By Sheltering an Inter-Caste Couple, My Conservative Father Discovered His “Wokeness”

It was not a festival, it wasn’t anyone’s birthday in the family, as far as I could remember. It wasn’t even the weekend. So I was taken by surprise when my house was abuzz with energy in the middle of a workweek. There was a serious amount of pav bhaji and grilled cheese sandwiches that had been ordered. For a Gujarati family living in Kandivali, it felt like Navratri had arrived early.

Before I could figure out what was happening, mum told me we had guests – my dad’s colleagues. Really? When did dad start making friends at work?  

Pratik* from my father’s office had come home to visit us, all the way from Kalyan. Seated next to him was a woman, who I guessed was his girlfriend, but I couldn’t be sure. It was 10 pm on a Tuesday, way past my father’s bedtime. And yet everyone seemed quite content chatting away. “Why aren’t they leaving?” “They can’t be staying over!” “Do I have to sleep in the living room today?” My mind was overflowing with questions.

I smiled at Pratik and before I could start a conversation, mom gestured at me with her eyes, asking me to go inside. Then she followed me. Zero points for subtlety.

She came into the bedroom and started whispering, which is her code for “kuch gadbad hai”. Cutting right to the chase, she told me, “Pratik and Nisha got married but their families won’t accept it. So they will be staying with us for a few days.” Hello? Had I suddenly been transplanted into a ’90s Bollywood film? While it might have taken me a few minutes to process the information, all my claims to social media wokeness were forgotten when I blurted, “But why here? Don’t they have any relatives or friends?”   

My mother then gave me a quick backstory of how both families had opposed the marriage because they belonged to different sub-castes, but dad had helped the couple register the wedding. This indeed was a parallel universe. My father? Playing cupid? My dad, the same man who thinks Muslims are planning to take over the world? The same man who declares anyone who criticises Modi ji as a traitor and anti-national? Nothing made any sense.

With an instruction to move to the living room couch for a few days, my mother dashed out of the room. I heard her sneakily calling one of our relatives who owns a garment shop and requested them to open it for a bit. The newly-weds had no extra pair of clothes. A meeting was fixed for 11.30 pm, as if they were scoring some sort of contraband.

In all this excitement, I was getting acquainted with a new side to my father’s personality.

The couple looked worried, but dad kept trying to cheer them up. “Tension mat lo, ek do din mein sab theek ho jaayega.” Dinner was followed by some ice cream and small talk about cricket and what Nisha likes to do. Dad was cracking jokes, at least attempting to, and mom was being mom – extremely warm. I could see my introvert parents making the extra effort to make the two feel at home.

That day my respect for my father shot up faster than Chris Gayle’s strike rate in a T20 game. My dad was way cooler than I thought he was. This is a man who doesn’t know how to use a gas stove and still believed that women should do the cooking, but he had risen over and above the call of duty in helping out a young couple.

Pratik and Nisha stayed at our house for about a week. They’d head out to work in the morning and return at night. This is when the four of them would huddle up and have discussions about how to convince the couple’s family to accept them. Over a period of a few days, my father spoke to their family members and tried to reason it out with them that castes only divide us further. “The differences are all in our head,” I once overheard him saying. After days of convincing, Pratik’s family agreed and the couple moved back to their house.

I was a silent observer of all that was unfolding at home, watching my dad play peacemaker. The same father, who, like any typical middle-class uncle, still makes politically incorrect statements. He has been sexist and racist on several occasions in the past without even realising it. Often with relatives, I’ve heard him comment on politics and his thoughts have made me cringe. On days that I’ve confronted him or tried to engage with him, we’ve had endless debates, which end up with me storming out of the room.

To my mind, my dad was the conservative, the one with backward views. That’s the reason I’ve never added him as a Facebook friend – afraid that he’ll leave a comment on something I’ve posted and embarrass me. But in the days that Pratik and Nisha were with us, I saw a different side. When the time came to act, he had allowed his liberal side to emerge. He had done the right thing.

We waste no time in passing judgement about our parents, imposing our “liberal” ideas on them. Little do we realise that liberalism also includes the ability to open up to an opposing view, being unbiased and non-judgemental.

Unlike me and most people from our generation, who use social media to signal our virtues, my father had become the IRL definition of woke, without knowing or even caring what it meant. Not through his assertions but by his actions. What’s more, he did not bother tom-toming about it on Facebook. Maybe it is time to add him.    

* Names changed

Why Do Corrupt Politicians Win Elections?

