you because of what happened to you.’

What aggravated this wound further was the way the elders responded to my little wins during the school years. Even when I thought I was doing well in class, the usual response was, ‘So who are the kids ahead of you?’. I realize that many Indian parents hold back on appreciation because they don’t want their children to get complacent. Prizes won in extra-curriculars didn’t find much favour either, ‘All of this won’t get you far in life, you really need to focus on your studies’, they would say. One time I returned home very pleased with myself having won a prize at school, but I had to hold myself back from enjoying too much because someone else was unhappy at home.

Being a middling student in class, even the class teacher’s remarks in my report card usually said - ‘Can do better’ or ‘Satisfactory’. After more painfully long years in college, it was at work that I started getting appreciated for my efforts. I liked it for sure but I had not learnt how to react to the applause. Even when I knew how well my appraisal meeting would go, I would still be searching for words while accepting appreciation from my managers. I would often end up crediting the team and thanking the management for supporting me. One time, a manager got fed up and said, ‘Learn to accept compliments, Karthik.’ When I won the ‘Employee of the Year’ award, I was somehow convinced that it was a political move by the management to award me that year and I even said it out loud to my friends. It has taken me all these years to realize that by not valuing and celebrating that award, I had undone the years of toil that had taken me there.

‘I was at the right place at the right time’, ‘Lucky to have graduated and settled in the job before the 2008 crisis’, ‘It was a chance meeting that got me that interview’, ‘I learnt a lot because I was reporting to a taskmaster’ - the stories I have shared about my professional success has one missing part - me.

When I first started writing here on Substack, I would get overwhelmed with all the positive feedback in the comments section. It took a while for me to understand that I preferred that readers respond to my post by pressing the ‘like’ button over leaving a comment. The comments section made me jittery because of my confusion on how to react to the praise. I gradually realized that I yearn for compliments, but I just don’t know how to react to them in a healthy manner.

*

At this stage in life, I understand that our parents, guardians and teachers did the best they could with the awareness and resources they had. Dr Mate persuades us to avoid assigning blame or feeling sorry for ourselves, and instead approach our wounds with compassion and curiosity for the self. He says that our liberation from the past begins with firstly recognizing that our current behaviour patterns are tied to events way back in the past. Making this connection is key to realize that we are functioning in a default mode and we are not to blame for our current behaviour - because it is indeed connected to what happened in our childhoods. With the clarity of this awareness, we can then go on to seek help, disable the triggers, and learn ways to respond to life in a more wholesome manner.

Personal writing offers me a space to be my authentic self - display my vulnerability and accept myself as I am. Writing this essay was an opportunity for me to acknowledge that I am on the path of a gentle self-discovery. By publishing this piece, I am opening myself up to responses which gives me a chance to make connections and learn from them.

This journey in writing my story began with the memoir writing workshop mentored by and .

If you wish to experience the transformative power of personal writing, do consider signing up for next next cohort here.

Watch/listen to Dr Gabor Mate in conversation with Mel Robbins on YouTube or Spotify.

My unusual childhood is a recurring theme in my writings. If you enjoyed this essay, here are some older posts you could read:

An Unfinished Project

Last Plus One Day

Gully Cricket with Benefits

Reading: Kumbalangi Nights

The Street Teaches You

‘Remember that time…?’

This flash essay is part of a collaborative, constrained-writing challenge undertaken by some members of the Bangalore Substack Writers Group. This month, each of us examined the concept of ‘MEMORY’. At the bottom of this snippet, you’ll find links to other essays by fellow writers.

My cousins and I share this core memory from our childhood years. During one vacation at our village located on the slopes of Western Ghats, we were trekking up a nearby hill. As we got closer to the peak, a cloud descended from the sky. We stopped and watched as it covered the peak at first, and continued to sail further down. Very soon, we were all enveloped by a fog so thick that we could hardly see each other. We had to shout out asking everyone to not panic and stay where they were. By the time the cloud floated away from us, we were all left drenched and shivering. The pictures we took afterwards don’t do justice to the surreal feeling of a cloud dropping from the sky and passing through us - just like that. When we exchange stories from our childhoods, it’s not unusual that each of us remember different versions of any given incident. But in this case, we all remember those few minutes exactly the same way.

Remember that time when we walked into a cloud?

In our younger years, we were not much aware of the changing seasons but the rains offered just the diversion that children needed. We had our mundane daily lives revolving around school and homework, but one fine evening, the sky would open up and nothing was the same anymore. We had to look for umbrellas, wear raincoats, take shelter at a stranger’s house, and that one time, even school got cancelled because of waterlogging and all the neighbourhood children played in that muddy water.

One August, they sent me home from boarding school because I had contracted jaundice. That was the first time I was at home in the village during the monsoon season. I spent most of the time in my room watching it rain outside the window and noticed the many kinds of rain. The rains which slanted this way, and the rains which slanted the other way. The rains that came without a warning and poured for long hours in the same steady manner. And there was the rain so light that you wouldn’t even call it rain unless you were out walking without an umbrella. Years later I heard the term - continual rainfall. Rain was a constant companion whole of August like the aching/soothing theme music of a Wong Kar-wai film.

While that was August, the birth of the rainy season in early June is anything but soothing. I was over 35 years old when, for the very first time, I witnessed the arrival of monsoon rain in my village.

