Growing

My first ambition was to be a dancer – a classical Indian dancer. I was torn between Kathak and Odissi – two very different and very beautiful dance forms. I attended Kathak classes for some time. But then Guru ji (the teacher) kept changing the timings. It became quite inconvenient for my mother to ferry me to and fro from the classes. And this was in a small town in the late 1980s- early 1990s where life on the streets pretty much stopped at 7pm. I carried a heavy burden of resentment for a while, a keenly felt sense of unfairness of it all, of being denied the life I wanted. I was quietly dramatic. And then, one day, that burden lifted on its own. There wasn’t a specific moment of epiphany. It was just the realisation that my love for music and dance was not dependent on my making a career out of it, that these would always be a part of who I am. And I also fell in love with the power of words in prose and poetry.

I devoured books in the school library. I also followed my older brother through many of his phases of binge reading – western cowboy novels, comics – home grown and foreign , science fiction, even the obsessive Bermuda triangle and conspiracy theory phase. I participated in essay writing competitions, one of which led my father to always erroneously attribute more success to me than I actually achieved! I actually didn’t care if I won. I enjoyed the process of finding my way, collecting thoughts, seeing them meld and take shape in the writing.

As I grew older, writing became a part of the sense making process. Poetry, writing diaries, writing on scraps – all of that. When I lost a childhood friend suddenly to an untimely and senseless death, I grieved in poetry. Emails to close friends became a way of thinking through my fingers. A raft through good times and bad and the career switches (from a brief stint in business journalism to the development domain and then to a different role within it). It’s been 11 years since I took the decision to move from full time employment to a consultant doing process documentation and qualitative research. Some other things also found their way to me – which was also ok.

It has been quite a journey. The work has taken me to places and people and children who have taught me the many meanings of struggle, despair, love and joy and accomplishment. It has been a privilege to be allowed entry into so many ‘universes’ – each unique and yet also sharing common, fundamental human emotions and experiences. So much of all this never found its way into learning documents, manuals and research reports. But all of it enriched me.

Increasingly, I find myself thinking – what next? Seeing so much around us tilting horribly out of balance, dealing with the inescapable truths of human frailty and mortality – all of this makes one keenly aware that our time on this pale blue dot has to mean something. If nothing else, it is definitely important to transform creative dissatisfaction from a self perpetuating trap to stepping stones to where we need to go.
I haven’t figured it out yet. I am also not fully done with what I am doing now. It is unsettling and exhilarating – this not knowing. But this is how we grow or at least I hope to!

This is What They Said

“Damn that Autocorrect!”

I have, I must confess, used more colourful language than that when the autocorrect function on my mobile has transformed what I want to say into something else. We get so worked up when our words get distorted. But we do not always necessarily accord the same importance (and frustration) when the words of those we work with get changed in our writings. Strange, isn’t it?

“It’s ok. You can change these few words. Basically, this is what she meant.”
“It means the same. But this sounds better.”
“We are just summarising what they said. We are not changing it.”

I have agreed to some of these. Or rather allowed myself to let it go. But it isn’t right.

What children and people say matter. How they say it matters too. It may not always fit the neat ‘quotable quotes’ boxes that we want in our publications and websites. But if we want to come closer to our aims of being authentic and participatory, we have to let go of our urge to make what others say ‘presentable’. Each comment – whether considered clear or chaotic – is moulded by the unique experiences of that individual and articulated with that cadence of voice that only he/she possesses. Reflecting that voice, however it may sound, makes our collective work and the stories we tell about it real and impactful.

Maybe, even as we wage our bigger battles, we need to make sure that we don’t lose sight of these crucial fights too!

When Imperfect is Perfect

I grew up in northern India among Hindi speaking people. In school, I spoke English. Bangla – my mother tongue – was used primarily within the family. Not surprisingly, my Bangla had a generous sprinkling of Hindi and English words. When corrected, I would smile and say that it reflected national integration! Of course, this did not always go down well with the extended family and acquaintances. As I grew older, I learnt to keep my mouth shut during annual visits to relatives and others living in West Bengal. Over the years as I spent more time in the state, my Bangla did improve. But I was always marked as an outsider the minute I spoke. Then I went to Little Andaman and felt perfectly at home!

I had gone on an assignment to capture stories of participation and impact for a project on tsunami affected children. The project was implemented by Prayas in Little Andaman, one of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. It was supported by Terre des hommes Foundation. Bengalis and Tamilians made up the bulk of the population. There was another distinct group that originally came from the Bihar-Jharkhand, Madhya Pradesh-Chhatisgarh belt and were known locally as the Ranchi community.The island was also home to the Nicobaris who mingled with outsiders on their own terms.I will write more about them another time!

The Bengalis had arrived either from West Bengal or Bangladesh over several decades. The islands were now their home and I even saw two Bengalis squabbling over whose island was better! But it was their language that fascinated me. Their Bangla was unique. It was colourful. It had its own rhythm. It reflected who they were and who they lived with. It was not always grammatically correct and the people I met didn’t really care about that. And I fitted right in. Continue reading