Corruption in India is like oxygen – it is integral to our lives. From the local traffic police to spectrum allocation at the cabinet level, corruption is as rampant as potholes on Indian roads. You can move your file faster in a government office if you accompany it with a bit of “chai paani”, a word we have coined to convince ourselves we are not all that dishonest because it’s not quite “rishwat”.

Corruption is a major election plank for our political parties. One party says, “Mera PM chor hai”, the other says “Tera pura khandan chor hai” and the average person on the street believes, “Saale sab chor hai”. This defeatism pervaded our Supreme Court recently, when it took the hands-off position by allowing politicians with criminal backgrounds to contest elections — so long as they were loud and clear about their criminal antecedents. This, presumably, would help the voter make an informed choice, and possibly avoid the worst among equals.

But is our political system devoid of good and honest people? Many politicians vying for seats in every election at every level are squeaky clean, but not only do they fail to win, they even end up losing their security deposits. “Jab sab corrupt hai, akele koi system change nahi kar sakta,” is a common refrain. Think of an honest politician like a Rajkummar Rao film. No matter how good he is, how lauded in the media, he’ll never be able to make hundreds of crores the way Salman Khan is bound to by singing “Swag Se Swagat” and jumping out of flying helicopters. Take our most famous aam aadmi for instance. When Arvind Kejriwal was elected chief minister of Delhi in 2o13, the entire nation celebrated like we’d won the UNESCO award for the Most Honest Nation Ever. We were filled with renewed hope, even though it was crushed faster than the CM could cure his cough.

Every election result presents a bleak statistic about the percentage of elected MLAs that have criminal charges against them, and the number keeps escalating much like pollution levels in Delhi. If we all want honest and good people to represent us instead of crooks and thugs, how are the results otherwise? Why do honest people keep losing elections? Why do corrupt, criminal politicians keep winning? Why does Lalu Prasad still have clout in Bihar? And who enables someone like murderer Shambhu Lal Regar to join politics?

The lazy way to analyse this phenomenon is to blame the population. It is the people’s fault that Salman Khan movies are a hit. It is the people’s fault that IPL is so popular despite constant accusations of irregularities and match fixing. It is the people who are irresponsible and apathetic, else why would they vote for corrupt and dishonest candidates?

And actually, you’d be right — it is the people who bring such men to power, but not for the reasons we might believe. To borrow a quote from the 23rd Governor of the Reserve Bank of India, Raghuram Rajan, “The tolerance for the venal politician is because he is the crutch that helps the poor and underprivileged navigate a system that gives them so little access. This may be why he survives.”

If you’re from the lower-middle-class or poorer sections of society, you struggle with gaining access to public service. You may get your children admitted to a government school, but the teachers don’t show up. You have a medical prescription, but government dispensaries are perpetually out of stock. You may have a ration card, but the shop has no ration. You are entitled to a house as part of a government housing scheme, but the construction is on hold for years. You have a right to all these public services, but because the system is broken, you don’t get access to what is yours. This is where the corrupt make inroads.

In 2006, IIT alumni formed a party in Tamil Nadu and declared “Reality is a continuum. Knowledge system, in shortest, is fragmentation imposed upon the continuum of reality.” Karunanidhi offered voters a free colour TV and won the election. The corrupt politician is aware of the fallacies in our public service delivery system and what makes the voter tick. Before every election he goes into an overdrive, doling out freebies – everything from pressure cookers, to rice, to mangalsutras. The corrupt neta helps the underprivileged navigate a broken system, by helping secure an admission in a private school or work at a government job. He finds a way to get medicines, helps file an FIR at the police station, or use his connections to get a file moving in a government office – in exchange for the voter’s trust.

I remember my house help telling me that she’d vote for a certain MLA in the last election because she promised to get her son admission in college. I told her he is corrupt, she remained unaffected. “Bhaiya, doosra party saree de raha hai. Uska kya kaam,” she told me. Sarees that are obviously funded by business interests that have cosied up to the politician.

The cycle, comprises the voter, the politician, and the businessman, goes on. Our collective failure to break the cycle, is why corrupt politicians keep winning.

But how do we fix this problem? An essay in The Atlantic titled “Honest Politicians Won’t Fix Corruption” points out, “Worldwide, candidates for elected offices are running on highly personalised anti-corruption platforms, offering themselves as the solution. What countries really need, though, are smart laws that reduce the incentives and opportunities for corruption. They also need strong institutions that enforce those laws and deprive corrupt officials, and their private-sector accomplices, of impunity in their efforts to get rich at the public’s expense.”

All of which seems so basic, it’s a wonder that it needs to be said at all. But often, the fundamentals are the hardest to change. Until then, politicians will keep offering colour TVs, maybe even Jio connections to adapt with the changing times. And the public will keep pretending it is chai paani if it gets the work done — whether it is cash under the table or digital cashless money through PayTM.