I was in that same room but unable to sleep that night because of all the drama unfolding outside my window. The southwest monsoon was making its way up from the coastal areas with such a fury that tall and large trees were bending over to give way. Even after keeping all the windows shut, the wind screamed through tiniest of gaps making loud whistling sounds like a horror movie trying too hard. For a moment, I feared if that was usual or if the roof might just fly off.

As scary as the night was, I woke up next morning to see the world around me had sprung back to life. A robin was tweeting from a nearby tree, while big flies buzzed outside my window, and children on the street were making haste to reach school on time.

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Here are essays from my fellow writers exploring ‘Memory’ -

• Memory — my blessing and my burden - Aarti Krishnakumar

• I am at war with memory - Ameya Thachappilly

• Unphotographable by Richa Vadini Singh, Here’s What I Think

• #12: On Memory by Siddhesh Raut, Shana, Ded Shana

• When the Screen Came to Life by Vikram, Vikram’s Substack

• the memories/ earrings / people i keep by Shruthi, Will you be my friend?

While I was growing up in the 1990s, Redford was past his prime years as a Hollywood star. During a semester break in college, I accidentally discovered one of his most well-known films. My daily morning ritual at that time was to go through the newspaper listings for the Star Movies channel and plan my day according to the films I planned to watch. ‘All the President’s Men’ (1976) sounded very much like an action movie having commandos that save the American President from a terrorist attack, and it felt just perfect to me.

But the film turned out to be entirely different from anything I had seen before. Even though I could not follow all that was happening, it still kept me interested. Shot in a documentary style, it was about two journalists uncovering a scandal that leads all the way to the top and ends up in the President having to resign. And all of it was done without firing a single shot - which made it quite boring for me, but I understood that these two men were heroes of another kind.

Much later, at the MAMI Film Festival, I found myself attending the screening of a new Robert Redford film, ‘All Is Lost’ (2013). At the festival, watching a film from Hollywood was not my first choice. I preferred off-beat European/Iranian/Japanese films - the kind that would not get released in India. But I had to settle for this one as I did not get tickets for the other film. However, I was intrigued when I found out that it was a solo act with Redford playing a man all by himself on a boat sailing in the sea.

True to his reputation, it turned out be lot more than just another survival film. Redford’s character is simply called Our Man - we don’t know his name, his past or where he is headed. And he hardly has any words throughout the film.

Later that night, on my way back home after watching a slew of films back-to-back at the festival, I was still thinking of how this film got all of us in the audience to root for Our Man to somehow survive against the forces of nature and not end up dying even though we did not know anything about him.

What if he was a criminal? What if he was someone who had harmed his own family? Is it in human nature to wish well for people who are going through hardship? But why does it suddenly change when their identity is revealed? Why do we wish harm on complete strangers - based on their race, religion, nationality?

On hearing the news of Robert Redford’s death, I watched ‘The Way We Were’ (1973) - a film I had heard much about. Barbra Streisand stars with Redford in this romantic drama spread across decades. The changing socio-political landscape of America is not only a backdrop, but also an important factor that affects the relationship between the lead characters. Both the actors seemed to be at the top of their game showing understated chemistry between the two contrasting characters. And they are backed by masterful writing – dialogues layered with so much meaning - that watching this film felt like having read a whole novel.

Robert Redford was born in a working class family and grew up in a poor, mixed-race neighbourhood outside Los Angeles. As a young person, it was a jolt for him to see how the racial dynamics between the people around him changed after the Second World War.

While studying Art in Paris, apparently the girls did not take much interest in him because, being American, he lacked the political awareness like his European peers.

Redford got trained as an actor in New York and first appeared on the Broadway stage in 1959. He took up small acting roles in TV shows like ‘The Twilight Zone’ before getting the chance to star in big screen adaptations of some of his Broadway shows. The adaptation of ‘Barefoot in the Park’ (1967) got him noticed, while ‘Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid’ (1969) turned him into a star. He became one of the most sought after leading men in Hollywood through the 1970s.

In 1981, he directed his first feature film, ‘Ordinary People’ which won him an Oscar for both Best Director and Best Film. In an unlikely move, he took a break from films to build the Sundance Institute – a space of support for new filmmakers. Sundance Film Festival still remains the biggest stage for independent films in America. Filmmakers like Quentin Tarantino and Steven Soderbergh first got noticed here.

Alongside his acting roles, Redford continued to make features and documentary films about issues that concerned him. He read books, attended conferences and watched films to educate himself and lend his voice in support of wildlife conservation, renewable energy, LGBTQ equality and the rights of Native American and Indigenous groups.

Since his passing, I have read many obituaries, and they all say that Robert Redford’s films are an extension of his personality and revolved around themes that were important to him.

The interviews and speeches that I have watched online reveal a movie star comfortable with himself, a person seeking to learn, and a community member willing to put in the hard work to make the world a better place.

I had the rare opportunity to work with Bollywood icon, Dev Anand on what turned out to be his last film, ‘Chargesheet’ (2011). During that time, his compatriot, Shammi Kapoor passed away and I was at Dev Anand’s office when an advisor suggested that he attend Shammi Kapoor’s funeral. ‘You know I don’t go to funerals yaar’, Dev Saab shot back. I understood he meant that Dev Anand – the evergreen hero known for his easy charm and romantic songs – cannot be associated with tears and grieving.

