Of 'people like us'

Over the last week I have engaged in multiple conversations over the Ayodhya verdict. Everyone has an opinion (the dhobi-mark of an active citizen one could suppose), and most have no direct stakes in the verdict. Of course, the nature of being a south delhi-thinktank employee-somewhat left liberal is that most political conversations are flat "people-like-us" debates. Concerns over faith-based claim being converted to a legal right, concerns on implications on Indian jurisprudence and Indian secularism. Each conversation was much like an Indian Express Op-Ed - what "we" hoped for and what "we" abhor. One of the Express columns today even told us why we should care. We guard our notions of secularism with careful words, measured headlines and an emphatic shake of the head.

Over time I have learnt to box people. The stereotypes help. Those I have political conversations with because I know we all agree and claim believe in the same values. We generally sit comfortably left-of-centre. Then there are others, those I meet occasionally and I have learnt to assiduously avoid conversations on secularism, Gujarat and other such matters.

Then the other day I had to step out of my comfort circle to meet the latest on the block of nouveau secularists over beer. This new lot is a creation of the Ayodhya verdict, I claim. 'It's a good verdict," he exclaimed. 'Fair and Just. They recognised that this is Ram's birthplace and also gave a share to the Muslims." Of course, we're the good Hindus. We recognise the demands a secular state makes on us. And so we part charitably with our share. Another comment on facebook caught my attention: "Ram was our forefather...not only to Hindus but all Indians. The verdict brings together all Indians." I cringe and I distance myself.

I might recognise that I impose my qualificatory lable of being a 'liberal secularist' or some such -ism to my political and social interactions. Maybe closing out conversations or dismissing other opinions is being equally conservative.

It's interesting to observe how flashpoints such as the Ayodhya verdict not only play out in the media and mainstream politics, but our political conversations. How socialisations and stereotypes converge and reconverge. It's like the game of four corners we used to play at birthdays - the horses, fishes, frogs and monkeys occupy one corner each. Everyone has to scramble away from the middle to occupy one corner. What about those left undecided? Well, they're "out."

Reference to context

This is the year I build. My sense of self. Thoughts on me and the baggage I can do without. The baggage that I can convert into not-being-baggage before somebody or everybody gets hurt. This is the year I tell myself that I can write. About governance and accountability. Grasp and link, like she in college said I could do so well. Unpack words that I could string together for my next step to what-I-want-to-be-when-I-grow-up.

Driven by relationships I learn to preserve. The people I think of often. She who is my guide to me. She sat with chai and laughed as I told her how terribly I f***** up. It was deja vu. We both knew it. This is not the first time we mirrored each other. I made her bite her tongue. Thrice. He who taught me to love the idea of superheroes. Who introduced me to a bookshop and played Coldplay on repeat, as we taught ourselves together to love our city. She never fails to look good in front of the camera. Who knows my moods and taught me to colour coordinate. We have our song in 817. And Sangria. And only he, my spirited bundle of all things bright and beautiful, who simplifies my life. Because, God knows, I complicate it.

Of course, there are those who I want to write to everyday. She, my smile-inducing solace away from London, now in London. He who I know about only through facebook. He who is my favourite cow. And she who I think about in passing when I think about me at 5, at 10, at 12, at 18 and at 24.

I need to convert the drafts on gmail into emails. Talk about how I love the drive home alone with my radio. My sometimes-love-sometimes-not for my new curls. I now like Timeout Delhi as much as I did London. How I liked Kabul disco. How my confidence in my ability to write (professionally) is at an all time low. How I am terrible at self-motivation and hence should not do a PhD. How I think Jakob Dylan is goodlooking. How I really want NYC to be my next London.

This is the year I figure focus and depth and patience and order.

Shrink.

On Wed, Feb 24, 2010 at 11:46 PM, tonusree basu wrote:
Dear you, It was my story. of longitudes. where I cried in one city. wished in another. and loved in the third. Ego meets vacuum. Send me words and give me attention. Explore me. Drive me. Draw me out. ...who knew one feels the loneliest at home. Teach me how to shut down again?

I am sorry I stayed away for so long. The a/pathetic me needed some getting used to. My insecurities have piled up in a neat stack. They lie in the corner, by my melted candlestick and stained wineglass. A broken piece of clay, a brand new postcard and a scrawled post-it are my points of focus today. Familiar spaces constrict. as do lack of two conversations. The strange bit is, validation is not what I am looking for. Neither is it my bookmarked lyrics on Google Chrome. I need 18-year old me. Maybe with bigger boobs. and five streaks of rebellion. I need to love fiction again - of strung dreams and conflicting selves. I need whole. I need centre. I need to sing the alphabet song again. or was it Do Re Me? I need to weave, three strands at a time. my drive to work. my eyelashes against the cheek. the broken band of my silver ring. my right to be loved. my faith filling the cracks in my mould.

So do I miss out on my this-is-it moment? chasing tails and swatting my need-to-have-faith-to-write-to-plan-to-believe-to-know-to-learn monsters. I'm picking out the me's from my pile. Smile?

Sent.

Last night I watched a film after quite a while. I realised that the last few months have been a blue blur. Rushed stories retold in my head, green pints and glasses of red, and drives. A steady stream of brakelights crossing my consciousness. Have I met new people? Yes. Maybe. I feel saturated. So many people to meet. I think I need to get into a quiet phase. Where it's me, my books and five quiet minutes of solitude. Even as I write this I find white noise, a cacophony of distractions, poking my attempts at undulated focus. They gnaw away at my sense of self. slowly.