Are We In a Complicated Relationship with Aadhaar?

I
n my callow youth, I’ve had many flings. My passport was my first love; I remember holding on to it for dear life as I took my first flight abroad. When I turned 18, my driving licence, my gateway to make all my testosterone-fuelled Fast and Furious dreams come true, came into my life. This was followed by the voter ID card, definitive proof that I was now an adult worthy of electing the esteemed representatives of our country. Soon after I had a short, summer romance with the PAN card (although we were more like friends with benefits)I don’t regret any of these relationships. They all did their bit for me, helped me grow into the person I am today, and I’m still friends with most of them. But they failed to complete me; I couldn’t see them as an integral part of my life. I wanted something more from my partner. And then on a fine winter morning in January 2009, I met Aadhaar.

It was love at first sight. I was awestruck the moment Aadhaar scanned my eyes. She was slender like Aishwarya Rai, had glossy white skin like Yami Gautam, was smart and way ahead of her time with a colourful display picture and biometric scanner. In those days of ugly black-and-white government ID photos and flimsy cards, Aadhaar was like Tina to my Rahul. Kuch kuch hota hai, PAN, tum nahin samjhoge.

But before you think I am being shallow, let me tell you how deep my love was. I loved her for her intelligence and inner beauty. With her by my side, government welfare schemes and direct benefit transfers would be as easily accessible as giving a bribe and getting your work done at the Income Tax Department.

Aadhaar’s parents, the Congress, and especially her father, Nandan Nilekani, were extremely proud of her. They kept telling me about all her wonderful qualities and how she could change the life of any person she went out with. And they kept reiterating it 24X7, on TV, radio, Facebook, and Twitter. That’s when I knew I was in love.

Our first date was blissful. We connected and linked instantly, and she accompanied me everywhere, all the time. She had a special place in my wallet. And I wouldn’t miss a chance to tell my friends, relatives, cook, house help, and the entire village about her. In fact, I even introduced her to the village cows and buffaloes. Everyone from foreign tourists to Bangladeshi residents were awed by her.

I was convinced that she was the missing piece in the puzzle of my life and so, I decided to marry her. Obviously, there was resistance from my parents as they belonged to a different caste, i.e. the BJP. They tried quite hard to convince me that she had certain issues and would ruin my life in the long run. But I was determined and their effort was in vain.

Nandan, Daddy Cool, played a key part in our marriage and convincing my parents, the BJP, of her charm and greatness. There was a change of heart, and the BJP became accepting of Aadhaar after realising her potential. She got a royal welcome home and my parents spent like crazy on our pre-wedding shoot and advertising. In fact, she became like their daughter and they wished they had given birth to her.

But it spelt doom for our relationship.

Aadhaar had changed. Or maybe, I had. But there was trouble in paradise. A lot of people started to say that she had security issues. But if you ask me, she also had insecurity issues. She started getting a bit controlling and wanted to know about every aspect of my life.

When we first started dating, she wasn’t the kind of person who’d want us to share Facebook passwords so that there would be “no secrets among us”. I don’t want anyone to know that I can’t spell Schwarzenegger without help from Google! Back then, all she cared about was my name and where I lived. But after our marriage, she wanted to know about my bank account, my insurance, SIM cards, airline tickets, mutual funds, post office, loo timings, every tiny detail.

Let’s agree that the key to a healthy relationship is separate bathrooms and some semblance of space between a couple. But there was just no privacy between us.

Every morning I woke up, I got a message for a new thing I must link Aadhaar with. Earlier, she was very polite and well mannered in her requests but then she got just outright intimidating – setting deadlines and threatening me with consequences for missing them. There has been a complete communication breakdown and we don’t even get cosy anymore – I’m just busy keeping track of deadlines and court observations.

If it weren’t awful enough that she has all my secrets, now all her friends know everything about me because her phone did not have a password. My embarrassing pictures and the fact that I am a heavy snorer is now public knowledge. All my deepest and most personal thoughts are so poorly secured, it’s like watching Arsenal defend at home.

When I raised some questions, she told me I don’t have the right to privacy, and this is all part of being in a committed relationship. I couldn’t see a way out of it, and finally approached a counsellor for help. Every time the counsellor heard our case and told her to do something, she would find a way to bypass it. It didn’t surprise me at all, I’d always known she was a tricky customer. Aadhaar’s own parents had bailed on her.