Shahrukh Khan had once famously remarked, ‘I work for Shahrukh Khan’. Every film, every brand endorsement, and every appearance had to be well thought out by himself and his team to build brand Shahrukh Khan.

But Robert Redford was different. Instead of continuing to do Robert Redford films all his life, he used the influence of Robert Redford-the movie star to build Sundance and to lend his voice towards the causes that were dear to him.

Even at the peak of his stardom, Redford was not comfortable with all the attention he was getting for his handsome features because he believed he was more than that.

Being born with good looks is entirely an accident of nature. And in a business full of beautiful faces, which one of them gets the love from the audience that turns them into a star is again a matter of great luck.

But once they are bestowed with it, what all could one do with their stardom and the privilege, is a question of character.

Robert Redford retained his personhood and was able to engage with the world in so many ways because of that – as an artist, an actor, a filmmaker, a mentor, and, as an activist.

Of all the legacy he has left behind, I find this one the most striking.

Obituaries:

Robert Redford obituary in The Guardian

‘Always the coolest, calmest man in the room’: friends and film-makers remember Robert Redford

The Way They Were: The New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd on Paul Newman and Robert Redford

The Golden Boy: 11 of Our Favorite Robert Redford Performances

Video Links:

Do watch this 4-min clip of Redford playing Death in one of his earliest roles on ‘The Twilight Zone’ (1962)

Interview on Speaking Freely (2001)

Robert Redford Receives an Honorary Award: 2002 Oscars

100th anniversary of The Progressive (2009)

Commencement speech at Westminster College (2013)

John. F Kennedy Library Foundation (2014)

He had kept a packed bag under his bed for more than a week before he finally walked out of the door.

'It was still dark in the morning. Once I crossed the lane, I began to run so hard. It feels odd now because there was no one chasing me', he later shared.

*

'Did you call mom?'

Long before she makes her first appearance on the show, Carmen's mother Donna is a constant presence. Every time the words 'Mom' or 'Donna' were mentioned, the characters on screen would display their uneasiness. And when we finally get to see her in the second season, we realize how much she is a part of everything Carmen does - in the way he chases perfection, in the way he punishes himself, in the way he does not enjoy anything too much.

For four seasons, we have seen Carmen getting triggered at the very mention of her name and it was probably right for him to avoid her. But the stress of this relationship kept showing up in his erratic and sometimes damaging behaviour.

After thirty-six episodes, Carmen finally comes face to face with Donna at Tiffany’s wedding and even agrees to visit her to hand over a box of old photos.

*

Sigh!

The homes of our childhoods - they still have our old cupboards, our comic book collection, our audio cassettes.

And those memories.

Even if we remove all the people living there and demolish the whole house, would it give us our peace?

Ten years after he left, my friend had to go back to his hometown to sign some papers but he kept delaying it hoping that he would get over the anxiety some day. I tried to assure him that we could take a different route to avoid going anywhere near the house.

But he still could not get himself to make that trip.

*

I can see that Carmen going back to his mom's house is a testament of the immense effort he has put in towards healing.

Luckily for him, his mother Donna has also been working on herself. She has been sober for about a year and she also seems to be on therapy. She has written down a whole list of things to say to him and kept it safe in a drawer. She pulls out the note and reads out the many things she is sorry for. And this allows Carmen to also apologise to her for abandoning the family after his brother Mikey's death.

They need not have gone all the way.

Carmen could have just handed her the box and avoided going inside, while Donna could have done some small talk and pulled back from breaking down and weeping in front of her son when he was visiting after so long. It is only because they have worked on themselves that they are able to go the distance hand-in-hand despite all the struggles that come with it.

It is crucial for both parties to have contemplated enough and sufficiently prepared for having such a talk. Even if one of them has not put in the inner work, they could end up throwing anger or guilting the other and thereby quashing any hope of a true reconciliation.

Therapy works best when we participate in it.

My most satisfying therapy sessions were when we clearly identified the problem first and then found ways for me to cope and overcome that. I took home assignments – I journaled and reflected on our sessions and returned the following week to discuss it further. Ultimately, this is what therapy is for – to get guidance and support through a difficult situation.

Unfortunately for us, the wise counselor cannot take our place or even sit down and sort out our life for us. Once we leave the room and are out in the world, the onus is entirely on us to put all our learnings into practice and change our habitual ways.

The common mistake is that we don’t think deeply enough about the counselor’s suggestions because much of it sounds very obvious. So simple but we still can’t put them into action.

And the therapists themselves are trained to be gentle and not push us into doing anything. Sports coaches, on the other hand, get things done because they are tough on their wards.

Coaches often talk a lot about ‘the process’. They say that in the heat of the game, the players should not be spending their energy on analysing the situation too much. Instead, they should simply follow the plans that they have already decided – if plan A is not working, try out plan B and so on. The coaches are of the opinion that mid-game is just not the time to think of any new ideas. They feel that if the players have belief in their plans and have put in enough practice, their muscle memory will take over to implement the plans. And the result will take care of itself as long as the players are following the process and executing their plans well. Many a time, it is the fear of losing that that turns out to the be the difference between two sets of players. The fear can creep in only when a player starts to think on the field. Hence, the coaches ask the players to avoid thinking and instead keep playing as per the plan.

I feel that difficult conversations are something like these sporting contests. The stakes are so high, and they can change the course of our lives. I feel it’s a good idea to borrow from the coaching manual and learn to follow the process. It is easy to overthink in these situations – by going into past history or worrying about consequences. But that is exactly what we should not be doing. We have to stick to the words we want to say – maybe read out prepared lines if necessary. But we got to say what we have to say without allowing ourselves to slip into old habits. The trouble of slipping up during a crucial talk is that we might have to go back to the drawing board and do it all over again and that can be very disheartening.

We could all take inspiration from Carmy and Donna and learn to trust the process.

Leave old ways, form new habits, and keep at it.

That could be the reason we never get to know her backstory. The filmmakers seem to have decided that since Ani has moved on from her past, we are not going there either.

Ani is one catty woman who does not shy away from attacking first. She seems to be at ease with her job and enjoys the perks that come with it. But there is something very odd about her - she has no family or friends, not even a boyfriend. When Ani gets married on a whim, she does not call a single person to share the happy news. There is no celebration of any kind at her place. And yet again, she is quick to leave her life as a club dancer behind her, and start anew as the wife of a rich man’s son.

Sure, she is pally with some girls at work, and they hang out together sometimes. That's probably how Ani gets herself to believe that does have friends.

'Do you have friends?’

I was 35 when my therapist asked me this. And by the time I turned 40, two more people had me cornered with that same question. One of them was a political leader and the other an advocate. The reason I am mentioning their professions is because those jobs require them to be experts in reading people. And they clearly saw something that I was looking away from. Like Ani, I was fooling myself by hanging out with other like-minded folks. Going to movies, networking, partying and traveling together.

But when a crisis hit home, I didn't even pick up the phone to call any of them. Becoming vulnerable was just not part of the deal. Why would I do that to anyone.

Ani performs sexual acts in exchange for money but that line of work alone cannot be the reason for her to be cold at relationships. All of us do some form of trade to earn our living - either we sell goods for money or charge for a service. But then, not everyone is transactional in personal relationships.

There is a good chance that she has been trained in her childhood to maintain checks and balances. It could be that after taking her on a trip to the theme park, her parents asked her to start doing well in school and make them proud. Maybe they enrolled her into ballet class and then pushed her to compete and win prizes in return for their investment.

One time at the weekend art class, I shared my paints with another boy. We were having fun doing our paintings. Some children finished their work and started playing outside. That boy rushed through his work so that he could go and join them. I sat there wondering how he could use my paints and then go play with those other kids leaving me behind.

In my 20s, I once flew across cities to be with the girl for a weekend. And midway through my stay, she started to fuss about something. That got me upset, and I stepped out for a walk by myself. The overpowering thought in my head was – ‘Isn't this the most wrong time for her to start a fight – especially after all the effort and money I have put in to be here?’

I totally desist bargain shopping. Even if I am being overcharged, I prefer to see price tags on things. I am all for clear deliverables and clean breakups.

When Ani moves in with Vanya, she is well aware that his parents are yet to accept their marriage. Her sense of security is entirely hinged on the bond they both share and the sexual control she has over him. It is only when Vanya breaks loose that Ani starts to realize that she has little or no say in how things are going to turn out.
Once she gets over that initial shock, Ani gathers herself together and figures out her own moves to counter the turns her life might take. All through this time, there is not a single person she calls or texts asking for any help or guidance. She probably just googles her way to some information on divorce settlements.

She doesn't know how to respond to Igor's kindness either. It is not entirely her fault – he does have an uneasy presence and I was expecting him to turn violent at any moment. But instead, he looks after her throughout that ordeal and even stands up for her in a way that might put his own job at risk. Finally, when he returns her wedding ring, she takes a moment reflecting on all that he has done for her, and then decides to pay him back by offering to have sex with him.

There is hardly anything beautiful about what ensues. But somehow, in that bleak fogginess, she reaches out and finds support from Igor. Ani is still young and wants grander things in life, but maybe she realizes that here is something she needs so badly right now. If only she can keep her hand open, there is a good chance that someone might hold it.

As I began trusting the world and opening up, I found spaces that were safe and welcoming. It was as if they were waiting all the while for me to put my guard down. I learnt to hold hands, I learnt to dance like myself, I learnt to cry in public, and I learnt to read my poems aloud.

I hope this is just the start for Ani in understanding that human relationships are less like a neatly laid-out supermarket and more like a messy and chaotic fish market. No one really knows what they are buying into and that’s a great reason to have friends by your side.

Anora (Dir: Sean Baker) is a small-budget independent film that swept the awards season. It is my favourite kind of film - the type that does not belong to any one genre, whose characters feel like real people, and where we cannot make any predictions on what might happen next. Anora is streaming on Jio Hotstar India.

This flash essay is part of a collaborative, constrained-writing challenge undertaken by some members of the Bangalore Substack Writers Group. Each of us examined the concept of ‘BANGALORE’ through our unique perspective, distilled into roughly 500 words. At the bottom of this snippet, you’ll find links to other essays by fellow writers.