With no option left, I finally approached the courts for a divorce. The courts were quite understanding and tried to help us resolve the matter and keep the relationship intact as well. They asked her to not snoop on my private information and convinced me that she played an important role in my life. But what about my embarrassing pictures that she already leaked? How do I make people unsee them?

As things stand today, like most relationships on Facebook, ours is complicated. We are in a love-hate relationship, she loves me and I hate her. 

It’s just like all those Black Mirror episodes: Everything starts out beautifully, but it’s obviously a trap. And then you die.

Ganesh Chaturthi: When Every Middle-Class Family Turns Interior Designer and Art Decorator

When you grow up in a middle-class home, outlets for creativity are limited, much like political options in India. Right from school, pursuits like drawing, singing, and craft are considered “extracurricular activities” — basically a waste of time. If you excel at them, the only stage you’re offered is at family functions where dad tells you “Beta, uncle ko ganaa gaake sunao” or “Beta, dadi ki liye birthday card banao”. As a career choice, art is considered the bottom of the barrel. If you told your parents, you wanted to join a design school, they’d sit you down to tell you, “Yeh ameeron ke shauq hain, beta.” Only rich people can afford creative careers, because “scope nahi hai”.

Middle-class folks are required to curb their creativity the same way Hardik Pandya curbs his attacking instincts in Test cricket. However, there is one festival which turns into a mosh pit for the creative types – Ganesh Chaturthi.

Ganesha is the God of Fun, associated with music, modaks, and masti. Whether it is channelling your inner Bappi Lahiri to decorate the pandal or dancing like Govinda on crack during the visarjan, this is the middle-class Ganpati bhakt’s moment to shine.

The creative minds get to work days before Chaturthi. When you go to pick the murti, even mom turns into Michelangelo, chipping in with enthusiasm about the shape of Ganesha’s trunk, the intricacies of his jewellery, and the colour of his dhoti. Even a tiny detail like the mouse is not missed. I remember her saying once, “This mouse looks a little angry. We need a happy mouse.” But when it comes to ordering food at a restaurant or buying a TV at Vijay Sales, she’d show little interest. “Jo sab ko acha lage le lo”.

Once the perfect idol is picked, the group-craft project gets rolling. Stationery that hasn’t been used in years in pulled out, Chinese lights and lanterns are bought causing a dent to Make In India. Remember the fancy marriage invitation you received from your rich Marwari neighbours, envelopes studded with colourful stones, satin ribbons, unique gift boxes, and wrapping paper that mom had saved waiting for the perfect moment to bring them out? This is that moment.

The only person in the family who took to art and crafts in school becomes the head of the Ganpati Decoration Project. In my case, it is my little cousin who takes charge, instructing everyone on what to do. It’s great fun to watch grandparents fidgeting with sketch pens and dad struggling with clay.   

When out of ideas, the family nerd chips in. “More research is needed for this project,” he says and immediately starts googling for “home Ganpati decoration ideas”. Ganeshji is a cool customer, he seems happy if you put him in a cricket stadium, have him pose with army men, or put him in a cave along with a little message about the environment. And if you want to keep it simple, a few lights and some flowers are enough to make Bappa’s face glow.    

Once the decor plan is finalised, everyone gets cracking. It is one of the very few activities that brings the entire family together. This and mom’s monthly paani-puri party. Or if Sholay is playing on Sony.

As the struggle with the scissors begins, dad will joke about how he always sucked at craft and sister will start mocking dad’s terrible colour choices for the background. Why would anyone go for the orange and red combination? Mom doesn’t appreciate how lightly everyone is treating the project and expects perfection. “Arré woh paper ke phool acche nahin dikh rahe hain. Log kya kahenge?”  

This is just the beginning and soon tempers begin to fly. Should the mountain in the background have orange lights or green? Should the curtains be velvet or cotton? Should we keep the sweets on the left or the right? It is one of the few situations in the house when democracy prevails and majority decisions decide outcomes.

Once the decor is complete and you are in shiny new clothes with freshly purchased modaks in hand, the examiners, aka guests begin flocking to the house. “Yeh phool kitne sundar hain,” says the neighbouring aunty and everyone looks at mum and smiles. But there’s always someone like Mrs Sharma who will find some fault. “Yeh mountains bade fake lag rahe hain. Humare Monu ki saas ke ghar mein, itna beautiful decoration hai naa.” Time for a joint family eye roll. After guests leave mum suggests, “Next time, let’s make Monu’s saas in charge of the decor.”

Ganesh Chaturthi is when every parent turns interior designer, every kid a painter, every uncle a craft expert, and grandma is a jewellery designer. It’s an art exhibition of the middle-class — and every clay mountain or paper flower, is the pièce de résistance.