A message forwarded on a school WhatsApp group said that we might be the last generation of children to have played on our streets. I must confess that I didn’t always enjoy playing on the streets. At first, I found it unnerving to step outside by myself. Many a time, I would have to be nudged and pushed, away from my comic books, to go outside and play.

Only now do I see the immense value of those evenings when we children were not under the watch of any grownups. There was no task to be completed, and we were not being pulled up for our low scores in gully cricket. After all these years, I am now feeling grateful that we had this me-time to do whatever we wished. The only conditions were that we had to do it outside our homes but within the boundaries of the neighbourhood.

Like most children, I started off playing right outside the house with our immediate neighbours. But sometimes, a parked car would block our wickets - the ones we had inscribed on the compound wall, and so we would have to go elsewhere to find another cricket pitch. And that's how we started playing on adjoining streets and found other children to play with. This was also when we got to know the neighbours on those streets. The neighbours who would gladly return our cricket ball and those who would shoo us away.

It now feels fascinating how we formed instant friendships with other children during our play. Sometimes, our new friends would take us into their homes. Walking into another kid’s home was like entering a whole new world - every home had its own customs and its own warmth. Plus, there were always the mothers who fed us snacks and drinks.

When we were about 12 years old, we formed a team of our own and started going to the big playground nearby to play with children from other neighbourhoods. After playing, we would collect all the small change from our pockets and walk up to the local bakery for refreshments.

Every time I was stepping outside to play, I was asked about where we were headed and reminded about the time by which I had to get back home. That was the amount of surveillance we had back then.

Playing on the streets also meant getting bored with the game we started and loitering the neighbourhood to see what else catches our fancy. Sometimes we would just huddle on the staircase in front of a friend’s house and exchange ghost stories.

I feel fortunate to have grown up playing on the streets of a neighbourhood which had families from different communities living next to each other. The kids I played with were of all kinds too. The ones who fought a lot, the ones who would cry and complain, and the ones who left the game in a huff taking their cricket bats with them.

And yet, we always found a way to play together.

Here are my fellow writers and their essays on Bangalore:

• Looking Down over Bengaluru by Vaibhav Gupta, Thorough and Unkempt

• Blossom Book House, Bangalore by Rahul Singh, Mehfil

• A Walk, A Pause by Mihir Chate, Mihir Chate

• Bookless in Bangalore by Vikram Chandrashekar Vikram’s Substack

• Bangalore: A personal lore by Siddhesh Raut, Shana, Ded Shana

• Bangalore,once by Avinash Shenoy, Off the walls

• My love story with Bengaluru by Rakhi Anil

• Bangalore Down the lane of History by Aryan Kavan Gowda, Wonderings of a Wanderer

• Nagar Life by Nidhishree Venugopal, General in her Labyrinth

• Belonging by Shruthi Iyer, Shruthi Iyer

• The Wild Heart of Bangalore by Devayani Khare, Geosophy

• A Love Letter to Bangalore by Priyanka Sacheti, A Home for Homeless Thoughts

• Movie Dates, Bangalore and Them by Amit Charles, AC Notes

• Between Cities by Richa Vadini Singh, Here’s What I Think

• A Haven? Awake in Bangalore, by Lavina G, The Nexus Terrain

• My love affair with blue skies by Sailee Rane, Sunny climate stormy climate

• A City That Builds Belonging by Sathish Seshadri, Strategy & Sustainability

• There and Back Again by Ayush, Ayush's Substack

Turning a well written story into a good film is no simple task. Filmmaking is a tough balancing act between what the creator intends to say, the eagerness of the cast and crew to play along, and what the audience wishes to see. It takes masterful filmmaking to create an entertaining film that is reflective of its time and also has a message to offer.

In Chameli Ki Shaadi (1986), director Basu Chatterji ensures that all the main characters embody the spirit of that time in their peculiar ways. And through these characters, he reveals to the viewer what the push and pull of living in that time was like.

When Chameli falls for the neighbourhood toughie Charandas, she promptly reports it to her college-going friend Anita. The well intentioned friend that she is, Anita advises Chameli to find out more about Charandas’ employment status and get a clue about his future earnings. Anita warns her to not go ahead with the relationship if Charandas does not have much earning prospects.

When Chameli’s parents learn about her love affair with the good-for-nothing boy from a different caste, they do their best to marry her off to a well settled groom within their own community by promising him a handsome dowry. With the guidance of the local advocate, Harish, Charandas thwarts her parents’ plans to get Chameli married to someone else. To counter Chameli’s rebellion, her parents lock her up in a room and call for Chameli’s ruffian uncle Chaganlal to come over and take charge. As a fees to quash Chameli’s hopes of eloping with Charandas, her uncle Chaganlal asks for a bottle of liquor for each day of his stay.

Chameli’s father Kallumal is being propped up by his community as a candidate for the local election. And this is added reason for him to not even entertain the idea of her marriage to Charandas since an inter-caste alliance could mean an end to Kallumal’s nascent political career.

When Chameli eventually elopes with Charandas and is about to get married, the families of both the bride and the groom begin protesting outside. Advocate Harish first speaks to Chameli’s father Kallumal and convinces him saying how Charandas being the leader of the local youth will only be an added support to his political ambitions. Advocate Harish then gets Charandas’ elder brother to see how Kallumal winning the election would be beneficial to his family as well. After these conversations, both sides start to feel that they have much to gain from this marriage and retreat from their confrontational positions and go on to bless the couple.

Without being preachy about it, the film delivers a message against caste endogamy. ‘Why not look for ways to improve the quality of your life rather than stick to age old customs?’ - is the question modernity seems to be asking through the character of Harish. Being a trained advocate and a man of the world, Harish makes pointed arguments which make everyone feel like they are winning in this situation. With some cunning and some pushing, both families let go of tradition and see the sense in getting the best deal for themselves.

If the 50s was the time of nation building, the 60s was the decade when the young nation had to come together to face droughts and wars. By the 70s, state control and cronyism had given rise to widespread corruption at every level. After the disillusionment of the Emergency period, there seems to have been an awakening among the common people. Making the 80s the time when status and money gained precedence over morals and loyalty.

All the characters in the film display this awareness. Everyone here seems to be asking – ‘What’s in it for me?’

Except the two lead characters.

Chameli goes against her friend's advice and agrees to get involved with the unemployed Charandas. Who in turn rebels against his Ustad's vow of bachelorhood and forgoes his wrestling career for the sake of love.

And this is what makes them heroes. They dare to go against the trend of their time.

Do read this delightful excerpt from the book ‘Basu Chatterji And Middle-of-the-Road Cinema’ by Anirudha Bhattacharjee: https://scroll.in/reel/1048306/how-basu-chatterji-came-out-of-a-career-funk-to-make-chameli-ki-shaadi

But there is only this one issue.

When it comes to propaganda, they are so gullible, and they can't seem to help it.

On our WhatsApp group, my old friends show much eagerness to share unverified news and display high intolerance towards people who are different from themselves. Surely, they wouldn't have gotten ahead in their careers and relationships if they had behaved like this over there.

That's the strength of propaganda. It's so powerful that it can bend the best of us and get them walking backwards on all fours.

Thankfully, I joined this boarding school only at 8^th grade. Prior to that, I was fortunate to have grown up in the multi-cultural environment of Central Bangalore. Thanks to the upbringing of my younger years and thanks also to the rebellious streak of adolescence, I somehow never accepted the propaganda even as a 13-year-old.

But then, I know that I was very, very, very close to becoming one of them.

Since this realization, I have stopped taking the moral high ground or feeling any intellectual superiority whatsoever. I now understand that the circumstances of our childhood years could have taken us in any direction.

It's extremely rare that a grown up adult has seen through the propaganda and realised the folly of blind allegiance towards a belief system. Even when they can see that something has gone horribly wrong, they use all their intellect to find someone else to blame for it so that they can safeguard their own beliefs. I have even seen that they are willing to suffer losses (eg. inflation) rather than seek accountability.

The conversations on this group have been frustrating, dispiriting and even hurtful at times. I got fed up and exited the group two times but one friend kept adding me back. During the lockdown, when I got added back the third time and I somehow felt that I should stay on. I realized that by shunning people, we also end up isolating ourselves. Or worse, we become comfortable in our own echo chambers – watching content we agree with and speaking to friends who share the same concerns as us. So we will never know the depth of the issues in our society and may never be able to think of what we could do about them.

If you’ve known someone for years, you would also know that they are more than what they post on social media. I recently visited an old friend from boarding school. Our only interaction in the last ten years had been the arguments we had on Facebook and WhatsApp. At his home, when I was introduced to his wife for the very first time, she shared that she was already familiar with me because my friend had shown her the letters I had written to him after we finished school.

The more we say how wrong the other person is, the more rigid they become in their stances. After all these years, I know that is a pointless strategy. These days, I limit my engagement with this WhatsApp group to sharing verified news for the sake of busting fake narratives. And I also post a good joke every now and then, especially when it’s at the expense of some demigods.

Eleven years of interacting with my old classmates has made me realize the immense power held by the adults in our childhood environments. Because, it is they who interpreted the world for us, influenced our thoughts, and shaped our opinions.

When a child first joins school, they are already socialized in the ways of their homes. But the aura of schools are such that the child is quick to unlearn everything to adapt to the ways of the school in just a few weeks. Teachers hold much sway over the child's interests and behaviour through the school years. How often have we seen a child dismiss the opinion of their parents because, 'My teacher says so!'

During one lecture, our professor at Azim Premji University was emphasizing on the vital role of a teacher in children’s lives when he said, ‘A teacher can cause a minor revolution in the classroom every single day.’ A simple activity on understanding differences between your peers can plant a seed in a child’s mind that will grow over time. ‘And many such tiny revolutions over time is what will bring about social change’, he declared.

The vast majority of children in India attend under-resourced government schools or low-fee private schools. The teachers and parents here have internalized that academic excellence is the only way for their wards to get ahead and everything else is secondary. Most schools lack the basic infrastructure and trained teachers to do anything beyond the prescribed syllabus.

It is the civil society organizations (CSOs/NGOs) which are intervening to bridge this inequity. In the last seven years, I have witnessed the stellar work that is being done by organizations working in Education - access to schooling, social-emotional learning, arts education, gender, sexuality and inclusion, citizenship, history, libraries, theatre, nature education, media literacy, teacher training and much more. These interventions are ensuring that children in low-funded schools get a more holistic schooling and develop skills crucial for these changing times.1

All it takes is that one school term, that one teacher, that one book to change everything.

One tiny revolution at a time

It has been five years since I have been working on the education of out-of-school children at Gubbachi Learning Community. The social sector is not an easy space because of the demanding schedules and low resources. In my early years, I would sometimes become frustrated and disillusioned on how little all of our efforts are amounting to. I now see what a privilege it is for professionals and organizations to engage with these questions from time to time.

Personally, I feel many times lighter for not having any moral conflict – something that had troubled me in my previous career.

The most significant change in me is the manner in which I respond to the current events enfolding before us. Every time I see something disturbing – be it religious intolerance, caste violence or even the genocide - I have observed that I do not get as distressed as I would have earlier. Instead, my focus shifts towards what we could do in our classrooms to prevent this in the future.

Every bad news only goes on to furthering my resolve. I believe that all the ills of society can resolved with suitable classroom interventions. Schools have many times proven to be capable of countering the slide of society.

Hence, Education

Our professor at Azim Premji University would say that the result of a teacher’s efforts is not in finishing the syllabus or in the performance of their students. The outcome cannot be seen at the end of the school term. The outcome can be seen twenty years later.

My effort is mostly to ensure that twenty years from now, our students will be on the right side of humanity.

Not everyone can afford to quit their job, join university and take up a teaching job in the social sector. However, if you too are troubled by the present times and if you too are concerned about the future, I wish you too can get involved in Education and invest in our future.

There are many ways to get involved – making regular donations, volunteering, mentoring, using your influence to raise funds, advocating for the cause and so on.

I wish you find your own way to join this movement for the sake of a better tomorrow.

You need not have watched the show to to read the essay. But if you are planning to watch the show, I have to warn you this contains major spoilers.

Chelsea: You're free.

Rick: Told you, you have nothing to worry about.

Chelsea: Of course I was worried. I love you.

But you know, I was never too worried.

Because ‘amor fati’.

Do you know what that means?

Rick: I don't know what that means.

Chelsea: It means you have to embrace your fate, good or bad.

Whatever will be, will be.

Yeah. And at this point, we're linked, so if a bad thing happens to you, it happens to me.

I think we're gonna be together forever, don't you?

Rick: That's the plan.

Chelsea: Is it?

Rick: Yeah.

(The White Lotus S3 E8 ‘Amor Fati’)

For once Rick was on steady ground. He was not being chased and neither was he on the hunt looking for someone or something. He had pulled off the riskiest heist of his life and earned his freedom. He was finally feeling like just another guy enjoying a meal with his woman.

It was a moment which even Chelsea could not have manifested. She had tried, failed and learnt the hard way not to make any plans for their future. She had taken up spirituality and trained herself to accept whatever life offered - amor fati.

But here when Rick finally speaks of a plan for them, she cannot help but be overwhelmed by the moment. She feels the warmth transfer all the way from her chest to the tip of her earlobes.

Rick had never known his father and his mother had died when he was only ten. He was not aware that he could dream up a good life for himself. A career in crime chose him because he had nothing to lose and had become suited for taking big risks. Having lived this kind of a life, it was natural that he could not trust another soul.

Rick’s life had been full of dark corridors that led to more dark corridors. And Chelsea shone in that darkness like a lucid dream. He never understood why someone like her would want to be with someone like him. He struggled to believe that he could be touched by love.

But here he was at last!

Far from the secret corridors, the dark lanes, and the dingy neighbourhoods. He was now in the open field - the one that is beyond all the rights and wrongs of the world.

Finally, it had all started to make sense to him. He now realized that he had to live through everything - the bad and the worse - to get till here. Many a time, he would regret some of those bad decisions he had taken when he was younger. Not anymore. He could now see that even if one decision had worked out for him, he would not have been here now. His life had to follow the exact same pattern of disastrous events for him to make it to Chelsea.

It was all fine now.

He was beginning to accept his crazy life with all the good and the bad.

He was learning to accept himself.

But little did he know that there was the old man lurking right behind him.

Rick was seated in front of that old man - his childhood trauma - just a few nights back. He had been preparing himself for years to face-off with his trauma. He had carried a gun along, but the meeting didn't go as per plan. In hindsight, Rick was relieved that he had made it through without any bloodshed.

But today, the old man had come armed while Rick was enjoying a buffet breakfast. The trauma had shown up without a sign and Rick was caught with a half-eaten plate in hand.

Childhood trauma doesn't care for your breakfast. When it shows up, you just stand and obey. An onlooker might shrug their shoulders and say, 'He walked right into that one.'

But Rick knows that he didn't walk at all. He was being pulled by a force that was beyond any of his strengths. It was the same invisible force that had brought him here from across continents.

Rick shows enough awareness to seek out the local healer who just might bring him back to the present and strengthen his defence. But the healer is not available at that time. That is such an irony because it was the healer who had been following up with Rick all through the week reminding him that they had some internal work to do. At that time, Rick wasn't ready.

Chelsea is caught completely unaware of which direction Rick is headed in. She chases him around and tries her best to dissuade him from going any further.

You are free, remember?
But he wasn't completely free. Not yet.

Those tense final moments are symbolic for some of us with mental health struggles. Our loved ones and our therapists can play vital roles in our recovery, but they also have their limitations.

In the end, the only person who could have saved Rick was Rick himself.

And of course, nothing goes as per our plans.
Some of it is mildly bothersome, but some of it is hugely annoying!

One night, I step out into the balcony to gaze at the sky and think of how far we have all come. It’s like we live on different planets altogether.
We all have our own quirks that everyone else has to put up with and it's a whole task to do anything together.

Should we do this again sometime? - I am not entirely sure.
Maybe this is not something people our age do so often.

When I walk back inside, I am greeted with a room full of laughter.
Bodies falling over each other in fits that pull me in without even knowing what the joke was about!

I wake up the next morning and type these two words - Animal warmth.
As I wait for my turn at the bathroom, I start to feel low that the holiday is over.

On the flight back, it strikes me why we do all this.
Because we belong there - we belong to that group - in a way that we belong nowhere else.

There is a part of us with our school pals, a part with our college friends, a part of us with our cousins group and a part with our families and extended families.
That part of our being comes alive only with those people. They preserve us and keep that part of us safe with them.

That is why we go all the way out there.
To find ourselves. To meet ourselves. To know ourselves.

Arun Bhaiya (Mr. India, 1987) did none of that. He would always be wearing a beige jacket and a cricket hat. With his meagre earnings as a violin teacher, he was forever behind in paying the rent. He ran such long bills because his home was also a hostel for orphaned children.

In the mornings, Arun Bhaiya would wake the children up, get them ready for school and at night-time, he would play the violin and tuck them into bed.

Even before he found the bracelet which gave him the power to turn invisible, Arun Bhaiya was already nothing more than an ordinary bystander. He would repeatedly get pushed around by his landlord and the grocery shop owner. In fact, the first time he met Seema, she mistook him to be a pickpocket who had just gotten out of jail.

That's Arun Bhaiya - so ordinary that he could be anyone.

With the bracelet on his wrist, he turned fully invisible and took it upon himself to serve justice – first, to the vile powerful people and then, to the forsaken poor people. In that memorable scene, an entire table of exquisite dishes from a posh restaurant comes floating in the air and lands in front of a family living on the street who are too stunned and fearful to even savour that miracle.

Back then, my father used to be an active member of the Rotary Club. The club had presented him with an insignia that he kept on his table. It had this quote by Mahatma Gandhi.

‘Whenever you are in doubt, or when the self becomes too much with you, apply the following test. Recall the face of the poorest and the weakest man [woman] whom you may have seen, and ask yourself, if the step you contemplate is going to be of any use to him [her]. Will he [she] gain anything by it? Will it restore him [her] to a control over his [her] own life and destiny? In other words, will it lead to swaraj [freedom] for the hungry and spiritually starving millions?

Then you will find your doubts and your self melt away.’

As a child, every time I read it this quote, the faces of that homeless family from Mr. India would flash in front of my eyes.

In the closing moments of Paatal Lok Season 2, Hathiram Chaudhary confesses to Narcotics officer Virk that he has had enough of police work. Although Hathiram was a senior to Virk at the police training academy, Virk has now superseded him by many levels. At first, Virk seems moved on seeing Hathiram letting his guard down, but still, Virk does not let a chance to show his superiority get away so easily.

He says to Hathiram, ‘You were a better officer than me, Chaudhary. But I always knew I would get ahead of you. This System is like a boat - we all know it has holes in it and we all know it is sinking. You’re one of those dumbfucks who is trying to save the boat! While I am just saving myself.’

It’s not that Hathiram does not have ambitions. He is not at all pleased about the likes of Virk getting ahead of him. He feels bitter about not getting due recognition for his work. Maybe he even craves for a high profile case which could boost his career.

But that's not why he takes up this case. He takes it up because a poor village woman with a young child comes to the station desperately seeking police help in looking for her missing husband - a migrant worker from Bihar.

When that woman meets with an accident, Hathiram sits all night outside the hospital ward with her child doing his police work and ensuring their safety. That's the only way he knows to do his work. Putting all of his six-footer body on the line.

A drinking man with an overgrown paunch, it's not action-hero stuff when Hathiram goes chasing on foot. His fights are outright desperate. He takes blows to his face, he falls with a thud, he howls without a sound, and he limps on - in his checked shirt, grey trousers, white sneakers, riding on a motorcycle that feels a few sizes too small for him.

The invisibility bracelet gives Arun Bhaiya the power to turn into a vigilante and the police badge gives Hathiram the power to deliver justice – both within and beyond the System.

But their superpower is that they care.

Once they realise that they hold some power, they must have put themselves through something like the Gandhi’s test to figure out how to wield that power responsibly.

Think about it - what do the leading men in our movies usually care about?

All their care and concern are usually about themselves – their work, their lovers, their family, their honour, their friends, their nation, their planet, their spaceship and so on.

Which is what makes these two heroes stand out from the rest.

They use their powers to care for the last person standing in the line – the weakest, the most vulnerable and the one who has nothing to give in return. There are no witnesses to their deeds and there is no glory to look forward to.

And they put all their might to make sure that no one is left behind feeling helpless.

Nope, not on their watch.

If you enjoyed Paatal Lok S2, I recommend you take the time to watch this interview with actors Jaideep Ahlawat and Tillotama Shome. I loved how their character arcs and their personal lives overlapped in this conversation.